Angels of Mercy (2) Kao San Road at Night
I remember only having a single beer that night. I struggled with it. It didn’t feel right.
There was a bit of banter. The Moroccon owner of the bar, which comprised just a row of tables and chairs on the pavement, was thrilled to learn that I can count to seven in Arabic and he kept clinking my bottle. I would force a grin and take a sip every now and then. Time stretched like molten cheese. Then, suddenly, I became very dizzy. I hit the floor. Consciousness contracted, as if I was perceiving everything through a pinhole.
(The following was meant to be in a smaller font size, but the relevant HTML tag doesn’t work with these settings. Never mind, I guess you’ll get the drift):
“Too much beer?”
“No, only one bottle. Not even finished!”
A pressure on my foot two or three centimetres above the knuckle of my big toe. Ouch!
“She’s coming round.”
“Relax,” (louder this time): ” I’m using accupressure. I’m now going to work on points behind your head.”
“It’s no good.” (The same voice, faint again): She needs a doctor.”
And so it went on for some time. The world swam in and out of focus. But the accupressurist and an Italian who was staying at the same guesthouse as myself—Angels number two and three—helped ease my shaking by holding me (and, in the case of the accupressurist, inflicting pain every now and then). The Italian said he’d take care of my things. I gave him my glasses and the key. I had the feeling I wouldn’t be needing them any time soon.
After an eternity, an ambulance arrived. It did nothing to calm my frayed nerves. I was scooped up on another stretcher and we drove off without ceremony. Once on Chakrapong road I was vaguely aware that we seemed to be driving around in circles.
“Where you wan’ go? Hospital?”
“No!”
(fading again)“Where you wan’ go?”
Oh what the hell, I thought: “Kao San Road.” I managed to say it just before blacking out.
A whaft of ammonia. Tissue, soaked in the stuff, pressed against my nose. Only the dead sleep through this.
The ambulance had come to a halt. One of the guys helped me up and guided me outside where the rest of the crew stood lined up—all four of them—smiling sweetly: “Kao San Road there,” he said, pointing, then did a half-turn: “Police station there.”
“Thank you so much.”
“You welcome.”
Was this for real? Anything to get rid of a faringi who doesn’t speak Thai, I assume.
Blinking, I walked towards the swimming neon lights. The Kao San Road was nearly deserted. A lone patrol car drove slowly down the street, a few revellers returned in twos and threes, some ladyboys were plying their trade in a corner. And there, on the pavement, stood a lonely chair.
I sat down in it and looked around me in wonderment. Kao San Road late at night, I figure, must be the safest street in the world. When it came time to lie down again, I walked a short way to shelter underneath a roof and simply rested my head on the warm pavement. There, directly opposite me, was the unmistakable sign of the 24h Boots where it had all started. Now I knew exactly where I was. I could go home.
I got as far as the traffic lights. Locating and pressing the button seemed too much effort, so I kissed the pavement once more. Again, it was another backpacker who helped me up, recruiting a guy to help, and they dragged me to the police station where I rested right on the floor of the brightly lit foyer for an indeterminate length of time while the officers came and went. A drugged faringi isn’t a novelty here. Only once did a bored looking cop step up to me—after he had finished reading his paper for half an hour or so, now holding it folded in his hand—and asked me whether I was drunk or high.
“No.”
“Then why sleep in police station?”
Why indeed? This time, I made it all the way back. But thank the gods for Thai indifference, because if this had been Scotland, I would have spent the night in a cell, pending a series of drug tests.
I could not find entrance to the guest house, so I wandered up-and-down Soi Rambutri for some time, getting ever more desperate. The Moroccan, his ‘bar’ still open, was pleased to see me back. I waved at him briefly, but didn’t consider it wise to stop. I was dying for a loo. One thing about lying prone on the floor: your bladder doesn’t stop producing urine.
Eventually, I staggered past another bar where the accupressurist sat at a roadside table, nursing a last beer. She pointed out the way home. The Italian was waiting back at the guesthouse: my glasses and things were safely in the room. Suddenly, everything was alright. I stood by the open window for a while, smoking and sipping water when the landlady came up with some mango and dipping sauce. “Try,” she said: “Is how we eat in Thailand. Good for you.” She gave me a look of motherly concern.
I felt perfectly alright, especially after a few sips from that bottle of whisky which earlier in the day had spelled such peril.
Tags: SE Asia, Tag Index
Denni