I spent far too much time, in the early hours of Friday morning, throwing up. Sink, shower, bucket I took them all down.
This meant a virus had taken me down so no one wins, really.
Time loses the meaning we’ve given it when you’re recovering from this kind of thing. In and out of sleep, bed-stricken, am I dreaming or hallucinating? Has it been five minutes since it took me 10 to roll over or an hour? Did it take that long? Did I even roll over?
In amongst all these dreams and hallucinations came a memory. One I’ve thought of often but perhaps not for a while. Something I’d consider one of my greatest personal achievements and, now I think of it, may nod to one or two character traits (spoiler: I can be a little stubborn).
I’m about to tell you about a time I wasn’t sick.
After five months in Australia, I had the nerve to take a break from my break and spent the entirety of February 2005 in Thailand.
Memory plays its tricks on us, sure. But that month made such an impression on me, more than the year in Australia which it split, that I’m sure I could recall much of it pretty accurately.
I won’t now. Far too many words. I’ll drop you in on the early hours of another Friday morning where I’m stood on a beach, with thousands of others, celebrating a Full Moon party.
Nine of us arrived on the back of a van - after a short time that felt like an eternity, existing very simply on a beautiful beach in the North East of Ko Pha Ngan.
I’d be leaving without them. My travel plans meaning the unenviable task of going straight from the beach to Bangkok lay ahead of me. Not so bad on paper. Unless that paper you’re looking at is a map. Twelve hours, a ferry and a bus. Oh and the fishing boat to the ferry. I really was cutting it fine.
The scenes on that ferry could’ve been cut from a WW2 drama. Those that were lucky to get a seat propped themselves against each other. The rest of us were left to find comfort on the floor and, as the sun rose, water chopped and the buzz faded, there was little of it to be found.
I left that country a different person to the one that entered it. On a more micro scale I left that ferry a different person to the one that boarded. The sparkly eyes dulled, the stomach unsettled, the head a mess.
There was nothing I could do but wait in the roadside cafe for the bus North. I’d be waiting a good few hours – they didn’t care for scheduling. The smells of dishes being, errr, dished out around me were causing me some issues. That’s when you know, right? When the food you’ve been shovelling in with vigour is now the last thing you want to be near… you’re fucked.
I bought a Mars bar. I couldn’t eat the Mars bar. I walked to the toilet, feeling a need to purge, to pierce the hot bubble it felt like I was bobbing in.
My heart broke at the site of this toilet. One of those you squat over. Not one where you can rest your sweaty, feverish forehead on the cold, firm porcelain for comfort.
Hovered over this hole, on all fours, sweat dripping into the grimy abyss, the song changed and “Sometimes I feel Like I’m Barcelona” made its way through the ‘door’ . I thought of my friends at home and laughed hysterically at the situation I found myself in. Remarkably nothing came up, so I got up and rejoined my Mars until the bus arrived.
That was a relief unlike any I could compare it to at the time. It wouldn’t get me through this, but it represented some form of progress. I could sit down, in a comfortable chair, sleep it off and wake up in Bangkok.
So I thought…
My senses were locked in. The air freshener was like an assault. I was in trouble.
An American woman sat next to me, window side. With genuine concern she asked if I was OK. A fair question given I was now only breathing through my nose and my t-shirt was soaked with sweat.
“Mm hmm” is all she got. If I let words out of my mouth I couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t have company. I was not going to throw up on that bus!
It got worse. As the driver turned on the ignition, the bus was filled with the ear piercing sound of Linkin Park’s Numb.
Brief segue: I’ve just listened to that song again and the poignancy of the lyrics in the opening verses was clearly lost on me then. They carry some weight with retrospect. Perhaps it was a sign I missed.
Anyway, in a nutshell, this was a 12 hour bus journey, I didn’t sleep. I didn’t move from that chair. I don’t think I stopped sweating.
At the end of the journey I found myself walking along the same street I’d landed on nearly a month before. I can remember looking up at the moon and feeling so far away from the paradise I’d left behind down there yet fascinated we were looking up at the same thing.
I found a bed and prepared to tackle Bangkok for three more nights (more on that another time).
And I didn’t throw up!
JF