Souvenirs
The lemongrass shampoo from the first hotel has finally run out, the battery in my toothbrush has given in and the Bangkok pedicure is looking decidedly patchy. I’m home and though I've only been away for seven weeks it feels like much longer. I am glad to divest myself of a rucksack, the constant checking for passport, travellers' cheques and camera (not easy to miss that one; it weighs rather a lot) and the mosquito bites (four on my last day, just in time for the flight where I was crushed into an economy seat and unable to scratch them) but I will miss a lot more. Not physical sights, more the immateriality of being in a different culture. I'm in winter boots now, rather than wearing flip-flops all the time; I can hear police sirens and trains not the constant sound of parrots or lorikeets in the trees and the rain, well, let's just say it doesn't come in short, tropical downpours.
I didn’t bring back many things, not for myself anyway, but I hardly needed to. My body is a souvenir. There’s the pedicure, as I mentioned, which I had in a small backstreet hairdresser’s in the Pratunam district of Bangkok. A Thai-American woman in my first, posh hotel offered to show me the best places to go and, although the lift in the BMW was reassuring, the tiny streets she barged it through were not. I wondered, as she pulled up outside Renee’s, how on earth I would find my way back. Inside, after the initial introductions, I sat in a chair surrounded by locals, completely at a loss as to how to make myself understood. Luckily choosing a colour isn’t that complicated. Once it was finished, I decided against retracing the BMW’s route through the market and headed towards the bright lights at the junction. Nothing looked familiar and, since it was Sunday, every inch of pavement was covered in stalls selling both tourist tat and local necessities. I cowered for a few minutes, then remembered what my new acquaintance’s husband had said about Bangkok: don’t be afraid of it; it’s just another city. In London, getting lost on a walk is part of the pleasure; perhaps if I could approach this strange metropolis from the same angle I wouldn’t spend any more time on this street corner. So I simply turned left, crossed over the bridge and there, in front of me, was the Skytrain. I knew where I was and it was five minutes away from my starting point.
The clothes I wore have left different traces. The swimming costume crisscrossed my upper back, whereas the bikini left straight lines so I am patterned with a St George’s Cross. And, since most of the time I was in strappy or short-sleeved tops, my shoulders are brown whereas the rest of me is not. I’m not much of a sunbather, but I still managed to get burnt twice, first when kayaking and second when snorkelling. Despite the factor 30, the shorts and the careful timing, the proximity of my skin to the silvery surface of the Pacific left the back of my legs pink and, if the itching is anything to go by, soon to be peeling. I didn’t learn my lesson.
Then there’s the scars and bruises. First, on Koh Samui, I was so busy looking at the moonlight on the sea that I failed to notice the titanic weight of a wooden sunbed bearing down on my shins as I walked into it. Even seven weeks’ later my left leg still proudly sports a big red mark, evidence of my distractedness. Similarly, for some reason, I never noticed the large metal handles on hostel and hotel doors and both my upper arms look like they’ve been squeezed in a vice. However, my right leg, obviously wanting to join this litany of damaged limbs, didn’t miss out either. Having borrowed a bike in Port Douglas, the quietest and easiest place in the world to ride one, I was happily sailing along on the safe, separate cycle path when for some reason, having noticed the disused tramlines in front of me, I decided to try cycling across them. Of course I fell off.
I couldn’t avoid the mosquito bites but the rest, well, travelling seemed to distract me from the need to look where I was going. Perhaps that’s the point. There’s actually nothing to be gained from looking too far ahead: all I needed to notice was where I was. Maybe then I’d have saved some epidermis.
I didn’t bring back many things, not for myself anyway, but I hardly needed to. My body is a souvenir. There’s the pedicure, as I mentioned, which I had in a small backstreet hairdresser’s in the Pratunam district of Bangkok. A Thai-American woman in my first, posh hotel offered to show me the best places to go and, although the lift in the BMW was reassuring, the tiny streets she barged it through were not. I wondered, as she pulled up outside Renee’s, how on earth I would find my way back. Inside, after the initial introductions, I sat in a chair surrounded by locals, completely at a loss as to how to make myself understood. Luckily choosing a colour isn’t that complicated. Once it was finished, I decided against retracing the BMW’s route through the market and headed towards the bright lights at the junction. Nothing looked familiar and, since it was Sunday, every inch of pavement was covered in stalls selling both tourist tat and local necessities. I cowered for a few minutes, then remembered what my new acquaintance’s husband had said about Bangkok: don’t be afraid of it; it’s just another city. In London, getting lost on a walk is part of the pleasure; perhaps if I could approach this strange metropolis from the same angle I wouldn’t spend any more time on this street corner. So I simply turned left, crossed over the bridge and there, in front of me, was the Skytrain. I knew where I was and it was five minutes away from my starting point.
The clothes I wore have left different traces. The swimming costume crisscrossed my upper back, whereas the bikini left straight lines so I am patterned with a St George’s Cross. And, since most of the time I was in strappy or short-sleeved tops, my shoulders are brown whereas the rest of me is not. I’m not much of a sunbather, but I still managed to get burnt twice, first when kayaking and second when snorkelling. Despite the factor 30, the shorts and the careful timing, the proximity of my skin to the silvery surface of the Pacific left the back of my legs pink and, if the itching is anything to go by, soon to be peeling. I didn’t learn my lesson.
Then there’s the scars and bruises. First, on Koh Samui, I was so busy looking at the moonlight on the sea that I failed to notice the titanic weight of a wooden sunbed bearing down on my shins as I walked into it. Even seven weeks’ later my left leg still proudly sports a big red mark, evidence of my distractedness. Similarly, for some reason, I never noticed the large metal handles on hostel and hotel doors and both my upper arms look like they’ve been squeezed in a vice. However, my right leg, obviously wanting to join this litany of damaged limbs, didn’t miss out either. Having borrowed a bike in Port Douglas, the quietest and easiest place in the world to ride one, I was happily sailing along on the safe, separate cycle path when for some reason, having noticed the disused tramlines in front of me, I decided to try cycling across them. Of course I fell off.
I couldn’t avoid the mosquito bites but the rest, well, travelling seemed to distract me from the need to look where I was going. Perhaps that’s the point. There’s actually nothing to be gained from looking too far ahead: all I needed to notice was where I was. Maybe then I’d have saved some epidermis.
posted by Louise at 5:57 AM
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