At the height of my bad fashion sense, I bought a fake lapis necklace off a street vendor on Bangkok’s Khao San Road. I write “bad fashion sense” but at the time everyone wore fisherman pants, fake Birkenstocks and Hmong–print vests. Right? Oh.
A few months later, I was in a backpacker bar on Thailand’s Ko Phi Phi. It was about a decade before the Boxing Day Tsunami, but the island was already well over–developed. The “village” of Ton Sai was a rabbit warren of bars, dirt alleys and dirtbag–backpackers. On the dirtbag count, I should know—I was one of them.
Storms ahead. Ko Phi Phi Leh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
I was at the bar with a tobacco–chewing American guy from somewhere in the South, and a Swiss woman. We were all staying at the same flophouse on Long Beach, and had gone to the bar together. We’d all only met that day, with me the last person to join the threesome. The bar was one of those lay–down bamboo and wood joints with axe pillows for chairs and low slung bamboo tables. Near everyone was smoking and all were drunk. The music was deafening. It was late. It was messy.
The American and I both had eyes for the Swiss woman and as the night wore on, things got tense. When she went to the bathroom, he told me to back off (though he used a different phrase). I feigned innocence, though was anything but. Later, when she fondled my necklace, commenting on how she liked it, he lost it, threw a tantrum and left.
Sadly my upper lip was not that hardy. Ko Phi Phi Don. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
Not long after, as I walked out to go to the bathroom, he was waiting in hiding and attacked me. In the process he bottled me in the face with a beer bottle. The bottle smashed, slicing a gash in my upper lip almost all the way through. It left me with a scar barbers still comment on today, almost 30 years later. Through shock or drink (probably both), I collapsed and he fled. I later half filled a small water bottle with my blood as it gushed out of my new facial piercing.
Six months later, when we sadly parted ways, the Swiss woman, who was named Nikki—and who has featured previously on Couchfish—kept my lapis necklace as a keepsake.
The American was right after all.
On the way to a half–hour of abject terror, Phongsali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
It wasn’t to be the first (or last) time I’d be attacked. A few years earlier I was stabbed in London. About a decade later I narrowly escaped being murdered in far northern Laos.
Whenever I give advice to first time travellers, I say two things before anything else. Pack your common sense and always wear a helmet when motorbiking. Do as I say, not as I do.
I travel by motorbike frequently, yet most of the close calls I’ve had, have had nothing to do with scooters. Far more common is the unexpected. In my case, tied to my own stupidity, arrogance, naivety, or, more often, all three combined. I don’t think this situation is limited to me.
The Phuketian Elbow Death Spider lives here somewhere. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
Staying on a less–developed beach on Phuket, there was a jungle trail I’d walk through to reach the beach. One morning, my left elbow felt like it brushed a spike and stung. At the time I didn’t think much of it. Through the day the pain dulled to an ache, and I didn’t think much of it. The next morning it started to swell, to about the size of a third of a tennis ball. I still didn’t think much of it.
The next day, on the flight back to Bali, it swelled painfully. Very painfully. The skin started to peel off as it continued to expand in size. It was difficult to lift my arm. I started to think about Alien. It was only then that I thought about it as more than an inconvenience. Later, at hospital in Bali, a doctor explained it was from a spider bite. He said if I’d left it a few more days, I would have needed surgery.
Watch out for cat poo. On the related Thai island. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
This sort of nonchalance is not limited to me. A friend was on a Thai island years ago, and a few days after he got home to Bangkok, he started feeling a persistent and painful itch on his foot. How painful? Painful enough walking was difficult. Did he seek medical attention? Hell no!
It wasn’t till the itch climbed up to his calf that he started to worry. Did he go to the doctor? No. It wasn’t until he observed what looked like tunnels under the skin of his lower leg that he sought attention. The diagnosis? Some parasitical thing that he had picked up after stepping on cat crap on the beach. By the time he saw a doctor, the parasite had been burrowing through his body for a month. Luckily he avoided amputation. Like my facial tattoo, he still has the scars to back up his tale.
It will never happen to me right?
Not flammable. Photo: David Luekens.
Back in the days when 50 baht beachside bungalows were the norm in Thailand, all huts carried warnings about fire. The huts were mostly wood and bamboo and, lacking any electricity, lighting was via a small oil lamp. Keep it away from the net and don’t smoke in bed were the two mantras. Like wearing a bike helmet, many ignored these warnings—and more than a few huts burnt down.
Waking to blood curdling screams one night on Ko Pha Ngan’s Ban Tai beach, I stumbled onto the balcony. A neighbour’s hut was ablaze. You might be surprised just how fast bamboo huts go up in flames. Unharmed, she lost almost everything, though it was good fortune she’d left her traveller cheques in the safe. Lucky for the owner too, as unlike another case I know of, she did pay for the bungalow. Fires of course are not restricted to thatch huts. I’ve written before about when my guesthouse in Hanoi caught on fire. At least that time it wasn’t my fault.
Expect the unexpected. Jepara, Indonesia. Photo: Sally Arnold.
Sometimes it really isn’t your fault though. I was in a bus accident in India where the bus rolled off the road after hitting a cow in the middle of the night. A Canadian friend saw a bus accident in Nepal where an oncoming bus went straight off a cliff, exploding in flames in the ravine. I know two guys who have each survived three plane crashes. Yes—two guys with six plane crashes between them—it boggles the mind. In Northeast Thailand once, my train hit a car at a level crossing. The vehicle cartwheeled through the air, landing upended in a rice paddy beside the train. None of these were my fault!
Other times, the fault is shared. An overloaded longtail in bad seas in Southwest Thailand with a stoned and drunk boatman? You need to ask? Yes, it sank. Yes I should have had the good sense to not get on. Live and learn I guess—there’ll always be another boat and calmer seas.
Excuse me while I have a quiet ciggie after being chased my machete–wielding maniacs. Maluk, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
With age comes wisdom—or so I keep telling myself. A few years ago I met a foreigner younger than me, on Sumbawa in Indonesia’s east. Common wisdom there (and in nearby Sumba) was to not ride at night to avoid the risk of having “problems”. He told me an incredible story of a high speed chase with local machete–wielding thugs. He managed to escape as he had a bigger, faster, bike. When I suggested it was unwise to ride at night, he shrugged, not bothered by the risk. Lead a horse to water and all that.
I’ve written before about competitive travellers. That mindset where someone has always been to a better beach, or whatever, than you have. The same goes for things that go bump in the night.
A view worth a centipede or two. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
I’ve a favourite hideaway on Ko Tao. The bungalows are simple, scattered up a bouldered hillside, overlooking a stunning bay. Back then, the huts were spartan—wooden planks, no power, shared bathrooms and ill–fitting doors. The views and serenity though, were amazing.
One morning, I got up, grabbed my jeans off the floor and pulled them on. As I tightened the belt, I felt this searing pain on my upper leg. It was searing—like someone had driven a nail into my thigh. I fell back onto the bed and ripped my jeans off as fast as I could, casting them back onto the floor.
Hold on to the rope and watch your step. Solid advice. Ko Tao, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
An enormous and extremely painful welt throbbed on my upper thigh. I prodded my jeans with the broom, looking for my attacker. Shortly after, a bright red and black centipede, at least four inches long, slithered out, then vanished between the floorboards.
Later I recounted my experience to the guesthouse owner, Sahaat. He laughed out loud.
“Yes, one of those bit me too,” he said, “a long time ago ... on my cock”.
Someone always has a worse tale. Do you?
Couchfish: Things that go bump in the night