I have started to wonder whether or not my readership is growing tired of hearing of my misfortunes or whether such tales are making people feel a lot more content in the relative safety of home. A large part of the following tale is a result of my own stupidity, as always, but Fate tried her hand in the kitchen and the effect on my colon was nigh on catastrophic.
My throat flared up again soon after arrival in Chiang Mai, a fact I take no responsibility for, as I put that down to a side affect of the torturous bus ride. Funky ooze started to well underneath the healed surface of my knee burger too, so it would be fair to say that my system was not operating at an optimal level. Rest and re-couperation was the order of the day, but taking orders was never my strong point, even when I was the one giving them out.
Adam and Gemma's main purpose for visiting Chiang Mai was the acquisition of another piece of body art. Having harboured rough plans for the same goal and being easily lead astray when it comes to different ways to waste my money, I quickly jumped aboard the tattoo bandwagon. We moved out of the ramshackle hotel we had first moved in to and took up a three bed room next to our chosen tattooist. Phatie, a name only a non-English speaker could give themself, came highly recommended and even an Canadian guy on our bus ride from hell was also visiting specifically to enlist Phaties' services.
Ignoring the serious infection I got the last time I had a tattoo done in Thailand, I boldly volunteered to go first to appease the butterflies Adam was feeling. My previous tattooists practices had been more than acceptable but my decision to wrap my arm in a plastic bag to avoid bleeding onto the bed sheets only succeeded in infusing the tattoo with an army of bacteria from whatever the bag had previously contained. With that lesson held firmly in mind, and with my throat and knee holding in a circling pattern, I thought 5 or 6 hours under the needle would yield no negative side effects.
Alarm bells started ringing when my 11am appointment didn't result in any serious progress until about 3pm. Whether Phatie is a perfectionist or just a snail is a matter of opinion but 10 hours later I finally ended up with the desired result. Having never sat longer than 5 hours for a tattoo, the second half became extremely painful as fatigue continued to ebb away my already poncy pain threshold. I can't even begin to describe the feeling of a tattoo needle bouncing away on shin bone. Not something I can recommend to anyone. I was happy to trade a day of pain for a life time of coolness though. Or regret.
If I thought my experience was an ordeal, Adams 16 hour extravaganza the following day would have tested the mettle of any tattoo afficianado. From noon till 4am Adam sat, only sometimes placated by Tramadol, the very same painkiller I was addicted to after breaking my foot. A drug that is now illegal in Australia for its detrimental effects on the liver. Phaties' phenomanal work rate was fueled, we now believe, by long trips to the toilet with a small parcel of white powder in one hand and a lighter. This was enough to convince Gemma that she was best served by going to visit the tattooist in Pai I had been to last year.
A few hours after we all retired from Adams torture, a viral grenade must have finally detonated in my lower de-militarized zone. I entered the bathroom unsure whether I would ever leave it again. No one wants to hear what happened in there but I changed religions about 6 times trying to find some relief. None was forthcoming so I retired to bed for the day and moaned my way to a fever. I had no idea how serious it was but my body was an iceberg while my head was a bonfire. Adam and Gemma compassionately and thankfully provided me with company and pandered to my needs. They also kept me and themselves entertained by getting stoned while giggling and observing me like a zoo exhibit. I didn't think being sick could be funny but it just goes to show that the three of us have a great time no matter whats going on.
After once more contemplating a return home irrespective of the costs, the fever subsided and I woke the next day feeling less like the hot and cold wasabi ice-cream I had eaten the other day.
While waiting for lunch on some day soon after aforementioned sickness, I read a piece in the Bangkok Post about a tour bus crashing outside of Chiang Mai and killing 17 passengers. In a miracle of economy, that one article managed to destroy my remaining faith in the media, buses, traveling, and jigsaw puzzles. I thought our trip with its happy ending of not being hacked to bits was a much better story than 17 people dying, but the media is not interested in showing positive news apparently.
Want to get far, far away? If you need time with your family to get away from work it's time to take a vacation. Try a nice and relaxing coastal vacation. Enjoy the time off and take it easy by the beach side. If you love sports play a new course on a golf vacation.
