The Newbie

You can always spot a rookie from an Alexander Supertramp. The highlighted itinerary nestled in my armpit or choice of flight home with a 13-hour stop over in Oman would be evidence enough to determine that I’m a newbie. I run a finger across the edges of the circular design beneath the chair I’ve called my den, my other hand to nurse a sunburnt shoulder from the carpet. No matter how much you could enjoy basking in the thick smell of Halal meat at 3am, loitering outside the restaurant that I had no Omani Rial for, 13 hours is too long.
My eyes have shut; I’m back in Pai. The hypochondriac in me wants to worry about the repetitive strain injury I might endure from relentlessly wiping the sweat that streams down my cheeks or whether I’m wearing appropriate clothing or whether there’s enough water or money to get me through the day. But I don’t have time. I’m on the back of a moped, in a mob of other travellers on mopeds. Unbeknownst to me, my chauffeur was a truly uncoordinated novice. Conscious that my blotchy hands reveal my tenacious grip on the seat, I shift my satchel to hide them.
These roads are merciless. We are wobbling, similarly to my lower lip, between the coarse grass and bumpy gravel that define the edge of the road. I try to keep my cool, but everything is a blur. All but the swarm of humongous Army trucks behind us, preparing to invade the little road space we already have. Nausea drains me. Hands have turned to deep aborigine. I hold my breath. I close my eyes. The opposition roars past, 1, 2, 5, 8, I lose my count. I don't die.
Pai is calm. We pull up outside some hot springs guarded by powerful, weepy trees. My feet are clearly visible through the metallic, silky water perfectly warming my ankles. My body sinks down; glimpses of light speckle my skin through the water’s surface as I attempt to inspect the intricacy of each leaf above me. The journey doesn’t matter, here I am home. I listen to nothing but the water tickling my ears.
Leg cramp and the stench of Halal, now in my hair, wake me. 3 of the 13 hours are over. I psych myself to go explore the tiny airport, but I can’t find my shoes. My only pair of shoes aren’t in their place. Someone has taken my shoes! The over-analyst in me wants to care, wants to tell someone, accuse someone. But what would be the point? I stand in pursuit of my journey, accompanied by the soft, sticky sound of my bare feet against the cold floor beneath me. The sound comforts me. This is living.