The Long Hitch Home

by Jamie Maslin

  “You can share a room with the boys at hotel. No cost,” said Ann’s mother.

  I passed on my appreciative consent and hoped to soon become better acquainted with a downy pillow, but after checking in and dropping my gear on the bedroom floor, I was quickly bundled back into Ann’s car and driven towards a restaurant. On the way Ann revealed a superstitious side.

  “I had to move out of my house recently because there was a ghost.”

  “Did you see it?” I asked.

  “No, but I spoke to my friend who can see these things and she told me to move out. So I did. She saw a ghost behind my car too.”

  “This one?” I asked.

  “It has gone now,” she reassured me. “This is our traditional belief. It may seem strange to you, but in England do you not have Dracula?”

  “Erm, well, sort of,” I replied, “In so much as there’s a fictional book by that name, although it’s by an Irish author.”

  “Exactly!” she replied.

  Two titchy European cars sat on a terrace out the front of the restaurant as an odd sort of gateway to the venue, which we arrived at last after multiple wrong turns. Assembled around a long thin table on the terrace was the rest of the family. The food came out with our arrival. Fried prawns, chicken, assorted vegetables and rice made its way around the table. I was too tired to really do it justice but did my best, both to honor the generosity of Ann’s family and out of obligation to myself. I’d consumed next to nothing today, and had been averaging one meal a day for weeks, so I figured that if food sat in front of me, then I should eat, if not for enjoyment’s sake then for sustenance. As we finished up it came as no surprise that despite trying to chip in for the bill I was turned down flat. Before leaving, Ann poured water on her plate for “good luck.” In a gesture of solidarity, I did the same.

  * * *

  The wedding was held at the home of the father of the bride. As a prison officer, he lived in one of many identical houses designated for prison staff, located right next door to Alor Setar Prison.

  “My uncle has been taken to the doctor,” said Ann to me before the ceremony. “Someone sent a ghost to him. Many people are jealous of his money. I have spoken to my friend who is going to help if I SMS her his photo.”

  Moments earlier another family member had told me it was due to high blood pressure.

  I did my best to scrub up for the occasion by shaving, slipping on a polo shirt and giving my shoes a vigorous seeing-to with a wet rag. The other guests, of whom there were maybe thirty, wore colorful traditional dress, with the women cutting striking figures in long vibrantly colored gowns, many with abstract or floral motifs, accompanied, for those who chose to wear them, by similarly flamboyant headscarfs. The men wore fancy patterned shirts or baggy, but elegant, single-color shirt and dress pant combinations, along with flat-topped songkok hats.

  Not knowing about local etiquette, before I entered the house I asked Ann’s mother for a quick heads up. Apparently there wasn’t much to worry about, just go inside and take a seat on the floor with everyone else. I did, realizing after a moment that I’d sat next to the groom. Was this a problem? It was too late to worry now. Proceedings were about to begin.

  Three imams took up position. Two with lower status hats sat against the wall beneath a large embroidered picture of Mecca, while a third, wearing a white turban-style headpiece with a long drape at the back, sat in a central position within the room, presiding over the ceremony. The bride was nowhere to be seen. I hoped to God I hadn’t taken her seat. All of a sudden the groom was called to sit in front of the main imam on a large cushion. After talking to him for several minutes—and what I can only assume were the pronouncement of vows—it all came to an end. The groom got up, walked over to the corner of the room, where, unbeknown to me, had sat his bride in a silvery dress, obscured by a mountain of presents. The groom knelt down in front of her, slipped a ring onto her finger, and they were married. Photos followed of the happy couple together, after which they posed with guests, including me.

  Set up outside in the courtyard between houses was a feast of black beef and chicken, served with vegetables and sticky rice. Joining us for the meal were several prison officers in full uniform. They made an interesting accompaniment to a wedding party, as did the backdrop of a high security wall with razor wire.

  Like the other guests, I ate in the traditional manner without cutlery, scooping up dollops of food with my fingers.

  “Would you like knife and fork?” asked Ann’s mother.

  I politely refused, explaining that I wanted to try it the local way.

  “This is good,” she said proudly. “It is right that you should try new culture. You are one of the family now.”

  I was touched.

  By early afternoon the wedding celebrations were winding down and my thoughts turned to the border. With a good sleep behind me and a full stomach I was willing to push it a bit today. A good friend of mine, Owen, was in Thailand, and if possible I wanted to reach him tonight. Owen was roughly 300 miles away, based on the popular Thai island of Koh Samui. Unlike your average island visitor, Owen was there not to sunbathe, but to fight; to hone his considerable Muay Thai—Thai boxing—skills at the prestigious Lamai boxing camp. The question was, could I reach him before the last ferry departed from the mainland? With Thailand’s roads being an unknown quantity, I wasn’t sure. Although one thing was certain, I would give it a damn good go.

  To help me on my way Ann, had kindly offered to take me to the border. And so, after fond farewells between me and the other wedding guests, I climbed into her car, riding shotgun now. As we began to pull away from the gathering, her mother stopped the car to give me a final bit of parting advice.

  “Jamie, don’t forget what I told you—no sex with prostitutes!”

  Was it something about the way I looked?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Boxing Clever

  Thailand had a buzz about it even at the border. Multiple lines several hundred people strong stretched from little booths where officials stamped passports and processed visas. Tantalizingly close, began the dusty border town of Danok. Nearby, positioned on a wall across the road, was a large picture of the Thai king framed in pink and orange flowers, and further on, greeting new arrivals past the border, were depictions of Muay Thai fighters practising their art. The popularity in Thailand of the thousand-year-old fighting system is comparable to that of basketball in the U.S. or soccer in England.

  It had been a long wait of over an hour, where I stood behind a large Swedish biker decked out in a studded leather jacket bearing the skull emblem of his club or gang. Next to him was his petite Malay wife wearing a smaller version of the same. I got chatting to them, half to pass the time, and half in the hope that when they finally got their passports stamped they’d offer me a ride. We shuffled along together and after what seemed an eternity, were only a few people short of the booth. As is all too typical of me, it was only now that I realized that everybody else who was waiting in line was carrying with them little immigration forms.

  Shit.

  “Where did you get your forms?” I quickly asked the biker, panic-stricken that I’d have to go back and fetch one. If I did, then by the time I returned they’d both be long gone and I’d lose my place. I could well imagine the new head of the line being obstinate to the point of revolt that I wasn’t going to join it here.

  “Have you not got one?” he replied, dumbfounded I could be so stupid.

  “No.”

  “We were handed ours when we rode in.”

  What with Ann turning around before the actual border, I had done the last bit on foot and so had somehow bypassed the section doling them out to motorists or passengers from the multiple coaches parked up nearby.

  The queue moved forward a person, bringing the biker to its front.

  “Would you ask if they’ve got a spare?” I begged as he presented his passport and completed form to the official at the booth. After
what seemed an eternity he reached back towards me. In his outstretched hand was a crisp new form. In the quickest I have ever filled out one of these documents, I scribbled down the requested details. Suddenly I was first in line.

  My sole experience with the pliability of Thai border guards had come on a previous adventure when visiting Koh Lipe, a Thai island just across the border from Malaysia, which I had arrived at on a private day-tripping yacht. Serious irregularities had existed with the skipper’s paperwork, but this was nothing that couldn’t be glossed over with a little pourboire in the official’s direction, who gleefully processed the “administration fee” to smooth things out.

  With this in mind, as I stepped up to the border booth to present my documents, I subtly requested that the official switch the dates on his little passport stamp, to give me a slightly more generous time frame to conduct my visit than was officially sanctioned.

  He shook his head.

  I opened my wallet flashing some U.S. dollars his way with a suggestive look.

  Thud. Down came his fifteen day stamp in unison with the word “NO!”

  It was worth a try.

  Moving from the shade into blinding sunshine, I stepped onto the Thai mainland for the first time. Waving off several taxis with a smile, I made my way through Danok, heading uphill in the direction of an unseen truck-stop, which, according to my Swedish friend, was roughly three kilometers up the road. Looking back behind me, I kept a watchful eye out for them both, just in case I could get a ride out of them when they finally happened by. Soon after they did—sharing the same bike. The pair gave me a wave. After yesterday’s navigational debacle, I made sure to visit an internet café before arrival at the border where I printed off a basic one page Google Maps representation of Thailand. This may sound inadequate to hitch across a country, but it’s not. All you want is a layout of the main roads as well as major place names, preferably in English and the local language. Anything more detailed becomes an unnecessary complication, both for hitchhiker and driver alike. The problem with my current set-up was the printer cartridge used to produce the map. It had been so bereft of ink it made the map almost indecipherable. In desperation I was forced to sketch onto paper the image displayed on the computer screen.

  It looked okay at the time. I just hoped it was up to the task now.

  Twenty minutes of hot but rather buoyant walking commenced before a scooter rider responded to my gesture for a ride. After going through my standard “no money” routine, he flashed me a sunny smile and announced, “For free!”

  Every now and again I had taken a motorbike ride without bothering to put my helmet on, but luckily today prudence got the better of me. From the outset the guy swerved all over the place, driving one-handed without a care in the world. Then, he spotted a friend by the roadside. Whipping the bike around, he powered off towards him on a thin sandy verge next to the road. He started to lose his balance. The bike began snaking wildly in the loose ground and I immediately knew what was coming. Almost in slow motion we began descending sideways towards terra firma, the earth rising to greet us. I twisted off the bike as best I could, landing with a thud, my helmet-protected head taking a glancing blow off the ground. We were unhurt but I’d had enough. This ride was over.

  Dusting myself off, I continued on foot, and it wasn’t long before I struck hitchhiking gold, picking up a ride with a couple of easygoing Thai truckers. Buddhist temples and large roadside statues of the Buddha passed by, which my two companions reverently bowed to while momentarily raising their hands in prayer. The landscape was still tropical like that of Malaysia but with a subtle yet indefinable difference that, for the life of me, I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Having employed my new strategy of only mentioning the next major town down the road as my desired destination, for a long while I had no idea how far my new friends were ultimately traveling, but then, when nearing the town I’d mentioned as my destination, I got out my map and began gesturing to it. With a calloused finger the passenger pointed at Bangkok. I was delighted! To get to Bangkok would mean going within fifty miles of the ferry port for Koh Samui. I quickly conveyed that they should discard my initial requested destination. I would be riding with them for significantly longer. I sent a text to Owen:

  In truck heading to Bangkok. Where is best place to ditch lift to get boat to Koh Samui? Which bit you on? Should be there either tonight if there’s a boat or in morn. Any idea if there is a direct road from Surat Thani to Dom Sak. Cheers!

  The road query was due to a blank spot on my hand-drawn map where, I hoped, I’d inadvertently missed a road out. A moment later my cell buzzed.

  I’m away 4 the weekend 2moro. Will leave u my key u can use my room. Check Facebook for full details. Don Sak is where the ferry port is. Town of Lamai Beach on island. Last ferry is 6pm I think. First is 5am. I leave 0930 2moro. Back Mon morn. Get a map!

  It was already late afternoon so there was not a hope in hell of me reaching the port in time to get to Koh Samui tonight; catching up with Owen would have to wait for a couple of days. Since I couldn’t access the internet on my phone, I would have to find somewhere to do so in the morning. Despite these new developments I felt inordinately happy, both to have my own room at the Muay Thai camp awaiting me on arrival, and to have scored such a decent length ride. I watched the sun slip away with a grin.

  The night seemed to drag forever. I felt too wired to sleep. We drove on through the darkness, finally reaching Surat Thang around midnight, where I discovered there was a direct road from here to Don Sak. This was as far as I went today. I was exhausted and needed a place to sleep.

  Getting off at a gas station by the main highway, I went scouting for a suitable spot. At the edge of the forecourt was an old, derelict building. I made my way towards its rear to see if there was a way in, but stumbled upon a tiny late-night café tacked onto its end. Little more than a kiosk really, the smoke-obscured windows brought to mind the sort of establishment that in the U.K. might see late night taxi drivers hanging out at between jobs. To its right was an old carwash. Whether it was still functioning I couldn’t tell, but several large tires were discarded at its entrance, in effect preventing anyone from using it. After wandering inside its eerie, near pitch-black interior, I discounted it as a home for the night, and so went off to look elsewhere. Next to the gas station’s shop, on the side furthest from the road, was a little stony area partially shaded from the beaming lights of the forecourt by a couple of trees, next to which were piled some bins and old boxes; and sprawling behind the whole complex was a large building that appeared to once have been a department store or perhaps a mall, but which now looked thoroughly decaying, with trash and old bits of mangled concrete running alongside it.

  I settled for the stony ground.

  Once erected there was a strong chance my tent’s dark green color would blend in and go unseen among the bins and boxes. This was crucial. The one thing that I didn’t want was anyone knowing I was sleeping there, especially after being told more than once in Malaysia to be weary of getting robbed by “bad people” in Thailand. I had no idea whether these warnings were warranted, but it seemed prudent to be cautious. Crouching down in the limited shade provided by nearby trees from the glare of overhead lighting, I snapped together the four poles that provided structure to the dome and threw on its outer raincover. Suddenly horizontal lights were upon me; a car was approaching, illuminating the area with its turbid beams. I moved quickly towards the trunk of the nearest tree and froze behind it, blocking myself from view.

  I turned to stone, listening as the car drove up and took the parking space directly opposite, roughly fifteen feet away. Its door clunked open and closed, followed by footsteps. The distinctive “psstt” and ensuant pneumatic humming made clear the person was inflating a tire. I stood rooted like the tree I hid behind, imploring him to disappear. Four times over he tended to the air pressure, until, finally, he drove off into the night.

  I quickly clambered inside.
>
  The tent and I were old bedfellows, my familiarity with its interior affording me a false sense of security. I could probably crawl inside it in the middle of a battlefield and be deceived into feeling safe, as if the world at large no longer existed beyond its walls. I threw my bedroll down on the stony surface, confident that fatigue would soon smooth out any ruffled protrusions underneath. Moments later I was asleep.

  * * *

  Already the sun was hot and every moment grew further still, its unimpeded strength producing a blinding glare off the ferry’s brilliant-white upper deck. It was a short but enjoyable voyage towards Koh Samui. Several Western tourists were on board the ferry, but I sat surrounded by a big group of Thai women eating a picnic, who used interesting receptacles to bring their food on board: not Tupperware but plastic carrier bags—bowing in the middle like huge tear-drops, from which came mountains of cooked rice. Other foods placed directly into separate plastic bags included cooked fish, meat, and vegetables. One even held a sticky liquid dipping sauce. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s wedding, so when the woman opposite pointed towards some fish with an inquisitive look that could only mean “would you like some?” I nodded. She shrugged as if to say “suit yourself” and turned away; somehow my “yes please” conveying a “no thanks” instead.

  I arrived hungry on Koh Samui where, after a brief stop at a dockside tourist information office to get a map, I strolled onto the island proper. I stood roughly at ten o’clock on a vaguely round-shaped island. Given the lay out of its roads, the quickest way to reach Owen’s Thai Boxing camp at Lamai Beach was to travel counterclockwise to three o’clock. Strolling past a nearby row of cafés, bars, convenience stores, excursion agents, and ubiquitous Jeep and scooter hire shops, I came to a T-junction where I needed to turn right. There was no shortage of traffic, including a double-cabbed pickup truck with two middle-aged Westerners in it, currently waiting to turn in the direction I needed.