by Alex Gunn
There were huge floor to ceiling pyramids built from boxes of Weetabix breakfast cereal with a plastic Father Christmas balanced on the top, jars of Nescafe instant coffee each with a red nylon ribbon on the lid displayed in such festive volume that it felt like the staff Christmas party at the Nescafe works canteen, and crates of American crunchy peanut butter. Christmas carols blared out sung by Thai pop stars and there was an amazingly brisk trade in bottles of gift wrapped Thai whisky and strange vitamin health drinks.
It kind of felt good but didn’t feel like “my breakfast”, if you know what I mean. No matter how much Weetabix I bought I just couldn’t re-kindle the same old Christmas magic. It all felt too weird.
Trying to create my Christmas began to feel like hard work and I could feel myself getting frustrated and angry at it all. The initial novelty of all the Weetabix began to wear thin and I could feel the amused contempt so familiar to all ex-pats creeping in (“it’s so funny how they get it all wrong”). On top of all of this we still hadn’t made any real money from our business and it was easy for small things to spark off big arguments at home with my wife, interspersed with prickly silence.
The children didn’t seem to mind or even notice. They carried on opening the little doors on their advent calendars that my Mum had sent over and eating the cheap over sweetened unpleasant chocolate inside. As they sat ploughing through several days worth at once I wondered what on earth we were waiting in anticipation for; being able to smear Weetabix with peanut butter washed down with Nescafe? It was a very far cry from eating hot chestnuts and window shopping at Fortnum and Mason’s in London’s Picadilly.
For the first time I really wanted to go home. I really did. Like the unexpected happiness that flowed through me at the school gates I felt unexpectedly home sick. I missed Christmas like mad.
I felt tired and fed up trying to make things work; feeling that everything was a never ending up hill struggle. I felt tired of never being able to find anything in the supermarket and not being able to ask anyone where it might be or if they even had it. I felt tired of getting everything wrong and not knowing what the water bill looked like or how to pay it, tired of not knowing how anything worked, tired of getting the money wrong the whole time and kindly market traders having to pick the coins out of my hand like I was on day release from an institution, tired of not being able to buy alcohol outside of some archaic licensing hours nonsense, tired of endless power cuts, of stupid road blocks, of unquestioned hierarchies, shuffling acceptance, tired of everything being completely and utterly different and not being able to ask.
I felt exhausted and just wanted to get on a plane and go home. Go somewhere where I didn’t have to worry all the time, where the most challenging thing that I had to deal with were aphids and students.
There is a psychological dynamic known as Reactance Theory, which states that if your choices are taken away, two things begin to happen, firstly behaviours are automatically generated to get our choices back and secondly the lost choice seems even better than it actually was. I had a very bad dose of Reactance Theory-itus. In my mind Christmas past took on an almost heavenly quality.
To make matters worse I didn’t have a clue about where to get a Christmas tree. There certainly would be no real ones. There were artificial ones but I had always seen these as a sign of Christmas failure. The nearest thing that I could find was a huge Palm Tree in a huge earthenware pot that cost a fortune. So a Palm Tree for Christmas it was.
It felt ever so slightly completely crazy to bring a large seven foot palm tree into our living room and decorate it with the Christmas ornaments that we had brought with us from home. I have to admit though that once we put the fairy light on in the evening it did look lovely. It didn’t look anything to do with Christmas but it did look pretty. It didn’t look what I would call christmasy so much as what you might call tacky. It made our house look like a Greek Taverna.
Although I don’t have anything against Greek tavernas I don’t really want to live in one, but more importantly its not the atmosphere that Prince Albert’s famous innovation is supposed to create. Rather than sugar plums, fairies and Dancer and Blitzen our tree conjured up the images of moussaka, Retsina and the rich warbling sound of Demis Roussos. Our Christmas had taken an unexpected surreal turn for the worst, until that is, Son once again saved the day.
I have no doubt that if Son could have driven to Scandinavia to bring back a Norway Spruce he would have done so without hesitation. I know that if it was possible he would have driven me to Regents Street to have my much lamented hot chestnuts, but in a way he went one better. He brought Christmas to us.
On Christmas Eve at 7 o clock he came to pick us up. As we drove through the dark streets of his village there could be no doubt which house he lived in. It looked like what my mum would have called “wonderland”. There were fairy lights everywhere; in the trees, around the window frames, on the roof and throughout the garden. The whole of the front garden was also covered in tinsel and decorations. Evidently his time in America had not completely been forgotten. This was Son’s Christmas party.
We got out of the car and it took my breath away. I felt overwhelmed and tearful. The stress of the last six months had caught up with me. It just felt so special, not only because it was, but also because it was so unexpected, but that is what everybody says about Thailand. I just didn’t expect it to hit me there and then. It also kind of struck me that Son had single handedly made all this happen, quietly and without any fuss. Despite being the only house in his village decorated so gaily, (his neighbours must have thought that he was mad) he carried on and did what he thought was the right thing to do. That’s Son all over.
There was a string quartet from his local church playing Christmas carols in a fairy light lit arbour and a selection of food that any hotel of any standard would be proud. There was Thai food , Chinese food, pizzas, home made pies, French fries, roast chicken, a huge seafood paella, and delicious steamed red bean buns that melt in your mouth, and what I can safely say is the best BBQ pork I have ever eaten.
We were all introduced to all the various members of his family; his lovely wife Khun Noi, his fantastic Mum, cousins, brothers, nephews and nieces and lots of other people who had travelled from all over Thailand and beyond just to be there on that special evening.
After we had all eaten as much as we could, Son and his brother appeared with guitar, keyboard and song sheets and we all sang Christmas Carols in Thai and English, especially for us.
It would have been hard to do anything more to create the kind of Christmas magic that we missed so much. Sitting underneath the fairy lights and the twinkling stars singing Oh Little Town Of Bethlehem in the warm silent dark night more than made up for all the things that we had been missing. Like in a fairy tale, when you least expect it, Christmas was here.
On the way home we looked out for Father Christmas riding through the night sky in his sleigh. The children pretended they were a bit old for all of that kind of thing, but couldn’t help looking all the same. Son joined in without hesitation and thought he saw something disappear over Mount Suthep, but when we looked again it was just the lights of the temple shining reassuringly through the dark forest.
In the morning Father Christmas had of course visited our gigantic Greek Taverna style home. He probably had to send out a search party of Elves just to locate our living room and probably wondered why we had a palm tree from a Greek Taverna stuck in the middle of it. Anyway he seemed to manage okay. He had clearly eaten some of the biscuits we left out for him and even half a glass of Red Cock (game old bird), and some of the carrots were missing that we left out for the reindeer. We even found his snowy footprints on the doorstep, which looked suspiciously like icing sugar, still it proved to be an unexpected Christmas present for the ants. Later on in the day our youngest son found some chewed up carrot in the road where the reindeer must have stood, waiting for Santa to
finish his snack and booze.
After having worked out which way around the world he must have flown (over India, then China) it was time to get the BBQ ready. This was it, Christmas in the sun. My Mum had been right.
It was actually quite hot so we went for a quick swim in the pool. As I recovered from the third game of Sink The Titanic, which involves dive bombing me until I sink, it can go on indefinitely or until I get seriously hurt, my mind wandered to all those Christmases in England; the dark, the wet, the gloom, and the terrible disappointment when it was all over. Having to go back to school and work, and somehow getting through the following two months without suffering from severe depression and killing yourself.
I floated across the water on my back looking up at the clear blue sky. I wondered what on earth the next couple of months would be like here. Our money would certainly run out unless something changed with our business. Would this be our only Christmas in the sun or would we be here next year?
A Green Bee Eater flitted overhead. I thought about the Bird Circus and then a small boy jumped on my stomach and I remembered I’d left the BBQ burning.
Chapter 14
A New Year and
Business is Booming
Throughout the first few months of January we had several impressive articles written about our business in various newspapers and magazines. Apparently January is the “optimum holiday advertising window” or so some amazingly young PR wiz kid in our big London based PR company informed us. As our holidays were offering something a little different the articles were given “premium space” in the magazines.
Although we had paid this PR company an unbelievable amount of money to facilitate the finding of journalists and transporting them to Thailand and back home again, we had no editorial control over what the journalists were going to write. They made it quite clear from the start that they would write exactly what they thought of our new fangled Life Change Holidays. The journalists were fairly well known in their own right and not about to be pushed around by some loony couple that had started some loony business in some loony place in northern Thailand
Waiting to pick them up from the airport was bloody scary. Son looked pensive but his shiny 7 seater people carrier looked just the part.
For a group of international journalists who were about to receive a free Life Change Holiday with state of the art motivational psychotherapy and 5 star boutique hotel accommodation they seemed bloody surly, if not downright grumpy, “hold this bag I’m bloody knackered.” My real reservation though was how the programme was going to work on these journalists, none of whom wanted to change anything in their lives. As it transpired they were actually human like the rest of us and so had plenty in their lives they wanted to change. So, that was alright.
We gave them the works. We took them around the fresh food markets, spun the magic of motivational psychology around them and even treated them to a slap up noodle lunch cooked over an open fire in a wooden hut high up in the mountains. As an added bonus I even remembered not to announce in a loud incredulous voice that our entire lunch cost less than a small bottle of imported beer at a swanky bar in London.
The week went by as quickly as a London based PR company can take your money. By the end of their stay all four journalists felt like close friends that we had known for years. They all left with their completed Change Plans detailing new projects and goals; finishing a book here, improving a relationship there, selling a house, getting married and a whole host of other things.
There was much hugging and waving at the departure gate. On the drive home whilst looking forward to the last swim of the day, I couldn’t help worry about what they were going to write. Would they say we were the bees knees, the cat’s pajamas or a load of old rubbish. It really struck me that everything we had, literally everything, depended upon the reviews of 4 people. Our future, our success or failure, the dream of being shiny international people, was in their hands. I wished I’d splashed out a bit more on the noodle lunch.
Anyway, with the New Year came the publication of these articles in their “premium spaces”, and I needn’t have worried. They were better than I dared hope and of course generated a flurry of interest from potential customers, other journalists and a weird bloke in Hong Kong called Jerry who kept phoning and emailing claiming that he was going to make us millionaires.
We never got to the bottom of how he was going to do this, but for a while he seemed quite adamant. He said things like “I’m going to the top and taking you guys with me.” To be honest it began to sound a little unnerving. I didn’t really know if I wanted to be at the top in Hong Kong and we didn’t have all the special, snappy business lingo that he constantly used. He’d say things like “let me run this past you guys…” (he always called us “guys”) and “ let me jump on board with that one”. When I responded in boring normal English I just sounded stupid and a bit simple, “yes that sounds very interesting Jerry”. He hasn’t contacted us for a while so I assume he’s busy making someone else a millionaire and running things up somebody else’s flag pole.
The sudden increase in Life Change Holiday bookings and general activity meant I had to make a special trip to the Airport Shopping Plaza to buy a wall planner. I needed to plot out who had booked to come when and where we had free space for more customers. Although it still felt like early days and far from secure it did feel like we could do it, that we could make it work. People were booking Life Change Holidays, but more importantly they were enjoying them and recommending them to family and friends. One customer got home and sent their mother back the following week.
One man arrived in a bit of a daze as his wife had booked him in without telling him. The first he knew about it was opening a birthday card containing a plane ticket for later that day. After the first day which he spent in a bit of a daze saying “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe I’m here, I can’t believe it” he actually got loads out of his week with us. He decided to quit his job (which he hated and was turning him into somebody he wasn’t), start his own business (he now actually runs two successful businesses), build his own house and take up stone sculpturing. He remains to this day a good friend who by his own admission, like so many of us, had just lost his way a bit. For lots of people Life Change Holidays were acting like a map; a way to fix new destinations and work out how to get there.
We had enquires and bookings from all over the world, from the UK, Canada, America, Australia, United Arab Emirates, Belgium, Malaysia, Thailand, Pakistan and Switzerland, from people from all walks of life, from taxi drivers to rocket scientists and hoteliers to lawyers and even a pop star.
During those early months of the new year life slowly began to feel like “my breakfast”. It didn’t all feel so painfully strange. I dropped the children off at school, waved to other international parents, had breakfast with my wife, sorted out the work for the day, did the work and came home for a swim in the pool. I’d even worked out what the water bills looked like and paid them, without hesitation at the Seven Eleven, instead of throwing them in the bin.
Things began to settle down into a pleasing routine. Every twelve weeks Son would take us over the border into Burma to comply with visa regulations and where we could also buy ultra cheap pirate DVDs for the children (30 times cheaper than they would be in England), and fight off crowds of boys trying to sell me Viagra and Lego (a distinctly disturbing combination).
We paid the accountant each month to keep the company books and we even planted some tomato plants in a pot by the front door. With the new year, new roots and branches were slowly beginning to grow. Life was shaping up okay. The shiny international feel good lifestyle felt just within our grasp.
We would have been home and dry if the bookings had kept coming in, but they didn’t. The phone stopped ringing, the whirlwind of emails dwindled down to a trickle until a week passed without a single enquiry. The newly purchased wall planner looke
d depressingly empty. Something somewhere was going dreadfully wrong and our roller coaster of a life was about to take a sharp downward plunge.
Chapter 15
Scraping By and
Hanging On Again
Trying to live on no money in a foreign country really is dreadful and scary, especially if you have children to look after as well. It kind of feels okay when you are young and single and have just a few coins in your pocket, but when you have to make that same amount of money last for a family of four, and try to turn a business around and try not to let the mounting stress show, it really is much more difficult. I had worked out and ring fenced enough money to pay the rent for the full year tenancy and the school fees. After taking out other fixed expenses we were surviving from week to week on what I would have spent on lunch back in the university canteen (actually a lot less if I had a salad as well).
The most dreadful part is having to hide your screaming anxiety from the children. All I wanted to do was run around the house waving my arms in the air shouting “we’re doomed, we’re doomed, we’re heading for the rocks” but what I found myself saying was “no everything’s fine, I’m just a bit tired, of course we’ll be able to go to the zoo, just not this week.” Although with my work permit we could get into the zoo at local rates, as opposed to tourist rates which are much more expensive, it was still money that we did not have and would mean we would have even less money the following week. All of a sudden things didn’t seem so gloriously cheap.
I remember one time at the market when I ran out of money. For some reason I thought I had more than I did and when I got there I had a single 100 Baht note. When your stress levels are through the roof you tend to be less self conscious and less worried about what people might think of you. I stood in the middle of the market turning out all the pockets of my jeans unable to accept the fact that all I had in the world was 100 Baht. I’m sure people were looking at me, but I just didn’t really care. All I knew was that I had to buy dinner, we also needed milk and water and other things that I couldn’t remember.