by Alex Gunn
Perhaps the blockage was immovable. Perhaps I’d swallowed a camel in my sleep. In this alternative universe inhabited by strange young Chinese assassins masquerading as “alternative practitioners” I guess anything is possible.
As I lie, like a broken puppet on the table, I am aware of the normal sounds of traffic outside, which is good as this means I am still alive. I imagine the beautiful bunches of orchids in the building just below us and the steady flow of the old Ping River just across the road. I wonder how long this prodding and punching and unblocking nonsense is all going to go on for. In England I don’t think I’ve ever spent more than 10 minutes with a doctor. Perhaps in the alternative health universe appointments go on for hours or days or years. Who knows?
As I am thinking all this an incredible thing happens. My hands heat up. There’s no other way to say it.
Had I not experienced it myself I would not believe it and would now be making stupid jokes aiming to prove how ridiculous it is that it’s possible to heat up a mans hands by unblocking his shoulders. But, that is exactly what happened. Incredibly my hands were hot and dry. They had turned into Dr Chan’s hands.
Just as I was thinking that this was the most incredible thing I had ever experienced in my life (apart from Space Mountain roller coaster ride in Disney World) Mr Chan said “You feel arms hot, unblocked.” Mind reading was a part of the treatment after all!
Just as I was thinking that this was the most incredible thing I had ever experienced another incredible thing happened. It was an avalanche of bewildering and unbelievable experiences.
Mr Chan said, “would you like me to crack your back.”
Now it was my turn to give him the silent treatment. Not because I was being deliberately enigmatic or obtuse, but because I hadn’t a clue what to say next. Besides which, apart from having red hot hands and having my thoughts read I wondered whether I could still speak normally. Perhaps my words would come out like faraway church bells or an obscure dialect of Quenya the ancient Elvin language, or Chinese. Mostly though I was simply bewildered.
I am used to the question stem of “would you like....” being followed by something like “...a nice cup of tea” or “...another biscuit” or “...to see the dessert menu.”
“Would you like... me to crack your back” is not a question I am prepared for in any kind of way, especially in my disorientated state and having hands that were getting hotter and hotter. They were heating up like an out of control science experiment. Perhaps they were going to explode. Perhaps cracking my back would somehow cool them down and save them from popping, so I said “yes.”
He sat me up like a rag doll, grabbed me roughly round the middle (I thought of dear old Mrs Pudding) and yanked me like I was a sack of potatoes that he was trying to lift off the floor. Fantastically, nothing happened.
“You need to let go,” he said
“You must not fight it, you must trust me” now it really did sound like a James Bond film (one of the later ones, so I was right after all). It sounded like Star Wars when Luke has to trust the force in order to blow up the Death Star.
“I can assure you Dr Chan that I let go when I walked into your office,” is what I should have said but instead I just croaked a feeble, “okay.”
He repeated the move and this time I felt and heard a tremendous crack, like someone breaking an almighty piece of ice with a sledge hammer. He really did crack my back. It was a situation which would be fittingly described in this modern age as “awesome.”
“Did you hear that?” I asked in astonishment.
The crack actually made me feel rather normal and my hot hands started to cool off immediately. He was working me like my Dad used to control our central heating; hot, cold, barely warm, clammy. Perhaps shards of my broken spine had clogged up whatever it was that he was trying to unblock. I was beginning to get the impression that alternative Chinese medicine was more akin to modern day plumbing rather than modern biological science.
“I will now give you needles,” he added, as though again it was perfectly normal to give needles to your patients. The most my doctor in England ever gave me was a warm handshake and a prescription. Dr Chan is going to give me needles.
Perhaps Chinese medicine is a cross between plumbing and needlework.
Perhaps the needles might be a keepsake, perhaps an ornamental needlework set in a small wooden box, or something to do with craft work and crochet, a little reminder of our fun time together, but it wasn’t. It was, of course, real acupuncture needles.
I lay back down and Dr Chan said.
“You will not feel anything” which of course transpired to be a great big fat Chinese lie.
The first thing I felt was my hands heating up. Here we go again. Strange sensations ran through my spine and back. I suspected more unblocking was going on without me knowing.
I didn’t like the implications of this blocking business. It implied that I had somehow been careless, lazy or downright negligent, like a man who can’t be bothered to take the rubbish out. In fact I take the rubbish out all the time.
I lost track of time and my mind descended into free fall. I could have been lying there for hours, days or minutes. I have no idea.
I could feel Dr Chan twisting the needles out of my back. I stood up. I felt wobbly, like I wasn’t used to walking. I was like Bambi on the ice.
My wife miraculously appeared and spoke to Dr Chan and paid him some money. I shook his warm dry hands with my warm dry hands and said “thank you Dr Chan, you were better than Mrs Pudding.” He looked confused and my wife whisked me out of the room very quickly.
I felt light headed, slightly drunk and floaty. My back didn’t hurt at all but that was because I couldn’t really feel my body. I felt like a little speck of dust floating through the air and very happy. I was clearly completely unblocked. I felt like I loved my wife very much and also Dr Chan, who I wanted to go back and talk to, but my wife said this was a bad idea, so we walked on.
The bundles of orchids and roses looked brighter and more colourful than I had ever seen them. I looked across the road past the Tuk Tuks and out across the river towards the ancient golden Chedi of Wat Gate. This was as far away from Mrs Pudding and the Modbury Health Centre as it was possible to get. The sun was beginning to set, a pure white Little Egret flew up from the other side of the river bank and perched in the top of a Flame Tree that was in brilliant red blossom. It looked like it was on fire.
“How did it go?” my wife asked. “He heated my hands up” I said.
“That’s nice.”
She got me home in a taxi and made me a nice cup of tea.
Chapter 10
Loyalty
June: The swimming pool is at its warmest and it seems to now rain every other day or so. I have abandoned the garden.
“Passport… for loyalty (pronounced loi-ow-tee), yes for loi-ow-tee, sir.” Supermarket Check Out Girl
It’s a little odd to pay for a supermarket loyalty card isn’t it? As I was handing over the money a voice in my mind was saying “I’m paying you to be loyal…I’m paying you, for me to be loyal…I’m paying you to be loyal to you!” Like almost everything here, it didn’t make a great deal of sense, but after two years I have got used to it and just try to absorb the strangeness and not continually compare everything to back home. It doesn’t often work though.
Not only did I have to pay for my loyalty, I had to fill in quite a lengthy form, which for reasons way beyond my understanding wanted to know when I was born, where I live, whether I was married and what my “profession” is. I was very tempted to write “shoplifter” or “thief” or better still, “bandit.”
They also wanted to know how often I shop in the store and my passport number. I know! How many of you take your passport down the shops? (“Darling, just popping out to the shop to buy some milk, wont be a minute.” “Okay dear, don�
��t forget your passport.”)
I thrust the form and pen back to the scared looking assistant.
“I don’t have my passport on me. I’ll have to get it. You wait here….Ha Natee” I said which means “five minutes” and is an extremely useful phrase to know. It’s also useful as you can hold five fingers up in the air at the same time in a kind of “you wait here I’ll be five minutes” type of gesture.
I zoomed back home on my little motor scooter. Full throttle down the Hang Dong Road (award winner of The Best Named Road of the Year), back home and into the office to the secret place where we keep the passports.
No time to stop and explain.
Back on the bike. Full throttle, 85 km per hour and 85 degrees in the shade. Outside lane, passport in my pocket, sun beating down, 10 ton dump trucks belching out thick black diesel smoke. I’m weaving through the traffic at the lights to get into pole position. 5,4,3,2,1 Green light and go, go, go…get that loyalty card. I wondered if there was a special loyalty prize for the most loyal shopper.
Back to the counter and the scared bewildered looking assistant. I looked at my watch, for added effect, as though she had been timing me. “Sib Natee” I said with a swagger, which I think may mean “ten minutes” but could of course mean anything or nothing. She still just looked scared and bewildered.
She took my passport and scrutinized it carefully, frowning while leafing through the pages, like a disapproving Primary School teacher before writing the terrifying words “see me” in red pen at the bottom of the page. I experienced a genuine moment of anxiety as she stared hard at the various visa stamps and the photo page.
What happens if I get turned down? What happens if she says that my papers are not in order, like they do in films about war criminals escaping over the border? What happens if she simply slid the closed passport back to me with a sad shake of her head and called security, or worse, the Supermarket Immigration Office (the feared SIO)?
Or worse still, what if I’m the wrong sort of shopper or not loyal enough? What if I wrote down the wrong profession, (thank God I didn’t write down bandit) or they just didn’t like the cut of my jib? What would I have to do to prove my loyalty to this woman? How bloody loyal do they expect me to be? I’m only a man for Christ’s sake.
Eventually though none of my fears were realized. Thankfully I wasn’t arrested by the SIO and didn’t have to tunnel my way out with a spoon behind the seldom visited multi pack aisle (who the hell is drinking all this soya milk stuff).
She copied down all the numbers in my passport which took quite some time because when I say “all the numbers” I mean literally all the numbers in my passport, including the many tiny reference numbers that I hadn’t even noticed before, that are meaningless outside of the UK passport issuing office.
I didn’t say anything though as this would mean her being embarrassed, or “losing face”, as they would say here. I just stood there smiling for ages, watching her slowly and painstakingly copying tiny little numbers down onto a form which nobody would read and if they did would be completely meaningless. I didn’t say anything though, I didn’t make a fuss…I’m slowly learning stuff. I was trying to practice the famous Thai “cool heart.” Just like The Fonz (an analogy, which I have learnt, when acted out, even with my collars up, falls hopelessly flat as no one knows who Fonzy is in Thailand, or anywhere come to that).
I eventually signed the form and handed over the 100 Baht note. They certainly have taken this loyalty thing seriously. I wondered whether I was still allowed into other supermarkets or whether they expected me to only shop here.
After much shuffling of paper work and the usual waiting I received my very own supermarket loyalty card, which of course I promptly lost.
Chapter 11
Parents Afternoon
June: It feels like someone has filled up the swimming pool from the hot tap.
“Dad, what’s a pimp?” My youngest son.
It’s the end of term and I am at our youngest son’s school attending the parents afternoon talking to Mrs Dawn. I am trying to blend in and look like an international parent. I am trying hard to look intelligent and thoughtful and international, like one of those successful international parents which I mentioned earlier, but above all else not say anything to embarrass my son.
My son, myself and Mrs Dawn are sitting alone in an empty classroom on tiny little chairs and so far all is going well. I refrained from making a comment about the hobbit sized chairs, and also about my son’s participation in something delightfully called “Wind Band.” As far as I am concerned all is well.
I like Mrs Dawn who is from the Philippines and laughs very easily. Sometimes she just appears to laugh at nothing at all and I join in with her, also laughing at nothing. The Philippines must be a very jolly place if they are all like Mrs Dawn, which I fear they are not. I am sure she is very good with young children but I don’t understand a word she is talking about.
She is using phrases like “Kinaesthetic learners” and “complete learning cycles” and I am hearing “babble, babble, babble” and “blah, blah, blah.”
“Okay Mr Gunn, would you like to ask anything before we finish?” I pause and she laughs nervously. I join in laughing as well.
“Well, seriously...” I say as though we have just been laughing at a great joke together. And then I have to think of something appropriate to say to finish everything off...and I panic. I am in sight of the finishing line and just need one final conclusive bland statement. I think of saying my new catch phrase “don’t use the spine as a pointer” but think that this is neither the time nor the place. Instead I blurt out...
“Our son is so happy in your class that last night he called his mum Mrs Dawn. He probably wishes you were his mother,” and there is a terrible silence. I should have said the spine thing.
My son is looking at the floor. As I say these words I know I have said a terribly inappropriate and weird thing. I have to turn this around and make it okay. Mrs Dawn is looking at me really hoping I will turn it around as well. She’s not laughing now.
“When I say mother, I don’t mean my wife” I add, making sure she doesn’t think I’m making any inappropriate suggestions to her, or that I am a weirdo (which I am not). As I say these words I also realize the significance of my wife’s absence.
There seems to be an unspoken law that states that every time I realise that I say something stupid and try to make it right by saying other things, it only makes it worse; a lot worse. This can continue indefinitely, but usually until my wife interrupts and saves me, but she’s not going to be able to do that now. I have to dig myself out.
“My wife is away at the moment, working for few days,” I say to make sure that she doesn’t get the wrong idea. I look down at my son and smile to make sure he knows that I am turning it all around and everything will be okay.
“Is she? Well that’s good Mr Gunn” says Mrs Dawn, a little frostily.
“And when I said that my son wants you to be his mother what I really meant was....”
My mind races. I had the beginning part of the sentence all worked out okay but I hadn’t really given much thought to the second half, which seems to be emerging fairly rapidly as the most important part. I stare around the room madly wondering what on earth my wife would say next, trying really hard to be normal. And then on the wall I notice it. I can’t believe that I hadn’t seen it earlier.
Somehow I know that it will be my salvation. It feels like an invisible force is directing me towards it, that somehow it has been organised by powers greater than myself, powers that I don’t understand, powers only comprehendible by the mean and strange Dr Chan. I somehow know that it will get me out of this mess.
On the far wall of the classroom is a huge poster display made by the children. It covers nearly the whole wall and is comprised from many pieces of A1 poster paper and lots of pictures c
ut out from magazines and badly drawn pictures. Unless, of course Mrs Dawn is just rubbish at art and an incurable show off, which I think unlikely but decide not to pursue it with her right now.
Above the poster display in huge letters I read with strange familiarity “From Source To Sea.”
“....from source to sea,” I repeat in a mechanical slow monotone.
“I’m sorry Mr Gunn....what are you saying?”
Both my son and Mrs Dawn are now looking at me, like a crowd in a casino after I have just bet a million dollars on one hand of cards. The next move will make or break the parents’ afternoon, and possibly me.
“I was just saying...that...my son would have wanted you and his mother to see the exhibition at Bangkok Aquarium with the same name...From Source To Sea. We went there last month but his mum was working back here”
“Yes,” said Mrs Dawn “I got the idea from there, its very good isn’t it.”
“Yes, very good,” I said sensing that we were in sight of firm ground once again. “Did you see the sharks?”
“Their teeth are constantly growing,” chipped in my son helpfully. He was in on the battle to turn the situation around.
“Yes they are, well done” said Mrs Dawn, and she laughed again for no reason and I joined in with her.
I had made it. We were back on firm ground. We were back to normal, both laughing at nothing.
“Okay,” I said standing up. “Well thank you very much Mrs Dawn. I don’t want to hold you from your next appointment”
The words “I don’t want to hold you” hung in my mind but I was already safe and walking out of the classroom with my son.
Outside in the road the heat was intense, it was incredibly hot. It felt like someone had turned the brightness up to full. We get into the truck.
“Daddy...?”
“Yes?”