Bangkok IV

It is a little past nine in the morning and I can hear the soft snoring of my companions on the beds across the room.  The air conditioner hums gently, a steady stream of cold air spewing forth from its mouth. Outside, I can hear the faint chirps of lively birds. From the gaps between the blidnd, a greyish light filters into the room. Is it a cloudy day, or are the windows tinted? Coupled with the tenderness of the duvet that I've cocooned myself in, this morning that greets me makes one very lazy indeed.

I notice that my sister and her boyfriend are sleeping on different beds. What an odd couple! If it had been Sarah and her boyfriend, they'd no doubt huddle close to each other under the same blanket.

What am I doing here? Aren't they absolutely fine on their own? The boyfriend has been here four, or five times already so I found it odd that my sister should ask me to come along. Perhaps, I am the excuse, the object placed between the intimate space of the two so that my father wouldn't question this trip. Suddenly, a kind of sadness has overtaken me as I realise that to my sister, I'm only a flimsy piece of condom. The distance between our beds seems to have stretched further, and I hear a tear somewhere, the rift between us an oblivion with jagged teeth.

I should just wake up and leave.

Bangkok III

After an evening of walking along Sukhumvit, we're now back at the hostel, sipping cultured milk drink from a local brand. What is it called? I certainly can't read Thai. But it tastes better than Yakult, and even Vitagen! The bottle itself looks cheap, with faded print in red and light blue. If it wasn't for my sister, I'd never have bought such a thing.

Our first day at Bangkok didn't go as planned, but I suppose it was a satisfactory evening. If we had gone to Asiatique, I reckon I'd have spent and bought a lot more, feeling 2-times the guilt, but also 2-times the happiness. Instead, we headed over to Central World because Lisa came across a Facebook post about a much hyped-about bazaar (which later, when we got there, she admitted that she never bothered reading the post and only looked at the pictures). Sure, we found grilled pork, a variety of seafood and Pad Thai, but we also paid 70Baht for a cup of coconut water. I wanted to vomit it back up and ask for my money back.

Long bored of international fast fashion with price tags that aren't on par with quality, we wanted to leave the monstrous heart of consumers as soon as we finished our business. Due to the convenience of everyday life, details such as incompatible plug points completely slipped our dull brains so we had to find an adapter-charger to resuscitate our phones. Since our phones are directly linked to our livelihood and wellbeing, leaving them alone and actually bonding with each other is most unfathomable.

In hindsight, we should have just bought a random one at the Godsend 7-Eleven instead of browsing through Central World for a "proper" one. So we paid 400Baht for said "proper" charger, and on the way back, as we browsed through the shelves of 7-E for shampoo, we saw a whole section of adapter-chargers selling for 129Baht. Those 129Baht ones also came with Hello Kitty prints. But, of course, our malnourished brains didn't think that far ahead.

Have you ever put a sweat-soaked bra to your nose and took a deep breath? Even now, I can taste the sourness in my throat.

We circled the floors to find the exit, stepping into a few boutiques and felt for the price tags before kicking ourselves out of the overpriced stores. Elaborate malls tailored to extravagant tourists, in all their bright glory, is not where a 22-year-old wearing a thin linen dress from UNIQLO should be shopping at. Even the scents in that enclosed space of luxury smell more expensive than my tuition fees.

Hurrying to the exit, that's when I saw it. Matsumoto Kiyoshi. I've never been to Japan, but shopping there, at this over-lit drugstore blasting Japanese pop music by some tactless boyband, I felt as though I was no longer in Bangkok. I had never intended to buy anything, nor did I expect them to stock the LuLuLun masks that I've been obsessed with but there they were, hanging at the masks section with cheap price tags overhead; even the limited edition ones! I wanted to cry, because we never booked check-in luggage.

I hung all three packets of LuLuLun back where they waited to be taken home and walked out of the store.

I went back inside.

After further deliberation and discussion with my sister, I decided to buy just one pack. If I didn't buy at least one, I would have troubles sleeping tonight, and for the rest of the days I spend without LuLuLun.

Where am I? Indeed, I'm in Bangkok, yet my heart is elsewhere. Whenever I tell people that I've never been to Japan, they open their eyes so wide as if inviting me to gouge them out of their sockets. More than anywhere, I'd like to go there, but more than anything, I'm also afraid of going there. It's funny, but I'm scared that I'm not good enough for Japan. That's why, until now, I've only flown away from the land of the rising sun.

Bangkok II

There was an Ojii-chan travelling with two younger companions. I stared at him for quite some time, at his head of wavy hair that flowed past his broad shoulders, trying to discern whether he was indeed a man. As he hunched over to put his belongings on the floor, the fat around his chest, following the pull of gravity, seemed to sag further until I could see two distinct points forming beneath his pattern shirt.

"Ah, so he was a woman after all!" this is a blunder that anyone would make, I suppose.

I continued to observe this eldery being of a somewhat massive build that was seated diagonally across me two rows away, for lack of anything else to do while I wait the time to pass.

Then he spoke.

"Ah, so he is indeed a man!" I've just reconfirmed this fact with myself, because nobody else seemed to have noticed. Neither did they care, eyes glued to their phone screens.

I wanted to know more about Ojii-chan and his two companions, which dressed very differently. All three of them were travelling together yet their attire betrayed no hint of why they were together, as well as the purpose of their trip.

Ojii-chan looked as though he'd spent far too long out in the sun, living among tribal communities, while the potato seated next to him was in a proper long-sleeved shirt, buttoned right up to neck, complete with pointy leather shoes wrapping round his feet. The third man, one of a slim build, was in a simple black t-shirt which looked expensive to my semi-blind eyes. He most likely enjoyed baseball, beer, and soccer. But this all was none of my business.

As they continued to scroll through their phones, so did I, while keeping an eye on them still.

After they boarded, I didn't think I'd see them again but as I was walking down the aisle, there! The three of them were huddled together in three narrow seats. By the window, the thin one seemed to be enjoying the sunshine. Ojii-chan and the potato looked quite troubled as their layers of fat are coming close to overlapping, like unevenly kneaded dough.

It is rude to stare, so I kept walking, in case I should laugh.

I never saw them again after we landed, but I encountered different hordes of Japanese people at DMK airport all the same.

Bangkok sure is popular, huh?

Bangkok I

I used to never leave the house without a pen, and a book. The dread of not being able to fidget with the cylindrical tool as a distraction for my anxiety at times weakened my knees and tore out my vocal chords. Not even a squeak, while my body melted into the bustling crowd.

Yet, here I sit, on this cheap seat that's straighter than a board, without a pen. If I had given in to my greed and stuffed my face like a pig for the past few years, then undoubtedly, my fat would spill over the armrests and encroach upon the narrow territory of the traveller next to me, and the even narrower space of the aisle.

It has been a rather lonely flight, with the two passengers next to me failing to show up. At least I could cross my legs freely, and look outside, not that I would want to anyway on this 2PM flight where the sun burns fierce, hours before its descent into a warm glow.

Something is eating at the innermost corner of my chest. Slightly irksome, I think I have annoyed my intolerant self by not slipping a pen into my travel pouch. How stupid can one be? Stupit. Real stupit.

Not only is tapping, tapping, tapping on this smooth surface unfulfilling, but it would appear as though I am another one of those modern beings who have fallen terribly ill, contracting the chronic disease of technological obsession.

Kakak and Recess

The Kakak here is so good to a glutton such as I. Without realising it, I've started going down for recess as soon as the clock hit 10:30, or earlier, on days where the kids are behaving and I'm starving. Once downstairs, I simply sit in the kitchen and wait. Wait, waiting for the Kakak to come in with the plastic containers that hold the leftover snacks the Kindergarteners couldn't finish during their break.

Sometimes, she doesn't show up, or if she does, there'd be nothing left of the sugary treats that schools shouldn't be feeding our already hyperactive young. My greedy self would of course feel a pang of disappointment when my stomach growled, but the Kakak is also the only staff that bothers talking to me so our brief chat, in place of biscuits, acts as the refreshment before another round of sheep herding.

I don't think I've asked for her name. Actually, I have never asked for her name. The other teachers here, do they even know what her name is? Kakak, it's always Kakak. Kakak sini, Kakak sana, Kakak minta mop-- just Kakak.

She never asked for my name either.

Perhaps names aren't important, or they may be too familiar an address between two people who only talk to each other in the kitchen for a few minutes each day. Beyond her name, I know how many siblings she has, how she lives in a long-house back home, and the fact that she sent her adopted child to a Chinese school. But her name, I still haven't a clue about that.

I grabbed three pieces of Chips More Mini from the container when she took the lid off. They were crunchier than I had expected, so my hand went into the container a second time, then a third. Quite content that I've had my little fix, it was time to clear my bladder and go back upstairs.

Kind as she is, Kakak filled up a tiny takeaway container with the cookies, saying that they're for me. Just the other day, she stuffed one Taufu-fa sized container with Bayam for me to take home. They're still sitting in the fridge, unopened, since last Thursday. Nobody but the general waste bag is going to eat them now.

Six or seven pieces of Chips More Mini can't possibly end world hunger. But lunchtime is nigh, and my suffering shan't last for long.