Surrey, England, 2008.  My wife was working for ACS International Schools and I was busy pouring coffee and frying sausages for the elite membership that made up the golfing community at Wentworth Golf Club. At the time I was completing a Molecular Biology degree which I was asked to do for England. The country wanted me to prove that I could get not just any qualification, but a British one. What a load of tosh.

This degree was the requirement to allow me to qualify as a certified teacher under the PGCE program at Sunderland University. I digress. The whole point of working at Wentworth was to golf. If I couldnt afford the 250-300 pounds a round to play, the next best option was to work for the benefit of free golf.I applied. The manager said that I was somewhat overqualified for the position of halfway house servant/serf. She assumed I was there for the golf and did not want to hire me. I told her that Facebook thought I was charming and held cooking awards from two different schools. She hired me that week.  I can only boil water.

I was working at the halfway house, 1 km from the clubhouse, out in the middle of the parkland forest. I was alone, my partner not starting her shift for another 2 hours. Few golfers had made their way around for a bite to eat, so I used the time to stock the drinks container behind the restaurant. 24- flats of carbonated soda beverages. Off the buggy, into the steel storage container. Rinse. Repeat. Hundreds of times. I was standing over the steel container placing a flat inside. There was a searing pain in my back. Before everything went black, I thought someone shot me. When I woke up, I was inside the container, face down. I immediately threw up. The pain wasn’t nice. I went to stand up and couldn’t. Did the next best thing. used my arms to push myself out of the container backwards. I landed on my back between the two large green storage containers. The only part of my body visible to the world was my head sticking out from the containers. The problem was, the greenkeepers use the area for their breaks and come speeding through with their buggies. I decided to wait for a small mud caked wheel to rip my face off all in the name of a bacon butty.

I have no idea who these guys are.

I laid on the ground for a while. The sky was blue. Little cloud. The ground was cold, but I was fine. I still wasn’t sure what was wrong. I couldn’t move my legs. About twenty minutes or so later, a greenkeeper came up the back. Saw me laying there. He sat down on the bench. Played with his phone. I asked for help. He sat there. Apparently, when we talked about the incident afterwards, he thought I was playing a joke and left me there. So I lay. My partner arrived a short time later. Saw my head sticking out. She told me to stop fooling around. When she saw I couldn’t move, she panicked and called the Food & Beverage manager. The manager arrived and joined the picnic at the back of the restaurant. She had already called the ambulance but they had trouble getting out there. No problem. the manager had held my head and covered me with a blanket.

not me. But the carry was the same.

The ambulance showed up. The greenkeepers still thought I was kidding. Golfers started looking back to investigate. The paramedics asked if I could get up because it was difficult to get in to where I was laying to successfully pick me up. I said no. They weren’t amused. But I guess that it was really about my needs at the moment. They shrugged their shoulders, gave me some oxygen and told me not to scream; it was probably going to hurt. It hurt, so I screamed. They  asked if I could please stop. I said no. I yelled some more. They hauled me up and lumped me onto the gurney. They were missing lunch. They got me to the front of the restaurant where two holes met. As I was lifted into the ambulance, one group of golfers asked us to keep the noise level down so they could tee off.

pretty sure this isn't me. There was a photographer though.

I was driven to Ashford St. Peters Hospital. Looped on oxygen, I was feeling awfully nice. I was placed on a bed in the A & E department. No one came to see me for 35 minutes. A nurse came in. Didn’t say hello. Pulled my pants down. Shoved my knees up to my chin. I yelled again. She asked where did it hurt? I said it didn’t. My buttocks were cold. She had a face like a slapped arse… or maybe ten miles of really bad road…either way, she wasnt impressed. I said I needed something for the pain and that I couldn’t move my legs. She didn’t listen. She left the room. Me on my side, pants down, genitalia lumbering freely.  I sat for another hour. No one to see me. Then Captain Crotchety came in. Said, “you have pain? Where?” I said in my back. He said he would give me a suppository for the pain. He told me to squeeze my knees together. I said I couldn’t. He didn’t believe me. In a very curt nature, he inserted the suppository, discarded his gloves and said goodbye.  I asked for help. He didn’t come back. No one did. I waited another two hours. My pants at my ankles, dignity out the window, I decided to go home. I couldnt reach my pants to pull them up. Still on my side, I rolled myself off the gurney and landed on my knees. If they broke, I couldn’t tell anyway. I pulled myself up using the side of the gurney. It was time to go home. I shuffled my feet an inch at a time. Pants and underwear at my ankles, hair slightly dishevelled but still reasonably atttractive. Not one person stopped me until I was in the waiting room, full of patients, medical personnel and avid onlookers. Halfway to the door, a nurse, or witch, or possibly half-breed, asked me what on earth I was doing. I answered her by saying that I was going home since no one cared to finish treating me. The room had maybe 30 or 40 people. But no heart. She asked where I came from, I told her the ambulance brought me in. She said, “impossible!” I said, “Fine! I fell from the f@^$ing sky!” Then another woman came running over. Remember too, that Im still naked from the waist down. This other woman said that I had not been discharged. I didn’t care. I told them both, quite respectfully, that their mothers should have both been taught to eat their young. I kept walking toward the exit. Still no one offered to help pull up my pants. Understandable. I got through the sliding door and met a gentleman tethered to an IV pole smoking a cigarette. He looked at me, said, “hey.” I leaned against the brick facade of the front entrance and slowly lowered myself down until I was sitting on the pavement, knees  buckled under my chin. Finally I could reach my pants and my phone. I knew my wife was working and I didn’t want to upset her with my soap opera afternoon. Instead I called a friend of mine who lived in my building and he came for me a short time later.

I felt let down that day. But as my friends tell me, its ‘no surprise’. And they weren’t referring to the treatment I received. I guess I have a way with people. I’m a real people person. That’s what the therapist says.

Why me.

Back in Penang, staff and students were attending a Yr. 12 ball. Classy. Glam. Black ties and gowns, sneakers and pumps.  Gold foil balloons, frilly banners, bunting and garland.

Following the evenings entertainment, a few of the staff made their way down Batu Ferringhi to one of the open ‘pubs’ along Ferringhi’s 3 kms of street bazaars. Not so much a pub, but a straw covered hut with central bar, 6 tables, 1 drunk expat in the corner and a t.v. in the corner covering Man U vs Aston Villa.

The group deftly swallowed their ales and before long, the night dissapeared. Designated driver for the evening, I put foreward handshakes and three-kiss goodbyes. I left the bar to get the car. It wasn’t far. Found a jar. Covered in tar. I was parked in the 7-11 parking area since we were late arriving to any of the available food stall parking lots. 
It was close to midnight. I was still dressed in my Sunday finest. Cue: left. Its Dark. Most tourists have left for the comforts of hotel beds and mini bars. The car is sitting in the front of Jl Sungai Emas  (The Gold River Complex).  I approached my car from behind. As far as I can tell, I’m alone.  Key in lock, I open the door to step inside.

From the shadows, under the canopied walkway, beside the Adidas one-size fits clearance outlet store, came a cracked, broken English voice that said, “eh la, why not you wanna come and touch dis? ” I have one foot in and one foot out of the car. I look into the walkway and out struts Madeleine Majestic. Queen of  the ugly ones. Or King. And still ugly. Remarkable actually. This guy is listed in the Who’s Who as Whats That? Pretty sure the doctors tinted his incubator when he was born.

Anyway…

Mr. he/she, made up in a whole world of wrong, came at me wearing a white t-shirt, a red mini skirt/ tennis skort, brown socks and Quicky Mart brown leather loafers. In one hand, he had a bag of Zesty cheese Doritos. The other hand was sliding down to his naughty bits in some sort of seductive mating call. He said, ” You want, la? Mmmm, ya, I show you. You make me so hot la.” Not such a bad start to the conversation, but he was still chomping on Doritos and when he spoke, semi-liquid nibblets of yuk were spilling out from crooked and broken teeth, not unlike the photo below:

Somewhere between this...

...and this.

Crumbs and grit were wedged in the crease of his t-shirt where his gut met his neck. Grease stains littered his shirt and I must say, the gap in his teeth was damn near hypnotic.

I said to him/her, “Dammit, why’d I get you? Why couldn’t one of those ones where you can’t tell the difference, come up to me, huh? But nooooooo. Had to be you. Couldn’t you change your socks? Shave, maybe?” His/her stubble was settling on two weeks growth. He just stood there, on the other side of my door, tossed some nachos in his/her mouth, and fondled his mommy/daddy button. He grinned at me with yellow, furry, gnarled teeth and said, “some la?” I just laughed and stepped inside the door.

Mr. hormone-replacement-gone-wrong grabbed the car door and yanked back. He pulled hard enough that it forced me back to my feet. I said, “What the #@$??” Thats when he reached over the top of the door and grabbed hold of my baby maker.

That little move wasn’t in my resume of life experience, and instinct kicked in. I was holding the top of the door with both hands and as Captain Crotch Crickets reached for me I pretended I was back in Canada, 9 years old, -28 degrees holding a hockey stick at the school rink. I cross-checked the toothless wonder with my door. Sound of steel meeting the foil bag o’ doritos and knee caps. Bliss, really. He lost his munchies, his balance and his temper. He blasted me with some hurtful sentiments. I told him he needed dental work.  We parted company. Me, inside the car, him/her/it slid off into the shadows back where it came from.

What became of this manbeast? The fun is in the guesswork…

September 16th, 2006

Residing in Malaysia at the time, I had to scurry across the border into Thailand for a visa run. This was common practice and normally resulted in an incredibly boring day drinking iced tea and sitting with my book  in one of the Hat Yai markets while my passport was stamped by a very lethargic, unofficial official.

At this time, Thailand was in the midst of some kind of civil unrest. It was considered safe for tourists and expats alike as the warfare was considered hostile among local Thais and not towards visitors. That wasn’t exactly the case September 16th.

I boarded a minibus in Penang. Room for nine, we managed 14. My new best friend, Sanjeeb, regaled me with tales of his native Hugli-Chuchura. I shared my opinions with him regarding deodorant vs antiperspirant. We weren’t listening to a darn thing each other had to say. They really are the best conversations.

 The trip itself was uneventful until we reached the border. The bus stopped before the border, we climbed out, followed some travellers through a patrol, walked to another gate, handed over the paperwork, walked through to a quaint boulangerie/patisserie selling gum,

batteries and tofu crackers. We waited for an hour, presumably that was part of my ‘package deal’, then jumped back in the petrol filled coffin and headed north into Thailand.

The Hat Yai bombings, as Wikipedia states,  were part of the on-going South Thailand Insurgency. I didn’t know what that actually meant, but I would have a better understanding in the next couple of hours. I was dropped off at the roadside along Hat Yai’s downtown district. The gentleman organizing my stamp told me that I needed to remain in town for the afternoon and try to hold out for at least a 7 hr stay. 

I headed to Sanchanusorn Road, full of cafes, restaurants and department stores. I danced around inside the Odeon shopping centre for a while looking for a token shirt to take home. This was one of the six locations where bombs were detonated that evening. 

After I left the mall, I spent the remainder of my time at hawker stalls on and around the intersection of Sanchusorn and Thamanoonvithee Roads. For three hours I sat at a terrific cafe/stall just reading my book and ordering the same Thai seafood soup over and over again. This was between 14:00 and 17:00. I was sitting opposite the corner to where the Post Laser, Monkey and Brown Sugar Pubs were located. It was in front of the Brown Sugar Pub that another bomb was remotely detonated on a motorcycle just a few hours later.

The first of six  remotely triggered bombs detonated around 21:00 that evening. I was already back on the road to Penang by this time. Four people were killed, and another 80 wounded. I was well removed from the devastation, considering all those who were caught within the bast area. It was just a matter of timing.

I just don’t think it was quite my time.