PREFACE: For anyone who knows me very well and or has listened to my “Vilas” story, then you understand the necessity of this entry. For those who do not, I advise you to stop reading. I will try to keep this story PG, but I’m a PG-13 kinda guy and sometimes things slip. Try as hard as possible not to visualize anything either. Seriously try, for the sake of whatever relationship you (the reader) and I have, try not to visualize. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
The food in Thailand is spicy. That right there may have been the understatement of the century. In the United States I thought I was tough shit and could eat anything spicy. One of my first meals here I ordered rice, basil, chili, and pork dish. My friend helping translate asked if I wanted it spicy, in a bold and calm manner I replied, “Yea, no sweat.” He asked me if I was sure, “Yea, I can handle spicy food” was my reply. My friend then proceeded to order the food “half” spicy. I scoffed at the notion of half spicy and said I could have handled it. Ten minutes my food arrived, mmm looks good. I dig right in, after two bites I start to hiccup uncontrollably. The hiccups get louder and more violent, with tears running down my cheeks, and what feels like a torch scalding my mouth. I manage to speak between hiccups, “This is half spicy?!?!?!” Welcome to Thailand.
As you may imagine, any food that makes me cry like a little baby has to do a little damage to the gastro-intestinal tract. Everyday I have a rumble in my jungle, if you know what I mean. Instead of Ali/Foreman, it’s Thai food vs. Jesse’s stomach. No matter how hard I try, I am always Foreman and this, my friends, is where the story gets interesting.
I am accustomed to rather posh living standards here in Thailand. My bathroom not only has a toilet but a urinal, in case I don’t feel like peeing on the right side of the bathroom (actually Thai call it Toilet) but the left side. This is not Thailand. After avoiding having to use a public bathroom for my first few weeks my luck finally ran out. For someone who avoids American public restrooms like the plague I could only imagine what was in store for me in Thailand.
I entered the bathroom stall and to my horror I found something resembling a 19th century outhouse rather than a bathroom. Granted, there was porcelain, but the “bowl” was a mere four inches off the ground. Instead of a round seat there was two flat panels for each cheek, each panel was ridged, like the sole of a shoe. I have no time to think things through; I’m having a deal or no deal moment. I pick a box and wait for the consequences. Well, it turns out after a moment of pure elation a stage of panic quickly sets. I look around and there is no TP or hose (back track, all toilets in Thailand have a hose that looks like the one next to your kitchen faucet, apparently many Thai do not use TP but rather this manual ba-day. I know that’s not how you spell it, but phonetically you understand. I was told about this fact just days before, but dismissed the idea of ever using because I was convinced I’d ever use one. Oh how I wish I had one now). I am now squatting so low my thighs are burning, and I have nothing to clean with. I contemplate using my boxers, but I think, “Can I afford to lose a pair?” I call my friend who so graciously brings me napkins and a bag to throw them in. Instead of flushing with a nice little handle, I have to take a bucket and fill it up with water and repeatedly pour water in the bowl to flush my remains. If only this was my worst bathroom story.
The very next day I was on my way to the beach. I arrived at the bus stop before my friends. I’m having another eight round bout in my stomach; I don’t have the luxury of waiting for a beautiful toilet, not with a 3 hour bus drive looming ahead. I look for the bathroom, and start to follow the signs. I went what turned out to be a three minute obstacle course, and trust me three minutes is a looong time. I find the bathroom and before being allowed in I have to pay 3 baht. Now I’m fumbling around in my pocket for change as the pains in my abdomen sharpen. I race into the stall and take care of business; I neglect to observe my surroundings. Once again, no TP, but I do see a hose. I thought the feeling “Ok, I know how to do this, this stuff is easy to oh shit this is harder than I thought” was done when I finished my last college exam. WRONG! While I was relieved I has something to work with, as I picked up the hose I realized I had no idea how to use this. Yes, it’s only a hose, but trust me, it’s more complicated than just pressing the nozzle. Which way do I point this thing? I could potentially spray my pants and jewels with the um….stuff (ok, fecal matter, there I said it). My other option was to spray from the other direction and leave some new “wallpaper”. Not liking either option I choose option C. I can spray upward and let gravity take over. The only reason why I thought this was the best choice is because I have found water pressure (see post “I am a dirty boy”) is less than sufficient here in Thailand. Well, here goes nothing. WHOOOOOOAAA!!!! Perhaps one of the most uncomfortable moments in my life, I just goosed myself! It was like a Super Soaker 50 (the best sized Super Soaker, bar none) aiming and hitting the bulls eye with the precision of Robin Hood splitting the arrow. Ashamed and violated I walked out of that bathroom with my head down and leaving behind a little bit of dignity. Ever since, I have fought Mother Nature every step of the way, and have yet to use a public bathroom since.
