Is it better to experience or to read stories? Paulo Coehlo poses this question in The Alchemist (I might have added the ‘stories’ bit) and concludes that experience provides the greatest rewards.
Perhaps, but words can help to vocalise experience and stories make you realise we are all the same.
I’m back on my island, a place where very little changes. Very little changes in Molesey actually, it really is ‘same same but different’.
Today I took myself into Thongsala the main, nay, the only, town on the island. A buzzing metropolis that makes Tolworth look like Tokyo. I haggled a reasonable fare for one passenger, 500 Baht (£10) there and back, a good 20 minutes each way and my driver (a woman called Micki) promised to wait for an hour while I optimistically went in search of a birthday present for a family friend whose birthday is tomorrow, and picture books for my students.
I have students ‘plural’ now. Zow, the new member of staff who has virtually no English but is a quick learner, and who has now had 5 lessons, was this morning joined by a young girl from Laos, the pronunciation of whose name I am struggling with, whose English is non existent. I should perhaps add that this teaching game is not for payment but rather for payback of the hospitality I am afforded by the lovely people who take care of me. I’m not sure Zow was thrilled to have a cuckoo in the nest but when I asked him to converse with me – pretty basic stuff like ordering breakfast, she was impressed and his street cred rocketed ( I think she may have a crush on him). It was decided that tomorrow Zow would have a half hour lesson first then the girl from Laos with unpronounceable name and slightly crooked teeth, could join us for the next half hour.
Chai, an old friend and another member of staff who is the chubby, cheerful non malicious gossip in the crew, (I had barely reached reception on arrival when he told me his girlfriend was pregnant), looked put out until I promised him a more advanced lesson next week. So now three students, how cool is that?
Back to the journey into Thongsala. On the way Micki told me that her youngest son had been shot in the shoulder, God knows how, he’s eleven, how do eleven year old boys get hold of guns? She has to take him to the mainland so the bullet can be removed. Only then can the police track down the perpetrators. Of course they can. If the local hospital can’t take out a bullet, I don’t hold out much hopes for ballistics. She has no money. She is the mother of 4, two still at school and 2 working, no husband “He was Mai Dee” (no good) and ageing parents. There is barely enough income coming in for food, let alone medical expenses.
My outer self saw the scam. My inner self was entranced.
Once in Thongsala, I savoured the smells from the food stalls (not all pleasant), browsed the familiar shops, came across a new delicatessen called ‘Delicat and Sens’ (love it), a bookshop with alas no picture books for my students and, remarkably, I found two shirts that weren’t covered in Full Moon Party slogans and when Micki called to see if I was ready to go home, I agreed to meet her at the seven eleven.
I jumped into the taxi (not as we know it) and, as a ferry was due in, suggested we wait at the port so she could pick up a few more fares…pimping is second nature here. Well I wasn’t in a hurry and medical care is expensive.
On the drive back – with six more customers (the front seat is now mine) she told me about a beach on the other side of the island that is “Number One Beach. No waves, no wind, white white sand” It sounded idyllic. I told her how much I hated Haad Rin and all things Full Moon, we laughed, she hates it too. “Full Moon Farangs (foreigners) Mai Dee!”
We arrive back at my beach, which is pretty beautiful, and I pressed far too much money into her hand. She cried and promised to take me to Number One beach “No charge!”
Yes…I know, I’m sure there is little truth in the bullet story but I am still a tourist and tourists are supposed to be ripped off. It would be lovely if she does, take me to Number One Beach that is, it would mean a new friend, but you know, it doesn’t matter, it was a good story even if it isn’t true. it was a good experience too and that’s what I love about life.