Jet Lag

Who ever said, “It’s a small world” never flew economy class. After thirty-six hours of traveling I feel like a seven day old bused Chiquita banana just delivered to Nome, Alaska. My head is the size of a small house and getting larger each minute; my sciatica nerve is shooting lightning bolts of burning pain down my right calf into my ankle. The toes on my left foot tingle, the ones on my right side I can’t feel at all. My shirt is soiled from the micro waved petroleum products passed off by the airline industry as food, and I cut myself shaving the morning I began this adventure.

I was met at the airport by Peter, an Englishmen that came to Thailand eighteen years ago doing charity work with a youth group from his church. He must have been seventeen at the time. Peter was the front man for “The Cabin”, a fair haired, clean-cut young man with easy manners and with an education in hospitality. His starched chinos’, polished black shoes and shinny new SUV were a bit more formal than I expected -- thought I’m not sure what I expected. Possibly a bohemian type driving a 1960’s four-wheel drive Land Curser with open sides and a rag top kicking up balls of dust in route to a our hidden enclave in the jungle.

The road remained paved and the area looked inhabited by healthy villagers. My earlier envisioned white pearly gates turned out to be a stucco eight-foot high wall with a heavy timber gate. The color of the interior was mountain formal – with dark brown timber structures lifted above the ground for protection from the possibility of flooding and the never-ending insects of the jungle. The site plan was delineated in a easily distinguishable pattern of bisecting axis’s with plush green lawns and manicured gardens that separated the simple wooden buildings.

I was introduced to Stu as he emerged from the reception office to meet me, the closet dwelling to the main gate or escape hatch as it will be hereafter proclaimed. Stu was a slightly younger version of Peter proudly claiming a Canadian residency. A past alcohol/addict as I was told as all the caseworkers were. Peter was not my caseworker but handling my admission, I would be introduced to my caseworker tomorrow.

I am beginning to fell anxious about this entire ordeal. I’m not sure why? My first thought is that I possibly rushed a little to quickly to rid myself of the Cymbalta meds. Maybe I should have weaned myself of this particular medication a little slower. After all, I had been on antidepressants for years and petering out in two weeks might have been a tidbit to fast. Oh well, since I didn’t bring any -- time will tell. I promise to be watchful of any confrontation, biting off someone’s head on a first encounter will not add to my collection of friends. In fact I already had a first encounter with Stu, but I thought I handled myself firmly and admirably. During the two interviews over the telephone I stressed flexibility and what I expected from the program --- a sober environment in which to read, to write, to become healthy through exercise and meditation. I did not want a prison where I was to be watched through the eyes of big brother and be lead on adventures throughout the countryside of Thailand wearing a leash. Well maybe that’s exaggerated but Stu did search my belongings and confiscate my mouthwash, Advil, and Benicar, my blood pressure medication. I was told the Benicar would be dispersed to me each morning at the front office. Compromise is the basis of peace so I reluctantly agreed while waiting for the next ax to fall. It did, very quickly. I was informed that mobile telephones were prohibited and mine would be confiscated and returned when I left. This was something I was never told and could not comprehend. Why would they allow laptops but not telephones, it seemed like a funny place to draw the line, I flatly, but politely refused. I have discussed my work with Peter, and for the hour and a half in the morning and the same period of time in the evening I must be available to communicate with work.

“Stu, I am sorry but this is a deal breaker. Not having access to my telephone was never discussed at any time.”

After a bit more discussion of the topic he informed me this could create havoc in the cabin community as three other guests have had there telephone reluctantly confiscated.

“That is not my problem,” I informed him, while calmly sipping the wonderful strawberry smoothie a young Thai lady has served me, they’re daily specialty of the house and offered twenty-four hours a day. Time out. Stu goes running outside just as Peter is waiting for the escape hatch to open and drive his SUV to the land of the living. I take the brief pause in time to look around the reception area and see two desks and an open but more private office to the right. A cabin yes, built like one might find in the mountains of Colorado though offering more light from the exterior. The walls were bare for the most part, as it is difficult to hand things on logs. The desks were cluttered with newly printed forms and the usual array of hold harmless waivers and contractual agreements. I found my personal schedule lying on a heap of forms. Though after a brief glimpse I noticed it was not for me personally, but a general weekly schedule for everyone to follow. A minute later Stu returned, and as I suspected, has agreed, as long as the telephone remains in my room and is only used during the same hours as the laptop. To save face he then adds that this will be more thoroughly reviewed tomorrow.  

I bring up the topic of the schedule. I restate the discussions I had about flexibility and accommodating the individual needs of each guest. There are only a few minor changes I would like to make, with your permission, of course.

The two one-hour messages a week. I would really prefer one and a half hour messages, preferably four times a week. Please realize, my humble blog follower, that a one-hour message in Thailand costs about 300 baht, or ten bucks. The schedule appears very tight beginning at 8:15 in the morning and ending at 9:00 in the evening.

“What, no time for a nap -- poolside, say about 2:00 – 3:00? I see Tuesdays and Thursday evenings the group goes to town and visits a local AA meeting. That sounds very sociable. I was doing a little research and did you know there is a chess club in Chaing Mai that meets on Thursday evenings; I would much prefer to go there if you don’t mind. I also understand they have some very famous markets called the walking markets on Saturday and Sundays, surely an occasional visit to those are acceptable?” All of these comments were added in a very homey manner filled with smiles and subtle compliments about the facilities and manicured flowerbeds.

Stu was a bit lost and I’m sure wished he were not left alone with the new arrival for he had not had a chance to ask the questions most important to him and his staff. Was I suicidal, did I have a past history of child molestation or violence? Was I thinking about violence now? Only in the quiet deliberate controlled manner of a serial killer I thought to myself. Was I ever convicted of arson, the building are all wood he added? The last question was the most difficult by far. Will I agree to not engage in sex with any of the other guests or employees? Damn! He had to throw that at me before I had the opportunity to meet the clientele. I’m giving up alcohol not life, once again thinking to myself and kept my tongue in check. It appears maybe I haven’t cut the Cymbalta off to quickly after all; I’ve gone the first hour without saying anything I’ll regret.

The meeting ended as well as my day at 5:00 in the afternoon after being shown to my room and my personals well fondled by security. Did I fail to mention that although the toilet facilities are very much indoors and suitable, the shower is walled off connected to the bathroom and outdoors under the stars, how utterly delightful.