Idiot Abroad: Phuk Ups

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I couldn’t resist. Really, Phuket is pronounced without the ‘h’ sound, so it’s not even right, not strictly funny: even so, I couldn’t resist.

Anyway, the title says it all. I would only add that these incidents are listed in order of occurrence, not severity.

    1) Always read the packet.

Stifled by the heat, I thought to myself how nice it would be to buy some herbal tea to enjoy in my room. And furthermore, what lovely aromatic choices there would be on offer, being so close to source and all…

So, at the nearest ‘Family Mart’ I selected a tea in a jolly red packet. ‘Senna’ it said on the back, this sounded nice.

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Looks nice too.

So, back at the ranch I set the kettle to boil, pouring in bottled water just to be on the safe side. Settling into the dark lacquered chair beside the coffee table I picked up my pack of tea bags to have a read, all the while mildly smug that I was putting something good in my body and washing out something bad.

But what? What was I washing out? Poo, that’s what. I had purchased laxative tea. That is what Senna does, I learned, it acts as a laxative. And if anybody is interested, it’s long term use is not advised. Phew, what a relief (‘scuse the pun). Again, for anybody who is interested (numbers dwindling all the time, I’m sure), the packet has since remained untouched.

    2) Do experiment with exotic fruits. But don’t defy your natural instincts while doing so.

The small fruit shop was clean and white; this meant it was safe. From across the road I had already identified the item I wanted. What looked like strawberries in a polystyrene tray from 5 metres away was something different close up. Instead of the moist, pipped red flesh, this fruit wore a pink spiky jacket. Still, when I read the word ‘lychees’ I picked up the tray and took it into the cool shop. I had had lycées before, at the Chinese restaurant where I worked my first job. Except there, they had come in tins.

‘Sa wat dee krap,’ the man in the shop greeted me, friendly. So friendly in fact that I felt confident in asking about how to remove the jackets these lychees were wearing.

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The innocent, jacketed lychee

Helpfully, he drew a single fruit from the fridge and holding it out to show me, he began to peel it. Who would have thought? Once peeled, he held out the fruit for me to try.

The moist, fibrous flesh was sweet, and I nodded in response to the shop owners question, ‘sweet, yes?’

He watched me, smiling.

Now it did occur to me to wonder about a stone. But then there’s the language gap and the lychee already an obstruction in my mouth. And strawberries don’t have stones, nor do kiwi fruit, so why –

‘But bitter, also?’ The man surprised me. I did not remember lychees being particularly bitter, but sure enough, there was a bitter taste, yes, and the fruit had become particularly hard, chewy. In fact, it was sapping all the moisture from my mouth, there were morsels everywhere, bits in my teeth and I could not speak, because I knew if I opened my mouth, my mouth would reject all this stuff.

I smiled a closed-slightly-full-mouthed-smile before leaving. Inwardly hoping that my lychees weren’t all bad like the one I had just tasted.

It was hours later that it struck me. I had chewed right through the stone. The huge, bitter, hazelnut sized stone.

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‘Don’t eat me, I taste like shit!’

    3) Down the drain.

The day hadn’t gone well really. The jazz restaurant I had sought out was closed for ‘restoration’, it had rained persistently and I had run out of things to do that didn’t cost money. I was feeling a bit lonely too, so by the time I headed out to get street food for dinner, I had pretty much written the day off.

Climbing into soggy sandals I took to the street to get what I needed. I was probably distracted, feeling sorry for myself. Perhaps that is why I failed to pick my feet up, or perhaps I really did trip over something. All I know is that, at once, I was falling forwards, my other non-tripping foot coming out to save the day, hands flailing. And then where my non-tripping foot should have slapped the concrete, it hit air, just air. My hands did grab something, but not strongly enough to stop my whole body falling down, down, down.

So, when I hit the bottom, hands still gripping, both feet luckily planted, I was inside a drain, up to my shoulders, the road running on regardless in front of my stunned face.

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This drain.

Thankfully, I was rescued, heaved out by two skinny men, to the sounds of their grunts and my new denim shirt and blue dress ripping.

Shortly after I had left, I returned to my hotel room, this time to lick my wounds (hard seeing how most of them are on the back of my right thigh…now, if only I’d attended that yoga class earlier in the week…) and see off a shitty day with Tiger Beer and meat on a stick! Because meat on a stick knows no bounds.

Now, if anyone who reads this can contribute their own idiot abroad stories, I’d be very grateful. For me, I suspect this is only the beginning…

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