Alternative title: A drunk Russian, his wife and a broken Brazilian thong.
This afternoon’s writing was like trying to type on my laptop at the bottom of the Gulf of Thailand sea without being electrocuted.
It all started about lunchtime. I noticed a mid 20s couple. He chewed some food and drank a large Chang. Somewhat abruptly, the wafer thin, long haired brunette with pretty and precise features got up wiping tears from her eyes and ran down the stairs. The blonde chunky male quietly drank his beer, looking over his shoulder occasionally.
About 40 minutes passed. He got up, paid his bill and drove away.
Another 40 minutes passed. He was alone. He spoke to the restaurant owner. He drank another large Chang.
I spoke to the Restaurant owner. She said they were from Russia and he was very worried his wife is gone, as ‘she little bit brain problem’. She asked me to talk to him.
‘Hi, I hear you can’t find your wife. Does she have any money? Maybe she went back to your hotel?’
‘No, no, she does not have any money. I have money.’
‘Oh.’
‘I am really worried. My wife is, how do you say it, a little bit autistic?’
Nodding. ‘Ok, does she get a little too stimulated when there is too much happening around her?’
‘Yes, yes. It is a problem.’
‘Ok, do you want me to try looking for her then?’
‘Yes, please, I have looked, but I cannot find my wife. I will pay you any money you like if you find her.’
He pushed his chair back suddenly and went to tower over a tiny waiter, ‘You local? I pay you 30,000 Baht if you bring back my wife.’
I simultaneously attempted to calm him and save the big eyed waiter, ‘Its, okay. We will help you look for her. Don’t worry about the money.’
‘No, I pay you. Where are you from?’
‘Australia.’
‘You have dollars there. I pay you $1000 dollars if you find my wife.’
I smiled, ‘It’s okay. I will go now and look for your wife.’
I spent the next hour wandering up and down the beach asking locals and farangs whether they had seen a stunning Russian brunette. The mid afternoon heat baked my being. I put up my umbrella in an attempt to shelter my pasty whiteness from the sun’s blaze. Unfortunately it did not prevent my skin from getting blotchy and swollen. I looked in quiet places, I looked under trees and at the back of houses. Nothing.
As I was climbing back up the hill, I slipped. I looked down in horror. One of my thongs that I bought in Rio De Janeiro broke! My Havanas!
My beautiful Havanas!
The day could not get any worse for me.
I hobbled back to the restaurant. As I reached it, I saw my new friend hunched over a glass of rocket fuel, slurring to himself, a little dribble emanating from his mouth.
Unlike Mr Connery, it didn’t appear that he could handle his alcohol, or at least not 2 litres of beer and three quarters of a bottle of Thai diesel fuel, straight.
I pulled over a chair to his right side.
‘I have just tried to look for your wife. I haven’t yet been able to find her.’
‘Where is my wife? Where is my wife?’ He emphatically slurred, letting his hands fall down his body and hunching over further.
‘We are trying to find her. Has she run away like this before?’
Smiling, slurring, ‘Where is my wife, where is my wife?’
‘We are trying to find her. If we could talk about your wife a bit more maybe it will be easier to find her.’
‘Where is my wife? Where is my wife?’
I went to talk to the Restaurant owner. She suggested I give him some water.
I brought a big bottle of water to the table.
‘I think some water might help.’
‘NO! Where is my wife, where is my wife? I pay you. I pay you.’
‘I think it might help if you drink some water.’
‘No!’, he thundered his arms over the table, smashing the glasses to the ground. Broken glass spread around him like little bits of his dream wife. He started speaking Russian or gibberish, I couldn’t discern which. He guarded his broken glass like he was guarding his home. ‘It’s mine.’
I slowly calmed him down, speaking in a low, quiet voice. He started drinking water. I told him I would look for his wife again if he gave me his motorbike key. He refused. I kept trying and he kept repeating his mantra, ‘Where is my wife, where is my wife?’.
After some time he suggested we walk together to look for her again. I agreed. I asked everyone along the road we met. Only one had seen her about 4 hours earlier, ‘Me think she Asian because she tiny, but then me see, she Farang.’
We seemed to be getting somewhere, when he blurted ‘We go back to restaurant now’. I realised it was no use questioning his under water decision making processes, so we meandered our way back. I found the name of his accommodation (a 30 minute drive away across the island) and got the restaurant owner to call it. They had not seen his wife.
He decided to get on his bike. I told him it was too dangerous. He needed to be alive for his wife. He replied, ‘My wife is everything to me.’
‘That is why you need to be alive.’
He drove like a drunk snake with legs, winding his way in the middle of the road, using his feet to push himself along.
I stood there in disbelief as I watched him disappear over the hill.
A short while later the restaurant owner informed me ‘I call from hotel. The wife, she came. She ok. Me told them to wait with her in her room because he tell me she want to make kaput.’
A short while later the restaurant owner informed me ‘I call from hotel. The wife, she came. She ok. Me told them to wait with her in her room because he tell me she want to make kaput.’
She paused, shaking her head,
‘He not a little bit crazy. He big crazy!’
‘He not a little bit crazy. He big crazy!’
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