waxing nostalgic

Please excuse me while I enjoy a selection of my favorite songs from the decade I shall always remember fondly, no apologies...

Special AKA - "Nelson Mandela"


Split Enz - "I Got You"


The Polecats - "Make a Circuit with Me"


The Smiths - "How Soon is Now?"


Strawberry Swithcblade - "Since Yesterday"


The Specials - "Message to Rudy"


The Cult - "She Sells Sanctuary"

I am Bush Village!

I am riding a train bound for Pakchong, after spending several hours waiting at the station in Bangkok. For the first few minutes of the journey, I have my own seating section, but at the next stop, I am joined by a group of students, one of whom speaks a little Eglish, and is anxious to practice. After a couple of minutes of introductions, Tree, my new friend, hands me a cup of beer on ice. I thank him and enjoy the cup, handing it back so the cup can be enjoyed by the next thirsty member of the group. After a couple of rounds, I politely bow out, but the students continue, getting steadily plastered. Each time the train stops, the largest and youngest rider sticks his head out to see if a beer vendor is nearby, going out to purchase more bottles and ice if it's handy.

About an hour into the ride, Tree looks at me and says, "Bush Village!" and points at me, smiling happily. I am confused. I'm pretty sure I had not told him my last name was Bushman. Was he making a reference to the President somehow?

"Bush Village?" I repeat, making sure I heard him correctly. Tree smiles and nods. "Bush village!" he says, conferring with his friends, who smile and nod too. "Bush village! Bush Village!" Now Tree is gesturing at his chin and nodding at me, referring, I think, to my goatee. I rub my own chin, and say it again: "Bush Village? I don't understand."

Tree looks at me incredulous. "You don't know Bush Village? Die Hard? Die Hard 2? Die Hard 3? Big star international!"

Suddenly, I understand. "Bruce Willis?" Tree smiles wide in acknowledgement. "Bush Village!" I look at them all. "You think I look like Bruce Willis?" They nod and smile with glee. I gratefully accept their interesting compliment as they slowly get smashed and the night comes on.

Tree looks at me in earnest. "Good memory in diary for you." He makes a vague gesture with his hand. I nod and smile, assuming he wants me to remember this night. He is unsatisfied. "Good memory I make." He gestures again, a little sloppily, but I think he is pantomiming a pen and writing. I dig in my pocket for a pen, thinking he wants to write something in some unrevealed diary. He takes the pen, nodding, then looks at me searchingly. I look back at him, and he says "paper." I pull my backpack down from the rack and fetch him an envelope for him to write on. He smiles and gratefully writes me the following message:

"I am Tree. I love Stephen Bushman. See you again for ever."

I am touched by the sentiment, and I thank him in Thai: "Kawp Kun Krahp."

See you again for ever, Tree. Good night and good luck.

Holiday in Cambodia...

... in which I inadvertantly gas the lobby lounge of a Siem Reap hotel.

I am waiting for our group to gather for the evening's outing to dinner. I wander to a small private bathroom in the business center just off the lobby to apply citronella. It repels the mosquitoes which thicken considerably when the sun goes down. I walk past the Cambodian lounge singer at his keyboard crooning John Denver's "Country Road". The business center, where one can use the hotel's internet connection or telephones, is just behind the lounge act, and I close the bathroom door and lock it, and pull out my trusty spray bottle.

I have become known in my group for my use of citronella. Our Thai guide, Uan, had led me to it just before we left Thailand a week-and-a-half before, and I seemed to be the only one in our group who preferred it to the DEET-containing applications used by my tourmates, which were perhaps not so noticable in terms of odor. No one seemed to mind it; I was given friendly jabs about my evening scent, and sometimes I am proposed a sitting partner if someone forgets their own mosquito repellent. Bob, my roommate on the tour, even likes the scent. He says it's fresh and herby, but he has asked me to practice restraint when I apply it in the hotel room, as I tend to get enthusiastic with my spraybottle, and in close quarters it can get a little overpowering. Which leads me back to the night in question.

Feeling like I can let loose, since I am not in the hotel room, I give my exposed skin and clothing a good spritzing. I soon find, however, that the confined space of the bathroom is an even worse place to spray, so I pocket my bottle and leave before I am overcome by the fumes.

I am sitting again in the lounge with a few of my gathered tourmates. As we await the rest of our group, I notice that the citronella smell is a little extra strong tonight, and I am a little self-conscious, but Carol, who is sitting next to me puts me at ease and tells me it's no stronger than usual.

Then I notice the Lounge singer.

He's doing Neil Diamond, now, "Song, Song, Blue". But his singing is quickly interrupted by a small cough away from the microphone, then a few choked lyrics and some more violent coughing. He is looking around and sniffing the air, and choking a bit, but keeps playing music without singing.

Next, I notice a couple sitting between the singer and myself flag down a waitress, who helps them move to another table, a little furthar away. The lounge singer is now coughing even more fitfully, and turning off his equipment and running toward the bar, as a pair of waitresses with napkins and scarves covering their mouths and noses move in to find the source of the offense. No one is moving towards me, and I check again with Carol, who says it's all in my mind, but I'm convinced now the business center bathroom is leaking citronella gas into the lobby and I am to blame. I'm unsure how to fix the situation, and the final members of our dinner party are waving at us from the hotel lobby doors to come join them, which I thankfully do, stepping into the humid night air and praying for the fumes to dissipate. Behind me, I hear quick footsteps and the hurried words "Sir! Sir!"

Cheezit. I am found.

"Your drink, sir," says the innocent-eyed bartender. "What room number should I charge?"
"Room 314, please." I respond, cool and mosquito-free. "Thank you very much."