By Douglas Kruger
IT’S tricky explaining Jersey to foreigners.
“No, not the one in America. That’s New Jersey. We’re Old Jersey. It’s like, there’s an English city of York, and then there’s New York.”
“So, you’re the original English Jersey?”
“Uh… no. Actually, we’re not English. But we are under the same king. Just not the same government. And we’re closer to France than Britain, though, technically, we are British.”
“So, when Britain went through Brexit, you left too?”
“No.”
Clear as mud.
And speaking of New Jersey, I’m convinced that’s where my luggage went, though BA swear that they will find and return it. Fingers crossed.
Still, Thailand was a treat for the senses. Even the food was outstanding and, despite my misgivings, nothing placed before me was anything short of delicious – and neither had it previously meowed for a living.
Nevertheless, I have returned to the Island scarred for life by a day I will never live down. I’ll take a deep breath and explain. Our tale begins with a lesson in climate…
When the mercury hits 22 in Jersey, it qualifies as a hot day. I grew up in South Africa, where a hot day was something closer to 32. But apparently my blood has done whatever adjusting blood does over the past three years here, because I was unprepared for Thailand’s 42.
I love a sunny day as much as the next guy. But Bangkok is two doors down from the sun. And it’s a jungly sort of heat. Exit an air-conditioned building and you experience what feels like someone turning a hair dryer on you, full blast, then chasing you down the street. It’s sauna-like, oppressive, and if you wear jeans to visit the temples (once your host informs you that it’s impolite to go in shorts), you will struggle to lift your legs when climbing stairs, as a result of your jeans becoming so waterlogged and soggy that they cling.
I want to preface the story of my day at the Grand Palace by asserting that I have never actually fainted. Not once, in my whole life. Not even when we learned our rent would not be going up.
But as our small group advanced beside this marvel of Thai architecture, built to commemorate the new capital in 1782, I was surprised to discover myself listing slightly to port in the bright sunshine.
At first, I didn’t realise what was happening. It was like the world had tilted the wrong way. Then it tilted the other way. I stumbled, though not enough to cause alarm among my small group of companions. Then I started feeling my heartbeat through my eyeballs, and it finally dawned on me: “Oh! I’m about to pass out.”
Even as stringy fingers of ice worked their way over my scalp, and my vision began to strobe, I summoned my best casual voice. “Reckon I need to sit for a second. I’m feeling a little dizzy.”
So I sat. And when that didn’t work, and I could tell beyond a doubt that I was still on my way out, I lay on my back and closed my eyes.
Big mistake.
Thai people are perhaps the best hosts in the world. They are caring to a fault. Indeed, they will host you to within an inch of your life.
I adore them. But I will say this. A laissez-faire, it’ll-be-fine approach is not in their nature. I waved a hand at the concerned little huddle and said: “No, no, I’m perfectly fine, guys. Just need a moment to catch my breath.” But I was powerless to stop two of them running off, beckoning any doctor within a ten-mile radius.
Two minutes later, when I sat up, the moment having passed, I was surrounded by a small platoon. The entire medical staff of the Grand Palace had descended upon me en masse. I was now the leading tourist attraction in the area, and people all about craned to see the source of the excitement.
Despite the heat, the team of doctors, paramedics and first responders wore full medical regalia, as well as stethoscopes and masks, and lugged along with them an arsenal of boxes, bags, ties, tubes and testers, and what looked remarkably like the battery I use to jumpstart my car back home. I’m pretty sure one of them was about to electrocute my heart. I detected a definite hint of disappointment upon declaring my unwillingness to accept a charge of voltage and play the part of Lazarus. Or Frankenstein’s monster.
For the next few minutes, I diligently fought off repeated requests to check my heart, blood pressure, brainwaves and horoscope.
“I’m fine, everyone. Gosh, thanks so much. I just felt a little hot for a moment, that’s all. Just needed to sit. But I’m perfectly okay.”
You have never seen such scepticism. By their expressions, you would swear I’d lost both legs and was dragging myself along on a carpet of gore, declaring, “‘tis but a scratch”.
Anyway.
The least they would accept before departing was that I drink a bottle of water. I chugged that thing like my salvation lay at the bottom. Thereafter, I swear they spent the afternoon watching me on the security monitors.
That wasn’t the worst part.
Feeling genuinely fine, I continued the tour. But the young gentleman leading our group remained unconvinced. Clearly, his ward was on death’s door. It was his role and sacred duty to singlehandedly avert an international crisis. So everywhere we walked, for the entire remainder of the day, he fanned me with his brochure for the Grand Palace. He did this while walking slightly sideways beside me.
Oh, I tried to stop him. “Seriously, I’m fine. Please, you don’t have to do that.” Not a sausage.
I embarrass easily, particularly when given special treatment. I once spoke at a conference in Bangalore, and my host wanted to walk me past about 200 Indian attendees, all of whom had been standing in line for half an hour, and march my blonde head straight to the front of the food queue. I couldn’t do it. I had to explain that, as grateful as I was, in my culture it was considered rude to cut in, and that I would rather start at the back of the line.
Imagine my mortification, therefore, as several thousand tourists watched me parade down the main avenue of the Grand Palace being fanned by my own personal Thai escort. And not just him, but also the little older lady in our group, who thereafter insisted on trying to keep her small yellow umbrella above my head, a feat she could not quite achieve because of how short she was. No matter how hard I tried, I could not escape. I would zig here, or zag there, and she would dart along right with me, tiptoeing for extra reach.
They are the kindest people I have ever met. Their care was relentless and unstoppable. And I will never recover from it.
If you get the opportunity to travel from Jersey to Thailand, you should leap at it. It’s a stunning country. And Bangkok is hyper-modern, in the best possible ways. But if ever you grow the tiniest bit dizzy from the heat, I advise that you just go ahead and die. It’ll be much easier.
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Douglas Kruger lives in St Helier, and writes books to keep himself out of mischief. When the seagulls aren’t shrieking, he records them too. They’re all available from Amazon and Audible.
