#StoroSosa is a series of short bite-sized snippets, inspired by my nosy eavesdropping, as I weave stories through smoke rings.
Bangkok Airport. Too many hours breathing in re-cycled air in a stuffy plane, I walk into a smoke filled hovel, and think to myself I really must quit. Nerves shot from no sleep, and unsure whether I will get a Cambodian visa, I feel fragile. Also slightly paranoid that the delicious chocolate truffle I accepted from the large Russian man on the plane may have been laced with something. Elementary mistake. Never accept food from strangers. Really Aleya. Particularly thick necked Russian men who claim to be interior designers, and have photos of alarmingly young Thai women on their phone, underneath ones of quasi-swedish inspired minimalist rooms.
I light up. The man on the opposite room takes a deep drag from his cigarette, and the dragon on his forearm dances. He taps at the ash, and I try to decipher the story on his full sleeve of tattoos.
A woman is chattering to him, she sounds Eastern European, and her calves are mesmerizing. Solid, chunky as if tennis balls were sewn into the back of her legs. The young tattooed guy responds in a British accent, he looks bemused. The sunburned man standing next to her, with an electric green full jogging suit and matching doo-rag pokes a finger and says something to her.
There is a lot of slurring of words and giggling. They look high. This is Thailand. I am not surprised.
She reaches into her fanny pack, and pulls out a wad of notes, which she then thrusts into tattooed dude’s hands.
Is this payment for some sort of exchange of goods? My brain goes into over-drive. Am I witnessing a drug deal right here in Bangkok Airport???
He looks bemused, and refuses to accept it. She tosses the lot into the ashtray and stomps out of the room, letting some of the smoke escape after her.
Her partner, electric green doo-rag dude, walks over to the ashtray, picks up the notes and kisses them. Traces of ash remain on his lips. The woman walks back in, straight to tattooed dude, cups his face and smooches him, promptly turning heel, and leaving again, her tennis ball calves bouncing as she walks.
The guys are left looking at each other awkwardly. I eye the exit, not sure if I am about to witness a jealous spat of fisticuffs.
Electric green doo-rag shrugs his shoulders and stumbles out.
I am left alone with tattooed guy. I wonder what I would do if he decided to stuff drugs into my handbag. What would I do? Have y’all watched that show Banged Up Abroad. Shit like this happens, and before you know it, you are languishing in a prison in Thailand wishing you didn’t look so moisturized, as mean looking corn-rowed inmates size you up.
I should probably try to get some sleep on the next leg of my flight. Paranoia is an unflattering shade on me.