This Is Thailand

MAREK LENARCIK

Description

"This is Thailand" is the riveting real-life account of Marek Lenarcik's blind leap from the safe, comfortable and utterly bullshit, corporate world of Dublin to the charming, exotic beaches of Thailand.

With rose-tinted glasses firmly in place, Marek fully expects to find a land of exotic fruits, beautiful women and an easy-going tropical lifestyle. Which he does. At first.

Traveling from Phuket to Bangkok and throughout Thailand's exotic locales, Marek's desire to experience all the forbidden fruits Thailand has to offer leads him to Piam, a gorgeous, kind, independent Thai girl who, he is convinced, might well be the one.

But as he immerses himself deeper into this strange country, replete with often inexplicable thought-patterns, worldviews and customs, Marek begins to discover a much darker, more complex side to the Land of Smiles and its inhabitants.

Soon, Piam begins to reveal her true colours. It soon dawns on him that, despite his best intentions (most of the time), he has been ensnared — as have many men before him — by the dreaded Honey Trap. The stormy relationship that ensues provides a fascinating backdrop to the insights into Thailand's unique culture that stem from Marek's efforts to come to terms with the reality of the country and the people who call it home.

Sujets

• Southeast
• Travel
• Asia

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 15 juillet 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 3
• EAN13: 9781456617264
• Langue: English

Extrait

This is Thailand
A Story of Love, Sex and Betrayal in the Tropics

Marek Lenarcik

This publication may not be reproduced in any way, those who do so will be Waterboarded, bound, gagged, stuck in a dark room and forced to listen to Justin Bieber on repeat for a period of 48 hours. So, don’t even bother.
Published in Poland in June 2012 under the title of “Tajski epizod z dreszczykiem” by Bezdroża Sp. z o.o. Copyrights to the Polish version of this book are owned by Helion.
Editor of the English version of the book: Oliver Slow – [e-mail]
Cover designed by Kamila Śleboda
Photos in the book: Maciej Klimowicz (Thailand) – www.maciekklimowicz.com ; Marek Lenarcik (Epilogue and the first chapter of “In Burma”.)

I dedicate this book to my mother – Grażyna and sister – Kasia who always stood by me in my most difficult moments. I am sorry for all the crazy stories!
WARNING
The following story is based on true events that took the place in the life of the author between June 2009 and May 2011.This book is for entertainment purposes only and the author refuses to take responsibility for any losses resulting from the incorrect usage of this book. This may include: bankruptcy; drink/drug addiction; overheating (including heatstroke); incarceration in a Thai (or any other country) prison; HIV infection or other sexually transmitted diseases; castration or death resulting from a confrontation with a jealous Thai woman; or any other injury or loss of life. Reading from now on is your sole responsibility. You have been warned.
Prologue
For as long as I can remember, travelling has always been something I have loved. If I had to burden anyone with that particular aspect of my personality, then that would have to be my parents. They took me to Bulgaria when I was five, then jetted me to all sorts of youth camps around Europe during my teens. If they wanted to see more of me once I had grown up, then they could only blame themselves.
My working life began and then, with a few years experience in the writing and publishing industries under my belt by the age of 19, Nokia came calling - and paid for me to attend a press conference on their behalf in Manchester. All expenses, including flights, 5 star hotels and free-flowing booze. How could I say no? More invitations soon followed. Motorola, Siemens and others flew me to all corners of the continent. Then the invitations became more high-profile, NATO and European Summit in Brussels, then flying with Polish politicians around Europe, to Washington, to Israel. I wrote about all of these on my website, Global.net.pl, which sadly is no more.
Graduation somehow changed my viewpoint, I wanted to see the world. I took a job in Ireland, leaving the journalistic life and its related benefits behind me. The place stole my heart. Even 300 days a year of rain were not enough to cool my enthusiasm. A good corporate salary in Dublin helped fund a road-trip from New York to Los Angeles, to check if Iran is really as bad as they say and to taste the forbidden fruits (natural or otherwise) of Thailand.
But, if graduation had changed me somewhat, then this last trip completely altered my mindset. Nothing was the same again back in Ireland. The rain-taps on my window were always there but now I noticed them every fucking morning, and the thought of wearing a waterproof jacket in June – the height of summer everywhere else north of the equator – started to wear me down. Suddenly the salary was no longer enough, but that was more down to my expenditures on my travels than much else.
To quell the boredom of the 9-to-5 rat-race, I began a Master’s programme at Trinity College, Dublin – the best university in Ireland – but the fresh smell of the Orient even followed me there. After a while I realised it, I wanted to live in Asia.
So, I went about creating a plan and began to implement it. What was the plan and how would it all work out? Read on and you’ll find out...
Chapter 1: Fuck the Corporation!

F UCK... - I moan in response to the loud beeeeep! of the alarm clock. I get up and, with usual slowness, walk towards the window to bring in some sunlight from behind the curtains into the room. Except there isn’t any sunlight. Again. It’s the beginning of July, so it should be summer, but outside the window, my neighbour is running to his car with a waterproof jacket zipped all the way up to his neck. It’s grey, dark and ugly. It’s raining or is certainly about to start. A typical Irish morning.
- FUCK! - I scream this time.
I switch off the central heating and dress for the day as though I am getting ready for war and a march towards Russia. It’s cold and windy and invisible rain is pouring itself onto my face as I make the short walk to my car. New Merecedeses, BMWs and Audis, bought for borrowed money, are stuck in the long, morning traffic jams. People are getting off the Luas – the modern tram – at Sandyford, the last stop – a relatively new district dominated by modern apartment-blocks, car dealers and offices of the multinational corporations that have descended on this island. I walk as quickly as I can, without paying much attention to the other people. I hide from the grim weather in the warmth of my employer’s building. Safe and comfortable in my boring, grey cubicle that gives me such a false sense of security.
I pass a grey pedestal with the black, thick logo of my employer on it - the same in which my friend John took a picture of his ass in front of on his last day. The security guard gives me an evil look as I drive into the compound, but I pretend to ignore it. There’s been a deep animosity between the two of us ever since he hit my car with the gate, then blamed it on my lack of driving skills and over usage of the verb “fuck”. The company paid for the expenses and the guy got a warning, but we haven't become friends since then.
I take the lift to the third floor and find my way through the dozens of identical, grey cubicles that are slowly filling up with paid slaves. I say “How are you?”, “Nice weekend?” and other variables of welcome no less than 30 times. I am not interested in hearing the answers. I am not waiting for them and neither are the companions of my woe.
I reach the territory of my “team” and I greet them with my usual greetings, and they respond in kind. Celine – my French boss and someone who, to put kindly, I don’t exactly see eye to eye with – notices me from her office. This dream job of controlling this group of slaves has taken 10 years of her life to achieve.
- Marek you are late again - she says, without so much as a “Hello”
- Oh, good morning Celine. It’s great to see you. How are you? Sorry I’m late. - I respond with obvious sarcasm.
- I would prefer if, instead of being late and sorry, you would start coming to work on time. -
- Ok, I’ll try. How late am I? -
- 20 minutes - she says and then noticing my facial expression - I don’t understand why you are smiling. When you are 20 minutes late daily, you are missing a week of work throughout the year! And I’m not even mentioning your annual and sick leave, which you seem to be abusing lately. - she continues.
- Are you having a bad day? -
- Don’t be arrogant and get to work - she turns and returns to her dungeon at the end of the corridor.
- Aye, aye captain! - I call to the back of her head.
I sit down at my desk and do what I’m told. I launch the computer and decide it’s time for a coffee. I see some colleagues in the printer area, so the process of making instant coffee takes roughly 15 minutes. I check private e-mails and Facebook, browse through the headlines of all of the interesting websites and newspapers and read some of the more interesting articles in full. I’m supposed to start one more, when my printer-colleagues call me for breakfast. Officially we have a 15-minute break, but how can you walk to another building, order food, eat, moan about your boss, and walk back again in 15 minutes? Usually it takes us about 45 minutes and this time it’s no different. I come back to my cubicle and, once again, ignore the daggers that are launching themselves towards me from Celine. I don’t care anymore, I’m through to the other side and immune to requests, threats and warnings. Celine has tested all sorts of motivation techniques on me and nothing has ever come of them. For her, it was clear that I was burnt out. For me that I never fit in.
Eventually, I start some work and go through the endless, repetitive e-mails from clients that say the same old shit. They log the problem into the system, which I am usually able to resolve. Two or three months later they log the same or a very similar problem caused by the same or similar mistake on their end. And each time I do the same procedure, giving them the same answer. My particular favourite is when they claim that we made a mistake on the invoice, except that the invoices are issued automatically. The system can’t be wrong. Never. But I still have to sit here and check five different applications in five days just to prove to the client that the mistake wasn’t made at our end. Eventually we get to the root of the problem and establish that the company has forgotten to inform of us of their change of address. Or I explain that the invoice is for four million dollars and not two, because someone in their company ordered the wrong products. I check, resolve and explain. They forget and do it again a few months later. The same companies, the same names, the same problems. Like a fucking déjà vu repeating constantly for the last three years.
It’s almost lunchtime when an e-mail from the internal audit team flashes in my inbox. It was sent to a few hundred employees, including the management of the company. It’s marked as high priority.
Dear Colleagues,
We cordially ask you to stop using red pens on official internal documents. The red pen is reserved for the audit team. Please fill all documents in blue pen. Thank you i