V.I.P. Bus = Flightless Airplane.

Kavi has suggested that there are some things in Bangkok I missed that I shouldn't have, and that I should return with him on Friday night on an overnight bus, so I can see the city on Saturday and then meet up with his group on Sunday.

I agreed, and his mother acquired a ticket for me on the same bus he is taking back to Bangkok. Thankfully they let me pay them back for this. The fare runs about US $25--a bit more than I would have paid for the combination of Ferry, Bus and Train, but for an air conditioned bus, and about 30% of the travel time shaved off--the whole trip will take less than 13 hours, as opposed to the 18+ it took me to get to Koh Samui originally. It's a good trade off, I think, and it works out well. However, there are unforeseen adventures ahead, which, if not for their hilarity, would have tipped the balance far in favour of the train and the extra lost hours.

Around 4:00 we head to the bus terminal and climb aboard. Imagine a tiny airplane that's had it's wings clipped so it can't fly and you've got the idea. Now decorate this airplane with much larger windows, green overhead lights recessed in the ceiling, and seashell pink curtains throughout. I don't know who designed the colour scheme, but if I ever find out, we're going to have words.

There is a trip attendant, and she's no-nonsense like every small-airline attendant ever--she tells us the duration of the trip (we'll arrive at Bangkok at 5AM), gives us our peanuts, snack cake, and water bottle, and gets out of the way so the inflight movie (no kidding, it was called "Once upon a time in Corea" and it was delightfully bad, I'm going to try to find it when I get home) can play and then we can sleep the rest of the way, as best we can.

I say "as best we can" because, though they turn off the interior cabin lights, there is the little problem of giant windows with minimal, frilly pink curtains that do little to block out the light of oncoming cars and overhead streetlights.

Also (and perhaps more importantly) there's the problem that the AC apparently has two settings, the first, to which it is set when we leave the Koh Samui ferry, is "freeze Patrick's face to a solid block of ice." I'm very glad they gave me a blanket, and I actually consider pulling it completely over my head like a 5 year old afraid of the monster in the closet. I realize after about an hour of suffering that this is exactly what the lady in the seat across the aisle from me has done, and she now looks like a person being mummified by a complimentary V.I.P. bus blanket, which I decided would be an unfortunate look for me.

Eventually, they set the AC to its other setting, which is "study for your final exams." As any educator can tell you, a slightly chilly classroom is a good classroom, because your students are less likely to fall asleep--the body is more focused and alert at 16 degrees than it is at 26. Why no-one has explained this to the V.I.P. bus line, I don't know, but it was pretty damn cold all the way back to Bangkok, and I found myself very thankful for thick boots, a shirt I could button, and the aforementioned complimentary blanket, which was large enough to cover my entire body.

My comical interlude of the night, however, occured when I decided to attempt to use the bus's tiny bathroom. I'm about to get a bit crass, so if terms like "pee box" make you frown instead of giggle, you might want to stop reading now.

If you've ever laughed when you hear that a toddler ran through a supermarket waving a cucumber and declaring it loudly to be a penis though (I love my nephew), you'll probably find this amusing, so read on.

Let me tell you why I like trains. I like trains because they sway, and occasionally give you a firm but even shift or a rolling rumble like a ship on the ocean. A man like me with a decent sense of balance is hard pressed to have difficulty standing or walking even in a turn on a rickety 2nd class train over bad tracks. To be uncouth about it--I can aim quite fine while standing without having to so much as reach out a hand and steady myself against the wall.

Airplanes tend to be the same way, as I make it a habit not to try to visit the toilet while the fasten seatbelt sign is on (duh) and this has served just fine so far to deter any mishaps.

A bus, on the other hand, doesn't sway, it lumbers. It doesn't shift, it jostles, and it doesn't rumble, it lurches. I become aware, as soon as I step inside the tiny Pee box, of three things.

1) Now that I cannot see the road or the relative motion of the bus, I feel remarkably like the dice must feel in a game of yahtzee.

2) There is no hope for standing up during this attempt, it will be strictly a sit down procedure if I hope to remain undrenched in my own urine.

3) I've unconsciously nicknamed it the pee box because in addition to the toilet, there is also a remarkably small funnel indentation that is obviously intended as a urinal, and if anyone has ever attempted to use that hilariously small thing while the bus was in motion, than this entire tiny room has had every surface covered, at one point or another, in pee.

I try not to laugh at the thought of this as I drop trou and manage, with some awkward lurching, to sit and pee with a modicum of dignity. So far, so good. Now for the standing, washing of hands, and pulling up of drawers and shorts.

Allow me to speak briefly of Thai roads.

I'm not sure how a place with a climate this warm can possibly have a road system this uneven. The only place outside the developing world that I've encountered freeway roads with these sort of deep indentations and sudden potholes are places that freeze and thaw multiple times per year, giving the concrete plenty of reason to crack and wear down.

All I can figure is maybe the monsoon system makes them difficult to maintain, because damn, if we didn't hit the Thai rollercoaster freeway as I was attempting to stand.

Do you remember Twister? Of course you do.

Now imagine you're playing twister, only it's changed in some material aspects.

Instead of colours, the things being called are now directions, because the game surface, instead of being flat, is a six sided plastic (potentially pee covered) coffin in which you are trapped. Now imagine that instead of the person calling out these directions to you "Left food, right wall!" "Elbow, door!", the box is simply and sharply tilted in the direction and you must compensate with any available appendage. For added difficulty, recall that your pants are around your ankles and between lurches you must attempt to raise them.

Now, the reward has changed as well. In Twister, if you win, you get to laugh at awkward people, and if you lose, failure is usually met with a collapse of nubile bodies and the very good chance that an attractive girl roughly your own age with fall on you, panting and laughing, and then claim someone's butt ruined her grand strategy. (If you can't tell, I have fond memories of Twister from my college years).

In Pee Box--the game we are now playing (available soon from Mattel, probably)--if you win, you only possibly get other people's pee on your hands. If you lose, you might get pee on your face, slam your whole body into an oddly shaped cabinet corner (both of these I avoided) or simply dash your forehead violently against an overhead "oh shit" bar in order to stabilize your fall and avoid these other more terrible fates (on this count I lost, but it was a calculated choice, and I won the war as a result).

My pants (finally) back around my waste, my hands finally washed (thoroughly) in the pee box's tiny sink, I returned to my seat, trying not to laugh so loudly at the brief bout with insanity I had just experienced that I woke all the other passengers.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, and we arrived at our station in Northern Bangkok, as promised, at 0500.