A female friend of mine, who was about to go to Italy, was told by a friend of mine, a very thorough man, a butcher by profession, the following:
- Natashka, when you are in Naples, hold your bag of money very, very tightly to the breast that is opposite the roadway. Understood? To that breast which faces the sidewalk. Clear? Because motorcyclists ride around Naples. All motorcyclists who ride around Naples are crooks. Every single one. They grab girls by their bags, drag the girls along with the bags over the asphalt for a while, and then, having finally snatched the bag, leave the maimed girls lying and sobbing on the asphalt. Understood?
Natashka, in horror, stared with her huge eyes at her huge breasts, trying to understand which one should look at the roadway and which one should look at the sidewalk. Then she sighed decisively and said:
- I understand everything. I will not give up the bag.
For the entire week spent in Naples, Natashka did only one thing: calculating the correct disposition of her breasts and her handbag. After long agonizing calculations, she would hang the bag on the right side, for good measure tightly cover it with her breast and clutch it with both hands, so that her nails turned blue. If a motorcyclist suddenly appeared on the roadway, Natashka would spread her legs wider for stability, thrust her shoulder forward like a boxer, and look at the motorcyclist with such a look that he would go around her on the neighboring street. Rumors even circulated around Naples about some strange lopsided tourist with blue nails. Natashka never did see Naples. But she did not give up the bag.
Of course, sometimes there are cases when motorcyclists snatch handbags from girls. But not very often...
There are many such stereotypes, prejudices, horror stories in the world. They roam the world like ghosts.
And then atypical pneumonia appeared. A new thriller. A ghost is roaming the planet, the ghost of SARS! No one argues: the problem exists. And there are victims. But, as they say, "why go overboard?"
When I told the same friend, the butcher, that I was going to Thailand, my butcher friend reacted like this:
- You are an idiot. Clinically. You have a family, children, a job, and, by the way, a debt to me of two thousand... Everyone who goes to Southeast Asia is a dead man. We already have a demographic crisis. And you... No shame, no Motherland... Besides, it's monsoon season there now. It rains all day. At least take a gas mask. And an umbrella.
I don't have a gas mask. I went without a gas mask. Fine. What will be, will be. I grabbed a gauze bandage just in case. And an umbrella too.
I was packing the gauze bandage and umbrella into my suitcase and imagining Thailand. Overcrowded hospitals. Sidewalks smelling of vinegar. Everyone in muzzles. Including elephants and crocodiles. People suddenly collapsing right on the streets. Downpour, downpour, heat, and downpour. Moans, screams. Death rattles from SARS. Red Cross tents. In short, from a painting by Karl Bryullov, "The Last Day of Pattaya."
The nightmares began already at Sheremetyevo. I saw the following scene. Some citizen (one of ours), by the way, of a very intelligent appearance, was peacefully washing his hands in a Sheremetyevo toilet. At that time, another citizen (not one of ours, a person, so to speak, of Southeast Asian nationality) entered the toilet, stood next to our man, and also began peacefully washing his hands. So they stood and washed their hands, children of different nations. They even exchanged glances with a smile of friendship and mutual understanding, as if to say: see, brother, we are all humans, and all of us, regardless of skin color and eye shape, have hands and they need to be washed... Long live peace in the whole world. Then our man went to dry his hands. And the other, continuing to wash his upper limbs, suddenly sneezed very loudly. Very, very loudly. Asians generally do everything loudly: laugh, sneeze, talk, and so on.
You should have seen what happened to our man. Like a ballet dancer, he made a powerful three-meter jump sideways and diagonally, covered his face with his hand, with the other trembling hand pulled the shirttails out of his trousers and, covering his face with them, ran out of the toilet with hoarse cries of "SARS! SARS!" I saw him several more times in the airport. With a bare, disheveled stomach, wet trembling hands, and completely atypical martyred eyes.
My flight was announced, and I felt sad. Am I doing the right thing? Am I right to have started this whole business with Thailand? And what if it really is... SARS, rainy season... Sadness, heavy, languid sadness, squeezed my heart and intestines. But I told myself: "You can. You will do it, guy!"
And the flight was announced, and I flew.
In the huge Bangkok airport, compared to which our Sheremetyevo resembles a market stall that, on top of that, was wrecked by rival thugs the day before, a charming Thai girl hung a fragrant wreath of orchids around my neck. The girl smiled and did not sneeze. She said to me: "Welcome." She was without a muzzle. I have never seen such beautiful girls without muzzles and I will never see them again. My wife does not count. She is beautiful. Both with a muzzle and without.
We traveled around Thailand for a week. There were no field hospitals. There were no bandages on the faces of the Thais either. Instead of bandages, there were smiles. There was also no promised round-the-clock monsoon downpour. The sky was the color of moist pearl. About once a day, the pearly haze of the sky became covered with streaks of dark mother-of-pearl, and a passionate half-hour downpour fell on us. Once, the downpour caught me in the jungle near the River Kwai. The downpour was sweet and smelled of orchids. I did not even open my umbrella. Only an idiot opens an umbrella in a shower of orchids.
In Bangkok, people in gauze bandages were encountered. But the reason, of course, was not SARS, but smog. Wearing gauze bandages in megacities is a common thing.
There was the Temple of the Emerald Buddha. The Buddha was without a bandage
And of course, there was also Pattaya. It turned out to be far less seedy than it is portrayed. Transvestites are very nice aunties (again, without muzzles) with Adam's apples of Roman legionaries and size forty-two feet on stiletto heels. They try so hard to be aunties that you can't help but be touched. Transvestites are good. All in feathers, beautiful. They dance to Zemfira: "I was looking for you." I almost burst into tears. I remembered my youth, my first love... That transvestite really got to me.
Also there were very good crocodiles at the crocodile farm. They lie on the clay, looking like overturned Soviet kayaks. During the crocodile show, a brave Thai puts his head into the mouth of a completely stoned reptile, drags it by the tail and so on. Brave Thai. And the crocodile is a fine fellow.
The most charming creatures in Thailand, aside from the Thai women, are baby elephants. They are warm, woolly, and like to bump their heads.
Our guides were two Thais. One was named briefly and clearly - Suchar, and the other so long that everyone simply called him Sasha.
In response to our question about whether there is SARS in Thailand, Suchar and Sasha laughed so hard and so long that both got hiccups. They hiccupped a bit out of sync, and then Sasha said:
- Sars in Thailand not. AIDS is, but sars - no. I tell exactly. AIDS there is a little, that yes. If with girl that - then can AIDS acquire. It's like latereya. But sars no. That false. I tell exactly. Thailand - good.
And the roll call in the bus was always done by Suchar. He said:
- Who is not here, raise your hands.
And he laughed like a child.
In Thailand there is a lot of good stuff. Twin pineapples, straight from the field. A taste that you dream about at night.
Very good wine (rice vodka is bad, it smells of rubber and cats). You can take a large bottle of wine, sit with a cheerful company in a tuk-tuk (that's an open taxi) and drink wine in the tuk-tuk. Which we did. For a couple of dollars you can ride this tuk-tuk for half a day.
In Thailand there are wonderful, poetic, piercing names. For example, the last bar we visited before departure was called 'Chaosuki'.
Temples, pagodas and all that. I keep silent about that. Everything has already been said and written about it.
In general, Thailand has everything. Like in Greece. Except for atypical pneumonia. There is no SARS there. I tell you exactly. I've seen it from personal experience. I'm telling you: guys, don't believe all kinds of scary rumors.
In Naples, you see, they steal bags. In Asia - SARS. Bears walk the streets of Moscow... Nonsense all of it. You need to live, not be afraid. We don't give a damn about this atypical pneumonia.
Vladimir YELISTRATOV,
columnist for the magazine «Вояж и отдых».