Fevered in Phuket

I arrive at the ferry terminal on Phuket just in time for the skies to open up upon the group of curious travelers, ever trying to figure out how to get to the next place you are going. While most of the young souls on the ferry were vying to find their way to Phuket’s serene beaches, I needed only a night of cheap accommodation before continuing on back to the mainland. In the last few hours on the ferry I had begun to feel weak and fevered and wasn’t sure how I would ever make it through the next four days.

After unsuccessfully arranging for a hostel another group of strangers pile into the back of the minibus. Unlike most minibus journeys where I am easy and eager to make friends, I slump into the back and press my face antisocially against the window. I want nothing but to get there. With my eyes carefully following the turns along with the free map I’ve snatched at the ferry terminal, I hop out alone as soon as we enter the city center and head to the first hostel I see. The metal gate is pulled shut and there is no one to be seen. The deserted interior looks an episode of Hoarders from what little I can see and at 4 P.M. I have no choice but to assume they are no longer open for business.

Looking at the map I make my way towards the next listed hostel and hope for the best. My limbs are weak with fever and with my pack I feel as though I am sinking into the sidewalk with each step. As I trudge along a man on a moto pulls up next to me, “You need ride, lady. I take you!” Overly accustomed to turning down offers I tell him I have no money and continue walking. This time it is not enough. He traces my movements along the sidewalk, bouncing the small cycle along with one foot insisting he can help me, no money necessary. Never believe anyone in Asia that tells you no payment is required. There is always some form of payment, even if you aren’t sure what.

But in the haze of an exhausted fever more than what seemed like a mile from the next hostel, I am too exhausted to say no. He promises me the hostel will pay him to take me there (which is, in many cases true though they still require payment from you). Wanting to believe him, I hop on the back and let the breeze cool the dizzying sweat from my face.

On the moto, however, I don’t have my map out and cannot see down which of the zig-zagged streets he is turning. After a few minutes on the bike, outside of the heart of Phuket Town we pull into a parking lot where there is no hostel. Just a red pickup truck, too shiny and new to belong on the streets of a Thai island. “What’s happening?” I ask with the fear of the unknown quavering in my voice. “You get into truck and truck take you to hostel,” he says. “I no have enough gas.”

What else could I do? Lost and outside of the city I have no idea where I am and not the energy to fight my way back. I throw my pack and my fate into the back of the pickup and hope not for the best, but for anything but the worst.

As the truck hums into its guttural groans we sit in silence on the road and I contemplate everything that could possibly go wrong. Before I even have time to imagine my own robbery and my daring escape we pull into what appears to be a jewelry store. “We get out here and look, maybe you buy.”

And now it has become apparent. They have not kidnapped me to rob me or rape me or leave me for dead. They are kidnapping consumers. I wander through the overpriced jewelry store filled with semi-precious stones I would never wear as quickly as possible. I offer a ‘kop-kuhn-ka’ to the women of the store, insist I do not need to purchase anything, and then head immediately back out to the truck. We do this three more times and each time I become more and more insistent he take me back to the hostel, and each time he promises he will. The aggravation is weak in my weary voice, but eventually he drives me back unscathed into the city center and brought me to the On On Hotel.