I am plagued by dirty knickers. Not those lingering in the washing basket for weeks because you’ve had “no time” to do the laundry, nor the pair you’re wearing to spare the Uber driver a flash of your still-engorged clitoris after a one-nighter.
I’m haunted by these underwear because they’ve been smothering my crotch for the last 30 hours.
Their dampness – nothing more than sweat, discharge and leftover piss from using a squat toilet on a moving train – reminds me I’m still awake. Fourteen hours in a third-class, fan-only carriage where the upholstered seats are too thin for comfort, blown around like the leaf that landed in my wind-funneled hair.
There’s a layer of dust and grime coating every centimetre of exposed skin: I’m scared to imagine how my clogged pores will complain in the morning. I need a shower. I need a bed. But I don’t have one for another 10 hours.
The train arrives at 4am. My hostel’s reception opens at 7am. Check-in is at 2pm. More worry than the man leering at me from across the aisle could conjure keeps my eyelids peeled.
I’ve been retyping and refreshing Google Maps in between half-hearted naps. Nothing is open in Old Town this late. Or early. So I guess I’ll be watching the sun rise above my accommodation.
A neon sign greets me as I’m deposited on the sidewalk of Chiang Mai Midpoint Activity Hostel. Open it lies. At least the toilet is.
I relieve myself of one definitely-overweight carry-on backpack and settle on an ex-Starbucks wooden bench. It’s hard to imagine this furniture ever adorning the Seattle-based coffee chain; it belongs in a national park.
My butt grows sorer.
Before catching her flight back to Brisbane, my mum bequeathed me one final joint. I smoke it now, too sleep-deprived to care that I’m sinking into old habits, and watch the restaurant across the carpark wake up.
A few guests exit the sacred dormitory door. I’m tempted to harass them about shower locations and whether they’re communal so I’ve got something other than people-watching to tide me over. Exhaustion and fear keep me in place. Introducing yourself to new people is scary.
That’s when I meet Claire. A hippie who’s been wandering the trail through South East Asia: blonde and limber. She tiptoes down the stairs with guitar on back and sunflower-coloured suitcase in hand. After laying her belongings down, she stretches, wide-legged Indian pants flapping with the motion. She then proceeds to unpack, pulling out patterns and knicknacks galore.
A guy wanders over, ready to check out.
“There’s a key return box over there,” Claire chirps, directing the damsel towards his salvation. He struggles with the size of the hole, but manages to send it through.
Smirking, I tell my laptop about the torture of travelling via overnight train.
I don’t notice Claire approach until she’s tucking a plastic bag under the far end of my picnic table.
“Just leaving something for a friend.”
I smile in return, clueless.
“What’s your name? I’m Claire.”
“Indigo.”
My throat is raw from forced dehydration to ensure minimal restroom usage on public transportation.
“Nice to meet you.” She continues her mission, explaining the package: “I’m leaving for Kuala Lumpur and can’t take it with me.”
Noticing my ogle, Claire pauses.
“Do you smoke?”
I realise she’s stashing a stoner kit. Grinder, papers, tin, and bud.
“Yes.”
“I’ve got indica. Do you want it?”
I’m speechless. It’s hard to comprehend her kindness in my current zombie-like state.
“I told my friend I’d leave the grinder. Not all this.” Claire removes the metal tool from the bag and inspects the kief catcher. “You can even scrape the bottom; there are crystals there.”
“Do you want to sit?” I gesture at the space beside me and the mammoth spliff dangling from Claire’s lips. My mother’s generosity is no match.
Hesitation: “You seem great, but I’m already running late.” Her gaze wanders to the disemboweled bag. “ADHD brain… I don’t know how to pack.”
I express my gratitude again and inspect the goodies through the plastic of their ziplock container while Claire lights up. Anxiety forces the offering from my hand: up until now, all my rolling has been done in private, where I hid my tutelage from nosy housemates with a locked door and sliver of moonlight to work under. I don’t want Claire to know how inexperienced I am.
Her disorganisation fades into background music, then a few moments later, she returns with stickers and orange juice.
“Do you want these? Just a small artist’s venture. And that was a gift from someone else. Passing it on feels right,” she says, waving the carton in the air.
“I’d love them. I’ve got some cashews.”
We trade; Claire leaves, then sidles back after another 10 minutes.
“Sativa?”
The joint she’s puffing on passes between our hands.
“I’ve gotta go.”
A car pulls into the driveway.
“Safe travels,” I call out as she bounces into the backseat.
“And to you!”
It’s 6am. One hour until hostel staff arrive. I brainstorm how I’ll beg for early check-in while finishing Claire’s parting gift. My bones are no longer dragging me down and the goosebumps have lowered to a reasonable height along my forearms.
Waiting feels bearable. I can suffer dirty knickers for a little bit longer.