a Chris Jaymes place

afloat – sunday rain

A long sleep and late afternoon has arrived.  The sound of a 

subtle rain gently taps upon the roof above and a confusion 

comes over me.  Recollecting the perfect weather from recent 

days, it’s impossible to comprehend that rain is now upon us.  

Sliding the curtain and stepping out onto the balcony, the 

sky is blanketed in grey and the colors of the surrounding 

gardens are vibrant.  The leaves extend, fully stretched up 

and outward yearning to grasp each and every flailing drop 

with an awareness that the wealth that is being momentarily 

granted may be short lived.  A nostalgic calm encapsulates me 

within a serenity that accompanies an unscheduled and 

unexpected rain.  Almost a blissful sorrow with a hint of 

joyous isolation vibrates through me as I decide to join the 

outdoors and feel the warm rain fall upon me. 

 

Stepping onto the pathway, the mist from above stimulates an 

intense presence and today is the first of it’s kind, 

blocking me from falling victim to the pattern of days prior.  

Slight hints of question arise from my being, as the simple 

energy addictions and habitual routine is being distracted 

and altered.  The faces and movements that have become 

indicative of my existence have shifted and the space that is 

usually filled has now become empty and different.  It’s 

surprising how simple changes can stimulate subtle fears 

within your functional being forcing you to include your 

thought process within your moment to moment awareness. 

The velocity of the mist increases and a more passionate rain 

begins to fall as I step foot on the empty beach.  The 

restaurant to my right is quiet yet there are a few guests 

dining in the rain underneath the covered garden patio.  My 

thoughts converge with two opposing desires, one based on 

eating and sitting quietly as an observing, the other based 

on participating on a more visceral level with what nature is 

presenting.  Accepting the reality that this may be the last 

rain I see here, my body abruptly pushes towards the ocean 

observing the colors that stain the horizon. 

 

Pulling off my shirt and emptying my pockets into my hat, I 

head with unbending intent, directly out and into the ocean.  

The currents move about with a force that I had not 

experienced previously, and though there was a strength 

within the movement of the tides, it was not angry or 

threatening.  It was animated with a childlike excitement 

that was giddy to have you as a guest.  It was almost showing 

off it’s power in a manner that including you, like a dolphin 

pulling you for a ride and waiting to be rewarded with a fish 

at the end.  Lying flat in the water, floating on back, I 

allowed the currents to push and pull me wherever it wanted 

me to go.  

 

My body was weightless and calm and the movement was like a 

maternal sway though not enacting a paternal role, but 

instead felt like a brother or best friends tossing you 

around playfully and never once stimulating fear. 

The sky above was filled with millions of shades of grey and 

in the distance there were darker grey V-shaped shadows where 

you could confirm the strength of the storm.  Glancing up and 

down the coast, the ocean was empty.  I was the only one in 

either direction for as far as I could see.  I closed my eyes 

and bobbed for an unknown duration of time in an effortless 

meditation.  Leaning forward, I noticed that magically and 

with no warning, there was another man swimming approximately 

thirty yards away from me.  He looked Eastern European of 

some sort and within moments I could feel his energy.  It was 

experiencing the exact same sensation as was I.  I continued 

to watch him, trying to identify what it was that we were 

embracing.  His eyes were looking to the sky and in one 

gesture, I could comprehend what we were both attempting to 

fulfill.  A moment that will be ours, individually, forever.  

His movements are confident and there is a smile that shines 

from his presence, and by describing the gesture that he was 

about to carry out, is the most articulate way I can describe 

the sensation that was living inside of me. 

 

He gently laid back into the water with his face pointing up 

to the sky, closed his eyes and opened his mouth to feel the 

water fall inside.  Stretching his mouth wide, he absorbed as 

much of this moment as possible hoping the rainfall would 

scar itself deep within his being, ingraining this moment of 

presence in his emotional memory banks forever.  He continued 

to hold his face absolutely silent and still for nearly ten 

minutes, swaying with the moving tide. 

 

As I returned to my body, allowing him to leave me in my 

space, I floated within effortlessly on my back while the 

warmth and the salt keep my face and feet above the water.  

My stomach and chest begin vibrating with a higher frequency 

of energy as I think of it now.  My body rotates with the 

tides until my face heads towards the coast instead of out to 

sea.  Feeling absolutely no fear and trusting that the waves 

that would fall over me were nurturing and harmless.  My body 

would thrust gently upward as the swell passed and then 

quickly drop flat again coming into my line of vision and 

crash upon the shore.  The rain fell hard and created an 

illusion of sparkling bubbles that surrounded me in every 

direction.  My senses were getting such an abundance of 

stimulation that again, I was experiencing a drug induced 

state of being without ingesting anything that would cause a 

false sense of presence and/or hallucinatory experience.  The 

bubbles had the appearance similar to a pot of boiling water.  

 

They were rising from the sea floor and upon reaching the 

surface they would pop as they had reached a temperature high 

enough to break the oxygen molecules apart, altering their 

form and sending them back up and into the atmosphere. 

I was trapped.  Nothing in my body could pull me away from 

this moment and though I felt like it was time to go, I 

couldn’t impose the action upon my body.  Think of the most 

potent lust that reaches such an intensity and for the first 

time you have the opportunity to embrace the human that has 

stimulated this lust within you.  You don’t want it to end.  

It can’t end.  There’s no need for it to end, and if it is 

going to end, let it end on it’s own without my influence 

prematurely ending it.  I remained motionless within the 

moving tides for well over an hour and finally decided it was 

time. 

 

The entire time I had floated about, the awareness of the 

tsunami had faded and I was reminded of the loving qualities 

that the ocean possessed.  It almost felt as if it had it’s 

own personality and it was trying to rekindle the kindness 

that it was so accustomed to receiving.  The demeanor that 

the water possessed felt almost like a humble insecurity.  It 

reminded me of a puppy that had unknowingly wronged you 

somehow and was tapping on your leg, dropping a ball at your 

feet while you’re in the middle of working.  As if it were 

asking forgiveness without the comprehension of what it had 

actually done to upset you.  Maybe this was nothing more than 

a self-imposed illusory thought that I had conceived, however 

it felt as if it had been approaching my awareness from the 

outside in, as my mind had been silent and judgment was on   

hiatus when the sensation entered. 

 

Returning to the beach, my shirt, towel, and cigarettes were 

drenched.  I passed through the restaurant to find a group of 

travelers huddled around a TV screen intensely watching 

Batman Returns with Thai subtitles.  As I walked through the 

man made jungle that led to my room, the colors were more 

alive than ever and the rain had brought out all of the life 

that secretly inhabited the land.  Baby frogs jumped past my 

feet as I approached.  Geckos scurried up trees to escape the 

potential approaching danger that I represented. 

 

Cracking open my door, the pain of the air conditioning was 

excruciating, it was like diving into an ice pool on an 

already cold day.  Throwing myself into the shower as the hot 

water arrived, my brain was still silent.  There was no 

thought.  There was no noise.  Not just within me, but within 

the environment around me.  It was uncommon for this space to 

experience silence.  It was serene.   This was the first day 

that I had honestly spent alone since my trip began and I was 

happy. 

 

As I opened my bag to find something new to wear, a hint of a 

rotten odor snuck out of the bag and into the atmosphere.  It 

is a smell that will always live in me and when approached 

with something similar will function as a button that 

triggers the emotional sensations from moments and glances 

that occurred while that smell encompassed me.  Like the 

smells that scarred images from your childhood into a storage 

area for odors in your mind.  A type of bubble gum.  A 

certain animal.  The breath of your grandmother.  The smell 

of bacon as you open your eyes and realize that it’s 

Christmas.  The stench of a massive arena of decomposed 

bodies had now scarred itself into the category of sense 

memories that I would now carry with me for the rest of my 

life. 

 

Within a millisecond of the molecules entering my nose, my 

muscles quickly tightened, desperately attempting to keep it 

from entering my body.  The fear of my energy shifting away 

from the moment of presence that I had been gifted to receive 

on this rainy day was precious. My desire to protect it from 

disseminating was fervent and unbending.  Today was not the 

day to sit inside of the newfound memories I had acquired 

over the past weeks, but to relearn what it felt like to be 

alone with myself, without the crutches and parasites that I 

had been relying upon, and without the cell phone, and 

without the E-mail, and without all of the external entities 

that I would usually embrace in a day, to justify and confirm 

my existence without taking responsibility for it. 

Pulling my focus back to the rain, I stepped out onto the 

balcony and a gentle humidity of warmth reminded me where I 

was.  A childlike feeling emanated from my body as the 

parenting rain was dictating what and how all of the humans 

that usually filled this beach, with bodies and beer bottles, 

would live this day out. 

 

Some days, it’s nice to be guided. 

 


Nuang Yan

There was a small private island called Nuang Yuan just off the coast, about a 

ten minute boat ride so I figured I would head over.  It was 

the only location in Thailand that had an understanding that 

conservation might be a good idea.  There was no public 

awareness instilled at any level that throwing trash into the 

ocean wasn’t a good idea.  It wasn’t just the ocean, but the 

country in general was not really aware of the destruction 

that they were supporting with all levels of non- 

conservationist activity.  Nuang Yuan was covered with signs, 

insisting that plastic bottles were not allowed on the island 

and anyone carrying plastic bottles would be punished by law 

and abolished from the island.  It almost felt like if you 

did secretly bring some over, there might be a black market 

trade going on and an opportunity to make some quiet cash.  

Instead of venturing into a new possibility of generating 

income, I snorkeled. 

A month prior to coming here, I had contacted a childhood 

friend of mine informing him that I would coming here.  He 

had spent the early years of his life in Thailand until his 

family moved to California twenty years ago.  

 

When I brought it up, he seemed to have a strange reaction 

that was undecipherable.  In the past, his entire demeanor 

would light up at the mention of Thailand, so this was 

somewhat abnormal.  After investigation, he informed me that 

they had recently returned from Thailand and while they were 

here his younger brother had died.  They had come to Nuang 

Yuan to snorkel and prior to the boat departing realized that 

he wasn’t present.  They found him floating and assuming that 

he had suffered from a shallow water blackout.  He was in his 

early thirties and I had met him a few times and being here 

now, again, I was presented another peculiar occurrence 

resulting in death.  I floated around the island imagining my 

friend’s expression when he realized that his brother had 

died.  Filling in the blanks of the experience and feeling 

the energy of my friend’s presence here.  The most disturbing 

aspect was the awareness of the unbending affinity my friend 

had always held for his family.  They were ridiculously 

closer and more functional than any family I had ever 

witnessed.  Subtly, I cried as I effortlessly let my body 

float about and imagined what it would be like to die here. 

The most optimistic thing I could conjure was the simple 

reality that going unconscious and never returning from a 

place such as this would at least be peaceful.  There was 

nothing present here that could be labeled  imperfect.  It 

was a nonexistent perfection that was nearly 

incomprehensible.  It was impossible to conceive that it 

wasn’t manipulated by man to achieve this kind of aesthetic, 

both above and under the water.  A glowing sadness vibrated 

through me as flashes of my friend’s face passed before me.  

The beauty of the environment forcibly altered the sadness, 

transforming it into a liberating nostalgia.  I smiled with 

the knowing that there may not be a more perfect place to 

die.  Unfortunately, timing is always questionable. 

The sun hid behind the horizon and I spent the night 

peacefully alone surrendering to the theme of mortality that 

had satiated every last particle of my so-called vacation.  

Strangely, there was a warm quality about a theme that would, 

by nature, be associated with a vacuous quality of an 

isolated and empty cold.  At this point, anything outside of 

absolute submission to my externally imposed discourse was 

indisputable suicide.  The simple, yet incomprehensible 

concept of death could no longer be misconceived as an 

anomaly.  This had been removed from my available list of 

options.  Instead, it had grown into something that was 

simply an obvious and expected part of life that could show 

up at any moment, in any direction.  And if you were faced 

with it, you were blessed… as it wasn’t you who were dead.


Boxing Day – cut out chapter – False Independence

Early that morning, we boarded a boat back to Samui.  My 

plans to finish the trip out in Koh Tao had evolved and my 

most immediate concern was to get the girl back to Bangkok 

and relieve myself from the caretaker role that I had 

accepted.  Surrendering to an unnecessary circumstance was no 

longer an option as my trip was quickly coming to an end, and 

I wasn’t interested in sharing my final days with a stranger.  

One night was enough and it was time to send her back to her 

life before she became too comfortable in mine. 

 

The boat was half full and composed of a smorgasbord of 

passengers from around the world.  I was exhausted and made 

no efforts to communicate with my accidental travel guest.  

Speaking in single-syllables at a twenty word per minute pace 

was too much work at this point so upon sitting down, I 

immediately opened a journal and started writing. 

The deck of the boat was painted green and covered with 

uneven patterns of triangles constructed from aged yellow 

duct tape.  The myriad of characters were sprawled across the 

floor embracing the aphrodisiac of freedom that comes along 

with being a traveler.  We had all found a similar dress code 

where skin was much more prevalent than clothing.  Scanning 

the surrounding strangers, it was blatantly apparent who had 

recently arrived and who had been traveling for a significant 

period of time.  Those more settled in, seemed to carry 

themselves in a hyper-grounded state, almost an elated moment 

of sustained self discovery.  In some it was a bit more pure 

than in others, who seemed to embrace a fallacy summarizing 

their current state as a first encounter with a distant 

stranger.  That stranger being the true and honest version of 

themselves, that has finally surfaced and come to stay. 

This is a common illusion to fall victim to when you find 

yourself in a place where everything is possible, and more 

specifically, affordable.  Someone with a First World bank 

account living within a Third World economy for the first 

time in their lives are blessed with an inconceivable  

experience.  For the first time ever, you are a controlling 

factor in your own kingdom without obstacles or 

prerequisites.  Nearly anything you might desire is 

effortlessly attainable.  It almost psychically anticipates 

your presence, respectfully waiting to fulfill your desires. 

Looking at myself and then to those around me, there is a 

similar evolution that begins from the outside and works it’s 

way inward.  Our appearances have taken on a pirate-like 

quality, carelessly clothed in a ragged, beach-ghetto-y 

manner.  The more experienced pirates confidently approach 

with a warm, untrustworthy smile and wit that is somehow 

sincere, to some degree.  The more I observe the passengers, 

the more apparent are the layers they are attempting to shed.  

 

One by one, I reconstruct their pre-travel clothing which 

begins to create a projected image of the pre-travel person.  

I begin imposing illusory moments of their actual lives and 

personalities back home.  None of whom would exist in class 

stature above the middle, and most of them would 

unquestionably linger towards the lower end of the scales.  

Here, that is nonexistent.  Here, they are not reminded on a 

moment to moment basis of what is out of range and nothing is 

unattainable.  This would normally be a fantasy that they 

would consistently long for, but here the fantasy is actually 

alive. 

 

Taking it further, I impose all of their usual day-to-day 

problems and issues.  Family, work, money, love, no work, no 

money, no love.  Human nonsense.  A clarity surfaced, 

exposing the simple humans that we all actually were, formed 

and dictated by a structured society, living in a state of 

hope and yearning for liberation from the empowered 

structure.  This was freedom.  At least, momentarily.  A 

fleeting moment of life within a temporarily liberated 

persona.  And that’s all it will be.  At least for the 

intelligent ones.  The others will actually become Western 

pirates indulging in the effortlessly attainable luxury of 

the East.  Returning home for short bits of time, scrounging 

enough to return to their position of power in a society with 

a weaker economy. 

 

My thoughts return to my home and my friends.  My family and  

dogs.  And just as it had been effortless to experience a 

human empathy on my way to Khao Lak, now it was effortless to 

feel the love I had for those who blessed my life with their 

presence.  One by one, they passed through my thoughts.  

Observing their gestures, I could feel the love we shared.  I 

could see the web that was created between us all, by us all, 

that would never diminish.  It would remain, only to be taken 

for granted.  Regardless, it would sustain.  

For the hundredth time on this journey, my eyes filled with 

water as my face passed through the warm ocean air.  Looking 

out, the island of Phangan sat in the distance. I was passing 

over the path of water where the fifteen people had died on 

the boat that I was fortunate enough not to board.  A surreal 

quality painted an image around me and my perspective was 

altered.  I felt more alive than usual.  The world around me 

also seemed magically alive.  It appeared to be three or more 

dimensional, but I knew it was no more than an idea in motion 

that surrounded me while I sat motionless.  It would continue 

moving for all that were currently watching… And sustain 

it’s movement, even when our eyes were closed eternally. 

I try to believe… that I am. 

 

However, I could not comprehend my current state. 


Boxing Day – Chapter 5 – a preview from the book by Chris Jaymes about the Thailand tsunami

Copyright Protected.  Contact for use outside of reading.

Dressed & Ready

Aimlessly, I wandered through the inside of the temple.  Not a single individual acknowledged my presence and those that did seemed as disoriented as I was.  A Thai man with his face mask pulled off stopped shoveling noodles into his mouth, attempting to help me.  Though I appeared to be listening to his insubstantial English, my focus was fixed on the corpse he was leaning over, actually… eating over.  A white cloth covered the body, leaving only the feet exposed. 

Time stopped.  Introverted, I went.  Returning to my customary internal nomad tent, a slow reveal occurred.  In every direction, on every table, gurney, and ground, white cloths rested.  Walking through, as I desperately searched for guidance, I was blinded to my surroundings.

Consciousness revisited to find the man still speaking and pointing.  Nodding, I headed off determined to avoid stepping on the sea of white cloth.  The walking space seemed to narrow as my awareness returned.  Breathing was obstructed as my cloth face mask, now drenched in sweat, stuck to my skin, filling the holes of my nose and mouth as I gasped for air.  The cloth reached deep into my mouth, nearly hitting the gag reflex in the back of my throat, confirming little to no oxygen was present in the surrounding environment.  Nose breathing was immediately declined, as if two socks had been plunged up and inside of my nose.

Pushing through the temple, searching for air I sprinted out of labyrinth, finding an unmanned spot at the edge of the courtyard.  Masterfully, I kept my composure assuming my presence was being monitored.  Casually, I threw my body to the ground and ripped the mask from my face.

Somehow, I had managed to bring myself to tears through the intense activity of getting dressed into a not-so-sanitary suit.  My most significant achievement had been successfully avoiding passing out or vomiting while making my way through the temple and courtyard.  Narcissism was convinced that someone had noticed, and that within seconds I would be asked to leave.  However, that was not the case.

 

Sensible Monks

 

Corpses blanket the grounds in constant rotation from refrigerators to tables to piles.  Chickens and dogs aggressively attempting to pitch in, pick at the bodies resting along the edges of the piles.  If there’s organization within all of this, it’s difficult to discern.  It seems that various people make various decisions at various times, and all somewhat random.  Everyone seems to be in motion with some form of generally ineffective business.  Those not doing tend to argue about what and how things should be done, however this is mostly inferred seeing that English is rarely spoken. 

Two women consistently pass through the rows of bodies spraying disinfectant which quickly numbs your nasal cavity from the stench.  Three phases of smell cyclically rotate through your olfactory senses: rot, sea water, and disinfectant.  Each isolated odor becomes excessive and quickly unbearable.  Fortunately, the rotation allows a sensation of relief from each of the previous discomforts.

From the outside, this well-intentioned conglomerate of strangers attempts to accomplish something respectable, however aside from the Thai Army and a handful of the volunteer doctors, the only common thread is inexperience.  In every direction, the only thing constant is the reminder of disaster, and as well-intentioned as the participants may be, no one has the slightest idea of how things should be dealt with.  My naive expectations imagined clipboards, and groups carrying out activities, and workers building things, and people passing out food and clothing.  Always envisioning the clipboard holding individual pointing you in the right direction where you would soon be instructed what to do.  To my surprise, it was not like summer camp, it was like a disaster and in a disaster, nothing like this seems to exist. 

Complete sensory overload leaves you without option, aside from absolute surrender.  Drown out the sound, drown out the smell.  Forgive the rot that sits in your mouth, behind the sweat filled cloth that lines the inside of your gums with each and every breath.  Detach yourself from senses and in an undistinguished manner, functionality returns.

A visual evolution occurs and the environment morphs into a poorly decorated sound stage for an under budgeted B-film, on the back lot of a dilapidated Hollywood studio.  The surrounding presentation of death and disaster doesn’t seem to fulfill the expectations my eyes have been trained to assume.  Generally, the layout of the set would be better organized and the production designers would have come up with something much more impressive, instead of a mess of thoughtlessness strewn together in chaos.  Nothing made sense and nothing seemed real.  This must be that denial thing I always hear about.  Death and denial.  The denial of death.  The avoidance of an incomprehensible ideology that we will restlessly banter about during our period of un-dead participation.  Regardless, of the validity of the notion, it was too late and thoughtfully irrelevant.  Identifying with the idea of denial allowed the fears and the questions to quickly disintegrate and I was grateful for the band-aid.

As the sun was edged towards the horizon, the crowd grew thin.  Behind the face masks, very little human contact or communication would occur and over time it was as if I were surrounded by the same similar looking stranger.  The monks moved through the temple with a fearless and purposeful nature.  No need for face masks.  A strong sense of faith connects them to an inherent will, protecting them from the surrounding germs and bacteria.  Slow and gentle.  Quiet and warm.

One specific monk pulled my attention as he floated through, untouched by the less than harmonious state of the space.  Distracted by nothing, his thoughts and intentions were unknown, though his agenda was unbending.  Working his way through the rows of bodies, he would stop slowly next to each one, becoming absolutely present.  Giving each one an equal amount of time and breath, and though his work was subtle it was thorough and effective and in the end, he would be acknowledged by no one, for doing nothing.  For him, this acknowledgment would be plentiful and abundant.

At least, this is how I had imagined it and would have expected it to be.  Sadly, what actually occurred was quite different.  Not so thrilled by the smell, the local monks had departed, relocating to a nearby temple.  The abbot (head monk) had stayed behind, but was rarely seen.    Click here to buy the book!  Hope you enjoyed it so far!! 


Boxing Day – Chapter 4 – a preview from the book by Chris Jaymes about the Thailand tsunami

Copyright Protected.  Contact for use other than reading.
 

Yan Yao

From the distance, it possessed the radiant shimmer of a recently landed, hyper-debaucherous traveling carnival.  Recent enough to magnetize an array of gooey-eyed onlookers, most of whom, had been inadvertently transformed into tourists in their own town.  Noodle vendors, ice cream trucks and soda stands paved the pathway to the entrance, the only character absent was the ticket taker guarding the main gate.  Photo flashes filled the atmosphere, not only from the massive presence of the press, but also from the gleeful kids posing with their families in front of amusement park gates.  Noise was plentiful from all directions, inhibiting my capacity to thoroughly connect with my equilibrium, leaving me subtly stammering in a drug-like haze.  The smell of decomposition had been compassionately repressed to some degree by the smell of stir fried noodles and barbecue pork sizzling just beside me. 

Standing invisibly amongst the crowd surrounding the temple, peering humbly inside, I mapped my route through the crowd and up to the temple.  My nerves too battered to really upon an improvisational approach.  As a blanket of fear comforted my subarctic courage, an undeniable logic entered my head space.

“Maybe I’m not supposed to be here.  Maybe my presence here is less than necessary.”

And that did it.  Forcibly, my body was thrust forcibly, without intention through the crowd and towards the main entrance of the temple.  Becoming quickly aware that I was rapidly approaching a world of oblivion, my motion shifted from forcible to timid, like a meandering vagrant, cautious and hesitant.  Sound and vision distanced themselves from me, as my body became paralyzed.  This was the logical end of the road and the appropriate time to accept my resignation from this fantasy of humanitarianism, if only I hadn’t heard a call from behind.

“Chris?”

I turned quickly, yearning for someone to cling to.  This was not the ideal space for loneliness and my cowardice would not drive further onward without assistance.  Searching for the voice, I could see nothing.  Not a single familiar face was anywhere in sight and no one seemed to be looking in my direction.  Through the crowd, I noticed a man in a ghetto-tinted doctor outfit approaching me.  Anxiety shook my guts until the white cloth was lowered from his face.

“Hey man, what’s going on?  I figured you were outta here.”

“Nope.”

It was Eric, an American guy from the Khao Lak Volunteer Center.  Just prior to coming to Yan Yao, I had spent the last few days helping out in various manners at a volunteer center just south of here.  Eric was one of the few respectable volunteers I had encountered and finding him here was a relief.

“Come on, don’t waste your time here, it’s useless.  Come here, come with me.”

With a childish determination, I bounced in his direction and hid tightly within his shadow as we swiftly passed through the main entrance without question.  The presence of a friend who was already on the inside allowed the haze begin to wearing off and my eyes began to notice the meticulous design of the temple.  On the edges of the courtyard, workers sat at computer terminals entering forensics information, continuously updating descriptions of the recently identified corpses.  Photos of the missing were plastered upon the gates surrounding the courtyard, as Thai Army workers passed with makeshift gurneys carrying fresh medical supplies and cases of bottled water.  Enormous cargo shipping containers lined the edges of the space, which I had initially assumed were filled with supplies until, just in front of me, a door was opened, and I was presented with the intoxicating-ly potent, putrid, disturbing, mind altering stench that I had anticipated, much more so than that of the dog.  The scent pierced my nose and ripped through my body, in through my mouth and into the depths of my taste buds, in through my eyes and deep into my cornea, sending instant drainage running down my face.  The odor seeped through my pores and into my blood stream within milliseconds of the door opening.

Pulling away from the container, yearning for some sort of something that resembled oxygen, my composure depleted as I became aware of the plethora of surrounding containers.  Well over forty in the immediate vicinity and though the number of bodies in each was a mystery, the visual presence of the crates was statement enough.  Anxiety and adrenaline interfered with my breathing pattern and I was quickly comforted by my cohort.

“Joyous little odor there, huh?”

“Jesus Christ!?”

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t get better and you never get used to it.  And there’s plenty for everyone.  Come on, let’s get you dressed.”

Passing through the cluttered insides of the temple, I saw nothing, afraid my safety net might escape and I would be left alone to accept responsibility, something I couldn’t currently stomach.  A few quick turns and we arrived at a dressing area housing piles of pseudo-sanitary clothing.

“Get suited up and meet me out here.  Nice stuff, huh?”

Glancing over the goo-filled attire, I responded.

“Sure.”

“The toughest is the shoes.  See.”  He points at a pile of overturned boots with various unidentifiable clumps of matter pressed into the bottom grooves of the rubber soles, sometimes even seeping over the edges.

“You just gotta get in there.  Some are better than others, but I would avoid touching ‘em with your hands.”

“Right.”

And he was gone.  My eyes were still focused in the direction he headed and just prior to a sense of abandonment instilling itself, a jarring voice called out from behind me.  Jerking back to find a Thai woman pointing at a pile of white not-quite-Gore-Tex hospital attire.  Fearfully, I poked through the unsanitary clothing quickly accepting this reality, quieting my fear of bits of guts and skin.  Picking the first acceptable jacket and a pair of oversized pants, I gleefully dove in as if I were playing a model prepping for a pretentious high-fashion photo shoot.  A quick sift through the boxes of rubber boots and I was ready. 

Bursts of validation busied my ego, as in this moment, I knew exactly what I was supposed to be doing.  The outfit transformed my confidence, granting the credibility that was otherwise lacking.

Next came the gloves.  A pair of thin latex gloves followed by a pair of thick rubber gloves, followed by tightly wrapped white medical tape.  With my new useless hands, I placed a white cap on my head and attempted to tie a knot to hold it in place.  Absolute impossibility.  Five failed attempts and a deep breath later, anxiety began to build and a claustrophobic surge passed through me.  The fun had passed as my vision was stunted by a panic-filled flick.  Never before had such a simple task needed such desperate completion.  Crying was nearing, as sweat poured down my face and into my mouth.  Breathing was difficult and becoming an unlikely luxury.  Ventilation was non-existent within my recently inherited costume, which exponentially added to the external heat of the environment which was already humid and weighty.  Dizziness swirled my senses. 

A tap on my back jerks me around to find a small Thai woman reaching up to help me.  A savior.  My heart immediately relaxed as she wrapped the cloth mask around my face, securing it forcefully in place.  Turning to thank my newfound safety net and embrace this nurturing guardian, she had mysteriously vanished and an abandoned panic was reinstilled.

Images of my comforts floated through me.  My dog, my room, my bed, my car, my cigarettes, my friends and family.  The comforts of convenience were enticing and significantly absent.  A greediness to possess that which I could not, empowered my desires to embrace an immediate and premature departure.  Glancing down upon my newfound persona, my being had found itself deceptively disguised as something useful.  A helper.  A fixer.  A doer.  A be-er.  The idea of masquerading as any one of these options ingratiated my spirit in a somewhat falsified heroic montage of idealistic images that would leave me without the capacity to abandon what was now fixed upon me with not-so-flying colors.  Regardless of my less-than-exceptional surgeon-tainted demeanor, my confidence to stay was not demanding enough to keep me here.  Guilt would serve as my warden, holding me captive within my discomfort.  Without it, my departure would have been certain.

 

 
Click here to buy the book, or read on to the final preview chapter… Chapter 5 posted here.

Boxing Day – Chapter 3 – a preview from the book by Chris Jaymes about the Thailand tsunami

Copyright.  Please contact for use other than reading.
 

The Road to Yan Yao – Onward

Days Later.

Leaving the decomposing dog behind, the aimlessness of my journey continued as I imposed my leadership skills directly upon the handle bars of the tawdry moped that vibrated frantically between my legs.  The one entity I knew I was equipped to lead.

An hour closer to the center of disaster and I was blessed with a self banter that led me through the final leg of my drive to Wat Yan Yao.  The banter ignited an awareness of my immense ignorance to the situation that I was quickly approaching.  Ego immersion mixed with externally-projected illusory thought structures created a yearning for an imposition of judgment on the inexplicable approaching energy.  Wat Yan Yao.  A temple housing a conglomerate of homeless corpses waiting to be guided to their final resting place.  The awareness of corpses was much more potent than the idea of the actual death.  Thought shifted away from the tsunami, away from the destruction of lives, away from the anguish of distraught families, annihilated homes and eradicated animals, and drifted towards the simple fascination of being immersed within a sea of dead bodies.  Fascination, not excitement.  Not enthusiasm.  Only anxiousness, curiosity and fear of the incomprehensible notion of entering an arena filled with a multitude of dead bodies.  Thousands and thousands of bodies blanketing the surrounding grounds of a dilapidated Buddhist temple.  For whatever reason, thirty years in, and still, the presence of a corpse had been absent in my life.  Never before had I been exposed to a single corpse, let alone a congregation of them.  Equilibrium-altering images blinded my journey, inhibiting the enjoyment of the lush expanse lingering up the edges of Thailand’s coastline and without noticing, I had arrived.  Wat Yan Yao.

 

 

 Click here to buy the book, or keep reading Chapter 4 is posted here.


Boxing Day – Chapter 2 – a preview from the book by Chris Jaymes about the Thailand tsunami

There is a copyright on all material.  Please contact for use outside of reading. 

Arrival

Days Prior.  December 26th, 2004 – Boxing Day.

Cramped into the claustrophobic back row of the cabin, the combination of sleeping pills and alcohol kept me distracted from the discomfort of the sixteen hour flight where most certainly I would be losing my life.  Flying was something that seemed conceptually absurd, and especially for sixteen hours over the Pacific Ocean from Los Angeles to Taipei, followed by another four-plus hours onto Bangkok.  Regardless of statistics, the idea of a malfunctioning technology of some sort, potentially placing my mutilated physical body floating upon the surface of the Pacific Ocean, was prominent in my thought process, though never thoroughly vocalized to the surrounding company of strangers.  Instead of embracing a discipline to move through the contradicting anxieties, I would make the less admirable choice and continue drinking.  Avoidance in some ways could be labeled a discipline, I suppose, just not necessarily an impressive one.  The toilet wall was immediately behind me, restricting my miniscule, coach-class seat from reclining more than an inch backwards, not to mention the thrillingly, recurring odor that added significant depth to the atmosphere. 

Sixteen hours passed nearly unnoticed and I arrived at the Bangkok airport to find the smiling faces of the Thai people joyously welcoming tourists to come and abuse their people and take advantage of their belittled economy.  Stepping outside of the airport, a blanket of humidity invaded my skin, providing a gentle welcome and inspiring a momentum that would at least present the necessary energy to get me to Khao San Road.  Delirium was the only substance my adrenals could secrete and equilibrium was fleeting.  The necessary components to complete this first phase of the journey were simple… a taxi, some Thai Baht (cash), and a hint of brain function.  Simple.  An ATM sat to my left, and a crowd of belligerent taxi drivers to my right. 

“Where you like go?”  The Taxi Driver said briskly.

“Khao San.” I cautiously replied.

“Khao San, okay, we go.”

Khao San Road was commonly described as a traveler’s ghetto.  Aside from the street vendors, it was entirely possible to avoid all aspects of Thai culture and immerse yourself within a smorgasbord society of crossbred counter-culture from around the world crowded together within a claustrophobic quarter-mile stretch. 

Retrieving my cell phone from my bag to make the customary confirmation call of my safe arrival, it rang immediately upon powering up.

“Hello?”

A friendly voice responded urgently…

“Are you there?  Are you okay?”

“Yep.  I made it.  A bit fucked from the flight, but I’m alive.”

“But you’re okay?  Were you in Phuket when it happened?”

“When what happened?”

“The tsunami dumb ass.  What do you think?”

“I just landed.  I’m still in Bangkok.  What tsunami?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“I just got off the plane, what happened?”

“Are things crazy in Bangkok?  How are the people?”

“Well, I’m still in the taxi, but the driver seems to be nice enough.  What happened?”

“A tsunami hit the coast of Thailand, thousands of people are dead.  It’s a mess.  You have to come home.”

“What do you mean, like a big wave kind a thing?”

“Yeah, a tsunami.”

“Phuket or Samui?”

“Phuket, Phuket.”

“Wow.  Thousands dead?”

“They don’t know yet, but it was huge.”

A moment passed as the reality sunk in.

“I gotta figure out what’s going on.  I’ll call you back.”

I called to the taxi driver.

“Hey, was there a tsunami?”

“Oooooh yes, very bad.  Many people die.”

“In Phuket?”

“Yes, many.  Is that where you’re going?”  the taxi driver said.

Phuket was very near where I was going. Generally, I wasn’t fond of making extensive plans prior to arrival, however the only arrangements that had been previously booked and paid for were these:  A  flight to Phuket, and a room in Khao Lak, a small, developing beach town an hour north of Phuket.

“Actually, yes.  That was my plan.”

“Ooooh.  No good, go to Samui.  Much better there.”

“Right.”

Taking in this newfound reality, my mind calculated my options.  Over the years of watching catastrophe on the news, wishing to participate, yearning to play an active role within the relief efforts, it seemed obvious that there was only one option.  The motivation of my trip would need to be altered.  Instead of paying small amounts of money for Thai people to make my life more enjoyable, I would be making my best efforts to help their lives become functional again. 

“Which hotel?”

I hadn’t noticed a thing on the twenty minute cab ride and we had arrived.

“Uh, Buddy Lodge.”

“There, right there.”

My head was juxtaposed with thoughts of the tsunami and intense chemically enhanced delirium.  I was done.

Check-in.  Crash-out.  Goodbye.

Six hours of sleep later, the internet was aggressively staring me down.  The damage reports were premature and inconclusive.  Hundreds of cities were identified as having minimal-to-no-damage, leading me to believe the disaster was not as immense as it seemed, especially since spirits in Bangkok were high and the party was definitely present.  Continuing down the list, I searched for Khao Lak and without hesitation, there it was…

EXTREME DAMAGE.

Possibly the worst damage in all of Thailand.  No one was going to Khao Lak.  Apparently, only the officials were allowed to fly into Phuket, which was forcing those with families and businesses to take the buses and trains.  Tourist vans and buses were seemingly nonexistent, as nobody actually wanted to go there.  The usual tourist routes to the west had been immediately shifted to the east, towards the island of Samui where the majority of travelers were now heading.

After extensive deliberation, I found that the online booking system was allowing flights to be booked to Phuket beginning a couple of days from now from Chiang Mai, so with an abundance of eager anticipation, I made the reservation. 

“A couple of days??”

Guilt surfaced.  Patience practiced.

Click here to buy the book, or read Chapter 3, posted here. 


Boxing Day – Chapter 1 – a preview from the book by Chris Jaymes about the Thailand tsunami

Enjoy reading.  Remember, there is a copyright on all material.  Please contact for use in any manner other than reading.

The Road to Yan Yao

January 2005.  Driving away from the crowd, my hyper-exhausted curiosity was somehow stimulated and without my consent, seemed to be peering through the periphery of my less-than-active consciousness.  Without my participation, my bearings shifted and I found myself exchanging the somewhat clumpy Third World highway for a lumpy Third World dirt road which led into a sprawling coconut grove.  It was eternal.  The visual sensation of the passing trees resembled a slow motion, light speed effect as my dilapidated, five-dollar-a-day, twenty-five-mile-per-hour moped struggled to endure the not-so-silky road.  My 1970’s bubble-red velvet helmet bounced upon my head, as the chin strap was loose and the crevices in the road were somewhat jarring.  Eventually, the trees ended and with the assistance of a myriad of sensory stimulating post-tsunami variables, mostly olfactory, my consciousness emerged.  My feet released the pair of inhospitable sandals that seemed to have parasitically crusted over my ankles and touched down upon a desolate beach where a handful of battered long-tail boats unintentionally rested, slightly this side of the shoreline. 

Wandering the shoreline, an ominous quiet partnered with a soothing warm wind further enhanced the contradiction within the engulfing atmosphere.  A tide trickled upon the shoreline, though the water was nearly still.  Serene and inviting, possibly even apologetic, the ocean observed my presence with a hyper-meticulous cautiousness.  With the simple inviting smile of an unaware child, it was longing for the affection it was previously accustomed to, confused as to why it was now so alone.  Resisting my desire to enter, I continued walking.  An intimidating strength glistened with every subtle splashing motion, and yet, the ocean’s intent had never changed and it’s ego had not altered.  However, over the past few days without question, the ocean had evolved and it’s perception had shifted.  But as far as it was concerned, it was the same. 

Nearing the tree line, parallel to the shore, an odor presented itself.  A foreign, somewhat indiscernible smell, engulfed me with a vicious force.  Synapses flared vehemently attempting to identify the perpetrator.  The olfactory system was numbing as the potency became increasingly fierce.  There was really no assessment to be made.  A core-level confidence undeniably knew what that smell was actually stating.  The anticipation of this odor had been curiously building and now, it had finally arrived.  It was everything I imagined it would be.  Indiscernible with a redoubtable force and yet, the source was indeterminate.  Slowly scanning the piles of rubbish, the source was nowhere to be found.  The body must be buried within the debris.  My hyper-exhausted curiosity had snorted some sort of intangible amphetamine, as exhaustion had been thoroughly disregarded and forgotten.  I continued searching.  An anxious enthusiasm vibrated within my sleep-deprived body, much like a child closing in on the treasure at the end of a scavenger hunt.  It was absolutely unintentional.  A contradictory fear-driven excitement stimulated by being so near to something of this stature.  And here I was, in the midst of devastation, about to stumble upon a dead human body for the first time in my life, or at least, that’s what it seemed.

Moments later, less than two feet in front of me, camouflaged within the vegetation, the source revealed itself.  The discovery of a dead human body would have to be postponed, as the odor was coming from the body of a decomposing dog. 

A spacious, basketball-sized hole exposing the inside of his stomach was prominently on display.  Rigor mortis had captured an active portrait.  His face squinting, jaw outstretched, crying out.  The state of struggle was forever present within his lifeless form.  Projected images of his struggle played out in my head.  Rudely interrupted from his usual sleep, on his usual beach, as hundreds of tons of water begin pounding his body without warning.  Invisible currents forcibly pulling without explanation.  A panicked breath sucks in a mouth full of water as his body squirms.  The surface is nowhere in site.  A tree trunk gouges his stomach as his insides singe with salt water.  A confusion that would never reveal itself was forgotten as his body went limp. 

Physically shaking, forcing the sensation to leave my body, I turned for my moped.  And with that, the sensation of tragedy entered my body for the first time since my arrival in Thailand.  Empathy for animals seems to surface more aggressively than empathy for people, or at least, empathy for strangers.

 

Click here to buy the book, or read on.  Chapter 2 is posted here. 


Boxing Day – introduction- a preview from the book by Chris Jaymes about the Thailand tsunami

Here is the introduction to my new book, Boxing Day, which is about my experiences as an accidental aid worker in the 2004 tsunami in Thailand.  I was in Koh Lak, the hardest hit area in Thailand and found myself helping identify and log thousands of corpses.  I tell the story with a sense of humility, to keep it from becoming as heavy as the subject matter may allow, and as honest as possible, give a moment to moment perspective of all the selfish banter that my ego would masterfully create.  I’m posting a few chapters and from there, if you’re interested in hearing more, please feel free to buy the book.  I won’t be pissed, I swear.  Have fun reading and post your comments.  And please note… this is copyright protected and any use other than reading must be approved.

 

Boxing Day

the sardonic journey of a self-deprecating ego

on a cynical quest to make a difference in one of

the largest disasters of our time.

 

written by

christopher jaymes

 

 

Boxing Day – The day after Christmas, the Feast of St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr, is better known as Boxing Day. The term may come from the opening of church poor boxes that day; maybe from the earthenware boxes with which boy apprentices collected money at the doors of their masters’ clients. 

Also, the day the tsunami hit South East Asia and Sri Lanki, taking nearly 250,000 lives.

 

Introduction

Attraction to disaster seems to be somewhat universal amongst humans.  Chaos always pulls focus, be it a small car accident, a fighting teenage couple, the screaming of a dog getting it’s paw inadvertently  stepped upon, a riot, or a war.  Something draws you in, pulling you out of yourself and into it.  In one sense, the purpose of any sort of art form could be summarized as an attempt to pull your consciousness present, to experience an inner quiet, or a thoughtless moment of feeling, and when done effectively in a manner that pleases your subjectivity, a label is placed upon it.  Sometimes beauty, sometimes esoteric, sometimes dark, or light, or one of a million optional judgmental adjectives.  Natural disasters might be identified as the Earth’s version of art, or even it’s own self-conscious make over, feeling itself become somewhat less than appropriate with it’s current lumps or curves, it shifts to adjust, unaware of the affects it will have on the cellularly-evolved inhabitants currently suffocating it’s surface. 

As I continued to ponder, I realized an echoing internal desire to be a part of every disaster that I had ever remotely witnessed, read about, or was aware of.  Somewhere inside, there was envy.  An intrinsic, childish desire to be a participant within something so significant.  It could be a structure, a synchronicity, an idea, a moment, or a disaster.  Looking back at the hours spent in front of numerous television sets, watching news coverage from the various wars, riots, fires, earthquakes, floods, hurricanes, whatever it may be, there was always something driving me towards it, wishing I could be inside of it.  I wanted to be absolutely inside of it without actually being a part of it.  Without being affected by it.  Without losing anyone or anything close to me.  Without the things in my life being disrupted, and without having to experience any of the suffering.  It was the movie version that I desperately wanted.  The cinematic ride that you couldn’t predict, plan, or buy a ticket for.  There was something so selfishly appealing about being on the threshold of external chaos (much more appealing than internal), living through it, and witnessing a reality of that sort.  This thought process is obviously from someone who has never experienced the consequences of an actual disaster, and though I’m aware of the ignorance that the desire is composed of, I cannot deny it’s existence.

This is my journey into that attraction to disaster, as I accidentally entered a battered Third World country while somehow, just barely and somewhat consistently, escaping my own death.  Hopefully, the portrayal of the tsunami and relief efforts are honest.  In some ways they are, and in other ways maybe they are only to me.  More than writing another story about a disaster and the chaos that accompanies such an event, I present an inner banter that reveals the journey of my ego and the misconceptions I’ve always projected upon the selflessness that I imagined would engulf a circumstance such as this.  Deflating any acts of heroism, into something more honest and real, driven by guilt instead of courage.  Numerous books could be written about the political fallacies of the situation, but I think the words ‘political’ and ‘fallacies’ are identical twins morphed by prehistoric plastically-grammatic surgery and not where I want to spend my energy at this point.  Better that you safely assume, that politics definitely got in the way of productivity and those surrounding the disaster did the best they could with their absolute inadequacy to properly deal with something of this stature.  Not always their best actually, but they at least feigned justification as to why not, which should count for something more than nothing.

What category does it fall into, seems to be the most commonly recurring question.  So, instead of answering that after the fact, I’ll try to explain it now.  It should be viewed as a fictional story, as much as that’s possible.  Is it a fictional story?  As much as a story is fictional.  Yes, it is based on my reality and my experiences.  Yes, much of the information is precise and accurate, however not everything is.

 Click here to buy the book!!  Or read the next chapter, also posted here!!

 


An honest look into the 2004 tsunami relief effort

The only book available the honestly summarizes the experience that occurred in Thailand during the tsunami relief effort is now available.  For those who are curious to experience a first-hand account of the most tragic event of our time, BOXING DAY was written by someone who was there moving bodies from the beach.  It is told with a sense of humor as often as possible, as the event itself carries even weight on it’s own. Anyone who lost someone during this time, or knows someone who did, should take the time to read the book as the insights are delivered in a manner that will bring a liberation to the reader, much like a well-written self help book. For more information, go to amazon.com and read the description and reviews…Click here for more info. 


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