Thailand, Unexpected turns. Days 4 y 5

I decide that the only thing I can do is give up. At this time of night, there is nothing I can do to get the cashier to give me back my card. I take a picture of the ATM and go back to the hostel. The next morning, I call customer service, but I can't understand anything they say on the phone. Every time I dial ‘9: speak to an assistant in English’, the line goes silent. I go down to reception to ask the hostel girl for help. Several minutes go by on the line, she dials numbers and writes things down until she gets through to someone who speaks English. I explain to the guy what happened and he asks for the cashier's number. I give him the number on the top right of the ATM, which I can see in the photo I took, but he tells me that's not it, that the number should start with R and be on the bottom right. I tell him that I am now far from the ATM and ask him if he can locate it with the address. He tries, but it's no use. She tells me I have to go back to the ATM, get the number and call back. I thank the woman at the front desk and go back to my room, totally frustrated, about to cry. Then, the weird guy in the room looks at me with his jet-black eyes as if he's looking at a wounded prey.

-Are you okay? What happened to you? Did you get robbed? -he asks, genuinely concerned, which surprises me.

-No, no. It's nothing serious, it's silly," I reply, but my voice breaks.

I tell him what happened with the ATM, that the exchange houses don't accept cards or transfers and that I thought of using Western Union, but the only one in Kamala is closed for good. Then his predatory look relaxes and he even becomes tender. He tells me that he has used a Western Union several times, but for some reason it does not appear on the map. He shows me on Google Maps and explains how to get there from the hostel.

-Excuse me, what was your name again? -he asks smiling. I tell him my name and ask him what his name is.

-Zahid," he says. I try several times to pronounce it, but it doesn't come out and we end up laughing at the grimaces I make when I try to say it correctly.

-What are you doing here, Zahid, are you on holiday? -I ask, emphasising the ‘hi’, which gets another laugh out of him.

-Yes, I'm on holiday. This is my third time in Thailand. I love it. Unfortunately, I have to leave today.

-What a pity, where are you from? -I'm from Pakistan, but I lived all my life in Japan.

Well, now you have my full attention. I've never spoken directly to someone from Pakistan before and I don't know if it's because of all the things I've heard in the media or because of the collective image of Pakistanis, but I'm really intrigued to know what the world is like for him, to get his side of things.

-I've never been to any of those places, what's it like to live there?

-Well, I can't tell you much more about Pakistan than what I inherited from my family, but I can tell you that Japan is very convenient.

I look at him in surprise because I would never have imagined the description ‘convenient’ for the Asian country.

-You know, you have subways that take you everywhere, you have everything close by, everything you need at your fingertips. And things work well. There's an order to it.

-It sounds logical," I reply. I want to know more about Pakistan, but I don't know how to ask him without sounding invasive.

-Does your family live with you in Japan?

-Yes, practically all of them. But my grandparents are still in Pakistan. They live in Lahore, a beautiful city full of history and chaos at the same time. It's like it's always alive, you know? The markets, the street food, the music... everything has a rhythm of its own.

-It sounds totally different from Japan, doesn't it?

-Yes, very much so. Japan is all order and structure, whereas Pakistan is... vibrant. Chaotic at times, but in an authentic way. I love the food there. Have you ever tried biryani?

-No, what is it?

-It's a rice dish with spices, meat or vegetables. Every family has its own recipe, but my grandmother's is unbeatable," she says so firmly that I think she's imagining the flavours right now.

-Unbelievable. It must be strange to live between two such different cultures.

-Yes, but it's also what makes me who I am.

We talk for a while longer. He recommends me a lot of places to visit in Thailand: Phi Phi Island, Koh Tao, Ko Yao Noi, Krabi, Kathu and Surin Beach. Then he gets ready to leave for the airport and we say goodbye. I am left wondering how wrong I misjudged him, how I unquestioningly put him in the category of ‘probably dangerous person’, when he turned out to be totally friendly. At the same time, however, I recognise that these are attitudes we take to protect ourselves when we travel alone and that, if it weren't for our conversation, I would never have known his story.

I go back to the cashier, defeated, call Customer Service and this time I manage to speak to someone in English. I explain what happened, give her the correct ATM number and she assures me that on Monday or Tuesday I will be able to withdraw my card at a branch in Phuket.

As I can't travel to other beaches because I don't have cash for the bus, I decide to go to Kamala beach to read. However, when I arrive, I am met with waves.

My mood changes from that of someone who has just lost everything at poker to someone who won by sheer luck in the lottery. As I approach the surf school, I notice that the instructors are exactly like me.

-This doesn't happen much, does it? -I ask the one who seems to be the boss, a man in his 50s, short and totally sunburnt.

-It's been six months since we've had these waves, this is a party. Do you surf?

-Well, I'm trying," I tell him and he starts laughing.

-What do you think, should I jump in now or wait a while? He doesn't seem to have much strength.

-Wait an hour and you'll see. Trust me.

I come back an hour later and the man was right. The water is glassy (a term used when the sea water is clear and not messy), the waves are not very big, between a metre and a metre and a half, and they have quite a long period, about 15 seconds. I go in with a 6-foot softboard. The waves come in a series: six or eight waves, one after the other, and then a long break that allows you to paddle to the peak. There are six of us in the water: a blonde girl with a softboard, a girl who is probably a local with some kind of longboard, a boy of about ten with a shortboard, a young adult with another shortboard, another with a beginner's board and me.

I'm sitting on the peak, looking at the horizon, waiting for the next set. The crystal clear water below me allows me to see my feet spinning, making little swirls in the water as some small fish pass underneath. Off to the side, I can see the end of the beach, lined with green trees full of life, and the reddish sun about to set on the seabed. I'm overcome by a happiness that revives me; it's as if every cell in my body is getting a dose of dopamine. My heart beats so loudly that it feels like a Peruvian cajon resonating in my chest and sending a colourful melody throughout my limbs.

My senses sharpen. Everything becomes brighter, more intense. The temperature of the water, the breeze on my face, the texture of the board, the colour of the vegetation. I feel everything in such an amplified way that I think my body won't be able to hold it, that it's going to explode, that the joy is so great that it's going to overflow and come out of me. So I understand: all my life I wanted to feel less, but I wouldn't be me if I did. And the happiness I feel right now, I couldn't experience it in any way.

I see the series coming, I turn the board and position it so that it forms a 45° angle to the lip of the wave. To my right is the guy with the shortboard; we both paddle hard, but the volume of my board is bigger, so I have more thrust. The guy gives up, I keep paddling. I'm about to lose it, but I give three strokes with all the strength I have and I manage to catch the wave. I stop and it's as if the world slows down: my body moves in slow motion looking for the balance point, the board slides smoothly because of the push of the wave, the noise of the breaker seems like a mist. The view of the beach from the outside is like a photo taken with an analogue camera: the colours are dull, the movements of the people walking are misaligned, the trees sway in a nostalgic way, life looks a little blurred.

I'm almost to the shore, I throw myself off the board and I know the series continues, so I hold the leash tight, squeeze my nose and sink to the bottom. I can feel the waves breaking above me, one after the other. I let them pass and stay down there thinking that, if I were to die right now, I would be the happiest person in the world.