ocean view

I finish the book, and close its scrappy cover. I look around. On the beach spread out, ahead: couples collide in the water with self-conscious glee, slippery bodies rubbing together, salty kisses, sub-surface slap and tickle. Their intense desire to just up and lie there on the lapping shoreline and make love, slowly but loudly, is obvious to everyone who bother to watch them from their own cabins and hammocks, which dot around the bay. Eventually they give up, and retreat to their own thatched cubby, drying each other on the verandah then closing the door and window. Switching on the fan, they bite their lips and try to make as little noise as possible.

Under the palms are the blue smocked massage ladies, eating noodles straight off the little stove. In the sand, the supine, brown and celulite-pocked body of a German woman, her ass tucked in leopard skin, and her exposed breasts dwelling butterball and bronze on her aging frame. The sea is flat and blue-green like cats eyes. The sky, woolpacked with cumulo nimbus, curves around the coastline and disappears behind the vast thicket of green jungle which looms above the huts. A transparent gecko, a dragon-fly, a crab in its nugget-like shell. The wind picks up and drops. A smile from the hammock-seller, her legs taking wide strides through the soft sand. A coconut falls. If time is moving at all it is moving very slowly. Black heads bob together a way out to sea. Laughter from the massage ladies. With movie-star images in mind, the German woman has moved to the waters edge, the waves ebbing against her as she lies, back arched, legs flicked-up, boobs puffy and nipples like inverted chestnuts. Her husband, frail and bird-like, in tight racing-bathers, joins her, and together they lie, beached and prostrate, looking dead, almost, in the island sun.

From the hut I retrieve the next book on my shelf and begin, again, to read.

To Pom: an apology.

You came to my hut, where I was sitting, on the little porch. You had bought a mosquito net, all tied up in a bundle and you told me tonight was an important Thai festival.
Floaty floaty day, I said.
Yes, you said. Loy Krathong. You asked me if I wanted to join you tonight. We could launch a krathong and then go drink something.
I said: yeah, maybe.
You said: why maybe? See you eleven o'clock.

Across the water, in the darkness, hot air lanterns were gradually lifting from the headland, small balls of fire creeping through the night like slow comets. We watched them drift outwards, getting smaller and smaller, occasionally dropping embers into the deep ocean like rejected angels. We walked around the bay, hopped across the little estuaries, walked out on the tide flats. The sea was black and quiet. Then the party, low tables spread out on the sand, lanterns in the palms, a Filipino band doing Black Eyed Peas and J-Lo covers. You went and bought us drinks and a krathong, and I asked you to explain what the festival was about.
You said: You know, sometimes you are in the sea and you have to go pee-pee, and you do it in the sea! Poor sea! So we say sorry on Loy Krathong. And the krathong, it is good luck too. You make a wish. If you like, you make a hundred wishes.
Oh, for some way to harness that smile.

We lit the candle, burnt the incense. I took three wishes; one for me, one for those close to me and one for the world. We send it off by making wavelets with our fingers. The moon tonight is a neon disc in the air, and in its light you can see the hundreds of krathong ebbing in the shallows like ghosts.

We danced, our toes in the sand. You bought more drinks. It's okay, you said, are you okay? I am okay. You said: I like you. You said: Chris, we be friends, okay? You said: You are good guy. My eyes were lowered. I smiled, but I stayed silent. Your arm has been scarred, four deep ridges, shiny like mercury, covered by a tattoo of a group of geckoes. We danced and your fingers brushed my skin.

Later your friend, the ladyboy, was approached by an old European man who asked if she would go with him to his bungalow. You help translate the transaction. An 800 baht price is decided on; the normal price for a ladyboy. I tell you I could never do that, just approach and ask. You turn to me:
Tomorrow I will tell you about Thai girls, you say. Tomorrow I will explain how it works here. If a western man asks me to go with him, okay, I ask him how much? Usually I get 1000 baht or 1500 baht. I hope you do not think bad about me. But I have a brother and a sister. And a son. This is how it works here in Thailand.
You pause, then say, giggling,
So how much do you want?

Back at the huts you keep on drinking; beer, whiskey. I say goodnight and walk down the sand towards bed. I swim, briefly, the parting water glimmering under the moon, the distant sky flashing with lightning, then I get into bed, pulling my newly hung mosquito net tight under the corners of the mattress.

The lapping shore, the spinning fan.

At four, your knock and your slurred voice: Chris! Chris!
I wake and say: yeah? I am confused momentarily. I can see your silhouette through the propped window.
Chris? Can I stay here? You are hovering there like a marionette.
Um, no, I answer. Sorry.
Oh. That's okay, you say. A pause. Good night. The clink of bottles and your feet sliding on the wooden boards.
Sorry.

little hut

So after all my hootin' and hollerin', I found a place today where I will happily be for the next five days or so.

This is my hut:

It is slightly closer to other huts than I was hoping for, and without hammock or mosquito net, but it's home to me.

And this is the view from my doorway/window:While swimming I thought I saw a small stingray in the water, but then I thought it was a large leaf. Now I am not real sure.

Four other animals and their sounds:

1. Turkeys, which wander around the bungalows and go gobble

2. Geckos, which gurgle and sound like a shisha pipe.

3. Many crabs in the rocks, which scurry and make clicking sounds on the rock, which echo.

4. An unseen insect (or, less likely, a bird), which makes a constant, neverending highpitched squeal, like the cross between a boiled kettle at full steam, and an air-raid siren. You can hear it for kilometres (almost).

swimming without water

So, I imagined myself on this long skinny whitesand beach, with palms and sparkling water, and craggy islands in the bay, and nightly thunderstorms on the horizon, and well-spaced thatched bungalows going at a 150 baht a night and a balcony with a hammock and a little table perhaps, and a not-too-far internet cafe but not much else around, and cheap motorbikes for hire for special days, and good meals at 40 baht a piece.

I imagined it this way because this is pretty much the way it was, I am sure, last time I was on Thai beaches.

And every morning I would wake at 6am and I would go for a jog along the beach, a fair distance, and a bit of a workout, some upper-body stuff, a swim, out to an island perhaps, and a day of writing and reading and studying Arabic, and the incredible water stretching out like forever.

Now, I must admit the transport here, rather than the advertised 6 hours took about 11 to get here, and we arrived after dark, and I let myself be guided by a 40 year old Belgian Hindi who is studying yoga in India and loves "The Power of Now" by Eckart Tolle, and that the place he recommended didn't even have vacancies, and so we were left with no choice (in the dark) than to take the neighbouring establishment, whose huts were seemingly built only as spillover from the more popular, and thus full, place next door, and whose huts are not on the beach at all but in the jungle and close together and the nearby shoreline is filled with rocks and I'm sure when I look around I'll find right what I'm looking for... I admit this, but:

At the moment my dream is being pretty much shattered here, good readers.

Coming over on the boat at sunset, though, the water surface did prism into layers of amber and mica, and navy ghosts sliding sideways across the swell. Which helped take the mind off the fat, red Norweigan family with infants sporting bright blonde mullets, and the smug Americans talking about the various merits of their respective Oakleys.

Things there is a lot of here:
1. Mosquitoes.
2. Trees.
3. Israelis.
4. Electronic music.

Tomorrow of course, I am sure I will be singing praises about this tropical island paradise.

images from recent times

the bahai gardens and shrine, haifa

maytal, leor, me; in caesarea

the sea of galilee

a sign at one of christ's hangout spots.

memorial wall for yitzak rabin, on the 10th anniversary of his assassination; tel aviv.

abandoned pre-67 syrian bunker; golan heights

razor wire around old syrian (later israeli) military post; golan heights

kids on parade; kao sahn road, bangkok

junior tiger taking some time off; kao sahn road, bangkok

entrants in the fhm thailand girl next door competition, kao sahn road, bangkok

In which our hero gives up hiphop dancing and becomes a model.

Last night the hip hop fun ran dry and after about 45 minutes of squeezing through the bodies and dancing half-heartedly, I left to read George Saunders in bed. Mr Saunders writes short stories which are totally incredible and hillarious and I totally urge the world to find his books and read them. In fact there is a story from the New Yorker here which is most likely recommended, although I haven't read it yet because I am running out of net time and have run completely out of 10 Baht pieces to feed the machine which keeps it going.

Also last night there was a young American man standing in the middle of the noise and crowds of Kao Sahn road clutching a bible and trying to preach the message of God to all of the sinning tourists. Which I found adorable, of course.

Today I have been drinking a lot of fresh orange juice.

I have decided to head to Ko Chang, which means Elephant Island, for about 9 days or so, starting tomorrow. Thus, blog updates may be reduced in frequency, but will likely be filled with florid description of jungles and mosquitoes. Originally my plan was to go straight on from there after about 3 weeks, to Cambodia, which is very close, but things are likely changing, again:

You see, last night, quite near to the Christian missionary, I got offered a job, one which I am totally going to take. The job involves being a 'model' for a whiskey company, which means being caucasian and male, standing in a Scotland Yard uniform (kilt, etc) and 'guarding' a couple of kegs of alcohol in the middle of a Bangkok square for a promotion of their new product. It's gonna be kinda like Lost in Translation (!), except with me not being as brilliant as Bill Murray. I gotta do 8 shifts over five days, which means some days working 8 hours on, one hour off, 7 hours on, some crazy shit like that. But, by Thai standards, the money is good, and goddamn do I need the cash right now. I also imagine its going to be unbearably hot in a kilt, but, ha, it'll be a learning experience, something to tell the pups, etc, etc.

The valley of shouting.

Last night a decision had to be made between the two prime evening attractions Kao Sahn had to offer: more booty-dancing, or the annual FHM Thailand Girl Next Door competition in the bar directly across from my hotel. Of course, choosing was impossible, so I did both.

I stayed about ten minutes at the girlcomp. As I arrived the entrants were just arriving too, all matching in their white cowboy hats, white shirts tied up to reveal pierced navels, tiny white shorts and long white boots. They posed for a little while for photos, and then they went up on stage. One by one they talked to the MC (in Thai), giggled, presumably said incredibly cute and provocative things and then handed on the mic. I chose my vote in about a minute, and left, without voting.

More hiphop. It was friday night and the club was totally packed, even more so than the night before. Sticky and sweating and hard to move. Plus, I wasn't wearing my lucky hat, which is essentially any cap that I can tug on and incorporate into my dance moves, and so didn't feel like I was dancing all that well. Wasn't feelin' it, and kept getting shoved and elbowed by big jock guys with square jaws. Left and ate banana pancake on the kerb, the street all Vegas with its huge coloured lit up signs. Prostitutes in the shadows. I bought a William T Vollmann book second hand, which is an ideal thing to read in this nation, I feel, and then went upstairs and read a while, listening to Cinematic Orchestra under the flourescent glow.

Woke up late (lagged still) to the sound of crazy drumming and hollering and banging - a parade in the street below. Head out to check it out. Hundreds of people flowing through the street, with traps and snares and tiger masks and face paint and trumpets and dancing sticks and fat man masks and gigantic dragons held high by 50 men, cutting and weaving through the crowd.

I've spent two days trying to decide what to do first, Cambodia or beach-livin', and I think I have finally decided to go southwards to the beaches first, and will go Cambodiabound only if and when I go crazy from the relaxed semi-solitude. Also because I need to leave Thailand before the 9th / re-enter after the 9th of December due to visa issues. So rather than an otherwise useless trip to Malaysia, Cambodia around then might be the way to go.


The valley of shouting holds the border between Syria and the Golan Heights, which Israel occupied in 1967 and then formally annexed in 1981, and where I was just a few days ago. The new border split the Syrian Druze town of Madjal Shams and to this day, the divided families sole method of communication is to shout to each other from platforms on either side of the valley, using megaphones to share their joys and sorrows, their news of marriages and births and funerals.

I've been getting all sorts of stories and reports from Palestine, and it's breaking my heart quite a bit. Things have heated up there recently, in Tel Rumeida, in Bel'in, and in Nablus, where I spent most of my time. Yesterday a 14 year old boy was shot dead by Israeli forces while playing with friends in the hills north of Nablus, and ISM folks were there in the search party who found him. Had this been two weeks ago, it would have been me there with them, finding him. I read the report online a few minutes ago and just started crying, quiet tears leaking out. Nothing will happen out of this, this is just a regular occurence in an occupied land. It's a strange and unsettling feeling, this desire to be back there. An uncrossable gulf which has been carved, a border,a valley. It's a combination of feelings of helplessness and indeed hollowness, to the whole being here, in Kao Sahn, instead. Girlcomps, etc. And I guess, a selfish desire to share in the stories, to continue feeling connected to the whole intricate tapestry of pain. There are feelings of relief there, though, as well, that my lack of arrests or significant problems with immigration at the airport (they questioned me for over an hour, but not about Palestine, mostly about Egypt) means that I can return one day. And relief that I am safe and my friends and family are safe. And relief that I am not ever going to forget this struggle, this need for change. Relief at the inspiration the whole experience can afford. And relief, ultimately, at the ability to just keep on shouting.