Chained

Few people open their doors to strangers in Innsbruck in the winter. Warmth is cultivated indoors, traditionally through wood fires and these days through modern applications like central heating. It is a precious commodity - not something to be released lightly only to be devoured by the icy void lying in wait outside. So it was in the winter that their duties were harshest. For not only did they have to trudge through the bone-chilling cold and snow but they faced the greatest rejection at this time. Most doors remained shut fast or, at most, opened a slit's worth and then hastily slammed. In the winter, while couples cloistered, snug within their homes, and foreigners huddled in cozy ski cottages, their faces incandescent with spirits and laughter, they walked. House to house. Door to door.

Abdul blew the smoke hard and straight into his young wife's face. They sat square in front of each other, both of them on low stools separated by a small table with a few items atop it. "Julia. Keep still please."
"I'm trying but the smoke is making me want to sneeze."
"But can you smell anything?"
"Yes. A little."
"A little is too much." Abdul was slightly worried that their neighbors would get a whiff. They were living in a cheap Jakarta boarding house with thin walls. He took a few pinches of tobacco from a plastic sachet on the table. He began mixing it with a pile of tobacco already lying on the table. "Pak, do you mind if I go read my book while you're doing that?" Julia often referred to her husband as Pak, the abbreviated version of Bapak, or Father. "Of course. Go. Go. But I will need your nose again soon."
"My nose will come back whenever you call it. But it needs a rest for now."

The thumping and screaming went on and on all through the day and much of the night. Sometimes it grew loud and desperate as though the man locked inside was in a state of panic. The noise was relentless at these times. Occasionally, a heavy thudding of the chain falling could be heard as the captive made a vain attempt to rush the door and force it open. All the while, his jailer sat outside the room staring impassively at the door, paying no attention to whatever ghastly noises were emitted from within; ignoring the shaking and banging and crying and moaning. At other times, the room would fall silent, the captive's energy sapped by his exertions and his fear. Only now and again would the jailer stir. He would stand, pick up a sheet of paper from a pile on a nearby table and push it through the gap beneath the door. "Read this. Keep reading." These were the only words he spoke.

The younger of Abdul's two sons had been swept away by the huge tsunami that demolished his home town of Banda Aceh in 2004. Although he mourned his son's loss and missed him acutely, he accepted it - embraced it even. The way Abdul saw it, this was the will of God. Allah had seen fit to take his precious son from him in this way, and for that to happen there must have been a reason. It was the loss of his older son, Fadil, that rankled most - that still kept Abdul awake some nights, unable to suppress his resentment. During these sleepless nights, he would curse himself over and over for having sent Fadil to study abroad in Europe thereby, he felt, exposing him to vices and influences he would otherwise never have encountered. Abdul, in general, harbored little malice toward anybody, but those responsible for the loss of his son were exempt from his benign disposition. Fadil, his first son and the family's patriarch-in-waiting, had not been taken by the will of God, but rather by the will of fallible human beings. This thought consumed Abdul no end. Abdul still had his wife, Julia, a daughter, and several young grandchildren whom he held close to his heart. "Everything belongs to them. The land, the houses," he would tell his guests. "What use are these things for an old man who will die soon? You need to plant seeds, have many children, and later these seeds will become trees and give you fruit." Then his eyes would narrow and glower. "But it is a great pity, a great injustice, that these children will grow up without ever knowing their uncle Fadil."

Stefan was the only boy among five children. He sometimes wondered if being the only male child, and thus unique within his family, had set him on the course he ended up taking. His sisters all chose to follow the family's conventions. None of them ever strayed from the fold, or had even seemed to consider doing so. Stefan often wondered if they enjoyed some form of tacit pact; a sisterhood to which he, of course, was denied membership. Perhaps it was this that kept them together as part of the flock - a constricting but comforting adhesive. He was seventeen when he approached his father with his feelings about the faith and his desire to live life his own way.

"To become the finest hashish oil producer in Aceh is no accident. It is an intricate skill. I learned and practiced for many years, and of course I had to make some good connections. Police, Army, Politicians. You know how it is." Abdul was rightly proud. The oil of which he boasted was widely acknowledged to be the best in the area. Many people knew him and had sampled his wares, even if only a few would admit to it. Abdul was also a pious man and adhered to all the tenets and demands of his religion. He prayed five times a day, abstained from alcohol, provided alms and had made the pilgrimage to Mecca. He saw no conflict between his religion and his narcotic-producing activities. "My religion does not prohibit this. You cannot find a single verse in the Qur'an that says we cannot smoke. Ah! It is the state and the police that prohibit this. But they do not need to know. This is just between me and Allah." A slightly disorienting childlike giggle escaped Abdul's lips when he said this. This giggle was largely due to the hash joints he'd been smoking but the old man also seemed sure that his contravention of state law was done with the full blessing of God - as if the two of them were sharing a joke.

The reaction of Stefan's father was fairly predictable. This was a man who'd been brought up in a strict Austrian family of adherents. He was unwilling to brook any dissent, any challenge to the family's faith, nurtured as it had been over generations. If his son wanted to leave the faith, so be it. But he would also have to leave the house. This was not an easy thing for his father to do. Stefan was his only son and he loved him deeply, more than any of his daughters if the truth be told. Physically, they resembled each other strongly and they mirrored each other's personalities in many other ways too. Stefan, however, had found many of the things his faith forbade not only accessible but also very enjoyable. Drinking, smoking, and girls had become of particular interest to him when he entered his teens. He simply didn't believe in the faith he'd been brought up to, nor could he abide the austerities it demanded. So he left home, worked in bars and restaurants in Vienna for a while, and saved enough money to put himself through a technical college. This enabled him to become a skilled and successful electrician. He kept in contact with his sisters. They had been more accepting of his decision. All of them had gone on to marry husbands from the faith, a Japanese and Brazilian amongst them. The faith knew no boundaries. Occasionally, one of his sisters would surreptitiously put his mother on the line. She missed her son terribly but knew that her husband would not tolerate any contact between them. She remembered clearly the sermon she received from him as Stefan was packing his bags to leave their home. "That boy is rejecting all that is good for him. Here he is offered protection from the outside world and the love of his family and the Lord. Out there he will leave himself at the mercy of things he knows nothing about. The heathens won't leave him alone for long. You can be sure of that."

Abdul had honed his talents in his youth, perfecting the method of producing the thick, sticky oil from the cannabis plants that, quite literally, grew like weeds in his province. Many an unsuspecting guest was initially put in an awkward situation upon arriving at Abdul's home. "Do you smoke?" he would ask.
"Cigarettes Sir? No, I gave up five years ago."
"How about weed then?" This was a tricky question to answer. Abdul was a seventy year old man, in a strict Muslim home, inquiring about something not only illegal, but also subject to heavy punishment.
"Um, well, maybe, yes, sometimes." Was this the right approach to take in answering the question? There would be a few nervous seconds as the visitor waited, wondering if he had said the wrong thing.
"Ok. Later, we smoke," Abdul would declare, grinning. Later they would smoke and talk. The conversation flowed easily. Abdul was an insightful and engaging raconteur. It was only when the subject turned to his older son that he grew sullen and sounded bitter. The atmosphere at these times became uncomfortable and even a little tense. Abdul would draw a parallel between the weed he grew and processed and the loss of his sons. "It seems that my sons are like the male plant. The male plant dies early. It produces no seeds. Just like my sons. This is usually a natural process, but sometimes these plants are ravaged by disease or destroyed by men. Like my older son, Fadil. One day I intend to avenge his loss."

Julia loved and respected her husband and saw no ethical problem in his endeavors. She worried very little about his being caught. Her husband had the right friends in the right places. She had served as a willing guinea pig in the early days. She would tell her husband if the smoke he blew at her had any scent at all. Abdul's mantra was 'No smell. That is the trick'. "If there is no smell, then nobody knows. You can smoke in public. Even in the police station if you want. Just smoke the cigarette by yourself. Don't pass it to anyone. If you pass then people become suspicious. All by yourself, and enjoy!" Eventually, Abdul perfected the precise formula. The oil produced no smell whatsoever. He had gone on to make a small fortune from his business. Enough to buy land, build homes, and see to it that his children received proper educations. Still Julia, now and again, saw a glint of anger in her husband's eyes. Anger brought about by the sudden loss of their first son; anger as much with himself for providing their son with the chance of a good education abroad as with the people who had exploited Fadil's naivete and loneliness. She worried that this anger would one day manifest itself in a violent act, and wondered whether the hashish oil Abdul not only produced but smoked in copious amounts was a way of quelling this fury; of keeping it latent while anesthetizing his hurt.

Four months in Thailand were enough. He'd had a great time and he reasoned that he could always go back. The first time Stefan visited there, it had been with a girlfriend. Their relationship was in its terminal stages - although neither had been willing to admit it at the time - and he felt shackled. It had almost felt to him like his upbringing; constantly being upbraided and emotionally punished for stepping out of line. Living in Vienna, so near to his hometown in a landlocked country, he had always felt slightly claustrophobic and never completely free of his father and his former faith's disquieting presence. So he had wound up his electrical business and decided to take a year off to travel the world. He had moved on from Thailand, into the island of Sumatra in Indonesia. It was his first visit there. The area was wild and Stefan felt unleashed and at peace as he made his way through the jungle up to Aceh, at the northern tip of the island. For the first time, he felt that the shackles were well and truly off.

A door slammed. Voices could be heard. A man and a woman. The conversation was animated. He couldn't understand the language. She seemed to be pleading, begging. Stefan stood up, lifted the heavy chain that bound him to the steel bed and dragged it across to the door. He banged as hard as he could and screamed, "Let me out. Please. Please."

"Why are you doing this Pak? We have already lost so much. Our first son, and then our second. Now, you too will be lost if you carry on this madness. Your connections turn a blind eye to your special business, but they will not if you harm a visitor, especially a foreigner." Abdul looked at Julia indignantly. "The tsunami destroyed our land, took our friends and family, but it was God's punishment for our sins. For not obeying him closely enough. Fadil was different. He was taken by infidels. I won't harm this man. I only want to do to him what the infidels did to Fadil."
"Infidels? These are the same people you take into your home as guests, the same people who helped to rebuild our homeland after the tsunami. They gave us money, food, protection. And now they are just infidels? Please Pak. Stop now before it is too late. Make your peace with him. Let him go. I have gone away for a few days to visit my sister and I come back to this. I don't understand at all. You usually enjoy the company of our foreign guests. You respect them. Why is he different? What did he do to cause you to do this?" Abdul replied slowly and calmly, looking his wife in the eye. "He is one of them."

Stefan had eaten no food and hardly had any sleep for two days. He drank water from the tap in the small bathroom he could just about reach. The only things given to him were sheets of paper, thrust under the door at hourly intervals. The room's light still worked so he was able to see what was written on the paper. It appeared to be verses of the Qur'an translated into English. "Read it," his captor instructed him. He couldn't understand the point of all this. His captor, Abdul, had been friendly at first. They had got along well, chatting about all kinds of things while smoking the hash oil Abdul had brought out. He'd been having a great time in fact. Stefan eschewed big hotels for small, intimate guesthouses and family homestays. This was about as authentic as it got. He was staying in a local Acehnese home, enjoying the homemade hashish oil of the father of the house. Things had turned strange only when the subject of religion came up. As is the custom in Indonesia, Abdul had asked Stefan his religion. "I have none. I am an atheist." Abdul was used to this response. He had heard it from countless foreign guests. He never let them off that easily though. "Ok, ok. But what religion did you grow up with? What religion were your parents?" Stefan didn't like going into this, dredging up old, hurtful history, but he felt he should oblige out of courtesy. "Well, perhaps you have not heard of this religion. It is small and a bit strange. My parents, my whole family in fact, are Jehovah's Witnesses." Abdul slammed his cup of coffee hard on the table.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.
This formed one of the central principles of Islamic law. Stefan thought about this as he sat in the restaurant overlooking the transparent blue ocean of Weh Island, just north of Banda Aceh. Brilliantly-colored fish darted amongst coral in the water below him. A giant monitor lizard slinked its way over some rocks and into the sea, taking to it like a natural born swimmer. All the natural beauty surrounding him was so at odds with the pervasive religion of the area. Religion was the real intruder here. In this bucolic land of unspoiled rain forests, mountains and ocean, where thousands of rare species of mammals, reptiles, insects and fish spoke of a diversity to be held in awe, men still found reasons to be savage. Public canings took place of those caught engaging in drinking, gambling or pre-marital sex. Tolerance of differences and individual rights seemed to be in short supply. This reminded him in some ways of the home he grew up in. His father spoke of heathens, while here they spoke of infidels. Stefan thought that the man-made construct of religion held nothing when compared to the law of nature. Just as houses, bridges and mosques had been washed away by the tsunami with absolute indifference.
An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Stefan for Fadil.

He was released by Julia. Her husband, she explained, had left the home for a while. This put Stefan more at ease. She apologized profusely, gave him some food and explained to him the reasons for her husband's behavior. "Please forgive him. That our son converted to another religion, well was actually proselytized, has made him lose his senses. That and the dope." For some reason Stefan was not that hungry, but he slowly ate the food Julia had prepared as she continued talking. "Actually, Fadil wanted to visit us in Banda Aceh after the tsunami. He wanted to pay his respects to his younger brother, and to many other people he knew who were taken by the water. He also wanted to help us. He is quite successful there. But his father would not have it. 'He is lost to Islam. He is lost to me. I have no more sons,' he said."
"So how did you convince him that I should be let go?" Stefan asked.
"I reminded him of our story," she replied.

Abdul was a good-looking boy. And he had an eye for the girls. Too much so! He was caught having an affair with the wife of a local policeman, Udin. She was ten years older than him. That was before we had this nonsense with Syariah law, but the scandal was still very big. All the neighbors talk. Soon the whole town knew of the affair. The woman went into hiding in shame, while her husband, of course, wanted to kill Abdul. After all, his honor had been offended by a young boy. Udin knew however that killing Abdul would land him in jail, so he decided on another strategy. Everybody in town, including all the police, knew that Abdul and his friends smoked packets of weed. They didn't really care though. There wasn't much money to be squeezed out of a group of unemployed local lads. It's still a bit like that now. All these strict laws and things are only enforced if there's something in it for the cops. Everyone pretends to be pious here, but they're as bent as anywhere else. Anyway, Udin figured he would catch Abdul smoking - or set him up - and have him locked up for a good while. That would be sufficient revenge - and in the meantime he'd find himself an honest new wife. Abdul got wind of this from a friend and fled the area. He moved south to the Lake Toba area. Abdul was a cunning boy, and still is. You maybe found this out when he put you to sleep by placing a little too much oil in your joint. That's how he managed to get you all chained up and locked in that room. He was also proud. He was determined that this vindictive little police officer, who treated his wife awfully anyway, would not win this battle of wits. That is why he set out on producing this scentless, almost undetectable oil. So he could go back and resume his former way of life in his hometown. He spent many months trying to find the best method. And he had a partner. Me. We met in the Lake Toba area, my homeland, and were soon inseparable. We wanted to marry but there was one problem. A big one. I am from a Batak Christian family and Abdul, of course, was Muslim. With my consent, he approached my father about the possibility of our marrying. My father said he would only give his blessing if Abdul converted to Christianity. Abdul refused point blank. I was left with a dilemma. Go against my father and change religion or lose the man I love. I chose the former. I converted to Islam and we married in secret. When my father found out, he swore he would kill Abdul and so he had to flee again. This time with me in tow. We spent some time in Jakarta, where we got the formula just right, and then moved back to Banda Aceh to set up business. In the meantime, Udin, the slighted police officer, had remarried the daughter of a well-known local politician. This had helped his career greatly as you can imagine. He was hoping to be appointed Banda Aceh's Chief of Police. The only other potential candidate was Muchtar, who was the Deputy at the time. Abdul was resourceful. He met with Muchtar and explained about his new product - they worked out an agreement that would be to everyone's benefit should Muchtar become chief. Muchtar, in turn, went to the Governor, who was responsible for the appointment. He explained Abdul's proposal and how, naturally, the Governor would be due a share. Muchtar was duly promoted to Chief of Police and Abdul's nemesis, Udin, effectively sidelined. Abdul was now on, shall we say, good terms with the Police, the Governor and all the other lackeys and sycophants in their pay. Business boomed and everyone was happy except for one person. Me. I had broken my father's heart in converting to Islam and marrying Abdul. In all the excitement of those early years I hadn't thought about it so much, but once we were settled I began to think of it more and more. I decided to go back to visit my family at Lake Toba. I went alone of course. As far as we knew, my father's vow to kill Abdul was still in effect, and Batak men are known to stick to their word. When I arrived, however, I found a family in mourning. My father had died only months before. According to my mother and sisters, he was murmuring my name as he drew his last breath. 

Stefan spent the next few days moving from his hammock to the restaurant and back. He had got his appetite back in a big way. He only went swimming and snorkeling in the ocean a few times. For the main part, he was happy just to peer down from above, his mind lost in meandering waves of thought. He hadn't left Abdul's house uncompensated for the two days he spent in captivity. When she bade him farewell, Julia slipped a plastic bag the size of a small fist into his bag. It contained some of Abdul's finest. "Be careful with that," she said. "And if you get caught, just say it's from Abdul." She winked at him. Stefan had purposefully not bought any rolling paper for the tobacco he mixed with the oil. Instead he had collected the sheets that had been shoved under the door by Abdul and used these. It was a bit harsh on the throat, but the way that Stefan saw it, this was his little act of revenge.


With apologies to A & D for the liberties I took.

hey
been trying to meet you
hey
must be a devil between us
or whores in my head
whores at my door
whores in my bed
but hey
where
have you
been if you go i will surely die
we're chained

uh said the man to the lady
uh said the lady to the man she adored
and the whores like a choir
go uh all night
and mary ain't you tired of this
uh
is
the
sound
that the mother makes when the baby breaks
we're chained

                                                           The Pixies                                        

The subject of my own story

I had an unwanted intrusion on my travels. A week of work. A full, unadulterated week. It's funny how much of an intrusion this can feel like, having sets one's course on a year of frivolous meandering from one beach, one bar, to the next. A shock to the system, literally. All holiday functions abruptly ceased. I found myself having to carefully pick out suitable working clothes where before clothes were merely a means of covering my jangly bits. Jangly bits at Indonesia's Ministry of Finance. Hmmmm, a thought . Anyhow, I got myself into this mess. Take a bit of work. Might as well. A bit of variety. Earn a bit of money. Get a step ahead of your budget. It'll help you down the line. Sure. But the problem is in removing one's posterior from a month-long stay on a fan-fucking-tastic beach in Thailand to, within three days, fronting up to a bunch of Ministry of Finance lackeys, doing my best to explain away my tan. "You are so black Mr Nick"..."Yes, well that's because I've been doing nothing on a Thai isle for the last month. You should try it some time." "But Mr Nick, we only get 12 days holiday a year. And four of those are mandatory during the Muslim festival of Lebaran." Oh shit, the poor fuckers.

So I'm a bum. A beefy beach vagabond. My holiday is not just a source of bemusement to the folk at the Ministry of Finance. Even my fellow western friends in Jakarta find it odd, though I think some are a tad envious. "Blowing your inheritance money are ya?" sneered one in an Australian drawl. I replied that he should mind his own finances and not worry about mine too much. 'The Vacationist', I am called by another. "Most people work continuously, interspersed with a few vacations. You do the opposite. You vacation continuously interspersed with a little work." Can't say he's wrong - nor would I want to. Not right now at least.

But then just as I'm about to get carried away. As I'm about to dispense with my anxieties and forge on, carefree and directionless, I am reminded of a story. It's as if my conscience demands that I be brought down to earth, and so it slurps up the allegorical fable of the Egg and vomits it out into my consciousness. As if the travails undergone by the story's subject must supersede any notion I have of being a mere Vacationist.

Clay to Dust. Tears to Salt. Dreams to Regrets.


The Egg came from a world of absolute darkness. The world consisted of the Shadows and their subjects. The Shadows ruled with absolute indifference towards their subjects. The subjects groveled and bled from the fresh wounds they suffered daily. The Egg offered some solace. The Egg offered reassurance that light existed. This was the promise of the Egg. That if the subject could survive. Even for a short while. Light would reveal itself. But the subject needed to hear this. From the Egg. Directly.


To meet the Egg was an arduous task in itself. Many subjects were dismissed as unworthy. Pretenders. Sometimes wrongly so. The Egg was no oracle. But no other hope remained. So the subject journeyed to the Egg. Ignoring all obstacles. And risk of rejection.


The subject was told the way to find the Egg was through isolation. Not complete isolation. Partial isolation. And long reflection. Even this though was no guarantee. The subject understood the risk. Understood the potential futility. But the subject had no other choice. The myth of the Egg's power was strong and alluring.


So the subject traveled through the dark land. It was important to avoid the Shadows. If the subject were trapped by the Shadows the darkness imposed by them could be final. In moments of isolation the Shadows massed menacingly. Yet isolation was required. This was a strict rule of the Egg. Without it the subject would be dismissed. Before reaching anywhere near the Egg.


Isolation was not total. It was partial. The Egg allowed for this. At times the subject was freed from isolation. Then the Shadows lost their potency. It was almost as light. But it was not light. Not yet. This pseudo light was also dangerous. The subject felt tempted to remain exposed to it for too long. Then any chance the subject had of meeting the Egg would dissipate.


The Egg also called for reflection. This was the hardest part. Because reflection needed light. There was of course no such thing yet. So to reflect the subject needed to dream of light. And in this dream. Also to embrace the Shadows. This was not natural to the subject. The Shadows were inherently repulsive. The instinct of the subject was to hide from them.


Still the rules of the Egg were clear. And the promise of the Egg clearer still. Light was a precious commodity. More precious than any other commodity any world had ever known. More precious than gold. Than oil. Than water. Without it the Shadows were all pervasive. And then there was little reason to exist at all.


The journey to the Egg was harder than imagined. There were many pitfalls. The Shadows employed foot soldiers. Shards of Shade. Sharp enough to cut. Sharp enough to slice and stab. The foot soldiers of Shade could be defeated. But it was easier for the subject to avoid than defeat them.


Stairs, ropes and ladders were found all along the route. The subject could use these if desired. The foot soldiers were not able to reach them. So the subject chose to use these aids. The foot soldiers were rendered powerless. But what lay beyond the foot soldiers, the shards of Shade, was far more formidable. Nothing that stairs, or ropes, or ladders could help to overcome.


The subject met other travelers, other subjects, on the journey. Each sought the Egg. But each took a different route. At points their routes overlapped. The subject felt a keen lack of uniqueness. Many subjects knew of the Egg. And needed to find the Egg. Because each lay ruined by the Shadows.


The subject finally arrived at the nest of the Egg. And had to answer the preliminary questions. Why have you come? What do you seek? Why do you deserve what I, the Egg, can promise? The subject was unprepared for these questions. Unprepared for the long voyage altogether.


I have come to escape the darkness, to look for light, because I am worthy. I am a decent and proper subject. For the most part. The Egg had heard these answers too many times before. They were typical answers. From typical subjects. They did nothing to warrant the Egg dispensing the formidable power the myth described. To provide an assurance.


But I have isolated myself. Partially. And I have reflected. But these words the subject spoke alone. The Egg's back was turned. To return to the nest. To await a worthier subject. The Egg had no time for this subject.


In the distance the subject saw a sight more ghastly than any on the voyage itself. The subject saw the Egg commune with the Shadows. Then the subject realized. The Egg and the Shadows were in league. The Egg was merely a facade. A front. That promised light only if the Shadows deemed it fit.


And so the subject began to think of another course. Another way. To find the light. That surely existed somewhere.

And now, I am at a crossroads. Am I just a subject in my own story, doomed to struggle in search of a light that perhaps doesn't exist, or am I the happy-go-lucky Vacationist, insouciant but in control of my fate? Or is it, as I suspect, a grotesque but beguiling mixture of both?

The footballer, the elephant, and the detective

Franco had gotten used to his routine. He would rise as the sun first revealed itself over the rice paddies of Ubon Ratchathani province. He ate a simple breakfast of Kow Tum, rice soup, with the family, and then made his way to the fields with the stronger members of the community. It was hot, dusty and humid, and the work was hard. To most people unaccustomed to this way of life, the day would have represented a grueling ordeal, but Franco found it easy enough. It was perhaps even less demanding than his regular regimen in the city - up early, gym, training ground, gym again. He had even begun to enjoy it here. His hosts were soft-spoken and humble, unlike his loud-mouthed, obnoxious manager at Muangthong United, Aroon. The man thought he knew all there was to know about the game, but to Franco's mind he knew next to nothing. Even his Thai teammates agreed with him. They would all take the piss out of Aroon whenever his back was turned. At night, Franco stayed in his hosts' modest wooden dwelling and sometimes passed the time watching television with them. It was one of the few luxuries they possessed. They enjoyed mawkish Thai soap operas - not unlike the telenovelas from his own country - which depicted the anguish of affluent urban Thais: romantic betrayals, business deals gone wrong, petty jealousies. None of it bore any resemblance to where he was now - in a tiny hamlet far removed from most modern amenities - but the family would sit glued to the screen, absorbed in the goings-on of some or other overacted cardboard character. Franco wondered what it was that fascinated them so much about these shows. Envy? Curiosity? Perhaps sheer bewilderment? He supposed it wasn't much different to the fixation some people had for celebrities. And he should know - he was one.

The hamlet where his hosts lived was located in Thailand's far northeast, about 30 kilometers from the border with Laos - and this suited Franco just fine. Although he felt sorrow for the consequences of what he'd done, he felt no guilt for the act itself. Everyone did it. And everyone knew that everyone did it. As far as Franco was concerned, he had merely been made a convenient scapegoat. As a foreigner - a farang - he was an easy target. Plenty of fingers had been pointed at him, as much to blame him as to absolve his local colleagues - as if they would be incapable of stooping to such levels of bad sportsmanship and greed. It is easier to maintain cohesion in a society when its members are persuaded that they have superior values and are truly 'as one', united against malignant outside elements. For Franco, however, it was his enforced separation from her that concerned him most, not the political wranglings and social manipulations of corrupt elites in Bangkok. 

Chanarong sat slumped in his office chair. The air-conditioning hadn't been fixed for weeks. It still emitted some cool air - enough for a tantalizing taste of how it should have felt. He wiped his brow and undid another button on his shirt. He was a good-looking man, but this job, and this office, did his appearance no favors. He had begun to grow jaded and frustrated. Lines had formed around his eyes and on his forehead where not long before there had been none. He felt older than his 33 years. It was just as well he had yet to settle down and marry, he thought. His job already weighed heavily on him, and he doubted he could handle the added pressure of a family. And of course he felt burdened by his own special issue. He fetched another cup of coffee, sat down again, and straightened the stack of papers on his desk into perfect alignment. Not one sheet lay askew in the least. He needed things to be this way. Then he went over the events relating to the case one more time in his mind. He was almost sure that he would arrive at an outcome no different to the one he had reached fifteen minutes previously. Just like when he repeatedly calculated how much money he had spent each day, or how many days of exercise he had done over the last few months. The results were always the same, but he couldn't stop himself from doing it. The case could be different though, he thought. It was not as absolute as the other matters he overly concerned himself with. A case can change - it is fluid. Something new could come to light; I might be struck by something I've overlooked.

Not this time though. After looking through the papers again, he swallowed the last of his coffee and let out an immense sigh. Why had he followed his father into the police force? There had been other opportunities. Admittedly, he didn't really have connections in other fields - and connections pretty much stood for everything here in Bangkok - but he could have at least tried. Now here he was - on the trail of a dashing farang soccer player; someone most of Bangkok adored as much for his footballing prowess as for his looks and lifestyle. And he, Chanarong, was tasked with apprehending this man and bringing him to some form of justice. This is sure to make me popular, he contemplated with dreaded sarcasm. Seeing to it that Muangthong's top goal scorer and best player is thrown in jail. To make matters worse, Chanarong was also a fan of both the club and the player. An accountant - why did I not become an accountant? Dull but easy. Somehow he found another huge sigh within himself. Thoughts of accountancy started him off on his money counting procedure again. 50 Baht for breakfast, 800 for petrol, 20 for chewing gum, 50 for parking, 50 for lunch. 970 Baht. Not a round figure an accountant would be comfortable with. Let me spend another 30 Baht and I'll feel much more at ease. He got up and headed for the kiosk outside his building that sold lottery numbers.

Franco had met her at a friend's house party in Bangkok. Everyone in the city knew him. Even those who had no time for football had heard of him and would recognize his face. He'd been playing for Muangthong for over two years and had scored many vital goals for them. He was simply worshiped in many of Bangkok's neighborhoods. But as adept as he was on the pitch, he was far less skilled in social relations. He had 'had' plenty of girls since he'd been in Thailand. This was not an issue. Even back home he'd been solid, standard-issue handsome. Here, his looks combined with his fame - not to mention his deft ball skills - meant he was practically a god to his legions of fans and admirers. Still, he always felt a slight awkwardness when in the public eye. Language may have had something to do with it - his Thai was still rudimentary - but even at home growing up, he'd been shy. With her, though, he felt immediately at ease. She was entirely different to any other Thai girl he had ever met before. She was pretty - perhaps not conventionally beautiful but there was something about her that transcended ordinary beauty. She was almost always with her niece. A ten year gap separated them but they looked practically the same age. They were typical city girls - ambitious and savvy, but both had hearts the size of Texas. She had her own opinions and was forthright with them; there was nothing submissive about her. Things moved quickly between them and she moved into Franco's centrally-located apartment before long. Unlike many of the other Bangkok 'wags', wives and girlfriends of footballers, she still retained a down-to-earth demeanor. Her niece remained her best friend, and she would often go out with other old friends and pay visits to family members. Occasionally Franco would accompany her. Everyone liked him, even if communicating sometimes led to confusion. This is not to say that the couple shied away from the celebrity spotlight altogether. They were often spotted at glamorous gatherings and made frequent appearances in the city's numerous tabloids. She and her niece would spend hours shopping in the more exclusive of the city's ubiquitous malls and return, exhausted, with bundles of clothes, shoes, make-up and other accessories. They would make regular visits to salons, tinkering with their hair and enjoying pedicures, manicures, massages and facial treatments. Essentially, however, she was the same girl Franco had first met, and he was happy to indulge her.

Chanarong was going over what he'd eaten in the past week. Every single meal - whether it was breakfast, lunch, dinner or merely a snack - had to be accounted for. If he got stuck and, for example, couldn't recall what he'd eaten midday on Tuesday, he would dwell and dwell on it until it came back to him. Only then would he be satisfied. This had nothing to do with any concerns he had over his weight or calory intake. He was trim and physically healthy. It was just something he needed to do. Having successfully completed this dietary inventory, he was able to focus on the case again. Still, he couldn't suppress the question that had been going over and over in his mind. Why had he been assigned this job? The reason, of course, was that it was a hot potato of a case. It involved the police, politicians, businessmen, underworld figures and diplomats. It had the potential to become an international issue. Nobody wanted to take responsibility for it, and so it had been shifted onto Chanarong. He was known to be an extremely competent and meticulous investigator who didn't tread on any toes. It was a thankless task though - a classic catch 22. Solve it and I'll have the whole of Bangkok's public against me, their hero locked away, his talents wasted on the shabby prison team. Fail to solve it and all the police's top brass, not to mention the sports minister, are going to come down on me like a ton of bricks. Great! He was giving more and more consideration to what Aroon, Muangthong's manager, had told him earlier that day. Ordinarily he would dismiss anything the man had to say - not only was he an insufferable braggart but he'd failed to achieve anything significant with the team during his tenure - but these words had stayed with him. "To find him, you find her. Those two are really in love. I don't know what he saw in her. There are so many more beautiful girls the farang could have got, but he loved her. You could see it." 'To find him, you find her. To find him, you find her' - Chanarong repeated the words to himself over and over. There was no need to do this. He knew what they meant and understood perfectly the logic behind them. Still, the words echoed around his head to the point where he actually thought his brain might explode. Stop it! 'To find him, you find her'.

Chanarong had in fact met her not long after Franco disappeared. She, along with his teammates, was the obvious candidate to be questioned first. Their session had lasted a couple of hours and he had found her charming and sincere. She was also plainly upset about the whole chain of events. She explained that the day Franco was declared a suspect, he had vanished. He had left all his belongings, including his passport and mobile phone, at the apartment and gone. She had not heard from him since. There had been no note, email, or text message, and she had no idea where he was or how to contact him. Chanarong believed her but, to be on the safe side, ordered her put under surveillance for a period. She moved in with her sister's family and would often go out with her niece. Calls to and from her mobile phone were monitored. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Her celebrity lifestyle had been brought to an abrupt end by Franco's alleged misdeed and subsequent disappearance, but this didn't seem to bother her. After a month or so, Chanarong called off the surveillance. It was expensive and resources were needed elsewhere - Bangkok's police force was not that sophisticated. Chanarong's mind was elsewhere - he had subconsciously slipped into counting how many times he'd been to visit his retired, lonely father this year. Was it three, or four? - when suddenly it occurred to him - 'To find him, you find her....Find her!'

At first, none of the spectators could quite believe it. There were a few seconds during which they looked around at each other, at the players, at the scoreboard, unable to grasp what had just happened. Then the stadium erupted. Buriram supporters jumped up and down, screaming, and hugging each other in euphoria. Soon the flares started. The noise was deafening, even by Thai standards. Buriram United were on the verge of winning the Thai Premier League. They had needed to win their final match, against Bangkok-based Muangthong, and the scores were level at 1-1 with a minute to go. Muangthong were already out of the title race, lying in a lowly sixth position largely ascribed to their manager's incompetence, but still had pride to play for. They were unlikely to do Buriram any favors. A corner was awarded to Buriram. It was well taken, swung in towards the mass of bodies in the box. A messy scramble ensued then suddenly, inexplicably, Muangthong's forward, their golden boy Franco, lashed the ball into his own net. He had scored with a striker's precision but, in this case, for the wrong side. Not long after, the referee blew his whistle. The game was over. Buriram had defeated Muangthong 2-1 and were crowned league champions.

Lipe Beach Bungalows was a small resort on the east side of the island. The bungalows were arranged in four neat rows, the first right on the beach, the last a mere twenty yard stroll to it. It was a mid-range establishment and attracted an assortment of visitors, young and old, from all around the world. In recent months, the resort's reputation had soared. As part of a deal with the resort's owner, Erawan had taken over its running and also built a laid-back bar on the beach in front of it. Word of mouth spreads quickly in this interconnected world, and before long more and more guests were making bookings, having heard warm reports about the resort and its new manager, Erawan. With the help of her family, Erawan had built the bar in no time and named it 'Elephant Bar'. In addition to managing the resort and bar, she also took an active interest in her guests' activities. She knew all the island's hidden trails and secret waterfalls and would often invite visitors on an adventure somewhere off the beaten track. Not finding their destination indicated on the island's map, many guests would initially be skeptical, though eventually they'd all be won over by Erawan's contagious enthusiasm. The island's boat captains were all fond of her. She had lent money to some and was happy to be paid back in fish. The captains would take her and her guests on snorkeling trips to sites that boats usually wouldn't go to. While she went out on her day trips, her niece would take care of the resort and its bar. Erawan would swim into strong sea currents and scramble up rock faces barefoot. She struck more timid types as reckless, but she was nimble and dexterous, and confident in her own abilities. In the evening, she traded the tomboy in her for the role of hospitable, graceful host, and pulled this off perfectly too. More than a few guests, men and women alike, had fallen in some degree of love with her. Erawan had grown to love the outdoors, the wildness of her surroundings. It was a far cry from where she came from and what she was used to. To this extent, her island persona had not come naturally to her, but was something she had to, was forced to, cultivate.

Chanarong had finally been forced to move office, even if only temporarily. Appeals to have the air-conditioning fixed had fallen on deaf ears. He moved into a smaller room occupied by a female officer, his junior in rank and age. She had made eyes at Chanarong before - there weren't many eligible, good-looking men in the force - and he had flirted with the idea of asking her out on occasion. His move into her office had nothing to do with romantic aspirations however - it was purely practical. He couldn't concentrate in the stifling heat, and he needed to concentrate. He looked up from his desk at his female colleague. His mind began wandering - How many women have I had sex with over the last few years? Was it four or five? They were all casual affairs - that much he knew. He began the process of recalling each and every sexual encounter he'd had, beginning from a point in time he'd somehow established in his own mind. The name of the woman, where it happened, what preceded it, what it was like, its consequences (if any). He had to be able to remember it all. To have it known that he still knew it, and then to refile it somewhere in his brain. He gave himself some leeway with the precise dates of these liaisons, although if he couldn't remember just the month, he would feel irritable to the point of not being able to focus on anything else. It took him a while to sort all these trivialities out and he felt almost nauseous once he'd done so. He hated his job. He had never wanted to be a policeman. He was pressured into it by his father whom he now resented for this. Nobody likes policemen, except some police women, he thought looking furtively at his colleague again. He had to stick at it another twenty-two years and he'd end up with a decent pension and benefits. Decent by Thai standards was far from fantastic, and another 22 years! Still, he thought, I did have an epiphany of sorts hearing what that buffoon Aroon had said. I should try to take some comfort from these small victories. "To find him, you find her."

There was little doubt that Franco's goal had been deliberately scored. Everyone agreed on this. In addition to the charges brought against him, Franco could just as easily have been accused of a severe lack of subtlety. He had controlled the ball, taken aim and fairly thundered it into his own goal. Replays from various angles did nothing to suggest it may have been accidental. It was an obvious case of manipulation, match-fixing - in this case title-fixing. Despite the controversy, the result stood. Buriram were champions. While pundits, fans and officials agreed on the nature and intention of Franco's own goal, reactions to it were mixed. Most Muangthong fans seemed willing to forgive the player, to brush it off even. He had two years' worth of goal scoring credit to his name, and there'd been nothing at stake for the team anyway. It wasn't as if this was a new phenomenon - the Thai national team itself had been involved in alleged manipulations of games. Money had been made on Buriram's becoming champions, but equally it had been lost. And herein lay the problem for Franco. His actions may ordinarily have been overlooked or, at the most, earned him a slap on the wrist, but some powerful men in the police, politics and business had bet against Buriram's winning the title. These parties were now determined to prosecute Franco, to make an example out of him while gaining some measure of revenge for their losses in the process.

Franco was ready. He'd been visited by his helper two days previously and been told exactly what they would need to do. He knew nothing about his helper. He had a name but Franco suspected it was a false one. In all likelihood, he was a representative or affiliate of the same syndicate that had paid Franco to score the own goal. As Franco understood it, they had gained on two fronts. They'd made a fortune from backing Buriram to win the championship and, being an Isan-based group, they were also genuine supporters of the team. What's more, the victory had boosted the morale of the whole area - people were happier, looser with their money - and this could only benefit the syndicate's activities. The people of Isan, the northeastern part of Thailand, were proud and felt distinct from other Thais. Nothing would have given the syndicate more pleasure than beating the capital city's team, Muangthong, to bag the title while, at the same time, leaving a bunch of Bangkok bigwigs out of pocket. They owed it to Franco to get him out the country securely. Time spent in a Thai prison was no fun at the best of times, and with the jails full of inmates from the poorer rural areas of Thailand, the farang hero from Bangkok would face a torrid time. Kinship and clan ties were strong in Isan, and they'd organized for Franco to be put up in a safe house not far from Buriram and near to Laos. Here he was expected to contribute to daily life, just like everyone else, while waiting to be smuggled across the border. From Laos, a path back to his own country could be created fairly easily by greasing the palms of various officials. Tomorrow morning, before dawn, Franco and his helper would make the crossing.

That evening, Franco reflected on his time in Thailand. He'd been signed by Muangthong United from his Ecuadorean club. There was very little money in his country's small league and he knew he would never be bought by a European club - he just wasn't quite good enough. So his best bet in terms of wages was one of the Asian leagues. Big business had been pumping money into these leagues for years now, and their quality, while still leaving a lot to be desired, had improved. Plenty of third-rate players had been brought in from Africa and Latin America. Franco made a good living and was one of the best players in the Thai league. He enjoyed a lifestyle he could only have dreamed of in his own country. Still, he had succumbed all too easily when approached about scoring the own goal. The money offered to him had been substantial and his principles had deserted him far too easily. But even now he didn't really regret the goal. He regretted, instead, having had to remove himself so completely from her life.

Erawan's breeziness, her carefree attitude and behavior, concealed a troubled past. Some of her more perceptive guests picked up on this. There had been hurt in her life; damage yet to be repaired, issues yet to be resolved. Try as she might, the subtle signs of this could not be completely eradicated. A slight scratch of the surface and Erawan's vulnerability could be laid bare. She had lost her parents early and cruelly. Her relatives helped where they could but they couldn't afford her schooling. Work for her had begun at the age of 13. She quickly became streetwise and tough, and later even shrewd and discerning in business matters. Her intelligence easily overrode her lack of formal education. A string of lovers had left her bruised however, most emotionally but some physically too. The happiness she felt with Franco was deserved. It was right. Her niece, whom she always trusted, had agreed. And then, once again, something bad had to happen. She had found love, only for it to be ripped from her once more by something out of her control. Erawan decided this time, she would not let it get the better of her. She would never again bow to the cruel hand of fate. Franco had disappeared, her lifestyle had disappeared, but she would be strong. She would rely on the same instincts she had when she was 13 and waiting in seedy bars and restaurants. She knew why Franco had left no news, no messages, no clues at all. That way, as much as she was pressed, as much as she may be doubted, she would be able to reveal nothing, because she knew nothing. And then he phoned. 

Chanarong was not looking forward to meeting Aroon again. He stepped into Muangthong's office building like a man on his way to a particularly nasty dental appointment. Pictures of players, past and present, lined the walls. He stopped at the picture of a long-retired player and tried to remember the details of his career. How long he'd played. How many goals he'd scored. Chanarong stood there for a good while staring at the picture. A cleaner walked past and gave him an odd look - he appeared to be in some form of trance. Eventually, Chanarong had it all worked out, and headed to Aroon's office. The manager had the television on. He was watching a game and scribbling on a notepad. When he saw Chanarong, he declared, without any prior greeting, "This is the formation. The new one. Next season, the results will prove this. With or without the farang." Chanarong was too weary even to smirk or raise an eyebrow. "Talking about Franco. When we met last, you said that I should find her. What did you mean by that? I did find her, I spoke to her, I had her followed. I know where she is. Why should I have to find her?" Aroon was not one for nuance or guarding secrets. He told Chanarong how he'd overheard one of his players speaking in the dressing room. This player had got to know her niece at parties both had attended. "Who knows what kind of friends they are," Aroon sniggered. The niece had told him in confidence that Franco had phoned her aunt recently. He had told her where he was and what he planned to do. Chanarong wasn't as excited as he should have been at this news. Half of him, perhaps more, didn't want the man caught. Nine-tenths of him had had it with police work altogether. "So where is he and what are his plans?" he asked, drawing on the last dregs of his detective's acumen.

Lipe Beach Bungalows rarely received local Thai guests, and if it did this was almost exclusively on weekends when hordes of mainlanders would make their way to the island. Nidnoi had thought, then, that this booking was strange. Her hunch was not at all dispelled when he arrived. He was a smart, clean-cut man in his early thirties. He dressed very well - there was no way he was from the nearby provinces, Satun or Trang. She felt sure about this. When he spoke, she immediately recognized the Bangkok accent she shared with him. "Cute," she said to her friend after he'd checked in. That evening they spoke some more at the bar. He ordered a few Chang beers and they chatted about Bangkok. They got on well - Nidnoi seldom had the chance to speak to someone with whom she had things in common and who was so courteous. He took occasional deep breaths, as if he was trying to inhale the atmosphere of the island. Nidnoi found it endearing; she knew how hard life in the big city could be. He ordered a meal and more drinks and insisted on buying her a few. "Please," he said. "Indulge me. I never have the chance to relax like this." Then he surprised her. He asked about her aunt.

Franco and his helper crossed the border into Laos in the dark. One guard had been on duty. In fact, it seemed like he was expecting the two of them. Some words passed between the helper and the guard, and then a few notes. A battered car with a driver awaited them on the other side. Anything more ostentatious would be sure to attract attention in rural Laos. They headed, slowly and very carefully, towards the capital, Vientiane, where a new passport and flight out of the country had been arranged. He was on his way to safety. His reputation was irreparable and he would never be allowed back into Thailand. That didn't matter. He'd made enough money from his time there and from the infamous own goal to set him up nicely back home. He was bored of football anyway. But whenever he thought of Karawek his mouth turned dry and his stomach tensed in pain. He had had to phone her. He needed to hear her voice one last time - in case anything went wrong.

"Good evening Detective." Erawan, shoeless and wrapped in a sarong, greeted Chanarong. "Good evening Miss," he replied politely. "You know why I've come, I presume." Nidnoi looked on, disappointed that the guest had turned out to be a policeman and despairing that she may have put her aunt in a difficult position. "I know," said Erawan.
"You look different from when we last met Miss Karawek."
"Yes. I am not the same glamorous celebrity I was in Bangkok. Firstly, people here call me Erawan. And I have grown my hair. It is wild now," she laughed. "I also have a dark tan, and I dress and act like an island girl. Ask my guests." She gestured towards a table full of foreign visitors who nodded in agreement. "Jungle girl," one of them said in English. It was Chanarong's turn to laugh. "But why here Karawek?"
"Erawan." She corrected him and began to explain her story to Chanarong, honestly and in full. There was no longer any need to hide anything. After Franco had phoned and told her his whereabouts, a few months back, she realized she was in a complicated position. She told her niece that Franco had phoned but had not told her, or anyone else, where he was or where he was going. Chanarong was happy to dispense with the cloak and daggers. "That is how I knew to look for you. I know he phoned you. But I didn't think it would take me this long, and bring me this far, to find you."
"I am sorry for your troubles detective. So you knew huh? Ah, blabbermouth here!" Erawan looked at Nidnoi who blushed deeply. Chanarong and Erawan both laughed."Some more drinks ladies?"
"I don't drink anymore," said Erawan, "but Nidnoi will have another one. She is still a party girl at heart." Chanarong ordered two more beers and let Erawan finish her story. If she were to be questioned again, she knew she wouldn't be able to lie. She was a terrible liar. She would give the game away and Franco would be caught. She had to go somewhere to buy time until he got out of Thailand to safety. She had an old friend on Ko Lipe, from her younger days working bars, and thought it was as good a place as any. With some money she had saved, she opened a bar on the island. She was lucky to have found a good business partner, and her business was doing well. To be extra cautious, she had changed her name to Erawan. It meant 'elephant' and she preferred it anyway. "I am more of an elephant than a bird." She wanted to leave all traces of her glitzy city life behind and so immersed herself in the area's many beguiling attractions. She explored every nook and cranny of the island, all its best reefs, waterfalls and caves. And very soon she came to love it. She truly had become a jungle girl. "I am very sorry detective. I know you have been looking for me for a long time so you can get me to tell you where Franco is. I have dragged you all the way to this primitive island. You probably feel very uncomfortable here. Out of the city. Out of your police office. There are no bad guys here for you to catch. But I am going to disappoint you again. I heard news yesterday that Franco is out of Thailand and safe." It was hard to tell whether Erawan was getting pleasure out of telling this to Chanarong, or feeling sorry for the man. He said nothing for a long while. Chanarong looked intently at his beer. Erawan had no way of knowing what he was really thinking. He was trying to recall how many Thai islands he had actually visited - had it been 8 or 9? And in which order had he visited them? When he finally had this unrelated issue figured out in his head, he began to wonder if any of the islands he'd visited were as nice as this one. Probably not, he thought. Eventually, Chanarong spoke. "Miss Erawan. You do not disappoint me at all. In fact, your news has made me happy. I had no real interest in seeing your friend caught. He made a mistake. He is human after all. I am not a noble man myself. What's more, I am a big fan of his." Erawan and Nidnoi both seemed surprised. Was this really a policeman saying this? Chanarong continued, "I have been thinking for a long time about changing my life. I have no love for the police. My job and the city make my mind, how should I say, a little clogged up."

Erawan heard from Franco only once or twice more. Distance and separation took their inevitable toll. He eventually met a girl from his own country and settled down to start a family. He wasn't forgotten in Bangkok however. His picture still hung in Muangthong's offices, his own goal seemingly a source of ironic pride to the club's many supporters. The Elephant Bar continued to thrive and Erawan's thirst for adventure grew further, even as she won the hearts of many unsuspecting travelers. Nidnoi worked diligently, but could often be seen laughing with and chatting to the affable handyman who did all the odd jobs around the resort. He would joke with the guests about coconuts falling on their heads and amazed them with his ability to erect a hammock on their veranda in a matter of minutes. Sometimes, they noticed him in a bit of a daze as if struggling to grasp something beyond his reach. They put this down to his hard work in the heat. Nobody at all suspected that, in another life, he had been a Bangkok police detective.

Idiot

They say that someone who's just died looks 'beautiful'. To me, they just look dead. 'At peace' - well, if this means a total lack of worry, of conflict, then yes. A total lack of everything. Dead.

There were four of us. Harvey, Elly, Joe and myself. To me, they were all confrontational. I didn't feel that I was that way, but perhaps they perceived me differently. When the four of us were sitting together, there always existed an element of tension - suspicion even. It made me wonder if it was all worth it but, thinking about it now, that was part of the thrill. Harvey looked me straight in the eye and said, "You're an idiot." The others merely shrugged. I liked Harvey. The first time I met him, I asked his name and he told me. But then he said, "You can call me anything. Call me idiot if you want." I said that I'd call him Harvey. The jocularity between us had long since evaporated and now he merely ordered me around. "Just go now." I'd spent all day on a boat trip with him, and we'd even gone on a visa run together. I thought this time spent together had cemented our new friendship. 'You're a loser' were the words I now heard him say to me.

As much as I appreciated Elly, she was equally antagonistic towards me. If I dawdled, as I'm prone to do, she was unforgiving. "Hurry up idiot." I tried unsuccessfully to disguise the look of disappointment I gave her. Before she could retaliate, she was cut off by Harvey. "You're fucked," he said. I was fucked. Seriously fucked. In more ways than one. How is it that images of the dead can mingle so seamlessly with such an imaginative, alive ocean? That such lustrous, vivid colors can evoke a pall of misery? Perhaps this was the sly charm of death. That we are reminded of it even in the most beautiful of places. Before I indulge my somberness any longer, let me introduce Joe.

Joe had a zest for life that I envied. He was spontaneous and without airs and graces. He would take a kayak out early in the morning - his camera and a flask of whiskey stashed away - and come back by sunset, red-faced and beaming, with hundreds of idiosyncratic photos he'd taken during the course of the day. At night, he would lean on the bar, his head resting on his hands, while his peeling flesh was soothed by an application of Aloe vera. Whoever was doing the rubbing would be regaled, in muffled but enthusiastic tones, of the latest screenplay he was working on - inevitably a story of psychological terror. "Life is amazing. Watch this." He showed us a video he'd recorded. 'Dog vs Crab', he'd titled it. A lithe, black beach dog toyed with a tiny crab on the sand - a mismatch really. The crab should have stood no chance. It survived though, protected by its shell and imbued with a tenacity the dog lacked. Now it was me who needed a crab-like shell. "You are fucked mate." As if I needed reminding. "You tried to screw with me so now suck on it. Idiot."

Perhaps I was feeling sorry for myself for the hand I'd been dealt. Things seemed grim to me whichever way I looked at them. I was wounded. I had only been able to bluff the others for so long and it wasn't working any more. They could see straight through me. Now that they knew who and what they were really dealing with, they no longer felt the need to be cagey - and so the invective flowed. "Fairytales," said Elly. "You are a fairyteller." I told her that I doubted such a word existed. "Yes, but you know what I mean. You cannot fool us anymore." She was right. I couldn't fool them anymore. I couldn't fool myself anymore either. The time for bluffing was over. My reality here had become both my closest friend and my greatest adversary - azure skies, white sand, and a glassy ocean; loss, fear and hurt.

Harvey and I had gotten on well on the visa run from the island and back. I had teased him about his meal; luminous green peas next to a hunk of unappetizing fried fish. We had wandered around dazed in the morning, both of us unsure of our plans. Eventually, I had followed him back on a later boat. He was Scandinavian - fair and principled, but icy. It was this last trait that I was now experiencing. He looked me up and down, then in the eye, all the while projecting an indifference, an unsettling apathy. He tapped the table impatiently.

I was still here on the island, hoping to heal. But how do you reconcile such beauty with such morbidity? I was in the midst of trying to do just that, with only partial success. As much as I traipsed around the island carelessly, lolled in its inviting waters, dined on its superb cuisine and came to know its hospitable residents, I couldn't escape thoughts of illness, suffering, death and finally absence. In the frustrated and often desperate state I found myself, some sympathy wouldn't have gone amiss. "You are a complete idiot." Harvey pronounced each syllable with disturbing clarity.

To be fair, it wasn't only me that was bullied. We all preyed on each other. Scheming, backstabbing and innuendo were the order of the day. The others brushed it off, just as I pretended to. Elly had the thickest skin. We initially thought she was vulnerable because she was a girl - at least I did - and she used this to her advantage. So we learned not to underestimate her. She was no pushover - Teutonic blood ran thick in her veins. I would often feel myself on the verge of achieving something, proving myself in this uncompromising quartet, only for Elly to casually crush my ambitions. Her two friends rarely joined us. They were aloof - perhaps put off by the rough-edged competitiveness we displayed when together. They preferred to enjoy the island's obvious attractions, unwilling to embroil themselves in our silly game of oneupmanship.

And so we lived out a vicious Lord of the Flies-type fantasy - each of us trying to outdo the other, to trip each other up and gain dominance. Four people, unknown to one another not long previously, now all aimed to establish superiority over each other; to prove their worth. There was no room here for tenderness, comfort or mercy - exactly the things I craved.

My emotions were bound to boil over sooner or later. All this time, I had kept them largely to myself. I knew that If I exposed these emotions, my fate would be sealed - but any more words of derision would do it. Sitting together again, we all looked at each other, po-faced. "Come on," Elly nagged me. "The biggest idiot of the night is also the slowest idiot of the night," added Harvey. Joe simply sniggered. I snapped. "You're all fucking idiots. Every single one of you. Do you not know how hard this is for me, how new it is to me? Have you got no patience, no understanding? Can somebody give me a break for fuck's sake?" Harvey, Elly and Joe sat unmoved - a tapping of the table, a mocking 'tsk-tsk', an eyebrow raised. None of these people knew what I was feeling, or cared. Why should they? My situation was not unique, or even particularly special. I needed to grasp this and resign myself to all life's twists - cruel and kind. One can be crippled or elated, made a fool or a hero. There is no other choice but to take the hands you are dealt - good, bad or mainly just mediocre. Once you're in the game, you're in it to the end. I am as much of an idiot as each of my opponents; no more, no less. After taking a moment to compose myself, I spoke again. "It's your turn Joe, you stupid idiot."


* 'Idiot' is a card game also known as 'Shithead'.

My magical, belated birthday

A curious thing happened a few days back. It happened on the day I celebrated my birthday. More accurately, it happened on the day that was my birthday, as I didn't exactly celebrate it. This is not to say I didn't have a good time on my birthday, or enjoy it. In fact I did. However my enjoyment of the day had nothing to do with its being my birthday. It was neither because of nor in spite of that fact.

I have "celebrated" my birthdays only intermittently over the years. Of course when I was young, my parents - well, my mother really - would make a huge fuss and hold a party with tons of little friends invited. She would have a fun cake made in a shape like an airplane or fire engine. The parties were great. Horsing around with friends, eating lots of junk and getting presents. It was alright by me. As an adult, however, the novelty wore off and my birthday celebrations have been sporadic. I am one of those gloomy types who sees a birthday as denoting a year closer to death, rather than a reason to celebrate life. The times I've been around friends, they've urged me to do something, and we've had a pleasant gathering of sorts. Once or twice, I've found myself inspired to arrange an event on my own initiative. More often than not, though, I've been alone - or at least with people I don't really know - on my birthday, and it has passed unnoticed and unmarked.

This year was one of those times - or so I thought. I was on Ko Lipe, having traveled there alone. Nobody I'd met there knew me well or that it was my birthday. I was perfectly happy with this arrangement. This year especially, I had no real desire to do anything birthday-related. It would be my first birthday since my mother had suddenly passed away and, if anything, my birthday was a reminder of this. In years past, whatever I did or didn't do on my birthday, wherever I was, I was sure to get a text message, phone call or email from her, wishing her 'Pickle' a happy birthday. Pickle was the pet name - derived from Nick - she'd taken to calling me for many years. This would be the first year I wouldn't be receiving such a message. I had a lazy day, soaking in the bath water-warm sea and reading in my hammock. In the evening, I went to the small bar I'd taken a liking to. When I arrived back at my bungalow later that night - a bit worse for wear - I was astonished to find a birthday cake set on the bench of my bungalow's porch. It was a small, round cake, coated in white icing, and embossed with cartoon-like animal figures - a smiling mouse, alligator and zebra. I vaguely recalled seeing a photograph of a similar cake I'd got on my second or third birthday. On its side were written the words, 'Happy Birthday', above some Thai characters which I took to mean the same thing. I'd had quite a few drinks that evening - quite befitting of a birthday in fact - and had also accepted a few joints passed to me by a generous, over-stoned, stranger sitting nearby. So I sat and stared at this cake for quite a while in stunned confusion. After some time, I realized that in my stupor I was unlikely to make any logical sense of the cake's sudden appearance. But there it was. I wasn't that out of it. I prodded it once or twice, picked it up and turned it around. Then my curiosity and surprise gave way to an onset of the munchies. For whatever reason, the cake was there - and I was hungry. Before I tore into it, somehow I had the presence of mind to take a few snaps of the mysterious delicacy.

I woke up in the morning, my head pulsating, with bits of cake plastered to my face, bedding and pillows. I spied the remainder of the cake looking rather forlorn. It sat on the floor, withered and globby - the night's humidity had taken its toll. A trail of ants ran from it, down between the wooden slats of the bungalow's floor. Its cutesy cartoon animals were now joined by a variety of bugs that had found the cake too tempting to resist and then too sticky to escape. It had tasted good the night before, but had certainly had its day. Gingerly, I got out of bed and dumped the glutinous remains in the garbage can outside my bungalow. After drinking a few cups of coffee and lounging in the sea for a while - the best hangover tonic I know - I began the task of tracking down the origin of my unexpected birthday cake. There was no way I could just let this mystery lie. I was intrigued and also utterly confused. Who, on this small island, could have known it was my birthday and gone to the trouble of getting me a cake? And why had it been done in secret? I had seen nobody I knew here, and even if I had, would they have known it was my birthday and got me a cake? Then a thought hit me. Facebook! Facebook friends' birthdays appear on the website's screen. I had got dozens of facebook messages wishing me a happy birthday, but from nobody who was here. However, on my first night on the island I'd got chatting to a Czech guy, Marek. We sat late into the night at a quiet bar. His sleepy-looking girlfriend sat beside him, tugging at his shirt sleeve every now and then in an effort to get him to leave, but he had a lot to say and wasn't easily moved. They were heading to New Zealand in a few days as part of an extensive travel itinerary. Much to the relief of his patient girlfriend, Marek eventually tired and they got their bill. I wished them well and they left. In the course of our chat, Marek and I had swapped facebook details - he had since become another of my 'friends' whom I barely knew. My birthday would have been announced on his facebook page. Then I thought about it; sure, we had gotten on well enough - talking football, travel and the history of our respective countries. He had been impressed when I casually mentioned the city he came from, Ostrava. But surely he hadn't grown so fond of me from our solitary conversation that he'd gone out and bought me a birthday cake! What would his girlfriend have thought? He must have met countless other travelers who he'd added to his facebook list. Was he in the habit of regularly buying birthday cakes for people he'd just met? It didn't make sense, and then when I thought back to our chat, I realized they would have left the island a few days earlier anyway. No, it wasn't Marek. Come to think of it, I hadn't even got a birthday greeting from him via facebook, let alone a cake.

I went to the beach bar of the resort I was staying at. It doubled as the reception and was staffed by three young Thai girls - Nidnoi, Bell and Pancake. Pancake was biologically a boy but seemed to much prefer being a girl. They were a bubbly trio - sweet, helpful and quick to smile, even if communication was at times difficult. The three girls often seemed baffled by the antics of their western guests, but handled them with a warmth of spirit common to most people on the island. They took everything in their stride; where I may have been tempted to clobber some visitors, given their rude behavior, the girls found it quirky and laughed it off. Nidnoi worked efficiently and was in charge of the cash box. She was tall and busty for a Thai girl, and I'm sure feisty enough if she needed to be. Bell was the baby of the bunch. Short with a bob, she had a mischievous, dimpled grin and was apt to finish off any excess cocktails that had been prepared at the bar. Pancake, the boy, was the most striking of the three. He was beautiful - long-limbed and willowy, with cascading hair, curves in all the right places and a killer smile. All three of the crew were in the bar-cum-reception, babbling on excitedly about something or other in Thai. I decided not to mention that it had been my birthday, and instead just asked them if they'd seen anybody around the previous evening with a white cake. They all gazed at me, puzzled. Bell, in particular, looked at me as if I'd just asked her if she'd enjoyed her dinner with a spaceman the night before. She had the most infectious smile, but here it was supplanted by an expression of blank befuddlement. It was Nidnoi, who was the most senior and whose English was best, that spoke first. "Maybe you have new girlfriend here and she brought you a romantic cake."
"But if new girlfriend, Pancake is very jealous," quipped Bell. They all cracked up laughing. The svelte, coquettish Pancake didn't miss a beat. "It's ok. Can have girlfriend. We share. No problem for me."
"But Nick is too old for you," said Nidnoi.
"Yes. He not strong any more. Pancake - you in love with boy from Sweden," chimed in Bell again. Pancake blushed a deep red, and turned away. The cake inquiry seemed to be getting nowhere, but I thought I'd keep up the playful banter. "Swedish guy, hey Pancake. Which one? Have I ever seen him?" Pancake, half-serious now, replied, "No, cos you wake up too late Nick. He always here in the morning. You still sleep I think, come home too late at night." Nidnoi gestured towards her midriff. "He has a six-pack. Blonde hair. Sexy sexy."
"But never look at Pancake," said Bell, half in sympathy, half in jest. Pancake didn't mind the ribbing. "Whatever. Many sexy guy. Even Nick ok. But not handsome enough for cake. No way." They all burst into laughter. These were honest, down-to-earth girls, and if they had any knowledge of the cake or an inkling of where it had come from, they would have let me know. I would have to take my investigation elsewhere. I hadn't bargained on becoming a holiday sleuth, but the world has a strange way of throwing up unanticipated situations.

A tasty, well-made cake on a sweltering tropical island? Not many kitchens on Ko Lipe could have been responsible for producing this. If I'd come home the night before to find a surprise bowl of steaming hot noodles, or a chunk of grilled fish, on my porch, I wouldn't have stood a chance - these were the island's staples. But it struck me that only a bakery could have made my unexplained birthday gift. Once the girls were done teasing me and each other, Nidnoi assured me that there were only three bakeries on the whole of the island and gave me directions to each; Harmony Bakery, Pee Pee Bakery and Flour Power. I set off, my camera in hand.

Harmony was as much a refuge for those suffering from heat exposure as a bakery. It was one of the few air-conditioned establishments on the island, and was frequently packed with bedraggled, sweat-soaked tourists who looked less like they were in need of a dainty pastry than a return to more customary, cooler climes. Air-conditioning comes at a price, though, and customers would dutifully toil their way through one of the confections the bakery had on offer, while gulping in the frigid air like a fish returned to water. I explained my story to the staff on duty and showed them, on my camera, a picture I had taken of the cake. Everyone looked at the picture with slightly confused expressions then shook their heads. It hadn't been made at Harmony bakery. Next, I walked down the island's main thoroughfare, aptly-named Walking Street. Near the end of this street, a sign indicated the location of Pee Pee Bakery. In contrast to the breeziness of the rest of this sign, its slogan, 'We knew your taste', suggested a cherished familiarity sadly lost - like meeting an old friend after a long time, only to find you no longer have anything in common. It was a much more basic set-up than Harmony, and the friendly owner told me, in broken English, that she did not bake birthday cakes. I showed her the picture anyway. She smiled and laughed softly. "You lucky man. Somebody here love you. Sometimes something is mystery. It is ok. No need to understand all mystery. Just be happy with mystery." I smiled and thanked her. They were kind words but my mind, mired in rationalism, wouldn't permit me simply to leave things at that. Across the island, on Sunset Beach, I found the signs leading the way to Flour Power, but when I arrived there, the place looked closed. Not just closed for the day, but closed down. A local man, passing by, confirmed this for me. "It closed maybe 6 months ago. Too far. People don't want to walk here. Maybe when we have new roads and taxi cars they open again." To me, that was a sad prospect. To make matters worse, I was back to square one. It was getting late and I was getting tired. Legwork in the tropical heat, I had discovered, was very draining. I headed home.

News travels fast on a tiny island. As I got back, Bell jogged up to me. "Why you not tell it your birthday? The cake is birthday cake. Why you not tell us?" Her lips scrunched up in a look of feigned disappointment, and then she laughed. I followed her over to the others. "We were just gossiping about you," announced Nidnoi unabashedly.
"Gossiping about what?" I asked.
"We cannot tell. We can only tell when you become Pancake's boyfriend."
"Ok, I'll think about it, but that's not really fair." It was Pancake's turn now. "You also not fair. You did not say yesterday was your birthday."
"I'm sorry. I didn't feel like anybody knowing. I didn't want a big fuss made. I just wanted a low-key birthday. How did you all know anyway?"
"Our friend, Pee Pee bakery tell us," explained Bell. "She say you have photo."

At that point, a voice rang out across the beach. "Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo. Hello. Banaaana, coconut, Sinnammmmon. Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo. Banaaana, coconut, Sinnammmmon. Ok. Ok." It was the old lady who made the rounds of the island daily, selling buns, muffins and donuts. She had a distinctive, high-pitched sing-song call, not unlike some of the birds that called the island home. "Yoo-hoo, Yoo-hoo." I started to walk towards her, on the off chance she had been involved in my cake's fabrication. Nidnoi stopped me. "Nick, she never makes or sells cakes. Never." I turned around and walked back. "Why did you spend all day looking for someone who made your birthday cake? You are funny. Maybe it's a magic cake from a magic place. You think I'm joking, but I'm not. Sometimes magical things can happen. It's true. You should be happy about such good magic, about a good mystery." Her words echoed those of the lady at Pee Pee bakery. Bell and Pancake were sitting on the low wall next to the bar, their legs dangling listlessly. They were nodding in agreement. "Ok. Ok," I said, "You're right. It's all magic. A cake from heaven!" Nidnoi, sensing my sarcastic tone, gave me a slightly annoyed look. "Can we see the photo of the cake please?" she asked. "Sure." I turned on my camera and scrolled to the picture. All three girls huddled around me, Bell on her tiptoes and squinting in the late afternoon sun. They looked at the picture and then at each other. Something was up. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"It's funny," said Pancake. Nidnoi elaborated. "The cake is nice but the message is strange."
"What's so strange about 'Happy Birthday'?"
"It says 'Happy Birthday' but the Thai writing is funny. Strange."
"I thought it also said 'Happy Birthday', but in Thai."
"No, it doesn't."

Bell shuffled back from the restaurant, holding a tray in her hands. Nidnoi had tried her best to describe the word to me, but I still wasn't sure what she meant. "Dong," she said in Thai. On the tray were the four pots of condiments usually provided in thai eating places. Nidnoi took one, opened the lid and pointed inside - slices of chilli soaked in vinegar. This is what had been written on my cake? "This one! Nam som sai chu, Dong," Nidnoi exhorted me to understand. A stranger sitting at the bar knew what she meant. "Chillis in vinegar. Pickled chillis."
"Yes, Pickle," said Nidnoi remembering the word. "Your cake is funny. It says 'Happy Birthday Pickle'." Everyone laughed. I turned white.

I returned to the beach bar later that evening, my mind strangely calmed. As I got there, the girls leapt out at me, screaming 'Happy Birthday'. They brought me a small candle, a bottle of beer and demanded photos be taken. All the other guests at the bar wished me 'Happy Birthday' too. I thought about telling them it wasn't actually my birthday but changed my mind. I might as well enjoy the moment. If I didn't like celebrating my birthday, it kind-of followed that I should enjoy celebrating my non-birthday. The party went on late into the night. Looking back on it, in many ways it was a magical birthday.

Bell

Nidnoi

Pancake

The girls at work

Yoo-hoo, Yoo-hoo