by Ede Clarke
“And this is a place where they take snorkelers and divers?”
“Oh, yes, all the time.” Comforting. “You’ll have to come out with us, Patty. It’ll be great to have a newbie along. Always makes it more fresh.”
“Thank you, Glenda. I’d really like to but I start work pretty soon after I land and I have no idea what my schedule is.”
“I see. Well, let me know. We’d love to have you.”
I scan the boat when my eyes laze to the outside beyond the weathered splinters onto the water. Standing to see more outside the boat, the small islands and the small waves sink into purity and beauty. The calmness and relaxation that water has always brought to me is different in this moment because it’s now also mixed with excitement and a sense to contribute. I don’t just want to take.
“So, you work on Phi Phi?” one of the other women ask me.
“Yes. I will be teaching English part-time to the staff at the resort.”
“How fun!” one guest shouts out.
“Do you get a good deal?” Glenda asks.
“Where do you live?” asks the other woman again.
Then it occurs to me that just like when Candy described the motley crew on her boat, I don’t know these people and they don’t know me. The man across from me could be dodging German authorities for murder and the young—too young for him—girl he’s with he could have kidnapped and brainwashed. And the woman who wants to know where I’m living could be asking because she wants to come by and steal everything I own. Just because we are on a boat together in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean we should trust each other. The sun suddenly hits the metal strip of the bow where I was looking and it blinds me. When I open up again, I know I can decide who I am—with these people, with any people, every day, all day, all year. Who should I be?
“I’m not sure where I’ll be living. I know it doesn’t have a/c but does have water, but not hot water—”
“No hot water?” the young German-accented girl shrieked. Okay. Maybe not kidnapped. Maybe spoiled trophy of rich German.
“And I know it is away from the guest bungalows but on the same property.”
“Do you room with a Thai worker?” asked Glenda.
“Yes. I’m really looking forward to that. I figure it will be a tremendous help in understanding their culture, which will be essential in teaching them English.”
“Yes, dear,” replied Glenda, so motherly. “I’ve read quite a bit, but it’s just not the same, I’m sure.” Easy to talk to Glenda. With her, I could possibly be me.
“Will we see you around?” asked the other woman. “Like at the restaurant and pool and . . . well, around?” “Not sure. I really don’t know how it will be.”
We become mesmerized by the passing small white caps and lull of the boat skipping off each tip before it rolls over. A bit rough at times, I clutch the side with my left hand and hold myself to the soaked mat with my right—don’t want to hit my head on the hatch when we land after a sneaker wave. My shoulders tighten a bit and a familiar pain in my right shoulder neck area begins to grow. Haven’t felt that in quite some time, since The Five, maybe since Erie Public. Just need to relax and breathe with the rhythm of the battering we are taking.
The German girl has collapsed into her man, surrendering to the last series of hard hits when re-entering the water. “Do you get sick usually?” Glenda asks. She must have noticed me watching the German girl.
“I don’t really know. I’ve been on boats so seldom.”
“Yet you said you love the water.”
“Oh, yes. All my life it has given me an instant peace. I was just near Lake Erie a few months ago and it fed my soul like this.”
“I lived on Lake Michigan years and years ago. The lake effect was something else in the winter.”
“With your family?”
“No. I lived alone and with a girlfriend for a time who needed a place to stay. My folks were in Jersey. They both died there.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, my dear. That was so many years ago. Plus, you are here alone, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You don’t feel anyone has to apologize to you about it, right?”
“Right,” I smile at her. “But, you know Glenda I wasn’t saying ‘I’m sorry’ because you’re alone, I . . . ”
“I know. I know. But, it makes it sadder to people because I don’t have a husband. When the parents die, then people think of my alone as different.”
“Well, it is. Isn’t it?”
“So, see . . . you were apologizing for no husband, too,” she smiles back.
“Maybe I was.” Maybe I was.
We begin to see bigger islands and then what looks to be a long stretch of land, what I assume is the Phi Phi islands, looking more like a peninsula. We all stand and then some kneel on the slippery mats as we look out and see the deep greens of the island top the deep blue and green of the water. I wish the boat was going slower so I could really see, but then I realize we are headed for this land and then I want it to go faster so we can get there. The deep green begins to also have some light brown sprinkled throughout, and a small faint beach becomes clearer and clearer. I see huts! I see manicured walkways and thatched roofs and two small brown buildings among the wild vegetation. All of this inside a small cove that now completely wraps us on the left and right. Two large hills of dense rock with staggered vegetation and dirt guard the cove on the left and right sides. And, in the middle, dead ahead, there is a rise of green behind the huts that must be a rolling hill leading to the other side of the island, to the water there. That must be how the water wall was broken and this was saved for them . . . for me.
The engine cuts out, the boat begins to rock back and forth with big exaggeration with each shallow wave. Then one of our crew splashes into the water with a rope in his hand, guiding us forward. I lean back a bit and look over the side to see this water that I just heard. I see the bottom of it where sand begins. The sand looks like the desert with wind, endless ripples. And then colorful fish are right there, I can almost touch them if my arm were not so high above the water. Then the trees become palm trees, and the flowers become Lotus, Jasmine, and Orchid. The sprinkled brown is carefully thatched villas living inside the spirit of this old island and its birds, bushes, palms, sand, rocks, and breezes. The definition of the colors hits me so hard, the sun no longer seems so intense. Grateful. Glenda and I glance at each other in glee. “How long will you be here?” I ask.
“Not long enough,” she sighs deeply back.
The things that make Buffalo and Phi Phi so different slide into what makes them the same. Snow is not so different from sand, in that it takes over and fills every crevice of life. It is the base, not the accent. The details are never grains or flakes, but petals and cornices. And the same misunderstanding and judgment abounds. Yet the thing that links these two places for me is the same thing that helps me realize that although I’m the constant, my barometer is skipping left and right of the median. So, let them misunderstand. Let fly the remarks that once cut. I seem to care more now about learning the tide schedule and being cradled in warmth while sleeping without missing air conditioning.
Everything I was introduced to in the first day or so was in reference to, “The Canadian,” who had apparently just left last low season after a very successful three seasons of tutelage. “The Canadian’s room is there,” pointing through winding paths with lush green and vibrant purples and yellows hanging in front of the villas on the path, “in that group of three in the back, where there is no breeze in the evening like on the front line villa path.” I quickly learned this meant, my room is there—everything the Canadian once had I now have.
I had to walk up three steps to my front door, which leads to my box, as it is called. A very simple stilted three-room house with a thatched pitched roof, no electricity, no hot water, and three windows with perfectly stapled plastic in the panes. The door is th
ick, nubby beige muslin with serious Velcro on the left and right side and secured on the top and bottom to the bamboo door frame with zippers, glued to the bamboo and sowed into the muslin. During the day it is tied to the side with a Velcro-secured sash. At night, all is zipped and closed to keep out the mosquitoes, especially in the rainy months of low season. The initial room is big. Two twin bed mattresses lie on the floor—one with crisp, ironed sheets tucked under onto the floor with one brightly colored throw folded at the foot; the other has what looks to be a hand-made silk quilt draped over the entire bed, even the pillow. Both beds have thin bamboo mats on one side each, and a strong scent of tea tree oil wafts from the quilt area. A small opening leads to the washing sink, which can be seen from the bedroom, along with the plumbing under the sink. Good, running water. To the right of the sink is an open closet area, no two distinct areas are obvious so sharing must be the plan. To the left of the sink is another fabric partition, this time much thinner and brighter. The cheery yellow see-through pulled silk curtain masks the toilet and shower on the other side, both of which are housed together in a small room with adobe-colored tile. A large wood roach sits in the corner closest to the yellow curtain. Not afraid of daylight, or man, or our shooing.
“That is the Canadian’s bed,” she pointed quickly while turning toward the front door again. “And this is my bed.” The faint smile she tried to give me broke my heart. She wants to like me. She wants me to like her. So young. But, she doesn’t like me.
“Thank you. This is lovely.”
“Lovely,” she repeated.
“Yes, just lovely,” I encouraged with a bigger smile. I don’t know if I like her either.
Low season is a time of preparation. It is lazy in appearance, but fierce in activity. All is done for the upcoming benefit of the guest. Invest now; dividend later. Trouble is that most of the island Thai people, don’t understand much beyond today and maybe tomorrow. No guests to them means no job and they are very nervous about lack of provision. The few guests of Glenda and the others at this time of year are the saving grace of the management. They know these few stranglers amongst the mosquitoes, rain, and heat are the sanity of their employees. Only a dozen or fewer staff live in the boxes. The rest live along the mini-coves of the island on our west side and the east side. The thatched coverings settle families into the rocks, moss, leaves, woven walls, and foliage they and generations before them have called home. They are fisherman and hunters and nature observers who happen to also work at a resort. Most have rusted bicycles that creak them around the island in sufficient time for all to get done what is necessary.
It was months before I was invited to the huts. And even then I think they invited me before they really wanted to. But, I enjoyed my first visit and looked forward to more nights there of listening to stories in languages I don’t understand while eating food that I don’t recognize. They made me feel uncomfortable and special at the same time. And all I wanted to do was thank them in a way that would be meaningful to them, but didn’t know how.
Re-creating oneself is a tricky business on an island since you can’t compartmentalize yourself as you can when in a city or even a small town. You can always be polite at the bank, cleaners; mildly put-off at the grocery store; and usually in a huff but quite busy and important in the car or on the phone. At work you can be several different people to different departments or coworkers, even break it down into meetings. One woman at Erie Public was always much more attentive in morning meetings than afternoon meetings. We just knew that to be her. But on an island when all of us live and work together in a stretch of land that is less than one mile across and two miles long, in an environment pretty much controlled by nature instead of man, I decided to let alone the business of deciding who I would become here.
The schedule of teaching English and manners and western culture to the staff was all-consuming. Classtime was limited, but all day, every day I was seen as the one to watch, the one to ask, the one who knew. And since nervousness breeds busyness for the sake of being busy, and thoroughness for the sake of feeding the fear inside, a steady flow of questions came to me all day long. Answering them made me feel angry and sad at the same time. I knew deep down they didn’t care about their question really. They had other questions they wanted to ask but couldn’t because they had already asked them and didn’t believe the encouraging answers.
One day I was asked, “Do you know if I can bow to a Muslim and a Christian at the same time without offending either of them?”
I wanted to answer, “You will have a job in four months. Don’t worry.” Instead, I fed into the underworld of ruling by fear and said, “That is not a problem. They will not be offended because they know your Hindu ways are to bow. They will find it delightful and try to say, ‘swatika’ back.”
Over time a strange undercurrent developed between me and these servants of foreigners: They left me alone concerning my personal life and I deeply appreciated it to the point of feeling indebted to them. It’s like they knew exactly what I needed and gave it to me without having to ask or knowing me. This way, it was left unsaid and a sweet secret between us all. It made me incredibly protective of them all and a quiet respect grew inside me that gave birth to patience and kindness. They needed so little to live, that gifts to each other were rarely of things. Mostly it was of time, energy, conversation, acts of service like helping a coworker’s grandmother ring out the family’s laundry, or help fill in the gaps on the fishing boats with tar paste. They let me serve them and in return I was a blank slate.
It was quite different with the guests, however. They all wanted to know the story and in detail and the why, why, why of everything. Most of the time I was away from the guests so this wasn’t a daily nuisance. But as the low season drew to an end and high season crept upon us, there was a growing wave in the distance that had my name on it. I knew I would be seriously outflanked soon and my community could not protect me.
“What’s so horrible about coming to grips with what you’ve been through and your sadness. That is the thing you must swallow and get right with. Then it doesn’t matter who you have to tell it to.”
Leave it to Candy to set me straight. “So true, my friend,” I replied quietly while eating grated coconut one sliver at a time. So pure. So sweet. “I haven’t been working on this stuff because I don’t think that is important. I don’t journal. I don’t take pictures. I live. Now. The rest takes care of itself.”
I’m not interested in anything that could corner me out of an option. The idea of being knit together with one man and two children for the rest of my life is not a problem. The idea of not being able to then go study basket weaving in Africa for a year is.
“That didn’t stop Marie, did it?” she quickly popped off.
“No. And let’s hope I never get to the point of compromising things like that.”
“But you’ll never get to that point. There is no investment . . . nothing to walk out on.”
“Miss you.”
“Miss you, too.”
The sticky messiness of the mango no longer bothers me. Neither does the impractical design of the shape—hard to keep a hold of once peeled—nor the pit location—hard to cut around. I gave into the idea of grabbing hold of it with force, letting bits of the stalk come through my finger spaces. Then I just suck on it and bite on it until the pit is only left. The mess is horrific. The smell doesn’t leave for hours. And it’s best when done outdoors. The sand gets into it too, but when is the sand not involved now? The chaffing is over, and now the sand is a resource of refining whatever it rubs against—my skin, my food, my teeth, my hair, my friends and coworkers. The guests don’t stay long enough for it to have a lasting effect on them, rubbing off something unneeded. They are still pulling and swatting and smoothing it away while here. I’m settled into it and even rub around a bit on top of it to really make sure it’s abrasive powers are affective.
“I hear you’re from the States, here alone. It mus
t be so wonderful to not have any kids or anything and just live on an island,” came a loud voice only an American could be bolstering about.
“Mmm . . . yes,” I reply with a faint smile and began to walk on past.
“Well . . . wait a moment, please,” she persists with less volume. We stand looking at each other. She is waiting for me to say something, but I will not reply to a question that was not asked. So, we stand and wait. Finally she surrenders, “Have a nice rest of your day.”
Only by living abroad can an American truly understand how loud and obnoxious and prideful we Americans can be. Luckily, the sand has, I believe, smoothed off some of this and a layer of stillness and satisfaction lay grafted in its place. The endless drive for “more” is becoming more of a restful “enough.” Phi Phi is an area where few Americans are found. Mostly Europeans and more and more Japanese fill our days. But when the Americans hit we know it immediately from the disruption and energy level shift. There is a sense of entitlement that accompanies most westerners, but especially the Americans. I know it within myself on a daily basis during interactions with the staff. I can feel it rise in me—the things I deserve; know; understand; and have experienced that they are void of. This ugliness is no more present when I see it in another staring right at me. “You, too. Enjoy your visit,” I reply.
On days off I leave early in the morning, often having to walk to the other side of the island since it is low tide on our west side. Then I catch a long tail boat and float between the islands for hours, sometimes landing in a small cove for an hour or so before heading out again. I snorkel and swim in the mini caves, careful to not scrape my relaxed legs on coral coming out from beneath. Then back on the long tail, behind the skyscraper rock formations, dividing me from the sun. In the shadows the water becomes black with a faint slick to it like slowly poured out oil. I touch it often to make sure again it is water. Everything is very real and very imaginary at the same time.
