writingintune.com

with files and editing by Xavier Kataquapit

Out of another world I came exploding to the surface, in my bedroom, to the sound of my name being called out in the dark. I jumped up startled at the desperate tone coming from my friend Sapiyeh at the other end of the room. I strained my eyes and could just make out his face wide eyed and silhouetted in a red glow. He called my name again “Mike!” and pointed to the window.

Crack!  The sound of glass breaking caught my attention. Something was seriously wrong and it took me a few more seconds before I realized that the pulsating glow at the window was fire. I lunged to the pane, parted the blind and peered out to see a neighbour’s home engulfed in flames. I cranked open the window and immediately we could smell the smoke and hear the roar of the flames as they licked away at sixty years of history. There were cries too from voices here and there and out and around the fierce blaze.

In a heightened state, Sapiyeh and I threw on some clothes and bolted towards the stairs. Halfway there we encountered mom, still half-asleep but knowing full well that a crisis was in the air.

“What’s going on? Is something wrong?!” she asked in a voice that almost shrieked.

Sapiyeh not knowing her as well as I let the first word roll out of his mouth too quickly,

“There’s a fire, a fire!” he said.

Mom accommodated that little bit of information with a full-blown shriek that she reserves for life and death panic situations. I flipped on a light and guided her to the back bathroom window, pointed outside and said, “Look it’s not our house, it’s Scully’s.”

Her panic did a flip into concern and sadness for the Scully family and we left her there at that small bathroom window peering at the wild flames.

In full speed Sapiyeh and I got dressed, put on our parkas and heavy snowmobile boots and headed out into the frigid darkness. We scrambled around back as quickly as we could through the waist high snow, right up to the back of the blazing inferno that had only hours before been a neighbourhood home. We watched from our place in the snow. The towering flames ate away at the old building and even though we were still a couple of hundred feet away the only good thing about the situation was the warmth we felt on our faces at minus forty degrees Celsius and of course the fact that we were flying out to Bangkok the next day.

THE ARRIVAL

As we stepped out of the airport terminal a wave of heat hit us and compounded 23 accumulative hours of flying time that had already reduced us to confused, weak and testy travelers. I was in no mood to play games with the taxi drivers and the manager that seemed to control the group hanging out in front of the terminal. I walked right up to him, glared into his eyes and said bluntly, “We want a taxi, we want to go downtown to Tavee guest house and don’t want to pay anymore than 200 Baht.”

“Oh, downtown is so far, no can do for 200 Baht, you go downtown, 400 Baht. It’s Okay, here you take this one, 400 Baht”, said the thin wrinkled little manager with a smile on his face.

“Look, we’re tired and we want to go to Tavee guest house and we pay 200 Baht, no more,” I said a little less sure of myself.

I knew it was coming.

“Okay, Okay, we have special, special price, 300 Baht, you go with this man,” countered the manager.

A sharply dressed Thai quickly became part of the conversation as the manager pulled him into our circle.

“Okay, yes, yes, I take you downtown, come, 300 Baht,” said the cabby and he pulled at my pack.

“Ah, go ahead I’m too tired to argue with these guys, it’s only a 100 Baht more, that’s only 4 dollars for god’s sake,” said Sapiyeh.

In the short analysis he made sense. We scrambled into the back seat of an old Toyota and the sharply dressed cabby sped us out into the Bangkok night.

It took no more then ten minutes before we realized that our lives hung precariously in what became apparent to us as the hands of a wild man at the controls of a battered little hunk of a car that rattled and banged all along the road into Bangkok. Even though it was one in the morning, the main artery into Bangkok was cluttered with traffic and it seemed as though we were part of some unsanctioned race. Neither one of us said anything we just gave each other weak looks. After flying over four countries and the world’s largest ocean we both understood that in these immediate circumstances at 120 kilometers an hour, in a beat up piece of shit on four wheels we could die in an instant.

When we finally arrived at our destination, we didn’t even know it. The car screeched to a halt. I handed 300 Baht to the sharply dressed driver and voila, there we were standing in the dark, watching our only connection to anything, ride off in a trail of heavy blue exhaust. It was a least 42 degrees Celsius and I was sweating buckets. We looked for signs of a hotel or a guesthouse but nothing stood out. There was a smell of sewage in the air, mixed with the Toyota’s exhaust and one flickering florescent light shone like a faint beacon to the entrance of an alleyway in the direction our cabby had pointed to.

There was a faint light on the other side of the street and muffled voices came out of the shadows seated around a table.  With no real notion of where to go we made for that light with our packsacks in hand.  As we neared, the shadows took on form.

“Oh look there are two Thai guys and a black guy and I think that’s a restaurant they are sitting outside of,” I said.

As though on cue, the three men at the table laughed aloud and it stopped us dead in our tracks.  We scanned the street looking for a sign of Tavee Guest House.  Water gurgled at the side of the street and from under what seemed to be sewers.  The stagnant odour made sewers a good guess.

“Hey, what’s that over there,” I said pointing to what looked like an alleyway.

“Lets have a look,” I continued.

With unsteady feet on the rough pavement we made our way to an opening on the side of the street that in fact turned out to be an alleyway.  From our vantage point we could see a faint light down this alley and there was a sign that we couldn’t make out.

Tavee Guest House

“That must be the place your niece told us about.  I don’t see anything else around,” said Sapiyeh.

We hurried down the lane way and we were pleasantly surprised that the sign said ´Welcome to Tavee Guest House´.  The sign was painted on the side of a large wooden gate.  Sapiyeh pushed on it and it opened up into a courtyard.  The entire area was tiled and large ceramic vases with green shrubs made it seem friendly.  By us at the door there was a mat and near it were several rows of shoes.

“Great this is where we lose our shoes,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right but I think we shouldn’t have trouble finding them in the morning,” said Sapiyeh.

We added our fowl smelling runners to the rows of shoes and headed for what seemed like a reception area.  Before we got to the reception a short and stocky Asian man came out of a doorway and rushed towards us.

“Hello, hello, welcome, welcome, Tavee Guest House,” he said to us and pointed to two young Thai women who stood beside a log wooden bar in a reception/restaurant area.

I tried to explain, “We have reservation from Canada and . . ” and then I was cut-off by the short Asian man who still pointing to the young Thai women said, “English, English, yes speak English.”

We got the message and headed towards the girls.

We made our way to the corner of the bar where the two smiling Thai women stood.

“We have a reservation from Canada,” I said.

The taller for the two broke her smile and through crooked teeth said, “It´s OK you don´t need reservation, we have room”.

“But you don´t understand, I called all the way from Canada to make a reservation and I talked to Mr. Tavee.  I booked a room for us here.  My name is McGrath, Michael McGrath,” I said.

At this point the smaller of the two girls opened her smile into a yawn.  Sapiyeh nudged my arm and offered, “I don´t think this is the kind of place we need a reservation for”.

Then he turned to the taller of the Thai women and asked, “Can we have a room then?”

The short Asian man answered “Yes, yes, room, room.  I Mr. Tavee.  Room, no problem.”

Then he spoke a few words in Thai to the two girls.  The taller Thai woman explained that the short Thai man was indeed Mr. Tavee, also the father of the two women.  She confirmed that he had spoken on the phone but that no reservations were required.

“You like two rooms?” asked the smaller Thai woman.

“No, no.  I reserved a room with air conditioning and two beds,” I said impatiently.

The two girls looked at each other and then turned to Mr. Tavee.  They spoke a few words in Thai to him and he answered them.  The taller of the two Thai women explained, “So sorry, only room left, one bed and we no have air con, Tavee Guest House.”

“Jesus Christ!” I said.

I dropped my bag and sat up on the stool in front of the bar.  Sapiyeh piped up, “It´s OK.  It´s OK the room is fine.  How much?”

The smaller of the two women explained that the room was 200 Baht or $8 Canadian for one night.  She wondered out loud, “How many nights will you stay?”

“We don´t know how long we stay but one night for sure,” I said now seated at the bar and resting my head in my hands on the wooden counter.

“You pay tomorrow.  Go see room now,” said the taller of the two girls, as she moved around the counter, keys in hand and headed up to a set of stairs.

We headed up a rickety set of stairs and I thought at least we had a place to stay in an environment that was completely foreign to us.  At the top of the stairs the young Thai woman ushered us down a dark hallway to a plain wooden door.  She fiddled with the key in the doorknob and let us step in first while she flicked on the light.  There was one double bed that looked lumpy and tattered, a ceiling fan and a dresser in a corner.

“OK, you put luggage down, I show you toilet and shower,” said the young Thai woman.

We tossed our bags on the bed and followed her out the door and down the rickety staircase.  We turned left at the bar and headed down another hallway which opened up into a large room.  This room had several sinks and a couple of tables and chairs.  The young Thai woman pointed to three shower stalls and then she took us into our first Thai lavatory.

“This is toilet,” I guessed she said.

Surprised at the bare ceramic bowl that sat before us, Sapiyeh and I looked at each other with disbelief.

“There´s no toilet seat,” Sapiyeh said.

“Yes, yes this toilet,” answered the young Thai woman a little defensively.

“OK, where is the toilet paper?” I asked.

The young Thai woman went directly to a hose that was attached to a faucet and stuck into a pail.  She pulled the hose out and turned the faucet on and water poured out.

“You no need paper.  No paper.  You use water only,” the young Thai woman explained.

“There´s no flusher for the toilet,” said Sapiyeh, after scouting the shiny white bowl.

“Oh, you flush like this,” said the young Thai woman as she took hold of the bucket that was half full of water and sloshed it into the bowl.  Sure enough it flushed.

“How the hell am I going to go to the bathroom in that fucking thing.  I can´t believe this but I am not going to worry about it, let´s go to bed,” I said.

“You have any questions?,” asked the young Thai woman.

“No, no,” we answered and headed out of the room down the hallway, up the rickety stairs and back to our bedroom.

I noticed a big hole in the screen window and that got us into a debate about the danger of insects coming into the room.  However, as we were both suffering from the jet lag due to the mammoth 23-hour flight, we agreed that there was nothing to be done about it.  Our immediate need was sleep.

As we both lay in the darkened room and with the whirl of the slow moving ceiling fan above, I imagined tarantulas, scorpions and snakes were at arms reach and waiting for us to slip into slumber.  In a matter of minutes my Cree friend was snoring like an old bull dog and I lay eyes wide open, stiff as a board with a faint feeling of hot air being pushed at me from the overhead fan.  I nodded off to what I recognised as the sound of mosquitoes buzzing towards my breath.

When I awoke Sapiyeh was already up and sitting in a chair at the corner of the room.  He was dressed and looked a little impatient.

“So, how was your first night in Bangkok?” he asked.

The fan was still pushing the hot air around.  The sunlight spread across part of the room through half open venetian blinds in the window and there was a multitude of sounds coming from the street.  I still felt exhausted but the bed held no allure with its lumpy mattress now soaked from our sweat.

“I don´t mind hot but this is nuts.  Let´s get washed up and get the hell out of here,” I said.

On our way down the rickety stairs to the washroom we met a blonde haired couple.  The guy said, “Good morning” with an accent that sounded German.  At the bottom of the stairs we were met with a room full of travellers, eating, chatting and laughing.  Most of the heads turned to look at us as we entered the room.  The taller of the two young Thai women cried out, “Hello Canada.  Canada, you want eat?”

The looks of the faces in the room seemed more satisfied now.  They knew more about us then we did about them.

“Not now.  We go to toilet now but later,” said Sapiyeh.

We headed down the hallway to the washroom.

The Water Closet

No, the washroom situation had not been a bad dream from the night before; it was in fact reality.  There was a sign near the showers that read ´Save energy – shower with a friend.´  Several young people were busy at the sink washing their clothes and several more were sitting at a table in front of a series of clotheslines where washed clothes hung to dry.  All these eyes turned to look at us as we entered the room.  Faced with such a public welcome to what I usually consider a private place, I managed to say hello as did Sapiyeh.  People nodded, smiled and a couple of them said ´Hi´.  There were three toilet stalls and two of them were vacant, so we wasted no time.  I closed a thin wooden door behind me and quickly explored the tiled room.  Yes, indeed there was no toilet seat on the bare white ceramic bowl and there was a shower nozzle in the same room.  Great I thought, I get to shit and shower at the same time.

The reality was that I had bought some Kleenex with me to make me feel more at home.  I felt more than a little silly and extremely uncomfortable squatting six inches over top of the ceramic bowl and doing my business.  Thanks to the Kleenex I spared myself the spray of cold Bangkok municipal water on my unclean ass.  I did in fact have to dump a half pail of water into the ceramic bowl to send my deposit into the Bangkok underworld.  I couldn´t bring myself to shower in the same room I had defecated, so my visit was swift.  Back in the common washroom I felt lucky to get immediate access to one of sinks.  Thankfully, I still had half a bottle of spring water, which I used to brush my teeth and wash my face with.  My niece had warned my about the evils of the water in Thailand and I had every intention to take her serious.

Obviously, with the number of brands of  bottled water about the room this knowledge was wide spread.  Still there was an exception as I saw out of the corner of my eye that one young traveler with a shaved head and a ring in his nostril happily washed with and even gargled the tap water.

On finishing up I grew uncomfortable with the people in this room.  I was still tired, now hungry and a little fed up with the situation.  The last thing I wanted to do was to get into some nice conversation with the bubbly backpackers that dominated the room.  In what seemed like far too long, Sapiyeh finally made it out of the toilet stall fully showered, his long hair falling almost to his waistline.  He quickly did the sink thing and we headed back up to the privacy of our bedroom.

“I swear to god, I don´t know what Brooke was thinking when she suggested this place for our first night in Thailand,” I said from my place back on the lumpy bed.

Sapiyeh reminded me “You have to remember Mike.  She was like one of these people we just met downstairs.  She´d been backpacking for six months and Tavee Guest House was probably one her more luxurious accommodations.”

“Yeah, I guess you´re right but we have to get out of here.  Let´s see what they got for breakfast and then pack up and head out,” I said.

“Sounds good to me,” agreed Sapiyeh.

Culinary Insights

We found a place at a small table where two people were already seated.

“Do you mind?” I said to the two thirtyish slim people who were seated and eating.  The man had curly hair and looked a little like a hippy or what hippies looked like in 1969 and the woman had sharp features, dark curly hair and big lights in her eyes.

“No, not at all.  Where´re you from?” said the curly haired man in a British accent.

“We´re from Canada,” answered Sapiyeh and then he asked, “and you two?”

“England.  London, actually,” the curly haired man said and his sharp featured companion nodded in agreement with a smile.

“My name is Ian.”

“and I am Sandra,” they offered.

“Well, I´m not sure who I am this morning but when I got here last night I was still Mike,”

“and I am Sapiyeh,” we said completing the formalities.

It turned out that Ian and Sandra were in fact husband and wife.  Incredibly they lived on a house boat on the Thames River in downtown London.  Ian described himself as a chef who worked for an upscale restaurant.

“This is our second trip through Thailand.  We´ve been all through Asia and we take about six months out of every year to travel,” Ian explained.

We described our lot in life as writers who produced communications for Native agencies back in Canada.

“Ah, I knew I was right … you´re Native American aren´t you?” said Sandra smilingly and staring with her big light eyes at Sapiyeh.

“Yes I am,” Sapiyeh answered.

“This is our first trip to Thailand.  Well anywhere together,” I said.

“When we left our home in northern Ontario yesterday it was minus Forty below zero and there was several feet of snow on the ground,” I added.

“Yeah and that twenty hour plane ride combined with the hot weather and the cultural shock has us reeling a bit,” said Sapiyeh.

We looked at what they were eating.  They both had rice mixed with something that could have been egg and veggies.

“I could use some bacon and eggs,” I said.

Ian suggested with an air of experience that we would be best off to have rice with vegetables for breakfast rather than the Thai style bacon and eggs but after some thought and a little debate we decided on the bacon and eggs.  We just weren´t ready for rice first thing in the morning.  The taller of the two Thai women and daughter of Mr. Tavee, Gee brought us our bacon and eggs with coffee.  Ian was right we should have had the rice.  The eggs were barely fried and runny and the bacon tasted like anything but pork. The coffee however was tasty and packed a real good punch of caffeine.  The English couple looked on with sympathy as we ate our less than perfect breakfast.

“Actually I am looking forward to the Thai food here.  I´ve been telling Sapiyeh just how great Thai cuisine is,” I said.

Ian, the English chef and experienced traveller cautioned us, “Oh yeah, Thai food is wonderful but watch where you are eating and what you are eating if you can.  Most of the time you won´t know anyway but if you stick to food that is actually cooked you should be OK.”

Sandra joined in, “We´ve had some bad experiences I know Ian but don´t try to scare them off.  It´s not like that place in rural India.”

That reminder sent Ian into a story which recalled the couple´s trip through India. He described one place they stayed at as remote.  It offered bare necessities.  The toilet was actually an outhouse and one day while happily defecating at his hole in the floor of the outhouse, Ian heard a sound below him.  He jumped up and carefully looked into the smelly hole to see the snout of a pig earnestly lapping up his most recent droppings.

“I couldn´t fucking believe it.  That´s how they were feeding their bleeding pigs.  I went round back after my crap and sure enough there was a hole the size of a pig´s head and let me tell you boys, I saw this big dirty white swine, happy as a pig in shit!” said Ian.

The story made everyone laugh.

“The best part of that story,” added Sandra, “was delayed.  See, we had to visit a nearby resort later that day to make a phone call.  The place was pretty ritzy and we could feel that we weren´t all that welcome but we chuckled to ourselves and shared our little secret when we noticed how many people in the room were happily eating at their fresh pork cutlets.”

“Well, so how did you guys eat anything after an experience like that?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Oh god man, it was never a problem for us.  You see we’re vegetarians,” explained Ian.

We had a good laugh at that too.

Although Tavee Guest House was not where either one of us wanted to stay, the cosy restaurant in front of the bar was lively.  It was exotic too but not only for its rustic Thai features but also for the conversations that buzzed among travellers in several different languages from all over the world.  After a couple of good shots of Thai coffee we bid adieu to our new found English friends, grabbed our packs and checked out.

Into The Frey

We had agreed that Khaosan Road was the place to be in Bangkok. The Lonely Planet guide booksuggested it as a must see with lots of tourist accommodation and Brooke had confirmed that bit of information, as did some friends who had recently returned from a visit to Thailand. It was hot when wehit the street in the noon day sun. The daylight world was very different from the night time Bangkok wehad arrived in. There was an incredible chorus of sounds that included screaming two stroke motorcycle engines and a continuous roar of car, truck and bus engines against a backdrop of chattering people. There was the smell of exhaust fumes as we headed down the street to where we had determined we would find Khaosan Road.

“Holy shit, where the hell is this place? How long have we been walking?” asked Sapiyeh.

“I don´t know but I think I´m going to faint if we don´t get some water,” I replied.

We headed to what looked like a corner store and bought a litre of what seemed to be bottled water with a picture of an elephant on it. I was soaked with sweat and beginning to feel the effects of dehydration so we stood in the shade of the little store and shared the litre of water till the last drop. The store owner was a tiny and frail man and reminded me of photos I had seen of Chiang Kai Shek. He had a pointed white goatee and hard lines etched across a leathery face.

“Khaosan Road,” I asked and pointed in the direction we were going.

The old man who looked like Chiang Kai Shek said a whole string of words in Thai I could not understand but pointed in the same direction I had. I was going to ask how far it was but there was no way I could imagine being able to figure out what he would say. Sapiyeh suggested we take a cab and I agreed. It took us ten minutes to finally get somebody to stop and pull over out of the never ending speeding stream of traffic that raced by us on the street. We didn´t get an actual car instead we managed to hail what is commonly known in Thailand as a ´Tuk Tuk´. Naively, we got into this three wheeled affair which is actually a motorcycle with a bench seat on the rear two wheels.

“We want to go to Khaosan Road, Khaosan Road,” I hollered at the driver who seemed to be about thirty years old.

He hollered back “OK, Khaosan Road. No problem.”

“How much?” I asked.

“50 Baht,” he replied.

Sapiyeh did a quick calculation on his electronic calculator and suggested I counter with 30 Baht and we ended up at agreeing at 40. Somehow we joined the flow of racing traffic and our driver expertly and maniacally moved in and out of the chaos with great jerks, burst of speed and full on brakes.

While he was doing this he was trying to carry on a conversation with us. At one point after having escaped death at least two or three times we debated on whether we should demand that he stop and let us off. Suddenly, we pulled to the side of the street and stopped abruptly.

“Is this Khaosan Road?” I asked.

Our driver replied, “No, no. Not exactly Khaosan Road. You my friend, I make special stop for you before Khaosan Road.”

“What´s this all about?” asked Sapiyeh.

By this time the driver was pulling at my arm and motioning to a shop on the side of the street.

“He my friend. He give you good deal, new suit. He make you suit. Very good, very good price,” he said.

I protested “No, no, I don´t want a suit we want to go to Khaosan Road.”

Then he came close and spoke in a very earnest and low voice, “If you come in shop with me, you no need buy just come see. Owner of shop pay my gas.”

Sapiyeh nudged me and said, “OK, big deal let´s go in the shop and we don´t have to buy anything and he gets his gas paid. That´s what this is all about.”

We followed our happy driver into the shop. The little store had several mannequins in it dressed in silk suits. Two suited salesmen jumped us just inside the store. They had a few words with our smiling driver and proceeded to try and sell us suits. If we had at all been interested in suits, this would have been the place to buy a couple. The owner and his son measured us up and down, ran all types of material through our hands and promised us a day delivery. We smiled a lot, put up with the bullshit and in the end did a good deed for our driver, which ended as we pulled ourselves back out the door and onto the street. We had suggested to the suit people that we would be back again.

Back on the street our driver was now our new found buddy. With some reluctance we decided that it would be best to get back in the ‘Tuk Tuk’ and risk the racing traffic rather than try to find our way to Khaosan Road.

KHAOSAN ROAD

By the time we hit Khaosan Road we were both rattled with fear. I could have kissed the sidewalk after disembarking from the flimsy little ‘Tuk Tuk’. We shook hands with our driver, paid him off and joined the throng of people moving up and down what we knew as Khaosan Road.

There were so many people on the street that you couldn´t tell where the sidewalk ended and the road began. People intermingled with trucks, cars, scooters and motorcycles. The high pitch sound of two stroke motorcycle and scooter engines competed with the constant sound of people talking in many languages all along the street. We quickly understood why the Lonely Planet coined this as the backpacker’s street. We felt a little more at home here as we brushed shoulders with young backpackers from all over the world all the way down the street. On both sides there were kiosks along the sidewalk manned by Thai selling every imaginable item. On a closer look we saw fake Rolex watches going for 300 Baht or $15 dollars Canadian and fake photo identification cards complete with your own picture. They were also selling diplomatic, journalist and all kinds of other professional cards.

“Go on buy one. It will get you into all the concerts for free and go right to the front of the pack,” I overheard one young British backpacker say to his friend.

“I had to work hard to be able to call myself a journalist,” I said to Sapiyeh, loud enough to heard by the Brit as we stood and watched him become an instant journalist for Associated Press.

He looked over his shoulder and through a couple of days growth of brown beard, said, “You´re in Thailand man, anything goes here. You´d better get used to it.”

Then he and his friend walked into the crowd. A young Thai man who sat at the kiosk and was in charge of magically handing out professional cards and identifications smiled at me, quite sure of an impeding sale and said as he pointed to a row of samples, “Which one you like? Very cheap, good for you.”

Sapiyeh tugged at my arm, “Let´s get out here.”

I resisted and looked seriously into the young man´s eyes and said, “You know, this wrong. No good. I´m a journalist. I had to work very hard to be a journalist and I had to go to college. This is no good.”

The young Thai man looked at me with confusion and then anger and moved on to the next person who had just discovered his product. Sapiyeh pulled at me and commented, “I hope you aren´t going to stop and give everybody shit every time you find something you don´t approve of in this country. We´re not here to change anything. We´re on holidays remember and right now we need to find a hotel.”

I knew he was right and the more I thought of it the more I realised that no one really cared what I thought anyway. As we moved about the crowded street we began to pick out the signs – D And D Hotel, Royal Hotel, Chart Hotel, Wally Hotel, Khaosan Palace Hotel. We squeezed through, pushed and shoved the entire length of the street which took about half an hour. We decided to work back down to where we came to check out a few of the hotels. We made our way back to Wally Hotel. We saw the sign all right but under it was a narrow lane way with tables all along it and what looked like a restaurant. We wandered around a few minutes but couldn´t locate the hotel. Finally, we decided that somehow it must be part of the restaurant.

“I´m getting hungry anyway. Why don´t we just sit down, eat and ask about the hotel,” said Sapiyeh.

We proceeded halfway down the narrow lane way and sat down at one of the tables. Soon after a bubbly young Thai boy sauntered up to our table.

“Sawadee. Hello, how are you?” he said almost singing and then added, “My name, Mumu. I am your waiter. You like something to drink? To eat?” and he handed us a menu.

“I would like a sprite,” I said and Sapiyeh ordered one too.

Then I continued, “We are from Canada and we are looking for Wally Hotel.”

“Oh, …. Canada. Canadian people. Very nice I like Canadian people but so cold, Canada,” Mumu sang and finished his sentence giggling.

He was so pretty that you had to look twice to make sure he was a boy. He had long curly hair and a face of fine features. He was thin and only about five feet four inches. He wore a black Metallica T-shirt and light white cotton pants.

“Yes, it is very cold in Canada. Too cold but in Thailand it is too hot,” said Sapiyeh as he brushed the sweat from his brow.

I pressed Mumu for information we really wanted, “Do you know Wally Hotel?”

Mumu giggled again and said, “Yes, this is Wally Hotel. You like room?”

“Oh yes, yes, that´s great. Where is the hotel reception?” I asked relieved.

“Oh, no problem. First I get you sprite and you like something to eat? Then I show you room,” said Mumu.

I had spotted what looked like a sandwich in a baguette at the table across from ours and it looked like safe bet.

Mumu explained that these were in fact baguettes and that we could have them with cheese, tomato, luttuce and ham. So we ordered two.

After our meal, Mumu appeared again and led us up to the cash where a small elderly Thai lady who looked a little bit like Mumu sat at a desk. Mumu said something in Thai, she looked at us and gave him an answer.

“Yes, OK, I show you two rooms. You like air con?” sang Mumu.

“How many Baht is room?” I asked.

“Room, air con, 300 Baht. Room no air con 200 Baht,” replied Mumu.

He led us from the alleyway restaurant and into a courtyard then up a set of steps. On the first floor he showed us a large room with two double beds and a ceiling fan. The best thing about the room was that it had a regular toilet and a separate shower. A large window allowed the room to be washed in light and there were wooden shutters that could be cranked closed for privacy and security. Then Mumu took us up to the second floor and down a hallway where we entered a smaller room. This room did indeed have air conditioning but no windows at all. We opted for the cheaper room that overlooked the courtyard. We settled up with the elderly Thai lady who looked like Mumu, gave our bouncy waiter a good tip and then took our packs directly to our room which we booked for two days.

After we both had showered we decided it would be a good idea to get a little bit of sleep. We were both still weak with jet lag and the less than perfect experience of Tavee Guest House. With an oversized ceiling fan buzzing overhead it was almost comfortable in the forty degree heat and in no time at all we went off into our own individual dream worlds.

When I awoke Sapiyeh was standing at the window and peering out into the courtyard but he was just a silhouette. Night had fallen and as I rose to join him I could see that the courtyard was well lit. Someone was mopping the courtyard´s tiled floor and Mumu and the elderly Thai lady who looked like him were still in the restaurant.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Ten o´clock. Want to go for a walk?” asked Sapiyeh.

In ten minutes we were back on Khaosan Road and surprised to find the street as busy as it had been in the afternoon. However, the road had taken on a more colourful glint with neon signs flashing it´s full length. The bars and restaurants were hopping and the music was loud. The booze was flowing freely and the young adventurous backpackers boisterous and playful. We stopped to watch one group who had surrounded an elderly Thai woman with a food cart. On closer examination we could see she was frying something and the young backpackers who seemed to be German were taking great delight in gulping something down.

“Chis-tuck!” cried Sapiyeh and he turned away from the cart to add with a horrified look on his face, “They´re eating bugs. Insects for god´s sake.”

I figured it had to be true because Sapiyeh reserved the Cree word ´Chis-tuck´ for things that really surprised him. On closer investigation I did in fact see a large wok full of insects that looked like big crickets or grasshoppers. The young German backpackers who had obviously been drinking for most of the day were downing these bugs like popcorn. We pushed through the crowd and made our way towards a pizza sign. We had both agreed after some discussion that we would try to eat as little meat as possible and a vegetarian pizza seemed to fit the bill. La Casa Italian Restaurant looked quite formal with waiters and waitresses dressed in uniforms and there were soft leather chairs and thick wood dining tables. At first we had the impression that this place was beyond our budget but we were quickly reminded that this was Thailand with a look at the menu, where a pizza margarita was listed at only 100 baht or $4 Canadian dollars. We happily munched on two fantastic pizzas and washed them down with Thai bottled soda water.

Our waitress who had long black hair in a pony tail was very delicate and although she smiled all the time, remained a little distant and reserved. The place had the atmosphere of a more expensive restaurant but with bargain prices. As a bonus we could watch the never-ending parade of people and machines move by on the street in front of us.

Back on Khaosan Road an hour later the crowd had not thinned and if anything had grown a little rough around the edges. There was a lot of partying going on and as a matter of fact, the entire street was developing into one huge late night party.

“I can´t believe it. There´s a Seven-Eleven,” said Sapiyeh.

“Great,” I responded, “Let´s get some bottled water.”

We squeezed through the crowd and into the store which was just as crowded. Strangely enough it had all the same colours, shelving and product displays that you would find in a Seven-Eleven back home. It wasn´t until you got a close look that things were in fact very different. All kinds of seafood chips for instance and strange sweet looking cakes that neither one of us were interested in. Plump, big and suspicious looking wieners tumbled on hot dog cookers and most people were crowded around the ice cream and popsicle refrigerators. Even with the door continuously swinging with the coming and going of people, a monstrous air conditioner managed to keep the place fairly cool and somewhat below the forty degree temperature on the street.

We browsed through the bottled water display and decided to stick to the cheap Thai water with the elephant logo. It was apparent to both of us that it was necessary to have bottled water on hand at all times to make sure we didn´t dehydrate.

The sweat trickled off us constantly and the coolness in the Seven-Eleven was a welcome respite. With a couple of bottles of the cheap Thai water we made our way through the thick crowd back up towards the Wally Hotel. We had only walked a few meters when we heard three loud bangs. I took it for granted that someone´s car or motorcycle was backfiring but when I looked into Sapiyeh´s eyes, I could see that his interpretation was obviously different. He grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me down.

“Stay down those are gun shots,” he cautioned.

I was going to resist but when I looked around me, I saw all the Thai people on all fours scrambling and only the foreigners left standing erect and looking in the direction the loud bangs had come from.

“Follow them,” Sapiyeh said and on all fours as we scrambled along the dirty sidewalk in hot pursuit of the Thai people who were rushing away from the loud bangs.

We made it all the way back to Wally Hotel where we darted down the narrow lane way restaurant and courtyard. Here we met Mumu still up and waiting tables.

“You like something to eat, drink?” he asked.

Excited I told him, “There was a gunshot, bang, bang, bang, in the street,” and I made the shape of a handgun with my hand.

“Oh, it´s OK. It´s no problem, maybe police and bad man but no problem. Many times, bang, bang but no problem,” he said.

His words didn´t reassure us so we bid him good night and headed for the safety of our room overlooking the courtyard. What had seemed a crisis situation for us was obviously normal for Khaosan Road and in a matter of minutes it was as though nothing had happened. The crowd swallowed up whatever situation had produced the gun shots and we could hear the muffled sounds from the street continue into the night.

I didn´t regret our choice for a room with windows and a large ceiling fan. Somehow the room temperature was bearable and if we didn´t move too much and lay still on the bed the rotating fan kept us dry.

First thing in the morning after breakfast we remembered that we had promised our friend Guy that we would contact his cousin who was married to a diplomat and at least meet her for a drink. We decided the safest thing to do was to call and ask her if she wanted to have coffee or lunch.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello. Who is calling?”

“My name is Mike, actually there are two of us, Mike and Sapiyeh. We are friends of Guy calling for Linda.”

“Oh yes, Guy’s´ friends. He emailed me that you were coming and that you had some pictures for me.”

“Yeah we do. Did you want to meet maybe for some coffee or for lunch?”

“Oh, where are you now?”

“Well, we are on Khaosan Road at a place called Wally Hotel.”

“Oh yes, Khaosan Road, where all the backpackers hang out. That´s a fun spot and cheap hotels too.”

“Yeah, we love it.”

“Isn´t there a restaurant bar called ‘Buddy Beer And Restaurant´ not too far away from where you are?”

“Well there are quite a few bars but I am sure we can find it.”

“OK, I am waiting for my driver to get back. How about we say we meet at Buddy Beer And Restaurant at about noon?”

“Sure, that sounds great Linda. We´ll see you at Buddy Beer And Restaurant at noon.”

“So what did she sound like?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Well I don´t know, like a diplomats wife I guess. She sounded OK. Guy emailed her telling her we have her pictures, so it’s a good thing we called her anyway.”

We had debated calling Linda mainly because we might end up somehow entwined in someone else´s life while trying to get started on our own adventure. We liked the feeling of anonymity and we wanted to get on our trip but we had promised Guy we would deliver the pictures he had taken of Linda’s family on his recent visit. We both had a sprite in the hotel’s little lane way restaurant and discussed the happenings from the night before on Khaosan Road.

“I think we should get out of here tomorrow. We should move on and try to get on to some of those islands that Brooke told us about,” said Sapiyeh.

Although I felt good about being on Khaosan Road the gunfire the night before made me a little more anxious to move on. We decided it would be a good idea to try to rent a car. So with Mumu´s help we located Budget Rent A Car in the yellow pages. I called them on a big red plastic phone and reserved a Suzuki Jeep for the next morning. Mumu seemed amazed and a little amused that we had intentions to drive out of Bangkok and points further south.

“You drive Bangkok? I don´t think so. Bangkok very, very crazy driver, too much car. I don´t think so,” he said.

“No problem. I´m driving many years. Before I race motorcycles, you know race? No problem,” I told the smiling Mumu.

We took the time to scout out Buddy Beer And Restaurant and showed up ten minutes early to meet Linda. We waited outside where we noticed across the street a blue Mercedes Benz and what looked like its uniformed driver standing close by. There was no sign of Linda in the bar so we strolled up the street a little thinking she may have changed her mind.

We were getting up the nerve to ask the uniformed driver if he had delivered Linda to Khaosan Road when we noticed a slim and neatly dressed young woman heading up the street towards Buddy Beer And Restaurant. She stood out from among the road weary backpackers and tourists on Khaosan Road. We watched as she entered Buddy Beer And Restaurant and then we thought that she sufficiently resembled the Linda we had seen in Guy’s photos, so we felt we could approach her. We met her at the table.

“Oh, hi guys. I though I was late,” she said.

“Not really, we were just outside the front of the bar waiting for you to show up,” I replied.

We introduced ourselves and sat down. Linda had a sweet smile and bright, energetic eyes and she was obviously a very busy young woman with much of her time planned out.

“Well, why don´t we order right away. Kim Su Sak, my driver is waiting and I have to get back before my son arrives home from school,” she said.

With that she motioned to a waiter and he promptly came to our table.

“What are you going to have,” she wondered.

“I don´t know, what do you suggest?” Sapiyeh responded.

“How about I order Pad Thai for the three of us. Have you ever had Pad Thai before?” she asked.

“No. What is it?” I queried.

“Oh, it´s a wonderful Thai noodle dish. You´ll love it,” she said.

The coffee came first. Linda shook with laughter and told us some of the anecdotes that went along with the photos we presented her with. She was right, the Pad Thai was great. After an hour of good conversation and great, spicy food we said our good byes and watched her hurry across the street to her waiting Mercedes. Her driver ushered her to the back seat and they drove off in the flow of traffic.

Back up the road and on our way down to Wally Hotel the beggars who had seemed to blend into the crowd before were somehow now more prominent with their hands outstretched. Many had missing limbs and disfigured bodies. In one short walk from Buddy Beer And Restaurant to Wally Hotel we discovered Thai society with Linda and her driver at one end of the spectrum and the pleading, destitute children and mothers and fathers at the other end and mostly just a whole lot of tourists in between.

“Did you see that?” Sapiyeh said as he grasped my arm and stopped on the sidewalk.

It could have been a million things he was referring to as we moved along the river of people that flowed along Khaosan Road.

“You mean that old English lady that just went by with a young man that looks like she is ready to drop in her tracks and die in this heat,” I replied.

“No, no, come here,” said Sapiyeh and he pulled me up against a building. He pointed to two old men who seemed to be having a chat on two stools at the side of the sidewalk near one of the kiosks where backpackers were lined up for fake Rolex watches.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Look under that guys stool,” answered Sapiyeh as he pointed to an old Thai who was gesturing in conversation to his friend.

“Holy shit. It´s a rat and a big one too,” I said as I focused on the furry little creature sitting comfortably under the old man´s stool and staring out at the multitude of legs that walked by.

We watched the rat for a while and at one point it darted out and headed down an alleyway with little notice from either of the two old Thai men in conversation. We debated for a few minutes on why this rat seemed to fit in and didn´t register any disgust from the two old men. We concluded that it must certainly have to do with the Buddhist mindset which is predominant in the Bangkok area. We decided this was due to the Buddhist form of belief in reincarnation with the consideration that the good things they do in this world will be the deciding factor as to how they will return and in what form in their next life. That rat somehow knew he was in no danger at this particular spot, with these particular people on Khaosan Road.

When we arrived at Wally Hotel, Mumu and the old Thai lady were still sitting at the cash waiting for the next client to walk up the alley.

“You like Sprite? Very hot now?” suggested Mumu.

With the sweat pouring out of both of us in the constant 40 degree heat, we surely must have looked to Mumu like we needed something to drink. We picked a table at the entrance to the alley restaurant, sipped on our Sprites and watched the never-ending flow roll by.

Sapiyeh loves to read … to the point of absurdity. If there is anything in his vicinity with print on it, you will find him reading it. In this particular moment and space in time on the side of Khaosan Road, in the Wally Hotel alley-way restaurant Sapiyeh had tuned onto a large poster while I studied the characters that passed by our table.

“God, you are not going to believe this,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well considering I hardly believe anything about where I am, go ahead try me,” I answered.

“OK, listen to this … dear tourist visitors to Bangkok. While you are in Bangkok perhaps you would consider taking some time to visit foreigners who are here in prison. If you would like to do so, follow the directions on this poster to the nearby prison. If you wish you can take along some food. Prison conditions in Thailand are very bad and prisoners do not often get much to eat or drink. When you reach the prison, you can ask to visit one of the foreign prisoners on the list below. This list provides the name, citizenship and duration of prison sentence of only a few of those incarcerated in Thailand prisons. Most of these prison sentences are drug related. Although Thailand has a large drug industry, anyone caught with drugs is dealt with harshly by the law.”

The poster to our amazement listed 15 individuals from all over the world. It was chilling to see familiar American, English, French, German and Dutch names with the country of origin listed and also a prison sentence ranging from 5, 10 to 15 years.

“Well I think it is a good thing at this point in our lives that we are not drinking or drugging anymore,” I said.

“You’re not kidding. I bet a lot of these guys were just fooling around, partying too much or ran out of money and did something stupid and then got caught,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well the strange part is that it does not seem like they got any help from family or friends from their home countries or maybe there was just nothing anybody could do,” I offered.

Suddenly, the wall poster that we had walked by several times without notice became a window that allowed us to peer a little more into the layers of Thai society.

“Who is that guy in the picture over there? What is that all about?” I asked.

Sapiyeh read another smaller poster out loud, “This is a picture of our son. When we last heard about him he was backpacking in Thailand. He disappeared in February of 1998. We have since travelled to Thailand with no success at finding any information on him. He is five foot 10 inches tall and 25 years of age as pictured on this poster. If you have any information on him please call collect at the number below or contact the local police.”

I gazed at the photo of this young man. He had curly dark hair and pretty face with fine features for a man. He looked bright. As the world whizzed by just a few feet from us on Khoasan Road I wondered where on earth this poor boy had ventured that he should have not. I watched as dozens of young men and women marched by with their heavy backpacks looking for adventure and I wished I could sit each one of them down to look at this poster. That was the last time we sat at the table next to the posters on the wall.

This was one great insight into where some people´s paths had led and somehow subconsciously neither one of us wanted to be confronted with that reality again.

We were happy that we had decided to rent a vehicle and drive out of the city to the south rather than deal with the complexity of bus and train stations. We looked forward to picking up the jeep at 10 o´clock the next morning. We had also decided that the last thing we would visit in Bangkok would be Patong, the notorious red light district of the sweltering city. At about four in the afternoon we hailed a taxi outside Wally Hotel. Neither one of us was ready for another ride in a Tuk Tuk and especially one that would last at least 20 minutes through the core of downtown Bangkok.

“How much to go to Patong?” I queried the grey haired and pot bellied Asian cab driver.

“Not so much, not so much. Get in. Get in. Get in,” he said.

“Yes that´s great but how much? We need to know how much. How many Baht?” I replied.

The cabby´s smile turned to a frown and he barked out, “200 Baht.”

I countered, “I don´t want to buy your taxi we just want to go to Patong. 100 Baht.”

“OK, OK, OK, 150 Baht, no problem,” said the cabby shaking his head in disgust.

At that we jumped into the back seat of the Toyota and the cabby poked his way into the Bangkok main stream traffic. He drove madly and at one stop paused to pick up a little bottle from the centre console which he took a slurp out of. There were several other similar and empty discarded bottles lying in the console.

Sapiyeh pointed to the bottles and asked, “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, very good medicine. Superman drink,” said the cabby as he turned to look at us with a red almost purple face that his eyes bulged out of.

Sapiyeh had confirmed his suspicion that the drink was one we had seen advertised all over the city as a superman drink. It was full of speed and apparently most of the drivers on the streets of Bangkok were stoned on it. Perhaps this explained the wild and erratic manner in which our cabby flung the ageing Toyota down the clogged arteries of the city of angels. Bangkok is known to the Thai as Krung Threp, which translates to the city of angels . We were happy and relieved with our arrival at Patong. Once we stepped from the cab we headed down one of the streets that contributes to the area known as Patong. We were lucky with our timing as we hit the long narrow streets right in the middle of their transformation. The daytime street markets were being folded up and moved out. As the light faded and dark descended the bars, strip clubs, massage parlours and prostitute palaces sprung up in fluorescent lights and American rock music.

The streets were frantic with hundreds of workers involved in the task of taking down the market stands. We decided we would have a cold drink and maybe something to eat and asked the first Thai man we saw in an alley-way for directions to a restaurant.

“No problem, no problem. Come, come, follow me,” the wrinkled and scrawny Asian man said as he puffed on his cigarette.

We followed him down several alleys and at one point paused.

“Where are we going and how far?” Sapiyeh asked the wrinkled Thai man.

He said something in Thai and pointed up the alley and we followed him once again. It was dark now and we were scurrying down the back alleys of Patong. At one point we made a few fast turns and into a building. At a set of stairs, we were confronted by a huge strong Thai man who made way for us after a few words from our wrinkled Thai guide. At the top of the stairs we entered a room and the door slammed behind us. The room was elaborate and filled with about 20 young Thai girls who looked like they ranged in age from about 18 to 25.

“You like Thai girl, no problem, you choose, you choose,” said our wrinkled Thai guide as he puffed at his cigarette.

Here we were right in the middle of the heart of Patong, Bangkok´s legendary red light district and surrounded by the people who made it famous.

“No, no, you don´t understand. We want something to drink and eat,” I said to our Thai guide.

“No problem, no problem. Which one, which one, you choose,” he persisted.

As we turned to head back out the door we had to push him aside to make our intent obvious. As we left and headed back down the stairs he yelled angrily in Thai and was joined in the chorus of young Thai prostitutes. Back out in the alleyway it was now very dark and it took us at least 15 minutes to find the street again. That was enough. We had no intention of buying a prostitute. Still, we had experienced the heart and soul of Patong. We were relieved to be back on our way to Khaosan Road where we felt some security and familiarity. The ride back in another cab didn’t seem so bad.

THE ROAD SOUTH

We were in such a rush to leave the bustling, smokey city to head for the country that we hadn´t given much thought to actually driving out. When we picked up our little four-wheel drive Suzuki convertible, we wasted little time in consulting our street and highway map and drove off with great joy. Our happiness would soon take a turn for the worse. I would best describe driving in Bangkok or anywhere in Thailand for that matter, as a spiritual experience. It is Buddha like in that somehow out of the chaos, unorganised flow exists. To reach the level of awareness that you need to actually join this flow of speeding traffic you must give yourself to god. You have to be willing to put your life on the line to move into the pulsating force that pours over the concrete and asphalt. Buddhists in fact believe in reincarnation which somehow contributes to the lemming like race across the country by thousands of scooters, motorcycles, Tuk Tuks, cars, trucks and buses. To make this entire scenario just a little more interesting for a Canadian, the driver´s position is opposite to what we are used to.

“OK, OK, you can do it. Pull to the right hard now! Faster, faster, he´s right on top of you!” cried Sapiyeh.

All I could see in the rear view mirrors was the radiator grill of the transport truck. The little jeep´s engine screamed as I held the accelerator to the floor in third gear and looked for a safer way to move forward.

“OK, its OK. I´ve got him beat. I´ll try to get into the other lane. Let me know when it´s safe,” I asked Sapiyeh who navigated.

To the rear of us the transport lurched and in the front there was a double-decker bus, to the two lanes left of us traffic hurled by and to the lanes to the right of me slower vehicles competed for every inch of tarmac. Suddenly, brake lights flashed and tires screeched.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!” cried Sapiyeh.

The back of the bus became a wall as I tried desperately to get my speed down while trying to make sure I didn´t compromise the stopping ability of the transport behind me. The traffic drew to a fast crawl and for good reason, the entire freeway had given way to some sort of construction that looked as it had been going on for years and in a few short moments we were back up to razor edge driving. At one point we were relieved to see that we had come upon another lane on the highway. However, we quickly realized that people had just moved over to the shoulder. With the combination of my experience as an insane teenage driver and later a motorcycle racer, our chances of survival in the monstrous trail of traffic was sufficient. With Sapiyeh ´s keen sense of direction and talent for reading a map we made it to our first exit point leading to the coastal town of Hua Hin. To get to the exit I had to nudge my way across two unforgiving lanes of traffic and to do so I had to believe that somehow this racing monster we were in would allow this to happen and it did. The tight exit took us abruptly onto a rough two-lane asphalt road which grew to three or four lanes here or there depending on the condition and width of the shoulders. Speed was slower here but there were many more scooters and motorcycles to contend with. They buzzed around us like hornets and the two stroke exhaust was thick enough that it hurt our eyes.

Hua Hin, it became evident was a coastal resort town. There were all kinds of restaurants and condo style apartments facing the ocean. One stretch of downtown featured cottages, restaurants and bars on raised stilts over the water. For a little place it was very busy and although it is situated on the edge of the Bay of Bangkok which is polluted to the point of the ridiculous, somehow the tourist trade flourished here.

“I´m not too crazy about this spot. Can we go down the road a bit and see if there is a place to stop,” said Sapiyeh.

“Yeah, same here. Too many people and it smells too,” I agreed.

We drove for another 20 minutes and finally the traffic thinned out a little bit and more traditional Thai villages sprang up here and there.

“Let´s try this one. Worachat Guesthouse,” hollered Sapiyeh and I turned the bouncing Suzuki down an even more rough road towards what looked like a mansion facing the ocean. We pulled up to a parking spot, got out of the jeep and headed up to large mansion like hotel where there was a patio restaurant with lots of tables and no people.

We spotted a tall blonde white guy sitting at one of the tables at the far end of the patio. He gave us a wave, so we walked over to have a chat. It turned out he was the owner of this incredible mini palace on the shores of the Bay of Bangkok. In a short discussion we discovered that English was not possible with this fellow who was, it turned out, Swiss. However, he could speak French.

“Est ce que possible a louer un chambre?” I asked for a room in the best French I could muster.

“Que, il y abeaucoup dechambres maintenant,” the Swiss said and got up to lead us on a tour.

There were no guests staying in the hotel we soon discovered as he led us through three levels and several rooms with ocean views. The outside of the huge structure was stucco like and the roof was Spanish tile. It looked more like a place you would see on the Costa Del Sol in southern Spain, then again as we were finding out, anything was possible in Thailand. The tall, well built Swiss in his mid 50s ushered us through marble corridors that echoed with our conversation.

We decided on a large room on the third level with a balcony that ran the entire length of the building and looked out onto the ocean. Everything was done in marble. There was a richness about the place with marble floors and stuccoed ceiling. In the 40 degree heat we were pleasantly surprised to find central air conditioning. Our room was cool. We even had TV. Thankfully, there was a state of the art bathroom with a real toilet, shower, bath and hot water and even the towels were Ritz Carlton quality.

After five hours of battling our way through the monstrous traffic from Bangkok we were ready to settle down for a couple of days and incredibly the Swiss owner made it even easier at 300 Baht a night or $12 Canadian.

We both had refreshing showers and then jumped into huge king size beds to languish in the comfort of our cool mansion room.

Our timing was perfect. As the light of day seeped out of Hua Hin, we sat on the marble balcony, peering out at the ocean which lapped lazily on a sand/pebble beach that ran for miles. Out in the water we were surprised at the silhouettes of naval destroyers and cruisers. At the southern end of the beach there was a rocky mountain point. An enormous golden Buddha glittered in the soft and fading rays of the sun and our stomachs growled with hunger.

Rested in every sense of the word we found ourselves at a table at the patio restaurant under the glow of humming fluorescent lights. As a result of our query for supper the Swiss owner produced two Thai women to take our orders and performed their magic in the mansion´s kitchen. With our English chef´s stories of the meat still in our minds we choose to dine on fine Thai rice and vegetables and of course the ever present bottled Sprite.

Our Swiss host informed us that he was heading to Switzerland the next morning from Bangkok but that we would be in good hands with his Thai assistant whom he introduced with much affection as Keke. Keke, a very fragile Thai woman with long flowing hair assured us in French that she would be on hand at all times. We asked about the Navy ships in the harbour.

“Le roit vien ici pour les vacances. Ce pour ce le Navy vien oussi,” explained the Swiss man.

With a little more conversation we discovered that Hua Hin was the winter residence of the King and the Royal family. Sapiyeh prodded me to ask more about the king and how the government worked. My research was swift and without depth as both the Swiss man and Keke summed it up with a curt but polite, “Ill ne pas un bon idee a parle de le Roi. Les Thais sont thres hereux avec le Roi Bhumibol Adulyadej.”

We abandoned this line of questioning for more general information. The Swiss man provided us with some idea of where we were and explained that there was a little village just down the road that we could visit and a wonderful beach to walk. However, he did caution us to take care while approaching the gold Buddha on the mountain outcrop further down the beach. Wild monkeys, considered sacred by the Thai residents of this area roamed freely and could be vicious.

With the luxury of air conditioning we floated off to sleep with a break from the sweltering heat. We left the shutters open on the window so that the sun would bring us back in the morning.

Even at six a.m. on the marble balcony it was still balmy as we witnessed the slow movement of the burning hot sun over the Bay of Bangkok.

We wasted no time in getting to the beach after a quick breakfast on the patio. Of course the first place we headed for was the dangerous wild monkey populated, golden Buddha mountain. It looked closer than it really was under a blue sky. With the throbbing hot sun above us, the salty ocean at our feet and soft sand that sucked at our steps, we made our way to the golden Buddha. There was a narrow trail that wound up the black rock mountain and after a break to pump some water back into our bodies we began to climb. It was at the second bend that we met our first wild monkey who leapt from a ledge onto the path to challenge us. He was bigger than what we both expected and as he screamed and jumped about we could see others rising out of the rock. Our retreat was a few careful steps around the bend and then we ran hell bent for leather, without looking back until we were at least a kilometre away from the mountain. We turned to make sure the monkeys had not followed. Of course they had not then we gulped down what remained of the Thai bottled water with the elephant logo on it, fell back on the sand and caught our breath until the fury of the heat from the sun sent us back to the hotel. The majestic gold Buddha would remain a mystery to us guarded by the tribe of wild monkeys.

Later we decided on a visit to the village. All the way down the road we were repulsed to find the odour of raw sewage hovering in the hot stagnant air. We thought at one point it would end but it stayed with us all the way into town. Even this little fishing village buzzed with all kinds of activity. There were a lot of tourists and most of them seemed to be European. We heard a lot of French, German and Dutch on the streets filled with tiny little shops. The streets had a sense of the sixties about them with shops displaying tye dye cotton clothing and arts and crafts. There were also a couple of head shops. The feeling in this place was a little seedy and although folky, to great degree seemed to have some under ground culture that we were not interested in discovering.

Later while we dined on fresh shrimp and vegetables with rice at the mansion´s patio restaurant, Sapiyeh mentioned he was an Aboriginal person to Keke and her assistant waitress, Kay. Both girls smiled wildly and exchanged excited conversation with each other. Then Keke explained that North American Indian people had a special place in the Thai culture. We were surprised to learn that North American images of Native people were a big part of one of the annual Thai festivals. Keke told us that the Thai people regarded North American Indians as super beings with mystical powers. She also explained that the Thai considered Indian symbols as good luck and she suggested that we look for these symbols in hotels, restaurants and bars along our way. We found it strange indeed that we had uncovered this incredible piece of information on the relationship between the Thai and North American Indians.

“That´s too much. I can´t believe that a culture like this, thousands of years old and half way across the world sees us Indians as almost god like. If only everyone thought like that in North America,” said Sapiyeh with a mischievous glint in his eye.

The next morning we packed up and headed the little Suzuki back out onto the main highway to destinations further south. At this point the freeway was still divided into two, two-lane black tops. Depending on the conditions on the roadside the two lanes sometimes turned into three or four. The heavy flow of traffic rarely let up and the trick to staying alive was to give way to the transports and buses. Every once in awhile we would meet someone coming down the wrong way in our lane. Somehow they always slipped through without catastrophic results. The exhaust was thick in the air even out here in the country and the ever-present two stroke scooters and motorcycles screamed along beside us.

As we raced along in the Suzuki even with the top up, windows closed and the air con on high it was like a sauna inside. For several hours we sat peering out the window as though we were watching some exotic movie. The land turned from being very flat and developed to more of a jungle and hilly terrain. We only slowed down when passing through a small city or town. Like voyeurs we watched gleefully as local Thai people went about their lives on the sidewalks, in the shops and the markets that were green, red, blue and orange with all types of produce and fresh cut flowers.

In stark contrast to the Thai country side every once in a while we would come upon a spiffy American style gas station. At one Shell gas station we were met by uniformed Thai, who took their jobs very seriously. They filled us up, washed our windshield and checked the oil. Gas stations were a great place to get information. At this particular stop we were told that Lang Suan would be a good stop for the night.

While I drove, Sapiyeh navigated us off of the freeway and onto the back roads that supposedly led to Lang Suan. On the map, Lang Suan appeared as a fairly major town on the coast of the Gulf of Thailand.

After driving back roads for 20 minutes we pulled over to ask directions at a police booth. The booth was manned by one loan Thai, dressed in military gear. His name was Payong. We explained our circumstance and asked if he knew where we could find lodging by the ocean for the night. The young policeman seemed relieved to have someone to talk to. Although we were anxious to bed down for the night he engaged us in a long conversation in his broken English and our almost non-existent Thai. This friendly young Thai was enthused about our travels and seemed as though he would have jumped into the little Suzuki with us at the first hint of an invitation. He kindly provided us with a map he drew which showed the way to 99 Bay Resort in Lang Suan and he wrote a note in Thai that he instructed us to give to Aksorn on our arrival. We had to make a great effort not to be rude but to leave this young man and get back on our way.

After following narrow and poorly maintained gravel roads for about half an hour we came upon a small Thai fishing village which was a ramshackle of cement and bamboo houses. From the look on the faces of the local people we gathered that they were not used to seeing tourists. Past the fishing village we found 99 Bay Resort and just in the nick of time as the sun was quickly fading.

The resort was definitely out of the way and that is probably why there did not seem to be anybody staying there. However, we were pleased to find a 750 Honda Shadow motorcycle and we assumed at least one tourist was near by. The hotel consisted of three blocks arranged in a ‘U’ or horseshoe shape and facing the ocean. This created a kind of courtyard affect. Each cement block contained several one level rooms and at the far end of one there was a restaurant. The place generally had an unkept look about it but it was getting dark and we were anxious to situate ourselves for the night.

Smack dab in the middle of the courtyard was a little office and we noticed that someone was inside. We approached the office and there we were greeted by a pretty young Thai woman. She looked like a 12 year old girl from a distance but her face and manner up close suggested she might be in her early 20s.

“You speak English?” she asked.

“Yes we do. We are from Canada. We would like a room for the night and we have a note for you,” I replied.

I handed her the note and she took it with a puzzled look on her face. The content of the note made her smile and she mumbled to herself in Thai

“You know my friend. He is very nice man. He tell you to come to 99 Bay Resort … very nice,” she said.

“Yes he was a very nice man … a policeman. He said you have a good resort. How much are your rooms?” I asked.

She took some keys from the wall of the tiny office and then motioned for us to follow her.

“Very nice room, you come and see,” she said.

I stopped her and asked her again, “How much for room for one night. How many Baht?”

Her smile turned to a look of aggravation and she replied, “600 Baht.”

Sapiyeh and I looked at each other.

“Well that is a lot more than what we have been paying,” Sapiyeh said to me and then looked at the Thai woman and said, “Every night we only pay 200 Baht, 300 Baht.”

I backed him up, “600 Baht too much. We can go other place. Find other resort.”

I finished my sentence by glancing at the jeep to suggest that we could easily move on. The truth was that neither one of us wanted to.

“OK, OK you come see room first. You come see room,” she said and then led us to the far block of motel like units.

After fiddling with the key, she opened the door to a small but clean room with a double bed. There was an old rug, it was damp and a deep musty odour permeated the space.

“This room air con. For you only 400 Baht,” our hostess said.

Sapiyeh turned to me and said, “I guess our friend the policeman must be making a few bucks on this deal.”

Of course he was right. After a little more haggling at the door we forked over 400 Baht or $16 Canadian. By the time we parked the jeep and moved our bags inside it was dark. Even though the place was damp and musty, we were thrilled that the air conditioning did work and at least it made the room a little cooler. After some discussion we decided to use the air conditioning conservatively as we were concerned there was some contamination in the unit that hung in the only window in the room. It was a far cry from the mansion we had stayed in the night before in Hua Hin but at the very least it felt safe and was clean.

“Aiyee! Mike get in here fast!” screamed Sapiyeh.

I bolted to the washroom and peered in. There were two of the most humugous frogs I had ever seen in my life sitting in the corner and staring at us.

“They´re just frogs Sapiyeh. Aren´t they? Do you think they´re poisonous or anything?” I said.

“No, no. They just scared me and I didn´t expect to find anything in the bathroom at all,” Sapiyeh said.

“I´m not going near them. How the hell did they get in here any way?” I asked.

Sapiyeh pointed to a drain hole at the far end of the bathroom and explained, “I´m sure they´re getting in there, so I´ll trap them in the bucket and throw them out and plug up the drain hole. Sure as hell if there are frogs around there are snakes looking for them.”

I wish he hadn´t mentioned that last bit of information about the snakes but I knew he was right. We had both heard and read enough horror stories about snakes in Thailand that subconsciously we were always on the alert for one.

True to his word, Sapiyeh valiantly captured the huge green frogs and moved them outside. Only after he had plugged up the drain with one of our empty bottles of Thai water with the elephant logo on it did I venture into the bathroom.

Happily we found the restaurant at the far end of the complex to be open.

We stayed clear of the meat, with the English chef’s warning still in mind and ordered rice with vegetables and shrimp. The same young hostess acted as our waitress and spoiled us with attention as there was no one else in the restaurant. Our conversation led to some cultural sharing and at one point Sapiyeh divulged his status as a Canadian Indian. To demonstrate this he looked up into the sky, pretended he was pulling back a bow string, preparing to launch an arrow and hollered some Hollywood style war whoops. Our new friend, Aksorn, put her hands to her face, her eyes widened and said, “Oh, Indian-den. Very powerful Indian-den. 99 Bay Resort, first time Indian-den.”

She ran back to the kitchen to pull several of her friends out to meet the Indian-den.

The room was cool when we got back to it so we turned off the air conditioning. Our sleep was uneasy in the mustiness of the cramped space and it was with great delight that we awoke in the morning the open road on our minds.

As we were packing up and getting ready to head off we met the owner of the 750 Shadow. He was trying to get the heavy bike onto its centre stand but could not. We went to his aide. I suggested that I could do it for him but the tall and muscled young man countered that we all pull the bike up on its stand.

“No problem. I will show you a little trick,” I said.

I turned the bike´s handle all the way inward, grabbed the back fender and put my foot on the centre stand brace and then simply pushed all my weight down and the bike popped easily up on the stand. The muscled young man was astonished and tried the same manoeuvre several times until he got it right. His name was Gunter and he was German. He was quite anxious and enthused to talk to us, so we chatted for half an hour or so. I explained about my years as a motorcycle journalist so we talked bikes a bit.

“Jah, I rent this bike from Patong. You know Patong on Phuket Island? Jah, that good place very party place,” said Gunter.

“Where did you rent this bike? What was the name of the shop?” Sapiyeh asked.

“I rent this bike at Big Bike in Patong. They have many models to choose,” explained Gunter.

Once he found out Sapiyeh was a Canadian Indian he didn´t want to let us go. After several false starts we managed to get into the little Suzuki and head away from Lang Suan. Gunter had shown us on a map how we could cross to the other side of the country through the mountains and head towards Phuket Island. His seedy description of Patong and the possibility of renting a motorcycle for the day filled our conversation as we made our way back to the Thai freeway and headed south once again.

The further south we drove the more rural and mountainous it became. Towns and cities were now far apart and we danced our way on the rough divided freeway from one to another. Every once in a while we would spot a golden Buddha on the side of a mountain glittering in the fierce Thai sun. Anywhere we stopped along the way had to be in the shade to avoid the noonday sun and we gulped at our Thai bottled water with the elephant logo on it. At one point we veered off the congested Thai freeway and after several twists and turns we found ourselves on a narrow two lane asphalt road. Slowly, we wound our way up one mountain and then to a jungle valley and then up another mountain and back into another jungle valley for several hours. This route was far less travelled and there were few visible communities at the roadside. Every once in a while we would spot someone in a bamboo hut endeavouring to sell various fruits and vegetables. The challenge on this road was to watch for other vehicles coming the other way in blind corners. We also had to be careful not to stray too far over on either side of the road as hard rock waited for us on one and cliffs on the other. In places the asphalt was potted and cracked and had to be travelled over at a crawl speed. The foliage for much of the way was thick in green and interwoven with all of the colours of the rainbow in exotic flowers that were unfamiliar to us.

Finally, after what seemed days but was in fact only hours we arrived at the other side of the country where we were greeted by a panorama view of the Andaman Sea. The road got a little better at this point and ran haphazardly along the picturesque but rough coast.

“Let´s try to get down to the water because it is so beautiful and maybe we can go for a swim,” said Sapiyeh.

“Great idea. I´d like to get out of this tin box for awhile,” I replied.

Sapiyeh picked out a side road on the map and we headed the bouncing Suzuki down the dusty one lane route. We thought the water would be just up ahead but it took a good 20 minutes until we neared the salty coast of the Andaman Sea. Our choice took us to some sort of natural park that was heavily treed and then turned into swamp. The road became very difficult to travel with washouts here and there but we pulled forward. It was with some disappointment that the water´s edge was in fact a swamp rather then the picturesque beach we had imagined.

Back on the main road and heading south again we noticed that actual villages were popping up here and there and soon we arrived in the city of Ranong where we stopped at a gas station, it was another Shell. This time we were greeted by a team of a young Thai man and woman fully uniformed in the colours of Shell. By now we had figured out that the best way to make friends really fast in this country was to exploit the fact that Sapiyeh was Native Canadian. After doing so we witnessed the now familiar astonishment and awe from these two young Thai and we found ourselves having a cold Sprite and chatting in the shade.

Our two new acquaintances Jongdee and Sonyat confirmed our route to Phuket Island on the map and provided us with a little information on the area. We told them there was a little difference in the towns and villages along the way and that people were dressed differently. They explained that we were now in the Muslim part of Thailand, which counted for a change in the look and feeling of this part of the country.

“That´s right I haven´t seen a golden Buddha for hours,” noted Sapiyeh.

We exchanged addresses and we promised to write and rolled back out on to the road towards Phuket Island.

LIFE IS A CIRCUS

With delight we soon arrived at a long bridge that joined the mainland to Phuket Island. By now the traffic had become congested again and it seemed as though we had to fight for every inch of cracked asphalt. From our perspective on the bridge we could see the fishing boats and long sand beaches. On the island the road divided into a freeway again and the traffic picked up its pace. The sun was beginning to set so we decided to look for lodging for the night at a Thai village called Tha Chat Chai.

We parked the jeep at the side of the street in Tha Chat Chai and took a stroll to find out what information we could gather that could lead us to a room for the night. The people dressed differently here. The men wore sarongs which looked like long dresses. The inhabitants did not have that familiar radiant smile and openness that we had become accustomed to as being Thai nature. These were mostly Muslims and the couple of people we tried to talk to on the street for information were not interested in our conversation. We began to grow concerned about the approaching darkness so we scurried back to the jeep and went looking for a gas station. Thankfully, we had a map which showed us gas station locations on the island of Phuket. We had to head back onto the divided Thai freeway and about 10 minutes further south where we came up yet another Shell gas station. The young uniformed Thai man who topped up the Suzuki suggested we try staying at Sirinart National Park Bungalows beside the Nat Yang National Park. We were grateful that the bungalows were only a few kilometres away and after following the directions of the gas attendant we arrived on a coastal road. A large fading wooden sign announced our entrance into Nat Yang National Park. We soon came to the entrance of the park and pulled over at what looked like administration offices.

We entered the office and found it unattended. By now it was dark and we hoped that the Sirinart National Park Bungalows would provide a respite in our day of travelling. While waiting for someone to show us we browsed through several brochures and maps all dedicated to the Nat Yang National Park.

“Too bad it isn´t still daytime so we could have a look around. This place seems pretty neat. Look this says the forest here is protected and all this exotic wildlife too,” said Sapiyeh as he thumbed through a brochure.

“Yeah, I guess so. Strange looking park though and it is good that they set aside a protected space but have a look on the map. It´s only a few kilometers long. I get the feeling that this is some sort of public relations effort,” I suggested.

The door swung open and in walked a middle aged Thai man in a brown official uniform. He looked at us and said, “You speak English?”

“Yes,” replied Sapiyeh.

“We would like to rent a bungalow,” Sapiyeh said.

“Oh yes, yes. No problem, many bungalows. How many night?” asked the uniformed officer.

“We only need one night and can you tell me how many Baht for one night,” I said.

“One night bungalow, two people, 300 Baht,” said the uniformed officer.

I made an attempt to haggle the price down but he answered very abruptly that 300 Baht was the price of a bungalow for two with Sirinart National Park Bungalow. He took us by flashlight towards the back of the office complex and in the direction of the ocean. We could hear the waves breaking on the shore and a slight wind moved the hot air around. There were trees everywhere and they were much larger than anywhere we had seen up to this point. By the light of the Thai officer´s flashlight the shadows of these trees danced menacingly. It reminded me of the movie ´Fantasia´ by Walt Disney. It felt as though we were in the midst of very old Thai giants. Happily the bungalow we arrived at was just that, a bungalow.

It was another cement structure with a tiled roof. It had two adjoining bedrooms and much to our disappointment a traditional Thai bathroom. Beside the toilet there was a large concrete container full of water in which one was expected to dip a pail and pour its contents into the toilet to flush it. That concrete pool was full of stagnant water that had many things growing in it and insects swimming gleefully on the surface. Our middle aged Thai officer turned out to be Sam Yang. Sam Yang led us back to the office where we filled out a form and paid our 300 Baht and then we grabbed our packs and groped our way back on the trail in the dark to our bungalow’s lighted window.

Situated in our cabin for the night we soon discovered that although the windows were screened there were huge gapping cracks in the window trim. There was no air conditioning and no ceiling fan but the windows did open to permit the hot breeze from the ocean to circulate the even hotter air in the bungalow. Although neither one of us was eager to venture into the bathroom we both had quick cold showers so that we could cool ourselves down to a temperature that would allow for sleep.

We felt so unsure of our situation in the bungalow that we left a light on for the whole night. We both awoke early from an uneasy sleep. The room was sweltering so we took little time in vacating the premises. The sight at our front door was awesome. We walked in our bathing suits through the enchanted forest which seemed much more friendly now in the day and shaded us from the glaring hot Thai sun. Not surprisingly, the blue ocean waters offered little refreshment. The water was almost hot. Still, we swam for a while and walked the long and undeveloped beach until the sun was just too much for us and it seemed like a good time to go. We made our farewell to Sam Yang, exchanged addresses and promised to write. In only a matter of minutes we drove in the little jeep to the entrance of a huge resort and restaurant smack dab in the middle of what was supposed to be this national park. A short time later we exited the park and headed back out onto the divided Thai freeway towards Patong.

By now it was early afternoon and we jostled for position in the bumper to bumper traffic on the road. Scooters and motorcycles darted in and out of the main stream of traffic like little squid leaving blue exhaust fumes in their wake. There was the constant drone of car and truck engines, lots of impatient horn blowing and the ever present screams of the two stroke scooters and motorcycles. We saw a sign at one point that said Bangtao Beach Cottage on the outskirts of a town called Changtalay.

“Why fight this traffic? Let’s take our time and go have a look at this place,” suggested Sapiyeh.

I probably agreed as the sweat rolled off me even though the air conditioning was on high and all the windows were closed in our little car. Just as we neared the roadside town of Changtalay the freeway abruptly ended and the two divided lanes merged into a regional two lane highway. Well, regular would not be the way to describe it. There was on coming traffic now and the roadside surface was in poor shape. That did not stop the Thai motorists from stretching the two lane highway into a four lane one at every opportunity. We exited the wriggling mass of traffic at Changtalay.

By now Sapiyeh was masterful at reading our Thai maps and he guided us onto a route of secondary roads that led us quickly to Bangtao Beach Cottage. We passed through many small Thai villages in the mostly flat land. Much of what we saw can only be described as third world. Here and there were ramshackle huts with bamboo and thatched roofs and in the Thai villages there were square cement structures. No sidewalks and lots of impoverished looking people going about their day in light clothing mostly sarongs on the men under the merciless hot sun.

We were happy to arrive at the Bangtao Beach Cottage and made haste to locate the tiny office near the entrance to a complex full of tidy little ‘bungalows’ and the inviting blue ocean just beyond. The young Muslim Thai behind the counter in the office spoke good English.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes we are looking for a bungalow for the night,” Sapiyeh replied.

“Oh yes, you need a bungalow for two people. I think I have a very nice one,” suggested the young Thai who looked very modern in his blue sport shirt and levi jeans.

“We don’t want to spend a lot of money. Like 300 Baht would be OK,” I explained.

“300 Baht? No, no, no … we have very nice bungalows and very comfortable for you. Cost is 600 Baht,” our dapper young Thai said.

“No, no, we are only paying 300 a night everywhere. You must have a place for 300,” I commented.

The cool Thai laughed and then asked, “Where are you from?”

“We are from Canada,” replied Sapiyeh and seizing the opportunity explained, “I am Native American Indian person. Indian-den.”

“Oh … Indian-den,” exclaimed the cool Thai.

At this point the conversation centred around the many cool Thai’s questions to Sapiyeh about Indian life in Canada. By now Sapiyeh was becoming very good at telling the Thai mostly what they wanted to hear. It was like a monologue in which he described life at minus 50 below zero, surrounded by deep snow at a remote part of the world where one could only fly in and out of. He talked about hunting the goose and being out on the land and living in tents. Needless to say we got our bungalow for the nightly fair of 300 Baht and a strange devotion from our clean cut modern Thai who called himself Chaad.

Granted our bungalow wasn’t right on the beach where more swanky ones sat but it had a big comfy double bed, a powerful stand up fan and happily a North American type washroom with a shower. Our bungalow was shaded by trees which made it a least a little more bearable to sleep in. We wasted no time in cranking the fan on high, aiming it at the bed, throwing off the covers and falling onto a sound mattress. It just seemed too perfect.

“Jesus Christ! Look at that!” I hollered, as I made for the door and headed outside with Sapiyeh in pursuit.

“Did you see that?” I asked.

“Yeah. That’s the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life! I wonder what it is?” asked Sapiyeh.

“I really don’t give a shit what it is. I just want it out of there or we get another room,” I said.

Sapiyeh volunteered to go back in the room where the four-inch wide spider clung to the far wall in the corner overlooking the bed. He carefully retrieved our T-shirts and sandals and we headed quickly back up to the office. Chaad, the cool Thai laughed at our story. To add insult to injury he called a couple of people from a back room to share it with them.

“You don’t understand. We don’t have spiders like that in Canada. This is a very big spider,” I said and sized it in the air with my hand.

“Two big strong guys from Canada and you afraid of a little spider,” said Chaad. He translated that into Thai for his two friends and they all had another good laugh.

“Look we can’t stay in a room with a spider like that,” I said.

Chaad sighed and shook his head, said something in Thai to his friends and then we all walked back down to our bungalow for a spider hunt.

They turned the place upside down but wouldn’t you know it? They didn’t even find a little bug.

“No spiders here. Spider is gone,” said Chaad.

“I think the spider is still here,” said Sapiyeh.

“No, no, spider is gone. Anyway spider is good, keeps insects away. See no insects in your bungalow,” said Chaad. Then he translated for his two friends and they all had another good laugh.

Finally we gave up and Chaad and his two pals trailed laughter as they headed back up to the office.

“Well, I’m not sleeping in this room until we get rid of that spider,” I told Sapiyeh.

He was staring at the square box headboard on the bed and said in a whisper, “I know where it is.”

Then he pointed to the square boxed headboard and sure enough on close inspection there was a little hole that led into the hollow headboard. Sapiyeh is one these resourceful people that seems to always find a way to solve any problem at hand. In a few short moments he had used up a quarter roll of our handy duct tape patching up the hole. With the spider entombed we felt much better, albeit a little guilty in settling back into bed for a nap.

Later the next day, we recounted our spider story to a young American Chinese man we met in the resort’s restaurant down by the beach. He too seemed to find the story quite funny. He was on a weekend visit to Phuket Island from San Fransico. He had a hungry look in his eyes and we figured he was here from some sexual adventures.

Before we turned into bed we went for a short walk under a three quarter moon on the beach. I wondered if there was any way the spider could get out. The spider was on my mind all night and as Sapiyeh snored beside me I lay hands tight to my chest and full of anxiety. I dozed into sleep here and there. Still I was exhausted in the morning when daylight filled the room. We had a great breakfast at the resort’s restaurant and spent a few hours swimming in the warm water and walking the long and clean sandy beach.

We said adieu to Chaad, exchanged addresses and promised to write.

Although we were only about 10 kilometres from Patong the journey seemed to take forever back out on the congested and chaotic stream of traffic. We passed many small villages at the roadside. As we neared Patong, the road began to wind through hilly country. On the crests of these large hills we were treated to a panorama of the Andaman Sea and the Phuket coastline. However, there were few guard rails on the twisting and hilly roads and a miscalculation of a few feet meant a plunge to a valley below. The Thai drivers seemed oblivious to any danger and we had to drive far too fast and take too many risks just to keep up with the traffic.

“Jesus! Watch out!” cried Sapiyeh.

I had already seen the gigantic elephant as we rounded a tight corner behind a small truck and several scooters. We came to an abrupt halt and both directions of traffic stopped while a Thai boy on top of the elephant guided the huge grey wrinkled animal across our path. It was as though some prehistoric creature had decided to slice through our fabric of time and place, in a slow moving waltz that cut the traffic in two. No one seemed to mind and in a few moments the elephant was off on a trail and we were racing down the other side of the hill in haphazard unison with everyone else.

Patong was unmistakable and almost popped up in front of us upon rounding a curve on the top of a high hill. We were surprised to see several huge warships anchored in the protection of Patong Bay. Patong hugged the coastline, which was a half moon shape and along this crescent stretched miles of sand beach. It was early afternoon and as usual as fast as we could pump the Thai bottled water with the elephant log on it into our bodies it seeped right back out in sweat. We were relieved as we entered the small city of Patong and exited the frantic traffic through the hilly country. We were on the lookout for a place to stay for the night but it didn’t take long for us to find out that was going to be a difficult chore. The US Navy was in town and they were everywhere. They stood out in khaki uniforms and mostly they were accompanied by young Thai women in the bars, sidewalk cafes and along the beach. We scouted the city out in a drive through most of the downtown core and then we began our search. We parked the Suzuki and decided to walk the streets closer to the beach in search of accommodation. The little city bustled with life and in addition to the visiting US Navy troops there were many tourists. In half an hour of walking we heard English, German, Japanese, Dutch and French.

We visited several hotels and guest houses with the same result … no room, all booked up. At one point Sapiyeh spotted a small sign that read ‘Friendly Place Guest House’ and pointed down an alley and curiously to a large night club called ‘Gay Go-Go Boys’. We walked to the front door of the night club and found it ajar. We opened it and ventured in. It was dark and quiet except for the sounds of sleep. The night club was strewn with scantly clothed pretty Thai boys obviously still recovering from the night before. Someone moved from the back of the bar at the far end of the room and then walked out to meet us. He was an elderly Thai man in a white shirt and black dress pants. He looked surprised to meet us.

“Oh, which one you like? You like Thai boy?” he asked.

The proposition was interesting and even exotic but we were more concerned in finding a place to stay and happily we had each other for comfort.

“Oh no, no. We are looking for ‘Friendly Place Guest House’. Is this the office?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Oh … Friendly Place Guest House. No problem, come, come,” said the elderly Thai man and we followed him back out the front door and around the night club down a lane way where we found a sort of American motel style building. There was a sign in the front window of the office that read ‘The Friendly Place Guest House.”

The elderly Thai man took us into the office and then left. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the office then we noticed a pair of feet sticking out of an adjacent room.

“Sawatdee! Sawatdee! Hello!” I said to the pair of feet sticking out of the room.

The feet bounced up from a mattress and onto the floor and brought with them a young Thai man in his underwear, who was rubbing his sleepy eyes to life. He also seemed surprised to see us and seemed to have forgotten he was working in a guest house.

“Uhh? Uh?” he said and then spoke in Thai to us with a squinted face.

He seemed annoyed.

“We need room, a room,” said Sapiyeh.

“Ah! No problem, room, room, yes,” said the sleepy young Thai who seemed to have rediscovered where he was.

“How many Baht?” I asked.

He took a form out and placed it on the counter in front of us and asked, “How many days you stay?”

Again I asked, “How many Baht?”

“One night 300 Baht,” he said.

The price sounded OK and with the Navy in town we didn’t expect to find too many opportunities for lodging. Our gruff and sleepy Thai host led us down a path to an end unit in the one story motel like building. Surprisingly, it was a large room with air conditioning. It had a picture window that looked out onto a garden and very importantly the window had heavy drapes that could shield the room from the burning Thai sun. The washroom was American style and there was a small fridge in the corner. We had found the needle in a haystack. We wasted no time in getting the little Suzuki into the parking lot near the office and moved into our new lodging.

After a shower with hot and cold water we had a nap. Sapiyeh was up before me as I slept a couple of hours more catching up on the sleep I had lost the night before, complements of the spider. There was still a couple of hours of light out so we decided to explore. As we headed out past the office we could see several young Thai men inside. They all stopped to watch us and gave a wave in response to our greeting. There were signs of life in front of the Gay Go-Go Boys Bar Night Club. Several slim young Thai boys were seated at café style tables outside in front of the bar. One was playing a six string guitar and singing, “Welcome to da hotel Calaforna”

As we passed they paused and also responded to our greeting with waves and smiles. One of the young men shouted something in Thai, another whistled and they giggled as we headed out onto the street and down towards the beach.

On the main road by the beach there was a steady flow of traffic which mainly consisted of scooters, motorcycles and cars. In a country where a large motorcycle is about 200 CC we were surprised to see the big 1000 CC Yamahas, Hondas, Suzukis and Kawasakis weaving in and out of the traffic and howling through the gears. Most of the riders this day were US Navy boys. On one side of the road there were bars and cafes hidden behind street vendors that sold everything from souvenirs T-shirts to fake Rolex watches. On the other side of the road were some upscale resorts and hotels and restaurants with prime location right on the beach. There were also a lot of street front vendors with carts that held burners. Elderly Thai men and women were cooking everything from chicken and fish to stir fry to crispy grasshoppers. One food vendor stood out. He was a young Thai boy no more than fifteen and his speciality was dried squid that hung on clothes pins on a line that stretched in front of his cart. We stopped to examine the rigid squid. At the far end of this road we came upon a Kentucky Fried Chicken and a MacDonald’s restaurant. Somehow, these two American chains fit into the colourful and seedy Patong. The heart of the city lived along the arteries that branched from the main beach road. Near the MacDonald’s we walked onto the beach which was very wide and surprisingly clean under the burning Thai sun. We sucked on the cool Thai bottled water with the elephant logo on it as we walked with our sandals on the soft sand. There were many tourists planted in rows on plastic chairs all the way down this strip. Some were swimming in the blue waters of the Andaman Sea. We heard several languages as we walked the strip, however German was prominent. The sun was just beginning to sink over the rippling waters of the bay as we neared the street that led back to the Friendly Place Guest House.

As we walked past the office we stopped to inquire whether any of the three Thai boys and one Thai woman might know where we could find ‘Big Bike’ the rental motorcycle agency we had heard about from the German we met in Lang Suan. The young Thai man that had registered us provided us with a map he had sketched out.

Curiously, the three young men were all wearing no shirts and they had heavy gold chains around their necks. They also had scars on their faces and chests which looked like they could have been caused by knife blades.

“Where are you from? USA?” said the older Thai who drew the map.

“I am Indian-den and we are from Canada,” explained Sapiyeh.

Our Thai host looked at Sapiyeh with doubt and asked, “You Japanese?”

“No, no Japanese. I am Indian-den from Canada,” repeated Sapiyeh and he pretended to be drawing back a bow and hooted a little.

All four Thai immediately surrounded him. The older Thai who drew the map grabbed Sapiyeh’s arm and smiling and nodding exclaimed, “Ah, Indian-den, Indian-den, give me your power.”

We had not expected this much interest but Sapiyeh handled it well and reaffirmed himself to the others with, “Yes, yes, I am Indian-den from Canada.”

This revelation took us into a long and descriptive explanation of how far north we lived in Canada, how cold it was, how much snow there was and the various wild animals that roamed the forest. We had to pry ourselves away from this new found adulation back to the pleasant coolness of our room with air conditioning.

“Can you believe what just happened?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Yeah, that was amazing. They were treating you like some kind of god or something. Mr. Mystical Power. You handled that well Sapiyeh, I think you made some friends for life,” I said.

We decided to take another nap on the firm and comfortable double bed. In a way, we almost felt like we were back in Canada in the confines of this American style motel room. It was even cool enough to use a blanket.

We awoke in the dark to the sounds of disco music blaring away at sufficient decibels that vibrated the room.

“Must be the Gay Go-Go Bar,” said Sapiyeh.

On closer inspection as we drew back the drapes and peered out our window we could see that there were people milling in and out of the bar that in fact seemed to be jumping with life.

Ready for supper we headed out in search for a place to eat. As we approached the office all of the same Thai people whom we had met before stopped what they were doing when they spotted us and called Sapiyeh over again. None of them could speak a lot of English and it seemed as though they didn’t want to say much anyway. They simply looked at him nodding and repeated ‘Indian-den’, ‘Indian-den’. We broke away with our valid excuse of needing to find our supper. As we headed past the Gay Go-Go Boy Bar we could feel the ground shake with the vibrations from the powerful sound system that blarred out the sounds of ‘Burn baby burn, disco inferno, burn baby burn’. Laughter, shouts and loud conversation came from inside the bar and we could see a group of elderly Caucasian gentlemen sitting with young Thai boys out on the bar patio.

We walked up the street and rounded the corner again. We were shocked. The street had changed entirely with the coming of darkness. All of the street vendors were gone and the bars and clubs reverberated all the way up the street with American rock music. The open bars were all well lit and at each one, groups of young Thai girls in tight and revealing dresses smiled and blew kisses as we walked along. If we stopped to look they ran up at us and tugged at us to come and have a drink. The street was crowded and in most of the bars we could see the young Navy boys dancing and frolicking with the Thai girls.

There were Thai boys too and even transvestites. At one point there was a crowd and we joined it to find out what all the interest was in, only to find that there were two transvestites stripping. The beautiful boys with hard breasts and thin bodies were moving to the sounds of ‘Sexual Healing’ by Marvin Gaye. The crowd hooted and applauded at every scrap of clothing that was shed. We made our way further up the street and at one point decided to enter into one of the alleys that had bars on both sides of it. Here young Thai prostitutes were more aggressive and at each bar along the way they tried to pull us in for a drink.

Well dressed young Thai men also lined the alleyway at the entrance to the bars. They stopped us and handed us pamphlets that promoted the particular shows in their bars.

“We have many pretty girl, young girl. You like young girl? We have young boy too, pretty very nice young boy. You come have a look, no problem, good show, good show,” one of the Thai barters in his spiffy suit hollered at us.

The pamphlets were more descriptive and outlined all of the various sex acts that could be viewed at the shows inside the bar. Every joke I ever heard about sexual genitalia interacting with ping-pong balls, bottles and pieces of fruit were in fact reality here. We declined the invitations, not so much out of high morals but more out of fear.

At each bar along the way the prostitutes tried to pull us in for a drink. We excused ourselves at several stops. Suddenly as we turned a corner there was the sound of cymbals clanging and a sort of familiar Thai sound. We walked on, turned another corner and to our surprise there right in front of us was a Thai kickboxing ring and two masters were going at it. A waiter came up to us right away and asked if we wanted a drink. It was obvious that this was the admission to this spectacle so we allowed him to usher us to a long bar that surrounded the ring. We ordered two sprite and stood at the bar sipping them while watching the muscled steel bodied men perform a ritualistic dance of aggression. They pounded each other with no mercy. I pulled out my camera and positioned myself close to the ropes to get a good shot. Suddenly, the two Thai kickboxers fell through the ropes and towards me. Somehow, ringside staff stopped their fall and pushed them both back into the ring. I got the picture and it is a fantastic one. We watched as these two thoroughbred competitors expertly kicked and punched each other. In a way it was almost not violent but choreographed. Every once in a while a bell rung and the boxers went to their corners where they sat on a chair placed in a large circular pan. Their corner men then poured ice water over their entire bodies. Newly invigorated, the bell rung again and they went at each other bone to bone, flesh to flesh.

A little overcome by the Patong experience we decided to call it a night and headed back to the safety and security of our Thai American style motel room. This time we walked past the office without looking at the Thai boys and we didn’t stop until we were back inside our room. Every 1980’s disco hit I ever heard reverberated from the Gay Go-Go Bar. Several times I awoke in the night and the music wailed on. Still, it was little sacrifice for a cool clean and comfortable and safe room in what seemed to us to be in the middle of a tantalising Sodom and Gomorra.

The next morning our rental contract on the Suzuki was up. We decided to return it in Patong to enjoy the comfort of the Friendly Place for three more days. Happily, ‘Big Bike’ was not far from the offices of Budget Rent A Car.

The young Thai dressed in a suit at Budget could not believe that we had driven out of Bangkok.

“You should keep Suzuki four wheel drive more long here. Where you go now? You stay in Patong?” said the suited Thai.

“We are going to rent a motorcycle at Big Bike and tour the island,” explained Sapiyeh.

“Oh… you crazy. Motorcycle no good, very dangerous. Many people everyday dead,” said the suited Thai man and he moved his hand across his neck to communicate his message.

“Oh, no problem. We ride motorcycle in Canada. We are very careful,” I explained.

As we walked through the streets of Patong to Big Bike we were excited to know that we would finally get back onto a couple of motorcycles. We had retired ours with the first snowfall back in Canada in mid October. Still, the suited young Thai´s words and crude symbolic gesture lingered in the back of our minds.

MOTORCYCLE MADNESS

Big Bike was everything we expected it to be. It was a store front shop with three rows of mainly high powered Japanese motorcycles parked out front. We walked the rows and stopped at each individual motorcycle to inspect them.

“I don´t understand who would want to be racing these Kawasaki Ninjas on the rough and windy roads around here. I don´t think anybody could ever use the power that these thing have in the traffic on these roads,” I said.

“Yeah, but don’t forget how many of those Navy boys we saw last night on these crotch rockets. They only use them to buzz around town,” Sapiyeh commented.

As we strode from bike to bike I blurted out the history of each particular model to Sapiyeh who was all ears. He´d only discovered the joy of motorcycling a couple of years earlier as I showed him the ropes on my Honda Goldwing on the back roads of St.Thomas Ontario.

“Oh, look at this. Here is a Honda 500, four cylinder. It looks a little different from the models I know in Canada and was probably only produced for the European or Asian markets. Look here, it´s got a strange front end on it. That´s not stock for sure. The forks have more travel on them,” I noted.

“Maybe that’s just because, like you say, it was produced for another country and just has a different style,” said Sapiyeh.

“No …. I think this thing has been in an accident. The front has been taken off and replaced with something else. Some poor bastard probably died on this thing. I don´t think they care a lot who they rent these bikes to,” I observed.

At this point a white man about six foot four and carrying a large belly adored with a black T-shirt that read ´Big Bike´ rambled up to where we stood at the Honda.

“Looking for a bike?” he said and smiled while resting his right hand on the bike´s tank, “Those little 500´s are quick they got lots of power.”

“Yeah, they have been around since 72, I guess,” I answered.

“Yeah, those are the good old days when Honda started producing the fours. We still got an old 750 K up there in a box,” said the big man with the T-shirt on.

“Yeah most of the Hondas went to V´s in the late 70´s but I see you got a six cylinder CBX out there too. Is that for rent?” I asked.

“Everything is for rent buddy and I just got some KIA cars in too, if you don´t want a bike,” said the big man.

“Oh, I think we want a couple of bikes. We miss ours and it could be some fun on the roads around here,” I said.

“So, where are you guys from? You seem to know a lot about motorcycles,” said the big man.

“We’re from Canada and don´t get me talking about bikes because I worked in the industry for years in journalism, advertising and public relations. I´ve been around bikes for most of my life,” I said.

The big man´s eyes widened and he smiled broadly then said, “Why I know a few blokes in Canada while I was working with BSA back in England. Is Jim Allan still around anywhere? Or Ken Downing?” the big man asked.

“Why I haven´t heard much about Jim Allan since his racing days with Yamaha in the 70s but I worked with Ken Downing for a while at Yamaha´s head office in Toronto. He was a great guy,” I said.

The big man´s face beamed and we talked motorcycles for most of an hour. Our careers in motorcycles overlapped here and there although his time was spent in England and mine in Canada and he worked in service while I dwelled in advertising and public relations. We talked about the good old days of the BSA, Norton, Triumph and Royal Enfield. Then we moved to a discussion about the Japanese motorcycle invasion into North America and Europe. We talked about racing greats like Gioacomo Agostini of Italy, Stevie Baker and Mike Duff, both of Canada. He had met Mike Duff during his days with Yamaha in Canada and in a race on the Isle of Mann. I caught him up with the fact that Mike had become Michelle Duff and was still as vibrant and interesting as an elderly woman.

At one point Sapiyeh interjected,” well do you think we should think about renting a couple of bikes and heading out?”

The Brit whose name was Tom Allan took us through the options in models and prices. He steered us away from the bikes I had noted were flawed and showed off the cream of the crop.

“How long do you want them for?” he asked and then smiled broadly when I confirmed with my reply.

“I few days should do, thank you,” I said.

Part of me wanted to scold Big Tom for renting such high performance motorcycles to anyone with a driver´s license but I decided on saying only,” there must be a lot of bad accidents with so many inexperienced people riding some of these machines. These thousands are a handful even for me and I have been riding for 30 years,” I said.

These words didn´t seem to ring a bell with Big Tom. He shrugged his shoulders and said,” I tell them to keep the speed down to watch for the corners and the traffic but nobody listens. We had to scrape a young guy from South Africa off the road last week. He was just a bunch of broken bones. I guess he lost it in the night at high speed coming from a bar in town. They found him in the morning on the side of the road. There´s the bike over there … 900 Ninja.”

Sapiyeh and I exchanged worried looks and then I replied, “Well we don´t drink and we take it very easy so I think we’ll be OK,” I said

“You don´t drink. Well that´s half the battle right there, bud but then again half the fun is gone too,” said Big Tom and he laughed loudly.

In his office we met his partner Honey who guided us through the paper work, took copies of our licenses and accepted 1,000 Baht from each of us. We picked up a couple of helmets then I mounted a stock 650 Honda V-Twin Turbo and Sapiyeh got aboard his Yamaha four cylinder Radian 500 and we throttled away from Big Bike and Big Tom.

On our return to the Friendly Place we parked right up in front of the office. We had no doubt that our young, scarred and gold chained Thai hosts would watch dutifully over the bikes. We had no sooner dismounted and taken off our helmets and here once again were five of the Thai office boys gathered around Sapiyeh.

“Indian-den. Varoom! Varoom!” said one of the boys.

He said something in Thai to the group and they all laughed. At six foot two, Sapiyeh towered over the smaller Thai and this seemed to enhance whatever mystical image the Thai had given him. Sapiyeh turned to the group and asked, “Is no problem, motorcycle here? Nobody steal?”

He demonstrated someone taking the motorcycle and leaving with it. He then pointed to the Thai boys and then pointed back to his eyes and back to the motorcycles and said, “You watch, OK? No problem, motorcycle?”

One of the boys stepped forward and with a serious look pronounced, “Motorcycle, no problem, no problem motorcycle, OK”

He then reached with his hand around his back and pulled our a revolver. He shook it in the air and said again, “Motorcycle no problem, Indian-den. No problem.”

We were taken a little aback by the sight of the pistol but we took it in stride.

“OK, thank you, thank you,” I said to the group and we headed to the relative comfort of our room.

“This is either the safest place I have ever been in or the most dangerous,” I said to Sapiyeh as we laid back on our double bed in the cool room.

After a short rest we decided to head off to the beach under the burning hot sun. The beach was wonderfully long, wide and sandy but the water looked dirty and uninviting. Still, many people swam and frolicked in the ocean. We chose to put some suntan lotion on and lay back in the sand and listen to the waves wash the shore. We didn’t do this for long as suddenly we heard whoops and yells only to open our eyes and look up to see a panic stricken elderly white tourist come swooping out of the sky with a young Thai boy on his back and both of them framed in a parachute. We jumped up and ran for cover up the beach and stopped just in time to see the tourist drop into the waiting hands of several muscular young Thai. The power boat that had been pulling them veered sharply from the shallow waters near the shore after releasing the parachute line and made a wide circle before coming back to beach. A group of other elderly white tourists, men and women, showed up to congratulate the triumphant parachutist, they took photos and then walked off to one of the restaurant beach bars. To our surprise the young muscular Thai had another elderly white tourist all strapped up and ready to go in a matter of minutes.

“Can you believe what’s going on here? These guys can’t afford those controllable paraglider type parachutes so they’re sending a young kid up on the back of the tourist to handle the control lines,” I observed.

“Oh yeah, that’s why the kid is up there. God he didn’t even have a safety harness or anything. Those guys are nuts,” said Sapiyeh.

Just then the powerboat sported off with a newly tethered line and then roared up to speed. We watched as the line was pulled tight and then the elderly tourist much to the chagrin of his watching female partner bounced a little, did a bit of a dance and quickly left the ground. In a few seconds a young Thai scrambled up to pull at the reigns of the bouncing chute with one foot on each shoulder of the flying old man. They rose swiftly and floated over the Andaman Sea against a blue sky and under the glare of the hot Thai sun.

“I wonder if they ever lose any of those kids?” asked Sapiyeh.

“I don’t know but you’d never get me up in one of those things in a million years. Riding a motorcycle in the traffic around here is as close as I want to come to flirting with death,” I answered.

On the way back to pick up our pack and towels from the spot we had exited so quickly, one of the young muscular Thai approached us.

“You like parachute? Look, so much fun,” the young Thai said and pointed to the old man who hung several hundred feet above us in the sky.

Then he added, “Only 500 Baht.”

“I don’t think so, not today. Thanks anyway,” I said as we grabbed our stuff and headed off the beach and onto the street.

After a lunch of rice with vegetables and some chicken in curry, we head back to our air-conditioned room. We went to get some of our cold bottled water with the elephant logo on it and we were surprised that the fridge was full of Sprite. After all, the Indian-den likes Sprite. Later that evening back out on the street we both seemed to sense something in the air. There were more tourists then the night before and the US Navy boys seemed much more rowdy. We assumed that a new sex flight had arrived from Europe and that the Navy boys were wrapping up their shore leave. We spent most of our walk dodging traffic and pulling away from the grips of Thai prostitutes or their pimps. At one bar we noticed several Thai women of the night gathered around a thin young Thai man who had a very long boa constrictor wrapped around his body. The serpent’s head was almost the size of the young Thai’s noggin and it rested quietly on his shoulder. The loud rock music played in the background, “The show must go on, the show must go on”. The tempting and audacious young Thai prostitutes, the boa constrictor, the punchy and drunk Navy boys, the sleazy European tourists and the crowded street with the steady stream of noisy traffic made this place seem surreal. Although we were standing in the middle of all this it was still hard to believe it actually existed. We felt like kids in a candy store but candy that dripped with sugar and had long gummy strings attached to it. We were voyeurs in this other world and we felt as though we were in a bubble as we moved along the strip that could have very well have come from a scene from a Fellini or perhaps more so a Passolini film.

The only cross we came upon in Thailand we found in the midst of this colourful street. It was a cross that stood out in front of one of the bars. It drew our curiosity and we approached for a closer look only to find this Christian symbol fabricated out of Guinness beer cans. Right behind the large cross there was a sign that read ‘The Irish Bar’. Somehow it seemed appropriate that this symbol of Christianity was installed here in his fashion. In this way it fit in here.

The next morning we were up early in anticipation to ride the bikes around the island for a couple of days. It was with mixed feelings that we left the security of the Friendly Place, the comfort of our air-conditioned room and a fridge stocked with Sprite. The Thai boys in the office all seemed a little distressed at our leaving and as we rode out they waved goodbye but had expressions of concern on their faces. It made me wonder if this was a smart move on our part.

Any doubts I had quickly dissipated as we powered the motorcycles up the small mountain that led out of town and we began the slow waltz through the traffic. Soon we found ourselves weaving in and out of a long line of vehicles. We soared down sweeping curves with panoramic views of the Andaman Sea. We slung shot around tight corners and drifted through island villages. Even on a bike, at a hundred kilometers an hour it was hot under the sizzling Thai sun. The air was so warm that it felt like someone was holding a blow dryer in front of my face.

We hugged the coastline for a while and then crisscrossed inland on secondary roads where there was much less traffic but more hazards to deal with. The road was full of potholes in the most treacherous of places on the tops of hills and corners. Around one tight corner we had to brake hard and almost leave the road to avoid hitting several lumbering elephants. We were on a constant watch for chickens, pigs and dogs that seemed to jump out onto the cracked asphalt frequently.

It required tremendous focus to ride in these conditions and in a couple of hours under the pulsating sun we decided it was time to find a place to stay for the night. We concluded this at a place called Rawaii Beach on the Andaman Sea. Rawaii Beach was promoted along the road as a resort destination. In fact it consisted of a row of restaurants and hotels on the inland side of the coastal road with a beach on the other side. As we sat at a small restaurant terrace facing the ocean, all we could see for the entire length of the beach were huge high performance powerboats. A brochure at the entrance of the restaurant promoted Rawaii Beach as a place to take a high-speed boat tour out to distant islands. The beach looked dirty and unkept. We visited a few of the hotels on the strip and found them to be either too expensive or far too seedy for our tastes. We chose to push along for a few more miles. Only ten minutes up the road we began to notice signs for hotels. We followed a road introduced by a sign that read Vighit Bungalows. The main road had turned inland somewhat, so we had to follow this dirt road for about half a kilometer before we reached the hotel on the shores of the Chalong Bay in the southern part of Phuket Island. The ride in was short but at least cool under the shade of thick foliage. The hotel was a few hundred yards from the beach. It had the layout of the Friendly Place, an American style one-story motel. There was a restaurant at the entrance to the motel and the row of rooms faced a large pool. There were a couple of people in the pool and a few lounging in patio chairs. We walked towards a middle aged Thai woman at the restaurant cash.

“You like something to eat?” she asked.

“No thank you, not right now but we are looking for a room for the night,” said Sapiyeh.

“Oh … one minute please. Wait, wait,” she replied and went into a room at the back of the restaurant to pull out a young Thai man.

“You would like a room?” he asked.

“Yes we would, how much? How many Baht for a room for one night?” I inquired.

The young Thai grabbed a key from a row on the wall and motioned for us to follow him.

“Come, come, come with me. You come see room first,” said the young Thai man.

We followed him to a room about midway through the row. It was a small room with a double bed, an overhead fan and a regular North American type bathroom with a shower and a toilet. The room was a little over priced at 400 Baht but it was clean and there was a pool right outside. We took it, paid the Thai lady at the cash, situated ourselves in the room and then made for the pool. Thankfully the pool was warm, not hot. It was clean and well kept and we splashed and floated to our heart’s content under the glow of the hot sun. This was one of the few motels we had seen with a pool and we wondered why there was a need with a beach nearby. However, our question was answered after we exited the pool and walked to the end of the terrace that over looked the ocean. We could see that the beach was actually a long mud flat and the water was extremely shallow for about half a kilometer out into the ocean. There would be no swimming on this beach.

As we sat for supper we noticed a Buddha shrine in the restaurant. Our young Thai waiter Mak, explained that the Thai people who ran this restaurant were Buddhist but that most of the people in this part of the country were Muslim. He went on to inform us that with the booming tourist trade on Phuket Island over the past ten years, more and more people were moving from the north to seek employment and business opportunities. He was in fact from Chang Mai in the north and a Buddhist.

“Does your family own this restaurant?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Oh no, only very rich people own restaurants and hotels. My family manager of hotel. Owner is German,” said Mak.

Now it was clear to us why all the only clientele around the restaurant and around the pool spoke German. Obviously, this place was being promoted by the owner back in Germany. Most of the couples were elderly German men with young Thai girls. In North America this place would stand out as a house of ill repute but here in Thailand it was simply the norm.

After supper as we tipped off Mak, he said in a hushed voice, “Would you like me to visit you tonight? I will bring you pleasure,” he said.

We knew what this meant and as tempting as it was in the midst of sexual Shangri-La, we did our best to gracefully refuse the offer.

“That is very nice. You are a very nice young man but we are very tired and we must get up early tomorrow,” I answered.

It didn’t seem to phase him at all. We bid him goodnight and headed for the far side of the pool where we sat at the terrace, peering up at the starry sky where a half moon shone down on us.

We got a good sleep that night as an almost cool breeze blew in through our open screened window from the ocean. We treated ourselves to bacon and eggs, which we ordered really, really well done and received more or less, medium cooked. We decided to head back towards Rawaii Beach to check our Email and return any messages if need be. As we raced back on the road, it was a little more comfortable in the cooler early morning air. We pulled up to an Internet Café and walked in. There were only two computers in a small room and a little bar that also served sandwiches. Behind the bar we met a thin man with curly blonde hair.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, we would like to use a computer,” said Sapiyeh.

“Oh, great, I will set it up for you. Do you want to go online?” he asked.

“Yes we would like to check our email,” answered Sapiyeh.

“Where are you from?” the curly blonde haired man inquired.

“We are from Canada. Northern Canada,” I answered.

“Oh, are you both from Canada?” he asked again.

“Yes I am a Native Canadian. An Indian,” said Sapiyeh.

“Oh well, this is the first time I have seen a Canadian Indian. I am from Denmark. My name is Jon,” the blonde haired man said and stepped forward to shake our hands.

We checked our email:

Messages from Brooke, Barry P., Alana.

Message from Brooke

Hi you guys,

Well, was I right? Isn’t this the greatest place in the world? Where are you? How did you like Tavee Guesthouse? Everything is fine here. Boring but fine. Granny is OK, I call her a couple of times a week and everybody says hi. Travel safe.

Brooke

Message from Barry P.

Boy I wish I was there with you guys. There is an eight foot snow bank outside and it was 30 below last night. So how is it? Is it everything you expected? What are you guys doing? Your mom is fine Mike. I stopped in to see her yesterday. Keep in touch.

Barry and Lyn.

Message from Alana

Swadicup,

Soooo . . . . what are you boys up to? I hope you are staying out of trouble. Are you still in Bangkok? Did you get to the Oriental for tea? Where are you? Yoooo hooooo!!! Where are you?

Banana and Lee

We replied to all three enthusiastically, filling them in on our journey from Bangkok to Rawaii Beach. After paying Jon 200 Baht for the Internet service we sat with him over a Sprite. His English was great and it was a relief to be able to carry on an easy conversation with someone. He told us his story.

He’d come to Thailand on a holiday and fell in love with a local Thai girl from Rawaii Beach. They married and he then began to look for something to do. Considering that the area had no computer or Internet service he decided to start one along with his partner. The road had not been as easy one. He explained that there is much bureaucracy and red tape in trying to get a business going in Thailand. The task is even more difficult if you are a foreigner even though he was marred to a Thai national, he still had to bribe officials all the way up the line.

“I knew enough about how things worked here to understand that I would have to pay many people under the table. The problem came when the local Mafia decided they wanted part of my action. I made a deal with them and paid them a lump sum to keep them off my back,” explained Jon.

He then told us that one of the gang members of the local Thai Mafia continued to show up at his door demanding weekly cuts. Apparently this gangster was threatening and brandished his revolver openly on every visit.

“I was going to shut down the business and move away with my wife but my wife is very strong headed and she was angry that we had been betrayed by the local Mafia. She set up a meeting with the head of the Mafia and we went and complained about the situation. It turned out he knew nothing about our weekly shakedown and he promised to solve the problem. Two days later someone found the gangster’s body in his car. He was short through the back of the head. That’s business in Thailand,” said Jon.

We left Jon and his little Internet café with a little more depth in our knowledge about Thai society and a little more fearful. Back on the highway we rode towards the city of Phuket Town, the main city on the island. We were now in the thick noon traffic and playing a deadly game with all the other drivers as we sped along. At one point we came around a corner and an entrance to a gas station to witness a tragedy. The traffic had slowed to a crawl and we could see people picking the limp bodies of two Thai men and placing them in the back of a pick up truck which then raced off supposedly and hopefully to a hospital. Their small motorcycle lay crumpled on the side of the road near a car that had a huge dent in its front bumper and destroyed windshield.

With this accident in the back of our minds we slowed our pace and took less chances. Phuket Town was very busy, kind of modern for a Thai city and full of interesting shops.

For the fun of it we decided to have a late lunch at the Pizza Hut which was on the same street as MacDonald’s and KFC. Items on the menu were expensive which explained why there were few people in the restaurant. We ordered a vegetarian pizza. We were not surprised to find that it tasted like Pizzahut pizza in Canada. Still it was strange to be sitting somewhere so familiar. This could have been anywhere in Canada with the same colours, restaurant style and menus that we were used to back home and the air conditioning worked well too.

It was bizarre to step out of something so familiar to us. With the push of a door we were back into the bustling and noisy Phuket Town street. We browsed through the shops. There was everything from electronics, photographic equipment, shoe stores, fashion boutiques and fruit and vegetable markets at every corner. One shop specialised in nuts and candies. It seemed to be a little more of a traditional Thai shop. The different nuts and candies were eloquently displayed in fancy bags, bottles and boxes. We decided on some fresh cashews and then munched on them as we wondered through town. There were few tourists on the streets. Phuket Town seemed more like a traditional Thai city … a friendly Thai city. Although it didn’t have any beach resorts, it did boast a large port, which seemed to be the economic foundation of the community. In the sweltering heat we made it back to the motorcycles and decided that we had had our fill of riding Phuket Island on two wheels. We brought our four-stroke, four cylinder bikes to life and then rode them out of Phuket Town and back onto the busy highway to return to Patong and the comfort of the Friendly Place.

If the traffic hadn’t have been so bad and if the roads had been in better condition we might have considered hanging onto the bikes a while longer. At the odd place where the flow of vehicles thinned in the hills on the coastline we could run the bikes up into fifth gear on the long sweeping down turns. I felt like a bird diving down from the hillside and seeing a kaleidoscope of images roll past me in every colour imaginable. All the while there was the oppressive heat and the asphalt below us was almost tacky under the sun’s intense rays. Every time we got started on a good run either the road turned very bad or an obstacle would pop up in our path. It almost seemed as though we were using the brakes more than the throttle. As exhilarating an experience as it was we were not unhappy to return the motorcycles to Big Tom at Big Bike in Patong. As soon as we pulled up to the shop and parked, Big Tom was out the door to meet us.

“So, what do you say boys? Want to take ‘em for a little longer? It’s a great ride around here if you’re careful,” Big Tom said.

We handed over our helmets and I replied, “It’s a great ride Tom but boy, you have got to be on the ball. Can’t lose your focus for a second.”

“Yeah, I loved it but we spent most of the time in second gear,” said Sapiyeh.

“Yeah, the traffic is bad. It slows you down and the Thai, well, they all drive crazy anyway, let’s put it that way but you know if you are interested in a long ride you can head south towards the Malaysian border where the traffic thins out a lot. There are a couple of real interesting roads down there,” said Big Tom.

We said we would consider that possibility, exchanged addresses, promised to write and headed back to the Friendly Place by foot. We had heard about the fabulous islands off the coast of Krabi and decided that this was the next step in our adventure. After studying some brochures that we picked up at a travel agency in Patong it became clear to us that the easiest way to get to these islands was by excursion boats. We checked back into the Friendly Place, much to the satisfaction of the Thai boys in the front office. They wanted to know all about our trip. Sadly not much could be communicated between us except for the fact that we outlined our journey by road on a map. They seemed to be surprised that we had made it back unscathed.

That night in the cool comfort of our room in the Friendly Place and happily sipping on our Sprites we studied the various excursion tours to the islands. The best-looking ship and the cheapest was depicted as a huge modern craft. There were photos of the red and white craft cutting through the blue waters of the Andaman Sea. In the photos happy travelers waved from the deck. In another picture people sat around the ship’s restaurant and sipping cool drinks and enjoying their meals which were included all in one low price. We decided that this was the ship for us. It looked new, it looked big enough to handle the ocean waters and our meal was included. We agreed we would purchase the tickets the next morning and drifted off to sleep in anticipation of our visit to the islands.

ISLANDS ON THE EDGE

We were up early in the morning with the hopes of catching the first bus out from Patong to where we would meet our ship in the Phuket Town harbour. Only one of the Thai boys was up and around. We checked out, exchanged addresses and promised to write. The young Thai woman at the travel office around the corner from the Friendly Place was happy to take our 500 Baht each.

“The first bus come in fifteen minutes for your ship, so you can stay here. Wait,” said the young Thai woman.

We were more than happy to sit back in the comfortable chairs in the travel office with air conditioning as we waited for our bus to arrive. Fifteen minutes turned into half an hour and half an hour turned into 45 minutes and the bus was no where to be seen. The young woman who sold us our tickets reassured us several times. She explained that there must be a lot of people being picked up on the way.

After what seemed like forever, the young Thai woman ran out from behind her counter opened the door and pointed outside and said excited, “You! Bus! Bus! You must go now!”

We grabbed our bags and ran out the door to find a mini van that had been converted to hold twice as many people as it should waiting on the street. The driver seemed anxious and in a rush. He met us at the back of the van, took our bags and tossed them into a small space with everyone’s bags at the back of the van. He then slid the side door open and pushed us in, as there really was no more room left in the van. Sapiyeh ended up sitting on my knees as we shared cramped quarters with two burly guys from Australia, a young German couple and four ragged looking French back packers.

The little van bounced and swerved at unsafe speed all the way to Phuket Town. The scene at Phuket port was utter chaos. There were several ships anchored at the port. People streamed from mini buses and were herded by their excited drivers to their appropriate excursion vessels. Our driver led us to a pier where a rusty and ragged looking ship sat. We were sure he had made a mistake. I pulled out my glossy, four colour brochure and pointed to the beautiful red and white ship in the picture and said to the driver, “No, no, no. We book for Phuket Cruiser. See this ship?”

The driver looked at me puzzled and then pointed to the large boat and there sure enough on its bow was the name Phuket Cruiser. At that point he walked away from us, hopped back to his van and sped off. The Phuket Cruiser was no longer red and white. It was mostly rusty with red and white in places. On closer inspection we noticed a hole rusted right through the top portion of the hull.

“This is it all right. Do you think we’ll be OK? It’s a four hour ride on the ocean to the island,” said Sapiyeh.

The Phuket Cruiser’s engines were fired up and it was obvious the ship was getting ready to leave. A couple of crew members were hollering at us to get on board.

“We don’t have much choice. I’ll try to grab us a couple of life preservers and sit on the front deck. That way if she does go down at least we have a fighting chance,” I said as we boarded the Phuket Cruiser.

Most people headed for shade from the burning Thai sun inside the ship’s lounge and restaurant area. We had no trouble finding a spot on the hot steel front deck. We had located a couple of life preservers and used them as seats. We also unpacked a couple of beach towels to fold over ourselves in a tent style to shade us from the dangerous rays of the near noon sun.

With a shudder that went through the entire ship like an earthquake the engines surged with power and a worrisome blue smoke rose from the exhaust at the back of the vessel. We left the security of Phuket Town port. The trip out of the port looked like a scene from Apocalypse Now. The water was black with engine oil and debris, rusted excursion ships like ours were coming and going. We sailed past rusted old hulks and the rotted remains of several ships. There was a lot of activity in the port with all types and sizes of boats. The traditional long wooden Thai water craft with the huge long shaft engines skittered over the water beside us.

Soon the coastline began to fade and we found ourselves in the clear blue water of the Andaman Sea. We followed several other excursion ships out into the ocean. At one point we veered off and headed for our destination, Koh Phi Phi, while the other ships sailed off to several other islands. After a couple of hours the ship began to toss in huge ocean swells. We decided it was time to take advantage of our free meal and refreshment. We made it to the front counter in the restaurant where one of the Auzzie fellows we encountered on the bus advised us not to bother with lunch.

“You’re better off to wait. I don’t know what they’re serving but it doesn’t look very good to me and you can get a juice but I think it’s Kool-Aid and I’ll bet they’re not using bottled water to make it,” the Auzzie warned.

We took his advice and headed back up to the bow of the ship. It was bad enough to be hungry but to be sick out here in a tossing ship out on the ocean would be much worse. As we peered out from under our beach towels the ship took a turn and headed for one of those strange mushroom shaped Thai islands. Then we remembered the bonus on this trip was a stop at Phi Phi Le Island, which features the legendary Viking Caves. We pulled up to a rickety bamboo pyre on the rocky mushroom outcropping. The entire hundred to hundred and fifty or so passengers filed along the unsteady pyre into the gaping mouth of a giant cave. The cave had been promoted on the brochures as a favourite place amongst pirates. It was also renowned for its pictographs of Viking ships set on the cave walls.

The cavern was massive and there were gaping holes at the top of it where streams of light shone through. It was cooler inside this mammoth space and you could tell that most of the tourists were not in a hurry to get back on the ship.

On leaving Phi Phi Le Island, we headed towards our destination of Phi Phi Don Island, which was now in sight. The brochure had referred to Phi Phi Don Island as an island paradise. The photos on the brochure depicted Phi Phi Don Island with log tranquil sandy beaches and clean turquoise waters. We wondered what surprise lay ahead on the island.

Phi Phi Don Island was anything but tranquil. Hundreds of tourists from all over the world were leaving and arriving on ferries and excursion ships at the islands crowded port. As we disembarked and headed up the pyre and onto the island, we were met by a row of sales agents representing the local hotels. The narrow and dusty streets were lined with T-shirt souvenir shops and restaurants. After about fifteen minutes of walking we came upon a series of hotels. We were not surprised to find that they were all overpriced. After forking over 700 Baht, we found ourselves in a little bamboo bungalow with a thatched roof. A ceiling fan pushed the air around and there was a Thai style toilet and a shower. After four hours on a tossing, rusty boat in the big waters of the Andaman Sea, we were simply happy to be alive and back on land.

We walked the island a little before supper. Although the beaches were wide, long and of soft white sand they were also cluttered with tourists. The island was indeed beautiful. It was in fact two giant mushroom rock formations with tropical foliage. These two giant rock islands were joined by a stretch of beautiful white sand beach. On one side where the beach had course sand, there was the port. On the other side was a long fine white sand beach, which faced calm turquoise water. Here the ocean was more like a natural pool bordered on both sides by the two round mushroom rock islands.

“Boy this place must have been amazing 20 years ago,” said Sapiyeh, as we sat at our hotel restaurant patio watching the sun set over the ocean.

“Yeah, I imagine before everybody found out about it this island really was a paradise,” I said.

A young couple, seated at a table next to us on the patio, heard our conversation and a blonde man with a blonde mustache interjected, “There still are some islands with less tourists on them. If you get the chance you should visit Chicken Island or one of the islands close to it. There are not so many tourists there.”

“Yes, we were there a few days ago. We stayed two nights and it was very quiet and peaceful,” said the woman.

“Well, that’s good to know. Thank you. We are heading to Krabi tomorrow with the idea of visiting one of those islands,” said Sapiyeh.

The young couple told us they were from Germany. They had been eyeing Sapiyeh for awhile and I knew that sooner or later they would be trying to communicate with us. On many occasions previously, we found that the German people we met had a real fascination with North American Indians.

“My name is Heinz and this is my partner Crystal,” said Heinz.

“I am Sapiyeh,” replied Sapiyeh.

“And I am Mike,” I added.

“Where are you from?” asked Heinz.

“Canada,” answered Sapiyeh.

“Oh yes, I thought so. Are you by any chance a Native Canadian?” asked Heinz.

“Yes I am. I am a Cree from the James Bay coast. Do you know where that is?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Oh yes, yes. We have been in Toronto before and we went by train to Vancouver. I know where you are talking about,” said Crystal.

As the sun dipped and the restaurant’s patio lights ignited we sipped on our Sprites, the German couple sucked back their beer and the conversation circled around Canadian Indians. The German couple suggested we stop over at Grand Tower Hotel, which they said was reasonably priced, clean and had the bonus of air conditioning. They also gave us directions as to where we could hire a Thai motor boat to take us to the islands. With the setting of the sun it cooled down a little, at least enough for us to find an easy sleep in the bamboo hut. We also had the benefit of a large mosquito net, which hung protectively over our double bed.

In the morning, we had a simple breakfast of toast and orange juice at the hotel’s patio restaurant and then made our way to the other side of the island to catch one of the smaller boats to Krabi. The vessel we were directed to at the far end of the small rickety pyre looked like an old Mississippi River boat except smaller and without the paddle. There were two sections, the lower section was first class with fixed seating while the upper area which was economy was simply a metal deck with railings around it. We choose economy, not so much for the price but more so with safety in mind. We figured that if the small steel boat ran into trouble at least we could jump off.

Our economy class deck was crammed full of backpackers, most of them were young. One couple stood out. They had a little girl who was about five who looked sad, hungry and mainly unkept. Her parents were bronzed from the sun, they seemed to be in their early or mid thirty’s and their clothes were overly well used. They had long since shed their backpacks and were living out of large cloth bags that once held kilos of rice. The father and mother looked as though they had gotten caught up in some part of the Thai experience that was not all together healthy or enjoyable. They looked like drug addicts and two people on the run who could rationalize anything to keep going. For two hours we all baked under the hot Thai sun as the little steel boat fought its way through the ocean swells towards Krabi. We never dreamt in a million years that months later we would see this exact same boat in the final moments of the movie ‘The Beach’. The movie was in fact being filmed in the area while we were traveling through. We had been disappointed by the superficial Thai experience portrayed in the Hollywood blockbuster film, which starred super hunk Leonardo Dicaprio.

KRABI

The entrance to Krabi caught us be surprise. When we got close to shore there was a lot of Thai marsh and we followed an artery through it for about fifteen minutes before coming to a stop at a cement outcropping which in fact was part of a street that led up to Krabi.

As we walked back onto land we were greeted by scores of taxi drivers who pulled at our bags. We figured out quickly that we were only a few hundred meters from the center of town as we could see the hotels and restaurants just up the street. In a few minutes we had found the Grand Tower Hotel, which had been referred to us by Heinz and Crystal. It was as they had described it. There was a long foyer with an Internet shop in it and a classical reception area with a ceiling fan and high back wicker chairs. Adjacent to the reception area there was a restaurant with small Parisian style round café tables and wooden chairs. The price was right for a room at only 300 Baht. We booked three days. The receptionist Pad was a slim young Thai woman. She looked tired and her face portrayed more years that she had actually lived. She was a Buddhist from Chang Mai who had some training in hotel and tourism and she spoke good English. Another Thai girl who greeted us with a bright smile led us up a spiraling staircase to the third story.

“I speak some English,” she said as we walked up the stairs.

“I have friend before from Liverpool, England. He was very nice. I don’t know what happened. We exchanged addresses and I write but he does not write back,” said the bubbly young Thai girl.

She told us her was Vasana and that we could call on her if we needed anything. We gave her a tip once we were in the room and she bowed gracefully and then slipped away. The room was big and cool, thanks to the air conditioning. There was a lot of wood trim, which made it feel cozy and we even had a TV. The bed was firm and the pillows fluffy and the sheets, crisp clean. Thankfully, there was a North American style bathroom with hot water. The shuttered window opened up to reveal the busy street below and the hotel opposite us. Feeling weak from most of the last two days spent in the penetrating Thai sun we fell into the cozy bed and went right off to sleep.

When we awoke it was dark and after turning on the light it was time for the luxury of TV, Thailand style. We were amazed to see CNN News. There was a world report and then one from Asia. We languished under the crisp sheets of the cozy bed and the coolness of the air conditioning, getting caught up on world events.

With hunger pangs gnawing at our guts we left the cosiness of our room to go downstairs and check out the hotel restaurant. At the top of the spiralling staircase from the third floor we could look down into the foyer of the restaurant. This view reminded me of exotic hotel scenes from Humphery Bogart films like Casablanca or the Maltese Falcon. From the third floor we saw that the restaurant was not busy. There was a young couple sitting at one of the tables and that was it. The restaurant was small but had a varied menu. I recalled one Thai dish from Young Thai Restaurant in Toronto. I ordered prawn in coconut curie sauce on rice and garnished with tiny but very hot Thai red peppers. In Thai it is known as Kon-Pat-Kung-Kag-Katit-Suk. The young white couple at the next table sat beaming at us. Out waitress, a petite Thai woman took our order and headed off to the kitchen. We sipped at our sprites and Sapiyeh addressed the young couple.

“How was the food?” he asked.

“Just fine,” said the young man with short brown hair.

He wore a cotton sport shirt and white cotton pants. His girlfriend was a little too plump for the tight colourful cotton print dress she was wearing. The young woman asked, “Where are you from?”

“We are Canadians. I am from the far north of the province of Ontario from a remote Indian community,” Sapiyeh said.

“I live about 200 miles to the south of him,” I added.

“I though you might be Canadian Indian,” said the young woman, “We are from the United States, actually we are from Seattle in Washington state.”

At that point the Thai waitress appeared at their table and spoke to them in Thai. The young man answered her in Thai and the waitress headed back out to the kitchen again.

“That’s amazing. You can speak Thai,” I said to him.

“I have a pretty good command of the language. I have been here several times over the past few years and have worked closely with the Thai villagers not far from here,” said the young American.

Then he added, “My name is Ross.”

“And I am Sue,” said his young partner.

Ross went on to explain that he was in Thailand once again heading up a project funded by the University of Washington that concentrated on a specific bird in the Thai forest from the brink of extinction. He talked about his work with remote villagers and an education program to convince the poor Thai peasants not to kill off the few last remaining exotic Thai birds. The young couple finished up their dessert and coffee, picked up their bill and politely excused themselves. Sue seemed a little leery socialising with us.

“What do you think that was all about?” asked Sapiyeh.

“You mean the strange looks from Sue?” I said.

“Who knows maybe we may be a little too out of the ordinary for her,” Sapiyeh replied.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to challenge the guy but talk about a ridiculous doomed project. He is trying to save some big fat partridge like bird from extinction in a place where the people are so poor they’d eat anything,” I commented.

Sapiyeh laughed and said, “Hey I was biting my tongue too. If there is any mission to be funded it should probably be focused on saving the Thai peasants from starving to death.”

Out on the street in the dark it was difficult to get a good feel of Krabi. However, it didn’t take us too many blocks to figure out that it was a mainly traditional Thai city and with a large Buddhist population. There were far fewer tourists here compared to Patong and Phuket Island in general. As we rounded one corner and walked down a street we saw a huge reclining golden Buddha. It was lit by spotlights from head to foot. The city had a rural feel to it and from what we saw there didn’t seem to be a red-light district. The sex trade was not flourishing in Krabi. We passed several guesthouses and a couple of hotels. There was a main street adjacent to where the large reclining Buddha lay, that featured a lot of shops, restaurants, markets and a few large Thai department stores. It was obvious that this was not a twenty four-hour action city. Most of the shops and restaurants were closed as we walked about in the late evening. There wasn’t even that much traffic which was a nice change. On our return to Grand Tower Hotel, we checked our email at the little Internet shop and happily sat at a free computer. There were several young backpackers using some of the other machines.

We checked our email:

Messages from John, Mom

Message from John

Hi you guys,

Got any tropical diseases yet? Get mugged yet? Did you hear about the deadly strain of Japanese encephalitis sweeping though Thailand? Nothing to worry about I am sure, just don’t shake hands with anyone, eat anything or breathe the air. I have been playing a lot of badminton lately and writing some music. Let me know how you are doing.

John

Message from Mom

Hi,

Guess what I am over at Alana’s and I am sending you an email. I hope you get this. We are all fine here. It is cold this week, about minus 30 but now it is starting to snow so it should warm up. Are you both eating OK? I hope you are staying in clean safe places. Alana says hi and let me know if you get this.

Mom

Message from Lawrence

Wachiyeh,

Tah-N-Teh Eh-Tah-Yah-K? Keh-Yah-Pah-Ch Nah Kee-Mah-Tee-See-Nah-Oh? Mee-See-Weh Keh-Kwan Mee-Nee-Poh-Noh Oh-Teh. Mee-See-Wah-Pee-S-Keh-Eh-Keh Keh-Nah-Kwa-K. Peh-Chee Sheh-Chee-Shah-Ah-Moo-N O-Tah Chee-Kee Eh-Yeh-Mee-Tah-Yah-N. Keh Wah-Chee-Yeh-Mee-Koo-N Christine Neh-Sh-Tah Naila

Nwahnen

“Oh, what did Lawrence have to say?” I asked.

“Oh, he is asking where we are and if we are still alive. Everything is going well with them and he wants us to take lots of pictures. He also wants us to send him an email and that Christine and Nayla say hi,” Sapiyeh translated.

It was good to escape the heat and get back into our cool clean room. Both of us had ended up with sun burns from the many hours we had spent on the boats out on the waters of the Andaman Sea. It wasn’t until now that we really began to feel the effects of the burning Thai sun rays. Sapiyeh’s nose was peeling badly and my forehead also painfully shed its skin. We massaged each other with skin lotion hoping to stop the unsightly look of peeling skin. In itchy skin and under clean white cotton sheets we drifted off to sleep.

The next morning we got up early with the idea of hiring a boat hear Krabi and heading out to swim off the more remote Thai islands. The beach where we needed to catch the boats was about ten kilometers away so we wasted no time after a quick breakfast to head out onto the street and catch a bus. Our neat Thai waitress had explained to us where to catch our ride. The bus in fact was a quarter ton Toyota truck with an oversized cap on it and a bench seat on either side of the box. We let about two or three of these vehicles go by until it dawned on us that these were the buses to go the beach. This particular Toyota was in rough shape. As we sat cramped among traveling backpackers and local Thai in the little truck, I wished I hadn’t noticed that the vehicle’s back tires were bald. That fact certainly did no play on the mind of the driver who raced the little Toyota down rough roads and into sharp corners at ridiculous speeds. On our way the little truck stopped to pick people up, however, there was no more room inside, so the late arriving passengers stood on the rear bumper and hung on to the back of the cap. We were happy to leave the little Toyota and we parted easily with the 100 Baht each that it cost us to get to the beach to hire a boat.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun burned down on us as we made our way from the road and onto the beach. There were several traditional Thai long boats sitting in wait pulled up on the sandy shore. We made our way to the most fit looking wooden craft where we met Amon, our young Thai boat driver. He was all smiles and dressed only in small shorts. His bronzed body almost glistened in the sun and he had long curly hair.

“You go to Koh Pada Island?” said our young driver.

“Yes, yes we would like to go. What is cost? How many Baht?” asked Sapiyeh.

“500 Baht,” the young man answered and jumped out of his boat and walked towards us.

We settled on 400. Then in a manner of minutes we found ourselves charging across the open ocean in the 24 foot long wooden plank, pointed boat. There was a tattered awning that provided a little shade from the hot Thai sun as our driver stood erect at the back of the boat at the controls of what looked like a huge portable generator with a long shaft in it that finished in a propeller. At one point I moved up the bow to get a picture of Sapiyeh with the wind in his hair and our driver steering the boat towards the islands. At this time I noticed the driver pausing every few moments to dip a large can into the bottom of the boat at back picking up water and tossing it over the side while he steered the motor. I realized that the only thing that was actually keeping this boat above water was the terrific speed and momentum that we had thanks to the powerful engine. I chose not to mention this fact to Sapiyeh who was oblivious to any danger, as he never learned to swim, there were no life preservers in the boat and we were already miles from shore. I silently prayed that the engine would not stop.

Out in deep water, where there were rolling swells the boat seemed to be in the air half the time. Every once in a while we would meet similar vessels coming back from the islands and full of tourists. The 20 minute boat ride seemed a lot longer under the blazing sun and with the knowledge that disaster could strike at any minute. We noticed something on the horizon and soon a thin line became recognizable as land. As we neared Koh Pada Island, Thai waters calmed and turned from a dark blue to a light turquoise. The scene was surrealistic. There before us was an island full of palm trees and bordered by long and wide sand beaches. There were smaller mushroom rock islands all around Koh Pada Island and as we slowed to land on the sand beach we could look right to the bottom in about 20 feet of water. There were several boats already pulled up out of the beach and their drivers came out to help tug our craft up on to shore. We jumped off, paid the driver, let him know we would want to be going back in a few hours and headed off to explore our island paradise.

Thankfully, Koh Pada Island was big enough to accommodate the 15 to 20 tourists who were roaming its shores. We didn’t see anyone else as we headed down the beach which took about 15 minutes. Then as we rounded a point we saw a party of three young sunbathing couples and they were all naked. We gave them a wide berth and headed up a trail and onto another beach were there was no one. We sucked at our Thai bottled water with the elephant logo on it and we stripped in our anticipation of a refreshing swim in the crystal clear water that sparkled like diamonds in the bright sun. I ran 20 feet into the water and then dove only to find to my surprise that even way out here, the damn water was hot! Still it was cooler than the air. Sapiyeh walked in and immediately floated up onto his back. He seemed suspended in some strange space under the eye of the burning sun and surrounded by hundreds of little fish that curiously slipped up to us in schools. Sapiyeh was the first to notice them and he acknowledged his find by screaming and then running out of the water. I found myself in hot pursuit thinking the worst. However, on closer examination we discovered that what seemed to be a huge creature moving through the water was hundreds of little florescent blue fish that moved in perfect unison. They were beautiful and almost seemed to dance in the water as they swam up to inspect us and then brushed by us, close enough that we could feel their touch. It was as though they were welcoming us and inviting us to share their exquisite space. We swam and floated in the clean warm water until we began to feel water logged. Back on shore we dressed and continued on our exploration of Koh Pada Island. We were surprised to find a little restaurant at the far end of the island on another long beach. We were also very happy that we could sit under the shade of a thatched roof and munch on ice cream.

We had promised to meet our driver Amon back at the boat on the main beach at about four o’clock and the time was drawing near. When we got to the beach there were seven boats that looked exactly like the one we had used to come over to the island on. A couple of them had already left with their tourist passengers. We began to worry that our driver was off somewhere and had forgotten us. At a quarter after four we decided to walk up the beach from the boats to look for our driver Amon whom we had already paid for our return trip. We were relieved to find him and several other Thai boat drivers huddled in a circle, playing cards on the sand. At least we knew he was still on the island. We headed back to the boat and made ourselves comfortable on the sand under the shade of a palm tree. As we sucked on our Thai bottled water with the elephant logo on it and peered out across the still waters of the Andaman Sea, we marveled at the sight of a sailing junk slowly making its way towards the horizon. It was if we had seen an apparition from another time.

Finally, our driver showed up with a big smile on his face. We assumed he had won some money. We helped push the boat off the sand shore and into knee deep water, then Amon powered up the beefy motor and we roared across the water back towards the main land. As we sat and watched the island slowly disappear, we knew we had experienced something that would soon develop into a commercialized tourist destination spot.

The sea was very still and serene as we motored along smoothly. The trip back seemed a lot longer and we reached the main land just as the sun was beginning to set. Amon stood almost stoically at the back of the boat where he controlled the huge engine. His hair was jet black and swept back in the wind. His body was hard and almost golden in the sun’s setting rays. All he had on was a loose pair of khaki shorts. Every once in while he would look our way and simply smile as if to say, “life is beautiful isn’t it?”

Back on the main land, we found another truck/bus and hopped in, with several other boating tourists, back to Krabi. Back at Grand Tower Hotel we fell into the cool, air-conditioned comfort of our room, had cool showers and then took a nap. After a little rest and a break to rejuvenate from the hot day on and in the water we decided to head out for supper. Krabi seemed rather quiet for a Thai city at night. However, some of the shops and some of the street markets were still open as we wandered looking for a place to eat. There were several pizza and sandwich shops with a sort of European flair to them. At one corner in a dimly lit street we found a Thai restaurant with a sidewalk path. We ordered Pad Thai and Jasmine tea.

“Holy shit!” said Sapiyeh.

“What? What’s going on?!” I asked.

“Uh … I … don’t think I should tell you about this. It just might affect your appetite,” replied Sapiyeh.

“What? What are you talking about? I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse,” I said.

“OK. Turn around and look at the street drain,” said Sapiyeh.

I turned and focused on the grated drain, which was lit from the lights of the restaurant. To my horror I spotted a cockroach that must have been four inches long.

“Oh my god. Look at the size of that thing,” I said.

“Uh … Yeah but that’s not all. Look a little closer,” Sapiyeh suggested.

When I looked back again, I could see that there was not just one giant cockroach but there were dozens moving behind him as though the innards of the street drain were alive. We ate quickly, drank our Jasmine tea, paid our very pleasant young Thai waiter and left the patio restaurant with the giant cockroaches behind. As we browsed the night market we stopped at several booths to inspect their wares. There were all kinds of fast foods and anything from chicken to fried crickets. There was lots of fruit and vegetables. There were cold drinks and tea and coffee, sweets and bags of munchies. The market was lively with lots of bargaining going on and filled mainly with Thai. At one booth we bought some cashews. Here we met a slim middle aged man, Caucasian with a floppy cotton hat. He had a small pack on his back and also ordered some cashews.

“Isn’t this a great little night market?” he said looking at us.

Sapiyeh agreed, “Yes it is.”

The man introduced himself as John and we provided our names along with a handshake. It turned out he was an Australian. He was one of the original back packers. He claimed to have been all over the world, back packing as a young man. He had traveled through Asia several times. He owned a guest house in Australia. He seemed to be fluent in Thai as he had easily conversed with the wrinkled and gray haired little Thai cashew seller with ease.

“You can’t beat Thailand for an adventure. The best of Thailand is where the Buddhists are. Krabi and some of the islands here are favourite spots of mine,” said John the Auzzie.

We told him we had been up to Koh Pada Island and asked what we should be looking at next.

“Well, if you keep heading south towards Trang, you’ll find less tourists and more traditional Thai cities and villages. Stay away from the Malaysian border though, there are a lot of nasty characters down around there. Have you run into any of the scams yet?” asked John.

“Not really, first day we were here in Bangkok, there was sign inviting us to visit tourist prisoners in jail,” I said.

“Yeah, well a lot of those guys are there as a result of those scams. If any Thai approaches you to sell you drugs, just tell them no and get out of there fast. It’s a double scam. The Thai sells you the drugs, gets his money for it, has a deal with the cops so that they bust you and he gets his drugs back. Then the cops fine you so they make a bundle too. The other big scam is that somebody will ask you to give them your passport and then you report it lost. In fact they’ll buy it for about $2,000 American. This is a popular scam and one that attracts a lot of young back packers that are running low on cash. The problem is either one of these scams can end you up in a jail and you really don’t want that, mates,” said John, the Auzzie.

“So how safe are we here? I mean so far so good,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well it’s like this. If you keep you nose clean and stay away from the drugs and don’t make any of the gangsters angry, then you’re fine. The gangsters are the young guys you’ll see with a lot of gold chain and necklaces on them. They usually have scars from knife fights too,” explained John the Auzzie.

Sapiyeh and I immediately looked at each other with the same thought in mind. Then we told John the story about Patong and the Friendly Place and how the scarred and gold chained Thai boys almost worshipped Sapiyeh the ‘Indian-den’.

“Hey mates, then you got it made there. If they’re on your side, you’re fine,” said John the Auzzie.

At one point Sapiyeh asked John where his back pack was. He pulled a little pack from his back and said, “This is it.”

“You mean that’s all you travel with for a couple of months?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Well think about it mate. What more do I need? I got some shorts, T-shirts and some toiletries. If I need a new pair of sandals, shorts or a new T-shirt, Christ I can buy them here for nothing. I get a big kick out of those kids I see with those huge exhibition type designer back packs they’ve got one on their back and one in the front. It’s 42 bloody degrees and here’s some poor kid dragging a hundred pounds of mostly useless shit, he’s never going to need,” explained John.

This indeed was a revelation for us. We had wondered how much sense it made to buy large packs and fill them up with half our belongings. From what we had already experienced John was dead right and now we knew it too. When it came to the question of the sex trade he was not moralistic.

“Look, everybody knows that most of the tourists come to get laid, to get cheap drugs, to drink cheap booze and to find some kind of an adventure. The sex thing is just part of the whole scene. Maybe you don’t agree with it or like it but it’s how a huge part of the population feeds itself,” said John the Auzzie.

As quickly as we had met, we also parted. The last time we saw John, he was walking easy with his little pack down a dimly lit street towards a Thai guest house.

The next morning we decided to spend most of the day browsing around the city of Krabi. Much of the community was traditional Thai. However, European and American style fast food restaurants were popping up here and there. There are several good hotels, which were square block style and six or seven stories tall. With the coming of the back packers, many small guest houses had sprung up. The main street of the city featured the reclining Buddha with a trail behind it that led up into a monastery, had a couple of big Thai department stores and a lot of restaurants and little shops. There were also a couple of major markets in the downtown core as well as a vibrant night market.

On this day we toured the two major markets. The seafood and produce was everywhere. Everything from huge shrimps, squid and octopus to flat and thin colourful fish looked up at us with bulging eyes from the fish market booths. Of course the predominate odour in the market was fish. The markets are always crowded and in Krabi there are few tourists which made our little tour even more exotic and pleasant. The fruits and vegetables were fresh and colourful. You could smell the sweetness of the mango in the air here and there. Many of the booths held pots and pans, knick knacks and toys as well as clothing. Flowers were everywhere. Brilliant yellow, pink, rose red, green and violet and blue fresh cut flowers could be found throughout the market.

Just up from one of the markets on the main street we happened on a small Thai restaurant. There was a young Thai man and woman sitting on the restaurant patio sidewalk where they ate ice cream.

“That looks like a good Thai ice cream shop,” I said with the sweat pouring off me in the heat of the near noon sun.

“Well, the ice cream is probably not pasteurized but what the heck, it looks OK,” said Sapiyeh.

We went directly to the little restaurant ice cream display and looked at the selection. There was Papaya, Mango, Coconut, Banana, Lime and of course vanilla and chocolate. Curiously enough the restaurant owner who stood smiling behind the ice cream display was overweight. He was one of the few Thai we had seen with a weight problem and no wonder why.

“We would like this green one. This one,” Sapiyeh said pointing to the lime.

“What size do you have, how much?”

The fat jolly Thai surrounded by ice cream said a lot of Thai that we didn’t understand and when he finished a voice piped up from behind us.

“He is telling you this is lime ice cream and he wants to know, do you want it in a cone or a dish,” said the young Thai man who was sitting with the young Thai woman and eating ice cream from a dish.

He had long curly hair, was very thin and seemed full of energy.

“Oh. Thank you. Can you tell him, please we would like two small dishes of lime ice cream,” I said.

The young Thai man spoke to the ice cream vendor and in a few minutes we were seated and enjoying our Thai lime ice cream next to the young Thai couple. With our introduction we found his name to be Tweezak and his girlfriend Chantana. They were originally from Bangkok and were both university graduates. Tweezak had majored in marketing. He informed us they had just recently moved to Krabi and they were in the process of opening a restaurant. When we let it be known that we were Canadians and that Sapiyeh was a Cree Indian, Tweezak became very excited.

“Indian-den. That is very special here in Thailand. I am very happy to meet an Indian-den,” said Tweezak.

Sapiyeh, now used to this reaction accepted the adulation with much grace. We did our best to describe our life in Canada and Sapiyeh elaborated on the life of the Cree in the wilderness of the far north on the James Bay coast. When we told them that we were both involved in writing and communications, Tweezak became even more excited.

“I would like a name for my restaurant to be very special. Maybe you can give me an Indian name for my restaurant. Maybe you can give me some ideas for my restaurant,” said Tweezak.

“This would make us very happy. We will certainly be successful if we have an Indian name for our restaurant,” said Chantana

We agreed to meet the next morning at our hotel for breakfast, where we would endeavor to find a suitable Cree name for Tweezak new Thai restaurant near downtown Krabi. As we bade our new friends farewell and headed back onto our walking tour of Krabi we wondered about this young man’s wish to name his restaurant in Cree.

“That was just a little weird. We’ve been in Thailand just a few short weeks and by the time we leave I’ll be naming a restaurant in Krabi. He wants some wise Indian saying too. I just can’t believe it. This whole thing just seems so strange,” said Sapiyeh.

“Whatever, it won’t hurt to help the guy out and just think you’ll be naming a restaurant in Cree. The only one in all of Thailand with a Cree name,” I suggested.

As we headed back up one of the side streets towards Krabi hotel, Sapiyeh spied a little storefront shoe shop.

“Oh, hey, great, here’s a place we can get our sandals fixed. The straps are ready to go,” said Sapiyeh and we walked into the shop.

The store in fact was like most of the other shops on Krabi’s streets. It looked like a garage with a large front door rolled up. Inside there was a middle aged Thai man and woman and two teenage boys. A corner of the Bootery was reserved for the woman who had a little food stand where she fried rice, fish and meat for the local walk-by Thai traffic. The middle aged Thai man and two boys were hard at work repairing the soles of shoes. They worked in the center of the shop surrounded by all kinds of shoe repair paraphernalia, the like of big needles, cord, leather, a heavy duty sowing machine and at the back was a wall where many different types of tools hung. There were the typical cheap running shoes on display as well as the shop’s own hand crafted leather sandals, shoes and boots. The place had the smell of leather about it. The busy three all looked up as we walked in and the middle aged Thai man left his work to approach us.

“Our sandals need to be repaired,” explained Sapiyeh as he pulled off one of the sandals from his foot and demonstrated its poor condition.

The middle aged Thai man turned to the older one of his sons and said something in Thai.

“You like new sandal?” said the older boy.

“No, no, we would like repair. Fix sandal?” I said pointing at the weak straps of Sapiyeh’s sandal.

The older boy turned to his father and said something in Thai and the middle aged man reached for Sapiyeh’s sandal. He grimaced as he tugged on the straps and examined the construction of the sandal of nylon and rubber. The middle aged man then said something to the older boy and the older boy in turn addressed us.

“My father says this not so good sandal but yes, we can fix if you like,” said the older Thai son.

We agreed on a very low price of 150 Baht per repaired sandal and handed over our ragged footwear. The middle aged man, it turned out was the father, Mr. Watcharapong, his wife and mother of the two boys was known as, Mrs. Watcharapong while the lanky and lean older boy was named Nattapon and the youngest Winid. Nattapon and Winid eagerly took the sandals and began to work on them. They replaced some of the nylon straps and expertly sowed them into place with thick nylon cord. The whole job only took about 20 minutes. While we were waiting we ordered a sprite from Mrs. Watcharapong. Suddenly a huge downpour of rain fell onto Krabi and we watched people scurry about beneath umbrellas. As we sat on stools in the little boot shop sipping at our sprites we introduced ourselves and answered questions about Canada. Of course the entire family was impressed upon the fact that an Indian-den was indeed in their bootery. We talked about the cold, the snow, the hunting, the fishing, the wild animals and the wilderness. The boys seemed to be more interested in the fact that we rode motorcycles back in Canada. Most of our communication was with the older boy, Nattapon who spoke some English. As the rain beat down in a pulsating rhythm on the shop’s tin roof, I felt very comfortable in the company of these hard working and honest Thai people. By the time the boys had finished, the rain had cleared up. We paid them and then headed back up to the Grand Tower Hotel. It was dark now and the air had a freshness about it that only a tropical downpour can produce. Streams of water ran along the road and here and there children splashed in the puddles. The streets were lit at every shop window and there seemed to be a calmness that had fallen on the little city in the wake of the downpour.

Back at the hotel, several backpackers were lined up at the reception and busy booking a room. All of the computers were taken by young travellers checking E-mails and the restaurant and foyer under the winding staircase was full. It was good to be back in the coolness of our air conditioned room which had been cleaned and tidied up by the house keeping staff. Taking refuge from the oppressing heat, we slipped into a nap with the CNN News battling in the background.

The next morning we met Tweezak who was waiting for us in the hotel’s foyer restaurant. The young curly haired Thai greeted us with wide eyes and a big smile.

“Chantana could not come but I am here to see you,” he said as he shook at our hands warmly.

“Michael, Sapiyeh. I am so happy you will help me with the name for my restaurant and for the menu. Please, please give me your ideas. I think meeting you is a good sign for my restaurant. It will mean much success for my new business,” said Tweezak.

Our trim young Thai waitress brought us coffee, toast and jam and as Tweezak pulled out a notebook and pen, we began our creative session. Sapiyeh outlined the options in Cree for naming the restaurant and then he explained what each word meant. He spelled each Cree word out on Tweezak notebook and also penned in the Cree syllabics.

“I think maybe you might like some of these names. Meechim, which means food, Was-Ka-Eh-Kan which means house or home and Mamo which means together,” explained Sapiyeh.

We debated the pros and cons of each word and Tweezak outlined his philosophy behind his restaurant. He explained that his place would offer good quality Thai food at a reasonable price. He also suggested that he was looking for a way to assist the poor hill tribes in Thailand by donating some of the restaurant’s profits to these people.

“I like your idea – Mamo-Thai restaurant very much. My restaurant is about people helping each other together,” said Tweezak.

He told us a little bit more about himself. He described himself as a new type of business person in Thailand. He talked about his university days and his participation in protest movements and lobbying to make the Thai government more responsive to the needs of the population. He talked about fighting corruption and Thai politics and business. It was good to have a discussion with someone from this country that held the same democratic and socialist beliefs that we had.

After breakfast upon invitation by Tweezak, we walked a couple of blocks to the site of his restaurant. Tweezak beamed as he guided us around the small ground floor storefront. Three young Thai carpenters were busy adding the finishing touches to the renovated space. The restaurant site was located on the busy road which was most frequented by tourists and backpackers. With great pride Tweezak stood in front his emerging restaurant and pointed at where the restaurant sign would be situated at the entrance to the store front.

“Mamo-Thai restaurant. Yes Mamo-Thai restaurant. I am very lucky, this is a good name for my restaurant,” said Tweezak excitedly.

We took a little more time and helped him design his menu. We were almost embarrassed at the fact that he wanted wise sayings from us but it was difficult to refuse the young entrepreneur.

As we wrapped up our meeting with Tweezak he provided us with some information as to where we could rent another jeep for our journey south to the Malaysian border and to roads less traversed.

At the rental car location just down from the reclining Buddha on Krabi’s main street we negotiated another little Suzuki Jeep which was about 8,000 BAHT?? which was about $300 Canadian for one week. On our return to Grand Tower Hotel we packed our bags and checked out at reception with Pad.

We exchanged addresses and E-mails with her and her bubbly co-worker Vasana and promised to write. We checked our E-mail before departing.

EMAIL SCREENS

Messages from John Elliot

Message from John

Hi there boys. So have you got berry-berry yet? Or Malaria? Where are you now? It’s cold and freezing here and even worse up north . . . . you lucky bastards.

I am playing a lot of badminton and that’s keeping me in shape. Let us know how you are doing.

John

Message from Lawrence and Christine

Wachiyeh,

You picked a good time to go to Thailand. We have three foot snow banks and it minus 15 here in Quebec. Have you been to the islands yet? You must be eating in Heaven . . . we love Thai food. We would love to join you guys if the flight wasn’t so expensive. It’s sound like you are having a fantastic time. Have fun.

Nahnen, Christine and Nayla

We replied to our E-mails with one message.

Hi,

Yes we are having a great time. It is so damn hot here, plus 42 degrees, that we are constantly sweating. We are now in a small Thai city called Krabi. You won’t believe this but we met a guy who is opening a restaurant here and Sapiyeh helped him find a Cree name for it. In a couple of weeks there will be a restaurant in Krabi, Thailand called MAMO-THAI RESTAURANT. Mamo is the Cree word for together. We are being careful and eating a lot of rice and vegetables and we discovered Mike’s favourite Thai food, prawns, rice and coconut curry sauce in the hotel we are staying at. Please let everyone know we are doing fine and we will talk to you all again soon.

Meegwetch, Sapiyeh and Mike.

GOING DEEP

On one hand it was good to be back in our own transportation again while on the other hand we were not entirely happy with the increase in stress that it took to battle with the heavy mid day traffic on the road winding out of Krabi and heading south.

We had decided that our destination would be the coast, past the city of Trang and near the Malaysian border. For a break in our journey to Trang we opted to make for Koh Lanta. We did so on the advice of Brooke who had also provided us with the name of a hotel on the island. Although this was the road less traveled in terms of tourists it was still a major artery and one of the few highways into southern Thailand. It was a two lane paved road with two way traffic. As we had observed on our earlier road travel, the two lane sometimes became three or four and in places where the road was very rough even one. There were fewer transports and cars but hordes of small motorcycles and scooters. It was a much more rural and rustic environment. For much of the journey at the roadside we saw enormous plantations. Thai peasants worked relentlessly under the blazing sun. We were amazed that most of the people we saw were fully dressed in cotton pants and shirt, as opposed to our regular apparel of shorts, T-shirts and sandals. We wondered how they kept cool as we rolled along in our little Suzuki with the air conditioning on high and still we were sweating.

Sapiyeh had mastered the art of reading Thai maps at this point and guided us onto a secondary road that led to the island of Koh Lanta. We expected this road to be a little more rough and have less traffic on it. We were right on the first count as it was full of pot holes and ragged cracks but to our disappointment the traffic was still fairly heavy. As we drove along we felt like voyeurs looking into the living rooms of local Thai peasants who basically existed right there on the side of the road. We could see them in their bamboo type lean-tos, cooking meals over open fires. The children ran around in rags but somehow they looked happy.

As we neared Koh Lanta the sun’s rays were beginning to weaken and a blanket of dark was descending upon us. We had hoped to reach the ferry to the island in daylight but that was not to be. We also discovered as we drove up to a large line of vehicles, people, carts and small motorcycles that we had just made it to the last ferry of the day. Considering there was no real community nearby we would have had to drive a long distance back to find accommodation for the night if we had taken 15 minutes longer to get to the ferry.

We were jubilant and happy at our good fortune. We humbly took our place as the last vehicle to get in line and within moments we began to inch our way towards the one level, open, flat bottomed steel ferry. In a way we were thankful for the darkness as it kept us from seeing the condition of the boat we were boarding. Finely packed like sardines on the steel vessel we left the Suzuki and looked for a safe place to sit in case a mishap should occur. The last place we wanted to be in a crisis was stuck in side the Suzuki.

“I see some life jackets up there in the corner but they look like they are a hundred years old. I guess if this thing even does go down we can just say a prayer and that’s about it,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well, I’m not sure I want to survive anyway. I don’t think Budget Rent-a-car would consider this as something the Suzuki would be insured for and we don’t have the hundreds and thousands of Baht it would take to buy the Suzuki,” I quipped.

As the iron boat shook and shuddered its way through the ocean waters, we sat on a steel rail up in front of the wheel house. There were several young backpackers who were conversing in German but everyone else was Thai. Some of the farmers had crates of live chickens precariously balanced on the backs of little motorcycles. In about half an hour we could see lights grow up in the distance. These lights soon displayed a large wooden pyre where we came to rest. As we had been the last on in the departure we were now the first off on arrival. In the dark I powered the little Suzuki off the boat’s steel ramp and onto the rickety wooden pyre in four wheel drive. As we made our way up a sand and gravel embankment we found to our surprise a little village. There were restaurants, tourist knick-knack shops and a couple of hostels. We stopped to purchase a few cold bottles of the Thai water with the elephant logo on it and continued down the road to look for Rapala Long Beach Resort on Brooke’s advice. The road was gravel and very rough and we were happy we had chosen the rugged little four wheel drive four our traveling. There was little traffic but people and animals popped up in the illumination of our headlights here and there. At this point we were simply thankful that we had reached the island of Koh Lanta and we were busy looking for signs that led to Rapala Long Beach Resort. The kilometers rolled by as did the time and soon we had eaten up half an hour on the rough single lane road. Suddenly, as we drove around a corner, the road promptly ended on a sand beach and we found ourselves staring out at the ocean.

“What the hell is this? We must have missed all the hotels somehow,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well wait a minute, there’s someone on the beach. He looks like a fisherman sitting beside his boat. Why don’t we ask him where we are,” I suggested.

In the light of our idling Suzuki we approached an elderly Thai man who was sitting beside what seemed like his boat. He spoke only Thai but quickly provided us the information we needed.

“Is this Koh Lanta?” I said to the older fisherman pointing down at the ground.

“No, no, no Koh Lanta Noi,” he said and then turned and pointed towards the dark ocean and added, “Koh Lanta Yai.”

Our Thai map had left out one small detail. What looked like our ferry crossing to the island on the map was actually a ferry crossing to a smaller island which we had just traversed and then it was necessary to catch another ferry to the actual island of Koh Lanta Yai.

The fisherman reacted to the disappointment and despair in our faces and jumped up and led us down to the beach where he introduced us to young Thai men resting beside a large wooden canoe. After several minutes of conversation we discovered that in fact this overgrown wooden canoe was the only means to travel the rest of the way over the water to Koh Lanta Yai. It soon became obvious to us that the two young Thai boat operators were motioning us to drive the rented Suzuki up onto the canoe. They laid out two planks and pointed towards the large wooden canoe which looked like it was just wide enough to support the little Suzuki.

“Well, we don’t have much choice, do we? Looks like these guys do this all the time,” I said to Sapiyeh.

As I headed back up to the Suzuki to drive down the sand beach and towards the wooden canoe I heard Sapiyeh holler, “Do you think Budget Rent-a-car is insured for this?”

After maneuvering in and out of position for 10 or 15 distraught minutes, I swallowed hard gripped the steering wheel and stepped on the accelerator, drove up the two wooden planks and in a flash I braked to find myself sitting perched in the middle of the large wooden canoe. I got out as fast as I could and gingerly made my way to the back of the boat where Sapiyeh and the two boat men were situated. One of the two young Thai started up what was in fact a small block engine on a long shaft with a propeller at one end and away we went into the night. The large wooden canoe dipped and swayed precariously as we headed towards some dim lights in the distance.

“I can just see us trying to explain this to Budget Rent-a-car,” I said to Sapiyeh.

“Yeah and we thought the ferry was a problem,” Sapiyeh replied.

In 20 minutes we were on a sand beach at the edge of a small Thai village. It took several agonizing minutes to coax the little Suzuki down the two wooden planks to the sandy beach where we happily paid our boaters a few hundred Baht and drove up the road towards Rapala Long Beach Resort. Before leaving the village we pulled over to the side of the road and Sapiyeh inquired about Rapala Long Beach Resort. Several people pointed in the same direction down the road.

As we drove, the road became more and more rough and in places there was very loose sand. In 20 minutes after driving by several signs announcing hotels and lodging we came to the entrance of Rapala Long Beach Resort. We drove up to a small space in front of a brightly lit building and parked the Suzuki.

We met the manager of Rapala Long Beach Resort at the entrance to the brightly lit building. Thankfully, he spoke some English and several minutes later with our room key in hand and 400 Baht poorer, we unpacked the little Suzuki and headed to our bungalow on the beach. In the darkness we stopped at several bungalows before our key was the perfect match to unlock the door to a little concrete building with a thatched roof.

“Thank god Brooke was right about this place. It’s been too long a day for any surprises today,” I said.

The room had a large ceiling fan which we cranked on immediately and it was clean. There was an American style washroom with a shower with only cold running water. We both took showers and tumbled into the soft bed exhausted from the long and confusing ride to Koh Lanta Yai.

The morning sun, which beamed through a row of windows, woke us. As we drew back the curtains we peered out onto a scene that looked like a paradise. A long sand beach stretched out before us down to the blue waters of the Andaman Sea. Already a few people were out swimming in the ocean and lying on the beach. With our stomachs growling for attention we made our way to the restaurant and situated ourselves on a patio shaded by a thatched roof and overlooking the beach. We had an American style breakfast with eggs, orange juice, bacon, toast and coffee. Of course, it didn’t taste much like the same breakfast back home yet it went down with no complaints. After breakfast we walked the long beach under the hot Thai sun in a cloudless sky. We decided to spend the morning on the beach and found the clean warm ocean water off Koh Lanta to our liking. The beach was just about perfect. It dropped off into the water gradually and was of a soft fine sand. We dipped ourselves in the slow moving salt water and floated to our heart’s content under the piercing glow of the hot Thai sun. At this point we were still using sun screen even though we had developed mostly healthy tans.

We decided to check out of Rapala Long Beach Resort to head further south up the rough and dusty sand road that crossed the island of Koh Lanta. In the light of the day we could see that the road was deeply rutted and we felt good about our choice for a four wheel drive vehicle. As we drove on, the road became more narrow and the jungle more dense to the point where hotel signs were fewer and we began to see less tourists. At one point the road turned into a rough trail and the terrain became quite hilly. Still, in low gear and four wheel drive we navigated the trail easily. Around one corner we came upon two huge Thai elephants and a group of young Thai Mahouts. The Mahouts were leading the huge gray swaggering beasts down to a river. We stopped and parked to watch an ancient ritual unfold as the Mahouts lovingly bathed the enormous wrinkled creatures in the cool muddy waters of the river. We were in awe of the intelligence of this enormous and prehistoric looking animal. With infinite loyalty the elephants obeyed directions from the Mahouts and gingerly played with them in the cool and soothing waters of the slow moving river. The relationship between man and elephants seemed bathed in mutual respect and love.

Not far up the road we stopped at a place to stay called the Sea Sun. In actual fact, as we toured the premises we found very basic bamboo huts with thatched roofs. However, the location was awesome as it was located on the side of a large hill overlooking a pristine and undeveloped long sand beach. We followed a rough trail down to the beach where we met a Thai family cooking fish on a fire in a bamboo hut. We had found the owner of the Sea Sun. After some discussion we learned that the going rate for one of these basic huts was 100 Baht or $4 Canadian for the night. As we walked the long sand beach we discovered a young couple bathing. We came upon them as we rounded a little point and there they were stark naked. Somewhat shocked we turned to walk away when the dark haired white man called out.

“Hi, do you have any cigarettes?”

We stopped in our tracks and turned to look at the young backpackers in their birthday suits. They had trim young hard bodies that had bronzed under the hot Thai sun.

“Oh, sorry, we don’t smoke,” I said trying not to look at their genitals.

The young couple picked up on our embarrassment.

“Don’t worry, we sit in the sun out here like this all the time. It’s good for you, you should try it,” said the young woman with long stringy blonde hair, small hard breasts and brown bush between her legs.

“Um . . . yeah. It’s no problem we were just surprised. We didn’t think anybody was out here,” I said.

“Yeah, we’re sorry to disturb you. I guess it’s a great place to go swimming,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well, we haven’t been in for a few days. There were four of us, another couple but Sheila got a chunk taken out of her leg by some big fish. She and Rob were taken out to a hospital to Krabi and I don’t think we’ll see them back out here again,” the young man said.

“Oh, we’re from Canada and just looking around the island,” said Sapiyeh.

“We’re from New Zealand. We’ve been here for a month. The guy that owns the resort here let us put up a tent for almost nothing,” the young man said.

He introduced himself as Stanley and the young woman became Heather. Feeling like intruders we wasted no time in hiking back up the hill to the little Suzuki. At this point we decided this was just a little too rough for our liking and we headed back on the road to find more comfortable accommodation.

After turning around and driving back up the road we pulled into a driveway where a sign said Lanta Paradise Resort. The little parking space was empty but for our Suzuki. There was a lot of more foliage this far up the road that crossed the island and as we walked the property we saw fewer tourists. We headed for the largest building which was concrete and had a thatched roof. In one corner there was a little office and the rest of the place was devoted to a restaurant that spilled out into a patio that faced a wide, long and sandy beach. The patio restaurant was open with no walls but it did have a thatched roof. There were several white tourists in the patio restaurant. At the little office we met a thin older Thai woman who already had a register opened for us to sign.

There was no time to waste a lot of time in choosing our accommodation. The elderly Thai woman pointed to a bamboo bungalow with a thatched roof across the way and said they were all the same. We decided on one a little further back from the beach for a bargain price of 300 Baht a night. We took the bungalow for two nights.

Our bamboo bungalow had no air conditioning but it did have a couple of large ceiling fans. There were two single beds and surprisingly we found an American style toilet with shower and of course there was no hot water. Although there were many cracks and small openings to the outside world, at least the little bamboo hut was clean. Regretfully as we checked for bugs, Sapiyeh found a spider whose legs stretched out for five inches round. It clinged quietly to the inside of a curtain hanging on one of the windows. By now we were growing accustomed to finding bugs, frogs and spiders in our room. With some degree of patience and a measure of fear we prodded the large arachnid from his resting place in our space onto the concrete floor and then out the door.

With the sun on the edge of setting we made our way to the patio restaurant. From our table under a thatched roof we ordered vegetables with rice and a sprite. Our waiter Pang was a bubbly young Thai boy only 18 years old. He was a Buddhist who had come from the north to work in the tourist destination of Koh Lanta. He spoke a little English and had a good sense of humour. Sapiyeh shared the fact that we were from Canada and that he was an Indian-den and for the rest of the evening when Pang had a moment he visited us at our table to ask the Indian-den many questions. He spread the word around the office and restaurant so that the entire staff at one time or another during the evening made a visit to our table to see the Indian-den. At the back end of the restaurant we noticed a guitar hanging on the wall.

“Boy, do I miss my guitar. I wish there had been a way to bring it along,” I said.

“Well, maybe you can play that one. Why don’t you just ask Pang,” suggested Sapiyeh.

Pang was only to eager to oblige and plucked the old Yamaha acoustic guitar from its place on the wall and presented it to me.

“You know Beatles songs? I like Beatles,” said Pang.

“Um . . . maybe but I play mostly my own songs,” I replied.

Pang seemed excited at the prospect of hearing some original songs and sat at the table as I endeavoured to tune the dead strings of the 1970’s model Yamaha. I got it about as close as I could to something that could produce a melodic sound and then began:

Well, I’m lost on that river
That river of time
That flows through the islands
Of thought in my mind
Where the blue neon skies pulsate in the night
And the water it just sparkles
In the jewelry daylight
And I don’t care if I find out
That it was all just a waste
This trip up the river
To some unknown fate
River, oh river, oh river

I sung while I happily strummed the little Yamaha guitar. It felt good to be strumming again and singing there at the table under the thatched roof and in the mahogany glow of the powerful descending Thai sun. As I finished, an applause rang out from the back of the restaurant and Pang clapped his hands wildly.

“Very beautiful, Michael, very beautiful. You sound like Eagles,” said Pang.

Happily I was quite content to strum the six string and sing several tunes. Sapiyeh and I traded the little Yamaha back and forth, as the day turned to night and several more tourists arrived to check in.

Although there was a bit of a breeze sweeping off the ocean it didn’t do much to lower the simmering 40 degree heat. Thanks to the large ceiling fans in our bamboo bungalow it was easier to get to sleep. Well it should have been easier but the memory of the huge black spider on the curtain lingered on our minds.

“Ahhh!! Ayii!! Aghh!!” I screamed with the realization that something very big was crawling along my leg.

I came out of my dream world absolutely horrified to find myself in the dimly lit bamboo hut with a four inch long brown beetle strolling along the top of my thigh. I must have jumped three feet into the air off my bed and I landed on top of Sapiyeh screaming.

“What! What! What!” he yelled as I rudely awoke him.

“Look there on the bed. The damn thing was on my leg!” I hollered pointing to the beetle who had by now comfortably installed himself in the middle of my bed.

“Wow, that is a big one. Did it bite you?” asked Sapiyeh.

“No it didn’t bite me. I just woke up and there it was on my leg,” I explained.

For the next 20 minutes we debated our strategy to remove the beetle from my bed and our bamboo hut. If there had been any Buddhists about they would have been fond of our solution to the beetle problem, a proper one. While I watched from the bathroom door, Sapiyeh picked up the large grotesque looking insect and by scooping it in a folded magazine which he then tossed out the door. Thankfully, daylight was only a couple of hours away as it was difficult for me to get any more sleep.

We had a late breakfast and then spent a couple of hours on the beach and swam in the warm waters of the Andaman Sea. From 30 feet out in the water the little resort looked quaint indeed. I could see the patio extension of the restaurant and there were a few tourists who were having breakfast. To the right of it behind the patio restaurant there were 12 bamboo huts with thatched roofs. In front of the restaurant building there was a wide sand beach which was a little rocky here and there. The entire scene was framed in lush tropical green with trees, shrubs and all kinds of plants and large palms. As we hid our bodies from the glaring sun only our heads poked up out of the water.

After a quick sandwich for lunch at the patio restaurant we decided to head out to find the only other road on the island which would take us to the even more remote east side of the island. It wasn’t difficult to find the road that crossed over to the east of Koh Lanta Island. This road was bumpy and mostly gravel. The dust swirled behind us as thick as fog as we shook, rattled and rolled along under the scorching Thai sun. We found ourselves in hilly terrain and moving upwards and shortly after we descended the hilly country into a little fishing village, called Baan See Raa Yaa, situated on the coast. There was a beach which we drove up to but it was very rocky and not long and wide like those we had enjoyed on the other side of the island. The village was small but lively and seemed to be very traditional Thai. We parked the Suzuki and went for a stroll. We really had the sense that we were in a fairly remote part of the country and we certainly didn’t expect to run into anybody who could speak English. In the searing heat we were delighted to find a woman selling pineapples at her doorstep. We ordered one and she promptly showed us the fine art of cutting up a pineapple.

“These people here look so much like the Cree, my people from my home town,” said Sapiyeh.

The Thai lady seemed genuinely pleased that we had stopped for a refreshing pineapple and she expertly cut up the fruit while several of what seemed to be her grandchildren sat close by and were simply captivated by we two foreigners. She held onto the stem of the pineapple and more or less peeled it with a large sharp knife. She peeled it thinly which resulted in many hard pits still remaining embedded in the juicy yellow fruit. At this point she made a series of diagonal cuts around the fruit which made a spiral design and handily disposed of the hard pits. She did all this without touching any of the edible surface of the pineapple with her hands. As we drooled at the thought of sinking our teeth into the luscious juicy pulp of the pineapple, the Thai woman cut the fruit into strips and then placed them in a plastic bay.

Just as she was finishing up, two middle aged Thai men walked up and out of the door just behind her. They were caught up in a conversation and while they talked one of them was openly displaying a large caliber revolver. As the two men walked down the road we couldn’t help but wonder at the normalcy that surrounded the playful handling of the revolver by one of the Thai men. We grew uneasy and after paying the pineapple lady four times as much as she had asked for we headed up the street in the opposite direction from the two Thai men with the gun. We were reminded once again that even in the midst of a serene remote fishing village and in the company of someone’s smiling grandmother there lurked another world that was dark and dangerous.

Suddenly, the quiet little Thai village had the potential to become the OK Coral. We were relieved to come upon a café only advertised as the Internet Café at the far end of the village’s main street near the fishermen’s wharf. In fact the Internet café consisted of one small room and a desk and a couple of chairs and what looked like a new computer. The little café also served refreshments and Thai food. A young Thai man, slender and bright eyed, hurried to greet us at the door.

“Come, come, welcome, welcome, English?” he said.

“Yes we speak English and we would like to check our Email,” said Sapiyeh.

The cheery Thai man who turned out to Jadet the owner of the little place situated us at the state of the art brand new powerful computer. We were amazed that the place even existed in a very remote Thai fishing village at the far end of Koh Lanta Island. Jadet bought us two cold sprite and we checked our Email.

EMAIL SCREENS

Messages from John Elliot

Message from John

Hi boys, so are you still alive? Have you seen the reclining Buddha with the bad back yet? So where are you? It sounds like you guys are having a good time. It’s still cold and snowing here in Siberia but we are coping.

See ya later, cousin John.

Message from Ron K.

Wachiyeh, well at least you guys are somewhere warm. I am freezing my butt off here. When are you coming back? I am thinking of heading out for a couple of weeks. I went on a caribou hunt last week and we got one but I am just not into hunting at forty below zero. What are you guys doing?

Wachiyeh, Ron

We answered both John and Ron with one message.

Hi,

We are in a little fishing village where to our surprise we found an internet café called the Internet Café. We didn’t even think there was electricity in this town but here we are sitting at a Packard Bell 350 Mhz and 64 meg RAM. Jadet seems like a nice guy too. We are on our way south and now visiting Koh Lanta Island. The beaches here are great and there are lots of reclining Buddhas and probably one with a bad back too. We should be home in a week if we don’t lose our little Suzuki in the ocean but then again that is another story.

Say hi to everyone.

Mike and Sapiyeh

After settling our account with Jadet he joined us at a table while we sipped at our sprites. He told us he had just opened the little café and installed the new computer a few days ago. Apparently we were lucky as it took him a few days to iron out all the bugs. Jadet spoke broken English which he said he learned from a friend that had come to the village a couple of years ago. He had traveled with the Englishman for a month. He told us of his dream to have several Internet cafés on the island of Koh Lanta. We suggested he develop one in Baa Saa Laa Daan at the entrance of Koh Lanta Island. We exchanged Email addresses promised to write and said our good byes.

As we made our way to the little Suzuki on the other side of town we were more aware now just how many handguns were floating around. It felt good to be rolling out of the rustic little fishing village and back onto the dusty road out of town.

By the time we made it back to the Lanta Paradise Resort it was late afternoon and time for supper. There were fewer guests at the patio restaurant and we more or less had our young waiter Pang to ourselves. He talked about his family back up north near Chang Mai. He had four younger brothers and two younger sisters. Pang, like many of the young northern Buddhists was sending much of his pay check back to his family.

“I like to go to school. I like to learn English. So difficult . . . so much money,” said Pang.

“Your English is pretty good. Maybe you will save enough money to go to school. You are an intelligent guy,” said Sapiyeh.

We both knew by now that Thailand was a land of very few rich and the many poor. We realized education was a luxury in this country where most people were caught up in just merely trying to survive. Pang seemed to know a lot about American culture, the music, fashion and movies. He also dreamed of going to the United States. We both know that he had a chance in hell of making that dream come true. All the best things about Thai people seemed to be wrapped up in Pang. He was very kind, open, sensitive, curious and industrious. It left a bitter taste in our minds that the Pangs in this world who had so much potential would never be provided access to education or employment.

Still, with the thought that big brown spiders and big black beetles were watching us from the dark corners of the bamboo hut, our sleep was light and uneasy. The next morning we had coffee and toast and checked out and headed the Suzuki back up the road to the waiting big canoe ferry. Although the road was rough and dusty, it was a pleasure to drive without having to fight traffic. We revisited the painful process of driving the little Suzuki onto the oversized wooden canoe and then risking life and limb crossing the choppy ocean waters away from Koh Lanta Island. The drive back across the second island seemed short. It was a relief to make it aboard the rusty steel hulk of a ferry that took us back to the main land. The dilapidated old scow, which reeked of diesel fuel and blew thick black exhaust seemed almost luxurious after having traveled on the big wooden canoe ferry. Back on the main land we pointed the little Suzuki towards the city of Trang and drove under the intense heat of the noonday Thai sun towards what looked like a serious dot on our map.

The hours dragged by as we rode along the now familiar two lane sometimes three, sometimes four lane Thai highway in what seemed like a convoy of trucks, buses, cars and motorcycles. The land was lush and green on either side of the highway and there was much development with huge sections of plantations. Here and there we intersected life in small Thai communities. By the later afternoon we hit the final few kilometers to the city of Trang and the highway divided. We took an exit that we thought would take us downtown but it only served to send us around a suburb for about 20 minutes. Finally, we stopped at a gas station, asked for directions, got back on the highway, headed south and took an exit that did in fact deliver us to the heart of Trang. It was a busy city but seemed well planned and clean. We found what seemed to be the downtown core where most of the banks and hotels were and grabbed the first parking spot we saw.

We needed money so we headed for the nearest ATM machine. As we had never experienced problems with drawing money with our Canadian bank cards it was a surprise when Sapiyeh’s cards was rejected. I tried mine too but got the same result. We moved up the bustling and modern paved street with multilevel concrete buildings on each side and tried several other ATMs with no luck. Brooke had advised us to bring along some Traveler’s Checks and her suggestion proved sound in this predicament. We cashed a hundred dollars Canadian at a money exchange and then proceeded to look for a hotel. We found a couple of very modern and quasi-western hotels but they were asking too much for a room. Actually, they were only asking $30 Canadian a night but by Thai standards we found that expensive. At one point we walked into a very traditional looking older style Thai hotel with a restaurant near the lobby section. The restaurant was old style Thai. It was a large room that was quite stark and had seating for about 50 people. There was a long wooden bar and several large ceiling fans. To the left of the bar there was a separate counter for the hotel reception and an ancient looking Thai man sat behind the registration counter buried in a newspaper. We almost felt as through we were intruding. We stood staring at the old man for a few moments and finally he looked up at us, seemingly unimpressed and said something in Thai that we did not understand.

“We would like a room for tonight. A room. How many Baht for a room?” asked Sapiyeh.

The old man took several keys from a pegboard on the wall and said something again in Thai and motioned for us to follow him. We walked up a very wide tiled set of steps to the third floor where the old man led us down a long corridor to a door which he opened.

“200 Baht,” said the old man.

Inside we found two single beds, a night table and a closet built into the wall. There was an American style washroom with an old style American bathtub and a shower. There was hot and cold water. The only light was a bare bulb in the center of the large dusty and musty but clean room. There was also a ceiling fan, which made a loud hum. There was only one window and it looked out onto the side of another building. It reminded me of the old style Victorian hotels with its ten foot ceiling. The hotel clerk then turned at the door and ushered us back out and he pointed at another door down the hall and then said, “300 Baht”

“This is OK. This room is OK, no problem, 200 Baht,” I said and at that, the old man shrugged his shoulders and led us back downstairs to the reception.

We parted with 200 Baht, found parking on the street for the Suzuki and then hauled our packs up to the room. There didn’t seem to be much of a night life after dark so we decided to play it safe and dine in the hotel’s restaurant. There were no young people working in this hotel. Our Thai waiter must have been 70. He was dressed in a kind of uniform with a red jacket and black pants. He spoke no English but after several minutes of descriptive conversation we managed to make him understand that we wanted two servings of vegetables and rice accompanied by cold sprites. Somehow our order was expanded. Thankfully we did get our vegetables and rice but it addition we also got two plates of indistinguishable fried fish. Our fish still had a head on it that we could not recognize. It tasted a little bitter and was quite bony and reminded us a little of pike. We didn’t eat much of the fish, however, the rice and vegetables we found to our liking.

Seated in the hotel, we felt as though we had turned back the pages of time to perhaps 1920 or 30-something. Once again this could have been a set for a Humphrey Bogart film and we half expected Peter Lori to walk around a corner at any minute.

Although our room felt as though no one had lived in it for a while, there was an air of security about it and no bugs, not that we could see anyway. Sleep came easily after yet another horrendously hot day on the congested Thai highway.

The next morning after the luxury of hot showers to cleanse the dust and grime from our bodies and then cool showers to help us cope with the heat we checked out of the Wattan Hotel and headed back up to the Suzuki. We were just about to pull away when we spotted a little café which was also an ice cream shop. The entire front of the shop was glass and none of the doors were open so we knew it was air conditioned. We headed in for breakfast and to our surprise found ourselves sitting down to crisp waffles covered in fresh pineapple and also served with two scoops of Thai lime ice cream. It was a breakfast made in heaven as far as we were concerned as we sat savoring our cool food in the air conditioned café.

“Do you mind if I join you?” said a young Thai person from several tables away.

I couldn’t tell if this person was a man or a woman at first. Many times throughout our journey we had seen the lines of sexuality blurred in the faces of beautiful young Thai people.

“Sure that would be great,” said Sapiyeh and with that the young Thai moved with his cool drink to our table.

“My name is Khem,” said the young Thai man who had long black hair to his shoulders, a beautiful fine featured face and a delicate body.

We introduced ourselves and began a conversation with this young Thai man. He explained that he had taken an English course so that he could work in the tourism business. For some reason he had not ventured up towards Bangkok or Phuket Island. He was still going to school in Trang. Khem delighted in being able to practice his English. He described Trang as a very traditional Thai city with few tourists as it was inland with nothing to offer travelers looking for exotic beaches.

Khem as it turned out came from a very poor family in a small town further south. Somehow, he managed to attend college in Trang. On learning that Sapiyeh was an Indian-den he put forth a large volume of questions concerning this topic. We exchanged addresses, promised to write and said our good-byes. As we headed out the door, Khem directed us to a travel information booth at the end of the city block.

Sure enough we found the information store front where we were greeted by a middle aged Thai woman in a western style dress. She spoke perfect English and provided us with several options for traveling in the south. The most tempting choice involved a drive west of Trang to the coast where she suggested we take a coastal highway that had few tourists but plenty of beaches with resorts. She further suggested that we drive south along the coastal road to find the best beaches.

“I don’t think you would be happy with the shallow beaches early on. They are wonderful to walk but not so good for swimming,” said the tourism officer, whose name was Aruss.

Aruss provided us with several brochures and a map of the region. She also gave us easy to understand directions to get out of the city and onto the secondary road that led to the coastal highway. In 15 minutes we were on a quiet black top route headed west of Trang.

Fifteen minutes later the pavement disappeared and we were on a divided gravel highway that was rough and dusty. The highway ran through a multitude of plantations where we could see people working under the hot Thai sun. Finally, after bouncing around in the Suzuki for a couple of hours we reached the two lane coastal highway which was paved in most places. The road followed the coast for quite a way. We passed miles of sand and earthy looking beaches. Here and there we could see children playing far out in the shallow water. Little Thai villages began to pop up and we saw many Thai people dressed in sarongs. At one point we had run out of our Thai bottled water with the elephant logo on it and we spotted a restaurant and hotel by one of the beaches. We drove up to the restaurant and made our way to the shade of its thatched roof patio. As we were going in, an elderly white couple were on their way out. The elderly tall gentleman had close cropped gray hair and his companion was a slim woman with bright blonde hair.

“Good day, great place to have a bite,” said the elderly gentleman.

“Well, we’re dying in this heat, so we’re just stopping in for a nice cold drink. Are you staying here?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Yes we are. We are right up here and what a lovely room. One of the best we’ve had yet,” said the elderly gentleman.

His companion with the bright blonde hair added, “and you can bargain with them too. They wanted 500 Baht a night. We got them down to 400.”

“Well, we’re trying to get down to the national park at the end of this road but maybe we will have a look at the rooms,” I said.

“Where are you from?” asked the elderly blonde haired lady.

Sapiyeh replied, “We are from Canada.”

“Well, isn’t that great, what a long way from home. We are from England of course. We have been here for a couple of weeks now and it’s a pretty good deal,” said the elderly blonde haired lady.

“What’s the beach like here?” I asked.

“It’s great, if you like walking. There are miles of nice sand beaches but it’s not great for swimming. Much too shallow,” the elderly gray haired gentleman explained.

He seemed to want to chat but his companion was already tugging at his arm and behind her nervous smile there was suspicion in her eyes.

“Well, we are off,” said the elderly gray haired man, “ Have a good trip.”

Surprisingly, the place wasn’t even owned by a Thai. A gray haired middle aged lady came up from behind the bar and brought us our cool sprites. She was German and her name was Anna. We had a look at the menu and in addition to Thai food, there were many German dishes. At this point we discussed the possibility of stopping and relaxing in some relative familiarity. After finishing our Sprite, Anna took us to see a room. We let her know we were traveling in economy class and she presented us with one of her basic rooms. The place was very clean and it had a large ceiling fan. There was even a nylon mesh on the windows to keep the mosquitoes out and it had a big and clean American style bathroom. She couldn’t drop her price below 300 Baht and that along with the fact that we had been rejuvenated by the restful stop encouraged us to get back on the road. There was little or no traffic on the rough paved road and I stepped up the speed as the sun was heading for the horizon. We had no idea what we would find at the end of the highway and if possible we wanted some light on our arrival.

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

We reached Chao Mai at the end of the road as darkness descended. Here we stopped to ask directions to a hotel resort. A Thai man in a sarong who was sweeping the dust from the front of a little food shop directed us up a rough jungle road to ‘bungalows’ and a beach. Nervously, we drove slowly along the dark jungle road until we came to a little branch that we turned off and followed for about half a kilometer. Finally, we came to a gate. We stepped out of the little Suzuki and approached the gate in the glare of the vehicle’s lights. We could see a few people in the light of a patio.

Sapiyeh piped up, “Hello, do you have any bungalows? Bungalows for rent?”

At that point someone left the lighted compound and made their way towards us. A smiling Thai man, maybe 50 years old greeted us, “Yes, yes bungalows, bungalow, we have bungalow. Sin Chai show you bungalow.”

He then opened the gate and we drove up in front of what turned out to be a little patio restaurant. We could see an American motel style line of several rooms. They were concrete and had a thatched roof. We could hear the ocean but could barely see it in the darkness. There seemed to be a beach right in front of this compound.

“You like air con or no air con room?” said the Thai man who called himself Sin Chai.

We looked at each other surprised at what we had heard. Could there possibly be an air conditioned room in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

“How much are your rooms?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Air con 300 Baht, no air con 200 Baht,” he said.

The decision was easy, for a measly 100 Baht which was only $4 Canadian we opted for the air conditioned room.

The room was at the far end of the compound and although it was extremely basic it did indeed have an air conditioner. There was an American style toilet and sink but it was necessary to dip a pail into a large drum at one corner of the washroom to flush the john. It also had a large double bed with a mosquito net around it which was a welcome sight as there were many cracks and crevices in the room. With the flick of a switch the window unit air conditioner hummed and vibrated to life. We paid Sin Chai two days stay or 600 Baht and hauled our packs into the room. We decided we had better have a bite before bed so we headed up to Sin Chai’s patio restaurant. In his broken English, Sin Chai explained that he was the owner of the little beach resort and that his sister and brother-in-law and their little girl who seemed to have a hard time to leave the loud television at the back of the restaurant. Sin Chai took our orders, which we limited to vegetables and rice and two cold sprites.

We sat at the edge of the patio restaurant where we looked up to see a star studded night sky. The stars were brilliant here which gave us some indication of how far we were away from civilization. Most places we had stayed had hazy night skies for one reason of pollution or another. Sin Chai’s sister prepared the dishes and he delivered them to our table. He also sat down to a meal of his own at a table adjacent to us.

“Where did you learn to speak such good English,” I complimented Sin Chai.

He seemed pleased at this offer, smiled and then said, “Sin Chai soldier in Vietnam War. Sin Chai fight with many American friends.”

“Vietnam War? How did Thailand man fight in Vietnam War?” I asked.

“Oh, Sin Chai very young man. American army pay money to many young Thailand man to go Vietnam and fight Vietcong,” said Sin Chai.

“Oh, the Americans paid you. I never realized that Thai people were involved in the Vietnam War,” I said.

“Oh, so many, many, many Thailand man like me made many money, good American dollars but so many die, not Sin Chai,” he said.

“It must have been very difficult experience for very young man,” commented Sapiyeh.

A pained look came across Sin Chai’s face and he replied, “Sin Chai live but many die. Sin Chai born in jungle, Sin Chai know jungle very much. In Vietnam Sin Chai fight in jungle. Many times, no food, no water. Sin Chai eat from jungle, collect water from rain in sky and survive,” he explained.

“Where did you fight in Vietnam?” said Sapiyeh.

“Sin Chai fight many battle but last battle fight with Americans in Kei San,” he said.

I remembered reading about Kei San and the horrific reports from the survivors who managed to escape the jungle hill, which was besieged by the Vietcong. It was one of the big early defeats for the Americans in Vietnam and was pretty much the beginning of the end.

“Kei San was very bad,” I replied.

Once again a pained look crossed Sin Chai’s face and he said, “Sin Chai survive Kei San, many die. Sin Chai hear RPG,” and he pointed to the sky, “Sin Chai run away from RPG. Many American, Sin Chai friends go to bunker. Bunker, no good, too many RPGs, too many people die. Helicopter came drop supplies, try to pick up wounded dead Americans but Vietcong shoot helicopter, destroy helicopter so many times. Many young boys cry and many young boys die too. Much blood so much blood everywhere smell blood dead people, fire, smoke. Sin Chai survive Kei San.”

I had a new respect for Sin Chai and I could still see the mark of the survivor in him. He was tough and muscular. He was about 50 years of age but he looked more like 30. He was a man who had been to hell and back. After supper we returned to our room with Sin Chai’s story very much on our minds. We conjured up images of a much younger Sin Chai dressed in the pretense of the south Vietnam army which was set up and run by the Americans. We wondered what other stories he might have. Accompanied by the loud drone of the air conditioner we fell asleep under our mosquito net in a cool room.

We awoke for the first time in weeks to a more refreshing room. At this point it almost seemed unnatural as we had been conditioned to expecting 42 degree Celsius heat all the time. We actually used the sheet on the bed and something else was different. We weren’t sweating.

As we stirred about in our morning rituals, we choose to skip the shower and peered out the window on the front door and saw towering trees and pass them a long sand beach. It looked hot outside under the blazing Thai sun.

We headed up to Sin Chai’s for breakfast which we played safe with vegetables and rice and a sprite. This minimalistic diet was becoming quite boring but on the other hand neither of us had experienced sickness. Sin Chai was already out around the property, cleaning up debris, fallen branches and vegetation which he was piling into a mound. The sight was dazzling from our seats on the restaurant patio. We could see through the trees that the beach went for miles. There was no one else staying here except for us. We felt proud of ourselves, we had accomplished our goal. We were in virgin territory and right off the touristic map. We had the place to ourselves but for Sin Chai and his three family members.

After breakfast we met up with Sin Chai on the property as we strolled towards the beach.

“You like to see tree bungalows,” he said pointing upwards.

We had seen what appeared to be some sort of construction in the trees from a distance but now we could plainly make out four tree houses built into the tops of huge and probably ancient trees overlooking the beach.

“Sure that would be great,” said Sapiyeh.

Sin Chai led us to a set of makeshift wood stairs that wound around the tree trunk and up into a small bamboo cabin built around the tree branches. The small bamboo cabin had a thatched roof. There was a double bed in one corner shrouded in a mosquito net. There were also two window openings with no glass in them. They had bamboo shutters that could be opened and closed. There was no bathroom or toilets and Sin Chai explained that the people who rented the bungalow in the trees used the facilities in the restaurant.

“I feel like this is as close as I’ll ever get to experiencing how Robinson Cursoe lived,” said Sapiyeh.

As we walked back onto the stairs we could see for miles down the beach and there wasn’t a living soul upon it.

“These tree houses are really interesting but I could never stay in one ever. Imagine bugs, snakes, anything could just get in there with no problem. I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” I said.

“Well I don’t know I’d like to try it for a night anyway . . . No, on second thought our air conditioned room is just fine,” replied Sapiyeh.

Sin Chai stood beaming proudly as he had obviously constructed all the tree houses by hand. He held a long steel machete in his hand. He had no shirt on and his stomach was still flat and rippled with muscles. He was a kind man but we knew damn well that there was no doubt that he fought in hand to hand battle, survived the hell of Kei San and lived to tell about it. We thanked Sin Chai for the tour and headed back up to the luxury of the air conditioned room to put our bathing suits on.

From the waters edge we looked back at Sin Chai’s little resort nestled under the huge trees with the Robinson Crusoe huts built into them. To our surprise we also saw further down the beach several huge mushroom rock formations that stood straight out of the waters of the Andaman Sea. Past Sin Chai’s compound there was just a mass of jungle that crept up a small ragged mountain and to the right for a few miles the beach ran up to a point. We both agreed that this did indeed seem like the paradise we had been searching for. The ocean water was more refreshing here too and we wasted no time in stepping into it up to our heads in an effort to escape the scorching rays of the Thai sun. The beach was a little less protected then others we had experienced and there was a bit of a drop off. As the waves lapped at us we bobbed, floated and even played tag. At one point while Sapiyeh floated on his back suspended in blue water against a blue back drop of sky and pierced by the searing sun, I noticed something dark in the deeper water past him.

“Um . . . I saw something in the water! I think it’s a fish. It must be an awful big fish,” I hollered at Sapiyeh.

He interrupted his rest on the water’s surface and stood shoulder deep to examine the cause of my concern.

“Nah, it’s only a bird, a gull or something,” he said.

On closer inspection there were in fact a couple of birds circling in that area.

“One of those birds probably dove into the water and all you saw was the splash,” said Sapiyeh.

I felt a bit silly and a little neurotic for worrying in the serenity of this wonderful spot. Feeling a little more brave I swam out for a few yards and then treaded water and looked back at the beach.

“Holy shit! Get out of the water fast!” yelled Sapiyeh.

He was looking past me and his eyes were wide and there was fear on his face. I looked back over my shoulder and a few hundred feet away there was the biggest fish I had every seen in my life half out of the water and heading right for us.

I swam like a crazy man kicking and pulling at the water in hot pursuit of Sapiyeh who was already walking onto the sand. We watched from the safety of the beach as this huge gray creature made a long U-turn with it’s fan sticking out of the surface of the water and then disappeared.

“What was that!? A shark!?” asked Sapiyeh.

“No, I think it was some kind of a swordfish or something like that,” I lied as I knew if I admitted my true suspicion that it had been a shark neither I nor Sapiyeh would go swimming in Thai waters again.

Unnerved and a little water logged anyway we headed back up to change into some dry clothes.

In the heat of the noon day sun we coated our arms, necks, faces and legs with sun tan lotion and started out for a walk down the beach. We walked about four or five kilometers to a long point. As we neared the point we could see a few of the traditional Thai fishing boats running up ahead towards the shore in the distance. After we rounded the point it was as though someone had slapped us across the face, paradise lost was no more, there on the other side of the point was a little Thai fishing village busy with the comings and goings of the wooden planked Thai boats with the loud generator looking engines and long shaft propellers. There were many fishing boats hauled up on shore too.

“Can you believe that? I thought we were in the middle of nowhere,” I said.

“Well, I think we still are in the middle of nowhere, it’s just that these people beat us to it. They’ve probably been here for centuries from the looks of it,” said Sapiyeh.

We walked the beach towards the village and as we neared, there was the unmistakable odor of sewage near a little creek that flowed down to the beach and into the ocean. We hopped across the creek and then turned inland a couple of hundred feet where a path ran through the village. We smiled and waved at the fishermen and their wives and children as they moved about their day almost oblivious to our visit. No one waved back which was unusual in terms of our experience with Thai people. At the end of this path we came to a compound.

There was a sign that read, ‘Sin Chai Chao Mai Resort’. The entrance to this resort was barred by a wooden gate. As we approached, a young Thai man dressed in Levi jeans and a sports shirt with a machete hanging from his waist opened the gate for us. The place looked relatively new. There were several wood huts along one side of the compound on the banks of a river that led into the sea. On the other side of the compound there was a large two-story wood building and at the far end on a wooden pyre overlooking the water was an open concept restaurant with a thatched roof. At the entrance way to the restaurant another young Thai man waved and walked out to meet us.

“Do . . . you . . . have . . . cold . . . drink . . . here?” I asked.

“Certainly, we have all kinds of cold drinks here. Would you like a beer or a soda?” said the young Thai man in perfect English and with an English accent.

We looked at each other dumbfounded. This scene did not make sense.

“Where did you learn such good English?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Oh, well I studied in England and as a matter of fact I graduated in law there but my parents built this resort and needed someone to run it so here I am,” said the young man who wore a T-shirt with a Levi jeans logo on it and he also sported a pair of Levi jeans.

We followed him out onto a large restaurant set on a pyre and overlooking the water. We could see and hear the local fishermen in their comings and goings. It turned out the young man was not Thai but a mix of Thai and Chinese. His name was Kah Lil. As we sipped our sprites, Kah Lil joined us.

“Are you thinking of staying overnight?” he asked.

“Actually we already have. We spent last night and are booked tonight at the little resort around the point,” said Sapiyeh.

Kah Lil’s face turned into a frown and he said, “Oh . . . that is too bad. You are staying at an illegal resort. The land where your resort is located is a national park and he has no right to be there. You could be arrested and fined.”

“A national park. Well, how would anybody expect us to know all this?” I asked.

“Well, you should do your research a little better,” said Kah Lil.

“There is a great beach there, why don’t you come for a swim with us later this afternoon,” suggested Sapiyeh.

“Oh I couldn’t possibly accept. Except for our security guard and the cook, I am the only one from the family here. My mother and father are in Trang. As a matter of fact they are working on the problem we have here. Even if they were here, I couldn’t go with you. We have heard a rumor that the villagers want to murder us,” explained Kah Lil.

“Murder you! What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Well, my mother and father had the resort built a few years ago and we have tried everything we can to make life better for these people but they don’t appreciate anything and they are not following our advice,” said Kah Lil.

“I don’t understand. What do you want the fishermen to do?” I said.

“Well, we want to educate them in tourism and we want to modernize them and give them a better life,” explained Kah Lil.

“Maybe they like the life they have now. They have probably been fishermen for hundreds of years now,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well, we are here to stay and they had better get used to it because my parents are getting fed up,” said Kah Lil.

“Have you tried to negotiate with them? Perhaps some conflict resolution would make some sense,” I suggested.

“What do you mean?” Kah Lil asked.

“Well, it’s a process where you bring all the key local interests together like the fishermen, the villagers, the illegal resort owner and yourselves. Then you try to find a solution that benefits everyone,” I explained.

“It all sounds fine but you don’t know these people. Perhaps you should talk to my parents about it, they should be back around supper time,” said Kah Lil.

He elaborated on his role in the resort, explaining that his parents had made him manager of the place upon his graduation from university. He also explained that his parents had many ventures including the ownership and development of plantations. We finished our sprites and decided to take a little walk through the village. We promised Kah Lil that we would return for supper. As we walked on the dusty road of the little fishing village we marveled at the strange situation we had walked into.

“I can’t believe it. One minute we think we are in paradise, that we are the only ones on a beach in the middle of nowhere. We walk around a corner and right into the middle of a damn war,” I said.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have strayed from our beach. Everything was fine at Sin Chai’s,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well, maybe it’s fate. Maybe this was a good thing. Did you hear what he said about illegal resort? It sounds to me like we could be in hot water. We’ll check his parents out at supper,” I suggested.

We killed a couple of hours wandering around the village and walking a jungle path. The foliage was thick and there were colorful plants everywhere. We remembered what Sin Chai had said about the wild monkeys so we didn’t stray too far. Our bellies growled with hunger sounds and that promoted us to head back to Kah Lil’s Resort. As we walked in we could see a middle aged gentleman and woman at one end of the restaurant. We took the liberty to sit ourselves at a table over looking the ocean. Kah Lil went from behind the counter to the middle aged couple and spoke with them. It seemed that these two were his parents. Strangely he ignored us at several passings by our table.

“Something weird is going on here. This guy isn’t even talking to us anymore,” I said to Sapiyeh.

Finally, after 15 minutes of waiting for service I stopped Kah Lil as he was heading back to the middle aged couple once again.

“Kah Lil, as we promised, Sapiyeh and I are back for supper. Is that possible?” I asked.

“I am not sure,” he said coolly and then added, “I’ll have to speak to my parents. They have returned.”

“Oh, these are your parents then?” I said loudly and I turned and gave them a little wave.

The middle aged man shook his head and acknowledged me. I continued, “Well, we would really like to meet your parents. They sound like very interesting people.”

“Yes . . . well, let me talk to them and I’ll get back to you,” said Kah Lil.

My intuition had told me that something was brewing and I felt it was important to come back here and follow up on my hunches. The cool reception by Kah Lil and his parents had confirmed my suspicions.

“This is a strange way to run a business. We are the only customers in the place and they are ignoring us,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well . . . yeah . . . but I am glad we came back here. Something smells and I am afraid we are in the middle of it. I think we’d better do some PR on the parents here,” I said.

A few minutes later a very prim looking middle aged woman approached our table. She had a colorful floral blouse and black dress pants. Her face had anger in it but she managed a polite smile and said, “Our son has been telling us about you. You are both writers I hear from Canada.”

“Yes we are. We had a long and interesting conversation with Kah Lil this afternoon. He is a very bright young man,” I said.

Her smile broadened and her face relaxed and then she said, “Yes, we are very proud of Kah Lil and he is doing a good job here,” then added, “Our cook is here now, what would you like to eat?”

We ordered rice and vegetables and two more sprites. I felt as though we had crossed some sort of invisible hurdle. As the middle aged woman returned to her husband and Kah Lil joined them, there was much chatter and more importantly it seemed as though they were warming up to us. The middle aged woman brought our meal over to us and then sat at a nearby table while we sipped our sprites and ate our food.

“Did Kah Lil tell you that you are staying at an illegal resort?” she asked.

“Well . . . we feel badly about that but we had no idea,” I answered.

“Well, this is a very serious situation. We are finding that many tourists don’t bother to find out this kind of information. Did you realize that you could be arrested for staying there?” she said sternly.

“We would hope that anyone would understand how we could make a simple mistake like that,” said Sapiyeh.

“Are you Asian?” she asked Sapiyeh.

“No, no, I am a Cree First Nation person from Canada. I am an aboriginal,” said Sapiyeh.

“Well, that is very interesting. My husband would like to meet you then. He has his doctorate in anthropology and I have mine in sociology,” she turned to her husband, “Dear, Laurence, I want you to meet these two fellows. The two writers from Canada and one of them is a Aboriginal.”

The middle aged Asian man who was talking to Kah Lil and the cook at his table obeyed his wife’s call and promptly joined us.

“My name is Dr. Laurence Siaw and I guess you have met my wife,” he said to the middle aged woman.

“Well, no not really. My name is Dr. Intira Sriprasidh,” she said.

They shook our hands and I was relieved in their change of mood which seemed to be prompted by our conversation and of course the fact that Sapiyeh had told them that he was an Indian-den.

“I know so little about North American Indians. Well this is interesting indeed,” said Dr. Siaw.

“Yes, well, I am quite amazed at the wonderful reception I have been getting in Thailand. There seems to be a real respect and interest in North American Indians although most people think of Indians in the stereotype Hollywood movie image,” said Sapiyeh.

Dr. Siaw went into a short lecture on how superstitious the Thai people can be and especially the uneducated Thai. He then pointed the conversation to our accommodation.

“I hear you are staying at an illegal resort down the beach. That is regretful and could cause problems for you,” Dr. Siaw said in a more serious tone.

“Well, as I had explained to your wife we had no idea that this other resort was illegal. As a matter of fact Sin Chai seems like a decent person,” I answered the Doctor.

“This man you are talking about is no more than a criminal. He is breaking the law with an illegal resort inside a national park. You two, by staying there are also breaking the law,” he said in a threatening tone.

“I suppose they are not entirely responsible though. They had no way of knowing,” Dr. Sriprasidh said to her husband.

“My son says he has told you about the terrible situation we have had here with the local villagers. These people are uneducated barbarians. They are ungrateful and we have been told that are planning to murder us,” said Dr. Siaw.

“Yes, after everything we did for these people. You know we developed this resort not only for us but also for them. We want to improve the lives of these poor people. You know we even brought in a teacher from Trang to teach them English. We paid for it and can you believe that they didn’t even come out for the lessons. They don’t appreciate what we are doing for them,” said Dr. Sriprasidh.

For some strange reason I thought I could offer a solution to the confrontation that had developed between the two Drs. and the villagers.

“Have you tried sitting down with the villagers and doing some conflict resolution perhaps. Some communication would help,” I suggested.

“No, we have tried everything. You can not communicate with these animals. These are uneducated people. For example listen to the sound of those damn noisy engines on their boats. I got tired of that and I came up with an ingenious way to solve the problem,” said Dr. Siaw.

His wife interjected, “Yes, it was a great idea.”

Dr. Siaw continued, “I developed a contest. I told all those fishermen that anyone of them who could produce some way to make a quieter sounding engine would win a cash prize. Not one of them participated. Here listen to that noise. I hate those damn boats!” said Dr. Siaw, his words seethed through clenched teeth.

I decided to take the safe road, “God! I didn’t realize what you were up against. It does sound like a very difficult situation and it really is too bad that they didn’t understand the benefits in working with you.”

“Yes, well now you know the real story. Look, my wife is a sociologist and I am an anthropologist and we want to help these people come out of the dark ages but they do not want to help themselves. Now you understand what we are dealing with,” said Dr. Siaw.

As we talked there were rumblings of thunder in the far off distance and then a tropical storm was upon us. We ate safe and dry under the thatched roof of the restaurant overlooking the water as the downpour beat down on the sea and the land.

The conversation continued, “These people here are stupid. They fought us from the very beginning when we bought the land and put this resort in the middle of the village. They fought us when we tried to convert them from fishermen to boaters who could provide tours to our tourists and they fought us when we tried to teach them English,” said the angry Dr. Siaw.

“Oh yes, I don’t trust them. As a matter of fact, I have taken a course on how to use a handgun which I purchased to defend myself,” said the Doctor of sociology.

“Do you really think though that you really have anything to fear from these people,” asked Sapiyeh.

“Oh yes they are animals but we will not give up. They will be beaten. We have a security guard who is armed and we lock the main gate every night. We do not go out in the village,” explained Dr. Siaw.

“Yes I am very well connected to the police. You see I am Thai and my husband is Chinese from Malaysia. My uncle is the retired Chief of police for this region. Just today we were in Trang at the police headquarters discussing this situation and the illegal resort you are staying at,” said Dr. Sriprasidh.

As if on cue two men in brown suits entered the restaurant. Dr. Siaw excused himself and went to greet them. He talked to them for a few moments and they seated themselves a few tables from us. The Doctor ordered some food and had Kah Lil bring them beers.

“These are two of the police officers we talked to today. They are here tonight at our request,” said the Doctor of sociology.

She did not elaborate and we did not pursue the matter. Dr. Siaw returned to our table. He suggested a tour of his resort which he claimed was based on ecotourism.

“You know we were are in the Lonely Planet magazine, well we were last year but somehow they omitted us this year,” explained Dr. Siaw.

As we walked out to tour several wooden huts that were built alongside the river that ran through the village, Dr. Siaw was quite proud of the solid construction of the wooden huts. The huts were in fact very clean and cozy. They had comfy beds, a little bit of furniture, screened windows and ceiling fans.

“We have done everything possible to not harm the ecology here. We offer comfort in the middle of a real jungle area,” said Dr. Siaw.

There was even an American style bathroom with a shower and toilet. We agreed with the good Doctor that the concept was sound and should attract many tourists looking for eco-tourism accommodations. As we left the bungalows and headed back up to the restaurant the Doctor said he would meet us back inside, as he had to attend to some duties at the office in front of the compound. As we made our way back to the restaurant, Sapiyeh stopped and pointed back to the rows of bungalows, “Eco-tourism? Bull shit on that. Look at this, he’s got the toilet and the sink draining right into the river.”

“Oh yeah, I don’t know where these people are coming from. They really are sick. They grab the land from the villagers, plunk their resort right in the middle of town, they’re trying to force these people to change a way of life they have been living for hundreds of years and they wonder why they are not being well received,” I said.

“That sounds like a familiar story. It’s one we Indians know too well. Isn’t it strange that two of the most educated people we meet in Thailand are the two most immoral and nasty,” said Sapiyeh.

“Yeah, the worst part of it is they are trying to pass this all off as eco-tourism and she’s got a Doctor in sociology and he’s got a Doctor in anthropology and still they can somehow rationalize doing these terrible things to the people here,” I said.

“Yeah but I think we are doing the right thing by agreeing with whatever they say,” said Sapiyeh.

“You’re not kidding. Did you see those two cops come in and sit down? I’ve got a feeling that the best thing we’ve done in a while was to warm up to the two doctors. I don’t know what these two guys are doing here but I have a feeling that somehow it involved us,” I said.

“Do you think they were going to bust Sin Chai’s tonight and throw us jail?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Could be but it looks like they decided that they like us. So let’s just stay in their good books and get out of here as fast as we can,” I said.

We made our way back to our table and joined the Doctor of sociology and her son Kah Lil who were having a conversation with the two policemen. Thankfully, there were smiles. The two policemen gave us a nod. They were into their third beer and had finished supper. I was just about to excuse us from the scene when Dr. Siaw strolled up to the table and announced, “Look you two fellows are in for a treat tonight, so don’t think of going anywhere because we are hosting a pretty girl show.”

My eyes met Sapiyeh’s and I knew we were both thinking the same thing – ‘Shit! We’re not free yet’.

“Uh? What is a pretty girl show?” asked Sapiyeh.

It occurred to me that the only pretty girl show we knew of in Thailand involved the sex trade but I shrugged that thought off. After all, how could the good Doctors of sociology and anthropology be condoning the prostitution of these poor people.

“Well, a pretty girl show is entertainment. We have decided that we should do our part to help young artists who sing and do live shows. So we are giving them a chance to come out tonight here and exhibit their talents,” said the good Doctor of Anthropology.

“Oh yes, you must stay for this. The girls and boys will be singing traditional Thai songs from different regions of Thailand. They have the whole package, the sound system and everything,” added the good Doctor of sociology enthusiastically.

We didn’t have much choice.

“Sure, it’s still raining a little anyway and the night is early. I love music and this would be our first exposure to Thai music,” I said.

We ordered two more sprites and sat chatting for a while. It was dark now and we could still hear some faint rumbling of thunder off in the distance.

A whirlwind of many voices and much activity burst into the restaurant and the good Doctor of Anthropology introduced the throng of young Thai as the musicians who would provide the entertainment for the pretty girl show. He immediately rose from his table and went to meet a young Thai man who seemed to be the music director. They chatted for a few moments and then the group of 15 young men and women moved to the far side of the restaurant. Several other members of the group hauled in the PA equipment and set it up. In no time at all the first performer was under the sole spotlight and singing a sweet Thai melody. There was no band, the young woman sang to taped music. Sapiyeh leaned over to my ear and said, “Holy shit, it’s karioke.”

I couldn’t help but break out in a laugh. The scene was almost surreal. The young woman who was dressed in a mini skirt and tight revealing blouse sang her tune to a captive audience. There were the two doctors, their cook, the two policemen who were now getting a little giddy on the booze and Sapiyeh and I. The lights went down and we watched as the young woman in the spotlight finished her tune. We joined in on a polite round of applause. We were a little shocked when the young woman approached our table and sat down. She was about 18 or 19 and had long black hair. She looked somehow weathered or far too experienced for such a young person and although she was smiling there was sadness in her eyes. Another young woman had already stepped into the spotlight and she sang another sweet Thai song.

“You like?” asked the young woman who had just sat down at our table.

“Yes, that was good, very good,” I answered.

“You give me power, I sing again,” the young woman said.

I had not expected this.

“What do you mean power? . . . Power?” I asked.

She had a ring of white flowers around her neck and she pointed at them, “Power.”

Sapiyeh suggested, “I think she means will we ask her to sing another song and maybe she wants us to give her the power to sing another song.”

The good Doctor of anthropology appeared at our table.

“Wasn’t she wonderful? It makes me feel so good to give these young people an opportunity. Now let me explain. She wants you to buy her power. There are three levels of power symbolized by the colors of the flowers that these singers can wear around their necks. It you like her song then she will sing another one for you, if you buy her the power. As you can see there are three colors of floral necklaces at the table over there,” and he pointed, “the white one costs 200 Baht, the blue 300 Baht and the red 400 Baht.”

Sapiyeh and I smiled at each other, this seemed to be yet another Thai scam and we were on the hook. We had no choice.

“Oh, OK. We didn’t understand. Sure I will buy her 200 Baht of power. She has a nice voice,” I said.

“I should explain,” said the good Doctor of Anthropology, “that it is customary to buy the young woman or young man a drink and give them cigarettes when they come to your table.”

“Oh, sure, no problem. What would she like to drink?” I said.

The young woman who had been following our conversation almost shouted, “Rum and coke!”

The good Doctor of anthropology took her order and Kah Lil returned with the rum and coke and a package of cigarettes. He also had two rum and coke for the two of us. We didn’t even try to explain to him that we didn’t drink alcohol, we just left the two full glasses on the table.

“Would you like me to just run a tab for you? That might be easier,” said Kah Lil.

“Sure, that’s no problem,” I answered.

“OK, so far that’s a package of cigarettes, 200 Baht of power for the young woman and three rum and coke,” said Kah Lil with a smirk on his face.

In several minutes there was another woman at our table and she was also asking for power. By this time we were the only game in town. The two policemen had left with a couple of the pretty girls. As the night wore on we ended up with all the performers at our table. Both of us were buying power left, right and center for both the young women and the young men. Kah Lil was only too happy to be serving the continuous rounds of rum and coke and packs of cigarettes to our table. Actually, our table had expanded to include two more so as to accommodate the entire pretty girl show troop that we were supporting. As the evening continued, our new friends performed for us and we kept buying power, drinks and cigarettes. None of them could speak much English but it soon became apparent to us that there was another level to the pretty girl show. The girls and boys began to massage our shoulders and chests and the next thing you knew we felt as though we were being smothered by the 15 exuberant and demanding young performers. The massaging turned to groping and soon we found ourselves in what felt like the beginnings of an orgy. I broke away and grabbed Sapiyeh by the arm and tugged him up.

“We must go to toilet. Pee pee,” I said to the desperate group who were now a little drunk.

They seemed to understand and laughed among themselves. We headed to the washroom which was just outside the front entrance to the restaurant.

“God, can you believe this? How are we going to get out of this?” asked Sapiyeh.

“Well, we’ve been buying them power and booze all night. They’re pretty much hammered. We’ll just walk back in and straight over to the bar and to Kah Lil and settle up our bill and get the hell our here,” I explained.

“OK, let’s do it,” Sapiyeh agreed.

Our plan worked perfectly. The group was drinking and smoking and listening to one of their own who sang under the spotlight. In the darkness with the loud Thai music in the background we paid Kah Lil a few thousand Baht.

“It’s a shame you’re leaving so early. I should let you know too that after a rain like this there are some very poisonous snakes around,” said Kah Lil with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Snakes?” I asked.

Sapiyeh did not let the conversation continue. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled.

“Let’s go damn it,” he said.

We made it to the doorway when one of the group noticed our exit and in a flash the entire troop was upon us. They were pulling at us and pleading for us to stay. We pushed a few of them back and walked briskly out of the door and into the dark. As we rounded the corner near the washrooms, one of the young women popped out from the shadows, she raised her mini skirt and rubbed her crotch suggestively.

“Pretty girl show all right. We’re out of here,” I said and we almost ran down the road to the gate.

The security guard, who had a large revolver and a machete at his side, opened the gate and let us out. We looked back and we could see that the entire troop had spilled out of the restaurant and were complaining boisterously in Thai at our departure. We were free and we turned and walked off into the blackness.

It only took a few minutes before it dawned on us that we couldn’t go back on the beach, so we would have to walk the jungle road and trail back to Sin Chai’s illegal resort. As we hurried along, we tried to desperately to stay on the trail and to avoid large puddles of water that had been left by the downpour. It was hot and humid and we could hear the voices of some of the villagers as we passed their darkened bamboo huts along the trail. I was concerned. Were the villagers harmless on our retreat from the resort they were at war with? Were there indeed poisonous snakes on the trail? Would the vicious wild monkeys surprise us in the dark? Lastly, were we headed in the right direction?

“Are you sure this is going to take us back to Sin Chai’s?” I asked Sapiyeh as we made our way down the dark jungle path.

“Yeah, don’t worry, I know where we’re going,” he said seriously.

He seemed to have a sixth sense about direction and that gave me some comfort. It was so hot that even the jungle felt like it was sweating and mosquitoes followed our breath in the black of night. At one point I had a bright idea.

“Look at this, we could see where we are going,” I said to Sapiyeh.

Then I pressed the shutter of the little camera I pulled from my pocket and a bright flash lit up the trail for at least 15 feet. We had an intermitted light source that would assist us in our hurry back to Sin Chai’s.

“That’s great but try not to use it too much. We only need it every couple of minutes or so,” cautioned Sapiyeh.

As we walked through the dark, every once in a while with the press of a button, the jungle around us was lit in a bright flash of light. It enabled us to see far enough up the path to go around any obstacles and to avoid the puddles of water. It took us about 40 minutes to reach the Sin Chai Chao Mai Resort.

It was almost as though he were expecting us. The gate was open and he was sitting by himself at the entrance to his little patio restaurant. He had a rifle leaning beside him against the wall and a revolver on the table.

“Don’t say a word,” said Sapiyeh and all we did was wave as we headed to our room.

In the relative security of the concrete room, with the air conditioning buzzing and huddled in our beds under the mosquito net we pondered the possibilities of a raid. Finally sleep took us.

We were up with the first light heralded in by the songs of little morning birds. We packed, fired up the Suzuki and drove up past the restaurant, out the open gate and down the road and back towards Trang.

“Nobody will ever believe this one,” said Sapiyeh.

“Maybe not but at least we’re alive to tell it and don’t forget we’ve got a whole roll of film of that interesting jungle trail that we walked last night,” I said and we both laughed nervously, as we drove the little Suzuki down the dusty gravel road.

– THE END –

By Michael McGrath

The blackbirds are back. I saw them first thing this morning in the back yard pecking away at lord knows what. The Ravens never leave. They are always there in the background. I admire them for their stealth and cunning. They are true survivors and can be seen in the treetops about town seemingly content and well too do even at minus thirty degrees Celsius.

Soon the Robins will appear with this early spring weather. One morning I will simply awake, lookout the back kitchen window and there will be the Robins busy gathering material to nest. They are so domesticated and hardly ever have time for any fun. The Robins are all about making and raising their young. It is a full time job because most of the time they are not all that careful in selecting a secure and safe place for their nests and that results in their neurotic flights here and there all day long trying to protect the little ones from other birds and those dreaded cats.

When the Swallows arrive that really makes it official. Spring is here. They keep coming back to that rickety little bird house perched precariously above the garage doors. Generations of this Swallow family just can’t give up on the old bird house and they return faithfully every year to put up with the run down accommodation and the regular hub bub of our comings and goings to the garage. We run cars in and out with exhaust smoke belching all around the bird house. In mid summer we are in and out of the old garage on our motorcycles which produce loud, high decibel roars. Nothing else seems to matter to the Swallows as long as they can return to their familial birdhouse.

They are ungrateful tenants in that they don’t even recognize us as the landlords. If Xavier or I are anywhere near the birdhouse they fly up in alarm and in dire resignation then they dive at us as though they were tiny little jet fighters. It is strange to be attacked by these little birds but it has become more or less common place for us during the summer months.

In reflection, it occurs to me that we two have more in common with the swallows  then we would like to admit. I have heard too many jokes about bird brains over the years. Our common trait with these streamlined fighter birds has to do with our identification with home. In my case, I have lived in the Dunn homestead for most of my life. I was raised here from the time I was a baby and only left to pursue college education and fancy jobs in journalism, public relations and advertising along the way.

I was more than happy to fly back to old Third Avenue and land in the arms of my granny, Margaret Dunn. My mom Emily and Granny shared the place and kept the home fires burning while I and my sister Pat were off having other life experiences. Patty married John, a Mohawk fellow from Six Nations near Hamilton and they were wrapped up in raising their daughter Brooke and making a life down south. Regularly, they made the trek north during the summer mostly but with visits also at Christmas.

When I flew home it was as though there was no thought involved. I had a bunch of experiences in the belly of the province and simply stopped in my tracks and headed back up north to that welcoming front door. The house felt like a cocoon for me and I let it take me in and wrap me in a cozy, safe blanket. I needed that after a ferocious decade of fighting my way to the top of nothing where I found myself holding on to thin air and falling.

Granny almost jumped for joy at the prospect of having me around the house to play with, care for and challenge. Those were the things we did best together. As is the case with the Swallows there were all kinds of good reasons for me not to return to the white clapboard house on Old Third Avenue. Similarly, as is the case with the Swallows, nothing else mattered to me at the time other than making it home. I had to make it back home.

Mom was  happy on my return too as this couple had sunken into a rather boring lifestyle that had to do mostly with Emily going back and forth to work at the main office in the Paper Mill and Granny taking care of the house and keeping mom fed and more or less grounded. With my return, Mom had more time to herself as Granny and I were like mischievous old friends that were more than willing to keep each other busy in an unlimited way that featured, lively discussions, board games, listening to music, reading to each other and at times just enjoying the comfort of each others company at the kitchen table.

Although it had been a decade since I lived at home, on my return it seemed as though I had never left. The house had not changed all that much, the neighbourhood was still pretty much the same. The town looked the same as it had thirty years before and there was something comforting and secure about that. I hated the fact that I felt as though I was living in a fish bowl but I equally loved the feeling I got when I moved around town and bumped into family, friends and neighbours I had known all my life. It always felt right to be in a place that I knew in every detail imaginable. Many people I met I had nothing in common with other than we shared the same place of birth and raising and some of them I really disliked. However, it still felt better to be in small town Iroquois Falls where I knew just about everyone, their family histories, their good points, their bad and their comings and goings. Of course as a gay person in my little town I had lots of critics but at the very least I knew exactly who they were.

As much as I hated to admit it I had enough learning and sensitivity to understand even where the bigots, racists and closed minded people were coming from. I understood that many of these poor souls had terrible lives, they were impoverished in many ways and had  been abused, many had little education for the most part and they were not entirely satisfied with hardy party lives that left them sad, confused and angry much of the time.  Most of them had never been any further from town than Timmins or Kirkland Lake. Their exposure to the outside world ended at the signpost announcing the town of Iroquois Falls out on Highway 11. I understood all that and it helped.

I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Iroquois Falls during the 1950s. Actually, it has been a running gag over the years between me and my friends that in fact we were fortunate to have been raised in Ansonville and Montrock. Iroquois falls proper back then was supposedly the right side of the track and more or less reserved for the upper class, tradesmen, engineers and company executives of the Abitibi company. They were mostly English.

Ansonville and Montrock developed haphazardly with second rate housing and tar paper shacks around the more affluent and engineered community of Iroquois Falls. The company town boasted a huge Hudson Bay store, mercantile building which housed shops, a police station, restaurant and gymnasium to cater to the more privileged workers at Abitibi. However, it was in Ansonville  that all the action really took place. We had a movie theatre, bowling alley, a few bars and hotels, grocery stores and all kinds of shops. You could get drunk, go bowling, watch a movie and have a hair cut all on the same day.

There was always a tension between the coming of age teens from either side of the tracks. We for the most part tolerated each other but often exciting fights broke out in front of the Silver Grill on Ambridge Drive. The English and French secondary schools both were located in Iroquois Falls and that meant that  no matter what,  we inhabitants of the far reaches of the Abitibi empire,  at some point,  had to swallow our pride and make the move to further education on the right side of the tracks. It was intimidating at times.

Ansonville and Montrock were little towns that did not see much development until the 1950s. Here we mingled in a curious and interesting mix of cultures that included Jewish, Irish, French, Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Italian and Chinese. My friends and I felt we were lucky to have had the opportunity to mix with and learn about so many other cultures at the early stages of our lives. We were worldly in view without ever having to leave town.

There was a lot of bigotry and racism back in the 40s and 50s but for the most part people managed to get along. The hierarchy went something like this. If you were English and I mean proper English with roots to the old country you were at the top of the heap and probably looked down on everyone else. Now if you were an American and English you weren’t far off the mark.  We Irish were lucky in a way because we could fit in with the English if we had to and because of historic realities we were also at home with the French. We mixed easily with all the other cultures mostly out of our mild disdain for the English. For the most part sadly we have a history of pretty much banishing Native people from our little collection of towns. That didn’t change until the 1960s when people for a brief moment in time seemed to come to their senses.

We had a lot of fun in Ansonville and Montrock. There were dances and concerts at the old Ukrainian hall near the original Ansonville Public School. We shared special days with our Jewish neighbours and marvelled at the fantastic Easter egg decorations of the Ukrainians and Polish. Many a jig was danced with the French and Irish at the old Moose Hall on Third Avenue. We didn’t live in the English hamlet style houses of Iroquois Falls but as my grandmother pointed out many times, “We owned our own homes.” In those days most people who lived in Iroquois Falls proper rented their homes at a subsidized price from the company. They lived high on the hog until retirement day came and then it was out the door and off to find something to purchase on the other side of the tracks.

I was raised in the Dunn household. My grandfather Jack Dunn, came from the Alumette island area of Quebec near the border with Ontario in the Ottawa Valley. He married my grandmother Margaret (Mellon) Dunn in the early 1920s and promptly moved her up to the  bustling boom town of Ansonville. When they came to town granny brought along her family shamrock plant and installed herself in the community which already had a small gathering of Irish and French folk from Waltham, Quebec and Pembroke, Ontario area.

There’s a story to the shamrock. Family history handed down over a hundred years tell us that the plant came over on a ship with the Mellon family in the 1830s. It was a remembrance of Ireland to be cherished and passed on to others from the mother country. The Mellons managed all those years to keep that shamrock alive and they passed it on to family and friends. Granny Dunn, brought it to Ansonville and spread it around the Irish community. Today, you will find the lovely green weed alive and well in many homes around the community. The sharing of this plant has accounted for its survival. If one family or household loses the beauty they simply have to visit one of their clan or a friend to borrow a little starter. Soon, the resilient shamrock is well rooted and flourishing in a green glow which often pushes forth delicate little flowers. Granny Dunn often gazed at it and sighed, “Erin go bragh”  the only words she knew in Gaelic. It means, “Ireland Forever”.  So get your Danny Boy CD out and cry a tune to that one.

In the old days, if you were Irish, there was a pretty good chance that during a walk on main street, you would bump into somebody who had ties to the Emerald Isle.  There were the Devines, Harkins, O’Donnells, Spences, Russells, Corks, Wallaces, Watsons, Whelans, Turners, Stacks, Stewarts, Shallows, Sheas, Shields, Shirleys, Shannons, Purdys, Bigelows, Porters, Peevers, O’Shaughnessys, Dunns, Mellons, O’Connors, O’Maras, Murphys, Moores, McLeans, McMeekins, McEwans, McGraths, Maddens, Jones, Micks, Hopkins, Donovans, Cotnams, Corcorans, Chandlers, Carrolls, Burtons, Browns, Brandreths, Duffys, Doyles and Brindles, to name a few.

Jack and Margaret raised five incredible daughters at 463 Third Avenue in Ansonville including: Emily, Tessie, Sarah, Rita and Celia. They were true Irish colleens as pretty, kind, entertaining and curious as ever were created under the sun. Emily was my mom. She passed away in 2007.

In the late 1930s granny Dunn had to make a big decision. Jack put it before her. Did she want a proper wringer washer to make life easier for herself and the family or would she prefer a piano. Well, you know the Irish. The piano won out and one day the local delivery man big Normand Grenier appeared at the door with our upright grand piano. From that day on the house was filled with song, the wonderful acoustic sounds of the piano and much laughter.  My grandmother said many times, “If you have music in the house you will have love in the house.” She was right.

Lucky us. My sister Pat and I spent the earliest days of our lives being entertained by my grandparents, aunts and my mom. The aunts or sisters as I refer to them took us everywhere, taught us all the Irish songs, placed our fingers on the piano’s ivory keys and made our days happy. I watched them all marry and start families of their own. Tessie was betrothed to Harvey Ruddy, Sarah wedded Don Paquette, Rita became Mrs. Everett Elliot and Celia shared her life with Johnny Mercier. Although the sisters moved on we still managed to gather often around the piano to while away the day or night in song and dance. Jack died early of a heart attack most probably brought on by the steady diet of pork and beans from the time he was a boy. He was raised on a farm in the valley and then in his 20s he found work in the bush camps of Northern Ontario. He was a dapper man and never stepped out of the house without looking like he was going to a high society event or a funeral.  Granny Dunn, lived to be 100 years of age. She lived long enough to become everybody’s granny in our part of town and she could always be counted on for cookies, a cup of tea and a few kind words.

Ansonville and Montrock went the way of the dinosaurs in the 1960s when a feisty little Frenchman by the Name of Elmo Lefebvre joined with some other visionary people in the community to push for the amalgamation of the three towns into one. Iroquois Falls ended up being the name of choice in what was a hotly contested political mish mash that almost tore the communities apart. Many of the company people satisfied with the status quo of the good life in Iroquois Falls proper didn’t want anything to do with change. However, a small but vocal and dedicated group of more or less revolutionaries brought us fighting and kicking together. There were little thanks to Elmo and the forces of power made his life difficult. He left to live out most of his life in Kapuskasing although his heart no doubt remained in Iroquois Falls. It is said that the victorious and the powerful write the history books. Well, here’s one for Elmo Lefebvre another great founder of Iroquois Falls. Where is his monument in town?

Today the railway tracks that run through the heart of our town merely present a mild annoyance when a company train crosses a roadway. Gone are the days of this side and that side of the tracks. Iroquois Falls looks kind of comfortable and tidy. Thanks to the invention of aluminum and vinyl siding in the early 1960s the tar paper shacks of Ansonville and Montrock were magically transformed into shiny little homes with a disneyesque appeal to them. Our mammoth recreation/sports complex complete with hockey arena, curling rink, pool and what not facilities exists as proof of our ability to get along and do great things. The complex at one point was billed as the largest volunteer project in Canada.

We had the best neighbours in the world on old Third Avenue, which is D’Iberville Street today. There were the Poiriers, Mahers, Regimbals, Manders, Russels, McCarthys, Lavoies, Blacks (of the corner store), Larsons, Larivees, Denaults, Croatins (of Croatin’s wood yard), Brudenelles, Postivichs, Youngs, Gauthiers, Adamsons, Gervais, Berniers, Sarmientos, Pierinis, Flageoles, Charlebois, O’Donnells (writer Eddy O’Donnell), Soucys, Lachances, Bigelows, Lachapelles and Proulxs.  Many of them are gone now but in a way they are still here. That is one of the wonderful things about becoming a senior citizen as my memory banks are full of all those caring, colourful and hardworking neighbours and every time I take a drive or walk uptown I am reminded of them along my way. They all seem to be doing quite well thank you.

The End

By Michael McGrath – January 2010

In the mid 1950s, when I was just a bit of a lad, I passed many a day on the family swing. Few households in Iroquois Falls back then had the luxury of a full fledged swing. Sure, there were all sorts of basic examples of the swing hanging here and there from trees and railings in between two ropes bound around a plank but only the privileged few had the benefit of a multi person, proper chair swing that could accommodate family and friends. Ours was a beauty.

I am not sure where the Dunn family swing came from. It had always been a part of my childhood memories. I believe it was ordered through the Eaton catalogue and delivered to the door on horse and buggy by Norbert Grenier. Most finished products came from Eatons in those days and when you saw Norbert and his team of horses or later his old jalopy of a truck at a front door you immediately understood that there would be happy faces to welcome in a new piano, a stove, fridge, sofa or bed. It was pure entertainment to have a visit from Norbert. He was a big fellow with a loud sound and resounding laugh. Most of the time he managed to haul huge heavy loads on his back into the welcoming homes in Iroquois Falls, Ansonville and Montrock. Later in the 1960s all these towns were amalgamated to become Iroquois Falls. Norbert always had a story or a joke to tell and his wide smile and sparkling eyes put the finishing touches on the delivery of a much needed, anticipated and celebrated new item for the home.

Our swing was actually a platform or floor of wood like a small deck attached on the bottom to seats that were about five feet wide. There were two seats on either side of this floor and then a frame held the seats in place and hung them on two wood rails. The seats faced each other and could seat three adults on each side and a couple of children on the floor.

My most vivid memories of the old swing has to do with my granny’s network of wandering friends. I say wandering because I knew them when they had all raised their families and most of their husbands had passed away after years of hard work as lumberjacks, teamsters or paper mill workers All these ladies were in their 60s and 70s in the 1950s and most of them had a lot of time on their hands and they could only bear to sit in their little houses for so long before needing a dose of social contact. My grandmother, Margaret Dunn on the other hand, had two grandchildren at home and was more or less raising a second family. Myself and my sister Patty were lucky enough to be under her care as our mother Emily toiled through her days in the main office of the local paper mill.

I recall that on those muggy days in summer, cool but sunny autumn breaks and as the sun warmed us up after a freezing winter in the spring the swing was there to help us while away hours in friendship, a little gossip and strong, hot tea.

“Hello Mrs. Dunn,” Mrs. O’Donnell hollered at the front door on old Third Avenue in her vary man like voice. She was a tall woman and her strong and deep voice captivated my sister and I. In good weather we made our way to the swing and the visit was on. In a short while Freda Spence would arrive on the scene. Freda was a social butterfly and member of the Moose Lodge who attended mass regularly and could be seen at just about every funeral in town bidding her fond farewell. She simply liked to be around people and in small towns regretfully there are more funeral get to gathers than weddings and the like. Freda loved to clamour aboard the Dunn swing and chat with her favourite neighbours while sipping tea.

Mrs. Harkins sauntered up to the front yard and hauled herself onto the swing amidst warm welcome from the ladies and a how do you do. She knew my granny from the Ottawa Valley days as they were both born in the vicinity of Fort Coulonge and Waltham in Quebec near Pembroke, Ontario. She had a hard life and raised a large family of boys and girls in a little house just around the corner from us on Church Street. In her early years she was counted on for her experience as a midwife and she assisted granny in some of her births. Mrs. Harkins was a stocky lady and had a lot of trouble walking which resulted in a job for me once I could be trusted to find my way around the block and come home. At one point I became her walking companion and I would run around the corner and down the hill in two minutes to help her inch her way up for a half hour walk back to our place and a visit with Granny.

Mrs. Manders, often would arrive to join the group of Irish ladies. She was tall and thin and always looked as though something terrible was going happen to her at any given moment. The poor woman was old beyond her years and she counted on the kindness and understanding of familiar Ottawa Valley faces to open their doors and hearts to her. She was frantic to say the least and the very first person I ever met that gobbled up prescription medicine with her tea.

If it was a hot day Patty and I served lemonade or cold drinks on encouragement from Granny but most of the time the ladies like to have their tea and whatever biscuits Granny could come up with from the cookie jar. There they sat, happy and full of good chatter under the sun, just inside the white picket fence, on the green lawn comfortable in the swing.

Most of the time Patty and I lounged lazily around on the grass near the dragon lilies, sunflowers, bleeding hearts and roses. We watched in fascination as the bees buzzed about fixated on visiting our flowers to gather nectar. All types of bugs roamed the forest of grass leaves at ground level and often we followed them on their travels. The Robins, Starling, Sparrows and Crows floated and darted in and out of our scene there in the front yard like little punctuation marks in the day. Above, all we were comforted by the lullaby of familiar, friendly voices on the swing. The ladies gently motioned the swing back and forth as they soothed each other with words falling like little chutes of memories that flowed from early childhood on farms and from the small towns back in the Valley. They swung back and forth, sometimes in question, at times with a sharp refrain. On occasion in the heat of discussion the swing seemed to pick up on their moods and moved briskly to the rise and fall of their conversation.

With all of the ups and downs on the swing somehow the old friends managed to keep an even keel and their time moving to and throw for hours in our front yard seemed to speed by. It was like some precious commodity or treat that you wanted to preserve and keep for as long as you could but that was impossible. Friends and neighbours passed with greetings and the odd car limped by as the ladies pumped gently on the swing in a rhythm that mostly comforted them. Sometimes, they all fell silent and simply let the swing and movement fill their moments in the fresh air scented by the fragrance of the flower garden.

When the men were seen walking past on their way home from the mill with lunch buckets in hand that was the cue to wrap things up. Granny, they knew still had Emily to feed and greet on her return from her day in the office. There was supper to fix for Patty and I and a host of chores to accomplish. So, the swing finally came to a slow halt. The ladies gave thanks and praise for the grand afternoon and disembarked from the old swing. “Good Day Mrs. Dunn” they sang and headed off down the street to their own kitchens and living rooms with the joy of time well spent in the backs of their minds.

The End

by Mike McGrath (C) 1985

    A voice in the hall said it was three in the morning and he marveled to himself  at his wide awake state. It probably had something to do with the music blaring top 40 hits next door and of course the company he didn’t keep in the hall.
    Howard Munroe lay propped up against the wall on the lumpy bed with worn sheets pulled  around him and a book of short stories open at his side. He  wanted to be anonymous and alone after his three year stint in the small northern town which was home, most of the time. Now, he was indeed alone in one of the many cells that made up this Victorian vintage hotel in the heart of downtown Toronto.
    He was thankful for the contact he had made with the young man last night. He was relieved at the opportunity to lay in bed and linger in whispers and chuckles with his new friend as the hours slipped away. He was grateful that kind mind had accompanied him back to embarrassing accommodations to share a hard and trim body in tight hugs that turned quickly to heated love making.
    Tonight, Howard was on his own. It was what he had wanted, to be lost in the midst of thousands of city people, all going about their lives oblivious to his. No doubt he felt a quiet comfort and some serenity but he was nervous too as though in the eye of a storm. It did not take long this night for the peace to turn on Howard in loneliness again and to make it worse he seemed to have become acutely aware of every sound around him.
    The hall reverberated with stomping feet and crude, drunken chatter. Somehow even the laughter that drifted through the warped plaster walls was cruel and had an edge to it. This could have been a 24 hour donut place if sound were his only sense. In fact these sounds came from the hallway outside the dingy room where Howard lay listening.
    There were several sharp raps on a door in the hall and a voice followed, “It’s Brian, man. C’mon lets go,” a young man  whined. He got no answer. He knocked again and harder. “Just a beer, c’mon don’t make me wait here,” the voice was more determined. There was another pause and no answer. “Fuck,” the voice said in anger and the sound of slow steps faded down the hall and then were punctuated with a burst of disco music that drifted up from the bar below, past the shuffle of feet  and down the corridor, then they were gone with a slam of a door. 
    Next door the music blared out of a portable radio, “Life, la la la la la, life is life, la la la la la,” and his was accompanied by sensual sighs, that progressed to grunts and then laughter.
    The north still had a hold on Howard and it caught him again for a few seconds and made him writhe in pain that was a missing feeling of sickness that churned in his stomach. He thought of the old woman, fragile, thin and wrinkled. He imagined he was a boy again and was cuddled in her arms as she sat in her rocking chair at the window.
    He could almost hear her weak but still beating heart and see her glazed but still bright, dancing eyes that momentarily calmed him with deep wells of love.
    Then he wiped the scene away by rubbing his eyes so hard that it hurt. He cupped his hands over his face and a deep breath became a long and drawn out sigh.
    No, he reminded himself, he could not let the thought of home and the old woman pull too greatly or the result would find him back in the Buick and heading out of the neon night city to the expressway and the narrowing, dark road that wound back up north.
    The voice in the hall was back again on the tail end of three sharp and loud knocks, “Look. It’s me again. Just tell me your OK. You don’t have to let me in. C’mon Ken just one word. OK?” Silence was his answer and he beat on the door, “This is bullshit and you bastard you’re just going to make me wait all night,” the voice said in a mean and desperate tone and then left again with hesitant steps that did an exit with the disco beat  rushing up from the first floor and then again with the slam of the door there was silence in the hall.
    A few minutes passed and from the far end of the hall a door opened and closed in a series of knocks. Greetings were punctuated with rough  words like fuck, shit and screw and a party  stumbled back and forth between the distant room and the hall. The party grew quickly.
    From the direction of this party a young woman’s voice sliced through dull drunken sounds after two slight knocks on a door, “I’m here,” she said.   The door opened and the party spilled into the hall with heavy metal music and a sexy young male voice, “Yea, come on in.” He sounded eager.“Oh, whoa,” the girl’s voice said to what she saw. “What are those guys doing here?”
    His reply was cool, smooth and meant to be reassuring, “Oh its okay, they’ll mind their own business. Anyway in half an hour they’ll all be passed out.” 
    “No way man, it’s too crazy,” a more defiant tone spoke out of the woman. Street wisdom barked out of her, “You want me in there, get them the fuck out or forget it.”
    “I can’t babe,” he swooned and then harshly added, “What you wanna do fuck on the staircase?”
    She was blunt, “It would be a lot safer,” and her high heels kicked in with hammering clicks that faded down the hall, let in the disco beat and a door slammed.
    “Fuck you bitch,” came a frustrated retort that was obviously more for the ears in his room than the departed visitor. Grunts and roars of laughter drew him back into his world and the party was shut inside again.
    Howard shook his head in amazement. This he was not used to and it filled him with a combination of disgust and sadness. He felt disgust for the thin emotion that bounced back and forth between the voices and their seemingly desperate situations. Then he felt sadness for what he imagined was poor luck, which had taken them to a rough edge that glittered like fools gold with alcohol, drugs and fast, risky money.
    Two days, Howard thought and he could move on to a more comfortable and sane environment. He had been naive on this jaunt into the city and had settled too quickly for the huge Victorian hotel, which with its outward shell had promised much more grand accommodation. He felt a little cheated too; the advertisement he had read in the Body Politic claimed  Ernest Hemingway as a resident for a short while in his early days as a writer with the Toronto Star.      
    Howard adored Hemingway’s work and admitted to himself now that he had been pulled in by a sense of history and nostalgia and some pretentious notion that he fancied himself as a writer.
    This glamorous hook led him to a decaying cell where wall paper heaved from disfigured walls and cracked plaster mixed with the shadows cast from the dim lamp light to make crazy designs on the ceiling ten feet above his head.        
    He tried to imagine the grand state of the old hotel in the 1920s, the toast of the wealthy and high society. The red brick, castle like building would have jutted high on the city scape back then. Ornamental chandeliers, oriental wool rugs and gleaming wood staircases would have given the hotel a prominent place in Toronto. There were still enough hints of what had been and it captured Howard’s imagination.  For thirty-five dollars a night he felt he could put up with any inconveniences for a short stay  in the belly of this ragged Victorian princess.
    Bass notes came up from the disco below in dull thuds that shook through the room and rain beat, whipped by the wind on loose panes from which only the fuzzy sight of other panes in the dark could be seen lit in a building across the way.
    The pop music next door mixed with a bizarre harmony in sounds of lust, the dull disco throb from below, muffled rock beats down the hall and rain that pounded in a pulsating rhythm. These were sliced with the wail of a siren that cried in panic and distress from the suppressed but ever present roar of the city at night.
    Then he was back with the same slow leather heal to pine step sounds, “Please. Its me Brian. Please Ken I promise I’ll go away if you just say something, anything,” the voice trembled. Then he cried, “You really are a bastard .”
    There was a pounding on the door and what sounded like a bang made by the force of an entire body crashing against the door. It was quiet for a moment and then the voice groaned as the pain of love lost slipped up and out of him. “Oh Ken, Ken. I love you Ken, please.”
    As though tethered with a greater weight, the feet moved in sluggish creaks, hesitated, then continued to where the disco music came up to welcome the wounded young man back downstairs, the door slammed and it was quiet again.
    Howard looked about his room and was overwhelmed with where he was and also with the demands of his day. He shut the light out of it all with a flick of the lamp switch and then went in a drift off to sleep.
    Deep in the caverns of slumber he could hear from far away the goings on about him. From where he lay there were familiar passings and knocks and voices. They trembled in waves to him like thunder announcing a storm.
    In panic he awoke trough the layers of numbing, fluffy sleep to horrific screams that bolted him automatically up and to the door. The screams were trying to get in and Howard, in a knee-jerk reaction, unlatched the lock and pulled on the heavy oak door to reveal wild eyes in terror. Wild eyes that pushed him aside and against the wall.
    A naked young man covered in blood tore into the room and scrambled on all fours towards the far window. He was followed by a bearded fully clothed assailant that jumped on his back and in great thrusts was burying flashes of steel into his victim’s back. Blood splattered in streams up and over  everything and Howard, on impulse, lunged at the bearded assailant.         
    “Ahh, you fucking cunt,” the bearded man with the knife screamed and Howard knew it as the recurring voice in the hall. In reflex, Howard tried to overpower the flailing figure but the voice turned in the violent body with the power of ten men and put his flash of steel into Howard with a crunch that broke though his rib cage and exploded his heart. A butcher knife sucked back out and the voice with crazed eyes in a screwed up face, behind a full black beard let out a satanical laugh, then went back to hacking at the writhing form on the floor.
    Howard fell slowly against the wall. He was poised to holler for help, there was a great scream just on the edge of his tongue but he was frozen in this cry and everything slowed and then stopped and locked into one last frame of the scene that hung there before him.
    There was no breath to come, no way out, no angel of mercy, time stopped dead and Howard was cold then very warm. This last view of the murderous rampage began to melt in colors that dripped and flowed where forms had been and then he went with a sick feeling into the deepest dark there could be. He felt as though he was free falling into empty wells of blackness and then a dot of light appeared and grew.
    He came to screaming but it didn’t seem right. It was new and it was fresh and he was crying and gasping and ripping with his arms and legs at the air. There was the thick sweet odour of blood and he cried out but could not find words to speak.
    “It’s a boy. A good healthy boy,” the voice said. Howard Munroe felt his memory banks empty as he was raised in the air and gently slapped.
    He tried with all his might to hold on to his one final thought in this new world, “Oh no, not again,” this thought echoed in his mind and began to fade as air filled his lungs, images blurred with a new light and  energy burned in him like a fire in renewed  ignition after having been blown back from dull embers.

The End

When we stopped with a clunk he got on in New Liskeard,
He was tall, a bit plump and walked awkwardly up the aisle.
It could be he was a farm boy with his blond hair and freckled face.
His look was a bit out of sync as though someone else had dressed him.
He hid his eyes under a baseball cap with the Maple Leaf’s logo on it.

Travelling by rail seemed new to him as he gazed out the window.
The slow rocking of the iron horse soon sent him into slumber.
I wondered if he were off somewhere to school but that could not be.
It was the middle of February and the time frame did not fit.
All the kids had gone back to their studies long ago.

It could be he was headed to a hospital in Toronto at the end of the line.
The train had become a sort of cancer shuttle over the past decade.
People went from the north with deadly diagnosis on their minds.
Sometimes they returned but often they got lost in the cancer machine.
Much of the time they came back in a box.

He looked too healthy to be sick and there was no sign of worry on his face.
Here he was in the seat across the aisle bobbing gently with the rhythm of the train.
I watched the miles blur by him in his window and now and then he would stir.
The snow covered farm fields gave way to white clad forests and rock.
Whistle stop northern towns paused us and people came and went.

By the time the conductor had announced “Union Station 10 minutes”,
The farm boy was awake and staring intently out the window.
Trees and fields had given way to grey and brown brick and mortar.
Lives in all types of purposeful situations were displayed in our windows.
We could see them coming and going and it made me wonder who they were?

The city opened up to swallow us in great walls of concrete and structure.
More than 200 years of digging, forming, constructing and expanding welcomed us.
I knew what I was coming back to and I felt an uneasiness yet excitement.
The farm boy seemed frozen in his seat and fear spread across his face.
His eyes were wide and his mouth agape as he sensed his impending arrival.

Strangely I felt some kin to this teenager headed into the frenzy of big city life.
He shared the same pine tree, fresh water, frozen snow experience.
I wished I could have offered up more than “Well here we are” on our arrival.
The last time I saw him he was walking down the busy hall into Union Station.
He simply disappeared in the crowd that flowed further into the belly of the city.

I stopped at a coffee shop in the station to pause and reflect.
There was no mystery here at the gates of the city in the middle of winter.
On one hand here I could be myself and fit right into a vibrant and colourful patchwork.
On the other I felt uprooted, detached and in limbo.
The city hung before me in a slippery slope that offered relief but at a cost.

I thought of home and my street, the house and my neighbours.
Granny would be waiting by the phone to hear of my safe arrival.
Mom was busy at work but I knew she was thinking about me.
Barry and Linda and the kids were busy putting their day together.
Alana and Emma had opened up the store by now up the street.

A tremble went through me and I fought the urge to turn back.
I knew another rail car waited for me ready to take me back to Iroquois Falls.
Still, I realized that somehow I had to leave behind everyone and everything I loved.
A life lived in vulnerability, fear and intolerance had taken its toll on me.
The gay life in the big city held the promise of a rainbow…after the rain.

By Michael McGrath – 1986

Mama, as the locals called her, was a big busted Quebecois woman with a head piled high with blonde hair. Here in Juan Dolio she was popular with all the boys. The women were less generous in her regard and showed signs of mild disgust in asides here and there as mama strolled the rocky road along the beach.

I met her in person at Johnny’s bar one night. It was hot of course out in the open patio there on the beach facing the ocean. Thankfully, the sun was setting on another day and a cool breeze started up as though it was fanned from the relentless roar of crashing salt water on the sand. Mama was well on her way to a party night and her face was blushed with drink. She, as usual, was surrounded by a group of young men who all seemed very eager to please her every whim. They laughed at her jokes and sexual innuendos and happily ate and drank on her generous tab.

Mama, Johnny the bar owner told me, had retired from her government office job in Montreal to move to a little house in Juan Dolio. She arrived with must gusto and hope and situated her self in her place along the main road and facing the beach. I had seen mama a few times in the past week as she made her way around the little fishing village with an entourage of strong and athletic Dominican boys. She always seemed happy and no doubt life here encouraged that response in comparison to what she was accustomed to back in Montreal on Sherbrooke Street and the smothering one bedroom apartment.

Mama, was a heavy woman. She was rolly polly and her body shook in rolls as she danced with her boys to the music in Johnny’s Bar.

“Anglais, anglais,” she shouted out to me as she pointed her bouncing gaze my way. She pointed to me directly and hollered above the sound system, “Come join us. Come on don’t be alone there. Come and dance Anglais”.

Thankfully, I was not sufficiently inebriated and I managed to deflect her spotlight on me with a short wave as I shook my head no no no to her request. She just laughed very loudly and was joined by her boys in great cheer as they mocked my refusal with their heads in the air and noses pointed upwards. I laughed too.

It was fun to watch them bounce to the rhythm in the middle of the bar. Mama wore a flowing yellow cotton dress and she was covered in fake jewellery that hung around her neck and dangled from her ears. When she danced the floor shook and the boys all thought that was hilarious. The other tourists in the bar seemed to be a bit embarrassed by the mama’s antics. They huddled close over their drinks chatting while peering every so often to the spectacle of mama and her boys moving like a freight train in the middle of Johnny’s Bar.

Suddenly, a beat up old van pulled up in a cloud of dust in front of the bar. Mama and the boys responded with woops and yells. The big lady paid her bill and the group dashed out into the night to the waiting van. She turned to me and hollered, “Hey Anglais come come we go to San Pedro de Marcoris to dance the merengue. Come, come.” Her boys chimed in, “Come, come, come,” they chanted.

“No no, I go home soon but you have fun. I see you tomorrow,” I called after them as they crammed into the van and sped off into the night.

Soon after, all the lights went off as was the routine here in the Dominican. Every night at about 8 p.m. just as night fell, off went the lights. The antiquated electrical system was sufficient to provide electricity to homes across the country but when the lights went on at the ball parks then zap that was it for the rest of us. It was quaint in a way as the candles were lit, generators powered up and people became a little more friendly in the safety of groups here and there along the coast in the dark of night surrounded by jungle and the roar of the ocean.

I made my way back to my rented house a mile away. A few drinks helped to calm the fear I felt as I walked alone in the dark along the rocky and twisting road. Here and there I would pass by small shacks where I would see people huddled in the dark and watching as I made my way. A few cars passed by and I welcomed the light that momentarily provided me with an idea of where I was. I was happy to finally reach my little place on the beach and I rushed in and locked the door quickly behind me. I fumbled for the candle and lit it. Then I made my way to the table, where my portable underwood sat. I lit a cigarette, had a few good puffs and then beat the keys of that little typewriter with a story.

In the morning I awoke, as was normally the case, with the wretched crow of a frantic rooster and the squeaky braying of a donkey. The two seemed to be somehow unofficially appointed to keep the time in these parts. If it had only been a rooster I might have been able to fall back to sleep at six o’clock in the morning but that damned donkey sounded like a monster in pain. So, I was reluctantly up with the sun and cleaning up for my walk back down to Johnny’s for breakfast.

I was always eager to open up my front door and step out onto the beach in front of the ocean. This was my reason for being here. That view of sand brown, turquoise sea and a white cloud studded robin’s egg blue sky did something wonderful to my brain. Then, with that good feeling in my head I half ran my way along the road to Johnny’s Bar. The route was much more friendly in the daylight and the shade of the overhanging jungle growth made the jaunt cool and refreshing.

I could hear the commotion long before I got to the front patio of Johnny’s. Still, it did not prepare me for what I was to witness. As I entered the patio a chorus of black and brown faces turned to “hush” to me. There was a circle gathered and I made my way to the group to see what was up. There in the middle of all of this was mama. She was flat on her back on a rug and someone had put a pillow behind her head. Her face was beet read and she was screaming.

“It has me. I has me. Mon Die Je Suis Mort,” cried mama and she struggled to break free of her boys who were holding her down. A small but tough looking little Haitian who was referred to as the Voodoo Doctor was at her side. He had a live chicken in his hands and he was about to slice its neck off. He mumbled a few words I could not interpret and then off went the poor creature’s head. Then he rose up and spilled the blood of the chicken on mama from head to toe. All the while the Voodoo Doctor chanted and thrust the writhing blood spewing chicken towards mama. I could take it no more.

I found Johnny at the bar downing a shot of whiskey. “What’s up I asked?”

“Mon Dieu. They found her on the beach this morning. She was crawling in the sand and barking like a dog. The boys brought her up here and then they called for the Raphael, you know that Voodoo guy. He has been poking her, chanting at her and now you see…he’s covering her in chicken’s blood,” explained Johnny.

I ordered a coup of coffee and we sat there at the bar as the Voodoo Doctor worked on mama. Suddenly she stopped screaming. There was sighing from the crowd. Then with a bound mama drew up into a sitting position and looked around seemingly confused.

“Bien, sacrament. What’s going on?” she asked.

“We don’t know,” answered Johnny from the bar. “You were a bit sick I guess. How are you now mama?” queried Johnny.

“I am fine. The last thing I remember was that old witch at my door this morning. She said she was going to curse me. I don’t remember anything after that except of course her husband running all the way home with her following with a stick,” said mama. Then she laughed at that recollection. She laughed so hard that she shook and like an aftershock it seemed to reverberate into the entire crowd and we all fell into long and bizarre laughter.

Mama got to her feet, pushed her boys aside and headed for Johnny at the bar. “Merci tout le monde. Johnny, drinks are on me. Put on the merengue I want to dance,” she shouted.

A cheer came up from the crowd and her boys. The music blared, the whiskey flowed and mama grabbed the tiny Haitian Voodoo doctor in her arms. One could only surmise what his payment would be for services rendered. There she was in her yellow cotton dress red with chicken’s blood, she was wrapped tightly around the hard and somewhat astonished Voodoo doctor and her boys had encircled her as they all moved as though one in the sensual beat of the merengue.

The End

By Tessie Ruddy 2008

I grew up in a small “paper” town in Northern Ontario during the great depression, as they called it. Strange in way for us because although things were tight we never felt depressed. We didn’t have much in the way of marvellous furniture or possessions, but we had some marvellous times. When I was still almost a baby, I would sit on my mother’s knee in church (they had no nursery rooms) and hum along when the organ was playing. We went to halls where other cultures played their music and in particular at Christmas. We heard bag pipes from Scotland, balalaikas from Polish and Ukrainian people, the flute from our Jewish neighbours and fiddles from the French Canadians and Irish.

We had a radio and listened to the Grand Old Opry fiddlers, gospel music, the American Stallions Nashville and others. We got those signals over the radio so strongly that we could hear them playing from Nashville and other parts of the U.S.A. coming to us over hundreds of miles in distance over the frozen airwaves. It was great to hear all that country music from the likes of Roy Acuff and the Smokey Mountain Boys playing The Arkansas Traveler and other square dance tunes. I remember my father’s show was on at six o’clock in the morning. My father Jack turned the radio on in the kitchen at a very high volume so that we would here it upstairs while still in bed as we were not invited to get up yet. We were five little girls in the room awake but simply resting and listening while not making a sound. So, this went on as a routine. We also had an old wind up gramophone that played over and over Polly Wollie Doodle and Who Broke The Lock On The Hen House Door as well as many Irish songs by John McCormack.

There was no kindergarten in those days so we started right into grade one and learned to read and actually write. I recall the most outstanding thing I noticed on my first day of school was “The Piano”. I had never seen one up close before. There it was a big black carved piano being played by quite a large and robust teacher who smiled as she played tunes like English Country Garden. We sat in our seats and listened intently. Although I decided that I liked school a lot on that first day I really fell in love with “The Piano” and all of the singing we did around it.

From that time I wished and longed for a piano but of course all in vain. The depression was still on but the paper mill in town was running although only five days a week. Tim Buck was getting strong at that time and there was lots of excitement while happily my father was kept on to work at the mill. Finally somehow daddy had saved up one hundred dollars. What had that money been put away for you might wonder? Well, it was set aside for a washing machine for my mother. She always had to wash with a wash board. The decision that had to be made was left up to my mother. Did she want the new washer to make life easier or a piano for us girls? Momma decided that piano was the better choice.

We sent away for a used piano from The Family Herald and Weekly Star newspaper. It arrived on the freight train F.O.B. (freight on board) on Christmas Eve. I was fourteen by this time and the second oldest of five girls.

From the train station a man, who was a friend of my father’s delivered the piano safely packed into a wooden piano box on a very low sleigh pulled by two work horses. The piano arrived on a very cold dark Christmas Eve and the snow was actually up past the windows of our house. Alas, on arrival at our front door we discovered it was too big to move in. This created a lot of noise, fuss and swearing as the delivery men and my father looked for a solution. They decided to take off the front door, open up the crate and roll the piano in on its casters. The horses waited patiently outside in the freezing temperature and snow with frost on their manes and whiskers. Nobody cared enough to cover them with blankets or melton cloth and I wondered at that. The piano was old but magnificent, it was dark brown wood on casters and made by Bell. I t was stunning with ivory keys.

Fortunately our teachers had taught us a bit of music theory, so we were able to play with one hand to start with. So, that Christmas Eve we took turns at playing Silent Night. My father could plunk a few lines of dance tunes as well. The evening was a joy with all of us taking turns banging away at the new piano.

The next day it was Christmas. My father had invited some Italian friends from work to come over for a visit and to enjoy some Christmas cake and tea. We all sat around and listened to them admiring “The Piano”. My father claimed proudly, “Tessie can play”. Well, yes I could play alright but only one hand and a line of Silent Night so I did that to please them and hit any note to fake my way along as my sisters sang quite loudly to give me cover. The elderly Italian fellow by the name of Joe cried and clapped his hands as he was so happy at our little production of Silent Night. I knew then that we could all accomplish just about anything if we tried. I also knew that I loved the idea of performing.

As time went on we were able to take lessons for 25 cents a week from an elderly French lady that lived near by. We learned with her teaching us chords and her son accompanied us on the fiddle. Before long we could play a tune with the right hand and chord with the left. We played some popular dance tunes like Put On Your Old Grey Bonnet and Red wing as well as a few hymns like Nearer My God To Thee.

We had lots of visitors to hear us play the piano as word spread along the block. Every Sunday afternoon we all played and sang and danced as we tried to master the songs made popular by the war. My mother produced fudge for the occasion and she and my father danced around the small kitchen and living room to songs like After The Ball and To Feather Your Nest.

I will always remember “The Piano” with all of its ornate carving and yellow ivory keys. It was the centre of attraction when we growing up and then when we came home to visit with our own families. Other homes had pool and gaming tables and all sorts of entertainment but the Dunn household had “The Piano”. Thank God to Daddy and Momma for that.

A little about Tessie Ruddy. She was born and raised in Iroquois Falls, one of five daughters of Jack and Margaret Dunn. Her sisters include: Emily (McGrath), Sarah Paquette, Rita Elliott and Celia Mercier. She became a teacher and taught initially in Monteith and then Iroquois Falls. She married Harvey (Buck) Ruddy and raised a family including: Terry, Celia and Iris. Terry is a world renown doctor and heart specialist married to Cathy who is also a doctor. They have two sons Brendon and Christopher. Brendon has an interest in music and Christopher is studying computer technology. Terry and Cathy reside in Ottawa. Iris is also a medical professional and has the speciality of working in Infectious Disease Control. She lives in Kitchener/Waterloo and has one fabulous daughter, Sarah who is an accomplished dancer and currently studying in University. Sadly, Celia and Harvey have passed on. Tessie taught school for many years and it was her great joy to pass her passion for music and the creative arts on to many students through decades of her career in education in Northern and Southern Ontario. She is an accomplished pianist and at 81 years of age she is still active in her community of Cambridge where she participates with many volunteer organizations and seniors groups. Happily, she continues to this day to delight people with her skill at the piano.

Below she is seen in a photo playing the piano with her sisters Celia and Rita during the celebration of Celia and Johnny Mercier’s 50th wedding anniversary.

Eulogy For Emily McGrath by Michael McGrath May 28, 2007
Read At Her Funeral by Michael McGrath and John Elliott

Thank you all for being here today in honour of Emmy. The family wants to thank Doctor Lupien and many nurses for the wonderful care they gave mom over the many months that she was sick. We also want to thank Father Katooka for his assistance with Emmy.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be in her living room in her house on old Third Avenue reading her newspaper and sipping her tea. The doorbell might ring and that could be Marilyn Chircoski stopping by on her walk for a visit. It could be Verna Turner or her good neighbor Nancy Breton stopping in to share some good news.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be on the phone to Emma Sullivan, her favourite cousin in Pembroke. They would probably be talking about their fabulous trip to Ireland in 1998. Or she might be chatting on the phone with one of the many Girl Guide leaders she kept in touch with over the years.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be in her back yard sitting in her swing surrounded by flowers, the swallows darting back and forth from the bird house over the garage and the sounds of her neighbourhood. She might wave to Viv next door or have a little visit with Gaston who would make her laugh with one of his jokes. Robert and Clara might wave from their backyard and come over for a little chat while the kids ran in the back field. The Kataquapits might drop by on their way south or while shopping in Timmins.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be on her knees and running her hands through the soil as she planted new flowers and new beginnings in her garden. She might see Ruth and Chris Swartz as they happily walked by with Mila. Terry and Collette Madden might drop by on their way back from some interesting trip. Or she could look up and see Jimmy and Helen sitting on their front porch and sending her a wave. Music could be drifting over from the Soucki’s as they sang and played.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be walking down to the post office where she could meet Ruth Jennings or Norma Labelle or Linda Peever and Dave Smith. She could catch up on others lives with these short meetings. She might get a letter from Brooke and Patty with pictures of Jack and Brynn and that would make her day.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be able to make her way down to the grocery store and she might stop in at the Pink Store to visit Alana. They might share a cappuccino and make each other feel OK with kind words and a little vitamin G. On her way to the grocery store she could meet up with Rosalee and Huey Madden or Rose and Ron Bernier. She would thank Rose for the wonderful soup and muffins she brought over last week.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be in the old truck with me and Xavier heading up to Timmins for the afternoon for a visit with Celia and Johnny. She might see a rabbit or a fox on the side of the road. Celia would have tea and cookies ready and she might even play a tune on the piano. Johnny would make her laugh as usual and Jamie and Anita could stop by with Dylan and Kyle or Graham and Pammy could stop by with Arron or Riley. Marcia and Beech might pull in with news about Nicky and Josh at school. Betty Anne might call from Ottawa with a few good jokes. Patricia might be up from Wawa with news about BJ. And Chippy would hurry in for a quick bite and some warm words and news about his Ryan and Jessie.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be at the Iroquois Falls Art Club where she painted and drew while she chatted in comfort with her friends Verna Turner, Christie Riley, Marilyn Chircoski, Therese Bender, Hazel Derbie, Blanche Brindle and Jean Annand.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be at a Manor Auxiliary meeting where she reported as the Treasurer. She wanted to share a few moments with other volunteers dedicated to making life better for the pioneers of our community. She might stop by for a visit with her brother in law Everett Eliott or her old neighbour Ruth Larivie, residents of the manor.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be at a meeting at the Historical Society that I sometimes refered to as the Hysterical Society. She liked to be called upon for her great memory in assisting the board and staff with her knowledge of the community.

Emmy did not want to be here today. Well at least not like this. She would have wanted to be here on Sunday with her good friends Rhea Pike, Elsie Lowe, Irene Powers and Cec McMillan. Maybe Mrs Shey or Marion Luke would accompany her and the rest of the girls to Randy’s for breakfast after Sunday Mass.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She would rather be stopping in to see Donna McEwan at the Sears store and she might meet up with Don Paquette and his friend Bernie there and they could certainly have a great chat about the new baby Sarah and how happy Andrew and Carmen must be and of course Aunt Kathryn. She might be invited out to Chuck and Jennifer’s cottage to see Daniel, Nicky and Joey. Donna might have news about Cathy in Orillia or Dave and Marci’s daughter Allysandra.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be heading down south and arriving at Johnny and Patty’s door where she would be joined by Brooke and Rob Vokes and Jack and Brynn. Judy and Ross would invite her for tea. John and Colleen Elliott might come over for a visit from London and if John brought his keyboard, there would be some singing. Luanne and Chris and the kids might show up with John and Norma Bradley. Lorrie and Fred could stop in with news about Russ and his family. No doubt Ron and Tanner would show up with some treats.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be on her way to her see her sister Tessie Ruddy in Cambridge. Tessie could make life exciting as they went here and there shopping and exploring with Iris and Sarah. Terry and Cathy might call while she was visiting with news about Christopher and Brendon.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be having a wonderful Sunday supper with Don and Dawn Elliott out at Nellie Lake. Betty and Judd Zadow, or Jane and Pat Eaton might drop in for coffee and dessert and there would be lots of stories told and times remembered.

You know the funny thing is – Emmy is not here today. As a matter of fact she has gone home. She is in the most perfect place. She might be sitting on daddy Jack Dunn’s knee listening to Rita and Sarah play the piano while granny was cooking supper in the kitchen. Uncle Jimmy Melon and his wife Little Annie and their family Jerome, Cassie, Patty and Ralph would show up. Uncle Johnny and Aunt Louisa will be telling stories about life on the farm. She might be having tea with Cec McIntyre, her best friend and her good friend Stella Frederinko. Jean Young might stop by with a new book for her to read and Jamie Bigelow could come in with a jar of Helen’s pickled beets.

Yes Emmy is in her perfect place where Barry Peever might be strumming his guitar. Mr and Mrs Maher would be on the back swing in their yard enjoying the day. Freda Spence, Irene Manders, Mrs Russell, Mrs O’Donnell or Mrs Harkins might be heard coming from a Bingo at the old Moose Hall. Emma Pierini might pull up in front of the house to take Emmy out for a ride. They might go to Tim Hortons. Harvey and Celia Ruddy might be sitting with her in the back yard and Harvey would make them all laugh and keep them busy. Aunt Mary, Agatha and Matt would be coming by to greet Emmy and Mrs Lafortune might be serving all her favourite desserts while Louie teased them all. Mrs Regimbal and Alma and Nipper Naigel would be chatting at the table. Big Jimmy and Nan will be laughing at Jimmy’s jokes along with Dalton Melon and the Lafrenier family. The Lavoies, the Manders, the Russells, the Poriers, the Proulxs, Collelas, Blacks – from the corner store and the Soucys and Tina and Robin Olaveson will be calling in to say hello.

So let’s feel happy for Emmy because she is in her perfect place. She has gone home.

by Michael McGrath (To the memory of Aurele, a kind and gentle man who hired me one summer when the papermill was on strike so that I could make enough money to attend college and study journalism.)

He drove the black Volvo over to the side of the snow bank and as close as he could get to Black’s corner store. Two half moon shapes of clear glass appeared on the ice covered windshield with the start of warm air that rose up from the defroster and his breath pumped out frosty air.

It was more out of ritual than anything else that he had ventured out into the winter night to pick up his paper. The Saturday edition of the Telegram was of special interest with a comprehensive international portion and a hefty literary section.

He collected himself, pulled his fedora tightly over his forehead, flipped his collar up, then sprang from the car into the frigid air where snow fell in waves of white fluffy dots. His movement sent squeaks up from the dry and crystallized snow. The familiar clang of the doorbell and a blast of warm air with the scent of burning birch ushered him in.

Yvette stood behind the counter, her winter-pale face lit up in a bright smile. She was slender almost frail looking, she had sharp features and her eyes sparkled sweetly. She was the oldest of seven children in the Black family and most often charged with the responsibility of running the family corner store on Third Avenue. The store actually sat on the corner right across from the Moose Lodge.

“I can’t let a day go by without my tele even if the news is a couple of days old,” the trim little man said from under the protection of his grey fedora and from inside a heavy but neatly fitted wool overcoat.

Yvette had decided that he had the air of a city man about him and she welcomed his visits and the lively conversation he brought to her .

He reminded her, in his worldly way, that it was not so far to Toronto or Ottawa. Perhaps it was not so far to another life, away from Iroquois Falls, a paper mill town separated from the rest of the world by hundreds of miles of wilderness.

“Mon Dieu, Benoit only you would fight such a storm for a newspaper,” she said while reaching for a row of wood shelving to pull a fat bundle of newsprint from its place.

“Ah it isn’t so bad. There was a time, as a boy, when I would work all day felling trees in this stuff so believe me driving a few miles is no great challenge,” he quipped in a voice soft and a little high for a man.

Clang, clang and their space was broken with the entrance of Tiboy, who stomped the snow off his feet in a bit of a jig and clapped his bulky moose hide mitts.

“Vierge, ce froid mes amis,” he hollered with great gusto showing signs of drink.

His face was red with the cold, his grin was wide and his eyes glazed as he stood unsteadily at the door.

Benoit knew him as a shy and withdrawn young man who rarely ventured out from the family living quarters on the second story of the store. Tonight Tiboy was alive, fire burned in his dark eyes under frosty brows and laughter and reckless freedom were his companions.

“Oh Tiboy,” Yvette cried out, with her hand to her cheek, as she quickly scrambled around the oak counter to the young man, who was unsteady on his feet owing to the affect of alcohol and sudden change of temperature.

“I told you not to go over to Belangers. They always get carried away and especially tonight. You are so naive. What will Mama say if she sees you like this?”

“A to hell with Mama,” he said meanly, waived his sisters gaze away and then trembled with mischievous laughter.

He stumbled toward Benoit like a tightrope artist reaching for safety.

“Benoit, hey how are you ? Merry Christmas,” slurred the burly fellow as he wrapped the frozen little man in his arms and then planted a wet kiss on his lips.

Benoit anticipated the dead weight falling upon him but the hug and then the kiss sent a shock clear through his body. He fought to stay put but it was almost too much.

“Shit, we never talk. I worked with you on the hay two years ago now and I had so much fun,” Tiboy bellowed as he staggered back and smiled at the light that was still burning brilliantly in Benoit’s wide and astonished eyes.

“Well, you must come by sometime Tiboy in the new year. It’s hard to believe 1962 is just a few days away,” Benoit answered with as much control as he could muster, as he fidgeted with his collar. “You remind me of my own party days, what fun those days were; savor each and every one of them Tiboy because I’ll tell you they don’t last long.”

Yvette, who had stood by in amazement at these mere neighbours suddenly turn long lost friends, shook question from her look and covered her embarrassment by pushing her brother towards the doorway on the other side of the oak and glass counter and out a back door.

“Maman will kill you if she sees you like this. Come, get upstairs and put yourself together. It’s only a few hours to midnight mass you know,” the young woman said seriously, hoping to add some levity to the situation.

At the door he let out a burp and then began to bellow with laughter. Yvette prodded him upstairs and his laughter dissipated with the creaks of unsteady feet on wood, to the second floor.

On her return she apologized, “That’s is not like him. I’m sorry Benoit.”

He was still reeling from the warm embrace of only moments before and said kindly to offset her concern, “ Ce n’est rien Yvette.” Then he grinned and added, “He is only having a good time: after all it is Christmas Eve.”

A half smile came back to her thin face, “Ah yes, well, that will be 25 cents please,” she spoke in her usual and familiar business way.

Benoit had enjoyed the emotion of the scene but now it was business as usual and he resisted an urge to laugh at her embarrassment and restraint saying, “Oh, I’ll need a tin of export and some rolling papers too.”

Quakes and tremors shook up and out of him and he fumbled with the bill then met her long dainty fingers with it. He wanted out quickly.

He took the brown paper bag she handed him, headed for the door, then mid way broke his hurried stride and half turned to say, “Make sure he takes a couple of aspirin and drinks about a quart of water before he goes to sleep.”

“Ah, oui mon ami and your change don’t forget it,” she called with rekindled warmth.

Benoit waved at the door and headed out, “That’s for you young lady,” he added and with the clang, clang of the door bell he found himself once again in the flurry of white fluffs that fell through the black of the night.

He moved quickly as though half his 40 years had rolled off and once inside the privacy of the idling Volvo he began to laugh and weep together at the recall of his encounter with two people he truly loved secretly. He thought how wonderful it would be to spend Christmas Eve with them. Benoit buried his face in his leather gloved hands, closed his eyes tight for a few seconds and then looked up into the frosted windshield feeling the pounding inside him that was his heart.

As he drove back out onto Main street he swore out loud with the realization he had forgotten to wish Yvette a Merry Christmas. In the confusion he had neglected his duty to be conscious of his salutations and it amazed him that here it was Christmas Eve and the only other person he had seen, other than Tiboy, he had forgotten to wish Merry Christmas.

I’m getting rusty in my old age, Benoit thought as he ploughed the heavy car through whirling snow collected in drifts on the street.

Not a soul was on the road. He imagined everyone in family groups, the young and old, laughing and singing together around food-laden tables. Suddenly he felt quite alone and moving as though in slow motion along his way. The soft glow of decorative lights looked like giant rainbows that had come down to wrap themselves around the houses that sat on either side of the road. These were homes filled with people he had known all his life. He could imagine the Lacelles, Bouchers, Girards and Lachapelles inside preparing for midnight mass.

He tried to remember the last midnight mass he had attended. It was with Memere he thought in ‘49 but he wasn’t sure. Things had changed so much since Memere had gone; he had somehow drifted away from the family and in the last few years hadn’t even exchanged gifts with oncle Gaston, tante Marie and the kids. He didn’t feel part of the town at all and he chalked a good part of that up to living alone, a few miles from town, on the farm.

I guess I’ve become quite a recluse, thought Benoit as the colorful ribbons of light were left behind at the town limits where he passed a highway sign announcing Iroquois Falls.

In the bluster, that raged all around, he drove on with caution and a skill which had developed over years of winter driving. He moved slowly over the bridge at Meadow Creek and dimmed his lights to minimize the affect of the hypnotic swirl of snow flakes that played with his sense of direction.

The road bore only a hint of the tire tracks his Volvo made on the way to Black’s Corner Store. The glow from his own sparsely lit home rose up and out of the whiteness as he followed these faint tracks to where they turned up the long drive and past the house to the barn.

These past years he had decided not to decorate with lights. Somehow, he just couldn’t feel spirited enough to pull the withering string of wire and mostly burned out bulbs from the basement. Even the thought of doing so made him sad.

Champ met him at the back porch, her tail wagging frantically and accompanied with sharp barks. She was anxious for the warmth of the wood stove and her place at Benoit’s feet in the living room.

Glad to be home, he removed his coat and set out his tobacco and the newspaper on the kitchen table. It was some comfort in this solitude to know he had his smoke and the company of news.

As he entered the kitchen, the dog was getting underfoot, sniffing with curiosity at his coat and trousers as though following his trip to town and back. Remembering his responsibility to the faithful border collie, he took a cookie from a tin then flipped it into the air.

As always, Champ was right on target, catching it in mid-air with a jump that showed her love for sugar and total disregard for the arthritis that had slowed her in recent years.

Benoit dropped to all fours and followed the dog to her corner to watch as she devoured the precious morsel, then he reached out and drew here to his chest in a hug, saying, “I saw Tiboy tonight. He gave me a big hug like this and even a kiss. You remember Tiboy, eh Champ? Yes, you remember Tiboy,” and he dog’s eyes blinked. Perhaps she did indeed remember him or at least the sound of his name from that summer at haying time, he mused.

On his back, against the cold floor, Benoit drew the dog up to lay on his chest and they gazed into each other. He half expected Memere to shout out at him to get up and leave the poor dog be. This scene was reminiscent of so many earlier days. But of course the kindly old woman was gone now and there was just the loud ticking of her clock on the kitchen wall and faint crackle of embers from the wood stove in the living room.

“It’s Christmas, another Christmas,” he said to the affectionate and responsive brown eyes and then jumped to his feet still light and thrilled with the recall of his sweet visit with Tiboy and Yvette.

Picking up his tobacco and newspaper, he went into the living room to sit at his place in Memere’s old armchair. He felt comfortable and secure there with the glow of the brass table lamp at this side. It was warm and cozy and his immediate surrounding sufficiently lit to roll his cigarettes and read the news.

He opened the tobacco tin and pulled up just the right amount of golden shreds to roll expertly in thin white paper. Content, he lit up then sank back into the soft belly of the corduroy covered sofa and sucked with great pleasure on his smoke.

“Jean-Noel Bedard would be proud of this one,” he said to only space. He remembered that first day at work, in the bush, up near camp 27, where the good natured foreman had introduced him to the delicate art of rolling. It was around a campfire he recalled and the scent of burning pine and work horses came back to him.

It wasn’t that he was thankful for the introduction to what had become an overwhelming addiction. How could he be? A nagging cough that now woke him in the night and also demanded he leave his place at his desk in the main office to empty phlegm into the toilet was not what anyone might call a healthy legacy. Yet, the comfort of this smoke had helped him through countless freezing coffee breaks in the snow, amid felled trees when he first began to work for the company as a teenager. It had stifled the hunger in his stomach and terror in his mind that filled so much of his time during his days in the second world war as an ambulance driver. Since the end of the war in ‘45, this smoke had served as a diversion in the vacuum that was life on his return to the outskirts of the small northern Ontario town and a position as a junior accountant in the pulp and paper company’s main office.

As it was with most nights, these memories and thoughts started out with a sense of soft nostalgia then rushed in and rolled around out of control inside his skull like ball bearings that threatened to wear away and at some point punch out a hole that would mean his end. Tonight, he could console those staccato visions of memory and thought with the comforting image of Yvette and Tiboy still about.

“Oh God what a beautiful young man,” Benoit spoke the words aloud, trying to accept them and the pleasure he derived from the memory of his brief encounter. A longing opened like a cavern inside him, a depth he had never been able to fill. He reasoned now, as he had always done, imposing a vision of purity when carnal feelings took hold.

This was true art, he thought. That creative and natural spontaneity had poured from the young man in his setting, on his stage, in dance and unrehearsed to the word. It was of no consequence there was no record of the moment, it only mattered that it had happened and made strong waves through short space and went deep. Benoit wished he had someone to share this realization with and then he thought of Franklin, yes Franklin was the only one who could have truly understood. Franklin would have known.

“Let’s have a nip, eh Champ? After all it is Christmas,” Benoit said to the dog at his feet, then walked to the maple buffet and poured a hefty drink of cognac into the fine crystal glass he had purchased on his last trip to New York.

At the window, he peered through thick frost designs to see periods of white dots punctuate the dark. Wind rattled at the pane and he felt good to be warm and inside.

Back in his favorite place, he picked through the layers of headlines and dissected columns of print. The paper was his crystal ball. From these pages he played his nightly game and sharpened his wit with the effort of reading between the lines to decipher the latest articles on his favorite topics. He believed that the media published only surface reports of most occurrences and this led him on a quest for the real story. Stories that lurked between the lines of so-called good journalism and truth.

The last few years had convinced Benoit that an other war was in the making and new recruits, with no memory of what terror war holds, would be ready for another go at this deadly pursuit. He worried that new fodder, wonderful young men like Tiboy, would end up a splatter of blood and guts in mud and live on only as names etched on the cenotaph in the middle of town, near the railway station. The cenotaph that people rarely ever noticed. The cenotaph where Franklin’s name was a bitter and painful reminder of what war really meant to him.

Anger built inside Benoit after reading the political beat and world news. He had grown to despise politicians and the few but powerful members of the industrial elite, who he felt really made the decisions, no matter what the words reported.

He wished there was something he could offer, something he could do or say that would make it better. It was frustrating sitting alone and reading about the world from his place in the north, far from where it all happened. This made him feel helpless, so he smoked and drank too much and mechanically went back and forth to work stuck between his own words and the facade he sometimes felt he had created.

Hours passed in cognac, smoke and print and he found himself sad with the tragedies he had witnessed in his reading. He looked into the deep wells of brown that were the eyes of his dog and said bitterly, “Christmas, some miracle eh Champ? War, murder, starvation and cheap tricks, that’s what it is all about today.”

Benoit had never really grown accustomed to being alone on Christmas Eve. Sure, there were invitations from oncle Gaston and the family in town but he felt as though he had drifted apart from the rest of the family, since the passing of Memere. It seemed difficult for him to find anyone who had time and who really understood who he was.

He found himself at the telephone and thinking. Perhaps he could call oncle Gaston. He picked up the phone and shouted into it wildly without dialing, “Hey Gaston have you prepared your kids for the coming war? Did you know three thousand people died yesterday in India in a flood?”

What could he say?

There was a Christmas once, he remembered. Here in this room the entire family would be dancing and singing a simple and crazy chanson a repondre. Mamere, was in the kitchen with the girls, surrounded by pots and pans of bubbling meats and sauces. The table was full and presents stacked under the lighted tree. Strings of Christmas cards and dangling ornaments put colour in every corner of the house. The kids played games that took them laughing from room to room, the babies cried for attention and the men made music and drank beer in the dense cigarette and pipe smoke.

On the spur of these memories, Benoit stumbled over to the oak china cabinet at the foot of the stairs and pulled a violin and bow from inside one of the drawers. One pluck of a string told him it was hopelessly out of tune but he cared little and played as though once again he were entertaining the entire family.

“Allez mon petit gars,” he could hear Papere cry as he stepped in a jig and strung out a tune. “La da deedle la da dee, la da deedle la da dum, la da deedle la da deedle, la da dee,” the violin squeaked, as Benoit stomped unsteadily about the room, whipping up dust and with Champ in hot pursuit and barking in bizarre harmony.

Benoit danced crazily, in swirls and the room went spinning about him, then everything came together in one mad flash and he fell exhausted against the back door. The yellow kitchen spun slowly to a halt and his focus returning, he cursed himself at the sink full of unwashed dishes and a stove piled high in dirty pots.

Where he lay fallen was garbage spilling out of an overflowing can. He put the fiddle and bow aside and struggled to pick up the filth. Drunkenly, he yanked open the kitchen door and against a blast of frigid air, hurled the can out into the storm.

“Aiee, aiee,” Benoit cried and with a sudden madness raced out into the swirling sea of white.

He leapt and bounded through the drifts behind the house, then lurched past the barn and out into the field, where the snow was deeper. It soon became very hard going.

There was no sense of time about him as he struggled knee deep in the freezing and blinding snow. Finally, with great gasps and starting to feel pain penetrating the numbness produced by the cognac, he lay down and could hear the exhausted gasping of his body as though it were not his own. He felt outside himself. Then a weakness came over him and his eyes became heavy. It was so peaceful now where he lay and the silence behind the storm beckoned his spirit.

He talked to himself, “It’s no use Mamere. It’s no use. I can’t go on.” Then he answered too. “Yes you must move Benoit. This is no way to die. Surely, you are made of better stuff than that.”

He shook himself free from the deep dark sleep threatening to engulf him and struggled to stand in what now he realized was a deathly environment. Where was he? Which way had he come from? Where was the house?

Then he broke down, “Franklin, Franklin,” he cried and began to fight his way through the drifts and confusion all about him. He became stuck and fell forward. Drained of his energy the snow again seemed so inviting.

With all his might, Benoit drew on an inner strength that had been built up over years of hard work in the lumber camps and on the farm, to find the spark to rise up and pull his way along on his knees.

“Be calm now, be calm. You won’t last another ten minutes in this if you don’t pull yourself together,” a voice inside told him. He then began to think of how it must have been for Franklin in the icy waters of the North Atlantic. Young, scared and doomed Franklin. He understood then for the first time just exactly how his best friend had gone. He remembered now the look in Franklin’s eyes as they shook hands, then fell into an embrace at the dockside in Liverpool.

It was too much, “Franklin help me. Please help me Franklin,” he hollered and in a mad panic rose up to thrash his way through the frozen snow that pulled him down with every move.

In the peal of this panic he fell against something and it hurt. Then he it dawned on him, “Oh my God, Oh shit, Oh God the fence,” Benoit screamed. Everything changed in that one instant. He had a chance. He felt as though he had just been thrown a life line in a violent sea, with the lightening realization that the shaky old fence would take him back to the house.

As he followed the rusty wire and rotted wood on his knees, a determination grew in him that he had not known for years. The will to survive led him on with voices calling from out of the storm, familiar voices, long gone and lights pulsated here and there, bright then dull. Finally a faint light hung still and the entire scene before him spun in circles around it. He felt as though he was being pulled into what he knew must be the porch lamp. A hand broke through what had become a raging blizzard.

“Mon Dieu Benoit. what are you doing? Are you crazy? You will die out here,” Tiboy said as he lifted the weakened and terror stricken Benoit up and into his arms. Benoit saw only Franklin in his navy blue uniform, his blond locks tussled by the storm.

“Good Lord, how I’ve missed you Franklin. I love you so much Franklin. I never did get the chance to tell you. Please don’t ever leave me again, please Franklin,” he cried as Tiboy carried him to the house with Champ barking frantically at his heals.

The End

In the morning at the buffet, it is as though a thick fog permeates throughout the expansive concrete room. Most of the crowd is pushing its way unsteadily towards tables and chairs where they can anchor themselves for a feeding at the trough. The buffet room is actually more of a hall. It is pretty much central in the midst of the Russian 1960s era concrete tourist blocks here in Varadero Cuba. There is a little bit of wood trim here and there, mostly around the windows and doors. Tiled floors glisten as a result of the hard labour carried on by the smiling, poorly paid Cubans.

The long tables have been more or less reserved by the French and Italian, elderly long term tourists from Quebec and Ontario. They seem oblivious to the ever changing wave of new comers that check in to Mar Del Sur on weekly or two week all inclusive vacation packages. The old retired folks pull prod and push each other along with the use of canes and the odd wheelchair. They are like sharks ready for the kill in their strategy at the buffet. They pretty much know what to expect and they have an eye for the best pickings. They are fast in their draw for a plate and then it is straight to the meat, pasta, potatoes and vegetables at the hot buffet. Then they pick their way through the vegetables. Before they start into the main course they pounce on the dessert stand and make away with badly butchered pieces of iced cake and assorted pastries.

Some of them have more of a taste for adventure and they stalk the little Cuban chef at the barbecue stand outside while he turns pieces of red flesh into charcoaled pork chops, hamburgers and sausage. He does all this with no conversation. Unless you have been tipping him, everyone is on equal footing.

The Reiki Spirit lady moves about the room. She looks like a ghostly apparition. Her hair is white and done up in a bun at the back. She looks to be about 75 years of age and she has a perpetual smile but it does not camouflage her nasty beady little eyes. She wears wispy dresses and seems to float around the buffet like a witch queen. She gropes everyone that comes within a foot of her. The groping is masked as sympathetic, holier then thou, lit from within self promotion. She is like a leech reaching out to suck on the good nature of anyone that comes into her realm. She is the buffet witch queen.

Her cohort is a tiny woman also in her 70s. She seems almost sculpted in a tacky Barbie doll fashion. She too is lit from within and holds herself in an upright and determined manner as she skitters about the buffet tables sneering at everyone from behind a plastic looking face. She props up the spirit lady, buffet witch queen at every turn, with every raise of a fork to a mouth or some cackle ridden words of holier then thou wisdom. She is the straight man of the non-comical duo. The two feed on each other when not tackling some bony piece of meat from the buffet. It is miraculous that they ever found each other and a sad reality for all those that are touched by this schizoid partnership.

The fat old retirees pretty much keep to themselves. They don’t fool around. They are here for the long term and it’s in and out scheduled around the demands of 80 year old bladders and life sustaining pharmaceuticals. Most of the old men look like bowling balls with feet and their wives like crusty hens. Here and there, there are younger families with smaller children, young couples and the adventurous singles.

A young and hip Torontonian moves about as though somewhere a remote were controlling him. He is friendly enough in some unbalanced manner. He is up and down like a yo-yo. He is pensive and articulate in one moment and erratic and mentally disordered in another. He is very determined yet with no direction. He seemed to like us right away. He had decided that we were going to be friends and he was somewhat set back when we didn’t bite. I know the template, I have seen it before. He is all about ‘what you can do for me’.

The first night we met him at the check in desk, he nervously snuck around hoping that something would click. He just about jumped a couple of girls from Norway. Then again they were drunk. He got laid that night but he probably didn’t feel anything because he continued to lurk around the buffet tables with great intention yet no idea why. We were always fending him off and he always seemed to be surprised that we didn’t want to take care of him and worship the very ground that he walked on. He was tall, almost sickly thin and had black hair on his chest. He was always somewhere between drunk, drugged and caffeinated to the extreme which made him confused, erratic, unstable and anxious. He spoke in terms of a hope of creating an image of someone else, someone more together, witty and confident. But he was like the little birds on the buffet hall floor darting here and there in search of a crumb.

I was singing about the strange looking sweet potatoes and the mysterious meat hash when the gargantuan stud next to me commented “vous chante bien”. I looked up at him and said “thanks, I was just singing about the food”. He smiled knowingly. He was a huge man who filled out a tight t-shirt and skin tight denim shorts. He was probably 60 years of age but he carried his time well. He was all about macho with white curly hair, his strong square face and a cow horn moustache. Try as he might, he could not hide his soft heart and gentle demeanor. He had been wandering around the past few days with the most outrageous person.

His partner was something else. No doubt the couple stood out. She was perhaps a he or he was perhaps a she. I was not sure and we never really figured it out. She/he was black and almost purple black. She/he was just as big as her white Quebecois stud, stocky and sturdy. She had big solid cartoonesque tits, draped in a bikini tight top with silver and gold patterns on it that drew your eyes to her taught bullet like nipples. She/he wore the shortest skirts I have ever seen. They were skin tight and did not do much to hide her/his enormous butt and muscular thighs. She/he had a beautiful head of straight shoulder length black hair. Even if she/he were looking at you, she/he didn’t seem to recognize that you were there. It seemed to be everything she/he could do to stand up and walk with the weight of the world on her/his strong back yet, it pushed she/he down. The weight of who she/he was and where she/he came from bent her/him forward and she/he walked awkwardly trying to catch up to her/himself on flashy bizarre high heels. It was as though she/he were walking on stilts and afraid of toppling over at every step. She/he always seemed to be reaching out with her muscular arms in an effort to balance her teetering body as she/he raced in pursuit of her/himself on these stilts. At the buffet she/he teetered precariously and people made way for her/him. Still they made a nice couple.

The incredible value packed all inclusive packages offered by the Mar Del Sur drew a host of trailer park white trash. They smoked, drank and swore themselves silly 24 hours a day. Unless you were drunk or wrecked there was no way you could be anywhere close to their radar screen. They were in another realm stupefied by alcohol, nicotine and caffeine. They didn’t really go anywhere and they didn’t really do anything other then sit around the all inclusive bar by the pool during the day and evening. At night they moved to the 24 hour all inclusive bar near the front desk and lobby. When people are that drunk they can only communicate with those in a similar reality. So they hung in trailer park white trash circles that revolved around the free domestic beer and hard stuff.

Then there were the fast drinking hormone ridden, bright and bushy tailed young men on the move. Although most of their waking day centered around getting drunk, their second passion revolved around getting laid. The two worked well together and within a day or two, most of these guys had managed to snag one of the desperate and hopeful young Cuban resort service workers from either the front lobby, the waiting crew, the bar crew or the cleaning staff. Although you could tell most of these young women had been used and abused by the fun seeking tourist boys, they just couldn’t seem to give up having one more go at their dream. All of them were sure that one day one of these visiting buckaroos would sweep them away to Canada, France or Italy and make all their dreams come true. Instead, most of the time, they ended up with disappointment and an empty feeling unless of course they have not been careful and then their stomachs bore the fruit of their dreams.

Like the strange combinations of vegetables, meats, fish and pasta at the buffet table, the visiting tourists somehow seemed pretty much the same under the hot Cuban sun.even though they were different nationalities, colours, ages and sizes. They were almost transparent in their blandness. No matter what they looked like they were all the same. It was all about escape. They were cheating death, taunting death, skirting death, living dead and perhaps trying to make some sense of it all in some way. They were stopping time on the shores of the powerful salty Caribbean Ocean and no holds barred all inclusive vacation. What more could anyone ask for.

The End

I could smell the grass and earth beneath me. Crickets clicked in a concert all around and the sound of town hummed in the background. In the tall yellow grass in my backyard I could hide from the entire world. If a friend were around we could play war games. In hide and seek I would chase my sister Patty and our friend Sue all day until Granny called for supper. Sometimes, after eating, I managed to spend a little time laying in the grass bathed in the glow of the deep red beams of dawn in late August.

Most people in Iroquois Falls on our block had big backyards. We all kept our modest homes tidy and the grass was cut on the front lawn and often on part of the back. However, most of the backyard was allowed to grow into high grass or hay. That yellow grass was a couple of feet high by mid summer and drew myself, my sister Pat and our friends like metal to a magnet.

In the spring my grandmother chose a day to burn any dead grass in the backyard. I always loved to watch the spectacle that usually involved one or more of my uncles and sometimes a neighbour. She liked to burn grass as did all our neighbours. The sweet smell of burning grass still brings me back to those early days. Granny always did this when the water from the winter snow had finally dried up. She claimed it was to give the yard a clean look and provide the grass with a good fresh start. I always thought she just really liked the smell of burnt grass and that it reminded her of being on the farm back in Waltham.

Life Was Simple

In the mid 50s life was pretty simple for the most part in Iroquois Falls. In my case I had the challenge of the complexity of being raised by my Granny and mom with no dad around. That always kept me off balance but still I was loved, well cared for and ran and laughed with my friends up and down the street and through all the backyards and in between the rickety old garages and sheds in the neighbourhood. Inevitably we ended up in the backyard taking cover from anything and everything and sometimes just as a place where we could whisper, question and plan. We were always planning something. At times it was a refuge where I could come to sulk when I did not get my way or when I felt hurt in anyway. The long grass was always accommodating and comforting.

Most of the excitement in those days had to do with local home fires or grassfires. Those events were announced with the high pitched whine of a siren. Sometimes someone familiar would die and that always started with fright and shock and ended in grief and gloom. Life was like an ocean with the ebbs and tides. Horses still pulled wagons and carts around in 1950s Iroquois Falls although the car was well on its way to domination of the roads. Still, I would wake in the morning to the sound of the clip clop of Mike Kusmick’s milk wagon pulled by his horse. I would lay in my bed listening to the clip clops and the rattling of glass bottles starting and stopping all the way down the street.

Sometimes the Theriaults across the street would run a team of husky horses up to their place with a wagon full of wood following behind. Saws whirred and axes chopped as our neighbours readied their wood piles for winter. We had Croatins wood yard deliver our wood and coal most of the time but sometimes for reasons I could never figure out Terau and Debarge would race up to our drive way to dump a load of wood.

Like A Cyclone

Terau and Debarge were like a cyclone. I would catch glimpses of them daily racing down the narrow streets. Their horse Queen seemed to always be sweating and puffing steam from her regal nostrils. In the summer their wagon kicked up dust and kids ran as fast as they could to catch up and jump on the wobbling wooden rubber tired craft. I was forbidden from joining the neighbour hood children in their wild and free ride through the streets of Iroquois Falls courtesy of Terau, Debarge and of course the mighty Queen. Once in a while one of the kids would fall off and knock their noggins but amazingly nothing major every happened. The only time I ever got to spend with Queen was when I was with my friend Dean and we ventured out on the town limits where Queen was pastured when not hauling that quivering wagon and Terau and Debarge and a host of kids around town. She was black and had a white spot on her forehead. She was kind enough and often very approachable. Queen took our offerings of grass but if you really wanted to make her eyes light up an apple would do the trick.

I was always mystified by Terau and Debarge. It was wildly known that Debarge had come to Iroquois Falls in the 1930s from France. He looked like he should be walking the streets of some quaint French town in his beret and wool coat and pants. He was trim, organized and had the air of aristocracy about him. Still he was regarded as a sort of an outcast in some way. He always ran his business delivering wood in what seemed to be a very efficient and professional way. People seemed to like him but they kept their distance. Terau his partner, was considered slow. He was a plump fellow with a large black beard and he always wore a toque or floppy hat. He was French also but possibly from Quebec. They just seemed to arrive one day in the town’s early years. Most people had friends, family or some past to connect to but Terau and Debarge seemed to have just dropped from the sky.

Once a year I was treated to the arrival of Terau and Debarge in their rickety wagon. Queen would storm into the driveway with a dozen kids holding tight and they would all end up in the middle of our backyard. This usually happened at the end of summer when the grass was very tall. Granny and the other neighbours on old Third Avenue had a deal with the Frenchmen and they visited every summer’s end to cut the grass or hay as feed for Queen. Terau and Debarge jumped from the wagon and swathed the field with long scythes. The hangers on , mostly boys, piled the cut hay into the wagon as Queen stomped her feet and pulled her head back. In a flash they were gone in the laughter of boys and a trail of dust up the street.

A Mystery Shrouded In Time

It was many years later that I realized that Terau and Debarge were probably gay. They lived as partners in a little house on radio street. Although they seemed destitute it did not make sense. There was lots of money to be made in delivering wood and coal. It was rumoured that the duo also bootlegged whiskey in earlier years. Life must have been hard in many ways for them. Once I caught Therau helping himself to a raw broken egg on the back porch that Granny had left out for my dog Lassie. He was as surprised as I was and took off in a flash across the backyard and onto an adjacent street. I told granny but she seemed accepting. Perhaps she knew something more about the two then most.

One night in the early 1960s a fire broke out in the Frenchmens’ little house on Radio Street. It was a great blaze and although both men escaped they required some medical treatment. The rumour was that money was discovered in the walls and floorboards of that little wooden house.However, afer the fire the two moved on to Laurier Street about around the corner from our house. Debarge’s health deteriorated and he passed away in the mid 1960s. Their old house was torn down and money was discovered in the walls and floor boards. Much of it was turned over to the parish priest who committed it to good use some believe. Perhaps some of it was provided for the care of Terau. Soon after he was taken south where he was put in the care of his sister who was a nun and placed in a home. Nobody had much to say as a followup. They just seemed to have disappeared in much the same way they came to town. There was never another mention about the two Frenchmen and they slipped into the history of Iroquois Falls surrounded in mystery. They were simply two people that nobody ever talked about again. Until now.

The End

THE NATIVES ARE RESTLESS

By Michael.McGrath

9:54 PM 12/18/2001 – San Andres Island, Colombia

The All Inclusive Hotel Resort

I won’t pretend to try to make a lot of sense out of any of this. I am not surprised to be laying back in bed, a little weak after a bout of tourista after one week at San Andres all inclusive resort. I may as well be on the moon. Home seems so far away and indeed a five-hour direct flight from San Andres Island to Toronto and then an eight-hour drive up north makes for my detached reality.  The only one I could count on here is my friend Xavier, a tall Native fellow from the James Bay coast who I convinced to travel with me to paradise.  

It’s not just one thing. There are so many incidental intersections that I am making here. Like the lady I met in the ocean the other day that talked about past life regression, a shaman she met and the fact that she worked with homeless people in Mississauga. She had a large straw hat on. She said she was from Peru originally and she more or less just walked about in the ocean in front of the resort up to her neck in salt water. Most of the time, I found myself conversing with this bouncing straw hat. It wasn’t so much what she said but what her conversation drew out of me.

The lady in the straw hat made me say things as she bounced along in the ocean under the burning sun. She helped me remember a time in the old house when a friend of mine Tom showed up with an acquaintance that was either mentally unstable or had some depth of reality that most people only touch on in their dreams. Tom’s friend was some kind of expert in past life regression. I recounted to the bouncing straw what Tom’s friend had greeted me with. The fact that on entering my home she stood back a little aghast and proceeded to tell me that I was a pirate in a past life.

Somehow this bizarre notion, through this eerie memory, had been following me ever since my friend Xavier and I landed on this tiny little island in the middle of nowhere. The lady with the straw had made me admit it.

There was something familiar here for me. It’s not just what I saw around me but a combination of what I have observed and what I knew from somewhere far away. I can’t even blame it on booze or drugs. I have been clean for so long that clean almost sounds like a dirty word. The fact that this little rise of land, surrounded by coral reef, was a pirate’s lair centuries ago kept this nagging notion rippling through my mind. It seemed more and more to be evolving into some more profound idea or reality that was running its course. Wait there is more.

How is it that I stumbled upon the so-called Native shaman, political mover and islander soul just when I wanted to forget about anything being important? How much of a coincidence is it that I was visited by Storm the shaman, just as I was emailing friends back in Canada from this little dot in the ocean.

I found myself learning far more than what I wanted to about the islanders’ struggle to throw off the Colombian government’s grip in a quest for some sort of independence. None of the information was really new. It seemed as though every time I stopped to talk to an islander over the past week they were eager to tell me about this conflict.

When Storm dropped in with perfect timing to talk to myself and my buddy Xavier in the internet café, I was suspicious. He was intimidating in his stature alone. This black man was at least 6 foot 5 and although graying, he had the body of a much younger man. He looked like an athlete and was fine toned, broad shouldered and spoke with a hint of higher education in his words. In the short time I knew him I had learned that he was a political force to be dealt with and had been leading the islanders’ in their fight for justice. He was unhappy with Columbia’s approach to islanders and he felt that the government had only one thing in mind for them; their assimilation and in the worst case scenario perhaps genocide. Storm was respected by all of the powers at the resort. Everyone from the hotel security guards to the department managers acknowledged his coming and going with tolerance. He was the only outsider allowed to freely come and go. Perhaps the fact that he led the islanders in organized protest and ran a weekly radio show provided him with an elevated place, even amongst the local Colombian officials.

I didn’t censure myself in chatting with Storm, although I felt a little vulnerable, speaking in the open about such intense concepts with a nearby local sleazy destination representative soaking up our every word we let go in the Internet office. I let myself speak. I somehow felt it important to tell this tall and noble islander what I knew about changing things. I reminded him that this struggle should never become violent. For examples I picked the Weathermen and the Black Panthers of the sixties as examples of how not to protest. I assured the well spoken and dignified Storm that if his fight took on any violent means it would all be for not. We discussed the importance of communication and the media to his cause. I reminded him that a violent struggle with one of the largest and most sophisticated military powers in South America would be suicide. I also suggested to him that a true warrior lives to fight another day.

For the longest time his words deflected anything I had to say. He kept telling me of the plight of the islanders who had been turned over to Columbia by the English in the early 1800s. I just kept bouncing back my same message wrapped up in different spins. Finally, I think he got it. He thanked me for the advice at the door before he walked out with one of those funny, yet artful little birds crafted out of palm leaves dangling from his hand. I found it strange to know that such a majestic character made his living braiding palms into birds and hats. Then again, it occurred to me Jean Cretien was the son of a machinist in a paper mill in Quebec.

I first met the lady in the straw hat on an occasion when I stopped to chat with Storm under a large bamboo umbrella on the beach. I had noticed her before. She was bizarre. She looked kind of like a witch and I don’t mean that in a negative manner. She truly looked like someone who walked in that way. She had long graying hair and exotic tattoos on her shoulders. One was an eagle and the other some sort of Asian character. It was as though we already knew each other and that the words were simply an excuse to rub our souls together. Our conversation skipped along like slippery flat stones on a mirror like lake.

Somehow it didn’t really surprise me that we connected in real life too. She had been a teacher in my hometown of Iroquois Falls in the sixties. Obviously that was another life for her that she had long ago shed. Here I was resurrecting it with news of her old school and other teachers and personalities she had bumped elbows with. She seemed to have some association to Storm, which also didn’t surprise me. She brought him food and hung close to him as he braided his birds.

“Drop by anytime – my office is always open,” he said under the bamboo umbrella and laughed heartily and deep as he worked on one of his palm birds with the former teacher at his side. I visited his office often.

Proud To Be A Canadian

The latest onslaught of vacationing Canadians welled into the San Andres all inclusive hotel. They were mostly fat old men with balding heads accompanied by wives with hair permed so tight they looked like plastic dolls. They were all here to drink themselves silly, chain smoke, eat too much and to play cards. I was embarrassed to be Canadian in the wake of their arrival. Hell, they could have stayed home or gone to a local Holiday Inn to play cards and get drunk. Instead they chose to house themselves below my room in what was now fast becoming a tainted paradise. I was blessed with their shallow conversation that churned through the day until it fermented into drunken howls and laughter with the evening hours. Didn’t anybody with a brain come to these places I thought and then I realized the danger in asking the question.

I had become more or less accepting of the fact that tourista was a way of life for me on the island. With that acceptance I was less worried about the fact that whatever I ate seemed to almost immediately run through my system for deposit back into San Andres through its mysterious, yet functioning toilet and sewer system. However, I was less accepting of the fact that part of that mystery seemed to be solved in the murky ocean water just off the man made beach in front of the resort. To discover this through swimmer’s itch was no great piece of detective work.

In my research to resolve my dilemma of being itchy from head to toe, I talked with many on staff in the resort. The lady at the enfermeria didn’t feel good about lying to me about the so-called jellyfish that caused these itchy phenomena. She made up for it by cautioning me not to swim off the resort beach but instead to head out to a nearby island or the beach in town or the one at San Luis a few kilometers up the road. She had no antidote for my dilemma, after all in her eyes – it didn’t really exist. Finally, it dawned on me that the best people to talk to in seeking out a solution to this nasty itch were those who worked at the water’s edge. After two days of putting up with this itch, in ten minutes I had a solution from one of the water sport activity workers. This Colombian mainlander by the name of Gustaw told me straight off that bathing myself with vinegar would rid me of the bothersome creatures who had moved in and by now were quite comfortable living on my skin. The curly haired, brown skinned Gustaw actually provided me with two options, there was the vinegar solution and urine could also be used. I opted for the vinegar sponge bath and somehow it worked. My little buggy guests moved out.

The Watering Hole

Having been faced with the need to travel, if I wanted to swim in the ocean, the resort pool became my last retreat. It was clean enough but I got the feeling I was in a gold fish bowl every time I went for a swim. The card players were at one end and several Colombian families with kids bobbed up and down in the heavily chlorinated water. I sensed that many of the people I shared the pool with were paramilitary Colombians on some sort of leave. It did not take much to imagine these strong young studs in fatigues and carrying machine guns. Just about everybody else in the resort came and went to the poolside during the day. All eyes were on you when you entered the pool. It was as though everyone here at this spot had accepted the tight life of the all-inclusive San Andres resort hotel. No matter how much I tried to ignore it I could not over look the presence of a dozen little kids frolicking continually at the shallow end of the pool. I was pissed off in more ways then one.

The pool reminded me of those watering holes in Africa that you see on National Geographic television shows. It was like a place where every sort of animal comes to have a drink during the day. The different personalities moved here and there to provide room for each other and access to the water. Most of these animals were more or less sedated by mid afternoon through their indulgence in every alcohol drink imaginable. Many of them seemed semi comatose and lay burning under the hot equatorial sun. I spent as little time as possible at pool side and I darted in and out of the scene, making few waves in my quest for a little refreshment.

There seemed to be no happy medium here. It was either burning hot under the sun, humid as hell on a cloudy or rainy day and always freezing in our room. It was surrealistic to walk from forty degree heat into fifteen degree cold with simply the opening of the door to our room. The air conditioning had only one mode of operation which was full blast and freezing. Try as I might to turn the system down I could find no means of moderating the temperature in our room. Still, none of this really took away from the fact that I was at the very least out of boring little Iroquois Falls and the reach of several frantic people that in some way or another had continual intentions to control my life.

Xavier and I rented a scooter one day and proceeded to zoom around the island. There wasn’t much zooming to be done as we discovered that the entire circumference of San Andres could be accomplished on a rattling little 100 cc, two stroke scooter in about an hour with lots of stops along the way. Afterall it was only 12 kilometers long and three wide. Mostly, the island coast was a kind of coral rock with a couple of major sandy beach areas. Strangely enough, although I was told that the island had a population of 80,000, I didn’t see many people in the countryside. The beach at San Luis was a few kilometers long and populated with lots of tourists bobbing on the big rolling waves. The beach in town had an even higher population and there was a lot more activity.

I was surprised to find that town had no name other than ‘town’. One islander we talked to made an effort to provide me with some sort of name for the town. He suggested I call it San Andres Town or St. Andrews Town if that was more to my liking. The fact remained however, that everybody for all time referred to town as simply ‘town’.

The traffic wasn’t too bad out and away from the resorts and town and the highway was pretty smooth. However, the main artery close to and through town was like an obstacle course. The asphalt was all chopped up and traffic far too heavy for such a little place. Most of the cars were big America 1980s taxis. There were Buicks, Chevy Capris, Pontiacs and some of those sporty four wheel drive SUVs. There were tons of motorcycles and no stop signs or stoplights. Somehow, people got to where they were going.

I knew the absence of motorcycle helmets on all the motorcycle and scooter riders meant a high death rate for people here. Yet somehow I felt some false sense of security in being part of the pack. It wasn’t until after a week or so that I began to realize that every second person I met had a tragic story to tell about a brother, sister or cousin being killed on a motorcycle. It was just part of island life or death should I say.

The Other Side Of The Island

Another part of island life that I discovered, had to do with a large number of guns in San Andres and seemingly in the wrong hands. I met Franco at his post in the snack bar of the Isleno Hotel in town where he was only too happy to flush out the island experience for me.

The way he talked about the barrios described a picture of poverty, drugs and violence. He told me a story about riding his bicycle on the road one day near his home. He noticed a strong odour coming from the bushes from the side of the road and he could see thousands of flies focused on one spot. On closer examination he discovered a young man’s body, bound hands and feet with a bullet in his head. He told me this happened a lot and that he had heard about many such killings but discovering an actual body was more realistic then he wanted to deal with. He said he had been plagued by nightmares about the young man on the side of the road with the bullet through his head ever since that fateful day.

Franco painted a picture of terrible poverty and people living in shacks and huts with no running water. He described the average family as having little or no food most of the time, not much access to clean water and no real sewage system to speak of. Many of the islanders, he explained, took their baths in the ocean and drinking water for the most part was collected in large cisterns that caught the rain. He added that in the dry season the lack of drinking water becomes a real problem. He told me that he was going to school but that it was expensive and he had to work to provide himself with an education.

All of this information that came from Franco and every other islander I spoke to, we had to dissect from the language of Creole. I decided at one point that this English dialect the islanders used had originated from the African slaves brought to the island by the English. Although it has survived centuries in pretty much its original form, it seemed now to be threatened by the years of Spanish influence. I also decided that the language was in part born out of English used to describe things in the way an African slave would think. In other words the African slave thought in his original Native language and translated it into what he had learned as English. This resulted in this almost cartoonesque, quick, musical and percussive San Andres Creole. Of course all of the islanders also spoke Spanish.

Our window to the island opened a little more with a visit one night from Jose, an 19 year old cleaner for the San Andres all inclusive resort. We had learned that visitors from outside the resort compound were not tolerated and specifically those visitors who were local people. On a couple of occasions I had to meet local friends at the compound entrance and plead with the security people to allow them access. Even then, the best I could do was to sit in the reception area and chat. Later I found out that we could buy their way in for a day or for an evening at the disco. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to me. I wondered, were they trying to keep people away from tourists in an effort to protect us or were they trying to keep us away from them in an effort to limit our awareness of what life in San Andres was really all about? I decided it was probably a combination. At any rate it made the place seem more like a prison than a get away.

Jose told us about his side of island life. He mentioned the guns, the poverty and the drugs. As a matter of fact, he had a story of watching his 20 year old cousin murdered in broad daylight right in front of him in one of the nastier barrios while playing soccer. He shuddered a little when he described the scene and talked about running away to save his own life. There were no tears but I noticed that his eyes dampened up.

Jose was better off then most. He had ‘an auntie’ working in the restaurant at Marazul and a ‘black man night manager’ who helped him secure his cleaning job in the resort. He told me that there was a lot of violence on the island but that if you were not looking for it, you were probably okay. In other words, if you got close to the drug trade, you got close to the violence. Of course, there was always that remote chance that as a naive tourist you could wander into a spider’s web if you took a wrong turn in the night. Jose was slim and had very dark skin, he didn’t seem to see himself as black. He talked about people in shades. He made 11,000 pesos a day which was about $11 Canadian. He lived in a small house crammed with ten people but with the luxury of cold running water, a shower and a toilet.

Like most islanders, he peppered his sketch of poverty stricken, violent island life with religious overtones. Most of the people on this part of the island were Baptist or Pentecost of some sort. Jose spoke of his affiliation with the church as though it was just another part of the scene. Religion seemed somehow to be the glue that held the whole stinking mess together.

He told me about the whorehouses. There were several on the island. In fact, Jose, had frequented a couple of them. He talked about sex openly and seemed to have no problem that it was actively sold as merely another commodity under the hot sun.

In a detached way Jose seemed accepting of everything around him. There was no question in him what so ever. He appeared almost medicated through this acceptance of fate and had no great plans for the future. His fatalistic approach seemed to originate in his means to survive. We gave him a T-shirt and a couple of pairs of shorts. I don’t even remember him saying thanks. It was just another thing that happened to him. We were just a couple of tourists that had come in and would go out of his life at the San Andres all inclusive resort. The only thing he might have thought strange was that all we wanted was some conversation with him.

As we took off into the sky in the 757 Boeing and headed back to Canada I caught a last glimpse of the tiny little island of San Andres. It was no longer merely a few paragraphs and photos in a colour brochure I picked up from the travel agent. I saw it now through the eyes of sad and traumatized young people living day to day in a shameful existence in so called paradise. Here I was heading back to certain boredom and a familiarity that provided me with a way of life that was full and rich, sometimes to the point of ridiculousness. I was returning yet again from a third world country with a guilty and sick feeling for not doing enough to make the world a better place for everyone. I was coming back also with the accumulative knowledge that many of the people’s of the world that we use and abuse are becoming increasingly frustrated and angry. I hoped and prayed our flight would make it back safely and I wondered how long I would be able to venture out and to travel safely in this wonderful world. After all, the natives are restless.

– THE END –

by Mike McGrath (C) 1995

A voice in the hall said it was three in the morning and he marveled to himself at his wide awake state. It probably had something to do with the music blaring top 40 hits next door and of course the company he didn’t keep in the hall.

Howard Munroe lay propped up against the wall on the lumpy bed with worn sheets pulled around him and a book of short stories open at his side. He wanted to be anonymous and alone after his three year stint in the small northern town which was home, most of the time. Now, he was indeed alone in one of the many cells that made up this Victorian vintage hotel in the heart of downtown Toronto.

Tonight, Howard was on his own. It was what he had wanted, to be lost in the midst of thousands of city people, all going about their lives oblivious to his. No doubt he felt a quiet comfort and some serenity but he was nervous too as though in the eye of a storm. It did not take long this night for the peace to turn on Howard in loneliness again and to make it worse he seemed to have become acutely aware of every sound around him.

The hall reverberated with stomping feet and crude, drunken chatter. Somehow even the laughter that drifted through the warped plaster walls was cruel and had an edge to it. This could have been a 24 hour donut place if sound were his only sense. In fact these sounds came from the hallway outside the dingy room where Howard lay listening.

There were several sharp raps on a door in the hall and a voice followed, “It’s Brian, man. C’mon lets go,” a young man whined. He got no answer. He knocked again and harder. “Just a beer, c’mon don’t make me wait here,” the voice was more determined. There was another pause and no answer. “Fuck,” the voice said in anger and the sound of slow steps faded down the hall and then were punctuated with a burst of disco music that drifted up from the bar below, past the shuffle of feet and down the corridor, then they were gone with a slam of a door.

Next door the music blared out of a portable radio, “Life, la la la la la, life is life, la la la la la,” and his was accompanied by sensual sighs, that progressed to grunts and then laughter.

The north still had a hold on Howard and it caught him again for a few seconds and made him writhe in pain that was a missing feeling of sickness that churned in his stomach. He thought of the old woman, fragile, thin and wrinkled. He imagined he was a boy again and was cuddled in her arms as she sat in her rocking chair at the window.

He could almost hear her weak but still beating heart and see her glazed but still bright, dancing eyes that momentarily calmed him with deep wells of love.

Then he wiped the scene away by rubbing his eyes so hard that it hurt. He cupped his hands over his face and a deep breath became a long and drawn out sigh.

No, he reminded himself, he could not let the thought of home and the old woman pull too greatly or the result would find him back in the Buick and heading out of the neon night city to the expressway and the narrowing, dark road that wound back up north.

The voice in the hall was back again on the tail end of three sharp and loud knocks, “Look. It’s me again. Just tell me your OK. You don’t have to let me in. C’mon Ken just one word. OK?” Silence was his answer and he beat on the door, “This is bullshit and you bastard you’re just going to make me wait all night,” the voice said in a mean and desperate tone and then left again with hesitant steps that did an exit with the disco beat rushing up from the first floor and then again with the slam of the door there was silence in the hall.

A few minutes passed and from the far end of the hall a door opened and closed in a series of knocks. Greetings were punctuated with rough words like fuck, shit and screw and a party stumbled back and forth between the distant room and the hall. The party grew quickly.

From the direction of this party a young woman’s voice sliced through dull drunken sounds after two slight knocks on a door, “I’m here,” she said. The door opened and the party spilled into the hall with heavy metal music and a sexy young male voice, “Yea, come on in.” He sounded eager.“Oh, whoa,” the girl’s voice said to what she saw. “What are those guys doing here?”

His reply was cool, smooth and meant to be reassuring, “Oh its okay, they’ll mind their own business. Anyway in half an hour they’ll all be passed out.”

“No way man, it’s too crazy,” a more defiant tone spoke out of the woman. Street wisdom barked out of her, “You want me in there, get them the fuck out or forget it.”

“I can’t babe,” he swooned and then harshly added, “What you wanna do fuck on the staircase?”

She was blunt, “It would be a lot safer,” and her high heels kicked in with hammering clicks that faded down the hall, let in the disco beat and a door slammed.

“Fuck you bitch,” came a frustrated retort that was obviously more for the ears in his room than the departed visitor. Grunts and roars of laughter drew him back into his world and the party was shut inside again.

Howard shook his head in amazement. This he was not used to and it filled him with a combination of disgust and sadness. He felt disgust for the thin emotion that bounced back and forth between the voices and their seemingly desperate situations. Then he felt sadness for what he imagined was poor luck, which had taken them to a rough edge that glittered like fools gold with alcohol, drugs and fast, risky money.

Two days, Howard thought and he could move on to a more comfortable and sane environment. He had been naive on this jaunt into the city and had settled too quickly for the huge Victorian hotel, which with its outward shell had promised much more grand accommodation. He felt a little cheated too; the advertisement he had read in the Body Politic claimed Ernest Hemingway as a resident for a short while in his early days as a writer with the Toronto Star.

Howard adored Hemingway’s work and admitted to himself now that he had been pulled in by a sense of history and nostalgia and some pretentious notion that he fancied himself as a writer.

This glamorous hook led him to a decaying cell where wall paper heaved from disfigured walls and cracked plaster mixed with the shadows cast from the dim lamp light to make crazy designs on the ceiling ten feet above his head.

He tried to imagine the grand state of the old hotel in the 1920s, the toast of the wealthy and high society. The red brick, castle like building would have jutted high on the city scape back then. Ornamental chandeliers, oriental wool rugs and gleaming wood staircases would have given the hotel a prominent place in Toronto. There were still enough hints of what had been and it captured Howard’s imagination. For thirty-five dollars a night he felt he could put up with any inconveniences for a short stay in the belly of this ragged Victorian princess.

Bass notes came up from the disco below in dull thuds that shook through the room and rain beat, whipped by the wind on loose panes from which only the fuzzy sight of other panes in the dark could be seen lit in a building across the way.

The pop music next door mixed with a bizarre harmony in sounds of lust, the dull disco throb from below, muffled rock beats down the hall and rain that pounded in a pulsating rhythm. These were sliced with the wail of a siren that cried in panic and distress from the suppressed but ever present roar of the city at night.

Then he was back with the same slow leather heal to pine step sounds, “Please. Its me Brian. Please Ken I promise I’ll go away if you just say something, anything,” the voice trembled. Then he cried, “You really are a bastard .”

There was a pounding on the door and what sounded like a bang made by the force of an entire body crashing against the door. It was quiet for a moment and then the voice groaned as the pain of love lost slipped up and out of him. “Oh Ken, Ken. I love you Ken, please.”

As though tethered with a greater weight, the feet moved in sluggish creaks, hesitated, then continued to where the disco music came up to welcome the wounded young man back downstairs, the door slammed and it was quiet again.

Howard looked about his room and was overwhelmed with where he was and also with the demands of his day. He shut the light out of it all with a flick of the lamp switch and then went in a drift off to sleep.

Deep in the caverns of slumber he could hear from far away the goings on about him. From where he lay there were familiar passings and knocks and voices. They trembled in waves to him like thunder announcing a storm.

In panic he awoke trough the layers of numbing, fluffy sleep to horrific screams that bolted him automatically up and to the door. The screams were trying to get in and Howard, in a knee-jerk reaction, unlatched the lock and pulled on the heavy oak door to reveal wild eyes in terror. Wild eyes that pushed him aside and against the wall.

A naked young man covered in blood tore into the room and scrambled on all fours towards the far window. He was followed by a bearded fully clothed assailant that jumped on his back and in great thrusts was burying flashes of steel into his victim’s back. Blood splattered in streams up and over everything and Howard, on impulse, lunged at the bearded assailant.

“Ahh, you fucking cunt,” the bearded man with the knife screamed and Howard knew it as the recurring voice in the hall. In reflex, Howard tried to overpower the flailing figure but the voice turned in the violent body with the power of ten men and put his flash of steel into Howard with a crunch that broke though his rib cage and exploded his heart. The butcher knife sucked back out and the voice with crazed eyes in a screwed up face, behind a full black beard let out a satanical laugh, then went back to hacking at the writhing form on the floor.

Howard fell slowly against the wall. He was poised to holler for help, there was a great scream just on the edge of his tongue but he was frozen in this cry and everything slowed and then stopped and locked into one last frame of the scene that hung there before him.

There was no breath to come, no way out, no angel of mercy, time stopped dead and Howard was cold then very warm. This last view of the murderous rampage began to melt in colors that dripped and flowed where forms had been and then he went with a sick feeling into the deepest dark there could be. He felt as though he was free falling into empty wells of blackness and then a dot of light appeared and grew.

He came to screaming but it didn’t seem right. It was new and it was fresh and he was crying and gasping and ripping with his arms and legs at the air. There was the thick sweet odour of blood and he cried out but could not find words to speak.

“It’s a boy. A good healthy boy,” the voice said. Howard Munroe felt his memory banks empty as he was raised in the air and gently slapped.

He tried with all his might to hold on to his one final thought in this new world, “Oh no, not again,” this thought echoed in his mind and began to fade as air filled his lungs, images blurred with a new light and energy burned in him like a fire in renewed ignition after having been blown back from dull embers.

The End