It's my eleventh day here, in this little forgotten corner of Thailand. The bartender was right: this is Paradise on Earth. This is where Adam and Eve got kicked out.
Sun, sea, booze. Paradise!
In eleven days I haven't been truly awake for a single minute. The drink flows like a river from morning till night.
Sometimes the sky is a bit cloudy, but it has never rained, not even a drop.
The only thing that kind of annoys me is the salty, humid wind that never stops. It's the cool sea breeze off the Andaman.
Oh, what a miracle! My life here is so simple, it's beautiful.
In the morning, I get up around nine. Nine-ish. Sometimes ten. Maybe eleven... who cares?
I open the fridge, grab a cold beer, then open the door and step onto the beach. The sea isn't far. Twenty meters. What more could I want from life? Simplicity at its peak: I roll out of bed, take a slow pull from my beer, and throw the door wide open.
The soft white sand is waiting for me. The sun is waiting too, patiently. Everything is ready for a new day of doing nothing. Everything is begging me to sleep and not do a damn thing.
I've got my lounge chair and--most of all--I've got Anurat.
A-nu-rat! Three syllables, six letters! My personal slave.
He's the nicest Thai in the world, and I feel like I've known him forever. He knows me too, inside out. I've got no secrets. I'm a simple man and my needs are few.
We've got our code:
If I raise one finger, I get a whiskey with ice.
If I raise two fingers, I get a whiskey without ice.
Three fingers means I'm hungry, and he needs to toss a slice of lemon into the whiskey.
Four fingers means I want a double whiskey.
And finally, five fingers means I get five beers.
Oh yes, I'm a simple man, easy to please.
Today I felt a bit lazy. Must be the heat. I spent the whole day sitting there on the lounge chair, under the umbrella, and every now and then I'd raise a finger, from morning till evening.
Now evening has sort of fallen. Evening is a moment of work and insane effort, meaning I have to walk the 158 steps up to the restaurant at the top of the beach.
Up there I can eat a bunch of delicious crap drenched generously in spicy seasonings that knock the wind out of you. I'm not exactly crazy about Thai food, but when you're in Thailand you have to try to act like the Thais.
So whether I like it or not, I suffer like a dog and climb those steps, then I quietly eat the only meal of the day.
Aha, there's one more thing that sometimes forces me into extra effort: neither Anurat nor the guys at the restaurant take cards. So once every two or three days, I have to walk 217 steps to get cash from the only ATM on the island.
But life is sometimes about sacrifices, so I arm myself with patience and slowly take those steps. At first it was really hard. Now it doesn't bother me anymore.
I admit it, I'm satisfied and happy. Even in my prettiest dreams I never believed you could live like this somewhere in the world. I'd be a huge idiot to go back home.
The seawater is warmish, the sun is warmish, inside the hut it's warmish... I live in a continuous warmish daydream. Sometimes I don't even know what's real and what's the dream.
My basic activity is lying there and listening for hours to the waves. I fall asleep like that.
Every now and then, Anurat tiptoes in like a cat and adjusts my umbrella a little so the Thai sun doesn't beat down on me so hard. Then he leaves just as silently and lets me sleep. And while I sleep, I dream that I'm listening to the waves, and that makes me sleep even in the dream. Sleep inside sleep.
The bad part is I sleep so much during the day that sleep doesn't really stick to me at night anymore. Even numb from big glasses of whiskey, I still don't fall asleep. Yeah, I need to get myself some sleeping pills too. Night sleep matters.
To loaf around all day, to live in a warm country, to have a slave who brings you anything you want to drink means... to be rich. What else are money for?
I'm a rich man for many days to come. The whole trick is to get sleeping pills fast for sleeping at night. Everybody knows: all rich people have sleep problems.
My routine costs me about $110--$150 a day, rent included. If I divide all the money I've got left by 150, that means I'll have a long vacation of... 379 days. Not bad at all!
I don't have any other expenses. I'm very careful with money. Only on the first day was I a big spender. I bought a toothbrush and a pair of sunglasses. I use the sunglasses daily.
Ah, where's that chubby customs lady so she can see me?
See, cow? See? See I don't need luggage?
With difficulty, I raise one finger. The whiskey-and-ice glass lands softly under my nose. The umbrella gets adjusted a bit. The ashtray gets snatched fast and replaced with a clean one. Exactly like I said.
I sip, groaning, close my eyes, and yawn. Damn insomnia! I'm like a rag. I sigh and fart. The Andaman Sea breeze takes it and carries it along the beach.
No, there isn't the slightest possibility I'll be unhappy in the next 379 days. Money means happiness, no matter what all the losers say. Money means freedom. Money is good. Hallelujah!
The only thing gnawing at me a little is that my stay visa expires in three days. What happens after three days? Does it have to be extended? How? I have no idea.
Anyway, right now I'm so drunk I'm almost falling asleep. Fuck the visa. What's the point of paying attention to all this crap?
Aha... and there's something else that annoys me: pushy foreigners trying to strike up a conversation with me.
But I handle them very simply. I tell them in English, "I no understand you!" and that's it. Works every time!
I snuggle deeper into the lounge chair.
It's a pleasant evening. The sun is setting. Its edge sinks slowly into the blue distance of the Andaman Sea. I sigh and yawn. There goes another one of those 379 days.
My stomach is gnawing at me. Soon I'll have to get up from my welcoming lounge chair and go get something to eat.
Or maybe it would be better to sit here, nice and quiet.
Or maybe I'll go anyway.
Hmm... I don't feel good. I'll stay here. I'll ask Anurat to bring me something to snack on, something, anything... maybe a slice of lemon.
Raw life! My guts are making a scene. I've got no desire to go anywhere, but I'll make a superhuman effort anyway.
I grab my fanny pack, throw my T-shirt over my shoulder, then trudge sadly through the Golgotha of those 158 steps.
I'm as enthusiastic as a cow heading to the slaughter. It's a long, empty path. Not a tourist left on the beach. They all retreated to yachts, to rooms, they're fucking like rabbits.
In the distance, I see two yellow sky lanterns rising slowly into the air, both at the same speed. I watch them carefully. The two lanterns slowly merge and become one lantern. Yeah, it's clear. The man can drink all he wants, but he still has to eat too.
Come on, Tiberiu, fifteen more meters, what the hell? Courage...
Are there fifteen meters left or sixteen? Nah, I lost count, but I'm not going back to start over either.
Anyway, the little terrace pretentiously called "Restaurant" is getting closer by the second. It's two terraces, but as I get closer they merge into a single one. I shake my head. I absolutely need an eye exam.
A group of four retirees are talking quietly at a table. They're Swedes or Norwegians. Or Icelanders. It's all the same, these languages sound alike.
I sit at a table as far away from the geezers as possible and flip through the menu, bored. The pictures of the dishes keep moving, so I move the menu too. Two twin waiters walk up to my table.
I order a soup. The soup comes fast and looks good. It's sourish with a lot of big shrimp, but the cook splashed it a little too hard with some crap that burns your tongue. Jesus, is this soup or fire?
I motion to the waiter (yeah, it's only one), and he quickly brings me a glass of water. Water? Is this guy an idiot or what's the deal?
I can't speak, but I shake my head. The waiter understands and leaves smiling. He disappears with the water and comes back with a glass of whiskey without ice, which I knock back in one shot.
"Now that's more like it," I say, tearing up and shaking the empty glass upside down. "I want another."
He disappears. I don't know what the hell is wrong with him, why he keeps smiling like that, like an ox.
I glance at the menu so I know what to avoid next time. I can only make out some worms and something called a "Tom Yam Kung." Is that English? Fine, fine, I'll remember.
The smiley guy reappears with my whiskey. I shove the soup plate toward him, pissed off. I only ate a few spoonfuls, but I'm really afraid he'll want me to pay for the whole thing.
"You know what? Bring me the check," I say, calm again. "Uhhh... those guys over there, are they Icelandic or Swedish?"
"Holland," he says. "Europe."
Yeah, I figured they were from near Sweden or Iceland. So I wasn't wrong.
"I could've sworn they're from Holland," I say, nodding. "The country of tulips, legalized drugs, and marriages between bartenders. How backward! Speaking of legalized drugs, any idea if the pharmacy is still open? I urgently need like two sleeping pills. Sleeping pills, you understand?"
Fucking bad luck! It's closed. I pay the smiley guy and sit there angry, finishing my drink.
The Dutch are squeaking like mice. One of the geezers told a joke and they're all laughing in Dutch.
A family of blond people climbs slowly up the alley and then the stairs to the terrace. There are three of them: Dad, mom, and the kid. A little boy. Obviously, the kid's mouth is running nonstop. Nonstop.
Luckily, the blonds avoid me and sit down next to the Dutch table. I start seeing double again, so I close one eye and spy on them with the other. None of the blonds wants to order Tom Yam Kung.
I sigh.
"Hello!"
"Hello," I answer, staring in surprise at the Thai who drags a chair over and sits at my table.
"I have what you need," he whispers, all smiles, then opens his palm and shows me a blue pill.
I look at him with my one eye. His face is identical to the waiter's face and the bartender's face. These guys are messing with my mind. You can't tell who's who. Most Thais look like they came off the same Xerox machine. Thank God they dress differently.
I look again toward the blonds' table. They simply refuse to order Tom Yam Kung. They only want juice. I feel myself getting pissed off.
"What's with this square pill?" I ask, irritated. "You a pharmacist?"
"Sort of," he snorts, laughing. "You want sleeping pill. This better than sleeping pill, hee-hee! You sleep like a horse. Dream very nice."
"You serious?" I ask, digging quickly in my fanny pack. "You're my savior! How much is it? One dollar? Two dollars?"
"No dollars," he says, smiling. "Zero dollars. Here. Gift for you. This first one. If you like sleep, I give others. You look for me here, tell waiter, yes?"
"But what does this 'Q' mean on the pill?" I ask, puzzled.
"That what it called, 'Super Q.' Sleep nice. Dream. Sleeping pill good, very good."
"Done! Give me two more. It's hard for me to come here every night."
"Very good. Ten dollars."
"That expensive?"
"Ten dollars each," he whispers.
I stare at him, jaw tight. He stares back, smiling. I don't like how he smiles, and he doesn't even look like a pharmacist.
"Ten dollars?" I say, frowning. "One pill? No, thanks. Not at that price. Rather than give you twenty dollars, I'd rather not sleep at night anymore. Here, take this one back too. I don't even know what this 'Q' is. What's it stand for?"
"'Q' very good. Ten dollars each."
"Too much, 'Mr. Pharmacist.' Too much!"
"Not too much, Mr. Tourist," he smiles, showing all his white teeth. "You try first. After that you sure look for me. You very nice. Ten dollars each. Yes?"
"Five."
"Okay," he says suddenly, then holds out the "Q" again. "This free and I bring other two. Bring now."
In less than a minute he's back and sits at my table again. In the end, I'm holding three little blue squares, and he's holding ten dollars.
"You nice guy," he smiles with his whole mouth. "You like one girlfriend?"
"Huh?"
"One girlfriend," he repeats. "Pretty girl for tonight. Or for all vacation, if you want."
"No," I say sharply. "Thank you, no! I'm not interested in women. Only sun and beach."
"Aha. You like men? You want? I fix. Not cost much."
I feel like punching that Xeroxed face. My right palm starts itching more and more.
The guy looks at me calmly. He's got a peaceful face, but he's saying nothing but stupid shit. Yeah, I could wipe that smile off his face, but I just found myself a supplier of sleeping pills and I don't want to lose him.
"Thank you for the offer," I say, looking at him coldly. "I no like men, only sleeping pills. Drop it, yes?"
The pharmacist shrugs, then leaves without a word. I look at the pills, distrustful. They're not three, they're six. I close one eye and toss them into my mouth, chew them, then wash them down with a sip of whiskey.
What the shit! They don't even taste like sleeping pills. The world is full of scumbags.
One thought keeps bugging me, keeps nagging me nonstop. What the hell am I going to do about that visa that expires in three days? Maybe the pharmacist handles visas too?
"Would you like another drink, sir?" the waiter appears beside me.
With these guys, with Thai bars, there's no "I can't serve you anymore" policy. It's a progressive country, with advanced views.
"What date is it today, buddy?" I ask, gloomy.
"December 20. Actually, sir," he adds with a happy face, "we're expecting you in five days at our Christmas party! Would you like another drink?"
So today is the 20th. I arrived in Thailand on December 9. The visa is valid for fourteen days. That means it expires on the 23rd. What bullshit! Only three days from now. But what do I care about your Christmas party? My tooth is about to explode and you guys are thinking about parties?
"Yeah, I'll drink another," I mumble. "Fuck Christmas! Man, why do you give out such short visas?"
The waiter stares at me, stunned, then leaves and brings my drink. I knock it back fast, pay, and get up.
Jesus, now I'm seeing triple! What is this? I'm hot. Very hot. My legs are numb. I wobble. I know, I know... the falls and head hits are next.
It shouldn't be called "Q," it should be "K"... for knockout.
And that Tom Yam Kung garbage set my guts on fire.
But the crowning of my evening, the cherry on top, is that... I still have to walk another 158 steps on the way back. I go down the stairs with difficulty and attack the alley. After about twenty meters, I almost fall. I stretch my hands out and sit down, ass on the paving stones. I breathe hard and sweat is pouring off me. I pull off my T-shirt, wipe my face, and fan myself with it. It got insanely hot all of a sudden.
Will they deport me from Thailand in three days? Where the hell do I go? I absolutely have to clear this up. It's hanging over my head.
Come on, Tiberiu, up! Move your ass! Okay... now move your right leg. Move it, for fuck's sake! Come on, one leg at a time, yeah? Who made me drink this much? Who? Why? Fuck...
God, if you help me get back to the lounge chair, I swear I won't drink another drop tonight. Nothing! Maybe one or two beers, you know, out of thirst, but otherwise nothing. I swear, God! You hear me, God?
I'm sunk in my religious world and I don't even notice when I do the 158 steps. I make it back, so it's clear: God is great and good!
I drop heavy like a sack of potatoes onto the lounge chair. I stretch out and suddenly realize how tired I am. Very tired. I'm smashed, drunk out of my mind. The beach is rocking under me. My eyelids start to drop. Good sign. That means I didn't waste those ten dollars for nothing.
"Anurat," I whisper, "you still around? Help! I'm dying of thirst! Hey!" I yell. "Helloooo!"
A Xeroxed Thai face appears out of nowhere. What the hell? It looks like Anurat. I mean... I hope it's Anurat. These people should diversify their DNA a little.
"Anurat," I mumble, "is that you? One more little one before bed and then I'll leave you alone. I swear!"
I raise one finger and I get a whiskey with ice. Forgive me, God, I know I promised You, but ice is the best medicine against Tom Yam Kung.
I ask Anurat--for the eleventh time in eleven days--if his contact found me cherry-flavored cigarillos. I know for a fact that stuff like that exists somewhere in Southeast Asia, and Thailand is in Southeast Asia, right?
"Bah luke gah-ree!" he barks.
"In English, boy!"
"No find cherry cigarillos."
Ugh, these Xeroxed clones aren't reliable at all. For eleven days I've been telling him about my cherry-flavored cigarillos, telling him and telling him... Nothing!
"But you'll both keep looking, yeah? And eventually you'll find them, yeah? Tell your friend I'll pay him like a king."
"We look for sure. We find, sir!"
"Good, Anurat! You're a good boy! Here... this money's for you. Tonight I'm not raising any more fingers. See you tomorrow. How do you say 'See you tomorrow' in Thai?"
"Chan ngo."
"Weird language! Chango, Anurat! Chango!"
The Thai brings me a clean ashtray and takes the other one, full of Marlboro butts.
I suck on an ice cube and watch with one suspicious eye a third presence that appeared out of nowhere. It's a man in his thirties, big as a church door. What's this guy doing on my beach?
He stopped in front of my lounge chair and looks at me with a slightly mocking air. He's holding a bottle of booze and kisses it from time to time. A fellow professional, then.
Judging by what's left in the bottle, I've got a church door in front of me with tired hinges.
Doesn't this guy know two drunks don't fit on the same beach? What the hell is he trying to do?
The guy grabs the nearest empty lounge chair and simply drags it over the sand until it's one step away from me, then he stretches out too.
The lounge chair creaks.
That's it, my peace is over! Paradise, my ass!