Koh Mak, Thailand
Yesterday at dusk a bloke asked if he could buy me a drink, I said yes, a gin and tonic please, and while we waited for our drinks to arrive, he asked what they always ask, so what do you do for work? I said I was a blogger. I felt like taking on an identity, a persona unappealing to men, and really what’s duller than a blogger? When he asked what I wrote about, I said I was chronicling my Koh Mak trip, and he replied in an uncharacteristic manner– for someone trying to get into someone’s pants– what the fuck for? Why would anyone be interested in a detailed account of my ten-day island holiday in Thailand, probably the most cliché of all holiday destinations? And wasn’t this an egoistical exercise of galactic dimensions? I had to agree. It led me to wonder: what value does reading day one two three four and now five add to your life? Does this bring cheer to those of you having a shit holiday, hell, a shit life?
Earlier in the day, I found myself on a private island deserted save for a few construction workers building a posh beach resort. It was a 30-minute kayak ride from my little house. The locals charged me a hundred baht to sit on powder white sand and offered me Nescafe. I thought that was a fine deal. I swam, sat on the sand, stared at the sea, and breathed in deeply. Then five hours later, I was sitting on a bar stool, feeling suddenly self-conscious, asking myself why sustain this narrative, a narrative that would inevitably devolve into tedious navel-gazing. What was the point?
read koh mak: day four