of Parasites and Coconuts

by Andrew Flohr-Spence

S till a ways out I spotted the blonde hair of what had to be Lars waiting on the pier. A

blond dot, in a crowd of black and shiny.

“Must be Lars,” Katja laughed. “Who else?”

But I was too tired to be sure. The air, too hazy.

The bus bound for the islands left Bangkok the day before. Seven hours later…

seven hours of neck-torture napping, of the air-con switched to polar, of the highway set

on agitate, of Martin Short’s Big Mama unseeably small on one TV at the front of the

bus, yet the ear-shattering Thai translation blaring from no less than a dozen crackling

speakers later, the bus arrived at the port town.

“You sleep now,” the driver told us as we stumbled off. “Ferry go morning.”

The figure on the pier resembled Katja’s friend, but somehow didn’t.

“I bet he forgot,” I said. Katja ignored me, sprawled out on the deck, eyes closed.

Still pissy from yesterday. “It might be him…maybe,” I granted.

After a few hours ‘sleep’ on the Chumpon Bus Station’s dusty floor, we were

shuttled through a humid dawn, dazed and swaying in the back of a pickup truck to the

harbor and loaded onto a ferry. Again we waited more than an hour.

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 I shivered slightly on the chilled, dew-slick deck but after a time became almost

comfortable with our claimed length of railing. Sprawled out on the edge of that vibrating

boat, I drifted in and out of sleep and gazed for a while down into the water…almost

hypnotized…fixating on the din of the boat, the silence beyond the idling engines, the

eternal jiggling, the white noise—like the 14-hour flight, like arrival and customs and

navigating the insanity of Bangkok while tired and crabby, like the bus ride south…

bobbling, bouncing…I jerked awake, worried of slipping overboard. Soon after the boat

rumbled and sputtered free of the dock…the churning water bright blue below…

movement.

“It’s him,” Katja said. “He’s just really dark.”

She’d finally sat up and looked for herself as we neared.

“Yea…maybe,” I replied, but even as the boat swung in toward the rusted and

crumbling concrete pier, its engines rumbling in reverse and me feeling a touch queasy

with the odd motion, I wasn’t certain.

Lars was skinny and pale. This guy was big with bronze skin like a local.

Whisps of fog hanging over the waterway. The birds rising from the trees as we

churned past...and as the colors of sunrise broke through the morning haze, we left the

last sight of mainland toward the island of Ko Tao. The caravan of clouds marching in a

line touched orange and blushing against the blue sky. The breeze off the water...warm

and sweet. The sunrise exploding from the water as we hit cruising-speed on the open

sea. The mist on my face. The buffeting rhythm of the waves against the side of the boat,

slapping.

The man appeared to look right at us and then he raised his arm in a wave.

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 It was him.

“See,” said Katja. “I told you so.”

“We have a long journey, did we?” Lars’ smiled when we came off the boat.

“You two look so bad as you are smelling.” he said in his accent, wrinkling his sun-

burned nose. Katja leapt into his arms.

“Hello beautiful,” he smiled a bit awkwardly, his blue eyes suprised, yet picking

her up off the pier in a hug. Letting her down, he turned to me and nodded. And without

so much as a handshake“let’s go,” he said, and walked off.

I looked at Katja with raised eyebrows.

She answered with a shrug and open mouth.

I gestured impatiently for her to go first.

We nearly had to run keeping up. He set off through the crowd moving with ease,

off the pier and down the quay to a long, yellow and green boat tied nearby. With

towering backpacks balanced on our backs, handbags and cameras swinging from our

necks and legs of jellow from the two days of strait travel we did not move with ease.

“Jump in” was all he said and we were off. Again waves slapping and muffled

silence. Again the warm salt air. Lars silent at the back of the boat, a smile and a pair of

sunglasses. Again hazy green islands in the distance as we leaned into a corner around a

great jutting rock. Finally, turning toward land. The boat sliding into sand in a small cove

where a restaurant sat at the top of a beach.

The soft cool water on my bare feet woke me up for a moment as I stepped down

off the boat. I looked down at my toes wiggling through the turquoise water and smiled

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like a fool up at the fancy shack, at its tilted sign hanging from one nail with the words

“Hotel” scrawled apparently by a fifth-grader. I was thinking the place was a bit ragged

as we unloaded our bags. Some new-age commune?

But mostly, I was trying to comprehend the surreal, shimmering world. My eyes

wouldn’t adjust to the light.

Shaggy green island rose vertical from the water into palm and jungle-covered

hills. The beach, a sagging amphitheater-sized nook between small rocky cliffs on either

side. Lean-tos with thatched-roofing and gaps between the rough-cut wood, stood at

varying heights in the hills above, radiating out from the beach-front restaurant. The

‘bungalows,’ as they called them, were more-exactly described as shacks on stilts. On the

other hand, the sand between my toes was glaring white under the hot sun, the palm trees

pleasantly rustling. The ocean was blue and near waveless. Ok...not bad.

But as he trudged up the beach Lars barked how we should check in first, and I

felt as if at summer camp and wanted to say something witty in response.

Nothing came, so I got back to my feet.

Our shack was behind and to the side of the restaurant building. Above it, really.

An eight-rung ladder above. Around rung number two I remembered just how long it had

been since I slept. Lars called up as we opened the door to the hot musty room.

“No bloody sitting down … not one second,” he said. “Take a shower and maybe

change clothes, but then come eat. Wait 'til tonight for sleeping. You must adjust.”

Ok, mom. But a shower did sound good...of course, a hot shower was what I’d had

in mind. The ice cold water, on the bright side, woke me up.

While Katja took hers, I went down ahead.

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 Strait out of a beer commercial, I thought, stepping into sight of the restaurant’s

lazy scene. Pillows covered the bamboo-mat floor between low tables, of which only a

few were occupied by tanned, swimsuit-clad twenty-somethings. The ocean-view chalky

in the background. Waves were splashing nearby. A breeze gently wandered the room.

Heineken, Corona, whatever. All very beautiful, but I needed coffee.

As I assessed the room for where to sit, I felt self-conscious. Something was

wrong with me. I moved funny. I stopped and looked around for a moment, standing near

the back of the room. The only sound, creaking-hammocks and a light rushing of waves.

It took a moment for me to notice.

Everyone in the room was barefoot.

As I moved back towards the pile of sandals I had walked by near the door, I

glanced at a couple and noticed something more. The guy and his girlfriend seemed to be

moving in slow motion as they unpacked a map. Hesitating as if distracted. Unable to

concentrate on their map for more than a moment before looking away. And of course, in

the ashtray on the table was a bulging hand-rolled cigarette. A joint no less.

I looked around at others and saw that everyone in the room was moving at a pace

around four-times slower than mine and were all distracted, staring at something out on

the water as if meditating in a trance. Most everyone with an overflowing ashtray.

They’re all fucking stoned.

About to drop the whole coffee idea, I noticed Lars to one side of the room.

“Hey man…take a pillow,” he said looking up, and then back to his magazine.

“So how are you doing anyway?” I asked, sitting down across from him, but he

didn’t answer. While he thought it over, I raised my hand and got the waiter’s attention.

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 “Coffee, please.” I said, and he nodded, but… no answer from Lars.

“So Lars, how are you?” I asked again, trying to get a pulse.

And still it took a second, but he finally looked up.

“What? Oh…Ok, I guess. I have a lot to do, taxi-taxi you know,” was his answer.

“I hope it’s not a bother for you…us coming down here,” I said.

“No… you two smell like tourists… move like the city, that’s all,” he said,

lowering his magazine. “Anyway, I’m happy you and Katja came down. She said you are

going to the Mekong next?”

Smelled like tourist—what kind of hippy shit is that? Trying to figure out the ‘city

move’ and ‘smell’ thing, I nodded my head.

“The Thai call it ‘the mother of the waters,’” I said, a bit out of step.

“Yes...Mae Nam Kong,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s the Thai word.”

“Oh right.”

“Funny,” he said.

Funny? As the waiter set down my coffee Lars looked up and nodded at the man,

saying something in Thai. The man laughed and said something in return as he walked

away. Lars smiled looking back at his magazine.

Show off.

As if remembering something, Lars looked up, smiling.“If the Mekong is the

mother, the father of the Waters, then, is The Tropical Rain Belt, see?” he said. “Fucker

is ruthless.”

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 Wait…where are we now Lars? The Tropical Rain Belt? A memory of

meteorology class came to me. I remembered the belt in winter “whips” to the south of

the equator, along the tropic of Capricorn. When in summer the mass of moisture moves

north, the belt lashes Cancer.

“Father Rain returns in May having pitchforks, cats and dogs, right?” Lars asked.

“Ok,” I indulged him.

“Oh, and daddy is drunk and wanting a fight,” he said, getting excited.

I had a hard time following. A tad exhausted. But Lars continued.

“Poor little Indochina with nowhere to run, crouching in the corner of Asia, back

against the wall of the Himalayas, Pacific ocean crashing at its feet. And daddy just hangs

there above beating down on this child,” he explained, pausing for a moment with a smile

—obviously proud of his creepy metaphor.

But then, with a frown, he looked to sea, speaking softly with anger in his voice.

“The belligerent bastard staggers up and unleashes his anger—dribbling, drizzling,

splattering, gushing, drowning, pounding, “nice weather for ducks,” as the British say. It

is violence. A beating,” Lars said, his eyes pleading. “This yearly beating defines life

here…the great equalizer…no one is bigshot for long,” he said, looking as if he needed

me to understand.

But I didn’t. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

“That’s interesting…,” I said, searching for a transition. “…So how you like

driving boat taxi?” I asked, obviously to his displeasure. He frowned for a second.

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 “Yea…boat taxi…great,” he replied with a smile. “I am loving to bring the fat

swine to their slop so they can splash around and whine they’ve seen better,” he said,

smiling even wider.

Ok…another bad topic.

“But I bet your business is alright…what with all money those ‘fat swine’ have,’”

I said, trying to find something positive.

“Ha...business?” he asked sarcastically. “Yea…I’ve already hired two employees

to help,” he said, and for a moment I thought I was getting somewhere. But bringing up

his leg from beneath the table, he pointed to a small lump.

“This is Hermann,” he said, and pointing to another lump “this is Eberhart...

they’re some sort of worm, or parasite, I think…anyway they keep me company, and I

don’t even have to pay them.”

Ok, that’s just weird. Lars appeared to have been touched by the silly stick, if not

thumped once good on the head. We’d heard through friends he’d been sick for a while—

in a hospital for weeks suffering from fever and dysentery—and I wondered if he hadn’t

lost more than fluids. That or he was getting lonesome, living out on these islands.

Herman and Eberhart? Naming your worms?

Seeing the look on my face, Lars shook his head slowly and smiled.

“You understand when you are having your first woms,” he said. “It’s life…you

have to laugh, man.”

“Anyway…so engaged, no?” he asked with a sceptical eyebrow. “You must be a

smooth talker convincing Katja to marry.”

“Yea, I guess I’m just lucky,” I said, returning his sarcasm.

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 “At least so far, right?” he winked.

I wasn’t sure how to take that.

“You two boys getting reacquainted?” came Katja’s voice from behind. The two

of us looked up. Our eyes widened in unison. She was wearing the small blue bikini she’d

bought before we left.

“Lars and I were just talking about…er… the Mekong,” I said, looking at Lars.

He didn’t take his eyes from Katja, gazing a bit long for my taste.

“Well, I’m going for a swim,” Katja said. “Anyone coming with?” She asked.

And of course Lars wanted to swim.

“I beat you to the water,” he said, sliding his legs from under the table and then up

in one fluid motion past Katja, running like a track star. I almost laughed at his show of

athletic machismo. Katja watched him run down the beach and dive into the water, and

then she turned to me.

“You not coming?” she asked. I smiled.

“The coffee just arrived,” I said, shrugging.

So I watched them swim. Lars moving around her like a shark. Katja laughing. He

disappeared and the next moment she rose out of the water shrieking, followed by his

arms throwing her in the air. One hand on her ass the other catapulting her from her foot

pushing off. Watch the fucking hands, buddy…

To tell the truth, I had never really cared for Lars. I’d only met him a few times,

but his natural platinum blond hair, his intensely blue eyes, and arrogant British accent

mixed with his brutally direct German personality—something about him had always

annoyed me.

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 He and Katja were friends from college. They’d known each other about a year

before I met her. She said they’d never hooked up: Katja always advising him what to do

with his various girlfriends, and eventually he advising her about me. Hearing his name, I

had initially felt perhaps a touch uneasy about the ‘other man,’ her ‘study parner,’ but

about the time Lars and I met he fell in love with a woman and began spending most of

his time with her. Six-months later they were engaged. Not long after that, however, she

left him after finding out he cheated on her. Katja of course defended him.

“He did it before they were engaged and always said he regretted it,” she

said.”And it was so sweet how broken hearted he was when she left…so romantic that he

exiled himself to an island in Thailand.”

Yea, he regretted getting caught, maybe. And the move to Thailand might be

about ‘mending his heart,’ but not through solitude. I mean, Thailand? Bangkok? The

Islands here full of vacationing, bikini-clad ladies?

“Exiled” was not the word I would use to describe that.

When we started planning our trip to Asia, visiting him sounded like a good idea.

That he was good looking had never occurred to me. He wasn’t tall and despite having a

distinct jaw—an almost chiseled-from-marble face—in Germany he was thin and always

wore a pair of thin metal eyeglasses that, together with a bit of acne, made him look

pathetic and silly: a sort of blond, juvenile Clark Kent. But without the glasses and with

the deep tan and muscular build life on the islands had given him, Lars was different. An

extra on Baywatch.

The plan had been to get some romantic time together here and to relax for a

moment on the easy islands, before we headed north into the hardcore traveling. We had

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worked hard an gotten a bit stressed before leaving. The islands would give us a chance

to refresh and also to acclimate to the different rhythms of Thailand. It was also for Katja

an introduction to her first real travel in a relatively safe and clean—tourist trodden and

sterilized for broad consumption—environment. And it was nice to have a local contact.

At least, that was the idea.

But here we were…and now, watching the two of them play in the water—not

sure what to think about the weird shit he’d rambled on about, I was having second

thoughts. Lars made me nervous. He was massive and primal…animal-like, leaping about

in the water like a caveman. And she’s just basking in it.

Ah, the poetry of it. This journey was the test of our love before Katja and I got

married. We had joked about it at first—I think I brought it up one day while we were

plannig just to tease her—but it had become somehow true. And more and more the

closer the day of departure came.

If this was a test we were so-far scoring low.

“Lars says he’ll take us out tomorrow morning to a snorkeling spot that only

locals know about,” Katja said, the two of them toweling off as they returned to the table.

“Oh…great,” I said. I was feeling tired again and didn’t know what to say.

“Hey…you guys hungry? We should eat,” Lars said.

So we ate. The only thing I remember from the meal was hardly being able to

comprehend the scene before my eyes each time I looked up from my broccoli beef.

White sand… palm trees swaying…a coconut tossing gently in placid waves. Really?

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 “This is the best fucking fish I ever tasted in my life,” Katja said at one point,

smiling at Lars. Praise from her about food was uncharacteristic—she was obviously a bit

delusional. I didn’t think mine was that good. Beef tasted funny.

Lars only nodded. He didn’t say much the whole meal.

“Better get back before the sun sets,” he said finally, standing up. “Get sleep and I

pick you two up in the morning.”

Lars leaping like a panther back up into his boat—one fluid motion, a cloud of

smoke engulfing him as the engine ripped to life. We both watched as he turned out

toward the sea, the boat roaring forward and finally disappearing around the corner.

“Well…he’s changed a bit,” I said, assuming she would have noticed, and

immediately regretting my assumption.

“In what way…I mean, besides the fact he looks like a Greek god?” Katja asked.

“Yea, you like that don’t you?”

“Oh come on…you know Lars and I are just friends,” she said.

I knew what was coming.

“And NO, I’m not jealous.”

“Not Jealous…right,” Katja said.

“Jealous of what?” I asked defensively. “He looks like some California surf-bum

out of a fashion magazine…and the shit that he talks sounds like his melon’s been baking

in the sun too long.”

To this, Katja just smiled.

“He was rambling off about worms and weird shit—talking about the storms

beating Thailand like a step-child or something…I mean fucking crazy shit,” I explained.

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 “And I’m not fucking jealous,” I repeated under my breath.

“You are fucking jealous,” she said. “And you better stop right now, because

you’re pissing me off.”

And with that, I decided it was better to shut up. She’d soon see how nuts he was.

For an hour or so we sat mostly silent, watching the sunset and I think both lost in

our own thoughts. I took a step down and realized how tired we both were. It had been a

long journey getting here. And this was her first trip. She was probably a touch culture

shocked and feeling out of her element and uncomfortable.

At some point we got up from the restaurant, swaggered to our bungalow, climbed

the eight-rungs of death and somehow made it into the mosquito net (after about 20

minutes of searching for the entrance hole) and fell instantly to sleep....

Somewhere before dawn I awoke with a stabbing pain in my stomach.

For a second I thought it was serious gas, but struggling blindly in the dark, out

through the mosquito netting and into the bathroom, I sat down just in time.

My abdomen rumbled and shook for one long moment…the pain stabbing deeper

into my gut…sweat beading suddenly on my brow…and then, heralded by a sort of

whale-song, high-pitched otherworldly fart, what seemed like everything inside of me

came rushing out, thrashing violently into the toilet below. Spasm after spasm, torrent

after torrent tore though my body. Fevered and anxious waves shuddered through my

limbs and I held on for dear life…the cheep plastic toilet seat sliding back and forth on

the . With the waves ebb came until I was drenched in sweat and nearly delirious with

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exhaustion. I’m not sure how long I was there…but at some point, the door opened and

Katja entered looking groggy and concerned.

“You ok?” she asked.

“Food poisoning, or something,” I slurred. “I don’t think I’m snorkeling today.”

Katja said she would postpone the trip with Lars, but I said she shouldn’t.

“He’s supposed to be here any minute…I’ll just tell him we’ll do it again other

time…I should stay here and take care of you,” she said.

“No…seriously, I’ll be fine…you guys go ahead.”

I think I was hoping she would insist…but she took my offer.

“Remember to drink lots of fluids,” I remember she said before she left. “And

don’t worry…we’ll be back sometime after noon…love you,” she said and was gone.

Gone swimming with Lars in her new blue bikiki.

But only thought that a moment.

That morning was a blur of splashing water, alternating chills and fever, painful

convulsions and me trying to stay perched on the throne, my head dizzy and swimming.

Eventually, when I figured I was safe to get up, I stumbled on my numb, tingling legs

back to bed and passed out, shivering, my head spinning.

Sometime later—owing to the heat, probably midday—I was roused by a sound.

‘Roused’ doesn’t quite describe it. Neither does ‘sound.’

My mind shrouded in fitful slumber, and what was probably a touch of

dehydration (I was swimming in sweat), a nervous fear began in whatever dream I was

having. The odd presence loomed toward me, moving ever faster, rising ever louder and

closer, until it was a wall of seething white-noise, overwhelming my position. It infected

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whatever adventure I was imagining at the time with such a hectic horror atmosphere,

that finally, I leapt.

Out through the mosquito netting and clear of the fragile and creaky bed…onto

the bungalow’s planked floor. One fluid motion without disturbing anything or catching

myself in the net. A miraculous leap. An Olympic-quality, acrobatic feat, really.

And there I stood…somehow on my feet. Flapping my arms to keep balance.

Shocked I landed upright. Still dream-dumb, on the verge of panic. No idea what to do.

Finally…somewhere deep in my frontal lobe…my brain stirred. As if switching

on under the pressure of the sonic hounding, my mind discerned the obvious source of the

sound that was now reaching an almost earthshaking crescendo. Those beastly

grasshopper-like things they have in the South…Cicada, or Locusts or something…

Bugs. Biblical bugs that destroy crops and rub whatever extremities together like a bow

and violin to make a little sound that, together with their millions of cousins, produces an

apocalyptic symphony of hectic, fluxing sound. But still…bugs.

I searched around the room frantically, my heart racing, my head still under siege

from the sonic avalanche, telling myself my End of the World was only a bunch of

insects…and the next second the sound was gone. One moment apocalyptical waves of

noise emanating from everywhere—above, below, all around us—and the next minute

nothing but the lonesome sound of ocean and the random sound from the bungalow

park’s beach-side kitchen…chopping, the tink of a glass; a creaking hammock.

I was near naked, slick with sweat and shivering…but I started to giggle.

I had to laugh.

After a few splashes of cold water I calmed down.

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 Walking past the bed I remembered Katja leaving this morning and felt for a

moment anxious about her being alone with Lars at that moment somewhere out there

swimming around together, but I was too drained to think long about it, I had other things

on my mind, like a drink of water and maybe a little rice for my barren gut.

Entering the restaurant, I had a sensation of de-ja vu. It was the same lethargic

scene as yesterday, the same lazy breeze, and even the same distracted people staring out

on the water. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply for a long moment…then opened

them and looked out to sea. I understood at once everyone’s distraction.

I kicked off my flip-flops at the edge of restaurant’s woven bamboo mats, crossed

the room, and put down on a pillow wherever. The kid sitting behind the counter, the

same drowsy lad we met checking in, looked up at me when I turned my head slightly

back to order a coffee.

The whole time never taking my eyes of the view. Immaculate.

The view grabbed me. Instantly captured. I couldn’t take my eyes off the water.

The distance.

And there it was.

White sand, swaying palm trees, bananas, mangos, pineapples just hanging

around, white and pink and orange flowering vine, flowering bushes, flowering flowers,

and lush soft grass covering the ground where the white sand wasn’t. And the goddamned

turquoise sea! Could they even really be called waves? Gently rushing and foaming but

never crashing. Only every third perhaps did a lazy wave crash with a splash.

The waiter set down the coffee next to me. I nodded to him, picked up the warm

glass and blew into the steaming cup. All without taking my eyes off the view.

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 Sitting there, I felt at peace, alone…only the view and my hands near-burning on

the coffee. I was absorbing into the sight of the ocean, of infinity.

I stared still half-asleep and flabbergasted by the vision of beauty before me,

probably five minutes before I remembered the coffee again. Before I took a sip, I

thought for a moment, and glanced down at the mug to check. Nothing foreign was

inside, but next to the mug was hand-rolled cigarette and a tiny yellow lighter. Thailand

caned people’s backs and legs for drug offenses, I thought for a moment. Whatever. I

took a sip of the coffee and looked back at the sea. I took the little Bic to the end of the

ragged, long contraption, inhaled deeply and blew out a sweet smoke.

On the branch of a tree several yards from me, a blond and redheaded chicken

cocked its head back and forth. Beach roosters? A loop around the root of the twisted

tree led in a line to a small blue dingy. Perhaps, a PT Boat in the Smurf Navy?

The wee boat sat on the high edge of the thin strand of beach which sloped some

down from me to where mini-waves gently lapped at the smooth sand. Perhaps three

yards from where the Gulf of Thailand’s timid froth reached at high-tide—where a line of

smooth branches lay—I sat on pillows lost in a dream. I kept double-taking at the scene

above my page to make sure it wasn’t a mirage and hadn’t disappeared. I took a couple

lazy drags on the cigarette and sipped at my sweet molten coffee. It really couldn’t be

comprehended.

A pair of fishing boats, and then a third, crossed the horizon before me.

I inspected the golden color on large puffs of cloud high in the sky to the south.

That fucking coconut rolling around in the waves on the sand.

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 Another boat—one of the long, thin taxi boats—crossed the endless horizon and

then turned in. As they neared the beach Katja jumped off, and Lars turned back out to

sea. They waved at each other and he waved to me…turned away and let the engine roar,

the boat’s nose rising up.

“You feeling better?” she asked walking up.

I nodded when she sat down.

“I have a confession to make,” said she, an eyebrow raised.

“You were right…Lars is a bit crazy…he talked the whole time about parasites and

diarrhea.”

“See…,” said I with a wink. “ I told you so.”

But really, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

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