On The Beach I Observe

KOH SAMUI, Thailand - On the beach I observe.

Sometimes I watch my copy of "The Vanishing Road," a tale of a Nigerian boy and his encounters with spirits. But more often I see the people on the beach around me.

There are hawkers. Some sell plastic beads and and long hemp necklaces. Ice cream comes from men carrying a heavy Styrofoam cooler and a sign with pictures of the different frozen treats. The prices have been taped over, replaced with a heavy fee for carrying it from the store to the blistering hot beach. Some flavors are not available, on these the price tag is changed to read "NO." To avoid the sun, they wrap a dark blue towel around their head and place a baseball cap on top. They wear long sleeves and cloth pants, exposing only the front of the face.

To my left are the Germans. They are three: wife, husband and son. The son is not always there, he floats in and out with a pair of white iPod headphones, wide American sunglasses and a visor. I hope their vacation is almost over, because the husband's back cannot stand many more days in the sun. Every square flabby inch is crimson, covered in freckles. Throughout the day, the wife and her dyed red hair peel large strips of skin off, exposing a more pink epidermal layer.

To my right are the British. It is a young couple. The closest is the woman, with a black bikini bottom and nothing covering her tanned breasts. She wears sunglasses and rotates 180 degrees every half-hour. Her boyfriend sleeps mostly, sometimes talks about the economic book he apparently is reading (I never see it). Once they take a walk northward down the beach, but they return 15 minutes later looking cross. The boyfriend sleeps again, the girlfriend removes her top.

There are the two we call "The Playboys." One is American, the other might be Italian. They move frequently, from the bar behind our chairs to the massage tent and often go en promenade. Both have tattoos, the American only one: a red-and-blue yin-yang. Both the yin and yang have jagged, lightning bolt contours. The Italian has more than I can see as he walks from the beach to the massage tent. Several are in Chinese of questionable calligraphy.

The Playboys are popular with the local woman. We hear them talk to the three massage ladies. Two nights ago the Italian slept with a fourth, not present massage girl. Last night he slept with the girl with the platinum-blond hair. In the middle of their lovemaking session the girl from the previous night made an unwelcome appearance, and tried to smash a plate over the blond girl's head. The Italian intervened, and it seemed that things at the beach are now O.K.

Soon the woman will have to do without these men.

"I go to Japan for a week. Then I come back," the Italian said.

As time goes on, the beach seems darker, more mysterious than on my first glimpses of the white sand. The corn salesman also sells marijuana out of his barbecue. A long-haired backpacker makes a pass at a woman's purse while she swims in the ocean. An Israeli man is stumbling around after too many cocktails.

Around 5:00 p.m. the resort employees come around to convert my beach chair and the one to my left into a flat table. They place a small centerpiece with a candle and several napkins where arm lies and two pillows at my feet. My day of watching the beach is over.