A Conversation on the Moon

A Conversation on the Moon

The beach still feels like flour between my toes.  The limestone outcrops, some towering hundreds of feet in the air, are as stunning as my last visit, but the banging of jackhammers and mixing of concrete have diminished the beauty of Ray Lei Beach, Thailand.  At night, beachside bars blaring house music have replaced the psychedelic pinging of bats in the caves surrounding the beach.  A reputation for the best rock climbing in Asia has spread as well.  Now the die-hard professionals, who would gracefully skirt up the rock faces, are dispersed between backpacker amateurs groping the cliffs; muscles taut, chalky-fingered and unsure, performing some strange form of copulation with mother Earth.
Accommodation is full so I can not stay on the nice beach and am forced into a second rate guest house on the mud flat where long tail boats drop off tourists coming from Krabi town.  Prices have skyrocketed with the increase in popularity.  Concrete structures are blooming as fast as the orchids.  My plan had been to travel through Thailand, Malaysia, and Indonesia then work for a university in Bali, but that doesn’t sound like such a good idea anymore.  The lifelong dream of teaching and learning to surf--the surfing professor--has been shattered.
I visit my old friend Lee-lee at a bar I frequented during my last visit nine months ago. The small pub hasn’t changed and still commands gorgeous sunsets, but Lee-lee doesn’t recognize me, and his drink prices have doubled.  The high season, November to February, is just around the corner.  With the Muslim Southeast Asian countries out of the European and Australian travel loop, Thailand is looking at a banner year for tourism.  His mind is on more ambitious endeavors.  I’m just another tourist I remind myself, sadly.
Several exotically, sweet cocktails don’t bring me out of my pensive mood.  Reasoning that I should cut my losses and call it a night, I begin walking back to my room.  The thoroughfare across the small peninsula has changed from a well-groomed path to a dirt road wide enough for heavy equipment to pass.  Crews of sturdy Thai laborers are still working with the help of blinding fog lights on two story condos.  As I get closer to my guesthouse and the music gets louder, I notice two young Thai’s loitering in front of a rock climbing shop.  We exchange greetings and smiles, then one of them asks, “Where you from?”
This is when the post 9/11 American traveler’s life has changed.  First of all, there are fewer Americans outside of America.  Southeast Asia is largely a European and Australian tourist destination, but I’ve always come across some Americans during my past visits to the region.  This trip I’ve only met one.  Suzanne, my girlfriend, is Canadian so she’s been signing hotel registries since we arrived.  Maybe this is a paranoid precaution, but after the bomb blast in Bali, Hambali’s arrest in Bangkok, and string of incidents in Asia that have been overshadowed by Gulf War II, I’m glad she has been.                                                                                                                                       
Borders between countries are drawn with a line, but religious influences are not.  As I’ve gotten closer to the Malaysian border, Buddhist temples have been slowly replaced by Mosques.  Women wearing head coverings have become commonplace.  At a bus station in Krabi a public bus had a decal of Isama bin Laden’s face on the front of it.  The portrait was cartoonish, yet chilling. In the same town I saw a boy wearing a T-shirt that had a picture of George Bush and bin Laden face-to-face.  In the background the twin towers were shown smoking, one partially collapsed.  The T-shirt suggested that Bush and bin Laden are equals.  I wonder if this is true in Southeast Asia.  I’m not saying that all Muslims agree with extremist ideology, but reasoning tells me that the larger the Muslim population, the greater the chance of having an unpleasant experience with a radical.

“Where you from?” says the other youth.
I can see them better now and realize they are only seventeen or eighteen, small for their age, but sinewy, probably from rock climbing in hopes of teaching farangs, foreigners, how to navigate the cliffs.
“America,” I answer confidently. “What about you?”
“Yala,” one of them says, “South here.”
I know Yala is roughly four hours south of Krabi and close to the Malaysian border from reading guidebooks. One of them is holding something behind his back. I wonder if I was hasty in saying my nationality. Some American tourists have started sewing Canadian flags on their luggage as Canadians have always done. He brings his arm from behind his back and offers me what I think is a cigarette, then I smell something that reminds me of college. I accept it and inhale deeply.
“Slowly, slowly,” one of them says, laughing.
“You like bushie?” the other asks.
“Yeah, I like it. That’s pretty good.” I say, thinking I’m too old to be hip to Thai slang.
“No, no Georgie Bushie.”
I pause and note that they’re both smiling.
“Yes, I do.”
“Oh, no, no, why you like Bushie?”
“Well, I think he’s done the best he could in a very difficult situation.”
“Slowly, slowly.” I hear, realizing I need to speak in simpler sentences.
“We don’t like Bushie.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Bushie like war. You like war?”
“No, I don’t like war. I didn’t want America to attack Iraq.”
“America have war, maybe big war.”
I can’t tell if they’re just a couple of Islamic kids with lots of bravado or if they’re seriously trying to warn me about something.
“You don’t like war, but you like Bushie.” The spokesperson of the pair says,
perhaps trying to clarify.
“Yes.”
“Many America want war?” He asks.
“Some do and some do not.”
“No everybody.”
“That’s correct. Not everyone.”
We all nod. Seeming to understand that a political discussion won’t go far, we exchange polite conversation instead. They are delighted that I’m a teacher, especially an English teacher. My original assumption had been right. They are both apprentice rock climbing instructors. They tell me about the caves and crevices surrounding the area. I ask why the stalactites form on the outside of the caves as well as the inside, but the language barrier becomes too much so we smile and nod. I admire the two for using me to practice their English. They are clever and seem to know their future success depends as much on language acquisition as athletic ability.
We are facing the ocean. The tide is coming in and there’s a waxing moon. Mangrove trees stick out of the ocean. A small sailboat is moored nearby. The cloudy sky and moon give the sea a purplish pallor. It’s a postcard beautiful night.
“You’re lucky,” I tell them. “Your country is the most beautiful I’ve ever been to.”
I’m intoxicated, but I mean what I have said. They both grin, broad and white-toothed, a Thai trademark as famous as their silk.
“You go there?” One of them says, pointing overhead at the moon.
“I don’t understand.” I say politely and slowly.
“America, America go there?” he says, again pointing at the moon. He sounds
incredulous like it’s a rumor that has been spread through his village.
“Yes, we did.”
They speak rapidly, urgently between themselves in Thai. Are they saying I’m a
liar? A fool? Probably not a fool. Teachers are generally respected in Asian cultures. I wish I spoke Thai. They both look up at the moon again.
“Very expensive,” one of them says.
“It was.” I agree.
At this they laugh heartily. I don’t get the joke, but laugh along with them. What’s so funny? I wonder. Are they laughing because America is not still there? Do they think our military was forced out of the moon like in Vietnam? Like they believe will happen in Iraq? Is it a laugh of arrogance or inferiority? Maybe they’re thinking, ‘What a colossal waste of money!’ What would the Kingdom of Thailand do with enough money to walk on the moon? Is the idea of walking on the moon so beyond their scope that it must be ridiculous fiction? Or am I just a 30-year-old expat English instructor high on life?
The insecurity leaves my laughter. I’m finally enjoying myself. A conversation on the moon is what I needed. I feel like I’m traveling again. My favorite place has been ‘discovered,’ but that’s the way it goes. Things change.
Taking three, slow-moving, leaps, I impersonate Neil Armstrong’s walk on Ray
Lei Beach in Southern Thailand, then glance back at my two newfound friends. They look at me as if I have multiple heads and it’s their turn to laugh nervously.
“I’d better get going guys, good-night, and thanks,” I say, walking toward the guesthouse. An unseen mangrove vine makes me stumble. I hear behind me, “Slowly, slowly.”