Fuck, I really didn’t want to take this flight.
Three bombs went off, different locations. Were they trying to scare off the tourists as my Nok Air flight landed at Phuket?
Thailand is one big bomb site, no sweat.
Big C, Erawan, Koh Samui, Phuket, Hua Hin. I was getting the point, quickly.
I had no idea there was a bridge that connected the island to the mainland let alone it was called Sarasin Bridge. My geography on this side of the Andaman was rusty. I had contemplated ferry hopping from Langkawi on Malaysia’s west coast to Koh Lanta in Thailand, then another four hour ferry ride to Phuket. Even the research was half hearted and doomed as a great idea.
It didn’t come close to hiring a taxi, and cutting across the three bomb prone provinces of Southern Thailand.
And the Phuket Yacht Club was where I wanted to be, or as close as possible, I said to the taxi driver as he pulled in to Nai Harn Beach. I told him to drop me off at a bar on the side of the road called Coconut, just near the entrance of the resort that terraced up the cliffs. Not a yacht in sight, but the name itself was a draw card for the rich and famous who I doubt ever set foot on the white sandy beaches.
And nor did I have any intention.
I ordered a beer, and lit up a cigar that I had bought in Kuala Lumper the week before. They were’t Cuban, but it was adequate for this ritual.
I coughed and spluttered as I opened up The Girl in the Window.
No matter how paranoid or conspiracy-minded you are, what the government is actually doing is worse than you can possibly imagine.
Then I took a swig of my beer, thinking where could I sneak this line in.
‘The jungle was damp and lush. You could hear the solitude.’
This was the dream.
Then I recalled another Jack moment as I inhaled then exhaled the rich pungent smoke into oblivion.
In the dim light and still air the cigar smoke began breaking into long, spiraling wisps, elegant little whorls that floated gracefully away into the darkness at the ceiling.
I got it.
Fuck did I get it.
I quickly dusted off some embers that were burning through my knee from the cheap Malaysian cigars.
Now where are those brown skinned beauties depicted in artwork adorning Barry Gale’s house, I thought as ordered another beer.
The night was young and the possibilities were endless and I was sold on that idea for at least tonight.
I smiled to myself , thinking, Jack, you’ve done it again.