There is something magical about the first serious rains of the wet season. The days leading up to it are heavy and oppressive with anticipation.
The tide is high (I almost posted the you tube video clip on my fb wall until I realised that little, bar the one line and my obvious likeness to Debbie Harry, bore any relation to life on a beach), and boredom necessitates that suddenly everyone is a tidal expert.
“Tomorrow sea up to the bar, Mama” as last year’s video clip on not the latest mobile phone is pressed between me and my tomatoes on toast so I can see he knows what he is talking about.
“Two years ago tables and chairs go! We build new every day!”
I’m not convinced and my tomatoes are getting cold.
There are no tourists, but the beach is a hive of activity, well as hivey as it gets when it’s actually cool enough to do anything.
Among the boys there is a lot of pointing to the sea and the shoreline and a lot of chatter in far too rapid Thai for me to get a handle on and a fair bit of exchanging of money.
Ham takes the nets out for the daily catch.
Dead coconut trees are felled while there is no one about for them to fall on. One man tackles the offending monolith and six watch entranced, their eyes wide with respect and a hint of envy. One day they will have the honour of wielding the chain saw
Rooms are cleaned, verandahs varnished, the beach that no one will see is swept.
Later, it’s hot, clammy, still. The tide is high.
I wake to the sound of rain. Not soft, gentle, soaking rain but the thunderous pounding applause of the Glastonbury headliner variety, crashing onto the roof, bouncing up from the balcony, announcing its arrival like a full orchestra reaching a crescendo.
The power goes off. I stretch lazily, then the enormity hits me.
The power is off!
SHIT! It could be off for days. I dive into the shower and turn it on full power. This might be my last shower for a week. I check that everything that will afford me pleasure has a modicum of power. Kindle? – 40 percent. Computer? 80 per cent. I won’t be able to use the internet so it should last for at least four hours. Ipad? Shit shit and shitability! Phone? Corpselike.
Think of the good things.
I am clean. My hair is clean. I only have two new bites. I will have all the time in the world to write the postcards I bought last year and never got round to sending and I will be spared the noxious Thai coffee; they can’t possibly make coffee with no power.
I head to breakfast.
“Mango yoghurt, tomatoes on toast, Mama?” They can do all that without electricity?
The rain has stopped. I sit on my damp chair at my damp table overlooking the sea.
They were wrong. The sea is not up to the bar, the tide is not as high. I wonder how many bahts were lost and by whom in the book they were patently running.
Jaree brings my breakfast. It’s all there. Mango, yoghurt, tomatoes on toast. How did she do it? OK the toast may be a bit soft but it is toast after a fashion.
Ali brings me a coffee. Ali brings me a coffee?
There is no electricity, I can’t get cash out of the ATM, my clothes will never dry, my kindle will run out and I will have to tackle Girl with a Dragon Tattoo in paperback German but Ali has somehow managed to conjure up a cup of the most evil brew known to man.
He beams waiting for his applause.
“Thanks Ali, that’s great.”