Home is subjective

Pyromaniacs. Fire dancers. Drug dealers. Burmese immigrants. They were outcasts.
Mere shirtless entertainers hired to lure drunken tourists to the venues that welcomed them in exchange for attracting business.
Of course, I had seen them before, heck I probably even donated a Baht or two during that first week of freedom in Koh Tao, slumped on a cushion, puffing on a shisha pipe whilst making small-talk with fellow sightseers.
But I hadn’t really seen them… not yet.
It wasn’t until months later when I had moved down to work in a beach bar. I say work, the labour was minimal and the spirits were free. My spirit was free.
I’d look down from the balcony that backed onto the sand at my Romeo, stood boldly in front of the black night ocean performing with two balls of fire that appeared to float on the chains he held to control them.
I watched through the shadows as he bent his entire body backwards until his head almost touched his heels and ran the tangled chains across his toned torso, the spiral of light illuminating his oiled body up to his tattooed biceps.
He threw both poi’s into the air and caught them meticulously in his mouth, bobbing his head up and down while the fire swirled in front of him to the applause of impressed onlookers. Feeling the heat on my face I reminisced on the night we were laid in a hammock on a quiet part of the island unpolluted by visitors, sipping wine and beholding the stars that lay sprawled on the indigo blanket above us. He told me in broken English how he had learnt that trick, about the focus and practise it took to master such dangerous techniques, and I closed my eyes listening to the softness of his voice and the gentle humming of mosquitos in the warm moonlit air. I wondered how they resisted the smell of his sweet skin and the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat.
It was a surreal occasion, but so was every minute with him.
I’d looked up as I lay on him, the silver tunnel piercing glinting in his earlobe. He gazed back at me as though staring deep into my soul, and pressed his nostrils against my forehead inhaling briefly – the Asian sniff kiss - a sign of deep affection. His dark eyes locked on mine for a brief moment as he tilted his head back and delivered a playful smile flashing perfect white teeth. It was in that moment I realised I was in love with a local, that he wasn’t a poor boy. He was a man, completely content with his lifestyle and unconventionally wealthier than most. It was in that moment I saw him.