It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes, however, it is impossible to fully capture an image in one small frame, and I am therefore left to use those one thousand words to manifest this literary snapshot.
Picture if you will, the inside workings of a wall – plywood, 2x4’s, and jaggedly hammered nails. This is the construction of my current home in an attic somewhere in Thailand. I sleep soundly under a slanted tin roof, complete with holes large enough to let every rain drop fall gracefully onto my bright blue mosquito net, which incidentally provides the beautiful view of tiny piles of gecko feces.
A window has been formed, for no other reason than the fact that they ran out of plywood, which is only partially covered by a torn piece of printed fabric that is secured snuggly to one of the many partially hammered nails.
I have been granted the luxury of sleeping upon a brand new piece of foam that’s frilly blue ruffles and asian-influenced cartoon animal print quite nicely matches my fashionable mosquito net.
The luxury of the window allows for the undisturbed sound of the crashing waves – that is until I reminded, by the pulsing of the floor, that I am sleeping above a reggae bar whose rhythmic music and ganja-scented air lulls me to sleep every night.
The other large hole in my room, which I can only assume is meant to resemble a door, is fitted with a broken piece of plywood that is precisely 1-inch too big on each side. This door is responsible for occupying 10 minutes of my day every morning and 10 minutes every night as I try hopelessly to get in and out of my room. Now comes the million dollar question – If a door is exactly 1-inch too big on each said – making the opening and closing of said door nearly impossible – how is it that there are still gaping holes on either side of the door that are large enough to destroy any hopes of privacy?
Based on my experience here, I have come to the conclusion that there must not be a Thai word that is translatable into privacy. I make this assumption based on the fact that to get to my (cold) shower, I must walk directly through the hub of the bar. Once I make my way discretely into the shower I have to secure the door by the only means possible – a ragged piece of twine which is attached to the hole in the door that at one time was home to a doorknob – which then must be wound around the shower nozzle. Position is of the utmost importance due to the large hole in the door and (again) the gaps between the door and frame.
As I dip the plastic bucket into the bucket of water, to manually flush the toilet (a.k.a “hole in the ground) – I wash away any notion of ever being called a high-maintenance woman.
I describe this scene with endearment, as the simplistic beauty of this place has given me more comfort and happiness than any of the “princess suites” I have occupied thus far.
Now here you have a literary picture captured in less than a thousand words – 553 to be exact.
