Signs of the times

The signs litter Ko Jum on dead-end dirt roads, isolated stretches of beach, palm groves and rubber plantations, with milky latex trickling down tree trunks into small buckets. They warn in English and Thai that the island sits in a tsunami hazard zone. That's like saying "the sky is blue" or "jellyfish sting."

No one pays them any attention.

The signs came after the sea devastated the island and much of coastal southeast Asia in December of 2004. Some signs, fronting the island's longest stretch of beach, point toward the Andaman Sea. After the first couple dozen, they feel absurd. Who here needs a sign to remind them of the danger from the sea? And what good, exactly, would one of these signs do if the island was again belted by waves taller than buildings?

At the Fighting Fish bar near the beach, I wondered what that day was like. For hours I stared at the horizon and tried to imagine the waves coming at me. Would I run? Would my body freeze with panic? Would there even be time to react? But all that was in front of me was the calm water with longtails sputtering through it and jagged outlines of tourist-ravaged Ko Phi Phi on the horizon where the sea once rose up.

The bar, part of the Woodland Lodge, didn't fare badly during the tsunami. A few nearby bungalows were destroyed and sand still covers the once-lush landscaping. The owners, a Scotchman named Ray, wearing a Glock T-shirt, and his Thai wife, Sao, stuck it out. The place is back to normal. But a book of photos of the tsumani's aftermath still sits on the bar's counter.

In the corner, a television with a gecko resting in the middle of the screen played a loop of the BBC. An orchestra of croaks, chirps, creaks and buzzes came through the building's open sides. When the cicadas start up, they drown out conversation. That starts at 5:30 a.m. and continues until well after dark. A couple of German women at the bar filled a water bottle with a fifth of rum and purple candy. The bar was painted with bright fighting fish. Smoke from mosquito coils in empty Singha beer bottles drifted up and outside lights were struck on the palm trees. One of Ray's dogs curled up on a plastic chair in front of the television. A gang of frogs in a pool by the kitchen moaned so loudly that an Englishman pounded the ground in front of them until they quieted, as his wife roared with laughter.

The scene was so peaceful, so normal that it made the day the sea came feel even more remote. The damage is repaired, the dead are buried and life goes on. The signs remain. And, after a while, they blend into the scenery.

Up in smoke

By day, the Bamboo Bar wasn't much to look at.

An open air shack made of coconut wood fronted a desolate stretch of beach on Ko Jum. Signs hawked longtail trips to Krabi and Ko Phi Phi and scuba diving. Ratty blankets and candle holders covered the sand in front of the bar. No one stirred, inside or out.

But darkness transformed the place. Candles flickered in the sand, throwing shadows around palm trees. Strands of white Christmas lights wrapped around the bar. An iPod was connected a pair of speakers. A generator's hum filled the space between songs.

Clouds covered the moon. From a hundred yards away, the dabs of light from the bar painted a mystery. Something exotic. Something your mind could play with. Something that was more than its ragged reality.

Up close, there was enough light to see the cloud of smoke that engulfed the counter. The twentysomething bartender alternated hits from a bamboo bong with long drinks from a pail with a half-gallon of rum and soda. A man dozed on the counter. Another stumbled toward one of the candles and arranged shells. The bartender introduced himself over and over. He took more hits. He introduced himself again and, for the fifth time, wanted to make sure we approved of the concoction in the pail.

The dim outline of a couple laying next to each other in the sand flickered by in the candlelight.

We drank cans of Singha. The bartender couldn't remember how much they cost. Holding the cold can against your forehead did more to combat the heat, even late in the evening, than drinking the bitter stuff.

The only other coherent customer was an artist from England down to her last few baht. The island's air was too humid for her paintings to properly dry. She nursed a beer and cigarette and wondered what she would do for money.

Cicadas screeched, overwhelming the music.

The bartender drifted back into a world of his own making. You could say the same about the island. A different world, where a couple of cans of beer at a ramshackle bar on a beach where you can't see another light as the evening's entertainment.