Samui journals

Jan 17, 11am.

In many ways, this “trip” and this island share a striking similarity with the trip I made to Bali in late November to meet K. We had no plan but to spend time together. Where it happened, how it happened, all just seemed unimportant context. This time, I also only have one sole purpose, to attend a friend’s wedding. Everything else is just irrelevant context.

But having nothing to do can feel so different from having nothing to do. Instead of the sheer content and gentleness last time, I was engulfed by a sense of dislocation since my arrival last night. I don’t know what to do here, and more importantly, I don’t know what to do with myself.

So I tried to turn my attention outside this self of mine. There isn’t much happening in this little fishing village where the hotel is located at. It’s in the far south of Samui, quiet and unpopular. The hotel is called The Beach, funnily enough, it’s not really facing a swimming area, but a boating dock. The shoreline is short and limited, but enough for a 5-minute walk to damp my feet and stare into the nearby pig island. The owner of the hotel, Brian, is an aged British (pure guess) man who appears instantly friendly seeing my HK passport. He has been living in Samui on and off for the last 10 years while building this hotel, and still has his wife and kids living in Discovery Bay. He seemed genuinely unfazed when casually mentioning this. I was too tired to inquire into this curious arrangement and have to assume that’s for the best of everyone involved. But it did linger in my mind, I realize, as to how this come about. Our brain tend to automatically wanna fill up the missing information. And in this case, I wonder the condition of their marriage, the happiness of his wife, and the topic his children will bring up about their childhood in social situations or therapies years later into their future adult lives. At this moment, Brian himself seems happy. “Have a look at our Cannabis counter – it’s legal here, you know.” One of that kind, I reckoned.

On the plane here, my mind was captivated by a specific notion: the last trip of last year and the first trip of this year both happened in the name of love. The only difference is, last time I was the protagonist, this time I am the bystander. But love is love, as long as it happens, does it matter whom to?