American Tom, Snakes, and Horatio
It’s not often tourists take your picture,
but that is exactly what happened one day, as American Tom, Izzie, and I sat in a shady beach bar in Bo Phut village,
on the island of Koh Samui.
From our rickety bamboo table, I noticed a red and white Japanese flag attached to a fully decked-out Canon camera with a very intrusive telescopic lens. Behind the boxlike camera, stood a tall Japanese tourist with floppy jet-black hair, trendy over-sized glasses, and wide eyes.
He wore a gleeful expression of… “Aha I gotcha!”
I guess he imagined the three of us; as obviously not Thais, not tourists, but as three shining examples of local ex-pat color. This goofball tourist waved with an excited flair as if we were monkeys in a zoo, and then while we continued our conversation he waved his free hand, as if to say hello.
A strange notion came over me. I actually felt — not exploited, like topless women exploited by National Geographic magazine back in the day — we had disagreed about this recently over gin and tonics — but, that there was something significant about what this guy was doing.
“He’s crossing a line.” Izzie said, putting down his cigarillo.
This guy probably has a blog, I thought. Maybe looking for runaway digital nomads. Perhaps he thought Izzie was a famous DJ, and American Tom and I were retired movie stars.
Hmm. Not likely.
Most likely our Japanese intruder was probably tired of photographing elephants and temples and hotel landscaping, and saw in the three of us on that sunny morning something only an outsider could see. Maybe something exotic.
On that, I can only guess, but by the time he had flown back to Tokyo, or wherever he had come from, it turned out that one of us would be forever gone from this island, and in fact, this Earth.
So, somewhere in Japan, there’s a picture of the three of us mates: lightly dressed with slight pot bellies, wearing our faded good-karma Thai bracelets, faces scorched from years in the sun, sitting happily on our twirly bar stools exchanging tales of living in paradise over ice-cubed glasses of beer.
Similar to the boy characters from the book, Lord of the Flies, but not boys — three hung-over western 50-somethings — who would never leave paradise for the horrors of a normal life back home.
It was Izzie who started talking about snakes. We had all seen snakes. And we all liked to one-up each other in the story telling department.
“In fact, a few months back, a pre-historicesque python — Is there such a word?” I asked.
“I guess there is now.” American Tom responded.
I continued, “A 20 foot python crossed the road near my house hunting frogs, and the traffic in both directions stopped in its tracks.”
“Really?”
“Tourists in airport taxis freaked out — they rolled down their windows and took photos of the thing, and I could see its body stretched out over 2 lanes.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Total respect — you could hear the frogs in the ditches, all moaning — they knew mommy was coming for dinner.”
Izzie and American Tom laughed.
But after a quiet sip of his beer, Tom’s mood changed. He leaned in, his handle-bar mustache hovering over his mug, real close, like he was confessing to a priest. The rugged American revealed he was haunted by a cobra, a 6ft long one, silver with white markings.
Two weeks ago, he said he encountered it while driving up a hill; and when he braked and turned and almost spilled his bike over sideways on the downhill side; the cobra, white-hot and fierce, curled and swirled in a flurry of convulsions. It raised itself on the black asphalt waiting for the right time to strike. Tom dusted himself off, straightened up his bike, jumped on and was about to drive off when in a tantalizing moment, the demon peered straight through him — down to his very soul. In a word — biblical.
Izzie and I sucked back our beers and ordered another round, but there was more.
For the next 5 nights in a row, American Tom told us he had woken up in hot bed sheets and drenched pillows covered in a what he called a primal sweat — not unlike dengue fever. Every night the cobra’s fierce eyes menaced him whenever he tried to sleep.
Now of course, comes the ironic part: to his relief the nightmares stopped, and last night a big storm had washed over the island, and earlier this morning Tom was driving through a muddy torrent that spread over a section of road when yet another large snake slid out in front of him… this time Tom couldn’t stop.
His motorbike jetted through the rushing water slicing the snake in half.
Immediately the good old boy from Tennessee felt shame and regret — as anyone of us would — however, when he circled back 2 minutes later, mysteriously, there was no corpse on the grassy shoulder, on the road, or in the lagoon.
Tom took a long pull on his beer and talked about his nightmares with the first King cobra — But had he gotten off lucky this time? Had he missed the second snake? Or…Would the King cobra, and now, a pissed off ghost-snake be waiting for him in his dreams?
Tom’s story was certainly the stuff of nightmares, and since we lived in a place where nightmares were abolished, we ordered another round and promptly stared at the ocean.
Tom came home that night with his usual glow according to his wife, Supradit. But once entering the bedroom he became distraught and overcome with panic. He refused to go to sleep. Tom stood in a corner, all sweaty, and started whispering and chanting in a trance-like state. Supradit said he wasn’t speaking Thai, nor English, and to this day Supradit feels she could have saved him if they had only gone to the temple.
But truth be known, American Tom was addressing his snake-demons bravely by himself. Maybe Tom tried to apologize for killing the innocent green snake and startling the King cobra. I guess one could conjure up all sorts of stories about the effects snakes have on people, but here’s the truth; the day after Japan-guy took our picture, my good buddy; American Tom, died in a bike accident on a clear day on an open road.
So, and unknown to the tourists for obvious reasons, over the next few days, the island’s pace slowed — most bars were empty. Some girls stayed home and wept. The island’s locals were taking time to reflect as this was a huge loss for the community. I lit incense in my backyard hoping American Tom would see the smoke.
After the days of mourning had come to an end, one sunny afternoon Izzie happened to bump his bike into mine at the beach 7/11 parking lot, and after a few pleasantries he told me his theory.
“For real Tom was most definitely cursed,” he said, sucking on his strawberry smoothie.
“And there’s only one explanation why he swerved into that tuk-tuk in broad daylight.”
Whether it was because Izzie was a DJ, or a percussionist, or had a pink milk-mustache above his lips, or the fact he had bragged about playing the biggest parties in Ibiza during its peak, I always listened to Izzie stories with skepticism. I, for one, secretly hated DJ’s, percussionists, and especially Ibiza. So, for reasons best left unsaid, I held my breath.
“You see, when I grew up back in Jamaica,” he said, wiping his mouth,
“…snakes would fall. Fall from the sky.”
“Go on.” This is rich. I told myself, taking a large spoonful from my strawberry yogurt.
“Well, whenever a big storm comes, the snake-holes get flooded, so they seek higher ground — that’s what we do, right? Remember the tsunami?”
“Yes. Makes sense. Higher Ground…” I said, thinking he wants to play Stevie Wonder songs again. I get it.
Izzie raised an eyebrow as if I wasn’t paying attention — just like in rehearsals.
He looked at me directly.
“So where do you think snakes go when the water gets high?”
“Hmm. Not sure.”
“Well, look up! You stupid Canadian.”
So I obliged. Above the 7/11, right over us there were plenty of them — power lines. A mass of long black wires stretched out under the sky like tight-ropes inside a circus tent. An interesting perch for a water-weary snake. I gave him that.
Izzie raised his sun-glasses, and gazing upwards at the power-lines, he shook his head.
“Poor American Tom. Snakes fall. No one told him to look up after a big storm — especially when you’re driving on your bike.”
“Well, you may be right. Shitty deal, really. Tom was a great bloke.”
“Yup. — Remember raining cats and dogs? Animals slipping from roof tops… Ha Ha. Same shit, different place — see ya.”
With Tom gone, I knew our little trio was broken forever. Izzie lived in a little jungle house surrounded by a grove of beckoning coconut palms. He gave me a friendly middle-finger salute as he drove away.
“Drive safe!” I shouted. Then, after I saw him swerve to avoid a pack of stray dogs, I headed in the opposite direction to my beach bungalow.
Turned out, every 18 months, or thereabouts, someone I knew, or knew of, died by motorbike. Driving under starry skies, — and yes, sometimes driving under the influence combined with the speed of a motorbike — this conspired to take away some great friends, often great musicians coming home from a gig. Except for American Tom. For some reason, it was snakes.
Fucking snakes, I was thinking when I saw the floppy tourist driving recklessly towards me. The Japanese camera guy with what seemed to be a permanent grin.
“Allo? Stop, stop! You got a minute?”
I turned off my bike and rested my hands on the handlebars.
“What can I do for ya?”
“Well, this is for you and your buddies.” He said handing me a yellow manila envelope.
“I’m sorry if I was so rude the other day — but you guys were having such a good party, I just had to take a few shots — here take a look.”
“You developed them?” I asked.
“Ya old school — no digital — I’m here for work, rented a house up the hill.”
I pulled out an 8x10. There we were, the three of us captured in time, heads forward, glistening eyes brimming with life, beers at the ready and large grins all around. I could see what he saw — three seasoned men engaged in the deep camaraderie of friendship. Pirates having a laugh.
“These are really good,” I said. Japanguy was ok.
“Well, I enjoy shooting people,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you guys, and I didn’t see you back at the bar.”
I nodded. “Well, ya, kind of busy.”
“I’ve extended my visa — 3 more months — love this place! Will you be at the bar tonight?” He said, as he started up his motorbike.
I was still stunned by his gesture.
“Let me buy you a few beers.” I said.
“Great!”
“Oh, friend.” I suddenly remembered.
“When you drive, don’t forget to look up.”
Japan-guy’s face went blank. He didn’t understand. Was I pulling a prank?
“Why?”
“Snakes fall from the power lines.”
“Really?” He seemed almost pleased.
“Snakes?? Really?”
“Yes…” I said, raising my eyebrows, pointing my index finger upwards towards the sky.
“Snakes.”
Horatio looked up, back at me, and then flashed the widest smile I’d ever seen.
“This is a crazy place. See you tonight — 8 pm.”