Another morning on Maenam Beach. The tide’s whispering those familiar stories again – the ones Bukowski would’ve loved if he’d ever made it out to this slice of Thai paradise. My notebook’s open, pages slightly damp from the morning humidity, and the local fishermen are already hauling in their catch.
This morning feels different. Maybe it’s how the light breaks through the coconut palms, casting these golden-amber shadows that make everything look like an old photograph. Been here 12 years now, and each sunrise still catches me by surprise.
I’m thinking about breakfast – probably Som Tam from the street vendor down the lane. Her papaya salad isn’t just food; it’s a narrative of heat, crunch, and tradition. Each bite tells you something about this island, about these people.
scribbles something in notebook, takes another swig of beer
The beauty of Koh Samui isn’t in its postcards. It’s in these tiny moments – the way an old woman’s laugh sounds like wind through bamboo, how the sea changes color with the hour, the rhythm of life that doesn’t give a damn about your Western schedules.
Charles would’ve appreciated this. Raw. Unfiltered. Real.
winks and goes back to writing
