Live and let live
05.16.05 (1:23 am) [edit]
My first blog in a while! This happened in Rai Lay Beach, Krabi.
Having spent the afternoon rock climbing (my first physical exercise in months), I was extremely tired and had decided on an early night. As I walked back towards my bungalow in the dark, the resort was full of the nocturnal chatter of insects, birds and reptiles, the rustling of wet palm trees and the drips and trickles of recent rain.
Mixed in with the other sounds, I also recognised a strange but familiar one from the last couple of nights. I imagined it to come from two musical instruments, large wooden horns of some sort, in a Buddhist temple which I imagined to be somewhere in the forest behind my resort. Every three to four seconds, one of the horns would play a short, deep tone, and the other one would respond a split second later in almost, but not exactly, the same tone. I assumed that the monks were accompanying some kind of meditation or prayer ritual.
Minutes later, to the monotonous hum of the ceiling fan over my bed, I was pleasantly drifting off to sleep.
And then, all of a sudden, I was not.
I sat up in bed wondering what the hell I had just heard. At first I thought it had been part of a dream, but no, there it was again. And again. And again.
The wooden horn was now being played right outside my door.
At first I was completely mesmerised by the sound. Not only was the sound impossiby loud, the tone also had more texture closer up than it had had when I heard it through the woods. It sounded like something in between a deep stroke on a cello and a calf. No sooner had I decided that both were highly unlikely to occur in these surroundings, than a new, far more unpleasant image formed in my mind; that of a giant mutant toad.
After about five minutes the sound became unbearable. I knew that as long as this was going on, I wasn't going to get any sleep. I turned the light on, snuck over to the door and tore it open. I'm not sure what I expected to happen, but the noise stopped abruptly. I peered out into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fleeing abomination. But in the faint light from my room, all I could see were the small fish pond under my window and the large shrub behind it.
Slightly disappointed at not having spotted the reptile, but with deep satisfaction at the promise of sleep, I closed the door, switched off the light, and went back to bed. Of course, moments later, the bastard was at it again. I concluded that he had to be hidden inside the shrub, concealed from my view.
I got up again and found my two trusted travel companions, the yellow foam ear plugs. I popped them in and returned to the bed. Saying that the ear plugs did not have the desired effect would be an understatement. The hum of the ceiling fan, the chatter of insects and frogs and the trickle of water, all but melted away. The toad, however, was now inside my skull.
I extracted the ear plugs and opened the door again. The toad, like before, went quiet. I lingered, hoping that the mutant would loose patience and move on. I imagined he was watching me from inside the shrub. I stood there for quite some time, trying to look menacing, hoping that the toad didn't realise I was only staring at the shrub. As it turned out, he did. To my dismay, the reptile blatantly resumed his serenade straight to my face.
It was the carol singer from hell.
Right, I thought. This means war. I calmly closed the door, sat down on the bed, and made a mental list of potential weapons in my luggage.
WEAPONS IN LUGGAGE
1. Small knife
2. Multipurpose tool
3. Powerful mounted flash
4. Can of insect spray (almost empty)
5. Cigarette lighter
6. Bottle of alcoholic iodine solution
7. Roll of adhesive tape
8. Handful of malaria tablets (damage potential questionable)
My excitement at the variety of my arsenal was short-lived. These were all close-combat weapons and therefore shared two main disadvantages:
In order to get to the shrub (where I was now confident that the animal was hiding) I would have to wade through a slimy, slippery fish pond in complete darkness, with an almost certainly negative outcome. Also, it seemed highly unlikely that the cunning critter would patiently wait for my arrival. He would probably retreat to a less accessible (but equally audible) location, and nothing would have been achieved.
And then a new thought struck down in me. What if this was a mating call? What if the two monks I had heard earlier were in fact a male and a female giant mutant toad, at a later stage of courting? WHICH LASTED FOR DAYS? The idea of a second monster at this very moment hobbling hornily along towards my bungalow, filled me with panic.
That's when I remembered that there were two empty plastic water bottles in the bin. I fished them out, ran to the bathroom, filled the bottles with water, capped them, and weighed one in each hand with a smug grin.
I now had short-range missiles.
But wait a second. What if the toad was a rare protected species? What if Rai Lay Beach was a national sanctuary for giant mutant monk horn toads? The prospect of celebrating my fiftieth birthday with a bunch of European drug smugglers in a Bangkok prison was not appealing. I grudgingly poured most of the water into the sink, leaving only a little splash at the bottom, enough to give the missiles direction, but too little (or so I imagined) to cause serious injury to the reptile.
The operation was a qualified success. The first missile, although I was able to steer it in the right direction, failed to penetrate the shrub. It got stuck in its branches and hung there until morning. The second one, however, disappeared through the leaves with a thump.
Everything was still.
I waited for a few minutes....
Not a sound from the toad.
I closed the door...
All was quiet.
I went back to bed....
Silence.
Just as I felt myself floating off into sleep, I started worrying. What was that thump? Had I maimed the toad? Was he fighting for his life in the shrub? Had I sent an entire species on its merry way to extinction with a plastic bottle? And for what, for a night's sleep? What kind of monster was I?
When the racket resumed after a few minutes, I was almost relieved. I decided to live and let live. I booted up my laptop, plugged in my earphones, and set the media player to Random. Of course, when the music was sufficiently loud to block out the sound of the toad, it was also too loud for me to fall asleep to. But at least I was back in charge, and I hadn’t killed the toad. I lay there for ages, listening to all sorts of music (that’s what random means), occasionally turning down the volume to check if it was still out there. It was.
About two hours after going to bed for the first time that evening, I turned the sound down during Tom Waits' Shiver Me Timbers (thank you, Enda). The toad was still out there, but this time, to my complete surprise, it sang (almost) in key with the music. I couldn’t believe my luck. I set the media player to Repeat and left the volume low, and minutes later, to the sound of Tom Waits and the giant mutant monk horn toad, I fell asleep.
Having spent the afternoon rock climbing (my first physical exercise in months), I was extremely tired and had decided on an early night. As I walked back towards my bungalow in the dark, the resort was full of the nocturnal chatter of insects, birds and reptiles, the rustling of wet palm trees and the drips and trickles of recent rain.
Mixed in with the other sounds, I also recognised a strange but familiar one from the last couple of nights. I imagined it to come from two musical instruments, large wooden horns of some sort, in a Buddhist temple which I imagined to be somewhere in the forest behind my resort. Every three to four seconds, one of the horns would play a short, deep tone, and the other one would respond a split second later in almost, but not exactly, the same tone. I assumed that the monks were accompanying some kind of meditation or prayer ritual.
Minutes later, to the monotonous hum of the ceiling fan over my bed, I was pleasantly drifting off to sleep.
And then, all of a sudden, I was not.
I sat up in bed wondering what the hell I had just heard. At first I thought it had been part of a dream, but no, there it was again. And again. And again.
The wooden horn was now being played right outside my door.
At first I was completely mesmerised by the sound. Not only was the sound impossiby loud, the tone also had more texture closer up than it had had when I heard it through the woods. It sounded like something in between a deep stroke on a cello and a calf. No sooner had I decided that both were highly unlikely to occur in these surroundings, than a new, far more unpleasant image formed in my mind; that of a giant mutant toad.
After about five minutes the sound became unbearable. I knew that as long as this was going on, I wasn't going to get any sleep. I turned the light on, snuck over to the door and tore it open. I'm not sure what I expected to happen, but the noise stopped abruptly. I peered out into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fleeing abomination. But in the faint light from my room, all I could see were the small fish pond under my window and the large shrub behind it.
Slightly disappointed at not having spotted the reptile, but with deep satisfaction at the promise of sleep, I closed the door, switched off the light, and went back to bed. Of course, moments later, the bastard was at it again. I concluded that he had to be hidden inside the shrub, concealed from my view.
I got up again and found my two trusted travel companions, the yellow foam ear plugs. I popped them in and returned to the bed. Saying that the ear plugs did not have the desired effect would be an understatement. The hum of the ceiling fan, the chatter of insects and frogs and the trickle of water, all but melted away. The toad, however, was now inside my skull.
I extracted the ear plugs and opened the door again. The toad, like before, went quiet. I lingered, hoping that the mutant would loose patience and move on. I imagined he was watching me from inside the shrub. I stood there for quite some time, trying to look menacing, hoping that the toad didn't realise I was only staring at the shrub. As it turned out, he did. To my dismay, the reptile blatantly resumed his serenade straight to my face.
It was the carol singer from hell.
Right, I thought. This means war. I calmly closed the door, sat down on the bed, and made a mental list of potential weapons in my luggage.
WEAPONS IN LUGGAGE
1. Small knife
2. Multipurpose tool
3. Powerful mounted flash
4. Can of insect spray (almost empty)
5. Cigarette lighter
6. Bottle of alcoholic iodine solution
7. Roll of adhesive tape
8. Handful of malaria tablets (damage potential questionable)
My excitement at the variety of my arsenal was short-lived. These were all close-combat weapons and therefore shared two main disadvantages:
In order to get to the shrub (where I was now confident that the animal was hiding) I would have to wade through a slimy, slippery fish pond in complete darkness, with an almost certainly negative outcome. Also, it seemed highly unlikely that the cunning critter would patiently wait for my arrival. He would probably retreat to a less accessible (but equally audible) location, and nothing would have been achieved.
And then a new thought struck down in me. What if this was a mating call? What if the two monks I had heard earlier were in fact a male and a female giant mutant toad, at a later stage of courting? WHICH LASTED FOR DAYS? The idea of a second monster at this very moment hobbling hornily along towards my bungalow, filled me with panic.
That's when I remembered that there were two empty plastic water bottles in the bin. I fished them out, ran to the bathroom, filled the bottles with water, capped them, and weighed one in each hand with a smug grin.
I now had short-range missiles.
But wait a second. What if the toad was a rare protected species? What if Rai Lay Beach was a national sanctuary for giant mutant monk horn toads? The prospect of celebrating my fiftieth birthday with a bunch of European drug smugglers in a Bangkok prison was not appealing. I grudgingly poured most of the water into the sink, leaving only a little splash at the bottom, enough to give the missiles direction, but too little (or so I imagined) to cause serious injury to the reptile.
The operation was a qualified success. The first missile, although I was able to steer it in the right direction, failed to penetrate the shrub. It got stuck in its branches and hung there until morning. The second one, however, disappeared through the leaves with a thump.
Everything was still.
I waited for a few minutes....
Not a sound from the toad.
I closed the door...
All was quiet.
I went back to bed....
Silence.
Just as I felt myself floating off into sleep, I started worrying. What was that thump? Had I maimed the toad? Was he fighting for his life in the shrub? Had I sent an entire species on its merry way to extinction with a plastic bottle? And for what, for a night's sleep? What kind of monster was I?
When the racket resumed after a few minutes, I was almost relieved. I decided to live and let live. I booted up my laptop, plugged in my earphones, and set the media player to Random. Of course, when the music was sufficiently loud to block out the sound of the toad, it was also too loud for me to fall asleep to. But at least I was back in charge, and I hadn’t killed the toad. I lay there for ages, listening to all sorts of music (that’s what random means), occasionally turning down the volume to check if it was still out there. It was.
About two hours after going to bed for the first time that evening, I turned the sound down during Tom Waits' Shiver Me Timbers (thank you, Enda). The toad was still out there, but this time, to my complete surprise, it sang (almost) in key with the music. I couldn’t believe my luck. I set the media player to Repeat and left the volume low, and minutes later, to the sound of Tom Waits and the giant mutant monk horn toad, I fell asleep.