Saturday, 28 January 2017

Sensory overload.

When you have stayed in the homes of friends and family, and in airbnb's and guest houses for the last year and two months, you begin to crave only one thing. Quiet.

I've never been good with noisy neighbours, barking dogs or screaming children but now, more than ever, I yearn for silence. I lived on my own in London for 13 years and I always knew I could come back from work and switch off. I could wander around the flat naked if I so pleased. I could make up dance routines to silly pop songs, I could experiment in the kitchen creating exotic dishes, I could have a bath long enough to crinkle, and I could lie on my bed for hours on end and stare at the ceiling in my own little day-dreaming world. I could do anything I pleased in the comfort of my own home and not have to apologise or explain.

My last 14 months have been full of busy households and complex rules. I never know if a new airbnb will let me use their kitchen let alone if they have a terrible toddler hidden in the next door bedroom. There might be an over-familiar cat on the premises (I'm allergic) or a small yapping dog who likes to wake the residents at dawn. But there is never ever total quiet. There's always the noise of other present humans and sometimes I tiptoe around the spare rooms because I actually don't want my host to come and check on me and force me into yet another awkward chat about what I do or where I'm from.

I used to love small talk. I could small talk for England and yet now, when small talk is forced upon me in my after-work time, I just want to get as far away from it as possible. It's different at my parent's house obviously. They know me well enough that when I say I'm just going to read for a bit or tell them I'm doing my physio or write or do some work... it's a much bigger statement of fact because I'm actually saying, I'd just like to be on my own for a while please. And they get it.

My only other safe haven, my sanctuary and my chosen place to scream and shout and sing at the top of my lungs with no one to judge me, is my car... my gorgeous, gnarled, weatherbeaten, golden goddess of a saloon car, with her comfy fabric seats and a radio that only manages to tune into local radio stations when I twiddle the coat hanger aerial in the right direction. Here I can listen to audio books on an actual tape deck (young people, ask your parents what that is), I can swear at stupid drivers, talk to myself in funny voices and wind all the windows down and pretend I'm in an 80's music video, lip-syncing to classic rock!

So when I booked my trip to Thailand with my two friends, there really was only one requirement. Quiet. Quiet as in nature quiet. I don't expect the weather to turn off, for the birds to pipe down. I don't want the tides to stop or the leaves to still their rustling. I just don't want raucous beach bars and noisy neighbours.

Paradise resort is called paradise for a reason. It's tagline is 'back to nature' and that is exactly what you get. It's almost as if everyone that arrives here signs an agreement to shhh. Except of course the woman in the room next to me!! She didn't get the memo about it being back to nature, wasn't told to shhh, and could be heard by the 40 other guests from one end of the resort to the other. It's amusing to watch a middle-aged drunk woman make a fool of herself for a day or so, but after that it gets very tiresome. Having been in the room next to her for 2 hideous nights was quite the bad luck but I was re-housed swiftly, with many Paradise apologies and the day after that she left the resort proclaiming she was bored! The island and the guests sighed with mutual relief and now all is calm again.

My day is noisiest at 6:30am when I hear the first deep hoots from the hornbills in the trees surrounding my room. I thought they were monkeys at first and got quite excited until the manager told me, "No monkeys here", as he laughed with a similar hooting noise.
The hootings rapidly turn to squawks as the hornbills defend the female's nest from pesky squirrels. They flap and snap and hop from branch to branch sometimes miscalculating and landing with a thump on the thatched roof above my head. This wakes the tree frogs who beep beep their good mornings and then the rest of the bird and insect worlds join in.

As the day begins to warm up the rainforest quietens and I can hear the waves lapping on the beach. I don't put my air conditioning on because I would miss half the sounds but I have the gentle tick whir of the ceiling fan. The first human sounds I hear are the soft flip flops on the cement path outside as a few early risers head for the yoga pavilion. I haven't quite made the 7am class yet, preferring to lie with all my doors and windows open, a coffee in hand, and wake up gently with the forest creatures.

Around 8:30 I leave my sanctuary and have breakfast at the beach restaurant, then head for a tree-shaded sun lounger. And then that's it. For hours and hours all I hear is the sea, a few fishing boats and muted conversations in foreign tongues. No one is loud here. There are no rowdy beach games or screaming kids. There are no barking dogs or whining mopeds. There is nothing. I have ended up moving myself closer to a gorgeous gay couple because the sound of them speaking Italian to each other lulls me to sleep. I have told them this and they love that their language is a lullaby. I am also enjoying small talk again. Small and quiet small talk. There is the occasional creaking as someone eases themselves into a hammock or a splash might be heard from the pool. A kiss might come from one of the honeymoon couples, or the soft slap of hand on oiled skin from the spa. Pages of books being turned and the pft pft of sunscreen being sprayed are the loudest it gets. And then as people grow beach and sun weary, they pad their way back to their rooms for showers and siestas. The hum of air con units being turned on, doors being opened and closed, and the occasional swoosh of a brush as the gardeners sweep up dry leaves.

And then the heavens open. 4 inches of rain can fall in a single hour. It's loud and awesome. Solid sheets of water cascading through leaves and thundering onto the thatched roofs. Inside the room it's deafening and exhilarating and suddenly it stops as quickly as it started as if a giant tap has been turned off and only the drips and plonks and plinks remain. Once again the rainforest surges with life until the sun goes down and then only the cicadas are left, rubbing their legs together in the dark. Then the clack of shoes as guests head back out for dinner, jumping to avoid the puddles.

I stayed in my room last night, missing dinner, because I was trying to remember what this noisy silence sounded like. Away from the cities and houses. Away from cars and buses. Away from computers and mobile phones. And I tried to store it in my memory bank so I could bring it back when I next needed it.

I only have one more day left in Paradise and then I head for Koh Lanta. But let's hope paradise awaits me there too.

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