We got out in the suburbs. The beach
wasn’t far from the car park by the docks. But we had to walk across a little
ridge that looked out to the sea and then dropped steeply down to the beach. It
was coloured in yellowish rocks and white daisies that stood out sharply
against the relentless clouding and unfolding of the sky. The rain was coming
back. All dead flowers would rise again especially here with all our constant wetness.
Mo thought it was fun to scatter their petals by swinging at them with his bag.
We walked through rows of little houses with green or white fences; some of
them had verandas and were hidden by tamarisk and yellow pineapple bushes.
Others stood stark amid the rocks in the lemon light.
Before reaching the edge of the
ridge, we could already make out the still water that led from the South China
sea to Sulawesi and further away, an enormous deserted promontory in the clear
water. We could hear the distant sound of a motor through the quite air. Then
we saw a little trawler in the distance, inching its way towards us over the
purple and luminous water.
‘Them Thai fuckers’ Iskra said
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