– Where? Here? (Laughing. Nang points between here eye-brows)
– No no. Here. (Pointing on my left area of the receding hairline) On the heart-side.
– Ooh, really?
– Why not?
– You are sure?
– I was never sure. (presenting my body. Laughing.)
– Ok. I understand. (presenting here serious way of modifying)

Nang, a middle-aged handsome and energetic woman, mother of a son, is part of the Tattoo Club Koh Phangan since 8 years, runned by 3 different studios, all located in the same street, Soi Krung Thai, in the center of Thongsala.
She`s performing now for about 4 years as bamboo artist, the only female one on the island. Never used the machine. – If she can remember any special tattoos? … One inside the (bottom) lip of a women. And a mustache on this (middle) finger, because she was model. Very funny. … I also did here body. (refering to a women, the skin stretcher, sitting on the other couch, ) She said you can have all my body.
The lady turned around kind of shy. And after a giggle she lift here shirt and showed a spiritual tattoo, round and flowered with small symbols. For Protection. I am leaning forward. Show is over. The lady bashful rubs here belly and smiles kindly.
The Club runs also a very nice hidden paradise, named Tattoo Garden. Beside one studio a small entrance opens a beautiful green space, small bungalows, animals, wooden balconies and a small stage, lined by circling bamboos, in the center for jamming. They don´t book bands, they just came by and say hello.
5 artists are working at the Tattoo Club, 4 checking tattoos, one piercer. Nang. For 10 years now.
But you are not born here, right? No, i am born North East of Thailand, on the countryside, very normal.
Why are you staying on Koh Phangan? … Many People around here, from all around the world, different countries. I like talking to them and I like to go around the world sometimes.
They offer also a more spiritual way of tattoo art made by bamboo. Nang is not a spiritual person.
– No. I am not no no.
She is laughing.

Thank you Nang, for this wonderful memory.


Actually it was my second tattoo i get on this island. My first one, 2006, caused by a motorbike accident with my sister, visiting me. Koh Phangan Tattoo they call it, the scar from an infected wound, suppurating in my left leg.



– Ich war vorher an deinem Bungalow. Du hast aber nicht ansprechbar ausgesehen.
– Echt du warst da? Komisch. Und ich dachte, dass du da warst… dass jetzt Besuch kommen würde und ich entspannt mich mal für fünf Minuten in die Matte schlage!
– Ja, hab dann beim Weggehen eine Wasserflaschen herunterfallen gehört. Waren dann aber weniger als 5 Minuten.
– Dachte ich mir, dass du das gehört hast. Warum biste nicht zurück?
– Ach ich musste dann was anderes machen. Hab ich vergessen.
– Ok.
– Genau! Gitarre hab ich gespielt.
– Dann wars ja gut, dass ich meine Kopfhörer aufbehalten habe.

Founded a great musician and companion at Shambhala Bungalow Village. And a delicious spaghetti cooker. Of course a best manager of a very relaxing place, highly recommended.
And a friend.
No. Two.
No four!
Four weeks.
Four friends.
And not the unspecial ones.
And lots of love.
See you next.
Crossing roads.

Thanks for a start in stylisch chaos.

– Do you know what i mean? Stylisch?
– No. What? Stülich!
– Who cares.
– Me? Not.
– Stylisch meinte stilvoll. Stilvolles Chaos. Chaos mit Stil. Klingt beides beschissen.
– Ja, tut es.
Browsing languages.

Shut up you german dudes! Can you imagine? This transformation? German dude? I can. Just forget the bathrobe, you just need your underwear. – Ah i hate this word in my scripts. So forget about the german dudes.

So. Many many lovely thanks for an chaotic peaceful countdown to my first move.
Going to Bangkok.
You coached so well! – Everybody coaches, get teached, teaches, and even though this are just words, if you listen to, you understand more. Couldn´t be worse, right? Instead of commanded by the best ones.
That´s part of moving.
On the road. Again.
So let´s get rid of this touchy blasphemic romantic shit. – Also part of moving, leaving places. Not commanded yet how to react.
And NOW P-A-C-K the bag!
But not again, first time, on travel.
Before, back home, that was only a dress rehearsal.
I like this new door.
Stepping on a new stage. It´s nearly 8 years ago last time.
Taking the ferry to Surrathani, up north by train to Bangkok.

4 days ahead to Bangkok. While i am writing these words, i am in my hammock on the balcony, floating, listening to music and i feel… well i don´t care about words you might be delighted. There is no word for that.


Satanic crickets, black army of metal sawing high tweeters.
Spiders with a penis hat, one ball below forcing eight pubes apart.
A bumy browsing saurian, 1,60 m long, dull in his motivation to move his sack of a reptile, flicking his tongue.
White magic trees whispering in a salty blob of sweat.
Plastic laterns, guiding the way to paradise.
Great views on the heavily greened interior.

It´s a great hike to Bottle Beach.
After taking the wrong path, signed in Siamese, climbing up thirsty rocks of waterfalls, following dead end by dead end, abandoned the idea of falling, mastered to explore the entrance, a hidden one, diverting from the dirt road, passing the Coconut Beach Bungalow, after about 500 m.

And again, forgot the towel.









Peering at the calm sea
a beaten level wild
resting chomatose.
Landscape is nothing.

Do i feel hapiness?

It´s all about your landscapes inside,
your layers of diversity, block of doom
and pleasure, criticism and sin.
Nobody desires war, crimes, cruelty.
Everybody accept hope.
The satisfaction of peace.
Somewhere beyond horizon.
Enough to loose everything and imagine the truth,
another expression for reality,
meaning imagination,
looping in belief.
There must be something out there.

I just feel calm.

Landscape is nothing.
The endless sea inside me,
such as the wicked safety of the shore.
Dirty lousy piles of a goat´s asshole!

I just feel like an outsider of my inside.
There must be something out there.
But i don´t know if it´s good.


So fuckin freakin hot, beyond belief.
I no longer can´t differ the rusty chirr of the cricket´s army from the sustained squeak of the lamely wings of the fan, differ with a cognitive ability.
The raising air weakens after some sort of spirals in the nowhere right beyond the fountain.
I don´t know how to lie.
I don´t feel like lying, more like a fly trapped in glue.
Thinking about the evening, desire the breeze of cooling, leaving pulverulent sand trickling through the hair coated back.
Left-behind a far-off tone of froth.
Even this tone sounds like a red booming metal machine. Merciless blast of a furnace.
It´s all flowing. Creeping. Melting.
I am adopting things around my body, getting touched by.
Sand. Sheet. Pillow. A peace of peanut´s wrapping.
Awakening up as a salted Golem.
It´s wonderful and melty, not wonderful melty.
The sand is perfect for peeling the mosquito bites on the sheet.
In the bungalow next door a women is puking.
Maybe hot steam.
Puking in this heat. Jesus. You haven’t the faintest idea!
And nothing more.
Just how it is.
Awaiting less…
Dumb froth.
Is it possible to fuck in salty water?
On the mattress, won´t work out. You find yourself in a kind of leaking waterbed.
Sometimes it´s best to be alone.
Just sweating.
Sweat in Sweat out.
Why i didn´t got myself drunken again. I would have a sleep now. No dreaming. Just sleeping.
Tomorrow the whole will have been soaked by the sheet. Including myself. Like the night the froth.
Where is daylight, i wanna get a bottle of Sang Som.
No sex. No beer.
Women puking next door.
That´s my world!
I think it´s a pretty steamy one.



Embracing the earth, lying on the ground with a feeling of weight and floating. Mindless.
Did i really left my knife at home?
Did i puke?
Last night everything was possible. It could have happened annything. But nothing.
Just music. Electronics everywhere.
The heat today is outstanding, no it´s all over, just here, stucked, in windlessness. The plamtrees seem to be postered. No fluffy leaves rattling.
I am still flashed.
There is that picture.
Of a japanese couple, embracing touchy in full moon, in the spume of the smooth sea, kissing softly, like a butterfly the air. It was just perfect there.
Fuck it´s so hot today.
Apart from that, embracing a female body would be also kind of an attraction. Just this icecube-classy stuff, i wouldn´t miss anything else. Now! In the cooling breeze of the fan.
Nothing happened.
Who cares.
Back to reality, whatever that means.
A day after full moon.



Ride to the moon!
Supported by the famous local rock heros: TAXI & the name of the second band i missed, it was not written anywhere, not in roman alphabet, not on Facebook, not by a pyrotechnical performance into the sky.
Sounds like Rock. It´s rock. Well, Thai Rock. Maybe with too much western attitude on stage. But not bad at all. Just same same.
Police having their dinner between. Beer service by handsome Thai girls. Foreign Biker Clubs. Local Biker Clubs. Foreign Bikers with Thai wives. Local Bikers with foreign wives.
15 minutes acceptance speech in between. Only got about a hundred time of “krap”, the very polite male expression saying thanks, equivalent of saying sir or madam.
The area was huge, not half crowded. But seems that nobody had expected different.
So, a usual Biker festival, drinking whiskey, 40 Inch towers of beer, splitting chickens fried or not and maybe it was turning into a party late-night, like bikers practice in our imagination.
I left before.
Although would go there again, maybe next year, but then without motorbike i have to care about.


Traveling by your own and watching couples.

You choose with whom you like to talk or just stay overbold.
You gettin not picked up by couples or groups or a group of couples feeling sorry about your lonesome attitude. You getting picked up, because they have to talk to someone else as their partner in spe. “You wanna join us?” “May i join you? – And my partner?” It´s like taking hitch hikers, you never now what´s hidden in the woods.
You don´t have conversations about what to eat, where to eat and when. Neither about leaving places or new destinations. You leave. Or stay. Eat or starve. Mind your own farts.
Sex is not an issue. So you can´t get angry about not to have one.
You don´t have to be worried about the abbility to feel comfy. You be or not and if not, nobody blames, worries or fucks you up more.
You don´t getting glued in the middle of the night because you felt like embracing a moment of happiness. And get a kick in the back.
You don`t have to play stupid board games, even worse with other couples.
You don´t stay sober or have to hide your whole day drunkenness.
You don´t talk about back home or home sweet home or how is life back home. Who cares!
You just don´t talk.
Getting lost, you don´t argue who´s up next ask for a proper route and you don´t run in one of this nocuous moments. You just laugh, walk further even though to the end of the road. Discovering other, more options, cause options make you stronger, not snailing around in agony.
You don´t talk about peeing if you are stucked i a bus and are nearly, meaning half the way down your legs, pee yourself all over. You don´t get nasty about your partner who hasn´t taken the toilet or next corner, bush, possibility whatever, before boarding.
You don´t have to find someone who fits for both, escaping looping dialogs. You don´t have to worry because you haven´t spoken a word to each other more than a day.
You don´t have discussions about laundry and when to deliver.
You have just one motorbike to watch.
You sunburn your back by the lack of a person you want to get touched. You don´t get touched by a person you don´t want to and don´t have discussions for the next days about that bitchy fact.
You can stand at the edge of a waterfall, fall, depth or more fatal, not having rough minds about how it feels like being a heartless killer.
No fighting about the only hammock space.
No inner conflicts with the gentleman.
And you can commit the whole enchilada, bought during traveling, your partner, flying back home. So you can have shopping and backpacking, and stay lonesome and overbold.

There is no conclusion. Even the first couple i met was awesome – they didn´t used the term once.

So, if you get the point invariabel and you are female, write me a letter.



Sometimes you don´t know if you are walking or drowning.
Khao Ra is the highest point of Koh Phangan, 627 meters, and pretends to offer magnificent views.
Started at 7 a.m., from the beach, a darkened line by a dumping froth of Zero, adopting the challenge seriously. Classified as a 2 to 4 hours walk to the top, expecting an hour to the bottom of Khao Ra and about a 2 hours trek up.
Two apples, a pack of nuts, 1,5 liter of water, so expecting an easy jungle hike. From Shambhala Bungalow Village to the bottom of the hill, so called highest point – “Pah! I am a bavarian guy from the alpine upland. 637 meter? I probably walk that on my hands”, it was a comfy good morning walk.
You can´t miss the starting point. If you are reaching from the Southwest like me, taking the main road to Ban Chalok Lam, nearby the Y-junction, turn right and expect the sign to Khao Ra Bungalows after about 200 m, turn left and follow the dirt road. At the Wat turn left again. After about 1 kilometer, at the main entrance, take the left path guiding up, which seems to be logic not to take the other path downwards.
On the way i picked up a bamboo bar, expected the movement guiding me in some kind of a wandering mood. At that point didn´t know what a gift this bar gonna be – you don´t need to be in the mood of surviving. Further i imagined fighting a Spider´s Web, Scorpions or Cobras, or one of these tiny teethfreakin dogs, protecting their territory, tryin, needled by the bamboo bar, to snap your lower legs.

So, the first steps on the dirt road up the hill were like all first steps. “Fuck, i´ll never get this done. Breath slowly, find rhythm, stay strong, take your time and use the power of the bar, get into the mood. Bullshitting.” Having crossed the bridge of the water reservoir, a sign briefs “Khao Ra 2km”.
The dirt road ends and the trek begins. The path is getting more narrow and unlighted.
I secured my camera in the bag, otherwise it would have been sponged by my floating limbs.
The bamboo bar turns more and more in some kind of a walker and the only possibility to avoid a break down. “Don´t sit down, you never will rise up.”
I felt the pressure of the last hundred packages of cigarettes inhaled the last week, sticking like a cork in my lungs. Even during my first dive after 7 years i didn´t had that feeling of breathing in a vacuum cleaner.
It was just overwhelming exhausting. Sweating. Perspiration. Exudation. All of a sudden.
Managed a couple of steps, needed a rest, hanging around the bar, the head beetween my elbows. Drunken of dizzyness and a lack of everything, near the point of collapsing into darkness.
Just forgot how rough it is to stand the effort in this climate.
Over roots and by muddy steps. Up. Fallen trees, lying there in peace, at-ease. Approaching felt like, “Hell! How may i pass that, i even can´t lift my leg transforming a footstep. First leg… first… as i felt the trunk under my ass, i went down, taking a silent ride on the trunk in peaceland. So again, resting, for how long who knows. Lost time. I supposed being really slow motion.
I won´t reach the top before noon.
Couldn´t stop sweating.
I am drowning in textile waterfall.
I can´t even remember the surrounding. I saw trees, huge plants, leaves and stone structures, but more like in that second, you recognize you are dead beat drunken and you have to puke or surrender to coma or both. Most of the time i saw roots stomped in mood. My muscles were burning, my head was a flaming lantern.
“Don´t release the bar. Only friend inside this sweating pot.”
Then there was light.
Earlier as i expected.
First thinking of a fata morgana, sparkling through the maze of exhaustion, glorious hope! – all caused by dehydration, having saved my water for… whatever for… Is this the end? Or the top? The redemption?

It was! As i reached the top i surrendered, just released myself, the bag, the bar and the sucking shirt. A wooden sign approved the arrival at the top of Khao Ra, with the great view over Koh Phangans bays and beaches. And surprise, the reward of this grand best fucked up trek was a view drowned in mist. To be honest, i wasn´t blaming at all. I was just glad to reached the end of this torture of a first trekking experience. Checked my watch, started at 7:15 a.m. from the beach, expected something like 11 a.m.. It was 9:03 a.m..
Again, i have to wonder about my ambitions about goals, bleeding the way through. I have to think about turning.
Downhill i enjoyed the silent colors, the fluttering treetops, the way of growth and protection.
And the bamboo kept me going.
I loved it!

Note: Don´t forget a towel to take with you!

out of space

(Plot Scribble)

Eine fremde Macht erteilt den Menschen eine Aufgabe, ihr einziger Ausweg vor der absoluten und unwiderruflichen Vernichtung.
Es muss ein Turm so hoch wie das von Menschen Hand erschaffene Bauwerk auf der Erde geschissen werden. Dazu installiert die fremde Macht auf der Erde einen 830 Meter hohen, organischen Zylinder, mit kokonähnlichen, milchig transparenten Aussenwänden. Koordinaten [Geographische Daten einfügen], [Name des Ortes; im folgenden Grube genannt] (noch zu bestimmen). Der Zylinder misst im Umfang 50 Meter.
Auflage ist, dass die Menschen vorort abgeben müssen, nackten Hinterteils.

Zur Demonstration der ernsten Lage und Bedrohung durch und für den Menschen hat die fremde Macht für 30 Minuten alle Toiletten auf der Erde überlaufen lassen. Der Turm muss in 830 : 30 Tagen fertig gestellt sein.
Die Suche nach den kräftigst scheissenden Menschen verläuft von bin Beginn an nach der Machtdemonstration mit der zu erwartenden Motivation. Weltweit werden Menschen nach Grube gelockt mit Prämienzahlungen auf das Kilo, Pfund.
Auf allen Kanälen wird gesendet und aufgerufen.
“Lasst uns alle gemeinsam für die Freiheit scheissen”
“Nur wer scheissen geht ist ein guter Bürger”
“Frauen! Kocht Bohnen!”
“Männer, Frauen scheissen.”
“Ich scheisse für meine Zukunft. Und du?”

Und natürlich wird auch versucht zu manipulieren. Ein Spezialeinsatzkommando versucht von unten, am Boden des Zylinders ein Ventil zu setzen, das über eine ehemalige Ölleitung aus tausenden von Haushalten täglichen Stuhl in den Zylinder pumpen soll. Der Plan scheitert, die fremde Macht hat an alle Eventualitäten gedacht, der Kokon ist direkt mit der ausserterrestrischen Intelligenz verbunden und reagiert sofort  mit dem plumpen Versuch. (Nahaufnahme einer lachenden Synapse)
Der Held wird  als einziger nicht zurückkehren. Er hält tapfer das zu platzen drohende und sicher platzende 4 x 4 Meter fassende Ventil, bis der letzte Kamerad aus dem Schacht sich in die weiterhin bedrohte Freiheit rettet. Der Inhalt des Zylinders sackt mit dem Sprengen des Schachtzugangs um 4 Meter ab. (Nachrechnen, besser nachrechnen lassen ob das sein kann)
Die fremde Macht ist natürlich stinksauer über den Versuch sie zu hintergehen. Sie berücksichtigen allerdings auch den Verlust des Helden, der nicht vorgesehen war und gewähren den Menschen einen Tag Trauer.
Einblendungen von dem Planeten Erde.
(Close-up, Streifzug durch die Metropolen)
Von leeren Strassen, geschlossenen Cafes, verlassenen Stadien und öffentlichen Toiletten und (Big Close-up) das stille Plätschern melancholischer Kanalisationsgänge. Die Starre der Apokalypse.
Am darauffolgenden Tag wurde Licht, wie immer, hier und da früher und später. (Problem der Zeit noch zu lösen) Aber als alle dann Licht hatten, kurz, war die fremde Macht weg. Die Stimme hat sie nicht wie in den ersten Tagen mit den permanenten Wiederholungsschleifen der Spielregeln ermahnt. Es war alles friedlich. Fast als hätte es den Zylinder nie gegeben. Dieser ist tatsächlich auch verschwunden. Es bleibt ein riesiger Berg Scheisse, der langsam in sich versinkt und zu einer monströsen Lache sich ausbreitet.
(Fade out. Filmbegriffe nachschlagen)
Aus den Weiten des Alls nähern sich megagrosse fliegenartige Flugobjekte in Schwärmen mit Kurs auf die Erde.
(Fade out.)
Schlusszitat: Die Möglichkeit an etwas zu glauben ist möglicher als das unmögliche möglich erscheinen zu lassen. – Shit happens. All the time.


Sometimes i feel like God – or another of this sadistic bums – wanders just by and starts teaching: “This was just a joke, go back to work, at your desk and shut up, Dude!” And blinks. … But the world is too grand for dreaming.


“Your backage lost.” Koh Samui, 05.06.13
35 Grad. Die 100% Baumwoll Jogging-Hose hängt schwer wie nass vom Bund. Das T-Shirt riecht schon lange nicht mehr. Inhalation von 16 Stunden Eigen-Körperschweiss. Ergebnis: kein Ergebnis. Nur mit mir, mein Handgepäck. Erbarmungsloser digitaler Unrat. Bin versucht eine Badehose bei amazon zu bestellen und abzuwarten, welcher meiner Aufträge mich zuerst erreicht, der Transport meines Gepäckstücks EY208817 oder Prime-Service. Ob der Ventilator des Laptop wohl für Deplug & Cool sich eignet.

Koh Phangan, 05.06.2013
“Your backage will come today afternoon. Can pick up at peer.”
“Es gibt schlimmeres.” – als unter Palmen, zwischen Banananstauden, auf der Veranda eines kleinen Bungalows in den Seilen einer Hängematte zu existieren und in den eindringlichen Blick des Meeres zu sinken. Aber wie hören, ohne angekommen zu sein, wie sehen, wie wissen, dass ich schon angekommen bin. Wann weiss man, dass man angekommen ist. Ist das der Beginn meiner Ankunft, DER Ankunft? Jetzt nicht gleich den Hippie Auslauf lassen nur weil das Paradies so bodenfest erscheint.

Between my toes.
Like a creaky kiss at dawn.
Curled spotting stars.
Embracing Hydra-Escapism.

“I give a fuck about my backpack, just so glad to be here.” I do care, i fuckin DO care, but nobody has to know, don´t be such a tourist, like, like tourists are. Whatever.
Ich schwitze. Keine Perlen. In Flutungen. Der Gang ins Meer ist doch ein wichtiger, der erste Schluck Salz in der Nase, das zweite, dritte, immerwiederaufsneuemal, zu versuchen zu verstehen. Habe ich mich gefreut vor der Abreise? Habe ich gewusst, dass ich mich freuen darf? Warum freue ich mich… jetzt… zu wenig, zu belanglos. Ich stehe wohl kaum an einer Bushaltestelle und warte aufs nächste Taxi. Das hier ist grösser, besser, planloser und freier als ich vermutet hatte. Ich kann mich nicht freuen, dazu ist es einfach noch zu gut. Später mal, wenn eine Form von Alltag mich begleitet, dann werde ich mich freuen, dass ich keinen Alltag habe.
Freiheit ist nicht zu wissen, was als nächstes geschieht, geschehen wird, was geschehen sein wird. Freiheit ist eine spontane Unbefangenheit der Zeit. Raumlos. Leer. Unbequem. – Ich bin der Raum! Ich bin der Raum, in dem willentief der Nachdruck aus Entscheidung wurzelt. Ich biss in den Apfel. Nur die Kerne spuckte ich aus, in der Hoffung daraus könnte ein Leben in Sünde erwachsen.
Blödes Gewäsch. Das hilft alles nichts gegen. Der erste Sonnenuntergang. Bloodsuckin misanthropists striking out of the green mist. Ich vermisse mein Anti-Moskito-Spray –Pazifistennapalm! Wo wird oder fliegt es gerade umher? In einem dunklen schwarzen Sack mit anderen nutzlosen Dingen, sich fern ihres Users befinden. Nirgendwo zwischen München und Koh Samui. Aber was wäre das Paradies ohne Engel. Ich bin geschützt, nur die 24 Stiche jucken reizend – ich davontragen musste vor dem Fronturlaub – 21 an den Füssen, 2 auf der Hauptoberseite, um den letzten konnte ich mich noch nicht kratzen. Die Hose wird leichter, sie klammert sich um meine Beine mit ihren ganzen 100%. Das Shirt stinkt immer noch und vielleicht noch mehr, ich wage nicht mehr mit Steigerungsformen zu entscheiden.
Womöglich ist das ein Zeichen, ein idotischer Wink des Schicksal, das dem Zufall mit zu viel Blöße kleidet. Ja natürlich! Ich wandere mit dem was mir das Schicksal, dieser Bastard dämlich willkürlicher Freiheitsblessuren, liess. Laptop, Kamera, Plastikkarten, zum Geld kaufen, ein hohes paar Schuhe, dicke Socken, eine Baumwollhose, 100%, und ein Black Sabbath Tourshirt. Sonnenbrille, iPod, Kopfhörer und der Rest an Kleinkram. Keine Zahnbürste. Und so werde ich zu laufen begonnen haben, Schritt für Schritt, bis ich die Kleidung nicht mehr trug und diese, nutzlos wie eine Beinprothese in der Schwerelosigkeit, dramaturgisch beachtenswert im Strassengraben liegen lasse. Und ich dokumentiere dies, natürlich, wozu sonst die Kamera und der Laptop und die Dramaturgie. Das Schicksal möchte, dass ich dieses Zeitdokument öffne, eine neues Kapitel schreibe, nicht nur ein bisschen rumradieren und mal was verrücktes machen. Nein. Das ist der Wahnsinn! Total crazy. Krass. Fette Idee! Durchgeknallt und total bescheuert.
Ich bin doch nicht in Freiheit, dass ich auch hier jeden Dünnfurz des Zufalls zu einer Perle des Schicksal Fügung mir formen darf, mir um den Hals hängen wie ein Martyrium aus Kreuz und zuletzt auch noch als Sinn zu erkennen habe. Als Geschenk.

Mittlerweile bin ich total breit.
Von 12 auf 35 Grad.
Transfer arabisches Höllenfeuer 45 Grad.
Das permanente Brummen der mechanischen Fliegerei.
Kleine Ohrmotoren.
Kein Schlaf.
Das Essen.
Die Luft.
Die unbewegliche Bewegung des Stillstands in der mechanischen Beschleunigung.
Die Gesprächfetzen aus den Nachbarreihen.
Die Freude.
Die Erschöpfung.
Das Adrenalin.
Mir ist kotzübel.

Doch nun hier zu sein ist zu wunderbar, als dass ich mir weiter Gedanken machen möchte. Ich bin angekommen im LOST. Ich zwinge mich noch dazu, bevor ich komplett in die Breite gehe, nochmal anzurufen.
“Ah don´t worry, ok, will come tomorrow morning, boat at 8 o´clock, pick up at 8.30. Ok?”
Ob ich dann schon wach sein werde? Und wenn nicht?
Genau. Eben. Darum.

Koh Phangan
Shambhala Bungalow Village, Bungalow 5