Free The Backpacker by John Harris

down, forever. Or until the previous two days and two countries’ worth of sweat, grime and dust had drifted silently off my body. I felt like a shirt in one of those washing powder adverts, where they have a close-up of the dirt particles lifting off the material. ‘Whiter than white,’ I mumbled, looking up at the azure sky and marvelling at the single white cloud that looked like it had been stuck on, like a ball of cotton wool on a school kid’s collage. ‘Bluey-white’.
    I floated so long that afternoon that not only did the dirt drift off my body but so did my shorts. The constant use was more than they could stand and the stitching gave way all at once, so that I had to hold them on with both hands when I walked back up the beach. For that reason more than any real sense of bargain-hunting I booked into the first set of beach bungalows that stood on the sand, and, after a filling meal, set about the task of searching out the person I’d come here to find.
    I still had the crumpled piece of paper that Rick had scribbled on when we had parted company in India, and after asking a waiter at one of the beach restaurants and being told that the Back Yard Pub was up on a hill overlooking a beach, I went on my way. I was directed down through the main street, and after five minutes was climbing a hill into the trees, with no sign of human activity. ‘Shit, this can’t be right,’ I muttered, and stood, sweating in the evening heat.
    â€˜Keep going. You wan’ Ba’ Yar’ Pu’?’ A lithe young Thai man pointed further up the hill and walked off into the trees, to do whatever Thai men do in trees, and I continued.
    The top of the path levelled off and swung left into a small yard, behind which was a large wooden house. A yard, I reasoned, a pub at the back of that yard. It had to be the right place. I walked up onto a wooden veranda, onto what was obviously a dance floor, and strode over to the far end, facing a jungle hillside. The whole place had a fantastic view overlooking palm trees that ran downhill to another beach. On the blue horizon was another island, lit orange by the evening sun.
    â€˜Wha’ you wan’?’ I spun round, startled. The Thai man who had vanished into the trees climbed over the wooden handrail and jumped onto the veranda.
    â€˜Umm, I’m looking for Rick,’ I said, slightly unsure. ‘Is he here?’
    He started to fiddle with the wiring on the sound system, seemingly ignorant of what I’d said.
    I cleared my throat. ‘Excuse me, is–’
    â€˜Li?’ he said looking up. ‘You wan’ Li’? No have Li’ here.’
    Maybe he was wrong, or maybe he hadn’t understood. Pointlessly pulling the scrap of paper from my pocket, I repeated, ‘Rick. I am looking for a man called Rick. Do you have any messages for me? My name is... ’
    â€˜No have.’
    I sighed and leaned against the handrail, sweat pouring off me from the combined effort of climbing the hill and asking the question. ‘Are you sure you don’t have any messages?’
    He went back to his fiddling. ‘Tol’ you, man, no have, no have! Why you no listen?’
    I deflated. It wasn’t possible. I’d come so far. Partly to see other places I had to admit, but mainly to meet up with Rick. Reluctantly I walked out of the house, still wanting to ask him again but knowing that it would lead nowhere. If Rick was, or had ever been to Koh Pha-Ngan he clearly would have left a message. That was the arrangement and I felt sure that he would stick to it. He must have reached the island all those weeks ago and been persuaded, by a girl probably, to go to a different island, or up to Chiang Mai.
    No longer wanting to think about where I was going to go next or what plans to make, I went back down to the beach, bought an ounce of Thai grass and crashed in my beach hut. I felt gutted and suddenly very alone.
    I