Blind Man of the Waterfall

It was a beautiful day. The wind rustled the leaves of the dense tropic palms. An old man sat back in his old wooden chair. He sat and listened to the sound of a gurgling river flowing down through the boulders behind his humble dwelling. A dwelling that can only be referred to as, in its most optimistic description, an upscale shack. His chair sat on a front deck of sorts, a simple slab of cement, well made and level, and without noticeable flaws, but a slab nonetheless. Around him were a couple of weather beaten tables covered with plastic cloth sheets in unobtrusive patterns of blue, red, and green. The colors were clean and had the hint of brightness, but age and use had faded them to pastel. The tables were stocked with the basic necessities for wandering travelers; in orderly rows; the most common carbonated sugar waters, flavored salt waters, and caffeinated energy drinks, and next to those, also in an orderly row, a few flavors of fried potato snacks sitting in their respective over-puffed bags. 

Besides listening to the wind, water, birds in the trees, and other natural elements, and the occasional distant barking of a dog, the old man listened to the cars, trucks, and motor-scooters that went by on the paved road just a few meters in front of the deck. The paved road, well, mostly paved road, lead steeply down to Thansadej National Park beach. 

Today the motorists were not going by nearly as frequently during this south-east asian rainy weekend, and even less frequently on this specific south-east asian covid rainy season day. Above the deck was an awning of plywood and composite strips, much preferred to the tin sheeting from which a deafening cacophony of liquid explosions will emanate during even a moderate rain storm, the awning continued up at a gentle incline until cresting at a low obtuse angle and dropping back again against the thick jungle behind.

If the old man had been deaf it wouldn't have mattered what roof the slab had for a covering. But, the old man wasn’t deaf. He clearly heard both motorcycles pull up. They pulled up because in front of the concrete slab, nailed to a tree by the corner of the deck was a sign proclaiming in poorly painted scribble that the path next to the shack was the way to the waterfall. He heard them both promptly drive off again down the hill because, the shack and the whole situation didn’t instill confidence in the accuracy or truth of that sign. So, the motorcycles continued down the road.

He had risen from his chair when the motorcycles pulled in and was left standing there as they backed onto the road and left on down the road without a word. Behind the old man was the continuation of the deck and awning, an area of the deck that was enclosed, thereby creating a shack about 50m squared. It was made of mostly wooden particle board siding, some painted, some with old tarpaulin advertising banners of what ever had been available. The siding, like the slab was built with some care, without any large gaps between the exterior sheets and a good solid front door standing open to a dark interior. The shack had no electricity and no windows, and the most rudimentary of plumbing. The roof had only the smallest of vents where the rafters met the roof ridge, not enough to let light in but enough to vent the thermal uprising of the indoor heat on the hotter days. The old man was short and a bit hunched over when he stood, so the entrance and subsequent low ceiling wouldn’t seem to be of any issue for him.

Of the infrequent traffic that drove by, even less seemed to patronize this small shack bodega establishment. The motorcycles were of this non-patronizing demographic, however, despite finding parking areas with more confidently designed signs and for all the well maintained parking lots, finding an entrance to the illusive waterfall, proved illusive. There were no other trails showing the way a person might possibly traverse from these parking areas through the jungle to the waterfall. I can only assume the struggling economy didn't consider trail maintenance an essential service, and so the jungle had taken back the path. Both motorcycles turned around and drove back up the hill to the old mans bodega.

When the motorcycles had come back, the Australian had taken a significant lead and parked, quickly leaving her motorbike next to the ‘store front’ and disappearing down the path that ran between the shack and the refuse pile before we had even pulled into the side dirt clearing that seemed to be the parking area. She hadn’t been offered or requested any of the previously mentioned tourist necessities arranged neatly on the table. The refuse pile on either side of the path was quite well organized, recycling being separated into natural fiber woven baskets, one each for plastics, metals, and glass. There was also a general pile of wooden discards and construction bits, presumably left over from the shacks original construction, whenever that might have been.

We park our “Bad Boy” rental scooter, with the alarming lack of suspension but with excellent brakes and tires, which if given the choice of performance characteristics, and I was, it was an easy choice for better brakes and tires. We parked our scooter next to the Aussie’s and unload our backpack of activities from the under-seat storage bay.

The old man was no longer sitting on the old chair but was instead now washing a rug on the far side of the bodega deck. There were no entrance fee signs and although the trail was clearly through his property it didn’t seem uninviting at all. 

We waited for him to finish because although there seemed no requirement to buy an item there also seemed little reason to avoid a small purchase for using his trail. He walked up slowly smiling and we inquired about the waterfalls. He informed us that the trail led to the river, only a dozen or so meters away and there were many waterfalls to be seen. I suggested we have a gatorade to replenish our fluids and salts and the old man shuffled to a styrofoam cooler, picked out a gatorade and set it on the table. Jay placed a bill into his hand and told him it was a 50 note. He reached into his 80’s style faded neon fanny pack and handed the 10 baht coin out in front of him as change. We took the overly sweet liquid electrolyte and walked down the trail. It was quite an obstacle and I can’t imagine the old man navigating it without some difficulty. The roots and branches were easy enough to avoid in daylight but I don’t think I should have managed very well in the unlit darkness of night.

How would it have been, the walk from that shack to the river without a flashlight, torch, or lamp on a night with no moon, or even stars to help guide me? I would surely stumble and fall. At first. I would learn though, I would have to. Necessity is the mother. There would be a routine developed. As our senses leave us we must depend on our memory. A physical handicap can be overcome with mental capabilities… but to lose the mind… to walk through the darkness of an empty memory, that would be a constant endless fall through all the night, until the end of the night.

The river was unremarkable, not much in the ways of waterfalls, but perhaps I have been spoiled in waterfall experiences throughout my life. But, those are other stories you are welcome to ask about at another time. The walk back up the path from the river over boulders was even more of a navigational challenge, but not surmountable in the midday illumination. Back at the shack we purchased another gatorade and stepped onto the "Bad Boy". The old man took a few steps toward us and looked, if not at us, to us. He and Jay had a friendly discussion about the unavailability of petrol at the bottom of the hill. It occurred to me in a guilty passing thought (true to my frugal nature) that he was trying to take advantage of our kindness and generosity. Only afterward did I realize that the 30 cents extra I would have paid him instead of waiting to fill up at a slightly cheaper corporate gas station would have given me a satisfaction far more valuable.

How long had he been living there?

No electricity and no water pump… was he able to navigate that path daily with ease, or perhaps not ease as his slow shuffle across the deck showed, but with sure footed confidence that his old body would not at all be easy and fall the way back… or fall anywhere since the next time someone might come by to find him and help him might be a day or more. Although from his posture and movements I had the feeling the he had a deep strength and will to live.

We drove off, half tank of petrol more than enough to the bottom of the hill, where the national park rangers charged a minimal fee for access to the beach and to a path that lead to another section of river running down hill that was labelled as a waterfall. Not quite as good as the jungle river behind the shack. 

I should have bought a bottle of petrol from that old man of the waterfall. 

THEMES TO BUILD ON:

We are all just stumbling through life, barely seeing, hearing only what passes by, receiving the kindnesses of those who pause to imagine our life. Some have some empathy, understand the things that even we are too blind to recognize, and to understand this life is a circus, it’s a rigged system and the only way out is to do the best you can and if you have some luck while making your way you might just leave this world with a laugh and a smile.

Tourism is one of the the few industries that promotes individual patronization of small businesses.