In the afternoon I walked around the shore looking for a free bungalow, but everything was either occupied or too expensive. Would I have to sleep on the beach again? I turned onto the main road and couldn’t believe my eyes. Randy emerged from a hotel that rivaled the palace a Chinese emperor’s palace in luxury–golden fountains, glittering pagodas of individual rooms, melodious bells, and red paper lanterns, rustling in the wind. He was brisk, fresh and obviously in a hurry. “Do you live here?” I ran up to him and grabbed his elbow. “How did you do that?”

Randy was stunned. As for me, I felt betrayed. He had told me his exchange rate wasn’t great. Maybe he hadn’t mentioned something? “Dude, did it ever occur to you that I might be working somewhere else?” Randy pulled his hand out. “Or that my percentage of the profits is higher? You’ve been here two days and you’re already trying to make up your own rules. I’ve been on this Island for a quarter of a century!”

I fell silent, ashamed. After all, it wasn’t his fault I had no place to live. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I just don’t know all the rules yet.” “Never mind,” Randy softened and looked at his watch. “I know a place. Follow me.”

He led me to the “White Sands Bungalows” – the last hippie and backpacker hangout on Samchang. Wooden houses with palm leaf roofs, bamboo fences, white sand underfoot, thickets of hibiscus and plumeria. When viewed from the sea at night, the bay resembled a white-toothed smile. The only black hole in glittering splendor was the “Sands”. No lights, no glow – the night is for sleeping!

The “Sands” was owned to an elderly couple from New Zealand. Jerry, a stocky black-haired man with the face of a Maori warrior, spent all day on his laptop. Lydia, the plump wife, was busy with household chores, and in between laundry and cleaning, she liked to chat with the guests. Slightly shabby rockers and rastamans, lounging in hammocks listening to Bob Marley, were, to her, a substitute for the internet.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I liked the place right away. Besides, the rent was symbolic – two hundred coins a day. I thanked Randy and made my way to my new home. Of course, it wasn’t like the palace chambers where the bearded man had lived, but it would have to do for now – a bed under a mosquito net, a wooden table and a rickety chair. A few nails in the wall served as a coat rack. The shower was cold. The flush tank in the toilet was replaced by a barrel of water with a plastic ladle floating in it (I later adapted to washing my clothes in this barrel).

As soon as I entered the bungalow, a huge black cockroach crawled out from under the bed, looking at me and ran off somewhere. I wanted to catch it and squash it, but I changed my mind – let it live. It’s more fun to be together.

I have to admit that life on the Island was not varied.

I usually woke up around noon and the first thing I did was shave under the cold water.

At other times this would have seemed difficult, not to say impossible, but the humid climate made my skin so soft and supple that the blade cut the stubble easily. Then I’d go to “Magic Hell” and get a pack of flyers and hand them out with ease. Our club was the only one whose doors were open to everyone. That’s why the tourists at the temple were so eager to visit the nightclub – those who had flyers didn’t pay money for energy drinks.

I had a lot of time after the invitation cards were handed out, and I spent my days on the beach, not knowing what to do with myself. I couldn’t walk very far; it was too tiring in the heat. With my income, it would take years to save up for a motorbike. I could barely afford the rent.

I stopped by the cafe a few times, hoping to meet Austin there. I wanted to learn more about the Island and its rules. I also wanted to know if I could trust Randy. Even through he helped me to find a job and a bungalow, I had the feeling that he was deceiving me and that he really wasn’t as simple as he seemed.

To be continued