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The floorboards are damp and creaking and the toilet is a hole in the boat. When I'm peeing, I think about Ms. Conner's film class and about how six years ago, I'd never guess that my urin would be spilling into this muddy river. Life is funny that way. It's weird to think that I'm now part of the Kwai, that somehow I raised that water level a milli-milli-milli- centimeter, if that, and part of that H20 is me.
The boat is long and narrow with Christmas lights strung around the ledges, curling around columns like ivy. Every day at around noon, food is served on deck. It's chicken curry and white rice and steamed vegetables. And for some reason, Michael Jackson always seems to be playing on the speakers.
One evening, after a very long day of getting lost and bus-taking, I meet the chef, a rusty old Thai sailor. He chain-smokes and doesn't speak much. Coughing, he wipes his mouth, and pushes a bowl of meat chunks towards me. "Very good," he nods, then coughs again. "Okay," I say and smile. The cut of meat is slightly cold, but flavorful to the max. I chew it for a couple minutes, then swallow. "Very good" I reiterate, but he already knows this and he's too busy coughing.
There's the front desk clerk, a 30-something year old guy who's shaped like a box. He sits in a wooden cubicle that's located in an isolated corner, transfixed on his glowing computer (apparently there's decent internet connection on the River Kwai). He shows me pictures of himself dressed in uniform. Border patrol between Thailand and Burma, he announces proudly.
Earlier in the day, before I get lost in the tourist-trap of Kanchanaburi and take three buses back to the boat, I'm standing on the bridge over the River Kwai. Too many people stand on it at the same time and the iron-skeleton sways every which way. It's too hot to bear and motor boats flurry past, but this is the same bridge that's in that movie I saw two-thirds of in my high school film class.
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