Villas cling like creepers
Lined along the vertiginous hills
Orchids sprout from halved coconut husks tied by wet string to leaning palms
The steep, winding driveway walled by industrious brickwork that’s glued together by the same sun-cooked concrete that runs in skinny shafts into the earth
Stilts with carapaces of climbers, that would fail even the most generous of earthquake tests
It’s best not to look too long
At this time of day the perfume of the flowers is suffocated by the heat
And we are waiting for the late afternoon breeze to pick it up again
When the fisherman pilot their boats, noisey enough even from here, back with their catch, or razed tourists
A wriggling sliver of the Andaman ocean squeezes between islands like a slow oversize fish – scales shimmering
Tonight it will try to back up, mixing the water with the silt underneath, turning the blue green water into something more brackish
In each of the villas the gamut of groups; First Timers wearing rose tinted glasses, honeymooners, old hats, helicopter riders
All with the same view but very different ways of seeing things
WRITING 