Thai Trail 7: On the L'Edge

First or second night on the Island: we discover the roof terrace! Like three meek beasts of burden, we flock out of the house and up the stairs (ie. laden with trays of mango, dates and tea). Unlike meek beasts of burden we then lie in the hammock (yes, all together) and munch and read books.

At some point we hear the distant sound of a door banging shut.

Sometime later we notice that the sky is plum-purple and we can't see the pages of our books anymore.

We traipse down the stairs and remember that distant sound of a door banging shut. It's THE door we need to get back inside. It's locked.

Oops.

We're on the first floor balcony of a house built on top of a cliff. All of a sudden it feels like we're back on the 37th floor of somewhere. Everything is vertical and full of stone teeth. We need a hero. Kira and I turn to Moona. He sighs. He groans. He's loving it.

He goes round the terrace (with us following around, squinting and nodding with pursed lips). He estimates the degree of damage if he fell here.... or here... oh, maybe here! Finds a thin ledge he would need to edge along to reach our bedroom. We might have left our balcony door open... there may be a way in. Worth a try. Below the ledge there's a small swimming pool. 'If you feel you're falling, push off the ledge and jump in', I counsel. Again sigh, groan.

Then he's off. Swings over the rail, holds on to some window frame. Pretty safe so far, but at some point he'll need to let go. He lets go, with a faint squeak, like the demoiselle who stepped in a puddle. Arms wide, hands glued to the glass, he freezes. Kira and I, already giggling, are now doubled up in hysterical hiccups. It can't be good for him, but we're beyond any control: our eyes are streaming, our stomachs hurt, we gasp and guffaw and we need a toilet.

Moona's still plastered to the window, his hands cupped over the glass as if he could summon some Spiderman-type suction. His face is crushed against the wall, mouth gaping in a silent roar. I think he's trying not to laugh, doesn't want his stomach muscles to spasm and push him off the ledge. (We're not helping.) Also - slight problem - he's not moving, not backwards, not forwards, nada. 'Come on, tata', Kira says when she manages to look up and draw a breath.

Moona shuffles a little in the right direction. He sucks in his stomach as he negotiates a seam of the building. His fingers make these squeaky noises against the glass. We are a disgrace throughout. (I'm not proud of it.)

A while later, he's on our balcony. The door is open. We're saved. Kira runs into the house, grabs the camera and waves it in Moona's face:

'Can you do that again?'