The Layan

Like in the brochure, The Layan sits gaily on a hillside, terracotta and green against the stark blue sky of occasional clotted cloud. It strides the ridge it lives on, smiling prettily back at the lifeless, damp stretch of sand that is Layan Beach, a lesser-known, lesser-appeal cousin of postcard-exploited Surin and Bangtao further down current.

The two staff and the one grey-looking manager who greeted us at the reception did so with such zeal – as if they had not welcomed guests in an age. Smiles as large as calzones; eyes focusing just beyond our heads, as if we are shorter than meant to be.

“We welcome you vely much to Layan. We hope you stay vely long and enjoy.”

Gentle, melodious voices of hollow seduction.

In a triangle, the three lead us on an undulating garden path that seemed to take us nowhere, fringed with the sweet scent of jasmine, ash and fallen tropical fruit. I marvelled at how silent it was despite being so close to the sea. No squealing kids, no beach tunes, no wish-wash of waves in the distance. What a secluded hideaway!

The swaying gait of the three brought us finally to our room, at the far end of the resort, just before it hinges off the cliff. I blinked twice at the familiar sight of blackened trees in the sea. In a flashback they were green. The equatorial sun again, distorting colour and form.

Still, it was sunny, though the room had not been aired and smelled like well-aged dust.

We tipped the smiling porter, his shirt sleeve receiving the gratuity.

The three departed.

That night, tanked with too much local brew, the tuk tuk driver hurtled through the inky blackness, seemingly lost. He had looked a little perturbed when we asked to be taken back, glancing often at his rear view mirror at our pale, untanned faces. The salty sea air raked through our hair, breathing life into split ends.

After dead turns that met at the sea, we stopped for directions at a small, fluorescent-lit hut in the shadown of a hill. We gazed back at its ware of dead cockroaches.

We watched the Thai exchange and the wide-eyed look of disbelief register on cabbie’s pock-marked face.

He turned back at us, eyes in slits.

“You say Layan?”, he asked, voice suddenly gruff.

We nodded drunken yeses.

He paused. Right hand inched closer to his back.

“Cannot be…fire. Burn down 9 years aledi.”

"Evelybody die. All the staff. All the guests...", his voice trailed off as we smiled.