Faith and Fortune

There are times in life when everything seems to have been perfectly orchestrated. When each aspect of life seems to be tuning itself precisely so that it can join with the others in perfect harmony to play your tune. You don't have to have deserved it. Often you haven't. It just is.

Some people call it grace. Others call it luck. And the St Christopher I carry on my purse, given to me by my sister, is, for some a talisman for safety, a sort of portable blessing. For me, at the very least, it is a reminder of her. Which is nice in itself.

The way one responds to these life gifts can vary widely. Some simply lie back and accept it as the repayment of some favour or a rectification of a perceived natural balance between bad times and good. "I could do with some joy," they might say, "because the last year was a nightmare." They are owed this happiness because they've had enough sorrow.

Some people manage not to notice it at all. "If it wasn't for that one white cloud over there," they say, "the weather would be perfect." The fact that it has even approached so near perfection, and the happiness that should go with it, passes them by. And they don't regret it. They are not aware that there was anything they missed.

A number of people, me among them, react at first with guilt. "But I have all this," they say, waving a hand across the metaphorical expanse of their life, "and yet there are people starving."

The strange difficulty in enjoying what has not been deserved is not uncommon. Life does laugh in the face of our concept of fairness. It rewards bad behaviour and punishes good. Or, just to avoid setting a discernible trend, it rewards good and brings hardship to harder people. Either way it seems random. If there is one thing life is not, it's just. 

Little wonder, then, that so many of the major world religions suggest some sort of system after death to rectify this callous reality of life. And they go some way to implement a more immediate incentive scheme. Buddhists believe in Karma, good or bad fortune stored up having been earned over time by an accumulation of good or bad deeds. Atheists may or may not believe in luck, that elusive Lady who scatters her favours and her featal matter seemingly at random. Even here, there are constructs to allow us to court her favour, to somehow earn her blessings. Avoiding ladders, the number 13, black cats and lone magpies are a selection of Western recommendations. Waving cats, dragons, the first sale of the day and dream catchers are some of the more Eastern. At the entrance to our new 'home', our contact in Koh Lanta Old Town village (well it isn't a town!) reaches up and jungles the set of wooden pipes hanging as a wind charm outside the door.

"For luck" she explains. Given that the interior of the house as she proceeds to open it, is itself one of the reasons for this perfect alignment of our fortunes, it seems to be working.

I don't believe that the wind chime brings me luck. But I've been jangling it as we enter and exit the house every time. Just in case.

I don't really believe that the small round disc that is my St Christopher is, in itself, protecting me as I travel. But I like to keep it with me, anyway. When I swap between purse and money belt, it gets carefully transferred into whichever will on me on that day.  Even though I know I didn't earn this - I am always, subconsciously, seeking a reason. A justification for why this is given to me.

We are not comfortable with chance blessings. We seek a logical system. We look for a hierarchy to place ourselves on, and travel upwards. 

Perhaps this is why the Christian concept of grace, is so difficult. Grace is given freely and without discrimination. It is given by someone more deserving, or more empowered, but is offered to all, no matter how nearly they can match this yardstick. 

But good things are not given freely to all. They are randomly selected or even, sometimes heavily weighted towards certain individuals and doggedly against certain others. 

In Christianity, this issue is partially clarified by a specific idea about what it is, exactly, which is given so gracefully. It tends not to be earth based fortune, but spiritual peace. That, hopefully, everyone has a chance at receiving. The distinction helps me. Otherwise I would find it very difficult to revere a God claiming to make no distinction, but so clearly giving me, much less deserving, much more of everything than some people will receive in their lifetime.

All this discussion of luck, faith and fortune has been brought on by our arrival today in Koh Lanta Old Town.

We had been a little disappointed by our very first night in Thailand, near Krabi airport, though this was not unexpected. We stopped over literally to sleep and eat before undertaking the three hour journey on to Loh Lanta in the morning.

Our hotel room was basic which was not a problem, but for the life of us, we couldn't find food. We walked the length of a busy motorway (though in Thailand this is very different to either England or Cambodia) searching for an elusive restaurant which turned out to be miles away in the opposite direction. We did eat in the end in a small place where the Thai menu, our very limited Thai and the owner's very limited English gave us one option only. But it was a really nice option. And it hit the spot. So it quelled any moaning. (If there is anything that can foil our moods - it's lack of food). M pointed out that some people were hungrier than this each day and that even to hold our vegetarian ideals which had made the search harder, was in itself a luxury option. Nearly half the world's population cannot afford to turn down food.

But this morning we wake up, drift easily onto an air conditioned mini bus and make the journey to Koh Lanta Old Town without even noticing we'd moved. 

When we arrive, we are confronted with a beautiful little village which is just small and local enough to be a working fishing village with resident locals and just developed enough to be easy to live in. The town is more or less one road, along the coast, full of colourful shops selling different things both to each other and to other things we have seen in South East Asia, a string of restaurants ranging from large to small, two plastic table style outlets, perfectly affordable prices, paving on the road, almost nothing else on it, and a myriad of cats, dogs and people greeting us quietly but warmly. No one calls out to us as we pass. If we look in the shops, no one coerces us to buy. The cars and scooters we do see behave perfectly reasonably, and it's blissfully quiet. When we enter the restaurant where we are meeting B, who will show us to what will be our home for Christmas, we walk out to a large terrace set out on poles over the sea. The horizon is beautiful. The sea is as calm as a lake and as clear. Green islands rise out of it against the the blue sky and the water, as it touches the far horizon, is reflected a deep and shimmering emerald green. The air is clear and salty fresh. There is no rubbish to speak of. The atmosphere is friendly and warm.

I cannot help but comment, guiltily to M, that this is particularly perfect after Cambodia. It's clean, people, B tells us, are honest and we can use our laptops on the deck of our house without concern at showing off riches for potential theft later because, in B's words, "nobody is poor here. They have all that stuff of their own."

Is this the key, I wonder, sadly, to Koh Lanta being so much more comfortable to be in? Is it the fact that nobody here is desperate that prevents them from verbal assault on us as soon as we enter their shops? Is honesty a luxury more affordable to the well off? Am I simply more comfortable when the gap between my life and my neighbour's is less stark? With some shame, I know that if I am not careful I will talk of Koh Lanta with more unequivocal enthusiasm and cause more tourists to come here than to take their much needed money and to invest in Cambodia. I am, I realise, perhaps more comfortable because I am among my own kind. Being comfortably off matters more than the trivial issue of language or religion. If I was culture shocked in Cambodia, did it have its basis, not in geography or language, but class?

I have no answers to these questions, but an inkling that if life is unfair, but I happen to be lucky, there is shame in withholding generosity, but much more shame in failing to appreciate it.

Let me explain then, the extent of this fortune.

We are shown to our house. B is Israeli but has lived in Holland and has set up home with her Thai boyfriend here in Old Town. Old Town is on the other side of the extensive island of Koh Lanta to the myriad of bars clubs resorts beaches expats and fry ups which populate the other coast. Hooray. One of the most discomforting aspects of Siem Reap had been its vast ex pat community, drinking and dining next door to desperation. And even without the sizable monetary gap, we simply didn't leave England to get drunk in Irish pubs with other westerners. We got tipsy in the garden of our out of town flat with A. There's a distinction. It's small and partially made up, but there is one. 

B opens the door to our home for Christmas. It's one of the most beautiful spaces I have ever seen. Cool and airy, it stretches back far out and over the sea, where wood and bamboo walls give way to a long deck, underneath which the water laps and rushes, glinting in the sun and rocking the wooden boats afloat on the same, breathtaking horizon we had gazed out at in the restaurant. There is a 'chill out room' with sofas, a TV. DVD's and air conditioning. Every thing else is fans and the naturally cool, circulating breeze straight in from the sea. There are watercolour paintings, carvings and a wet room which is paved in smooth stones and sea side shells polished and cooling underfoot. There is a kitchen so fully equipped it contains things we didn't own in England (a rice cooker, a juicer, a smoothie maker). There is even a half bottle of red wine in the kitchen.

"Oooh!" says B, "I wish I'd seen that earlier!"

"Pretend you did" I offer. "We never saw it." But she doesn't take us up on this. (More on the wine later).

Finally B turns to us casually and says, "You shouldn't need your mosquito repellant - we 're out over the sea, so we don't really get mosquitoes."

Just stop for a moment and listen to that again, "we don't really get mosquitoes."

Hurrah. And true enough, we haven't seen any. Not a single, solitary, one. Why doesn't everybody live here?

When she leaves us we simply run around the house gleefully, finding and pointing things out to each other. 

"Look at this!"

"Look at that. I just can't believe this place!"

Finally M manages to trump everything.

"I have found," he announces, "the best thing in the world."

And it really is. It's a ceramic elephant with a smaller, baby elephant curled beneath it, touching trunks with its mother. Inside the hollowed out back of the larger elephant are six little forks, the kind you might use to spear olives in posh restaurants. Each of them is tipped with a tiny seated elephant turning its trunk to the skies to trumpet in joy. 

It's the best thing. Ever. I immediately proclaim that I will refuse to eat anything I can't spear with an elephant fork. I rather think M is inclined to agree. He makes hard boiled eggs in the evening and brings them out to the deck complete with elephant. We spear our egg slices. It's a bit messy and not really practical. But we make it happen.

The thing about the elephant is that it is just the sort of thing we really love. If someone had been looking for a present to give us, they would have looked no further. The lack of tourist traps mixed with modest tourist amenities, the quirky little shops, the elephant carved handle on the bathroom door, the breeze from the ocean - Old Town itself feels like a beautiful gift someone gave us.

And from then onwards, the afternoon and evening progress to unravel a series of tiny vignettes of good fortune. Little coincidences that could have been planned just for us.

We go out for a late lunch. There are certain things we want on the menu, but they're not vegetarian. We ask, very tentatively, if they could be made so. Without blinking an eye the waitress both understands and agrees to and the food, when it comes has not only been voided of meat but the meat is replaced with generous and beautifully cooked tofu.

The storm which we have been warned occurs each evening happens while we are at the restaurant and we have a front seat view of it.

We try, and fail, to find washing up liquid in the small shops in town. When we return empty handed we discover some in a cupboard, so that the fact we did not pay for more was fortuitous. 

B emails to ask if we would mind if she did, after all, take the wine. It seems it was left for her by the last tenant. We agree, but had planned to drink the wine this evening so head back out to buy some, having previously expected to settle in for the evening. Heading back out, however, means we meet a beautiful little cat, just as M was saying that all we needed now was a nice cat friend to truly complete the picture. It also means we just happen to be passing the monument to the king at the time that a ceremony for his birthday is underway, including dancing, the lighting of candles by the celebrants in the evening darkness and some impressive fireworks which, because we have been discretely standing off to one side out of deference, explode in bursts of colour right over our heads.

As we may our way out to the deck for the evening, with our eggs, wine and elephants, M remarks that we should find some Christmas music online.

"It will be weird without Christmas tunes" he says.

Moments later the quiet evening is serenaded by beautifully played music, using, I think, a synthesiser. Tunes are haunting, with a Thai flavour and include, in fact headline, with 'Silent Night'. Somebody next door is practicing.

As we sit there, in silence, and listen, I wonder if 'Amazing Grace' might have been more fitting.