(2000)
***Spoiler Alert***
A genuine Garden of Eden exists on a tiny island somewhere off the coast of Thailand. Hidden away from the unruly horde of drunken tourists running amok on the mainland. This is not some out of the way spot where a smaller throng journey for a more authentic experience. This is a dead set forbidden and practically untouched Utopia!
A pristine lagoon with a small group of self-reliant pioneers from distant lands gathered in a shared quest to get as far away from the rat race as possible; not just their lives back home, but the whole irksome tourism scene just across the sea too.
The haven’s isolation is not just geographic. The idyllic commune has a team of felonious farmers for neighbours who have their own desire to keep the place a secret; a massive marijuana crop! These guys are not gangsters, but they are heavily armed and will defend their livelihood and freedom. Not to mention the repercussions from the real gangsters if they fuck up.
Apparently, the founders of this blissful hideaway made a deal with the farmers, promising to mind their own business, not invite anymore pilgrims, and never give away the location. That’s a lot of trust given to a bunch of bohemians wanting to escape society and get stoned.
By the looks of the infrastructure, the community has been there for quite a while. It is never explained how many of the original visionaries there were and how many of the present members are blow-ins. The tattooing ceremony informs us that newcomers have been arriving at different times. What is not clear is, how many people (other than Daffy) have left.
Filling in the gaps, it is my assumption that anyone who decides to leave is sworn to secrecy and they uphold this oath so that the unspoiled oasis may endure. My next guess is that more than one of these dropouts (or is it drop-back-ins?) couldn’t resist a little boasting session when they got back to the mainland. Very difficult to fight the urge to tell let these generic tourists know how much more intrepid your travels have been.
These braggarts planted the seeds from which the myth about “The Beach” sprung. Maybe a few even gave the location away just to prove some drunken doubter wrong; maybe it was given as a gift. Whatever the motive, the whereabouts was passed on, and a few rare individuals took up the challenge of finding it. Even fewer were audacious enough to get to the final test/s.
If you manage to follow the map correctly your trail will end on a beach. Not The Beach; for that you need to get yourself to that island over there in the distance. Which is test number 1:
- Commit to crossing the multiple miles of sea with no chance of rescue if you find out the hard way that you can’t make it.
- Survive being dumbfounded by the copious amounts of fully matured marijuana plants, which may blind you to the dangers of standing in someone else’s clandestine crop.
- If you manage to get out of that one and don’t high tail it the fuck out of there, you are one step, or should I say jump, away from your happy place. The only way down from this side is to take a literal leap of faith off a high cliff into the water below.
Successfully overcome those challenges and you have gained admission to the wanderlust wonderland.
It is basic pragmatism that prevents the tribe from expelling any new arrivals. Someone who just completed such a dangerous adventure and found that the improbable Shangri-La actually exists will not be easily deterred. The agony of rejection after such a joyous discovery could quickly turn to bitterness and envy. That person may well be found photocopying maps to the location within days of their return to the mainland.
Kind of the same goes for the unofficial agreement between the commune and the farmers. Everyone minds their own business, and we can all enjoy our seclusion. Although, the farmers are the ones with the machine guns and the final say.
Okay, so you’ve arrived and start taking your place in the community. This seems to consist of farming, fishing and frolicking; playing games, swimming and an endless supply of pot. Any extra supplies must be brought in from the mainland; a task the beach-bums detest because it means re-visiting civilisation, and those contemptible tourists. Funny how quickly these former tourists look down on who they used to be.
We never see or hear about anyone getting antsy, chucking all this Gilligan’s Island crap in and heading back to the mod cons. Besides Daffy, although I reckon he was a lot further along from antsy and closer to full-blown batshit! He seemed to have seen through the hypocrisy of the fellowship he helped create:
Daffy: Ideals, eh? We were just fucking parasites! The big, chunky charlie! The big, chunky charlie’s eating up the whole world!
Almost as if he could see what these vain vacationers were capable of. Or more frightening; maybe he had already witnessed the dark side of The Beach, and it drove him mad. Just speculating.
I am also curious as about something much more mundane. I mean it’s all well and good to rough it for a while, living like a Survivor contestant without the cameras and swift evacuation in an emergency. Fantastic bragging rights in the “off the beaten track” conversations your older self will have. It’s just that it’s not for everyone, and certainly not long term. Unless you’re on the run, or have a severe marijuana dependence, it is going to get tedious and one or more of these righteous non-conformists is going to get on your fucken nerves!
My conjectures aside, they all loved it and would love to stay as long as possible. When Richard accompanies Sal on a supply gathering mission, he sums things up nicely:
Richard: I’d really been looking forward to air conditioning and some cold beer. But, when we got to Ko Pha Ngan, I just wanted to leave again. In one moment, I understand more clearly than ever why we were so special, why we kept our secret. Because if we didn’t, sooner or later, we’d turn it into this. Cancers..parasites..eating up the whole fucking world.
The people who would never leave The Beach all felt like this. He even uses Daffy’s description of the regular tourists: “fucken cancers! Parasites!”. Important to note that he only uses Daffy’s labels for the uninitiated and conveniently leaves out what he said about his fellows from the lagoon.
More for me though is “…why we were so special…”. Richard couldn’t have been with the high-minded hippies for that long, yet he had already become a snob, looking at the embodiments of his former self with disdain and jealously wanting to keep the barbarians away from his gate.
He demonstrates this when he runs into two of his former peers that he had given a copy of the map to before he headed off. He vehemently denies the existence of The Beach and angrily disowns the guys who had previously been his compatriots – wanker!
Well, those are the things necessary for preventing a flood of dickhead tourists (like they all used to be) from overpopulating paradise and fucking it up. Kind of like a 1st world version of an indigenous group being invaded by the plague of civilisation. No matter how good the intentions may be from the newcomers, once the balance has tipped it is only a matter of time before the inundation. Next thing you know you’ve got jet-skis, night clubs and McDonalds. Humans can only live close to nature if you keep the numbers under control. Thus, strict secrecy is one price of paradise.
However, there are other heavier prices to be paid for maintaining this beachside, cannabis infused, Amish lifestyle and until you are forced to face them you may be completely and blissfully oblivious. When you do…things get fucken ugly!
Remember my earlier mention of Survivor and medivac?
The resident spear fishers get attacked by a shark. One dies and one is not badly injured; the other… he’s in a bloody world of hurt! Pieces off him everywhere! They patch him up as best they can, but things look very fucken grim.
They have a moving funeral for their deceased comrade where they all join in a poignant rendition of Bob Marley’s “Redemption Songs”. The burial eliminates the horrific choice that will need to be made about Christo, the poor half-eaten bastard who didn’t have the decency to die.
Sal, the leader of the group offers to have some people take him to the mainland for treatment. His surviving mate rightly insists that he would die on the journey and that they must call for medical help. For Sal, that is out of the question. Giving away their location would be the end of their heavenly home, and losing that is not worth the price of one man – cold hearted shit!
Even more gruesome, was that none of the others spoke out to try and save their “brother’s” life – holy fuck! These cunts are going to let a man die a slow and painful death so they can continue their ganga fuelled Robinson Crusoe fantasy. I told you things would get ugly.
But wait! There’s more!
Richard: After the funeral, we all tried to get back to normal.
Richard: But it just didn’t seem right
Richard: It became clear the problem was Christo
Richard: You see, in a shark attack, or any other major tragedy, I guess the important thing is to get eaten and die, in which case there’s a funeral and somebody makes a speech and everybody says what a good guy you were
Richard: Or get better, in which case everyone can forget about it. Get better or die.
Richard: It’s the hanging around in between that really pisses people off.
Yeah, you read that right. This dying man’s cries of agony are messing with everyone’s serenity, so they carry him far away and slap him in a tent. Out of sight out of mind. Only one French man condemns them and chooses to stay with Christo and do all he can to comfort him while he slowly and painfully perishes. One man among these “special” people has a concience; this story just took very dark turn.
I mean, that’s evil right? What they did for the sake of their own pleasure was outright evil!
Our protagonist gives their actions a little lip service via voiceover, but he barely registers the severity of what they did. His description comes across as being a “bad” thing. He doesn’t come close to “wicked”, “immoral”, or fucking “vile”. It is played off as “yeah, we got corrupted by paradise and we were all a bit selfish” – you black-hearted motherfuckers!
We’re not finished yet.
Things get complicated for the demon tribe when the people Richard tried to ward off appear on the beach across from them obviously weighing up their options on how to tackle the first test.
Sal goes into full tyrant mode and orders Richard to sit and watch the wannabe newcomers. He must turn them away any way he can. After several days, the isolation causes him to slowly unravel.
Eventually the four hopefuls find a solution and build a makeshift raft – clever move, I must say! They have a much easier crossing than their predecessors, but they come unstuck on the second test. Richard has gone troppo by this point and fails miserably at his gatekeeping task.
The euphoria of finding themselves standing in a huge field of dope plants causes them to dance with joy. They do not notice the irate locals with machine guns until it is too late. They attempt to flee but are mowed down by the farmers.
This snaps Richard back to reality and he makes haste back to the camp. On the way he makes a pit stop at Christos’s tent and puts him out of his misery – is he forgiven now or something?
He finds his two French companions and convinces them to escape with him. The farmers capture them and drag them back to the camp, which seems to be enjoying an impromptu rave party. Probably trying to get some blood pumping through their dead-hearts.
The farmers crash the party with guns drawn. They are furious about the newcomers they had to kill because the community could not keep their side of the bargain. Sal desperately tries to argue for a reprieve, but the farmers want her and her fellow ravers to fuck right off.
Sal stubbornly plants her feet, so the lead farmer offers her an ultimatum. He puts one bullet into a revolver and hands it to her. If she shoots Richard, they can stay. The psycho bitch pulls the trigger!
The chamber is empty and the lead farmer smirks as the other community members freak right out at Sal’s willingness to commit murder – apparently that’s where the line is for these cretins.
They all abandon the island and go their separate ways, leaving Sal devastated. I have no idea how any of them, beside the compassionate Frenchman, live with what they did. Although, there’s nothing mental gymnastics can’t spin and soften, I guess. Shit! It’s probably the sympathetic bloke who’ll suffer PTSD.
In the final scene, we see Richard in an internet café, checking his email. The girl he was infatuated with has sent him the group photo she took of them all on the beach; all jumping and looking happy. Richard delivers his final words of wisdom in voiceover:
Richard: And me? I still believe in paradise. But now at least I know it’s not some place you can look for. Because it’s not where you go. It’s how you feel for a moment in your life when you’re a part of something. And if you find that moment… It lasts forever.
What were you part of Richard? A bunch of obnoxious travellers greedily guarding a pristine preserve while looking down your noses at all other travellers. Smoking weed and sniffing your own farts and ultimately allowing a once beloved member, to suffer a tortuous demise to keep your secret. How can you look at that photo and not feel damned?
What price paradise? Not much…just your soul.
THE FORKIE PHILOSOPHER 
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