Monkeys throwing coconuts

Mary: Something hit the ground next to me with a very solid sound, waking me from my daily dreamscape of thoughts and plans. I stopped, looking for the noise. A coconut thudded onto the ground in front of a house I was passing, then another, and another. The ground was littered with them, thick-husked and deadly. A man stood in the yard, holding onto a long leash, whcih connected at the other end to the monkey in the coconut palm. This, from what I've seen, is how they harvest coconuts in Thailand - trained monkeys hurling them into space.

I put a hand over my head, a bit ineffectually, and walked on. I was suddenly afraid that this would be my fate, a quiet and unremarkable death by coconut. As such things go, it wouldn't be the worst way to go, but I had always pictured myself going out in more of a blaze of glory. Saving a schoolbus full of children, possibly, or, Jesus-like, martyring myself for the good of all mankind. Death by coconut would probably be more suited to my character, but less kind to my ego.

It would be only appropriate, however, given how many coconuts Dana and I have consumed over the course of our first few weeks here. Coconuts are in abundance in Thai cooking - soups, desserts, drinks, everything benefits from a little of the sweet milk. We bought our own coconut the other day in the Tesco in Tong Sala. As I picked one out, I watched with curiosity as a man quietly loaded his cart with them. What could he possibly be doing with them all? We brought our coconut home and let it sit in the fridge for a few days - whether out of respect, fear, or laziness, I couldn't say.

Then it rained, a torrential downpour that left the island muggier than ever and the air thick with bugs. The resultant heat and humidity was stultifying. We needed relief. We needed the coconut.

First Dana went at it with our large, dull kitchen knife. Then she used a sharp kitchen utensil that we haven't figured out a use for yet. It's not for cutting coconuts, she established, but when she combined it with a peeler she managed to get the top off, but we still weren't in. She was sweating. I took over with a serrated butter knife, digging into empty space, popping it out, and digging in again. With enough leverage, we were in. The hole we'd made was almost perfectly circular. The water within came up to the brim, and was cold and glacially blue, rimmed with slippery white meat.

Sitting outside in the heat, sweat dripping down our backs, pooling between our thighs, we shared that coconut with our one soup spoon. It was more promising of refreshment than anything else I've ever experienced. I suppose that, right there, is worth the possibility of death by coconut. I just hope the monkeys watch where they're throwing.