Empty Deck Chairs

It’s strange, I live in a beach town and yet there is hardly anyone to be seen on the beaches. In fact the people that you do see there are usually locals, munching on chicken bones before tossing them onto the, already grey with grim, sand. Yet, it is amongst the most highly foreign populated areas in the world – so where are they?

Grossly over-generalising, for the purposes of explanation, there are a number of ex-pat types residing here:-

There is the fifty-something (upwards) type (Type 1), who landed here in search of pleasant climes, the ability to live out their days in a far more grandiose manner than their savings would have allowed in their originating country together with the opportunity to meet a lady who will genuinely make them believe they are cared for. Admittedly a more pleasant prospect than bingo on Tuesdays; while sharing anecdotes with the blue rinse brigade about how little you get for your money these days.

Continuing my gross over-generalisation, the next type (Type 2) is the 25-50 year old age group, who arrive after earning what appears to them to be a stack of cash, and an over-inflated idea of themselves. As a friend commented last week, “They arrive at the airport talking telephone numbers, then after 3 months are broke.” These are the types who brag about their ability to spend ridiculous sums of money in bars each evening, and of their female conquests; then progress to “investing” money in properties. A few months down the line, that stack of cash that seemed so bottomless has migrated to the pockets of various bar girls, or more specifically their families and the solid and wise house investment turns out to be just that, for the luck lady whose name it was purchased under.

My last type (Type 3) is that of the more savvy ex-pat, who may have even made money in the home country legitimately. This type transcends the other two types, but manages to rarely lose sight of the traps laid out, investments are carefully planned and ownership strictly kept by any means possible. For as many establishments available to the former two types’ entertainment, there is a proportionate amount of establishments for this type; higher class bars, very accomplished restaurants, even Rotarian membership beckons.

There are of course plenty of ex-pats here whom do not fit neatly into any of these types, but they are the exceptions rather than the rule. Whether my analysis is accurate or not, one thing seems for certain, the place traps people. As with every ex-pat community in the world, the talk is generally of complaint for their living circumstances – and yet few manage to liberate themselves from their self-imposed exile.

So you see everyone is catered for here, no wonder the deck chairs are empty.

So where do I fit in, and if I am so scathing why do I choose to stay? Well due to the circumstances in which I found myself here, and actually being in a paid job at the time, I was lucky enough to learn from type two’s mistakes, without making them myself. Since leaving the comforts of a relatively stable paid employ, I find myself drifting into the Type 3 mould, but without the desire to be entrenched in local activities; be they social or financial. Of more concern is that now the intangible tentacles have entangled me, only time need be added to complete the metamorphosis into a Type 1.

“The sad engineer would never go back to England; he would become one of these elderly expatriates who hide out in remote countries, with odd sympathies, a weakness for the local religion, an unreasonable anger, and the kind of total recall that drives curios strangers away.” - Paul Theroux, 1975.