Dead Man's Float details that sad emblem of Western alienation, the tourist couple in their rented tropical Eden. Here life is temporary and not at all cheap. The wildlife is spectacular, the culture incomprehensible, and the locals politely try to hide their hilarity at Canadian pidgin Spanish. Heat, beaches, ruins - why did we think they could distract us from domestic squabbling or the 3 a.m. dreads?
Derk Wynand wrings wry existential meditations from firsthand experience of the Exotic - the First World and the Third in their ritual winter dance.
How could anyone not adore you, little devourer of large moths, sticky ceiling-hanger, light- lurker, master of stillness whenever it suits you? ... Even the steady ocean wobbles, the surf breaking harder on the ear, on the rocks below. All night, the night looms loud and large, providing only small silences for a gecko maybe feeling small, and lacking the comforts of religion or politics or family.
It is a joy to get lost in the descriptions Wynand uses for things we would take for granted here. He describes things like birds or the use of words that we would never take the time to consider on our own. A complex read at times but one that is worthwhile.