PHUKET, Thailand _ Nobody here recalls the tsunami anymore. Or, rather, nobody wants to remember it; remembering is bad for the economy and tourism.

Half an hour by boat from this beautiful island off Thailand, there are beaches which have literally been stolen from post cards and magazines: transparent seas, tall palm trees swaying under a warm wind, and white sands in which you can slowly sink your feet and feel as if they were being gently massaged. The tourists try to protect themselves from melanomas with layers and layers of protective creams. But the all-mighty sun god attracts them, as it did Icarus, until it toasts them brown.

Around here no one seems to be worried. Thais have a permanent smile on their faces and, for me, are the most cordial people on Earth. The visitors, with such marvelous hosts and wonderful landscapes, couldn't feel more blessed for being in the Kingdom of Siam.

During my stay in southern Thailand, however, I couldn't help but think about the tidal wave. On Dec. 26, 2004, more than 225,000 people were killed in Thailand, Indonesia, and the rest of Southeast Asia by a tsunami. On a clear morning, a giant, 20-feet-high wave drowned ad destroyed everything in its path.

Klaus, a German scuba-diving instructor, told me how the sea level suddenly rose at the hotel where he still holds classes. All the wooden cabanas there, with wonderful ocean views, were annihilated. And when I asked him whether he knew what had happened to the tourists still asleep inside them, he didn't answer. It was obvious they never survived _ they didn't have a chance.

Amazingly, in exactly the same spot where those cabins were and which the sea swept away as if they were plastic toys, new cabanas have been built. And they were all full. It is not unusual for a European or American to pay up to $1,000 a night to stay there. This in spite of the danger of another tsunami.

No one here wants to remember death. Recollection is bad for the new business.

Every time I asked a Thai about the danger of another tsunami, he would recite the official Bible of tourism. Don't worry, I was told, alarms are now in place that will warn us at least 15 minutes before the arrival of a giant wave.

Detectors in the ocean supposedly monitor sudden increased tides following an underwater quake. A tidal wave, caused by two tectonic plates overlapping, was the source of the tragedy two years ago, and another, similar one, could happen anytime.

The alarms, in the end, did nothing to soothe me. Maybe they work fine on the big islands like Phuket. But what happens on the islets I visited that are so small they aren't even on the map? I wondered.

Thai people have a real fascination with water. Sometimes it brings death _ as was the case with the tsunami _ and sometimes it is a symbol of life.

For instance, they celebrate their New Year _ in mid-April _ by throwing water at each other during three consecutive days. Adults saturate you with water from hoses and buckets, and children use small cups and water pistols. There is no way to escape.

During the Songkran Festival, Thais use water to cleanse themselves of bad fortune from the previous year, as well as to vitalize their destiny for the coming one. Getting soaked is their way of celebrating. Thais are very playful _ they are the most childlike, fun-loving adults I've ever met, and the most cheerful, too.

Almost everything is a game for them. And I say "almost" because, conversely, the rite of pouring water on the thousands of Buddha statues all around the country is taken very seriously, as a show of respect and good luck.

And so, between the sun, games and ceremonies, it is easy to forget that the soil I am stepping on could suddenly be under water. I sit back, sip a strange, yet refreshing, green ginger drink, put down my book, let the heat burn away all the bad memories in my mind, and allow myself to go with the flow.