Thank you,
Marco Etheridge
Scheffler Northwest, Inc.
351 B South Grand Blvd.
Vancouver, WA 98661
Office: (360) 818-0070
Fax: (360) 818-0071
Mobile: (206) 445-8425
www.schefflernw.com
metheridge@schefflernw.com
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Monday, April 1, 2013
The Road to Mookville
Unburdened by my phone, we ply the Andaman Sea by long-tail boat.
Mookville Redux
Who knew that Farmville was actually in Mookville? We were looking for Otai Day, but she must have been out in the back forty tending to the critters.
Voyage Fini
Sunset on the Andaman Sea and Leagues to go.
And moonrise as well, still a long ways from Port
Friday, March 29, 2013
Incheon
Oh well. Despite my best plans to get out of the airport and see a few sights around Incheon, the main airport in South Korea, it is just to cold. It's 41 degrees f. out there!! Who thought up that absurdity? What happened to "Ron Mahk Mahk!!" (That's Thai for "Very Hot")
So here I sit in the KAL Prestige Lounge, a lovely place. Despite the cushy chairs, espresso machine and quiet ambiance, this place is a glaring example of poor planning.
I know this will be hard to believe, but not six meters from me, unregulated and unguarded, is a lovely bar of free booze. A few more steps and there are refrigerator cases full of beer. And they let addicts in here!! And the booze is free!! Did I mention that no one is keeping tabs, or even running a tab, on the juice??
Let me tell you, friends and neighbors, its a good thing that I have as much respect for the drug/booze lure as I do for the cold stare of Mr. Sharky. I have a six hour lay-over here at Incheon and a table full of free booze at my disposal. It is like a great set up for a joke at an AA meeting. Lest you doubt the potential for mischief, I once awoke (read: came to) on an empty commercial jetliner. I had no idea where I was, not even what state I was in (argh, a touch I do confess). It wasn't until I stumbled out into the concourse that I realized I was at O'Hare.
Now, these many years later, I hope you can imagine my mirth as I merrily type away on my little device, wasting your time and mine, but not entering into a wasted state. I suppose I really will end up on the right plane and I will know I am in San Francisco without need to peer, bleary-eyed, for some anchoring sign.
Four hours here, then thirteen in the air to SFO, and then back to Seattle. There is a cigar at the end of the last flight, most everyone will speak English and it will be days before I stop "Wai-ing" everyone I meet.
Sent from the Lair of the Giggly Addicts
So here I sit in the KAL Prestige Lounge, a lovely place. Despite the cushy chairs, espresso machine and quiet ambiance, this place is a glaring example of poor planning.
I know this will be hard to believe, but not six meters from me, unregulated and unguarded, is a lovely bar of free booze. A few more steps and there are refrigerator cases full of beer. And they let addicts in here!! And the booze is free!! Did I mention that no one is keeping tabs, or even running a tab, on the juice??
Let me tell you, friends and neighbors, its a good thing that I have as much respect for the drug/booze lure as I do for the cold stare of Mr. Sharky. I have a six hour lay-over here at Incheon and a table full of free booze at my disposal. It is like a great set up for a joke at an AA meeting. Lest you doubt the potential for mischief, I once awoke (read: came to) on an empty commercial jetliner. I had no idea where I was, not even what state I was in (argh, a touch I do confess). It wasn't until I stumbled out into the concourse that I realized I was at O'Hare.
Now, these many years later, I hope you can imagine my mirth as I merrily type away on my little device, wasting your time and mine, but not entering into a wasted state. I suppose I really will end up on the right plane and I will know I am in San Francisco without need to peer, bleary-eyed, for some anchoring sign.
Four hours here, then thirteen in the air to SFO, and then back to Seattle. There is a cigar at the end of the last flight, most everyone will speak English and it will be days before I stop "Wai-ing" everyone I meet.
Sent from the Lair of the Giggly Addicts
Departures
I suppose the correct way to bookend journeys is to say that they begin with a departure and end with a return. That is, of course, except for the last journey that we take, which some would say only has a departure. But I digress. The dogmatics can figure that one out on their own.
From my perspective, the wheels lifting off the runway as I head to Southeast Asia signifies a return. And as I sit here in the Korean Air lounge at the Bangkok airport, I am in the midst of a departure. Even leaving Phuket, one of my least favorite places in Thailand, feels like a surrendering of something personal.
It is said the measure of a successful holiday is that one is eager to begin and, at the end, happy to be home again. That is not the case with this journey, nor any of my others in Thailand or Lao. It is not that I hate my life at home. Quite the contrary, I try to live each day as happily as possible and succeed a great deal of the time.
The transition, however, between my two worlds of home and of travel is a bitch.
I don't care about the thirty-two hours of travel I have in front of me. That is just a piece of time that I can use to draw inside myself and ruminate.
It is the leaving behind that is hard. As I said in my last post, when I leave Thailand, I feel as if I am leaving a part of myself here and I do not get that part back. It is as if there is a voodoo Lego version of me and someone is removing some of the little plastic bricks.
In eight months I will be back here in Bangkok, this time with the Genetic Envelope in tow. I will get to see some of my favorite places with his new eyes. And we will discover new places together.
Now, I will go back to Seattle. I will sort through the many photos I have taken, cull the herd of bad ones, and post some of the good ones. I will probably get teary in the process. And that is what it is: part of the process.
From my perspective, the wheels lifting off the runway as I head to Southeast Asia signifies a return. And as I sit here in the Korean Air lounge at the Bangkok airport, I am in the midst of a departure. Even leaving Phuket, one of my least favorite places in Thailand, feels like a surrendering of something personal.
It is said the measure of a successful holiday is that one is eager to begin and, at the end, happy to be home again. That is not the case with this journey, nor any of my others in Thailand or Lao. It is not that I hate my life at home. Quite the contrary, I try to live each day as happily as possible and succeed a great deal of the time.
The transition, however, between my two worlds of home and of travel is a bitch.
I don't care about the thirty-two hours of travel I have in front of me. That is just a piece of time that I can use to draw inside myself and ruminate.
It is the leaving behind that is hard. As I said in my last post, when I leave Thailand, I feel as if I am leaving a part of myself here and I do not get that part back. It is as if there is a voodoo Lego version of me and someone is removing some of the little plastic bricks.
In eight months I will be back here in Bangkok, this time with the Genetic Envelope in tow. I will get to see some of my favorite places with his new eyes. And we will discover new places together.
Now, I will go back to Seattle. I will sort through the many photos I have taken, cull the herd of bad ones, and post some of the good ones. I will probably get teary in the process. And that is what it is: part of the process.
Ultimate
The ultimate day, last of the Thai days of this journey.
I took the songtheuw to Wat Chalong, the main temple for this area. Wat Chalong is a large Buddhist temple, with spacious grounds and numerous individual temple buildings. It is also a stop for tour buses, several of which were disgorging sweaty batches of Russian Farang. I threaded past the larger groups, made my donation for merit making supplies, and slipped in with the Thai folks.
Basic Buddhist merit making, Thai style, works thus: for a donation one receives a flower, two candles and a small bundle of incense sticks. Approaching the temple, there are racks of burning candles on either side of the first stairs. One lights his or her candles, affixes them to the rack with hot wax, and then lights the bundle of incense. Smoking incense in hand, the merit-maker moves to the temple entrance and, holding the incense in between the palms, hands together and in front of one's face, asks for merit. I invariably ask for compassion for family, friends and fellow travelers first, and then for all sentient beings, of course. When the requests for merit have been made, the incense is placed into the large holders where all of the other bundles are smoking away. One enters to the center of the temple, prostrates to the Buddha or monk image, and places the flower in the bowl with all of the other flowers.
Etiquette is simple: never wear shoes, never point your feet at a Buddha image, always cover your shoulders and knees, and act like you would at your own church. Almost all Wats are open to everyone, as long as there is simple respect shown.
Leaving Wat Chalong, I hopped a moto-taxi for the twisty ride up the mountain to The Big Buddha, who resides on top. This huge alabaster monument is visible from most everywhere from Kata Beach to Phuket Town. It has been more than 25 years in the making and is still being tiled in Burmese Alabaster squares.
I donated 300 baht, which purchases a 80mm square tile. Messages are written on the back face by those who donate. Mine read:
"Peace - Love - Calm
Marco 29/3/13"
As I walked away from the donation table, under the gaze of The Big Buddha, I became very tearful. The weight of compassion and pathos and departure mixed together, pressing the tears from me. I am a very, very lucky being. Yet each time I face leaving Southeast Asia, there is less of myself to bring back.
I decided to walk the 8 kilometers back down to the 7-Inn, midday heat or no. I let the day sink deeply into me as I passed through the jungle hills, was given the two best bananas in the world by an old man, and slipped by the tourist attractions lining the road up the mountain. Through the trees I caught a far off glimpse of the Chalong Pier, where Jimmie the Scot had dropped John and I, landing next to the pier stairs in the tiny dinghy.
I had a coffee and talked to a young man from Northern Thailand, near Mae Hong Song. He is from a poor village and had to come to Phuket for work as a waiter. He was happy that I had been to the area he is from. I kept walking past the Bird World, the Monkey Show, and the Elephant Trek, gaining the flatland and a real Thai neighborhood. I had a fiery plate of Pad Kee Mao and continued on, sun beating down.
Now, sitting at the 7-Inn, I have showered and am still sweating through my shirt, even though I am lounging in the shade. The taxi comes at 6 PM. Then it is Phuket to Bangkok, Bangkok to Seoul, Seoul to San Francisco and thence to Seattle.
There will be lots of pictures to post once I am home. The newest photos are all on my camera, which means I would have to go find an Internet cafe to post them and that is just to much work right now.
Be well, play fair, do good if possible.
Marco
I took the songtheuw to Wat Chalong, the main temple for this area. Wat Chalong is a large Buddhist temple, with spacious grounds and numerous individual temple buildings. It is also a stop for tour buses, several of which were disgorging sweaty batches of Russian Farang. I threaded past the larger groups, made my donation for merit making supplies, and slipped in with the Thai folks.
Basic Buddhist merit making, Thai style, works thus: for a donation one receives a flower, two candles and a small bundle of incense sticks. Approaching the temple, there are racks of burning candles on either side of the first stairs. One lights his or her candles, affixes them to the rack with hot wax, and then lights the bundle of incense. Smoking incense in hand, the merit-maker moves to the temple entrance and, holding the incense in between the palms, hands together and in front of one's face, asks for merit. I invariably ask for compassion for family, friends and fellow travelers first, and then for all sentient beings, of course. When the requests for merit have been made, the incense is placed into the large holders where all of the other bundles are smoking away. One enters to the center of the temple, prostrates to the Buddha or monk image, and places the flower in the bowl with all of the other flowers.
Etiquette is simple: never wear shoes, never point your feet at a Buddha image, always cover your shoulders and knees, and act like you would at your own church. Almost all Wats are open to everyone, as long as there is simple respect shown.
Leaving Wat Chalong, I hopped a moto-taxi for the twisty ride up the mountain to The Big Buddha, who resides on top. This huge alabaster monument is visible from most everywhere from Kata Beach to Phuket Town. It has been more than 25 years in the making and is still being tiled in Burmese Alabaster squares.
I donated 300 baht, which purchases a 80mm square tile. Messages are written on the back face by those who donate. Mine read:
"Peace - Love - Calm
Marco 29/3/13"
As I walked away from the donation table, under the gaze of The Big Buddha, I became very tearful. The weight of compassion and pathos and departure mixed together, pressing the tears from me. I am a very, very lucky being. Yet each time I face leaving Southeast Asia, there is less of myself to bring back.
I decided to walk the 8 kilometers back down to the 7-Inn, midday heat or no. I let the day sink deeply into me as I passed through the jungle hills, was given the two best bananas in the world by an old man, and slipped by the tourist attractions lining the road up the mountain. Through the trees I caught a far off glimpse of the Chalong Pier, where Jimmie the Scot had dropped John and I, landing next to the pier stairs in the tiny dinghy.
I had a coffee and talked to a young man from Northern Thailand, near Mae Hong Song. He is from a poor village and had to come to Phuket for work as a waiter. He was happy that I had been to the area he is from. I kept walking past the Bird World, the Monkey Show, and the Elephant Trek, gaining the flatland and a real Thai neighborhood. I had a fiery plate of Pad Kee Mao and continued on, sun beating down.
Now, sitting at the 7-Inn, I have showered and am still sweating through my shirt, even though I am lounging in the shade. The taxi comes at 6 PM. Then it is Phuket to Bangkok, Bangkok to Seoul, Seoul to San Francisco and thence to Seattle.
There will be lots of pictures to post once I am home. The newest photos are all on my camera, which means I would have to go find an Internet cafe to post them and that is just to much work right now.
Be well, play fair, do good if possible.
Marco
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Phuket Town
Phuket showed me a different face today. Yesterday was it was the rows of farang baking in the sun. Today I went to Phuket Town and everything was different.
I started my morning with a pungent fish curry and rice from an early morning stand, eating brekkie with the Thai folks on their way to work. After breaking my fast, I sauntered up to Kulong Coffee for my morning americano and a chat with Frank, the American ex-pat owner. Our talk touched on the changes in Phuket, travel, and staying clean and sober. There are regular AA meetings held at the coffee shop, frequented by the sober folks amongst the ex-pat community here in Phuket. Consider it a caffeine break and a mini-meeting.
Fortified with curry and coffee, I wandered back to the 7-Inn, my base camp here in Phuket. After some time in the shade chatting with the German contingency at the inn, and watching their daughters frolic in the narrow little pool that abuts the sliding glass doors of my room, I laid plans for the day.
I meant to take the songtheuw to town, but a scooter taxi man talked me into a ride for 100 baht. Nothing really equals passing through the crazed ballet of Thai traffic two-up on a tiny scooter. Every time I do this, I think "Today may be The Day." The one drawback to crashing on a moto-taxi is that the velocity is probably not enough to kill you, only enough to make you wish you were dead. Today, however, was not The Day, and once again Mr. Sharky had to go hungry.
(Oh! A break in blogging for a slice of wonderful banana bread, courtesy of Hermann, my new Deutsch friend)
Once in Phuket Town, I walked about, soaking up the mixture of Chinese shop houses, remnants of Portuguese architecture in the old town, and the bustle of a normal Thai provincial capitol. At lunch time, I ducked into a little Thai food shack for a fish fillet covered in some sort of curly sautéed vegetable that I am at a loss to explain. It was deeply flavored and wonderful, an absolutely new set of tastes.
I stopped at a small pool hall where the taxi drivers were relaxing. Once again, the amulet I wear became the passport to admittance. On my first visit to Thailand, I purchased an amulet at the Amulet Market in Bangkok. Most Thais who work in what are considered "dangerous" professions wear at least one amulet. Many have a whole chain of them around their necks. Taxi drivers are particularly fond of them, and if you have ever spent time in Thai traffic, you can understand the desire to petition for good luck from whatever source may provide it.
So it goes like this. When I pause to watch the billiards, the first look from the taxi guys idling about is something like "ah, great, another farang." Then someone notices my amulet and asks to examine it, calling over other drivers. Then they show me their amulets and tell me what Wat their's is from. Now it is OK for me to be there. One of the billiard players sets down a handful of the nuts they are all snacking on and motions me into the group. This has happened to me countless times in Thailand, helping me get a seat at a crowded street stall, easing sales pitches from street touts, and even helping with security folks at the airport. It is the equivalent of the special ring, or hand signals, of some secret society.
On my way again, I experience the Thai Map Shift. This phenomenon occurs when, for no apparent reason, the entire geography of whatever town one is in shifts 112 degrees from where it was. It is inexplicable. In an instant, one goes from knowing exactly where one is to being lost. In truth, the Shift is caused by taking that one turn down an intriguing soi, then another, and then: Presto! The Shift has taken place. A bit of back-tracking combined with a little head scratching and I was once again back on the map grid. It has become highly amusing now, whereas it used to be frustrating. And it still happens, despite my almost uncanny skills at navigation in a new place. Thailand towns have a way of keeping one humble if one gets too cocky.
The heat of the day finally wore me down, but not before I stumbled onto an amazing textile shop and came away two shirts richer and 1,700 baht poorer. They are lovely and one of them will remind me of Thailand, whilst the other will go to the Bollywood Star Genetic Envelope. His was the last prezzie I was lacking, so mission accomplished. Sorry Kid, spoiled the surprise.
Now I am letting the heat fade into the evening. I had planned on getting a ride up the hill to The Big Buddha (yes, the monument's real name). It is visible from most of Southern Phuket, high up and massive on its little mountain. Perhaps tomorrow morning, along with a visit to Wat Chalong, the most important Buddhist temple on the island. For now, doing nothing suits me just fine.
My last night in Thailand, for this trip. But today, Phuket made me smile.
I started my morning with a pungent fish curry and rice from an early morning stand, eating brekkie with the Thai folks on their way to work. After breaking my fast, I sauntered up to Kulong Coffee for my morning americano and a chat with Frank, the American ex-pat owner. Our talk touched on the changes in Phuket, travel, and staying clean and sober. There are regular AA meetings held at the coffee shop, frequented by the sober folks amongst the ex-pat community here in Phuket. Consider it a caffeine break and a mini-meeting.
Fortified with curry and coffee, I wandered back to the 7-Inn, my base camp here in Phuket. After some time in the shade chatting with the German contingency at the inn, and watching their daughters frolic in the narrow little pool that abuts the sliding glass doors of my room, I laid plans for the day.
I meant to take the songtheuw to town, but a scooter taxi man talked me into a ride for 100 baht. Nothing really equals passing through the crazed ballet of Thai traffic two-up on a tiny scooter. Every time I do this, I think "Today may be The Day." The one drawback to crashing on a moto-taxi is that the velocity is probably not enough to kill you, only enough to make you wish you were dead. Today, however, was not The Day, and once again Mr. Sharky had to go hungry.
(Oh! A break in blogging for a slice of wonderful banana bread, courtesy of Hermann, my new Deutsch friend)
Once in Phuket Town, I walked about, soaking up the mixture of Chinese shop houses, remnants of Portuguese architecture in the old town, and the bustle of a normal Thai provincial capitol. At lunch time, I ducked into a little Thai food shack for a fish fillet covered in some sort of curly sautéed vegetable that I am at a loss to explain. It was deeply flavored and wonderful, an absolutely new set of tastes.
I stopped at a small pool hall where the taxi drivers were relaxing. Once again, the amulet I wear became the passport to admittance. On my first visit to Thailand, I purchased an amulet at the Amulet Market in Bangkok. Most Thais who work in what are considered "dangerous" professions wear at least one amulet. Many have a whole chain of them around their necks. Taxi drivers are particularly fond of them, and if you have ever spent time in Thai traffic, you can understand the desire to petition for good luck from whatever source may provide it.
So it goes like this. When I pause to watch the billiards, the first look from the taxi guys idling about is something like "ah, great, another farang." Then someone notices my amulet and asks to examine it, calling over other drivers. Then they show me their amulets and tell me what Wat their's is from. Now it is OK for me to be there. One of the billiard players sets down a handful of the nuts they are all snacking on and motions me into the group. This has happened to me countless times in Thailand, helping me get a seat at a crowded street stall, easing sales pitches from street touts, and even helping with security folks at the airport. It is the equivalent of the special ring, or hand signals, of some secret society.
On my way again, I experience the Thai Map Shift. This phenomenon occurs when, for no apparent reason, the entire geography of whatever town one is in shifts 112 degrees from where it was. It is inexplicable. In an instant, one goes from knowing exactly where one is to being lost. In truth, the Shift is caused by taking that one turn down an intriguing soi, then another, and then: Presto! The Shift has taken place. A bit of back-tracking combined with a little head scratching and I was once again back on the map grid. It has become highly amusing now, whereas it used to be frustrating. And it still happens, despite my almost uncanny skills at navigation in a new place. Thailand towns have a way of keeping one humble if one gets too cocky.
The heat of the day finally wore me down, but not before I stumbled onto an amazing textile shop and came away two shirts richer and 1,700 baht poorer. They are lovely and one of them will remind me of Thailand, whilst the other will go to the Bollywood Star Genetic Envelope. His was the last prezzie I was lacking, so mission accomplished. Sorry Kid, spoiled the surprise.
Now I am letting the heat fade into the evening. I had planned on getting a ride up the hill to The Big Buddha (yes, the monument's real name). It is visible from most of Southern Phuket, high up and massive on its little mountain. Perhaps tomorrow morning, along with a visit to Wat Chalong, the most important Buddhist temple on the island. For now, doing nothing suits me just fine.
My last night in Thailand, for this trip. But today, Phuket made me smile.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Paradise to Phuket
I started my island hopping when I landed on Koh Tarutao, which is paradise indeed. Unspoiled, beautiful beyond description, and full of thievin' ass monkeys. I am ending my trip on Koh Phuket, which is not paradise. Phuket is, as my Thai songtheuw man assured me, Koh Farang. The Island of Foreigners.
Even at the height of tourist season, Bangkok can swallow the tourists that flock there. The city is so big, and so essentially Thai, that except for the temple and palace area, farang slip into the background. Not so in Phuket. It feels like the Thai people are outnumbered here. Get anywhere near a beach and that feeling is transformed into a reality.
I went to Kata Beach today, an easy songtheuw ride, costing 35 baht instead of the hundreds of baht that the Phuket taxi mafia would have charged. I have to admit, if you want to see a great deal of european decolletage, this is the place to do it. Unfortunately, large european men in very, very small bathing suits are also in constant view. There seems to be a inverse correlation between the girth and hirsuteness of males on the beach, and the size of the tiny fabric covering their bits. I was truly horrified when I saw a barrel-chested specimen sauntering down the beach wearing a thong, a valley girl's thong, Sisters and Brothers, disappearing up the crack of his ass. Attached to the front of this thong was a little fabric bag wherein his manly bits resided, thankfully partly shielded from view by his very large and monkey hairy belly. It was as if a small bunch of grapes were cradled in a tiny sack, overhung and shadowed by a great, white, hair-covered melon.
Farang, farang and more farang. After taking in as much as I could bear, i drifted back over the hill to Chalong, certainly not village Thailand, but a deal quieter and with noodle shops instead of pizza joints and Club Med (yes, a real live club med).
Sent from the Lair of the Flying Monkeys
Even at the height of tourist season, Bangkok can swallow the tourists that flock there. The city is so big, and so essentially Thai, that except for the temple and palace area, farang slip into the background. Not so in Phuket. It feels like the Thai people are outnumbered here. Get anywhere near a beach and that feeling is transformed into a reality.
I went to Kata Beach today, an easy songtheuw ride, costing 35 baht instead of the hundreds of baht that the Phuket taxi mafia would have charged. I have to admit, if you want to see a great deal of european decolletage, this is the place to do it. Unfortunately, large european men in very, very small bathing suits are also in constant view. There seems to be a inverse correlation between the girth and hirsuteness of males on the beach, and the size of the tiny fabric covering their bits. I was truly horrified when I saw a barrel-chested specimen sauntering down the beach wearing a thong, a valley girl's thong, Sisters and Brothers, disappearing up the crack of his ass. Attached to the front of this thong was a little fabric bag wherein his manly bits resided, thankfully partly shielded from view by his very large and monkey hairy belly. It was as if a small bunch of grapes were cradled in a tiny sack, overhung and shadowed by a great, white, hair-covered melon.
Farang, farang and more farang. After taking in as much as I could bear, i drifted back over the hill to Chalong, certainly not village Thailand, but a deal quieter and with noodle shops instead of pizza joints and Club Med (yes, a real live club med).
Sent from the Lair of the Flying Monkeys
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
The Voyage
A quick inspection under the stern showed the prop completely engulfed in a mass of net. The body of the net disappeared into the deep as far as visibility allowed me to see. It was a big one, a rogue net probably lost by a local trawler. I dove under the stern and had a go. Between fending off the hull that was trying to beat my head in, and avoiding getting caught in the net myself, there was precious little breath left for actual cutting. This was going to take forever. After about ten dives, I came back alongside and explained the situation. No good.
Jimmie was already rigging the breather, a sort of umbilical air line that can push air to a diver down to ten meters. I re-boarded to don weights, fins, and help rig the breather. John was going to buddy watch from the water. Back in I went, much more prepared. I got well below the hull and started cutting away the net in clumps. There was a stiff current pulling us, and the net, south. I told myself "Watch the net, Boyo, watch the net. Don't go with it." There would be no swimming out of it when the net pulled loose and sank. After about five minutes my air started dropping off. John was now on a second line and had joined me. The breather unit, though rated for two divers, was going to drive us both to the surface for lack of air. I stayed down and John went up. Just before having to surface, the air line filled my lungs again and I was able to resume work.
After sawing away the bulk of the net, I realized some of the cut portions had hooked my weight belt. "Not today Boyo, not today" I freed myself, circled to the other side of the prop to keep the net down current from my body, and continued to hack away. As more net was cut, the remainder grew more taught in the current, helping me to slash through the remaining strands. At last, the net pulled free and drifted away. With a small fragment left for a souvenir, I cleared my lines and headed for the swimming ladder.
Smiles and high-fives all around, I felt the conquering hero, having earned our passage. While the boys coiled gear and we made way again, I did sort of get the hero treatment from Bam and Bee, who were more than a little relieved. They brought me towels and water and fussed about, making sure I was OK. My hand was bleeding a bit which, once spotted by Bam, sent her immediately to the rail so she could chum the fishes a bit.
It was an epic adventure, and not completed yet. We had leagues yet to sail and would have to navigate into Phucket by moonlight, traversing a shallow channel. In the end, well into the night, this was done. We finally found a moorage and tied up several hundred meters off of the jetty. There was some fussing with the dingy, a ridiculously tiny affair, and then three grown men and luggage putting slowly to the pier steps. Goodbyes all around, John and I were safely ashore. Walking through the bars and B-Girls of the pier strip, we searched for a quiet guesthouse, which, in the, the end, we found.
Now, this next day, John has departed to rendezvous with his daughter who is further north on the island. I have two days of lounging around Phuket. I have already found my farang ex-pat coffee house, and there are good noodles just across the soi from my guesthouse. Perhaps I will go up the hill to see The Big Buddha. Or not. It is the tail of the trip, I have no schedule, I am alone again, and there is nothing to do. The girl from the guesthouse just brought me, unbidden and uncharged for, some amazing pineapple.
Life wanders along, and I with it.
Not today Mr. Sharky, not today.
The Voyage
John and I raised the anchor, after some fussing with a stubborn windlass, only to find the anchor had been damaged during a blow that evening. There would be no anchoring along the way, only mooring.
We motored into a head wind, round Koh Muk and charted to pass to the West of Koh Ngai. Then up along Koh Lanta, past the fabled Koh Phi Phi Don and finally to Koh Phuket. We were making six to eight knots, and life was slow and grand. Of the morning, there is little to tell, except of cool drinks, the best mango ever, and lounging about, some of us napping, others swapping tales. An idyllic motor up an idyllic sea dotted with fantastical islands. Paradise, no?
Lunch was served by the combined efforts of Bam and Bee. As we lolled about, the head wind was picking up a bit and slowing our progress. The seas roughened and we were hitting an increasing chop head on; nothing dramatic, but the ride got bouncy. Jimmie asked John to secured the anchor chain, which we had left in a large line bin on the bow, as it was starting to move around. The shackle on the chain was too big to pass through the windlass and thence below deck and the shackle pin had corroded tight. I went forward with some tools to help. John and i were soon being lofted and dropped precipitously as the chop increased and the shackle pin refused to budge. We finally freed it and starting feeding the chain below. Then the boat stopped. We thought that Stuart was giving us a break from the swell to finish out work. Oh, not so friends and neighbors.
Jimmie met us as we returned from the bow saying "Lads, the motor has just stopped and I don't know why." Yes, and not stopped voluntarily nor for our benefit.
We found Stewart peering over the side. There was a skein of fishing net a coiled a meter thick and disappearing out of sight in the depths of the clear water. Yuppers, that would stop a prop. Then Jimmie looked at us and asked "OK, Laddies, who's the strongest swimmer?" For some reason, everyone was looking at me.
The Voyage
We were engaged in some friendly banter, gave as good as we got, and when the time came bid them a good day and continued on our Mookville adventures.
John and I climbed to Hill Top, a fantastic little Thai family place where, once again, the kids serve as the wait staff and are cute as buttons. Satisfied with a plate of Pad Siew, we dropped over the hill to Mookville so John could see what I was talking about.
We took an island taxi back, 50 baht each for a ride in a little side car cage attached to a little scooter. I swear, I could here the poor motor pleading for mercy as we climbed the jungle road, everything glowing in the almost full moon.
Back at the beach bar, John and I settled in for an intense wave washing session only to be joined by Jimmie and Bam. Much drinking, hilarity and what-not ensued, with Jimmie inviting us aboard their sailing yacht for the trip to Phuket. We agreed, chalking it up to camaraderie and whiskey. Nothing would really come of it.
Oh, wrong we were Boyos.
This pic shows Jimmie at the helm and Stewart lending moral support.
Andaman
Sunset on the Andaman Sea and still many knots to sail under the full moon.
Sent from the Lair of the Flying Monkeys
Phuket
Fortunately I have a guardian angel who both guards the sink and looks after me.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Moving On
So it is time to stow the bags and play like we have an idea how to sail. It has been a good long while since I did any reefing.
Sent from the shores of the Andaman. Hopefully the next installment will not come from below the surface.
Koh Mook
There are rules in Mookville. Simple rules, but rules nonetheless.
The Tsunami marker in Mookville
Phone Hunt
As time passed, I decided that perhaps hope of my phone's rescue and arrival should be consigned to the same bin as belief in Santa Claus, or the good intentions of elected leaders. And yet, and yet, hope is a strange thing. In a compromise, I asked the Thai folks at the reception desk to call back to the last resort one more time. Perhaps there was now a definitive answer, yes it has been found or no, we have no idea what you are talking about Mr. Farang.
The desk folks know that I am the Idiot who left his phone behind. I am sure that most of the staff know as well, so the request for a repeat call was no surprise to anyone. What was a surprise is that not only did they speak to the folks at the last resort, they were informed that my girlfriend had been given my phone and I could get it from her when we met.
Things are getting interesting now. My "girlfriend" is the young Frenchwoman on the boat who offered to see if she could find the phone and move it on its way to Koh Mook. It would seem that the lovely girl has done at least part of that, either sending my phone on or, conversely, running up one hell of a bill in calls to friends and family. I have no way of knowing, except that her air of earnestness leads me to believe the former option, rather than the latter.
Now, perhaps, we really shall see. How Fun!!!
Sent from the Lair of the Cute, Thievin' Monkeys
The desk folks know that I am the Idiot who left his phone behind. I am sure that most of the staff know as well, so the request for a repeat call was no surprise to anyone. What was a surprise is that not only did they speak to the folks at the last resort, they were informed that my girlfriend had been given my phone and I could get it from her when we met.
Things are getting interesting now. My "girlfriend" is the young Frenchwoman on the boat who offered to see if she could find the phone and move it on its way to Koh Mook. It would seem that the lovely girl has done at least part of that, either sending my phone on or, conversely, running up one hell of a bill in calls to friends and family. I have no way of knowing, except that her air of earnestness leads me to believe the former option, rather than the latter.
Now, perhaps, we really shall see. How Fun!!!
Sent from the Lair of the Cute, Thievin' Monkeys
Koh Mook
"Whatta ya doin', ya Mook?"
If you were to never leave the Charlie Beach Resort, you would not know that there is a real island here, complete with real Thai folks.
As you leave the gate of the resort, complete with its very sleepy security guard, a dirt road leads up the hill through the dense jungle, which is quickly replaced by rubber tree plantations.
There are a few off-beach resorts, descending in western style creature comforts until you get to Mookies. At Mookies, all pretense is abandoned. There are "tent-alows," old frame tents pitched under tarp awnings. Mookies is supposed to have the coldest beer in Thailand, but we found not a soul stirring, sort of a tent ghost town.
The road climbs the hill to the new tsunami warning tower and, now paved, drops into the village, which I have christened Mookville. It is probably called Mook for all I know. First of all, Mookville is a real Thai village, with little shops, ducks and chickens and what-not wandering around, and people sleepy in the mid-day heat. Folks are very friendly and very laid back. Secondly, it becomes apparent that Mookville has seen some trouble.
Mookville is a town on stilts. The center of Mookville, along the river, was devastated by the 2004 tsunami. I will post some pics later, which show the tsunami marker where the surge came in 2.5 meters high. According the lovely woman who owns Sugars Coffee, no one was killed in the village, but many people were badly hurt. The rebuilding is still going on, particularly along the river. The tsunami surge pushed a wall of dark sand and mud in front of it and basically flattened all of the vegetation and most of the structures in its path. The lowland area of town is still a plain of dried mud, as new houses go up on larger concrete piers, or old houses are rebuilt on new foundations.
The main pier is in Mookville, along with a handful of funkier resorts, shops and restaurants. There is also a school, hospital and mosque, anchoring the village.
The midday heat finally bore down on me with its full brunt and I turned away from Mookville and climbed the hill back over to the resort. Mookies was still devoid of life, perhaps from too many of the coldest. Now it is almost cigar-thirty, judging by the sun. I have been scanning the horizon for a boat bearing me back my lost phone, but although boats have come and gone, my phone has not. Alas. Perhaps it will yet, but it doesn't really matter at this point.
So, ciao for now. I will have to load photos off of my camera onto a PC here at the resort, but that will have to wait until dark. Now I must smoke and scan the horizon.
Sent from the Lair of the Cute, Thievin' Monkeys
If you were to never leave the Charlie Beach Resort, you would not know that there is a real island here, complete with real Thai folks.
As you leave the gate of the resort, complete with its very sleepy security guard, a dirt road leads up the hill through the dense jungle, which is quickly replaced by rubber tree plantations.
There are a few off-beach resorts, descending in western style creature comforts until you get to Mookies. At Mookies, all pretense is abandoned. There are "tent-alows," old frame tents pitched under tarp awnings. Mookies is supposed to have the coldest beer in Thailand, but we found not a soul stirring, sort of a tent ghost town.
The road climbs the hill to the new tsunami warning tower and, now paved, drops into the village, which I have christened Mookville. It is probably called Mook for all I know. First of all, Mookville is a real Thai village, with little shops, ducks and chickens and what-not wandering around, and people sleepy in the mid-day heat. Folks are very friendly and very laid back. Secondly, it becomes apparent that Mookville has seen some trouble.
Mookville is a town on stilts. The center of Mookville, along the river, was devastated by the 2004 tsunami. I will post some pics later, which show the tsunami marker where the surge came in 2.5 meters high. According the lovely woman who owns Sugars Coffee, no one was killed in the village, but many people were badly hurt. The rebuilding is still going on, particularly along the river. The tsunami surge pushed a wall of dark sand and mud in front of it and basically flattened all of the vegetation and most of the structures in its path. The lowland area of town is still a plain of dried mud, as new houses go up on larger concrete piers, or old houses are rebuilt on new foundations.
The main pier is in Mookville, along with a handful of funkier resorts, shops and restaurants. There is also a school, hospital and mosque, anchoring the village.
The midday heat finally bore down on me with its full brunt and I turned away from Mookville and climbed the hill back over to the resort. Mookies was still devoid of life, perhaps from too many of the coldest. Now it is almost cigar-thirty, judging by the sun. I have been scanning the horizon for a boat bearing me back my lost phone, but although boats have come and gone, my phone has not. Alas. Perhaps it will yet, but it doesn't really matter at this point.
So, ciao for now. I will have to load photos off of my camera onto a PC here at the resort, but that will have to wait until dark. Now I must smoke and scan the horizon.
Sent from the Lair of the Cute, Thievin' Monkeys
Sunday, March 24, 2013
In the Lap
Ko Muk, Trang Province, Southern Thailand.
We had booked a long-tail boat to transport us from Khiangtung Bay on Ko Lanta to Koh Muk. We would be traveling on the Andaman Sea, leaving Krabi Province and moving south into Trang Province.
As we waited on the veranda for the boat, I propped my phone upright against the table in hopes of cadging a wifi signal, reminding myself not to leave it there. Which, when the boat arrived, I did. Being a geezer does have some drawbacks. We were well out on the water before I realized my silliness. Ah, and so it goes. Not the end of the world, and a new opportunity to test the travel experience.
Regardless of the possession or loss of objects, the day was perfect, the long-tails engine pounding across the sea amongst unbelievable karst upthrusts, towers of rock that jut from the sea like so many breaching whales or fanciful, crumbling castle keeps. On some of the karst towers there are small huts and networks of rickety ladders and poles. These are where the birds nest collectors ply their trade, scaling the cliffs and hollows in the rock to harvest the swift nests, which are used for bird's nest soup. This almost tasteless soup, which I have sampled in Bangkok, is said to be the most expensive food substance consumed by human beings.
Of the fifteen or so farang on the boat, only four of us had backpacks, which was a puzzlement. As the boat nosed up to one of the karst formations, obviously not an inhabited island, the mystery was solved. Not enough people were in transit. Only a full boat is a money making boat, so the transit boat was also a day trip for snorkeling.
Our boatman dropped the ladder as I peered into the crystalline water, which seethed with tropical fish lazing above coral reefs. As people starting donning masks, he looked at us and motioned towards the basket of masks and snorkels. Before you could say "French Angel Fish" I had my pockets emptied, and my belt stripped of camera. Being pigmentally challenged, I usually snorkel in light pants and a rash guard, so my travel clothes would work just fine.
Sublime. A National Geographic moment. Other-worldly. Use whatever adjective you would like, I was gliding above a miraculous aquatic paradise, in water just slightly cooler than blood. There were yellow and black angels, a plethora of parrot fish, surgeon fish, schools of porgy, wrasses, baby barracuda and more. I dove down to look at Black Sea urchins with spines eight inches long and adorned with a purple spot like an eye. I dove as deep as I could to find the wrasses grazing on brain coral, fan coral, staghorn coral and tube corals. It went on and on, each kick being rewarded with another marine marvel.
Reluctantly, we re-boarded the boat and motored on. We stopped again to disembark a family at Kho Ngai (also called Koh Hai), one of the poshest resort islands in the entire Trang chain. At Koh Ngai, the boatmen had to do some repairs to the drive shaft. The idea of being, literally, stranded on an island occurred to me. Since it was a grand resort, I asked the desk clerk to call back to our former resort to see if my phone had been found, but there was no luck on the connection. Island phones.
Repaired and sea-worthy again, we headed towards another karst tower, this one a vertical pillar that soared far above us, fantastical sheer cliffs, under cut at the base by the constant action of the sea. We snorleled again, this time in the shade of the massif above us. I drifted along the rock walls, gently washed in the swell of the waves. Wonder and delight, friends and neighbors, wonder and delight.
John and I marveled at our luck. How we had managed to combine a snorkeling excursion with the price of our transit boat, well, we simply did not know. Truly better to be lucky than good.
I talked to our boatmen, promising them a 500 baht reward if they could retrieve my phone and deliver it to me at Charlie beach. They make the trip daily, so they have promised to try and do just that. We shall see. The remainder of the people on the boat are returning to Khiangtung Bay on the same boat and have offered to do what they can to get the phone headed in this direction. Again, we shall see. If it does arrive it will be a story, If it does not, it will also be a story.
We waded ashore at Charlie Beach Resort. This place is amazing, and even though were are staying in the cheaper bungalows in the older section, this is the poshest place I have ever stayed in Thailand. The resort includes huge verandas, an infinity pool facing the bay, bars and beach chairs and all of the things one imagines when one dreams of an island getaway.
A place of isolation and solitude, like Tarutao, it is not. But a place of comfort and ease, set in a lush jungle on a perfect beach, with jutting rock cliffs at either end? Yes, it is that place.
The desk clerk here at Charlie Beach phoned back to Khiangkung Bay and spoke to someone there. They will try to track down my phone. It will be interesting to see whether or not it shows up, but it is just an object and completely replaceable. It is not even essential to travel. Losing my passport, now that would be an issue. Losing my phone without losing my sense of well-being, that is just a lesson in living.
Sent from the Lair of the Thievin' Monkeys
We had booked a long-tail boat to transport us from Khiangtung Bay on Ko Lanta to Koh Muk. We would be traveling on the Andaman Sea, leaving Krabi Province and moving south into Trang Province.
As we waited on the veranda for the boat, I propped my phone upright against the table in hopes of cadging a wifi signal, reminding myself not to leave it there. Which, when the boat arrived, I did. Being a geezer does have some drawbacks. We were well out on the water before I realized my silliness. Ah, and so it goes. Not the end of the world, and a new opportunity to test the travel experience.
Regardless of the possession or loss of objects, the day was perfect, the long-tails engine pounding across the sea amongst unbelievable karst upthrusts, towers of rock that jut from the sea like so many breaching whales or fanciful, crumbling castle keeps. On some of the karst towers there are small huts and networks of rickety ladders and poles. These are where the birds nest collectors ply their trade, scaling the cliffs and hollows in the rock to harvest the swift nests, which are used for bird's nest soup. This almost tasteless soup, which I have sampled in Bangkok, is said to be the most expensive food substance consumed by human beings.
Of the fifteen or so farang on the boat, only four of us had backpacks, which was a puzzlement. As the boat nosed up to one of the karst formations, obviously not an inhabited island, the mystery was solved. Not enough people were in transit. Only a full boat is a money making boat, so the transit boat was also a day trip for snorkeling.
Our boatman dropped the ladder as I peered into the crystalline water, which seethed with tropical fish lazing above coral reefs. As people starting donning masks, he looked at us and motioned towards the basket of masks and snorkels. Before you could say "French Angel Fish" I had my pockets emptied, and my belt stripped of camera. Being pigmentally challenged, I usually snorkel in light pants and a rash guard, so my travel clothes would work just fine.
Sublime. A National Geographic moment. Other-worldly. Use whatever adjective you would like, I was gliding above a miraculous aquatic paradise, in water just slightly cooler than blood. There were yellow and black angels, a plethora of parrot fish, surgeon fish, schools of porgy, wrasses, baby barracuda and more. I dove down to look at Black Sea urchins with spines eight inches long and adorned with a purple spot like an eye. I dove as deep as I could to find the wrasses grazing on brain coral, fan coral, staghorn coral and tube corals. It went on and on, each kick being rewarded with another marine marvel.
Reluctantly, we re-boarded the boat and motored on. We stopped again to disembark a family at Kho Ngai (also called Koh Hai), one of the poshest resort islands in the entire Trang chain. At Koh Ngai, the boatmen had to do some repairs to the drive shaft. The idea of being, literally, stranded on an island occurred to me. Since it was a grand resort, I asked the desk clerk to call back to our former resort to see if my phone had been found, but there was no luck on the connection. Island phones.
Repaired and sea-worthy again, we headed towards another karst tower, this one a vertical pillar that soared far above us, fantastical sheer cliffs, under cut at the base by the constant action of the sea. We snorleled again, this time in the shade of the massif above us. I drifted along the rock walls, gently washed in the swell of the waves. Wonder and delight, friends and neighbors, wonder and delight.
John and I marveled at our luck. How we had managed to combine a snorkeling excursion with the price of our transit boat, well, we simply did not know. Truly better to be lucky than good.
I talked to our boatmen, promising them a 500 baht reward if they could retrieve my phone and deliver it to me at Charlie beach. They make the trip daily, so they have promised to try and do just that. We shall see. The remainder of the people on the boat are returning to Khiangtung Bay on the same boat and have offered to do what they can to get the phone headed in this direction. Again, we shall see. If it does arrive it will be a story, If it does not, it will also be a story.
We waded ashore at Charlie Beach Resort. This place is amazing, and even though were are staying in the cheaper bungalows in the older section, this is the poshest place I have ever stayed in Thailand. The resort includes huge verandas, an infinity pool facing the bay, bars and beach chairs and all of the things one imagines when one dreams of an island getaway.
A place of isolation and solitude, like Tarutao, it is not. But a place of comfort and ease, set in a lush jungle on a perfect beach, with jutting rock cliffs at either end? Yes, it is that place.
The desk clerk here at Charlie Beach phoned back to Khiangkung Bay and spoke to someone there. They will try to track down my phone. It will be interesting to see whether or not it shows up, but it is just an object and completely replaceable. It is not even essential to travel. Losing my passport, now that would be an issue. Losing my phone without losing my sense of well-being, that is just a lesson in living.
Sent from the Lair of the Thievin' Monkeys
Saturday, March 23, 2013
First courses
Resort Digs
>
> Ko Lanta, Thailand. What are we doing here? The answer would be: "Nothing"
>
> We are in the far south of Ko Lanta, on Kantiang Bay. There is the bay and beach in front, the mountains behind, and the funky little hamlet to retreat to for wifi and real coffee.
>
> I am slouched in a sling hammock, watching the world drift by on the dusty little one lane road. The pavement ends 100 meters from here. It is "Ron Mahk," very hot. My skin is lightly coated in a mixture of salt from the Andaman Sea and sweat.
>
> The day's accomplishments so far have been booking passage to the next island, a mango shake to die for, a Padron cigar and a swim. I doubt that much more will be added to the list.
>
> The resort we are staying at us run by a family of Thai Muslims. The call to prayer drifts across the beach at the appropriate times. Between the crazy Thai waiters and the Muslim woman in the kitchen and at the front desk, the place has a Rasta-Muslim vibe, if such a thing is possible.
>
> It is not the seclusion of Ko Tarutao or the frantic hedonism of the full-moon parties. There is a sort of end of the road castaway feel to the whole place, with a few posh resorts, some funky bungalows and 350 baht backpacker rooms behind the little shops.
>
> Time and calendar fade here, quickly
> Nothing to do quickly turns into a raison de être
>
> Sent from the Paradise of Monkeys Device
> Ko Lanta, Thailand. What are we doing here? The answer would be: "Nothing"
>
> We are in the far south of Ko Lanta, on Kantiang Bay. There is the bay and beach in front, the mountains behind, and the funky little hamlet to retreat to for wifi and real coffee.
>
> I am slouched in a sling hammock, watching the world drift by on the dusty little one lane road. The pavement ends 100 meters from here. It is "Ron Mahk," very hot. My skin is lightly coated in a mixture of salt from the Andaman Sea and sweat.
>
> The day's accomplishments so far have been booking passage to the next island, a mango shake to die for, a Padron cigar and a swim. I doubt that much more will be added to the list.
>
> The resort we are staying at us run by a family of Thai Muslims. The call to prayer drifts across the beach at the appropriate times. Between the crazy Thai waiters and the Muslim woman in the kitchen and at the front desk, the place has a Rasta-Muslim vibe, if such a thing is possible.
>
> It is not the seclusion of Ko Tarutao or the frantic hedonism of the full-moon parties. There is a sort of end of the road castaway feel to the whole place, with a few posh resorts, some funky bungalows and 350 baht backpacker rooms behind the little shops.
>
> Time and calendar fade here, quickly
> Nothing to do quickly turns into a raison de être
>
> Sent from the Paradise of Monkeys Device
Friday, March 22, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Tiger Cave Temple
Idiots
Alas, yes, we did.
Krabi Town
The solo portion of my trip has, for the time being, come to an end. Today, I linked up with my long-time motorcycling partner, John Arnold. As usual, our synchronistic link allowed us to find each other within minutes of our appointed meeting time even though we are fifteen time zones from home. But I am getting ahead of myself.
I awoke to sunny skies in Trang. Of course, that is so blatantly obvious a statement that only an Idiot would bother to write it down. Out on the streets at 7 AM, the heat was already building. Within minutes I had found the morning market, settled into the multiple course walking brekkie that begins any shining new Thai day. After sating myself and soaking up the magic of the market, I packed up the gear, bade my house gecko a fond farewell, and found the sorng-ta-ou (what is a songtheuw up north, or at least that is my transliteration. Down here in the south it is otherwise and I stand corrected).
This handy means of transport is a little pickup truck with two rows of seats (sorng-ta-ou meaning "two rows") in the back under an open air metal canopy. Some of the northern version just have a roll bar type cage. For 12 baht ( 40 cents) the thing roams hither and yon across town on some predetermined but mystical route, picking people up and dropping them off until you are sure you are going backwards and then, suddenly, there you are at the bus station just like you planned it.
I could have just taken the vomit van from my hotel in Trang directly to Krabi Town. It would have been easy. But, I felt like a bus ride. And I saved almost 100 baht ( $3,20 ). But I had forgotten the hidden cost. What was I thinking? The ordinary buses are open windowed affairs that rattle merrily along the road, taking their sweet time. Instead, I got a government air-con bus, the tall ones with the huge windows and posh comfort. The same posh comfort that comes with the video screen and speakers running the length of the bus. Powerful speakers. For two hours I was barraged with Thai music videos, complete with Karaoke prompts in case you want to sing along. Some of my fellow passengers did.
Thai pop music is amazing. The first set of songs were all about a handsome but very poor working boy who falls for a beautiful and unobtainable rich girl. They are star-crossed lovers. In one, the boy is badly beaten by the rich father's thugs. Then he dies while pushing the distraught girl out of the way of a vomit van. Swear to God, its true. All of this is set to a crooning, heart string-pulling sort of sweet pop tune, plaintive and sugary. In another, the same scenario except the haughty girl is bitten by a poisonous snake and the boy leaps to the rescue, sucking the poison out of the girls glorious gam. I shit you not, I was watching this. The girl, noting the life-saving qualities of the poor boy, falls head over heels for him. OK, she was already on her ass after the snake bit her, but you get the drift.
Then came Boy Bands, dance moves and all. Not to be outdone, there were Girl Bands, complete with bad Techno and Catholic School Girl outfits. Two hours of my life I could have been comfortably squashed in with 13 other farang instead of having my high notions of Thai culture battered to jelly.
Dropped of a the Krabi bus station, barely conscious, I caught another sorng-ta-ou into Krabi Town. As I alighted on the pavement, I hadn't taken fifteen steps before I heard "You, hey You." Thinking is was a tout trying to sell me a tour, I kept walking, only to have John appear at my side. He had a cafe table waiting and the reunion commenced. Lovely. We smoked a cigar and swilled espresso until we had worked ourselves into an afternoon lather.
We have fortified ourselves with yet another market dinner, this one topped off with coconut waffles!!!! And we have laid in plans for our boat ride to Ko Lanta and south, but not before we trek out to the Tiger Cave Temple. The Wat is carved into the walls of a limestone cave, and is decorated with human skulls and skeletons to help folks contemplate the transient nature of human existence. Damn, I love Buddhist humour!
Sent from the Lair of the Thievin' Monkeys
I awoke to sunny skies in Trang. Of course, that is so blatantly obvious a statement that only an Idiot would bother to write it down. Out on the streets at 7 AM, the heat was already building. Within minutes I had found the morning market, settled into the multiple course walking brekkie that begins any shining new Thai day. After sating myself and soaking up the magic of the market, I packed up the gear, bade my house gecko a fond farewell, and found the sorng-ta-ou (what is a songtheuw up north, or at least that is my transliteration. Down here in the south it is otherwise and I stand corrected).
This handy means of transport is a little pickup truck with two rows of seats (sorng-ta-ou meaning "two rows") in the back under an open air metal canopy. Some of the northern version just have a roll bar type cage. For 12 baht ( 40 cents) the thing roams hither and yon across town on some predetermined but mystical route, picking people up and dropping them off until you are sure you are going backwards and then, suddenly, there you are at the bus station just like you planned it.
I could have just taken the vomit van from my hotel in Trang directly to Krabi Town. It would have been easy. But, I felt like a bus ride. And I saved almost 100 baht ( $3,20 ). But I had forgotten the hidden cost. What was I thinking? The ordinary buses are open windowed affairs that rattle merrily along the road, taking their sweet time. Instead, I got a government air-con bus, the tall ones with the huge windows and posh comfort. The same posh comfort that comes with the video screen and speakers running the length of the bus. Powerful speakers. For two hours I was barraged with Thai music videos, complete with Karaoke prompts in case you want to sing along. Some of my fellow passengers did.
Thai pop music is amazing. The first set of songs were all about a handsome but very poor working boy who falls for a beautiful and unobtainable rich girl. They are star-crossed lovers. In one, the boy is badly beaten by the rich father's thugs. Then he dies while pushing the distraught girl out of the way of a vomit van. Swear to God, its true. All of this is set to a crooning, heart string-pulling sort of sweet pop tune, plaintive and sugary. In another, the same scenario except the haughty girl is bitten by a poisonous snake and the boy leaps to the rescue, sucking the poison out of the girls glorious gam. I shit you not, I was watching this. The girl, noting the life-saving qualities of the poor boy, falls head over heels for him. OK, she was already on her ass after the snake bit her, but you get the drift.
Then came Boy Bands, dance moves and all. Not to be outdone, there were Girl Bands, complete with bad Techno and Catholic School Girl outfits. Two hours of my life I could have been comfortably squashed in with 13 other farang instead of having my high notions of Thai culture battered to jelly.
Dropped of a the Krabi bus station, barely conscious, I caught another sorng-ta-ou into Krabi Town. As I alighted on the pavement, I hadn't taken fifteen steps before I heard "You, hey You." Thinking is was a tout trying to sell me a tour, I kept walking, only to have John appear at my side. He had a cafe table waiting and the reunion commenced. Lovely. We smoked a cigar and swilled espresso until we had worked ourselves into an afternoon lather.
We have fortified ourselves with yet another market dinner, this one topped off with coconut waffles!!!! And we have laid in plans for our boat ride to Ko Lanta and south, but not before we trek out to the Tiger Cave Temple. The Wat is carved into the walls of a limestone cave, and is decorated with human skulls and skeletons to help folks contemplate the transient nature of human existence. Damn, I love Buddhist humour!
Sent from the Lair of the Thievin' Monkeys
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