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.

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

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.

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

The Voyage

With nowhere to go, adrift in the Andaman Sea, it seemed that some snorkeling time was in my future. I stripped, got on my suit and snorkeling gear and, armed with a rescue knife, went over the side. As I went down the swimming ladder, the line from my favorite Morphine song went through my head: "Sharks patrol these waters, Sharks patrol these waters." Oh well, no fins about and we all have to go sometime. Into the warm water I went.

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 were at breakfast when Jimmie, Stewart, and the "crew" showed up, somewhat bedraggled from the night's festivities. After numerous coffees, it was "Well Laddies, time to shove off" and the game was afoot. We piled into a long-tail boat, motored out to the lovely 43' North Cape yacht, and climbed aboard, some more spryly than others. The New Phoenix Two is a steel hulled yacht made in Hong Kong. She is a 43' center cockpit sloop. Truly a fine vessel, with cabins fore and aft and a galley and lounge amidships.

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

It started out simply enough, as these things do. John and I were whiling away the heat of the day on Koh Mook, enjoying a cigar and a cold one. The peace was abruptly broken by the arrival of two boisterous Scotsmen, Jimmie and Stewart (Sturt, one syllable). They were accompanied by their temporary Thai friends, Bam and Bee.

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.