The Good, the Bad, and the Depressing

"This way Sir!  This way lady!"

We can hear the eager shouts of the touts before our feet have even landed on firm ground.  Stepping out of the bus, the cries become even louder.

"This way!  This way!  You must purchase Cambodian visa right now!  No leaving this compound!  You must purchase visa first!"

We shake our heads, quite literally pushing our way through a crowd of men dressed in clean white attire.  They aren't letting us go without a struggle, and continue to paw and pull at us, proclaiming, "I am from Cambodia!  I just want to help you get a visa!  I would never scam you."

Nice try.  This whole operation is a scam.  Jordan and I stick to our guns, and push onwards until we break free of the smothering group.

Shackled up in a guesthouse near the Cambodia border, we marvel at the extent to which people will go to make a quick buck.  It doesn't seem to bother these people, who try and swindle tourists out of every last dime they possess.

For those who have never been to Southeast Asia, the border crossings are a feat to be survived.  They are notorious for scammers and swindlers, all who are intent on obtaining visas (that are either fake or grossly over-priced) for unsuspecting tourists.

Thanks to our new-found French friend, we manage to make it across the border unscathed.  After an interesting taxi ride to Siem Reap, we find ourselves eager to explore what this new country has to offer.

Upon first glance, Cambodia seems to be even poorer than Thailand.  There is less of the beautiful lush grass, and more dusty dirt patches.  Hordes of children mob sweat-soaked tourists, begging for money.  They are tenacious, pushing at the waists of the foreigners, refusing to let them pass until the harassed individual is literally forced to dart away.  Little girls carry around swaddled babies, imploring female visitors to buy them milk and food. Horrifyingly enough, many of these week-old infants are rented from their mothers, to be used as sympathy tools by the beggars.

Siem Reap is a happening little city, with noisy night markets and a beautifully lit river side.  Tourists are welcomed into the city centre known as "Pub Street" where an endless variety of restaurants and bars make their home.  Our dreams each night are a whirl of chaotic activity, filled with a sea of faces that all appear the same.  These faces open their mouths to call out endless streams of the same phrase; "You want tuktuk sir? Hey lady where you go? Tukuk?  Tuktuk... tuktuk...tuktuk..."

Every morning we wake to find that these are not manifestations of our imagination, because exactly four steps from our guesthouse we've already fended off three tuktuk drivers.  Some days, I long for a t-shirt that proclaims, "Don't ask!"

We decide to take in some of the national history, and after a blistering six kilometre walk along the dusty streets, we arrive at the Cambodian War Museum. Rusted shells of once-impressive tanks flank gravel pathways, while rows upon rows of various guns sit upon open shelves.  A Russian helicopter occupies a corner of the plot, its rotor blades stretching into the surrounding foliage.  Close by, a Mig-15 Fighter Jet sits quietly, perhaps yearning for the days in which it raced with astounding speed through the clouds.  Fourteen tanks, eighty-nine guns, and five hundred grenades later, we decide to hail one of the ever-persistent tuktuks back to our guesthouse.

We spend the next three days exploring Angkor Wat, the largest complex of Hindu temples in the world.  Constructed in the 1100's, the temples are enchanting sights to behold.  We rent bicycles for $1.00 a day, and spend our time leisurely exploring all that this World Heritage Sight has to offer.

Stone pillars rise grandly into the sky, their age evident by the blackened portions of decaying rock.  Spires loom proudly above the teeming crowds of tourists, reaching in vain for the overcast skies.  As we explore the vast ruins, we are constantly in awe of the mystery that shrouds these temples.  My favourite sight, Bayon Temple, is as da Vinci was to art: Genius. Magnificent. Wondrous. Inspiring.

We almost find ourselves becoming twisted and lost within the intricate layout of Bayon Temple.  Enclosed courtyards flanked by pillars give way to shrouded side-rooms, while crumbling stairs plummet steeply into secret alcoves.  We find a deserted and hard-to-reach courtyard, and allow ourselves a moment to bask in the sheer weight of this incredible place.  Moss climbs over a set of crumbling stairs, reclaiming man's triumphs back into the earth.  We settled upon these stones, our eyes greedily absorbing every detail in the works around us.  The air is thick; heavy with the history that lives within each of these stones.  I fall silent, and swear that I can feel the breath of this place - ancient but alive.

Occasionally, we catch a glimpse of orange through the winding corridors.  Monks still frequent these passages, and clothed in their sunset coloured robes, they meditate and pray over wands of flickering incense.  Angkor Wat, which is known as "The City of Temples," is the only major historical sight in the world that has been in constant use throughout it's existence.

Soon it is time to say goodbye to Siem Reap and the glorious temples that surround it.  We are about to embark on what is quite possibly the worst bus ride of our lives.  Our assigned seats are at the very rear of the bus, and we soon discover that there is a continual blast of hot air that billows from behind our seats.  It's strong enough that the pitiful excuse for air-conditioning never quite reaches us, and we are reduced to panting like caged animals.   Lucky us, we also happen to be sitting right on top of the engine, which effectively turns the floor under our feet into what feels like a lava bed.  After 25 minutes on the road, our pants are drenched to the point where I can wring buckets of sweat from them.  The heat is so intense that Jordan begins to feel nauseous, and has to excuse himself for fear that he might make a mess.  At one point, I reach under the seat and pull out the occupying pastries.  Where I once thought that bread can't melt, I am now a believer.  What little edible portions of the rolls remain are covered in what I can only describe as "bread sweat."  Mmmm.  Yummy.

300km and 7 hours later, we are almost at the capital city of Phnom Penh.  The road has been decidedly unpredictable, with the main "highway" boasting paved stretches one moment, and giving way to rutted farm roads the next.  As we near our destination, I start to become excited, and I'm pleased that I've managed to maintain a (relatively) good mood throughout this torturous ride.  My resolve is soon tested again however, as the route takes a turn from "bad" to "disastrous."  Where there once was a semblance of a road, there is now nothing but a 20km stretch of pockmarked earth.  The "road" is a series of potholes, many so deep that I strain to see their bottoms.  At the back of the bus, we are being thrown around mercilessly, and clouds of choking dust are occasionally blowing into the bus with desert-storm force.

Retching the dust from our lungs, we finally arrive in Phnom Penh, and eagerly board a tuktuk, aiming for a section of the city that houses many hostels.  After a blissfully cold shower, we fall between the sheets, praying for tuktuk-free dreams.

Over the next several days we visit some of the grimmer attractions that the capital city has to offer.  Before going any further, I should mention that Cambodia was ruled by a communist party known as the "Khmer Rouge" from 1975 to 1979.  Their leader, Pol Pot, was attempting to enforce the policy of social engineering, which ultimately resulted in genocide.

Our first stop is what is known as "The Killing Fields."  This is one of the many sites throughout Cambodia that served as a mass execution ground for prisoners taken by the Khmer Rouge.  Giant holes freckle the earth around the sight - evidence of the graves that served as the final resting place for heaps of bodies that were coldly tossed within.  Prominent amongst the sights is a huge tree, upon which members of the Khmer Rouge army used to hang loud speakers.  These speakers would play classical music, in hopes of blocking out the sounds of moans and screams from the dying.  The last noises that these innocent people would ever hear were the eerie strains of a Cambodian melody.  In the middle of the field sits a small temple.  Rows upon rows of human skulls are stacked within a glass case that occupies its centre.

As if we hadn't yet experienced enough depression, Jordan and I decided to visit the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.  This is where Pol Pot held his innocent victims until they were ordered to be taken to the Killing Fields.  Once a beautiful high school, Tuol Sleng now served as a foreboding prison.  Classrooms were transformed into tiny jail cells, and wooden poles that had once served as exercise devices were used as instruments of torture.  Drops of blood still stain the floors of many of the cells, and razor wire ensnares the balcony railings - a deterrent against suicide.  As we wander through the four buildings that make up the complex, we can't even imagine the hardships of the 5000 prisoners that were held captive here.  Thousands of photographs line the walls, all taken by the Khmer Rogue.  The victims face the camera, and their hands are bound behind their backs.  As we stare into the faces of those who are now gone, we glimpse a range of emotions.  One expression shows defiance in the form of a smile, while sadness brims behind the eyes of another.  Mothers pictured with their infant children stare stonily into the lens, while others look towards their captors - utterly defeated.

One can only spend so much time at this place before feeling completely drained and overwhelmed.  It is with heavy hearts that we silently shuffle out of the gates.  Few words are spoken during the long walk back to our guesthouse.

Made ever grateful for our freedom through the prison visit, we have spent the last little while planning our next set of adventures.  As of this morning, our plane tickets are booked, and we will be flying into China in one week, and Nepal in two weeks!  Mt. Huashan and Mt. Everest await!

Cambodia Fact of the Day:
Even today there are thousands of active land mines that litter the Cambodian countryside.  Each year, farmers and children lose limbs or their lives due to these mines.

Going Pee Pee before Phi Phi

Upon first sight, Koh Phi Phi Is every bit as breathtaking as the photos and stories suggest.  Massive limestone cliffs tower over the clear turquoise waters – eternally silent giants that shelter and protect the island’s beauty and mystery. 

The small ferry spews a cloud of diesel exhaust into the air, and unceremoniously slams into the sides of the pier as the driver docks the boat.  Of course I exercise the worst possible timing, and am in the washroom for the collision.  I’ve just about settled myself in a precarious perch over a squatting style toilet, when  I almost fall into the murky water.  Just then I notice a man on the dock staring in at me through the wide open window.  Awesome.  I slam the window shut, realizing how close I came to following through on the old expression of “getting caught with your pants down.”

The tourists squeeze their way out of the multiple ferries that have just docked, and make their way down a long pier towards land.  We have pre-booked a guest house on the island, and are excited to dump our gear and relax for a spell.  Traveling from place to place in Thailand is effortless in that transferring from ferries, to shuttles, to buses is easy, but the actual rides can be extremely cramped and uncomfortably hot.  We trapse through a slew of market stalls and shops for about fifteen minutes, excited at the prospect of later exploration, and finally reach our final destination.  Dee Dee’s Beach House sits at the edge of the village, and in spite of it’s reasonable price, it sits right on the beach.  (Hence the name!)  Through our booking, we’ve secured the last available room, and are excited when we see that the room looks quite clean and has two large beds.  Two large windows allow the sunlight to pour into the room, and our room is literally the closest one to the beach.  We have only to open our door and take several steps to the right before our toes sink into the sand. 

As is the routine at every guesthouse, we perform a quick sweep for the presence of bedbugs.  That’s

when every joy we have about Dee Dee’s comes crashing down.  I lift up the pillow, and several of the creepy crawlies are sitting right there under the pillow.  I shudder in revulsion and break the news to Jordan.  The owners are sitting in the office across from our room, and through our window they can see us inspecting the beds.  Eventually Jordan informs them of our dilemma and they ask for us to show them.  We comply, and the lady laughs when she sees the few bugs, quite literally squishing them into the sheets with her finger.  We’re a little too grossed out to stay now, and thankfully, the woman offers to refund our room fee.  We’ve barely stepped out the door when she spots two young men approaching the guest house from the beach.  She asks them in a loud voice if they need a room, and when they respond that they do, she immediately pounces, offering them our old room.  Poor souls.  They could be in for an itchy night.

Heading back into town, we realize that there are no shortages of guest houses in the village.  Most of them are situated within the heart of the hubbub, but this suits us just fine.  We inquire at several, before finally settling on one called, “BanThai Guesthouse.”  The lady, Miss Lee, is nuts in the best sort of way.  Perky and chipper, she repeats our names several times, appearing to take a real interest in us.  We shortly realize that this is as much a part of a strategy to upsell us on matters ranging for the number of nights we want to stay, to booking tours with her.  None-the-less, she is still a charming little woman, with a keen sense for business in the ultra-competitive tourist industry.

Our room is located on the top floor, and the stairs that preview  them are nothing short of a miniature workout.  Steep and narrow, they wind upwards into the stifling heat of the third level.  They are so shallow that just over half of my foot can rest upon each stair. (I later learn to walk down the stairs with a slightly sideways gait.)  The once shiny metal handrail that flows along side the stairs  is now cloudy with the fingerprinted grease from sweaty hands and slick sunscreen.  I think better of my initial reaction to grab it.

We are pleased upon entering our room, as it is large and clean.   The mattresses are comfy, and best of all – bedbug free!  The hot water is definitely a tad on the bipolar side, choosing when it does and doesn’t want to make an appearance, but all that matters to us is that we’re able to shower.   An air conditioner juts out from one wall, and as we later find out, has the ability to chill the bones of the devil himself. 

The next day we find ourselves climbing to the several viewpoints that overlook the island.  While the day is overcast, the scenary is spectacular, and we decide to continue on to other remote parts of the island.  We encounter wild monkeys on our trek, and though the intelligent animals look approachable and friendly, we maintain our distance for fear of any nasty monkey bites.  We eventually find ourselves on a remote beach, where the only establishment seems to be a campsite and a small restaurant.  As we wander through the palms towards the set-up, we encounter several signs that proclaim, “NO ISRAELI!” Other words are painted in bright slashes across old tires saying, “We do not serve Israelis! Thank you!”  You think the  owner maybe has something against them? His loss really, as Israeli tourists account for a huge portion of the Thailand tourism.

We eventually decide to make the long walk back to the village, as we are drenched with sweat and are covered in bug bites from our foray through the thick jungle.  That night, we recline against the headboards of our beds and enjoy some of the local market fare, coupled with snacks from the ever-popular 7-11.

The next few days are spent in a lazy fashion, with us strolling around the markets and taking some time to plan our next journey.   We decide that we need to take in some night life while we are here, and Saturday night finds us down at the beach bars.  Loud music blares from the speakers, and two young Thai men swing a large jump rope.  The only catch is that the jump rope is actually on fire.  Giddy young tourists, beers in hand, take turns venturing into the eye of the firey jump rope’s storm.  Some are decent at avoiding the flames – others, not so much.

Eventually this leads into the lighting of another flame fueled activity – the limbo.  Shimmying under the flames, laughing people fight for the title of champion, but alas they are no match for the locals.  Having filled our fun quota for the night, Jordan and I return to our comfortable room, and drift to sleep, the sounds of screaming party-goers and pounding bass rhythms a far-off rumble in the distance.

Of course the highlight of visiting Phi Phi is a trip to Phi Phi Ley, a smaller island that floats just twenty minutes away from the larger island.  It lays claim to the famous Maya Bay, along with many other gorgeous little bays and inlets.  We had originally planned to embark on a tour that offers overnight camping on Maya Bay, but the offer is unavailable because of the low season.  We are informed of another option however, and it sounds equally as exciting.  It is an opportunity to snorkel among the phosphorescence in Maya Bay.  We are intrigued by the sound of this, and with it costing less than half of the camping trip we had originally budgeted for, we decide that it will be a worthy investment. 

A worthy investment it is.  Our boat is a delightful old wooden sea craft, with floor seating on the open top level.  We clamber up the two ladders, and secure a spot near the bow.  Within minutes we are chugging slowly towards our first stop on the itinerary – Monkey Bay.  Aptly named, this bay is apparently home to dozens on monkeys that frequent the beach.  We don’t spot any, but are just as content snorkeling in the clear waters that teem with fish.  At one point, the guides start throwing bread into the water around us, and we shriek as swarms of fish envelop us in frantic clusters.

We later make our way to the smaller island of Phi Phi Ley, turning into a secluded bay.  The driver anchors the boat, and we leap off of the top deck into the inviting waters below.  Swimming to shore, we climb onto the rocks and up a steep staircase that leads into the vast jungles of the island.  Anticipating the famous glimpse of Maya Bay, we trot down a pleasant little path that is well-worn with the footprints of thousands of the same eager visitors.

As we round a bend in the trail, the towering cliffs of Maya Bay make themselves known.  The impressive limestone formations wrap themselves around most of the bay, lending the area of sense of secrecy and seclusion.  The mass jumble of tourists is starting to thin out, and we once again rejoice at the precision timing of our tour.

The next couple of hours seem to pass at lightening speed, as we bask in the exquisiteness of our surroundings.  Finally, our guide gathers us back together, and motions for us to follow him in swimming past some striking rock walls.  It soon becomes apparent that his intended destination is another smaller beach that graces the far side of the bay.  As we stagger up on to the sand, we soon appreciate his reasons, as the sunset from this particular vantage point is without equal.  Clicks from cameras can be heard all around, and as the sun starts to sink behind the cliffs, we see our cheerful little boat, gently rocking in the mouth of the bay.

Our guide then indicates that we are to swim back out to the boat. (Pictured in the sunset photo above)  I admit that I’m a bit taken aback by this, because it’s quite a swim from the beach out to the boat.  Having spent a good deal of my life in the waters of the glorious Shuswap Lake, I’m comfortable with the notion, but can’t imagine everyone else feeling the same.  My thoughts are confirmed when several people proclaim that they are not very strong swimmers.  (Maybe more consideration should have gone into their choice of tour!) 

I’m certainly struggling to breathe normally by the time I haul myself up on to the boat.  The first one back, I plop down on a seat and enjoy watching the numerous dog paddles that emerge from the quickly darkening waters.  Soon people are dragging themselves back onto the deck, and dripping bodies soon congregate on the upper level.  The small workout was apparently enough to incur serious cravings, and it doesn’t take long before half of the vessel’s occupants have lit cigarettes.  I shrink away from the billowing white clouds and watch from the bow of the boat as the glow of burning orange dots fill the darkened sky.

Dinner is announced, and soon we are passing around large bowls of rice, baked potatoes, and freshly cooked fish.  After hours of swimming, the hot food is delicious, and plates are being passed around for seconds. 

Lightening flashes off in the distance, and to me this seems now a habitual nighttime occurance.  Our guide announces that it’s time to snorkel with the glowing plankton.  Many people are nervous about this, and even express disbelief that there will actually be anything worth seeing in the water.  But already I can see snake-like formations of glowing green lights hovering below the water’s surface.  Jordan and I are among the first to jump off of the boat, and our cries of appreciation for the phosphorescent spectacle that surrounds us encourages others to follow.  With our masks on, we see nothing but the black water that shrouds us.  Then we begin to kick our arms and legs, and within moments we are swimming through what looks like a galaxy of green and blue stars.  They are everywhere, floating above and below us – even sometimes clinging to our arms as we step on to the boat. 

The next day marks our intended departure from Phi Phi.  We say goodbye to the beautiful island, and climb aboard the ferry, settling in for the two hour journey back to the mainland.  Once there, we pile into a bus that will take us a Bangkok.  The vehicle is packed with people, and only the top floor seems to hold passengers.  One look and I can already tell that Jordan and I will not be able to sit together.  In a huff, I plod back down the stairs, and look for some other seating.  I see a few people disappear behind a small door beside the washroom and follow them.   Stepping into what can only be a private VIP area, I glance around in appreciation. 

"Hurry, shut the door so no one else sees us!" A German girl proclaims.    

"Do we have to pay extra for this area?" I ask.

"I'm not sure but let's just stay and see if they kick us out."

No one comes to shuffle us out, so once the bus rumbles to life, we lean back and enjoy our surroundings.  Three large couches form a half circle at the front of the room, and behind them sits a large tv.  Jordan and I are sprawled out on two nicely reclined leather seats that face the couches.  For the next several hours, we revel in the luxury that surrounds us, before a small Thai man pokes his head in the door and exclaims that all Bangkok passengers are transferring to another bus.  Darn.

This turns out to be a huge bummer, not only because this bus has no secret little room, but for several other reasons.  We're making our trip down the nighttime highway when suddenly a heart-stopping "BANG" wakes us from restless dozes.  You can hear the exclamations of surprise that resound throughout the coach, and we've soon deduced that the bus has sustained a flat tire.  It takes the employees around an hour to fix the problem, and after they pile back into the bus, we settle back to resume the journey.

Only... the bus won't start.  It coughs and tries to roar into the land of the living, but fails miserably.  We soon hear the clank of tools, and the jabbering shouts of the bus driver and his companions as they try to resolve the problem.  Finally, we find ourselves pulling away from the side of the road, and the coach once again echoes with the breathy snores of the sleeping passengers.

We arrive into the congested nightmare that is Bangkok traffic around 6:30am.  Slowly waking, we peer out into the overcast sky and marvel at the snarl of vehicles that seems to flow from every direction.  Buses full of sleep deprived school kids slowly squeeze into the flow, and scooters squeeze through any space they can.  Then, our bus breaks down.  Again.  Right in the middle of traffic.

The tools come out, but this time, the problem is resolved quicker.  This happens several more times before we finally stagger off of the bus, eager to stretch our legs and find a place to indulge in some real sleep.

Thailand Fact of the Day:
While the coach style buses in this country can be quite comfortable and nice, the bathrooms on board are nothing short of repulsive.  It is a toilet that you would NEVER consider sitting on unless you considered catching some vile disease a part of the cultural experience.  Dirty sewage water floats in the very shallow bowl, as there is no authentic flush system.  To the side of the toilet, there is simply a basin with a bowl in which you are supposed to ladle water into the toilet, eventually causing it to (sort of?) flush.  While back in NZ, I knew that I might encounter circumstances such as these, and purchased a device called a "Sheewee," (allows girls to pee like guys... sounds weird I know) and I am SO THANKFUL that I did.

 

Many Kohs (Islands) Later...

The rain seems relentless as we stand just inside the protective shelter of the outdoor train station.  The only sound that indicated the presence of vehicles is the sound their tires make as they splash through muddy lakes that have formed on the uneven streets. 

Finally our bus arrives, and we pile on to it, heaving dripping wet backpacks through the aisle.  Within minutes we are meandering along the roads outside of the city of Chumphon, heading towards the Lompraya Catamaran Ferry Pier. 

From where I stand, the pier looks to jut out into the sea around 150 metres.  The rain and wind have become even more aggressive, but this doesn’t detour groups of tourists from walking four people across, effectively blocking the passage of anyone who is not moving at a tortoise’s pace.  One guy even lights up a cigarette for good measure, sending clouds of choking smoke back into our faces.  Finally, we spot a chance to dash through, and looking like a pair of West Vancouver mothers, we power walk our way down the rest of the dock.

Stepping into the boat is a shock, as the air conditioning has been turned up so high that I’m shocked I don’t see icicles forming when I speak.  Normally this is the moment where one breathes a hearty sigh of relief after escaping from the strangling heat, but as someone who is soaking wet, it’s not quite as pleasant. 

We find a couple of seats by the window, peeling off layers and wet clothes, and settle in for what we think will be an adventurous and exciting ride.  It does indeed turn out to be adventurous, but more so in the way that would be enjoyable if you were a salty old pirate who has two wooden limbs and thrives on seas that resemble torturous gales.  A sea dog such as this would be smiling and laughing at us through broken teeth, because we resemble anything but sailors on this sea voyage.  With every wave, the boat pitches up and down, and within 20 minutes I am hanging on to the ledge beside me, fighting the urge to relive breakfast.  Behind me, a young woman does exactly that, and clutching a small pink bag full of what could be scrambled eggs and toast, she clumsily makes her way to the stern of the boat. 

Eventually we sail into calmer seas, and the island of Koh Tao makes an appearance.  We marvel at the beauty of the island, and soon find ourselves clamoring to reach terra nova.  The island is a bustling place, showcasing colourful markets, yammering salespeople, and aimlessly wandering tourists.  We wave off several offers of a taxi, and make our way along a steep and overgrown trail before finally reaching our destination for the night.  The “resort” is situated on a beautiful beach, but the bungalow we are shown leaves much to be desired.  Daylight seeps in through cracks in the bungalow, and a filmy mosquito net sits draped over a questionable bed in the middle of the room.   However, we are exhausted from a day of travelling, and after smiling at the woman who waits in the doorway, we tell her that we will pay for a night. We follow her back down to the reception area, fork over the cash and then head up to our room, excited for some serious lazing about.  Jordan then opens the door to the bathroom that is attached to our bungalow, and almost immediately slams it.  He turns to me with a smile that’s a little too forced for my liking.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Don’t go in there.”  He replies.

“Why?  What’s wrong?”

He is adamant when he says, “Just please for once listen to me.  Don’t go in there yet.”  

I shrug with what I hope looks like nonchalance, and amble outside to take a look at our balcony.  A table and chairs sits overlooking the path down to the ocean, while a hammock swings lazily from the beams.  If I were to just stay outside on this patio, I could almost forget about the interior.  As if fate is determined to remind me of the horrors that lay within, Jordan comes back out of the bathroom, wielding a broom and declaring the war zone safe to enter.

He explains that the bathroom floor was littered with hundreds of ants, termites and their shedding wings.  He swept them up, both dead and alive, and ushered them down the drain using the shower hose.  I definitely owe him one.

The frogs that night are unbelievable.  They come out during rainy periods, and tune in to a chorus of what can only be, “Let’s Make Like a Lawnmower.”  Crossing a bridge over their inhabited stream, Jordan and I can barely hear each other speak.  It is truly unlike anything we have ever heard.  Earplugs are positioned within easy reach as we settle into bed for the night. 

The next morning, I step out of the shower and fling my towel over my head.  As I do so, I catch a glimpse of two shadows on the wall.  A shriek of surprise escapes my lips as I realize the shadows belong to two huge lizards.  They turn out to be Tokay Geckos, and are known to bark, bite and jump when threatened.  I keep my distance while Jordan exclaims over how neat they are, venturing in for close-up photos.  One gecko tolerates the paparazzi, but keeps one yellowed eye trained on the photographer.  The other scaly creature slips a little further into one of the many cracks in the aging wood. 

I love the great outdoors.  I don’t mind roughing it.  I can hike in the backcountry for a week with only a tent to shelter myself.  But I don’t have to share my accommodation with lizards that can bark and bite – probably more ferociously than my darling little dog, Teka, could have.

The decision is made, and we are both eager to say goodbye to Sai Thong “Resort.” 

We traipse back into the village, and after spending some time at an internet café, we hop in a taxi, (which turns out to be the bed of a pickup truck) which takes us to another little village on the island.  We check into a little resort that offers beautiful apartment style rooms, and set out to explore the area.

The next day begins early, as a haggard sounding rooster decides that dawn comes not when the sun rises, but instead in the several hours before the light of day.  He continues his cries of “cock-a-doodle-do” for hours, sounding not like well-fed fowl from Farmer Joe’s Petting Zoo, but instead like a bird who has lived a life dependant on whiskey and cigarettes. 

After rising, we rent scooters  and putt-putt around some dubious little segments deemed “roads.”  We find ourselves on a beach called “Shark Bay,” and after renting some snorkeling gear from a nearby resort, we plunge into the clear waters.  The sea life that blooms around us is all encompassing, and while the corals are of a rather bland shade, the fish that swim amongst it are an astonishing plethora of colours.  The gilled creatures range from several inches to several feet in length, each of them regarding us with little concern as they dart from plant to plant in search of a meal.  I watch one fish from about ten feet away, and he chooses that moment to relieve himself.  I laugh around my snorkel, snorting with a mixture of disgust and mirth.   I’ll call it a learning experience. 

Jordan gashes his foot on some coral, but ignores it as we continue to swim through the wonderland that is the ocean floor.  Schools of fish swim in a dizzying pattern, and one would swear they had been through intense choreography to achieve such perfection as a unit.  Other fish glide along unaccompanied, lazily enforcing their first rights to a piece of coral through a sudden show of their size.  I continue to drift through the water, and find myself in a slightly less inhabited area of the bay.  Peering ahead of me into the sapphire tinted water, I catch a glimpse of what looks to be long eel-like creatures.  I beckon Jordan towards me, and cautiously swim closer.  As I approach, I see that they are in fact not eels, but an elongated fish that closely matches the colour of the water around it.  Swimming closer yet, I find myself staring at a mouth that is more like that of a certain long-snouted reptile.  It trains its eyes on me, and warningly opens its mouth a fraction, revealing a saw-like oral cavity.  I back pedal some, looking back at Jordan to see him shaking his head underwater and moving his hands in a “Don’t go there,” indication.  I don’t need to be told twice.  We later find out that this fish is known as the “Alligator Needlenose” fish, which is fitting considering the shape of its mouth.

Continuing on, I find myself swimming into the shallows, where I suddenly convince myself that I see something that resembles a shark fin.  It turns out I don’t need too much convincing, as the shark suddenly swims fully into my view.  It’s about fifteen feet away, and I immediately recognize it as a Black Tipped Reef shark.  He seems indifferent to my presence, and acknowledging me with those unmistakable eyes, he continues in his search for smaller prey.  I follow him for a short while, marveling at how much he looks like a smaller, and therefore somehow cuter  version of those sharks you see in the  bloody discovery channel documentaries. 

Out on the sand, Jordan’s foot has now decided to ooze out a steady flow of blood, and I dash to a small restaurant in hopes of securing some bandages.  I come back with a handful of tissue, and after digging sand out of it, we discover a deep, but decidedly clean gash.  We head back to the hotel, where Jordan devotes some more time to cleaning his battle wound before covering it with a real bandage and some moleskin.

We wake around 4:00am, when the group of Irish people who occupy the three of the four rooms on our floor return from the bar.  They seem to think that blaring music and yelling back and forth amongst their balconies is acceptable conduct at these hours.  An hour later, Jordan finally steps out on to the balcony and asks them to turn down the noise, as it’s now past 5:00am and we’ve been kept awake since their return.  One of the girls turns to him, her heavily painted face registering genuine surprise at his statement of being unable to sleep.  “Really?”  She asks.

Yes really.  Shocking, I know.

Thankfully, they agree to quiet down, and we have just managed to fall back asleep when the rooster from the black lagoon calls for more cigarettes and whiskey.  At this point, I just start laughing. 

We spend yet another day on the scooters, exploring some quiet bays.  The roads can be quite challenging, as they are ill-maintained and sometimes without cement altogether.  Loose dirt covers barely concealed rocks, and while the scooters are equipped with dirt bike-style tires, the terrain would be better suited for an ATV.  I find myself jamming on the brakes to avoid careening down a steep hill, all the while trying to avoid deep creases and crevices in the roads.  For the most part, I feel comfortable in my seat, especially given the fact that I own a scooter.  Granted, I don’t take Ruby – my scooter – on terrain like this, but owning one definitely gives me a feel for the bike.  But there are still times when I find my heart beating just a little faster with a glimpse of the upcoming road conditions.  Given how I feel, it’s easy to read the looks on the faces of some of the tourists.  Some expressions range from over-confidant arrogance to sheer nervous terror.  I am further reminded of my respect for the machines when a couple almost crashes their scooter while approaching us. 

Braking intermittently, we inch our way down a steep slope.  From around the corner, we hear a scooter approaching from the base of the hill below.  We pull off to the shoulder to exchange a few words with each other as the scooter comes into view.  The couple has opted to double on the scooter instead of riding separately, and on hills such as these, the weight of two bodies can greatly reduce the vehicle’s ability to climb.  The scooter begins to slow, and fearing that they won’t make it up the hill, the young driver slams on the brakes, failing to take into consideration that because he has a passenger, the heavy machine will immediately want to roll backwards down the hill.  As we watch, he tries to recover and in a panic, guns the throttle.  This causes the bike to rear up on its back tire, sending his girlfriend falling off the bike.  Her sandal catches on the vehicle, and it’s a futile struggle as she tries to break her fall while still somewhat attached to the machine.  She lands on the mottled cement road, while he fights to keep the bike upright, which tries to fall over, first to the right and then to the left.  Finally he gains control, and looks over to where his girlfriend is now sitting in the middle of the road.  We park our bikes, and offer what little help we can, but in the end all we can do is recommend a clinic we’ve seen.  Initially she resists, because she doesn’t have medical insurance, but eventually her torn foot proves to be too agonizing, and they remount the scooter.  As they drive away, we shake our heads at the mindset of the human race, and how we’re all guilty in our lack of respect for these machines, especially when we have no former knowledge of operating them. 

The next day we board a ferry destined for the island of Koh Phangan.  The journey there is laden with sunshine, and perched upon a bench that lines the upper deck, we enjoy the wind as it tosses our unruly manes.  The feel of this boat ride is much different than the previous, as passengers are enjoying a beer and loitering about the three decks.  A good number of the commuters are inebriated  by the time we dock, and as luck would have it, one of those inebriates ends up squeezed next to us in an already severely cramped shuttle.  The drive to Thong Sala Village proves to be quite entertaining, as our new French seat-mate drunkenly yells out advice and tips about the island and the Full Moon Party – all the while carefully ensuring that no precious beer sloshes out of his open can. 

We finally arrive at Cocohut Beach Resort and Spa, and with huge smiles, we approach the reception.  We’ve been waiting for this moment for several months before leaving New Zealand.  Within moments we are checked into our beautiful hillside bungalow.  We spend the next several days swimming, exploring the village, and just generally relaxing.  Coconut shakes are deemed our new favorite refreshment, and we can’t seem to get enough of the amazing pad thai and curries.  Groundskeepers return our smiles at each approach, and the Cocohut cleaning crew impresses us at every turn. 

A cocktail party is put on in honor of the full moon, and we enter the restaurant to find that it has been completely transformed.  Brightly shining ropes of light line the pillars, and an enormous variety of food graces strategically placed silver platters.  A make-shift cocktail bar has been decorated with black-light paint, and the servers behind it are frantically mixing drinks for the thirsty crowd.  A DJ booth has been assembled, and the speakers vibrate with melodies designed to evoke dancing.  Dressed in our neon attire, we converse with other travellers while dipping into small tins of glow-in-the-dark body paint.  Once our arms and legs are decorated with brightly coloured flowers and intertwining jungle vines, we make our way down to Haad Rin beach, and ultimately to the Full Moon Party. 

The beach is alive with activity, and every grain of sand seems to jump in time to the heavily throbbing music.  It’s almost too much for one person to take in, as the neon colours and rings of fire are an assault to the senses.  Elevated platforms host crowds of dancing bodies.  The throng of people moves as one, except for the occasional arm or headband that can be seen above the mass.  Fire dancers twirl flaming batons, their bare and shining bodies dangerously exposed to the cracking orange element that swirls so close to them.  They spin with ease, catching the flame-ridden stick as though it is effortless.  With each higher toss, tentative and nervous giggles resound from the surrounding mob.  At the far end of the beach, a huge sign pulses with light, flames spelling out, “Welcome to Thailand. 2012.” 

Eventually we make our back to Cocohut, and in our hillside bungalow, we drift to sleep, blissfully sheltered from the roar and commotion of the beach that hosts the world renowned Full Moon Party. 

On our last night on the island of Phangan, we decide to indulge in a coconut oil massage.  The spa is a work of art, with twisting cobblestone paths that lead up different sets of stairs and through wooded areas to different treatment huts.  After washing and massaging our feet in orchid-infused water, our masseuses lead us up to a softly lit stone room that overlooks the ocean.  Sprawled on wide massage tables, we revel in the feelings of relaxation, thoroughly appreciating every press of their hand, and every fresh waft of scented oil.

 Our ferry is at 7:00am the next morning, and we are to catch our taxi from the hotel at 6:00am.  Unfortunately, this means that we miss our complimentary buffet breakfast that occurs each morning at 8:00am.  We aren’t too worried about this, but apparently the staff member in charge of our departure is, for he brings us each a toasted cheese sandwich and a bottle of water for the ride.  What a guy. 

From here it’s a bit of a journey towards the island of Koh Phi Phi, a destination that has made Thailand famous for both its natural beauty and its role in the Leonardo Dicaprio film, “The Beach.” 

More to come from this glorious destination.

Thailand Fact of the Day #1:  Thai people seem to LOVE the television series, “Friends” even though it’s been over for a decade.  Many cafes and restaurants play the series on repeat, and I’ve even noticed coffee shops that are named in reference to the show.  

(My sister reprimanded me about skipping this part in my last blog.  Therefore, I’ve been guilted into posting two facts for this entry!)  

Thailand Fact of the Day #2: Although many of the toilets in the tourist regions of Thailand are “westernized,” (seated toilets as opposed to squatting toilets that are prevalent in China) they still lack some of the luxuries that we are accustomed to; the ability to accept toilet paper for example.  Most guesthouses don’t even provide paper.  Instead, there is a hose attached to the wall beside the toilet, and you use this in lieu of tissue.  It’s a process, and one that takes getting used to. 

 

     

Amidst the Chaos

The bells chime, and an automated voice announces this to be the last stop on the transit system of the skytrain.  Jordan and I step out of the doors, and immediately find ourselves engulfed by a sea of moving bodies.  The heat rushes towards us, hell bent on claiming yet another pair of unsuspecting people.  It will soon reduce us to panting, sweating animals.

We decend the stairs towards the street, where taxis of every colour weave dangerously through the crowded mass of motorized machines.  At the first sign of our raised arms, a green and yellow cab swerves over to the curb, eager for what we will soon learn to be a meager fare.  There seem to be no rules where traffic is concerned, and the driver appears  oblivious to the resounding honks that follow in the wake of his blocking an entire lane.  We on the other hand, feel  more flustered about holding up an impatient line of cars, and hurridly toss our bulging bags into the back seat.  Stumbling in behind them, we wipe our clammy brows with the backs of equally soggy hands, and tell the driver that we would like to go to Banglamphu.  After some confusion and map-studying, the driver indicates that he understands where we would like to go.  However, within the confines of stand-still traffic he reaches back towards the map several more times, which sparks some worry within our already weary minds.

The traffic in the city is dizzying, and if rules of the road exist, one could seem to spend their whole life studying them and never achieve complete logic.   Motorcycles squeeze through impossibly tight spaces, unwilling to delay their trip by mere seconds.  Tuk-tuks speed by, their brightly painted exteriors equally as impressive as their seeming disregard for any form of life on two legs.  Buses careen through the throng of vehicles, honking their horns as passengers step from their doors in the middle of the rushing road.  White blocked crosswalks are pointedly ignored, and the flashing yellow pedestrian lights serve little purpose.  To cross to street is to take one’s life into their hands.  While we stare open-mouthed at the scenes around us, our driver announces what we interpret to be the arrival at our destination. 

We watch his license plate as it manouvers back into the ocean of chaos, and slowly take in our environment.  The side street is hardly bigger than an alley, and the rough edges are lined with litter and construction debris.  We pass a parked tuk-tuk, and polietely refuse him while he badgers us to take a ride.  We trapse down to the end of the street, only to find an absolute dead end.  Convinced that we are ablout to discover ourselves lost, we pull out our map and intently study the shown land-marks, desparately searching for something to compare our surroundings with.  A massive golden bridge rises up in the distance, its shining wire cables acting as a beacon to our position.  We stagger back out of the side street and are once again thrown into the cluttered and deafening roar of the main streets.  Jordan tends to be good with directions, and soon we find ourselves turning down yet another side street.  This one seems to assert more potential, and is reinforced by the small number of Caucasian tourists that occasionally step from hidden entryways.  Towards the end of the lane, we eventuall glimpse our designated guest house (after walking by it once) and find ourselves staring up at a weathered sign that reads, “Bamboo Guest House.” 

After handing over the equivalent of about $8.00 Canadian dollars, we are led up a steep wooden staircase to a rather dark but charming hallway.  Room 210 is stark and bare, with little more than a bed and a small desk, but it is a welcome sight after two days of wooden benches and cramped airplane confines.  In spite of the light breeze that flutters in through the four open windows, we immediately reach for the large fan, intent on testing its full capability.

The guesthouse has neither blankets nor hot water, but as the chilly water flows through the humid air, never has there been a better feeling.  Taking several hours to recover from the weariness that comes from crossing six time zones, we lay back on the stone slab mattress and revel in the accomplishment of continuing our travels.

Some time (and another shower) later, we venture once again out into the wild, intent on discovering edible delights.  We stroll through a park, feeling much too flashy and gaudy in clothes that would be considered average and even understated back home. Thai music plays over a loud-speaker, and as we walk alongside a battered stone railing, we stare at a canal that would make the Thames River in London look like a beach-worthy resort.  The  water is cloudy brown and completely opaque thanks to the dirt and garbage that has no doubt been deposited in it for years.  We pass a man who is keeping a watchful eye on his three fishing lines.  Jordan whispers to me, “I can’t imagine anything even remotely edible being procured from this water.”  As if on cue, a large mottled grey fish floats by, its lifeless body tossing about on the choppy waves.  Time to continue our exporation of the area.

We find ourselves back on the main drag, and I marvel at the many opportunities to twist an ankle.  Tree roots push up at the already fractured sidewalks, and open holes are frequently noted amidst the haphazardly lain bricks.  With every new entryway, we are bombarded with an assortment of smells, all of them strong, but few of them favorable.  Live powerlines dip low into the streets, many within reaching distance for the immortal few.  The sheer amount of wires bundled together is so impressive 

that I can’t help but wonder how the tilting wooden poles don’t buckle under the weight. 

Stray cats and dogs lay about on the curbs, many of them thin and malnourished.  Their sad eyes seem to stare at nothing in particular, and their tounges loll from gaping mouths, victims of the heat.  Perhaps they are dreaming of a large and fulfilling meal, or of a loving pat on the head.

Still targets of culture-shock, we secretly rejoice at every tourist we glimpse, for they seem to be surprisingly few and far between.  Making the decision to ease our way into this way of life, we search for a restaurant as opposed to a street vendor.  There will be time enough to experience road-side cooking.

An eatery that is tastefully decked with cushy chairs and rich colours beckons us, and stepping inside we welcome the product of the air conditioner.  The menu is vast, and we feel somewhat overwhelmed by the choices that are presented to us.  Narrowing down the options proves to be a difficult task, as the photos present countles images of both colourful and uniquely arranged dishes.  Jordan orders a dish called, “Hon Rin Don,” which is essentially thinly sliced pork, served with vegetables and a delightful chilli sauce.  I order the “Spicey Salmon Salad,” which proves to be an excellent decision.  

Served on a small dish, cheerful pink pieces of salmon are nestled in amongst mint and lemongrass, while a decidedly fiery looking sauce provides the moat to my meal.  The first mouthful is unbelievably delicious, and the savory blend of spices of herbs make for a taste like few I’ve experienced.  Then the bodily fire alarm is set into action.  Few foods trigger my defence mechanisms, but I can shamefully admit that from the first bite, this plate does.  Across the table, Jordan is chirpily exclaiming about his appealing albeit spicy dish.  I offer him a bit of my food, and watch with sadistic satisfaction as he squirms uncomfortably from the sting and reaches for his beer.Tipping isn’t standard practice in Thailand, but after devouring such a lovely meal, we can’t resist leaving our eager young server a 20 baht bill.  (About $0.70 in Canadian, which seems like an insult tip to us, but is probably very appreciated by them.) 

The night market seems like the obvious choice after dinner, and with full bellies and eager eyes we make our way through the masses.  The market is a teeming scene of colours, lights, smells and sounds, the majority of these pleasing to the senses.  Shops line the streets, offering clothing, jewellery, toys and foods.  I buy a large slice of watermelon from a vendor, and while sinking my chompers into the sweet, dripping fruit, I reflect gleefully on the price of about $0.40 CAD.  Strolling along, store owners bekon you into their dwellings, hoping to haggle with inexperienced tourists.  Warmly coloured lanterns hang from the roofs of open air bars, tempting passerbyers to indulge in an experience that promises contented relaxation and a cold beer.

Feeling the effects of our journey, we slowly amble back to our guesthouse, passing several more shops along the way.  These stalls are settled in residential areas, and see less of the tourist rat race.  Wisened old men and aging wrinkled women sit quietly on stools, displaying the fruits of their labours.  I glance past the shop and into the abode beyond, catching a view of a man sprawled out on his floor, watching tv amongst piles of shop stock.  It seems that this is evidence of how the Thai culture lives.  They are less dependant on the technologies of the western world, and have yet to become slaves to the iPhone and internet.  In spite of this, they seem more content and at peace than many people I know. 

Creeping up the stairs to our room, we once again turn on the fan, and prepare to settle down for what will inevitably be a sticky night.  We hear a mewling from the hall, and upon inspection we find ourselves staring down into the wide eyes of a cat who has settled himself by our door.  He continues to meow at us, a tone of pleading in his cries, before padding down to the hall to another closed door.  He appears at our window the next morning, his amber eyes peering through the screen, begging us for some food.  Unfortunately we have no food with us, and we can do nothing but coo sympathetically at him through the barrier. 

Deciding it’s time to venture south, we make our way via taxi to the Humphalong Train Station.  Riddled with pleasure at our private cabin, we stare out the window as graffiti stricken walls and blackened apartment complexes retreat into the distance.  The buildings become less frequent, and city scenes eventually give way to brilliant emerald foliage.

Goodbye Bangkok.