Travel Diaries: Thailand Revisited pt.2
“Hi there! We are Kai, Mia and Eden - the infamous British trio behind the well-known, groundbreaking publication, Travel Diaries. We have been travelling South East Asia for three months, have organised Australian working holiday visas, and are now in search of accommodation in the Brisbane area.
Our ideal home would look something like Hampton Court Palace, with maids, WiFi, a snooker table, an indoor tennis court, and built-in cinema. Our budget is around £50 per month, but this can be stretched to £60, dependant on the temperature of the indoor pool (also a requirement).
Our ideal landlord would look something like Jason Statham, and would only bother us when offering to let us use his car (free of charge). If this sounds like you, please don’t hesitate to get in touch!”
I wish we’d been honest enough to put the above as our bio on the Australian house searching site, Flatmates. In a bid to sell yourself to a potential landlord and/or co-tenant, users are invited to introduce themselves, and describe what sort of property they’re looking for.
In actual fact, we put something a lot more sensible and boring, but thankfully, we think it might’ve paid off. We’re currently in the process of organising formalities with a potential landlord, which is a massive weight off our shoulders.
We organised all of this on our last day in Koh Tao, over a huge butty from Da’s Sandwich Stall, just by the pier. Soon after, we boarded our boat to the next island on our list, Koh Phangan, famous for it’s full moon parties and vibrant nightlife. The boat journey was an unsteady one, with both Mia and Eden having to leave the bottom deck to go and occasionally put their heads in the toilet. I didn’t even notice the water turbulence (is that the right term?), because I was so deeply invested in my Crystal Palace save on the Football Manager video game, where I’m beginning to assert myself as one of the world’s greatest coaches. Because of this, I’m now even considering getting some professional football coaching qualifications once we’ve finished travelling.
The girls managed to endure the journey with mere over-exaggerated gipping and no actual vomiting, and we soon found ourselves disembarking the ferry. After a quick stop at a bar for a poo, we marched with all our luggage towards our new home for the next few nights - the Nomad House. An aptly named hostel, as the majority of the guests sported dreadlocks and extremely baggy and colourful clothes, and definitively fit the description of a stereotypical nomad.
After checking in, we nipped over the road for some Thai curries, before venturing out to explore the island a little bit more. We found plenty of clothes shops, bars, restaurants, massage parlours, everything we’d seen before. The island had a nice feel to it, though. It felt similar to the mainland, was less cramped than Koh Tao, and was just as scenic as Koh Samui.
We slept soundly that night in our six-bed dorm, and spent the majority of the following day at Puk’s Palace - a hostel and beach bar boasting a couple of swimming pools and a cheap food and drinks menu. I occupied the pool table whilst the girls sunbathed, and eagerly anticipated the arrival of Josh, Dylan and James.
Once they’d arrived, we set out for some tasty Mexican food at the Ando Loco restaurant, before getting changed and doing a mini-pub crawl. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that a spicy burrito washed down with a few beers really wasn’t a good idea. It was a suicide mission, an annihilation of the insides, and left me no choice but to spend a day’s full budget on medical supplies from the pharmacy the next day. I was asked what my symptoms were, “Hiroshima of the stomach,” I replied. The pharmacist responded with a wry look, and reached into a locked, top shelf cabinet to gather some medicine which, I assumed, was only administered during that kind of emergency situation.
A grainy, earthy, cement-like paste in a sachet was to be consumed thrice a day, before being washed down with a spoonful of a white mint-flavoured liquid. Fucking vile - but if it works, so be it.
That evening we were headed to the Eden Party - an event full of mystery and intrigue, held on the other side of the island, accessible only by boat or an extremely mountainous and rocky dirt-track. Party-goers were instructed to keep their phones away, with photography and filming strictly forbidden throughout the beach shack venue. Some have said that the party served as the inspiration for Alex Garland’s book, The Beach, which was famously adapted into a thriller film starring Leonardo DiCaprio. It was rumoured that some people who attend the Eden Party never return, or that it is run by a cult. There were also whispers that, if still present at sunrise, one risks being selected for a human sacrifice ritual.
Myself, Mia, Eden, Josh, Dylan and James all began pre-drinking at the Nomad House. We were joined by a couple of others: Max, a chatty chap from Kansas City, and John, a brick shithouse from Meanwood, Leeds, with whom we had mutual friends.
The sea was a bit choppy, so we opted to pay for the taxi to the party. Packed into the back of a pickup truck, we bounced, banged and rocked over the hazardous terrain, clinging on for dear life. The ride was soundtracked by laughter and juvenile drunken chanting, but no amount of joy could’ve distracted me from the fact that we were all potentially risking a violent and gruesome death. I felt like I was in a Second World War German tank, unsteadily ploughing through all obstacles in it’s way, like in the final act of Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan, when those bloody Nazi bastards make their assault on the French town of Ramelle.
The party itself was interesting; it was noticeably lacking human sacrifices, the drinks were expensive, the music was repetitive, the journey to and from was precarious and frightening. But, overall, we actually had a great night. However, when it was time to go home, we were hit with the realisation that we’d have to make that same awful journey back…
We went to the taxi stand and were told we’d have to wait for more people to get into the back of the pickup truck with us, in order to make the journey worthwhile. After hanging about for what seemed like forever, we finally mustered up a team of ten like-minded idiots who had no regard for their own personal safety. To the best of my knowledge, the van didn’t come out of first gear for the entirety of the journey, but it must’ve worked, because I’m here now, telling the tale, with my wrists on backwards and a shattered rib cage.
The next day we dossed around and made use of the forty-inch smart TV in the Nomad House reception, which was available to whoever grabbed the remote first. We set up camp after crawling out of bed like zombies, and watched everything from American Pie to Clarkson’s Farm, in a bid to try and forget that we were all violently hungover. I also enjoyed my first solid shit for over a week, which was a great relief.
We had to say goodbye to Josh the next morning, as the lads were travelling south to Koh Samui, before splitting up, with Josh going back to Bolton, and it was an emotional farewell to an integral member of the team. Dylan and James, however, would remain in Asia, and had promised to meet up with us again in the near future.
Myself, Mia and Eden were destined for Krabi - a West coast province known for its breathtaking views, beaches, tourism, and offshore islands. Located just a few miles south-west of Krabi town stood Ao Nang, a resort town home to the Balcony Hostel, where we’d be staying for three nights.
We sailed back to the Donsak Pier where we’d been a fortnight before, and shortly after boarded a bus to Ao Nang. It was by far the most touristy place we’d been so far. A huge influx of restaurants catered to Western travellers lined the streets, nestled in between tatty clothes shops and all the other sort of amenities you’d find on a beachfront. Each storefront was equipped with it’s own LED light system, as if all competing with each other to shine the brightest and subsequently attract the most attention.
For those few days, we felt temporarily transported to somewhere familiar - an imprecise and unspecific Mediterranean coastal town where one would travel with their family for a week or two during the six-week holidays. The kind of place where you’d try your first sip of alcohol (that your parents knew about, at least), and where you’d lounge by the pool through the day, breaking off only to take part in water aerobics or play volleyball. It was the sort of place you’d eat a bag of Lay’s crisps on the balcony at sunset, before getting dressed up in your nicest clothes ready for the Elvis Presley tribute.
Unlike those all-inclusive holidays as an adolescent, though, we didn’t have a comfortable hotel room to go back to after we’d finished at the beach. Instead, we were staying at the top of a four-storey bar/nightclub with a nightly drag show on the third floor. A trio of songs would play at the same time from each bar, battering our ear drums until three o’clock in the morning as we tried to have an early night.
At around one o’clock in the morning, we were disturbed by a gaggle of girls putting their mate, who was projectile vomiting, to bed.
“Lay on your side and go to sleep,” they said, carelessly.
The poor girl had her face stuck in a bin bag, retching constantly, and showing no signs of stopping. Put her on her side! Yeah, that’s a good idea. Leave her to roll over on her back and choke on her own spew. What a way to go. Her mates just wanted rid of her so that they could go back out and join the other backpackers. Well, I’m sorry to say this, but I wasn’t in any mood to start performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation should the unthinkable happen.
Thankfully, it didn’t.
The days in Krabi flew by. The first full day was spent on Railey Beach, only accessible by boat, and the kind of beach you see on Google images when you search “Thailand nice beach” - it was stereotypically and unequivocally beautiful. Later that evening, we remarkably bumped into Ella and Eva for the umpteenth time, and had a good catch up.
Ella and Eva kindly invited us to take part in the pub quiz at their hostel that night, and it turned out to be one of the most unbearable experiences of my life. Our team consisted of myself, the four girls, and a rather irritating chap from Devon named Callum, who’d tagged on to us at our hostel as we were getting ready. The team was completed by Harry and Chris, two teachers from Norwich and Brisbane respectively, who worked at international schools in Dubai.
The quizmaster was a cockney in his late twenties, who was wearing only denim shorts, and trying *so* hard to be funny that it made us all feel a little bit nauseous.
Nanna, I’d just like to apologise for the language used in the next few paragraphs.
“Right then, you fucking bastards,” he began, aggressively. “Are we gonna have a fucking good quiz, or what? You lot are gonna have so much fucking fun.”
Insufferable.
He loved the sound of his own voice, and went round the whole bar area to ask for everyone’s team names. In order to knock him down a peg, we named our team “I should stop talking shite and just read out the questions.” He didn’t take the joke too well, particularly as he’d been fooled into reading it aloud to the bar.
After much deliberation, we started with a general knowledge round, followed by a film and TV round, and then a music round.
“What is the biggest planet in our solo system?”
Solo system. Not solar system… solo system. Big stiff idiot.
In between questions, the quizmaster would pick on people and make inappropriate jokes, and subjects such as disabilities and misogyny were about as tame as they got. His delivery of said jokes was terrible, too - he was slurring his words by this point and we could barely make out what he was saying.
“Look at this lad here, he’s got this girl sat on his knee,” said the quizmaster. “I bet he’s got a fucking semi on.”
In between rounds, there’d be a “quick” break to give everyone chance to get a drink. They’d blast the shitty pop music as loud as the speaker system would allow them, which led to the team next to us dancing like absolute cretins. I’m all for people enjoying themselves, but the vanity that was on display was astounding.
We didn’t win the quiz. We don’t know where we ranked. We didn’t even get to hear the answers - the quizmaster was so pissed, that he just announced the winner as being a group of Swedish girls. Their victory puzzled me, given that the majority of the questions were about British culture. It was almost as if he’d just picked a group of nice looking girls to win for the sake of it.
We soon found ourselves on another boat to the next place - Koh Lanta. A slightly more laid back island, it would serve as more of a relaxation spot, where we’d get away from the bustling bars and clubs we’d stumbled across in Krabi. We instantly noticed a significant number of women wearing hijabs, and soon learned that there was a large Muslim population on the island. The Lemonade Inn was our hostel of choice, and was located just a couple of hundred yards away from a mosque, which proudly played the Adhan (Islamic call to prayer) every day - a fascinating sound which one struggles to forget. I had heard it before in all its glory during a trip to Istanbul last year, and it never fails to enthral me.
We’d organised to kayak down the tranquil Lat Bo Nae river for our first full day. Bao was our guide, and walked us through the shrubbery covered pathways over the mangroves towards a makeshift wooden pier, which looked like it was going to collapse at any given moment. Much to Mia’s relief, Bao confirmed that the water was uninhabited by crocodiles, but much to my consternation, informed me that he often sees snakes whilst taking people out on the kayaks.
The main spectacle though, were the monkeys. It was the reason we’d booked the activity in the first place, as the girls had seen on social media that, if you’re lucky, the monkeys will come out of the mangroves, and sometimes even climb on the kayaks. The thought of that was rather disconcerting, but I thought it would be unlikely that it would happen to us, and if it did, I was armed with a paddle to give it a whack should I need to.
I wasn’t prepared for how physically demanding and strenuous the kayaking was. I hadn’t burnt that many calories since the climbing up to the Nam Xay viewpoint in Laos, and I’d shat out what little muscle I had on me throughout my tumultuous tummy troubles. It proved challenging, particularly because I was sharing the kayak with Mia, who wasn’t really putting that much effort in.
Bao and Eden were in the other kayak, and were leading the way towards the mangroves. I could see some movement amongst the vines, and the realisation that we were actually going to be up close and personal with the monkeys made my stomach drop a bit. As we sailed slowly towards them, they started coming out in their drogues. There were between ten and fifteen in our immediate area, and it wasn’t long before one of them jumped onto the end of Eden’s boat and started trying to have a swig of her water bottle.
I was in a relatively safe position, with Mia at the forefront of our kayak loving the attention, and half-blocking any of the apes getting too close to me. I gaped in amazement, with a particular focus on a mother monkey who’s baby was clinging on to her neck. They started getting brave, though, and began clambering over Mia to come towards me.
The first one, who we’ll refer to as George, was friendly. He took a seat beside me and gently placed his hand (or paw) on my knee, as if reassuring me that he would protect me if any of his family members went ape shit. This would prove to be a complete facade though, because one of his distant relatives bounced onto the rear of the kayak and began eyeballing me. I began to profusely sweat, my heart was racing as he neared his face towards mine, and then, with our noses an inch apart, he began to rifle through my unzipped man bag and snatched my wallet. George, at this point, had cowardly fled, and I naturally began shouting and rocking the kayak side to side. I tried to take my wallet back from the monkey’s grip, but he fully squared up to me and aggressively opened his mouth as if to ask, “what the fuck are you going to do, knobhead?” The answer was, quite simply, not a right lot.
I completely panicked, and quickly accepted that I’d been mugged by a two-foot-tall monkey in broad daylight, without putting up much of a fight. I didn’t even want the bloody wallet back, I just wanted the creature off the boat. I shoved the little bastard into the mangroves with the fat end of the paddle in between screams, and watched him scurry up into a tree and start nibbling on my bank cards.
Bao wasn’t going to let him get away with it though, and bravely disembarked the kayak, before clambering into the mangroves in pursuit of the monkey. He swung from vine to vine like a real life version of Tarzan, and then promptly flung himself back onto the kayak after retrieving my wallet and all it’s contents.
It was mightily impressive and heroic, and it inspired me to perhaps undergo some martial arts training in order to learn some self defence. After all, if I can get mugged by a monkey, how will I stand a chance against a kangaroo?