Travel Diaries: Thailand Revisited pt.4
Anyone who has visited this little corner of the world will always come back with a story of how they were helped out by a local in a distressing time of need. Myself, Mia and Eden have a few, not least when the pipe burst in our boat house accommodation bathroom, leaving me covered in what I assume was sewage water. The owner of the guesthouse couldn’t be quicker to help, with both her and her daughter taking the bulk of the water cannon in an attempt to fix it, whilst I, a man, sat comfortably in the living area and didn’t even offer them a cup of tea.
The most memorable act of kindness from a local, though, was when I feared for my life going towards the barricade of monkeys on Koh Yao Noi. After somehow weaving our way past the apes in the event in which the last entry ended on, we stopped at a makeshift corner shop to ask if they, by some miracle, had a pump. I couldn’t go any further in a monkey infested area without working tyres…
To our surprise, they had one, and within a few minutes Eden’s bike was as good as new. Mine however didn’t take well to the shop owner tirelessly pumping air, and just released it at the same rate like a pathetic little fart. It would appear that I didn’t have a flat tyre, but a puncture, and it would need looking at by someone in a vehicle related professional capacity, and not a kind soul who sold crisps and cigarettes. His gesture didn’t end there though, and soon enough I found myself on the back of his moped, holding on to the rear of the bicycle whilst he held the front, and we set off towards the town, with something similar to a sidecar, in search of someone who could make the bike useable again.
The first “mechanic” waved us on to go somewhere else as they didn’t have the equipment, or interest in helping us. We set off again in search of the next one, being laughed at by the local’s fellow villagers, whilst the girls followed behind. To it’s credit, it was a proper bike shop, and they couldn’t have been quicker to assess the damage and subsequently repair it. I thanked the local who had needlessly wasted his petrol on this stupid Western tourist, but before I could reach into my wallet and hand him some cash to further cement my gratitude, he just rode away without any desire for any sort of physical payment. The people at the bike shop put me a couple of fresh tyres on, and also repaired an issue with the brakes which I didn’t even know about. I handed them 150 Baht for the trouble, and set off towards the 7-Eleven to purchase the sustenance we’d left the accommodation for in the first place.
We returned to the boat house with water and basic food supplies, enough to last us the forty-eight hours we had left there. I informed the staff at the accommodation that I’d paid for the tyres replacing and brakes fixing, foolishly expecting some sort of reimbursement. “Ok” was their reply. I suppose it was only fair that I’d cover the cost given that they’d smeared themselves in toilet water just an hour or two prior.
We’d timed our return impeccably as the heavens opened almost as soon as we got back. The rain in South East Asia is different - the tropical weather conditions mean it can absolutely belt it down and show no signs of stopping for a period as short as ten minutes, before the grey clouds disperse in favour of a clear blue sky. The rain, in this instance, lasted for about an hour though, so we instead took refuge at the accommodation instead of going back out to explore further.
As a result of doing so, I had the absolute pleasure of meeting the young, enigmatic Seb. He was a thin, long-haired chef, born and raised in Bristol to a Catalonian mother and Yugoslavian father. I couldn’t have created a more interesting person on paper if I’d tried, and he seemed impressed at my ability to speak both basic Spanish and even more basic Serbian. We spoke about the conflict in the Balkan regions and of his musical aspirations. I was intrigued to learn that he had also been keeping a travel diary of sorts, and although much more brief and less self-depriving than mine, it was still a captivating read.
I did an awful lot of lounging about for those couple of days, breaking off from playing Football Manager only to admire the resident monitor lizard in the pond and all it’s aquatic companions, and to have “family dinner” with the owners of the guesthouse. For just 200 Baht, they served us a medley of Thai food, chicken wings, shrimp glass noodle salad, freshly caught nondescript white fish, steamed rice, and the main event; curried crab. The owner’s husband, who’s name I didn’t catch, was a former diving instructor, who spoke much better English than I did Thai (or Spanish, or Serbian for that matter). He’d caught the crab himself in the pond, and was absolutely delighted, but spoke regrettably about having to kill the thing. I felt a little bit overwhelmed, and in fear of seeming rude, compelled to eat as much food as possible. I hadn’t eaten crab before, not in that capacity anyway, when it’s still in it’s shell and was alive and kicking just thirty minutes prior, but the bloke showed us exactly what to do, ensuring we didn’t cut our fingers on the sharp parts housing the meat.
I’m not the biggest fan of seafood, but I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to eat a meal, family-style, with a real, local, rural family. We spoke of the effects of the infamous tsunami that hit the nation in 2004, and he spoke amicably about the relationship between the people of South Thailand and their northern counterparts. Interestingly, although still divisive, it seems to be a lot more harmonic than traditionally in England between Northerners and Southerners.
The following day, we were bound for Phuket. We’d been there once already, albeit briefly, simply to break up our journey from Siem Reap to the islands of Koh Samui, Koh Tao and Koh Phagnan. We’d stayed in the old town a couple of weeks prior, but this time we were to turn it up a notch. We had a hostel booked in Patong, which was arguably the most touristy place we’d been in the last twelve weeks of travelling. It was full of Western restaurants, European holidaymakers and rowdy bars, and if I’m being kind, it was an absolute shithole.
Despite it just being an hour or so’s worth of travel, I felt a million miles away from the serenity of the boat house.
We knew what we were in for, though, and to soften the blow of impending chaos, we were thrilled to find out that we’d been upgraded from a twenty-four bed shared dorm room to a private one. They must’ve seen our dates of birth on our passports upon checking in, and gifted Eden an early birthday present, as she was to turn 23 the next day. That, in itself, was partly the reason we’d booked to stay in this disorderly little place - we wanted to celebrate in revelry, just as we would if we were back in Leeds.
On our first night, we just mooched around the area to find an abundance of fake designer clothes for sale, tended to by extremely pushy salesmen. We stopped for some food at a Mexican place, and had nothing short of a terrible experience. The food was terrible, the service even worse, and it was only after we’d eaten that we checked the reviews to find several reports of food poisoning.
On the way home, I sloped off from the girls to covertly make some birthday decorations for the bedroom. Mia and I had been out buying a couple of gifts earlier that day, but struggled to find any bunting, party poppers, or anything else of the like that you’d find at the Card Factory. Nevertheless, I would refuse to admit defeat and made use of what was on offer. To Eden’s delight, the girls eventually returned to find toilet roll proudly stuck to the bedroom door displaying the message “BIRTHDAY”. I’d written the corresponding “HAPPY” on a few other sheets, but given that I’d almost used a full roll after making a mess of my first couple of attempts, I decided that I’d better not overdo it, and save some loo roll for it’s actual purpose. Needless to say that we’d never been as happy to wipe our arses as we had using the “HAPPY” roll, and I was ignited with a business idea to make themed toilet roll, which I shall pursue once we’ve finished travelling. “Wipe in Style” is one of the slogans I’m considering, along with “Just Roll With It”. I’m also considering writing a book about toilet paper, but I’m worried it’ll be too thin.
We’d arranged a lengthy (and expensive) day trip to Khao Sok National Park, a beautifully picturesque rainforest that surrounds the Cheow Lan Lake, and stretches for almost three-hundred square miles. It’s an iconic activity, and was our best chance at seeing wild elephants. We were picked up bright and early at six o’clock in the morning the following day, after a rendition of “Happy Birthday”. A couple of hours later we arrived at the park and were introduced to our guide, Johnny, who made us hang about for almost an hour before we got on a longtail boat and sailed to the other side of the lake.
The water was turquoise and tranquil (minus the noise from the boat engines), with an array of large birds flying overhead. All around the lake stood the rainforest upon which our eyes were firmly fixed, desperate to spot some elephants doing their thing in the wild. As mentioned in another entry, we’ve had opportunities to visit elephant sanctuaries at various points throughout the trip, but have never taken part in fear they are unethical and mistreat the animals. The scenery was what we would imagine those delightful mountainous regions of Canada to look like, and rivalled anywhere else we’d visited in terms of natural beauty.
We were given the opportunity to swim and kayak, before being fed a below-par meal. Then, we went to see a cave full of bats, before going on a hike through a jungly part of the park. But no, we didn’t see any elephants.
Having ruined Eden’s birthday before it had even got going, Johnny regrettably informed us that the tour had finished, as I wondered why on Earth the day trip was priced in such a fashion. If any readers ever feel compelled to spend £87 on a boat tour/kayaking/shit food/caving experience, give me a shout, and I’ll send you Johnny’s number. Still, it was better than a smack in the balls, and we weren’t going to let the underwhelming experience tarnish what was a celebratory occasion.
We arrived back in Patong at around seven o’clock in the evening, and instantly set course for the nearest McDonald’s. Fattened by greed and gavage, we waddled over to 7-Eleven and stocked up on Soju to pre-drink before we ventured out to the famous, or infamous Bangla Road.
The girls did their makeup as I watched the 2025 Randox Grand National via FaceTime, courtesy of Olivia Bartram, and once we were all out of Soju, out we went.
We found ourselves in a relatively quiet bar on a street opposite the rowdy Bangla Road. Despite being proportionately tipsy, we weren’t ready to face the mayhem just yet, so instead ordered a couple of rum and cokes in what felt like an English working men’s club. The decor was similar to that in the Farsley Constitutional Club (Conny) and the owner looked a bit like Brian Potter. It felt like a home away from home, particularly when we overheard the Yorkshire accents of two Hull City fans, who were watching (and celebrating) their last minute winner away at Sheffield Wednesday.
The three of us played card games before inevitably making friends with our fellow Yorkshirepeople, who introduced themselves as John and Angie. As we so often do with folk from God’s Own Country, we soon made friends, and they were quick to wish Eden a happy birthday. They were even quicker to tell us that it was actually John’s birthday too, although he was some thirty years our elder. They were a great couple - full of hilarious travel tales and advice, incredibly interesting and intriguing, yet so very familiar.
We invited them to join our card game, and it was so engrossing that I’d missed the fact that not only Villa were on the telly, but also 2-0 up! Two early goals against Nottingham Forest… they must’ve known we were celebrating.
After a few more drinks, John and Angie accompanied us to Bangla Road, where they kindly even bought us a couple of rounds. They left abruptly after the bar we were in refused to play “On Ilka Moor Baht ‘At”, but wished us a very happy onward journey, and stressed should we ever want to call in after a day at Beverley races, we should send them a message.
I’m disgusted with myself, but I don’t think I’ve actually taken the time to mention Kai’s Pies once in this whole travel diary series. Genuinely sacrilegious of me, given my borderline obsession with all things pastry and future business ambitions. Kai’s Pies is still a work in progress, but if you’re one of the lucky people to have been part of a journey so far, you’ll be able to appreciate just how delighted I was when I spotted “Pie of the Day” on the menu at Fatboy’s Cafe and Restaurant. A venue proudly run by a Yorkshireman which boasted great British classics, it was the perfect rehabilitation centre for three hungover backpackers.
Mia got the roast dinner and lathered it in mint sauce. Eden didn’t have much of an appetite, so just opted for the fish and chips with mushy peas and loads of salt and vinegar and tartare sauce. I ordered the beef and onion pie, which was served with mashed potato and mushy peas.
It had been over three months since we’d seen food like it, and for what it’s worth, if I’d have been served that meal in England I’d have probably stormed out without paying. But I wasn’t in England, I was over six-thousand miles away from the nearest Greggs, and was in need of some comfort food. The pie, in fairness, was good - but the sides were miserable, and the place, judging by reviews, had let itself go a little bit. The girls would disagree though, and were delighted with their choices.
Thailand had been good. Brilliant, in fact. It hasn’t been my favourite place in the world, but I feel very privileged to have been able to visit, and travel around so extensively in the manner which I have. All good things though, must come to an end.
We spent our last day and night in Thailand in Mai Khao, located about an hour north of Patong, the much quieter and less visited part of Phuket. We checked into a wonderful apartment in a tranquil little area just a few minutes walk from a 7-Eleven, and conveniently, just a fifteen minute drive to the airport.
The area was a microcosm of the world. It had a couple of shops, even fewer restaurants and a money exchange unit. Guesthouses were in no short supply, though, and the roads were relatively busy, as they are all over Thailand, with mopeds.
The heart of the area though wasn’t any of that - it was the Soi Dog Foundation. A dog and cat sanctuary founded by a British couple over twenty years ago, the foundation now houses over a thousand animals, and earns its money primarily from donations from visitors, and we may or may not have tailored our last night’s accommodation around the prospect of visiting the sanctuary after it was recommended to us by Fred and Rose…
We got a tuk-tuk there, and our guide invited us to sign in and fill in a short questionnaire before showing us to the cat section of the sanctuary. Five rooms, each housing about twenty cats were at our perusal, and we revelled in some feline attention whilst waiting for the tour to start. Soon enough, we left the cat section and our guide began talking at us for twenty minutes about the history of the sanctuary, and how they got to where they are.
It makes me feel physically sick to say this, but for the entirety of her lecture, I was absolutely miles away. I was too distracted by the medley of dogs patrolling the grounds along with their respective walkers, and was itching to go and spend some time with the pups. Annoyingly, we weren’t allowed in the big dog section, but enjoyed being licked and bitten (by the dogs) in the puppy section and the small dog enclosure.
We left, covered in fur, and watched our last Thai sunset. It had been the country we’d spent the longest time in over the trip; over two stints, either side of Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia, we’d spent just under a combined six weeks in this beautifully diverse nation. It had been paradise when we first arrived from Delhi all that time ago, and was the nation in which I’d had one of the best meals of my life. Home to some of the kindest and most hospitable people, endless laughs and infinite bottles of Chang, Khao San Road, Bangla Road, tipsy tubing, and the Eden Party. It was the place where we met Shane and Alex, Helena and Tanya, Jannik and Jonas, Brad… but, most importantly and most fondly, it will always be the place where I proposed to my future wife.