Heading south

The fourth of five postings from my recent trip to Thailand

My New Year's turned out to be quite relaxed and understated. I spent the day on an adventure through the Kaeng Krachan National Park (chronicled in my last story) and passed the night walking the beaches of the seaside city of Chaam. I chose Chaam as my destination for two reasons -- first, because it was reported to be a favorite of Thai tourists, and second, because there is a well-known Thai restaurant in Berkeley of the same name. Even though my expectations were minimal, Chaam proved underwhelming. The beach was scenic and clean but the strip of hotels, bars, and restaurants facing the water were uninspiring, not particularly busy, and the area lacked a feeling of excitement that should characterize the New Year.

(the story continues on the next page....)

I stayed at a hotel owned by a Dutch man and his Thai wife. This hotel was recommended by the Lonely Planet primarily because the owners had saved a pregnant Elephant that was being rented out for tourist showcases by purchasing it and sending the animal to a preserve in northern Thailand. My room was clean, fairly spacious and cheap (200 Baht, or $5). While checking in, I tell the owner that my desire to stay at his hotel is based on the fact that he saved the elephant and he seems pleased. Then the owner and I speak of the tsunami. He tells me that the earthquake, or an immediate aftershock, was felt in Chaam but locals didn't realize the source or actual magnitude. Eight of his former guests called subsequently to let him know that they were safe. Four others never made contact, and he is worried about their fate. He says that the hotel owners in Phuket hope to rebuild in the next 4 months. Within six months, it may be impossible to tell that the tsunami ever hit many of these areas.

After this sobering conversation, I walk down the beach and observe small groups of Thai youths building fires and singing songs. There are displays of low-grade fireworks, fountains of sparks, and some middle-aged tourists firing glowing balls out of roman candles. On one stretch of beach, people are launching cylindrical balloons with attached fire sticks suspended just below an opening at the bottom. The fire heats the air inside the balloon, causing it to rise into the sky. I remember these devices from my last trip to Thailand and marvel as the points of light drift over the sea and off into the horizon.

Further down the beach, I come across a fenced-off outdoors space in front of a high-end hotel hosting a formal dinner. There are several hundred guests, more than half of whom are middle-aged farangs (foreigners). The tables are elaborately decorated and each chair is covered with a reflective silver satin cloth. It is both ostentatious and gaudy. At the edge of the dining area, and directly facing the street, is a stage on which a theatrical performance is in progress. I stop to watch for awhile. A Thai announcer wearing a suit, and speaking perfect English accented with a showbusiness tone, introduces two young Thai men wearing only pants and boxing gloves. The announcer first explains that this next sketch will provide comic relief, just to set the mood, then identifies one of the Thai performers as "the African" and the other as "the Thai national champion." They will be competing in a Muay Thai kickboxing match for some fictious prestigious championship. What follows is a bizarre slapstick routine involving the two boxers, who intermittently kick and punch each other and then parade around the stage in a triumphant manner, and a number of supporting "actors" who play the roles of referee and assistants. After each "round" of the fight, the boxers retreat to their corners and the supporting actors provide counsel, give massages and generally ham it up for the audience. At one point, there is a multi-person fracas that results in several performers tumbling off the stage and into the crowd. The announcer provides a running commentary in a folksy tone and the boxers go to great lengths to both display their fighting skills and look extremely silly. I survey the audience and cannot find a single person laughing at any point during the performance. Everyone looks terminally bored. I can only imagine how much the guests have paid for the pleasure of attending this painful and embarrassing event, and soon am overwhelmed with shame and continue my journey through the streets of Chaam. I finally fall asleep on a beach chair shortly after midnight.

My trip to the south the next day involves a bout of intense transit by motorcycle, bus, train and taxi that ends in the majestic Khao Sok National Park only 30 miles from the West coast that was hit by the tsunami. Since my long train ride to the southern city of Surat Thani arrives after the last bus has departed for the National Park, I am forced to charter a taxi for the 110 km ride. Just before leaving, I use an ATM to get some insurance cash but am stymied when the machine completely dies just as it is about to spit out the cash. Luckily, it also ejects my card. I look around and notice that the electricity has gone out in the entire neighborhood, hope that my transaction was not the cause, and remind myself to be thankful for the reliability of our electric system at home (OFFICIAL CAVEAT -- California regulators should be advised that the utilities in our state can, and should, do better in providing reliable electric service with the funds received from their customers).

The taxi, a late-model Mercedes with leather seats and a spotless interior, is driven by a man named Thon. He is from Surat Thani, has two children, and speaks a modest amount of English. We chat about life in Thailand, housing prices in his area ($15,000 for a 2 BR starter home and $25,000 for a luxury spread), and the tsunami. While driving towards the West, we pass many convoys of vehicles carrying relief workers and supplies away from the devastated areas. Thon tells me that, since there is no place to stay overnight in that zone, these workers return every night to Surat Thani for sleeping before returning the next day. It is a grim reminder, and my first direct sighting, of the huge consequences created by the killer waves.

After 90 minutes, we arrive at a strip of bungalow places just outside the gates of the National Park. Many seem empty. I peruse a few then finally settle on a thatched bungalow on stilts with an attached (and very clean) bathroom for 200 Baht/night ($5). The manager of this place, a Thai named Lek, offers to hook me into a two-day tour of the park leaving the next morning. I readily accept without too many questions, just happy to know that the following days will involve exploration of the park with a guide and some random backpackers who are likely to be along for the ride.

The tour begins the next morning. I am one of seven travelers in a group consisting of a Polish couple who live in London (Vlodk and Camille), a Dutch/Colombian couple (Miriam and Serge), two Australian sisters (Annette and Linda), and myself. It seems like the dynamic could be positive in the early hours as we ride in a truck (I am outside on the bed) towards a giant reservoir. At the reservoir, we jump in a narrow, long wooden boat with a car engine mounted on the back transom that is attached to a propeller through an extended axle. Over the next hour, the boat drives us at high speed across a reservoir that is ringed by dramatic hills blanketed in tropical jungle and sharp limestone cliffs. The reservoir was created about 25 years ago and is now 80 meters (~250 feet) deep in most parts. Apparently, many villages previously located in the valleys were displaced as part of the project.

I don't spend time dwelling on their fate, instead choosing to admire the scenery and feel the tropical wind on my face as our boat slices through the water. At the end of the journey, we arrive at an encampment of bungalows floating at the edge of a sheltered cove. It is a somewhat surreal scene -- the bungalows are connected to each other by a floating walkway that leads to a floating restaurant/bar/dock area. I am assigned a small bungalow with two beds, mosquito netting, a window, a porch overlooking the water, and very small doorways perfectly designed to hit my head with each entrance and exit.

After lunch, our guide (named Bom) takes us on a jungle hike that leads to a cave. We enter the cave and spend the next 45 minutes traversing interior tunnels. In the larger caverns, thousands of half-sleeping bats dangle upside-down from the ceilings. We come across very large frogs, strange and indescribable bugs, large crystalline rock formations, and then end up navigating a raging river. This last part involves swimming through deep water while holding onto a rope for guidance. The Polish guy (Vlodk) tries to scale the rocks whenever possible to avoid the water. He apparently sees it as an interesting challenge.

After emerging from the other side of the cave, we hike back to the boat and return to our floating base. A few of us go swimming. The water is very warm, feels quite clean, and has a "soft" quality noted by Vlodk. At first I suspect the use of the word "soft" is due to imperfect English vocabulary, but then realize that it is an appropriate descriptor, perhaps because of the trace bits of algae or some other mineral properties. Once swimming is over, our guide (and the workers at the floating restaurant) serve many different plates of food for dinner (curries, soups, fish, vegetables, rice, and a selection of fruits). I try to buy a round of beers for the assembled travelers to foster group bonding but no one takes me up on my offer. This is a bad sign. There is some discussion of travelling itineraries, where each person lives, and the relative costs of various countries. It is all fairly uninteresting. The one interesting conversation involves the Polish couple telling their tale of being on a live-aboard dive trip off the Similan Islands when the tsunami hit. Their boat captain received word by radio that the waves were en route, ordered everyone out of the water, and moved the boat to deeper waters. When the tsunami passed their location, 90 minutes later, they didn't feel anything at all. They were forced to wait for two days before coming into any port and only then did they realize the scope of the devastation. The fact that the captain received advance notice sparks a discussion of whether world governments knew of the tsunami and deliberately withheld this information from most of the areas that would be hit. Some in the group quickly accept this theory and assume it is part of some larger conspiracy, but it sounds awfully farfetched and I cannot understand how any government would deliberately refuse to provide warnings that would save thousands of lives. The conversation ends somewhat abruptly.

Once dinner has finished, Bom takes us out on a night boat ride to look for animals. Despite the powerful searchlight, and the guide's knowledge of the area, we do not come upon anything of interest. The other travelers seem annoyed, but I don't care at all. I am just happy to be in this beautiful park, in motion, and on the water. Once we return, everyone turns in early except for me. I sit on the dock for awhile staring at the stars, which are magnificient, clear and overpowering. Early the next morning we go for another boat ride and see a some langurs (cross between a monkey and a gibbon), gibbons, hornbills (a very distinctive bird), and a wild chicken. The primates are all far off in the trees, but that doesn't stop the other travelers from aiming their cameras and clicking away furiously to take photographs that will show these animals as mere specks in the frames. I have thrown away many such photos, and keep my camera in its case during these long distance encounters. Our group is joined by a few others on this morning trip, including a Thai guy from the city of Krabi who speaks great English. When I tell him my city of origin, he remarks that San Francisco has a reputation for excellent parties and asks if I have ever gone to Burning Man.

The rest of the day involves more boat riding, a hike to the top of a "mountain" that affords panoramic views of the surrounding areas, and swimming at the base of limestone cliffs that open into little coves and provide fun opportunities to climb the rocks and then jump off. Although I have plenty of social energy, others in our group prefer to be quiet. At first I wonder whether it's possible for me to change the dynamic, and attempt to initiate sequential conversations with each of the subgroups. But it turns out to be no use, and I ultimately give up on bonding and instead treat the remainder of the day as an opportunity to meditate on the jungle, the water, the sky, and the sun.

Later in the day, our boat returns to the starting point, we disembark, and are ferried back to the National park entrance. Once there, Bom gives me a coca leaf and says goodbye. I check into the same bungalow, chew on the leaf for awhile, then bring my practice fire spinning rigs and glowing frisbee down to the restaurant attached to my bungalow. Once I begin to play with the lighted toys, the Thai women working at the restaurant come out and want to join in. So I give them each a practice fire spinning rig (having brought several with me) and they excitedly spin and twirl the chains with delight. Then three small children appear and demand a piece of the action. So I get out the frisbee, turn on the internal LED (which causes the entire platter to glow blue), and teach the kids how to throw a disc. The two boys, Bom and Bay-oo, have probably never played with a frisbee, but it takes them less than five minutes to develop fairly decent throwing skills. The kids and the women are laughing hysterically as they hurl the disc at each other, and a little girl has picked up one of my fire rigs and is swinging it wildly around her head. A German guy comes over and joins the crew. It is a great bonding moment, far better than anything that occurred on my journey the past two days. We play together for about an hour before disbursing.

The next morning I wake up fairly early and begin my journey to the islands. It involves a two-hour minibus ride, wandering in the city of Surat Thani for an hour, another 90 minute bus ride, a 2-hour ferry trip, a 30-minute ride in the back of a truck, then a final 30-minute boat taxi to the beach of Had Thian on the island of Ko Pha Ngan.

My story of life on these idyllic beaches will be told in the next installment.