Denniblog

I arrived in Khanom after a minivan ride from hell, with a spoiled little brat alternately pinching and kicking me; breaking out in screams of fury when I didn’t allow her to pull the glasses off my face. But it didn’t matter. I was glad to have arrived after what felt like a cross-desert trek. I jumped onto the back of a waiting scooter and let it ferry me off to the resort, not caring that it was away from the town, nor that the heavens opened and threatened to wash us off the road, nor that my first choice of accommodation—and only farang outlet—was closed.

I checked into a pink bungalow next door which had aircon and smelled of rose water and cost the same.

There was a shop with a small bar opposite where I got talking to some Germans. It turned out that most of the farang here are from south Germany, so I decided to dig out my neglected mothertongue and found that I would not regret it. The Germans had been coming here for four years and often saw the dolphins swim through the bay during late afternoons.

“But not if the sea is like this,” said one of them.

The sea was hidden by trees and buildings, so I asked the way to the beach but resolved to wait as the rain picked up again.

“Is the weather always like this?”

“Not usually. We can have sunshine, we can have rain. It will get better from mid-January.”

“Cheers.”

The other man cut in. “The best time to come here is June. It’s what we usually do.”

I pondered asking them why they were here now, but I was struggling to understand their heavy southern accents and so let it ride.

“Do you know why they keep those birds there?” his friend asked, by way of nothing in particular. He pointed to the cage hanging from the roof above us.

“Dunno. Good luck?’

“Not a bit of it. They’re weather prophets. See its backside? It’s rouge. Means the weather is bad. When the sun comes out, it turns greenish-blue.”

I don’t know whether he was having me on, but on that day all over Khanom the arses of the little birds remained a resolute ‘rouge’.

*

I made my way through a deserted resort and down the rough sloping sand to the beach. The place was as abandoned and desolate as Ampana. The sea was boiling. There was nothing on—or in—the water that I could see. No boats, no birds and sure as hell no dolphins. Far in the distance I could make out the pier where the fabled dolphins are said to congregate.

Maybe I should have bought a fake driving licence on Kao San Road so that I could rent a scooter, or maybe they won’t ask to see a licence since schoolchilodren are riding around on them. But then I remembered that the farang place that rented bikes was closed. As things stood, it was best to wait for calmer weather.

I went to get my binoculars and scanned the sea until the rain made me seek shelter in the deserted beach bar.

At last, I was the only farang (OF) in town. This was not the best time for it though. I had managed to avoid one drunk and was trying to stay out of sight and unnoticed, although the few people who passed by all waved cheerily enough. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself because I was dog tired and didn’t feel like chatting and would be an easy target for any thief. Unlikely though that was (this isn’t Makassar), I couldn’t take any chances. I have also found that—even at my ripe old age—I’m by no means safe from pick-up artists.

This turned out to be true when a man sat down next to me. But I was in luck, because I was no longer the OF. I was watching the bags of the other farang in town who was off to locate the bus terminal down the street, in a hury to get to Ranong for his visa run. Everybody on a visa ruin is in a hurry, as if that somehow makes the ordeal pass quicker. Presently he returned and the man who sat next to me got up and left without greeting, clearly conceding that I was somebody else’s property.

We relocated to the bus terminal and drank strong, sweet tea until the sun rose and the farang was whisked away. I found that I felt lonely without him. I paid for the tea and got my directions with the change (“Khanom? Go across, other side!”) Within moments I was directed to a bus which didn’t say ‘Khanom’ on the side but, according to the Lonely Planet, would probably drop me at the junction from where I could get a moto-taxi. There were more farang here and I realised that I wouldn’t be able to recognise ‘mine’ even if he was among them. The tiredness was beginning to tell.

Just as we were about to leave, a minivan with ‘Khanom’ written on it drew up next to the bus. There was a direct service! For a moment I was tempted to get off, but it was too late. My backpack was stowed away and we were rolling.

We were all of us marked, those who had been on the night boat. Barely awake, slumped into our seats, some snoring. The cheeky conductor boy wasn’t slow to pick up on it as I handed him 100 baht. “Twenty change?” He grinned and cocked his head. “OK. Donate. I donate!”

I hope he’ll go to university rather than grow up to be a con-artist.

Because I was so dozy, I didn’t pull out the guide book or find the right map until we had passed Phanom, the last town before the Khaosok National Park a hundred kilomentres to the west of Surat Thani, which was where all the farang were going. No wonder that I thought the journey had taken a bit too long. There were hardly any houses around here, no traffic and no service stations. Instead the landscape rippled with spectacular limestone peaks. According to the Lonely Planet there were ‘at least’ two minivans a day going from the park back to Surat Thani. Great.

It had been 16 hours since I had last seen a loo.

I got off the bus as soon as we were near a place that sold water. I was prepared to hitch, but no sooner had I been spotted that a local man took me under his wing. It turns out that the yellow structures by the roadside aren’t shrines but bus stops. I sat stifly in the shade, eyeing the road and grabbed my backpack when I saw a bus approach, ready to throw myself in front of it.

“No, no!” shouted the man who’d kept an eye on me from a nearby stall. “Not that! You wait, you see. Ten minutes.”

He was right. Almost exactly ten minutes later a minivan slowed down and hooted. When he saw me signal, the driver got out, ran around the van and opened the door for me.

There was some shuffling, but at first it seemed fine. We just moved closer together even though the berths were quite narrow. Two Chilenian girls got talking to the guys on my right and settled in as the berths filled up.

“If one sleeps with the feet next to the other’s heads, we could fit three into the space for two,” I said, “but I don’t think it works for the locals since it’s offensive to point your feet at someone’s face.”

“You’re right, else they’d try to fit twice as many people in here,” said sailor-boy who had the space next to mine.

But he turned out to be wong. And we weren’t taking twice as many. The Thai women who were settling in next to me had booked a grand total of two berths between them and were trying to fit in all five of them. It would have worked, if two of them hadn’t been supersized—by which I mean clinically obese.

We were still mostly sitting up and chatting. There was a marine on board (Isn’t there always?) and we stared in disbelief as he proceeded to attach a heavy duty canvass hammock to the pillars in the aisle. Who but a marine travels with a heavy duty canvass hammock? While people were squirming on the deck below him, he lay down in comfort, watching a movie.

We were underway. Carrying twice its assigned number of passengers, the boat listed heavily in the swell. The last time I had been in a boat this crowded, it almost sank off the coast of Zanzibar. That didn’t worry sailor-boy who lay with his hat pulled over his eyes, already half-asleep.

“Don’t worry, this is normal,” he drawled. “Trust me, I’ve crossed oceans. If I panic, panic.”

There was a moment’s silence as the boat bounced off a particularly large wave.

“Also there’s lots of boats around here. Easy Mayday.”

“Yeah,” I said. “If you have the means to signal Mayday.”

“Sure, they do. They all have shortwave radio.”

Dream on, sailor-boy.

But I kept my worries to myself. At least back in the day we didn’t have mobile phones, just a whistle that was useless in the stiff breeze. I wondered what the reception was like out here. I wondered if the marine had a satellite phone.

My problem was that I’d had the squits all day and my stomach was decidedly delicate. While the others bedded down, I sat and stared at the swaying lights of the night fishing boats all around us. How embarrassing to be the only one on board to be potentially seasick (apart from the toddler who’d thrown up earlier, into a plastic bag).

Every time the boat caught another swell, sailor-boy (who had given up pretending to sleep) regalled us with another mini-lecture about seamanship. Now it was my turn.

“If you’re feeling sick, keep looking at the horizon. It’s the most stable point.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, rubbing at a kink in my neck from keeping my head turned towards the window for the last half hour or so. Only eight more to go.

It got worse when people fell asleep. Still unable to lie down, I conceded my space and found myself squeezed like toothpaste out of a tube by sailor-boy on my right and the convention of fatties on my left.

Somehow I managed to lie down uncomfortably on my side and got 90 minutes of doze with people constantly prodding, tickling or stomping on my feet. Eventually I had enough and resigned myself to spend the rest of the journey upright. I had lost the battle against the bulge. I’m no lightweight, but the woman who now lay flat on her stomach next to me, snoring, not only occupied my entire former berth but oozed across numbers 38 and 40 to either side.

At least our arrival time went town from six a.m. (as the agent had told me) to five and now to four as the lights came back on. Maybe the swell had pushed us along.

We were in port.

I gave the touts the slip, regretted it briefly when confronted with Thai-only signs, but managed to stumble across the night market which gave me back my bearings.

Everything was closed.

It was ninety minutes until daybreak.

I was the only farang in town, but only for the 15-odd minutes which it took the pick-up driver to deposit me at the pier. There I was joined by about a hundred others and a handful of Thai.

At first it was civilised. Everybody was assigned a number and pointed to their place on the upper or lower deck. The berths were narrow but clearly marked, with clean sheets and pillows and a life west in the rafters above (almost) every one. I got there early and swapped my ticket with that of a Dutch girl who wanted to sit with her friends.

Then the boat began to fill up and the first un-numbered tickets started to appear. Soon the flip-flop attitude took hold as everybody flung themselves down wherever was free.

The commotion began.

Apparently the boat—licenced to carry 125 passengers according to the writing on its side—is routinely overbooked, but unlike with flights you don’t get bumped up. You’ll get to wait for another day.

In order to secure a berth you will need to go to the ticket office at the pier early in the morning to get a booking number. Passengers who turn up early for departure are assigned the remaining numbers. Omit either of these steps and you’ll be left high and dry.

A Thai businessman carrying a laptop bag found that out when he saw a farang sprawled in his place.

“That’s my place. I got number this morning!”

“So? I got my ticket yesterday evening. There’s someone in our place, and they claim there’s someone else in theirs. Just find somewhere free.”

“You don’t understand. I got number this morning. Where your number? Show me your ticket.”

“Chill man. Just find somewhere to sit.”

“Your ticket! Show me your ticket!”

For a moment, violence hung in the air. The Thai man threatened to fetch his bodyguard and then the captain. Himself not small, he drew visibly closer.

The farang sat up straight and it was clear that he was no pushover in the gymn either, or maybe the dojo. Finally we persuaded him to give in. I was relieved about that. I believe the Thai man was in the right, yet he had to put up with this kind of hippie nonsense every time he took this trip. What do you make of an environment where farang out-number Thai ten-to-one? Sooner or later the situation will come to blows. Its either that or they’ll have to run Thai-only services.

Everyone settled down. I was even more relieved when I noticed that the man was joined by his wife and toddler.

Whose fault was it? It wasn’t entirely the farang’s as he had a numbered ticket and some dickass up ahead had started a chain of unofficial swaps which now forced several dozen of them to shift. Yet he should have acknoweged that the man had the right reservation and moved on.

It was partly the fault of the guy who directed everyone onboard. He’d started to scrawl asterices on the remaining tickets and continued to wave people on.

But it was mainly the fault of the inept agents who sell tickets all over the island without booking. Very few tell their customers that they’ll have to book the places themselves at the only official ticket office by the pier. At least my agent had arranged for me to arrive early.

So I lucked out. Right?

Wrong.

(To be continued)

I’m taking the night boat to Surat Thani.

After almost a week Koh Tao has grown stale on me, not to mention crowded. I miss being the only farang in town, so I’m off to chase marine mammals. In particular, the Lonely Planet mentions a ‘breed’ of pink dolphins that can be watched from the pier of a small town not far from here. They could be Orcaella brevirostis or Susa chinensis, both of which often have pink/albino individuals, but I can’t find out anything more about them. I’ll have to go and see for myself.

Don’t expect daily updates. I may be some time.

If you want to get high and dizzy on Koh Tao, go and see Ken from the Flying Trapeze Adventure right next to the Davey Jones’ Locker bar.

Now how cool is that?

This place is a death trap for toes. Loose planks project from decking and bungalow floors, pointing their lethal tips at your delicate pinky as you step over them. Treacherous mounds of concrete rise from the pavement, threatening to rip off your flip-flops and causing a painful stumble. Away from the roads, the landscape is strewn with boulders which make for great climbing but may have to be scaled by the drunk or inept in their way up to a view point. And on Koh Nangyuang the connecting beach has been covered by a string of blue plastic floats that wobble and grind against each other as people stumble over it, making them stagger as if they had too many ‘big Chang’. The gaps opening and closing between them are just wide enough to macerate your big toe if you don’t watch your step.

And then there are the sea urchins. Barely visible in the stirred sediment at less than an arm’s depth, they await the tender soles of your feet.

Booties are in order!

Koh Tao is the world’s dive kindergarten (and university), but for pristine snorkelling stick to the Red Sea.

Mind, you might just come across a whale shark. It happened when John cancelled his first trip so that we could go and buy him a wetsuit. The group spent the entire dive at 5m, tracking a majestic whale shark for over half an hour…

All the snorkel boats, some dive boats and even the odd speed ferry from Koh Samui land at Koh Nangyuan, but it isn’t worth it. The place is overrun and in dire need of a clean-up. Snorkellers aren’t allowed to bring their fins, and with the bag in tow I couldn’t get out to look at the Japanese Garden. Everybody who steps ashore pays a 100 baht landing fee—which is steep even by international standards and makes me wonder where the money goes. Not towards cleaning up the drifting fishing nets and plastic bags, that’s for sure.

Mind, the viewpoint is worth the climb (and the queues). And I didn’t need to fork out 50 baht for a shower as the rain lashed down while we were waiting on the pier.

It is extremely rude to leave someone to walk through raw sewage and step around broken glass. Thankfully the streets were swept and I didn’t stub my toes and drew blood or —believe me—I would have cut off yours.

I had my backpack stolen in the past, my sleeping bag, my cash and about everything else. But to steal someone’s flip-flops is beneath even the most common thief.

Of course mistakes happen, especially during the craziness of the New Year celebrations. They did—which is why I stowed my shoes underneath the damn shelf this time. You had to dig for them.

May you feet rot away.

Now there is a surprise!

I had expected the Koh Samui party crowd, the German package travellers and the Americans doggedly working their way through the various PADI courses once they find that it takes more than an open water certificate to go on a wreck dive (or indeed any dive deeper than 18m).

What I hadn’t expected was all that and a dive scene which would give the likes of Clare and Ken plenty to do. The man who greeted us has trained with the Royal Marines and his buddies aren’t bad either.

Needless to say, John has bagged himself a BSAC instructor (at a neighbouring centre) and is currently involved in a one-to-one, brushing up his theory. Who knows, he may even get a few boxes ticked for his dive-leader training.

Not bad, for a man with over 70 unlogged dives…