Octopus’s Garden

I’m sat on platform number 2 of Hat Yai Junction; the first major railway station in Thailand on the line from Malaysia. I started the day, on the Malaysian island of Langkawi with what is probably now my favourite breakfast; Nasi Lemak. The dish is made up of: plain boiled rice with grated ginger, an egg fried on both sides, a few slices of cucumber, a rich chicken curry, and the key ingredient; anchovy pickle. All this was served with a huge mug of Java coffee for the bargain price of 5 ringgits (£1). After saying goodbye to the very smiley staff at the restaurant, who were probably smiling as yet again I had left behind another perfectly polished plate, I got a taxi to the port. There I spent 15 ringgits (£3) on a coffee in Starbucks and spotted the underwater housing for my camera in a duty-free shop. I could only laugh at the irony of both encounters. The ferry ride back to Satun in Thailand wasn’t like the circuses I had previously toured with. For most of the journey I looked out of the window at the flying fish and dolphins trying to keep up with the ship. In Satun I jumped on the back of a motorbike to minivan stand, where from there I caught a minivan to where I am now; Hat Yai Junction. Regrettably, Anna, the Danish girl I met in the minivan couldn’t get a ticket on the same train as me, so went to seek out the bus station. Although I only knew her for 5 minutes, it did make me realise how much of a rarity on this trip it has been to meet a similarly aged girl who I actually like. Yes there have been a few girls who have very kindly nursed my ego. There was the one who waited until we were alone in the hotel common room before grabbing my thigh and saying
  ’You know I’m very particular about who I like to sleep with.’
Then there was the woman who after we had watched the sunset together looked me in the eyes and said
  ’Do you realise how unique it is to have both ginger hair and brown eyes? We’re two of a kind.’
And finally there was the girl who took the more direct approach of sticking her tongue in to my ear and inviting me back to her hotel for a shower (and no I don’t think she meant to wash my ears). I’m not mocking them by any means; they’ve got a lot more guts than I have. And no, three missed opportunities (not counting the foursome) in four months is hardly much to boast about. In a way though, I’m quite pleased with myself; my self-esteem doesn’t require that I sleep with as many women as I possibly can. I guess there’s no self-loathing in need of a quick fix.

Anyway, as I walked out on to the platform, I stopped thinking about all that rubbish; I was at a railway station again. I was at home. If, under the NHS cuts of a Cameron led government I do lose my job (and assuming Beeching ‘s axe doesn’t reappear), I shall definitely pursue a career on the railways. I think it’s the toxic mix of chaos and order that I find so alluring. On the one had there’s this party going on; people are shouting, running, urinating on the walls, cooking food and throwing rubbish on the track. But it’s also an autistic-friendly party of precision engineering, stock movements, timetables and loading gauges. Compared to Indian Railways, Thai Railways can’t compare on chaos, but it did put on a very good show. In my time on the platform [I'm on the train now] I bought deep-fried chicken giblets from an 8 year-old and watched the station master dance with a dog. The conversation with the strange but sweet man who insisted on showing me what was in his packed lunch barely bares mentioning; I think that’s pretty standard everywhere. On board the train it’s lacking in craziness, but certainly makes up for it in comfort and detail. My second-class carriage is the perfect temperature, has one leather seat either side of the aisle, loads of luggage space and fold away Formica tables. At my seat I’ve been served dried fruit and drinks, and in a moment a man will be along to make my bed with crisp white cotton sheets. In the morning, before arriving in Bangkok, I will be served a hot breakfast.

The three weeks since my last visit to Bangkok have been a blur of island hopping along Thailand’s, and eventually Malaysia’s west coast. For the first two island groups, Koh Phi Phi and Koh Lanta, I traveled with Harriet and Megan. For Koh Lipe and Malaysia’s Langkawi archipelago, I was on my own again. By fortune on Koh Phi Phi I met up with Frida and Therese (the Swedish au pair). On our first day together, we hired out a long boat for the day to explore the nearby islands and beaches. For me the highlight of the day was Maya Bay off Phi Phi Le. One the beaches in Maya Bay was the main location for the beach in the 1999 Danny Boyle film, The Beach. Not wanting to deconstruct the film, or join the other dozens of tourists, I didn’t actually set foot on The Beach. Instead, preferring to seek out my own adventure, I jumped off the boat in to the clearest water I have ever seen. At once I was surrounded by fish who were just as eager check out my new camera as I was. Swept along with the fishes, Therese and I  found that we had swam along way from the boat, and were now near the side of the bay. After swimming past caves, blowholes and through rocky archways, we found our own deserted beach solely inhabited by strange red insects and the friendliest hermit crabs I’ve ever met.

Back on Koh Phi Phi we collected free drink fliers off the promoters and headed to the beach bars. We danced with fire, danced with balloons, drank whiskey out of buckets and didn’t spend a penny.

The following day I attempted to swim to another part of Koh Phi Phi. On the list of stupid things I’ve done on this trip, It’s a close second to trekking the Himalayas in the dark. After swimming for 90 minutes or so in the midday sun, my back was so sunburned I could no longer point it skywards; I had to do backstroke. Despite being immersed in water, my body continued to sweat profusely until my throat was parched with thirst. I had long lost the reassuring sight of the seabed; I was well out of my depth. Worst of all, every now and then something would brush against my feet. Breathing faster, and wasting more energy, I would thrash around looking for a piece of seaweed, a floating cup; anything to blame and reassure my sanity. At first all I could see was deep blue water and shafts of sunlight, but then, as I kept very still and slowed down my breathing, I began to see that I was far from alone; I was surrounded by jellyfish. About the size of walnuts, they were completely transparent except for the faintest outline and occasional black speck. I was three-quarters of the way to where I wanted to go, but I could no longer ignore the mounting warning signs; I had to turn back. Very slowly, and only using my arms in front of me where I could see them, I swam through the jellyfish to the shallower and safer waters near the shoreline. Hot and thirsty, all I wanted to do now was  sleep, but I was still a very long way from where I started. Still going very slowly, I carried on swimming back in the shade of the rocky shoreline. When I followed the shoreline round a corner, and the sea became completely exposed to the sun, I swam underwater where water was coolest at the seabed. I think the sun and the sea taught me a lesson in respect that day.

Other than curiosity, the one reason I attempted to swim so far was to build-up an appetite for “The Burger Challenge” that evening. For 500 baht (£11), The Reggae Bar on Koh Phi Phi will serve quadruple decker beef burger, with chips, onion rings and coleslaw. If you can eat it all by yourself with 30 minutes, it’s on the house. Anybody who’s ever ate with me, and especially those who’ve catered for me, know what I’m capable of. I can make kilograms of cheese disappear, reduce buffets to tablecloths, eat roast potatoes like peanuts, and pizzas like Pringles. But when the giant platter was put before me that evening, I gave up before I even took a bite. I attempted in vain, hoping it would just disappear, but after 12 minutes of trying, I abdicated from the contest. I had only managed to eat the burger and a few onion rings; the rest was untouched. The girls, who had absolute faith in me, were shocked beyond belief. I had eaten less than I would have in a typical meal. I’m still trying to figure it out, but in a way, I’m kind of glad that I’m not cut-out for eating contests.

Not surprisingly, the next day I didn’t feel like eating, swimming or being in the sun. It was still a wonderful day at the beach, as thanks to Therese, I finally got to make a sandcastle. At least it started off as a sandcastle.

On our last day on Koh Phi Phi, I woke up to the sound of slamming doors and the “slap, slap, slap” sound of people running in flip-flops. A moment later our door burst open, and the guesthouse receptionist shouted out
  ’Tsunami! Go to the mountain!’
She then ran off herself leaving Harriet, Megan and I looking at each wondering what to do. If we did as she said, we would miss our boat in 20 minutes time. Was this a drill? Did this happen every time the seismograph fluttered? We agreed that it probably was a false alarm, and that as we were on the first floor of a concrete building, we would probably be ok under any circumstance. Ten minutes later, the authorities gave the all-clear and people started to come down from the mountain; some of which had barely time to put clothes on. We then smugly walked through the deserted town, and caught our boat to Koh Lanta. Later that day I learned that tsunami alerts did not occur that regularly. The alert was triggered by an earthquake of a greater magnitude than the one in 2004 and had also occurred in a very similar location. Talking to a survivor from 2004, I learned that it wasn’t a just a 2 metre high wave that swept away a few non-swimmers; it was up to 10 metres high. At 4 metres on the first floor of our guesthouse, we definitely wouldn’t have been “ok”.

I’m afraid to say that our time on Koh Lanta may as well have been anywhere warm and sunny by the sea; we fell in to the resort trap. Occasionally we would venture out to another restaurant, but for most of the time we lazed by the empty pool, snacking and drinking cocktails from our sunloungers. For Harriet and Megan, this suited them well; they were winding their trip down, talking of home and topping-up their tans. As I started to lapse in to a similar rhythm, I needed to remind myself that I was just over halfway along on my trip and shouldn’t be losing momentum. It was time to go our separate ways. I don’t think it was an accident that on the day we left the resort we were driven to the port in the open back of pick-up truck (as opposed to a less exposed vehicle). The date was April 13th (Songkran, Thai new year), which, as we had been told, was celebrated with a massive water fight. Everybody we passed on the road joined in. Old ladies through buckets of soapy water over us, young children charged out in to the road and ambushed our truck with water pistols, teenagers on the back of motorbikes discharged Super Soakers as they overtook us. What a perfect way to break in the new year on a hot day. When I said goodbye to Harriet and Megan at the port I, and everything I was carrying, was drenched.

The 240 Km trip from Koh Lanta to the tiny island of Koh Lipe isn’t (yet) a popular enough route to warrant a typical ferry. To make the journey I needed to get passage with the local speedboat club. These guys knew their stuff. As the heaviest passenger they made me sit nearest the bow to stop the boat bouncing on the waves. They could reverse the boat backwards on to beaches, and just before the propellers dug in to the sand, some clever hydraulics would kick-in and flip the engines out of the water. When the boat left the shelter of the islands, and the sea became quite choppy, the crew had one policy; accelerate.

Koh Lipe is still relatively undeveloped; it’s too small to have roads, concrete (as opposed to wooden) buildings are only now starting to appear, and the electricity is only turned on in the evenings. The island is surrounded by coral reefs, that, in addition to providing excellent snorkeling, also provide a form of income for the islands sea gypsies. Because even small boats like my speedboat sit too deep in the water to get near the island without damaging the reefs, the local men operate a fleet of “long tail” taxi boats. For a flat rate of 50 baht (£1), they will take you from anywhere on the island to anywhere on the island.

Because Koh Lipe was so small, I didn’t feel like my days were wasted if I didn’t do too much; there really wasn’t much to do there if I wanted to. On most days I would wake up in my cocohut on Sunset beach to blue skies and the sound of birdsong (and I don’t mean cockerel-crowing at 4 AM). I would walk along the beach to a shack where a 190 cm, 120 Kg ladyboy with giant clip-on earrings would make me a delicious breakfast. Often when I came to pay for my food, she would mess up the change and leave me walking away in profit. On some days I would walk around the island, explore the jungle and photograph the sea. Most days I went snorkeling on the reef on my doorstep, watched the sunset and went back to the ladyboy’s place for some fish curry. The best day saw me go snorkeling at a very low tide. There was so little water above the reef, I had to be careful not that my belly did not touch the urchins, anemones, or damage the coral. It turned out to be a great way to see and photograph the creatures on the reef. The fish, having nowhere to swim to, would instead keep very still and hope that I couldn’t see them. Also, where I could now stand or kneel on the seabed, it was easier to keep the camera still. Along with the usual clownfish and starfish, I even got to meet an octopus. While I was taking its photo, I noticed that quite suddenly everything had got dark in the octopus’s garden. When I took my head out of the water I saw why; I giant thundercloud was now over the island. As soon as I had swam back on the beach, the storm broke and the first rain of the monsoon began to fall. For more than an hour I laid on the beach in the rain; the gently warm sea lapping beneath me, the cool rain pouring on my face, chest and in to my open mouth.

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