Public awareness around the huge volume of plastic waste being dumped into our oceans (8 million pieces every day) is increasing, and it seemed the message was beginning to sink in, as people now habitually carry reusable bags for shopping, make greater efforts to recycle their plastic waste, and reduce their consumption of single-use plastics. 

And then the pandemic happened. 

Suddenly, our demand for plastic increased exponentially, as billions of people across the globe were instructed to wear masks, and sometimes gloves, in order to protect themselves from the virus.

According to a new report, humans are globally using and disposing of an estimated 129 billion face masks and 65 billion plastic gloves every single month that we deal with COVID-19.

That’s almost 200 BILLION plastic items every month in PPE – completely aside from our regular plastic waste.

Recent research has shown that Brits alone are sending 1.6 bilion non-biodegradable masks to landfill every month. And coronavirus – and consequently the requirement to wear face masks – is showing no sign of letting up anytime soon. Recent studies have found cotton masks to be largely ineffective, driving demand for plastic PPE even higher. 

Unsurprisingly, the impact of this huge need for face coverings can already be seen in our oceans, where discarded masks (mostly made from plastics that can take decades to hundreds of years to break down) can be seen floating on the surface like jellyfish and littering shorelines around the world. 

And if you thought the pandemic was stressful for us humans, spare a thought for the marine creatures desperately attempting to survive in a sea of our filthy swirling waste. 

If we consider a virus with a 0.01% fatality rate (deaths vs world’s population) to be a global emergency, think of the 100 million sea creatures killed each year by our discarded plastic .

So far COVID-19 has claimed the lives of around 1.2m people worldwide (in a global population of 7.8 billion which, whilst greatly concerning, is a drop in the ocean compared to the number of animals whose deaths we’ve caused. And that’s just the marine deaths that have been recorded – the true figure will be far higher. (If you think the recording of coronavirus deaths is inaccurate, you can only guess at the inaccuracy of the reporting of animal deaths, which gains far fewer headlines.)

One particular animal which has been affected by these vast quantities of plastic polluting our oceans is the turtle. Six out of seven species of marine turtle are listed as critically endangered, with estimates ranging from only 1 in 1,000 to 1 in 10,000 hatchlings reaching sexual maturity. They are constantly ingesting the plastic that is mixed with their dietary items throughout their lives, which claims the life of many turtles, particularly juveniles whose digestive tracts are smaller. 

Of those that do make it to adulthood, they have to physically battle through the litter in the sea and on the beach to lay their eggs. Another obstacle for the turtles to negotiate is sargassum, a type of seaweed also referred to as the floating rainforest. Out in the open seas this micro-algae provides a haven for hundreds of species, but when washed up on beaches it forms a deadly tangled mass, creating walls several metres high for the turtles to navigate. 

The sun beats down on this lethal combination of micro-plastics and sargassum. These small pieces of plastic less than 5mm in length leach toxic chemicals into the turtles’ nests, and the sargassum that gets pushed over the nests by waves then contaminates the environment further, altering thermal conditions and subsequently the sex of the hatchlings: lower nest temperatures produce more males, higher temperatures more females. The sargassum is thought to have a cooling effect, resulting in more male hatchlings and less females, potentially leading to a population scale crisis and subsequent extinction risk. 

Assuming the hatchlings withstand this fraught start in life and attempt to make it back the ocean, they are then faced with crossing these huge barriers of steaming, stinking toxic debris whilst being baked by the boiling sun and exposed to predators such as vultures and other birds waiting to pluck them from the beach as easy prey. 

And we thought us humans had problems! 

Wearing a (reusable!) mask and washing our hands seems like a small ask in our fight against the virus (which is a sickness of our own making, caused by humans, after all) compared with the daily battles being fought by these animals through no fault of their own (again, the blame lies squarely with humankind). 

So what can we do about it? Well, seeing as we created this issue for our oceans, surely it’s down to us to fix it? Two people who are passionate about doing their bit to help these desperate creatures are the appropriately named Angela Warrior and Lisa Good, a philanthropic pair of eco-warriors fighting for the future of our oceans. 

Angela is a marine biologist living in Mexico, where she witnesses first hand the plight of these amazing creatures. On the Mexico Caribbean there is a beautiful marine reserve named Sian Ka’an, whose name means “a place where heaven begins.” Every night, May to November, hundreds of female nesting turtles crawl up the beach to lay their eggs. Sadly, due to the conditions described above, Sian Ka’an is no longer heavenly, as it is covered in mountains of plastic debris and marine algae. Angela is on a mission to fix this, along with her good friend Lisa, founder of Pure Sea, a charity to raise awareness and funds for reducing the plastic in our oceans.

Angela’s plan is to make thrice-weekly beach cleans representing Pure Sea in collaboration with Mar Amor, a local non-profit organisation, to ensure there is enough space for females to nest, and build hatcheries along the beach to protect the nests from being smothered in sargassum.

She will also set up a turtle “camp” with volunteers patrolling the beach to collect Hawksbill turtle eggs (since this species is critically endangered), place them in the hatcheries, and clear channels on the beach for the hatchlings to make their way to the ocean free of obstruction.

For other species, such as green and Loggerhead turtles, she will leave the nests in-situ (leaving the eggs where they were laid), but will apply wire mesh around the nests to protect them from predators; cleaning them regularly to remove accumulated rubbish and sargassum.

Her final part of this robust 5-point plan is to bring children from local schools to assist with the cleans and educate them about marine pollution and how it relates to the wellbeing of our oceans and marine life. 

Lisa, meanwhile, has been hosting regular beach cleans and fundraisers here in the UK since launching Pure Sea in 2018, and continues to do so (virus-permitting!), as well promoting the use of reusable masks (you can contact Lisa here to order your Pure Sea mask and pay/donate here ), and visiting local schools as part of her Little Ripples project. 

Together, they make a formidable team. 

They are raising funds via a sponsored skydive, which is planned for April 2021 (despite Angela’s fear of heights!). Their plan is to dress as turtles for a tandem jump, shouting “Cowabungaaaaaaa!” as they throw themselves from the aircraft at 12,000ft. Now I’m sure that alone will have people lining up to pay good money to see. 

If you have been moved by the plight of these precious turtles and inspired by this pair of middle-aged mutant ninja turtle-warriors, please click the link below to sponsor their skydive and contribute to this very worthy campaign. 

That would be turtley awesome, dudes! 

https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/angela-warrior-1

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

www.ifyouboozeyoulose.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

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This is the place I credit with fixing me when I fled, broken-hearted after my marriage break-up, for a solo soul-searching trip; a month with no plans other than to swim in the ocean, allow the sun to warm my bones and heal my invisible wounds. (You can read my Thailand blog Sam Goes Solo about that trip, should you be interested.) I’ve since been back on multiple occasions, each time collecting precious memories as though gathering seashells from the shore.

So, when I ‘met’ Natasha Whiting via my Facebook group, The Non-Mum Network, and she asked for help in spreading the word about her fundraising event, Jumble is Massive, in aid of her charity Acorn Overseas to help orphaned and abandoned children in Mae Sot, Thailand, I jumped at the chance to finally give something back to a country that’s helped me in so many ways.

I learn that Natasha founded the charity back in 2009, having spent seven years living in Thailand working on various local projects. She initially travelled to the country in 2004, aged 18, to volunteer at an orphanage, and quickly became part of the emergency aid relief following the Boxing Day tsunami. (Her outstanding achievements later earned her the accolade ‘Young Person of the Year’ by her hometown council in Stroud, Gloucestershire.) Such was Natasha’s admiration of the tenacity of the people, and the inspiring solidarity they showed in the face of such tragedy, that she wanted to start something that would give her a connection to Thailand and Myanmar (Burma) even when she was not there in person.

She says: “Whilst in Thailand I became disheartened with the way charities, in my eyes, didn’t go to the root of the problem and get more involved. It felt like everything was done from plush hotels, and behind the tinted windows of 4×4’s that rolled through camps, orphanages and disaster zones. I was put into contact with an orphanage that was established to care for the basic needs of “Ghost Children” (Children who have lost their identity due to persecution and abandonment) from Myanmar that was going through some serious difficulties. I attempted to appeal to multiple NGO’s (non government organisations) to help with the orphanage and no one would offer more than a bag of rice a month as the problem wasn’t “big enough”. 

In October 2008, the irregular support they did have from America abandoned them with nothing, so myself and a friend stepped in to provide support for them in every which way we could. So I started the charity in order to support this small home of children who were abandoned and orphaned due to situations you may not even be able to imagine. Since then we grew from 7 to 50 children, we built a home, we were donated a truck to get the children to school, and we dug, as running water is rare.

We have become an education-focused charity, working alongside Burma Border Projects to make sure migrant children receive a proper rounded education, and are taught by qualified teachers from around the world. My plan for the future is to keep raising awareness and money to provide a better standard of education to the migrant children in the area, and to make sure they receive equal opportunities for a brighter future. I hope that in the coming years, people will run the London marathon for us, companies will make us their charity of the year, and we can continue to make a huge difference.”

Inspired by Natasha’s philanthropic work, I’m immediately eager to help. She tells me that she needs support in raising funds and awareness for the charity, which then translates into food, shelter and education for these children. She holds clothing sales and needs donations of clothes and accessories to sell. One bag of donated clothing equates to a month’s supplies and education for a child, so I set about tapping up my family and besties for donations. Of course, they willingly oblige like the legends they are, and we collect 11 sackfuls of clothes between us.

The fundraising event takes place this Saturday 18th August, at Pop Brixton. It’ll be a fun day: a chance to pick up some stylish new threads whilst gettin’ your groove on to the tunes being spun and munching on some tasty food-stall fayre. What more could you want from your Saturday afternoon in London town, eh? Then you can continue your weekend wearing your sassy new garms, safe in the knowledge that you’ve made a difference to the lives of these deserving children.

I will be there, along with my loyal charity sidekick De Mama. (Do you remember our exploits helping children in central America? You can read all about it over on my blog, Costa Rica Chica.) We’ll be using our sartorial skills to marry the chicest clothes to their rightful new owner, so please come on down, meet the inspirational Tash, say hi….and buy!

Jumble is Massive takes place at Pop Brixton this Saturday, 18th August, 11am – 4pm. For more information about Natasha’s charity, Acorn Overseas, or to donate, check out the website here. You can also follow Acorn Overseas on Instagram here, Twitter here and Facebook here.

See ya there!

UPDATE: The event was an overwhelming success, with tons of cold hard cash raised for the charity and many a satisfied customer bopping around to the music wearing their new garments. Yayyy!

A few photos from the day:

And a lovely “thank you” from Natasha, Dan and Sarah:

Sam x

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The post Around The World In 180 Days appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

As has been the pattern every night in Krabi, the morning dawns bright and sunny; any evidence of the violent storm from the evening before erased like a cleaned-up murder scene. The same troop of capuchin monkeys that I saw yesterday are playing and leaping about on the adjacent tin roof, including the mum and ginger baby that simply melt my heart, and huge colourful butterflies flutter gently by.

The hotel is surrounded by Krabi’s characteristic limestone cliffs, which make me feel as though I’m on a film set. A badly-made one at that, seeing as they don’t even look real. It’s like the scenery here has been painted onto an MDF background, the rocks made of fibreglass and the wildlife borrowed from a zoo and temporarily released from their cages, only for it all to be gathered back up and put away when the day’s filming is done. I keep waiting for a cigar-smoking director to shout “Cut!” or “That’s a wrap!” in a broad American accent.

Thankfully, Mum has finally stopped being sick; the storm in her stomach seems to have passed, which is a huge relief. The thought of travelling to Phang Nga on a series of boats and buses with a leaky mother has been playing on my mind all night, and I wake up constantly to check that she’s still sleeping fitfully in her bed – and not praying to the porcelain God as she had been for the preceding twelve hours. Although much better, she’s now as weak and unsteady as a newborn lamb.

After one final wasp-covered breakfast (we won’t miss those little feckers!) we make our way to Railay East pier, ready for the longtail ride to Krabi town. The makeshift pier is a floating snake of interlinking plastic blocks which bob and wobble when you walk on them…even more so when typically selfish tourists make a beeline for the row of longtail boats and try to overtake people on them. Numpties! The whole thing feels like it’s about to capsize, and Mum’s looking decidedly green around the gills as it lists dangerously from side to side. Seeing as this is the mangrove-filled area where we saw the swimming snake, none of us are particularly keen to fall in the drink.

We select one, clambering aboard with all our luggage, and our boat, powered by a car engine chugging out petrol fumes, heads out to sea. Within minutes we’re bouncing about as though we’re on a fairground ride, the little wooden boat hitting every oncoming wave like a belly-flop. We’re all grateful to be back on dry land at the other end, not least De Mama, who wasn’t in the best shape to begin with. What follows is a comedic wild goose chase involving three buses. (We still have absolutely no idea why; the Thai drivers clearly deemed any explanation for the musical minibuses game unnecessary.)

Several hours later, we arrive at Phang Nga bus station. I’d have pretty much forgotten why on Earth I’d booked this leg of the journey altogether, had it not been for the eagle-eyed excursion seller who rushes over to greet us, taking the weight of our bags as he ushers us into his office. It’s quite a clever ruse, I think, catching people at the end of a long journey who’ve lost the will to resist…and against our better judgement we agree to take one of his boat trips around Phang Nga Bay and Koh Tapu (aka James Bond island) the following morning.

He arranges a taxi for us, and we jump in the truck to our penultimate resort: Manora Gardens. This place comes highly rated (9.1 on Booking.com), despite costing only about a tenner a night, so we decide to check it out. Luke booked his trip after us, by which time this place was fully booked, so he continues on in the taxi to his deserted Wolf Creek-style residence down the road, and we drag our weary limbs and heavy belongings over the gravel drive and upto to restaurant area ahead.

We’re greeted warmly by Gerard, the Belgian proprietor who’s probably in his late fifties and married to a kindly Thai lady. The bungalows are set deep in a forest of tall, skinny rubber trees, which have little plastic cups at their base to catch the milky latex which oozes out from the cuts made in them. The setting reminds me of the little cottage in the wood visited by Hansel and Gretel. We’re shown to our little house, which is basic but welcoming, with books, decorations and homely little touches.

Gerard offers to drive us to the local waterfalls to explore, so we rescue Luke from his dodgy place up the road and head off to the national park nearby. We spend a few hours hiking, swinging from vines (Luke) and hopping across stepping-stones to traverse the meandering river, before deciding to head back. Gerard had offered to pick us up, but not wanting to take liberties we opt to walk. It’s mid-afternoon and the sun is so intense that we can feel melanomas blistering our skin as soon as we leave the protection of the forest and step out onto the deserted main road.

After a while, we’re aware that we’re not alone; a couple of terrifyingly rabid-looking dogs have joined us on the road, howling and baring their fangs as they follow us, inches from our fleshy calves. Gulp! We try not to make eye contact as we resist the urge to break into a sprint, instead walking as quickly and calmly as possible with our hearts banging in our throats. Fortunately they get bored after a while and slow to a stop, as we dash into a nearby farm shop in search of refreshments. The collective mood lifts dramatically when we discover they sell Cornettos. Luke spots some bright pink hens eggs for sale, which we find hilarious…and in turn the owner finds it hilarious that we’re fascinated by them in the first place. (We find out later that these are fermented eggs, coloured pink so that people know the difference between these and the fresh ones. Ohhhhhhh!)

Our place is in the middle of nowhere, so Luke stays with us for dinner, which costs 150b (£3) each including dessert. We treat ourselves to a couple of bottles of imported white wine (£5 each), drinking it under the veranda as the lightning forks and the nightly storm starts up. A huge bullfrog hops out from his hiding place under the fridge and the whole forest comes to life with the sound of trumpet frogs, wakened by the rains.

Gerard gives Luke a lift back to his hotel, then it’s time to navigate past the giant spider in the tree outside our room and off to the land of nod.

I decide to watch the rest of a film on Netflix before bed, the glare of the screen attracting a big moth, which brushes against Mum’s arm in the darkness and sets her off screeching and flapping about like something possessed, which in turn makes the moth hit my face and I join in. The owners probably hear us from their own bungalow on the other side of the complex and laugh themselves to sleep at us couple of townie clowns.

2nd February

We wake at 5am in darkness and get ready for the boat trip. We have only one night in Phang Nga, so we eat an early breakfast, collect Luke in our truck, and head to the pier. You’d think we’d be sick of piers and boats by now, but oh no; we’re scrambling onto yet another longtail for the tour of yet more islands. To be honest, we’re feeling a bit K’O’d by Koh this and Koh that by this point, and as we approach Koh Tapu, or James Bond island as it’s famously known due to The Man With The Golden Gun being filmed here in 1974, we’re ashamed to admit we’re a little underwhelmed. Well, when you’ve seen one giant limestone karst, you’ve seen them all…

The tour operator has blatantly conned us, since the (15yr old) boat skipper refuses to stop at the national park as agreed without another hefty payment. We decline, vowing to take it up with the cheeky operator when we get back to the bus station. The views around Phang Nga Bay are impressive, but it’s obvious that the area is being damaged and exploited by over-tourism: rubbish swirls in the murky water as a steady procession of longtail boats chug back and forth. Our guide points out 1500yr old etchings on the limestone on Kao Kee-un (Drawing Mountain) and navigates us through caves previously used as ancient burial grounds, before stopping at the floating Muslim stilt village Koh Panyi for us to take a look around…

The village, which is home to around 1800 people, Muslims descended from two families from Java,   is mostly stall after stall of touristy nick-nacks and row upon row of local pearls, set into jewellery which is just slightly off-key for Western tastes. Suddenly, we clap eyes on the perfect gift: fish-shaped flip flops.

Genius! The sellers are clearly miffed that of all their handmade, lovingly-crafted wares, this is the kind of crap we fly halfway around the globe for as a souvenir of Thailand. “Pfft. Farangs!” is I’m sure what he murmurs as we haggle back and forth, before finally agreeing on a price for the FishFlops (250b – a bargain I reckon).

We pass by the floating school, the floating shops and the floating mosque (90% of Thais are Buddhists, but there’s also a proportion of Muslims, particularly in the south) until we come to…the floating football pitch. Yes, there is a floating footy pitch in the middle of the sea. The ball goes over the side regularly and people just jump into the murky depths (no crystal-clear waters here) and retrieve it before carrying on unperturbed.

We get back in the longtail boat and are taken back to the pier, where we pick up our truck and return to the bus station.

We want to have it out with the sneaky tour operator, but before we have a chance to hunt him down the bus to Phuket pulls in and Mum and I are ushered aboard, bidding a hurried farewell to Luke (who later negotiates a partial refund from him, just as he’s miss-selling his tour to another unsuspecting set of tourists). We’re heading back towards the airport ready for tomorrow’s flight back to the misery that is Blighty in winter, whilst Luke stays for another day before flying to Bangkok for the last leg of his trip.

The local bus is small and cramped, and we have no idea where we’re going or when to get off, which always adds to the fun, I think. I open Google Maps on my phone and watch as the round dot moves reassuringly in the direction we want to go. We realise partway through the journey thanks to a series of hand gestures and speaking s-l-o-w-l-y (the French woman next to me looks at me like I’m an alien when I try to speak to her at my usual rattle-gun pace) that this bus is not going anywhere near the airport, so manage to get the driver to stop and tip us out at the side of the road.

A couple of elderly Thai gents with whiskery ‘taches are sitting astride their tuk-tuks, and they hurry forward, desperate to win the business. One obviously wins the toss this time, and sets about piling the detritus of our lives onto his vehicle. He has no idea where we’re going as although I have the full address it’s written in English and therefore completely useless to him.

Eventually we locate the hotel, Airport Suites Club 96. Mum’s feeling as rough as a cat’s tongue as she’s not fully recovered from her bout of food poisoning and collapses in a heap on the bed. The air freshener in the loo is appropriately named ARS…

I had planned to check out the nearby Nai Yang beach, but decide to close my eyes for a while and before I know it I too am unconscious.

We wake several hours later and walk the few steps from our room to the restaurant. I order spaghetti bolognese (even I tire of Thai food eventually) and Mum can only manage a slice of dry toast. There’s no way she wants to risk being ill on the 13hr flight home tomorrow morning…

3rd February

The alarm goes off at 5am and we shower and prepare ourselves mentally and physically for the long flight home, cramming the tacky souvenirs and a fortnight’s dirty washing into our (now-overweight) luggage. The owner of the hotel gives us a lift to the airport just a few minutes away, and we spend our remaining few hundred baht on Burger King (it’s the law, right?) and unusual Asian cosmetics that we won’t find back home. Before we know it, the captain’s dulcet tones come over the tannoy, and it’s time to return to reality once more. Mum’s belly behaves, and this time there’s no sign of Warthog the footsie-fancier as we drift off to sleep, perchance to dream, about our travels…

THE END.

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

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After three super-chilled nights on laid-back Lanta, it’s time for a change of scenery once again, so today we’re taking another ferry – this time to Krabi. Each ferry ride takes a couple of hours, costs about 350 baht per person (about £8) and includes minibus transfers to the pier.

We savour the last morning at Moonlight Exotic Bay Resort; pottering around collecting shells and watching the hermit crabs crawling across the rocks. The hotel supplies delicious-smelling organic aromatherapy bath products by a brand I’ve not heard of called Voyag, and we decide to purchase gallons of them when we check out. I’m fully aware that recreating the tranquillity and beauty of Thailand in my 2-bed terrace in Kent may take some imagination, but I’m hoping that the scents and textures will jog my memory, and if I squeeze my eyes really tight I’ll be transported back to Koh Lanta…

I’m jolted from my daydream by the horn-honking of our ride to the pier, and we squeeze into the van alongside a large Chinese family. The ferry departs at 1.30, and by 3.15pm the stunning rock formations of Krabi are coming into view…

We are staying at Railay Beach, which is only reachable by longtail boat, so we have to clamber in a most ungainly fashion over the side of the ferry and onto the much smaller boats below, which hold about ten people each. As Ali G used to say: “West siiiide is da best siiide!” and sure enough, Railay West is the best, with a white sandy beach and a stunning backdrop of cliffs all around – yet accommodation gets very booked up and more expensive on this side, so like us, most people on our longtail are staying at Railay East. Our taxi-boat owner wants to charge everyone another 200 baht each to take us over to the east side, but the loud protests indicate that nobody is prepared to pay extra since we’d all been told the price we’d already paid was direct to Railay East. This unfortunately riles our skipper, who mutters what I can only assume are Thai profanities under his breath, before stopping the boat miles from the beach and demanding we all get out. Oh.

Being the stoic (ie stubborn) Westerners that we are, we refuse to pay again; instead piling suitcases, rucksacks (and even babies in one family’s case) onto our heads and wading in the sea up to our thighs all the way to the beach. The shallows in Krabi go for miles! And the tide seems to come waaay in and out at a surprising rate. To add to the challenge, the sea is full of rocks and chunks of dead coral, leading to several stubbed toes, grazes and yelps of pain. We tentatively inch forward using our toes to feel the way before putting our full weight down – not easy when you’re carrying 15kgs of luggage above your head.

Finally, we’re back on dry land, and head over the skinny peninsula to the east side. The first thing that hits us on this mid-afternoon mission is the smell: weed.

Everywhere you look there are Jamaican colours, references to Bob Marley and stoner hippy types; the unmistakable aroma of weed curls under your nose as it emanates from the shack-style bars made from wood and palm leaves. I’m slightly surprised by how brazen it is, since there are few places scarier to get caught with drugs than Thailand. Having met a few people on my travels who have experienced Thai jails, I hear that ‘Bangkok Hilton’ is not too far from reality…

We pass an area we later nickname ‘Monkey Corner’ on our way to our hotel, so-called because it’s home to a large number of cheeky macaques, who flirt with tourists before attempting to steal food, sunglasses, or whatever unsecured items they can get their little mitts on. Don’t be fooled by their seduction techniques, the Monkey Mafia is responsible for most of the organised crime in Railay. Finally, we come to our hotel over on the east side and instantly see why this side’s cheaper: the beach is not so much a beach as an area of dense mangroves, and the tide is way out, revealing a kind of brown muddy silt rather than inviting white sand.

The Anyavee hotel is a world away from Lanta’s fabulous Moonlight Bay, but is directly on the beach, has a decent pool and is nice enough for our requirements for a few nights. After unpacking a bit we head back out for a mosey around, and Luke and I decide to sample The Black Pearl’s mushroom shake, washing it down with a vodka mango.

Mum, meanwhile, is sipping a fruit shake on the beach. An hour or so later and the mushroom concoction seems to be doing its thang; I feel mildly giddy and giggly…and then completely paranoid. Time seems to slow down to a ridiculous pace – so much so that it feels like about midnight…but is actually only 8pm. Ha! We watch the sunset on the beach, surrounded by hippies, then eat Pad Thais and have a few cocktails at one of the few restaurants, before taking Mum back to the hotel room to bed.

Having mocked all the cautious tourists carrying huge rolled-up umbrellas around “just in case”, they have the last laugh when the heavens open on the way back to the hotel and we are promptly soaked to the skin. When it rains in Thailand, it RAINS. We’re talking biblical proportions. We retreat to our rooms to wait for the rain to stop, and eventually it does…but the water outside my room is calf-deep, and Luke has to come and rescue me. Having seen a few snakes already in Thailand, I’m paranoid that they’ll be out in force after the downpour.

Wading back to the Black Pearl in Railay West, we order some more drinks and chat to some people as we all sit around the bar, including a dishevelled hippy couple and a pretty British actress from West London who’s travelling alone, having split from her husband. A blind Thai man approaches the bar and starts fire-dancing – which is pretty impressive in itself, as he throws the lit baton high into the air…and then he takes it to another level by balancing on a tightrope between two trees at chest-height whilst spinning his lit batons this way and that.

Feeling peckish, we go off in search of salt and vinegar crisps (Luke and I are huge fans), avoiding the bullfrogs crossing our paths, and then, slightly squiffy, eat a giant family-sized bag each in bed before falling asleep on a bed of crumbs. Stay classy!

30th January

Whilst eating our breakfast with one hand and swatting away a ridiculous amount of wasps with the other (fancy putting bowls of jam out at the buffet…fail!), we spot a huge snake swimming in the sea, weaving its way towards the mangroves. I knew my snake fears were not unfounded!

Despite the dramas on Phi Phi when we trekked up to the viewing point (I was sick as a dog from food poisoning and almost collapsed in the midday sun), we decide to check out the hike to Railay’s viewpoint this morning. We make the short walk across to Ao Phra Nang beach and caves, which is where the viewpoint starts. And then we stop. The pathway up to the viewpoint is via a vertical climb up a cliff-face covered in orange clay, with only a rope for assistance. We decide to give it a miss, as we watch other tourists puffing and panting in the 35-degree heat, clinging to the rope, slippery with sweat as they search out their next foothold. There is no such thing as Health and Safety in Thailand, and I’m gobsmacked to see parents pushing terrified kids as young as three or four past the warning signs and up the cliff face, which is extra-slippery after the deluge last night. What the…?!

We marvel at the mystical stalactites and stalagmites of the huge caves as we follow the pathway through them. As we round the corner onto the beach, we’re taken aback: the view is breathtaking. So many times on this trip we’ve been bowled over by the outstanding natural beauty of these islands. Words simply cannot describe it. ‘Paradise’ sounds like a tired old cliché, but it’s the closest word I can think of to describe this place: gorgeous white sands and crystal clear waters set against a backdrop of limestone cliffs covered in dense green foliage. Simply unforgettable.

Obviously, we’re not the only ones who think so, and this is high season (October to March), so the beach is pretty busy, with people of all nationalities delighting in the sun, sea and scenery. Longtail boats fashioned as street food stalls are lined up along the shore, and the aromas of lemongrass and garlic fill the air.

We find ourselves a decent spot directly opposite the vast shard of rock jutting out from the ocean and Luke and I challenge ourselves to swim out to it. It’s further than it looks, and we are exhausted by the time we’ve swum there and back.

We collapse in the sun to dry off, before checking out one of the longtail food stalls for lunch. A meal is the equivalent of just a pound or two and is delicious. We wash it down with fruit shakes and spend the afternoon soaking up the sun (okay, getting burnt to a cinder). An hour or so later the tide has gone out so much that people are now able to simply wade through the sea across to the mountain we’d taken ages to swim over to earlier.

The more adventurous holidaymakers are scaling the limestone cliffs under the close supervision of skilled rock-climbers, and Luke and I go for a walk, spotting the famous fertility shrine, which is basically a series of large carved wooden phalluses strategically positioned in the opening (vagina) of a little cave. Oo-er missus!

When the sun gets too much we go back to the hotel and chill by the pool, being entertained by a family of curious macaque monkeys who jump and cavort around in front of us. Things turn mischievous when they decide to tip the bins out looking for food, and the hotel staff are not impressed with the mess, throwing stones to try and scare them off. Our hotel obviously hasn’t paid its protection money, so the Monkey Mafia has shown up to show them who’s boss, chucking bottles and food wrappers over their shoulders as they forage around for tidbits. Eventually they’ve had enough, and move onto the next establishment, sneering over their shoulders with a look that says: “We’ll be back…”

The evening brings another ark-worthy deluge so we eat at a restaurant close to the hotel before heading off to bed, ready for an early start in the morning when we’ll hike up to the viewpoint.

31st January

The next morning the sun is shining as brightly as ever; zero evidence remains of the monsoon from the night before. Considering this is the dry season, it’s rained more (only at night, thankfully) during this trip than the times I’ve visited Thailand in the rainy season.

Did I say ‘we’ would be trekking up to the viewpoint? I meant Luke. When we arrive at the base of the muddy mountain, Mum and I look up at it dubiously…before opting to wait on the beach nearby.

I think we’ll just settle for seeing his pictures, I think to myself. Sure enough, Luke comes back some time later, having got covered from head to foot in red clay and leaked out several pints of sweat. We swim, sun ourselves and feast on treats from the boat sellers. Yesterday was salt and pepper shrimp; today basil chicken with vegetables.

Later, we take a longtail boat (300b) around the headland to Tonsai Bay, where a curious lizard tries to climb into Luke’s bag, before resting his weary head on a little rock. Cute!

Then….dun dun dunnnn….disaster strikes. Mum gets ill. Like really ill. We’re sitting at a beach bar when she gets that panic-stricken look that has become all too familiar on this holiday; it either means one of us is about to throw up…or follow-through. Usually both. She scuttles off, thighs clamped together, to the loo around the back of the bar, and is violently ill. On these beaches, there’s always the grave danger of a shart attack. No that’s not a typo – sharting is a real and present danger; more likely and almost as attention-grabbing as a shark attack. We have to get her back to the hotel, but the boats have all disappeared, it’s scorching hot and we’re literally stranded on a desert island. Uh oh. Fortunately, by the time she is able to regain her composure enough to stagger along, crab-stylee, the tide has gone out again and we manage to manhandle her over the rocks and around the bay until we’re safely back at Railay. She’s sick as a dog and doesn’t leave the room again until we have to travel the next day to Phang Nga. Man down!

With Mum out of the game, Luke and I decide to stay close to the hotel and sit by the pool. We’re glad we do, as we’re once again treated to the nightly show by the troop of wild monkeys, and we have ringside seats by the bins.

Once again, they fool about, terrorising tourists, much to the fury of the staff….only this time there’s another breed of monkey as well as the mischievous macaques: the capuchins. These gorgeous creatures have smaller, rounder heads, black rings around their eyes, and are much more well behaved. If the macaques are ASBO hoodies, the capuchins are the innocent little choir boys.

Remember Chicaboo monkey toys in the eighties? These are real-life versions of those. They swing from the trees, playing and cuddling…and then I see possibly the cutest thing I’ve Ever. Seen. In. My. Life. A mother capuchin cradling a tiny ginger baby. Oh em geeeee! Off the charts gorgeous! I manage to capture a photo of mum and baby:

Another night, another EPIC storm, as the black sky is illuminated by forks of lightning over the limestone cliffs. At least the sound of the rain hitting the tin roof next door drowns out the sounds of Mum’s death-throe groans. Luke and I venture out for pizza and Changs, before hitting the hay, ready for the (400b) mission of a trip to Phang Nga in the morning, involving a longtail boat and no less than three buses…

Published tomorrow:

The Thai Diaries: Phang Nga Bay (6/6)

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
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The post The Thai Diaries: Krabi (5/6) appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

The next morning we head down to Charlie’s House for a wholesome brekkie of avocado toast with poached eggs to set ourselves up for the ferry ride across to Koh Lanta. We pass by the ribbon tree, a Buddhist shrine dedicated to the thousands of people who lost their lives here in the Boxing Day tsunami. There are now tsunami sirens, escape route signs and a meeting point, but you wonder how much use these would really be in the event of a repeat of those 35ft waves of Boxing Day 2004, which claimed the lives of around 280,000 people. The Thais are spiritual people, and there have been many claims of Phi Phi ghost sightings since that terrible day (the majority of Thais believe ghosts reside in most large trees and keep a spirit house outside the home, where daily offerings of food and drink are given to calm nearby paranormal entities).

The guys working at our bungalows offer to run our luggage down to the pier on a big trolley (there are no cars or tuk-tuks on Phi Phi), and in view of the intensity of the sun and the mild bucket hangovers, we gratefully accept. It’s the usual scrum to get onto the boat, teetering over the water whilst carrying our luggage as we step gingerly from one boat across to ours. This time we opt for the dimly-lit icebox that is the level below deck and the gentle rocking of the boat means we struggle to stay awake, our eyelids heavy as we attempt to read our chick-lit novels (Luke included – he’s one of the chicks, after all).

A couple of hours later and the island of Koh Lanta slowly comes into focus. The pier is busy with locals offering to carry our bags, shouting the names of various hotels and carrying placards bearing the names of guests they’ve been sent to collect. We are approached by one woman offering us a ride to our next hotel about 45 minutes’ drive away, so we negotiate a price of 150 baht (about £3 each) and she leads us away from the throng. Expecting an air-con’d minibus, we’re somewhat taken aback when instead she leads us to…a battered old tuk-tuk. It’s basically a moped with a sidecar which has clearly seen better days. Rightio. We pour ourselves in and pile the luggage on top, and set off shakily along the road.

This thing sounds like a hairdryer and does a maximum speed of about 20 miles per hour, so we settle in for the ride, having resigned ourselves to the fact that we won’t be reaching our destination anytime soon. The wind whips in our hair and the journey is strangely exhilarating. Yes, it’s quite a buzz – not knowing if the next lorry to overtake us on a hairpin bend will be the one that wipes us out…

We arrive at our resort, Moonlight Exotic Bay, looking like we’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Walking unsteadily up the gravel drive to the grand reception of this impressive-looking hotel, we quickly rake our hands through our hair self-consciously and attempt to subtly extract our now-wedgied shorts from our backsides. The reception staff pretend not to notice our dishevelled state, and we’re led to our room. It’s a “Wow!” moment: this place is the BOMB! (Especially compared to the more basic accommodation we’ve just had on Phi Phi.) Woohoo! Nice one, Hotels.com.

I got a wicked deal on this particular hotel, paying a fraction of the regular price. The average hotel cost for this trip has been 25 quid each a night, and this place with the discount is the same price, which is an absolute result when we look around the resort. Our room is facing onto one of the pools and the mangrove-lined creek, over which is a bridge leading to a bigger pool, gym, restaurant, bungalows, yoga studio, private beach and uber-chic cocktail bar. This place oozes Scandi-style luxe with its minimalist interiors and laid-back luxe. Oooh yeah, we think, we’re gonna like it here juuuust fine…

The room, a large and stylish space in shades of pale grey and charcoal with a huge king-size bed and giant beanbags, proves perhaps a little too comfortable and our quick siesta turns into a mammoth kip. The call of our growling stomachs is only slightly louder than the roar of our snores, but eventually we are roused from our sun-induced comatose state by the urge to eat and head sleepily down to the beachfront restaurant.

The resort is stunning enough in the daytime, but by night it’s magical: twinkly lights illuminate the wooded complex, making it look like something out of a fairytale. It is so still, tropical and peaceful – one of the most calming resorts I’ve ever stayed at. We cross over the creek via the wooden bridge and follow the winding lit pathway past the gym (which is always empty), pool and hillside bungalows until we come to the open-air beachfront restaurant. We order recommended dishes from the specials board (the Thai beef salad is deliciously tinged with aromatic lemongrass), and chat to the extremely friendly waiting staff, who manage to create just the right vibe: a relaxed yet professional atmosphere. Now fully awake, we become aware of the beat of soulful house music playing in the distance and decide to follow our ears to the source of the tunes…

Hyperion is the on-site cocktail bar, perfect for those balmy evenings spent sipping margaritas and gazing wistfully out over the ocean as it laps gently back and forth over the rocks below. The decking is on stilts above the rocks and has cut-out sections covered with nets, so you can recline whilst drinking your cocktail and see through to the rocks below, which is kind of a cool idea. There are tons of quirky props and features all around the bar which add to the experience and which wouldn’t look out of place at a trendy London nightclub. It’s Friday night, and a guest DJ is selecting the perfect ear-candy: an uplifting blend of disco, vocal house and trance tracks that get Mum and I toe-tapping and bopping about on our net-seats…which isn’t easy, let me tell ya. At midnight, after a couple of drinks, including a banana daiquiri (me) and a mind-blowingly strong Irish coffee (De Mama), we shuffle back to our dreamily comfortable beds for some more shut-eye.

It feels like we’ve only been asleep for about five minutes (although it’s actually been five hours) when Mum’s phone starts going nuts and she leaps up, bleary-eyed and sweating Irish coffee from every pore to answer it. The extended family back home are out celebrating Dad’s birthday at a Chinese restaurant, and she’s greeted by about ten very raucous family members via Facetime. It’s seven hours behind in the UK, so it’s 10pm on Friday night for them, but 5am Saturday for us. She doesn’t seem fazed by the fact she’s being broadcast to the entire restaurant with her hair sticking up at right angles and wearing a nightie…but I’m mortified at the prospect and burrow under the covers and back to sleep…

27th January

Waking up slightly disorientated, it takes a moment or two to register where I am. Moving from island to island every few days will do that to you. It’s not exactly a hardship though, moving from one paradise island to another, and when it dawns on us that we’ve not got long left at this rather lovely resort we’re eager to get down to breakfast at the beachfront restaurant and then explore.

We lean out over the balcony and enjoy the feeling of the hot sun on our skin (it’s boiling already and it’s only 8am) as we drink our morning cuppa: English Breakfast, naturally. (Are you even British if you don’t take your own tea bags on your holibobs?).

We are surrounded by lush greenery, geckos and huge colourful butterflies. It’s beautiful. Mum even spots a giant Jurassic-looking monitor lizard swimming in the creek below….and later a bright green snake as it slithers off into a nearby bush. We feast on a delicious buffet breakfast and select a couple of comfy sunbeds in a prime spot on the decking overlooking the private beach, settling down with our books for a blissful day of sunbathing. (Yep, that’s about the extent of our ‘exploring’). It is perfectly silent, save for the sound of the gentle music playing at the bar, complemented by the rhythmic motion of the waves.

Suddenly, the silence is broken by Mum’s shrieks, and I leap up from my lounger in alarm. No wonder these ‘prime spot’ sunbeds had not been snapped up by any other eagle-eyed sun-worshippers…they are positioned under some trees which it has only now become apparent are host to all kinds of weird and wonderful wildlife. I’ve already picked several tiny caterpillars off my body…and now a gliding dragon lizard has plopped down onto Mama Bird’s bed.

Paralysed by shock and fear, both Mum and the lizard stay stock still as they eye each other nervously, giving me plenty of time to capture the moment on my phone, sniggering away.

The lizard eventually tires of his photoshoot and makes a dash for the tree, clinging to the trunk with his claws. I zoom in to get another shot of his neon-yellow neck…and something amazing happens. The yellow markings on his neck unfurl to become a membrane stretching right down to his chest. A later Google search reveals this membrane to be a ‘gular fold’ used to stabilise the lizard, and he also has wings, allowing effortless gliding. He’s called a Draco Maculatis, and even the hotel staff I show later tell me they’ve never seen one. (They are so impressed with my photos they use them on their Instagram page, which makes me hashtag chuffed). After that we are slightly wary of sitting under those trees though.

In the evening, Luke joins us from his hotel, Lanta Palace, and we all jump in a tuk-tuk to Long Beach for dinner.

We discover a decent Happy Hour and live music at The Funky Monkey, so order a shit-ton of cocktails (well Happy Hour’s ending in ten minutes so we figure we may as well make the most of it) and hook upto the wifi like the phone junkies we are. An hour or so later and we’re vaguely aware of everything starting to shut down for the evening, so shimmy off in search of dinner. It’s only 10pm, but The Red Snapper (a restaurant that comes highly rated online) is closing, and so is everywhere else by the looks of it. We finally find somewhere still willing to cook for us, and eat some spicy Thai food before hailing a tuk-tuk back to the comfort of our air-conditioned room; it’s still stiflingly hot and humid here, even at night.

Koh Lanta is the quietest and most chilled out of all the islands we visited, and is not as conducive to nightlife as the other islands, mainly because the resorts, bars and restaurants tend to be situated along a main road around the coastline, rather than the meandering villagey feel of, say, Phi Phi. Going out requires transport and a degree of effort that is hard to muster when you’re feeling blissfully relaxed and the hotel itself is just so bloody gorgeous.

28th January

Another day dawns, and we are hyper-aware that our time at this dreamy resort is limited. We breathe in the sea air, potter around collecting shells on the beach and swim in the warm sea. If you’ve never been to Thailand before, let me tell you that the Andaman Sea is probably the warmest ocean you’ll ever swim in; it’s like stepping into bathwater.

Luke joins us doing his best David Dickinson impression (ie suddenly looking as brown as one of the mahogany sideboards on the Real Deal) and we soak up the rays until the sun goes down, when we move just a few feet to Hyperion Bar for our nightly ritual of cocktails reclining on the nets. As the sun slides down into the ocean, I wish I could bottle this perfect moment. I’m aware that I’m always trying to memorise these amazing experiences, wanting to imprint every blissful minute on my internal hard drive, ready to recall on a rainy winter’s afternoon upon my return.

Having had a large lunch, we opt for brownies and ice cream in lieu of dinner and, feeling full and lazy, we all turn in early to sleep off the boozy cocktails. (We turn the aircon to the coldest setting to try and burn some of these calories off in the night…to no avail, of course).

Tomorrow, we set sail for Krabi…

Published tomorrow:

The Thai Diaries: Krabi (5/6)

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Thai Diaries: Koh Lanta (4/6) appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

After breakfast and bidding fond farewells to our lovely hosts (half the hotels we stay at on this trip are run by a European guy and his Thai wife) we take a minibus to the pier. The 45-minute bus journey plus two-hour ferry ride is 350 baht each (about eight quid). Despite being pretty well organised, boarding the ferry becomes a bun-fight, as nobody seems able to grasp the (apparently alien) concept of q-u-e-u-e-i-n-g. Highly annoying. Being terribly British, we refuse to push in…and are subsequently shoved out of the way by a bunch of Scandi Neanderthals who’ve clearly been sharpening their elbows all morning especially. Grrr!

Nevertheless, we bag ourselves some prime seats on the front deck, slather ourselves in suncream, and begin to enjoy the scenery…which is not so much the view from the boat as the view on the boat: a swarthy, olive-skinned model-type dude with more of a 12-pack than a measly six-pack is slowly rubbing coconut oil into his rock-hard abs and taking endless chisel-cheeked selfies, turning this way and that with his selfie stick. How do you choose your best angle when they are all your best angles? I ponder his lucky predicament for a moment. However what starts off as drool-worthy soon becomes downright embarrassing…and when he’s still making love to the camera an hour into the journey we can’t stop simultaneously eyeball-rolling and cracking up at his narcissism. He doesn’t notice of course – he only has eyes for himself.

By 3.15pm we’re approaching Phi Phi Don, the larger of the two Phi Phi islands (the other, Phi Phi Leh, is uninhabited and visited on day trips) – and boy, is she stunning: smooth white sands, clear blue sea and limestone foliage-covered mountains jutting out of the ocean all around. She makes Mr Perfect over there look positively flawed by comparison. As soon as we disembark at Tonsai Pier I immediately detect a similarity between this place and Koh Tao, one of my favourite Thai islands, as it has a distinctly village-y feel: winding footpaths with bars, dive schools, bungalows and cute little stalls lining each side. Like Koh Tao, there are no cars on this island. We instantly fall in love with it.

We struggle with our bags in the intense heat and humidity, sweating our way along until we come to our bungalows.

Chunut House is a little village of palm leaf-roofed bamboo huts, dotted haphazardly in a dense jungle setting surrounded by lush green undergrowth. We freshen up and head down to one of the beachfront restaurants, where I eat (what I think is) a delicious Panang curry. Little do I know that it won’t be the last time I see it (TMI, sorry). When I request that it not be too hot, I meant spicy…

Several hours later, and the rain arrives. And when I say rain, I mean RAIN. Epic amounts. I attempt to Facetime a contact in Athens about an upcoming blog booking, but it’s pitch black and deafening so we give up, arranging to speak when I get back to the UK.

We head out to buy Nutella and banana pancakes (because, Nutella) and duck into one of the massage shops to escape the downpour. It seems everyone else has had a similar idea as the place is busy, so we relax into adjoining reclining seats and settle in for an hour-long foot and leg treatment. With the state of my trotters (disclaimer: retail wrecks your feet) the therapist has got her work cut out, and I half expect her to reach for an angle grinder instead of a bit of coconut oil.

Luke and I are gossiping away until his square-jawed ladyboy therapist scowls, tuts loudly, and tells us to shut up in a distinctly unladylike manner. Feeling reprimanded, we giggle and close our eyes and I drift off to sleep…

An hour later our feet have been sufficiently pummelled and the rain has stopped. We explore a bit more, stopping to watch the fire-dancing at Slinky’s and the raucous goings-on down at the Ibiza Pool Party. We make a note of the next pool party (Thursday) and vow to return.

Arriving back at our bungalow we are greeted by a cacophony of active wildlife: bullfrogs, birds and God-knows-what-else are conversing loudly in the trees and bushes. We need that moody ladyboy from the massage parlour to give them a talking to about the noise levels. Our neighbours in the next-door bungalow explain that the loud belching noises coming from the bushes are in fact trumpet frogs. There must be so many of them that it’s not so much one trumpet as an entire orchestra; we have to shout above the din to hear one another. That’s fine, I think – so long as they stay in the bushes where they belong…

24th January

Having been sung to sleep by the frog chorus, I am rudely awoken at the crack of dawn by similar belching and rumbling noises – only this time they are coming from…my stomach. Clutching my gut I lurch out of bed and into the bathroom. This is not good. We have arranged to hike up to the Phi Phi viewpointthis morning, and I refuse to succumb to Delhi Belly, so I force down an omelette at The Mango Garden restaurant (since it comes so highly rated) and off we go. Because hiking up a vertical incline in blistering heat at 11am with a dodgy tummy is the obvious thing to do, right? Right..?

Nope.

It’s a stoopid idea. After staggering halfway to the top, I have to stop to throw up, drenched in sweat, in the bushes. When I reappear Mum is hunched over too. Thinking she’s also been struck down with the lurgy, I go over to see what’s occurring…and discover the reason she’s bent double is that she’s inspecting a dead snake on the path. Yuk! A family of curious macaques appear on the road, and they are somehow both adorable and menacing at the same time. I think it’s the human characteristics (cute) and the sharp teeth (menacing). Every fibre of my being is telling me to turn back; I’m so sick, but we’ve come this far and I’ve committed now, so I crawl to the summit like the hero I am (not).

Having hauled my sorry ass to the top, which takes over an hour in my pathetic state, I finally manage to stand shakily upright and survey the view. And what a view it is.

You can see both sides of the skinny peninsula and it is absolutely breathtaking. We just about manage to get some amazing shots (I wear Mum’s straw hat to disguise the fact that I am decidedly green around the gills), and I find some wifi and upload the picture to my Instagram. Luke high fives me and cries “Doing it for the ‘Gram!” and this becomes one of our catchphrases of the trip.

In the afternoon I’m still sick as a dog but refuse to be beaten by a dodgy curry and insist on going on a five-hour boat trip. As ya do. This is a big mistake. Huge. I spend most of the time with my head held over the side of the boat, butt-cheeks clenched, trying not to show myself up by allowing the offending bug to unwittingly escape from any orifice.

Monkey Beach does exactly as it says on the tin: it’s a beach full of monkeys. When our longtail boat chugs up to the island to join the other twenty or so boatloads of tourists already there, we can only see one monkey. One?! This one big macaque is taking full advantage of the fact that nobody has yet spotted the other hundred of them further up the beach and is sitting on a low tree branch, posing and mugging for the camera. Remember that macaque who nicked the photographer’s camera a few years back and started snapping selfies? It’s exactly like that. Too funny.

The trip continues: to Maya Bay (which will close May-Sep, click for details) where The Beach was filmed (if only Leo di Cap were still here, now that would be a sight for sore eyes) and various other stop-offs. We jump off the side of the boat to snorkel (yes, even me, butt-cheeks and teeth clenched), yet despite the clear blue waters and beautiful surroundings, there are precious few fish. Save for a few Nemos and the odd tiger fish, the sea is, well, empty. Given that there are about thirty other diesel-fuelled boats chugging noisily in the vicinity, each packed with whooping groups of sightseers, it’s hardly surprising that the fish are refusing to parade themselves for our viewing pleasure…

Eventually, I concede defeat and the food poisoning gets the better of me. I leave Mum and Luke to continue on the boat trip. They are going plankton-hunting, keen to spot a phenomenon whereby the fish turn phosphorescent after dark to scare off predators (“Gotta do it for the ‘Gram”, says Luke), and I lurch off into the sunset in search of my darkened air-conned room and a long lie-down.

When they return, I’m twisting up the bedsheets and mumbling something incoherent under my breath, so they shuffle off for pizzas and leave me to sweat it out…

25th January

Thankfully, the next day I’m back in the game and game for a pool party. Well, whaddya take me for – a lightweight?! Having had an impromptu 24-hour detox, I decide that a retox is just what the doctor ordered. Hardcore, you know the score. We head down to the beach and sunbathe near the Ibiza Pool Party hostel until the giant sound system suddenly crackles into life at 1pm and the pumping house music fires up the party.

De Mama immediately springs into life and starts doing Big Box, Little Box arm movements in the sea, much to the amusement of a stunning twenty-something girl nearby, who gives her a thumbs up: “ Nice moves!” I taught her everything she knows, I think, having spent the past twenty-five years playing banging house music in her presence. Looking at me ploughing into the Thai whiskey and Red Bull buckets with gusto you’d never know that a few hours earlier I was lying on my deathbed, wailing in agony, about to dictate my last will and testament. Nice one, immune system, you did it. High five!

We meet a couple of Londoners in the pool, black dudes from Tulse Hill: “But we’re thinking of moving: too many white folk in Brixton these days.” They hit on a couple of Russian girls over a game of ping-pong and disappear into the crowd. It’s starting to get fairly rowdy in the crowded pool – a congealed soup of buckets, testosterone and probably a gallon of wee (bleugh!) – so Luke and I climb out and flop onto the sand nearby like a couple of wonky walruses, before slipping into what we later describe as a Bucket Coma. After a while, I’m certain that I’ve killed off any remaining parasites in my gut with Thai whiskey and I think it’s safe to head home. Job done. Then it’s Luke’s turn to flatline in his room, whilst the (sober) Mama and I head out for pizzas – perfect hangover food at, ahem, about 9pm (listen, I’m not a lightweight, I’ve been ill, ok?). We stop by Kongsiam bar and listen to some live music (Bob Marley sung with a Thai accent is quite enthralling), then take the scenic route back home (not by choice; we both have an appalling sense of direction).

Then it’s time for bed as we’re on the move again in the morning. I have a close encounter with a cockroach the size of a small child during the night; I’m awoken by a loud scuttling sound coming from the bathroom to find the bloody thing walking over my toothbrush. FFS! I reckon it’s chuckling away as it does it too, the filthy critter. I sure am looking forward to some luxury at the next hotel…

Next stop: Koh Lanta.

Published tomorrow: 

The Thai Diaries: Koh Lanta (4/6). 

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Thai Diaries: Phi Phi (3/6) appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

For this particular island-hopping adventure we fly directly into Phuket from Gatwick for three nights, then a two-hour ferry to Phi Phi for three nights, then another ferry to Koh Lanta for three nights, then a ferry to Krabi for – yes, you guessed it – three nights. Then it’s on to Phang Nga (Pang Ahhh) for a night in the jungle followed by one final night back in Phuket before our Saturday morning flight home. So it’s a circular anti-clockwise island tour planned solely by Yours Truly with a little bit of helpful input from my good mates Google, Booking.com (this link gives you £15 off) and Hotels.com. We’re away for fifteen days: two direct 12-hour flights, three ferries, six hotels (all three or four stars and great reviews). Sound pricey? Nah! The entire trip has cost us less than £750 each. A weekend in Ibiza costs more than that. Sweet, huh? I’ll write a separate blog post about how to bag the best holiday bargains later…

So, the flight to Phuket is deemed a success by both De Mama and myself, having met the major qualifying criteria that I judge airlines by, which are a). air stewards smiling genuinely, rather than plastering on a lipsticked grimace whilst cursing their customers ventriloquist-style to one another and thinking we’re either too dumb or drunk on the drinks trolley offerings to notice. Which brings me nicely to point b). liberal application of free wines and spirits to aforementioned customers, served with a cheeky wink rather than a jobsworth’s calculation of alcohol measured to 3 decimal points of a cubic millilitre, and c) sufficient legroom for a six-footer like myself, without having to pay an arm and a leg for an emergency exit seat, or saw off an arm and a leg in order to fit in a regular one. Nice one Tui – you did good.

Stepping off the plane at 7am, we’re hit by a wall of humid heat. It’s as though we’ve stuck our heads into a furnace; we’re wearing our winter-in-London woollies and are instantly sweating like pigs at a disco. Once inside the terminal building, it’s clear we’re going to be here for a while: poker-faced customs officials are painstakingly photographing each person and slowly sorting visas (which are issued for thirty days upon arrival – no need to arrange prior to travel from the UK – which is handy, at least). Less handy is the fact that several planes have come in at once; humans of every flavour and ethnic origin are shedding clothes like we’re at the International Strip Polka Championships. It’s clear we’ll be here for the duration. Ninety minutes later and we’re finally through. I clap eyes on my GBF (Gay Best Friend) Luke in the arrivals hall – he’s just flown in from Kuala Lumpur – grab our bags from the carousel and the three amigos are finally ready to rock and roll.

Our hotel is called Swiss Villas Panoramic, and there’s a teeny clue in the title: in order to get those ‘panoramic’ views they boast about on the website, it is obviously very high up. Which is great…but not exactly ideal when the minibus drops us off at the bottom of the steps and we have to haul our baggage plus our jetlagged asses up a gazillion tiny steps in the blistering heat. Wearing jeans. And thick flight socks. My ears are popping more from the climb up to the hotel than the flight take-off. I need one of De Mama’s boiled sweets for the ascent. We are greeted at the top by our hosts with a ‘welcome drink’ as promised – which is very welcome indeed, seeing as we’re red-faced and gasping for breath like three (unfit) fish out of water.

The most we can muster is a swim in the rooftop pool, a melanin-awakening sunbathing sesh accompanied by the first of many outdoor Thai green curries and an ice cold Chang (or three), then it’s time to catch some much-needed zeds.

Much later, we wake in darkness. Looking out of our little villa over Phuket, we can now appreciate just why they decided to build the place at such altitude: the view is breathtaking. Thousands of twinkling lights from the district’s many buildings adorn the night sky like diamonds, and there’s a light breeze at this height which takes some of the humidity from the air. Up here it’s still like having a hairdryer aimed at your face, but it’s set to medium rather than hot; a welcome relief after an energy-sapping day of unaccustomed heat for us squid-skinned Brits.

We have a cheeky drink at the bar before heading out to explore Patong. The district’s main ‘walking street’ is Bangla Road: an intoxicating blend of blaring music, dancing ‘girls’ (some with giveaway bulging Adam’s apples and a five o’clock shadow) winding and a-grinding round poles, bars, restaurants and shops. It has a distinct flavour of the Khao San Road, which any traveller worth their salt will be familiar with – compulsory backpacker-circuit stuff.

Slightly shell-shocked and jetlagged, we slide into the seats in a randomly-chosen restaurant and select a set menu for three, for convenience. It arrives on segmented school dinner-style trays and we tuck in hungrily. Within seconds, red-hot chilli juice has hit the back of my throat and I proceed to choke almost to death for the next half hour, much to the bemusement of the proprietor. A tourist clutching their throat and writhing about in agony in full view of passers-by browsing the menu outside is hardly good for business, is it? I guzzle down water by frantically upending the bottle like a marathon runner at mile twenty-five and attempt to stifle my agony. Red-faced and eyes bulging for the second time that day, I concede defeat and head home to bed – even the fact that Sven Vath is headlining at the Illuzion nightclub a few doors down doesn’t tempt me. Whaat?! I know, I know: I’m getting O.L.D.

21st January 2018

We wake up refreshed and excited, the entire two-week adventure stretching ahead of us. You just can’t beat those First Day Feels (FDFs); the ones you get when you’ve successfully shrugged off the monotony of the rat-race and life feels full of endless possibilities. And in Thailand those possibilities are even more endless than anywhere else. Why? Because they are CHEAP. Maaannn are they cheap. To a Westerner, everything is just so goddamn, ridiculously, laughably, cheap. You wanna feel like a millionaire, even just for a little while? The answer…is South. East. Asia, my friend. I keep expecting them to get the memo and create a two-currency system or something, like in Cuba (which I visited last year). The Cubans have one currency for the locals…and another for fleecing wealthy foreigners. Clever, huh? But no, Thailand and the surrounding countries are still dirt cheap. Huzzah! Compared to the absolute rip-off central that is London, Thailand is a skinflint’s wet dream. You can buy an entire main meal, including drink and dessert, for the price of your morning coffee at Starbucks (other equally-overpriced coffee chains are also available). Hence why this newly-unemployed ‘writer’ (I still feel like a fraud describing myself as a writer without mentally adding an asterisked explanation – or at the very least inverted commas) has chosen this holiday destination. It was a no-brainer.

Anyway, I digress. We inhale the breakfast buffet, which has been lovingly handmade by the proud Swiss owner right down to the jam and muesli (well, it would’ve been rude not to, right?) before heading out to find the nearest massage shop.

Did I mention it was cheap here? An hour-long, full body massage, including clicking of every knuckle and walking barefoot up and down your spine (believe me, no muscle is left unturned), costs the princely sum of…drum roll please…five pounds. Yes, that’s right folks: an hour of bending, twisting and face-pulling as the Thai ladies fold your body into positions not even found in the Karma Sutra (Contortionists Edition), costs a single crisp five pound note. 250 baht. In London, that exact same hour is gonna set you back around fifteen times that amount. And these women don’t mess about; a Thai massage is like a strenuous workout. Not that I would know what one of those feels like, granted. I can’t remember the last time I set foot in a gym. Needless to say, I don’t need a Happy Ending to bounce out of there an hour later with a Cheshire Cat grin plastered on my boat race. Fully limbered up, it’s time to hit the beach.

People-watching on the sand is one of my favourite pastimes, and there’s a lot going on on Patong Beach: sellers touting their wares, couples cavorting, jet skis whizzing, and the smell of a thousand dishes mingling from the many restaurants, luring us up to the nearest one. We sip colourful Del Boy-esque cocktails and eat delicious Pad Thai, sprinkling the ground peanuts on top with a squirt of fresh lime, before heading back to sit by the pool.

Feeling frazzled, we get ready to go out before a quick tequila shot at the bar with the Thai co-owner. My (sixty-five year old, usually teetotal) mum Pat gets carried away on the breeze of those FDFs, and spontaneously opts for an ignited B52 from the drinks menu….and almost spontaneously combusts as she sucks the liquid petrol up the straw.

Taking a few deep breaths, she regains her composure sufficiently for the steep walk back down to the town. Good girl! We opt for the more sophisticated surroundings of the Beyond Patong Sky Bar this evening, a rooftop bar located high above the chaos that is Patong at night, and sip our cocktails in an unusually civilised fashion. Then we have dinner nearby and book a cabana at Kudo Beach Club for the next day, hoping for a spot of pool-party action.

22nd January

Kudo Beach Club is an upmarket establishment, Western in style: think large four-poster beds around a large slate-tiled pool, fluffy towels, house music, DJs – this place wouldn’t look out of place in Ibiza. Which is right up our Strasse. So we attempt to create a beachy-but-glam vibe with our attire (basically swimwear with makeup – and that may or may not include Luke), then position ourselves carefully on our private bed and try to look elegant. For about ten minutes. Then we make for the swim-up bar and start ploughing into the cocktails.

Well what did you expect? We’re British, it’s in our DNA. The minimum spend for a cabana is 2000 baht, about forty quid. This is actually quite a lot by Thai standards, but as I said, we’re Brits, so we don’t bat an eyelid and have achieved the spend by about…oooh…lunchtime. The sun is shining, the drinks are slipping down nicely and the choons being crooned are soothing our souls. By the time the DJ turns up mid-afternoon the place is buzzing…and so are we.

Enjoying the vibe and determined to get our money’s worth out of our cabana, we stay by the poolside until it’s late, pitch black, and they are literally tipping us off it. The bill is 5000 baht, about £35 each, which is an absolute bargain considering the amount of food and drink we’ve put away. If this was Europe it’d be five times that. We stop on the way home for a hearty bowl of noodle soup in our swimwear (well it’s still 33 degrees at 10pm and we’re too sozzled to be self-conscious so we figure “What the hell!”) before hitting the hay, for tomorrow we set sail for Phi Phi island…

Published tomorrow: 

The Thai Diaries: Phi Phi (3/6)

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Thai Diaries: Phuket (2/6) appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

19th January 2018

Right, Thailand! I need your help. (“Again?!” I hear you mumble, raising your eyes heavenwards.) Sorry, yes. I need you to fix me. Just saying your name is like drizzling honey onto my soul, giving me the sugar high I need to keep me going until I catch a glimpse of you once more from my window seat on the plane, chosen specifically for that moment.

Like an old lover you’ll scoop me up in the arms I know so well, and all the wintery chills and memories of ills will seep from my brittle bones, to be replaced by your comfort and warmth. I’ll nestle against your shoulder, breathing in your characteristic aroma that I’ve dreamt of continuously since our last liaison, as you brush away my tears and dry them with sunshine.

With the tender love of a mother, you’ll nurture me with good food, warm air and blue skies, and rock me to sleep with lullabies sung by the sapphire-blue ocean lapping at the shores.

And if for some reason the spell has been broken and we no longer find ourselves entwined with love…

..at least I’ll have De Mama with me to share Sangsom buckets and dance to tinny techno on the sand.

I’m roused from my dreamy musings by Mum’s frantic nudging, her elbows jabbing my ribs in alarm as the whiskery warthog of a man in the seat next to hers on this 787 Dreamliner is stroking her calf with his outstretched toes.

“He’s playing footsie with me!” she hisses, and I lean over to take a look, before peering over the seat in front where his middle-aged wife is snoring gently, her snood-style hoody pulled up over equally hooded eyelids. The toggle on the drawstring collar is pulled tight, her entire face concealed, reminding me of a slumbering slug in a polo neck.

Mum yanks her leg away from Warthog and passes me the white wine she’s just accepted from the flight attendant even though she has no intention of drinking it. One sip of alcohol and her face is the colour of a baboon’s backside, so I kindly take it off her hands and consume it myself instead. I know, I’m all heart. Mum takes this as her cue to recount a recent incident whereby she and my younger sister, who is also always willing to take alcohol off her hands, attended a local healthy living exhibition. Whilst receiving a skin diagnosis, the therapist pointed out Mum’s ruddy complexion and remarked: “Like a drink, do we?” Teetotal Mum could only gawp at the audacity of the woman, whilst my sister Karen sniggered Muttley-style into the face-hole of the massage table she was lying on.

What she misses out on in alcohol she makes up with in-flight meals and boiled sweets (“essential for stopping ears popping”) and the 12-hour flight passes without further event, save for the diminutive woman in the row parallel to ours constantly popping the lock on the overhead storage cabin and climbing up on the seat like a cheeky capuchin monkey to retrieve some random item or other.

Finally, the pilot makes that welcome announcement: “ Cabin crew: prepare for landing” and there she is: my favourite place on Earth. Thailand. Land of Smiles. It’s like coming home…

Published tomorrow:

The Thai Diaries: Phuket (2/6)

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Thai Diaries (1/6) appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

The journey time by coach to Varadero, our next destination in Cuba, is around two hours – just long enough to decompress from the hectic pace of Havana and the exhausting business of sightseeing, take a deep breath aaaaaand relaxxxxx in preparation for our luxurious (ahem!) all-inclusive surroundings.

Varadero is a popular beach resort in the Matanzas province along the coast from the capital, boasting it’s own international airport (each of the 15 provinces in Cuba has one), over 60 hotels and 20km of white sandy beaches, which run along the skinny Hicacos peninsula, facing the Gulf Of Mexico. 

Seeing as the hotels are all-inclusive, which basically gives the green light for gluttony, the peninsula is the only thing that is skinny. I’ve never been a huge fan of the all-inclusive, for that precise reason: if you weren’t huge when you walked in, you will be by the time you leave. The Buffet Mentality encourages ordinary human beings to consume extraordinary amounts. It’s the nature of the beast. And by the end of the holiday, you’ll be a beast alright.

“Hotel Bella Costa!” cries the holiday rep as the coach comes to a halt, rousing me from my daydream. I look out the window. Really? Perhaps we’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere as we appear to have pulled up outside Nelson Mandela House. It’s raining hard and the building – which resembles a concrete block of council flats more suited to South East London than a sandy beach resort – is seriously lacking in kerb appeal. Sceptically, we grab our luggage and head inside.

If you’ve ever stayed at an all-inclusive resort, you’ll understand what I mean when I describe it as large-scale factory farming: upon check-in you’re “tagged” with a plastic wristband for identification purposes, in much the same way as a battery chicken. This is to ensure the poultry guests aren’t tempted to stray into neighbouring farms. Next you’re led to your room; an identikit holding pen where you’ll sleep and rest between feeds. Those who have been in the compound for a while already will giggle and point at the newbies, commenting on their “chicken-white skin” in stage whispers. Then the fattening up process begins: long periods spent pecking at unlimited buffets, beaks in troughs, interspersed with hours spent slowly rotating on sunbeds, basting at regular intervals with an SPF30 marinade.
Chicks consume the cheap spirits on offer until adequately slaughtered, followed by roasting until golden in the midday sun. Cocks strut along the beach in too-tight shorts, feathers puffed up in a public display of masculinity. Once the two week period is up the spent carcasses are routinely discarded and plastic wristbands removed, ready for a fresh influx of virgin-skinned chickens, delivered by coach straight onto the all-inclusive conveyor belt. And so it continues…

When you’ve just spent several days in the wonderfully chaotic city of Havana, free as a…bird, coming into such a sterile, structured environment can be a shock to the system. Hotels in Cuba are measured on a different scale to their smart European counterparts, so a 4-star in Varadero would probably be a strong two elsewhere. Having got our hopes up on the journey, we’re mildly disappointed by our room upon entry, with it’s curtains coming off the runners and mould in the bathroom.
However, after a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep, we awake to a glorious day, the rain replaced by wall-to-wall sunshine and the bluest of skies. The view from the balcony is breathtaking: as we’re five floors up and in the middle of the peninsula we can see the sea and gorgeous white sandy beaches on either side. Maybe being incarcerated in all-inclusive isn’t so bad after all. This is what we came for!

Breakfast is an all-out banquet: you can have anything from omelettes to pancakes to beef casserole or ice cream should the mood take you, then it’s time to plot up with your full belly on the beach and catch some rays. As well as chunky Americans and desiccated German sun worshippers with skin like leather, there are a disproportionate amount of Canadians and also plenty of Eastern Europeans and Russians for the men’s viewing pleasure. The latter are Andy’s eye-candy: he dons dark glasses and casually eyes souped-up young Serbs with bolt-on breasts and butt cheeks that could crack walnuts. All this sunbathing is thirsty work though, and by 10am hot-under-the-collar holidaymakers are glancing restlessly at their watches, wondering who’ll be first to kick off the cocktail runs and give everyone else the guilt-free go-ahead.

The rum is free-flowing and plentiful, with fellow inmates carefully carrying a steady stream of mojitos, daiquiris, Cuba libres and pina coladas in little plastic cups across the hot sand. The Yanks have clearly done this before: no thimble-sized plastic cups for these dudes, oh no – they’ve bought their own vast plastic drinks receptacles from home, some the size of small barrels, smiling smugly as they supervise the cocktail-making process. “Fill her up, bartender!” they bellow as half a bottle of Havana Club goes into their supersize travel cup. Hmm. Must remember that for next time.

It’s not just Americans and Canadians who flock to Varadero – the beaches are also home to hundreds of pelicans, who dive-bomb into the sea to catch fish, completely unperturbed by the fact it’s full of squawking humans. They bob on the waves alongside adults and children, their long grey bills tucked against their bodies, beady eyes watching the proceedings, bemused.

In the evenings there are several à la carte restaurant options (Japanese, Cuban and Italian) if you should fancy a change from the free-for-all buffet, followed by a nightly show, which is actually pretty good. The staff are beyond polite and friendly, smiling sweetly as grasping guests gobble everything in sight in a bid to get their money’s worth.
After a few days, we’ve completely settled into the pace and routine and are feeling relaxed and happy, if a little bored at times. We decide to pay 135 CuCs each for a two-day excursion to three cities: Cienfuegos, Trinidad and Santa Clara, leaving at 8am the following morning. There are 10 of us on the trip including an English family and the rest Germans.

We visit Cienfuegos town, El Nicho waterfalls and go on a hike through the forest before stopping for a very dubious-looking lunch. We order pina coladas to wash down some grey matter which we’re told are potatoes (I’m still not convinced).

We arrive in Trinidad several hours later; a quaint province with a village feel, like stepping back in time, with horse and cart instead of cars, uneven cobbled streets and colourful little terraced houses. It emerges that we will be split up and staying with families in their homes, rather than the hotel we were all expecting (and paid for?). Since 1997 the government has permitted Cubans to rent out rooms in their homes like a B&B, which gives them an extra income and provides travellers with cheaper, more authentic options than the big, government-owned hotels.

We disperse to our various casas particulares (private houses) to deposit our belongings and freshen up, before meeting for cocktails and dinner, which is another interesting experience. We are all served fish and chips, or should I say ‘chip’ as we are literally given one solitary little sliver of potato each, which has us all roaring with laughter, much to the confusion of the waiter.

Trying to find the right front door to our little casa again in the pitch darkness and after several cocktails is, however, no laughing matter and in the morning we’re all tired, having spent hours roaming the streets trying to find our respective beds for the night. Our casa owner, Dama, and her mother are very sweet; we communicate in stilted Spanglish and they serve us up omelettes before sending us on our way.

The weather refuses to play ball and the city tour is a total washout, resulting in hair plastered to heads and feet skidding out of flip-flops. We pile back onto the bus, which the driver has helpfully frozen to the the temperature of the Arctic Circle and we shiver and shake all the way to Santa Clara, to visit Che Guevara’s mausoleum. Satisfied that we’ve ticked some more culture boxes, it’s a relief to be back in the comfort of our hotel where the food is now looking particularly delicious and the bed exceptionally comfy.
We meet Italian Londoners Alex and his dad Raff, who we enjoy chatting to over a few cocktails. Alex fiddles with my iPhone, mumbling something about security settings and allowing cookies, and suddenly it leaps into life, pinging and dinging as hundreds of Whatsapps pour through. I squeal with delight and start uploading my photos to Insta with abandon. At several CuCs an hour, everyone is tapping furiously at their phones in the hotel lobby, not wanting to waste a moment.

Cardiff pensioners Jenny and Roger join in the fun the next day and suddenly we have a little crew; the British contingent commandeering the beach with our pumping Bose stereo and boisterous behaviour. I’m surprised there’s not a path in the sand from the beach to the bar, such is the number of trips we make.

Making friends makes all the difference and the best meal of the holiday comes the next day when we take a 1950s Buick to visit La Casa De Al: mobster Al Capone’s sumptuous villa right on the beach, now a luxurious restaurant.

As we dine on a lunch of fresh garlic lobster, sipping mojitos, the men puffing fat hand-rolled Cuban cigars as we look out at the perfect pelican-filled beach, we all agree that this is a special moment, one which will linger in our minds long after our tans have faded.

Barbacoa is another great restaurant, where we have delicious steaks (the chateaubriand is lip-smackingly good), as is El Toro. Eating out is top dollar in Cuba at around 25-30CuCs (a Cuc is a pound/dollar/euro) for a main course, which is why most people stick to the confines of their all-inclusive haven. You can take an open-top hop-on hop-off bus around the town for 5 CuCs a day and visit the museums, shopping mall and other tourist attractions, but apart from venturing out to switch up our dining options we don’t bother, preferring to remain reassuringly close to the beach and all-inclusive cocktail bars.

When it finally comes to time for us to leave for the airport, we’re not so much battery hens any more as Southern Fried Chicken: plump and juicy from all the food and drink; crispy-skinned from the intense Caribbean sun. We’re reluctant to leave as the receptionist snips off our wristbands and we’re ushered out of our comfy compound, blinking in the sunlight as our beady eyes adjust to the prospect of being cooped back up at work once more…

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Varadero: Life’s A Beach  appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.