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

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