South East Asia – Part 4: Not Thai enough for you?

Don’t call it a comeback, I’ve been here for years…

Greetings, pale ones, from the Northern Thai hotspot of Changmai, home of elephant treks, cooking schools and enough snakes to make Indiana Jones sully his 1930’s trousers. I just finished enjoying a strawberry-orange milkshake and a sausage pizza. What’s the matter? Not Thai enough for you? Fine, you try eating a pizza loaded with 4 litres of chili sauce and a blanket of Guatemalan insanity peppers, smartass. Besides, I’ll get my fill of “authentic” Thai cuisine over the following five days as I embark on one of the afformentioned elephant treks to remote tribal villages. There I’ll be given opportunities to float down the river on a rickety bamboo raft, jump over waterfalls and fend off the King Cobra with my Swiss army knife and Dolittle-esque animal rapport (more to come on that.) I’m hooped 

Following this and pending my survival I’ll be taking some classes in Thai cooking and am looking forward to poisoning you all with my newfound skills. 

But let’s dispense with the future and blast to the past for the hotly-anticipated, critically-lauded chapter 4: “How Swede it Is” or “I Go Phi Phi Now!” 

My final few days on Koh Tao were a riot with more of the same shiftless lazing about supplemented with several trips to the opulent bars. A brief description of one basically sums them all up and generally they break down as follows: Two or three liquor serving “bar” areas offering up ridiculously cheap drink specials and local beers, a heavily populated dance floor, rife with tourists from every conceivable nation grinding to thumping house beats, all constructed from bamboo and other various indigenous plant life, the roofs thatched together from palm fronds. 

The revellers swing from giant swingsets hung from the lush, overhanging succulent branches while hoses cleverly concealed within trunks of life-sized elephant sand sculptures spray unsuspecting passersby. Yes, yes, I was one of said unsuspecting passersby but the drenching was a great excuse to show off my chiselled pecs in my clingy, white T-shirt. Rooowwrrr, look out, ladies! 

So anyway, to the dives…I aced my written test, scoring a comfy, yet fashionable Live and Let Dive T-shirt, and embarked on the final two dives where we desended to about 60 feet underwater and performed various hokey stunts for the videographer who had been commissioned to film us. “Cool,” thinks I, “nice souvenier for the kids.” Only later were we informed that this cinematic masterpiece would set us back a cool 1500 Baht (~$65 CAD). The kids will have to settle for gathering around my free T-shirt as I regale them with stories of poisonous sea-snakes and the lethal fighting urchins. 

In all seriousness, the experience was glorious….you see more species of animal in 5 minutes of diving down here than you would in a five week tour of the BC wilderness and a trip to the aquarium combined. Faaaaantastic! 

After 5 ass-numbing days, I bid farewell to Koh Tao and, on the advice of the well-travelled Edmontonian, I set off for the island of Phi Phi on the western coast of Thailand in the Indian Ocean. For the Teen Beat Elite out there, this is the place where the multi-Oscar winning tour-de-force “The Beach” starring notorious Pussy Posse leader Leo DiCaprio was filmed. In spite of this major deterrant (I haven’t spoken to Leo since our much-publicized battle over the hand of Heidi Klum), I’d been told that the diving here was spectacular and the babes even more nubile that Koh Tao so hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off we go. 

I don’t know one island from the next and I didn’t expect much of a difference from KT but Phi Phi was a huge contrast. As we drew closer on the non-aircon, elbow-to-elbow “fast ferry”, the massive limestone cliffs and karst topography became more pronounced through the morning mist, interspersed with, sandy, deserted beaches. Of course as the pier came closer, it became readily apparent that this was one of the more heavily touristed islands in the area with boats of every kind littering the sea and resorts sprinkled liberally along the waterside. 

Now we’re all familiar with the term ‘half-assed’ ie being totally ill-prepared and putting in the least possible amount of research when entering a new area. I’m having a productive day if I’m using like an eighth of my ass so I disembarked the ship without the first idea of where to go to eat, sleep or buy booze. I bungled up and down the streets for an hour or so until I enquired of some knowledgable-looking lads if they were privy to a cheap place to lay my duff down. Turns out these two Swedes were more lost than I was so, intuitively, we decided to combine forces to suss out a hotel. 

We eventually settled on a 300B ($13 CAD) per night hovel (remember, this is a very heavily touristed island), relaxed for a bit while I hooked them on the refreshing joys of the slurpee, and headed out at nightfall to take insome of the vaunted Phi Phi nightlife. 

At this point, the story takes a turn for the worse as our hero over-indulges in bucket after bucket of of liquor (literal buckets) offered up at the free muay thai boxing show. This was followed by a trip upstairs to the “Reggae bar” where the proprietors’ interpretation of reggae was James Brown and Darude. Time after time, Alex and Joakam (the Swedish guys) approached the DJ in an attempt to coerce him into playing an actual reggae tune. While this happened, I sat back and continued to vaccuum up more booze. By the time the Swedes returned from talking to the owner about the musical selection, I had fallen off my chair and was laying fetus-style on the wooden bar-room patio floor, expelling my stomachular contents which sluced through the grating to the ground below. Many events of the night had to be relayed to me in the morning but here’s how I remember it: The Swedish guys are concerned, but are enjoying themselves so a friendly Thai girl approached me with a wet towel and proceeds to mop myforehead and clean my drool. When I clue in to what’s happening, I yell out in my best mock-Thai accent, “Oh, nice thai giiiirl!!” 

Apparently she felt i was implying she was a prostitute and screamed Thai invectives at me as she stormed off. Swell, I’ve diminished Canadio-saimese relations to an all-time low. 

The Swedes decided that before I embarrassed white people everywhere any furthur they should cart my sorry ass back to the hotel. This was at least 30 minutes away by walking and considerably slower while dragging an obliterated Canadian guy. The whole way back, I kept yelling out, “MATS, EAT YOUR CHUNKY SOUP!!!!” and rambled on about how worldly I was cause I knew so many Swedish hockey players and that as an actor Dolph Lundgren made a great unintelligible, mono-expressioned meatball. 

Then I broke free from Scandanavian restraint and nabbed a beach umbrella from one of the Ritzy resorts. I sprinted down the beach, leaping logs while the theme song from “Chariots of Fire” played in my head. The Swedes, of course, tell this story as if it were the Canadian version of Saving Private Ryan as they rescued me from certain doom with their Viking heroism. 

They finally muscled me into my room at about 2 am where I intantly fell asleep for approximately 2 hours. I awoke to decide that now (4 am) would be the best possible time to do my e-mail and busted out of my room sans shoes and shirt to wander the city in search of a (nonexistant) all-night internet cafe. I must have walked around for two hours in this completely foreign little resort town, along the way kicking back with some of the locals to watch a football (soccer) game on TV. 

Now I know precisely two things about soccer…jack and shit, but I carried on with these guys as if I had been raised on Real Madrid and Arsenal from birth. The locals were snacking on what appeared to be tasty looking treats and I, not wanting to feel like a tourist, was overly eager to sample their wares. People, I can’t stress this enough: if you get drunk on an island in the Indian Ocean and decide to roam around at 4 am, don’t, say DON’T eat ANY raw clams with strangers. I have been made to suffer but more on that later. 

Full for now of exponentially multiplying bacteria I made my way back to the hotel to sleep off whatever liquor remained in my system after the repeated thunderous chunders. The next day was spent completely relaxing amidst multiple trips to the filthiest toilet in Thailand to alleviate the most cataclysmic, explosive diarrhea of my short 25 years. It didn’t prevent me from fully enjoying the beach but it did prevent me from getting any farther than 10 metres from the nearest squat hole. Hey, live and learn.

March 18 – most rewarding day thus far into the adventure. Odin, Thor and I, not wanting to blow all of our hard-earned (snicker) dough concluded that instead of shelling out for a dive, we’d engage instead in a day-long snorkel excursion. 

We saw the requisite tropical fish, explored the claustrophobia-inducing underwater caves, swam with the man-eating (okay, man-fearing) sharks and took a lunch on Maya beach a.k.a. “The Beach”. Everyone raise your hand who hasn’t wiped their ass with a palm leaf after having profanely defiled Leonardo DiCaprio’s beach with their untamable, tainted-clam induced diarrhea. 

Ryan Sykes sheepishly glances around the room, hoping to see at least one or two more pairs of arms still pointing Earthwards but is saddened to discover that he is the only one who qualifies. Well, at least he can scratch number six off of his life’s to-do list. 

The end of the tour came much too quickly and we had nearly reached the mainland when our guide Azam pointed out one last vacant beach and told us that it was the monkey beach but today there were no monkeys present. I stared at the beach dejectedly as our long-tailed boat motored on, resigned to that cruel fact that there would be no primate viewing today. 

Then, from the trees and cliffs on the white shores, hordes of screeching monkeys swooped down to my cries of “monkey, Monkey, MONKEY!!!!” We came about, approached the shore and were given a small piece of watermelon to feed our fellow bipeds. 

“Just don’t go on the shore.” was the only monkey-interaction advice we were given. Naturally I sprinted onto the shore as fast as my snorkelling-weary legs could carry me to share my juicy treat with the presumably human-friendly simians. 

The first monkey sidled up to me cautiously and snatched the melon right from my shaking palm. The rest of the group, seeing I had nothing else to offer, reared up and beared their teeth in an aggressive stance. Being the unassuming, nature nut that I am, I too opened up my mouth, showing my pearly off-whites. This, evidently, is not the thing to do because no sooner had my jaw begun to gape than the whole pack was howling and chasing after me as if I were Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes. I have never felt terror that remotely paralelled the fear that gripped my heart and other vital organs as I Carl Lewised back into the surf, narrowly avoiding claws and fangs bent on perforation of my tender, pink flesh. Greatest moment of my life. 

One poor girl wasn’t so fleet of foot and got some scratches on the back of her calves. “I hope you had your Ebola vaccination, honey,” I said, “cause that sucker looks alot like the monley from Outbreak.” Sometimes (sorry Martin) Germans have no sense of humour. 

Much more could be said about the islands but then I’d have nothing to talk about when I get back so I’ll leave it at that for now. 

I apologize for the infrequency of the updates but I’ve really not got that much free time. I should have an elephant trek update within a couple of days so keep checking that inbox. Also, my apologies if I haven’t been able to respond to everyone’s emails yet. I appreciate all of your kind words and love to hear from home so keep them coming. If anyone is interested in reading about the earlier chapters of the story, my buddy Philippe has them all chronicled over at philippeonline.com so check it out. Gotta run, meeting up with my trek group for Israeli food,

Cheers with a big Chang,

-dj-