The motorcycle engine took on a higher pitch as the rain continued to fall. The road was turning into a red mud slick. As a passenger, it was worrisome to be on a motorbike on a muddy road. Noah was driving. We leaned into a corner, and almost ran over a large snake. The black curl whipped into the undergrowth. Noah stopped the bike, engine idling. The snake could no longer be seen. It had completely vanished into the wet fronds a few feet away. The forest towered above us, limbs rife with leaves and shrieking birdlife. Each tree jutted at an acute angle from the hillside. A rivulet emerged from the plants and ran onto the road. Carrying small tangles of forest litter, it stretched across like a tentacle. There was a smell of rotten fruit.
“Cobra?” Noah asked.
“It was big.”
“I’m glad we didn’t hit it.”
“You sure are.”
Foot back down, a thrum from the accelerator. Mud fine
as potter’s slip skimmed out from under the back wheel. We continued on the
jungle road. Noah knew how to drive a motorcycle. He had been practicing for
the past year in the Philippines, surreptitiously out of view of the Peace
Corps. He had taken ten days of vacation from his volunteer site to join me
in exploring Thailand. The motorcycle was his idea. Since we had no other
way of getting around the island of Ko Lanta, I agreed to the bike. I was
not interested in driving it.
Ko Lanta is an island in the Andaman Sea, off the southwestern coast of Thailand. Halfway developed, it offers inexpensive accommodation in a laid back atmosphere. In a travel market dominated by the trendy Ko Samui, you could lose Ko Lanta in the shadows. When you get there, you realize that’s just the way you want it. Paradise Forgotten. Leonardo di Caprio found his Beach in Thailand; Noah and I found Ko Lanta.
The sliver of national territory that is southern Thailand
extends south along the Malay Peninsula. To get to Ko Lanta, one takes the
train from Bangkok to the provincial center of Surat Thani, and a bus from
there. The rails run close to the eastern coastline, and the Gulf of Thailand.
It squeezes through the narrowest part of the peninsula, the fantastically-named
Isthmus of Kra.
We took the night train, resting for most of the journey
in a surprisingly pleasant sleeper car. Heading out of Bangkok, Noah busied
himself for a time shooting photos of the shantytowns and slums along the
railroad tracks. The lights in the train were bright enough for reading: better
than Mongolian trains. I leafed through Hemingway until dinner. We ate a spicy
stir-fry of clams, cabbage, and rice. Shortly after, a porter came through
the car to fix the beds. The seats converted ingeniously to bunks, fitted
with clean white sheets and pillowcases. A curtain was drawn to close off
the central corridor of the train.
Despite the noise of the night’s station stops and
passing trains, the passengers slept well. At first light, wrenching open
my window revealed a fantastic change in the landscape. Plantations of rubber
trees and oil palms alternated on either side of the train. These monocultures
pushed up to the forested slopes of sheer limestone mountains. The air was
cleaner here, and the morning dew blew freshness into the train.
From Surat Thani, a couple of bus transfers bring travelers
to Krabi, a smaller town on the west coast. Both of these towns have fewer
western backpackers than Bangkok, but tourism remains an obvious part of the
local economy. English signs offer travel arrangements, cheap lodging, beer,
and coffee. There is always a bobbing sea of colorful European backpacks,
some of them astonishingly large.
There was minivan service from Krabi to Ko Lanta. In
the height of the tourist season, a ferry is available from Krabi itself,
but it was the monsoon when we visited. There would not be enough tourists
to make the boat ride viable until the dry season rolled around again. Perhaps
this is the key to beating the crowds on Thai islands. Our timing and choices
took us off the beaten path during the season of least path-beating.
There is an assortment of lodging available on Ko Lanta,
and prices in the off-season can be quite low. Our room cost 200 baht a night,
about $4. There were plenty of places to choose from. It appeared that most
local landowners had built some sort of guest housing to cash in on the tourist
boom. The new arrival finds himself beckoned by dozens of signs.
Thai islands (all begin with “Ko”) have lured Western
travelers for some time. Over time tourism will ruin an island, or at least
change it dramatically from its former self. In the 1980s, Ko Phuket was the
hot spot. When flocks of tourists went there to experience the Real Thai Island
Life, their spent money led to increased infrastructure for tourism. Such
a cash cow, Ko Phuket was eventually even connected to the mainland with a
bridge, and then a highway. Now Phuket seems to be more city than tropical
get-away.
In the 1990s, backpacker culture shifted away from
Phuket’s new suite of expensive resorts, and found focus with a new island.
Located off the eastern coast, Ko Samui became the new mecca for beach-going
backpackers. According to my father, Ko Samui was ideally isolated and undeveloped
in 1995. A few years later, Pico Iyer visited and wrote how increasing development
was infringing on visitors’ experiences. When we arrived in Bangkok, rumors
reached our ears that Samui had been overdeveloped and ruined.
Where to go for an isolated island experience? With a situation in such rapid flux, it seemed wise to seek local advice. Ko Lanta was recommended, as well as Ko Chang, an island near the eastern border with Laos. We rejected Ko Chang because of the high incidence of malaria in eastern Thailand.
Ko Lanta is on its way to being built up. Development creeps south from the ferry terminal like shades of gray. The island runs a gamut from the commercial village and string of resorts in the north to jungle wilderness in the south.
A walk on the beach revealed this potent mix of nature and culture. Washed up by the tides was an array of trash and seashells. There were butterfly-like clamshells, delicately etched in X-shapes. Long cone shells lay next to squat snail-spirals and scallops. Most impressive were the filigreed comb-shells, which had phalanges emerging in geometric precision from their twists. Amid all this beauty was an unholy flotsam of strewn sandals and old lightbulbs. The lighting-apparatus intrigued me most, because they came in as many variations of form as the shells. There were small flashlight bulbs and long cylinders of fluorescent tubing and flared spotlight bulbs. Not knowing trash from treasure, an alien biologist visiting the Ko Lanta beach would construct lengthy taxonomies for both the shells and the lightbulbs.
In a tidal pool, there were living comb-shells. My fingers disentangled one that had become wound up in fishing-line. Floating in the cove was a small fleet of fishing boats whose dark color was offset by a fusillade of colorful flags. On the beach, Thai children walked up and greeted us, demonstrating a curiosity for the shells and small fish in the pools.
The friendliness of the people offers a nice vibe. On the road, too, there are shy smiles from the girls who ride by on their motorbikes. Many wear Muslim headdresses. In town, bored shopkeepers cast capitalist grins from behind their displays of pineapple and durian fruit. The friendly men and women of Ko Lanta live in a landscape we call Paradise. In the foreground, Myna birds in the trees, the smell of singed meat, and flowers in roadside profusion. In the background, chunky islands, obscured at times by rainsqualls.
There is Internet access in the village, but only a few cafés. We dine at the spare SeaView Restaurant, for three successive meals. The SeaView’s venue is a wooden porch that extends out over the ocean water. Across the channel was another island, also called Ko Lanta. A longtail boat ran a ferry service between the two for pedestrians and motorcycles. The captain of the boat has a sturdy set of sea legs: he rolls with the swells standing up, skillfully manipulating the long shaft of the propeller.
Friendly well-fed cats with collars rub against our seated legs, offsetting their gruesome vampire-like appearances with soothing purrs. We’re the only customers in the restaurant, and it is easy to absorb the wind, clouds, and calm. Soon, an enticing aroma from the kitchen joins the breeze. Coconut chicken curry, pad Thai, and tom yum soup are brought to the table. The flavors are extraordinary. The tom yum soup is emblematic of the sinus-clearing fresh spiciness of Thai cuisine. It is an unforgettable mix of cilantro, shrimp, lime leaf, chile peppers, garlic and lemongrass. On the table other tastes include the sweet Thai basil, chopped peanuts, ginger, and coconut milk.
Satisfaction spread with the warmth in my stomach. The next day would be our bike ride. It is a special pleasure when you can delight in both the taste of calories consumed and the way you plan to burn those calories in the near future.
At dawn, we were walking to go find some coffee, two
lumbering zombies who were feeling the lack of Starbucks. Without caffeine,
my instincts and balance are diminished. My foot plunged into a mud puddle,
causing a splash of mud to launch up into the crotch of my shorts. It left
a stain the color of dark brick. It meant a delay before morning coffee, but
I had no choice. It did not look pretty. Noah went on ahead. A Muslim woman
across from our hotel agreed to do laundry for me. Walking back towards coffee
and Noah in my sole remaining pair of pants, I was careful to avoid puddles.
A whine up the road increased in timbre and volume. Noah had gotten a bike!
With coffee!
Clinging behind Noah on the bike, we gunned it south.
Above the packed mud, palms and strange rainforest dipterocarp trees shed
last night’s precipitation in drips. The road followed the coastline, and
the Andaman Sea appeared placid to our right. The water was dotted with chunky
islands in the same way the sky above it was dotted with cumuli.
The road split; our path led over the spine of the
island to the other side. We puttered though a temporary village of “sea gypsies”
on the other side. Shrimp drying in the sun. Fantastic flags on the boats.
I tried driving the bike, and didn’t crash. Acceleration is done with the
hand, and gear shifting requires a deft manipulation of the feet. This transposition
of function was difficult to for me get used to.
The rains drifted in. We were visiting Thailand during
the beginning of the monsoon, and Ko Lanta’s location in the southern part
of the country guarantees it a healthy dose of water every July. Squalls of
rain would visit regularly around the clock. None lasted for long, but some
could be fierce. At the moment, it was a mild sprinkle.
Noah’s time in the Philippines has given him a fear
of rain. As yet, this was incomprehensible to me. We sought shelter, pulling
in at a little shed in the yard of a local family. Through the silver patter,
a woman looked over at us from the main house. She seemed to understand what
we were doing in her yard, and flashed a welcoming smile. It was the sort
of thing that would be a minor miracle for someone traveling through America.
In Thailand, such courtesy is the daily norm. When the rain abated, we continued
on our way.
The road had gotten muddy. The bike slipped a bit on
turns. Now we came close to hitting the snake. Blinking in a shaft of sun,
we pondered the idea of a cobra. Another spatter of droplets. Noah gunned
the engine.
In this area, the forest was cleaved by road alone.
No houses could be detected among the trees. We were inland from the beach;
perhaps the development was on the coast. Perhaps there was no development
here. It was the gem of Southeast Asian landscapes, land untouched by the
millions.
There was darkness here, from both the overhung canopy
and the swelling skies. Soon enough, a new squall blew in. This was rain with
force, pounding the island. We were quickly drenched. This is the kind of
rain that they invented the word “deluge” for. Panic rain.
The trees shook and roared as each drop turned the
leaves into drum-pads. The road became a russet blur, half of the mud surface
being tossed aloft each second with the impact of millions of drops. There
was a point about six inches up that was definitely not road. It was
gray, not reddish at all. But lower than that, it was difficult to discern
where the air and rain ended, and the earth began. All was in flux, much to
the consternation of the two Americans on the struggling motorbike.
Shelter again became the target. Steering the motorbike,
Noah balanced between the need to find someplace dry and the need to keep
the bike upright as we rode. The noise of the rain was deafening, though only
in one ear at a time. Whichever ear faced more upwards would fill immediately
with water. My muscles were tensed, ready to stick my leg out if we went into
a slide.
A Thai man drove by on a motorcycle in the opposite
direction. He was in the same predicament as us. Soaked to the bone. Desperately
seeking shelter. He gave a holler of exasperation and glee. It was hilarious!
Some things can be communicated regardless of language. We nearly drowned
laughing.
Though it hardly seemed possible, the tempo of the
rain increased. Noah called back to me, barely audible even though he was
only a foot away.
“Callan, you need to drive! The rain is washing my
contacts out of my eyes!”
I don’t wear glasses or contact lenses, so we switched
places on the seat. The handlebar grips were slick. Since it seemed like we
were only heading deeper into the forest, we turned around. Even though we
were heading back the way we came, I figured the local man knew better than
us where the nearest shelter was. I squinted and drove. Though I had no contact
woes, I had plenty of other things to worry about. What a predicament! My
brain raced to keep track of the slickness, the balance, the mud, the forest,
the turns, the potential traffic coming around the bend, the Komodo dragon…
Komodo dragon? A large monitor lizard appeared suddenly
before us! Crawling across the mud, it was wary of our humming bike. It stopped
to watch us pass with a saurian twist of its massive head. We turned our heads
too. I had never seen a lizard that big. It could easily have eaten several
housecats for lunch.
We found refuge at the same little lean-to. We left
the bike outside, and hallooed the woman in her house. She smiled again at
the fools who had returned to her yard. Her dark eyes lifted to the sky, and
she shrugged charitably. I caught Noah’s eye. “Now I see why you might be
a bit fearful of rain.” He nodded with a look of world-weary acquiescence,
as if to say “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
After we ascertained that the rain had really quit,
the motorbike took us up the hill, back across the island. There was an open-air
restaurant perched on the steep slope. A deck and a roof and no walls, overlooking
a tableau of misty rainforest and loaf-like islands beyond the shore. We sat
there for lunch. The meal was so spicy that it caused stomach cramps with
each swallow. The potent flavor could be staunched by a bite of rice immediately
after each bite of curry. Thus we made it through the meal, alternating mouthfuls,
the heat of the food drying our wet clothes. A fantastic turquoise roller
fluttered in a tree below us, making periodic forays to snatch moths with
its beak.
Will full bellies, we remounted the motorbike. The
road wound along the coast, and it grew worse with each kilometer. Wilderness
by degrees, heading south to Mu Ko Lanta Marine National Park. More animals
ran out in front of the motorcycle: a tree shrew, a squirrel, a gray monkey,
a scuttling scorpion. Such variety of potential roadkill here in Thailand.
Rounding a blind curve, a minivan nearly crushed us.
We skidded out. Instinct planted both our left feet on the ground as the bike
went sideways towards the van. Shaky, we kept going. Then a stream crossing,
maybe a foot and a half deep. Why didn’t we have helmets?
The coup de grace was the final hill down in to the
park. Half a mile in distance, it dropped roughly 1500 feet. Had it been a
ski slope, it would have been a Double Black Diamond. The rain had been passed
for two hours; we figured it was dry enough to safely attempt descending.
Besides, we had come all this way, close to forty kilometers down a road of
mud! What a balancing act! Both Noah and I leant back as far as we could,
his arms stretched to their limits to control the handlebars. Brakes were
applied constantly for ten tortuous minutes.
When the bike got to the bottom, my muscles had clamped
up so tensely that I could not turn my neck. I dismounted stiffly as a robot.
We hiked onto the headlands, climbing past the decrepit shell of a former
lighthouse. A huge bird flew by, dark purple and lavender and teal blue. With
my feet dangling hundreds of feet above the breakers below, the muscles in
my neck began to unknit.
Handholds in the rock to get back down, and we walked
across the beach. The shell of a chambered nautilus attracted attention. It
was creamy white with delicate brown stripes, the size of a mango.
A trail took us through the forest and we met a troupe
of bearded monkeys. Stinging ants and spiders were prominent in my mind as
I hiked, as well as the cobra we had glimpsed earlier on the roadside. Screaming
birds called unseen, the odor of decomposing wood was prominent in the nostrils.
Something big thundered off into the leaves, and we froze with hearts racing.
Though the lack of signposts had me convinced I was lost, we soon emerged
from the foliage close to the parked motorcycle.
I drove again for the return trip, racing the setting sun to get back to Ko Lanta village. We returned the bike on time and did not mention the wipe-out with the minivan. Exhausted and famished in the dark, we found Snickers bars and yogurt drink at a little store.
It was so quiet without the bike motor in my ears!
The evening silence was emphasized by some low thunder from the Andaman horizon.
The store owner brought out his baby boy for us to meet. I was honored by
the gesture. The quiet infant examined us intently, two pale visitors drinking
yogurt on his patio. His widened eyes reflected pink lightning in the clouds
above.