22/11/02: Leave Bangkok for
Hua Hin with J and H. Wait around in station for some hours, sit on train for
some more hours, arrive at destination and find a hotel – nice room
but no windows or hot water. Go for tea on pier, storm, early
night.
The stretch of coast that runs south from Bangkok to Surat
Thani is not utilised to any great degree by persons travelling in Thailand, as
became all the more apparent as we made what would be a week-long trip towards the province of Surat Thani. Our first stop – Hua Hin – was supposed to be reachable
in just over four hours by train, but the likelihood of this being the case
looked less with each pause we were forced to make at what seemed like every level-crossing
we encountered. Ultimately, it would take nearer seven, the Thai police being
partially to blame for this considerable delay to our schedule.
It must have been around 18:30
when what appeared to be another routine crossing evolved into something more. Hanging
from the open door of my carriage, I saw policemen approaching, employing
their heavy torches to tease out detail from beneath the train. I cannot
recall from where I got the idea, but I presumed that they were on
the look-out for some drug fiend clinging to the under-carriage, desperate but
brave. Maybe not, I never knew and didn’t care much, such was my physical
discomfort. The seats on our train were
covered in red leather and our bare legs stuck to the material. Windows were
kept open, but the ponderous pace of the train meant this made little
difference. On top of that there was the constant drone of the hawkers to
contend with: peddlers pushing their polystyrene packed egg-fried-rice in
everyone’s general direction. I did not dare touch their produce, although I
was curious. I figured it might be too tailored to the Thai palate, to which I
was not yet fully accustomed.
The peculiarity of being
shacked up in these minimal hulks aside, it was actually an enjoyable
trip, passing through the countryside and trying to get a handle on how,
physically, this subtropical landscape might pan out. Leaving the immediate
vicinity of Bangkok itself, I was given a demonstration of a poverty that had
previously been hidden from view. Wooden shanty style habitations backed out
directly onto train tracks, and, at the precise juncture where our track
divided into two, we even passed two people sat down at a table, as if for a game of chess.
The abundance of litter was
quite a shock because up until that point I had been impressed by the lack
of it. All was explained as the journey progressed and our Thai friends
casually despatched of their empty polystyrene egg-fried-rice cartons out of
the window. This flagrant ejection seemed to be confined to the railways, for I
saw no evidence of such wanton disposal beyond its perimeter. Nor did I see
anything too wowing to the eye, although as night fell you could occasionally make
out a mysterious silhouette far and beyond, hinting at a landscape made up of
more than just palms and tall grasses.
We reached Hua Hin at
approximately 21:00. Had I been alone I would have been concerned as to the
viability of finding a place to stay at such an hour. J and H were unperturbed,
so I simply disembarked and enjoyed my first real taste of fresh Thai air. It
did not take long to find a hostel with rooms to spare, although the location
wasn’t ideal; bars of ill repute surrounded it.
By 21:45 we found ourselves
on the end of a small jetty ordering seafood, rice, a couple of
beers. The meal was delectable but before we could finish we were ambushed by
an approaching thunderstorm, obliging us to hastily transfer the contents of
our table to another that provided a modicum of protection. By the time the
bill was settled the storm was in full effect, so we beat a hasty retreat into a
nearby Austrian-themed bar, miniature cowbells and roughly sketched alpine
vistas adorning the walls.
23/11/02: J and H leave Hua Hin and we
leave our guesthouse, decamping to the All Nations. Stroll about town, check out beach.
Evening: go for expensive pizza, realise that we’re hanging in the posh part of
town so go to the pier for drinks and watch storms passing out to sea. Get back
to hotel to find it hosts quite a scene by night – play pool and get drunk.
Hua Hin – or should that be Berlin-on-Sea. There are divisions of hirsute Germans everywhere (I haven’t mentioned the war). As a holiday resort it hasn’t much to offer,
but as a place to recover from the impact of Bangkok it serves a purpose. With a
Hilton hotel hovering over a high street made up of restaurants and fashion boutiques, it presides over the gulf of Thailand like some
sort of Aryan retirement home.
Relief from this distinctly Bavarian
order can be found in the smaller bars and the many restaurants dotted along
the seafront. Here you can eat the best sea bass you might ever taste, although
it comes at a price of 200 odd baht (not much in English terms, but relative to
Thailand as a whole it’s steep).
Other than that, all you can do is sit
back and drink the beer. This place must be hell in high-season. Unless, of
course, you are retired, rich, European and like moustaches.
Last night’s storm conveyed to J and H that Hua Hin was not
the place to currently be. It appeared the rainy season had the south of
Thailand firmly in its grasp, so after breakfast they jumped on a train
heading north. Louise and I booked into the All Nations, a guesthouse
that was to be our home for the next three nights, and bedded in to await S’s
arrival.
I am travelling very light on the advice of a friend – the
same friend who, 'regaled me with tales pertaining to the islands off
Thailand’s east coast,’ and, 'vehemently recommended I get out of Bangkok.' His
opinion is that most people who embark on their travels will over-pack, and he
can testify to his own experience.
After completing a 'tour of
duty' similar to my own, he arrived in Australia only to discover
unworn clothes that had almost rotted away within the bowels of his oversized
rucksack. Why was this? He reasoned thus. Carrying around soiled cloth is
neither desirable nor practical, and so he had exorcised his dirty cargo on a
fairly regular basis. On retrieving his laundered clothes they would then be
returned to the top of the pecking order, a reorganisation of his mobile
wardrobe being deemed too troublesome under such peripatetic circumstances, consigning the clothes at the bottom to their festering plight. He therefore concluded that little more than a week’s worth of attire would have been sufficient. I have taken his advice on board and brought with me the following accoutrements:
1
pair of dark grey Levi’s cords
1
pair of light brown Levi’s cords
1
pair of home-cut denim shorts
1
long sleeved shirt
1
vintage short sleeved shirt, bought from a charity shop in Hounslow circa 1996
1
vintage Fred Perry polo shirt with left breast pocket, bought from a charity
shop in Hounslow circa 1997
1
second hand white ribbed T-shirt
1
white V-neck T-shirt
1
yellow V-neck Wrangler T-shirt, bought cheap in Clarks Village, Somerset, and
my current favourite
1
pair of new, cream Converse All Star Chuck Taylor high-top trainers, which I
will never fully take to
1
pair of cheap desert boots, which I will wear as long as it isn’t raining
1
Ron Hill anorak that my uncle handed down to me in 1989
1
black Marks and Sparks jumper, bought from a charity shop in Hounslow circa
1998
7
pairs of underpants
9
pairs of socks
1
‘quick-drying’ towel
1
notebook
1
pen
1
Walkman and a few cassettes
1
pair of portable speakers, which will be deliberately left behind in a hotel
room, due to their cumbersome nature
Various
toiletries.
The truth is I have probably under packed a little,
especially where T-shirts and shorts are concerned, but cramming all this into
my 25 litre rucksack requires some effort. Indeed, so diminutive is my bag that when
people see me in transit they tend to assume that I’m only here for a
couple of weeks. However, I am planning on buying along the way – if I can only
find a T-shirt that doesn’t allude to marijuana use, booze or the presence of
landmines.
24/11/02: My partner wanted to sunbath
but I didn’t, so I ordered coffee and read the paper. Went to fish restaurant, a bar, back to All Nations,
played pool with ‘the lads’, got drunk. A good day.
Hua Hin is an odd and not particularly arresting locale, yet
I ended up liking it simply as a space to relax and observe the many storms
passing by out to sea. It was all very peaceful, which is maybe why the King of
Thailand likes to holiday there – apparently, it is his favourite haunt.
The German contingent made me
feel like an outsider, which I quite liked, and although the town was not
particularly pretty in itself, the clean air and quiet streets were enough to
see me through. The lack of people was the perfect antidote to what I had
suffered in Bangkok, and it was nice to feel in control of my personal space. By day I took pleasure in hanging around in
the bar of our hostel, reading the Bangkok Post, drinking coffee and watching
the labourers lay the jade coloured paving slabs that were delivered every morning
to the side of the road. The availability of decent fish was a boon to my
stomach and there was a simple air of safety about the place.
Yet something was up. The
huge water-tank in the communal bathroom really gave me the creeps, walking around town put me on edge, and I spent too much of my time holed
up in my room reading while Louise lazed around on the beach.
Funnily enough, the tome that
currently had my attention was a novel entitled Are You Experienced by Mr William Sutcliffe, a (possibly)
semi-autobiographical account of being dragged around India because the
protagonist’s object of affection demands it. Tinged with no small degree of
cynicism towards the travelling fraternity, I could relate to the
subject at hand. But there were very few actual travellers holidaying in Hua
Hin, just middle-aged, European tourists. Was this what travelling was really
supposed to be about: playing at being retired and hanging out in bars? Those
islands that everybody talked about would more than likely provide me with
answers, but at this point they couldn’t be further from my mind.
25/11/02: Go to the nearest
Internet café to check and send emails. S arrives, so help him book into the All Nations – he has the roof
terrace with an even bigger and more frightening water-tank than ours. Once
he’s had a nap, we take him out for dinner, stroll around town and then back to
All Nations for a nightcap, whereupon S retreats to bed completely exhausted.
26/11/02: Went back to the
hotel whence we stayed on our first night in Hua Hin for a spot of breakfast,
because we’d been impressed the first time around. Pick up laundry and check my
emails again. Later, go to Cindy’s for drinks, the ‘Friendly Bar’ (possibly an
invented name) and then back to All Nations. Not as heavy a night as this
itinerary suggests.
S's flight landed on Monday 25 November, eleven days after ours and what felt like an age. We did our best to show S a
good time, but he was playing catch-up. On leaving the airport he had ridden a
taxi straight to the train station and caught the first available charter to
Hua Hin, albeit with a lot less fuss than we had endured. Understandably, S
opted for some very early nights over the next two, but stayed up long enough
on the second to plan with us what was to be our next move, proceeding a short
way south to the town of Prachuap Khiri Khan.
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