14/12/02: Boat to Koh
Samui; pick-up truck to Lamai, in the rain, to find accommodation. Go into
town, back for food, return to town and make an ally with a Japanese guy along
the way. Drink at Bauhaus and Fusion.
15/12/02: More rain. Hang
around, check emails, eat lunch, sink a few beers, then head to Churchill’s
for tea. 'Live Music Bar' with Louise after she has a funny turn. Drink
with J, H and S with the ‘Dogfords’ – two Doberman Pinscher style canines who
follow us around a lot – on J & H’s veranda.
After nearly two weeks spent in just two resorts on Koh
Phangan, it was time to move on. M and E had already left a couple of
days earlier, but J and H were willing to travel with us to
Koh Samui, after announcing their intent in typically spontaneous fashion the
evening before. Their escort was to be short lived, for Samui would deliver the
same kind of conditions that drove them away from Hua Hin three weeks prior.
We embarked on what was to be
an almost 10 day tour of Samui in good spirits. After narrowly escaping a
soaking in the back of an open-top pick-up on our way back to Thong Sala, we
were pleased to discover that the next boat due for Samui was a modern affair,
as opposed to the decrepit vessel that had delivered us here. Riding atop the bow,
we reached Samui in no time, getting a bit wet in the process, not from the rain
but the boat’s tendency to hydroplane.
Nathon, the port of
destination, seemed more substantial than Thong Sala, yet more sedate. There
was still the anticipated melee awaiting us on our arrival but with J and H in
tow I really didn’t have to worry about things like that. Hungry, we bypassed
the braying mob and went straight to a restaurant across the road and had lunch. I then purchased a wooden, ornamental owl for my mother
from the tied in gift shop, before slipping out the back into the second
pick-up truck of the day, arranged by J, to take us on to Lamai.
It rained almost from the off:
tropical storms that would whip in off the sea, painting the sky a deep grey. Then
there was the rent, which was significantly higher than we’d become accustomed
to despite our bungalows being some of the cheapest we could find. Admittedly,
they were bigger, better built and more comfortable than the wooden piles we
had dossed in on Phangan, but such luxury was offset by the good 15 minutes’
walk into town, located as they were at the very end of the resort’s shore.
Only our first night offered
any real taste of the local action. Lamai’s bars are gathered on the middle
section of the road running through it, so there’s no vibrant beach scene here,
and although reaching them via the coast was possible, it was too dark to do so
by night. Consequently, we were obliged to circumnavigate the beach and head
town-wards via the main road.
We joined forces with a young
Japanese guy called Hitachi along the way. A
keen dancer, he put on a bit of a show in one of the bars, pulling in the punters
and ingratiating the bar-staff, who rewarded him with a free drink, before he cut his foot on a stray shard of glass. Our female contingent
provided medical assistance and Hitachi offered tantalising tales of Laos in return.
The night ended with a spot of
teenage Thai kickboxing and – fighting over – the chance for the female
contingent to muck about in the empty ring, treading on the amassed red ants in
the process, punishing them for their japery. This excursion – deemed a success
– was as close as we got in Lamai to the persistent socialising that had become
the norm.
The next morning was spent idling on the beach before popping into town in the afternoon, whereupon we ate
at an establishment run by an expat bearing an uncanny resemblance to the
ex-England, Barcelona and Tottenham Hotspur manager, Terry Venables. We
followed this up with a swift drink in the rather forlorn Live Music Bar next
door, before opting to buy
a few cheap beers from the local store to consume on our porch, with Daniel and
Deidre Dogford keeping sentry.
16/12/02: Yet more rain – J
and H leave. Walk to Lamai and find The Manneg(?) Arms. Get songthaew to
Chaweng: Déjà vu, the Frog & Gecko, Legends and Full Cycle.
I’m fortunate in that I’ve never had to worry too
much about the condition of my epidermis – pimples are mere aberrations, and I
tan easily – but the constant stream of sweat coursing through my pores
is a real boon to one’s complexion.
My
facial hair follicles aren’t quite so compliant: patchy and of a varying hue,
my previous attempts at beard growth have been unsuccessful. But the
hassle of shaving in cheap accommodation, using only shaving oil and cold
water, has encouraged me to give it another go. Alas, after four or five days,
my sketchy stubble itches and prickles to such an extent that I am persuaded to
reach again for my blunt razor.
Talking
of beards, I’ve not seen many about. I suppose it’s the heat.
When we awoke on the 16th, J and H were gone again. There had been talk the evening
before of us meeting again in Laos in about a month’s time, but that seemed a
long way off. In the meantime the East Coast Crew were now required to make its own arrangements.
We had envisaged spending
Christmas on Koh Samui, and maybe even the New Year. However, this plan was
contingent on us spending a similar amount of time in Lamai as we had just done
in Haad Yao or Haad Rin and the same again in Chaweng. Anything more than a third night in Lamai was
going to be a real effort, especially now that our numbers had been depleted,
so it was time to reappraise the situation.
The three of us strolled into
town looking for inspiration. What we found was something approximating an Irish
Pub – or an English/Thai interpretation thereof – complete with draught beer
and leather upholstery, which provided comfort for my abraded nerves (on the
television, PJ Harvey’s 'Good Fortune'
never sounded so good). The price of European beer on tap dissuaded us
for hanging around too long, but we established our next move over a pint: that evening we
would hitch a ride to Chaweng, check out the scene and maybe find somewhere we
could stay a while with the intent of moving there the next day.
I have never been on a club
18-30 holiday – nor do I want to – but that’s what Chaweng felt like. S and
L, who have visited some of the more debauched pits found around the
Mediterranean, could make the connection. Déjà Vu, Gecko, Legends, Full
Cycle – just some of the bars we frequented before heading back to
Lamai for a post-mortem.
The next day we packed our
things and moved to Chaweng, despite what we’d found there the night before –
it was either that or sit it out in Lamai for another night.
17/12/02: More rain. Move to Chaweng into very basic
accommodation. Walk into town for something to eat, drinks on our veranda, then the Scream Bar & Déjà Vu.
Tourism has turned Koh Samui
into a freak show. Suspiciously laid-back locals, pushy prostitutes and
automotive maniacs are rampant, and the less said about the tourists the
better. The problem rests within the twin demonologies of Lamai and Chaweng. Lamai is tolerable, despite being
mostly inhabited by Hua Hin rejects, tattooed skinheads and lascivious
middle-aged men with a penchant for ladies of the night. Any tension is
eased by a steep, clean beach that induces impressive waves, abetted by the
sudden storms that creep in from the Gulf.
Chaweng
offers no such solace. Pizza Hut, Boots and Burger King all stake their claim
to a town that has taken the bait of mass tourism hook, line and stinker. It
has its advantages. The roads are certainly more formidable than the
quaint excuses on Koh Phangan, and the songthaew drivers seem to have no regard
for the 45 km per hour speed limit, which, after a few beers, makes for an
exhilarating ride home.
Being in Rome, we drank fairly heavily the night before, a
habit that was beginning to take its toll. After eating mostly fried-rice
based dishes (and tuna rolls) on Phangan, I’d begun to develop a craving for
Western food. In such circumstances, you can do a lot worse than eating out in
Chaweng. I’d already gorged myself on a roast chicken back at El Tel’s place, and now I wanted pizza. Like tuna, pizza normally goes down well
when my stomach’s feeling a bit delicate, so Pizza Hut should do nicely. Unfortunately, it is not to
be. I can’t finish my pizza for fear of throwing up, which saddens me. I think
I really need to address my drinking.
Ostensibly, I like where
we’re staying. It’s centrally located and, like at Haad Rin, the path from our
front door leads straight down to the beach. The problem is the people we’re
sharing with. At Haad Rin, the clientele were pretty well behaved, by day at
least. Here, there’s a licentious air that pervades on a perpetual basis. Folk
seem rougher and I get the sense that not everybody here is actually
travelling, that they might be here for a two week vacation.
I get stuck in early; I can’t
be sober in an environment like this. We still haven’t decided how long we want
to stay in Chaweng but already I’m entertaining the possibility that we leave
tomorrow. We move up Chaweng Boulevard and work our way back down, stopping
off for drinks where we see fit. It is still early so the bars aren’t as hectic
as they can or will be, and this exposes just how charmless a lot of these
hang-outs really are. Did we really travel to the other side of the Northern
Hemisphere for this? Do other people travel across to the other side of the
Northern Hemisphere for this? I’ve never seen anything like it: a complex of
clubs, it’s like an alcoholics’ Christmas market. We eventually settle on the
Scream Bar, before returning to Déjà Vu because it’s the most innocuous place
we can find.
I’ve reached that stage now
where it’s an effort to get drunk, so I don’t really bother. I think my colleagues are experiencing the
same frustrations, and after a brief assessment of our situation it is
agreed: we will leave tomorrow.
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