That's was Rebecca's question to me mid-afternoon as we sauntered through the Tonsai shops, following the signs for the tsunami evacuation route. In 2004, Phi Phi was devastated by the Indian Ocean tsunami (scroll about 2/3 of the way down the page for the brief description), and all over southern Thailand now emergency procedures are explicitly laid out in both Thai and English.
"You know we have a perfectly good pool at the hotel."
The evacuation route coincidentally led to what was referred to only as "the viewpoint," which is the tallest point on the island and one that makes for a logical hike, no? As we came to the end of
the myriad shops and restaurants, the path narrowed and ended at a flight of stairs. Now, flight of stairs really does not do justice to what we saw. No gentle winding up the mountain, no little paths weaving through the trees, no meandering amongst the wildlife; we came to a set of concrete steps, straight up the side of the mountain, each two foot step seeming a little higher than the one before. It was the first time I've had to regularly stop and catch my breath while scaling a set of stairs."You know, we have a pretty good viewpoint from here."
And then we saw monkeys. Well, first we saw one monkey. Rebecca and I both love animals. And monkeys, from what I believed about a week ago, must be one of the coolest animals around. Furry, cute little things. Smart, trainable, long limbs- kind of goofy looking. Little hands, just like people! This antiquated notion of monkeys had been reinforced the day before by Peter. Peter the monkey skips along the streets of Phi Phi with his owner, and is willing to take a picture with you for 100 baht. That day, as I was haggling over the price of a pair of masks and snorkels at a nearby store, Rebecca happened across Peter. Seeing an easy target, Peter's owner immediately handed off the monkey who, while wearing an "I love hugs" shirt, predictably threw his arms around Rebecca and smiled. Peter was awesome, and we spent the next 10 minutes talking about how both of our dads had monkeys in college and how we just HAVE to get a monkey as soon as we get back.
The monkeys we encountered on the climb to the viewpoint were NOT like Peter. They did not
like anyone walking by them, leaving the path, taking pictures, or looking in their direction. And they definitely did not like hugs. They proved amicable enough at first, sizing us up, looking nonchalant. Then I assume that they had a little pow-wow and decided that it was a bad time for us to be visiting. The one out front swatted at Rebecca as she approached."Oh look Michael, he wants to play."
He did not want to play. That was his growl. It was like when I visit Rebecca's Aunt Sarah and Uncle Lee and their fierce, 150 pound hellhound of a Rottweiler named Katie.
"No, that's okay Katie, you stay there in the hallway. I'll just exit the front door and walk around the house and come in through the back. That seems like a nice safe way to get to the kitchen."
That tiny little hand swatting in Rebecca's general direction was a warning shot to any poor white unsuspecting tourist who happened by. He did not want to be petted, or scratched, or talked to. Feisty little thing. Thinking she had misread the primate's reaction, Rebecca continued down the path into certain doom.
"Look, they are all gathering in a group, they all want to play!"
I would call that a gang. They know you have the size, but they have the numbers. See the way their angry little brows are furrowed? Those monkeys are plotting your demise right now. It might be a wise idea to stay back. The little one has a banana, and I'm pretty sure that's the crazy uncle coming down the hill right now with a coconut in each hand. As Rebecca approached, however, I stood paralyzed with fear. Speechless, I watched her cross the proverbial line in the sand, and prepared for the worst as the swarm of bloodthirsty monkeys started towards her.
"EEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!"
Rebecca's scream rang up and down the concrete steps like an air raid siren. Piercing through the quiet, echoing off of limestone, and leaving only an eerie silence to settle on the island. She also moved faster than I have ever seen her move, with the possible exception of our annual Merlefest kickball game. With Rebecca safely out of harm's way, I was standing a few feet back, readying the camera, rooted to the ground when they turned to me. Seeing no other alternative, I took a step towards the monkeys menacingly (or as close as I could come to menacing while slightly sunburned, out of breath, and wearing nothing but a bathing suit) and hissed for all I was worth. To my surprise, the gang of monkeys stopped in their tracks and holstered their fruit. I slowly retreated. We took a few snapshots from a distance and continued up the steps towards the viewpoint. When a safe distance away, I turned and made a snide comment about Curious George and evolutionary superiority. Damn monkeys.
A short time later, we reached the viewpoint. Actually, to my surprise, and contrary to any signs
we had seen thus far, we had only reached viewpoint 1. Apparently the trail promised two more viewpoints ahead."It can't be much different from this view."
We trudged on. A short time later we reached viewpoint 2. The overlook was a large, barren knob, the highest peak we could see. On one end of the knob was a small store (with a very puzzling sign, faded from the constant sunlight advertising hot tea and coffee) and on the other end a rock outcropping overlooking the town below. We found a piece of shade and sat down on a large boulder, gratefully pulling water from the bladder in my backpack. After catching our breath, we struck up a conversation with the couple sitting beside us. April and Tyler hail from Portland, and were spending a week's vacation in Thailand before returning home from a business trip in China. The conversation came easily, and we knew immediately that we would get along well. Before too long, after exchanging pleasantries and remarking on the beauty of our surroundings, Tyler asked quite independently: "Did you all hear a scream a few minutes ago?"
After briefly trembling at the memory, we recounted the tale. The swarm of rabid monkeys, the threat of fruit. The way I heroically saved Rebecca from their wrath. Narrowly escaping by both wit and intimidation. They were less impressed than I would have hoped.
After a rest, we all (read: April and I) decided we should hike up to the final viewpoint (#3!!) and then down the eastern face of the mountain to Rantee Beach. The trail down the east slope,
amazingly enough, was an even more difficult trek than the stairs on the far side. The narrow trail snaked down through the jungle at an almost impossibly steep incline. Routinely, we would have to crouch down and hop the four feet from one large tree root to the next one down. Trees, branches, and vines were used to steady and brace ourselves as we lowered ourselves down the precarious slope. Switchback trails have most certainly not made their looping way to southern Thailand yet. After a timely and somewhat anxious discussion on snakes and insects, we found the trail leveling out and we descended into the little outpost on Rantee bay. Little more than
one small, rustic resort/restaurant with a modest collection of bungalows, we were delighted at the sandy, quiet beach and the relative seclusion it offered. After a quick swim, and at April and Tyler's recommendation, we enjoyed our first Spicy Papaya Salad, which we have happily dined on daily since. To everyone's relief, we were able to secure a quick and cheap long-tail boat ride around the island, thus avoiding the treacherous climb up and the angry monkeys on the far side.When we arrived back to Tonsai, early evening was approaching. With April and Tyler leading the way and sunset looming, we (as they had the night before) rented kayaks from an extremely friendly and outgoing young Thai man on the northern side of the Phi Phi isthmus. With real trepidation, Rebecca and I agreed to join our new friends on a paddle to Monkey Bay for some snorkeling and a good view of the sunset. We hoped
the bay was named for the shape of the land and not the inhabitants.
As we prepared ourselves to navigate around the point in our tandem kayak, the young Thai man handed Rebecca a paddle. Confused, she turned around and, confirming I already had one, tucked the paddle away for safekeeping. As we set off, I 
thought longingly of the lovely New River, whisking boaters along with the current, free to be blissfully ignorant of any "oars" or "paddling." Settling into the boat with the beers we had all just purchased from the Monkey Bar (it seemed to be a theme that day) I again wondered how as a society we have managed to go this long without putting a cupholder in a canoe or kayak. It seems even more necessary given how you have to hold a paddle every now and again. Cupholders. Kayaks. Let's make it happen.The kayak trip was spectacular. I pushed the water just enough as was absolutely necessary to keep the boat moving forward. Confused, I asked April and Tyler what all of this synchronized-paddle looking activity they were doing was. It looked like a hard thing to do while drinking beer, but hey. They beat us to monkey bay by a few minutes, but when we caught up, it was beautiful. We had turned the corner and rounded a ridge that blocked us from the main bay on the isthmus. Feeling like we had left the island
behind, we finished our beers, donned our masks and snorkels, and eased out of the kayak into the waiting clear turquoise waters. It was lovely. Fish of all types, colors, and sizes swam all around us. We saw some coral, but we had heard that the long-tail boats had slowly killed all but the most resilient of the living coral. We were all transfixed though, until the sun grew low enough to disturb visibility. As we swam, we would generally be flanked by small, baseball sized yellow and black striped fish, dozens of them staying just out of reach (though I kept trying). Farther down (generally, we swam in water 10-15 feet deep) we would see larger fish, brown ones, sandy ones, colored ones; and one particularly beautiful fish that shimmered an almost neon glow, seeming to change colors depending on the angles of light. We saw angel fish, orange and black with the long black antennae-looking barbs on the top and
bottom. The most beautiful coral we saw was a purplish flower looking plant. Upon close inspection (but without touching), it looked like some aquatic cousin of a venus flytrap, a neon purple mouth with lips that slowly opened and closed, as if breathing. It was wonderful, and relaxing, and as Rebecca will tell you, MUCH better than one of our next trips with the mask.As the sun crept lower in the sky, we climbed back on our kayaks and faced the western horizon.
It's hard to rank moments like sunsets, but that was a memorable one. Just the four of 
us, two in each of the kayaks, bobbing up and down on the small waves. Far enough away from the beach to hear nothing but the water, and watching the sun ease behind the western Andaman sky. It was perfect. The entire sky was aglow in oranges and yellows, pinks and purples, blues, and grays, all stretching outwards from that clear turquoise base: the sky awash in a spectrum of colors. It's enough to make me shut up and enjoy the moment, which is saying something sometimes.It was perfect, well, almost perfect. As we paddled back up to the beach and the monkey bar, Tyler, grinning, walked up to a table on the beach and set down two buckets. They looked like a child's pail, plastic (half gallon?) buckets with four straws in each one, filled almost to the brim with Coke and Sangsom, the ubiquitous Thai rum. They were delicious. It was like some bizarro lady and the tramp moment, Rebecca and I each leaned over our bucket with a straw in our mouth, still warm and salty from the Andaman, sandy from the beach, drunk from the day and our surroundings. The sky had that look it gets right after the sun goes down: the 5 minutes or so when you can see every color in the palate on the horizon. We all sat there on the beach, drinking our buckets, and loving life in the islands. One of the most beautiful places on earth.
And not a monkey to be seen...
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