The Islands: Part I

Southern Thailand. The Beach. The Islands. A wonderland of clear turquoise waters, limestone cliffs, palm trees, long-tail boats, brightly colored fish, and terrifying, aggressive monkeys. Yeah, you thought monkeys were so adorable. And they are, from a safe distance. Just don't get too close to these swatting, biting, thieving fleabags. Just ask Rebecca. But more on them later.

After several days in Bangkok, we boarded an overnight bus for Phuket. Check that, after spending five hours in the combination flea market and bus station in far-west Bangkok we boarded the overnight bus for Phuket. That place was one of the noisiest and busiest places I have ever seen. A three floor flea market/department store with a bus station attached, with every booth playing different music (loudly), at least one arcade on each floor, the blare of the announcements over the loudspeaker, and the children's section playing a mashup of Old MacDonald and Bingo on repeat at criminally high levels; the place had more going on than the toast tent at an Elliot family gathering. Needless to say, I occupied my time at the various arcades, alternating between schooling young Thai children in Pop-a-Shot and getting killed by those same Thai kids in video soccer. Rebecca read The Help and wept.

The bus ride proved uneventful, save the temperature on the bus, which hovered around 55 degrees, about 40 degrees cooler than anything we had experienced thus far. Fortunately, Lillie convinced us not to take anything heavier than a t-shirt. I'm pretty sure Rebecca was wrapped in toilet paper to keep warm by the end of the trip. We arrived early in the morning in Phuket, and quickly made our way to the pier and onto a ferry bound for Ko Phi Phi, one of the most famous and gorgeous islands on the Andaman Sea.

Ko Phi Phi Don and Ko Phi Phi Leh are two beautiful and relatively small islands separated by a few kilometers of gorgeous turquoise water. And you may have seen that stretch of water: it is the one swam by Leonardo DiCaprio and his two friends at the beginning of The Beach. That movie is something you will hear about roughly 180 times a day when visiting Ko Phi Phi. Phi Phi Don is the larger, inhabited island and Phi Phi Leh the smaller, uninhabited one where Leo smokes his spliffs. Now tours leave constantly to take tourists over to see where the movie was filmed, and tour the formerly beautiful, serene, and undeveloped island.

Both islands stand gorgeous in the Andaman, flanked by sharp limestone cliffs ascending directly out of the water. Upon arrival, we understood why guidebooks and tourists alike claim that Ko Phi Phi boasts some of the most beautiful beaches on the planet. Clear blue waters meet white sands, all tucked into harbors encircled by those sheer limestone cliffs. Palm trees dot the island's hills, surrounded by trees, flowers, and plants of every variety. Think of the jungle, the mountains, and the ocean all coming together on one small island: it's enough to take your breath away. This may be one post to let the pictures do the talking (and the picture at the top of the blog is from a Phi Phi beach). Alas, though, I was never able to resist the draw of doing the talking myself (Rebecca is nodding in agreement).

On our first day, we left our bungalow after breakfast to explore the small island. Our hike will make Dad feel better, who is gravely worried that we have not been "backpacking," but merely sipping Pina Coladas and reading US Weekly by the pool for two weeks (we need constant activity, remember?). We hiked from our place, just south of Ton Sai Bay, and hugged the coastline around to Laem Pho (Long Beach). The southwest beaches are peppered with resorts, but they tend to be those of the more natural, subtly fit into the scenery variety, and are far less prevalent than the ones in Tonsai. Once we reached Laem Pho, realizing we couldn't take that route any farther, we started walking up. I would say that my instinct to point myself uphill when unsure of the right route is my wife's least favorite part of hiking with me. Well, one of her least favorites, anyway. I mean, either we get a nice view or at least figure out where to go next right?

When we reached the top of the south ridge of the island, we found what looked eerily like an abandoned summer camp: many small, empty cabins, scattered across the hillside, appearing to originate from the 1950's or 60's. We assumed it was one of the first resorts built, made obsolete by the nicer, newer bungalows below (ones that did not require a 20 minute hike directly up the side of a mountain). The cabins had clearly not been rented for years, but we did note several clotheslines in use, as well as enough signs of life to surmise that some of the islanders had not forgotten about the old resort. We found one of the islanders shaking coconuts from nearby trees, and after consulting the map, asked him to point us towards the path to Loh Moh Dee. As with nearly every Thai we have encountered, he was extremely polite and very graciously led us there himself, pointing us towards a small trail we probably would have missed. After winding our way through the jungle and down the other side of the southern ridge, we found ourselves approaching a clearing of sparse palm trees right next to Moh Dee Bay. We saw no one. We felt ecstatic, sure that we had stumbled upon some local's haven, some lost paradise that no western eyes had ever graced. (We later found out that most of the snorkeling expeditions make their way to Loh Moh Dee daily, but whatever. It was early, it was empty, and we choose to remember it as our discovery, dammit).

And it was beautiful. Vast, empty beach. The bay was barren, save a handful of long-tail boats at the north end. Nothing in the crescent moon of land except a few small huts the local fishermen inhabited, forged from materials found on the island. The many tourist boats, the stores, the restaurants, the bars, the travel agents: all left behind and forgotten, our short hike whisked them worlds away. We basked in the mid-morning sun, feeling pretty damn good about ourselves.

As we made our way towards the northern end of the bay, we watched a couple go about their morning tasks, the only other people in our little world. The woman moved about the hut, performing 4 or 5 tasks at once in a dizzying display of efficiency. The man idly stood in the shallow water, randomly checking a few crab pots and fishing nets, and intermittently talking to his dog. The time honored tradition.

Michael: Is that what marriage is like?
Rebecca: I hope so. I love fishing and dogs.

As we watched the middle-aged Thai couple, it soon became apparent that they were preparing for a trip to town, presumably to unload the crabs to one of the many beachfront Tonsai restaurants. My wife, always quick to seize an opportunity not to hike up the side of a mountain in mid-day heat, got us a seat on the couple's long-tail boat.

We were floored. It was one of those moments that happens when traveling, with a little luck. One of those moments when you cease being a tourist looking from the outside, and you get a glimpse of another life, another way of living. Inevitably simple, but always memorable. We sat quietly on the front of the boat, watching the couple. They spoke very little. Theirs was a routine performed hundreds, maybe thousands of times. The man would gather the nets and pots and silently hand them off to the woman in the boat. She would put the catch in buckets of water, where they would stay until the crabs met the ice of the Tonsai eateries. As Rebecca noted, they wouldn't speak, but merely point, usually just with their lips and a slight nod of the head. The little german-shepherd mix swam around the boat, knowing they were leaving and none too happy about it. Frenetic paddling and yipping, the dog made the only sounds we could hear. After gathering all of the catch worth taking, the man easily leapt into the boat and cranked the small motor. He eased the boat around and pointed her east and out of the bay. The dog swam after us in futility for a moment and then, resigned, turned back towards home.

We all sat in silence, us up on the bow, soaking in the sunshine and gratefully accepting the breeze; just happy to be alive. The narrow boat cut through the turquoise water, and even from our perch on the boat we could see 15-20 feet down; brightly colored schools of fish, live coral, the occasional crab pot lurking on the bottom. We rode in silence until the man suddenly cut the engine and pivoted the boat around. Without speaking a word, he retreated a few hundred yards, and the woman snagged a good-sized barracuda from the water. The fish was floating lifelessly, but recently so, and the woman smiled and added it to their catch. After a few more glorious minutes on the Andaman, the couple dropped us off on the beach. We flung grateful thanks and many smiles and nods in their direction as the man hauled his wares into town. They had no idea how thankful we were for that small window into their lives. Such a simple life in the most beautiful of homes. It reminded me of the story of the poor fisherman from the little village on the water who asks the businessman: "why do you work so hard?" To which the businessman replies: "So that I can make enough money to retire to a little village on the water and fish, of course."

It was a moment, one that we will always remember. As Louis says, life is all about those little moments. It's why we travel. Here's to many more.

Now about those monkeys...