Day 15 - Ko Samet
"I can see the sea!" That electrifying moment on childhood holidays when the packed, uncomfortable car in which you've been stuffed for what feels like days turns a corner and the great expanse of shimmering water is there. Your dad has stopped threatening to divorce your mum over poor directions and now you are on holiday. The endless tedium of I-spy, the featureless expanse of the motorway, the parent-goading piss breaks. All were purgatory for this sublime vision of heaven. There's still some of that childlike wonder in me as the Gulf of Thailand appears through the windscreen of the minivan. There's also still the aching arse and the boredom of the unimaginative landscape. I get a good price on an imminently departing speedboat and am soon cutting through the waves on the way to Ko Samet. I'm staying at what is described by one of the travel guides as 'a ratty old hotel run by an old English guy'. It is exactly that and I rather like the place for it. It's about 20 minutes from the pier by foot and set back from the road amongst the trees. The chorus of cicadas that live in those trees is deafening. They vibrate fo all they're worth and then fall silent with the effort. A minute later a few start up again and like a rolling wave through the treetops the sound reaches another crescendo. After the sweat from the walk to the hotel has dried I walk down to the beach and find the nearest bar. I have the coldest beer of the trip so far and spitting distance from the lapping water. It feels like a wonderful moment of release and of freedom made all the sweeter by the tribulations that preceded it.
The owner of Audibar is called Audi and he has a hat that says that. I doubt his surname is 'Bar' but that would be some excellent nominative determinism. We chat briefly and without much purpose but he does mention that he's showing the Liverpool game that evening. He says he is a Liverpool fan but I am beginning to doubt the Thai's commitment to their ostensible teams.
Returning to the bar later for the game I watch 90 minutes of joyless, life-whittling dirge. Oh for Khao San and its good ju-ju! Audi seems unmoved by the terrible result. The soundsystem is putting out music at an ear-bothering volume and the DJ begins jumping between 30 second snippets of songs to increase the discord. I leave appalled by everything I've seen and heard. In the main town, if you can call it that, I come across an old lags type of bar which is both better and worse. The waitresses, if you can call them that, ask straightaway if I'm on my own. I reply that I am. They ask if I'm ok, I am. If I'd like to play pool with them, I would not. I'm uncertain of what is actually on offer here but I'm disinclined to find out. The music is better than Audibar until it lapses into heartbreak songs which again prompts them to ask if I'm ok. I'm not but for the sake of expediency I need to hide it better. I suddenly miss the anonymity of the city and feel uncomfortable here. I'm none of the demographics it's designed for.
I wake up in the morning and go and get a coffee, while simultaneously (great word to use abroad by the way) resolving never to walk anywhere in flip-flops again, and try to put the previous evening's disillusionment behind me. In that weird overly optimistic attitude I have towards some situations in life (that sits alongside an anxious pessimism in others) I probably thought that removing myself from the stresses would cause an overnight transformation into a happier and well-adjusted person. It could not be that simple. The same as a good night's sleep could not correct 2 years of nuclear insomnia my deficit of happiness wouldn't be balanced by a night on a tropical island. But I am here for a week so I'll need to find something that I don't hate. I have a realisation that these party bars, these resorts, this whole island sells decadence. I've got nothing against decadence, I find it more palatable that the Protestant work ethic, but I don't think I am looking for decadence. Having flip-flopped unhappily to the beach and had my coffee the white sand and blue water perks me enough to try some snorkeling. The waves have a low vigour which churns up the sand and makes visibility poor and thus snorkeling rather pointless but I am contented by floating in the warm water and seeing the occasional fish. Between the sea and the lounger and the bar I manage to pass several hours. I still haven't fallen in line with the rigid Thai mealtimes or the general rhythms of the island and struggle to get a late lunch at the various beach bars closer to the hotel. The staff are all concerned with setting up for the evening and Thai service is relaxed at the best of times. None of the places are short of serving staff but they seem permanently occupied in a swirl of movement and unproductive conversation as if this is the first time they've had to take down some umbrellas or move a sunlounger. There's no observation trained into them that spots a customer with a menu but no food or a beer that's almost empty. You have to fight for their attention and though I resent the battle it seems I shall have to join it. The Chinese tour groups do get more attention but they also unselfconsciously demand it. There's some practicality in serving ten people rather than one I do admit. And these groups come in numbers. You can see the boats offloading them along the beach in the morning. They form up and move in great processions following little flags on sticks. The days of being the white rajahs in some places might be over. Anyway that all sounds a bit 'check your privilege' so I'll stop there. I manage to get a waiter's attention and don't dare let him leave the table without an order so choose quickly. It turns out I've ordered a very spicy shrimp soup which I have to eat with a deliberate and contemplative slowness. My speed matches that of the acoustic jazz covers being piped over the soundsystem. The sort of Smooth FM drivel that I normally hate but it's preferable to the forcefull dance tracks elsewhere. 'My heart will go on' severely tests my limits but sometimes good taste is not on the menu and that's that.
The sun goes down, the cicadas start up their evensong and lanterns are placed on the tables. With the waves breaking metres away it's all undeniably romantic. I am caught between being in the party bars and exuding the faint whiff of sex tourist and the couples bars looking for all the world like a man jilted at the altar who'd already paid for the honeymoon. But I'm not quite stinking out the place like I was at the vice bar last night and there are enough empty tables that I don't feel like I'm robbing some young couple of the chance to stare lovingly into one another's eyes, so I stay for another beer. I watch a gecko stationed by a bare lightbulb installed on top of a short wooden pillar at the edge of the decking before the beach (vivid scene-setting I know). It jerks back and forth trying to catch a moth drawn to the light but it is always snapping at where the moth was rather than where it will be. Trying to capture the elusive object of its desire based on outdated information. Is there a parallel to be drawn here? No, it's a gecko. From my seat I can also see the fire show approaching from down the beach. The jazz acoustic covers stop and a track comes on that instructs me to 'put my fucking hands up'. Ko Samet has fire shows that go up and down the shoreline each evening. A few guys twirling long batons that are, natch, on fire. I'll likely see a few of these in my time here. Now a guy hula-hoops with a lit ring. That isn't as rugby club as it sounds. The show has reached us and while they twirl I wonder why Ko Samet has fire shows. They are entertaining and make money for the performers but somehow that answer doesn't satisfy me. The only answer that makes sense is that Ko Samet has fire shows because it has fire shows. There's a finale in which a guy spins 2 pots on ropes at high speed spewing flames and creating a wall of sparks like a machine in a steelworks that has gone out of control. It's quite something and I find myself wanting to take pictures. The pictures are as meaningless as the act though.
A Northern Irish fella with a hentai character for a girlfriend pays the fire-flingers to let them pose for a video in front of the action. Satisfied by the experience they return to the table where he bellows jarring consonants down the phone at god knows who about god knows what. My brain and beer have sweated themselves to death and are turning ambient so I must go.
"I can see the sea!" That electrifying moment on childhood holidays when the packed, uncomfortable car in which you've been stuffed for what feels like days turns a corner and the great expanse of shimmering water is there. Your dad has stopped threatening to divorce your mum over poor directions and now you are on holiday. The endless tedium of I-spy, the featureless expanse of the motorway, the parent-goading piss breaks. All were purgatory for this sublime vision of heaven. There's still some of that childlike wonder in me as the Gulf of Thailand appears through the windscreen of the minivan. There's also still the aching arse and the boredom of the unimaginative landscape. I get a good price on an imminently departing speedboat and am soon cutting through the waves on the way to Ko Samet. I'm staying at what is described by one of the travel guides as 'a ratty old hotel run by an old English guy'. It is exactly that and I rather like the place for it. It's about 20 minutes from the pier by foot and set back from the road amongst the trees. The chorus of cicadas that live in those trees is deafening. They vibrate fo all they're worth and then fall silent with the effort. A minute later a few start up again and like a rolling wave through the treetops the sound reaches another crescendo. After the sweat from the walk to the hotel has dried I walk down to the beach and find the nearest bar. I have the coldest beer of the trip so far and spitting distance from the lapping water. It feels like a wonderful moment of release and of freedom made all the sweeter by the tribulations that preceded it.
Returning to the bar later for the game I watch 90 minutes of joyless, life-whittling dirge. Oh for Khao San and its good ju-ju! Audi seems unmoved by the terrible result. The soundsystem is putting out music at an ear-bothering volume and the DJ begins jumping between 30 second snippets of songs to increase the discord. I leave appalled by everything I've seen and heard. In the main town, if you can call it that, I come across an old lags type of bar which is both better and worse. The waitresses, if you can call them that, ask straightaway if I'm on my own. I reply that I am. They ask if I'm ok, I am. If I'd like to play pool with them, I would not. I'm uncertain of what is actually on offer here but I'm disinclined to find out. The music is better than Audibar until it lapses into heartbreak songs which again prompts them to ask if I'm ok. I'm not but for the sake of expediency I need to hide it better. I suddenly miss the anonymity of the city and feel uncomfortable here. I'm none of the demographics it's designed for.
I wake up in the morning and go and get a coffee, while simultaneously (great word to use abroad by the way) resolving never to walk anywhere in flip-flops again, and try to put the previous evening's disillusionment behind me. In that weird overly optimistic attitude I have towards some situations in life (that sits alongside an anxious pessimism in others) I probably thought that removing myself from the stresses would cause an overnight transformation into a happier and well-adjusted person. It could not be that simple. The same as a good night's sleep could not correct 2 years of nuclear insomnia my deficit of happiness wouldn't be balanced by a night on a tropical island. But I am here for a week so I'll need to find something that I don't hate. I have a realisation that these party bars, these resorts, this whole island sells decadence. I've got nothing against decadence, I find it more palatable that the Protestant work ethic, but I don't think I am looking for decadence. Having flip-flopped unhappily to the beach and had my coffee the white sand and blue water perks me enough to try some snorkeling. The waves have a low vigour which churns up the sand and makes visibility poor and thus snorkeling rather pointless but I am contented by floating in the warm water and seeing the occasional fish. Between the sea and the lounger and the bar I manage to pass several hours. I still haven't fallen in line with the rigid Thai mealtimes or the general rhythms of the island and struggle to get a late lunch at the various beach bars closer to the hotel. The staff are all concerned with setting up for the evening and Thai service is relaxed at the best of times. None of the places are short of serving staff but they seem permanently occupied in a swirl of movement and unproductive conversation as if this is the first time they've had to take down some umbrellas or move a sunlounger. There's no observation trained into them that spots a customer with a menu but no food or a beer that's almost empty. You have to fight for their attention and though I resent the battle it seems I shall have to join it. The Chinese tour groups do get more attention but they also unselfconsciously demand it. There's some practicality in serving ten people rather than one I do admit. And these groups come in numbers. You can see the boats offloading them along the beach in the morning. They form up and move in great processions following little flags on sticks. The days of being the white rajahs in some places might be over. Anyway that all sounds a bit 'check your privilege' so I'll stop there. I manage to get a waiter's attention and don't dare let him leave the table without an order so choose quickly. It turns out I've ordered a very spicy shrimp soup which I have to eat with a deliberate and contemplative slowness. My speed matches that of the acoustic jazz covers being piped over the soundsystem. The sort of Smooth FM drivel that I normally hate but it's preferable to the forcefull dance tracks elsewhere. 'My heart will go on' severely tests my limits but sometimes good taste is not on the menu and that's that.
The sun goes down, the cicadas start up their evensong and lanterns are placed on the tables. With the waves breaking metres away it's all undeniably romantic. I am caught between being in the party bars and exuding the faint whiff of sex tourist and the couples bars looking for all the world like a man jilted at the altar who'd already paid for the honeymoon. But I'm not quite stinking out the place like I was at the vice bar last night and there are enough empty tables that I don't feel like I'm robbing some young couple of the chance to stare lovingly into one another's eyes, so I stay for another beer. I watch a gecko stationed by a bare lightbulb installed on top of a short wooden pillar at the edge of the decking before the beach (vivid scene-setting I know). It jerks back and forth trying to catch a moth drawn to the light but it is always snapping at where the moth was rather than where it will be. Trying to capture the elusive object of its desire based on outdated information. Is there a parallel to be drawn here? No, it's a gecko. From my seat I can also see the fire show approaching from down the beach. The jazz acoustic covers stop and a track comes on that instructs me to 'put my fucking hands up'. Ko Samet has fire shows that go up and down the shoreline each evening. A few guys twirling long batons that are, natch, on fire. I'll likely see a few of these in my time here. Now a guy hula-hoops with a lit ring. That isn't as rugby club as it sounds. The show has reached us and while they twirl I wonder why Ko Samet has fire shows. They are entertaining and make money for the performers but somehow that answer doesn't satisfy me. The only answer that makes sense is that Ko Samet has fire shows because it has fire shows. There's a finale in which a guy spins 2 pots on ropes at high speed spewing flames and creating a wall of sparks like a machine in a steelworks that has gone out of control. It's quite something and I find myself wanting to take pictures. The pictures are as meaningless as the act though.
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