Chapter 21. Lemongrass Stains - Ko Chang

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Only after having spent time in a neighboring country does one begin to understand how truly advanced Thailand is. As our coach left customs for the Thai side of the Friendship Bridge, it left behind Laos in the dark but for a few dim street lights and blinking red bulbs atop communication towers. The south side of the Mekong is lit up in neon signs for riverside restaurants. There are signs for railroad crossings, smoothly paved and painted roads, billboards, and a large number of bank machines. All indicate that an infrastructure is in place of which the Thais are proud and which many enjoy on a daily basis. The omnipresent Seven Elevens that I once cursed now welcome me back to a nation of comforts and modern conveniences, which Laos has yet to acquire. Will I go back to Laos? I really don’t think it will be anytime soon. I certainly left most of the country untouched. As one Scottish tourist put it on a bus from Vientiane to Nong Kiow, it would be interesting to see the changes ten years forward. Other than this, I do not regret my visit to Laos, as I rarely do any country about which I learn first hand.
I took a bus because the overnight train from Nong Khai had been booked days in advance. Three more senseless days in Vientiane just for the privilege of rail travel is unjustifiable. I only needed a handful of hours in the lobby of my comfortable guesthouse to determine what my next steps would be. Booked flights and trains out of both Luang Prabang and Vientiane have forced me to take over-the-road options. Laos is as far north as I will go. No matter what direction you head in afterwards, all roads lead to Bangkok.
The night bus shows how busy Thailand is. In the span of fifteen minutes, well after one in the morning, we pass dozens of motor coaches zooming through Issan alone to Bangkok for a morning arrival. Lorries with the national “Thailand Post” insignia also speed along southward on limited access highways with twenty-four hour roadside restaurants and cafés on call to supply relief and refreshments to weary drivers. Factories spew exhaust from their smokestacks, proving that Thailand’s industrial sector churns at all hours. I do not recall having seen a single industrial plant when I was in Laos. That isn’t to say they are not there. I just never saw hints that Laos produces much else except products relating to agriculture.
I have hit quite a groove on long-distance buses. Not only have none of them been overly miserable, but my seat assignments have put me next to another attractive young woman for the third time in a row. I figure this is my reward from having been stalked around Muang Kham a few days ago. This time I have the pleasure of sharing the window seat with Bohuyn, a recent college graduate from Seoul. The tall, slender, and shapely Korean bucks the trend of Koreans traveling in pre-arranged tours. Moreover, as a young woman having already traveled to Vietnam, Burma, Europe, and Canada, she fears little. Like Trish and Tracy, she has an incurable case of the travel bug.
“What is that?” she asked of the term. Bohuyn’s English is very passable, but she misses the idiosyncrasies of humor and especially metaphors, as with most Asians.
I tried to help her out. “It’s not really a disease like I told you before. But you are different than many people back home. Yes? You travel all the time. What are you going to do when you go back to Korea?”
The question depressed her. “I guess I must look for job.”
“Then, you need to get a job that permits you to travel.” Bohuyn has her degree in Business Management. Though young, she gives off an appearance of maturity that could work to her advantage in the corporate world.
“Yes,” she said, “but it is very hard to find a job.”
I was forceful by first looking her straight in the eyes. I then inflected a serious tone in my voice: “Then start and don’t ever give up. Don’t keep telling yourself all the things you cannot do. Accept failure; it is a part of life. Get used to it. But keep trying. It will happen…maybe not today, tomorrow, or in three years. But if you know what you want even though you haven’t a clue how to get there, you’ll be fine. Just don’t give up!”
She paid very close attention to me, partly because she had no other option. The tips of our noses practically touched a few times when we faced each other to speak. “You Americans are like that. In Korea, it is different. We have stress and many students look for the same jobs.”
“Maybe it is not so different in a way. In my country, we have an expression: It is not always how good you are, but who you know.”
Bonhyun smiled. “Definitely in Korea, too!”
“Start getting to know the right people. Ask for interviews. Attend functions. Do what you have to do. Don’t lose your drive. Whatever you do, don’t ever give up.”

The anonymous and almost identical-looking cities running east from Bangkok make good fodder for the sleep I craved and did not get on the descent from Nong Khai. I have decided to bypass multiplying skyline apartments of postcard perfect Ko Samet and the hormonally-charged patrons of Pattaya. Instead, I will take a chance on Ko Chang, the largest island in an archipelago of the same name. The word on the travelers’ circuit is that Thailand’s third largest island is by no means a secret. Yet tranquility co-exists with an influx of four and five-star resorts and spas for the even the most demanding foreigner.
Even during the shuttle from the ferry dock to my guesthouse on the other side of the island, I have tried very hard to dislike Ko Chang. There is no question that tourism keeps the island afloat all year round. Mopeds are for rent everywhere. Any establishment will do laundry for about the same price. Once those jeans are clean and if in need of a new suit, step right next door. Ko Chang’s tailor shops are as easy to spot as the ones in Bangkok. It is hard to envision anyone coming to a humid tropical island to pick up a cheap garment designed to be worn in polar opposite conditions. Diving schools advertise fast-track and inexpensive options for S.C.U.B.A. certification. Snorkeling gear and inflatable toys hang from beach shacks that double as Internet cafés. Ex-pat residents congregate daily in pubs. It is just my luck to have come to Ko Chang in the midst of the low season doldrums. The sweeping crescent-shaped stretch of sand at Khlong Prao is as empty as the beachfront bungalows facing the calm water with overhanging palm trees. The overcast afternoon underscores the mood. Restaurants remain open, but staff gather near a fish tank or behind the bar to compare which of the latest cell phone accessories are the best. Some are so bored they reposition patio furniture into a different pattern just to keep busy. I gaze beyond the beach deck and spot three islets in the bay. A few sailboats have come into view. Since Ko Chang is operating at twenty-five percent capacity at best, I find the listless environment utterly delightful. Any other time of year, especially November through January, the discos would be blaring, traffic would be backed up, and I would have to compete for a seat in the most casual of restaurants. Today? I am in my glory and have the pick of the lot. And staff are delighted that I chose to pop in and say hello.
But for the sound of hammering and power saws, Ko Chang is in hibernation. A medium sized group of Germans are the only guests at the sizeable Coconut Beach Resort. The stern wrinkled women chain smoke and bark at each other. Laid back Ko Chang has yet to remove the scowls from their faces and each one of them will do everything in their power not to smile or communicate with anyone but their inner circle for their entire stay. They look so unapproachable, I avoid bidding them “Good Afternoon” in fear of brutal retaliation. The CD of Thai pop music is skipping. No staff tends to the stereo system. Vendors display and flash their cases of goods to the few patrons on the deck. Unmanned swings stand motionless in the still sea air.

Against all sage advice, I have rented a moped. I know they are not safe. The risk skyrockets as I have little experience with the machines. Though not as suicidal as Laotians, Thais push the envelope when it comes to passing on blind curves and squeezing between a slower vehicle and oncoming dump truck in an imaginary middle lane. My deficient helmet will do little to save my cranium from massive trauma upon impact with a tree or some destructive moving object. Oh, one more thing, Thais drive on the left…most of the time.
However, without a motorbike the delights of Ko Chang are inaccessible. The interior of the island is part of a national park of the same name. Apart from a handful of paved spurs from the main ring road, few make many an incursions into the mountains of the National Park. The ring road is actually not a complete circuit. It does not meet at the island’s southern tip. Efforts to build a road have been met with a resounding rejection from mother nature. Rock slides and erosion from runoff streams destroy foundations. The only way to make the connection is to blast a tunnel from the Southwest to Southeast, an economically impractical project. Otherwise, island officials will have to dedicate resources to maintaining the road that nowadays are exhausted or wasted elsewhere.
The “best” moped available from Mr. Cowboy’s vast collection of vehicles is not necessarily to my liking. But I can expect little more. The odometer does not work, just like the speedometer. As I plan to set no speed records, I am not terribly concerned. I assume the headlight is a daytime running one; I cannot figure how to turn it off. In an unintended (?) attempt to test the security of my manhood, Mr. Cowboy hands me a light purple helmet. I then straddle the fuchsia painted machine and take it for test ride. I am OK with driving on the left. The mirrors don’t stay put. I have to adjust them often. The steering bars of the moped do not lock when I park it. But I doubt it will be stolen and pushed away. Its color is a security feature in and of itself. I set off to the south at twenty-five kilometers an hour. Eight year old boys buzz past my right side as if I am going in reverse.
Even though it is the quietest point of the low season, Ko Chang is undergoing a construction boom. In place of a line of foreigners aboard mopeds in each direction, cement trucks roar through the small beach communities with their payload in constant spinning motion. The National Park has done little to protect the few slivers of palm groves and original forest growth on the seaside of the road from being ravaged by diesel-powered bulldozers. Within ten years, the west side of Ko Chang will offer vast uninterrupted views of the Gulf of Thailand for the entire stretch of more than thirty winding and precipitous kilometers. In those few quiet moments far enough away from the sounds of building tools clashing with nails and drywall, the sound of the jungle reaches the road level and drowns out my moped’s motor. A fantastic number of insects chirp in the trees and vines. I ride through swarms of black and blue winged butterflies wavering three feet above the asphalt. The new hotels still in their larval stage of fabrication stop right at the edge of the road. Scores of workers on the tiled roofs have covered themselves from the sun in long sleeves and other types of clothing to act as scarves. Their work is grueling and distasteful, but nowhere near as appalling as the hideous temporary domiciles a few hundred yards away to which they return after a day’s work. Even at a good rate of speed, it is awkward to observe the disconnect between the luxury accommodations these men help to build and the permeable ones where they rest their heads at night. Pipe fixers install air conditioning ducts and faucets. Electricians route wiring to outlets for lamps and refrigerators. All are amenities none enjoy when the sun sets. Mildly comfortable with the fact there is employment for the able-bodied, women split scallops with a high power water hose at a nearby seafood restaurant. The shellfish will soon be part of the evening’s menu at a fraction of the prices Europeans pay in Bordeaux or Zürich.
Bang Bao is the last hamlet at the southwest end of Ko Chang. Its physical arrangement is what merits a visit beyond being a ferry departure point for the outlying islands in the archipelago. Almost all the village is in the bay, but supported on stilts about three feet above water level when the tide is in. “Main Street” in Bang Bao is the only pedestrian way, but for short side ramps leading to restaurants, diving schools, souvenir shops, and individual island bungalows. The second language of Bang Bao is German, much like for Lonely Beach it is Dutch and Khlong Prao, where I stay, it is a magnet for the Swiss and a handful of Americans.
On my way to the where the sun first touches Ko Chang, I pull over to let a potent rain shower pass. While taking refuge under a few corrugated metal sheets, I sip on a Pepsi at a noodle stand. A team of crispy British tourists is returning from the interior of the island on an authentic trek. Each one is on the back of an Asian elephant. To complete the scene, each has been singed red from yesterday’s beachside activities in the sun.
For the undemanding visitor, Ko Chang satisfies. However, it can never rival the islands in the Andaman chain without some changes. To begin with, Ko Chang’s beauty cannot compete with Phuket, Ko Phi Phi Don, or Ko Lanta. The island is poorly set up for visitors in other respects. For a European on a two-week holiday or Thais looking to get away from it all for a few days, there are still some gaping holes. Diving schools advertise daily excursions for tourists to attain licenses in waters inferior to other big-time destinations like the Seychelles, the Caribbean, or the Red Sea. While reefs are off-limits for commercial fishing, boats with tangled nets in their masts harvest the sea’s produce directly above the walls of live animals in egregious violation of regulations. The National Park’s theoretical boundaries start on the inside of the ring road. As a National Park, development is restricted, but not for those owners (many are politicians, I am told) wealthy enough to pay for their homes in the hills above the coast. Ko Chang desperately needs inexpensive and reliable public transportation. Nowadays, taxis come and go as they please and gouge people who simply want to meet up with friends at for dinner down the road. A consistent shuttle system would do the island well, cutting down noise pollution and the number of traffic injuries and fatalities. It will never happen, of course: Forces will see to it that shops can still rent out the mopeds, a primary source of income for merchants. Consequently, tourists rent mopeds to get around and endanger themselves on the two-wheeled hazards by having had too much to drink and taking to the left side of the road, some for the very first time. For the time being, a helmet law is badly needed. Tourists die and are maimed on Ko Chang by the dozens in moped collisions.
Locals do not do themselves any favors by squeezing vacationers for extra baht they can clearly afford. But the annoyance lingers. Foreigners keep each other informed. When they interact with waiters, shop owners, and pickup drivers, it is always “How much?” or “Too much!” even when the prices are fair. Misunderstandings mount and the level of trust between the vacationer and the island’s service industry is tenuous at best. As it is low season, resorts are dying for business, but prices do not justify the mediocre food, poor shopping options, and other average amenities.

Whatever the case, Ko Chang’s eastern coast has firmly eliminated any chance that I could possibly dislike my time here. It is a world away from the commercialism and soft sandy beaches on the opposite side. The relaxed coast facing the Thai mainland reflects the serenity of a tropical island of which vast green and wild expanses are untouched and hardly even seen by the eyes of Europeans, other Asians, and Americans. Resorts, no more than abandoned bungalows with a “Reception” sign on the entrance to one of them, dot the ring road. But for a lonely and most assuredly empty guesthouse, the villages remain intact as is. They have not been corrupted by the likes of me or any agent from Neckerman, Liberty Travel, or Thomas Cook.
Wat Wat Cha Kham Kot Cha Tha Weep School public school is the only one in the direction of Long Beach. Its title forced me to pull over just to imagine how any athletic director could design a basketball uniform with what the school’s name on the front. Every player would have to wear extra large just to pack in every letter. The southeast of Ko Chang is a treat of palm groves, neat lines of shady teak trees, and eye-popping vistas from a road, which is disintegrating down the steep cliffs on a daily basis. Solitary beaches are tucked into rocky inlets. I pretend to be the discoverer of three or four plots of sand on which no human has ever set foot. Of course none of this is true; the beaches are not secrets to the island’s inhabitants. Yet, except for two highway repairmen, my moped is the only vehicle on the road for ten long and precarious kilometers. There are few safe places to pull over and absorb the spectacular azure vistas that I have all to myself. The sharp surface of the unpaved road becomes so treacherous I have to turn back before its terminus. I prefer not to risk a flat tire while forcing the moped over a rocky surface for which it was never designed. But even as I make tracks back to Khlong Prao, I revisit the same viewpoints as before, but now at different angles. It was as if I had never come across them before. The thick green islands in sparkling bays are gorgeous, the perfect locale for absolute isolation.
My attention turns away from the sea to my continuously reddening arms. I have brought no sunblock with me. Among the trash on the side of the road are full sized broadsheets from a daily newspaper. I wrap my arms in them until I can get to a Seven Eleven and overpay for the lotion I should have had with me to begin with. Oncoming motorists jerk their heads towards my arms as they whiz by and take notice of the unexpected sight of my arms enveloped in yesterday’s news. It will only be by the time they are out of sight that they deduce why any foreigner would commit such an overtly foolish act.

The boats are very much like the ones I remember off the Mediterranean coast of Turkey. The system is assuredly the same all over the world. Agents in shops or proper offices promote island day trips with swimming, snorkeling, and kayaking options. An unimaginative buffet lunch is part of the deal. It is in no way a private affair. But if willing to share a tropical beach and marine experience with dozens of other holiday makers, it is a fair way to get a feel for the outlying islands without working very hard at it.
As I do not dive any further down than a deep breath in my lungs will permit, I have set off on a two-tiered vessel with hardwood benches and a deck at the bow to get some sun. Most of the fifty or so passengers are Thais and they are pleasant enough. For as much I do not care for the everyday tourists, the Thai variety rarely gets under my skin. They are a well-dressed and unobtrusive bunch in groups of friends or extended family. Unlike Spaniards, they do not scream. They do not complain about the price of everything such as the Dutch or how one thing after the other has been off schedule or not according to plan like the Germans often remark among themselves. They do not drink as the English do on Ibiza. Contrary to Americans, they know where they are on the map.
An hour into the tour and it is plain to see that very few islands in the Ko Chang archipelago are inhabited. One in particular is a handful of nautical miles directly south of Bang Bao and slightly to the east. It would make a perfect location for the next season of Survivor (except for the passing tour boats, I suppose). The sandy beaches are firm, untouched, and shine in the sunlight. The closer the water gets to the shore, the lighter the blue until it reaches transparency. There are no signs of human interference anywhere; not even the grains of sand have been raked. It measures perhaps two miles in diameter. The island is large enough to support wildlife and I guess has a source of freshwater up in its hills. But for the twenty to thirty foot wide beaches on it, walking anywhere in its interior will cost much effort, scratches, and sweat.
The rock outcroppings of the snorkeling sites mark an area where marine life is supposed to get together now and then. Trees squeeze upward from the cracks in the base of the islet. They might be what Bonsai trees would look like magnified about one thousand times. Few take notice of the trees; they are too busy with half their bodies submerged in search of the newest undiscovered species of tropical fish or coral. All don bright orange life vests, either disregarding the buoyancy of seawater, brainlessly following the lead of the person in front, or simply not confident enough to swim. In the end, the cordoned-off parcel of very ordinary reef produces no surprises. Any sensitive animals have fled at the sight of the pudgy fluorescent whales kicking face down like toddlers at their first swimming lesson. The water is not very clear far from shore. The leaking gasoline from the boat engines does not help. I encounter no wildlife of any interest except for a few schools of blue and yellow-striped tropical fish I swear I last saw in my dentist’s aquarium and a few office workers from Bangkok. The scene from the boat is a ghastly one; bobbing tourists in a special yellow circle so none escape or get too far away from the main pack. In ten minutes, I turn around and content myself by repeatedly jumping from the highest point of the boat on the other side from the gasoline slick. The thrilling drop is fifteen feet below into a sea warmer than bath water. The parents whose children are too small to go in the water hand them chunks of bread to feed the fish. At first only two or three nibble at the soaked morsels. Within twenty seconds, hundreds of frenzied fish have materialized and jump out of the water to land mouth open on top of full slices. The slices are devoured in a mater of seconds. I find the ability of the schools to seek out their meal and the joy it brings the children far more gratifying than the floating flocks of Dutch, Thais, and Koreans bobbing up and down. Some stop to cough up ingested seawater.
For the rest of the day, I lounge on a bench and throw myself into the sea every half hour or so. One Spaniard and Mexican comment that I have not gotten much out of the day, as I was not snorkeling in line with the rest of the pack. Perhaps, perhaps not. “At least,” I told them, “I will not go back to my room with a second degree sunburn on my back.”

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Photos

Kai Bae
Touristy...but still manageable

Western Ko Chang
Great coastal views...

Bang Bao
Entirely on stilts...

Erosion
Hazardous roadways....