An ode to the plastic chair

I was laughing deliriously. We had just crested a wave and fallen into the trough with an ominous cracking sound. Sheet lightning flashed distantly above the lights of the squid boats on the horizon drifting in and out of view over the waves. Tacking back and forth, the more than slightly drunk man operating the unseasoned wood boat did his best to try to navigate the waves. The stars were very bright. Now I was just scared. Staring out at the waves as if my undivided attention would give me more control.

  

Boat trippin', Phi Phi

Drenched with spray, this was the return voyage to Phi Phi from a post-tour beach party replete with fire dancing, glow in the dark paint, and a sound system. In retrospect, I have become aware that my priorities are strange when I think I am about to be shipwrecked in the ocean. I wasn’t concerned about swimming the remaining distance in the dark waters. I was thinking about whether it would be possible to preserve my backpack with my phone, iPod and wallet in it. I ran through all the scenarios. A Bear Grylls inventory of items at hand. It wouldn’t be.

I could count four life jackets scattered at the front of the boat. There were at least thirty people packed in and it was crowded.

The beach

Eventually we made it out of the waves. We were close to the beach now and people were muttering at various volumes of their desire to be on dry land. Powering within ten metres of three moored speed boats, each about twice the size of our sloop, those of us with an unimpeded view from the front started shouting. With a crest at the bow of the boat that reaches maybe two feet into the air vertically we hit the mooring lines stretched from the front of the speed boats. The collision was lumbering, the prow of one boat taking a chunk out of the crest and narrowly missing the head of one passenger. Sleeping Thai locals rudely awoken rushed on deck.

With no obvious damage to the speed boats there was curiously little exchange. We motored on to the shore. The boat emptied quickly.

Not half an hour ago in we had been swimming on a tiny beach with plankton that flicker with light when you move in the water near them like glitter in a snow globe. Earlier still we had snorkelled and lounged around Maya Bay—the famous beach from The Beach—comically beautiful but seething with tourists. We had swum with a sea turtle in 20 metres of dark blue ocean. In the shadow of island cliffs we tracked its ascension from the bottom and the rock on which it had been eating seaweed to come up for air.

Muay Thai bar

Apparently a five per cent chance sighting, the tiny Thai guide, torso scarred and burned from fire dancing, shouted to all the nearby scuba diving boats, “Turtle, turtle, turtle,” in frantic excitement. I do feel for the scuba  divers taking photos from below, however, as my pasty torso will ruin their snaps of the turtle effortlessly slipping through the water.

Shops open-plan in the heat, the narrow paths of roadless Phi Phi were crowded. When the door at the front slid open it revealed a dorm that was two levels, two rooms, and four rows of bunks, the first of which started inches from the door. The dorms are linked by a very steep and shallow set of steps. The first time I attempted to descend them I slipped, bruising my left buttock and rendering sitting painful. The shower was a trickle and in all the space was either a bag or a human. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone woke at the same time. At midday when the air conditioner turned off it was intolerably hot inside.

Mall cops

With the music blasting the beach front is frenetic. Scattered thongs and thronging people. On a pole in the middle of one of the dance floors a man in only shorts is dancing. Health and safety be damned. In the hands of people hang buckets in each of which there is one bottle of spirit, one can of soft drink, and one bottle of Red Bull or the local version, M-150. Rocket fuel. There is an urban myth that some batches are laced with speed. One guy has a jar of body paint he is offering to everyone. People are smeared. I paint a moustache on someone. I wake with it all over my neck and shoulders. Every day I find new cuts and bruises.

Pole dancing

Ellis, Becca and I are in an infinity pool at a resort. It is past 2.30am as the beach clubs are closed and my watch when I check it at the hostel says 5.12. I make a mental note. The only thing on my body is paint and I am full of buckets. We were invited here by a girl we met on the beach after swimming in the ocean became unpleasant due to the smell. Waste. She said to watch out for security. When we are told to get out because of the chemicals he seems surprised when I emerge. The street vendors run all night and I get a stick of deep fried prawns and they get pizza.

“Sydney boy!” A girl I don’t recognise. We chat. I don’t want to ask her where we met or who she is. I’m embarrassed. I still don’t know who she is. The Superbowl is in two hours and I am lost in the streets. I struggle out of bed at seven to find I have missed the first quarter. There is a vendor up the street selling congee. By the end of halftime I have eaten two bowls and drunk two litres of water and an ice coffee. I almost feel human. Four annoying and loud Canadians who sound more like Americans are supporting the 49ers. I get increasingly supportive of the Ravens and leave quickly after they win.

Alley soccer, Phuket

The street food in Thailand is amazing. In Bangkok I meet Max, a street-food enthusiast. We fast become friends. On plastic chairs and tables, vendors range from selling one dish to having a menu, and with chilli, fish sauce, vinegar and sugar on most tables you can season to taste. Iced water in huge plastic tubs is served in glasses cleaned by being dumped in a small plastic tub of water and with a straw. Take away noodle soup in a plastic bag like a goldfish.

I’ve yet to find a toilet with soap. You spray yourself with a hose to clean up. People keep complaining about the lack of toilet paper, but I quite like it. These same people wrinkle their nose at me when I ask if they have been eating street food.

The locals start fires at dusk to ward off mosquitoes in rural areas

Khao San road in Bangkok is hell. But it is eclipsed by Bangla Road in Phuket. Bangla Road is longer and more like Vegas. Riddled with stumbling sun burnt tourists and extortionate prices. Tom—a new journalism aficionado—and I go to a ping-pong show. The previous night we left a taxi without paying as it became apparent he was doing a u-turn loop down the motorway to beef up the meter and we had driven past somewhere I recognised as minutes from the hostel some time ago. He followed us and threatened to call the police. We ran and found a tuk tuk. The driver honked before running red lights.

The stripper looks bored. Clearly it takes time to become a ping-pong master because she has seen better days. She just shot darts—one after the other—out of her vagina to pop several hanging balloons. She earlier smoked a cigarette and pulled a significant length of ribbon out before blowing out candles on a cake. To think we bought the guy who brought us here a beer in thanks.  

Sunset, Phi Phi

Tom sits in a chair with a ping-pong paddle in one hand. I have moved out of his proximity to avoid being hit by an errant ball. He connects with three out of four balls that fly towards him, his swipes crazed and protective. Under the UV light his shirt now shows a stain. Outside we can’t see anything. He asks if I want it as he is never wearing it again. I don’t regret my decision to tip 100 baht after she decanted then re-canted a bottle of coke. We drink to forget.

On the BTS line they have TVs at the stations blaring. My attention gets attracted by fat people jiving. The program advertised is called ‘Dance Yourself Thin’. “Be trendy, be Canon”. The noise here is constant and the throngs of people endless. And the heat. I can’t seem to stop sweating. People move slowly here. They even chew slowly. Cats and dogs sprawl. On the floor of the platforms they have arrows for where you queue to get on and where the doors will open and people will get off. Everyone queues.

Arun Temple

I caught the BTS to see the ‘world class malls’ at Siam. Enormous and expensive. There is an aquarium at the bottom of one and outside there is a dance number being enacted by six fish suited performers.

On Bangla Road I actually had a prostitute shout at me from across the street, “Me love you long time.” I had been drinking at the hostel with some Swedish guys, Olof and Dennis, along with a scattering of other characters. Called upon to finish his beer, Olof exploded upright, “I have the blood of the Vikings!”

Temple goodness

Patong Beach, Phuket. Hell. You cannot walk down the streets without being offered something or someone trying to corral you into their bar or restaurant. One suit maker takes me into his store. It is air conditioned and he wanted to show me the picture of Paul Gallan and the Wolfman wearing his suits. The beautiful beach is row upon row of deck chairs and umbrellas that barely end before the water. 100 baht to rent. Fat Russians loll and everywhere is a sea of red flesh. A lot of it old. I can’t look away.

They remind me of the carcasses of beached whales, except there is a different tragedy to the beached whale. Seeing something so graceful and physically imposing rendered powerless and at the mercy of an indifferent world is an emotive reminder of our own mortality. The tragedy here, of being beached on this theme park come zoo of a place, is the complicity to sustaining and enjoying it while time slips away.

The heat

Trying to find street food, I ask for help from a man hawking a tailored suit. It’s a good tip. We become friends. The next day he recommends other street food vendors. Then tries to sell me a suit.

I had to escape the crush so I headed to Phuket Town. Walking towards the port I finally saw some of the Thailand I was after. A man dozed next to a pool table in a sort of tiny al fresco bar. Another paused his welding to light the cigarette drooping from his lip with the torch. The vendor from whom I bought a coffee was sitting in the shade of a tree peeling an enormous bag of garlic with seasoned dexterity.

Street food with Max

Walking past a group of kids one turned and gawped at me such that the soccer ball kicked at him rolled past and to me. They came over and the biggest offered his hand to shake. The others copied, the smallest girl trying to shake my right hand with her left. Then she tried to sip my coffee, now just ice. I tried to show them it was empty and five tiny hands were alternately shoved into the cup to get the cubes rattling around the bottom. Their cheeks bulged.

Wandering down a stray alley that turned out to be a dead end I played soccer with a small boy and a flat ball while his sister peered around the corner to watch.

Fire dancing

I saw some Durian for sale and had to try. I now have a food I do not like. The texture alone is almost enough. Slimey and gooey. The flavour is quite pleasant and tropical initially before it gives way to a rancid, turned after-taste. I had a second bite and I couldn’t see myself getting used to it.

The thick white wall muted the road noise. It felt like a sanctuary and had a rabbit warren of houses. Outside one a woman was cooking something tasty looking in a wok. When I stopped to watch she asked if I wanted to eat. In the shallow terracotta pot by the table there were fish. This is what I wanted from Thailand. Peace and food.

I met James in Phuket and we went to Phi Phi together. We made it to Krabi on the 5^th. It was a quiet, pleasantly warm evening and the main street had barely a car going down it.

We grokked it.