"It's an Earache, Nothing but an Earache..."

" A fun gal, with a fungal infection

Tried all kinds of things for its ejection

She poured into her ear

Whiskey cider and beer

Until it's eventual defection!"

 

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Okay, so I've tried the surgical spirit, cider vinegar and hot onion juice home ear remedies that were worth a go, seeing as I couldn't find a medical practice within coo-ee with a GP who was remotely available at short notice today. I've probably had as much Panadol as one person can handle for the pain. My neighbour swears by golden seal, but couldn't find her supply, and I don't have any. The thing that's worked well before for 'swimmer's ear', to which my narrow ear canals are highly susceptible, and tropical ear which I got once in Queensland, is prescription antibiotic/antifungal drops, which are unfortunately not available over the counter

I managed to get through yesterday's teaching after a catch up nap, then got Bug-a-Lugs fed and to bed last night and tonight, after much re-adjustment boundary-pushing and stalling (although he finally got the message not to touch, yell into or accidentally bump my left ear). I have been patiently awaiting a call from the home visit locum service (4 hr wait so far) and wondering if I'll last the distance.

All caused by a little greebly of some sort that's gotten into my ear while in Thailand (despite my best efforts not to immerse my head in swimming spots) and possibly been activated by all the ear business of flying in pressurized planes. The excruciating pain is already making me forget how wonderful and relaxing a holiday it was- blah!

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A six hour wait for a sixty second consult. Well maybe one hundred and twenty seconds. But at least I don't have to leave home. Doctor Two Minute Noodle, the fast food blur of a home visitation GP, is clearly pressed for time, with a queue of home visit patients still to attend to. Unlike my previous locum visit,  he leaves me nothing but the hastily-scribbled prescription. With a sleeping boy whom I cannot leave alone, and it being after 11pm, too late to call anyone, I will have to leave it until morning and grin and bear my way through the pain.

At around 1am, driven by desperation, I mount a search for some remnant eardrops, anything to ease my discomfort. I find some plain wrap Ibuprofen in the kitchen cupboard, after first tackling and jarring a fat redback spider who has been  guarding the seldom-used first aid kit! This helps me sleep until morning, when a small chap bounces into my bed interrogating me about TV and computer game possibilities for the day. I warn him that any whining, nagging or pestering will be met with the penalty of no screen time at all!

I drag the protesting, still pyjama-clad wee  lad to the local pharmacy with me. It turns out the doctor has prescribed only analgesic eardrops and oral antibiotics. This concerns me a little. It's happened once before that a jolly and friendly, but very old fashioned and slightly arrogant elderly GP, who I saw because my usual doc at the same practice was away, swore such things are always bacterial and never fungal, only to be proven wrong by a younger female doc who had evidently swatted up on the latest evidence. So what if it is fungal? There are definitely drops on the market that cover both bases, and the last two doctors I've seen about my 'swimmer's ear' were very cautious  about prescribing oral antibiotics unnecessarily. You'd think my opening line "I've just returned from Thailand and I think I have tropical ear" would be the give away. But I guess he didn't really listen, in his haste to be in and out of the door in record time. And of course it means I'll have to up the probiotics too. Hmmmm.

This is the thing about engaging with the medical model at all. Apart from it being a far-from-holistic system under enormous pressure, it is still run by a 'doctor knows best, patient knows nothing' belief system, fails to take into account the agency and historical evidence of the ailing person, dismisses any self-knowledge we may have, and is subject to the human foibles and hit-and-miss diagnoses of individual medicos who often don't know how to take care of themselves. In short, doctors are not Gods. But in my desperation to make the pain go away, the unavailability of much choice during the sickness silly season, and the difficulty of driving or being driven anywhere (I feel really crappy), and to get the a signature from the only job description authorized to say yay or nay to something as simple as eardrops, I am likely to just suck it up this time, hope for some window of relief, swallow the little white pills and see what happens. Please let it be bacterial after all.

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Three hours on and there is not much relief from the eardrops, although the internal fizzing and popping has died down to a mild racket. I manage to stagger upright (I can lie on my side okay, but feel vertiginous and sick when standing) and phone Mama Mishka, at whose house Sonny Lad has ended up, after a community busy bee whose industrious people hum I could only listen to (just) from my bed. She assures me that all the boys are fine for now, and I update her on my ailment.

I suck on a mandarin for some sustenance, although any kind of jaw action hurts like crazy. I then decide to brave the shower while up, slightly paranoid about getting water in my ears. I've tried a shower cap shower, but I really need  to wash my hair and remove the sick sweat slick of the last 36 hours. It feels so good. The dreadlocks are combed away and my skin wakes up a little.

Next thing I know, three scrumdelumptious small boys are calling up to me in the bathroom. I peer modestly around the shower curtain and see that they have picked (perhaps with some suggestion from Mama Mishka) some purple and white tinged daisies from the garden, which my son artfully trims, arranges and floats in water, in the Balinese mosaic bowl by the hand basin, having seen me do this before. How touching! I feel renewed and cheered.

The flowers remind me that, despite Thor's stubborn stranglehold all this week (and by all accounts for the entire time I was away in Thailand), this crazy imported pain will pass with time and TLC, and the workings of Spring are at hand. I'm hopeful that this illness episode will fade into a mere blip, and my fond memories of southern Thailand  and its islands, with the help of this blog and all the photos, will be restored.



“So Long, and Thanks for all the Shrimp”...

I feel my holiday drawing to a close. Almost time to say farewell to these sea-hugging, coconut-fringed islands, the fishing boat capital of the world, and its people. I am sated, a little browner and a little calmer. Apart from getting my hair cut, I have done everything I set out to do and, especially after yesterday’s adventures on the high seas,  am thrilled to be spending my last day-and-a- half restfully at my  lovely, tranquil hotel with its lush garden of delight right on the seashore.

I enjoy a slow penultimate breakfast, then meander through the garden to the spa to book a pampering package, having discovered that my particular online hotel booking entitles me to 30% off food and spa. Technically, this ends up being only 13%, because they add a Vat and 7% service charge to every purchase in the first place. But still, it means if I do the combo package it’s not bad- too expensive to do every day, but a means to have one  last pamper and a good night’s sleep before flying home around midnight tomorrow, without having to venture into Patong (for which you have to factor in the return taxi fare each time).

So, later this afternoon, I will wonder over and enjoy a body scrub and a mixed oil and traditional Thai massage in the spa building spitting distance from my room. Then tomorrow, before jetting home, I will indulge in a private spa/sauna session, followed by a deluxe facial. Deeply, deeply grateful and ready to kiss my darling little boy, after nearly two unprecedented weeks apart.

I am taking Pixie Munchkins to Singapore soon (cheap Tiger Airways tickets) so the adventure will continue with my little energy ball alongside me this time, and a (hopefully for his sake) restored and happy Mummy!




I

The Man With The Sodden Gun (or: “007 Gets a Little Krabi, on a Speedboat, in The Rain”)

So I do the islands tour, based on the weather forecast and my inner barometer for Monday. But it rains - lot -  anyway, probably the worst downpour since I’ve been here.

In the ancient hotel-to-pier transfer bus with the fawn vinyl seats, the young groover of a driver has a CD with the English-language songs of Adele (rolling in the Deep); Gotye (Somebody that I used to know) plus a few other recognizable recent chart-busters (Tonight, we are young; Moves lIke Jagger; (All the other kids with the) Pumped up Kicks;  it Ain’t about the Money; Today I don’t feel like doing anything” etc. The ‘trophy love’ songs of youth.

The driver’s mobile rings, while I am alone in the bus and he is over by the lobby of the next hotel en route. I manage to open the monstrosity of a sliding door and perform the international charade for ‘telephone’, my pinky and thumb at my ear. He comes pelting over and offers me achewy lolly by way of a thank you.

Soon we are joined by a chatty Muslim couple originally from L.A. but now living in a new set of initials- J.B, or Johor Baharu. She is wearing the full burka, but removes the mouth piece for hubby and me. Spotting my diary and pen in hand, she admires my journaling dedication and I tell her I am writing a humorous blog to share with friends back home. When some foreign men board the bus further down the line, she deftly renders her mouth, nose and chin invisible again. It turns out he will be in Perth next week, on business. He plies me for tourist tips and I strongly recommend that, if his work is in the industrial wastelands of Kewdale inland, he would do well to make a point of heading for the more beautiful coast (Fremantle and Cottesloe) and perhaps take a ferry cruise up our lovely Swan River, or over to Rottnest. He is grateful for the insider information. 

The first boat breaks down, so we return to the pier, making us an hour or so behind schedule.  But that rather alarmingly Gilligan-esque start turns out to be a blessing in disguise: the replacement craft is more spacious, faster, and has better overhead protection, so the rest of the tour is more comfy and the weather improves somewhat. The boat is skippered by a Thai man whose his seven year old son is on board with us: his Mini Me, pirate- bandana-wearing co-pilot. This of course causes me to smile and triggers a wave of longing to hug my precious boy.

At last we are off, and head to national Park-gazetted spot in  Krabi (Thanbok Khoranee) for a swim, Hong Island for a look around, Panyee Island for lunch in the ‘floating’ restaurant, touristy ‘James Bond Island’ for the fun of it and the photo poses. Mine was a straightforward one on the beach, but there were numerous svelte and tanned Russian wannabe starlet girls draping themselves semi-pornographically across rocks, with the famous Hollywood icon in the background. Finally, some canoeing among the mangroves, in the limestone sea caves of Phang Nga (my favourite part).

 

It is a long day though, and I sink into my bed and look forward to two quiet days going nowhere but inward and doing nothing much, before flying home.

 

Me and James Bond

 

Yaya our tour guide

 

Hong Island, Krabi

 

Panyee Island floating restaurants and market

 

Sea Kayaking through limestone caves

 

Islands everywhere we looked

The most touching part of the Hong Island Phang Nga visit- the tsunami memorial. 13 tourists and 2 local fishermen perished there, and fishing boats (pictured) were swept right into the jungle.

“All We Need is a Great Big Melting Pot”

(I thought about giving all my blog posts song titles, but then got a bit slackaroony about it).

I love the big multi-ethnic gene pool I find myself in at this hotel. In particular, I love seeing people in all shapes size and colours pass by- the giant Germans and  Eastern Europeans, the tiny Asians. The children who are interesting mix of happy, inter-continental unions, half-Thai toddlers carried lovingly in their French, or Australian, or German  father's arms; Russian women from Tartastan and beyond,  who look more Asian than European. Thai tourists formt he north taking a break down south. And all the well and fashionably-dressed Singaporeans and Malaysians.

 Lisa the Malaysian is a blowsy, curvy girl with Betty Boop eyes and a healthy appetite for breakfast . Her hair, like mine, goes to frizzy ringlets in the humidity. Her husband is a good-looking chap of few words and short, chunky nugget stature. He appears to understand everything I say, but is more tentative with his spoken English, so she is the more likely to respond.

Then there is the sweet Thai breakfast waiter, who has the narrowest hips I’ve ever seen on an adult male. I suspect the smart uniform accentuates this, elongating his body and making his legs look short, but he is of a type seen everywhere- gentle, unpretentious, slim Thai men who nod in graceful sawat dee.

This morning as I head poolside after breakfast, I watch a young Muslim couple, perhaps honeymooning newly weds, in  one of the downstairs ‘pool access’ villas across from mine. He is already in the pool, skylarking and singing silly songs in Urdu, which makes her laugh from her balcony sun lounger. She is wearing a bikini on her curvy, full-breasted body, over which she had thrown a filmy, deep blue modesty dress. He is tall and beefy, clean-shaven, so apparently not orthodox, though somewhat hirsute of chest. He keeps trying to coax her into the water, but she is clearly unsure. I pass him doing my ‘morning constitutional laps’ (the pool  is easily big enough), his arms flailing in an exhibitionist show of unskilled freestyle bravado.

 I’m reminded of my times in Paris, where I saw many Muslim women in full burka, out with hubby buying risqué lacy things in the lingerie shops I visited to find my own larger cup lace bras. There is such a disparity between the private and public worlds of married Muslim women. If I were a Muslim woman travelling in a Buddhist country, with such a tactile, laisser faire husband, I reckon I’d abandon the burka in favour of a bikini, and pretend for a while.

I wonder what they make of this free-spirited Aussie woman whose breastroke and  ‘crawl’ are quite expert? I have taken to feeling self-consciously busty in my 1950s-look bathing suit, so I’m instead wearing a gym top and a sheer skirt over knickers, a more minimizing two piece arrangement, in the pool which at any rate dries more quickly.

One of the funniest scenes I’ve witnessed since being here is that of a Russian man approaching seven foot, being swept along the road by a crowd of Japanese women, like Gulliver being carried aloft by the Lilliputians. Perhaps it is sea-faring travel that inspired the Gulliver story- maybe Viking Norsemen or Slavic explorers, who found themselves on island full of comparatively diminutive natives?

On the island tour, the Australo-New Zealand fifty-something  couple who become my travelling companions for the duration, agree with me that the Russians are the rudest. I try to refrain from cultural stereotyping ,  but I’m quite shocked at the antics of the Russians I’ve crossed paths with, such as  the family who sits opposite us on the ferry. The Father is okay, but the mother, teen daughter and twelve year old son repeatedly push roughly past me, and queue jump in order to be first to everything. They cling tenaciously to ‘their’ seats that ensure they will stay dry, are the ones who demand the best life jackets, eat the most pineapple slices, and knock back the most bottles of coca cola, provided along with water as complimentary on-board snacks. I swear my son will never get away with such disrespect. I surmise that perhaps it’s a recent memory of fighting over the last potato that causes this behaviour among well-dressed, middle class Soviets who are now free to sail the seven seas? My equally aghast companions nod in pensive agreement .  

We have all found that certain Asian people, too, for instance Chinese mainlanders and those from Hong Kong, tend to be friendly and conversationally polite, ever willing to take  a photo…yet seem oblivious to queues and ‘first in first served’ etiquette. I suspect that being acclimatized to population density (Hong Kong is the most densely populated place in the world) anaesthetizes people to things like personal body space and evokes a kind of survival of the fittest response. In my case, it is sometimes a group-against-one thing: they seem to consider that, as I am but one woman travelling alone, my rights to the table or bench or chair are forfeit to their mob rights. There is no point working myself into a lather by or arguing the toss, so I usually end up relinquishing.

I guess when you have thousands and thousands of foreigners passing through your place of employment, you earn the right to sterotype. As in Bali, The Thais, including the friendly bubbly ‘modern girl’ tour boat tour guide Yaya, once they feel safe to drop their guard a little, confide that they like Australians and Kiwis. We are apparently perceived  as easy-going, open and friendly, unlike Russian and French people, who are aloof, disrespectful of local customs (such as shoe-removal), impossibly demanding , and view the staff as their personal slaves.

But surely this  place must look and seem like paradise to your average apartment-dweller in many Russian cities, or indeed Paris, so I’m baffled as to how completely it seems to fall short of their expectations. Perhaps they see Asia as a submissive mistress on whom to dump their western industrialized frustrations, desperately prostituting herself to the lowest bidder, afraid to answer back? I think the Thais are driven by something of a work ethic, and a sevice ethos, but even they seem to know when a line has been crossed. Respect is respect, wherever you go. I for one have nothing but deep gratitude for these charming people who have enabled me, despite my comparatively lowly social status back home, to have a relaxing holiday.

This is the BBC…

The Asian-focused BBC World News offers some interesting information:

• Today is the 40^th anniversary of the birth of Hip Hop (in the  Bronks)
•  Two elections with long-serving dodgy, bully boy political leaders are contesting election results: Cambodia and Zimbabwe
• A typhoon is currently tearing through the Philippines, the tail end of which is hitting Phuket (this explains the deluge during our island boat cruise).
•  Half the world’s languages will disappear within 20 years, based on current trends, largely as  result of young people favouring English as the global tongue of technology and social media, over their first language. It is describe by a Chinese critic as the socio-economic pressure of English (you might as well say America) as the dominant language. All the commentators interviewed emphasize how important it is to keep these languages alive.
•  A young Thai woman (18) became the world badminton champion today.
•  Ayam Akhavan, an Iranian lawyer who as a child witnessed his uncle being executed for being a Baha'i, speaks eloquently and passionately at length about his campaign to address human rights abuses and genocide all over the world. What a courageous spunk- I think I’m in love!

“Happy Birthday Queen Sirikit... Happy Birthday to you!”

Today is the Queen of Thailand’s Birthday, and a national holiday. Not that you'd know from the holiday crowds. I guess low season tourism stops for no one, so desperate a price war is there between companies to get people on boats in the uncertain weather.

I have no idea how old Her Maj is and so I  go a-wiki-ing to find out. I do know that she lives on Koh Samui (this information from the young bus driver today). There are pictures of her everywhere at the moment, mainly outside hotels. Some depict her as a pretty young woman, others are perhaps more realistic and suggest a mature woman grown stout with age.

Wikipedia provides some futher details: Sirikit (Thai: สิริกิติ์; Thai pronunciation: [sìrìkìt];  listen (help·info)), born 12 August 1932 as Mom Rajawongse Sirikit Kittiyakara (Thai: สิริกิติ์ กิติยากร;RTGS: Sirikit Kittiyakon), is the queen consort of Bhumibol Adulyadej, King (Rama IX) of Thailand. She met Bhumibol in Paris, where her father was the Thai ambassador. They married in 1950, shortly before Bhumibol's coronation. Sirikit was appointed Queen Regent in 1956. Sirikit produced one son and three daughters. As the consort of the king who is the world's longest-reigning head of state, she is also the world's longest-serving consort of a monarch. Sirikit suffered a stroke on 21 July 2012 and has since refrained from public appearances.

So there you go, Her Maj is four years older than my Mum, which makes her 81.

I watched a little of the coverage on local Thai TV, but it was pomp and ceremony and speech after speech in Thai that dragged on, with no sign of the old girl, so I switched off in boredom.

The quest for beauty and perpetual youth operates strongly here, especially where women are concerned, so I have no doubt the younger-looking the image, the more highly she is being held in esteem. Female Asian dignatories do not, on the whole, go grey gracefully. It’s all right for the blokes apparently. The usual round of myths about looking distinguished/sexy/powerful etc etc prevails.

Ditto skin colour. All the Asian ‘aristocrats’ and dignatories I see are depicted as improbably fair-skinned. This pursuit of whiteness makes me cringe a bit: all these beautiful brown-skinned people trying to look more European, yet avoiding a swim, the sensible thing to do to keep cool in the heat when you are after all surrounded by water. But no, it’s not on, because it means tanning, which is associated with low status labour in the fields.  As in Bali, I’ve seen whitening treatments and even a ‘skin lightening’ drink for sale to locals and tourists. What do they expect- to drink this magic remedy and then pee out their melanin?! Speaking of which, I swear my wee is beginning to smell of coconut and papaya…

Hell for Leather: The Price of Chic

I’m not wild (pardon the pun) about the whole, wacky Asian exotic leather thing, where any creature with feet, flippers or fins seems fair game. I guess it’s some women’s idea of elegant luxury but it strikes me as decadent. So far, I have been invited to purchase handbags, clothes, ‘wayang kulit’ style  shadow puppets, art and shoes made variously of shark, buffalo, crocodile and even stingray. My jaw dropped when I first saw a Gladstone bag made of spangly ray leather, which looked a bit like a cane toad had mated with some sandpaper, then taken a shower in Fairyland.

I can’t help but visualize the poor creatures, still alive and in their wholeness: a backpack the wingspan of a live angry stingray, flailing to be put down; a pair of traditional pointy-toed Siamese shoes made from whole baby alligators, their slim snouts forming the skyward Mr Curly curve in an attempt to wriggle free of human toes; a small shark draped fetchingly from a chic shoulder, calculating how much of a flying leap would be required to make it back to the beach.

Maybe if it was the same ray that ‘got’ Steve Irwin, I’d feel okay about it. Highly unlikely though, so I reckon I’ll pass, kop kun ka very much for the offer.

Music, the Universal Language (or: Have Ukulele, Will Travel)

Unlike my trips to Bali, it isn’t my not-too-shabby local language skills that open doors for me here in Thailand, although I’m sure my friendly willingness to bow in respectful sawat dee ka and to utter many genuine kop kun ka thank you’s goes some way. It’s the fact that I am known as The Australian Woman Who Sings and Plays Ukulele in the Restaurant with the Band that seems to win me special favours.

For instance, the pool guy, with whom I play an hysterical game of rock paper scissors one afternoon, offers me full day use of a masks and snorkel, even allowing me to take it on a boat trip if I want, for the usual hourly rate charged for hotel only use. This is right after eening-meenie-miney moing my way towards a decision about which novel from the slim selection of English language ones among the many Russian ones, to pick, and then asking for the Thai translation (it seems these kids rhyming games are universal). There is a kind of book exchange stash of dog-eared B grade novels, behind the counter of the kiosk, presumably pass-it-on holiday reads, read and then shed by former guests.

Even those staff who have not witnessed me maka da music first hand soon get to hear about it, since the head waitress, Noi makes a point of telling the other staff, indeed anyone within earshot, each time I walk past. The only intelligible words to me are ‘ukulele’ (she pronounces it the authentic Hawaiian way- ‘ooh-koo-lay-lay’),  and ‘Australia’, so combined with her air guitar gestures, I kind of know I’m being discussed.

Anyway, I really enjoy meeting and chatting with the hotel's house band. Victor, Elvie and their son Apo are all talented musicians and singers, with whom I ended up doing a small set and jamming a few times. For this, the charming Noi, who has a great, wry sense of humour, rewards me with a cold drink each time, and Victor jokes that it is my salary for the night!

 

L-R: Apo (short for Apocalypse Guerrero Garcia!), me, Victor Garcia

 

 

L-R Apo, Elvie and Victor

 

 

!!!!! :-)

 

 

 

Buddha the Tourist

When I leap out of bed early and head for the buffet zone in search of the Malaysians, there is no sign of Lisa and her husband, who have no doubt gone off on their tour and forgotten to pass on the name of the company. Perhaps I hallucinated the whole thing and the super cheap tours are but a chimera? I am, however, thrilled to to have finished brekky so early that I am on the beach with my young coconut drink by 9am.

Just as I head back to the pool area to talk snorkelling equipment with the friendly kiosk attendant, another marvellous spectacle greets me. Perhaps a dozen Theravada Buddhist monks in their fine regalia of tangerine, ochre and pumpkin-coloured robes waft past me along the waterfront path. I tell you, there is nothing as uplifting as seeing a bald orange dude gazing prayerfully out to sea, framed by the blue backdrop of sky and water. They have definitely brought the sunshine with them. There’s also nothing that brings a smile to my face more quickly than witnessing a young, bespectacled monk smoking  a cigarette, while taking pictures from the poolside bar sun lounger of a resort hotel. Perhaps because it confounds my naïve Farang lay-dee expectations of appropriate monk behaviour and decorum.  Apparently from another part of Thailand, I guess they consider themselves tourists too.

After a polite sawat dee ka and a  hand-clasped bow, I muster the courage to ask some of them if I may take their photo. They’re cool with it, are quite chatty and the most senior of them speaks good English. With reciprocal curiosity, he asks me where I am from, whether I have kids. I tell them I am having a holiday from my family in Australia, just resting and writing. Eventually, the monks wend their way in procession down to the old Siam restaurant, where evidently some kind of Buddhist event is about to take place, to mark an auspicious occasion.

The Karate Kid is on as I try Fox movies again while I transfer and edit my photos of them while the afternoon rain does it’s thing. I’m enjoying its overlapping Asian culture references, its noble if syrupy"fall down, pick yourself up again" and "attain your goals by honourable, rather than ruthless, means" motifs. Very Buddhist.

If they went island-hopping today, I reckon Lisa and co will have just made I before the sky tipped it down. I wonder what tomorrow holds for the similar tour I have booked? This seems to be the monsoon pattern if any: clear to sunny skies mornings with rain late afternoon on the days it does rain, clearing again by nightfall. I spot them in the lobby, where they have left the tour details with reception, after all. But they are weary from being on a speedboat that didn't quite manage to duck the monsoon at its last destination, on the choppy sea, with only a disappointingly average lunch. This confirms my gut feeling to stick with the island tour I'd originally chosen, so I have booked and am crossing my fingers.

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Is This the Real Life, or is it Just Fantasea?

Easy come, easy go. Fantasea a fun park a bit like a mini (only more tasteful) Disneyland, where thousands flock to see a famous, large-scale spectacle of Thai dance and theatre. It’s just down the road from here, in Kamala Beach. The show tells the ancient legend of King Kamala and his utopian underwater kingdom, its rise and fall and rise again. The multi-faceted performance is truly spectacular, nothing short of breathtaking. At curtain time, I counted a hundred or so actors, acrobats and dancers. Imagine something the size of The Perth Concert Hall, with the external appearance of Angkor Wat and the permanent aerial setup of Cirque du Soleil, inside which a jungle has sprouted, and you have pretty good idea of the venue, a reproduction ancient Thai edifice, called The Palace of the Elephants. It is completely taboo to take pictures or videos once inside the theatre, to the point where we are required to surrender all devices, but I manage to snap a few (below) in the grounds, while it is still light.

My inner Actor’s Equity member has a brief squirm when a dwarf appears on stage, but he seems to play a regular character as well being a kind of clown mascot to the elephant handlers.  Very equal opportunity. I start to cry when the elephants come on. Whether due to RSPCA-esque anxiety about how they and their keepers are treated, or because of their trained cleverness, size and  majestic grace, or their allusion to my family’s Raj past, I am not sure. After Bali Elephant Safari Park, touted as the ‘best’ such place in Asia, but shockingly cruel to my sensibilities, I am wary. For the same reason, I also have whimpery moment when I see the white tigers in a kind of gold fish bowl of a glass palace. I ask the Thai keeper lots of questions. How long do they spend on show? Do they have a jungle to retreat to when off-duty? He assures me, smilingly, in excellent English, that they have a green space to live in behind the palace, that is as close to their natural jungle habitat as it gets.

The chickens and goats running across the stage tickle my inner kid (and would undoubtedly have  my actual kid in hysterics), the aerial acrobatics has my jaw open, and the projected footage of an old, forgotten pre-tourism Siam is beautiful and evocative. I zone out a bit during the conjuring, but come to around about the time an un- volunteer from the audience, a terrified young Malaysian woman, is sawn in half and boiled in a cauldron of water, yet lives to tell the tale. I interpret this as a slapstick allusion to myths about cannibals on the part of the European top-hat-and-tail-wearing  ‘conquistador clowns’ who arrive to corrupt the hitherto innocently happy Siamese people in their paradise so green.

It is quite muggy today so, after the show, I wonder around drinking icy mixed tropical fruit juice and window-shopping. Like coconut , I love that such refreshing drinks cost $1-2, even in the really touristy places. I finally find some tasteful souvenir gifts to buy (as compared to the ubiquitous, tacky tourist crap). Surprisingly cheap, and lightweight enough to have no impact on my luggage quota:  two unframed faux-antique elephant etchings, complete with age stains; a replica antique map of the region; a small bottle of tiger balm-style blended oil called Siang in its old fashioned, apothecary-looking red cardboard box packaging; and a tiny mother and baby turtle pair made of hand-blown glass, conjured before my very eyes, to add to my miniature turtle collection. Such wondrous things to behold and hold, for around $5 a piece!

I am the last passenger squeezed into the homeward  shuttle bus , so I ride up front with the driver, in a car full to the gunnels with Mandarin-speaking women and the purple balloons each had  snagged when an enormous bunch was let loose after the show.

I slip straight into my bathers and thence the pool for a sneaky, moonlit swim in the secluded, frangipani-fringed area nearest my villa. Then I sink my feet into beach sand awhile and delight in the cool sea breeze. Feeling particularly ‘Perfumed Princess’ today, I  float the stunning purple and white flower, whose name I do not know, that came with my juice, along with the ubiquitous frangipani blossoms that seem to fall at night, in a soap bowl of water, as fragrant room ornamentation.

Matahari’s Mystery Minibag

I bought a shoulder bag in a bid to stay within the permitted luggage weight on the flight home, since I noticed in the fine print of my ticket ’lady also allowed a purse’ (I think that’s Thai Airways Americanese for handbag, just as ‘pocket book’ is the term for wallet) as well as the allotted 7kg of cabin luggage. It’s quite a smart accessory, made of Thai silk (genuine or faux, I don’t know) which I bought for $10. It has a tiny extra, zipped bag-ette, attached by a split pin and chain to the main bag.

I’ve been amusing myself as to what this teeny compartment could possibly be for. Too  small for a lipstick, your average purse, a mobile phone, a credit card, spare knickers, or even a modern-style hotel room key. Perhaps a pair of headache pills, a coin or two for an emergency call from an old-fashioned call box? One tissue, precisely folded four times? A mini tampon, placed diagonally (or sawn in half)? A solitary cough lozenge or a barley sugar to suck in the descending aircraft as the ears they go pop?  A diminutive pair of bargain, 18 carat gold stud earrings from the gargantuan Phuket Gem Gallery? A little souvenir bi-valve shell, combed from the beach? Or a single Thai 1000 baht  note, crisply folded?

Even more intriguingly, maybe it hides a microscopic, Mata Hari-style braille espionage code punched onto a bus ticket, a discrete stash of small, white, illegal happy pills in a tiny ziplock plastic pouch, or one snort of coke, to be used by the carrier, or passed discretely on in a nightclub’s sulphury haze (nah, she’d probably stash that one where the sun don’t shine). Ditto a love poem, written in tiny, spidery, lemony ink, that requires either a magnifying glass or candle flame to decipher?

 Hmmm, none of these things are quite ‘me’ but…Ah yes! One or even two of the tiny glass bottles of essential oil from my travel stash, which are variously medicine, perfume and deodorant. For this purpose, the wee mystery pouch promises to serve me very well.

The purse evokes a sudden flashback memory of my Red Lady Purse, bought by Mum after careful browsing on my part, in the market at the end of our street in Sama Pah, in Singapore. Made of red vinyl, which got stinky in the humidity and whose brass clasp closed with a satisfying snap, it had the face of a glamorous western-looking, 1960s brunette with Doris day hair painted on it. To my 3 and 4 and 5 year old girl self, it was delightful. My tiny childhood treasures disappeared into it for years afterwards, even once we were living in Australia.

These markets are magical events, the tradition being that they pop up at night only. Just as I loved the food market, where we went regularly to eat delicious chicken satay sticks with peanut sauce, and drank sugar juice from a ‘ju bag’, I loved the lantern-lit markets, where all sorts of bric-a-brac could be purchased cheaply.

My Dad was inclined to give a small ‘unbirthday’ present to the one whose day it wasn’t, and I also recall an equally delightful green umbrella adorned with multi-coloured butterflies, which served as a rain umbrella in the wet, and a parasol in the heat. It was bought for me unbirthday by Dad, in honour of The Green Umbrella, a Ladybird book I could recite verbatim from memory at the age of four: ‘once upon a time a bunny lived beside the deep blue sea, once upon a summer  evening “lovely for a swim” said he…’

Revenge of the Orange Ninjas

En route to Fantasea in a funky aqua-coloured minibus driven by a dapper red and gold-attired chauffer, I see a sight for sore eyes. A ute full of women, their bright orange garb billowing in the wind. Only their peepers are visible behind their tangerine veils and sensible papaya overalls. Their head gear suggests they might be Ninja prison escapees on weekend  leave from somewhere in Americas’ midwest. But no, it is orange burka they're wearing, and they are local Muslim women (Kamala has a large Islamic population), wearing the modest yet practical garb that satisfies both the uniform requirements of their employment and their Muslim sensibilities.

It strikes me as odd, however, that on the one hand the burka is aimed at making women and all their body parts inscrutable to the outside world, while orange is the most eye-catching colour available.An interesting paradox!

A Sea-Polished Gem

Speaking of gemstones, there is a phenomena which fascinates and amuses me. It is not possible to for me to survive even a weak teabag dunk in the sea here without collecting a few souvenir bits of rock and coral in my verging-on-modest, retro, 1950s-looking full-body bathing costume, the lining of which appears to have too many nooks and crannies for the little buggers to hide in.

When I step into the shower, smooth granules the size of raw sugar viewed through coke bottle lens specs, tumble to the floor. I have the feeling of being tossed around and given a good shaking, even when cautiously up to my knees only, in this rough and forceful stretch of sea   (I have yet to see a green-for-go flag, though the red ones warning of rips and undertows fly daily).

 Perhaps this rough cut chunky nugget of ore, with the help of the ocean and many slices of cleansing papaya, will return home with her shiny innards revealed: a gemstone, radiant, polished and gleaming?!

Elephants, Buddhas and Coconuts

Quite the loveliest touristy things so far have been the free tour to Cape Panwa with its elephant shrine, and a stop at the beautiful Chalong Buddhist temple during today’s gratis tour, which was also a way to check out the quieter, more low key  (than Patong) beachside options of southern Phuket: Karon, Kata, and Rawai. All from the comfort of an air-conditioned, door-to-door service mini bus.

I had a brief exchange at the elephant shrine with some young Japanese women, one of whom spoke English with an Australian accent, having spent time in Oz. It was mostly Asians milling about the lookout point, including Thai tourists who bowed and made fragrant offerings of incense and fruit. Apart from Japanese, I heard smatterings of Mandarin and Malay all around me.

The temple at Chalong was buzzing, yet surprisingly un-touristy. I wandered around the temple, was draped in a shawl, asked to remove my cap, and had my photo taken by an usher. I then drank the water of quite the most deliciously sweet young coconut I’ve tasted yet. The vendor, at his little booth in the row of laid back market stalls flanking one side of the garden, chopped away at the nut with some kind of machete, and scooped out the delicious flesh for customers to eat. That and some slices of pawpaw ‘pilfered’ (in a legitimate way) from brekky, were pretty much all I ate all day.

I find coconut to be truly a miracle food of nature, one of those multi-purpose drink-foods. With its inbuilt, hairy take-away cup, it’s the perfect self-refrigerating drink, its juice thirst-slaking and cleansing. Both the water and the ‘meat’ are nourishing and sustaining for long periods.

Captain Pushit gets some Juicy Porn Tips at Starbutts

The Thai language, and its unwitting (to English speakers) double entendres, has me guffawing like a schoolgirl. For some reason, I’m reminded of the unlikely Japanese name in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado, Titi Pu. It really is that accidentally potty-mouthed, the stuff of slapstick and pantomime. My seven year old son, from whose mouth toilet humour tumbles relentlessly, would love it and no doubt laugh hysterically at every turn, now that he can read.

The Pilipino house musos, who found my story about Captain Phu Shit hilarious, assure me I am not the only one, and that it isn’t just English – apparently there are smutty Tagalog and Spanish double entendres as well, accidentally alluding to women’s private parts. Despite having lived here for 30 years, Victor and his wife Elvie claim to still find signs that amuse them, all around the place.

Victor also recounted the story of a guy who operates a small, mobile roadside coffee stand called, in all seriousness, Starbutts. This has provided me with good chortle mileage for several days.  Apart from actual, legitimate Thai words sounding like puerile expletives, Thai people are apparently very aural in their acquisition of English, and don’t stop to check the actual spelling of borrowed words.  Hence my ‘upper lift’ waxing escapade.

Today, on the complimentary half-day tour of the south provided along with my airport transfer with the Phuket Shuttle company, I was taken to a place that specializes in locally-grown tropical sweets and delicacies (fruit, cashew nuts, seafood products etc). It is an apparently prosperous company proudly calling itself Porn Thip (pronounced ‘porn tip’). I thought it was Phrom Thep, named after Cape Phrom Thep on the southernmost tip of Phuket Island, with its spectacular ocean views and a wonderful, colourful  elephant shrine, to which we’d been not an hour earlier.  I had an out loud fit of the giggles upon arrival, which I could not for the life of me explain to the Thai guide (whose English was the most abysmal I’ve encountered so far), and again I wondered what sort of a place I’d been escorted to!

Speaking of language, I have learned a few new Thai words that generate pleasure in Thai speakers if uttered correctly, and a reciprocal cackling mirth if mispronounced: mah (dog), not to be confused with maah (mother, pronounced like a sheep bleating- meh) and chiang (elephant).

"And IIIIIIII-eeeeee-IIIIIIII…Will Always Love Youuuuuuuuuuuu…"

In the restaurant, I sit at the table next to a young Thai-looking woman who is seated with middle-aged, ginger-haired man. I secretly nickname them Ginger and Spice. Is he one of the lonesome desperados who cannot seem to mate with a compatriot and an equal, who resorts to Thai escorts thirty years his junior? Something is not quite right between them. His face has a peculiar kind of palsied list to it. They sit in bleak silence for long periods. Then suddenly, she reaches up and wipes some imaginary food residue from his cheek, in a gesture of seeming intimacy. He smiles. What would I know? Perhaps they are a loving couple after all, sharing the unhurried intimacy, the mundane peaks and troughs of any long term relationship, including its irritated silences, and not the awkward couple of convenience I assume them to be?

Later, I am rudely woken from a siesta by loud bass music coming from the vicinity of the pool. It turns out to be sound checks for a wedding about to take place. Nathan and Nicole from Australia, according to the placards festooning the garden en route to and  from my room.

Apart from the Asians, there are now several groups of lively Aussie families with young kids, including the wedding party. The men all seem to be the Thai equivalent  of thongs-and-Bintang –t shirt wearing, beer-swilling Baliphiles,whose other mecca is Kuta. They get drunk in the pool, are tattooed from ankle to earlobe, and are built like tanks. I was thinking, if I had a male companion who put away as much of the price-included bacon and egg breakfast fare that they do, no one would blink when I asked for a doggy bag. But I don’t. Perhaps in Thai eyes it is unseemly for a single woman to be so audacious? Even when its paid for.

Phuket is apparently a popular holiday destination for honeymooners and the betrothed. In the gem gallery yesterday, I saw scores of Malaysian couples choosing engagement rings, and one of the lookouts on the Panwa tour, an apparently newly-wed couple happened to stop before my camera in full meringue and retro silver drainpipe tuxedo suit regalia.

One evening, I jump about five feet in the air thinking someone has been shot. But no, it’s fireworks, an endless display, presumably from a wedding at the resort next door, at my end of this hotel complex (bass music thumping all evening, accompanied by the occasional loud whoop, was the giveaway). I can see the best of the cracker works from my balcony and I race to take a video and some pics. I love how the brighter fireworks reveal the silhouettes of coconut palms in the foreground!

I wonder how much it costs to put on such a private display in Thailand? Can you buy the goodies in the shops? A lot cheaper  than back in Perth, where one family pretty much has a monopoly on any sort of pyrotechnic event. And a lot less red tape and OHS stuff associated with it, I dare say. Again it reminds me of Singapore, and people setting off crackers in our street.

Uh-oh, the wedding music is cranking up. Time to make a hasty retreat to the lobby to paste to my blog, check emails and scrutinize the weather forecast for island jaunts. Anything to avoid a further earful of the cheesy, heavily sub-woofered  warbles of Celine and Whitney…

I swear I took this myself when the happy couple happened to land in front of me, it is not from a glossy mag fashion spread!

Breast is Best, and Through it you are Blessed

I sit down to a late breakfast, having forced myself to lie, if not sleep, in until 9am or so. I've revised my opinion of Ginger and Spice: She is definitely on his payroll. I enjoy a chat with my Malaysian neighbours who recommend an excellent-value boat trip to James Bond Island and promise to leave the name of the company at reception.

I channel fond pinings for my boy into a peek-a-boo game with kleine Shirley, who reclines in her pushchair opposite me, chomping on her pacifier. Oops, the pacifier has hit the deck and been replaced with a foot.

Shirley’s statuesque Mutti is looking haggard. Her lobster glow, from days of determined rotissering on the beach, is slowly turning into a healthier shade of tan. But Mum has bags under eyes which betray a lack of night sleep. She also smokes, and little Shirley, who sleeps separately, has a diet consisting of formula, not Mummy milk, and titbits from the breakfast table, already at only one year of age. I long to convey how much easier and comparatively peaceful it is to co-sleep and offer the breast for as long as possible. Five years on, I still recall lying in a state of cosy semi-slumber all night, with a nipple at the ready, to soothe away the beginnings of any plaintive wailing. The irreplaceable bonding that comes with spooning the soft-bottomed infant body against the curves of me, the perfumed tang of my beloved little one’s sweaty hair about my chin and nostrils.

I brave the TV one night when I’m too pooped to do much else, but unable to sleep. Although it is designed for the tourists, its pickings are slim and its content pretty dire. The only tolerable channels are Discovery (wildlife shows); BBC Global news (which unfortunately broadcasts news of war zones uncomfortably near here); and Fox Movies. I think I’ll pass on Abe Lincoln: Vampire Slayer.

By chance, a documentary feature comes on BBC, about the increased interest in breastfeeding in Asia since the Fontera botulism scare. A hospital midwife from Hong Kong, who has been successfully heading a ‘breast is best’ campaign, is interviewd, along with a new pro-nursing Mum. The mother is adamant that she doesn’t trust multinational formula companies, since the scandal. It is a coup that I celebrate silently with them.

The Tide Ain't High, but I'm Holding On

It’s great to have sated my curiosity about the madness that is Patong and be back in the sanity and serenity of my hotel’s tranquil grounds, on a relatively sunny clear day. Okay Patong is not that bad, only mildly insane in the scheme of things but anyway, I prefer this: Just like Otis, sitting and watching the tide roll away.

I love the tidal nature of the beaches here, again for nostalgic reasons. Watching the locals wading about the rocks and the distant water at low tide  evokes strong memories of walking along the low tide beach at Bedok and Pulau Ubin in Singapore, family outing destinations in the more halcyon days, before any parental downward spiral had occurred.  Or perhaps just paradisical recollections to my innocent 3-5 year old self.

It fascinated me that the water could recede so far out, so quickly, and that small, gasping fish and scurrying crabs were left behind to writhe asthmatically in the mud, while tiny bivalves beat a hasty retreat underground. Seemingly ancient, toothless women wearing pointy Chinaman hats, rickety- legged, their stooped bones bent almost double, carried mesh bags and wicker baskets in which to stash the accumulated spoils of their rummaging and foraging in the slimy, slick treasure trove of the ocean.

I remember  my brother and I walking out for what seemed like miles with my Dad or my Mum or both, away from solid land and out towards the even deeper mysteries of the Strait separating Singapore from Malaysia. Then walking back again, when the waters threatened their return by stealth.

At this beach in Southern Thailand, the tidal pattern is almost perfect. It is highest any time between 9:30am and 11am, right after breakfast. This is the time when people descend to the beach to swim and sunbake.  The hotel has gone from being a ghostly shell to buzzing with large Asian family groups from Malaysia taking up residence in the beachside bungalows, perhaps availing themselves of the marvellous low season specials advertised on Agoda in a bid to fill the place. There seem to be  a lot of teenage girls, who giggle as they run away from the mild waves that lick at their hoiked- skirted ankles. I don’t know why many Asian guests dispense with bathing costumes, remain fully clothed, only rolling up their trousers and venturing in up their ankles.  I’ve only seen one woman so far, conspicuous by her atypical choice of a skimpy bikini.

So now, heading towards the other end of the complex is futile. My ‘private’ palm shelter is usually already occupied as are  the other tables. My solution is to position myself closer to the pool bar end of the place, on a beach towel on the grass near the beach, under a shady tree. Today I spent a pleasant few hours bathing up to my knees, playing a new song on my ukulele, dozing and planning future sorties to other parts of the islands.

By 2pm or so, the tide is well and truly back out, and the sandy breakers near the shore make way for a vista of rocks and seaweed as the water heads  out to sea a hundred metres or more. Most people have dispersed into town or off on treks, or into the lagoon pool, so I stand more of a chance by the afternoon of taking up my preferred position at the quiet end of the beach. Just me, my diary, a riveting read, and my ukulele.

The friendly, uniformly statuesque German extended family with the cute one year old, improbably called Shirley, shares a rowdy breakfast in the restaurant, followed by a daily routine of setting up their banana  loungers on the grassy kerb  of the beach. They have the red-skinned look of zealous tanners who, unlike myself, do not come from a place entirely bereft of ozone. They do not worry about the perils of daily exposure to menacing UV rays. And so they wonder around all day, unencumbered and untroubled by the old ‘slip slop slap slurp’ mantra (shirt, sunscreen, hat, water bottle) with which we Perthies have been programmed since time immemorial. Well, since at least the late seventies, anyway.

I gravitate towards the beach one evening, to enjoy the cool sea breeze and inspect the state of the tide. It’s quite the loveliest time to be there, when the sky is open and the veil of day time cloud lifted from the shy face of a Muslim moon. The overhead lamps from the resort's lagoon pool area create a bleached, Sugar Mountain, luna sandscape. 

I watch a hermit crab limping drunkenly in its vaguely north-south, careening pilgrimage across the this luna landscape of the giants. We play a kind of Aesopean game, my hare to its tortoise: I stop so many times to admire the view that I am convinced its determined slow and steadiness will beat me to the finish line.

By the time I reach the jetty end of the beach, with its prowling all-night security guard defending the border between Thavorn and the time share resort next door, it is dark. A recently-murdered coconut palm carcass sprawls on the sand, barely recognizable.

On the way back to my room, I pass by the Thai restaurant Old Siam, to which a wedding party has fled , and  The Dream Team’s conspicuous  absence from their nightly ambient music session in the main restaurant is explained. I watched the service staff spending hours preparing for an outdoor reception, only to have to snatched away by the moody monsoon.

The tsunami of 2004 gave Nakalay beach a walloping but, I am assured, no one was killed. The absolute beach front cottages and one of the restaurants were all swept away, and have since been recently built in what I consider to be a blandly modern style. As one section of villas is only accessible by cable car, due to their location up an almost vertical incline (which however rewards their occupants with magnificent views), all staff and guests were able to escape to higher ground during the emergency. I try to imagine the sight of the water being sucked out past the point of visibility, everyone scurrying by whatever means to the safe hilltops. According to Victor the Pilipino  from the house band, the hero of the day was the captain of a Chinese junk that used to moor off the jetty at the south end of the beach, who saw what was happening and managed to remove his craft safely out to sea, and to warn the hotel of the impending deluge.

Low-lying Patong itself, really only a stone’s throw away as the crow flies, and visible from this bay, (but actually a longer and more circuitous journey by land due to the hills, the rocky coastline and the cliffs) was not so lucky. There are signs all along the foreshore warning that it is a potential tsunami zone and advising people in both Thai and English to flee to a high point, should another one occur.

Even in the bog standard monsoonal rain, some of the streets of downtown Patong were like a version of Venice when I went in on the shuttle on Tuesday, the tuktuk drivers like so many gondoliers, trying desperately to navigate the sudden, milky deluge. Roadside vendors selling flimsy, barely- effective, multi-coloured plastic ponchos to tourists were making a killing.