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.
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