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.
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