So after discovering some very important news we can only tell our bestest friends, we went on holiday to Malaysia. On the way we stayed in Satun (pronounced Satoon, not Saturn like we originally asked for two tickets to) We looked in a budget, 200 baht-a-night guesthouse which resembled Wormwood Scrubs, but creatures scuttled when the light switch was flicked so we chose again. The hotel room we stayed in provided carpet under our feet for the first time in God knows how long, Natalie’s first bath in four months and my first since Indonesia. I even went out to get her bubble bath and orange-oil soap, loving boy friend that I am..
We alighted the ferry on the Malaysian island of Langkawi the next day only to behold the sight of a giant eagle; the kind that used to carry Sinbad off in it’s talons when I were a lad. I freaked a bit until I was reassured it was just a statue. In the duty free chocolate shop I found another brilliantly-named product - Dagoba chocolate.
I hope it’s Yoda’s favourite and not the sweet version of Coon cheese slices that you find in Thai supermarkets. How often can you write a word like that without getting into trouble? Incidentally, my other fave is chocolate coated Nips
Our taxi driver dropped us at the most picturesque bungalow which sat directly on the beach. The sun glistened down on us and this tax haven of a country seemed welcoming so I unleashed my surprise present. Nat had fallen in love with a yellow dress and necklace in a shop back home but the next day it had disappeared from the mannequin’s shoulders and throat. Me being me I had secretly smuggled both to another country. The girl looked pleased but then, reverting to type, I had to coax a thank you out of her. Why do I fucking bother? A swim in the clearest, most buoyant of seas before dinner with a thunderstorm as backdrop and overture.
Anyway, just the facts… We climbed passed a snake to the Seven Wells Waterfall all the while avoiding a pompous English couple from Gloucestershire but saw some monkeys before hiding from some of the worst rain I have ever witnessed. To give you a sense of scale, in Britain we would have named it a deluge even when we ventured outside from our sanctity as it had “eased up”
That night Jade Goody and her pals kept us awake til 04.30. With a sly wink to me, Nat lost the plot at them and after a visit to “my mate” and manager Amir they eventually shut up. Cockney Slags.
The next day I went up my first cable car, a concept I’m not too enamoured with. Essentially sitting with forty stone of all-you-can-eat, crinkle-cut-chipped American in a bumper car suspended by a few dangling wires two-thousand metres above earth. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to do that for fun. Everybody knows that bumper car rides are assembled by gypsies. At school when the fun-fair came to town, school kids were given one free ride at five o’clock on the first night. I now know that we were tiny human guinea pigs, sacrificing certain oblivion for a free ride on the Spinning Wheel of Death.
Holding on for dear life and through grimaced teeth, I did it. The views were great and well worth the precarious journey. Sort of… By the last of four cable-car rides I joked with an in-bred Tasmanian couple, the female half of which was worse than me with heights. I had conquered one of my greatest fears.
Bring ‘em on…
Needing an ATM I volunteered to drive our little rent-a-car to the town.
Now you need to understand that I cannot drive; I’ve always had a girlfriend that could. The last time I attempted to I crashed an ex-girlfriend’s car into her parent’s wall. So after a quick lesson on biting points and the like, away I zoomed… At 60kph, we passed pedestrians, oncoming scooters and cars and avoiding the island’s wildlife I made it nearly all the way to the town before my driving instructor had to grab the wheel to avoid me crashing into a wall. I know I did pretty darned well, but getting a compliment from this girl is like getting blood out of a stool.
That afternoon we rode horses through the jungle and on the beach. A real horse this time, not an Indonesian kuda gila. As you know I’m quite at home on a horse, but Nat was a little nervous. Her horse seemed a bit of a nightmare but the kid did good. I went for a gallop on the beach with one of the guides but still cannot canter so just go from walk to trot to full-pelt in under six seconds.
Most afternoons we became beachcombers, finding Natalie pretty shells and on one occasion even a ten Ringitt note; the only money we earnt in Asia!
Over the next few days, something odd happened. We started to go off this once beautiful, lush island. Perhaps it was the rain, perhaps it was the people or perhaps we were growing bored of each other. Nope, it was the food. Malaysia is famous for it’s diverse culinary influences - Indian, Chinese, Thai but the food was less influenced and more influenza. One night I had a mud crab that in Bristol vernacular gave me proper gut rot and made me feel terrible. Like a miniature clitoris, neither of us could put our finger on what was wrong with the place, but the food definitely was a major factor.
One day we went to Mayalsia’s largest aquarium. There were about twelve different kinds of fish, some penguins and some stingrays, but we did get to see an anaconda and a cool, bright yellow seahorse type thing and late one night we accidentally made footprints in wet cement. Who said we didn’t leave our mark?
It was a relief at the time to get off Langkawi and back home to Thailand.
Good job. Malaysia stinks, but nothing could have prepared us for what happened next…
KOH MOOK
Natalie ate some cold rice and pork on the boat to Koh Mook., I did not. I didn’t think that word was allowed in this day and age, but it is. What’s a Mook anyway? Two out-of-print, forbidden words in as many posts, good work Will, you daft racist. The first thing we discovered is this tiny island has no 7/11 nor ATM - how rude! Good job we knew this in advance else we’d never have escaped it’s charms… nay clutches.
On the trip from the port to our hotel, we met an American chap by the name of Clifford. Like the faux Hawaiian guy in Forgetting Sarah Marshall Clifford had a Thai name, which I would later find out meant “complete tool” Losing Cliff, we walked to the beach to see “the best sunset we’ve ever seen” truly amazing. Reds, orange, yellows and pinks brushed across the heavens invisibly suspended above a thin blue line of sea. After being instructed “I’m not your girlfriend” just a few weeks ago (and my purposeful space betweeen the words girl friend and boy friend every time I write it) I couldn’t help but notice that we had become a “we”.
After a swim and a run along the beach we had dinner and chatted to Clifford briefly. For all his cool surf-speak he made the world’s worst attempt at flirting I have ever seen. Truly embarrassing; I would have been ashamed aged twelve. It was, unsurprisingly, directed at Natalia and went like this “You look Russian… I love Russian girls” Klutz! I did well not to laugh. Despite this we accepted our American cousin’s offer of going to The Emerald Cave in the morning.
Travelling to the port with me on the back of a moped and Nat and Clifford some way behind in a sidecar usually designed for vegetables, he had shot me a smug look as if to say ‘you’re on your own and I’m with your girl’ as I pulled away. I should have swung for him…
The weather was overcast on the way to the cave and, accompanied by a-forementioned tool sitting in a way only complete tools can, to accentuate the ripples of every sinewy surf muscle, two Thai lesbians and a few boat people, we made good time. Then came the conquering of another of my primal fears. Like I explained I can’t drive, I must proffer the fact that I can’t swim… very well. Oh, and I’m scared of the dark… and I’m claustrophobic…and the sheer depth of the ocean completely sends my head spinning round like a Kylie Minogue video.
Half diving, half falling in, planning on putting my life-jacket on in the water was not the best idea I ever had. Coughing and spluttering, gagging and spitting sea water from my lungs (oh, I hate going underwater as well) it took Clifford to swim over and help me get into the fluorescent cummerbund. I thanked him for his help, even half forgiving his earlier indiscretions.
Swimming the thirty or forty metres to the cave inlet I managed. Bare in mind this was in quite choppy water. Then, taking Natalie’s and Clifford’s hands (as you would expect, he also made sure he took Natalie’s) we “swam” hand-in-hand through the cave. The further into the 80m cavern we ventured, the darker it became, until in a flash of anti-matter there was no light whatsoever…
So there I was, swimming in deep ocean water,
in a cave
IN THE DARK…
Holding hands with a man.
Why do I put myself in these situations?
The Norse mythologies and Sagas were true. Ragnorok, the giant wolf had swallowed the sun. Not dying a warrior’s death meant Nifhelm beckoned so I began to panic and make whimpering noises like a newborn pup. I announced to Nat that I may have to turn back, but she egged me on, like I sometimes egg on her! Clifford declared that I should hold on to my girl’s hand and I must admit that helped. Thanks again tool. We kicked our legs and pressed on, panic raging inside me like a million paparazzi flash lenses firing all at once in my soul. I was okay-ish while there was still light but now there was none this was the most scared I’ve ever been. Yes I had a life-jacket, but logic doesn’t solve a thirty year old phobia does it. One way of curing phobias is throwing yourself in at the deep end; immersing yourself in them. This is called “flooding” and I couldn’t think of three better ways of summing this feeling up. Flooding. Immersing. Deep End. The Darkness lasted only for ten metres yet it felt like a lifetime in the same way that a day on Pluto lasts an earth year.
And then… like a beacon from heaven, light appeared as if it were an angel getting off a motorbike. Oodles of it. “Swim towards the light” a voice in my head commanded me. And there, standing in a gate at the end of the cave-tunnel half obscured by a stalactite was my dear old grandmother “Swim Will” her harsh Welsh-Valley accent ordered. I wanted to turn back more than ever, the sight of the wrinkly old witch sent shivers down my spine. If I rendezvoused with her she’d only give me another half-eaten bag of Cadbury’s éclairs she bought for the journey but didn’t like. I shook my head. She was still beckoning me with her index finger… Is this what my watery grave held for me? Already-chewed 1970’s confectionary? Surely I deserved better than this? I shook my head harder and this time used an age-old pirate trick of wiggling my ears. She had gone. Good riddance, you gnarly old cunt.
The inland beach (if such a thing exists) was cool. A lagoon of a beach cocooned by rocks and vegetation. Sunlight streamed in from the hole in the canopy and it was idyllic. We snapped a few photos, some of which a certain someone censored which ones were to be published on Facebook on account of her waistline and thighs (oh she is daft sometimes - how many times must you be told - You. Are. Perfect.)
Anyway, for your viewing pleasure… here they are!
Then like rats up a dlainpipe (sic) The Nips arrived! Not the chocolate covered kind, but the cruel race that make great cameras (three xenophobic statements is that, Will?) In the twelve minutes we were there, they set up their own community, shaped their own currency from shells, cobbled together their own stock-exchange, built four Suzuki car factories and sang guttural Karaoke at us. Exeunt cave left. We swam back through, me much happier knowing the distance of darkness I had to endure and marvelled at the jade-green projection of the water onto the roof of the cave.
Then I attempted to go snorkelling. Again bare in mind that although at a tiny island, it was no more than a sheer rock face in the ocean, its not as if there was a shore. Two attempts at snorkelling produced the sight of a few awesome, vibrantly coloured fish nibbling at my nose and my semi-drowning. Nat was near and Cliff was sitting in a cave to avoid the rain. Her worlds of encouragement were little more than “you can’t drown, you’ve got a life jacket” fair enough but what about this panic attack? I made it back to the boat on my back as she was more interested in the little fishies than whether I lived or died. I don’t think Natalie truly understands my fears and shrugs them off as weaknesses, but I know that facing or trying to face these things took real courage on my part.The trip had to cut short, less snorkelling and no lunch as the rain was plain stupid. Shivering, with me holding a second life-jacket around Natty all the way (which she later stated I only did to appear manly after bottling the snorkelling; strange chalk-eating girl, as if I wouldn’t shelter her) we arrived home to cold showers while the big lesbians did whatever big lesbians do under hot showers at their posh hotel, Charlie’s.
After dinner we met Clifford at the little bar at our place. We got chatting, mainly about the awful weather which in his wisdom he put down to a “tropical depression” a phrase he then used at least sixty times that night. He went on to say that he wished he knew how rain worked and to top that how sand gets back up the beach. Then he talked on his ersatz Zen Buddhist surf philosophy. He spoke like a Venice Beach dude but every one of his stories ended in misery; being ripped off in West Java, East Java, Bangkok, Chang Mai, you name it he had been there, done that got the T-shirt and been beaten up or mugged. I was beginning to find this funny!
After dissing Vice-Presidential candidate Sarah Palin for her creationalist stance, he went on to say not five minutes later that humans have been around for what… two thousand years. Genius! He disliked my labelling him a yank as the Yankees were northern and he hailed from Florida. For fuck’s sake, the civil war was two hundred years ago! So I called him a yank as many more times as possible.
The bit that took it from a mildly amusing annoyance to objectionable was the implication that no one in Thailand is forced into prostitution. Not what the Bangkok Post reported in an article on blink-and-you-miss-them, makeshift forest brothels in the north of the country and the ten year old Vietnamese and Laotian girls raped there on an hourly basis.
After talking about his sabai, laid-back lifestyle and wealth of experience as a Thai-speaking local he shot himself in the arse spectacularly. On Koh San Road in Bangkok he was approached by two ladyboys saying “One hundred Baht” he was drunk so asked “One hundred Baht for what?” Immediately realising his mistake in labelling himself a sleazebag after the last topic he withdrew, back peddling like crazy, trying not to appear a sleazebag but it was too late. He went on to say that when they were rubbing themselves on him they fleeced his phone. That is real experience. Getting pickpocketed by ladyboys on KSR. God I wish I was more like you, Clifford.
He went on to use a phrase that neither Nat or I had heard before. Doesn’t matter what; its irrelevant but he went on to say that we weren’t “bookish” so it was no surprise that we hadn’t. Nat was quick to point out that I was a writer and she had a degree in English. So he called her fickle. We could do nothing but stare at each other in disbelief. One of our other favourite idiotic turns was the implication that he knew more English people than us. “Twoddle!” or “Poppycock!” I probably exclaimed at the time. We. Are. From. England. Tool. Funny how under his fake Zen Boodhist exterior there was so much anger. If I knew he was going to get semi-nasty then I would have gotten mediaeval on his ass and destroyed him. What a tool.
In the morning he left me a note at reception saying something along the lines of “Will, sorry it got so heated last night. The YANK paid for his last beer” (Yank was underlined three times as I had offered to buy him a beer) We laughed so hard that Natalie decided to keep it for her scrapbook. Priceless.
"Needless to say we had the last laugh."
Or had we?
Clifford, it turns out, had scarpered on the only boat off the island that day. The smiley little manager of our guest house told us that there was no way we’d get a boat off the island. Behind his fake smile I could see him Mwuu-ha-ha-ing like a Bond villain at his master plan to keep us paying for our bungalow… forever.
“So you expect us to pay for another night?”
“No Mister Bond… I expect you to die!”
We spent another day there but not at the Rubber Tree, no at Charlie’s in a bungalow that cost the same but didn’t reek of damp and was generally sexier.
That afternoon like Patrick McGoohan screaming “I am not a prisoner; I am a free man!“ whist simultaneously avoiding giant beach balls I had a long conversation with my great mate Paul, who when I complained about being stuck on the island suggested I come back and be Head of Technology at Ostrich Media and he‘ll come and spend some time with a 22 year old girl in the Andaman Sea instead.
Good point. Well made.
We got off the island the next day and went to Ko Lanta tagging along with a nice American chap called Kevin and to see my mate Dene.
But that’s a whole other story…
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