We tried to go exploring. There were dirt tracks leading through the island interior with wooden huts where the more normal folk lived. We attempted the drive up in Steve’s hire car, even gave it a good shot with a run up, but we bounced back down, backwards. It made loud noises as it tried to deal with the pain of the rocks hitting its underbelly. The dirt tracks were steep and covered in water drain-offs. We tried another way, but fell off the end of the concrete road. It was still being built.
It was looking a little like rain, so we headed back. On the way there was a unanimous decision to snorkel, despite the ominous blackening sky, and Adam and Steve leapt in, barely avoiding a gigantic lump of coral a foot under the surface. I joined them in a more discreet and lady-like fashion:
Then the rain started, and we zoomed back in the stupidly small boat, hitting stupidly large waves head on in a sickening sort of way for what seemed like a very, very long time.
We got soaked. There was nothing dry left, apart from the boat man, who was totally without dampness. I don’t know how.
A few nights later we hopped into Lamai town for the evening. Girls in tiny shorts gyrated on top of bars in the girly-girly bars, beckoning to Adam when I looked the other way. There were McDonalds and Pizza Huts, plural.
There we found an Australian who was biking around SE Asia, and his mate, who’d done the UK to India route by bike. Everyone got a bit drunk reliving Pakistan. A girl from Kansas told us all about her amazing life until we all collectively vomited into an empty pint glass and tipped it over her head. Irritatingly, she was also quite nice, so that last bit didn’t actually happen, but I am fairly sure everyone independently thought about it.
The bike stayed behind in a half-built house on Samui while we lived it up at the Kings celebrations.
We met an excellent taxi driver, who gave us a talisman against road accidents to keep in our car. We are hoping it also works for other modes of transport…
On the train on the way back we settled in for an awkward ride when neither the German fellow opposite, nor the guy of indeterminate origin who was sat by me appeared to be remotely willing to communicate. Being as how the train set-up leaves not a whole lot of leg room, we were destined to sit very, very close to two people who were totally silent, but fidgeted awkwardly for close to an hour. Eventually the German got scared and ran off somewhere, and the indeterminate guy spoke two words or so, in monosyllabic answers to direct questions. He lived on an island in the south and considered himself far too cool to be speaking to us holidaymakers.
Awkwardly, we headed for the train bar for something to do, and ended up getting fairly plastered with a Pole, a Russian, the indeterminate non-speaker who had followed us there and suddenly found his tongue, and the silent German, who drank copious amounts of high-strength beer, but still didn’t speak. The bar had funky disco lights, loud Thai music, and a bar-lady who liked to wiggle. By the end of the night the Non-speaking Cool Guy had invited us to stay at his bungalow, and given us the address of his friend, and the Pole had given us his address in California. The Russian had become completely unintelligible and drunk half a liter of Vodka Red Bull. The German had said nothing.