A quick scour of the lagoon confirmed my initial fears; there was no way out. No way, that is, bar scaling the sheer cliff faces I’d foolishly (and clumsily) descended a half hour before. It was a canyon-like abyss, and now at low tide, was swamped with knee-high mud serving both to mar the picturesque beauty I’d envisioned and making me battle for escape every time I put a foot wrong. The incoming tide was able to permeate the chamber somehow, taunting me with an ambient sea susurrus. In a few hours this place would look very lagoon-like I was sure (I’d seen the photographs), but where water could find ingress, I could not find egress. Bracing myself for the ascent, I warily approached the first of three vertical rises. Its face was treacherous, slick with mud and rain from the night before. A single knotted rope hung down limply from an aperture within a narrow ledge a few metres above. I’d slid down this a half hour before; now I had to climb it. Limbs and joints good and sore, with fatigue well set in, I hoisted my rucksack and went for it. I failed. Twice. Simply didn’t have the upper-body strength to hoist myself up this initial rise. That’s when the fear set in. I’d come down alone, passing other tourists who’d been wise enough to turn back before the point of no return. No one knew I was here. Took out the mobile thinking about the text message I’d send to Bryony, In a bad spot. Can you get help? No bars. The cavernous walls precluded reception. Alone. No communication. Even if there was a search and rescue service, it would be a long time before they reached me. The tide was coming in, and the weather was turning bad. Yeah, I really was in a bad spot. Yet one thread of hope remained - wait for the next daring climber to descend into this abyssal place, and have them boost me up into that aperture of the first ledge. I waited. Distant voices occasionally echoed down. No one came.
That was ten days into the holiday, on Railay Beach, an idyllic retreat on the south-west coast of Thailand, only accessible by boat, which we had taken from the nearby touristy town of Krabi. I’d set off from Nam on Christmas Day, returning to my old stomping grounds to meet Matt and Jon - who’d travelled from Brisbane and Hong Kong respectively - at the Queen Vic on Bangkok’s major arterial road, Sukhumvit, for turkey and brussel sprouts. That was the beginning of the end for us. Post-reunion antics ensured that partying and excessive drinking ensued. After two days of painting the town red, they caught a flight to Krabi and I caught up with some Bangkok buddies. Shortly thereafter, Bryony and Paul set down and we took a more cultural tour of the Big Mango, me serving as tour guide, retreading footsteps from eighteen months previous when I’d first embarked on this Indochinese Peninsular adventure. We boated up the Chao Phraya, visited the famous temples, saw the royal palace, and chilled out on Khao San Road, where the East meets the West. Concerning the royal palace, I’d be remiss not to mention the passing of King Bhumibol, which occurred a few months after I left Thailand. He was a symbol of unity and admiration for the Thai people, such that they have engaged in a year-long period of mourning for their former king, a tribute that stands testament to the reverence they ascribe to the monarchy. With a seventy-year reign, he was, at the time of his death, the longest-reigning monarch, now given over to our Queen Liz. Pictures of him are still ubiquitous in shops, restaurants, billboards, on the sides of buildings. His successor, the new King Vajiralongkorn, is now being seen more and more, though it seems he is not as revered as was his father. Hopefully he takes on the mantel and lives up to the expectations of the Thai people.
Digressions aside, we took a plane from Bangkok to Krabi Airport, barely catching the flight. My fault. I’d underestimated the transit time from our hotel - Bangkok traffic should never be underestimated - and we were forced to jump queues, duck under barriers, and leg it to the gate. Made it. Just.
Two hours later we were at Krabi airport, being picked up by Matt and Jon in what could only be described as stag party bus. Decks booming out base tunes, vodka mixers all around; party on. An hour later, we reached the mainland pier and were ferried over to Koh Lanta, an island bigger than most, but less touristy. Normally, Thai islands like Koh Pang Ngan or Koh Phi Phi host the biggest New Year’s Eve parties, but we were just as content with our more chilled out island paradise. We’d also booked rather procrastinatively, Bryony doing all the leg work, and us boys just following suit – a standardised practice among males intending to go on holiday.
We had a nice little waterfront beach hut (though perhaps a little snug for three grown men) and hired some mopeds with which to better tour the island. Dirt tracks and winding hills, replete with pot holes, made for less than ideal riding, but it was good exploration replete with awesome views. Six months ago, I’d have probably wimped out and jumped on the back of someone, but having been around Bien Hoa for a while now (despite an incident involving a bus, a curb, and some bloody elbows and knees) I was comfortable manning my own moto. Matt less so, and my highlight of the holiday was when he exclaimed ‘let’s do this!’ as he pulled out of the Viewpoint restaurant before proceeding to career into the ditch opposite. Priceless. Wish I’d been filming it. A local carpark attendant and I helped him pull it out, me struggling to contain my mirth, the Thai guy very helpful and understanding (he’d have seen it all before I’m sure). Was further amused at Matt’s skills of persuasion when he explained to the owner at our resort (after she’d inspected some telltale signs) how he couldn’t have crashed the newly-scratched moped because he was perfectly fine. Struggling to contain his limp, and artfully disguising the gigantic bruise on his leg, of course.
Seeing the New Year through wasn’t a gigantic beach party as we might’ve expected on some of the other islands, but it was a nice chilled out affair, sat around a table on the sand, merrymaking with the best of friends, watching orbs of light glowing on the horizon from squid-catchers, blooming fireworks and Chinese lanterns rising into the clear night sky. Beautiful, relaxed, in great company that had flown thousands of miles; couldn’t ask for more. A minor (though seemingly major at the time) disagreement with the better half took place shortly thereafter. My view, ‘you’re too needy’; her’s, ‘you don’t care enough’; an argument that is probably as old as antiquity between the sexes. We both walked across the bridge and arrived at a mutual mid-point shortly thereafter.
The next morning Matt and John had to be homeward bound. After saying our farewells, Bryony, Paul, and I, decided to jam-pack our next few days on Koh Lanta. We started off visiting ‘The Beach’, on the smaller of the two Phi Phi islands, made famous after the 2001 Leonardo DiCaprio movie. Though still spectacular, with rounding bluffs enclosing a secluded lagoon whose gentle surf lapped at clean, white sand, it was, as you’d imagine, teeming with Western tourists; bikini beach babes, well-toned speedo-sporting guys, cameras, mobiles, selfies being taken approximately ten times a second. From there we went snorkeling around the larger island, witnessing dazzling schools of fish, every colour of the rainbow, dancing around spectacular reefs. The next day comprised sailing out to a tiny spit of land that looked like it would be good place to maroon someone, kayaking around a cave-bestrewn, cliff-faced island, and feeding a local troupe of monkeys, who, after having had daily exposure to humans for who knows how long, would leap from the boughs onto the deck and snatch pieces of pineapple right from your hand. Their intelligence was fascinating to behold; pretending to be disinterested whilst waiting for you to lower your guard, and then going for their prize. Some of them were even happy to make the swim to get what they sought. We finished the day off on the backs of elephants trekking through the jungle, myself straddling the head of one without a guide and trying desperately not to fall off. They knew the way. I don’t think I’ll do elephants again however, because the practice, though at first novel for the tourist, soon impresses a sense of remorse for these majestic animals who should be plodding across the savannah with their families in search of water holes instead of posing for photos with tourists. The third day saw us back on the bikes, before dismounting at the trail to the Tiger Cave and hiking into the interior of Koh Lanta. An enjoyable and not too taxing path winded through jungle and river before we came upon the cave mouth. Torches had been recommended from here on out but we sufficed with our mobiles. At one point, deep into the cave, we had to start crawling before sunlight found us again, trickling down a near-vertical crevasse, an attempted ascent of which seemed pretty foolish, and so we turned back.
The following day we headed back to the mainland, catching a taxi to Krabi town. A nice small place, fairly touristy, but with no picturesque beaches, it served more as a base to see other sites.
I discovered an awesome Danish restaurant around the corner from our hotel. Though seemingly out of place, it had been running for the better part of twenty years, and was the venue of choice for DiCaprio and his film crew when they’d been out here. Again, we sought the tourist reps, and the following morning caught a long boat to Railay Beach. It looked like Western-super Mare upon our approach and we were wondering what all the hype was about. A trail winded past a cliff face and gave onto the actual beach on the opposite side of the narrow peninsular, which really was spectacular. Of course, we took a detour. We’d known that the Viewpoint and the Lagoon were places to visit. What we didn’t expect was a near vertical climb to get there. A sign at the base forewarned of a treacherous climb, yet I took no heed and went for it. It was arduous to say the least; Bryony and Paul gave it a good crack, but ultimately turned back. I gritted my teeth, and after a half hour odd clamber up using roots, rocks, and a mud-slick rope, I was on top. A short hike took me to the View Point, where I could see the whole of the peninsular. Took my already labored breath away for a moment. Took a picture, sent it to the better half, and hiked back to see what the lagoon was like. This was my mistake, and a big one at that. We’d been partying hard the night before, and this, combined with my recent lack of any real exercise, should’ve been a sound argument against making another formidable climb. Yet, perhaps because of the booze still flowing through my system, or perhaps because of the ‘I’m come this far, I have to see the rest’ mentality I’d cultivated after the initial ascent, I pressed on to the lagoon. This was a far more hazardous prospect. Hiking a hundred meters and then descending down a slippery gulley, I passed two Europeans who’d decided to turn back. I saw no one else. After the gulley, I thought, it can’t get any more difficult than this, yet I couldn’t have been more wrong. The lagoon still out of sight, all I saw were two more vertical drops towards a scraggy opening far far below. Before we’d broken contact, Bryony had called up the cliff and said that they’d meet me at the lagoon. This seemed very plausible, because lagoons are tidal, and so access to a beach seemed logical. With this in mind, I grabbed the wet, muddy rope and lowered myself down. This second face now necessitated vertical climbing, and once down, I thought again, it can’t get any more difficult than this, but yet again, I was proved wrong. This one had an overhang. I could see the lagoon now, diminished and muddy by the low tide, but there it was. I’d come too far to turn back now, and below there would be a way out to the beach I was sure. I shimmied down the rope, stepped gingerly along a narrow ledge, then free hung through a small hole and dropped to the rocky floor. Somehow managed it without breaking a leg. Euphoria set in; I’d made it! Strode out towards the lagoon and was soon knee-deep in mud.
No one came, and after two failed attempts at trying to get out of this stupid, shitty situation I realized I was fucked. Truly and royally fucked. What madness had brought me down here in the first place? It didn’t compute, and so I just rested ruefully, reviewing a short list of pessimistic eventualities. Sometime later, after having regained a little of my strength, the dire situation impressed on me the need for a third attempt. But this time I was less impulsive, carefully considering and trying every foothold and handhold for purchase, something – anything - that would give me leverage up into that small aperture where the knotted rope hung, lulling limply, forever taunting. Worked out a plan and went for it. A knee-hold, a tenuous hand grasp, a foothold, some small success. Using barely recovered leg muscles, managed to boost myself into the aperture, but it wouldn’t allow me to pass; something was snagging. Somehow managed to unsling my rucksack and toss it up inside before clambering up behind. Back on wavering, jelly-like feet, I knew the main challenge was passed, and all that was left was perseverance to climb back to the top, hike a small distance, and then descend again to the beach floor. Arduous, certainly; foolhardy, unequivocally; regretful, not as you may imagine, for I saw it as somewhat of an achievement, proving to myself that I could have a holiday that encompassed more than just partying. Sure, no Everest summit, but after having since read the blogs of accomplished climbers who’d descended into that abyssal place, I’ve since concluded that an easy feat it wasn’t.
Got back down to that picturesque beach which I’d spied from the lookout point, and soon hooked back up with Paul and Bryony. The waters were lush, lapping their gentle waves against myriad floating boat restaurants, and a short swim took you a tiny island opposite. Paradise.
That was, at least, until the next day, when an unseasonal change in the weather took us unaware, spoiling our planned trip to the national park, and some more natural beauty. We sufficed with a drenched bike ride to the nearby tiger temple, the Buddha of which was mounted on the top of a mountain, up which a mere 1207 step-high staircase would take you. The climb from the day previous had rendered my limbs elderly and infirm, sore and aching with every step, and so this new climb was torturous. Worth it though. Standing amidst the clouds next to a giant golden Buddha, staring down over an endless expanse of countryside. Definitely worth it. The descent was equally as painful though.
The weather took a further turn for the worse on our final full day in Krabi. Monsoon season had officially ended a few weeks before, yet we were inundated with storms and torrential downpours. On Koh Samui - the Island I’d seen Halloween though with Matt the year previous – 17 people died, and on nearby islands, hundreds more displaced by floods, left homeless. Rivers were running riot all around us, turning the roads into canals, unprecedented for this time of the year. Longboat rides to nearby beaches and islands were terminated, the waters too choppy to risk public transport. Roads became submerged, locals had to give up their businesses and stay indoors, hoping the floods wouldn’t wash away their homes. Mother nature is a formidable force when she rears her head, something not to be trifled with. We felt her when we became stranded on part of the Danish joint which had its main restaurant on the other side of the river. Our side still had beer pumps however, and after shouting across for acquiescence, we were greenlighted to pour our own pints. The water level rose, encroached into the seating area, began to surround us, forcing us to head for the bar proper, isolated with only ourselves, some empty beer glasses, and a lot of beer taps. There were worse places to be.
After the floods finally subsided we paid the tab and moved on.
Had a six am flight the next day back to Bangkok, and so me, Bryony and Paul made our farewells that night. Soon found myself in Ho Chi Minh Airport with my stepdad, Proff, raising a sign for ‘Bill Mitchell’. It was now time for the parents, or more specifically, Mum and her always jocose husband.
Spent the evening catching up, chewing the fat (and some very tasty frog’s legs) before settling down into a very plush hotel room they’d booked for me. Next day, conducted them through Saigon to a certain bus stop. We hopped onto an overcrowded local bus, it’s riders quite mystified at the unlikely fellow passengers (the guy sat next to me gaped in open-mouthed incredulity until finally conforming himself and attempting to concoct a few rudimentary English sentences, to which I was too tired to give more than a one word response). Bad form on my part. The bus rattled on, finally disembarking us at Bien Hoa Bus Station. Dragging the wheeled-suitcase behind, I lead the way. A Half hour later, we were in my much-needed air-conditioned apartment, happy to dry off the sweat. I had an errand to run – I’d foolishly not retrieved my Vietnamese bank card after I’d slotted it into a Thai ATM some days before – and so jumped on the bike. The bank was forgiving; they gave me the cash I needed. I’d left mum and Proff to loiter around Bien Hoa Market during my absence, but we managed to find each other around midday. Then it was off to introduce the better half. Took a cab to pick up Nghi and went to a restaurant for lunch. I knew she’d be nervous (hell, I certainly was when I first met her parents, but she has a much better grip on English than I have on Vietnamese). Anyway, Mum and Proff loved her. We went for an unremarkable lunch before striking out to Buu Long, a picturesque lake on the outskirts of Bien Hoa. Long walks, a peddle boat ride, and healthy conversations concluded that the mother and Proff were fond of my Vietnamese girlfriend. She further acquitted herself at the evening meal where she proved the most amazing hostess at a very traditional grapefruit-themed dinner in a tiny village outside the city. When the whole chicken (head and feet included) came out, cooked and served within a grapefruit, the elders were taken a little aback. Especially when I offered Nghi the head with my chopsticks, to which she happily chewed into, thinking nothing was amiss. It should be noted at this point that Vietnamese leave none of the animal to waste; organs, feet, brain – it’s all good; in fact the choicest parts of the chicken are considered the head and the feet. Mum and Proff didn’t know what to make of it; I remained amused as my girlfriend chomped into animal parts that would never be seen in a local butchers. Nevertheless, it was a lovely meal which we all enjoyed thoroughly. When we dropped Nghi off, gift-giving being very big in Vietnamese culture, she and her parents gave a one each to mum and Proff before we went off.
Back to work it was, but it seemed like almost as soon as it started, it ended again when another New Year came knocking.
The Vietnamese New Year, Tet, happens around the end of January each year. Coinciding with the Chinese New Year, it’s a festival to usher in the arrival of spring and forget about the troubles of the past year. Customs such as ancestor worship, opening a shop, and giving ‘lucky money’ to the young and elderly are practiced, the latter as a token to express good luck for the year to come. Though perhaps not as crazy as Songkran (the Thai New Year, occurring early in April) where the country revels in a nationwide water fight, it is nonetheless a huge event where the vast majority of businesses close their doors for a week. Our school was no exception, with the foreign teachers off holidaying in exotic locations, and the Vietnamese staff returning to their hometowns. Nghi and her family bucked the trend by travelling abroad to Cambodia (the first time she’d left Nam) whilst I, having recently returned from a pretty mad holiday, decided to get on my moto and go for a long ride. Two hours later I arrived in the southern coastal city of Vung Tao, a nice quiet retreat with which to see the second of two New Year’s through within the space of a month. It was the first long distance bike ride I’d ever embarked upon, and really opened my eyes to the freedom and beauty one can enjoy in this country.
Reading, writing, and relaxation on the beach were the tenets that I subscribed to when I got there, and three days later I jumped back on the bike and went home.
All I can say is that the world is a big place, and you’ll never see all of it, but, if circumstance allows, try and see as much of it as you can, otherwise you’ll be forever wondering what you might’ve missed.