Ao Nang www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com

Both beautiful and bland all in one yawny breath.  As long as you face west, this place is as stunning as any other of the exquisite beaches of Thailand that line its coasts.  On bright days the sea is calm and a colour chart of warm green to deep blue, lime stone islands are dotted across the horizon and long tail boats bounce along the surface of the ocean, spraying a white tail behind them.  Turn around though and you have a watered down version of Khao San Road, catering for families, men looking for Thai love longer than one night, and package holiday makers.  

A road runs along the side of the beach, elevated from the shore.  On the other side of the road from the beach are restaurants, at present desperate for custom, each one along a baht less for a pizza, or an extra percent off the menu, what with it being the beginning of low season.  There are countless souvenir shops, 7-11’s, massage parlours, hair braiding, travel agents and T-shirt shops, blah, blah, blah.  The depravity of Khao San Road is not here, but its essence is.  The wrist bands with obnoxious messages have gone, but the t-shirts aren’t much better.  Most extolling the virtues of women with their legs spread.  

(Ahhh, yawn, I am almost too bored to write any more about the place.  Did I mention it was bland?)  

The road curves up away from the beach, to be over looked by an imposing limestone monolith, making the banality of the activity below all the more apparent.  Further up the road are more of the same, Irish bars, Reggae bars, Girly bars and more massage.  

However, to be fair to the place, although it is bland, in the blandest sense of the word, it is very clean – not that that should be the selling point of a place.  Oh, it’s clean.  A hospital is clean, but who wants to holiday in a hospital.  And there is a lot of green.  Again, not exactly a selling point given that crocodiles are green, and, again, no one wants to holiday in a crocodile.   Trees have been planted every couple of metres along the road.   Tiles have been inlaid into the pavements to make them look more interesting, in a bland kind of way.  There are curved benches, and snaking low walls that all show a bit of thought in the design of the place.    

Oh my life, I can’t be bothered to talk about the place any more….it’s too…..bland?  Oh, but there are the sunsets......

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www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com

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Koh Phayam www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com

‘Every day is like Sunday, every day is silent and grey.  It’s a seaside town they forgot to shut down.’

Aow Yai beach, a 3 km gently curving bay, bends its way around the dense green forest of the inner island, offering a short sandy doorstep to the Andaman sea.  The sea, an immense expanse of mottled green, white capped turbulence, beats a monsoon rhythm upon the tireless sand.  The heavy clouds spill oppressively across the sky, shedding rivers of rain onto the sea and land, and bringing a squall of wind that breathes fiercely onto the shore, the trees and shrubs bowing frantically to its might.  Without the winds bringing the rains in from the sea, the air is thick and heavy with warmed water.  Oppressive heat and humidity cling to the skin and block the pores.     

Behind the curtain of green that hides the lines of beach huts, there are vibrant forest, home to noises of the jungle.  The tinnitus ring of cicadas, tut-tutting of birds unseen in the trees above, and the click and buzz of exotic insects, create an ear aching din of nature; and at night the deep rumble of hundreds of belching frogs, burps loudly into the darkness.  And the darkness is just that, when the moon sits behind the clouds, there is no adjusting of the eyes to the light, there is no light.  Footsteps made into the darkness, along a path seemingly innocuous during the day, turns into tentative wobble into thick bushes and complete disorientation.

This is one of Thailand’s quieter islands during the peak season, and during monsoon it is all but deserted.  We are sharing the beach with maybe 20 other people.  And it is nice, with the turbulence of the weather, there is no feeling that we ‘should be doing something’, there is nothing to do, except watch the waves relentlessly fall upon the shore and comment on the changes to the ever varying grey of the brooding clouds.

Copyright notice

The content on this website is copyright of Wendy King - © Wendy King 2012 All rights reserved.

www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com

Any redistribution or reproduction of part or all of the contents in any form is prohibited other than the following:

·         you may print or download to a local hard disk extracts for your personal and non-commercial use only

·         you may copy the content to individual third parties for their personal use, but only if you acknowledge the website as the source of the material

You may not, except with my express written permission, distribute or commercially exploit the content. Nor may you transmit it or store it in any other website or other form of electronic retrieval system.

www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com 

Varkala

So I did it.  I finally mustered the gumption to move on from Kochi – only temporarily of course, I will be going back to meet up with Alex again, who hasn’t quite found it in his heart to wrench himself away.  I have moved onto Varkala, another beach resort, and braved a train to do it.  Which, contrary to the myths, was exceptionally easy, and insanely cheap.  I got to the ticket booth at the train station, bought a ticket, and got on a train that was only 15 minutes late.  That was it.  No drama.  And I got a seat, no one did a shit in the carriage, there was no one transporting buckets full of rotting fish, or cages of enthusiastic chickens, there was space for everyone to sit, and even put their feet up in many cases.  I even managed to get a seat by the window, so could benefit from the breeze and see the beautiful Keralan scenery trundle by at a gentle speed.  Of course it may well be a bit different in a bigger city….I am sure I will let you know if it is.

It got a little surreal for the rickshaw ride to the beach.  There was a temple festival on, and tailing processions of people, trucks and elephants were slowing traffic down, which is nothing unusual in itself.  Having been in India for almost 4 months now it is a common sight to see people taking to the street to protest, proclaim and celebrate.  However, the people in the procession, were a sight I have never seen before.   After passing a long line of young men and boys with 3 metre poles hanging through their cheeks, which had spoon on the end of them containing fire, the rickshaw drove past a truck, off the cab of the truck was a crude frame constructed of metal poles, from which 5 boys hung horizontally suspended by a number of thick hooks pierced through the skin.  Just dangling off the front of the truck, swaying with the lumbering movements of the vehicle.  One of the strangest introductions to a town I have ever experienced.  It made me wonder exactly what was in store from me when I arrived at my destination, which was at the mercy of the rickshaw driver, as I had left the lonely planet with Alex in Kochi.   

But it was no way near as exciting as the journey in was.  This is Goa on a cliff.  Lots of skinny young girls sauntering around in spaghetti string clothes, men with holiday facial hair and quirky hats, dirt laden dreadlocks swishing, executives ‘letting go’ and getting a bit bohemian with white linen shirts and leather sandals, young families with their hot, bothered little oiks, and randy eyed waiters with cheery charm offensives to lure any potential romance into their restaurants so they can flirt as they take orders.   

But it is beautiful.  Really beautiful.  Rich red cliffs wend their way along the coast line, gregarious green plants creep up them as far as they can gain purchase on the crumbling faces.  Natural springs seep through the rocks and trickle down onto the yellow beach, which is melded with traces of volcanic black sand.  And they stretch for miles in either direction of where I am staying.  I have walked in both directions for an hour or so, and found no end to the exquisite beaches.   And they are clean!  Please bear in mind, that after 4 months in India, I may well be getting a little desensitised to muck.  And during one of my walks I saw a group of fat moustached Indian men standing in the sea, the waves softly foaming around their ankles, the sun casting crystals across the surface of the perfect blue, their womenfolk giggling nearby, daring each other to inch further in, as the sea soaked up their saris; the men had in their hands plastic bags.  Staring out into this earthly paradise, each of them shook empty the bags, spewing plastic bottles, paper, and other unwanted detritus into the sea in front of them.  What was quite spectacular was their response to the wavelet that promptly returned their trash to their ankles.  They looked at it, affronted that the sea could be so presumptuous as to render their rubbish back to them, scooped as much from around their ankles as possible, and threw it again at the next wave heading towards them; which rather predictably, brought their crap back to them.  They repeated this process 3 times before giving up.  It was really something special.  There is also a rubbish tree further down the beach, upon which people have tied debris that has appeared on the shores onto the tree.  There is a mobile phone cover, a few empty alcohol bottles, a flip-flop, a bra and a couple of plastic bags, amongst other stuff.  It’s quite pretty, surprisingly.

The resort itself perches precariously on the edge of a cliff, looking down on a pretty bay, and across the sea to the point it drops off the end of the horizon.  A string of colourful shops and restaurants, all boasting Western food and wifi, line the edge of the cliff.  Set back from these, guest houses, bamboo bungalows and heritage homes spread away from the ‘strip’ or ‘uneven cobbled path’ as it is better described. 

It is a lovely spot, and very quiet, even the crows seem to find less to chat about here.  But I am tired of the same conversations with other travellers, ‘where you from?’, ‘how long are you in India for?’, ‘Have you been to so and so place, it is simply amazing?’, ‘done much yoga yet?’ blah blah blah.  And most people are quite frankly, pretty boring, talking tritely of spirituality and ashrams, somehow oblivious to the cultish nature of them.   I was introduced to a few Germans that were devotees to Amma, the hugging mother, who apparently hugs for 12 hours a day while addressing her followers.  To get a hug, tokens are issued, and the huggee then stands in line for a few hours to get a potentially healing hug from Amma.  Is this the Disney land of spirituality?  It is certainly big business.  The ashram is situated in the Keralan backwaters, vast concrete apartment blocks springing up, within which, small rooms are rented out to middle men, and then to the devotees themselves, for 600 rupees a day (£8), and are shared with two others.  Meals are included though.  There are four meter diameter huts being built, that are being sold for £30K to Western devotees.  The rather maniac Germans tell me that Amma has special powers, that she can heal, if the Gods so chose.  And that she is generous too, that she builds hospitals and schools for the poor.  I asked why she didn’t just hug the ills of the poor away if she was so gifted, but apparently it is better that she builds hospitals that use Western medicines than abuse the power given to her by God.  I didn’t really get much further, despite trying, with that argument.  In fact I didn’t get very far with any argument based at a rational level with them.  Amma had found them and they were now surrendered to her will.  For a fee.

I have been quite misanthropic since arriving, and in four days have made only one new friend.  And I am also remembering the difficulties of travelling as a lone female.  The lusty urgings of men on holiday that just want to rut, and the pesky Indians who assume that you want to fuck them because you smile and are white.  Last night some charming meat heads from Kent basically informed me that I could join them on the beach to make a fire, and I would be safe, they wouldn’t rape me.   An Indian who thought that confidence was all he needed to make a bed fellow of me, told me I was arrogant because I spurned his pathetic advances.  And even a man who I have known for two months now, and who also knows Alex as well as two months will allow, asked me if I was ‘making fun’ while I was apart from him.  There is a lot of libido to wade through with polite hostility before you can actually talk to the man rather than his lusty cock.

Alex has now decided to join me, Kochi is apparently losing its peculiar appeal so is going to come here.  Then we are going on a two week holiday with Graham and Sue……..around Kerala, starting in Kochi!  I might actually get round to seeing the tourist sights in Kochi, like the Dutch Palace and the Synagogue.  Maybe…..

Palolem Beach

Palolem, I was here 7 years ago, so it is difficult not to compare then with now, and since I was here last there has been a massive development with regard to tourism.  That is not to say it is a horrible place, it is still beautiful, and for a two week holiday the place is idyllic.  There is a real festival atmosphere to the place, the colours of the beach huts and the clothes hanging from the shops are all vibrant and strong, lots of bright oranges, blues, reds and purples, and the sari’s of the local women are bold and glinting from the gold threads weaved through them.  There are people wandering around without much intention in very little clothes, plenty of old wasters, occasional fireworks on the beach and nothing much to do except drink.  In the evenings the bars and restaurants are twinkling with fairy lights, and different music which comes fades in and out as they are passed, the familiar strum of a well-known melody drifts out of the bars, in the little stores the twangs of typical Indian sounds and in the instrument shops men with bongo’s drum away.  There are also sounds of horns, scooters each with a slightly different parp, and people blowing whistles.  The smells are plentiful and rich too.  Wafts of spices prick up the nostril hairs, and in the evening the fresh scent of citronella cuts through the warm air.  And there are the women, the beautiful Indian women who try and henna your hand or sell you jewellery on the beach.  All with bright happpy smiles and a very effective charm offensive ready to gently coax as many rupees as they can from the heavy pocketed tourist. 

I think this is the time to be here, a lot of the beach huts are still being constructed, and the numbers of tourists are at a tolerable level, although over the last three days they have doubled in number.   Once the brightly coloured mechano-like tourist town has been built again for the season, in a couple more weeks, apparently the beach gets insanely crowded.  I have visions of mounds of pink wobbly flesh and gin soaked morons who seem unaware that the British raj has been ousted, demanding cigarettes and water from insolent brown serfs because they are too lazy to wibble wobble a couple of huts down and get their own.   The wi-fi bars are going to be rammed with bored looking whities nursing cool beers and glasses of white wine, sat facing the exquisite beach while looking at their hands and flicking their fingers rhythmically across the screens of their i-phones.   It’s already evident to a lesser degree.

I feel a downside of the development of tourism has created a distance between the Goan’s that work in the bars and restaurants and the visitors.  The interaction between them and the tourists is non-existent and they just serve as an interface between you and your food.  Previously I remember it being much easier to talk with them in bars and feel more engaged with the place.   

And it is quite expensive.  I mean that relatively.  We still have a clean room with a fan and an attached bathroom with hot and cold running water for around £8 a night, and a bottle of beer is around 75p.  We have been informed though, that this will double within the next month….

Although this is a lovely place to bumble around in for a few days, I am looking forward to leaving Palolem and finding places I can feel more engaged with the country.  It is a lovely holiday destination, but it is close to home in the general ethos, I don’t feel I am travelling yet, just holidaying.  However, this is the best place we could have arrived.  I think Alex may have freaked if we had landed anywhere else, this is the gentle adjustment we need to ease those worries out of him and prepare for the journey ahead.  He is writing a diary of neuroses at present, so in a couple of months when he is sat on a dirty pavement eating street food with his un-sanitised hands, he can read back through it and chuckle at his funny ways.  I will not divulge the extent of his irrationality and will leave him to reveal them when he has found a little more humour with them.  However, we are making swift progress with them, and he has now given up fretting over best before dates on bottles of water, we are going to move into a beach hut for a few nights and risk the wildlife, and hopefully after a couple more nights, he will no longer confuse me for a face invading rat, when I try nudge him to stop snoring at night (whoever told him the story about the rat on the face has a lot to answer for).

All the ‘realities’ of home are becoming gradually distant too.  There is no talk of financial damnation, blackberry outages, immigration problems, property prices, the disaffection of youth and student fees. Neither is there the morning commute, the trains stuffed with heavy faces, clothes with no energy, just differing shades of grey, or getting caught in a bustling, impersonal wave of people moving with determined purpose to get the day over with so they can slump in front of the telly and turn their brains off from the daily imagination drain.

We have had our first encounter with a beggar this morning.  A young girl with what looked like a severed tongue approached us at breakfast with a woeful note about her horrendously disabled family and a petition with an ‘official’ stamp to, I assume, attempt in some way to verify her pitiful story.  On it were a few signatures and next to them the amount they had donated to her.  This ranged between 100 and 400 rupees (£1.20 – £5.00).  I thought that was a little excessive, so gave her 20 rupees, which I also thought was a bit too much.  The little wench looked at it with complete contempt and flounced off without so much of a Namaste.  I have resolved though, not to give any more mutilated children any more money.  Not due the girls reaction, but I cannot give money to something I ultimately in no way condone.  It is abhorrent to disfigure a child in any way to make money from it, and by giving money to these children solves nothing, it just propagates the horrible cycle of abuse.  In a country where the average wage of a poor person is a dollar a day, it is awful that a parent can earn substantially more than this by harming their children.  I will still give a couple of rupees to adult cripples, but not to children.

As for our own health.  Our stomachs remain unfazed and our skin still milky white.  And aside from Alex’s nerve quivering hangover today, we are well and heathly. 

Well I suppose we should head back to the beach now, it is going to be dark soon and Alex doesn’t fancy braving the Goan suicide drivers in the dark, on a scooter.  We have escaped from the throng to a beautiful nature reserve for the afternoon and sat by a lush green lake watching an array of birds and butterflies flit around us.  Considering it is only a 20 minute drive from the beach, it is surprising that we have only seen two other people wandering around here.  But that is a good thing.  Places regain their beauty when humans are removed.  It was lovely to sit in the luxury of nature and feel time pass without care.    

xxx