The "other" Koh Chang
Trip Start
Dec 28, 2010
1
26
37
Trip End
Apr 24, 2011
Koh Chang, Ranong, Thailand
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Koh Chang is meant to be the quiet island compared to Koh Phayam - seeing as the latter was totally dark and silent by ten thirty save for a few rasta-style laid back Thais, I wasn't quite sure how Koh Chang would achieve this save for being a monastery.
Here you just get dropped straight at your resort by a longtail boat, as the island isn't exactly easily navigated inland - there are no bikes to rent. We are staying at the oldest and biggest resort on the island, surrounded by cashew plantations, one of the island's main enterprises, which means an abundant supply of the pricey nut for me and a nightmare for Chrissy.
The kindly Mr Mow who owns the resort (read: collection of huts with corrugated iron roofs) showed us to the hut we had booked for that night. One of the very few inland, it was a brick hut sitting in the middle of a clearing in thick jungle. I didn't like it at all - it was dark, loud (from all the jungle noises) and I dreaded to think what might crawl in the huge gaps between the wall and the roof during the night. The bricks and the iron roof gave it the appearance of a disused Soviet checkpoint.
We stayed there anyway and Mr Mow promised to try his best to get us a beachfront bungalow in the morning. I tried my best to ignore the small rustlings that rippled out around us as we walked back to the main resort, reasoning that at least we hadn't seen any snakes yet. To make matters worse, for some reason our flip flops kicked a small scattering of sand behind us as we walked, which gave the effect that there was always something following.
I wandered off to peruse the small library and noticed that nearly every book was in German, apart from two English ones. Neither Phayam nor Chang are in the Lonely Planet, so there are hardly any backpackers here, but a lot of middle-aged German hippies, as it's been in the German guidebooks for over a decade. One ancient blonde man with a long pale beard and a leathery tan was wandering round in a posing pouch, playing a hand-carved flute. He wasn't exactly live and let live though - shouting crossly at a man to "hold his cigarette in the other hand so I don't get all the smoking blowing on me." Even though the man politely said yes and put the cigarette out he continued "If you want to pollute yourself that's fine but not me as well." They were both German, but the conversation was inexplicably conducted in English so we got to enjoy the spat.
After lunch we wandered along the beach to Omtao, the neighbouring resort which hosts a yoga class every day. I couldn't wait to do something purposeful again, especially here where there really was nothing to do, and after the disappointment of missing out in Koh Phanyan. But disaster! The yoga teacher had left, and the new one wouldn't be coming for two weeks. I think the gods of physical exercise are trying to tell me something - it's noga for me.
Dreading going back to our scary jungle abode, we decided to hit the bustling clubs and bars of Koh Chang at 4pm. Meaning we walked down the empty beach with only the clouds, hornbills and each other for company to plonk ourselves in a bar, the only other interruptions being the staff and an optimistic looking German woman who said "Time for volleyball." Statement or question we weren't sure, but either way neither of us were keen to leave our icy Changs for a game so I mumbled something about finishing our beers and she looked a bit put out. Instead, I watched the local kids drum up a spontaneous game of energetic football.
At about six we wandered back inland a few hundred metres to Little Italy, an authentic Italian restaurant. I use the term loosely; it was a gathering of three tables in the jungle. The food was incredible - bruschetta on home-backed bread, pasta cooked al dente with olives (olives!) and a glass of Italian red wine.
After we'd ploughed our way through that lot, we were joined by a group of five travellers - I think a mix of middle-aged Germans and one slightly older Italian. These were island long-termers, staying for months at a time. Karen and Alberta were at the forefront of the raw food movement and extolled the virtues of eating nothing but raw fruit and veg for months at a time, as I guiltily necked more wine and scoffed a giant portion of tiramisu. I think she was a proponent of cosmic ordering in some sense as she made references to things appearing when asked for - unfortunately in this their fifth year on the island, that thing was snakes. A king cobra had surprised them on the inland road the day before, rearing up before seeing Alberto, who seemed to have some gift with animals, then slinking off.
Karen had an instinctive eye, and sensed Chrissy's creative nature as he talked about his life and work in London. It was quite something to watch her give a neat and precise summary on him and his outlook in a few moments, something he himself had taken months, maybe even years to recognise.
The night was growing muggy and I shook down my shaggy mane of hair which was growing in the humid air as I continued to chat to the others about their unconventional lives on the island and our reasons for taking time out of London. Ageing Italian Cesare, who carried himself with an unusual gravitas and spoke English with a captivating lilt, caught my attention. "You've changed image," he said, blue watery eyes fixed on me. I wasn't sure whether he was asking a question and falteringly tried to answer if I had indeed changed image over the past two months, amazed by his insight. He stopped me saying "no, no, I just mean your hair, it's down now," and I quickly shut my mouth, reddening as I realised my gaffe.
As it crept towards ten we decided to get back to our secluded jungle home before the electricity shut off, getting everything we needed inside our little mosquito net tent and waiting for inky darkness to descend, tucking it so deep into the mattress that I wasn't sure if even we would get out again. A hot sleepless night followed, and I watched sweat running off Chrissy's chest as soon as he fell asleep. I tossed and turned, having vivid nightmares as soon as I drifted off about my mum and sister being in Koh Chang with me and standing in the path of hundreds of snakes making some kind of pilgrimage. Dawn brought feeble light through the cracks in our hut wall and a definite resolve to move to the beach.
Fortunately, Mr Mow moved us that morning to a more homely wooden bungalow a few paces from the sea. We whiled away the morning eating homemade bread and swimming in the sea, playing beach pictionary until we got hungry enough for lunch. I drifted off in the afternoon following my sleepless night and endured another vivid nightmare, involving spontaeous brain surgery in Thailand. I don't know what it was - the sunless afternoons, the black sand creeping through yellow on the beach, the ceaseless roar of the sea, or the growing breeze that hinted at a storm which never arrived, but something about Koh Chang was unsettling me. It seemed so desolate and lonely, the eventless days interspersed with long, dark nights. That evening we decided to leave the next day. I enjoyed one last look at the incredible night sky, lit up with a thousand stars I had likely never seen before, and ran a hand through the tide, watching electric blue plankton sparkle in its wake.
I had another fitful night, this time Chrissy ending our relationship on the phone in my vivid imagination as I slept. When I woke up I was so relieved it wasn't true that I didn't even tell Chrissy (who also woke up in contagion), in case he decided it was a good idea. The next morning we noticed a cloying damp had got into everything as we packed and I wondered how anyone dried out living here on the seafront. The resort was deserted as we left, the only souls awake being the staff. That was another strange thing about the place - it was fully booked but the beach was empty and no-one was to be seen at 8 in the morning. I was relieved to be heading back to Ranong and the land of the living.
While back in Ranong, we bumped into Cesare, who dashed across the street after spying us in a shop. He was in Ranong staying at the spa hotel enjoying the natural hot springs. Funnily enough, he said he didn't like Chang much either, finding it too lonely and the people strange. If Cesare, who seemed to radiate wisdom and good judgement, didn't like it, I felt I was in good company.
I thought hard about what Karen had said about a novel she is working on about how everyone in modern life is addicted to something. Was that me, one of an MTV generation with an attention span so mercilessly brief that I couldn't handle barely 48 hours on an island that even had facebook? I reasoned that I could have happily spent another week lolling on Phayam and closed the book on it.
