With droopy eyelids at half-mast I check into a hotel in Patong Thailand at 1:30 pm, and coincidentally learn about a weekly Hash House Harrier Run taking place at 3 pm. Still on Canada time, with the body clocking in around 11:30 pm, common sense would suggest getting some shut-eye after the fatiguing flights, but I opt for the run. I tried to be normal once – worst two minutes of my life!
A Hash Run is an interesting phenomenon where bits of paper are laid out at intervals along some obscure route through the bush; and include false trails (falsies), loop backs, and other treachery meant to confuse runners and even the playing field for all participants. The run is set up with enough red herrings to fill a dumpster, and whenever the correct trail is picked up hashers yell ‘On On’; trumpeting a bugle or horn to signal the peloton of plodders to follow!
Meeting up with other runners at the Expat Hotel to get to the start, I lower my rump into the box of a pickup truck looking like it just lost a fight with a ball-peen hammer. It is a humid 35 degrees and the haphazard topography requires some cunning running through mountain streams, forests of rubber trees, and a shoe-stealing mud slipperier than a peeled mango. An hour and a half later I find my way to the finish; muddied, bloodied, and sleep-deprived to the point where a temporary coma would be welcomed.
With all runners back a ‘circle’ is formed and the ‘Grand Master’ berates runners for ‘alleged’ hash sins committed on the run. The worst sinners are required to sit bare-ass on a huge block of ice, but fortunately all punishments involve chugalugging a frosty beer. After all, Hash House Harriers are a self-described ‘Bunch of Drinkers with a Running Problem’, and the reason we’re all here is because we’re not all there! After reveling in conduct unbecoming until one-too-many-beer o’clock, the group heads back to town.
Patong is a town full of life. Most of it low. Within one square kilometer there are 152 bars promoting booty, boobs, and beer! A testosterone-frenzy of old boozers are eyeballing ‘bar girls’ poured into dangerously taut jeans looking like a hip-to-ankle tattoo, and as can be expected, hordes of hookers with high heels and low ideals are happy to splay their Thai thighs for anyone willing to splay a wallet.
I reckon it’s time for a change of scenery and hop on a ferry with a gentle wind providing the air-con. Scaly projectiles known as ‘Flying Fish’ leap from the shimmering teal sea and use huge pectoral fins to glide alongside the boat as it rides the swells to Ko Phi Phi; Thailand’s island superstar.
Charlie’s Bungalow is nothing fancy, but is definitely a glorious place to go ‘troppo’. Sunshiny days in the high thirty degrees suit this sun vulture perfectly, and I’m entirely at ease with bathwater-warm seas and a lazy breeze fluffing the coconut trees. Consuming exotic meals while enjoying the enchanting panoramas of a turquoise bay and towering limestone cliffs I’m so happy that if I had a tail it would be wagging.
Ten days later I tear myself away from my self-imposed treadmill on Phi Phi and boat to the island of Ko Lanta. However, the habanero 48° heat of an over-zealous sun leaves me cloaked in listlessness, and coming as a huge surprise I find the food a letdown. Along with better odds of seeing the Abominable Snowman than getting friendly service, my breakup with Melanomaville is an easy decision.
Lollygagging about the river town of Krabi back on the mainland I fortuitously stumble into a little shop selling SangSon; a Thai pseudo rum. Needless to say the larking about that follows is a bit of a blur, but I do have jumbled recollections of helping a Thai guy with his English lessons, a great pizza, and a funny haircut!
With a category four hangover joining me on a run as the sun pulls itself up, I stop beside a river bank with clusters of mangroves; ‘the trees that walk’. Lost in the fog of rum, I see a couple of tiny fish jump out of the river and transform into ‘the fish that walk’. Watching one pull itself across the muddy shore on its fins and hop up onto a tree trunk, I am seriously considering a change of beverage!
Krabi will also be remembered as the venue for my D.B.T.W. (Double Big Toe Wipeout). In the lobby of the KR Mansion Hotel I reach into the fridge for a cold bottle of water tucked away at the back, and not so deftly knock a one liter bottle of beer off the top shelf. The heavy bottle lands simultaneously on my big toe and the tiled floor, and as it shatters, imbeds a shard of glass into the big toe of my other foot.
One big toe with a blackened nail, and the other one bleeding; you see, this is the kind of crap that can happen when one chooses water over beer. Some days you’re the windshield and some days you’re the bug! The lovely Thai girl working the desk hears the crash, and seeing me leaking onto her floor, quickly scampers off down the street. Moments later she returns, and offering a respectful little ‘wai’, presents me with a couple of bandages; a most genial gesture for this clumsy ‘Farang’.
From Krabi I travel to Surat Thani province where a mini-bus drops me at the last stop on the highway. Collecting sunshine on an upright thumb, I manage to hitch a ride in the back of a pickup truck for the remaining 40 km to the tropical Khao Sok Rainforest.
Swapping the sea-life for tree-life, my home for the next four days is a jungle tree house accessible only by ladder. Though my minimalist ‘jungalow’ is primarily a roof over a bed and a candle for light, it offers a great ambiance looking down over a burbling stream and a mat of lush vegetation in every conceivable shade of green. With primal songs of gibbon monkeys echoing out of the mist-shrouded canopy I’m beginning to feel a lot like Tarzan – now all I need is my Jane!
Taking a little leave from my mind I opt to play out my ‘Survivor’ fantasies with a trek into the surrounding rainforest, without the aid of a guide. Not surprisingly the solo trek turns into quite an adventure with the wonderful, wacky, and widely diverse wildlife including weird frogs, spiders, rodents, scorpions, and water snakes. Even stranger, I experience a ‘flying lizard’ using a set of large wings to glide through the air before thudding onto a large tree right beside my head. Flapping a fold of throat skin up and down, the wizard lizard is most compelling, but personally I find reptiles plenty scary enough even when they are not flying!
Insanely fetching butterflies look like fragile flying flowers as they pause for a sip of nectar, and melodic bird trills compete with the din of an exotic insect orchestra in full swing. The superb bounty of jungle flora and fauna has me feeling as if I’ve just stepped inside a nature documentary.
Penetrating further into the clammy jungle I come to a waterfall spilling over moss laden rocks, and while sitting down to savor the scenery, create a puddle of sweat. Suddenly a swarm of bees are buzzing around me like a rip-saw; likely attracted by either my salty sweat or the blood dribbling down my leg from a leech I acquired at one of many river crossings. With my arms wind-milling about like an octopus falling from a tree, I make a bee-line back to camp to try and evade the bee-yond bee-fuddling bee-havior!
The little blood sucking leeches either have to be scraped off or left to detach themselves after drinking their fill. A theory out there says that the snugly ugly would make a great pet and traveling companion, since it requires little space, bonds closely with its owner, and needs only one feeding every 6-12 months to stay happy. However to my way of thinking, the nasty blood-eating worms just suck, and any ‘attachment’ is purely physical. Five sweaty hours of hiking later I’m most relieved to find my way back to camp.
Hiking alone again today on a scrawny jungle path (slow learner), I’m concentrating my energies on prying another blood engorged leech off my leg and not paying enough attention to my surroundings. Glancing up, my corpuscles suddenly start to dance, realizing I’m sharing the path with the embodiment of a nightmare. On the ground before me, looking soulless, dark, and menacing is a six foot black cobra!
A tsunami of fear has me playing castanets with my knees and questioning the condition of my underwear. Blessedly, the toxic terror seems in a non-combative mood and slithers off into the greenery. They say ‘fear’ is 80% mental and the other 20% is in your head; but alone in the jungle without the ability to psychoanalyze a potentially deadly cobra, it equates to ‘Fuck Everything And Run’! Faster than a Cuban on a speedboat headed for Miami, I eagerly put distance between us.
Mentioning the petrifying encounter back in camp, I’m told I have been very fortunate as the description matches that of a ‘spitting cobra’. Apparently the legless terror has the freakish ability to spit venom with lethal accuracy into the eye of its victim from up to eight feet away. A shiver passes over me, reflecting on the close call with a venom-chucker that could have genuinely ruined my day. Yes, the jungle undoubtedly offers unlimited adventure, but for right now I think I’m good!
Boating to Ko Samui, my enthusiasm evaporates on arrival, seeing that the island is yet another shining example of a once idyllic spot ravaged by tourism. There’s dozens of cheap bars, and the beaches are splotched with needles, beer caps, and a surplus of European flesh-wobbles wearing ill-fitting speedos.
The island’s heavy sex trade is also apparent. Wearing skimpy skirts low enough to require a pubic wax, a plentitude of painted, pleasingly proportioned prostitutes prowl for potential prospects; hoping to climb the ladder of success wrong by wrong. Out on a run at seven o’clock in the morning, I’m whorishly propositioned three times with offers of ‘boom-boom’, and then a fourth time on my way to put a hurting on some breakfast! Obviously to these eager beavers sex is no more serious than a sneeze.
Returning to Krabi town I once again witness my amphibious fish! The bulbous eyed oddballs are truly a ‘fish out of water’; using pectoral fins as feet to be able to ‘walk’ about. I know you’re thinking he’s been into the local hooch again, but I swear it’s true! For you nonbelievers the oddball evolutionary hybrids are called ‘mudskippers’, that in water breathe through gills, and on land absorb oxygen through their skin.
Back on Phi Phi Island waiting for Christine and friends to join me for the second month of my travels, my flabber is totally ghasted when bumping into Jack and Brannan, a couple I know from home. Over a superb seafood dinner and a troubling number of rums, we discuss the walking fish of Krabi, as ‘Captain Jack’ and his lady also claim to have seen the piscatorial pedestrians.
The fish tale Jack tells me is that they saw one of these fish get out of a car it was driving, so they tried to take him for a drink. It seems the bartender knew the fish but wouldn’t serve him because he speaks only ‘Finish’ and is lured into trouble after a few rums. Apparently the fish is a bit of a slimy dude, known to get into fishticuffs if his bill comes to over a fin! Damn, first its flying fish, then its walking fish; for fuckssake, can’t they just be content with hanging out in the water?
Meeting the gang at the ferry under a sun that knows me well, they are shocked by the darkness of my sun-stained skin. I show them to the cabins where we swap news of the last month over a long and liberal happy hour, before deciding to put the party to bed so we don’t end up wearing the toilet as a hat!
Transport for today’s snorkeling trip is a long-tailed boat powered by a muffler-less car engine that sounds like a hiccupping chainsaw! Through rum-clouded retinas, we’re entertained by a pod of playful porpoises crisscrossing the boat’s bow while we motor between the craggy cliffs. Dropping anchor in a limpid bay we jump over the side to snorkel among a kaleidoscope of tropical scales and tails.
After spending a few days in the beach towns of Ao Nang and Railay Bay we circle back to Phuket, where Richard and I accidentally end up in a brothel. Yes an accident, Scout’s honor! Ass-ending a set of stairs, we stumble into an area crammed with caramel-skinned joy-girls scantily clad in lingerie, and flaunting teeth that could sell toothpaste. Flying the flags of cleavage, their come-hither looks and minimum of textiles are obvious indicators that they’re ready to hop into bed for something other than sleep!
Seconds later, on seeing our wives join the party, the 1000 watt dimpled smiles of the honey-brown nymphets are not only dimmed, but completely extinguished. Screeching out a string of hostile Thai psychobabble, the old ‘mama-san’ in charge seems to have a pickle up her ass over a lost business opportunity, and the aerobics of her flailing arms gives her the appearance of performing a drunken backstroke! It’s time to move on.
A short flight whisks us off to our old stomping grounds of Bali, but since my month here is mainly work related I’ll keep the comments short, as you know how I like to rapturously wax on about Bali. Nonetheless, I will mention two thought-provoking occurrences. Nyepi (Day of Silence) is a sacred Hindu celebration, and on its eve, the streets host a parade of demonic effigies called ‘Ohgo-Ohgos’.
Up to 25 feet tall and made from Styrofoam, paper, and bamboo, the elaborate demons are strapped onto bamboo platforms and gyrated through town by villagers. At midnight taken to the beach and burned to ashes to symbolize the expulsion of evil spirits and negative energy for a clean and sacred new year.
Nyepi is serious business and requires silence for 24 hours. All lights, fires, and travel are banned and tourists asked not to leave their hotel. This is a tall ask, but about 1000 police are deployed to ensure the rules are followed. The belief is that evil spirits won’t be able to find the island if it remains dark and silent.
The superstitious Balinese take their Gods and demons so seriously that it brings the island to a standstill, and even the airport is shut down! When Christine tries to order fruit juice at our bungalow she is told it is not possible as the noise of the blender might alert unwanted spirits!
The island has provided us with many fascinating experiences, but none more vivid than the sphincter-tightening spectacle of a thief being savagely murdered before our eyes! Most of the island’s crime is caused by more-or-less moral-less thugs from the islands of Java, Lombok, and Sumatra who come to Bali to find work, but when none is to be found, often resort to thieving from tourists.
Balinese believe their island must remain a safe haven, because without the geyser of tourist dollars businesses will close and they will have no money to buy petrol or rice. Since the police system is abysmally inept locals often take matters into their own hands. When a robbery is witnessed people scream ‘MALING’ (thief) and everyone gives chase, and if caught, the thief is beaten to death on the spot by the mob.
I’ll spare the grisly graphics of a gruesome death in Kuta which has left us both shaken to the marrow, but I will say that witnessing someone being beaten to death and hearing the sounds of a human skull being crushed is a bell that can never be unrung! The savage incident is a further reminder that Bali is like a rose; it has many beautiful petals but is not without its thorns!
It has been an arduous month with the majority of time dedicated to my convoluted import business, made even more difficult with being plagued with a bug diagnosed as Moraxcella. Pneumonia in Bali – say what? Yes, it would appear I have not been swilling enough beer and arak to obliterate the microscopic entities declaring a nasty jihad upon my system. Alas, with our cargo finally finished, so too are we. It’s time to traverse time zones to get back home where yesterday awaits.
Mark Colegrave 2000