Thailand: hospitals and snorkeling

On the overnight train ride to Bangkok, I was in “2nd class air-conditioned sleeper”, as were all the sane backpackers and a number of Thais. The design and cleanliness left something to be desired; where the Chinese trains were fairly nice (if you stayed out of the bathrooms), this train’s interior décor was what I’d call “cluttered metallic”. Even though there seemed to be some cool air entering the cars, it was circulated by means of a series of ceiling fans pointing downwards and rotating. In front of each pair of facing seats (which became a single berth at night) was a metal combination rack and ladder (to reach an upper bunk). Together with dim lighting and a grimy floor, the effect was somewhere between ‘3rd world train and “Borg cube”.

My immediate neighbors included a Thai monk wrapped in orange robes, a gaggle of yackety Thai girls in their late teens, and two American backpackers, one of whom looked like a grumpy Bruce Willis; another, whose name was Daniel and who hailed from the Bay area, hobbled along on an injured foot. The result of being slapped in the foot by an errant piece of bamboo while dirt biking through rural Laos. That’s what you get when you go for adventure. Stick close to coffee shops and you’ll be fine, I always say. Well, but then I did go to Tiger Leaping Gorge.

Bangkok is, like most big Asian cities, crowded and polluted. Mostly flat, it lacks the exotic appeal of green, mountainous Hong Kong with its gleaming skyscrapers. Bangkok, nevertheless, is cool to visit. There are only a few staggered skyscrapers; it mostly has a cluttered feeling (like the trains) with streets filled with unimaginative buildings. The traffic, for the most part, during the day, remains at a standstill for several minutes at a time. Taking a bus for a kilometer takes about as long as walking. Still, Bangkok has charms: temples of gold and red with chiseled golden dragons sitting atop temple gates, a palace where the ancient kings of Siam ruled from, and famed Khao San Road—a pedestrian only tourist street littered with shops, booths, signs, touts and scantily clad tourists. Actually, I didn’t like it at all. It’s no different from other “tourist streets” in Asia—just shops of the same old junk you find everywhere else (usually for cheaper): clothing, jewelry, books, CD’s, knick knacks, and then the guesthouses all offering cheap rates and western food and Internet, and the cafes and coffee shops. It’s all quite dreary in its sameness. I guess tourists like it because there are some palm trees here and there.

I offered to share a taxi with Daniel at the train station when we arrived in Bangkok very early the next morning. He was limping along by now, having shed a quantity of blood onto the train floor after hopping down from the top bunk. He’d said one choice word repeatedly, which caused me to pull back my privacy curtain and peak out in the first place. The taxi took us to what is known as Mission Hospital but its real name is the Bangkok Adventist Hospital. 27 years ago when I was here, it was one of the best and I believe it still is. Bangkok has world class hospitals, something most people are ignorant of. Washington DC, London, and any old city in Germany would pop into mind, but not Bangkok, but the fact is that people from as far away as Australia (and certainly the Middle East and India) come here.

I’d booked the guesthouse through a kind email contact named Myrna. The hospital maintains a couple guest apartments for (mostly) Adventists coming for long-term treatment or as guests coming through Bangkok for another reason. After dropping Daniel in the care of the ER people, I checked in at some little office near a series of waiting areas. Since it was barely 7am, seats were empty. My apartment, as it turns out, was much more than I expected: two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen complete with fridge and microwave (and several bottles of water) and a living room. Goodness knows I’d have been happy with one room; this was luxurious. I wound up staying six nights. 

One of the reasons I’d come on the trip was to collect inspirational spiritual stories for a book I was contemplating. I’d had bad luck in China and Laos contacting any pastors but had already received some contacts in both Thailand and Cambodia. It was Saturday, so I wandered along a pathway on the hospital compound that cut through tall trees, banana trees, ferns, vines, a veritable rain forest—all here on the property. I’m exaggerating but the grounds of the hospital are quite green. I came across the church and spoke to a woman named Rickie; she’s in her fifties, I imagine, having lived here a long time. Her father, as it turns out, started an organization called Volunteers International way back in the 70’s. I’d been hired by him and his partner to teach English to Lao refuges in 1981—though just for a couple months, and ‘hired’ isn’t the right word since I wasn’t a professional and wasn’t paid. The whole thing was volunteer, as the name implies. Anyway, she told me about a woman running an orphanage on the Thai-Burmese border and told me the names of some guys to contact. After that, I attended the church service (in Thai and English) and afterwards enjoyed a potluck dinner with two American guys in their early twenties who are teaching here at one of the Adventist schools. I enjoyed their company but not the lunch since I could barely get down any of the rice with spicy green beans—due to my affliction, of course.

In the afternoon, I caught a bus (another rickety, smoke-belching affair) whose air-conditioning consisted of open windows. There were two centers that I wound up visiting: Big C was a modest multi-story department store but I succeeded in swallowing some KFC mashed potatoes with a little difficulty. I even tried ice cream and that wasn’t entirely easy going down. I did some work at Starbucks and got home by early evening, just lazing around the apartment reading and checking emails.
Sunday morning, I woke up a bit nervous. I was to see the doctor and get a true idea of what was causing my swallowing problems. Down in the clinic, when the nurse weighed me, I was chagrined to learn that I’d lost a couple kilos recently. What if I wouldn’t be able to swallow normally again? It’s scary. I tried to read the Bangkok Post while waiting for the doctor, but articles about train strikes didn’t capture my imagination. Finally, I was called in to see Dr. Nick (as he’s called), an American GP who is one of only a couple English-speaking docs to pass the Thai medical boards. It’s a miracle, really, since he’d only been in Thailand a short time. But more on that in my book. For now, I gave him the report from the Australian doctor and some more background. Yes, type 1 diabetic with pretty good control, etc. etc. He asked questions and set me up with an ENT—in fact to see him within the hour. Dr. Nick struck me as one of those dedicated, truly Christian missionary doctors whose only goal is to help other people. He also told me that his wife would be a wealth of information on Bangkok.

The ENT examined my throat, asked questions, etc. I was shown the way to the X-Ray department where technicians did a sinus X-ray and a throat X-ray, made a bit unpleasant by my having to drink barium (not too bad tasting actually). “Take a mouthful, and hold it in your mouth,” instructed a kindly middle-aged little Thai nurse. She ran off and the technician got his ultra-modern gleaming computer machine going and the nurse called out “swallow!” I only managed to push tiny swallows down one at a time, my poor old ticker beating hard. “Please, take another mouthful,” she said, watching me. “More. Good, now hold it, and when I saw ‘swallow’, swallow all of it in one go.”

I managed to do it, surprisingly, the third time. Off I went to wait for the report.
“The good news,” said the ENT doc, “is that there are no growths, no cancer, no stricture or blockage in the esophagus. The mechanism works fine.” Which I had to take issue with, of course. It wasn’t fine at all. But the moving images of my swallowing action were on his computer desktop as he pointed it all out. Nothing was preventing me from swallowing. “We can try a neurologist tomorrow,” he said.
Well, in the next couple of days, I saw the neuro doc, who said it couldn’t be ‘Mysthenia Gravitis’, or some such horrible disease as my sister back home had feared it would be. “You have none of the symptoms. I think it might have been a mild infarction in a region of the hippocampus”. (or something like that). That translated, as far as I knew, into STROKE, which sent my little heart into palpitations. “It should get better,” he informed me. “I’d take one aspirin every day…you are diabetic, it would be smart.”

Well, I did feel a bit better after watching the images of my throat swallowing without hindrance, and in fact got down a couple Dunkin’ Donuts pretty easily, and even a McDonald’s double cheeseburger. Liquid or any kind of fruit was problematic, but I wouldn’t starve, I found out. The thing that pleased me about the whole thing was the proof that American insurance companies and pharmaceuticals are ripping off the American public like bandits. How did I arrive at this conclusion? I had the following medical treatment:
• One consultation/exam with an American GP
• One consultation/exam with an ENT specialist
• One sinus X-ray
• One major throat X-ray
• 2 follow-up consultations
• 1 exam with neurologist
• 3 prescriptions

TOTAL cost: $100 US dollars.

Note: The MRI that I did a few days later cost a whopping $250! Compare that with $3,000 back home. And you don’t think we desperately need health care reform?
Phuket is a town on the west coast of southern Thailand. American viewers got a glimpse of Phuket and other Thai towns along the coast back in 2004 when the tsunami swept over them. You-Tube videos of that catastrophe are still popular viewing. The town itself is nothing special in my view; a few streets of ordinary shops. There’s a couple of beaches popular with the young partying crowd, but after landing at Phuket Airport (a rinky dink affair, thankfully), I climbed onto a bus that would take me downtown, where I’d try to find the Adventist Hospital and, hopefully, guest quarters. I wasn’t even completely sure how I’d spend my five days in southern Thailand, kind of playing it by ear. On the bus, I met a Russian couple named, appropriately, Boris and Tanya. With them, I wandered around downtown Phuket at dusk looking for the Thai Authority Tourist office but by the time we stumbled on it, the place was closed. Boris and Tanya wanted to go by minibus to the party part of the town, but after our good-byes, I walked down the next street I came to. This was yet another of the many Asian roads with dozens of dimly-lit shops with their open fronts to the street. Outside one car-parts shack sat a man in his forties, perhaps, with long hair. He reminded me of a Thai hippie, if there had ever been such a thing. The man and I enjoyed a short conversation before he led me out into the street and flagged down a taxi-scooter for me—and told the driver where I wanted to go. Thanking him, I took off clinging to a couple of metal grips on the side of the scooter as the maniac got me at warp speed through traffic to Mission Hospital.

It turned out that the hospital here didn’t have guestrooms, but I met Tom, a Thai man who works as assistant to the hospital president. He led me over to a nearby two-star hotel that the hospital sometimes uses for visitors, and I must say, the place was quite okay. Quite two-star, as well. But there was air-conditioning and a clean bed, so that’s all I cared about. The little lizard hiding beneath my shower controls during my shower was a bit un-nerving, I will add. Every time I’d adjust the hot water knob, he moved a half inch further up into the control box shadows, his cute little tail the only thing showing.

I had to call in to the Thai Immigration office the next morning. My visa would run out in a week or so, and I needed to stay at least a week beyond that. In the main office of a small white stucco building, crowded with a dozen desks, a uniformed white man came over to me as I entered. “How can I help you?” he asked with a Scottish accent. I explained about the extension I wanted, and he said, “Sure, just gotta have the passport, passport copy, application and nineteen-hundred Thai Baht.” I nearly fainted at hearing I needed the equivalent of fifty bucks just for an extension. “I also need an extension to the fifteenth of November,” I added. I knew it was more than the one-week extension that they gave everyone. “Let me speak to my supervisor,” said the officer, and he strolled into some office and spoke to a Thai guy sitting importantly at a big desk cluttered with paperwork. When he walked back, he smiled and said, “The captain says it’s okay to give you until the 15th.” He looked happier than I did, no doubt. Well, that was some good news anyway. Being hot and sweaty and wishing to only get to a nice beach, I nodded at the man. “Where’s the ATM?”

He gave me directions (basically for the 7-11, of course) and said, “Look, ya come back and I’ll help you get it all done in a jiffy.” I could see he really was trying to be helpful. There were a dozen other tourist in various stages of getting something official done, and three white Westerners in the uniform of Thai Immigration. How did that come to be? I asked the guy if he were from Scotland and he laughed. “No, from the Netherlands.” Well, he did have a Scottish accent. Maybe he’d studied in Glasgow. Anyway, after lugging my pack all the way down to the 7-11 and getting my cash, I returned, and sure enough, the Dutch guy filled out the application for me and got permission from his superior to tell the clerk to give me an extension to November 15th.

Across the street were some fellows sitting comfortably on their scooters; one middle-aged guy sat on a fold-out chair smoking in the shade of a tree. “Where you wanna go?” he asked me. I’d decided the night before to go to Phi Phi Island (pronounced “Pee Pee Island), so I said, “To the pier. How much go pier?” One might as well leave off prepositions when speaking with these guys. The man frowned as if in deep thought about the problems of the world, scratched his ear, hemmed and hawed a bit. “100 Baht,” he said. This was a ridiculous price; I thought 60 would be more like it and offered 60.

“Okay!” he said, all too quickly, and I realized that once again I’d not bargained hard enough. He would have taken me for forty, most likely. You’d think I’d learn. Anyway, the pier was a collection of tourist ferries and booths where you could buy tickets. At one counter, a girl asked, “Where you want go?” and I replied, “I wanna go phi phi.” I wished that the island had a different name. The funny thing is, there’s an island not far away called Pu Island. I bought a ticket and waited in a long ‘room’ about two-hundred feet long with only a small café at one end. Along with other waiting passengers, I read and sipped soft drinks. One exciting moment came when a bird flew through but didn’t quite make the exit; he smashed instead into the wall. Down the poor little fellow went and was surely dead on the floor. I wandered close and looked down. Yep, dead as a doornail. I continued reading, but noticed a pair of girls at the next table glancing down at the bird; now the creature was stirring! “He’s got one hell of a headache, I’ll bet,” I said. One of the girls smiled. “I’m sure.”

By and by, the bird (a pretty thing, dark with a yellow stripe) staggered a few inches, then flew up to perch on the door frame. That must have cost him some energy because he just sat there for the longest time. But by the time we headed out to board the ferry, the bird had flown away. All’s well that ends well.

Guess who I saw on the boat? Boris and Tanya; we greeted each other, and Boris pointed out where Tanya sat at the front of the ferry. There were approximately sixty or seventy seats all facing forward, and at the back of the room a short counter on top of which were some cans of pop and some beer, snickers, the necessities of life. All the seats were filling, with another forty or fifty passengers sitting or standing on the deck above. Once the captain piloted the ferry away from the pier, it picked up speed and we were on an open calm blue sea. I chatted with Boris and Tanya for awhile but headed up then to get some air on deck. The wind was warm but refreshing, that scent of the sea reminding me of Dubai. Backpackers made up the majority of travelers, though some were older, in their forties, fifties. The ship pulled into port, and because I carried only one smaller backpack (that I’d borrowed from Doctor Nick and his wife), I was one of the first off the boat as the others had to pull their packs from a little hill of luggage at the back of the boat.

I lost Boris and Tanya again. Walking first along a pier, I took it all in: an expanse of blue sea, a shoreline with nice beach. On one side of the pier were ferries, sailboats, and the like; on the other side, small motorized fishing boats, longboats as they are called locally. Each has a tiny canvas stretched over metal poles to offer shade. Not more than a few hundred yards away were the first towering limestone cliffs of the island as it curved around the port. Behind the town were high, grand hills. The pier walkway joins ‘main street’, more of a shop-lined alley along which are cafes, travel agencies, scuba-dive shops, knick knack shops, and, well, you get it. The same as all island tourist hot spots. Thanks to a brochure that Boris had showed me, I thought the best overall deal would be at The Andamon Resort. At a makeshift ‘office’ near the pier, I arranged to stay a couple of nights there, and a bony teen-aged boy of 13 or 14 walked with me down “main street” for close to fifteen minutes before we arrived at the resort.

I liked it immediately. The Andaman Resort looked like what I’d always imagined a beach resort would look like. Not the five-star Marriott type, of course, but an elegant three-star place with bungalows, a layered swimming pool facing the sea, and an outdoor café where a free breakfast buffet would be served. I checked in and was led by a youth to my bungalow. The room was large, had a ceiling fan, a clean bathroom and a fridge, wardrobe, all I needed. I dumped my pack and headed out to explore Phi Phi town. Wandering down “main street” with its twists and turns past shops and cafes all facing the sea. To my left was the water and fishing boats. Under a gnarled old tree sat three Thai fishermen. “You want go islands?” one said. He was wearing a sarong and off-white sweat-stained tank-top (hey, he’s a fisherman, for goodness sake), and his eyes were kind, the smile genuine. I asked him how much and where we would go. “Go four hours, four places for swimming, snorkeling, islands, okay, 800 baht.”

I told him that I’d let him know in a few hours, but it sounded good. Fifteen bucks or so to go snorkeling on islands wasn’t too hefty a price. I wandered on down to where another main road bisected “main street”—and ran into Boris and Tanya, and again we greeted each other happily. Turns out they too were staying at the Andaman Resort and were on their way to check in. I let them know about snorkeling with the private fisherman, and Boris said, “Yes, that sounds good,” and Tanya nodded in agreement. There were big tour boats that went out for the day for the same price, according to a dozen signs, but a private longboat was preferable. “Maybe we can talk him down in price,” suggested Boris. Later , I stopped by where the fishermen were sitting and made the deal with the man I’d spoken to. “Okay,” he said, pleased. “My name Zacharias. You come tomorrow morning, yes? Eight thirty.” At dusk, I plunged into the pool and watched the sun setting beyond the sheer cliffs on the other side of the water. Down at the beach, a couple of longboats were pulling up to shore.

The next morning, after a buffet breakfast where I managed to get down toast, scrambled eggs and even a few corn flakes, Boris, Tanya and I walked to where Zacharias was waiting. “We met another Russian couple last night,” Boris told me. “They should be here any minute.” Zacharias helped us each aboard the longboat, onto which we had to step from the embankment. The other couple, in their early twenties, came aboard and introduced themselves to me as Michael and Natasha. Settling onto the benches just under the protective tarp covering, they watched Zacharias start up the engine at the back of the boat. Boris and Tanya perched on the front of the boat.

The day was one of the best yet. Zacharias’s longboat glided and puttered over the waves past palm-filled forest and white sandy beaches. Limestone cliffs were set further back, and out to sea were other islands, three of which we visited. Snorkeling was great. At the first stop, twenty meters or so out from the beach, we swam with schools of clown fish. When Zacharias threw pieces of bread into the water, the fish darted in by the dozens. He’d toss the bread out to where one of us would be snorkeling or treading water, and of course we’d find ourselves swarmed, even nibbled at. Afterwards, Zacharias took us to an almost-deserted beach on Phi Phi Island itself. “Only way come beach,” he said falteringly, “is by boat.” We climbed awkwardly out of the longboat and waded in hip-deep water towards the shore. On the beach, a dozen tiny crabs darted hither and thither. Set a few yards into the forest was a makeshift shack where a longhaired Thai man of thirty, sleeping in a hammock, rose to get me a diet coke, which I was thrilled to find. Yes, this was paradise. Later in the afternoon, Zacharias took the boat to yet another island, the one where the movie The Beach was filmed—the one with Leonardo DeCaprio. There were too many little tourist boats near the beach, of course, but the high limestone cliffs sheltered the sea from the winds so that the crystal-clear aqua-marine water was quiet and shallow.

On the second day, Boris, Tanya and I decided to do a little hike. We’d gotten sunburned the day before, and I lent my bottle of white vinegar to Boris to apply to his burns. I’d looked all over the village for either vinegar (not in many tourist shops as you can imagine) or medicine to heal sunburn; finally, in one of the very few village food shops that catered to locals, I’d found the vinegar. At any rate, starting our hike that morning, we followed a pathway that ascended gradually at first. Signs with “Tsunami Evacuation” in big red letters and an arrow pointing up the trail were, to me, funny. When a tsunami hits, there is almost no warning—just the sea reversing itself and flowing backwards and revealing seabed. But by that time, it’s too late to really do anything except run like a maniac and scream a warning. Certainly, there’s not sufficient time to, first of all, fine the evacuation path, and then start climbing it. We hiked for ten minutes before at an altitude where I wouldn’t worry about floodwaters. The trail passed through palms, banana trees, ferns, towering trees with skinny trunks, wildflowers, shacks, a couple cafes. We climbed stone steps a couple of times, really panting as the demands on our lungs became more urgent. But at the top, from a few slabs of flat rock and a garden filled with brightly-colored flowers (and a tiny two-table café), the view was awe-inspiring: I could see the narrowest point of the island, a forty or fifty-meter wide stretch of island, on either side of which was beach. Back in 2004, the tsunami had just rolled over this fifty-meter stretch of hotels and town. Just beyond the twin beaches were limestone hills even higher than the one on which we now stood.

We continued on, Boris determined to get to the other side of the island. “I’m sure there’s a pathway,” he insisted. “How do the locals go? They don’t hire longboats to take them!” Sure enough, one of the trails veered off and headed downwards. The way was extremely rough, and after twenty minutes of heat, tropical bugs, huge tree roots snaking across the path, and rocks, we were tired. But we plodded on down because none of us wanted to go back the same way. Finally, we emerged onto level ground and into a clearing—and then beach. There were some primitive-looking wooden structures that turned out to be rented to the backpacker wanting a more ‘natural’ experience. I wandered around the beach, swam a bit, watched hundreds of tiny centipede like creatures crawl over slabs of rock. After an hour or so, Boris wanted to walk along the shore—except the ‘shore’ he desired to follow was covered with those rocks and probably thousands of those centipedes. I was more of a mind to get back, so we said our farewells for the time being and they continued on.

Now, I had a new problem. I had only a couple dollars worth of coins in my pocket. I’d kept my wallet back at the bungalow, figuring I’d be getting wet at some point. And the only ways off this beach included walking back that rough trail, following the centipede trail (which would take hours anyway), or by longboat. The longboats would cost plenty, so how was I to get off this island? I began to sympathize more with the castaways of Gilligan’s Island. I began chatting with a local, probably a fisherman and part-time water taxi driver. He said that some tourists wanted to go to Long Beach, which I knew was the beach near Phi Phi Town. From there, I was sure, I could walk through the jungle to my resort. After a while, a girl of perhaps nineteen or twenty came along with an older couple, and I asked them where they were going. Well, conversations begin this way on the road, so I soon determined that they were ethnically Russian but now German citizens. The girl, very pretty, was on a holiday with her parents, having convinced them after her first three Thailand trips to visit the islands. We all boarded the longboat by wading out and climbing aboard. The ride back was fun; I impressed the parents with my limited knowledge of German and Russian (they knew no English). I half worried about not having the fare but would tell the driver that I could find him later and pay him.

We came puttering close to Long Beach, nothing more than a five-star resort and a beach; the Germans were going to hang out here for awhile but I wanted to get back to the Andaman Resort. As I got into the sea, I handed my coins to the fisherman and said, “I only have this…” and was going to go into my big plan to locate him again, but he said, “Okay, no problem.” What a nice guy, I thought.

I didn’t hang around Long Beach, but asked a Thai girl working a concession stand how to walk to Phi Phi Town. She pointed down towards the end of the private beach. “There is a path, just follow.” What she didn’t tell me that the first part of the ‘path’ was an incline of practically straight up (slight exaggeration), consisting of dirt, rocks, a tangled mess of tree roots, and bugs. After navigating (and panting like a madman) the hill, the rest of the path was easy to navigate, through a woodsy area and over an area where the tide had gone out. I celebrated my return to town by visiting the Internet café, and then sipping a Cola Light and munching on chips while watching the sea from an area in the front of the resort where some tables had been set up. Darkness had fallen, and I soon went off for a swim in the pool.

The next morning, packing to leave the island, I noted that my camera was nowhere to be found—this with a bit of panic as I searched everywhere in my room. Well, I must have left it at the Internet café yesterday, I’d reasoned. And what were the chances that it would be there now? I didn’t like the odds but whispered a prayer. Maybe someone honorable had found my camera with all my pictures of Laos and turned it in. And maybe Rush Limbaugh would vote liberal in the next election. Myself and Mr. Backpack headed down the path to the office, where I hoped to hurriedly check out and get myself to the Internet café. My heart downcast, I offered a smile to the girl behind the desk as she checked me out and accepted my cash. At that moment, one of the workers, a teen boy in dark trousers and green T-shirt, came in with something in his hand. He spoke some words to the girl, but I already recognized my camera! “Yes, bless you, it’s mine!” I cried, and he looked surprised and handed it over. “Where did you find it?” I asked. He pointed outside and said, “On table.” Good heavens, I’d left it outside on the table the night before as I’d admired the sea, and throughout the night, it hadn’t rained (this was the tail end of rainy season) and no one had taken it during two hours of light this morning. I thanked God and vowed not to be quite so stupid in the future. But I’m afraid that is a regular promise that is regularly broken. Oh well.

One of the best places I have visited on this entire trip was Railay Bay. Getting there is quite an experience. First, I sailed on a small ferry that transported a crowd of backpackers to a town called Crabi. From the pier, a taxi driver delivered me to a place difficult to describe, the place from which one hired a longboat pilot to go to Railay Bay, which was only accessible by boat. It’s not exactly a pier, just a covered ‘bus stop’. A longboat pilot led a group of six of us out across an expanse of mud flats to where his boat lay in shallow water. The tide was out again. Rather awkwardly, one by one, we climbed aboard from a pile of slippery rocks. Once situated on benches, the pilot started up his engine and headed out to sea. The scenery was inspiring: more high cliffs, more karsts, more bays. After fifteen minutes, he puttered into one of these bays, the backdrop of which was a low mountain, more of a cliff, and several karsts. What got my attention right away was the lack of development. What looked to be little more than simple wooden structures, shacks as I’ve been calling them, fronted the sea. The tide being out meant that the boat halted a hundred or so feet from shore—and slowly and carefully, we six climbed with our packs and luggage into the thigh-deep warm water. Wading ashore was tricky; there was a wooden platform an inch or two beneath the water but the wood remained slippery. At any rate, soon I was standing on the shore and wondering how delightfully primitive the place appeared.

I wandered past cafes (very simple wooden platforms), a few touristy shops, and a couple guest houses before coming to what was supposed to be a simple two-star resort but turned out to be very impressive. A collection of nicely-spaced dark wooden bungalows, with plenty of tropical greenery and gardens between, were attractive and clean. A young woman led me to my room, taking me past a very inviting swimming pool with a grand view of the sea down the hill. After getting unpacked, I walked back down along the ‘beach’, which is actually on this side of the island only a few feet of dirty-looking sand on which bits of tropical plants were strewn. Not inviting at all. But it wasn’t supposed to be. The ‘beach’ was on the other side of a karst and some cliffs that rose up to a rather towering height. I followed a path at the base of this cliff to the other side—and was greeted with a view that made me realize how lucky I was to be traveling. Open sea in front of me—with three or four karsts jutting out of the blue water. To my left, a small lagoon at the base of these vertical walls, which were, along with the rest of Railay Bay, a magnet for the climbers of the world. Within twenty minutes of walking along the beach, wading over a calf-deep section of water to a mini-island, I’d met two couples from the States: one from Colorado and the other from Utah. All four were here to climb as many karsts and cliffs as possible in the weeks they were spending here. But for me, snorkeling would be the thing.

The next afternoon, an Irishman in his late thirties named Joe led a group of us out to a longboat. The pilot was a young Thai guy, naturally. Joe, the guide to whom we’d each paid fifteen bucks, was amiable and knowledgeable about these waters. He must have had spent a lot of time outdoors because his face was weather beaten with deep lines. Anyway, with me on the boat was a young English couple and a Dutch couple. The boat soon puttered out to sea just as the sky turned gray and gathering clouds promised rain. After a ten minute jaunt over the waves, Joe had the driver stop the craft at the base of a high karst. Jumping with our gear into the somewhat choppy water, Joe led us through an underwater ‘cavern’ (several meters wide). By the time we emerged on the other side, a good rain was falling. A little more water won’t hurt anything, I reasoned, and Joe was enjoying himself, taking pics with a waterproof camera and sharing his knowledge with us. As we swam back through a second cavern, I stuck my head out of the water just ten feet beneath a rocky surface only to feel the wind blast pellets of rain through. Back under the waves, all was calm.

Joe took us to a couple of other snorkeling points before we headed for a deserted island. The weather had cleared up by now and the skies were clear. The boat dropped us on the beach before puttering off. “The driver’s off to get our food,” explained Joe. “He’ll be back in a jiffy with some really great Thai food.” We all, in the meantime, had time to wander, explore. There wasn’t much to the island: lots of beach, a vegetation-choked hill, and a marvelous sundown to enjoy. The group broke up, with Joe hiking up through part of the thick vegetation. I found a delightful and peaceful place to sit at the base of the hill, in among some boulders, and simply gazed at a pink sky behind clouds moving in opposite directions. After, I don’t know, perhaps a half hour, a concerned Joe came from around the other side of the rocks. “Ah, wondered if you were okay.” We talked for awhile, awaiting the return of the boat.

After it reappeared and two metal containers of food were off-loaded, we sat and ate by the light of a couple of tiki torches. That alone was worth the price of admission, as they say, but there was more to come. After eating and re-boarding, we crossed the night sea to a practically invisible karst-hill. The massive rock was little more than a great black shadow set against the moon-lit sky. Jumping into the equally dark seawater, I was thrilled to see the thousands of pinpoints of light that are luminescent shrimp, tiny little things that swarm here beside the great karst. Through my mask, I could see as I moved my arms underwater that dozens (and dozens) of what looked like lightning bugs (the mini-shrimp) glowed brilliantly all through the wet darkness where my arm was. “It’s a bit disconcerting,” said the English girl. “They’re like all over me.” It certainly seemed so but I never felt the shrimp though one or two nipped at my legs. Joe said “Ouch” a couple times as he too got playfully bitten. Considering there were thousands and thousands of shrimp, a couple of nips didn’t seem to be much to worry about.

I hated to leave Railay Bay, but the next day, after a pleasant walk about the tiny village, a nice chat with the Internet café owner (a woman from San Francisco temporarily living in Thailand and a fellow book lover), and some lunch, I followed a few others to a longboat that returned us to Crabi. After that, I boarded a VIP tourist bus that made the long overnight haul back to Bangkok—where after a day or so I’d catch an overnight train to a town I’d once lived in, Ubon Ratchatani.