So the landing was an hour later
than anticipated – probably because nobody had told me that there was a
different time zone on the island. The welcome was warm and the taxi driver
spoke not a word of English – but he’d brought along his voluble girlfriend,
who gave it her best shot – so we had plenty of conversation of sorts. I saw
little of the night’s landscape, but got the impression that like Bali, there was a lot of construction going on. The road
twisted and turned, rose and fell along an almost incessant settlement of
sorts. Finally I was decanted at the hotel, led through a roofed parking area
cum reception and dining locale and arrived at the counter to be given a key to
my room. No formalities, no signing in, just settle in and go to sleep.
The morning was grey; it
sounded as if it was pouring with rain, or the sea was right outside the
window. Turned out it was the sea rolling up onto a curved beach; then I
remembered that this whole coastline had been wiped out by the tsunami of 2004.
I’ve always wanted to experience a really hefty earthquake, but it occurred to
me that this was neither the time nor the place for the realization of my
dream. Telephones and room service have not been invented in this part of the
island, so I stagger downwards and accost a lady who seems to belong here. Our
common language ends just after ‘good morning’, and while she seems to
understand the concept of coffee, none materializes and with a heavy heart I
get cleaned up, shaved and go foraging for breakfast. The same lady is there,
playing with a baby clad in a smile. With some anguished mimicry I manage to
convey the fact that I haven’t eaten for a long time. She rushes off and brings
me two helpings of everything, orange juice, coffee and scrambled eggs. The
website could only accept two people for a booking for their only choice of
room, i.e. double, so I have just been paired up willy nilly with myself. No
matter, at least I get two cups of coffee – the bare minimum to sustain
existence in my world. A lovely, almost white, fluffy ginger cat makes my
acquaintance and deigns to be scrabbled behind the ears. I take a morning
constitutional along the curve of the beach, take the odd photo and dabble my
toes in the lukewarm water. That will be about as far as doing obeisance to
this beach bums’ paradise will go. I have no intention of ‘burning my hide till
I’m died, Clyde’ as the song goes; I dislike
sunscreen almost as much as insect repellent and fabric softener; nuff of the
beach.
There is a wish-list for
this part of Asia, and I gird my loins in
search of transport. Another, elderly lady appears and whisks the baby away. I
quiz her with the word taxi, and she beckons me to follow her into a
neighbouring alleyway. With a bit of mime, goodwill and a desire to enter into a
commercial transaction, we manage to establish my needs and her capabilities to
find a solution. I sit down in the shade and play with bare-bum grandchild
until an individual turns up and introduces himself as Shai. As has been the
case with my last country visited, here, too, inflation has wreaked havoc in
the Asian taxi industry. I need a translator, gofer and bloodhound. This man
seems as if he might be of some assistance as he has a nodding acquaintance
with English, although he immediately pulls out the standard tourist issue
program, listing everything from massage, elephant rides, bungy-jumping, snake
charming and cabaret, to the Phuketian version of Disneyland – none of which
floats my prahu – so we agree on his services 9–5 for an extortionate sum and
set off towards Phuket town, or maybe that should be city, since it’s the
provincial capital.
None of this standard Third World
South East Asia here. There are many signs of prosperity. A building boom is
under way, the roads are wide enough to accommodate a minimum of two to often
four lanes of traffic; there are thousands of gleaming cars, tens of thousands
of motorbikes, and only occasionally a rusted, corrugated tin shanty will rub
shoulders with its new, high-rise neighbours. Although the island’s highest
point according to the map is less than half the height of Table Mountain,
the whole terrain seems to consist of series of steep-sided hills, among which
the roads wind, twist, rise and fall with breathtaking curves. There ain’t no
such thing as a straight road in this region, it seems, all dictated by the
topography. Despite having told Shai I wanted to see a market first, he drives
me up a winding route on the outskirts of town to a ‘view point’, one of the
must-see points of interest for all visitors. I duly inspect the vista, and a
very impressive one it is too, with two large bays encroaching on the town
which nestles among lush, tropically clad hills; photograph it and then tell
him sternly to press on with my desires. We park in a side street as Shia
reckons it’s better to walk, a decision I’m not ecstatic about, but go along
with, even if the temperature and humidity are definitely above my comfort
level.
Still, the man delivers the
goods. A few blocks later we walk into a good, old-fashioned fruit and veg
market. Nothing huge, but a couple of dozen stalls, laden with middens of
greenery, pyramids of multi-coloured fruits and heaps of vegetables (including
the largest, most succulent carrots, I have ever seen – some the size of my
forearm!). This is what I want to see and taste. In no time at all, I find two
new (to me) species of ginger, one a spindly bunch with sharp taste, called
kashei, the other round, white and with green stems attached; also with bite to
it, and called khaa. Both are apparently used in cooking up Tom Yum Goong, the
spicy prawn soup. Most of the tropical fruits on offer are old friends, but I
spot a smallish fruit shaped like a feijoa, or tree-tomato, but with a skin
like a cling peach. This is apparently a lamut, has two
large black seeds and
tastes really delicious. A
green seed-pod, with frilly edges, is eaten by locals like green beans – but I
can’t even make out the local name for it. Another legume looks like a lima
bean, but is green and tastes of nothing much until I am given a taste of the
veggie-vendor lady’s lunch which contains this item. With a bit of chilli and
tomato, it makes a very satisfying stew – apparently called a sataah. There are
dozens of greens I can’t identify. Here a poor translator is of no use. Shai
doesn’t cook and the ladies often don’t have specific names for the herbs.
Although I’m frustrated, it’s still an experience to taste all these unknown
nuances.
One market leads to another, and
just a block on is the new, double-storey edition in a yellow building,
covering a whole block. You are immediately assailed with the smell of fish,
chicken and pork. Most of the day’s livestock has already gone, and what
remains is fast turning into an unappetizing leftover. There are a few fruit
and veg sellers as well, but not half as interesting as the old street-market.
We head off into the unknown. I discover that Shai actually has very little
knowledge of his capital city beyond the most visited tourist attractions. He
does have the advantage of being able to ask the right questions when prompted.
Firstly we turn up the bookshop I’ve been looking for. Nothing there for me
except possibly a choice of paperbacks in English, Danish, German, Finnish and
Russian (mute evidence of the nationalities of visitors), but after a long and
exhausting forage up and down the streets, I ask Shai to get the car to pick me
up as I’ve had it and my back is killing me. We resume the search for a mosque
that I know must exist, and en passant
I spot a shade over a shop window that says ‘antiques’. Anchors on; I hop out
and pop into the establishment and ask the young lady if she has anything
resembling the printed word of yore. She understands English well and invites
me up a narrow spiral staircase to the upper floor. She points out two of the,
by now familiar, oblong folders. I open one, but as far as I can remember, it
looks the same as the two I have already bought in Cambodia
and Laos.
At the sight of the other one my heart misses at least one beat. This one is
wider, fully gilt decorated, and when I open it, there is a heavy, black,
unfamiliar blocky script. When I ask her, she tells me it’s from Myanmar. I’d
give my eyeteeth for it – but when I ask her the price, she quotes me the best
part of $750. I’m daft, but not daft enough to pay more than the total price of
all airtickets, return, as well as hotel fees and meals, that I might be
spending anyway on a trip to the country of origin within the next fortnight. I
make a counteroffer; she phones her boss; no deal. Regretfully we part.
Shai and I soldier on
through the streets, trying to find a mosque. Turns out we were looking at too
low a level. Suddenly I spot a green onion-dome way up in the sky. Success, and
we drive into the courtyard to find no less personage than the imam and a
hadji, whiling the hours until sunset away on a shaded bench in the garden –
for it is Ramadan, and time hangs heavily over hungry bodies. The imam is an
elderly, portly gent with a hennaed white goatee. He has no English, but
luckily the hadji does, and I explain my quest, which borrows a Moslem
son-in-law from my erstwhile travelling companion again, whom I wish to gladden
with the present of a Koran in Thai script – possibly even with parallel Arabic
in the bargain. This Imam is not one of a paranoid, persecuted minority, as his
counterpart in Saigon had seemed to be; he is
quite happy to give directions to a shop he knows of, which has stock of just
such an item I am looking for. We part amid expressions of mutual esteem,
thanks and wishes for a propitious end of the fast. Five minutes later we are
in a street which we had combed previously. Shai says it must be here; he’s
followed the instructions carefully. He points at a shop draped with robes,
cloths and suchlike truck. We stop and go in past a woman in a hijab. Sure
enough, a whole wall is lined with Islamic literature. Shai explains; the woman
is hesitant, looking doubtfully at my pale face; she defers to a young man.
Shai explains that the purchase has the imam’s blessing, and that we had been
sent to their shop expressly by him, so the pair relent, and a few minutes
later I have successfully acquired exactly what I was looking for, in a
convenient format, at a good price.
Our next task is to find the
tourist office. This is made difficult by then fact that I have an outdated map
of the island, courtesy of my niece. There is a demolition site where the
office is supposed to be, so while we are standing around on the pavement at
the supposed location, an elderly passer-by comes to the rescue. He explains to
Shai where the place has moved to and at last we smell success. I consult a
friendly lass, who steers me to a further two bookshops, a street-food eatery,
as well as giving me new maps, booklets and other good advice. Two bookshops
later I have acquired a few small dictionaries that I may never consult, but at
2–3 dollars, blow the expense and give the cat another goldfish, I say. I get
dropped off at the street-food stalls and though I had set my heart on dim sum,
these were already finished for the day and instead I had to have some other
perfectly delightful tidbits washed down with several glasses of iced coffee. I
love to sit in a public place like this and watch the other diners and the
passing parade in the street. Striking is the large number of middle-aged,
elderly to downright decrepit white males that have personable to extremely
beautiful, much younger Thai women in tow. I see two of my coevals sit down for
a meal, hand over their wallets to the girls with them and leave all the ordering
and finance to them. I could think of worse ways to end one’s life as a male –
don’t know about the female angle on this though. Everywhere I go, I find
people friendly, helpful and quick to reply to a smile with a smile. Such a
change from Vietnam.
Since I am a sucker for any form
of interesting architecture, we head south out of town to the renowned Wat
Chalong temple. Even at the gateway I can see that this was going to be quite
an experience; ornate gilt, sculpted curlicues, pomp and circumstance
everywhere. The more of the temple that comes into view, the more
breathtakingly beautiful it gets. Wow, wow and triple wow. Shai drops me off in
front of the main building and indicates vaguely where he will be found when
I’m done. So as to be able to fit the entire temple into a picture, I move
across the road to get a bit of distance. The next moment all hell breaks loose
behind me. It sounds like a full-scale terrorist attack, staccato explosions
from left to right lasting for about ten seconds,
ending with an almighty big bang. I duck and slew round to see that a temple
assistant has just set
off this barrage of fireworks inside a beehive shaped
brick structure, and as the gunpowder smoke drifts lazily away, he starts
sweeping up the cracker remains that have been propelled into the street. Not
sure of the significance of this attack, but I would presume it was a direct
onslaught on the forces of evil, or to put them to flight. I shed shoes and
enter the temple. Cool marble throughout, much light streaming in through the
open structure (in contrast to the dark, mysterious interior of the Luang
Prabang temple), a simple altar with three buddhas on it, garlanded and
bedecked with flowers, with serene worshippers on the carpets, praying,
depositing incense and flower offerings – taking not a blind bit of notice of
the sizeable crowd of tourists that share their holy space. Behind the altar is
the inner sanctum, obviously the holy of holies (possibly the place reputed to
contain some relics of the Buddha) and this is closed off by a glass wall. I
peer in briefly, but don’t wish to disturb a man praying there, so leave. There
are a number of other buildings in the complex. The one across the road, only
slightly less resplendent, is closed for some reason. Further back there is a
wooden building on stilts, built along traditional lines, but I can’t find any
signage indicating its significance. The inside is cool,
gilt, could be absolutely garish and over the top, but instead it conveys
awe, joy and celebration, and invokes a feeling of participation. I see two
Chinese girls having a photo session of themselves, so ask them if they would
do me the favour of taking a shot of me in front of the building as well. They
are happy to oblige, but immediately want to be photographed in turn standing next to me. Two
young men passing by join in the fun and they too get pics taken next to an
overweight, sweating European. Beats me what the attraction is – probably my
resemblance to the buddha. I pop into the high temple, and find it full of
nagas and buddhas in all sorts of postures. The walls are a bit more garish,
and to my mind the inside isn’t half as impressive as the exterior. I take a
wander past the inevitable stalls of tourist truck, have an iced coconut for
refreshment and enjoy the relative peace of the place, more especially so since
not a single trader bugs me with their wares. The first tourist attraction in Asia where I have encountered this phenomenon. Shai comes
wandering past and we tear ourselves away from this beauteous place.
Our last effort was
unsuccessful. Though advertised in the tourist bureau’s directory, the
University’s cultural centre had ceased to exist in all but echoing halls with
garish posters. I had been hoping for an exhibition of Thai writings, books and
scripts. It was getting on for 4 pm, so I decided to call it quits and we
headed back to Kamala
Village after a hurried
stop at a supermarket for much-needed water and a few tins of Chang, another
brand in a long line of extremely drinkable beers in the region.
After a lengthy rest, and
communication session with home, I decide to hobble down the avenue for a light
supper, since our hotel’s water-supply is on the blink, so I don’t quite trust
them right now to feed me. My back problem has not been improved by the
pavement pounding of the day; progress is difficult and painful. I am reminded
that this is the country that must surely have invented ‘Thai massage’ as
described in such glowing terms in numerous travel programs I have seen and I
am minded to seek some relief from these specialists. Not fifty metres down the
main road, I encounter the first illuminated sign, declaiming at length the
expertise of a masseuse, whose name I disremember. Strangely enough, the sign
is above a dark passageway, but as I stop and peer down it, my eyes wander
upwards and there she is: a young siren leaning over the balustrade of the
veranda. She smiles seductively and beckons me in. Somehow I get the idea that
this might not be quite the massage I am looking for, so I shake my head
regretfully and hobble on. Not a great distance further, another flashing sign
with a similar legend. I hasten towards the large, lit-up display window, and
find that this is actually a wide-open french door. A bevy of nubile maidens in
very hot pants and skimpy tops are decoratively draped over the furniture, and
all start twittering excitedly at my appearance. Then I notice a short,
powerful man, with a face like a bulldog, lurking inside the door. Ah, a
bouncer – or maybe a pimp – the uncharitable thought strikes me, and I hastily
wave them good-by and wander on. I was still hoping for ‘third time lucky’ when
I stumbled across the next and last massage establishment on this stretch of
road. This one has a huge icon of a slinky black cat painted on the glass door
and proclaimed itself to be ‘The Pussy Parlour’ for any type of a long list of
massage variations, all including the word ‘sensuous’. I give up on the idea of
backache relief, at least not during the hours of darkness in this street.
The majority of eateries have a
distinctly European flavor, judging from the menus on offer at the roadside.
French fries, steaks, pizzas, Bolognese – hell no, that’s not what I came to Asia for. I am almost seduced by a cart vendor selling
sausages and satays on sticks, but I feel the need for some vegetable input, so
I meander on. I run out of town and turn back again. The builders are working
on a section of a large open space in the very last restaurant, but there are a
half dozen locals sitting there (usually a good sign), and the menu looks
attractive. I wander in, nod all round and sit down at a table. The half dozen
locals turn out to be proprietors and everybody rallies round to obey my every
wish and command. Turns out I couldn’t have done much better anywhere else. I
had a three course delicious supper, including tempura vegetables, stir-fry and
prawn cakes and a Singh beer (just to continue my brewing investigation), for
under $15. A happy diner went back to the hotel to find the water was back on,
but so black that it would be pointless to have a shower. Sleep dirty and
sweaty – much more hygenic.
This time I had taken the
precaution of bringing along some iced coffee from the previous night’s
restaurant to wake up to. The morning looked a lot brighter for it. Breakfast
under the palm trees was lovely, and I asked a neighbouring young Filipino lady
to take a photo of me sitting there, with the sea in the background. A little
later I looked up into the crown of the coconut palm looming over me, and saw a
lonely ripe nut dangling there. Mindful of the fact that quite a significant
number of people the world over get killed every year by falling coconuts, I
changed my chair with alacrity. I could just see the headline – ‘elderly
bookseller gets nutted’. Then it was off in search of transport once more. I
meandered down to the local taxi rank, where four guys were lounging on an
elevated platform under an atap roof, smoking and chatting. There was enough
common language and we proceeded into negotiations. Once again I ran into the
Asian taxi Mafia like into a brick wall. Even though they had no fares, even
though the streets were all but empty of tourists, their rates were thus, and
thus they would remain. It was already a stinker of a sunny, simmering day, and
with my limited time left on the island, I knuckled under and hired a likely
lad by the name of Palm, for half the day instead of scratching about for
cheaper rates from tuk-tuks, buses or the like.
This time we headed due east (as
far as the innumerable hills would permit) and landed up in front of the Thalang National Museum,
cunningly hidden behind the gaunt concrete frame of a new apartment block. I
paid my dues and at the same time located a lady with a smattering of English,
whom I asked if she could find out more about the cultural centre that we had
failed to find the previous day. She promised to make enquiries while I viewed
the exhibits. Granted, Phuket is only a microcosm of Thailand, but the displays were
pretty poor. Pride of place was given to a statue of Buddha, dating back to
about the 11th century, which had miraculously been recovered in two parts and
reunited. A monk and his friends were making an offering, so I waited politely
until they finished and then took a photo. The next room contained mineral
specimens – oddly enough the island has a quite diverse geology and used to be
a prominent tin mining location. Without rhyme or reason, the displays, most of
which were only labelled in Thai, then switched to prehistory, and it was with
some surprise that I found items displayed, dating back up to nearly forty
thousand years ago. Among them were some distinctive polished Neolithic stone
axes, with the same sort of tang which I had seen in Vietnam at the museums, which are
not part of the arsenal of the European prehistory as far as I know. Finally
pay dirt. A seventh century stele, inscribed with what by now had become almost
familiar characters. This had come from an ancient city settlement on the
island, and was apparently a record of a ground transfer between two persons. I
took a few photos, but to my disappointment, there was nothing else by way of
the written word.
The lady at the front desk was
not able to be more specific about the cultural centre at the Ratchapat University,
but she assured me that she had found out that it did exist. So I pointed my
driver at it and we set off once more. Again I was directed to the same
building as I had visited previously, and this time I was at least able to
discern sounds coming from an office in the deserted building. An effusive
gentleman greeted me and I put my case to him, i.e. that I was looking for
traces of development of the art of writing. He pointed to the wall surrounding
us, which had the sad collection of posters on it, but I explained further,
upon which he introduced me to a very pleasant young man, Ami, whose English
was better, and gave him orders to locate a library, librarians and books as I
wished. We were off, wisely in motorised transport, since the search took us
all over the institution. We interviewed a number of female children behind
desks, were shown numbers of dog-eared paperbacks in the vernacular, but
nothing even vaguely looked like being related to the origins of writing and
the manufacture of books in the country or island. I explained further. We went
up a few floors; we interviewed another child. We went to another building.
Finally, I could sense that this odyssey was not going to bring much success,
as we got into an office for staff enquiries and after a lengthy explanation, I
was given the cell phone number of a professor, who apparently was a dab hand
at the history of Phuket. Small problem was that she had retired and nobody
knew where to find her. Full stop. Just for fun I shall probably try to call
her – but my expectations are low. It seems to be official – culture and Phuket
don’t mix, so don’t go looking for it – this is a place for holidaying. I had
run out of ideas, so decided to quit as my transporter’s time agreed on was
near expiry. We returned to Kamala, and I lay down to rest my aching back, only
to wake up in the early afternoon, feeling a distinct need for some sustenance.
This I satisfied with some delicious Tom Yum Goong, reinforced with a hunk of steamed
rice. For the first time I actually tasted the two varieties of ginger that I
had encountered at the market, and a very interesting contribution they made
too.
There was nothing much to do except to laze about in
the shade, looking out at the beautiful bay and the heat-shimmering hills that
surrounded me. In all, not a bad way to spend a quiet afternoon. While my brief
visit to the island had not been wildly exciting, I enjoyed the beautiful
scenery, the cheerful people and some really delicious food, presumably not
cooked to European tastes, although there were plenty of eateries doing exactly
that as well. For the visitor who enjoys his action, there is more than enough
to please, as are the lovely tropical beaches, generally clean water and all the
infrastructure one could wish for. The pace is less frantic than in the three
Indochinas, more like Bali, but with more
sophistication and a lack of an agricultural element – a typical tourist
paradise. I shall have fond memories of my verandah, overlooking a picturesque
bay, shaded from the extremes of the setting sun by large casuarina trees, and
with coconut palms displaying their wares almost within arm’s length.
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