!Feliz Navidad!

Christmas in Quintana Roo

Since the birth of Sinéad Nua, I’ve been chucking challenges at myself from left, right, and centre.  This one was going to be a little tough.  As a self confessed Christmasaholic who believes the festive season is all about sharing and caring, I was daunted by the prospect of spending the holidays alone, yet excited at the challenge of doing so.  Having travelled solo before I knew it was a doddle, but at this time of year one can be lonely for anyone so far from home. 

I flew to Cancun a couple of days before Christmas and hopped straight on a bus to Tulum to arrive late and tired at my hostel.  I ate in a local vegetarian restaurant and took my first breath of holiday air.  The past few weeks had been frenetic to say the least, between juggling two jobs, I still had the thin air of Tuxtla fighting to make way to my lungs. At 534m above sea level the city sits much higher than my port town so getting used to breathing the air takes time, as does getting used to wearing a uniform as thick as Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat in the low 30s.  I needed that vacation.

The relaxation seeped into my muscles pretty quickly, and by the time I had hired a bicycle I was well on my way to chilling out.  It was Christmas Eve and I was pedalling along in search of the ruins that sit on the coastline.  I wandered around with admittedly very little knowledge of Mayan history and culture.  I promise to read something in my time here, hand on heart.  I was equally fascinated with the plant life surrounding the ruins, as the ruins themselves.  Beautiful fans of exotic leaves captured the sunlight and boasted intense shades of green.  Of course the sporadic rain showers guaranteed shininess, and slippery flip flops so I returned to the sanctuary of my hostel and started work on one of the several books I had packed in my weary rucksack.

 On Christmas Day I followed a lonely road towards the nearby cenotes.  I stopped at Gran Cenote, the most visited one, to find a nice garden where people sat on rugs having picnics, and lots of snorkelers exploring the underwater caves.  I got in but my status as ‘scaredycat’ has reached dangerous proportions and I freaked out a little at the thought of drifting into a cave and getting trapped forever and having to live on stalactites.  Irrational fear renders one, at the very least, completely bonkers.  I got out after about five minutes and congratulated myself on at least doing that.  Next stop was the beach; I deserved a Chelada for being such a brave little soldier.  Cheladas are one of my favourite discoveries since arriving in Mexico, along with Micheladas, Sincronizadas, Chilequiles, and Gorditas which are aptly named; Gordita translates as ‘chubby girl’  I fear I am becoming somewhat of a Gordita myself.  A Chelada is a beer with lots of fresh lime juice and salt, and is an amazing refreshment on the beach.  The beauty of Cheladas, and Micheladas, is that they contain such punchy flavours you have to sip them slowly, so my alcohol consumption has reduced quite a lot since moving to Mexico, which is always good news.  I watched kite surfers cruise back and forth, listened to super cool chilled beach choons, and read the book I had been neglecting over the past few months.  It was certainly the most relaxed Christmas I’ve ever had, I even forgot it was Christmas.  What was there to remind me?  The bikini clad sunbathers?  The soft white sand?  It was lovely to bask in it and forget about the madness that Christmas carries, end of season sales, getting everything preened and plucked in time for that one day, lifting a big ass turkey out of the oven that you know you’re going to be cursing for the next week.  I recommend a beach Christmas, if not for just one year.  After my afternoon of sunbathing and general lolling about, I decided I would treat myself to a posh dinner. I found the perfect place, a restaurant that had a big open fire used for cooking in the kitchen but not really required for heating purposes, I suppose nostalgia got the better of me for a moment.  It reminded me of a cosy country pubs where you’d go after a brisk walk through endless fields, and settle in for a delicious pint and a Sunday roast.  I ordered steak and red wine, and more red wine, and more red wine, and a chocolate brownie, and rolled back to my hostel in jeans that were far too tight for a meal of that magnitude.  I needed to be horizontal and in elasticated trousers for a while.  Not so vastly different from an Irish Christmas after all.

 

The following day I ventured a little further on my two wheeled stallion and found a sleepy beach in a tiny bay with sun loungers, palapas, and a pretty view of the Caribbean.  I had an obligatory Chelada that washed down guacamole and tostadas and rested my bulging belly in the sunshine.  I cycled back to repack my bag for an early departure to Playa Del Carmen by Colectivo the following morning. 

My hostel in Playa was located just off a big busy highway, with a construction site next door and a huge hole in the road right outside.  Feck.  But, inside was a haven with a garden, a pool, and a seating area with an outdoor kitchen.  I felt a little more at ease about my choice of accommodation, especially when I learned that the beach was only a ten minute stroll away in a straight line so even I couldn’t get lost on the way.  I had heard that PDC didn’t have a lot to boast, but I enjoyed the twinkling lights of 5^th Avenue, and the atmosphere created by swarms of people parading the narrow pedestrian street that peaked and troughed along the coastline of the town.  I visited the beach for a day of sun worshipping and was disappointed to find the large hotels had a monopoly over it, and had rows of sun loungers that were strictly for guest use only.  They even went to the trouble of appointing security guards who patrolled the area protecting their many unused sun loungers against guerrilla sunbathers.  I’ve been to many beaches where restaurants and hotels have built

their businesses on the periphery, but I’ve always been able to sit on the loungers in exchange for a small purchase.  I found this commandeering of the beach space rather greedy and it made the presence of the hotels along the coast all the more oppressive and ugly.  You can’t see for hotels.  It wasn’t until I went looking for the ferry to Cozumel that I found the beach space for commoners like me, and was disappointed to see it was nicer and less crowded.  Lesson learned, explore more on day one!  There was one upside to the beach I frequented.  It was home to a chocolate café called Ah Cacao, where the speciality was a decadent spiced hot chocolate.  I told everyone who would listen to visit and try it.  While taking a break in the air conditioned café, I noticed advertisements on the wall for ‘Chocolate Therapy’.  I thought that was in the drinking of it, but evidently there are soaps, body oils, and creams on sale also.  Bloody waste of good chocolate if you ask me, but I guess slathering yourself with the stuff is less fattening than drinking it as much as I did in my three days in Playa. 

Back in the hostel the evenings were pretty social, and on one of the evenings a group of Australian guys broke out the barbeque and made a huge meal which they divvied out amongst the hungry folks who were chatting and sipping beer around the table.  I thought it polite to pop out and buy some beer, but they already had a crate load of that too, so I drank my own and enjoyed the banter.  The following morning was a struggle but so worth it, and as it rained a beach visit would have been a wash out.  Better to have a sleep in and a subway meatball sandwich..

 Next stop was Cozumel.  I was excited about spending New Year on an island.  So far on my travels I have learned one important thing, although I can settle almost anywhere, I do prefer to vacation in small places, preferably islands, where I can bimble around and have adventures on my own.  However Cozumel is big.  I had no idea until I got there how big, it’s easy to forget it’s an island.  My idea of cycling around in a day quickly got flung out the window and I hired a moped instead.  I drove on the main road around the island, which took hours.  It was an invigorating ride though.  On one side there was infinite sea, and on the other, seemingly endless lush vegetation that glistened beautifully in the afternoon sun.  With very few other vehicles on the road I felt like I was alone on the island, I felt free, independent, and thoroughly elated at having the opportunity once again to explore a beautiful place so far from home.  I returned to my hostel, parked up, and planned my New Year festivities.  I decided that I would remain in the hostel and take advantage of the exclusive use of the rooftop to ring in the new year by myself, and before anyone feels sad and sorry for poor old Sinead Nua, let me tell you this.  I had some good friends with me, wine and cheese.  I dropped my buddies, Malbec and Edam, off in my room while I went for a freshen up, and met my room mate, a German guy who was also travelling alone and was about to head downtown to check out the bars there.  I wished him a happy new year and went on my way.  I showered and headed for the roof where I met a family who were relaxing before going for a meal at a local restaurant.  They were from the North of Mexico and told me they vacation every year for the holidays.  They were surprised to see a woman travelling alone, and I think they assumed I was lonely.  I politely declined their invite to dinner; I was looking forward to my time alone.  I try to see the good intentions in people who look out for a woman on her own, but I feel disappointed at times that this has such a stigma.  When you’re done with this post, take a look at the article I’ve pasted below which gives the perspective of many women who have travelled alone.  It’s an inspiring read, no scary stories, nothing to confirm the fear that a woman isn’t safe alone.  I wish we could move past old fashioned sexist attitudes towards the capabilities of women.  Right, I’ve vented for long enough.  Let me get back to Cozumel because my story is about to get a little more interesting.  So, I said goodbye and happy New Year to the lovely family on the roof, found a playlist on Spotify, and tucked into my picnic.  Shortly after, my German roommate arrived back carrying a six pack of beer and a disappointment at the lack of atmosphere downtown.  I cleared some space and we chatted, and were joined by the third resident of our small dorm, a guy who had just flown in from Japan and who was suffering with jetlag.  We chatted about our experiences in Mexico and exchanged suggestions on where to go until our Japanese friend announced the time.  It was already 11.50pm and I had completely forgotten that it was New Year’s Eve.  We went to the edge of the roof to watch as locals celebrated with floating lanterns, it was nicely understated.  Then, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, captivating music wafted over the rooftops and lured us to the streets; well two of us, our Japanese friend gave in to the jetlag and went to bed after midnight.  My German acquaintance and I followed the sound through the neighbourhood, but ended up lost in a warren of sleepy streets, determined not to give up.  I had Malbec in my blood and I wasn’t ready to give up the night.  We encountered some local men chatting outside a house and I asked in my pigeon Spanish where the music was coming from.  Luckily one of them, a market seller, spoke English so we were able to communicate in a common language.  My Spanish is not Spanish you see, it’s Spanglish in a Cork accent.  Nonsensical, in a word.  We chatted for a bit before having cans of beer thrust at us.  We politely obliged, until one beer turned into several and an invite to dinner.  So I found myself in the middle of a family celebration, eating chicken and mashed potatoes at 2am.  So much for a quiet one.  Ironically I had earlier basked in a smug glow of the possibility of waking early to drive out and watch the sun rise.  Let’s just gloss over that one.  My night turned

out to be the most spontaneous and warmest of my entire holiday.  I excused myself shortly after they broke out the karaoke, and at 4.30am I retired for a long beer infused sleep.  The next day I sought out a reggae bar that I had clocked on my epic adventure around the island, and decided to nest there for the day soaking up the sun, reading, and eating nachos, the perfect hangover cure.  That evening, my new friend and I had made a plan to drop off some gifts to our hosts from the night before. We learned that they had partied on til 6am.  I wouldn’t have been awake long enough to join them.  My second, and final, night on Cozumel was quiet and relaxing in the garden of my hostel, where the music lulled me to sleep on my terrifyingly high top bunk.  I worried about rolling onto the floor below, a plummet that would have left me in a sorry state, so I hugged the wall for the entire night.  The fact that I slept soundly was testament to my tiredness.  After breakfast of the best Chilaquiles in the world, I set off for the ferry back to Playa Del Carmen, where I was to meet my fellow New Year’s Eve adventurer.  He had kindly offered to drive me back to Cancun, where he was catching his return flight to Munich.  While he looked forward to proper Bavarian beer, I longed for the blue sea of Cancun.  It was nice to have the company for the trip rather than another cramped van journey, and I arrived at the door of my hostel relaxed and ready to let Cancun show me it’s magic. 

I was too early for check in so I went to the roof where there was a bar, Jacuzzi, and plenty of places to lounge and I read in a hammock for a couple of hours.  I had booked this specific hostel, called Mundo Joven, purely because it boasted a rooftop Jacuzzi, but unfortunately in the three days I stayed there I never saw the remnants of a party cleaned out of it so I decided to steer clear of the murky water, with sand sunken to the bottom, and a floating party hat left there God knows how long before.  Disappointing, but the place turned out to be a pretty good hostel, scuzzy Jacuzzi aside. 

I had read an article a week before about an underwater sculpture gallery off the coast of Cancun, but with no specific location.  I thought if I could find out where it was I would definitely visit, it sounded incredible.  Whilst reading up on Isla Mujeres, an island just a short ferry ride from Cancun, and recommended by several people, I found it.  There it was in black and white, the MUSA underwater museum.  I was so excited, I planned a trip for the next day, but I still had a whole day before that so I checked into my dorm and was quite impressed by the set up they had.  Each bed had it’s own locker right beside it, with a power point inside so you could charge your gadgets while they were safely locked away, pretty clever. 

After packing a beach bag I caught the bus to the beach area, which was just a ten minute journey.  I got off at the very first of the many beaches and found myself amongst countless Mexican holidaymakers, and despite being the only white person on the beach, I mean Irish white, almost transparent, I managed to blend into the background and whiled away the afternoon reading in a hammock and enjoying a giant Michelada, for which the bar relieved me of 150 pesos, a pretty cheeky price considering a Michelada not enjoyed in a hammock on a beach might cost around 45.  However it had two beers in it, and it kept me occupied for the afternoon.  I stayed in my hammock until my eyes could read no more and I went looking for some dinner.  I thought against eating on the beach incase I would have to take out a mortgage on a fish taco, so I stopped in a place that looked like it had a decent vibe and some good local food.  I was right about the food, the Burrito I ate was delicious, but there was something fishy about the vibe.  I was too hungry at first to take anything in apart from the menu so I sat and ordered, and pulled out my book while I waited.  It wasn’t until I was a few mouthfuls into my dinner that I noticed all the eyes on me.  The place was filled with men.  Shite.  I had blindly decided once again, since Myanmar, to dine in an establishment not frequented by women or tourists, and as a blonde female foreigner I stood out like a baboon’s arse.  I was too hungry to care so I finished my dinner and took off.  There was nothing to be alarmed at, people are always interested in someone who is different and sometimes that involved the odd stare here and there.  At no point was I ever in any danger, and to think that would have been naïve and paranoid.  I prefer to think the best of people, I like to people-watch myself, and have probably been guilty once or twice of making someone uncomfortable by mindlessly staring at them whilst thinking something along the lines of, “I wonder where she comes from?”, or more likely, “Should I have chicken or fish for dinner?” because sometimes people just stare thoughtlessly and are of no threat whatsoever. 

I returned to my hostel for a shower and a trip to the rooftop bar to check out the evening atmosphere.  I met some friendly girls who all showed an interest in joining me in my plan to visit Isla Mujeres so we arranged to meet after breakfast and set off for a daytrip. 

Isla Mujeres was as beautiful as it had been described, and the weather was perfect.  We caught a taxi to the side of the island where the underwater museum was pin pointed on the map only to learn that the only boats with licenses to go there set off from the downtown area, where we had just come from.  There was an overwater sculpture museum on the peninsula which offered glorious views and some interesting pieces of modern sculpture.  One of the girls in our group was fluent in Spanish and had a great talent for polite negotiation.  She managed to get hold of the number of a local guy who ran tours so we haggled his price down in exchange for a trip to the MUSA museum only.  There were other stops on offer, but this was our one and only priority.  We got a great price and arranged to go over to him after lunch.  We had spotted a cute little café from our taxi further back on the road so we, confused by the difference between walking and driving, thought it was only a little jaunt away and that we could walk it.  We ended up dragging ourselves limply along the road as hired golf carts and taxis whizzed by, with every turn in the road revealing not the café, but another bleedin’ turn in the road.  We gave up, one of us having fallen victim to a foot blister, and hitch hiked.  An American couple in a golf cart stopped to our rescue and drove us to the café, apologising all the way for their slow cart.  I assured them that, compared to our walk, it felt like flying with Concord.  The air flowing through our hair cooled us down and we arrived with a thirst for a cold drink and a hunger for some great local food.  The fish tacos did not disappoint.  I even tried the chef’s own hot sauce, which comes with a spice warning.  I carefully dabbed the tacos with a suggestion of the sauce which was enough, I am still building my tolerance but it’s a work in progress.  When I first arrived in Mexico, just having the sauce in the vicinity was too much spice for me.

 After lunch we went in search for our boatman, not quite sure of whom we were to be met with, or what his credentials were.  When he brought us to his business we were relieved to see he was the real deal, a professional boat tour company, with clean equipment and knowledgeable staff.  We were kitted out with snorkels, fins, and life jackets and were escorted to a nice boat, in which we sped out to view the sculptures.  We stopped in open water, and were each helped to jump into the sea where a guide swam ahead for us to follow.  As we approached a piece of sculpture he pointed down and we marvelled at the view below.  I had read about each piece so it was fascinating to see them with my own eyes, particularly the VW Beetle which offers a home to marine life, and the Banker, a tongue in cheek piece which comments on the recent financial crisis.  Each of the sculptures depicts man’s affect on the planet, and in turn helps counteract the damage to the marine life by nurturing the growth of coral on the pieces.  What’s beautiful and fascinating about this project is that it will never look the same as it does right now.  Next year, the year after that, and forever, the coral and seaweed will grow on and around it, changing the shape and the colour, the sea will eventually claim it as its own.  I was humbled to see it with my own eyes, and along with my spontaneous New Year family, it was one of the highlights of my entire trip. 

The girls headed back to a market they had heard of and I spent the evening sipping beer on the beach and watching the sun set over the horizon.  Following a massage (are you even surprised?  You should know me well by now!), I returned sleepily on the ferry to my hostel where I met the others who had picked up a few new buddies and were playing drinking games, except nobody had any alcohol.  What is it with kids these days?  I had an early night in preparation for another beach day in Cancun, but lady luck frowned on me and it flippin’ lashed all morning.  When the rain stopped, the clouds that were left behind roused little motivation to head towards the beach so I got the cracking idea to go to the cinema and eat nachos instead.  So I did.  My last day in Cancun was spent in McDonalds eating ice cream and the cinema eating nachos, and I don’t even feel any shame.  I had an adventurous two weeks so wasting a day being a sloth brought no guilt, and it was a nice relaxed ending to my vacation.  I flew back to Tuxtla sporting a smidgen of a tan, and a belly that now protrudes quite rudely over my jeans.  Bloody Gorditas. 

¡Feliz año nuevo!

Images: Sinéad Millea, Rica Wichmann, Aleksandrs Ziskins.

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Fa Lalalalaaaa Ka

Christmas and New Year in Thailand

Back home there’s a tradition called The Twelve Pubs of Christmas.  As usual, for an Irish custom, it involves drinking copious amounts of alcohol with a pack of rowdy rebels.  For anyone who hasn’t heard of it, it’s a Christmas pub crawl where you visit twelve different pubs.  I decided to introduce it to the multinational farang residents of NS.  Decorated with Santa hats and Christmas bells we met at a bar, where the clever ones lined their stomachs, and set off on a route I had devised that would take us to eleven other bars around Sawan Park.  On the arrival of the bill I learned that pub crawls are a bit of a task in NS.  Bars serve beer to your table in large bottles and the waiting staff refill as they see your drink depleting so you never know how much you’ve drunk compared to your friends.  There’s no such thing as going to the bar for a pint or paying as you go, it’s all put on one bill.  So, for ease of calculation, bills are split evenly yet, with all large groups, there’s always a spot of confusion.  So we learned that a Thai pub crawl is more time, and brain cell, consuming than an Irish one.  But we decided to crack on with a ‘one drink per bar’ rule to speed things up.

The second bar was a little place decked out with wooden benches that played country and western music…Thai style.  It was a welcome change from the plastic pop the Thai bars usually pump out.  The table alongside us were certainly enjoying themselves, their clapping and stomping shaking every table in their periphery.  We had our one drink and called for the bill.  The waitress brought down two more drinks.  Confusion ensued as the clock ticked away our valuable drinking time. 

By bar four we were behind schedule so we decided that ordering shots would be the most effective way of completing our twelve pub assignment.  Not as easy as it sounds, the concept of shots was lost on our perplexed waitresses so we decided to opt for a bottle of vodka between the group.  This had taken so long to communicate in our broken Thai that I was beginning to sober up.  So we downed a couple of vodkas and hurried along.

Bar five was a quaint little bar with a fantastic name, ‘Fine Thanks’, and a special offer on beer.  The staff were highly amused by our Christmas garb that they joined in on wearing our festive props, my Santa hat eventually ended up with the waitress who I’m convinced may be still wearing it, she was that excited.  We decided it was about time for some Christmas tunes and, as the staff were already sucked into our Christmas vibe, we handed the waitress an iPod.  It was a surreal experience sitting in an open air Thai bar in the evening heat listening to ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’. 

We waved goodbye, still with an agenda to get through and very little of the night, or our sobriety, ahead of us.  Bar six was a bit hazy if I’m honest, vodka shots were swirling through the BOGOF beers in my tummy and I was starting to lose my eyesight. 

Bar seven was the final stop of the evening, the infamous Bon Bon, where we danced like lunatics and attempted to balance out the fluids in our systems with a bit of water, but it was too late.  Inebriation had set in and the next morning was a bit of a struggle to say the least.  But, I was pleased with the final result.  Despite the obstacles of Thai bar customs, a language barrier and the absence of quick shots to speed things up (a blessing in disguise) we still managed to check 7 out of 12 bars off our list.  I think that’s an achievement, even in Ireland.

So, already in the Christmas spirit, with our tiny Christmas tree grasping onto the tonnes of baubles and Christmas lights we’d strapped to it, my flatmates and I begun our countdown to Christmas.  We indulged in festive movies, music and the obligatory box of Cadburys Heroes, but it still felt like a reconstruction of Christmas.  I was still looking out on blazing sunshine, watching beautiful orange glowy sunsets and walking around in the kind of temperatures Ireland gets for about a week in May, if they’re lucky.  It just didn’t feel 100% Christmas.  So I decided on an alternative plan for the day of the baby Jesus’ birthday, I was going to go for breakfast in the sun and a steak dinner, still centred around food but the ‘special occasion treat’ kind of food that you don’t get every day….and it was lovely.  It was so unlike Christmas, yet still a luxury, that I didn’t miss home like I thought I would.  Dinner was fillet steak and red wine at a price tag that would make my eyes water at any other time of the year, but at Christmas extravagance is mandatory.  I must tell you that the “extravagance” I speak of was still cheaper than a steak dinner at home but, here it’s my monthly utility bill.

On St Stephen’s Day (Boxing Day to you Brits) I packed my rucksack and caught a minivan to Bangkok, I was headed Ko Samet way!  KS is a small island south east of Bangkok, off the coast of Rayong.  I had an itinerary similar to that on Ko Tao – reading, suntan, the occasional cocktail and, this time, to ring in 2014 on the mother funkin beach, YES!  I spent as much time as possible in the sunshine, to hell with sunstroke, I was getting a tan.  I read, I listened to music, I swam, I drank beer for pretty much the whole six days.  The biggest difference I found with this holiday than any other was the food I opted for.  Usually a rather experimental eater, I like to eat the local food wherever I go.  This time however I turned into one of those infuriating travellers who insist on western food.  Morto.  In my defense, I have spent four months enjoying the local cuisine in NS and, although I do appreciate Thai food, one can get ‘Thai’d out’.  Anyway, I live in one of the best cities in Thailand for Thai food, I can have it any time I like, quite literally.  If I wanted chicken fried rice for breakfast it’s perfectly normal.  So, on KS where I could get my gnashers round a Mexican fajita, an English cauliflower cheese or an Italian pasta I ordered non Thai food at every meal.  The treat of pancakes for breakfast alone was worth the 9 hour journey down south.  Food glorious food!

 

New Year’s Eve swooped round yet I was still in a vortex of disbelief.  NYE in the heat?  On the sand?  Wearing a bikini??  I had to have a lie down, so I did…right on the beach with a beer and a book.  I stayed there til the sun sank down the horizon and dissolved into the sea.  That evening I ordered myself an Amaretto Sour and took myself down to the sand to wait for the year 2014 to approach, or 2557 according to the Thai calendar.  With the floating Chinese lanterns over my head, the pop and fizz of the bright rainbow of fireworks and the fire show compliments of the bar my first moment of 2014 was filled with light, may it last long into the year.

Sawat dee pimaï ka!

Images: Sinéad Millea

Paradise Found

Kho Tao

With two weeks of holiday ahead of me and an insatiable desire to relax I decided to venture south to Kho Tao, a little island near the cluster of party islands nestled in the Gulf of Thailand.  Neighboured by Kho Pangnan and Kho Samui this little sister is a quieter spot frequented by divers and snorkellers for it’s amazing array of fish and coral.  Following a month of lesson planning and generally settling into a new continent my brain desperately needed a temporary shut down.  I set myself two tasks, get a tan and read a book. 

The overnight journey began with a coach to Bangkok where my trustee iPod serenaded me for the three hour stint.  Next step was negotiating with the countless taxi drivers that jump on you like a stray monkey.  Arriving in Bangkok is a surreal experience, the bus station lanes are lined with streetfood vendors and taxi touts.  It attacked my senses and almost hypnotised me to follow a driver who dictated a fare of 250 baht to get me to the train station, his first quote was 500 – more than double the cost of the coach I had just alighted.  I broke from my trance and sought advice from the information desk where I was told the fare is approximately 150 baht in normal traffic.  I quickly rebooted myself and found a more reputable driver who got me to Hua Lamphong for 141 baht.  I scurried past the army of taxi touts shouting “Where you going?” to buy my train ticket in the air conditioned station.  Unfortunately for me the sleeper train was booked up so I was left with a seat in the 2^nd class carriage offering reclining seats, 6 hours later.  No other choice but to have a wander.  I made it down the river and decided to return swiftly when I sensed the stench of wee on the footpath.  I’d rather sit in a café for 6 hours than walk amongst someone’s wee, thanksverymuch.  So with so much time to kill I settled into the coffee shop and studied my copy of the Lonely Planet Guide to Thailand that informed me that Kho Tao was going to be worth the wait. 

Once the train arrived I was past caring about the lack of a horizontal place to sleep and snoozed all the way to Chumphon.  The train arrived almost an hour and a half late so the ferry I had a joint ticket for was already halfway to KT.  I had to buy a fare for the Catamaran which was scheduled to depart in 5.5 hours so I faced another long wait at a train station.  I sat in the sun and read a chunk of my book, already making a start on both my tasks.  The Catamaran crossing was the last leg of the 27.5 hour journey, and I too was on my last legs.  Exhausted and hungry I arrived on KT and was brought to a resort that my taxi driver recommended.  Not sure why, apart from perhaps a cut of their profits, as it wasn’t the kind of place I’d imagine when conjuring up idyllic thoughts.  The open condom on my bed was the last straw so I scoured Sairee Beach for alternative lodgings.  The accommodation fairy was smiling on me the following morning for she granted me refuge at a nearby resort offering a private bungalow with a pretty porch and private bathroom for the reasonable fee of 400 baht.  Same price as the place from the night before that offered a musty scent and second hand prophylactics.  I felt much more at home in the clean pretty bungalow surrounded by fragrant Frangipani trees.

My first day was filled with a very strict itinerary of reading, sunbathing and swimming.  No rest for the wicked as they say but I took regular swimming breaks.  The water was so clear I could see my feet, so soft it felt like it had added moisturiser (Sairee beach, sponsored by Dove!?) and the waves so gentle I floated on the surface of the water watching the taxi boats bob around as if in a merry dance.  Breathing in, letting my lungs fill, I rose to the surface and breathing out to empty them I felt my body sink back under, it felt as though it was just me and this incredible element on this island.  Despite slathering SPF on every square inch my sunbathing resulted in a tricolour of brown, pink and white.  My poor Irish skin is so unaccustomed to the sun it simply doesn’t know how to tan.  I decided to put it through rigorous training over the following five days and managed to balance it out somewhat and now am two tone, satisfactory progress.  I spent two days switching off and managed to read an entire book.  This is an amazing feat for me, I often get distracted while reading and find myself revising pages I have just read but not absorbed.  So used to multi tasking in my everyday, I find it such a challenge to simply sit and read.  By the third day I was starting to miss the sound of a conversation so when my French neighbour invited me for a beer on the beach I was delighted to accept.  We chatted into the evening and, over the course of my holiday, we whiled away an afternoon here and an evening there.

On a cloudy day I took myself on a boat trip of the island which included snorkelling in several of the bays and a trip to Kho Nang Yuan, a small neighbouring island which is apparently famous for snorkelling.  I needed to pop my snorkelling cherry and no better way than on a guided tour.  I arrived in one of the few rainstorms endured in my five day visit.  Soaked and hopeful for a blast of sun I arrived to be met with Mark, our tour guide, who hurriedly took details and handed out snorkels before rushing off to get ready for the trip.  After my few days of R&R I started to sense that Mark was a tad highly strung so kept a little distance so as not to catch it, stress is contagious dontcha know!  It came time to board the boat so Mark led us to the pier where two boats were moored up side by side.  Mark boarded with the dexterity of a gecko scaling a wall but unfortunately my sea legs are underdeveloped so hopping from boat to boat is more of a challenge to a landlubber like me.  Our highly charged tour guide took off out of earshot, ignorant to my plea for assistance.  The gap between the pier and the boat, and then the boat to the boat, looked like a deathly crevice to my untrained eye.  Eventually a helpful fellow passenger came to my rescue and assisted me aboard, a South Korean man who kept saying “whiskey!” when he heard where I’m from.  Are we only known for alcoholism?  I must be aware of this on my next visit to Bon Bon and undo all of this injustice.

As we departed Mae Haad pier I already acquainted myself with two girls from San Francisco.  We bonded over our mutual disgust at the scuzzy snorkels we were given, luckily they offered me an anti-bac wipe which solved the problem nicely.  I wondered if a discount would be on offer for handing my snorkel back cleaner than it’d been in a while…but I wasn’t going to approach Mark with this proposal for fear of being thrown overboard.  Our first stop was Shark Bay, where we were warned about strong currents so I sat that one out.  The excitement on the faces that returned whet my appetite and I was excited about my first snorkelling experience.  However, still a bit nervous so I asked Mark if there was anything I should know about technique and such and his response was to “watch out for coral”.  When I asked where it usually lives (as in, is it floating around me, is it at the bottom, is it around the rocks, etc…just the usual ignorance of a newbie who’s never before encountered coral) he said “where you see it”.  Hmm, about as helpful to me as a braille map.  With the more helpful and informative advice from my new San Franciscan acquaintance I entered the water with a degree of confidence where I marvelled at fish of all sizes and colours.  After a few more stops lunch was served aboard the boat before the final stop to Kho Nang Yuan where a viewpoint displayed the beauty of the island from above, accessed via a wooden walkway hugging the shore and a potentially treacherous scale of rock and boulder but so, so worth the effort!  After descending I rewarded myself with a swim and a snorkel on the beach where, in even shallow water, many curious sand coloured fish meandered around my feet.  I am exhilarated and hooked on snorkelling, and have vowed to purchase my own snorkel and goggles…at least I won’t have to count on anti-bac wipes for my next underwater excursion.

On my return from the boat trip I decided on a quiet dinner for one and had the most delicious Massaman curry by candle light at a little restaurant in Sairee town, called Blue Chair.  If my budget had allowed it I’d have eaten here each night.  Their Fish curry was so scrumptious I almost married it.  The island satisfies both party goers and peace seekers alike and as a solo visitor I was very pleased to see some bars showing English language movies on a big screen, offering me the chance to have an evening beer without looking like some sort of bar lush.  One evening I ventured into a bar playing hip hop, one of my favourite genres, because they had a fire show – dudes flinging fire meteors (length of rope with lit wicks at either end) all over the gaff.  One display was so awe inspiring it left me mesmerised, one of the performers got a large rope which was just lit at one end and flung it round and round til sparks flew off it, creating a bow of light around him.  I had forgotten my camera but the display will forever remain in my memory just for me.  As an ex photographer, I think that sometimes it’s important to experience something sans camera so you really live it.  With my camera I suffer the battle between having an experience and recording it, it’s not possible for me to do both.

On my penultimate day I accompanied my neighbour on a walk to Mae Haad beach for a change of scenery, just 20 minutes along the path aka the Yellow Brick Road.  This path comes alive at night with pretty lights enticing customers into the beach bars offering stunning views while you sip cocktails on cushions and beanbags.   

We discovered a cute little beach bar, called Karma, playing lovely chilled out music and nearby some rope swings suspended from a palm tree, that until now I had only seen whilst picture researching for luxury travel magazine features…now I was sitting on one, bliss!  After a swim, we went back to Karma that evening and I enjoyed some Bob Marley and beer, swaying lazily in a hammock while the waves kissed the shore.

My return journey was a tad shorter at just 24 hours and my tasks were diligently completed, I finished two books and got myself the beginnings of a tan.  I am still two tone, starting with brown shoulders working down to a whiter shade of pale but the dip-dye look is so A/W13 dahling, so I’m right on trend.

Images: Sinéad Millea