thailand 1/23-25: krabi

When we arrived in Krabi, my back ached and I imagined that my right foot, swollen from bloodthirsty nits, might be gangrenous. I'd washed my hair in a sink in Bangkok, and it felt flaccid and forlorn. The pumpkin pants were wrinkled from a night of anxious, upright sleep. I was scared to look in a mirror.
The limp Krabi town bus depot, clearly a distant relative of the palatial point of origin, was host to a dozen or so small travel agencies. I sat down outside one, where an athletic-looking group of Australians were playing cards and drinking Singhas next to a mountain of hiking packs. A man came over and tried to peddle some sort of island boat tour; I waved him off. I began to idly snap photos, admiring the Australians, who, collectively, looked like an ad for Youthful Exuberance. The man made a second round, and was spurned again. He looked at me for a spell, and then began to ask questions.
Something comes over me when people who I've deemed a nuisance begin to ask me questions. I start spinning lies, voraciously and (t)ruthlessly. I can only suppose that endeavoring to lead an honest life comes from repressing an alternate, dishonest vision of reality. It's a luxury, additionally, of being endowed with an honest face. I take great pride in looking the part of sincerity and integrity. Today, however, I looked (and played) the part of a hard-nosed young reporter, tired of trying to differentiate between too many island boat tours to my editor. The man was both empathetic (which is important) and enthusiastic (which is better), and slyly (,he thought) gifted me the Barracuda Four Island Boat Tour in exchange for a favorable write-up.

I'm thus obliged to tell you that I had a fantastic time. (But really, I did!) We - three French couples, a pair of Singapore newlyweds and I - departed by longshore boat from the neighboring port of Ao Nang. I'll pause here to note that being by water - in any capacity - is my personal paradigm of paradise. Of course ample sunshine, dramatic cliffs, jewel-toned fish and the crunch of sand beneath bare feet have a slight edge over the bulkhead at Pratt Pool, but you get the picture.

Being in a bathing suit, I concluded long ago, is my natural and best-preferred state. Unfortunately, I hadn't brought a bathing suit. I had failed, in addition, to acquire one in one of the many Bangkok shopping malls, being host to much too much pride to a) spend 1000b b) for an extra-large bikini. However, forgoing snorkeling was a non-negotiable non-option. I was in Thailand, for chissakes, and I'd conned my way into a day-long excursion through some of the world's most idyllic beaches. So, when the boat paused aside some truly spectacular rocks for a snorkel break, I hesitated for only a second before plunging into the crystal waters, fully clothed in my sweaty pajamas. The water was very salty and very clear. It occurred to me that I'd likely incinerate my clothing upon return to Shanghai. I chucked the snorkel, but wore the mask, and found myself in a gregarious cloud of emerald guppies. I swam further out, and found a coral bed, where large, yellow fish were gathered. When the longshoremen rang the bell, we boarded the boat.
The rest of the day was spent flitting about to various beaches and cliffs. We'd dock, and the couples would wander off for private jaunts or dips. I took pictures, or snorkeled, or dozed. An unfortunate symptom of photographing solo travels is that you capture everything but yourself.

I shot the above to commemorate how clear and fish-filled the waters were, ankle deep, on that day on Chicken Rock. We'd just eaten lunch, and I (below)

watched the beautiful, svelte French girl Eugenie and her blond boyfriend Etienne tan themselves in matching, paisley-print swimming suits for a while.
When we returned to Krabi, I sought shelter. The eager man at the travel agency recommended a hostel in town. A man in a silver pick-up truck came to fetch me. His English was good, and he was rather funny. His name was Kit, and he worked at the hostel. He showed me to my room, which I was surprised and pleased to find was totally mine, and equipped with a private bathroom. I took what might have been the best shower of my life, and collapsed into a deeply delicious sleep.
I spent the following day exploring Krabi town, which was smallish for the most part. When that grew tiring, I brought a novel from the hostel - Terry Pratchett! - , and read it on a bench until I thought I should be hungry. I hadn't eaten since the previous day's lunch, but I didn't have much of an appetite. I also hadn't taken a shit in five days, which concerned me deeply. My father instilled in us a number of values growing up, but the two most salient ones involving slamming doors (don't) and pooping every day (do). Phone calls and e-mails typically conclude with a stern inquisition into the regularity of my bowel movements. I bought a bottle of water for dinner. I longed for male companionship, and digestive produce. I headed back to the hostel, where Kit was lounging, and struck up conversation. He proposed we grab a beer, so we headed to a bar down the way, where he was acquainted with the owner. We ate some nameless, exotic fruit, and rolled cigarettes with bamboo shoots and some strong red tobacco. It was nice.

By the time I retired, I had a good buzz going. The next morning, Kit recommended that I take a local bus to a nearby beach. My coach back to Bangkok was scheduled for 5PM that day, which would arrive with plenty of time to spare before my 9AM flight to Shanghai.
The beach was unique in that the sand was in a rudimentary stage of formation, which left my legs looking like this:

I had brought along a novel, which was the reluctant result of a lengthy and unsatisfactoy selection process. The Terry Pratchett had been a rare anomaly; Mary Higgins Clark, James Patterson and Nora Roberts dominated the hostel shelves. I wound up caddying the thickest Dr. Cross novel I could find, which took about forty-five unenjoyable minutes to finish. When I returned to Krabi town, it was mid-afternoon. I perused a guitar shop and a stationary stand, leaving behind a trail of seashells.
After bidding goodbye to Kit, I boarded a bus with a group of horrendously drunk Englishmen, which was Bangkok-bound. I was beginning to feel a little starved for company, and was grateful that the trip was drawing to a close. I sat beside a genial Hawaiian hippie, and they showed 'Borat' and 'Superbad' in succession, both of which tasted pleasantly of home (whatever, wherever that meant). I slept, until Bangkok, after which I slept until Shanghai.
I treated myself to a ride on the Magnetic Levitation train from the airport, which runs at 400km/hour for the eighty seconds it takes to get from PuDong to Shanghai proper at that speed. It was moderately terrifying. When I got home, it was empty, and I decided to bathe. I undressed, and was genuinely surprised by the sound of seashells - a shower - striking the linoleum floor.