A New kind of R&R: Research & Relaxation

After two weeks of intense interviews and running through the city of Bangkok, Erin, Sara, and I decided it was time for some relaxation.  Erin had been pleading with us since we arrived in Thailand to go to the beach, any beach, as long as there was water to soak her body in and sun to fry her freckly skin. Every night before bed I'd see Erin eyeing her new swim suit, and moments later I would hear her talking in her sleep about riding the waves.  The yearning for a beach trip was contagious and so Erin's wish finally came true last week when we planned a three day trip to Koh Samed, one of the closest and most easily accessible islands for us city-dwellers, with serene white beaches and few tourists during the week.

A three hour bus ride to the port and a forty-five minute ferry ride in which we sat in hammock-like beach chairs on the top deck, and we had arrived at Koh Samed. I was immediately reminded of my earlier travels to the Galapagos Islands this winter when I saw the pick-up truck taxis lined up outside of the dock ready to take us to any of the island's bungalows.  It's exhilarating to experience an island for the first time while riding on the back of a pick-up.  I often heard people on San Cristobal, the island I lived on in the Galapagos, talking of the lack of breathing space on an island. Everyone knows everyone living on the island and it's easy to grow tired of the same faces.  Yet as a traveller, there is so much freedom on a small island; one can explore without the fear of getting lost and can avoid the feeling of being overwhelmed by the obligation to hit all the important tourist sights.  One learns to sit or lie by the water's edge and take in the surroundings, rather than having the surroundings take over the traveller.

Once settled in to our room at Naga's Bungalows, Erin and I could not wait to jump in the water.  Sara seemed to be content with waiting until the passing rainstorm cleared, but Erin

 and I ran down to the beach, our feet padding soft sand already covered with pock marks from the rain.  The rain felt refreshing on our sweat-glistened foreheads and we expected to be engulfed by cool salt water as we waded in, but were dismayed to discover the ocean felt like bath water. The cloudy sky made the water look murky and it was hard to see what was lurking on the ocean's floor. On second thought, we could wait until after lunch to venture into the waves.  

The food at our bungalow was quite delicious and the menu was diverse.  Although my first meal of Som Tam (*spicy* green papaya salad) made my eyes water and face turn a lo

vely shade of violet, the second day I had a wonderfully delicious dish of fried green papaya with egg. (And yes, I know I just mentioned the menu's diversity and then proceeded to talk about two green papaya dishes, but other food options included everything from American dollar pancakes with honey to overstuffed baked potatoes.) We also ate a delicious meal at Jep's barbeque our first night on the island where we shared skewers of fresh veggies and barbequed tofu, while enjoying the dangling star lamps suspended in the air and carpet of sand under our toes. 

Going out at night on the island was amusing considering the ratio of bars to tourists on the island was about 2:1. Our first night out we enjoyed some quiet girl time at a bar with little tables scattered over a section of beach with twisted trees and strings of lights.  The breeze from the sea kept the mosquitos away and we breathed deeply, our lungs rejoicing to be free of Bangkok's heavy pollution. Later at a bar giving away coupons for free cocktails (desperate?) we met a guy from Australia who somehow got involved in a debate about feminism with Erin and Sara. The night ended with me trudging home in wet clothes due to the fact that Erin and I once again could not contain our desire to become Buddhist mermaids. 

Wednesday, our second day on the island, was a beautiful day.  The sand looked like a brilliant white sheet covering the island's edge and the water was a deep aquamarine turquoise shade. We chose a spot to lie in the shade and made friends with the little beach bum doggies kept by the owners of our bungalow. They were not the starving soi dogs that we are accustomed to seeing in the city; these dogs were healthy and taken care of. They kept us company during our whole stay at the beach, especially one pup whose fur pattern resembled oreo cookie crumbs.  He was anxious to be our friend and even politely pretended to listen and share in my excitement as I neared the suspenseful conclusion to the novel "Bangkok 8."

  

Although our side of the beach had a sparse number of tourists, mostly backpacker farangs who have the luxury of chilling out during the work week, there were plenty of merchants roaming the beach trying to convince us to give them our money.  Some displayed fake tattoo catalogues, tapestries, or carried on their shoulders long bars hanging with baskets of fruit or coconut water.  Women wearing bright yellow tee-shirts, sauntered over to our haven under the shade asking, "Manicure? Pedicure? Thai massage?" Figuring we could spend 200 Baht (about $6) on an hour of relaxation, Erin, Sara, and I all got a traditional Thai massage on the beach. The woman kneaded our muscles until they turned into jelly and listening to the waves, I entered a deep state of meditation.

Wednesday night we walked to the other end of the beach where there were more people and more action.  We watched a fire show performance featuring six teenage boys waving sticks with fire on each end into the night air.  Occasionally, a stick would fall, immediately sizzling in the wet sand from high tide below.  The boys glowed.  The club music's beat pounded in their chests and the smaller boys jumped onto the other's thighs, spinning flames four feet above their partner's head.  During the finale, the stacked pairs of boys walked all around the crowded beach restaurant area, flipping their sticks like gods of fire.  We kneeled on pillowed cushions watching in awe, sipping with straws from the traditional "Sangsom" bucket. Later that evening we would find ourselves at our own bungalow's bar, writing down requests to the DJ and dancing to "Jessie's Girl" and even the Macarena. We would smile at each other. We were alone on the dance floor, but we didn't worry; we just danced. Our spirits were alive and we were free, when so many in today's world are not.