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The rot sets in
It promised to be the fight of the century, or at least “the worlds (sic) most devastating martial art contest” if the advertising was to be believed. Billed as a night of combat, Collin from the USA was to be tested against Thailand's Ponchai, and the question of whether Koh Samui's 100 pound superboy, Kansak, could beat Jingjodum, his equivalent from Bangkok, would be answered. This was Muay Thai or Thai boxing, Thailand's national sport and Friday night’s bouts at Petchbuncha stadium, Chaweng Beach, are as "super and real fight for the greatest of the year", whatever that might be. Since our arrival in Koh Samui utility wagons have constantly circled the streets loudly broadcasting advertisements for the fights, urging patrons to get there early for the best seats. And if these announcements weren’t already heavy enough, a long tail boat has been running parallel to the shoreline with speakers blaring out the same message. "Tonight, tonight, be there earlier, be there earlier."
We won't be there, despite the stadium being less than 200 metres from our hotel in what appears to be a less than salubrious pocket of town. It's nestled in Soi Reggae which, along with Sois Solo and Mango, is described in the pocket map guide as an adult’s area. If bars with names such as Position 69, 2 Hot 4 U, French Kiss, Thai Smile, Fun Angels, New Teasers, Sexy Nights, Snatch and Harem Bar don't give away their purpose, then the girls that call out to entice patrons in leave little to the imagination. Perhaps fortunately for us the areas is described as busiest between 3.00am and 7.00am, well after our bedtime, although Marty has warned Kaelene that if he wakes in the wee small hours and finds her not there, he will know exactly where she is.
This is Koh Samui, Thailand's third largest island, much smaller and quieter than Phuket and to the surprise of some Australian passengers its airport capable of handing only propeller powered passenger aircraft; that is aside from the executive jets of the rich, one of which landed just behind us. From their reactions to the sight of our Bangkok Airways ATR it would appear that Australians would have you believe they have never seen anything smaller than a Jumbo jet, but those of us who have seen Flying Doctors and other cerebrally important Australian television know this not to be the case.
But back to the airport, it is quite cute with gardens and flowers and open-plan, single story buildings, and it is very laid back. The planes pull up hundreds of metres from the terminal and, instead of air bridges, colorful, oversize golf carts pull up to transport passengers to the arrivals lounge. A bit like at Napier or Invercargill airports, a small tractor then pulls the baggage wagons in and, once the free-for-all of retrieval is over, it is off to your hotel, in our case at Chaweng, via a well organized greeting and taxi system. Nothing is left to chance.
Rather than stay up late and frequent the girlie bars we have been on the tourist trail, what promised to be a four hour around the island programme extended to six in what could be considered a very good value but curious mix of sights. Firstly, a formation at Hin Ta Hin Yai called the grandmother and grandfather rocks, legend having it that an old couple was shipwrecked in the bay and died; their bodies washed ashore leaving this outcrop in their memory. In reality, it is a particularly graphic collection, each one obvious, the postcards on sale leaving nothing to the imagination short of a speculum and torch to look further between the grandmother’s legs.
From there what was billed a monkey show. We have been on the lookout, keenly so, for a smoking monkey, reports have it that there are such shows in Thailand, but what we saw was a monkey being used to harvest coconuts. These are your classic bad-tempered, red-bummed, nasty pieces of work that would infect you with rabies as quick as look at you, this one having a carefully aimed spiteful crack at the tour guide. But he, the monkey, not the guide, did climb the tree, throw coconuts at anyone he could see and then come down to perch on peoples’ arms for the photo shoot This was an exact science, one false move we were told and the monkey would tear you to shreds.
If that was strange, the next was bizarre, the mummified monk at Khunnaram Temple who went into the big sleep some thirty years ago while in the meditation position. At some time, presumably before he died, he insisted that his remains not be burned but kept at the temple and he now sits, still in the meditation position, protected in a glass cage. Without any embalming treatment, it would be fair to say that the rot has set in; his eyes fell out at some point, so this saffron-robed monk is now adorned with a pair of no doubt designer-copy sunglasses - the irony being that visitors have to remove theirs. It’s not really a pretty sight; while he may have some hair, fingernails and leathery old skin left, one arm looks as though it is tuning to dust as if he has succumbed to leprosy.
If the bars in Chaweng are named to give some idea of their purpose, then some restaurants may be named to show that the locals have a sense of humour: Sum Ting Wong, Thai Me Up, En Thai Sing, Soon Fatt, and then there was the Vagina Tandoori. What could that be about?