Planes, buses and longtail boats

From Bangkok, I took an Air Asia flight to Krabi, on the southwestern peninsula of Thailand. And there, I boarded a shuttle bus to Ao Nang. It wound past open-air schools and a few resorts, through crowded main streets of towns where the upper stories seem to lean in on the lower levels. Thai motorcyclists and pedestrians are either fearless or psychic. They ducked around the bus at the last possible moments, escaping death by mere inches.



We pulled squeezed by an open-air market at the seashore of Ao Nang, close enough to the vendors I could look out the window and try to guess at what food items they had skewered, roasted and were selling. Racks of clothes were marked for 20b or 30b, just about on American dollar, but looked like the dregs or the dregs of Goodwill. Fisherman’s pants cost closer to 150b.

From Ao Nang, or anywhere else, really, the only way to get to Ton Sai is by longtail boat. And even at low tide, the only way to get to the boat is to wade through the waves. I was thigh-deep in water when I passed my luggage to the boatman and boarded with my jeans thoroughly soaked. This shared lament over our sopping pants—that we’d bothered to cuff them up at all seemed ridiculous—was how I met Stephanie and Aaron, two climbers from San Francisco.



Our packed boat cruised around cliffs where kayakers paddled among the limestone outcroppings and the occasional dangling rope marked a free soloing spot, a place to climb, unroped, and let the water break your fall. We were deposited at Ton Sai in much shallower water (it’s only taken three days for my jeans to dry—yes, jeans, I know, but I get cold on airplanes and let’s recall that that was where this journey started), and hiked up a road that’s paved for about a quarter of its horseshoe-shape. Then it fades into uneven dirt.

My bungalow, at 300b, is priced as low as they go in high season, unless you’re willing to forego a fan, an electric outlet, and walls solid enough to keep monkeys out. I’m not willing, somehow, to go much lower than an only mostly-sealed building (seriously, my tent in the Bahamas offered more security from insect and reptilian invaders). The cracks in the floorboards are, I’m sure, fat enough to accommodate a tarantula and if there aren’t centipedes crawling through my ceiling, plotting aerial attacks, it’s by their choice and not by any defense established by the building. The shower is a hose spigot, and the toilet “flushes” by pouring water into the bowl, which is collected in a bucket under the sink because there’s no plumbing between the sink drain and the drain in the floor. And roughly $10 a night does not include hot water, toilet paper, hand soap, anywhere to store clothes or gear but in my bags and under my bed, or electricity between 7:30am and 5pm. Most of the town has no electricity during the day, when the generators are off.



And basically, I think it’s amazing what you can get used to.

Stephanie spent five months on the Phra Nang peninsula over last winter, and was more than happy to point out the necessaries: where to buy water by the five-gallon jug instead of by the liter, where to get a real cup of coffee and not Nescafe instant, which street vendors will add mango to their Thai pancakes, and which electrolytes to add to the water otherwise so stripped of its minerals by the Thai filtration process it’s basically allegedly useless—yes, even the filtered water has to be treated. (I’m trying to alternate buying their filtered water and using my own so I don’t use all 1,000 gallons before India. Don’t worry, Dad. It will see plenty of use.) She’s also coached me a bit on my Thai, so I can say “Hello” and “How are you?” and “I am good.” Oh, and held my hand the first time I stepped up on a slackline. So she’s been pretty well indispensable.



It’s easily 85 or 90 degrees in the sun every day, and the humidity is thick enough to feel like a perpetual steam bath. The first day out, Stephanie, Aaron and I visited the Thaiwand wall, which was gloriously shady and had an excellent breeze all day. Every climb tops out above the trees with a view onto Railay Bay. We spent a day at a sunny crag, climbing routes half-hidden in the enormous caves and getting gloriously dirty. Then today, climbed at a cliff you have to take a boat to get to when the tide is high. It was pouring rain when we hiked back along the beach, the tide far enough out to leave just damp rocks and sand to cross.



We come down from climbs soaked with sweat and have sunburned just in the reflection off the water or the few minutes spent walking to the climbs. At the end of the day, fully clothed, we go straight into the ocean, which is only just cool enough to make a difference. And yes, that cold water shower is plenty welcome.