We land in Bangkok and have a couple of hours to spare, so we head down to the railway platform hoping we can get somewhere near the centre of town in the limited time we have. Barney reveals he still has some Fruit Bursts and passes the bag around the team. Delighted, we get a much-needed sugar hit and discuss the merits of citrus over berry while we wait for the train, before a Bangkok Railways official joins us on the platform. Barn, supposing the guard might also like a Fruit Burst, generously offers the bag forth. The guard is less than impressed, and furrows his already-stern brow even further, and then barks something in Thai, pointing to the ‘No Food’ sign we’d obviously missed. The uniformed official turns and salutes the oncoming train, while we hide the remaining evidence of any other food, and jump on the 160km/h express, which takes us nowhere near the centre of town, but instead to Phaya Thai Station, in a run-down part of Bangkok. We sample the street food delights on offer, choosing Pad Thai, chocolate crepes, and grilled bananas. After seeing the woman at the stall behind us re-fill an old water bottle from the tap and place it back in her fridge, we wash our lunch down with bottles of Pepsi that look legitimately sealed.
We head back to the airport and we’re bussed out into the middle of the runway to board our flight to Koh Samui on Bangkok Airways, the “Best Domestic Airline in Asia – 6 years running”, according to their in-flight magazine, promotional ads, name badges, head rests, plastic cups, and cutlery. The Party Plane, as we christen it, is highly decorated with multi-coloured swirls and stripes – very Austin Powers – and we’re treated to our first free in-flight meal and entertainment in the form of a Quebec version of You’re on Candid Camera. The cheap laughs satisfy, and team morale is at an all-time high as we arrive at Ark Bar, our resort for the next four days. We spend the first night on the beach drinking cocktails, swimming, dining and then trying our first buckets – some (read: mine) much more potent than the rest. The next day, we hit the shops and the well-travelled of the bunch teach me the art of haggling, my first success being a fluorescent, leopard-print bikini – a steal at 450 Baht.
George and Joan arrive from Koh Tao in time for a group lunch of more Pad Thai (when in Rome) and we plan the rest of the day’s activities. Some of us girls opt for a very indulgent two-and-a-half-hour massage and foot scrub session, while the boys head to the Thai boxing matches on that night. We’re marched upstairs out the back of Most Massage’s premises, lined up on mattresses in a neat row, and each appointed a masseuse. We’re then stripped off in a semi-dignified manner, towelled up, and our feet are scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. The oil massage follows, and for the most part, it’s very relaxing. Until I lift my head and see a small Thai lady mounting Harriet on the floor next to me. Heaving with laughter and with tears rolling down my cheeks, I have to bury my face in my pillow and spend the rest of the massage suppressing fits of hysteria, and reassuring my little Thai lady that I’m okay. We’re rolled over, oiled and rubbed some more, and some of the other girls unwittingly find themselves getting free boob massages (and in one case a free buttocks massage) that were not on the original order.
When the Thai masseuses hear that the boys in our group are at the boxing, they ask if we mean ‘ladyboy boxing’ and tell us about Thailand’s champion ladyboy boxer, Nong Tum - definitely worth a google. Thoroughly relaxed and laughed out, we find an alleyway of bars with two-for-one cocktail buckets and meet up with Hanna, Kate and Christie and their Swiss travelling buddies. We witness some excruciating-looking breakdancing fails (think: face meets concrete), and the night ends with another beach swim. The tide rolls in and takes with it George’s dress and almost her jandals. But, like the true intrepid traveller George has become over the past six weeks in India and Thailand, she doesn’t let this faze her. For a replacement dress, she makes do with a guy’s singlet left behind on the beach, and then heads to Burger King, regardless, for some flame-grilled beef goodness. I commend her resilience in the face of loss, and realise that where there’s a grill, there’s a way.
We head back to the airport and we’re bussed out into the middle of the runway to board our flight to Koh Samui on Bangkok Airways, the “Best Domestic Airline in Asia – 6 years running”, according to their in-flight magazine, promotional ads, name badges, head rests, plastic cups, and cutlery. The Party Plane, as we christen it, is highly decorated with multi-coloured swirls and stripes – very Austin Powers – and we’re treated to our first free in-flight meal and entertainment in the form of a Quebec version of You’re on Candid Camera. The cheap laughs satisfy, and team morale is at an all-time high as we arrive at Ark Bar, our resort for the next four days. We spend the first night on the beach drinking cocktails, swimming, dining and then trying our first buckets – some (read: mine) much more potent than the rest. The next day, we hit the shops and the well-travelled of the bunch teach me the art of haggling, my first success being a fluorescent, leopard-print bikini – a steal at 450 Baht.
George and Joan arrive from Koh Tao in time for a group lunch of more Pad Thai (when in Rome) and we plan the rest of the day’s activities. Some of us girls opt for a very indulgent two-and-a-half-hour massage and foot scrub session, while the boys head to the Thai boxing matches on that night. We’re marched upstairs out the back of Most Massage’s premises, lined up on mattresses in a neat row, and each appointed a masseuse. We’re then stripped off in a semi-dignified manner, towelled up, and our feet are scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. The oil massage follows, and for the most part, it’s very relaxing. Until I lift my head and see a small Thai lady mounting Harriet on the floor next to me. Heaving with laughter and with tears rolling down my cheeks, I have to bury my face in my pillow and spend the rest of the massage suppressing fits of hysteria, and reassuring my little Thai lady that I’m okay. We’re rolled over, oiled and rubbed some more, and some of the other girls unwittingly find themselves getting free boob massages (and in one case a free buttocks massage) that were not on the original order.
When the Thai masseuses hear that the boys in our group are at the boxing, they ask if we mean ‘ladyboy boxing’ and tell us about Thailand’s champion ladyboy boxer, Nong Tum - definitely worth a google. Thoroughly relaxed and laughed out, we find an alleyway of bars with two-for-one cocktail buckets and meet up with Hanna, Kate and Christie and their Swiss travelling buddies. We witness some excruciating-looking breakdancing fails (think: face meets concrete), and the night ends with another beach swim. The tide rolls in and takes with it George’s dress and almost her jandals. But, like the true intrepid traveller George has become over the past six weeks in India and Thailand, she doesn’t let this faze her. For a replacement dress, she makes do with a guy’s singlet left behind on the beach, and then heads to Burger King, regardless, for some flame-grilled beef goodness. I commend her resilience in the face of loss, and realise that where there’s a grill, there’s a way.
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