For the next two weeks, it’s just me and Pete (aka ‘Barney’). Our shuttle picks us up at midday on New Year’s Day, just as rain starts to fall on the revellers of Koh Saumi. We make our way to the other side of the island, and board a bus which drives onto a ferry and then takes us over to the main part of Thailand. By the time we get there, torrential rain has set in, and we get drenched running from the ferry back to the bus, to then be taken to Surat Thani, a city of 130,000, near the mouth of the river Tapi on the Gulf of Thailand.
According to Wikipedia, and also now according to me and Barney, “The city offers no major tourist attractions in itself, and is thus known to tourists as a transfer to the nearby popular Koh Samui Island.” The place is dead when we arrive and check into the Thai Rung Ruang Hotel – two mattresses on the floor and what was advertised as a bathroom, for 500 Baht (about $20 NZD).
Nowhere seems to be open for dinner, but we find a coffee house advertising spaghetti. We were rather hoping for Thai cuisine over Italian, and assume that the use of the word ‘spaghetti’ is a mistranslation of ‘noodles’. But when we look at pictures on the menu (a godsend for international travellers), it does actually look like bona fide pasta, so we enquire as to the availability of a green curry. The owner of the café doesn’t speak a word of English and enlists the help of another customer to assist with translation – to no avail. A couple of minutes later, we get an, “Ahhhh!” lightbulb moment from the restaurateur, who then walks over to his computer and types in ‘www.google.com’. Success.
By the time we’ve had our green curry and found an internet café to print the following day’s train tickets, the previously-dead town is, strangely, buzzing on a Sunday night. Street markets are alive, and parents, children, teens and the elderly are everywhere. It later dawns on me that Monday is a public holiday here in Thailand, too.
Part 1: The flooded streets
According to Wikipedia, and also now according to me and Barney, “The city offers no major tourist attractions in itself, and is thus known to tourists as a transfer to the nearby popular Koh Samui Island.” The place is dead when we arrive and check into the Thai Rung Ruang Hotel – two mattresses on the floor and what was advertised as a bathroom, for 500 Baht (about $20 NZD).
Nowhere seems to be open for dinner, but we find a coffee house advertising spaghetti. We were rather hoping for Thai cuisine over Italian, and assume that the use of the word ‘spaghetti’ is a mistranslation of ‘noodles’. But when we look at pictures on the menu (a godsend for international travellers), it does actually look like bona fide pasta, so we enquire as to the availability of a green curry. The owner of the café doesn’t speak a word of English and enlists the help of another customer to assist with translation – to no avail. A couple of minutes later, we get an, “Ahhhh!” lightbulb moment from the restaurateur, who then walks over to his computer and types in ‘www.google.com’. Success.
By the time we’ve had our green curry and found an internet café to print the following day’s train tickets, the previously-dead town is, strangely, buzzing on a Sunday night. Street markets are alive, and parents, children, teens and the elderly are everywhere. It later dawns on me that Monday is a public holiday here in Thailand, too.
Part 1: The flooded streets
The next morning, the rains have well and truly set in, and we can’t find a taxi to take us to the railway station. Instead, we commandeer a tuk tuk to get us to the bus station which we’re promised by the lady at reception will have a bus going to the Surat Thani Railway Station. It does, and we hop on board, pay the driver, and wait. And wait. And wait some more. I ask how long it’s going to be. Ten minutes, he says. Ten minutes later, it’s going to be another ten. The train we’re meant to be catching is the first of three connecting trains to get us to Kuala Lumpur in two days’ time, so we’re getting more anxious by the second. We’re screwed if we miss this.
No taxis are in sight, the tuk tuks are reluctant to take us in this weather. Barn eventually finds one (for a price) and the driver takes us through the torrential rain for about 15 minutes, before slowing down and finally coming to a stop on the side of the road. Saying, “Sorry, sorry”, he gestures for us to get off the back of the tuk tuk and onto the street which is now a shin-deep river of muddy water. Pete has his jandals on, but wanting to avoid slipping on the tiles this morning, I’d donned my new Nike trainers.
There’s no way I’m stepping into that water in shoes, so I’m left with no option but to pull them off and wade barefoot down the street. The tuk tuk driver tries to wave down another vehicle for us, but dozens pass us by – including, I think, the bus we’d got off in the first place – and the flood waters drench us even further. This is the first time I’m grateful for the 16kg pack I’m lugging around on my back, as opposed to my usual wheeled trolley case.
Eventually a Thai man driving a late model ute pulls over, gives us a sympathetic smile and gestures for us to jump on the back of his vehicle. We’d been told the whole journey to the station from the hotel would be around 15 minutes, but after the unsuccessful tuk tuk ride, we endure a further 15 minutes on the back of the ute in the most driving rain I have ever witnessed. Soaked to the skin, he drops us off at Surat Thani Railway Station and humbly refuses our offer of a 100 Baht note. We arrive after our train should have departed, but the flood waters have caused delays, and mercifully the train is late.
We spend the next two hours on platform 3 at the Surat Thani train station shivering, and comparing what was going through our heads as we were squatting down holding on to all of our belongings on the back of a ute driving at 100km/h through torrential rain and flood waters. Barney admits he initially thought we were being taken into a remote paddock "to be butchered”. A comforting thought. He’d clearly been quite serious, as he followed this up with: “I was actually planning our escape route. I was thinking we would have to do the ol’ traffic lights bolt.”
Personally, I was more concerned about getting my new camera wet and about what my Dad would have to say about me not wearing: 1) a seatbelt, 2) a helmet, and 3) a life jacket (considering the extreme weather conditions). Still on the platform, we chat to a local who’s drinking beer at 9 in morning. His personality grows at the same rate his beers disappear down his throat, and he gradually works up the confidence to come and talk to us. He tells us that the even drunker man swaying his way over the tracks is trying to get to Bangkok with no money. The friendly beer-drinking local has just given the guy some cash to go and buy something to eat – which explains why he’s dancing over the tracks, headed towards the food stalls on the other side. He asks where we’re from and he seems to have heard of New Zealand. Our new friend wishes us good luck, and the train eventually arrives.
Chilled to the bone, I open the bottom of my pack to pull out some of the merino clothes I’d reserved for Base Camp, and make my way to the toilet on board to get changed. I hover around the squatter, desperately trying to not get my dry clothes wet, as the window is wide open and everything in the tiny bathroom is drenched. And it reeks. Like, really reeks. This is less of a high point of the trip so far, but I make it back to my seat, narrowly avoiding hypothermia. I look out the window and see people navigating their scooters through the flood waters; some are steering with one hand while holding an umbrella in the other – a novel alternative to possessing a vehicle with a roof.
The flooding along the way is heart-breaking. Villages along the sides of the tracks washed out, homes and schools ruined, livelihoods destroyed. Four hours after leaving Surat Thani, we chug in to a scorching hot Hat Yai, in southern Thailand, near the Malaysian border. On the way in, we pass kilometre upon kilometre of rusting corrugated iron slums, and I could swear we're already in Mumbai.
We’re told our next train to Butterworth, in the Penang province of Malaysia, has been cancelled due to the lines being washed out. There hasn’t been a train to KL for two days, and they won’t be going tomorrow either. We dance with the idea of a flight and a travel insurance claim, but happen upon a travel agent down the street who says he can get us to Butterworth in a minivan for 650 Baht. We sign up, and then have a look around Hat Yai, before spending the next four and a bit hours in the back seat of a van with German tourists, me trying to use my seven years of Deutsch lessons to decipher what they're saying. We cross the Malaysian border at Betong and go through the palaver of passport control and having all our luggage x-rayed – the last thing we can be bothered doing after a total nightmare of a day.
We arrive in Penang at 9.20pm and check into the Ryokan Chic Hostels, a newly-build Japanese hostel in George Town, the capital of Penang Island, just in time for a Penang curry – the sole reason we made a stop here in our itinerary. But Mum had texted me earlier asking if I’d checked my emails lately; I hadn’t, and curiosity gets the better of me, so I quickly log onto the free wi-fi before we head out for food. Nothing on gmail, but I open Facebook to find a private message from my cousin Sarah who I grew up with (the one we met up with in Singapore on the way here), who’s more of a best friend than just a relative.
Part 2: The flooded eyes
No taxis are in sight, the tuk tuks are reluctant to take us in this weather. Barn eventually finds one (for a price) and the driver takes us through the torrential rain for about 15 minutes, before slowing down and finally coming to a stop on the side of the road. Saying, “Sorry, sorry”, he gestures for us to get off the back of the tuk tuk and onto the street which is now a shin-deep river of muddy water. Pete has his jandals on, but wanting to avoid slipping on the tiles this morning, I’d donned my new Nike trainers.
There’s no way I’m stepping into that water in shoes, so I’m left with no option but to pull them off and wade barefoot down the street. The tuk tuk driver tries to wave down another vehicle for us, but dozens pass us by – including, I think, the bus we’d got off in the first place – and the flood waters drench us even further. This is the first time I’m grateful for the 16kg pack I’m lugging around on my back, as opposed to my usual wheeled trolley case.
Eventually a Thai man driving a late model ute pulls over, gives us a sympathetic smile and gestures for us to jump on the back of his vehicle. We’d been told the whole journey to the station from the hotel would be around 15 minutes, but after the unsuccessful tuk tuk ride, we endure a further 15 minutes on the back of the ute in the most driving rain I have ever witnessed. Soaked to the skin, he drops us off at Surat Thani Railway Station and humbly refuses our offer of a 100 Baht note. We arrive after our train should have departed, but the flood waters have caused delays, and mercifully the train is late.
We spend the next two hours on platform 3 at the Surat Thani train station shivering, and comparing what was going through our heads as we were squatting down holding on to all of our belongings on the back of a ute driving at 100km/h through torrential rain and flood waters. Barney admits he initially thought we were being taken into a remote paddock "to be butchered”. A comforting thought. He’d clearly been quite serious, as he followed this up with: “I was actually planning our escape route. I was thinking we would have to do the ol’ traffic lights bolt.”
Personally, I was more concerned about getting my new camera wet and about what my Dad would have to say about me not wearing: 1) a seatbelt, 2) a helmet, and 3) a life jacket (considering the extreme weather conditions). Still on the platform, we chat to a local who’s drinking beer at 9 in morning. His personality grows at the same rate his beers disappear down his throat, and he gradually works up the confidence to come and talk to us. He tells us that the even drunker man swaying his way over the tracks is trying to get to Bangkok with no money. The friendly beer-drinking local has just given the guy some cash to go and buy something to eat – which explains why he’s dancing over the tracks, headed towards the food stalls on the other side. He asks where we’re from and he seems to have heard of New Zealand. Our new friend wishes us good luck, and the train eventually arrives.
Chilled to the bone, I open the bottom of my pack to pull out some of the merino clothes I’d reserved for Base Camp, and make my way to the toilet on board to get changed. I hover around the squatter, desperately trying to not get my dry clothes wet, as the window is wide open and everything in the tiny bathroom is drenched. And it reeks. Like, really reeks. This is less of a high point of the trip so far, but I make it back to my seat, narrowly avoiding hypothermia. I look out the window and see people navigating their scooters through the flood waters; some are steering with one hand while holding an umbrella in the other – a novel alternative to possessing a vehicle with a roof.
The flooding along the way is heart-breaking. Villages along the sides of the tracks washed out, homes and schools ruined, livelihoods destroyed. Four hours after leaving Surat Thani, we chug in to a scorching hot Hat Yai, in southern Thailand, near the Malaysian border. On the way in, we pass kilometre upon kilometre of rusting corrugated iron slums, and I could swear we're already in Mumbai.
We’re told our next train to Butterworth, in the Penang province of Malaysia, has been cancelled due to the lines being washed out. There hasn’t been a train to KL for two days, and they won’t be going tomorrow either. We dance with the idea of a flight and a travel insurance claim, but happen upon a travel agent down the street who says he can get us to Butterworth in a minivan for 650 Baht. We sign up, and then have a look around Hat Yai, before spending the next four and a bit hours in the back seat of a van with German tourists, me trying to use my seven years of Deutsch lessons to decipher what they're saying. We cross the Malaysian border at Betong and go through the palaver of passport control and having all our luggage x-rayed – the last thing we can be bothered doing after a total nightmare of a day.
We arrive in Penang at 9.20pm and check into the Ryokan Chic Hostels, a newly-build Japanese hostel in George Town, the capital of Penang Island, just in time for a Penang curry – the sole reason we made a stop here in our itinerary. But Mum had texted me earlier asking if I’d checked my emails lately; I hadn’t, and curiosity gets the better of me, so I quickly log onto the free wi-fi before we head out for food. Nothing on gmail, but I open Facebook to find a private message from my cousin Sarah who I grew up with (the one we met up with in Singapore on the way here), who’s more of a best friend than just a relative.
Part 2: The flooded eyes
Sarah's message says, "Bec! I have been trying to get hold of you but it seems I cannot call you. Some Thai woman gave me a spiel about your phone being out of range. This is MOST inconvenient as I have some news to share which would be way more fun to share on the phone." I skip to the next paragraph pronto. "Mark proposed this afternoon! And I said yes!"
She and Mark are engaged! My baby cousin is getting married! I’m squealing at the top of my lungs in the small hostel room, and with a tear in my eye, try to call her straight away. Much excitement ensues (from Barney too, as Sarah was at Knox with us, and is a good friend of all of us on the trip). I get hold of her and we discuss details of the proposal and the ring via an erratic phone connection between London and Malaysia.
By all accounts, it’s a “big dog” of a ring (her words), and Sarah was in a mixture of laughter and tears during Mark's proposal on the Thames. Dinner later is punctuated with choruses of, “Oh my god, Sarah’s ENGAGED!”, “Oh my GOD, Sarah’s engaged!” and “Oh my god, SARAH’S engaged!” Poor Barney laughs and humours me by responding with an, “I know”, each time. We finish the evening with some Tom Collins gin cocktails on Upper Jalan Penang, the Courtenay Place of George Town, to toast the newly engaged couple. A most brilliant end to a most horrific start to the day.
She and Mark are engaged! My baby cousin is getting married! I’m squealing at the top of my lungs in the small hostel room, and with a tear in my eye, try to call her straight away. Much excitement ensues (from Barney too, as Sarah was at Knox with us, and is a good friend of all of us on the trip). I get hold of her and we discuss details of the proposal and the ring via an erratic phone connection between London and Malaysia.
By all accounts, it’s a “big dog” of a ring (her words), and Sarah was in a mixture of laughter and tears during Mark's proposal on the Thames. Dinner later is punctuated with choruses of, “Oh my god, Sarah’s ENGAGED!”, “Oh my GOD, Sarah’s engaged!” and “Oh my god, SARAH’S engaged!” Poor Barney laughs and humours me by responding with an, “I know”, each time. We finish the evening with some Tom Collins gin cocktails on Upper Jalan Penang, the Courtenay Place of George Town, to toast the newly engaged couple. A most brilliant end to a most horrific start to the day.
