Not a single spectre was spotted, alas; the only thing to fear down here seems to be the weather
CHIRAYU NA RANONG
Sometimes it's just not meant to be.
If life were a postcard the forecast would always be for clear skies, and every holiday you took would be all about sun, sea and sand. But the truth is that sometimes you're damn lucky to get two out of three.
After a seven-hour drive from Bangkok I stand on the tiny pier, looking out across the water. In the near distance is Ko Pithak, a small fishing community in Chumphon's Lang Suan district and my destination. I pictured myself enjoying the next couple of days, mingling with the fisherman, catching squid and easing myself gently into the tempo of island life. But on the horizon the skies are ominously dark. A thunderstorm is approaching with heavy winds and crashing waves to wash all those aforementioned images, along with a few tents and roofs, straight into the sea.
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| No such thing as a light shower here; this storm means business! |
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| Messy walkways cluttered up by squid traps left out to dry. |
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| A fisherman scrambles to secure his boat and head for cover. |
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| Ko Pithak during a rare break from the rain. |
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| Running homestays is an important source of income for the islanders. |
If this were a Star Wars movie, this is the point where the scriptwriter would have had someone say, "I have a bad feeling about this."
Ignoring everything my instincts are telling me - for I really have no other choice - I take the plunge. Slinging my two bags over a shoulder, I start climbing down the ladder to the small boat waiting below. Two fishermen have offered to take me across. As I descend, I mentally run through the contents of my luggage. Novel? Check. iPod? Check. Excessive supply of fresh underwear? Check. 15-tool Macgyver utility knife? Check.
Umbrella? Ouch.
I get into the boat anyway, which turns out to be the worst decision I've made in a while. As we shuttle over to Ko Pithak I ask one of the friendly guys if it's been raining a lot. He chuckles and shakes his head. "No, no," he assures me, smiling, "hasn't rained in weeks!" I nod and peer nervously over my left shoulder, as impending doom creeps ever closer. A mere 1.2 kilometres from shore, it only takes a few minutes to make the crossing. I'm told that in the drier months (this not being one of them) you can actually just walk right on over when the tide is low.
I climb up to the house of the village headman where I'm greeted by his wife, Porn Taneekrut, a middle-aged lady and a native of Chiang Rai. She's been living here for over 20 years now and, like many of her neighbours, runs a homestay for tourists.
There are 235 permanent residents on Ko Pithak, 90 per cent of whom earn their living from the sea. Some time in the 1870s this area was overrun by thugs and pirates who would use the island as a safe hideaway. Fishermen who dropped anchor offshore for the night would occasionally hear yelling and see people on the beach beckoning them to come ashore. But when they'd land, there wouldn't be a soul around. And that's how the island got its original name, Pheethak, which translates roughly as "there's a ghost waving at you."
So here I am, alone, on the brisk of a terrifying storm, on Ghost Island!
Of course, when people started settling here, some 40 years later, the name was cleverly modified to Ko Pithak, which means Protector Island. Aah, the beauty of the Thai language; take a creepy, former pirate stronghold, switch a vowel here, an accent mark there, and, voila!, a friendly, off-the-beaten-track tourist destination is born!
I've never believed in ghosts, but if there ever was a time and place to convert me it's here and now. In fact, as the sun vanishes, the thunder and lighting arrive, and it becomes glaringly obvious that I won't be doing much of anything for the foreseeable future, I actually start wishing for some such spectral encounter. It'd be the easiest story to write ever. But even that is to prove wishful thinking. Instead, I just got really wet and cold.
The rain slammed onto the shore for hours as dogs scrambled, laundry flew, bird cages rattled, tents crumbled and even roof tiles took flight. It let up momentarily so I got the chance to wander around a bit. Must say the island was rather messy, though. There are no designated paths nor any street lighting but there's garbage everywhere, intertwined with squid traps left out to dry.
I spoke with a few of the villagers, asking them about tourism on the island and, more interestingly, about the ghostly history of the place. Everyone said the legends were true, although I wasn't so fortunate as to get any first-hand accounts. An old lady named Tum told me that in her 60-odd years on the island, sleeping in the open every night, not once had she encountered a ghost.
What are the odds for there being no ghosts on Ghost Island? Yet Bangkokians apparently encounter them regularly in the lifts of their condo buildings!
I was disappointed, but before I could investigate further, Mother Nature made a U-turn and came back for round two. I quickly hustled back to Khun Porn's house to wait out the storm again.
I awoke next morning in one piece and, aside from thirsty mosquitoes, didn't appear to have received any visitations during the night. It was still raining, so I decided that once the skies cleared I'd better head back to the mainland, otherwise who knows how long I'd be stuck here. Six hours later the rain stopped. Time to make my escape. But it wasn't all that easy. There's no scheduled ferry service so you have to depend on the kindness of the village boat-owners.
The first scene of the final act of this disaster had me waiting around for another hour until transport was found. As we were making our way to the pier the terrifying, dark grey clouds reappeared, and the sea got choppier and choppier. Our tiny little motor did its best to outrun the storm sitting right on our tail.
When we reached dry land, I dashed up the ladder and into a little shack on the pier and then spent the next hour watching the road get a good dousing. Oh, and the only way from here into Lang Suan town? A 20-kilometre ride on the back of a motorcycle taxi. It's not all rainbows and butterflies like the travel papers would have you believe.
So if you're thinking of heading down south, make sure to do so during one of those drier months I kept hearing about. Or else bring a raincoat. Or, better still, just buy yourself a postcard!
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