One Side of the Scales

Thursday 10th December 2009, 4pm, the beach - Koh Mak

I have spent the past few days on the island of Koh Chang. Five hours drive and two hours ferry away from the madness of Bangkok myself and 3 others escaped to this lesser travelled island of palm trees, elephants and seriously chilled out guests. When docking at the pier on arrival my friend noted to me that 'this place looks so much like Jurassic Park it would be more surprising if dinosaurs didn't live here.' The island has a reputation in backpacker folklore as a hippy Mecca, on it's one stretch of idyllic sand - Lonely Beach - around 80% of the holidaymakers are dreadlocked, bamboo-tattooed, perma-tanned guitarists who sit around campfires at sunset and sing Bob Marley classics on their battered old Fenders. We met a 29 year old Geordie called Steven who had visited Koh Chang a few years back purely out of curiosity, on this visit he had the intention of staying for a week... 7 months later he was still there. He'd learnt the language, smoked a few too many ''herbal'' cigarettes and became a professional beach bum. Now he was back, for how long he doesn't know, and on Chang you get the impression that this backpacker testimony is no anomaly. There's a whole community of travellers who stopped travelling, because this is where they found that perfect red and lilac sunset they were looking for.

Two nights in a row for the first time since I've been away I was asleep before 11pm - the atmosphere there is just so conducive to rest and recuperation. On the second night myself and two others sat on our veranda and attempted to play cards; so spongy our brains had become by Koh Chang living however, none of us were quite able to recall all the rules of the game we were trying to teach the others and so we happily meandered our way through Crazy Eights, Rummy and Sevens not entirely sure of the purpose of the game or of how to win.

Don't get me wrong though, this place wasn't all early nights and boardgames. Apparently there's still very much something of the Woodstock generation running through these hippies veins - they love a party. More specifically they love a party in a swish beach resort decked out with wooden platforms, floor cushions and fountains, a party with a decent House DJ where the rum comes by the bucket, pink and green strobe lights flicker across bare, tanned skin, and the baccy is most definitely wacky. At around 3am this morning I was still at said party throwing some crazy shapes (read: over energetic, bad drunk dancing) with Victor and Tobin, a couple of friendly Swedish ravers, when I glanced around and realised that I'd merrily waved my little group goodbye and off to bed with my bungalow key some time before.

After making my apologies to the Swedes (who were of course devastated to be missing out on more of my stellar dancefloor groove busters) I wandered on the beach track home, only to be adopted by an Essex boy called Kenny (those friggin' Essex get everywhere don't they) and a Canadian boy called Rob, who were concerned that I was on my own. Kenny and Rob had only met each other the previous evening and had bonded late at night on the beach over a shared love of kayak theft. This hadn't quite worked out for them - on getting the stolen kayak out to sea having only their hands as oars they suddenly wondered why being in the ocean at night and drunk had seemed like such a good idea. They paddled frantically back to shore and then carried on their male bonding over their new common ground - near death experience by kayak misadventure. What genuinely lovely boys, very funny, self-deprecating, considerate, and just the kind of people you always hope you'll be fortunate enough to meet when walking home alone in the early hours. Rejecting sleep in favour of their company the three of us sat until 7.30am this morning drinking beer, playing with beach puppies and talking about home comforts, future plans and old flames. By 9am I was on a boat again, heading to my current destination. After too much alcohol, no sleep and no food, strapping a 14k bag to my weary back in the sweltering heat and getting on a rickety old boat meant that I felt decidedly sorry for myself this morning. I think though that the hangover price was more than paid for by such an unexpected encounter with kind strangers.

Three days on Koh Chang was enough for me, I had no intention of pitching a tent and throwing away my hairbrush. Very unusually for me I took a bit of an instant disliking to the Geordie and found it difficult to talk to him for too long. This was for a variety of reasons that don't need going in to, but I think it was mainly because I can't trust or respect someone who can find all the fulfillment they need for 7 months on one stretch of beach. This is where the gallivanting and goodness equation presents itself. Beach living with the hippies might be great fun, but for me it weighs the scales too heavily in one direction - equilibrium is the key, Cambodia may be the answer.