After eight ours on numbingly uncomfortable plastic minibus seat, it was a relief to arrive in Krabi, even though the driver simply deposited me at the side of the main road. Now, much as I like my North Face kit bag, it is a git to carry for any distance - the straps keep slipping from my shoulders and it smells like a Kenyan porter. That sounds terrible, but the last time I used it was climbing Mt Kenya at Christmas and the porter’s sweat must have permeated the bag.
I don’t like taking motorbike taxis, especially when I am laden with baggage and don’t have a helmet, but when the lilac waistcoated driver approached me, there didn’t seem to be much alternative. He lodged the bag between his legs and the handlebars making steering difficult - he was a short man with little arms. We sped off towards the port, my mind flipping between exhilaration and the sensations of crashing. I used to crash my push-bike regularly so I can vividly recall that moment of horror as control is lost and you head for the tarmac. It is why I have never bought a motorbike. I tried not to think about the consequences, and offered up a silent prayer for our safety. Then, just as I began to wonder if my computer would survive the crash - those Crumpler bags are pretty good, we braked suddenly. My head pitched forward and and squashed my nose on the back of the purple helmet. No damage done, but the large, greasy nose print amused me for the rest of the trip.
I would never have found the port by myself. About 20 minutes from Krabi and down a long, quiet lane through an oil palm plantation. As I waited for the long-tailed boat I ate ice cream and watched an old man smashing a reinforced concrete post with a sledgehammer, all the evidence that remained to suggest that there had been a tsunami here.
This is a very beautiful part of the world, holiday brochure seas and a magical, imaginary landscape; limestone towers soaring above white sand beaches, hanging with lianas and backed by impenetrable jungle. In the short journey to Railey Point, I tried to count the islands, but there were too many.
The ferry was a long tailed boat with good reason. The tide was out when we arrived. We anchored along with another group of boats about a hundred and fifty feet from the shore. The boatman jumped over the side, along with the local passengers, and started wading to shore. I small flash of anxiety crossed my mind. Saltwater isn’t the best thing for computers and camera gear. I wondered if I had time to put everything into plastic bags. I didn’t. As I stepped over the gunwales the water came just over my knees. This should be OK, I thought, as long as I don’t fall over. Take it steady and you will be OK.
The boatman reached out and grabbed my by the shirt, pulling me back to the boat. My heart racing, I looked round for a shark, a tsunami, anything to stimulate this attack. He pointed to his feet and the milky water. We have between here and here only he said. I was obviously being a bit thick. He moved to the left and right, holding his hand vertically and then making a sudden dropping motion. The penny finally dropped. We were on a submerged jetty. As I couldn’t see it, the walk to the shore was slow and required a lot of concentration, as I felt my way forward along the slippery concrete. Plastic bags, I kept thinking. Next time you are travelling over water, put everything in plastic bags.
I don’t like taking motorbike taxis, especially when I am laden with baggage and don’t have a helmet, but when the lilac waistcoated driver approached me, there didn’t seem to be much alternative. He lodged the bag between his legs and the handlebars making steering difficult - he was a short man with little arms. We sped off towards the port, my mind flipping between exhilaration and the sensations of crashing. I used to crash my push-bike regularly so I can vividly recall that moment of horror as control is lost and you head for the tarmac. It is why I have never bought a motorbike. I tried not to think about the consequences, and offered up a silent prayer for our safety. Then, just as I began to wonder if my computer would survive the crash - those Crumpler bags are pretty good, we braked suddenly. My head pitched forward and and squashed my nose on the back of the purple helmet. No damage done, but the large, greasy nose print amused me for the rest of the trip.
I would never have found the port by myself. About 20 minutes from Krabi and down a long, quiet lane through an oil palm plantation. As I waited for the long-tailed boat I ate ice cream and watched an old man smashing a reinforced concrete post with a sledgehammer, all the evidence that remained to suggest that there had been a tsunami here.
This is a very beautiful part of the world, holiday brochure seas and a magical, imaginary landscape; limestone towers soaring above white sand beaches, hanging with lianas and backed by impenetrable jungle. In the short journey to Railey Point, I tried to count the islands, but there were too many.
The ferry was a long tailed boat with good reason. The tide was out when we arrived. We anchored along with another group of boats about a hundred and fifty feet from the shore. The boatman jumped over the side, along with the local passengers, and started wading to shore. I small flash of anxiety crossed my mind. Saltwater isn’t the best thing for computers and camera gear. I wondered if I had time to put everything into plastic bags. I didn’t. As I stepped over the gunwales the water came just over my knees. This should be OK, I thought, as long as I don’t fall over. Take it steady and you will be OK.
The boatman reached out and grabbed my by the shirt, pulling me back to the boat. My heart racing, I looked round for a shark, a tsunami, anything to stimulate this attack. He pointed to his feet and the milky water. We have between here and here only he said. I was obviously being a bit thick. He moved to the left and right, holding his hand vertically and then making a sudden dropping motion. The penny finally dropped. We were on a submerged jetty. As I couldn’t see it, the walk to the shore was slow and required a lot of concentration, as I felt my way forward along the slippery concrete. Plastic bags, I kept thinking. Next time you are travelling over water, put everything in plastic bags.
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