Why I Hated Thailand, Part 2: Hand Me My Pants!

Several months have passed since Thailand and I called it quits. Now that your suspense has built and my pain has eased, I'm ready to finish my story.. Actually, I became a little type-shy after a reader's criticism of Part 1 but, as I like to follow-through, my stubbornness prevailed. After all, there are still plenty of people left to offend.

It was a rainy Thursday on January 3^rd when I disappeared into a ridiculous poncho, piled onto the back of an overcrowded ute and waved goodbye to Koh Lanta. The next stage of the journey was by ferry, where we sat behind a row of fat Russians who ate for the entirety of the trip, stuffing their biscuit wrappers into the air vents above. When the very beautiful Railay Beach came into view, we boarded longtail boats to reach the shore. Finally wading through the shallows on foot, I was pleased I’d received Aga’s warning against a wheely suitcase and had borrowed my brother’s backpack. Ain’t no roads in Railay.

Our new holiday spot offered luxury heaped upon eyesores. A ragged construction site led the way to our hotel and the lovely restaurants were bordered by rubbish-strewn pathways and great, stinking burn-offs. The great little strip of shops, bars and eateries made an appealing spot for Thai youth and tourists alike. Our hotel rooms were delightfully deluxe, and we 30-somethings preferred to enjoy our evening drinks in the quiet of the poolside.

The pretty, little beaches were nestled by the cliffs where muscular climbers could be spotted day and night. Sunbathers shamelessly turned their backs to the water, preferring the rock-climbers over the less shapely swimmers. Ben created the game, “Spot the European” as a jibe against the larger, incredibly hairy men who looked like they’d used an all over brylcreem after taking a dip. One poor bastard, who was otherwise attractive, had tattoos down his arms and back that gave the unfortunate appearance of this popular wet hair pattern. Chinese tourists wore their floaties in the shallows while their friends took photos, serving as proof they’d been for a swim; This was a rare sight for us, having come from a beach-bound country where swimming lessons are of the standard curriculum.

At the further, prettier and luckily less known beach, many had paid tribute to a fertility shrine, effectively creating a mountain of wooden phalluses inside a small cave. Joining this beach oddity was the sudden appearance of monkeys at mealtimes. Whilst other tourists delighted at the exotic creatures which they fed and handled, Ben and I found their swaggering confidence off-putting. One monkey who sat on the fence and scratched his anus at eye level particularly ruined the romance; he likely used his stink hand shortly thereafter to climb a child. Further down from the main swimming area, a row of small, fast food boats were banked on the shore. I could only wonder how they met health standards as it was unlikely I’d like the answer, I opted not to try!

Many restaurants in Railay offered similar, large menus of Thai and Western food, as well as a range of bbq options displayed on ice. When Aga complained to a restaurateur that she saw no shark, one evening, he protested, “But, I didn’t catch any!” This put a dampener on the fact we’d been following Aga and Anatol out into the deep water, being that the shark risk is too great in Australia. I figured, “These guys travel a lot. They must know what they’re doing.” Those local Railay sharks better be toothless (and not the hammerheads we saw on a Thai fish chart..).

It’s a tragedy, I know, but the infamous heights of Thai service continued to elude us in Railay. Each restaurant had a spattering of customers and an abundance of staff and yet, we rarely seemed to meet! Had our food not been served at Starvation o’clock, the staff’s remarkable inattention to detail could’ve been enjoyed as a free comedy routine. Splitting a bill between one couple and one group of 4 sometimes took more and never less than 15 minutes, after several versions of calculations. After one such evening of interpretive service, we joined a crowd in front of a bar to await a ‘free’ Thai boxing match. Aga was curtly informed by the bar owner that if we didn’t buy a drink, we had to go. When she complained that the rude tone was unnecessary, the woman went on, “All we ask is that if you can’t afford 100 baht for a drink, please leave.” Well, when you put it that way! Only moments beforehand, Ben and I had been singing the praises of customer service in Australia, warning our friends they’d be drowned in politeness should they come to visit. I was very embarrassed, then, to admit that the lovely lady they’d just met was one of our own! Probably from Sydney though.. Or, Adelaide. Look, maybe even Canberra. In any case, we chose our pride over the supporting the woman’s business and walked away from the boxing match we’d been looking forward to seeing.

I’d learned from my laundry experience in Koh Lanta to keep track of the clothing submitted for cleaning. When I again entrusted our washing to a business in Railay, I first made a list of all our items. As we queued with our washing behind some other stinky travellers, we could hear an episode of violent illness from the lane of cheap accommodation. We laughed to ourselves over the screaming-vomit, assuming it was the aftermath of a jolly good evening. When we collected our washing the following morning, I checked my trusty list and found not one pair of undies was missing, as in Koh Lanta.. All of my underwear was, including an expensive bra! I questioned the storekeeper who, as in the previous instance, suggested, ah.. Absolutely nothing. I took matters into my own hands and rummaged through other tourists’ knickers until I thankfully found my own.
That very evening, I was vomiting with an intensity I’d never known and regretting my amusement at the man down the lane. It started as a niggle in the belly when we were out at dinner, but as I promptly tried to return to my room, I only made it several yards from the table before my body tried to eject whatever poison I’d ingested. The rows of restaurants had prime view of my scream-pukes over the footpath and onto the shoreline. Not sure what to do with my mess, I kicked over some rocks like a cat trying to cover it’s poop. Laying down in our room, if I rolled over, I puked; if I sipped water, I puked; unfurled from foetal position, puked. After a few hours of this, when I began to taste a bile that I suspected was my stomach lining, I ate a banana and felt ok. Praise the miracle fruit!

On Monday, Jan 7^th, Aga and Anatol, our two favourite things in Thailand, departed for the final phase of their journey. My other enjoyment had been the food, but as my recovering stomach now squelched at every foreign smell, I found myself just waiting out our final days. There must be something very odd-shaped about my behind because I can never find trousers to fit, so on our last Tuesday, I decided to have some tailor-made. I was concerned as to whether this could be done before our Thursday departure and grew warier still by the Indian shopkeeper’s “Anything’s possible!” attitude. Though I immediately knew this man for a bullshitter, I was measured for two pairs of pants to his smarmy delight and paid my 1000 baht deposit. For a little insurance, I claimed we’d be leaving at 1pm instead of 4 and was assured my pants would be ready Thursday morning.

This agreeable tone naturally diminished once I’d parted with my deposit and I had to call past 3 times on the Wednesday before I was invited for my first fitting, with only one of the two pairs available. My ‘guaranteed’ second fitting was dismissed altogether and when I arrived for the Thursday collection, the tailor claimed he’d thought I was leaving on Friday. I returned at the newly agreed upon 12pm and waited on his doorstep in the hot, Thai sun for an hour under the pretense of his sign, “Back in 20 minutes.”  In this period of reflection, I realised I had little with which to bargain. I succumbed to deranged, furious visions of throwing his materials out into the mucky, nearby sea if he refused to return my deposit. With ample time left for my rage to subside, I concluded (a little more reasonably) that if my pants were presented, I would simply deduct an amount from the balance normally allotted to ‘customer service.’

The tailor finally came running down the path with my pants but I was deaf to his flurry of excuses.  I silently tried the pants behind the curtain to ensure they fit before making my offer. Having haggled in Thailand before, I was surprised at the man’s outraged reaction. He would not consider less on the price he claimed was “for a product.”
“No,” I resolved, “I’m paying for a product and a service. You lied to me, you made me wait out in the heat and you’ve treated me like an idiot.”
Though the tailor had cost us our imaginary taxi boat, I was confused by his offer to pay for another, which would surely be less cost-effective than reducing my balance. His next suggestion was to prevent me from leaving Railay altogether, so I tried a compromise. “I’m not going to pay the full amount, but tell me a price you think is fair.”
He angrily relented, “I don’t want to fight you - you’re my customer. Be happy,” walking me out the door and slamming it shut. 

Not accustomed to enraging people, I was left feeling low and second-guessing myself. It was only after trying the pants on again in Australia that I was relieved I hadn’t paid in full. One pair proved unflatteringly tight, the other had an iron-on patch to hide a tear and neither had been made to my specifications. I was still unaware of all this, however, when our taxi boat arrived and a mute, bedraggled old Thai man walked us out through the shallows. I felt like a criminal caught when I noticed that his uniform bore the tailor shop’s logo! I could almost taste the mushrooms grown from my Thai prison floor. Our host remained as unimpressed by me, though, as he was by the water slowly pooling inside our dingy vessel, which he calmly scooped back out to the sea.

We shared our boat with a Thai mother and child who I fancied partook in this ‘great escape,’ but were more likely locals, just popping out. I have never been so relieved to reach a pier as I was, that day! A mini-van ride later, we arrived at Krabi airport with a few hours to kill. Unbeguiled by the single, basic café out front, we chose to hold-off on dinner until we’d checked-in. True to our luck, the only food past check-in was sold at an even more basic snack shop, which didn't take eftpos, to boot. As we’d deliberately spent our Thai money to avoid the bother of exchange, this left us with an entire 36 baht for dinner! Although I would normally sacrifice meal size to the maintenance of my beefcake husband, the tiny packet of cream wafer biscuits we bought was divided evenly. I took a cup from an empty water cooler to fill it from another, then noticed that the second cooler was lacking its tank, entirely. We did have a giggle over our cartoon-like situation; we may have even boiled our boots, had there been water. Our ridiculous pre-flight meal led to our ravenous consumption of the bizarre plane food, which included a donut filled with satay.

Rosie’s conclusion: So, What Does This All Mean? 

(Ben suggested this end title as a joke, but I like it).

Of all the things I’ve ingested, nothing has ever tasted as good as that sweet, Melbourne air when we arrived back home. (Mmm, aeroplane fumes..) I was thrilled to see our Polish mates again and the trip certainly had its fun times, but I think it’s safe to say that Thailand and I won’t stay in touch. I clearly hate campin' and should stick to glamping.

       The nice times.