It was getting dark, and I was getting worried. I’d booked the guesthouse I was trying to find ahead of time, thinking it would save trouble once I arrived on the tiny island of Ko Mook, about 45 minutes from the mainland. I hadn’t anticipated that the guesthouse would be a twenty minute walk from the beach. The trail I’d been pointed at had shrunk to a dirt track, and everyone I’d encountered so far had frowned when I mentioned Ko Mook Garden Resort. “Is far!” they’d said.
“About 20 minutes?” I’d asked, quoting the time I’d been given when I’d set out from the beach. Each one had nodded. Since I’d already been walking for 10 or 15 minutes in each case, this was not reassuring.
The path ended at a muddy beach half-covered in mangroves. Several fishing boats lay on the muddy tidal flats and a ramshackle fishing village lay strewn across the shore. No one seemed to be around, except a small boy, around ten, who was fixing a broken boat near what appeared to be another path leading along the beach. I walked up to him, startling him from his work.
“Sawadee Ka! Ko Mook Garden Resort?” I said, pointing at the path. He nodded yes. “Ko.. Mook..Garden?” I said again, to be sure. He nodded again. And so I set off on the new path.
In retrospect, the boy had nodded much like you would nod if an alien showed up in front of you and said, “Garble Schnarble Blat?”. So perhaps I did place a little to much faith in his answer.
After another grueling 10 minutes ( I still had my backpack and all my bags), I had doubts the path. There was a barbed-wire fence running along side me, and the ‘beach’ on the other side had turned into a dense mangrove swamp. When then trail turned into a bridge over said swamp, and then the bridge turned into a collection of driftwood haphazardly nailed together, I finally admitted that the probability that I was on the right road to a tourist resort was close to nil. But turning back was so DEPRESSING. It had been a LONG way since the only real fork in the road, where I’d chosen so unwisely.
From behind the dense brush on the other side of the barbed wire fence, I could hear noises – people noises. The sounds of motorbikes, and people laughing. How frustrating would it be if the resort was just across the fence? But I didn’t really want to deal with barbed wire, not with all my bags. Then I saw it – a faint path to the fence, and a place where the barbed wire had been bent down, so it was easy to step over it! There was even a path beyond the fence…if this was the right place, I would save oodles of time.
Once over the fence, I realized I was in the ‘swamp’ scene from the NeverEnding Story – the mangrove swamp was dark and spooky right at twilight, and I actually giggled with delight. My mood quickly faded as I stepped onto what I thought was the trail. To be fair, the mud did NOT look as sinky or goopy as it actually was, but in any case, navigating a muddy swamp, with my backpack on, arms loaded with bags, in flipflops, was ill-advised. My first step, I sunk in past my knee. I was two steps in when I realized that my flipflop was NOT going to come up with my foot. As my flipflops have become one of my most prized possessions on this trip, giving them up was NOT an option. I thought if I CAREFULLY put down one of my bags, it would perhaps be too light to sink into the muck…
The purse did only sink in about half-way, allowing me time to reach around and dig, shoulder-deep in muck, for the missing flipflop. I managed to get the other foot up and remove the second flipflop without the same drama. I floundered barefoot, mucky shoes and mucky purse in mucky hand, to the other side. Finally on solid ground again, I tried in vain to put my shoes back on, but they were so slippery that they were useless. The goop was thick and black and and not very pleasant-smelling at all. Still barefoot, I stumbled over tree roots towards the clearing I could spot through the trees, into the light.
I was standing in a garbage dump.
At this point I decided no matter HOW slippery, I had to use the flipflops, or risk cutting myself on something sharp or metal or gangrene-inducing.
The Thai people in the village reacted pretty much as you’d expect a group of Thai people to react to the sight of a white woman with a backpack on emerging from their trash heap covered head to toe in foul-smelling black sludge, teetering precariously on her slippery flipflops as if they were 4-inch heels.
It sounded pretty much like this:
“Something something something farang! Farang something something! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAH”
As much fun as it was being the butt of the joke in foreign language, I was VERY grateful when a Thai grandmother offered me a bucket of water to wash off with and sent her husband off to get his motorbike so he could bring me around to the Ko Mook Garden Resort. Which was miles away, in a completely different direction.
Like most things that are hard to get to and harder to find, Ko Mook and the resort here are worth the trouble, though and through. Somehow I have scored an upgrade from a bamboo bungalow to ‘real’ room (with walls and everything!) for the same price. The beaches here are, once again, gorgeous and pristine, with only a few resorts on each beach and ample white sand for suntanning, beach volleyball or relaxing with a drink at one of the beach bars – they almost look like he driftwood washed ashore in the shape of a bar. While Ko Lipe had more nightlife, and Ko Tarutao, where I camped last night, had none, Ko Mook feels just right if you want to get away from it all but still want to see a few people around occasionally.
I said I wouldn't swim to any more islands, but this islet off Ko Lipe was named "Ko PollyIfYouDontSwimHereYouAreATotalWuss"! Not a word of a lie...
PIRATE ALERT!
Pictures of camping at Ko Tarutao, an island that used to be a penal colony. It was chosen since the surrounding waters were full of sharks and crocodiles. During WWII the prisoners and guards revolted when supplies stopped making it to the island, and started pilfering passing cargo ships. Finding more than they’d ever dreamed aboard the ships, they became pirates, and the waters around Tarutao were soon the most feared in the Malacca Straights. Just to add to the piratey goodness, there is even a Crocodile Cave (unfortunately no longer inhabited by crocodiles – or pirates.)
