[LEMONS]


3.26.2005

The Ko Chang Cure

I came across this piece I had written two years ago, while I was travelling. I intended to try to sell it, but after one rejection, I never did anything with it again. Perhaps, you will enjoy it instead. Perhaps you will not. It's up to you.
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In Thailand, monks rank only slightly below the King in terms of social standing. Nevermind that virtually every male Thai enters the monkhood at some point in his life; these are people worthy of genuflections and weis. And there I was--an uncouth Farang from California with brash American mannerisms and no sense of the Proper Way to behave around a monk--surrounded by eight orange-clad holy men in the front of a longtail, clipping across the Andaman Sea on the way back to Ranong from two weeks in the islands.

Offense seemed imminent.

But the thing is, my knee hurt like hell. I can't bend it for any length of time without the kneecap filling with fluid (Teenage stupidity, yes!) and me finding myself in excruciating pain. But I did know enough about Thai manners to know that pointing your foot at anyone--particularly a monk--is the height of poor etiquette. Yet there was no way to straighten the thing out without aiming my ten little piggies at one of my fellow passengers. One in robes at that. I didn’t know what to do. I didn't know how to handle it. I grimaced, and clutched at my knee, deciding to suck it up for the remaining hour and a half.

There are many Thailands within Thailand, as it is with every nation. (Except maybe Lichtenstein where, as far as I can tell, there are only bankers, lawyers, and old people.) But I was in a part of Thailand that most Farang, foreigners, who come for vacations never see.

There's a Farang freeway of sorts you can follow. You go to Bangkok and Chang Mai. And then you head for the Gulf to hit Ko Samui, Ko Pagh Nan, and Ko Tao. If you do make it over to the Andaman, it's off to Ko Phi-Phi ("Look, darling! I think that's the beach where Leonardo Decaprio shat himself!"). The divers head to the Simillians. Partiers live it up in Phuket. And you tell yourself you're getting off of the beaten path when you head to the well-worn shores of Ko Lanta or Krabi.

But if you really want see the Thailand Alex Garland made famous in The Beach--that is to say not just spectacular scenery but also a laid-back, anything goes atmosphere with minimal Farang--you need to head to the far north or south on the western Andaman coast. You need to go to Ko Chang.

There are two Ko Changs (literally "elephant" islands) in Thailand. The larger one, in the Gulf not terribly far from the Cambodian border, boasts one of the most amazing white sand beaches to be found anywhere on the planet. The other, smaller Ko Chang near the Burmese (Myanmar, if you're nasty) border, does not. But nor does it have paved roads. Or cars. Or Internet connections. Or even electricity.

This Ko Chang, with a beautiful marbled beach of yellow and black sand, is the Thailand you've been dreaming about, the Thailand of twenty years ago that you thought no longer existed. (Oh, but it does! It does!) This is Alex Garland's Thailand, where a walk through the jungle can lead you unexpectedly to marijuana fields, where fish eagles soar constantly overhead and the mosquitoes carry malaria and dengue fever.

Ko Chang is an island without a pier. At least on the West side, which is the side you'll want to stay on anyway. When we arrived in a longtail--an open boat roughly ten meters long--it couldn't make it to the beach due to the low tide. We had to toss our gear onto another longtail offshore that wasn't quite so loaded down and ride it up to the beach. Once there, we had to jump over the side of the boat into the surf, and wade in with our backpacks held high over our heads.

And then you find to your relief that there is nothing to do here. Although the island does have one dive shop, the waters are too murky for a quality experience. Instead, I found myself laying on a beach, alone except for my wife, and reading or writing most of the day. We hiked through the forest and into rubber tree, coconut, and cashew tree groves. We watched fishermen slowly patrol the waters for squid, and the Navy do the same looking for Burmese pirates.

I turned thirty on Ko Chang, celebrating my birthday with Harper and three lifers from the Thai Navy. Chaiya set his cell phone (which had no reception) to alarm every ten minutes with the message "Happy B-Day Mat!" Phulom folded two 20 Baht notes into little shirts, origami style. Chulong sang me a song in Thai, one that he said was usually sung by men on their 30th birthday. I think. And to watch that sunset over Burma that evening was simply one of the most gorgeous and beckoning sights my eyes had ever seen on four continents and several seas.

And as far as entertainment goes, that's pretty much it. You make it yourself. At Eden, Sunset, or Hornbill bungalows, they can whip you up a fantastic green curry for less than a dollar and you can eat it on the beach accompanied only by eagles and hornbills. But they can't, thank God, wheel the speakers onto the beach for an all-night rave a la Ko Pagh Nan or Ko Tao. Hat Rin seems as far away from Ko Chang as San Francisco. Acoustic guitars, yes. Turntables, no.

Neighboring Ko Phayam is much the same, but it also illustrates the difference electricity can make. Although Ko Phayam is only a twenty minute boat ride from Ko Chang's southern coast, and is actually farther away from the mainland, it seems much more connected than Ko Chang. This is largely due to the trail of plastic Bebo water bottles that litter the beach here, as they do in the Gulf islands and on Ko Phi-Phi and Phuket. The calling cards of Farang tourists and irresponsible bungalow operators.

Which is not to say that Ko Phayam is developed. Far from it. Yet coming from the wilds of Ko Chang it seems like discovered country; the equivalent of Montana to North Dakota.

Still Ko Phayam is old Thailand. The single road is traversed only by scooters and motorcycles. Many of the bungalows only have generator power. And it was here that I first encountered the monks.

Nine of them came to our bungalow, Hornbill Hut, to bless it on its third anniversary. They wrapped string around each hut and building, and connected it with a Buddha shrine set up in the dining area. The monks sat in a row in full lotus, and wound the string around each of their hands. They then proceeded to chant for over an hour, praying for good luck for the future, for both owner and guests alike.

After the chanting was over, the monks ate, and I returned to my bungalow to do some Yoga. While in warrior pose, I felt some water hit my back, and looked up to see the eldest monk, the one who had been leading the chants, tossing water on me and my bungalow. "Good luck to you!"

The next day we left the island, and found ourselves riding out on the same longtail (the only longtail to leave that day, as the 11:30 boat inexplicably remained moored to the pier all afternoon) with the monks. Eight of them rode up front, in the section we jokingly refer to as first class, because it's the only part of the boat where you're assured of not getting wet. One sat in the back, which also tends to stay dry, but is less comfortable.

This meant that my wife, and all the other women aboard, had to ride in the middle of the boat. Women are forbidden to touch monks, or to even sit near them. It is what it is.

And so. That left me. With my smattering of Thai language. Fortunately, however, one of the monks noticed my wincing, as did the owner of Bamboo bungalows, an Israeli man who sat next to my left and spoke fluent English. He explained my dilemma to the monks, who gestured that I should stretch out my leg.

One of the monks then pulled a tincture from his robe, and applied it to my knee. I was pretty astounded that he was touching my leg, particularly that low on my leg. Many Thais think Farang are dirty. We tend to shower less often than they do, and we carry a stink with us that is offensive to their noses. And here a man who was at a much higher social station than I was rubbing me down.

The tincture was homemade at the monastery, and the last bottle that they had. He gave it to me. He went on to explain, by way of interpretation, drawings, and writing in Thai, the method that he used to cure his broken arm, which had been badly set.

First, you need to go to the market, and get a few kilos of ginger and a handful of charcoal starter tablets. At nighttime, just before you go to bed, you pulverize a kilo of the ginger, and apply it to your knee (or other affected area) about one inch thick. Then you take one of the tablets and break it up into four or five ppieces, spreading them evenly over the poultice. Next (and you see this coming, don't you) you set them on fire and let them burn for about fifteen minutes, until they go out on their own. By way of his facial expressions, I came to understand that this either hurt like hell, or makes you really ugly. I believe it's the former.

Once the fire goes out, you wrap the poultice and leave it on overnight. Four to seven days of this, I was told, shall result in a permanent cure.

I have yet to try it.


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