Somewhere...Beyond the Sleaze

Trip Start Nov 23, 2011
Trip End Dec 29, 2011

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Where I stayed
Lazy Beach

Flag of Thailand  , Chiang Mai,
Saturday, December 3, 2011

The hut (bungalow? cabin?) is rustic but certainly seviceable.  We have a small porch with a pair of hammocks and chairs, two queen size beds equipped with mosquito nets and a large bathroom that features a western-looking toilet.  See, it looks western, but it is flushed with ladles full of water hand scooped from a bucket and no toilet tissue can enter the bowl.  It does have a ‘Butt Blaster’ nozzle, much like the sprayer from a kitchen sink, so tissue is necessary only for drying and can be thrown away.  Personally, we like this system (the Blaster, not the self-flushing) and actually have one at home ready to install when we return.
Oddly, neither of us slept well .  This happened when we stayed in the treehouse in the Thai primary rainforest last time we were in SE Asia. We honestly believe that our unwelcome, nocturnal energy boost may be the result of breathing air richer in oxygen than we have become accustomed to.  Considering the poisonous gas substitute they use for ‘air’ ‘round these parts, if inhaled right now Los Angeles’ famously nasty air would probably give us a Colorado Rocky Mountain high.

The morning sun delivered a tranquil, hazy view of sand and surf to our beds through our open (seriously nothing but air) window.  It’s hard to remember who we joined at the bar for breakfast, but last night’s convivial beer and food fest reduced the number of strangers on the island considerably.   There are plenty of tables, but the bar is where friends are made and jokes can be aimed. More than likely we breakfasted with Matt and Moi whose steadfast stool occupation will no doubt leave their ass imprints enshrined in the cushions forever like footprints at Grauman’s Chinese.  She’s an Asian with a British accent – we never get used to that kind of voice coming out of that kind of face – and he’s a 30-year-old geek (he reads capillary MRIs) served with a side of Rowan Atkinson-style Brit. 

The three young, white restaurant/bar staffers (there is plenty more staff behind the scenes, but they are seen and not heard) are from Eugene, Oregon and are young hipster by way of wanderlust drop outs.  There is Kate of the double-pierced lip, Lindsey of the dyspepsia-driven bi-polarity (seriously; her stomach really bothers her) and Travis, whose husky baring and Seth Rogan baritone should guarantee a wry, earthy wit. It doesn’t deliver on the promise, but he is certainly amiable enough.

We have been decidely socialable and know many of the guests now, at least the ones that wish to be known – for instance, we will never know the thoughts that tickle the permanent, secret smiles onto the faces of the German lesbian couple, etc.  Even though there is snorkeling equipment we can rent for a buck and a perfect little jungle hike we can take to the other side of the island (there have even been monkey sightings in there!) we opt for proving out the name, “Lazy Beach” and do nothing.  Island nothing.  Island nothing is a more aggressive form of nothing that requires the practitoner to recline in slothy vigilance, keeping look out for any sign of an activity approaching. The heat, the woozy intoxicants (combustable and otherwise), the sound of the waves cozying up to the shore in long, slow hugs, all serve as a perfect bullwark against the ever crafty enemy "Shit to Do."

Dinnertime arrives in the iridescent, pink glow of a perfect sunset. Having requested seafood last night (per the rules) we are presented with the best fish dish we have ever had.  The restaurant here is legend and deservedly so.  We’re not sure of the fish’s actual variety, but it’s comparable to pompano and Ken, the Cambodian partner in ownership (the other is Chris, a Brit who we met in town before disembarking for the island), caught it hours before it was maginifciently prepared, served and vanished.  Ken also built the huts, designed the menu and installed all the electric. Ken is an amazing man who has easily earned the nickname, ‘Ken Do.'

We sit and talk and drink until the only level of inertness still unexplored is sleep,  And even here we bring our A game and pop an Ambien CR. Take that clean air!  The pill gives us about 20 min to hit giving us enough time to recover from a chilly shower (no hot water, but if Thurston and Lovey Howell could take it, we can!) and prepare for bed.  The mosquito net surrounds us like a cloudy dream and we suh-leep!
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Bill Day on

Like your choice of Beach Nothing... who needs to see the other side of the Island?

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