When we first booked our tickets, I imagined any disagreements Paco and I had would revolve around money. After all, I’m a miser where he’s a spendthrift. But leading up to the day of departure, it became increasingly obvious that we had different perspectives on the very notion of what traveling meant.
“Surely the entire point of traveling,” he said, “is the adventure of throwing one’s self into the unknown.”
The infuriating thing about Paco is that speaks like the hero of a romance novel. Only more British.
I argued for foresight on our trip, for listening to the experiences of others so that we could plan accordingly. How could anyone disagree with that? Paco did: “In listening to others you are influenced, and the adventure is no longer personal.”
In the end, we felt our different mindsets would complement each other: with only five days in Thailand, Paco allowed that time-consuming mistakes weren’t a luxury, and I conceded one shouldn’t be so preoccupied with there and when as to overlook here and now.
What follows is a tediously detailed account of our travels, spanning the dates of July 29th to August 2nd, 2009.
DAY ONE: WEDNESDAY
Here’s what I packed: two T-shirts, swimming trunks, underwear, socks, and flip-flops. Here’s what I wore: a collared short-sleeve shirt, light pants, and my sneakers. I could have done without the sneakers and socks, I think. I also packed two books — one too many, as it turned out. As for money, 13,000 baht (about four hundred USD) in crisp, 1000 baht increments. And then there were all the smaller things: the iPod, the toiletries, the whatnot.
Wednesday morning we boarded the KTX train, got to Seoul around midday, took the shuttle to the airport, and made it through security with an hour to kill before our flight. These were Paco’s responsibilities, and he handled them well. While checking-in for our flight, he pointed out that Korean baggage consists not only of luggage, but also boxes of ramen and kimchi. Just goes to show that you can’t take the Korea of the Korean. Then again, who am I to talk? Americans aren’t known for their willingness to adapt either.
Our plane refueled in Taipei, and that’s where Paco befriended Brad, a fellow English teacher who resides near Seoul. As a husky Wisconsin native with a large round head, Brad was the prototypical corn-fed, ingenuous type. He was on vacation alone, and his hotel in Bangkok was only a few blocks from ours. Paco, because his confidence is bolstered by the uncertainties of others, told him to stick with us. Then we got back on the plane and flew the remaining few hours to Bangkok.
Personally, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Brad tagging along: on the one hand, splitting a cab three ways was preferred over two; then again, I didn’t want any responsibilities for this hick. After all, we were diving into Bangkok, the world’s sink of iniquity, known for exploits which emptied wallets and soiled souls, and this kid had a big old bull’s eye stamped right on his goofy face. Then again, perhaps he’d make a good decoy — unless a wild shot struck me instead . . . . And so wavered my thoughts on Brad.
Yes, I was nervous about Bangkok. Call it a mild case of agoraphobia. People who had been to Southeast Asia enjoyed telling me about picked pockets and other such Thai tactics of theft. The “dangers and scams” section in my guidebook didn’t do much to ease my mind. This was one instance where Paco’s Ignorant Approach to Traveling might have had merit: he was happily getting soused on the plane while I was racking my brain about the best places to hide my money.
It’s worth repeating that I was traveling from Korea — from Busan, specifically — a place where the degree to which complete strangers look out for one another borders on being rude. I’ve been on the subway and felt something jostling my backpack, only to discover it’s an old woman making sure my pack’s completely zipped. Whatever criticisms I shower on Korea, I gotta admit: it’s a safe place. I leave my wallet and phone on the pavement while I play basketball. I fall asleep on the train. I cut through alleys at night without a second thought. Was it possible Korea had made me soft? Bangkok isn’t Busan, I warned myself. Better to be mistrustful than swindled.
After passing through immigration, we headed to the airport’s exit and received our first taste of what would become a reoccurring theme: touts ushering us like dazed sheep to whatever scam they had in mind. I don’t know about most folks, but when I find myself in a strange place with strangers clamoring for my fare, my first instinct is to get some goddamn breathing space. “Stay together,” I nearly screamed. “They’re trying to rip us apart!” Signs led us toward the government-run taxi kiosk, located on the far side of the terminal. One thing I learned: you know you’re going the right way when all the “helping” hands try to steer you in other directions.
Upon reaching the kiosk, we gave the agent our destination, and she translated it onto a ticket for our driver, who was next in the queue of drivers off to the side. Our taxi was a nondescript station wagon, as far as I could see. There was some confusion when I tried to get in on the driver’s side (like the Brits, they drive on the wrong side of the road). And when we requested he use the meter — something every guide book recommends — he began to pull the car over, repeating it was 500 baht to our destination. Looking back, I’m curious what would have happened if we insisted on the meter; but since the guidebook said it would be about 500 baht anyway, we agreed.
We stayed within walking distance to the infamous Khao San Road, but far enough away to sleep peacefully. It concerned me that the doorknob to our room was a little wobbly until we walked Brad to his lodgings where, in the shadowy hallway leading to his room, lizards scampered across exposed pipes and wiring. We paid a bit more, but I was proud of the place I booked for Paco and myself. Wobbly doorknob and all, it seemed a hell of a lot safer and cleaner than Brad’s place. We took a tour of the area, grabbed a beer outside a mostly-empty bar, then jumped into Khao San Road.
Khao San Road was disgusting: there were kids and cockroaches running along the sidewalks; clubs blasting techno at one another; racks of stupid t-shirts saying unfunny things; and devouring it all were gross foreigners — mostly Aussies and Brits — with gross appetites. The locals were only too happy to fill their troughs. Trying to pretend like one didn’t notice the filth was an exercise in futility. Paco, on the other hand, says he enjoyed it.
We left Brad in a club for a while and went to a quieter bar off the strip. Our table was located under a hut-like sheltering, and it was pleasant except for some glassy-eyed human creature staring at me through the neighboring bushes . . . Eventually we returned to check up with Brad, and found him with three Thai girls. So it begins, I thought. They looked exhausted and yet paired up with us anyway. We started walking somewhere. My girl spoke pretty good English, and she claimed to be a theater major in college. I asked her her favorite play. Romeo and Juliet, she said. I didn’t press her, but I didn’t believe her, either.
It was strange: I wasn’t sure who was leading who, but we ended up ascending a staircase toward a bar. Halfway up the stairs was a desk, behind which two dudes were charging 500 baht for entrance. The girls didn’t have to pay. Not being familiar with the currency, I decided to hold back (I now know 500 baht is about 15 bucks). Besides, I didn’t have 500 baht in my wallet. I did have it in the sole of my right shoe, but I didn’t want to make that kind of scene just yet. Paco didn’t flinch; he paid, went on ahead, and I went back to our hotel.
But I couldn’t shake the idea of Paco running around Bangkok, confused and unsure of where we were staying. So I went back to the club. “Just give me one minute,” I said to the big guy at the desk, and sighing deeply he let me through for free. It was a roof bar, pretty swanky, with lots of silhouettes rocking in front of strung-up lights. Eventually I found Paco and made sure he knew all the vital information. Realizing, I think, that it was late and we had to rise early tomorrow, he decided to come back with me. When I asked him how everything went, he said Brad was getting along with his girl, and that all signs pointed to him having an interesting experience. Apparently Paco’s girl bored or annoyed him in some way, and so he struck up a conversation with a lady-boy instead. But you’ll have to ask him about that.
It’s been well over a month since these events took place, and I still have no idea what happened to that goofy bastard Brad. Below is the last known picture of him, standing at my confused side just after exiting Bangkok International.
DAY TWO: THURSDAY
It began as a sultry gray morning. After a cheap western-style breakfast, we took a walk to the Grand Palace but couldn’t get in because Paco was wearing shorts, clothing which the Muslim-minded Thais see as disrespectful.
Fine with me, I said. From the outside, the palace looked pretty boring. We continued on our way to the Chao Phraya River, where we boarded a southbound boat just for the hell of it. The weather was smoggy and humid, the water opaque and brown, and so it doesn’t compliment the city when I say this was my favorite part of Bangkok. We disembarked after a twenty minute ride and soon found a cab that took us back to the airport. Next stop: Phuket. 
Bangkok, at least the places we visited, was sort of a disappointment. But no matter — Phuket was the real destination of this trip. I had my sights set on Phuket Town specifically. It’s a good distance from any reputable beaches, but is recommended by guidebooks as an affordable and cozy place from which to venture onward.
When we exited the airport in Phuket, taxi drivers descended on us like locusts from hell. And if I didn’t know the bus to town cost a fraction of what they were charging, they might have won me over. Unable to shake one persistent driver, I tried to be both blunt and polite. “I’m taking the bus,” I said, stopping. “Please leave me alone.” In the process of backing off he stepped on my sandal — intentionally or otherwise I couldn’t tell. Observing all this, Paco told me to calm down. Future events would prove how ironic this advice was, coming from him.
The bus ride from airport to town, a good hour and change, was pleasantly spent watching groves of rubber trees drift passed. Eventually we pulled into the large bus station at Phuket town, and again: a swarm of taxi drivers. This time, however, it was Paco whom they targeted. The joker of the lot shadowed him, almost mocking his gait. Guffawing spectators encouraged these antics until Paco spun around and cried, “Oy! Fuck off, mate!”
In my notebook, where my hand-drawn maps dance in vibrant colors, Phuket town is enthusiastically represented, along with the hostel where I had reserved two beds. We started walking and soon overcame an English broad who was referencing Southeast Asia on a Shoestring (aka, The Bible), which is where I copied my maps from. Her name was Sara and she was staying at the same hostel: Phuket Backpacker.
At two hundred baht (less than $6), Phuket Backpacker was definitely worth the price. It was constantly being cleaned, and though housing a shitload of people, the communal bathrooms were never crowded and our shared room was quiet and comfortable. It was a perfect destination point because everyone staying there had advice on where to go and what to see, and the staff happily set you up with the best destinations at the best prices.
That evening, after cleaning ourselves up, Paco, Sara and I grabbed a cheap meal at a family-run restaurant and a few beers at a Thai-run Irish-themed bar called O’Malley’s. Back at the hostel, that stupid Johnny Cash movie Walk the Line was playing in the lounge area. Sara and Paco stayed up to watch it; I went to bed early.
DAY THREE: FRIDAY
This was the day I’d been waiting for. I woke before nine and took a walk around Phuket town.
Once Paco woke, we went looking for the bus that would take us to Patong Beach, the most famous beach on the island. Sara tagged along. After a half hour of confused meandering through avenues and dead-ends, we discovered the bus to Patong departed from the sidewalk directly in front of our hostel.
It took about an hour, up and down winding green hills littered with billboards. Black telephone wires cut through what once must have been a green paradise. 
The closer we got to Patong, the more westernized were the establishments, culminating with what looked like a sprawling outdoor mall with a Starbucks as centerpiece. I’m critical of all this on hindsight, but at the time I couldn’t help smiling; soon I would be swimming the Andaman Sea.
The bus stopped, and there we were: Patong. The water was a little murkier than I’d imagined, the day a bit more overcast; but still, it was beautiful. After a quick dip, Paco posed for his audition photo to Baywatch 2: The British Experiment: 
Walking down the beach, we were stopped every minute and asked if we wanted to rent a jet-ski or lounge chair or whatever. Eventually, we dropped our bags and settled down near a beer shack. Paco grabbed a few cold ones and casually mentioned his interest in purchasing some “Thai stick” to a guy behind the counter. A mumbled negotiation and partial money-exchange sealed the deal.
While we waited, shirt- and peanut-peddlers hypnotized us with their wares. Paco bought some overpriced shirts; me, some overpriced nuts. Then our man came back, and we had in our hands a plastic bag of tawny, questionable product. It cost Paco and me about thirty bucks each. All this drug business seemed to make Sara, who taught high school Geography, nervous.
Before we had even lit up, mistakes were made. First of all, we were wearing these ridiculous tank-tops Paco bought, advertising not only Singha Beer, but also that we were fools intent on parting with our money. Can you say ‘douche-bag tourists’?
The street merchants needed no more encouragement. Strolling the sidewalk across from the beach, we were pummeled with, “Hey, Singha Boys! Here’s a hat to go with the shirt!”
The next mistake was dipping into a roofed-alley lined with small shops. One shop had a pair of those walking sandals that strap across the top of the feet. Compounding error with error, I showed interest, tried them on, and asked how much. The guy answered with a ridiculous amount, which I promptly cut down to less than half. After haggling a while, I began to realize that something was amiss with this footwear: one was larger than the other, and both pinched where the straps came together. I started taking them off, saying “Nevermind, nevermind,” at which point he suddenly agreed to my original price of around twenty bucks. I was the only customer in the alley; all eyes were on me. Feeling the pressure, I forked over the baht. Dark clouds of regret hung over the remaining afternoon.
Coincidentally enough, Paco, out on the street, had also purchased sandals — though for less money and, as it turned out, more discomfort. More about sandals later . . .
From Patong to any other beach costs at least 500 baht by taxi. The drivers can get away with charging such insane rates because they know you’re stuck here. It’s possible to rent a scooter for 200 baht a day, but Paco can’t ride a bicycle, let alone a scooter. Besides, we had our full backpacks weighing us down. So we decided to split a cab to Kata Beach. Paco argued with a trio of drivers over the price, and one of them, chuckling, eventually agreed to 500 baht. Upon entering the idling air-conditioned sedan, Paco expressed how proud he was of his bargaining.
Kata Beach was much more pleasant. 
The water was bluer; the peddlers less frequent. Most tourists were likely staying at the sprawling Club Med just behind the beach. We got some lunch, then said goodbye to Sara. The Bible suggested we spend the night at Kata On the Sea. 
We hired a tuk-tuk to check it out. 
As the guide mentions, Kata on the Sea is a twenty minute trek down a steep hill to the beach. I liked the professional attitude of the woman who ran the place, and the room she showed us was gorgeous, serene, and 800 baht — about twelve bucks apiece. Having spent less than half that the night before, I was a little hesitant to agree, but I also knew that being so close to the beach would cost more. Now, somewhere during the day Paco had found a damn flier that mentioned a beach further north, and he wanted to look into it. “Okay,” I would regret saying. “I chose the last two nights’ lodgings. Your turn.”
Now, my family knows the sort of miserable bastard I turn into over prolonged periods of time: during car trips my dad makes a big show of looking at his watch and announcing how long it took me to snap. Paco was about to about to find out that, for friends, this breaking point was reached at around three days.
It seemed I’d been under the burning sun all afternoon, my bag’s shoulder straps digging into my shoulder. I just wanted to get stoned and go swimming. All I could think was, daylight is fading and here we are in another goddamn taxi, paying another extortionary fare. It’s all Paco’s fault, I told myself. I even began trying to blame him for the sandals I regretted buying.
So when we arrived at Paco’s Beach (Hat Surin, I believe) and found the area little more than a suburb with lousy accommodations and a fucking elementary school just letting out, I told Paco, point blank, “I’m angry at you.”
Our argument was remarkably civil, and we came to an agreement in less than a minute: it was time to get stoned. I took a dip in the ocean while Paco set up shop. The only swimming I’d managed beforehand took place briefly at Patong. Feeling better already, I walked back up the beach to where Paco waited, and ten minutes later my anger had completely blown away.
I let Paco pay for the taxi back to Kata. Our driver, complementing our mood perfectly, played a mix of Pink Floyd and Dire Straits. I prodded him about marijuana, but he clammed up and pretended he didn’t hear, even after I repeated myself. He probably thought I was a cop.
When we last left the proprietor of Kata On The Sea, she was annoyed that we had refused her lodgings. Now, after a few hours delay, we returned, the prodigal sons. There was a quiet smile on her face — a smugness kept in check — as she handed over the room key.
We cleaned up and, seated on the balcony, watched the sun set before heading down the hill to a restaurant recommended by our hostess called, ingeniously enough, Siam Food. It was a husband-and-wife establishment, and when they saw us glancing at the menu, the woman quickly mentioned that, since it was low-season, all prices were discounted fifteen percent. Apparently we were the only customers they’d had all day. After we ate, I paid for the meal out of guilt for the “bad vibes” I had laid on Paco a few hours earlier. We grabbed some tall beers and strolled toward the beach.
Up to this point in my life, I had never once been cat-called. That was about to change. Our route to the beach was a two-lane road, on the right side of which was a long ten-foot wall separating families in Club Med from the debauchery across the way. On our left, the debauchery: a strip of open-faced bars where women howled and cheered at every male passerby. At first we actually walked along that left side, but it became too intense when women actually began blocking our paths, or grabbing our hands to pull us in. Perhaps if I wasn’t giggling uncontrollably they would have left us alone. Anyway, we crossed the street and took our catcalls from a safe distance, thinking, The night is early, ladies, and we shall see you soon enough.
Once on the beach, we lazed on some lounge chairs until noticing, at the southern end, a fire-show taking place. We shuffled to the crowded bar-front and watched these crazy Thai dudes throwing their spinning batons of fire up in the sky for an hour or so. Once it was over, we struck up a conversation with an Australian who was supposed to be vacationing with his girlfriend, but had broken up with her and was now traveling solo. “Dude,” we said. “Come with us.”
Walking past the strip of bars, we vainly attempted to be selective until giving up and diving into a bar of squealing Thai girls. A night of smoking had left me inhibited, and trying to counter these inhibitions with alcohol just made me drunk. Our Australian friend did well, cozying up to a girl at the bar.. Paco had a girl draped upon his lap. And me, I was playing pool like a dunce. The head mistress nodded girl after girl in my direction, but I disappointed each one: I just kept shooting pool, and when they actually humored me for a game, they discovered I was far too plastered to compete.
Paco asked how I’d feel about him taking his girl back to the crib. I looked her over with critical, half-closed eyes, and I saw something I didn’t trust. “Look,” I said. “Lemme grab some stuff first. My iPod and cards. And money.”
I volunteered to leave right away, so it wouldn’t be awkward with the three of us hiking up that hill. I’d just run up the hill, grab my stuff, and leave before he and the girl had even arrived. Then I’d chill on the beach while he did his thing. My paranoia seemed to be contagious because he began to reassess his decision. “No, no,” he said. “I’ll go tell her ‘nevermind’.”
While he did, the head mistress came up close and looked me in the eyes. She said something in broken English, but I understood what she was accusing me of: cuntblocking. I shrugged and confessed, “Yep, I did.” Now, I’ve noticed that Asian chicks like to hit their male friends. It’s meant to be playful; and what’s funny is the more they like the guy, the harder they hit. This woman, she didn’t like me: her fist punched my chest without any weight. But her face, her face was heavy with reproach.
On our way back, we stopped in another bar. This one had an outdoor bar and swimming pool. Completely hammered at this point, I began playing connect-four with some chick at the bar. She beat me game after game. We made a bet on the final game. I sincerely cannot remember what she wage, but it didn’t matter since I lost. I honored my bet and jumped in the blue, refreshing pool.
I sort of remember eating naan bread in an Indian cafe amongst a group of serious-looking Muslim men before returning to the room later that night, but not really.
DAY FOUR: SATURDAY
The previous day was funny but a failure nevertheless: we spent far too much time and money on half-assed decisions. I vowed to scrape off past mistakes and make only precise, deliberate movements from here on out. The sandals purchased less than twenty hours earlier would be the first items sacrificed to this new ideal. They represented a moment of weakness, a regrettable mistake. Also, my old pair were twice as comfortable and, in my backpack, weighed half as much. I gave the new sandals to Paco (the ones he had bought were even worse than mine) and felt the immediate relief of a burden shed.
My second decision was to visit the purported paradise of Ko Phi Phi. From talking to other backpackers in Phuket Town, I knew that the hostel there organized transportation to the island. So our first mission was to get back to Phuket Town.
But first, we revisited Siam Food for breakfast. 
Here’s a picture of the inside. 
And one of where I sat. 
My simple breakfast, deep-fried bananas: 
Afterward, we caught a songthaew back to Phuket Town. There was a Chinese family on board, and you could tell the father was eager to exercise his English chops. At times such as these, it’s extremely helpful to have the Pacster around. He can talk out of his ass about anything ad nausea. During breaks between songs on my iPod, I caught pieces of their conversation, including Paco testifying to how strong the ocean currents were. “And I consider myself a strong swimmer,” he was saying. 
Back at the backpacker hostel, we discovered the final trip to the Island left in less than five minutes. The driver to the port showed up while the transaction took place (it cost about twenty bucks round trip!) and soon we were on a ferry, skipping along the waves. Paco and I and a whole bunch of beautiful twenty-something Europeans chilled on deck, where the darkly tan Thai fellows dispensed cans of Singha. 
Pulling into Ko Phi Phi felt surreal. Our ferry coasted around a bend of jutting cliffs, revealing the cove and main dock of the island. I thought that combination of turquoise water and white sand existed only in the movies. 
Ko Phi Phi is a pretty small island and, once you delve into the interior, it has the feeling of a roofed and cluttered village. After disembarking, we walked around for a while, disoriented. The woman back at Phuket Backpackers had recommended a place called “The Rock” for accommodations. We were misled several times before we found an internet café and Paco was able to work his computer wizardry.
On our way to The Rock, we allowed ourselves to be taken in by a Thai proprietor who spoke fluent English and, when he found out where we taught, pretty good Korean as well. He kept calling me “Teacher” — a title which I must admit strokes my ego, even though it’s a stretch in my case. The room we looked at had a fantastic view of the island and cost less than eight bucks apiece. 
While paying Sara, from Phuket, tapped us on the shoulder. Apparently she heard Paco’s singular voice amongst the island’s bustle, “And there you are!” So we unloaded our belongings in the room, took a few pictures of the view, and visited the beach on the other side of the island. It reminded me of the coves I’d read about in pirate tales. I wanted to rent a kayak and head out during sunset, but we couldn’t get our shit together in time. We hung out at a bar, got some dinner, and then Paco and I decided it was high time for a Thai massage and split from Sara for a while.
Yes, getting a Thai massage was high on my list of “Must do’s,” and we were finally doing it. We found a place outside the island’s hub that was inside our price range. The woman showed us to a long room. Beds lined the left wall, each one flush against the another. I would have preferred a bed far as away from Paco as possible, but it looked like we would be neighbors. There were drapes tied to the bed posts. I wondered if they would be drawn.
Realizing that, with any luck, our entire bodies would be rubbed down, we emptied our pockets. I put my money in a cigarette pack; Paco hid his under his pillow. Then our masseuses entered. Paco’s was the woman who showed us the room. Mine was girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old. She didn’t speak English, so Paco’s masseuse had to translate. “Soft, medium, or hard,” we were asked. To be safe, I went with “medium.” Because he has something to prove, Paco went with “hard.”
It. Was. Awesome. The girl used every bit of her small body, entwining it in mine, pulling and pounding me like dough. Her knees kneaded my muscles; her elbows dug in my shoulders. She giggled and flicked at my gross feet. She recoiled upon touching my hair (after a few days sans shampoo it resembled steel wool). When she came across the scars on my left arm, she cooed questioningly, “Soft?” I was ready to marry her halfway through.
Paco, on the other hand, had a different relationship with his masseuse. When he wasn’t screaming with pain, he was asking all the questions that preclude any risqué behavior:“How old are you?” he asked. “Are you married? What’s your name?” And I’ll never forget, on the topic of the Thai language, him saying in a ridiculously affected voice, “I think it is a beautiful language, but unfortunately I cannot speak this language.” If a young girl’s legs weren’t wrapped around my own, I would’ve kicked the shit out of him. Rule number one: say as little as possible to the masseuse. Conversation ruins everything!
There was a funny moment when we flipped over onto our stomachs, and all the money and change under Paco’s pillow went flying, revealing his mistrust for the ladies and their vocation. Upon leaving, I gave the girl a healthy tip.
Paco and I proceeded to meet up with Sara. This is where things become a little blurry. One of the bars housed an actual ring in which Mai Thai boxing took place. After a pair of Thais fought, foreigners got in the ring and went at each other. These weren’t just drunken tourists; they knew what they were doing. When I saw this huge German dude enter the ring opposite a much smaller opponent, there was no question who I was betting on. Turns out the smaller guy won, though.
Meanwhile, Paco was running all over the place. He tried bringing a beer into the boxing bar and got in an argument with the young man guarding the entrance. He was turned away, and I lost him for a while after that. By the time I found him he was tanked.
At another bar, this one on the beachfront, I was taking a piss when the huge German from the boxing ring sidled up next to me, his face cut and bruised. He noticed me staring and mentioned the fight. “I saw that!” I exclaimed. “It was awesome!” “I should have won,” he said with a distinct accent. “He punched me in the balls!” He was intent on me believing him. I nodded, zipped up, and backed away slowly.
At some point it seemed like everyone on the island had gone to bed. Paco capped the night off with a pizza, and then we too turned in for the night.
DAY FIVE: SUNDAY
Had our vacation already come to its hung-over end? The flight back to Korea left Phuket at six in the evening, which meant we had to leave Ko Phi Phi on the two o’clock ferry. There was still enough time to check one item off the list.
I jumped out of bed and, camera in tow, investigated snorkeling tours. That’s how I got this shot: 
There was a half-day expedition that barely fit our tight schedule, but by the by the time I returned to wake Paco, it had already left. Plan B began forming while we packed our things, smoked, and checked out. 
After breakfast, we walked back toward the port side of the island. A tourist’s thoughts must be transparent to locals, because as I wondered about renting a water taxi and snorkel equipment, a guide approached and offered both. Adjusting my bargaining hat, I guessed a fair price would land around a thousand baht for both Paco and me. He’ll probably start off at fifteen hunsky, I told myself, then I‘ll counter with seven, and so on until we eventually agree on a solid g. So I was shocked when he said “one thousand” right away. I just nodded my head, then kicked myself immediately afterward, thinking, I probably could’ve gotten it for five hundred.
But we were going to do some snorkeling, and that’s what mattered. We stocked up on water, and then our guide led us to the wooden water taxis lined along the beach. 
He left us briefly for some errand or another, and shrugging our shoulders, we started the awkward task of boarding the boat. Once on, the loose planks that served as a small deck popped up like seesaws unless I remembered to keep myself dead-center at all times. I piled on the sunscreen — neglecting my back, as future Trav would lament. 
Our guide returned, leaped into the boat like a cat, and started the engine.
The loud motor and the cool ocean spray as we cut through crystal blue water, this alone was worth the money. We passed a few beaches, small pockets of paradise, before coming to rest at reef-happy cove. 
Our guide, who had shown absolutely no interest in us since offering his services, nodded, indicating this was where we jump in.
For the first time I noticed there were no fins on the boat. “Umm,” I said, getting our guide’s attention. “No fins?” He shook his head, and realizing that it was useless to argue, I focused on my snorkel mask instead. I took my time, adjusting the straps just right and practicing a few deep breaths. Meanwhile, Paco threw his mask on, said “Cheer-io,” and jumped right in.
About one and a half seconds went by before he started splashing and flailing his limbs, obviously in a state of panic. “Help!” he spluttered. I exchanged a puzzled look with the guide before he grabbed a small metal ladder and hooked it over the boat’s side. Paco pulled himself aboard so quickly the boat almost capsized. He tore off his mask, panting, “I don’t like that! Ooohhhh, I don’t like that at all.” The guide offered him a life vest, but Paco refused to re-enter the water. Then the guide looked at me, obviously wondering what the hell sort of tourists he’d gotten himself mixed up with. Feeling as though I needed to prove something, I waved off the life jacket, descended the ladder, and pushed off.
It felt marvelous. As I floated on my back, I couldn’t help looking at Paco and asking, “Really? You don’t want to give it another shot?” He shook his head, so I turned to view the world I had just entered. 
I won’t waste a lot of words trying to describe how magical it all was. The smaller fish, of which there were millions, traveled as though through a complex network of invisible pipes. Others kept to themselves, pursuing their own business. And one miserable bastard became protective when I floated too close. I kicked at him as I retreated. All these fish were insanely decorated; I was reminded of the bright colors and strange patterns from the ’80s, and I wondered whether there was some connection.
To be honest, though, it was a little scary. For starters, this whole activity reeked of illegitimacy. I saw an official tour group a hundred feet away, all of them wearing life-vests and flippers, the limits of their terrain marked with orange buoys. And here I was, a cheap snorkel mask and swim trunks, wandering through unmarked waters. Was it unreasonable to assume that all these friendly fish would attract hungry sharks? I felt as though I had to remain vigilant of that foggy wall where my underwater vision ended and the purple unknown began.
Also, I wasn’t sure what kind of danger the reef itself posed. Most of it was so shallow I had to remain horizontal or else brush my feet against crazy-looking, potentially dangerous underwater plants. I didn’t even know if the porous rocks were safe to stand on. So I had to be careful about where I stopped to tread water when I occasionally needed to adjust my snorkel mask.
I re-boarded the boat with enough time to visit one more cove, and then we had to head back to port. I felt completely satisfied: Thailand’s Andaman Coast is considered one of the best underwater destinations to explore, and I wouldn’t have felt this trip was complete if I hadn’t been snorkeling. Next time, it’s scuba diving.
We wasted some time lounging near the port before our ferry was set to leave. 
Having been in the sun all day, I was desperate to find a seat with some shade. This was a huge boat, much bigger than the one on which we arrived, with three tiers of sitting areas. Every seat was taken. Paco and I soon lost each other, and when I finally found a shady spot, I didn’t want to risk losing it to find him. I’ll see him back in Phuket, I thought.
It was a strange spot I had found, located outside the ferry’s main cabin on the narrow walkway that leads to the nose of the boat (nautical terms are my greatest weakness). I had to stand up every time someone walked by, but it blocked the sun and I liked being in the open air. 
Some Australians dudes soon joined me, and it seemed like the trip back would be as pleasant as the trip there. But I was wrong.
About ten minutes after departing, things began to get rocky. The boat began heaving, up and down, leaving my stomach in its wake. The waves kept getting bigger, and when the bow plunged forward we took on buckets of water. I had to stand up to stay dry, but even so, my backpack was getting soaked. I had to store it someplace underneath the deck. That meant moving, and though the Thais strolled around like the boat was one big disco party, for me every step was a potentially broken neck.
Inside the sitting rooms, the ferry had become the SS Vomit. It was terrible; everyone’s faces looked pale and sickly, the smells and sounds of people retching was everywhere. I recognized one of the group organizers from Phuket, and when he took my bag for safe storage, he asked where Paco was. I told him I didn’t know. He just whistled a long low whistle before saying, “Wow.”
I had to get back into the open air or begin vomiting myself. With all the seats taken, I sat on the wet deck and held my head, thinking, This too will pass. It was a long hard trip. I close my eyes because it made me feel nauseous, and everywhere I looked someone was throwing up.
When we finally pulled into Phuket, I went looking for Paco. I expected to find him doubled over in a pool of his own fluids, but there he was, standing on the very walkway I had abandoned earlier, smiling. There were no traces of having endured any of the hardships that had nearly broken me.
We had an hour to kill in Phuket town before the last bus left for the airport. We went to a coffee house that housed the local art scene and ate some cheap food at a very small and cheap street stall. I love the colorful, slipshod vibe to Phuket Town. 
It’s described as having Sino-Portuguese influences, and though I have no idea what that means, I agree with the way it sounds. We had a huge joint left, but the ferry ride had left me feeling too sick to even think about it, so we threw it away before heading to the airport. I daresay a piece of Paco’s heart was thrown away with it.
I was half-asleep for the trip home. And when I finally awoke, we were back in slate-gray Korea, where the functional architecture looms tall, devoid of personality. Two months, I thought. Two month until I’m back in Southeast Asia again. 
