Paradise (Fuck Yeah)/KO PHI PHI LEH

Like a lot of the more developed islands, we have to pay a 20 baht fee at the dock to get into Ko Phi Phi. Either Tyler or Sander is on the phone with the girls and says they're staying in a place called Uphill Cottage, so we book a shared room at the nearby US Guesthouse, because America is the greatest. Even these foreign accent-people get it! Or, they thought it was kind of funny after the thing with the Swiss guy in Railay. Either way, U-S-A!

For booking with US Guesthouse, we're promised a free taxi, which turns out to be a guy in sandals with a cart who carries our bags while we walk behind him. While walking in our show of uncomfortable imperialist-pantomime, we spot Hefina and some of the other girls eating in a cafe. We try to talk, but the man with the cart is on a mission and won't stop for nothing. When we get to US, we're told our rooms aren't ready anyways, so we head back to meet the girls.

Hefina, Anna, and Cyndi tell us they're going camping in Maya Bay on Ko Phi Phi Leh in about three hours, and ask if we'd like to join. Maya Bay is where they filmed The Beach, and a very popular tourist site. However, since the island is part of the Phi Phi National Park, there are no buildings on the island and all the tourist boats come during the day, which made this park-sponsored camping trip the only way to stay overnight there. It also made it quite pricey. I'd planned to see Phi Phi Leh at some point, but three hours was a little short notice, and I didn't really want to spend a lot of money to stay longer at an island I didn't care that much about in the first place. Both Sander and Tyler say no. I think about it.

What could it hurt? I knock Phi Phi Leh off my sightseeing list early, and maybe have some fun. It's not like I'd be doing anything more interesting by staying on Phi Phi with the guys, especially with all the girls gone. Plus, the ticket offered a free bucket drink once you got to the island, which seemed like a curious thing for a National Park-run camping trip to offer, but forget it, Jamie. It's Thailand.

I tell the girls I'm in, eat a waffle, pack some things in to my small backpack, and sunburn the time away until I have to meet them at the travel office. About a dozen other campers show up, and we're all led to a restaurant a few blocks away, where the park rangers lay out rules and itinerary. Once everyone is ready and has their bags, the rangers give everyone a stamp consisting of three horizontal lines. Which, if you've seen The Beach, you'll recognize as the brand the characters gave each other. This was some cutthroat kitsch, right here.

But I still kind of fucking loved it.

As we left the restaurant to catch our boat, I noticed one of the guides cutting up what looked like a solid brick of marijuana, before wrapping it in a cloth sheet. This camping trip might not be all bad. I should also point out that as of this writing the camping trip is no longer offered, for reasons unknown and incredibly mysterious if you don't read the next dozen or so paragraphs.

Just call me Marlow.

On the boat the girls have befriended a stout, older Scottish lass by the name of Imogen, with thick, messy hair and a freckled, sunburned face to match her garbled, peat-heavy accent. In between tired bouts of crossword puzzle-solving, I also meet two Irishmen and a smattering of other mixed-gender Brits before our boat takes a stop at Viking Cave. The way our guide explains it, the cave now exists mostly to harvest bird nests for rich Chinese dudes who like to eat nasty ol' bird nests. It also provides decent snorkeling for spoiled Westerners, so we're handed masks and jump in.

I'd much rather be at the cave where they harvest the Cinnabons.

We snorkel around the bay for a bit, one of the rangers showing off some clownfish hiding spots and tossing a sea sponge around, just the way you would expect a nature-conscious park representative not to do. The boat finally takes us to the anchor point for Phi Phi Leh, where all the other tourist boats are currently departing. The guides throw our backpacks into some dry bags, and we're told to swim for the shore. The water is fairly shallow, although sharp coral makes for some careful stepping. On the beach, we're led along a short path through the woods, stopping to drop our things off at an open-air bamboo hut raised on stilts.

Which is either here, or this is a narrative break. Choose Your Own Adventure!

We're shown a fire pit where dinner is going to be held, and more importantly, the small hut they've set up to dispense bucket drinks. At last, they show everyone along the end of the path to Maya Bay.

That's the one.

Where I discover my camera has a low battery. Figures.

So you'll just have to assume everything is real nice from here on in.

As we all splash around the bay and take pictures before daylight gives out, someone calls out "Shark!" So naturally, while half of our group looks around their feet fearfully and/or heads for the shore, the other half starts stomping excitedly over to where the spotter is pointing. I'm only able to catch the dorsal fin of na shadowy underwater blob before it swims to deeper waters and away.

Maybe it's in this photo? I don't know, they're not labeled.

Unlike in the movie, the only sharks that hang around The Beach are blacktip reef sharks, which are kind of the pussies of the shark world. They've got a good sharky-killy look about them, but they pretty much freak out and run the second they see people. Lame.

Or maybe it had a reason to be afraid. Two reasons. (I'm pointing at my arm muscles.)

Once the sun goes down, our guides light a big campfire and barbecue dinner for everyone, which is as great as you'd expect. As people mill about, chatting and eating, one of the guides produces a guitar that eventually finds its way to me. Save the reluctance for Rastas and their blind child buddies, I always say. I've got future drinking partners to impress. This being a Western European audience, I figure maybe I can impress with some acoustic Clash. The only band that matters. I get through about a song and a half before: "Do you know any Oasis?"

Dejected and feeling not-at-all like a champagne supernova, I wander over to the tiny drink hut, manned by a sole female French bartender, to inquire about the complimentary bucket drink situation. The bartender is also noodling around on another guitar that the park rangers brought. "Do you want to play?" she asks, before making my bucket.

This female French bartender also happens to be cute AND responsible for all the booze on the island, and boy is that a combination I want to impress. I accept the guitar. Then she offers me a hit from a bamboo bong she pulls from behind the wooden counter. Oh my god. The coolest girl. I found her. Play it smooth, Jamie.

With the guitar in hand, I say confidently: "I uh, I used to know the chords to Ca Plane Pour Moi, if uh, if you know that one." I pause a moment. "But I forgot them." And that is how you pick up a French girl. My penis dusts its hands off.

"Ah, Plasteek Bertrand! In 2009 I worked at a gay club in Paris, I was bartender! One night, I see Plast-eek Bertrand, he looks exactly the same, he does not age. He was danceeng, by himself in the meedle of all the people, very high on cocaine, seenging this song to heemself."

She acts the scene of coked-out Plastic Bertrand dancing in place and mumbling lyrics to himself, which I find intensely attractive. The coolest girl. Finished telling the story, she turns to one of the Thai guides and starts up a conversation. She will be mine, I promise myself. (Spoiler: I get drunk and forget about her, and probably didn't have a chance in the first place. She was just too cool, like a sentient leather jacket that also plays bass for Godspeed You! Black Emperor.)

With my free bucket in hand I rejoin the group, where they're playing a drinking game where you burn cigarette holes in a napkin tied to the top of a cup and try to get the coin to drop in for the next guy. I lose the very first round, followed by the guy next to me losing the second and third. Meet Paul, an Irishman who I think may have been throwing the game just for more chances to drink. Paul is here with Phil, "a mate from uni" in his own words. Since I am the first American Phil has met on his trip, he starts singing "America, Fuck Yeah", which, I dunno, I kind of appreciate.

After seeing these guys throw back their bucket drinks, naturally the old debate about which nationality drinks the hardest starts up. Genuinely curious, I ask what the group thinks about Australian drinking prowess. "They're shit! They bang on about how hard they are, but can't hold their drink worth a damn" is one response, followed by a chorus of agreement. It gets decided that the best drinkers are the Irish, British, and Americans. And wouldn't you know it, our little group just so happens to be made up of Irishmen, Brits, and one lone hard-drinking, opinionated American.

Sitting on the other side of me is Imogen, and the more she drinks, the more I notice her laughing and oh-so-accidentally brushing her tits against my shoulder. I'm not interested, but man it does wonders for my confidence. Maybe you the Reader are a Don Juan-Casanova-motherfucker, but as for me I really have to appreciate the rare, fleeting moment when I'm able to actually pick up signals being transmitted from the opposite sex. Even better, they're good signals! Why yes my dick does look great in this humidity, and thank you for noticing.

A pack of cards materializes, and we all play King's Cup while a joint gets passed around. By the second round the game has fallen apart, and one of the guides takes it upon himself to do a fire show on the beach, despite being both high and drunk. Crunk, maybe? He gets through a fair amount of sloshed fire-stick twirling before calling it quits, without any injury. There's a lesson there that I bet the liberal media doesn't want you to know about.

Another one of the park rangers produces some portable speakers, and asks if anyone has an iPod they'd like to hook up. Cyndi shares hers, and as The Arcade Fire begins to crackle out of the old, salt-stained speakers, everyone jumps into the night bay to swim with the bioluminescent plankton. As the couples among us all play DiCaprio and anonymous-dead-career-French-chick (did you know she said Leo was a bad kisser? scandalous!), I have a drunk chat with Cyndi about Pulp Fiction, which I guess is like nerd second base. In other words, almost as good as swimming in warm, dark waters literally glowing from the motion of your lovemaking. Almost.

Cyndi's song choices take a turn for the Linkin Park, so I scamper off to talk with a fellow American named Jenny. Turns out Jenny's a semi-pro Muay Thai fighter living in Bangkok. I mention that, not to brag or nothing, but I've done a little high school wrestling in my time. "Alright, show me what you've got!" she challenges. Now, when I did wrestling in high school I was on the lighter end of the weight classes, so it is with great experience I can say that I have no problem fighting a girl. Phil comes over to watch as we square off in a clearing between the trees, and it isn't long before we're soundtracked by more of him singing "America, Fuck Yeah".

Jenny is, not surprisingly, in incredible shape and very strong, but since we've established we're only going to grapple, I'm able to hold my own. With all modesty, I am pretty decent at wrestling, and after a couple minutes of grappling I'm slowly able to start pinning her. It's then that she gets desperate, and hooks her index finger into my cheek and pulls hard.

That's right, she fucking fish-hooks me. It does the trick, and while I'm reeling back in pain she pins me forcefully into the ground and celebrates. She may be a Muay Thai fighter, but she clearly grew out her nails for vacation. The inside of my cheek has had a good chunk gouged out, and while sucking on the bloody wound I'm only able to stammer out: "Iyyegal! Iyyegal!"

But Jenny is uninterested in my bloody-mouthed bellyaching. She shrugs and laughs "Man up!" And there we go, my sexual confidence back down to its normal levels of a preteen albino. I guess some guys might've stuck it out, but dangit my cheek really hurts, so I leave in search of a drink and a less-violent good time.

Dammit, Paul's already making out with Imogen. Fucking Irish! Not that I'm only here for quick, dirty vacation sex, but, you know, maybe just a little? And wouldn't you know it, the more bong hits I do with the Thais after that, not only do my half-remembered Smashing Pumpkin and Radiohead guitar covers get tremendously worse, but shockingly so does my game. I swim around a bit with Cyndi, but then she sneaks off somewhere during my weirdly passionate attempt to educate her on the musical intricacies of acoustic-folk-punk band Against Me!.

After striking out with a petite girl by the name of Lisa and getting myself another bucket, somehow I end up on a secluded rope swing with Hefina. Lovely Hefina, whom Paul has been hitting on so relentlessly on all night before bedding down with Imogen (loudly and obviously in the sand nearby). Lovely Hefina, sharing a warm and heartfelt conversation with me as the sky starts to lighten over the bay. Lovely, lovely Hefina, doubled over on the swing, puking next to my feet.

I find some Sang Som dregs to swill and pass out at the sleeping hut. I sleep for about an hour or two, and miss the sunrise. Whoops.

Good thing I saved my camera battery!

I'm told the clouds obscured it anyway, so a big ol' whatever on that front. Once everyone's up, we gather on the beach hungover and sleep-deprived to try and take the iconic "The Beach" photo. Over and over we jump, futilely trying to time it so that all 16 people are in the air at the same time, which as you may guess is goddamn impossible. Then the next person's camera is up, and the attempt starts all over again.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Good effort, team.

Hefina asks if I'll take a photo of just her, Anna, and Cyndi, which turns into 15 minutes of again trying to get all four of them in the air at the same time. Was the goddamn photograph even in the book? Christ. Fuck you, Danny Boyle. Finally, I hand my camera off to Hefina so she can use the last of my battery to take a photo of me. Timing the jump is a bit easier solo.

Suck my nuts Boyle!

As the bay starts to fill with the morning tourist boats, we get on our boat back to Phi Phi, upon which everyone lounges morosely, either upset at having to leave paradise or more physically upset by the rolling of the boat on bucket-laden stomachs. Phil can't take it, and vomits over the side. Between heaves, I can hear him choke out: "America...fuck yeah..." As he hurls his chunky tribute to the Land of Freedom and Opportunity, the 9-year old son of a German-Japanese couple watches him and laughs. Truly, the Heart of Darkness of our times. Alex Garland eat your fucking heart out.

Come On Man/RAILAY

The night ferry isn't as bad as they say, so long as you don't mind sleeping like Nosferatu for the entirety of the trip. It's actually pretty swell for me, on account of my intimacy problems. The real killer is the van ride across the mainland. Just like in Laos, an old, cramped, shitty van is made to play TARDIS and carry far more passengers than its exterior form would ever suggest. The padding in my seat is so worn I can feel the springs digging into my back along every bump along the road, and let me tell you, Thailand has no shortage of bumps in their roads. A brief rest stop is allowed, inside a tin made of cheap wood and corrugated aluminum, surrounded by flimsy benches. Getting up, I bash my head against the van's ceiling, only to find Jackass 2 is playing on a small, grainy TV inside. I feel like the franchise is following me, like a more butt-obsessed Sadako.

While Railay isn't technically an island, a range of mountains along the peninsula means visitors have to take a boat in and out. Once we come into port, I find myself in East Railay Beach, one of the two town centers. A single room at any of the hotels here costs too much for my lonely ass, so I hike inland into the jungle for cheaper options. A narrow dirt road takes me past a few clumps of bungalows, and I stop at one particularly ratty collection sitting in a sunlit field. At 350 baht, I still think I overpaid. See if you can figure out what's off about the bathroom:

It isn't the cold shower. Like a poetry-writing teenager, I've long since gotten used to them. No, it's the lack of a fucking sink that really threw me. Not to brag, but I've seen a lot of bathrooms in my time, and this is the first I've been in that was sans-sink. It's not the biggest deal, but...geez. It makes all bathroom operations just a little more frustrating, like eating soup without any lips. Oh, and they told me they wouldn't be able to give me any toilet paper until the evening, which was also just...not cool, guys.

With my backpack stashed away, I continue along the dirt road and into dense forest.  Here, the path gets more and more haphazard as it zig-zags up a series of hills. Next to the path is strung what must be the only cable line for this entire side of the island, which I'm a little reluctant to use as a walking support. After about a half hour of hiking, the road spits me out onto West Railay Beach.

All throughout the area jut gorgeous white limestone karsts, perfect for rock climbing. Unbeknownst to me, Railay is actually one of the world's biggest rock climbing destinations. I meet another backpacker on his way to town, who points out how many of the cliffs are already bolted and ready for climbing. All you need is a bag of gear and someone to belay.

Even getting into town requires some bouldering: Since the end of the beach is blocked by more cliffs, the only paths through involve either working your way through a narrow crevasse, or catching low tide and trying to wade around the shore. Fuck it, I love rock climbing. This'll just be foreplay:

After scrambling through the narrow passage, I eat lunch at a cafe that's supposed to have great tuna sandwiches. While I eat a big plate of internet exaggeration and disappointment, Simon and Niels walk by, completely out of the blue.

They've already made a day of climbing, and are quick to rave about the experience, as well as point me in the direction of where I can find some guides. Before leaving, they also let me know where they're staying in the area so we can meet up later.

Most climbing tours are scheduled for the early morning, so it turns out to be tough finding a guide to take me now that it's past noon. Still, I finally find a local Thai who promises for 800 baht to take me to as many spots as we can manage before sundown. He hands me a pair of climbing shoes, and before I can even get them on, chides "The shoes fit! Come on man!" and leads me to the first cliff. Like everyone else in the area, he's deeply tanned and tightly muscled, and makes me feel absolutely ashamed after seeing him effortlessly scale these rock faces to thread the rope for me, only to have my out-of-practice and out-of-shape ass clumsily try to match him. "Have a water! Come on man!" he helpfully suggests.

Before the light starts to fail, we get in 2 3/4 climbs before my paltry energy reserves finally run dry. Back at the shop, my guide makes fun of me when I ask for band-aids for my fingers that have blistered and burst. "Come on man! Fingers okay! You don't need! Come on man!"

The wussy man needs band-aids for his boo-boos.

No, I insist, I do need. Because I thought I was a hard man, but it turns out I'm just a pig-tailed Nancy Boy who's afraid of getting a widdle infection.

Outside the climb shop I sit at a table in an alley to bandage my hands. Next to me a Thai Rasta with shoulder-length dreads is playing guitar to a blind child. After I finish wrapping my fingers, the Rasta offers me the guitar, which I'm all too happy to refuse until the blind kid, sensing a new performer, smiles wide and chants me on. 

Well, what else can I do? Come on man. I give a very mediocre performance of Smashing Pumpkins' "Today" for the kid while the Rasta practices twirling a firestick. I have to give credit to the blind boy though, as he kept me in the alley long enough to have Tyler and Sander coincidentally walk by and notice me. Together, we grab some dinner at a Thai restaurant where the waiter insists on cleaning and then trying on our sunglasses. As it turns out, he prefers Tyler's £150 designer shades to my 5 dollar fake Ray Bans. Some people have an eye, I guess (Which was not a joke at the blind kid's expense, and shame on you if you thought it was! Alternatively, shame on me if no one thought it was and I just made an awkward dick out of myself [You know, awkward like nestling a set of brackets inside multiple sentences in a set of parentheses inside another sentence {Or your butt! Shut up!}.].)

Around dusk Tyler and Sander lead me into the jungle to visit a Reggae-themed bar they found the night previous, that they tell me has some of the best coffee they've ever had. Also, weed. It is named, imaginatively, Reggae Bar.

The boys don't lie. I order, and watch as the be-dreaded bartender/barista painstakingly hand-grinds the beans for what seems like an eternity before disappearing behind his beat-up espresso machine and returning with a god-damn excellent iced mocha. As we sit back and enjoy our coffees, we're chatted up by a Swiss guy sitting with his girlfriend on some pillows a few yards away.

"So ver are you all from?" he asks.

Each of us answers in turn. Sander, Tyler, then me. "America."

"That damn country!" Whoo boy.

"Well hey, we got bin Laden!" I reply. Now, I'm never quick to defend the States, because, well, everything, but geez man. We got bin Laden!

"Big deal, only take 10 years to find guy on dialysis in couple of mountains!"

There is nothing that will make a person more patriotic than some dick stranger in a foreign land ragging on his homeland. Unfortunately, all I have time to come back at him with is "Hey, you know, it was more than a couple mountains..." before his girlfriend gives him a look that says "Stop being mean to him, you know he only has an American education." As if to apologize for his rudeness, he asks Sander "Would you like?" and offers a joint he's just bought, but is turned down. Then Tyler, "Would you like?", again turned down, "No thanks man". And then he looks at me, retracts the proffered joint, and falls silent. What a global fucking citizen.

The bar has an acoustic guitar lying down, which starts to get passed around after Tyler rolls a couple blunts from his own stash. Once I've picked it up, and started plucking the intro to Metallica's "One" (because a girl from Montreal requested "Wish You Were Here", and I figured I should show the poor girl what real music sounds like), Swiss Miss Fucking Asshole starts loud-whispering to his girlfriend about how easy it is to play guitar. I mean, it's totally true, it's the music community's dirty little secret how stupidly easy it is to play guitar and impress people, but CHRIST MAN GET THE FUCK OFF MY STAR-SPANGLED NUTS.

But maybe I've been going about this all wrong. Better to take the high road, and show him some of that American compassion and diplomacy we aren't known for in the slightest. Catch him off guard.

"You want to play something for us?" I ask, holding out the guitar for him. Global citizen, here.

"Oh, I don't play guitar." He doesn't even play guitar! I swear to fuck I wish I gave more of a shit about Switzerland just so I could have levied some truly prejudiced and paint-peelingly offensive epithets his way. Even now, I just shot all my knowledge on that hot cocoa zinger a paragraph ago. Are they the ones with funny hats, or shoes? What's their pants situation? Ultimately, it didn't matter, because by now the entire bar was tired of his bullshit and just ignored him, and he left shortly after without saying anything. U-S-A! U-S-A!

We smoke a little more, and I try to field some music requests, but apparently all people from Europe want to hear is Oasis, and then after that maybe change the vibe with some Oasis, and then finally close out strong with Oasis. If you're from Europe and you take exception to that, well, talk to everyone else from your continent. Only you might have to speak kind of loudly, because they're all listening to goddamn "Wonderwall" for the hundred billionth time on repeat through a busted Walkman from back when that band might have mistakenly been considered good. Yeah, I'm a music snob, and I will fight you!

I'm sorry, just thinking about that Swiss guy got me all worked up. "Oh, I don't play guitar" what a dick.

After about the third time someone asks for an Oasis song and I say "Sure" and play The Misfits, I leave with Tyler and Sander for their bungalow, where we smoke more weed and play the card game Shithead for another few hours. In almost total darkness, I walk through the jungle back to my bungalow, where I sleep fitfully, because that's kind of my thing now.

That Swiss guy was kind of a bummer, so here are some cats being lazy at a Railay restaurant.

From Railay East, we catch the morning boat to Ko Phi Phi, where we can meet back up with the girls and keep our little party going. Rather than a longtail, this is the fast boat, so for the majority of the ride we sit feet over the railings, just riding the waves, the toothpaste foam of the water bathing our soles after each bounce and brief spell of hangtime. Range after range of limestone cliffs race by behind the warm spray of ocean water. Fuck. I liked Railay.

Drinking and Diving/KO TAO

Somehow, incredibly, I wake up on time to catch my boat. Well, not on time-on time, but only a little late, as opposed to major missed-the-boat-fuck-everything late. I'm finally getting off this rock. Ko Tao here I come, to dive and relax and be merry. I throw my stuff together in a rush and check out. The guy at the desk only charges me 300 baht for losing the key, instead of the full 500 penalty they have written. I'm all feeling good vi-bra-tions.

As per the instructions on my travel ticket, I wait on the side of a road about 10 minutes walk from Venus. A songthaew (a modified pick-up truck with bench seats and a roof in the back) pulls up, a few minutes early.

"Are you the pick-up?" I ask.

"Yes yes!" A middle-age Thai woman in the passenger seat nods, and waves me in. I heave my backpack onto the vehicle, and we take off. There are three other foreign passengers, none of whom seem to have the same ticket I do. Before we reach the dock, the driver lets out two of the passengers, who, instead of handing the Thai woman a ticket like mine, pay in cash. A few minutes later, the driver stops again at an ATM, so another passenger can withdraw some cash to pay the woman.

"Do you have a boat ticket yet?" the woman asks me. Considering I have a joint ticket with the car pick-up and the boat arranged together, alarm bells are ringing. Man, am I tired of metaphorical alarm bells.

We pull into Thongsala Pier, where I get out and start walking away. Immediately, the driver and the woman start yelling at me for money. Pulling out my ticket, I insist I've already paid, because hey look at this ticket I have that I paid for. "That is for van! Not us!" she yells.

Dammit. Yes, it was probably my fault that I got into the wrong vehicle. Yes, considering my recent transformative drug experience, I could probably be a little more patient and understanding. But I've just had way too little sleep for this enlightenment bullshit. Breakthrough drug trip or no, I'm ready to get ugly. I mean, unless they call over the cops. If that happens, I'll totally pussy out and pay them whatever they want and apologize shamefully and profusely. But otherwise, I'm your motherfucker.

"You told me to get in! You can call the ticket people and get your money, but I'm not paying!" In response, the woman calls for the driver, a short and stout older gentleman, who steps out of the songthaew. In the back are still two German girls, watching the whole scene. The driver walks up to me and brandishes a handful of coins.

"You call! You call people! Here, I even pay for phone!" I check the ticket, and as I thought, there's no phone number, because why the hell would there be. My resolve starts to let up, and I offer him half the cost of the ride. No dice. Growing angrier, he demands the full amount, shouting that it was my mistake, that I need to call the travel people and get my money back, and pay him his due.

"I can't! I'm leaving! Take half, or nothing."

He stops shouting now. "See what happens if you leave," he says, leaning into me.

I figure if this dude really wanted to pursue a legitimate restitution, he would've called the cops over at any point. And as it is, despite the number of brutal Muay Thai matches I've seen, pudgy 5-foot songthaew drivers just don't intimidate me. That's just the form my racism has taken, I guess.

"I will leave!" I wave my ticket in his face. "I've got my ticket! My boat's over there!"

"See what happens," he goads.

"Okay," I say, and turn to walk towards the ferry. He grabs my arm. Every muscle in my body tenses at once. I lean right up into his tiny, fat face.

The woman calls out something in Thai from the songthaew, and the man relents. He gets in the vehicle, while she waves me off angrily. I walk away carefully, an enormous knot of adrenaline vibrations tying up my joints. I buy a tuna sandwich for the boat ride. 100 baht. That's how much he wanted me to pay. I almost fought a cab driver for 3 bucks, and it was probably really my fault to begin with. I really need to get off Ko Pha Ngan.

At the end of the pier I find our cast thus far: Sander, Tyler, Hefina, Cyndi, Bethany, and another Brit girl, Anna. Janice has left, off to pursue her own interests. As we wait for the ferry, Hefina mentions how she and a few of the others had to wait while their van made a stop for some "boy" who never showed up, and asks where the hell I was. My answer is vague, as I don't feeling like telling them about the songthaew. The less I think about it, the less my actions have consequences.

The ferry to Ko Tao takes about 2 hours, during which we're solicited by a handful of shills for the island's various diving resorts. The decision is made to stay at Big Blue Diving, on account of someone having seen the name in Lonely Planet. Apparently my new traveling buddies make a vast number of decisions this way. The brochure-pusher for Big Blue makes a call, and by the time we dock there's a ride already waiting for us. Great schools of fish coil beneath our feet as we walk down the pier to meet the Big Blue rep, and get taken to the resort.

Once checked in, we're all split into two rooms with bunk beds but, more importantly, AC. After dropping off luggage, we all reconvene to peruse the diving packages. I opt to get my Advanced Diving license, because Ko Tao is one of the cheapest and best places in the world to do certifications, so even if I can't actually "afford" it, at least it feels like I'm saving money. Everyone else opts to do various fun dives, except for Anna, whose leg is still healing from a scooter accident, and Hefina, who is terrified of diving, but we peer pressure into getting her Open Water license regardless.

Sander, having sat still for over an hour, does flips for awhile.

Not only does Big Blue have some decent deals on diving, but it also has a floating bar, where you can wade knee-deep into the ocean to drink beers from a boat moored twenty feet offshore:

It's...beautiful.

A few of us grab some kebabs, and explore around our neck of the island. By coincidence, Fred, who I previously gabbed about Dragon Tattoos and such with, has also ended up on Ko Tao. Bethany and I tag along with him back to his diving resort, Lotus, and watch the best fireshow I've seen yet:

Of particular interest is one of the fire dancers will walk into the audience, still spinning his fire cups, and twirl them so near to one's face that he can (and does) light a cigarette.

If we were sober this would probably seem really dangerous.

Staying in the same room is an eighteen-year old Israeli dude by the name of Amzi, whom I meet the following day after an afternoon dive. We hit up the floating bar for some light conversation, and as a perfect island sunset falls into our drinks, Amzi tells me all about terrorism and how this skinny Israeli kid with the goofy hair knows how to drive tanks.

With the appropriate amount of libation, Amzi, Bethany, and I find our way to Ko Tao's only ladyboy bar, known as The Queen, where I may or may not have been dragged on stage to pole dance with the ladies.

To be fair, that could be any handsome, devilishly charming, horribly sunburned foreigner.

Aw geez.

Afterward, our bartender host Mickey challenges me to a game of Connect Four, which is what one comes to expect from bored bartenders in Thailand. And I'm proud to say, for the first time in Thailand, I won a goddamn game of Connect Four. Upping the ante, Mickey brings out a Jenga set, and ropes Bethany in. Ladyboys fucking love Hasbro, I guess. The loser has to drink out of a warm, haphazardly mixed bucket drink that seems to be mostly backwash and sand, so the stakes are high.

Jenga-high.

Cyndi shows up, and makes about a hundred requests for Lady Gaga. I'm done after hearing the second remix of "Just Dance", and leave for a party at The Castle, a club in the middle of the island that takes far too long to get to, and maybe it's pertinent somehow that I have a particularly deep dive early in the morning that I should probably be awake and ready for, but you know what The Castle has a neon glow-in-the-dark triceratops:

Eat it, every other club in the universe.

Now, if only you weren't filled with assholes...

My dive instructor in the morning sees my Castle stamp and expresses grave reservations about me being prepared for the dive, even though he's Scottish, and I feel like there's some type of stereotype there that he's not playing by. Regardless, I dive, and I'm fucking awesome at it. Afterwards, I take a quick nap before our night dive on the same day.

As our last dive for the licenses, Iain doesn't even wait till we've showered off the salt water before taking our diving license photos.

Motherfucking Jacques Cousteau.

Bethany decides spur-of-the-moment that she wants one of them bamboo tattoos, so I go with her as moral and physical support. We end up at The Office, an outdoor bar that has a very strict music request policy:

Good for them. I have some more drinks on the beach with Bethany and Mathilde, our Danish roommate, and go back to the room, to smoke more cigarettes with Bethany and enjoy my first night in Ko Tao without diving the next morning. The only place I want to see now is Chumphon Pinnacle, on the off-chance of seeing a whale shark, but the boat tomorrow is full.

Bethany leaves early in the morning, whispering goodbyes to all in the dorm room. Hefina heads out for Chumphon Pinnacle as the last dive of her Open Water, as I go with Cyndi, Anna, and Sander to inquire about cliff diving. The local shop, Good Time Adventures, disappoints with the news that we'd have to get full-day packages, as a recent storm has destroyed all the bridges between cliffs, making it impossible to go by land. Instead, we ask about wakeboarding. Their boat is broken. The four of us end up climbing rocks on the shore, get ice cream, and venture out to Kimg Rama Rock.

When we stop at a local shop for water, I find this sign, which is far more educational than any number of years in higher education:

Mathilde gets a tattoo, and once again I provide a hand to hold as her foot is punctured again and again by a thin bamboo spear.

When we finally get back to Big Blue, it turns out Hefina's group out at Chumphon Pinnacle spotted a whale shark. As they happened to have a cameraman diving with them, they show the video to the benefit and dripping jealousy of the entire resort. The boat was full, they told me. I sign up for the Pinnacle tomorrow. I will not be denied my whale shark. It's something special to think that these are my life problems now.

That night, I return to The Queen, with Amzi this time. It's finally Cabaret Show night, and we get seats around the stage in the back for an hour of intricately choreographed and costumed lipsync routines.

For the climax of the show, select audience members are brought backstage, dressed up, and then trotted out to dance with the stars. Amzi is picked as I snicker and jeer, mostly to cover up my shamed jealousy. Man alive, do I need attention. It isn't long before Amzi's brought back out in a gold sequined bra, matching pantaloons, and a massive green frightwig:

Drinks are expensive at 200 baht a cocktail, but through some miracle of space-time gymnastic happy hour comes around right afterwards. I have one last drink with Mathilde at The Office, and head home.

I finally dive Chumphon Pinnacle in the morning, but the whale shark has already left the area. Typical. Our divemaster is a tiny girl whom we watch taunt a huge triggerfish on the seafloor for about 10 minutes, because every other divemaster at the resort has been attacked by one, and she'll be goddamned if she's odd man out. Unfortunately for her, the triggerfish merely swims away, confused but unfazed, leaving her totally and disappointingly unharmed. Today's just shit luck for everyone. On the boat I try to show off my language skills by chatting with a Japanese couple, who call my bluff by inviting me to dinner with them. Since using the little Japanese I remember has already given me half an aneurysm, I don't feel up to it, but I do hang out with them and watch the sunset.

Outside Big Blue, the fastest banana pancake vendor alive has a stall. I get a banana pancake that I don't even really want, just to watch the guy make it. Are these the Halcyon days?

I wake up around noon, having slept about 12 hours. I check Facebook, and there's a surprising amount of talk about Osama bin Laden. More specifically, his being super duper dead. Outside, the TV in the bar is playing a BBC report intercut with Obama's press announcement. I watch for awhile, on uncertain emotional ground, before Iain finds me and hands me my Advance Diver License. Of all the things I'm feeling, at the forefront is how me getting my Advance License just got overshadowed somewhat.

I drink a tall boy in the sand and run around with a pack of beach dogs. It could be the bin Laden thing, or my lack of food and water combined with the burning afternoon sun, but I feel reeling drunk.

I eat dinner with the whole gang, and find out that all these Europeans have both seen and love Napoleon Dynamite. As the only one with an American accent, they're in awe of my impression, which gets those panties a-soakin', or at least until I order a Grasshopper and all my work is undone.

Sander, Tyler, and I go to AC Bar, where we get hammered immediately, Sander does some breaking in the sand, and shortly thereafter he and Tyler pull a pair of girls together. I dance on a stage area by myself for awhile, a lone uncoordinated wolf, until I'm approached by some ladyboys, who dance to Shakira with me. I must have sent out some sort of pheromone, because soon an old Thai man starts hugging me and kissing me on the cheek, saying he loves me, over and over. I get away from him, only to have another younger Thai guy approach and motion to kiss me on the lips. I shake my head no, he kisses me on the cheek instead.

Tearing myself away from all the Thai man-love, I finally find a girl to talk to, who I only realize is Thai after trying for about five minutes straight to speak Japanese with her. Karma, I guess, for missing dinner the other night. Tyler shows up, says Sander is leaving with the girls. We catch up, and I find out that one of the girls is pissed because Tyler called her a lesbian after she rebuffed him. I can identify, I think. They say they're going to sleep. I buy a beer and do the same.

I wake up to Sander coming into the room at 9:50. "Checkout's in 10 minutes," he says. Fuck it. I sleep in till noon and take a shit. I'll be glad to be rid of this toilet, with the cracks in the seat that suck in your ass flesh and pincer it viciously when you try to stand up. Sander and Tyler have already made arrangements at a travel agency for passage to Railay, so I get a ticket for myself and drop off my big backpack at the agency. The sun is starting to set, so I drop my small backpack off in front of the Big Blue reception with a pile of other bags, and hit the Sea Bar for a view with brews.

A Frenchman buys me a beer because of bin Laden's death, and tells me about a "temple valley" in Myanmar that is spectacular "if you have an ipod". A Lebanese girl toasts me "Kessak".

I go to put my sunglasses away, and the reception area that was previously full of bags is totally empty. My backpack is gone. It's 7 pm, and I have to leave at 8. I walk around Big Blue asking people if they've seen my bag, more and more hopelessly. The Thai don't want to help, and the Westerners don't know how to help. After an hour, Sander and Tyler take off ("Sorry man, don't know what to say...Later?"), and I'm forced to check back in to Big Blue. With my wallet (containing 500 bucks in Chinese yuan), debit card, netbook, and a gallimaufry of other electronics and travel accessories in the lost backpack, all I have left is my big backpack full of clothes, and whatever's in my pockets. My camera, and a little less than 200 USD. More time passes, and by now all of the staff know my situation, but no one can offer any help. I decide to drink.

They're playing beer pong in the Big Blue bar, which I hang around while waiting for news and sucking down Long Islands. I have a conversation with the bartender that goes something like this:

"So I heard you lost your backpack?"

"Yup, with my wallet in it, with all my cash and my debit card. Can I get a Long Island?"

"Sure, I imagine you could use one right now. That's so horrible. Anyways, that'll be 6 dollars."

I eat nothing, because I need to save money, and drink more Long Islands. A lot of drunken gazes at my wrist tattoo. "Don't Panic." Probably not the Halcyon days.

I wake up in bed, with no memory of leaving the bar. A staff girl comes in, and asks if James Wilson is here. Miracle of miracles, she has my backpack! Which, when she hands it to me, feels suspiciously light. Sure enough, no netbook (despite the Korean sticker on the cover that says 'Don't Take Shit Anybody"), no mouse, no expensive headphones, no Nintendo DS, all my cables and cords are gone, and I can't find my wallet. They even took my cheapo USB drive and the soap I had just bought. After turning the backpack inside out, I find my wallet in a pocket I didn't know existed. My debit card is floating around outside the wallet, and all the Chinese cash is gone. Curiously enough, the Xanax is still here. I check out, and even if the bartender wouldn't comp me a pity drink the night before, they don't charge me for the room. I get a new ticket for Railay and get some espresso at Tao Cafe.

I overhear some Canadian girls talking about how they heard someone say you don't get hangovers here. And it's true. By all rights, I should be hungover. I should've been hungover from Day One. I check my card's transaction history, which is clear. And so much the better, because I'll be damned if I'm going to stick around for a replacement card. After some prodding from the Big Blue staff, I file a police report, which amounts to exactly what you might figure. Some rumblings of a Burmese culprit ("Couldn't be a Thai..."). Of course the security guards didn't see anything. Of course the cameras are broken. Of course, nothing ever gets stolen here.

I get a massage, only to find massages aren't that relaxing when you're thinking "When I am relaxed, all my problems will be over" the whole time. For dinner, I eat something called the Hungry Hippo burger:

Because I'll always love you, Jamie.

A truck pulls up to the travel agency around 8, where I've been using the internet and feeling sorry for myself. A quick drive, and I'm put on a boat to Surat Thani, where everyone has a 3x5' bit of padded floor demarcated for sleeping. Some try to read, undistracted by how they haven't been robbed.

Like that one there. Look at that smug personal property-having dick.

At least I've got my camera and my debit card, and whatever health left before I soon destroy it with titanic amounts of drink. And to play devil's advocate, the 500 dollars cash wasn't really mine, as I hadn't yet paid Sarah back for it. So really, I'm just fucked out of my new netbook. And my cables. And my DS. And my goddamn soap. Optimism is an uphill fucking battle.

He knows.

Still, I can't bring myself to read, or sleep. Did I mention this is my first theft, ever, in my life? I can see why someone might get worked up! It definitely isn't all smiles and banana splits. Before I left for this trip, I considered doing it Luddite-style: no electronics, no diversions, no Western bullshit. A real gritty classic adventure. Of course, I laughed the thought away a second later and took all my toys, but it seems forces are pushing me the other way. Maybe the thief did me a favor?

Fuck. I had the new episode of Game of Thrones on the netbook. I hope that goddamn thief gets AIDS.