Currently in Asia, specifically Bangkok. Local time 00:11.
Strong message to follow.
Holliday thread
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SenisterDenister
- Haha you're still not there yet
- Posts: 3535
- Joined: Mon Apr 23, 2007 3:03 pm
- Location: Cackalackyland
Re: Holliday thread
The Buddhist Ronald McDonald is a trip. I like the contrast you got with the lights.
-
SenisterDenister
- Haha you're still not there yet
- Posts: 3535
- Joined: Mon Apr 23, 2007 3:03 pm
- Location: Cackalackyland
Re: Holliday thread
I love these photos, man.
Re: Holliday thread
Day 19 – On the Road Again
I love trains. Back in my university days, and even up until the pandemic, I used them endlessly. There’s something so simple about it—just hop on and go. This memory resurfaced today as I sat on a Thai speedboat, speeding us from Koh Lipe to Ko Bulon Le at precisely 9:00 AM.
It’s the 19th day of our journey. Yesterday’s weather forecast had predicted thunderstorms from dawn till dusk, and, as usual, I’d braced myself for the worst. We snagged seats at the front of the boat, just to the left of the driver. The space had been vacated by a couple I guessed to be Korean and Russian—a deduction based on their looks and language. I clung to the wooden part of the boat, trying to avoid the metal in case lightning struck. The wind, gusting at 25 km/h, whipped up waves that sent us bouncing like we were riding a camel. My discomfort was palpable. At one point, my insides seemed to rise and crash back down so violently that I couldn’t help but let out a high-pitched “Aaaah!” To my surprise, a Thai woman sitting nearby mirrored my anxiety, and for a brief moment, shared fear brought an odd sense of comfort.
Despite grim forecasts, the sky was surprisingly beautiful. It was scattered with diverse layers of clouds at varying altitudes, each more picturesque than the last. [REDACTED], ever the cloud enthusiast, identified his favorite: cumulonimbus stratiformis. He was right; the formations were stunning, reflecting the morning sun so brightly it forced us to squint, forming frown lines between our brows.
By 10:00, we reached the island. It took several zoom-ins on Google Maps to confirm that yes, this was indeed the right place—not the Andaman Sea but a small island we’d discovered through ChatGPT and Google’s recommendations.
As the big boat approached the island, it stopped, and a smaller, wooden longtail boat came to fetch us. The casually dressed captain motioned for us to disembark. Our bags were transferred, we donned worn-out, bright orange life vests, and stepped aboard. [REDACTED], accustomed to supporting himself with a sturdy backrest, stumbled onto the wooden planks in one swift, clumsy motion, barely stabilized by a couple sitting at the back. I boarded with the help of the new captain, extending a hand to [REDACTED] as we settled on the bench, facing the luggage and the horizon.
“Fifty baht!” the captain shouted. “Now. Where are you going?”
[REDACTED], quick on his phone, found the name of our resort. Meanwhile, a sinking realization hit me: we had no cash. My questioning look to [REDACTED] was met with a shrug. After some frantic gesturing and a mix of phrases like “ATM? No ATM. Cash? No cash. Later ATM?” the captain reluctantly agreed to take us to our destination.
We disembarked to a warm welcome from the guesthouse owner, exchanged pleasantries, and were led into a lush garden. Before we could even ask for help with our bags, a tanned middle-aged man expertly loaded them onto a handcart reminiscent of the kind my grandmother uses for laundry.
“Breakfast?” the owner offered.
“Absolutely, but can we pay by card?”
“Yes, you can.” Relief washed over us.
Seated at a round table on the terrace overlooking the beach, I noticed a young girl sprinting toward the longtail boat, trying to catch it before it departed. The guesthouse owners had already paid for our five-minute water taxi ride, which cost a total of 100 baht. “Add it to the breakfast bill,” we suggested. “Later,” the kind woman replied, motherly and in charge, as she handed us menus.
After breakfast, the owner led us to one of several bungalows nestled along the shoreline, separated from the beach by a strip of greenery dotted with palms and other tropical plants—ones we usually see potted in European homes.
“Is the bungalow okay?”
“It’s perfect!” we replied, thanking her for assigning us number 6.
While the staff prepared the bungalow with fresh linens and towels, we took a walk, marveling at the morning beach and swaying palms. But as luck would have it, rain poured down within 20 minutes, cutting our stroll short. We sought refuge under the porch of another bungalow, played some music by Gabi, and recorded a handful of nearly identical short videos.
When the rain eased, we unpacked. [REDACTED] claimed the modest terrace, rolling himself a perfectly legal Thai joint, while I decided to do something for myself and called my mom. I woke her up—it was barely 8:00 AM in Poland.
Three hours later, we set off in search of an ATM.
A small local restaurant caught our eye, but unfortunately, they only accepted cash, which we didn’t have. The owner recommended downloading a payment app, but neither [REDACTED]’s nor my phone could access it due to location restrictions. Plus, the app required an account with a Thai bank.
Apologizing profusely, we left to continue our hunt.
Around the corner, we stumbled upon a school—a cluster of pink, newly renovated buildings with a playground and sports fields for soccer and basketball. Nearby stood signs I’d never seen in person before: 200 meters to the tsunami evacuation point. I asked [REDACTED] to snap a photo of me. I felt a mix of excitement and rising anxiety, which I tried to hide.
Following a path uphill, we passed a shop and several charming wooden Thai cottages straight out of Instagram. They filled me with joy, and I eagerly captured them in photos.
But just a few steps further, my mood shifted. We came across a row of buildings bearing scars of the last tsunami. At first, we exclaimed, “Oh, look at that building! And this one!” But soon, the gravity of the destruction sank in. The ocean surrounding us—so beautiful and serene—had brought devastation and grief to this island. And not so long ago, it had claimed [REDACTED]’s father.
As hunger and frustration crept in, we bickered nervously. A man sitting with his young son finally gave us a dose of reality: there were no ATMs on the island. Payment was cash-only, except perhaps at a resort if we asked. Electricity was limited to 6–10 PM. Lovely.
Quietly, we retraced our steps. A turn down a different road led to a resort restaurant.
“Can we pay by card?”
“Yes.”
“ATM?”
“No.”
“Oh, man!”
“But we can charge extra and withdraw for you.”
“Thank goodness!”
With relief, we ordered lunch, some takeaway food, and withdrew cash. We returned to our bungalow via a stunning sandy beach.
The wind picked up as the day wore on. By evening, it was howling. Darkness descended, accompanied by the sound of crashing waves, chirping crickets, rustling leaves, and the steady whirr of the ceiling fan. Even my usual Get Sleepy podcast couldn’t drown out the noise.
What if a tsunami came? Would we be alerted? How much time would we have to escape? Would we make it to safety? What if it came at night? Would the waves engulf our bungalow? What should I grab? How would we survive?
Questions swirled in my head. I downloaded an earthquake radar app and refreshed my memory of middle-school geography lessons with ChatGPT. Meanwhile, [REDACTED] snored peacefully beside me.
So now it was my turn to keep him safe.
By 5:23 AM, the first light of dawn crept in. Something rustled in the plastic bags containing our dinner leftovers. Hopefully, it was a lizard, not a mouse. I prayed the beach would stay safe, the water wouldn’t rise.
If the weather’s nice, I’ll take a photo at sunrise. And there is definitely something moving in the food right now...
I love trains. Back in my university days, and even up until the pandemic, I used them endlessly. There’s something so simple about it—just hop on and go. This memory resurfaced today as I sat on a Thai speedboat, speeding us from Koh Lipe to Ko Bulon Le at precisely 9:00 AM.
It’s the 19th day of our journey. Yesterday’s weather forecast had predicted thunderstorms from dawn till dusk, and, as usual, I’d braced myself for the worst. We snagged seats at the front of the boat, just to the left of the driver. The space had been vacated by a couple I guessed to be Korean and Russian—a deduction based on their looks and language. I clung to the wooden part of the boat, trying to avoid the metal in case lightning struck. The wind, gusting at 25 km/h, whipped up waves that sent us bouncing like we were riding a camel. My discomfort was palpable. At one point, my insides seemed to rise and crash back down so violently that I couldn’t help but let out a high-pitched “Aaaah!” To my surprise, a Thai woman sitting nearby mirrored my anxiety, and for a brief moment, shared fear brought an odd sense of comfort.
Despite grim forecasts, the sky was surprisingly beautiful. It was scattered with diverse layers of clouds at varying altitudes, each more picturesque than the last. [REDACTED], ever the cloud enthusiast, identified his favorite: cumulonimbus stratiformis. He was right; the formations were stunning, reflecting the morning sun so brightly it forced us to squint, forming frown lines between our brows.
By 10:00, we reached the island. It took several zoom-ins on Google Maps to confirm that yes, this was indeed the right place—not the Andaman Sea but a small island we’d discovered through ChatGPT and Google’s recommendations.
As the big boat approached the island, it stopped, and a smaller, wooden longtail boat came to fetch us. The casually dressed captain motioned for us to disembark. Our bags were transferred, we donned worn-out, bright orange life vests, and stepped aboard. [REDACTED], accustomed to supporting himself with a sturdy backrest, stumbled onto the wooden planks in one swift, clumsy motion, barely stabilized by a couple sitting at the back. I boarded with the help of the new captain, extending a hand to [REDACTED] as we settled on the bench, facing the luggage and the horizon.
“Fifty baht!” the captain shouted. “Now. Where are you going?”
[REDACTED], quick on his phone, found the name of our resort. Meanwhile, a sinking realization hit me: we had no cash. My questioning look to [REDACTED] was met with a shrug. After some frantic gesturing and a mix of phrases like “ATM? No ATM. Cash? No cash. Later ATM?” the captain reluctantly agreed to take us to our destination.
We disembarked to a warm welcome from the guesthouse owner, exchanged pleasantries, and were led into a lush garden. Before we could even ask for help with our bags, a tanned middle-aged man expertly loaded them onto a handcart reminiscent of the kind my grandmother uses for laundry.
“Breakfast?” the owner offered.
“Absolutely, but can we pay by card?”
“Yes, you can.” Relief washed over us.
Seated at a round table on the terrace overlooking the beach, I noticed a young girl sprinting toward the longtail boat, trying to catch it before it departed. The guesthouse owners had already paid for our five-minute water taxi ride, which cost a total of 100 baht. “Add it to the breakfast bill,” we suggested. “Later,” the kind woman replied, motherly and in charge, as she handed us menus.
After breakfast, the owner led us to one of several bungalows nestled along the shoreline, separated from the beach by a strip of greenery dotted with palms and other tropical plants—ones we usually see potted in European homes.
“Is the bungalow okay?”
“It’s perfect!” we replied, thanking her for assigning us number 6.
While the staff prepared the bungalow with fresh linens and towels, we took a walk, marveling at the morning beach and swaying palms. But as luck would have it, rain poured down within 20 minutes, cutting our stroll short. We sought refuge under the porch of another bungalow, played some music by Gabi, and recorded a handful of nearly identical short videos.
When the rain eased, we unpacked. [REDACTED] claimed the modest terrace, rolling himself a perfectly legal Thai joint, while I decided to do something for myself and called my mom. I woke her up—it was barely 8:00 AM in Poland.
Three hours later, we set off in search of an ATM.
A small local restaurant caught our eye, but unfortunately, they only accepted cash, which we didn’t have. The owner recommended downloading a payment app, but neither [REDACTED]’s nor my phone could access it due to location restrictions. Plus, the app required an account with a Thai bank.
Apologizing profusely, we left to continue our hunt.
Around the corner, we stumbled upon a school—a cluster of pink, newly renovated buildings with a playground and sports fields for soccer and basketball. Nearby stood signs I’d never seen in person before: 200 meters to the tsunami evacuation point. I asked [REDACTED] to snap a photo of me. I felt a mix of excitement and rising anxiety, which I tried to hide.
Following a path uphill, we passed a shop and several charming wooden Thai cottages straight out of Instagram. They filled me with joy, and I eagerly captured them in photos.
But just a few steps further, my mood shifted. We came across a row of buildings bearing scars of the last tsunami. At first, we exclaimed, “Oh, look at that building! And this one!” But soon, the gravity of the destruction sank in. The ocean surrounding us—so beautiful and serene—had brought devastation and grief to this island. And not so long ago, it had claimed [REDACTED]’s father.
As hunger and frustration crept in, we bickered nervously. A man sitting with his young son finally gave us a dose of reality: there were no ATMs on the island. Payment was cash-only, except perhaps at a resort if we asked. Electricity was limited to 6–10 PM. Lovely.
Quietly, we retraced our steps. A turn down a different road led to a resort restaurant.
“Can we pay by card?”
“Yes.”
“ATM?”
“No.”
“Oh, man!”
“But we can charge extra and withdraw for you.”
“Thank goodness!”
With relief, we ordered lunch, some takeaway food, and withdrew cash. We returned to our bungalow via a stunning sandy beach.
The wind picked up as the day wore on. By evening, it was howling. Darkness descended, accompanied by the sound of crashing waves, chirping crickets, rustling leaves, and the steady whirr of the ceiling fan. Even my usual Get Sleepy podcast couldn’t drown out the noise.
What if a tsunami came? Would we be alerted? How much time would we have to escape? Would we make it to safety? What if it came at night? Would the waves engulf our bungalow? What should I grab? How would we survive?
Questions swirled in my head. I downloaded an earthquake radar app and refreshed my memory of middle-school geography lessons with ChatGPT. Meanwhile, [REDACTED] snored peacefully beside me.
So now it was my turn to keep him safe.
By 5:23 AM, the first light of dawn crept in. Something rustled in the plastic bags containing our dinner leftovers. Hopefully, it was a lizard, not a mouse. I prayed the beach would stay safe, the water wouldn’t rise.
If the weather’s nice, I’ll take a photo at sunrise. And there is definitely something moving in the food right now...
