Life on a Thailand island - 'The Nunnery'

Just when you think life can’t get much better…it does. I saw a small ad which flashed up, briefly, on Facebook, about a writers’ workshop on a Thai island.
So I joined up!
And it was great!
It was held at The Nunnery (name has been changed to protect the innocent) which is quite well-known in the UK as several excellent reviews have been written about it. This is the brochure entry that I could write some day.

Come to the Nunnery and leave the real world behind. Many who come here for a week stay for a month. This is because they cannot face the difficult, often hazardous climb off the small speedboat which has conveyed them across choppy seas. Anxious as always to provide an excellent service, sickbags are free or you can vomit into the sea. This is as long as you have not eaten any plastic recently: we try our very best to be truly eco-friendly. A favourite timewasting pastime of our long-term residents is watching people jump off the boat. Highest marks are awarded to those who fall backwards into the surf and soak their rucsacs. Gold stars if they are carrying an ipod.
This island paradise is set on a remote, palm-fringed beach. We have a wide range of huts and luxurious houses to suit every wallet. Unfortunately they are always full. Or possibly double-booked, so that you have to leave your accommodation at a strange time in the day – or night. Often at (literally) a moment’s notice. We do this deliberately – we feel it adds excitement and spontaneity to your stay as you never really know where you will sleep each night. Or with whom.
Our accommodation is beautifully positioned in secluded locations up a steep hillside. We have avoided signposts and adequate lighting; we feel that arriving at your home – or arriving anywhere – should be seen as an achievement. It is also an exciting way to make friends and influence people, by asking for, or giving, directions. However, we do not suggest giving wrong directions to the same person too often as the Nunnery is a place of peace, harmony and love. And we do not have a hospital nearby.
Sample the delicious, healthy food in our restaurant. Our menu is filled with exciting recipes, each of which is carefully described. We have done this to help you survive the hunger pangs as you wait a) to be served, b) to receive the food. We are attempting to gain an entry in The Guinness Book of Records for the slowest service in the world. This is another reason why many people stay for a month. They are awaiting the order which they placed on the first day. Our restaurant speciality is serving the wrong things to people; again, this is part of the Nunnery’s delightful emphasis on spontaneity. If our guests always received what they ordered, life could become boring. And what a delightful way to make friends, as you wander amiably around the restaurant, asking if anyone would swap a spirulina milkshake for a health-giving salad made entirely from wheatgrass.
“But what can I do to fill those empty hours” I hear you ask. If finding your room and waiting for your food does not provide enough joy and satisfaction, the Nunnery has other delights to entrance you. The yoga hall has discovered a unique way to test the focus of its participants by allowing a 3 foot snake to drop from the roof. If that is not enough excitement, then you can undertake the Nunnery’s trademark fast.
Our fast is special. You are medically supervised throughout, given soups and juices at regular intervals and you regularly eat clay. And spiruina, which has the flavour and texture of rancid mucus. Enemas make sure that you are thoroughly cleansed - by the end of your time with us you have a totally, completely pure gut. Waiting for our restaurant food is our economy version, though you cannot book ahead for this. However, it leads to the same excellent results.
We like to make our guests feel wanted so we arrange a grand finale to everyone’s stay when we present them with the bill. This provides more excitement for our long-term guests, many of whom have stayed with us for years because they cannot produce the money to pay their own bill. We achieve this excellent result by:
a) refusing to accept credit cards.
b) Refusing to accept anything other than Thai bhat. The fact that 99% of our customers are not Thai and have dollars a-plenty in their wallets adds a certain frisson to that eagerly anticipated final encounter, particularly when they wave the dollars in our faces in a most un-nunnery-ish manner.
c) Getting the bill totally wrong. We like to include at least 6 errors. The best ones are when we get the accommodation entirely wrong and charge a budget room at the luxury rate. Guests have been known to jump onto the reception desk and gibber like apes. This provides excellent, free entertainment for those waiting for food. We specialise in smaller mistakes, however, such as putting the wrong food down, charging fasting people for double portions of Thai curry and billing abstainers for half-a-dozen ‘Sex on the Beaches’ on Free Mike nights.
d) If you really want to know, Mike is being regularly fed and he is very happy doing the washing-up for the next 2 years.

So, there you have it; life in our very own tropical paradise, an oasis of love and spontaniety. Book your place now. We won’t have kept a record of it but, when you arrive, we will have such sweet smiles when we tell you to trek off that you will find it a pleasure to do just that.

'Sinville' city.

Not sure whether the pier was holding up the boat, or vice versa...

Sihanoukville - 'Sin City'is a lively place, buzzing with action. It has beautiful beaches, lovely remote islands, crystal-clear waters and coral reefs. And a big crime scene. I was warned by several people - don't walk along this part of the beach at night - don't walk along that part of the beach at all on your own; don't carry valuables; stay in; lock your windows; swallow your credit-card... you get the picture.

In reponse to that, I had booked in to a lovely hotel with a swimming pool. I could isolate myself from 'Sin City', live by the pool, rest and get a tan. And how blissful this was - for a day. By the end of the time I was fed up with watching paunchy old men with young, beautiful Cambodian girlfriends who laughed obediently and followed every move of their man with large, adoring eyes. I knew of 'cheque-book journalism'; this was clearly 'credit-card sex'.so I booked an 'overnighter' at a nearby island, planning to snorkel.

How lovely is paradise? The island was truly beautiful, with a small fishing village and very little else. Our small huts looked onto rocks, but were tree-shaded in the heat.

Snorkelling was delightful; although you can't go so deep as with scuba, it has a sweet simplicity, which involves nothing more than donning swimsuit, pulling on mask and getting into the water. And when the water is warm and clear, little effort is involved. I fed multi-coloured fish with bits of bread and swam deep into the coral, seeing baby barracuda in huge shoals, big and little fish, even two tiny bright turquoise delights. Sea urchins (not the two-legged sort) were everywhere, their black spines waving in the gentle current. I saw some giant sponges, alongside harder orange-red coral growths. As you realise, I am an expert on these things.

I spent hours in the water until my skin was wrinkled almost past redemption and my toes cramped up with the effort.

And when I returned, I changed hotels and went to 'Tranquility', on Serendipity Beach. I had wanted a hotel as near to the beach as possible, with secure, clean rooms. And that is what I got. I'd leave my room, walk about 20m to the restaurant, take 2 steps onto the beach and sink into a deep basketweave chair with soft, comfy cushions. A banana milk-shake was only a wave away (my wave, not the sea's...) and I sat, watching beach-life and reading' or just listened to the swish of waves against the nearby rocks.

Beach life was fascinating. I saw:

a) tourists of all ages and nationalities. I watched pale-skinned sparrow-chested young men walk anxiously along, looking around at other people and not saying too much. They looked as if they'd never been away from home before. Then there were the tanned, confident ones, with dreadlocks, tattooes and the type of confidence that comes from months of travel. Older people were normally couples, either walking close together and holding hands (2nd honeymooners?), or fairly remote from each other and obviously far too used to each other's company.

b) beggars: men with mutilated or missing limbs would drag themselves along the sand. leaving deep marks. A friend I'd made, who lives in Cambodia, told me that most of these men are shams. "For a start, they might have lost their limb through snakebite and dodgy cures which led to amputation. And, OK, they don't have all their arms or legs. But every single one of them will have a wheelchair and be supported by some sort of NGO. so they don't actually need the dollars - they're supplementing their income." But I felt truly sorry for the blind man, led by a 6-year-old carrying a stick, who walked the beaches constantly singing, "Anything I do, I do it for you" offkey and with a strong Cambodian accent.

There is a strong movement against children begging in Cambodia. In Sihanouhkville at any rate, every primary-age child has free education, so they should be in school, not on thebeaches. As a result, I saw few child beggars But there were lots of:c) children selling stuff. From fruit to cold drinks to little woven things - they were eeverywhere, with appealing smiles and even more appealing half-English. I paid one young girl $3 for a handwoven bookmark. She told me that she uses the money to pay for herself and her younger sister to go to school. Although it's free for young sister, they still have to provide pens, books and suitable clothes.

d) women selling manicures, pedicures, henna tattoos, face, neck, back and foot massages. What bliss! They are very persuasive. "Imagine the following pronounced with almost no consonants, so that every word flows into the next - and very fast.

"Hello, maram, you wan manicuu?"

"No thank you. My hands are fine."

Your hand will then be picked up and looked at. Head shake, sad expression."Oh, no, maram, you han is no goo, You nee manucuu for goo nail. I very goo. Look, My nail."

And she waves a set of beautful nails at you, complete with painted flowers."An for you - very goo pri. You are my fren..."

I sigh. I am defeated. "OK. What price?"

"For yoo - spesha pri. Fi dollar."

"Five dollars?" I play the game. We both know exactly what it will cost me.

"OK, $4.50."

"Make it $4. For hands AND feet."

"OK, very goo. I give you specia manicuu. Hand and foot, If you wan flowa, you tell me but more dollar. OK?"

And we both know that by the end of it I will have twenty beautifully painted, floral nails, along with massaged legs and neck.
And once I'm 'sorted', I leave my special chair and walk slowly along the beach. The sun is getting low, the sea is retreating and bar-people are moving their own comfy chairs further out, along with the 'Happy Hour Cocktail' signs. 'Hour' is a moveable feast and clearly stated on the boards. "4pm - 6", "5-8", "7-12" or even, generously, "Anytime, everytime Happy Hour".

It's Saturday and, further along the beach, loads of Cambodians have gathered. Two large pyramid-using convenient holds, then sliding into the water. What fun! Others were busy burying parents in the sand, building sandcastles or just simply jumping into the waves. Young men with muscles and cool sunglasses were making an expensive row, driving jet-skis far too fast in the bay, then slicing through the water (hopefully not people) to make a grand entrance onto the beach. Others played shuttleball, which involves keeping a giant shuttlecock in the air using only feet, or splashed each other, or just sat relaxing. What a great scene, like people on the beach absolutely everywhere. But I didn't see any Cambodian woman in a bikini, or even a swimsuit; they wore modest shorts and tops, even when in the water. Such a difference to the skimpily-clad Westerners, who all-too-often were bulging out of revealing swimwear without a thought of covering up (or even buying a larger size...!)
The beach is great. Later on, I walk again. It's dark by now and the moon is full, great excuse for an all-night 'Full Moon Party'. The moon hangs like a suspended party-light; people buy fireworks and the multi-colours cascade upwards then into the water. Other lights flicker, the music is loud and party-time is all around. It's warm, the drink is cheap and the waves are near. Who needs more???

Phnom Penh - the genocide museum

Thurs 21 Jan: Phnom Penh

Walked around; decided that PP is a city - and that's that. It has a wat - temple - on a hill (like Luang Prabang's but smaller) & a silver palace (Like Bangkok's but smaller), lots of motorbikes and tuktuks, lots of noise - it's a city. Am I getting jaded wih travel?

I walked around without any great joy and decided that - yes, I'm moving on. But before then - it has to be done - I decided that I had to visit the Genocide Museum, Tuol Sleng where thousands of innocent people were tortured until they admitted to anything, everything, then killed.

It all happened in 2 ex-primary and 2 ex-secondary school buildings. What an irony, as Pol Pot rejected education completely, torturing & executing anyone who didn't have the sense to throw away specs, books and suits, put on ordinary labouring overalls and toughen up their hands. Even that wasn't enough. the KR soon turned cannibal, devouring its own party members who weren't thought to be working with enough enthusiasm.

Over 17,000 men, women and children entered the 'Security Prison'. They ended up in the Killing Fields, made to dig their own mass grave, then, blindfolded, made to kneel in front of it and simply bludgeoned to death. The Khmer Rouge didn't want to waste bullets.

From the outside the buildings looked quite ordinary and - well - schoolish, with grass in front and verandahs running the length of each floor. I went into the worst area first; the ground floor 'classrooms' had teaching displays with a difference - row upon row of black-and-white photos. Men, women and children stared at me, their eyes following me. some attempted a smile, as few looked angry, most looked slightly puzzled, or totally blank as if unsure why they were there in the first place. It must be a mistake...

But all of them met the same horrible fate - forced by torture to confess to some crime then killed. Perhaps they had been doctors, nurses or teachers; perhaps they were caught wearing glasses, perhaps they didn't wave and cheer with enough enthusiasm, perhaps one of their neighbours, anxious to divert scrutiny, had accused them of something. It didn't really matter; whatever the 'crime' they were guilty. And they were made to confess.

Senior officers weren't exempt from accusation, torture and death - but they had special treatment. They were in large, individual rooms, with a bed. But they were manacled to their beds and graphic photos on the walls showed their broken bodies and contorted postures. Apparently their rooms had glass windows simply to prevent their screams being heard too loudly.

Ordinary prisoners had tiny individual cells, the classrooms divided by rough brick or wood partitions. Or they were crammed into upstairs rooms, taken out to be tortured then to the cells on stretchers as they could no longer walk. Most of the cells still had their manacles - not that their prisoners would be capable of escape. In places there were piles of leg-irons; a display cabinet showed torture instruments and a couple of huge jars that people would be dropped into, upside-down, until they (almost) drowned. The instruments weren't particularly sophisticated - pain is easy to inflict. Some walls had photos or pictures showing what went on; others contained people's stories, of loved ones who disappeared in the night or simply never returned. No-one came back.

The intense suffering left its mark on the inside of buildings. Walking over the same tiles that had once been covered in blood, looking at the walls that had once eachoed with screams or moans, was not pleasant. People walked slowly around, expressionless and silent, reading inscriptions carefully. I watched an old Cambodian woman with some teenagers, her family, I suppose. she was explaining to them. gesturing and talking fast. They watched her every move, large-eyed. I wonder what she had had to do to survive. Or perhaps she was just lucky.

Some people left fragrant, waxy hibiscus flowers on the torture beds; I left mine perched on some manacles.I also wrote in several of the 'Comment' books: Join Amnesty International. This sort of torture is still a daily event in many countries. And we ignore it.

History repeats itself because nobody listens.

Let's listen.

D

D

C

C

B

B

A

A

Time to leave Upper Mustang

Good beds for the night...

The way back? Not as simple as it sounds. There were two complications:

1. Horses. I had met two lovely British women as I travelled north. They had decided to return from Lo Mantang quite fast, so had hired three horses, one for luggage, two for them. On the second day, they offered me the chance to travel with them and ride on a horse when I wanted, as neither wanted to ride full-time. What bliss: on horseback I could look around, nonchalantly admiring the countryside, the horse's efforts to climb the steep paths, and the whistling and singing of the horseman as he gently encouraged his horse. The three of us shared the two horses with no problems.

BUT - there were troubles ahead.

Right at the start, they had refused to carry my rucsac on horseback: problem solved - Nurbu and a friend took turns. however, this highlighted the reluctance of the horsemen to carry a third woman. According to Ram, they were saying in Nepali, "If she wants to come then she must pay.

Alternative transport?

She is mean."

They clearly hadn't realised that I would give them a handsome tip at the end of the day.

After lunch, the situation worsened. Susan & friend had gone on ahead and I thought I'd quite like to ride. I asked Ram to stop one of the horses. The men carried on, brushing him out of the way. Ram shouted at them - they shouted back, It seemed that a major incident was starting. We caught up with Susan and her friend and the horseman shouted at her in Nepali; neither of us knew what he said but it clearly wasn't pleasant. In the end, furious, he started to unload all of their bags, threatening to return to Lo Mantang. Susan had to back down; I said that we would simply walk on to avoid anything worse happening. Things then simmered down but when I saw Susan much later, she said that she was worried that one of them might have been a political activist, looking for trouble with foreigners. I walked the rest of the way, with no problems at all; in fact, we made it back to Kagbeni in record time - 3 days. I must have been super-fit!

2. Weather. Behind us, clouds were getting thicker and snowlines becoming lower; we felt we were moving south just ahead of the snow. It was good to return to Kagbeni, back to my warm, comfortable room and the delights of an en-suite. We were lower here and it was more likely to rain than snow. We had a rest-day; Ram foolishly washed almost his entire wardrobe, hanging it on the line to dry and wandering around in shorts and flip-flops. Then the clouds came in and his washing stayed wet. He spent the rest of the day anxiously watching the weather. Luckily, he managed to dry his clothes, finishing them off in the kitchen.

We were due to take a plane from the nearby town, Jomson, at about 7am two days hence.A little about this plane journey. It takes 20 minutes, replacing a difficult journey over a mountain track (sorry, road) linking Jomson with Pokhara, which takes about 9 hours. BUT - weather has to be good as the landing/take-off is visual and the approach difficult.

So, we made our way to Jomson the next day. Clouds were thickening fast and, of course, down came the rain. It was cold, depressing rain, the sort that seeps into your clothes and makes you miserable - and the sort that means planes can't fly. Through the day we watched the clouds as they lowered themselves comfortably around Jomson. And we tried to keep warm; our lovely hotel proprietor lit a small stove under the table. I also remember a boy aged about ten, who worked there and jumped around with the liveliness of a firecracker. Towards the end of the evening we held arm-wrestling competitions and he and I were evenly matched. Not sure whether that was good or not...?

The next morning we were up at 5.30, packed and ready to go by 6 for the 7am flight. The airport, its entrance just across the way, was shut. 6.30- shut. 7.00 - shut. Finally, at 7,30, the gates opened and we were allowed in. The clouds had lightened slightly - we could actually see the mountains. Hopes were high. 8.30 - engine sounds - a plane was arriving from Pokhara! We rushed to the windows - it was a plane from the other airline, Buddha. People flying on that plane tried not to look smug as they boarded. We waited. And waited. Another plane! We rushed to the window. Another Buddha plane - in fact, the same one, which had flown to Pokhara, picked up more passengers and returned. Word came in that our plane was leaving Pokhara. We waited. And waited. Then there was an announcement in Nepali; people looked fed-up, stood up and left the room. All planes from Pokhara had been cancelled for the day because of bad weather.

Our options? We could wait for another day, with our names at the bottom of the list, and take a chance. This would involve a long wait in this cold, boring place, with nothing other to do than watch the clouds either lift or descend further. And the rain was very, very cold. And I'd finished my book.OR: we could take a 4wd to Pokhara, along a narrow, winding, rocky road. It would take 9 hours and be very expensive. And Ram had run out of money.

But I lent him the money, he pushed through crowds to organise a 4wd and an hour later we set off.

It was quite a journey; in places streams cascaded over the road, giving the vehicle a much-needed wash and us an interesting dampening experience. Progress was slow, but very beautiful. The route is the southern part of the Annapurna Circuit and was once favoured by trekkers, with enticing trails leading from the main route and small, intriguing villages. Nowadays people prefer to fly so that they reach the more remote areas more speedily.

We bumped and lurched along, slowly completing the circuit - and eventually returned to 'civilisation'.

Ah, Pokhara - forever dear to me. We drove down the high street. It was about 8.00pm. There were lights, shops were open, people were eating outside. It was warm. It was lively. It had an ATM. My hotel was clean, with a large room and a balcony. It had a restaurant with a menu. It had tea with milk. I didn't have to wear a down jacket any longer.

Aaaah, Pokhara.

The one great sadness was saying goodbye to Ram and Nurbu, my companions through pain, torment and delight for the last 25 days. They had been magical days, so intense and strangely wonderful despite the suffering. I had pushed myself harder than I ever thought I'd have to and the two men had always been cheerful and encouraging. Tomorrow would be strangely empty, with no walking, no feeling that I had to keep going - and no Nurbu and Ram.

We had a last meal together. Both were really looking forward to returning to Kathmandu. Nurbu's son was there and Ram's girlfriend was waiting for him. they were leaving on the first bus tomorrow.

"What will you do tomorrow, then?" Ram asked me.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," I answered.

And it WAS good.