Ko Pangan (1 of 3)

Ko Pangan, October 3-4, 2004

October 3rd, 6:00 am

I woke up on the night ferry as we arrived at Ko Pangan. It was still dark outside but for the lights shining on the small tent on the dock for passengers. The rain was a fierce downpour, which had been pounding the boat all through the night on the 8-hour journey, and it seemed determined to continue.

My fellow passengers on this night ferry from Surat Thani to the island of Pangan were an even mix of Thais and foreigners. All sprawled out on the mattresses that covered the upper deck of the ferry. I couldn't sleep and spent most of the night staring out the window at the rainy silhouettes of passing boats and houses. Eventually I fell into a shallow sleep filled with vivid dreams. My dreams on the boat were vivid and my sleep was shallow to the point that I was having a hard time distinguishing between where the dreams ended and reality cut in. My father was in them and many of my oldest friends from Portland. Their faces so clear it seemed completely real. Were they here?

I didn't have time to contemplate them because my driver was waiting outside in a pickup to take me to my bungalow, one of the benefits of making a reservation. The Thai tour agencies seem extremely efficient to be able to make a reservation for a bungalow that costs only $3.75 a night and still make a commission. I took a last look at the majority of people sleeping still in the dry and peaceful upper deck and realized they knew something I didn't. I'm being rushed off to a Bungalow on some deserted beach in the dark rain while everyone else is sleeping. I let the paranoia pass and ran to the pickup.

The driver was a young Thai man around 20 and he seemed even more tired than I was. He zipped up and down the curvy mountain roads with droopy eyes betraying his autopilot brain, as the rain covered the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it. His foot was stepping from gas to brake perfectly at each invisible pothole. Clearly he's driven this road hundreds if not thousands of times already. He can do it in his sleep. Good thing. Because all of a sudden he swerved sharply to the right, seemingly driving directly into the jungle wall. I sighed in relief as I realized it was a driveway. After descending steeply down towards the beach for a hundred yards or so we skidded to a stop.

He pointed me to a bungalow with a magnificent view and a balcony over the sea. Painted on the door were the words, "please keep your place clean." The clumsy white letters of the request stood out in such contrast to the dark greens of the tree canopy and muddy browns of the forest floor. The wooden and decrepit shack was being quickly consumed by the microbial life, moulds, fungi and mosses, not to mention the ants, termites and squirrels. I promptly set up my hammock on the balcony and slept the rest of the morning to the sounds of rain falling on jungle leaves and thatch roofs, and waves softly lapping against the sand and stone.

It didn't stop raining for 30 hours.

I had some forced but appreciated, relaxation and meditation for a day. When I wasn't on my hammock above the ocean I was sitting in a chair in the "restaurant" down on the beach. I was the only customer for 24 hours. The only sounds were of women bustling around the kitchen, rattling pots and pans, comforting chirps of a language I don't yet understand, accompanied by occasional smells of onions frying. The rain came and went like really good cries that have been held inside too long, sometimes bursting out of the sky with cracks of thunder, other times a soft pitter patter allowing the waves to sing along rhythmically. The rhythm of nature is intelligent- it speaks to me and tells me secrets. I can feel the power of this infinitely complex and intelligent being. It’s not important that I understand, only that I listen.