It's a bumpy road to paradise

The Bumpy Road to Paradise.




The road to Paradise, is not paved with good innovation, in fact it’s not paved at all.

Sealed , canned and pressurized in flight for 20 hours, then staggering 3am into the restless streets of Bangkok pushing on, in pursuit of a bed. Paradise awaits these weary travelers and lures the second day of sleepless travel with a second class train ticket awaiting the next 12 hour rock, rattle and roll through the shanty country side. A glimpse of the sea urges us on, the perilously overloaded ferryboat lurching side to side through a tropical storm, then tumbled into the back of a pick-up truck for the final transfer to our destination. The washed out riverbed to paradise follows the hills and valleys deep into the northern parts of the island before the perfect turquoise palm lined bay emerges from the jungle. Three days of wearisome travel are forgotten as I sink my feet into the warm sand and sea, hang my hammock near the surf and fall into my first, deep, painless, soundless sleep.

The Plane- A guide to surviving 20 hours in a plane.
It is essential to pack the correct tools to make this journey, beginning with a 15 hour flight from the U.S to the orient. Fifteen hours is like two consecutive work days, only more dreadful when you‘re an insomniac. First you must create your own private world within the confines of a two foot seat forgetting that you are surrounded by crying babies, coughing businessmen and 800 stinking feet. Familiar with this grueling 15 hour flight I set up, my make believe bubble with earphones to drown out the Chatty Cathy’s, books to keep time from standing still, slip on shoes for puffy swollen feet, vitamins to ward off the airborne germs recycled through 400 bodies, pain relievers for my folded hip joints, and eye mask to pretend I’m sleeping when people are bothering me. Boredom sets in and you find yourself obsessed with fighting for your right to that one inch of available armrest which you’re sharing with the bad breath guy sitting next to you. Exercise is recommended by many, but appreciated by no one who has to be climbed over every time ‘Crazed Rain Man’ goes walking again. Any attempt at exercise is quickly stymied anyway. First by the captain’s seat belt sign that never gets turned off, the stewardess who shoots irritated glances when you move out of your bubble, followed then by their recourse; running service carts over any toe or elbow daring to stretch into their sacred catwalk. Ten hours into the flight, Asiana Air provides a seat aerobic video with a stewardess leading the neck roll and ankle rotations. Planning a, ‘as good as it gets’ flight requires good scheduling, taking note of in-flight movies, meals and sleeping times. China air has on-demand movies and I’ve found it possible in one flight, to watch 6 movies, 2 programs and still have time for the, dry rice and shriveled beef dinner. Of course the best advise to endure this type of flight is rest, plenty of water and vitamins. Instead I succumb to endless fidgeting, channel surfing, plenty of free wine and, tranquilizers.

The third and final flight comes to a end and we find ourselves elated to be walking, even if it’s more of a stagger through the streets of Bangkok, ‘the city that never sleeps.’ Where else would a person want to be when it’s 3am and we didn’t plan a room reservation? My bloodshot eyes look up at this clamoring city like baby bird in Dr. Suess book asking, “Are you my Paradise?” Within the looming buildings, surrounded by screeching taxis, and exhaling the dirty air, she answers, “No, I am not your paradise.” And we continue on…






The Train- Rolling the railways
For about eighteen dollars, you can obtain a seat on an overnight sleeper train, leaving Bangkok city behind in a cloud of dazzling pollution. If you’re the ‘first class’ sort you can pay a bit more for air conditioning or private room. We tend to hang with the budget conscious and settle into our seat on car number one equipped with sushi, beer and a good book. The horn blows and the train lurches out of the station. Thick, hot and unfiltered, Bangkok’s polluted air blows through the windows turning the car into a wet, dirty sauna. Teenage vendors walk the isles laughing with the travelers in attempt to sell a cold beer, soda or cigarette. The ride is quite comfortable with wide seats and plenty of leg room. I stretch, stand and hang out the window to watch the city craze disappear and the small shanty towns light up. The children play ball games and chase each other, dangerously close to the moving train. Young lovers walk hand in hand balancing the track, or chat on cel phones while the older men sit on the opposing line, taking in a cigarette in the cool of the evening.

Peddlers walk along the tracks balancing baskets on the ends of a pole draped across their back, as the trains lurches again to a stop. Window shopping is made easy with everything you could, or could not imagine, at your fingertips. Choose a dinner of crunchy roasted crickets, mango sticky rice, or dried fish carcasses if you like. One doesn’t want to drink or eat too much on these trains as you’ll find the bathroom just a toilet bowl opening to the moving tracks below. A dinner attendant can set up a meal for you, but it’s a far cry from fine dining when the linens are presented as a roll of toilet paper on the table.
Food is still unpalatable for me, as the air becomes tainted with stench of urine, dead animals and rotting swamp canals. A rattling, dusty fan above, keeps the hot air moving through and out the car. As evening sets in, the tracks become dotted with small trash fires and white fluorescent lights illuminating the dark tins shacks. One wonders if this track could possibly lead to paradise? Night falls, and an attendant comes to click, snap, and slide the seats into converted, cozy bunk beds. A sleepy sway, rocks the car side to side until finally drifting into a cradled light slumber.

The Ferry-Crossing at dangerous lengths
A five o’clock awakening exalts the final day of this 3 day journey to paradise. The plank ahead will lead us to our destination island in 4 short hours at sea. The Songserm ferry system is an old and outdated fleet, but the addition of 50 life jackets is an appreciated improvement from zero, the previous years. This ferry is rated for about 150 passengers but equipped with a third of the life jackets necessary in the case of disaster. The boat continues to sag under the increasing weight, and brief panic sets in, as I remember the Egyptian ferry accident last week, which left over a thousand dead . Boarding first in line, will award you one of the seats, but don’t hesitate or you’ll be standing for the duration of the trip. We score a spacious outdoor seat on a bench hidden behind the 7x12 ft mountain of backpacks. The inside hull continues to fill with passengers spilling into the isles and on the stairs. Now over capacity, they pour out the door, scrambling for a piece of the deck. Yet, crowds continue to pile aboard until the crew makes a final cry, to raise the plank and set course. We’re estimating about 250 people are crammed on the confines of the small boat and they’re squeezed in like a mosh-pit falling against each other in a rolling sea. I’ve seen how this ocean can turn brutal in a tropical storm, tossing ferry’s like toys over the waves, and I wish for a calm sea today. With no room to move about, travelers seek escape from the crowded hull for fresh air or a smoke, but the deck is full beyond it’s limits. Dark skies circle above and dismay forms on the faces of those who have no where to retreat. We hide behind the mountain of packs and curse the storm from under a poncho. This is not the look of paradise. Wind and rain pelt from all directions and the sea begins to churn. If misery enjoys company than it’s a heck of a pity party on deck of the songserm ferry boat… bound for paradise?

The Truck-Transformation
At last our sea legs have hit solid ground and we have arrived to ko Phan Ngan. An organized scramble to find a single backpack in a pile of 300 is accomplished with exceptional ease, and we set out to catch a ride to our favorite beach. In no time we find some old friends to make us feel at home, then pile into the back of a pick up truck for an hour and a half ride, in and out of the jungle. I hum to myself, ‘county roads, take me home, to the place, I belong…” There is a road, but it resembles more of a widened dirt track with hills, holes and puddles that even a four wheel drive truck struggles to conquer. Boulders the size of homes lurch precariously over the road clinging to the last dirt of the hill side. The road narrows and cuts into dense foliage whipping vines across our backs and dodging under overgrown trees. At this point I am numb from three painful days of travel but can only feel the elation of a journeys end. The crickets buzz at the tree tops, the birds guide us to the blue ocean, the locals wave a warm welcome, and suddenly the bay comes into sight over a distant mountain top. I take a deep breath of fresh clean air knowing that there is no where else I’d rather be than, On the bumpy road to paradise.



This kind of paradise belongs to those who are willing to endure the agony of travel, believing in the journey itself.