There’s a Thai man here in Ton Sai shrouded in mystery. He owns the Pyramid Café. He doesn’t do what the mafia tell him to do, which in Ton Sai, a mafia-owed area, means something. He stood on the stage during Ton Sai’s big clean-up weekend with the other business owners and smiled, just like the rest. But he seemed different. He had a wizened air. “You should meet Chai,” my friend who was here during the tsunami told me in Montreal. Apparently, if you need something in Ton Sai, you go to Chai. Not if you need your favourite brand of cigarettes. Or your rival taken out. He’s no Don. But if there were something that only a local could get you, Chai would be that local. His face is lined. His skinny body belies years of bachelordom. His face is serious until the very last moment before a smile cracks it. “I remember your friend,” Chai tells me. “Long hair. Ponytail. Very tall. French Canadian.” With all the francophone people here it’s a miracle he remembers. But it was the tsuanmi, and that’s a time that Thai’s don’t forget. It’s a perfect morning. The sun hasn’t hit yet with its rays of immobility that make the whole bay pause and do nothing but sweat from 11am to 3pm. It’s dawn and a couple of monkeys are swinging from power lines above our bungalow. Last night we watched the pink, orange, yellow, and blue sunset on the twinkling water. As it disappeared behind the cliffs we thought how this would be our second last chance to see it in all its beauty. We’re leaving tomorrow. Again. For the last time this time. We were walking along the beach in the dark, on our way to Legacy Restaurant for supper. More of a collection of bamboo tables and an open kitchen than a restaurant in the way that the Railay Bay Resort—with its cocktail menu, non-alcoholic “Sherry Temples,” and 80 or so proper tables on the beach on the fancier area one beach over—is a restaurant. Ton Sai is a climber’s paradise. It’s also a great place for anyone who likes seeing a lot of healthy people in one area. Crossing over from Railay Beach (you have to take a rocky jungle path in high tide and a rocky, treacherous, but not jungle-y path during high) means watching a transition from general beach vacationers (usually richer and larger) to fit rockclimbers, runners, hikers, and sporty, bohemian travelers. The number of six packs here is already exceedingly high, and that’s before Ton Sai Tummy hits on day 4, causing most visitors to toss up whatever layer of fat may still be covering their incredible sets of abdominals. Dreadlocks are common. Rasta music plays on the beach. Fruit “shakes” (fruit, ice, and sugar) are half the price of Railay (16 cents instead of 32…). And bungalows are even more basic. Any morning I don’t wake up to a cockroach in the bathroom is a good morning. I track the path of the ants: around the bathroom walls, up into the corner, down under the sink. One morning they played with geometry and traced their way with a number of straight lines halfway across the bathroom walls—up then down, then over, then down more. Most don’t make it into my bed, though. Besides, it’s the mosquitos I’m more worried about. I had Dengue Fever. Not may years ago. Last week. I got lucky, actually…so far. My fever wasn’t high. My symptoms came one at a time, not together. The worst part was the pins and needles and soreness in my fingers, rendering climbing impossible. I took three Advil and I could climb anything that wasn’t overhung. But the tiredness was my undoing. Wanting to constantly lie down and take a nap is not conducive to sending hard rockclimbing routes. And the small red dots all over my body looked awfully bad, especially next to the 2”-diameter swollen mosquito bites on my legs. Apparently Dengue can come back a couple times before you’re truly rid of it. One man said he got it three times in two weeks—the fever part and the tiredness—and it got worse each time. So far I’m feeling better. The sensitivity only remains in my fingertips, the dots are gone, and I make it through the day without a nap. Though I still pass out around 9pm. My appetite is back, but my regular body weight isn’t. I’m weak, which also makes climbing hard. My return to Ton Sai has been a disappointment in that sense. I nod at Chai when I see him. He’s forgotten who I am now. I introduced myself two weeks ago—ages ago in Ton Sai time. I’ve met other locals here, though. I smile at the man who works at Ton Sai Tours, where phone calls are five cents a minute and internet is $3.20 an hour—an exorbitant fee. “Another hour?” he asks and laughs. I nod. I inspect the beautiful Thai lady who sits at the restaurant across from Ton Sai Tours—she’s the only fancily dressed woman on the island. There doesn’t seem to be a reason for it, especially when the women at Boat Man Restaurant (including the one who just shakes her hands in a small bucket of water after threading chicken skin onto skewers) wear pyjamas every day. I call the child who has free reign of Boat Man “Mostro,” as does the yoga teacher who speaks to him in Spanish and agrees with me that he’s a little devil. The pyjama-wearing ladies don’t stop him from knocking on the back of my chair while I eat (which is plastic and almost topples on its own without the encouragement). But Dengue can’t take everything good in Ton Sai away from me. I get a sixpack. I get my walking parade of Fitness Magazine pin-ups. I get my rice and chicken soup with as much of the raw cilantro and green onions mixed in to the hot broth the second I receive it as possible, so I can sort of believe they’re almost clean. And I still get one more sunset, and the stunning bay views from the top of easy climbs that I did better on last time, before the Dengue. One more day. Then Bangkok.
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