Thailand – WORLD AWAY

A Filthy Paradise

February 25, 2017February 27, 2017Posted in Stories, Travel, Travel diariesTagged Asia, Beauty, Blog, crab, culture, explore thailand, fish, Journal, Mud, nature, photography, sea, shells, snake, story, Thailand, Travel, travel thailand, travel through thailand, visiting thailand, Wanderlust, what to do in thailand, WorldLeave a comment

By Connor Newson

Here in the bay of Laemsak village, the fine seabed gradient slopes almost unnoticeably towards the open waters of the Andaman sea. As the moon pulls its metaphorical leash on the tide a shallow chasm appears, leaving a thick layer of mud to stretch across the expanding open space of the bay. Then, as the evening sun retreats behind the mountainous horizon, a palette of explosive orange shades form a thin yet marvellous mirror on the film of water left behind. Twice now I have spotted a small silhouette of a man, far out in the distance, gliding effortlessly atop the glassy surface. In the stillness and silence of his movements, a captivating narrative is painted right there in front of me. One in which the mysterious figure is the protagonist escaping to the tranquillity of his vast reflective canvas to dig for shells and shrimp. It is a story that is almost romantic in nature, his elegance awakening my curiosity. So evening, when I come into possession of a large plank of wood identical to the used by the silhouette, I decide to attempt my own version of his story.

In all it was about two metres in length and a lot heavier than one person could easily carry – much larger than I expected. It too k the three of us – Teo, myself, and a local boy called Nigh – to haul it fifty metres to the edge of the bay. The tide was a further two-hundred metres out, and we needed to be somewhere in between where the wood can skim easily across the surface. So we hoist the overweight surfboard above our shoulders and begin tiptoeing across the broken-shell shoreline until we reach a thin layer of wet mud. My feet slide momentarily before submerging slightly beneath, simultaneously allowing the waterlogged seabed to rise and squeeze through my toes. I cringe at the sludge as it consumes my feet, lifting each one in the hope that this would somehow relieve the slimy texture. However, after a minute of hopping from one foot to the other the gluey sensation begins to feel comfortable.

We march ahead towards the glimmering sunset, sinking deeper into the marsh as we advance. My steps become more difficult as the earth swallows my feet, and then my ankles. We drop the plank of wood that is now contributing to our gradual descent, and instead decide to pull it using the rope attached to the nose. It slides with ease. We push on, deeper still, and soon my white knees are peeking out of the concoction of green and brown sediment. I feel the vacuum sucking my right leg beneath as I attempt to pull it out – unsuccessfully. I point my toes and pull once more in the hope that it will ease my leg’s escape. It does, however I fall onto my hands from the excess force.

I look at my limbs that are now half caked in sludge before standing again. All of a sudden my right foot feels significantly lighter, so I lift it only to find it is now sockless. The earth has eaten my sock. It seems that nature is beginning to show its almightiness. I turn back and throw my arm elbow-deep into the hole that was left behind by my foot but feel nothing besides the squelching mud enshrouding my arm. It is lost. Nature wins this time. And as I step forward with my right foot it claims another point with the second sock as it too disappears into the depths. And then a third point is won as I fall face-first and undignified into the dirt.

Having successfully transformed into a muddy and faceless creature, I decide that the most logical course of action is to embrace the territory and my new form. I bury my hands deep and pull out a mass of thick black marsh, black as coal and as viscous as crude-oil. I lather it on every visible inch of my body, with Teo and Nigh following suit. Then we throw ourselves forward and begin crawling on our fronts like soldiers.

After fifteen arduous metres of attempting to swim through the sludge we stop for a break to catch our breath. I look over to Nigh who seems unaffected by the rigorous exercise, and seeing how he is now plunging his hands below the seabed to pluck out shells and shrimp confirms just that. Then Nigh’s face seems to express concentration, or maybe confusion as he feels below once more. With one swift movement, he retrieves his hand from below with a thick rope-like creature clutched in his hand. It falls limp and we stare for a moment before realising its slight movements as it slithers through Nigh grasp.

“Snake” he shouts.

He launches the snake a metre in front and we dive in the opposite direction, desperately hurling ourselves forward despite gravity making our attempts relatively futile. We stop after securing a bit of distance, but the thought of snakes and other unknown creatures lurking just below the sloppy surface makes me shiver. So I decide its time to attempt the mudboard. The three of us climb on, each with one knee resting on deck, two hands clutching the sides and the other foot digging into the dirt to push us forward.

Immediately the nose of the board digs down and thick gunge buries to wood. We are forced to get off and pull it to the surface, fighting against the vacuum that sucks from below. Once again we mount, and once again we sink. It seems that the weight of three people is too much. So Teo and Nigh climb off to rest, but I remain on top, determined to be that silhouette and glide across my squishy sanctuary. I reposition myself at the rear of the board to allow the tip to hover an inch above the seabed in order to avoid cutting into the mud and piling on extra weight. To my surprise this works. I am suddenly liberated from the powerful grip of marshland gravity – more so than two minutes previous to this anyway.

I fly forward, skimming over the bay, faster with every deep push of my right foot as I grip tightly onto the board’s edges. And there in the distance I see the same figure that I have seen twice before. Once again he glides elegantly, stopping occasionally to pluck a shell from the bay and put it in the bucket that rests on top of his board. I beat my foot down hard to catch up with him, feeling now the burning ache of my muscles as I travel another fifty metres on top of the two-hundred we had already crawled through. Finally I reach him, and watch as he moves swiftly past me. I try and keep up but fail miserably as the nose dips once more into the mud, halting my board and causing me to eat the dirt once more. I lay on my back exhausted and defeated, watching the silhouette in the burning mirrored sunset as he sails away.

Slowly, I return to Nigh and Teo. We are two-hundred metres away from where we began. Although out here it’s impossible to gauge any distance really, and moving anywhere takes enormous effort and time. It feels much further, and to return the same way would mean getting home after dark. I wasn’t prepared to stay out here that long with such creatures hidden beneath me. So instead we agree on an detour. Pulling ourselves an extra fifty metres to the sea and swimming around.

As we heave ourselves into the Andaman sea, I can’t help but feel my attempt at becoming that mysterious protagonist on the sunset-coloured seabed wasn’t quite as tranquil and effortless as my mind had made it out to be. And despite the quest being incredible messy and fun, I guess that this filthy paradise is best watched from afar, and left to the professionals to conquer.

The catch-22 of tourism expansion: an exclusive Longtail Boat ride in Thailand

February 21, 2017February 21, 2017Posted in Stories, Travel diaries, UncategorizedTagged Asia, bamboo, Beauty, Blog, boat, camera, cameraman, canoe, consumption, crab, culture, diversity, dolphin, economy, fish, fisherman, Fitzgerald, Freedom, gatsby, Journal, kayak, longtailboat, mangrove, money, nature, naturelover, politics, River, sea, serenity, souththailand, story, Sunrise, teaching, Thailand, tour, Tourism, Travel, Travelling, Wanderlust, water, World, youngandfreeLeave a comment

By Connor Newson

Part of why Thailand attracts so much foreign tourism is down to its exotic and natural beauty. Beauty that in the last twenty years has helped boost its economy significantly. However, in many cases these inherently magnificent sights are overshadowed by the thousands of hostels, bars and other infrastructure that is needed to cater for such an industry. It is this sort of development that is constantly susceptible to overconsumption, to a point where the aesthetic romanticism of such landscapes are overwhelmed by relentless tourism that can bear heavily on the environment and its inhabitants. Places such as Koh Phi Phi, Phuket, and other crowded southern islands are an apt example of this. Still, not everywhere has been engulfed just yet. Laemsak, an isolated village in the south, is one of those.

I have been volunteering here for three weeks now, teaching English to the local community for a project that aims to bring community-based tourism to the locals in order to have a fair share of Thailand’s growing capital that hasn’t yet managed to reach them. An advantage of my role is being offered excursions to locations that not many other visitors have been before – free of charge! The catch? There are cameras following to capture the action and promote community-based tourism in the area. I can only assume that a show of my foreign genetics is a way of showing other tourists that this is a place worth seeing.

And so I have been torn between contributing to locals that want to gain economically from an established industry elsewhere, and the uncertainty that it may just expand hideously and tarnish the aesthetic of Thailand’s remaining beauty. My reluctance to deny the desires of my new friends who so desperately want to put themselves on the global map – and rightly so – causes me to agree to this latest adventure. In essence, today I am a guinea pig running the wheel that no other tourist has ran before. We embark on a new route, a trial run for future tourists, and what we are about to discover will be a surprise even to the locals and cameramen following.

After waking up at 6am and driving north for a while, myself and four colleagues (Teo, Sutima, Natalie and Jamie) arrive at a small pier on the river near Ban Lui. We climb onto a Longtail boat at 7am with a driver and a local cameraman. Five minutes down the river we stop at a floating fishing village where our cameraman jumps from our boat into a different one. The identical vessel is complete with a driver, two other crew members from the village, and three canoes squeezed on deck in which they sit. They come from three different villages, and so their coalition is based around this tour which would collectively provide money to all involved communities – community-based tourism. The drivers rev the huge engines, submerge the propellers, and speed away from the fishery down the widening river.

As subjects we were given no instructions, although I had already assumed the appropriate attitude for my role. Chill and enjoy as a tourist would – especially when it’s free. I lay comfortably on the nose of the boat as the sun begins to peak over the surrounding mountains. Its illuminating light gives life to the flourishing and tangled greenery that climbs up the mountains on either side of the river. We are the only boat on the river for kilometres, besides the camera boat that has been weaving from one side to the other to catch the best angle. Soon enough, even that becomes a ghost that blends in as a picturesque silhouette on the canvas of rural, untouched Thailand.

We continue around a curve until our boat slows at the sight of a few figures in the middle of the river. As we get closer I notice they are the shoulders and heads of local fishermen. Their bodies are submerged as their arms dig deep, only re-emerge again with shrimp, crab or other creatures clenched in their hands. Each catch is thrown into a basket that is wrapped around their torso. I look to my right and watch as a single bamboo seems to drift past. Upon closer inspection I notice the bamboo stilts on which it sits only a few inches above the water. Detached from the land and only accessible by boat, it is the only structure visible for the entire day after passing the fishery.

Soon we become enclosed on both sides by bicycle tyres that are strung together by sticks and rope anchored into the thick muddy riverbed. Some tyres are partially buried beneath, some hove above water level, all confuse me as to their purpose. Fortunately, Sutima – local to the area – is able to explain that these are Oyster farms. The tyres are immersed in water twice a day due to the rise and fall of the Andaman tide. Eggs released by oysters near the mountain float down the river and attach themselves to anything they can – including bicycle tyres. Here they are able to grow before being harvested by fishermen. The tyres run for hundreds of metres until we come to a small sandy island in the centre of the river.

We dock on the shore and jump off, unwittingly stepping onto an island inhabited by thousands of red crabs scuttling about. They move in their masses and split as we approach. Some of the younger crabs become stranded at the sudden sight of us alien visitors, so they rapidly dig in a downwards spiral to hide beneath the sand. Noticing this as an obvious sign of intrusion, we decided to board the Longtail once more and carry on down the river, leaving the cast of crabs in peace.

Eventually, we come to an opening of a sprawling mangrove forest. We had travelled 20 kilometres down the river, and finally it was time to use the canoes that had been squeezed into the identical boat at the floating fishing village. We both cut our engines and the crew lift the canoes into the water for us to clamber into. Teo and I share one, Natalie and Jamie climb into another, and the cameraman and his driver occupy a third as we set off into the undergrowth of the mangrove.

Now, with no spluttering engine to spoil the silent serenity, this really feels like a hidden paradise. Even more so than the seclusion we had been experiencing for the past couple of hours. The sun flickers through the leaves above and onto the spider-like roots of trees that stretch sporadically, from the suspended trunks into the riverbed below. We weave in and out of the maze, watching in awe as mudskippers ripple across the water’s surface. The tiny fish below our canoe distract us and we become stranded on the shallow waters. But the warmth of the river is inviting enough for me to get out and pull our canoe into slightly deeper water. After half an hour of breathing in the fresh sea air that emanates from up ahead, we reach our Longtail boat which had taken an alternative route.

Back on deck with the Andaman sea now in full view, we turn around head back towards the pier. Our promotional excursion was almost at an end – or so everybody thought. As I bask once again on the nose of the Longtail boat in the setting sun, reflecting on how gloriously exclusive the river has been, the engine suddenly cuts out. A serene silence blesses us once more. I look up at the cameraman who is now stood at the rear of the boat, staring intently a hundred metres to the side. I follow his eye line to the water and catch a glimpse of a what I initially think is a large fish momentarily surfacing. A couple of seconds later, just off to the right, it appears again. This time I see its pink head and shiny grey back elegantly rise and fall, and its heart shaped tail flick up before diving below once more.

This is no fish. What we are witnessing is an Indo-Pacific Humpback dolphin, more commonly known as a pink dolphin. In fact, we begin to notice a entire pod of about six pink dolphins working in harmony with a small fishing boat on the river rounding up their food. I was soon made aware as to why the driver and other locals seem just as surprised as us. These mammals are some of the rarest animals in the world, and it is a first sight for them as it is for us. We stay to watch them surface for air and spit water as they released air from their blow holes. I had never seen a dolphin before, and felt amazed that my first time is seeing them now, in the wild, in such an untouched part of Thailand. However, my amazement soon turns to concern as I am reminded of my purpose on this boat by the sound of a clicking camera behind me.

The cameraman is eagerly trying and catch the moment a foreign tourist watches as pink dolphins frolic about from the close proximity of his friend’s boat. This is a potential goldmine opportunity that he did not want to miss. And I was his guinea pig from which tourism would soon follow. After other areas have seen the influx of wealth flow in, it is understandable and justified for secluded communities such as this to want a piece of the moneycake. And to criticise this would make myself a huge hypocrite. However, after a day of being surrounded by genuine culture and raw nature, unscathed by the sprawling effects of tourism, my mind sits uneasily at the prospect of tourism completely consuming another beautiful part of the world.

As a tourist, it seems there is little escaping the chance of negative contribution. This is a concern that unfortunately comes simultaneously with exposing myself to cultural differences in order to understand diversity within the world, and wanting to help a community weigh in on the incoming capital. And so I feel it is important to draw attention to that. However, in light of wanting to enjoy the beauty and romanticism of the breath-taking landscape that surrounds me, I lay back down and relax. As our boat rocks gently on the water, my mind casts back to a fitting quotation by Scott Fitzgerald that I once read back in secondary school. “We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past”. On one hand we are all entitled to benefit from tourism whether that is economically or culturally, yet at the same time we desperately desire to hold onto the exclusive serenity of beautiful and undisturbed places such as this that may one day become a memory. I can only hope that my input here will be put to healthy use and not overuse.

Relax with the fish

February 6, 2017February 6, 2017Posted in Stories, Travel diariesTagged boat, coffee, fish, fishing, hammock, Island, islands, kayak, kayaking, Krabi, ocean, relax, sea, stress, swimming, teaching, Thailand, Travel, Travelling, Volunteering, WanderlustLeave a comment

By Connor Newson

Recently I have found myself feeling weighed down with being constantly busy, however not from having to navigate around a different country or adapt to other cultures as you would expect when abroad. Instead my mind has been occupied with less exciting matters such as planning English lessons or where to go next, stressing over visas and money and what my plan in life shall be, even thinking of different ways to publicise this travel blog (suggestions are welcome – it’s tough). It all seems to be at the forefront of my mind right now. And no matter how ludicrous it seems, becoming mindlessly conditioned to the normality of life is easier than you’d think, even in the most spectacular environments. The reality of this normalisation means that the culture and beauty that surrounds me constantly can sometimes be taken for granted. Fortunately, it is my day off from teaching and the staff at Bulan Anda Baba Resort have managed to distract me from these overbearing concerns.

The day begins the same as it has for the past week – walking down to the bamboo restaurant for breakfast and continuing with some sort of chore on my laptop. The sights from this slight elevation are as breathtaking as it always is, so I really shouldn’t have much to complain about. Especially with a stunning panoramic view of Laemsak bay with its tall trees, calming sea, and towering rock islands. As I tuck into some delicious vegetable fried rice, with traditional dessert wrapped in banana leaf, a three-person canoe is carried down the short hill and left by the water. Prayo, a student of mine and Teo’s, explains that the three of us should grab our life vests because the canoe is waiting for us. It is at this point that I decide to sack off the work and agree to take a break to enjoy what is around me – something I feel we all tend to forget the value of doing.

A few minutes later the three of us are sat inside our little red canoe, beginning to paddle as we sway gently to the small waves passing beneath us. Ahead of us is a vast openess of water, of which we need to cross. I’m not sure if it because my mind is stuck in work mode, or whether I am just excited to be out on the shimmering turquoise waters – perhaps a bit of both – but I begin with a overly heavy stroke; one that would suggest urgency. It wasn’t until Teo called to me from the back seat to relax and enjoy the moment that I realised my lingering tension. Despite being out in the open waters of southern Thailand, my mind and body remain stressed. So I begin to slow my thoughts and my breathing, and give the water on each side of the canoe a gentle push.

After half an hour of cruising, we had crossed the bay and drifted to the edge of a floating fish farm. Its vast crosshatched wooden structure is supported by the frequent positioning of large polystyrene blocks to keep it afloat. In the centre is a platform with a roof for shade where Pu, another of our students, had been waiting for us. She is harvesting seaweed from a net-like contraption that I can only assume is some sort of catalyst for its growth. We pull ourselves up and rest in the shade for a few minutes, watching as two local fisherman replant some smaller pieces of seaweed in new and empty nets.

However, a few minutes of shade is all we need before we begin diving and jumping into the fish-filled waters. Despite the warmth of the midday sea, to say that the sudden rush of water is refreshing is an understatement. In fact it is enough to persuade us to keep on swimming out into the open waters once more. I turn on my back and float for a while, staring into the clear blue sky with the sun beating down on my body as my submerged ears listen to the silence of the ocean. My thoughts are calmed once again. Soon enough we arrive at another isolated fish farm, not too different to the one we had just come from – only this one had its own little shack and hammock.

With Prayo by our side we are able to communicate with the stranded farmer, Nong, who invites us on deck to show us around. I climb aboard the wood that runs around the large nets beneath the water. As I do so I spot a lobster clutching the inside of one of the nets. Nong, the fisherman, begins reeling in the net to allow for a closer look. He takes a few steps to one side, urging me to follow as he reels in the adjacent net to reveal a hoard of large fish splashing as they rise to the searing heat of open air. There are maybe ten more nets containing some sort of sea life on board this floating farm.

“Coffee?” he asks, in surprisingly well enunciated English.

We of course accept, eager to listen to the story and life of a floating fisherman. We walk over to his small bamboo shack which has two lightbulbs fitted to the ceiling and a solar panel attached to the roof. As he serves us coffee, I lay down in the hammock with a view of his birdcage, the rippling sea, and the mountainous islands in the distance. Nong begins to explain – with the help of Prayo translating – how he used to be a guide for tourists in Koh Phi Phi before building his fish farm here in Krabi. Much to my surprise, the life of a fisherman here is pretty comfortable. With two of his seven lobsters due to be sold next month for 200,000 Baht (approx £4600), this, plus the income from his various other fishy inhabitants makes for a fulsome living wage. Despite his success, what captivates me more than this is the location, or more importantly, how relaxed I feel now.

As I sway with the waves inside this hammock, effortlessly listening to Nong’s story, I am taken back to a few hours earlier. I was sat in the tranquillity of an deserted bamboo bar surrounded by sights that are otherwise seen inside exotic travel brochures, yet my head was buried in the world of a touchscreen laptop, stressed and tired from the worries of life. But for now I relax, breathing in the salty sea air and taking some time out to slow from the frustrated modern world.

Acting for tourism amongst the beautiful islands of Krabi, Thailand.

February 3, 2017February 3, 2017Posted in Stories, Travel diariesTagged Acting, Asia, Backpacking, Beach, Beautiful, Beauty, exploration, Film, Filming, Freedom, Island, Journal, Krabi, Southeastasia, Sunrise, Thailand, Tourism, Travel, Travelblog, Travelblogging, Travelling, Volunteering, Wanderlust, WorldLeave a comment

By Connor Newson

A few days ago I arrived at a small village in a remote part of Krabi province, to teach English to the local community. Admittedly this was partly because I was guaranteed free accommodation and food which would definitely help my withering budget, but also because if I was going to volunteer then I would be sure to do something worthwhile. Little did I know that I was about to become an actor for EverydayKrabi.com in their promotional tourism film, and for a group of university students majoring in Tourism Communications with their final film project.

At 5.30am Teo and I (the other volunteer) were awoken at our dorm room and coaxed into a car with bleary eyes. “We need to leave now so we can catch the sun rise” explained A’om, one of the students. Five minutes later we pulled up to the pier of Laem Sak with four other crew members – Punpun, Pueng, Pam, and Floke. We waited by the sea until another car arrived. Dissaya and Toto (of EverydayKrabi.com) climbed out and unloaded the equipment as a fisherman walked by and jumped on a boat to start its engine.

I climbed aboard and watched as a wooden table, two chairs, a picnic basket, and various film equipment was passed from one person on the pier to the other on the boat. We set off into the darkness of early morning, still barely awake and unable to see much around us as we chopped through the gentle swaying of the shallow waves. Minutes later our boat had driven up the bank of an isolated beach that was too small to be called an island, yet large enough for it to need a warning light for passing boats.

The sky had begun its spectacular transformation after we stepped onto land. Above our heads the midnight blue skies merged with a concoction of wispy orange clouds that sprouted from behind the silhouette islands in the distance. Within seconds they had turned a bright candyfloss colour as myself and Teo took our seats beside the conveniently placed table in the centre of the beach. The sun then finally breached the horizon with explosive luminosity. Suddenly the famous Krabi Islands were no longer blackened obstacles in the dark, but beautiful rocky, green canopies seemingly floating on the calm blue sea in their own magical isolation.

I was distracted by the sound of something more unnatural than rippling waves running up the sand. It was the sound of a Phantom 4 drone that had been launched into the sky, cutting through the air with its four propellers and an underbelly camera directed towards us as we sat in front of the colourful backdrop. I looked at the table in front of me – which was furnished with a table cloth and local sticky rice with banana and coconut wrapped in banana leaf, and a coffee, all laid prettily for a picturesque shot. “Action”, someone from the distance shouted.

We ate whilst the drone circled overhead, with other cameras following on foot for close-up shots. Unlike other roles back in England, I felt no pressure this timeas I was too tired to care and too focused on the much needed coffee in my hands. However, my morning caffeine dose was soon cut short – literally.

“Do you mind if one of us replaces one of you?”, someone called after the cameraman called cut.

The crew explained that they instead thought it best for a female crew member to replace a male for this shot. I guess perpetuating the normality of using a heterosexual couple to sell a romantic breakfast at sunrise is better fitted for this particular scene. Nevertheless, I volunteered to stand out and observe for the rest of the scene.

After wrapping up we hopped back in the boat and sped to a nearby island. We pulled up to a tiny alcove where an unusually large ladder led to a cave inside. We climbed and explored as the cameras and crew followed, occasionally being directed to repeat certain actions. When Theo and I climbed back down, we spotted another crevice for which to squeeze through.

Inside a small stream ran by our feet as we crawled through the algae-covered ceiling that glowed from the shimmering water. Seconds later we emerged on the other side to a vast open marshland, looking almost untouched with towering rock faces and thriving greenery surrounding us. It looked like a location where The Beach could have been filmed at, the one with Leonardo DiCaprio, and it could easily be one considering their actual location isn’t too far from here.

After taking a couple of steps forward I found my ankles had been completely submerged in the mud. Attempting to move forward was messy. So we ran, trying to move quicker than gravity could take us, for that proved somewhat logical at the time. It was not. And just like that, we had been reborn as children, falling and throwing handfuls of mud at each other, playing in the marshy green paradise.

After a quick swim in the warm sea to rinse our caked selves, and a short journey by boat, we arrived at a private beach hidden inside the masses of floating islands. I relaxed in the sun as the crew figured out the most aesthetically pleasing angles to shoot. Shortly after I was sat on a picnic blanket with Dissaya, the girl from the sunrise scene, chatting away as various cameras filmed the scene.

The lack of direction was relaxing, despite this meaning that I wasn’t really acting. Instead I was simply a tourist and I guess that is an accurate depiction for both tourism projects. The freedom in our movement limited the extent to which false representations of tourism could be made. After all, one of the most annoying things when travelling is to be sold something that is different to what you were originally told.

Kicking away ego at a Bangkok Muay Thai camp

December 7, 2016December 7, 2016Posted in StoriesTagged Bangkok, Muay Thai, Thailand, Travel, Travel Diary, Travel WritingLeave a comment

by Jacob Jarvis

Walking in to Sor Vorapin Gym in Bangkok, I was greeted by a shrine of plaques, trophies and medals, all won by its fighters over the years. I’d never trained Muay Thai before but I decided to sign up for a full week, training five hours each day – with people used to training pros.

I think I’m a healthy guy. I run a bit, work out a couple of days a week, try to avoid too much junk food. But if nothing else my time in Bangkok proved one simple fact to me – I’m not fit at all. Being ‘fit’ and being ‘fighting fit’ truly are two different things. Those involved in Muay Thai professionally will train twice or even three times a day ahead of fights and can have had over 100 fights by their early twenties.

Their careers usually don’t last much longer, due to the toll on their bodies – something I can vaguely sympathise with after just seven days of living their lifestyle. And that was without taking thousands of strikes all over my body from fists, elbows, shins and knees.

At fighting retreats, which are becoming more and more popular with tourists, you’re treated like a seasoned athlete, no different from those who’ve been training their entire lives. Waking up at 6:30am on my first day, I was taken out for a run before the morning session. Easy enough, around 5km, and I ran along calmly and naively thinking, “I’m going to breeze this.”

My initial reality check came soon enough, with what I thought was a simple task – skipping. Hats off to all the girls from my primary school who spent hours every day jumping rope on the playground. Because, apparently, I can’t do it right. This led to me having to stand on a metre-wide tire and bounce for half an hour before I was even allowed to use a rope again. It took four days before I graduated to using one consistently.

Before throwing a punch or swinging a kick, I had to stretch out every muscle imaginable, then slowly build up with shadow boxing. I spent most of a session simply getting into a stance and stepping backwards and forwards. My dreams of diving in headfirst and sparring within a couple of days were crushed. At first I was disappointed, but then I realised the only way I was going to make it through the week was ditching my over confidence and making the simple realisation: this was going to go slowly.

It took me three days until I sparred and then it was completely easy going. Even by my final day I was barely going half the speed of the serious competitors. I wasn’t patronised for this slowness at any point though, every one respected every other person in the gym as an equal. It didn’t stop me being knocked in the head a few times by the lean seasoned hitters I got paired with if I dipped my guard, or taking a few kicks to the gut if my feet were a little too slow. One guy around my age ducked and swerved away from any meagre kick I put in and then would just lean in like a phantom to knock my teeth back. He moved even slower than me but his confidence and physical prowess meant he had no need to try and go quick or hard to get the best of me.

I hope these were purely educational strikes though, there certainly didn’t seem to be any malice. Although fighting is competitive, training and improvement is an individual process – your progress doesn’t matter, as long as you’re working at your technique you’ll get respect.

It was adopting this perspective which truly made the week worthwhile for me. The ancient martial art is renowned for being testing on your body, but, in my opinion, the mental endurance necessary is something that needs to be mentioned more. Once those gloves are on, you’re on your own. No matter what instructions you get, you need to want to do it yourself. There’s no room for arrogance and no place for making short cuts.

Mindfulness is the mental health buzzword of the moment, with endless self-help books, podcasts and apps designed to make us accept this way of thinking. I’ve never bought into it. But if you want to experience living in the moment, just sign up to a Muay Thai session. When a bag, pads, or a person is in front of you, you can’t think about anything else.

As intense as this sounds, it was in its own way incredibly calming. Training cleared my head at the time and made me too exhausted to think afterwards. ‘Relaxing’ is also a key part of the Muay Thai fighting technique – a minute wouldn’t pass where I wouldn’t hear a trainer shouting relax into someone’s face.

I had to allow myself to be a beginner at something, when so often in life I, and I’m sure many others, shy away from anything I’m not familiar with. Then when I made that conscious decision I had to focus on training and nothing else. I’d do my first three hours in the morning, shower, eat and sleep, then repeat that process in the afternoon. It was a strange experience to completely immerse myself in something new and unknown, one which I’d recommend anyone to try from time to time.

Searching for creatures at Khao Yai National Park

November 7, 2016November 7, 2016Posted in StoriesTagged Elephants, Khao Yai, Pak Chong, Thailand, Travel, Travel WritingLeave a comment

by Jacob Jarvis

Every time our guide heard the slightest noise he’d pick up his binoculars, change direction and hurriedly whisper, “come, come, let’s go”, before making us traipse endlessly through the muddy footpaths of Khao Yai National Park.

Generally, this amounted to nothing except ruined trainers, sore ankles and close encounters with repugnant arachnids. These disgusting spiders thankfully usually hung around eight feet above the ground, making them easy to avoid, but the odd one would dawdle at head height as if it wanted to surreptitiously stroke against your face.

Out of nowhere we came to halt, I was urged to come forward and look to my left, where I was in touching distance of the tail of a sleeping crocodile. Even though it was looking the opposite direction, I still barely felt brave enough to stay that close for any more than ten seconds. Hidden in the undergrowth, I couldn’t help but think how easily it could have creeped up on me if I was alone. It’s armour-like dark green scales were hardly visible as it rested their, presumably digesting a meal, or waiting for a new one to come along. After the whole tour group attempted to defy the sneaky predator’s natural camouflage to get a good photo of it, we were on the move again.

Filled with new motivation we continued with more purpose and soon enough we heard a sound I can only liken to a malfunctioning car alarm. A far off echoing whoop made us all stop, we told to wait and the head of our troupe ran off to see if the unknown animals were near. This unnatural wail turned out to be a pack of gibbons, causing chaos amongst the trees. They were too far away for us to reach without getting lost, but their sound honestly put me off anyway. Stupidly I’d bought along bananas in my bag as a snack, and I didn’t like the idea of these mischievous apes coming and tearing them out.

We spotted a few small lizards and tiny, thankfully not venomous, snakes on the way back to the transport, but nothing as scary or impressive as the croc. The main attraction for Khao Yai National Park is its herds of elephants which live in the grounds. Nobody I’d spoken to had been spotted them though, so I wasn’t expecting our ‘elephant hunt’, minus the killing, to be a success. The car sidled through the park and we saw nothing but the grey monkeys so common in South East Asia, a couple of small deer, and endlessly vegetation.

Pulling around a bend as the day was drawing in, we saw three cars parked up, and our driver banged on the side of the car and told us to stay inside. I though the large grey creatures would be easy to spot, but honestly it was more difficult to see than the crocodile. Obviously scared of the attention it was getting, our first elephant of the day munched its way through plants on the hillside, clearly hoping if it acted as normally as possible, we might go away. Unfortunately for the begrudging and bemused celebrity, little did he know that his shyness made him endlessly more endearing, as we peered out at this huge animal, somewhat succeeding to blend in between spindling trees and bushes. After the millionth holiday snap had been taken of it I was starting to pity the lone wanderer, and was glad when the car started moving again so it could be left alone.

Content with spotting just one of these dozy grey blobs on the landscape, it was an added surprise that as the light was about to go and bats were gliding over our heads, in the distance we spotted a whole family of them. This time it was clear taking photos was pointless, they were so far away. For me this was the best way to see them, completely comfortable, unaware of us, just living as they would.