On July 24, I hopped onto my Honda Click with a bag full of scuba gear, ready to embark on a journey across the provinces of Phang Nga, Surat Thani, and Chumphon to go diving with friends from Bangkok I had made the year before.
300km one way on a 125cc bike on dirt roads, mountains, highways, and everything in between didn’t seem like a smart idea, but it sure felt like it would be an adventure. It was raining torrentially in Khao Lak that day (as it does; no one was surprised), but I was determined to prove that, contrary to popular belief, life on the Andaman coast does not have to be controlled by the weather.
So, of course, I got absolutely DRENCHED on five separate occasions. Monsoon season spares no mercy to poor little bikers on long, treacherous roads.
I passed the most beautiful Karst landscapes blanketed in thick fog as I drove through Khao Sok National Park (I’m a BIG Karst enthusiast), and what I think were the scattered, run-over body parts of 3 massive pythons on the road (yikes!). I took the first of many breaks on this adventure in Khao Sok to enjoy the views under the much-needed rain cover of the thick jungle canopy. My shoulders and back were begging me to stay here forever and never hop on my bike again, but alas, I was only an hour into a long journey, barely at the edge of Phang Nga province, so I left Khao Sok soon after to brave the rainy roads (spoiler: I did return on the drive back).
The skies cleared for me in Surat Thani, where I drove down endless stretches of roads, hoping the next gas station was as close in real life as it looked on the map; running out of gas in the middle of literally nowhere would’ve been the cherry on top for this crazy experience. The sun was beaming, and I was starting to miss the coolness of the rain, which, (un)lucky for me, would return multiple times in the five hours that followed.
Somewhere between Surat Thani and Chumphon, with no service and no downloaded map (bad idea), I had the spiciest meal of my life.
I’m not entirely sure what I ate, but as long as it didn’t have shrimp, I didn’t have to know. My most handy Thai phrase has become ใส่กุ้งไหมค่ะ? (“Is there shrimp in this?” Pronounced as “sai gung mai?”) (Shoutout to my weekly Thai classes at ULC for helping me learn the alphabet).
I’m usually very good with spicy, but I had to muster all my willpower not to cry for my dying taste buds. After all, as the only foreigner in the roadside restaurant, all eyes were on me to see if I could handle real Thai spice, and I faked it till I made it.
I reunited with my friends bright and early on a boat in a small port on the Tha Taphao River after the best night of sleep ever (maybe the cure for insomnia is a full day on the road?), and we were finally off on an equally long seafaring journey to dive between Chumphon and Koh Tao!
(I could spend the rest of the blog talking about the diving, but here are some cool pictures to show how awesome it was instead)
Something else happened on July 24. My sweet Xolo passed during the night and was found dead that morning under the stairs of the migrant development office by Kaung. I was already a hundred kilometers away from home when I received the news via a short Facebook Messenger text.
Xolo had been getting thinner for weeks, and his health deteriorated enough to warrant two vet visits; the second diagnosed him with a list of ailments from anemia to tick paralysis. On top of his medicine, many people in the compound looked after him, and his strength slowly recovered. When not at ULC, I spent most of my days at his side as he slept off the illness, resting his head on my lap, letting out yelps every so often. And yet, overnight and alone, all our efforts became futile, and he left us.
Many things here remind me of Xolo. When I returned from Chumphon after the long weekend, it was absolutely unbearable. The makeshift bed I had made for him to nap in my room was intact; his food bowl was still in the kitchen, and the bags of dog kibble were too. Everywhere I looked, I saw pieces of his life.
He had been part of my Khao Lak life since day one; there had never been a day he wasn’t there to welcome me back from work or greet me in the morning. When I think of Khao Lak and my CAPI experience, Xolo is undoubtedly one of the first things that come to mind, and losing him is a heartbreak I will carry for a very long time. It was the risk of getting attached to a dog in rural Thailand; I was told that “animals here do one of two things: they either die early or they live forever against all odds.”
Time does not heal all wounds, but it certainly makes them easier to manage. I feel so lucky to have met and cared for such a kind, loyal dog. Xolo had the unique ability of brightening even the cloudiest of days with his mangy little strut and assertiveness (for food). In some ways, I’m also “happy” I was able to help alleviate some of his pain, with innocent hopes that it made his last week even a bit more bearable.
It puts into perspective how bittersweet yet beautiful it is to love enough to mourn, to love enough to see glimpses of them reflected in places and things. I think I will experience a similar type of grief when I leave this magical town with its people whom I have come to adore.
As I crossed the halfway mark of my CAPI internship, went on my visa run, and returned with an official end date stamped in my passport, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with all sorts of feelings; gratitude and awe stand out.
My life here has been nothing short of absolutely incredible; four months in and I’m still constantly blown away by it. I think I tell myself at least once a week that there’s no way this is my life. I have had the pleasure of sharing my days with some of the bravest, kindest, most incredible souls I’ve ever met—people with unbelievable life experience and horrific stories due to the coup, but who choose to keep going forward with an unwavering hope that one day they will return to Myanmar. Coworkers turned friends who teach me lessons, share their stories, and always ask if I’ve eaten yet.
The slow, rhythmic pace of this small coastal town has ingrained itself in me, ebbing me along the soft swells of Khao Lak beaches, afternoon rainstorms, ducks on my porch, elephants in plantations, and lots of recent cat-sitting. Khao Lak and all it encompasses has become part of me, and I hope I, too, have, in some way, become part of it.
