We Made It to the Beach!

Avoiding extortionate prices set by the TukTuk mafia, we set off on our scooters hired for the week to Lonely beach. Inspired by the Asian style of driving, we manage to squash two big backpacks and ourselves onboard as we drive like tanks along the roller-coaster like roads through the jungle. We stop at the down-market backpacker paradise, consisting mainly of hippy bars and tattoo joints and opt for the more basic (and cheap) accommodation: small wooden huts, equipped with bed, fan, and all important mosquito net. The communal bathrooms consist of four walls, no roof and a shower head attached to palm tree. More than refreshing after hard days of island exploration. After only having worn my bikini once (at a freezing cold outer mongolian lake), I take great pleasure in making the most of the clear blue seas and skies, sipping fruit shakes on the beach. Unfortunately, Mr Bump (/Penzkofer) has other plans, including slicing open his big toe and taking us on a trip to Accident and Emergency to be patched up. Nothing serious, other than not being allowed in the crystal clear waters for a couple of days, and having to walk around with a novelty sized toe sticking out of his flip-flop.

With not much else to do, we decide to take a drive to the opposite side of the island. A task which at first glance of our tourist map with its cartoon whales and waterfalls, appears simple. Two hours later we arrive, thirsty and bright red from a mixture of sun and wind burns (thanks to helmets without visors). We make the most of the views of the bay with a quick slap-up meal on the pier, before the sun goes down and we have to make the journey back, in the dark, on treacherous island roads, and an infinite number of kamakazi bugs splatting themselves at our faces (again, helmets with no visors).

At night we make our stand against the mosquitos, and ants, and whatever else, by drinking beer by the beach. After some hours of Andi's drunken philosophising, he eventually falls asleep, leaving me and Thomas in search of another party. We find ourselves within a fairly representative cross-section of the the beach's inhabitants: a couple of Swedish girls (the scandi's making up the majority of the population), a dreadlocked spanish 'cast-away', who sleeps in a hammock and lives from the sea, an old english man who clearly spent too long in the mid-day sun with the other mad-dogs, and of course, a singing irishman.

 

Later in the week, we get abit more into island life with some good old-fashioned campfire cooking. The boys do the manly part of collecting firewood and gutting and 'fileting' the fish, and i quite literally sweat it out, cooking up a (partially burnt, partially undercooked) feast in the hot embers. The reality of 'campfire on the beach', or anywhere for that matter, is always slightly over-idealised. A fact which is often forgotten until we are already in the midst of it, covered in coal, sweat and grease, with no light, no cooking tools, potatos which take a hell of a long time to cook....but thank-god, plenty of beer. All is well, and happily fed and we proceed with our evenings entertainment, which comes in the shape of a whisky bottle.