Paul and Tracy's Main Blog

We woke late. Very late. 8.45am and missing breakfast late. So we snoozed some more just to make sure, and then showered and went to hire the kayak. Today was our day for gently rowing out into the bay and exploring the island opposite that always gets the best of the sun in the morning.

Only it wasn't.

Overnight the entire Japanese teenage population had rocked up in our resort and stolen the only 2 kayaks. Only there were 5, but 3 were propped up enjoying the sun and unable to come to play. Or so said the sour-faced receptionist, revelling in destroying our well-made plans. Plunged into a depression worthy of a wet weekend in Skegness and not a hot day in paradise, we trudged back to our bungalow and grabbed our books. At least the hammock and wooden sunlounger were still available. Probably because they were in the shade... No matter, we made ourselves comfortable and lost ourselves in our books...

For about ten minutes...

That's when the Japanese teenager soft-porn photographic society arrived and started their photo-shoot. Using the swing next to us, and the spare, broken, wooden sunlounger as props. They snapped away, jibber-jabbing like the cicadas that keep us awake of an evening, taking each other's photos in various poses using various cameras and mobile phones. What the hell the Japanese do with all these millions of identi-kit photos is beyond me. They must while away many an evening back in the Tokyo suburbs, getting hammered on sushi and sake and boring each other to suicide with endless photos of their friends in strange poses against a backdrop of famous and not-so-famous sights. When one of the young lads got a guitar out we feared we were in for an even worse Karaoke performance than we heard wafting painfully from one of the beachside bars during last-nights last-ditch dash back to the bungalow. But no, the guitar was another prop. And so, laid on his back on an inflatable li-lo in the shallows, he pretended to strum away, whilst his giggling gaggle of friend click-clicked away... And Tracy and I muttered under our breaths “give us back the kayaks, you thieving yellow bastards!”...

But a quick dip in the bath-warm sea soon soothed our stresses away, and relaxing in the hammock, reading a good book, it's hard to stay even faux-cross for very long. We laughed and splashed. Therapy? It beats seeing a psychiatrist...








On one of our regular dip-trips my wading was interrupted by a movement under the waves, and I saw a sea-bass, just like the one we ate last night except raw and very much alive, swim away. Then when stood with Tracy, knee-deep in warm water, we heard a splitter-splashy sound and saw a flying fish jump up and skim the water, looking like a skimmed-stone thrown by a young boy across a perfect pond. Therapy? I'm cured... but can we stay a bit longer?

Back to the hammock to cook until raw. Red raw.

By now Tracy's doing her usual chameleon impression and turning from cute white chick to gorgeous bronzed babe, via a short period of deep red take-me-to-bed loveliness. Me, I'm getting sore shoulders and a burnt bald-patch. Where did my youth go?

Ok, time to get out of the sun for a while and grab some more sustenance to make up for the lost breakfast. Changed into comfy shoes to avoid the blisters from the sand in my sandals (oh, so that's where they get their name from), and with the netbook in my backpack we head once more along our stretch of beach from home to town. All life is here, from beachcombers combing the beach (yes, they brush it every morning to clear the flotsam and jetsam so it doesn't hurt the feet of the tourists), to a couple of guys rebuilding the top-end of a huge car engine fitted to the back of their boat...





… to the massage parlours plying Thai or Foot Massages for less than a fiver underneath the palm and coconut trees (a lot more exotic than down the back alleys of Manchester, and probably a proper massage, too)... to the lobster-coloured bikini-clad babes relaxing in swanky resort next door to ours, on their cushioned sunloungers and umbrellas with a soundtrack of cool running water from the architect-designed pool... to local builders working in the furnace of a freshly-concreted resort building to the strains of a tinny radio (no Steve Wright In The Afternoon for these guys, though)...

… and onto the main street in the baking heat, struggling to summon the energy to put left in front of right, shuffling along like a dog with no legs, eyes scanning left to right for a bar with atmosphere and cold beer, for a place with comfy seats for dead-beats, for a place to sit and eat and drink and relax...

We found it, of course. Only this one didn't have comfy seats, just cold drinks and hot food. Good food. Thai food. Chicken fried rice that tasted better than the one I cooked in Cesky Krumlov whilst we drank tinned beer and toasted our freedom, just days away from disaster. I never thought we'd find chicken fried rice that tasted better. But we did. And Pad Thai with Shrimp for a quid. But before we get carried away and start drinking beer again, an ice-cold tea and ice-cold coffee. Tracy's tea was rather special, though whether they deliberately made it so it was colour-coordinated with her vest, and matching tongue, we'll never know...





But the chairs weren't comfy so we had to move on. Via the Bureau de Change to change yet more dollars and give us the means to settle the bill back at the resort, and the 7-11 for cold Cornettos, to the bar we ate at, when? Oh yes, 2 days ago. Seems like longer. And another bottle of beer whilst I break out the netbook and let my fingers do the rambling...

Before Tracy's stomach coughed politely and asked if we could head for the exit and a long sit down as quickly as possible....

So we paid up and headed back to the bungalow and the comfort of air-conditioning and a shower in the greenhouse out back. Cold water and searing heat. What a combination. And cold after-sun soothing glowing flesh. Life just doesn't get much better than this... Or does it?

Time for another beer and we'll find out...

Disappointingly, the resort's Internet connection was not working, and so I was unable to upload yesterday's blog entry. So we decided to head back into town and take the netbook with us and see if we could find an Internet cafe. But first, as we strolled along the beach we had to stop and take yet another photograph of a glorious sunset...





We grabbed a beer in the bar we sat at earlier, and attempted to hack into their wi-fi connection, unsuccessfully. I even tried asking for the WEP key, but for some reason couldn't make myself understood. Ever tried miming “Wireless Encryption Protocol”? And charades was never my favourite game...

Still, there's an Internet cafe across the road, so I left Tracy with her beer and her book and went over to try my luck there. And was able to connect and collect the endless spam emails Tracy's mother sends (please stop, Margaret!), but had a problem with Blogger.com and couldn't get the blog loaded. Damn. Will have to try another day...

But first, more beer...

We wandered back to the Rock Sugar, determined to stay out late and catch the band play. Tracy got adventurous with the cocktails (Sex on the Beach? Maybe later...) whilst we shared the best spring rolls I think I've ever had. And we had a few more drinks, watched the world go by, chatted and chilled. And then ordered some more food – another Sea Bass this time deep fried with sweet chilli sauce and Prawns with Salt in Bish. Well, that's what is said on the menu. Before long the band started setting up and the piped soft rock was turned off. We were still the only people in the restaurant, but that wasn't going to stop them. Expectantly we watched as the guitarist and bass guitarist tuned their instruments, and the drummer did what drummers the world over do before a gig... sit grinning like an ejit behind a large drumkit and start practicing twirling drumsticks round and round. And then they started to play. Elevator music for a Stannah Stair Lift Convention. Seriously, all they lacked was a hammond organ and purple suits, frilly shirts and bow-ties... Laugh, I nearly wet myself. But what made it all the more funny was the sign they'd put up in next to a hat in front of the stage...








I could think of a few, like hiring some musicians, or learning the words, or changing their repertoire, or quitting and selling sea shells on the sea shore...

I think Tracy thought I was going to have a coronary... and what the band thought of playing in front of a sunburnt couple, with the man having a serious fit of hysterics is beyond me.

Rock Sugar? More like Candy Floss...

At least the food was as good as previously, and Tracy seemed to be enjoying the Sex on the Beach (or was that later?). Fed and merry we paid and left, whilst the band played on. And said goodbye to us, with a cheery wave. Must have caught us singing along to the Carpenters songs they were murdering...

Another late-night stroll down the beach, hand-in-hand, all loved up. Via the supermarket to get some crisps and another bottle of SangSom. And then to the bungalow to play music on the netbook and get tipsy whilst packing the bags ready for the early start...