Saturday, December 12, 2015
Today was our first full day in Thailand, and we hit the ground running. Or rather, we hit the ocean boating. We woke up to clear skies and nothing but sun, so we were off on our boat adventure to Angthong National Marine Park! Pickup was bright and early 7:45am. Which apparently translates into 8:30am in island time. We are slowly learning that there is no such thing as “on time” here in Thailand. So this is me, going with the flow. We had a shared transfer to the farthest damn pier on the island. So we hopped in the van and got comfortable for the long drive around Koh Samui that we have come to know and dread. At least there was entertainment in the form of the dumbest couple in life. I’ve narrowed their accents down to Eastern European in some form. We shall call them Fucktard and Fucktress. Fucktard was telling Fucktress about his plans for a book that he is writing about the future. It takes place in 2020. THE FUTURE, you see. Pretty sure four years ago I was a single accountant living for my vacations, so you can see why I’m not exactly banking on the world to dramatically change in another four. But alas, his plot thickens. Fucktard informs Fucktress that by 2025, 30% of all jobs will be taken over by robots. Sounds great, because I could use another 30% of my life to travel and entertain you all with my odd life choices. And then a political debate ensued and we had to tune them out for fear their stupidity was contagious. Don’t worry – they’ll make another appearance later.
We arrive at the pier and are hustled out of the van and told that we are “very late” and that everyone else on the boat has been waiting for us. Ummmm, who is late? Take that shit up with your driver and his 45 minute morning smoke break. Now the problem with being late is that it left little time for us to procure beer for our boat trip. Who the fuck gets on a boat without beer? Apparently all other tourists. Amateur hour at it’s finest. I informed one of the guides that we needed beer before boarding. He took me down to the bar at the pier to get some, where we were promptly informed that the guy who has the key to the booze fridge wasn’t here yet. He must have been out partying with our driver last night. So no beer. One look at my face and the guide knew that this was not an acceptable conclusion to the quest for libations. So off we ran, across and down the street, in search of beer. My persistence was rewarded with 12 cold ones after which we sprinted back down to the boat. Upon boarding, everyone looked at me like I had just broke out of Betty Ford. One guide even commented “lots of beer!”. Luckily your blog writer is also a bad ass accountant, so allow me to break this one down slowly: 12 beers divided by 3 girls = 4 beers/girl. I was just planning on these lasting us to lunch, where there is a bar. In what world is four beers considered “a lot”? No world I want to live in, that’s for sure.
It was made clear to us at that moment that we would really need to pilot our own destiny on this tour and bring the fun. First, we were told to put on our life jackets. I politely declined with a “no, thank you” and we were met with confused stares. Life jackets are for children, people who can’t swim, and losers. Let’s just say there were no children on the boat…infer from that what you will. Finally we were under way. We cracked a couple of beers and settled in at the back of the boat (next to the cooler) for a scenic ride out to the marine park. My peaceful mood was immediately interrupted by the family in front of us with the most disgusting feet I have ever seen in my life. We named this family “the Flinstones”. And yes, we managed to get pictures of both Fred and Wilma’s feet. Pedicures are like $5 in Thailand. Work it out, people.
After about half an hour, we made a stop to snorkel. The gals and I were in the water before the guide even got to the English portion of the instructions. Only on a shared boat tour does “snorkeling” warrant the need for a 15 minute instructional how-to. Apparently Steph heard one guide actually say “if you can’t swim, please keep your life jacket on”. I know I ask this every time, but if you can’t swim, what the fuck are you doing on a snorkeling tour of a MARINE park. What part of your brain has failed to equate water with swimming? Once again, the citizens of this world have left me dumbfounded. By the time all the other ass holes made their way into the water, we had already finished our underwater photo shoot and found a giant jellyfish. I mean, GIANT. I hopped back on the boat to get our floaties (read: life jackets) and beers and turn on the jammy pack. For those of you who don’t know, if you turn a life jacket upside down and put your legs through the arm holes, a life jacket magically turns into a floating chair, perfect for your aquatic beer drinking needs. I know – I’m like the Martha Stewart of booze cruises.
Once we were back on the boat, one of the Flinstones took a shine to Steph and spent the rest of the day following her around like a puppy dog. Luckily for her, it wasn’t Fred. I obviously got a picture of him spitting his prehistoric game at her. We then stopped at one of the islands for a mediocre “lunch buffet”, but more importantly, a bar. By the time the guides called everyone for kayaking, we were poster children for happy, drunk tourists. As if this day couldn’t get any better, we were directed to a three person kayak. Finally, a tour that caters to the single lady trio! The guides directed us to follow them on a kayaking tour. But we were drunk, and there was a sand bar calling our name. So we headed in the other direction and promptly beached ourselves on a sandbar, spending the rest of the “tour” lounging in the sun listening to some beats on the jammy pack. Let this trip be a lesson to all of you that with a little persistence and a can-do attitude, any shared boat tour can be turned into a private booze cruise.
The trip home was pretty uneventful. We polished off a few more beers on the ride back to Koh Samui and then hopped in our shared van back to the hotel. There was only one other couple in the shared van home. You guessed it – the Fucktard twins. Fucktard requested they get dropped off in town. He did not, however, think it was necessary to put his pants on. And his swimsuit bottoms were smaller than mine. Although, in his defense, his ass is also smaller than mine. So we left them on the side of the road, sans pants, slightly disappointed that we would never know what happens when the robots take over. Back at Nikki Beach we showered, ordered room service and passed out at 8:30pm. Again.
Now I know you all want a drunken party blog. And I’m going to give it you. Tomorrow. Sunday Funday was a wild one. Stay tuned.