En route to Khao Sok we had the pleasure of being w****d around several tuk-tuk drivers who kindly delivered us, in turn, to their subsequent family restaurants in the hope that we may, eventually, succumb and part with some money in exchange for some overpriced and frankly, unappetizing grease filled refreshments that the local rat population had rejected the previous night.

After an unwanted visit to three of said restaurants we found ourselves seated beside a rectangular patch of dusty wasteland. Stray dogs lingered in the distance, waiting for any scraps of left over food. There was a gray, concrete building in the centre that, at one point, may have been whitewashed in colour. It looked as though it had been abandoned years before. Every ten minutes or so, just to our right, a lone car passed by on the single lane, roughly paved road that ran alongside this makeshift car park. Beyond that, there was nothing.

Not even the so-called ‘direct’ bus we had been sold in Ko Phangan.

After querying the whereabouts of this bus with one of the stone faced locals that had dropped another group of unfortunates off next to us, we were told that, it was, in fact, our fault. To quote the shifty, poker faced opportunist:

“Bus gone. You were late”.

Now, we had an issue with this final statement. You see, I seemed to recall spending the last two hours of my life being carted around his mates run down eateries like some sort of stray.

Here’s a thought, maybe if you actually took us to the bus stop originally, as I feel reasonably sure you were paid to do, we may have been here in time. Two hours ahead of time, in fact.

No chance of some kind of recognition of this fact though, eh?

In time to come we will no doubt laugh about these testing situations, maybe even referring to them as ‘experiences’, all part of travelling. For now however, they remain simply a pain in the arse.

According to the various guide books, the Khao Sok national park, centrally located on the mainland of southern Thailand, is a glorious natural haven. As well as the many crystal clear streams and lakes, it is also home to a variety of rare animal and plant life, including a certain wild lotus that lays claim to being the largest flower in the world. To add to its credentials, it is also said to boast dense, virgin jungle, of which, at an estimated 160 million years old, is believed to be both older and richer than Brazils own Amazon.

I feel the need to refer to the guidebook on this one due to the fact that we failed to see quite as much of the place as we had planned, in the end spending only the single night on the outskirts of the park before leaving the following morning, cancelling the jungle trek that we had booked the previous evening after deciding that it was more than a little overpriced.

Instead, we headed west to Phuket, and somehow, found ourselves at home in our very own two bed town house situated in the leafy suburbs of this island city.

Phuket Villa II is a small housing estate located among the outer reaches of the city. Rectangular in shape, it is made up of a collection of neat, symmetrical soi (roads), that cross the complex like the lines of a blank note book. Each soi is a cul-de-sac, short, and flanked either side by compact, whitewashed, single storey buildings, with terracotta roof tiles and black and gold painted sliding metal gates across the front of the small outside yards. On either side of the complex is an entrance gate, complete with barrier and bored looking guard. The locals pause amid animated discussions and offer a subtle smile as you stroll through, a slight tint of curiosity visible in their expressions. There is a village feel to the place, an evident sense of community within its boundaries. Overhead, the knotted tangle of electrical cables hum loudly, occasionally breaking into a worrying crackle. Strangely, like the locals, you hardly notice it.

We spent ten nights here. In the small but comfortable bungalow, third one in, on the right hand side of soi seven. It came complete with air conditioning, broadband, two bedrooms, one bathroom, one kitchen, one living area - and a small army of giant cockroaches.

A short stroll from our place, a couple of soi away, was a stall, well, more of a fold out table really, stationed outside the single story residence of a friendly ex-pat Dutchman, who, I later discovered, once played for Ajax. Upon his fold out table was a white, polystyrene cool box. Inside were a selection of sandwiches and croissants. The stall, or rather, table, had a sign proudly hanging from it, which read:

‘Lung Farang’.

Or, in English, ‘Uncle Foreigner’.

We visited uncle farang on a daily basis. Sometimes several times. As the days passed, our order soon evolved into, ‘the usual’, which was ham and cheese.

To explain, no we weren’t squatting. Rather, a friend of mine from college, Dom, has been living in Phuket for the last two years after deciding to broaden his horizons and emigrating here with a friend. It was this aforementioned friend who had recently moved to Bangkok, leaving behind his previous home, complete with ten days pre-paid rent still remaining. And so, after being picked up from a coffee shop opposite the bus station, by Dom and his Thai girlfriend, Bing, we were duly driven to their home in Phuket Villa II and informed that, if we liked, we could use his friends now vacated property.

If we liked? Was he being serious? Free home, with broadband and air conditioning? If we liked? That was a good one.

Of the ten days we were here, I would estimate five, maybe six, days were spent simply strolling around the sun drenched, leafy, surrounding neighbourhoods, exchanging sidelong, curious glances with the locals, whilst simultaneously dodging the vicious, frothing snarls of the evil mutt down the street that, clearly, dreamt of tearing us limb from limb before feasting on our flesh.

If we felt like walking a little further, we would arrive at the local Tesco-Lotus. Aimee would visibly glow with excitement and anticipation at the thought of wandering around the cool, neatly stacked aisles. At examining the different chocolate bars that you can find in Asia but, cruelly, not at home. At the Schwarz ready mix sachet things, day dreaming at what she could make if only she had a kitchen. At the pictures on the front of the different packets. Even, at the fruit and veg. All of it. You get the idea. Trailing somewhere behind her would be me, running and scooting down the aisles mischievously, on the trolley that was now my skate board. Bored and looking longingly at the world passing by on the other side of the wide store front window. So near, but yet, with Aimee in tow, so far.

In addition, we also paid a visit to the beach. The pristine, golden sands of Kata Noi beach, to be exact, on the south western corner of the island. Our visit was somewhat briefer than expected. As we stretched out on our sun beds, factor 30 generously applied, shoulder to shoulder with what, judging by their harsh accents and pasty skin, appeared to be a few recent coach loads of Russian tourists, something amazing happened.

A single droplet of rain fell from the overcast sky above and began its one way, downward journey towards the earth below.

Suddenly everything was in slow motion. Movements became frame by frame as the thin, sickly looking Thai man who was overseeing the sun beds became agitated and jerked his head back, towards the sky. He had sensed it you see. He was one step ahead of this particular game.

“RAINING - RAINING!!” He yelled, whilst running up and down the beach, flapping his arms in a panic, closing umbrellas and tipping people from their seats.

“BEACH CLOSED!! RAINING - RAINING!!”.

In the evenings, when Dom finished work, we would head out for dinner at one of the cheap, local restaurants that he knew nearby. Sometimes in the car, with Bing driving. Other times, on the back of his scooter.

One of these scooter saddled journeys in particular, brings to mind a rather vivid memory. It was a humid evening as we set out to a small road side restaurant a fifteen minute ride away. Aimee had decided to stay at home. During the meal, in keeping with the previous few days, the sky had visibly darkened, the humidity risen, until what began as a gentle, soothing patter on the corrugated iron roof, quickly escalated into a torrent of rain bordering on monsoon. The street outside became a veiled blur. It was like attempting to look through a waterfall. After waiting for half an hour or so for the storm to pass, we decided to make a break for it during the slightest of lulls.

We quickly regretted the haste of our decision.

No sooner had we mounted the bike and manoeuvred ourselves back onto the road, a road that was by this point beginning to resemble a fast flowing river, than the torrent had resumed. And so, there we were, in the midst of a tropical storm. No helmets. Dom, with nothing resembling a licence of any description, driving. Me, clinging desperately to the back, legs locked against the side with a vice-like grip. We were moving maybe a little faster than a brisk walking pace but the engine was still struggling, emitting a painful wail, not dissimilar to a set of hedge trimmers. I assumed we were in first gear. As we, slowly, made our way along the main road, submerged in ever deepening waters as we continued, Dom seemed to sense my anxiety and began offering soothing words of comfort from over his right shoulder.

“Just to the right there, that lamp post, I crashed into that. Skidded off the road, it was really bad”.

“I almost crashed here once as well…”, he added, whilst pointing to a busy cross section.

And then, as if building to a much anticipated finale, came the big one:

“I don’t know about you, but I cant see a thing…”.

Wow. He definitely caught my attention with that one. If a poll was conducted of the worst things a driver could possibly utter to a passenger, these must be up there with the best of them. Coming from a person unto whom your life is entrusted, I can tell you, it is worrying. Instinctively my grip on the small bike tightened until my fingers were white. The ears of dishevelled stray animals, lurking in the shadows on the sides of the road, pricked up at the sounds of nervous laughter and an engine in pain as we, slowly, passed on by.

After that I should have learned my lesson. But where would be the fun in that?

The next day we moved to the next level. We hired a motorcycle taxi driven by an arthritic pensioner whose English was almost as bad as our Thai. And whose driving was even worse than his English. I’m not a religious person but, that day, with eyes clamped together, I prayed to the good lord above to deliver me from harm. The sounds of the city evaporated and the world stood still as we hurtled along, the three of us, on the wrong side of a dual carriageway.

Our driver meanwhile, was an oasis of calm amid what appeared to be the imminent arrival of certain death. Oblivious to the tonnes of metal that were coming at us with horns blaring.

Somehow, I’m not sure how, we did come to a halt outside the offices of the Indian Embassy, at which point I slowly opened my eyes, took a breath, and the world, once again, began to turn. Inside, we learnt that as promised, our passports, complete with visa’s, were there and ready for pickup. The relief that we felt at learning that they had not in fact been stolen and sold off in the murky Thai underworld, and that the young Thai girl at the embassy office in Bangkok had actually done us a huge kindness, were quickly forgotten however, as a worrying realisation suddenly struck.

We now had to make the return journey…

Towards the end of our stay here, came the night out. An inevitably mild Saturday evening saw us make our way by taxi to Patong, Phuket’s answer to Patpong, in Bangkok. They sound similar enough to confuse the two and, after visiting both, it is hard to pick out a discernable difference. They seem to be an extension of each other, as if the two districts were created as one and then separated and placed in different cities.

The area is a crowded, neon lit collection of strip clubs, open air bars and podiums, awash with the chatter and wide-eyed stares of thousands of tourists from all corners of the globe. Parading the podiums and generating the slack-jawed expressions, were the scantily clad, gyrating, trans-gender, erm, women? Or were they men? Well, anyway, they were there as well. And they were some sight.

We positioned ourselves outside a large bar, with a clear, unobstructed view of its podium. Busily taking in the colourful sights and sounds of Patong, the drinks quickly flowed. Followed by the shots. After a short while, Dom found himself being touched up by a gay boy and a brief scuffle ensued. A short while after that, I found myself lost in the back rooms of a club and subsequently being touched up by a bouncer. Thankfully, in this case a scuffle was avoided. Aimee and Bing, meanwhile, ripped up the dance floor and then the four of us converged, rounded on Burger King, and took it for all it had. The fast food giant didn’t know what had hit it.

This was quickly followed up by a white knuckle taxi ride home, during which triple digit speeds were the average, red lights were accelerated towards and hair-pin bends were negotiated on two wheels rather than four.

And then we passed out. Fully clothed, at the end of the bed, in the foetal position.

A good night was had by all.

That, more or less, was the end of our time here in Phuket. Thirty six hours later, after thanking Dom and Bing for their hospitality, we climbed into a taxi headed for the ferry terminal. As we did so, a feeling of deja-vu swept over me. Well, that and an overbearing sense of danger. For a minute I couldn’t put my finger on it but then it struck me, this taxi was the exact same one, that merely a few hours earlier, would have given Michael Schumacher a serious run for his money. Our finger nail marks were still fresh on the handles on the inside of the doors.

At the terminal, with two one way tickets in hand, our minds were filled with the idyllic scenery made famous by the 1997 hit movie, The Beach. A movie, set of course, on the stunning island of Koh Phi-Phi, which was our next stop…