what’s weather like there?…

It started at about 1pm on Tuesday afternoon, the 25th. I was convinced my flight from Bangkok was the next evening, i.e. 2am on Thursday morning. I don’t know why, and no I didn’t bother telling you mam & dad as you’d just have worried, but there you go, that’s what I thought. I had the flight from Samui to Bangkok booked for the following afternoon and was lamenting the fact that my last full day on Koh Tao would be spent on the porch of my bungalow watching the torrential tropical rain. Actually doing anything was out of the question; the place was flooded, and you were soaked to the (still warm, mind you) bone within seconds of exposure.

As it was raining so heavily I thought I’d scan the Polaroid photos we’d taken. I check my email while I’m there. “Emirates welcomes you to check in on-line” goes the email. How lovely. It does cross my mind that I didn’t think they did that until 24 hours before departure, but in my relaxed state it didn’t really register. Until I saw “Wednesday” on the screen. Wednesday? That’s … tomorrow. And my flight is at 2am. Which is … in 12 hours.

Shit.

What’s that Peter Kay joke about Teletext? “Booked it, packed it, fucked off?” That’s about right. I went and told the kids, already looking a little forlorn hiding from the rain, that I’d buggered up and had to leave in an hour. (At least there was no time for that long goodbye crap. I’m sure Ryan would have cried – we won’t see each other for at least 10 days.)

Flight to Bangkok from Samui booked, 10pm that night. There’s a 6:30pm flight but the ferry doesn’t arrive until past 5pm and with the weather this bad I’m not confident of making it. Bag packed, hastily. Damp. Everything is damp. Taxi booked to the port. Accommodation paid for, farewells said, and I’m running the 20 metres down the path to seek shelter while I wait for my taxi. I needn’t have bothered running – me and everything I’m carrying is drenched by the time I get there anyway.

The taxi is a [select a term according to your nationality: ute/flat-bed truck] and I climb in to the front; it’s just me and the driver, and despite the rain he puts the air-con on. It seems to be one of the Five Thai Pillars of Transport: No Matter What The Weather, If You’re In A Vehicle The Air Conditioning Must Be On At All Times. I’m wet, and therefore before very long I’m cold. I don’t have long to think about it though, because within 30 seconds I’m back out of the cab.

I really can’t stress enough how hard it was raining. Perhaps I can: it was fucking chucking it down. The ute gets about 30 metres before we have to stop because Thais on motorbikes (little 125cc things that they all scoot around on) are stuck, literally, in the torrent of water flooding down the road; we can’t pass through the river as they’re in the way. I jump out of the cab and try to help a girl and her friend move their bike but even with 3 of us it won’t shift – the force of the water, now an opaque muddy brown over a foot deep, flowing at a fair clip, is jamming it in place. I soon discover how: the spokes have been jammed with branches, and there’s a concrete block being pushed against the engine block. We manage to clear the jam and push the bike out of the way. I do the same for some old bloke over the road, and the cab tries to drive across.

The water is too deep for the truck. I’m having difficulty standing up in it and it’s obvious he’s not going to get across. Now I’m thinking I’m properly screwed.

I grab my bags – backpack, thankfully not chock full of unnecessary crap (pack light, kids!), and shoulder bag with the important stuff. I get across the river and start to walk up the hill towards the port looking for a lift. By now the rain has stopped, which makes the journey a little easier. Nobody is heading my way, though; they can’t, the road behind me is blocked. I’m resigned to the idea of walking the mile or so to the port, alternating between barefoot and flip-flopped (they don’t work when there’s water deeper than about an inch on the road, but they’re essential when you’re on the stretches of Thai road which are brown gravel), when a guy in a motorbike and rickety side-cart pulls up and helps me out. It’s just as well, as I’m running perilously late anyway. My only hope is that the catamaran – the last to Samui for the day – shares my tardiness.

So I’m perched in his side cart with the vegetables, about three quarters of an inch from the road surface, listening to the sound of his suspension and him telling me about how he believes Chelsea are the dominant force in the Premier League this year and that Man United (probably the only thing more popular than the monarchy in Thailand) aren’t going to do it. Terrific. I ask him about Sunderland but he doesn’t have an opinion on the mighty mackems. Which is odd.

I’ve no idea what the time is, but I arrive at the port to see the arse-end of a catamaran about a hundred metres off the pier. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I’ve missed the boat, and hence my flight to Bangkok, and hence my flight to Dubai and Birmingham. There are gonna be some unhappy Nobles back in Blighty.

No I haven’t! Different boat. I get a ticket, talk to some nice Dutch people who have just arrived, and tell them where I stayed. I say that if they run in to my friends – the only other people currently staying there (it’s really quiet in Thailand at this time of year – wonder why?) – to tell them that John said hi. Did they?

Japanese people shouldn’t get on boats. Fly, or invent a mass transit submarine or something, but don’t get on a boat; the poor sods just don’t have the constitution. Every one of them (and they make up 80%+ of the passengers) looks as sick as a dog, and none the wonder – the thing is pitching about 30 degrees and the rain (now resumed with a vengeance) is lashing against the windows. I pay the 50 Baht extra for the “VIP” room upstairs – full of Very Important Japanese, most of them vomiting, and freezing cold thanks to the mandatory air-con – so that I can leave my bag on a seat, take my t-shirt off, and head out back. I’m wearing my board shorts so the fact that it’s lashing down matters nary a jot. It’s warm enough, and the combination of a view of the horizon and ten milligrams of metoclopramide (never, ever travel without it – thanks, Bart) ensures my journey is vaguely pleasant. When it periodically stops raining, I grab the iPhone and get in a bit of overdue podcast time. I learn about the guy who discovered aquaporins, proteins responsible for the water-channel in cells; the 2003 Nobel Prize (chemistry) winner and the so-called “Garrison Keillor of chemistry“. Telling the story of his life, he does indeed sound like a Lake Wobegon character. It’s fascinating, as the Science Show always is. If anyone wants the .mp3, mail me.

The cat to Samui calls in at Koh Pahngan, which takes an hour. Many sick Japanese alight, and suddenly, as if they were directly cursed by the non-interventionist god most of them don’t believe in anyway, the sea is flat. Beautifully, peacefully still; the transformation is incredible, and welcome even for this Westerner, impervious to the waves thanks to the marvels of modern medicine. Perhaps that’s the issue: perhaps if they take proper medicine instead of ingesting potions made from dried extract of frog they won’t be so sick. Anyway.

I elect to use my free transfer from the port to go to the airport, despite my flight not being for another four and a half hours. I would have caught the 6:30pm, but by now there’s a waiting list of 20 and the lady tells me not to bother trying. The lovely people at Bangkok Airways change my booking from tomorrow to today and there’s nothing more to pay. Result! I wasn’t even penalised for my stupidity.

Four hours in an airport is a very long time when that airport is Heathrow, or Sydney, or some other “modern” shit-hole. Four hours in Samui airport is like … well, without wanting to state the obvious, it’s like being on holiday. I know, I know, I’m on holiday. Just have a look, you’ll know what I mean. It’s stunning. I find a bar, the compulsory airport “sports bar”, and am treated like royalty the minute I walk in the door. That could have had something to do with the half-acre floor space, hundreds of seats, legion of attentive staff, and number of customers. One. Me. I get a pint of Singha and tell the girl that she can keep the free t-shirt I’m due. She’s rapt. They’re all rapt, because there’s somebody in the bar! and they’ve got something to do. I wear thin after a while and they stop peering at me through the glass to see if I’ve finished my drink.

The flight is on time and I’m one of the first to board. I usually wait until last, the fascination of queueing at a check-in desk having been lost on me many years ago, but I’m keen for a change of scenery and am in the designated “rows 7 to 12 please” so as requested, up I go. Just as we’re about to go through, they hold us back. Walkie-talkie chatter ensues. “We’re just checking,” they say, “that we can land – we’ve heard there’s a mob (“a what?”) a mob, you know, like a political thing, at the airport in Bangkok, we’re just checking that we’ll be able to land.” Five minutes. Yep, no mob, no worries, on you get, off we go.

And so I leave a beautiful island and fly in to civil unrest. T’riffic. If only I hadn’t scanned those Polaroids…