Lak

All this happened so many years ago – long before I realized how important it was to hold fast to the details, the names and places that give color and life to a memory, and let it bloom out of the seed in one’s mind into the beautiful flower of a story that can be shared with all.

But the story is an important one for me, so indulge me a little. I’ll spackle on a bit of plaster and paint here and there to hide faded details, or cracks in my memory; don’t worry, you’ll recognize them as my clumsy patches, and they’re only there to help us get along through the part of the story that actually matters.

The story is of how I met Lak.

It was the Spring of 1988. I was twenty five, blossoming in the realization of how big and wide open the world really was. I was just coming off of a year working in Japan, doing one last bit of globetrotting before returning to grad school in Seattle. I was an inexpert traveller, but my saved pocket money was enough to spend three or so weeks bumming around southeast Asia, so I bought a ticket to Bangkok and set out wandering.

I must’ve spent a week or so poking through the traditional tourist sites – the golden Buddhas, the temples, the markets – and decided that it was time to move on.

I tried north first. Caught the train up to Chiang Mai. Vague recollections of tramping along an arid trail on a “visit the hilltribes” tour. The mental snapshot of a storefront “massage services ‘menu’” that captured my attention. Ethical travelers can rest assured that I was too timid to investigate further. (Speaking of which, what did I do evenings in Bangkok? I was 25 and effectively bulletproof in my mind. I must’ve been looking for some sort of nightlife, but don’t remember any attempts at partying…)

But I decided it was time to hit the beach. Caught up in tracking down yet another adolescent fantasy, I plotted a course south for Phuket. Tourist island just off the west coast of Thailand, about halfway down the Malay Peninsula. Tourist trap, I’d been told. Gorgeous sunsets, beautiful beaches, but a tourist trap.

Yeah, whatever. I had visions of beautiful Aussie girls on Spring break (no matter that it was Australian autumn) sidling up to me, the rugged (hah!) mysterious (hah!) American lounging casually in the shade. What the hell was I thinking?

As I said, some of the details are fuzzy. But I hand-copied a few key details from a fellow traveler’s Lonely Planet, bought a bus ticket, and headed south.

I remember it being a lovely ride, and didn’t have the first inkling of trouble until I disembarked at the station in Phuket town amid a crowd of cabbies hawking rides. I was looking for the #10 (or such) bus to take me out to the beach, past the place whose name I’d copied back in Chiang Mai. Here we were in a bus station, and there were signs everywhere clearly directing passengers to busses, but I couldn’t read the script, and couldn’t figure out which one of them was the #10.

The cabbies, sensing easy prey, closed in. “You need ride to beach?”

“No, thanks – I’m looking for the #10 bus.”

“No such bus. Let me give you ride in taxi.”

“Really, I’ve got it here on a piece of paper: Take the #10 bus to Karon (or wherever) and get off at the second beach stop for the [forgotten name] Lodge.’”

“No such bus. Let me give you ride in taxi.’

I looked to the other cabbies for recourse, but they stood back; there was clearly a system, and I’d been designated this man’s mark.

I capitulated. I could either wander the town for hours, backpack over my shoulders, looking for another way to get to my hotel, or I could pay the tourist tax, hop in the cab and be done with it. I ditched my indignation, gave him the address, and climbed in.

We rumbled over the rough stones and broken asphalt out of town, and I sat in silence, fantasizing about the beach ahead. I was just getting tantalizing glimpses of ocean through the palms when the second snare was sprung.

“What was name of hotel?”

“[forgotten name] Lodge.”

“No longer there. Let me take you to better place.”

“What the…? Why the … didn’t you say anything back in town?”

“[silence]”

I tried bravado: “Hell – take me there, show me where it used to be!” Of course, he could have stopped at any of the scattered derelict houses we’d passed and declare that this was my intended destination. I realized that I was, for all intents and purposes, screwed on this front.

“Okay, what do you propose?”

“My brother has nice hotel.” (of course!) “I take you there.”

Once more, I did tourist trap calculus and computed the tax. One hotel versus another – how bad could it be? And riding behind my increasingly truculent cabbie, I realized that I didn’t really have any other choice.

His pleasant demeanor returned once we’d negotiated the cost of a room at his brother’s hotel, and I spent the rest of the ride swallowing my resurgent indignation. I’d stay the night. At the very worst, I’d spend the next day scouting out alternatives and trying to find my original destination.

I began having second thoughts when I piled out at the (worryingly isolated) and my driver departed hastily. The building was set back from the road, plantation style, and the nearest other structure looked to be a half mile off, at best.

Climbing the stairs and greeting the front desk as cheerfully as I could manage, I explained the rate I’d been promised by the owner’s brother. Certainly, and how long would I be staying? Just one night, for now. Oh no, that wasn’t possible – this rate required at least a three night stay.

My recollection of the rest of the day was a bit cloudy, but I assure you, they were dark clouds. It was a vast understatement to say that I was not a happy camper. I’d been handed off from scam to scam, taken for what I was worth by each and dumped into the waiting hands of the next in line. By the next morning, I’d resolved to skip town – two night’s deposit be damned – and head east on a five-hour ferryboat ride to Koh Samui where, I was led to believe, travelers were sparse enough to be treated with a touch more humanity.

But the bus/train/ferry combination wouldn’t get me out of Phuket until that night, so I had an entire day to kill. Unwilling to trust myself to the clutches of taxis, I convinced the hotel owner that I needed a moped for the day. Somehow it was arranged, and I had my first taste of liberty since stepping off the bus the day before.

I’d picked up a tourist pamphlet extolling the wonders of Phuket, and circled a couple I wanted to find, starting with the Sea Gypsy Village. The map suggested that I needed to follow a not-too-complicated maze of turns to get out to the southern tip of the island, at which point it would all be obvious. As emotionally battered as I felt, I was still 25, and now, armed with a moped, bulletproof once again.

I was stopped at a light, holding the map upside down (probably), when a boy on a scooter pulled up next to me and asked “Where are you going? What are you looking for?”

After the past day’s experience, there was no way I was going to engage anyone who approached me for advice. I blew him off with a disinterested “I’m just looking around. Just looking around.” and took off a little too briskly, to punctuate my point.

It was probably 20 minutes later, stopped at another maze-like street corner, that he pulled up again. Looking at me, looking at the map, he tried again: “You’re lost, right? Where are you going? I can show you.”

I decided to gamble, and fessed up: I was looking for the Sea Gypsy Village, and yes, perhaps, I was having a harder time finding it than I’ thought.

That brought a surprisingly innocent smile – “Oh, that’s easy! Follow me; I’ll take you”, and off he went in a cloud of dust, beckoning over his shoulder for me to follow.

By my calculation, the village should have been about 5 minutes out of town. We’d left the city streets for dusty roads at least 10 minutes earlier, and my apprehension was rising. What was he going to try to charge me for this? What kind of scam was he running? As the thoughts whirled through my head, it slowly dawned on me what a long deserted road he was leading me down. Oh crap – maybe this wasn’t a scam. Maybe it was… a mugging? Kidnap? Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!

He was now slowing to a stop as he crested a small hill, about 20 yards ahead of me, and I laid out my plan. The road widened at the top of the hill – I would reach the crest off to the right side, then accelerate in an arc across the road, turning back to bolt to downhill to freedom, the way I’d came. Not much of a plan, but the adrenaline was popping out through my eyeballs, and I was already appoaching the top of the hill.

As I slowed and calmly angled across the hill for my escape, he gestured down the far side at a sprawling beach camp of tents and long wooden fishing boats. “There – Sea Gypsy Village. Would you like a guide?”

I was a bit taken aback. He had delivered me as promised, with no questions asked. But I wasn’t going to press my luck. “Uh, thanks, but no thanks.” He was completely unfazed: “Okay. See you around!”, and with that, he was off.

As I wandered the Sea Gypsy Village, really wishing I had a guide, I wondered what the hell his deal was. Random good Samaritan? Some larger scam, the scope of which I had yet to comprehend?

I was quickly done with the village. I’d succeeded in getting somewhere without tourists and realized that I really didn’t have any idea what to do there. I strolled the sandy paths that passed for avenues and returned impenetrable silent gazes with a timid smile. I didn’t dare try to start conversation. I peered into fishing boats on the beach, took pictures of the hills, and admitted that I’d run out of ideas.

The way back into town was straightforward. I have no recollection of what I had on my mind, but I’d no sooner stopped at the first light when the boy on the scooter was back at my side: “Where are you going now?”

His voice was cheerful, in a tone I couldn’t place, and it must’ve pushed me over the edge. I don’t think I was harsh, but I fairly directly demanded that he fess up what his game was. Who the hell was he, and what did he want?

I succeeded beyond expectation in flustering him, and he spent a few moments searching for words. His name was Lak. He was going to be graduating from school this year. He had done well, and his parents had saved enough to send him to college, in Bangkok. He wanted to be a doctor. But Bangkok was the big city, and all the students there would speak English well. Here, very few people spoke English, and there was no one to practice with.

He came to the point of his request: could he hang out with me for the day, and practice his English on me?

Now it was my turn to be flustered. He was being completely straight about this. Uh, sure – of course!

So, where was I going? I dunno – you’re the local, you tell me where we should go.

We spent the rest of the day bouncing around town. I asked about the aquarium. He’d heard it was good, but had never been – too expensive for locals. I sprung for admission for the both of us. I think I must have bought us lunch, too.

Some time in the afternoon, we cruised to the outskirts of town to meet up with his friends in the corner of a field by a decaying brick building. One had an out-of-tune guitar, which I tried my hand at, badly. We all laughed, and I gave up.

There was more, too, much more. But that was over 20 years ago, and the details have been worn away like sandstone in a stream bed, leaving nothing but faint impressions of the memories that were once there.

We said goodbye that evening, and exchanged addresses. I promised to write, and for a few years we exchanged letters. School was going well; I’d met the woman I was going to marry; his family was healthy…

Somewhere along the line, the letters dropped off. I still have the ones he sent me, bundled up in a rubber band with other travel mementos. I keep telling myself that someday I'll try writing again, maybe to that first address in Phuket, to see if anyone still knows where he is, or how he's doing.

I don’t know if there’s any moral to the story, or if the entire story is a long-winded braid of lesser morals. Always call ahead. Avoid Phuket. Always have a Plan B. Know how much your dignity is worth. But mostly: keep your heart open to strangers. You’ll get bitten and bruised – often. But the ability to connect with a place is predicated on a willingness to connect with its people. And this connection is what takes you from being a tourist to being a traveler.