A night boat, a seaside resort, and also monkeys.

After three days on Koh Phangan (more to say about this place), and four more on Koh Tao (not so much to say here–it was beautiful and touristy; I snorkeled but did not dive), L. and I decided to stop off at a seaside resort town called Prachuap Khiri Khan on our way to Bangkok.

From Koh Tao we booked passage to the port city of Chumphon on the last ferry of the night–a rusting hulk used primarily to transport cars. Cramped, split-level sleeping quarters offered mean accomodations (the name “Golden Venture” popped into my mind.) Restless and hot, I wandered out to the back–er, stern–of the ship. There I espied a ladder and climbed onto the roof (which I think may be correctly called the poop deck?!? I hope so.) It was empty and I went back down to retrieve L.

We laid out on the rusty steel deck, she with a tire for a pillow, me with a bunched-up towel, and looked up at one of the biggest, most beautiful night skies I’ve ever seen. The moon shone brightly in its last quarter. Shooting stars streaked overhead and darted at the corners of my eyes. The only sounds were the thrum of the ship’s engine and the churn of the water being left in our wake. Single port and starboard lights glowed red and green, and a red siren light turned silently between them.

As we we made our way across the Gulf of Thailand, I suddenly thought that there was nowhere else on earth that I’d rather be. I wouldn’t have traded that view, that moment, that unyielding steel beneath me for the most comfortable bed in the most expensive hotel room in the most exotic place in the world. This is why I wanted to travel, I thought. This moment and this place, right now. An unexpected euphoria swept across me like a breeze.

From Chumphon, we caught a bus five hours north to Prachuap Khiri Khan. In total contrast to the island beaches we’d just left, Prachuap struck me instantly with its faded fishing-town charm. It’s visited primarily by Thais; there were hardly any other farangs around. We took a room at the Suk Sant Hotel, an early 60’s concrete-and-plaster behemoth painted bright yellow, tangerine, and electric lime. Of course, I couldn’t have liked it any more, although this is as much a function of my idiosyncracies as it is an objective commentary on the hotel’s standard. Still, I can say it was fairly cheap (390 baht for a double room), and we did have a balcony looking right over the bay.

As if its slightly sad and lonesome seaside charm weren’t enough, Prachuap Khiri Khan also has monkeys. Hundreds of them. They rule a mountain in the center of town (called Magic Mirror Mountain), which features a temple, Wat Thammikaram, at its peak. For more than a moment I thought maybe I had invented this magical and wonderful place.

(I have to say, though, much as it pains me: one relatively tame monkey is cute; dozens of them scurrying around and shrieking and ripping your friend’s 7-11 bag open and baring their teeth and stalking towards you menacingly–I didn’t like this as much. On the way up the mountain to the temple, there were a couple of covered sitting areas that were honestly frightening to walk through. The monkeys were just hanging around like a bunch of bored, menacing 1950s juvenile delinquents. I had to stomp and yell “NO!” in a deep caveman-like voice a couple of times to ward off an aggressive advance.)

Other things Prachuap Khiri Khan had going for it in my book were a run-down and almost empty funfair, and a strange outdoor Thai costume drama performance which seemed largely improvised and featured malfunctioning microphones, children wandering on stage, loud bursts of feedback, and a man who looked like the Thai David Bowie wearing a scout uniform.

Also, the town is home to a Royal Thai Air Force base, Wing 53, right on the beach. During World War II, the Japanese invaded Prachuap Khiri Khan the day after they bombed Pearl Harbor.

Walking on the beach, L. and I watched fisherman repairing their colorful boats and nets, and noticed the slow-motion trails thousands of hermit crabs were leaving in the wet sand. We wandered the streets with their salt-worn wooden homes; in places it almost looked like a New England fishing town. Every meal we had was excellent: fresh seafood in curry soup, whole fish–a cottonfish covered in garlic at one meal, a sweet-and-sour seabass at another. I could have stayed for a few more days, but Bangkok and the Songkran festival and L.’s plane awaited.