Koh Tao: Feb 27 - Mar 5

KOH TAO (FERRY)

Koh Tao: Take Two

I first visited Koh Tao in early 2009. Back then, it was part of a short Southeast Asian jaunt that started the itch for something bigger.

Nearly three years later, here I was again.

Here hadn't changed much. It was popular then and no more a secret now. Some new construction might have been visible on the island, but the ferry stopped against a weathered wooden pier at Mae Haad, and it was the same short walk to Sairee Beach and the familiar rotation of diveshops, restaurants-stroke-bars, convenience stores, tattoo parlours and bungalows reaching nearly two kilometres down its length.

The first and biggest difference was that this time I arrived with company. Not just Dheiu, but Rob, a Glaswegian we'd met in Koh Phangan.

It was a good company, if one we didn't want to cram into the same room. We found our own nearby ramshackle bungalows and our lives quickly set to a rhythm of beer, sun, Pad Thai and late waking. While the days became so indistinguishable that we would have had trouble finding ourselves on a calendar, we always knew what was coming next.

Morning either started late or was ignored altogether. More certain was the cloudy-headed dehydration. No matter. We were on a tropical paradise in bungalows surrounded by drooping palms for half the price of a hostel bed back home. I would wake, 20 metres from the beach, to an ocean breeze that blew through mosquito screens and sounded against the corrugated iron roof like the first sheet of tropical rain. Not that the sun was often interrupted; next I'd move to the balcony and its warmth.

Eventually--after reading, listening to The Tallest Man On Earth or just watching fronds sway as my head coalesced--I'd step out into the day in the new, usually mismatched thongs (flip-flops, to any non-Australians) I'd pulled from a poorly-lit lottery pile on leaving the last bar too few hours before.

Koh Tao isn't a large place, named for a turtle and similarly small. Unlike the gridded streets of Haad Rin or other island destinations throughout Thailand, Sairee isn't much more than a thin strip of development along the length of the beach. A real road sits further back, linking the island's few beaches and villages with additional dirt tracks, but all we ever used was the narrow concrete path that ran past the front of our bungalows. It was enough. Driven only by motorbikes hauling tourists, pancake stall sidecars and oxygen tanks, this sandy path ensured that everything we needed was just a short slap of someone else's thongs away.

We'd follow it north or south, meeting up before or after a late breakfast by the beach.

Scattered beyond the shallow surf were the squat diveboats. In 2009 I had done the final four dives of a PADI course from such a boat. It had been a revelation, a coral-rich world where sound, colour and movement ran to new laws. Back to 2012 and a stricter budget; the closest we came to diving was playing frisbee horseshoe with floating Chang bottles between the longboats that ferried divers into deeper water. Between that and sitting, we passed the days.

Nights always snowballed.

They'd begin simply enough on Rob's balcony. From there we could glimpse a narrow portrait of sunset between two beachfront restaurants. While the lowering sun shimmered across the water, silhouetting diveboats and drawing bruised swirls of purple and orange around wispy clouds, we sat and talked beery. Rob had popped up after nine weeks of history-scouring, near-exclusive company. He was an old friend in no time. We were so comfortable swapping stories, drinking Changs (6.5%) and streaming TV clips that some nights we didn't even face the sun.

That was usually all we intended--or maybe just a few drinks out. After crowning off a late dinner with another beer or two back at Rob's bungalow, we'd return to the beach, by now raked clean and dotted with bean bags, reed mats, planted fronds and lanterns.

Moderation always came off second-best. Teenage firetwirlers branded the night sky. The tide nibbled in. We drank: Rob like a Scotsman, Dheiu and I like our bikes were hundreds of kilometres away.

Wake. Rinse. Repeat.

With fewer people and better music, it was different to my experience of being out in Koh Phangan, but not so different from when I'd last visited. Deja vu struck in bars.

There were clear changes though: a giant superstore where none had existed before, the old wooden bungalow I had stayed in last time had been replaced by a smoother class of accommodation that probably included a flushing toilet and there was now a ladyboy cabaret, as on larger Thai tourist spots.

Fair enough. I did wonder what Koh Tao would look like in another three years, but it's pointless hypocrisy to stand on a paradise and begrudge its popularity.

By the end of the week it was definitely time to go. And not just because of Rob’s departure or creeping Bangkok glitz.

Some people can maintain that pace for weeks, years, lives. Not us. We'd rested hard, but it was only enjoyable because it wasn’t sustainable. It had been a good break—one we were sure we’d look back on in the colder, harder months to come—but we were ready to return.

Haggard from too much sun, leisure and beer, we made our way to the airport that would take us closer to cycling.