my life in a postcard

So I guess you could say that I’m a beach girl. I mean I grew up in southern California. I practically live in a bathing suit year round. And my favorite smell is Coppertone. So it should come as no surprise that my favorite weekend spots so far have been islands.

In the past few weeks I’ve visited several islands, Phuket, Koh Phi Phi, Koh Phi Phi Leh (where they filmed the movie “The Beach”), Koh Samet, and now Koh Chang. In Thai, chang means elephant. But here the elephant island is referring to the bulky shape of the island rather than its inhabitants.

Traveling to Koh Chang was the first time I’ve gone somewhere entirely by myself. After 21 hours of various modes of transportation, I finally made it to Elephant Island and it was all worth it. I had made no reservations before arriving on the island, so I headed down the beach in search of a room for the night. At first I encountered the epic KC Grande, the obnoxiously huge and impersonal luxury resort that flanks the first half of White Sands Beach. Luckily, a ways down the beach there was a change in attitude, and a distinctly funky vibe penetrated the uniformity of the preceding resort.

Small groups of people congregated in wooden lounge chairs at the water’s edge or perched beneath the wide expanse of the rock climbing trees. The vendors and cheesy souvenir shops gave way to small uneven bungalows that really looked more like shacks balancing on one leg. Towels, bathing suits, and various other articles of clothing were haphazardly throw over the slanted railings of these mini houses.

The beach began to narrow just past a small cluster of bungalows with friendly names like “Blu’s,” “Pen’s” and “Little Chang’s.” It was the odd strings of halved coconut shalls and pastel painted PVC piping dangling from a sprawling tree that lured me on. Around the base of the tree hung a punching bag, a wide wooden swing, and a bamboo hammock. Beyond these pendulous objects was the place I knew I would be staying at, Independent Bo’s.

I wish I could capture the essence of the Independent with a single word like eclectic or unique or bizarre, but to do so would go against the very notion of the place. Floating on your back in the shallow waters and looking back towards the sand is the only way to take it all in. Even after three days of staring at the façade, I wouldn’t know where to begin.

You may first notice the big red sign that reads: Independent Bo’s good place, nice people” in thick gold letters, or maybe one of the other seven that also display the mantra in various shapes and sizes and colors. Perhaps it is the collection of assorted flags, tattered from years of salty sea air that intrigues you. Or maybe its all the elephants that catch your eye. Or maybe it’s one of the other random (although random doesn’t really cover it) articles that seems to have found a perfect niche tucking into the face of this odd little establishment.

Whatever it was that caught my eye, it pulled me right up the soggy, sandy staircase and into the “lobby.” After writing down my first name and promising to follow the “house rules” I was in, a member of the Independent family. From there I was escorted up into the jungle to my bungalow/tree house. The hike to #23 is a bit extensive, but totally worth it. On the way up, I traversed stairs that zigzagged past common rooms, laundry machines, up stairs made from old roofing planks, cinder blocks, and poorly laid concrete, and up a wooden ladder, then I finally reached the front door and found myself wondering where the rope swing and the alligator moat were.

The room itself was basic, but beautiful. Inside is a bed, a pillow, a blanket and a mosquito net. The room consisted of three and a half walls one of which was shared with a ex-New Englander who chatted like he hadn’t seen Americans in months; the “half-wall” consisted of vertical 2x4s that held up the ceiling, and a blue framed window that led straight out to the ocean, just ocean and horizon every morning. Amazing. I decided I could do without the fourth wall.

Back on the beach, I spent the next two days in quiet solitude before the rest of the girl’s weekend crew arrived. I passed the time alternating between reading my latest literary snack, Three Cups of Tea, and floating on my back in the warm, shallow waters, trying to spot my room way up in the tree tops. I even took myself out to dinner. A little place called Thor’s, the kind of place where you can sit at a table in the sand, staring out at the dark water, and eating the most velvety and delicious panang curry all by yourself undisturbed. It was perfectly indulgent and rejuvenating.

The girls arrived the next morning to find me in a state of perfect bliss, eating fluffy banana pancakes while mindlessly swinging in my bamboo hammock. We spent the day reading our books, soaking up some vitamin d, and exchanging stories from the battlefields of the thai school system.

We celebrated our reunion with leo beers while watching the sun dip below the blue waters, painting the sky pink. A shade of pink that the protagonist of Three Cups of Tea refers to as the exact color of happiness. And I couldn’t agree more.