Tim Morch

The Coconut Telegraph Issue 21

2011-06-02T07:13:00.000-04:00

As with every good thing, there is always an end. Having said that, an end need not necessarily be final. An end can be like a period at the end of a sentence. There is always another sentence to follow. And so an end to the season's chapter in SE Asia and the beginning of another summer in Canada.

The journey homeward is always a bit of an adventure. The mandatory stop in Bangkok includes a visit to the nice people at Nikon, a meal at one of my favourite restaurants near Lumpini Park and a night on the town. My friend Dave - a surfer I met in Sumatra - was in town, so I showed him a few highlights and we shared some laughs. I visited the nice folks at Cosmos Composite to check out a variety of carbon fiber products. From high-end carbon fiber business cards to water skis, surf boards, kayak helmets and more, Laurent and his team make a variety of super lightweight products. We are working out the details of a new carbon fiber wave ski for me to test next season.

As seems to be part of an established pattern, I visited Chris Watts in Hong Kong for ten action-packed days. Chris was finishing his second book and was shooting the video that will accompany the online book "The Beauty of Posture". I photographed this session to include some stills in the book and we spent another evening shooting with a model.

It is a long flight from Hong Kong to Toronto, but it is direct. Arriving in Toronto with three massive bags and two smaller bags got me to that 'special' line at Canada Customs. You never know what they are going to do when they haul you off to the side. No harm, no foul, as they say, just another customs officer who cannot understand why my passport is so full of stamps.

The shock of the cooler climate reminds me of the words of an older Swiss man I met in the Annapurna's: 'there is no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothes." Although I have all the gear to keep warm, I prefer fewer clothes and warmer weather any day!

Back in Ottawa, the rain falls with a vengeance. It seems that rain has been the predominant weather hitting many parts of Canada this spring, with flooding occurring across the nation. After a record breaking spring for rain I think everybody is keen to see summer suns shining and torrid temperatures.
Rain or shine, my Harley is my only transport and, as usual, she fired up ready to roll for another summer.

And then "bam!" Back to work, pay off some of the debts and try to put a small cushion in the bank for the next adventure. At the rate time seems to be whizzing past, the next adventure will upon me before I realize the summer has come and gone.
Enjoy the spring.

Here's to a summer filled with hot days and wild nights!

To view the complete edition of The Coconut Telegraph click here.

The Coconut Telegraph Issue 20

2011-05-04T20:03:00.000-04:00

Anyone who stays on Koh Phayam for a length of time knows just how cyclical the island is. From mid-October until mid-December, there are few foreigners, the vibe is mellow and there are plenty of opportunities to get to know the local people, rekindle relationships and enjoy some quiet time in their company. This time of the year is a particular favourite of mine.

The switch gets flipped somewhere around December 20th when the holiday-makers arrive in droves. Gone is the backpack toting, wannabe hippy crowd - welcome to the suitcase with wheels world. Space is tight, rates are raised as everyone wants those elusive Euros and dollars. People are too busy to remember to breath and everyone starts the whine that they are working too hard.

Things level out somewhat in March and the downturn in arrivals is gradual. This season, the weather was very unusual and March saw a lot of rain. It damaged the cashew crop and the psyche of tourists, who left in flocks. The island was deserted and it seemed as though that peaceful "end of season" period was upon us. Then, along comes Songkran - Thai New Year - and along come the expats on holiday, along come the Thais and along comes the water. Songkran is always a special time of year in small communities like Koh Phayam. Here, the flavour is participation not aggravation. Sure, you might find some cold water, or colored powder, but that comes from someone you know - someone to whom you can return the favour.

My last days on Koh Phayam delivered fantastic surf! Check out the Beach Report for a full breakdown. To view surf photos, click here.

As happens every year, I visited my Weaving for Women friends in Sangkhlaburi, near the Three Pagodas Pass Burmese border crossing. It has been a tough year for them as tourism was especially low this year following the October clashes on the border, poor weather, a dismal world economy and so on. Nonetheless, I am continually impressed by their endurance, survival skills and above all continued ability to smile in the midst of all these trials and tribulations. The town continues to change with each passing day.

Check out the full edition of The Coconut Telegraph. Click here.

And so, it is time to pack up, carry on and return to try and find some elusive dollars for the next adventure.

Surf Koh Phayam

2011-04-12T11:40:00.000-04:00

It's one of those things we never look forward to, yet something we shall never evade. It's called change. It comes in many forms, wags as many tails as it tells tales and rarely delivers the goods.

But sometimes, change is good. And here is one example that I have had the pleasure to watch evolve. Surf Koh Phayam, located at South Star Surf Bar, is a welcome addition to the island scene. Surfing is healthy and fun - without even mentioning the "zen" thing, simple pleasures or gravity sport adrenaline.

As I watch the number of riders in the water grow from one to six in as many years, I do not fear crowds. There are plenty of other convenient places to ride - but there will not likely be as many places as friendly.

Drop in on me - no problem - I might grab hold of your board and shake it if I know you. Otherwise, I will turn away and look for the next ride. It's always 'the next ride'. Analogies could be made - but there shall be none.

This also brings potential for the off-season, when we have all forgotten our so-called "friends" on the island and lie basking in the western sun and western earnings while they are pounded by rain, wind and WAVES. Yes, I did say WAVES. The off-season is wave season. More surfers from May to October means more opportunity for the surf gurus as well as the island. And with the surf scene growing, maybe this change will be one for the better.

GoPro HD Surf HERO Camera

From Swell to Hell

2011-03-10T08:06:00.000-05:00

From the beach, the waves looked perfect. In the early morning, the conditions were glassy and a slight offshore breeze created that classic mist blowing off the top of the breaking waves. Each wave appeared to set up in a regular cycle, peeling off to the right and inviting us into the ocean.

But looks can be deceiving. If you have never surfed a reef break before, it can be daunting. Paddling out, the waves appear larger than from the shore. And the sight of the reef a mere meter or two below is a sobering reminder of the potential danger. The first time you paddle into a wave, you cannot help but notice that the water covering the reef is sucked away as the wave stands up. The coral heads suddenly become a half meter or less below. Everything starts to happen quickly and one false move will dump you. If you are lucky, you can lie flat in the soup. If you get pushed down, there is the inevitable reef rash.

The difference between a surf board and a waveski is that a surfer can kick the board away and lie flat but the waveski rider is strapped on. This means that your head is now that lowest point and occasionally uncomfortably close to the coral. You learn to get upright fast or pop the escape on the buckle and get flat on the surface. But these are the risks you take when you ride the reef swell.

More dangerous in West Lampung is getting to and from the reef. The common method is to ride a motorcycle with a rack mounted on the left side to carry your board. The roads are barely wide enough for two cars to pass, so caution (hati-hati - slowly-slowly) is the motto. They are always littered with an assortment of cows, goats, sheep, dogs, carts, rice sacks, people, cars, trucks, motorcycles and more. Add a liberal dose of potholes or toss in a narrow bridge and driving can be a hellish nightmare.

The road often resembles a gathering place more than a transportation zone. People stand on the road smoking cigarettes and talking. It is not uncommon to see several motorcycles parked on the road and a group of people sitting on the road chatting. The horn is your friend - you must beep to pass everything and the more frantic the beeping the greater haste made to move. Of course the trump card is the air horn from a big truck - everything scatters.

But the number one danger on the road is the teenage kids. They ride like fools two, three or four motorcycles together, racing, weaving back and forth, slowing down, speeding up and paying little attention to the horn system.

When a foreigner (boo-lay) passes they try to reach over and pat your shoulder. Not entirely smart on any given day, but add that surf board and rack to the left side and things get uncomfortably close. In a worst case scenario, the bike can hook the board and the kids can go flying across the road.

I know - I have witnessed this up close and personally.

So, in the world of calculated risks, the reef and the swell are far better than the road and its hell. Hati-Hati.

To read more about the Sumatra Surf Trip. please visit:
http://timmorch.com/Coconut Telegraph/Volume 18/coconut_telegraphV18.htm

Scenes from "The Beach"

2010-12-03T23:30:00.000-05:00

It was kind of like a scene from "The Beach". Unfortunately, there were no mythical marijuana plantations or spectacular waterfalls, or Lord of the Flies lifestyle (Kill the Pig!), but there was a lure, a hook if you will (as fishing seems to be my new hobby and the ocean my new supermarket).

My friend Chen whispered about a place he called "Aow Yai Kim", not far from his village on the mainland. When I presented him with a chart, he was uncertain, but thought it was one of two islands between Koh Phayam and the mainland. Chen recognized the island in front of his village and showed me where his home was on the chart - so I knew he was in the zone when he pointed at a possible location. What piqued my interest was the part about big waves when the swell was up - Chen said that the fishermen speak of huge waves on the beach.

So, one morning I paddled out in search of a beach that locals from the mainland seem to revere and few from Koh Phayam know by name. Initially, I crossed to Koh Tha Wua Dam, about 17km from Aow Yai, just off the mainland. When I arrived, I discovered it was all rocky, no beach. From the chart, I thought this island was a potential surf break as there is a large rock at the end of the bay that looks like it could kick up the swell. The rock is not on the Admiralty Charts but it is definitely on my GPS. But the GPS is not "god" because according to my electronic data, I paddled across an island. Add or subtract a few hundred meters and everything is OK. On this side of the world, a few hundred meters is nothing.

Undeterred, I asked a local crab fisherman if he knew where "Aow Yai Kim" was. Without hesitation, he pointed further north to Koh Sai Dam. In the distance, I could see the white strip of sand on the beach.

As my Feathercraft glided through the surprisingly blue-green sea, I approached the beach. I could see a small longtail anchored in the shallow water and four Thai men cooking. I landed and walked over to greet them. As Thai people always do, the second thing they said was "khin khao" (literally, it means 'eat rice', but it is the Thai invitation to eat). And so, we did.

We ate fish they caught on their "boys 24-hour fishing and drinking trip" and - naturally - rice. Captain Chao showed me a 15kg barracuda they caught and we laughed as we ate together. As bad as my Thai is, we were still able to communicate without problem. "Thai style", as they say, the guys picked up their dishes, boarded the longtail, shook hands, said goodbye and were off.

I walked up and down the beach - envisaged the swell packing in between the two wee islands just a hundred meters offshore and pictured myself as the first rider on a new break. Dreams are free - and they are fantastic!

Fishing Tales & Other Lies

2010-11-28T20:05:00.000-05:00

So there I am, floating around Koh Kham fishing. I seem to do this more and more.
A friend of mine grew up here and as a girl, she recalls the excellent fishing at Koh Kham. One night when she and her brother were out fishing she casually dipped her toes in the water as she did on many other outings. Her brother was pulling in a fish and there was some action in the water. She watched as half a fish came into the boat and quickly pulled her foot out. They never knew if it was a barracuda or a shark.

I actually have a jack on board and there has been plenty of action. The current is moving and I am constantly readjusting position to stay close to the current without getting pushed onto the rocks. I check over my shoulder frequently to keep an eye on the swell that is rolling in.

It's interesting how one minute you are floating along tossing a line at the rocks and the next you are back-paddling with decisiveness as a big rolling wave wants to lift you up and deposit you on the rocks. It happens quickly. Compound that with a fish on the line and it can get interesting.

I reel in my line and shoulder check, when out of the corner of my eye I see motion and hear a big WHACK! As I turn, an eagle ray lands and hits the water's surface with an equally resounding WHACK! National Geographic moment, for sure.
This is also the place where I ran into nine sea otters recently. I think the family arrived not long after the tsunami and I have seen them swimming about the island over the years. Last year, I saw them in front of Hippy Bar in Buffalo Bay and counted seven. There appear to be two smaller ones this year - I assume the kids - and the adults watch my kayak closely all the while calling amongst themselves in high pitched otter-talk. I tell them: "don't worry little friend, I am not here to harm you." I am not sure if they understand Tim-talk.

This is also where I watched a fishing boat pull in a hug net full of sardines. A couple dozen crewmen bring in the net, singing as they go, and haul the catch into a large wash basin. They boil them right there on the boat.

The beauty abounds: the ocean, the jungle, the sky. Sunset the other day had a rainbow.

And to cap it all off, on Nov 16th, a pod of approximately 9 to 12 dolphins sauntered along the beach at sunset.

As Long as There is Water

2010-06-02T06:48:00.000-04:00

My life is aqua-centric. I am drawn to water like a bug to light.

I recently returned from six months on Koh Phayam, an idyllic island on tropical Thailand's Andaman Coast. Countless hours in the ocean paddling a sea kayak, surfing a waveski and swimming never failed to bring a smile to my face. The ocean creeps into your system and becomes a drug. Like an addict, I need my water fix. Without the ocean or a lake or a river, I am incomplete.

When I left Koh Phayam, my first stop was Hong Kong Island. You are never far from the ocean and often find yourself riding a ferry between islands. Even the ferry to Discovery Bay on Lanta Island imparts a sense of the sea as the craft rolls past Chinese junks and sampans, private yachts, a fleet of other ferries and the inevitable morass of super tankers.

Returning to Ottawa, one of my first stops was Downie Island, in Canada's famous Thousand Islands. What a fantastic setting to call an office. The cruise ships pass regularly and pleasure craft of all shapes and sizes move about. Geese, loons, osprey and a host of other birds create a background symphony.

For the May long weekend, I visited Black Island (aka Kenny Island). The island is private and serene. The call of the loon floats eerily across the dawn as a deer slips silently to the water's edge for a drink. It is quite close to Ottawa yet seemingly so far from everything that you are transported to another world.

In the in-betweens, I have spent some glorious nights on Lac St. Antoine, watching the sun go down behind the Gatineau Hills as the colors shift and dance on the surface of the water.

In keeping with the water theme, my location for June will be Kennedy Lake. Although it is not an island, it is so remote that it may well be. Another superb office. I will watch and listen to "Maurice", the resident loon, admire the beaver and muskrat swimming below the surface of the crystal clear water, and give thanks for my good fortune.

As long as there is water, my soul is at peace.

Hong Kong

2010-05-24T22:41:00.000-04:00

Every time I visit Hong Kong I see a little more of this incredible collision of culture, commercialism and capitalism.

A week in the mid-levels - within walking distance of the central district is sensory overload. From the hustle and bustle of the daily grind to grind and hustle of the night time bustle, Hong Kong never stops.

I followed and photographed my friend Chris Watts, CSO (Chief Stretching Officer) of Stretch Asia, as he taught group stretch sessions in the Hong Kong Country Club, The Ladies Recreational Club, Deepwater Bay Golf Club and at Action Asia's Discovery Bay event: all in the course of one week. Needless to say it was a busy week.

Nevertheless, as Hong Kong does not sleep, it becomes imperative to try at least once a visit to follow the cities lead. The night out started at "The Wanch", a live music bar in Wanchai District, to listen to Ian Taylor and his band perform. This was followed by the show at Neptune's, one of the area's many bars. Each of these, needless to say, is packed with women all seeking the company of men. So it makes for quite a show. For someone with deep pockets it can be a dangerous place. For someone like myself with empty pockets it becomes a source of great entertainment.

An evening in Mong Kok, deep in the Chinese community, provides a glimpse into another world. The Ladies' Market covers several streets and is filled with every type of knockoff item one can imagine. The place is jam packed with people shopping and all that glitters shines bright in the sea of neon lights making this a "must do" experience.

Daytime shopping around Tsim Sha Tsui for electronics, sunglasses, photo gear and more knockoffs is fun, but be very wary when purchasing. All sales are final and most sales are phony.

Of course, no visit is complete without a walk through the park to check out the lemurs on the way to Pacific Place - or Specific Place as the kids call it.

All in all, Hong Kong is one of the few cities in the world that I like and I always look forward to the next visit.

Bangkok Barren

2010-05-02T04:02:00.000-04:00

The tension in the air is as palatable as the humidity hanging from dark clouds that are symbolic of the political situation here in Thailand.

The few foreigners in the Sukhumvit area of Bangkok are only slightly outnumbered by Thai people. All civilians are outnumbered by police. The police are far outnumbered by military. Sukhumvit Road, a principle tourist area, is lined with police and military.

The red shirts - United Front for Democracy Against Dictatorship (UDD) - have been protesting for weeks now and there have been several violent clashes and a number of lives lost. Recently, the red shirts stormed Chulalongkorn Hospital, one of the city's main hospitals, causing serious concern in an already explosive situation.

The UDD has closed down the Silom district with a tremendous impact on the businesses in this the central business district. Last week, RPG's fired by UDD supporters hit the Sala Daeng BTS Sky train station, closing the service for over a day. Since that incident, protesters have hunkered down for a prolonged demonstration.

Traffic in the 'City of Eternal Traffic Jams' is worse than ever. Most taxi drivers will only take fares that go away from protest areas. Motorcycle taxis are the only way to get about. My short trip along Petchaburi Road to Panthip Plaza was largely uneventful, but only because my driver skillfully weaved through the throngs of motionless autos. Most of the streets connecting to Sukhumvit, just over the khlong (canal), were blocked by protesters. Barricades made of car tires, razor wire and bamboo were backed by protesters. The city appeared to be ground to a halt, yet, in that mysterious Thai way, somehow functioning.

On the street just outside my hotel, there were several dozen military with riot shield, full riot gear, automatic weapons and other support. Only in Thailand will you find the military smiling and saying hello to people, allowing photographs and even posing with children. In any other country they would ignore all civilians. Yet this is part of the unique and enchanting aspect of Thai culture. They are resilient and somehow manage to maintain a sense of humor even in the most challenging situations.

I thought about that as my taxi entered the tollway to the airport. The tollway was empty and my taxi driver pointed the car down the fast lane at 140km per hour. As we neared the airport, traffic slowed to a crawl. Police and military reduced traffic flow to two lanes and were clearly checking to make sure that there was no repeat of last year's protests that closed Suvarnbumi Airport.

The airport was empty. Airport staff were talking about the red shirts - clearly they did not like what was happening. Thai airways has reportedly canceled 15% of its regular scheduled flights and there is an eerie quiet to one of the largest airports in Southeast Asia.

I fear for the immediate future as there appears to be no way out of the current situation without something breaking. But then I remember that this is Thailand, a country with a history of coups and political turmoil and the unerring ability to forge forward regardless.

Adios Aow Yai

2010-04-29T00:52:00.000-04:00

As the sun set on my final day on Koh Phayam it seemed somehow fitting that I was eating barbecued chicken and sticky rice not with other foreigners but with Burmese friends.

The sun dipped below the horizon and the black rain clouds moved closer. The tempestuous colours on Aow Yai Beach went through several phases until dark set in.

As the sky opened up, I reflected on another good season on the island. It has been a season of change, in many different ways, but change is good.

The final issue of The Coconut Telegraph went online yesterday. Lucky #13.

Surf Photos, 2010

2010-04-11T02:43:00.000-04:00

I am always waiting for waves. Whenever the surf is up, life goes on hold. The logic is simple: we wait for the waves; the waves do not wait for us.

The past few days, the goddess of the sea has been smiling and the waves have been up. With life on hold, I have moved to what I refer to as the ‘head office’ and have enjoyed countless hours of riding. It always brings a huge smile to my face.

The dolphins made a guest appearance the other day. They were so close I thought we might surf the same wave. The family of five was more interested in fish than waves and I rode solo.

When the day is done and the body is crying for rest, sleep is deep. There is nothing like waking before sunrise to the sound of waves crashing on the beach and the prospect of more riding. In honour of the waves, I have posted a few surf shots.

The Coconut Telegraph, Volume 12

2010-04-01T06:01:00.000-04:00

April Fool's Day seemed an appropriate day for a new edition. This is no joke, however, this is very real. Enjoy.

Once again, The Coconut Telegraph has the pleasure of returning to Sangkhlaburi. This time, Jay "The Man" Flesher and Bruce "Broo" Hamelin joined me for the journey. Neither had the pleasure of visiting this scenic pocket of Thailand previously and they were both excited for the adventure.

We left Koh Phayam and Jayman and I did a visa-run before getting on our way. A short minibus across the Isthmus of Kra to Chumphon and a glorious ride to Bangkok on the sleeper train. Nothing compares with a good sleep on the way to Bangkok. The minivan to Kanchanaburi crawled around the road blocks and zig-zagged through the closures in Bangkok due to the Red Shirt protests. It took 35 minutes to wend our way to the bridge over the Chao Phaya River, but as soon as we crossed the water it was clear sailing. Another minivan to Sangkhlaburi arrived at our final destination 28 hours after setting foot on the speedboat.

Jayman and Broo were instantly enthralled with the town. After unpacking, they met Daisy Dwe, Programme Director for Weaving for Women. As the newly relocated loom clicked and clacked the boys were inspired to do a little shopping. Broo ordered a special bed sheet and a custom designed duvet cover - a first for the WFW weavers and tailors. Jayman bought a large stack of goods as well and the ladies had some work ahead to fill the orders before we left town. They succeeded and we departed five days later with more in our bags then when we arrived.

We paddled to the old Sangkhlaburi Temple which was flooded when the Vajiralongkorn Dam was constructed. At low water, the temple emerges from the water and we were able to walk about some of the structures.

I tour guided the boys to all the standard stops on my orientation tour: Wat Wangwiwekaram, the Mon Temple and the border at Three Pagodas Pass. We stopped at the Sanghalei River for a snack and a cold beverage and shopped like demons in the Mon market. Broo purchased a large and impressive wood carving made from a single piece of teak. We also had the pleasure of visiting the more remote Karen village of Ban Sane Pong on the first day of a three-day festival.

When all was said and done, we were in agreement that Sangkhlaburi will remain on the list of preferred locations in Thailand.

Click to view the complete edition of Volume 12

The Coconut Telegraph, Volume 11

2010-03-28T00:53:00.000-04:00

The more things change the more they stay the same. This is one of those axioms that is oft repeated but not as frequently appreciated. I see the change happening on the island and as much as I like to recall "the good old days", I must also accept that in the grand scheme of things nothing has really changed. There is simply more of it. Koh Phayam remains a paradise.

People come and people go - this is a recurring theme when you live in a travelers' paradise for a longer period of time. After all, not everybody has months on end to be a bum, relax, play some sport and live life. How fortunate.

The Cashew Nut Festival came and went with the usual shenanigans. If you have never been to a Cashew Nut Festival you should experience one. That way you will know exactly what every other one was like and what future festivals will be. The events managed to be cobbled together without too many hiccups and the bars and restaurants lining the street were biggest success stories. Football was the sport highlight, with the Koh Chang team winning the tournament and then turning around and donating the prize money to the temple here on the island. There was a volleyball tourney and a half-assed attempt at kayak racing. Naturally, the parties on both nights were the highlights for most of the attendees.

There continue to be a lot of motorcycle crashes. Some incidents involve our old friend "alchohol", some excess speed, most a combination of both. The result, however, is usually the same - lots of bandages, a daily visit to the clinic and a repair bill.

"The Canadians" returned en masse from various locations around the globe and had a blast. They truly demonstrated what it means to have fun. Their antics were witnessed from Aow Yai Beach to the village and even as far as Buffalo Bay. Truth be told, the people on the Burma side are still recovering from their overnighter to Victoria Point to drink Burma draft.

There seems to be a flurry of building on the road from Smile Hut and along. Massage Oiy is building a new shop opposite Porn. She will offer a variety of coffee, fresh baked products, wifi and more. It will be a nice wifi zone with a comfortable atmosphere.

Spring is in the air. Enjoy.

If you liked "A Better Burnout", check out the video version.

Click to read the complete edition of Volume 11.

Return to Blogging

2010-03-26T08:15:00.000-04:00

It has been quite a while since I last posted on my blog. Frankly, I am not up to speed on most of this stuff and let my account lag. I have fallen into the same black hole that other vagrant bloggers on blogspot like myself have discovered: it seems there is no way to recover old passwords from the old blogspot and reactivate the account. So, I have created a new account under the Google empire and will start afresh.

If you care, check out the old blog.

I will endeavour to be more current and more frequent with my posts.

The Secret is Out

2008-11-17T01:58:00.000-05:00

Wave Riding on Koh Phayam

The noise of waves crashing wakes me from a deep sleep and I know from the sound that they are substantial. I climb out of bed and a few minutes later I am in the ocean watching the dawn sky transform through a series of pinks and blues. The beach is empty and for a short time I own the place. Moments like this take on a mystical quality and I become philosophical as I reflect on my good fortune.

Outside, a set of waves starts to roll in and I shift into position to catch my first wave. A few quick strokes of my paddle and I am on the shoulder of a 3 footer riding left. Days like this are magical.

What’s the point of trying to keep a secret when it’s far more enjoyable to share the discovery with others? At least with others who would make the trek to this stretch of serene beachfront. My guilty pleasure of the past few years has found me naively guarding the identity of an island in Thailand’s Andaman Sea; an island of pristine beaches, a mere of trickle tourism and, undeniably, surfing waves.

Koh Phayam lies off the coast of Ranong Province very close to the Burma border. Accessible by daily ferries from Ranong town, the island has so far escaped the scourge of overdevelopment. Picture Samui in the ‘70s and you begin to form an appreciation of the island’s habitual quiet. Now add waves.

Aow Yai Beach, a 3km crescent of white sand, is where the occasional bout of good surf can be found. When storms brew in the Bay of Bengal during certain times of the year, an obliging though not overpowering surf makes its way to these shores.

Breaking waves on Aow Yai Beach surprised me the first time I came here. Intrigued with its potential, I spent a couple weeks body surfing, boogie boarding and watching the break. It’s a beach break, but when the swell picks up there are clean lefts and rights, most often at the center of the beach. The prospect of a longer board would provide hours of fun, I imagined.

Deciding to spend a season on Aow Yai I investigated the full range of water toys, starting with surf boards. Airlines typically allow a maximum length of 8’ 10” so a long board was out. Its inherent limitations nudged me to consider kayaks, sailboards and kite boards, with the natural progression of possibilities guiding me to the surf kayak. Flat water paddling options for those no-wave days combined with all the latitude, speed and thrills of a surf board – the surf kayak made its case loud and clear.

My research led me to an Islander “LipStik” – perfect for paddling and, at 8’ 8”, just within airline length regulations. Problem was, the manufacturer had tanked, so the search got a bit more involved. Fortunately, I located a new one in New Jersey, had it shipped to Canada, and I soon flew it to Thailand without a hitch.

On Koh Phayam I was stoked to find that it rides just like a mid-length surf board, fast and quick on the edge. The board moves well in the water and you can chase down almost any wave. With the removable fin off, the board has some slippage but there is no danger of damage and it is easy to perform 360’s. When the waves get larger, I install the fin and it tracks as if on rails.

I’ve enjoyed Aow Yai Beach for five seasons now, riding the waves and claiming exclusive rights to the break. Every season brings with it a few board-less surfers who marvel at the waves. One was Tomer, an Israeli musician and surf fanatic who was so pumped by January’s waves that he used a children’s trainer to chase the surf. Three days offered him enough swell to get some drops.

Next was a Belgian, David, who, coming off of four months in Trat province with only two days of surfing to show for his patience, found immediate satisfaction here. Having brought a board, his first day on Aow Yai welcomed him with swells easily topping a meter. David rode lefts and rights for several hours with wild-eyed excitement. When the sun set and he could ride no more, David called a friend at home and advised him to come immediately. Four days later, Christophe arrived with board in hand.

Moments like this naturally cultivate some chatter. Word gets out and soon others are starting to show up with boards looking for waves.

The best months for surfing are late October into November and April on into May. The monsoon with its powerful WNW winds subsides in October and the winds reverse, becoming offshore, which generates conditions for good left and right beach breaks. Come April and May, just before onslaught of the monsoon, the swell in the Andaman Sea increases and suddenly two meter waves are not uncommon. For long board riders or surf kayakers, December to March pose plenty of opportunities to ride.

Aow Yai accommodates every budget and style with nine bungalow operations lining the beach. Some bungalows have boogie boards for borrow or rent, but they are generally in poor condition. Bring your own equipment and avoid disappointment. If you arrive without a board, you may be lucky enough to rent or borrow something moderately functional from Aow Yai Bungalows or Bamboo Bungalows. The sign hanging in the Rasta Baby Bar is actually a surf board and I’ve seen it ridden in the past.

For those flat days, rent kayaks from several places on the beach. The snorkeling is good at the NW end of the beach and there are plenty of nooks and crannies to discover if you care to paddle a little further.

Great eats beachside and off-beach in Aow Yai Village are plentiful. Recommendations include starting the day at Silver Sand with fresh coffee mixed fruit salad with yogurt; My Barbeque for the fresh fish and nighttime entertainment; and, Café de Cool where chilling out and watching the always remarkable sunset is just one of an abundance of options. Other considerations include noshing at Bamboo Bungalow’s restaurant, the South Star where you can pick away at one of the house guitars over a cold beer, and working your way to down the far end of the beach to Rasta Baby Bar, a perennial favourite with backpackers thanks to its mellow atmosphere.

Just off the beach, Baan Nam Cha serves great food, a variety of teas and fresh baked goods. Next door, Horizon serves complements its Thai menu with fresh Italian pasta. The best massage on the island is at Thitirat’s House – ask for Oiy, she has magic hands that will work out the kinks from a long day in the water.

There are also plenty of other accommodations on other beaches around the island and the village at the pier has restaurants, shops and other services. Internet is widely available with WIFI at some locations.

The atmosphere remains very friendly on the island. Locals are warm and visitors are open and appreciative, which lends itself to a pleasant dynamic for all. Koh Phayam is definitely kid-friendly, as evidenced by the number of young families who enjoy the safe environment.

Although the secret is out, there are few surfers coming to Aow Yai. Hopefully, the waves will oblige and return with regularity. From this vantage point on my surf kayak, I cannot imagine anything more enjoyable than riding waves when a crowd means four, the atmosphere is friendly and the ocean is my playground.

To view surf photos, click here

For more info about other breaks in Thailand, check out:
http://www.wannasurf.com/spot/Asia/Thailand/
Who knows, maybe Aow Yai will show up on this site some day.

Copyright, Tim Morch, 2008

Prisoner of Penang

2008-02-22T01:50:00.000-05:00

The Visa Run

Anybody who spends more than 30 days in Thailand is familiar with the “visa run”. This involves a trip to the nearest border – which is often not so near - to stamp out of Thailand, cross the border and return to the Kingdom to enjoy another 30 days. In southern Thailand the 30-day visa run is usually to the Burma or Malaysia border.

When 90 days in Thailand have expired the visa run becomes a major undertaking to a Thai Embassy or Consulate in a neighbouring nation. A common place to attain an embassy/consular visa is Penang, Malaysia. According to the official Thai immigration website express visas are processed on the same day. A service charge applies.

I stay in Ranong Province and the 30-day visa run is close by to the Burma border. I have done the consular visa run to Penang before and it has been quite easy and fast once you reach Penang Of course, getting there is the long part.

I knew this particular visa run would be interesting when my friend Pon, owner of Pon’s Place in Ranong, told me the train was full and I would have to go by bus. I boarded the 8pm bus to Had Yai to find myself seated beside a large and unyielding woman who occupied her seat and half my seat. I squeezed in and established a little space in about ¾ of the allotted area She seemed to care little about proper seating and had no problem sitting half on top of me, thigh on thigh.

As the bus departed we were treated to the typical Thai karaoke videos. Fortunately the volume was not the customary ear piercing level, a small bonus. After a few stops to collect the remaining passengers we headed south toward Phuket and then east through the mountains to Surat Thani. I managed to keep most of my ¾ space but was unable to get any sleep from the combination of discomfort and loud chit-chat and cackles from the driver and crew just in front of me.

I squirmed around so that my neighbour and I were now butt to butt, she facing the window, me the aisle and caught a few minutes of shuteye before the attendant decided to crank up the music. It took some time for him to realize he had turned it up for the whole bus and not just the front cab. He finally turned it down but not until most of the people on board were awake. The squirming game with my neighbour continued for the next 7 hours until we finally reached Had Yai.

In Had Yai the only open place at 3:30am was, not coincidentally, where they hawked minivans to Penang. The initial price of 450 Thai Baht (TB) was reduced to 350TB after lengthy discussion. My Thai is not strong, but good enough to negotiate. I sat for the next 5 hours waiting for the 8:30am departure desperate to catch a few moments of unsettled sleep before the next leg of the journey.

The minivans rarely leave on time and today was no exception It departed late and immediately stopped at head office to register the passports of each passenger. Around 9:30am the van finally left Had Yai and in spite of a delay at the border arrived in Penang on Tuesday around 2:30pm. Malaysia is one hour ahead of Thailand.

At N.J. visa service on Chulia Street, Mr. Muhammed Haji Jabar advised me to pay the 100 Malaysian Ringit (MR) for the express service as Chinese New Year was two days away and the regular service would not return until the 11th because of the holiday. Hoping to return to Thailand as quickly as possible I paid the fee happily. Mr. Muhammed then explained that the regulations had unexpectedly changed Feb. 1st and the application required an air ticket out of Thailand. Fortunately, I had my laptop with me and printed the e-ticket to fulfill the requirements. Next, Mr. Muhammed said the consulate required proof of a hotel receipt in Thailand something I definitely did not have.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I will take care of that for you.” I thanked him and went to one of the dozens of nearby cheap hotels to sleep off 16 hours of travel.

Wednesday morning I went to the visa service to check on the status of my application and Mr. Muhammed advised me the vice-consul, Mr. Panurit Chamrasromram had informed the staff at the consulate that he might not sign any applications that day. There was a 50% chance I would not get my visa until Monday! I told him that if there was anything I could do to see that I got my passport - like pay more money - I would be happy to do so. After all, I just paid 100MR for the express service which might not be. Mr. Muhammed said it was not about money. His contacts had told him the vice-consul simply wanted to start his holidays early and to check back in one hour. When I returned, Mr. Muhammed said the chance I would get my passport that day was now 30%.

“Please check in one hour,” Mr. Muhammed advised. An hour later the odds were reduced to zero and Mr. Muhammed returned my express fee and apologized.

“There is nothing I can do, I am sorry,” he said as he counted out 100MR.

“Is there anyone in the consulate I can talk to?” I asked of Mr. Muhammed. He dialed a number and handed me the telephone. The voice on the other end told me there was no way I would get my visa that day. I pointed out the official website advised a one-day service was available for a fee. The man on the other end said “the website is not correct.”

“How can the official website be incorrect?” I asked.

“It’s not my problem, it’s yours,” he responded and hung up the phone. To add insult to injury, the vice-consul locked my passport as well as those of dozens of others in the same situation inside the consulate and there was no way to access them until Monday - 5 days later. I could not leave Malaysia to apply in Indonesia or Singapore and thus became a “prisoner of Penang.”

A young French woman overheard my conversation with the consul staffer and asked what I had learned. “Nothing,” I said as my irritation increased.

“I came here for a work visa,” she explained. “I have been hired as a manager by the Hiatt Hotel in Hua Hin and the company lawyers prepared all the documents. They advised me to come to Penang where I was assured I would get my visa the same day. I am supposed to start work Monday and I will not even receive my passport until Monday afternoon,” she said on the verge of tears.

We decided to drown our displeasure in alchohol. By coincidence, I met another Canadian in the bar who had just been to Kota Baru. She informed me that the consulate there does not require the ongoing ticket or a hotel receipt in Thailand. She had received her visa in one day without any problem. This further increased my irritation as I knew that I would remain a prisoner of Penang for the next five days.

Next time you go to Malaysia, I recommend Kota Baru. Perhaps the Consul Mr. Surapon Petch-vra and his team will treat you better than the Penang prison masters.

Copyright, Tim Morch, 2008

A New Beginning

2007-03-15T02:10:00.000-04:00

Aow Yai Beach, Ko Phayam

Koh Phayam, Thailand, March 14, 2007: the end of an era. Six weeks of two-on-two volleyball every morning ended when the core players retreated from our tropical island paradise and returned to whatever constitutes their “real world”.

Somewhat disoriented by the change to the morning regime, I decided that paddling my kayak was a good substitute. A strong northwester blew side-onshore so I pointed upwind, stroking steadily into the chop. After 1.5km, I reached the end of the white sand beach where a rocky headland juts out perpendicular. The cliffs created a wind shadow and the waves diminished with each stroke. I changed course and traveled toward the open sea staying close to the headlands. Creeping over the shallow reef, I watched Dusky Damselfish defend their territory while Moorish Idols paraded lazily amongst the corals. Sergeant Majors and Banded Butterfly fish cruised calmly through the green-blue water.

Leaving the rocky point behind, I rounded the tip and found myself in a confused sea. The combination of wind generated waves and surge waves coming from opposing directions, mixed with the rebounding surge from the headland, created a bathtub effect. Water sloshed everywhere as I bobbed along. I sat idly and watched thousands of small baitfish school at the surface. It looked like water was boiling only a few feet from my kayak. Occasionally, the ubiquitous predators that lurk below dashed through the school scattering the pack in a frothy frenzy only to regroup instantly. There is safety in numbers.

I floated on the wind back to the headland, lost in contemplation. Replaying some of the best serves, sets and smashes in my mind, I recreated rallies from recollection. I recalled the quips that were fired over the net as often as the ball, retorts returned with speed and a smile. I reminisced at the competitive nature of each player and noted that none lost their cool on the court or their sense of humour.

I repeated out loud the distinct declaration of disappointment of each player. Laurent “The Wall”, with his French-Canadian accented “ooohhhh noooooo” which was perpetually repeated with peels of laughter. “Rocket Boy” Jim and his gargled “aaarrghh” rarely failed to generate a comment. Or images of Chris paddling about in the sand with one hand on his bandanna covered forehead uttering a plaintive “ooooohhh” and our subsequent wisecracks. Each brought a smile to my face.

In the shelter the cliffs once again, I cooled off with a swim and found myself gazing aimlessly toward the horizon. The bright sunlight created bizarre effects on the wind whipped water and I imagined a variety of visions in my mind. I was almost certain I spotted a dorsal fin but decided it was a mirage created by the elements. Snorting at myself for conjuring images I was taken aback when the dorsal fin flew from the water, attached to a male dolphin performing a graceful aerial maneuver.

Attention suddenly focused, I paddled steadily toward the dolphin, two dolphins, make that four dolphins! They frolicked and fed nearby for almost half and hour. They moved in the water with grace all around me. As the foursome breached in unison I noticed that they had a baby no more than one meter in length squeezed securely between two adults. I also noticed that a fifth adult was distinctly pink in colour. At first I thought the light was playing tricks with my perception but after several sightings from a variety of angles I was certain it was pink.

The current eventually changed and the dolphins followed the food supply around the rocky tip out to sea. This small pod patrols the coast here but rarely comes close to the beach. I thought of the fortunate timing of my paddle and considered whether or not it was some kind of omen. Perhaps the end of the morning sessions signified the start of something new. Regardless, that day will remain rooted in my memory.

Copyright, Tim Morch

Bali, Where Are You?

2006-10-22T01:37:00.000-04:00

Hoping to discover something of the ‘real’ Bali, I left Kuta Beach on a rented motorcycle and pointed toward the interior of the island. Visions of mountains and jungles and rice terraces occupied my mind. Escaping the heavily populated southern region took some time, but north of Tabanan town the homes thinned out and fields of rice and vegetables emerged. The green of the countryside finally replaced the cluster of urban life.

The first sense of rural life that hit was the unmistakable aroma of chicken farms that filled the air. Some say the Dutch learned large-scale chicken farming in Indonesia and brought it to the west. Regardless, sizeable bamboo barns housing thousands of chickens on multiple levels lined the road.

My destination was the rice terraces of Jatiluwih near the base of Mount Baratou. Puttering along rural roads, slowing for animals and waving to children, there was an unmistakable distance from the crowded south. That was briefly erased near the village of Jatiluwih when I was stopped to pay an entrance fee to the area. Although it amounted to $1.25 it reminded me that the entire island lives on tourism.

The rice terraces are impressive. The steep terrain has been carved into steppes that cascade down the lower reaches of the mountain while the jungle portion rises above and behind. It looks so natural that it is easy to forget that every flat surface is the result of years of labour. Occasional day-trippers come to view the terraces, but they are few and far between. There is an impression of solitude here and by late afternoon I was the only foreigner.

The centuries old tradition of rice farming is labour intensive and the terrain prohibits any mechanization. Each terrace is a different size, depending upon the slope. In steep sections they are generally narrow, less than three meters wide, snaking along the natural contours. Where the incline permits they are larger but few exceed ten meters.

I came upon a man and his wife plowing a narrow paddy in preparation for planting. He gently guided a water buffalo following with a single bladed plow. Knee deep in water, the old man whistled to the animal urging it through the dense muck. His wife cleaned the row ends and other sections the plow was unable to reach. All three worked slowly but steadily as though time did not exist.

They both smiled in acknowledgement of my presence as I wandered nearby. Nearly stepping on a long snake I inquired in mime if it was dangerous. The woman laughed and indicated that I should simply “shoosh, shoosh” and it would move. Indeed, the snake was as languid as the environment and slowly slithered away.

The Kalang Kangin Inn, run by Mr. and Mrs. Wayan Miora, is the only accommodation in Jatiluwih. The simple accommodation is clean and the view from the front porch is a spectacular panorama of the valley with mountain peaks on the eastern horizon. I sipped a cold beer and watched the light change and dim as the sun set behind the mountain. Mrs. Miora offered to cook a “simple dinner” and I accepted the invitation. Two large traditional dishes and a desert of fresh papaya later and I was full. I thanked her for the meal and returned to my room. A chorus of insects and other sounds filled the night; sounds of rural Bali. I listened to the nocturnal orchestra before drifting off into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Sunrise brought a sensational spectrum of soft pinks and understated reds to the dawn sky. Over coffee, Mr. Miora asked what I hoped to find in Bali.

“The real Bali,” I responded, “if it still exists.”

He gazed across the valley as though an image filled his mind. “With a motorcycle,” he said, “you can find Bali. With a car you can only find the road.” He then directed me down a dirt path that skirted the terraces passed through the jungle and alongside a temple to the other side of the valley, a route inaccessible to cars.

The tranquility of the excursion reinforced Mr. Miora’s statement and I felt as though I had at last discovered a piece of Bali.

Copyright Tim Morch, 2006

Climbing Boss?

2006-10-19T01:36:00.000-04:00

The road from Kubutambahan village on the north coast of Bali winds up the backside of Mount Penulisan.Occasional pullouts look north-eastward to the sea revealing the surprisingly arid terrain below. The town of Penelokan is a highlight with tour groups for the panoramic views of Lake Batur and Mount Batur in the crater below. Large restaurants and a few hotels with names like “Volcano View” and “Lake View” cater to the busloads of tourists.

It is not possible to stop without being offered hotel rooms, trekking and everything else from woodcarving to women within a few minutes. The sales pitch is persistent and vendors often follow you about with offers of “special price, Boss.” I pre-empt the next statement by asking “for good luck?” “Yes, Boss,” I am undoubtedly assured, “for good luck.”

Mount Batur is an active volcano. The most recent eruption started in 1998 and finally subsided in 2002. A new crater on the western face of the mountain opened and the flowing lava covered a large area of land previously terraced with farms. This left hundreds of farmers without arable land or means to earn a living.

The road into the crater is steep and full of switchbacks. Groups rarely go into the crater, stopping only to snap a quick photo and continue on the prescribed circuit. The few visitors in the villages below create a strange state of affairs. Foreigners are aggressively hunted for hotel rooms and trekking guides. It is not permitted to climb Mount Batur without a guide. The local economy was decimated by the last eruption prompting the government to establish a trekking guide association to subsidize the loss. The result is that it is impossible to go anywhere in the villages without hearing “climbing Boss?” from virtually every male.

The women push massages and cheap trinkets relentlessly, holding your hand and putting a bracelet on your wrist while a second starts to massage your shoulders. Meanwhile, small children tell you to buy candy, chips or gum. The atmosphere becomes somewhat claustrophobic as you find yourself surrounded.

Visiting the hot springs in Toyabungkah where the local people bathe is a nightmare. It is almost impossible to get in due to repeated sales attempts. If you bother to try, the women follow and try to sell massage. No amount of “no, thank you” dissuades them and no amount of joking helps. It is advisable to spend a few dollars and visit the private baths and enjoy the quiet pools.

The climbing attraction is to see sunrise over the ocean and, if the weather is clear, views of Lombok Island. Treks commence at 4am and prices are surprisingly high. Although the climb is less than 1 ½ hours, with longer routes lasting up to 6 hours, prices start at $35 for the basic tour.

Choosing not to trek, I drove my motorcycle through the fields near the eastern base of Mount Batur early in the morning. The track winds steadily upward and is very easy to follow. I can clearly see where the guided groups have gone and it becomes clear that most of the lower section is done in the back of a truck. Walking starts a few hundred meters from the peak, explaining the short ascent time. Every time I see a person, I am greeted with “climbing Boss?” Even when I stop for a photo, someone appears as if by magic to offer guide services.

I make my way to the village of Songan at the end of the road. The village is famed for its temple, where a lychee tree mysteriously flourishes regardless of rainfall. It is surprisingly green in an arid terrain. The rim of the crater rises sharply behind the temple. The walk to the rim is steep but short and from the top I watch the sun making its daily ascent over of the ocean. Lombok is obscured by clouds but nearby Nusa Lembongan is visible. The view into the crater is clear with Mount Batur standing sentinel as fields of vegetables descend the southern and eastern slopes to the lake.

I descend to my motorcycle and return to Toyabungkah. Even at this early hour, I am accosted with sales pitches. Although I am sympathetic to the poverty, I find it difficult to be constantly fending off sales pitches. The relentless selling has worn thin and I decide to move on. Packing my bag, I let the family who owns the guesthouse know I am off and I am wished a good journey As I leave, to reinforce the point, a man standing on the roadside with his vegetables calls to me “climbing Boss?” I smile and drive on.

Copyright Tim Morch, 2006

Surf Heaven

2006-10-16T01:34:00.000-04:00

One morning at breakfast, I overheard a 50-something Australian talking about Bali “back in the day.” Surf stories hold a startling similarity to fishing tales: the one “this long” (arms stretched to incredulous length) that got away or the “really big one” I landed on some distant vacation but didn’t have a camera. I eavesdropped but was inclined to file the tale as ‘unlikely’. Perhaps it was my snicker that prompted the guy next to me to speak up. He knew the storyteller and assured me he did indeed have bragging rights as one of the first to surf the now legendary break at Ulu Watu.

When Kuta Beach was still a maze of rice paddies and the beach break became boring, intrepid surfers were discovering breaks in unusual locations. The vantage points from the dusty footpath along the cliff tops of the Bukit Peninsula made it was easy to spot potential breaks. Descending the sheer cliffs, getting out across the jagged reef to the break and returning safely was and remains the challenge. Early pioneers were undoubtedly considered crazy as they climbed down ropes to the cave that opens to Ulu Watu, especially as the Balinese feared the sea. To do this, they employed a small army of board carriers, rope attendants and cliff-top monitors, creating a new tourism market as a result: surfing.

Surfers stayed with local families before there were any guest houses or hotels. Families cooked, cleaned and provided related services. Relationships were forged that helped shape the future of the local economy. Locals rented surf boards their friends left behind, learned to repair them and local board shapers and manufacturing developed. To serve the surge in surf tourists, an abundance of accommodation, restaurants and bars close to every major break emerged. A generation later, young Balinese surfers are gaining worldwide recognition amongst professional surfers.

Today, the surf industry is a major component of Bali’s tourism. Bali is loaded with surf breaks; some well-known, others secret locations whispered between friends and kindred spirits. Gone are the days of knowing everybody on the break. Modern Bali is one of the Holy Grail destinations for surfers from around the world and the most popular breaks are often crowded. The long beach break at Kuta is suited to the masses of beginners. Experienced surfers flock to the Bukit Peninsula and the legendary Ulu Watu, nearby Dreamland, Bingin or Impossibles. Even late in the season, the breaks have several people vying for waves.

By chance, I discovered a ‘secret spot’ further up the east coast than one might expect the waves to be breaking. It was easy to spot from the cliff top to the north, but surfers rarely venture that far in search of a break. After winding through rice paddies and palm plantations, I emerged at a consistent point break. It was the personal playground of fewer than fifteen locals and three foreigners. This is what draws surfers to Bali repeatedly – known world class surf breaks and the chance for someone to whisper a secret spot in your ear.

Copyright Tim Morch, 2006

The North Coast

2006-10-14T01:32:00.000-04:00

The quiet seaside town of Lovina lies on the north coast of Bali, just a few hours drive from Denpasar.The pace here is decidedly unhurried and regular visitors and ex-patriots often prefer this coast to the crowded beaches of the south.

Black volcanic sand is common to all beaches on the north coast. It varies from reasonably soft at Lovina, to course and even rocky to the east. Good coral formations are scattered along this coast and a number of snorkeling and scuba operators offer day trips to suit all levels. Dolphin sightings are frequent, viewing excursions equally common. A relatively calm ocean means there is no surfing on this coast.

Lovinas beach vendors may be fewer in number and their doggedness less than the south, but they remain eager. I barely had my motorcycle on its stand before I was surrounded by hawkers. From sarongs and jewelry to fruits and beverages, each offered a “special price” "for good luck" complaining business was slow. Tourism is obviously down since the bombs and I try to be sympathetic. Nonetheless, being a constant sales target also wears thin. Joking always lightens the moment.

“Who gets good luck? You? Or me?” I ask.

They are united that they get the good luck.

“What about me? No good luck for me?” I keep on.

We all enjoy some laughs, but no amount of humour gets away from the bottom line – making a sale. Made has sarongs and I spot one with nice colours. I nearly fell over at the asking price of $25. Recognizing my shock, she suggests I make a price. My $5 offer is taken as a sign I want to bargain and she counters quickly with “Buy two get better price.” I tell her I only want one. She starts to slowly lower her price hoping I will up my offer. I stick at $5 and a lengthy negotiation period that increasingly involves the other vendors ensues. Made encourages me to raise my offer but I hold.

“No, I go bankroopt,” she claims, but eventually agrees to sell for my price.

This has given the jewelry vendor hope and he moves in with all kinds of shell trinkets. I tell him I am not interested but this does not discourage the true salesman. He starts to pull out a variety of pieces; for my girlfriend (“I do not have one”), for my niece (“at least I have one”), for my mother (“yes, she is still alive”) and so on. After a while he understands I am not buying and packs up. The drink vendor remains undeterred and does not stop holding his pricelist in front of me until I climb on my motorcycle and drive off.

Toward the island center is Git Git (Twin) Waterfall, a perennial favourite with tour groups. Arriving before the buses is essential to have any chance of enjoying the peace and nature of Git Git. The area is lush green and a number of falls and pools are only a short walk. The cascades down a variety of levels and there are a number of places along the road to park and explore. Plenty of vendors offer sodas, water and snacks along the paths. When the buses arrive, it is time to leave.

East of Lovina is the sleepy town of Amed, popular with scuba divers. The waters are clear, the coral colourful and fish life abundant. The World War II supply ship USS Liberty, torpedoed in 1942 and beached near Amed, is a famous wreck dive.

This area is arid, the mountains rising sharply from the ocean. Any moisture that collects is showered on the southern side. Large volcanic rocks dominate the landscape while an occasional acacia tree delivers a shade of pale green to palette of browns. The road rises and plunges, connecting cliffside fishing communities and farming villages where cows and goats wander freely.

Turning south, I catch sight of a surf break. I mark the area relative to a tower and work my way in that direction. In the town of Ujung, I stop at the water palace to admire the views to the mountains and the sea.

Focused on the surf break, I crisscross rice paddies and backtrack through coconut palm plantations until I break out the coast to come upon a dozen surfers enjoying a point break. With only two foreigners in the crowd I realize I have discovered one of Bali’s legendary secret spots.

Kuwi, a local boy, asks how I found this place. Explaining that it was unmistakable from the cliffs northward he smiled and said: “Good, no surfers ever come from there – no surfing in the north.” I asked the name of the place and when he told me, he requested I keep it to myself.

“It will be difficult to keep this a secret,” I observed.

“I know,” he said, “that is why I have a guest house nearby and rent surf boards!”

Tim Morch, Copyright 2006

On the Tourist Trail

2006-10-12T01:39:00.000-04:00

Kuta Beach, Bali, is a tourist trap. Each passing hour reminded me of every other tourist hot spot - Mexico, Dominican Republic or Jamaica. Visitors are not here to discover a culture, they come to eat western food, drink day and night, sleep late and lie on the beach. Every second step is met with “Hello Boss” followed by a “special price” offer. Given the behaviour of most visitors it is no surprise the local people cater to these habits.

Bali, however, is reputed to be an island of artisan villages, each specializing in a particular art or craft. I rented a motorcycle and decided to follow a typical one day route and see for myself. Passing the seaside resorts of Sanur, I stopped to consult the map. A Balinese man stopped and asked where I was going. Detailing my proposed route, he made some suggestions and offered directions. Then he said “My name is Agung. I have full tank, follow me.” I agreed and we were off.

Entering the silver making village of Celuk, I was struck by a sense of emptiness. Most homes advertise silver-making but there is little evidence of commerce. “No tourists, no business,” Agung observed as we drove through.

The predominantly Hindu population of Bali means there are temples everywhere and Batuan is very popular in the south. Visitors are provided the required sarong, asked to sign the guestbook and invited to make a donation. The sculptures and altars are typical but I find temples become the same and I suffer from “temple-overdose” easily. One is usually enough.

Nearby, Tegenungan Waterfall is pleasant but not exceptional. Agung said the water was unclean and not good for swimming. The dramatic fall in tourism arrivals has lead to the closure of the luxury resort overlooking the falls and the Air Terjun Bungee Jump appeared closed as well. Over a soda, Agung told me he has a wife and two children. The car rental company he worked for went bankrupt after the second bomb, leaving him unemployed. His wife sells vegetables in the market to support the family.

“The local people are not the problem,” he told me, “it is the outsiders that make the problems. I hope that tourism comes back and we can all make a better living.”

At a typical family-run wood carving business near Bedulu village, I am greeted by Ketut, the traditional name given the fourth child. While carvers work on the porch, Ketut explains the various woods what part of Indonesia each is from. Aromatic sandalwood, mahogany, teak, hibiscus and crocodile wood are the most common. I wander through the large shop admiring the variety of carving. From intricate masks and boxes of all sizes to large sculptures, the craftsmanship is impressive. Checking the price on a small box, Ketut says everything is at 50% discount. A small group of Spanish tourists arrives and I realize this is the first place I have seen another foreigner today.

Ubud is considered the cultural heart of Bali. It is popular with vacationers and has a large resident ex-patriot community. The shaded streets are lined with shops selling products from the nearby villages and other knick-knacks. The atmosphere is pleasant with a definite feel of a west meets east artists community. Cafes, art galleries and restaurants compete for the tourist dollar in a more understated fashion than Kuta.

I ask Agung to break for lunch. We stop at a charming restaurant and as we are about to enter Agung says he will wait for me. Refusing repeated invitations, I walk inside to check it out. The restaurant is open and airy with tables on multiple levels and a fish pond in the center. Opening the menu, I am shocked to see prices that rival restaurants at home. Thanking the server, I exit and ask Agung to take me to a place he would go to. Outside Ubud we stop at a roadside restaurant overlooking rice paddies and the Idman Burung Bird Park where we both enjoy a hearty local meal at very reasonable prices.

Batubulan is famous for stone carving. The road is lined with thousands of pieces but only a few of the shops have someone actively carving. The subjects are varied, from Hindu gods to masks and gaudy phallic symbols. I watch as soft sandstone blocks become sculptures. The work is painstaking, the results impressive. Nearby, the traditional Barong dance, an exorcism ritual dating back to animist times, is performed daily.

Batik is perhaps one of Bali’s most famous crafts. Stopping at one of the many factories, I watch a group of women sitting outside demonstrate how batik is made. It is a time-consuming process starting with the application of wax in the desired pattern. The fabric is then dyed, often several times in different colours. Finally, the wax is removed and the design shines out. Inside, the huge inventory is marked with prices that are staggering. Batik sarongs sell for $25 and up! There is a large inventory of original art on the walls selling for upwards of $300 unframed. My guide tells me he can make a special price if I would like to purchase some art. I thank him for his time and leave.

Agung is waiting patiently and asks what I would like to see next. Telling him I am on shopping overload, he says he will drop me off at the junction to Kuta Beach. Stopping just before the junction, he gives me his telephone number and address, inviting me to call any time.

“Agung, may I give you some money for gas and to buy your family some food today?” I ask.

“Not necessary,” he says, “only if you like.”

“I would like to,” I reply and hand him some money. He thanks me earnestly for my generosity.

“Today, I do have good luck,” he says, thanking me again and riding off with a wave.

Copyright Tim Morch, 2006

Central Bali

2006-10-12T01:30:00.000-04:00

Narrow winding roads climb and descend the steep volcanic valleys of central Bali. Villages, perched on ridges, come to life early. People make their way to the fields closely inspecting each one. Irrigation streams are carefully cleared of debris that collected overnight. The grass on the barriers between terraces is cut by hand and collected in baskets to feed the animals. Each plant is examined and vegetables are harvested when they are ripe. Baskets of red chilli peppers and tomatoes line the fields waiting to be transported to market. The green fields and blue skies deepen in colour as the sun climbs. Sporadic red and yellow hues complete the spectrum, creating lovely scenes. A mountain most always graces the background, slowly gathering clouds as the ocean winds rise and cool. Small children cry “hello” enthusiastically as they walk to school and adults rarely fail to smile and return a “hello” as I pass.

Ascending Mount Bratan I arrive at the first of three freshwater lakes that lie in nearby volcanic craters. Lake Bratan is the larger and it is possible to rent a boat and motor or sail about the lake. A market sells fruits and vegetables as well as art and knick-knacks. A popular stop for tour groups, the local people have learned from their southern compatriots. “Hello Boss,” is the common greeting, followed by “you buy here I give you special price.” The sales pitch is less intense and a simple “no thank you” usually concludes the efforts.

Lakes Buyan and Tamblingan are often bypassed by tour groups. The absence of foreigners means that traditional life dominates and people accept my presence with a smile or a wave. At the west end of Lake Buyan a nature preserve offers several kilometers of walking trails that lead to the hillside and the forest. It is possible to walk over the ridge and reach nearby Lake Tamblingan.

My destination for the day is the village of Munduk. The road to Munduk runs the north ridge above the two lakes which yields impressive views. Coffee and cloves are the main crops in this steep terrain. The white flowers of the coffee plants are in full bloom and the aroma of cloves drying by the roadside is intoxicating. I stray from the road and wander onto narrow paths that weave along the ridges. Distances are short as the crow flies, long as the road winds.

Occasionally, I stop and sit with people, unable to communicate other offering a smiling and a “hello”. They are always friendly and return the smile with an easy manner that makes me feel welcome. If I ask for directions by naming my destination – Munduk - a gentle wave of the hand indicates the way and I continue on my unhurried journey.

Villages in this area are simple clusters of homes with an occasional shop. Descending the twisting track, I find myself entering the village of Giseng, not far from Munduk. Giseng has a large holy tree where a temple is currently under construction at the base of this behemoth. I count no less than 78 paces to walk around the base and start to appreciate why the local residents consider it sacred. Afterwards, I note the “Giseng Big Tree” is visible from almost every vantage point in the valley.

In Munduk, I check out the half-dozen or so guesthouses located along the ridge. Each has views of the valley and mountains beyond, although one stands out for its superior location. Puri Alam is run by Ketut and her husband. The large rooms are airy and clean with a wide balcony that drinks in the scenery. The shower is also open and even the toilet looks through the shower to the peaks beyond. Perched on the top is the restaurant. From this vantage point the panorama is fantastic. I can see the same white building at the top of the mountain where I deviated from the main road and the “Giseng Big Tree”. While rice terraces cascade down the center of the valley below, orderly plantations climb the hillsides framed by the peaks of Mounts Batukao, Sangiyang and Lesong.

Ketut is friendly and welcoming. She is eager to have a guest as business has been terribly slow, so she truly does make a special price. Her attentiveness creates a warm ambience and the food is fabulous. I tell her feel I have found another piece of the true Bali and she beams with a smile that fills the room. With such a wonderful combination, I decide to make Puri Alam my base for a few nights.

Tim Morch, Copyright 2006

Sunrise Circus

2006-10-11T01:27:00.000-04:00

My internal alarm clock went off while it was still dark. In spite of repeated attempts there was no going back to sleep. Tired of tossing and turning, I decided to walk to the beach and watch sunrise. The side street, usually bustling with foot traffic and the occasional motorcycle, was empty and silent. Even the two-lane street along the beachfront was still. The moment I exited the hotel, I could hear the surf crashing a few hundred meters away.

Entering the 24 hour convenience store, the chime woke the clerk. Armed with the elixir of dawn - a strong coffee - I crossed the street to the beach and sat down against a palm tree to watch nature’s colors unfold. The first shafts of light sprayed the fluffy clouds that hung low on the horizon in soft shades of pink. For a few short minutes the colors shift fluidly before the sun crests the horizon and daylight dominates.

The beach is nearly void of people. I spot a few Indonesian men sitting off to my right; they appear drunk. To my left, a lone foreigner sits propped against a palm tree listening to his headphones. Behind, where the beach meets the sidewalk, a couple of vendors are setting up for the day. The morning surfers have yet to shake off the excesses of the previous night and the beach break is empty. I couldn’t help but smile to myself and soak up the serenity; a rare commodity in this town.

The serenity stopped when one of the bleary-eyed men from the nearby group staggered over and sat down beside me.

“Sorry, way you from?” he asked in heavily accented slurred speech. The smell of cheap rice whisky floated in the cloud of air that followed his words.

“Canada,” I said quietly, avoiding eye contact in hopes of discouraging further conversation. The message was not received, however, and he started to blather on. He tried his best, as drunks often do, to speak deliberately but the combination of accent, booze and vocabulary left him short. In painstaking detail, I heard about his West Papuan origins, the troubles in his country and how the army walked around with guns shooting people. The only savior, according to my new friend, was Australia, America or the European Union. He hoped they would help bring peace.

Why I always attract the crazy people is a mystery to me. It could be my easy-going nature or, perhaps, I am one of them. I may never know. Nevertheless, I wished him and his country luck but he still did not get the message. He continued his slurred story until a boy from his group approached and tried to take him away. Brushing the boy away with a grand drunken sweep of the hand, he lost his train of thought and started over from the beginning.

“You already said that,” I said gruffly. He got the message and stumbled away.

One sip of coffee later he was replaced by the boy. This lonely character launched into his life story. He came from Timor to work and study languages, hoping to work with tourists. By day he worked in a clothing store and by night he was a dancer in a show. I gave up listening and watched the ocean.

As he in turn rambled on, a tiny woman interrupted and introduced herself as Maria. She, at least, spoke English and was not drunk, so I shifted my attention to her, hoping the boy would get the hint. After the usual questions, she told me of her two sons and family in Jakarta. The boy kept interrupting, but I ignored him and answered Maria’s questions. After several attempts to regain my attention, I asked if his classes taught conversation etiquette. The comment flew over his head.

“Sorry, but I don’t like women. I like men,” he said.

“Good for you,” I said, “I hope you find one” turning to Maria. He mumbled something and wandered off.

“Western men are much better than Asian men,” Maria said. “They can love someone from a different class or education. Not in Asia; men can never marry across class. A western man could marry a prostitute like me and it would be fine,” she said.

As I digested this, Maria continued. She told me she had been working all night long, but still had lots of power.

“Do you want massage? Or something else?” she asked with a mischievous smile.

“No thanks, Maria,” I said, “I just came to try and enjoy a quiet sunrise.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes before she excused herself and wandered off in the direction of the other foreigner. I walked across the street for another coffee and sat once more hoping for a clean start.

After a few minutes, the first bleary-eyed Papuan man approached and started again.

“Please,” said, “I just want to drink my coffee and enjoy the dawn. No offence, but, leave me alone.”

His bloodshot eyes displayed the exact amount of time it took to process the request.

“Good bye from West Papua,” he managed before turning to leave.

As he staggered away I could not help but laugh at the fickleness of fate. I had come for the peace of dawn but found myself in the center of a small sunrise circus. The waves continued to crash as I left the beach and town was springing to life. By the time I was half way to the hotel, I could no longer hear the ocean and the street was becoming filled with foot traffic.

Copyright Tim Morch, 2006

For Good Luck Boss

2006-10-09T01:49:00.000-04:00

“Hello Boss, taxi?”

These were the first words I heard exiting customs at Bali’s Ngurah Rai Airport. This, followed by “Hello Boss, hotel?” would be repeated every three steps until I left the airport.

The tropical island of Bali, Indonesia has been rocked by not one but two terrorist bomb attacks in the past four years. The first exploded in a popular nightclub district in Kuta Beach on October 12, 2002, where a monument now stands at “Ground Zero”. This had a dramatic impact on tourism and led the international community to recognize that global terrorism is very real. Tourism all but ceased as Bali tried to rebuild both its infrastructure and reputation. International arrivals gradually returned to the island until the second attack in 2005. This all but stopped tourism.

Today, arrivals are down – way down. Tourism, the mainstay of the Kuta economy is at unprecedented lows. The effect on everyday life is obvious. It is not possible to walk ten meters without hearing “Hello Boss, shopping?” or “Hello Boss, transport?”

The sales pitch is always gentle. “Please come look Boss. Looking for free, Boss. Today I have no sale. If you buy it will bring good luck.” Who receives good luck is difficult to say, but a polite “No thank you” is always returned with a smile accompanied by “Welcome to Bali, Boss.”

Peter is a local painter I met while sipping morning coffee on my hotel porch. He used to sell Bali landscapes from a single location. Now he walks from hotel to hotel quietly talking to anyone who will listen. He tells me he has not made a sale in nearly four months and offers his colourful work for any price I will offer.

“It is not important the price,” he tells me, “I need to feed my family. I have a wife and three children.”

Kuta Beach is quiet. The once crowded surf break of Legian has a lineup of less than a dozen surfers. Tony earns his living renting surfboards. He, like scores of others along the beach, stands beside a dozen or more boards. The prices he asks are high compared with the rental shops one block off the street but he will bargain. While Tony lowers his price every few minutes, his friend eagerly displays a book of temporary henna tattoos.

“Tattoo, Boss? Only temporary - for your stay in Bali. I give you good price.”

Further along, Leena approaches. “Hello Boss, manicure?” she asks. Young and pretty, Leena gently holds my hand assuring me a good price. She glances at my gnarled toes and suggests a pedicure as well.

Meanwhile, Leena is joined by Kiki and Made. Kiki is selling trinkets while Made asks if I would like a massage. We sit on the beach and watch the sun sink into the ocean as they tell me how there are no tourists. Canadians and Americans are rare. Australians continue to be the mainstay and Europeans arrive in small numbers.

The girls are not upset at having made no sale. Optimists, they tell me that when I am ready for their services to remember them by name. They each ask me to repeat their name is so I will not forget, wish me a good night and quietly head home.

As I leave the beach, I spot Tony packing up his surfboards. He smiles and says “Hello Boss. Tomorrow you rent from me okay? For good luck Boss.”

Copyright Tim Morch, 2006

Weaving for Women

2004-10-11T05:55:00.003-04:00

Daisy Dwe and the Weaving for Women program

In a country ruled by a ruthless, xenophobic, military junta, that openly practices ethnic cleansing, the last thing you might expect to run across is a restaurant with the motto “Better Fed than Red”. However, if you were in the sleepy eastern Burmese border town of Three Pagodas in the early 1980s, you would likely have wandered in for a meal.

“Daisys Revolutionary Restaurant”, owned and operated by Daisy Dwe, openly opposed the abusive regime with its bold slogan. After spending a week in a Rangoon jail in 1984, simply because of her ethnicity, Daisy decided to initiate her own personal protest. Daisy Dwe, is from the Karen ethnic minority. The Karen have advocated democracy in Burma since the democratic government was hijacked by the military under General Ne Win in 1962. As a result of their political ideology, the Karen have long been the victims of persecution by the military. This daring approach placed Daisy and her family in danger of military retaliation.

The disastrous political situation in Burma prompted Daisy and husband Dr. Hla Schwe to leave the capital of Rangoon and move to Three Pagodas Pass, near the Thai border, 350km northwest of Bangkok in 1974. This eastern Burmese state was controlled by ethnic Karen and remained relatively peaceful and safe. Dr. Schwe practiced medicine at the River Kwai Christian Hospital, just inside Thailand, and Daisy opened a guesthouse. When Dr. Schwe died in 1984, Daisy continued to operate her guesthouse and opened her defiant restaurant that year.

The peace of Three Pagodas was shattered in early 1989 when the Karen and Mon minorities entered a war over disputed territory. After one year, the army was sent in.The military demonstrated its ruthlessness, killing innocent people, primarily males, and destroying personal property. Daisy’s guesthouse and Revolutionary Restaurant were burned by the military.

Daisy fled to Thailand, a widowed refugee. Witnessing the tragic lives facing thousands of women in similar circumstances, she decided to focus on assisting as she could. In 1990, Daisy was instrumental in establishing the first United Nations refugee camp in Thailand for Karen. She acted as interpreter to foreign aid workers, highlighting the numerous issues facing a displaced community, largely comprised of widowed mothers and their children.

Encouraged by international efforts to assist the refugee community, Daisy desired to have a broader impact. By 1995, she had garnered the support of friends and started Weaving for Women (WFW). The primary goal of WFW is to teach refugee women a vocation and employ them, providing a fair salary and the opportunity to improve their situations.

Initially, a traditional Burmese sitting loom was used, but this method proved slow and labour intensive. With demand growing, Daisy sought to purchase a proper loom. WFW received support from the Burmese Relief Center and purchased the first loom. Master Weavers from Burma taught their craft to the women and production of 100% cotton, hand woven textiles featuring traditional hilltribe designs was underway on a larger scale.

Weaving for Women has since expanded to 5 looms, employing 6 weavers and 5 tailors, exporting handicrafts to Europe and North America. Profits from WFW support the Burmese refugee community in her adopted town of Sangkhlaburi. If someone needs assistance, Daisy is there; paying medical bills; assisting HIV/AIDS victims; providing money for basic food and shelter, school fees and uniforms; assisting in legal issues; and, wherever else there is a need.

WFW received a telephone and computer with internet capability in 1996. A small truck was donated and is used whenever there is need. From trips to the hospital to food delivery, the WFW truck has enabled Daisy to extend the reach of her community assistance. Daisy continues in her efforts to broaden her business and thus her humanitarian aid.

In 2004, changes to Thai law allowed refugees to acquire documentation to work legally in the border regions. At an average cost of U$135 per person per year, this was well beyond the financial capability of most refugees. Thanks to a generous donation from the Bridge Street United Church in Belleville, Ontario, Canada, Daisy was able to procure the necessary paperwork. Daisy’s weavers and tailors were able to work without fear of legal reprisal from Thai authorities. A June, 2006 change in Thai law levies a heavy fine for unlicensed employees and jail terms for their employers. Daisy must keep this paperwork current every year by paying the annual dues.

Recently, friends of WFW created a website to broaden the market potential for sales. Photographs of weaving in various stages, a catalogue with pricing, ordering and shipping information, as well as other information can be found at www.weavingforwomen.org

Weaving for Women is a grassroots organization. From providing training and employment opportunities, to improving the basic quality of life for the marginalized Burmese refugee community, WFW is an example of the positive effect one individual can have.

Daisy's true wish is that democracy will return to Burma and the displaced ethnic minorities may return to their former homes and land and live a peaceful and productive life.

Support Weaving for Women by purchasing product. Not only do you receive quality handicrafts but the satisfaction in knowing that you are helping Daisy help her refugee community.

Tim Morch, Copyright, 2004-2010

Cons and Cards

2003-11-16T01:46:00.000-05:00

A Not-So New Bangkok Scam

Exhausted from over a day of non-stop travel, I exited the Bangkok airport into the heavy heat of the city. The familiar assault to the senses was instant. The humid air encircled me and exhaust fumes hit the back of the throat like cheap pot. he non-stop noise characteristic of the city rattled in my ears as the taxi pulled away.

Even in the wee hours the streets are lively. Motorcycles and tuk-tuks are everywhere. The tuk-tuk, the ubiquitous three-wheeled taxis that ply the streets of every Thai city and town get their name for the rhythmic sound of the engine. They have become a symbol of Thailand.

Tuk-tuk drivers in Bangkok have become equally famous for their gem scams. irtually everyone who visits Bangkok has either heard of or experienced this renowned confidence game. Invariably, stories start by accepting a "flee lide" (free ride) to a "guess how" (Guest House). The driver will tell you that just last week he helped a friend earn $2000 due to a special offer. An “official receipt” is often produced as verification. This is the short version, as a successful scam involves a lengthy buildup. Ever wonder why it is called a confidence game?

The classic version sees the mark on a city wide tour of gem shops. A variety of characters attempt to sell gems that turn out to be worthless. If the unlucky victim can even lead the police to the scene, the operation has vanished. This happens so often it has become a joke. A special sale in honor of the Kings Birthday or a new shipment from Burma leaves one with less money but more wise. In spite of repeated forewarning, many fall victim to their own greed.

Thailands reputation as the "Land of Smiles" often lulls people into a sense of security. The Kingdom is filled with many wonderful, honest people. If you are even slightly open, rewarding experiences are common.

On a busy Bangkok street, I met a pleasant man and his cousin. Lek introduced himself as an immigration officer at the airport.His cousin Emm taught English at the kindergarten level in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. When they learned I was Canadian, they told me their cousin, Susan, had won an exchange at the University of Toronto to study business administration. Asking if they could trouble me for some information about Toronto, we sat down for coffee. Lek spotted my photo equipment and observed it looked very professional, very expensive. After a polite conversation, he asked would I might come to his home, meet his family and talk to Susan in person.

Sensing a setup, we agreed to meet the following morning. Emm gave me her cell phone number in case there was a problem. They suggested I bring my camera for photos of their traditional home and the family.

The following morning, we met and climbed into a taxi. Lek asked where my camera was. Did I not want photos? I explained that I had left where I was staying. I did not add that they were crazy if they thought I would bring such valuables on a mission to who knows where with who knows whom!

The home was on a quite soi (street) and quite modern. It was definitely not “traditional”. There were no photos or other family items and it struck me particularly odd there was no photo of the King. There was, however, a large television, DVD player and stereo.

Lek introduced me to his brother Alex and a cousin Pim who was cooking breakfast in a spartan kitchen. Alex apologized that I would not meet his mother, she had just been admitted to the hospital. I then learned Alexs wife was having a baby and Susan was also at the hospital. Lek hoped she would return soon.

After pleasantries, I was invited to the table to eat and wait for Susan. Pim prepared a special “western” meal for me. I thanked her and asked if I might share the Thai food with everyone else.

During the meal, Alex took over. He told me about his work aboard a cruise ship dealing cards in the casino, sharing anecdotes about the winnings and losses of his clients. He told me of a certain Madame Sara, daughter of a Malaysian millionaire, who had lost $30,000 the day before playing Mah Jong. The good Madame, Alex lamented, was tight with her money, and in lieu of the customary 5% tip on winnings and losses had only tipped $100US. He was not upset, adding she was coming to take him out later that day.

Alex and Lek said I was welcome in their home any time. Alex invited me to attend the Christening of his child, which I found odd given that most Thai are Buddhist. Although more red flags flew in my mind, I felt safe and was interested to see where this would lead.

After lunch, Alex invited me upstairs to his card room to see some tricks. He deftly demonstrated a number of entertaining sleights of hand. He asked if I played cards. Would I like to learn a game called “Black Jack”. After all, if he could not teach me then he must be a poor dealer.

I allowed Alex to teach me, feigning ignorance. After I learned the basics, including how to bet, he told me that any time I needed some extra cash, I could come to his casino and he would help me win. He assured me that as the dealer he had control over the game. He then taught me a few simple signals to direct me to a guaranteed win. If I had no money to play with, he could bankroll me, taking 70% of winnings. f I invested my own money, we would split it 50/50. It was as easy as that.

Alex felt that he had my confidence. He asked if I would like to play today. Madame Sara was coming soon and loved to play Black Jack. Pulling two crisp $100US notes from his pocket, Alex offered to bankroll me and I could help him earn some money to pay for his wifes hospital bill. In case I was worried, he assured me that I could even lose the $200 and we would still be friends. In an attempt to sweeten the offer, Alex told me Madame Sara was beautiful and had a penchant for foreign men.

I told Alex I was not interested. He re-assured me I would win, he would win and, had he mentioned that he donates some of the winning to charity? There was no risk. Once more, I declined. Alex continued in his attempt to lure me into a game. Emm, who had remained quietly by my side, also tried to convince me to play.

Quietly, but firmly, I explained that I had come to talk to Susan about Toronto. I had no desire to play cards … period. After more efforts failed to persuade me, Alex said he understood. He was only trying to cover hospital costs and support charity.

Now that I was not "in", Alex took me downstairs where Lek said we should return downtown. I asked if Susan were not coming, still feigning ignorance of the scam attempt. I was told she might be at the hospital a while. Nonetheless, I delayed, explaining that I would be happy to wait.

After over an hour, I could delay no longer. Lek was anxious to get me out of the house. In the taxi, Lek pulled out a 1000 Baht bill and asked if I had change. Responding that I had only 100 Baht (about $2.50US), Lek asked if he could have it to cover the highway toll. Handing over the bill, he paid the 30 Baht toll. He was about to pocket the change when I told him I needed it for the bus back to my place. Begrudgingly, Lek handed me the change.

As the taxi stopped, I asked Lek if I could visit him at the airport. He gave his surname and explained how to find him. Climbing out of the taxi, I said: "Tell Susan, if there even is a Susan, it is cold in Toronto, she should take warm clothes." Realizing he had been exposed, he smiled in true Thai fashion and wished me well.

Laughing, I could not help but appreciate the entertainment. While gem scams are plentiful in Bangkok, it appears that cons and cards are evolving into the citys lore.

Tim Morch, Copyright 2003