Enter the Flashpacker Crew.

After travelling through northern Thailand and down through Laos, where for the best part of a month temperatures were much more comfortable in the day and significantly cooler in the evening, we were excited to be hitting the islands off the south of Thailand for sun, sea and sand. Two months in to the dry season promised endless days of sunshine, heat and humidity. We were also excited about the imminent arrival and temporary two-week addition of two new members of the Flashpacker Crew, Mick and Julia. Once they had gotten over the initial trauma of setting eyes on two formerly fit and healthy travellers, now pathetically gaunt, malnourished and needy, we spent a luxurious day at the beach with plenty of sun, food and beer. Such extravagance was a treat indeed for a couple of backpackers whose daily budget can often be blown on a packet of prawn cocktail crisps.

It was easy to settle into the idea of spending 14 days like this. That is until we discovered that the Brits had brought the weather with them. Typical. ‘If we can’t have any sun, nobody will. Humph.’ The next day started gloomy, prompting the usual optimistic hopes that it will clear up. Well it didn’t. As much as I love the mystical view out to sea when it is gloomy and dark as a result of low cloud cover, as if there is a greater power at work, this was not what any of us expected. And so the Famous Five (I’m sure we acquired one of the many feral dogs along the way) went off on a Crusoe-esque exploration of the island. No sooner had we stepped out on the long road to discovery, the greater power decided that it would be fun to see how suitable our t-shirts would be for a wet t-shirt contest. In case you’re wondering, three of us failed the test miserably. Still, we persevered, trying to make Robinson proud.

Armed with nothing more than flip-flops, swimming attire and our own brand of adventure, we conquered unforgiving and baron highways where tumbleweed crossed the glassy tarmac in the distance and masses of dried-out frogs lay flat on the road as a result of the harsh environment. Steadily, to conserve energy, we made our way through the grounds of a hotel, and down toward the beach. To our trepidation, a surface water drain resembling a ravine swollen from the monsoon-like rains, stopped us in our tracks and threatened to spoil the party. But just as we were contemplating how to cross it safely, Mick leaped with cat-like agility across the rocks and onto a floating raft that fate seemed to have placed there for our very survival. Not to be outdone by someone nearly twice my age, I tried to emulate the feat but miserably failed on style points. While the raft was infinitely less steady with all of us on, owing to the raging and relentless current, I assisted Mick in pulling the rope that was attached to the other side in the hope of crossing what looked by now like the River Grande. With distress and disbelief enveloping their faces, hotel staff watched helplessly from the safety of the hotel restaurant. Unable to advance the raft across the rapid and, fast running out of options, Mick displayed scant regard for his own life in order to rescue ours. With shrieks and cries of ‘don’t do it’, Mick bravely plunged into the powerful torrent in a selfless and sacrificial act. Fully expecting him to be entirely submerged and swept swiftly away, the bravery of Mick’s act was negated as soon as we realised he was standing in 2ft of water up to his knees, without even a steadying hand on the raft, looking like Dr Foster. 

The rest of us crossed the stream without incident. With the adventure over, we tried not to feel disappointed with the anti-climax. Instead of basking in the glory of heroism, Mick followed behind dragging his heels with droopy shoulders, dejected at the loss of a promising future career as Indiana Jones.

We completely lost the sense of time through this escapade. But it mattered not. It was beer o’clock.