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Monsoon
Phuket
By Robert Tompkins
 Sunset from Gung Caf?, Kata Beach, Phuket, Thailand
"Phuket in August! It's monsoon season! Why go all that way for rain?" When
learning that we were returning to Thailand's tropical island, this time in off-season,
our cynical world travelling friend slowly shook his head. "You're making a big
mistake," he warned.
We arrived in Phuket in the evening and the night was a sauna; the hour-long taxi ride to
the southwest of the island revealed many roadside puddles. About fifteen minutes before
arriving at our hotel, the rain started again and the taxi's wiper blades slapped
furiously. In the rear view mirror the driver smiled at two sullen jet-lagged passengers,
each remembering our friend's admonition.
At reception, we were cautioned about swimming in the sea, "It is very dangerous
during monsoon season. Please use the pools." Outside, the downpour overflowed eaves
troughs; the sidewalks flowed like rivers. Then, abruptly, the rain stopped.
"Tomorrow will be sunny," the porter smiled unconvincingly, as he showed us our
room. We noted the umbrellas near the door.
From the balcony we could hear the heave and crash of fierce waves in the torrid darkness.
Our sleep was filled with monsoon-haunted angst.
* * * * *
The morning sun rose over the mountainous jungle across from The Kata Thani Hotel.
Evanescent specters of mist danced through sunbeams.
Three girls on a small motorbike rumbled down the deserted road; the two passengers were
gracefully lowering and raising their extended arms in counterpoint, a synchronized slow
flapping of wings.
By 9 AM, we were on the beach, sea-foam searching out our feet, our monsoon worries
melting in the sunshine. Soon we were lost in the mad antics of the sideways scuttling
sand crabs and lulled by the sea's rhythm. Between each wave's unfurling smash and
seething retreat, there was a silence, and for a moment, the air whined with the electric
buzz of cicadas.
Located on Kata Noi Beach separated from big sister Kata Beach by a rocky promontory, The
Kata Thani Hotel is without doubt the most environmentally conscious hotel on the island.
Every morning there is a clean up crew of men and women, all hotel employees in the
uniforms of their respective duties. Chefs, porters, reception workers, waiters and
waitresses walk the beach with rakes and containers, removing the tide's detritus. There
are no jet skis, no water skiers, banana tubes or parasailors pulled by roaring high
powered motor boats; such activities are considered by the management as sources of noise,
air, water, and visual pollution.
Ignoring the red flag and our previous warning, we waded up to our knees in the clear,
warm Andaman Sea. About sixty feet away, ten-foot waves heaved, curled, and crashed.
Slightly diminished, the white caps broke around and over us, pounding us with a roiling
turmoil of froth and fury, before hissing in retreat and launching another attack. After
enduring a number of assaults, we made our way back to the beach on rubbery legs, feeling
as if we had just completed an energetic workout. The smile of the ever-vigilant lifeguard
did not belie his feelings regarding the foolishness of two intrepid tourists.
The tranquillity of Kata Noi Beach is reflected by the few shops and restaurants in town.
Kata Beach, a short tuk-tuk ride away, has a bit more hustle-bustle. There are many
restaurants, including quite a few small alfresco eateries many of which specialize in
German fare; there are boutiques, pubs, internet bars, tailors offering made to measure
suits at cut rate prices, bars and many shops and street stalls where vendors will not let
you pass without inviting you into their stores or to peruse their displays.
It was at Kata Beach that happenstance brought us to The Boathouse Wine and Grill;
subsequent visits were deliberate. It was difficult not to return to what is undoubtedly
the finest restaurant in Phuket and one that has a growing well-deserved international
reputation. Although it boasted a world class wine cellar with 360 labels from most
wine-producing countries, and although the service was friendly, helpful, attentive and
choreographed, it was the food, prepared under the auspices of the charismatic executive
chef Tummanoon Punchun that brought us back again and again.
"I would describe the cuisine as Eurasian," the ever smiling chef Tummanoon
explained. "I use French recipes combined with Asian flavors." The chef makes
annual visits to different European regions and returns with new methods of preparation;
he then incorporates a distinct Thai flavor with herbs, spices, and vegetables. The
resulting synthesis is an exquisite taste that is sure to be savored again in memory.
The restaurant is in The Boathouse, a prestigious boutique hotel with thirty-three rooms
and three suites that is owned and operated by noted architect M.L. Tridhosyuth Devakul.
Known locally as Mom Tri, he not only designed The Boathouse, but also Le Meridien and
Club Med on the island. Also managed by The Boathouse is the adjacent Lobster Square, a
small group of specialty shops, galleries, and The Gung Caf?; under the direction of Chef
Tummanoon, this restaurant specializes in the succulent shellfish "gung" (the
Thai word for rock lobster) which is served in a variety of predominantly Thai styles.
We were on the beach terrace of The Gung Caf? at sunset. Photographers clicked madly as
the pale sun sank below the horizon, tinting the grey sky with splashes of yellow. Monsoon
sunsets, however, are wily and mischievous; while some photographers walked away,
unimpressed, the sky and sea flared orange and then erupted in crimson. The scarlet show
was ephemeral; in a moment all was dark, the spell broken.
* * * * *
Karon Beach, where we had stayed five years ago, was barely recognizable; development has
transformed a laid-back village into a bustling town. New hotels, condos, boutiques,
malls, restaurants, and open air bars are sprawling back from the coastal road, usurping
or hiding what used to be. Such is progress; such is success. The beach here, however, is
definitely the best on the island; the white sand is as soft and fine as powder, crunching
and squeaking as you walk on it.
At a beach restaurant during a lunch of tom yam goong - the popular Thai soup of rich
broth, prawns, coriander, lemon grass, tamarind juice, shallots, lemon leaves, and chili
peppers - a bird landed on top of my bottle of Singha beer. After belting out an a
cappella tune, it bent its head and awaited a food tip, obviously having played this gig
before.
As we crunched our way from the restaurant, the waitress came running after us. Although
Thai restaurants routinely add tax and service, we had left a small additional tip that
she interpreted as forgotten money. When she realized our intent, she beamed, and after a
graceful wai, bowing with hands held together as if in prayer, she ran back, the sand
squeaking.
* * * * *
Patong Beach, only fifteen years ago, was a tranquil Muslim fishing village. Now it is a
hectic, sprawling, raffish, sometimes vulgar, always interesting honky-tonk of a town.
Patong is a carnival, a circus, a zoo that can be experienced in microcosm in any of the
busy open-air bars.
Along with a growing expat community, there is a large Hindu and Muslim presence as well
as crowds of tourists who either do not know it is monsoon season or could not care less.
Those same visitors also no doubt have briefly wondered why so many young Thai girls
prefer much older foreign boyfriends.
The many alfresco seafood restaurants exhibit their freshly caught fare in small boats
filled with ice; Phuket lobsters, rock lobsters, the largest prawns we've ever seen, red
snapper, sea bass, squid and oysters are on display, awaiting your selection and cooking
instructions.
Shopping in the hundreds of shops and stalls along the streets and alleys can be a delight
or wearying depending on your tolerance for the monotonous imploring of desperation-driven
vendors. Like side show barkers, they attempt to weave a spell: "Where you from?
Where you staying? First time in Phuket? How long you stay? Look at my shop. Very cheap
price for you. I can discount. Look! Look! Cheap price!" The incantation becomes a
refrain as you wander past the cajoling, beseeching sellers. The haggling ritual can soon
become tedious as feverish merchants enact the timeless bargaining drama performed on
countless street stages.
"Where you want to go?" is the mantra used by the tuk-tuk drivers who line the
main drag of Patong. After negotiating the fare, we left the Patong midway with its touts
and transvestites, hookers and hawkers, beggars and boozers, and bounced and sputtered
into the blackness of the sultry night, our lives in the hands of a speed demon, ever
grinning tuk-tuk driver.
* * * * *
A popular and very interesting side trip is to Phang Nga Bay on the mainland to view the
remarkable limestone islands, some of which jut vertically over 900 feet. Declared a
national park in 1981, the bay is sheltered and the waters are calm even during the
southwest monsoon season. Sightseers tour the bay in long-tailed boats; powered by car
engines adapted to drive a propeller at the end of a long shaft, these boats carry about
forty passengers who sit right at the water line.
The boats roar through the olive colored waters, past mangrove swamps, through eerie
grottoes dripping with stalactites, and around some of the 120 towering verdant islands
where the elements seem to have been influenced by Salvador Dali in creating grotesque
patterns in the limestone.
The major destination of the fleet of the tourist laden long-tailed boats is the striking
Khao Tapoo, known locally as James Bond Island since it was a locale in "The Man With
The Golden Gun" filmed here almost four decades ago. Most boats unload at a nearby
island, which is usually teeming with sightseers. Here there are many souvenir stands
selling seashells, T-shirts, ersatz pearl jewelry and other tourist trinkets. Dried fish,
considered a delicacy by the Japanese tourists, is also sold; the strong smell permeates
the entire island. The women vendors here are relentless and very aggressive, often
grabbing your arm while haggling over prices while at the same time maligning the vendor
and quality of goods in the next stall.
We took the afternoon tour but it was too overcast for a sunset; on our return, a brief
rain shower filled the bay with haze. The islands stood like ghostly sentinels in the
mists and fading light.
* * * * *
On another sunny, sweltering morning on Kata Noi beach, a vendor with an attach? case full
of knock off designer watches pointed far out to sea at the bank of black clouds. "No
business for me this afternoon," he lamented, shaking his head.
At noon, the deluge started. From our balcony, we watched the wind-racked palms bending in
the lashing torrents. The unseen sea's thundering anger was barely audible as the rain
dropped like spears.
The storm provided an opportunity to write a few postcards, including one to our
skeptical, monsoon-warning friend. His card was succinct and truthful: "It's pouring
rain." We could already hear his smug, "I told you so."
Three hours later, the longest storm of our two-week stay became a light shower and then
the sun blazed. We sloshed and splashed like five-year-olds through knee-deep rapidly
evaporating puddles. There were rainbows everywhere.
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