An aspiring novelist visits the supposedly idyllic island of Koh Mook, Thailand, where she encounters mischievous characters in this so-called paradise, including a self-proclaimed “Romeo” and a thief, both of whom derail her journey.
I noticed them before I had even opened the menu. Sitting at the next table, in the restaurant that sat above Charlie Beach, were three French-speaking men, drinks in hand, laughing in that easy, conspiratorial way that makes you want to join in, to be a part of their crowd. In that second, any plans for a quiet week writing my novel on the island of Koh Mook, Thailand, were already being carried by the breeze across the turquoise sea. What I didn’t know then was that one of them would soon be standing, uninvited and dripping wet, on my balcony at 5 am the very next morning, or that this island-hopping trip would end not on Koh Lipe as intended, but at the British embassy in Bangkok.
Only half an hour earlier, my boat had glided past the sugar-white sands of the luxurious Sivalai Beach Resort, its curved tip a stingray’s snout reaching out, beckoning me towards this pearl of the Andaman Sea, which would be home for the next eight nights. This island was not a party island; it was even quieter than its distant neighbour of Koh Lanta. But the quiet ones are the most dangerous, aren’t they? That can be true of people, and, as it would soon be revealed, it could also be true of islands.
After disembarking the boat, I found myself sharing a tuk-tuk with an elderly Swedish woman who was heading the same way as me. Koh Mook was authentically Thai and beautiful in a raw, understated way. Wooden houses stood confidently on stilts on the water, ladies in the street waved and called out “Sawadee Ka”, and the song of the Asian Koel birds followed us down the road.
To reach Charlie Beach, you first must pass through the ruins of an old resort, shut down by the authorities in 2008 and abandoned for years. From this side, the island looks neglected; the path before us was scattered with concrete skeletons, cracked tiles, and broken walkways. If you were to judge it on first glance, you might be disappointed. But then the path opens, and with each sandy step emerges a beach to rival any in the Caribbean, stretching in an ivory arc with a backdrop of lush green forests rising over the limestone cliffs. The tuk-tuk driver threw our luggage onto the sand and marched across the beach, indicating for us to follow. He led us to the bottom of some steep steps, next to a bohemian beach bar, which led up to the restaurant and bungalows. He pointed upwards to let us know we were on our own from here on out.
At the top of the steps, we were greeted after some time by an uncharacteristically rude Thai woman, and that’s when the Swedish woman and I realised we were both here for the same bungalow. This bungalow was worthy of the battle that followed. It sat atop rocks that overlooked both the beautiful beach, extending in a white-gold crescent to the right, and the dazzling Andaman Sea, with its palette of blues and greens to the front. It had a large balcony with hammocks where you could spend your time gifting your eyes with this spectacular view and letting the tropical breeze fan your face, or, as I had intended, use it to inspire the writer within. After a strange stand-off in my bungalow, the Swedish lady checked her phone, and the Thai lady helped her to realise she had accidentally booked the hotel on the other side of the beach. She slammed the door on the way out and spent the next two hours sitting in the restaurant, shooting me looks so sharp they could fillet a barracuda.
In the restaurant, my favourite Thai dish Gai Pad Med Mamuang (cashew chicken) had just arrived when Pierre leaned over from the next table. Small, wiry, with a grin too confident for his size, and that French accent where every word dripped with seduction.
“You should join me. You look lonely.”
Soon he was telling me about his friends: Christian, the Belgian captain of their sailing boat, which was anchored in view from my balcony, had gone back to the boat for a nap, and ZuZu (whose real name I never did learn) was currently sunbathing on the beach below us. They were sailing around Malaysia and Thailand, hopping from island to island like it was their private playground.
By sunset, we were all four barefoot in the beach bar, dancing to French music blaring from the barman’s iPad. It soon became apparent that many French people were flocking to Koh Mook; two French girls joined our crowd and grew intimately close to Christian and ZuZu, leaving me to fight off Pierre’s increasingly persistent advances. At midnight, I was sitting on the beach where the sand and sea merged, grinning in awe at the ethereal glow of the bioluminescent sea plankton and having a deep, yet entirely one-sided conversation with a hermit crab.
But the next day was filled with plans of kayaking to the Emerald Cave, with its hidden lagoon accessible only by swimming 80 metres through the dark cave passage, until you emerge bathed in the water’s emerald hues from the sunlight streaming in from the collapsed roof above. Rumour has it that pirates would hide their treasure here in former days.
Bidding my new friends goodnight, I stumbled up the steps to the bungalow, lingering for a moment on my balcony, watching in awe as the stars danced a cosmic ballet on the waves below, before retreating under the mosquito nets to bed.
Whilst on the precipice of a drunken slumber, there was a gentle knock on the door. Pierre stood outside, smiling up at me expectantly.
“We are having a party on the boat; will you join us?” In hindsight, this could have turned out to be one of the best nights of my life, a spontaneous party on a boat in paradise. But I wasn’t attracted to Pierre and knew how the night would inevitably end if I swam to that boat with him.
Five hours later, I jumped at the sounds of banging and shouting outside the door. Pierre. This man just wouldn’t take no for an answer. He sounded drunk, and as a woman travelling alone, I knew better than to open the door to him again.
Then came the unmistakable sound of the balcony door sliding open. Somehow, in my drunken stupor, it had not been locked. Pierre stood dripping wet in the doorway, his outline silhouetted by the moonlight. He must have climbed up the rocks from the sea to reach my balcony, and he was grinning as if he had just conquered Everest. I have never moved as quickly as I did that night.
“Pierre! Get out now!” I screamed at him, jumping out of bed.
He looked wounded. “But Adele… I swam all this way to get to you.” Any flicker of pity was drowned in shock.
“Well, swim all the way back again,” I snapped, marching him out, and in that moment, I was thankful I was taller than Pierre. If he had more to him, I dread to think what could have happened. He muttered something in French as he disappeared down the rocks. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t merci beaucoup.
The next day, when he was sober and not dripping with seawater, Pierre had the gall to compare himself to Romeo and even went so far as to suggest his gesture at dawn had been romantic. He was swiftly reminded that Romeo was invited up to Juliet’s balcony; he had received no such invitation to mine.
After a few sleepless nights in my beautiful–yet no longer safe–bungalow, I moved to the other side of the island. My new guesthouse sat just steps from a narrow stretch of sand lined with bars and restaurants that spilled straight onto the beach.
From here, I rented a bicycle and began exploring. The island’s main village was a tangle of wooden houses, roosters, and smiling Thai ladies selling watermelons from stalls lining the road. The fishing harbour was all colour with longtail boats in reds and blues, their paint faded but proud, nets drying in the sun, fishermen waving as I passed.
Days slipped by in a slow rhythm of lunches on the beach, solitary Changs at sunset, and long walks around this charming little island. The novel began to take shape again. I began to forget the date; I almost forgot Pierre and the trauma he caused.
When it came time to leave for Koh Lipe, I packed lazily, my guard fully down. The tuk-tuk to the pier rattled along the narrow, uneven road, wind whipping through my hair. My handbag (the only designer one I owned, gifted to me by colleagues on a cruise ship), containing passport, cards, and phone, ready to check into the next hotel, rested loosely (and foolishly) in my lap.
Somewhere between the guesthouse and the pier, it vanished. At first, it seemed the bag had simply slipped and fallen to the floor. But after frantically scouring the tuk-tuk and retracing my steps, it was obvious it had been stolen. It wasn’t until much later that I recalled the tuk-tuk driver signalling to a passing driver. Lost in daydreams about my upcoming adventures in Koh Lipe, I hadn’t noticed him quietly lifting the bag from my lap and handing it to his accomplice.
The boat to Koh Lipe pulled away without me. Instead, I stood in tears on the side of the road with no passport or phone, thousands of miles away from home and completely alone. It is only thanks to the kindness of the guesthouse owner that I was able to make my way to the mainland to speak to the police, then board an overnight bus to Bangkok, where the British Embassy rewarded my misadventures with an emergency passport the colour of buttermilk.
The kindness of strangers I meet when travelling always reaffirms for me that, despite what the news would have us believe, most people are actually good people.
Koh Mook had promised peace and quiet. Instead, it gave me a territorial Swede, a dripping wet French Romeo, and a theft that traumatised me and completely changed the way I now travel solo as a female.
And yet… Sometimes I still picture the view from that balcony. The way the stars danced over the Andaman, the curve of the beach under a sky glowing orange and then fading to a deep indigo at sunset, the white boat of those mischievous sailors bobbing on the waves in the distance. Paradise, but as I learnt, even paradise holds dark secrets. Somewhere on that quiet island, a lucky stranger strolls those sandy shores with my handbag slung casually over their shoulder.
