POSTCARD FROM THAILAND
Packaged in Pattaya
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Indians, Indians, everywhere.
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I get the strange feeling that I have come to Thailand without ever having left India.
Photo: Mukund Padmanabhan
Value pack: Parasailing, walking under water, the works.
THE phone rings in my Pattaya hotel room rather unexpectedly past 11 p.m. It is a Mr. Three. "Aaaah," he says, "You wanna go Coral Island tomollow day trip?" Three does a nice number as he lays out the package — speedboat to and fro, lunch, time on the beach, and options to go parasailing and undersea walking. I have visions of cruising in my own speedboat, lunching from a hamper on coral sands, and walking along a quiet wide white beach.
I should have known better. Given that the trip was priced at a mere 500 baht per head (about Rs. 650), it was a foolish fantasy. But this is my first night in Thailand and I have been lulled into believing the country is the most inexpensive in the world, having just finished a most agreeable dinner off the street (noodles with crunchy veggies) for an astounding 10 baht. When I suggest that the trip is reasonably priced, Three corroborates this enthusiastically. "Cheeeep," he trills. "Good valuuue."
The usual suspects
Three, who turns up the following morning at the appointed hour, is impeccably courteous. We set off in his roomy SUV and a little while later we arrive on the beachfront, where a speedboat awaits. Immediately, reality dawns and I begin to see my own stupidity. On that thin sliver of sand is a gaggle of Indians — life-jacketed, chattering excitedly and raring for the signal to wade into the water and clamber up the speedboat. The usual suspects are all there. Paunchy young man sporting cobalt blue sunglasses and chunky gold chains engaged in intense and loud business conversation on his cell phone. Two adolescent brats shrieking "Mummee" while excitedly pulling at the mother's hands. Seemingly bored middle-aged woman draped in a heavy silk sari staring impassively at the sea.
In a while, Young Thai Man (the tour guide) gives us the go ahead in Hindi, "Chalo, Chalo." As one might expect, nobody bothers to queue and there is a melee to board the boat. Could I be in India? No, I conclude rather resignedly. Just packaged in Pattaya
The Indian connection
Indians love Pattaya. My travel agent in Chennai tells me they prefer it over Phuket, the favoured beach destination for Westerners. Still, the sheer numbers in Pattaya are a surprise. They emerge out of hotels, drift in and out of shopping malls, and stroll along the beachfront. Almost everyone on the speedboat is on one package tour or the other. No one seems bothered about being shepherded in this fashion, about the inevitable lack of individuality that characterise such packages. With the exception of a couple of seasick people, everyone seems eager and animated as the boat seems to leap above the water and then comes down on the water with a stomach-churning thud.
Above water
First stop for parasailing. The large floating platform, which is only minutes away, provides a clear view of the bay and the city's beachfront. Young Thai Man collects 350 baht from all those who elect to parasail (almost everyone). After herding us to form a queue, we are handed over to the care of three other young men. All three wear monkey caps and dark glasses. Although this is to keep the sun away, it is a little disconcerting to think you are about to be sent floating about a hundred feet over the water by men whose faces you cannot see. Parasailing in these parts is a quick turnover business. The drill has been so perfected that absolutely no time is lost. As soon as A is swept off the platform for his or her speedboat-powered five-minute parasailing trip, B has a life jacket fastened by one of the Monkey Caps and is then manoeuvred to stand within a yard of the spot that A lands. It takes only an astonishing couple of seconds for the Caps to unstrap A from the parachute and fix the metal clasps on B who — voila — is immediately airborne. When I land, I make the mistake of clutching on to the parachute straps. "Chodo, chodo," urge the Caps; one of them raps my knuckles to make doubly sure I let go.
In water
Next stop is some 40 minutes away — a small patch of reef that fringes Coral Island (Koh Larn in Thai). I sign up for the underwater walk, intrigued by the idea, but not knowing exactly what it entails. Here's how it works. A heavy astronaut-like bubble helmet is placed over your head and you are pushed down to the seabed. Oxygen from a tank on board a boat in pumped via a tube into the bubble, preventing the seawater from ingressing into the helmet. I entertain thoughts of being allowed to stroll freely around the coral reef when I am down.
No such luck. Three masked scuba divers are down with me, and Mask One orders me to kneel on the sea floor. As I am down first, I apparently have to wait until the other seven underwater walkers join me. This takes a long time and my knees (which have begun to bleed from the bed of powdered coral) start hurting. But Mask One, who keeps wagging a firm finger close to my nose, will not permit me to stand up. It seems like eons before the others are all in place, kneeling and holding hands in a semi-circle.
The show begins
Then the show begins. Mask Two gives each of us a piece of bread which, almost magically, bring schools of colourful fish to feed within inches of the helmets. Meanwhile, Mask Three allows us to touch pieces of live coral, introduces us to a large clam, and is generally monkeying around and trying to be funny. It's a fine display and would have been much better if it wasn't for my smarting knees and the young north Indian woman on my right, whose hand I am to hold. Every now and then, she keeps pulling her hand away, struggling to break free even when I hold her wrist in a vice-like grip. Could her behaviour be a result of some notion of propriety — desi feminine modesty being played out in South-East Asian undersea? I can't tell and Mask One doesn't care. Each time, she breaks free, he swoops down on me, waving warning fingers and, on occasion, giving my helmet a threatening tap. Back on dry land, I ask her why she kept pulling away. "Oh," she says, "I had to keep adjusting my helmet."
Postscript
There is enough time for a dip in the cobalt blue waters on the other side of the island before heading back to Pattaya, where we are decanted into Song-taews (customized pick-up trucks which operate as taxis) and taken to a restaurant in a hotel for a buffet lunch. By now, there are no prizes for guessing the menu: all Indian. The usual suspects (naan, dal, paneer makhani) are all there and there is even a Jain counter for those who prefer not to eat onion and garlic. When I notice the papad and the lime pickle in a corner, I get the strange feeling that I have come to Thailand without ever having left India.
MUKUND PADMANABHAN
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