We paid the man seven baht as we
boarded the longtail boat. Villagers from the island use the boats
to buy groceries in Krabi town. One lady that stepped into the boat
after us held two bags full of food, and another carried a basket.
Next to us on the dock, another longtail had a small ramp folded
down from the stern for men to load their motor bikes, to ferry across the river.
As we cast off, a dark-faced male with
wavy black hair, collared t-shirt and sandals sat at the aft of the
boat and controlled the prop. March is almost the hottest month of
the year in Thailand and this day fulfilled expectations. A slight
coolness in the breeze as we skimmed forward felt welcoming, as did
the occasional drop of water splashed up as the boat pushed through
the river.
I was curious as to what lied ahead.
Ko Klang is not usually on the destination map of those headed to the
Krabi Province in the southern depths of Thailand, some 400 miles
south of Bangkok. Many of the island's 4,000 residents cross the
river to engage in employment brought by tourism in
Krabi town. After work, they return to their sleepy hamlet and see
very few tourists, except those who wander off the beaten path, like
ourselves.
Our ride across the river gave us a
closer view of the port of the village than we had yet to see.
Shanty houses came right to the water's edge, many of them on stilts
and hovering over the river. Every edifice appeared to be
constructed of wood, painted various colors; roofs were
sometimes supplemented with corrugated metal sheets, and eaves extended well over the walls of the house. The waters here were
a murky brown from the stir of activities around the pier. A man
waded up to his chest as we approached the dock, which was nothing
more than a wooden ramp whose lower end disappeared into the water.
The interior of Ko Klang was still a mystery to us, as it was
shielded by a jungle of trees.
As we touched with the dock, the man
driving the prop jumped out and tied a rope from the boat to a post
and wrapped it around snugly and fastened a knot. He helped us over
the gunwale and we walked up the wooden ramp and through a wooden
shade house where the people who sat on the benches all looked at us,
knowing we were not one of them. A couple of men offered us rides on
their mopeds, using very basic English. We declined, wanting to
enjoy the journey on our feet.
There are no cars in Ko Klang. Only
motor bikes, pedestrian traffic, and the tuk-tuk, which is a motor
bike with a cart attached to the side. Cement paths throughout the
village were smaller than a one-lane road, and traffic was sparse to
say the least. It was normal to go five or ten minutes without a
passerby.
Although Ko Klang is designated as an
island, it isn't in the same mold as your other islands of Southern
Thailand such as Phi Phi and Phuket. According to one local man,
there is only one beach and it is too far away to walk and very
trashy. Also, the island is not completely surrounded by ocean, but
mostly rivers and inlets. The indigenous mangrove tree occupies
about a third of the island, while the rest has been carved out by
man and is used as dwelling and farmland, including many rice fields.
Upon leaving the pier and gradually
coming upon the village by means of the pathway, there was a large
sign with pictures and words to the drifting tourists like ourselves.
So that there was no confusion, the sign stated bluntly that no
alcohol, drugs, pigs, dogs, nor immodesty were allowed on
the island. You see, Ko Klang, unlike much of the rest of Buddhist
Thailand, is ninety-eight percent Muslim. This tends to reflect the
influence of Malaysia, which isn't too far to the south. The people
here (I believe) have a different look to them that slants away from
the Asian appearance found in Bangkok. The women keep their heads
covered with a hijab, and the men (with the exception of some working
near the water) dress modestly with pants and shirt.
Most of the homes rested on stilts,
probably a measure against a tsunami. Animals appeared to wander
freely and snack on forage near the homes. We saw roosters, cats,
goats, and what appeared to be a water buffalo tied to the post
of a house. It is interesting that most of the homes had at least
two or three bird cages dangling from the porch―I
don't know the significance. Laundry was also left to dry alongside
pots and pans used for cooking. We saw a sink used for washing
dishes on one porch, with a PVC pipe running away to drain the water,
obviously a sign of no indoor plumbing.
Some villagers would sell fruit or
drinks from the front of their homes. Often this was a rather a
humble person who spoke no English, with very few customers for the
day. One lady stopped on her moped to sell us pineapple on a stick
and a small bag of popcorn. She carried all her goods on a cart
attached to the bike. She spoke little English, but left with a
smile when we bought her goods.
After roaming the outskirts of the
village, not knowing the location of the center, we asked around to
several people for the whereabouts of the mosque. We thought they
would know what we were asking, but time after time, we got a blank
look and a shake of the head. At length, one man understood our
query and pointed just up the pathway to a low-lying building that
hid behind the trees from our angle. This was the mosque.
I had expected the mosque to be
somewhat grandiose. It was not. The simple cement structure had
white walls and an ocean-blue onion dome on top, with peeling paint.
Atop the dome, perched like a weather vane, was the crescent moon,
symbol of the Muslim world. A motor bike parked in front, although
we saw no one come in or out. I walked to a front portico, knowing I
couldn't go inside, and observed the finely polished indigo tiles—by
far the most exquisite feature outside the mosque. One lone sign
near the entrance read something in Thai script that I didn't
understand.
We
arrived at a fish farm, which is an occasional stop for tourists who
do boat tours from Krabi town. Access is gained via a backdoor inlet
of the Krabi River, crawling through eerie mangrove forests, and
docking next to the farm, completely circumventing the rest of the
village. We were already familiar with this nook of Ko Klang from
our boat ride the day before. We stopped here for about thirty
minutes while a young Thai man pulled different exotic fish from wooden tanks for us to touch and take pictures.
Although
it was the day before, I should mention something of the large
mangrove forests that surround Ko Klang. We came through at low-tide
when the roots of the trees stood up as if on tip-toes, and appeared
almost as large spiders, the roots tangling with themselves as they
drooped into the water. The branches above us created a canopy that
blocked most of the sky. A trio of long-tailed macaques swung from
one branch to another, proving very difficult to spot through the
jumble of limbs. The water sat strangely still, and I half-expected
something to lung from its depths and snap at us.
Immediately
exiting the forest we came upon the fish farm, which consisted of
several wooden huts, some on stilts and others floating on the water.
Roofs thatched with palm leaves covered the huts, and some of these
roofs had tires resting on top, supposedly to keep the fronds from
blowing away. Although a “tourist stop” for some day-trippers,
our small group of eight people were the only ones there at that
moment. The buildings around the fish farm tended to be better kept
than those elsewhere in the village, some with grass yards.
As
we meandered to the fish farm from the mosque, it appeared exactly as
it did the day before, still very quiet and not many people in view.
We found a Muslim lady at a sink washing dishes.
Our
purpose in revisiting this area was to find a bite to eat, as the day
before left us no time for such an endeavor. We sat at the only
restaurant we knew of, a shaded, open-air structure that floated on
the water. I ordered salted fish curry, and Jenelle, fried rice.
When the boy brought our food, I couldn't believe the size of the
bowl and the saltiness of the fish. In addition to the strong
flavor, I found the texture to be very woody, including very fibrous
kaffir lime leaves. When we finished and had no more room within
us, they brought out large wedges of watermelon. We ate what we
could and spat the seeds into the water.
After
our meal we walked back toward the pier, following a different route.
We passed more of the same: shanty huts on stilts, roosters roaming
the yard, and the occasional motor bike purring by. Oh how I wished that
I wasn't a tourist and could walk inside a home to see how they
really lived. We saw shoes placed near the threshold of a door, in
typical Thai fashion in respect for the home, but what remained
inside was a mystery to us. What of the smells, the food, the
furniture, the religious emblems, and people?
We
passed a worn-down dirt field with grass and trees growing around it.
On each side was a small frame of a soccer goal, without net and
very rusty. This was their playing field, the bare-minimum by most
standards, but probably all they needed. Although no one was on it
at this time, the weeds in the center were worn from being trampled
upon and used.
Our
wanderings of nearly four hours brought us back to the pier where we didn't have to wait long to catch a longtail back to Krabi
town. By now the large sun had traveled directly above us, and the
sweltering humidity took the edge off of any romantic notions of
being in a tropical island village. As I embarked, I asked the
boatman the price of crossing the river in his vessel.
“Twenty-five
baht,” he said, in broken English.
