raped paradise

Ko Phi Phi is the Frankenstein’s monster of the Thai islands: an impressive assemblage of parts roughly hewn together by the doctor of Western expansion. You have stunning beaches, tropical jungle, sheer karsts jutting out of the bays, beautiful tanned sirens, cheap cocktails in lazy low-slung beach bars, Thai massage parlours aplenty and endless golden rays. But the blood in this monster’s veins, the daily throbbing injection of urban hedonist-fetishists hell-bent on 10 days of bucket-fuelled, booty-filled escape, well this blood has totally failed to animate. Perhaps it’s the Americans pissing in the sand and throwing their fag butts in the sea, or the Colombians demanding room service and a comfier mattress, or the Italians hollering at their hostel owner over 50p, or the Thai waiter screaming ‘fuck you and fuck your Mum too’ when someone kicks up the litter he’s swept, or the sun-lobsters crawling through the streets lager in hand, or the constant whine of ‘you come, good massage, happy ending, yes yes, penis massage, you likey likey’, or the 5 adjacent beach side clubs blaring out dub step over commercial pop over classic rock over techno into a melange of tuneless ear splitting proportions, or the clutches of neon ‘I heart pee pee’ vests or the fucking Irish pub or the middle-aged Glaswegian alcies decrying the local whiskey whilst throwing it back nonetheless, or the shimmering walls of fake Raybans, or the clogged arteries of permanently full guest-houses, rapidly being augmented by skeletal constructions carved ever higher into the jungle, or whatever other cynical import from the Blackpool night scene or, weirdest of all the 10 to 1 tourist / Thai ratio. But whatever the final straw was, Ko Phi Phi has almost entirely lost its charm. Still, if you can’t beat ’em and all that – I have spent 3 days in various combinations of inebriation or hangover or sleep, the folks that aren’t just massive nobheads have been pretty damn friendly and lashings of English irony has resulted in a fecking good old giggle. I can’t say the same for Vincent who has been in a particularly French mood ever since we got here. Occasionally he we will drawl ‘I cannot talk to these dumb people’ before returning to a slumber in the one reggae bar he actually likes until it’s time to go home. As we left today he rasped ‘goodbye raped paradise’. And I had to agree; I’ve enjoyed it here but I’ll never come back.