At 8:15, our pick up arrived. Jon and I joined three American guys and an australian couple in a mini-bus made for twelve. Without any kind of trunk space, we piled our increasingly huge rucksacks to one side on the front seat. But it was kind of okay; I had come armed with Lemon Fanta.
But then we picked up three more Australians. And then two more--a dutch couple who managed to avoid speaking with the rest of the party who happened to be sharing the 10 feet of space. The count stood at: 2 Americans, 5 Australians, 2 Dutch, Jon, myself, 11 stuffed-to-the-brim rucksacks, the driver and his girlfriend. Epic fail.
We drove. The air conditioning stopped working. We twisted our bodies as the van careened over, under and past potholes, side of the road vegetable stands and scooters carrying families of five. We continued driving and driving and driving and stopped at a dodgy rest stop where I proceeded to get travel sick in a stand-up toilet.
Around 2:30, we arrived at another dodgy outpost claiming to be in Surat Thani. After 40 minutes in said outpost, we crammed into a dodgier bus that seated 40 (but didn't stop us from getting in 60) and had fans on the ceiling and windows you could easily fall out of. The only Thai person in sight was our driver, who was clearly amused at the sweating, angry Farang (white people).
Strangely, this bus amused me. I must have been delusional. We drove. Again. For another forty minutes witnessing a fruit car that toppled over on the side of the road. We arrived at a rickety bridged ferry port and watched our better informed Farang friends climb onto the not dodgy ferry. The dodgy ferry left at 4:15 and arrived in Koh Samui at 5:00pm.
And sadly, I wish that were it. But really, it had only just begun. Because our minibus driver who was meant to take us to our bungalow was late. When he languidly strolled up to us fifteen minutes later, he decided that taking out his, well you know, and pissing into the gulf of Thailand was appropriate in front of a crowd of 10 women (and Jon). He (the driver, not Jon) zipped himself up and began handling our bags. I almost puked, again.
But no worries, we still had a forty minute transfer ahead of us. Two hours later, after zigzagging the greater Chaweng area for the third time, the French girls lost their shit and began screaming at the driver. He threw up his hands yelling 'okay crazy lady, okay crazy lady!'. I wanted to laugh, really I did, but there was nothing left.
And that's how we eventually ended up at the bottom of the road of our accomodation, The Jungle Club, only accessible by resort Jeep. 13.5 hours, no meals and two minibuses, a bus, ferry and jeep later, we arrived. To find that our reservation did not exist.
Which is how I ended up sharing the honeymoon suite with a gay man for no extra charge. Silver lining, check!
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