Monkey Business

There is no scarier creature than a monkey. Perhaps it's the opposable thumbs or their ability to remind humanity of their humble Darwinian beginnings. Whatever the case, our time on Railai Beach, a not-island only reachable by longtail boat, will be forever punctuated by our primate encounter.

Paul and I arrived from Bangkok in the rain, a nearly sideways monsoon style murkiness that threatened to loom for the entire week. We checked into our accommodation, the rather unique Railai Beach Club, two dozen private wooden houses and bungalows nestled between the beach and karst landscapes on Railai West.

Our bungalow, number 19, was a stunning house on stilts—kitchenette outside; big bedroom with bed, table, kettle and tea drinking paraphernalia; three sets of double doors; outdoor bathroom with jungle shower; and a wraparound porch to, theoretically, sun oneself.

Our place also came with a guidebook warning us of mosquitos, monkeys, setting fire to the building. Paul, ever the Londoner, was skeptical: ‘there’s too many sounds…what about the mosquitos…what if someone comes from the hills and murders us in the night?’ But, groggy from the rain, we fell asleep for one of those epic holiday naps, doors wide open, and were just fine.

Which definitely lured us into a false sense of security. The next day, sunshine abounding, we made for the beach, for a snack and then back for a little rest, leaving a bag of randomly other-country flavoured crisps (one of Paul’s true holiday delights) on the table.

The doors were open, curtains down when, mid-rest, a presence descended. Two pairs of beady eyes stared voyeuristically, predatorily at the doorway. The more brazen of the two sauntered in, snatched the bag of crisps off the table and sauntered out the other doors. The second monkey continued to gawk before making the decision to climb up the tea shelf, inspect all the items and make off with the jar of tea bags and sugar packets. Calmly. Slowly.

All guile, he made his way back onto the porch, half a metre away, and sat with his kill, coolly twisting the lid off and systematically unwrapping tea bags and emptying sugar packets straight into his mouth. We stared, transfixed, not quite believing what we were witnessing. 

And then madness descended. The gang ran from out of the jungle at full pelt, full-grown macaque monkeys, teenagers, mothers with babies hanging from their bosoms. They climbed and jumped and shit themselves stupid.

We screamed and screamed and screamed. Stupefied, it took us another minute to run, close and lock all the doors. And they were upon us, climbing up the roof, shaking the locked doors beseeching egress, banging angrily on the windows like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster.

Then they infiltrated the bathroom. One monkey took to his rooftop perch and commenced operation minty fresh breath by chewing up, and then discarding, my full tube of American-bought, hoarded-in-China toothpaste.  Another commandeered my Lush face scrub and licked the contents out of the jar.

The monkeys not participating in the orgy of smelly human product consumption sat watching.  We engaged in a creepy staring contest. We lost.

This took it one step too far. Cowering at the prospect of facing the monkeys head on, I sent Paul. Shaking, he took to winding up and snapping a bath towel in the gang’s direction.  The monkeys smirked and did not move but Paul, ever the gentleman, did rescue the remains of my toiletries before dashing to reception to call in reinforcements.

Five minutes later, a man wielding a rather large baton came hooting past the property. The monkeys scattered and then ran back into the forest. Paul soon followed, looking harassed but relieved.

As it turns out, our monkeys were local celebrities.  When Paul complained about our inability to leave the doors and windows open, the receptionist was initially prickly. But on finding out we were in Number 19, she changed her tune: ‘Ohhhhh, number 19, yes the monkeys are particularly known in this part of the beach club.’

This is how we commandeered a bungalow change. 

For the rest of the week, we fell asleep to the croaking of some very vocal bullfrogs and woke up to the Thai receptionists giggling themselves silly.  Compared to the gang activity of a group of grabby-handed monkeys, we settled in quite peacefully.