When travelling, the real luxury is the adventure!
I have landed in many places in the world. Sometimes the country, the city or the village offers only Spartan accommodation. Or you have to pay the price of a five-star hotel.
Sometimes it sounds shabby, and it is, but the stay is unforgettable.
I slept on straw mattresses, on the sand, in railway stations surrounded by walking cows and large homeless families. A palm leaf hut on the beach, a basement converted into a dormitory or stuck to my camel (which smelled like a camel) to protect me from the icy desert wind.
Did I suffer? No, not at all.
Because the important thing was not to have comfort but to be there.
Superb beachfront hotel, Koh Lanta, Thailand
Merry Beach resort, that sounds great.
On the map that the surly boss of the agency shows me, the “resort” is on the east coast of the island, where the beaches are.
Merry Beach Resort. She shows me pictures of bungalows surrounded by trees and flowers. She also explains to me that the bungalows are in the forest and do not overlook the sea but the beach is just a stone’s throw away.
At this price, I don’t take any risks.
Let’s go, my pecker.
Merry Beach Resort, here I am!
Here I come. No reception as such. It is in fact a strange circular bar, built with a chainsaw and decorated with ashtrays, multicoloured floats transformed into lampshades, old boxes wraped in reggae flags, pieces of bamboo, card holders, glass holders… in short, the maritime scraps.
A genius decorator has put strings of lights everywhere, placed Jamaican coloured fabrics (with holes) on large, rough and uneven boards that serve as a giant sofa, photos of Bob Marley, all supported by tree trunks.
The effect is very successful as soon as night falls, with a few beers in the nose, it’s even better.
Of course, the little sound system only plays reggae.
The bar is in fact a small space with mostly empty bottles of cocktail alcohol, just behind it, on the floor, a big freezer that doesn’t freeze anymore, for beers and water bottles. And everywhere else an indescribable mess. The sandy ground is littered with all kinds of rubbish.
Don’t ask for Tequila sunrise or cocktail of any kind at the Reggaeman Bar, ask for a beer and you’ll be sure to be served.
In the evening, everyone – the family in the Thai sense of the word, which is therefore very large – meets at the bar, eats at their own pace. They drink and smoke a lot, wallowing on cushions of dubious cleanliness.
Joints the size of a stick of dynamite circulate, in a cool and festive spirit at the same time.
Let’s move on to the bungalows.
Private bungalow, view on the garden: the great luxury
Then there, the bungalows.
A dozen woven palm leaf houses. Roof in corrugated iron. Concrete floor covered with a glaring adhesive that no longer adheres to much, a mix of several possible patterns and colours, they must have run out of materials. The bed is as always here very hard but clean, even if the sheets have holes and stains all over. A wall fan ventilates well but does not wobble. A mosquito net hanging from the ceiling, completely off-centre in relation to the bed, is waiting to be undone for the night. Pink frilly curtains in the most vulgar taste adorn the two windows.
A small bamboo shelf and a quilted mirror make up the furniture.
So much for the bedroom.
Room with private bathroom: the only luxury is that it is private
The bathroom.
It’s going to be quick. A toilet without a flush (bucket of water and bowl provided), a washbasin without a siphon, a shower hose (cold only) hung on the wall, a towel rack, a twisted plastic shelf (so on which I don’t put anything, otherwise it breaks).
All this fits into twelve square metres.
A small terrace overlooking the garden, two plastic chairs, a small table, an ashtray.
A clothesline, two electrical sockets that work, a strange doormat.
Towels are provided.
But in fact, if you think about it, I have much more than a room, I have friends
I also have an army of geckos hiding under the roof, huge toads, one of which got stuck in a hole in the wall and which I dislodged with buckets of water.
An astonishingly silky black cat, affectionate and purring.
Cockroaches as big as my little finger plays cards in the evening, in the little corners. I can see their thin, restless antennae sticking out from the bottom of the walls and I think they are talking about me.
Unknown insects, flying, crawling, humming.
Ants all over the bathroom walls.
And mosquitoes.
And then I have humans friends too: His name is Lee, Mister Lee
The owner of my super luxury bungalow is a pure rasta named Lee.
One metre seventy, cut from a garden hose (small diameter), he proudly wears sprawling dreadlocks as soft as a bale of straw.
Angular face, cut with a serpe, mischievous slanting eyes, very smiling, very spontaneous and very, very cool.
Not anxious about life for a bath.
Mister Lee is a cook, musician, artist and father of two children, if not more.
He proudly explains to me that his father is also a musician, that he knew Bob, the great Bob marley, and that his band performs all over Thailand.
Great you think, where can I book this dream hotel?
Well, don’t be ironic! The beach is just a few steps away, immense and white, almost deserted.
The sand is soft, the sea warm, the sun blazing.
I have breakfast every morning facing the sea in an artist’s restaurant, served like a princess by a ladyboy who calls me “honey”.
Mister Lee prepares delicious Thai dishes for me in the evening and comes to eat with me.
All the people at Merry Beach are very kind. Always ready to help and disarming with sincerity. Always smiling, they offer coffee without presenting the bill, take me everywhere by scooter, burn me free reggae CDs and make superhuman efforts to speak to me in English.
Every evening, Mister Lee even proposes to chase away the mosquitoes on my naked legs by calling me “My Darling”.
Of course, if I could afford to stay in a palace, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.
