The Island
Barely had I set foot on Ko Lanta island, that I found a shop near my hostel with autoctonous boys eager to rent their mountain bike to a pale face yankee like me. A couple of quids a day. Ideal start. Ideal island, too. Right-sized (about 30 km long and 5 km wide with a core of unexplored forested mountains), not too mainstream despite the increasingly higher concentration of bloody resorts (mainly populated by German middle-class families with reasonable dreams). A place with personality, where you can still feel the wilderness of empty beaches, dark and creeky forests in the night, tropical animals scaring you when you least expect it. ...Like 2m snakes crossing the road in front of your wheel, grinning monkeys jumping down of a tree to chase you, half-meter long lizards running away and scaring the crap out of you when you are taking a wee along the road , non-identified insects emitting loud and continuos shrills making you feel like in Apocalipse Now..... As I walk the extremely long beaches under a starred sky, surrounded by utter darkness, and look at the moon rising from behind the backbone of the island, I connect with some hidden and mighty spirits. Wild, wild, wild..there's something strong out there, something dangerous and inhospital, but towards which I sometime seem uncontrollably attracted. I do have a dark side.
During the whole period on the island, I just keep exploring, but never stopping, uncapable of relaxing. I keep riding on the hilly roads of the island, feeling tonic as I crank up mile after mile..the muscles feel good and tired, yet I cannot stop. I'm addicted. All the physical labor over those long days started getting into my head. I became an even deeper dreamer of what I normally am! Hamletic doubts...thoughts about love, sharing and freedom... the ability to feel in control of my destiny...reflections about "writing" as a personal trademark, a reflection of your soul...the importance of transposing experiences into stories.. "Stories are the only thing we care about as humans, stories are all that will be left after we are gone. The stories ARE our life....thoughts also about style, an essential style which means "cutting the crap", focusing on what you love no matter what. To flow (like the relaxing sound of your bike's tyres on the tarmac)..Quality IS intensity.."
The Swiss
Estranged was I in my own thoughts - on the verge of practising yoga on my bicycle like a 2 wheeled Zen Master - when a voice is calling me..and I find a brother. An hyper-talkative Swiss guy brings me back to Planet Earth as we start discussing Italian politics in Italian.Surreal. He's crazy, he's 60 and he's on a bicycle. He has a taste for young women, looks completely disorganized and his favorite topic is to prove how cool he is by showing off how much money he could save in every situation. He had rented a wrecked bike for half the price of mine. Definitely not a mainstream character. Basically, we bond.
Two hours later you could still find us together climbing a fence to reach an empty beach. Far from the madding crowd. After his (surprisingly!) unsuccessful attempt to pickup two lone swedish women, you could see us enthusiastically engaged in an improvised curling competition using coconuts we found on the beach. Hilarious. I like people free from prejudices and ready to embark in whatsoever crazy game may be proposed. We were free.
The German
The next character worth mentioning (all those lazy bums on mopeds are definitely not) was a German cyclist. When attempting the full tour of the island, I got lost and ended up into a massive landfill in the middle of nowhere (mountains of crap, flies and seagulls..and even some poor kids playing inside it...I wanted to take pictures to document this rape of nature ...but had to run! get my ass out, as I was fainting for the stink...). Thought-provoking. Then I got lost again, until I crossed this German man and asked for direction. He was on the other end of the spectrum versus my swiss friend. Middle aged, extremely German looking, not a single hair left uncombed, thickly built...and basically mute. As we cycled together, I soon found myself answering my own questions...He was too focused on the road. Nice person. From that day on, I saw him every evening, cycling back and forth.The only time he talked he told me he was here in 2004 when the tsunami hit. He survived 'cause he was cycling the hills. I don't think he has stopped since then. Focusing on the road, on the way.