After an educational week of surprises and urban safaris in Bangkok, we hop a train to Trang Province, on the southwest coast of Thailand.

Trang is famed for its coffee — real coffee, rare in this country of non-coffee-drinkers who routinely serve up Nescafe and watch in amusement as the farangs gulp it down with resigned desperation.

Trang isn’t a well-trodden tourist spot, but secretly boasts some truly amazing beaches and scenery. We decide to head past the full-moon madness of Ko Samui and the massive developments at Ko Chang and Phuket so we can start small and quiet. We’ve been working for years and could use some peace. Not to mention we’re coming out of Bangkok.

The train station in Hualampong is big and classic and has a cool going-places feel, especially for those of us from North America who rarely see a train, let alone ride one. We buy sticks of fried chicken and spicy sausage, packets of steamed rice, iced fresh pineapple, and big bottles of Chang beer, and head for Platform 4.

Our berth is a first-class sleeper, basic and comfy with wallbeds, sink, and mirror, but mercifully private. Out in the hallway, my hair brushes against the ceiling and I have to turn sideways to keep my shoulders from touching the sides. It’s kind of fun being a giant.

The toilet is too wretched for words. This is a train, people. Logistically, it is nearly impossible to perform the required actions without grave errors.

As the train winds through slums and parks, past malls and plantations, under superhighways and over the river, we play cards and talk and get a bit drunk. We look up bungalows on a few Trang islands and use my unlocked cellphone to call a few, finally booking a beachfront bungalow on Ko Libong at a weekly rate of 800 baht per night, about $24.

(In Canada, cellphones are locked to one provider. I asked at Wireless Wave, downstairs in the Pacific Centre Mall in Vancouver, and was able to get in touch with a guy who unlocked my Sony Ericsson for $20 at his Yaletown apartment. This is awesome, because now 500 baht in a Bangkok mall buys me a sim card, giving me my own Thai phone number and 150 minutes of call time anywhere in the country. Thanks for the tip, Justine!)

Accommodations secured, we drink Chang, play cards, and watch night fall before climbing into bed and letting the motion of the train rock us to sleep.

Off the train in Trang, we hop a tuk and board a bus that we soon realize is going the wrong way. A short taxi ride later, we board a minivan to Hat Yao, where we buy a longtail ticket from Muslim women making pancakes that they cover in honey and condensed milk. I ask for one and they smile and nod, but make no move to make one for me.

We take a longtail to Ko Libong, then board scooters for the final ride to Ko Libong Beach Resort. Today we have taken a train, tuk, bux, taxi, minivan, boat, and scooter. We arrive at dusk, schoolkids chasing us across a soccer field shouting “Hello! Hello! Where you from?” Their smiles are wide and beautiful.

The resort is very nearly perfect. It’s on a long stretch of isolated beach backed with palms and casuarina trees. Our bungalow is on stilts twenty feet from the shore, facing west so we can watch the sun sink into the Andaman sea every night. The bathroom is open-air and breezy yet private. The weather is gorgeous. We are very happy.

We settle into a routine of sorts, drinking delicious fruit shakes of ripe watermelon, banana, papaya, and pineapple for breakfast. Then a swim and lots of reading. I finish Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything. I also begin my flashpacking life, editing a compilation of stories for a client on my Macbook for a few hours daily.

In the evening we play cards, meet other couples staying at the resort, and sometimes walk through the nearby Muslim fishing village at sunset. It is poor and simple but the people are lovely and happy. Kids practice their English as we pass, calling out “Hello! How are you? Bye bye!” We see racks of drying fish, people watching Thai soap operas in bars, tsunami-wrecked houses that have not been repaired.

Sunset appears to be bath time in the village. Half-naked kids flee from parents with jugs of water. A young guy drives past on a scooter wearing only a pink bath towel, but we are too respectful (or just shy) to take a picture.

One night we are lying in bed reading when Lindsie leaps up with a shriek, brushing wildly at her hair and shouting, “Is something in my hair? Get it out!”

There’s nothing in her hair. Something fell on her from the ceiling and landed on her face, she says. I investigate and turn over her pillow to find a hairy black spider the size of my hand, which promptly sprints across the bed at horrifying speed. Naked, I leap back in abject terror. The spider LEAPS from the side of the bed and hides behind my backpack.

I’m all for Buddhist compassion, but the conflict has escalated too far already. I dress in shorts, roll up my yoga mat, and stalk the oversized arachnid. After a tense standoff, it emerges from behind my shoes and I mercilessly beat it to death with the mat. I am not proud, but feel a lot of relief. That thing could RUN.

(If you’re not squeamish, here’s a shot of the aftermath.)

Each night for the remainder of our stay, I check the corners of the room with a flashlight before we settle in for the evening.

We hire a longtail for the day to tour the island’s coast. Trees rise straight out of the ocean. Our boat driver looks for dugongs, an endangered manatee-like sea mammal, but we don’t find any. We swim above the western reef, watch birds, take in the stunning views of limestone towers that explode improbably out of the ocean. (Well, explode in a geological sense… you get the idea.)

Our mild sunburns fade to tans and life takes on a beautiful, unhurried pace. The sun rises and falls into the sea. We slow down and enjoy every minute.

After a few absurdly peaceful and perfect days, a large tour group of Singaporeans descends on the resort. They are good neighbours for a few days, seeming only interested in wading, fishing, and chain-smoking, all of which is fine with us.

We are reading books one afternoon when a loud CRACK! makes us jump. One of the Singaporeans has lit and tossed a small firecracker. He smirks, Marlboro dangling from his lips. I laugh off the tension and we read on.

CRACK! CRACK!

Every hour or so, another few firecrackers go off. It is just often enough to be jarring and nerve-wracking. I wonder how many they have, and why they continue to find amusement in lighting them at this utterly quiet resort.

That evening, they tie a string of firecrackers to a palm tree near the restaurant and light them during dinner. We are having dinner with a wonderful young couple from Frankfurt; we all put fingers in our ears and wait for it to end. The deafening explosions continue for minutes, sending plumes of smoke through the restaurant.

“Okay, okay!” I shout when the din ends. “Finished! Yes? No more?”

“No,” calls one big bald Singaporean I have taken to calling “The Uncle.” He enjoys night-fishing in a speedo and has seemed harmlessly funny until now, but I am liking him less and less.

“Many more,” says The Uncle. “Much celebrations!”

“Much dinner!” I call back. “No more!” But he is not interested, and is tying another monstrous chain of fireworks to the already scorched trunk of the palm.

We look hopefully to the owner, a wonderful lady who lets us help ourselves to the beer and mixes the most delicious fruit shakes I have ever tasted. She shakes her head sheepishly and we understand. The Singaporeans are VIP customers here, eating massive banquets, renting dive gear, and generally blowing a lot of money.

“Fireworks illegal in Singapore,” she tells us. “Is fun for them.” We finish our dinner amid plumes of smoke, fingers in our ears, and check out the next morning.

Next stop: Ko Lanta!

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