THAILAND: What Koh Lipe has taught me about being an alien

Thoughts on jellyfish, water taxis, coconut donuts, and life

The middle of your own back sure is a hard spot to reach, am I right? With Andy out for the day working on his many video projects, it took what seemed like forever to get all the sunblock on by myself so I could leave our hotel room. Tough problem to have, right? After an entire day of boating and snorkeling yesterday, I was not anxious to get a sunburn. But we are not in a hurry, so I didn't feel any pressure.

When I finally finished, I tossed my phone, water bottle, a little cash, a packet of tissues, the room key, and half a dozen lychee fruits into a small canvas tote bag. Grateful for the wrap skills I learned in Zambia, I wrapped my Turkish towel around my hips and tied a knot in one end so I could secure it, sarong-style, as a casual skirt. Ready to go, I opened the door to the little patio and slid into my beach sandals.

When I stepped off the covered porch and onto the sidewalk, though, I froze. I hadn't realized it was raining.

Rats.

I would need to go back to the room . . . for a more waterproof bag.

The rain rarely lasts long at this time of year here on Koh Lipe, a tiny island off the southwest coast of Thailand, and even when it does rain, it’s warm.

Walking past the hotel’s swimming pool, I saw Lucasz and Monika, our new Polish friends, both teachers about our age.

I wasn't surprised to see Lucasz (pronounced WOO-kahsh) in the pool with Mattieu and Julia, another couple from Poland, now living in Sweden. He had mentioned at breakfast, only a couple hours prior, that his back was hurting and he hoped to spend much of the day in the water in hopes of relaxing his tense muscles.

Monika was staying dry. Our eyes met as I passed by and we waved to each other and smiled.

“Where are you going?” she called out.

“To the beach.”

“To the beach? But it’s raining!”

I looked at the sky and shrugged, grinning. “You are at the pool—I can go to the beach.”

“But I am under a palm!”

“It’s ok.” I shrugged again, still smiling.

Monika shook her head and laughed.

We will see them all again this evening. The six of us, including Mattieu and Julia, are going out for happy hour, which on Koh Lipe lasts from three in the afternoon until eight, when the dinner scene starts to ramp up. The islands seem to have a slower pace about everything.

By the time I had strolled nearly all the way from the west end of Walking Street, where our hotel is located, to where it comes out on the east side of the island ( a distance of perhaps a third of a mile), the rain had stopped.

Shopkeepers began pulling the plastic sheeting back off their open-air displays of trinkets and sweets. They pushed their racks of breezy and colorful beach attire back out toward the promise of passing lookie-loos meandering past with nothing better to do. The island is home to only 800 year-round residents, half the size of the student body at the high school where we used to teach. The other couple thousand of us are here on holiday, just passing through.

After I wound down the sandy path that leads through the bungalow resort at the end of Walking Street, where it intersects with Sunrise Beach, I turned north.

I would need to walk a bit along the beach to get past the stretch of water taxis moored to ropes in long lines, awaiting business.

When I passed the last of the taxis, though, I noticed there were no swimmers in the water and only a scattered few sunbathers on the beach. Looking down at the wet sand along the water’s edge, I suddenly realized why. Shiny purple jellyfish, each about the size of my palm, dotted the sand. Some were partially buried and dull in color, some still vibrant and fresh. This was not a good place to swim—at least not right now.

I decided to walk on to North Point, where the shoreline curved. The subtlest change in the angle of the water currents can make all the difference, as far as what is in the water being washed up toward shore.

Sure enough, as soon as I rounded the bend, the visible jellies decreased in number, then stopped altogether. Beach towels once again scattered across the white sand, and swimmers and snorkelers bobbed in the clear swells.

It was only one simple lesson, set amidst so many other simple lessons we must learn in every new place. Check the sand to see what’s in the water, then choose your swimming beaches accordingly.

I have so much to learn.

So now, after a refreshing float in the shallow aquamarine water, streaked with purple where the coral is close to the surface, I am stretched out on my towel, writing and munching on lychee.

I’m also thinking about when I might head back to Walking Street for my daily dose of coconut donuts.

They aren't really donuts, the way would define them in the States. They are mostly shreds and slabs of fresh coconut, with a little batter to hold it all together, grilled in coconut oil until they are browned and slightly crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside.

I am fairly certain I could live on them, plus water and a good multi-vitamin. I haven't had the opportunity to try taking it that far, but at only 10 baht each (29 cents USD), two a day is a sustainable habit. We aren't on Koh Lipe for much longer anyway.

That’s the thing with full-time travel. We are always adjusting to a new place. When we arrived at Koh Lipe, we were disoriented and overwhelmed—literally fresh off the boat. But now, just as we have begun to feel comfortable here, it’s time to say goodbye—to the lay of the land and names of the streets, to the familiar food, to the local transportation, to the friends we’ve made. Time to start adjusting to something new. Again.

I’m not complaining, of course. It’s amazing—this nomadic lifestyle we are living—but it’s not the same as taking a week or two of vacation and then coming back home. We have no home to return to currently. Every place we lay our heads is our home, but only temporarily. Everything, then, must be held loosely. It won’t last.

I suppose, come to think of it, this is a healthy way to live anyway, especially for a Christ-follower. We sing about it. Maybe you remember Jim Reeves crooning, “This world is not my home; I’m just a-passin’ through.” Or, skipping from the 1960s to the 1980s, perhaps you can recall Petra’s haunting melody, “We are strangers; we are aliens; we are not of this world.” Even the John Bunyan classic, Pilgrim’s Progress, centers on believers treading lightly on this earth, facing the trials and tribulations that come with the human experience, while pursuing an end goal not found in this present existence.

But singing and reading about it are one thing. Living it is quite another.

I am not one to say we should deny ourselves any human pleasure and joy, that we should be so heavenly-minded that we are of no earthly good. On the contrary, we are set on soaking up all the beauty this earth has to offer. We want to see the places, meet the people, eat the food, experience the amazing wonders all around us.

By spending large blocks of time in places where the American dollar is strong, like this current three-month trip to Southeast Asia, we are able to see and do more than we ever thought possible before. We are keeping our lodging costs very low—rarely over $30/night (which is less than renting a small apartment in most of the United States).

We are likewise trying to eat where the locals eat whenever possible, bringing a hearty and flavorful restaurant meal down to less than five dollars, including beverages, for the two of us.

By keeping our basic living expenses so low, we can afford to splurge occasionally on a special opportunity—a day-long island-hopping tour on a jet-ski or a snorkelling trip, or a cable car ride up to an overlook point. It’s an amazing planet, filled with beautiful sights and beautiful people, and we want to see it all.

But we don't want to settle into any of it. We don't want to reach a point in our lives where we bury our anchor in concrete and claim any part of it as our own, a set of comforts we are somehow entitled to as the reward for all our labors. No. We want to hold it loosely—marveling at it all, serving and being a blessing as opportunities arise, learning from others whose lives are radically different from ours, adjusting lightly to each new setting lest we get too attached to any of them.

We are strangers. We are aliens. We are not of this world. We are just a-passin’ through.

I’m getting ahead of myself again. We have only been nomads for a little over a month, after all. Perhaps this is all just a lofty ideal. But the older I get, the less I know for sure. For now, all I know is there is a coconut donut man down on Walking Street who is calling for me.

🎶 “A coconut donut, ten baht, ten baht, coco!” 🎶

He smiles when he sees me coming now. We have a thing.

Until next week, friends,

Sherry