Thailand’s Wild Coast Grabbed Me by the Throat—Rayong Fed Me, Koh Chang Fought Me

No Filters, No Fluff

 *Just Me, a Scooter, and a Place That’s Slipping Away*

Part 3: The Wild That Got Under My Skin

Rayong wasn’t on my radar—just a dot I rolled into, the ADV 350 humming under me, tired from Pattaya’s buzz. Dropped my gear at Hilton Garden Inn Rayong, and damn, it’s swanky—rooftop bar with a sunset that feels like it’s daring you to stay sane, sheets so crisp I almost didn’t want to sleep on ‘em with my grimy self. But the market—that’s where it got real.

I parked the scooter under a palm tree, its leaves drooping like they’re as beat as I am, and waded into this sweaty, stinking mess of life. Fish guts squished under my boots, chili smoke stung my eyes, and then there’s Auntie Pim—this little dynamo with a glare that’d stop a truck. She’s yelling at me, “You too skinny, eat!” and next thing I know, I’ve got mango-sticky rice in my hands—warm rice sticking to my fingers, mango juice running down my wrist, coconut cream dripping everywhere.

I’m trying to bargain, she’s cackling, shoving a tamarind pod at me like it’s a test. “You bad at this, farang,” she says, gold tooth flashing, and I’m laughing too, buying more—grilled squid that burns my lips, clams swimming in chili, rambutans I crack open ‘til my nails are red. It’s chaos, loud as hell, and I’m full—stomach, soul, all of it.

Later, I’m up on the Hilton’s roof, beer in hand, stars punching holes in the dark, thinking I could live in that mess forever.

The next morning, we're onwards to Koh Chang—it’s not a place, it’s an untamed beast. Ferried over along with the big bike, the deck vibrating under us, and checked into Aana Resort Koh Chang. That spot’s wild—villa half-eaten by jungle, bed creaking like it’s alive, balcony where I’m swatting mosquitos and sipping warm Chang, the sea glinting like it’s plotting something. I rode out, tires kicking gravel, chasing waterfalls that roar so loud you feel it in your chest.

Stopped at this shack—bamboo and sand, nothing fancy—and Jai’s there, this wiry guy with a machete and a stare that cuts. He’s cracking coconuts, handing me one—juice spills, sticky on my knuckles—and he’s growling, “Coral’s dying, man. Too many damn feet.” He dives every day, replanting what tourists trash, fighting a war I didn’t even know was happening.

“You take or you give—choose,” he says, and it’s not a question. We end up at his bonfire—fish sizzling on sticks, smoke choking me, mosquitos eating me alive. Locals shove warm beer my way, Jai’s still ranting—over-tourism’s strangling this island, and I’m nodding, feeling it sink in. I’m sunburned, my shirt’s soaked, my boots are caked in mud from my big bike’s jungle run—I’m a wreck, and I love it. Koh Chang’s not letting go, and neither is Jai’s fire.

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