Khao Sok National Park
After Bangkok we went to floating rafthouses on the dammed lake in Khao Sok national park. We rode a long-tail boat, past limestone mountains erupting out of the water, their cliffs towering what seemed to be hundreds of metres above the water. The jungle wrapped itself around the cliffs unevenly, a mess of trees and vines. Sometimes the jungle covered the rock evenly all the way to the edge of the water, sometimes it left the rock bar and empty. Seven years ago they lowered the level of the dam about five metres, leaving a pale strip of rock at the base of most cliffs, where the jungle stopped neatly. To me, this looked precisely like a choc-top from the Astor in Melbourne, where the chocolate coating stops just short of the cone, revealing a neat line of white ice-cream.

After about an hour, the boat arrived at our accomodation - the Plern Prai rafthouses. They look like sturdy set of huts as we approached over the water, so it was only once I was on them that I realised that the huts actually float on the water, supported by sunken logs and the remains of acres of bamboo forests. One minute they look so sturdy and dependable, the next it looks like a strong wave would send the rafts off in separate directions. Most of the time, though the huts and the bamboo walkway that connects them shifts to accomodate my weight confidently - it was only the long and decidedly dodgy section that connected the huts to the toilet block on the mainland that where I tread carefully.

The place was so peaceful all day, but especially so in the soft light of the mornings when the noises of the forests carried across from the lake. After jumping straight off the walkway into the lake, I could hear amazing bird calls echoingfrom the mountains, or locusts or crickets twittering from nearby. Occasionally a gibbon called out in their sing-song chant, which one of the Thai guys here assured me was a mating call. I spent a few minutes just listening to the noises of the lake around me - the chatter of the staff working, the creaking of the bamboo walkways as they shift to a new position, the heavy roar of a long-tail boat ferrying people in or out, then a few moments later the gentle lapping sound of its wake against our huts.