Scandinavian Hunks, Where Art Thou? My search for you in Koh Lanta

I’m at the Krabi bus terminal after a sleepless VIP bus ride from Bangkok. Paying extra for comfort didn’t buy me a good night’s sleep after all. Two blankets and a hoodie weren’t enough; Thais, as I found out, like their public transport at Arctic temperatures.

Stepping off the icebox double-decker, the heavy dampness of the monsoon air slaps me like a wet towel. I’m groggy, but my muddled state doesn’t dampen my excitement, as I’m on my way to sleepy Koh Lanta — the reason I’m down in Krabi when it’s not even the right season. Will my kiss wake Koh Lanta from its eternal slumber? I’m about to find out.

My colleague Nadine, a Thailand aficionado, raved about this island on the Andaman Sea with such passion that I had to ditch my own research and book five nights at a wallet-friendly beach bungalow on Long Beach.

“A gorgeous Viking descendant will convince you to stay longer,” she reassured me, like a true hunter for the Scandinavian hunk. What was supposed to be an exploration of the Gulf of Thailand morphed into a full-blown island-hopping adventure, and why the hell not? It’s my first time here, and Nadine has done this trail hundreds of times. If she says Koh Lanta is the place to be, who am I to judge? Besides, I can always hold her personally responsible and haunt her like a sunburnt Nosferatu if anything goes awry.

When my transfer van drops me off at the hotel, it’s 10 am, but they let me check in early. It’s the off-season, so the rooms are half-full at best, and I crash straight into the bed I’ll call home for the next five days.

I wake up to the sound of a thunderstorm in the early afternoon — the first sign of the monsoon I’ve been warned about. Everyone told me the monsoon rains are hardly an issue; brief and refreshing, like welcome respites from the heat. I bought into their false prophecies, but now I’m a lapsed believer at best. These downpours last for hours, and I find myself planning flood escape routes in my head.

Finally, when the rain dries and the sun reemerges, I wander along the boundless stretch of sand that gives this neighbourhood its name. It’s deserted, and I feel like I’m starring in my own Cast Away movie. The beachfront cafes and bars are partly shut, and the few souls I pass by might as well be ghosts. This seclusion is perfect for a romantic getaway or to recharge one’s batteries, but I’m dying for some human connection.

And the Scandinavian hunks I was promised? Nowhere to be found. Most are here with families in tow, and the rare single Viking would rather die than disturb a solo female traveller, living up to their Scandi reputations and making their ancestors turn in their graves. I crave attention, I demand unsolicited chitchat, I desperately need someone to acknowledge my existence. I can’t help but wonder if I’m like the pavements of Thai islands; barely there and hardly used for purpose. Instead, I see a few confused young Brits, searching for some secret party that was never really there. Should I join their quest to find this magical party? Maybe, it will help me find… something?