Living large, spending small in Thailand

'Take off your shoes," the wiry man in flip-flops commanded in perfect English. "Hurry!" My husband, Clint, and I obeyed. I'm not sure why.

Balancing on one foot, wrangling a hiking sandal off the other, I watched the taxi that had carted us to Ao Nang, this seaside village in southern Thailand, zoom off. Across the street, the busy downtown promenade unfolded. Our original plan had been to poke around the town, get our bearings.

Instead, we hovered on the beach's edge, following the orders of an insistent longboat driver. "You go to Railay," he persisted, shooing us toward a waiting boat. "You go!"

Beyond the boat, the Andaman Sea shone liquid turquoise, limestone cliffs softened in green.

We briefly locked eyes. The sea was beautiful. Railay was high on our list. This guy was serious. Who needed a plan? Of course we would go.

Shoes off, we hefted our backpacks over the worn wooden boat's edge as water licked our calves, soaking rolled-up pant legs. We followed our packs, bruising limbs in haste, and headed for a wooden bench under a small tarp, where a handful of other travelers waited. By the time we settled in and took stock (Packs? Check. Sunglasses? Check. Shoes? Check.), the driver had shoved off, fired up the car engine mounted on the end of the boat, and steered us out to sea.

Although we finally had a chance to talk, my husband and I sat speechless, glassy-eyed and beaming amid the kind of exotic pure blue that, until that moment, we'd seen only in photos.

Plenty of people had recommended Krabi Province, about 8 degrees north of the equator. They'd raved about its seafood, low prices and, of course, beaches. Some of the world's best decorate Krabi's 150-plus islands and its coastline, which runs along the western side of the strip of land that tethers Malaysia to mainland Asia. Fifteen minutes down the coast, when we rounded one of those striking cliffs and caught sight of the quiet little cove called Railay, it was clear: Somehow, our perfect Krabi beach had reeled us in.

Upgrading, still adventurous

We had started our trip in Bangkok, 600 miles to the northeast, where the famous international backpackers' party that is Khao San Road pulsed. Travelers clogged the open-air budget hotel lobby bars, the used-paperback-book stands and food carts selling made-to-order pad Thai for the equivalent of 50 cents.

Overwhelmed and limp from the long flight and the thick, hot air, we opted for a hotel blocks away from all that action. Without batting an eye, I upgraded from the bare-bones $4 option to the $16 air-conditioned room, with patio and streetside view.

That move wouldn't have come so easily the last time I was in Bangkok, when, as a die-hard backpacker, I prided myself on saving pennies. Those days were over. Yet, I saw no luxury resorts (far from my style and, let's be honest, price range) on the horizon. What kind of traveler, then, was I?

"You're a Champagne Backpacker," Marti Grimminck told me during our chance meeting on the second floor of a nearby tiki bar, where Clint and I sat sweating and zoning out on the action below. It's a term she and her husband, Tony, developed when launching CheckPointBlack.com, a Web forum that connects travelers based on travel style. That means we come in at two dollar signs ($$) on their scale, which runs from Dirt Cheap ($) to Big Spender ($$$$$).

Money isn't the only thing that defines Champagne Backpackers, Grimminck said. They're also independent and experiential, saving up to shell out for what they see as key travel essentials. "If part of experiencing Paris is going to the trendiest restaurant in town, Champagne Backpackers will spend on the restaurant and go home to their cheap hostel room," she explained. Incidentally, she and Tony met on the road as Dirt Cheaps over a decade ago, but now, 30-ish like Clint and me, they're Champagne Backpackers, too.

I liked this phrase's ability to remove the wedge I'd mentally driven between the words "adventure" and "upgrade." After talking to Marti, I understood that just because I was shelling out for air conditioning didn't mean I had ditched my sense of exploration.

We leveled with ourselves: We weren't feeling the city. So in classic Champagne Backpacker style, we skipped the $12, 15-hour bus ride in favor of a $150, one-hour flight to southern Thailand. We'd heard good things about Railay Beach. Once we leaned in its direction, there was no going back.

The longboat ride we'd rushed into in Ao Nang is mandatory. Thick jungle and towering limestone cliffs separate Railay from Thailand proper, making it a secluded, roadless peninsula surrounded by tropical, reef-filled waters.

Divers and climbers love this place, but you don't have to be either to appreciate its charms. People succumb to its easy, laid- back pace. Even the beach vendors hawking sarongs and shell jewelry just toss a look your way, eyebrows raised, then keep ambling if you shake your head no.

Truly, though, the beach is the thing. It gently arcs between two cliff arms that create a natural frame into which the sun sinks every night. It's a spectacular show.

I should specify: This is Railay West. Of the peninsula's four beaches, it's the one for overnight travelers whose key phrases are "reasonably priced" and "beachside." Reservations are smart during high season, November through April, when prices and demand peak. And thanks to Railay's growing popularity and development, rates inch up each season. We, however, took a gamble on the low (a k a rainy) season, when there were plenty of rooms of all kinds.

Our suite cottage at Railay Bay Resort & Spa, with bamboo porch, marble floors, king-size bed, whirlpool tub, private outdoor garden shower -- let me repeat, outdoor garden shower -- and the faintest view of the sea cliffs beyond the pool and the palm trees, ran us about $65 a night, including breakfast.

To top it off, the weather played out beautifully, 80-some and sunny for the better part of every day. We couldn't have felt luckier.

"It sucks you in," our snorkeling guide, Dave Allen from British Columbia, agreed. Diver Dave, as Clint and I nicknamed him, has a deep tan, a muscular build and long, light reddish-blond hair. He had spent more than two years in Railay, off and on. The first time, he was island-hopping here in southern Thailand. "I came around the bend, and saw the cliffs and the turquoise-blue water, and my jaw was on the boat deck," he said. He stayed for three months.

We met him after he had planned to drop by briefly at the start of a Southeast Asian tour. That had been seven months earlier. Diver Dave lived in an inland resort that takes no reservations for its thatched-roof bungalows, which run around $18 a night. Monkeys, he said, woke him up each morning.

"I can go rock climbing in the morning. Snorkel and dive in the afternoon. There's just no reason to leave," he said. His job, leading snorkeling groups, helped. There were six of us, but half quickly decided that learning to snorkel in the middle of a rolling sea during jellyfish season isn't fun. The other half got to see black reef sharks. It's hardly a high-end tour, falling short of what it bragged to be, but still, there we sat on a quiet island shrinking with the creeping tide, noticing a million colors of blue in the sky and water.

Diver Dave talked about the action on other parts of Railay, including a Thai reggae musician filming a video that week. He philosophized about the "Pinkies" who sail in and out, downing hamburgers and umbrella drinks, and how the $800-a-night rooms at Railay's only luxury resort offer no monopoly on the view.

The beauty of Railay

The sun lowered, and the sky put on its multicolored show, and thousands of bats flapped overhead, slowly, as we ate from pots of spicy, fresh-cooked shrimp and talked. That alone was worth $17 for the dive trip, in my book. It was also a great reminder that travel, especially budget-adventure style, often isn't picture-perfect, but then the very next moment, it can feel pretty darn close.

It's with only the slightest trace of shame that I admit that even though our resort's in-house travel agency could hook us up with a range of other activities -- cooking classes, speedboat tours, jungle walks and more -- we spent the rest of the trip savoring sunsets, eating just-caught seafood, getting $9 hourlong massages and working, poolside, on transitioning from pink to brown.

More than a few times we made the 10-minute amble over to the other side of the peninsula for an open-air dinner or a movie. One night, we tried out an outdoor bar's climbing wall, then sat on damp cushions around low tables in the sand, drinking Thai whiskey and watching a fire-twirling show choreographed to Stevie Wonder's "Superstition" before heading back to our bungalow. There, we drifted off in king-sized, air-conditioned luxury.

Our longboat ride back to Ao Nang was rough. Water sloshed into the boat. A young German tourist even screamed. I couldn't help but think about how Railay had so smoothly reeled us in, and then was so reluctant to let us go. Maybe we'll return one day, if Railay's grip holds strong.

Freelance writer Berit Thorkelson lives in St. Paul.