Another 4:30am start. My body clock clearly didn’t get the memo about the time zone, but honestly I don’t mind. It gifts me this quiet pocket to blog and check in back home. Meanwhile, Matthew is rugged up in winter layers while I’m here sun‑kissed and glowing, which feels like the ultimate flex. Escaping winter? Highly recommend.

I’m buzzing for today. We’ve got an early pickup for Pig Island, and the weather outside is perfection. But first, coffee. Because without it, my face is basically on airplane mode. I wander upstairs to see if anyone else has surfaced. At first it’s just me, but slowly the crew emerges, one by one, like extras in a zombie film.

Jamei, ever the TikTok trend‑spotter, announces she’s off to 7‑Eleven for “combo drinks” (apparently a thing) and a toastie to fuel up. She looks way too pleased with herself, like she’s discovered the cure for jet lag. I’m half‑convinced she’s just using the excuse to sneak in a scroll, but hey, if it gets her moving before sunrise, I’ll allow it.

Our pickup arrived right on time, and the drive itself was half the entertainment. We wound through a different part of the island, catching glimpses of sleepy villages, roadside stalls, and scooters stacked with more passengers than seemed physically possible. It felt like a mini‑tour before the tour.

At the dock, things got even more theatrical. We were handed over like parcels through three different people: first the dock boss, then a woman who ushered us toward the boats, and finally the driver himself. Each seemed to have their own role in the handoff, and all three were yelling at each other in rapid‑fire Thai. None of us had a clue what was being said, but the volume and hand gestures made it feel like we’d stumbled into a live stage performance. But when it came to addressing us, there were always big smiles and kind eyes.

Meanwhile, the boats were lined up like sardines, and our driver had to pull off what can only be described as a six‑point turn in the water to get us out. It was a tight squeeze, engines revving, ropes flying, and somehow we emerged into the open ocean like it was all part of the plan. The whole scene was chaotic, hilarious, and oddly impressive, the kind of travel moment you know you’ll retell with a grin.

The journey over was anything but ordinary. Halfway across the water, our driver suddenly slowed, fiddled with the engine, and proceeded to pour in what looked suspiciously like petrol… or maybe water… or possibly both. None of us were entirely sure, but the collective shrug said it all. We sat bobbing in the middle of the ocean, life jackets firmly strapped on, watching the whole thing unfold like it was part of the itinerary.

It was one of those moments where you’re equal parts amused and slightly nervous, but the calm confidence of the driver made it feel like just another day at the office. Before long, the engine roared back to life, and off we went, skimming across the waves toward Pig Island, laughing at the fact that even our “commute” had turned into a story worth retelling.

Then came the moment we’d been waiting for. As the beach came into view, a collective “awwwww” erupted from the boat. There they were…….pigs, trotting along the sand like they owned the place. It was surreal and adorable all at once. I was quietly smug that my research had paid off and we’d timed it perfectly to be in the first wave of boats. Fewer people, more pigs. Chalk one up for “Hannah’s Travel Services.”

The scene was pure magic: turquoise water, soft sand, and pigs waddling around like the most unlikely welcoming committee. Cameras came out, squeals of delight followed, and just like that, Pig Island had us all wrapped around its curly‑tailed charm.

Pig Island isn’t just a quirky tourist stop, it actually has a heartwarming origin. The pigs were rescued from a slaughterhouse and brought here to live out their days in sandy freedom. Instead of ending up on someone’s dinner plate, they became the stars of their own tropical stage, swapping concrete floors for coconut trees and ocean breezes. Honestly, if reincarnation is real, I’d like to come back as one of these pigs.

Seeing them up close was surreal. They trotted over with snouts twitching, clearly knowing tourists meant snacks. We loved giving them food and water, watching them slurp and crunch with zero table manners. Some were bold, nudging for more, while the smaller ones hung back, shy but curious. It was equal parts adorable and hilarious, and the collective “awww” from our group never really stopped.

The next stop was a quick snorkel, just a short boat ride away once the mechanics were sorted. Honestly, the engines looked like they’d been pieced together from the scrap heap, a kind of engineering miracle that had serious Waterworld vibes. Rust, wires, and parts that didn’t look like they belonged together somehow combined into a machine that actually worked.

Snorkelling itself was fun. The water was warm, inviting, and though a little murky, it still gave us plenty to enjoy. We floated, splashed, and laughed, grateful for the chance to stretch out in the ocean after the pig parade. It wasn’t the most crystal‑clear reef we’d ever seen, but it was good nonetheless, one of those moments where the setting and the company mattered more than the visibility. Mumma, meanwhile, had her own adventure. She was happily snorkeling along when a local suddenly popped up right underneath her, neither of them realising how close they were until they practically collided. The startled look on both faces was priceless, Mumma screamed, the local just as surprised, entertaining all the boats and people around them, before they both laughed it off and carried on.

Time to head home, though of course nothing about this trip is straightforward. Our driver wasn’t there immediately, but instead the “doof doof” van pulled up, music blasting so hard it felt like the ground itself was vibrating. We climbed in, only to discover the driver had a full sound‑mixing table set up in the front. Not just a stereo – an actual DJ on wheels.

He offered us a stop at 7‑Eleven, which we happily accepted, grabbing a few roadies for the ride. From there the van turned into a moving dance floor. Music pumping, windows down, us singing and laughing our way through the island roads. It wasn’t just transport, it was an after‑party on wheels, the kind of ride that makes you forget you’re tired and keeps the day alive.

Salty and satisfied and now back at the villa, we realised it was just past lunchtime. Food was ordered in, with some of the crew opting for familiar Maccas while others, myself included, chose local eats. All of it hit the spot. The afternoon unfolded in that perfect holiday rhythm – swimming, napping, or a bit of both – with music pumping by the pool and good vibes all around.

By late afternoon, the energy shifted. Towels were swapped for outfits, naps gave way to showers, and the buzz of anticipation built as we started getting ready for Lamai Night Markets. The promise of street food was enough to shake off any lingering salt and sun.

True to form, I’d done my research and made sure we arrived before peak time. It worked perfectly. We snagged a table together, which became our home base while the crowds slowly built. The options were endless, the kind of place where you could happily eat all night and still not cover half the stalls. My reputation for loving dumplings was clearly well‑established. Each group that wandered off to explore came back with the same update: “Hannah, the dumpling place is over there!” Meanwhile I held down the fort, saving the table and waiting for the inevitable parade of plates to arrive.

The atmosphere was electric, sizzling woks, smoky grills, cocktails, and the hum of the crowds mixed with live music. It was the perfect blend of sensory overload and holiday joy, the kind of night where you don’t need a plan because the market itself is the entertainment.

True to form, despite all the options, I went for the dumplings. Boston, on the other hand, had ventured into sushi territory. All was going well until her final piece, which turned out to be loaded with wasabi. The moment she bit down was unforgettable: eyes watering, mouth on fire, and a desperate attempt to cool it all with her Vodka Cruiser. Spoiler alert – vodka is not the antidote to wasabi. She spat it out, fanned her face, and laughed through the tears while the rest of us tried not to choke on our own food from laughing so hard.

By the time our bellies were full and the shopping bags started appearing, I was done. My back had staged a protest. Maybe from the “massage of questionable relaxation,” maybe from the boat with zero back support, or maybe from bending down to pat pigs like a farmhand on holiday. Either way, retail therapy wasn’t happening. So, I found a bar tucked at the back, lured in by live music and the promise of a chair. Cocktail ordered, I settled in while the others finished their browsing. One by one they trickled in, each grabbing their own drink and joining me. The vibe was perfect, laughter, clinking glasses, and the kind of music that makes you forget your back ever existed.

The highlight? The singer/pianist mid‑song when his microphone fell off the stand. The stand was broken, so a staff member casually held the mic for the rest of the tune like it was a relay baton. I lost it. Then the full band arrived, and suddenly we were belting out bangers, cocktails in hand, like we’d been hired as the backing choir.

Eventually we piled into a van home, still buzzing. As we walked through the villa door, rain swept in, perfectly timed. Was it another “Hannah’s Travel Services” masterstroke or just sheer luck? Either way, it felt like the universe was playing along. We weren’t quite ready for bed, so there was more music, a little villa dancing, and then finally collapsing into sleep. Tomorrow is billed as a chill day… but with this crew, I wouldn’t bet on it.

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