T A B L E_T A L K Beautiful Chiapas. Mysterious Coba. Where are the best places to visit in Mexico? Share your memories and make plans in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk   Find a world of travel books -- new, rare and out-of-print -- at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y Looking for Abdelati By Tanya Shaffer An unexpected journey into the heart of a family in Casablanca (02/07/99) This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news from across the globe (02/05/99) Dead ends in London By Laura Billings Jack the Ripper returns to life on a grisly but gripping tour (02/04/99) Korea's no-man's-land By Rolf Potts The DMZ is one of the planet's oddest tourist attractions, where visitors can pick up everything from propaganda to perfume (02/03/99) Suite liberties By Chris Haines A travel magazine employee gets free luxury hotel rooms and four-course feasts -- but there's always a price to pay (02/02/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		STORMING "THE BEACH" | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - In a perfect world, I never would have had to sneak into the verandah of the Cape Panwha Resort Hotel and skulk around while the cast and crew of "The Beach" ate dinner. Unfortunately, my more prosaic efforts at intelligence gathering (wandering around town, sending e-mails to friends of friends) had yielded little. Playing spy for a few hours was the only way to accurately gauge what I was up against. Since I am the type of person who would rather hike eight extra miles than try to charm a park ranger into accepting a bribe, I was not filled with confidence as I took a motorcycle taxi out to Cape Panwha earlier this evening. I'd read on the Internet that the resort had hired extra security guards, and I was not looking forward to schmoozing my way past them. Miraculously -- despite my patchy beard, motorcycle-tossed hair and sweat-salted backpacker attire -- none of the hotel personnel gave me a second glance as I strolled past the reception desk and into the verandah area. I immediately spotted the cast sitting at a long table across from the restrooms. Leo was not among them, but I could tell from a glance that everyone there vaguely corresponded to various characters in the novel. Somebody in casting had done his job well. Overcoming an innate, juvenile sense of dread, I moved to an empty table overlooking the swimming pool and ordered a Manhattan. I had never ordered a Manhattan before in my life -- but since it cost more than my hotel room, I figured it probably contained lots of alcohol. I felt extremely out of place, and I needed something to calm my nerves. I sipped my drink and tried to act aloof. It was easy to tell the film people from the other hotel guests. The movie folks ate and drank and laughed; everyone else peered around silently. I'm sure that half of the people there were waiting around on the off chance that Leo would walk through. I also suspect that -- with the possible exception of a chubby little Japanese girl who kept standing up in her chair to gawk over at the cast -- those exact same people would pretend not to notice if Leo actually showed up. By the time Andrew MacDonald arrived and sat down at the table next to me, I'd washed my Manhattan down with a couple of Heinekens. My anxiety was mostly gone, and the only reason I hadn't sauntered over to schmooze with the cast was that it simply seemed like a stupid idea. Instead, I'd chosen the more conservative option of sitting around and doing nothing. I took the appearance of MacDonald -- the film's producer -- as a good sign. Aside from DiCaprio, MacDonald was the only person from the movie that I could have recognized on sight. From one table away, he looked even younger and skinnier than he did in the newspaper photos. Sitting there -- gangly, boyish and pink-toed in his Birkenstocks -- he looked like someone who was sullenly waiting to be picked last for a game of kickball. Figuring it was the night's best chance, I feigned courage and walked up to him. "Excuse me," I said, "you're the producer, right?" "I'm sorry, that's someone else you're thinking of," he replied, looking everywhere but at me. "No," I told him, "you're Andrew MacDonald." MacDonald seemed to cringe as he looked up at me. I wasn't sure if he always looks like this or if he expected me to sucker-punch him. Either way, I took it as my cue to keep talking. I decided to take a neutral, vaguely journalistic approach. "I was wondering if I might interview some of your actors or spend some time on the set of your movie," I said to him. "Is that possible?" "It's a closed set," he said wearily. "What about the actors, do you mind if I chat with them a bit?" "We're not allowing interviews." "I don't necessarily want to talk to Leo; anyone will do." MacDonald took out a pen and wrote a phone number down on a napkin. "This is the number for Sarah Clark. She's a publicist. You'll have to go through her if you want to do any interviews. But at most you'll probably just get an interview with me." He didn't look too thrilled by this possibility. "So are you saying that there's no chance I can get onto the set, even if I swim there?" I said this as a kind of half joke, hoping it might scare up some clues on how to get past the security cordon around Phi Phi Leh. "No chance on the island. You can apply as an extra, but that won't be until next month in Phuket and Krabi." "I was once an extra in a movie called 'Dr. Giggles,' but that was like seven years ago." This utterly irrelevant trivia nugget seemed to disarm MacDonald a bit. "'Dr. Giggles'?" he said, smirking. "Yeah, are you familiar with it?" "No, I'm not. Sorry." He stared off at the pool, sighed, then absently checked his watch. "It's been a long day," he said, almost apologetically. I didn't bother him when he stood up to go. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The events that transpired as I tried to leave the verandah make so little sense that they are somewhat difficult to recount. First, I had a problem paying my bill, since the hotel staff assumed that I was with the movie crew. When I asked the waitress for my check, she just frowned and walked off. When she hadn't returned after 10 minutes, I tracked her down to the cash register. "I need to pay my bill," I told her. I figured it would be bad manners to sponge drinks after having already interrupted the producer's dinner. The waitress gave me another strange look, then pushed a piece of paper in front of me. "Just write your room number," she said. "Can I pay now in cash?" I'm not sure why I was being so insistently ethical; one Manhattan and two Heinekens pale in the face of a $40 million film budget. The waitress shrugged, and I gave her the money. I turned to leave, and as I was passing the reception desk, the waitress came running after me. "Your friend forgot this," she said, handing me a yellow cloth satchel. Standing there in the lobby of the Cape Panwha Resort Hotel, the word "friend" caught me off-guard. I couldn't possibly imagine who she was talking about. I opened the cloth satchel and took out a black Il Bisonte binder. Embossed into the leather cover were the words "THE BEACH." And in the lower right hand corner: "ANDREW MACDONALD." Putting the binder back into the satchel, I thanked the waitress and -- just moments after my valorous display of Sunday school ethics over the drink tab -- walked out the front door. I spent the motorcycle taxi ride back into Phuket City trying to think of practical justifications for making off with Andrew MacDonald's screenplay binder. Since the binder was empty, I couldn't really think of any beyond using it as a kind of Hail-Mary collateral if things got ugly when I invaded the film set. Considering that the phone number MacDonald gave me turned out to belong to a confused Thai family in Yala Province, the personally embossed keepsake was the closest thing I had to an asset. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Sitting in my hotel, I imagine myself on the shores of Phi Phi Leh, lashed to one of the illegally planted coconut palms and bleeding from the ears: I am being flogged with rubber hoses by a gang of vigilante set designers, dolly grips and script supervisors. For the sake of reverie, they are all female, vixenlike and dressed in bikinis. MacDonald swaggers over. He is wielding a scimitar and has somehow managed to grow a pencil-thin mustache in the time since I last saw him. "Closed set!" he bellows, fiercely raising the blade above his head. About to lose consciousness, I muster one last ounce of energy. "I have your personally embossed Il Bisonte Italian leather screenplay binder, MacDonald," I sneer. "Kill me, and you'll never find out where I've hidden it." A look of horror washes across the producer's face. "Not my personally embossed Il Bisonte Italian leather screenplay binder!" he screams, dropping the scimitar to the sand. With a sudden look of resolve, he turns to the bikini-clad lynch mob. "Untie the intruder," he commands, "and tell that DiCaprio schmuck that his services are no longer needed." He turns back to me with a flourish. "I think we've found our new leading man." A bit overdone, as reveries go -- but I'll just blame that on the movies. They seem to make a convenient scapegoat. SALON | Feb. 9, 1999 Tomorrow: The assault by longtail boat on Phi Phi Leh Rolf Potts is a frequent contributor to Salon Wanderlust. _________________________________ For more information: _________________________________