Elephant Guide to Thailand
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Thailand: Navigating paradise |
A short course in navigation sets Susan Smillie up for a voyage of
discovery as she charts her way around the beautiful and
beleaguered islands of Thailand.
We're anchored just off Ko Muk, one of the Trang islands rising
from the Andaman Sea in Thailand's deep south. Our yacht bobs just
above a shipwreck by the entrance to Tham Morakot (emerald cave).
We are surrounded by boats full of tourists, so we anchor while
they're ferried in and out of the cave's mouth on rigid
inflatables.
I drop into the warm glassy water for a swim, nipped and tickled by
hungry butterfly fish as my partner, seeks amusement in throwing
crumbs around me. We eat a late lunch of coconut prawns, have
drinks, and wait. As the sun sinks and hot afternoon acquiesces to
balmy evening, the last of the boats make their way home, leaving
us alone.
We hop into our inflatable and, entering the cavernous passage, cut
the outboard - this is a journey best made silently, floating
through the darkness: the tunnel's upper chambers are home to
scores of bats. It's an eerie route, several metres twisting and
turning in pitch-blackness, echoes sounding from our whispers and
dripping stalactites. It's beginning to unnerve me, but as my eyes
adjust to the dark and make out a glimmer of light, we follow one
final bend and emerge from the pool in the cave.
The breathtaking beauty of what confronts leaves us stunned: an
enclosed sandy beach, surrounded by immense tree-covered cliffs
opening to a fiery sky. There's something otherworldly about this
desolate place and we stand silently, listening to birdsong,
crickets, and rustling in the trees.
The branches reveal first one, two, then three monkeys, a mother
with baby clinging, leaping from tree to tree and scaling heights
that terrify.
The feeling of wonder invoked by such a scene is equalled only by
our sense of pride at having sailed here from Phuket alone, a
journey counted not in nautical miles covered, or hours taken, but
measured in growing confidence.
We had spent our first week in Thailand learning navigation on a
day skipper course before Sunsail would trust us to charter the
yacht we'd booked for the second week.
As our instructor, Guy, had pointed out, a week on the boat in the
marina wouldn't be much fun. But happily, his intelligent
instruction had finally secured my grasp of navigation - not an
easy task given that I was confused even by the simple fact that
latitude and longitude are measured in degrees and minutes,
wondering at some unfathomable connection between temperature,
distance and time. Now, standing in Tham Morakot, I felt I'd
voyaged far.
There's a good balance of teaching and sightseeing on Sunsail
courses. During our training week we'd explored the hauntingly
beautiful Phang-nga Bay and Krabi province - a landscape more
dramatic than any I've seen, where limestone towers jut from the
ocean in weird formations like ancient twisted rock serpents.
Unable, those first nights, to contain my excitement at the beauty
of our surroundings, I swam in the shadow of these deformed
silhouettes under the stars, the ocean twinkling with
phosphorescence.
Days began with breakfast in the cockpit, as we stared sleepily at
whichever idyllic spot we were anchored in, before sailing on to
some equally glorious place. We explored ancient Hongs - 'room'
islands - paddling into their eroded hearts to find tranquil watery
spaces that were not quite sea, yet no longer land. At times it was
far too beautiful to concentrate, and I almost crashed the boat as
eagles soared overhead and monitor lizards lazily swam by jagged
cliffs at the water's edge. Required to plan a night passage, we
reluctantly began plotting lines when someone pointed to dolphins a
few feet away. How could anyone study in such an environment? Guy
relented, indulging us for a while before insisting that we get
back to work.
He was right: we needed to learn, and several times during our week
alone, I silently thanked him. For in this region, you're really
alone - a far cry from the Mediterranean, where yachts pass
regularly. Chart-plotting during our journey south to Ko Kradan, I
calculated there would be no other boats in sight - a thought as
gratifying as it was intimidating.
I had worried that being on the water would deprive us of
experience of the country and its people, but most activity was
focused around the bays we visited with raging hunger to consume
fragrant tom yum goong and pad thai.
Anchoring off Ko Lanta, inhabited by many of the Andaman coast's
5000 Chao Ley (sea gypsies), we spotted a boat with a man and three
generations of women, screened from the sun by multiple bright
layers, as they weaved nets and fished.
We approached in our dinghy, after fish and photos. They received
us with tolerance and bewilderment, their incredulity increasing
and smiles widening with the realisation that we wanted to buy the
prawns they used as bait, to eat ourselves. These they gave freely,
refusing my baht, as they laughed good-naturedly, waving at the
crazy farang who eat fish food.
As idyllic as it was, it was not perfect. The sea is littered in
areas and it was heartbreaking to spotplastic bags shortly after
seeing a shy green turtle (their numbers are in rapid decline -
they choke on bags mistaken for jellyfish).
While Sunsail provides strict pilotage guidelines, other tour
operators' boats sped over coral reefs, depositing both
snorkellers and oil on the water, some anchoring right in the
reefs. There's been much talk in Thailand about sustainability,
and some effort appears to have been made, with the creation of
marine parks and the introduction of artificial reefs.
But there are no markers in evidence around the natural reefs, no
limits on speed or route.
Considering that the Thai people are dependent on tourism and felt
the financial impact of the tsunami terribly, it's gratifying,
once there, to contribute to the economy but it's difficult to
feel smug: the privilege of worrying about wildlife and the future
seems absurd while thousands of people are preoccupied simply with
surviving.
As we sail into Phi Phi Don, it is sobering to realise we are
travelling the path the wave took in 2004. These bays were some of
the worst hit in the country. Evidence of that day is everywhere:
from the shifted seabed that renders charts unreliable, to the
moving tributes in restaurant menus to staff no longer there. On
Phi Phi Don, there's a row of restaurants, rebuilt after the
tsunami and recently burned to the ground. We saw the owners
opposite the charred remains of their buildings, serving food from
makeshift stalls, cooking, selling, saving, staring all day, not at
what they had lost, but at what they would rebuild, displaying a
humbling resilience.
When it came time to lift anchor and leave Phi Phi Don, we did so
feeling somewhat philosophical. An absence of wind on the last
afternoon meant our progress back towards Phuket was slow and
wonderfully lazy, which suited our mood.
And this is the enduring appeal of a sailing trip - whether you're
racing with the wind, your boat heeling in a choppy sea, or
meandering on a flat and velvety ocean, there's a timeless quality
to a journey made using just wind and tides that makes it feel so
much longer than a day, a week, a fortnight.
Experiencing the world at an average rate of five knots allows you
to really think about the places you're journeying through, and in
this painfully beautiful region there is much to ponder.
Source: NZ Sun Herald
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