A Tale of Two Islands

This blog documents our time and reflections on two islands on Thailand’s Andaman coast. We travelled first from the border town of Hat Yai to Koh Lipe, spending a few nights in a bamboo bungalow by a white sandy beach. Via the town of Trang, we made our way to a family guesthouse on Koh Mook and spent five nights there.

Hope of Lipe

A poem for Deborah, pastor of ‘Hope of Lipe’ church, Koh Lipe.

The island stretches bare,

the coral a glorious playground of colour

for life ‘neath

the pristine waters

lapping in the moonlight

sands, white and unpressed

‘cept for a fisherman’s feet

carrying catch to the family

fire

burning, stoking, embers

spark into a silent night,

give way to birdsong

and rushing sea heralds

new day’s tide

where children play in waves

shallow and clear

throwing and catching

wide, open space

to be theirs,

to be theirs…

To be there is to see

these wide open spaces

closed in

septic and porous with tourists,

a battering ram of buildings

on every fringe of sand

driving the children inland

to dank, hut squalor

beside the throbbing heart

of this island wound –

a rubbish dump –

parading whale-belly fulls

of plastic bottles

and everything else

we have consumed

and spat out.

Hungry for more

beauty to be marred

so beauty can be framed

and packaged and sold

by suits in seats

somewhere, to anyone

willing to be hungry

enough

to ignore the broken, dead

coral washed ashore as foot

upon foot leaves boat after boat

whose coral-dented propellors rev

up to collect more feet to

press more white sand,

to swim in more plastic

filled waters, to sleep in

more bamboo bungalows…

And all the while, the

children still play

throwing and catching,

tossing and frying

pancakes and noodles.

The fisherman hauls a

bigger catch in a bigger boat

and cooks for many mouths

by a bigger fire.

On the last strip of land,

where sea can still be seen

from the homes of the children

whose fathers’ fathers lay ‘neath sandy clay,

families are broken

over hovering bulldozers

willing to pay.

A woman prays to stay

in her bungalow,

by her church

she talks to Jesus

day by day

and remembers when the forests

were still dark at night,

when the moon washed white

sand with white light

and her father’s footprints

were the only mark on

the island’s beach at night.

A woman bends to light a floating candle and flower offering to the goddess of mercy during the Buddhist festival of Loi Khrathong on the main beach at Koh Lipe.

This poem was written in a cafe in Trang by Claire after leaving Koh Lipe. It was sparked by our experiences on this island – both positively affirming and beautiful as well as heartbreakingly frustrating and disgusting. The dedication is worth some explanation…

The day we first arrived on Koh Lipe we had no room booked to stay in. So, after obtaining a simple map, we set out in search of a cheap hut. Leaving Claire to guard the backpacks, Jeremy set off down one of the beaches to find one. As he walked along the beautiful beach, he noticed that every spare inch of the beach had been occupied by resorts, except for a small stretch where the fishermen repaired their boats. There, nailed to a tree, was a simple sign with the words ‘Hope of Lipe’ painted on. Jeremy stopped and wondered what ‘Hope of Lipe’ might be until he realised that, snuggled in behind the fishermens’ huts, was a rugged building with the title ‘Hope of Lipe Church’ emblazoned on the wall. He made a mental note to return and visit but for now, the pressing issue of finding a room was foremost in his thoughts.

On our last evening on Koh Lipe we ventured off the beaten tourist track to take a closer look. We found the simple concrete building, with a massive mural of Noah’s Ark on the side, sandwiched between family homes. We stood outside looking, wondering and feeling a bit out of place but excited by our find. A face appeared at an open window and our encounter with Deborah began. Ushered inside, cups of water were poured, biscuits pushed our way and the conversation began. An incredible story of this woman who was sick and thought to be dying, prayed that if she lived she would leave her well-paid job with a resort on the island and work in the church for God. And so she did. Her broken English emphasised the simplicity and power of the Christian faith. “I talk to Jesus and God”, “I live with Jesus”.

Deborah told the story of how the church has stood on the same small plot of land for seven years. As Jeremy had noted on the first day, it is the only patch of land on the beach not occupied by a glossy resort. Deborah explained that she and her family have ancestral rights to the land. Even so, they have been bullied by the Thai Mafia and endured pressure from resort developers to move on. All for the sake of boosting tourist income on the small, already over-developed island.

Behind the bustling, shiny side of tourism on Koh Lipe there is an ugly reality. We encountered that, not only in Deborah’s story of oppression, but also in parts of the island we happened upon when we got lost one day. At the centre of Koh Lipe, behind the facades of cafes and shops is a gigantic, festering dump. It is here that many of the locals have to make their home.

Koh Lipe is a ruined beauty.

Koh Mook, we almost overlooked. There was no more than a sentence describing it in the Lonely Planet Guidebook. However, a family run guesthouse on the island caught our attention. On a rainy day, we boarded a local ferry and so began our Koh Mook adventure.

Jeremy aboard the ‘rustic’ ferry to Koh Mook.

We were enveloped in the welcome of the family who put us up in our quaint but basic bamboo hut. Both parents went by the name ‘Dada’ and their restaurant of the same name had us salivating over fish curry, chicken cashew nut and home-made spring rolls.

Claire with master chef and hostess extraordinaire, Dada!

For at at least three full days after our arrival the rain pelted down. We managed to make it out during intervals and were relieved to note the palpable absence of package tourism.

The rain gave us a chance to rest, read and get to know some of the other guests at Dada’s place. While the rain persisted, we gathered our motley crew together for a kayaking trip around the island.

The first recruit was Paul from Atlanta, Georgia in the US who counts frogs in Montana for a living. Then came the Germans. Arne the town planner and Florian the architect. Together, we were ready when the sun finally made an appearance.

We set out to circumnavigate the island of Koh Mook, about ten kilometres in all. Along the way, we explored Sabaai Beach with its mountain of rubbish that has been carried in by the sea, another ruined beauty. Here, we mobilised the troops to create a patch-work totem of flip-flops, cigarette lighters, plastic bottles, bamboo, rope and any other interesting rubbish items we could salvage. Florian, the architect, devised the design and named it ‘The Statue of Mess’.

The crew enjoy the water of Sabaai beach before venturing towards the Emerald Cave.

When the time came to continue our adventure, we waved goodbye to the Statue of Mess before venturing to the Emerald Cave. We knew this was the most formidable challenge; an 80 metre long swim through the pitch-black tunnel of a sea cave that, we hoped, would lead us to a fabled lagoon beach where pirates once hid treasure. Amazingly, as Jeremy scratched around in the rubbish of Sabaai Beach, he unearthed a head-torch. Even more amazingly, it worked! It was this very torch that led us through the cavernous darkness of the sea cave. As the five us bobbed around in the dark cave tunnel we began to feel a little lost and scared. Suddenly, Claire spotted a glimmer of light ahead against the cave wall. It was our light at the end of the tunnel. We swam towards the light and gasped with excitement as we caught our first glimpse of the hidden beach. Unfortunately, we could not bring a camera with us so the photos of Emerald Cave remain in our minds.

Hours of paddling and a beautiful sunset later, we arrived home after dark with aching arms and ready for Dada’s home cooking!

On our last evening, as we settled up our tab with Dada, she received a phone call. During the week, a hapless fisherman had gone missing in a storm and was presumed dead. Dada had mentioned this when warning us not to go kayaking in the bad weather, but neglected to say that the man was her cousin! The phone call informed Dada that he had, in fact, just been found alive! Clinging to a chunk of drift wood for three long days, he had been rescued and was being rushed to hospital.

A touching tale to the end of our ‘Tale of Two Islands’!