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| Ko Lanta |
Ko (เกาะ) means 'island', and Ko Lanta is known as 'the dazzling island'. Surrounded by the Andaman sea, it is made up of the less-populated Ko Lanta Noi (น้อย = little) and the main island Ko Lanta Yai (ใหญ่ = great). We travelled the short distance from lesser to greater on a small car ferry, although there were already piles in the sea bed ready for a road bridge between the two. This project was started in 2012 and is apparently scheduled for completion in 2014. Unless they are very quick builders, I wager that they won't quite be done by next month.
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| Beginnings of the bridge between Ko Lanta Noi and Yai |
On the way, we noticed many women with their heads covered and men wearing ankle-length tunics. Despite 95% of the population practising Buddhism, Southern Thailand has a significant Muslim population. In particular, Ko Lanta is a curious mix of cultures that coexist peacefully.
Originally settled by a nomadic group, the Chao Ley (sea gypsies), who brought their animistic folk religion, there is also an Islamic influence from Malaysia, as well as Buddhism from the mainland and from Chinese merchants. The latter made Lanta Old Town, on the east coast of the island, a major trading port. They built long wooden houses out over the sea, suspended on poles.
Our rather taciturn driver deposited us at Fresh restaurant in the Old Town, where we waited for our host to meet us with the keys to the accommodation. While the sandy west coast of the island is studded with hotels and resorts, the Old Town remains a working fishing village. There is relatively little tourism on the east coast and the local population is happy mélange of the aforementioned Thais, Thai-Chinese, Muslims, Sea Gypsies and foreigners, who work in the community. The town has a mosque, a Buddhist monastery and a small Chinese Buddhist temple.
As our host is out of town, we were met by her friend and took the short walk to the house. There is a long pier extending from the centre of town and a large photo of the King. In fact, as we discovered later in the day, today is the King's 87th birthday.
Our accommodation is one of the 'pole houses' and nestles among local Thai residents. The pole house is deceptively long; fully three-quarters of its length protrudes into the Andaman Sea. A deck affords a stunning view to the east of a number of smaller and less populated islands.
Having had no opportunity for breakfast, we returned to the restaurant for a hearty late lunch.
Given the local Thai-Chinese community, we had no trouble getting vegetarian versions of Thai classics (the vegetarian festival, Prapheni Kin Jay, was celebrated here in late October). Garlic-pepper tofu, pad thai, and spring rolls were all flavoursome and a great introduction to Thai cuisine.
The spring rolls were probably among the finest we have tried so far. Rather than grated taro and carrot, as in Vietnam and Cambodia, these were stuffed with chewy glass noodles, mushrooms and vegetables. Late afternoon, a storm rolled in off the coast. We had been warned that this was an almost daily occurrence at this time and we could see the streaks of rain approaching from miles away. We weathered the sudden winds and showers, which passed quickly overhead, in the safety of the restaurant.
During the day, I had observed a lady selling t-shirts. This was not unusual in itself, but her stock was exclusively yellow. I couldn't imagine why this particular shade would be so popular, until we saw a group of Thais gathering around the portrait of the King all wearing yellow shirts. It turns out that yellow is the colour of Monday, which was the day the King was born. Many Thais like to wear this colour to show their support and especially on a day like today, when they celebrate his 87th birthday.
After dancing by some extravagantly dressed young performers, everyone in the crowd lit a small candle and we were treated to a small firework display, the explosions going off right over our heads. It was a simple ceremony in comparison to the celebrations in Bangkok, but it brought the community of this small town together.
Earlier at the restaurant, the tide had gone out, the water ebbing rapidly away from the undersides of the buildings. As we returned by dusk to the house, the tide had reversed and we were greeted by the lapping of waves under the floorboards.
Sat out on the deck, we looked out to sea at the darkened land masses. We talked about plans for the time we would spend here and realised that this is where we will celebrate Christmas. Fittingly, at that moment, from next door came the sound of someone practising Silent Night on the piano.
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