Month: November 2021

16 The Moon & Sixpence (Tahiti)

The captain of Air Tahiti Nui flight TN102, Auckland to Papeete, has just announced that we are approaching the International Date Line. This is the de-facto boundary existing between calendar days. In a few minutes we will cross this demarcation of time, which runs through the Pacific Ocean from the North Pole to the South Pole; as we are travelling east across it clocks must be set back one day to compensate local time. Amazing to think that this concept was first thought of nearly 700 years ago by a scholar from Damascus called Abu al-Fida, who predicted there would, one day, be travellers who could circumnavigate the globe and they would have to accumulate an extra day in their journeys. Looking out of the window from seat 38L all that can be seen is a carpet of white cloud far below. In the blink of an eye, this flight just journeyed from tomorrow back into today – and so despite having already travelled 24 hours in the effort to celebrate my 40th birthday in Tahiti, I have just arrived back into the same day from which I departed. Not sure how this act of time travelling will actually affect the rest of my life – forever transformed in age as being however many years ‘plus one day.’

Image by Karl Powell, Tahiti, 2012

Two hours to go before landing. I think back to a book I read when I was 22 and living in London; in part, it has helped fuel the inspiration for this journey to Polynesia. W. Somerset Maugham published The Moon and Sixpence in 1919 (having travelled to Tahiti five years prior to research the novel’s topic). The novel follows fictional artist, Charles Strickland, as he abandons all responsibilities in London and Paris to follow his passion into the South Pacific. Maugham’s story is based on the life of Paul Gauguin, the former Parisian stockbroker who left his job, family and Europe in 1890 to sail to Papeete to paint, carve and sculpt. The journey took sixty-three days. Gauguin was also present the night Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear in Arles 1888. As an artist Gauguin was relatively successful; on his return to Paris he sold enough paintings at an exhibition in 1894 to see him through until his final voyage back to Tahiti in 1895. From this trip he never returned to Europe, instead continued to paint in Tahiti and the Marquesas Islands until his death in 1903 (he was buried on the island of Hiva Oa).

Image by Karl Powell, TN102 Auckland to Papeete, 2012

The Moon and Sixpence attempted to examine what could possess anyone to risk (and abandon) everything in the pursuit of a dream. One summation deduced is that Strickland was just one of those people who are born in the wrong place, unable to fit in with the status quo and thus has a particular wanderlust driving them on to find their peace in this life, ‘Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings but they always have a nostalgia for a home they know not… They are strangers in their birthplace and may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred… Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends people far and wide in the search for something permanent… Sometimes a person hits upon a place which they mysteriously feel they belong. Here is the home they sought, and will settle amid scenes never seen before, among people never known.’

Image by Karl Powell, Rue Paul Gauguin, Papeete, 2012

The title of Maugham’s novel also draws reference to the practical difficulty many face when wishing to pursue any dream or passion: there will always be other responsibilities which demand your attention. The challenge for all of us is laid bare by the title: the financial need to search the pavements for a sixpence while continuing to look up to the Moon for inspiration. For many, the belief and risk in pursuing dreams is one step beyond our obligation to being sensible.

Image by Karl Powell, Matavia Bay, 2012

Part of the fascination with those who do find the perseverance to continue on an unseen path can be due to the fact we may lack the same courage to follow a vision or passion. Yet the power within the mind’s eye to create, lead and direct us towards a particular end, outcome or goal was a trait venerated by ancient Maori and Polynesian seafarers. Without any landmarks to guide them through the open waters of the Pacific Ocean, traditional navigators would use the stars, clouds and ocean swells as beacons to map their world. Wayfinders would be trained to picture particular islands they wished to visit in their imagination. Using this ‘image’ the Wayfinder would help steer the canoe towards the specific island; as long as the image of the island was retained in the mind’s eye the vessel would find its way there.

Image by Karl Powell, Wayfinders, 2012

Despite the difficulty it has taken to reach here – travelling via Sydney and Auckland – I am finally in Papeete (and it is still the same date as when I left my home). All sense of time has been lost. It is dark. I feel exhausted. There is also an eighteen-hour time difference to navigate. A shuttle bus took me from Faa’a International Airport to my hotel near Mahina. I have no real recollection of the journey until we drove through Papeete – streets were dark, deserted, quiet. My tired eyes were eager to see something. It may have been close to midnight when we passed through the capital towards the Côte Est. It may have been later when I eventually checked in to hotel. Everything was asleep. Room service had ended at 10pm. I was shown to my room 3502. Split level, two floors, two balconies (one big, one small). From the smaller one connected to my bedroom, I stand outside and write here. In the darkness I know that I am facing out into the ocean, the wide Pacific Ocean. In the sky there is a huge yellow, crescent moon balancing on its back. The air is so pure. The darkness so rich. The world is full of stars and ocean. On the horizon the threat of a storm flashes and boils far out at sea, moving somewhere in a bank of white cloud beyond the black, opaque ocean. All I can hear is the sound of the Pacific Ocean. Waves coming ashore. All I can hear is the rhythmic sound of the Pacific Ocean.

Image by Karl Powell, Mt Urufa & the Hula Girl, 2012

Time has flown. Most of this trip has already gone in five short days. Despite the time differences I’ve managed to do most of what I wanted in this trip. It has been a long way to come for a short time (alongside the financial realities of funding this journey) – but as with most gambles in life the experience has been worth it. This was, after all, one of my dreams to come here and has now been realised. I have managed to make short trips into Papeete most days, exploring the streets, the waterfront and the Marché Municipal. Have taken a few excursions and day trips – visiting the Te Faaiti Rainforest and Mount Urufa one day; visiting the Grotte de Vaipoiriri, the Hitiaa Cascades and the Arahoho Blowhole on another. There was also a trip to the Gauguin Museum in Papeari. There was a visit to Matavia Bay and Pointe Venus where Captain Cook unsuccessfully attempted to observe the transit of Venus across the face of the Sun in 1769 (there would not be another until 1874).

Image by Karl Powell, Black Sand & Coral, 2012

Tomorrow I will be turning 40 and have organised a trip to visit the neighbouring island of Mo’orea. Supposedly, this is midlife – the halfway point of this great adventure, and if I am fortunate – very fortunate – then I get to spend the same allocation of time all over again. In Roman mythology the Fates were three goddesses who apportioned an allocation of time for our lives; whatever they decide now is fine with me, but I wonder if they factor in that ‘plus one day’ accrued across the International Date Line. Until then, let’s keep realising dreams, or at least reaching for them and the Moon as long as there’s a sixpence present to make it happen.

Image by Karl Powell, On the Road to Papeete, 2012

Breathless. Still. Tahitian sunset. My eyes are staring into yellow colours on Lafayette Beach. Yellow sun, yellow sky. Some parts should be amber or orange, but the colours are lighter than any sunset I’ve seen before – spectrums of brilliant yellow, gold, sunlight shining through champagne. It is late afternoon. Endless flat ocean, stretching far forever into these Pacific skies. Waves are crashing ashore. White foam churns on black sand, turning pink in this equatorial light releasing a burst of rainbows in the spray thrown onto the shore. Pebbles rattle as the retreating tide inhales another breath before the next crash. Some children play in the surf beyond the breakers. A fisherman loads up his bait on the reef to my left and casts out into the water. The sun has lost its glare, heat and sting for the day; its warmth is across my skin. The ocean continues to crash along the shoreline and the sand is constantly changing colour. It seems to flicker with flecks of gold within its black, volcanic ash. It is fine like a powder; when wet it shimmers like silk. As the ebbing waters recede pack into the Pacific the wet, black shoreline seems to shine a dark blue, leaving it coated there. It is extraordinary. The whole beach is an alchemy of colour. Even now, looking at the ocean, some parts of it seem to be green (a dark emerald), with half of it blue, with bands of gold and turquoise near the reef. The colours are constantly changing. Some parts blue, some lighter, some bits black, some bits of bottle-green, the patches of pink still swirl in the surf (in the shallows). The sun is setting so quickly. I had heard about the way the sun drops quicker at the equator at a day’s end; it is racing down quicker than the colours of sunset can follow. I watch the yellow disc meet the edge of the horizon. Some French teenagers sit further up on the sand behind me, one has a guitar and all begin to sing Bob Dylan’s ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door.’ Their singing fills the air. The ocean keeps changing colour. The waves of the Pacific Ocean keep coming ashore.

Tahiti is everything I imagined it to be.

Image by Karl Powell, Tahitian Sunset, 2012

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15 Voices of Men (Adelaide, Australia)

Fireworks thump hard into the springtime night sky. It is dark. No starburst of colour is visible in the smooth velvet stillness. Occasional light illuminates in patchwork shadows, finding pockets of space crushed between the city buildings which reach up to obscure all horizons. Noise booms through the warm evening air. There have been fireworks sounding most evenings this week. The holy festival of Diwali has been celebrated here – a time, when it is said, the goddess Laksmi visits homes to bring happiness and prosperity during this Festival of Light. There are fairy lights blinking in some of the frangipani trees in nearby apartment gardens, pinpricks of yellow colour flashing light in the dark. Outside my window, the city itself is quiet. An easterly wind moves through the branches of trees, bringing hot desert air from the Goldfields towards the metropolis. Some of the skyscrapers have coloured neon lights; mainly logos and names – some are just illuminated facades. Crickets sound. A full moon is forecast within a week, but as I write no moonlight is visible within the cosmos (yet). And then, for some reason, I think of the description of the moonless night given by the First Voice in Dylan Thomas’ play for voices, Under Milk Wood:

It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack fishingboat-bobbing sea.

Image by Karl Powell, Bwlch Mountain, 2017

I think of home. Being a migrant on the other side of the world is a curious existence to have. It is both transient and of belonging to other places simultaneously (the old and the new). It is an existence between things; of being changed forever, almost in limbo. Sometimes caught in a concussion of cultures, languages and other identities. Looking in this box tonight I found a small folder of photographs, titled: Treorchy Male Voice Choir (Adelaide). Opening the wallet, I look at these physical pictures and can see and hear sounds and people from over two decades ago. There is a disc of their music here, too, which I am playing now.

Image by Karl Powell, Backstage with the Choir, 2009

Some twenty years ago I was transported home by the voices of men. It was the first time I had possibly understood the true breadth of homesickness. Months earlier, I had been made aware of the famous Treorchy Male Voice Choir touring Australia (for the first time since 1986). In the choir, I had family friends, familiar faces and my woodwork teacher, Mr (Meurig) Hughes – and it was he who had first told me of the choir’s intention to tour. And so dates were confirmed: the choristers would perform twenty-four concerts within a month moving through locations predominately on the eastern side of the sunburn continent: singing in New South Wales, Queensland, Victoria before concluding in South Australia. This final leg of their tour is were I decided to meet them. A long weekend in Adelaide. I was forwarded a copy of their itinerary and was able to plot dates, book flights and secure accommodation in the city of Churches.

Image by Treorchy Male Choir, Parliament Square (Adelaide), 1999

And so, near the conclusion of their Australian tour, I crossed the Nullarbor Plain to fly three hours or so into Adelaide. It was my first time into South Australia. The city centre was a grid of navigable right angled streets, divided in half by a long, straight avenue called King William Street. Sandwiching these interlocking inner-city roads were North Terrace and South Terrace. As luck would have it, the choir was on the South and I the North. On arrival to the capital, I took a taxi from the domestic airport to my hotel, checked in and then walked down to the Chifley Hotel where I had been told the choir were staying. It was now late afternoon. There were two big buses, or coaches, parked opposite the hotel advertising their tour. Outside a few choristers in uniform blue polo shirts were smoking. Their accents told me I was were I was needed to be. Inside the hotel lobby there were lots more blue polo shirts – their official tour shirt when not dressed in black tie for performances. The choir had spent the day travelling from Mount Gambier in the morning, to sing in front of National TV cameras on Parliament Square promoting the tour, to then check in briefly at the hotel before preparing to go to the Festival Theatre to sing. It sounded an arduous schedule. In the hour or so that I was in the Chifley Hotel I managed to find a family friend, Clive Taylor, who told everyone – particularly designated officials – that I was his nephew. This half-truth became my passport to going everywhere with the choir during the weekend in Adelaide.

Image by Karl Powell, Dad, 2008

Later that night, I sat with some two-thousand people in the Adelaide Festival Theatre. It was the first time I had seen or heard the Treorchy Male Voice Choir sing as an adult. These were men I had known all my life, some there from childhood, up on stage in front of us all. After the applause of their entrance, after the muffled hush of taking places, after the first sound of melody from their voices, I was transported elsewhere. They sang songs in Italian, English, Xhosa Zulu and Welsh. They sang songs I had grown up with and grown accustomed to. There were songs sung that I knew the names of, there were some songs sung whereby I only knew the sound. The power and beauty in their voices carried through the air and thumped deep upon some hidden space of the heart. There, the emotions of exile shattered in starburst. The power within their spoken words transported me back to childhood, back to a place I left before I truly understood it; with closed eyes, I could see the colours Max Boyce sung about in his ballad ‘Rhondda Grey‘ – that it was the faces of people who lived in the old mining community that coloured the world existing there. When the choir sang the spiritual hymn ‘Oh My Lord What a Morning’ an old man in a dark suit, sat in front of me, began to cry. And in that swell of emotional longing – the brooding ache of hiraeth – there was also present a deep and never-ending bond of belonging to place and time.

Image by Karl Powell, Sunrise over Treherbert, 2017

The performance lasted across two halves. There had been an intermission and interludes from solo performances of choristers and singers, such as the rendition of Unwaith Eto’n Nghymru Annwyl from the compere and publicity officer of the choir, Dean Powell. There was an encore at the end. After the performance, Uncle Clive smuggled me on board one of the buses back to the choir’s hotel. There, in the lobby of the Chifley Hotel, the mood with the choristers was gregarious. We drank together and I met many friends (old and now new). There was also a grand piano there and someone began to play, and the men sung. I stayed until late, very late, before the bar closed and I caught a taxi back to North Terrace. It had been a long day. Before leaving, I had been told to report back to the hotel the next morning to accompany the choir into the Barossa Valley to see them perform in an afternoon concert at Tanundra.

Image by Karl Powell, On Top of the World, 2016

It was an early start the next day. There were two buses of choristers departing the city towards the north east. As to plan, I was smuggled on board one of the buses, sitting next to Uncle Clive. Most of the men were obviously tired, some hungover. The long and demanding schedule was beginning to catch up on their bodies and vocal chords. Throw in the stresses of jet-lag, an eight hour time difference, a month-long separation from families, as well as the transient nature of living in hotels, many were happy to see the long tour draw to a close. This, their final day, required them to perform twice; once at Tanundra before returning to Adelaide for a second evening at the Festival Theatre. Due to ill-health, Uncle Clive sat out the matinee performance, so we were able to sit together in the audience and watch the choristers sing. It was a much smaller audience than the previous night. But it was the first time Uncle Clive had been able to see or hear the choir since becoming a member. During their rendition of Joseph Parry’s Myfanwy, he kept saying how proud he was to belong to them, whispering aloud to himself how good the choir sounded. And they did.

Image by Karl Powell, Choristers in Rehearsal, 2009

On the drive back to Adelaide one of the buses broke down. No one paid any real attention to what was happening until it was announced that the soloists and elderly choristers should go back to the hotel on the other bus, while the rest of us waited on a hard shoulder. We waited for over an hour. It was a hot afternoon, in that dry heat Australia can have, and without a working engine there was no air conditioning either. Only the radio worked. There was nothing that could be done until assistance arrived. We were in the middle of nowhere. Yet no one complained. Most slept or tried to rest. The radio helped – some sung along to the music played to pass time; an impromptu accompaniment of Cat Stevens’ Moonshadow was one which remains in the memory. Eventually help arrived, the engine was fixed and we made it back to Adelaide with enough time to return to Festival Theatre before the curtain went up. The performance – the last performance of the Australian tour – went well. Sitting among the cheering crowd as the curtain came down I felt so honoured to have been adopted by the choir over the weekend, as well as in admiration for these men who had given up their time and money to sing. They had carried their songs across oceans and continents, sung from a place deep within despite being close to exhaustion. Watching them all stand, wave and bow I felt immense sense of admiration for their craft and desire to share their passion and create belonging.

Image by Karl Powell, Tommy’s Bend, Bwlch Mountain, 2017

There was sadness the next morning. There was sadness because I was saying goodbye to family friends (some old, some new). They were going home. Back to where I had once belonged. There was also sadness because I was leaving their familiar reality, this understanding without explanation, to journey three hours west across the Nullarbor Plain. I did not want the connection to end. Our departing flights from Adelaide were scheduled more or less at the same time – albeit from different terminals (them the International, me from the Domestic). The choir made sure I was on their bus to the airport. In fact, they had even smuggled me to an official engagement immediately after the final concert – a sit down reception with an open bar. It had been a late night, but one which I had enjoyed, creating many new friendships – sharing in that special bond that travel can easily create between strangers. With suitcases stacked up in rows outside the bus we said our goodbyes.

Image by Karl Powell, Rockin’ Roger 2007

Looking out now at the silent cityscape tonight, the fireworks have stopped. The sound of the wind still blows through the branches of nearby trees. Tonight I am listening again to the voices of those men singing. Their music is alive here tonight. And I know, that some twenty years later, some of those voices are no longer singing. But they are singing. They are singing in concert out across the darkness of this night sky, this moonless spring night sky. The voices of those men colour the darkness from the twinkling neon lights up towards the shining Southern Cross. Across oceans and continents. Their voices are alive here tonight.

Image by Karl Powell, Boyo, 2009

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14 Ferry to PhiPhi Island (Thailand)

7.30am
A leaf falls from the Holy Almond tree and a sea breeze gathers pace. It carries the muffled sound of thunder from somewhere but there are no clouds visible in front of me. I watch another large brown leaf fall from the giant overhanging branch of this tree. It flutters down and tumbles, curling through gravity’s reeling pull. It seems to take an age to fall. But here, time lives within Time and plans made unfold of their own accord. The ocean has been flat all week – all the way from sand to the edge of the world, flat glass water for the past few days. Brightly coloured longtail boats float on this endless expanse – their painted hulls shine as they emerge up into the morning sunshine, lifted by small, shoreline waves. At the far end of the beach, two people swim in these waters of the Andaman Sea. They have the whole ocean to themselves. Then, a bird the size of my thumb suddenly lands on my table. There is an empty cup of coffee between us. I move only my eyes to look at it. Motionless. It chirps, twitches and fires off into the day.

Image by Karl Powell, Long Beach (Koh PhiPhi Don), 2019

9.01am
The sea breeze keeps on moving, a warm steady stream of air. I am sat on the roof of a ferry ready to depart Krabi for PhiPhi Island. Engines are revving, the vessel is beginning to move. It should be around a 2hour trip leaving these mangroves and waterways, moving past the beaches of Rai Lay and Ban Ao Nang and out into the Andaman Sea. My taxi came at 8am. I had enough time after breakfast to go to the small fruit stall opposite my hotel to buy a bag of mangosteens. Saw my friend Khwan who was waiting for her taxi at the gates – she’s also going to PhiPhi Island (albeit on another trip). Maybe we’ll see each other on the island. Gave her some mangosteen for her journey. My taxi drove quickly to Krabi and to the ferry terminal. Bought my ferry tickets there 400THB (3.30pm return) then through some doors, along a walkway all the way towards the ferry. It is three tiered: hull, deck and rooftop. On the rooftop it is clean, painted white and people and milling about up here. Tourists, day trippers, backpackers, we are all sitting sprawled out together, staring at the world through cameras and phones and our imagination. To my right, the familiar landmarks and coastline veers away; to my left the open sea – before us the wide, flat water of a new adventure approaches, dancing with the diamonds and sunbeams reflected on this magical ocean.

Image by Karl Powell, Waiting for Taxis, 2019

9.45am
A voyage across a body of water is one of the great underestimated opiates of our time. There is something so calming, hypnotic and intense about the whole experience. The mind slows down and becomes still. You enter a world within our world; perceive a new universe where horizons appear to stretch and fan out in all directions. Time dislocates itself from uniform patterns and instead is found hidden in deep pockets of now. You find yourself existing somewhere within the opening lines of William Blake’s “Auguries of Innocence” – somehow existing as an infinity held in the palm of your hand while being the Eternity present within an hour

Image by Karl Powell, Sail the World, 2017

A small trawler chugs past, belching thin clouds of black smoke into the blue. In the distance, on these serene, slow moving horizons, conical islands and giant towers of limestone rock glide past like silent icebergs. Giant white puffed clouds appear. The water is so flat. The whole ocean is still – from one horizon to the other (and all horizons now are shining, flat slabs of water soaking in sunlight). Occasional longtail boats appear far away. A shark’s white flashes in the blue, just for a moment – the briefest of glimpses – the triangular fin and tail had slashed and broken through the polished surface to disappear into the deep.

Image by Karl Powell, Colours of The Andaman Sea, 2019

10.45am
This will be my first visit to Koh PhiPhi Don for 15years. Like many I was inspired to travel here because of the 2000 movie The Beach. Based on Alex Garland’s novel (1996), a Hollywood storyline created a fantasy which never existed in reality. The story suggested finding a hidden paradise in the Gulf of Thailand:

Think about a lagoon, hidden from the sea and passing boats by a high, curving wall of rock. Then imagine white sands and coral gardens never damaged by dynamite fishing or trawling nets. Freshwater falls scatter the island, surrounded by jungle – not the forests of Thailand, but jungle. Canopies three levels deep, plants untouched for a thousand years, strangely coloured birds and monkeys in the trees. (Alex Garland)

The movie was filmed on location in Koh PhiPhi Le. Like the literal translation of utopia (Greek: no place), these lost Edens never exist – yet PhiPhi island does. I first came here in 2004, five months before the Tsunami. I did a boat tour – similar to the one Khwan is doing today – had an afternoon on the island. I made some friends on that trip and we spent the day together, sharing, swimming and exploring. One memory I have from the afternoon is that we found a shop that made its own t-shirts. There were so many hand made ones. Completely unique. There was one shirt I loved, but it was sold in only one size – and that was way too small for me – but the owner allowed me to photograph so I could keep it forever.

Image by Karl Powell, One Size Fits All), 2004

Approaching Koh PhiPhi Don now. The two islands – PhiPhi Don and PhiPhi Le – rise up and tower above. Beautiful, amazing shaped islands. We are approaching along the eastern side; I can see the sand on beaches there, I can see buildings, a golden Buddha is visible within the green. Trees are now visible as individual trees. We are getting closer. Giant clouds climb high nearby. Boats are whizzing past, leaving long trails of white foam behind in the dark blue. And here we go. The ferry swings around into the busy approach to Ton Sai Pier. And the island opens up. The island opens its arms wide, the bay draws you in, you are flanked by imposing mountain formations the closer you move in. The approach is magic, utter magic. People on the ferry are moving about now: taking photographs, gathering bags. The ferry boat sounds a horn. The bay is full of boats. The engines slow and stop. Arrived.

Image by Karl Powell, ViewPoint (Koh PhiPhi Don), 2019

12.04pm
Got through the confusion of unpacking ferries, daytrips and tours alighting all at once. Paid my 20THB entry fee for the upkeep of the island and then weaved my way down the pier, through more noise, tour guides, and rows of suitcases soon to be claimed then wheeled to hotels and hostels. Made my way towards the large Burger King landmark, then walked along one of the laneways into the dense rabbit warren of streets that I first visited in 2004. There was still a happy, relaxed feel to the streets that I remembered. I followed my map of instructions to find my friend, Far, in her shop. Once we met we made our way up towards the high points of the island to visit one of its viewpoints. The climb took about half an hour, up an incline of steps and flat pathways leading out of the heat and humidity towards a summit covered in butterflies and a steady breeze. There is a café here. We are drinking mango juice, sat in the shade and looking out at the two bays of PhiPhi Don. I can see where I swam here on my first visit (Loh Dalum Bay). The waters have so many colours of blue. There seems no point in attempting to describe what I can see. Words will never do this view justice. Lots of people are having their photos taken here. Groups of friends, exhausted from the climb, fall into collective silence absorbing the vista in front of them. It is beyond words.

Image by Karl Powell, Far Above the Water (Koh PhiPhi Don), 2019

1.09pm
Lunch at Long Beach. Waiting for our orders to arrive. We descended down the hillside back into the humidity and narrow alleyways. The heat of the day has arrived. We walked through the maze of side streets, hawkers and backpackers. I followed Far’s lead along a thin meandering strip of paving stones which moved around the edge of the island towards Long Beach. There were lots of little coves – some deserted. One had a hammock there with the wreck of a rowing boat now sunk into the sand. Another had an abandoned reggae bar with its menu still visible; a large wooden sign was nailed to a coconut tree with the word ‘Love’ on it. Throughout our walk, the water shone with incredible clarity – utterly alive with sunlight. Water so radiant with brilliance it practically begged you to swim in it. Bare feet across sand, warm, soft sand. Walk in, dive in and open your eyes as you float through an entire lexicon of clear blue descriptions feeling a sea bed slope off sharp beneath you. In front of us now is the giant outline of Koh PhiPhi Le. Waiting for our orders to arrive. Hopefully soon. There has be time for another swim before the walk back to Ton Sai Bay.

Image by Karl Powell, Hammock (Koh PhiPhi Don), 2019

3.41pm
My ferry is pulling out of Ton Sai Pier. Said my goodbyes. Found my ferry. A different model to the one which brought me here. There is a kind of lipped edge promenade deck around the edge of the boat on the middle deck. I can sit here, my legs hang safely over the edge. The water far below. The ferry is pulling out of Koh PhiPhi Don. There is always a certain sadness felt when you leave a particular place. Time to think and reflect. Palm trees recede into being green patches once again. The engines of the ferry fire up. Slowly, these anchored monoliths of the Andaman begin to move away. I sit and feel grateful. I feel happy, content. I hope Far has lots of customers in her shop. I wonder how Khwan enjoyed her day touring these islands by speedboat. I think back to my first visit. At the end of that visit I also sat outside to watch the ocean slip past for the duration of the journey. The boat that day was similar to this; possibly smaller. I struck up a conversation with a backpacker called Will who was sitting next to me. He was at the end of his holiday. He had been on PhiPhi Don for two weeks, said he had been hungover and drunk for almost all of it and as we departed rued the fact he hadn’t seen anything of the island. The hum of the ferry’s engines now fire up and drown out all thoughts. Time to sit and be close to the ocean. The open water stretches far and wide. We leave PhiPhi.

Image by Karl Powell, Inbetween Paradise (Koh PhiPhi Don), 2019

5.23pm
Ferry pulling in to Krabi now. The engines have been cut and we are gliding through the mangroves towards the pier. The time went quick. I am still sitting outside. The colours in the sky have changed as sunset approaches. Clouds have appeared in the west. Mysterious islands appeared, loomed and were passed. Watched the greens and blues of the Andaman Sea merge together and dance in the sunlight. Felt so happy. Felt so free. Time just dissolved. The ocean is another world – a world without landmarks but always navigable. The pier approaches. The ferry bumps and is anchored. Time to find a taxi. Back at the hotel in about an hour.

Image by Karl Powell, Open Water (Andaman Sea), 2019

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