Category: Thailand

36 – Yoga Ma (Thailand)

In Thai language the word for dog is หมา and when pronounced it sounds like ‘ma.’ Often the a sound is long and held a little before ending with a rising tone.

Yoga Ma – Picture by denpa.fit (September 2025)

Towards the far end of AoNang beach – near the little shrine at the foot of the Monkey Trail – there were yoga classes held each day at sunrise and sunset.  Having booked in for a morning class, I had arrived early and so waited near where I had seen the class advertised. I leant against a small wall facing the beach. While it had been raining when I first woke, the morning was overcast with rolling clouds, grey and thick, curdling low above the ocean. This was low season – or rainy season – when downpours and electrical storms were more frequent. Despite this, it remained warm and humid. Many relaxing afternoons had been spent under cover watching the rain and listening to it fall in AoNang.

It had taken me ten minutes to walk to that spot from my hotel along the shoreline. The beach was quiet. A few tourists were walking on the sand. There were about three or four elderly women crouched close to the ground digging for shellfish in the wet sand. They each wore pink headscarves as coverings, and collected whatever they found into small, plastic buckets. Their hunched bodies moved in silence across the shoreline. Behind them, an imposing ridge of limestone rock towered above the trees and hotels reaching out into the Andaman Sea – cutting off that end of AoNang from the neighbouring beaches of Railay and AoNam Mao.

Outside Plaifa Restaurant – Picture by Karl Powell (August 2025)

A continuous warm breeze blew in offshore carrying the sounds of long tail boats labouring against the receding waves. In the shallows, a fisherman waded out waist deep into the Andaman Sea with bundles of red nets in his arms. I couldn’t tell if he was laying the nets or unravelling them in the water. The waves were breaking all around him, moving so fast, full of sound. Out on the horizon there were three or four islands, their outlines fixed and unmoveable. Koh Poda, the largest of them, was directly in front of me.

Early morning AoNang Beach – Picture by Karl Powell (August 2025)

A gust of wind made the wooden wind chimes hanging behind me rattle and echo. They belonged to the restaurant whose wall I was leaning up against: Plaifa. Its signs and menus sleep stacked up on the empty counter and closed kitchen (they opened for breakfast later in the morning). Plaifa had lots of aloe vera growing in short, fat pots outside an area between its service area and the next restaurant. Birds the size of matchboxes chirped and hopped about the pockmarked sand and fallen frangipani flowers there. Light struggled through the flat, broad leaves of the trees surrounding the restaurant. Dappled patches of shade moved on the ground as the wind blew in off the ocean. The scent of jasmine incense being burnt was present in the air for a brevity in time before the humidity and rolling waves overtook the senses.

Looking out all around me the two dominating colours were grey and green. Overcast grey, tropical green.

Storm at Sea – Picture by Karl Powell (September 2025)

The sound of a motorbike revved out of the silence. The bike travelled along a side road, and cut across a small stone bridge across a river, and parked at the side of Plaifa. A woman with long black hair tied behind her head, got off the bike which was fashioned with an open, roofed side carriage (like a tuk tuk). There it had carried a basket of towels and several black yoga mats rolled up together. This was to be the yoga instructor. Moving fast, she placed the basket and mats on the ground, beneath a tree, before making a couple of trips to carry all onto the beach. In no time she had done this and planted a tall, red flag nearby advertising her yoga class.

I moved down from the small wall to introduce myself to the instructor. She wore a red singlet and blue leggings and by the time I reached her, she was already setting up the mats on the beach. I offered if I could help her set up.

No need, she said, all ok.

The instructor rolled out four grass mats onto the sand, before placing a similar number of smaller, yoga mats on top. On top of each was placed a red hand towel with a bottle of water. There would be three others doing the class with me.

As the instructor set up her own mat – directly facing us with her back to the ocean – a girl walked along the beach to join the class. She introduced herself – she was travelling around Thailand and had come from China. As we all began chatting, a couple walked along the front of the restaurants (where I had just been) and dropped down on the sand. They were two Londoners repeating the class and knew the instructor – having first arrived in Krabi a few weeks earlier before spending some time over in Koh Samui and had now returned.

As we were now all present, the class could begin.

We were invited to sit down on a yoga mat. The instructor formally introduced herself and provided some information about herself, where in Thailand she was from, her own personal journey with yoga and what we would be doing in the class: some breathing exercises; stretches, twists and balancing poses (asanas); and, finish with a shavasana (or meditation). We all sat on our mats facing the instructor and the ocean. We were told to close our eyes.

Before the Yoga Class – Picture by Karl Powell (August 2025)

Our first practice was something called Nadi Shodhana. It was a practice of being seated and breathing in through one nostril and breathing out through the other. It was a practice used to still the mind and body, in preparation for yoga. We were each guided and shown how to do this: to rest our left hand on our knees and using our right hand to alternate the index finger and thumb in closing off our nostrils as we breathed. We brought our hands up and closed our left nostril and inhaled deeply and slowly through our right nostril. The instructor counted to four. We then pinched both nostrils closed and held our breath as the instructor counted again. Then we were told to release the left nostril and to breathe out slowly to a count of six. The practice then switched sides; we breathed in through our left nostril, pinched closed both nostrils and held our breath, before exhaling through our right.

Chilling outside Plaifa Restaurant – Picture by Karl Powell (August 2025)

We practised this breathing technique several times. During the practice we were told it was a method to help calm the mind and calm the nervous system. In the thick humidity of the beach I laboured with this and felt my lungs begin to burn. Holding my breath was proving so difficult. Beads of sweat became more prominent on my skin. I felt sweat run down my forehead. I could hear my heart beating hard within my body, sounding with exaggerated thumps in my hearing. I kept my eyes closed and tried hard to follow the instructor’s count to breathe but I struggled and found myself needing to gasp and sip at the air. I couldn’t tell if it was my inexperience with the technique or the heat and humidity of being outside on the beach. Even though there was no sunshine that morning, the humidity had a presence and it felt as though it was building.

The practice was then cut short. I felt a sudden thump in my ribs and torso at the same time I heard a scream. Eyes open I saw myself as part of a tangle of limbs: the Chinese girl had crashed into me, lunging away from a wild dog that had encroached on her mat and now lay down on the sand.

It’s ok, it’s ok, said the instructor. This dog always comes here. He likes to join in meditation. He’s a good dog, not nasty, never bites, but always causing trouble.

The dog belonged to a group of dogs that seemed to live on the beach, never charging or bothering people; sometimes they barked. The dog seemed placid and at ease. If I had to guess, it looked like a small Labrador with thickish fur. It had a mixture of gold and black fur (its back, face and ears were black while its belly and legs were gold). Uninterested in us, the dog rested its gaze up the length of the beach laying on its stomach with its elbows bent – almost in a Sphinx pose.

The instructor told us not to worry about the dog. Just let him lay down, ignore him and he soon will go. He is a good dog. Has a good heart: ‘jai dee.’ She then told us in Thai language the word for dog was ‘ma.’

Trusting the instructor, we went back to our breathing exercises. When we had finished and opened our eyes again we noticed that the dog had gone. None of us had heard him leave (a trail of paw prints in the sand suggested that he had headed back up the beach).

With this aspect of the class complete, the instructor took us through the rest of the practice. This was the most challenging and demanding sequence. We did all sorts of poses and balances (seated and standing) such as the warrior and triangle poses. There were lots of twists – holding our bodies still as we tried to breathe space into any physical limitations we had on that morning.

Waiting for the Storm – Picture by Karl Powell (August 2025)

During one pose I looked out at the ocean. My perception of everything felt slower. The sea was changing colour before my eyes. Greens, blues and a kind of luminous shade of jade. Clouds had continued to build – as had the humidity. I felt drops of rain begin to fall on me. A sheet of cobalt blur drifted across the ocean. At first this seemed to be moving across the horizon, almost parallel to the shore, then one by one the islands in front of us began to fade. At first, they became outlines, then disappeared behind a curtain of mist. The more the wind gathered, I could begin to see the long, thin shadows of rain falling. This was a downpour moving towards the shore. Some tourists stood in the shallows of the ocean, all photographing the changing colours. A small child and a grandfather were walking nearby holding hands when suddenly the child broke free and ran to the ocean. There he had found something and held it aloft in his hand. He showed it to his grandfather and ran back to the ocean – skipping occasionally – before throwing whatever it was back into the rolling surf.

Storm AoNang – Picture by Karl Powell (July 2023)

Then a sudden gust of wind hit us like a wall of noise. The winds sounded loud and howled. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. There was no horizon only grey. The instructor abandoned the class for a moment. We all ran, taking cover beneath the trees and bushes near Plaifa. Safe, we stopped – laughing, panting, listening to the downpour of rain on palm leaves over our heads. We saw the gang of stray dogs running further up the beach, seeking shelter near some massage huts towards the hotels.

And so, the rain fell. And it kept falling. At first the noise was deafening. The surface of the ocean danced and vibrated with concentric circles of rain – patterns appearing everywhere all at once then gone in an instant. The downpour muffled all other noises. The world for that moment sounded and felt so different. Visibility changed. The large limestone rocks at the end of the beach were obscured – just shades of green and grey. At my feet, small puddles of water formed in the wet sand. The small birds I’d seen hopping about earlier now hid in the upper branches, finding pockets of sanctuary, and struggled to balance as the wind continued to blow in gusts.

Then eventually, rain began to ease off before resting at a steady drizzle. Thunder continued to sound but was far away. The instructor gave us option of going to the yoga studio up in the town to continue the class there. But we were all happy to finish the remainder of the class under the trees and foliage we had camped beneath. We were already wet and there wasn’t long left of the practice. And so, this is what we did.

Plaifa Restaurant – Picture by Karl Powell (August 2025)

We continued with our class in a final flow of poses and balances. It felt so nice to be standing still and so fully present as the sound of rain tapped the banana palms and frangipani trees around us. The green of the limestone ridge and its trees seemed to come alive with a vibrancy I’d not appreciated before. Everything shone with a sheen and glossiness. I looked above me. At the trees. One trunk was covered in vine weepers, which curled and wrapped itself around the main stem before moving off onto other branches. Some branches were thicker than some of the tree trunks around us. Another gust of wind moved them in unison. Raindrops fell in concert landing on us and the wet sand. Many leaves managed to hold on the raindrops which seemed to sparkle with life as the light shone through them as the swayed on the moving leaves. The wind blew cooler air across the sea, dispersing the humidity. A large black and white butterfly flew between the raindrops, across my sight of vision until it disappeared into the dark green leaves.

I managed to look out again at the ocean. The whole body of water seemed calmer now, the waves moving as a single moving force breathing in and breathing out, collapsing as small waves onto the shallows at the shoreline.

As the class neared its end, the instructor asked us to stand motionless and to close our eyes. We were asked to just observe what we felt within and to be a witness to that.

I can remember closing my eyes. Standing there without thought. Just breathing in the warm, dense air. I can remember feeling the oxygen moving through my body and we began moving our arms over our heads, then in a circular motion down towards the sand, then back up towards the sky. We did this several times. Breathing. Eyes closed. Listening to the ocean. Listening to the rain falling on flat leaves. Everything felt centred. I could hear the waves of the ocean roaring towards shore. I could feel how wet my clothes were against my skin. I felt the warmth of the sea breeze continuing to blow. I felt contentment. I needed nothing. We kept moving our arms in circles. My body felt lighter, alive in movement, liberated by the breath moving within it. We were told to inhale and exhale in sync as we moved our bodies.

Yoga on the Beach – Picture by Karl Powell (July 2024)

Then we were told to stop. And to just stand still. Keep your eyes closed. Everything was black. I could hear the ocean. I could hear the wind. I knew I was standing on the beach but it was as if I was no longer within the body. There was no sensation of floating. There was no sensation of euphoria. It just felt as if I belonged to that moment in time. An intense belonging and harmony. As if I was a part of time and space (no longer a separate entity). There was energy within everything on that beach; the wind, the rain, the ocean, the sounds, the sand, all the people around me, all the animals on the beach – we all were united in that moment and belonged. And that belonging was its own sacred energy – alive in me, moving through all.

Belonging. No separateness. Oneness.

When I opened my eyes, I watched a wave come out of the depths of the ocean. I watched it rise up then crash onto the shore. It fell face first onto the wet sand. It became stillness. Then it seemed to move backwards, scooped up and dragged back by the tide of the sea. I watched it change into a new wave, rising above an oncoming swell before it disappeared back into the depths once again.  Belonging. No separateness. Oneness.

Koh Poda – Picture by Karl Powell (August 2025)

Finally, the instructor prepared us for shavasana. We returned to sitting on our mats and were again instructed to close our eyes.  We were guided through a set of breathing exercises. Filling our lungs with air. Asked to hold our breath. Then allowed to breath out through our mouth. This was repeated several times until we were told to return to allowing our own bodies to breathe. With eyes closed we sat in silence. I felt a feeling of contentment again. Of peace and happiness and belonging.  Then, keeping the eyes closed, we were told to rub our palms together to create heat. To keep rubbing and then place our palms over our eyes, then onto our shoulders. We were told to: send good energy out into the world – to our family, to our friends, to our parents, to our siblings, to all animals, to all beings, to ourselves.

Then the instructor sang Aum. It rose from within her. The sound resonated and reverberated. I had heard singing bowls do the same with a rising vibration – but the instructor was doing this with her voice. I could feel the vibration of sound moving through my body, through my chest. She sang this Aum three times. Each time as powerful as the first. Then when she had finished, we remained in silence before she asked us to gently open our eyes.

Waves were rolling ashore from the ocean. The sky was still overcast with clouds making the colours of the ocean jade in colour. At the end of the beach, the ridge of limestone rocks remained standing in the waters of the Andaman Sea. Longtail boats continued to streak across the ocean moving towards Railay Beach and AoNam Mao Pier. Chunks of cumulus cloud drifted along the horizon. Raindrops hung from branches like jewels.

Yoga Ma Chilling – Picture by denpa.fit (December 2025)

And there laying on the beach, the dog had returned to the class (in meditation)

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Yoga Balance AoNang:
web: https://www.yogabalancethailand.com/
contact:yogabalancethailand@gmail.com

Classes: AoNang Beach (Mon-Sun)
Morning Class 7:30 am – 9:00 am
Evening Class 5:15 pm – 6:45 pm

29 Sunset: AoNang Beach

Image by Kungking, Sunset (Ao Nang), 2022

The day is ending and there are long-tail boats returning from Railay Beach. Despite the building presence of cloud cover folding over on itself along the horizon at Nopporat Thara, the setting sun should be visible through it soon. Already colours are changing in the sky. Long white streaks of high, cirrus cloud are tinted with orange and pink. As the Andaman Sea reaches the shores, these incoming boats switch off their engines and use momentum to glide into the tidal shallows, dropping anchor into the sands of AoNang. Passengers climb overboard and wade in ankle deep waters up onto the beach, moving up towards a concrete ramp outside the bright blue Ticket Office (where boat rides can be bought). The Ticket Office sits on the corner of AoNang Beach Road and a small, narrow Soi which branches off and runs along the sea front down towards the end of the beach (where the mountain meets the sea).

Image by KungKing, BF Massage Team (Ao Nang), 2022

Along this Soi – between the Ticket Office and just before the AoNang Villa Resort  KungKing and her massage team rest on small chairs outside their shop: Dada & KungKing BF Massage. There is a short lull in business, a pause in their day. The staff take this moment to rest. They sit and watch the sunset together. The sun pours out from a crack in the cloud cover. In an instant, honeyed sunshine fills this part of the world. Selfies and cameras instantly appear all over the beach. Those on the sand all become a part of this brevity of being; each person belonging to the colours and backgrounds as they begin to appear in the photographs of others.

Image by Karl Powell, At the Day’s End (Ao Nang), 2022

The staff take this moment to rest. They sit together outside their shop, talking, exchanging conversation, looking at the beach. Each member is highly visible by their jade and teal coloured uniforms, which shines in a contrast of colour to the setting light of the sun. Most of the staff finished work here at ten o’clock last night; some were in at a half-past seven this morning: cleaning, sweeping, preparing for the day (there are no days off). Suddenly along the Soi arrives a novelty: a blue tuktuk selling ice-cream. In unison, the staff all jump up off their chairs and stop the ice-cream seller – an elderly man who struggles to keep up with their orders. Jade green teal swarms around the blue vehicle, money exchanges for ice creams and smiles as the orange light of dusk sets across wet sand. And the sunlight seems to shine brighter for this moment.

Image by Karl Powell, Ice Cream (Ao Nang), 2022

Like many people in AoNang, everyone is aware that high season is approaching. All are hoping that the tourists will return. It has been a long two years for everyone and many stories exist concerning survival and hardship during the pandemic and its lockdowns.

Image by Karl Powell, Welcome to Ao Nang Villa (Ao Nang), 2022

One of the reasons I began writing the Siesta del Somewhere series was as a creative response to the pandemic. With travel restrictions imposed, I began to go through journals kept over the past twenty years of travelling and enjoyed re-visiting places, moments and observations long-forgotten but written down in ink. The decision to share these, along with photographs taken on the journeys, was an attempt to offer a distraction from the saturated coverage and anxiety of the pandemic. It was hoped that the ‘postcards’ uploaded would offer some kind of reminder that ‘normality’ could and did exist in the worst of times. One of the promises I made to myself was not to mention the pandemic in this series – something I managed up until now. But the purpose of writing, along with the purpose of travel, is elusive to define; sharing one’s experiences is only one aspect – telling the stories of others is equally as important.

Image by Karl Powell, Ton Ma Yom Restaurant (Ao Nang), 2022

The pandemic has changed this corner of the earth. Many people have been displaced – having to move elsewhere looking for work (to rural areas, to the cities, or back home with families). Many people had to leave what lives, friends, communities they belonged to in order to take care of themselves and their loved ones. A small roadside bar further down the Soi (just before the Centara Hotel) sells smoothies, roti pancakes and meals. The owners told me that they had no customers for two years. Without tourists there was, of course, no income. No income for two years. Many businesses, so reliant on tourism, disappeared. Stories are told of local restaurants providing free meals to those who lost their incomes during this period.

Image by Karl Powell, Beach Bar Sunset (Ao Nang), 2022

A little further along the Soi is the Beach Bar of the AoNang Villa Resort. It is happy hour and there is a good mix of people milling about and sharing the sunset. Guests sit and face out onto the Andaman Sea and Poda Island. The sun makes a final reprise – long rays stretch one last time across the beach. Down on the sand a mixed soccer match takes place. The pitch is unmarked on the receded shore line as the incoming tide or coming darkness will soon stop play. Colours of sunset are changing again; deepening and bruising, burning with the embers of intensity. A warm wind blows in off the shore. Bar managers and hotel managers are chatting with each other. People shift seats to photograph the sun and its colours – one last attempt to catch this beauty before it disappears into the night.

Image by Karl Powell, Mai Tai (Ao Nang), 2022

Casual customers wander up off the beach, past the large swings hanging from giant trees, and join the remains of the day. The bar is open to all. Some order food, some order drinks. Wait staff are working behind the bar, a red Mai Tai cocktail is being served in a poco grange glass (earlier this afternoon the food and beverage staff were having fun learning to make new cocktails in preparation for the high season). A woman is finally joined by her husband who has had a final fitting at De Marco’s Fashions just behind the bar. He is happy with his shirts, so very happy, and shows them to her (pointing towards the tailor’s shop).

Image by Karl Powell, AoNang Villa Cocktail Makers (Ao Nang), 2022

Slowly, slowly, tourism is returning. Even for more established businesses such as the Ao Nang Villa Resort (one of the first hotels in this area in 1989), the pandemic affected lives, friendships and business here. Rather than returning to normal, life has learnt to move on and adapt for now. Through the haze over the ocean, through the lost sunlight, another longtail boat cuts its engine and glides into the shallows at Ao Nang.

Image by Karl Powell, De Marco Fashion (Ao Nang), 2022

The sun has now set. Light is fading. Banks of cloud are stacked up on the horizon over at Nopporat Thara. Hanging lanterns blink into life with pin prick of greens, oranges and yellow illuminating a haze of colour around light bulbs strung within the dark branches of the palm and almond trees. The outlines of the islands along the horizon seem to grow in stature, embolden, standing taller in the dusk. The ocean changes colour with a milk-jade sheen washing through its surface as a shower of light rain falls. The air is moving but feels thick and humid. Mosquitos buzz about. Stray cats weave through the shadows. Darkness comes and it is time to eat.

Image by Karl Powell, Jeseao, AoNang Beach Road (Ao Nang), 2022

Many bars and restaurants also have their stories to tell from the past few years. The Fisherman’s Bar survives and, for now, is the last stop along this Soi which faces out onto the Sea. Should you wander further along, towards the Monkey Trail and the small Buddhist shrine where the river meets the ocean, now only abandoned and disused buildings stand empty. There was once a large community of around fifteen massage huts there – all open air, thatched roofs, standing on sand, facing out onto the Andaman Sea. It was a destination in itself for many returning tourists who established friendships and community with those who worked here. Currently, only two huts are still standing and in operation (the rest were cleared); KungKing was one of the fortunate ones who had the luck to find new premises.

Image by Karl Powell, Boogie Bar (Ao Nang), 2022

So many places had to adapt, so many disappeared, a few relocated and can be found elsewhere. As the Ao Nang Beach Road moves up away from the ocean, away from the bright blue Ticket Office and away from this Soi, it heads towards the Ao Nang Mosque and eventually on to Krabi Town. Along this road, new places can be found alongside the old: Jeseao, Boogie Bar, Thai Me Up, Thanya Kitchen, Lobster Restaurant, Ton Ma Yom. These, of course, are only a few of the many businesses here in Ao Nang – all have their stories to tell. All are waiting for the high season.

Image by Thanya Kitchen, Thanya Kitchen Restaurant (Ao Nang), 2022

The wind has started blowing and it sounds like rain on the roof of the Fisherman’s Bar. Night has now come. Sounds move all around me – different languages flowing in conversations. Bells bing for service. Soft jazz and bossanova play in the background. I sit up on one of the high bars, which looks out into the darkness covering the beach. I can hear the ocean; I can taste it on the wind.

Image by Karl Powell, The Last Fisherman’s Bar (Ao Nang), 2022

What a place this would be to come to write in the evenings, to sit here at the day’s end, to talk with strangers, to try to capture these moments forever in ink (and hope someone else reads them on another day). As travellers all we can do is to follow the beaten tracks of others and then explore our own. Whatever stories we discover they are never ours to keep; they encounter us in the hope they will be told again to others. The ocean is the perfect place in which to find dreamers and storytellers. Yellow light falls down on this blank page.

Image by Karl Powell, At Night (Ao Nang), 2022

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25 Nights in AoNang (Thailand)

THE LAST CAFÉ ON THE BEACH

Image by Karl Powell, Beat Music Festival (AoNang), 2018

At the day’s end, the beach is full of life. The warm waters of the Andaman Sea are rushing ashore. They move in to the receding tidal shoreline in running lines of foam. Fishermen are preparing their nets in the shallows, driving stakes in the wet sand before wading into the sea. A huge love heart is carved into the sand high on the beach. The clouds are changing colour. Despite the clouds blotting out the sunset, the colours begin to smudge the higher clouds. Some are already turning pink. Pink against an ebbing blue. Pastel blue. Hue of blue. There are so many people at the beach tonight, just walking together. Many, like me, stop to take photographs; make videos. Five young women, talk and walk and text on their phones; all five have long black hair. A woman in a red dress walks past me holding a little baby in a white dress. The mother stops near the love heart and points towards something out at sea, the toddler looks, the mother says something and then they carry on walking up the beach.

Image by Karl Powell, The Last Cafe (AoNang), 2018

Longtail boats begin to return for the night. Most are growling in the water, churning foam and fumes, returning from Railay Beach. Most stop at the AoNang kiosk – there’s a long, concrete slope moving up off the sand back to the Beach Road. Once the passengers climb down from the wooden boats, one by one, and wade knee deep in the Andaman Sea, the boats slowly reverse, turn, and chug onwards to Nopporat Tharra Pier (tucked around the corner). Having said that, four longtail boats are anchored near the giant marlin statue on the beachfront. All four float, bump, nudge and bob as they move on the shifting tide. Every time I come here, to spend time here, I fall more and more in love with this place. I can’t explain why but I feel so happy here. Just a profound sense of being. I am so happy I came here this evening to write all this down, to preserve it forever in this notebook, etched in ink between feint, ruled lines. This is such a beautiful part of the world.

Image by Karl Powell, Magic Lanterns at Monkey Trail (AoNang), 2018

It will be dark soon. My thoughts turn to moving on, finding something to eat. I look along the beach and can see the lights on in the community of beach massage huts. With the day at an end, they all sit together, share food together, eat a meal together, talk, unwind, relax, giving thanks before going home. I can see TikTik’s hut – the first one – Number 1 Love the Sea (she was worried yesterday that the storms are going to make her roof collapse).

Image by TikTik, Love the Sea (AoNang), 2019

Here, down near the Monkey Trail, close to the small, Buddhist shrine at the end of the beach, everything is magic. The shrine is tall and white – surrounded by small, stone elephants – and houses a golden Buddha that has four faces (looking in different directions simultaneously). Coloured sashes adorn the base of the monument. There are two coconut trees that almost touch, that lean closer and closer to each other – the fingers reaching out of the palm leaves will touch one day soon. The evening is coming. The Last Café on the Beach switches on its magic lanterns. In an instant everything feels magic. Evening winds, warm winds, blow and the branches of these trees move. A mynah bird sings. Chunks of cloud, far out at sea, move across the sky. The light begins to fade. The ocean rushes ashore.

Image by Karl Powell, The Giant Marlin (AoNang), 2018

GREEN CURRY RESTAURANT
The restaurants prepare for evening service. Ning takes my order at the Green Curry Restaurant and goes off into the kitchen. White, paper napkins flutter in the warm, evening breeze. Occasional raindrops blow in offshore. Hungry feet walk along AoNang Beach Road. They weave between bodies of people who are shopping, who are selling, who are just looking. Colour and noise merge and move. Everything is alluring, enticing – so many colours, so many moving parts – nothing overwhelms. Glittered shop fronts, hidden alleyways, taxis waiting, tuktuks driving, tourists and locals everything is one. Deep house music sounds from one of the new bars, Tribe, offering something else from the intensity of Centrepoint and its warren of live bands. A tannoy car drives past advertising a Muay Thai fight tonight at Krabi Stadium at 9pm: it announces in Thai and English. It drives along the Beach Road, deafening the pavements, heading up towards the Mosque and Tesco Lotus at the top end of town.

Image by Karl Powell, People, Colour and Noise (AoNang), 2018

Across the road, near the giant marlin statue, flickerings of lightning spark far out at sea. Pearl flashes colour the indigo darkness. People sit on the stone steps and watch one of the last longtail boats come ashore. It moves in from the darkness and anchors in the shallows. It has a small, round spotlight on its starboard side. The light it generates dances in the dark waters, bobbing near the surface of the ocean and just below. Dimly lit, across the horizon, the lime green lights of the deep sea trawlers can just barely be seen (but they are there – as are the immoveable outlines of Poda Island and those that surround). Last week, one night walking back to my room, I stood here with some people from New Zealand who were pointing into the waters. We all saw the sea sparkle in neon blues as the ocean crashed onto the sand. Glimmers and flickers; the phosphorous plankton bioluminescence alive in those dark, night-sky waters. Magic, magic moments at midnight. Rolling waves keep coming ashore. The breeze picks up again. White napkins flutter on the tables. My meal arrives.

Image by Karl Powell, Boogie Bar (AoNang), 2018

Down by the Boogie Bar, just a few footsteps into Walking Street, Vijay at HongKong Tailor waits for me. My shirts are ready. Deposit already paid, final fittings already done, just alterations to do. Ready to collect tomorrow. Settle bill then. Open 10am until 11pm. The air is thicker here – indoor and undercover. Footsteps follow footsteps. The live band sings ‘Satisfaction’ by the Rolling Stones and everything moves with people, colour and noise. Ceiling fans twist and turn. I stop at a shop selling clothes – I saw a t-shirt here yesterday. It was a red one, with a map of Thailand and all its provinces. Loved it and should have bought it there and then. But I buy it now. 200THB. As money changes hands, waiting for change, I watch a cat evade electrocution as it weaves between live cables tangled up from the floor to the neck of an ice-cream maker. Its eyes are blue and it looks up at me. And all around me, all I can see, is people, colour and noise. People moving, people browsing, people smiling.

Image by Karl Powell, Leaving Walking Street (AoNang), 2018

LONGHORN BAR
One drink and we go home. That’s the idea; that’s the poster outside the Longhorn Bar as the Beach Road runs back down towards the ocean. The sky flashed again with lightning. It’s been flickering away since sunset, but now it’s moved in, closer to shore. The staff recognise me from the other night and seat me on the high, long, wooden table again, facing inwards, sharing space with a guy from Kodagu, India (on holiday) and two friends from Santiago, Chile (backpacking). The band is singing Amy Winehouse’s ‘Know I’m No Good’ (they invite customer requests when you order a beer here).

Image by Karl Powell, The Longhorn Bar (AoNang), 2019

The warm wind continues to blow in off the Andaman Sea. The evening is beginning to bubble up with energy: people are walking past selling handmade items – messaged bracelets, glow sticks, small coloured shapes of wood that mimic the sounds of croaking frogs. Curious tourists walk down the RCA lane, people fade and morph into the neon noise and competition of colour between the shadows, a motorcycle pulls in off the road and begins to weave its way through the long legs and bar stools there, the band begin to sing ‘Highway to Hell.’ A street food stall pulls up at the kerb, firing up the coals for the evening: grilled satay sticks, chicken livers, papaya salads will soon perfume the air. Another flash of lightning illuminates and immediately energises everything.

Image by Karl Powell, Street Food (AoNang), 2018

My bottle of Singha arrives. It was brought by Phon, who I recognise from the other night. She asks me what I’m writing. I tell her it’s a story about AoNang and ask if she’d like to be in it. She looks at my notebook and says she can’t write English, can’t read English, never had money to go to school. As I pay for my beer she draws a smiley face on the bar receipt with her pen and writes something in Thai.

Image by Karl Powell, Sabai Sabai (AoNang), 2018

A group of Chinese tourists file in. There must be about a dozen. They are brought in to the middle of the bar; table and chairs are quickly arranged together to accommodate them. As they quietly sit down and patiently order drinks from the bar staff, a tray of blue shots, in plastic red glasses, is sent over to them. Each person receives one. Now the band sing the Beatles’ song, ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.’ There’s a young guy seated at the bar inside, chatting to a girl who reads something on her phone. Their faces stained by the coloured lights from bright advertisements for Singha, Leo and Chang beers. Both look thoroughly bored and soon leave without speaking, their game of Connect 4 left unfinished. La la la la la la life goes on.

Image by Karl Powell, Mr. AoNang (AoNang), 2018

The lightning crackles again. This time overhead. A flash within your eyes. Then the thunder rumbled booms and vibrations into the ground. Chairs are being moved inside, not just here, but all the restaurants nearby, the massage shops opposite. Everyone is moving inside. Raindrops splat onto the floor. They land with an audible slap. Big drops of water – the size of an old English penny. We are told to come inside, off the high, long, wooden table, away from the danger of lightning – we were reluctant to give up our vantage point, but the bar staff were persistent and concerned for our safety.

Image by Karl Powell, Sultans of Swing, Longhorn Bar (AoNang), 2018

Then water poured and the rain fell down. The noise reverberated inside the bar, muffling the band. From where we are now we look outside and can see only spray thrown into the air. Taxis and traffic try hard to drive, shining white headlights through the rain. People run to find shelter. This is when I wished I had a balcony overlooking AoNang – just to spend an evening watching storms move in off the sea. Just sitting there, smoking a cheroot, outside in the rain, feeling the spray of the downpour approach, tasting moisture in the air, feeling the thunder move in the soles of your feet.

Phon approaches and asks if I want another Singha. Sure, one more drink and then we go home.

Image by Karl Powell, One Drink and We Go Home (AoNang), 2018

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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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3 The Rain (Ao Nang)

High above the streets of Ao Nang this story begins. Perched up along the rooftop restaurants, looking down at the sounds from below which come up to greet: tooting horns, tuk-tuk sounds, traffic moving, traffic swerving, big trucks, motorbikes, laughter and language. Words are heard expressing worlds in every sound and syllable. Something heavy is being dragged across the floor. Knives and forks twang, clang and chime in the way that only cutlery can chatter. Glasses chink at the bar. White paper napkins flutter in the breeze. Waves roll ashore. Rushing waves roll ashore. There’s a faint wind blowing in off the sea; moving air inland. A large full moon begins to rise over a giant monolith of limestone rock towards one end of this town (dropped down in the soft sand at the far end of the beach). A string of coloured lanterns dance in the darkness, lighting all along the way there, all the way until the eye can see no more.

Image by Karl Powell, Ao Nang (after the storm), 2019

Unaware of bearings and landmarks, there is no comprehension of where lies North, South, East or West. Dislocated from familiarity, there is no Pole Star for guidance, only the sounds of this night can reassure. Waves rolling ashore.

Occasionally a solitary raindrop falls. Skies were clear a few moments ago.

Apparently there is a big storm elsewhere. Somewhere far away – far out at sea. It has made lots of smaller storms, lots of other rain. This was on the news, so I was told. With these other rains coming, there will be no customers in town for this week. The tourists will stay away. Shops can sell no goods. Yesterday there was no electricity here. One of the 7/11 supermarkets had to close for the day (electric doors, electric tills). Even though power was back on by the evening, the customers still stayed away (stayed indoors, stayed in their hotels). I was told for my safety, do no boat trips: stay on land (for my safety, you understand, for my safety).

A nearby table of three French girls leave. They sound so happy – laughing and singing together. We are literally eating up in the rooftops among treetops. Steep steps had lead up here; I had no idea there was even a restaurant up here. And I’ve found it – on Day One. The now vacant table is quickly cleared by staff and transformed into a space to eat again. There is a lull in service. And for a moment – the briefest of moments – a waitress looks down at the passing traffic on the Beach Road. She has a black ponytail, soft shoes and stands with her hands behind her back. The neon signs all around cast changing colours onto her face. Green palm trees light up the darkness of the night behind her. There is no light beyond them (only stars). There is no light beyond the crashing foam washing ashore.

My food arrives.

Image by Karl Powell, The Green Curry Restaurant, 2018

Morning. And so the rain fell last night. It rained heavily throughout the night. And it kept falling. It must have started around 3 or 4am. The sound of the rain hitting the banana palms and frangipani trees woke me from the deep. In my room, around that time, as my eyes rolled around in the unfamiliar surroundings of a new room everything illuminated suddenly with a quick, white flash, followed by silence. The low, slow bellow of thunder staggered through the darkness soon enough. Briefly there is respite. The green of the mountains and trees take on a vibrancy with this weather. Everything feels alive. A wind blows colder across this Andaman Sea, dispersing the hot, thick humidity which stuck to the night sky. Another storm is moving closer. At the beach, along the horizon, all is black. Incoming. Thunder booms like slow, approaching canon-bangs. The sand physically shudders and vibrates as this sound hits dry land. Warm rain occasionally falls, causing large, flat puddles to become pockmarked with moving circles on the water’s surface.

The air is still again; thick with moisture and fragranced with jasmine from burning incense lit at a nearby Buddhist shrine. A family of mynah birds swoop down from some pencil thin palm trees and look for food in the wet grass. An olive stray dog sits under cover waiting for someone or something for breakfast. White butterflies, unfazed by the weather flit about their business – followed by two small children mimicking their flight before being quickly called back into the dry by the grownups.

A leaf falls from the Holy Almond tree and the sea breeze gathers pace again. The ocean had been flat moments earlier, from shoreline to the edge of the world, flat glass water now rippled with rushing winds. Brightly coloured long-tail boats float on this endless sea – their painted hulls shine as they emerge up into the morning light, lifted by growing, shoreline waves. At the far end of the beach, two people swim in the emerald depths of the Andaman Sea (their heads visible only as small, round silhouettes). I watch another large brown leaf fall from a giant overhanging branch – it flutters and tumbles, curling through gravity’s downward pull. It seems to take an age to fall. But here, time lives within Time and plans reside elsewhere. The wind is now a steady stream of warm and cool air. The sea changes colour: blues, grey, green and teals. A bank of cloud hangs along the horizon. Partly grey, partly white, partly black. Thunder booms somewhere out there, its muffled rumbles carried here on the breeze, audible and loud. A bird the size of my thumb suddenly alights near my table. I move only my eyes to look at it. It chirps and darts off. Time to move, time to be, time to meet what the day will bring…

Image by Karl Powell, Fontok Laew, 2019

And when the rains came there was nothing you could do. They came in the late afternoon. The building bubble of humidity finally burst and the sky fell open. At first, big flat splats of raindrops, then long sheets of vertical downpour lasting hours at a time. Daylight dimmed. Umbrellas and ponchos lined the streets. Everything shone with a sheen brought down from the skies. I hid and huddled under tarpaulin canopies all along Walking Street, unable to get back to my room. Until I found a table at Sitti Café and ordered water spinach, chicken and rice. They gave me a cup of lemon tea for free. Next door, at the Boogie Bar, a band was playing Bob Marley’s ‘One Love.’ I listened and ate and watched the massage girls try to coax rain dodgers into the shelter of their shop. A large white butterfly with black polkadots flew past me in the rain (it had been flying about me the whole day… or so it seemed… either way it was good for the story). On the Beach Road, there was a man in a blue Pepsi Cola t-shirt, trying his best to thread himself between the falling raindrops and passing tuk-tuk taxis; he moved like a blur through the kaleidoscope of shining neon reflected on a gloss of coloured puddles captured in potholes and flat tarmac.

Image by Karl Powell, Rainy Afternoon, 2019

At the hotel earlier in the morning, I saw a poster advertising something that said, ‘Take time to do what makes your soul happy.’ And so I sat at Sitti Café until evening and I wrote about how happy I felt, about how I loved what I was feeling at that time, about what the place was beginning to mean to me and how I enjoyed it. I wrote about how much I was falling in love with AoNang, about how I felt it was a special place with such special people living there, happy to share it all with me. And there I was writing, watching people, listening to rain. And it felt good – it felt meaningful. And I thought that maybe one day, I would look back at this moment and realise I was doing things that made me happy, and I would bless these moments again and again and again. It was one of those rare epiphanies when you knew you doing what you were meant to be doing, that Fate had really intervened. Rainy days are made for writing. And so I sat and I wrote until I heard the Maghrib Prayer in the distance, sounding down from the Mosque at the top end of town, by then I knew the day was around sunset.

Image by Karl Powell, Sitti Cafe, 2018

And all the while, the waves kept rolling ashore, rolling in foam over jade green waters. The long blue stripe which sits between the worlds of heaven and ocean had long dissolved into a misted grey of heavy rain.

And all the while, the waves keep rolling ashore.

And I kept writing.

Image by Karl Powell, Colours of AoNang, 2018

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