Most presume the Bali of old was sucked into Kuta’s juice bars, but pockets exist that still offer the same magic travellers fell for many years ago. One such place is the Hideout, a double-storey bamboo abode for up to four guests perched between a rice field and a river in the mountains near the Gunung Agung volcano, a 90-minute drive from Denpasar.
Decked out with musical instruments, art supplies and a resident kitty, it is the ideal place to relax and let creativity flow. Cool off in the river with huge butterflies kissing your skin and watch the waterwheel churn to give the Hideout extra electricity. Visit the nearby Campuhan, the sacred confluence of two rivers, where the Balinese go to cleanse body and soul and perform spiritual ceremonies. At night, ride the house’s scooter to a warung (casual restaurant) in a nearby village and return to laze in the hammock, listen to frogs and spot fireflies blazing in the jungle. It’s the ultimate Balinese holiday.
Tucked away in its own bay at the base of striking cliffs, Centara Grand Beach Resort & Villas Krabi caters to beach-bliss hedonists and adventurers alike.
Wake in a plush room or pool villa overlooking the ocean on the west coast of Thailand and ponder the big questions of the day: should you flop and drop on the beach with a cocktail? Or meet wildlife thriving under the sea, clamber up Krabi’s famous limestone formations, or explore the Monkey Trail?
When you’re done paddle boarding the coast and hiking into tropical parkland, unwind with a signature massage using products made with locally grown herbs. Next, satisfy your palate with a seafood barbecue before slipping into your private plunge pool for a dip under a canopy of stars.
Every rainforest-enclosed villa at this luxurious, wellness-focussed Thai retreat has its own pool. That, in itself, isn’t groundbreaking, but consider the designs, with the infinity dippers seemingly suspended in midair, and it becomes clear Keemala is a game changer.
The 38 suites come in four different styles, including Bird’s Nest (pictured) and Tree Pool villas. The whole resort overlooks the Andaman Sea and is close to both Kamala and Patong beaches. There’s a holistic spa and plenty of activities on offer, as well as four dining destinations and a terrace on which to sip sunset cocktails.
You don’t have to crash into the ocean à la Tom Hanks’s Chuck Noland to wash up on a deserted island. Docastaway sends travellers seeking the survival experience to deserted islands around the world.
Get a taste of isolation at the Private Lake in the Philippines. Be prepared to shed creature comforts though, because there’s no mobile signal, hot showers or electricity. The perks, however, are plentiful. When you’re not canoeing through pristine water, snorkelling among coral or fishing for your dinner, kick back in the spacious open-air cabana that juts out over the shallows.
Plus, you’ll have the entire island to yourself. Well, almost. Your 24-hour guide will hang out at the lake’s entrance with a walkie-talkie in case you realise the Survivor shtick isn’t for you. BYO Wilson.
Imagine spending days on a heavenly beach overlooking the Indian Ocean and nights in a suite designed by the late Geoffrey Bawa, Sri Lanka’s most famous architect. You can have all that and more at Anantara Kalutara, located on a secluded stretch of sand at the mouth of the Kalu River.
The spacious, contemporary rooms come in a number of sizes, and many have views of the ocean or lagoon. Go all out and book one of the villas with private plunge pool if you’re looking for a little seclusion.
There is plenty around the resort to keep guests amused, including two pools, four restaurants and bars and the Anantara Spa, but there are also a number of excursions that can be booked. Join one of the chefs at the local market before taking a hands-on class in cooking a Sri Lankan specialty, tour historic Galle City, go whale watching at Mirissa or visit one of the country’s famous tea plantations.
The sun sinks towards the horizon, accentuating each crevice of the fairy floss clouds floating over a distant mountain. The air is heavy with humidity and a layer of stickiness coats my skin as though I’ve been rolling in honey. The only relief is a gentle breeze through the windows of our small wooden boat as it cruises through Tonle Sap’s lapping waves.
To the right, clouds eclipse the blue sky, turning it a shady grey. For the moment it looks far away, and I remain unconcerned, turning back to the view.
“It’s about to rain!” shouts Chantal, our group leader and, as if on cue, water droplets burst from the sky, slapping into the boat’s frame. The calm lake now heaves beneath us and everyone stumbles in the confined space as we gather our belongings from the rain-soaked floor – there is no glass in any of the windows – and place them on seats.
Tonle Sap is the largest freshwater lake in Cambodia, and our group of 10 is trying to cross it. We’re traversing it and the Sangker River from Battambang to Siem Reap, a common journey for both locals and travellers. Depending on weather conditions, the trip can take anywhere between nine and 12 hours.
Out here, it feels as if we’re a world away from the bustle of the city. Setting sail from Battambang, colourful markets and tooting tuk-tuks disappear from view, and an oasis awaits. Palm trees edge the river and stilt houses balance precariously over water. Men and women cast fishing nets, children bathe by the river’s edge and women hang out freshly washed clothes, smiling and waving as we pass. It’s hard to believe how friendly the people are when the country was so recently brought to its knees.
From 1975 to 1979, the Cambodian people suffered through what would be later named the Killing Fields era. Led by Khmer Rouge dictator Pol Pot, the prospering country was transformed into a land of horror. Almost overnight the regime stripped thousands of people of their personal belongings, evacuated the cities and forced the population to work in the fields. Intellectuals – doctors, lawyers, teachers – were tortured then slaughtered, as were ethnic and religious minorities and people connected to the previous government. In four years, an estimated two million people – about 20 per cent of the country’s population – died.
We’d confronted this bleak history outside Battambang two days earlier. Our guide, Borem, walked with us through Wat Samrong Knong and the killing caves at Phnom Sampeau, and spoke quietly of the atrocities that had occurred. Borem was just six years old when the Khmer Rouge was removed from power, but he did not escape the brutality.
“They would come to the schools and ask, ‘Who wants to meet the King?’ My brother wanted to meet the King, so he gets on the truck. But it’s not really to meet the King.” He pauses. “On the way to Phnom Penh, they stop halfway, they help them move to a rice eld. Then they kill them.” His brother was 16 years old, and just one of thousands of students lured to his death.
During the regime, Wat Samrong Knong was seized by the Khmer Rouge and turned into a prison. More than 10,000 people were executed in the field behind the temple. Now, in the same open space, the Well of Shadows memorial is filled with the bones of those killed. Even in the heat I shiver as I examine the stone carvings around its base depicting the atrocities that occurred. In Phnom Sampeau, we ride to the top of a rocky outcrop by motorcycle, and Borem shows us a hole that opens up into a gaping cavern. Here, people were thrown to their deaths. A golden Buddha lies on its side in a corner, as if asleep. Our journey back to Battambang is a solemn one.
Along the Sangker River, however, smiles abound. More than 80,000 people live on or over the water and there is an almost constant hum of activity. Fishermen pose for photographs and children pull faces and blow kisses. We smell fish before we see the locals scouring scales from their flesh, and get up close to crocodiles farmed for their skin.
Men and women cast fishing nets, children bathe by the river’s edge and women hang out freshly washed clothes, smiling and waving as we pass.
As we edge into our ninth hour on the water, everyone is restless, hungry and exhausted. We shuffle around to avoid the incoming rain and I remind myself that just 48 hours earlier we were standing on soil where thousands had lost their lives. I am humbled and grateful for this momentary discomfort.
We finally make it to Siem Reap – the last boat to enter the dock – and are met by
Chan Taen, a Cambodian aid worker, who is accompanying us to our homestay in Kompong Khleang. This floating village, the largest community on the fringes of Tonle Sap, is an hour outside of Siem Reap.
Our host, Promhong, greets us at the top of a towering set of wooden stairs. Her English is limited, but her eyes are kind. Shyly, I mumble sus sdiy – hello in Khmer – and receive a smile in return.
The open-plan stilt house is larger than I expected, although Chan informs us the village only received electricity last year. A large wooden table has already been set with white bowls, hand-carved silver cutlery and bottled water. We sit down to dinner – fish, vegetables, soup and rice – and everyone falls upon their food with barely disguised enthusiasm.
Once we come up for air, Chan tells us about his work with Neary Khmer (it means Khmer women), an NGO that teaches those in disadvantaged communities about everything from nutrition, cooking and basic hygiene to agriculture, governance and micro-finance.
“The biggest challenge,” he explains, “is we have to teach them from zero
– remote areas have no education.”
It is an incredible feat, however one that is no longer possible on such a large scale. Neary Khmer was shut down in 2014 due to lack of funding. Chan remains undeterred though, and continues his efforts as best he can through other grassroots groups and local authorities: “When I see the community doing well, it makes me know I can help and it makes me happy.”
As conversation winds down, we bid Chan and Promhong goodnight and head for bed. Beneath a mosquito net, I close my eyes, the only sound the swishing of the fan overhead.
At 4.30am that all changes. Chan had warned us the day starts early around here, but what I can hear isn’t loud – it’s deafening. I roll over, half asleep and disorientated, unsure if I’m dreaming there’s a motorbike – or is it a helicopter? – rumbling just outside the room. The daily grind on the river has begun and it feels as though the waterway traffic is in the room with us. With sleep now impossible I sneak out of bed.
For the next couple of hours, perched on the steps leading down to the river, I observe the village coming to life. Narrow boats cruise past, some carrying mothers and their children, others holding lone men in loose shirts and flapping hats catapulting across the water to work.
After breakfast we meet with some of the most impoverished women in the village. Chantal has brought tools for shredding plastic water bottles into tape that can then be crafted into items for sale. Chan translates as Chantal explains how to use the tools, and our group assists where we can.
The women chatter as Chantal shows them pictures of bracelets and necklaces, brooms and mats, all of which they can create with the tape. When one woman manages to shred her bottle correctly, her face lights up and the ladies around her clap excitedly, returning to their own bottles with renewed enthusiasm. I ask what they’ll make with their new tools. “A broom – for the spiders,” says one, gesturing to the ceiling, her smile wistful.
During lunch we decide the conditions for paddleboarding – one of the reasons we’re on this SUP Wilderness Adventure tour – are too perfect not to take advantage of, and set out along the river. People stand on their balconies watching us with interest as we glide by, and children point and giggle. The sun’s rays penetrate my skin, and it feels as though my blood is bubbling just below the surface, like cheese under a griller. The urge to roll into the river is almost overpowering, but I can’t. Apart from the risk of being hit by a passing boat, the river also acts as a public bath and toilet. No one drinks the water.
After a quick change, we wander through the village to the school, laden with supplies. One by one, we gift the pencils and books to the children. Each bows his or her head in appreciation, before they collectively sing a rendition of Cambodia’s national anthem.
The sky is still purple when we arrive, but a pink tinge begins to bloom across it like a splash of tie-dye. As the sun rises, the silhouette of Angkor Wat emerges.
Under the cover of darkness, tuk-tuks and vans form a processional line as they head out of Siem Reap towards Angkor Archaeological Park. Our guide, Chen, collects us at 5am, chortling good-naturedly at our sleepiness. In western countries people queue up at ungodly hours to buy the newest Air Jordans or the latest Apple gadget – here, swarms of travellers surround a small building forming orderly queues beneath blue and white signs. There’s a low hum of excitement as they wait to purchase tickets for one of the wonders of the ancient world.
The sky is still purple when we arrive, but a pink tinge begins to bloom across it like a splash of tie-dye. As the sun rises, the silhouette of Angkor Wat emerges. There’s no other way to describe the scene: it is beautiful. We join the hordes of people wandering into the ancient temple, and Chen draws our attention to carvings, statues and the architecture. Construction began between 1113 and 1115, and I’m amazed to discover it took 37 years to build.
After a tasty breakfast, we clamber onto bikes and head towards Bayon and Ta Prohm, our journey from temple to temple accompanied by the siren song of cicadas, their one unbroken vibrato note reminding me of a singing bowl.
The afternoon is filled with zip-lining through the trees of Angkor Archaeological Park, and the next day involves a traditional cooking class. But I can’t stop thinking about the sunrise over Angkor Wat, and decide to return on my own.
As I sit by the water’s edge, the star-speckled sky making its slow transformation, the reflection of the ancient temple appears before me, a mirror image save for a ripple here and there. Still standing after centuries, through changing governments, war and genocide, Angkor Wat is a symbol of the Cambodian people – strong, resilient, humble.
It’s only two weeks short of the official typhoon season and here I am setting sail aboard a rickety bangka resembling little more than a DIY cubbyhouse. The exact itinerary for the five days ahead is sketchy, but that is the nature of a Tao expedition.
This eco-company offers exclusive access to some 200 remote islands in the Philippines, lying between Coron and my eventual destination of El Nido. Tao believes in genuine adventure, luxury in simplicity and the joy of exploring new cultures. At night we will be immersed in village life on land, but during the day the boat is our home. I am puzzled by how exactly 12 paying guests, a generous crew of seven, a few accompanying family members plus an incredibly agile dog all manage to fit on board.
The region is a graveyard of World War II Japanese ships, all teeming with marine life. Every contour of this organic relic is smothered in a coral mass, camouflaging the intact vessel beneath.
At Lusong Island I take myself overboard, lured by the promise of rewards lurking beneath the surface. I flounder about, choking on the choppy waters intruding into my snorkel. Suddenly, a metre below me, the upturned edge of the Lusong gunboat wreck appears. The region is a graveyard of World War II Japanese ships, all teeming with marine life. Every contour of this organic relic is smothered in a coral mass, camouflaging the intact vessel beneath. In this mesmerising display of nature overcoming a man-made intrusion, I feel like a prop in an elaborate artificial aquarium.
Emerging from the water, I am be greeted back on board by a gorgeous spread of grilled whole fish, vegetable curry, steamed greens and rice. There is no waiter service, nor any table etiquette, just a bunch of starving swimmers digging in.
Pass Island is our first overnight stop, and it beckons us with its flag-lined beach and flame torches that resemble something from an episode of Survivor. We navigate barefoot through menacing sea urchins guarding this island paradise, to set up camp under a lingering sunset. Open-air stilt huts are allocated and rigged with clever box-style mosquito nets. Dinner materialises from our ever-resourceful cook and we sip on the potent local rum before an early night.
The waters chartered from this point are seldom seen by travellers. The vast body of ocean is broken only by handfuls of lush islands jutting into the horizon. Our captain weaves a path through the calm sea. As we head further, reef damage becomes apparent, with parts of the seabed bleached and blasted. Dynamite and cyanide fishing are still practised throughout the area, yet there are signs that sustainability is being taught and embraced.
That night, we are welcomed at a homestay on Culion Island, a remote area sparsely populated and resourced. A local family vacates a home for Tao guests in return for support and infrastructure. In the fading light, we find our beds within the thatched house perched over the rising tide. Assembled around the fire, no DEET cocktail could deter the clouds of insects assaulting my body. By torchlight we polish off a tart jackfruit curry and watch the kids racing around barefoot on rocks that should be crippling.
The next morning we cruise through still waters painted by the reflections of lush hills and a cloud-dotted sky. Further along the Dicabaito Channel, we encounter a reef bordering a pristine beach, and snorkels make an impromptu appearance. There’s a fierce current but the constant flow of water helps accelerate coral regeneration.
Life is constantly moving in every direction in a swarm of iridescent colours that would be impossible to replicate with a painter’s brush. The parrotfish steal the show, parading colours found on a rainbow Paddle Pop, challenged only by the animation of the clownfish. The underwater silence is broken by the incongruous sound of crackling bacon, which is, in fact, the sound of fish nibbling on coral.
Traversing an open channel, we say goodbye to smooth sailing and hello to looming dark skies and dropping temperatures. The crew bustle around, securing loose cargo and sealing the main cabin. The rapid fire of rain dances across the ocean before drenching the boat and its passengers. This sudden ambush lasts just minutes as we bunker down through it and approach our camp at Kulaylayan village.
It is late at night when we are invited over by locals for karaoke. We cram into the small shed housing a very modern machine and peruse the extensive song list. Karaoke is considered a luxury at five pesos (five cents) per song, and families save money and travel from afar for this treat.
A visit the following day to a neighbouring settlement gives us the chance to experience the true workings of a self-sufficient village. A snapshot of daily remote life plays before me – mothers painstakingly weaving bait nets, children priming cocks to fight, elders huddling around a deformed newborn, and a carpenter single-handedly crafting a new outrigger boat. What amazing stories and lives these characters would reveal if only we could communicate beyond exchanging warm smiles.
Before lunch we arrive at a place where coconut-white sand melts into shallow turquoise water. We drop anchor at Takling Island and, for the first time, the beauty ashore trumps snorkelling the wonders below. We do little but close our eyes to the blinding sun and wallow in the bath-like temperatures.
With promises of a meat feast on our final night, we head to Tao’s base camp at Cadlao Island, only a short distance from El Nido. A plump pig has been rotating on the spit for hours, blistering with crackling that would make even a vegetarian’s mouth water.
The large gathering embodies how many people rely on and embrace the Tao philosophy. With family and friends often travelling aboard, it can feel like you’ve crashed a family holiday. This is rustic travel with no pretence or pandering. When it rains you get wet, but it’s all part of soaking up the experience.
There are four of us in a 4WD, gunning it through central Kashmir, heading towards some Himalayan trekking. We are me, my chain-smoking trekking guide Salim, driver and reluctant bachelor Daba and a small white chicken from Delhi.
Daba, who’s young and cheerful, has an eye for the ladies. His attention wanders from the road to the fields where such well-dressed, winsome creatures are working. Thankfully, the chicken kicks up a racket if Daba takes the corners too sharply, squawking and skidding across the back seat. Its rebuke makes Daba slow down, and for that, my clenched thighs are relieved.
The mountain air is tempered by thick pollution from passing army trucks. Soldiers wave happily at us as we stop for tea at a roadside cafe outside Gandarbal.
Kashmir is India’s northernmost state. It’s been on and off the tourist trail since Partition in 1945, when Hindu India and Muslim Pakistan split. The two countries continue to squabble over the rich land, a fight that was exacerbated by the deadly actions of Pakistani ‘mischief makers’, as one Delhi newspaper columnist charmingly described the 2008 Mumbai bombers.
Its jewels are the powder-blue, snow-capped Himalayan mountains, which are mirrored in the incomparably beautiful, eerily calm Dal Lake, on the outskirts of Kashmiri capital Srinagar. Canny Brits, when they weren’t running the empire, would retreat from the heat of Delhi and Bombay to a colony of houseboats on the lake, a cool 1730 metres above sea level.
A few days earlier I’d fled the clinging 40-degree oven of Delhi in April, and boarded a boat for a slice of fantasy.
Moghal Palace, Queen Elizabeth, Neil Armstrong and Helen of Troy (the names of the boats) sit shoulder to shoulder along the lake’s shores. Zipping between are shikaras – long, slim boats that sit perilously low in the water – delivering guests to their houseboats and providing a mobile shopping service.
My houseboat is a riot of hand-carved furniture, including a four-poster bed with Kashmir’s famed chain-stitch embroidery on the curtains, bedspreads and cushions. Each morning, a man paddles his boat to my moorings, waving his hand over boxes of lilies, red tulips, pansies and jasmine, all grown on the lake. In a few months, he’ll have lotuses, which spread across the water like a bejewelled Kashmiri weave.
The passenger shikaras have names as equally lustrous as the houseboats: New Love Heaven, Rose of Heaven, Darjeeling and my own Bob Marley, which is contracted to take me wherever I want to go, whenever I want to go. The little boats are moving lounges – luxuriously decked out with small covered loveseats plumped with pillows and curtains you can pull around yourself for added privacy. In morally correct India, it’s no wonder Kashmir is a famed honeymoon destination.
One morning, the houseboat’s gentle butler, Shabir, rugs me up against the cold and bundles me into Bob Marley. The boatman, a suntanned Daniel Day-Lewis look-alike, cruises the lakes’ ‘roads’, watery highways between the islands and beds of water lilies. The water is so clear I can see the lilies’ roots, and Kashmir’s mosques, floating shops, mountains and clouds are reproduced in the glossy water.
I hear voices from the little poplar-lined islands amid the lake, as children of the lotus farmers, boat builders, weavers and bee-keepers wave hello and call out. “Look! There’s a lady in that boat!”
After a few days on the houseboat, the temptation of those beautiful snowy mountain caps has proven too much, and I’ve chosen to swap opulence and indolence for altitude and exertion.
The road northwest from Srinagar to the hiking trailhead at a village called Naranagh is lined with fresh green poplars, fields of bright yellow mustard flowers, stringy marijuana and road signs.
For a region so torn apart by war, Kashmir is obsessed with safety. Reading Kashmiri road signs is like reading advice from Forrest Gump: ‘Life is a journey. Complete it.’ ‘Mountains are for pleasure. Only if you drive at leisure.’ ‘Don’t be rash, else you will crash.’ And my favourite, obviously targeting female Punjabi tourists: ‘Don’t gossip, let him drive.’
Base camp is two tents set up on a grassy plain by a rushing river, just outside Naranagh, around 2200 metres above sea level. We dump our gear and I check out my tent for the night: lots of blankets. Hot water bottle. Torch. Toilet paper.
Spitting distance from the disputed India–Pakistan ‘line of control’, peaceful Naranagh is dominated by the picturesque ruins of an old Hindu temple, on green grass nibbled to MCG smoothness by a battalion of trekking ponies. For its young Muslim inhabitants, it’s the perfect place for a game of cricket.
All Kashmiri boys play cricket and, it appears, all Kashmiri boys can bowl. After admiring their skill while the hardworking girls schlep past balancing towers of firewood and urns of water on their heads, we take a preparatory two-hour trek, the first of three day walks. The steep path climbs to a local beauty spot and lookout, following a river that, fed by the summer thaw, roars like Delhi at peak hour. It’s good to be in the clean air after the city smog. We see not one other soul the entire time.
That night, the scent of fragrant Kashmiri tea, spiced with cardamom, cinnamon and sugar, pervades the tent. The guys joke in a mix of Kashmiri and the local gypsy dialect. Bright constellations overhead chase each other down the north–south corridor that is this thin valley, the glacier-fed river grows stronger with every passing hour, and all is well in the world.
Unfortunately, there is more trekking and less pony than I’d hoped on this pony trek in the Kashmir valley. Not too early the next morning, after a small temper tantrum about sitting on an animal whose legs are only marginally longer than mine, I team up with Balah (his name means ‘white’ in Kashmiri), Moonti (aka ‘Pearl’), the ever-patient, ever-smoking Salim and the ponies’ owner Aktor to trek to the snowline on what is apparently classed as a mid-Himalayan hike.
We pass women who balance massive loads of firewood on their heads, and others busy collecting rare medicinal mushrooms that reap 10,000 rupees (about US$150) a kilo. “Come with us!” call the women, energetically pacing the track in scarves and flowing trousers.
The rough track is almost vertical at times. Snow and rain have pushed trees and rocks across the path, which Salim clears, a cigarette always drooping from his lip. Being mid-April, it’s too early in the season to do the celebrated ridge-top circuits that take about a week to complete. The peaks are still crowned with snow, which is rapidly melting into the rivers below.
So we climb to the snowline, where the purple wildflowers peter out and the old snow starts. In a couple of weeks, the pastures will be green and full of gypsies, their goats, sheep and ponies enjoying the summer grazing. We passed them on the way up here, slowly droving their animals along the roadsides from towns up to 600 kilometres away.
But for now, it’s just the three of us – and two work-shy ponies – enjoying the whoosh of the wind through the pine trees and feasting on a sumptuous picnic: boiled eggs, potatoes, carrots and macaroons. Salim tells tales of Himalayan black bears, snow leopards and brown trout in the rivers as we peer down the mountainside at the tiny village below, where we’ll return to tonight, before climbing the mountain’s skirts once again tomorrow.
After two nights at Naranagh, the mysterious disappearance of the white chicken and the appearance of a spectacular chicken curry, we drive back to Srinagar, past villages selling nothing but woven baskets, cricket bats or dried fruit. Little cafes advertise their wares: ‘Buttertoast’, ‘Maggi’, ‘Pakora’.
For my last night in Kashmir, I go back to the houseboat on Dal Lake. I’m the only one on the boat and Shabir, the butler, gives great mournful sighs as he brings my last supper of yet more curried chicken and mounds of awesome curried water spinach.
A jeweller from Ladakh has snared his prey and is breaking my budget, unwrapping bracelets of golden topaz, garnets, pearl, lapis lazuli and peridot. There are Kashmiri carpets to be admired, pashminas to be felt, saffron to smell and sweet, dried cashews and tart apricots to pack for tomorrow’s journey. For a lost land, Kashmir is the bringer of luxury.
The last word on Kashmir goes to Jehangir, the sixteenth-century Mughal emperor who started the Kashmir public relations machine. The story goes Jehangir was lying on his deathbed and, when asked what he wanted, uttered, “Kashmir, the rest is worthless.”
It could be a marketing ploy, it could be just a slogan, but he could well also be dead right.
It begins as ice melt and summer rain high in the Himalayas. Trickles form rivulets that merge into an icy blue-grey stream. The river gathers volume and turns a rich brown as it pours into China, where it is dammed, and into Myanmar, where rapids rage. Then it flirts with Laos and Thailand and for 400 kilometres becomes their border. But it is when the mighty Mekong is halfway across Cambodia that something truly remarkable happens. The water, which has grown immense on monsoonal rain, slows then stands still as if unsure about its destination. That’s when something even more unusual occurs. It changes course and flows backwards.
The Mekong performs this counterintuitive feat every wet season for months at a time. The river becomes constricted and its waters are forced upstream, engorging Tonle Sap Lake. By September the lake has grown up to five times in size and the Mekong begins to resemble an anaconda digesting a small horse. Tonle Sap is known as the beating heart of Cambodia and it has been pulsing away like this – one beat every wet season – for time immeasurable. This seasonal back-paddle makes it one of the world’s richest sources of freshwater fish and has led to official biosphere reserve status. All those fish and all that rich alluvial soil make the Mekong the major provider for an estimated 50 million people, many of whom crowd its perimeters or live precariously on its swirling waters.
For a week in early August there are an additional 28 humans who depend on the flooding Mekong for food, transport and entertainment. We are travellers aboard the Mekong Pandaw, a modern four-storey passenger vessel handsomely designed to resemble a colonial steamer. We plan to meander downstream (or is it upstream?) to Saigon (officially called Ho Chi Minh City), stopping to visit temples and markets, observing daily rituals and routines, and forming some of our own – cocktail hour on the sundeck being the most pressing. But like 50 million others, our schedule, if not our wellbeing, will be dictated by the vast chocolate stream beneath us.
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We embark from Kompong Cham after a visit to Siem Reap and the nearby Angkor temples. A day inside this vast complex of crumbling ruins, soaring temples and ancient walled cities is barely enough to scratch the surface. They were inspired initially by Hindu gods and later by a devotion to Buddha, and the meaning and complexity of the Angkor temples has been compared to the postmodern literature of James Joyce. It takes time and research to fully appreciate the grandeur and significance of these magnificent buildings.
Angkor Wat is the most famous, best-preserved and, apparently, largest religious structure in the world. From a distance (or a helicopter) the vastness
of the complex and the genius of its design, engineering and construction become apparent. Up close the carved sandstone walls of the central temple tell the story of the great Khmer Empire in arresting detail: gory battle scenes, multi-limbed gods, multi-layered allegories, 37 heavens, 32 hells and much more compete for your attention across 800 metres of exquisite bas-relief.
The risk with visiting the Angkor temples early in your visit to Southeast Asia is that you’re unlikely to top the experience. Either that or, like me, you might become a little obsessive about them. A river cruise down the Mekong is a great way to ween yourself off the works of the Khmer god-kings, though. There are lesser temples to experience and you’re likely to meet companions who understand your enthusiasm for the Churning of the Sea of Milk and your other top five Angkor engravings.
River cruising was an entirely new concept for me, and one I quickly embraced. I liked the pace: slower than a train but faster than a bike. The activity-to-food ratio also impressed: two expeditions and seven or eight serves of gorgeous food per day. I imagine it to be similar to ocean cruising – only without the fear of seasickness or enforced group fun.
We watched the scenery change and monsoonal storms arrive at what felt a lot like a regal pace. Village kids had time to spread the word of our arrival. For days the embankment was crowded with laughing children who would wave, salute, practise karate moves or scream “hello” over and over. I felt like I was in an aging boy band with a loyal following in remote Asia.
One morning we stopped at a small village and rode in an ox cart through the settlement, past the rice fields and out to a temple to receive a blessing and a prayer band from a wizened Buddhist monk. A procession of children followed us there and back, eager to practise their English. By the end of the excursion they had won us over with flowers, drawings of kangaroos and rings made of grass reeds. We had been serenaded (“If you’re happy and you know it”) and when it came time for farewells I was awash with First World guilt. That evening earnest discussions about how travellers can benefit developing communities without causing dependence were in full swing.
Each morning I would drink my coffee, order my eggs, read my itinerary and briefly wonder if I was really doing enough on this trip. But it gradually dawned on me that a process was underway. During each little trip ashore I was collecting small insights and snippets of experience. Each afternoon and early evening I had the luxury, the time and the deckchair to read. Personal experiences were meshing with a broader perspective. Unintentionally, and often while sipping a beer, I was becoming educated.
I learned about the people of Southern Vietnam, the Chams, who sailed up this very same river in 1177 and sacked the city of Angkor. Then we stopped at village just over the Vietnam border and I meet some real life Chams and bought a scarf and bracelet off them. All the while I’m thinking: if Jayavaraman VII (who in my mind was already Jay-V) hadn’t defeated the distant relatives of these lovely Chams here in the epic naval battle of 1181, then I may have been trading with them outside Angkor Wat, in a country called Champa. Jay-V not only defeated the Chams, but most of the monuments visited at Angkor to this day were also built during his reign. To top it off he ended centuries of devotion to Hinduism and kick-started centuries of devotion to Buddhism. Surely the man was one of history’s great over-achievers.
But I fear that I’m losing you. This is the sort of heady historical stuff that means very little on the page, but can become intoxicating when your drifting down the backwards-flowing Mekong in August. In your fist the cocktail of the day, back there in your wake the still-expanding Tonle Sap Lake (Cambodia’s beating heart) and the twinkling river city of Phnom Penh. And up ahead? The Mekong Delta! Saigon! The South China Sea! All you need to do is sit back, read your history book or exchange tales with your shipmates. Another storm is brewing to port. Dinner will be served when the gong sounds. The Mekong River isn’t going anywhere in a hurry.
"Whale! Whale!” Our guide Wintiga points excitedly towards a tell-tale fountain of water billowing skywards. It rises like a plume of smoke above the water several hundred metres away, prompting our boat captain Ishan to press forward on the throttle. We watch as a huge body breaches the surface of the calm ocean, but from this distance we can’t distinguish the species. Already today we’ve seen grey and Bryde’s whales, and we’ve heard reports of humpbacks nearby.
“Blue whale!” shouts Wintiga. “It’s a blue whale.”
The creature leaves a mirror-smooth trail in its wake. It’s swimming in a southeasterly direction and Ishan guns the engine in an effort to overtake it. International regulations stipulate boats must maintain a safe distance of at least 100 metres from any whales, so Ishan steers the vessel along a parallel course, careful not to encroach on that domain.
Suddenly the whale changes tack and is making a beeline straight for us. I watch from the viewing deck atop the boat’s control room as the largest animal ever to roam our planet makes for our starboard bow. If it collides, it might sink us.
It’s too late for Ishan to back away, so he cuts the engine to avoid slicing into the whale’s body with the boat’s propeller. From my elevated vantage point I can see this is, without doubt, one formidably sized creature. Just how big it is though I’m not sure. The sun reflects off its leathery hide as it arches its back – its spinal ridge seems to go on forever. Eventually its dorsal fin appears and by the time the tail rises out of the water I’m wondering whether this animal is ever going to end. Only then do I fully appreciate how enormous it is.
“It’s diving,” Wintiga yells, and the torpedo-shaped outline slips silently into the depths of the deep blue sea. It could surface in 15 or 20 minutes, but by then it might be miles away.
The whales many travellers come to Sri Lanka to see are the Indian pygmy blues. The name suggests a creature of diminished stature, but nothing could be further from the truth. Although these sea mammals are slightly smaller than the 30-metre-long giants found in the polar regions, they’re certainly no runts. An adult can be two-and-a-half times longer than a bus and weigh as much as 25 elephants. Even the flue – the misty spout of air and water erupting from a whale’s blowhole – can reach as high as a two-storey house, making them easy for whale watchers to spot. It’s also why they were so easy to catch during centuries past.
Sri Lanka’s whale-watching season lasts from late October through to April and the tiny fishing village of Mirissa is the main source of action. During the peak months of December and January as many as 30 whales have been sighted in one day. Sperm, fin, Bryde’s, humpback and even killer whales, as well as large pods of acrobatic spinner dolphins, are all seen regularly in this place where the warm coastal waters merge with the colder waters of the continental shelf, just 10 nautical miles offshore. This convergence of currents creates a cycle of rising nutrients that provides nourishment for millions of krill, the tiny crustacean baleen whales feed on. Nowhere else in the world do they venture so close to shore. Still, it’s the blues everyone comes to see.
Scientists are still learning about Sri Lanka’s pygmy blue whale population. Studies only commenced here in 2006, so there isn’t enough data to know exact migratory habits. Some believe they come to Mirissa each year from the Arabian Sea; others think they never leave.
Marine biologists only realised Indian pygmy blue whales passed by Mirissa at the same time every year early in 2008. By October, two companies had started operating tours. Now it’s difficult to count exactly how many boats cruise these waters in search of whales.
When I first came to Mirissa early in 2008, there were no whale-watching tours. My wife and I had travelled to Sri Lanka for a week’s holiday from the Middle East, where we’d been living and working for seven years. By that stage we’d made up our minds to return home to Australia, prompted largely by the arrival of our son. But before the economic realities of living in Australia took over we wanted to bum by the sea somewhere. Sri Lanka seemed as good a place as any.
After scoping various beach towns along the south-west coast – both Hikkaduwa and Unawatuna had been changed by the arrival of big hotels and large numbers of tourists – we set eyes on Mirissa and knew we’d found our place to live. Coconut palms fringed a dazzlingly white beach that swept from Mirissa Point to Parrot Island. The seas were calm and clear and I could count on one hand the number of people lazing on the sand. Apart from one small section, the beach was set away from the main coastal highway, meaning we wouldn’t have to listen to the blaring horns of trucks and buses as they travelled between Colombo and Matara each day. As a bonus, Mirissa Point at the beach’s northern end was home to a small, surfable reef break, although only a few locals were out riding it.
The town was a sleepy fishing village then and a fair chunk of its beachfront was occupied by two properties – the Paradise Beach Club and the regional headquarters for the Sri Lankan Coast Guard. A handful of other guesthouses, mostly empty and neglected, were sprinkled along the beach. Apart from the nightly buffets on offer at the club, the only other restaurants were two low-key establishments placed side by side whose menus were restricted to basic seafood dishes and Sri Lankan curries.
We couldn’t imagine a better seaside town in which to spend six months, so we made enquiries about rental properties at the Paradise Beach Club. As luck would have it, the owner’s older brother had the ideal pad for us for the equivalent of about US$75 a week, and we moved into the upstairs part of his house. From August 2008 right through to February the following year, we lived in a flat with five bedrooms, a central living area, a poky kitchen and a balcony overlooking tropical gardens the owner personally looked after.
I soon fell into a pattern of working on a book manuscript each morning then spending the rest of the day on the beach with my wife and son. Every second day I’d get up early and surf at the point, regardless of the state of the waves. For half that time, I was largely on my own in the water. The local surfers waited until the monsoon season passed and the tides receded, and tourists only paddled out from November onwards.
On Tuesdays and Fridays my wife would shop for fresh groceries at the twice-weekly fruit and vegetable market. Once a week we’d catch a bus into Matara to buy dry goods, cheap Australian wine and beer in long necks. We didn’t own a television and our only internet access – spasmodic as it was – was through a neighbour or a friend around the corner, so most evenings we spent talking or reading on our balcony.
A regular procession of visitors stayed with us, and often we’d all go off travelling to see the Sacred Cities, wildlife parks and hill country that together make Sri Lanka one of the prettiest and most interesting islands on Earth. In Mirissa we’d laze about on the beach or take them on excursions to visit the Paravi Island Buddhist temple in Matara or to Galle Fort, where we’d sit and sip Ceylon tea inside colonial-era buildings that had been converted into cafes.
Every second day I’d get up early and surf at the point, regardless of the state of the waves. For half that time, I was largely on my own in the water.
When my younger brother arrived from Australia we’d trawl the coast for waves, usually ending up in Midigama or Ahangama, where fishermen perched on stilts in the shallows against streaky skies painted crimson and orange by the setting sun. On a couple of occasions we’d go snorkelling off the perfectly calm beach of Polhena, further south near Matara, and watch children splash in rock pools near the shore.
It was a slow, idyllic life and my wife and I seriously contemplated making Mirissa our permanent home. We could live comfortably, simply and cheaply, far from the everyday hassles and financial constraints of the Western world. However, like Hikkaduwa and Unawatuna further north, Mirissa has changed too.
Travellers have learned throughout the years that undiscovered paradises don’t remain that way forever. The secret eventually escapes, whereupon the backpackers move in. They are followed by developers with big ideas, deep pockets and very few scruples when it comes to preserving the essence of what initially made the place so appealing.
A concrete monstrosity is currently under construction in Weligama, up the road from Mirissa. Similarly tasteless projects are yet to reach Mirissa itself, but what’s certain is they will creep down the coast, following the tide of foreign visitors who have descended here en masse during the past two or three years.
The reasons for this influx are many. The recent completion of the Southern Expressway all the way from Colombo to Matara and another north to the international airport at Katunayake have knocked hours off the time required to make it this far south. Soon the two will link, and when they do Mirissa and the south coast will become even more alluring and accessible for those in search of sun-filled beach holidays.
For the entire six months that I lived in Mirissa, government forces were heavily engaged in a military offensive against the LTTE (Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam) rebels in the country’s north. Not long after we left, the Rajapaksa government claimed victory – the 26-year-old war was finally over – and foreign visitors once scared off by concerns for their safety no longer shied away.
The Russians discovered Sri Lanka after the national carrier Aeroflot began direct flights from Moscow to Colombo in 2011. Now nubile young Ruskies – only rivalled in numbers by the French – just a few threads away from being naked, frolic on Mirissa beach. Backpackers began trickling into the town after Lonely Planet listed its beach as one of the Top 10 attractions in its Sri Lankan guidebook two editions ago.
I’ve returned to Mirissa twice since our initial six-month stay. On my most recent visit, I was aghast to find sun lounges and umbrellas for hire on the beach. Restaurant owners have increasingly moved their dishes from the kitchen to the sand, where diners wearing boardshorts and bikinis can choose from trays of fresh seafood under a montage of coloured lights.
At least there are the whales – that won’t be changing. They’ll keep swimming up and down the coast just as they have for who knows how long. And more than anything these days – more than the slick new highways and dazzling beaches and warless times – it’s the lure of the whales that drives people towards Mirissa.
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