Paradise Found

Off the northernmost tip of Sumatra lies the tiny, rural island of Pulau Weh. Reaching this haven required some time and effort: a twelve hour bus to the north, a becak to the pier, a ferry to the island, and a harrowing, eye-watering, ear-popping motorcycle taxi across the island. But it was worth the work to reach Weh Island’s rustic (budget) tourist digs.

Waters vary from crystal clear to impossible blues and greens, enticing swimmers to find sweet, cool respite. Waves gently caress shores rocky and sandy alike, lulling the hammock-bound into swinging afternoon naps. Afternoon thunderstorms patter on tin bungalow roofs. For me, the bungalow balcony offered a perfect spot for morning yoga, and the affectionate local cats were ideal cuddle partners for those afternoon naps. It is in many ways postcard-perfect.

Even the negatives on Weh Island yield positive results. The herds of goats that love to clip-clop down onto our bungalow porch provide us with incredible goat’s milk cheddar for morning omelets. The impossibly incorrect maps lead us on a drive over the entirety of the magnificently picturesque island. The rough speedboat ride that sent us hurtling over six-foot swells through a thunderstorm and left us soaked to the bone allowed us to snorkel with dancing schools of fish, color flickering in the sunlight; it also ended with our being gifted a 25-pound fish, a gut-busting feast, even for six people.

With its minimal tourist infrastructure, herds of goats, and numerous mosques, Weh Island isn’t the ideal paradise getaway. It was rustic, our tour guides also made their living fishing, there wasn’t hot water or air conditioning, we forgot to reapply sunscreen, and the beer was absurdly overpriced and hard to find. But it was gorgeous, the people friendly and helpful, the food delicious, and the cats plentiful. I truly couldn’t ask for anything more. 

Island for Sale

Just outside of Granada, on the northwest side of Lago Cocibolca, lie hundreds of fun-sized islands. Las Isletas, over 350 of them, are the result of a massive explosion over 10,000 years ago, which gave nearby Volcán Mombocho its rather haggard silhouette.

Touring the isletas the cheap and dirty way, we paid less than half the price of what the tour companies were asking. What we got was a ride in a motorboat from a teenage kid who just pointed out the obvious. And it was a lovely way to pass an hour.

Massive tropical trees sprouted from the diminutive islands, dipping their branches out over the lake. Birds dipped and dived, skimming the surface of the water. Awkward, gangly herons stalked about, trying to look elegant in white. Water lilies stretched their open faces toward the midday sun. Monkeys vaulted through tree branches.

Once one of Nicaragua’s poorest neighborhoods, the millionaires have started to move in, mansions popping up here and there to supplant the patched together houses with weatherworn paint. Hammocks and laundry hung about in the sun, as a number of the islands are inhabited.

And everywhere, islands presented themselves as a real estate option, just waiting for their new resident to boat by and fall in love. Maybe one of these days (years) we’ll have the disposable income to just choose an island, throw up a hammock and some Swiss Family Robinson–style dwelling, and spend our days, drink in hand, on our own private island. One of these days. 

Volcanically Blessed

Nicaragua’s Isla de Ometepe is a slight to behold. The island juts majestically from the hazy blue of Lago de Nicaragua, or Colcibolca (‘the sweet sea’) in the indigenous language of the area, Central America’s biggest lake. Its twin volcano peaks rise from the water, a figure-eight-shaped island cinched in the middle by an isthmus formed from an ancient lava floe. 

Of the two volcanoes that make up this incredible island, Maderas lies dormant, while Concepción is active, and has frequent mood swings, its constant billowing smoke a reminder that, yes, you did build your town below a volcano.

But, neither the island nor its inhabitants have been blasted skyward or covered in blisteringly red molten lava. During its last big eruption in 1957, the president sent boats to evacuate the island, but no one chose to leave. And, surprisingly enough, even when sending towers of flame 15 meters into the sky, Volcán Concepción has been kind enough not to kill any of the natives (at least not in this century). Since then, periodic showers of hot ash and spews of molten rock have occurred every decade or so; the native population just sits back and watches the show.

The risk seems to be worth it to the locals. Beautiful land, sparkling lagoons, rolling fields, and a brick ‘paved’ road lie beneath the roiling clouds that surround the peak of Central America’s most symmetrical volcano. Horses, cows, and the required stray dogs mill aimlessly about. And, though the tourists roll in on a regular basis, the beauty of the land and the stronghold of local communities haven’t been eroded just yet.

Mother Nature and the gods of tourism seem to be smiling upon Ometepe. And it doesn’t hurt that their volcano seems to be friendly.

Islanding, Cheap and Rustic

While our New Mexicans were here, the final thing on their Thailand Bucket List – tigers, ruins, elephants, and monkeys accomplished – was to spend some time on a beach or an island. And, as islands are something that Thailand has in abundance, but travel time was something we were short on, we decided on Koh Chang at the strong recommendation of some friends.

Relatively undisturbed in terms of development and tourism, Koh Chang is far quieter than anywhere we had been in Southern Thailand, although not for lack of effort. The majority of the island is covered in vast complex cliffs and meandering evergreen and jungle mountains. The road that rushes along the perimeter of the island, although failing to make a full, connecting circuit, is something akin to a rollercoaster, with its steep inclines and hairpin turns.

The lack of development has led to a spike in the number of luxury resorts on the island, intentional on the part of the developers with an eye for big bucks. However, if you venture slightly farther to Lonely Beach, cheap accommodation and moderately priced meals abound. A decent beachfront (or had there been more beach and less boulders, what would have been beachfront) bungalow ran us 300 baht a night, and even included a mosquito net over the bed and a hammock out front. We fell asleep to melodious waves lapping at our doorstep, our wallets not suffering horribly.

We did a full day of snorkeling, this time with no major catastrophes. Win and Ansel rented motorbikes to cruise around the little island, while Jenny and I hopped a taxi to the resort-quality beaches to lounge, read, and have some lunch. It was over-cast, but as we were both slightly burnt, it was perfect. It was a lovely, relaxing way to finish off our unpaid vacation, and it cost far less than a trip to the other islands. 

A Chill in the Air

Northern Vietnam was cold. Arriving at night, people were bundled up in winter clothing, coats buttoned up to the throat, hats pulled down snug over ears. By our standards it was an overreaction, but all over Hanoi, on motorbikes and on sidewalks, seated on tiny plastic chairs, clothing was layered to fend off the chill. The sky was grey, ominous, the sun rare. It wasn’t bitter winter cold, more like fall crisp, but the change was dramatic. Even we put on jeans and long sleeves.

Whether it was the weather, or simply a regional disposition, the chill seemed to be in the personalities as well. The people were aggressive. Smiles seemed rare. A foggy trip to Halong Bay ended in a yelling match – tourists vs. tour guide, 18 to 1 – after he kept us waiting on a street corner for over an hour and then tried to leave some people behind. We hadn’t seen the sun in days; dealing with people was tiresome. We decided to cut our losses, make one more stop, and head the 800 km down the coast to central Vietnam.

Before leaving we stopped in Ninh Binh, more commonly known as ‘the Halong Bay of the rice fields’. It was yet another rainy day, preventing us from renting bikes (read: saving money) and biking around in comfort. But by the time we arrived at the tourist dock, the temperature was rising, leaving only a thick fog around in its wake. 

As we left the dock, a hush seemed to settle over the landscape, interrupted only by the steady sound of the oars. Immense limestone cliffs towered above us, layered over one another like construction paper cutouts. On either side of the waterway, villagers tended to their rice paddies, boats tied up nearby. We drifted leisurely down the river, through natural tunnels in the cliffs, past vendors and homes. 

It was a tiny, but much-needed, spoonful of tranquility in our stressed-out North Vietnam soup. 

Conquering Water?

While living in Southeast Asia, as with pretty much anywhere else we live, one of the goals is to get certified in as many ridiculous things as possible. Win already has Thai Massage under his belt, but hopefully next term I will even that one out. We would love to learn to blow glass and weld. We also want to get Scuba certified, and with its clear water, coral reef, and extensive marine life, southern Thailand is an excellent place to learn to scuba dive. 

Unfortunately, I can hardly swim. 

I have always considered swimming to be more of a survival tactic than a fun summertime activity. This may be due in large part to the fact that I never properly learned how to swim. An incident in which a chubby pig-nosed kid held eight-year-old me underwater didn’t help. The second time he did it helped even less. I can swim well enough to not drown going from point A to point B, given that A and B are not far apart. I hold my nose when I go underwater. I don’t go in water if I cannot touch the ground. I am just not a swimmer.

Back in December we spent a three-day weekend on Koh Tao. We decided to go on a full day snorkeling trip. Babysteps along the road to eventual scuba certification. 

At the first dive spot, I donned the full snorkel gear, climbed down into the water, and abruptly panicked. The fins were twisting and turning underwater, trying to pull me down; the life jacket was sneaking up in an attempt to suffocate me; the mask was all wrong; the boat was alternating in its efforts to push me underwater and inch the ladder out of my reach. That was it, I couldn’t do it. I sat on the boat crying, shaking, and smoking a cigarette while our guide tried to comfort me in Thai.

I calmed down by the next spot we stopped --- a cove with much calmer water and more to see --- and took Win’s advice. I went in without the fins (which I still think should be called flippers). Without the waves and awkward, uncontrollable frog feet, it was quite pleasant. Fish skittered past below and around us, blue and yellow, iridescent, neons, in a variety of shapes and sizes. I was in water and I was enjoying myself. 

It is now March and we are going through southern Thailand on our way to Malaysia. We planned to spend time in Hat Rai Leh and Koh Phi Phi, with the goal of snorkeling on Phi Phi, this time with fins. 

Rai Leh is a peninsula cut off from mainland Thailand by a series of towering cliffs. Accessible only by longtail boat, Rai Leh is renowned for its world class rock climbing. We found a room on the cheap side, just five minutes’ walk to the white sand beach and turquoise water that makes the other side so expensive. Aside from rock climbing, which neither of us do (Okay, Win claims to rock climb a little, but I have yet to see proof), there is little to do other than lounging on the beach drinking overpriced cocktails or kayaking around the peninsula’s various cliffs and rock formations. We decided to stay two nights in order to kayak without the pressure of catching a ferry in the same day.

The kayaking looked spectacular. But, being yet another water sport, in the open ocean with its waves and speed boat wakes, not to mention speed boats, was something I found mildly terrifying. I had been in canoes in lakes, but never in a kayak. I was expecting more than an oversized piece of plastic with seats. We were the only ones in life jackets, and I’m sure Win was simply humoring me. Every time we hit waves, no matter how small, my chest would tighten up. What if we flip over? 

But we didn’t. And eventually I accepted that we probably wouldn’t. 

Once we broke away from the flocks of other kayakers, the cliffs were even more impressive than from a distance. A surprising combination of geological happenings, they were eroding from the bottom while sprouting massive stalactites from the sides and the tops of eroded caves. Trees sprouted from every nook. 

The stone giants loomed over us tranquilly as we figure-eighted our way around and between them. We stopped on tiny hidden beaches, where I was stung by an equally tiny jellyfish and pinched by a miniscule crab. Kayaking was exhausting, but it was yet another step forward in my comfort with water. I even was conversationally tricked by Win into agreeing to go parasailing.

Next stop Koh Phi Phi. We braved the frat party, tourist-only atmosphere in lieu of the world class diving. While we didn’t have time (nor was I yet at the comfort level) to try to get Scuba certified, we figured that we would stay two nights and spend the day in between on another snorkeling trip. We also thought that by taking a longtail boat trip, rather than a big boat, we would stand the best odds of having a small group like on Koh Tao. 

A Thai picked us up on foot in the morning, as there is no motorized transport on the island, and we walked up and down the streets as our group snowballed. Once at the beach, we got into one of the three boats. We chose the one with families with children, hoping to avoid having to listen to stories about friends getting wasted and the like. We even befriended two delightful older Canadian men, one of whom looked and sounded like Canada’s version of Jack Nicholson, the other had mastered seal tricks.

First stop, open water. I once again panic, this time based on the fact that the lifejackets are all big enough to fit a grizzly bear of a man and will not adjust to a small enough size to not make me feel like I’m drowning. I was shown up by a pregnant woman, snorkeling sans lifejacket. But half of our group wasn’t snorkeling either, so it wasn’t such a disaster.

But the rest of the trip was. An old Spanish woman swam out too far and was trapped on a coral reef perch, bleeding and crying. Our boat sputtered to a stop in open water and, when efforts to tow it behind the other longtail boat failed, we bobbed and ate lunch until a replacement arrived. The new boat wasn’t big enough to hold all of us, so we were precariously spaced in order to not tip it over. The new captain skipped all but one snorkeling spot (the one cove, at least, was as beautiful as advertised). Luckily, the smaller boat had smaller lifejackets, so I was able to join Win in snorkeling comfortably. It was the abridged version of our full day of snorkeling. 

We reached Maya Bay, the backdrop for the movie The Beach and supposed climax of the trip, and had to swim, scramble over sharp rocks, climb rickety, moss-covered steps, and then walk to get there (something that the pregnant woman, children, elderly people, and now a sick woman couldn’t do). It was swarming with people and boats, and the water was a pale murky green. Compared to the bright blues and turquoises of everything else we’d seen I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.

And then it started to rain. Hard. The sunset portion of the trip was cancelled. Despite the roof over part of the boat, it was raining inside the boat as much as outside. We sped back to Phi Phi, soaked, shivering, and protecting our camera case with a lifejacket. 

Land was in sight when our captain got the longtail stuck atop a massive underwater rock (one of many now visible due to low tide). I envisioned multiple sinking scenarios. When he finally freed the boat and made his way through the minefield to reach shore, we leapt to the safe haven of solid ground. It wasn’t even our beach, but being an island meant we could walk back. I was not going to drown. 

 

I still haven’t mastered the flippers. Win has (hopefully) gotten used to my clinging to him like a wet baby koala anytime the water is too deep or something touches my foot. He gives me solid advice and information to stave off the panic, things like “You can’t touch here” are always better than the surprise of sinking. While Phi Phi’s misadventure did nothing in the journey to scubaing, at least I didn’t drown.