Island People: The Caribbean and the World, by Joshua Jelly-Schapiro -- A book review

This is a great book on many levels. Although it was published already in 2017, it hardly matters given the historical context and the fact that the Caribbean nations have not changed dramatically since then.
Joshua Jelly-Schapiro knows the Caribbean intimately and is extremely well-read in the region and its culture, from history and literature to music. He covers the places he visits or stays in for longer periods from the time of Columbus’ journeys, the colonial period when the islands were used for sugar plantations relying on slave labor, to contemporary cultural trends. This is how a travelogue should be: personal but anchored in the larger historical-geographic-political context, erudite but entertaining.

Yet, it took me some time to wade through the 430+ pages. Not because I wasn’t interested but because some of the chapters (each dealing with a specific island) were rather heavy going. Some sections on the larger islands — Jamaica and Cuba each get three chapters — are lively, mixing culture and societal commentary with the author’s personal experiences.
In the case of Jamaica, rasta culture and reggae, naturally, play an important part. It’s not only about Bob Marley, but also Toots Hibbert, Peter Tosh and many others get their share. Jelly-Schapiro spends time with Chris Blackwell, the founder of Island Records that brought reggae to a wider audience, now living in the villa where Ian Fleming dreamed up James Bond. Jelly-Schapiro places these cultural and musical factors firmly into the socio-political setting.
Similarly, the highly personal section on Cuba brings together history, politics, economy, music and culture. He explores the notion of cubanidad, which “first crystallized as an important, if still vague, idea when the cause of Cuban independence” was promoted by José Martí in the 1880s and 1890s (p. 120). He equally explores the roots of the specifically Cuban music that we love in the mélange of African and European traditions. He highlights the role of Israel “Cachao” Lopez, the legendary musician and composer broght to broader fame in his later years through Buenavista Social Club. The last of the three chapters concerns Cuba in the twilight of Fidel Catro’s reign.
The chapter on Puerto Rico emphasizes the island’s relationhip with the United States and the diaspora in the Bronx. The chapter also traces the history of Puerto Rican nationalism and its hero, Pedro Albizu Campos.
The three chapters dedicated to Hispaniola are weighed down by history, perhaps inevitably given how important it is in explaining the current state of affairs. The two countries that share the island — Dominican Republic and Haiti — are often contrasted, with the first one coming on top as a developmental success story and the second as a hopeless basket case. Jelly-Schapiro brings much nuance to this interpretation highlighting the violent and dictatorial history of the Dominican Republic, while bringing out the humanity in Haiti. He sheds light on the curious racial relations on the island, stemming from the two sides’ histories as Spanish vs. French colonies, and how these continue to cause tensions between the two.
The four chapters covering eight smaller islands in the Lesser Antilles are shorter, perhaps because there’s not that much to report (and perhaps because the author seems to have spent less time on each of them, which is perfectly understandable). His reporting from these islands tends to poke holes to the image of them as paradise. Yet, Jelly-Schapiro’s understanding still brings forth many distinctive features between, say, Barbados and Barbuda, both with a history as British colonies and sugar plantations.
Grenada has a distinct political history and a charismatic leader, Maurice Bishop, executed by his political rivals in 1983. Ronald Reagan found the island’s socialist experiment so threatening that he sent in the marines to subdue the tiny island nation, on the pretext of the presence of Cuban workers helping to expand the airport.
Montserrat, a British Overseas Territory where Sir George Martin, the legendary producer built a house and studio, rose to international attention in 1995 when the long-dormant Soufrière volcano erupted destroying Plymouth, the capital, and forced two-thirds of the island’s population to flee. Jelly-Schapiro explores the volcanic zones with an American geography professor, Lydia Pulsipher, and her husband. They note how, following the disaster, the British governmental aid agency DFID, relocated people into new houses in a non-affected area: “they’re well bjuilt, but they’ve got nothing to do with how Montserratians live; with the old social structure here, and with homes they built to fit it” (p. 319). Unfortunately, this is a picture that often emerges when well-meaning outsiders try to assist countries to rebuild after a disaster (for example in the aftermath of the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami).
Martinique, which still today is a French territory and the westernmost extension of EU, deserves a lengthy chapter, largely due to the writers and political thinkers it has produced, such as Aimé Césaire and Patrick Chamoiseau. Jelly-Schapiro writes (p. 358):
“Few large countries, let alone little ones, boast the literary riches allowing one to trace the whole modern arc of their culture, and the contours of that culture’s conflicts, through those of its books.”
Accordingly focusing on these writers and their poetry and their legacy at the expense of the author’s own experiences, these 32 pages took me more effort than most other parts of the book.
Throughout, the book discusses numerous authors from the islands, many of whom have achieved fame outside of the Caribbean: C.L.R. James and V.S. Naipaul (Trinidad), George Lamming (Barbados), Jamaica Kincaid (Antigua), Franz Fanon (Martinique), Jean Rhys (Dominica), and the already-mentioned Aimé Césaire and Patric Chamoiseau
Luckily, he saved the best for the last. The 40-page final chapter on Trinidad is superbly crafted. Its culture and social and political issues are presented in a very animated way. Jelly-Schapiro has spent ample time on the island, including as a visiting scholar at the university. The carnival, the calypso and steel bands form a sort of a backbone to the chapter. Jelly-Schapiro tells the dramatic story of Michael Abdul Hakim (a.k.a. Michael X), a Black activist, and the people around him.His best informant is Jay Telfer, an octogenarian figure whom he befriended. Telfer who in the 1960s played a central role in bringing West Indian culture, including the Notting Hill Carnival, to London, is a font of information and a delightful character. Before that, in the 1950s, Jay Telfer studied at NYU and worked at the jazz clubs in Greenwich Village where he met many jazz legends, and where Thelonius Monk told Telfer he was the only man able to dance to Monk’s music. Although involved in politics throughout his career, Jelly-Schapiro says of Telfer: “Personal ethics, like personal style, were for him much more important than politics” (p. 411).
Jelly-Schapiro has written a highly interesting and valuable book, although it is somewhat uneven. He generally writes well alternating between the casual when describing his own personal experiences and the academic. There are places where his style can get a bit out of hand. Take, for example, this sentence about Chamoiseau (p. 334):
“And his ideas’ shadows have been palpably present, too, over polemics surrounding the French Antilles’ great human export of now; those other public artists — soccer players — whose goals in World Cup stadia, firing France to victory in a Coupe de Monde contested in Paris in 1998, prompted scenes of joy on the Champs-Elysées more massive than any since the Liberation, and forced a country still unaccustomed to seeing itself reflected in the brown and black faces of its colonies to ask pointed questions about what, two centuries after Robespierre’s fall, a Frenchman is.”
Apart from these squabbles, it is a book worthy of its author, a fellow geographer, with a PhD from UC Berkeley. Finally, Jelly-Schapiro confesses to having adopted C.L.R. James as “a kind of intellectual hero and style icon alike” (p. 401):
“Here was a scholar activist who wrote with equal verve and brilliance about the Haitian Revolution and the game of cricket, Hegelian philosophy and Hollywood movies, Herman Melville and calypso music — and whose synthetic aptitude for doing so, moreover, found him placing all those subjects within the larger telos not only of modern capitalism but also of humanity’s struggle for democracy reaching back to the Greeks.”
If this cultural-historical-political-social mixture was what Joshua Jelly-Schapiro aimed for in this book, I think he pretty much succeeded.

Cozumel: A versatile small island in the Caribbean

 We’re in the habit of spending the Christmas break in Mexico and sometimes we go there again for the school February vacations. As it happens, we’ve recently returned from Cozumel, which is my personal favorite. We’ve been many times to Mexico over many years. Both my wife Yoko and I have had work-related trips to Ciudad de México and elsewhere in the country (Guanajuato, Vera Cruz, Cancun…) and together we’ve vacationed on the Riviera Maya and the historic city of Merida. We’ve also gone elsewhere in the region on vacation, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Panama. But Cozumel is my favorite. ‘Cozumel’ is a version of the original Mayan name of Cuzaam Luumil (meaning Land of Swallows), which the Spaniards simplified to suit their own language upon arriving here first in the 16^th century.


What is it that I like about the small island off the eastern shore of the Yucatan peninsula? There are many things to like but in sum it is that, for such a small place, Cozumel is surprisingly versatile. The island measures only 48 km from north to south and just 16 km across. Formed of limestone, it is almost flat – its highest point is just 14 m above sea level – and large parts of it are covered in impenetrable mangroves; so small and low-lying it is that this coastal vegetation that thrives in salty and brackish water reaches all the way into the interior. In fact, the northern half of the island is almost entirely undeveloped and covered by a mangrove jungle. The mangroves are host to a number of endemic species of birds and small mammals. The black spiny-tailed iguana is also native to the island and they are always fun to see. Unfortunately, even in this relatively undisturbed environment, many of the native species are endangered.

The versatility stems from the combination of natural and human factors. The beaches, especially on the eastern shore facing the open Caribbean, are fabulous with white sand reaching far out in the shallow coastal waters. This makes the beaches perfect for family fun and safe for children to frolic even when the ocean itself is rough (during our latest stay, the waves on the open water were so forceful that the beaches sported red flags about half of the days warning people not to get into the sea; half of the days the flags were yellow. Despite this, we could swim and play safely in the semi-enclosed lagoon of our preferred beach, Chen Rio. This is where our daughter Nowa honed her swimming skills.

Playa Chen Rio also has the simple but wonderful Pescador restaurant that serves fresh fish from the sea, simply grilled with butter or garlic or served with delicious sauces made with tomatoes, olives and other vegetables.

Cozumel is known as a paradise for divers and snorkelers due to its rich and hitherto rather unspoiled coral reefs, in particular on the western side of the island in the Cozumel Channel. The coast has many diving schools and one can frequently see the boats carrying tourists in diving gear to the reefs. Again, the tourism industry has not been easy on the sensitive corals and the previously abundant and unique black corals have declined almost to extinction since the 1960s.

One distinct aspect of tourism is based on cruise ships. Cozumel is a major port for Caribbean cruises. These massive floating hotels arrive in the early morning hours, docking on the western side of the island and releasing thousands of tourist from the USA, Canada, Europe, Russia, China and elsewhere on shore. The areas close to the piers are filled with shops and bars catering to the tourists. About 8 cruise ships dock at Cozumel daily – from our balcony one morning, I could count 7 of these behemoths –carrying over 3 million cruisers annually, most spending just one day on the island. Needless to say, such an influx of tourists brings huge amounts of foreign currency and are the most important source of income to locals. But cruise ships also pollute through sewage and exhaust fumes. Even if waste and bilge water discharges into ports are controlled, the air pollution from the ships is considerable. It also contributes to global warming. If not properly regulated, cruise ships can bring about their own undoing, as tourism depends on clean and pristine environment. Luckily, awareness of such environmental issues has increased in recent years.

During the hours when the cruisers hit the shores, it is better to stay sequestered in one’s own quarters or to drive across the island to the east coast beaches. But in the evening the ships leave, one by one, blowing their horns and floating into the darkening night. Some leave right at sunset, others a couple

of hours later. Ships at sea at night can be a romantic sight.

Once the cruisers have re-boarded their vessels we venture out and usually head towards the town – an important dimension of the versatility of Cozumel. Our base is a modest but comfortable hotel on the western shore a few kilometers south of the town, San Miguel de Cozumel. It’s a short drive or a lengthy but leisurely walk on the beachfront road (and unlike much of Mexico, Cozumel is generally very safe even after dark). About 77,000 of the island’s 100,000 permanent residents live in San Miguel. It has a small but beautiful historical center and numerous shops, cafes, restaurants and bars. The food is generally good real Mexican food, which has only vague resemblance to what passes for Mexican fare north of the border (as one sign in town said: Relax, you’re on the fun side of Trump’s wall!). You can find exquisite local dishes in many cozy restaurants, which we like to explore. There are few more relaxing affairs than to sit on a comfortable terrace watching the sun go down over the sea.

As implied earlier, Cozumel has its roots in the Mayan civilization and many of the local dishes are still prepared in that tradition. The Mayan empire had its base in present day Guatemala but it expanded to the Yucatan in the 3^rd century, reaching its peak from the 7^th to the 9^th centuries. For the Maya, Cuzaam Luumil was a sacred place where pilgrims worshipped the fertility goddess Ixchel.
The first Spaniard to land in Cozumel in 1518 was Juan de Grijalva. He arrived from Cuba and was a peaceful man. Settling in Cozumel, he married and founded a family with a Mayan princess. The later arrivals were not equally benign. Soon after de Grijalva came the notorious conquistador Hernán Cortés. True to his inclinations, he proceeded to destroy much of the Mayan culture, including their temples. By the time he left in 1530 the original society was in ruins. Apart from intentional destruction, devastating smallpox was introduced through Cortés’ crew.

In the following couple of hundred years, Cozumel became a base for pirates, such as Henry Morgan and Jean Laffite. In 1847, the War of the Castes broke out between the creoles and the native Maya in mainland Yucatan. A year later, displaced people settled onto Cozumel and created their livelihoods in farming and fishing. This continued pretty much unchanged until the 1960s when the development of tourism began and changed everything.

Despite this history, a couple of Mayan sites remain in Cozumel. These are very modest compared with the ones in Tulum, Chichen Itza and elsewhere in Yucatan. The San Gervasio ruins of a temple dedicated to Ixchel, albeit small, are archeologically valuable in their own right.

One of the attractions for Nowa is the amusement park settled in the Parque Quintana Roo in San Miguel. It is kind of an old fashioned affair where one can shoot bottles for small prizes, ride carousels and eat street food. Nowa had been dreaming of returning here for the year since she experienced it last. So we spent two evenings in the park. She even dragged me to a wildly spinning clunky machine that used centrifugal forces to throw us around at ever increasing speeds. I thought it would never end – and in some ways it didn’t, for me, as I would still feel dizzy the following morning. Against all odds, she again managed to drag me to the same machine on the second evening, as she was too small to ride it alone. Afterwards I had to waddle to rest at a bench in front of the bandstand while Yoko took Nowa to further hurtling machines.

The band that played to a couple of hundred attentive people was the Banda de Música de X Región MIlitar, a large orchestra with brass, woodwinds and drums. As a former military musician, I was quite curious about the band. I have to confess that it was rather infinitely better than our orchestra in Finland. Also their repertoire, consisting mostly of Mexican and Latin popular music, was lively and the drummers were up to the task. They also had a uniformed female soldier who served as a powerful singer. My dizziness started to fade. There was also some high-level military leader, as well as the governor of Cozumel in the audience, who got plenty of attention from photographers and the general audience.

This was our last evening in Cozumel this time. We returned to our digs early enough for me to still have a good while sitting on the balcony watching the dark sea with the lights of Playa del Carmen on the mainland less than 20 km away. Come to think of it, just sitting on the balcony is probably my favorite part of the trips to Cozumel.

Bali: People and Pollution in Paradise

“It’s Galungan and I’m very busy,” Putri said as she was pouring me a drink. She works at the hotel where I was staying. It was already close to midnight and she would have a short night. Although she said she lived close by here in Nusa Dua, during the festival she would have to go to her parental village, which involves a 1.5 hour ride on her moped. And she will have to be ready to go to the temple to make offerings to ancestors with her family at 5:30 am. Galungan is a Hindu festival, closely related to Diwali, the festival of light celebrated in India. But Galungan – like Hinduism here in general – has a distinct Balinese twist. First, unlike the annual Diwali, Gadung is celebrated twice a year and celebrates the creation of the world. For Putri and many others like her employed in the booming commercial sector the traditional festival is a source of both devotion and stress. Tradition is alive and well on Bali.
ting.”

Bali has the reputation of being as close to paradise as any place on earth. The mostly Hindu island in the world’s largest Muslim nation is known for its temples, relaxing lifestyle, friendly people and beaches of white sand. But there are mounting pressures that threaten the paradise-like setting. A place whose charm so much depends on its beauty and clean nature is particularly vulnerable to environmental problems.

The most obvious pressure comes from the sheer number of people. The tiny island has some 3.5 million permanent inhabitants, making it one of the most densely populated places on the planet. This is particularly striking to me, as my own country of birth lies at the opposite end of the spectrum: Finland with sixty times the land area of Bali has just 5 million people. Of course, Bali’s tropical climate and fertile soils have in the first place been able to support such a large and growing population, unlike the frigid conditions up north. Still, the place is increasingly crowded and despite the recent rapid urbanization it is overpopulated. As reported in The Jakarta Post (30 April 2010), according to Indonesian national standard, the maximum population to be supported in Bali in a sustainable manner would only be about 1.6 million people or less than half the current population.

The urban centres themselves present a slew of problems. With haphazard growth and inadequate infrastructure, pollution runs into the rivers and pristine places are transformed into townships. Denpasar, the capital, is now like a miniature Jakarta, crowded with people, cars, mopeds and pollution. The city has a distinct waste management problem that is acknowledged by Indonesian researchers and environmentalists. The city alone produces more than 1,500 m3 of garbage every day, rendering the city planners’ beautification efforts futile. Other growing urban centres are quickly following in its destructive path.

Nusa Dua at the southern tip of the island is an ecosystem in itself. Developed for tourism, the area is built with self-sustaining hotel complexes complete with numerous restaurants, spas, pools and sporting facilities. The entire area is spotlessly clean, neat and well organized with straight roads and perfectly manicured lawns. The main shopping centre, Bali Collection, contains a complex of shops and restaurants where the prices are fixed to a level that would be far above affordable to locals used to viewing bargaining as a competitive, if good-humoured and friendly sport.

Despite this cleanliness, tourism is one of the greatest causes of strain to Bali’s environment. Again, it’s the sheer numbers of people visiting the island. There are 1.9 million visitors annually to the tiny island! The Balinese receive the visitors well and are very tolerant of their sometimes less than gracious ways. In fact, the locals are so tolerant that Indonesian Muslim terrorists bombed entertainment establishments in 2002 and 2005. The earlier bombing in Kuta killed 202 people, including 88 Australian tourists. This put a dent into Bali’s reputation as a party destination and somewhat reduced its popularity among Australians and other Westerners. But whatever slack developed, it has been quickly taken over by others. Apart from the Japanese who have been there for a long time, Chinese tourists are increasingly visible, although most of them seem to be young couples or move only in small groups. What struck me in Nusa Dua was the number of Russians. The beach was crowded with shapely blonds trying to turn their colour darker in places where their tiny bikinis didn’t cover the flesh. The men already tended to sport a naturally redder colour on their bellies, which they started to fill with the refreshing Bingtang or Bali Hai beers from an early hour.

Tourism is blamed for overcrowding the island and straining its environment. In an article with the website Bali Discovery (18 May 2009), the Executive Director of WALHI, an environmental watchdog, Agung Wardana in particular highlights the role of tourism in depleting Bali’s precious water resources. He estimates that every hotel room adds around 3,000 litres to the daily consumption of water. And the golf courses that are converting agricultural land to artificial parks for the benefit of rich and spoiled visitors add another 3 million litres a day to the consumption. This can be contrasted with the average of only 200 litres per day used by the local Balinese. There have been well justified calls for limiting the number of tourists and the construction of new facilities to accommodate them.

My purpose for being here was attending an international meeting, so one afternoon my fellow participants and I embarked on a cultural tour heading towards the temples in Taman Ayun and Tanah Lot. We passed through the booming town of Kuta, first driving through the touristic area with its rows of bars, restaurants and shops; then moving to the more traditional quarters where the locals reside. Ayu, our talkative guide, pointed out the canal running in parallel to the street, suggesting that it would not be a good idea to take a dip there. “The town has grown so quickly and there’s no sewage treatment. These canals used to be nice, actually,” she commented.

Nevertheless, the town does not by any means give an impression of a slum. It all looks rather upbeat unlike many others elsewhere in the developing world (or the USA). Nobody has the time to loiter around, as everyone goes about their business. The Galungan decorations are everywhere. Tall decorated wooden poles line the streets and statues by the numerous temples have been dressed up in checkered black and white clothes – yin and yang – intended to ward off the evil.

Ayu whose name translates into ‘beautiful’ keeps up a running commentary on the history and culture of Bali, as well as the present we can observe as we drive on. Ayu is a rather tall and lively girl whose constant white smile does indeed make her live up to her name. Both Ayu and Putri at the hotel would dispel any preconceived notions of tiny, waif-like Indonesian girls, neither one being particularly petite or shy.

We continue further inland and see construction everywhere. “Corn to concrete,” the observant Ayu remarks. Indeed, in the outskirts of Kuta farmland is incessantly being converted into buildings. But still every available plot in between has been dedicated to small rice paddies. Farmers still keep cows that roam freely in open spaces.

This land transformation – from agriculture and forest into cities, roads and, yes, hotels and golf courses – is one of the biggest problems affecting the future sustainability of the environment and even the economy of Bali. Apart from converting beautiful landscapes into sprawl, it negatively affects the ecological and water balance on the island. It even threatens food production. Every year, tracts of agricultural land is converted into non-agricultural uses.

It started to rain and the landscape turned dark. The traffic was really bad and we were barely moving forward. In the nearly two hours in the car we had gotten only half way where we wanted to go. Suddenly the driver had had enough and without saying a word decided to turn the vehicle around blocking the traffic further. We then headed back and found a roundabout route between agricultural fields where fewer drivers had wandered. Here the landscape was still serene with terraced paddies glistening wet. In spite of the rain that was getting heavier, some farmers were still working their fields. The hillsides were forested.

On the way, we made a stop at a private smaller place of worship at a traditional Balinese house in Baha Village. We caught the proprietor preparing candles and offerings to the deities. Dressed in a yellow blouse and a sarong, she went around from one shrine to the next, placing the candle and the offerings, then put her hands together in a silent prayer.

At the big temple at Taman Ayun the mood was dampened by the rain, but the hawkers along the parking lot beckoned us to shop for trinkets and soft drinks. No doubt, their business would have been better in less inclement weather. More and more busses brought in tourists as we entered. The temple complex is very impressive. Built in 1634 as the main temple of the historical Mengwi Kingdom, the area consists of a huge number of multilayered shrines known as Meru. In the middle yard there is a tower with wooden bells or Kulkul. The entire area is surrounded by a moat.

Wet and tired of sitting in the traffic in between the sights, we continued towards our final destination. Even Ayu was rather low key, only promising that the ride would not take long to reach Tanah Lot on the coast. The place turned out to be extraordinarily beautiful, the small temple of Tanah Lot being perched on a rock protruding into the Timor Sea. It has stood there facing the sometimes stormy (like now) sea since the 16th century when it was established by the Javanese priest Danghyan Nirartha. This was a spot from which to enjoy the sun setting in the west over the sea, but on this particular evening clouds obscured most of the daily spectacle. We were just happy to enjoy refreshing coconuts prepared by three sweet young ladies before settling in for a grilled seafood dinner containing fresh fish, lobster, prawns and mussels.

During the evening we were also treated to a delightful performance of traditional Balinese dance. The dancers in delicate outfits glittering with colour and gold performed elaborate dramas from history and mythology. The movements of their eyes are as important as the movement of other parts of the body. A skilful band of stone-faced musicians sitting on the floor behind their Gamelan instruments produced a hypnotic yet dynamic accompaniment to the dance. Later, we witnessed a performance unique to the Tanah Lot region. The music accompanied Barong, a story-telling dance about the fight between good and evil. Completely different from the Gamelan, the music reminded me more of the rituals seen in the South Pacific.

On a different night, I grabbed a taxi to Kuta in order to observe first hand the impacts of backpacking and party tourism on a local city. It was around 11 pm when the driver dropped me off at one end of the beach boulevard. The strip was quieter than I had thought, probably expecting to see a replica of some similar coastal towns in Thailand. This was not the case, at least yet. There were of course numerous bars lining the street, including the ubiquitous Hard Rock Cafe, but the scene was generally quite sedate. As I strolled along the waterfront, I was several times approached by local men offering young women for massage or hashish and marijuana – a particularly stupid proposition in a country where possession of drugs carries the death penalty. Most often, they only offered ‘transportation’, meaning a ride on the back of their light motorcycle. Nusa Dua was too far to make such offers attractive. Another thing that was conspicuous was the extensive construction that was going on even after midnight on this weekend night. New hotels were coming and traditional quarters were being erased to make space for them. Clearly, the local financiers and tourist industry were not paying heed to the warning calls about overcrowding the island or overextending its environment.

Bali is still beautiful and the Timor Sea surrounding it is still full of fish and accommodating to humans who wish to join them for a swim. Ample water is a key element of Bali’s attraction. It is essential equally for the survival of the traditional way of life and agriculture and the tourism-based economy. One can only hope that the quest for money will not entirely spoil the basis of which life and the rich culture rely on. At least today, we can still enjoy the beauty and hospitality of Bali and its people to the soothing sounds of Gamelan.

Koh Samui

For years I had wanted to spend some time resting and rejuvenating in a spa on Koh Samui and finally here I was sitting on the veranda of my wooden bungalow overlooking the peaceful yet constantly changing Gulf of Thailand. I had arrived earlier in the day, flying in from Bangkok together with other tourists, backpackers and Thai families. The 50-minute flight from the capital took us straight south-southwest across the Gulf, landing on Samui airport on the tropical paradise island off the eastern coast of the Kra Peninsula, a long and narrow strip of land that separates the more protected Gulf of Thailand from the Andaman Sea. Because of its fortunate location on this side of the peninsula, Koh Samui had not been affected by the Indian Ocean tsunami of December 2004 that killed so many people and destroyed coastal areas in countries as far apart as Indonesia, Sri Lanka and Somalia. In Thailand, the damage was done only on the west coast of the Kra where resort islands, such as Phuket and Phi Phi Islands suffered immensely. As the plane approached, I watched all the small islands rising from the shining sea. Most looked still quite pristine with densely forested mountain cones in the centre and lined with half moons of white coral sand that glittered in the sun. Yet the pressures from booming tourism and development were mounting, as evidenced by the densely built towns and resorts in the coastal zones.

My own purpose for being here was purely selfish. I had worked hard throughout the spring and summer, actually moving to a new and more demanding position in the organization. I was feeling tense and somewhat stressed out. My wife claimed that one had to tip-toe around me for the past few months. Apparently, I needed some de-stressing. Although my eating habits are normally relatively fine—I do finish my veggies and eat fruits daily and my diet is generally somewhat tilted towards Asian cuisines—the pace of modern big city life isn’t really conducive for taking care of oneself. So here I was, staring at the raw salad sitting in a wooden bowl in front of me. It was served with a delicious apple vinegar, honey and garlic dressing. It would be the most substantive single meal I’d eat for the coming week. In fact, I was preparing for a brief fast for cleansing purposes under the supervision of the knowledgeable staff of The Spa, Samui’s first and most famous health resort. Since 1992, the owners, Toi and Guy Hopkins, a Thai-American couple run this place (and since lately another one inland up on the hillside), which I’ve seen referred to as ‘hipsters’ paradise,’ with a full set of options for cleansing, from a simple liver flush to full-scale fasts with all the associated accoutrements. I had modestly (or perhaps ambitiously) chosen an option somewhere in between. To make the fasting easier, there are other activities one can engage in, including steam baths, massages, yoga and Qigong practice on the beach, and of course meditation every morning. On top of that, the restaurant I was sitting in, Radiance, has been included in the list of the fifty best restaurants in the world (not that it would matter much to me)!

Apart from the healthy stuff, the island caters to the more common type of tourist. In fact, when tourism development started, it was probably foreseen that Samui would become another Phuket or Pattaya. The beaches are beautiful and clean, although in the high season I am told they can become very crowded especially in the most popular locations. Diving is decent and there are coral reefs to snorkel around. Some towns have developed into veritable party centres, with notorious nightlife and weekly shows of all female Muay Thai kick boxing—an apparent attraction to gawkers of many a variety. In addition, the lovely natural setting, lively yet relaxed ambiance and proximity to Bangkok and other major cities in the region (there are numerous flights to the Thai capital daily on the hip Bangkok Airways that also operates daily direct flights to places like Singapore and Hong Kong) has also made the island attractive to businesses in the free and creative sectors, such as information technology. These alongside tourism are transforming the Samui economy from its traditional subsistence base of agriculture and fisheries. The major cash product for centuries used to be coconuts that were exported from the island to the mainland.

Fishermen still practice their trade, as I could see from my vantage point on the second storey terrace in the restaurant. A small cluster of colourfully painted boats—red and white, orange, bright blue, more faded green—were moored in a small lagoon protected by a jetty. Many of the boats were open with just an outboard motor in the aft. A few had closed cabins built on them allowing for the captain to stand up while steering the vessel. The harbour was shallow enough for the fishermen to wade across to their boats from the sandy beach in front of our compound. As they were preparing for their nightly expedition, the sea kept changing. The afternoon sun had faded into the thickening clouds and the colour of the sea shifted from blue to a deep green reflecting the darkening sky. The wind was picking up and blew moist air from the gulf. After a while, the gusts were rather heavy and speckled with a few large drops of rain. Despite the mounting gloomy clouds that hung low on an outcrop jutting to the sea a few kilometres north from us, the threatening thunder storm never materialized. I watched as one by one the boats headed out from their peaceful harbourage towards the open sea their engines’ putter mixing into the steady sound of the waves. Soon it was dark and the only light from the sea came from the fishing boats blinking romantically in the thick tropical night. On the shore, a few restaurants lit up muted lights on their beachside terraces.
Samui, the third largest island in Thailand, has been inhabited probably for 1.5 millennia. It was likely used as a base by fishermen from the Malay Peninsula and southern China. The island is named on a Chinese map dating from 1687. Where it got its name is unclear, but likely candidate explanations could be that Samui simply refers to a local tree called ‘Mui’ or it might be a transmogrified version of the Chinese word ‘Saboey’ meaning safe haven. Either way, the island stayed safely and happily isolated for most of its history until the 1970s. Until then, people were minding their own business, fishing, farming and growing coconuts as their only cash crop. Then it was ‘discovered’ by outsiders. The first ones to arrive were backpackers. The white sands, blue sea, coral reefs, fresh seafood and unspoilt interior all conjured up images of paradise. Today that paradise still exists, although much of it has been lost to development. Fortunately, most of the tourism development is relatively small scale—spas, boutique hotels, guest houses for backpackers—and major resorts that completely modify their surroundings are not that many and concentrated in few places, like Chaweng Beach. Still, all the development leaves its mark, especially on the coastline, which today is virtually fully occupied.

Naturally, it also changes the economy and the way of life of people. Apart from tourism which directly is a huge employer and source of income, many locals benefited handsomely from selling the land they had owned for perhaps generations to developers. These people do not need to work in the tourism industry. Most of the employees in the innumerable hotels, restaurants and other establishments come from the poor northeastern provinces of Thailand, Isan, as far away as physically possible without leaving the country. I have been told that the dialects are so different that the immigrants from Isan have a hard time even understanding the southern natives when they speak their own dialect.

On my second day while still on my pre-cleanse, I rented a car, a small Suzuki Caribian (sic), a puny off-road vehicle commonly referred to as ‘jeep’ on the island. The rental agreement stated that the car was fully insured, except for the sound system. Needless to say, there was no sound system. I turned left from the spa gate joining the traffic towards southwest (my plan had actually been to turn right but the traffic flow looked so discouraging that I decided to make the island tour in the opposite direction). The Spa is located in the community of Lamai in the southeast of the island. I had started the drive carelessly without checking everything and after a few kilometres noticed that the petrol gauge indicated an empty tank. By that time I was on a smaller side road heading towards the beach. Having no idea where a filling station might be located, I suddenly noticed a sign that clearly said ‘gasoline’ in front of a small open food stall by the roadside. The kind woman in charge only had four litres contained in plastic bottles. I told her to pour them into the tank and headed out looking for a filling station with a larger supply (I found one just a couple of kilometres further on the main road; this one had what seemed like antique hand-operated pumps connected to two petrol barrels standing loosely on the pavement).

I decided to head inland, following signs to an elephant trekking operator, a waterfall, and a high viewpoint. The small road passed through coconut palm plantations where buffalo were grazing. Soon it started to climb, challenging my little Suzuki. I soon realized that I needed to stop and connect the four-wheel drive lest the poor vehicle start rolling back downhill. Before that, however, I had been overtaken by three military coloured open off-road vans travelling uphill at considerable speed. They belonged to an ‘adventure’ tour operator and were hauling young Western ‘adventurers’ up the mountainside with horns blaring to warn off potential others using the road.

The road was paved but narrow and curvy. After several kilometres during which my vehicle almost stalled in a couple of the steepest slopes I found myself on the tallest peak of Samui island. Climbing to the altitude of 635 metres from literally the sea level in a matter of a couple of kilometres was no mean feat and was proof of how steep the road’s gradient actually was. Several of the island’s peaks rise above half a kilometre, but this was the absolutely highest point. The interior of the island is still largely impenetrable rainforest and luckily hard to develop because of the topography. Here however, there was a restaurant, called Peak Eye View, from whence a fabulous panorama over the entire island in all directions far to the sea opened. For a second I was tempted to join the tourists (who included the ‘adventurers’ from the three trucks) for a cold beer, but I stayed firm on my pre-cleanse regimen and resumed my drive after admiring the view. The restaurant also kept a troupe of gibbons in front of it. They were tied to long leashes but were able to jump and frolic in the trees, which they do with amazing skill and flair. Unfairly to my mind, gibbons are also known as ‘lesser apes’—as opposed to the great apes (chimpanzee, bonobo, gorilla, orangutan and us humans). To me, they are only lesser in size.

Not far from the peak I found another attraction marked as Namuang waterfall. A field had been cleared for parking but I was the only visitor. Luckily the girl who was apparently in charge of collecting 30 baht (approximately US$1) per vehicle was lying flat on a bench and only lifted one eyelid lazily when she saw me pass. I was glad to note that the midday heat gets even to the locals. I followed a path clearly marked with a formal sign that said 'Pointview.' It led down a deep slope where I could hear water—but not enough for a waterfall. Indeed, when I reached the bottom there was a small trickle falling between rocks into an almost dry riverbed. I took this to be proof of Samui’s water shortage. I crossed the creek skipping precariously from one uneven and damp boulder to the next thinking whether the girl at the parking lot would hear my cries should I break a leg. On the other side, new signs appeared, this time hand written on a piece of paper but more correctly stating 'viewpoint.' I followed the narrowing path climbing steeply before coming to my senses and turning back. The signs were probably leading back to the mountain top where I had just been. I got my exercise walking up and down the gulley in tropical heat and was drenched by the time I got back to the car.

It is easy to forget that this is officially a paradise island when one drives on the main road circling it. The traffic is constant with cars, lorries, motorbikes and mopeds, often with entire families on them the little one riding in between mom and dad. And there are foreigners—Aussies, Brits, Germans, Swedes, Finns, Japanese, Americans, you name it—riding their rented scooters and small cars. Apparently these farang can be such a traffic hazard that the Samui Police Department had found it necessary to post a large sign on the roadside warning people to remember to drive on the left side! Driving on the circular road also confirms that the entire coastline is by now occupied, largely by the tourist industry. One can still see undeveloped plots of land for sale to anyone with the will and capital. There are some original towns but the locations of major resorts have also developed into villages with a variety of services targeted to the visitors, from Thai massage to ‘Deutscher Bierhalle.’ The sides of the road have been overtaken by sprawl nearly completely.

I stopped at Ban Nathon, the largest real city on Samui and its main administrative and commercial centre. Upon entering the town I detected a large open air market: always a sure attraction for me. I thus parked and went to explore. The vegetables and fruits looked fresh and delicious (so many different kinds of greens), but the most interesting part was the fish market, clearly owing its existence to Nathon being the port of the largest fishing fleet in Samui. There were buckets of freshly caught fish of different sizes, shrimp, squid. Some fish where displayed on trays already in a fried state.

Wandering deeper into the town, I was relieved to discover it indeed was a real commercial centre for people who actually live here. There were grocery stores, clothing outlets, motorbike repair shops, law offices and several doctor’s offices of different specialization. There was also a pleasant, if somewhat dilapidated seafront boulevard lined with tempting looking seafood restaurants, small hotels and, just on one side street, a row of massage parlours.

Nathon is located on the west coast of Samui, diagonally on the opposite side of the island from where Lamai lies. I’d about had enough of sightseeing for the day, especially of the continuous strip mall lining the road. I still had to drive north following the coast before heading back south on the other side. The traffic was getting worse as I had to drive through a series of conglomerations: Bang Por, Mae Nam, Chaweng. I was hot and tired of keeping an eye on my unpredictable co-travellers, constantly shifting gears to keep the little car that pretended to be an SUV moving up and down the hills. Then it stopped. At one junction when I slowed down pressing down the clutch, the engine just died and refused to start again. The battery was dead: not a single breath of life left in it. I have no idea what killed it, as I had been driving most of the time, not using the headlights or air conditioning (there was none). It just had had enough and died. Luckily I was already just a few kilometres from Lamai and could call the rental car service. They didn’t even sound surprised. A smiling employee soon appeared and matter of factly connected the cables between the batteries of his and my Suzukis. Kawp khun khrap—thank you very much—and he drove away. Jai yen yen—don’t lose your cool, as they say here. Things work out.

There are some 55,000 permanent residents on this small round island just some 15 kilometres across. However, the number of locals is dwarfed by visitors. Statistics show more than 670,000 annual arrivals at the Samui airport. Granted, not all of them would be tourists and many would be locals returning from trips to Bangkok or abroad. Yet the bulk is bound to be visitors from further away. Such numbers of people and feet on the ground inevitable leave footprints. Even if the people come to Samui in search of the pristine paradise—and Samui has managed to preserve some of it relatively well, much better than say some of the hotspots around the Mediterranean—every part of the natural environment will be transformed. Roads get paved over, coral reefs face pressures, the ocean itself suffers. One of the most critical resources is freshwater. This is a common problem for most small islands and Samui is facing it, too. The Spa has signs that ask patrons to conserve water because there is a critical shortage of it. Not a convenient factor for a spa in the tropics. Although the island is surrounded by water, it’s all salty. The freshwater is generated by rainfall and streams in the central mountain. The aquifers are replenished there, but the rapid development on the coast has brought with itself a hugely increased demand. The supply just isn’t enough, thus threatening the sustainability of the entire development model.

The coastal development itself poses particular risks. When the protective natural vegetation is removed for development, habitats are lost and the coastline is rendered vulnerable. This was dramatically demonstrated during the tsunami: in places where mangroves and other coastal habitats were intact, the destruction by the tidal wave was significantly moderated.

During the days of the fast I took it easy. I talked with other patrons who had taken the challenge. They came from many walks of life and from around the world. Although the spa has a distinct New Age feel, most of the guests are far from the sandals-and-lentils crowd. There was Paul, a British businessman in his late-50s who has spent the past twenty years in Dubai, with his tall and beautiful Filippina wife. There were the two Australian sisters, Claire and Stephanie, who started the fast together with me. They were cheerful down-to-earth girls still in their 20s, spending their days on the beach. We would compare our sensations daily as the fast progressed. There was also Roland, a long-haired Malaysian fellow with a ring in his lower lip, whom I met in the steam room on the day I was breaking my fast. Roland, who worked in advertising film production in Indonesia, was a fasting veteran: this was his fifth trip to The Spa! We agreed that the biggest problem here was boredom, as apart from the treatment there really was nothing to do except to walk or lie on the beach. By 8:30 pm life in the restaurant was definitely slowing down—not that it really mattered to us fasters.

The feeling of hunger never came, thanks to the heat and the various detox drinks, diluted vegetable juices and broth fed to us at regular intervals. But the energy levels went down and the degree of listlessness would very from day to day. Early in the mornings, I would walk along the beach. It was very peaceful and the sea was calm. I might meet one or two other people taking their morning walk, but normally the only sounds were the numerous birds starting to sing and an occasional puttering of an outboard engine from further away in the sea. The fishermen were already at work, a few of them wading into the bay and throwing in their fine-meshed hand nets. On some mornings women would be walking the waterline with nets and plastic bags collecting shellfish. From one resort I could hear a distant radio playing soft Thai pop as the staff were preparing the place for the day. From another sounded the familiar chime of Windows starting as someone opened his laptop. The beach itself was open to anyone and one could walk for miles to either direction without being blocked. The land right behind the beach, however, was strictly partitioned into private properties.

Small crabs scurried on the sand, their spindly legs a blur as they hurried towards their holes. As I stepped into the warm and clear sea, schools of tiny fish would dash to give way to the huge intruder. In places, the sand was soft and soothing to the sole, while elsewhere it stung with billions of tiny pieces of coral and shell that had washed to the shore. In a bend in the bay there were curious boulders, some as tall as a man, clustered on the shore and into the sea. Here and there, coconuts had fallen and now lay half buried in the sand in the shade of the mother trees that lined the shore. One morning, I sat for a long time in the shade of one such palm tree and watched a black heron go about catching breakfast. It waded gingerly in the shallow water, turning its head left and right, observing the goings on beneath the surface. Every now and then, it would rapidly stretch its long and narrow neck, dip its head suddenly into the water, emerging with some poor creature in its sharp beak.

Or I would indulge myself in the steam room (as if the natural heat here just north of the equator wasn’t enough!). It was located in a secluded corner of the compound. I would sit there wrapped in a sarong and let the hot steam infused with 32 traditional Thai herbs sooth my body and mind. In between sessions I’d cool down in the shady garden decorated with playful Buddhist statuettes. The sweet attendant had prepared a pot of exquisite jasmine tea served in thimble-sized Chinese cups decorated with blue and white dragons.

In the afternoons I would lie under a tree reading or dozing off. I’d go for an occasional swim. Later after all the cleansing included in the program was done for the day, I’d lie down in an easy chair on the porch of my bungalow and watch the tropical night get dark. One late afternoon I observed a succession of honey suckers attend to a bush with little white flowers next to my chair. First came a swarm of small bees that busily worked each flower. After they were done, a tiny hummingbird, truly the size of my thumb, continued the task, hovering in front of the flowers keeping in place by the enormously rapid flapping of its wings while it stuck its needle-like beak into the blossoms. Finally, a butterfly arrived, it too sucking into the flowers. I hoped there was enough honey left for her.

One afternoon I decided to go driving again. I had received a refund from the company for the unfortunate ‘jeep,’ which had died on me earlier (twice, as it is, because it had been returned to me the following day supposedly repaired, but the battery was still dead and, once we got it started, it was clear that the engine had lost all its traction). I was somewhat distressed to see that the same ill-fated vehicle was again presented to me, but was assured that it had been thoroughly fixed. This turned out to be true and I could hit the road again, heading southwest through Ban Lamai towards the Samui Aquarium and Tiger Park, which appears to be a major tourist attractions. Now, I am not keen on seeing animals in captivity and all kinds of zoos, especially in the developing countries where their conditions tend to be dismal, depress me. Yet, zoos do play a role in conservation—better an endangered species in captivity than extinct in nature—and if this aquarium can convince any visitors of the value of preserving the wildlife, I’m all for it.

It turned out to be quite a complex, although the surroundings were a mere dusty parking lot in front of which a group of men tended to two elephants that stood languidly in the shade of a cluster of big trees. There was a price list: elephant trekking (Baht 800), photo with elephant (Baht 300), feeding the elephant with bananas (Baht 80). I went to the aquarium entrance and asked about the program and the price. There would be a tiger show in an hour, I was informed. Trained tigers would jump through hoops of fire and the like. There was also a show with sea lions (which I could briefly observe through a crack in the fence; the sea lions were small and cute, like their handlers). The entrance fee was Baht 750 (US$22!), which I found excessive (although many other farang riding in on their mopeds or vans happily seemed to dole out the asked price). Instead I headed towards the beach, which in this part looked very different from that in front of our compound. The tidal flat reached at least a couple of hundred metres into the bay, which shone bright blue and turquoise in the afternoon sun. When I returned to my car I found a truck full of local school kids had been just hauled in to see the elephants. Rows of plastic chairs had been arranged so that they could sit down and each in their turn feed and pet the pachyderms. I hope each of these children will become an animal lover (or rather, remain as such, as most children naturally love animals).

I returned to Ban Lamai and stopped at the busy part of town around a market where huge durian were sold at the fruit stalls. This popular fruit in these parts of the world is banned from many hotels and other closed public spaces because of its pungent smell. I have friends who love the fruit but I have never learned to enjoy its overly sweet flesh. The town also has a Buddhist temple—Wat Lamai—and cultural centre. It’s a relatively modest affair, albeit decorated with all the colourful paintings and statues typical of Southeast Asian Buddhism. As I entered, a row of monks—approximately ten of them—was sitting in front of the Wat chanting sutra for a group of mostly older villagers sitting in the dirt in front of them.

Thailand is multiracial country with several religions, although Buddhism tends to dominate in most places, except the south bordering to Malaysia where Islam is the predominant religion. In recent years there have been regular clashes between Muslim insurgents demanding regional autonomy often in violent ways and the Thai authorities who equally have been known to use excessive force further aggravating the conflict. In Koh Samui, the two sides have lived harmoniously since the beginning. The Moslems are a small minority on the isle, but one can see men with their Islamic beards and women riding on motorbikes with their colourful headgear flowing in the wind. Southeast Asian Islam is not equally restrictive than it is in some places further west.

On yet another morning, I drove north through the sprawl until I reached the north coast. I noticed an entrance to a community marked with a gate above the main road leading to it: Bophut Beach Fisherman’s Village. It looked tempting enough, so I went in. The road ended in a t-junction with the main street that ran parallel to a beach with the whitest sand imaginable. The bay in front boasted numerous boats moored in it, ranging from traditional fishing boats to luxury sails and speed boats. A lone windsurfer was riding the waves beyond. At the pier was an utterly dilapidated vessel named ‘Fortune’—its best days were clearly far in the past and it wouldn’t be anyone’s good fortune to clamber onboard.

The street was lined by old Chinese style wooden houses on both sides, virtually all of them now converted into shops, restaurants and guesthouses. There were numerous bars that under other circumstances would have beckoned me irresistibly. I noticed that there were many signs in French, some promising fresh croissants and the like. I later read that this village had been popular with the French tourists for several years now (nevertheless, I only heard English and Finnish spoken on the street). In the same Samui guide I also read that Bophut is “easily the most charming village on Samui.” Based on my brief visit, I probably would agree.

But I continued towards the Big Buddha that is one of the most popular attractions on the isle. The northeast coastline was heavily developed. New bungalows were sprouting up on the hillsides, contrasting with the shacks of the fishermen on the beach and the makeshift stalls of the elderly street vendors. Soon I turned onto the causeway that connects the mainland to the tiny island housing the Big Buddha. I found a shady place to park under a tree on a plaza lined with shops attracting the foreign tourists and Thai day trippers alike. As I headed towards the Buddha and the Wat Phra Yai temple, a Bangkok Airways ATR-72 turboprop roared past the statue just above our heads on its final approach to Samui airport.

The temple complex is not particularly old or historical. In fact, the local community built it only in 1972 to cater to the spiritual needs of the visitors. I suspect they also had in mind that the Buddha would attract more such visitors and bring economic benefits to the island just when it was being discovered by the outside world. I climbed the steep steps on top of which the 12 metre tall gilded Buddha sat (there was a sign that stated, pragmatically, that from 10 am to 4 pm when the steps get hot in the sun it was ok to keep your shoes on). In the side pavilions on each side of the steps, monks in saffron robes were administering blessings to the Thai visitors.

On the top it was mercifully cool, as had been apparently discovered by the four dogs that lay flat in the Buddha’s shadow, and the view was quite stunning to all sides. The Big Buddha was surrounded by many smaller images, including two smaller, reclining Buddhas shining golden in the sun. Small gilded monkeys were offering their respect to the gods.

Although not by any means a haven of tranquillity, I was pleased to have visited Wat Phra Yai as I continued my drive south towards Chaweng on the east coast. This is the largest centre of tourism on Samui. It contains some of the biggest and fanciest hotels and the longest beach on the island. Behind the beach, there is a long shopping street that has a seemingly endless row of shops and restaurants. There are the usual souvenir shops and clothing stores, tattoo parlours (in my books, getting a tattoo while backpacking in the tropics rates among the more thoughtless things to do), and art shops (selling the kind of art—orange sunsets over a turquoise sea where dolphins skip and large eyed girls gaze sadly—that is available in any town from La Jolla to Goa where tourists of a ‘spiritual’ persuasion gather). Luckily, Chaweng also boasts by far the best bookstore on the island, Bookazine, in which I rummaged for a good while. The fast had made a dent, not only in the toxins in my body, but also my reading materials. I was well into the third and last book I had brought with me and was in a desperate need for replenishment, which I was able to find in this small but rather well-stocked shop.

The morning to break the fast finally arrived. I prolonged the pleasure by first indulging in the steam bath. Afterwards I swaggered to the beach garden of Radiance radiating the confidence of someone who has just pulled off a major deed—and ordered food. I couldn’t quite decide whether I craved more for fresh fruit or a raw salad, so I ordered one that contained both. It tasted good, but I realized that it was mostly the relief of not having to swallow the various healthy and cleansing liquids that came with the fast.

I lingered for another couple of days just to get adjusted to solid food and to get ready to face the outside world. In the end, I was ready to leave and truly looked forward the hustle and bustle of Bangkok that lay in wait for me. As I watched out of the airplane window at the small island in the blue sea, I though how lucky it was that the tropical nature is so powerful. Its resilience is such that immediately when humans leave the lush vegetation, with its infinite number of creatures small and large, quickly takes over again. That’s why we haven’t lost all of the paradise, the flowers with striking colours, the pleasure of hearing so many different birds singing such rich coloraturas. And the chirping geckos on the walls whose ample insect dinners I watched enviously every night of my fast.