As a motley crew of farm animals sprinted past Natarajan’s humble dwelling on the shores of the usually sleepy Hut Bay, he sensed something was seriously amiss. The ground had shaken more violently than at any time in his 87 years here. It was time to go.
Grabbing his cane, Natarajan joined the frantic procession and headed as fast as his ageing legs would carry him to a nearby hill, with just seconds to spare. Turning his gaze back to the sea, he watched as the Boxing Day Tsunami, higher than the tallest coconut palms, swept away his home and the entire town beneath him, washing back and forth until there was virtually nothing left.
Before Boxing Day 2004 this man, now 95 and still in possession of a razor-sharp wit and a set of piercing brown eyes, was one of the oldest of his generation on this forgotten speck of land called Little Andaman island. It’s a little known Indian territory, and about as far removed from the modern world as you could imagine.
Sitting perilously close to the epicentre of the infamous earthquake, yet perhaps furthest from the world’s consciousness in the wake of the disaster, Little Andaman is geographically closer to Thailand than India. It’s the largest in the Andaman and Nicobar chain – a string of lush tropical islands in the Bay of Bengal that is home to some of the more fascinating tribes left on the planet, along with an ever-increasing number of Indian settlers and tourists.
By nightfall on Boxing Day 2004, Natarajan would be the single oldest survivor by many years on an island then home to about 8000 Indian settlers, a scattering of Nicobarese Islanders from the south and the native Onge tribe, a mysterious group who have inhabited this place for more than 40,000 years.
Vying with Australian indigenous people for the title of the oldest living culture on earth, the Onge, and their method and exact timing of arrival here, are still a mystery to anthropologists. DNA matches suggest the Onge originated in East Africa, with evidence indicating they are the purest Negroid people in the world today. Only 80 or so of the Onge remain, with their prospects for long-term survival looking bleak.
According to the locals and another traveller I meet, who was a regular visitor before the tsunami, some senior Onge used to roam into the main town around Hut Bay for supplies. But they haven’t been seen for years, except by a very select few medical workers granted access to Dugong Creek, an Onge reserve in the far north of the island strictly off-limits to outsiders.
When the big wave hit, the Onge, along with Natarajan and the island’s animals, had the intuition to head for the hills, as if driven by a sixth sense. Not a single person from the tribe was reported killed while the death toll among the Indian population was catastrophic, as was the damage to the island’s infrastructure, which is only now starting to recover enough to cater for new settlers and visitors.
Little Andaman had been on my wish list for a long time. A surf movie I watched as a teen, featuring the first instalment of music from the now ubiquitous Jack Johnson, showed perfect waves and glimpses of the Onge. The island, people and waves became firmly lodged in my imagination. More than a decade later, circumstances conspired favourably and I was on my way.
After a day spent daydreaming over the rusty rails of a ferry from the Andaman capital, Port Blair, and formalities in Kwate-tu-Kwage on Little Andaman’s Hut Bay, I arrived via rickshaw in a small village at Km 16. Towns and villages on Little Andaman are simply named by their respective distance along a straight road spanning the eastern side of the Island.
There is a handful of backpacker-style accommodation in the area but everywhere is full. So it is that I find a concrete cell to call home near to a beach I knew had surf, with just myself and a local man next door. I’ll come to know this man as the bearer of an unfortunate pre-breakfast drinking habit, which ends most afternoons in drunken rants to whoever would listen, repeated requests for money and one, ultimately humorous, attempted dash to nowhere with my camera gear.
Heading straight for the beach on foot, I find the swell I’d come for. At first the waves hitting the point look all but flat, yet the great distance they travel to arrive on Little Andaman means patience is key here, with long waits between dismal ripples and Indonesian-style perfect waves when they finally roll across the reefs. Their crack and fizz is heard by a few fisherman and even fewer surfers.
Arriving to perfect empty waves like this is rare, and I duly spend the afternoon yelling at the top of my lungs like a madman with nobody around to witness my joy in finally arriving in this sublime place I’d dreamed of for a very long time. It’s a moment that will always stay with me; pure freedom and release through that increasingly rare combination of solitude and disconnection that’s the elixir of travel.
Heading back along the beach in the dark, I remember the island has a reputation for crocodiles, the uncompromising saltwater type. Later I’ll learn that a 14-year-old girl had been killed weeks earlier in a nearby attack, yet, for that moment, I forget about the risk as a blood-red full moon rises and swarms of fireflies light a path through misty forest back to the main road.
Over the next month, with a spluttering 1970s Yamaha motorbike for transport and some great company from the only other surfer on the island, I find myself occupying my time exploring the few pockets of Little Andaman not off-limits to tourists and hanging out with the amazingly open and friendly Nicobarese Islanders.
The Nicobarese were relocated here in large numbers after their homes on the islands further south were destroyed, their slice of paradise sitting virtually next to the epicentre of the 2004 quake. Living a simple life working in the palm plantations, fishing and playing daily on the postcard beaches, they are seemingly some of the happiest people I’ve been lucky enough to meet.
Apart from the surf there is plenty to see and do here, although undoubtedly the main attraction for the travellers I meet is the sheer isolation and sense of adventure. There are many worthy waterfalls and beaches to visit, although directions are tough and guides are often busy or fishing. At the time of my visit it seems the local authorities are unprepared for the increasing numbers of visitors, with rules on where we could and couldn’t visit seemingly changing by the day.
During a flat spell of surf a call is made for a few drinks at the only watering hole on the island, a seedy dark hole of a place that attracts some truly unhinged individuals. It is down the road from this little pub late one afternoon where I spot the unstoppable Natarajan, his slim frame silhouetted by a kerosene lamp as he chuckles to himself on the balcony of his tiny government-built shack.
With some help interpreting his Hindi, we come to learn something of his life and remarkable tsunami escape. Apart from a few years spent on the mainland while serving in the army, Natarajan had spent his entire life on the island. Before the roads went in, his existence had been limited to just the few blocks around the old town. His life was happily lived in this 20 kilometres square radius, then as now, in an almost totally forgotten part of the world.
Eventually (after a very clichéd tumble over the handlebars of my motorbike) it is time to leave. It has been just on a month and my permit for the islands is running out, the surf is flat and my drunken neighbour’s antics are getting increasingly hard to ignore.
The Onge reservation of Dugong Creek is apparently the most special part of what is already a postcard of a place. From all reports, it’s a large bay filled with small islands, dugong and fish in plentiful enough numbers to sustain the remaining population.
As much as I’d have loved to have met them, the thought of the remaining tribe living out their days in that paradise is enough. I’m sure there must be surf there, the morning sun glinting off waves breaking with no fear of intrusion by privileged outsiders.
At the other end of the island sits Natarajan, laughing with passersby while perched on the balcony of his little shack; sometimes chatting to himself, mostly sleeping. I can only smile imagining the stories he must be recalling, especially the one where he outran waves bigger than the trees in his front yard, following farm animals and his intuition to safety.
There’s something in the water. It’s eerie but don’t be afraid. Known as the River of a Thousand Lingas, Kbal Spean is a carved riverbed featuring thousands of elaborate 1000-year-old etchings, mostly phallic symbols of fertility known as lingas or lingams.
The Angkorian-era site is set deep in the jungle about 50 kilometres northeast of Siem Reap and also features carvings of animals and Hindu deities, which can be found above a small waterfall. To access the site, hire a tuk-tuk or motorbike from Siem Reap, then hike the steep two-kilometre walking track that winds through the jungle and past unique rock formations to the riverbed.
Has there ever been a better excuse to start drinking beer early in the day – well, before lunch – than the fact the local beer should be downed the same day it’s made?
In Vietnam’s northern city of Hanoi, kegs of bia hơi (fresh beer), brewed daily without preservatives, are strapped to the back of motorbikes and are on their way to bia hơi joints – the local equivalent of a pub – before most visitors to the frenetic city have sipped their first cup of cà phê sữa đá (Vietnamese iced coffee).
In Hanoi, the day starts early. Soon after dawn, around the atmospheric Hoan Kiem Lake, groups of energetic older residents are getting their morning exercise, while, at phở stands all over town, noodle soup is being ladled into bowls. Elsewhere another daily ritual is taking place. Stainless-steel 100-litre kegs of draught beer begin rolling out of the three main breweries – Hanoi Brewery, Viet Ha Brewery and South East Asia Brewery – to bia hơi spots around the city.
While it was the French who introduced beer to Vietnam, it was the Vietnamese who made it fresh, to be consumed the same day as production – just like almost every dish of traditional Vietnamese food. Today bia hơi makes up about 30 per cent of the beer sold across Vietnam, the bulk of which is downed in Hanoi, where bia hơi culture is very firmly rooted. Here, there’s a beer joint on every city block, and in Hanoi’s labyrinthine old quarter there’s one on almost every corner.
While the old quarter bia hơi outlets range from a bare room in someone’s shop-house to an open-sided corner-block ‘pub’, the further you travel from the centre the more you’ll see purpose-built, shed-like structures with enough room to house more than a hundred thirsty punters.
In a typical bia hơi, the beer is kept cold through some often innovative contraptions that surround the keg in ice, with the beer flowing into endearingly imperfect recycled glass tumblers via a hose, often of the garden variety. If the bia hơi joint doesn’t have a fancy ‘cooling system’ you’ll be presented with the alternative: a bucket of ice and tongs.
If a bia hơi is having a particularly busy morning – or afternoon or evening – you’ll see a motorbike screech to a halt outside to offload another keg, which should see the establishment through a busy drinking session that can attract groups of a dozen or more locals who pull up tiny plastic stools and join tables together to settle in for the night.
At a popular bia hơi you’ll see groups ordering round after round of the refreshing beer yet still not swaying. That’s because bia hơi is low in alcohol – 2.5 to 4.5 per cent – making it a very quaffable brew. It’s also low on cost – fetching about 8000 Vietnamese dong a glass (about 35 cents).
Each joint has its idiosyncrasies that attract regular drinkers. Some are known for being early openers, catering to the older, retired guys who start early and drink slowly as they methodically nibble at mountains of pumpkin seeds. The more ‘upmarket’ places – and we use that term loosely – feel more commercial, with fast service, shiny stainless-steel tables and an extensive menu of food designed to go down well with a few brews.
For these places, the food is as big an attraction as the icy amber liquid. The moment you arrive the waiter will toss you a packet of spiced peanuts (a Hanoi specialty) while you take in the aromas of dried squid grilling over a portable charcoal burner or a seafood hotpot bubbling on the next table. Drinking dens popular with Hanoi’s burgeoning hipster set serve hot cheese sticks and sugary French fries. Other bia hơi places are beloved for more filling fare, such as fried tofu and roasted pork ribs, or more ‘exotic’ treats like fried eel and grilled frog legs.
While it was the French who introduced beer to Vietnam, it was the Vietnamese who made it fresh, to be consumed the same day as production.
At our favourite spot, Bia hơi Ha Noi Cua Hang Ngoc Linh, it’s the delicately fried tofu, lightly salted ribs and fresh morning glory sautéed with garlic that keeps us going back. On our first visit there, two guys at the next table were having a post-work beer – or five – and ordering dishes in anticipation of their mates turning up. As plates started to fill their table, we took to pointing and ordering whatever we thought looked delicious.
Noting that we could eat – and drink – like the locals, our table neighbours were soon pointing sticky fingers at the menu to suggest further dishes, demonstrating how to eat them and mix the sauces. A few beers later and we were ordering each other rounds, clinking glasses before every gulp. Thanks to the low alcohol content of the beer these nights can be memorable – and still be able to be remembered.
One of our most unforgettable bia hơi experiences happened on our first night in Hanoi. Pulling up a tiny stool at an old town streetside bia hơi at around 10pm, we had just clutched our first beers when the local police decided it was too late for these footpath establishments to be trading. Mayhem broke out and before we could stand, the proprietor whisked our plastic stools from beneath us and packed the whole place away before the police could confiscate his gear. Like the other patrons, we briskly disappeared into the night, quickly downing our beers as we went.
In the three months we spent in Hanoi, we were drip-fed tips on places to try for the atmosphere or a dish that a particular bia hơi did well. But, like the locals, we always returned to our favourites. Once you get into the habit of heading to a particular bia hơi, it becomes as essential a ritual as that early-morning phở or mid-morning coffee.
The most surprisingly delicious dish at a good bia hơi joint is fried tofu. Tofu is made daily in Hanoi, so find the freshest you can to make this dish. The dipping sauce, muoi tieu chanh, is not as famous as nuoc cham (the ubiquitous fish sauce-based dipping sauce), but is just as present on Vietnamese tables and lifts any dish it touches.
INGREDIENTS
200ml vegetable oil
500g silken tofu (the firmer the better), drained, patted dry, and cut into 3cm bite-sized cubes
1 bunch Vietnamese basil (or Thai basil), leaves removed and roughly torn Muoi tieu chanh (salt, pepper and lime dipping sauce)
coarse salt
white pepper
lime wedges
bird’s-eye chillies, thinly sliced ((to taste)
METHOD
Make the sauce first. Muoi tieu chanh is always mixed to personal taste. Start with, say, a tablespoon of salt, half a tablespoon of pepper and the juice of a quarter of a lime, mixed to make a sauce. Taste and adjust as necessary. Locals will usually put a couple of pieces of chilli into the sauce and mix it around to give the sauce more kick.
Heat the oil to medium-high in a deep saucepan or wok. Dip a wooden chopstick into the oil to check the temperature – when bubbles form around the chopstick, you’re ready to cook. Place the cubes of tofu carefully into the pan. Cook until lightly browned and puffy (around three minutes) and place on absorbent paper. Plate the tofu on a serving tray and mix with the basil. Eat by dipping a piece of tofu and a basil leaf into the sauce.
We’ve seen so many photos of prayer flags wafting in breeze, the smiling, sun-worn faces and those mountain-perched monasteries that it is possible to think you might not be surprised by a visit to Tibet. Not so. Any trip to the spiritual home of Buddhism will be a soul-stirring experience. Located on the so-called Roof of the World, Tibet boasts breathtaking scenery, high-altitude treks (much of the country is above 4000 metres) and its own part of Mount Everest.
In the city of Lhasa, explore the famous Potala Palace and see pilgrims prostrate themselves in front of Jokhang Temple. Two hours away is the turquoise beauty of Lake Yamdrok. Then there’s Samye Monastery in the Shannen Prefecture. More than a thousand years ago it was the first monastery to be built in the country and is the birthplace of Tibetan Buddhism. It’s surrounded by a strikingly austere environment of bare mountains and dunes.
Mixing with the distinct cultures, being awed by monastery tours and embracing some of the warmest hospitality you’ll ever know combines to make Tibet a visually and experientially fascinating adventure.
Of course, some people argue that travelling here puts money straight into the hands of the oppressive Chinese government, but as the Dalai Lama says, “Go to Tibet and see many places. Then tell the world.”
Sunshine and spice and all things nice. Thailand is truly a tropical paradise and an ideal destination to spend some time losing track of it all. It’s a pity that such a peaceful place has been slightly tainted by some recent unrest, but don’t let that deter you. The Thailand you’ve come to see isn’t centred around government buildings, but instead in the plethora of seemingly disparate landscapes that echo the mishmash of cultural influences to be found in this golden kingdom.
The capital, Bangkok, bustles with all the self-importance and trappings of a modern westernised city while, further north, Chiang Mai and the Golden Triangle await with villages and people possessing a charm and tranquility that is undeniably traditional and authentic. The islands – Koh Kood and Koh Lipe are just a couple of our favourites – are unforgettable for all the reasons you can imagine: serenity, luxury, revelry and chaos. What you discover has a bit to do with where you are and a lot to do with the lunar calendar. The locally brewed rum can also be blamed for the latter characteristics. Overall, Thailand is (literally) bucket loads of fun.
While officially and administratively part of China, Taiwan is a destination in its own right – a burgeoning self-contained getaway or stopover. The Chinese influence combined with the population’s following of Buddhism, Confucianism and Taoism makes for a mix of festivals. Events like Buddha’s Birthday, Dragon Boat Festival and cherry blossom season are interesting, but Spring Scream, an outdoor rock festival held each April, will get you going hard or going home.
Taipei, Kaohsiung and Taichung are certainly stereotypical of many of Asia’s densely populated, neon-lit cities, where night markets are a staple of entertainment, shopping and eating. Yet the island is also home to high mountain ranges, which do see snow fall despite the tropical climate, and it’s possible to get away to beaches boasting palm trees and all. The otherworldly Taroko Gorge will wow and, as an antidote to the urban jungle, you’ll find serenity in the national parks, many with hot springs.
Plonked in the Indian Ocean off the southeastern tip of India, the tropical idyll of Sri Lanka is an island of surprises. Most of its terrain is covered in every shade of jungle green imaginable and a batch of mountains south of the centre rises to more than 2500 metres.
With a colonial history, the rustic and crumbling architecture lends an air of mystique to most towns – the capital Colombo and the town of Galle with its fortifications, in particular, are magnets for the international bohemian set attracted by the yesteryear atmosphere.
Away from the urban areas it’s all about jungle exploration, safaris and tranquil boating journeys. Go searching for elephants and leopards in Yala National Park on the south coast before heading to the southernmost part of the island and the town of Mirissa, famed for its excellent whale watching.
Throughout the country, festivals, from the huge Esala Perahera held in Kandy mid-year to Deepavali celebrations in October and November, are a highlight of colour and energy. And then there’s the cricket… You almost hope Sri Lanka wins just for the spectacle of the celebrations. Almost.
What does 5000 years of history and culture get you in South Korea? An intoxicating clash of tradition and modernity. One day you might wander a Josean Dynasty palace and the next you’re taking a K-Pop dance class, learning the latest BTS moves. You could learn to make traditional rice wine in the morning and be dining at a kitschy art cafe by the afternoon. Everything is possible here.
It’s even possible—and highly recommended if you’ve been burning the travel candle at both ends—to stay at some of the Buddhist temples dotted around the nation to experience the rituals and spirituality of the religion. Take a hike around the Seoraksan National Park before lowering yourself into its natural hot springs. Ironically, one of South Korea’s most popular attractions involves glimpsing its oldest foe – the nation up north. Take a tour of the Demilitarized Zone, where you can lift the iron curtain and lock eyes with a North Korean solider.
Koreans’ insane work ethic means Seoul buzzes through the wee hours, street food vendors stay open till around 4am and alfresco coffee shops are a surprising European appropriation. The country’s second-biggest city, Busan, is located on the south coast and it’s a cool spot to check out the beach, visit the Jagalchi Fish Market or catch the ferry to Jeju Island.
When you’re next doing the big trip to Europe it’s worth considering a stopover in Singapore. Then again, for lovers of holidays filled with shopping, eating and culture it provides all of those in a small, convenient package. This is the gateway to Southeast Asia, where people from right across the continent have settled to provide an enticing mix of cultures. It’s also one of the most modern destinations in this part of the world, with attractions like the Esplanade – Theatres on the Bay offering free concerts, and nearby Gardens by the Bay pushing the limits of what a city park can be.
Explore the markets in Chinatown and try a fresh hot serve of char kway teow (stir-fried noodles). Meditate in the rooftop garden at the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple and Museum, which, as the name suggests, is home to Buddha’s tooth (or so they say). Peruse the pastel-coloured heritage buildings of Joo Chiat/Katong after eating laksa. Take a trip to Little India and, if you’ve got room for more food, order a snack of delicious roti prata (round pancakes). Satisfy your hunger for shopping in the 24-hour shopping mall, Mustafa Centre, where you can find everything. If you haven’t already guessed, eating is Singaporeans’ favourite pastime (closely followed by shopping), and you cannot leave without making your way through a stacked-high plate of grilled meats on Satay Street or cracking it big time when eating the nation’s most famous dish, Singapore chilli crab (No Signboard Seafood is our go-to spot).
While it’s a supremely urban destination, there are parts of Singapore where you can see chill out in nature. Catch the ferry to Palau Ubin and wander along the boardwalk at the Chek Jawa wetlands. Be captivated by the colours on display at the National Orchid Centre, or discover the remnants of the city’s past at Fort Canning Park.
It’s got 7107 stunning islands to explore and, despite the country’s populous nature, on some you’ll be able to find your isolated Robinson Crusoe moment. Boracay is beautiful but all the beach babies have ditched their usual spots to make it top of the trending lists. Personally, we prefer Palawan for island hopping and snorkelling.
You might not expect it, but there are some decent waves here. The film crew who shot Apocalypse Now back in the seventies left their surfboard at Baler, about six hours’ drive from Manila, and Philippine’s surf culture grew from there. One of the biggest waves is Pagudpud on the northern tip of the mainland, and those who make the trek are likely to have the break almost to themselves.
Divers will also return from the Philippines satisfied customers. Good vis, warm waters and huge diversity of marine life – thresher sharks and manta rays at Malapascua Island, drift and wall dives at Anilao, and whale sharks in Donsol Bay, between November and June – make it suitable for everyone, including those who want to learn.
You’ll also find all the adventure sport staples: mountain biking, rock climbing, sea kayaking and whitewater rafting. Not to be missed is a tour to the underground river at Puerto Princesa.
Three hundred years of Spanish rule certainly left their mark on the country, with some beautiful colonial architecture still standing in Manila. This is a great city to explore for so many reasons: it’s not nearly as hectic as some of Asia’s other capitals, there is fantastic eating and shopping to be had, and the remnants of the Marcos era are, unsurprisingly, fascinating.
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