As we enter the new millennium, few regions of our planet remain as unexplored
Edens. But off the coast of Myanmar, formerly know as Burma, lies one such place - an extensive archipelago of over eight hundred uninhabited islands and islets scattered throughout the Andaman Sea. For over half a century the country has been isolated from the rest of the world by its political regime; and it was only in the last few years that the Mergui Archipelago, an area encompassing ten thousand squares miles, was opened to outsiders. Here visitors have the unique opportunity to explore one of the last great pristine environments left on earth.
During the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries, merchants, pirates, and adventures undertook arduous trips through the Strait of Malacca to navigate between the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea. As trade grew between India, Siam (now Thailand), and China, ships figured a way to cut transport time in half by taking a more northerly route to the Isthmus of Kra (the narrow slice of land that connected Siam and Malaysia) and then transporting their cargo overland by elephant. By this time, the great kingdom of Siam had become a major trading junction and its southern city of Mergui a prosperous port and meeting point for the multitude of
Asian caravans.
But even during Mergui's heyday the islands in the archipelago remained uninhabited, never being deemed fit for settlement or farming. Adding further to the islands' isolation, the British, who became the dominant sea power in the area, transferred their commercial centers farther south along the Malay peninsula by the nineteenth century. Because of these shifts and the advent of steamships and other faster methods of transportation, the once flourishing Mergui eventually collapsed into complete obscurity.
In 1997, after three years of lengthy negotiations, SEAL, finally received permission from the Myanmar government to escort tourist into the Mergui Archipelago. Even today the area is considered so remote (it cannot be found on most world maps) that the only existing charts are those drawn by British shortly after World War II (the British ruled Burma from 1862 to 1948). By venturing into this lost realm, one has the remarkable opportunity to visit a world of ages past (where piracy still exists) and to experience one of the few places whose ecosystem remains virtually unspoiled since the beginning of time.
THE ADVENTURE BEGINS
It was my good fortune to be sent here for the filming of s TV pilot called Action-Asia for the Discovery Channel. Our group consisted of two Australian camera crew and two on-camera hosts. The two hosts - Fred, a Calvin Klein model from Canada, and
Paveena, an almond-eyed beauty whose parents come from Thailand - are from Hong Kong. My job would be direct the show, both on land and underwater.
We began our voyage in Phuket, a popular resort town on the southern coast of Thailand filled with hundreds of tanning tourist, bargain shops, and restaurants. Having seen many billboards written in the indecipherable Thai alphabet. I couldn't help but smile when I caught sight of a travel office sign posted in English: Welcome to the Krabi Happy Tour!
At an office near our hotel, we met up with our guide for the trip, Graham
Forst, a gregarious Australian who runs the SEAL program. After picking up our diving gear, we started our adventure by
driving four hours to the Thai border town of Ranong, passing by miles of gorgeous ocean scenery and rubber plantations where a thick, milky liquid slowly oozed into small metal buckets tied to the tapped trunks. By early afternoon we reached the port, which lies on the southeastern coast of the fjord that separates Myanmar from Thailand.
There we hired out long-tail boats, the slender wooden vessels that have been used to crisscross these waters for centuries. But now, instead of using paddles, the local drivers use engine-driven open-air propellers to navigate their way back and forth along the Panchan River. The waterway flows around a kaleidoscope of sights: Red-robed monks, holding yellow umbrellas over their bare-shaven heads as they ride in dugout canoes; merchant cargo ship unloading boxes laden with fresh fruit; and rickety wooden beach house. Propped up by stilts, surrounded by green hills dotted with glimmering golden statues of Bodhisattvas and
Buddhas. Our slight, dark-skinned driver looked to be of Indian descent (his smile revealed two remaining teeth, between which he fitted a hand-rolled cigarette).
After a half-hour ride, we reached
Kawthung, the gateway to the archipelago. Upon the muddy banks stood the local customs house, an old wooden hut painted white and blue, over which flew a tattered national flag. A few uniformed men stood around it, old rifles slung over their shoulders. The Myanmar government is notorious for its disregard of human rights and its closed-door policy toward tourists, but here we felt no unease. We had already received permission to enter, so we handed over our papers, pictures, and passports and proceeded on our way.
Rounding a small bend in the river, we reached our diving boat, the
Gaea, a fifty-one-foot trimaran that would be our home, day and night, over next seven days. It was there that we met up with our crew: a rugged, sun-bleached-blond captain from Australia, a brightly tattooed Thai cook named
Mee, and two swarthy helpers from Myanmar who spoken good English. As dusk enveloped the landscape, we all gathered on deck to watch our first orange-red sunset of the trip.
That night everyone slept soundly as the Gaea sailed to its first destination in the Andaman Sea. We were lying atop a gigantic water bed a million stars twinkling over a jet-black sea. Suddenly I was jolted awake by alarmed voices on desk. The captain explained that a whale had just surfaced right in front of the bow and that, with a quick turn of the wheel, he had steered clear of a head-on collision. For the first time, it hit me that we were not in the modern world anymore. Entirely alone, far from the nearest village, we had no one to signal for help.
I returned to bed only to be reawakened a few hours later by the clanking sounds of our anchor being cast and the strong smell of coffee brewing. Mingalaba (Burmese for "Good morning") was exchanged between the crew members. I
climbed topside and took in the great expanse of sunlit wilderness before me. An emerald-green sea danced in and out of scored of small islands covered by lush mangrove forests and white coral beaches. We later kayaked out to one of these uninhabited shored, and imagined myself to be the first human ever to leave footprint in the sand.
