Spending time in Thailand’s ancient mangroves could be the path to peace

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Louise Thomas

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And... breathe. It could be the purified air or the rhythmic soft splish and thunk of oars slicing through the water and landing gently in their cups. Or, possibly, it’s the forest’s innate power. But as our Pok Chun boat weaves through the mangroves surrounding the tiny, Muslim community of Tung Yee Peng, a hypnotic calm descends. Our forest tour has barely started, but I’m already so relaxed that it’s freaky.

Hugging the shoreline, we slip down an ever-widening klong (canal), with the immense mangroves – their waxy verdant foliage gilded in sunlight – leaning out over our heads in search of space. The lowering tide means we’re at eye level with the forest’s root system: a twisted maze sculpted by tides and time, akin to a vast eyrie fashioned from gnarled, skeletal fingers.

Mangrove forests are nature’s ultimate multitaskers. They defend coastlines from tsunamis, provide nursery habitats for countless aquatic species, and sequester up to four times more carbon per acre than mature tropical rainforests. They’re crucial for the planet’s health but disappearing at an astonishing rate. Over the past 60 years, up to 35 per cent of the world’s mangroves have been lost or severely damaged, mainly due to human encroachment.

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But now Thailand is flipping the script. Between 1961 and 1996, the country lost over 494,000 acres of mangroves—more than half its forests. More recently, though, stricter conservation laws and mangrove restoration efforts have helped reduce that loss by half.

The Pok Chun is a nautical embodiment of this turnaround. These ancient paddle boats were once commonly used to transport mangrove logs to a charcoal factory’s kilns. But in 1989, the harvesting of natural forests was banned, the factory closed, and the Pok Chun disappeared.

But now these destruction-enablers are back, only this time, they’re part of the 775-acre forest’s revival. That I’m now aboard one, gliding down a murky, matcha-green klong, is mainly due to my guide, Narathon Hongthong. An ex-lumberjack, Narathon has been president of Tung Yee Peng’s award-winning community-based tourism enterprise since its creation in 2003. He’s also the most zen person I’ve ever met – just looking back over my interview with him felt like therapy.

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“In the past, villagers earned money from logging, but the forest – our pride – was being destroyed. When the charcoal business closed, many villagers had to leave home to work in the service sector, and households became quiet,” Narathon softly recalls. “So, we decided to use community-based tourism (CBT) to repair the forest and ourselves. Now, we manage, protect, and care for the forest and bring tourists into it to generate income.

“First, we used longtail boats. Next, we added kayaks. Then, 10 years ago, we revived the Pok Chun; it’s an important part of our history and very peaceful. When you come to the forest, you don’t need noise or to go fast. You need to relax.”

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Our oarsman is Narathon’s brother, Bung Hab, who balances like a barefoot yogi at the boat’s stern, head shielded from the sun by a bamboo weave hat. The monsoon rains are late this year, and the island smells and feels like a vacuum-packed greenhouse. Brahminy kites are gliding up on the thermals, while down here, a brown-winged kingfisher ‘wolf whistles’ with one eye on the shallows. The mangroves provide nutrient-rich breeding grounds for countless fish and shellfish, and the mudflats are a smorgasbord of cockles, crabs, snails, and comical mudskippers.

Monitor lizards and sea otters hunt here, too. But perhaps the most surprising fisherfolk are the dozens of macaques sitting sentry atop a long wall of mangrove roots.

“We call this ‘monkey island’,” Narathon chuckles. “They live here all the time and catch the crabs and snails.”

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Several nursing mothers cradle espresso-coloured infants to their chests and chirrup when ‘aunties’ get too hands-on. They watch us nonchalantly, more interested in their communal grooming session than we are in them.

“Sometimes we can learn from monkeys to have more family time,” Narathon adds sagely.

Eventually, we reach the mouth of the channel separating Koh Lanta Yai from its next-door neighbour, Koh Lanta Noi. Ten metres from shore is the most extraordinary mangrove tree I’ve ever seen: a Pokok Api Api (after which the Phi Phi islands were named). A vast, bulbous beauty; from one angle, its barnacle-encrusted trunk looks just like a seal’s head, complete with whisker-like roots and burls for eyes. We moor alongside it and chat over dainty Thai ‘elevenses’ and Lampeng tea, a refreshing fern tea cultivated by the villagers.

“The forest’s power has returned to people’s hearts. We have 150 families in the project and a [shareholders] fund; every year, there’s money for everyone. But the whole community can benefit,” Narathon tells me. “We have tour guides, captains, and shops. We make local food… we don’t need to go far away to work, so we don’t think we ‘work’. Now, we have nature, our culture and history, and time. Families can stay together. This forest brings peace to everyone.”

He’s not wrong.

Sunrise and sunset gondola tours, including local guide and roundtrip transfer, from THB 1,400 (£32.50). Prebook via Facebook or at Pimalai Resort & Spa.

The island’s best hotel, Pimalai Resort & Spa, is a 30-minute drive away and supports Tung Yee Peng. The community receives all the tour costs of trips sold to Pimalai’s guests, with no commission deducted. Deluxe rooms cost from £110 in low season and £215 in high; includes breakfast and roundtrip transfers from Krabi airport.

Read more: Escape Bangkok and explore these hidden corners of Thailand by rail

Find out more about ethical and sustainable travel options, and other ways to support local communities and protect the environment during your stay at Responsible Thailand