Emerald Isle

An evening in the sea

I opened my eyes after a fitful nap to see patterns of dappled sunlight playing on the sheer curtains of the room. The late afternoon stillness, broken only by birdsong, was at once strange and familiar. I had woken up on afternoons like this many years ago when I spent my summer vacations at my grandparents’ sea-side house in Bombay. The first thought on waking up then would be the beach – although I would have to wait until my aunts or cousins finished their naps and conceded to take me. After all these years, afternoon siestas are no longer a part of my life, and it takes something out of the ordinary for me to have a good long nap. Today it was the early start of the day at 5 am and the 7 hour travel thereafter to Tioman Island. And here I was, after over two decades, thinking of the beach once again the first thing on waking up from a siesta.

Tioman’s allure lies partly in the fact that it is utterly unpopulated save for the 6-7 villages that dot its coastline. The interior is pretty much a vast hilly rainforest capped by the highest peak, Gunung Kajang. I had taken a 1.5 hour ferry ride through the South China Sea from Tanjong Gemuk on peninsular Malaysia’s eastern coast to get here. The only other way was to fly in on one of the tiny propeller planes from Malaysia or Singapore1. The ‘villages’ along the coast are mere settlements around major beach resorts, each with its own jetty, for there are no roads connecting them.

With its single street running along the coast, lined by mango and jackfruit trees and sea food restaurants and a few official buildings (Kastams House, Balai Polis), Tekek is the largest of these villages and the closest semblance of a sea-side town on the island. It seemed to have a school too, for on our way to our resort from the Tekek jetty, the driver of the rickety ‘resort-bus’ picked up this school kid and dropped him at a courtyard with a mango tree. Apparently the afternoon resort-bus doubled up as his school bus.

The mountain stream meets the sea

Berjaya Beach Resort near Tekek is Tioman’s largest beach resort. With its sprawling grounds, little wooden chalets beneath shady trees, a couple of miles of beachfront, a beach-side bar, a poolside restaurant and facilities for snorkelling and water-sports, it ticks all the right check boxes. Within a couple of days, I got to know most of my fellow holiday-makers by sight. Besides the beach I saw them every day at the dining hall for breakfast, lunch and dinner. There was the tall leggy Slovakian woman with a square face, her  surly bearded boy-friend, the fat Briton who looked older than his years, his wife, his daughter and the Philippino nanny (the nanny seemed to spend most of her time in the sea, she was certainly having her holiday), the two caramel complexioned kids with their black father and freckled white mother, the double-chinned balding Russian with a wife who looked half his age, the Indian family with their grand-mom who was most grateful when I pointed out the vegetarian dishes at the dinner buffet, the three middle-aged Australian women who looked like sisters and always swam in the sea in the early mornings, and the thin Frenchman who looked to be in his 40s and had come over on a holiday by himself.

Morning at the bay

Early mornings were the best times to curl up on a beach-chair with a book, as sunlight sneaked up the bay and shadows of the mountain receded. The sand still cool from the night, the beach would be pretty much deserted except for a couple of the Australian sisters out for their morning swim. Every now and then small silver fish would jump out of the waves like a spray of droplets glinting in the sunlight. As the sun rose higher, the sea would start showing its blues and turquoises. When I felt the warm touch of the sun over the coconut palms, I would head in for breakfast. As the morning wore off, the mid-day heat turned the sands blazing white and the sea a blinding blue. It was in this heat that I once spotted a group of Chinese tourists jumping in the sand in synchrony for a camera that was set on self-timer. I don’t know if they managed to get that picture of exuberant mid-air glee that they were so hell-bent on taking, but they certainly provided some entertainment.

Every now and then the swishing of the palms and the lapping of the sea would be broken by the roar of a motorbike ferrying supplies. All motorbikes in Tioman seemed to have improvised side-cars attached to them. I saw long trains of these three wheelers arrive at the jetty in time for the arrival of the passenger ferry, go down a separate ramp built specially for them and return laden with vegetables, fruit, meat, dairy, bread and supplies of every other kind for the resort. It served as a reminder that Tioman was an island, cut-off from the mainland, and dependent on the ferries for supplies for every requirement.

The local people were small and skinny with Asian features and a rich coffee brown complexion gifted by the unrelenting sun. A Rahman, the boatman who took us out to see the coral reefs had a rather dessicated look on his dark wrinkled face from a life spent under the tropical sun and bloodshot eyes (perhaps from the drinks customary to a man of his profession). Employees at the resort were ruddier, but had the same slight build and Asian features, with the women often wearing the ‘hijab’2.  They were used to interacting with people of different nationalities, but it was clear that spoken English was not one of their strengths. Some of the junior waitresses had a positively deer-in-the-headlights look when we ordered food off the menu rather than choosing the buffet. But for the most part the tourists’ needs were well taken care of through a combination of broken English, sign language and anticipation of the guests’ needs by the staff with years of experience dealing with tourists.

Kayaking to Renggis Island

Old Rahman, the boatman, had advised us, “You should put a few pieces of bread in a clear plastic bottle filled with water when you go snorkelling. That way the fish crowd round you for the bread, but can’t finish it off”. Renggis Island, a small piece of rock no bigger than a city block, lay a ten minute boat ride away from the beach surrounded by coral reefs and covered with dense brush-wood. As I dropped down into the water from the boat, I forgot in an instant the burning afternoon sun, and instead marvelled at the way its refracted light played on the forest of corals underneath. Life seemed to move in slow motion underwater, as my own movements slowed down, and noises of the air were drowned out by the gurgle of bubbles. Fish of incredible iridescent colours calmly moved in and out of the reefs in this whole new world just beneath the surface. Rainbow coloured parrot fish plucked dead bits of coral from the branches, tiny red clownfish hid in sea anemones’ tentacles, sea-urchins grouped together on the sand where the sea-bed was uncovered, and whole schools of yellow and black banded butterfly fish swam about in unison. I cannot imagine a world where light and colour play a more central role to the very existence of life; a coral reef probably represents one of the finest creations of nature based on these elements.    

A sea of azure

Not surprisingly, Tioman was selected as one of the world’s most beautiful islands by the TIME magazine in the 1970s. It looks stunning at mid-day when the sun blazes over a sea of azure, at dusk when the sea holds the fading grey light from the sky long after it is dark on the land, and on moonlit nights when the cloudbanks glow pearly white against a pitch black sky.  Its beaches are still home to nesting turtles3 and its virgin rainforests provide shelter to a multitude of creatures. It has resorts to cater to the international tourist but so far, seems to have avoided getting drowned by a deluge of tourists by being just remote enough. While there are talks of augmenting the tiny air-strip to accommodate larger jets, and more beach resorts being built by appropriating what were turtle nesting grounds, for now Tioman still has that ‘paradise-in-the-middle-of-nowhere’ feel.

The best times I spent on Tioman were undoubtedly the evenings in the sea. The sea-floor was shallow for a good distance from the coast and the water warm, clear and calm. A cold mountain stream ran into the sea near the resort, creating a delightful mix of warm and cold currents. Go chest-deep and I could turn back to see the resort dwarfed by the mountains behind. The mist-wreathed forest and the gathering thunderclouds on the mountain would be bathed in the soft evening light. I stood in the water for a long time one evening with the sun on my back, watching a pale moon rise over the forest. As the sun dipped lower, a rainbow reached down from the clouds to the mountain top. And the cry of a fishing eagle circling overhead floated faintly above the waves....

1. The air strip at Ayer Batang has got to be one of the most picturesque - and difficult - in the world, hemmed in by the mountains on two sides and the sea on the third.

2. The scarf or veil that must cover the head, as ordained by Islamic customs

3. http://www.juaraturtleproject.com/

The Island of Galloping Tides

Dawn breaks over Granville*

I had seen the urban delights of Paris, but I wasn’t ready to leave without sampling some of the charms of the French countryside, even though I only had time for a quick 2 day sojourn.

The coasts of Normandy and Brittany are about a 4 hour drive away from Paris. Here, at the mouth of the Cousenon river, about half a mile out from the coast, lies one of the greatest natural and architectural wonders of France. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the third most visited tourist site in France after the Eiffel and Versailles: Mont St. Michel. We decided to make an overnight trip, visiting Versailles on the way and staying over at a seaside town in Normandy called Granville. It was a cold rainy day in Paris as I started out early in the morning in a rented SUV, with my brother and two of my Singaporean friends.

Our visit to Versailles on the way was a big disappointment-we had to stand in a serpentine queue in freezing rain for over two hours just to enter the chateau.

The road to Granville

The chateau is always crowded, but on that day it was worse: everyone had been forced indoors by the rain. The magnificent baroque halls and passageways felt like packed subway train compartments at rush hour. We left Versailles exhausted, cold, damp, and disappointed by its crushing crowds and overpriced sandwiches.

Sunset enroute Granville

The drive onward to Granville was what saved the day. Soon after we left Versailles in the late afternoon, the clouds opened up to reveal the most pristine golden sunshine bathing the rolling green hills and pastures. A white church steeple stuck out amidst a clump of trees here, and a windmill stood silhouetted against the broken clouds on the hill there. The road ran like a shining ribbon up and down the undulating land and the evening sun glinted off the windows of distant cars on the road ahead. We reached Granville well after sunset, and made our way to the Hotel ibis Granville Port de Plaisance in the dark. We could tell that the sea was very close by the salty breeze and sound of waves but couldn’t see a thing in the darkness. That evening we were the only diners at the hotel restaurant, besides one other local couple.

Yachts in the Granville Harbour

Two Indian boys and two Chinese girls must’ve seemed like an outright Asian invasion in that restaurant in the sleepy French sea-side town.

First light touches Granville*

As expected, the menu was French and it did not help that the waiter spoke no English. Had that couple on the neighbouring table not taken pity on us, I am sure we were in for some gastronomic (mis)adventures that night. (In fact I did have one when I mistakenly ordered some sea-snails-bulots-and then had to eat them to save face, as I have mentioned in my earlier post). 

I awoke at dawn the next day to the sound of thunder and sweeping rain, and I was afraid our luck with sunshine of the previous evening had run out. But weather can be fickle on the coast of the English Channel. Within an hour the rain cleared. As the light seeped into the sky we to our surprise saw that our hotel was built on a large jetty jutting out into the sea. Hundreds of anchored fishing boats rocked gently right next to us as the first streaks of sunlight pierced through the clouds. It was a pity we couldn’t spend more time here. After a quick walk around in the 12 degree chill of the morning and we set off right away to Mont St. Michel as the sunshine sparkled again on the glistening roads and soaked shrubbery.

Chilly morning in rural France

Breakfast awaits

Breakfast was at an unidentified village on the way consisting of two rows of low houses lining the road. The baker, the Carrefour grocery store, the dentist, the lawyer and the pub (which doubled up as the coffee shop in the morning) were all within shouting distance of each other. We bought fresh cakes and croissants from a much amused lady in the bakery (she looked at us like we were the first group of South and East Asians to be seen in her village) and settled down in the neighbouring coffee shop. Nothing can taste better than freshly baked croissants and steaming hot chocolate in a little French village coffee-shop. Of course it helps if it is a cold sunny morning after the rain.

First look at Mont Saint Michel

Stained Glass
in the Abbey

Mont St. Michel floats like a mirage on the horizon long before you reach it. It is a rocky island in the bay off the mouth of the Cousenon river, crowned by an abbey dedicated to the eponymous saint. His gilded statue watches over the island and the surrounding country from the top of the church spire, 170 metres above the sea level. Mont St. Michel’s documented history dates back well over a 1000 years to AD 709 when the bishop of Avranches built the first church here. It has been a place of worship and retreat for monks for most of that history. But the island also came to be used as a fortress during the wars that plagued Europe in the Middle Ages, and it is not difficult to see why. From its isolated location in the bay it commands a panoramic view of the coasts of Normandy and Brittany for miles inland, so that it is impossible to approach unseen. The approach itself is perilous: until a causeway was built across the mud-flats in the bay in recent times, there was no safe way to approach it. The bay surrounding the island is inundated by some of the largest tides in Europe. The difference between the high and low watermark can be up to 15 metres. They are also among some of the fastest tides in Europe. The locals call them the ‘galloping tides’, for the waters are said to coming in ‘at the speed of galloping horses’. And as if this weren’t enough, the way across the mud-flats is fraught with danger: quicksand, disorienting fog, and a sea that can encircle unwary travellers.

Wide Open Spaces

Shuttle buses ferry tourists to and fro across the causeway today. But enthusiasts are welcome to walk down if they like, and considering the fine weather that morning, that is what we did. You only realize the scale and the enormity of the place when you stand on the causeway looking towards the island. It was low tide that morning. Miles and miles of grey mudflats stretched out on either side and, beyond them, stretched the marshes and farmlands of Normandy and Brittany. White chalk cliffs rose out far in the distance and pools of sea water left behind by the retreating tide glinted sapphire-blue in the brilliant sunshine. The silence was absolute (when we were not talking), and calls of mallard ducks flying high across the mud-flats floated through air. In the vast sunlit silence, I walked for the most part to the rhythm of my breathing and my footsteps.

National Pride

Massive Stone Structures

As we approached the island, we could see massive ramparts that were probably built during the years of war, with the French flag flying atop. Mont St. Michel was the only fortress in Normandy that did not fall to the English during the Hundred Years War and is still seen as a symbol of French resistance and nationalistic pride. As we passed through the through the village at the base of the island, we went up a set of increasingly steep paths and staircases up towards the abbey. The village serves as a reminder that the principal objective of this place today is no longer religious seclusion or wartime protection: it is tourism. Every shop overflows with postcards and mementos and every restaurant offers an overpriced menu. (It was interesting to know that this area does have its own signature dish: uniquely flavoured local lamb. Sheep graze on the polder lands - lands reclaimed from the sea - along the coast. The salty meadows support salt-water-loving plants that the sheep feed on. This gives the meat its unique flavour).

Tapestries of stone and lichen

Canyon

The abbey itself is a colossus: an engineering marvel built on a rock that did not have enough level surface to hold its foundations. Immense crypts were built under the church to create a platform large enough to support each of its wings. A cluster of stone buildings abuts the church. They house granaries, living quarters for the monks and arms and garrison for the fighting armies among other things and blend in seamlessly with the stone-work of the abbey itself. Centuries of salt water, wind and sun have weathered exteriors of these walls into gorgeous tapestries of stone streaked with lichen. A narrow cobblestone path winds its way up to the church though the soaring buttresses and pinnacles on either side. As I climbed up, the crick in my neck reminded me that I’d been looking almost vertically upwards at the stonework for the better part of my ascent through this canyon. The statue of St. Michel was watching me every step of the way from his perch high atop the steeple. Emerging out of the shadows of the path and into the bright sunshine of the church courtyard at the top, it was the wind that took my breath away at first. Then it was the view.

Shadows of Clouds

The Statue of St.Michel

The Abbey

Walking was difficult across the courtyard as strong gusts of wind shoved me this way and that. A little stub of a ticket I held in my hand was snatched and blown 3 or 4 storeys high in a dizzying arc before being hurled down like a stone-only to be yanked up again inches before it smashed on the rough stones. The wind whipped my hair and tugged at my jacket and the ground slipped beneath my feet as I looked over the edge onto the sea-bed far below. Clouds floated in silence above the boundless mudflats and far-away farmlands lands of the coast, belying the cold gusty ferocity of the wind on the ground. If this was Mont St. Michel on a bright sunny autumn day at low tide, I shuddered to imagine what the place would feel like in a howling storm on a dark winter’s day surrounded by an angry heaving sea. I’m sure the images of ‘Escape from Alcatraz’ that flashed through my mind would pale in comparison to the real thing. The isolation of the place was on starkly visible from the courtyard-a mile of seabed and marsh lay between us and the nearest human settlement. Before the radio and telephone connected them to the mainland, there was just no way for people to call for help-except signalling with bonfires may be. Only the sky and the sea that embraced them would be witness to their struggles. 

The seabed and the marshes*

Looking out to the English Channel

Solitary walker on the mud-flats*

After the blustery courtyard, the interior of the church couldn’t have been more peaceful and reassuring. The constant rush of the wind in my ears suddenly went silent as I stepped in the high vaulted interior. It was at least a couple of degrees warmer.  I could hear echoes of shuffling footsteps of visitors as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Logs of light filtered through the high glass windows, falling at an angle to the walls, as if supporting them. A huge church organ stood in lit by a light beam at a side overlooking rows of pews in the shadows. It was a good time for us to rest our aching legs and spend a moment in silence to catch our breath  I could not help wondering what living here was like for Mont St. Michel’s monks over the centuries: isolated from the world, with only echoes of their own footsteps and the wailing wind for company. Did they find their God in this beautiful yet heart-wrenchingly lonely place? A week or two might be nice, but I shuddered at the thought of a lifetime here.

Restoration work on the Bay of Mont Saint Michel

 Intrepid explorers of the sea-bed*

On my way back, I learnt from the UNESCO signboards that Mont St. Michel in recent times is no longer completely surrounded by water except during the highest tides of the year, because of extensive silting of the bay. Reduced flow of water from the Cousenon due to activities on the shore is mainly responsible. I remember the sinking feeling as I read the signboard - the story sounded eerily familiar to so many other stories of environmental disasters from around the world. But in this case, there seemed to be some hope. The signboard went on to talk about the major restoration work on since 2005. A new dam being built on the Cousenon, dredging and de-silting of the bay and a new causeway that will allow water to flow freely underneath it are some of the initiatives under this restoration project to return the area to its natural state.

The more I read about them, the more remarkable I found the concerted efforts being put in to restore Mont St. Michel’s former glory. Such decisive action to reverse the ill-effects of human activities on the land is rare. But then, Mont St. Michel is a remarkable place, an extraordinary culmination of the work of nature and man. It certainly deserves to retain the romance it has always held for centuries.

_________________________________________________________________________________

* These snaps have been clicked by my brother, who always makes me wish he would take more of such photographs