Railay Rediscovered

First published in Options, The Edge Malaysia, Feb 21, 2015

Magic happens when rock, sea and sand come together in an isolated peninsula in southern Thailand

When I first visited Railay, many more years ago than I care to recall, there was no airport at Krabi. The trip involved an overnight train journey from KL, stepping down at the Malaysian-Thai border for Immigration formalities in the morning before continuing on to Haadyai.  A small minibus, with passengers and luggage squished inside, wended its swaying way on Thai B-roads from Haadyai to Krabi town, then a quiet backwater.  The last part of the journey involved a songtheaw (longtail boat) for the 20 minute journey over the sea, hugging the coastline, which was overgrown with mangrove forests, beneath pale and towering cliffs.

The Railay peninsula hove into view, a sliver of golden beach shimmering like a mirage beneath the massive hulk of orange cliffs, festooned with dense vegetation. It was like discovering a hidden, secret place, sundered from the rest of the world.

 Much has changed since, with a short, direct flight from KL to the modern airport at Krabi, but the sense of discovery has not. So many years later, my first view of the peninsula stirred a sense of discovery within me, for it was suddenly familiar: giant limestone cliffs towering into the blue sky, with their pale, pockmarked walls dripping liquid stone, topped with dark, dense vegetation. There was the green tranquil bay as we sped in from a choppy sea into calm waters.  There were mangrove trees by the beach, and more buildings, but there was also the forest, and the coconut trees.

The boat drifted right in on a high tide, to a cemented walkway that hadn’t existed, literally to the doorstep of my hotel.  The walkway extended all the way along the nonexistent beach with the sea sloshing over it in places.  A crowd of low-rise buildings rose on the other side of the walkway.  The hotel was far more luxurious than the almost backpacker-digs I had stayed in years ago, but the same sense of serenity, of being in an exotic faraway place, overcame me with the warm sense of reliving a dream.

The Railay or Phra-nang peninsula, as it is also referred to, is a small peninsula thrust out into the Andaman Sea from the Thai mainland. Although physically connected to the mainland, is also cut off from it by tall and impenetrable limestone hills. The only way in and out is by boat.

The peninsula is long, narrow and small, with three beaches: the sunset facing Railay West beach, a mere 10-minute stroll from the sunrise-facing Railay East, while the peninsula ends with the southern-facing Phra-Nang beach. Limestone hills and dense vegetation define the landscape. Offshore, limestone islands, knobby, irregular lumps overgrown by vegetation, float serenely on the aquamarine sea.

Railay West is a broad scimitar of golden, fine sand, guarded on either end by dramatic, vertical cliffs.  Railay East has no sandy beach to speak of, but a mangrove forest instead, while Phra-Nang is small and exquisite, with limestone hills and caves imparting the feeling of a deserted island.

What was once makeshift accommodation beneath coconut trees has evolved, over the years, into various grades of upmarket, more comfortable accommodation. At the tip of the peninsula is the super-luxurious, swanky Rayavadee resort, with access to all three beaches. The accommodation on Railay West, exposed to a constant breeze, the broad beach and a spectacular view commands higher prices than those on Railay East, which has a more intimate feel, with the mangrove forests close by.  The peninsula hasn’t been overwhelmed by visitor facilities, or overrun by sleazy neon-lit bars and parlours, and it retains a certain innocence, with no motorized transport, and no need for any, given the proximity of everything.  

There is a quietude, of warm cosy lighting, lush gardens, narrow crooked pathways between buildings with dappled patches of shade from foliage overhead. There are hotels for a range of budgets, with beachside restaurants offering fresh barbecued seafood to small eateries serving local Thai food for budget travelers.  There are small provision shops, travel and tour agents, a couple of massage parlours, and even a muay thai ring at one of the bars. In the middle of the peninsula are unpaved walkways in the shade of limestone cliffs and dense vegetation, with small restaurants serving som tam (green papaya salad) and mango sticky rice dessert with plates of noodles.

One of the major visitor pursuits on Railay is rock-climbing. There are about a dozen rock-climbing schools scattered over the peninsula, small home-grown outfits with cheerful instrutors and a can-do attitude. For a fixed fee, schools provide all equipment, the services of an instructor and access to bolted routes for various grades of climbs.

Given the almost irresistible locale, vertical limestone cliffs overlooking golden beaches, tranquil bays and offshore islands, the attraction of rock-climbing is immediate and obvious.  The climbing routes are just a few minutes walk away from most of the accommodation, although visitors also boat in from Krabi town or nearby Ao-nang beach for a day of rock-climbing adventure and hopes of a decent tan.

There are dozens of mapped, bolted routes of varying grades of difficulty, and an international climbing competition every year. From beginner walls to technically challenging overhangs, the variety and scenic splendour of climbing at Railay attracts visitors from the world over. There are various accounts of how rock-climbing took off on the peninsula, but it started in the waning years of the twentieth century.

When I first visited Railay all those years ago, I met a lithe Thai man on one of the walls. His name was “King” and with his encouragement, I clambered up a steep section to a viewpoint overlooking the peninsula. Rock-climbing in Railay was in its infancy then, and King invited me to come back one day to do a course with his rock-climbing school. I found out that he was one of the early pioneers, one of a handful of local Thais who first took up, and later started teaching, rock climbing on the peninsula. 

On this trip, many years later, I sought and found King Rock Climbing school, one of the earliest and most established rock-climbing schools on Railay. King, whose real name is Somporn Suebhait, had since taken up residence in Australia, but his school and his legacy live on, for he publishes books on climbing routes, and returns regularly for visits, while rock-climbing has exploded in popularity. On any day, weather permitting, novice rock climbers can be seen struggling up beginner routes, with Thai instructors belaying and exhorting encouragement.

Rock-climbing is a throwback to an earlier period when Railay was a backpacker’s destination, when the peninsula was little known, accommodation was simple but cheap, and the combination of sun, sea, beach, sand and cliffs an irresistible invitation to a bohemian, antiauthoritarian lifestyle.  In the intervening years, inevitably, the better-heeled traveler discovered Railay, to be followed rapidly by respectability, plush digs and the comforts of home.

But the idea and the spirit of the freewheeling Phra-nang peninsula still exists, a little distance away.  At the far end of Railay West beach, where, many years ago, there was a sometimes impromptu nudist enclave, the beach ends in a matted tangle of rocks and vegetation where the cliffs come down to the beach. At high tide, it’s impassable, but when the tide is out, a narrow rocky path is revealed, starting from the beach. It’s also possible to walk on the seabed when the tide has receded, around this narrow rocky headland, to the other side.

It’s a 10-15 minute walk, and on the other side is another beach, a narrow ribbon of sand sandwiched between sea and forbidding cliffs.  It’s exposed at low tide, but submerged at high tide. A few minutes walk further, the beach broadens out, with a ribbon of wooden lodgings and small restaurants pressed up against the dense forest.

This is Ton Sai beach, where the living is cheap, the accommodation basic, and the restless spirit lives on. Many visitors stay here for weeks or months, with rock-climbing being one of the main attractions.  Many of the cliffs just behind the buildings start with difficult overhangs, with the rock-climbing crowd here being more experienced, tackling technically challenging routes. The whole mood is more serious and quiet, with individual or small groups of rock-climbers concentrating on their craft.

Ton Sai is more isolated than Railay, although there’s a narrow, ankle-twisting hour-long hike through dense rocky forest to Railay when the tide is high. The backpacker culture I encountered those many years ago continues to thrive, in the happy isolation of Ton Sai beach, at the confluence of sun, sea, salt-spray and limestone cliffs.

People discover themselves on Railay, something that comes from living in the moment. Moments become special because you notice them, the sea breeze, the sound of waves rushing in to shore, a burning blue sky and the transparent sheets of water as they break on the beach. Sunrises and sunsets are phantasmagoric displays of colour-streaked sky above shimmering sands when time stands still. Perhaps it isn’t Railay itself, but what it exposes, the sloughing away, one layer after another like the peeling of an onion, of the illusions, the misconceptions, the perceptions and the constant barrage of information from living in the modern, noisy, civilized world, to reveal, beneath all that, the discovery that the magic is not without, but within.