Writing
Coming Up For Air
I’m face down in the water, floating in rhythm with the waves. There’s a comfortable silence, broken only by the distant hum of a boat engine somewhere further out at sea.
I’m face down in the water, floating in rhythm with the waves. There’s a comfortable silence, broken only by the distant hum of a boat engine somewhere further out at sea.
Below me, a large green turtle lifts itself slowly from the sea bed. It stops eating the seaweed tangled amongst the coral and begins rising towards the surface for air.
I come up beside it, hoping to catch that brief moment where its small head breaks through the water before disappearing again.
As I do, I notice a clear plastic bag drifting across the surface.
It’s not the first I’ve seen. It won’t be the last either.
A green turtle, Gili Meno, Indonesia.
Travelling sharpens moments like this. Outstanding natural beauty sitting beside visible reminders of our impact upon it.
At home, that impact feels easier to ignore. Buried beneath routine, infrastructure and the general noise of daily life. Away from it, especially near the sea, it feels harder not to notice.
In Langkawi, Malaysia, early morning walks along the white sands of Tanjung Rhu become interrupted by piles of litter washed in by the tide. Plastic bottles, wrappers, fragments of things impossible to identify. The sort of debris that looks as though it has travelled a long way to end up somewhere beautiful.
I start bringing a small bin bag with me each morning. More out of frustration than optimism.
After a few days, I begin noticing a difference. The bag feels lighter. The beach looks cleaner. For a moment, it feels strangely satisfying.
Then the tide comes back in.
Litter picking in Langkawi, Malaysia.
One thing I notice repeatedly in Langkawi is how much of the litter appears to come from neighbouring Thailand, sitting just across the water from this corner of northern Malaysia. Thai branding stamped across faded plastic packaging scattered along otherwise beautiful beaches.
Thailand drawing much of the tourism attention, Langkawi receiving part of the aftermath.
In the Philippines, around the islands of Palawan, the damage feels less physical at first.
Places like Hidden Beach, no longer especially hidden, become crowded with tour boats circling outside narrow limestone openings. Hundreds of tourists drift in the water whilst diesel fumes hang heavily in the hot air. I’m there too, squeezing through the same gaps, GoPro in hand, part of the same problem.
The line between wanting to experience somewhere and quietly contributing to its erosion often feels uncomfortably thin.
‘Hidden’ Beach entrance, Palawan
In Sri Lanka, crowds gather along the shoreline waiting for turtles to surface. People edge further into the water holding phones above their heads. Plastic bags drift nearby. Someone pushes a turtle slightly to improve the angle of a photo.
No one else seems especially surprised by any of it.
Beside me, another turtle comes up for air.
I feel like doing the same.
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I’m face down in the water, floating in rhythm with the waves. There’s a comfortable silence, broken only by the distant hum of a boat engine somewhere further out at sea.