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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Rain…I don’t mind
Usually, a rainy day would put me in a bad mood. Perhaps surprising, given I come from the north of England, but it’s never something one really looks forward to, especially when travelling in the hope of sunny climes.
Usually, a rainy day would put me in a bad mood. Perhaps surprising, given I come from the north of England, but it’s never something one really looks forward to, especially when travelling in the hope of sunny climes.
And yet, on this latest trip, I’ve noticed a shift in mindset. Rainy days no longer bring the same sense of mardiness they once did. Of course, they can be a welcome relief from the heat, but more importantly they feel like nature’s way of saying, have a day off.
A wet day means fewer possibilities. No long sightseeing loops, no afternoon spent lying on a beach, comatose under the sun. Instead, it gently forces your hand towards the quieter things. The life admin. The laundry. Sorting through the ridiculous number of photographs you’ve taken. Or finally sitting down and finding your rhythm with writing again.
Like life itself, even the most idyllic stretches have a gloomy day now and again. And while it’s never wise to ignore how we feel, rain has become a small reminder that time still passes, plans still shift, and there are often quiet positives to be found in moments that initially feel like a disappointment.
Sometimes, all you need is permission to slow down.
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I had a random thought the other day. Ironically, it involved Karl Pilkington.
In a world of endless “Top 10 things to do in…” lists and “Come with me for a day in…” videos, Karl Pilkington may have accidentally become one of the most useful travel influencers of the modern era. Which is unfortunate, because he’d probably hate being described that way.