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Phi Phi Islands

+348
Phi Phi Address
Do not wait to book your activities
river@river_header_activity
GetYourGuide
16.55 £
GetYourGuide
42.70 £

72 reviews of Phi Phi Islands

Great Stay

Our stay at Phi Phi Don was truthfully by coincidence. We were staying in Phuket and we passed one of the thousands of posts where they sell tours and saw the offer to spend a night at Phi Phi Don. We thought it was a good opportunity since we wanted to tour Phi Phi Lee. Phi Phi Don is not a very big island, and most of the shops and restaurants were at the port. We decided to stay in the andaman legacy hotel, even though it was a bit far away from the center. Then again, it was the only one available.
Anyway, when we arrived at the hotel we were very surprised. It was isolated, but still only 10 minutes away from the center, and it was very nice and had a nice pool. The only thing is that there is a Muslim church next door and at 5am, they burst a song out through the megaphone.

Anyhow, the ferry and overnight stay at the Andaman Legacy was about 1700 bats, or 40 euros (2 people).
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Gorgeous island with many opportunities...

Excellent

Gorgeous island with many opportunities to kayak, boat or booze cruise, hike, party, relax, and take in amazing tropical views. Lots of tourists make it a little overwhelming.

+30

Escape from Phi Phi

The attendants hold the boat firmly to the pier and herd us out. Like dozens of clumsy and clueless cattle at an auction, we tumble forth out of the rickety boat onto the wooden dock leading to town. We have arrived from Phuket to the Andaman Sea’s crown-jewel: Koh Phi Phi.

I imagine words and scenes I have long associated with the southern Thai islands.

The island appears as a salted cashew nut that broke when it hit the hard sea just offshore. At its ends, two huge shrub-covered humps of limestone rise through the billowing blue water and tower just below the white checkered sky. Hidden coves of still water paint the high and sharp and green rocks on its still surface so when one cuts through the water it appears as if you are climbing to the heavens. The island’s curved spine is a hodgepodge of lush vegetation fronted on both sides by powdered sands as white as milk. The canopied vines shade elevated wooden cottages – like big brown crabs - with verandas overlooking hibiscus and dewdrop lined pathways descending over the sandy floor to the beach and the still water. In the sweating and swaying palm trees, light attacks their green leaves while rainbowed insects leisurely munch on the serrated ends. The cool sand easily swallows bare feet as nectar-drunk hummingbirds dart from one flower to another desperate for more sweets. The tide is out and dozens of long, colorful wooden boats rest on the edge of a puddled and thirsty strip of sand running seemingly infinite to the end of the world. The horizon is water and water is the horizon. And as the sun sets, its colors form a long flashlight lighting the way to the hereafter. In the distance a motored boat jet lashes toward the island sending the wave-less water up in a murderous rage.


Bronzed-skinned, scantily-dressed, shades-sporting white boys and girls cram the island’s roadways. I pass a scuba shop then a bar then another scuba shop then a souvenir-stall then a bar then another bar then a hotel. The Thai people working their hotels, riding their bicycles, selling their goods, seem resigned to the inevitable truth: We are dependent on tourism. And yet, as a saunter on, I realize that it is white people employed at these scuba shops, or outside these bars. They talk to me in their friendly accents; they suggest I take a trip with them. Their friendliness appalls me. I had grown accustomed to dealing with superficiality in my travels, locals feigning friendliness to support their own livelihoods. This I understand. This I respect. In my mind, I argue with these whites. What are you doing here? Why won’t you leave? Spend your money, support local industry, improve local infrastructure and get out.

The inhabitants of the island might tell the story of a giant ve stole a handful of cashews from a gargantuan tree on the mainland. As he scampered away into the sea, he lifted the load over his head and waded gently out. He quickly found he had taken too many and did stop to pick up that one that fell so loudly behind him. Plop, it splashed and shook and calmed. Had it not been for the giant’s hurry, the inhabitants could not guess where they might have ended up. Separated from their cashew brothers and torn from the mainland’s spider-legged tree, the inhabitants grew up without the wisdom of tradition or predictability of practice. They caught and cleaned fish and burnt and cleared the forests in their own way. Throughout their history, independence was the prize, isolation the cost. But when the fish went sour and the coconuts fell down, the little cashew dropped in the middle of the sea saw fat and pink tongues wagging in the distance after its salty sides.

In my room, the electrical fan rattles and spins inching from left to right and back again. The dull propellers can only move an atom of fat air before it quiets and hangs again over the room like a thick down made from the plumpest geese. The mattress is flung against the far wall with only a sliver of sheet hiding its terrible history. The two shirtless dread-locked white men drink and smoke on stools on the balcony next to mine, their eyes glued to the rising moon over the palm-fringed beach. Their backs are as pink as the neon lights advertising happy hour. Sand has devoured their flip-flops. I hear Bob Marley playing and downstairs a woman convinces two young men to enter her bar. Drink specials.

I smoke and watch You-Tube videos. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I am stuck here. I cannot leave earlier than I had planned. The boys next door lay out the night’s activities. They drink and grow louder. They are boisterous, naïve yet arrogant – a decidedly dangerous mix. They talk of girls and the like. They talk of getting drunk and the like. The island carries an expectation of hedonism, an expectation of experience. As if, somehow, here, and not there, you can become the person you were born to be: unencumbered, instinctual, primal. The island is a Me-Becoming-Museum. And yet, as the night beckons, I feel that this admittedly beautiful island has become synonymous not with authenticity or self-awareness but with synthetic plastic - artificial and fake.

The next morning I rise early – it is relatively cool and quiet. The revelers have just gone to bed. The wonderful Thai long-boats rest on the sand – the tide is out. I step over their ropes and walk the beach and back. The water shimmers in the distance; the limestone peaks rise. Trees hang over the beach. I think of time when it was only an untouched cashew in the middle of the sea.
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