I get that the decade has only just begun, but I’m going to go ahead and say it anyway. Koh Lipe is the disappointment of the decade.*

*(I wrote this back in January, before the current apocalypse.)

Allow me to provide a little back story. I think everyone is searching for their idyllic island paradise. Thanks to Alex Garland’s book, The Beach, an entire generation of backpackers flocked to Thailand, looking for that perfect slice of paradise. That place with crystal clear blue waters, perfect white sand beaches, rock formations out of another world, lush tropical jungles, and refreshing, cool waterfalls. Who doesn’t dream about such perfection? 

Of course in this day and age of social media, such perfect paradise places don’t stay as such for long. All it takes is one fabulous Instagram photo, and suddenly people from around the globe are showing up in droves to claim their very own slice of heaven. 

Six years ago I fell in love with Koh Tao, but it was already on every backpacker’s itinerary. Gone were the days of it being a sleepy little fishing village, unbeknownst to the average tourist. The locals used to pine over the island it had been 10-15 years previously, before the tourists. And it really got me thinking, what would such a place be like? And did any such place still exist? 

The grass is always greener on the other side, and the same is true of the Thai islands. There’s always a smaller island out there somewhere, near-impossible to get to, making it an uncommon tourist destination and a still-undeveloped piece of paradise. Back in those days, rumors of Koh Lipe were whispered amongst only those who had really been all over Thailand. Koh Lipe was so far south that you had to take a boat to a string of other islands first before finding its mythical beaches and blue lagoons. Koh Lipe was so tiny, that the average backpacker didn’t think it worth traveling so far out of the way for. No, back then, Koh Phi Phi was still the end of the Banana Pancake Trail. Koh Lipe was the island myth that Alex Garland’s book had you dreaming about. 

Six years later I find myself working my way up through Malaysia, and lo and behold, there is a direct ferry from Langkawi to Koh Lipe! What luck! I would finally get to see this legendary dollop in the middle of the Andaman Sea that I had been dreaming about for so long.

No, not luck, Lexi. Direct, twice-a-day ferries are not a sign of luck. They are a sign of isolation and tranquility getting squashed like an ant on a jelly donut. 

Having awoken early, I fell asleep on the ferry ride from Langkawi to Koh Lipe. I awoke groggy, and so unprepared. After quiet Langkawi, I was not prepared for how crowded Lipe would be. After coming from a Muslim country where everyone covered from head to toe, I was not prepared to suddenly arrive in the land of everyone’s ass cheeks hanging out of their shorts, and old European women sunbathing topless. I felt a strong wave of sensory overload. I was not prepared for the lady boys cat-calling, the narrow streets with competing restaurants showing off displays of freshly caught swordfish, the tourist prices… I remember the days when 100 baht for a meal was splurging. Here I didn’t see anything for less than 300 baht. 

The massage ladies all looked miserable, and I didn’t blame them. They had to sit there and watch hoards of people with white skin swarm these narrow streets on this island that was once beloved for being a quiet place. This was no Land of a Thousand Smiles. 

Mostly I was not prepared for the crowds. I knew I was arriving during high season, but I had not expected to be shoulder to shoulder with everyone on the narrow streets. This was not the tranquil atmosphere I had dreamt about. And these were not just backpackers either. These were families, from all over the world. The Thai islands always appealed to me in part because they were so out of the way to get to that families didn’t typically want to travel that far with their kids. Gone are those days though. Ferries now connect Lipe to all the surrounding major cities, meaning the beaches are filled with screaming kids. 

My hostel was horrendous. At $12 per night, I had thought I was splurging on a nicer hostel by Thai standards. That’s right, not all hostels are created equally. Well it turns out that prices in Koh Lipe double to triple during high season, and $12 was about as bargain basement as you could get. The room was so minuscule that the floor space was 99% occupied by everyone’s luggage. There was not a square inch of space to move around. I felt cramped and claustrophobic, so went to wash it all away in the shower. 

The shower was not much better. The shower caddy was completely rusted over and filled with previous guests’ old toiletries that they couldn’t be bothered to just throw away like responsible humans. The miniature hooks on the door were barley enough to keep my clothes dry. And the shower stall next to me being occupied meant that there was no water pressure left for me. 

I got dressed again, stumbled over the floor of luggage, and locked up my valuables in the miniature locker, then high tailed it out of there. It was just a room to sleep in. Surely the island would redeem itself after a little exploring. 

The streets were so narrow and crowded that I couldn’t shake the feeling of claustrophobia. I dodged around, always turning onto the street that looked the emptiest, which wasn’t saying much. I knew the island was tiny, only about one square mile, so getting lost wasn’t an issue. Eventually I saw signs pointing to Sunset Beach. Maybe there would be a nice spot to grab dinner there. Maybe this cluttered, suffocating feeling was just me needing to eat. 

Sunset Beach was meant to be the quiet beach on Koh Lipe, and I suppose it technically was. I arrived to find a hundred or so people already claiming their real estate, and peacefully gazing out towards the horizon as if they weren’t sharing this intimate space with 100 of their closest friends. There weren’t any bars or restaurants on this still beach, save for two on the far end, which I walked over to. Of course the prices were not just high season, tourist prices, but high season, tourist prices with a tax for the view. What was happening. This was not the Thailand I knew. I felt like I had fallen into an alternate reality dream where everything is familiar, but everything is also off just a little bit, and in a very unsettling way. 

On the opposite end of the beach was a small rocky outcrop, where only one older Thai man was sitting. I walked past the crowd of zombies, all gazing off into the distance like there was no one else around, and climbed the small rocky slope to perch myself away from everyone. 

Of course as soon as those arriving for the show saw that the beach was already full, and a petite girl in a sulu had managed to climb the rocks, all the newcomers were coming over to join me. Even elderly couples were scaling the rocks like it was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. I peeked around the corner. Off in the distance, a patch of sand was jutting out from Sunrise Beach. The strip of sand was more people than beach. What had I done? I was stuck here for 5 nights. 

The following day, I found myself wandering around, wondering what to do with myself since my entire budget was being blown on the hostel with no personal space and two overpriced meals per day. I found myself staring at a dive shop’s board, at which the resident instructor took his cue to offer me some information. 

After getting all the necessary info on diving, I asked where cheaper food might be found. Surly the entire island couldn’t be tourist prices. A girl who had been hanging out for a few months because she loved the island so much, kindly offered some suggestions. 

That evening I felt better about myself. I would go get a properly-priced meal, and then suck it up and pay the $95 for two tanks, because diving was going to be the only redeeming feature about this place. I would be blowing my budget, but this might be the only place I cared to dive on the trip. 

The first restaurant the girl had suggested was packed, with no place to sit, so I went on to the second. The second place had one empty table left, and a never-ending menu. Great, the places with everything on the menu are never as good. Always go for the places that serve a handful of dishes. Despite the dictionary of a menu, in a country renowned for its vegetarian options, nearly everything catered to a Western appetite for meat. I couldn’t find any curries, or the tom kha soup that had been recommended, so I ordered two of the few vegetable dishes, which really weren’t all that filling. 

Out of nowhere, a sudden bout of sad, loneliness came over me. I hated it here. What was I doing in this strange, awful place? Maybe it had something to do with the week of family events I was missing back home. Maybe it had something to do with this place I had dreamed about for so long feeling like a scene out of a documentary on overpopulation, combined with a dystopian novel where everyone serenely floats about as if absolutely nothing disconcerting is afoot. All the other backpackers I had talked to had offered the same, “It’s so quiet here, isn’t it?” It felt like being stuck in some virtual reality where the characters only have a handful of unimaginative phrases they are programmed to say. 

I speedily made my way back to my cramped floor full of luggage and coffin of a bed. At least it had a real comforter instead of the thin blankets most of the other hostels had handed out. A wise man once told me that almost any problem can be solved with a pillow and a blanket.

I no longer had any desire to pay $95 for two dives that I might get to see barracudas on. This was not Thailand. This was a bad dream, and I couldn’t wait to wake up.