We leave Hong Kong early on a misty Tuesday morning, happy to be escaping the foul and worsening city air. Despite the unaccommodating time of day, A and N are all smiles (they even put up with my ritual quest for sour plum-- an in-flight staple, along with a copy of the latest Vanity Fair). 

Three hours and a bumpy plane ride later, we land in thick, 32 degree heat. The sun, despite its strength, lights the sky gently. Puffy clouds chase each other across the quiet blue. We drive through the town, and take in the landscape-- the lush, difficult vegetation tumbling in on rough farmland; the long-horned cows slumped to the ground, and the kids playing a brave game of soccer on a primary-school pitch.

Above: Amanpuri: the view from the villa’s private terrace, overlooking the bay.

Before long, we pull up to our villa at Amanpuri. This much-feted jewel in the crown of the Aman resort chain is the kind of place that would make Heaven look like a Best Western. We are greeted with cups of iced lemongrass tea, and sip gratefully as we wander onto the shining pool deck.

Above: The pool deck at night.

Across from the vast terrace that adjoins our apartments, a yacht takes up most of the glittering green bay. Run, our chatty head house-keeper, tells us it belongs to Naomi Campbell. A, ever the celebrity fan, lets out a squeal of delight.

Above: Thirsty buddhas: decoration and worship at Amanpuri.

In the khaki-coloured water of Laguna beach, a three-year-old Asian elephant named Lily is being harassed by a noisy swarm of children. “It’s ok, Mo, she’s happy. She has a good life,” comforts A, catching the glimmer of anger even through my sunglasses. She calls me by our shared nickname.

Lily’s mahout is a long-haired, skinny man in a white singlet and denim-blue fisherman’s pants. He rocks with her over the shallow waves. A child slips off the elephant’s back, which is black from the water and leathery.  Relieved, Lily raises her front legs and spouts a merry arc of water through her trunk. I wince in sympathetic humiliation as the trainer tugs on her ear, and the animal rolls onto her side to allow another small person to climb on.

Above: Lily strikes a pose on Laguna Beach.

 

Later, when the sand is drenched in warmer sunlight, and Lily has begun her plod home, I lead a happy interlude of beach yoga and amateur gymnastics. With the sand as our cushion, N and I manage to perfect a couple of the more challenging asanas.

With a final salutation to the sun, we roll up our towels, sling them over our shoulders, and make our way to the car under the slowly reddening sky.

Above: Bangla Road in Patong, Phuket's main tourist town.

We find ourselves, later that evening, strolling along Patong’s unabashedly vulgar tourist drag. Bangla Road is no place for the delicate. But if you take the strip’s pole-dancing katoeys, Gary Glitter disciples and tinnitus-inducing music with a few handfuls of salt, it’s at least worth a walk-though.

Above: Bangla Road: two katoeys all dressed up.

For something approaching the semi-glamorous debauchery enjoyed on, say, Ibiza, look out for the big-name DJs that perform in Patong in the run-up to summer. Tonight, American dance music hero Paul Oakenfold gathers droves of the young and the tanned at Club Seduction’s cool and spacious second floor.

We whoop and whistle as the DJ raises the crowd to an electro high, tripping us up with an injection of slow jazz in the middle of his set. In between bouts of leaping around on the dance floor, we question the wisdom of Oakenfold’s choice of hairstyle. But, as a colleague once pointed out, you need only put a talented man behind the decks, and he becomes a God.

Above: Paul Oakenfold hits the decks at Club Seduction.

Forty kilometres east of Phuket is an archipelago of six islands that make up Koh Phi Phi.

Phi Phi Don is the largest, and the only one permanently inhabited. That the islands are real is by far their strangest quality, and there is plenty here that defies belief. As the white yacht cleaves through the diamond-strewn surface of the Andaman Sea, silhouettes of isolated cliffs materialize through the mist. Erosion has worked long and hard to separate them, and to make these limestone sculptures seem to float above the water.

Above: The approach to Koh Phi Phi.

The cliffs are purple, with the feverish melting texture of a Gaudi cathedral. They are topped with unruly carpets of green. We are all thinking the same thing: They’re like the floating mountains of James Cameron’s Pandora.

Above: Pandora’s rocks: Phi Phi’s undercut cliffs.

Above: Snorkeling at Phi Phi: tiger fish.

Schools of tiger fish swim brightly alongside the boat. A leaps into the water to join them, and scrambles out again when I point out a nightclub-pink jellyfish centimetres away from her leg. An irrational fear of fish keeps me on deck as the girls gather living rainbows around them. There is no one else in the bay or on shore. The peace is magnificent. I look up and, with childish wonderment, decree Phi Phi the most beautiful place in the world.

Above: The boat boys relax against the beach's formidable backdrop.

In every group of friends, there are those who would rather chase waterfalls, and those who are happier lying on the beach- especially when the beach is private, lined with white cushioned sun-beds, and outfitted with a fresh sushi bar. We’re no different.

Above: Quiet blue: the view from the beach at Amanpuri.

After a disappointing attempt at Bang Pae waterfall earlier in the weekend (it is dry season) and an elephant trek that was underwhelming at best, we decide to devote our last day to sunbathing. It’s not long before N becomes restless.

As testament to her low indolence threshold, she hasn’t brought a book, and I soon find myself cat-walking down the beach with a body board-- trying to offset my inevitable embarrassment-- as N strides ahead of me into the waves. 

She’s a pro, paddling just ahead of the big ones and catching their swell before the white starts to show. The water carries her easily, and she’s triumphant as she slides with the board onto the wet sand. The less said about my efforts, on the other hand, the better.

Above: The view from the lobby's sunset terrace.

We break for a long lunch of seaweed salad, lemon sea bass, and salmon skin temaki. By the time we get back to our beds on the beach, it is less than two hours to sunset. A little after five o’clock, N suggests we swim out to the buoy, and snorkel around there before we lose the light. Reluctantly, I strap on some flippers and struggle into the already dimming sea. The swim is long but fast, thanks to the paddles on my feet, and I feel energized by the time I reach the man-made island.

Above: Swimming to the buoy.

From there, we watch the water turn teal with the sunset. The sky is peach and violet, brushed with drifting purple clouds. The sun is a deep orange orb. It slips quickly below the horizon. “Another terrible day in paradise,” declares A, with twinkling sarcasm. Ribbons of tropical fish scatter as we dive into the sea, and race the darkness back to shore.

Above: The view from the lobby's sunset terrace.