Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
—Samuel Beckett
An expanse of 308,000 square miles of water (an area about two times the size of the state of California), with an average depth of just over half a mile, hides a system of submarine valleys and ridges. This watery area, bound by islands and peninsulas, is part of the Indian Ocean known as the Andaman Sea. The sea is dotted with more than 125 islands. One island, Koh Lanta Yai (Koh Lanta), though close to the mainland, is inaccessible except by boat. If arriving after dusk, under the blanket of a dark sky, visitors may find the inky sea and visually silent landscape a bit mysterious, while sounds and scents provide some cues.
The island, mostly an unspoiled, quiet place, is about three miles wide by eighteen miles long, with one main paved, pot-hole-ridden road. There are mangrove forests and tidal mudflats lacing the land’s edge. And the mostly flat topography is dominated by a series of rugged hills that rise at most about a quarter of a mile high, covered with virgin rainforest, providing a rich habitat, and hiding stalagmite/stalactite/pool-filled caves and a waterfall. The shoreline has nine long sandy beaches rimmed with off-shore coral reef. In fact, the island’s original Malay name, Palau Satak, means ‘long beach island.’ Khlong Dao beach is a long westward facing stretch of soft sand that was swept inland, from the sea floor, by ceaseless wave action.
The water is warm and calm; and when the tide is high, the sea is like a tub full of bath water. At low tide, shards of once inhabited, now-empty shells are left on the shore and tiny submarine/subterranean land crabs tunnel out through the sand. They leave holes in the creamy white sand and trails of round sand pellets as evidence, carpeting the already-soft beach with an even-softer powder.
The island’s relative proximity to the mainland and coral reef likely helped protect it when the colliding submarine tectonic plates caused the third largest ever-recorded earthquake in 2004, taking the lives of approximately 280,000 people. The outer islands, including Koh Phi Phi, saw greater damage and likely helped reduce the force of the wave action against Koh Lanta, too. Even so, in 2009, this low-tide shoreline of empty shells and evacuating crab trails stirred thoughts of 2004 and inspired my temporary installation called Absences.
The work was carefully sited at low tide at sunset. The creative process was nothing like Marina Abromivic’s dramatically epic “eye for an eye” staging called ”God Punishing,” in which she and a group of locals literally took bullwhips and lashed out at the ocean waves until they were physically exhausted, but was instead a quiet meditation on the emptiness and loss caused by the tsunami, an inventory of site conditions, and an inquiry into rebuilding and re-inhabiting a scarred, devastated landscape. People passing by got down on their knees to photograph Absences. Allowing people to take part in an environment where a natural disaster has occurred and creating a positive relationship in the environment, changing behavioral patterns and bringing people close to nature, is the great value of this small work.
In the mornings along this beach, at a place named Costa Lanta designed by architect Duangrit Bunnag and landscape architects L49, employees rake the sand. It’s a quiet, solemn act that creates a sense of order and also makes sacred the ground.
While the scale of Costa Lanta is much greater and more permanent than Absences, its design is also a quiet meditation on absence. It was early December, the rainy season was just about over, and I had the place all to myself.
The spare yet elegantly appointed bungalows are tucked back from the sea, in the forest, carefully sited amidst an estuary. The hard surfaced boxes of glass; smooth finished, integrally colored concrete; and native teak are outfitted with soft, ephemeral, cotton elements. When the walls of the structures are opened, the sea breeze and forest air billow in.
A series of subtle, minimally constructed pathways knits the structures together, crossing the estuary to an open expanse in the forest where the restaurant, swimming pool, and massage platforms are sited and then on to the sea. The forest provides the frame for these elements; and, while there is a sense of a clearing, the architecture defers to the forest and the sea beyond. Because the forest did not undergo a great amount of clearing, it still provides protection in the tropical monsoon climate.
There is an axial alignment of the pool and the restaurant. The dark bottomed, fully tiled pool is partially above ground, and its raised pool shell is veneered with a polished black granite that recalls Maya Lin’s Vietnam Memorial. While any man-made pool and clear-cut area in a virgin rainforest might seem obtrusive, the polished granite and dark water reflect the surrounding environment and make the material presence of the pool vanish. It’s a poetic empty space.
In addition, the raised pool shell allows for the creation of an underground bunker where the pool equipment is hidden and silenced. It’s possible that the raised pool shell and polished granite surface might assist in keeping any reptiles of the nearby estuary from crawling into the pool; the dark water of the pool somehow reads as though it is part of that estuary.
The restaurant building’s overall scale and massing might seem overwhelming for the site, yet, because it is set within the forest, and because of the double height, fully opening walls and the scale of the timbers, the building blends with the forest. In the evening, it glows and reflects in the dark pool, creating a dramatic yet quiet effect.
The shower and bathroom building is sited at the other end of the pool, at the edge of the forest, and the concrete wall of this building conceals the lower portion of the forest, while the tree canopy beyond is still seen above the wall. The long, thin, linear wooden shower faucet on the concrete facade speaks to the tree trunks that rise above, behind the wall. The scale and design of this sculptural shower element bring the forest forward in a subtle way. I have heard that Duangrit Bunnagg draws his details at full scale in his studio.
Where the forest meets the beach are the massage platforms: two-tiered concrete pads with posts at the corners that support a fabric canopy. Steel cables brace against side-to-side movement. The sounds of intermittent wind rustling in the tree canopy and the ceaseless wave action are present. The landscape architects were clever: where these structures were sited without a tree on axis, a new tree was planted so that all the platforms line up with trees. It’s a very subtle detail that provides a grounding experience, something to focus on after the massage.
Also at the meeting of the forest and beach, a simple concrete curb frames lounge areas where white cushions rest on the ground, shaded by the forest. There is nothing beyond this but the raked sand, the sea, the distant westward horizon, and the sky.
Photos: JBLA, Costa Lanta, Lonely Planet and Bug Bog.
Apologies for poor resolution.