Mar. 29, 2002 - Experiencing natural splendor firsthand -- whether it's a backyard ecosystem or one halfway around the world -- helps foster environmental ardor. The following is one of an open-ended travel series in which the adventures described are Earth based. 

Sidewalk vendors hawking wares unidentifiable to Western eyes; tropical beaches; fishing coves strung with traditional Asian skiffs; and the majestic image of Buddha are just a few of the mental snapshots I collected recently during a visit to Thailand. As an environmentally conscientious tourist, I was thrilled to explore the country's multifarious charm while considering how this poor nation that hosts hordes of international tourists is marketing and selling the appeal of its natural endowments. 

I was instantly impressed on my visit to Ao Nang Beach near Krabi on Thailand's southern peninsula. Because the region has been the subject of concern to Thai environmentalists, Krabi has yet to succumb to the rapid, uncontrolled development that characterizes many areas in southern Thailand. Here, off the west coast, as far as the eye can travel, limestone islands jut out of the Andaman Sea. Some are large enough to embark upon; others are 90-degrees steep and small. Most are topped with lush vegetation, giving the smaller, more symmetrical islands the appearance of severed heads with disheveled green hair. The water's intense turquoise contrasts with the rust, ochre, and white limestone cliffs that flank the shoreline. 

Rigged with snorkeling gear, I marveled at orange-and-white-striped triple bandit clown fish loitering amidst purple anemone tentacles and big barracuda cruising near the water's surface. Although these reefs -- like others around the world -- are threatened with bleaching, they appeared healthy and colorful to my dazzled eye. 

Back on shore, I traveled in a rickety truckbed past countless rubber plantations to a tiny fishing village, where I was promised a spectacular kayaking experience. The promise went unbroken: From an estuary indented from the Andaman Sea's island-riddled coast, I paddled into the country's interior through a maze of mangrove forests. The exposed root structures of the intertwined mangroves gave them the aura of an advancing army. On the mudflats that front them, mudskippers, brown fish with leglike appendages, launched themselves through the air in foot-long arcs, landing on the wet earth again with little plops. 

Maneuvering through three-foot-wide twisting tunnels of exposed root required dexterity, but this mode of transport was the only way to enter the scenery. Water-carved limestone caves ended in cozy rooms with 50-foot, plant-strewn sides, open to the sky. Later, the mangroves unfurled like bundled cords of curtain to reveal an open waterway girded by towering canyons. Beams of sunlight fell upon the palm-pocked walls like spotlights exposing holy revelations. Within this terrestrial coliseum, I spotted three-foot-long monitor lizards hustling through the brush overhead and gibbons swinging swiftly through the lush canopy. At water level, a family of crab-eating macaques stared back at me, reflecting my wide-eyed wonder. 

After my stay in the south, I accompanied a tour through the mountainous jungle forests of northern Thailand, where tribal folk live in grass shacks on stilts to deter snakes and other poisonous critters. These people belong to two general ethnic groups: Sino-Tibetan (Hmongs and Miens or Yao) and Tibeto-Burmese (Karens, Akhas, Lisus, and Lahus). Traditionally semi-nomadic farmers whose slash-and-burn cultivation has resulted in considerable environmental damage, they began tending opium fields in the Golden Triangle at the behest of the French. But as public sentiment grew against drugs and addiction spread through the tribes, the Thai president cracked down. They now seek subsistence through other crops, state welfare, and tourism. They make traditional clothing, other textiles, and silver jewelry, and also earn money by offering views of their villages. In short, the parade of curious tourists can muse at the novelty of Hill Tribe culture while their dollars help sustain it. To me our presence, though certainly welcomed, seemed a disparaging intrusion, an awkward confirmation of the economic significance that tourism can develop in a poor country. 

Confirmation of the significance of the elephant in Thailand abounds. An important cultural symbol, images of elephants adorn art and the countless temples throughout the country. In the forests north of Chiang Mai, however, the elephant is more a celebrity than a sacred icon. At an elephant farm in this region, handlers resembled Hollywood agents as each doted on his elephant while selling the creature's charm to an onslaught of tourists by offering rides. On one such ride, I traveled on the back of the huge pachyderm across a river and through some tribal villages, where scenes of people in traditional dress amid rustic jungle dwellings contrasted with the tinny rock music blaring from one young villager's radio. 

The biggest tourist draw, though, is the demonstration of trained elephants. To the tune of incessant camera clicking, the elephants lifted logs, balanced on front and hind legs, played soccer and basketball, and even played the harmonica and drums. While wild elephants are protected today, these captives seemed to be treated respectfully -- at least in our presence. 

But tourists were not spared inhumane scenes at a nearby snake farm. The "show," replete with dated American rock music, was full-fledged snake abuse, painful to watch. Handlers high on machismo slung the cobras around their heads like lassos. While the audience watched, they forced open a cobra's mouth with a spoon and "milked" its venom into a cup. As a final antic, they proudly revealed the bleeding, defeated mouth. 

The line between marketing resources and milking their venom is thin. The economic shift from harvesting natural capital to showcasing it is significant -- and certainly not easy -- in many regions around the globe. Of course, emerging eco-tourism industries do not necessarily implement humane or environmentally sound practices. Tour companies use buses with unchecked emissions; trekking packages encroach on increasingly precious wildlife habitat; snakes are abused for kicks. 

Still, Thailand preserves many areas because it recognizes the value of its land to vigorous international tourism. Even with my considerable language limitations, I understood that Thai people respect their land and appreciate its innate value. I also realized that its protection may in part depend on educated visitors: that an informed consumer base can sway market practices, that supply can eventually meet demand in an ecologically sound manner. 

In fact, like nature, economies are subject to evolving demands. The area where I enjoyed my idyllic kayak trip had been a charcoal-making region as recently as 10 years ago. The rural villagers still live in grass huts on stilts and use a communal outhouse, yet they earn money from the kayak company for the use of their dock. In the evenings, they cluster around the warm glow of television, as much mesmerized by the flickering images on the screen as I was by their animated faces and by the many vivid scenes that passed before my eyes in this beautiful country. 

As the airplane lifted off the tarmac and its distance to Earth increased, I promised myself a return trip some day and peered through the window. Saffron monk robes fluttered on clotheslines between the metallic spires of Buddhist temples, and the bustle of Bangkok below steadily gave way to the lush jungle outskirts. 

Erica Gies is senior editor of ENN. Send comments to [email protected]. 

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