Exploring the Surin Islands: Meeting the Moken Sea Nomads in Thailand’s Marine Wonderland

The sun had barely peeked over the horizon when our longtail boat pushed away from Kuraburi pier. The sky was turning from deep blue to pink, and I was still half-asleep, clutching my camera bag to my chest. Little did I know that this journey would lead to one of the most profound cultural encounters I’ve ever experienced as a photographer – a day with the Moken sea nomads of Thailand’s Surin Islands.

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Why the Surin Islands Called to Me

I first heard about the Surin Islands from a weathered Thai fisherman I met in a tiny coffee shop in Bangkok. I was showing him photos from my trip to Koh Phi Phi on my camera, and he just shook his head. “Too many people,” he said in broken English. “You want real Thailand sea? Go Surin. See Moken people. They understand the water.”

Something in his eyes when he spoke about the place made me change my entire itinerary. I’d been planning to follow the well-worn backpacker trail down Thailand’s Andaman coast – Phuket, Krabi, you know the drill. Places where you can get a decent flat white and reliable WiFi to upload your Instagram stories. But suddenly those destinations seemed… hollow.

The Surin Islands sit in the Andaman Sea, close to Thailand’s border with Myanmar. They’re a protected marine national park, which means development is minimal and tourist numbers are controlled. Perfect for a photographer looking to capture something authentic rather than another beach selfie with 300 other tourists in the background.

I’ll admit, I was nervous. Would I even be able to communicate with anyone? Would my camera gear survive the boat journey? Would I be intruding on a culture that deserved privacy rather than my lens pointed at them? These questions kept me up the night before departure. But sometimes the most meaningful experiences lie just beyond the edge of our comfort zones.

Getting There: A Journey That’s Half the Adventure

Let me be upfront – reaching the Surin Islands isn’t as simple as hailing a songthaew or booking a speedboat tour from your beachfront hotel. And honestly, that’s part of its charm.

I started in Phuket, taking a minivan to Kuraburi – a journey of about 3 hours that cost me 650 baht. The van was packed with locals, a few chickens (I’m not kidding), and exactly two other tourists. The air conditioning worked… occasionally. I spent most of the ride wiping condensation from my camera lenses and praying the bumpy roads wouldn’t damage my equipment.

From Kuraburi, you have two main options to reach the islands:

1. Speedboat: Faster (about 1.5 hours) but more expensive (around 2,000 baht round trip)
2. Longtail boat: Slower (closer to 3 hours) but cheaper and more atmospheric

I opted for the longtail, partly to save money but mostly because I wanted those classic shots of the bow cutting through turquoise water with dramatic limestone karsts in the background. In retrospect, I should’ve considered how that decision would affect my gear. Turns out, longtail boats aren’t exactly dry rides.

“When does the next boat leave?” I asked the ticket seller at the pier.

He shrugged. “When full.”

That’s when I realized I hadn’t found a hidden gem – I’d fallen off the map entirely. No fixed schedules, no online booking confirmations, just the rhythm of local life. I ended up waiting nearly two hours before we had enough passengers to depart. Lesson learned: in places like this, time is a suggestion, not a rule.

The journey itself was both breathtaking and brutal. I got some stunning shots of flying fish skimming alongside our boat, but about an hour in, we hit choppy waters. My camera bag got splashed despite my best efforts to shield it. Thank god I’d brought those silica gel packets! Meanwhile, a Danish couple on board were turning progressively greener. I offered them some ginger candies I’d packed (photographer’s trick – helps steady hands and queasy stomachs), which earned me grateful smiles but didn’t seem to help much.

Pro tip: Bring a proper dry bag for electronics. The cheap ones from 7-Eleven won’t cut it. I use a Piscifun waterproof backpack that’s saved my gear more times than I can count. Also, take motion sickness pills BEFORE you board, not when you’re already feeling the churn.

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First Impressions of the Surin Islands: Paradise with a Catch

When the islands finally came into view, I nearly dropped my camera overboard. The water gradually shifted from deep blue to teal to a crystal clear turquoise that seemed almost artificially enhanced – like someone had cranked up the saturation slider in Lightroom. But this was real life, no filters needed.

We approached Koh Surin Nuea (North Surin Island), and I was immediately struck by how undeveloped it was. No resorts. No bars. No souvenir shops selling mass-produced trinkets. Just dense jungle tumbling down to meet pristine beaches. The national park headquarters consisted of a few simple wooden structures that blended harmoniously with the surroundings.

“You can stay in bungalow or tent,” explained our boat captain as we waded through knee-deep water to reach shore. “But must book ahead in high season.”

I’d managed to reserve a basic bungalow (800 baht per night), which turned out to be a wooden platform with walls, a fan that worked during generator hours (6pm-10pm only), and a mattress that had seen better days. The bathroom was shared and consisted of cold-water showers and toilets that… well, let’s just say they functioned.

But any complaints evaporated when I stepped onto my little porch and saw the view. The bay stretched before me, impossibly blue and empty except for a few anchored longtails. The late afternoon light was turning everything golden, creating that magic hour photographers live for.

That night, I discovered both the blessing and curse of no electricity – no charging batteries, but also no light pollution. The stars were incredible. I set up a long exposure shot and then just sat in the darkness, listening to the waves and insects. No WiFi, no distractions. When was the last time I’d experienced that kind of digital detox?

Snorkeling in a Living Aquarium

The next morning, I joined a snorkeling excursion to the coral reefs. The park ranger who led our small group seemed genuinely passionate about marine conservation, explaining in limited but enthusiastic English how the 2004 tsunami had damaged some reefs but others were recovering well.

I’d brought my underwater camera housing (a worthwhile investment if you’re into marine photography), and I’m so glad I did. Within minutes of slipping into the water at a site called Ao Mae Yai, I was surrounded by schools of parrotfish, their colors so vivid they seemed unreal. A green sea turtle glided past, completely unfazed by our presence. I followed at a respectful distance, managing to capture a series of shots as it surfaced for air with the sunlight creating perfect rays through the water.

The visibility was extraordinary – easily 20-30 meters on that calm day. I could see other snorkelers floating above different coral formations, their silhouettes perfect for establishing scale in my wide-angle shots.

One frustrating moment: my mask kept fogging up at crucial moments. A local guide noticed my struggle and motioned for me to come over. He took my mask, spat in it (yes, really), rubbed it around, and handed it back. I was skeptical but desperate – and wouldn’t you know, it worked perfectly after that. Sometimes the old tricks are the best ones.

Meeting the Moken: A Glimpse into Sea Nomad Life

The highlight of my Surin Islands experience came on day three, when we visited the Moken village on Ao Bon Bay. The Moken, sometimes called “sea gypsies,” are indigenous nomadic people who have traditionally lived on boats, moving between islands in Thailand and Myanmar with the changing seasons.

Our guide explained that the 2004 tsunami had dramatically changed Moken life. Many lost their traditional boats (called kabangs), and the Thai government subsequently established more permanent settlements for them. The village we visited was one such settlement – a collection of simple wooden houses on stilts along the shoreline.

I was anxious about photographing the community, aware of the fine line between documentation and exploitation. I’d read about indigenous communities becoming resentful of being treated like tourist attractions. But our guide assured us that this particular visit was conducted with the Moken’s cooperation, with a portion of our fees going directly to the community.

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“Take photos, but ask first,” he advised. “And buy crafts if you like. Good for them.”

As we approached the village by boat, I noticed children playing in the shallows. They were diving and swimming with an ease that made them seem more at home in water than on land. One boy, probably around 8 years old, was free-diving to impressive depths, his small body perfectly streamlined. I readied my camera but waited, wanting to observe before intruding.

An elderly Moken man greeted our small group. His face was weathered by sun and sea, with deep creases that told stories my camera itched to capture. Through our guide’s translation, he explained that the Moken have a unique relationship with the ocean – they can see better underwater (research has actually confirmed this), can hold their breath for extraordinary lengths of time, and read the water in ways modern sailors with all their technology cannot.

“During tsunami, no Moken die,” our guide translated. “They know water pulling back means run to high ground. They try to warn tourists, but not everyone listen.”

The man led us through the village, where women were weaving pandanus leaves into mats and crafting small wooden boats to sell to visitors. I asked permission before photographing an older woman working on a mat, showing her the result on my camera screen afterward. Her weathered face broke into a smile of recognition, and she pointed to herself in delighted surprise.

What struck me most was the simplicity of their possessions. These were people who, until relatively recently, could carry their entire lives on their boats. No excess, no waste. It made me acutely aware of all the camera gear weighing down my backpack, not to mention the pile of possessions waiting for me back home.

I spent some time sitting with a group of Moken children who were playing a game with shells. They were shy at first but soon warmed up when I showed them how to use my camera. Their delight at seeing their own images on the screen was infectious. One girl, about ten years old, had a natural eye for composition, framing her friends against the sea with an intuitive sense of balance that many trained photographers would envy.

There was a bittersweet quality to the encounter. The Moken way of life is changing rapidly. The younger generation is learning Thai in schools, watching occasional TV in community centers, becoming more integrated with mainstream society. Our guide told us that few young Moken can build the traditional kabang boats now, and many of their seafaring skills are being lost.

“They are between worlds,” he said quietly. “Not fully sea people anymore, not land people either.”

I left with mixed feelings – grateful for the privilege of this cultural exchange, but questioning whether tourism, including my own visit, was accelerating the erosion of their traditional way of life. The photographs I took that day are among my most treasured, but they’re also a reminder of my responsibility as both a traveler and a photographer to consider the impact of my presence.

Challenges of Visiting: Not Your Typical Beach Getaway

I don’t want to paint an overly romantic picture of the Surin Islands. For all their beauty and cultural richness, they present real challenges for visitors – especially those accustomed to Thailand’s more developed destinations.

First, there’s the accessibility issue. The park is closed entirely during monsoon season (roughly May to October), and even during open months, bad weather can cancel boat departures with no notice. I got lucky with calm seas, but a German couple I met had been stranded on the mainland for three days waiting for boats to run again after a storm.

Then there’s the accommodation. I’ve already mentioned the basic bungalows, but let me elaborate: no air conditioning in a climate where nighttime temperatures rarely drop below 25°C (77°F), mosquitoes that seem immune to repellent, and showers that redefine the concept of “cold water.” After a long day of hiking and swimming, I’d have paid an embarrassing amount for just five minutes of hot water.

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Food options are limited to the national park restaurant, which serves decent but repetitive Thai dishes. By day four, I was dreaming of pizza. Prices are also higher than the mainland – about 120-150 baht per meal – since everything has to be brought in by boat.

The physical demands shouldn’t be underestimated either. Trails between beaches are often steep and can be slippery after rain. I attempted to hike from Mai Ngam Bay to Chong Kad Bay with all my camera gear, and about halfway through, I was seriously questioning my life choices. The humidity made it feel like breathing through a wet towel, and I went through my water supply far too quickly.

Speaking of water – bring more than you think you need, especially if you’re planning to hike. The park sells bottled water, but it’s expensive and creates plastic waste. I wish I’d brought a larger reusable bottle with a good filter.

And let’s talk about sun exposure. I consider myself pretty sun-savvy, but I severely underestimated the equatorial sun here. Even with SPF 50 reapplied regularly, I ended up with a photographer’s sunburn – red on one side of my neck and arm from hours of shooting with the sun at my back. Not my proudest moment.

Cell service is spotty at best, nonexistent at worst. There’s no WiFi, which means no checking weather forecasts, no uploading photos to cloud storage, no telling loved ones you’re still alive. It’s liberating but can also be anxiety-inducing if you’re used to being connected.

Why It’s Worth It—and How to Do It Right

Despite all these challenges – or perhaps because of them – the Surin Islands gave me something increasingly rare in our hyper-connected, over-touristed world: a genuine sense of discovery and connection.

The photos I captured there tell stories I couldn’t find anywhere else in Thailand. The way morning light filters through sea spray as Moken fishermen cast their nets. The perfect reflection of clouds in tide pools untouched by footprints. The genuine smile of an elderly woman sharing knowledge that stretches back generations.

If you’re considering a trip to the Surin Islands, here’s my photographer’s advice for doing it right:

1. Time your visit carefully. November to April is the open season, but I’d specifically recommend February when the water visibility is at its peak for underwater photography and the holiday crowds have thinned out.

2. Pack strategically. Beyond the obvious camera gear, bring: a good dry bag, extra batteries (no charging except during generator hours), a headlamp for night navigation, reef-safe sunscreen, and a water bottle with filter.

3. Book accommodation in advance through the Department of National Parks website or a reputable tour operator. During peak season (December-January), bungalows can sell out months ahead.

4. Consider a guided package if it’s your first visit. Companies like Sea Passion or Andaman Discoveries offer 2-3 day trips with transportation, meals, and activities included. They’re more expensive but eliminate logistical headaches.

5. Respect the Moken’s privacy and customs. Always ask before photographing individuals, avoid entering homes unless invited, and consider purchasing crafts as a way of supporting the community rather than just taking pictures.

6. Be prepared to disconnect. Download offline maps, tell someone your itinerary before you go, and embrace the digital detox.

Most importantly, approach the islands with respect and humility. The Moken have called these waters home for centuries before they became a destination for photographers like me. Their intimate knowledge of the sea saved countless lives during the tsunami – a powerful reminder that there are many ways of understanding our world beyond our technological frameworks.

As I boarded the longtail boat to leave, I watched the islands recede, trying to burn the image into my memory even as I captured it with my camera. A Moken child waved from the shore, then dove into the clear water, disappearing and reappearing like he was part of the sea itself.

I left wondering how long this delicate balance can last – between preservation and access, between traditional ways and modern pressures. There’s no easy answer. But I know that the images I brought back have a story to tell, and perhaps that’s the best contribution I can make: showing others the beauty and fragility of this special corner of our world, so we might be moved to protect it.

This is just my personal experience, and situations may change over time. If you decide to visit the Surin Islands and the Moken community, tread lightly and with an open heart. You’ll come back with photographs – and memories – unlike any other.

About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.