With a prime setting in the Gulf of Thailand and easily reachable from nearby Kep, Sihanoukville or Koh Rong, Cambodia’s Koh Thonsay (which translates to ‘Rabbit Island’ on account of its perceived shape) is a classic beach getaway.
The usual tropes abound. Palm trees, timber bungalows, beach bars, candlelight, easy-going and rustic charm, marine scenery. In short, a secluded world of peace away from the noisier world at large. In such calm may one sit back and unwind as, at day’s end. Then they may watch as the departing sun leaves its hazy mark on the sky above and the water below.
As is the way of these things, a bedrock of tumult bolsters Thonsay’s simple stillness. The island has a wayward past: in the Sangkum Reastr Niyum regime (1955 to 1970) of King Father Norodom Sihanouk, who some call Samdech Euv, the authorities resettled convicted criminals in this place. Distance allows for rehabilitation, and Thonsay creates nothing less than a sense of blissful isolation. Thus, no wonder those in charge thought the island would calm wrongdoers’ unlawful ways.
Those who visit Thonsay and wade out into the shallow water, watching for the marine life and coral reefs as they go, may not sense this history. Instead, those who look back will feel their gaze drift. First they see the palm trees that guard the narrow beach to the hills beyond. Once there, their thoughts may fade upon Thonsay’s peaceful currents, to re-emerge at night when bioluminescent plankton light up the water. And these same thoughts may once again take their leave, inviting the sound of waves and lapping water to ease the thinker to restful slumber.
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One may picture the island’s scale and think of a small, peaceful and innocuous thing. But the foul toad of progress casts its beady eyes across the world for souls to harvest, which it did to great effect at Beoung Kak Lake in Phnom Penh. Who knows whether Koh Thonsay will fall into the same hole. In September 2019, a resort company acquired – presumably legally – the right to build on the island. This concession lasts 50 years, and in 2021, construction began on a project spanning nearly 150 hectares. In compensation, the company pledged to ensure that 60 per cent of forest covers the island.
But still, that figure suggests that 40 per cent of forest – a not inconsiderable figure – will disappear. Good things never last. People, many driven by avarice, find out about these things and wish to monetise them in often unsustainable ways. In Thonsay’s case, the original pier was replaced in 2022 to welcome bigger ships and more visitors. The island is a fine place, deserving of a manageable boon in tourism that benefits its residents. The hope is that such a boost does not mutate into a monster that rips away the charm and character of Koh Thonsay and leaves behind only bloated ruin.
(Editor’s note: This is a 2024 update of a story first written in 2010. Hopefully it’s at least semi-accurate.)
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