20 YEARS AFTER THE TSUNAMI I find myself standing on the beach of Patong, on the western coast of Phuket, Thailand’s largest island.
Where deadly waves approached on Boxing Day 2004, a peaceful rainbow now appears.
Behind me lies the Impiana Resort, previously known as Phuket Cabana. It was and remains the only hotel in central Patong with an open beachfront.
The tsunami completely destroyed it.
I remember the sea of debris, where only embedded bathtubs stood firm, like tombstones in an eerie, abandoned graveyard.
The luxury complex of 70 connected bungalow rooms has been rebuilt on the old foundations. The walls are now made of sturdy concrete instead of bamboo and plaster.
Impiana remains friendly, small-scale, intimate and cozy – a match for the Patong I first encountered 35 years ago.
But walking from the beach through the open lobby to the main street, I see the new Patong. All the greenery is gone. Everything is built up. High-rise buildings dominate.
On the rubble of the tsunami, the former fishing village has transformed into a bustling holiday destination:
Every day, an average of 10,000 tourists arrive at Phuket International Airport. Across the still-green island, there are 118 tourists for every local. In Patong, that ratio is likely even more skewed.
>>>>>>> THEN
Mig is cleaning a bungalow at the Impiana Resort early on Boxing Day morning when the mirror suddenly starts to shake.
Kai is arranging his beach chairs for another busy day. He feels a dull thud and turns toward the street. An earthquake? An accident? He scans the road, the houses, and the mountains beyond. Nothing seems wrong.
Pen, at the small eatery nearby, is arguing with her Italian brother-in-law, demanding that he should finalize installing the new pizza oven since there are no customers that morning. But he insists on heading to the beach first.
Gerard van Hal is looking forward to a relaxed Boxing Day. He plans to enjoy breakfast on the balcony of his apartment at Kalim Resort, situated on higher ground in northern Patong Beach.
Peter Jongmans stands on the balcony of his room at the Amari Hotel, at the southern end of the bay. Stunning view. But ominously quiet—it’s as if the birds have stopped singing.
Peter van Zanten, a staff member at the Dutch Embassy, is enjoying a quiet second day of his holiday week. The embassy is closed until January 2, only reachable for emergencies.
>>>>>>> 20 YEARS AFTER THE TSUNAMI
The simple seafood restaurants next to Impiana are gone.
I used to enjoy sitting there with my feet in the sand, listening to 60s music as the night crept in. Now, trendy beach clubs with laser cannons and booming speakers have taken over.
Across the street, small hotels nestled in tropical gardens, flowery terraces, Chinese shops and street food stalls offering the best snacks for 20 baht late into the night have all disappeared.
Now, there are 2- to 4-story hotels and apartments, with massage shops, coffee shops, pizzerias, Turkish and Indian restaurants, souvenir stores, and even outdoor surfing simulators on the ground floors.
The dark soi that led to a sandy, sultry square with open-air bars is also gone.
I remember meeting Kwang and Kittisak there, a kind sister-and-brother duo from Chiang Mai. Kwang dreamed of earning enough in Patong to fund her studies, secure a government job, and get health insurance for herself and her parents.
They didn’t survive the tsunami. They drowned in their wooden hut in the now-vanished maze of narrow alleys behind the beachfront buildings.
I wish I could meet them again, they would have been in their 40s now.
>>>>>>> THEN
Peter Jongmans stands on his balcony in the Amari-wing closest to sea level. He notices the sea retreating unusually far. A striking low tide. Then the water rushes back, flooding the garden and pool. Two boats in the bay are hurled toward the shore at breakneck speed. Blubblub. Suddenly the sea rises to his balcony.
Chai, a technician at the Impiana Resort, watches in disbelief as the sea retreats. Nearly 1.5 kilometers. When the first wave hits, everyone flees to the street, but Chai doesn’t want to leave Impiana and climbs in the old tamarind tree.
Kai initially thinks of saving his beach chairs as the water rises, folding a few before realizing his life is at stake.
Pen is still arguing with her brother-in-law, threatening to send him back to Italy with the uninstalled pizza oven if he doesn’t comply immediately.
Gerard van Hal enjoys breakfast in his Kalim Resort apartment. Suddenly, there’s screaming. People are running uphill. Out of nowhere, water floods the ground-floor apartments. He watches his neighbor’s mattress floating past his balcony.
20 YEARS AFTER THE TSUNAMI
Walking along Thawewong Road, I see myself 20 years ago, navigating the wreckage left behind by the tsunami.
The first wave had already caused immense destruction. The following waves crushed and pushed the debris higher.
Walls, wood, cables, broken signs, mattresses, beach chairs, trees, overturned tuk-tuks, piled-up cars, and two fishing boats. Scattered among them were personal belongings—open suitcases, clothes, towels, toys.
A day after the tsunami, I flew from Chiang Mai to Phuket, just as many foreigners were leaving on emergency Thai Airways flights.
I wanted to check on the people I knew. But was also driven by journalistic curiosity to witness what had already been called the largest natural disaster in recent history, caused by a powerful undersea earthquake near Sumatra.
In Patong, the first wave arrived two hours after the earthquake. Then the sea receded, only to return 10 minutes later with a towering wall of water aimed directly at the tourist town.
The Thai coastline along the Andaman Sea, including Phuket, Krabi (Koh Phi Phi), Phang Nga (Khao Lak), Ranong, Trang, and Satun, was hit hard. There, 8,500 lives were lost, including about 3,000 foreign tourists—36 Dutch and 11 Belgians among them. This figure also includes those who have been missing since, almost certainly swallowed by the sea.
In total, the Indian Ocean tsunami claimed at least 280,000 lives. As many were injured. More than 5.5 million people lost their homes. And the economic damage affected millions more.
>>>>>>> THEN
Peter Jongmans sees boys from the higher Amari main building running down the hill next to his balcony. They’re shouting. Everyone must leave. Now! Is more water coming? He shuts the balcony doors behind him. Water seeps in under the door—such a shame for the parquet flooring. Behind the building, the water reaches waist-high. Along with others, he struggles up the hill. Near the top, there’s a deafening crash. He looks back to see a massive wave obliterating the building he had just fled. And flowing over it.
Chai descends from the tamarind tree after the first wave and switches off the electricity. When the next wave comes, he climbs back up.
Mig drops her cleaning supplies and runs onto the street. The water and debris slow her down, so she climbs a tree. A few hotel guests are already clinging to the branches.
Kai is lifted by the second wave, which drags him off the beach with chairs in tow. He’s swept across the road, through trees, and over the fence of the Andaman Hotel. His head crashes into the concrete edge of a pool. He sees red and black. Hears nothing. Feels nothing.
Pen watches her brother-in-law installing a pizza oven, satisfied with the progress.
>>>>>>> 20 YEARS AFTER THE TSUNAMI
I never saw the towering wall of water coming. I didn’t have to run for my life. I never clung to a tree or witnessed people drowning around me.
But when I return, 20 years later, to the point where the infamous Soi Bangla entertainment street meets the beach road, I smell death again.
Here stood a small, open truck onto which two men were loading body bags. One corpse wouldn’t fit. One of the men nodded for assistance.
From the beach, I dragged a few more bodies to the truck, leaving trails in the sand and on the asphalt. The last bag fell slightly open. I saw the swollen face of a young Thai woman.
Nothing remains of that time now. The spot where the truck stood is painted in cheerful colors.
The neon sign over Bangla’s entrance blinks: “Welcome to Patong Beach, Phuket Thailand.”
Also in this infamous en populair street, multi-story buildings now dominate. Small lady bars have been replaced with large drinking halls featuring hostesses.
The same changes can be seen in the gay streets of the Paradise complex.
One regret I have is the loss of Thailand’s finest fresh seafood market, sacrificed for progress, between Bangla and Paradise.
From where I once dragged bodies, I walk along the southern stretch of the beach road, the hardest-hit area.
The tsunami struck Patong at an angle, flooding the side streets here first. Those who reacted quickly found refuge on the upper floors of old townhouses.
In Soi Post Office, French acquaintances lost their beautiful antique shop, and the cheerful Thai twins lost their cozy restaurant. The street is now lined with simple hostels.
Patong’s biggest tsunami tragedy also unfolded along the southern beach road.
I can’t find the building anymore, but this was where Patong’s first department store stood: Ocean.Stairs led from the street to the Tops supermarket in the basement.
The 20 staff members were about to open the doors when the first wave hit. There was no way out.
There’s no shortage of malls now, but none by the sea. Central is at the end of Soi Bangla. Further on is JungCeylon, featuring well-known restaurants, stores, and coffee shops.
>>>>>>> THEN
Gerard van Hal descends the Kalim Hill. At the bottom, he cannot believe his eyes. All the shops are completely destroyed. His first instinct is to give money to affected Thais. For himself, he arranges transport to Phuket Town. Staying isn’t an option—no electricity, no water, and no working toilets.
Peter Jongmans sees only a few walls still standing of the building he just escaped. More than a third of the 160 hotel guests are injured—broken arms, legs, and dangerously compressed chests. Three people have died, including a Dutch woman. Her body is taken to the kitchen’s cold storage, but there’s no electricity. No phones. No television. No idea what has happened. The next day, he drives to the airport, witnessing the devastation in Patong, where bodies lie everywhere. Once over the hill, he sees people casually sitting in cafes, as if nothing has happened.
Chai and Mig from Impiana are injured—he in the face, she on her arms and chest. But they survive, despite fearing for their lives.
Kai is pulled out of the pool with a splitting headache. All his front teeth are broken.
Peter van Zanten rushes to the Dutch embassy in Bangkok later that afternoon. The six staff members in the city for Christmas meet in a dark, empty building. Phones ring endlessly. Families in the Netherlands, just learning of the disaster, report 2,000 missing loved ones. Most are eventually accounted for, but it takes days to untangle the chaos. Van Zanten spends three days and nights on the phone.
>>>>>>> 20 YEARS AFTER THE TSUNAMI
What visibly remains of the tsunami are the blue-and-white warning signs:
Slim poles along the beachfront roads and side streets, marking areas at risk.
Larger signs pointing out evacuation routes.
Follow one of these routes, and you’ll arrive at the hospital. In the week after the disaster, this was where I directed people wandering through Patong, searching for family and friends.
Outside the hospital, large boards displayed photos of the missing and unidentified victims. On one side were official portraits in blurry black-and-white; on the other, cheerful vacation photos posted by desperate families.
On Rat-Uthit 200-Year Road, I recall a desperate blond man—a Swede. Disheveled, wearing a spotted shirt and pants missing one leg, he held a crumpled photo of a young girl between his fingers. “Seen her?” he asked. I flagged down a tuk-tuk for him, paid the driver, and told him to take the man to the hospital. The driver hesitated.
In the days following the tsunami, stories circulated about tuk-tuk drivers encountering restless ghosts of Western victims—white foreigners (“farang”) negotiating fares only to disappear once seated.
The fear of ghosts eventually subsided after a large monk ceremony on the beach. While foreign media praised it as a dignified tribute to the victims, the Thais knew better—it was for their own peace of mind.
>>>>>>> THEN
Peter van Zanten staffed a European crisis center four days after the tsunami. Some Dutch survivors have only the swimwear they were wearing. He and his colleagues collect clothes, help people reach the airport – even those without papers, which the Thai authorities handle efficiently. Family’s begin arriving. Staff keep them away from the bloated and blackened bodies. Instead boards display photos of rings, necklaces, and tattoos. This method has helped identify all Dutch victims.
Gerard van Hal raises €80,000 to support children orphaned by the tsunami in Phuket. Through the Lions organization, which cares for 100 children, he personally has donated €20,000. The orphanage, Phuket Sunshine Village, still exists. Happy he couldn’t do something. And that he hasn’t been in danger. But he often reflects on his Christmas holiday just a year earlier. He stayed at a hotel on Koh Phi Phi, which was entirely wiped out during the tsunami. Hundreds of deaths
Peter Jongmans returns to Bangkok and organizes a benefit jazz concert with friends, raising $200,000. The funds went toward fishing boats, school rebuilding, and supporting families of deceased hotel staff. For him the tsunami was “life-changing.” He works less and appreciates life more, recognizing humanity’s vulnerability to nature’s power.
Mig didn’t dare to clean at Impiana immediately after the tsunami. She moved to the branch on Samui, safe in the Gulf of Thailand. But after a year, she returned—she couldn’t bear to be away from the Impiana family. She feels okay now. Everyone knows what a tsunami is and what to do. But sometimes, she still gets startled when a wave crashes loudly against the shore.
Chai is still praised for cutting the electricity. He also feels safe now. When there’s an earthquake at sea, the sirens start blaring in time. We all know exactly what to do. All hotel staff in Patong receive annual training.
Kai got a completely new set of teeth in the months following the disaster, thanks to a fundraising effort by regular users of his beach chairs. I’m met with a big, grateful smile.
Pen bakes the first pizzas in the new oven for the local Thai residents. These are offerings to the spirits of deceased foreigners so they won’t haunt the place. A slice of pizza surely works better for Western spirits than some Thai snacks.
>>>>>>>> 20 YEARS AFTER THE TSUNAMI
Next to the Impiana Resort stands a tower with a siren and loudspeaker to warn of seismic sea activity. Every Wednesday morning, it is briefly tested, playing the national anthem. Guests enjoying the breakfast buffet see staff standing at attention.
General Manager Gerard Sta Maria notes that the alarm tests aren’t actively communicated to guests—they prefer not to alarm them, and most don’t ask about it.
In April 2012, a seaquake triggered the sirens unexpectedly. While it resulted in no significant waves, it served as an unplanned drill. Locals shouted at tourists to leave the beach, but some refused. “Tsunami? I’ll believe it when I see it,” they said.
Patong was fortunate 20 years ago, Sta Maria acknowledges. The morning after Christmas Eve, many guests were still asleep, and it could have been much worse.
Impiana Resort survived, though it took two years to rebuild. COVID-19 delivered another heavy blow, with two years of vacancy causing significant damage to the property. The salty sea, the wind, the sun and nature—all worked together. What had been rebuilt 15 years ago suddenly seemed 30 years old.
The most expensive renovations—replacing roofs—are now complete. Bungalows and gardens are being refreshed.
>>>>>>> THE FUTURE
Phuket’s tourism economy, second only to Bangkok, is booming. Daily arrivals at Phuket International Airport wil exceed 10,000 soon, with direct flights from China, Russia, India, Vietnam, Australia, and the Middle East.
However, luxury hotels and resorts warn against unchecked expansion. Overdevelopment leads to landslides, traffic jams, and waste management issues. Some advocate for targeting “quality tourists,” such as families and affluent seniors.
For Patong, though, this shift seems unlikely, says Sta Maria. Every square meter is maximized for tourism, catering increasingly to younger visitors from Europe, Australia, and Asia.
With all the excesses that make international news:
Tourists urinating drunkenly from a tuk-tuk, dancing on a bus, being carried away by the police in a drunken stupor, and checking in at the airport wearing only swim trunks.
While this brings challenges—rowdy tourists and unruly behavior—Sta Maria is confident Impiana Resort will adapt.
By adding Indian and Chinese dishes to the breakfast buffet. The rooms are being given a fresh, youthful look. By deploying staff more efficiently, room prices are also attractive to a new audience.
However, he emphasizes: Impiana Resort was, is, and will remain a tranquil oasis amidst bustling Patong Beach.
That evening, at Impiana’s outdoor bar, I enjoy a good glass of whisky while listening to the waves lapping against the shore. Twenty years after the tsunami, I raise my glass to Kwang, Kittisak, and all the other victims who lost their lives.
>>>>>>> INFORMATION
The article 20 Years After the Tsunami is dedicated to siblings Kwang and Kittisak, the two tsunami victims in Patong whom I personally knew.
This story was made possible, with heartfelt thanks, to:
Impiana Resort Patong, with special thanks to Hattachai Paijitjinda (Der), highly recommended
Netherlands Thai Chamber of Commerce NTCC
Asian Translations, translation agency Pim van Melick on behalf of Nittaya:
Bjorn van Ee, loyal reader.
With the cooperation of Embassy of the Kingdom of the Netherlands in Thailand, Nut Liangwanitkun, Tran Xuan Nguyen and the interviewees: Peter Jongmans, Gerard van Hal, Peter van Zanten, Gerard Sta Maria, Rawadee Rittimon (Mig), Veerachai Choompea (Chai), Kai, and Pen.
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