By 1994, as larger commercial trawlers began to encroach upon their traditional fishing grounds, these people faced a grave challenge to their way of life. Pair trawlers and beam trawlers dragging enormous nets across the sea floor devastated the fragile coral reef and the vast web of marine life it had hosted. Giant push nets churned up the shallow waters, destroying the seagrass beds. A primary spawning ground for numerous species of shellfish and crustaceans, seagrass is also the main staple of the endangered dugong, a vegetarian cousin of the dolphin. Other large operations instigated the use of cyanide in fishing. The local fisherman watched helplessly as their home waters were savagely plundered and polluted by the lethal combi- nation of greed and criminal disregard for the environment.

Within three months, catches among the local fisherman rapidly declined. Less than a year later, many were forced to leave the island in search of a new livelihood. The degraded reef was no longer able to sustain healthy fish populations. Deepening anger among this close-knit community inspired a new level of determination. Something had to be done.

As is often the case, the closeness of the community held the key. The fisherfolk began to organize. They sought information from reef conservation agencies and began to garner political support for their cause. But they didn't wait for a political solution to save them. The fisherfolk began using their small boats to establish blockades, refusing passage to the big trawlers. Still, these vessels would sneak in on the high tides and continue the exploitation.

Appealing to the provincial governor for legal support, the community was told the police lacked the budget to defend the area. The people responded by pooling resources, funding the purchase and operating costs of a serviceable patrol boat, and worked with police to chase down the offenders. In 1996, the criminal element struck back, dragging the new boat out to open sea, setting it ablaze and burning it to the waterline. Now the political communications and con- nections the community had engineered were to pay off. Over a million baht was donated by a reef conservation foundation to build an even bigger patrol boat, and the tide began to turn in favour of the even more determined local fisherman.

Today, the big trawlers don't come here anymore. No longer simply unwelcome to fish these waters, the huge trawlers face an organized community of environmentally conscious fishermen backed by the decree of law. It is important to note that the people didn't rest when the trawlers left the waters, nor did they rest when the reef began to heal from the damage inflicted upon it. Instead, they began a public education programme on their unique environment and the fishing methods employed to sustain it. Perhaps the best part is the way they go about it — they take people into their homes, cook them wonderful meals and, in the morning, they put their guests to work fishing. No better way to learn.

The so-called homestay pro- gramme is coordinated through an environmental partner organization called REST (Responsible Environ- mental Social Tours). REST actively promotes the homestay educational scheme as a fun way to explore the island and its distinctive culture. The money from this eco-tourism business supple- ments the income of the families who participate, and funds various outreach efforts, including marketing the homestay programme itself. To date, as many as 2000 guests have come to stay in the homes of the local fisherfolk, learning to fish, but also coming away with a richer cultural exchange, a deeper understanding of the environment and of how humans can co-exist in relative sustainable harmony.

In 2002, National Geographic Traveler magazine and Conservation International presented REST, and the people of Koh Yao Noi, with a prestigious award honouring their homestay programme as one of the world's outstanding examples of destination stewardship. As part of a global campaign to promote environmentally, culturally and socially responsible tourism practices, only three such awards were given in 2002.

liding through mangrove canals at the edge of Koh Yao Noi, our boat passes the skeletons of retired longtail boats standing guard over the waterway. Draped with piles of fishing nets and coolers, rickety sun-bleached piers poke from muddy banks. Workers on shore move in slow motion under the midday sun.

Everything changes as I arrive at the dock. Suddenly there's no time to lose. Fast and furious, the workers form human chains to unload the cargo. No matter where I'm standing I seem to be in the way. Other passengers grab their belongings and disembark in a throng. A tuk-tuk driver hustles us aboard to whisk us away as quickly as we arrive. The pace slows again as the tuk-tuk lurches along a bumpy cement road. I gaze down lines of rubber tree plantations. An occasional mango tree overhangs the road, and coconut palms sway in the breeze.

Several people are waiting for us at the community building. I meet the big boss and some fishermen. I'm here to discover why the people of a fishing village, on a small island northwest of Phuket in southern Thailand, have been awarded international accolades for their promotion of cultural exchange and eco-tourism. For a short while, I'll live and work as one of them. Sipping ice water, I listen to a first-hand account of a past fishing war waged in local waters, and receive an education regarding commercial fishing rigs and how they operate. I cannot help empathizing with my hosts as they strive to explain the difference between the harmful methods of commercial fishing and environmentally sustainable practices. Posters line the walls displaying the abundance of sea life found here. Others show diagrams of the different vessel types and their rigging methods. A relief model of the local area is encased in glass for discussions of the local waters and the various fisheries.

A number of eager voices answer my many questions about this fishing community. The normal inquisitiveness that accompanies a meeting of people from entirely different cultures takes over, providing a great forum for the exchange of knowledge, laughter and genuine concerns. These people are Thai Muslims, and want to understand how, as an American, I feel about the Muslim way of life. They are interested in my thoughts on George W. Bush, Tony Blair, Osama Bin Ladin and Saddam Hussein. They want me to know they don't support acts of terrorism or war. We all end up agreeing that it is politicians, not everyday people, who create and promote war as the solution to problems.

Along the roads, flashing shy smiles and curious eyes, women peer out from beneath their veils. Many Islamic community projects are underway. Young children are learning songs of the faith in school. Men at work on a new prayer house nod and wave. Everybody knows everybody here.

The tuk-tuk driver turns off the road and heads seemingly at random through a row of rubber trees. Unsurprisingly, he knows where we're going. The porches of several modest wooden homes appear down a small hill. Raised on stilts, they cluster together in a clearing to overlook a small tropical meadow. Roosters and hens strut around with dozens of scrambling chicks in tow. Thai buffalo graze on their tethers below.

The family gathers to chat with us on the porch. It becomes clear that Deng the photographer, who is also my interpreter, and I will not be asking most of the questions here. Instead, I begin to gain an understanding of this culture by the questions asked of me. They ask about my country, my family — even my nipple piercing. How do I like Thailand? Do I have a wife? I'm asked about the laptop computer and the video camera. How much did I pay for this technology? The answer draws a collective gasp; 120,000 baht must seem like a ridiculous amount of money to spend on something like this. I'm a little embarrassed, but it turns out they've been looking for a computer for the homestay community building. I explain that they can get one for much less, that I bought the latest model and paid too much. Deng tells them, in Thai, that after about a year or two the "latest computer model" can be re-sold as a first-rate boat anchor. Everybody laughs.

"How much is a new longtail?" I ask. About 75,000 baht is the general consensus. "Also a big investment," I comment, "but a valuable tool that can make you money if you learn how to use it properly." The point is well taken. I think I just saved a little face. Bungbud, our host, suggests a walk to take a look at where the longtails launch in the morning. As we wind along the pathway, we pass several homes, and it starts to feel a lot more intimate. This is the real deal. Our "neighbours" tend to their chores, mending fishing nets, stirring a wok over an open fire. But no one is too busy, it seems, to smile.

As the sun powers down for the day, a longtail fleet rocks at low tide, silhouetted against the horizon. Deng leaps into action with his camera. This is clearly postcard material. Like the original inhabitants, I suppose, I'm enchanted with both a sense of calm repose and the promise of adventure in the waiting boats. I imagine that I'm a fisherman too. Waking up to fish every day.

What's for supper? Huge plates of fresh crab garnished with wisps of steam, a mouthwatering platter of fish, fried rice, soup, fresh pineapple, mangos and various spices and sauces. Our "little sister" Prattikarn is delighted that we are delighted. She proudly helps bring out more dishes. Fishermen eat well. I'm feeling delirious as yet another fresh crab claw is peeled for me. "If I eat any more, I'll have no room left, even for a cigarette," I protest.

Come sunrise, we head off to reel in the nets. Today, crab is the target. Wading through the shallows, we push the longtail out into deeper water and fire up the engine. The timber hull skims across the bay. One of our crew spots some friends tending a fish farm, a grid floating on blocks of Styrofoam straddled by narrow poles of wood.

Each section of grid net holds local snapper in various stages of development. A woman chops feeder fish for the smallest of the farm fish to eat. Her husband motions us to straddle the narrow poles and follow him. He tosses several whole feeder fish into the grid that houses the farms larger residents. The water thrashes violently. In seconds there's nothing left.

Motoring on, the boat approaches seagrass beds exposed by the low tide. There's a great variety of edible sea life. We find sea cucumbers, pointed oysters, small crabs and shell fish. Bungbud explains that this area was under heavy stress from the push net boats that plow the ocean floor under heavy diesel power. The marine life here is now in recovery. We learn that this is where one might be lucky enough to glimpse the rare dugongs that graze at dusk and at first light.

To the staccato tune of the longtail engine, we head at speed to the small island where our crab net is buoyed. Crabs become entangled by the barbs on their spiny legs and, as they struggle, they make matters worse. It becomes apparent that the secret of sustainable fishing is being satisfied with what the sea decides to give you. This style of fishing isn't about forcing the sea to cough up more. It's about letting the sea decide how much is enough for today. The net waits patiently for high tide. So do we. On the beach, we eat and lie about under shady trees. I ask about the where the catch is sold and how much it will fetch at market. Four crabs, it turns out, weigh in at about 1 kilo, which sells for 90 baht.

I want to know how the community views its future and how Bungbud, my host, fits into the community leadership. We talk about the agents who sell the fish, and the possibility of forming a co-op to sell directly to the markets. I am probing to find what the community has learned about sticking together, and if the idea will extend to other business enterprises. Ambition, it seems, is secondary to comfort. As we haul up the nets, Deng and I help reel in a modest harvest of crabs and a few other surprises, such as an edible type of conch with striking zebra markings and a small stingray.

The ray is carefully extracted from the net after a rap on the head with a mallet. Bungbud's wife explains: "These you must stun first before you free them, or they will lash you with their tail, causing a painful wound." I joke that the stingray probably says something similar about her: "These you must lash with your tail quickly, or they will rap you on the noggin with a mallet." We laugh. As this workday draws to a close, the net is cast back out to sea. We head for home. Our "family" says goodbye and good luck. Chock dee!

As a tourist activity, the homestay programme offers a great way to see the islands and a privileged way to experience the culture. There are no shows, very few bars on the island, no hawking of junk, and no pretense. You learn that not everyone is concerned with how much they can gather unto themselves. There are those for whom enough is exactly that. It's a mighty shift of perspective for most Westerners, and one that better serves our planet and our souls. A unique experience for sure. No wonder the people of Koh Yao Noi are international award winners.