I can actually say that I go home to Thailand. I am not really a farang. I lived there for two years in 2000 and 2001.

Thai people refer to foreigners as “farang,” which comes with implied prices and treatment. However, while I worked as a scuba instructor on the Phi Phi Islands, between the larger island of Phuket and the mainland, I was fortunate to get to know the Thai people a little better than tourists on a brief vacation.

I managed a scuba dive center on Phi Phi Don, the largest island — 5 miles ( 8 km) long by 1.5 miles (2.5 km) wide — and the only one with permanent dwellings. Phi Phi Don was made famous by the Hollywood movie The Beach, in 2000. The second largest island, Phi Phi Lee, a short boat ride from Phi Phi Don, has stunning beaches. Many people visit just for the day, since there are no accommodations here. The rest of the islands are mere limestone rocks jutting out of the azure Andaman Sea.

On Phi Phi Don I rented my room from a local gentleman who invited me to his table every evening when he saw me walking home from work. He shared his meals with me and we talked about his country, my country, people, local politics and Buddhism. (Thailand is unique as one of the few places where I have seen Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims respecting each other’s religion and getting along just fine.) I learned more about Thailand and its people from those conversations than from any travel literature.

Most Thai families live a very modest, but happy life. They don’t seem to miss a big TV, a big car and a big house. I always love to travel to Asia for a reality check.

With the help of locals and volunteers, the Thai government cleared debris and installed a tsunami early warning system.

I have rarely seen Thai people swimming (not even the boat boys), and during my whole career as a dive instructor I taught only one Thai person. My landlord told me that Thai people stay away from water because they believe it is imbued with bad spirits.

This idea gets a whole new dimension when you think back to the devastating Indian Ocean tsunami that hit Southeast Asia on December 26, 2004, claiming approximately 275,000 lives. Thailand alone mourned the loss of 5,400 people along its Andaman coast, almost half of them foreigners on holiday.

The only time I have seen many Thai people at the edge of the water was on the evening of the annual Loy Krathong Festival, celebrated in November. On the night of a full moon they float krathongs (banana leaves fashioned into lotus-shaped vessels decorated with flowers and candles) on the water.

It is believed that as the krathongs float away with the tide, bad luck goes with them. Krathongs float all over Thailand that night, even in swimming pools. During this one evening, waters of the Phi Phi Islands are aglow with thousands upon thousands of glimmering candles.

Different legends surround the origins. The most popular version is that Loy Krathong is an expression of gratitude to the goddess of water, Phra Mae Kongka, for having extensively used (and sometimes polluted) the water from the rivers and canals. In part it is also a thanksgiving for her bounty in providing water for the livelihood of the people.

On Boxing Day, 2004, as I switched on the TV for some background noise during my morning routine, I heard the words “Phi Phi,” “Phuket” and “tsunami” over and over, and could not believe my eyes. Gigantic waves were devouring the very beachfront dive shop where I used to work. The shots in the news were continually repeating the same disturbing images.

People were desperately clinging to palm trees. I saw them climbing higher and higher until there was nowhere to go and the raging waves were growing higher. I saw the terror in their eyes as they had to let go of the trees and hope for the best as they were swept away. Cars and hundreds of holiday bungalows were washed out to violent seas, as well.

Phi Phi Don is like a pancake pinched in the middle. The main village, Ton Sai, is largely built on a sandy isthmus between the island’s two long, tall limestone ridges. On both sides of the village are semicircular bays — Loh Dalum Bay in the north and Tonsai Bay in the south — lined with white-sand beaches. The neck of land rises less than six feet (2 m) above sea level.

The deadly tsunami hit at around 10:30 a.m. during the busy holiday season, when the beaches were full of vacationers swimming, waterskiing or just relaxing. Water rushed in from both bays and met in the middle of the isthmus. The larger wave, coming in from the Loh Dalum Bay side, was up to 18 feet (5.5 m) high. The one that hit Tonsai Bay was about 10 feet (3 m) high.