If you make it to KO LANTA YAI today, you can sit idly on its powdered-sugar beaches, watching the palms sway, wetting your rice with green curry, drinking young coconut milk carelessly. You can buy dried mackerel from sea gypsies, play barefoot in pickup soccer games, and relish the dwindling days of one of Thailand's last coconut economies.

But they will come. They have already made their move.

The day has barely broken over the Andaman Sea, and the air is already thick with humidity and the staccato thump of busy hammers. Yary Abdulsama is slick with perspiration. He began laying cement before the sun came up, and the foundation of what is to be his kitchen is now complete. To his left, a group of wiry, shirtless Thais are stringing together strips of dried palm for the roof of their bar. "There is much to get ready in Lanta," he says, viewing the wet layer approvingly.

Yary is the architect, chef, and sole proprietor of Yary Burger, Ko Lanta Yai's first hamburger hut, and his whimsy and optimism fill the small space that will soon house his griddle and mini-fridge. Visions of ground beef sizzle soundly in his head. You can see it, it doesn't take much imagination: the tall, skinny gentleman grinning behind a thin veil of greasy smoke, an "It ain't a Burger unless it's a Yary Burger"? apron hanging loosely from his neck, hordes of homesick fast-food junkies and Pad Thai burnouts crowding intently around his tiny bamboo counter merely to take in the smell. Listen closely, and you can hear Jimmy Buffett playing softly from the bar.

Just a few months ago, as the chaos of Thailand's high season gave way to the quieting rains of the monsoons, Yary and a group of close friends and business partners packed their bags (and blenders and martini glasses) and crossed the skinny swath of sea between Krabi and Ko Lanta Yai. What they left behind in Rai Lay, a backpacker-saturated point on the Krabi coast, was no small sacrifice: Their bar, the Railay Experience, was one of the area's most-frequented watering holes, and the original Yary Burger was so popular that the young entrepreneur had been flipping patties into the wee hours.

So what, then, would possess them to abandon their posts at an immensely successful operation in one of Thailand's hottest hot spots for quiet ol'Lanta?

"It's a new place, a new experience," Yary says, and then, curiously, clarifies: "We come here because we see the potential in Ko Lanta." They are not the only ones.

TRADING PAD THAI FOR PIZZA
Lying only a few kilometers off the western side of Thailand, long and slender, Ko Lanta Yai offers what nearly all travelers are looking for: sun-blanched beaches, bathwater seas, and unimaginably affordable everything. It might lack the limestone grandeur of the Krabi Coast and the impossibly beautiful surroundings of Ko Phi Phi, but what it lacks in the way of tropical perfection, it makes up for in the character, tranquility, and confidence of an island that still belongs to its inhabitants, for now at least.

In the past two decades, development fever has gripped Thailand, and the country has taken nearly every opportunity to build on each idyllic inch of available island property. The Thai hunger for tourists and their dollars and euros has grown to near-insatiable dimensions, and this gluttony is threatening some of the world's most beautiful locales. Ask the residents of Ko Pha Ngan about the boatloads of tourists who make the monthly pilgrimage there to party in full lunar upheaval, and they'll tell you they wish the moon would take a month off.

On islands like Ko Samui and Ko Phi Phi (where Leo DiCaprio and Co. set up camp for the filming of the 1999 movie The Beach), locals, willingly or not, have traded palm trees for bungalows, pad Thai for pizza, solitude for relative prosperity. And with its long, uninterrupted strands of white beaches, ripe coral reefs, and smiling locals, Ko Lanta sits fertile, waiting. Who will protect Ko Lanta from the KFC and Seven-11 reality of Phuket and Ko Samet? Or will it grow up just like its overdeveloped brethren?

MR. PERFECT ON THE PERFECT ISLAND
The midday heat on Ko Lanta has reached oppressive proportions. After a few days of rain, the sun has risen with something to prove. Yary and his friends take a break for lunch and sit with bowls of fried noodles under the shade of the looming palms. They are shirtless and sweaty, a half-dozen men slurping down spicy noodles and enjoying each other's company. Yary chats with a friend to his right, Lek Puchongt, a short, handsome fellow they playfully call "Mr. Perfect"? for his persistence and dedication to the team's business ventures and for his knowledge of everything Thai. He is humble and spirited, the unspoken leader of the group. From his quiet friends emanates an unmistakable confidence in Lek, an admiration for his vision.

"I know that this will be Ko Lanta's breakout year," says Lek, his mouth full of ginger and wilted basil. The group nods in unison. For nearly a decade now, Lek has gone back and forth between Rai Lay and Lanta, tending bar, working at different bungalow operations, and even occasionally serving as a tourist agent. More than anyone else here, Lek knows the island, the changes, the potential.

Eight years ago, when I arrived, there were only 20 accommodations, now there are 147 operations, nearly 4,000 rooms open in Lanta. Most of those rooms are simple-thatched roof bungalows with double bed, fan, and small bathroom and due to the apparent absence of pretension, Ko Lanta remains primarily a backpacker's island, flecked with Internet cafes and Thai massage parlors. Even so, an increasing number of upscale resorts now pepper the island's southern tip, offering package tourists and newlyweds the tennis and television and upscale dining that come with top-tier hospitality. The makeover is astounding; as Lek puts it, Ko Lanta didn't even have electricity nine years ago. Although a tinge of nostalgia runs through his voice, Lek is certain that Ko Lanta won't be just another stunning, overcrowded Thai island. "It won't be like Ko Samui," he explains calmly, "because we know what we're doing. We can learn from their mistakes and keep Lanta nice."

Lanta is now facing the same obstacles that Samui and Ko Phi Phi were facing in the past decade: seemingly basic but immeasurably important issues like where to get water, what products to build with, and how to provide power for the entire island. Everyday, trucks sagging under the weight of wood and cement cross over the Andaman by ferry, bearing materials to eager builders. Whispers of a land bridge float through the air like a prophecy foretold.

The oldest bungalows here are very modest: small bamboo and driftwood shacks with thatched roofs-nothing a healthy gust of wind couldn't shake. Some people, like Yary and Lek, continue to support environmentally conscious building practices, using local wood, fallen palms, and rocks from abandoned houses to build their bars and restaurants. But the trend on the island (on all islands in this country) is toward modern, sturdy accommodations. Cement, plaster, and tile are the materials of choice for most of the burgeoning bungalow operations. Many proprietors complain that bungalows built with natural materials require too much maintenance and often sustain extensive damage during the monsoon season. The Thais know now, after twenty escalating years of dreadlocked backpackers and love-drunk honeymooners, that tourism is here to stay. In turn, even the oldest operators are replacing their original rooms with expensive new units, adding a cybercafe or beachside bar in the renovation. Many of the humblest properties now have three or four different bars on the premises, so guests can ease their way from Mekong whiskey to Chang beer and back to their bungalows.

As the space for visitors increases and the need for water grows rampant in the high season, locals scramble to quench the island’s collective thirst. For now, Lanta still gets all of its water from underground wells and mountain runoff, and in the rainy season, when Lanta wears the quiet demeanor of a village whose men are at war, water falls abundantly from the excitable skies. But Lanta faces the same precarious problem that plagues nearly all small islands: The high season is the dry season, and just when the bungalow and restaurant owners need water the most, the ground cracks like an overcooked cake.

Part of Lek's assertion, shared by many of the island's developers, that Lanta can implement controlled tourism is based on geographical reality. The 25-kilometer-long island is dominated by mountains and jungle, and though elephant rides, cave exploration, and waterfalls draw day trippers inland to these areas, development there is essentially nonexistent. The eastern side is guarded by a rocky coastline, protecting it from the onslaught of tourists and entrepreneurs. This leaves only the west coast for development, and as Lek will quickly point out, or an afternoon ride on a scooter will show you, there is little land left to claim.

National and local law aims to safeguard the cultural and environmental integrity of places like Lanta, which is partially protected as a National Marine Park by the Royal Forestry Department, but efforts to preserve these small, vulnerable islands can be tricky and inconsistent. Ko Chang, a National Marine Park since 1983, has been strictly monitored and maintained by the Forestry Department, which uses helicopter fly-bys to ensure development does not encroach. On the other hand, Ko Phi Phi's protection under the same status has done little to deter the construction of new bungalows, restaurants, and dive shops on its already crowded shores. Local rumor has it that when Phuket banned the building of any structure higher than the palm trees, creative hoteliers imported goliath palms from the mainland so they could tack on an extra floor or two. Though the old, modest bungalow operations on Lanta are tucked tightly under the shadows of palm trees, it seems that some of the newcomers aren't as concerned with the law. Already, the skeletons of future resorts loom menacingly over the tops of Ko Lanta's loftiest palms.

Locals will tell you, with a subtle look of regret, that life is changing on Lanta. An unmistakable ambivalence hangs in the air: Should they embrace Lanta's predestined prosperity or mourn the loss of the island's identity? The days when the island subsisted on rubber farming and gypsy (chao nam) fishing are fading. Many on Lanta are fully prepared for the storm to hit the island. They've realized, you either learn how to toss pizza or watch your neighbors get rich on wienerschnitzel. And if they don't reap the rewards, someone else will: Developers from Bangkok and Krabi are snatching up the last of the coastal plots and moving their families over to Lanta. And as they have so prominently done on Phuket and Ko Samui, farang (white people) are coming to Ko Lanta, falling in love, and finding any way they can to stay. Two British entrepreneurs who found the island to their liking decided to build Lanta's first mega-complex, a two-story, 20-shop mall, which may be open by the time you read this.

In the most recent edition of Thailand's Beaches & Islands, the Rough Guide ranks Ko Lanta Yai as "the number one thing not to miss"? in the country, ahead of the Grand Palace in Bangkok and Ko Pha Ngan's full-moon parties. Other publications are making similarly lofty claims, and people are listening. Increasingly, U.S. college students are bypassing the customary six-countries-in-20-days Grand Tour of Europe and making their way to Southeast Asia, to Thailand, where the food is cheap, the sand is fine, and the water warm and clear. Newlyweds sidestep traditional honeymoon havens like Hawaii and Jamaica, opting for the tropical opulence, affordability, and increasingly available luxury of Thailand. And all of these farang come armed with guidebooks promising to direct them to Edens yet to be discovered. Most fail to see the paradox.

BURGERS, GENEROSITY, AND DREAMS
Night has fallen over Ko Lanta Yai, blanketing the island, and the day's progress, in darkness. The fading sound of hammers and saws has given way to jungle chatter.

At Lucky Lanta, a large open-air restaurant adjacent to the space housing Yary and Lek's nascent bar and burger shack, Lek chats with his partners at a table, making notes on stray napkins. In front of them is a line of glasses filled with brightly colored concoctions. They are working on the drink menu for their new bar- to be called the Amigo Pub and their selection is full of anything but traditional Thai libations like whiskey and soda or Singha beer. Gin fizz, Sex on the Beach, Long Island iced tea; the emerging menu goes way beyond the requisite tropical selection of pina coladas and banana daiquiris and into realms that could warm the heart of any Manhattan club kid or London pub crawler. These guys have done their homework. None seems personally interested in the drinks themselves; when they finish with "work," they switch immediately to Sang Som, the fiery national whisky. But for the moment, they are intent on putting themselves in the mind of the average farang, and as the buzz of an hour's worth of heavy cocktail testing begins to take effect, the excitement of their plans and the already strong affinity for their new home surface.

Ko Lanta is Ko Lanta because of the people. "People will help you build a bar for nothing, just out of heart," Lek says. Neon glasses are raised and downed with this warm observation. Yary emerges soon after with his trademark grin and one of his famous burgers, wok fried to perfection (his griddle still needs assembling.). A collective call for a taste rings out, and Yary is more than happy to pass the greasy, wax-paper-wrapped treat around the table.

"If you're hungry, I want you to eat, whether or not you have money,"? he says, wiping ketchup from his face and then, as if his casual approach to making burgers wasn't already apparent, adding, "I'm Yary Burger, not McDonald's. Sometimes I grill burgers, other times I just don't want to." Six months ago, when a friendly English tourist ran out of money in Rai Lay, Yary put him up in his bungalow and feed him hamburgers three times a day.

It is clear in everything- their carefree attitudes, their generosity, the genuine pleasure they take in even the most basic tasks that this is not simply a venture to make money; it is a scheme to bring people together. Like nearly all Thais, Lek and Yary share a genuine pride for their country its islands and beaches and small, unassuming villages.

When Yary finishes the last bite of the burger that may make a name for him here on Lanta, he washes it down with a long gulp of beer and backs away from the table. He walks over toward the nearly finished bar, past stacks of palms and piles of rock, to the small cement slab on which he will build his dream. He pauses, hands in his pockets, and rubs his sandaled foot over the bare cement. "Ten years ago, Ko Samui looked just like this," he observes quietly, "but we don't want to grow into Samui. This is the last island."

For people like these guys, the desire to share the quaint, charming seclusion of Thailand with the rest of the world is unfortunately exactly what may destroy what they love best about their country. Perhaps they underestimate how truly infectious their island is, because when the word gets out, life will never be the same for the rubber farmers, the gypsy fishermen, and the big-hearted burger king of Ko Lanta Yai.

Photos by Kraig Lieb