Discovering the Hidden Paradise: Untouched Beaches and Marine Magic of Likupang, North Sulawesi
It’s funny how the most profound travel experiences often come from places you’ve barely heard of. That was certainly the case with Likupang for me. While planning my Indonesia trip last year, I was originally focused on the usual suspects – Bali, Lombok, maybe Raja Ampat if I could stretch my budget. But during a late-night research rabbit hole (fueled by one too many cups of coffee), I stumbled across a photo of this pristine white beach with water so blue it looked Photoshopped. Likupang, North Sulawesi.
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I almost skipped it, to be honest. My itinerary was already packed, and adding another destination meant sacrificing days in places I’d been dreaming about for years. But something about those empty shores kept calling me back. Maybe it was the promise of beaches without the Instagram crowds, or perhaps it was just my contrarian nature wanting to go somewhere my friends couldn’t pronounce. Whatever it was, I’m eternally grateful to my sleep-deprived self for making that impulsive decision.
Arriving in Likupang after the bumpy journey from Manado, I felt that rare sensation that’s becoming increasingly extinct in our over-traveled world – genuine discovery. Not the manufactured kind that tour companies sell you (“exclusive” beaches that somehow have 200 people on them), but the real deal. Standing on that first stretch of sand, watching fishing boats bobbing on water that shifted between turquoise and deep blue, I thought, “Well, I’ve done it now – found a place so special I’m not sure I should tell anyone about it.”
But here I am, spilling my secrets. Consider this my love letter to a place that reminded me why I started traveling in the first place.
A First Glimpse of Likupang’s Pristine Shores
The thing about truly untouched beaches is that they don’t announce themselves with welcome drinks and loungers. They just exist, indifferent to whether you find them or not. Paal Beach was exactly like that – no entrance sign, no rental umbrellas, just an expanse of powder-white sand that squeaked beneath my feet as I took my first steps across it.
I’d arrived around 4 PM, when the light was turning golden and most locals had already headed home. The beach curved gently for what looked like miles, bordered by scattered coconut palms that leaned toward the water as if they too were mesmerized by its clarity. I dropped my backpack, kicked off my sandals, and just stood there for a good five minutes, slightly dumbstruck.
“Is this for real?” I remember mumbling to myself. After years of beaches that never quite lived up to their filtered Instagram versions, I’d become a bit jaded. But Likupang was doing that rare thing – exceeding expectations rather than failing to meet them.
I’d planned to do a proper exploration, maybe walk the length of the beach and take notes about access points and facilities (the blogger in me never fully switches off). Instead, I found a spot where the sand formed a natural seat and just… sat. For two hours. Watching the sun sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reflected off the calm water.
Honestly, I hadn’t expected to be so affected by it. I’ve seen plenty of beaches, right? But there was something about the solitude, the absolute peace of having this paradise practically to myself, that hit differently. I felt a lump in my throat watching the fishermen in the distance, heading out for their evening catch, their silhouettes tiny against the vastness of the sea.
I did eventually snap out of my trance and notice the lack of amenities. No beachside cafes, no convenience stores – just nature in its purest form. Part of me had expected at least some basic tourist infrastructure (I was craving a cold coconut something fierce), but then I realized that was exactly why this place remained so perfect. The minor inconvenience of bringing my own water was a small price to pay for this untarnished beauty.
That first evening set the tone for my entire Likupang experience – a series of moments where nature’s simplicity trumped any luxury resort experience I’d ever had. Though I will admit, by day three I was pretty desperate for a proper coffee. We can’t completely abandon civilization, can we?
Diving into the Underwater World of Likupang
If Likupang’s beaches above water impressed me, what lay beneath the surface left me absolutely speechless – which, as anyone who knows me will tell you, is a rare occurrence. I’m usually the one tour guides have to politely ask to stop asking questions.
I’d heard whispers about the marine biodiversity here, with some travelers comparing it to Raja Ampat but without the crowds or eye-watering prices. Skeptical by nature, I tempered my expectations. North Sulawesi isn’t as renowned as some of Indonesia’s diving hotspots, so how good could it really be?
Turns out, phenomenally good.
I arranged a snorkeling trip to the waters around Bangka Island through my guesthouse owner, who connected me with his cousin who ran a small boat operation. Nothing fancy – just a wooden boat with a sputtering engine, life vests that had seen better days, and snorkeling gear that fogged up constantly. But sometimes the best experiences come with the least polish.
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My First Snorkeling Attempt Here
I should confess something – despite my extensive travels, I’m a mediocre swimmer at best. I can keep myself afloat and move forward in a fashion that vaguely resembles swimming, but I’m no Michael Phelps. So there I was, awkwardly flopping into the water, my snorkel mask already fogging up, while the boat captain (a weathered man of about 60 who introduced himself simply as “Pak”) watched with barely concealed amusement.
“Many fish. You see,” he said, pointing downward with a certainty that made me wonder if he had x-ray vision through the water.
After adjusting my mask for the third time and accidentally swallowing a mouthful of seawater (a tradition I seem to uphold on every snorkeling trip), I finally got my face in the water – and nearly gasped through my snorkel.
Just below me, perhaps only ten feet down, was a coral garden so vibrant it looked artificial. Branching corals in purples and blues, massive brain corals, and fan corals swaying gently with the current. And the fish! Schools of tiny blue chromis darting in perfect synchronization, parrotfish munching noisily on coral, and a clownfish family peeking out from their anemone home, looking exactly like the Finding Nemo cast but somehow more vivid.
I’m not ashamed to admit I got a bit emotional behind my foggy mask. There’s something profoundly moving about witnessing an ecosystem so perfect, so untouched, especially when you’re aware of how rare that’s becoming in our oceans.
The water was actually cooler than I’d expected – I’d somehow assumed all tropical waters were bathtub-warm. But the slight chill was refreshing once I got moving, and honestly, I could have stayed in that underwater wonderland for hours if Pak hadn’t eventually signaled it was time to move to another spot.
We visited three different snorkeling sites that day, each with its own character. One was deeper, with dramatic coral walls disappearing into the blue depths. Another was shallower with vast fields of staghorn coral where I spotted a small blacktip reef shark cruising by, causing my heart rate to spike momentarily before I remembered they’re about as dangerous as a curious puppy.
The highlight, though, was an unexpected encounter with a sea turtle – a hawksbill, Pak later confirmed. It appeared from the blue, unhurried and majestic, and swam directly beneath me, close enough that I could see the patterns on its shell and its ancient, knowing eye as it glanced up at the strange bubbling creature invading its world. I followed at a respectful distance until it disappeared into deeper water, leaving me floating there, grinning like an idiot through my snorkel.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d seen. My shoulders were sunburned despite the reef-safe sunscreen I’d diligently applied (and reapplied), my legs were sore from finning, and my hair was a salt-tangled mess – but I felt completely alive. There’s really nothing like the underwater world to remind you how vast and mysterious our planet remains.
The Local Charm and Unexpected Challenges
Likupang isn’t just about its natural beauty – the human element here adds another layer to its charm, though not without some complications for travelers used to more developed destinations.
The villages scattered around Likupang have a distinctly different feel from tourist-oriented communities I’ve visited elsewhere in Indonesia. Life here revolves around fishing and small-scale agriculture, not catering to visitors. This makes for wonderfully authentic interactions, but also means you shouldn’t expect much English or tourism infrastructure.
One morning, I woke up early to watch the fishing boats return with their night’s catch. Sitting on the beach with my camera, I was approached by an elderly fisherman who introduced himself as Pak Anton. Despite our limited shared vocabulary, he proudly showed me his catch – a variety of fish I couldn’t name – and through gestures and my broken Bahasa, explained how some fishing techniques had been passed down through generations in his family.
He invited me to his home for coffee, an offer I accepted with perhaps more enthusiasm than caution (my mother would not approve of my willingness to go to strangers’ homes, but these moments are often the heart of travel). His wooden house was simple but immaculate, with family photos covering one wall and fishing nets being repaired in the corner. His wife served us intensely strong coffee in mismatched cups while their grandchildren peeked shyly at me from behind doorways.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how tourism changes places. Sitting there, in that home that had probably looked largely the same for decades, I wondered if Likupang would eventually transform into another Bali or Lombok. Part of me hopes it never does – that it maintains this authenticity and connection to traditional ways of life. But I also recognize the economic benefits tourism can bring to communities like this. It’s a complicated balance, isn’t it? I don’t have answers, just questions that follow me from one destination to the next.
The lack of tourist infrastructure that preserves Likupang’s charm also creates genuine challenges. Getting around is difficult without your own transportation – the roads are often rough, and public transport is limited to occasional bemos (minivans) that run on schedules known only to locals. I ended up hiring a motorbike despite not having driven one in years, which led to a nerve-wracking but ultimately hilarious journey where I got lost for two hours in an area with no cell service. A kind local farmer eventually pointed me in the right direction, but not before inviting me to rest and hydrate with fresh coconut water from his trees.
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Food options are similarly limited. There are no trendy cafes or international restaurants – just local warungs (small family-owned eateries) serving simple but delicious Indonesian fare. I developed a minor addiction to their nasi campur (mixed rice dishes) with fresh grilled fish, though I did start craving variety after a few days. And I’ll admit – by day four, I would have paid an embarrassing amount for a proper cappuccino.
Accommodation is basic but adequate. I stayed at a small guesthouse run by a family who treated me more like a distant relative than a paying guest, constantly checking if I was hungry or needed anything. My room had a temperamental fan, occasional hot water, and a few insect residents I chose to make peace with rather than evict. But it also had a porch where I could watch the sunset over the water – a luxury that five-star hotels can’t always provide.
Why Likupang Feels Like a Secret I Shouldn’t Share
I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, staring at this section heading, wondering if I’m doing the right thing by writing about Likupang at all. There’s a selfish part of me that wants to delete this entire article, to keep this place as my own little secret.
Have you ever found something so perfect you’re afraid sharing it might somehow diminish it? That’s how I feel about Likupang.
In a world where overtourism is transforming once-pristine destinations into crowded, Instagram-backdrop factories, finding a place that still feels genuine is increasingly rare. Walking along beaches where my footprints were often the only ones in the sand gave me a sense of discovery I haven’t felt in years of traveling.
One night, I found myself alone on the beach under a blanket of stars so dense it looked like someone had spilled salt across black velvet. The Milky Way stretched overhead in all its glory – actually visible, not just a faint smudge like in most places with light pollution. I lay back on the sand, listening to the gentle rhythm of waves and the distant sounds of a village celebration, and felt a connection to the world that’s hard to put into words.
It was one of those moments that reminds you why travel matters – not for the photos or social media posts or even the stories to tell later, but for the way it makes you feel present in a world that’s constantly pulling your attention in a thousand directions.
And that’s precisely why I’m hesitant to share it. What if everyone rushes to Likupang? What if developers notice its potential and start building resorts? What if those empty beaches become crowded with sunbathers and the coral reefs get damaged by careless snorkelers?
But then again, who am I to gatekeep this paradise? The locals I met could benefit from more tourism if it’s done thoughtfully. And maybe by sharing this place, I can encourage the kind of travelers who appreciate its untouched beauty and want to help preserve it rather than change it.
I genuinely don’t know if writing this article is the right thing. But I do know that places like Likupang deserve to be approached with respect and awareness – not as a backdrop for selfies, but as living, breathing communities and ecosystems that have value beyond their Instagram potential.
Practical Tips for Visiting Likupang (Without Losing Its Magic)
If I’ve convinced you to add Likupang to your travel list (and I’m still not entirely sure if that was my goal), here are some practical tips to help you experience it without contributing to its potential transformation:
Manado is your gateway to Likupang. The city has an international airport with connections to Jakarta, Singapore, and a few other Asian hubs. From Manado, you’ll need to take a car or minibus to Likupang, which takes about 1.5-2 hours depending on road conditions. Don’t trust Google Maps on this one – it told me the journey would take 45 minutes, which was wildly optimistic.
Getting There Without a Hitch
Learn from my mistake: I underestimated the travel time from Manado and nearly missed the last shared taxi to Likupang. I’d spent too much time wandering around Manado’s market (those colorful spices were too photogenic to rush past), assuming I could easily find transport whenever I was ready. By the time I arrived at the terminal, most drivers had already left or filled their vehicles. I ended up paying more for a private car, which worked out in the end because the driver became my impromptu tour guide, stopping at viewpoints I would have missed otherwise. Still, better planning would have saved both money and stress.
The best time to visit is during the dry season from May to October. I went in late September and had mostly sunny days with the occasional brief shower. The water visibility for snorkeling was excellent, and the temperatures were hot but not unbearable.
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Pack thoughtfully for Likupang’s limited infrastructure. Bring:
– Reef-safe sunscreen (seriously, the sun is intense and regular sunscreen damages coral)
– Basic medical supplies (the nearest pharmacy is back in Manado)
– Enough cash for your entire stay (there are no ATMs in Likupang)
– A water filter bottle or purification tablets (reducing plastic waste)
– Snorkeling gear if you have it (rentals are available but quality varies wildly)
– A good book or downloaded entertainment (evenings are quiet, and WiFi is spotty at best)
Accommodation options are limited but growing. I stayed at Likupang Seaview Cottage, a simple but clean guesthouse run by a lovely family. There are a few similar options along the main beaches, plus some homestays in the villages. Don’t expect luxury, but do expect warmth and hospitality that five-star resorts rarely match. Book ahead during Indonesian holiday periods, as limited rooms can fill up with domestic tourists.
For activities, snorkeling or diving should top your list – the marine life is truly extraordinary. Boat trips to nearby islands like Lihaga and Gangga can be arranged through guesthouses or local boat operators at the beach. Hiking in the surrounding hills offers beautiful views, though trails aren’t marked, so consider hiring a local guide.
Food-wise, embrace local cuisine and seafood – it’s fresh, delicious, and your options for Western food are basically non-existent. My favorite spot was a nameless warung near the main beach that served the catch of the day with rice and sambal (chili sauce) for about 30,000 IDR (roughly $2 USD). Just look for where locals are eating.
Most importantly, tread lightly on this special place. Take your trash with you, avoid touching or standing on coral when snorkeling, support local businesses rather than any chain operations that might pop up, and approach interactions with locals with respect and humility.
I’m far from a perfect traveler – I’ve made plenty of thoughtless mistakes in my journeys – but Likupang inspired me to be more mindful than usual. Something about its untouched beauty made me acutely aware of my responsibility as a visitor.
Leaving Likupang with a Piece of Its Peace
My last morning in Likupang, I woke before sunrise – partly intentional, partly because a rooster right outside my window seemed determined to start the day early. I made my way to the beach in the pre-dawn blue light, passing fishermen preparing their boats and children walking to school in neat uniforms.
The beach was empty except for a stray dog trotting purposefully along the shoreline. The water was so calm it looked like glass, reflecting the pink-orange glow beginning to spread across the eastern sky. I sat down at the water’s edge, letting small waves wash over my feet, and tried to memorize every detail – the particular blue of the water, the texture of the sand, the silhouettes of islands on the horizon.
It’s a strange feeling, leaving a place you know you might never see again – or at least, never see in the same way. Travel has taught me that return visits rarely capture the magic of the first time, especially with rapidly developing destinations. The Likupang I experienced might not exist in the same form in five years, or even next year.
I found myself feeling oddly protective of this place, while simultaneously wanting to share its beauty with others who would appreciate it. It’s a contradiction I haven’t resolved. Maybe that’s okay.
What I do know is that Likupang gave me something precious – a reminder of why I fell in love with travel in the first place. Not for luxury experiences or impressive photos, but for moments of connection: with nature, with people living differently than I do, and with parts of myself that only seem to awaken when I’m far from home.
As I packed up later that morning, I found sand in every crevice of my backpack, between the pages of my journal, even somehow inside my supposedly waterproof camera case. Two weeks later, back home, I’m still finding Likupang’s sand tucked into unexpected corners of my belongings. Each discovery makes me smile – a tiny souvenir of a place that carved out a permanent space in my heart.
If you go to Likupang – and I’m still not entirely sure if I want you to – go with open eyes and a gentle footprint. Let it change you rather than trying to change it. And maybe keep just a few of its secrets to yourself, passing them on only to travelers who will honor them.
After all, some paradises deserve to remain a little hidden.
About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.
