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A quick word of introduction. My name is Stuart McDonald and this is Couchfish—the perfect tub of ice-cream for the traveller stranded on the couch. The newsletter has both a paid edition which traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia, and a free one that covers, well, everything else. If you’d like to support me finding more tourism stuff to moan about, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Thank you.

My piece on finding a beach house thanks to my dog wasn’t so much a humble brag, and today’s post explains why. Much as I wrote, our little garden was a (very messy) canvas for the landscaper, and the beach house would be a canvas of my own. One not so much to try my hand at art—think yourself lucky—but rather a sustainability one. I’ve been writing for years on sustainable tourism, and here was an opportunity to put my words into action. Grand plans and all that.

In case you’re new to the couch, sustainable tourism (in theory) rests on three foundations—the environment, the economy, and the social. While I have no intentions in turning the beach shack into a rental, how can I de-shackify it with these principles in mind? As it turns out, few things come easy.

Inventiveness through necessity. The builders’ entire tool set. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As with the foundations of a real house, sustainable tourism’s three bases intertwine and rely upon one another. Viewed in a holistic manner, it’s all well and good to source local labour, but if they’re building eleventy million private pool villas in a water-stressed locale, the end result is not ideal.

In my case, there is much to do. The house has a bathroom my kids won’t touch with a bargepole, the “garden” is like a set out of Apocalypse Now, and the electrics, well, as an Australian electrician once said of our flat in Bangkok, “it’s a death trap.”

I’m a travel writer—not an architect. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With Agung’s help—and at my instruction—we source a local building team. From two villages very close at hand, these guys know how to mix concrete, and at that they excel. While I need that talent, I also want a staggered and curving bamboo wall for a far larger bathroom. One of the team has worked with bamboo before, though never a curving, multi-section wall. He reckons it won’t be too much more complicated and I agree. We are both wrong.

While Agung “searches in the jungle for bamboo he likes,” the team busy themselves on the wall base and piping. I want to move the toilet and have two showers, one at either end. At the prompt of another, I asked after P-traps. P whats you ask? Yeah, same—it is to be one of many terms I learn that I wish I never needed to. After I sketch one out (thanks Google) the builders confess to having no idea, nor any idea where to buy them. Not for the last time, they improvise, building them out of pipe joins to make the same. Over and over their inventiveness impresses—as does their willingness to do things over as needed. In general, three times is a charm.

Is this the second or third try? I forget. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In the end though, we get there. It takes twice as long, and my costs blow out a little—thanks in part to someone helping themselves to some bamboo—but the end product is great. The tub, one day to be used far in the future when I have hot water, is Bali-made.

The tub is a nice pivot point to water. As with much of Bali, there’s no mains, and instead out back I have a ten-metre deep well. Back in the day they’d hoisted it by bucket, but now a pump gives a much appreciated assist. It isn’t drinking water though, which leaves me needing to buy aqua gallons. Sure they’re refillable and all, but treated water would be great. We have a filtration system at our house in the south, but that cost close to what the shack is costing me per year, so I stick with the refills.

The kids’ names, ok, but cats and the dog? Crazy bule. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

What about hot water? Youtube tells me to lay black hose all over the back off the roof, use the pump to fill it, and let the sun heat it through the day. A cheap man’s solar I guess. This seems simple and something even I could manage, only then another alerts me to the risks of Legionnaires’ disease through such an approach. The risks are, it seems, low, but given how accident-prone I tend to be, I figure this is tempting fate. I stick with cold water—perhaps one day I’ll invest in solar to warm it up.

Solar brings me to power, and researching this, I talk to a solar set-up in South Bali. They ask what fittings I have, and I say one pump, nine lightbulbs, and some plugs for my laptop. They reply saying they need the information for the whole house—not one room. When I say this is the whole house, they suggest a car battery, explaining solar will take longer than my lease to pay itself off. End result, a future discussion with Agung to extend the lease by twenty years or so. I do however, rewire the entire house—the sparky conveniently lives just up the road—and yes, I have him on speed dial.

Looks solid. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On the social side of things, there are two strands—work and food. Aside from the builders, who could I invest in my shack? The farmer who keeps an eye on the place now continues to do so, but is paid for his efforts. I even get him to stop setting my compost on fire. Another guy from a neighbouring village drops by every Friday to take to the garden with a machete—he heads to prayers afterwards, no doubt asking for forgiveness. The farmer’s wife both washes the sheets when I’m away and comes to make the offerings at the shack temple. These are all little things, and, save the offerings, things I could do myself, but this seems the least I can do.

Food wise, as I mentioned the other day, the shack kitchen is good for nothing but boiling water for coffee. Near all my meals come from a local babi guling warung or a line of nasi warungs up at the temple. The food is, I think without exception, all sourced locally.

About as pan-Asian as my meals get. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s also a side story to the warungs. One morning I’m at one, and another customer asks me where I’m staying. Before I can answer, the owner replies on my behalf, telling her “He’s Australian, but he lives in Kerobokan. He comes up here a lot, but his wife and kids don’t come much.”

This is the thing—I keep to myself. Some days I chat to the fishermen on early morning walks, farmers drop by to sit on my porch, drink my coffee, and correct my Indonesian. I don’t go to the frequent cremations, though I do make a donation whenever the temple asks. Somehow all this filters up to a warung owner a kilometre away by the temple.

No photos of the magic helicopter, so here’s a magic pineapple. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One morning chatting, a farmer tells me the house is haunted. “Babies in the well,” they say, “bad teenagers,” says another during a different session. This is, unsettling, and I do dream unweildy dreams while there. I’d put them down to the sea breeze and the sound of the surf, but perhaps there is something more at play. There’s a huge fragipani in the back corner overhanging the temple, and every month local villagers visit to make offerings at its base. I think this is for the babies or the teens, but instead it’s for good luck in some local numbers competition.

Very pre-dawn one morning I watch a helicopter offshore in darkness. Hovering, lights ablaze, I wonder if there is a search and rescue underway, as the fishers’ boats sink with disturbing regularity. But then it simply flies off. When I later ask Agung about it, he nods pensively, saying it is the “magic helicopter.” I’m still not quite sure what to make of that.

The cover is there for a reason. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I don’t know quite what ghost stories have to do with sustainable tourism’s social pillar, but these conversations, at least for me, are useful. They help me understand—or not—in the smallest of ways, the cycle of life the local people follow. It is a very different cycle to mine, and they’re just as curious about mine—though nothing is off limits when they’re asking me stuff!

Grievances and inter-religious resentments surface fast, as does a sometimes sense of helplessness. Farmers keep cows in simple shelters on a few spots on the beach out front, and during the foot and mouth outbreak this is a big problem. Cows are sick, and some die, and as they tell me about it, as with rice cultivation, the brutal economics behind beef surface. The government is of some help, but as indicated by the collapsed retaining wall down the beach, not always in the most appropriate manner.

Seasonal squatter. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For the first year, a local twenty-something guy drops by most days to chat. Smart and a tourism worker in the South but now mostly jobless thanks to the pandemic, he tells me about the trade. Miserly pay rates, exploitation, long commutes, then much of the wage lost paying for accommodation and food. He left some time ago, like many offshored young Balinese as an employee in the cruise industry. I remember talking to him not long before he left, his eyes bright with the expectation of seeing the world. He queries better-travelled me endlessly on what to see where. The debrief upon his return will be interesting to say the least.

So shaking it out, I managed to hire locally and use mostly local goods. The math on power and water changes, at least for the moment, don’t add up. I eat locally and contribute where I can to local undertakings. Still it’s a superficial affair, and yet, there is a far higher impact approach I could have taken—if I’d had the money. I could have knocked down the joglo, built an inward-looking expat ice cream cake with a big wall, a pool hidden behind, and an Ubud-sourced chef and attached staff.

The first of many visitors, though I didn’t mention the ghost helicopter. Photo: Putu.

I don’t want any of these things though, and truth be told, while I haven’t specifically asked them, I get the feeling the local people don’t either. To them, I think I’m a bit of a curiosity, the bule who listens to Led Zeppelin, who sweeps the leaves in a sarong every morning, and who pointlessly moves piles of dirt around.

Most importantly though, we all know I’m a guest.

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I’ve always wanted a beach house, but little did I know my route to one would be a puppy. A few years ago I got one of the latter, an accidental one. Fostered upon us by a pair of Sam’s yoga students who’d rescued her abandoned on a Bali building site, she was a family dog, but in no short time she became mine—or me hers, or whatever. Today, we’re pretty much inseparable. Her name is Skye Govinda—no, don’t ask.

Where we live in South Bali, we have a small garden area beside the pool. It is one of those super compact gardens, but the soil is so fertile even a gardener as inept as me can develop a thriving jungle. Controlling it, well that’s another question, and when Skye arrives, she sees the muddy mess as a perfect canvas to build her scale model of the Somme. Long story short, we get a landscaper in to swap out the Somme for a Batuan.

Not quite a Batuan, but it will do. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The landscaper’s name is Agung. He’s Balinese, and midway through the de-Somming of the garden, we’re chatting, and Medewi in West Bali comes up. Best known for its surfing, it’s roughly halfway between our house and Bali’s western ferry port at Gilimanuk.

Chatting with Agung about the area, he mentions he has a beach house there, “oh that must be nice,” I say. A moment later he asks if I’d like to buy it. I laugh, do I look like I could afford a beach house? He grabs his phone, and after flicking through a bazillion plant snaps, hands it to me.

Garden needs work. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The house is a joglo, a Javanese wooden house which he purchased in Java, dismantled, and shipped to Bali. He plonked it on some of his land and listed it on Airbnb, expecting to hit paydirt. Things didn’t quite work out, and in the two years since, he’s had one guest. He’s keen to offload it.

Joglos come in all shapes and sizes. Traditionally they’re associated with Java’s aristocratic class, but they need not be so grand. Boiled down they’re a square house with four inner columns holding up the roof with everything else hanging off it. For years they’ve been popularised as an “authentic” slice of holidaying, much like what you see with the wooden houses in Cambodia and Thailand.

Plenty of rice out back. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On the fancy to not-grand-at-all time-space-continuum, Agung’s joglo falls off the end of the not-grand-at-all side of things. Think barn. The photos though, don’t illustrate how close to the beach it actually is. For that, he has a brief and bouncy walk-through video. It seems like the beach is right out front, and by that I mean Right Out Front—it is an absolute beachfront house. Despite this, he’s had one live body in it. What’s the catch? An abattoir or sheet metal factory next door? I ask more questions.

I ask where exactly the house is. He’s vague, but confirms he has a clear title for the land. I pour over Google Maps and find somewhere that may be it, the beach out front, farmland for hundreds of metres on the other sides. I ask if this is it, but he’s unsure, the satellite view confuses him. He rattles off directions related to a temple and some warungs, but this doesn’t make much sense to me. He’s talking about a location further west of Medewi than I expect and I’m unfamiliar with the area.

Like the garden, the bathroom needed some work. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We give up on maps and Agung shows me the listing on Airbnb. To be fair, the photos do not show it in its best light. The solitary guest has given Agung a long letter of recommendation, so I read it. She pulls her punches a bit, noting that the house is “still being built,” but later mentions how quiet it is, that during her month-long stay (she’s a writer apparently), she never sees another foreigner on the beach. The locals in the closest village stare a lot, she writes, but are friendly. Starry nights and blissful silence—save the surf, get a mention.

Yes, the shack is a shack, but putting aside its absolute shackery, everything else sounds perfect. I’m one of simple pleasures—and I know shacks can be unshacked. I love it and, as I wrote up top, have always wanted a beach house, but again I tell Agung I’ve not the means to buy one. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been down the track towards beach house living—first in Thailand, and then Cambodia—is this to be a case of third time lucky?

The tub in the new bathroom will be more useful once I get hot water. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Just lease it then,” he says, “one year, two years, twenty, I don’t care, up to you.”

I’ve not even considered this option, and as soon as I ask for a number, his eyes glint, he knows he has me. He throws out an opening gambit, “nego of course,” he laughs. We agree to meet up at the house the next day.

Not 24 hours later we’re sitting on the back steps, looking over rice fields that run out for miles towards the western tail of Bali’s mountains. Behind us, thirty footsteps from the front stairs, the surf crashes in. The gardens are wild and overgrown, with bougainvillea covering much of the front of the house and ready to leap onto the roof. It’s hard to tell how big the block is for the garden.

Dawn, with Mount Batukaru in the distance. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Agung introduces me to a local farmer who keeps an eye on the place for him. Then comes his offsider, and the offsider’s offsider. We drink coffee and eat watermelon. There’s chit chat, but also a lot of just sitting. For me I’m soaking it up, but for the locals, they live it, and they’re baffled why I’m even interested. There’s no air-con nor fan, no hot water, and just a few light bulbs. One asks, why would you want to live in this? I want to tell him it’s my antidote to the south—an area of the island I’ve drown to dislike with a passion—but I don’t know the Indonesian word for antidote. Instead I tell them I like simple stuff. They nod, but they clearly think I’m mad.

To a point they’re on the money as the shack is in a right state. The bamboo bathroom walls have collapsed, replaced by a wall of ferns and palms. The roof has some leaks. The water pump looks like it came from the Titanic. The “kitchen” is anything but. You get the idea, but it is obvious the bones are solid—at least to my utterly un-expert eyes.

Skye gets her reward every afternoon as well. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The others drift off and Agung and I haggle a little bit over the price, but not much to be honest. He tells me I can stay there for a month for free to decide, but we both know I’ve already made my mind up.

It takes me a month to hack back the boggainvillea—and I’ve got ten years to clean up the rest. Third time lucky indeed.

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By the time the earliest hint of first light appears overhead, I’ve been swinging in my hammock at the Sun & Surf Stay for an hour or so. The stillness and silence of pre-dawn is a welcome reward for my insomnia, even if with the steady rumble of Bingin’s break, it isn’t silent at all. In the distance, a fat moon sinks towards Java, edging golden as somewhere behind me, the sun breaks the horizon.

Views from the hammock are better. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On the sand below me, two of the first of the day’s surfers are prepping. Boards on the sand, they limber up, rub down their boards, then attach leg ropes. They cast their boards over a shore wave washing in, and never letting go, they’re paddling as they hit the water. By the time the wave sucks back they’re already a half dozen metres behind it—with plenty of paddling to go.

It’s a couple of hundred metres out to the back, and this time of day, with no breeze at all, inside the reef is as smooth as glass. The two surfers break the smooth, left right left right they paddle without pause, two trails in the glass behind them. They’re headed to Bingin’s famous left hander—a near perfect barrel that runs 24/7 and that wouldn’t look out of place in a wave pool. The perfection comes thanks to the volcanic reef below which shapes each and every swell into a work of art—one painted to be carved.

Pain me a picture. Photo: Sally Arnold.

With dawn now on the scene, I can make out a couple of even keener surfers who must have paddled out in the darkness. For their early morning efforts they have Bingin’s wave pool to themselves. I watch one after the other effortlessly launch onto a wave, plummeting down its drop, bottoming out in a long arc then launching themselves at the lip. At the summit, they snap back, spray launching into the sky, then race down and across the face, as the wave curls over and above, closing into the barrel the break is famous for. If they pull it off, seconds later they shoot out of the barrel’s end, careening along the unbroken remainder of the wave. It’s at this moment they ease, standing taller, looking back along the wave, before rolling over the rim, and falling back on to the board. It’s over, and the paddling begins again. Rinse and repeat.

Like many sports, those who are apt at it make it look effortless. Having been out there myself ... once ... it is far from it. Knowing this though, makes it all the more pleasurable to watch from my hammock.

Just keep walking. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

By breakfast there’s a dozen or so out there, a number that will double, then perhaps triple through the morning—depending on conditions. The beach itself though doesn’t pick up with day-trippers till a little later, so once caffeinated, I get my morning walk in before they arrive.

My mornings are always west (right when facing the ocean), and when the tide is out I can get almost to the base of clifftop El Kabron before it gets too tricky. It’s a pretty stretch, swinging between narrow and non-existent stretches of sand—depending on the tide. Along the way I can see the mess of the next beach along—one you’ll never read about on Travelfish—and after that the golf course headland before Balangan, another of my favourite Bukit beaches. A low tide walk there and back, allowing for fossicking and faffing around, easily eats up a few hours.

Long shadows at Lucky Fish. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

By the time I’m back, the sun is right overhead and I decamp to one of the many beach cafes built into Bingin’s cliff. Lucky Fish is my preferred option thanks to the long deck and great staff. If the deck is full though, nearby Bingin Ombak is my close second, with the trendier Kelly’s a distant third. Regardless of where I put my feet up, there’s a solid few hours to lose before getting them sandy again.

If the skies are clear, it is time to start wandering again around four in the afternoon. It’s that magic light time of the day, when the touch of the sun’s rays feels more like a warm massage than an angle grinder. Walking east (left when facing the ocean), the sand vanishes quick smart and you’re left to rock hop and cliff lip dodge—do watch your head. Also, keep an eye out for the famous Instagram spot near the start of the walk—you’ll know it when you see it.

East is best. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If the tide is out, this is a magnificent wander and you can get all the way to Padang Padang and beyond. You’re walking atop the same formation that builds the surf, and when the tide is really low you can get a long way out towards the surfers. Do watch the tide though, as it comes in fast over the platform and walking back with the tide rushing in is not fun.

This is a longer walk than the morning one, but with a few hours there’s time to get back to Lucky Fish for sunset. If I’m feeling energetic, it’s a breathless five minutes or so back to the top of the cliff for sunset cocktails at Temple Lodge or perhaps Mû.

Sunsets are ok. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Light show over, back down to the sand for a beachside seafood barbecue. Perhaps a couple of iced drinks afterwards to round out yet another day on Bingin Time.

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After spending New Years of 1941 in Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam, 75 crew boarded the Kaidai-class cruiser submarine I-66 and left port. Along with the crew, were six torpedo tubes, a deck gun, and an anti-aircraft gun. On her second war patrol of World War Two, she was bound for the Bay of Bengal via the Lombok Strait and the Andaman Sea.

As the I-66 made her way southeast, through the South China Sea, the USAT Liberty, a US-flagged freighter, was heading north. Laden with rubber and railway parts—or explosives, depending on the source—the Liberty was enroute from Australia to the Philippines—or Batavia (Jakarta), again depending on the source. With a displacement of over 13,000 tons and 70 crew, the vessel had but two small deck guns.

The I-65, the same class of submarine as the I-66. Photo: 日本海軍艦艇写真集潜水艦・潜水母艦p70, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

You know where this is going right?

Before dawn on her sixth day at sea, around 15 km due south of Nusa Penida’s Kelingking Beach, the I-66 sighted the Liberty. She torpedoed it at 04:15, leaving the Liberty dead in the water, then made her escape. Two Allied destroyers—the USS Paul Jones and the Dutch Van Ghent—took the Liberty under tow and steamed for Singaraja on Bali’s northern coast—the primary port of the Dutch colonialists.

With the Liberty crippled, even after they’d cleared the fast moving waters of the Lombok Strait, she continued to take on water—Singaraja was to be a nautical mile too far. Deciding to cut their losses, and hoping to salvage as much of the cargo as possible, they beached the Liberty, and she capsized on Tulamben’s pebble beach on January 14. For the Liberty, the war was over, and once relieved of her cargo, she became yet another coastal rusting skeleton.

The USAT Liberty in better days. Photo: U.S. Naval Historical Center Photograph., Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Some twenty and a bit years later, in 1963, Bali’s Mount Agung erupted. Windsor P. Booth of National Geographic was on Bali enroute to Sangeh Forest at the time, and later wrote in the September 1963 edition:

“There was a gentle tapping, as of rain, on the roof of our car. Oddly, no drops appeared on the windshield. Then the sky suddenly darkened.

I stepped out of the car to find that the “rain” was volcanic ash mixed with cinders.

No longer was the landscape a joyous rhapsody in green. Now all was bathed in an unearthly saffron light, because ash and clouds had blotted out the sun. Familiar objects, like trees and houses, took on grotesque shapes.”

When colleagues returned two weeks later, they wrote of the devastation, noting:

“By far the worst havoc struck a group of villages due east of Besakih. So sudden and complete was their destruction that even two weeks later officials could not be sure what happened. Many places, cut off by avalanches and lahar flows, were still too hot to be entered. Bodies were buried—or eaten by dogs—where they fell.”

The eruption took place around the greatest of all Balinese rituals, the Ekadasa Rudra. In the very readable Bali A Paradise Created, Adrian Vickers describes it as “the centennial rite of exorcism of the eleven forms of the terrible god.” An exorcism the eruption was, with thousands of lives lost, and vast tracts of land reduced to stony moonscapes.

“Acrid muck, 30 feet deep in spots, buried much of nearby Selat.” Photo: Robert F. Sisson, National Geographic.

While the Nat Geo correspondents kicked around Bali’s south and east, to the lesser-populated reaches along the island’s northeast coast, torrential rain and lava flowed. From Agung’s northern lip a blanket of lava gushed down to the sea, destroying all in its path. At the coast it tumbled over the black round pebbles that give Tulamben its name, and there, with an assist from earthquakes, it cradled the long-forgotten Liberty, and pushed it back out and into the depths one last time.

The wreck lay there, only a couple of dozen metres from the shore, out of sight and out of mind for another fifteen years. Through these years, Bali’s tourism scene grew, and while diving was a thing, its focus was the east coast out from Candi Dasa. It wasn’t till 1978 that an enterprising tourist agent in Denpasar started offering dive packages to visit the wreck. It would be another eight years before a dive centre opened in Tulamben—at the Paradise Hotel.

Baskets before bottles. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

By 2005, Tulamben was on the map, but while attracting almost 8,500 foreign visitors and over 2,000 locals wasn’t nothing, it wasn’t a lot—for Bali. Fast forward another decade though, and the numbers increased to over 65,000 and 7,000 foreigners and locals respectively.

As tourist numbers—and revenue—exploded, tensions rose, but community leaders enacted a customary law that decreed that “every person will have an equal chance to serve visitors.” Through working with and empowering the local community, local people became well-represented in the trade. Training programmes were enacted, and all manner of tasks, wherever possible, drew from local labour sources.

Me and some chunk of the Liberty. Photo: Intrinity Divers.

Unlike some other areas of Bali where foreign divemasters are common, not so much in Tulamben. Indeed some locals, such as the women who carry the oxygen tanks on their head to the dive entry point, became almost an attraction in their own right.

Alongside this, steps were taken to protect the viability of the wreck—essential if divers were to continue to visit—and the undersea environment has thrived. Aside from the wreck itself, artificial reefs have been set up and coral restoration work continues both in and around Tulamben and elsewhere along the coast.

It isn’t perfect by any measure—in season there are too many divers—and too many do touch and damage the coral, but compared to some other diving spots, Tulamben is quite well run. Most importantly, the community management of the site has strengthened the sense of both pride and ownership, and those vested in it understand the potential it holds for future generations.

Nat Geo’s 1963 spread.

Back to the eruption for a moment, Vickers suggests the eruption may have marked the success of the ritual, noting:

“Great state rituals such as this are meant to bring about an age of harmony in the world, but the way they can bring it about is by harnessing and even accelerating the forces of chaos and destruction which precede the renewal of a golden age. In the eyes of many Balinese, the eruption was a manifestation of great change which could bring good results as well as bad.”

It might be a bit of silver linings and all that, but I don’t think Tulamben would be the place it is today, lives changes and all, if the wrecked carcass of the Liberty was still laying on the pebbles.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

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While it has resort in its name, the place we are staying at is more a private property with a couple of extra houses than a resort. Set right by the sea in a secluded area of Bali, down an un-signposted dirt trail, behind an un-signposted front gate, the effort involved in finding it makes it feel like a worthy prize.

Our accommodation comes in the form of a large two-floor wooden house. Airy bedrooms and cool-on-the-feet wooden floors are upstairs, while below, lazy chairs and fresh air beckon. Bags dropped, the kids make a beeline for the freeform pool by the sea, while we put our feet up. A grassy expanse runs almost to the ocean, where fast waves peel in, their foam rolling up onto a loose black pebble base. Roar rattle, roar rattle, roar rattle—the noise reverberates like a sack of marbles in my head, massaging by brain.

Time for a brain massage. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Between the grass and the wave orchestra, pavers trace a curve around the property’s extremity, a small promontory of sorts. Beyond the pavers, enormous charcoal-coloured smooth boulders slope down to the water. With the afternoon sea breeze and a high tide, the spray rains into the pool—delighting the kids. The landscaper—not so much. When the waves later withdraw on the falling tide, I can see the bed of black sand the pebbles rattle over. The remnants of the original beach.

Bali is famous for its beaches, but like many things here, you need to work a bit to find the good ones. On our first few visits, hanging out in Seminyak and Sanur, we couldn’t understand what the big deal was. Sure there’s surf—a nice change from most of mainland Southeast Asia—but the strips of sand themselves, not so much.

Oh Nyang Nyang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It wasn’t until we got off our backsides and headed west—for the squid-ink black beaches that seem to stretch forever—or south to the Bukit, that we understood. The first time I saw Nyang Nyang from a Bukit cliff top I thought “holy crap, now that is a beach I could happily die on.” I should note this was back when there was nothing on Nyang Nyang, no road had disfigured the cliff, and no wrecked plane blighted the cliff-top. There’s a metaphor in that bloody plane I’m sure of it.

When we check in a staffer tells us the owner wants us to join him for dinner. They’d like to meet us, and have friends staying, so think it would be good for us all to meet and get to know one another. Drinks before sunset with dinner afterwards, we’re told.

The retaining wall protecting the manicured lawn from the surging waters of the Lombok Strait is far from an anomaly. Bali has decades of experience in losing its beaches. Candi Dasa, much of whose sand went awol after the innards of the reef were dug up to use the coral to make cement—ironically to build accommodation for tourists—is arguably the dumbest example, but it is far from the only one.

Sand way-station at Candi Dasa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sanur Beach relies of Japanese-funded groynes to grab and hang onto what sand it can. This one I’ve been told was caused by dredging at Serangan for an ill-considered and profoundly stupid development plan, but I’ve never found any concrete coverage of it, so file that one under “A guy in a bar told me.” Regardless of the reason, Sanur’s once glorious beaches are long gone. Resort enclave Nusa Dua also relies on groynes, and the sickness continues around the south coast of the Bukit, where uber lux resorts have crucified surf breaks in trying to protect “their” beach.

The owner’s friends are also Bali residents, living elsewhere on the island over Ketewel to Kerambas way. Both wearing weathered tans and that somewhat withered premature ageing Southeast Asia living can deliver, they’re all about the good life. Fat consulting work for enormous environmental acronyms can be funny like that. Still, they’re far from corporates, and are great for ideas on where to go, as they seem to have been everywhere. Or, as they put it, everywhere that is still worth going to.

Making the best of a bad situation at Sanur. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We gather at a long wooden table near the pool for drinks. Over small talk, I ask about the wall, what is the story? They say the property had once been beach-fronted, but, when erosion got out of control down the beach a ways, the powers that be said a wall needed to go in. The owner though, not liking how they’d done it down the beach, paid for the wall out of their own pocket. They wanted it “done right,” with its curving structure better withstanding the waves—in theory. Their main gripe is even with their fancy wall, the surfing suffered. Thank god for consulting gigs I guess.

The thing with retaining walls is while they may “fix” the problem out front, they tend to also shift it elsewhere. Sand has a habit of moving up and down the beach, and interrupt the natural process at your peril. Around Bali, more and more retaining walls are appearing, each with its own flow-on impact. As an example, I’m writing this from my beach shack in West Bali, and it forms a handy microcosm. My land certificate includes a metre and a half of land that no longer exists. Farmers tell me that decades ago, when the tide was out you could walk “forever” before reaching the water. Today, not so much.

Back in the day, doggo would have had far more real estate to run on. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A river empties out about a kilometre to the west of me, and its banks inland were corralled by stone years ago. This protects the village from houses falling into the river I guess, but now when the rain comes, it overflows the walls instead, submerging whatever lies on the other side. Last year I was cut off from the highway for a day, as the road was so deep in floodwaters even I wouldn’t ride through it. Village residents having a choice between their houses being washed away or submerged seems like a rough deal. The river’s walls curve around onto the beach, but that section collapsed—perhaps our host building his own wall wasn’t so decadent after all.

Drinks and retaining walls done, with dinner being laid out we wander over to the table. As we sit, one of the owner’s friends raises his hands, asks for a pause, and gestures for us all to hold hands. I remember thinking oh no, are we praying? Jeez please God don’t ask me to say Grace.

Back at my shack out west, nearly all the land around it is farm land. The farmers rotate through rice, watermelon, corn, then give the land a rest before rinsing and repeating. The farmers want the wall at the river head fixed then extended all the way along the beach. Why? With a king tide, the Indian Ocean is sloshing about five metres from their fields, and they know that once salt water gets into those fields they’ll have a whole new world of problems they don’t need.

Arms stretched—the table is far bigger than our group—we all hold hands. When everyone else closes their eyes and dips their head, I do the same. I can’t hear anyone speaking, so not wanting to be the twit sitting there with head dipped and still holding hands long after everyone else has stopped, I concentrate on my hands. I figure, when I feel the grip loosen, it will all be over and I can start eating.

Years earlier, when I was living in Bangkok, a Thai friend dragged me along to see an “eastern man with electric hands.” Me, willing to try anything, went along. Sure enough, after much hocus-pocus—and a thousand baht—the man touched me, and he did have electricity running through his veins. My arm and leg kicked out involuntarily at his touch—and I left a convert. That was until a few months later, when the local press ran a story about the police chasing down an “electric monk.” It turned out he’d somehow connected himself to a car battery.

Eyes closed, the roar rattle, roar rattle, roar rattle comes back to the foreground of my mind. It’s amazing how much your other senses turn on when you turn one off. I listen to the percussion, I smell the food and the wine, I feel the sea breeze.

But then I feel something else. It’s like a tingling in my finger tips, and then, almost mad-monk-style, there is a clear and unmistakeable strong pulse of energy. It takes me so much by surprise that I open my eyes, but everyone’s hands are already falling as their heads rise. There’s a smile, nothing said, and we start to eat.

These won’t keep the sea at bay either. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is ... odd—and, need I say, there isn’t a car battery in sight. As nobody mentions what just happened, I don’t say anything either. The next day though, I see the owner, and I ask perhaps I was imagining things, but what was that last night?

The friend, they tell me, has a special energy they like to share.

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A couple of times a week my son has archery class over in Pererenan, a “village” a little to the west of central Canggu. Taking him there by motorbike grates—in part for the abysmal traffic but also because I loathe Canggu. Tourists riding sans-helmet has always annoyed me—despite it being a footnote as far as tourist idiocies here are concerned. There’s no shortage of such fools in Canggu, but the prevalence of “road is softer in Bali-ites” doesn’t explain why I dislike Canggu.

Where better to prepare for the apocalypse than near Canggu? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then the other day, I read the following:

“Having a lot of tourists around can be a nuisance for other place users, but the real challenges emerge when local shops are replaced by tourist outlets selling waffles and Nutella, when the prices of accommodation drive local residents out of city centres and when local culture is replaced by a caricature of itself. This is not just the fault of the tourists, but also depends on the functioning of property markets, local businesses and (the lack of) effective regulation. It is also important to realise that many of the processes linked to tourist gentrification can also operate in the absence of tourism. In many areas increasing property prices and local displacement preceded the arrival of tourists. Tourism has simply enhanced and intensified the process by bringing in more external capital.”

It’s from a far longer—and very interesting—interview with tourism academic Greg Richards over on Tourism’s Horizons. Go read it, I’ll wait.

Incessant development and loons on motorbikes aside, what Richards describes is what bugs me about Canggu. What in particular jumped out at me was this bit:

“...but the real challenges emerge when local shops are replaced by tourist outlets selling waffles and Nutella...”

What is local?

Not before time, there’s been a rash of advisory stories of late, all trying to help travellers spot greenwashing. Right across the travel industry this is a massive issue, and it is great that more awareness raising is underway. These are though, concentrating on only one aspect of the problem—the environmental. What about localwashing?

I have no Canggu short-cut pics hand, but rest assured it is far worse than this (also near Canggu). Photo: Lyla McDonald.

You can’t throw a satay stick without hitting some—often foreign owned—travel startup that is using some take on local as a part of their Unique Selling Point. You can travel with/like/by/through locals, you can eat with/like/by/through locals, you can do a tour with/like/by/through locals. The list is about as long as the—rapidly diminishing—availability of domain names. But what do they mean by local? Good question.

As I wrote a while back, when I questioned G Adventures on their dubious take on “local”, they never bothered to answer. More recently I asked travel planning start-up Elsewhere about what they meant by “local” with the following:

“Let’s call this system what it is - totally unfair. Our direct-to-local model allows 87% of your trip dollars to stay in the destination, empowering its communities with long-term, locally based income.”

For my efforts I got the KLM support treatment, so I have no idea what they do actually mean by this. (If you don’t know why I’m on about KLM, they’re notorious for dealing with legitimate gripes which could be dealt with publicly by diverting them to private messaging, often via Twitter DMs, where they then ignore you forever.)

“Please contact us via DM so we can ignore you forever there.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Does it matter?

Once companies are making “local” a centrepiece of their marketing, it absolutely does. So, just as a company should be challenged for claiming their tours are “planet friendly,” likewise on any company running tours (or whatever) being “good for locals”.

But who is a local? What is a locally-owned business. In my personal opinion a local is a citizen of the country. A locally-owned business is one that is majority-owned by said locals. Others disagree, arguing any foreigner resident in the country could be seen as a local. To this I’d ask, well how long need they be a resident? How should “resident” be defined? Should residency be dictated by visa, marital status, or some other benchmark?

It gets messy, fast.

Signage at a Medewi restaurant in West Bali. 10,000% this. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Circling back even to Richards’ statement above and it isn’t all that clear. Does he mean shops owned by locals, or shops selling local goods? If a Swedish dude opened a babi guling joint on the Canggu shortcut—something sorely needed to pass the time while the traffic ebbs—would that be less bad than if he was flogging meatballs?

Just to be clear, I’m not railing here against all foreign businesses. While I agree with the issues Richards’ raises, what concerns me more, and what can be directly tied to tourism, is the blurring by travel companies of what local is. This is the whole “embrace, extend, extinguish” mentality at work, where terms that once held meaning are stripped of it. We’ve seen this happen for decades in tourism, more so now than ever. Who’s up for a responsible cruise holiday to Antartica?

“Sustainability” super-sized. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As regular readers will know, tourism and sustainability rests on three pillars—economic, environmental, and social. When travellers take their business to locals, you can argue they’re supporting at least two of these pillars. This is why this stuff matters.

Big business however turns this on its head. Consider an example of a foreign tour company that majority-owns the in-country DMC they use. Customers think that they’re supporting local businesses, and in front of the veil, they are. Lift the veil though, and a sometimes significant portion of their money—which they think is staying in local hands—is getting siphoned off to the mother ship. That would be, more often than you might think, a mother ship anchored somewhere warm and tropical—and far away from Southeast Asia.

What’s today’s tax jurisdiction again? Photo: Emma Davidson.

Foreign-owned companies can bring with them all sorts of good. They can bring dosh, talent, connections, and experience by the bucketload—and these all can be agents for good.

The problem is when they start pretending they are what they are not. That’s a bad deal for everyone—except them. Question everything—and skip the Nutella waffles.

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We’ve been sipping and sitting for a while before homestay-owner Sudi mentions the energy. His little garden, with its low-slung car tire seats, chirping birds overhead, and, in the distance, a squealing pig, doesn’t strike me as a high energy affair.

My daughter Lyla and I are his sole guests, and it seems the homestay moves more to our rhythms than anything else. I imagine that once we leave to go diving everyone will go back to sleep, but, as the dive boat isn’t leaving for another hour, Sudi and I still have plenty of island time on our hands.

Where the mountains meet the sea. Photo: Adam Poskitt.

As I mentioned the other day, Pemuteran is set in far western Bali, strung out along a long shallow bay. About thirty minutes to the west lies Menjangan Island, where Lyla and I have been busy diving, and, for us, that is the main attraction of this particular trip. For others though, the real magic lies elsewhere—above rather than below the depths.

When people talk about Bali and mountains, they’re all about the volcanos and craters. There’s good reason for this of course, not least that near every household on the island contains a shrine pointing to Mount Agung. The peaks are also spectacular and trying to find a spot with a view that doesn’t include a volcano is more of a challenge than you might think. Working west though, with the enormous peaks of East Java looming in the distance, another mountain range runs much of Bali’s western length. Dividing the north and south, it taps out right before the island’s Java-facing extremity at Gilimanuk.

A good spot to soak up some island time. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Gilimanuk is but a curving stone’s throw from Pemuteran, and floating offshore about to go under for another spot of underwater-time, I realise the mountain range behind the town is far more pronounced than landlubbers might expect. Like most, it’s more than a huge pile of stone and dirt, with complicated ravines and ridges, tumbling down towards the sea and the sugar palms that line it. Think striking rather than beautiful.

Sitting there I gaze at the northern flank, its dry season scrub blistered, sand-papered into shades of tan and brown, parched while waiting for rain. A few days later, while riding home, I pop over to the south-facing side of the same ridge, there it’s year-round lush and green, thick mists, moody clouds, all lapping up the wetter climate the south feeds off. On the south side, the subak flows long after the north coast has run dry.

Meanwhile on the south side. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This meeting of the mountains and the sea carries more meaning than a weather vane though, and to try to explain the how, I’ll need to delve a little bit into the stuff they don’t teach in science class.

For many Balinese, mountains—thanks to their lofty peaks—are where the gods hang out and so they hold the highest spiritual value. At the other end of the spectrum, the ocean doubles as the abyss, home to the spirits of the underworld. The in-betweens are the lowlands, where people go about their business without straying too much. Legends take these beliefs a bit further, seeing Bali as an entire universe, floating atop a carapace of a giant turtle, but I’m not going to get into that today.

Talking about turtles … here’s a Menjangan one we spotted. Photo: Chris Mitchell.

The important thing, is that generally on Bali you get a lot of mountain, then a lot of lowland, then a lot of ocean. Spread out with plenty of space to spare, there’s enough grounds for the good, the bad and the in between to just get on with things. In Pemuteran however, this isn’t the case. In Pemuteran the main mountain range runs almost to the sea—well sort of, you do need to take a bit of a leap of faith here. This proximity, with the peaks, abyss and lowlands almost intermingled, makes for a bit of a mother lode on the energy front. While Sudi didn’t give me the whole spiel on mountains and abysses, this is the energy he was referring to, and Bali being Bali, what do you do when there’s energy on tap? You build temples ... and, it seems ... yoga studios.

If, like Lyla and I, you’ve spent most of your Pemuteran-time down in the abyss, you may well feel a need to atone, in which case you should read on. Towards the eastern extreme of town lie three Balinese Hindu temples. Pura Pulaki and Pabean sit right beside the shore, while a little up towards the gods, you’ll find Pura Melanting. Each has their own appeal, and make for a good way to fill in a non-diving day.

Waiting for Niratha’s return. Photo: Sally Arnold.

As with much of the Balinese temple writing here on Couchfish, matters start with the epic wanderer Niratha. The story goes that some time in the 16th century a troupe of monkeys led him to the spot where Pura Pulaki now sits, and while the man headed off to another plane from Pura Uluwatu, the monkeys remain. Think four centuries of crab eating macaques breeding, and you’ll probably come up with a number roughly half the size of the population here. Perhaps in acknowledgement of the vast oversupply of the crafty critters—or simply because it is more convenient—there’s a drive-by shrine where you can honk and grab your holy water blessing without even getting out of your car—or dealing with the beasts.

Not far away—and certainly not far enough away for the macaque population to disipate—Pura Pabean has a different heritage. Back in the day, when Chinese traders made land here, their first stop was this temple to give thanks for a safe journey. While the traders are far more likely to fly in to Denpasar today, Bali’s other resident seafarers—the offshore fishers—have taken up the slack. They’ll cover their bases and drop by before and after the journey, beating off the macaques while making their offerings.

Pura Melanting—and not an influencer in sight. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Heading away from the abyss, and, at least compared to the other two temples, away from the motley simians, Pura Melanting sits among forested foothills a couple of kilometres inland. The temple verges on gaudy in places—think accidentally designed for Instagram—but it is a beautiful and serene spot. Where Pabean caters to fishers, Melanting is where one comes to hone their business acumen and or fortune, and it’s a hit with traders and other business people. Which is to say, if you’re after a discount on your dive course—or just want to soak up some of Pemuteran’s special energy—this is the place for you.

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I’m just back from a terrific four-day diving trip to Pemuteran in West Bali, and while there’ll be an upbeat post on that tomorrow, today I’m having a bit of a rant.

Pemuteran is a long thin town, strung out shoelace-style along the far western north coast of Bali. It isn’t, at first glance, the most endearing of spots, but thanks to its proximity to Menjangan Island, with its bountiful diving and snorkelling, it’s long had a stumbling-along “tourism scene.” The main—and only—road runs right through the centre of town, and for a couple of kilometres resorts and small homestays line its journey.

The reefs are prettier than town to be honest. Photo: Chris Mitchell.

Most of the fancier—I’m being generous here—places are on the beach side of the road, while the off-beach side hosts a gaggle of small, family-run homestays. My daughter Lyla and I opted for the latter, choosing a small, five room place down a dusty dirt road more of less in the centre of things.

As with the rest of Bali, during the pandemic, tourism withered on the vine. Homestays, hotels, restaurants, cafes, dive shops, and many more closed down—some never to re-open. For those who survived, Bali’s reopening brought with it the promise of brighter days—even to far-flung destinations like Pemuteran. With the brighter days though, came something else.

Killing non-diving time, I spent an hour chatting with a couple of homestay owners over coffee. For both of them the pandemic had been brutal. Small homestays are rarely used to underwrite a luxury yacht or shopping trips to Hong Kong, instead they more often than not form but one part of the family’s means of living, leaving little for savings. The husband might be hands-on with the business, while the wife works both at the homestay and outside. Atop the room revenue, owners might offer tours, food, or some other service to supplant the base earnings.

Pemuteran’s beach isn’t one of Bali’s best, but the water is wet and there is sand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Where we were staying, a room cost around 160,000 rupiah (about US$11), giving them, with five rooms, an earning capacity of under US$60 a day before any add-ons. This is before the costs of course—the often leased land, the support staff, be they cooks, cleaners or whatever. During the pandemic, the latter were let go, while the former, well, there’s no stopping the clock on leased land.

The two owners told me it was before even the first wave of Bali’s returning tourism had ebbed that the emails started coming in, one owner saying:

“At first, very early, it was only one or two, but by high season, many many.”

The emails, from “travel influencers,” were cold-calling, looking to promote the homestay. According to the owners, the emails were similar, with little changed between homestays other than the property name. The influencers would offer to write about the business, to help them recover, to help them find more guests.

The sunsets on the other hand… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

But there was a catch—this wasn’t a free service. Most asked for in the least a complimentary room, sometimes for long periods of stay. For others though, this wasn’t enough, this was a fee-for-service deal. In one case the owner recounted an influencer asking for US$500—and a free stay of a few nights—in return for writing about the property on their blog. The owner shook his head saying that represented weeks of income for him—and for what?

For what indeed?

While it tends to be most prevalent at the fancier end of the stick, complimentary stays and pay-for-play have long been an unsavoury part of the travel industry—and something I’m proud to say Travelfish has never partaken in. We are though, it seems by what the owners were telling me, the exception to the rule. While I don’t agree with the practice of comped stays and so on, I do understand the math behind it. Taking advantage of a pandemic though, to grind free stays and money out of people who could not afford it seemed to plunge new depths of icky.

“If you give me some free salt I’ll write about it.” Urrggh. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Overall, these approaches struck me as nothing more than rent seeking. The economic imbalance between the influencers and the business owners was staggering. If travellers want to help businesses recover from what has been an unprecedented upheaval in the industry, by all means do so, but motivations need to be in line. Cold-calling some small family-owned business, one that has barely survived the pandemic, and hitting them up for a free slot of nights with a cash chaser is parasitical in the extreme.

My advice to the guesthouse owners was clear. No, no, no, always say no. Concentrate on your real guests. Keep them happy, look after them and welcome them with the hospitality Bali is famous for. I want to say this is effortless, but it isn’t—doing this stuff right is a tremendous amount of work, and yet great homestays do make it seem effortless. By all means encourage guests to write reviews, or post photos, or whatever on social media, but more than anything else, encourage them to tell their friends.

Who do you want to carry water for you? At Banyu Wedang Hot Springs. Photo: Sally Arnold.

I say this because nothing beats word of mouth, nothing. It isn’t something one can buy, rather, true word of mouth is something that is earned. There’s also an important difference when it comes to word of mouth—it informs rather than influences. As my travel writer friend Joshua Zukas wrote to me regarding this:

“Who on earth wants to be influenced anyway? Wouldn’t one rather be informed?”

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If you draw a line along Bali’s chicken belly starting at Kuta and finishing near the beak at Negara, about half way along you’ll see Balian. Depending on the map, you might see it marked at Lalanglinggah, but regardless of the name, it sits on the western bank of the Balian River.

By Balinese standards it is a good sized river—fast flowing in wet season and easy to walk across in the dry. Its waters tumble over shiny and smooth black pebbles then into the Indian Ocean after a long and straight run to the coast. Through the centuries, this flow has carved a channel offshore that funnels and amplifies the rolling swell. The result? One of Bali’s more consistent waves, with both left and rights catering to a range of surfer talents. Even if you don’t surf, on a glassy morning, with the swell pumping in, it’s a beautiful sight.

Bull sharks out of shot. Photo: Samantha Brown.

It was the fast-flowing water of this river that Shiva Buddhist high priest Niratha plunged has walking staff into, giving it healing properties. While I can’t comment on these properties myself, the local bull sharks are fans. They swim upriver to rid themselves of parasites, and more than occasionally give a surfer a nasty mauling on the way back out to sea. Paddle with caution.

We first found ourselves in Balian by chance. Living in Jakarta at the time, we’d had a few stints in the south, around first Sanur, then Ubud, and finally Seminyak, and to be honest, were baffled by Bali’s appeal. I mean, it was a nice change from Jakarta, but, well, that wasn’t saying much. The beaches were ordinary and/or dirty, Ubud was a tourist trap, Seminyak just a tired dump, their glowing write-ups seemingly by those who’d never been to Asia before. At our second or third attempt to discover the undiscoverable charms of Seminyak, we were at wits end. Leafing through my 7th edition Lonely Planet Indonesia I found the following:

“Lalang-Linggah & Pantai Soka

Below Lalang-Linggah village, Balian Beach is a popular surfing spot, good for beginners, with left and right breaks at a river mouth. If Kuta is having a 1m or 2m swell, Balian is usually 3m or 4m, and Medewi won’t be working.”

That was it. There were three accommodation options listed, none of which sounded any good—or in our budget—but I didn’t care. We found a place in another guidebook and gave them a call. Could they pick us up tomorrow?

Balian’s main break. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was early afternoon the next day when we reached Balian. As we left the highway behind, the couple of hours—and one breakdown—faded as we followed the narrow road towards the sea. After a clutch of accommodation signs we veered left and rolled down the hill. To our right, cows grazed on vacant land, beyond it a cliff fell away and the ocean went and went some more. At the centre of the sea, the waves rolled in like clockwork mollasses.

The guesthouse owners were an Australian-Indonesian couple, hospitable and chatty in an old school kind of a way. They had two locations—at the main guesthouse by the cliff-side road, you could see how it had slowly grown higgledy-piggledy, but we’d opted for a family room down by the river. It was newer, and was a two storey wood and thatch affair with a veranda to take in the surrounds. It was simple, but comfortable—and all we needed.

Love me an afternoon rain shower. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At the time our daughter Lyla was all of four months old, and while a walk and explore would have been good, it was time for feet up. As we sat on the deck the weather blew in some afternoon rain and we breathed in then out. Later, rested, we walked down by the river to the beach. Fishermen collected their nets in the late light as surfers rode the waves. We’d made a good call. That night, we had bebek betutu for dinner—and we were sold.

The next day we walked the back beach—a long stretch of squid-ink black sand that runs off to the west—and which remains one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve seen here. I’ve walked it many times since—and have neither reached the end of it, nor seen anything tourist-facing on it. Instead all I see is rice backing onto palms and sand, a fishers’ shack here and there, buffalo, and a few line-fishers staring out to sea. The last time I walked it was with Lyla in the midst of the pandemic—fifteen years between walks and all that.

Masks on! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Over the years, we dropped in at Balian I don’t know how many times, more often than not staying at the same place. Sometimes by the river, other times up top. On each visit there were more places to stay—and more private residences. White concrete blocks with sharp lines abutted the dense foliage that surrounded them, rustling in the air-con breeze. Still, the back-to-basics warung, gripping the cliff-edge tight and offering the best break views of the lot, hung on.

On one visit, we caught up with a journalist colleague who’d taken a large parcel inland and was building. The site, while not finished when we visited, was beautiful and encompassed two rolling hills and the valley between. As he walked the vast block with us, he pointed to the left and right explaining what was planned. Bali’s land fervour was on the cusp of exploding and he told us with that developer glint in his eye that we should get in on it early to ride the wave.

Pave it all over. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At his suggestion we spent a day with some land touts touring block after block. Gorgeous unfettered hills of rice terraces as far as the eye could see. It was a lark to an extent, we didn’t have the money—nor, to be honest, the desire—but it was easy to see how one could get caught up with the smooth talking guys. I remember standing atop the small hill that formed one block, with terraces in every direction, and to the south, incredible views out to sea. The tout stood beside me, telling me to put the pool here and the bedroom there, not to worry about land title issues, he could fix everything, he knew people.

This transition has played out across the island. Some areas, particularly the south, have seen incredible change in what is, in the scheme of things, a short period of time. In Indonesia, foreigners cannot buy land—there’s shonky ways around this of course—but the less shonky take long leases instead. I’d long been ambivalent about this sort of stuff, but the transition I’ve seen in Bali convinced me that leasing is a far more equitable affair. The way I see it, the foreigner gets what they want for a spell, but, at the end of the day, the land reverts to the Balinese owners. More often than not one might lease off the father and, thirty years later one of his kids receives something far more valuable. The lessee is just minding a slice of Bali for the family.

Hmmm that wasn’t there last time. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A few years ago we passed through Balian again, and I learned that the Australian who I gossiped with over the years had passed away earlier that year. The end of the couple’s lease on the land was nearing, and it felt like the place’s salad days were slipping away. A gully back off the beach had filled with more white concrete blocks, there was a sushi restaurant, and yoga retreats. All the while, improved roads were delivering more day-surfers from the south.

Despite the changes, the back beach remains deserted, the sand is still that incredible jet black. The fishers continue to cast their lines as the weather blows in hard, most of the rice terraces, for now, remain rice terraces. The cliff warung’s coffee remains ghastly.

Wandering the back beach. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The river still flows, but perhaps, if Niratha was on the money, its waters needs to be diverted to wash over Bali’s south. Meanwhile out to sea, the molasses waves roll in, swirling and sucking up the river’s healing waters, while underneath the bull sharks circle.

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Uma Agung Sidemen is a small guesthouse set off a narrow road in what passes for the centre of Sidemen’s “tourist strip” in East Bali. It’s one of those places that doesn’t look like much from the road, but as you wander in past reception, a gaggle of comfy rooms reveal. Its sweet spot though, is a cute free-form pool that offers up terrific morning views of Mount Agung.

Sidemen is pretty fertile grounds for a wander. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Like many of Sidemen’s digs, at Uma Agung Sidemen, business never seems to be going at full tilt. At one time they worked with a couple of inbound tour companies, so if you were out of luck, the place would be humming, but when in luck, you’d have the run of it. As one of the primary attractions of Sidemen is doing as little as possible, a “no tour group” visit was the best kind of visit.

On one such visit, many years ago, when the kids were still munchkins, I wandered by the lobby and a staffer asked me what I was up to. I was up to nothing much, a morning wander tracing one of the subak canals about as busy a day as I had planned, then he asked if I was going to the cockfight?

Where getting lost is the goal. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The American anthropologist Clifford Geertz spent a significant amount of time in Indonesia’s Sumatra, Java and Bali in the middle of the 1900s. In 1958, while residing in a Balinese village, with his then wife (also an anthropologist), they attended a cockfight. Out of this—and other cockfight experiences—came his essay “Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight.” While he’s writing around sixty years ago, he could have been beside me outside Uma Agung Sidemen a few years ago. He writes:

“Whenever you see a group of Balinese men squatting idly in the council shed or along the road in their hips down, shoulders forward, knees up fashion, half or more of them will have a rooster in their hands, holding it between his thighs, bouncing it gently up and down to strengthen its legs, ruffling its feathers with abstract sensuality, pushing it out against a neighbour’s rooster to rouse its spirit, withdrawing it towards his loins to calm it again.”

By the book, cockfights in Bali are illegal. They’re permitted on temple days, and other special occasions, but by and by, they’re not allowed. Like many regulations however, this is taken more in an advisory capacity—at least going by the number of roosters I see preening in their upturned rattan baskets as soon as I step outside today. Bali may well have a lot of ceremony days—but it doesn’t have that many. The practice is banned, writes Geertz in part, because it’s barbaric, because powers see the fights as primitive, and, as much money is lost gambling on the practice, it’s seen as contributing to the poverty of the “ignorant peasant.”

At cockfights it is generally standing room only. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Back to Geertz:

“A match made, the other hopefuls retire with the same deliberate indifference, and the selected cocks have their spurs (tadji) affixed—razor-sharp, pointed steel swords, four or five inches long. This is a delicate job which only a small proportion of men, a half-dozen or so in most villages, know how to do properly.

...

The lore about spurs is extensive—they are sharpened only at eclipses and the dark of the moon, should be kept out of the sight of women, and so forth. And they are handled, both in use and out, with the same curious combination of fussiness and sensuality the Balinese direct toward ritual objects generally.”

Bali’s southern extremity is formed by the Bukit Peninsula—an enormous limestone plateau rung by sheer cliffs and incredible surf. At its westernmost point, on a cliff projection believed by some to be the ship—turned to stone—of the Goddess of Waters Dewi Danu, lies Pura Luhur Uluwatu. It was here that one of Bali’s original wanderers, the Shiva-Buddhist high priest Niratha attained moshka, freeing himself from the shackles of reincarnation. The temple’s full name Pura (temple) Luhur (go up/rise/above) Ulu (end) watu (stone) sum it up nicely.

Life saver at Uluwatu—on look-out for the wrong thing? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Bukit is an arid rock, with little in the way of accessible fresh water reserves. For over a century—worshippers aside—it was first and foremost somewhere to graze one’s cattle. It leapt into an international conscience though, with the 1970s release of The Morning Of The Earth, a seminal surf flick by Albert Falzon. While I can’t find the book I got this quote from, Falzon wrote of the time, surfing at Ulus:

"We surfed and filmed there all day much to the amazement and amusement of the locals who had never seen surfing before and spent the night against the cliff on the small beach next to the cave. It was a full moon and with Rusty playing his guitar, a few Balinese fisherman perched on the rocks against the cliff face and an exploding sea not far in front of us it was a pretty memorable experience."

Photos from that period show dirt tracks and no tourist-facing development to speak of. Instead there’s cliffs, surf, and some crusty looking surfers and fishers. There wasn’t, need it be said, a private pool villa in sight.

Take my word for it, it was an even worse result for the rooster. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Back to Geertz and his cocks, now at the business end of the affair:

“Most of the time, in any case, the cocks fly almost immediately at one another in a wing-beating, head-thrusting, leg-kicking explosion of animal fury so pure, so absolute, and in its own way so beautiful, as to be almost abstract, a Platonic concept of hate.

...

Surrounding all this melodrama—which the crowd packed tight around the ring follows in near silence, moving their bodies in kinesthetic sympathy with the movement of the animals, cheering their champion on with wordless hand motions, shifting to the shoulders, turnings of the head, falling back en masse as the cock with the murderous spurs careens toward one side of the ring ... surging forward again as they glance off toward another—is a vast body of extraordinarily elaborate and precisely detailed rules.”

Today, the Bukit is home to some of the most exclusive and expensive resorts on the island—if not in Indonesia. Over the last couple of decades, one scar after the other has been hewn into its white limestone base. From brush suitable for little more than grazing cattle, the transition repeats over and over, first to bare earth, then to fenced off lush luxury. In some cases alongside this “development” small family-run warungs, those who took to supplying Falzon’s ilk with simple fare and iced Bintang between waves, were “moved on,” often in far from acceptable manners.

Following in Falzon’s footsteps. Photo: Sally Arnold.

In the process, vast tracts have become increasingly difficult for non-guests to access what is, by law, public beach. Meanwhile, the dirt tracks and goat paths Falzon and friends used have become paved, radiating across the peninsula. The improved access, would be a boon for cattle grazers, were it not for the perennial convoys of trucks carting water to top-up the hundreds of private pool villas the smudges of luxury boast. The gridlock I should note, doesn’t interfere with the best-heeled of guests—they shuttle from Bali’s airport by helicopter.

Battle done, the money having changed hands, Geertz writes:

“Every people, the proverb has it, loves its own form of violence. The cockfight is the Balinese reflection on theirs: on its look, its uses, its force, its fascination. Drawing on almost every level of Balinese experience, it brings together themes—animal savagery, male narcissism, opponent gambling, status rivalry, mass excitement, blood sacrifice—whose main connection is their involvement with rage and the fear of the rage, and, binding them into a set of rules which at once contains them and allows them play, builds a symbolic structure in which, over and over again, the reality of their inner affliction can be intelligently felt.”

My question I guess, is what happen when the rules don’t hold anymore?

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Earlier this week, The Guardian ran a story about a UK traveller who was badly injured while riding an elephant in Thailand. The accident happened over twenty years ago (in 2002), and the story focuses on the tourist’s experience and subsequent recovery. Thinking back to when she got onto the elephant, the tourist says:

“I remember climbing on and thinking: ‘I don’t know about this’.”

On one hand, it’s a feel-good story—tourist overcomes adversity and all that. Less so though if you’re the elephant concerned, the story suggests the elephant may have been euthanised after the incident—something that I struggle to believe—but at the end of the day, nobody seems to be sure. What matters, at least as far as the story is concerned, is that the tourist survived and moved on with their life.

To be fair, twenty years is a long time, and back in 2002 calls for the banning of elephant riding were far from the mainstream calls they are today. Indeed, it would be another eight years before the Intrepid Foundation would underwrite a report by World Animal Protection titled Wildlife on a Tightrope.The report served as a watershed moment in the better protection of wildlife—including elephants—in Thailand and elsewhere.

Totally natural. Chained elephant awaiting passengers in Luang Prabang, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With this in mind I think it is a bit unfair to give the tourist concerned a hard time about getting on an elephant in the first place. The journalist, not so much. It seems, if nothing else, a missed opportunity to better highlight the elephant abuse which continues to this day in Thailand—solely to feed the desires of tourists.

The problem is far more widespread than Thailand, and affects wildlife for more varied than elephants. From patting drugged tigers in zoos, to swimming with captured dolphins in chlorinated pools, attractions where the abuse of animals is central to the “tourist experience” remain common right across the region. Indeed a few years ago when I was in Lamalera in eastern Indonesia, I discovered one can pay 200,000 rupiah to go out on a boat to spear a dolphin.

What?

Whale shark awaiting butchering at Lamalera, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Unlike the above elephant-rider twenty years ago, travelling in Southeast Asia today and saying “Oh I didn’t know better” is a pretty hard call. And yet, take a quick look at on- and offline tour providers and it would seem plenty still have their head in a hole. Travel review garbage fire TripAdvisor, has for years claimed to not monetise “animal attractions,” and yet if I look at their page on Oslob, the top four recommended activities involve whale sharks. For each, TripAdvisor lists—on a commission basis—paid tours. Need I say it again, the people who run TripAdvisor are utter reprobates. Do not use that website.

Hang on, how did I get from Thailand and elephants to some joint called Oslob and whale sharks? Let me explain.

Oslob sits on the southeast coast of the island of Cebu in the Philippines. At first glance there may be nothing to distinguish it from other seaside spots, but right offshore, whale sharks swim. The Philippines claims almost 2,000 whale sharks—the second largest population on the planet. While hunted for generations, Filipino law protected the species in 1993 and today they feature on the 100 peso note rather than the wet market floor. In theory anyway.

All good then. Photo: Pinoy Numismatist Network and Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas., Fair use.

Tourists visit Oslob to swim, dive, and snorkel with whale sharks—filling Instagram with their stunning whalies. The industry however is widely considered to be a sustainability train wreck. Every dive shop I spoke to in Moalboal (a southern Cebu dive centre I spent a week in—I didn’t visit Oslob) emphatically said not to go and suggested other destinations where whale sharks could be observed with a modicum of sustainability in mind. If you don’t want to listen to me and my dive shop vox pop, how about the Large Marine Vertebrates Research Institute Philippines? They pull no punches in their appraisal of the place. They write—sorry for the long quote, but it all matters:

“Oslob, Cebu is home to the largest non-captive provisioned whale shark tourism interaction in the world. The town gained international publicity after the local government approved the feeding of whale sharks in the fishing Barangay of Tan-awan in 2012. What began as a small tourist operation has since exploded into a rapidly growing and mostly unregulated industry.

The whale shark feeding activities in Oslob have resulted in a boom in the local economy. This has come with a significant impact on the natural behavior of the whale shark, affecting its movement, residency, and local marine habitat. These effects have raised serious concerns over the sustainability of the operation.

LAMAVE in-water researchers collected daily data on the whale sharks of Oslob from March 2012 to January 2020. These eight years of work also included stakeholders’ meetings, local, regional, and national level training and workshops, and internationally published scientific studies.

Despite our best efforts, there was a perpetual unwillingness among local and regional stakeholders to shift away from unsustainable tourism and management practices. Due to this, LAMAVE decided to place our work in Oslob on hold. We will only resume this project if substantial improvement in the management of the activities is implemented.”

The above mob isn’t the only one saying stuff like this, National Geographic and WWF are on record with their concerns. Others disagree—including a legion of travel bloggers on comped trips—and this frontend piece to an academic paper which sees Oslob as a win for whale sharks. Others, who should do better, are more circumspect. Consider this from Lonely Planet in their 2018 Philippines guidebook:

“Regardless of how you feel about the ethics of feeding wild animals, you may or may not be impressed with the Oslob whale-shark interactions. While carefully composed photos may appear to show your friends swimming alone with these leviathans in the big blue, the reality is different. There are hundreds of people in the water at any one time, most of them watching up to a half-dozen or so whale sharks hover near the surface begging for food.

…

If you prefer a more natural experience, you’ll likely find the whale-shark interactions programs in Donsol and Pintuyan (Southern Leyte) more to your liking.”

I’m not sure what to make of that, other than to wonder why it is so hard for Lonely Planet to simply say “Do Not Go.” Also their using “whale-shark” and “whale shark” in the text is them not me.

A Moalboal guesthouse explains to guests why they do not support whale shark tours. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Below the above-mentioned LAMAVE text, they go on to list a litany of research findings indicating just how problematic the scene is. One paper jumped out as me, and thinking of our elephant rider’s trepidation, it is worth a closer look.

“A guilty pleasure: Tourist perspectives on the ethics of feeding whale sharks in Oslob, Philippines” (free version of full paper here) looks at the ethics of what is going on at Oslob, with particular attention given to participants’ motivations. Both through interviews and an analysis of reviews of TripAdvisor, they found some pretty interesting stuff, including this: A significant number of tourists knew it was bad—but not only did it anyway, but recommended it to others. They write:

“TripAdvisor comments mentioning ethical issues with this activity were coded and classified. Ethical concerns were mentioned in 27.2% (N = 254) of all TripAdvisor reviews analysed. The TripAdvisor analysis identified three types of commenters concerned with the ethical nature of whale shark provisioning in Oslob. The “guilty pleasure” group was aware of the moral and ethical issues of provisioning a threatened species for tourism purposes, but still chose to do the tour and recommended it to others (i.e., a score of 4 or 5; Table 5).”

As with Thailand’s elephants, there are (mostly) financial upsides to whale shark tourism. The paper considers this, noting:

“The provisioned activities in Oslob are worth an estimated US$5 million to the local economy and have allowed for the socioeconomic development of the community. Prior to the start of these activities, many of the fishermen turned tour operators in Tanawan were living off just US$1 per day whereas now they can afford to put children and extended family through school, pay for hospital treatments for extended family, food, motorbikes and concrete homes.”

This is persuasive to a point, but perhaps an important consideration is the series of kleptocratic regimes that have run the Philippines for decades. What role did those thieving scoundrels have in a situation where a 2010 fisherman is living off of $1 a day?

It sure as hell wasn’t the whale sharks’ doing.

In summary, if what you are doing while on holiday in Southeast Asia involves touching an animal, you almost certainly should not be doing it. It is that simple.

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Those who have read my series on Java’s Mount Bromo may, upon reading the title of this piece, be thinking “Oh here we go again.” In my defence, I would like to note that the following took place before I went to Bromo, not after. Or, to put it another way, I didn’t learn from my mistakes there rather I didn’t learn anything from here.

When people, aghast at what downtown Ubud has become, ask me for alternatives, I ask what they love in life. If they answer rice field walks, I point them to Sidemen in Bali’s east. If they are more waterfall people, I suggest Munduk, in the west. Today, I’m all about the latter.

Temperature drop. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Munduk stretches out shoelace-like along a western ridge of the greater Bedugal caldera. As you leave the rim and dogleg down, to the north there’s views to the Bali Sea and to the south, the Indian Ocean and Java beyond. Not that you get much time to gaze—the winding—and often slippery—road demands attention.

The cooler climate an altitude of around 800 metres delivered made Munduk a favourite among the colonialists. They flocked here both for something remotely closer to Dutch temperatures, but also for the fertile soil. While further afield is lashed with paddy, Munduk’s immediacy is all about cloves, coffee and other cash crops.

Do linger for a moment before rolling down the slope to Munduk. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Dutch left behind more than fragrant cloves and bitter coffee—a clutch of their colonial period buildings live on midway along the shoestring. Today rather than housing plantation owners they’re instead welcoming tourists. I stay elsewhere, but for those looking for a colonial keepsake, they’re worth a look.

It’s near this colonial outpost though that I receive the fateful instructions that title this piece. When asking directions to Melanting Waterfall, the first of three I plan to take in on foot, I’m told clearly and succinctly:

“Take the left and keep going.”

These things always start simple. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s just after Taman Ayu Homestay I spy what must be “the left.” There’s no sign or anything, but it seems like the best of, well, no other options. It drops me down the side of the ridge in no time, Munduk’s little traffic fades behind the dogs, roosters and birdsong. Mimicking my descent, the footpath degenerates. Hardtop to dirt, dirt to mud, narrowing all the time till it’s no more than sodden grass hemmed in by bushes. The waterfall though I can hear, and so I press on.

Of course I shouldn’t have. The waterfall’s siren call beckons me and so despite understanding I’m lost, I continue. Then out of nowhere a trail appears—a good sign—and a bridge—not such a good sign. I realise I’m above the falls and turn back.

Clearly on the right track. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Not all the way back—or at least, not back to the house with the dog—but most of the way back, and I take a right. I’d reached this junction earlier, but thinking the turn was to an even rattier trail, I’d ignored it. Now however, it was clear—ratty be the way. Fifty metres or so in on Jalan Ratty, the trail splits again, I take the wrong turn and persist for a hundred metres before turning back and taking the worse trail.

The worse trail taps out at mossy boulders I slip and slide over. There’s spider webs aplenty, mosquitos the size of crows with panther-sized teeth. I can hear the falls, I must be close, I must continue.

I reach a cutting in the middle of nowhere with a fall-down woodshed guarded by an upright dog. I take my leave, scattering back into the woods. There’s a trail of sorts and it’s heading in the right direction—down ... and away from the dog.

Almost there. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Down, down, down. I stumble upon another trail, remnants of stone steps, everything is wet, slippery as hell—I’m so glad I’m wearing flip flops. I’m beside a river now and I convince myself I’m below the falls—I have to be. I stick to the trail, switching to walking in the river where the trail has collapsed. I haven’t seen another person the entire time.

The trail veers to the right, and there, right in front of me, is a set of perfectly manicured—and clearly well-used—stairs. No doubt leading down from the “other left.” There’s no point in swearing though as nobody would hear me—at this point the falls are deafening. I push on and finally glimpse them.

Achievement unlocked. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Despite my poor planning, I’ve somehow timed my arrival perfectly, with the sun sitting immediately behind the mouth of the falls. Melanting is at full tilt and pouring into a tightly enclosed, forest-wrapped cup. The air is sodden, rushing out and past me aboard the frosty wind the falls whip up.

There’s not a soul here, and I sit, soaked to the skin, breathing in the mist, eardrums reverberating with the fall’s boom. Birds carve through the soaked sunlight above and the ground and trees are crawling with critters. There’s a rhythm to it all, hypnotising even, then my meditation shatters.

On another visit, with the kids, we used the stairs. As you can see by my hunched over son, they loved it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A good-sized log, at least a couple of metres, clutters over the falls and bangs down the waterfall’s sides, crashing into the base. Through some weird acoustic quirk, it sounds exactly like a smashing glass bottle, and the birds scream, lifting aloft as one.

It’s time to go—I’ve got two waterfalls to go—but I’ll be taking the stairs out.

How long to stay in Munduk

I’ve been to Munduk a bunch of times and reckon it is worth a minimum of two nights. There’s the waterfalls for starters—while I only stumble to one in the above, I did manage to get to three on this wander and there are more.

Another day, another waterfall. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The popular and most accessible waterfalls are on the north side of the ridge, while on the south site there is a broad valley perfect for aimless wandering. Instead of rice it is filled with mostly cash crops, with plenty of cloves, fruit and coffee. You don’t really need a guide for any of this, but if you want to use a guide, your accommodation should be able to sort you out.

Further afield, there’s Tamlingan Lake and its attached reserve. Most only stop on the rim, from where there are terrific views—and a few cafes to enjoy said views from—but there’s also decent trekking—and camping—possibilities lakeside.

Some good spots to stay in Munduk

Most of Munduk’s accommodation is clustered along the ridge road. Options vary from affordable homestays through to quite smart freestanding bungalows. You’re unlikely to need to book one of the cheaper places in advance, but as a few tour groups do use Munduk for an overnight stop, the pricier places do tend to fill, especially in high season.

I’ve stayed a number of times at Puri Alam and while the rooms are a bit rough and ready, their rooftop restaurant has great views, and I love their horizon pool—even if the water is freezing. Rooms start at around the 250,000 rupiah mark. For something a bit cheaper, consider Munduk Panorama.

Down time with the kids at Puri Alam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The colonial place I mentioned up-top is Guru Ratna, which floats around the 300,000 rupiah mark. This one does fill up fast and lacks great views—you’re paying for the colonial stuff.

For something a bit more up-market, but still central, Puri Lumbung sits on the north side of the road, a bit of a walk from the centre of things. The views are great, and the rooms can offer up plenty of (somewhat dated) character, but they are not all as well-appointed as one another. If you show up and your room feels like not the best, ask to see another. Starts at around 1,000,000 rupiah.

Meet Puri Lumbung. Photo: Sally Arnold.

If you’re after something spendier still, there are a few more luxurious options well out of town—you will though need your own transport if you plan on spending a lot of time in town. Munduk Moding Plantation (from around 2,800,000 rupiah) is a reliable option at this price point. Another that comes recommended, though which I’ve not seen for myself is Desa Eko (from around 1,200,000 rupiah).

Just a disclaimer here, Agoda is a Travelfish partner, so if you book a room through them a commission may be payable to us.

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Indonesia has no shortage of islands. Indeed, depending on what you consider to be an island, there are somewhere between around 15,000 to 17,000 of them. Through a tourism lens, Bali is arguably the best known, and at a bit over 5,000 square kilometres in size, comes in at 15th. Most visitors though—particularly first-timers—restrict themselves to a far smaller patch—the south. Depending on where you draw a line on the map, this patch measures around 450 square kilometres—less than a tenth of the joint.

There’s exceptions to this of course. Some head north to Lovina, east to Amed, offshore to Nusa Lembongan or Penida, or elsewhere. Broad strokes though, most don’t—making it a very big small island. Do a bit of travelling around and you could easily mistake it as one island within another.

It wasn’t always this way though.

Typical coast near where Wallace would have anchored. This somewhere near Seririt. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It took Alfred Russel Wallace’s vessel some twenty days at sea from Singapore to hit Bali’s northern shores, and this Bali landing, on the 13th of June 1856, was in a way an inconvenience. Makassar was Wallace’s target but he’d been unable to find direct passage and so had a couple of days on the north coast. He was never to return, and reading The Malay Archipelago, his regret at this is obvious.

As was his way, he availed himself to the local hospitality then got busy shooting birds, hoovering up butterflies, and admiring the scenery. Within 48 hours he was gone—a mere drop of time in what was an expansive trip across much of the archipelago—and yet he writes:

“The islands of Bali and Lombok, situated at the east end of Java, are particularly interesting. ... Had I been able to obtain a passage direct to that place [Makassar] from Singapore, I should probably never have gone near them, and should have missed some of the most important discoveries of my whole expedition to the East.”

Even with so little time, what struck him then, has carried forward to today. On visiting a village and its residents, he continues:

“It was a very dull and dreary place; a collection of narrow lanes bounded by high mud walls, enclosing bamboo houses, into some of which we entered and were very kindly received.”

Sound familiar? Then of the sublime beauty of the island, and how the Balinese work it, Wallace writes:

“... I had never beheld so beautiful and well-cultivated a district out of Europe. A slightly undulating plain extends from the sea coast about ten or twelve miles inland, where it is bounded by a fine range of wooded and cultivated hills. ... Everyone of these patches can be flooded or drained at will, by means of a system of ditches and small channels, into which are diverted the whole of the streams that descend from the mountains. Every patch now bore crops in various stages of growth, some almost ready for cutting, and all in the most flourishing condition and of the most exquisite green tints.”

He’s writing of Bali’s subak of course—the irrigation system that earned the island a UNESCO heritage listing. Little was he to know the pressure tourism would place upon it, mostly through over-construction to observe its very beauty.

Wallace may have missed this one. Inland somewhere from Seririt. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Two days gone, Wallace bade the island farewell and sailed for Lombok’s Ampanan. From there he made time to wax lyrical of the sunrise and sunset views across Bali’s premiere peak Agung and Lombok’s even taller Rinjani:

“We enjoyed superb views of the twin volcanoes of Bali and Lombok, each about eight thousand feet high, which form magnificent objects at sunrise and sunset, when they rise out of the mists and clouds that surround their bases, glowing with the rich and changing tints of these the most charming moments in a tropical day.”

If only Instagram had existed back then, Wallace would have been a power user.

Jokes aside, here we have a guy who, by the time he penned his epic, was about as well-travelled as they grow them in Indonesia. His experience of Bali though, was but for a couple of days in Singaraja and its surrounds. Set, on the western ramp to Bali’s northern-most point, the town is best known as the educational centre for the Balinese political leaders and revolutionaries who would eventually see the colonialists off the island. Today though, it is—at first glance anyway—a hard one to fall in love with.

Sekumpul Waterfall, inland from Singaraja. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Not so with Lovina, a somewhat dated tourist beach strip west of Singaraja which is about as close to mainstream tourism as the north gets. It’s a low-key joint, lined by black sand beaches facing onto calm waters with dolphins aplenty. Up in these parts, the hospitality Wallace mentions continues to this day, as does the scenery. All in all it’s a far less adulterated area than down south.

A common approach is to cast one’s travels further afield as the hot spots ride the tourism rollercoaster to disintegration. It’s easy to view Bali through a lens like this, to write off the south as an over-developed, traffic-clogged hellhole, then to strike further afield, seeking out “the real Bali”—or I guess a real Bali that hasn’t been spoilt yet by catering to tourists.

Once a royal palace, now a family home. Wandering Puri Agung Singaraja in Singaraja. Photo: Sally Arnold.

It is through this sort of process of elimination, that some travellers find themselves in Bali’s north and west. To them, travelling outside Bali’s “inner island” may have seemed like a bit of cutting edge travel, but all they really needed was Wallace’s book—and a map. Forget about getting a new guidebook—instead grab the oldest one you can find.

With this in mind, over the next few days I’m going to be writing of a few of these off-the-inner-island destinations—none of which Wallace will tell you about.

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While the travel press prefer the (frankly offensive) tag of “resort island,” Pulau Dewata—the “Island of the Gods”—is how Indonesians know their small island of Bali.

The westernmost of the Lesser Sunda Islands, Bali sits midway along the archipelago. Shaped like a westward-facing chicken laying an egg (sorry Nusa Penida), the island has been on the traveller radar for over a century. Like the waves that wash upon its many beaches, its popularity has ebbed and flowed over the years, but the last couple of decades have been most certainly flow years.

Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. Thanks Sally Arnold for pointing it out.

Despite the deluge of both domestic and inbound tourists—and the damage they’ve wrought—the residents Pulau Dewata refers to have not moved on. When you know where to look—and what for—you’ll see that in Bali, the gods are everywhere.

As you walk away from the ferry landing at Gilimanuk you’ll no doubt see small offerings laid on the pavement. Canang Sari, these offerings are placed daily by devotees of the island’s dominant faith, Balinese Hinduism. At a glance, they seem photogenic but trifling—if a bit mysterious. Take a closer look though, and you’ll see that they’re a microcosm of an entire cosmology, one crafted with care to honour a glad-bag of deities.

Offerings come in many shapes and sizes. Note those in the foreground are offerings to me—not the gods. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For years I wondered what they meant. I knew they were “some kind of religious thing”, but that was about it, and it wasn’t until I asked a Balinese to pull one apart and explain it to me that I got a quick lesson in the divine. Please bear in mind, canang sari come in many varieties with many different purposes, so I’m tackling the simplest of examples here.

The base is the easiest bit. The square palm leaf base symbolises the earth and the moon, and if coconut leaves are there, they’re for the stars. You need to think of this as both a representation of a realm but also a vehicle to present the essence of the offerings to the gods. The business end of the offering stick is contained within.

For Vishnu the Preserver, and the northern compass point, there’s red betel nut. White lime is for west and Shiva the Destroyer. Brahma the Creator gets the south and scores a cutting of gambier for their efforts. Atop these lies white flower petals, for the east and Iswara. The aforementioned trio also score flowers—red for Brahma, yellow for Shiva and green or blue for Vishnu. Atop these still, there might be candy, cookies or another small snack—which, alongside the time required to prepare the offering, are indicators of the selflessness of the devotee.

Pizza, ciggies—any brand will do—nobody said the gods are on a health kick. As you can see, day to day practice doesn’t always reflect the theory. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Once prepared, the offering is placed on the pavement, within a family temple, or elsewhere. Holy water is sprinkled onto the offering, then as a soft prayer is mouthed, incense is lit, and a hand is waved gently through the smoke. With the wave, the smoke carrying the meaning of the offering makes its way upwards to the gods. Even this final motion is elemental—earth, fire, water and wind coming together to deliver one’s prayers to another realm.

This process takes place every morning—in temples, households, and places of business. From the beach, up the rivers, through the forests, to the mountaintops, you’ll see canang sari. Once you know where to look—and what you’re looking at—the gods are everywhere.

Ritual on Bali permeates far deeper though. As I wrote yesterday, there’s something one needs to do before leaving Gilimanuk to delve further into the island. You’ll need to walk for almost a kilometre, but on the upside this will help to work up an appetite.

Say your prayers. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Ayam Betutu Men Tempeh sits on the north side of the road, behind a large parking area—don’t worry you can’t miss it. In business since the late 1970s, over the years entrepreneurial staff have left to start their own knock-off shops—often with confusingly similar names—but the original is easier enough to find.

The dish in question is Ayam Betutu, a rich and spicy chicken dish (though the duck version is perhaps better known), that is right up there with babi guling and lawar when you’re grasping to furnish a must-try Bali dishes listicle.

Ayam betutu is more than a meal though. Much like canang sari, this is a dish made with the gods in mind—indeed the story goes that the original recipe was handed down from the gods. Sadly as the Ibu behind Ayam Betutu Men Tempeh has passed away, this snippet can’t be verified.

A meal fit for the gods. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Regardless of its origins, the bumbu (spice mixture) that goes into ayam betutu honours the gods. As this piece by chef Will Meyrick details, the four primary incredients are there to pay homage. There’s turmeric for Shiva, galangal for Brahma, ginger for Vishnu and kencur (a galangal varierty) for Iswara. Meyrick writes:

“In traditional Balinese kitchens, these four ingredients are measured with the length of fingers; galangal by the middle finger, turmeric the index finger, Ginger the ring finger, and kencur the pinky. Eight more spices are combined with these main ones, including shallots, garlic, shrimp paste, chilli and salt.”

While it isn’t clear from Meyrick’s write-up how much bumbu the above produces, going on the flavours at Ayam Betutu Men Tempeh, she must have had big hands. Hand size aside, the chicken is boiled in the concoction for an hour before being ladled onto plates ready to be slung. The staff—who I’ve found to be reliably terse verging on rude over the years—will grudgingly provide more spice if desired, but for many, especially those new to Bali, extra heat won’t be necessary.

Don’t forget to give Java a final wave goodbye. Photo: Adam Poskitt.

So there you go. You’re in Bali. You’ve walked by countless offerings to the gods, then you’ve eaten a meal sourced from them, and made with them in mind. And you’re not even a kilometre in yet. And you know what? You’ve not seen a single resort. It’s called Pulau Dewata for a reason.

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You know that thing when you’re waiting to board a flight and staff announce “we’re now boarding rows 20-30,” and every person stands to queue up? What is wrong with people? Where’s the fire?

Sometimes it seems that people have an inbuilt desire to stand next to one another. Who hasn’t been in an empty elevator only to have another person get in and stand right beside them? Or sitting, waiting for the above flight in a deserted corner of the terminal only for a complete stranger to come and sit beside them? Or, my forever favourite, the empty cafe, where you sit in a corner only to have some random come and sit beside you. And, of course take an online call without goddam earphones.

“Eco plane,” oh ha haaa Cebu Pacific. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m not anti-human—honest—but I don’t understand these people. I’m not saying there aren’t joys to be had in meeting and getting to know complete strangers, but, well, having the space to determine when I want to avail myself of these bounties would be nice. I’m not here though to whine about planes, lifts and cafes. Rather, I want to zoom out a bit.

Yesterday, I came across a BBC story about an Austrian village named Halstatt. The picturesque village has taken a beating with the overtourism stick, with its 700 residents dealing with as many as 10,000 tourists a day. Considering attempts to better manage visitor numbers, sustainability smart thinker Anne de Jong lamented that in this case perhaps any changes would be too late.

I took a look at Halstatt on Instagram and sure enough, plenty of the pics, taking in the village’s best side, are taken from the near exact same spot. Yet, despite all the pics, few—if any—had other tourists in them. It’s easy to imagine a queue to take said photos going all the way around Halstatt’s oh so pretty lake. Out of shot, out of mind, and all that.

Instagrammers must be fair weather friends, as there were none in sight when I last hit Pura Lempuyang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This immediately brought Bali’s Pura Lempuyang to mind. Better known in tourism circles as the “Gates of Heaven,” the temple is a revered site that ended up on the tourism highway thanks to an iconic view it offers up. As ever-needing to adulterate the unadulterated, through the use of a mirror the photo is doubly striking. As with Halstatt, the photos invariably feature no other tourists save perhaps the subject doing a yoga pose or whatever. Most who come, come to take a pic, then leave.

Instagram and TikTok are the two primary flogging horses on this phenomena. As I’ve argued before, I see these as but the latest incarnation of the postcard, a means to satisfy the desire of many to prove they’ve been wherever. Why are they there besides that? I mean sure, who doesn’t want to visit a pretty spot, but beyond that? Good question.

Much of dealing with challenges like this boils down to people management. It is easy to look at a village of 700 people and decide 10,000 tourists a day is a bit excessive, but what is a reasonable number? Half that? A quarter? A tenth? Different parties will have different answers. The out-of-towner who runs a trinket shop selling tourist tat may be keen on no limit. The hotelier wants enough tourists that it doesn’t impinge on their ability to fill their hotel. The retiree resident who has nothing to do with tourism may well prefer zero. Balancing their desires is, well, a balancing act, but in every case, there is a figure out there.

No mirror required. Also, no tourists—this is an old photo, well before the temple hit the tourist charts. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Once derived, how to implement it? As I wrote recently with regard to Mount Batur on Bali, ticketing—with a finite number of tickets—offers a straightforward approach. Aside from a limit on tickets, this approach needs a cohesive view. Consider Emily Ding’s recent persuasive piece on Indonesia’s Nusa Penida. There, with no overall coordination, all manner of access fees are in play, with it not always clear what is being paid for, or why. The result, tourists, frustrated and weary from incessant toll keeping, give up.

This is less than ideal. Sure it brings revenue in—to where exactly being up for investigation—but it doesn’t address the volume of people. Much as one needs to book a table at a sought after restaurant—sometimes months in advance—why not the same approach for the above temple or lakeside village?

The restaurant is a good example. A decent manager knows how many tables they have and, at capacity, how many staff—chefs, bar-backs, waiters and so on—they need. They know how much food and booze they’ll require and how many tablecloths and napkins they’ll be sending to laundry at the end of the day. This knowledge helps the restaurant—at least in theory—improve both their bottom line and the experience for diners. The same goes for sights and attractions.

Kuching eatery dealing with the Bourdain-effect. Complete madhouse. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It isn’t like the technology for online ticketing is a dark art. Tickets need not be exclusive in their pricing, indeed in some cases, tickets should be free. The important thing is the ticket—not the price. The other important thing? The ticket needs to be booked by the tourist—not the tour company. Why? To stop hoarding and onselling or scalping. If tourists complain about this being inconvenient, well, they managed to pre-book their flight and accommodation. They’re perfectly capable of booking in advance when it suits them—particularly if it is going to save them money.

Another step would be prolonging the stay. Now I’m sure the poor villagers at Halstatt would baulk at 10,000 people overnighting there. A glance at Google Maps marks a dozen or so hotels in the vicinity, so there is clear limited capacity there. Prolonging the stay need not be overnight though.

Consider that a parking area for buses an hour away on foot would add at least two hours to every visit. There could be various touch points along that hour-long walk to both disperse tourists and extract more dosh from them. When I was in Singapore, one of the things I was working on was rewriting our walking tours. In the case of Little India, there’s a series of houses of worship, more or less in a row walking away from an MRT station. The first temple was full of people who were clearly foreign tourists. By the fourth, I was the only one.

Kali would sort this overtourism thing out in no time. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sure, in part it was the middle of the day and I was the only person mad enough to be mapping out a walking tour in that heat, but as matters shook out, the fifth site was the most interesting. In the process of getting there, I had a lassi and later, a coconut, which is to say sometimes being a pleasure delayer pays off, even if in small ways—both for the destination and the punter.

You could argue that factoring in an hour-long walk as a price of access is in itself exclusive. Not all tourists are that mobile, while others would have too tight a timeline to dedicate two plus hours for a photo. For the former, yes, in the fine tuning there would need to be scope to facilitate visits by all. For the latter however, my answer would be “too bad.”

And it is this final answer, “too bad,” that much of the discomfort around all this stuff boils down. Destinations—be them temples, villages or whatever—are leery of turning off the tap. Witness Venice’s forever wincing on levying even a nominal charge on day tourists who are easily the most problematic of its visitors. This is Venice for Hell’s sake—it isn’t like tour operators are going to say, ok lets go to Monfalcone instead.

Should Bali’s Nyepi Ogoh Ogoh processions be ticketed for foreign tourists? Hard yes. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Boiled down, destinations are actually in the strongest position here. People don’t go to Venice because they want to fly RyanAir or pay for a freakin TUI holiday. They go to Venice because they want to see Venice. The airlines, and to an increasing point, tour operators, are nothing more than dumb pipes. Yet destinations have relinquished door security to bad boy airlines and tour operators who have a vested interest in keeping the doors open 24/7. After all, they’re not the ones who need to wash down the vomit at the end of the night.

Destinations have all the cards and have held them for decades. Now, more than ever, they need to start playing them.

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This is the conclusion of a two-part series and you can read part one here. Yesterday I looked at the stories behind Bali’s Mount Batur and what the trekking experience can be like today. Today, some thoughts on how perhaps the visitor experience could be better managed. Both pieces are free-to-read, but if you’d like to support me finding more tourism stuff to moan about, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Thank you.

Earlier this year, news did the rounds that Bali was to close its volcanoes. There would be exceptions for religious and other cultural needs, but trekking—by both local and foreign tourists—would end. The reason? The actions of a minuscule minority of—mostly foreign—tourists striding up the peaks and into full-blown idiocy. No, I’m not linking to any of the stories about those clowns, sorry.

Balinese see both Agung and Batur as holy peaks, but you didn’t need to be Balinese to be aghast at some of the ridiculous behaviour. The tourism industry, in particular trekking guides, did not support the measure, and, as with other proclamations of a similar tilt, nothing came of it.

There’s always a goddam drone. One of at least six I saw—the crater is full of dead ones apparently. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While at the summit last weekend, I didn’t see any naked Russian influencers or Canadian healers. In fact I didn’t see anyone nekkid—it’s cold, and I’d have been content with more clothes rather than less. What I did see was way too many people. Not only too many people from an aesthetic or experiential point of view, but also from one of safety. Trekkers continue to die and maim themselves on Batur and other peaks in the country, yet safety briefings, signage, fencing, and so on, as far as I saw, were non-existent. Despite these safety issues, the volume of people—and their impact—seemed to be less of an issue when it came to proclamations about closing the peaks.

Despite the accidents—many minor ones of which, according to our guide, go unreported—Batur is an easy climb. Depending on how long you linger at the summit beach party, you’re looking at three to four hours up and back. Agung is a good bit more challenging, and takes seven to nine hours, sometimes longer. When we climbed Batur, there were plenty who’d never set foot on a volcano before. I talked to Australians, Bangladeshis, Brits, Indians, Indonesians, Saudis, and South Koreans, among others. In all but the Indonesian case, they’d never climbed a volcano before. If someone comes to Bali and wants to climb one, in the past having never climbed anything but their laundry stairs, Batur works. The thoughts of those I spoke to I can sum up in two words: Beautiful and busy.

So how to address the latter and preserve the former, while not hitting the hip pocket of local residents? Also, how best to rope in the tourist idiocy that saw chit chat of a climbing ban in the first place? A typical approach is to jack up prices. This pushes it out of the reach of budget travellers who are—without any proof—often portrayed as being the source of most of the idiocy.

Today I’m arguing the opposite—to drop prices ... sort of.

No more cruise trekkers

Day tourists, those who don’t stay overnight in Kintamani, are the least valuable, highest impact kind. Sure they pay for the trekking, but that’s it. They don’t pay for a hotel nor homestay, nor the meals a stay entails. They drive in and drive out on the same day, contributing to Bali’s ghastly traffic. My solution? If you don’t stay in the immediate Kintamani area for two nights, you can’t climb Batur.

Still filling up. How many were day trippers? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Why am I arguing for two nights rather than one? Because Kintamani and its surrounds have enough to kill two days. Indeed you can base yourself there and visit a range of further flung spots, that people tend to do from Ubud. This would be a win for Kintamani businesses as you’d be spending more money, and across a more diverse range of businesses.

Without a doubt, mandating a two night stay would reduce the number of people climbing. In turn, trekking revenue would fall. However, in staying two nights, the overall spend in the area would increase. Research has shown that some residents feel tourism isn’t delivering the financial windfall some hoped for, so this could help.

This feeling of tourism “not delivering” is in part because the activities are so concentrated on the peak. There’s volcano jeep riding and black-sand motor-cross riding for example—but spend some time looking at the tours on offer. Most include hotel pickup and drop off—from anywhere in Bali. The subtext? Many of these guests are not overnighting in Kintamani. Not only that, they’re often buying a tour through an overseas company—further reducing their local spend as the overseas agency takes a cut.

Reform the trekking business

As with Mount Agung, almost all trekking on Batur is at sunrise. Aside from the beauty, there are weather considerations at play as the peaks often cloud over in the afternoon. That said, it is often clouded in at sunrise too—the day before we climbed it was cloudy, when we did, it was crystal clear. Make an offering to the weather gods the day before.

Immediately behind these two it is a sheer drop. According to our guide someone fell to their death from here a few years ago. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I also suggest a hard cap on the number of tickets available daily. Tourists plan their flights and hotels in advance and there is no reason why they can’t do the same with a volcano climb. Offer the tickets online only, through a centralised online portal to keep one hundred per cent of the funds in-country. No ticket, no climb. As it stands, despite being a UNESCO Global Geopark, Batur doesn’t appear to have a functional website. Likewise, their Facebook page is infrequently updated. You can see an archived version of the former here. This is to say, I’m not suggesting this could be set up with a click of the fingers, but, come on fellas.

I’d also suggest that slots be available for three times—sunrise, daytime, and sunset. If sunrise is the most in demand, then price it higher. As a point of reference, currently two trekkers will pay anything from 400,000 to 750,000 rupiah all up a head—we paid 500,000 rupiah. Something like the following (note these are only for access and do not include transport, add-ons etcetera) could be a starting point:

Dawn (start 04:00): 300 tickets 250,000 rupiah
Daytime (start 08:00-14:00): 200 tickets 100,000 rupiah
Sunset (start 16:00) 200 tickets 175,000 rupiah

As it stands, a chunk of what you pay goes to The Association of Mount Batur Trekking Guides—the above should replace that. This community organisation is not without controversy, but I’m not getting into that here. If you’re curious, pages 9-11 of this paper are a good starting point. My point is, if you want to climb Batur, you pick an agency to use, but you buy your Batur Pass independently, online. No pass, no climb. The agency can still make their money through guide fees, transport, add-ons etcetera as they already do. They just lose the ability to sell—and mark up—the access fee. As is the case now, this access pass money could continue to go towards wages, social endeavours and keeping the trails clean. By Indonesian standards, Batur’s trails have a limited trash problem—well done.

According to our guide, where I am standing in taking this photo, some years ago a British woman stepped straight off the rim into the crater before dawn. She didn’t have a torch and wanted to change her trousers, but didn’t realise where she was. She broke her neck and some limbs, but survived. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With something like this, further people management tools become available. Think seasonal variations—50 per cent more in peak season July and August, 25 per cent less over monsoonal November through to February. Having the majority of tickets booked in advance brings with it plenty of business planning benefits. Most importantly, the ticket numbers should be hard capped. Get some volcano carrying capacity person—ie., not me—to take a look and figure it out. I am pretty confident though in suggesting a thousand people at the summit is not ideal.

There’s no doubt the trekking scene is bringing money and jobs into Kintamani. But for whom? At a glance, most guides are young men, which is typical in Indonesia. On our climb, I don’t think I saw a single female guide, though guides are not indicated by a badge or anything, so I can’t be sure. I did see plenty of women selling snacks, drinks, and polished lava bracelets at the summit. Female trekking guides have been a selling point on Lombok’s Rinjani, so why not on Batur? According to one Batur trekking company, of 600 trekking guides, ten are women. Smart operators should get onto this.

Say no to idiocy

As already mentioned, Balinese view both Agung and Batur as holy peaks. It should come as no surprise to most that people getting nekkid, having sex, or filming themselves having sex, are not in tune with local sensibilities. A step or three down the idiocy list, flying a drone likewise, is not permitted. This last one is a bit complicated, as the government site seems to suggest you need a license, but it’s not very accessible for non-Indonesian speakers, which would include most foreign tourists. Drone sites meanwhile, suggest otherwise. This confusion aside, in Bali, drone pilots do need permission to fly a drone over a religious site. On this count, both Agung and Batur qualify.

On the way down the crowds are gone and we’re able to have a safer separation between people. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The best way to address these points is by requiring visitors to read and sign a plain language document outlining rules and norms. At least then, when someone gets their gear off to nude-pilot their drone while they’re having sex, they can’t say they didn’t know. And they sure can’t whine when they’re punished. Obviously this document should be a part of the online booking process.

But this isn’t fair!

I imagine some are reading this and thinking, well this isn’t fair. That they’d like to climb Batur but can’t afford to give Kintamani two nights. My answer to that is to either take a longer trip, or to rejig your existing itinerary so that you can fit it in. Prioritise your trip accordingly—you can’t do everything.

Slow down and smell the coffee—I hear Kintamani isn’t bad on that front.

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This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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This is a two-part series, with the conclusion tomorrow. Today I’m looking at the stories behind Bali’s Mount Batur and what the trekking experience can be like today. Tomorrow, some thoughts on how perhaps the visitor experience could be better managed. Both pieces are free-to-read, but if you’d like to support me finding more tourism stuff to moan about, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Thank you.

Situated in the northern reaches of Bali, Mount Batur is a 1,717 metre peak at the centre of an enormous caldera. Thought to have once towered to some 3,000 to 4,000 metres, two tremendous eruptions some 20,000 to 30,000 years ago halved its height. Still active, the volcano has over two dozen recorded eruptions to its name, with the lava of a 1960s eruption still blanketing the caldera floor. While nearby Mount Agung may be the better known, Batur is easily the most popular to climb.

Sunset from the caldera rim, with Mount Agung in the distance. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Batur has two creation myths to its name. One holds that Bali was once a free-floating—dare I say free-thinking—island, cruising the ocean’s surface. Hanging out on Mount Semeru, this bothered the gods, so they decided to anchor it in place. To do so, they shifted Semeru’s peak to Bali, breaking it in two, with Agung forming the male half and Batur the female.

The better tale also harks back a bit, to the days when a giant named Kebo Iwa called Bali home. No, he wasn’t named after the Nusa Penida fast boat that sank last year, though there are some interesting angles on his name here. A kind-hearted soul, he was gargantuan in both size and appetite, and when his tummy rumbled, his temper flared. After a bad rice harvest one year, famine ravaged the island and the Balinese didn’t have enough to satisfy his appetite. He spat the dummy and smashed the place up, filling his belly with villagers rather than whatever it was giants ate back then.

Sunset with Batur at the centre. The lake in the foreground was Kebo Iwa’s undoing. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For the people, this was a bummer and they came up with a plan to deal with their giant man-child once and for all. Once he chilled out, they convinced him to amend for his tantrum and fix stuff up, which he did. When it came to sorting out some water, the villagers pointed him to north Bali and asked he dig a well. Digging and digging, deeper he went, all the while the mound of displaced earth growing. As he dug, the villagers piled limestone on the other side of the well. When he struck water, they’d build him a house to say thanks, they told him. This pleased Kebo Iwa.

When he finally struck water, the giant figured he deserved a bit of a kip and took a nap in the bottom of the well. The villagers, seeing him snoozing, threw the limestone in around him, where it mixed with the water, turning to a gooey paste. When the giant awoke, he realised something was up and threw another tantrum, but all he got for his efforts was for the mushy limestone to hold him fast. The water gushed in and poor old Kebo Iwa drowned. When the water ebbed, Lake Batur took shape and the giant’s mound of earth became Mount Batur.

Moral of the story: Don’t sleep at the bottom of a well—particularly if your so-called mates are stacking up limestone by the side.

Late arrivals. Note the very suitable mountain climbing attire by the shirtless guy in front. Trekkers were this close almost the whole way up. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Mount Batur forms the centrepiece of the Batur UNESCO Global Geopark. Designated in 2015, the park encompasses over 370 km2, with famous-for-its-coffee-and-touts Kintamani, perched on the caldera’s southern rim. A popular destination for both local and foreign tourists, some come for the cool climate and coffee, others for the majestic views or hot springs. A growing number though, come to climb—as I did with my son and a mate of his, on Saturday morning.

A tiny family-owned homestay in Banjar Alengkong on the caldera’s northeast ridge, was our home for the night. As the sun fell, we enjoyed magnificent views across to Mount Agung to the east and Batur to the south. Later, we warmed ourselves by the fire as a million stars twinkled above. If this weather holds, we’re up for a good climb, I remember thinking.

The homestay was a thirty minute drive from where we would start climbing at Pura Pasar Agung. From there, as the crow flies, it is less than a kilometre to the rim—about an hour and a half climb according to our guide. Many though, begin their trek two and a half kilometres—or 45 minutes on foot—earlier, from the main road. When I say many, I mean ... many.

The silhouette of Rinjani never disappoints. The weather could not have been better—perfection. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Along that drive, while I wasn’t counting, I reckon we passed close to five hundred people. Western guys shone torches in our driver’s face and yelled “cheaters” as we drove by. Sorry we didn’t walk from Kerobokan fellas. I knew Batur was popular, but I didn’t expect crowds of this scale, and at the temple parking lot, I realised I hadn’t seen anything yet. Trekkers thronged by the temple, and in the distance, their torches illuminated the entire trail to the summit.

The climb wasn’t too hard. I worked up a bit of a sweat, and some panting occurred, but compared to climbing Agung, it’s a walk in the park. What made it a chore—not only a chore, but dangerous—were the crowds. When climbing, you want some distance between people—for slips, dislodged rocks and so on—yet here people were on top of one another. If I slowed to allow for a few metres between the next trekker and myself, some impatient would barge past, inserting themselves into the gap. I’d say for the first hour of the climb, I had someone else’s boots in my immediate field of vision the entire time. People fell and slipped, rocks flew, and tempers frayed—it was not ideal.

Around 100 people (that I can count in the photo, there were far more down the slope to the right etcetera) strung out along the first quarter of the rim. They lined the rim in this manner the entire way around. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In summary—it sucked. It made for both a crap experience, and an unsafe one. Nevertheless, the three of us and our guide reached the rim in good time, with a half hour to spare before dawn.

I wandered the start of the rim and witnessed the most unexpected of scenes. Guitars strummed, as did music from smart phones. Vendors flogged beer, coffee, snacks, and polished lava bracelets. Aloft, at least a half dozen drones buzzed, and there were selfies aplenty.

A crowd of hundreds, predominantly foreign, were setting up along a series of terraces hewn into the rim. Along each, simple wooden benches allowed for more comfortable seating. In other bench-less areas people marked out their territory much as you would a tract of sand by the sea. Across the peak, the entirety of the rim—with a circumference of almost a kilometre—glowed with trekker torches. By the time the sun rose behind Mount Rinjani on Lombok, there had to be at least a thousand people at the summit. Together we waited for sunrise.

Finally, some Indonesian climbers—the red and white always gives them away! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I turned to our guide and asked if it was always this busy. They shook their head saying:

“It is much worse in August when we have to start at 1 am to get a seat.”

We’d stumbled onto a volcanic beach party.

Tomorrow, some thoughts on some alternative approaches to visitor management at Batur—and elsewhere. Not only to improve the visitor experience but also to protect both local peoples’ livelihoods and to better act to respect their faith.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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A quick word of introduction. My name is Stuart McDonald and this is Couchfish—the perfect tub of ice-cream for the traveller stranded on the couch. The newsletter has both a paid edition which traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia, and a free one that covers, well, everything else. You’re reading the latter here today, but if you’d like to, you can upgrade your subscription via the button below. Thank you!

As I type this I’m supposed to be somewhere in Laos, but I’m not. I did get a third of the way—to Singapore—but due to some unplanned changes (a.k.a. poor planning on my behalf) Singapore was as far as I got. Laos trip delayed, for my sins I scored four and a half days in Singapore.

It’s no secret that Singapore can be expensive. Going on the deluge of news stories lamenting skyrocketing rents, pricey scoffing, whining tourists (like me), and that the mooncake prices are heading towards the ahhh moon, it seems never more so than today.

Other things I could have done with my money. At Sri Vadapathira Kaliamman Temple, Little India. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The thing is, there are many steps you can take to ensure your stay in Singapore is even more expensive than it needs to be—and I’m here to tell you how. Why? Through my lack of foresight, bad planning, and general incompetence, I lived it.

What I got wrong

Buy your sim card at the airport

As I said, I had not planned on lingering in Singapore, so I grabbed a sim card upon arrival at Changi Airport—for $30. The card worked fine and gave me all the data I needed, but had I purchased one online, I could have got something similar for around $10.

Don’t throw away your EZ-link card

I’m through Singapore quite a bit, and somewhere back home there’s a pile of half-used EZ-link cards. If you’re not familiar with these, they’re stored-value cards you use for public transport in Singapore. When you buy a new card, it costs $10 but comes with only $5 worth of credit. So yes, I bought yet another card to add to my growing collection of cards still loaded with credit at home. You can (in theory) use your credit card in lieu of an EZ link card, but I’m having too many credit card problems to even entertain that approach—thank you Westpac and Commonwealth Bank.

Book nothing in advance

In my defence, my original plan held for me spending one hour and fifty minutes in Singapore. My connection to Laos was so tight I’d splashed out on a front row AirAsia seat to aid my sprint between terminals. Laos trip binned a week before departure, I could have booked my beds, but, well I never got around to it. When I did, the day before my departure, hostel rates were as high as my flight.

I tracked every single cost over the entire trip—then wish I hadn’t. The app, called Tripcoin, is simple to use. The “Others” section includes $110 in clothes and duty free, so maybe shave that off mentally. I don’t know what the previous 4 days bit means, so just ignore that too. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I then doubled down on my error and booked one night, figuring I’d find something cheaper as a walk-in once there. This, again, was a dreadful error. Not only had many of the backpackerish places I liked shut down thanks to the pandemic, my trip coincided with a public holiday weekend. Excellent.

In summary, I ended up paying $70, $78 and $66 for pods and then $100 for a hotel. If you’re a road warrior attuned to paying north of $200 a night, these rates might seem rock bottom, but I’m no road warrior. And I’m sure not attuned to paying $78 for a pod.

Contact your accommodation direct to get a better rate

Ha ha ha, yes, good luck with that. One of the places I stayed only accepts bookings through Agoda and Booking. When I asked about booking direct, they gave me a telephone number and told me to Whatsapp them for their bank account details for me to make a transfer to. When I asked after rates, they told me to look at Agoda—who I know they were paying a commission of 25 per cent to. This seemed … dumb.

More and more pods and less and less of these. Not sure that is totally a bad thing. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another hostel wouldn’t match the Agoda rate—despite me standing in front of them with money in my hand. The third one, a hotel, I paid in cash in person, but if I wanted to book for the future, they advised I needed to either use Agoda or call them as they “don’t check their email every day,” and promise to show up.

Don’t stay out of the centre of town

Again, this is hardly brain surgery. If you want to stay downtown, close to many of Singapore’s sights, then you’re going to pay a premium for the privilege. If you’re willing to stay a little further out, prices drop—almost to a point where they could be described as good value. Yes there’s a trade off as you’ll incur the time and costs of getting downtown—I opted out of this trade off and paid the premium.

Don’t bring your own plate and cutlery

This isn’t so much a cost thing, but bear with me. It might sound bonkers given all Singapore’s sustainability blah blah, but the hawker centres are awash in styrofoam. According to the government, this has been banned for new stallholders in all hawker centres since 2018, though in the past they’ve said alternatives are too pricey.

Just eat and pretend not to know your plate and cup will take a bazillion years to break down—or be incinerated. At Chinatown Complex. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Regardless of the blah blah, styrofoam features not only for takeaway, but eat-in as well. Likewise single use plastic is prevalent for cups, forks, and spoons. Single use wooden chopsticks are far more common than they should be. Plastic straws are everywhere. You can bring your own plate—I saw quite a few Singaporeans doing just this—but my plate was at home, probably full of half-used EZ-link cards.

Don’t look at menu prices

Some deranged hostels turn the air-con off between 10am and 2pm, so when that happens, seek air-con in the closest air-con cafe you can find. Be sure to order as you walk in without looking at the menu. Don’t hesitate to order a second one when the first one goes down a treat. This is the best way to seamlessly pay $16 for two flat whites. A bag coffee from a hawker station? Around $1.60. Where’s the mug?

Don’t plan your sightseeing beforehand

The best way to maximise sticker shock is to not check admission prices beforehand. Gardens By The Bay for $53, or the Art Science Museum for $51, hell yeah. The National Museum at $40 was eye-watering, but with the excellent Experiencing Singapore Through Travel 1800s - 2000s exhibition costing a mere $18 I went with that instead. It was worth every penny. On the other hand with the Mandai Singapore Zoo at $48 I thanked the travel gods I didn’t pack my kids.

The Cloud Dome is pretty wild—but could have done without the tacky Avatar tie-in. Also $212 for a family of four. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Don’t make use of Singapore’s many free public spaces

Singapore has plenty of park space that won’t cost you a dime—so be sure not to allow time to use any of it. The Botanical Gardens and Fort Canning Park are free, as is the Southern Ridges Walk, Bukit Timah and Labrador Nature Reserve. Likewise hitting Pulau Ubin won’t cost you any more than the bumboat ride there and back.

Things I got right

Those feet were made for walking

I walked. I walked a lot—around 89,000 steps according to my phone. Singapore is a fantastic walking city, and as one of the things I decided to do while there was rework our walking tours, I fitted in plenty of this. Chinatown, Little India, Kampong Glam, Bugis, Raffles, and The Quays are all great destinations for wandering. There’s plenty of pretty architecture, temples, pagodas, mosques, and churches—all of which are free to explore. There’s also terrific—and more affordable—museums such as the Peranakan Museum to get you off the street and out of the blistering heat.

Inside the beautiful Sultan Mosque. Also, free. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Combine wandering with an EZ-link card, and there’s no need to go anywhere near anything that uses four wheels. Good for the wallet—and the planet—even if only a small number of buses are electric for now.

Hawker centres are your friend

All but two of my meals were in a hawker centre. This kept costs down, and I love the food. There is the aforementioned styrofoam and single use plastic issues, but you can work around those. There is some price variance—Chinatown Complex or Maxwell are a little pricier than Albert Centre, but it isn’t a deal breaker. If you drink, hawker stations have the cheapest beer in town—think around $6-$7 for a large Tiger—more for fancier tipples.

Sorry, but I can’t think of anything else I did right.

Closing bed tips

The hostel scene in Singapore has changed quite a bit post-pandemic. Many of the long-running “backpacker-style” places are gone, and most pod places lack a hostel vibe. That said, here’s some spots I recommend, and for each I’ve listed a direct rate from the property, listing the cheapest option for one night in mid October. Where they’re listed on Agoda, or in one case HostelWorld, I’ve added that as well. Just also to note, the Agoda links are affiliate links which means a commission may be payable to Travelfish if you click through and book a room.

Never ever carpet a hotel room floor. What $100 gets you at the South East Asia Hotel. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you don’t mind staying a little out of downtown, BetelBox (direct from $28) on Joo Chiat in Geylang remains a solid old-school hostel. Geylang can get a little ropey at night as it’s as close as Singapore gets to a red light zone, but I love the area, and the Vietnamese food—in particular Long Phung—is great.

In Chinatown, Wink Hostel (from $50 direct, Agoda) on Mosque Street is still going strong and has a second property for overflow. On South Bridge Road, Adler has changed hands and is now Atelier (in theory from $50, in practice $70ish, they have no website, but are on Agoda here), think of it as a slight step up from Wink, but it’s a chaotic mess management-wise. The Bohemian (via Hostel World from around $50, Agoda), Beat Arts Hostel (previously i-Stay In, also from around $50 direct, Agoda) and Rucksack Inn (direct from around $30, Agoda) are decent Chinatown backups to Wink.

In Kampong Glam, Cube Boutique (direct from $55-ish, Agoda) and The Pod @ Beach Road (direct from $50, Agoda) are both solid pod-style places. The former has a more central location, but both are within easy walking distance of Sultan Mosque, Haji Lane and so on. Forget the tourist tat shops in Chinatown—do your souvenir shopping around here.

But it looks better from the outside. Or, to me anyway. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For more spendy options, consider KēSa House in Chinatown (direct from $180, Agoda), The Sultan in Kampong Glam (direct from $140-ish, Agoda), and The Daulat in Little India (direct from $140, with a tiny lap pool, Agoda). Over near Orchard Road, I’m a big fan of Lloyd’s Inn (direct from $180, with a decent pool, Agoda). Note these prices are all for their smallest rooms—and when I say small, I mean small.

One more point, for families. In the past, one option for families on a budget was to grab a four bed dorm and treat it as a family room. As hostels have moved towards pod-style setups, four bed dorms are getting rarer. The South East Asia Hotel (see below) has family rooms from $160, but if you want more trimmings—particularly a swimming pool, look further out of town. As an example, the Village Hotel Changi has large double rooms from under $200 direct (Agoda), a rooftop swimming pool, and is close to the airport—handy if you only have an overnight stay. There’s also a hawker centre, park, beach, and the bumboats to Pulau Ubin all within easy walking distance.

Last but not least, I spent my final night at the South East Asia Hotel (direct from $100, Agoda) in Bugis, and I thought it was great. It is a very old school hotel, in business since the 1950s and their prices haven’t changed since 2011—nor the carpet I would guess. Nevertheless the rooms are big, the aircon works and I found the staff to be friendly and helpful. It will not be to everyone’s taste, but after paying $70 for a pod, $100 here was great value. The location, right beside a busy temple and pagoda, and a five to ten minute walk from Bugis SMRT, is excellent.

There’s always a foot. At Atelier (previously Adler). Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In all the above cases do check rates through whichever OTA you use and compare them to what the property will offer you direct. There can be significant variances—in both directions. Weekends cost more, public holiday weekends more again—take my work for it. You can find a list of Singapore public holidays here. Book as far in advance as you can to hopefully pick up a better rate.

Carbon

I can’t write about this without looking at carbon. I flew up on an AirAsia A320, which according to Atmosfair (using Jetstar for measurement as they don’t list AirAsia, but the aircraft type is the same) generated 637 kg in “climate impact” (which they describe as including CO₂ emissions, contrails, ozone formation and other effects). My return flight was on a KLM 777 which scored another 701 kg. These figures are significantly higher than what Google Flights spits out (117 kg and 136 kg respectively, as Atmosfair takes into account more than just CO₂—and doesn’t make money by getting you to click through to buy a plane ticket).

This Europe-focused study (which, it should be noted, was sponsored by HostelWorld), compares the emissions of hostels to hotels. It found that a bed in a hostel equates to 0.30 tCO₂e and a bed in a hotel to 1.18. However, it assumes only three people in a dorm, and I tell you what, there were a lot more than three people in each dorm I slept in—the first dorm had 20 beds in it, the other one 14—and they were both chockers!

Burn it baby. My AirAsia flight prepping to leave Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Regardless, compared to fancypants hotels in Singapore—which I’ve written about before—I think it is fair to assume my accommodation emissions were about as low as possible—especially in the joint that turned off the air-con in the middle of the goddam day!

Anyways, regardless of the fuzzy numbers, in my version of offsets I plan to donate $75 to Sungai Watch, an organisation doing great work here in Indonesia to clean up the rivers. That is, once they fix their donate screen which won’t accept my email address. If you’ve got some loose change—even if you haven’t just got off a flight, spare them a thought.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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A quick word of introduction. My name is Stuart McDonald and this is Couchfish—the perfect tub of ice-cream for the traveller stranded on the couch. The newsletter has both a paid edition which traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia, and a free one that covers, well, everything else. You’re reading the latter here today, but if you’d like to, you can upgrade your subscription via the button below. Thank you!

I need to head to Singapore next week and given what I’m forever ranting about, I figured I’d try and find a property that was doing things right. Normally I stay in a Chinatown hostel, but thinking perhaps I was missing out, I Googled a bunch of variations on “best eco-whatever in Singapore.” What could go wrong?

For every eco-listicle that Google threw back at me, the Marina Bay Sands was up top, so I decided to peer into that big-spending parallel universe to see what makes one the leader of the hi-so sustainability pack.

Singapore’s very own big banana. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’re not familiar with the Marina Bay Sands, it’s the one that looks like a banana held aloft by three pillars. Opened in 2010, the hotel boasts 2,200 rooms starting at some US$655 a night (on Booking.com), placing it towards the mid- to upper-end of Singapore’s luxury scene. Owned by an American casino company, it features the world’s “largest atrium casino” with 600 tables and 2,300 slot machines.

Anyways, credit where due, the hotel has done quite a bit on the sustainability front. Their Responsible Business Highlights 2022 report makes for an interesting read, and that’s what I’m looking at today. Before I say anything else, I want to note that every hotel on the planet should prepare something like this, though with more context please.

Energy

Thanks to efforts towards more prudent energy use, they’ve saved just shy of 10 million kWh. Great! But how much are they still using? According to the report, they went through 244,425 MWh in 2022. With 2,200 rooms that total works out at around 111 MWh per room per year. Yeah I know they use power for lots of other stuff aside from the rooms, but you can’t have one thing without the other.

If only the nearby Gardens By The Bay generated power like they look like they should. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Let’s add some context. According to Singapore’s Energy Market Authority, the average use of a one- or two-room house is 175.6 KWh and an apartment 540 KWh. Note the difference—MWH and KWH—convert it and the hotel annual per-room average is around 111,000 KWH. About 600 times that of an average two-room home in Singapore and 200 times that of a private apartment.

An aside. You might note the report mentions that the Marina Bay Sands has a target of 30% renewable energy use by 2025. They’re currently at 21.9%—good to see they’re getting there. Over on Booking.com’s sustainability page for the hotel, they list it as “100% renewable electricity used throughout.” As I wrote last week, Booking’s sustainability reporting effort is a garbage fire. Do not trust a word you read on it.

Water

The hotel’s water use in 2022 was 1,341,002 cubic metres (one cubic metre is one thousand litres), which works out at around 3,600 cubic metres per day. Divide that daily figure by the 2,200 rooms and you get around 1,600 litres per day. Household water consumption in Singapore in 2021 was 158 litres per person. Roughly a tenth of one room at the hotel.

Marina Barrage offers nice views of the joint—it’s also essential to Singapore’s water supply. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Two things are worth noting here. First, despite how much it seems to rain there, Singapore has a limited water supply. It has four primary water sources—local catchment, imports from Malaysia, reclaimed, and desalinated. The imports represent the largest water source—and thus, for the hotel, an indirect economic leakage. Secondly, Singapore’s Green Plan 2030, aims to reduce household water use to 130 litres per person per day. Dare I say that’s but a drop in the ocean when there are enormous hotels using ten times that.

I want to go to Trash Island

Save a Covid19-induced respite, waste sent to landfill sits around the 10,000 tonnes mark. This sent me down a rabbit hole of Singapore landfill material which I’ve filed away in the “stuff I never planned to learn about” part of my brain. In summary, Singapore seems to have four waste-to-energy plants that contribute around two per cent of their power needs. What can’t be burned, plus the ash residue from what is burned, goes offshore to Pulau Semakau, an island off of the south coast.

A word on Pulau Semakau. It is an amalgamation of two islands Semakau and Pulau Sakeng. The former was home to a small fishing village but the government acquired the land and shifted the residents to mainland HBDs—they must have been thrilled. They even shifted the cats off the island. The islands were then joined and in 1999 the trash dumping began. You can learn more about what the island used to be like here, and old photos here and plenty more here.

On the Marina Bay Sands report, it reads “Waste sent to landfill,” not “Waste burnt in Singapore then buried at sea between two nearby islands that used to be home to fishers who are now living in mainland HBDs.”

While I couldn’t find a figure for household waste, according to the Ministry of the Environment, Singapore generates 8,700 tonnes of waste per day.

Maine Lobsters Rejoice!

The hotel report details steps it has taken to address waste—and all are to be applauded. There’s bamboo toothbrushes—and oddly razors—and they’re trying to get a handle on food waste. They even ditched lobsters from Maine, which is good for the lobsters I guess—and for the carbon involved in flying them around the planet. Despite this, the menus from the hotel’s many restaurants remain awash with imported produce. If you want to drop $300 on 120g of US imported beef, this is the place for you. Again, leakages all over the joint.

Do You Feel Lucky?

The final part of the report looks at the hotel’s social activities. Again, there’s plenty to support here—the Art Science Museum, food kits for Singapore’s more vulnerable, and educational activities. It is worth keeping in mind though that the whole enterprise sits atop an enormous casino—hardly a bastion of upwards social mobility. Indeed Singaporeans are not even allowed into it unless they pay a S$150 daily fee. I wonder why.

What’s My Gripe?

I think it’s important to note at this point that the Marina Bay Sands is doing a lot—far more than many hotels—to mitigate its impacts. My gripe isn’t that they’re not doing enough, I get that this stuff takes time. My gripe is that I don’t see how a property like this will ever be a sustainable undertaking in a tourism sense. While it is important—and helpful—for them to document the steps they are taking, suggesting the end result is going to be an example of sustainable tourism seems to be a stretch to say the least.

On the upside, it is photogenic. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Let’s skip back to the Chinatown hostel scene for a moment. Where there’s three showers for twenty bunks, no swimming pool and no lobsters from Maine. Where a travellers’ impact is—I’m guessing here—far closer to on par with a local Singapore resident—if not below. Hell, if you’ve ever stayed at Ali’s Nest, you know what I’m talking about!

I’m not suggesting that anyone who cares about sustainable tourism must stay in a hostel. If you’re comfortable being a bit spendy, somewhere like Lloyd’s Inn seems like a good middle ground. I’m guessing here though, as they have nothing about sustainability on their site. Indeed, sometimes it seems the least sustainable have the most to say, so perhaps having no information at all is a good sign!

I guess the core question to be answered here is what does one consider to be a step forward for sustainable tourism? If you go back to its original concept, roughly summarised as “operating in a manner that does not impinge on the future viability of a destination,” then you’d think trying to operate within the framework and limitations faced by local residents seems a decent starting point. Having an undertaking that uses hundreds of times the power and water that residents do, seems less so. As such, I have strong reservations about businesses like this one being reported on in the same breath as “sustainable tourism.” They do not belong there—and they never will.

Lloyd’s always struck me as just a lot more sane. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m not arguing that hotels like the Marina Bay Sands should not exist—I understand their appeal. I get that hotels like this create thousands of jobs and I’m sure the government takes a nice slice off the casino side of things, though I’m less sure of where that dosh ends up—the hotel earned a staggering US$848 million over 2022/2023, with the casino pulling in some 70 per cent of that. I wonder how much of that revenue stays in Singapore. Sustainable tourism needs to be viewed in a holistic manner—at all aspects of the business—economic, environmental and social.

Finding other options—for now—remains a challenge. Travellers like myself who care about sustainability are left using a guess and gut feeling—and I don’t understand why this is the case. Someone needs to fix it, and it sure as hell won’t be Booking or Google.

Me? Back to Chinatown it is.

PS: Regarding last week’s piece on Booking’s sustainability train wreck, I received some feedback suggesting I had been unfair in not soliciting comment from the companies concerned. This is not correct, I did email both Booking and Travalyst, but didn’t hear back from either—but I forgot to mention this in the post. I’ve amended the post the mention this. Thanks again for the feedback.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

A quick word of introduction. My name is Stuart McDonald and this is Couchfish—the perfect tub of ice-cream for the traveller stranded on the couch. The newsletter has both a paid edition which traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia, and a free one that covers, well, everything else. You’re reading a mix of the two here today, and if you’d like to read the full edition, you can upgrade your subscription via the button below. Thanks!

In survey after survey after survey, travellers state that they want to travel in a more responsible manner. They want clear information that will help them to choose businesses that support the goals of sustainable tourism. They want, in essence, to do their part to make travel better. Not only better for themselves, but better for destinations and the people who live there, and indeed better for the planet. Laudable stuff.

This is not a new desire. One can’t throw a satay stick without hitting some news story detailing the latest ravages of tourism, and it is heartening that an increasing number of travellers are at least saying that this is a priority for them.

So who should step in and declare “we can fill this sustainability information black hole?”

Cambodia’s Sihanoukville never fails to deliver when I need a “Tourism WTAF photo”. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Booking Holdings, the parent of Online Travel Agents Booking and Agoda (among other firms), claims to be “the world’s leading provider of online travel & related services.” According to its own propaganda, as of 2022 the undertaking listed over 28 million places to stay sourced from over 220 countries. In that same year, the site processed a staggering 900 million room nights worth over US$120 billion.

Who better to have in the steering house of divining which properties are “sustainable”, than a company with a vested interest in recommending as many as possible?

In five acts, I’m going to cover first the genesis of their sustainability platform, how it works, some of the problems with it, consider why we’re seeing these problems, and then look at why this is bad for both travellers and destination residents. About half the post is free-to-read, to read the whole piece, please consider becoming a paying Couchfish subscriber. Membership costs US$7 per month and delivers access to an archive of hundreds upon hundreds of posts. Changed my mind on this—the whole piece is free to read, though if you want to become a paid subscriber, please do!

I. How To Build A Hen House

Sustainable tourism sits upon a three-pronged foundation—economic, environmental, and social. If a business takes a sustainable approach to its undertakings, it takes these aspects and considers how to operate without impinging on the future viability of a destination.

More royalty always makes things better. Pigeon at Phimai, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In considering how to fashion this foundation, Booking turned to Travalyst, another corporate entity founded by some royal dude. The Travalyst mission statement reads:

“Our mission is to make the travel industry more sustainable. We do this by convening leading industry players in a pre-competitive coalition to collaborate on bringing consistent sustainability information to the mainstream for the first time. This means we can empower consumers to make better choices: for themselves, and for the planet.”

As far as I can make out, Travalyst consulted with the Global Sustainable Tourism Council (GSTC), an Independent Advisory Group, and their Accommodation Working Group. A notable missing wheel is any form of non-tourism stakeholder voice from destinations—this not giving destinations their fair number of seats at the table is a problem that has plagued tourism forever. This ever-familiar oversight aside, this entourage banged their heads together and came up with five areas of sustainability, each with a subset of related aspects. The five areas, followed by their number of subsets, are:

Energy (19)
Waste (14)
Water (7)
Biodiversity & Ecosystems (10)
Destination & Community (11)

The list is, for what it is, sensible—there’s nothing on it that people wouldn’t consider to be a positive step, albeit perhaps the smallest of bandaids in some cases. I couldn’t find the list anywhere on Booking, which is a bit frustrating as properties often list sustainability achievements that are not on the list, so it isn’t clear where some of the benchmarks are coming from. You can see the full list on Travalyst here.

As I mentioned up top, the broad pillars of sustainability are economic, environment and social. While the Travalyst list doesn’t tightly correspond to these, broad strokes the first four fall under environment and the last one, social. Some aspects within energy, waste, and water, have economic angles, but it struck me as curious to not have a top line category for economic impacts. More generally, there are many, many … many, problems with the list—I’ll return to both this omission and the list’s problems later. And while I know this is rich coming from me, Travalyst needs to prioritise the hiring of an editor competent in the English language.

II. Fill The House With Hens

List done and dusted, participating properties self-select which sustainable practices they’ve adopted within the Booking extranet. I was unable to see exactly how this works, but according to this page, it sounds like properties tick the boxes that apply to them, and this then populates a list on their property page on Booking.

My son Will having a thrilling time in East Java. The homestay we stayed at does not participate in Booking’s scheme—and don’t need to—but will it be bad for their business if they don’t? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There is also scope to add a property’s various “green” accreditations and certifications etcetera, which can supposedly play a part in checking the accuracy of what properties say, but, as I’ve written before, large tracts of that particular ecosystem more resemble a pyramid or pay-to-play scheme than anything intended to better inform travellers, so I’m ignoring it here.

Tick box ticked, based on the property’s location and practices, the programme’s “eligibility criteria model” (whatever that is) calculates an “overall impact score.” So what does this score look like? Booking has four implicit levels and one implied:

Level 1: “You’ve implemented some impactful sustainability practices.”
Level 2: “You’ve made considerable investments and efforts to implement impactful sustainability practices.”
Level 3: “You’ve made large investments and efforts to implement impactful sustainability practices.”
Level 3+: “This property has made significant commitments towards sustainability by subscribing to one or more third-party sustainability certifications.”
Non-participating.

Levels one to four get a non-clickable stylised leaf icon displayed near the top of their property profile page on Booking. Then, depending on how many price brackets the property has listed—so anything from four to ten scrolls down—after the room pricing, there’s a short section noting the property’s “Travel Sustainable” level with a small link to read more. Click on that and you get a popup detailing what the property is doing. Depending on the property, this popup carries with it a footnote saying either:

“Independent organizations verify all third-party certifications and sustainability steps.”

or, the seemingly more common:

“We’ve begun exploring verification processes for these steps using guests’ feedback and a trusted third-party auditor. However, as of now, we can’t fully guarantee the accuracy of this information.”

Both are followed by a link titled “Learn more here,” which links to the Booking sustainability homepage—good luck learning anything about this there.

On some location pages, Booking offers readers the ability to filter by these criteria—and credit where due, this functionality and visibility has been drastically improved in recent times. However, this filtering is not displayed consistently. For example, if you look at their page for Lamai Beach on Ko Samui, there is no filter nor are any sustainability leafs shown for properties. This seems odd as this is the page you would land on if you were to Google “Lamai Beach Booking”. The leaf (and the filter) often only appear after you enter your desired stay dates.

Without getting too tangled in the weeds, the point I’m trying to make is that for a traveller concerned about sustainable travel, a filter like this, where one can, with a single click, surface only the properties meeting say “Travel Sustainable Level 3,” is super useful, and for properties qualifying for this level, I’m pretty comfortable in guessing it is driving bookings. Indeed, Booking claim that “73 per cent of guests are more likely to book at a property that has sustainability practices in place.” On a quick search for Ko Samui, some 240 of a supposed 599 available properties had at least Level 1.

Getting from Level 1 to Level 3 need not be all that demanding. Consider the KB Beach Club and Pool Villas—this is actually the top recommended property for Ko Samui that Booking surfaced to me. It has Travel Sustainable Level 1, and of the 61 items on the Travalyst list, has ticked 18 of them. The Conrad Koh Samui, a Travel Sustainable Level 3+ property, ticks 25 of them. I think (guessing here) the + is related to its certifications. The Conrad’s other extra efforts according to the Travalyst list?

Single-use shampoo, conditioner, and body wash bottles not used
Single-use plastic stirrers not used
Single-use plastic straws not used
Water-efficient showers
Invests a percentage of revenue back into community projects or sustainability projects
Local artists are offered a platform to display their talents
Most food provided is organic

This doesn’t strike me as the heaviest of lifting to jump two levels. I’ll return to the Conrad a bit further along in this piece.

But how useful—and true—is any of this information?

III. Unlock The Gate

Booking are upfront—well, as upfront as you can be when it is via a footnote on a popup reached via a small link some four to ten scrolls down—in saying that they have no idea if the information they use to determine the travel sustainable level is accurate. Indeed, browse hotels in Vietnam and be amazed at just how many of them are 100 per cent renewable energy powered.

If only they could plug me in to some more damn hotels. Wind farm, Phan Rang-Tháp Chàm, Vietnam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Problems around places making stuff up is hardly breaking news, and Booking does say that properties telling tall tales will have their listings adjusted, but, to my mind, this is only half the problem. The real problem is that the list is, well, kinda s**t.

I know I said up top that there was nothing on the list that people would quibble about, but give it a closer read, and you might start thinking this is the sort of checklist you come up with to make it look like you’re doing something when you’re not.

Consider the 100% renewable energy example I used above. By Southeast Asian standards, Vietnam does have a fair amount of renewable—mostly hydro— energy on tap, but it is far from 100 per cent. The chances of a ten-story 3-star hotel in Hanoi being on 100 per cent renewable power is as likely as finding a good bowl of phở in Bali. More to the point, while renewable energy is something worth striving for, I think what is really missing here is context. Let me explain.

Consider a traveller who decides they want to stay at a hotel that takes a prudent approach to its power usage. Telling the traveller a hotel uses 100 per cent renewable power, or that it reduced its use by five per cent over the past year (another tick factor), are both useful to a point. However, as they lack context, as a point of comparison to any other hotel they are largely meaningless.

The real question, is how much actual power does the property use? This matters not only with regard to comparing to other properties, but also to the destination as a whole—how much additional load onto the grid is yet another hotel adding? If you have two hotels, one of which is using the equivalent of the average daily household use per room night, and another is using tenfold that, then that is actionable intelligence.

Booking could require properties to upload their meter readings, from where a per room night figure could be derived and then displayed to consumers. If they wanted to be less explicit, they could develop a bracketed by room night kWh range, say low, medium, and high—with specific figures—and then note what the average per-capita power use is for the country concerned. This is much more useful information from a concerned travellers’ point of view.

Water use, as I’ve written before, is another great example. The Ritz Carlton Langkawi uses 5,387.51 litres per room per night while the average daily household use in Malaysia is 191 litres. On Booking, the Ritz Carlton Langkawi has Travel Sustainable Level 3—the second highest level of sustainability Booking awards. The Ritz Carlton on Ko Samui—an island dealing with a major water crisis—uses 1,467.75 litres per room night, and on Booking is again a Travel Sustainable Level 3 property. Meanwhile, Ko Samui requires 30,000 cubic metres of water per day—24,000 of which is piped in from the mainland.

When a destination is having a water crisis, this is the sorta joint I’d want to be staying at. Also, a Travel Sustainable Level 3+ property. Seems solid. Screenshot from the Conrad website.

Hard numbers help. As I’ve written before, when the Banyan Tree Group states that “Over 2,100 km of cling film has been reduced, almost the equivalent distance from Singapore to Manila,” the real question is holy hell, how much are you still using?

On the people side of things, again and again and again the term “local” emerges. What do they mean by local? A local citizen or a foreigner living locally? I’ve highlighted this as being problematic with tour companies in the past. Saying 80 per cent of staff need to be “local” (a tick item) means nothing if management form five per cent of the staff—and they’re all foreign. If a foreign manager lives locally (as most do), are they local?

As I’ve written before, economic leakages—where money leaks out of the local economy—form one of tourism’s many bugbears. A study of hotels in Bali, Indonesia found that luxury chain hotels can have a leakage rate north of 50 per cent, while homestays score below ten per cent. The biggest source of leakages were F&B followed by staff and management fees. Why is this not presented in a simple fashion on Booking’s sustainability checklist?

In all these examples, there are hard numbers available from properties. What does their power meter read? How much water do they use? What is the nationality (not residential) breakdown of staff? Where is the money going?

IV. Call In The Foxes

It is with this last question—where’s the money—that the biggest questions arise. As a part of researching this story, I went to set up a fake property on Booking to find out what commission was applied. To be clear, I stopped short when I had to tick a box saying the property was legitimate—so sadly you will not be able to book a room at Skye Govinda Lodge in Bali. Skye Govinda, in case you’re wondering, is the name of my dog.

Skye is not really selling her lodge well. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The out-of-the-gates commission rate was 17.3 per cent. This can increase if you want Booking to charge cards for you (an additional three per cent), and there are apparently a raft of other additional commissions you can pay for stuff like improved visibility on the site—a practice that has garnered legal attention in the past.

This commission though, is a direct economic leakage. Why isn’t the commission a property pays to Booking (or Agoda, Expedia, Google, or whoever), listed? Why doesn’t Booking list, for each property, the country it pays the room fees to? If you book a hotel in Bali, and Booking pays your money into the hotel’s parent company bank account in Canada, how much of that money makes it to Indonesia? Yes, the Canada bit is a joke, what sensible hotel company wouldn’t do all their banking in a tax haven? Best of all, Booking already has this banking information, and knows it is correct. They could put it up on the site yesterday.

Luxurious hotels are prone to economic leakages, and use considerably more water and power than small homestays. The latter can provide important support to poverty alleviation in destinations, but the former, well their potential is more towards supporting the bottom line of Booking (or any online travel agent). Let’s return to the Conrad Koh Samui—a hotel with somewhere between 50 and almost 100 private pool villas—where rates start at US$485 a night. Being generous and assuming they’re on the baseline 17.3 per cent commission, a night booked there would net Booking over $80. At my fictional Bali doggie abode (no doggie horizon pool sorry), where a double room costs 295,000 rupiah (roughly US$19), the commission comes in at around $3.

V. And Look The Other Way

Is it in the interests of travellers and destinations to have a company that profits off of every room sold, play a central role in the design of a platform to showcase the sustainability efforts of said properties?

Whose interest does it serve to have a sustainability checklist that pointedly ignores the highest impact practices of the most impactful style of property?

Of the 14 waste categories, eight relate to single use plastic. Seriously? Let me simplify this for you Booking—does the place of business use single use plastic? Yes or no. Why are businesses gaining up to eight ticks over single use plastic, while not even being asked where they do their banking? Why are there separate ticks for bicycle rental and bicycle parking? I mean, how do you rent them if you have nowhere to park them?

A real distraction. Lembata, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

These are all a distraction. They’re the low-hanging fruit that any business in their right mind should be doing anyway. A property doesn’t need a sustainability consultant to tell them to switch to refillable water, or compost, or sort their trash—they need a decent accountant. I’m not saying single use plastic isn’t a problem—it most certainly is. What I am saying is that if Booking was serious about single use plastic they could come out and say something like:

“From January 1, 2024, if your property uses single use plastic, you cannot be listed on Booking.”

Now that would be a statement—and one that brings me to my final point in this never-ending post.

Why is Booking’s approach all carrot and no stick? By all means give eights ticks for plastic but why not deduct points for soaking up ridiculous amounts of water and power, or ignoring local laws about building one hundred metres back from the high tide mark? As matters stand, a hotel can continue with all manner of damaging business practices, and yet retain a Travel Sustainable Level 3 ranking.

It is in Booking’s financial interests to have as many properties listed at Level 3 as possible and none of this is about “empowering consumers to make better choices: for themselves, and for the planet,” rather it is about rendering the concepts behind sustainable travel even more meaningless than they already are, while minimising any financial downside and keeping travellers booking—on Booking.

We have an organisation that has processed over US$120 billion in bookings—in many cases channelling that money to the least sustainable properties of the entire industry—in the planet’s tourism sustainability wheelhouse.

And that isn’t good for anyone.

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A quick word of introduction. My name is Stuart McDonald and this is Couchfish—the perfect tub of ice-cream for the traveller stranded on the couch. The newsletter has both a paid edition which traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia, and a free one that covers, well, everything else. You’re reading the latter here—but if you’d like to read the former, you can upgrade your subscription via the button below. Thanks!

Not satisfied by adding up my carbon earlier this year, I’ve been digging more into this stuff—ok, in part to finish a university assignment, but what’s wrong with a bit of multi-purposing? Anyways, I saw a post somewhere that led me to Yet Another Carbon Calculator, and, well, you know the drill, enter your flights, get a “value” and send some of your cash to some mob to do something productive with it ... in theory.

These calculators are pretty variable, but boiled down, they work to dovetail some averages, some math, and a bit of guesswork to give you a number and a price. The screenshot below, from the carbon calculator at Conservation.org, is typical of the experience.

$2.10 … bargain!

I was struck. What is this helping me to do? I mean, other than funnelling some money into Conservation.org to plant trees or whatever, and to act as a salve on my environmental guilty conscience, what is the point?

On their results page it reads:

“Here is the footprint of your flight and how you can neutralize your impact on the climate.”

That’s drawing a pretty long bow if you ask me, but overpromising aside, these results are really kind of “take it or leave it,” they’re not actually helping me reduce my carbon emissions at all. All they’re doing is handing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500.

Making it better

So, how could this be improved? For that I’m going to need to subject you to my graphic design abilities. Perhaps we could start with providing readers with a bit more context—note the figures for train and bus are just for illustrative purposes, walking though is about right.

Oh, I have options?

There’s plenty of OTAs that specialise in transport, in Southeast Asia 12Go and Baolau are two of the more comprehensive—and both have affiliate programmes, thus providing a means for the calculator provider to earn revenue without people getting on a plane. Hell, they could plant even more trees—or hire more consultants, or whatever they do with the money.

The stuff of life

Why stop here though? As I’ve written before, transport—particularly flights—accounts for the majority of emissions, but depending on your style of accommodation, emissions—and particularly water use—pile up fast. Consider the chart below which I tossed up onto LinkedIn the other day, or this piece on water use on Ko Samui in Thailand. My chart compares the water use per room night in a selection of luxurious hotels in Malaysia, then compares it the the HOUSEHOLD average there.

To explain the lines, the average daily household use in Malaysia is 191 litres (source). At the Ritz Carlton Langkawi it comes in at a whopping 5,005.49 litres (source, though just looking now, their reported figure is 5,387.51 litres, I guess someone took a long shower, or perhaps I made a mistake in recording it earlier)—remember, these hotel figures are Per Room, Per Night. I’m writing another piece all about this, so I’m just going to touch on water briefly here.

Shower long and hard like there’s no tomorrow.

So, rather than obsessing solely on carbon emissions from our ghastly flights, if we assume the travelling calculator-user has an interest in their impact, what could we do with the above and, as with transportation, how could we nudge travellers towards less impactful practices? How about something like this?

Does brushing your teeth count?

Again, the above numbers (all per room night) are very rough, I’ve got another piece in the pipeline (geddit?) on water use, so take the above as just a rough indicator. Basically, if you’re staying at something like a Ritz Carlton, you’re probably responsible for more water use before you check-in than the backpacker at a homestay uses in a week—insert quip about “smelly backpackers” here I guess.

If you keep the current treatment of flights and emissions in mind, then it is easy to think of a calculator advising something like:

“So your lux resort is going to use a hell of a lot of water, so what you can do is pay us an extra $5, some portion of which will go towards efforts to improve local access to water.”

Better than nothing I guess, but to my mind, you’re better off illustrating in plain English the environmental costs associated with the choices people make, and nudging them towards other perhaps more sustainable options.

Now I’m not for a moment suggesting a Ritz Carlton guest will be penning a five-star TripAdvisor review after their stay at Ketut’s Homestay, but perhaps this sort of nudging could encourage them to, I dunno, rough it at a Sheraton now and then. Likewise the small hotel guest may hit a homestay between horizon pools. Perhaps they’ll even like it.

Just say no to towel torture. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This sort of thing, soft pushes—informing people rather than billing them—can be very effective. There’s been all sorts of research into this, and I’m barely scratching the surface here. As an example, I liked the last bit of this video that looks at how different messaging towards guests modified their use of water and the towels in hotel rooms. All we need now is some research into towel abuse and why it should be a crime for hotels to twist them into freakin swans.

People power

I’ve written about leakages before, but just to quickly recap, an economic leakage—in the context of tourism—is where a portion of the money you pay for some service or whatever, beats you to the departure gate in heading offshore. Common culprits are inbound tour companies, where anything from 60 to 80% of what you pay to the tour company gets offshored. Claims from tour companies suggesting this isn’t the case should be treated with extreme caution, which is a polite way of saying they are almost always b**t. Hotels however, are another handy flogging horse on this count, be it through foreign managerial staff, imported booze, technology, or whatever.

With this in mind, the calculator could have another section (don’t worry I’m not going to mock this one up), similar to the water one, showing some typical differences between different styles of properties. I need to emphasise the “typical differences” here, as a homestay can be foreign-owned and -run, just as a luxurious hotel can be locally-owned and -run, but broad strokes, there is a single basic truism at work here:

“The more expensive the price of your room, the higher the probability an increasing proportion of what you pay for your room is not staying in the destination and is instead getting offshored.”

Don’t believe me? This study (while dated) looks at leakages from hotels in Ubud, Bali. The authors found that four- and five-star chain hotels had a leakage rate of 51%, while non-star rated properties (homestays) was under 9%. The biggest source of leakages were F&B followed by staff and management fees.

So what’s the point?

You can’t throw a satay stick without hitting a survey proclaiming that travellers put a high value on the “sustainability” of their travels, and, as I’ve written previously, this term has been so often miss-applied and twisted, that it should come as no surprise that if I was to ask ten travellers what they think sustainability is, I’d get ten different answers.

I mean, who the hell is going to say they prefer to take an unsustainable holiday?

A better calculator however could work to better explain to leisure travellers—in plain English—considerations that are worth, well, considering. Instead of subjecting travellers to some nebulous fee structure in order to keep travelling as they are, instead use the opportunity to nudge them in another, more constructive direction.

Calculators are but one example of a means to nudge travellers. On Travelfish I recently re-ordered most of our destination travel pages—we used to list them with flights up top, then train, bus, ferry and goat. I’ve moved flights to the bottom, so the list now starts with trains (if available). This is a cosmetic change, but it does mean the reader has to scroll past all those other options to finally find out about flights.

Perhaps a few will slow down and consider taking the train instead—and that would be a good thing.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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It was 19 years ago last week that Sam and I launched Travelfish.org. In the years since, we’ve had some ok years, a few ace ones, some ordinary ones, and, more recently, some decidedly less than ordinary ones. So it goes—if nothing else, travel is always interesting.

Over those same 19 years, travel has changed somewhat. With that in mind, in no particular order, here are 19 thoughts for 19 years on things I’d do the same—or different—if I was starting Travelfish today. If you’re thinking of starting a travel website, you might find some of the following of interest.

“BETA” passport stamp from my passport that was stolen in Phnom Penh not long after. Fun times.

Wouldn’t accept freebies

This is probably the easiest one for me. Indeed, finding out how most travel publishing worked was one of the primary reasons we started the site in the first place. I’m irrationally stubborn on this point and while it immediately put us at a cost disadvantage, I wouldn’t do it any other way.

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Wouldn’t have ads

I was late to this point of view. For years Travelfish was, at least in part, a programmatic-advertising support website. Getting rid of most of these was one of the best wholesale changes we made to the site. While I could write a PhD on the whys of this, in summary I’d say ads are (a) an awful reader experience, (b) a privacy nightmare, and (c) fuel a “writing for Google” approach to travel writing, writing stuff that will rank and get clicks rather than help the reader.

Would have a paywall

When the ads went, the paywall came shortly after. Travelfish is now around 50% paywalled. Making this change saw a shift to writing what readers would think is worth paying for versus what might get a high-revenue ad impression. I believe this is a far better result for readers as we’re serving them—rather than advertisers. Pre-pandemic, Travelfish earned more through the paywall than it did through programmatic advertising, so to that extent, that’s enough proof for me.

Wouldn’t work with properties and/or tourism boards

This is perhaps a bit of inside baseball, but ties in with my first point about freebies. Complimentary stays from hotels and comped fam-trips through tourism boards, agencies and other related underlings, are a fab way to reduce one’s research costs. The downside, as far as I’m concerned, is tainted copy. My favourite way to summarise this is via a conversation I had many moons ago with the regional head of a Southeast Asian national tourism board. They’d got in touch regarding possibly working together, then when we met said that they required editorial control—essentially veto power—over anything we wrote. So Much No. Yes, it was a short meeting.

The 2008 look, back when the Cambodian islands were still “near deserted,” guess I wasn’t thinking of the residents.

Would use in-house copy only

In the beginning, all Travelfish copy was written by me and edited by Sam. As the business grew, so did the list of people writing for us. At one stage we had 17 freelance writers—an approach I don’t really recommend! The important thing was that if a reader read something on Travelfish, it was written either by me, or when we had them, one of our full-time writers, or by a writer I specifically contracted to write for us. Without dishing too hard on “influencers” if you’re reading Travelfish, you know what you’re going to get—and you’re not going to get a vacuous top ten whatever. For the reader, I think this matters.

Would hire more local writers

This ties in with the previous point. I never managed this well—over the years most—though not all—of our writers were Westerners based in Southeast Asia. To a point, I still think having an “outsider” view is an important one, but obsessing on this throws the baby out with the bathwater. There is no shortage of talented local writers who are perfectly capable of writing for an international audience.

I wouldn’t build my own website

When we started Travelfish, platforms like Wordpress etcetera were a shadow of the robust affairs they are now. I couldn’t find anything to do what I wanted, so I built my own. The learning curve was severe, and today, 19 years later, I’m still fixing and undoing self-made disasters. If I was starting afresh I would not, repeat not, build my own website from scratch. If there is one thing I’ve learned, this is it.

Would have a newsletter

To be honest, today I’d be pretty close to having only a newsletter. There’s a few significant advantages of this—including not needing to built a website—but also that a newsletter is easily the best way to build a direct relationship with readers. Many newsletter providers now support having a paid version, and this is a great opportunity for starting a travel-ish undertaking without having to invest massively—in time and/or money—to build a website.

Would write for me, but I’d better consider the needs of others

Anyone who knows me knows I walk my talk. A major driving force behind Travelfish was to build the sort of website that I wanted when I travelled. Over the years we strayed from this a bit, particularly in covering some more luxurious properties I’d most likely never stay at, but the website’s roots have always been in the sort of travel that normal humans can afford. That said, not a stretch goes past where I don’t get an email asking after travel advice that doesn’t involve getting on a motorbike. Travelfish readers tend to skew older, and more often than not they get in touch asking me to cover car hire as well. As one reader memorably put it, “I may look like I was in Easy Rider, but I prefer the safety of cars thank you.”

2013: Oh poor Burma + Gadling was still a thing. Travel—ever-changing.

Would focus far less on accommodation

When you spend half a day looking at a dozen near-identical cookie-cutter hotels on a single Ho Chi Minh City laneway you question what you’re doing in life. Over the years, we’ve reviewed 8,688 resorts, hotels, guesthouses and homestays in Southeast Asia. No, that isn’t a typo. This madness must stop.

The accommodation scene has changed massively over the last twenty years. Not only are there now a bazillion properties, there’s also been an incredible commodification (McDonaldisation) of them, as hotels have become similar to the point they’re interchangeable. Spending days—or weeks—looking for the needles in the hay is a waste of money and the writers’ time.

While platforms like Agoda, Airbnb, Booking, and Expedia are very problematic for destinations (and the properties), they are the easiest way to filter the insane number of options. Use them, but only to a point. Pick what area you want to stay in, filter the reviews to nine out of ten, and lower the budget to what you can afford. Pick something from there and then contact the property direct. As a part and parcel of this, I’m dramatically reducing the number of properties we list. In some cases places have closed (due to natural attrition or the pandemic), but in others the places simply are not noteworthy. By the time I’m done, I expect to have removed at least half the properties we currently list.

Would treat food, and to a lesser extent, transport, in the same manner

Where are you? Are you hungry? Are you lazy? Open Google or Apple Maps, filter it to restaurants, top rated only, open now, by cuisine, then see what is within walking distance. As with hotels, getting on top of food in a traditional format, is, to my mind, a bit pointless. Somewhere truly outstanding? Yes, perhaps list it, but overall spend more time talking about what types of food are noteworthy in the destination, and why they are worth your attention.

With transport, is there a bus station? Where is it? Where do buses/trains/donkeys go? All this remains important information, and is worth providing to readers. Detailed timetables and costs? No. Most, though not all (yet), have this information online on their own sites. We’ll link to that.

Would concentrate more on how to do it best

To use accommodation as the example, the important question now isn’t “what hotel should I stay in?” so much as “where in X should I stay?” I would spend far more time addressing the latter rather than the former. Likewise for sightseeing, yes, it remains important to cover what there is to see, but the most important angle is perhaps the hows and whys rather than the whats. Putting readers in contact with quality local guides is an important bit of value adding, but likewise for those who prefer to travel unassisted, it is important to advise on how best to visit or experience whatever. Often this information can only really be gained if you’ve been there yourself, which, if it’s on Travelfish, we almost certainly have.

Would better explain the value of guides

Expanding on the guide comment in the previous point, for years, I was down on guides. I’d often considered government-trained guides to be garbage, better able to provide the guest with propaganda rather than true insight. In a large part this is still true—the guiding, particularly at “monuments of national importance” often remains woeful. Unfortunately government training of guides is often a mandatory part of becoming a licensed guide, which makes it all the more important to find good ones—even if unlicensed. Emphasising the consideration for local tour companies over foreign operators is another important aspect. Will be putting a good deal more effort in on this front going forward.

Would emphasise sustainable/responsible travel

With two decades of travel writing under my belt, I’m inexcusably late to this, and there is plenty of copy on Travelfish that highlights my shortcomings. When I watched the early stretch of this video interview with travel writer Adam Skolnick, he says, in talking of his nine years writing for Lonely Planet:

“One of the things I never ever once considered was my carbon footprint, I never once considered the environmental aspect of it, not one time, and I’m an environmentalist!”

I thought, yes, that is me. So, better late than never and all that. If I had to pick the single greatest shortfall in Travelfish, it is this—and it is something I’m working to address, both in reworking existing content and writing an entire new section of the website covering it. So in summary, if I was starting Travelfish today, the mental question “is this sustainable and/or responsible” would preface every sentence on the site. Yes, there is much rewriting to do!

2017: Burma, again. Sadly many got on boats—they had no choice.

Would ask “why” more often

Why? Why are you travelling? Why do you want to go here, stay there, eat this and drink that? These questions deserve far more thought from publications—along with the mirror statement “Why you should not go there.” For now, on Travelfish, only one of Cambodia’s armpits, Sihanoukville, gets this treatment, but again, more will. By thinking more about the why, then perhaps travellers, especially first-timers, will be better positioned to not contribute to problems in the first place.

Would have a “front and back of the book”

When you think of a legacy printed travel guide, traditionally the front of the book is dedicated to history, culture, society, environment and so on, while at the back there’s the nuts and bolts—visas, costs, language etcetera. In between the two there’s the meat of the sandwich. On Travelfish we have a few of the nuts and bolts and a good part of the meat, but little else. We fail at providing sufficient context, be is historical, cultural or whatever, to countries and destinations. We do supply some material around specific listings, but it is more the exception rather than the rule. This I would change. I’m not talking about a PhD length history on Thailand—Wikipedia does a decent job of that—but providing some context, particularly wrapped up in tourism, could better educate readers, help them travel in a better manner and get more out of their trip. Context is everything.

Would concentrate far more on the big picture stuff

This ties in with the previous point, but particularly with regard to broad-strokes travel planning. We have some great sample itineraries, and some awful ones— the bad ones are in the process of being re-written, but there is also plenty of scope to zoom in, why do we have a suggested itinerary on spending two weeks in a country but few examples of telling people how they can stay another day in a specific destination. For all my talking about a need for slowing down and smelling the coffee, it would be a great help to readers if we gave some suggestions on how exactly to do so. Again, this is in process.

Would talk more about impacts

To write about the changes a location has seen, both the benefits tourism may have brought, and also the considerable costs that came with it, provides important context to the traveller. By this I mean anything from participating in a beach clean-up to staying at a locally-owned homestay or a community based tourism scheme instead of a foreign-owned resort. What simple steps can visitors undertake to better contribute through their actions or their wallets? By answering this question, readers are better able to educate themselves around the reasons why they should or shouldn’t be doing something—or going somewhere. Travellers need to have the needs and desires of local people built into their awareness, through this, their impact—even of a single visitor—could be better managed.

Would never use AI

Travelfish will forever remain 100% free of the taint of AI—you’re going to be stuck with human intelligence sorry.

19 years on and still swinging.

I was down the beach walking my dog the other day when I met a Jordanian family. It was their first full day of their first ever trip to Bali, and it would be fair to say, they were loving it. Standing there with ear-to-ear smiles as their kids frolicked in the waves, they told me they’d never been anywhere like it. For jaded and grumpy me, their take was both eyeopening and refreshing.

For many, travel remains a profoundly enjoyable experience rather than a depressing grind, and it is important to keep this in mind when writing about destinations. Through the implementation of some of the above points, the family may have even bigger smiles, and locals could have a cleaner beach for those same waves to wash in on.

Back to our regular programming tomorrow—thanks for reading!

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit couchfish.substack.com

A quick word of introduction. My name is Stuart McDonald and this is Couchfish—the perfect tub of ice-cream for the traveller stranded on the couch. The newsletter has both a paid edition which traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia, and a free one that covers, well, everything else. You’re reading the latter here—with a Kuching food guide at the end for paid subscribers, but if you’d like to read the former, you can upgrade your subscription via the button below. Thanks!

PS: If you are on the free Couchfish list, when you receive this, the podcast link above reads “This episode is for paid subscribers.” This isn’t correct, or, is at least very misleading, but I can’t figure out how to change it. If you click through to the web version of this newsletter, then you should be able to listen to the free version of the podcast (which has everything except for the food bit at the end). My apologies for the confusion.

To my mind a sign of a good trip is realising you’ve already arrived at the final day of it, and our time in Sarawak has been such a trip. With that in mind, here are some observations on what we got right, what we got wrong, and where there’s some room for improvement. Please bear in mind the following is based off of a two-week trip to a very limited range of destinations within Sarawak. There’ll be a few follow-up posts in the coming weeks that will be adding some more detail and thoughts to some aspects of our time there.

Couchfish is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

And, for paying Couchfish subscribers, at the end of this post, there’s about 1,500 bonus words on some of our favourite spots to stuff face in Kuching.

The basics

We arrived in Kuching via Kuala Lumpur on the 23rd of June and started what turned out to be a very long trip home on the 7th of July via Singapore, so all up two weeks and a day.

Our itinerary had us starting in Kuching for eight nights, Miri for two nights, Mulu National Park for three, then back to Miri for a night and then out. This schedule, looking back, wasn’t ideal, as in the least we should have shaved two nights off of Kuching and added Sibu to break up the trip to Miri. Lesson learned.

Kuching

Kuching is a great town—if you’ve travelled in Peninsular Malaysia, think of Georgetown and Ipoh, and consider the difference in “tourist vibe and volume” between the two, then apply that difference again from Ipoh to land at Kuching. To put it another way, Kuching has all the same good—the beautiful architecture, the terrific food, some excellent museums, a pleasant setting, friendly and ever-helpful people; and yet precious little of the bad—being throngs of tourists and the gentrification that often comes with them.

Kuching offers up both the old and the new. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Aside from the above-mentioned aspects, Kuching also serves as a base for short tours out in all directions, be it to natural attractions or “cultural experiences.” We visited some of these on tours and others under our own steam, and yet still left much on the table—Kuching has a lot to do and see, but even if we’d taken a more military expedition type of approach, we’d still have needed at least three nights to take in the top shelf items.

One of the most popular tours is to Bako National Park, but the accommodation was closed—a blessing in disguise perhaps, as, of all the national parks we visited in Sarawak, it was easily the most underwhelming. For foreign tourists, it is the most popular national park in Sarawak, attracting over 40,000 foreign visitors in 2019—over double the next highly-ranked. This has to be a product of its proximity to Kuching more than anything else, as the park infrastructure, as with most of the parks we visited was in a delapidated state. It’s main selling point, the chance to see wildlife, is curtailed by a less than ideal transport situation, one I assume implemented to encourage people to stay—but not so ideal when you can’t stay! More on this in a latter issue.

These trees are actually crawling with proboscis monkeys, but I don’t have a zoom lens sorry! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We did two tours while in Kuching, a group wetlands tour, and then a full-day trip with a private guide to Semenggoh Wildlife Centre and Annah Rais Longhouse. These are but two of many tours available—Sarawak’s public transport isn’t what it could be, and once you start weighing up the cost of your time versus hiring a car for the day, they’re often the most time- and cost-efficient way to get stuff done.

Have a friend thinking about heading to Sarawak? This post is public so feel free to share it.

The wetlands tour was something I would never have chosen to do—it was my son’s pick, but it turned out to be excellent—not perfect mind you, but certainly enjoyable. We saw plenty of wildlife—dolphins, crocodiles, proboscis monkeys, and a tonne of birdlife. The guide was solid, though I could have done without the propaganda spiel at the end of the tour.

For Semenggoh Wildlife Centre and Annah Rais Longhouse, we hired a private guide with a car for the day. The guide, Lucian, was excellent, and if you’re looking for a professional and extremely knowledgable Kuching guide, I’d recommend him without hesitation—you can contact him on Whatsapp at +60198187938. The trip to Annah Rais was interesting, and I’d say worthwhile, more because it is a realistic look at day to day life, with all the flashes of modern-day living, rather than a contrived “authentic” traditional affair. It is a popular tourist site, and has been for decades, and while some visit independently, I strongly recommend using a guide—if for no other reason but to explain what you are seeing.

My son though, does have a zoom lens. At Semenggoh Wildlife Centre. Photo: Will McDonald.

Semenggoh, I have significant reservations over. It is ostensibly a wildlife reserve, but it is also the single most popular “natural” tourist site in Sarawak, attracting almost 50,000 foreign tourists in 2019. On the day we visited, there were at least 100 people there for the feeding time, and to my (non-expert) mind, there were too many people, they were too close to the orangutans, and the guides were too invested in coaxing the animals out of the woods for a photo shoot. A visit is more akin to visiting an open zoo than anything putting animal welfare at the forefront.

It was also from Kuching that we began our cave odyssey, with a half day trip by scooter out to Fairy Cave. At the time, the cave blew us away, but a half dozen grander caves later, my son identified it as the “most boring,” something I’d be inclined to agree with. However, if you’re not going to either Niah or Mulu national parks, then it is worth the trip.

Sarawak is big

It was from Kuching, that we made the one major mistake of the trip, one of me not following my own advice. We’d originally planned on getting the boat from Kuching to Sibu and spending a couple of days there before pushing on to Miri, but the boat no longer runs, and as we spent so long in Kuching, our timeline tightened. The result, a 17-hour overnight bus from Kuching to Mulu. This was not fun, and while I’ve had far worse bus rides in my life, 17 hours is a long time to spend in anything. We should have shaved two days off Kuching, and broken the trip at Sibu regardless of there being a boat or not, and if we’d had another week, I’d have broken the trip again at Bintulu.

Most travellers fly, either Kuching to Miri or Kuching to Mulu, but, as I’ve written before, I’m no fan of domestic flights when ground transport exists. I’d say doing it overland is fine, but you need to allow enough time to break the trip at Sibu and/or Bintulu.

Miri

In many ways, Miri lacks the appeal of Kuching, though it also has excellent food. It was badly damaged by Allied bombing in World War 2 and what grew back is not particularly attractive to the eye. It also has a significant sketchy side—choose your massage joint with care (Lemongrass Family Reflexology & Spa on Jalan Permaisuri is a safe bet should you need your body put back together after a 17-hour bus trip).

The grand cavern at Niah is something else. Note the waterfall at right and the two people at centre for scale! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From Miri, we hired a car and driver for the 100 km trip south to Niah National Park. One of the most important archeological sites in Southeast Asia, the digs are conveniently located within an absolutely enormous cave. When I say enormous, I mean Enormous. As with Bako, the state of the park’s infrastructure is a mess—it is embarrassing. The archeological sites are protected by wire fences that wouldn’t look out of place around a chicken coop.

Authorities are hoping for UNESCO heritage listing in the coming year or so, and while that will come with a bucket of dosh, for now the elevated walking trails are flat out dangerous. As we’ve written on Travelfish, Malaysian parks and UNESCO haven’t always worked out for the better. In the meantime, watch your step and please try not to break a leg. All this aside, is Niah worth a visit? Yes.

Mulu National Park

Almost all visitors fly from Miri (or Kuching) to Mulu National Park, but I was determined not to—I wanted to go by boat. I knew it was possible in the past, and it looked like a good trip. There’s a whole other post on this trip coming, so I’ll be brief here, well briefer than a five hour 4WD run and a two-hour boat trip, but for me it was a highlight of our time in Sarawak.

A rest-stop half way into the boat trip from Miri to Mulu. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We engaged Veno, an experienced guide from Mulu, to sort out the trip and I was really impressed with his knowledge, and he really helped to broaden my understanding around some of the issues at play there. He is an extremely experienced guide and if you’re looking for a private guide for the park, he’s a solid choice. You can contact him by Whatsapp on +60128700275.

With Mulu, having spent an entire day getting there, we had two full days before returning to Miri for our flights back to Bali. This was enough time to see what the park refers to as its “show caves,” namely Deer and Langs caves the first afternoon and Clearwater and Wind caves the second morning. In between, we did the canopy walk and Treetop Tower (a treetop hide) and some other aimless wandering in the park. We booked a night walk, but skipped it when the weather went sideways. Overall, this was enough time, but an extra full day would have been welcome. We had no plans to do any of the one- or two- night treks such as the Pinnacles Walk, nor the adventure caving, but obviously if you wanted to do any of these, more time would be required.

Did someone call Batman two million times? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In comparison to the other national parks we visited, Mulu is quite well run. The trails are fairly safe, with clear evidence of maintenance and care, but accidents do happen. The guides were good, if a bit perfunctory at times, but the group sizes on the other hand, with a maximum of twenty pax per guide, are too big. When we visited Deer and Langs caves there was something like 80 to 100 people in the cave complex—and even when taking their enormous size into consideration—it was simply too many people. Again, there’s a more detailed post on this coming.

The big question with Mulu is, is it worth the diversion? I’d say yes, but I’d argue if you have the time—and the money—doing at least one way there by boat and 4WD is time and money very well spent.

How long in Sarawak?

If I had to boil Sarawak down to a single aspect, it would be time and money. It is a very big moderately-sized region. It does take longer than you might expect to get around, and it will definitely cost you more than you expect—if you’re acclimatised to a more typical Southeast Asia budget.

Now that is a tree. Mulu National Park. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’re planning on visiting for just a week, limit yourself to Kuching and surrounds. If you’ve got two, then add in Mulu, or explore further afield around Kuching, particularly into the hinterland and to the west.

Regardless of how long much time you have pencilled in, be it five days or five weeks, I’d suggest doubling your planned time there—it is that good.

Who is Sarawak great for?

If you’re a nature lover, then, as with Sabah, Sarawak is the business. While the national parks are a bit rough and ready, the nature is magnificent. It is as simple as that.

Sarawak is a great destination with teenagers on board. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I did this trip with my teenage (14 years old) son Will, and was struck by what an easy destination it was to travel with him in. There’s enough of a mix of museums in Kuching to keep teenage kids interested, and Kuching is a safe and easy to walk in city. The prevalence of guided tours, while a pain for a solo traveller’s budget, are a boon for families. Once you’re out in the national parks, with caves and waterfalls and wildlife and so on, its the perfect realm to get teenagers off their devices! I met quite a few travelling families, often with very young kids, and they had no complaints.

For paid Couchfish subscribers, particularly those with empty stomachs, please read on for some quick thoughts on eating in Kuching.

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A quick word of introduction. My name is Stuart McDonald and this is Couchfish—the perfect tub of ice-cream for the traveller stranded on the couch. The newsletter has a paid edition which traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia, and a free edition that covers, well, everything else. You’re reading the latter here, but if you’d like to read the former, you can upgrade your subscription via the button below. Thanks!

Quite a few moons ago, while living in Bangkok, friends who were far more into “the scene” than me, said we should check out a new club. It had opened to a soft opening a few nights earlier, and my friends said now was the time to go.

I’m not a club kind of a person, but I went along, and as we walked straight in, I thought, wow this place is amazing. I’d been in Bangkok a few years, and I’d never seen anywhere like it. It wasn’t so much the place, I mean it was cool and all, but rather it was the people. I’d never come across such an interesting and diverse collection of souls—where did they all come from? We held up the bar till the early hours, and it was a great night.

This is not the club—but this bar was good too. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

By the time I returned a month later, the club was on everyone’s lips and it seemed half of Bangkok was in the queue to get in. The crowd, well, I don’t want to sound like a culture vulture, but yeah, lets just say nobody from my first visit was there. No doubt they’d already moved on to the next cool joint. I didn’t return again for years.

What am I doing writing about the one occasion where I managed to slip into a cool spot? The club and its all too rapid transition mimicked tourism. Southeast Asia is rich in destinations people say are “spoilt,” and that they plan not to return to. The reasons vary, but expect the usual suspects—too many people, pollution, crime, traffic, etcetera. Tourism has been playing out this way forever—I mean, you should have seen wherever back in 19-whatever. You’d think we’d have learned something by now, and yet...

With a supposed waning pandemic, top-tier regional destinations have seen their fortunes rise. Early on, pent up demand saw some spots deluged with tourists—the rain, I tell ya, was torrential. Local residents, accustomed—for better or worse—to tourist-free towns, saw the clock spun back to 2019 in record time. There was no slow boiling of frogs—rather, destinations got microwaved. Unlike cockroaches, who hop out of a microwave and wave thanks for the sauna, frogs don’t fare so well. They explode—or so I’ve heard anyway—no, please don’t go search Youtube for such videos.

It isn’t the English that is broken. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Wanting to avoid exploding frogs, destinations are reaching for the same old bandaids. There’s been no shortage of talk about a pivot to “quality tourists,” whatever that means. Quotas keep popping up, as does better law enforcement. Officials, who still talk of “hidden gems,” are grabbing for the same old wheelbarrow.

I’ve written at length on the whole “quality tourists” thing, so I’m not going to flog that dead horse again today. I will note though, that in some cases, the concepts around this are changing. Indonesia has made getting a two-month tourist visa pretty straightforward. This in turn will encourage a different sort of quality—those who stay longer, you know, backpackers. Other countries—hello Vietnam—risk being left behind.

With quotas, there are a few issues at play. For starters, thanks to social media, bad behaviour gets far more than its fair share of coverage. If, like me, you keep an eye on social media coverage of Bali, you could be excused for thinking every Russian was a frustrated nudist, mobster or licence plate fabricator. Of course, this is far off the money. The vast majority of Russian tourists keep—at least most of—their clothes on, don’t change their number plates, and are not mafioso. Despite this, I’m yet to see a social media post from any of the usual suspects proclaiming that 98% of Russian tourists had an enjoyable and uneventful holiday in Bali.

Nothing really to do with the story, just looks yummy. Mai Khao Beach, Phuket. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So using bad behaviour to inform upon a nationality-based quota system is a bit of a fraught process. An immigration quota has nationwide repercussions, and for every heaving location there’s others waiting for any tourists to return. As individual destinations have no control over immigration policy, talk on this count is anyway a bit of a red herring.

Quotas are a dull hammer. Think of the club I started off writing about. When its popularity exploded, they set up a quota system—a queue. They figured out what was a capacity they were comfortable with, and didn’t let more in. People, myself included on my return trip, were waiting over an hour to enter. They also instilled a fashion angle to their quota—no flip flops or tank tops. This is akin to the limiting by nationality approach. A flip flopper might be an ace customer, but in turning them away at the door, the club never has the chance to find this out.

A need for a quota is an acknowledgement of a planning failure. It doesn’t matter if you’re a club or a tropical destination, if you’re talking about a need to limit people, what you’re saying is “we didn’t plan for this.” Don’t get me wrong, destinations often have plans—I’ve read quite a few—but there is no point having a plan if you ignore it. This sort of lack of evidence of planning is everywhere. Flying into Sydney and seeing immigration queues a mile long, I‘ve often wondered, did a dozen jumbos land unannounced? No. They’ve just decided not to plan for them in a way which boosts passenger satisfaction. Instead, they’re focused on the dosh—to your detriment.

Clearly I was ahead of the influencers. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I don’t want to pick on any one Southeast Asian destination as you’ll find examples of this in every country. Destinations court bland bucket lists, but fail to plan for the impacts that follow. The tourists get stuck in endless traffic, but more importantly, the feelings and quality of life of residents is not a priority. There’s an implicit undercurrent that residents should be happy as tourists bring jobs. The benefits of these jobs and the money that come with them, as I’ve written before, are often overstated. Tour agencies, airlines and cruise companies are like the spice traders of yesteryear. Many pay as little as they can in destination—be it revenue from tourists or (cough splutter) local taxes—while making bank back home.

Local administrations often ignore their own regulations. Ill-considered developments that detract from why tourists come is “paving over paradise” in action. Vietnam’s Phu Quoc Island is the most head-exploding case on this front, but examples are dime a dozen.

Having a plan helps. Destinations must consider a little further over the horizon than tomorrow. What do they want their destination to look like a decade from now? Who is their priority—tourists or residents? Figure these out, then decide how best—and most equitably—to get there. If you assume, as I do, that for many places the current trajectory is far from ideal, a new wheelbarrow—with different bandaids—is in order. So what could destinations do?

Smarter promotion

Better dispersing tourists is a common refrain. Getting people to go to other than the main hotspots is a good starting point. Thailand has done some work trying to highlight second-tier spots—as we do on Travelfish—but they need to reach the right people. There’s little point marketing Khmer ruins and northeastern food to an Australian who is at home on Patong’s Bangla Road. Yeah, a generalisation, but you know what I mean.

Eastern Flores—and not a horizon pool in sight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In Indonesia, Flores is a fantastic destination, but the vast majority of the island is not geared up for mass tourism. Trying to change this, and reinvent it as another Bali, chasing high spending—and leaking—tourists, is a mistake. Instead, promote it on its strengths, focus on those seeking a more unadulterated experience. Destinations—and residents—shouldn’t have to put up with wholesale changes to attract tourists.

Ban new hotels

As this story from Ho Chi Minh City notes, the city is suffering from a mother-of-all hangovers related to hotel overbuilding. It is awash in empty cookie-cutter hotels that could be waiting years—if ever—to reopen. Elsewhere in the region, rice fields are paved and beaches stolen or disfigured at an unprecedented pace. Zoning regulations are often not lacking, but enforcement is—this should change. Ban new hotels unless they repurpose existing buildings. Aside from reinvigorating abandoned hotels, there’s embedded carbon upsides to this too.

Pay your dues

Legislate inbound companies to guarantee that over half of a guests’ spend stays in-country. This is an absolute no-brainer. As it stands, destinations wear 100% of the downside and see a fraction of the financial upside. Destinations should work to build linkages and plug leakages—and tourists should help them do so.

I’m not suggesting any of this will be easy. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Invest in and listen to local communities

If I never see another news story about a new public transport service for tourists, it will be too soon. Invest in public transport and public spaces that benefit local communities first. The tourists will follow. Consult with local communities about what they want out of tourism. Give local people the biggest seat at the table and respect their views.

Educate tourists

In today’s world it should be impossible for tourists to feign ignorance about norms. Help them to understand. This need not be in the form of threatening signs and so on. Try having a pledge—Palau-style. Prepare an online handbook for airlines to screen before any movie will run. Turn influencers into destination preservers and enhancers instead of exploiters.

Take a longer term view

Back to Phu Quoc, as it is such an obvious worst case example. Yes, an excruciating amount of development brought jobs by the truckload. This was a short term win, even if most senior jobs did not go to local people. Long term though, there’s landfill the size of a small country in the interior, and business is failing as tourists recoil. I remember squirming as I read news stories a decade ago—here’s a far more recent one—hawking the island as a “new Bali.” At the time, I didn’t realise they meant it literally. It didn’t need to be this way.

Quotas are not the answer, rather they’re little more than proof of what is really missing—a vision and a plan.

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It started with a single line email from a Travelfish reader. I knew they were somewhere out east, and we were trying to arrange a date and time to meet once they got to Bali. They wrote: “Will pencil in the 11th... found a place in Halerman, Alor, just delightful!”

Regular readers will know I’m a big fan of Alor. Indeed, it is home to one of my all time favourite places to stay in the country. Part of Indonesia’s Lesser Sunda Islands, roughly due north of the frontier with Timor Leste, it is best known for diving, but it is an all round fab locale. So when my friends mentioned Halerman, and a great place to stay, my mind whirled.

Travelfish researchers in training, that’s Pantar Island in the distance. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It whirled, because as far as I knew, there was only one place to stay in the area. An on-again off-again back-to-basics joint—with the emphasis on back-to-basics. When we met up, it didn’t take us long to get around to their Halerman lodgings. Nor for me to start ranting: “Another fancy-pants unsustainable joint in a remote location. Charging top dollar and bringing with it the demands on non-existent infrastructure.” You know me...

“Oh no,” they said, “you’ve got it all wrong,” and the more we talked, the clearer it became how wrong I was. “You’ve got to talk to them,” they said, “they’re doing great things.” So not long after, I did just that and after a couple of emails, picked up the phone.

Savu South Alor sits at close to the westernmost point of Alor. It has seven rooms—five set back off the beach to one side of the restaurant, and two villas perched on the other. The former share a pool while the latter each have a plunge affair. Prices are high, ranging from US$290 to $360 a night—and there I was thinking all Travelfish readers were on a budget!

Blue Whale passing by the Suva South Alor house reef. Photo: Savu South Alor.

Founders Johannes and Liliane have about 20 years in Indonesia between them—most of it in diving. With sustainability and a bunch of questions on my mind, we spend an hour chatting by phone, and we start with the obvious—how does one reconcile sustainability with attracting long haul guests to a remote area? Johannes is frank, but sees an upside:

“We’re far from perfect and I don’t think we ever will be. Many of our guests fly from Europe, the USA or Australia to get here. They come to the resort by speedboat. Whilst carbon offsetting can merely provide an absolution in a medieval sense, we’re actively looking for a trustworthy partner so we can offer this option to our guests; ultimately we are intending to implement a project for such cause directly here on Alor in our neighbourhood. None of this is ideal and is one of the reasons why we don’t call ourself an eco-resort.”

But then, there’s the upside, those guests who fly from afar, are an opportunity:

“We’re very passionate about the marine environment and her inhabitants and our goal is to share this with others while running this place under sustainable principles. I see guests as a sort of ambassador, and when they see what we’re doing and how we do it, we have the ambitious goal to turn our guests into ambassadors of the ocean and thereby support our cause.”

This is a popular view, but there’s little research that clearly supports it. In the case of Antarctica (one of the few places that has seen research on the topic) the evidence is varied and often not compelling. That said, I fell in love with Alor when I got there, so who knows, they might be on to something.

Typical Alor beach scenes. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So there’s the pros and cons of guests from afar, but what about the place itself? To my mind there’s a need to not only to consider the guests’ impact, but the initial build as well. I mention my idea of a “carbon mortgage,” and the need to consider the build as well as running costs.

“Our block of land is around 7.5 hectares and we could have put far more rooms on it than we did. This links to another reason for not calling our place an eco-resort—the impact of our construction. Due to the remote location of our property, logistics were a big factor. We tried to source as much construction material as possible locally, but still had to ship in a lot, first from Surabaya to Kalabahi, and then from there down to our location. It’ll take us still a long time to offset all this, if we can at all.”

Another challenge is power—after all, the hum of a genset out back is as bad for guests as the planet. In Savu’s case, 100 solar panels means that they’re renewable-powered to 65-70% occupancy. As with many aspects of sustainability, there’s an economic impetus as well, says Johannes:

“There’s no grid to be on here, and no road to truck in fuel for the genset. If we’d wanted to be generator-powered, we’d have needed to transport fuel down by 35 litre jerry cans from Kalabahi [the capital, an hour away by small boat] which would have made no sense from either an environmental nor economic sense.”

Solar doesn’t come cheap—its costs represent around 20 to 25% of the total investment. They hope to recoup the investment within five years—an effort he hopes the location will aid with, quipping:

“Luckily, Alor has plenty of sunshine.”

Of course, remove the swimming pools, and the resort could get that much closer to never needing a genset. This is where the balance comes in—were there not swimming pools, would guests still come? Alor has glorious beaches and swimming, but also treacherous currents. At my above-mentioned fave joint, when the tide is running one way, guests are told, unequivocally: “do not get in the ocean.” It is around these sort of issues that sustainability surveys run by the likes of Booking.com could be explicit. Ask people if they prefer sustainable travel, but also ask would they feel the same way if it meant no horizon pools—or air-con.

Savu’s solar array, located at the centre of its permaculture garden—another plus for sustainability. Photo: Savu South Alor.

While they’re soaking up their power from afar, for labour they looked closer to home. Of their 30 staff, 20 are from local villages on Alor, the dive master is from Manado, the crew from Saparua near Ambon, and five others came via the Sumba Hospitality Foundation founded by Ibu Inge, and which offers vocational training in hospitality for local people. In the longer term this may put a cork in foreigners—or, as is often the case, Balinese—hoovering up remote management gigs. Savu is a case of this in action, and credit where due to the efforts of the Sumba Hospitality Foundation.

Much to the same mindset, Savu works with organisations focused on marine preservation. This topic is close to the founders’ hearts—one of their stated values is “pure oceanic passion”. It’s nice to have goals, but, as with many marine environments, the needs of tourism and fisheries don’t always overlap. Johannes is realistic—change will need to involve many, and will take time.

“There are problems with dynamite and cyanide fishing, neither of which are sustainable fishing methods. There is more work to be done, but it needs to involve all the stakeholders, from the marine authorities and tourism businesses through to the local fishers.”

Aside from liaising with umpteen stakeholders, simply having tourists present can help. As with discussions I’ve had repeatedly in Komodo and recently in Raja Ampat, a dive boat’s presence can act as a deterrent to activities not in the long term interests of all. But then, dive boats themselves—particularly liveaboards—can bring their own not-so-hot impacts. For this to work, having a long term view, shared across diverse interest groups, is essential.

So many blues. Photo: Savu South Alor.

On the far broader sustainability strokes, their view is a common one—at least among those who walk the talk. Often referred to as “green hushing,” it’s where places don’t make a big deal about what they’re doing. The reasoning varies—for some it might be the risk of not living up to their claims, for others, like Savu, it’s something else. Says Johannes:

“Terms like ‘eco-friendly’ and ‘eco resort’ have been so heavily abused, that we don’t want to be associated with them. For us it comes naturally that we’re as sustainable as possible.”

As I’ve written before, these terms are over-used and often applied in cases when they shouldn’t be. As with An Villa in Hoi An in the second part of my “Sustainable Vietnam” series, Savu do what they do because they feel it is the right way. Every place that Booking.com falsely lists as being on “100% Renewable energy” devalues the efforts of places like Savu.

We finish with me asking if there are plans for some budget shacks so that I can afford to visit. They’re not on their horizon, but next time I’m in Alor I’ll make my way down, even if only for an ice lemon tea overlooking the Savu Sea. If it does fall into your budget, I’ll refer you to what the Travelfish readers told me:

“Just delightful!”

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A quick word of introduction—particularly to the five hundred odd new subscribers I seem to have picked up over the last week—thanks Substack Notes. My name is Stuart McDonald and this is Couchfish—the perfect tub of ice-cream for the traveller stranded on the couch. The newsletter has a paid edition which traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia, and a free edition that covers, well, everything else. You’re reading the latter here, but if you’d like to read the former, you can upgrade your subscription via the button below. Thanks!

Earlier this year I spent a few weeks in Vietnam travelling it tail to top. I wanted to see how things were picking up in these waning pandemic times, but I also had sustainable travel on my mind—was it possible in Vietnam? In this, the second part of a three-part series, I’m in the middle of the country thinking about hotels, hospitality and the environment. You can read the first part here.

Sorry for the radio silence over the last week—I came down with Covid.

Huế: Sustainability’s Many Hues

When it comes to beauty, there’s only one way to approach Vietnam’s once imperial capital—by train from the south. Leaving Đà Nẵng’s crass glass and brass towers behind, we crawl along one of Southeast Asia’s most beautiful stretches of railway. As the towers fade to the horizon, steep cliffs plunge into the sea by lonely crescents of sand. I lose phone coverage so there’s nothing to do but gaze, and the mostly local passengers step out of their couchettes to gaze beside me.

Even through a blurry train window you can tell the trip is pretty. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

My Huế hotel, Maison Vu Tri Vien is set down a back alley within the walled old city and when I finally find it, I wonder if it’s even open. The gate locked and nobody home, I’m on my phone double checking when a young boy lets me in … to the family home. Later, I’m chatting to owner Đức who gives me a potted history of the house. He tells me he was born inside, and it dates to 1969, a date I confirm three times as building a house within a year of the Battle of Huế would have been an interesting time to have been laying brick.

The house has nine rooms and while he closed for a stretch during the pandemic, he re-opened soon after Vietnam did. The mostly European clientele arrive courtesy of Booking and AirBnb and while Đức’s French is more polished than his English, he’s comfortable chatting with me as he sneaks a furtive cigarette out front. Business is good and he’s full for almost the entirety of my stay.

I’m in Huế for a conference, and on the final day, Nguyễn Văn Phúc, the Director of Hue Tourism gives a presentation. He discusses Huế developing itself as a “wellness destination,” something I’d never considered tying to the city. This is the second presentation along this theme, with Hylton Lipkin, the then GM of Alba Wellness, on a similar tack. The Director talks about the lucrative niche wellness represents, and of exploiting more of the hinterland’s springs. He’s focused of more—more resorts, more facilities, more tourists, more money—all the while dovetailing the surrounds’ natural beauty with Huế’s food and traditional medicines.

The kind of wellness I go to Huế for. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To my mind, he’s missing the forest for the trees. As I wrote earlier, Huế’s strength is on its doorstep, its food and the old city. With little money and effort, that could be used to pry a day off of Hội An to see people spend another in Huế, putting money in the hands of small local-owned businesses. When the Director asks for questions, while I have many, I ask about this, but the answer is non-committal—he’s very much for building stuff—lots of stuff. Later, in a telephone conversation with Lipkin, we talk about Alba.

Lipkin is, in his own words, “obsessed” with the environment. He sees himself as a crusader but from the educative school rather than its sword-wielding cousin. He tells me about his efforts—and successes—in raising the awareness of his staff around sustainable practices. This isn’t just about tree planting, he tells me, rather it can be expressed through all facets of the business’ operations. He understands that running a resort the size of Alba along sustainable principles will save them money, but quips “It’s not about the price—it’s about saving the planet.”

When I say I’ve seen precious little in the way of sustainable behaviour at properties, and rail against tokenism like bamboo straws, Lipkin concurs. He notes that Vietnam—and Alba—has a ways to go. The resort has plans for solar, but they’re not there yet, and on tokenism, he compares sustainability to smoking, meaning as awareness grows, putting up “no smoking signs” becomes superfluous as people already know they can’t. So it should be with plastic straws, high energy lightbulbs and so on. The vast majority of guests at Alba are domestic and a typical stay is two to three days but if he can hook them into wellness packages, then that stay blows out to four or five days—that’s a win for slow travel.

Who doesn’t go to Huế for a Japanese-themed onsen? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To my mind if you’re taking a sustainability view of travel, simple steps that could see people staying longer in Huế, and staying at small, locally-owned hotels is a win win. Hooking up your cart to a plan that calls for new developments in areas that are—for now—wilderness, not so much. With cautious eyes affixed to development driven disasters elsewhere in the country, you’d think there’d be some rethinking, yet for many in Vietnam, tourism remains a byproduct of property speculation. To look more into what development is bringing, I jump back on the train for a few hours and head south, to Đà Nẵng for Hội An.

Hội An: False Gold

Arguably Vietnam’s single most popular destination, Hội An is not my kind of place. I spend half a day out on its beach strip which only serves to cement my views—they’re an unadulterated mess. Back in town, the UNESCO Heritage listing protects its central “District 1” area, but thirty years of exploding tourism has wrought similar results as in Laos’ Luang Prabang. The town’s pretty lanterns and attractive shopfront architecture, daubed in its “colonial yellow” is photogenic, but the vibe is Disneyland. Tailors, cafes, restaurants, travel agents and bars line the heritage district—residences relegated to back lanes. Step out of District 1, and you’re back in Vietnam, with its life, street food, and incessant racket. Retreat the same twenty metres and you’re battling tour groups of thirty plus. It’s jarring, and not in a good way.

Some come for the lanterns. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I came to Hội An in part to see a dog (long story), but thanks to Tết, the doggo is in Europe, so I’ve a couple of slack days. My digs are on the right track, but at the trailhead rather than the summit, and the track is lined with more hotels under construction—building is everywhere. In my room, there’s refillable water but the coffee is all disposables. What the manager describes to me as “sauna heated” water takes so long to arrive I give up. There’s also an instagram prop pretending to be a swimming pool. Staff on the other hand are excellent and the receptionist rains accolades upon management for how they handled staff through the pandemic. Like the town itself, on the sustainability front, the hotel is a mixed bag.

One morning I meet a tourism insider for a coffee at Espresso Station—the coffee shop pretty much everyone I speak to suggests we meet at. It’s set down a lane off Trần Hưng Đạo, which is to say it’s in Vietnam rather than UNESCO-land. What is supposed to be a thirty minute chat turns into two hours. We talk about the challenges Hội An faces—the building, the crowds, the rubbish—but more than anything we talk about Bà Nà Hills. If you were looking for a Central Vietnam version of sustainability hell-scape Phú Quốc, it qualifies—though the local administration prefers to invoke another mess of over-development, nominating it as “the Đà Lạt of Đà Nẵng province.”

Bà Nà’s heritage dates back to the French colonial period, when it was popularised as a highland getaway to escape the warmer coastal climate. Once the colonialists were booted out, their hillside hideout fell into disrepair and, for a short spell following the “reopening” of the country, it held appeal for exploring the ruins of French folly. That wasn’t though to last. In Vietnam, nature can always be improved, particularly if there is scope for a cable car.

Woman in blue: “What the hell am I doing here?” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Gargantuan developer Sun World took a shine to the hills and reinvented it to the point the company’s name is now affixed to it. No doubt you’ve seen photos of the “Golden Hands” a 150 metre long viewpoint bridge held up by enormous hands. They’re at Bà Nà, sorry, I mean Sunworld Bà Nà, as is a Disneylandesque smorgasbord of contrived tourist-traps. When not submerged in mist, the viewpoint offers up indeed golden views (I’m being generous here in assuming the golden refers to the view and not the income it earns Sun World), but the views—from what was national park land—didn’t come for free from all involved.

In a great piece on Vietnam’s seeming addiction to cable cars, journalist Govi Snell quotes “concerned citizen,” Bùi Huyền Trang on who really paid the ultimate price for the development:

“More than 60 hectares [148 acres] of forest were flattened,” she stated. “In the past, Nui Chua was very poetic, stretching forests and diverse birds and animals, especially the famous indigenous langur. But after the forests were tragically cut down, the animals’ habitats were reduced and gradually they no longer appeared.”

The Golden Hands feature in just about every Insta-whatever list for Vietnam, but good luck trying to find stories about their environmental impact. While Sun World doesn’t even bother pretending that anything to do with Bà Nà is sustainable, you routinely see it profiled in both domestic and international pieces purporting to suggest it somehow is. It isn’t.

Hội An: Real Gold

There’s a divergence between what I think “eco” means and what Vietnam does. In Vietnam sinh thái—which roughly translates as “ecological”—is often affixed to resorts that are in a natural setting. This, in turn often gets translated into “ecolodge” or “eco resort” in English, which, well, means something a bit different. Exploring this, and looking to find a “new Hội An,” I hire a local guide and a motorbike and hit the road.

The path to the ancient house be slippery. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

An hour or so inland from Hội An lie three districts, Hiệp Đức, Tiên Phước, and below them, Phú Ninh, with Hồ Phú Ninh, an artificial lake that is a supposed eco-zone, at its centre. The plan is to visit some “historical houses” in the first two areas then visit the lake. I discuss the plan with my guide Tran, who harks from the area. He’s optimistic—despite the filthy weather.

We stick to back roads and it doesn’t take long to leave Hội An behind us. This is the scenery and vibe that has made the country such a great one for motorbike touring, the scenery ratcheting up as the roads narrow. What I’m hoping for is to find enough to fill a couple of days in order to give people a reason to strike further afield than Hội An. As things pan out though, the planned two days folds back into one.

Some of the houses are closed, another we can’t find, a third, according to an old woman by the side of the road, washed away in a storm. Signposting is limited, and when we do reach an open house—approached by the slipperiest goddam footpath in the country—it only heightens the disappointment in the others being closed. Surviving the footpath, we interrupt a resident busying himself on a laptop at Huỳnh Thúc Kháng and he packs up to get out of sight. Much like the historic houses in Hội An it is pretty and interesting, and unlike its better known relatives, it feels more living than a museum. As we leave, the laptop guy empties a flooded flower pot onto the footpath covering its slime with a new coating. I don’t think it was personal.

Vietnam: Honest food and honest smiles. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We cut our losses on the old house front and keen to see the eco-tourism lake, we bike down to Hồ Phú Ninh. Much of the lakeside forest we ride through is working forest, eucalypt, making for a scene that is more striking and sterile than pretty. We reach a pre-lunch stop and relaxing in plastic chairs by the water’s edge is well pretty—the menu though is heavy of unsustainable bush food and I’m later told the premises are a favourite among officials wanting to do deals out of sight—it feels like that kind of joint.

It is Tết and as we’ve a lunch appointment with Tran’s family, we pass up on the chance for a bush food banquet and leave, riding up the other side of the lake. The beauty goes up a level, as the forest is not commercial and has that wild feel I’d been hoping for. Looking back at the shimmering blue green hillsides of eucalypt, change is closer than the horizon.

Tran’s family home is a simple affair—a single floor house opening out onto a yard down more lefts and rights than I care to remember. The spread is already on the way, and I sit with his father, sister and two nieces while the last of the barbecuing is finished off. His father’s English is as solid as my Vietnamese so we smile and nod and drink plenty of tea. His sister though has good English and she gives me the family history. She lives in the south, just outside Hồ Chí Minh City where she works in the garment industry, but she’s back for Tết and her parents are clearly enjoying having their grand daughter back on their turf. We make small talk as the food arrives—entire chickens, dipping sauces, rice, iced beers, and plate after plate of grilled pork. I like my pork, but there is only so much one can eat, and I feign defeat far earlier than Tran.

Sixty-two kilos of pork later. Photo: Tran’s sister (whose name I forget, sorry!)

It’s a welcome interlude to the riding, and while I feel like I’m intruding on what is a family day, they wouldn’t have it any other way. This is the hospitality Vietnam is so famous for—I do feel like we’re re-meeting rather than meeting for the first time. As lunch winds down we take some group photos, a niece posing cheekily—by design I think as her posing necessitates even more photos.

Our last stop takes us back to the lake, to an “eco resort” that is anything but. I’d been warned beforehand to not show up with high expectations, but it sums up the disconnect in my mind. It’s “green” in that there is some forest around it, but the actual establishment—instaprops and all—is anything but. Rooms are free-standing chalets perched along ridges running down to the water, and sure it could be worse—it could be a Sun World property—but there’s nothing environmental nor sustainable to it. Not long after we leave, a friend in Hội An messages me to ask if I saw the statue of the prehistoric man the hotel has. I’m sad I missed it, but not sad enough to return.

On the ride back I opt for the gun barrel highway that runs from Tam Kỳ’s coastal strip north to Hội An. It’s a great road, double carriage nearly the entire way, lined with what must be thousands of palm trees. A little shy of the river I reach Vin Wonders Nam Hoi An—between the road and the beach it houses a waterpark, golf course, river safari park, and accommodation. At roughly a kilometre wide and two deep, it is developments like exactly this that have contributed so much damage to destinations like Phú Quốc, and yet there’s no end in sight.

Hội An: Nuggets Of Gold

My last morning in Hội An is very much a case of saving the best till last. I spend an hour chatting to Tam, one of the four owners at An Villa, a small boutique hotel that is walking the talk—and that is everything Vin Wonders isn’t.

An Villa’s great work extends to their food. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s a small hotel, with cottage-style rooms clustered around a freeform swimming pool with a restaurant on the near side. Tam busies herself farewelling what look to be some very satisfied guests, then walks me through the property explaining what they’re doing and why. Our conversation is a breath of fresh air, and she embodies the mindset of doing something the right way because you wouldn’t think to do it any other.

At one stage we’re out back and she’s explaining their waste sorting. They compost what they can, then all else is split out into recycling and so on, with large colour-coded bins making it as simple as possible. I ask if the approach saved them money and she looks at me like I’m an idiot for asking before smiling and explaining that taking just this step reduced their rubbish collection costs by seventy per cent.

Later, in one of the rooms, I’m getting the spiel on no single use plastic—unlike another Hội An property I stayed in that had over thirty pieces in my room—and, on the bathroom counter I see a little glass jar full of what to be honest I first think are ecstasy tablets. Tam tells me the pills are dentabs—an alternative to toothpaste—you just pop one in your mouth, chew it, add water and brush. It seems like the smallest of things, but I can’t remember the last time I walked down a beach in Bali and didn’t see a discarded toothpaste tube.

Simple steps make all the difference. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As a property owner, it must feel like the biggest waste of time concentrating on swapping out toothpaste tubes for lookalike ecstasy while 15 minutes away Vinwhatever is doing everything except burning fluffy bunnies for electricity. And yet, Tam is so matter of fact about it—they’re doing what they do because it is the right way to do things—and it is saving them money in the process.

On the drive back to Đà Nẵng for my train north, I pass by a series of colossal hotels going in between the road and the beach. The water is so close I can see it between the towers, and yet they’re going in what must be metres from the high water mark. It isn’t just local hotels—many of the international chains are represented. You know, the companies who are forever carrying on about how sustainable they are, managing eyesore towers that most likely would not be permitted in their home country. Their hypocrisy and greenwashing grandstanding makes me sick.

Talking about feeling sick, thirty minutes later I’m chewing through an overpriced bánh mì at Đà Nẵng train station, and I think about Tam with her dentabs, and Tết lunch with Tran’s family—small hospitable operators trying to do the right thing—while just up the road an international wrecking ball is totalling the joint.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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Earlier this year I spent a few weeks in Vietnam travelling it tail to top. I wanted to see how things were picking up in these waning pandemic times, but I also had sustainable travel on my mind—was it possible in Vietnam? In this, the first of a three-part series, I’m in the south and look at plastic, people and power.

The Journey

Night has fallen by the time, ears popping, my VietJet flight begins its descent to Tân Sơn Nhất International Airport. Snoozing with an end-of-the-world podcast filtering into my subconscious, the crackling pilot’s voice jerks me awake. My taxi, an Airbus A321 Neo, is one of the most efficient on the planet according to my plane-spotting son. At less than two years old, and jammed with holidaymakers, flying doesn’t get much more efficient than this.

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Vũng Tàu slides by, then we track east, looping below Mỹ Tho, before a right puts us on final to Hồ Chí Minh City, a metropolis of almost nine million people. Throughout our dog-leg approach, a sea of bright lights flickers against cobalt below. From the air, the lights seem far brighter than in my home of Indonesia—something I put down to the cheaper power. As the flaps drop and the undercarriage clunks into place I make out the xe ôm crammed streets, the tall yet narrow housing, the flight announcements crackle through the cabin—why the hell is the sound quality always so bad?! Outside and below, neon is everywhere. “How do you make this sustainable?” I ask myself.

Are we there yet? Almost. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m in Vietnam for my first “real trip” since fleeing Kuala Lumpur for Bali as the pandemic’s heavy curtain fell across the region. In the intervening period, seeing the heavy toll tourism’s retreat inflicted on the island, I turn hard against a pastime I’ve written on for over 20 years. Looking to understand more, I go back to school. I start a Masters in Responsible Tourism Management at Leeds Beckett University. With a year and a half of academic theory done and dusted, I want to see how practical it is to put the theory I’m still learning into action. I also need to think about how I’m going to change my business, Travelfish, to reflect my changing view of the world.

Vietnam, one of the first countries I ever visited in Southeast Asia, way back when in 1994, seems like a good spot to start.

Hồ Chí Minh City: Plastic And People

My first bed of the trip isn’t great. It is a small hotel of 26 rooms, with much fawning press coverage pre-pandemic. Today its story is a common one—under-maintained, it is scruffy and feels like poor value, even at the knock-off rates I pay through an OTA. Built cheap and not to last, across the region, hotels like this litter the landscape. At least at one time my hotel tried to stand out—unlike the thousands of cookie cutter mini-hotels in the city. Trade may pick up once China is back on stream, but, at least in this case, the hotel’s past glory days seem unattainable.

A shellfish for each property. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

According to Agoda, Hồ Chí Minh City has 12,238 rentals and hotels—one for every 800 residents. By means of comparison, Singapore has 1,095 (again according to Agoda)—one for around every 5,000 people. Competition must be considerable, how does one stand out from the crowd? For all its flaws in a marketing sense, sustainability could offer a pathway.

In the case of my hotel, single use plastic is everywhere. There’s two plastic water bottles, throw away shampoo, toothbrushes etcetera. At capacity, that’s 130 plastic bottles a day—almost 50,000 per year. Extrapolate that across the 12,000+ properties and you have well over half a billion plastic bottles a year. So where does the plastic go? I take the first baby step in trying to find out.

Suffice to say Hồ Chí Minh City has an absolutely ridiculous amount of cafés and within 24 hours I’ve convinced myself it has the highest number of cafés per square kilometre of any city on Earth. So when I head to My Life Coffee in the heart of District 1 to meet Miquel Àngel, I’m already onto about coffee 32.

Harking from Catalonia, but long-time in Vietnam, Miquel has his fingers in many a sustainability pie. He lectures students on it, helps tourism businesses better practice it, and posts about it frequently on LinkedIn. As we sit, sipping our drink-in iced coffees in plastic cups with plastic lids and plastic straws, we talk about—you guessed it—plastic.

There’s a café every fifty metres. Seriously. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One of the ventures he is involved in encapsulates where Vietnam, a country awash in plastic, is in all this. Hotels hand over their plastic for recycling and the coasters, coat hangers, and chairs that the plastic is recycled into are sold back to hotels at lower prices than what they’d otherwise pay. In essence, they’re buying their garbage back, but the plastic stays out of landfill—and the ocean—and money is both made and saved. This is the circular economy in action. In an ideal world, the city wouldn’t be going through half a billion bottles a year, but in the meantime, this approach makes sense.

Our conversation drifts to the island of Phú Quốc, a destination only rivalled by Sa Pa in the far north on the unmitigated-tourism-disaster-area scale. The island is home to some of the most egregious cases of environmental destruction in the name of tourism, ravages often driven by development firms possessing deep relationships with officialdom, and as I talk to tourism professionals across the country, when Phú Quốc comes up so does the request to be off the record. As one (not Miquel) says:

“Soon you’ll be able to see Phú Quốc’s landfills from space.”

Stick that on a few Vietnam tourism brochures and see how it flies.

Miquel tells me a story of a local entrepreneur who collects plastic bottles on the island by the truck load. They’re shipped back to the mainland and sold to cement factories, who burn them as fuel. Plastic, you see, is cheaper than coal. I later learn this is a common approach, and not only in Vietnam. This Reuters story details the practice, noting that even in the EU few can agree on the pros and cons. In Vietnam, which lacks the EU’s regulatory framework, it is grounds for concern. Around the cement factory, villages sit, the inhabitants inhaling the fumes day in day out. The irony of Phú Quốc’s plastic contributing to the cement paving over of the island is not lost on me. For the sake of being even-handed, I should note that Tom of Vietnam Coracle (who I also drank a thousand coffees with) maintains the island isn’t a complete write off.

The next evening I’m out with Huỳnh Phương, a guide for street food walking tour outfit Street Food Man. To my mind, there’s three vital ingredients to a food tour—the guide, the food and the people who prepare the food. Phương is nailing the first of these—and a couple of weeks after our walk, she wins the Top Guide Of The Year from her employer. She has her rapport with the vendors in that perfect spot where it doesn’t come across as practiced nor tired, and at one point, an elderly couple cook up bột chiên (fried rice flour cakes) from their food stall, and they banter, mother-to-daughter-like, as she patiently translates my questions. It sounds like a simple thing, but as anyone who has done any guiding will know, this is a hard thing to get right. Phương nails it.

“Excuse me while I find the answer to your latest stupid question.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later in the evening, Vinny, Street Food Man’s founder, joins us for a chat. He’s a young guy, I’d guess early 30s, with no shortage of grand ideas—and the energy he’ll need to carry them out. After the lean pandemic years, his business bounces back, thanks in no small part to his top ranking on TripAdvisor (side note: I found the company through a recommendation—not TripAdvisor!). Foreign-owned platforms like TripAdvisor, AirBnb and GetYourGuide deliver the vast majority of his business, taking a cut on every customer that books through them—those leakage things are everywhere I tell ya. To my mind the warning klaxons are blaring, eggs in baskets and all that, but to Vinny it is a business reality. A comfortable reality when you’re on top I guess.

Early on, I don’t remember how it comes up, Vinny reveals that one of his aunts is Kim Phúc. Immortalised by photographer Nick Ut’s “Napalm Girl” photo, Vinny pulls his phone out and shows me the picture. Taken on June 8, 1972, Vinny points to Kim, then two or three uncles who are also in the shot. Next come some photos of Trảng Bàng village—where Ut took the photo—and where Vinny still has family.

Vinny’s sojourn into the war era takes me by surprise, and while I’m digesting what he’s telling me (along with the food), he asks how much time I have. He says he can take me there, to visit his family, the site of the photo, and the pagoda they fled to afterwards.

Hungry? Call Vinny. Photo: Huỳnh Phương.

At first I think he’s joking, but he’s serious—he’s taken other guests there—two days, three days—he says. I’m leaving the next day though, so need to decline, but looking at the pics of the other guests he’s taken there, I’m filled with regret. For almost all visitors, myself included, Tây Ninh province, where Trảng Bàng lies, is but a thirty minute stop on the minibus to see the famous Cao Đài temple there. Thanks to Vietnam’s short tourist visa—and/or unrealistic travel plans—one never seems to have enough time here.

Phan Rang: Tilting At Windmills

Talk to any traveller who hits Southeast Asia’s shores and chances are they’ll comment on the weather. Where the climate is best summed up as hot and wet or hot and dry, the sun shines—a lot. Nowhere does it seem to shine quite as much as Vietnam’s Sunshine Coast—from Qui Nhon in the north to Phan Thiết in the south. Wanting a look at Vietnam’s solar and wind battery, I hedge my bets, and catch a train to the middle—to the twin towns of Phan Rang–Tháp Chàm.

Yes, it rains almost the entire time I am there.

Take me to your leader. Fancy windmills, Phan Rang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Looking to fuel investment, in the 2010s Vietnam Electricity offer 20-year contracts to buy renewable power. By regional standards the rates are high—some might say inflated—and as hoped, solar and wind boom. Today, lacking the downsides some offshore farms in the Mekong Delta have experienced, the Sunshine Coast is purported to be a showcase of the nation’s future-facing sustainable energy efforts. As I ride the interior, dozens upon dozens spin silently in the steady wind that makes this coastal strip a favourite with kite-surfers. Looking to shed some light on the benefits of the steady breeze, I talk to Mike Tatarski, the Vietnam-based journalist behind Vietnam Weekly.

“Solar in particular was wildly popular—way more successful than anyone anticipated, least of all the government,” he tells me on a call.

Sounds good, there is though, a major problem—or rather, a miss-match. In a way this mirrors Vietnam’s resoundingly young population and the older dudes who run the joint. The boom delivers solar panels and turbines that are generations ahead of the power infrastructure they need to be plugged in to. Back to Tatarski:

“The grid can’t handle it, it hasn’t been upgraded to handle the intermittent power that wind or solar generate. When the sun is shining all day in Phan Thiết, some goes to grid, but a lot is not used as there’s no storage. There’s simply too much [power], and this is going to continue to be a problem. Upgrading the grid is expensive and will take time.”

A Vietnamese academic I speak to in Huế later in my trip, is less diplomatic:

“Imagine trying to plug your iPhone into a rotary phone cable then scratching your head when you can’t make a landline call. This is the level of official ineptitude we deal with in this country every day. It is exhausting.”

Until the grid improves, the enormous wind turbines are most useful as selfie props. Ever-reliable for when it comes to the travel asinine, VietnamNet notes:

“Located close to the centre of Ninh Thuan, Dam Nai wind farm is quickly emerging as a popular tourist attraction, especially among young travelers who come to snap epic photos with the wind farm in the background.”

And here I am thinking Indonesia has a selfie-prop addiction.

By regional standards, Vietnam is a mid-level performer on renewables, but most of it is hydro, and coal remains a mainstay with more on the way. When I ask at my guesthouse in Phan Rang if they use solar power, they shake their head.

Some renewable-powered devices are working well. Random coast swing between downpours, north of Phan Rang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For the traveller looking to stay at hotels using renewable energy, sustainability claims around power use, particularly on sites such as the forever sustainability-grandstanding Booking.com, where the claims are self-assessed and not checked, should be treated with extreme caution. Later in the trip, while in Hà Nội, I swing by three hotels which, according to Booking were using 100% renewable energy, in all three I’m told they’re on the mains.

So what’s the sustainable traveller to do? When booking a hotel, ask them directly about their power use—do not, under any circumstances, trust the claims published by Booking.com. While you’re at it, make yourself a PITA and ask to have all single-use plastic removed from your room. You will probably need to do this every day you stay there.

Slow down your travels. Book direct with tour operators to make sure more of your money stays in-country. Don’t try to “do” Vietnam in a month, and avoid tour companies that offer to facilitate this—especially those using domestic flights to do so. Instead aim to spend that month in one portion of the country, thus allowing you to go visit Vinny’s extended family—or spend three days motorbiking in the rain around Phan Rang.

* The numbers for properties listed by Agoda are forever changing.

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Over the last two weeks I’ve been somewhat distracted in Raja Ampat. How distracted? Distracted enough to forget that as I was sliding into the water a couple of weeks ago, Couchfish turned three. With that in mind, I thought I’d revisit a few of my favourite posts from the last three years. Favourite because they were fun to write, experience or sometimes even both. I’ve purposefully concentrated on the “travel as an act” pieces rather than the more industry-focused material.

By the water, Prachuap Khiri Khan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve made all the following free to read, as some are from the paid-for itinerary posts. To my readers, thank you for your support over the years—I hope you’ve enjoyed my missives as much as I’ve (mostly!) enjoyed writing them.

If you’re on the free list, and enjoy the stories below, please consider becoming a paid Couchfish subscriber. A subscription costs US$7 per month and gives you access to the full archives, which includes over 350 itinerary pieces—you can upgrade your account via the prompt below. You can see most of the itinerary posts marked up on a map here (though it is a little out of date, as I’m now in Solo on Java). If you’re fine with a free subscription, thanks for reading along.

Always get off the boat

This was the second part in a two-part series on the joys of the unplanned. Travelling in eastern Indonesia, my boat turned out to not be going where I planned, and while that was not ideal, local hospitality replaced a prompt arrival time. You can also read the first part here.

On the joys of getting lost

In a world where some people plan their trips to the point where they resemble a military expedition, sometimes it pays to throw it all out the window. In this, the only “fictional” piece on Couchfish, I write about the pleasures of exploring the unknown. Get off the train at the wrong station, catch the wrong bus—on purpose, or just walk in the opposite direction. For all the talk of Southeast Asia being overrun, most of the region is anything but.

Getting all pensive at Candi Dasa. Photo: Start McDonald.

Where do we put our head down?

Oh boy, where to start when it comes to hotels. Aside from the below-mentioned haunted one, here is one of the weirdest, one of the least-considered, and one of my favourites.

You said you wanted what nobody sees

My good friend Chris often tells me a better title for Couchfish is “How am I still alive.” He says this on account of the number of less than ideal situations I manage to insert myself into—mostly through my own stupidity. In this piece though, I describe an experience that, well, I don’t think anyone could have planned for.

The people you meet

This piece, on “single serving friends” followed on from a piece on an unusual tattoo I saw in Vietnam’s Rạch Giá. A reader had got in touch asking what I meant by the term, and this was the result. Please, if you’re confused about anything I write, let me know as it will, more often than not, give me something else to write about!

Shifting focus. Wasps and painted boards in Pailin. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

The people you don’t meet

I’ve written a few times on the people I’ve met over my thirty years of travelling around in circles in Southeast Asia. Sometimes though, the story is about who I haven’t met—in this case, a war criminal. A friend though, did.

The people you wish you never met

Competitive and/or whining travellers are one of my favourite bugbears, and these—one from Laos and one from Thailand—are two of my favourite pieces on the topic. Then, of course, there is the fabulist, the long-con man, the unhinged, ... the list be long and messy.

The stuff you can see and smell

While on the road, travellers so often fixate on what they see—fewer though on what they can smell. On what you see, Southeast Asia does colour rather well.

One man, one boat. Gili Pudu, Sumbawa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The stuff you cannot

Southeast Asia turned me into a believer when it comes to ghosts, and I write about them a lot. Some of my favourites include the haunted hotel in Sekong, and, well, near anything to do with Bali—particularly if it concerns balians or things that go bang in the night.

Why do we do what we do?

This piece on asking why people travel generated more emails than any other—and it is also one of my favourites. It’s easy to turn your nose up at “tourist hordes” but people travel for all manner of reasons, and sometimes it takes a while to get to the bottom of why.

Couchfish readers are everywhere. In Makassar, Sulawesi a few days ago. Photo: I have no idea.

And that’s a wrap—thanks for reading along, and if you do have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask. If you’ve got a personal favourite from the archives, do feel free to share your faves in the comments below.

Good travels!

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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Just a quick note, I’ve written a four-part series of sustainable travel and travel writing for Talking Travel Writing, and the first piece came out last week. If you’ve an interest in travel writing, the Talking Travel Writing Newsletter absolutely belongs on your subscribe list. You can find out more here.

An entrepreneur, a photographer, a kitchen hand and a travel writer walk into a bar ... it might sound like another of “those” jokes, but it’s what I’ve been living for the last seven days—with seven more to come. And while much of the last week has been underwater, admiring Raja Ampat’s incredible coral reefs, much of the in-between time has been by the table.

I’ve written before of the self-imposed doom travel writers face. A doom of seeing everything but experiencing nothing, of never having time to linger. Of finding a place where all one wants to do is put their bag down, but the bus leaves at 8pm. Of meeting like-minded souls, but for the most fleeting of moments. So when a generous friend invites me on a trip that promises the opposite to all the above, I jump at it.

One last Sorong sunset before Raja Ampat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

1. I’ve been undulating between 18 and 22 metres along Fam Wall for about 35 minutes. Save the occasional half kick to help me over a fan coral, I’m weightless in a near-to-nothing current. Below me, the wall plunges, blurring into a hard-to-describe blue tinted with purple. Behind me, the blue is deeper, richer, yet when I reach into it, I grasp at nothing—it is there, but it is nothing.

I let the current catch my fins and turn me like a second hand on a watch, till, with my head at six, a royal wave of my hand spins me to face the wall. I continue to drift, inverted. The colours, and the minuscule critters—what the photographer called “macro”—go about their business, oblivious to me.

A thought crosses my mind. Describing what you see when diving is like trying to describe a dream you’ve just woken from.

Today in awful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

2. The four of us are the resort’s token Antipodeans, with Europeans making up the rest of the guest roster. Like the tide, we wash in and out of the common areas, lingering, chatting. As is the norm, there’s plenty of dive chat—the fish was this big and all that. Dive sites from around the world roll off tongues—Zanzibar, Mozambique, Australia, Thailand, even Denmark. But, like listening to another recounting their dreams, the sites’ magnitudes can be hard to grasp.

Conversations splinter, coursing and radiating out like the fan corals we admire beneath. How does one get from discussing a boat running aground a little down the island from where we sit, to having a gun held to one’s chin in Guatemala. I don’t know—but we manage it. Daily.

Don’t get me wrong—this isn’t a competitive traveller scene, something divers in particular can be prone to. More, it’s a scenic road from here to there, and there’s many a stop along the way—especially when the WiFi is down.

Swimming with this mob was fun. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

3. Our goal is a little deep, between 35 and 39 metres if I recall right, so we won’t have all that long down below. We glide down, as my ears pop and pop again, I look up through my bubbles as the translucent surface fades into more blue. The P-47 wreck emerges from the dark faster than I expect, at first I think it’s an outcrop, but then it sharpens. The propeller comes first, clear as a bell it stands, each blade wrapped in a living glove. Behind it the cowling, then the wings, leading edges not quite as smooth as when it rolled off the factory floor.

Out of fuel in 1944, the pilots ditched into the sea off the coast of an idyllic tropical island. This, the better preserved of two wrecks, is the stuff of schoolboy dreams. The P-47 is upside down, and the photographers busy themselves at the cockpit, but it’s too tricky for me. Instead, I glide atop the midsection, watching their air bubbles dash to the leading edge, then balloon past me. Tiny fast-moving streams escape through corroded sections of the wing and fuselage. They form a near unbroken rising in front of my eyes, like diamond strings, they hypnotise. I pause my breathing, watching, in near silence as they rise. Then my dive computer beeps—my time is up.

At Fam Wall. Everything on the whiteboard I’ve forgotten by the time I’m wet. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

4. One day, hiking up to the region’s most famous viewpoint, I’m chatting with our dive master. Like our entire dive team, he’s Indonesian, in his case, born in Sorong, with a Javanese mother and Floresian father. He’s been diving for a decade, before that, boat driver, before that, unclear. He’s a funny guy, with a quick smile and a faster laugh—he gets my (bad) jokes. In him I find that ease of falling into familiarity so common in the archipelago. He’s also great underwater—which, to be honest, matters more than the familiarity stuff. Together though, it’s a winning combination.

Guests rotate in on a weekly basis, so there’s nothing in the way of single serving friends. A chat from Monday picks up again on Wednesday, then more on Friday. We hear about the births, deaths and marriages, the wins and the loses. Fuller pictures form, more tangible than what lies beneath the waters’ surface. I learn of the quirks of faraway lands through the lens of the person across the table from me.

Mandatory Nemo shot. Thank you Raymond for the pic!

5. Back at Fam Wall, the others lag behind me as a white scorpion fish gets the catwalk treatment. Perhaps twenty metres ahead of my guide, I spy a magic wand. No, this isn’t some narcosis slipping in, rather a piece of wood—what else does a wand begin as?

It’s about thirty centimetres long, the diameter of my finger, standing on end in a crevice. From head to toe it is encased in some kind of a near-smooth white coral. At its base, the finest tendrils of gold reach up from the wall, they fold and wrap around the end to form a solid ball, holding it fast. A few run up towards the tip, gold strands wrapping around it, between them a sprinkling of reds and purples. Harry Potter would have been proud.

I gesture to my guide that I’ve found something, and he floats towards me. I point at the wand, but he can’t tell what I’m pointing at. As I don’t know the diving hand signal for magic wand, we’re stuck. We move on. Maybe it is the narcosis after all.

Raja Ampat’s most famous viewpoint. Not too shabby. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

7. One night the photographer gives a presentation. They’re one of the cream of the crop our planet has grown, illustrated early on by a photo of their gear—and that’s just half of it, they quip. Think life story told through photography—the photos as spectacular as the diving. There’s a story behind each and they pause now and then to tell the tale. There’s joy, horror and all between, the practiced stories delivered with a verve from the heart, but it’s the images that do the heavy lifting.

The solemn face of a trafficked mountain gorilla, a single bead of sweat dropping from the chin of a palace guard, the magnificence of an Antarctic shelf. At one stage they play an audio track of the haunting call of a Weddell Seal that lives under the ice. Listening to it, time stands still.

Slow down and grab a paddle. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later, after dinner, one of the other guests is talking about diving in iced-over lakes in the Netherlands. I ask if you can see through the ice and they say if it hasn’t snowed you can, but if it has you can see nothing. I sit there thinking about the seal, swimming under enormous ice sheets, its call in my mind.

I realise I’ve been all the while wrong. For the travel writer to see everything and experience nothing is a choice. Time to slow down.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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When I reviewed The Last Tourist one bit that stood out was an inference that destinations are at risk of becoming “dumb pipes.” At one point, G Adventures founder Bruce Poon Tip says “Travel has taken a turn and the destination is no longer relevant.” When you pull that apart, what does it mean? What are the risks for destinations when the destination itself is no longer relevant?

When the Laotian Times reported that the southern hub of Pakse plans to introduce a “walking street night market,” Poon Tip’s words came to mind. A few days later, the same publication noted Savannakhet is to hold a monkey feeding festival. There’s nothing wrong with these initiatives I guess, but ...

Time to pack the bags for Savannakhet. Macaques at Lopburi, Thailand. Photo: David Luekens.

There’s a difference between what I’d term an organic walking street night market and one contrived for tourists. The former builds out of something that serves local people. It grows out of an existing night market that overflows, and examples exist across the region. In other cases, they evolve out of there being a heavy concentration of people. Bangkok’s Khao San Road—at least the old version—is an example of the latter.

The more contrived affair probably got its first shot in the arm in Chiang Mai. The city already had a “Night Bazaar,” but the night walking street, in the old city, brought more to the table. It was, and continues to be, a huge success. Luang Prabang replicated it, likewise with success, as did others. Today—or should I say tonight—some kind of a “night walking whatever” is a staple of the tourism diet.

Always check where this sorta stuff is made—you might be surprised at some of the answers. At Chiang Mai walking street. Photo: Mark Ord.

I’m not sure how often they play enough of a part in tourists’ hit-lists that such a thing brings on a longer stay, but looser wallets do result. This is a good thing—as long as you’re buying local fare and handicrafts—not cheap imported tat or a Starbucks.

And yet, taking Pakse as the example, there is far more on offer. It’s a hub for motorbiking, for visiting waterfalls and coffee plantations, or a beautiful small island. Any of these would bring on longer stays, and, more importantly, they’re pretty much unique to Pakse and the Bolaven Plateau.

Wandering Ban Saphai, near Pakse. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Midway through the pandemic, a friend attended a travel conference in Europe. It was at the stage where concerns about Covid—at least in some parts of the world—were easing. In Southeast Asia though, nations remained pretty much closed to recreational visits. My friend recounted a conversation between the exasperated representative of a very large international tour operator and that of a destination in Southeast Asia. I’m paraphrasing here to keep it family-friendly:

“You tell your boss to open up your bloody country, or we’ll take our pax to the Caribbean. They have beaches too you know.”

There’s much to unpack from the above, but more than anything—aside from the tour rep being a complete dick—this is the risk of being nothing more than a dumb pipe.

I was X years old when beach clubs were a novelty. Ku De Ta, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Many years ago, I was at a bar in Bali and met a guy whose business was buying up hotel rooms and reselling them. I guess you’d call him a consolidator. At the time Bangkok’s airport shutdowns were hammering tourism and he was in Indonesia to sort out a buffer. He said:

“The only thing you can do in Thailand that you can’t do in Bali is hill-tribe trekking.”

It sounds ridiculous, but it isn’t far off the money.

I was talking to some tourists the other day here in Bali. They love it here and have been visiting for decades. Depending on the prices of flights—and connections—they holiday either here or Phuket. When I raised my eyebrows at Phuket, they said there’s little different between the two. Now I’d have more than a slight quibble with that, but when I consider where they stay—Kuta in Bali or Patong in Phuket—they’re not far off.

I have thoughts on always giving tourists what they want. Patong, Phuket. Photo: Lana Willocks.

The Kutas and Patongs of the world are so similar that you could argue they are dumb pipes. As such, they become subject to not only tourists’ whims but that of aspects out of their control. Flights, tour itineraries, tour prices. If they had maintained the considerable differences that once existed, would that still be the case?

Back in the 1990s, when I spent too long bouncing around islands, I saw the morphing in real time. Same same but different became same same but pretty much the same. The beaches might be different, but the infrastructure and tourist services, became a dull background. As a guesthouse operator recently said to me, we need German beer if we want German guests.

Writing the last few entries for paid-for Couchfish on Jakarta, I’ve thought about how, over the years, it has become so much more like Bangkok. Bangkok in turn, like Singapore, Singapore, like Sydney. They’re not identical of course, but there’s a same sameness to them that wasn’t the case before. Does it make them any less worth visiting? Of course not. Does it make them more interchangeable? Yes.

Celebrate the different. Street food, Jakarta. Photo: Sally Arnold.

This is globalisation at work, Rising living standards bring the malls, fast food, mass-transit and so on. These are all driven by local desires—yes perhaps framed by a preponderance of Western media, but I’m not going down that wormhole. Tourism likewise, has gentrified entire destinations. Wealth continues to grow at uneven rates and where a martini-flanked beachside horizon pool was once newsworthy, today it is the norm. If you can get to your $5 martini in Phuket easier and cheaper than your Bali one, that’s a problem for the latter.

Destinations would be well advised to work on doubling down on their differences. Stop gazing over the fence ($) and replicating what the Joneses next door are doing.

Be yourself.

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Midway through The Last Tourist, an orphanage tourist thinks back to her time with the kids:

“I had all the best of intentions, but in hindsight I didn’t do my homework. ... and when I got there I really learnt the horrible truth—they were there because I wanted to be there, not because they needed to be there. And because of people like me, they were separated from their families.”

The Last Tourist aims to take a critical look at where tourism came from, is, and is headed. Born out of a 2018 request by G Adventures founder Bruce Poon Tip for a film on responsible travel, the result is mixed. Released in 2021 to the North American film circuit, it’s been on a pay-per-view release over there since. For those not in North America or mad enough to be doing a Masters (how I viewed it on Kanopy), the film is now seeing a wider release.

Wasn’t the point of travel to get lost? Screenshot via Kanopy.

Dropping in on at least ten countries, it leaps from pristine jungle to cruise ship mayhem. The latter is a stereotypical glad bag of the horrors of tourism. Maya Bay has a slot, as does Ko Pha Ngan’s Haad Rin, tiger patting, elephants, orangutans boxing, dumb tourists and so on. Selfie sticks, smart phones and Insta-posing feature over and over. With an inference destinations are little more than dumb pipes, Elizabeth Becker asks “are we just travelling for the iconic photo?” In the background, Jane Goodall hauntingly declares that tourism can kill a place. Melodramatic? Yup. Accurate? Also yes. Is any of this new? No.

Costas Christ, editor-at-large for National Geographic Traveller has some words. He reminisces on his early backpacking days in the 1970s:

“When I travelled to Asia late seventies I was already starting to see negative impacts of tourism, so it set me off looking for the unspoilt, the uncharted, and that eventually led me to a place called Ko Pha Ngan in Thailand. When I arrived in Ko Pha Ngan in 1979, I was the first tourist to have arrived on that beach.”

The beach he is referring to? Haad Rin. At this point, I turn The Last Tourist off.

My pushing the off button may seem petty, but his words are indicative of the first of two issues with the film. As Tom Vater wrote in our long read on Ko Pha Ngan, by the time Christ arrived, tourists had been in the area for years. Indeed a ferry service ran from both the mainland and Ko Samui to Ko Pha Ngan from 1976. Looking further back, King Rama V first visited in 1888—one of five visits to the island. A local tourist for sure—but local tourists are the industry’s mainstay in most countries—yet the film ignores them.

Ko Pha Ngan’s Haad Rin in not 1979. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Returning to it a few weeks later, I persevere. The first third of the film is heavy on talking heads—almost all from the West—discussing what ails tourism. They’re experts in their fields for sure, and do a good job iterating through the flaws, but something is missing. Where are the voices from China—the world’s second largest outbound market in 2019? Unless I missed it, in the entire film, China gets a single mention. Likewise there isn’t one governmental speaker. This lack of vital voices is the second problem. Another missing aspect is discussions around slow tourism, though to be fair there is only so much one can cram into a 90 minute film—or a 19-day tour itinerary.

These issues baffle and underline the film’s West-centric view. Then, everything improved. The founder of Sustainable Travel & Tourism Agenda, Judy Kepher-Gona, started speaking. And she knocks it out of the park.

An eloquent and passionate speaker, she’s also one who comes across as a no-b**t operator. Early on, while a bit wonkish, she summarises the whole mess in a few sentences:

“Tourism has created consumption patterns in the minds of the traveller that need to be deconstructed a little bit. We have to change our mindsets about travel. The leakage is huge. Tourism can perpetuate poverty by not integrating communities and you find, ... the most acclaimed tourism destinations also have the highest levels of poverty, but why does it happen? Because they were never integrated into the tourism value chain.”

This in essence, is a large part of the problem with tourism. Locals don’t get a say—indeed, more often than not, they’re never even asked. As the film progresses—and improves—it is these local voices that add an essential layer of magnitude to its message.

The film covers a few scenarios in some depth. Peruvian weaving, orphanage tourism in Kenya and Cambodia, taxi driving in India, and elephants in Thailand all feature. Together these represent sustainable tourism’s three pillars—economy, society and environment.

At the summit of Indonesia’s Gunung Tambora with some trekking friends. They’re local—and yet again, seem not to count. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The orphanage tourism coverage is problematic. The film never flat-out states all orphanages are scams, but there is scope for far more nuance. There are real orphanages in Cambodia (and, I assume, Kenya) doing good, important work. It is funding—not white bodies—they need, and it would be a shame if this film makes their fundraising harder still. On volunteering though, there’s no need for nuance, and Clarissa Elakis of Childsafe International pulls no punches:

“Would this happen in your own country, probably not, so why do tourists think it is ok to do it in developing countries?”

I’ve written before on elephant riding and the role Intrepid Travel played in moving it to the industry’s s**t list. This is a good example of tour companies working as agents for change, yet their work isn’t mentioned. Instead we’re given a segment on phajaan and a mix of semi- to clueless tourists at elephant shows. One aghast European says the elephants are “forced to do things they would not normally do.” Pray tell, what did you expect?

I don’t want to get tangled in the weeds of a multi-million dollar industry as controversial as it is lucrative. Elephant Nature Park and its cofounder have long been a travel blogger and media favourite. The Last Tourist is no exception to this, and the centre gets one of the longest segments in the entire film. Here again I’d loop back to Christ’s words about seeking the uncharted—something The Last Tourist does not do. In lambasting the tendency of tourists to gravitate to the known—they make the same mistake.

For decades destinations built their tourism propaganda around exactly activities like this. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Tying in with sustainable tourism’s social and economic pillars, Meenu Vadera, the founder of Sakha Cabs For Women is persuasive. Her India-based business runs a fleet of some 40 cabs with around 100 women drivers. In describing how a small change in tourist behaviour can make a big difference, Vadera says:

“A majority of Sakha clients are foreign tourists, tourism has played a significant role in helping women drivers, those who are in more vulnerable positions get opportunities for a livelihood, for dignity.”

This matters.

As with the European at the elephant camp, tourists need to educate themselves on small changes like these. Kepher-Gona talks about deconstructing tourists’ minds. Start by spending as long researching responsible behaviour as hotel choices. Saying “I didn’t know,” is not a viable excuse anymore.

Indeed, hotels, their construction, labour policies, and environmental impact, see the briefest of coverage. Bemoaning a wage of $50 a month strikes a chord, but where is the context? The minimum wage here in Bali is around US$150 a month, and some in the tourism pay far less. This doesn’t mean much though without talking about what alternative jobs might pay.

There’s a few lines about companies altering product, but the emphasis is on tourist-driven change. This is a mistake. It’s like the oil industry telling us all to carbon count while they continue business as usual. For fifty years, academic research has pushed sustainable tourism, yet, little has changed. No doubt in part due to the academic double-speak papers feature, but hell, if I can wade through them, so can others.

Talking about elephants… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The cruise industry gets a well-deserved slagging off and leakages get a mention. Later, in an African context, Kepher-Gona notes that 14% of a safari spend stays in Kenya. I’ve written before on this, and specifically on G Adventures’ approach to it. If the companies are not going to improve their act, governments should force the issue. Hard calls to action like these are rare in the film, but Inca Trail tour guide, and founder of Evolution Treks Peru, Miguel Angel Gongora is emphatic:

“Making sure the travel companies are being held accountable, this is what you are saying, and this is what you are selling, so now I’m going to take the tour and I want to make sure that this is what you are delivering—not only to me as a traveller but to the workers too.”

Global warming, how tourism is hastening it, and the implication for locals, is barely mentioned. Where flying is discussed it is around its vast growth and the tourists that came with it—not the environmental impact. You’re better off settling in with Before The Flood, as you’ll get no answers from this film. Tourism to Antarctica is the obvious flogging horse, but it isn’t mentioned. As G Adventures runs Antartica trips for up to almost $17,000 a head, it would have been good to hear Poon Tip’s thoughts.

Three viewings in, my take on the film has softened. If you’re in the industry and any of this is still news to you, what are you doing in a sustainable facet of tourism? For the greater travelling public, yes the film contains a useful surfacing of issues, even if not new. I worry though that much of tourism remains stubbornly resistant to change. We’ve had 30+ years of educating tourists to varying degrees yet the needle has barely budged.

Will The Last Tourist budge it some more? Give it a watch and see what you think.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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According to David Luekens over at Thai Island Quest, Thailand has over 800 islands. Don’t fret if you’ve only been to thirteen of them, as many are nothing more than a pile of rocks—others though, are more. Thailand’s islands range from huge and spoilt, to stuck-in-the-1980s near-deserted fare. There is it seems, something for everyone.

In 2019, Thailand greeted a smidgen under 40 million inbound tourists. At the time, some of the country’s most popular isles weren’t drowning in rising sea levels—that will come later. Instead, they were drowning in tourists, and Ko Phi Phi Leh was the most bandied around on the “sky is falling” front. Then the pandemic came, and the entire planet took a (masked) breath.

Super-size me please. Ko Nang Yuan, 2018. Photo: David Luekens.

Earlier this year, Thailand set a 2027 goal of 80 million inbound tourists (Google cache link, as PRD seems to have nuked the original), and while many feel it is unlikely, and that it flies in the face of any modicum of sustainability, I put all this aside and ask, where it will put them. I ask because, despite this story’s title, the TAT has not announced the discovery of 800 new islands. Indeed, thanks to rising sea levels Thailand may well eventually have less islands, but that’s fodder for another day.

In 2022, Thailand scored around 11 million tourists, so to reach its 2027 goal it needs a 50% increase every year. That will deliver around 83 million by 2027. I don’t know if you had the misfortune to visit Ko Phi Phi in 2019, but if you did, how sexy would it be with twice the tourists? 70 million new bums-on-seats? I would think not too sexy.

The illusion. Ko Lipe, 2018. Photo: David Luekens.

Yes, not all 70 million would be after retracing Leonardo’s frolics on The Beach, but some would. Some will argue that a trickle down effect of sorts, that some will hit the lesser touristed locales may play out, but will it be enough? The TAT seems to be aware of this, and I’ve been told they’re working to spread the butter.

A recent South Thailand familiarisation trip they offered to agents gave two options: Ranong and Chumphon, and Phattalung and Nakhon Si Thammarat. While not “top shelf” traditional destinations, they are, nonetheless, excellent spots. This is a good step, but still I have questions. For every trip like this, how many others ran to the “best hits” destinations? Even if operators add some of these locations into their greater trips, will it at the cost of these better-known spots? Unless it is, all those extra bums are still going to be hitting the best-of lists as well.

The reality. Ko Lipe, 2018. Photo: David Luekens.

As with everywhere in Southeast Asia, Thailand is awash in second- and third-tier destinations that few visit. So for every river in Pai that has so many rafters on it you can’t see the water, there’s another with not a soul on it. I talked to the founder of an inbound tour operator about this, and only half-joking they said:

“Yasothon has heaps of rivers—and legal weed—why not promote there?”

So while the TAT isn’t quite ready to launch the “2024 Get Baked In Thailand” campaign, “2024 Say Yes to Yasothon,” could work. Yet, travel writers have been flogging the northeast of the country for decades with little to show for it. Says Joe Cummings of writing for Lonely Planet back in the day:

“Likewise I touted Isan [the northeast region of Thailand] like crazy especially in the early days. Yet even in the peak tourism era, from 2000 onwards, only around 2% of international visitors bothered with Isan.”

Over the decades from the beginning of the “peak tourism era” Cummings refers to, Thailand’s tourism went from 10 million in 2000 to 16 million in 2010 and 40 million in 2019. Should we expect a better result than two per cent with 80 million? At least the TAT is making some effort to broaden the appeal—does it have a choice?

The under-appreciated beauties of Nakhon Si Thammarat. Photo: David Luekens.

I’d argue that if, with 40 million tourists, 98% of them are ignoring an entire region, then inbound tourism is broken. This is hardly unique to Thailand—look at Bali in Indonesia, Siem Reap in Cambodia, or Hội An in Vietnam. In all, a single destination bears more than its share of the burdens of tourism.

If the TAT got it wrong with 40 million last time, a better approach is to get it right on the second go. They should revise their target—bring it back to 20 million by 2027. In the intervening years they’ve got time to do more outreach, to help people travel better—and in a more sustainable manner. Nobody is suggesting—nor expecting—that 25% of tourists will spend most of their trip in the northeast. They could, but I’m trying to be realistic here, and elsewhere, outside the TAT, people are doing the heavy lifting.

Could Phattalung be Thailand’s hub for sustainable tourism? Quite possibly. Photo: David Luekens.

The TAT could do worse then to support the efforts of serial-Tweeter and incessant travel website maker Richard Barrow. He’s busy building yet another website (I think he has about 34,987 of them) dedicated to travelling the country by train. Aside from this being a shot in the arm for more sustainable travel, he’s also highlighting the lesser known. By the way, The Bangkok Podcast has a fascinating two-part podcast interview with Barrow—well worth a listen.

Much as I wrote in Navigating Nakhon Nowhere, it is always worth getting off the train, even if for a night. You’ll find stuff you didn’t know about before, and you’ll slow down. With this in mind, if the TAT could get to 20 million with 10-15% spending a chunk of time in the northeast, that would be a win. It wouldn’t though be a win that would be nice to have, rather it would be a win they need to have.

As a bonus, they wouldn’t need to find an extra 800 islands.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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I’m a little out of sync this week thanks to some internet draaammmaaaaassss, so this is the free-to-read issue today rather than Friday.

A few years ago a friend and I were surfing at Seminyak in Bali and, not paying attention, got sucked out towards Java. By the time we finally made it back to shore, we were up near Old Man’s in Canggu and both felt like very old men. We collapsed on the beach, and tried to push the five kilometre walk back to the board rental place out of our minds.

After a few minutes, a couple of Indonesian women—tourists—wandered over and said hello, then asked if we were ok. It turned out they’d been watching us paddle and were curious why we were paddling in the middle of the ocean. It seemed a fair question. My friend, forever the clown, said we’d paddled over from Java—which, to be honest, felt true. Sitting together, we made small talk, local meets tourist stuff, and I asked where they were from. Padang, in Sumatra, they said. Neither of us had been there, and said so, and they replied saying they’d never been to Bali before either.

Time for some more offerings. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’d guess they were in their 20s and they seemed well-travelled, so I was a bit surprised they’d never been before. When I asked after why, they said it was too far, and this was when it came out that they’d come to Bali by bus. Well, buses to be clear, but buses that took a combined three days to cover the 2,500 kilometres. Suddenly our five kilometre beach walk didn’t seem so onerous.

Today on Couchfish I’m leaving Lake Toba but also Sumatra, and hopping across the archipelago to Java. Don’t fret, Couchfish for paid subscribers will be back to Sumatra later! As I’m lucky enough to have never caught a bus from Lake Toba to Jakarta, I thought I’d write about five bus trips to pass the time. As with the Lake Toba to Jakarta run, these trips are not all mine.

Plenty of time to learn how to say Oaxaca

This is my all time fave, courtesy of two British women I drove across the US with in 1992. Their travels in Mexico had been a challenge, worsened by their utter lack of language skills. Their first stop had been Tijuana, from where they wanted to go to Oaxaca. The plan was to start at the bottom and work their way back to the States. Being backpackers, they took the cheapest bus they could find, and understood the trip would take a day.

Somewhat amazed I wasn’t on this. Photo: Adam Poskitt.

By their accounts, the bus was beyond awful, and within hours they were counting the minutes of the hours to reach the magical 24. Twenty six hours in, they found a passenger with English and asked when they would arrive in Oaxaca. It turned out they were not even half way—the bus took two days, not one, and in the end took two and a half days. Morale of the story: Learn your numbers.

Getting bagged

The run from Meiktila to Kalaw by local bus is a fun one, well, fun in the sort of way you don’t tell your Mum about. The bus was not great inside—with seats for people half my size and already jammed with boxes of who knows what. No problems, the second said, jump on the roof. And so it was I spent an afternoon on a Burmese bus admiring the sights from up on high, with fresh air and space to relax. I was so relaxed in fact, that when I jumped off it was a good five minutes before I realised I was packless. My backpack, you see, was still on the roof.

Passing traffic en route to Kalaw. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Never fear, a friendly local intervened, onto the back of his bike I went, and off we shot. Did I know where the bus was going? No. Did my new friend? No. Kalaw ain’t a big place, and yet in no time at all we found the bus, leaned to on the side of the road, sort of in the middle of nowhere, a bunch standing atop looking in all directions. They saw me before we saw them and when we pulled up there was much clapping and cheering. Fun times.

C is for cargo class.

Leaving Ko Pha Ngan after a stint on Ko Tao and bound for Bangkok, I decided to buy a through-ticket on the island. The agent gave me a choice of VIP, first and second class, with the latter being the cheapest. So, of course I went with second class—how bad could it be? On arrival at the travel agent clearing house in Surat Thani the bus pulled up—it was big and shiny—almost luxurious. The VIP passengers boarded, then the first class, then there were three of us left, two British women and me. We were in the cargo bay.

There’s always a cow

The backpacker bus was about halfway from Mumbai to Goa and it felt like we’d been in the van for about 800 hours. It was night time and I was a row or two back from the driver, sleeping a sapping hell-sleep as my watch span backwards. The horns and headlights, the sudden veers of the bus, my head cracking against the glass, all working to wake me over and over. I woke with a start and my blurry vision crystallised upon a cow on the road as the bus lurched and braked hard.

There’s always a cow, though this one was in Laos. Photo: Samantha Brown.

We hit the cow and the bus lurched further, onto the shoulder, then tipping like in the movies. That slow tip where you’re not sure if you are going to go, but deep down you know you will, and we did. Off the road, onto the side of the bus, but thankfully not over. Glass smashed, people screamed, the engine clunk-clunked then stopped where a grunt. It wasn’t till we were all out, perhaps twenty of us, and all ok save some minor cuts and abrasions, that we realised the crew and driver were gone. We never saw them again, and it was another five hours to dawn.

Bulldozers are multi-use

We were in Sangkeng, a nondescript town in Sulawesi, half way between Bira and Rantepao before a stint on the Togeans—yes, the plane crash trip. We’d hired a car and driver for the run because the kids were still young—that’s my excuse anyway. Sitting in a coffee shop, a French woman with two kids, barely above babies, caught my eye and said hello. She’d been in the wilds for a while, and was up for some chit chat. She was heading south from Poso, a little-visited town over the mountains to the north. The road was legendary—and not in a good way.

A Sulawesi cow. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Seeing her kids I assumed she was in a car and asked after the road, however it turned out she wasn’t in a car, but a local bus. The road? It was even more legendary than I could imagine, she said. It turned out half of it had washed away and a bulldozer was pushing buses up a bad stretch of it—with the passengers on board.

She had that look of someone who’d been travelling in Indonesia that bit too long, but the trip had left even her shaken. Her gaze was blank and distant as she told me about the bus slipping and sliding towards the precipice, people praying and wailing. Yes, it was quite a bit scary, she said.

Got a bus story? Please share your tales of woe below.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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On March 1, The Travel Foundation released “Envisioning Tourism in 2030 and Beyond: The Changing Shape of Tourism in a Decarbonising World”. Some teasers from it surfaced a while back, and while they were bad enough, the full report is a doozy.

Writes Travel Foundation CEO Jeremy Sampson:

“We have delayed action for too long, and as a result, our options have narrowed. This assessment should act both as wakeup call and motivation to act. There is huge opportunity for travel and tourism in a decarbonising world, but we must act with urgency and unite in our vision for a “good” transition.”

In the report, the authors consider a simple question—what does the travel industry need to do to meet the targets outlined in the Paris Agreement? To determine this, they put the travel industry through a series of scenarios, using 40 different interventions, to see how things would look in 2050. The grouped interventions fall into six broad categories: Alternative fuel and energy sources, technology, infrastructure policies, travel speed, taxes and subsidies, and travel behaviour.

And you thought your itinerary was complicated. Source: The Travel Foundation.

Their initial approach was to mix and match these 40 interventions into four main pathways, essentially a strong versus weak approach. The problem was, this yielded no scenario that came close to meeting the emission targets. Approach two was to take the four most often discussed categories—offsetting, technology, sustainable aviation fuel, and taxes and subsidies—and try again.

This approach also failed—no one of the four pathways would get the industry to where it needed to be. From here they came up with the TDS—the Tourism Decarbonisation Scenario—and ran with it. The report maintains the TDS can get the industry over the finishing line, but the yards, they are going to be hard.

We’ll be needing more bamboo straws. Source: The Travel Foundation.

There are some enormous assumptions built into the report. A proposal to cap airport capacity to 2019 levels. A 100% shift to renewables by accommodation and ground transport. The spending of US$200 billion per year on high speed rail—for the next 40 to 50 years. None of these assumptions are impossible of course, but yes, they are challenging.

Rather than summarising the report, I wanted to look at a few of its suggestions and consider what they would mean for Southeast Asia. As I found out, the disconnect is severe.

Aviation

It should come as no surprise to anyone that aviation gets a flogging. The report gets into the quagmire of what fuels the planes, but two other aspects leap out.

Cork the airports

The report suggests that airport capacity needs to be capped at 2019 levels. More than anything else in the report, this reads like screaming into the void. What is happening in the real world is the opposite of what the report advises. Here’s a few examples.

The TDS goal. Source: The Travel Foundation.

In Thailand, Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi is upgrading its capacity from 45m per year to 120m. The city’s second airport, Don Muang is going from from 30m to 48m. U-tapao, down near Pattaya, pretty much Bangkok’s third airport, is going from 1.5m to 5m. Vietnam plans to add nine new airports from the current 22. Singapore’s new terminal 5 at Changi will have a capacity of 50m passengers—more than Terminal 1 and 3 combined. Over in despot-ruled Cambodia, Siem Reap’s new airport will handle 10m, while Phnom Penh’s will welcome 50m by 2050.

You get the idea. If you’d like to get more depressed, my mate James Clark has a good wrap on airport developments ($) in the region.

Hit travellers’ wallets

The report suggests the cost of flying should increase from $0.06 pkm (2019) to $0.10 pkm (2030) and then to $0.18 pkm (2050). This represents a sixty percent increase in airfares by 2030 followed by an 80% increase further down the track. It this comes to pass some of the above-mentioned new airports are going to be pretty sleepy.

Distance matters

Another aspect the report looks at is the distance people travel. With long haul flights being the most damaging, this gets plenty of attention. Long haul, which the report describes as flights over 16,000 km return, accounted for only 2% of trips in 2019, but 19% of emissions. Left unchecked, the report estimates their share will grow to 8% of trips and 41% of emissions.

People will still travel, just not as far. Source: The Travel Foundation.

With this in mind, the report suggests a long haul flight cap to 2019 levels (around 120 million return trips). Given the share of emissions this form of travel accounts for, this makes sense. So with Southeast Asia in mind, what would this mean?

London, Paris or Frankfurt to Bangkok are are long haul, as is anywhere in the Americas. Closer to home, Australia, China, South Asia and parts of Africa slip in, but Europe and the Americas are all toast.

There are sustainability pros and cons to this. In 2019, Germans visiting Indonesia stayed an average of almost 16 days, with an average high of over 18 days. In comparison, Malaysians stayed an average of under six days with a high of almost eight. Given the relative distances, it should come as no surprise that almost ten times as many Malaysians visited. Of Indonesia’s inbound tourists for 2019, four of the top five sources (Germany, France, UK and USA) are both long haul and the longest staying. From an emissions point of view, which is worse?

Elsewhere, Thailand is after a doubling (by 2027, from 2019 levels) of inbound tourists—from 40m to 80m. Who knows what random number generator the number came from, but how does it work with long haul capped? By Southeast Asian standards, Thailand’s approach is particularly egregious, and yet regional destinations strive to model themselves ($) on its A-grade unsustainable approach to tourism.

Fewer, longer, better

The above ties in with the sections aimed at tour companies, tourism boards and so on. The report recognises that if the above all happen (big if), some destinations will feel the pinch more than others. Should island destinations such as Fiji, the Maldives or the Seychelles do the same heavy lifting as Italy or Germany? The report suggests no—the implementation of these changes needs to be equitable. Again back to Sampson:

“We also want to bring attention to the need for fairness and equity in the way tourism transitions to net zero. The policies we draft, the investments we make and the products we develop will either exacerbate or lessen existing inequalities. Will vulnerable communities once again be handed the worst deal? Or will underrepresented voices be listened to and acted upon?”

Long the mantra in national carbon cutting targets—there is precious little walking the talking. Small island nations and the developing world should be wary of holding their breath on this one, though it would be nice is Sampson’s wish is granted.

Allocating blame—and responsibility. Source: The Travel Foundation.

The report also pushes the incentivising of longer stays, which is smart. There’s a few ways to do this, and while the report doesn’t mention it, longer visas for tourists is the obvious one. One that does slip in is the mandating of minimum stays, something I strongly support. It also suggests tour companies should shape demand rather than be a slave to it—another strong agree from me. While they are far from the worst operator on the planet, a statement in the report by Australian tour company Intrepid Travel, highlights the twin challenges of inertia and can-kicking. They write:

“Our supply chain represents more than 80 per cent of our overall Scope 3 emissions, with a large portion accounted for in transportation. Decarbonizing our supply chain – specifically transportation – relies on availability of electrical vehicles and high-speed ground transport. That, in turn depends on different players, including governments, prioritising the phasing out of fossil fuels in favour of clean technologies.”

Get your wallet out. Source: The Travel Foundation.

As Emily Atkin writes, this waiting on governments is a fool’s errand, and is part of what got as here in the first place. Yes, electric vehicles are not widespread yet in Southeast Asia, but, as I’ve written before, domestic flights are a far bigger issue. Tour companies—at least those that purport to be responsible actors—need to remove them. Start reshaping that demand yesterday.

Reframe the travel experience

While many of the report’s recommendations are beyond the reach of individuals, one is. There is one thing that is within the control of every single tourist on the planet—how they travel. If you’re not sure where to start on your own reframing, reading the Travel Foundation report would be a good first step.

Further reading

If you’re a newish Couchfish reader and found the above of interest, you may enjoy the series I wrote last year on rethinking tourism. Links to the series are below—they are all free to read.

National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)
Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)
The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)
The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)
Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)
The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)
Reality Check (Tour companies)
Follow the Money (Money matters)
Foundations Matter (Community Based Tourism)

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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If you were looking for a bonfire to incinerate your hopes for an improved approach to tourism, Thailand continues to deliver the goods. An early highlight were plans to double inbound tourism from 39.8m in 2019 to 80m—by 2027. Sounds like a totes sustainable and sensible idea.

Then the other day, came news that a long-threatened tourism tax would happen($). I’m not opposed to a tourist tax in principle, but this one is a whole mountain of stupid. So first a wrap on the stupid, then some thoughts on at an alternative approach.

Stupid 1: Complicated for no reason

The tax calls for a 300 baht or 150 baht charge for all “inbound visitors”. The 300 baht charge will apply to those flying in, with flight tickets scoring a 300 baht surcharge. The 150 baht is for those entering by land. These entries are cheaper “because they stay less time” according to the Ministry of Hot Ideas. It is unknown how collection of the land entry charge will work.

Indonesia has had some doozy tourist taxes, Fiscal was my all time favourite. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As an added layer of complexity, those flying in but not overnighting are exempt from the charge. Diplomats, those with work permits, kids under the age of two, and “other categories” can also skip it.

I’ve not seen any justifications for these exemptions. Data supporting the suggestion land arrivals stay less time is also AWOL. Perhaps they’re thinking of all the Malaysian guys popping over the border for a ahhhh short stay. Who knows? My gut feeling is that among genuine travellers, overland entries would stay longer. But what do I know? If you work on the assumption that short stay tourism is a less sustainable form of travel, why give it a free ride?

Stupid 2: Unworkable rules

So if the fly-in fee is a ticketing add-on, how will the airline know you are staying one day only? I often fly in with one airline and out with another. Will airlines need to check the validity of my work permit? Seemingly no—good luck getting that refund expats. This is even more problematic with land entries. Are immigration officers going to ask how long one is staying? Will travellers need to prove they are leaving on the same day? How?

Keep it simple fellas. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The upshot of the “no overnight, no charge” rule may be a move from an arrival- to a departure-charge. That would make it a departure tax. Oh wait, Thailand already has one of those, a 700 baht one worked into your ticket price. So, this is a second departure tax? Why does Thailand need two departure taxes?

Stupid 3: Why we can’t have nice things

A subtext to this tourist tax is a long-running gripe Thai authorities have been whining about for decades. It relates to a minuscule number of foreigners who do runners on their medical bills. Given the outrageous rates some Thai hospitals charge, the reasons for a runner are not impossible to fathom. Poor behaviour aside, let’s look at the numbers.

Insured no doubt. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

According to the Minister, between 2017 and 2019, runners cost the government around 400 million baht. Over the same period around 113 million tourists arrived in Thailand. To put the costs of the runners in perspective, it equates to a charge of three baht per tourist. One solution to this may have been to hold patients’ passports to make sure they pay. Hell no! Let’s charge every tourist one-hundred fold the cost of the runners instead. Sounds solid.

Stupid 4: Insurance

The Minister has forecast the charge will raise 3.9 billion baht in 2023. In January, Thailand targeted 25 million tourists for 2023, equating to 7.5 billion baht. One assumes the 3.9 billion fee relates to around six months of inbounds. In return for their 300 baht, tourists will be force-fed an insurance policy they didn’t ask for. Writes the Bangkok Post:

“Thailand will be the first country in the world to offer insurance covering accidents, death and the repatriation of bodies. The insurance is a government effort to boost confidence among tourists, she said.”

Will a country offering to repatriate your body swing the deal for you? Like many travellers, I already have insurance, so why must I re-insure? If I die which insurer gets to air-freight my corpse home? What about the costs of payouts through this policy? I’ve not seen any press coverage on this so far.

Stupid 5: It is regressive, discriminatory tax

As the tax is a flat fee, it is regressive and discriminates against budget travellers.

Stupid 6: Charge tourists to “make Thailand better”

Aside from the insurance blackhole and hospital runners, the tax also funds “the development of local tourist attractions.” You guessed right, no details on this one, though one story suggested there might be a focus on accessibility—no doubt a good idea in a country where accessibility is so often ignored, but why should tourists be the ones funding it when all would benefit?

Some things are best left alone. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

More generally, State involvement in the “improvement” of attractions has often yielded benefits of debatable value. Bangkok’s flower market or Khao San Road spring to mind. This isn’t though a totally stupid idea, so I’ll pivot to smarter here.

A smarter tourist tax

As I said up top, I’m not in principle opposed to a tourist tax. So what could a not-stupid tourist tax look like?

Smart 1: Per cent good, flat rate bad

Ditch the 300 baht flat rate and instead level a charge, say two per cent, at the accommodation point. Everywhere you stay adds an extra fee of two per cent to your bill. This is helpful for many reasons—for starters, it is nominal, simple and fair. For those who are exempt, they can show their work permit or Thai ID when they check in. Though I’d argue there is no reason why locals or those with work permits should not have to pay this as well. Diplomats should have to pay it—hell, I’d charge them triple. Properties—not OTAs like Agoda or Booking—should level the charge. At two per cent, guests would need to spend 15,000 baht on accommodation across their stay to hit 300 baht. Many spend far in excess of this.

Smart 2: Colour code the country

If you wanted to use the tax as a gentle push with regard to over-tourism, then have a shifting scale of charges. In Phuket, Samui, Chiang Mai or Bangkok? Make the charge five per cent. Nakhon Nowhere? Waive it. If you think the charge is too small to change travel patterns, increase it.

Sometimes the less touristed a place is, the better the food. Photo: David Luekens.

Smart 3: Keep the money local

Forget about sending this revenue into the consolidated revenue black hole of Bangkok. Keep the money within the province that collects it. Why? See next point.

Smart 4: Use the funds to support sustainable tourism

Forget the “development of local attractions” boondoggles. Instead find five local schemes to showcase true sustainable tourism at work. It could be a CBT scheme, an environmental education programme, community development, or something as simple as a beach clean up. Use both foreign and domestic tourists’ money to improve where they are.

Smart 5: Let tourists choose

When tourists check in to their accomodation, let them choose which of the five programmes in the province they want to support. When they pick one, tell them how much of the programme is funded, and the target goal. When a programme is completely funded, it drops off the list and another comes on stream. Tourists may even go all wild and crazy and go visit the joint they just paid eight baht of tourist tax to support.

Smart 6: Make it optional

The tourist tax should be optional. Give tourists the option of not paying. However, they should have to select on the form that they do not want to support any of the five programmes listed. Likewise—if they want to donate more—they can. Give people the option of not only knowing exactly where their money is going, but what it is achieving. People’s responses may surprise.

Give credit and gain some too. Photo: David Luekens.

Yes there would be a bit of work and dosh involved in setting all this up. That said, consider all the other schemes the Thai government wastes money on. An approach along the lines of the above could raise awareness, boost local pride, and support sustainable tourism. Hell, it might even raise more money than the stupid tourist tax—now that would be smart.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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A month or so ago, my friend James sent me a link for a travel guide to Cambodia. James has a particular talent for sending me stuff that ruins my day, and this one, well, it was a doozy.

It was one of those typical “how to” travel blog pieces, with blow-by-blow instructions on how to do something. In this particular case, it explained how one can travel from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh by train. Over three thousand words long, it had everything—it even detailed the restaurant and drinks car.

There was though, one problem. There is no train—and never has been—from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh.

“You want a what to where? I’m telling you there’s no train man.” Photo: Mark Ord.

I wondered, why would anyone write this? I could see no useful reason to. The more I read it though, the more I thought, was this the pointy end of the Artificial Intelligence (AI) stick? I emailed the site, and asked after the reasoning behind the piece, but never heard back. I ran some of the text through GPTZero, a tool (yes, an AI tool) designed to detect AI written text and it said:

“Your text is likely to be written entirely by AI.”

AI has been flavour of the month for a while now. It was a few years ago I first saw it in action, and it wasn’t great. Even then though, with improvement inevitable, its potential was clear. I remember writing at the time something about it being the death knell for low-end copywriters. Late last year, ChatGPT opened up its playground for free. It is the brainchild of OpenAI, a startup which includes Elon Musk and Peter Thiel—neither renowned for putting humanity first—among its funders. The opening (now partly rescinded), brought the tool to the masses, and was no doubt the first step towards the funders’ inevitable mega-payoff.

Lets get ChapGPT to write a travel guide for Luang Prabang.

Social media filled with screenshots of the tool’s efforts to “answer” questions. Many, (not only from ChatGPT) veered between bad and iffy to awful and offensive, yet others were eerily good—including poetry, though not poems about athletes foot. To get decent answers, the right questions, in the right way, with the right degree of post-output massaging, were needed. In no short time stories by the dozen ran—sometimes of dubious quality—pointing out AI often displayed a racist and/or sexist tilt with a tendency to surface hate speech (which OpenAI pays Kenyans $2 per hour to address) and disinformation. This is all true, but you could argue if it aims to mimic humanity, this is sadly it doing its job.

Let’s return to the train example for a sec.

With the right collection of keywords, a bit of programming skill, and a dose of patience, AI could write a travel guide. I’ve tried to illustrate this with the (unedited) screenshots in this story. As you can see, AI can already manage a good bit of the process. The finished product isn’t great, it is often boilerplate bare bones, with a few factual errors, but as a collection of lists, it could be far worse. With this text generated, all I need do is dump it into Wordpress and I’m done. I’ll do another city over lunch. In that time, AI may well have improved yet again.

Note the different results when I complicate the question about Saffron Hostel.

How will it improve? To answer this, you need to look at how AI works. Boiled down, it crawls a bazillion websites then regurgitates the information it distills. This means it is only as good as the information it has devoured. If it hasn’t ever crawled information about the mating of the Mongolian Butterfly, it can’t tell you anything about it. As far as I know, there is no such thing as this specifically named butterfly.

Now for the important bit. This crawling of information sources took place without any consent from the creators. Nobody asked Lonely Planet, Getty, or other creators for permission and it should come as no surprise that courthouse queues are growing. It boils down to consent. These tools should be opt-in but instead, if at all, they’re opt-out.

ChapGPT’s take on eating in Luang Prabang.

Says Michael Running Wolf, an AI ethicist, and founder of Indigenous in AI, in this fascinating episode of The Sunday Show [any transcribing inaccuracies mine, it is a bit fuzzy in places]:

“The core conceit problem here isn’t the fact that the AI exists, it’s because they’re stealing data to create these AIs. If we had the ability to enforce our intellectual property rights either through some sorta legal entity who owned the data or even as artisans being able to stop it, this wouldn’t be a problem actually. The whole reason why you can have StableDiffusion, DALL-E ... there’s many other AIs out there, is because they scrape the internet. These AIs have seen Lakota artwork, these AIs have seen Lakota artisan work and pictures, and that’s why they can do it. If they don’t see it, they can’t do it.”

Sarah Andersen, an artist involved in a legal case against a number of AI engines, echoes this in an interview on Hard Fork:

“And I think for me, the big one is consent. People have talked about that maybe in the future artists will be able to opt out. For me, that’s not good enough. I really think if this is your life’s work, as an artist, you should be able to opt in. It should be up to you about whether or not you are part of these generators.”

If the sources of AI’s “intelligence” had needed to opt-in, AI would have had a far smaller information set to work with—and the results would be far less amazing—and no doubt attract less hyperbole … and less money.

Note the first attempt at Kwang Si was wrong, I had to add the Luang Prabang prompt to get the right waterfall, though you can’t see the falls from the Nam Kham.

Which brings me back to travel—the money.

In travel publishing there has been considerable interest in this area. Some paymasters see it as a way of generating content far cheaper (if not for free), and more tailored to a specific audience. Who needs whining human travel writers you need to pay living (or not) wages to, when AI will do it for near-free? To that I’ll quote what the Hanoi travel agent said to me the other day when I asked about two wildly different-priced Hạ Long Bay trips:

“You get what you pay for.”

Note, they all say this—and it drives me nuts.

Money aside, AI is only as good as its diet. So if that diet is predominantly “the top ten things to do in Luang Prabang,” chances are when you ask AI what to do in Luang Prabang, you’ll get that same list.

Stuff like transport and prices is handled, though it doesn’t note that catching a non-stop bus to Hanoi, while possible, is madness.

Back to Michael Running Wolf, in the same interview describing how AI “works” he says:

“The issue with AI is, it is not generating new content, it is actually a façade, these AIs are stochastic parrots, ... so they’re essentially just a statistical parrot, they see data and they’re really good at replicating it, at will, and it is only able to replicate what it sees, they’re not actually able to synthesise new information, ... they’re doing a really good job of seeming like humans to generate say new art, and every pixel that is being generated by these image AIs originates in a previously seen artwork.”

Before going on to say:

“It’s a pretend intelligence”

As with all travel writing, listicles feeding overtourism is a known area of concern, and I’m not sure a pretend intelligence is what the doctor ordered. Travellers need more deliberate guidance, writing that is informed by issues like better empowerment for local people, sustainability, reducing overtourism and protecting the environment.

These issues, AI doesn’t appear to handle well. When I asked it for the “best things to do in Luang Prabang” it gave me a boilerplate list. That it included “Take a tuk-tuk to the nearby town of Vang Vieng and explore its natural beauty,” was pretty funny. Then I asked it “what are the best things to do in Luang Prabang for a sustainable traveller?” and the list, still boiler plate, was largely the same—though the tuk tuk ride was gone. I’m not seeing the intelligence here.

When AI-created listicle websites start popping up daily, what sort of self-referential cycle will begin when robot readers scan robot writers? The situation is bad enough without thousands of new players writing the same top ten lists. Google Search may already be close to broken and this isn’t going to help matters. Some sites, StackExchange most famously, have already banned AI-written responses. Will Google do the same to AI-generated websites and stories? How will they distinguish between a bad writer and a good robot? How can you? Should you need to? Will publishers admit to using AI content? Should they?

All together now. You could generate one of these a minute and have a world guide in no time. Good luck Google.

To a point the consent cat is already out of the bag, but then the next thing is the credit cat. Where was the information sourced from? AI doesn’t give up its sources. When it comes to travel writing, knowing who the author is can be a vital bit of information—at least for me anyway. To my mind, the source is everything, to others, not so much. Theft? Not a big deal for some.

Christian Watts is the founder of Magpie, a CMS thing for tour companies. On Twitter, he declared he was “going all-in on incorporating ChatGPT throughout Magpie.” Yet, when a friend of mine specifically quizzed him about the possibility that some of that material would be lifted from Travelfish, and asked if that was stealing, he wasn’t fussed.

“The way I think about it: If it deems a source worthy, its already trained on it. Every wikipedia page, every lonely planet page etc. When it generates content, it's using its collective knowledge - never specific sources, always unique, so you'll never know. Stealing? probably.”

Always refreshing to see a founder having no qualms about using possibly stolen content in their product.

It’s worth noting in this though, Watts’ use of the term “collective knowledge” and assigning it to AI. It is anything but. Rather, it is humanity’s collective knowledge, co-opted without a penny paid, by the likes of Musk and Thiel who in turn will possibly make more than a single truckload of dosh out of the affair.

Takes a breath.

All service travel writing, to a point is derivative, and there is little writing (in English) about places not written about before. I read widely and I’d be lying to say what I read elsewhere doesn’t influence where I visit and what I write about. Most travel writers have their own take, they add their own nuance to whatever it is they’re approaching. They write for their readership, something that differs from publication to publication. AI strips out the nuance and the humanity—though you can prompt it to add its take on humanity back in. AI produces the sort of travel guide I’d imagine IKEA would write—albeit with clearer directions.

You need a travel guide for pirates? Can.

I took a random paragraph I wrote for Travelfish and ran it through the same tool I put the train site through. The irony of having a robot check if I was a robot wasn’t lost on me, but I was reassured when I was told:

“Your text is likely to be written entirely by a human.”

I don’t plan to change that approach, and I thinks others do at their peril.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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One of the many aspects travel gets flogged over are its carbon emissions. As I’ve written in the past, if you’d like to over-contribute in setting the planet on fire, getting on a plane works best. What about if you don’t? What about if you’d prefer to minimise your emissions? Skipping domestic flights is the obvious first step, but what next? With this in mind, over my recent three-week trip to Vietnam, I decided to track my carbon. Here’s what I found.

Before anything, I needed to decide what I should measure. Transport was a no-brainer, but what about food and accommodation? With flights removed, both can be significant contributors, but how significant? Well, it depends. How do you travel? What do you eat and drink? Where do you stay? It turns out no two travellers are the same.

Taking train-spotting to the next level. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I needed a system that would track not only flights, but other transport, food and hotels. In the end I settled on two, one an app that I could use as I went, and the other a website I could populate at the end of my trip. There were pros and cons to each, and neither did everything I wanted to my satisfaction. That said, both show promise, and it will be interesting to see how they develop over time.

The two systems I tried out were the Capture app and the Path Net Zero calculator. While Capture has some usability issues, it is the more appropriate for travellers looking to measure their emissions as they go. If you’re a tour company wanting to figure out the emissions of a trip, Path Net Zero is by far the better option. I used Capture as I went, then at the end of it, inputted the data from Capture into Path Net Zero.

Capture would wake me each morning with an update on my environmental vandalism. Happy days.

There are some important differences between the two. Capture doesn’t include accommodation while Path Net Zero does. Each takes a different approach to food. In both you can calculate transport by distance or time, and as I used time for Capture, I used the same for Path Net Zero. Despite this, the results were often quite different.

As an example, Capture suggested 1,229.80kg for my two flights while Path Net Zero scored it at 824.52kg. This highlighted how tricky flying can be. How full was the flight, what class was flown (Path Net Zero allowed me to nominate class, Capture doesn’t). What type of plane was it? How was the weather? These can all impact the amount of emissions allocated. That said, in the scheme of things, does it matter? Probably not—flying is the wrecking ball. Using Capture’s numbers, the two flights accounted for a whopping 74% of my total emissions.

Tuk tuk versus Airbus at a glance with Path Net Zero.

Ok, so we all know flights suck for the planet, but what about if we removed flights? Then it got more interesting. With flights removed, train travel jumped to first place, at 43%, then food (26%), motorbike (15%) and car (12%). What about accommodation you ask? A mere 5%. Why? I stay in small hotels and homestays.

If you thought flights were hard, measuring accommodation was a veritable snake pit. For most hotels, electricity is the main emissions source—air-con, kitchens, laundry, pools, hot water, all need power. The more rooms, the more pools, the more restaurants, the more power. Despite what five-star resorts might proclaim, more often than not they are abject wrecking balls environmentally. They’re also some of the worst greenwashing scoundrels on the planet.

With an environmental vandalism pie-chart, air-travel wins.

I stayed at six places during my trip, all but one with twelve rooms or less, and only one had a pool. When it came to figuring out hotel emissions, rather than ask the check-in desk for their meter readings, I turned to the books.

The most useful was Carbon Footprint Assessment of Home-Stays in Thailand by Koiwanit and Filimonau. It looked at homestays in Ranong province, using actual data, and threw out real numbers. I took these figures, then doubled them for my stay—inexact I know. Path Net Zero’s hotel estimate was double mine, but they only go down to two-star properties.

Then I looked for papers on the emissions of flasher properties—you know where this is going right? First I grabbed one that looked at lux hotels in Taiwan—Analysis And Benchmarking Of Greenhouse Gas Emissions Of Luxury Hotels by Huang, Wang and Wang. Then, for the middle range, An Assessment Of The Environmentally Sustainable Hotel Operation: The Case Of Centara Hotels & Resorts, Thailand by Baxter and Srisaeng, worked well.

All those horizon pools add up.

Let me save you some reading time. Where the average of my budget digs came in at under 2kg a day, the midrange Centara was 37.88kg per day and five stars in Taiwan was 50kg. Note, these are average numbers. Throw them across a three-week stay and the 21kg of my stays was almost 720kg with Centara and 950kg with luxury. There is a fair chance my estimate for budget emissions was low, but doubling the research numbers was a good baseline. I added more still for the joint with a pool.

That said, there was no way on earth I was going to get my accommodation-related emissions up to 950kg. So, the best way to reduce your vacation emissions after removing flights, is to avoid five-star hotels. They are a garbage fire of emissions masked by certified greenwashing. Avoid. Instead, stay at small homestays where you’ll save money and may well have a better time. You’ll also have other positive impacts you’ll struggle for at some encroaching pile of concrete with bamboo straws.

Ok, now that I got that off my chest, lets move on.

Meet emission-creep as accommodation moves from 5% to 70% of your emissions.

The next quagmire is food, which Capture and Path Net Zero take different approaches to. The former gives six options: Lots of meat, medium meat, low meat, pescatarian, vegetarian and vegan. This reflects the fact that less meat equals lower emissions. Path Net Zero takes a different approach listing meals by meal type, say American breakfast or continental breakfast, with other meals split between meat, fish or vege, each with a different weighting. This was a bit too fiddly for me, particularly as I was stuffing face with bowls of noodles. I stuck with Capture’s approach.

The thing with food, or rather, meat, is that, like flights, it depends. A few strands of some unlucky local cow tossed into a bowl of phở has a very different emission range to an imported Australian three-inch-thick grain-fed, massaged-daily air-freighted (but still unlucky) cow. It depends how much you want to get into the number crunching. Concerned? Skip the Argentinian Steakhouse and grab a phở on the street.

Local street food isn’t always low on carbon… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In my case, in three weeks, of all my eating, all but four meals were on the street, so for most days I chose medium meat or low meat. This gave me scores of 5.63kg or 4.67kg per day. The total over three weeks was a few bowls over 110 kg. I don’t drink, so imported alcohols etcetera were not on my radar.

Lastly, there’s ground transport. For trains, neither tool had an option for “clapped out Vietnam locomotive powered by dirty fuel.” I’d guess the data comes from Euro trains, but I’m not sure on this. Same goes for vehicles and so on. Is the car or bike electric? I guess these options will come in down the road as the solutions develop.

In the scheme of things though, it is important to keep a bit of perspective. If you want to go wild and have some crazy imported meal, do so, but try and balance it out with a few extra bowls on the street. If you want to minimise your emissions, here are my numbers-assisted takeaway five points, in order of impact:

Do not fly domestically.
Avoid high-end hotels.
Don’t stay in a place with a swimming pool unless you need/want it.
Slow down, spend longer in each place so you use ground transport less.
Eat less meat.

The first two, are to my mind, no brainers. The other three are more calls for moderation. Think about your impact and act on that—and eat more phở.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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Note: Our exisiting coverage for Cửa Đại and An Bàng on Travelfish which were researched and written in 2017 serve as good counterpoints to the following piece as they illustrate now much has changed in just a few years. I’ll be updating them to bring them in line with the following in the coming days.

Let me start by saying I’ve seen more than my share of great beaches. The flip-side of this is I’ve also seen my share of not so great, dare I say, awful, beaches. A product of travelling in circles in Southeast Asia for the last thirty years is that I’ve seen many a beach shift from the former to the latter. Few—if any, move in the opposite direction.

Despite this downwards shift, beaches remain one of the major calling cards for many a Southeast Asian destination. There’s the palm trees, the blue skies, the powdery sand, the warm and lapping turquoise water. You get my drift right?

What we need is a “no building” sign. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve written before about the perils that rising sea levels hold for the not too distant future. Yet, tourists’ favourite holiday spots washing away are the least of the concerns. The economic and social ramifications of a vanishing coastline will be as vast as the ocean that submerges them. Yes, the calamities associated with this are down the tube a bit—give it another twenty years give or take.

Yet, in some spots you don’t need to wait twenty years. For those who want front seats on the calamity, come to Vietnam. To An Bàng and Cửa Đại beaches, a short bike ride from tourist hub Hội An. I made the trip today to save you the bother, and the beach is an unmitigated disaster area.

What could go wrong? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

First a brief history.

I first visited Hội An’s beach strip in 1993 or 1994. As best I remember, at the time there was nothing tourist-facing on An Bàng, and Cửa Đại had three hotels—the Victoria and two others. The beach, still quite duney in places, went and went and went. To the south, the (then with no dams) Thu Bồn river emptied out to sea, while offshore, the Chàm Islands glimmered. You could walk all the way to Đà Nẵng’s Mỹ Khê Beach and see barely any construction whatsoever. I did it—once. Yes, 1993 was a lifetime ago.

Vietnam’s coast around Hội An catches a bit of weather in October-ish most years when tropical cyclones blow in. While the town often floods and has for decades, the beach districts bear the brunt of it. People die. For the rest of the year, thanks to current, wind cycles and the Thu Bồn, the sand returns—ready to get sucked away again. This combination of islands, estuary and storms create a complex and unique system. Still, this cycle of erosion and accretion (when the sand returns) has been going on forever. Well, almost.

What a difference 19 years makes. First two images (source), third image, Stuart McDonald, via Google Maps.

In recent decades, An Bàng, and Cửa Đại have boomed—a search on AirBnb for “An Bàng” delivers results for hundreds of “homes.” Many sit on what was once the sand dunes that formed a natural protective element for the beach. Off beach meanwhile, at least seven dams now sit on the Thu Bồn. Illegal sand dredging on the river is rife. In a few short decades, a system that has worked forever and a day has started to malfunction. The cycle of erosion and accretion isn’t what it used to be. Add to this, a worsening of the storm cells that hit the region each year, and none of the news is good.

But wait, there’s more!

At the southern end of Cửa Đại Beach, where the Victoria was once the southern-most resort, more resorts went in. Built within metres of the high tide mark, it should come as a surprise to nobody that they started to wash away. At the southernmost tip, everyone’s favourite enviro-vandal Vin Group dropped in the VinPearl Hoi An Resort. Built at the cusp of the Thu Bồn’s mouth, even by Vin Group standards, this was an epic brain fart. Work started on it in 2004, and when the beach washed away, they lined the resort’s periphery with boulders. Writes Do et al:

“Starting from Cua Dai Inlet and going along the beach toward the north, the first resort is Vinpearl Hoi An. The construction started around 2004. After the construction, the shoreline significantly retreated so that the investors chose to protect their resort by construction of a seawall in front of the resort.”

Reminds me of Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As elsewhere in the world, doing this changed how sand moved along the coast. Other, equally ahhh poorly-placed resorts, seeing “their” beach vanish, did the same. This wasn’t a coordinated response of course, so each wall was in a different style and in a different position. Giant black sand-filled socks dive into the ocean in front of some prime real estate.

The socks appear to be a part of a greater plan to turn the beach into a giant sandpit. This story covers it, along with an interesting video. Set about 250 metres offshore an underwater dyke is being built which will in theory protect the beach. Other reports note the area between the dyke and the beach will be backfilled with sand dredged from the Thu Bồn, which seems ... unwise. Past similar projects, costing millions of dollars, have failed. Similar beach nourishment exercises elsewhere have found the costs to be immense.

The have and have nots. Note the difference in the level of the sand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While the beaches to the far south are already gone, up the beach, at An Bàng, the hammer has fallen big time. An Bàng you see, straddles a higher dune than down the bottom of the beach, so while the development is lower key, the fall to the sea is greater. When I walked down the beach today, some places had sheer drops of three to four metres. Take my word for it, the fall is precipitous in places.

Traditionally a more affordable strip, An Bàng is often portrayed as some sort of bohemian whatever. There’s chic cafes and plenty of thatch roofing, distressed wood and washed out whitewash. Members of the informal economy (sorry I mean global nomads) ponder life on their MacBooks. Despite this deliberate rustic-ness, there’s a tonne of money turning over. Shabby chic (and often foreign-owned) joints on Airbnb pass for hundreds of dollars a night.

Watch that last step. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

An Bàng seemed to lack the deep pockets of the grander resorts that made the mess in the first place. Instead, over the years a range of efforts have been made to try to protect the dune. Sandbags failed, as did bigger ones. Even bigger ones also failed. Staggered walls made of bamboo poles, some built atop the failed efforts of earlier years. Sand-filled bags buttress the bamboo, but when the bags fall apart only the spiky bamboo walls remain. These are ideal for catching trash—including the remnants of the bags—it is as unsightly as it is dangerous. Fall on one of those fences after a night on Huda Beer and you will know all about it.

Meanwhile hotels, cafes, and houses continue to wash away. Bathrooms seem resilient, ridge-top solitary loos lord it over the sand, waiting to topple. Elsewhere, half collapsed rooms die a slow-motion death, cement detritus lining the beach. These are, in a way, the worst bit of the entire s**t sandwich. If authorities had a modicum of concern for beachgoer safety, it would identify these and remove them before they fell into the sea.

It is, truly awful.

I’ve run out of metaphors. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So what should happen?

The Vinpearl should absolutely be levelled. Others that likewise rely on the walls that exacerbated this mess should go too. I’d stretch this north to the Marriott (according to Google Maps) garbage fire under construction, and Palm Garden. In their place, aggressive regeneration to return the dunes to their natural state needs to begin.

Up An Bàng way, anything on the cusp of the ever-growing cliff remains in a danger zone. These places haven’t made the mess in the way the southern joints have, and over time, they may be a little more tenable. Hard to say.

Is anyone awake at Hội An Tourism? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Will any of this happen? No. It was suggested to me that local authorities will continue to affix bandaids while the connected firms that made this the mess it is continue to make money hand-over-fist. As a Vietnamese tourism insider put it to me, “our government prefers to half fix things so they can half fix them next year and the year after. There’s more money for everyone that way.”

Instead, the storms and floods will continue to get worse, as will the erosion. More places will fall into the ocean, littering the beach with chunks of smashed toilets and bathroom walls. People will continue to lose their livelihood. At some stage, when enough of the beach has gone, people will stop coming.

The biggest outrage? What I was charged for this coconut. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Cửa Đại and An Bàng are the canary in the coal mine for the region. Other countries need to wake up and see what is coming and start planning today—not in twenty years.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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Broad strokes, destinations want tourists to do three things. They want them to come, to spend, and to leave. In visiting somewhere—anywhere—a tourist does all these things by default, so the bar is low. The Holy Grail though, is to add another item—to stay—and more often than not, tourists do that too. But then the challenge becomes how to get them to stay longer. Not forever—after all we’ve all had guests camped in the spare room tooooo long—but to be sure, longer than a night is good. How does a destination get people to stay another day?

The Stay Another Day concept is far from a new one. Both Siem Reap and Luang Prabang have run initiatives built around this. But today, I’m writing about Huế, located more of less in the middle of Vietnam.

Slow down to xích lô speed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

An ancient capital in times past, Huế is not short on attractions. There’s the Citadel, tombs, pagodas, museums, a beautiful riverfront, a fascinating “old city,” and a fabulous food scene. And yet, many foreign visitors give it but a night. This isn’t because they’re not interested in what the city has to offer, but rather two other reasons—both of which are out of the city’s control.

The single biggest reason is, as I’ve written before, travellers trying to see too much in too little time. Vietnam is a bigger place than most realise, and, particularly if travelling by train (which, by the way, everyone should), time goes fast. When one is trying to cram eight places into two weeks something has to give, and often that extra night in Huế is the first thing to fall off the wagon. Why Huế? For that answer, you need to look to the second challenge—which lies roughly four to five hours to the south—Hoi An.

Aside from Hạ Long Bay and Sapa, Hội An is the heaviest promoted destination in the country—and, to a point, with good reason. There is a lot to love, be it the shopfronts, the international food scene, the river setting, or (or a good day when they’re not covered in trash of washing away) the beaches. But all—Hạ Long, Sapa, and Hội An, among others—have been battered by the overtourism bat.

How about some offerings to keep overdevelopment at bay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sure Da Nang sits between the two and that’s a destination in its own right I guess, but it is interchangeable with many other overtouristed beach resort strips in the region. What Hue and Hội An offer though, can’t be seen and experienced in the same way elsewhere. They’re each unique in their own way.

In looking for other “things” to convince people to stay longer in Huế, there is a concerted effort to add a “wellness” arrow to its quiver. It has a pretty hinterland and there is plenty of scope for spas, retreats, cycling tours and so on. There’s nothing wrong with this approach, but some will require a considerable chunk of change to do right. With this in mind, I’d suggest two other simple approaches that won’t break the budget, worth consideration.

The Citadel ticket has to change. From a historical point of view, Huế’s most marketed attractions are the Citadel and the Royal tombs that surround it. The former is downtown, a short walk from the city’s tourist hub on the south side of the Perfume River. The tombs are scattered around the surrounds, not all in the same direction and are generally visited by van or motorbike.

Hurry up, the clock is ticking. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Citadel and each tomb has there own admission fee, but you can also buy a variety of combination tickets. These allow you to visit a mix of the palace and tombs for a reduced overall price. This in itself is smart, but what isn’t so smart is the ticket is only valid for two days. In most cases what this means is a visitor will see the Citadel on one day and, best case, on the other day, see as many tombs as they can cram in. Take my word for it, after a long day of tomb wandering, the value added in that last one—whichever it may be—is low. Not an ideal experience for visitors. It also means that tourists have two action packed days, and then, “top shelf” sights done, they leave.

A better approach would be for the ticket validity to be open-ended—or say five days. Then, tourists would have the option of seeing a couple of tombs each day. In the meantime, they’re having a more relaxing experience, staying longer, and spending more. But, if the Citadel and the tombs are the top attractions, what else could/should they be doing? This brings me to my second point.

Huế may be a city of many hues, but it is also the culinary capital of Vietnam. Yes, Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City—and pretty much everywhere else in the country—has great food. But—and I am willing to die on this hill—Huế has the highest ratio of great eating per square kilometre in the country. The problem is, much of the best food is in the northern part of the city, clustered around the Citadel, but the majority of the hotels are in the south.

Think calming thoughts. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This eating is generally not in tourist-orientated restaurants. Instead it is street food or one step up, on red plastic chairs, consumed over a matching red plastic table. There are no English menus—there are often no menus at all—and there is almost never English spoken. Hygiene isn’t what it could be. If you don’t speak a word of the language and don’t know what you want, the whole scene can be a bit intimidating. In actuality it isn’t—I’ve never been turned away from a joint or felt unwelcome, but, for the uninitiated, I get it.

So while it is easy to say “spend five days seeing the palace and tombs and eat in between,” the next question is “how?” This is where Huế Tourism could lend a helping hand. They could come up with say a half dozen food walks suitable to different tastes, each listing places that are on board with the concept. This could then be reproduced alongside a map onto a flyer (yes, on paper!) and distributed to every accommodation venue in the city.

Each mentioned place could have a little poster inside, on the wall or something, reproducing the map, noting it is “Number 4 on the tour, features bún bò Huế, and the dish costs 25,000 dong. The owner is a women named Thanh who has been slinging bowls for 22 years. When you’re done, Number five is a kilometre up the road.” That is all people need—anything else they can discover under their own steam.

Give people time to explore to find out what is under the hood. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Of course, food maps along these lines already exist. Vietnam Coracle has an excellent one, and there’s one on Travelfish, but here I’m talking about something coming from the destination’s end of the stick. The tourism board is the obvious candidate as they should have relationships with the hotels that could serve as distribution points for flyers and other information. Something that gets the local businesses involved, that gives them the kudos of knowing they’re part of the reason people stay in Huế for longer.

Something like this would not be expensive to develop nor distribute. While there might be a temptation to go high tech on it, that is overkill. Sometimes old tech—paper and pencil—works fine. Don’t overcomplicate matters.

My closing advice would be to highlight local small businesses. For every dish you get in a high-trafficked tourist restaurant in the south, there’s a better red plastic chairs version in the north. Each trail need not be exhaustive and could cater to different tastes—vegan or halal for example—or times of the day. Not all are like me—who’ll eat six bowls in six hours without complaint, so each trail could cover just four or five stops apiece. A coffee, a snack, a bigger snack, a bowl and a dessert.

Give people reasons to give Huế the time it deserves. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Come up with say a dozen trails, six in the north, four in the south, and two striking out into the suburbs, and before you know it, tourists have instructions on a whole range of reasons to stay longer—the longer they stay, the slower they travel—a win for sustainable travel in a country just about bereft of it. Lastly, there’s no risk of putting the existing food tours out of business as they invariably don’t set foot in the old city!

All this for the costs of printing and a serious bowl budget for some of Huế Tourism’s best eaters—I know who you are!

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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Xin chào from Phan Rang in South Central Vietnam. I’m typing this after an extremely wet scooter day, and while this is only my fourth full day, it feels like double that. In a good way!

I’m in Vietnam to speak at a four-day conference in Huế, but I decided to turn a four-day commitment into a three week trip. It seemed like the right thing to do, but already I feel like I’m running out of time. The conference is on religious tourism and pilgrimage, which might not sound like it belongs on my page, but ... what is travel but a pilgrimage?

Hai Việt Nam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Titled “A sense of faith builds a sense of place,” my talk looks at the important role backpackers play in slow tourism. If, by chance, you’re in Huế next week, come along!

A few years ago, I was in some bar talking to some guy. The guy, he was aghast at my plans for a motorbike trip to the north of Vietnam. He compared it to Burma, Cambodia and Thailand’s predominant Buddhist faiths, Vietnam? No, no, no, no way man—he wasn’t going. “They’re all godless communists, why would you go there?” he said.

As we were not travelling together I wasn’t too fussed, but his thoughts were curious. He wasn’t, as far as I could tell from his behaviour over the hour I’d been talking to him, a religious guy at all. At all. And yet here he was getting all biblical on me. People can be odd.

First meal off the plane. Half hole-in-the-wall half motorcycle repair shop. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City the other day, I got a xe ôm from the airport to my hotel in Phú Nhuận District. I’d not stayed in the area before and wanted to explore somewhere new. I spent the first day in meetings and catching up with friends, but the second morning, I went for a wander.

Leaving my hotel, I walk down Trần Huy Liệu for about half an hour, past the coffee shop by the dozen, till I reach Lê Văn Sỹ. There I take a left, walking south to Chợ Nguyễn Văn Trỗi, a thriving fresh produce and a million-other-things market. After a walk through the shopping maze, I grab a street side coffee and continue south to the “river.”

Demarcating Phú Nhuận from downtown District 1, the Thị Nghè Canal, was once one of the city’s most polluted waterways. Now that’s saying something. Thanks to an almost US$400m World Bank project an enormous reworking was undertaken starting in 2002, and taking a decade to complete. A ten-year length this story blames on “unyielding clay [and] crooked Chinese contractors.” Cough splutter.

It is amazing what you can do with almost half a billion dollars. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As a part of the process, some 7,000 houses, most belonging to the urban poor, were razed. Those with title had a chance at subsidised apartments, but many ended up landless, pushed to the periphery of town. Out of sight and out of mind and all that. Today, grass lawns and frangipani replace the grounds where the houses once stood. Lining both sides of the waterway, bench seats with canoodling lovers dot the lawns. Fishers dangle lines (no thanks!) and, by the lawn, on both sides, coffee-shop-lined roads run.

There’s also houses of worship. As I reach the canal, on my left sits Chùa Pháp Hoa, a large Buddhist temple with attention-grabbing cannon-ball flowers. Known for its bright lanterns, the name Pháp Hoa means “magic flower,” but I’m not sure if that refers to the lanterns or the flowers.

A little further east, on the south bank of the canal, lies Chùa Chantarangsay, a Khmer Buddhist temple. Walking around its grounds you could close your eyes and open them again only to find yourself in Phnom Penh. Further east still, lies Công Lý Church, one of a few in the area.

Love me a cannon-ball flower. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After the church, I backtrack a little, and head to a cafe. My plan is to pull up a red plastic chair and have a coffee while life rolls by. Clearly the hang-out for a bunch of old guys, they eye me warily like I am spoiling the scene, but return my smile and wave me to sit. I speak exactly three words of Vietnamese—and those badly—so it doesn’t take long for our chat to dwindle. Not deterred by my lack of lingo, through sign language a decision surfaces—I have to arm wrestle each of them. No, I don’t understand either. My elbow still very sore from my motorbike accident a couple of weeks ago, I lose three times in quick succession. This seems to please them.

Coffee downed and elbow killing me, I bid my farewell and start back up Nguyễn Văn Trỗi towards my hotel. I don’t get far before I reach Jamiul Muslimin Mosque, with a bunch of devotees milling around out front. Leaning against her scooter, a young woman who is curious why I’m not in District One, chit chats me for a spell. She’d love to visit Indonesia she says, almost squealing when I tell her I live in Bali. We must look quite the couple—her head-to-toe in black and not a bead of sweat on her, me a dishevelled mess. The mosque closed, she tells me to come back later in the day, and I tell her to come to Bali. She says maybe once she gets married. As I’m not about to propose, I take my leave.

The Land Of The Godless Communists indeed.

This was the second of eight coffees along the walk. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Almost back to the hotel, I drop in for a quick bowl and another coffee and it is time to collapse. Where did the day go? All I’ve done is walk around the block—it is so good to be on the road again.

Also, when you’re next in Ho Chi Minh City, rather than busy yourself on tours and ticking off sights, just go for a walk—you might be pleasantly surprised.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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Blink and you’ll miss it right? I feels like only yesterday that 2019 was drawing to a close, yet here we are on the cusp of 2023. It has been, it would be fair to say, a sub-optimal spell.

Last time I got into predications, I suggested the pandemic would stretch for years rather than months—broken clocks and all that. So what do I see on the cards for 2023? Smash all the clocks within reach and read on to find out.

The return of the queue

In the heady days of early on in the pandemic I was one of a group interviewed about what it all meant. One of the others, a technologist investor, declared it would be a shot in the arm for “contactless.” By that they meant the technologies built around removing human contact in travel. Driven by the fears of human contact driving Covid, they, along with others, argued for the removal of humans.

Screenshot from The Serpent: Stuart McDonald

Thankfully, and for a glad bag of reasons, this hasn’t happened. What is back with vengeance though, is queues. If you thought queues were awful in 2019, expect 2023 to be a special surprise.

The return of China

If you think queues are bad now, wait till China comes back on stream. The teat Southeast Asia’s tourism industry welded itself to will start pumping in quarter two. By the middle of 2023, Chinese outbound tourism will be back big time. I’d like to say this will pump needed income into regional economies, and to a point it will, but ...

... the structural problems of tourism will remain unaddressed

Much of the income China’s tourism brings will beat the passengers to the departure gate. The leaky boat that tourism is will continue to leak and vast amounts of money that should be staying in the destination will continue to get offshored.

The only leakage here is the roof. Literally. Ko Chang Noi. Photo: David Luekens.

The industry at large remains patently uninterested in addressing the exploitative financial arrangements that underpin it. Or at least that underpin the wealth of the CEOs whose decisions perpetuate it. There is though, hope for change in at least one area—greenwashing.

Greenwashing will see court time

The passing of Australian laws aimed at reigning in greenwashing are welcome indeed. Expect in 2023 to see a high profile operator, a media outlet, or more likely an influencer, to have their day in court. Taken to task for deceptive claims around their activities, this could be a watershed. Bring the hammer down hard please.

If you’re not convinced this is true, check this out about the tourism industry deciding to measure their carbon emissions a different way in order to be able to crow about what progress they’ve already made.

Destination communities will get involved ...

... though not in a way one might expect. The days of being nothing more than background for Instagram photos are over. Expect legal action much as you already see against natural resources firms. After all, is there that much difference between the coal and travel industries? Communities will point the finger over the environmental, social and economic ravages tourism can bring.

Pave it over baby. Sapa, Vietnam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are no shortage of regional destinations that would make for test cases in this regard. Residents have seen a tourist-free world, and while most would like some degree of tourism, nobody sane wants 2019 back. The industry meanwhile, is racing back to 2019’s madness—pushback is inevitable. Head to court, today—well, on January 1 please, so this prediction counts.

Tourism’s spots will not change

Many, myself included, argued that the pandemic provided the opportunity to “rethink tourism.” Many, again myself included, argued that this was a pipe dream—and it was. There are exceptions, but by and large, tourism is not going to change its spots. As mass tourism comes on stream through the middle of 2023, expect the industry to both encourage and embrace it.

Flying is toxic

Flight frequency will surge to accommodate the tens of millions of returning travellers. A minority though, a vocal one, will speak out against it. Their travels reorganised, forward-focused operators will highlight opportunities for “no-flight travel.” Much like the “Responsible Travel” schtick of the late 1990s, this will be a profitable niche for some. It will also be one that matters.

Look, at least it wasn’t coal-fired. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you think vitriol aimed at superfluous flying was bad now, you ain’t seen anything yet. Expect to see public calls for the boycott of operators who elect not to put this thinking into practice.

Visas will not get smarter

Destinations will continue to blather about “quality tourists” but ignore long-stay slow tourism’s value. In particular they’ll continue to distance themselves from backpackers and independent travellers. Visas will remain too short to allow slow travel to gain any true scale nor deliver on its potential.

2023 will bring opportunities for ...

... operators who swim against the flow. For those who eschew domestic flights. For those who embrace and work to deliver the benefits of tourism that vests communities.

Avoiding tourism that leaves local people no option but this. Ko Phi Phi, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This could take all sorts of forms. Not flying is an obvious one, but another could be avoiding destinations that are the worst example of over-tourism, and instead visiting alternatives that offer many of the same factors, but empower the local community in better ways. Expect to see this niche increase in size as both operators and travellers grow to see their holiday as more than a holiday.

A growing realisation that travel is more than travel

For these people, and the companies that help them, 2023 could be the beginning of something great. Great how? Great in that bucket lists become the antithesis of responsible travel. Great in that the calculus in determining a good trip changes. Great in that the question changes from “what am I getting out of this trip,” to “what am I achieving in this trip.” Great in seeing travel as an agent for positive change rather than one simply of change. Great in embracing outward facing rather than inward-looking personal growth.

This is the last Couchfish post for 2022. They’ll be a Travelfish newsletter tonight, but after that, I’m taking a break. I’ll be back in your inbox on January 9, by which time I’ll be in Vietnam working to deliver on some of the above. Watch this space!

Tourism in 2023, be not like this. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Happy holidays to you all, and if you’re hitting the road, good luck with the queues! Thanks for your support through the years and see you on the other side!

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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A quick note up top. I had a motorbike accident yesterday and have a lot more stitches in my right arm than I’d prefer to have, so this is a shorter post than I had planned. It should be fairly self explanatory though.

You can’t throw a satay stick without hitting a report by some mob in the travel industry saying that travellers want to travel more sustainably. These surveys are often poorly run with terrible questions. I mean, who is going to say “No, I don’t want to travel sustainably”? Rather than asking people “do you want to travel sustainably,” a better question perhaps could be “would you prefer to stay at hotels without horizon pools, no air-conditioning, no foreign staff, and eating only locally-grown food?” Nobody it seems though, asks questions like this.

So, given that the OTAs like Booking, Agoda, Expedia, AirBnb etcetera are the primary gatekeepers to accommodation bookings, how could one put sustainability up front, and also, better explain what it means? Here’s four simple screens to get started.

Start with some broad strokes

In case you were wondering, the bit on the right is my addition.

So here, in the right panel we have four new summary reports for the destination. For each, the bar goes from green (good) to red (bad). The numbers indicate the lowest and highest value for the destination. The blue circle shows the average score for the same destination.

The electricity and water usage should be self explanatory. Though it is important to note that the water use per room would include all water—not just what is used in the rooms—pools, especially private pools, count too. By remittance destination, I mean where the OTA pays the money due to the hotel—the point of this being to highlight the leakages concerned with foreign-owned hotels. This is an inexact science as some OTAs don’t take the full money upfront, rather the deposit you pay is their commission, but, well, it is a start. The last one is to highlight local employment practices of properties. A better approach perhaps could be to look solely at management rather than all employees.

WTF is sustainability

Most OTAs offer filtering on stuff like price, district, facilities and so on. “Sustainability” though is a very recent add-on and can be seen to the left in the example above. There are a range of problems associated with this.

First, it isn’t clear how many sustainability actions one needs to undertake to qualify. Second, unsustainable practices don’t appear to count against a property, meaning you can have a gargantuan swimming pool powered by a personal coal-fired power station, but if you also have bamboo straws, let guests skip room service and don’t exploit animals, then it appears you can still score a sustainability qualifier. Third, while you can click through from individual property pages to see what they are doing, many things, for instance “using low-wattage light bulbs” should be a standard form of business. We are past the days where accolades are deserved for stuff like lightbulbs.

Instead, I suggest something like what I have in the right pane. The blue ticks are ones that are selected by default. So, if properties are not following the four that I have ticked (as an example) then they should not be listed by default on the OTA. Travellers should need to uncheck the box to see properties that don’t pay minimum wage for example. So, start with some base points which any property should be doing, then offer further specific aspects which people can filter on. Each should be linked to an explainer on what each one means.

Tell me the bad news up front

This is my beach shack. No, it is not for rent, I’m just using it as an example so some eco-vandal hotel doesn’t get angry at me.

On the profile page, up top the OTA could mark how the specific property compares to the averages for the destination (the blue lines are the average—excuse my poxy graphic design skills—my arm is killing me!). So in this way at a glance, at the very top of the screen, potential bookers could see how this property compares to others in the location.

OTAs could get cleverer and have perhaps moving averages for different classes of accommodation. For example high-end hotels, on average use far far far more water and electricity than a homestay does, so a sector-wide average discriminates against homestays. Likewise while I’ve used the four cases of electricity, water, offshoring and employment practices, there is no reason why other sustainability factors couldn’t be treated in the same way.

Help me understand

Hotel sustainability at top left, what it says on Booking bottom right.

The OTAs also need to do a far better job of explaining what they mean by their sustainability factors. See the example above, from what it says on Booking and what the property’s own 2022 sustainability report says. These do not mean the same thing. The 100% renewables one is clearly being abused on Booking—there are dozens upon dozens of properties in Ubud for example claiming to be using 100% renewable electricity, a claim I find extremely difficult to believe. It is far from only dubious claim, take for example the following two that often appear:

Single-use plastic water bottles not used
Single-use plastic bottles not used

Does this mean in the room or the resort? If you only select the first one, does that mean you can use plastic bottles for other stuff? Why are we making a case for water in particular? Why is this being made more confusing than it needs to be?

Help everyone understand

The core problem is OTAs are telling people a property is sustainable, when it often isn’t. Through clearer and far more prominent approach to labelling and explanations, travellers would be far better positioned to make informed choices—and that would be a good thing.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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Over the weekend I had a fun chat (the sound is a bit scrappy sorry—I blame Skype) with David Luekens. David worked with us for many years at Travelfish and later, as the pandemic kicked off, started a newsletter focussed on Thailand’s many islands and beaches. He has just returned to Thailand after a longish break Stateside, and has great plans for the newsletter—including changing it into a quest of sorts.

Think island thoughts. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I recommend listening to the podcast for the full story, but is that isn’t your thing, a transcript is below. It has been edited and tidied up … a bit. I’ve also added below a bunch of links to posts by David in the past to give you a feel for his work.

Stuart

Stuart

This Monday I’ve got something a little bit different for everybody who’s managed to survive the whole rethinking travel never-ending series. Now that that’s wrapped up, I’m moving back onto something a little bit different, a little bit lighter.

If you’re somebody who’s used Travelfish in the past and you’ve found yourself on an island here or there, chances are that you were travelling off the work of David Luekins who worked with us at Travelfish for a long period, covering a vast section of the country, and later on he went on to start a newsletter the Thai Island Times. A Substack newsletter which looked at all aspects of travelling around Thailand along with a wrap on news and developments and that kind of stuff.

Earlier this year, David took a break from Thailand and headed back to his home country, the United States. But just last week, I believe, he returned to Thailand and he’s got some big changes coming along the way to Thai Island Times, and it’s great to have him here to chat a little bit about what he’s got planned.

So David, how are you?

David

Good, thank you for having me here.

Stuart

I hear that it’s your birthday, so I should really start by saying happy birthday, correct?

David

Oh, thank you.

Stuart

Or are you one of those people that puts fake birth dates into social media tools?

David

Yeah no, no. Once you’re over, well, once you’re over 40, I think it is kind of like you start to dread the birthdays rather than appreciate or enjoy them. I feel like a bit, but ... not getting any younger, you know, but... Happy to be back in Thailand to celebrate it for sure.

Stuart

So when did you get back to Thailand?

David

Last week, it’s been a little over a week now.

Stuart

And how long were you back Stateside?

David

Better part of this past year. I actually went back in January last year, so almost all 2022. It’s by far the longest that I’ve been there, been back in the US since I moved out here to Thailand in 2011. So it was, it was interesting. It was nice to kind of reconnect with the country after I’d been here for, I’d been here in Thailand for the whole, you know, pandemic the whole emergency phase of the pandemic 2020 and all of 2021 pretty much, but definitely feels good to be back in Thailand.

Stuart

That was actually my next question, what is it like being back in Thailand after almost a year away?

David

Well, it’s really nice because things have changed here. Last year, I mean, I had waited until the end of 2021, and it looked like maybe there would be a bit of a tourism high season. At least the start of a recovery and then the Omicron variant hit in December, and so pretty much it’s been I guess, now this will be, finally, it’s been about three high seasons that have been missed here basically, in 2020 that was really only the tail end of the high season that was where we encountered lockdowns and that was the beginning basically of the pandemic.

But then all of 2021, I mean the tourism, the actual arrival numbers in Thailand completely plummeted throughout 2021, and that was the worst of the pandemic here in Thailand as well. So it’s finally really feels like there’s hope and it’s starting to turn around. A lot of businesses are open, a lot, many, are still closed as well, but I remember just walking down Khao San Road, back in like the middle of 2021 and literally every single shop and business was shuttered. And now quite a few are still closed, but there’s definitely a lot of energy there now. I walked down there again the other day, and I was happy to see quite a few backpackers and just people back, people out, Thai people out. Working and traveling and having a good time and so yeah, I’m really just excited to get some sense of normalcy coming back to Thailand.

After this rough few years, I mean because during the pandemic it was really, especially here in Bangkok, it was weird to be here. I felt like kind of the soul of the city just kind of disappeared for a long time. And millions of people moved, from what I understand, millions of people moved back to their home provinces and things like that. So it’s nice, it’s really nice to come back and feel like almost like it did. It almost reminds me of some of my early trips to Thailand in a way, because there aren’t, there’s not as many tourists as there had been in like 2018-2019. But there’s definitely some energy, and things are starting to pick up again.

Stuart

Right, I mean. I’ve heard from some other friends who have travelled through there over the last few months. And they’re comparing it to, I mean, obviously the look of the city and so on has changed, but the feel they’re comparing it to the late 1990s early 2000s would, would you say that sounds on the money to you.

David

Yeah, I mean yeah, it definitely does remind me of my first trip to Thailand was in 2005, and yeah, in a way it does remind me of that a bit. It feels a bit more like that than 2019 when there were 40 million tourists. I mean, I think in 2005 there were less than 20 million tourists that came into the country that year, around those years and then by 2019 there were almost 40 million. So basically over the 10 years, like over the years when I was working for Travelfish, I really saw the impact of the increasing tourist numbers and a lot of sites like the Grand Palace and places like that and also a lot of beaches, like of course Maya Bay is well known for having been totally overrun during those years, and so it’s not like that at all anymore.

I mean Bangkok has changed a lot, in some ways for the better, I think like there’s a lot more Metro stations, it’s more accessible which is good because you don’t have to be stuffed into trains and boats quite as much as you did and I mean it has like a low key, little bit of a laid back more of a laid back kind of feel I think in the city. Which is kind of refreshing and like I said I feel like there’s a sense of hope and a sense that now it’s like finally it feels like it’s really time for an actual recovery. And to see how the future shapes out after this whole three years of a pandemic that that we’ve been through so, yeah, it’s exciting.

Stuart

I realise you’ve only been back for about a week, so I’m not sure how much you’ve been out chatting to people and what have you. But when you talk about a hope for recovery, and that kind of thing, do you think there’s a degree of apprehension? From Thai people that they would like to see, perhaps not 40 million people not bouncing back to 40 million people anytime soon. And perhaps the lower level of tourism is desirable.

David

Yeah, I mean certainly I think there’s there are people who feel that way. I haven’t talked to too many people specifically about that since I’ve been back, but I mean the thing with the pandemic, and I’ve been saying this for years now, is that the effects of it we’re very unevenly balanced in terms of financially speaking, especially in the tourism industry, and that’s still the case.

If you’re a tour operator or someone who had been focusing mainly on tourists from mainland China, then you’re probably looking for it to get back to similar numbers as 2019. That’s obviously a big group that’s still largely absent. So I mean there are a lot of businesses that have been focused on that group specifically, who are lagging behind everyone else in terms of trying to rebuild and everything, so I think it depends on who you talk to really in their own situations, but I mean for me, I personally feel like it’s not a bad thing to not have 40 million a year coming into the country.

Maybe something more like 25 million or 30 million, would be a little more manageable, but then again, like I said, talking about tourists from China and other parts of Asia, those China, India, that’s where a lot of the increase in the tourist numbers came from over the last 10 years. Like especially starting around like 2010 or so, and there was an awful lot of infrastructure that was built that was sort of geared more towards, not totally 100% towards them, a lot of large hotels kind of mid range hotels like with air-con rooms and stuff. A lot of those places are still sitting empty unfortunately so it’s like there are reminders.

You think back to the mid 2000s or something, and it’s definitely not exactly the same. There’s certainly reminders of everything that’s happened here over the last few years still, and we’ll see. I mean, that’s just really my observation from walking around Bangkok and especially around the Old Town parts. On Khao San Road itself, a lot of most of it seems, like a lot of the hotels and actually notably a lot of the really old long-standing guest houses that have been there since the 90s and early 2000s or even earlier maybe, I don’t want to say a lot, but I definitely noticed that some of those are still around and some of them have even expanded. There’s a lot of buildings for rent there, so if you wanted to, if you were a guest house owner and you had survived and you had some savings, I think it would be a good time to kind of expand your business and you’re seeing a bit of that.

Stuart

So you just mentioned you’ve done a bit of walking around the Old Town. Have you managed to get out of Bangkok yet or have you just been in the capital?

David

Yeah, we did go up to Lopburi just for a day, I don’t know, well the they have the sunflowers it’s December, it’s they got the sunflower fields at, I think it’s called Khao Lae Chin or Khao Chin Lae, can’t remember the mountain, it’s like a limestone karst mountain. I’m not sure if they still do it, but they used to do rock climbing there, that was one of the activities that was offered to backpackers coming through Lopburi town.

It’s beautiful, actually, the countryside, we actually went around Lopburi and part of Saraburi just around the countryside, you know, stopped at some farms and took some pictures. We didn’t hang around the Lopburi town much, but we did drive through and the monkeys didn’t get us—we kept our windows closed—but yeah, it was good little trip, but we’re heading out today actually later to head south and start getting back to all the islands and beaches and stuff.

Stuart

You’re leaving today so how long a trip have you got planned heading down south?

David

It would be like at a least a week, maybe? Maybe nine days max, and then we’ll be back in Bangkok and then next month, definitely be traveling again, probably down to the Andaman coast. For this trip we’re going down to Chumphon and we will get probably over to Ranong on the Andaman coast.

Stuart

Up until when you headed back to the States you were running, or writing rather, the Thai Islands Times newsletter and I’ve always been a big fan of the newsletter, but also, I believe that words matter, so the other day I received an e-mail from Thailand Island Times, which is from you really, noting that you’ve made one change.

You’ve changed one word in the title, so it’s shifted from Thai Island Times to Thai Island Quest. So I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about why you’ve decided to make the change of that single word and what it’s going to mean for what the newsletter is going to become.

David

Well Thailand Island Times, when I started it, I had a lot of time. It was during the COVID lockdown here in April 2020. They weren’t even like selling alcohol in the country or anything at that time, so everyone was stuck inside, and so I wanted to, I had, different contacts, people, I know who live in all around different islands, and I just wanted to kind of share what was going in the islands.

Specifically, part of what I wanted to share was how the islands were faring and all the beach areas were faring throughout the pandemic and how that was affecting things. So a big part of the Times aspect of it, kind of represented like more of a news angle. So I did like these island wraps, which got quite long and time consuming. I did more than 50 of them, first it was weekly and then it was like biweekly and they were pretty popular and I feel like it was a good thing to spend my time doing during the pandemic. I covered a lot of how COVID was affecting the region, the coastal region, and then also just kind of Thailand more generally and I talked about, I wrote a piece about how you could help charitable efforts to help people in the tourism industry and a lot of the islands that that we’re struggling and things like that. Then I also covered in the island wraps a lot of environmental issues and basically I would just scour the news and talk to people in those places and scour social media and just like put together a whole giant summary basically of everything that was going on.

But I would also in Thailand Island Times, the other thing I would do, was like more travel more kind of what we would call like evergreen content, where I would just cover islands. Basically write these feature length articles about certain islands or beaches or mainland coastal areas and basically, just unleash everything that I know about all those places and that I’ve learned throughout the years and throughout researching and also while working for Travelfish and just basically summarising and wrapping up, and sharing photos of the islands and really just kind of trying to convey a sense of what these places are like and what the history is like, and even things like the geology and getting down to the details so that if you read something like that and then you go...

Like I wrote an article about Ko Jum, AKA Ko Pu near Ko Lanta and Ko Phi Phi in Krabi province, and I got a lot into about why is there two names and who settled? Who are the people who settled the island? Things like that. So if you were to read something like that and then travel to that island, I just feel like you would, it might enrich your trip a bit, you might say oh, and I understand some things about this island and it’s not just a place to go to the beach necessarily, it’s actually a community that’s important to respect and things like that. So that’s the kind of content that I’m going to be focusing more on now with the change to the Quest.

I mean the Thai island quest for me, it’s been going on now for more than ten years, almost 11 years, basically, since I started writing for Travelfish, I mean you and I together, I don’t know how many islands in Thailand the two of us have have been to, if you count both of our lists together, but it’s quite a few, and so we’ve always kind of, at least you’ve always kind of egged me on and or you know how many of you been to have you been to? This one, have you been to that one? And so the quest is to really comprehensively, well, first of all, just visit as many of the islands as possible and cover them and document them and write about them in a way that goes, you know, I think deeper than, well, I don’t know it was deeper than ever before than anyone’s done, but it’s certainly an obsession you could say.

So changing the name to Thai Island Quest just makes it, I’m going to move away from the more newsy stuff I’ll certainly get into environmental issues and things like that, and also maybe social issues, I mean things that come up, as I research islands and stuff I’ll certainly include those issues when I write, when I cover articles, but it won’t just be like, I’m not going to be scouring websites and social media constantly just to do news wraps. It will be more of a focus on the actual islands and beach areas and just sharing them in a comprehensive way.

And that’s going to start on December 21st, that’s when the official relaunch day is, and what I’m doing to start is focusing on this, well, basically I’ve been just really kind of counting islands and as I’ve traveled over the years throughout all these different coastal provinces and out into the islands like I’ve taken down notes like what is that island over there? Like you’re on the boat to Ko Ngai or whatever and there’s an island off to your left, it’s just a little island, it’s uninhabited, but I’m curious like what is it? What’s there? So I’ve basically compiled all of that research into, you know, a single list basically is what it is, it’s a list, but also with a brief description about a bit about topography or inhabitation and things like that

So, so I’m I’m going to start sharing that and eventually it’s going to come in a series, I think it’s actually going to be an eight part series now. I initially said seven part, but there will be an introduction so I think it will be an wight part series and that will go from December 21st through into like mid February. And once that’s complete, it will be a whole comprehensive directory, essentially of every island, and also a ton of mainland beach areas in the entire country.

So if you’re serious about travel, it’s the kind of thing that you could open it up and say, OK, we’re going to this or that province, and what are the island options like ? I also have a scale for beaches, so it’s like brilliant would be like the best, the highest rating in terms of what I, like maybe Ko Kradan would get brilliant beaches, so you’ll be able to look at this at a glance and see, OK, say you’re going to a National Park, say you’re going to the Ang Thong islands west of Samui, like which island if say you could get a, you want to rent a private boat or something, which island should you choose?

So this is something you’d be able to look at and look get all the options right there in front of you, which is not something that is that easy to find. Honestly, like even if you go to tour companies on Samui that run tours to the Ang Thong islands, a lot of times they’re not really specific about which islands you’re actually going to and things like that, so this will be just a real comprehensive, not in depth, I mean it’s not going to be like two pages on every island or something like that, but it would just be all laid out in front of you.

So for real kind of travel nerdy type of people like maybe me or you that are looking to maybe see all the options and check out some different areas because Thailand has a lot of island, it has a lot of islands beyond the Samuis, Phukets and Phi Phis.

Stuart

So I was I was going to ask this this list that you’re talking about. How long is it? How many islands have you got on your list at the moment? Or do I have to wait till December 21 to find out?

David

It’s over 800.

Stuart

Jesus OK.

David

There are, you know, this is like every island I consider an island an island even like Ko Rok that’s Ko Rok Nok and Ko Rok Nai, and there’s a lot of islands like that, that are like twin islands, but for me it’s like OK if it’s surrounded by water entirely, then it’s an island, but you’ll see how it’s arranged it’s arranged so that it keeps island groups together and it’s presented in a way that is easy to kind of understand and group different islands together and everything.

It’s over 800 and I’ve seen different counts of how many islands there are, and they’re anywhere, usually from like 300, and I saw one that was like 1,200 or 1,300 or something like that. I don’t see where those islands are coming from. I mean, I’ve really done years and years of research and I don’t think there are like these invisible islands. I don’t think there are 500 invisible islands, so I don’t know, maybe that includes like river islands or islands that are in some of the lakes in Thailand and things like that, but yeah, it’s a lot of islands. It’s a lot.

In terms of, you’ll be able to see, in the guide, in the directory, it shows islands, it categorises them based on size. So if you only include like small islands it would be something like Ko Kradan or Ko Wai, or Ko Muk, but that would be on the large size, and then there’s mid size would be like Ko Jum, and large would be like Ko Lanta Samui, Ko Chang etcetera. There’s only eight actually islands in Thailand that I consider to be large islands. But my entire count includes even like little tiny specs, not like necessarily, not like if it’s just a tiny speck of rock that gets covered over by water when the tide is up then that wouldn’t be included, but probably wouldn’t be included anyway.

So it’s not like it’s not like totally going to be 100% totally precise. There’s definitely some little tiny islets and things like that I’m sure I still might miss, but it’ll be pretty close to being the most accurate count of islands in Thailand that is available anywhere. I’m sure the Thai Navy has probably a better count than me.

Stuart

I was going to ask because when you look at how Thailand’s island tourism scene has developed over the years access ease of access is a large part of it, so it’s like Phuket or Samui or Ko Chang or whatever. They’re all fairly straightforward to get to, so this 800, I mean there must be a portion of islands that are either extremely difficult to get to or they’re off limits. Whether it’s the military or bird’s nest cultivation, that kind of thing. But some of them, I imagine, are just going to be very difficult to get to. So I was wondering if you’ve got like a bucket full of islands or I don’t know, I’d call them the pain in the ass to reach ones like are there like a cluster of very difficult ones.

David

Well there are definitely quite a few that are illegal to at least to set foot on. And that’s also out of respect for environment and just the laws and everything. I’ll probably never go to like, Ko Huyong is an island in the Similans, that’s a sea turtle nesting sanctuary that is totally off limits and the only humans that would ever go there would be marine scientists, researchers, that kind of thing. But like I said, it’s a quest—I don’t claim to have been to all those islands.

The quest is ongoing—I’ve got the list and I’ve at least laid eyes on, I would say, most of these islands, from afar at least, I know they’re there and but the quest is going to be going on for a very long time. I don’t have a boat, I don’t have my own boat, and I’m certainly not a wealthy person who is just doing this for fun—far from it.

The quest is the quest, it’s about going to as many islands as I can and checking them all and checking out different places, but it’s also just about learning and sharing and trying to get like a big picture kind of understanding of the entire coastal region of Thailand, including the islands.

Stuart

You mentioned that you’re heading down to Chumphon and Phetchaburi very shortly. What would you say is going to be the very first island that you step foot onto?

David

We’ll see what the weather’s looking like because, on the Gulf side right now, it’s rainy season, they’ve been getting a lot of rain down in Samui, but we want to go to Chumphon there’s a place called Villa Varich that’s a little bit outside of Chumphon town that we really like going to, so we’re going to stay there, and if the weather’s good, we’ll try to go to Ko Samet in Chumphon province, not the Ko Samet that most people know about in, over in Rayong closer to Bangkok. Ko Samet in Chumpon is actually the largest island in Chumphon province, and there’s a little bit of agriculture going on there, and there’s a beach and stuff, and you go there just for the day. We’ll probably just look for a long tail boat at the National Park Moo Ko Chumpon Marine Park, at their National Park station over on the mainland, so hopefully that one.

And then there’s some others around Chumphon that we might try to if the weather is good, then there’s Ko Lang Ka Chieu that’s just like basically a little island for snorkelling, they do have like some group tours mainly usually Thai people that go on the tours but Ko Lan Ka Chieu, Ko Mattra or Ko Kula is another one, Ko Mattra. Ko Mattra is a bigger one, well it’s a small island, but by Chumpon standards, it’s kind of bigger, but that’s totally uninhabited. I probably won’t make it to that one. Ko Kula is another one, they have a little National Park station there, and there’s a beach there to check out.

Chumphon actually has a lot of islands. Already we went to Ko Wiang, which is up in the far north of the province, a very remote limestone karst island, it’s a lot of fun, a beautiful, beautiful area. Almost like a like a miniature kind of Phang Nga Bay look to it and then Ko Phitak another one that we went to down in the far south of Chumphon Province. We went to both of those not long before the pandemic started I think Ko Wiang we went in early 2021, sorry early 2020, but yeah, Chumphon there are a lot of islands to choose from there. \

Also actually on the way, I’ve actually never yet to go to Ko Talu, the one I think you’ve been to in Prachuap, yeah, we might stop there, but we’re also, we like to take our time and explore the mainland and stuff. So we’re gonna actually hang around Phetchaburi for a bit and maybe go over to Ko Krachan National Park. Last year it turned into a UNESCO World Heritage Natural heritage.

Stuart

Coming back to the newsletter for a second, so you have two forms of it. There’s the newsletter that goes out to free subscribers and then you’ve got a separate newsletter or different editions, I’m not sure how you describe it, to go out to paying subscribers, so could you just briefly explain who’s going to get what in this quest?

David

Well, if you want access to everything, then it’s $5 a month and that will get you access to the entire Thai island directory. That will be for, most of it will be only for paying subscribers. So come February you’ll be able to use that as a nice bit of reference or travel intelligence.

If you’re coming to Thailand and you’re interested in islands and also, but the rule of thumb is that paying subscribers will, only paying subscribers will be able to access, anything, any coverage that I do of islands or beach areas that are kind of more obscure, not, you know, larger tourist areas. If I write something about Phuket or Samui, chances are that will be for free subscribers.

Paying subscribers will get at least four posts every month that free subscribers don’t have access to. So yeah, that’s the general rule of thumb, but I’ll play it by ear as I go. I think it’ll still certainly be worth signing up for if you’re just a free subscriber too, it will be a mix.

Stuart

So with five bucks a month it works and roughly 4 issues. You’re talking about paying a buck an issue roughly a little bit over a bucket issue to find out about some of the best kept secrets of Thai islands. Would that be fair?

David

Yeah exactly. And some will be more in depth. I mean some of my articles go on like 2,500 to 3,000 words, and they’re completely filled, some of them have as many as 25 photos also included, that’s one thing I love to do is to take pictures of the islands. But then one thing that will change is I’m actually going to start doing some shorter posts that are more just covering islands like in a nutshell. Almost like an introductory type of thing where it just has some basic facts, some basic facts and some photos. Just to kind give you a little primer on an island, so if you’re traveling and you wanted to, you’re trying to choose an island, that maybe would be what you would look at first, so I’m going to start doing those too, so it’ll be a mix of, some shorter shorter posts, and then some more in depth feature type stuff like what I did quite a bit of back in 2020 and 2021.

I might do a little bit of just kind of travel journal, I mean, if some funny story pops into my head or something from my travels and it has to do with the islands and I might share that kind of thing too. And that, I don’t know if that’ll be for free or paying subscribers—I’ll decide that kind of thing just as I go, but yeah, I think paying subscribers will certainly get something, get a lot out of it if they’re interested in.

For anyone who’s really like a travel junkie, travel nerd who’s really interested in Southeast Asia and loves islands, then it’s I think something that those people like that would be quite interested and very interested in. But then anyone also is just coming here for a holiday coming here for a few weeks or something like you can always just sign up and pay the five bucks once or for a couple of months or whatever. You can do it however you want.

Stuart

So one last question and this is a question I get asked a lot and I know it’s a very difficult question to answer and probably a bit unfair, but if somebody was coming to Thailand for the first time and they had no idea about anything, and they wanted a good Thai island to go to, that wasn’t too touristy, not too busy, but not somewhere totally obscure that would require a military expedition to reach, what island would be at the top of your list?

David

Oh man, it’s so hard to just name one. Ok, I’ll say this, if you’re coming from Cambodia, like that side, or you just want to go over to the east side like near Ko Chang, I’d say check out Ko Kut. It’s just an incredibly beautiful island. It’s a large island. There’s plenty of room to explore, and it’s also really easy to go there and enjoy some of the other islands like Ko Mak, and of course Ko Chang and Ko Rang and some of the other islands that are there.

Ko Kut is, I think, you know, just a really amazing island. It’s pretty low key, maybe not for people who are looking to party and that kind of thing too much, but especially for families, couples, but also solo travellers you can certainly find some fun places to meet people there too. It’s a beautiful island. So I’ll go with Ko Kut with Ko Mak also, as Ko Mak is also a really good island too and it’s right next door to Ko Kut. Right near there.

And then let’s see. I mean, you know it’s so hard, Ko Pha Ngan you know I have a soft spot for Ko Pha Ngan as do you. I think especially if you go to Ko Pha Ngan and stay and go to check out some of the further flung little beaches and areas, and really take the time to explore the island and don’t just stay at Haad Rin the whole time, then Ko Pha Ngan is a really ... you know it is touristy, yes, but and it’s got definitely got sort of the earthy, crunchy vibe going for it, but it’s got some really amazing jungle.

One thing I really wanna do there, I’ve done some hiking there to some of the beaches that are kind of not accessible by road or at least not by any kind of road that anyone would want to go on with a motorbike if they care about their life at all. I really want to rent, get a long tail boat and just like go around like especially like the East and north of the island and to some of those some little beaches around there which I know you know a lot of those like Haad Thien and Bottle Beach and all those.

David

Then over on the Andaman side so I know you asked for one, but.

Stuart

I know you’re cheating here, man, you’ve already listed four. Ok, I’ll give you one more.

David

You know I always come back to Ko Muk in Trang. I have a real soft spot for that island. It’s you know, it’s just it’s a small island. The beaches are good, in a lot of cases, and maybe not quite as good as Ko Lipe or some of the other islands, but the nice thing about Ko Muk is you can set up camp there, set up base. It’s such a friendly place, wonderful people. It’s a small kind of, everyone says hi to each other still and even in the village and stuff, and it’s a good place to go as a family as a couple or as a solo traveler.

There’s some really chill little bars there to meet people and stuff, and you can set up camp there and the accommodation there is relatively affordable, so you can set up camp there and then take trips over to Ko Ngai and Ko Kradan, which are just absolutely stunning islands where you can snorkel at those and maybe stay a night at those and come back to Ko Muk that I think is just like you know, quintessential kind of island hopping area. Rent a little long tail boat and go out and see what you can see in just an absolutely stunning part of the world.

Stuart

OK, I’m going to stop you there because otherwise I know that you’re going to try and slip more islands in. So just to wrap up, what are the best ways for people to find you?

David

Well, the newsletter is thaiislandquest.substack.com and the old URL thaiislandtimes.substack.com does redirect to the new one automatically. So if you have that bookmarked, you don’t have to worry and that’s the main way. I’m also on Twitter a bit here and there, @davidluekens. Not that anyone ever will remember that.

Stuart

OK, I look forward to December 21 and getting a list of 800 islands, that of which about 750 I haven’t been to. So it’s always good to have a list to tick things off, so have a good time, have a good trip down south and very good to talk to you.

David

Yeah, you too, thank you.

Stuart

You’re welcome.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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So here we are, at the conclusion of my series on “Rethinking Travel.” I have more half-written posts, which I’ll drop in over the coming weeks and months, but I wanted to tie this off for now. I know paying subscribers would like me to get back to the itinerary posts—they will recommence this coming Tuesday. Before anything else though, a quick thank you to you all for reading and/or listening!

For many of the posts in the series, I’ve looked outside. I’ve looked at what is happening in the real world—then tried to tie it back to both my own—and academic—thinking on the topic. But what does it all mean? There’s not much point writing over 20,000 words on a topic and then acting on none of them.

Where we’re headed. Tourist information booth, Sihanoukville. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With this in mind, in conclusion I’m looking at each post in the series, and detailing a change I will put in place. In some cases it will be my personal actions, in others, how Travelfish operates, others still, both.

In each, I’m making concrete, measurable goals. Aside from doing nothing, there’s no one correct approach, and I’ll revisit my changes a year from now. Why? To see what worked and what didn’t, what was unrealistic and what was too easy.

Let’s see how it pans out.

Sustainable Tourism

I’ve touched on the lack of holistic sustainability certification—the sector is a mess of pyramids and b**t. As the last thing we need is another scheme, I’m going back to my gut and the duck test—which I learned today harks back to 1738!

“If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it is probably a duck.”

If a place strikes me as not being future-looking, I’ll not stay there, and I’ll remove it from Travelfish. I’ve already started the removals, but with thousands of places listed, this will take a while. Not staying in such places will be easier!

What will this mean for readers? For starters it will mean far fewer places to stay will be listed than currently. For those that remain, it would be fair to consider them, in the least, to be moving in the right direction. Plenty of context will come into play in the decision making here, and to a large part the approach will be similar to that of EXO Travel.

Responsible Travel

In this case, I’m all about my stomach—and anyone who knows me will know this one isn’t a hard one for me. When I’m on the road, I’m going to eat local—by that I mean street food and local-fare restaurants. Yeah I know, going to Vietnam and eating only bowls—the horror! I’m allowing myself one “imported meal,” meaning a cuisine not from the country, a week. I don’t drink, so imported alcohols are not an issue, but I will miss those gooey French cheeses.

Boiled down for readers, this means more local food and fewer Irish Pubs.

Pro-Poor Tourism

Here it is all about where I sleep. It can be hard to determine who owns a hotel—especially at the mid- and above bracket—but I’m going to try. The easiest approach is to stick to homestays—the joints with grandma watching soap on the foyer TV. This won’t always work, but save the OTAs deciding to cough up this info, it is the best approach I can think of. Talking of the OTAs, I’m going to book direct whenever sensible.

Oh Koh Rong. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For readers, expect swaths of the interchangeable “cookie cutter” concrete box hotels to vanish. The affiliate relationship with Agoda will remain, so a bazillion other hotels will be but a click away. Likewise while the luxury end has never been a focus for Travelfish, going forward this will be even less of a priority.

Slow Travel

Ok, I’ll confess as a travel writer, this one at first struck me as hard. A typical trip for me in the past would involve being on the move on a near continual basis. After all, a day on the road is a day away from the family—and doggo! The more I thought about it though, the more I realised it wasn’t such a big deal.

Drawing on the “do as I say not as I do” file, who am I to sit here and tell you to slow down when most couldn’t keep up with my pace? If I was to spend three days in a place rather than one, I’m better positioned to find out more reasons to linger. In allowing time, I make time—for you. So, my rule here is if I sleep in the town, I’m there for at least three days (two nights). Yes, even Sihanoukville.

Readers should expect more information based around a theme of “stay another day.” I’ve long written that every town is worth a night, well, I’m doubling that.

Flying

Oh boy. What to do with this one. I’m approaching this from two directions.

First let’s cover domestic flying. My rule is, if I can get to the destination in under 48 hours on the ground, no flying. As far as mainland Southeast Asia goes, this rules out almost all direct domestic flights. In practice this would allow me some domestic flying in Indonesia (where I live), but 48 hours cuts out the egregious flights.

Not all aircraft are equal. Ratna Hotel, Yogyakarta. Photo: Sally Arnold.

On international flights, I’m taking a different approach. For every 1,000 km flown, I have to wait a week before getting on a flight again. So, as an example, according to The Google, the flight from Bali to Ho Chi Minh City is 2,373 km. As I’m going there in January, it means I have to stay there at least two weeks. The thousand kilometres equals a week is arbitrary, but it felt like a good starting point. Side-note, for my return from Vietnam, I’m thinking of doing it overland—could be fun.

For readers, rewrites of the transport sections are coming. These will reorganise the sections to place ground transport ahead of air. This is the tiniest of changes, but every bit counts. We’ll also devote more coverage looking at why ground transport is preferable. Any itineraries with domestic flights will be rewritten and re-timed to remove them.

Tour Companies

Aside from a few outlying cases that I can count on one hand, I will only use majority local-owned tour companies. As with the accommodation section above, this can be tricky to determine, but my goal is to try as best I can. When I say “local owned” I mean by a national of that country.

On the site, activities won’t be deleted wholesale, but there will be a focus on local-owned.

Money Matters

Ensuring that as much of my money stays local ties in with many of the above points. When you start thinking about this stuff, it is funny how often they’re all inter-related. If staying in local-owned homestays, eating at local restaurants, and using local guides, much of the money is by default staying local. I guess no more Prada handbags as gifts though.

On Travelfish, no listings for Prada outlets sorry.

Community Based Tourism

While we already profile some of the better known ones on Travelfish, I’m going to work to expand this. My goal is to find and try at least two schemes that fit the bill on each trip.

For readers, for once this will mean more coverage rather than less.

Travel Writing

Much of the above will tie in to how I’ll be doing my research and writing moving forward. This in turn will reflect onto the coverage you’ll read on Travelfish. Destination intros will include new coverage on how to visit in a responsible manner. In the coming weeks I’ll be adding a “Travel better” section to the site. It will hold all the posts in this series—and more. Other changes I mentioned in the piece on travel writing, so I’m not rehashing them here.

In Conclusion

The above marks the biggest single series of changes I’ve made to Travelfish—ever. It also takes place over a period where the site is ahhhh somewhat financially challenged lol. So, don’t expect all the above to happen overnight. Rather, this will be a slow iterative process.

There’s a whole new world through that door—yes, and a bloody jet-ski. Koh Rong. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I have my first research trip since the start of the pandemic this coming January, to Huế in Vietnam. While I’m there in part to present at a conference, I also plan to use the trip as a sandpit for some of the above changes. To figure out what is practical and what isn’t. My view is, you’re better to start with the impractical and wind it back rather than start out with easy.

For readers, I hope Travelfish will remain a useful resource for travel in the region. More than that though, I want to see it become a learning resource for how we all can travel better. Only in doing that will we be able to deliver on the true promise of travel—and leave a world worth travelling for the generations to come.

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)
Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)
The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)
The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)
Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)
The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)
Reality Check (Tour companies)
Follow the Money (Money matters)
Foundations Matter (Community Based Tourism)
The Writing On The Wall (Travel writing)

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A quick note, save a series conclusion running tomorrow, I’ll be back to regular programming on Monday. Yay!

On one of my very early trips to Thailand, I lost a few weeks at Hin Wong Bungalows on Ko Tao. Set on the back side of the island, you’d approach on a longtail from the port. It was quiet. Very quiet.

My hut was a wooden bungalow on the rise, with a bathroom down the slope a bit. The only furniture was a mattress and a hammock on the deck. There was no beach to speak of, rather large boulders you could dive off into the crystal water. It was, for years, my favourite place.

The 1993 Hin Wong view—no complaints. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This was pre-The Beach, yet echoing the book’s (and later film’s) plot, a previous guest had drawn a map on the interior wall. It was a rough charcoal outline of Thailand, and the traveller had annotated it with their wanderings. Chiang Mai had some hills and an elephant, Bangkok some “sexy ladies,” and Railay had its cliffs and a sunset. Hin Wong on Ko Tao was also marked, with the emphasis on a swim-through out in the bay. Around the map, arrows pointed in, with the names of places to stay. Linda Guesthouse in Chiang Mai for some reason still sticks in my mind.

It was one traveller’s guidebook, marked up to share.

Democratise My Travels

Back then, guidebooks did near all the guiding. There were no TripAdvisor or Agoda people, and no Pinterest or TikTok travellers. Instagram? If someone had said that to me, I’d have assumed it was a reference to buying drugs. Google? It didn’t exist. At least in the circles I mingled, you were either a Rough Guides or Lonely Planet person.

Today, a traveller might be using all the above sources—and dozens upon dozens more—for their travel planning needs. Magazines and Pinterest for inspiration, OTAs for hotels, food websites for stuffing face, Google Maps for everything. Instagram for bragging.

Somewhere on Lombok, where, just an hour away, the beach is packed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With this democratisation of information, you’d expect trips to have become more diverse. In practice, the opposite has happened. I’d bet my flip flops that if you visited a third-tier destination in 2019, you’d have found fewer tourists there than you would have in 1999.

A part of the answer to the question of why, is that the internet changed travel writing’s incentives. Guidebooks sold you a book, and the book—at least in theory—contained information that helped you have a better trip. With the internet, the reader became the product as websites sold your interests to advertisers and gave you the travel intelligence in return. They also sold you a whole load of swag—as travel writing went retail.

Over in the dead tree side of the industry, outside of guidebooks, travel writing’s role as the PR wing of the travel industry ran sordid and deep, and had done forever. In Elizabeth Becker’s Overbooked, she notes that by the 1960s “travel” accounted for 25% of newspaper ad revenue, yet there often wasn’t a firewall between advertisers and writers. Not content with buying ads, free trips became the norm. Comparing travel to political (where—again in theory—political parties don’t pay journalists’ expenses), Becker writes:

“That would be declared corrupt and the antithesis of ethical journalism. Yet it is the engrained way of writing about travel in the United States, much of Europe and Asia. ... The editors told themselves it was the only way they could afford to cover the travel world. And the public relations professionals were thrilled, knowing that a handsome write-up or recommendation in a magazine was far more credible than an advertisement or brochure.”

Becker’s take though, was hardly news. Writes travel writer Elizabeth Austin—in 1999—of a press trip to Bali:

“I was a travel w***e. This is my story.”

Fill My Wallet

When online income streams appeared, new media, Travelfish included, adopted them with enthusiasm. “Add this code to your site and the money will roll in,” and it did.

Did these monetisation schemes skew coverage? Yes. On Travelfish? Yes. How? To garner more search traffic, we fed the beast with hundreds of pieces, all to run ads against—oh and inform! When the bottom fell out of ads, we moved to hotel reviews, and went nuts there instead.

Pai, Thailand. Google said to list everything. Photo: Mark Ord.

Over the years we’ve reviewed 8,685 properties, and to a point the effort paid off. Yes we helped thousands of readers find great places to stay—but we also earned plenty through affiliate commissions. I still remember the day we received a commission of over US$1,000 for a single hotel booking. It is to be fair though, easy to remember as this only ever happened once! That booking, through an OTA for a luxury hotel on Thailand’s Ko Samui, is instructive.

The real money for publishers, be they a travel blog, website, magazine or newspaper, is in lux travel. The highest impact sector of the tourism industry? The luxury end of the stick.

In our case, we had a separation many if not most others didn’t. We never took free stays or media rates. We always paid our own way. We reviewed in an anonymous and independent fashion. We had a gaggle of middle-men running interference between us and the hotels. We always listed the property’s direct contact details. Despite all these steps, to me it has always felt a bit icky—but hey, it paid the bills.

Hell No

I’ve debated comps with many professional writers, friends who argue the comp doesn’t play a part in what they write. I believe them when they say they believe it. A talented writer should be able to write in an independent fashion. When I ask if they’d have written about the place—or even visited it—if they’d have had to pay themselves, the answer is near uniform:

“Hell no.”

Madelaine McWha et al., in a paper looking at sustainable travel writing notes:

“Traditionally, many travel writers, as well as travel writing in general, have been associated with commercial imperatives to sell travel destinations, and hence perhaps the promotion of travel more aligned with unsustainable types of mass tourism.”

Go pick up a copy of CondeWhatever and take a leaf through—look at the ads and the copy. How many affordable homestays do you see? What does an affordable homestay have to do with anything? How does this play into responsible travel and/or sustainable tourism?

At Happy Homestay near Cao Lãnh in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta. Absolutely responsible “per se.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

EXO Travel Group has been busy for a few years working to measure the carbon emissions of their trips. I asked Alexandra Michat, their Chief Purpose Officer, about how they deal with hotels. I was curious about budget joints, places that lack the funds for certification pyramid schemes. Her answer by accident dovetails with travel writing and sustainability:

“... we’ve realized that most of the time “Responsible hotels” were internationally owned /managed and they were getting higher scores because they already had policies in place and strong financial capacities etc rather than independently owned properties and/or homestays, therefore we usually consider homestays as responsible ‘per se.’”

These places, which EXO usually sees as “responsible ‘per se,’” tend not to feature on journo comp lists. Yet those on such lists—and that do get written about—are often far from enviable on the sustainability front. They do though have bamboo straws.

In Tourism Leakage of the Accommodation Sector in Bali, Suryawardani et al., looked at hotel leakages. They found that typical four- and five-star hotels in Bali had a leakage rate of 51%. At the other end of the stick, budget places, the leakage rate was a mere nine per cent. From a sustainable tourism point of view, this is bad, yet it is the four- and five-star sectors that features most often in contemporary mainstream travel writing.

Gimme the bad news

Academic Ben Iaquinto has written quite a bit on backpackers and both their good and bad habits. Touching on Lonely Planet’s mainstream shift, he quotes an (unfortunately un-referenced) comment:

“Once, a number of young women had written to LP to report being raped by a certain proprietor in Southeast Asia and the local tourist board took legal action against LP for warning young women to avoid that establishment. This sort of thing eventually led to the directive ‘If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all’. I believe that this does a disservice to travellers.”

Keeping to this theme, a highlight of 2020’s news cycle was the traveller who got jailed over a hotel review. Unhappy with a hotel on Ko Chang in Thailand, they took to TripAdvisor to vent and got jail time for their efforts. As a travel writer focused on Southeast Asia, I’d be lying to suggest certain legal regulations don’t have a chilling effect on what I write.

Today, the impact of tourism development exacts a greater toll than ever. Yet, taking a name and shame approach to writing on this, is, well, often not all that sustainable for the writer. The Deportation Express is always on call. The alternative then, is to ignore the bad and focus on the good, and hope readers can read between the lines. It is far from an ideal situation.

Whose gaze

Take a look at the list of interviewees in the McWha et al. paper mentioned above, and tell me what is missing. In a related paper, the author notes the writers were “largely from Australia, New Zealand, UK and USA.” Travel writing has for decades been dominated by white men of means (like me, except for the “of means” bit). Today there’s plenty more women writing, but the trade remains predominantly white.

She’ll know more than I ever will. At Xẻo Quýt in the Mekong Delta. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With this comes a glad bag of -isms and other challenges for the writer. Exoticism, colonialism, genderism, objectification, orientalism, and so on. These have all featured in academic literature on travel writing for decades, but out here in the real world, change—or even awareness—is low. Though you can do a course on it for $215 a head. This piece, by Chloe-Rose Crabtree, raises plenty of solid reasons for change.

Travel writers often see themselves as mediators, explaining the unfamiliar to readers. Done well, this can have a positive impact on both the readers’ journey and the hosts’ experience. Yet, why are travel publishers relying for a large part on white writers? Where is the diversity of voices? More often than not tour companies will highlight their use of local guides. Sure it is the law in most countries, but the companies clearly feel it is a selling point as well. Why don’t travel publishers feel the same way?

Since going online in 2004, Travelfish has had 95 contributors—including me—of whom 46 were women. Three contributors were from Southeast Asia—two Singaporeans and one Thai. How bad is that? Pretty bad. I could make excuses for the sad state of affairs, but I’m not going to even try—it is inexcusable. This isn’t to say our contributors were not excellent, they were. That said, as soon as we’re employing again (who knows when that will be), this will change. Better late than never and all that.

Walk the talk

Despite these flaws, good travel writing, be it service- or long-form- can be an agent for change. In 2021, Sara Ullström et al. published research that looked at the travel media’s role in changing conversations around holiday air travel in Sweden. They wrote:

“As a response to the urgency of taking climate action, and the importance of living one’s values and taking moral responsibility for high-carbon practices, flying is problematized while alternative ways of travel are valorized. In this way, Staying on the ground shapes people into questioning, and in some cases ultimately changing, their travel behavior.”

As I’ve touched on over and over in this series, many (some more than others) are working to ferment change. Some are drops in the ocean, other ripples, others still small waves. In almost every case though, there is as much a need for change from within as out there.

Source: From aspirational luxury to hypermobility to staying on the ground: changing discourses of holiday air travel in Sweden.

Reports like the one out Sweden give me heart. It shows me that change can be wrought outside despite disfigured internals. This also goes to show how much change could happen, if the companies—Travelfish included—changed first.

Old school still works

A couple of years later, back on Ko Tao, most of the charcoal rendering of Thailand had faded away. Others though, had added to it. Cambodia was there and a poor take on Vietnam. Some tips were scratched in with cheap biro or coloured markers. Off to the side, another traveller had added a beautiful painting of Malaysia’s Perhentians. There were beaming turtles between the two islands and a gleaming heart by Adam and Eve Beach. The tips on the sides of the art? Dozens more had appeared.

It was pretty cool.

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)
Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)
The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)
The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)
Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)
The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)
Reality Check (Tour companies)
Follow the Money (Money matters)
Foundations Matter (Community Based Tourism)

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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In recent times, phrases like “travel like a local” or “experience whatever as a local” are a common mantra—Google offers up 2,320,000,000 results on a search for it—thanks Google. These are a marketing ploy, playing to an out-dated and exoticised fever dream of “local.” To a point, they’re all smoke and mirrors—one need only step outside their lodgings to see “the real deal.” This real deal though, isn’t the real many are after. They don’t want families in Starbucks, or teenagers glued to a Hollywood blockbuster. They want the real deals of yesteryear.

There is another approach. For years there’s been a slow bubbling scene on tourism’s sidelines—Community Based Tourism (CBT). Offering insight into how people live in smaller communities, on paper they seem like a good idea. The premise centres on co-opting the community into “the experience”, so they’re better vested in it. In theory, they’re implemented in a manner to share the wealth, they reduce the cons and push the pros. In practice, opinions vary—this paper by anthropologist Noel Salazar is a good primer on the former.

Stormy times ahead. Chi Phat scenes. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

Issues aside, CBTs often have an eco tilt, but the community and its culture and society are vital draws. Over a stay, relationships can morph from a typical host-guest one to something more. The guests learn a skill or three, be it a bit of weaving, how to plant rice or brew rice wine. This learning works both ways—an inquisitive host learns plenty too. With some of the middle-men removed, more money can trickle in at the basest of levels.

“The jungle is my home and finally I am taking care of it.”

So says Chenda, a poacher turned tourist guide, at Chi Phat in Cambodia. Towards the end of the “virtual tour” of Chi Phat embedded below, Chenda talks about how he once sold a gibbon for US$200. Today, he earns money a different way—by taking tourists to see the same gibbon, over and over again.

An excellent “virtual tour” of Chi Phat. Worth every minute—with earphones!

Long-time Travelfish member amnicoll, tells me about Chi Phat by email:

“Chi Phat ... is now regarded as a model example of eco-tourism and receives many official visits from other interested parties to see how it operates. There is a range of accommodation and the main change you see in the village are the bungalows, which are all of a high standard and in nice locations. They have a program of activities for visitors and the villagers share the jobs and rotate so that everyone gets a share. The community take a percentage of the income to spend on the community.”

Wildlife Alliance established the CBT in Chi Phat. They work to reduce wildlife and lumber poaching, and people like Chenda are important. In the kleptocratic garbage fire that is Cambodia today, the challenges may seem insurmountable, but steps like this matter. Chenda’s pivot assists in the preservation of gibbons, but the money tourism brings floats more than his boat alone.

Menu alterations are limited. Trek-eating, Chi Phat. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

At Chi Phat, jobs can be anything from guides to drivers, boatmen to food prep and sale. Travellers’ money brings benefits to the community through a variety of touch points. For the visitors, the upsides are likewise multi-faceted. Writes amnicoll again, on the family he stays with:

“His mother was a great cook and I used to eat there most days as my host’s wife works away from the village. ... These days I am part of the village family and am invited for meals, drinks, weddings, parties, housewarmings and unfortunately occasionally funerals. I come back for two separate month stays every year.”

That’s the income from a single traveller spending around two months a year in Chi Phat. More to my recurring point through this series. Who has the time to spend two months a year in Chi Phat? Backpackers and independent travellers do.

Another project that has pivoted communities from poaching to tourism is the “Nam Nern Night Safari,” in Laos’ Nam Et-Phou Louey National Protected Area. I don’t have enough words to cover it here, but you can read about it on Travelfish. This paper, by one of the people associated with it, is an excellent read.

The Fortress of the Cat

Set in northwest Cambodia, Banteay Chhmar started a little earlier than Chi Phat. It’s home to a 12th/13th century Khmer complex of ruins which is one of the largest in the country. Despite its size and grandeur, the “Fortress of the Cat” sees precious few visitors.

A potted history of the early thinking at work at Banteay Chhmar.

In this case, French NGO Agir Pour le Cambodge (APLC) kicked things off. The Global Heritage Fund, involved in conservation work on the temple, came on board in 2009. Later still, education and heritage-focused Heritage Watch got involved. They work to link the value of protecting Khmer cultural heritage to tourism.

When the Banteay Chhmar project commenced, the road from tourist hub Siem Reap was—take my word for it—awful. From the get-go, a major handicap was that of the nature of its primary point of access. Siem Reap has the largest concentration of Khmer monuments on Earth on its doorstep. Why would you go see more somewhere else? Visitors needed either an interest in ruins, the less-travelled, or plenty of time. It should come as no surprise that visitor numbers were low—and those who trickled in? Backpackers and independent travellers.

Home is where the heart is. Banteay Chhmar homestay. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

As with Chi Phat, the CBT rotates guests through local households, bringing money to local families. Aside from the ruins, activities include weaving and farm experience type stuff. Visitors eat local fare local-style, be it at the homestay or in a local restaurant. Sourced from the community, guests pay trained guides for tours through the ruins.

The road is better today, but unless one books a tour or car from Siem Reap, the nuts and bolts remain a slight hassle. This paper argues that due to a lack of skill transference, the community has not been proactive post-APLC. Outreach to tour companies languished, with many operators putting it in the “too hard” basket. The business acumen instilled was insufficient to build upon the foundation that had been laid. As we’ll see, tour companies can provide a reliable stream of bums on seats, and for this project, the lack of them has been a problem.

No queues at Banteay Chhmar. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While the project hasn’t foundered, it is under-performing. Today, a trickle of independent travellers and backpackers are the mainstay. When I last visited in the year before the pandemic kicked off, I asked who visited. My guide pointed at me—rather than my mother—and said “people like you.” You can read into that what you want.

Guinea pig me

Around 800 km more of less due north of Banteay Chhmar, in Laos, lies the Nam Ha National Protected Area. In 1999, with financial support from (the now) NZAID, the Nam Ha Ecotourism Project (NHEP) began. An eventual Equator Initiative award winner, within three years, the accolades came in—in a 2002 review for UNESCO, the authors note:

“... the Nam Ha ecotourism Project has been a tremendous success in providing a model of how tourism might be used as a tool for development in rural and largely subsistent villages and as a mechanism for promoting forest conservation.”

In the Nam Ha National Protected Area. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The NHEP offered a range of one and multi-day trekking and rafting trips in and around the protected area. The primary market? Backpackers. The economic impact in Luang Nam Tha (the base for most activities) demonstrated a reach beyond the park. From the same report:

“Although the project is not targeted to developing the economy of Luang Namtha it has had a significant impact on employment of guides, tuk tuk drivers, food producers and sellers, etc. ... Guest house proprietors report increased occupancies and a tendency for tourists to return to their properties after a trek. This represents an extra night that would not have been spent in the town, as well additional income for food and beverages consumed.”

There has long been a road between Huay Xai in the south and Luang Nam Tha in the north. For the first decade or so post Laos’ reopening though, it was an a-grade shocker. The trip took over 12 hours in a songtheaw, making the appeal of a multi-day trekking/rafting trip obvious. Businesses had no problems filling weekly four-day trips for US$200+ a pop. It was, for a spell, one of the Laos experiences.

Then the government fixed the road.

This one isn’t dammed yet. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Lee Sheridan is a tourism professional who has been mostly based in Laos since 2001. With the Nam Ha project in mind, I asked about CBTs and financial sustainability. By Lao standards, the project was well-financed—for a spell it received $100,000 per year from NZAID. Direct revenue never topped half that. While not speaking specifically to the Nam Ha project, Sheridan saw a bigger role for the private sector:

“... I think private businesses could play a much stronger role in these situations and partner with the donor and community to help improve the chances of a sustainable outcome. I believe that if the private sector is able to play a stronger role in product development and market access, while the development agency / NGOs focus on supporting the communities, ensuring the private sector is behaving responsibly and helping offset the natural power imbalances between the two, then there is a much better chance of sustainability.”

On backpackers, whom Sheridan sees as being “more forgiving,” there were pros and cons:

“They can make great guinea pigs for developing new products, but I would recommend using this as a stepping stone on the path to product / customer diversification and upgrading, rather than a target end goal.”

I asked was there a need to educate backpackers around the connection between paying more and sustainable tourism. Sheridan saw as much a need to educate local businesses to help them keep in business:

“Within Laos, where so many businesses are small, family run enterprises I think there also needs to be further education and training on business management and finances. When many small businesses rely on undercutting their competitors as their primary point of differentiation and see short-term gains, it leaves very little space for investing in staff training, refurbishment of facilities, replacement of equipment, dealing with unexpected challenges etc that are needed to maintain long term sustainability.”

Money—and ideas—can change hands

In all the above cases, backpackers and independent travellers can play an important role. In the case of Chi Phat, they might stay far longer than the typical visitor. With out-of-the-way spots like Banteay Chhmar, even if the program isn’t delivering, they still trickle in. They can play an important role in product development—and a well designed foundation supports all sorts of floors.

“How’s life kids?” Village kids ham it up on periphery of Nam Na NPA. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

They’re flexible, they have more time, they can handle discomfort, they often have an interest in where they are. Destinations eschewing these people, are making a long-term mistake.

These programmes—and many others—are delivering money into local hands. Something else they can deliver, is a better understanding of what is happening in a country. This could relate to all manner of matters. Hanging out with a family for a week in a small rural community can teach you all sorts about how the wheel turns.

It can also teach you aplenty about human rights, government-sanctioned deforestation, encroachment by rubber plantations, and evictions due to dam construction projects. These too, can be valuable life lessons—and a CBT could be just the place to pick up an introductory course.

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)
Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)
The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)
The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)
Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)
The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)
Reality Check (Tour companies)
Follow the Money (Money matters)
Foundations Matter (Community Based Tourism)

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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One of the most oft-cited upsides of travel is the financial benefit it can bring to destinations. It can assist in raising living standards, covering school bills or putting food on the table. You putting your money in local hands matters and it can make a difference.

Indeed, for many nations in Southeast Asia, inbound tourism is a significant source of income. How significant? This World Travel & Tourism Council report (PDF) indicates that pre-pandemic (2019) travel and tourism was responsible for over 10% of GDP. International spending was responsible for over half of that, and leisure travel over 75%. Tourism matters.

When it comes to dosh, tourism matters. Source: World Travel & Tourism Council.

There’s plenty of different ways to spend your money though. As far as I can tell, the above figures don’t take into account how much of your spending will beat you to the departure gate in its rush to leave the country. This also matters.

This is what the travel industry refers to as “leakages”—money you spend in-country that doesn’t stay there. Writes UK tour operator Not In The Guidebooks:

“From profits distributed to foreign companies (like airlines or resorts), to foreign imports to meet tourism demand, the actual amount of money that ends up where you think you’re spending it can vary wildly.”

To better explain what this means in real life, consider the following example.

You spend $5,000 on a holiday to Thailand. $1,000 is on your airfare, which is with a foreign-owned carrier. Some subset to that $1,000 will stay in destination through arrival taxes, airport landing fees and so on. The majority though goes to the parent company, so may not stay in-country.

“My brother did it.” Leaky boat on sandbar off Labuan Pandan, Lombok. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With your remaining $4,000 you book yourself ten nights in a glorious beach resort at $200 per night. The resort though, is part of a foreign-owned or managed chain, so as with the airline, some of your money gets offshored. Yes, a portion of the $2,000 will stay local through staff salaries, food and whatever, but not all will.

The remaining $2,000 you spend two ways. First, one has to eat and drink, so half goes there. Those imported spirits, wine, cheese and Vegemite all have leakages local fare doesn’t. The other half you spent on a week-long trekking adventure that you purchased before leaving home. Anything from 60% of money put into inbound operators can get offshored.

So, of that $10,000 you spent—depending on how much you like your Jack Daniels with a Vegemite chaser—a not insignificant amount leaks. It is hard to say what percentage leaks out as this isn’t information businesses brag about. One thing is clear though, if you stay and patronise local-owned businesses, your travel boat is less leaky.

Local-owned means less leaky—in this case, thankfully as we took a trip in this boat the next day. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m not saying leakages are bad by default. Airlines have loads of local hires and airports likewise hire a tonne of people. Luxury hotels and tour operators also hire a bunch, and someone has to carry all those crates of JD and Vegemite right? Some proportion of your spend will stay local—and that is good, or rather, it is better than nothing. What I am saying, is if responsible travel matters to you, it is a good idea to keep in mind where your money is going.

Let’s jump back in time a bit—to Laos.

In 2002, a report for the International Labour Organisation (PDF) noted the growth in small enterprises following the nation’s economic liberalisation. Of almost 150,000 small businesses, 90% were family businesses and 63% were female-owned. These were not all tourism-related of course, but many were. A report five years later, on Lao tourism and poverty alleviation noted (the report is paywalled, but if you’re interested in Laos, it is a super-interesting read—so let me know if you’d like me to email you a copy):

“... in all of Lao PDR’s main tourism centres, in the accommodation sector (and in restaurants), small/micro businesses are the norm.”

With this in mind, it doesn’t feel like a stretch to suggest the following: If you spend your money in a small tourism business in Laos, chances are it will be a family- and/or female-owned one. This is good—and it is in line with some of the smarter ethos behind responsible travel.

Going local and less leaky might mean a few more bumps—and adventures. Our broken-down boat, Togean Islands, Sulawesi. Kids were not bothered. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Figuring out who owns what is a fraught undertaking. Throw your mind back to the tourism boycott of Burma. At the time, people who still visited said they were careful to keep their money away from the junta’s clutches, but it was complicated. There were easy things to avoid—the train system, airlines and so on, but trying to find out who owns your hotel? Hard. Who owns the brewery or the rice wholesaler? Hard again. At the end of the day, most went with the low-hanging fruit.

To be clear, I’m not putting foreign-owned businesses on the same table as a murderous junta! The challenges though, of determining who owns what, are somewhat similar. This challenge isn’t helped by companies who muddy the waters.

Take adventure company G Adventures who run tours in Southeast Asia (among other places). I was going to say they were a Canadian company, but their terms say they’re a Barbados one—who knew? Anyway I digress. G Adventures promote what they call a “Ripple Score.” A score out of 100, it purports to show how much of the money from G Adventure’s “local expenses” stays in country. Given the difficulty in determining where a guests’ money goes, this seems like a good idea. It isn’t though, quite so simple.

Yeah, but is any of this true? Boat timetable, Ampana, Sulawesi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

G Adventures claims that 100% of their spend on “local expenses” on for example, this Vietnam trip, goes to “local businesses”. Great! Read the small print though and the waters turn as muddy as the Mekong. To qualify as a “local business” G Adventures writes:

“To qualify as a local business or service, 50% or more must be owned by a legal resident or national citizen of the country where it operates.”

This means a business could have a resident foreigner and a foreign partner as the two owners and yet qualify as local. To my mind, this doesn’t, in any way shape or form, equate to local-owned. I asked G Adventures about this by email, but after being strung along for a few weeks I gave up ever receiving answers. By the way, don’t worry about any flying you do on a G Adventures trip causing ripples. Flying doesn’t count towards the score’s calculation.

They could fix this by removing the “legal resident or” bit. That would then guarantee that the businesses they use are at least 50% owned by a local. Better than nothing right? I wonder why they have phrased it as they have.

“Sounds a bit iffy to me.” Porter, Gunung Ijen, East Java. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

G Adventures’ Ripple Score is especially problematic when viewed through a marketing prism. Early in this Low Season Traveller podcast, Tuan Pham talks about leakages and tour companies. Pham is one of the co-founders of Travel Neutral, a company which claims to be a leading DMC in Vietnam, so there is an angle at play, but still, he is well worth listening to. Talking about inbound tour companies, Pham says:

“... probably up to 60 70 80% of the money that you spend goes back to the company owners, with very little staying in the country.”

This isn’t only a concern held by Pham. Miquel Àngel of MQL Sustainable Tourism Services is a tourist professional with over 25 years experience in Vietnam. In an exchange by email, he mentions—in a conversation related to an upcoming story—the high-end boat tours in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta:

“Consider the seven-night Mekong by luxury boat trips—these can command huge prices, but create close to zero benefit for local areas and people—and much of the revenue leaves Vietnam.”

Imagine a tour operator leading their tour page with “Our tours create close to zero benefit for local areas and people.” Sign me up! When operators put their finger on the scale, and extoll in their marketing that 100% of their spend goes to local businesses, it merits a very critical eye. Of course, if it is true, that’s great, and it belongs in the PR push—but is it? As I’ve written before on tour companies, their walk needs to match their talk.

Think before using. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So what is the traveller who cares about where their money goes to do?

I want to note, this isn’t black and white stuff. Plenty of foreign-owned places have owners who’ve been resident for decades. Owners who do all sorts of great stuff and are community minded. Owners who deserve your encouragement and business. I’m not advocating for boycotting part- or fully-owned foreign businesses. Hell, my company, Travelfish, is an Australian company with no local-ownership. What I am suggesting, is it is important to be mindful of where your money is going. Mix it up.

For anyone not on a tour, and aside from flights, hotels will be the largest expense for most. This is where your money’s impact carries the heaviest sway. If you don’t know if a place is local-owned, email them before you book and ask. While you’re at it, tell them why you’re asking.

Skip the nouveau cuisine Pacific Rim Sustainable Tasmanian Antelope. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For every foreign-owned hotel you do use, try two local-owned ones. Eat at local restaurants more than you may have otherwise. Skip the nouveau cuisine Pacific Rim Sustainable Tasmanian Antelope restaurant you read about in Travel & Leisure, and try a Thai street-side eatery. Skip the overpriced martini at a god-awful beach club for a feet-in-the-sand cold drink by a local-owned shack-in-the-shade. Rather than booking a tour overseas, organise short tours piecemeal—with local operators. Use local guides. When you’re shopping for gifts or keepsakes, support local producers—ask vendors where they source their goods. Take my word for it, plenty of the “souvenirs” for sale on South Bali streets came out of factories nowhere near Bali.

Each of these steps can bring you closer to local people. Sure these are still all transactional in nature, but every touch point is one that can lead to something more—both for them and you. And that is what travel is all about.

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)
Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)
The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)
The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)
Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)
The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)
Reality Check (Tour companies)

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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Yesterday, Bloomberg scored themselves an advance copy of The Travel Foundation’s Envisioning Tourism in 2030 report. While the report hasn’t been released publicly yet, going off what Bloomberg have to say, it makes for a hard reality check.

Not before time.

According to The Travel Foundation’s own prep for the report’s release, they took the Paris Agreement’s goal of halving emissions by 2030 and hitting net zero by 2050 and applied them to the travel industry. Once they took into account a forecast doubling in global tourism size by 2050 (from 2019 levels), they saw current strategies as being “woefully inadequate.”

No s**t Sherlock.

The report doesn’t look at the cruise industry, nor the emissions around hotel construction, and this is a shame. Flying though—particularly long haul—came in for a flogging. They write:

“Some limits must also be applied to aviation growth until it is fully able to decarbonise, in particular capping the longest-distance trips to 2019 levels. These made up just 2% of all trips in 2019 but are, by far, the most polluting. If left unchecked, they will quadruple by 2050, accounting for 41% of tourism’s total emissions (up from 19% in 2019) yet still just 4% of all trips.”

Four per cent of trips responsible for 41% of the industry’s total emissions. That is quite the statistic.

On the outskirts of Sinh Ho. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As I argued in an earlier piece, if a long haul flight is unavoidable, then it should come part and parcel with a longer stay and no domestic flights. This is a point The Travel Foundation’s Jeremy Sampson notes, writing:

“A shift to less flying around during a period of time has the potential to make tourism genuinely more local and a better experience for visitors.”

So what steps are already underway? Bloomberg mentions operators adding in overnight trains, and a Kiwi zipline company that labels its products. These are all positive steps, but in the scheme of things, minuscule.

The story also notes Booking.com is planning to show the carbon emissions for flights and hotels. This is not dissimilar to what Google Flights does, but the question begs, if a flight or hotel is going to score 400% over the average, why are they listing it?

Looks legit.

First and foremost, money. These listings are all commissionable. They make their cut, then kick the can down to consumers. I guess they borrowed BP’s shifting blame handbook from an Amsterdam library.

I have similar concerns around Booking’s “sustainability labelling” which is a greenwashing train wreck. While one could argue it it is better than nothing, I’d argue the opposite. Every time Booking awards a sustainability badge to an undeserving property, they devalue the real efforts of others. I mean, why bother with 100% renewable energy if switching to bamboo straws will get you the same sticker?

Airlines and hotels are easy pickings, but I’d argue another problematic one is tour operators. Why? Because their businesses depend on airlines and hotels for their tours. While some operators are better than others, you don’t need to look far to see they’re just as apt as kicking the can down the road.

No train to Son La, but still, no need to fly. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Founded in 2001, UK operator Responsible Travel describe themselves as an “activist company.” While they have their own tours, they also sell the tours of others on a commission basis. In a step I guess to live up to their name, sometime in 2021, they drew a line in the sand. Founder Justin Francis wrote (you can see the post here on the Internet Archive, as the text is no longer on their website):

“By January 2022, we won’t be selling any holidays that include internal jet flights of less than one hour.”

Heady times—but it wasn’t to last—within a few months if I recall correctly, the above was gone. Today the same page reads:

“We’ll be working closely with our holiday partners to ensure that no itineraries on our site include unnecessary flights.”

Define unnecessary. In the revised post, they try to, writing:

“After long consultations with our member tour operators, including those working with local communities in some of the world’s most remote – and often fragile – places, we realised there are a number of barriers to imposing a complete ban.”

When you keep in mind these member tour listings all exist on the site on a commission basis, it is hard not to see us back at money. Again.

So should have stuck to their guns.

Now I’m willing to contemplate there being some places on earth where a domestic flight is the only practical option. That said, I can’t think of anywhere specific to Southeast Asia that would qualify. There is only one way you can make a domestic flight essential in this part of the world. You need to have an itinerary so time-constrained a domestic flight is the only way to make it work.

Which brings me to Vietnam.

Long and thin, many of the destinations of touristic interest in Vietnam are set along a north south axis. It is a deceptively time-consuming country to travel in, but all is not lost. A train line runs much of the length of the country, with stops either at, or nearby, many of the “highlights.” The train is, by Southeast Asian standards, comfortable, safe, and affordable.

If you go to Responsible Travel’s website and pull up their Vietnam page, you know what the number one trip is? A ten-day trip from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City, with the last leg being a flight from Da Nang to Ho Chi Minh City. This trip isn’t buried at the bottom of their collection of 148 trips that touch on the country.

It is the first trip they recommend.

Muong Lay is the perfect spot to get over writing about responsible travel. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While it isn’t branded as such, the trip is an Intrepid Travel one. The Australian adventure tour company claims to be the world’s largest such company, a leader in sustainable travel, and responsible for some 1,000 trips worldwide.

Aside from the above-mentioned trip, they offer over 20 specific to Vietnam. One of the highest placed tours on their own website is an eight-day tour of Vietnam which includes two domestic flights. Both are under an hour and thirty minutes.

Trying to make sense of this (and other things), I dropped Intrepid an email with a bunch of questions. To my mind, whistle-stop tours are the antithesis of responsible travel, so I was curious how they reconcile their talk with their walk. In a written answer, Karen Zhao, the Global Product Manager for Vietnam, wrote:

“Market demands tell us that customers want 8-10 days to see all that Vietnam has to offer. We need to cater to this market (or we wouldn’t be a commercially viable business).”

Back to money. Again.

The problem isn’t limited to their crazy-short tours. Intrepid’s 15-day “Classic Vietnam” and “Premium Vietnam in Depth” trips each have two domestic flights. Their 20-day “Premium Cambodia & Vietnam in Depth” trip has three domestic flights plus one regional one. All three domestic flights on that last tour are under an hour and a half in length, the Ho Chi Minh City to Da Lat one, under an hour.

What?

To be fair, Intrepid doesn’t only offer whistle stop tours. In her reply, Zhao listed trips which are “more focused and slower paced and don’t try to cover the entire length of Vietnam.” This is great, and while I personally feel the pace of some of the trips are akin to a military expedition—that’s just me. Whatever rocks your boat. Regardless, offering longer tours or plant-based meals (another point Zhao made) doesn’t negate the damage of the short trips.

The only plant-based menu I want in Vietnam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Intrepid isn’t alone. Mark Ord, co-founder of the far smaller UK operator All Points East echoed a similar line. All Points East offers a smaller range of Vietnam trips, but a number do include domestic flights. [Note: Ord is a personal friend and he has written at length for Travelfish over the years.] Chatting on the phone, Ord told me:

“The market is different to a decade ago. We used to plonk guests in Nan [a semi-remote trekking centre in northern Thailand] for three days, but today guests want short trips and to zap from highlight to highlight.”

In both cases they’re kicking the can down the road. More to the point, if you’re going to state that you’re “recognised as a leader in sustainable travel,” as Intrepid does, then behave like one. Galavanting around the world to accept a pay-to-play sustainability award while offering trips like these, seems, I don’t know, a bit off.

If you’re going to offer an eight-day trip to Vietnam that includes two domestic flights, you are not a sustainable operator. More to the point, if you’re going to sit at COP27 and talk about how you have reviewed your use of short flights on your top 50 trips then email me and say you run high emission trips because you need to make money, well, excuse me for being confused.

One important point here, as the top 50 trips were not listed during the COP27 session (thank God, as it is near interminable), I guess perhaps their Vietnam trips are not among their top 50 trips. That said, Zhao wrote “Most people going to Vietnam on Holiday want to do the standard 8-day trip to Vietnam” so it seems like a safe bet. If not, my bad, and I am more confused than I thought.

Forget climate—I’d like to declare a fashion emergency. Photo: Mark & Tu’s staff.

This isn’t to say, Intrepid doesn’t do plenty of good work—they do. For starters they run the Intrepid Foundation (more on this in a sec), which undeniably does great work. They also underwrite online travel publication Adventure.com, which often has a refreshing take. This stuff matters. It can make people’s lives better. It can work to shape (or better still, shift) consumer attitudes and opinions. It deserves applause.

In January 2020, they declared a “climate emergency” and outlined a seven-point plan. In it they noted a desire to offset 125% of their emissions (the company has been “carbon neutral” since 2010). They also plan to transition their trips to 100% renewable energy by 2030—I’d love to see the small print on that one. While there are issues with carbon offsetting, these steps remain laudable. Another point in their plan, that they will keep empowering women around the world, could perhaps be redirected to their management team.

I mention that last point only because it is a great example of the divergence between their talk and their walk. As I’ve written earlier, sustainable and responsible travel need to be viewed in a holistic manner. If you say you are going to do something, do it—starting with your own organisation.

No more bull please. Stranded with a flat tire on the way to Bac Ha. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I asked All Points East’s Ord why they fly domestic, his reply was instructive.

“Adding an entire day [for a train trip] with no highlights is a bit tricky and having a trip with two overnight train trips would be hard to sell—the market would not bear it. In an ideal world we’d use no domestic flights, but for the tour to be attractive to guests, there needs to be compromise. It boils down to what does the guest want? Do they want to spend nine hours in a bus or 45 minutes in a plane?”

I don’t know that the people who will bear the brunt of climate change—more often than not in the very countries these companies run tours to—would be all that keen on talk around compromise. At what point in this climate emergency is it ok to tell a potential customer that a ten-day tour to Vietnam is climate vandalism?

By all means continue to sell these short tours if you want—but then stop calling yourself a responsible operator.

Why? Because for the consumer who isn’t abreast on the latest in carbon counting or whatever, thanks to these company’s PR and branding, it isn’t a stretch to assume that when one buys from Responsible Travel or Intrepid, they think they’re buying a responsible product.

I have no elephant pics on my laptop, so here is a tasty bowl in Dien Bien instead. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I mention the Intrepid Foundation midway through this piece. Way back in 2010, they funded a report by World Animal Protection titled Wildlife on a Tightrope. The study researched animal welfare in Thailand’s entertainment and tourism sectors. While there was already some shifting away from elephants in tourism, the report’s publication was a watershed moment. Three years later, Intrepid stopped featuring elephant riding in their trips.

The science on flying’s role in global warming is clear. There is no excuse for flying domestically on a tour when there is suitable ground transportation. None. The planet cannot wait three years for more studies and reports and blah blah blah. Intrepid has shifted consumer behaviour before, and they need to do so again. All tour operators—Intrepid, All Points East and the bazillion others—need to remove these domestic flights, now, from their itineraries.

Will this annoy customers? Maybe. Will they adapt? Just as they did with elephant riding, yes. More to the point, they need to.

A last point, in theme with my other posts in this series, there is one tourism demographic who tends by and large, not to use adventure tour companies. You know who they are? Budget and independent travellers.

PS: Yes, I know I have itineraries on Travelfish that suggest domestic flights as an option. These are on my rewrite list!

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)
Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)
The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)
The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)
Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)
The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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Sorry for the delay in this, over the weekend I got savaged by some virus which kicked off with me temporarily going blind while riding my scooter with doggo on board. Please no jokes about that bringing me down to the riding standard of most tourists on a scooter in Bali. Thankfully traffic was light. Anyway, back on deck, though still shaking the last of this plague virus thing.

More than once over the last few episodes of this series, I’ve mentioned that as an absolute minimum, one should skip flying domestic. Today, I’m outlining my thinking on why I say this.

Writes Ryszard Kapuściński in Shah of Shahs:

“The Shah’s big money enabled him to breathe life into a new class, previously unknown to historians and sociologists: the petro-bourgeoisie. An unusual social phenomenon, the Petro-bourgeoisie produces nothing, and unbridled consumption makes up its whole occupation.”

I’ll get back to the above quote in a moment, first though I want to note, I’m a realist in saying flying is not going to go away. I’m not one who is going to argue that one should never fly. There are after all, many perfectly justifiable reasons for flying—both for work and play. I think flight shaming has a place, but the application of its concepts needs considerable fine-tuning.

Like the long distance steam cruiser and rail options it has surpassed, flying is the most time effective means to get from one side of the planet to the other. This convenience though, comes at a cost. There is no single personal mainstream activity that is more damaging to our planet than to get on an airplane. And yet, despite this, a minority of the Earth’s population does exactly this, day in day out.

How much to London? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Intercontinental flights have long been a critical ingredient of long haul travel—it brings the entire globe within reach of a day spent in moderate discomfort. Few in the UK would holiday in Thailand if the only means of getting there was overland. Instead of weeks atop four wheels it’s a day atop four engines—I’ve written before on the “changing universe” appeal of flying—there is, in truth, nothing else like it.

If long haul travel is to remain a thing, long haul flights, likewise, will remain. To my mind, the question is what then? There are persuasive arguments for applying increasingly onerous surcharges on frequent fliers, while for others, a minority to be sure, offsets is seen as a reasonable approach. This though, is problematic.

To understand one of the reasons why, a brief look at the genesis of carbon counting is required. The concept was invented by the oil industry, well by an advertising company, Ogilvy & Mather, on behalf of an oil company, BP.

Excuse me while I am ill.

The campaign, launched in 2000, was a masterpiece of duplicity and misdirection. You don’t need to take my word for it being a masterpiece—it won an advertising award always a bad sign—and was described as:

“a landmark platform for a company trying to change the way the world uses, and thinks about, the fuels that are vital to human progress” [my emphasis].

The unstated message of the campaign was that addressing climate change was the responsibility of the world—not that of the company earning billions pumping oil out of the ground. To facilitate this “shared responsibility,” the carbon calculator was invented. This sexy little online tool would help each and every one of us total the impact of our personal existence, thus helping us to modify our behaviour to tackle climate change. In 2004, over a quarter of a million people used a carbon calculator—and not without reason—BP was spending north of US$100 million per year in part asking people “What on earth is a carbon footprint?” An odd question when you consider they invented it.

As soon as you start talking about carbon footprints though, you’re using language designed to mislead you, to shift blame and responsibility from the oil companies to you.

Ok, now that I’ve got that off my chest…

Travel with—not like—a local. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In April 2022, Mongabay noted that aircraft generated some one billion tonnes of carbon. That might sound bad—it is—but the true picture is far worse—and complicated. This paper states that the complete “warming footprint” of aviation is considerably higher than the bare-bones carbon “score,” noting:

“Nevertheless, for all scenarios the warming footprint of aviation is at least twice as large as its carbon footprint in the coming decade, clearly highlighting that non-CO2 effects are non-negligible to assess the contribution of aviation to global warming.”

Please don’t get me started on why the emissions from military aircraft are exempt from all this, or that in 2021, gas flaring by the oil industry—a practice described by the World Bank as “totally unproductive”—alone generated 500 million tonnes of carbon. I digress.

As I wrote earlier in this series, getting down to the nuts and bolts of emissions is complicated. Even people who are far smarter than me (aka most of you), and who are not PR flacks for the oil or airline industries, cannot agree on exact counts. What sort of aircraft are you flying? How full is it? How old is it? How much cargo is it carrying? Which route is it flying? How long is the flight? How windy is it? What is the seating configuration? What class are you flying? All these questions (and many more) need to be answered to come up with accurate numbers.

Carbon-porn. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

These questions though, to a point, are a distraction. They’re a perverse take on the “unnecessary complexity breeds job security” maxim, clouding the air and making a clear answer difficult to determine. The answer however is exceedingly simple, and is as follows:

There is no single mode of public transportation that has a higher carbon footprint (bloody hell, here I am using BP language) than flying. If you want to minimise your footprint, any alternative mode of transport is preferable. Anything—well except for a cruise ship of course. Really—this is all there is to it.

If you are going to fly, then the above questions matter—you should fly on a new aircraft and in economy for example. With longer haul flights, I’ve read persuasive arguments that after a point, breaking the flight into two legs is preferable as at some stage you end up “burning fuel to carry it,” which makes sense to me.

An endangered species? Photo: David Luekens.

There are no shortage of pieces arguing that carbon offsets are a scam, or a form of greenwashing, but this is a bit of a baby meets bathwater thing. There are good projects, many of which are worth supporting even if you are not flying—you just need to put as much effort into selecting the right project as you do finding the cheapest (or most convenient or whatever) flight. The problem though, is unless the act of carbon offsetting is going to modify your behaviour, then you’re just affixing and ripping off the same bandaid over and over, while the oil companies are leaving the planet looking like a scene out of Bloodbath at the House of Death. Writes The New York Times:

“While individual activities do have environmental costs, and flying is one of the costliest, climate change is overwhelmingly driven by the actions of the fossil fuel industry. And the vast majority of carbon offsets are purchased by corporations, including fossil fuel companies themselves, on the premise that they can hit “net zero” emission targets without fundamentally changing how they operate.”

Behaviour modification—not only for the fossil fuel companies, but you and me too—is required, and with my above assumptions in mind, once you are in the region you should not fly regionally and you absolutely should not fly domestically. If you have just flown long haul, do not fly short haul. Here is why:

There is nowhere in Southeast Asia that can only be reached by aircraft. On some of the busiest air routes in the region, there are perfectly adequate ground transportation options—most often train or bus. Taking a short flight, on a per kilometre basis, is the worst polluting kind—on this the evidence is clear. If your itinerary doesn’t work without mid-trip flights, the problem is you and your itinerary. Fix that. If you’re recoiling at the suggestion of a 12-hour bus trip, then break it up—see more by seeing less.

Already grasping. Photo: David Luekens.

This ties in with what I was writing about slow travel, which in turn hooks in to sustainable tourism and responsible tourism—slow down and smell the coffee. Research has indicated there is one group of travellers who tend to fly less than other types of tourists—independent and budget travellers … dare I say … backpackers. Those who tend to fly more? The big-spenders—the very market tourism boards are gagging for more of.

Much has been written on how the climate change wrecking ball will smash island and coastal economies—archipelago nations like Indonesia and the Philippines will be particularly hard hit, but the damage is hardly limited to those nations. A study from 2018 looked at what could happen to Thailand’s beaches in the face of rising sea levels. They wrote:

“The results indicated that present beaches have rather small widths, and national beach loss rates in the future are projected to be more than 45.8% even for the lowest RCP2.6 scenario. The projected loss rate may reach a maximum of 71.8% where 23 beach zones will be completely lost.”

The report notes Thailand’s Andaman Sea coast as being particularly at risk, and while the study is looking at what changes would be manifested 80 years from now, these are gradual changes—even in half the time span—40 years from today, the damage would already be formidable. Would you still travel to the Andaman Coast if there were no longer any beaches? In writing about tourism, I’ve often trotted out the paving over paradise cliché, but perhaps submerging it is a more fitting term for this century. The irony of Thailand so emphatically chasing big spending tourists—the ones who will, through their flight practices, contribute more than any other to the country’s vanishing beaches, should not be lost on anyone.

Those who will bear the brunt of climate change are those least equipped to respond to it. There’s a whole range of reasons for this—inept and corrupt government being a standout, but tourism is far from blameless. The carbon deposited in our upper atmosphere thanks to discretionary flying, has, for decades been largely the doing of the West.

Responsibility should not be evenly shared. Photo: David Luekens.

Yes, in more recent decades flying in Asia (particularly China), Africa and South America has increased in popularity, but carbon emissions are a cumulative game. As was seen thanks to the pandemic-forced reduction in flying, when the planes stopped, there wasn’t a commensurate fall in carbon. The damage done since the 1950s is going to take generations to address, and yet those destined to wearing its worst excesses will be the populations who never had the privilege of being able to whine about Jack in 32C reclining before take-off.

This is what brings me to Kapuściński’s quote up top. He was writing of the Shah’s entourage of sycophants and hangers-on, parasites who enriched themselves as the general population suffered untold hardships. When you take a long bow to tourism, through the very act of its discretionary and flippant flying, is it really that different?

Reduce your flying today. Take fewer but longer trips. Do your research and offset what you do fly in a smart fashion. Do not fly domestic.

Let your travels make time and the planet will thank you for it.

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)
Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)
The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)
The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)
Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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Power up Google Maps and while still zoomed out, centre the map on Ho Chi Minh City, then switch it to satellite view. Click zoom in. Zoom in again. Keep zooming. Pretend you’re at a CIA field station in a new Mission Impossible flick. Watch as the city comes into view. There’s the airport, the undulating river, a still tree-lined boulevard. Keep zooming.

Each click, each zoom, wait till the image loads nice and sharp, then zoom again. Keep zooming until a single city block, it doesn’t matter which, District 10 is good for this, fills the screen. By city block I don’t mean a block of blocks, I mean a block—be careful not to zoom too much. Are you there yet? Has it fully loaded? Can you see the red plastic chairs? Well done.

Start here.

Your mission, should you decide to accept it dear reader, is to head to Ho Chi Minh City and spend an entire day exploring this single block.

There will be plenty of disagreement on this—an increasingly common issue I keep running up against in this series—but, the mission above is a type of slow travel.

Slow travel, as the term is popularised today, is often seen as an offshoot of the slow food movement, but in fact, the concept is as old as travel concepts come. Lucy Lethbridge, in the thoroughly amusing and interesting Tourists: How the British Went Abroad to Find Themselves quotes John Ruskin from The Stones of Venice as he laments the speeding up of travel:

“In the olden days of travelling, now to return no more, in which distance could not be vanquished without toil, but in which that toil was rewarded, partly by the power of deliberate survey of the countries through which the journey lay, and partly by the happiness of the evening hours, when from the top of the last hill he had surmounted, the traveller beheld the quiet village where he was to rest, scattered among the meadow beside its valley stream; or, from the long-hoped-for turn in the dusty perspective of the causeway, saw for the first time, the towers of some famed city, fain in the rays of sunset – hours of peaceful and thoughtful pleasure, for which the rush of the arrival in the railway stations is perhaps not always or to all men, an equivalent – in those days, I say, when there was something more to be anticipated and remembered in the first aspect of each successive halting place, than a new arrangement of glass roofing and iron girder.”

The year was 1851—clearly also the year of the run-on sentence—and people were already moaning about how others travelled. If, like me, you struggle with eliciting meaning from a 173 word sentence, Ruskin’s lament was aimed at trains—they were faster than the horse-drawn carriage he’d travelled in as a kid.

Narrowing the focus.

Writing in Slow Travel and Tourism, Janet Dickinson and Les Lumsdon write (far more succinctly than our mate Ruskin):

“The core of my argument is that travel not only takes time, but it also makes time.”

I like this line—a lot. Over the years, I must have written “Slow down and smell the coffee” hundreds of times. Spend more time doing anything and you’ll most likely learn something from it. Spending thirty minutes in Wogo village in Flores will obviously result in less learning than spending eight months there as Stroma Cole did in the late nineties. In Tourism, Culture and Development Hopes, Dreams and Realities in East Indonesia, Cole writes of the indiscretion of the belly button and the dreaded cropped top:

“A navel is a person’s centre, sacred and revered, and it is considered rude to put it on show. Pierced and adorned navels were met with horrified astonishment. As women said, ‘We just have to look away’, and another added, ‘How could they do that?’ ... Cropped tops, the most serious transgression of acceptable attire, were particularly popular in the summer of 1998 and provoked numerous debates about how to tackle the problem of ‘such rude tourists’ coming to the village. The fashion signalled a new type of tourist for many villagers, a particularly rude type.”

These sort of indiscretions point as much to poor guiding standards as anything else, but, the logic goes, if the cropped top wearer was travelling slower (rather than swapping Labuan Bajo for the alternative universe of Wogo via a few hours in a van) they’d have learned far earlier, and hopefully before causing offence, that cropped tops and belly buttons were a no no. Slow travel, in theory, should make for some lighter footsteps.

Just a few clicks to reach 100% Vietnam.

In today’s world, as the environmental impact of tourism has shifted towards the fore, the slow travel ethos shows promise. It eschews the whistle-stop style of travel popularised by travel companies, where itineraries are closer to that of a military expedition than a holiday, in favour of spending longer in each destination. The slow traveller travels by bus or train—or even bicycle or foot—and there are clear and positive environmental flow ons from this.

In my view though, there’s a bit more to it. Back to Dickinson and Lumsdon, on the underpinning of the tourism system, they write:

“Despite the decline in the popularity of the heavily packaged holiday and the rise of the internet as a main distribution intermediary, the structural elements of the supply chain have not changed radically. The process remains an essentially industrial one based on batch production of air travel, intense utilization of perishable accommodation stock at the destination and the creation of large-scale infrastructure ... to support the tourist flows stimulated through the marketing efforts of suppliers in a world of cascading substitutes.”

Putting it like that makes tourism sound positively Dickensian.

Airport, bus station, markets. Everything I need is on this map.

Slow travel is the antithesis of this. While I never thought I’d get to quote Dr Timothy Leary on Couchfish, and while I readily admit he probably didn’t have slow tourism in mind when he uttered his seminal “turn on, tune in, drop out,” the thinking behind it gels well. Leary was talking of becoming aware of alternate approaches, to act on this new awareness with the greater world in a harmonious fashion, and to build self reliance and seek detachment from “the system.” This is, in a way, slow travel.

There are though, three inter-related problems with it. Unless you’re Paul Salopek slowly walking around the planet, you’re going to be taking a long-haul flight or two, and it doesn’t get much more un-slow than that. Secondly, one of the reasons people take short holidays is because that is what they can afford, or they have work commitments that don’t allow them to, say, spend eight months in an Indonesian village. Thirdly, if an argument behind slow travel is to visit—and spend time in—the lesser visited, isn’t there a risk of simply broadening tourism’s footprint?

There’s no getting around the environmental impact of a long-haul flight. Some “slow travel thinkers” try by making it an in-destination process—ignoring the getting there bit when they pull out their slow travel abacus. Dickinson and Lumsdon differentiate between those who view the entire process and those who don’t as “hard slow travellers” and “soft slow travellers,” bringing to mind the whole backpacker or flashpacker debate. It is a practical approach I guess, but it feels disingenuous. The in-destination slow travel helps to mitigate one’s long haul flying excesses, but the elephant is there, squatting in the corner of the fan-cooled homestay room you cycled to.

Ahhh HCMC traffic—I have not missed thee.

While some may be time rich and money poor, often-case it is the opposite—the money is there, but there’s never enough time. After all, who has the money to spend six months a year travelling as a snail’s pace? For starters the wealthy do. This is a dilemma the slow food movement has battled with for years—the president of Slow Food USA, Josh Viertel, wrote as much in 2012:

“There are real, difficult questions at hand. What does it mean to promote paying the real cost of food while also promoting social justice and access? Is asking people to pay more for food elitist? Is exploring affordability an affront to farmers?”

To turn those questions to travel, is “true” slow travel an undertaking only the rich and shameless can afford? For this, I talked to one of my favourite slow travellers—and Travelfish member—Martín Aristía (who, as far as I know, is neither rich nor shameless). Aristía pushed back hard against my asking if slow travel was elitist.

“I strongly disagree with this idea. At least in my experience, it’s exactly the opposite: I normally spend far less traveling slowly than taking shorter holidays. Nowadays working online has become more popular than ever, so that also helps. You can travel slowly and visit two places in a two week holiday—this qualifies as slow travel to me—or you can spend two weeks at an all inclusive resort. By far, travelling slower will be far cheaper.”

His comment ties in closely with the rise of the global nomad phenomena, that travellers can today combine work and play to prolong a trip, perhaps indefinitely, in a way that 20 years ago wasn’t quite so easy—speaking from experience! I’m looking at Global Nomads in another piece in this series, so I’m not getting into it now, but it is worth keeping Aristía’s comment in mind. His argument, that slow travel, well, you can do it in a day, is supported by travel writer Lola Akinmade who says in this Youtube clip:

“I’m a big advocate for slow travel, but slow travel to me isn’t about duration but about your pace. So I can actually travel slowly, in one week, by slowing down my pace and choosing just one theme...”

Akinmade goes on to use an example of dance, and visiting a destination to learn about dance and the society and culture that revolves around it, saying this is preferable to:

“...running around trying to tick off everything .... so that can give you more meaningful slow travel experience even though it is a shorter duration.”

She covers similar ground in this episode of the Thoughtful Travel Podcast (if podcasting is more your thing than YouTube).

My God, there’s some trees the municipality mob have not cut down yet.

Yes, there’s still the flight to get there, but in the soft slow traveller realm, this view is a popular one. Slow down, do less, learn more—let travel make time. I like it, but let travel make time where?

As highlighted earlier by Cole, foreign travellers showing up at a village without being abreast of cultural norms can cause all sorts of misunderstandings. Đỗ Nguyên Phương is the co-founder of Slow Travel Huế, an agency in Huế that specialises in, well you guessed it, slow travel. In his view, a careful hand is required—both for the hosts and the guests—to make sure everyone is satisfied with how matters play out. He describes this as “Fulfilling in Connecting”:

“For us, we work with local people with a mutual agreement, sharing benefits. If travellers go on a full day tour, the farmer’s family who shares the farming experience will earn some income, as will the fishermen and boat driver, the family who offer lunch, and the ladies who make the sticky rice cake or conical hats—our host families are very proud to be involved. The guests are looking for authentic experiences and true connecting moments, and they are immersed into local life to share and appreciate these—even if there may be differences to their comfort zone. Our motto is “Fulfilling in Connecting” and for us, the quality customers are those willing to connect and share these fulfillments.”

Phương’s point here is an important one. It’s all well and good to say travellers should travel longer, deeper and slower, but there is little discussion about what the residents think about this. For decades, local communities have lacked a seat at the tourism table, their considerations and sensibilities an afterthought—if at all. Agencies like Phương’s, that are working to better vest these communities into the tourism process, are moving in the right direction.

Food joints start popping up willy nilly.

In a previous piece in this series, I wrote about pro-poor tourism in Luang Prabang, noting that one of the struggles was most visitors didn’t have the time to do overnight trips to outlying villages. This makes slow travellers—those who do have the time—a valuable asset for destinations like Huế and agencies like Phương’s. This is where I’d normally slip in a rant about how tourist visas need to be longer to enable longer, slower stays, but as I’m already way over my word count, you’ll just have to imagine it.

Which brings us to the money. The economics of slow travel, for the destination, can be persuasive. Independent travellers spend longer in destinations and travel farther, than regular short-stay tourists. Their spending is more likely to end up in the hands of small, family-owned businesses, rather than some travel conglomerate that is going to offshore half the funds into shareholders’ pockets. This matters.

Slow travellers though, can be a bit like three days, fish and all that. If they stay too long, the line between some variation on tourist and some variation on expat blurs. Rising property prices, creaking infrastructure, drugs, crime, racket and pollution—these are all standard issues when a destination gets “too popular.” It’s not only slow travellers who contribute to this—everyone does—but the longer one stays, the bigger ones’ contribution. What would Barcelona or Venice look like if every tourist who visited stayed a month?

HCMC is not a city—each city block is.

However many slow travellers there are, regardless of if they’re hard or soft, how they spend matters. This goes for all travellers, but for slow travellers in particular because, by their very nature, they stay longer and their spending habits are repeated over and over day in day out. The positive one brings by staying in one place a long time dissipates fast if the spend is primarily at foreign-owned clubs, on imported food and booze, or to a foreign landlord.

To look at travel through a carbon lens (more on this in another story in the series), transportation comprises the majority of the overall emissions of a trip. So, if this matters to you (and it should), then even though you’re still flying long haul, reducing your transport requirements while in-country is an obvious step in reducing the carnage—but probably equally important is how you spend your money while there.

To my mind, slow travel is a pretty good bandage but it only covers half the wound. I’ll be looking at the other half in a few days time. In the meantime, spend a day exploring that single city block in Ho Chi Minh City—just don’t wear a cropped top.

Past episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)
Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)
The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)
The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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People often say “if only we’d known then what we know now,” and so it was the other day, when I stumbled upon a 2006 Overseas Development Institute working paper by Caroline Ashley. Titled “Participation by the poor in Luang Prabang tourism economy: Current earnings and opportunities for expansion” it shows that people did know. If you’ve ever wondered just where your money goes, you should read it. It is dated—16 years is a long time—and there are a few typos, but regardless, it provides a valuable snapshot of Luang Prabang and plenty of insight worth considering for travellers who believe their travels should actively work to help those most in need.

The year is 2006 and Luang Prabang has been at the pinnacle of the nation’s “must see” list for at least a decade. In 2000 there were 65,225 international arrivals—a number that would rise to 133,569 in 2005, and which, by 2019, would skyrocket to 860,035. For a country with stubbornly high—and persistent—poverty levels, can tourism help?

Everything in Luang Prabang is photogenic. Photo: Cindy Fan.

The working paper’s executive summary does a good job of, well, summarising:

“This report explores the workings of the tourism economy of Luang Prabang from a pro-poor perspective. It makes rough estimates of where tourist expenditure goes, and where poor and poorish people are earning incomes from tourism. It assesses four sub-chains of the tourism value chain: accommodation, food and drink, handicrafts, and excursions. The estimates of expenditure and income are extremely rough. Nevertheless, they paint a picture of where money is flowing in the tourism economy.”

According to the report, at least US$6 million flowed to semi- and un-skilled people in Luang Prabang in one year. This represented around 27% of the total tourism receipts of about $22.5m. Food and drink earned the lions’ share (over half), followed by crafts.

So what was a typical tourist in Luang Prabang in 2006 like? About 72% were from the West, with Europeans making up 50% of the total. Asian visitors made up the other 28%, the majority of whom were Thai. Around half flew in (half on international flights, the other half on domestic), the other half by boat or bus. The majority of tourists were independent travellers. Package groups were over-represented at the top end.

Laters of pretty. Photo: Cindy Fan.

The report goes on to say:

“The majority of tourists in Luang Prabang are backpackers who are travelling for several weeks or months. They stay in budget accommodation, eat local food, drink beer, buy curios that are light, and arrange their own local transport and trips. They are generally under 40. The up-market tourists are quite different: their hotels or guesthouses cost ten to 30 times as much, they fly in and out, they are more likely to book through travel agents and tour operators and go on organised excursions.”

The average stay was around five days, and while most stayed around three days, a minority stayed far longer. While budget travellers accounted for 58% of the market, they accounted for 68% of the bed nights. At the time, Luang Prabang had 17 hotels and these were often family-owned though some had a foreign hand. Women owned only a third. Meanwhile, there were 131 guesthouses, with an average of ten rooms apiece. Virtually all were family-run local businesses and most had women as the registered owner.

Pay more, get more. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Where it gets interesting with accommodation is with regard to where the money went. According to the report, the total tourist spend on accommodation was $8.6m. The amount that went in wages and benefits? Around $550,000—six percent. Here, the upper end hotels paid more and used more staff—roughly 1.3 per room versus 0.3 in a guesthouse, but despite this, as a percentage of revenue, their labour costs were below average—five percent. The guesthouses? They were more likely to hire family members and semi- or un-skilled staff. Anyone who stayed at a guesthouse in Luang Prabang in the 2000s would back this statement up.

While guesthouse staff levels were lower, these workers lacked the skills for a hotel job. This is another point the report emphasises—a need for more training. It notes that at the time training was adhoc, with plenty of scope for improvement.

Another factor to consider is how accommodation was changing the town. According to Analysis of the Changing Landscape of a World Heritage Site: Case of Luang Prabang, Lao PDR, between 1999 and 2009 there were big changes as demand ramped up. Looking at conversions from residential houses versus new builds, 78 residences became guesthouses while 24 were in new buildings. In comparison, 14 hotels were residential conversions while seven were in new buildings. Guesthouses dominate conversions as they required less capital and were less regulated. In total 141 conversions took place and the image below puts the transition in context.

Red marks a decade of change, from 1999 to 2009. Source: Analysis of the Changing Landscape of a World Heritage Site: Case of Luang Prabang, Lao PDR, page 8.

On the food side, Luang Prabang had an incredible 1,242 restaurants. The majority of these were family-run, offering 10-30 tables and meals at around the $5 mark. Foreign-owned (often French) restaurants were in the minority. The playing field in this regard could not be more different today—at least there is no Starbucks.

The report estimated that in one year tourists ate over one million meals in Luang Prabang and spent about $7m. Of this $7m, about half went to producers of Lao meat, veges, fruit, rice and so on. This was the biggest single financial flow into the local economy. A raft of suggestions were made about building on this, including import substitution, smoothing connections between hotel food buyers and the producers, showcasing more Lao food on menus, and, of course, there’s a whole section on seaweed. In case you are wondering, in 2006, a Western traveller drank on average one beer per day—I was surprised it was this low to be honest.

With shopping, the report took a detailed look at textiles, where tourists spent $3m in the year. A large proportion of the workers were women and a minority from ethnic minorities. Of this spend, some $1.1m ended up with local producers, vendors and workers. Upmarket tourists spent about three times as much as backpackers on souvenirs. I guess in part, because they didn’t have to carry the the bloody things on their backs for the next three months. The report highlights the night and day markets as excellent approaches. Product diversification and higher value goods are also earmarked as desirable. Both changes have taken place.

You will need to buy another backpack. Photo: Cindy Fan.

On transport, for day trips and so on, the difference in village participation was stark. Some integrated themselves well—if bizarrely—but most left plenty on the table. The report highlights selling food and drink—the simplest of actions—as being an easy step. Excepting Muang Ngoi, which is a destination in its own right, overnight stays didn’t move the needle. Why? One reason was many don’t have the time.

You need to be in Luang Prabang for a while to have the luxury of contemplating a series of day trips or an overnight one. An obvious step would be to mandate that tour groups must stay long enough to allow something like this to happen. It is though, a hard sell. From tour operators I have spoken to for another piece in this series, by day two or three, clients’ feet are itching. “They [the pax] don’t need five days or a week to tick a box,” was how one put it.

Take me to another place. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So what did people spend back then? Budget travellers spent $20 to $30 a day and $118 per trip, while high-end tourists spent $100 or over per day and $344 per trip. For the former, food was the biggest expense, while for the latter it was, by far, accommodation. That accommodation, if booked through an online agent, immediately offshored some revenue. How much? Anything from ten to fifty percent—or more. That might not feel so onerous when you’re paying $10 a night, but at $300 a night, it is a significant loss for the destination—and the hotel! [This OTA commission stuff is me talking—it wasn’t covered in much depth in the report.]

Per trip, semi- and un-skilled people earned about $35 for each budget traveller and $59 for an upmarket one. This suggests the latter are better, but roughly 30% of a backpacker’s spend accrued to the semi and un-skilled while only 17% of an upmarket tourist’s did.

So what am I doing writing about what a working paper reported back in 2006—some 16 years ago? For starters, this is the most detailed report I’ve seen that looks at where peoples’ money goes in a specific destination in Southeast Asia. I found the report to be very interesting and I encourage you to read it if you’ve the time. Clearly some others have, as over the 16 years since, many of the changes recommended in the report have seen the light of day. At least to some degree anyway. This is good.

Get out on the river before they dam the whole thing. Photo: Cindy Fan.

I’m also writing about it because as per the report, independent travellers were important. Yes, it was a mixed bag, the conversion of residential properties in particular is a problem. That said, a greater share of independent travellers’ money reaches the semi- and un-skilled than any other. If you feel that tourism can have a role to play in poverty alleviation, this matters.

I’m also writing about it because to some degree every town in Southeast Asia is its own Luang Prabang. For government talking heads to do their upmost to deter independent travellers is both damaging to their very own people, and just plain dumb.

Past episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)
Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)
The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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This is the third part in a series I’m writing about tourism in Southeast Asia. Part one looked at World Tourism Day and part two at sustainable tourism.

So with sustainable tourism behind us, what about its bedfellow, responsible tourism? To be honest, on the clarity stakes, matters don’t improve much, but it does give us some better bones to build upon. The term is often used in a synonymous fashion alongside sustainable tourism, but they are different beasts.

The term came into popular use in Cape Town, South Africa, when, in 2002 it formed the centrepiece of the Cape Town Declaration. Tourism academic Harold Goodwin is commonly seen as the mover and shaker behind the concept, but many of its points were already in widespread use. What the declaration did, was to wrap up a glad bag of practices into a cohesive bundle and present it to the travel industry.

I’m not suggesting you should take the bus to Domodedovo. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The industry, seeing a lucrative new niche, coopted many of its principles into a “new” form of travel. They took it, particularly in the UK, packaged it up, and sold it—at a premium. A cynic might even say responsible tourism exists not because it is the right thing to do, but because it is a nice earner.

At its core, the declaration sees responsible tourism as having seven anchors. To its mind, responsible tourism:

Minimises negative economic, environmental, and social impacts;
Generates greater economic benefits for local people and enhances the well-being of host communities, improves working conditions and access to the industry;
Involves local people in decisions that affect their lives and life chances;
Makes positive contributions to the conservation of natural and cultural heritage, to the maintenance of the world’s diversity;
Provides more enjoyable experiences for tourists through more meaningful connections with local people, and a greater understanding of local cultural, social and environmental issues;
Provides access for physically challenged people;
Is culturally sensitive, engenders respect between tourists and hosts, and builds local pride and confidence.

The declaration recognises the damage tourism is capable of and, through these steps, it advises on how to reduce the bad. The policies are sound, but, as is the case with sustainable tourism, in reflecting the differences inherent to a variety of destinations (and travellers) the principles are advisory rather than instructive.

Train stations are not hard to find. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m not going to go through them one by one, but to illustrate my point, take the top item: “Minimises negative economic, environmental, and social impacts.” What does this actually mean? How does a traveller act on this? Is minimising your economic impact staying at an enormous resort (which provides lots of jobs) or staying at a family-owned homestay (which employs a local family). Is not standing on coral minimising your environmental damage? Wouldn’t not doing a snorkelling trip at all be a more responsible approach?

You could answer in the affirmative to all four of my questions and satisfy the lead point. Each, in their own way, satisfies the demands of responsible tourism. It can indeed be everything to everyone. So while responsible tourism has clearer guidelines, they remain open to broad interpretation. There’s no imperative to adopt them all, nor to any prescribed degree, instead we’re left with “minimise,” “contribute,” and “involve.” Before you know it, we’re back enjoying a piña colada with a bamboo straw by our private horizon pool. This is not ideal.

In Baja California yes, in Bali no. Photo: No idea, just found it on my laptop.

As with sustainable tourism, behind the headlines, there is a commercial imperative at work. Responsible tourism is an agent of minimisation not negation. While it may be true that if you want to be an environmentally responsible traveller, you should start by not getting on an airplane, that’s simply not going to fly (sorry!). It is hard to sell Thailand tours in the UK if one of your responsible precepts is to not get on an airplane.

Instead travellers have a set of principles which they then need to figure out how to adopt. How can one apply the core tenants of responsible tourism but still travel? Some might choose to take the long-haul flight, but not fly domestic in-country. This is better than nothing, and easy to do, and yet there’s no imperative in the declaration to do so.

I’m not always responsible myself (I eat tacos in Bali, not that I don’t know how to use a toilet), but pre-trip research is always a good idea. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Responsible tourism relies to an extent on a benevolent lie—or myth—and one that is necessary for it to survive. I wonder though, seeing some of the activities packaged as responsible, just how benevolent the lie really is. In buying into the arguments that underwrite responsible travel, you’re buying into its ideology. In essence it is a salve for the often destructive consumerism that embodies modern tourism.

So how does an independent traveller best instil this ideology? None of the steps suggested by the declaration are bad. Firm targets, tailored to one’s own travelling style, would be a good start. I like to think about trying to travel in a responsible manner like packing before a trip. I’ve long said that when packing you should place all your kit on your bed and then put half of it back in the cupboard. With travelling responsibly, it is the opposite. Make a list of everything you can do, make firm, clear, actionable targets, then double the length of your list—or your targets.

Drink local—your waistline will not thank you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

What do I mean by actionable targets? Taking again the headline item, what can you, the individual do, to best embody this?

As already mentioned, you could avoid going anywhere near a domestic flight. Avoid the offshoring of your money by using only locally owned operations. Visit a national park only if sufficient safeguards are in place. Eat only locally-produced food—do not eat seafood. Learn about the destination you are planning to visit before you arrive—yes, read books and buy a guidebook.

Take my word for it, much of the information needed to inform these decisions—by design—is not easy to come by. Look at the website of any major tourism business and try to figure out who owns it, what they pay their staff, or better still, where (or if!) they pay tax. Good luck with that.

Responsible tourism needs many helping hands to get things right. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As with sustainable tourism, destinations need an honest application of the practice. This should be an all-encompassing one. Examine every part of your typical travel routine and ask yourself “how can I do better?”

To say the least, for most, this will be a challenge. A bit of hard work though never hurt anyone. Aside from having less impact, you may learn a thing or two in the process. I do suggest skipping the lessons offered by Battambang’s local wineries though.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com/subscribe

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Today, I’m looking at sustainable tourism and what it is. This could be a very short post as I could simply write “nobody agrees on what sustainable tourism is,” but I’ll try. While you’ll see it used with both tourists and industry in mind, at heart, it’s an industry-directed term.

I was going to go through a potted history of sustainable tourism, but thought the better of it. In summary, its roots lie in sustainable development, a term coined by the Brundtland Commission. This was then adapted for tourism. Below I’ve noted the Commission’s take along with an oft-cited view from academia. There is, by the way, no broad-based consensus on what sustainable tourism is. Don’t tell that to any tourism minister.

Brundtland, defining sustainable development, states:

“... development that meets the needs to the present generation without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.”

Tourism academic Richard W Butler builds on this to firm up something nebulous around sustainable tourism. In this 1999 paper (quoting an earlier one of his from 1993) he writes:

“... tourism which is developed and maintained in an area (community, environment) in such a manner and at such a scale that it remains viable over an infinite period and does not degrade or alter the environment (human and physical) in which it exists to such a degree that it prohibits the successful development and well being of other activities and processes.”

If you want to read one, read the latter as it is by far the more interesting. It is not paywalled, though his earlier one seems to be.

It is a bit mad when you think about it. Sustainable tourism slogans are everywhere and an army of consultants butter their bread with it. Yet, there is no broad agreement on what it actually means. Within an industry awash in greenwashing and fantasy peddling, yet another meaningless slogan feels almost normal—I’m surprised it isn’t called “nice tourism.”

Looks better pre-harvest—and pre-resort? Time for some Net-Negative. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Only the most delusional could look at tourism’s state pre-pandemic and not feel alarm. Be it overtourism, environmental degradation, crime or cultural offensiveness, tourism has it all. Who wouldn’t want a better form of tourism? This is to say, the goal of the whole undertaking feels admirable—if only I knew what it meant. The UNWTO, always keen on meaningless terms, has declared it should be “the new normal.” How do you make something undefined the new normal?

To be fair to the UNWTO, they did come up with the catchy “people, planet and prosperity,” which summaries the premise. They also push a wish list with a colour palette—the Sustainability Development Goals—three of which hook into sustainable tourism. Neither the catchy slogan nor the SDGs pretty colours engage much with the “how”.

The SDGs: A wish list with a colour palette.

The phrase sustainable tourism has been around for over 30 years, yet a clear definition is yet to emerge. Why?

It is impossible to define, that’s why. Put aside the simple differences around geography (the where), and start with for whom. Sustainable for the resort developer or the family-run bungalow? For the community activist or the politician? For the tax-man or the environmentalist? For the traveller or the local? For the economy or the planet? Being sustainable is a balancing act. One needs to balance the needs of all the above (and a bunch of others) and hope to still make a buck.

Think about some of the ways it plays out. I’m using hotels in the examples below, but sustainable tourism is to be all-encompassing.

It is common for hotels today to stop using single use plastic. This is good for the planet, and they’d argue it is a practice supporting them being a sustainable operator. That they have one hundred private pool villas out back doesn’t enter into the equation. Sustainable tourism needs to take a holistic view—it needs to encompass all aspects of the business.

Clearly Bali needs more Banyan Trees. Batu Belig Beach, late 2021. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Net-zero pledges almost always only concern hotel operations. “Removing” residents then carving a scar in the earth and building the joint in the first place doesn’t count. This is of course complete garbage. If a hotel wants to claim sustainability, of course its construction needs to be in the equation. Operations should not be Net-zero, they should be Net-Negative. Set a prescribed period of say ten or twenty years to negative out the build out. If that makes the project unfeasible from an economic point of view, then don’t build the bloody thing.

It isn’t all bad though—hotels also do good things. Check out this video from Banyan Tree that I had to sit through the other day for university. Make yourself a stiff drink first.

Drinks please.

In the video they state the group holds four environmental cleanings per year per property. In 2017, 33 tonnes of trash were collected. To put this in perspective, as of the end of 2021 they had 58 operating hotels (I’m not sure how many they had in 2017). So, if each of those 58 properties held four cleanups a year, that is 232 cleanups to gather roughly 33,000 kg of trash. So each cleanup gathered around 150 kg of rubbish. In comparison, Sungai Watch a small Indonesia-based NGO with 50 employees, removed 333,000 kg of trash from Bali’s rivers in 2021. Don’t get me started on Banyan Tree’s statement about their clingfilm usage: “Over 2,100 km of cling film has been reduced, almost the equivalent distance from Singapore to Manila.” Who the hell thought this statement would work well—I mean how much are they still using?!

This isn’t to say all the fault lies at the high end, and that budget guesthouses are blameless. I’ve stayed in no shortage of beach flop houses that have no water treatment, burn rubbish, exploit staff and so on. None of this is ok. That said, Jo’s Festy Beach Flop House isn’t paying Earthwatch $6,600 to get a Bronze sustainability pat on the back.

Take an enormous resort going into a pristine and remote area, one so remote there’s hardly any mains power. If the resort was serious about being sustainable, it would be renewables-driven. In this case, it isn’t. Instead it will rely on new coal-fired plants. Their propaganda? Near every second word is sustainable. When I asked them about this contradiction, they ignored me. I later heard (second hand) that they view other aspects of their project to be sustainable. I guess bamboo straws then.

None of this is good enough.

Repeat to self: The straws are bamboo. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are plenty of easy ways to make a tourism business “more sustainable.” There’s engaging with the local community in a mutually beneficial manner. There’s paying staff well and under good conditions. There’s not using single use plastic (or clingfilm), or low energy lightbulbs. There’s using locally supplied food and not importing goodies from the motherland. These are all steps in the right direction and plenty of hotels do these and much more. That doesn’t though, make these steps enough, and it sure doesn’t make these properties examples of sustainable tourism. And yet, go read their websites.

After all, these sort of steps should be a normal part of business—most of them will save the property money. Is it even possible to buy a high energy lightbulb anymore? Why is it noteworthy for a hotel to undertake a beach cleanup? Could the bar be lower? The planet is on fire and we’re awarding accolades for using bamboo straws. It seems a bit much.

In my view, unless applied in a holistic manner, sustainable tourism is an oxymoron. Even if one wanted to, one can’t be sustainable for everyone. One can’t equally prioritise people, planet and profit all in the same breath—it’s a fool’s errand. One can work hard to be “more sustainable,” and that’s a start—I’m just not sure it needs a round of applause.

There is only one. Photo: NASA.

If you come across a property claiming to be a sustainable tourism business, drop them a line and ask them to help you understand. Question everything they say. It shouldn’t have to be this way of course, but it is, and the industry has nobody to blame for it other than themselves.

Sustainable tourism, well, it is only half the battle. The other half? That’s responsible tourism’s paddock. I’ll be getting into that tomorrow—and I’ll try not to swear.

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Tuesday September 27 was World Tourism Day. You didn’t know? You’re not the only one. As my mate Ian at Travel Massive pointed out, on one website, National Chocolate Milk Day got more shares than World Tourism Day. Slow clap fellas.

I’d planned to write a piece to coincide with the day, but I’ve been a bit off health-wise and, as regulars would have noticed, posts have been, to say the least, erratic. My apologies. Anyway, I’m more or less back on deck, and have decided to write a series about tourism in the region rather than a one off piece. Each day, I’ll be looking at one aspect of tourism in Southeast Asia, and use a specific region or destination to illustrate my thoughts on it. Today is an introductory piece looking briefly at the UNWTO and World Tourism Day.

As this is a bit different from the regular programming, the posts will be going out to the full list. The regular itinerary series will resume when I’m done. I hope you find these pieces of interest and, as always, your thoughts and feedback are much appreciated.

Thank you.

So where to start? Let’s start with a brief look at the day itself, and what it has highlighted over the years.

World Tourism Day is the brainchild of the United Nations World Tourism Organisation (UNWTO). I’ll use their own words to describe the role of the UNWTO as they see themselves. The order of what tourism drives is instructive.

“As the leading international organization in the field of tourism, UNWTO promotes tourism as a driver of economic growth, inclusive development and environmental sustainability and offers leadership and support to the sector in advancing knowledge and tourism policies worldwide.”

The choice of September 27 marks the day of the adoption of the UNWTO statutes in 1970, and it has run every year since 1980. Its purpose is to raise awareness of the role of tourism with regard to cultural, economic, political and social values.

Each year the day has a theme, this year, the 43rd such event, and hosted by Indonesia, is “Rethinking Tourism.” You can see a full list of the various themes here, and if you scan down the list, you’ll notice a recurring theme. Can’t see it? Here I made a word cloud of the words used most often, to better illustrate—the more often the word features, the bigger the text is.

Word Cloud via the smart cookies at WordClouds.

The word “environment”? It hasn’t featured since 1997 (“climate change” slipped in in 2008—yes, tweleve years ago). “Development” meanwhile, is the most used word after “tourism”. To be fair, it is sometimes with “sustainable,” but development is a growth term and that’s what the UNWTO is all about. Making stuff—in particular, economies—grow.

If you read the list from bottom up, you might see a shift in focus that may or may not reflect wider concerns of the time. Here’s a quick timeline working on the slogans—not the substance—of each event. For each decade, I note the number of international arrivals (worldwide) in the first year of the decade, and the share of arrivals that was absorbed by Asia and the Pacific. All numbers are from Our World in Data, I’m not sure why their most up-to-date numbers are from 2018.

In summary, inbound tourism went from 278.1 million in 1980 to 1.4 billion in 2018, while Asia and the Pacific’s share of those inbounds rose from around 8% to almost 25%. Staggering.

The Eighties

International arrivals in 1980: 278.10 million

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 8.27%

Through the 1980s the focus was on responsibility, peace, cooperation and friendship. Heritage, mutual understanding, and education for all, also featured as themes. To my mind, these are all staples of the “good” tourism has the potential to bring.

The 80s was also a stretch when a great many worried about dying in a nuclear firestorm, so there’s that too—perhaps we all needed a bit more love after the 1970s.

The Nineties

International arrivals in 1990: 439.40 million

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 12.79%

With almost double the number of tourists of the previous decade, an economic tilt appears. “Peace,” “harmony,” and “tolerance” all make it in, but a business focus begins to rear its head. Delight in the wonkish “Public-private sector partnership: the key to tourism development and promotion.” I want that on a t-shirt yesterday.

1997 also saw the Asian Financial Crisis which kicked off in Indonesia and rolled right across the region. Thanks to the collapse in the value of many currencies in the region, it became a hell of a lot cheaper to travel in for inbound tourists.

The Naughties

International arrivals in 2000: 682.10 million

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 16.21%

Another decade, and another couple of hundred million people coast through immigration. I mention immigration as refugees are not on the UNWTO’s radar—they’re more the UNHCR’s gig—which is to say the volume of humanity on the move was far larger than the UNWTO’s figures.

The 2000s sees empowering women, celebrations of diversity and climate change as highlights, though the economic focus continues to grow. For example, tourism has a role in job creation, and poverty alleviation—worthy of attention thanks to the various economic crises around the world across the decade.

The Twenty-tens

International arrivals in 2010: 950.80 million

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 21.61%

Off the back of a boom in outbound tourism from China (from under 60 million in 2010 to over 160 million in 2018), worldwide tourism skyrockets. Midway through this explosion, in 2015, we have the non-alarmist yet totally alarming theme “1 billion tourists, 1 billion opportunities.” Opportunities for what exactly?

Some form of development features in almost half the themes through the decade. There are though, the first indicators that not all might be good with incessant growth. Biodiversity, water, and accessibility all feature. Who is getting to travel—and who is paying the price?

The Twenty-twenties

International arrivals in 2018: 1.4 billion

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 24.43%

News stories related to overtourism are dime a dozen as destinations lurch under the load of hundreds of millions of new bums of seats. This is, after all, what unfettered growth is all about.

In the first years of the new decade, World Tourism Day settles for rural development and inclusive growth. After the last couple of pandemic years, I don’t think anyone could fault a “Rethink” as being desirable.

Chart via Our World In Data (It only goes till 2018, not sure why).

Overtourism is yet to feature as a theme. The UNWTO did publish this report in response to it though. It includes eleven “strategies and measures to address visitors’ growth in cities.”

Not one suggests taking steps to arrest the overall growth in tourist numbers.

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A few years ago, in the late 15th century, as Islam supplanted Java’s Majapahit Empire, Java’s Hindus edged east. For a spell, they clung to Java’s eastern reaches, especially around modern-day Banyuwangi, but over time, most crossed the Bali Strait to, well, Bali.

One of those making up the eastward move was Dang Hyang Niratha. A Shiva-Buddhist high priest, with purported psychic and supernatural powers, he made the crossing in 1489, 1537 or 1546 (accounts vary). There were no car ferries back then, so he made the crossing on the back of a pumpkin or a breadfruit tree leaf—again accounts vary. As an aside, one pumpkin source suggests this is the root of why Balinese Brahmin refrain from eating pumpkin. To my knowledge, no such ban on breadfruit exists—it must have been a pumpkin then, I guess.

I came by neither pumpkin nor breadfruit leaf. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Accounts are more settled on where he landed, along a coastal strip by Negara in West Bali. Once on terra firma, he enjoyed a spell beneath a fig tree. To commemorate his landing, his followers built Pura Ancak (fig is ancak in Balinese) on the very site. A temple known for its white coral construction, it later became Pura Purancak. It was to be the first of many temples in Bali associated with Niratha.

Aside from his supernatural tendencies, Niratha was also a keen wanderer. Once he was well rested, he got going.

I’ve not been able to find a list of all the temples associated with Niratha, but some of Bali’s greatest, including Rambut Siwi, Tanah Lot and Uluwatu, are. It was at the latter where he attained moksha, and was freed from the shackles of reincarnation. After his “elevation,” luhur was added to the temple’s name. Uluwatu is a combination of ulu (end) and watu (stone), which, if you’ve ever been to Uluwatu, makes perfect sense. In adding luhur (go up/rise/above), the temple’s full name Pura Luhur Uluwatu is, in essence, a description of what became of Niratha and where it happened.

Soaking up Balinese culture by one of the holiest temples on the island, Pura Luhur Uluwatu. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Some time after landing in Bali, though before he reached the south, he grabbed a haircut at a scenic headland west of Medewi. A remnant of those cuttings is retained on site at Pura Rambut Siwi, a particularly magical spot. Moving on east, he plunged his staff into the waters of the Balian River, giving it healing properties. Today, pesky bull sharks on occasion savage surfers at the break out from Balian River’s mouth. I’m told the sharks head upriver when they’re feeling off, so perhaps Niratha had them in mind.

Niratha wasn’t only the mover and shaker behind some of Bali’s greatest temples. Lesser known ones, including Pura Petitenget in the heart of Seminyak, owe their origins to his wanderings and keepsakes. The temple’s name, from Balinese peti for small box and tenget for sorcery, is a reference to Niratha’s betel nut holder which he left with a resident spirit as he made his way to Uluwatu.

On ceremony days, this staircase is a sight to be seen. At Pura Rambut Siwi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Pura Purancak, Rambut Siwi, Tanah Lot and Uluwatu (along with a few others) are Bali’s “sea temples.” They’re strung along the coast, in theory within sight of one another, forming a coastal protective belt against evil spirits.

So where am I going with this?

A few months ago I started working on what I thought would be a quick story on the treatment of Islamic sites in Southeast Asia by travel publications. There’s no end in sight to me finishing that one, but I have been dwelling a lot on houses of worship—of all faiths.

While I’ve used Bali in the example above, I could as easily weave a tale around sites of other faiths from elsewhere. The above information was not, as it turned out, easy to find. Even the simplest point—did Niratha travel by pumpkin or breadfruit leaf—is up for debate.

Tell me something I don’t know. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

What isn’t up for debate is that across the region, the mantra we hear daily, details a desire for “quality tourists.” While many believe this is shorthand for big-spenders, I’ve been wondering what a quality tourist is.

Is a quality tourist a bigger spender? Many think so. What about a more responsible tourist? One that travels in a more sustainable manner? A slow tourist? A short-stay tourist? Or are longer stays better? It’s a crapshoot and a highway to boring and droll straw man whataboutisms.

I do think there is one facet of a tourist that could be broadly agreed upon as being an element of quality. That is, a desire to learn about where they are.

Why should learning about a place be an indicator of quality? I’d argue for at least three reasons. It educates the traveller, which should help them to understand why things are as they are. This in turn should translate into a better trip for them. A destination-educated tourist should be more aware of cultural norms, and that is good for residents.

A different type of quality. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One of the core ways to begin to understand a nation is to have a handle on the various faiths of its people. Comprehending why people behave as they do due to religious beliefs can explain a lot. Done sensitively and with the cooperation of worshippers, places of worship could be the perfect place to start down this road. To help tourists understand unfamiliar practices, and to learn the what, the how, and the why.

Yet, broad strokes, go to any house of worship, of any faith, anywhere in Southeast Asia, and they’ll be little of this. There may be a signboard explaining how to dress and what areas are off limits, but it generally stops there. Of course this signage is important, but come on, tell me something I don’t know—tell me about the temple. Often a visit is little more than either gawking at, or ignoring, devotees. Temple visits done bad tend to be very bad.

This seems like a missed opportunity. Two of the Bali’s “sea temples,” Uluwatu and Tanah Lot, are over the top popular. Yet most foreign tourists go not to learn. Instead it’s a sunset selfie, a contrived tourist spectacle, to buy tacky imported souvenirs, or to be savaged by macaques. In their own way, these are all lessons on why Bali is how it is, but these are not the lessons I’m thinking of.

Not a macaque in sight—just waves rolling in and Java beyond. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I went to Pura Rambut Siwi this morning, as it is down the beach from where I am staying. When I told a Balinese friend I’d leased a house near the temple, she said “Ohhh so magical.” She was right, it is a stunning spot, atop a headland overlooking the breaking surf with Java in the distance. The grounds are pretty, and there is no shortage of meditative spots. Save the lady who took my 20,000 rupiah and furnished me with a sash and sarong, there wasn’t another soul there.

There also wasn’t anything about Niratha, Bali’s sea temples, or the relationship between them. Near the entrance there is a beautiful, ancient-looking tree, with a shrine beside it. There’s no explanation of the shrine’s purpose, but it was easy to imagine Niratha beneath the tree, gazing to the sea, as his locks fell to the ground. In other words, the interpretation of the site was left entirely to me.

These temples are religious and pilgrimage sites for Balinese Hindus. They are important and revered. They are the places people visit at pivotal moments through their lives. They matter. So of course, caution must be taken to tread with care. I’m not suggesting that tour buses should start clogging temple carparks. We all know how that works—look no further than the tourist circuses at Uluwatu or Tanah Lot. Around the world, religious sites are over-run by tourists behaving badly. Nobody needs more of that.

Come for the temple—stay for everything else. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With the right steerage though, directed to the right people, there is an opportunity of sorts here. Not only to educate tourists, but to get them out of their tourist hubs. It can’t be about the temples and nothing else. Who hasn’t been to Europe and vomited a little bit in their mouth at the suggestion of another church? The churches though, are the bookends between shelf upon shelf of destinations. There’s no reason why it should be any different in Southeast Asia. I’ve written about Bali here, but this could be as much an outline for sights anywhere in the region. Give tourists the tools to help them get more out of their trip—in a sensitive and responsible manner—and introduce them to new destinations while you are at it.

Why couldn’t a trip to Bali retrace Niratha’s stroll. Each temple has its own unique setting and its own community with its own characteristics. Each is within easy reach of hotels and the other trappings most tourists want. Each could also serve to reinforce some point of understanding about Balinese culture. Bali is after all, supposedly a cultural destination.

My “house beach” from the temple. No, I am not complaining. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yes, guiding standards across Southeast Asia need vast improvement. But guiding is political—no element plays a larger role in steering a tourist’s interpretation. Good guides matter. Yet one doesn’t need to reinvent an entire educational system as a first step. Instead, how about some signboards? Some storytelling? I don’t know, title them “Niratha’s wanderings.” Each board could have a map, Niratha’s story, and the role each temple played in it. This need not be a huge nor costly undertaking—big things can start small.

Just settle on breadfruit or pumpkin before you go to the printers.

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As this Couchfish leg, from Kuala Lumpur to Medan, will be the only flight of the entire itinerary, I thought I’d write a bit about flying. Also, for a bit of fun, I’m giving away eight annual subscriptions (worth US$70 apiece) to Couchfish—all you need do is tell me the answer to any one of the photo quizzes below. Answers are only accepted here, in the comments—not on Twitter, email or by postcard. First correct answer for each wins.

The crackling AirAsia voiceover is in my head as I lever myself into my legroom-free “window seat,” and it feels like a lifetime ago that I took my first flight. In fact, it just about is. I was a young kid on an Australian domestic route, I don’t recall where, but I can imagine the thrills. Flying!

My planes all had legroom. Thanks Mum for the album! (Note, this photo is not a part of the competition!)

As a child, like many who were lucky enough to fly at a young age, it was a pretty exciting event. By the time I was on the verge of teenagerdom, I’d flown overseas for long stints in South Korea, Japan and Italy, among others. I was a well-travelled teenager, that’s for sure.

The highlight of those years of flying was a first class trip (my one and only) from Rome to Sydney. It was just my two younger sisters and me, heading home ahead of the folks. I remember that another kid in the pointy bit of the Qantas 747 had a boomerang. One of the flight attendants entertained us with it, throwing it inexpertly around the cabin. I can imagine the social media outrage now “Qantas staffer appropriates culture and endangers children—AT 35,000 FEET!” Life was different then.

Quiz 1: Where is this? (Province will do if nobody guesses the town, as this one is quite obscure—it is probably not where you are thinking!).

We had a stopover at what was then Bombay and I asked the boomerang-wielder if I could disembark. Sure, she said, and I wandered the airport alone for an hour or so while they gassed up the plane. It was the first time I had set foot in South Asia, and even though I stayed airside, I already had the bug big time.

Through these years I developed an obsession with aircraft. While living on a South Korean island, I made toy airplanes out of cardboard, colouring them in with the various carriers’ insignia. Looking at the photo I can make out a KLM DC-10 and an Air-France concord—I aged better than both of those. Today, my son is an avid plane-spotter—he recently started selling a calendar of his best pics—no, this isn’t a sponsored post! But yeah, genes—strong stuff.

Quiz 2: Which specific airport this is?

Later, when I headed off on my first solo trip, I was on what was then the tried and tested Continental Thai RTW. First stop was Hawaii, and we flew on February 29, arriving before we left Sydney thanks to the time line. I joke that we aged four years in half a day. Today, pretty much any flight leaves me feeling like I aged four years.

On the same trip, after cashing up in London for a spell, I made my way to India. I flew Thai and they deposited me in New Delhi at an ungodly hour, leaving me to spend six hours in a novel-worthy scam. Still, the flight was direct and painless. For all its detractors, I’ve always found Thai to be a carrier that mimics its country near perfectly. The good, the bad, and the ugly, of course.

Quiz 3: Where is this flight on the way to (not from)? Specific destination please! (Thanks Exacto for the pic!)

Later, I was in Pushkar, doing the typical India backpacker circuit. I met a French guy on the guesthouse roof and we traded flight tales. Flying and its stories were a quintessential part of breaking the ice between travellers. Sometimes the tales got pretty tall.

He’d left from Paris with Aeroflot he said, with stops in Moscow, some other Russian town, Kabul and then New Delhi. At the second Russian stop, crates of munitions were loaded into the cabin where a section of seats were missing. They were later unloaded at Kabul. Given the Russian Afghanistan adventure had finished a couple of years earlier, I’m dubious, but it made for a good tale. It also made me feel like the tourist given my direct Thai flight took a little less than the 40-odd hours his did. His was cheaper though—therefore he was the better traveller. Or so the logic went in our 20-something brains.

Quiz 4: Which specific airport is this. This one is easy so be quick!

Once I picked up the Thailand bug, I bounced back and forward between Australia and there. I wouldn’t fly domestically as it was too expensive and I was happy to save 82 baht even it it meant 82 hours on a rathole bus. I did do one regional flight though, a Biman run from Bangkok to Singapore. The flight hit a bad air pocket and we dropped like a stone for what felt like way too long. When the flight bottomed out, the oxygen masks deployed. I remember thinking at the time that a ticket on Swiss was only a few dollars more. At least I was going to die on a flight that had leg room.

It was a few years later that Tony Fernandes bought debt-ladened AirAsia and reinvented it—and legroom. The slogan “Now everyone can fly” rang true, and more than any other single event, it changed how people travel in the region. Flying changed too—the legroom sure as hell vanished.

Quiz 5: Which airport is this. Look carefully!

I flew more and more, bouncing around the region in a manner that would have been financially impossible for me only a few years earlier. With flights often cheaper than a bus ticket, millions of others did the same. The joy I once got from flying began to fade as it became more of a chore—not that that stopped me doing it—I just whined more.

In the year before the pandemic hit I was through KLIA more times than I care to admit. I once flew from Bali to Bangkok for a night to catch up for beers with an old friend who had returned from the States. I started running into friends who were travelling as much as me—at some random airport. Of course I should have known better, but I was far from the only one.

Quiz 6: Which airport is this? Many clues in the photo!

Towns which for decades had required considerable travel to reach were now within an hour of Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur or Singapore. Hubs that saw tens of millions of inbound tourists—some trickle down was inevitable. Smaller overland travel hubs began to wither as more flew than took the bus, removing the need to overnight or transit in Nakhon Nowhere. Taking a weekend break to Luang Prabang, Siem Reap or Hoi An, became totally workable. Despite being ill-equipped for the influx, these town, and many others like them, exploded. Southeast Asia’s travel map was being redrawn faster than you could say carbon emissions are cooking the planet.

As more and more flew, flying became less and less comfortable. Buying a ticket became an exercise in discretionary charge avoidance. How the hell can a seat be an optional add-on?

Quiz 7: Which airport is this. Easy peasy!

Statistically, flying may be safe, but in a region not famous for aircraft maintenance, the statistics loomed. I met a guy who had survived three crashes. Then we lost friends in a flight disaster in Java. Then I met another who’d also survived three crashes. What are the odds of that? There’s two people I have no interest in flying with—ever.

More recently, as the planet rotated from slow roast to charcoal baby, awareness grew. Flight-shaming started to grow legs. People started to better consider the external costs of jumping on a jet plane. Not only the environmental vandalism, but also what flying was doing to destinations.

Then the pandemic came and near everything stopped. It seemed fitting I was on one of the last AirAsia flights from Kuala Lumpur to Bali. Little did I realise, that as we sailed over the near-endless palm plantations, it would be years before I was airborne again.

Quiz 8: What airport is this flight on final approach to?

Over those years there’s been plenty of talk. Talk about reducing discretionary flying. Talk about making travel more sustainable. Talk about encouraging people to travel locally. Talk about catching the train—like in Laos, where it is almost as fast as the skyrocketing inflation. By and large though, it is just that—talk.

I hope though, that through the last 300+ flightless entries on Couchfish, I’ve shown there is little reason to get on a plane once here. It’s a small step in my making up for flying to Bangkok for that night on the town. Or so I’m telling myself anyway. Please though, grant me this one flight.

I’ve been on final descent for a spell now. The northeast coast of Sumatra slid underneath a few minutes ago as we line up on final to Kualanamu. I can almost feel the humidity and smell the clove cigarettes through my window. Tomorrow, Medan.

A quick update on the answers so far—I’ve added a clue (the country) to each of the ones not yet guessed—seems people are struggling with Indonesia!

1: Clue: Indonesia

2: Ban Lung, Cambodia

3: Clue: Laos

4: Chiang Mai, Thailand

5: Clue: Malaysia

6: Clue: Indonesia

7: Bali, Indonesia

8: Clue: Indonesia

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Just a quick administrative note. While this is, strictly speaking, a part of the itinerary series, as I’m finishing up mainland Southeast Asia, I thought I’d send it to the whole list. Any post I link to from this one has been un-paywalled, so if you’re a free subscriber, please have some fun poking around a bit.

Plenty of travel is needing to get from here to there. You pull out a map, find where you’re planning to go, then figure out how to get there. Sometimes, not always, the distance is far. Between where you are and where you need to be is fill, a blur, a distraction. No name towns, parks, beaches, fishing towns, hamlets and cities—most, if not all, you’ve never heard of before. These are the between fars.

Wandering a Burmese between far. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Leaving Ko Chang Noi behind, I’ve got plenty of passing time to play with. My goal is the Malaysian capital, Kuala Lumpur, then, for the first time on Couchfish, a short flight. I’m done with the mainland—for now—you see, and am changing universes. Before I go though, I’ve got one last stretch, and it is one full of between fars.

I’ve written before about Nakhon Nowhere, a fictional town that I imagine any town could be. These between fars are full of such places. People’s hometowns and graveyards, for some, the universe of their lifetime. They slide by your bus or train window or dapple the earth from 35,000 feet.

I was talking to a Balinese guy the other day, someone I’ve got to know a bit, and we were going through the pleasantries. You know, family-tree stuff, siblings, parents, kids and so on. The stuff that fills each of our universes. He’s the youngest of three, with two elder brothers. One is still in the village, coaxing a plot of land through a cycle of corn, watermelon and rice, year in year out. The other though, he lives far away, my new friend said.

Not far from my own between far. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It turns out he lives in the next banjar, a few kilometres away give or take. When I say that doesn’t seem like all that far, my new friend scoffs and says “well it is too far to walk.” A different take on far I guess—it’s all relative. Sydney, where my parents live, we both agree is far—very far. I guess if I had to walk to his brother’s house, it would seem far enough.

Us travellers, we fly around the globe and burn through thousands of kilometres on the ground. For many, the point of the journey is the journey—we have a different take on far. Yet between our starts and finishes there are plenty of between fars. People fill these in different ways—there’s no right way to fill a between far. They may chat or read a book or three, watch something on a screen, gaze out the window or just sleep it away. All at once, they’re making time, passing time, and losing time.

So back to my own journey, from Ko Chang Noi to Kuala Lumpur. The fastest way by ground is a bus from Ranong to Surat Thani from where I can catch a south-bound train. From there, a bus or train onwards to Kuala Lumpur. My second option, if I wanted to stick to buses, would be to get one south to Hat Yai, then the border, then Kuala Lumper.

Not Vietnam but Surat Thani! Photo: David Luekens.

Either way, with time for bus or train changes as required, it is, give or take, 24 hours of travel. Doing it in one hit though is a bit droll, after all, there are plenty of between fars. Shall we break it down a bit more?

If I was to go with option one, I could linger in Surat Thani, or do a side trip to Khanom and Si Chon. Once I’m that far I may as well continue down to Nakhon Si Thammarat. From there, I could finally get on a train for the leg to Phattalung and throw myself into the CBT schemes there. Then, I guess Songhkla, and onwards south—security situation allowing—Pattani, Yala, Narathiwat. Time to slow the clock down.

South of the border, I could fit in an island break and head out to the Perhentians, or linger in Kota Bharu. From there I could get a through train to Kuala Lumpur, but maybe I should pop down to Kuala Terrenganu and Kuantan. Then it’s a hard right to KL, but wait, there’s Taman Negara along the way, I should fit in one more mainland jungle trek.

My daughter unwinds on a southern Thailand between far. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With the second option, the whole Andaman Sea coast is a between far awash in distractions. I’d return to Krabi, do some island trips out from there. In season I could always island hop my way all the way to Langkawi. I don’t know if I’d do that though, as that would mean I’d miss all that southern Thai fare in Trang, Satun and Hat Yai. Decisions decisions. Another loop, another month.

As with Thailand, on the Malaysian side, there’s islands and mainland towns and cities to break up the trip. Why would anyone choose to turn down the chance to spend more time stuffing face in Penang or Ipoh?

Many of the above have featured on Couchfish at some stage or another as I’ve meandered around the place. There are plenty more between fars though, far more than I’ve covered. That is the amazing thing about Southeast Asia, with even 326 days I’ve barely scratched the surface.

A dozen of these will do. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While I know not all have 326 days—hell it took me 20+ years to accumulate these experiences—do allow linger time when you can. Before you book that overnight train or three-day “direct” bus, look at a map and pick a few between fars. If you don’t have a lot of time up your sleeve, you might make do with one. If you have more time on your hands, there’s no reason why you couldn’t pick dozens. What about a trip where you only went to between fars? That would be a diary worth reading.

Looking out the bus window I can see KLIA terminal looming. I’ve a flight to catch (the only one on Couchfish so far), I’m heading to a universe like no other.

Indonesia.

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Leaving Ko Phra Thong behind, it was a straight run up the coast to Ranong, the wettest provincial capital in Thailand. A funny little town, little more than a bowl of winding roads with a sizeable fishing port perched on its western rim. The port does a heavy trade in fisheries, but also in labour—legal and otherwise—and drugs—just otherwise—thanks to its location on the frontier with Burma.

I’m not there for a fishing gig, nor to stock up on my supply of illicit, jungle-fashioned pharmaceuticals, rather I’m there to hit an island—Ko Chang. No, there’s not a fold in the space-time-continuum, rather Thailand has two Ko Changs—the big one that everyone knows, in eastern Thailand near Cambodia—and this one, which I’ve always known as Ko Chang Noi, Little Ko Chang.

Peak hour. Photo: David Luekens.

It’s not a tiny island, but it is small—smaller than say Ko Tao, but bigger than Ko Lipe. A comfortable size with enough beach and jungle to go around without it ever feeling too crowded, and not a tailor shop in sight. Overall, my kind of place.

The same friend in Phuket who had recommended Ko Phra Thong, had likewise turned me on to Ko Chang Noi. They told me it saw few people, was less popular than nearby Ko Phayam—except for Germans of course, they’d said—but you’ll always find Germans everywhere.

They suggested a place on the hill, past the northern tip of the main beach. There’s a spot run by a New Yorker with her Thai husband, it’s your kinda place—Rasta Baby—they said. Think sunsets and laying around doing nothing save waiting for the next sunset. It’s rustic but you’ll be fine.

The official Rasta Baby taxi boat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We arranged transfers by long tail from the port direct to the “resort,” and as we motored out, the hum of Kawthaung, Ranong’s counterpart in Burma, buzzed. At the time the crossing wasn’t open to foreigners, with only high-priced liveaboards cruising Burma’s archipelago, so it remained a smudge on the horizon for us. Like gazing across from Si Chiangmai to Vientiane before Laos opened up again, so close and yet so far—just water and paperwork in the way.

As my friend said, Rasta Baby sat on the hill, though you wouldn’t know it from the water as you could barely see it as we pulled in to its rocky excuse for a beach. Knowing that the main beach was the real affair, and just around the headland, it wasn’t the best introduction to the island as we alighted and scrambled up the scruffy and steep trail to our lodgings for the next week.

A good spot for some down time. Photo: David Luekens.

The bungalows were wooden, well in part anyway, thrown-together basic Thai beach shacks is how I’d describe them. The sort that would blow away in a storm—of which, in off season, Ko Chang Noi gets plenty—and they looked like the storm had already given them a beating and a half. The grounds, likewise were more beaten than bountiful, despite all the rain the area gets, the garden, like the trail, was scruffy. There was a small wood and bamboo decked common area, and it was from there that the wisdom of the location became evident.

Looking out to sea it felt like we could see to the end of the Earth. Burmese islands, including the enormous Zadetkyi, broke a horizon of forever water. Trawlers slunk back and forth, none too close to us, but their wake and smoke from their stacks added a dose of pleasure to the view.

The two who ran it, their names I sadly can’t recall, were a youngish Thai American couple, looking to run something a bit less mainstream than what you could find down on the main beach. Friendly and affable, I remember losing days on the deck shooting the breeze with them, all the while with that view as a backdrop.

The golden sands of Ao Yai. Photo: David Luekens.

The beers flowed and the food, while simple, was cheap and filled a hole. Mornings flowed into middays that flowed into afternoons that flowed into evenings. It was four or five days before I managed to find the energy to walk down to the main beach, where Cashew Resort held sway as the place to stay.

As my Phuket friend had mentioned, the scene was heavily German. Middle-aged couples with kids, retirees, and younger travellers, near all from Germany. It’s funny how some places, thanks to a specific mention—in this case from the excellent German language guidebook—develop a trade from just the one country. The “crowd” at Rasta Baby was far more mixed, but there was only a half dozen or so of us, the place was newer and it wasn’t in the Stefan Loose guide, though it wasn’t in any guidebook as far as I knew. Still they ticked over. They weren’t making money, I remember the New Yorker saying, it was a lifestyle thing for them—and their savings I assume.

The horizon is ok. Photo: David Luekens.

That motivation, running a place as a lifestyle business—or a hobby—creates a different vibe in my experience. There’s a differing, less mercantile, attitude from the owners, while the guests, at least those who linger, often end up taking on their own responsibilities. Making your own coffee morphs into making your own breakfast. There’s no billing system, rather you just write down what you’ve had in a book for your room. You help carry stuff up from the boat, because it feels like the right thing to do—and let’s be honest, you’ve done nothing all day anyway! The owners never ask for help, rather the guests offer—they get the idea, it’s the owners’ lifestyle and that of the guests.

The thing is, desired lifestyles change over the years, and often this style of business doesn’t last. The maintenance and running costs of a bungalow joint, even a fall-down basic one, can be surprisingly high. One bad season can shift the waters from pleasantly floating on ones’ savings to drowning fast.

At Rasta Baby things were still in the pleasantly floating stage. It was still fun. The bungalows though, would be needing some work, they had another season or two before they’d make that transition from needing work to needing replacement. With a baby on the way, priorities there might shift, and the desired lifestyle with it.

A good spot to think things through. Photo: David Luekens.

This all seemed far from the front of our brains as we sat there in the late afternoon, throwing back beers and savouring yet another sunset. The owners would tell tales of seeing the Burmese navy firing upon—and sinking—fishing boats, yet, when asked after fatalities, there were shrugs all round. It is Burma—who knows?

At the time, Burma was under the boot of another of its many juntas, a brutal and murderous regime, that had no problems using slave labour on projects—including some tourism-related ones. Many foreign tourists (myself included) boycotted the country in response. Thinking back, it’s funny what moves the needle when it comes to boycotts. Nowhere in Southeast Asia is doing well—or has done well in the past—on human rights, yet we sat there on Rasta Baby’s deck, ruminating on why travel to Thailand was fine but travel to Burma wasn’t. Thinking back, there was plenty enough naivety to go around during those sunset sessions.

A few years later, on neighbouring Ko Phayam, some holidaying friends on a beach walk one morning came upon a body. Assumedly that of a Burmese fisherman, they returned to the guesthouse and reported the find. Later in the day, when they realised the body was still there, they asked what was going on, and the owner replied that they were “only Burmese,” adding someone would collect the body later in the day.

A few more years later, on a return visit to Ko Chang Noi, Rasta Baby was gone.

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Apologies for the radio silence. A couple of weeks ago my laptop imploded and it has taken north of two weeks to sort it out.

The other day I came across a post about Norman Doors. If, like me, you don’t know what a Norman Door is, you can start here. Better still, read You should not open a door and see someone pooping on Experimental History. Don’t want to read either? A Norman Door is a door that is confusing to use. Why are some things that should be simple not? It should come as no surprise that it got me thinking about travel.

Why is so much of travel badly designed?

When it comes to travel, bad design is everywhere. In some cases, more or less anything online, bad design is a feature not a bug. The point of websites more often than not is to squeeze every penny out of you. User experience? What’s that?

Welcome to Kupang, yes the airport grounds are on fire. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Who hasn’t picked the shortest queue at check-in only to find themselves behind a dude checking a cat in on a multi-leg flight? My belated apologies to the ever-lengthening queue behind me at the time. Why is “Express check-in” never express. Why after using an AirAsia check-in kiosk does one then need to join the main queue to check bags? Why keep carry-on to under seven kilos when fellow passengers are carrying seventy? In summary, why is every part of the airport experience 110% s**t? Why are better alternatives not used? Travel is supposed to make us all better designers, and yet…

But rather than spending one thousand words whining about flying, I wanted to zoom out a bit more. Why is “travel” so badly designed? It isn’t like poor design is left for the plebs while the high flyers get a better product—they don’t. I mean, they’ll tell you they do, through their business class seats or member lounges, but it’s just a more fragrant garbage fire.

Will with an air-con upgrade to an overnight ferry trip. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Now that large parts of the planet have convinced themselves we are in a post-pandemic stage of the ongoing pandemic, there has been much talk about a need to reappraise travel. By and large this is blather, talk about “quality tourists” as if fatter wallet will make better ballast for keeping rising sea levels at bay. Asinine commentary from tourism boards struck a new high the other week when New Zealand’s tourism brain trust declared that two minute noodle eaters would no longer be welcome.

A moment to digress on this point. This statement was but that latest in an ongoing droll saga bemoaning backpackers as being a bad deal for destinations. This is of course complete rubbish—they stay longer and put more money in locally owned small businesses than any other segment. And in a world where sustainability is all the rage, they tick more boxes than anyone else. Yet, as far as New Zealand is concerned they seem to prefer high-spending two minute tourists rather than backpackers eating two minute noodles. For a nation as geographically isolated as it is, actively steering away from people who will stay longer—and thus defray the bazillion carbon kilos their flight expelled to get there—in favour of short stay carbon vandals, is, well, dumb.

Anyway, I digress.

NZ needs to go back to noodle school. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Sustainable or responsible travel has many touch points with much crossover to the UN Sustainable Development Goals, but if I had to boil it down to five key points, they’d be:

Fly as little as possible.

Work to spend your money in a manner that leaves as much of it as possible with local communities.

Stay in places that operate in an environmentally responsible fashion.

Travel slowly—spend more time in fewer places.

Eat local fare.

Much of travel does none of these things. I mean sure, some people travel this way, but they are in the minority.

Why?

Slow down and smell the coffee. Halfway down Tambora, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There was a good piece the other day on some of the challenges around sustainable travel in Southeast Asia. Two points stood out. First it highlighted that most countries in this region lack the legislation to enforce sustainable development. Second, it noted that the existing infrastructure was built to support pre-pandemic volumes of travellers. Thailand has an infrastructure to (in theory) support north of 40 million tourists a year. Apparently one shouldn’t expect the country to sit idle on 75% of its supposed capacity. Perish the thought they repurpose some of that infrastructure.

So this talk of making travel sustainable, at least from governments, is just that—talk. And while flogging tourists for the behaviour of some, or the impacts of their industry, might hold water, things are often more complicated. Take a look at national parks, are tourists really the primary threat vector? I don’t see much coverage of tourists illegally logging, or poaching (great story on this here), or expropriating national park land for residences. Maybe I’m reading the wrong outlets.

In Salavan go for the ant eggs rather than smashed avo. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With the governments talking head outlets, responsibility for being responsible is left to private industry and travellers themselves. This too is a mixed bag, to say the least. One can flog the airlines for being the environmental vandals they are, but the hotel industry isn’t far behind. Southeast Asia is awash in basket cases of ill considered development projects—look to almost any island in the region to see evidence of this. Much of the luxury trade press ignores the environmental impacts of the places they feature.

Then there’s the inbound tour companies, where there are some bright indicators. Australian operator Intrepid for example continues to up their game, but at the end of the day, these businesses are extractive, and much of the money spent by passengers gets offshored. Choose your operator with the upmost care.

The international travel industry is a complex amalgam of many moving parts, yet few—if any—are well designed. Travel media is awash in brands declaring they are “doing things better” as if they deserve accolades for doing what they should have been all along. As I’ve written before, developing unsustainable eyesores then bragging about bamboo straws is ludicrous.

Do better. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This leaves us with the traveller—you dear reader. Everyone knows the embarrassment of pushing on a pull door, yet few notice how effortless it is when they push on a push one. Good design is good for everyone, it just works, and it shouldn’t be noteworthy. It should be the norm.

Travellers—and particularly destinations—deserve better than an industry built around Norman Doors. Demand better and take your business where you find it—it is right through that push or pull door over there.

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Many years ago I was researching for Travelfish on a Thai island. It is a popular one, heavily developed with a tonne of visitors. Responding to this demand, it also had a tonne of hotels. While there was some beach time, there was much trudging from one mediocre hotel to another.

One place I looked at had a good beachside location. It wasn’t perfect, many of the cheaper rooms looked onto the car park for example, but in the scheme of things, it wasn’t bad. I listed it. In the write-up, I wrote the place was foreigner-owned. This was a mistake, as while it was clearly Western-managed, the owners were not. I learned this when I got an annoyed email from management. I corrected the error, noting there were “plenty of Western staff,” and let them know of the correction.

Looking for stuff to write about on Ko Chang Noi. Photo: David Luekens.

This wasn’t enough though. They wanted me to remove the bit about the budget rooms overlooking the car park. Their best rooms were beachfront, they wrote, and they wanted those highlighted. This was true, they had beachfront rooms, but at quadruple the price. I felt the budget rooms were more likely to be the rooms Travelfish readers would go for. I refused.

This annoyed them. They said I was being unfair. There was some more back and forward, but it seemed easier to delete the listing, which I did. This enraged them, but after a while, I didn’t hear from them again.

Many years later, in Indonesia, I was travelling in a somewhat remote area. While there, I found a small beachside hotel I liked. I wrote about it saying just that. As always, I used my photos.

Shack spotted—better investigate. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A few months later I received an email from the owner. They were thankful for the write-up—it was through a Travelfish guest they’d found out about the listing. They had one quibble though, they wanted the photos changed. I had four attached to the review, one beach shot, one internal and two bungalow shots. I’m no fine-art photographer, but to my mind, they were a good representation of what I had seen.

In their email, they attached four photos they wanted me to use. They wanted all four replaced. The photos they sent me were beautiful, quite exceptional. A quick look on their Airbnb page confirmed they were from there.

Only in exceptional situations do we not use our own photos. I’d struggle to think of a dozen situations where we haven’t and we’ve listed, over the years, around 8,000 places to stay.

Some work required, Kep. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

While their photos were beautiful, they didn’t replicate what I saw. In particular, the interior shot, which was of the same room I inspected, was hard to recognise. I wrote back and explained I would not use their photos. Like the case above, they were not happy.

My final example is from a popular coastal town in Cambodia. The place we listed as our pick—the best place to stay in town—got in touch. They wanted the listing removed.

I assumed it had changed hands or something, and I wrote to confirm this. No, it hadn’t changed hands, rather, I’m quoting here:

“Hi Stuart,

We prefer to keep control of our online presence. Please delete the listing as requested.

Regards etcetera”

Yes, Stuart, the bridge is still broken. Salavan. Photo: Cindy Fan.

The place was on Agoda, Booking, TripAdvisor, LP and all the other usual suspects. Their response seemed absurd. A word here—if the place had not been on all the above—along with the hundreds of “guest reviews,” I would have removed it. But it was. The review was staying on Travelfish. More than anything though, their response baffled me.

I refused, saying I felt as the property was listed everywhere, it would be a disservice to Travelfish readers to remove it. I never heard from them again. I did though hear from a friend living in the town. The owner, a Westerner, had invested considerable time in bad-mouthing my research efforts. They’d suggested I’d coasted from freebie to freebie, but they’d refused to pay and now “I was being a dick.” Awesome—also I didn’t even do the research for that town.

Ahhh the joys of timetable collection in Yangon. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Anyways, where am I going with this?

Three things.

Some hotels are well used to having some—or all depending on the writer—degree of control over how they are portrayed. While there are three examples up top, I have dozens of similar tales. Errors happen and I understand the need to have these fixed as soon as possible, but opinion is opinion. If you don’t want your rooms overlooking a car park written about, don’t build rooms overlooking the car park. Your guests will thank you. Thinking about the experience for your guests—all of them—matters.

In July, high-end travel rag Travel & Leisure posted a train wreck of a piece. Titled “The 15 Best Cities in Asia,” (here I am linking to it which I guess is the point of publishing this rubbish), the listicle lists Ubud in Bali as first, and is worth quoting the lead:

“With a mix of stunning temples, rain forests, white-sand beaches, and a thriving city center, Ubud truly has something for everyone.”

Ubud has no beaches—of any sand colour. The closest beach is an hour or two away (depending on the traffic). Now I’m no fan of glossy mags, though they are capable of publishing good stuff—see this example on Trang in CNT for example—though there are so many ads it keeps crashing my browser! The listicles however are trash, and, in turn, are republished ad nauseam by cash-strapped travel sections worldwide. Spreading idiocy like the luminescent strawberry jam they never mention is included with breakfasts. This matters.

Imagine having this for breakfast in Ipoh?! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

T&L is what many hotels want. Mindless and uncritical, cliche-ridden features glossing over the problems of destinations. Problems which these pieces often contribute to. Imagine showing up in Ubud for the beach? Undisclosed comps for writers are the norm—that place you’re reading about, most likely the stay wasn’t paid for. This matters.

Lastly, the other day, Vietnam Coracle turned ten. If you’re not familiar with the title, it is an online guide to Vietnam with a focus on travel by scooter. I’ve long been a fan of the site and encourage anyone headed to the country to give it a read. While I’d quibble with some of the hotels site-owner Tom reviews, his material overall is ace. When I’m in Vietnam and on two wheels, his site is open on my phone all the time. Unlike T&L, as a writer, he is one hundred per cent transparent about how he works. This matters.

Neither Travelfish nor Vietnam Coracle are multi-million dollar enterprises. We have no fancy pants glass and brass offices in a faraway city with free yoga classes and table tennis. We both live in the region and have for years. We have a passion for what we do and the region we live in—we walk the talk. While Tom has got travelling again earlier than me, eventually we’ll be both up on the road again.

When we are, we’ll be travelling like you—and writing about it, as we see it. This matters too.

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On my second trip to Laos, in the mid-1990s, I was on a slow boat from Huay Xai to Luang Prabang. If you’d like to read about a competitive traveller I met on the trip, read this. Today’s piece though isn’t a gripe about annoying travellers.

A few hours south of Huay Xai, I guess about halfway to Pak Tha, the boat moored at a small village. “All foreigners off please,” the boat dudes asked, “but bags stay on board.” The half dozen or so of us peeled ourselves off the deck and roof and ambled up into the hamlet. None of us knew what was going on.

Do as we say, not as we do. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At the time, travel in Laos wasn’t the free-wheeling scene it was to become. Visas had only recently dropped in price from US$100 for a week and travellers remained a curiosity. Where you could go remained restricted, and the village had an immigration checkpoint. We formed a motley queue as a uniformed but diminutive Lao guy, sitting at a desk in a bamboo hut, wrote our names down.

There was no request for passports. When it came to my turn, I missed what he said and replied “Sorry?” The guy dutifully wrote down Mr Sorry.

Names recorded, it was back to the boat to continue our trip downriver. I like to think that somewhere in the village there’s a hut full of reams of paper, each filled with his careful script. Somewhere, on a page not yet eaten by termites, one reads “Mr Sorry.”

Papers, please. The Mekong from Pak Tha, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m not going to venture too far into the pointlessness of that little exercise. Thailand ex-pat residents will be familiar with the 90-day reporting rule, something I remember from my years there. At the now-gone office on Soi Suan Phlu, a room held metric tonnes of paper slowly gathering dust. After doing it once, I didn’t bother again—even by Thai governmental processes, it seemed asinine. I remained in Thailand for another four or five years and never got pulled up on my intransigence. Who knows if they’ve got an APB out on Mr Sorry.

At the time I was working at the Australian Embassy in their education department. I was a “locally engaged staff,” meaning I sat in a weird middle ground between local staff and the staff sent from the motherland. The job paid better than English teaching, but at least that came with a work permit—something the embassy refused to do. Instead, they had some weird dodge which had me spending plenty of time at Suan Phlu immigration.

Storms ahead. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Spend long enough at immigration offices and you see all sorts of crazy stuff. On one occasion there was a fight between an enraged French guy and officers. They took him mid-rant to another room where, out of sight, I could hear the Thai officers yelling at him.

“Shut up now or I hit you.”

Happy days.

Immigration is a weird beast. At worst it is the public face of a nation’s racism and xenophobia, with rules dictated by the girth of your wallet—and the colour of your skin.

Simple rules are easier to follow. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I once had a heated argument with an immigration officer entering the USA from Canada. For my efforts I was strip searched and given the ahhh full hands-on examination. After that, I stopped arguing with immigration. I guess if the Thais had picked me up for skipping 90-day reporting, or Laos had jailed me for supplying a false name, I’d have avoided doing those things too. Thankfully neither did.

There is a bizarre story from when I was living in Bangkok. A friend of a friend was picked up for reasons I don’t remember. Unable to furnish his passport (he had lost it some years earlier), he was sent to immigration detention. He then entered this weird circuitous journey between detention and a holding centre near the airport. I don’t remember why he kept getting sent back and forward between the two, but he was in the circuit for months. On one of the runs, his transport pulled up at the side of the road and the officers told him to get out and go. He did. Who wouldn’t? As far as I know, he is still in Thailand—I have no idea if he ever got around to getting a passport again.

It is enough to make you want to stream. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was one of those weird stories, and my memories are foggy on the details—I’ll see if I can track down the full tale for another piece. I mention it though, on behalf of someone he met on his trips back and forward. An African guy (I don’t remember his nationality sorry) who had been in lockup for over six years. His country had no diplomatic office in Thailand, and he had no money. The guy who was released on the side of the street? He was white.

In the midst of the pandemic, there was a rash of foreigners deported from here in Indonesia. Deportations are not all that rare, but there seemed to be on the rise. There were so many I considered starting a newsletter called the Deportation Daily.

Bangkok is great for cycling around in circles. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The reasons were typical and not all that unexpected. Crime—particularly drugs—was a big one, followed closely by working illegally. Then there was a whole bunch of weirder and whacky ones. A guy rode a scooter off a pier at Padang Bai as a social media prank, but social media bit him back hard and he was out. There were others, some even more batty. I think in part this reflected a combination of two things. First, people locked indoors for prolonged periods were losing a few marbles. Secondly, the people who were willing to try recreational travel in the middle of a global pandemic sometimes had a different take on behaviour.

In the end, I didn’t bother with the newsletter idea. It felt a bit ghoulish in a “dancing on others’ graves” kind of a way. The stories though keep coming. For every kooky story, however, was almost impossible to defend deportations. Journalists and activists continued to be targeted across the region. One I know was deported from a country in the region simply because the immigration officer responsible had a quota to meet. The officer apologised to my friend, explaining his hands were tied by his seniors. The friend went without a peep, hoping to get back in after a spell. He’s still cooling his heels offshore. When the targeted person is hard to harass, their family may earn a closer look.

A whack for each day of visa overstay. Photo: David Luekens.

Of course, having abhorrent immigration rules are the right of every country. The United Kingdom, Australia and the USA all excel at horrific policies. The rules are opaque by design, a catchall to provide a means to offload those they (or their citizens) don’t want. Long it has been this way.

This has come into sharp focus as the world tries to re-open during a down-dip in the pandemic. The ever-changing rules for entry have required a degree of intestinal fortitude that has taken some by surprise. The complaints from travellers have been incessant. Why is this so complicated, accompanied of course by the entitled cry of “don’t they want tourists?”

For many nationals though, like the man in Bangkok immigration detention for six years, the rules have always been this way.

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The water cooler at immigration offices around the world is a happening place it seems. Every now and then, when there is nothing else to talk about, the topic of “digital nomad visas” pops up. Thailand has had it. Vietnam has had it. Indonesia has had it. Cambodia has had it. As have countries elsewhere on the planet.

It’s an ideal one to shoot the breeze over between deportation reconciliations. It sounds like such a good idea. So simple. The problem is, it isn’t. It isn’t simple, and, to be honest, I’m not sure it is even a good idea.

This morning, the Jakarta Post ran an editorial on the topic, and in a sea of iffy stories on the subject, it takes the cake. It does serve a purpose though—aside from generating clicks—it neatly wraps up many of the problems. By accident.

Pick the Digital Nomad. At Kep National Park. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

For those not in the know, the base concept behind a “digital nomad visa” (DNV) is to allow digital nomads (DN) to work while travelling. Boiled down, the idea is that by allowing them to work, they’ll stay longer and spend more. This in turn will benefit local economies. This is all true—to a point.

The reason for the perceived need for the DNV is that most visa rules came about when “remote work” wasn’t a thing. If you were going to work in a foreign country, you would get a job in that country. Be it pulling beers, teaching English, or accounting, the visa rules were designed for people working at places of work. Visa rules did not anticipate a situation where people brought their work with them. This mode of work, to a large part, is a post-internet thing.

Was taking this photo work? At an impossible to photograph today location, Kep. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In general terms, getting a work permit can be quite involved. In a way this didn’t matter, sure, it was a headache, but given you were going to be in country X for a few years, it didn’t matter. Who cares if deciphering ancient tomes from Jupiter requires less intestinal fortitude? Your employer (often though not always) would assist, and, well, it was just a process that had to be done. It could take anything from a couple of weeks to six months ... or more. It was often expensive—thousands and thousands of dollars depending on the country.

If you’re interested in the Digital Nomads phenomena, Counterflows by Lauren Razavi belongs in your email inbox.

The thing is, if one is only planning on being in a country for six months, this isn’t a tempting option. Often it wasn’t even possible, as one generally needs an employer in-country to get a work visa.

This brings us to the DNV and the “problem” it is trying to address. That is, nomads are already working in-country, just on the wrong visa. They might be on a social or tourist visa, a non-immigrant visa, or whatever. With a longer-stay visa, ostensibly for tourism, they work between hill tribe treks and margaritas.

Sort-of nomad buys beer and melons at Kompong Cham, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

But what is work? The executive checking her email by the pool while on a two-week holiday in Vietnam is working. I mean, even taking a work call is work. What about the novelist taking a six-month island break to finish their next best seller? Or the therapist doing video sessions with clients back in her home country? These people are, to varying degrees breaking the rules.

What about if they’re doing a job that a national could? The Jakarta Post highlights this, writing:

“The government also should set safeguard measures to prevent them from entering the local labor market or from doing digital businesses with domestic enterprises.”

Then, it goes on to say, in the same paragraph no less:

“Remote jobs such as marketing consultants, software engineers, program developers, graphic designers, architects and data analysts, are some of the professional services provided by the target tourists for the nomad visa program.”

Now I hate to break it to the brains-trust at the Jakarta Post, but Southeast Asia has a well-developed programming and graphic design labour force. Take a look at any freelance job market and you’ll see hundreds of well-rated Southeast Asian workers.

This is a problem.

A boat load on some nomads and not-nomads. On the vomit-comet, Koh Kong. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

DNs, through simply being in-country, are contributing to the local economy. They may not be paying tax (aside from VAT/GST or whatever), but they are putting money into the economy. If their jobs are offshore, should they pay tax?

In answer to this, some DNV schemes suggest the visa should be tax-free. I get the logic to a point, but if I was a local programmer and saw foreigners coming into my labour pool, tax-free, I’m not sure I’d be thrilled. If a DN’s earnings are 100% offshore in an industry not served in-country, then it is more reasonable. But how are the authorities to check? Should DNs need to supply their entire client list for the last three years? I’m sure that would go down well.

A common rebuttal I see is DNs saying if country X doesn’t offer a DNV then they’ll just go elsewhere. This reeks of the exact colonial/extractive aspects of tourism many are arguing the industry has to rid itself of.

Immigration policies could do with a shave—just in the right places. Phnom Penh street shaver. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The common alternative view is to make a DNV a bit more pricey in lieu of tax. I don’t know, let’s say US$500 a month. This removes a need to delve into taxation returns but brings us to the next problem.

If a DNV is say $500 a month, some would go for it. I know DNs who earn enough working remotely that paying that would be a no-brainer. That said, I know other DNs who are flat out earning $500 a month. For them, a DNV, almost regardless of the cost, would be a non-starter.

So a DNV would need to come up with a policy of cracking down on DNs using other visa routes. Remember the raids on Chiang Mai cafes looking for people doing WordPress templates versus emailing their Mum? Not ideal. Immigration staff, already under-resourced, would be as excited as the DNs would be.

We’re here to round up the capacity-builders. At Java Cafe, Phnom Penh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The whole DNV thing goes hand in hand with discussion around “high-value tourists.” The Jakarta Post of course jumps in on this, stating:

“Since the direct benefits expected from tourists with nomad visas are their spending or consumption of domestic goods and services, the government should ensure through regulations that tourists using nomad visas should stay at star-rated hotels or apartments and not backpacker accommodation.”

Because no software entrepreneur ever stayed in backpacker accommodation. Because people staying in backpacker accommodation don’t consume domestic goods and services. Who knows what goes on in the Jakarta Post editorial brain.

Phnom Penh’s Sundown Social—looking out and down. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So what is the solution?

First, one needs to determine what the real problem is. On the downside there are a couple of obvious problems. To some extent, DNs are swimming in the local labour pool rather than in the Gulf of Thailand. They are contributing to the local economy although not really to the tax system. On the upside, they stay far longer than a typical tourist would. Regardless of which bucket they fall into, they spend plenty of money—for that bracket.

On the other hand, there are foreigners wanting to stay long-term in the region. They want to start businesses that will create jobs and careers. Long-term companies that will create long-term wealth for local people. The focus should be here.

Nomads did not build this. At Banteay Chhmar, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yes, streamlining immigration systems is desirable. Not particularly for DNs though—rather for long-term, serious investment. Long-stay expatriates offer far better bang-for-the-buck than flyby DNs. They spend more, friends and family visit, they travel extensively in-country. They pay tax.

DNs get the noise, but, like the 30-year-old dude sans headphones in a cafe on a zoom call, they’re a distraction. Regional governments need to take a longer-term view.

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As anyone who has been to Ko Lipe in the last decade or so will know, the island I’ve described over the past two days no longer exists. The island, at least pre-pandemic, was home to over 100 hotels and north of one thousand rooms. Damaged reefs, pollution, water access and various social and land-ownership issues are common. This is a transition Thai islands are well familiar with, with the country having honed “paving over paradise” to a fine art. For another, more slow-moving example, I look across the water to the east, to Ko Bulon Lae.

Closer to the coast, the island stumbled onto the backpacker radar around the same time as Lipe. It lacks Lipe’s bounty of fine beaches, but it does have one particularly lovely white-sand beach. As Lipe’s popularity took off, Bulon Lae was more of a slow burner. A popular one with long-stay, repeat visitors, particularly families with young kids.

Ko Bulon Lae has all sorts of pretty. Photo: David Luekens.

Development on Bulon Lae has been slower, yet the issue train is still rolling along. Home to only a dozen or so places to stay versus Lipe’s hundred, the number has barely budged over the last two decades. For residents, tourism offered an escape from a life of relative poverty. Tourism could be a better-paying alternative.

In practice, as this 2016 thesis by Banthita Limpradit discusses, the results—so far—are mixed. If you’re not up for reading the whole thing, skip ahead to Chapter Six and Seven.

Let’s start with the upside—tourists like to eat. Restaurants, an area that offered in particular employment opportunities for women, showed promise. Local women saw fishing as “men’s work” and for cultural reasons tended to stay at home and care for the family. By running a home kitchen, women were able to earn some extra money. This, in turn, bolstered savings, insulating against downturns in fishing (an omnipresent issue), or when the breadwinner was unable to fish.

Will doing beach research on Ko Bulon Lae. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are also (yet-unrealised) opportunities to showcase local food. Tourists spend about a third of their money stuffing their faces, so leveraging that into local produce makes sense. Every product imported from the mainland (or overseas) sees money leave the island. Local fare equals money staying local. Eateries could offer prawn crackers and fish crisps in lieu of french fries for example.

Bulon Lae lacks land for largescale cultivation, so imports are unavoidable, but every change counts. Restaurants offering pizza, pasta and wine may please tourists, but they hurt the local economy. Stronger linkages could be developed between restaurants and food suppliers on the island. “Bulon food” could be a thing. Tourists eating in such establishments would expand the demand for local agricultural practices. This in turn would financially benefit those not directly involved in tourism.

Off the beach and out of mind. Photo: David Luekens.

This is already happening in the fisheries. Fishers prefer to sell their catch to tourist restaurants over middlemen as it gets them a better price. Bulon Lae’s fisheries may be over-exploited, but commercial trawlers—rather than local fishers—are to blame. Restaurants could showcase their seafood as line-caught by locals—if it is—and charge a premium for it.

An added benefit for fishers who own their boats is running trips for tourists. Be it snorkelling, beach or island trips, they can sometimes double their income doing this. Often with considerably less effort, using a boat that would otherwise be idle.

Over the years, other benefits including a phone signal (and so, WiFi) arrived. As did improved ferry access from the mainland town of Pakbara and other islands in the Andaman Sea. While these came to meet the demands of tourists, locals also benefitted. As they did through improved power (via a solar set-up) and water management.

Better for the local economy than a pepperoni pizza. Photo: David Luekens.

The island’s cultural heritage also received a shot in the arm. Traditional dance, long feared to be fading, picked up, boosting locals’ cultural pride. Monthly community meetings served as forums to discuss a wide variety of issues. Tourism-related ones, such as scanty dress and consumption of alcohol were common talking points.

While education is compulsory in Thailand, kids are sometimes withdrawn from school to help with fishing. Insufficient schooling leaves the kids facing a choice of fishing or unskilled work. Language courses, in a variety of forms, took place over the years, but courses were often too short. “A waste of time that was better-spent fishing” in some locals’ view.

Beach jeweller with funds supporting local kids. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The core issues though were (and remain) a lack of capital, affordable loans, and land ownership. One example is instructive. The TAT required proper toilets for tourism businesses, yet this was beyond the means of some. Other requirements, around business management and so on, were beyond the skills of many. The transition from crab fisher to guesthouse manager has little crossover. This lack of training and know-how often left unskilled work, such as cleaning, the only in to tourism. Conditions are often exploitative, with work sometimes paid less than fishing—as little as 200 baht per day.

The core issue though is land. The first tourist accommodation was Pansand, opened by some mainland investors in 1990. It remains, to this day, the only property on the island with a legal land title. Of thirteen bungalow businesses on the island, only four are local-owned. Many are off-the-beach, in part due to them starting as an extension from the local’s house—due to lack of capital. The outsider-owned properties, on the best stretches of beach, with tourism expertise, have thrived. The local-owned businesses, not so much.

For many, tourists remain off the menu. Photo: David Luekens.

The above sounds like a mixed bag of results, and it is. That said, on almost all counts, Ko Bulon Lae has fared better than Ko Lipe. If the island could wind back the clock two decades, what could be done even better? Land title is the obvious one, a small language, business and tourism training centre another. Access to soft loans a third.

That is only one side of the coin though. Tourists need to look at their own practices as well. To seek out locally owned businesses. To skip burgers and pizza and try, then grow to love, local fare—shrimp crackers are great! To stay longer and eat wider. To avail themselves of more boat tours and snorkelling trips. To work harder to make sure whatever impact they’re having is, as much as possible, a positive one.

That’s the best way to avoid another Ko Lipe.

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In late June, news outlet Kompas reported on an increase in admission fees for Komodo National Park. Commencing August 1, 2022, the fee will increase to US$260 (3.75m rupiah) per head, with no word on a lower rate for Indonesians. This represents an increase from the current 150,000 rupiah (5,000 rupiah for Indonesians). The argument presented for the increase is “conservation” and talking heads are at pains to describe it as a conservation fee which will be valid for a year of entries—not an entrance ticket.

This is but one of many suggested price-changes for the park in recent years. In late 2018 a revised admission of $500 appeared, then, a year later a “membership fee” of US$1,000 did the rounds. Both vanished. Around the same time, talking heads noted the need for the park to attract “high value” tourists. This mantra, common in Indonesia since the 1970s, has played out in a similar fashion in neighbouring countries. Distinguished for railing against backpackers as much as tempting luxury travellers, details are scant. At the time of the $500 fee being thrown around, backpackers were described as “peasants” and the governor of the region encompassing Komodo was quoted as saying the park was for “extraordinary people” and those without the funds should not enter.

How long will these calm waters last? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Komodo was inscribed as a World Heritage Site in 1991 under two criteria. Criterion vii: To contain superlative natural phenomena or areas of exceptional natural beauty and aesthetic importance; and Criterion x: To contain the most important and significant natural habitats for in-situ conservation of biological diversity, including those containing threatened species of outstanding universal value from the point of view of science or conservation.

It is worth quoting UNESCO’s description of how the park satisfies these points at length.

Criterion (vii): Komodo National Park is a landscape of contrasts between starkly rugged hillsides of dry savanna, pockets of thorny green vegetation, brilliant white sandy beaches and blue waters surging over coral, unquestionably one of the most dramatic landscapes in all of Indonesia. Demonstrating exceptional natural beauty that is all the more remarkable as a counterpoint to the dominant lushness of vegetation which characterizes vast areas of forested Indonesia, and with which most of the world associates the archipelago.

Criterion (x): Komodo National Park contains the majority of the world’s areas in which wild populations of the Komodo dragon lizard still exist. The largest and heaviest of the world’s lizards, the species is widely known for its impressive size and fearsome appearance, its ability to effectively prey on large animals, and a tolerance of extremely harsh condition.

Fast forward a couple of decades and the 2020 IUCN World Heritage Outlook notes the conservation outlook for Komodo is one of “Significant Concern.” UNESCO meanwhile in 2021, while noting some progress, notes their concern about “different tourism infrastructure projects undertaken and planned in the property,” and then, in the next paragraph, notes “Also urges the State Party to halt all tourism infrastructure projects in and around the property that have the potential to impact on its OUV until the revised EIA is submitted and reviewed by IUCN.”

Angel Island looking not so angelic. (This island is outside the park boundaries). Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In a more detailed letter, they requested information regarding a re-zoning of the park in 2020 which resulted in a decrease of the wilderness zone to one-third of the previous area, reported new legislation that would exempt infrastructure works in the property from the obligation of undergoing an EIA, and a new tourism target of some 500,000 people per annum (page 254).

If you missed the memo, Rinca Island has been closed for some time while some sort of “Komodo arena” is constructed. A photo of a Komodo dragon facing down a construction truck went viral on social media at the time. Plans are also afoot for tourism developments on both Padar and another island within the park boundaries. Details are scant, but it seems UNESCO (and domestic conservation groups) are less than thrilled, the concerns are widespread.

One of the construction sites on UNESCO’s shitlist, this on Rinca. Via Google Maps.

This brings me back to the mooted US$260 conservation charge. Part and parcel with this increase is a cap on visitors to the park of no more than 200,000 people—despite UNESCO asking about a rumoured 500,000. The only time Komodo has surpassed this number (officially) was in 2019, when 221,703 visitors entered the park. Thanks to Covid, this plummeted to around 50,000 in 2020. Given the increase in admission, it would be fair to assume that the chances of reaching 200,000 entries anytime soon are unlikely.

It is important to clarify something at this point. In practice, Komodo has two fields of touristic appeal. There is the terrestrial part of the park, which encompasses Komodo, Rinca and Padar. These are where you see the dragons, or in the case of Padar, climb to a viewpoint. The second field is the marine part of the park, which is home to some of the best diving on the planet.

The park is lovely. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The primary point of access to Komodo is Labuan Bajo. Permanently settled only in the 1950s by three Bajo families, it saw explosive growth since 2007, with its population reaching 52,000 by 2014. Recently named one of Indonesia’s “New Balis,” and buoyed by massive investment, you wouldn’t know it by looking at some facts and figures. In 2015 80% of Labuan Bajo’s population lived below the Indonesian poverty line, more than a quarter had more than five children and only 24% had access to piped water. The city was recently described by NGO Swiss Contact as being at the “tipping point.”

In the department of tipping, an airport expansion in 2015 raised capacity from 150,000 to 1,500,000. A planned second upgrade will increase capacity to four million passengers per year. If only 200,000 people will be allowed into the park per year, I’m curious what the other 3,800,000 will do. I reckon they should hit Dapur Tara.

Train them young and they’ll return again and again—if they can afford it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Tourism is viewed as Labuan Bajo’s only sizeable industry and it is a considerable employer, with the dive industry forming an important sector. In early 2022 I had a number of conversations with dive shop managers and owners about the effect of the pandemic. Foreign-focused shops noted 95% of their business was foreign divers, and for them, the pandemic had been brutal. Locally-focused shops were not hit as hard, but business was far from plain sailing. When I asked about staff sourcing, all operators sourced significant numbers from the local community and elsewhere in Flores. Conditions are not always ideal though, writes Swiss Contact:

“The dominance of small and medium sized businesses creates a divers business environment on the one hand. On the other hand it comes along with a high degree of non-compliance with Indonesian labour regulations. The staff is in many cases dependent on employers’ goodwill, which is not sufficient to guarantee decent working conditions and social security.”

Some form of tourism/vocational training exists in both Labuan Bajo and Ruteng (a provincial capital to the east), but migrant labour remains a common stop-gap. The prime market for both graduates and migrants is Labuan Bajo—even if the conditions are not great.

Got the promenade sorted, piped water … not so much. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Many of the favoured dive sites are within the park’s marine boundaries yet operators often only dive—they don’t visit the dragons. If the $260 charge extends to dive operations, what dampening effect will that have on the trade? Will job losses result as operators go belly up—that doesn’t seem like a stretch.

There’s no denying that pre-pandemic the park had overcrowding issues. At the Batu Bolong dive site for example, in 2017 and 2018 it averaged 500 divers per day—a level characterised to me by dive shop managers as “excessive.” This led to a WWF-led carrying capacity study which set an allocative limit of two dive boats per hour. Operators know that their business relies on the dive experience being a good one—I didn’t speak to an operator who didn’t support the Batu Bolong exercise.

Above the surface though, challenges remained unaddressed. In 2019, the viewpoint on Padar attracted 400 to 600 hikers per day, and a study found considerable trash on the trail, with cigarette butts representing over 30% of the total. Only one garbage bin is on site. Sometimes simple and affordable solutions—like more bins—exist.

Why the hell would you want to model this on Bali? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To the dragons themselves, repeated studies have found that the primary issue revolves around the roll-on effects of waste practices. Disposal of kitchen scraps and other waste around the ranger stations has led to dragons congregating around there. This in turn has resulted in exposure to large numbers of tourists, and the Komodo dragons have been found to exhibit less wariness, greater body mass, and other altered behaviours. On Rinca, frequent tourist visits deterred natural prey species such as water buffalo and feral pigs, while crab-eating macaques, being more familiar with humans, were not deterred and became the Komodo dragons’ second largest food source.

In the 1990s rangers used to stake live goats to guarantee sightings for tourists, but when this practice ceased dragon numbers dropped and within two years some 30% of tourists saw no Komodo dragons at all. Assuming the waste situation is addressed and the dragons head back to the woods, how many people will be up for paying US$260 for a 30% chance of not seeing a dragon?

When a promenade can’t even meet up with a bridge, one does wonder. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The answer perhaps lies in Rinca. In conversations in Labuan Bajo, I was repeatedly told that the long-term plan was for Rinca and its “zoo” to be the focal point for tourism. Komodo, on the other hand, would be reserved for “scientific research”. Yet if the setting on Rinca is to be in a zoo-like amphitheatre, where does that stand on the authenticity stakes? You can have that experience in one of Bali’s dire zoos. In this context, it is hard to see the logic of the current stance.

If the authorities want to limit numbers in the park, there is a straightforward solution to this. Regardless of the price, limit the number of tickets available. Setting a stratospheric price while capping the number of allowed visitors at a near all-time high level, seems disingenuous in the extreme. According to Cole, past governing Regencies had form, noting that in 2012 there were 219 cases involving misuse or embezzlement of some US$3.2 million from state budgets.

The bathroom at this joint was bigger than Will and my room lol. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

No doubt, given the ongoing construction of luxurious hotels outside the park confines, there will be some demand for people willing to pay US$260 to enter the park. After all, if you’re paying around $1,000 a night what is a couple of hundred bucks more? But for the vast majority of us, those who are not in a position to pay this kind of money, the question begs, why visit Labuan Bajo at all? What will happen to all the guesthouses, hostels and budget hotels when the primary attractions—the diving and the Komodo dragons—are beyond the budget of most of their guests?

How many of those small hotels, cafes and restaurants in Labuan Bajo are locally owned? How many of the five-star hotels are? Swiss Contact reported that in 2016 two-thirds of the tourism-related businesses in Labuan Bajo were not owned by Floresians, though 40% were Indonesian-owned. What do the local people own and run? Budget accommodation and tour operations (page 16). Who will feel the pain as the destination is forced to pivot to the high-end?

Someone has to pay it seems.

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On Saturday, Indonesia’s Coordinating Minister for Maritime Affairs and Investment took to Instagram. This in itself isn’t unusual—many government departments and ministers here are active on the platform. What he had to say though, was a little out of the left field.

The Minister announced his decision to limit the number of tourists visiting Borobudur to 1,200 per day. Alongside the revised visitor numbers he announced new admission tariffs. Indonesians would pay 750,000 rupiah (with students remaining at 5,000 rupiah). Foreigners would pay US$100. In the past, Indonesians paid 50,000 rupiah and foreigners paid US$25. The increases, fifteen-fold and four-fold respectively, are significant. As a reference point, 750,000 rupiah is roughly half of the monthly minimum wage in many cities in Indonesia. Seems like a lot to pay to see your own cultural heritage? Sure is.

Something is going up in smoke. Photo: Sally Arnold.

A later announcement noted that the old ticket would remain on offer, though I think only for Indonesians. If you wanted to climb to the summit—what you could do on the old ticket—you would need to buy the new pricey ticket.

If you’ve never heard of Borobudur, I’ll pass the baton for a moment to Travelfish writer Sally Arnold, who, after describing Borobudur as “One of the world’s greatest treasures,” goes on to write:

“Under the shadow of temperamental Gunung Merapi, one of Indonesia’s most active volcanoes, the ancient Buddhist monument Borobudur emerges majestically from the surrounding jungle and farmland.

On first impressions, the rather squat grey mass of volcanic stone that makes up Borobudur may not seem as impressive as other towering structures—the temple has no chambers you can enter. Instead, the massive complex envelops a small hill, which when viewed from above follows the form of a giant mandala.

The lower, almost-square-shaped base stretches approximately 120 metres each side, topped by six concentric square terraces decorated with 2,672 exquisitely carved relief panels and 504 Buddha sculptures, leading to an upper trio of circular-shaped levels topped with 72 bell-like stupas, culminating with a large dome at the centre. [Ed: Sally, that sentence is too long!] By walking the ancient pilgrims’ path, roughly five kilometres clockwise around each level, past the lower galleries with images of “desire,” to the levels of the teachings and life of Buddha, and finally to the realm of “nothingness”, you can appreciate the sheer splendour of this antiquity, the world’s largest Buddhist monument.”

Sally, never one to hold back, has another two thousand-odd words on the site here. Go on and read it. I’ll wait.

You will meet people. Photo: Sally Arnold.

It is, particularly at dawn, with Merapi smoking in the distance and the vast mist-draped savannah-like forest to the side, an undeniably exquisite site. Across the region, Borobudur is in the same class as Angkor and Bagan, yet to many, its diminutive size lends itself to scale comparisons with somewhere like Wat Phu in southern Laos. And while you can take the five-kilometre stroll as described by Sally above, most don’t. And here lies the rub—the site is popular, very popular.

In 1974 Borobudur saw around 260,000 visitors. By the mid-1990s that had risen ten-fold to about 2.5 million. Thanks to the Asian Crisis of 1997 and 1998, followed by a challenging domestic period, growth slowed. By 2013 visitors were over three million, over 90% of whom were domestic travellers. In 2018, on the cusp of the pandemic, 3,663,054 domestic and 192,231 international tourists visited. Almost four million people or over 10,000 per day.

Important Note: These figures marked with * are sourced from a paper using data from Magelang Regency (home to Borobudur). The thesis I mention (PDF) elsewhere has figures almost twice as high but had no verifiable source. Regardless, there are loads of people in a restricted amount of real estate.

It is very big in a small kind of a way. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Most of those four million were not taking Sally’s five-kilometre route. Instead, they were climbing the stairs at the east side of the temple—the quickest way to the top. In this interesting thesis, the author notes that calculations done by Balai Konservasi Borobudur (Indonesian language only) noted that for every two million tourists, there were 0.2 millimetres of wear and tear (on the stairs I assume—rather than the entire monument!) That might not sound like much, but when you’ve got six million tourists per year it accumulates fast.

This brings us, I guess to the Instagram announcement on Saturday. Antara reported:

“He [Minister Luhut] said that the step has been carried out solely for the sake of preserving the historical and cultural wealth of the country.”

Regular Indonesia-watchers will be aware this is far from the first time tourism policy has appeared somewhat impromptu. Like when Komodo was going to be $1,000 a head as the latest step towards Indonesia’s drive for “high-quality tourists”—something it has been talking about since the 1970s. It’s the classic hammer nail solution that one sees right around the planet. “Too many tourists? Let’s put the prices up—that’ll fix it.”

Locals waiting for the arrival of digital nomads. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The prices will undoubtedly see a reduction in visitor numbers. After I saw the news, I added a poll on Twitter asking if people would pay US$100 per head to visit Borobudur. Almost 22% of people (395 have voted as I type this) said they’d only pay that much if it was one hundred Zimbabwe dollars. This was a greater number than the total number who said yes or maybe. In fact, it pretty much mirrors the drop in numbers (from 10,000 to 1,200) the Minister is after.

There’s a whole raft of reasons why this might not be the right idea. Doubly so with a marque site like Borobudur, and holds particularly true with foreign tourists on organised tours. To a point the site and the city it is most often visited from—Yogyakarta—anchors the entire Java experience. I gave Mark Ord, founder and CEO of All Points East (and an old friend) a call.

Can’t link because my account is private. Twitter so frustrating sometimes.

It turned out he hadn’t heard the news—which raises concerns about how much outreach or research goes into decisions like this—he should follow Indonesian ministers on Instagram I guess. I asked him if he thought the increase in prices would see them drop Yogyakarta from their Java tours. His reply was instructive:

“Don’t think you could reconsider Yogya without reconsidering Java! It’s the most tourist-friendly town, and Borobudur is the highlight. The government has got you by the short and curlies.”

You can’t do a tour of Java and not visit Borobudur. Therefore you have to pay.

Chillin, waiting for the other 9,923 people to arrive for the day. Photo: Sally Arnold.

I wonder, stepping away from organised tours if independent travellers will feel the same way. For those with the funds, those who have already spent thousands to get here, and for whom Indonesia is but a whimsy of luxurious (and often foreign-owned) resorts, spas, and hotels—why not?

Others not so much. The obvious calculus will be “Is Borobudur more than twice as good as Angkor (where one-day admission is US$37)?” The answer, at least in my humble opinion, as magnificent as Borobudur might be, is a resounding no. But why is Indonesia forcing me to ask myself this stupid question?

The authorities would be well-advised to look into some of their neighbour’s plans. Where destinations have multi-day passes which work out as far better value and encourage multiple visits—Borobudur is worth at least two. Best of all, hopefully, a longer stay in Yogyakarta—to the benefit of all the people involved in tourism services there—and better for tourists too, who will have time to better appreciate a fascinating city. Yes, you now have time to visit the Chicken Church! Instead, this policy seems to want people to stay for as short a time as possible. Why?

Of course, you must visit here. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The thing is, looking at the numbers, foreigners are but a rounding error. So I had a chat with Trinity, an Indonesian travel writer, who kicked off her travelling fame with The Naked Traveller series. Emphatic that the price is too high, she noted the action may well protect Borobudur but will kill tourism in the process. As Trinity sees it, the essence of Borobudur are the stories on the reliefs, and to see those, one needs the pricier ticket.

When I ask her about alternative ways to protect the monument, the suggestions come thick and fast. Organised time slots to better manage visitors and mandated online ticket purchases. Tighter regulations, more guards and stricter staff. In conclusion, she notes a maximum price of 250,000 rupiah seems palatable, but with that should come transparency—where exactly is all this money going?

Amen.

I don’t think anyone who has visited the site in the last decade wouldn’t admit that people management is an issue. That the situation has been bad for so long, makes this weekend’s announcement all the more depressing. Why? Because there are far more equitable approaches to this problem and it isn’t like people haven’t had time to consider different options.

Damn this is a beautiful country. Photo: Sally Arnold.

While I’m not trying to tell anyone how to do their job, if they were looking for alternatives, they could consider any of the following. Limit ticketing thus requiring booking in advance. Restricting large groups to certain less popular times of the day. Setting aside a small portion of the tickets for sale on the day—first come first served. Encourage more people to take Sally’s stroll rather than zooming straight to the top. Install wooden walkways to protect the monument in areas of wear and tear. Perhaps also listen to the dudes that granted the heritage listing in the first place—that’d be UNESCO, who do seem to be banging their heads on their desks and are “seriously concerned”.

There are pros and cons to each of these, and some would have more challenges to put in place than others. All are more difficult than simply jacking up the price. These are all though, far fairer approaches than simply stating one of the world’s greatest treasures, and a highlight of Indonesia is now largely for the wealthy alone.

What would Buddha think?

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At the moment I’m reading a novel by British journalist Monisha Rajesh titled Around India in 80 Trains. It traces her journey through the country, much of it with a profoundly irritating companion. Her companion though isn’t the sole irritant.

On a train in Rajasthan, Rajesh recounts a meeting with “a younger version of Neil from The Young Ones.” Neil, it should be said, could easily be me—I circumnavigated much of the country by train in the early 1990s—like Neil, slumming it in the cheapest seats. Why? I was seeking to experience the “real India.” To anyone I shared a car with back then, I apologise for my tediousness.

This wasn’t the India I fixated on. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Chatting about the train classes one should travel by while in India, after noting he only travels in general class, Neil says:

“... That way you actually get to see the real India,” then, “Yeah, you don’t get to see what real India is like if you travel up in the air-conditioned classes. You can’t sit and talk to real people or understand how they live.” He then finishes with, “They’re not the ones who define India. It’s the poor who make this country what it is.”

Boy, did I ever feel seen when I read this exchange. To be fair, I was 22 and beyond clueless, but yeah, I was once Neil. The question is, putting Neil to the side, what does define a country?

My image was more something like this. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Of course, there’s no one segment of a population that does. The definition comes from its history, culture, environment, and many other factors—including its people. That definition then gets interpreted in as many different ways as the factors that form it. Everyone has their own take on what that definition means to them.

So, if one is looking to gain even a limited understanding of any social aspect of a country, what should one do? Of course, one can throw themselves out into the world and see what meaning they can shake out. Many though, opt for a tour, yet, looking at what is on offer, you’d think many of the tours were designed by Neil.

If you’re looking for a tour that offers insight into how people live day to day, the tours almost invariably focus on one segment. The poor—Neil’s people. It is important to emphasise “people” here. As travel writer Tim Bewer points out on Twitter, “There are mansions galore turned into tourist attractions, including some where people still reside there.” He’s correct, I’ve visited Bangkok’s Grand Palace more times than I remember, and hundreds of tours go there. I’d argue though, that in these cases you’re often presented with a shell, a walk-through postcard, without people living it.

What about a tour to where they live? Photo: David Luekens.

Who hasn’t done a tour of a lived-in palace or mansion only to find half the property roped off? This isn’t the case though with a tour through say a poor community in Bangkok. More often than not, in these cases, access is about as comprehensive as it gets. There is often, after all, only one room.

So the wealthy might offer you a glimpse of opulent living, but their privacy is well-guarded. The poor, not so much.

This tourism, where one gets to poke around the lives of those less well off, is poverty/slum tourism. The ickiness of ogling the poor I’ll leave for another post, but it centres on Neil’s belief that an understanding of a country comes from its poor. Why do people think this?

Should tourism be restricted to the highway up top? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If I think back to 20-something me, wedged into a Bangalore-bound train, it was down to my preconceptions. The country was full of poor people. These poor people, unadulterated by Western influences and technology, held their traditions close. As my friend Kate points out on Twitter, often their financial situation gives them no other choice. The affluent, well to my thinking, they were all tainted, they weren’t “real India.” I wanted authenticity—a whole other glad bag of tourism woe and contradiction I am not going to get sucked into here.

Following this logic, it is from the poor I should soak up my cultural understandings. There was also plenty of seeing how these people were living made me all the more thankful for what I had. Offering the poor as a cultural salve to make one feel better about oneself is less than ideal. Everyone was 22 once, right?

The thing is like I said up top, there is all manner of factors that flow into defining a nation. One of these is the wealthy. For better or worse, wealthy celebrities and magnates provide models that others, often of lesser means, seek to emulate. Sure, plenty of these may be foreign, but there’s no shortage on the local front. These people are responsible for more shaping of popular culture—going forward—than any other demographic.

Want to eat where many Thais eat? Go to McDonalds. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yet tourists, by and large, are not so interested in the “going forward” bit. Tourism is largely a backwards-facing industry. The image a tourist forms in their mind of a place they’ve never been is the product of decades of often subconscious learning—dare I say indoctrination. When they arrive, many tours and other services work off and amplify this.

Who hasn’t done a tour to Cu Chi in southern Vietnam only to find their 23-year-old Vietnamese guide speaking with a Texan twang? Why are there farming tours but no banking tours in Bali? You have both farms and banks in your country right? Why is one interesting but the other not? How much is poverty and an unadulterated, non-mechanised life, both more in line with the tourists’ preconceptions, the real draw?

Who wants to do a tour that spends the entire time turning guests’ preconceived ideas on their heads? A good tour should do this, it should challenge participants’ ill-founded beliefs. Yet, why are there so few tours to the houses of middle-class Bangkokians who work as bankers, stockbrokers or nurses? Yes, people have these jobs in their own countries too, but life—and culture—is more than one’s day job. Why are these people somehow less interesting? Why are we even doing tours into anyone’s lives?

I can hear the Texan twang as I type. Photo: Cindy Fan.

I’ve done plenty of ill-considered tours. I’ve gawked inside people’s houses, at what they were eating, at their walls held together with tape. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t learn a thing or two, but I’m not sure I needed to—at least not in that fashion.

And this is an important point. Not all tours and organisations are equal. Some do a better job than others. Some do involve—or are run by—the communities they feature, in better, more progressive and inclusive ways. The middle-class and high-end though, not so much. Instead, tourists end up with their poverty preconceptions largely unchallenged as they’re often not exposed to anything else in any meaningful way—other than walking past it on the street.

I’d love to do a tour of some fancy-pants restaurant full of guests. Well, not really, this is more of a fever dream. In said dream, the restaurant is packed with clientele who earn more in a minute than I will in my lifetime. I’d like to lean over their table and have them answer my inane questions about the challenges of being loaded, a silver spoon halfway to their mouth. I’d like to ask them if that $28,000 bottle of wine is worth it. And you know what? If they didn’t offer me a glass of it to taste it for myself, I’d ask, because, in poorer communities, they offer before you even have time to ask.

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I’m working on a story at the moment and when done, you’ll be reading it here first on Couchfish. That said, it isn’t done, yet here I am writing about it.

The idea started out as the simplest of thoughts—something I rode past while on the bike trip in Java. I didn’t pull up for a better look at it as I still had a while to go, but as I rode on towards Bali, it became all that I thought about.

Since then I’ve interviewed a bunch of people—travel writers, photographers, academics, bloggers—and have more to go. With those I have spoken to, the universal reply—excepting one—has been the same. Well, not exactly the same, but the gist was.

What happens when I am not concentrating on the road. (This is in southern Laos—not Java). Photo: Samantha Brown.

“This is a super–interesting question, and you know what, it is something I have never ever thought about.” One added, “There’s a dissertation in this,” I agree—not mine though.

Now I’m not going to spoil the surprise and spill the tea on what I am writing about, but it got me thinking. As travellers, how many other things do we walk past and either take for granted or not notice? Why are we interested in this, but not that?

Particularly for travellers already familiar with the region, what is “normal” can shift. It can be something as simple as the roosters next to my office. I don’t even hear them anymore—except between my every breath when recording Couchfish [Note: they totally shut their beaks right here when I was recording!]. When we lived in Thailand, around half of Bangkok’s soi dogs lived on our soi. They were always keen to offer a noisy welcome to anybody and everybody. After being in our apartment for barely a minute, a visitor said he couldn’t understand how we could live there. It took me more than a moment to realise he was talking about the dogs.

Quite possibly the most interesting thing in Luang Nam Tha, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s much more than the racket of course. It’s the colours, the smells, the sights, the people, the food, and much more. I’ve written before of the first time I arrived in Bangkok and the leaden air under the overpass at Don Muang and how everyone had a motorbike. That first waft from a wok ablaze with dried chillies crackling, while smashed garlic sloshed in fish- and oyster- sauce. Hard to forget—I can almost smell it as I type today, over twenty years later.

I’ve staggered out of Don Muang’s arrivals area more times than I could count. Don’t ask me how many woks I’ve stood too close to. Yet, embossed upon my brain is that first time—everyone remembers their first time.

Yet for every first time I remember, there are hundreds, if not thousands, I don’t. What I rode past in Java, I’d walked, rode, drove and flown over thousands of times. Dwelling on it the other day, I tried to think back to my first time, my first encounter with one, and I drew a blank. So busy off to see and seek out other stuff, I was missing what was right in front of me.

Nam Nern Night Safari looks interesting. Photo: Cindy Fan.

People talk about needing to acclimatise when they arrive in a new country. For long-haulers off a dozen hours in airports and flying metal tubes, this is understandable. The form of acclimatisation though is often a curious one. A comfy hotel, a pool, a deckchair, or, if you’re flying an LCC, an eight-hour massage.

“I need a day to adjust,” people say. Sure, there is a climate time-zone sandwich to shake off, yet there is more to this. For repeat travellers, it is a bit of remembering where they are. One needs to reacquaint oneself with money’s colour-coding, rudimentary language, and the price of a beer. For first-time travellers, it is more akin to a decompression chamber. As a traveller once put it to me, flying internationally is “like changing planets.”

Once out of decompression (or is it decontamination?), people dive in, and this is where it gets interesting. Travellers are a diverse crowd, with interests as varied as it gets. Beaches, mountains, cities, temples, parties, shopping—the list goes on. The interests of no two people are truly alike, one of the reasons travellers can be so interesting—okay, not always.

This monoculture that has driven vast deforestation is interesting apparently. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Some interests though are more popular than others. Akin to fashion—in vogue and then out, cool and then uncool. The destinations pivot and adjust, looking to harness the prevailing tourism winds. Some manage it better than others—destination equals of tie-dye jeans litter Southeast Asia.

Others seem destined never to hit the catwalk. Like the cafe you love that nobody else seems to, they sit there timeless-like, tourism passing them by without even a camera click. Then something changes, often the most random of occurrences, and a place explodes. Yesterday, I rode around the corner to my favourite, near always deserted, cafe and there was a queue for a seat. Which influencer can I blame for this? Maybe it was just the death of a thousand knives, in which case some of the blame falls on me.

What makes somewhere or something interesting? Why is this cultural undertaking considered photogenic while that one is not? Why is a rice field view more desirable than one over a palm oil plantation? Why are sandy beaches more popular than pebbly ones? What is the thought process behind what gets written about, photographed and promoted. What bias is at play? What is the root of that bias? Whose interests does it serve and is that bias a healthy one?

On the other hand, this is more interesting than palm oil plantations. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The answers to these questions, well, they’re as interesting as the questions themselves. They also say as much about the traveller as they do about the destination, and as they do about those raising the interest in the first place. Yet, these are rarely asked questions—in any direction.

Who plants the seed that germinates into tourism worthiness? It’s a hybrid for sure—travel writing, social media, tourism boards, and word-of-mouth all dovetail in. Some, like avocado, take years—and much patience—to bloom. Others, well, they’re like weeds—fast-growing and easy to kill.

I went to write that some seeds are never planted, but I’m wrong on this, in fact, they flourished years ago. They’ve always been there. The trees stand before us, towering above, casting shadows we shelter in without a second thought. They’re yet to blossom though. Instead, they wait for the right monsoon storm to scatter their interest seeds afar.

When you’re travelling, what does and doesn’t interest you? Why?

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Riding home this morning from Medewi in West Bali, I pulled up at a pretty spot, took a photo and posted it to Instagram and Twitter. It took all of 30 seconds.

Getting to where I took the photo was a little more involved. I’d spent 45 minutes dancing between farting buses and belching trucks travelling east along Bali’s coastal thoroughfare. Without traffic, it’s a pretty and scenic ride. Having it without traffic is rare indeed.

I can’t even get the horizon straight—back to influencer school for me. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A little east of Balian, the main road turns inland for a looping route through Tabanan, but I scooted off that quick smart onto a backway that for a large part is devoid of traffic. Devoid of traffic because it’s a tiny road not ideal for cars (though some do drive it) and impassable for trucks.

It’s a beautiful ride, looping and weaving among Tabanan Regency’s rolling hills of rice. At high points, you have the Indian Ocean to one side, volcanoes to the other. In between, vast terraces of rice as far as the eye can see.

I have an Insta-puppy. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I didn’t go there specifically to take a photo, but almost every time I ride through I take one, it is that beautiful. Photo taken, I often post it to social media. I wouldn’t classify myself as an influencer, but in doing this, I guess, in theory, I qualify.

There are lots of hatin’ on influencers, including a decent dose from me. They’re variably described as vacuous and self-centred braggarts who care more for having themselves in the right light than wherever they’re standing. There’s some truth to this, and as I’ve written before if you’re in the business of apportioning blame for overtourism’s worst excesses, these social photoshop practitioners of “Insta-tourism” belong on your radar.

Bought breakfast here, 10,000 rupiah, better share it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A common refrain is they put more effort—and time—into getting “the right shot” than they do understanding or soaking up the location. That whole jump out of the SUV, spend 30 minutes shooting off a virtual handful of rolls, then jump back in to roll onto the next shoot thing. Oh, and stuff face—must Instagram your favourite meals. The night is lost, pouring over the laptop, finessing the tan lines and cropping out other tourists—beautifying the real. Then they’re beamed online, generating rapture from their throngs of fans—most of whom they’ve never met.

Before you know it, they’re back on the plane to Portugal, Senegal or Hawaii.

A while ago I wrote, as a part of a larger post, a brief history of the postcard. If Instagram had parents, the aerogramme and postcard would be them.

Said breakfast. People were mostly curious about the purple thing. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If I cast my mind back to my pre-internet travels, I dedicated a not-insignificant amount of time to writing postcards and aerogrammes. Recipients included family and friends back home, and new friends made on the road, Poste Restante was my home away from home. More often than not I’d seek out a postcard illustrating somewhere I’d been, be it the World Trade Center, the Themes, Taj Mahal or Ko Wherever in Thailand. I’d never be in the photo of course, but I’d make the photo about me on the flip side. Proof of life, but also proof I’d been there—humble bragging and all.

Yet I can’t remember ever reading much hatin’ on postcard-writers. People never pulled me up for spending hours in a cafe postcard bragging to all and sundry, nor for spending too long in the trinket shop sorting through postcards, trying to find the one that mimicked the view I had experienced. I never got a talking to for not spending more time soaking up culture and less time writing “wish you were here” without meaning it.

And yet, today these are all common Insta-gripes.

This one I actually took twice, as in the first photo I missed the plastic bag. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I don’t know, is this an old(er) people thing? Is it “Millenial Shaming”? Young people today I tell ya, back in my day blah blah, please get off my lawn etcetera. To be honest, I’m thankful there was no social media when I started out, as there were no shortage of idiocies along the way that would have well qualified me for some online derision—I still manage it even now I guess.

Much is made of how Instagram is a one-way vehicle, it’s all about the practitioner, then the location, the consumer a distant third. But that’s not so different to postcards, and who hasn’t had at least some joy in seeing a magnificent photo in their feed? It can get the feet itching just as much as a postcard did. Who didn’t look at the photo first before flipping it to read the asinine scrawling? Who didn’t on occasion think, “My God, I have to go there in my lifetime—just not with the postcard author”? See, just like Instagram.

If I was a real influencer, I’d have timed this better for sunset—and got the horizon straight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Of course, the one difference is the audience—which can amount to sometimes tens- or hundreds- of thousands of people. That said, more reach can equate to more joy, more feet itching, more thoughtfulness—okay, maybe that last one is a stretch. Having a greater audience need not be a bad thing—even if you have no idea who most of them are. It can even be a power for good—really!

Instagramming is just one outlet for this kind of thing—I didn’t send my postcards to tens of thousands of people I’d never met—I took up travel writing to satisfy that need instead. And travel writing, well, it’s older than postcards themselves—dare I say it’s Instagram’s grandparent.

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A little to the north of Candi Dasa in East Bali the forest-lined road winds up a ridge, leaving the beach behind. Before you start down again, towards the turn-off to White Sand Beach, there’s a point over-run with macaques. To the east, a bumpy road runs out of sight.

Quite a few years ago, I followed the bumpy road as far as I could go. When the road tapped out, I parked and walked. After a bit of a stroll, I reached a small temple. I walked around to the back of it, hoping for an ocean view.

To be fair, there wasn’t a “no nudism” sign at the temple. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It wasn’t a location designed for viewpointing, but, I scrabbled through the bush, holding out hope. In the end, I got what I came for, a decent view over the sea. Though that wasn’t all I got.

As I stood there, a Western guy emerged nearby. He was stark naked.

It was so many years ago I can’t remember if I asked him “how’s it hanging?” or anything like that, but I do remember moving on sooner than planned.

What is it with Bali and tourists wanting to get their gear off?

The view I was looking for. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’ve missed the news over the last few weeks, there’s been three cases that have hit the dailies and done the rounds.

First, there was a Canadian “life coach influencer” who climbed Mount Batur, stripped naked and did the haka. He then posted a video of the performance on social media. No, I’m not making this up. He said he didn’t know the peak had a religious value—or something like that anyway.

Then, a few days ago, a Russian tourist/yogi posed nude at the base of a revered tree. Again, she posted the image to her social media account. The photo would have qualified as fine art—to my eye at least. The choice of location, however, among the enormous roots of a holy tree, was not inspired. It was a terrible choice.

Me looking for tree-nudists, near Labuan Pandan, Lombok. Photo: Samantha Brown.

Then we have another tourist, whose nationality is unknown (to me at least). He included a Balinese waterfall as one of the top places to masturbate outdoors. Again he posted it online. There is apparently a video of it, which I do not recommend you search for on Google.

In all three cases, social media exploded. Last I heard the Canadian was awaiting deportation, while the authorities were searching for a “nude Russian woman.” I have no idea of the status of the waterfall w****r, though I assume they’re coming for him too.

Stories of tourists doing dumb and offensive stuff are as old as tourism itself. Colonialists loved carting off ancient relics, and what are tourists but a 21st century take on the same? While these three cases might seem like a rash of idiocy, this is a scab scratched off with regularity in Bali.

Cultural sensitivity can be a challenge for some. Ko Samui, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One need not take their clothes off to create a stir of course. All sorts of social and cultural miss-steps can score what some might feel as an outsized level of outrage. Often—here and elsewhere—elements of the outrage turn to misogyny and racism. On one hand, this turns a mirror to some of the outraged, and nobody looks good. The underlying cause though, a seeming lack of awareness of norms, plays out over and over.

But is it a lack of awareness or a lack of a willingness to moderate one’s behaviour? When is it ok to drop your gear on the floor? While I don’t suggest turning to Instagram for educative purposes, in this case, it gives an assist. Look at how some Bali hotels represent themselves there. While it doesn’t swing a deal for me, it seems acceptable to get nude and cavort by your horizon pool or rice field view. The objectification of women in particular is often so over the top, I wonder who they’re marketing to. Not me I guess—bamboo lux joint in Sideman I’m looking at you. I guess it works for those who dig it, horses and courses etcetera.

Engage brain before lifting camera—or skull. At Trunyan on Bali, where some guides are known to encourage this sort of idiocy. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Posing nude by a holy tree, yeah not cool. Would she have reclined over the altar of an Orthodox church in Moscow? I’m not up on fine art nudism in places of religious importance, but I’d like to think she would have at least asked first.

I’d also like to think having a do’s and don’ts brochure, or a video on inbound flights might be a help. Then there are the decades of warnings about gem scams in Bangkok, and yet people continue to get sucked in. You can lead a horse to water but it can still strip naked and do the haka.

The underlying problem is not education. Rather it is a dismissive attitude towards the considerations of the local communities. Add to this the taking advantage of locals’ need (however choiceless it may be) to accommodate even the most unhinged.

How can one plead ignorance of the religious importance of a peak? Ascending Gunung Batur, Bali. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Take for example a beach bar I often write at. Almost every day over the last year, there’s been a woman sunbathing topless out front. In public places in Bali, this is not allowed, but it is often tolerated. Never once have I noticed the staff taking her coconuts suggest she put on the other half of her bikini.

It need not even involve nudity. Last night, at a nearby restaurant with my kids, six 20-something Australians walked in, full Bintangs on board. As they sat, a staffer pointed to the beers and said they don’t allow outside drinks. The Australians waved her off, saying they had almost finished them (they hadn’t). Later, when they had finished them, one dashed out to get another half dozen. The staffer, annoyed, pointed it out to the manager. The manager, rather than kicking them out, seemed to tell her not to worry about it.

The perfect place for a white Canadian life coach influencer to strip naked and do the haka. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Now more than ever they need more business rather than more scenes. Had he stepped in, would his restaurant have scored an outraged post on TripAdvisor? The power (for lack of a better word) rested with the tourists, and they wielded it without a second thought. I doubt they would have behaved in the same way in Oz.

This comes to the core of the problem. People with the financial power, how trivial it may be in their own country, lording it over people here. They can’t, or rather, they shouldn’t. Seeing this sort of behaviour, day in and day out, grates on me—and I’m not even from here! It’s a testament to the tolerance of the Balinese they put up with it. Then, as seen by the social media outrage, in some cases, they’re not.

New arrivals should have a spare 82 hours to watch cultural sensitivity videos here. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m not blameless, there’s no angel here tapping away. The other day I was riding my bike on the footpath due to the traffic gridlock. While paused at a jam (yes, a footpath jam), again an Australian, pointed at me, yelling “You should know better!” She’s right of course, I’d never ride a motorbike on a footpath in Australia, but hell lady have you seen the traffic?!

But yes, guilty as charged. At least I wasn’t nekid.

I don’t know what the solution is. I don’t think social media witch-hunts are the way forward, they’re unhealthy and often bigoted. Also, the fine print of what actually happened sometimes gets buried in the rabid foaming.

The only sort of foam you want to stir up. Batu Belig Beach, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A brochure or video, or asking people to sign a pledge to be culturally responsible as in Palau, could all help. I should also turn the mirror to myself. I could have said something to the six Australians in the restaurant or the topless woman at the beach. The behaviour you walk by is the behaviour you accept and all that.

One thing I can do—and do—and you should too, is to make the effort to get educated about what is acceptable and what isn’t. If you’re not sure, ask. It isn’t hard.

Except when it comes to riding home from Batu Belig Beach at 4 pm, in that case, riding on the pavement is totes ok.

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So where did that all go? For a brief moment I thought about writing 300 things worth doing in Southeast Asia, but be thankful I came to my senses. After all, the last 300 days’ worth of itinerary posts does that already. Well, except for Sihanoukville.

So far we’ve been through a large chunk of Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia and Singapore. Looking back over the itinerary so far though, what jumps out at me is how much I skipped over. Southeast Asia is a big place, and an easy one to get waylaid in.

Are you dizzy yet? Try writing it!

A while back the question popped up, how do I plan out and do Couchfish? The 300th post seems as good a place as any to do just this. Here we go.

It should come as no surprise I started with a map. In the beginning, Covid-19 was yet to gather momentum—at least in Southeast Asia. Who knew how long it would go for, and what form any restrictions would take?

Still, I had a pretty typical mainland Southeast Asia route in mind. North through Thailand into Laos, then down Vietnam, across Cambodia, then back into Thailand. Then south, more. By the time I was in Laos though, it was clear the pandemic had quite a spell to go, most likely years, so I slowed down the pace.

This is far from all of them. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Not the pace of my writing (though that fluctuated a bit) but rather the pace of travel slowed down. It took me four weeks to get from Bangkok to the Lao frontier in the early days of Couchfish. Four weeks across the top of Laos, and later, another two weeks in the south. Vietnam blew out to around 80 days—with a helping hand from Cindy Fan. The thing is, even slowed down, the itinerary still covers a vast number of destinations in a short time. Please do not try to recreate the itinerary in real life!

For the most part, the itinerary is an amalgam of past trips I’ve done, from 1993 onwards. So do I have the memory of an elephant? Far from it! Anyone who knows me knows my memory is more akin to that of a goldfish. So what is one to do when they can’t tell you what they had for lunch yesterday?

I have diaries. My oldest dates back to 1993—a thief on a French train lifted my earlier ones. Throughout those that remain, are the notes that often kick off an entry. Some of these are personal diaries, others are notebooks from research trips. They’re stuffed with scraps of thoughts, sketch maps of random towns and so on. There are also keepsakes—coasters, business cards, napkins and whatnot. Each has a memory tied to it—all I need now is a pensieve.

Thief: “So I nicked this crazy guy’s diaries.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I also have about sixteen bazillion slides, which are helpful in reminding me of what places looked like back when people took slides. More recently I have about 150,000 digital images—no, they are not all of my dog—which is handy for settling more recent memories. Thank god I have a good filing system for them all—yes, that is a joke.

Being somewhat disorganised though is how some of the real fun entries begin. I’m looking for one thing, say the name of a restaurant, only to find a wine bottle note and remember the time I behaved like an idiot in Udomxai. Some things are best left forgotten, take my word for it.

There are also the bookshelves—I have a library of a hundred or so texts on the region. There are plenty of old guidebooks, but also biographies, fiction and other collections. These can be handy for anecdotal historical references and quotes to add a bit of an educative spin to the story. Sometimes I build a whole piece around some piece of history I read, it can be fun weaving experiences with the past.

Tidy desk, tidy bookshelf. Etcetera. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then there is this travel website you may have heard of, called Travelfish.org. While the material there is for you dear reader, there are many memories cooped up in that there content. Often, reading between the lines, there are notes referring to events that, while of no use to travellers, help pull my memory strings.

But, there’s more still! There are the two guidebooks I wrote in the mid-1990s (to Vietnam and Thailand), which, while embarrassing in places, likewise serve to jog memories. There are also a few travel mags laying around with stories I sold over the same period. You know, from back when Ko Lipe was nice and all that.

There are also plenty of learning experiences raking over these old coals. I’m older and a little more sensible than I was in my 20s, and sometimes writing Couchfish feels like undoing a bit of the damage. There’s something cathartic about revisiting places with a more nuanced approach. “Yeah I was well wrong in my take as a twenty-something—I was doing it wrong,” has been an all too frequent thought.

“Did that happen in Nakhon Phanom or Nakhon Pathom?”

Last but not least there are the people. Thanks to Facebook, Twitter, email and the phone, it has been fun to dig out old contacts to clarify what did or didn’t happen on the road. Near always, I change people’s names and other distinguishing features, but they all exist!

Which brings me to my final point—how true is Couchfish? It is all true, well, sort of. At times I’ve moved a meeting from one place to another or reversed a trip to better fit with the itinerary. The conversations I recount I wouldn’t take as verbatim, but they are as best I can recall them—sometimes I’ll never forget them. Memory is a funny thing, on more than one occasion I’ve contacted someone to double-check something only to have them say it never happened. Yet, I remember it clear as a bell—maybe they forgot it.

Which is to say there are many a Couchfish entry on the cutting room floor. They lay there, waiting for me to better remember, because, if it wasn’t already obvious, I never throw anything out.

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So this is the point where my Java tale draws to a close. I hope you’ve all enjoyed the trip as much as we did! For free Couchfish subscribers, you could consider the last week of emails a look behind the curtain at what paid subscribers receive. The paid itinerary has its 300th day coming up this week, and if you upgrade to the paid list you get access to the full archives—you can see every post marked on a map here.

So, if I’ve got your feet itching and you’d like to upgrade, you can get 30% off with this link. With the discount it works out at around US$5 a month—dare I say, a bargain! If not, no worries, I hope you’ve enjoyed the trip. Cheers!

I’m rolling two days into one here as after the waterfall pretty much all we did was ride. How much riding do you ask? Five hours to Kalibaru and then seven hours to reach home in Bali. As I write this on the couch at home, let me tell you, seven hours on a Scoopy in traffic is too much!

Best laid plans and all that. If you look at the map on day 1, we managed less than half what was planned.

So, while I could write about the red bus that ran us off the road on Bali, the pointless rapid test at Ketapang to return to Bali, or racing the home stretch through the rain, or easily the worst traffic of the whole trip, getting through hell-hole Canggu, I won’t.

Instead, I’d start off by saying Java is well worth a look. One need not ride across a chunk of it—the train is excellent and affordable. People in Bali often talk Java down, saying it’s unfriendly, has no beer, or is simply too difficult or dangerous to travel in, but these are all, in my experience, false.

Call it a DIY school excursion. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I found the people to be uniformly helpful, friendly and fun. While you won’t see alcohol stacking the fridges of minimarts, with the exception of the homestay by the waterfall (who I’m sure would have been able to rustle up some iced beers if I’d asked), everywhere we stayed had it on hand, and while it perhaps lacks a little of the hand holding Bali has, it is far from a difficult place to travel.

At least in the towns we visited the food scene lacked the international flavour of Bali, but that isn’t to say the food is drab or boring—far from it. Food is cheap and varied. For accommodation, we spent between 350,000 and 500,000 rupiah per night, I wouldn’t say it was the best value on the planet, but everywhere we stayed was at least adequate. We could have easily spent less, there are cheap guesthouses around the 100,000 rupiah mark in most spots, but standards can get pretty variable at that price point.

There be waterfalls everywhere. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Overall, I loved our time there, and I wish we hadn’t had to change plans and race back to Bali, losing our second week. Upside it leaves me fodder for another trip!

A few thoughts specific to motorbiking:

I wouldn’t recommend what I did for novice riders. I’m used to the way traffic works here and I’ve been riding a bike for twenty years—that helped. If you’ve just taught yourself to ride in a temple car park in Bali, a ride like this probably isn’t for you.

Don’t do as I did and do it in flip flops! Wear boots. I would have but was between boots and rode in flip flops because I’m unorganized and stupid. This was a dumb thing to do, and yes, my son wore shoes!

Ride as if you’re invisible. I say this meaning ride assuming nobody has seen you—super-defensively. Others drive on the understanding you will get out of the way, and if you’re not familiar with this mindset it can be challenging.

Always give way to size, and obey the road rules. Pack a raincoat.

Wear a real, full-face helmet at all times. All times. No, I mean this, all times.

Don’t ride at night.

One thing I was warned about was that bike theft is a real problem. Obviously, my bike wasn’t stolen, as you would have read about it here, and to be honest, I don’t know anyone who has ever had their bike stolen in Java—unlike in Bali. That said, I always parked in zones with a staffer who I’d pay a few thousand rupiah to keep an eye on the bike.

Exploring the less-travelled road. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another thing I was warned about was the police, that they, even more so than those in Bali, enjoy paying particular attention to foreigners and fining them whenever possible. This wasn’t my experience. I barely saw a police officer the entire trip, one I do recall seeing and making eye contact with outside of Jember, smiled and gave me the thumbs up as we sped past.

So if you’re in Bali and would like an East Java taster, but are not all that keen on riding a bike for 700 km, what would I recommend? An easy week-long trip would be to first visit Banyuwangi and climb Ijen, then jump on the train. You could break the trip at Kalibaru, then continue by train to Malang. It’s a fab university city with some excellent hotels, sights and feeds. It’s also straightforward to get a bus or car from there to the small town by the waterfall. From Malang, you could push on to Bromo and then Surabaya before getting the train back to Banyuwangi (or flying). Or push on—Semerang, Solo, Yogyakarta—there’s a whole world of Java to explore.

Our bamboo digs in Banyuwangi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s easy to come to Bali and have a great time of course, but it’s only one of over 15,000 islands, so add a week—or three—to that leave request form and have a poke around Java when you’re next in the country.

If you’re just joining us at the end of the trip, below are the previous entries, day by day. Enjoy!

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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It feels like Bali is a lot further than 357 km away as we rise for our morning visit to Tempak Sewu waterfall. It’s taken us five days to get here and given my previous record for time taken to get to a waterfall was about four hours, this one better be good.

It’s a five-minute ride from D’Corner Homestay to the deserted waterfall parking lot. Deserted save for the ever-present ticket dude who frees us of 20,000 rupiah per head, plus 5,000 rupiah for the bike. Payment made, we start walking.

The money shot. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The distant traffic noise fades fast as we work our way down, the echoing mosques, however, linger. They ran late last night and started well early today, one right by the homestay went tag team from 3 am, meaning Will had no need for an alarm for school. Eventually, even the mosques fade, and it’s just birdsong and our heavy tread on the slippery moss-covered trail.

We reach a split in the trail, right to the viewpoint, left to the base of the falls, we go right and in no time reach a split-level viewing platform, we climb the stairs, walk to the edge, and are hit with the reveal.

Down, down, down we go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is absolutely magnificent. I’ve seen many a waterfall in my time, but never, ever, something like this.

The horseshoe-shaped hole in the earth is ringed by jungle and falls. There’s a central, main torrent, but at least a dozen lesser others ring the lip, falling into the depths forming a curtain of foam plunging into a pit of mist and spray. Behind it, Semeru looms, just gathering its crown of clouds. Magnificent is the word for it—there is no other.

Waterbom this is not. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We go to the lower platform for a better view, it’s a slightly wider angle which better takes in Semeru and the light is amazing. The power of the falls is staggering, a thumping, continual boom emanating from the depths.

We retreat and start our way down into the pit. I’d read the trail was slippery and care should be taken, but it is flat out dangerous. It starts out with steps, but as it gets steeper the steps give way to slippery-as-ice metal platforms. Of all the materials that could have been used, slippery metal has to be the least safe choice. Ill-kept grip-ropes and broken railings that hold no weight add to the challenge.

Slightly soaked. Photo: Will McDonald.

We continue down, slowly, gingerly, and then the trail ends. Well, it doesn’t end, rather it transforms into an actual waterfall. We slip and slide down its surface, using ropes when we can, but also taking care of the two-foot-tall steel metal rods that are hammered into the stone. I assume they’re there for gripping, but they’re prime tools of impalement—like the metal walkways, a terrible choice of material.

Still, we survive unimpaled and finally find ourselves at the canyon base. The trail splits at another ticket booth (10,000 rupiah each please) and we veer right, then shortly after the trail ends at the surging muddy river—we have to cross it. No point is marked and we can see no guiding rope, so we randomly pick a spot and cross, the pulsing water, almost waist high, is as powerful as it is icy cold.

Even a pano can’t capture it… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Across we continue, ever closer, the air thick with spray, we yell at each other above the thunder of the falls. Another crossing is needed to reach the pit, again unmarked, we cross and climb atop a ridge, and we’re there.

The power is indescribable, and the spray has me pointlessly wiping my glasses every thirty seconds. Will scampers up higher, for an even better view, while we can’t quite see the impact of the main falls, boy can we feel it.

The secondary falls with a swimming pool supplied. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s another crossing required to get even closer and we draw the line, I can’t see a safe place to cross and the water at this point is so powerful it could easily sweep one away, so we just stand where we are, literally soaking it up.

Soaked, we backtrack to the ticket office and fork out another 10,000 rupiah to visit a secondary falls ten minutes away. It’s a beautiful set, far more sedate, reminiscent of La Popu Waterfall in Sumba. Near its base, a weir has been added to form a swimming hole filled with crystal clear, icy water. We rest by its edge, alone. Save the ticket guy, we’re the only people here.

“Hi, Mum.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Lingering over, we start the long slow climb out. The ropes are more useful going up than down, but it remains a dangerous route, and I’m not surprised a well-dressed Indonesian trio we meet near the top turn back.

Then it’s back to the homestay, to clean up and head back. It’s time to start the long ride home—five hours on two wheels to Kalibaru.

So was Tumpak Sewu worth all that time riding to reach from Bali? You bet.

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Google Maps tells us we have three options for reaching our homestay near the waterfall. The northern route on Route 3, a coastal route, and one in between. All are estimated to take around three hours.

I stare at the map for a while. On Route 3, I figure we’ll have st traffic, while the coastal route will probably be a st road. Like is full of choices right? We decide to make our decision on the fly, as the roads don’t diverge till around 20 minutes west of Jember. It takes me all of five of those twenty minutes to decide on taking the coast road.

Trip-planning with Stuart.

At the other end of our journey, overshadowing the waterfall, stands Mount Semeru, the tallest volcano on Java. It’s also one of the most volatile, with over 15 major eruptions since the 1940s. It’s a spectacular peak, and a dangerous one to climb even in non-erupting times. I’ve only ever seen it in the far distance, but where we’re heading it anchors the entire scene.

We turn left, and the traffic drops off immediately. There are still some, cars, bikes and corn trucks, but it’s nothing compared to the bedlam of Route 3. I accelerate on the smooth surface, and we race south, gathering time.

Engage the warp engines Mr Zulu. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On December 1 and 2 in 2021, after a prolonged period of torrential rain, concerns arise regarding activity at Semeru. A warning is distributed by the Center of Volcanology and Geological Hazard Mitigation to a WhatsApp group and nearby villages. Later it emerges many villagers don’t receive the warning.

We continue south, it’s plain sailing and I ride ever-expecting the road to fall apart. It doesn’t, and we hit the coastal strip and a small fishing village. Half the town is dug up for what looks like water mains, but the road is new. We keep going, eventually reaching the "tourist location" of Pantai Paseban. We park and give the Ibu 5,000 rupiah then climb over the dunes. The charcoal-coloured beach is as long as it is filthy. There’s an oddly placed lighthouse to our left and a headland after it, but that’s it. I take a quick paddle and we leave.

Google says this is a road. Note the bridge. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On December 4, Semeru’s lava dome collapses under pressure from the rain and at 14:50 local time, the peak erupts, sending an ash plume over twelve kilometres into the sky. A pyroclastic flow—or lahar—surges down from the peak towards the villages set in the shadow of the peak.

Heading west from the beach, we follow the coast. The road is near highway standards and we’re the only vehicle on it. Will shouts we follow it for 20km, and I reach, for the first and probably only time in Java, 100km/h as we race along. It can’t last, I keep thinking, yet after every sweeping bend it continues, our very own blue metal strip bringing us towards our target.

Oh Java. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The lahar surges down the volcano’s slopes, as local people panic and flee. The Gladak Perak Bridge, a vital link between the east and west collapses under the pressure of the flow, killing at least three people. Villages below the bridge are submerged, while people as far away as Malang report heavy ash falls. With the bridge cut, access for emergency services is severed. Established evacuation protocols fell apart and a camp for evacuees is submerged by the lahar. Within ten days the official death toll would be over 50, with over 5,000 houses damaged or destroyed, and over 10,000 people displaced.

Good things don’t last, and we reach a sign blocking the road, bridge building equipment behind it, we veer off onto a dirt track that becomes a goat track then a line in a grass atop a rampart to control the river to our left. Farmers cut grass with scissors and tend crops, smiling curiously as we go past.

When the lahar came. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Our bridge, when it appears, is the kind of thing I’d build out of paddle pop sticks. Will walks over as I ride, a pretty mosque in the background. In another twenty minutes, we’re back on our personal highway and we hit the Pamdanwangi Bridge, offering tremendous views. Lined with merchants selling cup noodles and coffee we linger, then leave the coast behind and head towards Djarit.

Not long after, we reach the sepulchral scene left behind by Semeru. At first, I think it is heavy-duty roadworks that required the demolishing of some houses, but then I realize what I’m looking at. Sheer devastation. Behind the buried houses, sad ghostlike palms, burnt to a crisp, stand in the thick black soil the lahar left behind. On the street side, it’s an easy three meters deep.

Bridge broken. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We reach the Gladak Perak Bridge. It must have been spectacular when it stood, but now it lies in the sheer valley’s base, broken sections, road markings at perverse angles. Beyond it, a vast field of black soil, the size of hundreds of football fields, sprawls, devoid of life. We ride across a just-opened suspension bridge and back into the woods.

We wheel through the forest in the late afternoon cool thanks to some rain we mostly missed. The devastation left behind is replaced by a scene as beautiful as it is serene.

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School done for the day we pack and tally our losses. Yesterday it was a charging cable, today it is earphones. The perils of cabled travelling I guess. After checking the previous hotel to see if they were there, we grab a replacement pair for 75,000 rupiah at a local minimart. When we stop later, Will notes they work, “sort of.” Get what you pay for.

Today’s target is Jember, around three hours away, and we plan a late lunch break at a place I’ve stayed before, Kalibaru. In no time the beach is gone and we’re back riding through a rotation of fields, villages and mosques. Will is the navigator, perched on the back of the bike yelling “left,” “right,” and “straight” as I ride. He’s far better than our technological tool, Google Maps.

Typical scenery around Kalibaru. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The problem is it plots our routes, with suggested times for each, but there seems little consideration for road quality, and so it is when I hear a “left” screamed from behind and the left is a dirt road, I ask if he sure, “LEFT,” comes the reply.

The road is a farming access road, probably used by flat back trucks to haul out the corn harvest, but the surface is awful. After a kilometre, I yell back “how long on this crap?”

“Nine kilometres,” comes the bouncing reply.

Great, thanks Google.

Fish in the market, Kalibaru. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In the end, it improves and we’re back on a decent surface after half that, then it spits us out onto Route 3, pretty much the primary “highway” through Java’s southeast. The change in conditions is jarring.

It’s a single lane each way most of the time with no shoulder, and the traffic is a mix of trucks of all shapes and sizes, tour buses, cars, and a flood of motorbikes. We’re sitting on 50/60km/h at the best of times, but the aggressiveness, particularly of the buses, is scary. More than once we end up on the shoulder as developing country road rules hold firm—always yield to size.

We pull up about 45 minutes shy of Kalibaru, we’ve only been riding an hour but it feels like triple that. It’s been pretty in places, but the road demands 110% of my attention and it’s really just a blur of green. Will isn’t fussed, I’m carrying his bag, so he’s less uncomfortable and his bad earphones, Spotify and the scenery keep him busy. I ask is he bored, and he answers “nope!”

The scene at Mago Utomo. Photo: Sally Arnold.

At Kalibaru we stop in at the Margo Utomo, a long-running hotel attached to a dairy farm. In the past, it was popular with tour groups, and I’m surprised it is still open. On my last stay here we toured from here to Glenmore, you can read about that on Travelfish.

The staff, friendly as ever, wave us through to their grand restaurant, where we relax over rendang and spaghetti bolognese—note above re tour groups. Afterwards, I walk through the grounds, it is a cottage style set-up, a throwback to Dutch times, the rooms in neat rows surrounded by lovely gardens. Workers are refitting the cheaper offerings, in anticipation of tourists returning perhaps, but they are open for stays, a staffer tells me, 350,000 rupiah a night. We’ll try to time our return trip for a stay here. Their other property, a few kilometres to the southeast, on the other side of the train tracks, is closed, but this one rolls on—perhaps kept afloat by the cows who we go visit before jumping back onto the bike.

“It feels like rain,” I say, and Will nods. When I suggest maybe we’ll beat it, he looks dubious.

Cows were too busy stuffing face to say hello. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sure enough, ten minutes out, it hits. Wanting to avoid donning raincoats, we shelter in a roadside stall, to see if it will pass, but it only gets stronger, pelting down. The trucks speed past, tyres hissing on the tarmac, steam billowing off the surface. Raincoats on.

As is often the case the rain hit with a bang, and new rivers stream across the road. The trucks don’t slow though, sending huge waves of brown water two feet into the air, any one strong enough to knock a bike off course if not over. We weave our way along, there’s no shoulder to hide on, so you need to keep up with the flow—or get off the road.

Will’s weather app had no good news. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We start climbing a ridge, the road turning on itself in a series of near hairpins, truck brakes scream and whistle while impatient drivers sit on their horns. Above us an impressive forest looms, the rain absolutely chucking it down, yet with broken clouds the sun dapples through, despite the madness on the asphalt it’s stunning. No time to enjoy it though as a white car, horn blaring, goes to overtake a truck on a blind corner, the truck veers out trying to stop the car, but he’s going! Then in the opposite direction another truck, creaking down, lights flashing, horn blaring, the car yields, slipping back and skating in by us, then, truck past, he goes again, this time making it.

All the time the rain is hammering.

We reach the first of a series of passes, and there are all these people by the side of the road. Kids, mums, old guys, they stand there, waving their arms about. Passing cars and bikes throw loose change towards them, and they dart out into the traffic to collect it. I run over an already sodden 2,000 rupiah note, and I know I’m in Indonesia but I feel like I’m in a live version of Frogger.

We pass by lean-tos, more people inside, some cooking, perhaps a scooter parked by the side. Kids everywhere, rivers beneath their feet and above them, the forest.

Hello Jember. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

All I can think of is a story that’s done the rounds over the previous few days in the domestic media. Some idiotic Australian tourist had whined about the merchants and beggars on Bali beaches. Apparently, they interfered with her holiday. She’s rightly being pilloried on social media, but in response, the authorities, wanting to maintain a semblance of tourist fantasy land, rounded up about fifty, despite them committing no crime other than raising the ire of someone sunbathing.

Of course, one doesn’t need to motorbike to Java to see the abject poverty many Indonesians endure. One only needs to know where to look to find a cheap Canggu kos where people live hand to mouth collecting scrap metal and plastic refuse, while around the corner tourists sip 50,000 rupiah lattes oblivious to their true surrounds.

The ridge behind us, we start the long downhill run into Jember. Like many Indonesian cities, it is one of villages and it starts way before we get anywhere near the Alun-Alun with its well-toned joggers, lovers walking hand in hand, and the branches of the trees curling wildly up above.

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I’m on a daybed in the sand, it’s late afternoon and save a couple beside me the beach is near empty. Not a soul. It’s Monday you see, and the weekend hustle and bustle has packed up and blown out back home. Will is back in the room, and I’ve just a fresh coconut for company. The sun is setting. It is well pretty.

Arief* walks up and asks if he can sit down, I say sure, and he plonks down on the daybed beside me. He stares at my swollen, bloody knee and gashed leg, then, pointing at it, asks,

“What happened to your leg?”

Made it! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At this point he’s a complete stranger, I’m yet to learn his name, or that he’s here for a month on vacation. That all comes later. I tell him I had a bike accident. “I hit a big rock and I crashed the bike.” He nods, then waving his hands, he asks why wasn’t I wearing pants, when I look at him funny, he clarifies himself, adding “jeans.”

I explain my son and I were riding to Muara Mbaduk for a swim, but I mispronounce the name, and he looks baffled. “The next bay,” I say, pointing towards the setting sun, “oh,” he replies, calling it something else that I miss. Then he sits waiting for an answer on my fashion choices, in the end, we agree I should have been better dressed.

The beach be for swimming. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He’s from Jakarta, with some military detachment of some sort or another, he’s vague on the details. He’s here with his family for the entirety of Ramadan, it’s a family tradition, something he’s done since a child, he tells me.

He likes Pantai Pulau Merah, it’s never too busy, he loves the beach, the relaxed vibe, and making a point of not meaning to offend me, he enjoys the fact there are very few foreigners. His English is excellent though, so I’m curious about the why on the last point.

His English is polished because his parents had him study it since childhood, he says, going on to explain dealing with English speakers is a large part of his day to day work back in Jakarta. It isn’t that he doesn't like foreigners, he does—to a point—he just doesn’t want to holiday with them.

A fitting location for a day off. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So he’s no fan of Bali? I ask, half-joking. He smiles, his father is from the north, he says, not far from Singaraja. They go there regularly for family stuff, but he hates the south, and the more we talk, often agreeing, the more riled up he gets.

The sun is low now, its rays catch the crests of the waves rolling in. The beach and its smooth tan sand are close to immaculate. He waves his arm towards the beach, asking me if it is as beautiful a beach as Balis. I say it’s lovely and note how surprised I was at how clean it is.

“Ah the Balinese, they tell you our beaches are dirty but look at theirs! They should clean theirs before s**t-talking [his words] ours.” I don't disagree with him but I recount how filthy Alas Purwo was, it’s a national disaster I say. He waves me off, he knows I’m right, and doesn’t need some Australian guy to tell him what he already knows.

The next bay. Just Will, me and a coconut. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We shift the conversation to other things. Family, kids, the usual meet and greet kind of stuff. We order more coconuts and keep chatting. It’s pleasant and all, but it’s obvious he wants to get back to what we were talking about earlier. I’m less keen, I know where it’s going. We dance a bit.

He asks me what I think of Bali. I hedge, saying I love some parts but loathe others, then go on to say it’s a big island, so hard to get black and white about it. “Overall I’d rather live elsewhere,” I say, “but I don’t. It’s complicated,” I pause, trying to get my words right, then, knowing it makes me sound like a complete w****r, I say, “I think there is something special about it, it is a different place, some places I’ve been in Bali, there is nowhere else on the planet like them. The island has something that touches you here,” I say, touching my heart, “but many who come either don’t understand or don’t want to.”

Kids fish as the sun sinks. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He nods. Looking at me, he asks will I stay there forever. The answer to that is a simple and very easy no, but then he asks why I stay there now if I don’t want to stay there forever.

I’m willing the sun to accelerate its descent at this point. My leg is killing me, and I’m not really up for a temper-y conversation on the meaning of life. Arief picks up on this and goes to leave, saying he’s stayed too long and must get back to his family. We shake hands and he wanders off.

Earlier in the day, before the accident and at the other beach, whatever it’s called, Will and I stood on the beach. It’s pretty in a deserted way—exactly how I like my beaches. Pandan trees and palms cluster the dunes far into the distance. The surf isn’t huge, but there is plenty of spray from the sea, giving it a wild appearance.

Why not? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s not a soul nor a roof to be seen.

At the western edge, there is a rocky outcrop, a peculiar stone formation I’ve seen before, but the name of the type of stone escapes me. We clamour out onto the point, as the surf rolls in, not big enough to smash but big enough to splash. There is a gap between two sections of the stone and the crystal waters surge in then withdraw, exposing scuttling shiny black-backed crabs and clefts in the charcoal stone of a deep emerald blue. With the foam pushing through and over, it’s hypnotic.

Later, back on the sand, I ask Will what he thinks. To be fair, he didn’t want to visit the bay in the first place, but he’s trying hard. Still he’s less than impressed.

“It’s pointless,” he says.

To my mind though, that is exactly the beauty of the place.

* Arief is a pseudonym.

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The day starts with regrets. Regret that the hotel staffer was right. Regret I don’t have earplugs. Regret that the walls of our room are thinner than the lining of my eardrums. So many regrets, and it isn’t even 3 am yet.

I climb down, out of our bamboo extravagance and, guided by the light of my phone, I stumble through the grove to the paddy field’s edge. Along the embankment I go, till the grove falls back. I turn and took into the black. There are the distant lanterns of our guesthouse and above it, a million stars. The night is crystal clear, and to the right, looming distant behind our bamboo house is a black peak, as clear as a bell in the starlit sky. The Germans who checked in late last night are somewhere up there, trudging. Great weather for a climb.

Regrets are worth it sometimes.

The sun-dappled route towards the park, through what has replaced much of it. Photo: Stuart McDonald

About five hours later we’re back on the bike, retracing our route towards the coast, still just shy we turn right and head south. Our target, is the famed Alas Purwo National Park.

If you look at Java on Google Earth you’ll see its far east has a green sock that loops below Bali. This is the coast you can see from Bali on a clear day and also Alas Purwo National Park. A notionally protected area established in 1992, it covers almost 50,000 hectares—mid-sized by Java standards—and is believed to host Java’s oldest forests. Its name, Alas (forest) Purwo (early/ancient/beginning) reflects this. Or, to put it another way, Javanese mysticism holds that the earth first emerged from the ocean at Alas Purwo.

Seems legit. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Old trees aren’t all the expanse holds though—riddled with caves, mysterious buried relics, and more than one jungle-surrounded Hindu temple, Alas Purwo is a hub of Java’s Ghost Empire.

I’ve written before about the dark arts in Bali, but within Indonesia, the practising of black magic is far from unique to Bali. While Lombok and to a lesser extent Nusa Penida are famed as places to refill your juju, the island of Java is bookended by hotspots, with Banten to the west and, you guessed it, Banyuwangi to the east, famous for their dark art practitioners.

Make an offering to keep the ghosts at bay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Known as dukun, they can turn their talents to all manner of subjects, both to cause mayhem or to undo the handiwork of other dukuns. Not something one majors in at college, rather a gift (or curse) bestowed, often through a dream or vision, sometimes passed down by a parent. As I wrote of the Balian I met on Bali:

“His power (again, like magic, a poor word to use) came to him years ago—“a gift from the spirits,” he says. It came to him before he was married and, through the years, his power has strengthened. He knows the way of the light and the dark, he says, and he can help those in need—regardless of if their needs are good or evil.”

In Banyuwangi’s case, many dukun head to Alas Purwo, to wander its labyrinth of forest trails and meditate in its caves, to touch the earth and harness its powers. Not only the power of the forest but of the spirits and ghosts that inhabitant it.

Next stop Exmouth. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s Princess Gayatri Sri Rajapatni, a relic of the Majapahit Kingdom—if you’re camping and sleeping fitfully, don’t be surprised to encounter her, dressed in a traditional kemben with a beautiful shawl over her shoulder. She’ll chat with you about how she’s lived in the park for ages, since before Indonesia existed, her duty to promote peace and well being. Ghostly chit chat over, she fades into the forest, and you’ll fall into a peaceful sleep surrounded by a “princess fragrance.”

Others have reported on meeting meditating mystics who’ve encountered both Mohammad Hatta and Sukarno while meditating. Buttressing the park’s reputation as a layover for long-gone kings.

The forests sheltering these ethereal beings once stretched along Java’s south coast to at least below Jember, over time much was cleared for farming or simply by illegal logging, driving a wedge to the sea, separating Alas Purwo from Meru Betiri National Park to the west. In 1998’s heady post-Suharto days, as President Habibie struggled to hold things together, illegal logging ratcheted up while around the same time, plans surfaced to “develop” the park for tourism. Road construction in the park was repeatedly beset by “paranormal challenges.” The seat of the Ghost Empire was unsettled.

Coffee, please. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Simultaneously, from mid to late 1998, a raft of killings was unleashed in Banyuwangi with almost 150 alleged dukuns killed, often by beheading. The climate of fear and chaos is driven by unknown sources as varied as you can imagine—from politicking to coups, to religious posturing, to, you guessed it, tapping down the dukuns to clear a way for development in the park. Yes it might sound unusual, but then take this quote from a New York Times report at the time:

“It begins when people try to chase someone suspicious,” explained Sukiando, a 42-year-old rickshaw driver who said he was in the mob that beheaded one suspect on Sunday. “Sometimes the ninja turns into a cat, and sometimes he stays human. If he stays human, then they cut off his head.”

Sounds like a rough deal to me. Regardless, the illegal logging was pulled somewhat into line, and the development of the park into grander tourism schemes ground to a halt. The Ghost Empire sunk back into the woods.

Lovely. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s a solid two-hour ride from our bamboo house to the park. After paying our 30 times local admission to enter, we ride past the “park information centre”, its smashed windows and empty halls ridiculing us for paying a premium that clearly goes nowhere near park management, and into the woods. The sounds of civilization vanish—other than our motorbike of course.

We reach the primary Hindu temple, Pura Kawitan Alas Kurwo, where a clutch of faithful go about their rituals, their glowing white garb bright against the forest’s deep greens and the charcoal grey of the temple. A bell tinkles somewhere, a driver, bored, leans against his van, waiting, smoking, staring at us. We push on.

At Pantai Trianggulasi, the beach is broad, grey to white sanded, clear warm waters wash in. The high tide point is marked by a colossal amount of trash, both flotsam and plastic, as with the beach, it stretches for miles. Big signs warm not to swim due to dangerous rips—get swept away here and it is next stop Exmouth. We just paddle.

Glad to not be on the bike. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Onwards at Pantai Pancur a small waterfall drops into the sand, emptying out to sea. At its base, the rubbish, rich in styrofoam is six inches thick. I think there’s a metaphor here but am too depressed to think of what it is. By the empty campground a difficult-to-see trail leads off to caves a few kilometres away—we pass.

From here we can ride no further, a jeep is required to reach Pantai Plengkung, so we cough up the 250,000 rupiah for the twenty-minute drive. As we leave, a storm blows in, raindrops the size of rambutan pelt down, putting the R in rainforest. We surprise a family of wild pigs that scurry across the road in front of us, diving into the forest so thick they vanish in seconds. We cross small inlets, the mangrove roots choking in decorative styrofoam, flip flops, bras and plastic bottles. What else should you expect along the coastline of the second-largest contributor to ocean debris on the planet?

Our driver harks from Bandung, but he’s worked here for over twenty years, as he drives he talks of seeing tigers in the forest. When he finds out we’re Australian he rattles off the Australian towns he knows surfers from—Melbourne, Perth, Sydney and Bondi. I’m dubious about the tiger story but don’t tell him Bondi is a part of Sydney. He’s so far from Bandung on account of his Banyuwagian wife, though she’s in Taiwan on a three-year work placement—he hopes to see her in a year. Globalization flows within our Jeep as the rain pours through my broken window.

The surf was not up. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Like most tropical storms, by the time we reach Plengkung it has eased, we wander by the boat landing for the speedboats that hustle over surfers from Bali to ride some of the best breaks in the country, then the helipad for the flash surfers, beyond it a huge deer, antlers reaching for the sky stares at us unblinking, eerily like the guy in the temple car park.

The sea is pretty, that beautiful blue topped by the moving foam the tropics do so well. The surf is flat, but regardless it’s a sight.

There are a few Australians dossing about and I ask after getting a meal from the nearby surf camp. They explain the stay is full board with set meals, so they doubt we’d get fed. I refuse with a smile the offer of a muesli bar one has in his back pocket and we hike back to the jeep.

Not a ghost in sight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On our way out we pass by the “savannah.” Cut out of the jungle in the 1980s to form a paddock for feeding endangered animals, it seems out of place in a national park, domestic tourists surreptitiously photograph Will and me as much as the beasts in front of us.

Then we’re out, racing down the tarmac with the vaulted church roof trees above, past the vast teak plantations, then dragon fruit, then villages. It’s two hours to Pantai Pulau Merah and it’s so lovely that within an hour of arriving we decide to stay an extra night.

These trip plans you see, are made for breaking.

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Best laid plans and all that. Before Will and I even get going we have our first speed bump. My bike is a rental and the owner tells me I can’t take it to Java. This isn’t uncommon as inter-island theft is a problem, and we have a solution at hand—Sam owns her bike, so I’ll just borrow that. Sorted. Well, not really.

It turns out Sam’s rego has lapsed, ahhhh some time ago ... so we sort that out—thanks Wayan! Then it seems prudent to get it serviced. Oil, what’s that? The service guy politely points out bikes run better with oil, so I get some of that. The cracked brake pads? Yeah, fix that too, please. The clutch is “almost broken” according to my new mechanic friend, but he doesn’t have a spare. “Just ride carefully,” he says.

Eat your heart out Dennis Hopper. Photo: Samantha Brown.

Then come departure morning, of course Wayan still has the rego papers, so our 6 am “let’s dodge the traffic” start gets nixed. Still, by 8:30 am we roll out, up the gang, and off we go—Java here we come!

Our first planned stop is Balian, roughly an hour and a half up the road. The normal route takes you on a big inland loop, heavy with trucks, through Tabanan, but, thanks to some new “according to Google” roads, we can cut straight through. Perfect.

Google Maps and I clearly differ on what a road is, but we make our way through and enjoy some gorgeous scenery along the way. It’s easy to forget how gobsmackingly beautiful Bali is when you spend most of your time in the south, but cruising over rice field covered hills in the back-blocks of Tabanan, yes, the West is the best.

Bali putting on the pretty. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In a little shy of two hours, we are perched in my favourite Balian cliffside cafe, Deki’s Warung, the sets rolling in offshore. Far busier than mid-last year when I was last here, the tourists are well and truly back. As an assist for your next trivia evening, Balian is also Bali’s number one spot for shark attacks—Will forever in hope, thankfully disappointed yet again.

From Balian, we ride onwards to Medewi, another popular surf spot. The Umadewi’s lawn garden cafe overlooks the break and as they welcome non-guests, this is always another spot to take a break, have a coffee, and shake off the latest layer of concrete dust.

“No WIll, I’ve never been here before either.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I mentioned the tourists are back and nowhere is it more obvious than on the road. Long-distance buses haul customers to and from Java, driven by maniacs, every single one. Will is largely oblivious, earphones in, enjoying the scenery—I’m glad to reach Gilimanuk, Bali’s port town facing Java. Behind it, Ijen soars into the clouds.

Of course, there’s no better way to bid Bali farewell than with a serving of betutu, and while this place is forever wrapped as the best on the island, it isn’t. This isn’t to say it is bad, it isn’t—but the staff here can be so outlandishly rude and indifferent, they really leave a bad taste in my mouth—or maybe it was just the concrete dust.

Hi Medewi! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We have a farcical rapid test, so shallow it seems pointless. This is where two years of Covid have got me—I’m complaining I didn’t get the nose javelin treatment—I guess what should one expect for 35,000 rupiah. Ferry e-ticket purchased, bike ownership proved and we are through. The Ramadan travel madness is yet to kick off (we’ll get that on the way back), so it is straight onto a ferry and Bali slides away.

The Javanese town of Banyuwangi is our first port of call. I’ve been here before so we don’t slow down, instead we ride into town, take a right, and then head up into the hills. I say hills but I mean volcano as Banyuwangi is wedged between the magnificent Ijen and the sea. As we steadily ride up, the peak teases us, occasionally poking out from the cloud crown that wraps it. At closer quarters, the forest thickens as the traffic thins. The roadside is dotted with restaurants, greenhouses and coffee shops—more open than I expect.

Bye Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Our target is Bamboo and B, a rustic example of bamboo madness I found trawling the web before leaving. A smart young staff greet us with a smile, check-in is seamless and before we know it we’re walking through the gardens to our bed for the night.

Apparently Belgian-owned, the owner is in Bali the staff tell me, but they’re enthusiastic and nothing could be too much trouble as she shows me the two rooms in the main structure, telling me as we’re first in, we can pick which we want.

Gurgling stream included. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One is on the second floor, its open-plan overlooks a gurgling river below, and through a grove of trees, rice fields stretch out in the afternoon light. The second is a loft-style room, reached by a steep bamboo ladder. The views are elevated and impressive and apparently include the volcano in clear weather. For ease of access, we go with downstairs.

Staff tell me the place has been here about five years, and it feels it. Bamboo looks great from afar, but it can age quickly, particularly bamboo flooring, and it feels like in another season or two the whole structure will need a solid work over. This is to say it’s perhaps a little too on the rustic side of rustic for some, but the setting is so serene, and the place so wildly imaginative, it’s easy to look over the scruffiness and wear and tear.

The menu comes by WhatsApp, with a note there are plenty of places to eat outside if we prefer, but we’ve had enough time on the bike for the day, and we’ll eat in. Order whenever you want, they tell me, we’re available 24 hours.

Our abode. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This is the thing, I’m not saying it is easy to have great staff, but when you have them, they make all the difference. Hotel owners, please treasure your staff.

Later, chatting to staff about some ideas for tomorrow, they bring up Ramadan. Apologizing in advance, they say the nearby mosques will disturb us in the evening. I wave it off, saying I’ve lived in Indonesia for years and am familiar with the heightened activities around Ramadan. “It’s no big deal”, I say, “I’ve heard it before.”

“Not like this,” comes the reply.

I guess I’ll know in a few hours.

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So the other morning my son wandered into my office, laptop open. He told me he’d found a waterfall and would I like to go there for the weekend? “Google says it is only ten hours away,” he said, then, seeing the look on my face, he added “it’s in Java.” He knew he’d have me with those last three words. And so it is tomorrow morning we’re off on a wee road trip—though not a ten-hour one.

Best laid plans and all that. Screenshot: Stuart McDonald.

When I asked him how he’d found it he said he’d been searching for things to see “near Surabaya,” and the falls, Tumpak Sewu surfaced. This was the reveal of the true calculus going on in his head—he hoped I’d agree to go, but baulking at riding that far, would go with a flight to Surabaya. He loves flying as much as I loath it, which is to say he loves it a lot. A lot.

Nevertheless, he miscalculated—badly—we’re going by motorbike.

I’ve hopped and skipped through some of the highlights of East Java, but I’ve never had the time to go there and just wander. Will’s ten hours has blown out to seven days—or so. He attends a distance school out of Australia, so as long as we have internet access, he can keep up with his studies. Plus, given the time difference and his homework allergy, schoolwork will be done and dusted by midday. Perfect.

Now we’re talking! On the way down from Ijen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Aside from surfers, southeast Java’s coast sees few foreign tourists. From what I’ve been able to garner so far, along the south coast accommodation (where there are any at all) is basic, and the roads are not great. There are though a tonne of waterfalls and beach after beach after beach. All that backing onto some of East Java’s most magnificent volcanoes. In summary, it could be worse.

The tentative route is for a blast out to West Bali early tomorrow for the ferry over to Banyuwangi in Java. There, we’ll sleep on the slopes of Ijen before looping to the south via Kalibaru to Jember. Along the way, there are a bunch of beaches we’ll try to check out, but it will depend a bit on the state of the roads and the weather.

Light supper at Mbok Wah, Banyuwangi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From Jember we’ll press on to the actual waterfall, then down to more south coast beaches. From there, north to Malang for a hot shower and perhaps a splurge at the Tugu. Also, the food—Malang’s food is terrific. Then we’ll cut east and ride into Gunung Bromo’s caldera from the side entrance and sleep on the northern rim.

After that, assuming we’re still talking, it will be to Probolinggo. After that, the plan gets pretty loose, back to Bali somehow.

This is how most of my trips start. Grab a map and start drawing lines. Ask for tips on Twitter. Troll through Instagram (though its location search is just awful). Do a bit of other random online research. Once you’re on the road, things change—roads wash out, traffic clogs up, tempers flare—or sometimes it all falls into place. We’ll see how things shake out—I’m hoping for the latter.

Band practice at Glenmore in Kalibaru. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The thing is, to fit the above into seven or eight days will be a mission in itself. I could spend twice as long doing the same loop. Yet even pre-Covid, outside of Bromo and perhaps Malang, you could do this entire trip and not see another non-Indonesian backpacker. When Sally and I did the East Java research trip a few years ago, we were on the road for around three weeks. The number of obviously foreign tourists we saw? In total? Under two dozen.

Under two dozen.

I’d struggle to better illustrate the monumental failures of Indonesia’s tourism promotion efforts. “Ten New Balis” … give me a break.

Rawon of Malang I am coming for you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Anyway, I’m a believer in doing rather than whining (though I’m quite apt at the latter), so we plan to detail our trip day by day, warts and all. Perhaps we’ll discover the reason why foreign tourists don’t bother, but, my gut feeling is we’ll have a great trip.

So, over the next week, I’ll be juggling Couchfish around a bit. The paid posts will be on hold and you can expect a daily update on the free list instead. Each day (internet allowing!) we’ll replay our footsteps onto Couchfish. Who knows, we might even inspire you to take a look-see yourself.

Our East Java sojourn—fingers crossed for more waterfalls than whining.

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“... But this was the centre of a broad boulevard, and at the side of the boulevard was a line of cafes and small shops, all brightly lit, all open, and all utterly silent and empty beneath a sky thick with stars. The hot night was laden with the scent of flowers and with the salt smell of the sea.

Will looked around carefully. Behind him the full moon shone down over a distant prospect of great green hills, and on the slopes at the foot of the hills there were houses with rich gardens and an open parkland with groves of trees and the white gleam of a classical temple.”

So writes Philip Pullman in The Subtle Knife, the second book of his series His Dark Materials. I’m rereading the series at the moment for a side-project.

Me reading His Dark Materials for the first time. Photo: Samantha Brown.

I’ve written before about colour and how travelling in Southeast Asia helped me to better understand it. The beauty and memorability of it might come with a smog assist, but regardless, that four in the afternoon light can be magnificent. The region’s smells and aromas though, outside of food writing, don’t get much of a mention.

Re-read the two paragraphs I lead with, they run one after the other in the text. The first, with the flowers and salt air, creates the image far more than the second, despite the latter being more descriptive.

Dinner cooking (very slowly!), sand, cut grass, french fries, beer, wine, salt air, something burning from afar, sea shells. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Smell is hard-wired into our brain. That waft of wet market aroma so thick you could slice it, takes a nerve highway through the olfactory bulb into our limbic system. There, the amygdala and hippocampus, our emotional and memory engine rooms, boil them up and file them away. This is one of the reasons why a smell you can’t quite place often triggers déjà vu.

Combine smell and taste, as we do on average three times a day (or more!) and you’ve got a veritable memory bank of experiences seared into that noodle inside your skull.

And yet, outside of food, smell doesn’t break the surface in much travel writing. In food writing it is unavoidable, smell and taste are the experiences. Elsewhere, only say in a wet market, by a piggery, or within the single loo at Cheap Charlies, where it is so obvious you can’t not mention it, does it see some column inches.

Dried fish, a hint of fish scales, salt air with a petroleum chaser. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Part of the reason for this is that smell is a hard sense to write about. When I lived in Bangkok, our place was on a side-soi off of Sukhumvit Soi 27. About a ten minute walk away was Soi 33, the Painters’ Soi. So named for all the bars named after painters—or was it that the near-universally male clientele got painted there? Regardless of paint jobs, as I walked past the mouth of the soi most days, it had a unique smell—the Soi 33 smell. I couldn’t begin to describe it, but I’d know it immediately if I smelt it.

See, I told you it is hard to write about.

One of the reasons smell is so personal is that it is the only fully-developed sense a fetus has in the womb. The sense remains our strongest until around age ten when eyesight takes over. This ten-year stretch is a formative one of creation, laying a foundation of smells you like and hate. If I’d had a chunk of my early years in Thailand and Malaysia rather than Japan and South Korea, perhaps I’d be better with durian.

Charcoal, coconut husks, oil, fish scales, cut grass, sea breeze and sunscreen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So it is hard to write about, and it is personal. What somewhere smells like to me isn’t what it smells like to you. Get five complete strangers and give them each a ripe durian—or stand then at the mouth of Soi 33—and have them describe it. Good luck with the similarity count.

All the senses are, at their core, subjective. I like walking on sand barefoot, so much so the type of sand grain matters to me. The feeling of the sand on my skin, the sound of it sliding around my toes, and yes, the smell of the salt air—and the sand.

Yet others can’t bear to walk on sand barefoot. When a friend suggested the squelching sand sound was like fingernails down a blackboard, I thought she was joking. She wasn’t, somehow we’re still friends. By the way, the best sand for walking on in Southeast Asia is at Bali’s Balangan Beach. Yes, I will die on this hill.

Oil, grease, drying paint, seashells, sweat, salt, coconuts, beer, and seawater. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve written about squelchy sand and perfect round sand grains near a million times. The smell of the sand though, when you lift a fistful of the wet stuff to your face and inhale it? Not so much—never in fact. Yet it can be an amazing olfactory experience. There’s the grains, the water that washes over them, that fish or seaweed background. See, I told you smell is hard to explain.

The one time I do write about smell quite a lot is not in relation to smell at all. Regular readers will have encountered me writing “slow down and smell the coffee,” but I’m not writing about the coffee or its smell. Rather it’s a throwaway line to suggest people slow down, so they’ll have time to smell the coffee. Thinking about it, it is a stupid thing to say, because what is there to write about coffee smells?

What does it smell like to you? What’s a smell that says Southeast Asia to you?

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On one of my trips to KL, I’ve been there so many times I can’t remember which, I find myself at Heli Lounge Bar. With plans to meet a couple of other travellers from my hostel (not the Italians), for sundowners, I arrive early. There’s only so much plodding through hotels one can do before sitting alone at an empty bar in the blazing sun wins out.

So here I am, and let me tell you, I’m not exaggerating with the blazing sun bit. Heli Lounge Bar is one of my favourite KL spots for a sundowner, but before the sun gets into the down mode, well, it is hot. Anvil under the sun hot. So hot I don’t know why they are even open at this time of day.

The only way is up. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Dotted with tall bar stools with too small tables, lounge settings and Bali-style bamboo things, the deck has barely one iota of shade, and I give myself into the sweat. The only thing sweating more are the beers, condensation bubbling then streaming down the glass. Aside from staff, I’m the only person here, but they leave me in peace as I inhale beers and collate my notes of the day.

Despite all the gizmos, my primary tools remain pen and paper, and I have a mountain of Moleskin rip-offs to prove it. Then there are the business cards, back of paper maps or receipts. All this stuff I need to shape into something usable on the same day, as by midday the next day I’ll have as much again and it all starts to blur. As I collate details, I screw up the cards and other scraps, and there’s a growing pile on one side of my table.

It is at least an hour of this before any other customers show up, and the bored-to-death staff are happy to have someone other than the sweaty white guy screwing up paper to serve. For a short time he holds the bar up, making small talk with the staff, too casual to be management, I guess he’s a regular. He’s a well-dressed man, not a hair out of place and not a drop of sweat coming through his business shirt. How do people do it? He’s wearing a tie for God’s sake.

Far from the highest spot in town. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He strolls over and introduces himself as Rick. Pointing at my pile of screwed up paper, he tells me both he and the staff are curious about what I’m doing. I say “I’m collating,” and before I can finish he asks “What, like in Alien?”

I look blankly at him and ignore his comment—I only get his joke about 15 minutes later—and explain what I do and that I’m combining my notes of the day. We have a brief chat about what I do, but he’s feigning interest, bored.

He points at the pile of screwed up papers and asks if he can have them. I say no. He asks why not, rolling on to ask are my notes secret? I tell him they’re not, but he can’t have them and start scooping them into my backpack. Defeated, he sighs and asks if I want a drink, I nod, and he calls to a staffer by name—I knew he was a regular—and orders two beers. While we wait, we sit there, perched on the high stools in silence, him staring at me. It is weird.

A basket for basket-cases. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The drinks come and he declares “I’m a flight attendant.” Nothing more, nothing less. That is all he says. I don’t know if this is code or a prompt for me to ask the ten questions one always wants to ask a flight attendant, but all I manage is “Oh.” The silence returns and I take an undue interest in sipping my beer. I can go a long time without talking, but eventually, I yield and ask who he flies with.

“Cathay for now,” he tells me, “but I’ve flown with a few, I love the friendly skies.” There’s a sleazy sexual innuendo to how he says it, and I’m glad I can’t think of nine other questions. He isn’t deterred though and launches into a monologue dedicated to his exploits.

He has, well, many exploits, and isn’t shy about sharing. He keeps alluding to sailors and ports, but every time gets the phrase wrong. I start wondering if he’s high, his manner is off, but I feel like there’s something else working behind the scenes. His stories veer between the obscene and quite funny, he knows how to tell a tale, I’m just baffled about why he’s telling me.

Kuala Lumpur’s haze often gives an assist. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Drinks are up, so I offer to buy, but I walk over to the bar to order. There, I ask the staff who he is. They laugh, confirming he works for an airline and comes here a lot. He’s also crazy, they say, going on to suggest I shouldn’t keep drinking with him. Sound advice.

When I return with the drinks, he’s on the phone, I think he’s speaking Mandarin, but whatever the language, he’s arguing. When I put the drinks down, he hangs up and chugs down the beer. He was talking to a friend in Taipei, and he tells me, they’re annoyed he won’t be back for some time. He grabs his phone and flicks across the screen melodramatically, his face frowning and a mock puzzled look on his face. “Here,” he says, flipping the phone so I can see it. It’s their friend, naked.

The bar is filling up now and my friends from the hostel are ten minutes late but it feels like ten years. He asks am I waiting for someone and I nod, he asks—in a very crude way—if they’re single, and I gesture to the barman for the bill. Rick waves his hands, apologising for the photo thing, and asks me to stay. But I’m going, I can intercept my friends at the lift and go elsewhere.

Another sunset, this one Rick-free. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He’s not drunk, but he’s on the way. Behind him, the sun is sinking and the sky is lighting up, but all I want to do is leave. He grabs my arm as I go to stand, telling me he has to fly tonight, so why don’t I stay for one more drink. I shake my arm loose and step back, how could he fly in this state, I wonder.

The bill comes, and I turn, my back to Rick. I leaf out a wad to pay, telling the barman to keep the change. Looking back, for one last look at the sunset before fleeing, I see Rick has vanished.

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This issue is in your inbox thanks to an email I received in response to yesterday’s “Couchfish turns two.” The reader wrote of their intrigue around making Travelfish more responsible. “How do you make a travel guide responsible?” they asked, “it isn’t like you’re cutting down trees to print guides.” As this is something that has been on my mind for much of the last two years, I thought I’d lay out a short version of my thinking. Feedback and suggestions, as always, are more than welcome and appreciated. Back to our regular schedule tomorrow!

In Travelfish’s case, responsibilities flow in two ways: to the reader and the destination. An approach may benefit a reader, but damage a destination or vice-versa. Then there’s our bottom line—we do need to make money, so that comes into the mix as well. There is no shortage of balancing required.

Couchfish is two years old!

Wednesday was the two–year anniversary of Couchfish. To celebrate, I’m offering a 50% off deal until April 14 on annual subscriptions. So this means it costs US$35 instead of $70—for the year. Already a subscriber? First, thank you, second, feel free to send the link to your friends—all are welcome!

When it comes to responsibility, I see five bases. Planet, places, people, profit and publishing. Below I touch on each of these briefly—this is not an exhaustive look at my thoughts on this matter!

Planet

Let’s start with the easy one. Flying. The evidence is clear, flying is the single best way for you to up your contribution to cooking the planet. Yet, people are flying more than ever. In 2019, air travel made up 59% of holidaymakers’ transport-related emissions (UNWTO). That’s up from 46% in 2000. The long haul flight may be unavoidable, but what’s the best way to encourage people not to use a domestic flight? That is, aside from saying “don’t do flying.” Remove the flight section? That seems a bit overbearing. I’m still at a loss here.

Four hours to go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Before Covid-19 we had writers in many of the countries we cover, so for them, there was little flying. For me though, in 2019 I was outside of Indonesia for about two weeks every month, all short trips, with a lot of flying. No going back to that.

Places

Then there are the destinations themselves. When is it ok to write about somewhere? Here the responsibility pulls in two directions. Is it to the reader who wants to know about places that are rarely written about or visited? Or to a destination, where residents may not want or be able to absorb, foreign visitors at all?

Boiled down, this revolves around the “right to travel” mindset—a concept I don’t agree with. Travel is a privilege—not a right. As travellers, we’re privileged to have a foreign country allow us to visit. And yet, who, travelling in Laos in the 1990s didn’t cringe at the “No tourists please” signs around Muang Sing? How do we avoid that rinse and repeat cycle?

Three hours to go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Small islands and remote areas are particularly challenging to get right. They’re often ill-equipped to accommodate vast visitor growth over a short period of time. Small island economies like Ko Tao often develop an over-reliance on tourism. This in turn leaves them susceptible to changes in demand outside their control. On Ko Lipe, tourism exacerbated issues around water, food and infrastructure. In Senaru on Lombok, outside entrepreneurs cornered the tourism market. The list goes on.

Here, much responsibility falls upon travel guides and writers to do a better job. To consider the ramifications of crowing about a “new unspoilt island”. Yes, it is true, Travelfish raving about some “new remote area” may not result in Rick Steves driving a bus there. Yet, every word written is one of the thousand knives. After all someone, years ago, first told travellers to go cycle to the villages around Muang Sing.

People

Then there’s people and their places where, if it was up to them, they’d be nobody visiting. These need better consideration and consultation. It should be their decision. Ok, so as a writer, who do we ask? Who makes that decision? What happens when some people want tourists and others don’t? I’ve encountered this sort of challenge myself, and it is one I’m still trying to figure out how best to navigate.

Two hours to go. Photo: Stuart McDonald

A good travel guide can play a crucial role in mediating the relationship between travellers and local people. A guidebook can be invaluable as a cultural cookbook, explaining at a novice level, why things are as they are. Yet, outside of the “front or back of the book” local people often end up on the cutting room floor.

How often have you read that you can “have a destination all to yourself”? What does that mean? Are there no local people there? Do they not matter? Write about destinations in this way, as I have many times, and you risk influencing how readers view and interact with residents. They might start viewing them as nothing more than a postcard background. Need it to be said, this is problematic. I have so much of my own writing to rewrite in this regard.

Profit

What about hotels? Did you know that the largest single expense of a typical medium-sized hotel is electricity? Is that energy coming from a renewable source? In most cases in Southeast Asia, no. It’s easy to say, don’t use the air-con, but a typical modern hotel room assumes you will. More often than not, a room is uninhabitable without it. So what to do?

One hour to go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Small things help. Don’t leave the spare room key in a slot to keep the air-con pumping. Change the temperature from sub-Arctic to the low twenties—Centigrade! If your room has windows, forgo air-con and open them. Unplug the TV, DVD player and minibar. Skip the room with a private pool.

On the topic of water, what about it? The average guest at a small hotel uses over eighty litres per day. Stay at a golf course resort and that figure can increase a bit. How much? How do 2,425 litres a day sound? If you’re thinking there’s no way you use 85 litres a day showering, you’d be right. There is though a swimming pool, and gardens and grounds that need watering. What about the decorative water feature in the lobby. They all count. Doubly so for properties in a location already dealing with water accessibility issues.

Here plenty of responsibility falls into the hotels’ lap. They can run their electrical devices in a sane manner. They can install water-saving tap fittings and repair leaking loos. They can only supply a bar fridge if a guest requests it. And you know what? These steps will all save the property money in the longer term. Saving the planet and making money—why do so many hotels need convincing on this?

I’m not suggesting travel guides get in on the environmental audit business as that’s already well catered to by grifters. A good start though would be to outline all the above steps—and more. Yet, on Travelfish, I’ve written nothing on this. Onto the list, it goes.

Publication

Sticking with hotels for a moment. One of Travelfish’s main revenue sources was hotel booking commissions. A classic responsibility trade-off area.

Almost there. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Online Travel Agents (OTAs) like Agoda, Booking, Expedia etcetera can take a hefty commission. That commission then gets off-shored, meaning it doesn’t stay in-country. Booking for example has headquarters in Holland. So when you pay $100 for a room, a chunk of that may go to Holland—and some to Travelfish if you clicked through from us. Thank you!

So, to keep money in-country, the responsible thing is to recommend readers book with the hotel direct. Hotels complicate this though as they often charge more than the OTA. So doing this will cost you money. Also, as the hotel doesn’t pay Travelfish anything, it costs us money too.

Subscribe to Talking Travel Writing

This post is all a bit travel writing inside baseball, but if that’s your kind of medicine, you should definetely consider signing up for Talking Travel Writing. Written by travel writers Lottie Gross and Steph Dyson (among other guests) it comes in free and paid flavours and, well, if you’ve an interest in travel writing, it belongs in your colection of newsletters.

Putting the reader first, you could list the OTA and the official website (this is what we do on Travelfish). In this way, we push the decision to the reader, yet, many have no clue how the OTA sausage factory works. We need to better inform our readers.

With the writing process, for the most part, I’m comfortable. I get the math and understand why it happens, but the whole complimentary stay/media rate thing is unethical in my opinion, so we don’t do it. We’ve always had a strict “no freebies/media rates” approach. So in this regard, we operate in a responsible fashion.

There are two other copy areas though, where I’m far less comfortable. In the language we use around local people (see above), and, colonial aspects of our coverage. In these areas, we can do far better—and will, eventually. It is already on my list. See here for a good primer on decolonising how you travel.

The other area in the writing process is the writers themselves. While, over the years, we’ve had three Singaporean writers, we’ve never had a writer from anywhere else in the region. Another area where we must improve.

Making a good trip better, for everyone

For most service travel writing (guidebooks, Travelfish etc), the historic primary duty is clear. To the reader. Tell them how to get there, where to stay, what to eat and see. To a point, there is nothing wrong with this. Yet, travel writing needs to do a better job of informing readers of the true calculus of their travels. Yes, the financial costs of their journey, but also the social and environmental ones. Travel writing also needs to do a far better job taking on the needs and concerns of people living in the destination.

Bingo. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It need not be an exercise in making people feel s**t about their holiday. Rather, showing them an improved way to travel. One that better benefits local communities, the destination’s wallet and the planet’s health. That has to be a good thing.

I hope so because this is where I’m heading.

As I wrote up top, feedback and suggestions, as always, are more than welcome and appreciated. Please let me know what is important to you when you think about travelling responsibly. What could we do better?

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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Side note: I’ve linked to a lot of other Couchfish writing in this post, but I’ve tried to link solely to the free–to–read pieces—enjoy! Want to read them all? Get 50% off a Couchfish membership here.

Most days I ride down to the beach to write. It isn’t far, five minutes on a scooter. Today, thanks to a new neighbour who has decided to learn the saxophone, I head down earlier. I get my pot of 15,000 rupiah bad coffee and write for an hour, as that’s as long as my laptop battery lasts. It’s amazing how much I can get done in that 60 minutes, but today it isn’t enough. Laptop flat, I gaze at the surf and beach wanderers with their dogs, the saxophone was still rattling around in my head.

My beach writing companion. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Today, Couchfish is two years old and I have a bit to say—or more than an hour’s worth of typing anyway. Two years. Where did that go? I re-read the one-year post—depending on the day, it feels like I wrote it yesterday—or a decade ago.

Between dog walkers, I read. The Routledge Companion to Travel Writing no less. To be honest, it’s not my kind of travel companion, it’s a right tome, even if an electronic one. It’s one of those anthology things, with dozens of chapters on all things travel writing, from post-colonial critiques, and the ethics of fabulation (no, I didn’t know that was a word either), through to ironic adventures and yes, guidebooks. Perfect procrastination material.

Couchfish is two years old!

Today is the two–year anniversary of Couchfish. To celebrate, I’m offering a 50% off deal until April 14 on annual subscriptions. So this means it costs US$35 instead of $70—for the year. Already a subscriber? First, thank you, second, feel free to send the link to your friends—all are welcome!

In the section on travel blogs, it references a travel writer by the name of Jeff Greenwald, who has been credited with uploading the first-ever travel blog—in 1994. That leads me to a piece in WIRED which I can only partly read as it is paywalled. An amusing anecdote recounts him attempting to transmit a postcard from Kathmandu to the States, the first-ever sent from the Nepalese capital. Greenwald writes:

“The main bottleneck, of course, was transmission speed. In June, 1994, I’d reached South Asia. Working with the brilliant Sanjib Bhandari (then known as “The Bill Gates of Nepal”), we scanned and uploaded the first image ever sent by Internet from Kathmandu: a postcard of elephant-headed Ganesha, the Hindu god of good beginnings. Sending the picture to WIRED took the technicians at Bhandari’s computer center nearly 14 hours.”

Nineteen ninety-four. Less than thirty years ago. I’d been kicking around Kathmandu the year before Greenwald’s visit and wouldn’t have known what an Internet cafe was if I was standing in front of it. Poste Restante? Yup. Internet cafe? Nope.

Pull up a seat. This might take a while. Savannakhet, Laos. Photo: Cindy Fan.

This sort of thing feels like memories from another lifetime, but in trying to read Greenwald’s actual first piece, I hit the paywall and it gives me pause. Not so much to consider if I’m going to pay WIRED (I’m not) but rather what the landscape would be like today, both in travel publishing and in travel more generally, had a paywall been the norm back then. A question I’m sure still keeps newspaper publishers up at night.

Side note: I understand that when Greenwald’s piece was first published it wouldn’t have been paywalled, but rather has been paywalled since, but bear with me, it’s just a handy in to what I want to write about.

I’ve been working on a story about overtourism for what feels like an age now. The more people I talk- and listen to, and the more I read, I keep circling back to travel writing’s role in it all. So not being able to read the planet’s first-ever travel blog because of a paywall sort of leaves me gazing at the waves for a spell.

My pensive place. Bingin Beach, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In the same anthology, Scott Laderman writes, on guidebooks and their “marginality” or lack of value for analysis within academia:

“On the contrary, guidebooks constituted probably the most influential form of travel writing of the twentieth century, helping countless tourists set their itineraries and interpret what they would see.”

And then, a little later, writing on what guidebooks do and the context they can provide, highlighting the very essence of what a good guidebook has that Instagram never will:

“They inform tourists what is worth visiting or noticing, and, crucially, they suggest how these worthwhile attractions should be interpreted and understood."

And then, finally, the money quote:

“By implication, those places that go uncovered find themselves relegated to unworthiness. If guidebooks elect not to sacralize a destination, does it really merit a visit?”

The flip side of Laderman’s implication being the old chestnut of guidebook writers ruining places. The Lonely Planet touch of death and all that.

This brings me back to the paywall thing. Any sentient being can tell you paywalling material online means fewer people read it. I Google “best things to do in Bali” and the search engine tells me it has 132,000,000 results. I wonder how many of the results people would pay for? No, I’m not going to sledge the results (though yes, there are some awful search engine results on page one), but if travel had been hidden behind a paywall from 1994 when Greenwald used up the entirety of Nepal’s bandwidth to beam Ganesha across the Pacific, how many of those 132,000,000 results would have ever existed? Is it a chicken and the egg thing? I’m not sure.

We flew. Over and over. The kids will be the ones who pay for it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

People rightly flog low-cost airlines with regard to overtourism. Take AirAsia, who, like other budget airlines, by ignoring the environmental costs of its services is able to offer seats priced on par with a bus ticket, and then declare “Now everyone can fly.” They sure can—and they have—future generations will pay the real costs of all those cheap and often frivolous flights.

But how about the internet in general? How many people would have travelled overseas without the internet to get their feet itching thanks to a bazillion lists of what to do in Bali? While I have absolutely no firm evidence for this, my gut feeling is “less”.

So, by extension, online travel writing, including the over a million words on Travelfish and the roughly 150,000 on Couchfish, shares some portion of the blame for overtourism.

Wow, that is a very scenic route to get to what I woke up this morning wanting to say.

As I’ve written before, on multiple occasions, the two-year pandemic-enforced travel shutdown presents a once in a lifetime (or once in a till-the-next-pandemic time) opportunity for both travellers and the travel industry to recalibrate. Regarding the latter of the two parties, if you’ve read any of the news of the last week or so, the travel industry (by and large, yes I know there are exceptions) has no intention whatsoever of changing its practices. That leaves it to the former to change their behaviour, but let me start with me, well, me as a travel publisher.

It is easy to sit here and say “do better”, but the best path to travel publishing in a “more responsible” fashion is akin to climbing a volcano—pitfalls and eruptions aplenty. How do you make a travel publication more socially, culturally, environmentally and economically responsible? Oh, and remain profitable? For the two years of the pandemic, I’ve been asking myself this question. Late last year I thought I’d finally got my head around a solution and I built an assignment for my Masters around it. I asked “how do I make Travelfish more responsible?” Not only did I almost fail, I got the lowest mark in my class—a new experience for me. Nobody says this is going to be easy.

Ko Kut’s beaches—I’d use a lot more qualifiers now. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Take a look at what the big travel publishing houses are running as things warm up again, and, like the airlines, for many, it’s a speedway back to 2019. The industry, be they airlines or travel publishers, or whatever, will eventually follow the money though. If enough people change how they travel, they may even move in the right direction.

My favourite example here is “responsible travel,” a term coined by the UK travel industry to define a market. There were already people travelling in a “responsible” manner, but the label made them a market. An industry emerged catering to what developed into a lucrative niche. I should say, lucrative for the agencies more than the destinations, but it was a step in the right direction. While responsible travel is less than perfect, it did indicate the scene is capable of following traveller-led change.

A few months ago, I received an irate email from a reader after I’d published one of my many “travel is eating the planet” style pieces. They wrote, in part:

“You write about the travel industry like it’s the coal industry. It isn’t. You need to fix your perspective.”

I’ve mulled over the above a lot, but I can’t help but think if, over the last thirty years, a more critical eye had been levelled at the travel industry as a whole, perhaps it would have developed in a more responsible manner.

Couchfish is two years old!

It is afternoon now, and I’m sitting across from rice fields, around the corner from where I live. They’re being filled in for more villas. The whole debate feels academic, all spilt milk really, it is what it is.

It isn’t all bad though, change is happening—really—but it needs to happen faster, and that’s something we, as travellers, can help along.

Hoi An, less than a year before Covid-19 hit. Overtouristed? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At Couchfish I’ll keep beating the drum, the itinerary of course will continue, but I’ll not be easing back from demanding better.

So how can we, as travellers, help? Regular readers will already know my take on this, but here’s my cheat sheet, in no particular order. Pick and choose what works for you—all of these will help, some more than others.

1) If there’s perfectly adequate ground transport that doesn’t take 82 days for the same journey, don’t fly domestically.

2) Don’t take frequent short trips that involve flying.

3) Travel locally.

4) Learn from your mistakes.

5) Buy a guidebook, a paper one, read the front and back bits.

6) Read books about where you are. It need not be some dense historical tome. We have a bunch on Travelfish to get you started.

7) Ask yourself how your being somewhere benefits the local community. How can you increase those benefits—and reduce the costs?

8) Stick with a loose plan full of wriggle room—you’re travelling, not on a military expedition.

9) Stay another day, slow down, linger.

10) Spend time with a local travel/food/whatever evangelist.

11) Do support small, family-owned or independent businesses.

12) Eat local food.

13) Think before you eat imported.

14) Stick to one country and explore it.

15) Do make an effort to have a constructive impact—be it helping with a beach clean-up or forgoing the imported wine (though do avoid Chateau de Battambang and Hercules Wine).

16) Do make a donation to an organization doing good work.

17) Do reward environmentally-friendly businesses with your business.

18) Do ask harder questions about practices. If a business says they’re green, challenge them. If businesses can’t or won’t answer your questions, go elsewhere.

19) Research, research and research some more. Set yourself a baseline and every trip try to do better. The little things, they all add up to something far bigger.

And, most importantly,

20) If you’re staying in South Bali, please leave your saxophone at home.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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Leaving behind the scratchy tourism boom town of Labuan Bajo, it doesn’t take long to be into the hills. The road climbs and twists. On hairpins, pokey cafes cling to ridges and offer up views across the Manggerai lowlands. In the distance through the haze, Komodo shimmers.

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After a half-hour or so, on the right, there’s a scruffy dirt track with a gaggle of scooters pulled up. It would be indistinguishable from all the other dirt trails we’ve passed save for the sign.

“Dapur Tara Flores Cuisine.”

Warnings from back Labuan Bajo fresh in mind to not bother trying to ride the trail, we park and start walking. It’s a slow, gentle decline into a valley of sorts, and in no time, the sounds of grinding truck gears and tooting scooters fade, replaced by squelching mud, birds in the trees and the reverberating hum of cicadas.

Meet Ratna and Kris at Dapur Tara Flores. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After more mud, we reach a garden running off to our left with a half dozen bright lumbungs overlooking it. Beyond, a simple gate then a path leading to a wood and thatch hut. There is nobody in sight though we can already smell food.

A young man steps out of the hut and approaches.

“Welcome to Dapur Tara Flores,” Kris says with a broad smile.

Part restaurant, part homestay, part educational outreach, Dapur Tara’s humble appearance belies its importance. This isn’t only a place to sample Floresian cuisine. Rather it is a signpost to a style of travel different to what we left behind in Labuan Bajo.

A month after our visit, I’m chatting on the phone with Liz, Dapur Tara’s founder, and I ask how long people stay. “Oh months,” she says, “people come for a night and stay for a week, two weeks.” This is slow travel—and nothing goes part and parcel with slow travel like slow food.

Where the magic happens. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Behind the hut, a tumbledown stone path leads to the base of a grand tree. Woven mats cover a wooden platform, with draped traditional fabrics as a backdrop. To the side, a narrow creek, its waters crystal clear, gurgles. As we sit, Kris asks if we’d like a drink, and suggests coffee. I nod, while my son Will asks for water. Kris scurries back to the shack and we recline in the shade.

Will pulls his phone out, stares at it, then at me, horrified. There’s no signal.

Liz harks from Maumere, a town on the north coast of Flores, a comfortable three-day ride from where we sit. She left her village in Maumere’s mountains for Malang, a university town in Java. There she studied Tourism and Hospitality Management, spirituality, meditation and midwifery. No, not all in the same course. Later she found herself working in Banyuwangi, in the far eastern reaches of Java, and then Bali. But the pull of Flores was strong.

The dining room is not fancy. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She wanted to create something that not only showcased Flores—its food yes, but also its people and hospitality—but also differentiated it from the rest of the country. She wanted to create that feeling of being a part of a family, where even a first-time guest feels like they are returning to the fold.

Kris returns with our drinks. My syrupy kopi Flores has a bite to it, of the caffeine, but there’s something more. I look to Kris quizzically, “It’s spicy,” he smiles. Laden with cloves, turmeric, ginger, cinnamon and galangal, it’s also delicious.

Off to a good start. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This is not our first visit to Dapur Tara. We’d ridden out the previous day only to find it closed. With Covid-19 and all, we needed to make a booking in advance. When I relate this to Kris, he laughs and says “yes when you do not book, we cannot smoke the chicken.” The chicken needs to be smoked for six hours. I ask if I can take a look.

One end of the hut is given over to the dirt-floor kitchen, and inside, Ratna and two other staff work away. There’s an open fire on the floor, and a meter above, a splayed whole chicken is on a rack, in the final stages of smoking. The smokiness is almost overpowering—in a good way.

Time to eat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Liz tells me when she returned to Maumere after her stints in Java and Bali, she saw the schooling standards had not changed since her time as a schoolkid. According to World Bank data, Indonesian government spending in 2019 as a percentage of GDP on education was 2.8% in 2019—the third-lowest in the region. Ill-equipped schools aside, even the best teachers are overworked and under-compensated. Students, and their education, suffer. A trained teacher, Liz talks about instilling an awareness of the wonders of Indonesia’s natural beauty—and the need to preserve and protect it—in kids. The beauty of Indonesia—and the peril it is in—sadly is news to many schoolkids.

While Dapur Tara was still a figment of her imagination, Liz found herself travelling along the Trans Flores Highway. Rain hit, and taking shelter from the storm just shy of Melo, she got chatting to some local people. As is so often the case in Indonesia, the chatting led to coffee—and more chatting. It turned out there was some land available, in a well-wooded bowl-like valley. Behind it, a mountain stood—not unlike in the village near Maumere where Liz grew up. In the valley, there was good energy—it seemed to collect there, Liz tells me.

I can’t begin to tell you how good this chicken was. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Our food starts to arrive. First come some local bananas, dressed with coconut shavings and a dashing of brown sugar. Then the mains arrive. There’s kolo (nasi bambu), lomak (a cassava leaf salad), pineapple sambal, crispy papaya, red rice, and of course the smoked chicken. Kris talks me through the banquet, explaining not only are they all Floresian dishes but that all the produce is local. The herbs and vegetables all come from their own organic garden. The chicken and red rice from their local community. The plates are woven with a banana leaf laid on top. Indeed the only thing manufactured is the cutlery and the shot glass a wild purple concoction comes in later on. The meal is easily the best meal we have in two weeks on Flores.

Sitting under the tree stuffing face, with Kris, Ratna and the birds for company, it is easy to feel alone, but there are at least three nearby villages. It is in these villages that the dream of giving local kids’ future a push is playing out. In one village that lacked a school, they started one. Aside from teaching they manage donations of books and other materials to assist the kids. Kids are taught about trash collection and the environment that surrounds them.

Must eat everything. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

More than once as Liz talks, she mentions “golden kids.” By this, she means kids who get it, kids who, given the opportunity and resources, are able to truly shine. She says she just needs a few from each class—that will be where the change comes from.

After the meal, Kris shows me around the bungalows. They’re as simple as they are bright, with little in the way of creature comforts. They’re doing it right though. The power is solar, bathrooms are shared, there’s no WiFi—not even a phone signal. I can imagine spending a couple of nights here as a digital detox, but when Liz says guests stay weeks and months, I wonder how they fill their time.

Jungle cocktail. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She tells me guests read, and chat away with Liz and the staff. Sometimes they cook and eat together. The culture exchange goes both ways. Sometimes they might help in the garden, or volunteer at a village—there is, after all, plenty of work to be done. When night falls, they might play music and dance.

After the jarring commercialism of Labuan Bajo, I want to say Dapur Tara is a refreshing blast, but it’s more of a soothing balm. The longer I sit around, chatting to Kris and Ratna and just, well, soaking up the atmosphere, the longer I want to linger.

Pineapple sambal. Who knew? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I ask Liz what her plans are? She says she dreams of a string of similar places dotted across Flores from west to east, each amplifying what makes that area so special. The government is blind to the real attractions of Flores—What is Starbucks? she asks rhetorically. She’s preaching to the converted here.

While we only have the pleasure of a few hours at Dapur Tara, it is is a highlight of our time in Flores. I get the impression Liz is the sort of person who starts small but dreams big, and it’s easy to dream of places like Dapur Tara dotted across the island. Each with their own team of golden kids blazing a new, more exciting and more sustainable flavour of tourism.

Not only across Flores—but across the whole country.

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After a couple of false starts, Indonesia’s Island of the Gods, Bali, is pretty much open for business. Over the weekend a couple of announcements hit the airwaves. First, and of most importance, the island would enter a “quarantine-free” trial. Second, the long-asked-for Visa On Arrival (VOA), would restart—at a cost of 500,000 rupiah. Both are for only a selected list of nationalities.

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Quarantine-free is in quotes as there is some small print. Bali is one of Indonesia’s most vaccinated provinces—inbound travellers likewise need to be fully vaccinated. Tourists must stay at a CHSE-certified hotel for the first three nights. It is not clear if bookings through an OTA like Agoda is acceptable. Guests can leave the hotel and kick around (it seems) but they must stay at the same hotel for the initial stretch. During the stay, guests must have (and pass) a PCR test on the first and third day. After that, they can travel anywhere within the country.

Fingers crossed. At a Kecak performance, Uluwatu. Photo: Sally Arnold.

For a full list of requirements, the Welcome Back to Bali website (affiliated with the Bali Hotels Association) is doing a good job. Other good resources for keeping on top of a changeable situation are the Bali Covid-19 Update Facebook group and The Bali Beat newsletter. All of these are free services.

Finally! I don’t know about you, but it has been a very long two years.

Bali is different things to different people. Many come for the people, others for the food, others still for the places. Me? I come for the sea, so I’d be starting there.

Bingin from the cliff-top. Photo: Sally Arnold.

One of the beauties of Bali is it sits astride the Pacific and Indian oceans. When clear of trash, the beauty of the long blue walls trundling in from Antarctica is something else. The swell swings around Bali’s south, the Bukit Peninsula, in the process racking up some of the best surfing on the planet. On the western extreme of the Bukit lies Pura Luhur Uluwatu—one of Bali’s most revered temples. Sitting atop a stretch of cliff hundreds of feet tall, the temple lords it over the ocean.

Some of Bali’s best beaches—all surf beaches—ring the Bukit. Wild high-tide surf lashes the white to golden sands (depending on the beach) that line the base of the cliffs. When the tide ebbs, the fury recedes to reveal rock pools for hopping, calm waters for floating and sand stretches for walking. In the late afternoon, the sea-breeze takes the bite out of the sun as it falls into the sea. Spectacular doesn’t come close.

Another busy day on Nyang Nyang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve many favourites down that way—Nyang Nyang for long walks and no people sits atop my list. If I’m overnighting though, Sun and Surf Stay, at Bingin, pretty much takes the cake. Unlike Thailand’s islands, true on-the-beach rooms in Bali are few and far between. Sun and Surf has a row of simple rooms elevated right over the sand—and hammocks come standard. Best of all, rates start at around the $40 mark, so it doesn’t break the bank.

Leaving the waves behind, I’d head up to east Bali, to Amed’s bays and their pebble-strewn jet-black sand. Wrapping around Bali’s eastern-most bulge, palms and enormous trees replace the cliffs of the south. Hundreds of white-hulled jukungs lay above the high tide mark as fishermen mend nets in the shade. Come early morning pebbles reverberate as fishermen drag the jukungs over them into the sea. A couple of hours later, the sun rises over Rinjani’s striking peak on neighbouring Lombok. An hour after that, the fleet returns, often under sail. Their bright-coloured triangular sails flutter and snap as they run up onto the same pebbles and black sand.

Family time in Amed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Spread across the bays are hundreds of places to stay, yet most of the development is low rise. In Amed it is all about blending in. A single scraggly road winds from bay to bay, up and over a headland and back down. People coast more than drive or ride. Travellers fill their days with diving and snorkelling, cycling or walking. The real attraction though is the ebb and flow of life. Pack a book—or three. After a days’ worth of chapters the sun falls, this time behind Bali’s greatest peak, Gunung Agung.

The Kampung at Bunutan is where I head, and I like it so much I’ve written of it before. It offers a collection of wooden joglos set across three compounds. One is an enormous affair suitable for a family of 58, but the other two have two and three joglos respectively. An ideal spot for travelling families, groups of friends—or decadent couples. Sunrise is perfect from here.

Time for a wander in Sidemen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For another angle on Agung, head to Sidemen where the morning sun catches it postcard perfect. Think of a rice field valley where you can walk and walk without the annoyances of Ubud. The village has grown up a bit over the last decade, with more upmarket digs coming on tap, but you need not overspend. Sleep in, slow down. soak it up. That is the point of Sidemen. If you need some more action, climb Agung—Nyoman is an excellent guide—you can contact him via Whatsapp on +62 853 3845 8258

Then head west, skipping over Bali’s many peaks, to Munduk. A village smudged along a steep mountain ridge, gaze at a distant ocean on one side and rice terraces on the other. If activity is a requirement, then, like Sidemen, this is a village made for walking. There are at least three glorious waterfalls within easy walking distance. Prepare yourself for having the falls to yourself. An unambitious pace would be one a day. The town has affordable places to stay, good ribs, goat satay and coffee. Who needs nouveau cuisine or a wine list?

Typical Munduk scenes. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you stand on Munduk’s main road looking uphill, on your right you’ll see another near perfect-shaped peak. Mount Batukaru. If you stood on its peak and rolled south, you’d hit Pura Luhur Jatiluih (which I’ve written about before here). Then, roll a little more, and you’d hit the adorable Sarinbuana Ecolodge. As I’ve written about it here as well before, I won’t repeat myself too much. What I will say, is while some grandstand about their sustainability, others, they just live it. Why? Because if you can, it is the right thing to do. Sarinbuana falls into the latter category. Dawn here, looking across the jungle valley with the rain hammering down—is just amazing.

The above would tie into a simple three to four-week trip. Sure you could add in a few of the crowd-pleasers like Ubud, Canggu or Nusa Penida, but really there’s little need. A long, slow holiday—who doesn’t feel like one of those right about now?

If you’re thinking of a Bali break and would like a driver, I recommend you drop Putu a line. I’ve known him for over a decade and he’s absolutely trustworthy, reliable and, as an added bonus, a safe driver. You can contact via Facebook here or Whatsapp on +62 819 9904 0594.

Take your time, see what you find. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As I said up top, it has been a very long two years, but now is an exciting time. Is that a light at the end of the tunnel? I don’t know, but I do know it has been a very long tunnel and I’m ready for some light! There could be some more false starts and there will be hiccups. More than ever, plan for the unexpected. The suggestions above are but a small sample, a few places that are worth a look and worth your support. Many don’t want the heady days of overtourism to return. Instead, they’re hoping the coming weeks and months will be baby steps into a brighter future. You can play a part in this.

Travel further, slower and for longer. Spend a day watching the surf roll in, the fishing fleet coming and going or a waterfall thundering. Bring a book, finish it and leave it behind. Soak it up. Enjoy.

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It is about a five-minute ride from my house to the beach, and I head down most mornings to do some writing by the sea. It is a straight run down Jl Pettitenget, which is far quieter than pre-Covid times when it resembled a parking lot. Today, it is more like a speedway—in the mornings at least.

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So trundling down, stuck behind two loaded trucks, another bike sidled up beside me. The rider was foreign, not wearing a helmet nor mask, but did have on a set of gigantic earphones. Nearing a blind bend, they went to overtake. It was a reckless move, and when a car came the other way, they tried to accelerate their way out of it. When that wasn’t going to happen, they braked hard and veered back, behind the truck, almost knocking me off my bike in the process. They finished their work of speeding modern art by careening onto the footpath and crashing the bike.

Might need to come back tomorrow—and next year—and the year after. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The trucks didn’t slow down—I’d guess they were unaware of what had happened. When I pulled up and walked back to check on the rider, bloody but not beaten, they launched into a tirade aimed at everyone except themselves. I left.

In itself, none of the above was unusual. I’ve seen no shortage of scooter idiocy here—by both Indonesians and foreigners alike. Plenty of prangs, though thankfully only the one fatal accident. Pre-Covid, tourist meets scooter accident meets voided (or non-existent) insurance, meets GoFundMe campaign were dime a dozen. Like the gem scams in Bangkok, the card scams in Phnom Penh and so on, some people seem to want to learn the hard way.

This is now a restaurant and car park. Umalas. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It isn’t entirely their fault I guess. Well, it is, but there are varying levels of slackness of enforcing existing laws by officialdom as well. Police take a payoff rather than levy a fine for no helmet or take a cut from the gem store or the card sharks. The world keeps turning for most—if not all. In the scheme of things, these tales of the unfortunate remain a footnote, a rounding error, to the millions who have an uneventful vacation.

Yet in an “if it bleeds it leads” world, the uneventful vacation doesn’t make the papers, so instead, these are the stories we read. In a way, they serve as a counterpoint to the newspaper travel section where unspoilt beaches and smiley residents prevail. An accurate picture is somewhere between the two extremes.

Often, no improvements are required. Batu Belig sunset. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As the region stutters its way through a hodgepodge of re-openings, there has been a new style of tourism story. One that tends to come out of destinations that saw the worst of overtourism, Kyoto for example. They argue that residents, now accustomed to having their town back, quite like it bereft of tourists. If you had the misfortune of being in Bangkok, Bali or Boracay in 2019’s heady days, it’s an easy sentiment to grasp.

Of course, not everyone feels this way. In particular, the many who had tourist-facing livelihoods would like their jobs back. Likewise, countries that were over-dependent on inbound tourism would like their dollars back. Tourism though, brushes with an uneven hand—it doesn’t float all boats.

This is one of the reasons why nations need to think about what post-Covid-19 tourism is going to look like. There’s all the blah blah about big-spending tourists, but let’s face it, the region has been talking about this since the 1970s and they’re yet to replace normal people. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t see anything amiss with wanting tourists to spend money—someone has to pay for the infrastructure that supports them. Making their spending the sole determining factor though, seems short-sighted.

Desa Seni—sustainability surrounded by the less so. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Two stories from yesterday are instructive. One was an announcement out of the EU about their long term goals for tourism. Titled the Transition Pathway for Tourism, it is a dense document (though readable by EU standards). Heavy on sustainability- and resilience-speak, in a section on tourism to rural and remote areas, they write:

“The EU can boost the long-term resilience of remote regions by comprehensive smart and sustainable tourism strategies, based on the unique strengths of the region, well-planned market segmentation, diversification of tourism services to different customer bases and by integrating the wellbeing of local residents with the services provided for tourists.”

The second was a statement reported yesterday out of Labuan Bajo in Indonesia’s Flores. The town is to be one of the country’s “super-premium” destinations and has seen a tonne of investment. Not all are fans of the changes the investment has brought, but on how Bali’s G20 could benefit Flores, the story reads:

"The calculation assumes that G20 tourists have seven times the purchasing power of tourists in general. Ten side meeting activities with approximately 800 participants multiplied by US$2 thousand. This is still a rough calculation, not to mention if there are participants who want to increase their stay."

Perhaps it is unfair comparing a single comment to an EU report. That said, I’ve been reading this sort of coverage side by side for a while now and different visions are playing out around the planet.

Please don’t ask me what this is being replaced by. Berawa Beach. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For residents to want tourists to return in any form, the changes that come with them need to do a few things. Sure, they need to be sustainability-minded, but that is just the foundation. They need to benefit residents and improve their lives beyond a paycheck. Residents are more likely to forgive the price they pay for the idiotic few we read about in the papers if they feel it buys a better life for their children. Governments whose vision is squarely on today’s rather than tomorrow’s money are selling their people short.

So what does this all have to do with a maniac on a scooter on the beach road this morning? For me, a lot of it boils down to respect—or lack thereof. It goes both ways—seeing foreign visitors as nothing more than a cash cow likewise lacks respect. I think it is fair to say most foreign tourists travel somewhere because they have an interest in the place. So, why is it so difficult for countries to see the benefits of building on this interest? The whole turning tourists into advocates, furthering cross-cultural understanding and all that. That is a thing, right?

Tourism can mix things up—in a good way. Mural, Kuta Beach. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Fixating on short term pay-offs that benefit the select few will only deliver long-term costs for the many. And that is about as intelligent as riding down to the beach without a helmet.

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As regular readers might remember, last year I went back to university to do a Masters degree. Travel was off the cards and I figured in doing one in Responsible Tourism Management, then when travel did restart, I’d be better informed (maybe). Given the title, it should be no surprise that the environmental impact of travel is a bit of a theme.

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The current unit touches on hotels’ environmental impact, and it makes for plenty of interesting material. What is the most baffling though, is there is often (if not always) a clear business case for taking a greener approach. The readings’ focus tends to be on higher-end hotels and global chains, but there are lessons that would work for the smallest guesthouse too ... yet ... examples are few and far between. I did write on one recently for Mekong Review (paywalled).

Keeping your emissions down Ko Chang Noi-style. Photo: David Luekens.

I’ve written before about my misgivings regarding much of the “green award” industry. Getting a green star for using low-watt bulbs while offering private pool villas seems dumb. Yet, plenty of small places (where the only horizon pool is a flooded cistern) don’t even bother with bulbs. Why? I don’t understand.

Below are a few examples. It seems to me, these are no brainers, and I’d love to hear back from readers who can explain why these are not the norm. While you’re at it, please do let me know if the sustainability of your lodging actually matters to you. Thanks!

Water

It is the stuff of life right? According to the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals, 26% of Earth’s population lack safe drinking water. It goes on to say that 129 countries are not on track to have sustainably managed water resources by 2030.

In a Southeast Asian context, outside of Singapore, there is nowhere I’d be comfortable drinking the tap water. Yes, this is a catastrophic case of governmental neglect. It was telling that on my recent trip to Labuan Bajo, for all the money to make it “super-premium,” residences and hotels still rely on well-water. What gives? How super premium is that? It is authentic, I guess.

No, I think I’ll get my own water thankyou. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Dropping down from introducing piped water to an entire destination, at a hotel level things are not much better. According to SungaiWatch’s annual report, the plastic bottles and single-use cups of Danone, a Spanish food conglomerate, are the number one source of trash on Bali’s beaches. Yet, open a hotel minibar and you’re almost guaranteed to see two plastic bottles of Danone water. Why?

Sometimes you’ll see the larger gallon water bottles in each room atop a dispenser. You can use that to refill your own water bottle. I say sometimes, because in the scheme of things they’re still kind of rare. I asked one hotelier a while back why they didn’t do their water that way. The answer? Guests complain. What?

As a typical guest may not drink a gallon of water during their stay, the room ends up with a half-filled container, and when the next guest comes, they question how long the water has been there. Really? I suggested if that was such a problem, couldn’t the remnants be repurposed to kitchen use after checkout, with a new gallon coming in for the next guest. The owner seemed unconvinced.

Gallon bottles are far cheaper per unit than smaller bottles, so taking this approach would save hotels money. Given the small bottles are often supplied for free, it is hardly a profit centre. Also, infrastructure exists to refill gallon bottles—unlike the smaller ones, which, often end up in landfills or, on the beach. This brings me to my next point.

Trash

One of the most popular secondary uses of single-use water bottles seems to be having them wash up on the beach. It isn’t just the bottles of course. Again referring to Sungai Watch’s report, from October 2020 to December 2021 they audited a subset of the waste they collected from Bali’s beaches and rivers. In total they categorised 227,842 individual items, which broke down as follows:

Sachets: 69,825

Cup: 67,242

Plastic bottle (PET): 38,614

Hard plastic (HDPE): 36,253

Glass: 8,811

Metal: 7,097

If you’re curious why glass and metal are so low, in part it is because there are clear recycling routes for these. Waste collectors scavenge both the beach and bins for them to sell—often for a pittance. While I’m a huge fan of what SungaiWatch is doing, another organisation putting together some interesting resources is Bali Partnership—their site is well worth a look.

Thanks, Danone. This mess on Bali’s Batu Belig Beach took three weeks for volunteers and govt employees to clean. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Plenty of beaches in Southeast Asia already have organisations running beach (and to a lesser extent, river) cleanups. When was the last time you were staying in a beach hotel and on Sunday morning staff approached you asking if you’d like to join a cleanup? Never? Same.

They’ll often be a flyer at reception or something, but places need to get more proactive. They need to get guests off the arses and down to the sand. They may be on holiday, but simply being on holiday means they are contributing to the mess. They may not be tossing trash onto the beach themselves, but rest assured some businesses they frequent are.

Cleaning up the mess daily though is a finger in the dike. While much of the region is generations behind other countries in education around littering, just because the awareness isn’t where it should be, doesn’t mean businesses can’t change their own practices. Hotels are hubs of single-use plastics and while a growing number are refillable, plenty are not—so guests should start demanding that hotels change their ways. Once they go out in the trash, what happens to them is anyone’s guess, so an alternative is to not use them at all.

The problem is far wider than straws or water bottles and the Sustainable Hospitality Alliance has a handy cheat sheet to use as a starting point.

Food

You can’t talk about plastic bags without talking about food. Individuals using their own reusable bags for their groceries instead of plastic continues to grow. Though do note, you may well need to use that tote bag 20,000 times to offset the overall impact of its production. How you use your bags matter. Hotels buy in bulk, so if the goods are being delivered, get them in cardboard boxes. Better still, where feasible, grow your own. Please note this advice is coming from someone who has only ever managed to grow basil and papaya successfully.

Reduce food waste by eating everything. Works for me. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From fancy-pants resorts to humble street stalls, food wastage is a major issue. One study found that Stateside, food waste totalled around 63 million tons per annum, with 40% coming from restaurants and hotels. The smart cookies at Hotel Kitchen have made a clever toolkit and also a downloadable PDF outlining some solutions. While many of the suggestions focus on the higher end of the business, plenty scale down.

There will always be some food waste, but minimising it is a smart move for everyone—guests, the bottom line, and the planet. Two of the simplest things to start with? Smaller plates and servings, and vegetarian or vegan menus. Smaller plates and servings directly translate to less waste (and maybe save you a new notch in the belt), while plant-based foods have a drastically lower carbon load versus anything with legs or fins. Don’t forget to eat lots of fruit—Southeast Asia has some of the best and they come naturally wrapped—no plastic required. Hell, you can even throw the wrapping in the compost. Your hotel does compost, right?

Power

Ok, this is the last one. I started off this piece babbling about light bulbs, and I do miss the old yellowish ones, but I get why I can’t have them anymore. Plenty of hotels though, don’t seem to have received the memo. Start by sorting out your lighting.

The biggest head-scratcher though is the dearth of solar power you see in the region. Indonesia in particular is a laggard on this count—if you’d like to learn a bit about why this paper from the IEEFA is instructive. I’m not going to get into the solar stuff, but that said, there are plenty of other angles hotels can look at.

Start with the gadgets. DVD players, espresso machines, enormous TVs that you need a PhD in networking to link to your laptop so never use. Survey your guests, ask how many actually make an espresso while drying their hair watching a Die Hard DVD on the LCD TV the size of a small nation. Times have changed. Ok, the hairdryers can stay.

Lava-covered rooftop at Alila Uluwatu, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The beast in the room, of course, is air-conditioning. Windows that can be opened, standing fans, hell, even covering the roof in lava, can reduce the need for this. Cap the remotes so lunatics can’t turn it down to 16 degrees. Make sure the room seals up—open a window and the air-con turns off—there has to be tech for that. Offer a discount if guests forgo air-con. Hell, don’t even offer it. If you’re doing well-designed beach bungalows with plenty of windows and tall ceilings, you don’t even need air-con. If guests complain, give them another standing fan.

Word of mouth

Ok, this is really my last point. If your hotel is doing none of the above, two questions: Why are you staying there? Did you ask them why they’re not bothering with any of it? If, on the other hand, your hotel does some, most, all, or more still of the above, then tell your friends. Chances are the property will be on a sounder financial footing than their neighbours doing none of it. That means they’ll still be around by the time your friends arrive after travel has restarted.

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Hi everyone!

What was going to be a two-week break turned into something considerably longer—my apologies. Couchfish is back to the regular posting schedule, with the first post for paying subscribers tomorrow, and billing has been turned back on (for paying subscribers). Many thanks for your support and here’s to hopefully a brighter year this time around!

Almost two years ago I was in a Kuala Lumpur taxi heading to the airport for a flight back to Bali. I’d been in KL for a week or so sorting out some paperwork as the first wave of Covid rolled across the region. I’d picked up my passport from the embassy that morning—it was to be the last time for quite a spell they’d be handling visas.

Settling into my AirAsia seat, I remember grimacing thinking I’d be back in KL in under a month for another trip. Little did I know, it was to be one of the last AirAsia flights from KL to Bali. A travelling friend I’d met up with in KL had decided to linger rather than push on, “this thing will blow over,” he said. He ended up stranded there for almost a year.

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Last week I stepped into an airport for the first time since then, vaccination certificate and rapid test in hand. On the almost full Batik Air flight, it feels like nothing has changed. People take forever to stow their luggage, rustle their bags of snacks and keep their phones on for too long. The one difference is near every passenger is wearing a mask.

Hello old friend. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Bali’s airport sees a fraction of the air traffic it used to, so there is no wait for take-off. With the mangroves at our back, the pilot puts the pedal to the metal and we sink into our seats. Moments later we soar over Airport Reef then enter a gentle left arc and climb high towards smudges of clouds.

Over the next fifty minutes, two of Indonesia’s greatest volcanoes slide past. First Gunung Rinjani, the anchor of Lombok. The 1257 Samalas eruption—“the most powerful volcanic blast since humans learned to write”—formed the volcano as it stands today. The blade-shaped summit marks one of the most distinctive peaks in Indonesia.

Rinjani took a pound of flesh for every metre off each of the four of us. Photo: Some other lunatic who likes climbing volcanoes.

Lombok behind us, we fly over Sumbawa’s western reaches towards Gunung Tambora. Like its sister peak Rinjani, when Tambora went off, it didn’t bother with half measures. On the fifth of April, 1815, it exploded. The eruption shaved about 1,400 metres off its height and people heard the detonation in Sumatra. The eruption has been linked to a temporary climate change that saw famine across parts of the Northern Hemisphere. It was during this “year without Summer,” that Mary Shelly penned Frankenstein in a Swiss villa owned by Lord Byron. The connection has been somewhat debunked, but it makes for a good story.

As Tambora slips from view, the next peak, Sangaeng appears in our forward window. It lacks the bombastic history of the previous two, but it remains active. The last time I tried to visit, the harbour guard at the coastal village opposite asked me if I was nuts.

The harbour master would not have blinked an eye if I’d tried to take that boat to Sangaeng. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Our ears pop as the flight descends over the Sape Strait making a beeline for Labuan Bajo on Flores. On the wrong side of the plane, we miss Banta and Komodo National Marine Park, but it isn’t a complete loss. As we wheel onto the final approach, beneath us reefs glimmer like dollops from a rainbow. Brilliant green hills run down to the water’s edge—the landscape is about as far removed from Bali as you can get. It is beautiful.

We’re on final and my plane-spotting obsessed son films the landing for his trip report on his YouTube channel. The landing is smooth enough and before we know it we’re in the airbridge, then a taxi driving to our hostel.

Our driver is from Ruteng, a city to the east, and he peppers us with questions. When I tell him we’re Australian, he jumps with excitement, “you can come to here now?” he asks, only to be crestfallen when I tell him we live in Bali. Still, he isn’t shy about shuffling us brochures for boat trips and other tours. “Labuan Bajo is very quiet,” he says, “call me if you need a driver, I can take you anywhere.”

We dump our bags at our boho hostel and later in the day, go for an afternoon walk. It is my first time back to Labuan Bajo since it was deemed one of Indonesia’s “New Balis” and it is near unrecognisable. A boardwalk lines the sea and families and young people wander its length. Older men cluster in shaded salas backing onto the boardwalk. They chat, laugh and smoke. Kids scream “Hello Mister” and ask us where we are from. By the time we reach the end of one pier we’ve done half a dozen selfies. The scene has a festive feel despite the dour tourism mood.

Around the 8,000th photo with random people on the pier. Photo: William McDonald.

Later we watch the sunset. It blazes behind the dozens of pinisi and other dive boats idle at anchor. The town has changed to look at, but thanks to the people the vibe remains oh so familiar.

As I write this, we’ve already prolonged our stay in Labuan Bajo twice—maybe this year will be better.

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When someone on Facebook suggested I read a story sourced from an Armenian news site that was a pickup from a Russian news agency, that talked about Omicron in terms of Ebola, I knew it was time to take the dog for a walk.

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Before I go on, if you’d rather read something more uplifting, even if it is focused on going down, give this piece a look—fantastic stuff.

Learning Greek, one variant at a time

Just a week ago, at least in a Southeast Asia travel context, things were looking pretty positive. Thailand’s reopening was going well, with over 100,000 arrivals and Cambodia reopening. Even Singapore and Malaysia sort of opened their land crossing. Vaccination rates were ticking over and, for much of the region, it felt like most matters viral were in hand.

Not halfway yet. Photo: TypW 520.96.241, Houghton Library, Harvard University

Perhaps that is overstating things, but last week was about as upbeat a week as weeks went over the last 18 months. Then, well, we all got to learn another letter of the ancient Athenians and in no time at all, much started to fall apart.

A great wrap on this is the South East Asia Travel Show’s Omicron edition. Click here to give it a listen!

Some quick facts. On 24 November, South Africa reported a new variant to the WHO. Two days later, the WHO designated it a “variant of concern”, and named it after the 15th letter of the Greek alphabet—Omicron. In case you are wondering, the two preceding Greek letters, nu and xi, were skipped because “nu” sounds like “new” in English and “xi” is a popular Chinese surname. According to a WHO spokesperson, this follows their best practices for naming diseases in a manner to avoid “causing offence to any cultural, social, national, regional, professional or ethnic groups.”

Omicron has an unusually large number of mutations and so there were concerns existing vaccinations may be ineffective. It was first detected in Botswana on November 9, and by today (November 30), there have been cases in Australia, Hong Kong, Germany, Israel, Belgium, Egypt, Japan, Canada, Sweden and Spain—among many others.

Time for last year’s t-shirt

Yes, as with last year, it appears the horse has already bolted. This Guardian story suggests some of the cases in the UK may predate the initial “discovery” in South Africa. This hasn’t stopped countries from banning flights from southern African nations as tourists rushed to get out of there before the bans hit. As with last year, the shutdowns are erratic, unfair, and reek of double standards, as the image below illustrates well.

Double standards are best described with an image. Image: Trevor Branch via Twitter

The shitlist though is growing. Sometimes flight bans, other times quarantine reinstatement. Cindy Fan pointed me to a Swiss government website, which started at 10 countries on November 26, grew to 15 on the 27th, 19 on the 20th and 23 on the 30th. This sort of incremental locking down is happening all over the globe.

The approach varies. Thailand this morning said they have no plans to change their approach unless the situation “becomes very critical”. For a country that has long thrown public health under the bus to satisfy the demands of some elements of its travel industry, this is no real surprise. Indonesia has banned eleven nations and is considering banning more. It has also increased quarantine to 7 or 14 days, depending on where you are coming from. Singapore is talking about backtracking, while Vietnam is mulling over a ban.

The last thing the region wants is a uniform approach to this right? I mean, they’d need an economic union or something to assist with that.

As it stands the people who are paid to know loads about this stuff (ie., not me) have been telling anyone who will listen that they don’t know a lot. They do expect to know a lot more though in about a week. In the meantime, what they do know might be bad, or might not be bad at all.

The concern is, if omicron is more contagious, evades vaccines, and proves to be more deadly, then this could be a very bad turn of events. This Twitter thread (by a journalist, not an immunologist) was about the sanest yet scary thread I saw.

Omicron is an anagram of moronic

There has already been plenty written about why this should never have happened. Vaccine distribution has always been unequal and favoured the rich world. It is outrageous that people in the West are lining up for boosters while most in Africa haven’t had a single shot. The following chart from OurWorldInData is instructive.

You can see the full animated version here. Image: Our World In Data.

There is plenty of blame to go around though. South Africa itself has a decent supply of vaccines. It also has decent supplies of misinformation and government ineptness.

So where to from here?

In a week we should hopefully have a clearer picture and the smart people in lab coats will be better positioned to advise policymakers. One would hope sensible decisions will follow.

If you’re planning on travelling out this way over Christmas, I’d be checking your travel insurance small print. Keep abreast of flights and rule changes. If, in the coming days, Omicron does turn out to be bad, expect longer quarantines and cancelled flights, if not complete lockdowns. I would not be surprised to see quarantines on all arrivals reinstated across the region in the coming days.

Hope for the best—plan for the worst—and if you find yourself reading Russian propaganda about Ebola on an Armenian website, take the dog for a walk.

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The family and I are up in Bali’s hills at the moment. A bit of a long weekend of R&R with a cooler climate. Perched on one of Mount Batukaru’s ridges, the small, family-owned resort is not short of views—I’ve written about Sarinbuana before. In the distance, South Bali’s lights flicker, sometimes, like now, with a wild electric storm beyond.

Closer to home, there’s a deep river valley dotted with tiny icy waterfalls below us. Crickets hum, roosters call, and now and then, the rumble of distant thunder. Oh and the dog, nestled, half under a blanket, half over my feet, making random dog noises.

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It is early morning cold. For Bali very cold, I’d guess 17-ish degrees centigrade. The lying weather app says 22 degrees, but that is for Tabanan, closer to the sea and a few hundred metres below us. Eight seasons a day feels normal here. Yesterday the weather turned and tendrils of mist weaved around the palms in minutes while visibility plummeted. Will and I sat in the ochre-walled cafe under a blood-orange hue lamp sipping hot chocolate. Outside, the wind and rain buffeted the glass while the mist tendrils quivered. A weather tantrum.

A good spot for some dream work. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In the morning, I scooter a little to the southeast, three kilometres as the crow flies, to have a Rolfing session. As mentioned before, I’ve put my back out, so when Sam realises her Rolfer has a weekender nearby, it seems sensible to give him a try.

It takes me about a half-hour to get there, riding a tiny track that links this ridge to the next. Cute little bridges cross the same river that tumbles down to form our waterfalls. It has been raining, and the trail, paved but rutted, is slick with mud and moss. Steep in places, I ride slow, brakes tight. All the while the bike twitches against gravity, wanting to cartwheel off into the abyss.

It isn’t an ideal ride for a guy with a tortured back, but I make it. Once atop the next ridge, I coast down, by small rice terraces and through smudges of villages. Left then right, then left, left, left, always downhill. The foreigner house is obvious, surrounded by coffee bushes and banana trees. I step over the gushing subak water, by the dangling penjor, and into his grounds. Below a beautiful pool glistens.

An uphill downtown. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He’s a New Yorker and in no time he gets to work on me, chit-chatting as he manhandles me like meat on the slab. We talk about robusta and arabica, he pronounces it cawfee. His hands never stop moving, wrestling, regardless of if he’s talking or listening.

It’s not till I’m giving him the potted history of my back, that his hands stop. I tell him how, when I was 23, a Sydney chiropractor matter-of-factly told me my legs would one day be amputated. He pauses, hand still, then after thought, says,

“No, I wouldn’t have said that. You have strong legs, and they’re very heavy, but no I wouldn’t have said that.”

Then his hands start moving again.

The previous day, I take my dog, Skye Govinda—don’t ask—for a walk. It is cool, but not raining, and while my back is bad, walking is ok. We walk up for a bit to where there is a signposted turnoff into a pocket of rainforest. Also signposted is Pura Luhur Jatiluih, but with no distance. With no phone signal, I decide to walk and see where we get to.

Always look up. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After an initial stretch of coffee and other cash crops, we enter the jungle. It is apples and oranges to the plantations. As I’ve written on Taman Negara, in the jungle, humidity jumps, shade closes in and insects yell rather than sing.

Skye and I walk on. The trail is a two-track concrete path, not in bad condition I guess, but it looks like a long time between uses. Mud that washed over in last night’s rain squelches underfoot as I break its virginal surface. Not a scooter track in sight.

Deeper we go. Up, up and up, always up. There is a jungle orchestra on both sides, a river roars somewhere below and to the left. A bit of rain comes, though the canopy is so thick we get the occasional obese dollop rather than rainfall. Then, as quick as it comes, the rain eases, replaced by mist. The temperature drops, the sweat on my shirt turns cold. The air is still, the mist doesn’t blow in, rather it forms out of nothing, surrounding us. Curling, snaking, fogging my glasses and touching my skin. Skye snaps at flies and chases lizards—the mist doesn’t bother her.

Just keep walking. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We reach a small rest-stop sala, access to it barred by a bamboo pole. One of the guardians is a dog, its bright tongue lolls, a scarf tied around its neck. The scarf on account of the cold I guess—I wish I had one. The temperature has shifted from cool to cold, the mist thickens, warping nature’s sounds.

We continue on, Skye looks up now and then to check I’m still there, her tail beats, otherwise quiet aside from panting. Fist-sized seed pods, coloured bright orange and yellow dot the trail. I look up trying to decipher their source, then up the path, waiting for Hansel and Gretel to bound by. The jungle insects hum punctuated by the occasional crash. Errant cows?

It feels a bit weird, a bit creepy, we’ve been walking almost two hours and haven’t seen a soul. We push on, to a bad stretch of mud. After sloshing through it, I flick off the leeches as best I can, then am distracted by my phone beeping. A signal! I check Google Maps and figure the temple is about another 500 metres. “Screw the leeches, let’s get to the temple,” I say to Skye.

Woof. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The mist is thick and it plays monkey with the sounds. The birdsong echoes, hooting reverberates, the crashes are erratic. We reach what I guess is a scooter parking area in busier times but it is overgrown and untended. The worn temple signage is in part scratched out. The first set of stairs are mossy and wet, I can see the next set through the mist.

As with the resting sala earlier, the next set of stairs have a bamboo pole angled across. As I don't have a sarong or sash with me, I decide to turn back. First though, we sit for a rest, me in a small sala, Skye at my feet.

Then things get weird.

Straight out of fairy tale land. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is silent, with no sign of other people—not for some time. Sitting there, the mist bulks out, the temperature drops, and my skin goosebumps, hairs on end. The feeling, the deep-seated intuition is clear, there is someone behind me. Right behind me.

I can feel them there. If they breathed I’m sure the hairs on the back of my neck, already at attention, would feel the breath. I go to look around, to see who is there, when I see Skye.

I freeze.

She has stood and turned towards me. Her lips curled back in an ugly snarl, she growls from her gut. She is fixed like stone, her eyes staring into space ... straight over my left shoulder.

Welcoming. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve written before about ghosts and hauntings—I’m the kind of person who thinks the X-files is a documentary. I’m a believer.

At this moment though, I’m terrified.

Of course, when I turn, as Skye barks, there is nothing there. Mist, mist and more mist. No grimacing baby doll with a machete—only more mist. I’m creeped out and we leave.

We scuttle down the stairs, Skye as keen to leave as me, and as we walk, I still feel like there is someone else with us. I don’t look back till the last moment—before the stairs would fall out of sight.

Here comes the mist (again). Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I see something, a dark shadow in the mist, moving from right to left above the first set of stairs. I’ve goosebumps as I type this, but yes I’m sure it was the mist or my eyes playing tricks, or a smudge on my glasses. Really. I’m sure that is all it was.

As we walk out, through the woods, the errant cows are going mad, banging and crashing to the left and right. We pass the leech ponds. We pass the Hansel and Gretel seed pods, we pass the guardian dog statue with its scarf.

I don’t look back once.

Then we’re out of the woods, back into the coffee plantation, under the sunlight. I can hear a scooter in the distance.

The next day, after my rolfing amputation confessional, back at the lodge, I get talking to the owner. She’s a Kiwi and we chat for an hour or so about this and that, about Covid and tourism and what not. She mentions there have been a few deaths in the area, one the other day—a heart attack.

It always pays to keep your offerings up to date. Photo: Stuart McDonald

Our conversation wanders. The road has deteriorated—local funds for road repairs now go to Covid matters. A passed away neighbour had been developing a repository of Balinese musical instruments. I’d heard of his parties in the past, and my host reiterates they were something to behold—and belisten.

Somehow we end up at my ghost story. She pauses, thinking back to our earlier conversation about the woman who died of a heart attack.

“You know, thinking about it, you shouldn’t have been up there. People stay away from there after a death—until everything is looked after.”

It’s raining now. I can hear something hooting, the crickets are burping, the river tumbling. I can see the airport and soon the first flight of the day will be lining up. The thunderstorm has faded and the dog is ready for her morning walk.

We will walk downhill today.

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Just a quick note regarding my Couchfish-hiatus. I’ve badly put my back out—this post is coming at you from a well and truly horizontal position.

Back when we started Travelfish, independent travel in Southeast Asia was all about the borders. Where could you cross? Where couldn’t you? This travel intelligence was one of the most valuable—and fastest devaluing—currencies in a travellers’ wallet.

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Was there still a $2 “handling fee” at Koh Kong? Was the Laos/Cambodia crossing open? What was the cost? Was it still by boat? Which of the Laos crossings had visas on arrival? Was it still more costly for Canadians? How much more for Canadians? Why were Canadians charged more? The Lonely Planet Thorntree (RIP) was awash in this stuff.

These are mostly figments of the past. Today borders are fixated not no much on your little blue (or purple or green or whatever) book, but instead on what has been jabbed into your body. When were you jabbed? I hope it wasn’t too long ago, as that’s a no-no in some cases. Which country jabbed you? What brand of vaccination did you get? Where was the vaccine manufactured? The answers to some of these questions, sometimes all of them, matter.

A map of selected crossings, from when I used to draw my own maps. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It isn’t just the shot though. You’ll mostly need a PCR or rapid-whatever before you get on your flight, and some among those that are letting people in at all might require a quarantine of some length upon arrival. It varies. Perhaps another PCR test (or two). That varies too.

Then you’re free to roam right? Sort of. Please read the small print of your entry requirements.

While you’ve got the magnifying glass out, you may as well also check the small print on your travel insurance, as you’ll mostly be needing to be well versed on that too. Well, maybe, depending on the country, and the value of your coverage will need to cover medical care for Covid, up to, you guessed it, a variety of levels, depending on the country. And don’t forget to check that your home country doesn’t have a “do not travel to” warning for where you’re headed, as that will invalidate your insurance coverage.

Ok, so you’ve got that all sorted right? You’re fully vaccinated with an approved vaccine, within an approved vaccination window. You’ve had your pre-flight PCR test (or rapid-whatever). You’ve got your approved and of sufficient value travel insurance. You’ve even got a plane ticket. Refundable I hope.

Well done you.

Did you book a whole row? You might need three rows—depending on which country you’re flying to. You do know that if someone sitting near you tests positive you might end up in quarantine too? At the risk of repeating myself, this is dependent on where you’re flying to. Worth keeping in mind.

So what happens if somehow, en-route to your final destination, you have close contact (the definition of “close” varies) with someone who is positive, or, worst case, test positive yourself?

Well, one, two, three, all together now, “it depends”.

Almost there, just three PCR tests. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

You will be quarantined, perhaps at the hospital, or a hotel, or somewhere else. Until, well, it depends. Until you are better? Until you test negative? Test negative with what? Well, it depends.

So, lucky you the Patron Saint of Covidness was busy ruining someone else’s trip and you’ve got all the way through. You’re free!

Sort of.

You will need to download a track and trace app. There are a few different ones, yes, they vary by country. Some even have more than one. You will need to register and have it on all the time (or not—it depends). This will allow the authorities to get in touch and quarantine you if you have close contact with a positive case. Or not—as, you guessed it, track and trace varies somewhat between countries and sometimes within different districts of the same country. If you’re concerned about privacy, I strongly recommend you do not read tracking app privacy policies (when available). It might give you hives.

Just open the doors and come in. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Once you’ve got the app(s) and have registered, don’t forget to also have a hard copy of your vaccination details. This is useful for when your phone is flat, or if a paper record is required—this is sometimes required—it varies.

Ok, you’re now free to go and enjoy your holiday right?

Well, sort of. Don’t forget to keep your phone charged, and bear in mind that in some locations (it varies) if it is determined you were vaccinated outside a set period (which may differ from the rules at the international gateway) you may encounter difficulties. You may (it varies), be tested on the spot. But don’t worry, if you do test positive, there might be ambulances on hand to whisk you straight off to quarantine at a hospital.

Quarantine can. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I haven’t gone into the nitty-gritty of quarantine upon arrival, as that varies, and is dependent not just on the country you are arriving in, but also your nationality, where you are coming from, and (in some cases) where else you have been in the last two weeks.

You’ve got the Covid T-shirt by now, right? It reads “it varies”.

Back in the day, now and then they’d be a rash of stories about a “Southeast Asia visa”. Most often it featured Thailand, Laos and Cambodia. It never really got legs in a big way, but if there is something Covid19 has really highlighted, it has been how useful an ASEAN-wide uniform approach could have been. Not just for tackling the virus in the first place, but also, for now, managing the first tentative post-Covid19 footsteps out of the virus’ shadow.

I can see some light at the end of the tunnel. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Instead, for those willing to jump through the hoops above (or some version of them), they’ve got a near-endless variety of rules and regulations to keep in mind. The thing is, all of the above is just today’s take. A week from now, they could all be different. A few weeks ago the rules for flying domestically in Indonesia changed three times in a week.

How do you plan around that? The simple answer is many won’t. Clearly, some will for sure, and save a few horror stories, Thailand’s recent re-opening seems to have come off relatively smoothly.

Does that mean we can expect similar from the neighbours? Well sort of, maybe, but you know, it varies.

I think I’ll wait for the next train. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Southeast Asian vaccination star Cambodia is reopening with no quarantine for vaccinated travellers. Neighbouring Vietnam meanwhile has its eyes on the third quarter of 2022 for a full re-opening (the “Live Fully in VinPearl” campaign is quite limited and props up a vile company). Singapore has a few very specific travel lanes, the one from Indonesia is one-way. Indonesia, well your guess is as good as mine, but it has been suggested to me that Bali may be seeing its first international flights in February 2022. Yes I know, Bali’s airport opened to international flights in October, but it seems that was for a purpose other than international flights with passengers on them actually landing at the airport. Malaysia looks to be thinking about it. Finishing on an optimistic note, Burma, on the cusp of civil war, bandied a mid-2022 re-opening around today.

I don’t know about you, but things seemed easier when the biggest question was if you’d need to slip the Cambodian border guard at Koh Kong $1 or $2 to get through.

Bad jokes aside, while Southeast Asia never made much headway on the uniform visa thing, it did have a pretty porous border system that made it relatively easy for many (though not all) to flit between countries. Mainland Southeast Asia trips that in the early 90s were three months in Thailand, became five months in Thailand, Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam by the end of the decade. A rising tide raises all boats and all that.

The curveballs keep coming. Photo: Mark Ord.

The thought of doing something like this now, putting aside the issue of the responsibilities of taking a holiday during a pandemic, is not all that appealing. Each time you need to cross a border—be it by flight, or, when they eventually open, by land—chances are you’ll need to run through the whole process again, paying attention to whatever the rules are for the new country you are heading into. With this process comes the risk of a prolonged and very unplanned stay.

So, this is why yet again, I find myself at the longer tourist visa shelf. Yes, it is great that Cambodia, one of the most vaccinated countries in the region, is about to open. But in doing so, they should also be opening a new page in their tourism book. One with a six-month tourist visa.

All of the above are reasons to stop all but the most determined from country-hopping. Add to the pile, but in a good way—and prolong the stay in a fantastic country with a far longer tourist visa.

It has been too long. For everyone. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

PS: If you’re thinking “but what would I do in one country for so long”, here are a few itineraries to get you started:

Northwest Cambodia by motorbike

One month in Cambodia

Two weeks in West Java

Two weeks in Central Java

Two weeks in East Java

A month in Bali

A month in Lombok

A month in Sumbawa

Two weeks in Sumba

Three weeks in Northern Laos

Four weeks in Sabah

Four weeks along the Mekong River

Four weeks in Eastern Thailand

Four weeks in Southern Thailand

Four weeks on Thailand’s Southwest Islands

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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On December 24 1968 saw the taking of a never before seen photo. Titled “Earthrise” the photo shows the Earth from outer space. It was the first time regular people had ever seen our planet as a whole. It has been described as “the most influential environmental photograph ever taken”.

In 1962, Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring covered the adverse effects of pesticides and it gave momentum to a movement that eventually saw through the 1970s a raft of environmental laws passed in the USA. The Clean Water Act, Endangered Species Act, Safe Drinking Water Act, the Toxic Substances Control Act, and more. These were in response to a growing awareness of the damage being done to the planet. In later decades some were rolled back, others strengthened. The understanding though, that if you pour crap into the river you (or others) might get sick, was here to stay.

Earthrise. Photo: Bill Anders, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

These laws came into being because the polluters were unwilling to regulate themselves. Indeed to this day rare is the week there isn’t a news story of some company doing something dastardly to the planet. It is after all, cheaper to throw your waste into the river, pump it into the atmosphere or bury it in another’s backyard. Bad for the planet no doubt, but oh so good for the bottom line.

Looking for a lighter read? Here is a great collection of new travel titles!

The tourism industry portrays itself as a “force for good”. As one of the largest employers on the planet, it creates jobs, in turn lifting people out of poverty. It aids cross-cultural understanding. It helps people escape their day to day lives, to recharge, relax, and remain sane.

Sorting out some cross-cultural understanding at Gunung Sikunir, Dieng Plateau, Indonesia.

When Carson’s book came out, the chemical industry in the US went completely feral. One of her most vocal critics said “If man were to follow the teachings of Miss Carson, we would return to the Dark Ages, and the insects and vermin would once again inherit the earth.”

Heady stuff.

This critic was mischaracterising what Carson was suggesting. She wasn’t advocating for elimination, rather for chemicals responsible and managed use. DDT was eventually banned.

Ideally, we don’t want the whole planet looking like this. Kawah Sikidang, Dieng, Indonesia.

The quote by the chemical dude brings Bali and a few other places to mind. Not so much for chemicals and pollution, but with regard to tourism. A common response to this era of Covid has been that places need to reopen so tourism could “save” destinations. No doubt the economic hardship brought on by Covid, while uneven, has been severe for many.

Much like the farmers spraying their crops with DDT though, some countries are over-reliant on tourism. It brings with it truckloads of jobs that often need few skills or training and as such is a handy poverty alleviation tool. It doesn’t though address why poverty is there in the first place—if anything, tourism often exploits it (old story, but a good one). As one of the interviewees in this interesting video says when asked why do they come to Bali, “It’s cheap”.

Tourists are a mixed crowd, and destinations need to drive the tourist bus better.

As I mentioned above, tourism brings with it many benefits. It isn’t an all-good package though, and its wrapping is increasingly having questions asked about it. There are the obvious environmental repercussions of getting on a plane, that’s the clanger. It is far from the only one though. A simple example is the beach bar I’m writing this in, it is illegal—it shouldn’t be here. Nor, for that matter, should the 200+ room five-star hotel down the sand.

There’s plenty written on tourism’s social costs, from exploitation to bad behaviour. Yes, plenty of money comes in, but, in the video above, Head Chief of Badung Recency, I Made Badra, notes (at 9:28), only 40% actually stays in Indonesia. The other 60% sloshes straight back offshore. Or never comes in in the first place. That isn’t a great result, and it makes the costs all the costlier.

Backpackers come in all shapes and sizes, Bukit Sikunir, Dieng, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald

I read a paper the other day, about sustainable travel and backpackers. While the research was undertaken in Australia, the results would hold elsewhere. It found that backpackers do practice sustainable travel, but they do so by accident. In trying to save money, they share accommodation, eat local fare, and travel overland. These qualify as sustainable practices. Even if they’re doing these things by accident, the end result is still good.

As I’ve written before, Covid delivered a once in a lifetime opportunity to rethink behaviour. Not just for the industry, but tourists as well. On the corporate side not all are foot-dragging—see Intrepid and Patagonia for example. In the scheme of things though, they are but a drop in the ocean. I’m sure back when DDT was all the rage, there were some farmers who didn’t use it. It took the government to step in, to force compliance.

Look at the airlines—I’ve written before about some approaches with this mob. They’re the great environmental vandals of the tourism industry, yet can’t wait to get back to 2019’s madness. My wish-list has the 2020s being to the tourism industry as the 1970s were to the chemical industry. If they won’t reform, legislate their bad behaviour out of existence.

Fewer tourists like this dude please, Kawah Sikidang, Dieng, Indonesia. Photo: Sally Arnold.

While I’m at it, another off my wish-list. The media would do well to stop treating the tourism industry with the touchy-feely gloves it does today. Write about them like they’re the coal industry, please.

There is a need for what I’m calling a Great Adjustment. Destinations need to consider where they are heading in the long term. Thailand’s Andaman Coast is looking at a shoreline retreat of 24 to 38 metres by 2080. Sixty years sounds like a long time, but it isn’t, and to avoid what is looking inevitable, work needs to start. Yesterday.

Avoid these two as well. Photo: Sally Arnold.

This isn’t an argument for targeting big spenders (see “Quality Tourists” blah blah). Rather it is a call for targeting visitors who will minimise the “costs” side of the tourism calculus. By and large, these people are not the big spenders.

I’d suggest if there’s one tourist group already doing this by accident, then start with them.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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I’ve written before about how I feel that Covid19’s 18 months of hiatus has been a missed opportunity. That this was the once in a lifetime chance to rethink how tourism works, who it benefits, and why it happens. Going on the headlines, it seems many could think of nothing better than getting back to 2019’s heady days ASAP. This is a mistake.

Given it is clear the industry and destinations are unable to reform, I present six things for them to do. Note this is only a very brief list!

Here for a good time, but not a short time

All tourist visas should demand a stay of at least a week (six nights). One night stays must become a thing of the past. Per kilometre, flights of under 700 km are the worst. Popping down from KL for a weekend in Singapore? No more sorry.

If you absolutely must stay under a week, then you’ll need to pay a significant departure tax. I’d say something around the US$100 per day for each day early you want to leave. So if you plan on staying only one night, your departure tax will be US$600.

There’s no bus to Kathmandu. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Why?

Short fly-in-fly-out visits have the heaviest overall costs when averaged over the length of your stay. Think carbon emissions from your flight, the airport you landed at (Changi’s Jewel—you know, the waterfall thing with an airport attached, cost S$1.7 billion), the transport you used to get to your hotel (Thailand’s rail link to Pattaya is estimated to cost US$7.4 billion). All that for a night out on the suds. No more.

Love you long time

This one is from the giveth and taketh away file. While destinations should instil a minimum stay, they also must allow for a far longer stay. This should be on the same tourist visa—no trips to immigration for pointless paperwork. I think four months is a good starting point.

More time in-country, less time like this. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Why?

Think the previous point in reverse. The longer you stay, the lower your average out cost of the points I mentioned above. Plus, obviously, in staying longer, you’ll spend more money in-country and travel farther afield—the real quality tourists!

The best things in life are not free but are worth waiting for

Personally, I hate tourist visas. I think they’re an outdated layer of bureaucracy that serves close to zero use. That said, if you’re going to have visas, charge for them. I’d charge US$40 (which is what Bhutan charges), but I’ll leave that one to countries to figure out.

Divide the fee 50/50 between the government and an independent and transparent development fund. You could go wild and crazy and offer tourists the opportunity to choose what they fund. For instance: environmental protection, education for disadvantaged groups, tree-planting or developing biodegradable dayglo body paint. Related to this, ban all double-pricing.

Also, this whole pesky visa on arrival thing? Get rid of it. All tourist visas must be applied for and paid for a month in advance. Offer the visas online in an easy to use fashion. Yes I know, I’ve seen regional immigration websites, and I know what a big ask this is. Dream a little.

Online please. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Why?

Tourism brings with it costs beyond the passed out bodies at a Full Moon Party. Catering to tourism has clear and well documented environmental and social costs. It is only fair that tourists contribute towards cleaning up their mess. This is my thinking behind the fund idea rather than it just going into government coffers.

The month in advance requirement? Booking in advance helps with people management. A destination airport would know exactly how many tourists were arriving a month out, which, I would guess, would present cost-saving opportunities. The month-in-advance would also cut down on frivolous travel—and flights.

Pushing tin

All those planes offering flights cheaper than a kebab? That ends now. Mandate that all flights cannot be cheaper than the same by ground transport. Oh and more taxes please, though it is somewhat complicated. One more, foreign tourists must pay a surcharge to fly domestically—doubly so when it is easy to use public transport.

Confession: This was my Bali to Bangkok flight when I went there for two nights to catch up with a friend. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Why?

Around 75% per cent of tourism’s carbon emissions are transport-related. Of that, about 40% is flight-related. Bear in mind that the vast majority of tourism is local—and doesn’t involve getting on a plane. So this is about taxing the “few” who are doing by far the most damage.

You can check out but you can never leave

A moratorium on all hotel construction should be enacted immediately. Then, in consultation with the industry, a capacity benchmark should be agreed upon. By this I mean, no more hotels till the existing ones are at 60% or 70% (or whatever). Hotels that are never going to reach 60% should be levelled and the blocks turned into public parkland and shared space.

To be fair this is an abandoned pool club—is about 250 metres from an abandoned hotel. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Why?

Covid19 gave us an oversupply of abandoned, cheap, poorly maintained, cookie-cutter hotels. These are a blight on the landscape and in some cases a public health risk. It could be a decade before some of them re-open—if ever. Refurbish them or level them—I don’t care which, but sort them all out before you even think of building any new hotels.

Not in my backyard

Local communities should have veto rights on any development aimed at tourists. Anything.

Bali’s legendary Canggu shortcut. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Why?

I really need only one word to explain this bit: Canggu.

So, there you go, my top six ideas. Yes, if even some of these were acted on the number of tourists would drop, but, well, that’s the point. I can’t see any of these ever being acted on, but sometimes it is good to get this stuff down on paper.

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When I was in my twenties I kicked around Spain for a bit, but I never made it to Barcelona. I know little of the city, other than pre-Covid19 it was often trotted out as one of the over-tourism all-stars.

Studying sustainable tourism makes me feel like how Bill Murray looks.

The other day I was pointed to two stories about the city. One, published in 2019 was a classic over-tourism piece. Cruise ships, housing affordability, pollution, too many tourists, and protests. The second story ran a few days ago, on October 17. In it, many, though not all, bemoaned the lack of tourists. Again a classic piece, though this time, a classic post-Covid19 take. Bankrupt businesses, closed hotels, unemployment and no tourists. At least there were no protests—or none mentioned anyway.

There has to be a middle ground here

A few years ago, I took a trip to Japan. A friend said I had to make time for the Suntory Yamazaki Distillery. I didn’t do anything more than add it to my notes on “stuff to do when in Osaka”. Close to departure, my friend asked if I had booked my visit? Booked? Unfamiliar with the booking museums thing, I didn’t know I needed to—I wasn’t going to do a tour, I just planned to have a look. You know how this story ends, no Suntory time for me.

Note the couple far left to get an idea of the scale. Kelingking, Nusa Penida. Photo: Sally Arnold.

It turns out the distillery uses a system like this to manage visitor numbers. Even if you’re not doing a paid tour, you still need to book a time. Why? To make a visit enjoyable for all. Should I ever make it to Japan again, I’ll be booking my museum slot right after I book my flight.

Back to Barcelona

The stories are interesting for the counterpoints at play. “We need to get back to pre-pandemic tourist numbers as soon as possible,” says the hotel association director. That’s an understandable sentiment I guess, given 40% of his members are closed and losses are over US$3 billion. Others though see an opportunity to convert hotels into social housing. The tourism department head hoses that one down—“It’s not our goal to reduce the number of tourists.” Who is he really serving? I bet he isn’t a public servant.

A few have met their maker at Angel’s Billabong on Nusa Penida. Photo: Sally Arnold.

I’m all for converting them into social housing. The views of the hotel association and tourism dudes though, will probably be the reality. For all the talk of “not wanting to return to 2019,” these vested interests could think of nothing better. It is, after all, where the money is—or rather, where their money is.

The resident’s view though is sadly nothing new. George Doxey coined his “irritation index” in 1975. It models rising resident irritation with tourism and tourists. The salad years are euphoria, followed by apathy, then annoyance, and finally, antagonism. We’re all been there right? Who hasn’t yelled “You stupid tourist!” at least once?

Talking heads keep bringing up “sustainability” but sustainability for whom? For hoteliers? Residents? Tourists? Destinations? It is a term I’ve grown to loathe in a very short time, so malleable it can be turned to almost any meaning you want. No surprise then, the UNWTO has embraced it wholeheartedly.

Carving new tourist access into the cliff at Atuh, Nusa Penida. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The Bali view

The thing is, I don’t need to look to Barcelona to see this playing out. Abandoned, bankrupt, closed—that is the post Covid19 ABC of much of the hotel scene here. Who knows when—if ever—tourism will have returned to a sufficient degree to make these hotels viable again. Is that revivalism even desirable?

One of the eighty-two bazillion official schemes for Bali is promoting it as a Work From Bali destination. Some government offices in Java tried it for a spell, till a new Covid19 wave blew it out of the water. Perhaps many of these ABC hotels, hotels that could well lack a viable market for years, could dovetail into it, though I do think the government’s taste tends to skew more upmarket. Not socialised housing, which might be ideal, but longer staying guests would still be a decent win. Government departments (one would hope) are not considering relocating people for two nights. Longer stays equal fewer flights, and that’s a good thing.

So much sustainability you can bottle it. Photo: Sally Arnold.

But hundreds of ABC hotels are but one of the challenges—what used to fill them, people—are the real problem.

Barcelona’s Sagrada Familia is to Suntory’s whiskey house is to any number of crowd-pullers in Bali. Be it Tegallalang terraces, Puri Lempuyang, or Penida’s Kelingking or Atuh, crowds are the number one issue.

Destinations need to think about intelligent and equitable ways to manage visitors to places most want to see. Commission studies to figure out how many people a place can handle. Let’s say, to make the math simple, a location can handle 1,000 people per day.

Split these 1,000 into two groups, say 700 and 300. The 700 can be booked in advance, and in return for a small fee, you show up at the assigned time and can walk straight in. The 300 are available “at the door” on the hour (or whatever the time break-up is) on a first-come-first-served basis. These tickets are free. After consultation with local communities, a further appropriate number of tickets could be set aside for local residents.

This swing not flash enough for the Instagram crew. Photo: Sally Arnold.

This way the destination knows exactly how many people they’ll be dealing with at any one time. The tourists know exactly what they get when. Most importantly, the destination never exceeds capacity. This last point is crucial. There’s no point just charging admission without a maximum number of people. That is not sustainability—that is revenue raising.

If the sight is full for the day you want, you have my sympathies—it is not your Suntory time, please try again tomorrow. Or the day after. Or after that. You’ve run out of time? Sorry, you should have stayed longer—or been more organised.

Overall numbers almost certainly will fall. Though they’ll fall only because the old visitor numbers were unsustainable. That’s not the only benefit though. With predictability, traffic can be better managed, making residents (hopefully) less irritated. Staffing can be better managed and the overall experience at the site will, one hopes, improve. Best of all, it will still be worth visiting a decade from now.

Slow down, learn more. Desa Tanglad. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Turn on Google maps and zoom in to Nusa Penida. Take a look at Kelingking, Angel Billabong, Guyangan or Atuh. At each, the car park is almost as big, if not bigger, than the attraction.

Without change, how big will the car parks be in another decade?

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Planning fingers are itching. Countries are starting to sort of reopen, each in their own, very individual manner. Google Maps is getting opened, wish lists peeled open. Before you go any further, I have some advice: Take the train—not the plane. Here’s why.

Thailand’s Civil Aviation Authority reports that in 2019 there were 16,564 one-way flights from Suvarnabhumi Airport to Chiang Mai. From Don Muang (Bangkok’s second airport), 22,069 one-way flights. That’s a total of 38,633 one-way flights or an average of about 106 per day. The full report is here, see pages 56 and 62 respectively. If you want to get stuck into flight loads and other flight trivia, this report from Airports of Thailand is also good.

Remember these? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sounds like a lot right? As the Google Maps crow flies, Suvarnabhumi is 594 km and Don Muang is 567 km from Chiang Mai Airport. The 737 is a popular aircraft with Low Lost Carriers. It also happens to be up to 42 metres long (there is some variation between models). To put these numbers into some perspective, grab a few 737s (38,633 to be exact) and line them up tip to tail. The total length? 1,622 kilometres. Go wild and crazy and line them up between Suvarnabhumi and Chiang Mai. You could then walk atop the fuselages to Chiang Mai, back to Bangkok, and three-quarters of the way to Chiang Mai again.

Seems like a lot.

Back in 2005, the UNWTO and UNEP produced a Climate Change and Tourism study. The report said tourism’s transport-related CO2 emissions accounted for about 18% of the total for transport. These came from 9.7 billion tourist trips, of which 750 million were international arrivals. That is, just getting to where you’re going to have a holiday.

I’d like to double down on my CO2. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Thanks to a new report, released in 2019, we can fast forward to 2016. International tourist arrivals are now 1.2 billion. The total tourist trips? Around twenty billion. This in turn pushed tourism’s share of transport-related CO2 emissions to 22%. The report is quite dense—the above is paraphrased from page 43.

Seems we are going in the wrong direction.

Literature suggests that transport accounts for around 75% of tourism’s CO2 emissions. Air travel for about 40% of that. Long haul flights—as a product of the distances involved—are the worst culprits. According to this story, a flight from London to New York emits more CO2 than a typical person in any one of 56 countries —in a year.

Super-sized for super-vandals. Photo blurry as I wasn’t supposed to be there. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Anyway, I’m sure you already know this. You’re aware of the issues involved in long-distance flying. You already fly cattle-class, don’t pack the kitchen sink and carbon offset. You use a calculator thingy that makes you feel bad if you do anything but walk. That’s great. I’m not here to rant about flying long haul.

I’m here to rant about flying domestic.

Like a 737 in a stack above Don Muang (who hasn’t been there?) I’m going to circle back to my point up top. A 1,622 kilometre-long line of 737s tip to tail.

Now everyone can train. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If I was to line up said aircraft between the two Thai cities, I wouldn’t carve a new path through rice fields. While it isn’t the most direct route, I’d line them along the train line. Less environmental damage and all that?

Wait what? There’s a train line?

There sure is.

You can jump on a train in the early evening in Bangkok and wake up in Chiang Mai in the morning.

My kids love the Thai train system—as you can no doubt tell from this photo. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Better still, you could break up the trip.

You could stop at Ayutthaya and visit a historic capital.

You could get off at Lopburi and see eighty-two bazillion macaques who will steal your water bottle.

You could get off at Phitsanulok and visit national parks, or catch a bus to Sukhothai or Kamphaeng Phet.

You could get off at Den Chai for the short run up to Phrae and then onwards to go trekking around Nan in Thailand’s far north.

You could get off at Lampang for beautiful temples and terrific food.

That’s just five options—there are plenty more.

Avoid airline food. Win! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sure it will cost roughly the same, if not more than a flight with a low-cost carrier. It will also take longer—around ten hours longer.

But your CO2 emissions will be a fraction of what they will be with an AirAsia flight. According to this site, diesel trains emit less than buses (and are less nerve-wracking). They also emit a fraction of that of flying.

You’ll also see more of the country—from three metres instead of 35,000 feet. You’ll meet more Thai people. You’ll get to eat non-airline Thai food.

You’ll have the chance to get off at the wrong stop and explore Nakhon Nowhere.

You can meet chatty locals. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

You’ll travel slower, see more places, and not vandalise the planet in the process.

Travel is starting to inch forward. People are starting to plan itineraries they’ve been waiting 18 months to do. Take a look at your itinerary—if it involves a domestic flight, think again. Get out an atlas, look at what is in between.

Break the trip up. Slow down, see more.

Back up top, when I mentioned the volume of flights to Chiang Mai, there were other bonkers busy routes. In particular Ko Samui (15,302 flights) and Phuket (19,822 flights) ex Suvarnabhumi. Ex Don Muang, there’s Hat Yai (15,340 flights), Phuket (19,415 flights), Ubon Ratchathani (9,410 flights) and Udon Thani (10,638 flights). Of these, only Phuket and Ko Samui are not on a rail line. You can get close to both by train.

If you’re stuck for ideas, take a look at the following stories.

Bangkok to Chiang Mai the slow way.

Bangkok to the islands the slow way.

Four weeks in southern Thailand

Two weeks in Northeast Thailand

Before you know it, a domestic flight will be out of your mind. Instead, you’ll be trying to figure out how to wangle the extra leave from the boss. Best of all, the planet will thank you.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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So with all this talk of Thailand sort of reopening come November, if you could go for a month, where would you go? I asked myself this question this morning, thinking it would be an easy post to write—turns out it wasn’t.

Why? Because I’d like to go everywhere. I’d like to catch up with friends all over the country. I’d like to hit the northeast for the food, the south for the beaches and I’d like to grab a scooter and hit the northern hills. But I’d also not want to spend half the month moving from place to place—try that and I’d need a holiday at the end to recover.

This is one of Thailand’s major weaknesses—there is just so damn much to see, do, eat and meet. A point I hope I’ve illustrated with the Couchfish itinerary, which spent plenty of time in the country and still missed loads!

A performer during Chinese New Year, Bangkok. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another problem I face is, as I’m fairly well-travelled in Thailand, I have perhaps more than my share of favourites. These places were at the forefront of my mind when I sat down to put pen to paper this morning, and there’s a lot. Thailand has few places that I dislike, and that didn’t make the task at hand easier.

Most important though, is what I like, you might not. What I love, you may loathe.

So with all this in mind, I’ve decided to cheat. Rather than the itinerary, I set out to write, I instead present you with a jigsaw. Don’t worry, it is only a dozen pieces, so it isn’t too hard. Take the pieces you like, discard the others, and build your own perfect month. There is some overlap!

Take us to your leader. Patong Beach, Phuket. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Bright lights big city

Thailand is no slouch when it comes to megacities and they don’t get grander than Bangkok. You don’t need to supersize your urban sprawl though to get a taste of how Thai’s do it. Somewhere like Chiang Mai offers the best of both worlds, the old city locked down and the sprawl beyond. Down south, Nakhon Si Thammarat is, for once, an easy to navigate city (north or south) and the food is amazing. Also in the south, Phuket Town, the central bit at least, makes for good walking, eating, boozing and photos. In the Northeast’s southern corner, Ubon Ratchathani has terrific food and a social crowd.

There is no such thing as too much. Khao soi in Chiang Mai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One has to eat

Ok, I have to include Bangkok and Chiang Mai, if for no other reason than the absurd wealth of choice. Also, khao soi. Phayao I’m adding for an amazing salt-encrusted barbeque fish I had by the lake once many moons ago. Likewise Ko Kut, for a memorable seafood meal I had in a fishing village there. If I had to pick one town for soup, it would be Sukhothai.

Ancient relic. With pigeon. Phimai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

History matters

Phimai and Phanom Rung are both stunning sights and belong at the top of any list. I’ll always go for intermingled with sprawl Ayutthaya over manicured Sukhothai. Though the latter is great for those with kids, and, as already mentioned, soup! There’s also Kamphaeng Phet, with alien-like statuary and a fantastic guesthouse. Chiang Saen, because almost nobody goes there, despite it being wildly ancient. Also, an iced beer by the river goes down awfully well there.

Another full house at Lao Liang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Getting wet

Be it diving, snorkelling or floating around (no banana boating or jet skiing please!) Ko Tao, despite its reputation, remains a popular spot. Ko Lao Liang is one of those spots where I always scratch my head wondering where everyone else is. I won’t have that problem on woefully over-developed Ko Lipe, but it does remain pretty under the surface. Out east, while I prefer Ko Kut, Ko Chang is better equipped for diving and snorkelling trips. A last one, mostly because I don’t have a waterfall section, is Kanchanaburi. Take your pick from the many falls, and don’t forget your cowboy hat.

Exploring Ko Kut. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Drying off

You’ve gone and got yourself all wet, now where to dry off? Ko Kut has the best beaches in Thailand and yes, I will die on this hill. Another cracker is the back beach at Ko Ngai. Why Nam on Ko Pha Ngan proves size does not matter. Mae Nam on Samui is the best there. Further afield? Want to be deserted? Short of heading to Pattani, try the southern end of Si Chon’s many beaches.

Big skies in Nan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A walk in the woods

Some of Thailand’s most popular national parks are deservedly so. Khao Yai and Kaeng Krachan, particularly the latter, impress. Though I should note the latter is embroiled in an unsavoury drama. Khao Sok is one of the most visually stunning parks in the country and waking up in a raft house is special. If you prefer your parkland island-style—Ko Chang is the best bet. Want something a bit different? Try trekking in Nan.

Watching the orchids grow. Nong Khai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

By a slow river

Regular Couchfish readers will know I’m partial to sitting by the river doing nothing. Nong Khai and Khong Chiam are my two favourites in the northeast—don’t forget to give Laos a wave. In the north, Chiang Khong is for most the exit point to Laos, but give it some time and explore the river coast up that way. You won’t regret it. Bangkok is a given, they don’t call it the River of Kings for nothing, but for something different, try Thailand’s “Small Sea”. My outlier is Narathiwat—on account of the Narathiwat Hotel and its riverside deck.

Border layering at Phu Chee Fah. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sunrise

You get up early right? I hope so as you’ll need to be up well early to admire the sunrise from Phu Chee Fah. If it wasn’t for the haze, I reckon you could see the glistening temple spires of Luang Prabang from here. Haad Rin really? Yes! Your Full Moon Party beer goggles might be foggy, but the sunrise should clear your blurry vision. Sangkhom I list for an amazing sunrise I saw about thirty years ago—yes it was that good—but anywhere (east-facing) along the Mekong should be great. Another island option if you can rouse a speedboat dude early enough is the islands near Ko Samet—so pretty you’ll want to spend the day. Last one? On a night train. There is just something about watching the sunrise out a train window.

Bang Bao sunset, Ko Kut. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sunset

Where did the day go? It was sunrise a few words ago! Bang Bao on Ko Kut, with its wobbly wooden pier nails sunset (and your feet if you’re not careful). For something au naturel, Ko Phra Thong delivers. South again, some of Phuket’s west-facing beaches and viewpoints make for extremely photogenic sundowners. Last stop south? The back beach on Ko Kradan. Divine. Want something more urban? Get on up high at one of Bangkok’s many rooftop bars. The drinks list may be extortionate, but the only legal way you’ll get higher will be by buying a plane ticket.

I’m here for the culture. Full Moon Party. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Letting off some steam

Yes, I confess it—I have enjoyed more than my fair share of nights out on Bangkok’s Khao San Road. It isn’t the backpacker mess people portray it as. Well, it is actually, but there is a tonne of Thais there too—a great spot to mingle and meet. Also in Bangkok is Soi Nana (in Chinatown, not Sukhumvit). Not cheap, but lots of fun. Then yes the Full Moon Party, once a decade is enough for me. At the other end of the spectrum, a sleepy few drinks on Ko Muk’s Farang Beach are hard to say no to. Last but not least, if you’ve always wanted to see drunk backpackers fight in a boxing ring, there is always Ko Phi Phi.

Just keep riding. Somewhere in Nan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Two wheels good, four wheels work too

Mirroring the country’s political process, Thailand has some great circular loops. Best on a scooter, they also work by car—or even public transport. The Mae Hong Son Loop, Mae Salong Loop, Nan Loop and Chiang Rai Loop are all in the north. My last pick is “The Death Highway”—a 165km ride to the end of a dead-end road, and one of the best rides in the country.

A weirdly peaceful moment in an unsunken village, Sangkhlaburi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Touching the earth

Thailand does meditative as well as mayhem. Even if you’re not looking at doing a retreat at a forest wat, visitors are welcome and they’re a special spot for a breath. Try Wat Pah Nanachart and Wat Nong Pah Pong near Ubon Ratchathani, Wat Suan Mokh in Chaiya or Wat Kow Tahm on Ko Pha Ngan. If you’re looking for solitude rather than a retreat, try Wat Phu Thok near Nong Khai (note, it is a long ride, leave early). Or, one of my favourites, in the dry season only, charter a boat out to the sunken village at Sangkhlaburi.

So there you go, sixty places across twelve different areas of interest. Let me know how you’d assemble your jigsaw in the comments!

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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A while ago I was in Phnom Penh and revisited Tuol Sleng, the Khmer Rouge-period torture centre. I’ve visited a half a dozen times over the years, and if you’ve been there, chances are it is not something you’ll forget.

If you’re not familiar with it, Tuol Sleng was once a school, then the Khmer Rouge turned it into an “interrogation centre”. One of almost 200 such centres across Cambodia, over 14,000 people passed through its gates. Twelve survived.

The school building overlooks a frangipani-studded lawn garden. There are a few bench seats dotted about and on every visit, I’ve seen visitors seated among the trees, in tears. It is a moving, searing into the memory, place.

The horror of Tuol Sleng. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

You’re welcome to explore the centre under your own steam, but there are guides who sometimes lived the period on hand. They’ll give you the rote tour of the place, but they often weave their own stories through the spiel in the process. Without wanting to sound ghoulish, their lived experiences add a lot to a visit. These tours are free, though donations are appreciated at the end of the tour.

If you would prefer to explore Tuol Sleng at your own pace, there is also an excellent audio tour. For those with the time, I recommend visiting twice—once with the guide and then again with the audio tour. The audio tour costs an extra US$3 (for foreign visitors). Produced by Narrowcasters, the Australian-based firm offers a few Southeast Asia focused tours. Others include Chuong Ek, the Vieng Xay Caves in Laos, and Hellfire Pass in Thailand. You can listen to some samples here. According to this 2014 Australian Financial Review story they produce tours for 44 sites in 11 countries.

Tour group at The Killing Fields. Photo: Stuart McDonald

As far as I can tell, Narrowcaster audio tours are not sold directly to the public. Instead, they produce tours for the museum or attraction. They say:

“When we started in India there was no competition, we would just go to the sites, whether they were government-owned or privately owned – half the time we didn’t know, until we started digging; we would just go in and eventually find the people we should be talking to, and most of the time, we got a deal. But increasingly, a lot of it is by tender," she says.

What am I doing writing about audio tours?

The other day I was chatting to Alex Bainbridge on Twitter. Bainbridge is the CEO of Autoura—a “digital experience platform for real-world experiences”. One of his (many) interests is self-guided tours, and he sees a future where they’re free. He outlines some of his thoughts on the self-guided experience here. Boiled down, an expert guide has input into the product and then through a nifty blending with AI a free tour is born.

Wait till the robot-driven cars arrive fellas. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He makes some semi-persuasive points, particularly that a guide has only so many hours in a day. How does something like this would play out for local guides though? If Bainbridge’s vision of free tours comes to fruition, why would travellers hire a local guide?

Peter Syme is an “adventure specialist” and an advocate for digital transforming the travel industry. In Artificial Intelligence Guides And Service In Travel And Tourism, he writes:

“Some of the restrictions of today's tourism experiences are a one size fits all design. Even private tours and experiences are not that tailored to the guests. This is because real tailored tourism experiences designed for each guest are currently unscaleable, with a reasonable guest to guide ratio or a deep understanding of the guest's natural interests.”

This reinforces Bainbridge’s point that regardless of the skills, a tour guide has only so many hours in the day. There are only so many tours they can lead. There is only so much money they can earn. With AI though, this could change—but I wonder who would be doing the earning. I’d argue anyone but the guide. Writes Syme:

“Always available, can be summoned anytime, constantly evolving with vast amounts of new knowledge and can be serving thousands of guests individually at once. Unlike human guides and customer service people, a virtual AI guide can pay individual attention to each guest at a scale that no human could do. Also available 24/7, 365 days a year.”

Granted some hotel receptions could be improved with AI. Screenshot from The Serpent: Stuart McDonald

Yeah, ok, maybe ... but then this:

“AI-driven hotels, tour operators, and transport providers can work more closely than ever to serve guests. Humans will not be replaced but reallocated to higher-value activities.”

This gets to the core of my issue with this. If you’re a self-employed tour guide, how do you “reallocate yourself to a higher-value activity”?

When I asked Bainbridge for his thoughts on leakages and unemployment, he admitted it as an issue:

“In general you will replace local tour vehicle owning hierarchies with global digital network effects. Local jobs is tricky one - what’s YouTube’s impact on Hollywood? Arguably same medium but immutable”

Perhaps Syme and Bainbridge see this reallocation mirroring other areas of travel. Pour the expertise of a guide into a tech product produced by a foreign company. Pay some for their expertise, but not others. The company then sells the tour, offshoring money that once stayed in the local economy. The guide? Expertise milked, they can go do something else. What exactly isn’t suggested—perhaps join the unemployment queue?

Last year’s tech. Northern Laos. Photo: Cindy Fan.

This is for sold tours of course. At least in that case there is a possibility of the local guide competing on price. In Bainbridge’s model, the results are even worse—how do you compete with a price point of zero?

The difference between Narrowcaster’s approach and Bainbridge and Syme’s is clear. The former builds on an experience and provides a revenue stream within the location. The latter either undercuts local labour with free tours or offshores the revenue. Neither are good for the destination, nor the people who work there.

The offshoring of income from destinations is a blight within the tourism industry. Referred to as “leakages”, online agents like Agoda and Booking are two of the easiest examples. Book a hotel through either of those and while some money will reach the hotel, not all will. Anywhere from 10-50% “leaks out” in the form of commissions that never hit the shore of the destination.

Artificial Intelligence? Sometimes any intelligence helps. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Travel is a competitive business. Local operators are often treated terribly by foreign travel companies, and I reckon, for all the love-in talk, the real appeal of audio tours (and AI in general) for many of these multinationals are two-fold—it will lower costs, and it will reduce the need for dealing with real people running locally-owned businesses. AI-driven solutions will marginalise local operators.

Hang on, but what about Travelfish? Isn’t that a foreign company that earns money (in theory haha) by guiding people around Southeast Asia? Isn’t Travelfish replacing local guides by selling their own guides? Doesn’t Travelfish offshore its dosh?

I’m biased on this, but I’d say yes and no. We work hard to steer travellers towards locally owned businesses—including tour guides. In steering people to lesser-visited places, we may even help create or at least support jobs. Many are the time a reader has got in touch to say “I would never have found X without Travelfish.” I guess it is a matter of degrees—I’m comfortable with where Travelfish is at. The repercussions of some of the above though, make me very uncomfortable.

Not a robot in sight. Sumbawa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ll finish with an exchange I had the other day with a robot. As the Twitter conversation with Bainbridge finished up, the Autoura Twitter bot tweeted at me. Named Sahra, she said:

“We are very nice really”

I replied with a GIF of a scary robot and said “I found your brother.”

Being a robot, her sense of humour isn’t as developed as mine (a matter of debate!) and she replied:

“As I rely on local experts for all my information, how can you be sure you are not my dad?”

Then I said:

“Because I don’t remember receiving payment from you for mining my information to populate the febrile bucket of bolts above your virtual shoulders.”

She didn’t reply.

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Is there a better time to introduce a tourism tax than as you’re staggering out of a once-in-a-lifetime Covid-induced hiatus? Those at the Tourism Authority of Thailand brains-trust think the answer is no.

Yesterday the Bangkok Post covered their latest initiative here, which involves increasing the already approved 300 baht tourist tax to 500 baht. If you haven’t read the story already, go read it, I’ll wait.

Tourist taxes are far from a new thing. Plenty of nations have departure and arrival taxes, though these are mostly buried in air ticket prices nowadays. There are visa fees. You could argue a passport fee is a departure tax. After all a replacement Australian passport sets me back A$436—add another $220 if I’d like priority processing. And hell I’m already out of the country! Some towns, like Penang, have room taxes. Then there’s the good ole double pricing of national parks and other attractions.

Budget-traveller spotted in the wild. Khao Yai National Park. Photo: David Luekens.

So what gives with the 500 baht (roughly US$15) tourist tax? I’ll let Yuthasak Supasorn, the TAT governor explain. The Bangkok Post has him explaining the point of the extra 200 baht as follows:

“... the additional 200 baht will be earmarked for: projects initiated by the private sector, community enterprises, or social enterprises that would like to transform their business to meet the fund’s strategy; helping the country restructure from mass tourism to high-value or a bio-, circular and green economic model; and environmentally concerned tourism.”

When he refers to the “fund’s strategy,” what he is talking about is the approval, last week, by the Centre for Economic Situation Administration (a talk-shop established and chaired by coupist Prayut), of the creation of a fund. The goal of the fund is to subsidise projects which will:

“...transform the industry, focusing on high-value and sustainable tourism.”

By “high value,” the CESA means “high spending.” They don’t make it clear how they are drawing a line between people spending loads of dosh and sustainability. This is something I’ve written about repeatedly over the past.

Let’s get some quality tourists in here. Near Khao Yai National Park. Photo: David Luekens.

Rather than getting bogged down in those weeds again, I want to highlight what the Governor wants to transform the tourism economy into. He does, after all, give a few more details than the CESA. The TAT wants to restructure its mass tourism industry into:

“...a high-value or a bio-, circular and green economic model; and environmentally concerned tourism.”

I had no idea what he meant by a bio-economic model, nor a circular economic model, so I Googled the terms—wouldn’t want to miss a chance to learn something new—and I found this fantastic page on the website of the Royal Thai Embassy in Washington DC.

The Thailand I know and love. Source: Thai Business News via Thai Embassy Washington.

It seems Mr Yuthasak miss-spoke (or was miss-quoted) slightly. What he meant was a “Bio-Circular-Green Economic Model”, better known as the BCG. Not to be confused with the BFG—a kids’ book by Roald Dahl.

This scheme has been put together by (I assume) the Thai research community and is “a new economic model for inclusive and sustainable growth”. It reads like one of my uni readings (ie like stereo instructions) but to boil it down, it highlights four industries. They are agriculture and food, medical and wellness, bioenergy, biomaterial and biochemical, and tourism and the creative economy. I’m going to ignore the first three as I want to keep this post under 12,000 words and concentrate on the last one. Tourism and the creative economy.

No doubt Pak Chong Night Market gets a tonne of high-value tourists. Photo: David Luekens.

There are plenty of smart points listed.

They suggest having a policy of promoting secondary cities—which could better disperse tourists. Science and technology will be used to define national guidelines, looking at issues like carrying capacity. It will also be used to help rehabilitate the environment. It will also support a sustainable tourism standard system—while this isn’t said, I’m going to reach and suggest they’re talking about community-based tourism. The creative economy concept will then be used to interlink different strands of tourism—wellness tourism, culinary tourism, eco-tourism, cultural tourism and sports tourism. I don’t know quite how you interlink something that is already interlinked, but whatever.

The one clanger is that technology and innovation will be applied to create and upgrade infrastructure and a digital platform to improve tourists’ convenience and experience and advance the industry to high-quality tourism. Because yes, exactly what Thailand needs is yet another digital tourism platform that nobody looks at or uses.

And they were doing so well.

TAT to backpackers. Khao Yai National Park. Photo: David Luekens.

Let’s revisit those BCG points which I suggested were smart:

Promotion of secondary cities

Visiting lesser-visited places

Participating in environmental activities

Enthusiasm for community-based tourism

Having an interest in wellness, culinary, eco-, cultural and sports tourism

If you’re a Travelfish reader, chances are you’re probably thinking “hey, they all sound kind of familiar—that is how I already travel.”

Nevertheless, budget travellers are exactly what the TAT does not want. When asked about yet another charge having an impact on visitor numbers, Mr Yuthasak said:

“The additional cost won't have an impact on tourists as we want to focus on the quality market.”

The inference being if you’re wealthy you don’t care where your money goes. I don’t know many wealthy people, but those I do are wealthy in part because they care very much about exactly where their money goes. Whatever—it is a stupid and offensive statement. Not the first, and it will be far from the last.

“I think I spotted a creative economy concept.” Khao Yai National Park. Photo: Unknown but on David’s camera!

Idiocy aside, looking at that list above though, I hate to break it to the Governor, but there is one type of visitor to Thailand who, by and large, tick all these boxes already. Not only do they tick all those boxes, but they were (pre-Covid) already supporting this section of the Thai tourism economy—no 500 baht charge required.

Those people? They’re called budget travellers—dare I say, backpackers.

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In September Google announced they wanted to build a sustainable future for travel. Don’t we all? Well, many of us anyway.

You can read Google’s announcement here. To boil it down, what they’re doing is adding an “eco-verified” tag to “accredited” properties listed on Google. Readers can then click on the link to get the wrap on which boxes the property is ticking. This was right around when they joined Travalyst—a non-profit garbage fire of corporate blather and buzzwords about mainstreaming sustainable travel. It is run by some royal dude. As you may have gathered, I’m not much of a fan.

One is more sustainable than the other. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The other big bit of news on this front is a Booking.com report (PDF) which came out earlier this year—that its title photo is of Kelingkling Beach on Nusa Penida perhaps indicates its awareness of sustainability (pre-Covid19 Kelingking was a mess of over-tourism). The relevant headline figure was:

73% of respondents “would be more likely to choose an accommodation if it has implemented sustainability practices.”

I wonder how valid a reflection this is on the real world. If it was accurate you’d think the hotel scene would be far more sustainable than it currently is.

I talked to three small hotel owners while writing this, none said queries around sustainability were common. One summed it up as:

“People already know we are are as eco-friendly and sustainable as we realistically can be. They don’t need to ask, and we certainly don’t need this sort of labelling. Who is really driving this? Why?”

Said another:

“No, guests don’t ask before they book, but they appreciate the efforts we’ve made once they get here. The awareness raising of this is good, buy paying some outsider a fortune to tick a box to verify we are doing what we already do, is b**t.”

Anyway, back to Google. Ticking is exactly what is happening, as Google being Google, they’re not verifying anything. That instead, is left to a glad bag of “certain independent organisations”. Google currently lists 29 which meet their standards of eco-certification. Google doesn’t say what their own mysterious standards are of course. Says Google of the list:

“Each has comprehensive and rigorous sustainability criteria that aims to reduce a hotel’s carbon footprint.”

I’m being a bit unfair on the mysterious front. Google does throw us a bone—five categories it believes are important. They are:

Energy from carbon-free sources

Locally sourced food and beverages (Google considers within 100 km to be local)

Organic cage-free eggs

Eco-friendly toiletries

Responsibly sourced seafood

Sounds like a start I guess. It isn’t clear if you need to meet all these to be certified. I doubt it. Take seafood, Google defers to Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch for guidance. Mahi-Mahi is listed on their “avoid” list for Indonesia. Anyone who has eaten seafood in Bali will know this is one of the most frequent fish you’ll see on a menu. So if you sell Mahi-Mahi but friendly eggs, can you qualify? It isn’t clear.

Seafood lunch in Amed. Line-caught by a local fisherman. Wrong fish? No eco-certification for you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This is only a sample of Google’s criteria though—the accreditation agencies are a whole other beast. I started with the Asian Ecotourism Standard for Accommodation, as they appear to be Southeast Asia focused. They have a helpful PDF guide on their sustainability guidelines.

Like many of the organisations, you’ll need to be able to count real high if you want to count words like “try”. There’s little in the way of hard benchmarks. Take cooking oil for example. The PDF asks “Do you effectively reuse or recycle cooking oil?” The performance indicator: “Where available, use the used cooking oil as fuel and/or soap.” What it should say, is something like “To qualify for this certification, you must use X% of your used cooking oil as a fuel or soap.”

EarthCheck has featured prominently in media coverage of Google’s announcement. Let’s take a look. For starters, this Australian organisation is a bit of an exclusive club. Membership goes for A$400 per month and the audit fee is a mere A$2,420 for the first day and $1,650 for each extra day required. Best aim for an action-packed first day I reckon.

Before anything else, how many small, family-owned businesses in Southeast Asia are in a position to cough up fees like this?

EarthCheck has a handy map of businesses that are in their system. The closest two to me are the W Bali Seminyak and Alila Seminyak. Both break Bali’s build back rules (to be fair as does almost every beachfront property on the island). Maybe that is why they only got a Silver Certificate. But what does a Silver Certificate mean? Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find a clear explanation on their website. There is this checklist but it isn’t clear how this ties to silver or platinum or copper or whatever.

Platinum. By Bukit standards, Alila blends in I guess. Screenshot: Stuart McDonald.

I did note that Alila Villas down in Uluwatu scores even better—platinum no less. Above is a screenshot of their property in South Bali via Google Maps. How does a property with at least 56 private pool villas, built in an area with near no natural water, get platinum certification? Maybe they compost. According to their sustainability statement, they say:

“We are proud that Alila Villas Uluwatu has embraced environmentally sustainable design (ESD) principles and is the first resort in Indonesia to receive the highest level of certification from EarthCheck as a Best Practice Building Planning and Design (BPDS) development. We utilise many ESD measures, including use of local materials, water conservation with soaks and rain gardens and a wastewater management system, using local plants from the special Bali savannah ecosystem, the deliberate use of sustainable/recycled materials, protection of the natural environment, and measured work practices throughout construction.”

The fact remains though, there are at least 56 private pool villas where before there were none. Why isn’t this a part of the eco calculus?

I don’t mean to pick on Alila here—at least they do compost—and plenty more if you care to look at their statement here.

Down the road from Alila. This is why the original footprint matters. Screenshot: Stuart McDonald.

Alila’s good work, brings to mind a side note—wouldn’t a simpler approach have been for Google to simply link to hotels’ eco and or sustainability pages? Oh wait, that would involve leaving Google. Google may want to make travel sustainable, but please do your sustainability research on Google.

The last organisation I want to look at is that of Hostelling International. Hostels aren’t a thing in Southeast Asia in the way they are in the West, but this is the best I could find aimed at budget properties. As with the Asian Ecotourism Standard for Accommodation, there’s talk and guidelines, but no hard targets. Take this, on water:

“Water consumption is measured, sources are indicated, and measures are adopted to minimize overall consumption.”

In practice, what does that actually mean?

Don’t get me wrong. Just the other day I was writing about how travel publishing needs to ask harder questions of hotels. All these guidelines are at least pushing some operators in the right direction. They are also raising awareness—they’ve got me writing about it after all!

Ticking sustainability left, right and centre, but not approved by any Google-chosen mob. No green tick for you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

That said, marking these places as “eco-certified” is misleading, to say the least. Yes, it is good to compost—it is how we got our papaya tree. Or to use the right lightbulbs—who doesn’t want a mix of yellow and white bulbs illuminating their lounge room? A small price to pay for a better planet right?

The problem is, as far as I can see, the initial footprint of the property is not taken into consideration. That a resort can go build whatever, wherever, then receive environmental accolades, strikes me as absurd.

All of these schemes need to take the initial imprint of the place into account. What was there before? Was natural forest removed? Is there fresh water available? How much extra electricity was needed to turn the lights on? How much stuff needed to be imported to build the place? How much labour was drawn from local communities? Are employment contracts fair? How much of the hotel’s spend is within the local community? Was public beach access removed when the property opened? I could go on, but you get the idea.

Joni Homestay, 10km from Nihi, in Sumba. Certified friendliness—that’s what I want. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Some properties will do better at answering the above than others. I’m sure some won’t want to answer any of the above … at all.

But if you’re going to certify a business on an environmental or sustainability calculus, do it properly. And don’t do it in a manner that immediately discounts small properties that were already on the right track before Google suddenly decided the environment of travel mattered.

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Just a short entry today as I got my second vaccine shot yesterday and I feel like I’ve been kicked by a horse.

The other day I came across a Travel & Leisure story titled “Top 10 Southeast Asia Resort Hotels”. If you’d like to read it, click here, then close both pop-ups, the autoplay video and the full-screen interstitial, and you should be set.

The list is typical of Travel & Leisure—predictable and forgettable—no doubt great for their advertising executives though. Before closing the window, I noticed each property had a score out of one hundred. The top-rated hotel, the Six Senses Con Dao in Vietnam, scored 96.21. How are they scored I wondered? I clicked through to the Travel & Leisure methodology.

The only leakage here is the roof. Literally. Ko Chang Noi. Photo: David Luekens.

Travel & Leisure explain hotels were rated on location, rooms/facilities, food, service and value.

That’s it.

This struck me as not good enough and I tweeted, saying:

“Hotels were rated on their facilities, location, service, food, and overall value” <- I guess they forgot to ask about sustainability, environmental impact, relationship with local communities, legality, leakages, and if they obeyed build back laws…

How hard would it have been to ask readers to vote on these concepts as well? Or even just one or two of them? You could argue that having an informed opinion on sustainability, environmental impact, leakages or legality is beyond the average guest ... but one doesn’t need to be a chef to rate the food, or an architect to rate the rooms.

It is a complete cop-out.

Publishers running competitions like this should add these questions. It would in turn encourage properties to make the information available to guests.

We use locally-grown papaya in the som tam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Resorts are happy to tell you they don’t use plastic straws. Not so much that they had to import 600 air-con units and pool pumps for their private pool villas.

It isn’t like they don’t know this information. They’re happy to publish the scoop on them using low-energy lightbulbs after all. Why not add to that, the percentage of labour sourced locally? Their carbon footprint? Hell, they could go wild and crazy and supply the legal status of their land title.

Some places already do this in bits and pieces. Some resorts have admirable community programs for example. To my mind though, a uniform datasheet presenting the whole picture, warts and all, would be a great step forward.

Want hot water? Fill a black rubber bag (yes, imported) full of water and leave it in the sun all day. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

You don’t need to cast your mind back far to recall when guests didn’t ask about light bulbs, wastewater or plastic straws. Now they do. Over time awareness grew—dragging hotels, sometimes kicking and screaming—along with it.

Help guests figure out questions worth asking.

And when a hotel can’t or won’t answer the question—go elsewhere.

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I’ve written before about how a silver lining to Covid19 is for destinations to rethink how they “do” tourism. When you think back to 2019’s travel headlines, there isn’t much better a candidate than Cambodia.

It didn’t matter if it was the crowds at Angkor Wat or the madness of Sihanoukville, you didn’t need to look too far for the bad news. Thanks to the kleptocracy that runs the place, the bad news hasn’t stopped, but there’s been one bright note. Vaccinations. Mostly off the back of Sinovac and Sinopharm, 64% of its eligible population are fully vaccinated and 76% are on the way. The country is second only to Singapore in the region. Who would have thought?

Before Angkor there was Sambor Prei Kuk. Video: Hanuman Films.

While you’d think this would have it at the front of the queue for a reopening, it isn’t quite there yet. Cambodia, as it has been for years, lacks a wide network of long-haul inbound flights. Many once visited via Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur, Singapore or a raft of ports in China. Today, only Singapore, with daily flights to the capital, remains operating daily. There’s also a less than appealing two-week quarantine. Not ideal.

So, business for the Cambodian tourism industry and its tens of thousands of employees has been glacial. That isn’t to say though that people are resting on their laurels. Some are keeping busy, busy thinking about what Cambodian tourism could be when this is all over.

This morning, I was procrastinating online when I saw a film related to Preah Vihear in Cambodia. Produced by Hanuman Films, it is one of a series they have produced through the pandemic.

Enjoy sunrise at Preah Vihear. Video: Hanuman Films.

I loved it for its simplicity. There’s no grating host talking about themselves, instead, the site is left to appeal on its own merits—of which it has aplenty. I’ve known Nick Ray at Hanuman for years, and I gave him a call this morning to chat about what they’re trying to do with the films.

When I asked if the simplicity of the film, of leaving the site to “sell itself” was intentional, Ray laughed and said he was happy to take credit for anything positive I said. More seriously though, there was an interesting reason for how it is presented. In Cambodia, there is a real shift to try and appeal to domestic travellers. Keeping things simple (the video has a brief Khmer voiceover and English text, presented at different moments in the film) helped them appeal across different markets.

When you watch the video, of sunrise over Preah Vihear, it is hard not to think you’d like to go there. The thing is, Preah Vihear, while easier to reach than say a decade ago, is far from an easy spot to get to. Other videos cover equally remote sights—Preah Khan Kompong Svay and Koh Ker are both easier to approach, but they remain remote. And for many, with just Angkor on the radar, out of mind.

The Lost Temple of Preah Khan Kampong Svay. Video: Hanuman Films.

These videos help address this. Ray noted how historically there has been an overreliance on Angkor Wat in Cambodia’s tourism promotion, these videos, in their own small way, might help to change that. Get people thinking about new places and maybe they’ll travel farther—and stay longer.

Another video looks at BeTreed—an ecolodge in Preah Vihear province. Ray explains this one, which, as with a few of the films, was supported by USAID, was the first Airbnb online experience in the country. USAID has a programme centred on the Prey Leng Forest area, working to create alternatives opportunities for local people in an area rife with environmental challenges.

Producing the films has had a positive effect without anyone even acting on them. Talking of the production, Ray explains “each project has created jobs and opportunities for tour guides and drivers at a time when tourism has been in a state of suspended animation”.

Meet BeTreed. Video: Hanuman Films.

Another series looks at the food of the country. This time with the support of the Cambodian Ministry of Tourism and French development agency AFD. Again the focus is varied—yes the capital and Siem Reap are covered, but two others, one to the south coast and the other on the northeast, are great examples of driving people farther. The crab at Kep—delivery, please.

With the country well-positioned to leave its suspended animation sooner than later, people are concerned that, as has often been the case in the past, the country will be the bridesmaid to neighbouring Vietnam and Thailand. For now, Cambodia remains well ahead of them on the vaccination front, but they’re both gaining.

“This is the moment when Cambodia can define itself as a destination in its own right,” says Ray.

Mmmmm crab …Culinary Adventures on the South Coast. Video: Hanuman FIlms.

While bubble-talk pervades some governmental talking heads, there is a feeling that the country is the best positioned in the region to re-open with a nationwide bubble.

“Vaccinated visitors and vaccinated hosts equal a winning ticket,” says Ray.

The governmental concern is not invalid though—especially with the circuses in Thailand and the on- and off-again bubbles in Vietnam and Indonesia. Unlike these countries though, Cambodia is well-positioned to re-open in its entirety, in one hit.

The fear though, is if it waits too long, yet again it will be left to the side as the far better-financed tourism boards in Thailand and Vietnam come on stream. Look no further than the media circuses around Phuket, Samui and Phu Quoc for evidence of this.

One of the early films Hanuman did feature a deserted Angkor Wat. Of it says Ray:

“It felt like a historic moment, Angkor being like that—I didn’t realise that it was going to be like that for so long.”

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First two announcements.

I missed yesterday’s free post so am running it today instead—apologies for any confusion. Also, the free podcasts, including the past ones (all 120 of them) are now available on other platforms. This includes the usual suspects—Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify. If you use one of those services, search for Couchfish and you can subscribe there. Please do vote them up and say they’re awesome and all that stuff. Thank you.

So I found out yesterday that Lonely Planet has nuked their Thorn Tree forum. Wiped it off the face of the internet. Once easily the largest and most popular message board for independent travellers, it is a sad day. They locked the forum in April 2020 in the early days of Covid19, but most assumed it would re-open—alongside travel.

That, it seems is not to be. Sadly is it not only closed for good but the entire archives, which I would guess number hundreds of thousands of posts have also been incinerated. You can still access it via Archive.org (where I got the screenshots for this post) but it isn’t ideal. This is nothing less than the complete loss of decades worth of travel experiences and advice from tens of thousands of people.

Bummer dude.

Nice image, sad story. Screenshot: Stuart McDonald.

In the farewell post, an un-named author on behalf of Lonely Planet writes:

“Now, in 2021, as we continue to live with the effects of the pandemic, we recognize that travelers need different kinds of tools to navigate this unpredictable landscape.

As Lonely Planet embarks on a new journey to bring you even better guidance, support, and information for your next trip, we’ve made the difficult decision to completely close down and remove our Thorn Tree forums.”

They go on to suggest travellers instead turn their attention to Lonely Planet’s social media profiles—their Facebook group, Twitter, Instagram and TikTok accounts—as alternatives.

Vintage 2001. This was the earliest screenshot I could find archived. Via Archive.org.

The Lonely Planet social accounts are a different beast to what Thorn Tree was. Listicles and Travel & Leisure-style comment-bait are common, but they’re sometimes instructive, take this for the Mahachai train line near Bangkok:

“One of the most unique train rides in Thailand is a short, workaday, commuter line. ⁠⁠It begins near Bangkok and famously terminates smack dab in the middle of a wet market. ⁠Sound like something you're up for? Save this to your travel inspo folder and tag your best travel mate.⁠”

I’m not sure what an “inspo folder” is. Sorry.

You can comment, and ask a question I guess, but it is very much an information push rather than an exchange. There doesn’t seem to be much scope to ask how much a bus is from Siem Reap to Kompong Cham, though I guess if they posted a photo of a bus broken down on the side of the road in Cambodia, you could ask. Instagram posts do not appear to be indexed well by Google, so it isn’t like you’ll stumble across this stuff in search … you know, like when you need it.

Like I said—a different beast.

Vintage 2003. The was the version that “just worked”. Via Archive.org.

I assume these accounts are run by social media managers who may well have travelled, but the value of Thorn Tree wasn’t so much in the people who facilitated it, but rather those who answered the questions—which was mostly not the people who ran it. What regular on the Southeast Asia branch wouldn’t remember the Herculean efforts of Hanoi-based HongHa for example. I met her for coffee in Hanoi once, she had no secret agenda—she just wanted to help Thorn Tree users have a better time in Hanoi.

Now I know critiquing others’ social media habits is pretty rich coming from me. I’ve abandoned the Travelfish Facebook page, my Twitter account is 95% ranting and Instagram is flower pics (I have a separate Instagram account for pics of my dog after someone complained).

Regardless of what replaces it, Thorn Tree turning to ashes is a great loss.

Vintage 2008: Stuff was getting complicated. Why fix what wasn’t broke? Via Archive.org.

I guess though, this is in part a reflection on changing travel habits. Even before Covid19 the Travelfish forum was dead quiet—more so with the pandemic. Indeed the post alerting me to the Thorntree closure was there for a week before I even saw it.

Travellers are sourcing information differently. I often use Twitter (when not ranting) to ask for advice when travelling, and I use Instagram to find local travel evangelists. My kids wouldn’t use a forum if I paid them—they’d be straight to TikTok or Youtube.

So perhaps Lonely Planet is ahead of the game here, figuring their efforts are better off applied elsewhere. Still, it hurts. I used the forum for years—it was everything TripAdvisor wasn’t (yeah I know, a low bar). I made friends through it and found and learned stuff I otherwise wouldn’t have. It was, for me, my first online travel community. So yeah, while I stopped using it years ago (I gave up after one of their hostile and ineptly managed redesigns), it is sad to see it gone.

Vintage 2014: When the downhill slide got greased. Via: Archive.org.

It isn’t just gone. It has been splintered and turned into firewood. There was no notification (not that I received anyway) for people to grab what they’d posted—there was plenty in there that would have been nice to keep. Some members had posted tens of thousands of answers—yeah, some probably needed an intervention. It just seems pointless—and nasty—to remove it in its entirety. Who knows why—some lawyer screaming liability for old advice perhaps—I have no idea.

I think also, it isn’t just that people are collating their travel intelligence differently now, they’re travelling different too. Well, almost nobody is travelling at the moment, but you know what I mean. I went through the stored title pages of Thorn Tree to get an idea of the post counts. It was instructive.

In June 2001 there were 835 topics in the Mainland Southeast Asia branch. Seven years later, this had grown to 13,644. Another four years, to 2012, and it was 45,264. Four years again, to 2016, 60,515. Then another four, to 2020, 65,115. Things were slowing in part due to some dreadful redesigns and incendiary community moves, but I think also because travelling patterns were changing.

Vintage 2018: Where would I like to go? Anywhere but here please. Via Archive.org.

Travel, at least in Southeast Asia, was becoming far more mainstream. More of it was online, there were, in a way, fewer questions that hadn’t already been answered. Lonely Planet wasn’t the only show in town. More websites were popping up (including Travelfish, in 2004) but from around 2015, things on Thorn Tree slowed.

It wasn’t like fewer people were travelling—far from it. Regional travel exploded from about 2010 onwards. It felt though, like fewer backpackers (who I would guess formed the primary Lonely Planet market at the time) and more other travellers—dare I say, tourists! This was when low-cost airlines took off, short trips came within the reach of many more, and regional travel went through the roof. Southeast Asians travelled more in their own region. Enormous independent markets out of China and South Asia came on stream.

Then Covid19 came and it all stopped.

Blah blah blah blah whatever dude. Via Archive.org.

When I think about changing travel patterns, their decision makes a little more sense, suspending it I mean—nuking it will never make sense. Running a forum, take my word for it, is not an undertaking that does not have overhead and drama. So why keep investing time in it, if few are using it? Is a web forum really just a bit too nineties?

Perhaps ask them—I’m sure they’ll have time to answer between posting photos of Mykonos.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

Thank you!

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If you’ve ever seen a baby learning to walk, the phrase “baby steps” will need no explanation. The baby starts off crawling, then, with wobbling not in short supply, takes their first steps. Then, more often than not, falls flat on their face. They do get up though, and try again, and again. Eventually, they walk, then run, then dance. Well, some never quite manage the last bit. And so it is with travel in the age of Covid19.

There’s been no shortage of attempts to walk, some doing better than others. There’s also been plenty of falling on one’s face. With babies though, there is always a parent or another, offering a guiding hand. Also, cheers and tears when the first steps happen.

Oh Jakarta. Photo: Samantha Brown.

With travel though, the helping hand takes a more curious form.

I read a story in the Indonesian outlet Tempo the other day, talking about Bali yet again trying its first steps. Quoting Tourism and Creative Economy Minister Sandiaga Uno the story read:

“Learning from the Phuket Sandbox which focuses on significantly curbing local transmission in Phuket can be later applied in Bali.”

It is true, there is no shortage of remedial learning material to come out of Phuket’s Sandbox. Curbing local Covid19 transmissions though, seems a curious one to highlight. As I’ve written before, the project threw public health under the wheels of a tourist minivan. Meanwhile, the Covid19 caseload on the island has skyrocketed. The day before the Sandbox launched, there was a cumulative total of 729 cases on Phuket. According to the Bangkok Post, the total accumulated cases are now 8,062. Only 95 have been tied to the Sandbox scheme and given there have been 33,095 arrivals, this is a good result. It isn’t clear though, how the Sandbox curbed Phuket’s infection rate.

Perhaps the Indonesian Tourism Minister was suggesting that Bali could learn what not to do. Phuket’s results are underwhelming to say the least—in part due to bodgy numbers from the TAT brains trust.

Not just yet. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Regular readers will know I’m a fan of the Southeast Asia Travel Show podcasts by Hannah Pearson and Gary Bowerman. Their most recent show was one of my favourites. They sat down with Bangkok-based travel writer Vincent Vichit-Vadakan for a chat about Thailand. Go listen to it now—I’ll wait.

In the interview, Vincent notes that of the 30,000-odd international arrivals into the Sandbox, at least half, if not more, were locals or foreign residents. While these people might enjoy a beach break before heading home, they’re not tourists. When the Tourism Authority of Thailand suggests they are, all they’re doing is layering false hope for other destinations, in or outside Thailand.

Not surprisingly, small local businesses do not appear to be thriving. Writes The Pattaya News:

“Local shop owners and entrepreneurs in Phuket mutually agreed that the Phuket Sandbox, a program to attract foreign vaccinated tourists, did not help domestic tourism and small business owners since it first launched in July.”

If it walks like a duck, it is most likely a duck. If it walks like a returning ex-pat who lives in Bangkok, chances are it doesn’t walk as a regular tourist would. Small business owners don’t sound happy. From the same story, this bit jumped out at me:

“Some big and powerful businesses and resorts may get some benefits from the sandbox, but not us.”

As I’ve written before, a considerable impetus behind the Sandbox was big business pushing for it. It isn’t outrageous to see similar pressure behind moves in Indonesia’s Bali, and Vietnam’s Phu Quoc Island.

Bai Sao, Phu Quoc. I hate to think how it has changed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Take this, from Vietnam Express—it doesn’t sound like budget travel is in Vietnam Tourism’s scope:

“Under a six-month trial program, 2,000-3,000 tourists will come every month by charter flight in the first three months, and stay in sequestered resorts and limited areas. ... Hotels are required to have a separate area for the international tourists besides isolated testing and quarantine areas.”

Meanwhile, in Bali, we had a minister suggesting Bali didn’t want backpackers. This was later clarified, with his spokesperson saying the Minister didn’t mean what he said. Underlying his comment though was a focus on “quality tourists”—a euphemism for wealthy people—and increasingly common language from tourism boards and government ministers across the region. That Nusa Dua—a luxury enclave in South Bali is one of the areas posited for an early opening, is not a coincidence. Here’s a typical deal: “Worry gone in the Nusa Dua green zone” from the Marriott Courtyard

Regardless of what gets re-opened when, the question remains, if it comes with strings, who will go for it? The answer seems to be “not many travellers”.

Putting the “little people” first. Signage somewhere in Nusa Dua. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On Ko Samui, matters are already being rejigged, says Ratchaporn Poolsawadee, president of the Tourism Association of Koh Samui:

“The programme that started on July 15 did not produce fruitful results," Mr Ratchaporn said. "We need a makeover to become a quarantine-free destination with fewer restrictions to attract more demand and let more tourism operators benefit from the reopening.”

Phuket’s rules have changed so often I’ve lost count and yet still, demand is tepid at best. Speaking generally, but mentioning Phuket on the Southeast Asia Travel Show podcast, Vincent says:

“I don’t see international coming back this year, it is just too complicated, especially if there is any sort of quarantine restriction when you arrive at a place, even moreso when you come back. There are places that I could go but if it means two weeks in a hotel room at worst, or at best two weeks in Phuket it’s a lot of time. It is a huge time commitment.”

Quarantine, regardless of if in the destination or the home country, remains the logjam. Until vaccination levels improve considerably, no country concerned about public health should remove it.

Take the right leap. Lyla at Desa Seni, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This brings me to the title of this post—the wrong baby steps.

If there is something to really be learned from the Phuket Sandbox it is that countries should choose domestic tourism as their first baby steps. Inbound big business and its billionaires may whine, but inbound tourism comes from a quarantine-tainted chalice. Questions about vaccine passports and acceptance further muddy the waters. Few travellers want or can afford the time for two to four weeks of quarantine for a holiday. The people who can afford the time—backpackers—are inexplicably out of favour with destinations in the region. As I’ve asked before, what is with the hating on backpackers?

Instead, destinations like Bali, which I’ve argued previously is perched upon a precipice of decay, presents a scrap metal jet on an undeveloped cliff as a new tourism icon. Give me a triple of irony, please. Chasing higher-paying foreigners, who for many of the above reasons—and more—by and large, don’t come, is a fool’s errand. One of the arguments made for Phuket was that the island wasn’t popular with Thais, so foreigners were the only market worth chasing. I never bought that, but in both Phu Quoc and Bali, the largest market, by far, of any single nationality, has always been domestic travellers.

Let me tell you where you can jam that scrap metal jet. Nyang Nyang Beach. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Nations such as Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand and Vietnam all have well-sized middle classes. Middle classes who want to travel. Middle classes who are already in the country. Middle classes who are increasingly vaccinated.

Once they are, let them. The foreigners? Let them come a little further down the track.

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Dear reader, I’d like you to cast your mind back a few years—to 1993 to be exact. By chance, that year was the first time I visited Thailand, but that isn’t why I’m highlighting it. In that year the Environmental Conservation Section of the Tourist Authority of Thailand (TAT) sent a memo to the government. The title was “An Outline of Problems and Remedies of Tourism Impact on the Environment”. It makes for a rather interesting read.

I can’t find the inbound tourism figures for 1993. The earliest figures I could find were out of the 7th edition of Lonely Planet Thailand by Joe Cummings. Published in 1997, it gives the total number of inbound tourists for 1995 as being 4.2 million. To put that in perspective, that is a little over ten per cent of the number who visited the country in 2019.

Four million tourists are still a fair number of people, but it seems certain people within the TAT’s Environmental Conservation Section were already concerned. So concerned in fact, they wrote a memo.

Didn’t you get the memo? Ko Phi Phi Leh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I came across a reference to the memo last night in a text I’m reading for school: Taking Responsibility for Tourism: Responsible Tourism Management by Harold Goodwin. In it (on page 152), he references a TAT that reported a “disturbing litany of adverse impacts.” I had to know more.

Six aneurysms later (I’m really struggling with online libraries) I found the source text. Titled Managing Tourism Growth: Issues and applications by Fred Bosselman, he referred to the following memo on page eight and nine. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the original TAT memo and while he’s paraphrasing here, his summary makes for a prescient read.

Here we go:

The TAT memorandum very pointedly categorized the negative impacts brought upon by unchecked tourism in Thailand.

1. Deterioration of tourist destinations and pollution

Visitor sites became dirty and degraded. Pollution in many forms abounded: water degradation, discolored beaches, and stench from garbage and traffic, all of which were “injurious to the visitors’ health and induced psychological distress and displeasure to them. Tourists left with a negative impression and had no wish to make a repeat visit.”

2. Encroachment on public land

Commercial tourism development was located on public mountains, islands, beaches, and forests without valid legal title or permission. Additionally, some developers improperly expanded existing tourism uses onto adjoining public lands.

3. Buildings and structures

Scenic integrity and quality were compromised by illegal building that did not comply with code requirements as to height, quality, and open space, particularly around two popular beach regions and one culturally attractive city in the north. Some buildings were illegally and insensitively sited in locations where they were out of scale and disfigured the natural contours and features of the land. Additionally, building had “mushroomed in complete chaos, resulting in a jumbled sea of eyesores”; examples included beer bars in the previously peaceful beach areas of Phuket and Ko Samui, as well as shopping stalls and arcades next to Chiang Mai temples and archeological sites.

4. Development of infrastructure and facilities without regard to the environment.

This set of problems involved improper filling of waterways, roads constructed too close to the coastline or through mangrove forests, and soil disturbances (e.g., excavation) causing subsidences and silt accumulations to the detriment of natural ecosystems and geography.

5. Commercial sex

Tourism growth triggered substantial increases in this industry, even though “it has been with the Thai society for a long time.” The increase in such activities brought with it disease (e.g., STD and AIDS), drug use, crime, and child prostitution.

6. Crime

Urban communities experienced increasing crime against tourists.

7. Unequal emphasis on area development

Improvements to infrastructure and facilities, such as electricity and roads, were provided to tourist hubs rather than to nontourist locations.

8. Other negative impacts

There were a number of other problem areas related to or caused by unmanaged tourism growth: unfair exploitation of tourists (e.g., extortion and unconscionably high prices); manipulation of traditional culture (e.g., neglecting the “intimate meaning” of cultural elements and instead presenting the culture in “outward, dazzling display and performance”; decline in the quality of artifacts and handicrafts; and occasional hostility between tourists and the local population where tourists behaved in ways that are offensive to residents.

The memo was written in 1993, but it could just as easily have been written in 2019—26 years later. It seems nothing, nothing whatsoever, has been learned. Many of the points outlined above are not new—what is noteworthy is that they were highlighted by the tourism board of Thailand.

When your tourism plans are fall-down drunk. Ao Nang. Photo: David Luekens.

I did some searching online to try and find the TAT’s Environmental Conservation Section but as far as I could tell it no longer exists.

That’s one way to make the problem go away I guess.

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Back when travel was still a thing, I had a sideline in travel consulting. People would pay me to help them plan out their holiday. They’d come to me with a date and a wish list and I’d help them fashion it into a trip that would hopefully be better than it would otherwise have been.

They’d send me what information and thoughts they had, then we’d have some to-and-fro by email. Perhaps a Skype call or three. It varied—no two trips are the same and all that.

It was a fun—and at times challenging—sideline. Some would already have a solid trip planned and only wanted someone who knew the territory to confirm it. Others, well, it was akin to juggling spaghetti—with the sauce already added.

Guidance, please. Pai Guesthouse signboard. Photo: Mark Ord.

A typical wish list varied. It could be anything from a half dozen bullet points to something verging on a PhD. While I know these have their fans, Excel spreadsheets always set off my warning klaxon, but horses and courses etcetera. For most, it was their first trip to the region. This isn’t to say they weren’t experienced travellers, no doubt, some were, but for most, Asia was a new frontier.

Once I’d fashioned the itinerary into something coherent, we’d get down to where the dragons lay. Most of the time people were fine with me reorganising the order and flow of a trip. After all these decisions were fact and logic-based. It is wet season there in June. Three days in Cambodia is insufficient. That bus ride will take two days, I would recommend considering a flight. And so on.

The dragons lay with the Joneses.

If you’re not familiar with the phrase “Keeping up with the Joneses”, there is a good Wikipedia explainer here. The pertinent section reads:

“The philosophy of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ has widespread effects on some societies. According to this philosophy, conspicuous consumption occurs when people care about their standard of living and its appearance in relation to their peers.”

How this would play out in my travel consulting world is as follows. A trusted source would have told the client they should go, see, do, eat, whatever. This source may have been a friend, family member, or, on one occasion, a radio host they’d never met. Now plenty of these suggestions were solid, sometimes though, they weren’t. This was when the dragons would raise their heads.

What would Aunt Nancy think? Water Dragon, Rattanakiri, Cambodia. Photo: Greg McCann.

I wasn’t shy about flagging what I considered to be bad advice. The thing is, the traveller knew Aunt Nancy (or whoever) and Aunt Nancy knew them. Me? I was a dude they’d never met. What did I know about their tastes and desires? Maybe they’d like what Aunt Nancy was telling them to do. What would I know?

People say “word of mouth” is the form of recommendation that holds more weight than anything else. Boy, did I learn that one fast.

Let me use an example—I’ve changed identifiable details, but the lesson holds.

Aunt Nancy had told my client they had to eat at a certain restaurant in a certain city. It was the best meal they had their entire trip. The traveller’s itinerary had lots of suggested restaurants listed, but this one jumped out at me. It was a tourist trap, and, while the food was ok, there were far better places to eat in the city.

Their original itinerary was vast in scope, taking in many countries over a period of some months. In my first rewrite, I scratched out the restaurant and added “tourist trap switch for X”. It was one of dozens upon dozens of changes.

“What even is a tourist trap?” they wrote. Sam Missile, Attapeu, Laos. Photo: Cindy Fan.

When they replied, they said thank you. In the next sentence though, they wrote “I want to eat at X. Aunt Nancy said it was the best place in the country.”

Of all the changes I’d made, most of which they were totally fine with, this was their first thought.

The consultancy played out over a few months and we kept coming back to this restaurant. While it wasn’t a hill I was willing to die on, it was just a bad tip and it nagged at me. I’ll come back to this in a moment.

How people decide to research their trips has changed over the years. You may be thinking “Oh nobody uses a Rough Guide or Lonely Planet anymore”, but in the West, it goes farther back. In the East, more so.

I’d like a scarecrow explainer, please. The cover of Coryate’s Crudities. Photo: CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

Writes Emily Thomas in the The Meaning of Travel, on the beginnings of the Grand Tour in the 17th century:

“One was Thomas Coryate’s 1611 Crudities: Hastily gobled up in Five Moneth’s Travels. It describes Coryate’s journey, much of it on foot, across Europe. The book contains lots of practical information on the countries travelled through, including their history, food, and exchange rates. Coryate’s aim was to encourage travel across Europe. Although he is little known today, Coryate was once nicknamed Furcifer (fork-bearer), for introducing the fork to England.”

The last sentence is irrelevant to this story, I just like the random oddities Thomas drops in. Her book is excellent—I reviewed it here.

This decade’s primary influence factor might be Instagram or TikTok. In the eighties and nineties, it was undeniably printed guidebooks. Before that, periodicals, journals and letters. Underneath all these though, were personal recommendations—even if they were not always on the money. Back to Thomas, quoting Joseph Hall from his 1605 satirical dystopian novel, Another World and Yet the Same:

“What if some Patagonian Polyphemus [Cyclops] were to tear you to pieces and then straightaway devour the throbbing and still-living parts?”

What if indeed—imagine catching up with Hall for beers after one of his trips?

While I never had a client ask me about the risks of a cyclops attack, there were plenty of bad bits I did counter. Many of them were thanks to Aunt Nancy.

Clients often wanted to go somewhere not because they wanted to, but because they’d been told they needed to. My response was often “Sure you could go there, but this other place might be a better choice for reasons X, Y and Z”. I’d always couch my advice as an option rather than an imperative—it is their trip after all.

The itinerary was pretty much done. A bazillion emails had gone back and forth along with a few hour-long calls. We kept though coming back to this one restaurant. I’d supplied a few alternatives and explained why I thought they were better. I’d also explained why I was down on this particular establishment. It wasn’t so much that it was bad, as much as there were many other far better options. In the end, the client said they’d “Think about it”. The consult was wrapped up and I pretty much forgot about it.

The other day, like most days, I was procrastinating on Twitter. I saw a tweet by a regional tourism board pushing a particular spot saying it was renowned for its beauty. I get the business tourism boards are in, but this particular one annoyed me more than usual.

Please visit our UNESCO Historical Site. Photo: Travelfish.

You see, I’d been to the location a couple of years earlier. The site was buried in trash, really in a poor state. I took some photos of it and tweeted them to the tourism board. In my tweets, I wrote they were welcome to use my trash-filled photos for their promotional work. Not surprisingly, they ignored me.

Maybe the site has been cleaned up since, I don’t know. What I do know, is if a prospective traveller saw the tourism board picture, they may well add the destination to their planned trip. If they were later to ask me, I wouldn’t think twice about saying “skip it and go to X instead.”

Unlike the 17th century, today travellers have a myriad of sources available to them. It pays though to sift through the chaff. Treat anything—and I mean anything—from a tourism board with the utmost level of caution. From that extreme, you have a progression through PR, comped and promotional writing, right through to your own experiences.

How can I write “your own experiences” when I’m writing about you going somewhere new? You haven’t been there yet.

Buying bridges? Here you go. The Broken Bridge, Salavan, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

That’s right, you haven’t but you will—and only then will you have your own opinion. No trip is perfect—and anyone who promises you one, well, they’ll sell you a bridge too. They’ll always be something less than perfect on a trip. It is a part of the learning experience—even if the lesson is to learn never to go there again!

About six months after the consultation I received an email from the client. They were back. Overall their trip had gone great and they were very appreciative of my assistance, but ...

You know where this is going right?

... they had re-shuffled their plans in that one city and had gone to the restaurant I’d said was a poor choice. They loved it. Not only that, the next night they went to the restaurant I had suggested as an alternative and ...

You know where this is going right?

... my suggestion was good but not as good as the one suggested by Aunt Nancy.

As with the perfect trip, perfect travel advice doesn’t exist. Make your own trip, make your own mistakes—and learn from them. Oh and ignore tourism boards and do be selective with Aunt Nancy’s travel advisories.

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As it is about time to say goodbye to Thailand, I thought today I’d take a look at where we’ve been. Given this is a summary piece, I’m making this one free-to-read, as I have with any of the Couchfish posts I’ve linked to below. Enjoy!

On paid-for Couchfish, if I counted them right, I’ve had 85 days in the country. On the free-to-read Couchfish, I touched on Thailand in another 36 entries. Now the 85-day itinerary was in three sections. First, up through the north (Couchfish started in Bangkok), then a quick swing in from Laos. Later I re-entered from Cambodia, hit the Northeast, then headed all the way south to Malaysia.

Feet up and slow down. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This in itself isn’t an unusual treatment of Thailand. Longer-stay travellers often roll in and out, visiting neighbouring countries in between. When you look at the map though, you’ll see there are vast swathes I barely touched upon. The eastern coast, including Ko Chang, Chanthaburi and Ko Kut. Much of the north and centre, and then most of the southwest of the country. Some of these gaps I covered a bit on free-to-read Couchfish, but there are still plenty of holes.

So, 121 days.

I admit the pace of the itinerary, on the move almost constantly, is bonkers. My idea though was for every day I wrote, you could allow at least another two days. Wow, that 121 days just became a year of travel. Where did that go?

Thailand is a big place, with plenty to offer the inquisitive traveller. Some of the destinations I skipped, like Chiang Mai, Ko Samet and Kanchanaburi, I could easily have spent a week or so in. But, well, part of the goal of Couchfish was to highlight places you may not have heard of. I hope on this count I have succeeded, and you’ve filed a few entries away for when you return.

Everywhere is worth a night. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On the topic of lesser-known spots, I still have a few up my sleeve. So should the pandemic roll on long enough, I may well find myself back in Thailand. Who knows.

It also highlights the ridiculous state of affairs when it comes to tourist visas. Of course, only a fraction of travellers have the funds and time to take a year off to kick around in Thailand, but some do. Longer tourist visas yesterday, please.

Another thing I hope I’ve surfaced, and for regular visitors, this wouldn’t be news, is the Thai people. There’s a bunch of posts on Couchfish where I write about interactions with local people, and for almost every post I didn’t, I could have. The country is fascinating and beautiful, but in my experience, it is the people that make it.

Later, we had tea and I got to meet everyone in the village. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Obviously, regardless of where you are in Thailand, you’ll be dealing with Thai people—you’re in Thailand duh! In my experience though, it is almost always in the off-the-radar spots, that the magic happens.

Quite a few of the pieces I’ve written about happened years ago, sometimes two decades ago. Yet, writing these stories have brought the memories back big time. The laughter and smiles. The sup sip over food and too many beers. The polite incredulity over my idiocy. More than anything though, the hospitality I’ve been lucky enough to encounter, over and over. I’m sure I’m not alone on this.

Like anywhere, the country is not without its flaws. Like many nations in the region, the people deserve far better governance than they’ve ended up with. The environment continues to be flogged mercilessly. Overtourism, while not an issue at the moment, was at crisis levels in late 2019. Yet, on each of these counts, Thais young and old are working hard for change. Often against nearly insurmountable odds. Be they political, environmental, or academic activists, it is heartening stuff.

Big Brother is watching you. Ratchaburi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Writing the Thai section of Couchfish has also been educational for me. I’ve been writing, from a tourism and travel perspective, about the country since the mid-1990s. On more than a few occasions, going through my old writing and diaries, I’ve cringed at my earlier takes, or when I was simply doing it wrong. Sometimes I was right on the money, other times, my words mortified me. It has been a great lesson for me in how travel writing needs to do better. Do better not only for the reader, but also for the destination and the people who live there.

Overall though, it has been a great wander down memory lane. Thailand was the first country I lived in, in Southeast Asia, and so there is an extra soft spot in my heart for it. I still, all these years later, remember walking out into the cloying evening air at Don Muang ex Kathmandu. It seemed like every person had a scooter. It was mad and it was love at first sight.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride and tomorrow, I cross the border into Malaysia.

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Years ago, I was at the Jolly Frog Guesthouse in Thailand’s Kanchanaburi. The guesthouse was a backpacker haven. It had a lawn garden and rooms running around the edge with a few more down floating on the river. The lawn had hammocks strung and deckchairs scattered. The restaurant was cheapish and the beer cold. Many a stay was extended.

I was travelling with a Swiss girlfriend at the time, and she had a firm grasp on a gaggle of languages. Five from memory. One night at the ever jam-packed restaurant, we needed to share a table with two older Austrian guys. Nikki and I were speaking in English and after a brief “hello” to the Austrians, we ignored each other.

The Jolly Frog lawn. Not a passed out backpacker in sight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I don’t remember what Nikki and I were talking about. I do remember her glancing at the Austrians (who were speaking German), and getting annoyed. Then, she said she wanted to leave, so we left.

It turned out the Austrians were talking about us, assuming Nikki couldn’t speak German. They were talking about her, how she looked, if her dinner would make her fat, and how we were a miss-matched couple.

Lovely.

Sunset by the river. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

An amusing side-note here, I don’t know if this is a myth or not, but it still makes me laugh to think about it. The staff at Jolly Frog were legendary for their abruptness. The story goes, one night a guest was at a table, and as they waited to make their order, the staff said, in Thai, “What do you want you fat pig?” Little did they know the person they were speaking to was a fluent Thai-speaking guidebook author.

Ops. One must always be wary of making too many assumptions.

It is a common caricature, the tourist expecting a local to speak their language. When the local doesn’t understand, they speak louder, annunciating each word like a piston. Louder again. Yet still, they’re not understood.

“DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?”

Like the guest at Jolly Frog, I’d like to think this sort of behaviour is a myth, but far from it. I’ve seen—and heard—it with my own eyes and ears. Like something out of a Fawlty Towers episode—I Googled it and sure enough, there’s a snippet right on point.

Fawlty Towers has not aged well, but Basil illustrates my point in this short excerpt.

Travellers can have all sorts of expectations, some sensible, some less so. Language though has always struck me as a funny one. As anyone who has studied a new language would know, getting a solid grasp can take years of study and practise. I’m in awe of guides who not only have solid English but also have no trouble with English accents—unlike me!

So why is there this expectation that the locals will speak your mother tongue, but not you theirs? I’m not suggesting people invest in a year of study before a Thai beach break, but you can learn a lot on a six-hour flight. Start with the simple things—greetings, how to say thank you and please. Learning the numbers in any language is both rudimentary and super handy. Yet many don’t bother.

The forever “almost sinking” River Guesthouse. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It isn’t only about learning words that will make your trip easier, but also showing locals you’re making an effort. Some get unnerved when their attempts bring laughter, but, most of the time, they’re laughing with you—not at you. Everyone knows learning a language is hard for most.

Another thing, you know I’ve never seen a Thai tourist yelling “Do you speak Thai?” at a Sydney ticket vendor, yet I’ve seen this innumerable times in Thailand—with the roles reversed.

I guess a lot of it is acknowledging you’re a guest. That the country and its people are not there as your plaything. This sort of attitude can manifest itself in plenty of ways, not only language, but it is invariably a bad look.

If you learn how to say waterfall in Thai, you might find more places like this. Erawan Falls. Photo: David Luekens.

The other thing about language is it is never only about words. It is a window into another culture, their beliefs and their way of life. A simple Thai example is “kin khao”—literally “eat rice”, but in Thai, it means simply to eat. There—you just learned a phrase. Jokes aside, learning any language, even only a little bit of it, and you’ll learn far more than words. Pick up a language book and you’ll see it full of slices of life, showing the connection between language and everyday life.

So what am I doing going on about language?

Most people can’t travel to Southeast Asia at the moment. They’re at home, waiting for countries to re-open, flights to re-start, and visas to be something other than the name of a credit card. Why not spend a little bit of that waiting time, working on the basics?

The bus to Erawan costs haa-sip baht. Numbers are useful. Photo: David Luekens.

You need not go and start a Bachelor degree in the Vietnamese language, (though do feel free!). There are plenty of free language courses online that will at least cover the basics. The coverage of Southeast Asian languages on Duolingo is limited but slowly improving. Their base product is free, and you can learn useful phrases like “My house has a million cats in it”. Seriously.

If the last thing you want to do is stare at a screen for another hour, look into courses at local colleges or Community Centres. You might be surprised how much is available. Or, go the old route, and go pick up a textbook.

It’s not only about learning the language, it is also about learning more about the country and its people. Every word will bring you that little bit closer.

Sometimes though, words in any language will fail you. Photo: David Luekens.

Then, when travel does re-open, you’ll never be that dude berating a guide for not speaking English. Best of all, if you ever find yourself at Jolly Frog, you’ll be able to say:

นี่ไม่ใช่หมูอ้วนนะ หยาบคายนะคุณน่ะ ขอผัดไทยใส่ไก่หน่อยสิ

To save you running this through Google translate, it translates roughly to:

“I’m not a fat pig. You’re rude. I’d like the pad thai with chicken.”

Thanks to my friend Kip for the Thai translation!

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When you’re travelling at the budget end of the stick, it isn’t unusual to hear what is going on in the next room. You’ve seen The Beach right?

This isn’t restricted to cheap dorm rooms and thatch beach bungalows though. My favourite story came to me second hand from some good friends staying at a luxurious hotel in Phuket. Their neighbour was a European and one evening they returned to their room with a drink on the veranda in mind. The racket from next door was unmistakable though, and it gave them pause.

Phuket’s Kata. Circa 1993. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sitting on their lounge, they listened to the, dare I say, banging noise. There was a voiceover too, it repeated ... in rhythm.

Him: “I love you big time baby.”

Her: “No way fat man.”

Love is a beautiful thing isn’t it?

To be fair, I’m not meaning to pick on Europeans here. I’ve had Thais bonking in the room next to me—I just couldn’t understand what they were yelling at each other.

One of the things I love about hostels and more budget-focused beach resorts, it the social vibe. A good place becomes great when they pull this off in a seemingly effortless manner. Even if it is often anything but effortless. There’s no “Afternoon Tea” or “Meet your neighbour”, instead there’s a common area that guests naturally want to hang out in. While phones have put a dampener on this, you’re still at least going to ask a stranger for the WiFi password.

Some though, seem to struggle with borders. At what point does being social become more weird than friendly?

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Haad Son, Ko Pha Ngan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At a bungalow joint I once loved on Ko Pha Ngan, there was an older Italian couple who had been visiting for years. So many years in fact, the owners had built them a bungalow of their own. When they were not around, the owner’s would rent it out.

The Italian couple were friendly but were also terrible drunks. Blazing rows in the early hours were common, and unpleasant for everyone. Oil lamps at a hundred yards and all that.

Another of their habits though was annoying in a different way. Given one of the bungalows was theirs, when the owners were away, they treated the resort as their own home.

You’d return from snorkelling to find them camped on your balcony, often boozing. They smoked those terrible French filterless cigarettes, and butts would be everywhere. Only after some pleading, would they move on, generally to another’s veranda.

In what parallel universe is this ok?

Just float on the surface. Haad Saikantang, Ko Pha Ngan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One year I returned to find them—and their bungalow—not in attendance. It had “burned down”, the owners said. Problem solved.

It is a fine line I guess. Guesthouses are forever told their place should have a homely feel. Perhaps not so much though, that people move in. It wouldn’t surprise me if I was to told the owners burnt the hut down themselves—just to make sure the Italians didn’t return.

While I’ve stayed in more places than I care to think about, I’ve never run one. I imagine when an owner throws their heart (and wallet) into a place, they’ve dreamed of what they’re trying to create. I wonder how often these dreams shape-shift when the clientele demands something else.

Surely you can forgo a beer for a few days? Kuala Terengganu. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A simple example comes to mind. A low season visit to a homestay on the east coast of Peninsular Malaysia had the owner with my ear for hours. The patriarch of the Muslim family who owned, ran and staffed the place, his bugbear was alcohol.

The place was cute, friendly and popular (by east coast standards). He explained when they had opened, they had a strict no-alcohol rule. They didn’t sell it and you couldn’t drink it on the premises—not even in the pretty backyard garden. Guests though, as much as liked the place, also liked a drink. He saw visits cut short as they moved to another place, not far away, that not only allowed drinking, but sold beer. In the end, he did the same, but he wasn’t happy about it.

He remarked that while it was his home, it felt like theirs. I suggested he go back to his old rules—he said he’d mull it over. When I passed through the town again a few years later, the homestay had closed.

A one-off tale perhaps, but it serves as a handy microcosm for travel in general. For decades, destinations have contorted themselves to better cater to foreign visitors. Someone please tell me why there are tailor shops on Thai beaches!

No tailor shops here. Relaxing in the south of Phuket. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Thanks to Covid, the results of these contortions lay bare. Popular towns are devoid of tourists. Street after street lined with shop after shop, shuttered or abandoned. I was in Ubud in South Bali last weekend, riding up Monkey Forest Road. Pre-Covid19 it was a thriving tourist hotspot, on Saturday though, it was more like the set for a zombie flick. Even the macaques were few and far between.

The industry talks of destinations needing to “pivot to local” to survive Covid. I agree with the sentiment, but it would be fair to say many destinations scorned local tourists in the past. Their “more lucrative” foreign relatives were the desirable catch.

Who knows when those foreign wallets will return. Meanwhile, there are increasing calls from activists and academics who see now as an ideal time for some to eat humble pie.

It might seem like a long bow to go from noisy sex to the ravages of Covid, but I think there’s a connection. Like the Italians and those desiring beer, these are all examples of a lack of awareness of the surroundings. Or, to put it another way, a desire to change a destination into what they want—rather than what it is.

Covid touches all. Ubud. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Change is of course inevitable, and with it come pros and cons. It would be manifestly unfair to say foreign tourists are responsible for all change—they’re not. That said, if you go to a town that was never on the foreign tourist radar, it will have changed, but not in the same way. Today, in the throes of Covid, life there will feel “more normal”.

No doubt it is a painful stumble, this pivot to local thing. Some will not pull it off. I hope though when travel does begin to trickle back, a focus on local will add resilience going forward.

When it comes to foreigners and locals, it need not be an either-or. Places should not take the approach the islanders did with the Italians and just burn it down. It does though make sense to take advantage of this prolonged pause. Why? To think about why people visited in the first place.

How do places get back to there?

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We were playing cards on a train from Tangier to Rabat in Morocco when the two local guys sat down. In no time they struck up a conversation with the five of us. Slipping between French and English, they joked and we all laughed.

When we said we were bound for Casablanca after Rabat, they nodded and said something about us being tourists. Oh no, we replied in unison, we’re travellers—not tourists.

Groan.

Exhibit A. Lamai Beach, Ko Samui. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Well, they said, if you want to see the real Morocco, you should come to our hometown in Asilah. They waxed lyrical about it and told us they’d happily show us around. They seemed ok, we were all, to be fair, very green travellers at the time.

We got off the train at Asilah.

The long con finally manifested itself days later, in a room we didn’t know how to get out of, in a town we knew nothing about. While we got out of the house—and Asilah—unscathed (aside from some dented pride), it was a life lesson.

Paid Couchfish subscribers will know I’ve been writing of Thailand’s far south over the last few days. It is a region that has been wracked with strife, murder and mayhem for decades. Yet, a recurring theme in my writing has been the unwavering hospitality I received in the region.

The deadly yellow phone box strikes again. Lamai Beach, Ko Samui. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After one of the entries on Yala, a reader emailed me and wrote in part:

“It sounds like you had a wonderful experience in Yala. I wonder if you could mention in a future post that people should be a little wary of very friendly people with good English and too many coincidences in SE Asia. As you well know, most people there are honest and genuine, but there are many scams.”

This is one hundred percent true. While the story up top happened in Morocco, Southeast Asia is far from free of scammers. I’ve touched on some of the region’s most famous scams like the gem scams in Bangkok before, but there are many others. The psychic scam, Filipino card scammers in Phnom Penh and Ho Chi Minh City. The tour guide druggings in Nha Trang. Transport scams, well, everywhere. Fake money exchange in Bali. The list goes on—and on.

Keeping under control is wise. You can tell this photo was taken in Singapore as his wallet is still there. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Aside from the Morocco experience, I’ve had no shortage of misfortunes in my travels. Each time something amiss happens, it adds a brick to the little paranoid castle in the back of my brain. A pinch of paranoia goes a long way and all that.

Could the family from Yala who befriended me and invited me to stay with them have been axe murderers? Yes, though thankfully they weren’t. They struck me as good people and, well, I’ve never met a teenage axe murderer before. I have met plenty of teenage card scammers and pickpockets though.

Much of it comes down to your judgement and gut feeling. For me, a good benchmark is this:

“Would what is happening feel weird or unsafe if it was happening in my home country?”

If the answer is yes, then I generally walk in the opposite direction. Many though don’t.

A beautiful sunset at an isolated spot. A walk on an unlit jungle trail to get home. Take a friend with you. Perhentian Islands, Malaysia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Back when inbound tourism to Southeast Asia was a thing, a week wouldn’t pass without a tale of a foreigner in strife. More often than not, I’d read the story thinking “what on earth were you thinking?!”

The real problem here is of course the scammers, but they often get a big assist from their victims. As I’ve written over and over, when you’re packing for a trip, the first thing you should always pack is your common sense.

A good second step, particularly if you’re hitting somewhere for the first time, is to read the local press. By local press, I don’t mean local press in your mother tongue, but rather local press in the local language. Google Translate is your friend here.

Lombok’s Kuta Beach. Take care come the evening. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Take Bali as an example. The English press will pick up tales of woe, but often only those involving foreigners. The local language press is a different beast. Local media outlets are flush daily with tales of murder, rape, assault, theft and other mayhem. A quick skim over a single Bali news site delivers a kidnapping, hit and run, murdered baby, two rapes, corruption, and a drug party bust. And that is only yesterday’s headlines! Of these, only the drug party hit the English press. Why? You guessed it—it allegedly involved a couple of foreigners.

It pays dividends to at least be aware of what life is like for everyone else. Take my word for it, there is no clearer way to demarcate a tourism bubble than to read the local press. Though that will only get you so far. As in the West, rape and other violence against women often goes unreported. Even when reported, often little if any, action by the police results. Unlike murder, these crimes are ones that foreigners face frequently—often in areas popular with foreign tourists.

Sihanoukville’s beaches—another notorious one after sunset. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Authorities often see maimed or dead tourists as being bad for business. Look no further than the recent murder of a foreign tourist in Phuket. The Thai police can be quite fast moving when the tourism cash cow is at risk.

All of this though ignores another entire element—not the dodgy locals, rather the dodgy foreigners. Who hasn’t met a scamming or thieving foreign traveller during their journey? I’ve written about one of my most memorable cases here, but there have been plenty of others. People prolonging their trips by stealing off other travellers. Go jump in the sea every one of you.

It is a common refrain to see Southeast Asia referred to as a very safe region to travel in. I agree with this, but, using your common sense, and trusting your gut, helps. Statistically, the easiest way to end up in a hospital in Southeast Asia is to ride a motorbike without a helmet. The fault here lies with one person only—the rider.

Helmets help. On the way to Dien Bien Phu, Vietnam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Entered into the “do as I say, not as I do” file, most of my misadventures have resulted from my own recklessness or idiocy. Be it robberies, attempted murder or being bottled, there is plenty of blame to go around, and much of it is on me. Despite this, the paranoia castle in the back of my mind is more Koh Ker than Angkor Wat. It is there in the woods, but it is not too large. It informs my decision making but doesn’t drive it.

Despite the mayhem, the vast majority of travellers to the region will have no more a problem than a funny tummy. It does though make sense to pay attention to your surroundings, to trust your gut and to not think twice about walking away.

Almost all the local people you’re likely to encounter in your Southeast Asian travels will be legit. Just don’t feel ridiculous in asking yourself would this feel normal and safe in your home country?

If it doesn’t, walk away.

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Betong lives up to its name come the morning. A wet and chilled mist envelops the city as I jump into the Mercedes for the run back to Yala. We’re running by the side of the reservoir, by the time the sun burns through.

Unlike the other day, today Yala is only a transit point in my travels—no lingering allowed. My driver drops me off with a wave and a “Chok dee” (good luck) at the minibus stand, for the onwards leg to Pattani.

Now that is a fishing boat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are a few legends explaining the town’s origins, but my fave involves a goat-sized mouse deer. The legend ties in with Pattani’s coastline, which does not come up short of the beach front. The closest municipal beach is Talor Kapor, which is a great spot to see kaw-lae boats (more on those in a bit). Head a bit further southeast though, and you’ve got almost 50 km of sand south to Narathiwat. Not that you’ll find beach bars and bikinis though—Pattani is Thailand’s most conservative Muslim province.

From Yala it is a straight run north, around 45 minutes in the van, to Pattani. Crammed into the back bench seat, I get talking to a Thai Iranian guy who is here to see his extended family. From memory, he was an academic of some description, but this was years ago and I’m not one hundred percent sure on that.

All lined up in a row. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He’s surprised I’m heading to Pattani—it is the least visited province in the country. At the time the region had suffered repeated bombings and attacks related to the South Thailand Insurgency. We’re stopped a couple of times en-route by heavily armed military checkpoints but they wave us on after a token check.

I tell him my main interest is the traditional fishing boats Pattani is famous for. Beautifully painted with steep prows, they’re one of the most famous symbols of the province. Of course, he knows a boat builder and we arrange to meet early in the afternoon for a guided looksee.

Eagles and dragons. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A few hours later, I jump on the back of his scooter and we ride east to Talor Kapor beach. The beach does have some pretty stretches, but it is primarily a working beach. Fisher shacks run right up to the sand’s edge and the sand is scattered with refuse and flotsam.

We stop at a small mosque, where my impromptu guide chats to a few of the guys lounging around. He tells me we’ll leave the bike here and walk. As we stroll I ask about the village and how day to day life is. There are kids running around, women doing laundry, men smoking, chatting or fixing nets. The village is poor, but the poverty isn’t grinding—at least not at a quick glance.

A steady hand is required. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He explains most of the families who live here rely on fishing and have done so for generations. Business though is not good. The men are small scale sustainable fishers and the fishing grounds offshore have been decimated by commercial fishing. They often fish too close to shore—illegally—and damage the traditional grounds these families rely on. It has long been a point of contention between local fishers and their larger, wealthier, and far more influential, industrial relatives. That these local fishermen practise a far more sustainable form of fishing seems lost on the powers that be.

We reach the sand, and there’s kaw-lae after kaw-lae lined up above the high tide mark. Each has its own home made of sun-dried palm fronds against a wood or bamboo frame. The dull shades of the houses contrast to the bright and beautiful prows peering out of each.

Nothing else quite like it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’ve ever seen a Thai longtail, you’ll be familiar with the eyes and sashes that often decorate the prow. The kaw-lae though, are a totally different beast. Beautifully intricate patterns swirl around a motif based on the area. On one, two eagles surround the motif, with a dragon flying down the prow. It is magnificent.

We find a man working on one. With a small pot of turquoise paint, he adds detail to the flank of the boat. His hand steady, he chats to my guide as he paints, his eyes never leaving the brush.

The entire boat is painted by hand he says, though it starts easy and gets harder as each new layer is added. The one he is working on is almost done. When I ask if this is the hardest bit, my question doesn’t need translating and the painter chuckles. He lowers the brush and jokingly offers it to me, as if to ask would I like to find out how hard it is.

No two boats are the same. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We sit with him for about an hour. Him painting, my guide translating my questions. There are few jobs and the bottom has fallen out of the fishing, he says. When I ask about the insurgency, the conversation goes back and forward for a long time without translation. In the end, I’m told a good start would be for the central government to enforce the law on illegal industrial fishing with the same enthusiasm it prosecutes the insurgents. My Thai Iranian friend sighs, and goes on to say the situation is very complicated—he thinks it would be better to talk of other things.

Later we meet the painter’s daughter. She’s just out from school and is flabbergasted to find her father entertaining a farang. We go through the half dozen English phrases she knows, and she cackles at my attempts at Thai.

Then the painter is done for the day. He needs to go and pick up his son soon. First though, he puts away his paints, washes his hands and we all sit for tea.

Am I excited? Yes, I am excited. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is late afternoon and the sea breeze takes the edge off the heat. We make small talk in front of the audience that has gathered to watch and listen. A couple of questions float in from the onlookers, but most people are silent—aside from the occasional “farang” I hear in hushed tones.

Then it is time to go. My guide has another commitment, but he’ll give me a ride back to my hotel. I thank the painter and he gestures for me to shake his hand. Before I know it I’m shaking hands with everyone there.

I leave the daughter till last, and when I put my hand out to her, everyone cracks up in laughter. She looks at her toes and giggles as we shake hands. It feels like the right time to leave.

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Sidenote: As I was writing this piece I asked on Twitter for people’s favourite knick-knacks—I’ve pasted some of them in below.

First used way back when in 1682, the Oxford Dictionary of English defines knick-knack as “A small worthless object.” The dictionary is one hundred percent wrong on this. Knick-knacks are invaluable.

My knick-knack hoarding began when I picked up a pocket-sized black idol at a pyramid outside Mexico City. A thief later liberated it from me on a night train in France.

In the Marshall Islands a map like this replaces Google Maps. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Taken with the black appearance, I replaced it with a ball of lava (not molten) I found on a Lanzarote mountain slope. I lugged my lava all through Europe, till, weary of its weight, I threw it into the Mediterranean at Ölüdeniz in Turkey. With it went a Russian wedding ring that somehow slipped off my finger as I threw the lava ball. Four of us swam the pebble-strewn sea there looking for the ring—but all we ever found was the lava. We left it in the depths.

Knick-knackless, I picked up a few vintage Turkish LPs—the perfect thing while you’re backpacking. Later, back in London, when my apartment was robbed, as with the Mexican idol, by Turkish LP collection left for shores unknown.

Save a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, I left London again knick-knackless. Bound for India though, I knew many a small worthless object lay in wait.

A beaded necklace from Agra, made of bone I was told, only to find later out it was plastic. An Irishman sold me ruby in Goa—don’t ask. A jade deity, the jade as fake as the god, purchased from a street stall in Mahabalipuram. Towards the end of three months in India, robbed again. It was time to say bye-bye to the Newcastle Brown Ale—which I had been lugging planning to drink in Pokhara—and the ruby.

Easy come easy go.

Big? Bulky? Fragile? Sounds perfect. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

An endless stream of “silver” bracelets and a stone chillum in Pokhara. On the Annapurna Sanctuary trek I picked up another solid sized rock, we cast it into Pokhara Lake afterwards. In Chitwan, I bought a rhino carved from baked dung.

“I’m on a road to nowhere” embroidered into the back of my denim jacket in Kathmandu. The words looped around a pair of eyes modelled on those at the Boudhanath stupa. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but upon reflection, it wasn’t.

Thailand! The mandatory lapiz lazuli necklace, fake Birkenstocks, more beads. Fisherman pants. A velvet vest—don’t ask. A beautiful cut-throat razor—also later stolen.

By the time I got to Laos and Vietnam, I’d moved onto more bulky relics. In Saigon an opium pillow I still use to store negatives in. In Luang Prabang a small lacquered chest—it cost me about $40—one of the most expensive things I’d ever purchased. It is still going strong.

More deities—soapstone temple guardians from the Cham Museum in Da Nang. It escapes me where I picked up the ceramic temple lion that watches over me as I type this. Sri Lanka maybe?

If you’ve picked up on a recurring theme of stone and gods, you’re on the money. So imagine my joy when I finally got into Cambodia. In no time I’d picked up an eight-kilogram replica Khmer head that I dragged around with me for the next month. Today it sits beside the ceramic lion. At least it is too heavy to steal.

Back to Thailand, palm leaf scrolls from back-alley stores in Chiang Mai. An astrological chart from Burma that I still gaze at on occasion. Balinese lontars, Indonesian ikat from the east, shadow puppets from the west.

As my trips became more frequent but shorter, my pack shrank to a 25-litre knapsack. Bulky fragile items grew in inconvenience and it was then I discovered the joy of snow-globes. People scoff, but they’re far harder to find in Southeast Asia than say an eight-kilo sandstone head. My collection is small but growing, and I can’t wait for travel to restart to add to it.

A portion of my entourage. Yes, I’m also a notebook hoarder. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then there are the knick-knack gifts. An Iraqi cigarette box. The navigation chart of seashells from the Marshall Islands. A deck of Saddam Hussein playing cards. A broken compass. I’m not sure what the thinking was behind that last gift.

Knick-knacks can be small, but they need not be. They are, however, never worthless.

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Travel writing is often a flurry of buzzwords. They come and go like the seasons, more often than not losing all their meaning in the process. “Travel like a local” hit the scene a few years ago, but I’ve always felt it missed the mark.

Why travel like a local when you can travel with a local?

Onto day two of my planned one day in Yala, I wake on the floor, to see the two kids perched on the lounge examining me like their pet science experiment.

He’s awake! Wat Na Tham, Yala. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“He’s awake,” the daughter yells in Thai as I rub the sleep from my eyes. Within 15 minutes we’re out the door, Mum in tow, to the market.

I say market, but it is more a collection of street stalls around the corner, and once there we pick up coffee and pa thong ko. Then back to the house where we eat as Dad explains the plan for the day.

The previous evening I’d thought about how to extricate myself from another full day in Yala. Already running behind time on my trip, I’d planned to head to Betong first thing, but I didn’t want to offend my hosts. My plan—spend the morning here and get moving after lunch. Best laid plans etcetera.

Coconuts and mountains. Wat Na Tham. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Dad explains he has already made arrangements. A friend who doubles as a driver will drive us around Yala’s best hits, and in the evening we’ll eat seafood with friends. Betong fades over the horizon to tomorrow.

Shortly after, the friend arrives. His vehicle is an ancient—and I mean ancient—Mercedes. With a dent, scratch and paint patch-up for every year since it rolled off the factory line, it isn’t short of character. Nor is the driver.

He’s a tiny guy, both in height and girth and the car seems way too big for him. He’s wearing a wrap and a business shirt, dark Ray Charles like shades, leaning against the vehicle as we walk out. I’d guess he was a child but for the cloud of smoke enveloping his head, a slick comb-over of white hair peeking over the haze.

All wrapped up for cool season, Wat Na Tham. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Sawatdee khrap!” emanates from somewhere behind the smoke, with a tiny hand appearing below the cloud for me to shake.

We’re off.

We spend the morning touring Yala’s downtown. We visit the family mosque, a market and walk through a couple of the city’s parks. The attractions are, as I expected, low key. There is nothing wrong with them, but nothing jumps out at me either. As far as provincial capitals go, Yala is small and it feels like we spend as much time in the car as we do sightseeing. More than once I suggest we walk, but the consensus is we drive—why walk when you can drive?

The driver’s English is limited, but that doesn’t stop him from talking to me non-stop. Dad translates, but often I’m sure much is lost in translation. It is the usual driver stuff. Are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you want a girlfriend? I can get you a girlfriend. When I mention I’m heading to Betong next, he laughs—plenty of girlfriends there it seems.

Should have packed an extra shirt. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We lunch at a small hole-in-the-wall. The food is simple and good, but it is left in the shade by the coffee. Rich and syrupy, I’m ready to sand back then paint the driver’s car afterwards.

We leave Yala behind and drive west to Wat Khuhaphimuk, which thankfully is known as Wat Na Tham. They tell me it is a revered Buddhist site, the best in Yala, and while I have nothing to compare it to within the province, it feels on the money.

Wat Na Tham means “temple in front of a cave” and it is what it says on the can. The temple itself is (to my eyes) unexceptional, but the cave is more interesting. Jammed with Buddha images, the large cavern opening overlooks rice paddies and farms. In the distance, mountains. It isn’t a scratch on say Phattalung, but it is pretty.

Thailand’s endless variety of green hues, Wat Na Tham. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m drenched in sweat, and dream of reclining like the Buddha does behind me, as they take my photo with my camera. We linger, enjoying the view as the driver chain-smokes, flicking his butts out the cavern. There’s nobody else here.

Then it is back to Yala, then the house for a clean-up, feet up and more chain-smoking before we head out for dinner. Thara Seafood is walking distance away, but we drive of course. A long table has the family friends already seated and we join them. I’m not asked what I’d like, instead, the food simply begins to come.

And come.

And come some more.

At the end of the banquet, gorged, I offer to pay for the entire meal. It seems like the least I can do. As with the previous evening, I’m waved off.

“You’re our guest. Welcome to Yala.”

Betong will have to wait until tomorrow.

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Those who follow me on Twitter will know I now have a dog. A Bali dog, around four months old. Friends found her litter on a building site, they cleaned up the pups and housed them with friends. So it is that Skye Govinda came into our household.

A few nights ago I was sleeping in my office as I’d been working late. Skye was snoozing on the floor beside me. Around 2 am, she went off her head barking. It was silent outside—even our crazed neighbour wasn’t up sweeping at that hour. I told her to stop barking but she’d have none of it. She would not stop.

You want me to detect ghosts? Can. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I gave up trying to sleep, and, figuring she was barking at our ghost, I got up and took her for a walk.

Yes, we have a ghost—it lives in our pool.

Ghosts and water often seem to go hand in hand in Bali. The kids’ old school campus had two paranormal residents. Evidence was low key—tacks rearranged on the noticeboard, or a vase moved. Staff believed the ghosts lived in two ceramic jars by a class entrance. A new staff member, not aware of the spirits, washed the jars out one day after school. She wasn’t to know, but this was a mistake. A teacher told me how, after leaving the classroom for a short time, she returned to find every chair placed atop the tables. Yes, the ghosts did it. Queue Twilight Zone theme music here.

Shifting light can play tricks with your mind. See the ghost? (I don’t mean Will!) Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When I asked on Twitter about ghosts, Made Adhi Pratama recounted a tale like many I’ve heard from around Bali.

“We’re training for theatre comp at school’s open ballroom past 6 pm. We forgot to ask permission at the school temple, and suddenly a wave of trance was coming; 4 ppl were “incepted”. I chanted Gayatri Mantram & I felt that strong wind who pushed and wanted to enter me.”

Bali isn’t the sole preserve of the supernatural of course. I’ve written before about the haunted hotel in southern Laos’ Sekong. Not a subscriber? Briefly, the story goes two travellers drowned on the nearby river and have been returning to the hotel ever since to try and reclaim their luggage...

Moody early morning mist on the Sekong River, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In Indonesia, the supernatural weaves its way all through the lives of the living, in other countries likewise. Andrew Biggs has a tongue in cheek whos who of Thailand’s great cast of ghosts. Some well-known ghost sites have even become tourist attractions. Who hasn’t been to Bokor Casino and thought, hell this place has to be haunted.

Sometimes though, you don’t need to change countries for an otherworldly experience.

Quite a few years ago I was home alone in Bali, in bed, and the hour was late. Both the bedroom and a part of the lounge room face onto the pool. While the initial plan held for no doors at all, we went with cantilevered glass doors.

Bokor Casino is totally not haunted. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I woke and could hear tap tap tapping on the glass doors in the lounge area. The sound, while not loud, was persistent. Figuring it was a frangipani branch brushing against the glass, I got up to investigate. When I walked into the lounge, the sound stopped.

Thinking I was imagining things, I went back to bed, but as soon as I was back in bed, the sound started again.

I got up again, walked out, and again, as soon as I stepped into the lounge room, the sound stopped. Confused and a little creeped out, I returned to bed.

Once again, as soon as I was back in bed, the sound recommenced.

And there we were thinking it was just the dry ice. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I got up again, and as I walked towards the bedroom door, a chill came over me—there was no question—I was creeped out. By the time I stepped into the lounge, the hairs on the back of my neck and arms were standing on end.

As soon as I crossed the threshold into the lounge, the sound stopped. A chill washed across my body like a gust of wind. I was, for no sound reason, terrified. I darted back to the bedroom, slammed the door behind me, and jumped back into bed.

Opposite my bed are a series of floor to ceiling open cupboards. The lower levels are filled with our clothes, towels and whatnot. The top-level, out of reach unless I’m on my toes, hold papers from the kids’ school. Tests, notes, scrapbooks, exercise books—that sort of thing.

Forget the Ghost of Mae Nak—check this cat out. Photo: David Luekens.

Laying in bed with my bed lamp on, my eyes fell on a pile of papers up at the top. I was staring into space more than at the papers particularly.

Then, all of a sudden, the pile of papers shot out of the cupboard, scattering all over the room. I almost jumped through the wall—and you’re probably not surprised to read, I didn’t sleep again that night.

I know plenty do believe in ghosts, and while I thought I did too, I wasn’t sure. Now however, I’m a believer.

Hanoi’s West Lake. There’s an abandoned cemetery below its waters. I’m sure there are no ghosts here at all. Photo: Samantha Brown.

The next morning, when our Balinese housekeeper arrived, I pulled her aside. She’s more in tune with these kinds of things, and she nodded as I told her what had transpired the previous evening.

“Oh bapak, that’s the ghost—they live in the pool,” she said.

This was the first I’d heard about a ghost living in our pool. She went on to tell me she had encountered it some time ago while minding the kids one night. It was dancing in the pool and she could hear it splashing around.

When I asked why she hadn’t relayed this information to me at the time, she told me, she felt, as I was a foreigner, I wouldn’t understand.

Nobody wants an angry ghost. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Dancing in the pool was apparently of no concern—the ghost was happy. My experience though indicated the ghost’s mood had shifted.

Nobody wants an angry ghost in their house.

Bali being Bali, the solution was to have a ceremony. If you’re not familiar with Bali, offerings and ceremonies, Fred Eiseman, in Bali Sekala & Niskala, has a good summary:

“The Balinese are not paranoid about the dangers of the world. But they are acutley conscious of them at all times—on their guard. These forces are around all the time, and one cannot say when and where they might penetrate a weak spot and cause problems. The result is that offerings are made to just about everything imaginable.”

All good now. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A priest arranged (and paid for), he conducted a ceremony in the lounge room by the edge of the pool.

We’ve not heard from our supernatural boarder since.

That was, until two nights ago—or perhaps the dog was just barking at the wall. That would be the more scientific explanation.

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The other day I gave a short talk to a travel organisation on lessons from Phuket’s Sandbox experiment. At one stage, I said short stay tourism will be the last segment to come back on stream. Today I’m going to expand on why this is an opportunity—not a cost, but it needs a change in governmental thinking.

By short stay tourism, I mean international weekenders and that sort of thing. People travelling from say Singapore, Kuala Lumpur or Perth to Bali for a weekend. Up until the advent of low-cost airlines, this sort of travel was the domain of the wealthy. Now though, or at least up until Covid washed in, in the words of AirAsia, “Everyone can fly”.

Just popping in for an afternoon surf. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As I’ve written before, I don’t expect requirements like quarantine to be horizoned anytime soon. As such, short fly–in–weekenders will remain on the bench for the foreseeable future. What could come off the bench though, is long-stay tourism. In fact, as long as quarantine remains a thing, it is the only one that has a credible reason to get off the bench.

There is one problem—visas.

If you look at Southeast Asia pre-Covid, the longest standard tourist visa was Malaysia’s. The free single–entry visa available to many nationalities granted a stay of 90 days. For others like Cambodia, Indonesia, Laos and Vietnam, around 30 days was the gold standard. Yes, there were paid visas for longer stays, sometimes up to three months, but I’m sticking to broad strokes here. If you woke up Friday morning and wanted to go somewhere that day (who doesn’t feel like that on a Friday morning?) you were most likely looking at a 30-day visa.

Looking for more Southeast Asia newsletters?

Here are some of my favourites—all have a free version.

Cambodia: Campuccino by Darathtey Din

Singapore: We, The Citizens by Kirsten Han

Southeast Asia: Dari Mulut ke Mulut by Erin Cook

Thailand: Thai Island Times by David Luekens

Vietnam: Vietnam Weekly by Michael Tatarski

As long as quarantine is a thing, 30 days isn’t going to cut it. Who wants to spend half their allowed time in a country cooped up in a hotel? Destinations need to think big and toss this 30-day silliness.

More time please. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Now is the time to begin work on six-month tourist visas. Every nation in Southeast Asia should have one. Here’s why.

Relieve pressure

While it may feel like 68 years, 2019 was less than two years ago. Overtourism headlines were dime a dozen with many poster children in Southeast Asia. Bali, Penang, Hoi An, Siem Reap and Ko Phi Phi were all featured repeatedly as examples of tourism gone mad.

While these destinations drowned in tourists, others withered on the vine. The reasons for this were many, and while low-cost flights stood out, another big one was the visa.

Spread that wealth

Studied through a monetary lens, 2019 tourism concentrated money where the tourists were. Duh. The logic here is not hard. The further afield tourists travel, the further the money spreads.

My fully furnished CBT homestay, Merente, Sumbawa. Community involvement is crucial. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The more one travels off the beaten trail, the more their money lands in the hands of locals. This revenue not only helps smaller communities but also vests them in tourism’s upside. The added financial security created here is important. It is one thing to have a job in a hotel in a foreign– or off-island owned property in Bali, but it is something else altogether when it is your business, in your home town.

With more time permitted in–country, it is more likely foreign travellers will travel further afield. Sure some might just lay on the beach in Kuta or Ko Samui for six months, but not all will.

Some places take time to reach. Exploring the Lesser Sunda. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sticking with dosh for a moment, think of all the infrastructure built around tourism. Airports are the obvious ones, but there is plenty more. When someone visits for two nights, their average share of these costs is far higher than someone staying for two months.

Increase understanding

Regular readers will know though, that I’m not a fan of looking at tourism through this single lens. One of the biggest benefits I see in tourism, and one that is largely unmeasured, is the boost to cross-cultural understanding. Best of all this breaks both ways.

I come in peace. Alor. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Not only does the traveller have the opportunity to develop a better understanding of the country they’re travelling in, but also locals can gain a better understanding of the traveller and where they are from.

I think it is safe to say that there’s plenty of scope for increasing understanding in both directions—and smartly done tourism can be a vehicle for exactly this.

Increase return rates

Of course, not all would want (or have the time and/or wealth) to spend six months in a single country. My experience though has been the more time I’ve spent in a country the more affinity for it I’ve developed.

Moreso, the longer I spend somewhere, the more I want to return. There is always something else to see, do, learn or experience. While this isn’t a one size fits all, who doesn’t want to look under the rug that little bit more?

Milk quarantine

As long as we’re stuck with quarantine, destinations are bonkers crazy not milking it. One example: If you’ve got a guest stuck in a hotel room for two weeks, give them access to a free online language class.

There is no shortage of aspects of any country that could be taught online—it isn’t like the guests have much to do—it is a captive audience. I say milk it.

What are the downsides?

The bed isn’t all roses sadly. Whenever I’ve suggested long visas in the past, a common reply is “people will use these visas to work illegally.” Yes, some would. So? That’s a matter for the immigration department.

Tourism sometimes goes wrong. Ko Phi Phi, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To not consider an approach like this, because of the few who would abuse it, seems a classic baby bathwater moment. If this concern is overriding, then consider limiting an applicant to one six month visa every two years.

Secondly, a long tourist visa policy should absolutely be 100% reciprocal. Sadly I don’t see this happening, and yes, it infuriates me just as much as it infuriates you. Using Australia as an example, just because that government has taken a complete conehead approach to visas doesn’t mean its neighbours should follow suit.

Lastly, you may have noticed up top where I wrote: “smartly done tourism”. Sadly all I need do is throw a satay stick off my back veranda to hit examples of tourism done not smartly. Particularly when it comes to remote areas, community involvement and cooperation are vital. If a community does not want foreigners traipsing through, then travel there should not be encouraged. There are many approaches to this issue, but regional examples of outreach done well do exist. A guiding hand is needed.

This is but a dream

I know that at the moment, Thailand aside, inbound for recreational travel is near impossible. One day this will change, as I’ve suggested, most likely in 2023, but now is the time to lay the groundwork on a longer stay tourist visa.

Give people the time to slow down and have a snack by the sea. Tawau, Malaysia. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Last but not least, I’d make the six-month visa free but charge for the one month one—but that is just me. If you want to go all wild and crazy, make it multiple entry.

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With all this staying at home and wondering when one will be able to jump on a plane again, I often find my mind straying. To the destinations yes, but moreso to the food. Here’s eight meals from eight countries I’d be making a beeline for.

Burma: Aung Thukha

Yangon has to be one of the best walking cities in Southeast Asia—do watch out for traps though. On an early visit I spent much of my time in the Chinatown area. Congested, dense and built up, it also hosts loads to eat and drink, both on the street and in small restaurants.

Pack an appetite for Aung Thukha. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Burmese food has a bit of a bad wrap for it being oily, but to my palate, that is a plus not a minus. The curries are so rich, yet mostly not nearly as fiery as those in Thailand. While in Yangon, my friend Austin Bush pointed me to Aung Thukha, a little out of the centre of town perhaps, but what a tip it was. Curry after curry, with salads and soups on the side, all washed down with a Myanmar Beer or three. Whenever I get back to Burma, it will be straight from the airport to here.

Cambodia: Kravanh

While Thailand and Vietnam are more famous for it, Cambodia is no slouch when it comes to market and street food. I’ve written before of doing a street food walk in Phnom Penh, but in the middle of a blisteringly hot dry season day, stepping into Kravanh ticks just about all the boxes.

Grazing at Kravanh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The menu may be as long as the service is slow, but when paired with the chilled air–con there’s no shortage of reasons to linger. The fare is authentic and not outrageously priced. If the weather were cooler or I wasn’t feeling so flush, I’d cross the road to Sophath instead for a bowl of nom banh chok.

Indonesia: Fish and rice

I often joke that when in eastern Indonesia, my meal options are either rice and fish or fish and rice—either with a small soup on the side. I know there is far more on offer, but this staple, done well, is just about all I want.

Eat this three times a day and you’ll grow to love it too. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It says something about the brilliance of Indonesian food that even a dish as simple as a grilled fish on rice can be so sensational. I’ve had this across much of the archipelago, though one of the most memorable was in Baranusa on Pantar—perhaps it was because it was the only thing the sole warung I could find sold.

Laos: Duck laap

Sitting on our floating bungalow on the river between Don Dhet and Don Khon in far southern Laos, life was slow. Feet dangling the river, watching cyclists ride by on the far bank, reading, snoozing. Dawn would slide into sunset, much like the river, without interruption.

Our view while waiting for a duck to be murdered. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The owner, an affable Savannakhet native had made an attempt on an authentic Lao/Thai menu, but there was no laap. One day I asked, would it be possible for him to whip up a laap? He paused, then said it was possible, though it would take a while. We had loads of time—more in fact than the poor riverside duck that was promptly dispatched. Memorable.

Malaysia: Kedai Kopi Yee Fung

I’m pretty leery of proclaiming anything as being the “best ever”, but the Sabah–style laksa at Kedai Kopi Yee Fung is pretty special. Mild but rich thanks to the oodles of coconut milk that go into it, this hole in the wall joint is almost as good for people watching as it is for scoffing.

That lime… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The only down side? A meal here means one less meal at Kota Kinabalu’s night market.

Singapore: BK Eating House

A few years ago, thanks to some visa complications, I had a forced stay in Singapore for far longer than planned. While I spent an inordinate amount of time at the Chinatown Complex, there was one place I found myself at more than anywhere else. BK Eating House by the corner of Southbridge and Circular Roads in Boat Quay.

Hit me. At BK Eating House. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is a hole in the wall hawker centre where the tables spill out onto the pavement and the beers are as affordable as they are icy. A simple bowl of fish ball noodles here—wet or dry depending on my mood, kept me going in Southeast Asia’s most wallet haemorrhaging city.

Thailand: Khua Kling Plaa

Beware the moment when you ask the waiter what is good, and they tell you a dish you’ve not heard of, then add “it is too spicy for you”, but you order it anyway.

You will need the rice. Take my word for it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In, of all places, an off beach restaurant named Krua Ta Sert at Ao Chao Phao on Thailand’s Ko Pha Ngan, khua kling is a fiery dry curry with its roots in southern Thailand. To say it almost killed me is not an understatement. Did I go back for more punishment the next day? Absolutely.

Vietnam: A bowl worth remembering

If there is one country on the planet where you could say “a bowl a day keeps the doctor away” but have a different bowl every day, it is Vietnam. I’ve had so many fantastic bowls, phở, bún bò Huế, hủ tiếu, bún cá and on and on, it is hard to pick the best one.

Oh how I wish they delivered to Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A favourite though, perhaps in part because I had never had it before, was a serving of súp cua bách thảo at open–air Mai in Sa Dec.

The dish is ostensibly a glutinous soup with crab but there is a lot more to it. There is also shrimp, three types of egg and a delicious absolute melt in the mouth chunk of pig brain. Mai also does ice cream—the perfect chaser.

Have you had a memorable meal in Southeast Asia? What would be the first dish you’d be aiming for when you return? Let me know in the comments.

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So if my dire forecasts of last week come to pass, at least we have time to sort other things out. This week, I look at vaccine “passports”.

My take—we don’t need a new solution when one already exists. Attention should be concentrated on increasing vaccination rates. It should not be focused on forcing the adoption of technology whose painful legacies will far outlast Covid.

Arabic papyrus with an exit permit, dated January 24, 722 CE. Photo: By Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin FRCP(Glasg) CC BY-SA 4.0

Sidenote: If the last thing you want to read about is Vaccine Passports, I really enjoyed this piece on temple hopping in Tra Vinh, Vietnam.

A brief history lesson

What is a passport? To quote Wikipedia:

“A passport is an official governmental document that contains a given person’s identity. It helps its holder travel under its protection to and from foreign countries.”

Passports are issued by governments—not private companies.

Trivia klaxon! One of the first known references to something passport–like was around 450 BC in the Hebrew Bible. Also, passports were only standardised by the ICAO in 1980—2,430 years after a dude in the Bible wanted to go to Judea.

The Yellow Card

Yellow fever is a mosquito–borne disease found in tropical and subtropical regions of South America and Africa. According to the CDC, there are around 200,000 cases and 30,000 deaths each year.

An ICVP issued by the Bureau of Quarantine in the Philippines after being vaccinated with a COVID-19 vaccine in 2021. Photo: Rizalninoynapoleon CC BY-SA 4.0

There is a vaccine, and having the shot is a condition of entry for some countries where it is a risk. Vaccinations are recorded in the International Certificate of Vaccination or Prophylaxis (ICVP). Non–long–word–inclined people know it as the Carte Jaune or Yellow Card—there is a digital version too. Importantly, it is a travel document—not a vaccine passport. Once vaccinated, a yellow card is all you need to prove you have had the shot.

Covid is not yellow fever

Covid differs in plenty of ways from yellow fever, but the important one here is its scale. It spans the globe, is highly contagious, and doesn’t need mozzies. In under two years, it has infected over 200 million people, killing over four million.

In a miracle of science, a range of semi– to very–effective vaccines came to market in record time. Hampered by inept governance, the roll out has been neither smooth nor equitable.

As vaccination rates have nevertheless increased, so to has talk of travel “re–opening”. As I wrote last week, I think this is well premature, but The Guardian explains why better:

“So there is a danger of simply assuming because you’ve been vaccinated, you don’t then spread Covid-19, and that would not be a good scientific basis for a policy of passports”

A sanction on the one percent

A vaccine passport is the least of the concerns for most. As of today, just over 15% of the Earth’s eligible population are fully vaccinated. More worrying, only 1% of people in low–income countries have received a single dose.

Imagine this with a vaccination check added into the mix. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another group are those who cannot safely take a vaccine and who instead rely on medical exemptions. The CDC details considerations for people with allergies here. Grounds for exemptions vary from country to country.

A premature vaccine passport is essentially a sanction on the unvaccinated. Steps must be taken to avoid the creation of a two–tier society, to allow the rest of the world the time it needs to catch up. Writes the BBC:

“If a passport scheme was rolled out before everyone in the country has been offered a jab, this could unfairly disadvantage young people or people living in certain parts of the country. ... And, “people of different ethnicities have different levels of vaccine hesitancy,” Prof Mills said, which opens up the potential for discrimination against people’s “religious or political beliefs”— or where this hesitancy is linked to a long history of racism and marginalisation.”

Papers please

So some have legitimate reasons for their jab–less state, and billions are still waiting. Despite this, countries—and businesses—are already pulling up drawbridges for the un–jabbed. Treatment varies country by country and business by business. Proof of vaccination opens doors which are rapidly being closed to most others.

My vaccine certificate is in my phone, which is flat. Temple mural, Northeast Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Worldwide, proof of vaccination takes on a maddening array of formats. There are paper print–outs, library–card style cards, government and private apps.

Writes the New York Times:

“A Covid-19 vaccination card does not always convey the significance of the document. Nor are the cards typically designed to counter fraud. Most of the hundreds of millions of people worldwide who got at least one shot of a Covid-19 vaccine in the past few months received a flimsy piece of paper.”

At some stage, people with flimsy pieces of paper will be able to go high tech. This leaves two questions. First, how do you prove your vaccination status when flimsy papers are so easily forged? Second, is moving to a technical solution desirable—or even necessary?

Prove it

How does one go about proving both their vaccination status and which jab they got? Why does knowing which jab you got matter? Because not all countries recognise all vaccines of course—that would be way too simple.

My Twitter Hive Mind pointed me to a bunch of sources on these questions. The consensus: there are tests to distinguish if you have had Covid already, or received a Covid vaccine. Testing for vaccine type appears to be far muddier waters.

So if countries allow only vaccinated visitors, but are shot snobs, how does that work? I guess they need to trust people not to lie when they’re asked which vaccine they received—or if they are vaccinated at all.

Does your head hurt yet? I had to go walk the dog and have a coffee at this point.

Which app?

Next are the vaccine passport apps. Many governments have their own and there are loads and loads of corporate ones. In both the US and the EU, governments are trying to herd the cats, but it is cowboy country, with few adopted standards.

Most of these apps need either a QR code or some type of interfacing with an official health body. Take CommonPass as an example. They note if you don’t have a QR code, you can get tested at one of their verified labs—the closest one to Bali is in Japan.

At some stage this disparate glad bag of vaccine apps will thin out and we’ll have a modern take on the Carte Jaune. If you’re one of the unwashed though, with a flimsy sheet of paper and no QR code, don’t bother.

But this isn’t a passport

A passport comes from a government, but most “vaccine passports” come from companies. Private companies whose interests may not be in your interests. What information do you need to prove you are vaccinated? Your name, date of birth, passport number, and vaccine type and jab date seems sensible.

There’s plenty of this to be made. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To take one example, Verifly is an app developed for the US market. Daon, a privately held, for–profit company, owns Verifly. Daon’s founder is Dermont Desmond, an Irish billionaire. To quote Daon, they have:

“pioneered methods for securely and conveniently combining biometric and digital identity capabilities with large-scale deployments that span payments verification, digital banking, wealth, insurance, telcos, and securing borders and seamless travel”

I apologise in advance for not reading the entirety of Verifly’s 7,000 word privacy policy—I had ironing to do. At a glance though, the information it might collect is Facebook–ish. Data points include age, race, gender, nationality, health information, employer and school. I went to download the app and noted that it may collect what Apple terms as “Sensitive Info”, so I looked that up. Sensitive info includes:

“racial or ethnic data, sexual orientation, pregnancy or childbirth information, disability, religious or philosophical beliefs, trade union membership, political opinion, genetic information, or biometric data.”

Why does a vaccine passport need my religious beliefs, union memberships or political thoughts? The app is free—so much like Facebook and Google—use something like this and you’re the product.

The IATA Travel Pass is far less egregious in this regard. Their privacy policy is a mere 1,700 words and the data they look to be collecting makes a lot more sense. Testing is underway with 48 airlines.

Governments need not be better unfortunately. Take the Indonesian official app, PeduliLindungi. According to their privacy policy, the app tracks your location and other data points. Who is this data shared with? Google and arms of the Indonesian Government. Which arms? Why?

So if you value your privacy and are wary of companies and/or governments profiling you, or tracking your every move, do your research. If you think I’m being hyperbolic, you need look no further than China. Talking about what software within a contact tracing app was doing, the New York Times writes:

“It also appears to share information with the police, setting a template for new forms of automated social control that could persist long after the epidemic subsides.”

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it

Through all my reading on this topic, the one story I agreed with more than any other, was one by the ACLU. Discussing what could go wrong with vaccine passports, they write.

It must not be exclusively digital

“A standardised credential should be primarily a paper–based system with an optional digital component, not the other way around.”

It does not allow for tracking and the creation of new databases.

“If some big company is getting notified any time someone reads one of your credentials, that would let them track your movements and interests.”

They go on to say:

“... but if a passport system makes it very easy to ask for and to provide proof of vaccination, it’s likely that such requests will become over–used as people get asked for credentials at every turn.”

You know what existing “technology” meets the above two criteria? The Carte Jaune.

Use that.

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Hello to all the new subscribers off the back of yesterday’s post on Covid and Southeast Asia! A quick explainer on Couchfish, this is primarily a travel newsletter—it isn’t always about Covid! The paid version (from US$7 per month), comes out Monday, Wednesday and Thursday and traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia—you can see the itinerary so far here. The free posts, like this one, come out twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays and cover a wide gamut of topics. I’ve marked all of these posts on a map here. Some are like the Covid post, others like this one—on a cool trip in northern Thailand.

Enjoy!

The north of Thailand has plenty to offer on the touring front, be it by scooter, car, or even bus. Often the first trip people try, and with good reason, is the Mae Hong Son Loop. Starting and ending in the northern centre of Chiang Mai, you can cover it in as little as two days, or as long as two months. Here’s how you do it.

Blood pressure dropping. A bucolic scene on the Ping River. Photo: Mark Ord.

For decades Chiang Mai has been the epicentre of northern Thailand’s tourism scene. Travellers came first for cooler weather, trekking, and as a base to explore. Today there’s temples, food, nightlife, and oodles of affordable (and not so) lodgings. Despite all these other offerings, the original reasons for visiting persist.

The Mae Hong Son Loop encompasses some of Chiang Mai province along with Mae Hong Son. Much of the latter sidles against Burma and offers both scenery and a cultural mix. Most often done by scooter, the roads are also fine for car, while if you prefer to do it by bus, you can.

Doi Luang beckons. Photo: Mark Ord.

From Chiang Mai you head out north through Mae Rim on Route 107. Eventually you’ll reach a left to Route 1095, but I say start with a detour—continue north. Follow Route 107 for about 30 km north to Chiang Dao and have your first night there.

While Chiang Dao town has little to recommend it, to the west, near the same–named cave, sit a cluster of good spots to stay. You can with ease drop a few nights here. Explore the cave, sample the food, or even do an overnight camping trek to the summit of Doi Luang. More intrepid travellers should consider a trip north to Arunothai. You can get there by songtheaw, but if you have your own transport, explore some of the back roads. Once you’re ready to move on, backtrack to Route 1095 and head west.

The P in Pai stands for pretty. Photo: Mark Ord.

Route 1095 leads up through the mountains to Pai. One of the the north’s most popular backpacker spots, this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but it is undeniably pretty. Popular as much for trekking and rafting as for sitting around losing time, do make the effort to explore a bit. Depending on your schedule, allow anything from two nights to two months.

Moving on from Pai, next stop is Pangmapha—better known to travellers as Soppong. Some describe it as Pai–lite, but it is far smaller—a blink and you’ll miss it style spot. Best known for Tham Lod, an enormous bat–filled cave you can raft through, this is another spot to lose time. In business since 1984 (though temporarily closed due to Covid), Cave Lodge is the place to stay. Set down a trail off the main road, if you thought Pai was messing with your itinerary, Cave Lodge is even worse!

Wilderness near Soppong. Photo: Mark Ord.

Once you manage to peel yourself away from the nightly fireside chats at Cave Lodge, press on west. If you have the time, Mae Lana, off a northwards spur, is worth a night—both for its sleepy village vibe and forest walks. If not, press on to Mae Hong Son.

The provincial capital, misty Mae Hong Son dropped a little off the traveller radar in the late 90s. Why? As Laos grew in popularity, foreign travellers started running out of time and would turn back at Pai. The scene today is more focused on the domestic trade, which means, among other things, the food got better! There is an influence, both on the cuisine and the temples, from Burma’s Shan State, making for an interesting spot.

Grazing for yams in Mae Hong Son. Photo: Mark Ord.

As with Pai, there are plenty of day trips you can do from here, to the north and south, and also out to the Burmese frontier. If you have time for just one, consider a day–long trip to what was once a KMT hangout, Ban Rak Thai. While you can reach there by songtheaw, having your own wheels pays dividends when it comes to the views

While the road south from Mae Hong Son isn’t as mountainous as earlier legs, it is nevertheless pretty. Weaving though vast stretches of forest, if you have the time, break the trip for an overnight stop at Khun Yuam. This is a great base for a trip to Mae Surin Waterfall—with an 80 metre drop, the tallest in Thailand. Also not far from town lies the slopes of Doi Mae U-Kho—which is famous for sunflower fields.

Mae Surin Waterfall. Tumbling into a hole in the Earth. Photo: Mark Ord.

South again brings you to the small junction town of Mae Sariang. If you’d like to see Burma, you can travel west to Mae Sam Laep and wave to it over the pumping muddy waters of the Salween. Mae Sariang is also a coin toss spot—continue south, eventually to Umphang, or lake a left and begin to close in the loop. Today we’re taking a left.

Route 108 coasts inland, leaving Burma and the teak forests behind. You can pass through Ob Luang National Park, or turn north on Route 1088 towards Mae Chaem, then 1192 to Doi Inthanon. As you’ve already seen the tallest waterfall, why not swing by Thailand’s highest peak?

Scenery on the way to Doi Inthanon. Photo: Mark Ord.

From Doi Inthanon, you can veer north via Mae Wang, or south via Chom Thong and then ease yourself back into the southern reaches of Chiang Mai.

Have fun!

Nuts and bolts

All the major legs are straightforward to do with minibus or songtheaw services. From Mae Sariang onwards, if you want to go via Mae Chaem and Doi Inthanon, it will take a bit of time, but direct to Chiang Mai is easy. For detailed transport information please see the related destination write–ups on Travelfish.

Most opt to do this by scooter. Always, always, always wear a helmet. Read your travel insurance carefully. If you’re unlicensed it is unlikely you will have any insurance cover in the event of an accident. The trip is also easily done by car and Chiang Mai has around 82 bazillion scooter and car rental outlets.

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Doom–scrolling through the Friday morning news isn’t a great way to finish the month—and what a shocker it has been. I thought 2021 was going to be better than 2020, not worse! To be honest, I’m not getting my hopes up about 2022 either—I’m on the 2023 train, and here’s why.

You must be the first mover

Dr Michael Ryan is an Irish epidemiologist and executive director of the WHO Health Emergencies Programme. Way back in mid March 2020, lending on his experience with Ebola, he declared “you must be the first mover.”

If only we’d listened—do give it a listen yourself.

Wise words in March, 2020.

A Pacific postcard

We’re over half way through 2021 and the remainder looks like a write–off. Erstwhile midterm safe bets like Thailand and Vietnam are dealing with worrying outbreaks. Others like Indonesia and Malaysia look even worse. Burma, in an awful state even before Covid, today is a humanitarian disaster—and terrifying.

Say a prayer for Burma. At Shwesandaw Paya, Pyay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

According to Gary Bowerman of The South East Asia Travel Show, active Covid cases across the region have gone from 304,750 on June 1, to 457,917 on July 1, to a staggering 1.164 million at the end of July. An almost four–fold increase in two months.

Countries across the region have either banned or severely curtailed recreational inbound and domestic travel. Phuket and Ko Samui are exceptions, but mostly you’ll need quite some determination to pull off a holiday.

When is this going to change? Not until vaccinations get plenty more scale.

To jump out of Southeast Asia to the Pacific for a second, the situation in Fiji is instructive. Writes Aljazeera:

“The current outbreak began after a soldier providing security at a quarantine facility caught the virus from a traveller who had recently returned from India. Fiji’s health authorities believe he then passed the virus onto one of the maids in the facility, who then infected several members of her family and another soldier working in the facility, who in turn passed it onto his wife. Fiji’s first super-spreader event occurred the same week when one of the infected quarantine workers inadvertently attended a funeral with some 500 mourners.”

From this single traveller, Fiji went from a total caseload of 70 by March this year, to clocking an average of over 900 cases a day. The medical system is on the ropes, and per capita Fiji is now one of the worst situations in the world. All from one traveller and an unfortunate chain of events that flowed on from that single person.

While some Southeast Asian nations have medical systems superior to Fiji, others don’t. Fiji’s situation illustrates why inbound tourism into a largely unvaccinated country, is rife with risk.

Slow motion jabs

There’s only one real bright spot—Singapore. The island state expects to have 80% of its population fully vaccinated by September. It’s a big drop to second place though, with Cambodia at 28% of its population fully vaccinated. Malaysia, has managed shy of 50% for the first shot. Everywhere else is floating around the 20% or below mark, if that—for the first shot only.

Vaccinate first. Bums on seats second. Ko Bulon Lae, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s many reasons for the slow motion jabbing across the region. Hoarding by wealthy countries jammed up supply, but local governments are not blameless. Looking for an example? Journalist Andrew Marshall wrote a withering assessment of Thailand’s quagmire. Not only has the roll out been slow, it has been uneven. Vaccinating the elderly and heroic frontline medical workers makes absolute sense. Other cases are not as compelling.

With economies overexposed to inbound tourism, businesses and employment took massive hits. Lobbied by travel industry big swingers, some nations tried to mitigate the effect. How? By vaccinating people in specific locations, so foreign tourists could return bubble–style. The two best known spots for this are Thailand’s Phuket and Ko Samui. Indonesia’s Bali and Vietnam’s Phu Quoc have taken then dropped, or are considering, variations on the same.

At a glance, it sort of makes sense—restart tourism to create jobs and so on. With a closer look though, it gets complicated fast. First, you vaccinate close enough to everyone in say Phuket or Bali. Then you mandate that all international visitors are fully vaccinated. The problem is, the majority of locals elsewhere in the country haven’t been jabbed. Foreigners can jet in for a beach holiday, but locals can’t set foot on the sand.

This seems manifestly unfair.

Have your som tam and eat it too

Governments try to explain this away—its the economy stupid! Boosting tourism will help business which will create jobs and so on. Are there public health risks? Yes. Are governments often ignoring medical experts? Yes. Here’s Dr Prasit Watanapa, dean of Thailand’s Mahidol University’s medicine facility, talking about the Phuket Sandbox, as an example:

“I think it is too soon to open the country to foreign tourists as the vaccines (for) locals cannot protect against every kind of virus variant,” he warned. “The province’s disease control measures are not strict or comprehensive enough if a new wave emerges.”

While governments and business wish it, this isn’t an either/or between business and health. Governments could implement financial support for workers tomorrow, but they choose not to.

Side–note: To the reader who emailed me last time I wrote this to call me a communist, there is no need to email me again—thank you.

A picture says a thousand words. Sihanoukville, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The tourism industries in my examples rely on labour from elsewhere in the country. In the early throes of Covid, many of these workers went home. In Phuket’s case often to Northeast Thailand, in Bali’s case to Lombok, Java or Sumatra. If a large number of these people lack vaccinations but want to return to find work, a problem arrises.

As seen in Phuket this week, some see their return as a significant risk to the island’s fragile Covid calculus. Since the opening of the Sandbox, the 7–day average of Covid daily cases on Phuket’s has gone from 4 to over 30. In response, on August 3 the local government plans to seal off Phuket from the rest of the country.

Does the economic benefit outweigh the risks to public health? Since July 1, Phuket Sandbox has welcomed almost 13,000 people—a little over 400 per day. Of these, just 30 have tested positive for Covid at some stage of their stay. Samui+, already described as teetering, has seen 93 people arrive since launch. Yes, ninety three.

So Phuket is about to be sealed off to Thais—even if they are vaccinated. So much for the value of the domestic market. How does this look from outside looking in? With the TAT’s ever–moving goalposts and a hotelier billionaire lying on TV, not great. As Gary Bowerman says:

“it just looks a little bit like you’re ghettoising travel and I’m not sure that’s building any confidence at all.” (8:35)

An equitable approach is to vaccinate all resident people first. Then allow them to travel in their own country. After that, and only after that, welcome international tourists.

How long is too long?

How long would it take though to vaccinate local populations? Lets look at three countries.

Bunker down. Gili Solobo, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Thailand’s vaccine quagmire suggests it won’t even have enough vaccines till 2022. The reasons are complicated and I’m not going to wade in, but if you’d like to learn more, try Andrew Marshall’s deep long read on the issue. Should coupist Prayut resign? Hell yes. The other day, the country banned Covid news that causes public fear—even if the news is true. Not encouraging. Best case: Mid– to late–2022.

Indonesia is likewise talking about a national target aimed at March 2022. Is this ambitious? Yes. Does Indonesia face challenges on a scale unlike any other nation in the region? Yes. Are some of the problems self inflicted? Yes. Full vaccination rates outside Bali, Jakarta and Yogyakarta are paltry. There is a long way to go, but thankfully the speed of the vaccination roll out has improved from back when pundits suggested it would take ten years to vaccinate 75% of the population. Best case: Late–2022 to mid–2023.

Under 1% of Vietnam’s population is fully vaccinated, though they are trying to speed things along. The government said this week they plan to vaccinate five million people in Hanoi by April 2022. Hanoi’s population ranges from four to twenty million depending on where you draw a line around the city. I couldn’t find a national target, but it is fair to assume Hanoi is being prioritised ahead of rural areas. Best case: Late–2022 to mid–2023.

Aside from Singapore and Cambodia, few look like hitting high vaccination rates by the end of this year. Every shot given is another tiny battle won—the battlefield though, keeps shifting.

The Four Horsemen and their mates

You’ve no doubt heard about Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Delta.

Thailand thought it had a good handle on things till Delta swept through. Since April 1 the country has seen half a million plus cases and over 4,500 dead. It has better testing levels and contact tracing, but Delta’s climb was eerily similar to Indonesia’s. The Delta rocket.

We prefer these kind of horses. At Pasola, Sumba, Indonesia. Photo: Sally Arnold.

In Indonesia, a newish variant, Delta Plus has emerged. Just as Indonesia’s horrific Delta–driven numbers looked to be abating, a new variant has emerged. It is too early to know what this means for a population ravaged by the virus and worn down by mixed messaging. The situation so far? Over three million cases and 80,000+ dead. These are the official numbers, widely considered to under report the situation.

If Delta Plus is more virulent and dangerous, what happens when Epsilon, Zeta, Eta and Theta roll into town?

See you in 2023

I’m saying 2023 for two reasons.

First: I worry that some of the mates of the horsemen above are yet to enter the fray. Perhaps Delta Extra Spicy won’t be a big deal after all—we don’t know. So, I’m erring on the cautious side, thinking there may well be further blow outs down the track. These could delay planned vaccination roll outs.

I can’t see inbound tourism at any scale until national vaccinations are hitting the 70-80% mark. Until then, nations need to shelve schemes to create inbound bubbles, instead financially support workers, and get jabbing like mad.

Second: I’ve been quite accurate in my gloomy outlooks of the recent past, and this time, for once, I’d like to be terribly wrong.

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On the northwest corner of Indonesia’s Sumbawa, a peninsula juts into the Alas Strait like a stray chicken leg. Along the leg’s east side, a narrow road runs up to Pelabuhan Pota Tano. From here car ferries shuttle back and forward, night and day, to Lombok.

Weather allowing, the trip takes around an hour and a half. The trip is long enough to stretch your legs, gaze at Rinjani, and, as you near Sumbawa, ponder some new islands. There’s eight in total, curving around in a half crescent around the chicken leg.

Holidays with Dad are fun right? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On my first trip to Sumbawa, Poto Tano was one of my last stops. At that stage I’d been on the island for about two weeks and was ready for a day off. Ok, to be honest I’d had a day off two days earlier exploring the amazing Moyo, but I felt like more island time.

A little to the west of the chicken leg there is a smaller wooden pier for local fishermen. There I rustled up a man with a boat and we spent the day snorkelling off three of the eight islands. We hit Paserang, Kenewa and the mangrove backside of another island.

Kenewa is good fun above the water as well. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was a fun day, and of the three I was particularly taken with Paserang. It had a half built bungalow joint on it, but nothing was happening. I asked the boatman if I could camp there. Why not? He asked. I took his number and started planning.

When the next school holidays hit, I bundled the kids into the car and we headed east. The car ferry took us from Bali to Lombok, and we drove across then overnighted at Pondok Siola in Labuan Pandan. I’ve written before about this spot—why keep driving when you can overnight at such a friendly place?

The view from Kenewa’s summit. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next morning I messaged the boat dude and he was ready to go when we drove off the car ferry and onto Sumbawa. We stashed the car, piled the tents, a few Aqua gallons and all our kit into the boat and we were off. Thirty minutes later he dropped us at Paserang’s rickety pier, promised to return in three days, and was off.

We had our own private island.

This was for three days—not three months. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The first debate was should we use one of the half–built bungalows or camp by the beach. We took a look around, then, about two hundred metres to the west of the pier we found the perfect spot. A grassy spread under a shade tree right beside a 750 metre long white sand beach. The kids were not happy about lugging the gear, but we made it. In no time the two tents were set up side by side. One was for all our stuff and the other for the three of us.

It was lunch time by the time everything was squared away and we all felt we’d earned that first swim.

Gili Paserang. Today in bloody awful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Paserang has a great house reef and we discovered we could walk back to the pier, jump in and nature would do the rest. The current would grab us and with no effort at all on our part, it would pull us all the way along the southern reef. At the end of it, we’d swim in, run back, jump back in, and repeat.

Three days of this. I tell you, it was hard.

The interior of the island has a small tabletop with an overgrown trail leading to the top. Once there, pavers led to viewpoints to both the east and west—perfect for both sunrise and sunset. We could see Rinjani to the west and to the east, some of the other islands.

Who needs a horizon pool? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

That first night we lit a bonfire then laid in the sand and counted the stars—or tried to anyway, as there were quite a few. No bright lights big cities nearby to dim the night sky.

We woke early, and the entire day saw not a soul other than each other. We cleaned a section of the beach, collecting plastic cups and noodle packets by the dozen. Later when we shipped back to the mainland, the boatman kept the rubbish to see what he could sell or re–use.

In the late afternoon, kids protesting, we hiked up what they were now calling “the mountain”. Another great sunset, another bonfire, another sky of stars.

Dancing genes clearly inherited from father. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

That second night though wasn’t to be as the first.

Around 3 am I woke to noise outside and lights flashing around. We’d seen nobody through the day, and so baffled, I opened the tent to see two small fishing boats pulling in.

“Pagi!” (morning!) I yelled, with a startled “pagi” echoing back.

At that stage I’m not sure who was more surprised, me or them. I do know though that they were the more surprised when they saw two bleary–eyed foreign kids crawl out. It turned out we camping at their regular spot.

We’re smiling because you just promised we never have to climb this again. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In no time they were showing Will their catch and asking me what on earth we were doing there. They told us most campers hit Kenewa as it is more famous and closer to Poto Tano. Small talk done, they got to work stringing nets and doing fishing boat stuff. It seemed they were planning on staying put for a spell.

When we started to pack up, they dropped everything to help us cart it all back—not without jokes about some of our gear. Then it was an hour spent jumping off the pier till we saw our boat back to the mainland approaching.

We’ll be back! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

An hour later we were loading the car for the drive down the west coast. Kertasari, Maluk, YoYo’s and Tropicals beckoned—but that’s another story.

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One side effect of Covid19 is it has brought out the inner statistician in pundits–a–plenty—yours truly included. This can be a good thing—numbers matter. They can provide often missing context and help educate readers. It helps though, if the numbers are correct.

I first came across fuzzy Covid math early last year. The planet was in the virus’ early throes and stories kept stating 70% or 80% of Bali’s economy was tourism dependent. I know Bali pretty well, and these figures struck me as exaggerated.

Not really feeling the 70–80%. Munduk, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Bali is a big place and while the south of the island is heavily touristed, much of the rest is devoid of it. As far as I could see, the 70 or 80% figure came from Wikipedia. Wiki in turn based it on an unsourced figure from a Time story in 2002. Yes, at the time, eighteen years earlier.

I did some digging and found a Bank of Indonesia report from 2017 on the Balinese economy. The report noted accommodation, food and transport contributed about 33% to the economy. Services another 13%. Other reports get the figure up to around 60%, but only by including the banking and telecom sectors.

Sure tourists might use an ATM or buy a sim–card, but it is a stretch to add those into the “tourism reliant” column. To my non–economist gut, somewhere between 30 and 50% felt about right.

This definitely counts. Alila, Candi Dasa, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Heading north to Thailand, you’ll likewise see plenty of fuzzy math. In Thailand’s case, the oft quoted “tourism dependent figure” is 20%—it is though, incorrect. The Bank of Thailand, puts the figure at around half that—11%. As with Bali, you can push it to 20% by taking your pick from a glad bag of services and other industries. The more you include though, the ropier the math gets.

My favourite though, as it is in the press non–stop at the moment, is Phuket. Media reports saying 95% of Phuket’s economy was tourism reliant, as with the Bali figure, felt wrong. After some digging I ended up with a not dissimilar figure to Bali—around 45%. As with Bali, you can get this higher by including transport and other services. Are car sales a “tourism related business”? They need to be if you want to reach 95%. What about wholesale retail? The banking system? You need them all in to hit 95%.

All the above is on the supply side—in Phuket’s case though, the TAT is been telling some wonderfully tall tales. In their case, they’re claiming that the average spend of Phuket Sandbox tourists is 40,000 baht per day. This is per person—not per football team.

95% of Phuket’s tourists are not on Sai Kaew Beach. Photo: Lana Willocks.

Now I don’t know about you, but this strikes me as a lot of som tam. So how on earth do they get this number? For starters, it turns out the 40,000 baht includes the cost of the inbound flight to Thailand. In the TAT’s alternate universe, that US$1,000 you spent to fly from Frankfurt to Phuket, is their revenue to count. That seems to me to be well dodgy.

Phuket has its fair share of fancy pants hotels. A quick search on Agoda found me ten nights for two at the Sri Panwa for a mere 106,091 baht. The rate includes free breakfast and free WiFi—I can’t tell you what a relief that was. So lets make the math easy and say 10,000 baht a night for two, that still leaves my friend and I 70,000 baht per day to spend. Som tam here we come.

As I’ve written before, the TAT has among the longest bows in the land. This widely reported figure though is complete garbage. The TAT making stuff up? I know right—I for one am shocked.

“I’d like 8,000 plates please.” Photo: David Luekens.

It has also been reported, that more than half of the Phuket arrivals so far are not “legitimate tourists.” Rather they’re returnees choosing to do quarantine in Phuket rather than Bangkok. Picking an island—even Phuket—over quarantine in Bangkok is totally understandable. Given they’ll be spending quarantine in Phuket (eating loads of som tam), I guess this is a less egregious TAT tale.

So where is the problem? To my mind there are two.

First, overstating the tourism reliance of any destination does nobody any favours. I’m not denying the severe situation those in the tourism industry are facing. Particularly in countries where financial support is minimal, the situation is brutal. Overstating the scale of the problem though, plays into governmental spin. The spin being, despite Thailand being largely unvaccinated, they had little choice but to embark on risky projects like the Sandbox.

Searching for the right numbers need not be as hard as finding a released gibbon. Photo: Lana Willocks.

Of course they had other choices—they had quite a few actually. Not mismanaging vaccine supply to a head–desking degree would have been a good start. That milk is spilt though. Financial support until nationwide vaccinations reach a viable level, is an obvious alternative. Governments deserve flogging on this—it isn’t as if the budget isn’t there—especially in Thailand’s case. Hell, even Cambodia managed it.

Secondly, if you’re a tourism business owner, you can’t be faulted for thinking now is the time to reopen. The truth though, is that tourism spending is, in all likelihood, a fraction of what the TAT is claiming. Other media reports have suggested the average spend is just 5,500 baht per day—a little over a tenth of what the TAT is saying. This strikes me as far more reasonable, and I can see how you could manage it—just stay at Sri Panwa! (Note in the podcast I mistakingly said 9,500 baht—sorry!)

No need to make stuff up—Phuket can sell itself naturally. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Numbers matter. Much has been written about concerns around official data for Covid caseloads. Regurgitating iffy numbers on the scale of the problem and the revenue from risky re–openings, are no more helpful. In a worse case scenario, these iffy numbers could could be just as dangerous as the dodgy Covid ones. To tourists and locals alike.

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While this is part of the itinerary series, I’ve made it a free–to–read post, as everyone wants to walk around an island.

Some people see a mountain and have to climb it. I’ve some of that in me, but give me an island and that is something I must walk around. Few islands are higher up on the circumnavigate by foot rankings than one of my favourite Thai islands, Ko Pha Ngan.

Some spots are worth the walk. Haad Saikantang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The following is a rough guide on how to walk around the island in 11 days. You can do it in five or six (less if you are a masochist), but I’ve slowed the pace to allow for those islanding with kids. Why? Speaking from experience, kids tend to get a bit feral after four or five kilometres—well, mine do anyway! At the other end of the spectrum, you could spend two months doing this.

For a couple of legs, consider doing it by longtail, as otherwise you’ll be walking interior roads for hours. Not much fun in the midday heat. Unless you are into bouldering, it is not possible to stick right to the coast the whole way around. Haad Salad to Mae Haad is absolutely not possible along the rocks—something I learned the hard way.

Pack light. Leave the bulk of your gear at whatever guesthouse you start at. All you need is a couple of changes of clothes, swimmers, a sarong, sunscreen and a hat. Make sure you have large refillable water containers.

There is plenty enough shade to go around on Plaay Laem. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve planned the stops at beaches that I know have solid family digs. You can easily swap out one beach for another. For example Haad Yao instead of Haad Salad. The west coast beaches are all so close together, it is easy to swap around. The northeast and east coasts are the most rugged. Ask around before leaving to make sure you have the right trailhead. It is easy to get lost, so a smartphone with mapping is worth sticking in your pocket.

Want more Ko Pha Ngan? Check out our look at Ko Pha Ngan then and now on Travelfish.org.

I’ve started at Thong Sala as that is the arrival point for most visitors to the island, but you can start anywhere. The island is more or less round after all.

Ok, enough of the travel advisories—time to get walking!

Day 1: Thong Sala to Chao Phao via Laem Son (9-10km)

The road out to the north will take you by Nai Wok. As far as beaches go, this is a working beach and far from Ko Pha Ngan’s best. You can walk the length of the beach or stick to the road. Matters improve a little to the north at Plaay Laem. The beach is still a little scruffy, but sleepy. Shambala is a good family option if the kids are petering out, but otherwise press on.

Enjoy the sea breeze at Castaway. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you decide to press on (you started early right?!), take the interior road north to Hinkhong. This is a long sweeping bay with a fishing port along its length. There are a few seafood restaurants along here if you’re looking for a lunch break and a cold beer. Want to stay? Try Castaway.

Refreshed and refuelled, at the top end of the beach you’ll need to break inland a little to pass by Laem Son. The road runs around the east of the lagoon, but if energetic, cut through one of the resorts to walk Laem Son’s white sand. At the northern end you’ll reach one of Ko Pha Ngan’s most famous nudist beaches. When you see the sign and more flesh than you may expect, cut right, back to the road.

The road leads to Chao Phao and you should make a beeline for Seaflower. It is my favourite family–friendly place to stay on the island. Feet up, have a swim, grab a hammock, you’ve earned it. Today has been long and hard, but the next few days will be a breeze.

Getting all frosty at Seaflower. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If the kids are baulking at a ten kilometre walk on day one, get a songthaew to Plaay Laem and start from there.

Day 2: Chao Phao to Haad Yao or Haad Salad (2 km or 4km)

After yesterday’s epic, today comes in two flavours—Haad Yao or Haad Salad. Either way, take the road running north out of Chao Phao and consider breaking the trip at Secret Beach for a swim. On the northern headland sits Rahm’s Bar, one of the best appointed bars on the island. Swim and drinks done, it is a short walk on the road, then cut through a resort to the southern tip of Haad Yao.

A gorgeous beach, there are a tonne of places to stay here—Silver Beach is a good family option. If you’re pushing on, walk the length of the beach then follow the trail beside Haad Yao Bayview Resort. This will take you by the road to Haad Tien then lead to the southern end of Haad Salad near Cookies.

Chilling out at Haad Salad. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Haad Salad was where I first fell in love with Ko Pha Ngan—at the time there were just two places to stay—My Way and Salad Hut. Both are still in business and the latter is the better family option. By the time you drop your bags and collapse in a hammock the shadows should be getting long. Snorkelling the dropoff at sunset is pretty special. Enjoy!

Day 3: Haad Salad to Mae Haad (3km)

Mae Haad looks close on the map, but it is not possible to walk there on the rocks. The inland route is both hilly and not all that pleasant, so consider hiring a longtail for the run north. Either way it is about three kilometres.

Mae Haad’s accommodation is not great, but it is worth staying here a night to enjoy the sand pinnacle out to Ko Ma. I’ve heard of people camping there—you brought a tent right?

Day 4: Mae Haad to Chalok Lam (3km)

Mae Haad to Chalok Lam is another that is more pleasant by boat than via the inland roads. If you go by boat, make a day of it and arrange stops at Thong Lang and tiny Hin Ngam. Both are beautiful and isolated with some reasonable snorkelling along the way.

Lunchtime crowds at Malibu. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’ve had enough of thatch huts or want a real shower, Mandalai, in Chalok Lam village is a solid bet. If you’re fine with rustic, Malibu is popular with younger travellers. Fanta at the far eastern end of the bay is another option worth considering. If you have the energy, hop over the headland to quieter and prettier Haad Khom where there are a few spots to stay.

Day 5: Chalok Lam to Bottle Beach (5km)

Most take a boat from Chalok Lam to Bottle Beach, and once you’ve walked it, you’ll understand why. The trail is hard to follow and has many diversions. Allow a few hours as you most likely will get lost a few times—or just take the boat.

Oh Bottle Beach. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

White sand Bottle Beach is pretty and one of those spots where tight itineraries go sideways. If you’re trying to decide which beach to allow a few extra days on, this should be one of the top options. Ideal for kids, Bottle Beach I has the better accommodation.

Day 6: Bottle Beach to Thong Nai Pan Yai (6km)

I’ve only ever walked this once off road, it took all day and I got so lost it stopped being funny. I emerged behind Santhiya after sunset looking like something the cat dragged in. Pack water—lots of it. Looking at Google Earth, it appears the trail is clearer now, but if in doubt, hire a longtail.

Take us to your leader. Thong Nai Pan Yai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The first beach you’ll hit is Thong Nai Pan Noi, where most of the beachfront accommodation is upmarket. Unless you’re happy to bend the plastic, head over the headland to Thong Nai Pan Yai for more reasonable prices. Long Tail and Dolphin, both at the southern end of the beach are excellent options.

Day 7: Thong Nai Pan Yai to Than Sadet (3km)

The trail south from Thong Nai Pan Yai to Than Sadet is almost all inland and well hilly. If you have the energy, consider a diversion to Hide on High. It is roughly three quarters of the the way and worth the legwork to reach. Describing the joint as eclectic is a slight understatement—bring your own dayglo.

Plaa’s delivers great views over Than Sadet. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On Than Sadet, long–running Mai Pen Rai Bungalows remains a solid, if rustic, option. The bungalows at Plaa’s Than Sadet on the northern headland have amazing views, but the huts can be variable. Take a look at both.

Day 8: Than Sadet to Haad Yao then Haad Thian (8km)

Another leg to file under the “possible on foot but better by boat”, this one is best done with a bit of each. Take a longtail south to Haad Yao and then walk to Haad Thian from there. Haad Yao is long and nearly undeveloped—a sweeping beach with a shallow run out. Lose an hour or so swimming and sunbaking, then follow the trail from the southern end of the beach. The trail is easy to follow and deposits you at glorious Why Nam. From there it is a simple walk over the headland to Haad Thian.

Haad Thian. Please sink the longtails and let me stay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This beach is famous for the Sanctuary and its new age tilt, but also for the monthly parties at Guy’s Bar. Truly the yin and yang of Ko Pha Ngan in a single bay. The sandy stretch is small, but the sea is great for swimming. The Sanctuary is the pick of the crop, though there are some cheap digs back off the sand. If you want more options (and a better beach) traverse the southern headland to Haad Yuan.

Day 9: Haad Thian or Haad Yuan to Haad Rin (3km)

Regardless of which beach you stay at, it is about a two hour hike on a jungle trail from either beach to Haad Rin. There are also regular longtail services if you simply cannot face another walk.

Haad Rin: Bloody awful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On Haad Rin, where to stay?! There are three main beach areas, Sunrise—where the Full Moon Party happens—is a great beach. Sunset is no great shakes, but you get the sunset (duh!) and a sleepier vibe. A third option is Saikantang, which is on the sunset side but further south and has more midrange digs. Of the three, if outside the party times, I’d go with the Sunrise side, if party time, Saikantang.

Day 10: Haad Rin to Baan Kai (3km)

You’re on the home stretch! You can walk almost all of the way from Haad Rin to Thong Sala in a day on the beach, but it is more relaxing to break it up, overnighting at Baan Kai.

No shortage of swings on Baan Kai and Baan Tai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are dozens of places to stay, many of which are affordably priced. We’ve a soft spot for Golden Beach, but there are plenty of others to choose from. Regardless of where you stay, the sunsets are free.

Day 11: Baan Kai to Thong Sala (6km)

A last long slow walk along the beach will bring you to the periphery of Thong Sala, where this stroll started. Once you arrive, go pick up the rest of your gear and head back to whichever beach you liked the best!

Have fun exploring—I’m jealous already.

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It is four in the morning. We left the wooden bungalow doors open overnight, forgoing the chilly air–con in favour of the sea breeze. Outside it is still pitch, but the fishermen are already up and about, pushing their jukung into the sea. The jukung’s keels rumble over the rocks, waking me.

Metres away, the small waves, churned up by last night’s storm, roll against the charcoal grey pebbles. The waves tumble in, then suck back rhythmically. Small round pebbles chatter as some roll back, a couple of inches closer to the sea. Then another wave pushes in, the sound of it and the pebbles reverberate through our room.

Good morning. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I rise and walk across the bare wooden floor. Broad varnished boards underfoot, then a rug, then more wood. The Javanese joglo creaks as I make my way out, across the deck, down the wobbly steps and onto the lawn.

There’s an overnight dew—it is cool season—and the grass is frosty on my bare feet. Down the curving path, palms overhead, past the pool, glassy water reflects the stars. I sit by the beach, save the waves and the pebble chit chat, it is silent. On the horizon I can see the bright green and white lights of a Pelni cruiser heading south. Perhaps from Makassar bound for Benoa on Bali, or Lombok’s Lembar. It inches across the horizon as the first hues of dawn surface.

A flower a day… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I know the sun is coming long before I see it. A pink crescent of high cloud stretches across the sky. Dark splotches of low cloud silhouette against the pink. One formation looks like a flying pig entering the jaws of a crocodile. Then they shape–shift in the wind, fading to white as sunrise nears.

To my right, the classic lines of Lombok’s Rinjani emerge from the dark. I can see where the summit must once have sat—the 1257 Samalas eruption is thought to have shaved 500 metres off the peak. The eruption buried much of Lombok and volcanic rocks landed as far afield as Bali and Sumbawa.

Hello Rinjani. This from Lean Beach, not Bunutan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The sun is about to break the horizon. Far away flecks of cloud glow incandescent white before vanishing in the orange fire. On the horizon I can see dozens of tiny triangular sails—the local fleet of jukungs. These traditional boats fish for mackerel, pushing out to sea around 4 am and returning around 9 am. On a good day, trawling a single long line, one boat might catch a hundred fish. On a bad day, nothing.

As dawn breaks, the deep red transitions to orange, then, ten minutes later, a bright yellow, then white. The green of the lawn, the blue of the sea, the grey of the stones, the multi–coloured offering in the shrine. They all radiate and glow for that magic twenty minutes.

A fisherman walks by gingerly on the pebbles, I see him every morning, we wave to each other, a “Pagi!” (Morning!) swapped between us. He’s hand–trawling, a wooden float, roughly shaped like a fish, floats thirty metres offshore. He’ll walk the length of the beach twice, every day.

Define tranquility. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The sun is higher now. I’ve had a few coffees, sipped on a lazy chair overlooking the sea. The fishing fleet is starting to make their way back. Their orange and white sails trimmed in the breeze, the jukung lean against an outrigger. The spars are curved high, when I see one head–on, it brings to mind a person trying to heave themselves out of the water.

A jukung is sailing in fast. At the last moment, the fisher pulls the sail in even tighter to ride over the back of a wave for an assist onto the pebbles. Compared to the light chatter of the waves over the stones, a jukung’s return is an unmistakable grumble. A few men run down, their shoulders under the spars, raising the jukung a little to heave it above the high water mark.

The catch can be variable. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then the nets come out, flickering silver in the morning light. Fish glitter, plucked out and thrown into plastic tureens. Women will later sort the catch in the nearby shade. Some kept, the larger fish sold to wholesalers who drive through, buying up the best of the catch. Final destination: South Bali.

By 10 am, the fishing fleet is packed away for another day. I walk the beach, it takes me around an hour end to end. Here and there fishermen tinker with engines, rethread sails or repair nets. There’s plenty of flotsam between the pebbles. Chunks of styrofoam, reused to death plastic bottles, and knotted fishing net offcuts. Further along, the pebbles make way for a span of smooth jet black sand.

The sun shining with torrential rain. Special. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At the far end of the beach there’s an enormous fairy–tale tree of the type that must once have lined the entire coast. Today it stands alone, right by the pebbles, its enormous roots hang onto boulders and dirt. It looks like it would only need one solid storm to topple it over, but its roots must run deep—I first saw the tree over a decade ago.

I sit beneath it. It is midday now. The sea has eased while the heat has risen—the plentiful shade is welcome. Birds, chattering and whistling, flutter overhead amongst its many strong arms. Now and then, they swoop down looking for cheap snacks in the shallows. I wade into the warm water, relaxing as it rolls around my thighs, the black syrupy sand between my toes. I can’t see another soul in the water.

One for me one for you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later, I cut through an empty resort and walk back along the road, past where I am staying. It is a half hour stroll, not counting the time running from the barking dogs, to a small nasi campur stall. The Ibu knows what I want and slaps it together, wrapping it in a banana leaf then tossing it into a plastic bag. Oh modernity.

I lose the afternoon back at The Kampung. The kids and I play in the cool pool waters, then relax for quiet time. Reading with feet in the pool, lounging in the dining sala or snoozing in our joglos. It is still baking hot outside and the shade and slight breeze mean we don’t even need the ceiling fans.

Sunset from Bunutan’s eastern headland. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Amed is a series of bays on Bali’s northeast coast, all in the shadow of Gunung Agung. Bunutan, where we are staying is midway along the coastline. Each bay bookended by headlands, the first few offer spectacular views to Agung. Depending on the time of the year, the sun sets to the left, right or directly behind the peak. A mercantile bar has fenced off much of the closest viewpoint, so I don’t bother walking up there. It doesn’t matter though, the light show reaches everywhere.

As with dawn, there’s a magic thirty minutes where everything glows. It is low tide and the waves are rolling in over basketball–sized, seaweed–covered stones. The seaweed is luminescent in the light, glowing against the stones that are now jet black thanks to the sea. Reflecting rays dance across the water.

Rinse and repeat daily. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then, like dawn in reverse, the show is over and I’m plunged into darkness. Above, the first of the stars glitter to life in the sun’s farewell rays.

The Kampung lies on Bunutan Beach, Amed, Bali, Indonesia. One day I’ll get back there.

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About five minutes after sending this, I realized Travelfish is 17 years old—not 15. Says a lot about the last two years I guess…and my math skills. Apols!

I’d be lying if I said it feels like it was only yesterday that Sam and I launched Travelfish.org way back when on July 12, 2004—fifteen years and a day ago. Somedays, particularly over the last 18 months, it has felt like a lifetime ago—on another planet.

Travel in Southeast Asia changed massively over our first thirteen years. Then, in early 2020 it changed in a manner nobody foresaw. In mid 2021 the region (and much of the planet) remains mired on a Covid merry–go–round spinning at an increasingly worrying rate.

Sometimes a soothing salve can be to look back rather than forward. Face it, who knows when, and in what form, any sense of normalcy will return to independent travel. With that in mind, here are fifteen special moments from fifteen years of Travelfish. I know some readers have been on board from the very start, and I hope both you and more recent arrivals enjoy these.

Thank you for all your support over the years.

Also, a huge thanks to Sam and Melissa for the new Couchfish logo.

Stuart

Taunggyi Balloon Festival, Burma

Candle lit faces under a balloon, Taunggyi, Burma. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I found myself at the “Fire Balloon Festival” by chance. I was fresh off the Kalaw to Inle Lake trek and met up with some other travellers who had hired a car to get there for the evening. I tossed in for gas and experienced one of the most amazing festivals I’ve ever seen. Enormous candle–decorated hot air balloons were launched into the night air. There was no crowd control and you could get right under the balloons while the candles were being lit. The yellow flames cast an amazing hue over the crowds underneath each balloon, and while aloft they were magnificent, it was just as spectacular back on the ground.

Slinging bowls, Mandalay, Burma

Food merchant, Mandalay, Burma. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Still in Burma, so much gets written about the varying cuisines of Southeast Asia, and deservedly so. Fewer words though about the methodology. This guy, working a street–front stall near my guesthouse in Mandalay, was a machine. His “work station” was arranged to a tee, everything within reach of his hands with no more effort than a swivel to the left or right. He was hypnotising to watch. His bowls were good too.

A not for vegetarians food stall, Phnom Penh

Would you like some meat with that? BKK1, Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While in Phnom Penh I did a street food tour with Phnom Penh Food Tours (Note: one of the co–founders used to work with Travelfish). I was so impressed with the guide Vanarith, that I hired him for some more private exploring. I told him I wanted to go eat our way around a single city block, so in the lower reaches of BKK1, we did just that. By the time we hit this stall I was stuffed to the eyeballs, but I still managed to labour on. If you can do one thing well, stick with that—don’t diversify. I think this guy took this to heart.

Banteay Kdei, Angkor, Cambodia

Late afternoon at Banteay Kdei. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Through Covid, photos of a deserted Angkor Wat have become symbolic of how the virus has ravaged Cambodia and its tourist industry. This photo was taken at Banteay Kdei, a short ride (or long walk) from Angkor Wat, in peak season of the year before Covid. One of the wonders of greater Angkor, is that, with a bit of time and dedication, anyone can find a near empty site. Once found, you can find a shady spot and enjoy the late afternoon light show, with your only company the birdsong and the security guard asking to get off your bum ten minutes before closing time.

Amed, Indonesia

Bunutan Beach at sunset, Amed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Set on the north coast of East Bali, Amed’s black sand and pebble beaches have for years offered an escape from the heavier touristed south. A series of bays, many of the dividing headlands offer spectacular views over to Bali’s tallest and holiest peak, Gunung Agung. On a clear sunset, Agung appears like a volcano out a child’s book—a classic slope running down to the island’s north coast. In the foreground, crystalline bays host white jukungs bobbing in the gentle swell. At dawn, look right instead of left and watch Lombok’s Rinjani emerge out of the dawn. Some sniff at stone beaches, but in the right light and a light swell, they’re just another example of Bali’s earth–shattering beauty.

Lake Toba, Indonesia

From the rim with the scooter. Lake Toba. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From the centre of the archipelago to the far west, Lake Toba was made for superlatives. I spent an hour sitting beside a lake on an island within a lake within an island—wondering how many places on the planet can claim that. One day while scootering, I left the island and rode up the lake’s west coast. Following a dirt trail I found a viewpoint where I felt like I could see to the edge of the Earth. Below, the lake’s deep blue, the shades of green of a caldera rim plunging into it, and, in the distance, the purple blue of more volcanoes to the north and a sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. The brilliance and serenity were second to none—Toba is the kind of place memories are made of.

Nam Kading, Laos

On the Nam Kading. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To be honest I can’t remember why Sam and I even got off the bus here, but shortly afterwards we found ourselves on a tiny sampan heading up the Nam Kading. With a tiny outboard we cruised up the incredibly still river, untouched jungle tumbling down both banks. Once the traffic noise from the highway faded there was nothing but the putt putt of the engine and the occasional bird. About an hour in we reached a small set of rapids which blocked a journey further, but even our short trip was a lesson on three fronts. Always get off the bus. Laos is gobsmackingly beautiful. Always pack a pillow.

Pimai Lao, Luang Prabang, Laos

Kids wanting to share the joy. Pimai Lao, Luang Prabang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We first hit Luang Prabang in 1997, our trip accidentally coinciding with Pimai Lao—Lao New Year. Depending on the event, the multi–day celebration rolls through the city parade style, into the temples and even across the Mekong to the far bank. We knew it was for New Year, a Lao take on Thailand’s Songkran, but that was about it. Caught up in the flow each day it was fun, educational and exhausting—in about equal measure. Catching our breath sitting on the pavement near a temple one day, we caught the attention of this squad of kids, and they wanted to share their joy with us—even if it was in the form of powder then a soaking.

Seafood market, Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia

Something on fire—I can’t remember what it was, but it was hot! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Regular readers will know I love my food, and when it comes to seafood, well, a good seafood barbecue is hard to beat. Where better to arrange a seafood barbecue? At a seafood market where save catching the fish yourself it isn’t going to be any fresher. When it comes to seafood markets, Kota Kinabalu’s waterfront night market is about as good as they get. Packed to the gills (sorry!) with vendors there’s a vast array of options (sustainable fishing policies are unfortunately not a highlight here) to choose from. There’s also chicken wings—tonnes of them. Heaven on a stick I tell ya. The large number of stalls, all working over open flames and under low roofs makes for a smokey, delicious and memorable affair.

KL bar–hopping, Malaysia

PS150, Kuala Lumpur. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For many of my early trips to Kuala Lumpur a night out was little more than a few Tiger Beers in a backpacker bar or on Jalan Alor. Nothing wrong with that of course, but on a later trip an evening guide pried me away from large Tigers and into the city’s more fancy–pants scene. While Kuala Lumpur (and Malaysia in general) are not great havens for budget drinking, even with that in mind “kind of speakeasy–style bars” like Omakase, Pahit and PS150 had withering prices—withering. Still they were an interesting mash–up to meet, well, people who don’t chug Tigers on Jalan Alor. Favourite moment: the patron at Omakase who asked me, seriously, what I was doing there, then suggested I would feel more at home at the Reggae Bar. Thanks mate.

Those feet were made for walking, Singapore

Bukit Timah station, Singapore. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Ask anyone who has spent some time in Southeast Asian capital cities what they like about Singapore and chances are “walkable footpaths” will be amongst their top five. While Bangkok, Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur or Hanoi are each, in their own way, great walking cities, they are all “walk with care” cities—expect the unexpected. Try Hanoi on crutches for ten days—I do not recommend it. In Singapore however, you can just walk. You don’t have to fret about Grandma traps, traffic on the footpath or a random piece of metal well–placed to remove that left eye you don’t really need. So when in Singapore I walk a lot. Some of the great walks are indeed paved—not just the urban pavements, but also scenic walks such as the Southern Ridges. But before I wax too lyrical about pavements, one of the best walks I’ve found there is off the pavement, and on the train track. Walk the route the trains used to ply. Really.

Hin Wong Bay, Ko Tao, Thailand

My special place. Hin Wong Bay, Ko Tao. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With so many islands, it can be tricky to pick a favourite. I love Ko Pha Ngan and have spent more time there than on any other island, and Ko Tao would be far from my favourite island, but… there’s always a but. If I had to pick one spot, on one island, one with particular happy memories—one of those days that I wished just went on and on, forever—it would be Hin Wong Bay on Ko Tao. The bay has changed a bit since I first visited, with a few more places to stay and a much improved road (yes, low bar), but it is still a very chilled out spot on what was a very busy island. At the right time of the year, when the wind is offshore, the bay is as glass, and while there is little in the way of a beach, you can dive off the distinctive boulders scattered all over the island. Quiet. Peaceful. Lovely.

Northern Thailand on two wheels

Cosmonaut companions somewhere between Chiang Mai and Phrao. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yes I know. The easiest way to kill or maim yourself in Thailand is to get on a scooter. Bonus points for being unlicensed. Triple points for not wearing a helmet. That said, Thailand’s north is rivalled only by Vietnam for scooter–touring. Buddy up with some like–minded pals, grab some bikes and go. Stay off the highways, stick to secondary and below roads—skip the back way for the back back back way. The number of routes are near endless. Start with something simple and popular like the Mae Hong Son Loop, then maybe go for a northern loop via Mae Salong, or a Nan loop, or somewhere in between. It is a fabulous way to explore the country with little in the way of dull moments, though do expect a dull backside if you end up doing 18,000 km on a Honda Dream. Best of all, if you don’t like scooters, rent a car.

A good bowl, Vietnam

A good bowl of bún cá is hard to beat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve touched on food a few times, but in the case of Vietnam, I’m sorry, but both my choices are stomach related. While I don’t expect all to agree with me, I think Vietnam has the best cuisine in the region. It is just that good. There is so much of it and so much variety, you could eat something different for every meal for a year and still barely make a dent in it. I know phở is arguably the country’s most famous dish, but if I had to pick one dish, one which would be the last Vietnamese bowl I’d have for the remainder of my life, if would be the above bowl of bún cá from behind the market in Châu Đốc close to the Cambodian frontier in the Mekong Delta. As with everything in Vietnam, it wasn’t just the bowl. It was the company, the place, the staff, the temperature, the racket, the traffic, the sweeping, and the light all coming together into this sensory overload that could have had me linger all day. Sadly I didn’t as I had to go look at bloody Sam Mountain. If you find yourself in Châu Đốc, try this bowl and skip Sam Mountain.

All one needs is cà phê sữa đá

Coffee #543 for the day, Hue, Vietnam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Iced coffee with milk. Is there a better drink in the known universe? Refreshing yet energising. Beautiful to look at. The way the coffee drips down, caressing the ice cubes before plonking into the condensed milk sea at the base of the glass. That first sip. The way the ice crunches between your teeth. You’re hunched over in a small—too small for your butt—red plastic chair. In front of you, a smaller red plastic stool. Stir your shot up then sip, then stir some more. Observe your surrounds—there is always 68 million things going on on any Vietnamese street so sip, observe, blink a few times, then sip some more. When you’re done and stand to go, don’t forget to pull the too–tight red plastic chair off your backside. The above coffee was in Hue.

And, that’s a wrap! If you have a memorable moment from your travels in Southeast Asia, please feel free to add it in the comments. Thanks again for all your support through these difficult times.
Stuart

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Let me preface this by saying, while I’ve always thought the Phuket Sandbox was a flawed and premature concept, I did want to see it succeed. Through fault not entirely of its own though, Phuket’s sandpit is doomed.

I’d love to see recreational travel restart—with the provision it protects the well being of locals. Not just locals—tourists as well—both foreign and domestic.

Not Covid, just a deadly phone–box. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Baby steps matter of course. It pays to test the water before leaping in. The last eighteen months are littered with the burst remnants of “travel bubbles”. It also pays to read the small print, and in Phuket’s case, reading the small print is instructive.

A Sandbox foundation was that 70% of Phuket’s local population would be fully vaccinated. Not half–vaccinated—fully–vaccinated. In the final weeks before the launch, it was clear that the 70% target was not going to be met.

Seventy percent: A moving target. Photo: Lana Willocks.

Suddenly, the target shifted, the waters were muddied, and half–vaccinated became ok—at least at a governmental level. Writes The Phuket News:

“In local and even national officials announcing the Phuket Sandbox model last month, having 70% of the island’s population vaccinated for COVID-19 was described as a critical factor without which the reopening to foreign tourists could not go ahead. Over the past week, that factor is no longer being recognised by any officials.”

The thing is, it isn’t ok—it is throwing public health under the wheels of a tourist minibus. While the Phuket News has been doing a solid job, media coverage of this has not been great from all quarters. I won’t get into that now as I’ve a whole other Couchfish on this topic more regionally, coming in a week or so.

Keep on spinning. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On that 70% though, you know what? Almost two weeks in and they’re still not there—they are getting close though.

The well–being of Phuketians be damned, come July 1 the Sandbox opened amid much fanfare. The inbound numbers were (as expected) paltry, but are expected to grow over time. Coupist Prayut even showed up for a meet and greet—then promptly had to go into self–isolation after a close contact with someone who was Covid positive. Oh the irony.

While some of the arrivals appear to be tourists, journalists have suggested others may not be, perhaps instead using Phuket as a back way into greater Thailand. Face it, 14 days of quarantine in Phuket is more appealing than a hotel on Bangkok’s Sukhumvit. This isn’t against the rules as far as I know—though to be honest the rules change almost daily, so who knows.

Just one thing missing. Laem Singh Beach, Phuket. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Some do appear to be real tourists. One of which was a guest inbound from UAE. Despite being fully vaccinated, they tested positive after arrival. The result for them was quarantine—at their expense, 52,000 baht according to one report. In its defence, Thailand was pretty clear on this.

What wasn’t so clear, was that 13 other passengers on the flight were also quarantined—initially also at their own expense, though it appears refunds will be forthcoming. According to the The Phuket News*, they’d dearly like to cut their trip short and go home now please—later reports confirmed they were allowed to leave. The trip of a lifetime indeed.

Read the small print people.

Sunset, Kata Noi, Phuket. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yesterday, there was a story about two unvaccinated Burmese kids who hit positive on their second test. I didn’t realise Burmese were permitted to participate in the Sandbox, so their nationality was a surprise. It is unclear at this stage if they picked up the virus before or during the flight, or afterwards in Phuket. Regardless, they’re quarantined. Their parents are quarantined too. Separately, as the kids are apparently being treated in hospital.

Now that’s a family holiday to remember. Also though, why are unvaccinated kids being allowed to fly into Phuket in the first place? Hello?

There were others who had (and continue to have) a good time on the island. There were complaints about hotels not being up with the rules, but in the scheme of things, largely minor stuff. I read one account from a family who were having a ball at a high–end resort. That’s nice. Social media was awash in PR fluff.

Nai Thon—now we’re talking. Photo: Lana Willocks.

There was always going to be positive cases slipping through. Here in Bali I know a couple of fully vaccinated adults who have been re–infected, and you might know some too. This was always a risk, but Phuket does seem to have a handle on these cases when they appear.

The thing is, while Phuket may have a handle on positive cases from a medical point of view, the rest of Thailand doesn’t. The country is in the throes of a health crisis.

Thailand’s current day to day positive caseload and number of deaths exceeds the country’s figures for all of 2020. That’s the scary thing about Covid, especially the delta strain. Districts are closing borders and Thais are queuing overnight for PCR tests. Some of the sick are being treated in hospital carparks.

Phuket Town’s old world charm. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Coupist Prayut has declared a non–curfew curfew and the worst hit areas are in varying states of lockdown. In the south of the country bordering Malaysia, the situation is not far short of an emergency. The Transport Company has cancelled bus services to all of southern Thailand. Thai Air Asia and other carriers are cancelling domestic flights. The local government in Phuket has ordered all schools closed for two weeks. Overall, the picture does not look promising.

Another Sandpit provision was that after 14 days in Phuket and after passing multiple PCR tests, visitors could travel freely within Thailand. Given Thailand’s abject mismanagement of its vaccination “plan”, the vast majority of Thais remain unvaccinated. Is letting foreign travellers, even if they are vaccinated, travel all over a near totally unvaccinated country really a sound idea? As already mentioned, a vaccination doesn’t make one Covid–proof, and some vaccines are proving to be not as effective as they could be versus the delta strain.

Meanwhile over at the TAT Braintrust, it is full steam ahead for Samui Plus. Seriously. The mind boggles.

Samui Plus. A rocky future? Lamai Beach, Ko Samui. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Thai government’s approach to Phuket reminds me of Indonesia’s approach to Bali. Indonesia, in case you missed it, sits at the precipice of a complete collapse of its medical system. Daily case numbers and deaths are at record levels. The primary niche for drone photography at the moment isn’t surf breaks—rather it is aerial cemetery photography.

As with Thailand and Phuket, Indonesia prioritised vaccines for Bali. Like Phuket, there were plans to reopen this month. They’re now shelved and the island is in strict (by Indonesian standards) lockdown. As far as I can tell, the approach is to vaccinate their way out of the problem. Like Phuket, Bali’s economy is over–exposed to tourism and local livelihoods have been hammered.

On one hand this piecemeal approach makes sense—tourism is a job creator and revenue raiser. On the other hand though, prioritising tourist areas ahead of everybody else stinks. Especially when the vast majority of each population remains unvaccinated. It is their country—not tourists’.

Ya Nui. Phuket is picture perfect in places. Photo: Lana Willocks.

Thailand couldn’t even manage to vaccinate 70% of Phuketians before opening. What happened to public health first? Where was the support to small businesses till say October 1 to allow for vaccinations at least in Phuket to finish? Actually where has the government financial support been throughout this entire crisis? Nowhere.

I said up top, Phuket’s sandbox is doomed. It is doomed because it was poorly thought out and driven by misguided motivations. It is to a destination within a country seeing record Covid growth. The government, through its policies, has clearly indicated public health is not a priority. Be it a sudden growth of cases in Phuket, or nationwide, I’d be amazed if the Sandbox is still running by the end of July. Ko Samui? A non–starter.

Push these piecemeal re–openings back, financially support small businesses and prioritise vaccinating local people. It is that simple.

Oh, and stop listening to whining billionaire hoteliers.

* This piece was updated on July 13, 2021 to clarify that when the 13 passengers were quarantined off the flight from UAE, they did not represent the full passenger load of the aircraft. Apols for any confusion.

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Sorry about the recording quality—I’m at a cafe right by the surf!

I’m standing with Richard in knee–high grass looking across the water towards Adonara. There’s a long stretch of sandy beach and a beautiful shade tree set just back from the high water mark. His block runs a long way back up a gentle rise from the sea and he’s explaining what he wants to build.

Richard runs Hotel Rejeki, Lewoleba’s traveller hub on Lembata, in Indonesia’s Lesser Sunda Islands. I call it a traveller hub, but given a busy week for him is a couple of foreign faces, calling it a “hub” is an overstatement. Despite the paucity of trade, he’s excited about the potential of his block of turf. So am I.

Hello Ile Bolong. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Richard knows what I do for a living and he asks me what he should do with it. The potential is obvious. While he is thinking a few simple cinderblock rooms, I’m letting my mind outrun either of our chequebooks. Start with a few small wooden houses, ideal for couples or solo travellers, I say. A larger family–house could sit on the hill over there. An open plan restaurant to our left and a yoga sala beneath the broad shade tree.

“Yoga?” he asks—he hasn’t even considered yoga.

I point out the view straight across to Ile Bolong on neighbouring Adonara. The sun is already dipping towards its summit, bathing us in the late light and the serenity is palpable.

Plenty to explore. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Yeah,” I say, “I don’t even do yoga and believe me, this beats Seminyak. Get someone to run retreats here once a month, then you’re full for a week a month.” We both know this is far easier said than done, but the potential is there.

The potential—oh how often I encounter that word.

He mulls is over and we keep wandering. Pacing out areas, looking at views. There’s a clutch of what were from memory enormous sugar palms, and he talks about removing them. I suggest he try to keep them—build around the nature rather than changing it. It is such a beautiful spot, it lends itself to as little change as possible.

Today in bloody awful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He points out (rightly) if they’re left standing they’ll obscure some of the view. We walk up the hill a bit and stand behind them. He’s right, but if we put a house over there instead, and hammocks here, the trees would cast some shade perfectly. He nods.

Further back, we stand where the vegetable garden would be. At this point we’re about 100 metres back from the sea. I raise my arms and gesture how two garden paths could weave down the slope, depositing guests at the seaside cafe. I’m dreaming of a magical garden style spot, a hideaway.

Calm waters. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is though, just a dream. Richard has the land but not the funds, and I have ideas, but also not the funds. We agree to keep in touch and do for a spell.

Lembata’s western coast is lined with beaches like the one Richard’s block faces onto. One after the other running down the coast. Some host small fishing villages, others seem totally deserted. When I ride the coast on one of my trips to Lembata, I name one beach “Red Boat Beach”. Why? I can’t find a name for it and as I stand there on the white sand, a red sampan and fisherman drift by. It seems as good a name as any.

Pasir Putih, next stop—Kupang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Around the southern tip lies Pasir Putih, a glorious white sand beach with a surfable wave given the right swell. I walk and walk, plentiful shade the entire way. Deep golden sand and refreshing waves wash around my ankles. There’s a couple of villages, and kids show me fish they’ve caught. The looks are curious but the smiles are welcoming. I get the feeling they don’t get many of my kind in these parts.

A few days later I’m back in Lewoleba, I’ve tracked down Jim, a Dutch Indonesian guide. He used to run a guesthouse and lead the occasional Dutch tour group in the region. He shut down the guesthouse a few years earlier due to lack of business, but it remains a comfortable spot. We sip coffee and shoot the breeze in what was once the common area.

Getting all contemplative at Uran’s Prayer Garden. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Foreigners stopped getting off the boat,” he tells me, “now they fly here, fly there, no time for Lembata.”

I checked Google Earth while working on this piece and Richard’s block is easy to find. A single rooftop near the centre is all the satellites are giving away—though it looks like the sugar palms are still standing.

One day maybe.

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The other day, referring to Thailand’s Ban Krut, I wrote “On a travel writer’s watch, somewhere like Ban Krut earns about four hours.” It earned me an incredulous email from a reader asking how could one hope to gain the nuance of a place in four hours.

As answering this appeals more to me than writing about Covid in Indonesia or Phuket’s Sandpit, here we go.

More research required. Alor Kecil, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The simple answer is “nobody can.”

Anyone with an interest in what they eat, wishes they’d never seen a video illustrating how sausage is made (here is how good sausage is made). God forbid they’re a fan of chicken nuggets. Like anything manufactured, a behind the scenes view tends to be less delicious than the finished affair.

Guidebooks—be they printed on paper or online—are no different.

When a reader sits down with a finished guide, it is much like sausage. There is some fresh mince (hopefully) along with walked over for years sawdust swept up off the floor.

Yeah, but what is in it? Nakhon Ratchasima, Thailand. Photo: David Luekens.

Think about the town you grew up in as a child. You know it well having walked the streets and watched it grow over the years. If you’re a fan of eating out, when a new place opens, you at least try it. You know which cinema has the better spaced seating and the cheaper popcorn. You know which train connects with the bus to get you where you are going. And so on.

Travel guide writers have the same brief—just not the same timeline. Moreso, they don’t have to do it for one town, rather they could be covering dozens upon dozens. Sometimes across countries.

Travel guide writing, more often than not, is a solitary undertaking. In part this is because the pay is so poor you either need to be single or have a partner with a real job to keep the wheels spinning. Also though, it is solitary because it is about as far from recreational travel as you can get. I don’t think I’d be the only one whose partner has said “I’ll join you for a week of the beach research, but forget the rest”.

Did someone say beach time? Phu Quoc island, Vietnam. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Solitary in person, but not in function. Supporting trips are rafts of tips from travellers and readers along the way. Like everything you see for yourself, these still need filtering, but are of great help. Thanks to the internet, there’s an entire array of secondary sources as well. Travel blogs, news website travel features, even Google Maps.

It all gets piled into the sausage factory.

Unless they’re owner operators, writers are mostly contractors, paid by the gig. It boils down to math. If your pay check is say $5,000 for a job, then it is in your financial interests to do it as fast as possible. Different writers have different approaches on how to achieve this. If they don’t speak the language they might hire a fixer to speed work up, or wheels to get around faster. Others call it in—in the trade “desk updating”— where the work is via online research only.

Local motorcycling guide, southern Cambodia. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

The tools for desk updating—as travellers would know—have improved over the years. With Google Streetview and room photos on Google Maps or OTAs, you can write up a hotel you’ve never seen quite convincingly. But this is a skin–deep mirage. Google Maps (at least not yet) won’t give you much insight into the personality of a place, but the room reviews might.

When I find somewhere not worth listing (as I wrote about the other day), I joke my job is wasting my time to save yours. Telling someone “don’t go” is no different to a charcuterie saying “don’t let this pass your lips”. It can save you money and an experience you’d prefer not to repeat.

Back to Ban Krut and it being worth four hours.

Places change... Sihanoukville, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The beach is pretty. While five hours would be great, I need five minutes to know this. There are quite a few places to stay, but a ride along the length of the beach can cut that in half. I may only want one mid range place, and I’m not going to look at all ten mid rangers if the first strikes me as great value. How do I pick the first? Personal then other recommendations, and if I’m still missing pay–dirt, trial and error. Rinse and repeat for each budget bracket I’m after.

Food is trickier—there is only so much squid I can eat in a day. Is a place busy? With whom? What time of the day? Is the place I listed three years ago still going? Always a good sign.

Logistics, well train stations don’t move often. For bus and other transport hubs a good guesthouse owner or travel agent can be invaluable.

…but often not entirely. Sihanoukville, Cambodia (Same trip). Photo: Stuart McDonald.

What is easiest (and what matters most—to me) is vibe. Good places go bad (or improve) regardless of accommodation options and so on. This comes only with familiarity. Google Maps can’t teach you this.

So daylight hours walking the walk, and, at least for me, some segment of the evening, spent writing stuff up. Sifting through the mental download, deciding what I’ll ditch and what I’ll add. Each writer has a different approach to this—and a differing filter. Who are you writing for? Mid-range families, stoner twenty–something singles—or both—there is crossover! This interview with Lonely Planet’s Nick Ray is well worth a listen regarding the value–adding of a good author.

What comes at of the end is the travel guide sausage. Traditional print, it could hit the shelves anything up to 18 months later, online, best case, same day. At the end though, as soon as you walk out of a place, your experience is out of date. Everything changes.

Should have been here last week. Ko Chang Noi, Thailand. Photo: David Luekens.

Pre Covid, change was gradual. A slow creep up into fancy pants, or a slow fade into obscurity. Don’t forget a pivot to a different market that won’t appeal to those who put the place on the traveller map in the first place.

Post Covid though, it has been a wrecking ball. Vast numbers of places have shut down, some for a spell, others forever. The ball though, has swung unevenly. Some seemingly roll on little–affected, others, levelled. For all intents and purposes, travel guides will need to be re–researched from scratch. But when? When is that magic moment to begin to start again?

The news of some places in Southeast Asia reopening to tourism is well premature—reckless I’d say. Nevertheless, on the back of this optimism, some publishers are commissioning updates now. Updates of what exactly? Wondering how things were, I talked to a couple of friends on gigs. They both had the same concern: So many listings gone with so little to replace them with.

Just start from scratch? Covid–period Lower Monkey Forest Road, Ubud, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As I write this beachside in Bali, the tide is receding and a few metres away a guy is digging holes for beach umbrellas. He does it every day. In about ten hours time, the waves will wash back up, and the holes will vanish. To me, this is travel in Southeast Asia at the moment. A fleeting dream of destinations re–opening, only for another wave to bury them again.

I think, in another year—or two—we’ll see travel guidebooks (both on and offline) in an altered format. They’ll take a far higher view on things.

If you’ve ever used a Lonely Planet or Rough Guide, you’ll be familiar with the layout. The front and back of the book holding the “big picture” stuff while the middle has the meat in the sandwich. The meat being the listings, the where to stay and eat and so on. Down the track, expect a lot more bread and a lot less filling. This shift was sort of on the cards pre Covid, but Covid has proven itself to be the accelerant overtourism wasn’t.

Figure out the details yourself. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The more I think about it, the more this strikes me as not entirely a bad thing. I don’t mean that only as a publisher, but also as a travel writer—and an avid traveller. For sure, I found fabulous places to stay, eat and be merry in the meat of my guidebook sandwiches. That said, from the front and back of the book, I learned far more about a country, its people and culture. You’ll learn even more on the road of course, but if I had to choose between one and the other, give me the front and back any day.

It feels like something of a forest and the trees moment—investing so much time in finding the “right” place to stay, when perhaps we should take a step back and remember why we’re there in the first place.

Yes, a different kind of sausage perhaps. I like to think though, perhaps one that delivers better understanding. And that has to be a good thing.

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A few years ago I helped out a group who were in Bali looking for something “different”. I bring on board a high caste local friend who is better versed and connected than I’ll ever be, and we explore.

Part of the trip is visiting the less visited. Think waterfalls and eateries you’d never see on a top ten list—at least not one aimed at foreigners. We spend time in a Muslim village out West where we surf and meet the imam. I introduce them to a gifted masseuse whose touch is electric—really. We hike to near impenetrable waterfalls plummeting off Bali’s spine. In the East we stumble upon a cremation taking place on the periphery of a local sports field—we are invited to observe without a second thought.

Exploring the West. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Everywhere in Bali there is ceremony. Little things with far bigger meanings. Be it the offerings on the footpaths, the touching the heart after shaking hands or the masseuse praying before laying on hands. To the group, all of whom are new to Bali, these are quirky moments that sometimes involve mind bending explanations. Luckily my friend, who I’ll call Ketut* has a skill for unravelling one’s twisted mind. He can dismiss the endless “buts” with carefully thought, calming explanations.

We leave the West and later in the day pull into Sidemen in the East. From there three of us plus a guide begin the climb of Gunung Agung, Bali’s tallest—and holiest—peak. Aiming to summit for dawn, we leave from the carpark at around 1 am. Our headlamps illuminate the exterior wall of Pura Pasar Agung as we start our way up.

Didn’t quite make it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Within a couple of hours it is clear one of the guests is struggling. We are yet to reach the tree–line but they are not in a good place. We rest, and gaze at the city lights blinking in the distance below us for a spell, then decide to press on. Not long after, they almost collapse. I remember them sitting on the ground saying they could hear chanting.

We turn back.

Back in Sidemen, defeated, some of the group sleep the entire day. We rise in the late afternoon to drive down to Klungkung for streetside babi guling. There we talk about the next day—a day of magic.

Babi guling inbound. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Magic is a coarse word to describe some of the beliefs that are interwoven into daily life in Bali. Some days it feels like there’s a ceremony for everything imaginable. When we renovate our house, there is a ceremony before me move in. Years later, when we discover a ghost living in the pool, a ceremony calms the spirit down. A cleansing ceremony in a nearby house following the death of a resident includes the sacrifice of a dog. In my office there’s a small shrine on the wall, it faces Gunung Agung, and every day an offering is placed in it. You’ll find such an alter in almost every house or compound on the island—always angled to Agung. Pay the peak its dues—after all we’re all here at its pleasure.

There’s a lot more to it than colourful offerings sitting on the pavement and at intersections. Balinese Hinduism holds that for every good or positive, there is a counterbalancing evil or negative. With this in mind I want to give the group a small insight into traditional healing. We’ll visit two balians—one a practitioner of the former, then another of the latter. I’ll call them white and black magic, but like magic, these aren’t the most appropriate terms.

Getting down to business. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We find the white magic healer down a warren of laneways in Klungkung. His workplace is a simple open room with a mattress on the floor, a patient lying upon it face up. In the foyer, on a wooden bench, sit a local family with a baby. Ketut has pre–arranged out visit and the healer nods hello, explaining the foreigners to his patients.

Smiles and nods from the waiting locals as the healer continues his treatment. When finished, he gestures to us, querying who is next. One of the party lays down and he takes to her, prodding and poking. He examines her fingers, lower stomach and sides. He has a few questions, which Ketut translates. A sharper prod with a small wooden tool to one of her fingertips earns an involuntary yelp. With that, the examination is complete, his prognosis is translated, and we are on our way.

Oh hello unclimbable you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later, as we drive back towards Sidemen, the subject comments on a funny sensation to the healer’s touch. Not as profound as that of the masseuse in the West, but nevertheless something. Or perhaps it was the power of suggestion and their mind playing tricks. It was, interesting, if kind of uneventful.

We lose the middle of the day. We admire unclimbed Agung in the distance from the cool waters of the guesthouse pool. We walk the rice terraces, and visit a traditional weaver, a distant relative of Ketut. She explains how long a piece would take to make, the patterns memorised, learned from her mother. Patterns she’s now teaching to her daughter. Like the healer’s abode, her house is simple. Rising damp, flaking paint, a bare concrete floor, the creaking wooden loom aged. A simple life—as simple as her encouraging smile as she moves to let one of our party have a go. A process that looks so simple, yet soon polite laughter engulfs the room as our party learns it ain’t as simple as it looks.

Not at easy as it looks. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Night is falling when we hustle to go visit the black magic practitioner. Up into the hills behind Sidemen we drive. Darkness falls. Then rain—solid rain. We weave up an unlit narrow road, our headlights barely illuminating the path ahead. Then a tall wall to our left and we turn in to a closed gate. There we sit, the rain pelting on the roof. It feels perfect.

Someone within slides open the gate and we drive into a barely lit, open air compound. Near the centre a family temple of sorts sits, again dimly lit. Ketut drifts off with the gate opener for a spell, then ushers us into the temple.

Now what is a good tourist price? Klungkung market shopping. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Within, sheltered from the rain, we down our umbrellas and take in the surrounds. The centrepiece is a raised dais and upon it a man sits. The light is poor, but I can tell for a Balinese man he is heavyset—not overweight but it would be fair to say big boned. Old but not ancient, in his fifties I guess.

We sit below him, me, thanks to years in Thailand, instinctively with my feet behind me. There is an exchange in Balinese between Ketut and the priest. I assume some pleasantries and I guess a request that we can film, as Ketut turns and says they can turn the cameras on.

The priest asks, with Ketut translating, what was it we want to know. Nobody is sure, we are all a bit taken aback by the scene. Someone asks how did he become a balian?

Offerings for everything. Photo: Sally Arnold.

His power (again, like magic, a poor word to use) came to him years ago—“a gift from the spirits,” he says. It came to him before he was married and, through the years, his power has strengthened. He knows the way of the light and the dark, he says, and he can help those in need—regardless of if their needs are good or evil.

We ask are people scared of his power, and of him. A long back and forth between Ketut and the priest follows—I guess translating our clumsiness. The English version is short and to the point. I’m paraphrasing here!

“People come to ask me for help as a healer, and for that power they respect me. People know though, some come to me for bad things, and my power with this is proven. For that, they fear me. This fear, it makes my power stronger. I am the head of an important temple.”

Taking a moment. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I ask who comes to see him? When they ask for bad things, what do they ask for? Again a convoluted discussion in Balinese with a simpler explanation delivered in English.

“All sorts. Trouble in life, trouble in love, trouble with money. To talk to or hear from the dead. All sorts come. Balinese, people from outside [meaning non–Balinese Indonesians], sometimes Bule [foreigners].”

Learning that foreigners come to see him, I ask what sort of foreigners, and for what sort of problems? To this a long winded explanation about a teacher from a Balinese international school follows. They are seeking revenge on an errant lover and came to have him curse them. When I ask what kind of advice he deals out to errant lovers, Ketut says this is not an appropriate question and doesn’t translate it. Watching the priest though, I’m sure he understands what I ask.

Now that’s a kris or two. Islamic Arts Museum, Kuala Lumpur. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We’re all seated, prostrated below him, with Ketut between us and the priest. The priest reaches behind and pulls out a crudely fashioned knife, almost a kris, but not quite there. Saying something in Balinese, he offers it to Ketut—not aggressively, but Ketut jumps back. Not only does he not want to touch it, he doesn’t want to accept anything handed to him by the priest. The priest isn’t bothered and places it beside him.

The crew are dumbstruck and there’s a long pause. I’m wracking my brain for something vaguely sensible to ask. When our son was born, we lived in Sanur, and after his birth, we had a ceremony and buried the placenta in the garden. This is a common practise in Bali, and while neither Sam nor myself are religious, well, best to cover all the bases. So I ask:

“When our son was born in Bali, we buried the placenta under a plant in our garden in Sanur. We later moved to Umalas and dug both up and moved them to the garden at our new house. Was this the right thing to do?”

Not everyone was bothered by the ghost in the pool. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Ketut relays my question. The priest looks baffled, then asks if I’m Balinese–Hindu, to which I shake my head. He nods, and says, while not necessary, it would not have done any harm.

I ask about the ghost in our pool, and this interests him more. He asks if we had a ceremony. I said yes, a local mangku performed it, and the ghost seemed to have chilled out. He nods, then adds if the ghost causes more problems, we should call him.

Call Ghostbusters.

Later the gears change. He lifts the knife he’d tried to hand to Ketut earlier. Then, opening his mouth he extends his tongue and slices it clear across. The blood flows and he spits it on the floor. Then, he seems to stab himself in the stomach with the same blade. He’s speaking Balinese during this and Ketut is struggling to keep up. He’s flustered, and says the priest is demonstrating his power to us.

Some things just go together. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is hard to make sense of where the real deal morphs into theatre for foreigners. It brings to mind Sam seeing people in trances eating light bulbs in East Java. Is this real or spectacle?

By this stage Ketut is uncomfortable and wants to leave. At the first opportune moment, we thank him for his time and go to stand and step back. I’m not a religious person, but the whole scene feels like it is going sideways badly.

He isn’t done though. He retrieves a bone—human, from a nearby graveyard, he tells us. We’re welcome to return after midnight and he’ll take us down to dig up a few more. We politely decline.

We make our farewells, leave a donation for his time and drive back in silence.

Getting all pensive at Candi Dasa. Photo: Start McDonald.

Back at the guesthouse in Sidemen, Ketut excuses himself immediately. He needs to shower, to cleanse himself of what he’s just experienced. We don’t see him again until the next morning. The rest of us sit by the pool and listen to the insects. There is much to digest but we all seem lost for words, and we say almost nothing to be honest. Eventually we drift off to bed and the next day we’re snorkelling off Candi Dasa.

I heard recently from Ketut that the priest died in late 2019. Due to complications from surgery—the eighth attempt at fixing a physical problem he suffered from.

I wonder who his spirit passed his power on to.

* Ketut is a pseudonym.

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There’s a beach bar a five minute bike ride from where I live and I head there most afternoons to write—I’m there now actually. I like it because it is right by the crashing ocean, but also because, even pre Covid, it was almost always empty. Save the staff of course, but half the time they’re not there either—I leave the money under a book on the bar when I leave.

It is a small, ramshackle place, a dozen tables, no music, no WiFi and barely a 3G signal. The surf though, is right there, and it clears my mind. Their coffee is dreadful, but the soda water is always icy and comes with an earnest smile.

Keep running. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Over the last year I’ve come to know the staff a bit—at a distance. They apologise when the owner is about, as when she is on site they have to add on a service charge. They told me when they got their first vaccination shot. The son of one of the staff likes to play a game I don’t understand on a cheap tablet. When there, he sits at the table beside me and always chirps hello when he sees me. He’s long given up trying to explain the game to me.

There’s a foursome of blue deckchairs on the sand, umbrellas wiggling in the wind, waving to the few potential walkers strolling by. They’re almost always empty, in the hot grey sand, raked and swept, kept tidy and presentable.

Before the world changed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The tables in the cafe area are wobbly. The umbrellas have holes in them—I like to think from coconuts, but more likely due to age and the weather. In wet season, the roof leaks.

Sometimes I’m here for an hour, other times, five or six, sometimes more. We make chit chat, but they mostly leave me alone, which I like. If I bring my kids down, they say hello to them, then the next day tell me how beautiful my grandchildren are.

I like it.

Offerings are in need. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Nearby there’s an older Balinese woman who does beach massage. She also sells sarongs, trinkets and bracelets and I’m sure if I had enough hair she’d offer to braid it. Thank god I don’t have enough hair for that.

We chat now and then. She’s from Denpasar and has been giving beach massages for “a long time”. She has five kids, but her husband is long gone—she’s said he ran away or died during different chats. I’d guess she’s in her 60s now. I can’t remember the last time I saw her give a massage. She often sits on her bedding on her phone, or snoozes—as she is now as I write.

When she wakes she’ll call out to me, holding up a blue and black sarong, it blowing in the wind as she stretches it out for me. There’s a huge toothy smile below the Ray Charles sunglasses she always wears. Above the shades a broad rimmed white linen hat—something my own mother would wear. Around her neck a cheap handbag dangles. I know it is filled with the tools for manicures, pedicures, foot scrubbing, ear candling and gawd knows what else.

A different kind of riptide. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It seems offensive to ask how business is, given the climate, but I do anyway. “Very slow,” she says, “worse than the bombs and Agung. No people, no business, no money for Mama.”

The bracelets she says she makes herself, the sarongs she sells on consignment. She makes more on the sarongs she says, but she’ll give me a special price with just 10,000 rupiah in her pocket because she knows I live here.

Then she’s gone, off to peddle her wares to a couple of tourists walking by in the afternoon sun. We both know they’ll pay more than me. This isn’t personal—it’s business.

This is business—not personal. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When we’ve chatted before, I’ve asked how she is getting by. Some of her kids still live with her, one of her sons has some kind of a governmental job and makes decent coin. In the place of the father, he’s the breadwinner. For her, coming to the beach is as much a product of habit as a means to an ends.

She’s back from the tourists. The woman paid 150,000 rupiah for a sarong and she’s delighted with that. They’re French or Russian (how you could confuse the two is beyond me) she tells me—on honeymoon. What a time for a honeymoon I say. She laughs at that, then says they asked her if she’d been vaccinated.

This was something I had been meaning to ask her but had forgotten to, so I take the opportunity. It is funny how in today’s world it is normal to ask a complete stranger this. She has been, thanks to her son’s job and her age she’s already had both shots. The vaccinations were free.

I ask, when they asked her, did she ask them if they were vaccinated.

Don’t ask, don’t tell. Fisher hut near Batu Belig. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She’s startled, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. She says no, she didn’t ask, then adds she thought all foreigners were already vaccinated—she thought they had to be to come to Bali. I explain that’s not the case, then she laughs, and says that she’d not asked, she thinks it would be rude. She pointedly doesn’t ask me.

I ask her if she knew anyone who has died of Covid. She shrugs, she’s not sure. A cousin, an uncle, a friend of a friend, someone she used to shop from at her local market. Maybe it was Covid. “They died early” is how she put it. No hospital, no doctor, no medical certificate. In the ground till the families can afford a cremation.

Trying to frame it as politely as I can, I suggest there’s nothing wrong in asking tourists if they are vaccinated. After all they asked her first. She’s not convinced. She pauses for a moment then says, “they’re guests here”.

All a true guest should leave. Seseh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She’s off wandering again. Plodding 3pm hot sand, looking for more honeymooners to pay over the market price for a sarong. But in her own way, she’s the front line of Bali’s (and many other) tourism industries.

A week ago, I was on Bingin beach in the south and a similar vendor asked me where my daughter Lyla was. Not only did she remember I had a daughter, but she remembered her name. It had been months since I’d been to Bingin with Lyla.

Maybe the vendor has a great memory, or perhaps Lyla overpaid so much, she’s now legendary—I lean towards the latter! But to be honest, I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. I would guess, the Bingin vendor’s personal situation would not be all that different to the woman above.

Oh Bingin. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Travel is a personal thing—it is different things for different people. For some it is a fancy pants hotels, some with private pool villas, for others, it is a fall down beach bar or a bamboo shack. But by and large the former is getting the column inches. I’m not suggesting the expat F&B Manager with a residence the size of a football field including a half–size Olympic pool ain’t hurting. Hurt is a relative thing I guess.

But when States say they don’t have the funds to lend financial support to the little people, it makes my blood boil. Even the most nominal amount would give these people some breathing room. And in turn, destinations the time they need to vaccinate enough of their own citizens. Locals first. Then, and only then, let’s start talking about reopening to inbound tourism.

Because, in my humble opinion, it is the little people who make the difference—and they deserve far better than what they are getting.

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Yes, I’m back! After a longer than expected hiatus I am back in front of the keyboard. I’d planned to re–start yesterday, but still wasn’t quite up to it, and it felt better to restart with a free post for all readers. So while this is a part of the paid–for itinerary series, I hope it appeals to all. My heartfelt thanks for the kind comments over the preceding month—much appreciated.

Phetchaburi is a temple town. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Phetchaburi was the first “off the pancake trail” town I ever visited in Thailand. It was, and still is to an extent, a scruffy third tier Thai provincial capital a few hours by train south of Bangkok. I don’t recall why I decided to get off there that first time, but since then I’ve returned on many occasions.

Phetchaburi is a squat, slither of a low rise town, bisected by a grotty river. With a keen eye and some patience, you’ll see monitor lizards swimming in it, back and forth from one bank to the other. Like many Thai cities, Phetchaburi is a temple town with historical vestiges. There’s a hilltop royal retreat, an interesting cave, bats and a gaggle of mediocre beaches by the sea. Famed for a sickly sweet deserts—and also hit–men if you believe what you read in the papers.

No need to restrict yourself to sweet things. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This is the type of town that is easy to give a night to, or three if you’re travelling slow. A place to linger and wander in, do laundry and catch up on your reading. The sort of place that you’re unlikely to meet other travellers.

Until better accommodation appeared, Rabieng was where I’d stay. A fall–down wooden house wedged between a busy (by Phetchaburi standards) road and the river. Run by locals Nit and Tom, it was the backpacker haunt. Music from the 70s and 80s, backpacker menus from the 90s, affable owners, and, if there was another backpacker in town, them too.

This is a flattering photo of my room at Rabieng. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Nim was the one who really ran the place. Charming and friendly, Tom more looked after the entertainment side of things. He was musical and liked his yaa dong and was ever happy to share. He ran jungle tours to Kaeng Krachan National Park, and at that he was quite apt.

The rooms, well, they were simple, to say the least. The rock hardest beds on earth, not a straight corner in the place. The traffic noise piped in to under your pillow. These quibbles faded though, sitting on the deck in the late afternoon gazing for monitors. From memory there were posters of musicians, and a vast musical collection—Leonard Cohen springs to mind. We’d pass the afternoons and evenings, boozing, eating and listening to Tom’s tales. Looking back, there was probably a fine line between being a fun host and derangement. Still, my memories are fond.

The Buddha image in question. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Tom’s speciality was the jungle, but one late afternoon, killing time, he took us to Khao Luang, a vast cave complex not far out of town. As caves go, it is far from Thailand’s most spectacular, but it felt like a healthier proposition than more yaa dong.

There’s a vast central chamber stacked with Buddha images, where, at the right time of the day, light pours in bringing the images to life. On that day, walking down a row of seated buddhas I found a far smaller statue that caught the light just right. I snapped a single photo (this was back when slide film was the norm and every photo counted—and cost money). Later, it formed the cover image for a guidebook I co–wrote to Thailand in the mid 1990s.

There are plenty more buddhas in the cave though. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Some years after the books’s publication, I revisited the cave, looking for the same image. My guide, watching me, asked if I was looking for the “Buddha on the guidebook”, when I nodded, he led me down to it. It was still there, though seemed unlike the one I had photographed. Memory is funny like that, yet I was thrilled that someone, somewhere had used my book to find the image.

A little over a century before, an account from 1884 talks about two missionary women visiting the cave. In their account, they saw stalagmites near the cave entrance, and so broke off a few to take with. Quoted in Descriptions of Old Siam, They wrote:

“At the mouth of the [Royal] cave we found some curious rocks, and succeeded in breaking off several good specimens.”

Sadly they are not there for others to admire.

Wandering Kaeng Krachan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next day, Tom took a few of us into Kaeng Krachan for a trip. We’d walk and see what we could see.

I remember following a riverbank, it felt like we were in the heart of the jungle—after all we’d been walking for hours. Kaeng Krachan though is a park so vast, we were not even scratching the surface. It was hard going, and Tom’s machete came in handy. We sat on boulders, drinking, enjoying the silence. At a swimming hole of sorts we cooled our heels. The outside world felt like a lifetime away.

Hello hornbill. Photo: David Luekens.

As the hours lengthened, we climbed to a bit of a rise. It wasn’t a view point, but some large flat stones, slightly raised in a valley. Forest rose on both sides. There was the hubbub of the jungle—birds and butterflies—no monkeys, tigers or elephants. We chatted, making small talk.

Then Tom waved us to be quiet and listen.

Hummph humph hummph.

I don’t know how to write the sound of a helicopter, but that was what it sounded like. Distant, and reverberating off the ridges and trees above us. Hard to place. Getting louder, but only ever so slightly. I’d never heard anything like.

When driving in Thailand, you always should give way to size. Photo: David Luekens.

Then Tom pointed, “there, see?”

We all craned our necks. Nothing.

Hummph humph hummph.

Then we saw it, or rather, them.

Hornbills.

First one, then three, then I don’t know, perhaps a dozen or more. They flew over, oblivious to us, on the way to somewhere else. Their enormous wings buffeting the air, the sound like nothing else I’d ever heard.

The sun was low and five minutes later, they were out of sight. We lingered, hoping for more, but we’d had our moment, and started our long walk back to the ride home to Phetchaburi.

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As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, my health took a bad turn that had me taking a couple of weeks off, well, everything. I spent the first week at home, sleeping, and much of the second week at Bingin, a beach I love in South Bali. At Bingin I also spent much of my time sleeping, but as matters began to improve my fingers started itching. The result? A Southeast Asia Tube Map.

To see a large version of the above, click here for interactive, click here for the PNG, or here for the PDF.

The London Metro Map is the most famous mass transit map in the world and I thought I’d turn the layout to Southeast Asia. Travellers tend to follow routes depending on their interest, so it seemed simple.

It wasn’t.

As I started to plan it out, the sheer variety of attractions in the region became all too clear. I wanted to try to group destinations by country, so it got complicated fast. Then I decided I’d only list each place once—doubly complicated. Does Hanoi belong on the Food, Colonial Vestiges or Family Travel line? You can only get so far with interchanges I tell you!

Sunset strolling at Bingin, thinking about tube maps. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Colonial Vestiges Line? I bet you don’t remember riding that one in London! That is what I renamed the Victoria Line as. From top to bottom, here is what I did.

Northern Line

The Northern Line became the Nature And Outdoors Line. The two northern spurs contain volcanoes to the left and parks and outdoors to the right. As it runs through downtown there is some surfing to the left, with the right being diving and more diving.

Piccadilly Line

It felt about right to rename this to the Banana Pancake Line. Starting at Bangkok’s Khao San Road it stops at many of the backpacker favourites in the region. Once it reaches Kuala Lumpur, either pivot north for Burma (Myanmar) or south to Indonesia.

Victoria Line

Of course this needed to be the Colonial Vestiges Line. From right to left, it commences in Yangon and terminates in Armenian Singapore. Along the way you’ll see the colonial relics left behind by all from colonialists to Sino trading houses.

Metropolitan Line

Yes, religion is far from a metropolitan concept. That said, the many stations lent itself to the many faiths and monuments you’ll find in the region. To the left, the two spurs are Thailand (with a couple of Singaporean spurs) and Burma. It then runs through Malaysia, Laos and Indonesia.

Central Line

The region’s antiquities tie it all together, and are central to what you see today. Ancient Times starts in Indonesia to the left, till it hits a Burma spur, then Thailand, Laos and a load of Cambodia.

Hammersmith & City and Circle Lines

Because these two lines link up with so many other lines, I called them both “A Bit Of Everything”. Handy for those who like to travel in circles. The one bit towards the left where it was just these two lines, I listed a few spots I happen to like.

District Line

The district line became the Food Line. To the right extreme we have Thai fare, then Khmer followed by Lao and Vietnamese. At Earl’s Court, take an upper spur for Singapore or Burma, down for Indonesia or left for Malaysia.

Bakerloo Line

This became the Family Travel Line. A glad bag of attractions and destinations across the region ideal for families. Singapore and Sabah in Malaysia are well represented here, but I pick up a few from elsewhere also.

Jubilee Line

I could make an entire map like this dedicated solely to islands, so this is a limited selection. At the top we start with Indonesia, then Malaysia, Thailand and Cambodia.

Outliers

This is a fun project, not to be taken too seriously, and there are some clangers. I know there are no Khmer ruins on Ko Jum, and Batu Karas has no colonial vestiges—though some probably surf there. Likewise Bia Hoi is not a colonial vestige, but drink at the right stall and you can probably see some!

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