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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

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

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

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.

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

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

The superlatives come naturally to Taman Negara. It is the biggest national park in peninsular Malaysia. It is one of the oldest deciduous rainforests on earth (over 130 million years old if you’re wondering). It is home to the tallest peak on the peninsula. Big and old and tall, but more than anything, it makes me feel tiny.

The entirety of our trek is only around 20 km, a distance that will take us two full days of walking to cover. To climb Gunung Tahan, the park’s tallest peak, takes seven days round trip. By the afternoon of the first day, the thought of traipsing through this jungle for a week does not appeal. We often stop for short breaks and there is some chit chatting then, but we walk in silence. It is harder work than I expected.

You can see the trail right? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As is often the case with jungle trekking, Aa is part guide, part jungle magician. As with the pulp mix he made earlier, he stops to grab some leaves to mash into a residue that keeps mosquitos at bay. He grabs a dangling vine and slashes it with his machete, refreshing water pours out. Later he points to a resin seeping from an enormous trunk and explains Orang Asli use it as a poison to tip their darts. Poisonous enough to kill a monkey, he says.

He delivers these jungle demonstrations and factoids with a flourish. He’s a funny guy and he knows when we’re in need of cheering up. He pokes and prods us to keep us going, asking detailed questions when he knows we’re out of breath.

“Oh, you’re too tired to answer? Tell me next life,” he says, smiling, and not even showing a sweat.

Better here than as a coffee table. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He’s a good guide, and a good guide makes all the difference. He’s not shy about telling us how the trekking guide sausage factory in Taman Negara works. As with elsewhere, a fraction of what we pay ends up in his and Ali’s pockets. At the end of the trek he gives us all his number—“call me directly next time,” he says.

Next time...

We’ve been walking most of the day when it dawns on me we haven’t seen, nor heard, another person. While I didn’t expect to run into groups non-stop, I did expect to see some other people. Aa explains there are many trails, so this isn’t unusual, plus business is slow he says. We sometimes reach spots with signs of people—cut branches, the remnants of a campfire, that kind of thing. Even to my novice eye though, they are days old.

Catching a breath. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

What we don’t see is trash. When we stop for a simple lunch, Aa and Ali pick up everything with care. Cigarette butts pocketed, a can rinsed out then stowed, nothing left behind. This is great to see, but frustrating as well, as so often it isn’t the case. I’ll never forget the guide in Luang Nam Tha in Laos, who gathered up everything after a meal and threw it in a river!

Sigh.

Later we reach a river, a slow and lazy bend almost totally shaded by the canopy above. This is to be our lunch stop and as Aa and Ali start to prepare our meal, we venture in.

Jungle bridge. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The river has an alluvial base, fine sand mixed with tiny glistening pebbles. The water is crystal clear and icy cold. We all stand on a sand bar of sorts, the cold water soothing our aching ankles. It is a strangely beautiful spot, one of those places you could never capture on film.

Shards of light pierce the canopy above us, illuminating coins of water and the pebbles below. There’s butterflies, birdcall, and the steady hum of the cicadas. The water isn’t still, but it is slow-moving—slower than the tiny fish in it anyway. The river wraps around behind us and disappears, all we can see in total is about fifty metres in length. It feels like a jungle oasis.

One of Gua Kepayang Besar’s natural windows. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Aa breaks our pensive moment with a splash and before we know it we’re swimming and swinging off a well-placed vine. Later we eat on the bank, shivering in our wet clothes.

By the time light is fading it feels like we’ve been walking for a month rather than eight hours. Then a short rise brings us to the small entrance of Gua Kepayang Besar. The further in we go the bigger the cave gets, eventually we settle in the yawning main cavern.

Our lodge for the evening. Photo blurry as I was too tired to hold the camera steady. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At the centre, a massive stalagmite almost meets a stalactite, if they were to, it would be like a natural pillar. We set up camp while Aa and Ali cook. Afterwards, some go off bat and spider spotting, but one of the group and I lay around. Spying what we think is a beagle is actually a porcupine, scattering our dishes as it grabs a quick feed.

Then the group returns and we bed down for the night. We’ve no tents, just bedrolls and sleeping bags so all through the night, a light rain of bat guano falls upon us. Memorable I guess.

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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!

1. 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.

2. 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!

3. 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.

4. 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.

5. 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.

6. 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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The next stop down the peninsular is Kuantan, a straightforward bus ride south. Like Kuala Terengganu, it is a riverside state capital with its roots in fishing and trade. For those coming across from Kuala Lumpur, or from Taman Negara, it is their first stop on the east coast.

If you’ve a bit of a thing for old trading house shopfronts, Kuantan has a few, less than KT and less again than Kota Bharu. Instead, it has plenty of concrete egg cartons and an attractive mosque. The real attraction though is the food—and it covers many bases in this regard.

Hi Kuantan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There is a hostel, the aptly named Kuantan Backpackers, but I go for the Classic, a mid-sized old hotel by the river. I hope, with an upper floor I’ll have a view, but the poorly-designed room steals that from me. Still, it will do for a night and bag dropped, I head out to start eating.

I’d be stretching the truth to call Kuantan’s riverside district a Chinatown, but it is about as close as the town gets. It must be frustrating to own an old trading house style place and see the heritage around you replaced with glass and brass, but you wouldn’t know that chatting to some of the residents.

Coke anyone? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m cooling my heels at Tjantek Art Bistro, a funky little cafe cum restaurant just a short walk from my hotel. An entire wall houses a huge glass-doored pantry stuffed to the gills with, well, stuff. One section starts with robots and coffee equipment through to random cans of Illy. Further down there is an entire section for a Coca Cola bottle collection. I ask the owner where they come from and she tells me from all over the world. Friends and guests when overseas grab interesting ones and either hand them over or mail them back.

I see a similar array a few doors down, at Kuantan Pickers, a place holding onto the past so hard its knuckles are white. There’s an antique cash register, a rotary phone, and old photos. Also, another glass-fronted pantry filled with, more stuff. While I have just a coffee at Tjantek, at Kuantan Pickers the staffer insists I try their toast and coffee. She stands by my table, watching intently as I bite and sip. It’s good, I say, and she smiles and gestures for me to keep eating and drinking, as she stands there. Watching.

At Kuantan Pickers. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This isn’t my first time in Kuantan, and as I know I have more meals planned, I go walking. On the river promenade, I peer over the water to the mangroves, where, in huge lettering, a sign reads “Kuantan”. I don’t know if Malaysians have trouble remembering where they are, but these signs are common. They’re also common in Indonesia—please stop it.

I loop back into town and make my way towards the mosque, passing by the yet to be opened Kuantan Tower. A boondoggle to deliver views as big as its budget, it is due to open in a week or so. Wandering, I make my way towards the mosque. Enormous and gleaming white with blue edges, it is a hard one to miss—and a beauty. Further on I find a little coffee shop, but I’m just filling time.

Sleep time soon. At Kong Lam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Popular in both Singapore and Malaysia, Bak Kut Teh is, simply speaking, pork ribs in a herbed soup. Despite the name, there’s no tea in it, but a glass comes alongside. In the case of Kong Lam, where I’m eating it, also a large Tiger Beer. The serving is just right, as is the side dish of fried dough that comes alongside, and I take my time savouring the meal. The ribs are meaty and fatty and they’ve lolled in the spices and garlic for hours before they’ve crossed my lips. The dough is handy for soaking up the residue at the bottom of the bowl.

I need to lay down.

Some time later, actually, quite some time later, I wake. It is time to eat again. This time I’m heading a little out of town, to a seafood strip across the river. It is a cab ride away and the driver talks non-stop as he drives. He misses the “old days” when backpackers were everywhere. He doesn’t hold back as he blames the government (corrupt) and Islamists (idiots). He tells me far more than he should about a Kiwi girlfriend he once had. He tells me I’m going to the wrong seafood place (there are loads of them) and drops me at one he says is his favourite. The fish is freshest here, he tells me, then adds, with a grimace, “no beer though”.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Ana Ikan Bakar Petai is a large open-air place and is already teeming with people despite the early hour. The menu is on a massive board and the staff hold back, no one really wanting to deal with me, the sole white face in the place. Eventually, one steps forward and asks me what I want.

I shrug, I’m not sure, I say. I start pointing and asking after prices. He reaches out, stays my arm, and suggests a combination of dishes. I don’t catch all he says, and while I’ll still rolling it over in my head he shows me a scrap of paper with a number on it. I nod, he nods and points me to a table to go wait.

By the river. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Ten minutes later I’ve got fish with stink beans in banana leaf, some squid, rice and one of those token plates of tortured vegetables. There may be no beer, but it is good.

Very good.

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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.

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

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

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 Ra