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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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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

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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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

Back many years ago, just after the dinosaurs had a rather bad day, I co-wrote a couple of guidebooks. The first was to Vietnam, published in 1995, and the second, published in 1997, covered Thailand.

According to Google Street View, it hasn’t changed! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Paging through a copy of the latter—I still have (cough cough) a few copies left—I turn to the pages on Narathiwat. At the base of the page, there is a shaded box that reads:

Top Hotel!

The Narathiwat Hotel is one of our favourite hotels in Thailand. Although the lower floor is a brothel, the upstairs is well planned with a very pleasant balcony and large communal meeting area. There is a good restaurant downstairs and the staff are very friendly. For those arriving from Malaysia, the Narathiwat Hotel is an ideal introduction to Thailand.

When we were laying up the guidebook, we had no idea what we were doing. Every now and then, we’d end up with big gaps at the bottom of pages and we’d fill them with trivia-filled boxes like the above. As the gaps would show up at random, we wrote them on the spot. It would be fair to say, they were neither planned, nor did all that much thought go into them.

Hours lost doing exactly this. No that is not me in my underwear. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

That isn’t to say I don’t love the Narathiwat Hotel—I do. The description above is pretty accurate. Guests stayed in rooms on the upper floor, there were six from memory, though checking the book, I wrote there were 21—I’m sure that is a mistake. The shared bathroom was by the stairs down to where the restaurant and the short-time rooms were. A double room upstairs went for 100 baht.

The whole upstairs area was wooden, with the above-mentioned deck at the rear overlooking the Bang Nara River. The rooms were in two rows facing onto the common area, where there was a large table with plenty of chairs. Covered in maps, travel advice and other tips, the walls were more useful and up to date than a guidebook.

At the time, the problems in the far south were just beginning to ratchet up, but it was still a rumble rather than a roar. The travel advisories aimed at foreign travellers were yet to become commonplace.

Who needs Google Maps? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

These warnings typically read like the following—this one is still current, from the Australian Government.

“Don't travel to the four most southern provinces of the Thailand-Malaysia border: Yala, Pattani, Narathiwat and Songkhla. These areas experience frequent violence and bombings. If you're there, consider leaving.”

As such, Narathiwat remained on an alternative route between Thailand and Malaysia. People would bumble their way south from the Silly Islands, and spend a night or two in Narathiwat. From there they would move on, with the most popular route being via Sungai Kolok, to Kota Bharu in Malaysia and then the Perhentians Islands for some diving. Slow travelling cyclists were particularly common.

Off to the office. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Once the security problems escalated, foreign travellers in this part of the world fell of a cliff. South of the border, in Kota Bharu, a once-thriving backpacker scene withered on the vine. Some foreign travellers continued to pass through (or hang around—including a few Travelfish readers who are big fans of the town), but they were few and far between.

While the Southern Insurgency presented far greater costs to the residents, this drop off was a shame. The Narathiwat Hotel was always a reliable spot to meet interesting travellers. To swap notes and tips. To eat together and sink a few too many beers on the back veranda watching the fishing fleet head out to sea.

Afternoon light on the Bang Nara River. Photo Stuart McDonald.

Back to what I wrote up top.

When I wrote “For those arriving from Malaysia, the Narathiwat Hotel is an ideal introduction to Thailand” I meant it. That said, like an obscure but beautiful waterfall, for many the town was the kind of place you’d describe as “worth visiting if you’re in the area”.

A year or so after the guidebook was published, a good friend who had helped me with it was in Narathiwat. You guessed it, staying at the Narathiwat Hotel. I can’t remember why he was there, most likely on a visa run from elsewhere in Thailand.

Local life sliding under the veranda. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Hanging out in the common area one afternoon, another traveller walked in. Looking lost and disorientated, he dropped his pack by the table and they started chatting.

He was a New Zealander and had just arrived. Not only had he just arrived in Narathiwat, but he’d also just arrived in Thailand. It was his first time in the country.

My friend, assuming he’d come overland from Malaysia, asked him where he had been there. Confused, the guy said he hadn’t come from Malaysia, he’d come from Bangkok.

Where did the day go? Must leave the veranda tomorrow. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

My friend’s turn to be confused, he commented that it is a long way on the train from Bangkok. The closest train station to Narathiwat is miles away.

Oh no, the Kiwi replied, he didn’t come on the train. He flew there from Bangkok.

My friend loves Narathiwat as much as I do, but neither of us would fly there—there are too many great spots in between. Not meaning to be rude, my friend asked the New Zealander why? Why did he arrive in Bangkok and fly straight to Narathiwat?

“It’s what my guidebook said to do,” the guy said, pulling my guidebook from his pack. “It says this is an ideal introduction to Thailand.”

Have you been to the Narathiwat Hotel? Have a fond memory? Feel free to share it in the comments.

Couchfish is 100 percent independent and reader-supported. Please feel free to share this story with a friend. Thank you!

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

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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