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Those who follow me on Twitter will know I now have a dog. A Bali dog, around four months old. Friends found her litter on a building site, they cleaned up the pups and housed them with friends. So it is that Skye Govinda came into our household.

A few nights ago I was sleeping in my office as I’d been working late. Skye was snoozing on the floor beside me. Around 2 am, she went off her head barking. It was silent outside—even our crazed neighbour wasn’t up sweeping at that hour. I told her to stop barking but she’d have none of it. She would not stop.

You want me to detect ghosts? Can. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I gave up trying to sleep, and, figuring she was barking at our ghost, I got up and took her for a walk.

Yes, we have a ghost—it lives in our pool.

Ghosts and water often seem to go hand in hand in Bali. The kids’ old school campus had two paranormal residents. Evidence was low key—tacks rearranged on the noticeboard, or a vase moved. Staff believed the ghosts lived in two ceramic jars by a class entrance. A new staff member, not aware of the spirits, washed the jars out one day after school. She wasn’t to know, but this was a mistake. A teacher told me how, after leaving the classroom for a short time, she returned to find every chair placed atop the tables. Yes, the ghosts did it. Queue Twilight Zone theme music here.

Shifting light can play tricks with your mind. See the ghost? (I don’t mean Will!) Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When I asked on Twitter about ghosts, Made Adhi Pratama recounted a tale like many I’ve heard from around Bali.

“We’re training for theatre comp at school’s open ballroom past 6 pm. We forgot to ask permission at the school temple, and suddenly a wave of trance was coming; 4 ppl were “incepted”. I chanted Gayatri Mantram & I felt that strong wind who pushed and wanted to enter me.”

Bali isn’t the sole preserve of the supernatural of course. I’ve written before about the haunted hotel in southern Laos’ Sekong. Not a subscriber? Briefly, the story goes two travellers drowned on the nearby river and have been returning to the hotel ever since to try and reclaim their luggage...

Moody early morning mist on the Sekong River, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In Indonesia, the supernatural weaves its way all through the lives of the living, in other countries likewise. Andrew Biggs has a tongue in cheek whos who of Thailand’s great cast of ghosts. Some well-known ghost sites have even become tourist attractions. Who hasn’t been to Bokor Casino and thought, hell this place has to be haunted.

Sometimes though, you don’t need to change countries for an otherworldly experience.

Quite a few years ago I was home alone in Bali, in bed, and the hour was late. Both the bedroom and a part of the lounge room face onto the pool. While the initial plan held for no doors at all, we went with cantilevered glass doors.

Bokor Casino is totally not haunted. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I woke and could hear tap tap tapping on the glass doors in the lounge area. The sound, while not loud, was persistent. Figuring it was a frangipani branch brushing against the glass, I got up to investigate. When I walked into the lounge, the sound stopped.

Thinking I was imagining things, I went back to bed, but as soon as I was back in bed, the sound started again.

I got up again, walked out, and again, as soon as I stepped into the lounge room, the sound stopped. Confused and a little creeped out, I returned to bed.

Once again, as soon as I was back in bed, the sound recommenced.

And there we were thinking it was just the dry ice. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I got up again, and as I walked towards the bedroom door, a chill came over me—there was no question—I was creeped out. By the time I stepped into the lounge, the hairs on the back of my neck and arms were standing on end.

As soon as I crossed the threshold into the lounge, the sound stopped. A chill washed across my body like a gust of wind. I was, for no sound reason, terrified. I darted back to the bedroom, slammed the door behind me, and jumped back into bed.

Opposite my bed are a series of floor to ceiling open cupboards. The lower levels are filled with our clothes, towels and whatnot. The top-level, out of reach unless I’m on my toes, hold papers from the kids’ school. Tests, notes, scrapbooks, exercise books—that sort of thing.

Forget the Ghost of Mae Nak—check this cat out. Photo: David Luekens.

Laying in bed with my bed lamp on, my eyes fell on a pile of papers up at the top. I was staring into space more than at the papers particularly.

Then, all of a sudden, the pile of papers shot out of the cupboard, scattering all over the room. I almost jumped through the wall—and you’re probably not surprised to read, I didn’t sleep again that night.

I know plenty do believe in ghosts, and while I thought I did too, I wasn’t sure. Now however, I’m a believer.

Hanoi’s West Lake. There’s an abandoned cemetery below its waters. I’m sure there are no ghosts here at all. Photo: Samantha Brown.

The next morning, when our Balinese housekeeper arrived, I pulled her aside. She’s more in tune with these kinds of things, and she nodded as I told her what had transpired the previous evening.

“Oh bapak, that’s the ghost—they live in the pool,” she said.

This was the first I’d heard about a ghost living in our pool. She went on to tell me she had encountered it some time ago while minding the kids one night. It was dancing in the pool and she could hear it splashing around.

When I asked why she hadn’t relayed this information to me at the time, she told me, she felt, as I was a foreigner, I wouldn’t understand.

Nobody wants an angry ghost. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Dancing in the pool was apparently of no concern—the ghost was happy. My experience though indicated the ghost’s mood had shifted.

Nobody wants an angry ghost in their house.

Bali being Bali, the solution was to have a ceremony. If you’re not familiar with Bali, offerings and ceremonies, Fred Eiseman, in Bali Sekala & Niskala, has a good summary:

“The Balinese are not paranoid about the dangers of the world. But they are acutley conscious of them at all times—on their guard. These forces are around all the time, and one cannot say when and where they might penetrate a weak spot and cause problems. The result is that offerings are made to just about everything imaginable.”

All good now. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A priest arranged (and paid for), he conducted a ceremony in the lounge room by the edge of the pool.

We’ve not heard from our supernatural boarder since.

That was, until two nights ago—or perhaps the dog was just barking at the wall. That would be the more scientific explanation.

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Side note: This story kicked off on a train trip I took from Sungai Kolok on the Thai Malaysian border to Yala. So please set aside the transport realities for a moment! If you’re wondering, the most comfortable way from Songkhla to Yala is a bus to Hat Yai and the train from there. If you’re in a hurry, there are vans from Songkhla to Yala via Pattani.

Travelling alone, it doesn’t take long for me to get chatting with fellow passengers—even if my Thai is terrible. So I feel like I’ve struck gold when the middle-aged Thai man sitting opposite me speaks excellent English.

Old and new in Kota Bharu. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Like me, he and his son have come from the Malaysian city of Kota Bharu. I’d not seen them on the bus to the border, but they’d seen me. Sitting down, he remarks that it is a coincidence, them seeing me on the bus and then us sitting opposite one another on the train. I smile, nod, and we start making small talk.

The coincidences continue. Like me, they’re heading to Yala—though for them it is home, while I’m using it as a transit point. He notes they don’t see many backpackers in Yala, then asks if I mind if we chat as he gets little chance to practise his English. “Sure,” I say. His English needs little practise, it is near flawless, and his son, in his early teens, is also a solid speaker.

We cover the usual “local meets traveller” stuff, then I say I’m planning to only stay in Yala one night before moving on. I explain I want to go and see the communist tunnels at Betong. He nods but suggests I stay longer in Yala. I’m not convinced.

The best thing about Sungai Kolok is leaving it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It can be tricky when you meet a local, baffled why their home isn’t on your radar. I’ve rattled off the names of regional towns I’ve hit like Satun, Narathiwat and Pattani, but he’s adamant Yala rocks. The train pulls into a station and we buy some snacks off a vendor as we keep talking.

Like the majority of the population in this part of Thailand, he’s Muslim, and he asks after the faith in Australia. I’m embarrassed to say I don’t have much of an answer to that, he nods, then mentions his son hopes to go to university there.

At the time I was involved in the education business in Bangkok and I answer the son’s many questions. Dad sits there, nodding and encouraging his son to ask more. As is often the case, we end up discussing scholarships and the best avenues for the son to explore. I’ve had this conversation what feels like hundreds of times at the Education Centre in Bangkok. I say they’re extremely competitive, that he should study hard, then to his Dad, I add, “start saving now”.

A Yala sunset. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As we near Yala, the sun is close to setting and the father asks where I plan to stay. I shrug. Somewhere cheap and near the station, I’m not too fussed as it is only for a night. He scoffs and laughs, then asks if he hasn’t convinced me a longer stay is a good idea yet. I shrug and mumble something about clocks ticking and so on, but he waves me off.

“You can stay with us,” he says, “then I can show you why Yala is good to stay for longer.”

I think he is joking, but he isn’t, and I accept his kind offer. Shortly after, the train grinds to a halt, we climb out and walk down the ballast by the flank of the train.

Always take up an offer that helps you avoid cheap hotels. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We follow the tracks for a spell, then go down a narrow road. The son’s university questions are still coming as we walk. I think Dad is listening to my answers closer than the son.

Then we’re home. It is a shopfront, scooters in front, birds in delicate wooden prisons hang from the roof. Shoes off, we walk inside, I meet his wife and his younger daughter. She’s around eight years old, very shy, but it doesn’t take long for her cheekiness to surface.

In no time his wife is off to the market, returning thirty minutes later with a ridiculous banquet. We eat, cross-legged on their living room floor. The son is still going, the daughter gazing at me intently. The father translates some of my answers to his wife, as her English isn’t quite as good.

The reclining Buddha at Yala’s Wat Na Tham. I almost slept this well. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When we’ve finished eating, they refuse my offer to pay for the meal. When I go to help clean up, again I’m waved away. The father and I retreat to the front of the house, he smokes, and we both drink tea.

The son has vanished, yet the university questions continue. His son is clearly intelligent, but Dad is concerned he’ll not get the education he deserves in Thailand. I say Thais tend to do their Bachelors in Thailand, leaving Australia for their Masters. I keep coming back to the cost—it will not be a budget undertaking. Their home is comfortable, but they do not strike me as wealthy people. They will need plenty of coin for the son to be able to study overseas.

We retire inside. While she is nowhere to be seen, his wife has laid out simple bedding on the floor, with a towel neatly folded to the side. The father tells me we’ll spend the day tomorrow together so I can learn about Yala, then he bids me good night.

I guess I’ll be in Yala for two nights after all.

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Heading south from Phattalung, the obvious next stop is Hat Yai, the transport hub of the far south. A sprawling city—the largest in southern Thailand—Hat Yai is far from close to my heart, so I skip it and head to Songkhla.

While Hat Yai is better known (and more visited), Songkhla is the provincial capital, and far more to my liking. The town traces its roots back to the 12th century and relics of the past still cram its Old City. Thanks to two islands they thought looked like lions, seafaring Indian traders dubbed the original town Singora—clearly, they were trading in hallucinogens. Chinese, Malay and Siamese traders, perhaps with a better idea of what lions look like, went with Songkhla. The name stuck.

These are not lions. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A couple of hours from Phattalung, my obliging van driver drops me at my guesthouse, Holland House. Owned by a Dutch expat (it has since changed ownership), it is about as close to backpacker digs as one can get in town. I see another foreigner sitting at a table street side. He waves and says “Hey stranger” as if he knows me. I walk into reception, wracking my memory for his face. I come up blank.

Holland House is a simple joint. A few sticks of furniture and bathrooms that could do with sandblasting, but it is cheap and friendly. Once I’ve dumped my bag and cleaned up, I head back down, planning to wander Songkhla’s Old City. My new friend though, is lying in wait, and buttonholes me.

A great town for walking. Photo: David Luekens.

He insists we’ve met before and feigns offence when I say I have no recollection of our meeting. I’m towards the end of a month-long trip through the South, mostly spent in less–touristed towns. I’m sure I’d have remembered him, but I don’t. He says he can’t remember where it was we met, but he is sure we have. He doesn’t remember my name. It is an odd exchange.

I go to leave and he volunteers to join me—he has no plans, he says—my plans it seems, don’t matter. We walk off together.

Songkhla’s Old Town occupies part of the west of the city, sidling against Songkhla Lake. An amalgam of temples, trading houses, museums, wooden buildings and street art, of Thailand’s “old towns”, Songkhla is one of the best. I wander aimlessly, down main roads, up alleys, along the way peeking my head into shopfronts. There are plenty of smiles, and at one stage an older woman invites me into her house, proudly pointing to a beautiful desk and chair.

No shortage of eating opportunities. Photo: David Luekens.

My new friend meanwhile, doesn’t shut up. He natters incessantly about where he has been, where he plans to go, about how he is a slow traveller and so on. He seems oblivious to our surroundings. I deliberately slow down, lingering everywhere, hoping he’ll get bored and move on, but I can’t shake him. I’m not hungry, but I sit down to eat—he joins me.

Eating as slowly as possible, I explain to him that after lunch I’ve got some work to do, which I’d prefer to do alone. He asks what I do, and while I don’t mention Travelfish, I say I’m a travel writer. As when you first meet a fireman, the questions come thick and fast. I instantly regret telling him what I do.

No shortage of smiles in Songkhla. Photo: David Luekens.

His questions get particular—how much do I earn, who do I write for, do I get free stays, etcetera. I answer some, but am evasive on others. I order more food hoping he’ll leave. He orders more too.

This isn’t the first day in Songkhla I had in mind.

Finishing up, I tell him I need to go look at hotels. I hadn’t planned to do hotels, but I want to shake him loose. He says he’ll join me, and I say I’d prefer he doesn’t. As when he first waved at me, he feigns offence, then acts like I’m joking. I say I’m not, that I’ll be talking to hoteliers and looking at rooms and it is easier to do alone.

Give me something to cool a temper please. Photo: David Luekens.

He says he’ll come just for the first one, and I say I’d prefer he doesn’t. Then, rather incredibly, he says something which remains scorched into my memory all these years later:

“You can’t stop me from walking in the same direction as you.”

Whatever dude. I pay my bill and leave the cafe, with him following me, chattering as if we haven’t just had the exchange we have. His tone though, has changed.

“It sounds like what you’re doing is more of a hobby than a job,” he says.

I keep walking, ignoring him, I cross the road to a business hotel that I have no interest in inspecting. He doesn’t follow me in, but ten minutes later when I walk out, he’s standing there, and follows me down the road.

With age come beauty. Photo: David Luekens.

“It is a hobby, right? I’ve never seen your name in a travel magazine and I read them all. You’re a hobbyist, not a writer.”

Into another hotel I go, and he’s waiting for me when I leave. Sighing, I tell him I’d prefer he did his own thing. If he wants to have a drink at the beach tonight I’m happy to meet up then, but I’d appreciate it if he left me alone while I work.

He’s annoyed now, and pointing his finger at me, he tells me again I’m a hobbyist then walks off. He means it as an insult, but I’m baffled as to why. What does he care?

Time for an offering. Photo: David Luekens.

Later I find an alley between two shopfronts that leads to a small park area by the lake’s edge. The sun is setting and there is a gaggle of food vendors. I grab a simple one-plate dish and a cold beer and enjoy them sitting by the water.

I don’t bother with the beach.

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The other day I gave a short talk to a travel organisation on lessons from Phuket’s Sandbox experiment. At one stage, I said short stay tourism will be the last segment to come back on stream. Today I’m going to expand on why this is an opportunity—not a cost, but it needs a change in governmental thinking.

By short stay tourism, I mean international weekenders and that sort of thing. People travelling from say Singapore, Kuala Lumpur or Perth to Bali for a weekend. Up until the advent of low-cost airlines, this sort of travel was the domain of the wealthy. Now though, or at least up until Covid washed in, in the words of AirAsia, “Everyone can fly”.

Just popping in for an afternoon surf. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As I’ve written before, I don’t expect requirements like quarantine to be horizoned anytime soon. As such, short fly–in–weekenders will remain on the bench for the foreseeable future. What could come off the bench though, is long-stay tourism. In fact, as long as quarantine remains a thing, it is the only one that has a credible reason to get off the bench.

There is one problem—visas.

If you look at Southeast Asia pre-Covid, the longest standard tourist visa was Malaysia’s. The free single–entry visa available to many nationalities granted a stay of 90 days. For others like Cambodia, Indonesia, Laos and Vietnam, around 30 days was the gold standard. Yes, there were paid visas for longer stays, sometimes up to three months, but I’m sticking to broad strokes here. If you woke up Friday morning and wanted to go somewhere that day (who doesn’t feel like that on a Friday morning?) you were most likely looking at a 30-day visa.

Looking for more Southeast Asia newsletters?

Here are some of my favourites—all have a free version.

Cambodia: Campuccino by Darathtey Din

Singapore: We, The Citizens by Kirsten Han

Southeast Asia: Dari Mulut ke Mulut by Erin Cook

Thailand: Thai Island Times by David Luekens

Vietnam: Vietnam Weekly by Michael Tatarski

As long as quarantine is a thing, 30 days isn’t going to cut it. Who wants to spend half their allowed time in a country cooped up in a hotel? Destinations need to think big and toss this 30-day silliness.

More time please. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Now is the time to begin work on six-month tourist visas. Every nation in Southeast Asia should have one. Here’s why.

Relieve pressure

While it may feel like 68 years, 2019 was less than two years ago. Overtourism headlines were dime a dozen with many poster children in Southeast Asia. Bali, Penang, Hoi An, Siem Reap and Ko Phi Phi were all featured repeatedly as examples of tourism gone mad.

While these destinations drowned in tourists, others withered on the vine. The reasons for this were many, and while low-cost flights stood out, another big one was the visa.

Spread that wealth

Studied through a monetary lens, 2019 tourism concentrated money where the tourists were. Duh. The logic here is not hard. The further afield tourists travel, the further the money spreads.

My fully furnished CBT homestay, Merente, Sumbawa. Community involvement is crucial. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The more one travels off the beaten trail, the more their money lands in the hands of locals. This revenue not only helps smaller communities but also vests them in tourism’s upside. The added financial security created here is important. It is one thing to have a job in a hotel in a foreign– or off-island owned property in Bali, but it is something else altogether when it is your business, in your home town.

With more time permitted in–country, it is more likely foreign travellers will travel further afield. Sure some might just lay on the beach in Kuta or Ko Samui for six months, but not all will.

Some places take time to reach. Exploring the Lesser Sunda. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sticking with dosh for a moment, think of all the infrastructure built around tourism. Airports are the obvious ones, but there is plenty more. When someone visits for two nights, their average share of these costs is far higher than someone staying for two months.

Increase understanding

Regular readers will know though, that I’m not a fan of looking at tourism through this single lens. One of the biggest benefits I see in tourism, and one that is largely unmeasured, is the boost to cross-cultural understanding. Best of all this breaks both ways.

I come in peace. Alor. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Not only does the traveller have the opportunity to develop a better understanding of the country they’re travelling in, but also locals can gain a better understanding of the traveller and where they are from.

I think it is safe to say that there’s plenty of scope for increasing understanding in both directions—and smartly done tourism can be a vehicle for exactly this.

Increase return rates

Of course, not all would want (or have the time and/or wealth) to spend six months in a single country. My experience though has been the more time I’ve spent in a country the more affinity for it I’ve developed.

Moreso, the longer I spend somewhere, the more I want to return. There is always something else to see, do, learn or experience. While this isn’t a one size fits all, who doesn’t want to look under the rug that little bit more?

Milk quarantine

As long as we’re stuck with quarantine, destinations are bonkers crazy not milking it. One example: If you’ve got a guest stuck in a hotel room for two weeks, give them access to a free online language class.

There is no shortage of aspects of any country that could be taught online—it isn’t like the guests have much to do—it is a captive audience. I say milk it.

What are the downsides?

The bed isn’t all roses sadly. Whenever I’ve suggested long visas in the past, a common reply is “people will use these visas to work illegally.” Yes, some would. So? That’s a matter for the immigration department.

Tourism sometimes goes wrong. Ko Phi Phi, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To not consider an approach like this, because of the few who would abuse it, seems a classic baby bathwater moment. If this concern is overriding, then consider limiting an applicant to one six month visa every two years.

Secondly, a long tourist visa policy should absolutely be 100% reciprocal. Sadly I don’t see this happening, and yes, it infuriates me just as much as it infuriates you. Using Australia as an example, just because that government has taken a complete conehead approach to visas doesn’t mean its neighbours should follow suit.

Lastly, you may have noticed up top where I wrote: “smartly done tourism”. Sadly all I need do is throw a satay stick off my back veranda to hit examples of tourism done not smartly. Particularly when it comes to remote areas, community involvement and cooperation are vital. If a community does not want foreigners traipsing through, then travel there should not be encouraged. There are many approaches to this issue, but regional examples of outreach done well do exist. A guiding hand is needed.

This is but a dream

I know that at the moment, Thailand aside, inbound for recreational travel is near impossible. One day this will change, as I’ve suggested, most likely in 2023, but now is the time to lay the groundwork on a longer stay tourist visa.

Give people the time to slow down and have a snack by the sea. Tawau, Malaysia. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Last but not least, I’d make the six-month visa free but charge for the one month one—but that is just me. If you want to go all wild and crazy, make it multiple entry.

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Nakhon Si Thammarat sits at the terminus of a spur on the southern Thailand railway, with only the occasional train south to Phattalung. Given I only have a short jaunt south planned, I grab a minibus for the trip.

Now if you thought Nakhon was devoid of tourists, you’ve not seen anything yet. While Phattalung sits on the main north–south train line, few foreign travellers get off. This is a shame as there’s enough within easy reach of downtown to keep most busy for at least a day. For those with more time, especially bird lovers, staying longer is a good idea.

Most trains stop here but few alight. Photo: David Luekens.

Sandwiched between two limestone crags, the small provincial capital is low rise. It spills out to the south, wrapping around the western peak, with taller Ok Thalu to the east dominating. David describes the latter as looking “like a giant shark’s fin of rock protruding from a jungle-clad body”. I agree.

Phattalung is small enough to walk around and The Room, five minutes from the train station, works a treat. The town has plenty of places to stay, but it is fair to say the market is travelling business people more than backpackers. Still, the hotel is friendly and family run, with comfortable, brightly coloured rooms. What seals the deal though is an upstairs terrace with views of the crags and the greater skyline.

Watch out for sharks. Photo: David Luekens.

It is to the crags I’m headed and I meander along the narrow, little trafficked lanes to Khao Ok Thalu. The massif features on the provincial seal, and visible from all over town, it isn’t hard to find.

There are two sets of stairs from the foot. The shorter one passes religious statues like Ganesh and Kwan Yin with views for free along the way. The second though, is a more strenuous climb, topping out at a platform with tremendous views. Along with the vistas out and around, a massive hole in the massif allows me to peer back down to earth. Consider it justification for all the sweat going on.

Keep climbing. Photo: David Luekens.

The descent is as hard on the knees as the ascent, but once back on the ground I head north, along the west bank of the peak. Tham Malai sits near the northern side of it, and while I’d struggle to justify going to Phattalung just to see it, it is an easy distraction. The dim lighting within paints the walls in a red hue and while I don’t know if it is deliberately creepy, it is. The bazillion bats within, often fluttering by, mere inches from my head, add to the creepiness.

All batted out, I wander back into town, looking for a bite. Like Nakhon Si Thammarat, Phattalung’s food scene well and truly tells me I’m in southern Thailand. While more upmarket eateries are few and far between, there is no shortage of khao gaeng shops.

Not creepy at all. Photo: David Luekens.

Literally “rice and curry” these small shopfront restaurants display their fare out front. Rich and spicy curries line up side by side and all I need do is point and pick. The tangs and flavours of the far south can be very in your face if you’ve not strayed much past a green curry with chicken—take my word for it!

Sated, I take a wander through Phattalung’s municipal market. Given the time of day, it isn’t exactly humming, but there is still enough going on to warrant a look see. I’ll be back here tomorrow morning.

I’ll have a serving of everything please. Photo: David Luekens.

Then I continue west, hooking around to the south side of the second massif to approach Wat Khuha Sawan. Phattalung’s most important religious site, the temple is small, but sitting in the shadow of the peak, it appeals. The further in I wander, the more meditative it becomes. What little hustle and bustle of Phattalung exists fades as I venture further into the woods. Eventually I reach stairs leading up to another viewing platform. While not as spectacular as Ok Thalu, it is still worth the climb.

I lose the rest of the afternoon exploring the town. There are still a few old wooden vestiges of the past and plenty more to snack on. The only thing missing is a lake to relax by. I’ll get to that tomorrow.

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With all this staying at home and wondering when one will be able to jump on a plane again, I often find my mind straying. To the destinations yes, but moreso to the food. Here’s eight meals from eight countries I’d be making a beeline for.

Burma: Aung Thukha

Yangon has to be one of the best walking cities in Southeast Asia—do watch out for traps though. On an early visit I spent much of my time in the Chinatown area. Congested, dense and built up, it also hosts loads to eat and drink, both on the street and in small restaurants.

Pack an appetite for Aung Thukha. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Burmese food has a bit of a bad wrap for it being oily, but to my palate, that is a plus not a minus. The curries are so rich, yet mostly not nearly as fiery as those in Thailand. While in Yangon, my friend Austin Bush pointed me to Aung Thukha, a little out of the centre of town perhaps, but what a tip it was. Curry after curry, with salads and soups on the side, all washed down with a Myanmar Beer or three. Whenever I get back to Burma, it will be straight from the airport to here.

Cambodia: Kravanh

While Thailand and Vietnam are more famous for it, Cambodia is no slouch when it comes to market and street food. I’ve written before of doing a street food walk in Phnom Penh, but in the middle of a blisteringly hot dry season day, stepping into Kravanh ticks just about all the boxes.

Grazing at Kravanh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The menu may be as long as the service is slow, but when paired with the chilled air–con there’s no shortage of reasons to linger. The fare is authentic and not outrageously priced. If the weather were cooler or I wasn’t feeling so flush, I’d cross the road to Sophath instead for a bowl of nom banh chok.

Indonesia: Fish and rice

I often joke that when in eastern Indonesia, my meal options are either rice and fish or fish and rice—either with a small soup on the side. I know there is far more on offer, but this staple, done well, is just about all I want.

Eat this three times a day and you’ll grow to love it too. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It says something about the brilliance of Indonesian food that even a dish as simple as a grilled fish on rice can be so sensational. I’ve had this across much of the archipelago, though one of the most memorable was in Baranusa on Pantar—perhaps it was because it was the only thing the sole warung I could find sold.

Laos: Duck laap

Sitting on our floating bungalow on the river between Don Dhet and Don Khon in far southern Laos, life was slow. Feet dangling the river, watching cyclists ride by on the far bank, reading, snoozing. Dawn would slide into sunset, much like the river, without interruption.

Our view while waiting for a duck to be murdered. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The owner, an affable Savannakhet native had made an attempt on an authentic Lao/Thai menu, but there was no laap. One day I asked, would it be possible for him to whip up a laap? He paused, then said it was possible, though it would take a while. We had loads of time—more in fact than the poor riverside duck that was promptly dispatched. Memorable.

Malaysia: Kedai Kopi Yee Fung

I’m pretty leery of proclaiming anything as being the “best ever”, but the Sabah–style laksa at Kedai Kopi Yee Fung is pretty special. Mild but rich thanks to the oodles of coconut milk that go into it, this hole in the wall joint is almost as good for people watching as it is for scoffing.

That lime… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The only down side? A meal here means one less meal at Kota Kinabalu’s night market.

Singapore: BK Eating House

A few years ago, thanks to some visa complications, I had a forced stay in Singapore for far longer than planned. While I spent an inordinate amount of time at the Chinatown Complex, there was one place I found myself at more than anywhere else. BK Eating House by the corner of Southbridge and Circular Roads in Boat Quay.

Hit me. At BK Eating House. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is a hole in the wall hawker centre where the tables spill out onto the pavement and the beers are as affordable as they are icy. A simple bowl of fish ball noodles here—wet or dry depending on my mood, kept me going in Southeast Asia’s most wallet haemorrhaging city.

Thailand: Khua Kling Plaa

Beware the moment when you ask the waiter what is good, and they tell you a dish you’ve not heard of, then add “it is too spicy for you”, but you order it anyway.

You will need the rice. Take my word for it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In, of all places, an off beach restaurant named Krua Ta Sert at Ao Chao Phao on Thailand’s Ko Pha Ngan, khua kling is a fiery dry curry with its roots in southern Thailand. To say it almost killed me is not an understatement. Did I go back for more punishment the next day? Absolutely.

Vietnam: A bowl worth remembering

If there is one country on the planet where you could say “a bowl a day keeps the doctor away” but have a different bowl every day, it is Vietnam. I’ve had so many fantastic bowls, phở, bún bò Huế, hủ tiếu, bún cá and on and on, it is hard to pick the best one.

Oh how I wish they delivered to Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A favourite though, perhaps in part because I had never had it before, was a serving of súp cua bách thảo at open–air Mai in Sa Dec.

The dish is ostensibly a glutinous soup with crab but there is a lot more to it. There is also shrimp, three types of egg and a delicious absolute melt in the mouth chunk of pig brain. Mai also does ice cream—the perfect chaser.

Have you had a memorable meal in Southeast Asia? What would be the first dish you’d be aiming for when you return? Let me know in the comments.

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So if my dire forecasts of last week come to pass, at least we have time to sort other things out. This week, I look at vaccine “passports”.

My take—we don’t need a new solution when one already exists. Attention should be concentrated on increasing vaccination rates. It should not be focused on forcing the adoption of technology whose painful legacies will far outlast Covid.

Arabic papyrus with an exit permit, dated January 24, 722 CE. Photo: By Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin FRCP(Glasg) CC BY-SA 4.0

Sidenote: If the last thing you want to read about is Vaccine Passports, I really enjoyed this piece on temple hopping in Tra Vinh, Vietnam.

A brief history lesson

What is a passport? To quote Wikipedia:

“A passport is an official governmental document that contains a given person’s identity. It helps its holder travel under its protection to and from foreign countries.”

Passports are issued by governments—not private companies.

Trivia klaxon! One of the first known references to something passport–like was around 450 BC in the Hebrew Bible. Also, passports were only standardised by the ICAO in 1980—2,430 years after a dude in the Bible wanted to go to Judea.

The Yellow Card

Yellow fever is a mosquito–borne disease found in tropical and subtropical regions of South America and Africa. According to the CDC, there are around 200,000 cases and 30,000 deaths each year.

An ICVP issued by the Bureau of Quarantine in the Philippines after being vaccinated with a COVID-19 vaccine in 2021. Photo: Rizalninoynapoleon CC BY-SA 4.0

There is a vaccine, and having the shot is a condition of entry for some countries where it is a risk. Vaccinations are recorded in the International Certificate of Vaccination or Prophylaxis (ICVP). Non–long–word–inclined people know it as the Carte Jaune or Yellow Card—there is a digital version too. Importantly, it is a travel document—not a vaccine passport. Once vaccinated, a yellow card is all you need to prove you have had the shot.

Covid is not yellow fever

Covid differs in plenty of ways from yellow fever, but the important one here is its scale. It spans the globe, is highly contagious, and doesn’t need mozzies. In under two years, it has infected over 200 million people, killing over four million.

In a miracle of science, a range of semi– to very–effective vaccines came to market in record time. Hampered by inept governance, the roll out has been neither smooth nor equitable.

As vaccination rates have nevertheless increased, so to has talk of travel “re–opening”. As I wrote last week, I think this is well premature, but The Guardian explains why better:

“So there is a danger of simply assuming because you’ve been vaccinated, you don’t then spread Covid-19, and that would not be a good scientific basis for a policy of passports”

A sanction on the one percent

A vaccine passport is the least of the concerns for most. As of today, just over 15% of the Earth’s eligible population are fully vaccinated. More worrying, only 1% of people in low–income countries have received a single dose.

Imagine this with a vaccination check added into the mix. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another group are those who cannot safely take a vaccine and who instead rely on medical exemptions. The CDC details considerations for people with allergies here. Grounds for exemptions vary from country to country.

A premature vaccine passport is essentially a sanction on the unvaccinated. Steps must be taken to avoid the creation of a two–tier society, to allow the rest of the world the time it needs to catch up. Writes the BBC:

“If a passport scheme was rolled out before everyone in the country has been offered a jab, this could unfairly disadvantage young people or people living in certain parts of the country. ... And, “people of different ethnicities have different levels of vaccine hesitancy,” Prof Mills said, which opens up the potential for discrimination against people’s “religious or political beliefs”— or where this hesitancy is linked to a long history of racism and marginalisation.”

Papers please

So some have legitimate reasons for their jab–less state, and billions are still waiting. Despite this, countries—and businesses—are already pulling up drawbridges for the un–jabbed. Treatment varies country by country and business by business. Proof of vaccination opens doors which are rapidly being closed to most others.

My vaccine certificate is in my phone, which is flat. Temple mural, Northeast Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Worldwide, proof of vaccination takes on a maddening array of formats. There are paper print–outs, library–card style cards, government and private apps.

Writes the New York Times:

“A Covid-19 vaccination card does not always convey the significance of the document. Nor are the cards typically designed to counter fraud. Most of the hundreds of millions of people worldwide who got at least one shot of a Covid-19 vaccine in the past few months received a flimsy piece of paper.”

At some stage, people with flimsy pieces of paper will be able to go high tech. This leaves two questions. First, how do you prove your vaccination status when flimsy papers are so easily forged? Second, is moving to a technical solution desirable—or even necessary?

Prove it

How does one go about proving both their vaccination status and which jab they got? Why does knowing which jab you got matter? Because not all countries recognise all vaccines of course—that would be way too simple.

My Twitter Hive Mind pointed me to a bunch of sources on these questions. The consensus: there are tests to distinguish if you have had Covid already, or received a Covid vaccine. Testing for vaccine type appears to be far muddier waters.

So if countries allow only vaccinated visitors, but are shot snobs, how does that work? I guess they need to trust people not to lie when they’re asked which vaccine they received—or if they are vaccinated at all.

Does your head hurt yet? I had to go walk the dog and have a coffee at this point.

Which app?

Next are the vaccine passport apps. Many governments have their own and there are loads and loads of corporate ones. In both the US and the EU, governments are trying to herd the cats, but it is cowboy country, with few adopted standards.

Most of these apps need either a QR code or some type of interfacing with an official health body. Take CommonPass as an example. They note if you don’t have a QR code, you can get tested at one of their verified labs—the closest one to Bali is in Japan.

At some stage this disparate glad bag of vaccine apps will thin out and we’ll have a modern take on the Carte Jaune. If you’re one of the unwashed though, with a flimsy sheet of paper and no QR code, don’t bother.

But this isn’t a passport

A passport comes from a government, but most “vaccine passports” come from companies. Private companies whose interests may not be in your interests. What information do you need to prove you are vaccinated? Your name, date of birth, passport number, and vaccine type and jab date seems sensible.

There’s plenty of this to be made. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To take one example, Verifly is an app developed for the US market. Daon, a privately held, for–profit company, owns Verifly. Daon’s founder is Dermont Desmond, an Irish billionaire. To quote Daon, they have:

“pioneered methods for securely and conveniently combining biometric and digital identity capabilities with large-scale deployments that span payments verification, digital banking, wealth, insurance, telcos, and securing borders and seamless travel”

I apologise in advance for not reading the entirety of Verifly’s 7,000 word privacy policy—I had ironing to do. At a glance though, the information it might collect is Facebook–ish. Data points include age, race, gender, nationality, health information, employer and school. I went to download the app and noted that it may collect what Apple terms as “Sensitive Info”, so I looked that up. Sensitive info includes:

“racial or ethnic data, sexual orientation, pregnancy or childbirth information, disability, religious or philosophical beliefs, trade union membership, political opinion, genetic information, or biometric data.”

Why does a vaccine passport need my religious beliefs, union memberships or political thoughts? The app is free—so much like Facebook and Google—use something like this and you’re the product.

The IATA Travel Pass is far less egregious in this regard. Their privacy policy is a mere 1,700 words and the data they look to be collecting makes a lot more sense. Testing is underway with 48 airlines.

Governments need not be better unfortunately. Take the Indonesian official app, PeduliLindungi. According to their privacy policy, the app tracks your location and other data points. Who is this data shared with? Google and arms of the Indonesian Government. Which arms? Why?

So if you value your privacy and are wary of companies and/or governments profiling you, or tracking your every move, do your research. If you think I’m being hyperbolic, you need look no further than China. Talking about what software within a contact tracing app was doing, the New York Times writes:

“It also appears to share information with the police, setting a template for new forms of automated social control that could persist long after the epidemic subsides.”

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it

Through all my reading on this topic, the one story I agreed with more than any other, was one by the ACLU. Discussing what could go wrong with vaccine passports, they write.

It must not be exclusively digital

“A standardised credential should be primarily a paper–based system with an optional digital component, not the other way around.”

It does not allow for tracking and the creation of new databases.

“If some big company is getting notified any time someone reads one of your credentials, that would let them track your movements and interests.”

They go on to say:

“... but if a passport system makes it very easy to ask for and to provide proof of vaccination, it’s likely that such requests will become over–used as people get asked for credentials at every turn.”

You know what existing “technology” meets the above two criteria? The Carte Jaune.

Use that.

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I mentioned the other day that Nakhon Si Thammarat isn’t only a provincial capital but a historical one as well. With a spare day, you can walk the lay of the land from bottom to top and make your way through the history of the town.

Nakhon Si Thammarat’s glory days hark back to the Srivijaya period. Centred on Sumatra in modern–day Indonesia, the Buddhist empire’s influence spanned the 7th to 12th centuries. It was the first to hold sway over much of the Malay Archipelago—of which southern Thailand was not a part—not that that appeared to bother them. While the empire waned as Majapahit came to prominence, relics remain—including in Nakhon.

There are worse places to start the day than at Hao Coffee. Photo: David Luekens.

The best place to get a primer on this period is at the Nakhon Si Thammarat National Museum in the southern reaches of town. The museum doesn’t only cover the Srivijaya period but also features finds dating back some 6,500 years. Other displays include shadow puppets and Ming dynasty ceramics—evidence of its role as a trade centre. Once you’re done, trundle not too far to Wat Thao Khot to see Srivijaya vestiges in situ.

About a kilometre to the north will bring you to Baan Khun Tan, a merchant’s home dating back over a century. For a spell it was a school, but more recently was re–opened as a historic attraction. Nearby is the first food stop of the walk—Khanom Jeen Sen Sod. You’re welcome.

Meet Ban Khun Tan. Photo: David Luekens.

A few hundred metres north will bring you to Nakhon’s heart, Wat Phra Mahathat. Established by Sri Lankan–ordained monks in the 12th century, this temple cemented the new town’s growing importance. Writes Joe Cummings in Buddhist Temples of Thailand:

“An overland route between the western port of Trang and eastern port of Nakhon Si Thammarat became a major trade link between Thailand and the rest of the world, as well as between the western and eastern hemispheres and the city flourished.”

Next stop heading north is Suchart Subsin’s House of Shadow Puppetry (which I covered the other day), showing this is as much a cultural walk as a religious one.

The many spires of Wat Mahathat. Photo: David Luekens.

On the way to your lunch break at Tha Ma Market, swing by the city’s most revered Buddha image Phra Phutthasihing.

Continuing north, we swing from Buddhism to Hinduism. At Ho Phra Isuan you can see both a linga and a bronze dancing Shiva. These are replicas, but that doesn’t reduce the reverence they receive. Right by these sits Sao Chingcha—a giant swing similar (though considerably smaller) to Bangkok’s Giant Swing. Featuring in a Brahmin festival, swingers would go as high as they could to try and grab a bag of gold. In Bangkok’s take, some swung to their death.

Never say no to khanom jeen. At Khanom Jeen Sen Sod. Photo: David Luekens.

Keep tracking north and you’ll eventually reach remnants of the original city wall. While not in as good a condition as Chiang Mai’s, the five metre tall wall dates to the 12th century.

Near the TAT office sits Kanlayanee Si Thammarat School and behind it is a pond named Sa Lang Dap Sri Prat. The story goes that the 17th century poet Sri Prat was exiled to Nakhon from Ayutthaya by King Narai. Once in town, he slept with someone he wasn’t supposed to, annoying Nakhon’s ruler—not surprising given the woman was one of his minor wives. The ruler condemned him to execution and he was beheaded. The blade that dealt the death blow was washed in this pond.

Old wall made new. Photo: David Luekens.

Legend has it that while blindfolded and awaiting the executioner’s blade, Sri Prat wrote a poem in the sand with his toe. It read:

“Bear me witness, ye Earth,Spite not God’s image in man.If wrong I did, let this sword fall true and sharper,If wronged I am, let it strike back the striker.”

When King Narai heard that Sri Prat had quite literally lost his head, he not only had the ruler beheaded, but with the same blade as well. Yes, you guessed it, the blade got rinsed off in the same pond—not all are agreed on this, but it makes for a good story.

Yamia Mosque. Photo: David Luekens.

Onwards and it doesn’t take long to hit another faith. The beautiful Yamia Mosque sits testament to the growing Muslim population in the region. North again and Phra Chedi Yok, a Sri Lankan–style chedi which is thought to date back to the same period as Wat Phra Mahathat. The foundations are believed to be original, but the top toppled off in the 1970s—they just don’t build these things like they used to.

Last stop is Wat Wan Tawan Tok. Its award winning architecture dates back to the late 19th century making it a baby by Nakhon’s standards. The wooden kuti (monks’ quarters) are especially noteworthy.

Wonderful woodwork at Wat Wan Tawan Tok. Photo: David Luekens.

All this walking will get the stomach rumbling—head to Krua Talay for a seafood dinner. Writes David:

“Cockles, prawns and squid are grilled over a charcoal stove out on the footpath, while mussels are steamed in steel pots with lemongrass, basil, kaffir lime leaf and galangal. Staff gave us some complimentary guava slices with the bill.”

Is there any better way to finish the day than with free guava?

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Hello to all the new subscribers off the back of yesterday’s post on Covid and Southeast Asia! A quick explainer on Couchfish, this is primarily a travel newsletter—it isn’t always about Covid! The paid version (from US$7 per month), comes out Monday, Wednesday and Thursday and traces a fantasy itinerary through Southeast Asia—you can see the itinerary so far here. The free posts, like this one, come out twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays and cover a wide gamut of topics. I’ve marked all of these posts on a map here. Some are like the Covid post, others like this one—on a cool trip in northern Thailand.

Enjoy!

The north of Thailand has plenty to offer on the touring front, be it by scooter, car, or even bus. Often the first trip people try, and with good reason, is the Mae Hong Son Loop. Starting and ending in the northern centre of Chiang Mai, you can cover it in as little as two days, or as long as two months. Here’s how you do it.

Blood pressure dropping. A bucolic scene on the Ping River. Photo: Mark Ord.

For decades Chiang Mai has been the epicentre of northern Thailand’s tourism scene. Travellers came first for cooler weather, trekking, and as a base to explore. Today there’s temples, food, nightlife, and oodles of affordable (and not so) lodgings. Despite all these other offerings, the original reasons for visiting persist.

The Mae Hong Son Loop encompasses some of Chiang Mai province along with Mae Hong Son. Much of the latter sidles against Burma and offers both scenery and a cultural mix. Most often done by scooter, the roads are also fine for car, while if you prefer to do it by bus, you can.

Doi Luang beckons. Photo: Mark Ord.

From Chiang Mai you head out north through Mae Rim on Route 107. Eventually you’ll reach a left to Route 1095, but I say start with a detour—continue north. Follow Route 107 for about 30 km north to Chiang Dao and have your first night there.

While Chiang Dao town has little to recommend it, to the west, near the same–named cave, sit a cluster of good spots to stay. You can with ease drop a few nights here. Explore the cave, sample the food, or even do an overnight camping trek to the summit of Doi Luang. More intrepid travellers should consider a trip north to Arunothai. You can get there by songtheaw, but if you have your own transport, explore some of the back roads. Once you’re ready to move on, backtrack to Route 1095 and head west.

The P in Pai stands for pretty. Photo: Mark Ord.

Route 1095 leads up through the mountains to Pai. One of the the north’s most popular backpacker spots, this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but it is undeniably pretty. Popular as much for trekking and rafting as for sitting around losing time, do make the effort to explore a bit. Depending on your schedule, allow anything from two nights to two months.

Moving on from Pai, next stop is Pangmapha—better known to travellers as Soppong. Some describe it as Pai–lite, but it is far smaller—a blink and you’ll miss it style spot. Best known for Tham Lod, an enormous bat–filled cave you can raft through, this is another spot to lose time. In business since 1984 (though temporarily closed due to Covid), Cave Lodge is the place to stay. Set down a trail off the main road, if you thought Pai was messing with your itinerary, Cave Lodge is even worse!

Wilderness near Soppong. Photo: Mark Ord.

Once you manage to peel yourself away from the nightly fireside chats at Cave Lodge, press on west. If you have the time, Mae Lana, off a northwards spur, is worth a night—both for its sleepy village vibe and forest walks. If not, press on to Mae Hong Son.

The provincial capital, misty Mae Hong Son dropped a little off the traveller radar in the late 90s. Why? As Laos grew in popularity, foreign travellers started running out of time and would turn back at Pai. The scene today is more focused on the domestic trade, which means, among other things, the food got better! There is an influence, both on the cuisine and the temples, from Burma’s Shan State, making for an interesting spot.

Grazing for yams in Mae Hong Son. Photo: Mark Ord.

As with Pai, there are plenty of day trips you can do from here, to the north and south, and also out to the Burmese frontier. If you have time for just one, consider a day–long trip to what was once a KMT hangout, Ban Rak Thai. While you can reach there by songtheaw, having your own wheels pays dividends when it comes to the views

While the road south from Mae Hong Son isn’t as mountainous as earlier legs, it is nevertheless pretty. Weaving though vast stretches of forest, if you have the time, break the trip for an overnight stop at Khun Yuam. This is a great base for a trip to Mae Surin Waterfall—with an 80 metre drop, the tallest in Thailand. Also not far from town lies the slopes of Doi Mae U-Kho—which is famous for sunflower fields.

Mae Surin Waterfall. Tumbling into a hole in the Earth. Photo: Mark Ord.

South again brings you to the small junction town of Mae Sariang. If you’d like to see Burma, you can travel west to Mae Sam Laep and wave to it over the pumping muddy waters of the Salween. Mae Sariang is also a coin toss spot—continue south, eventually to Umphang, or lake a left and begin to close in the loop. Today we’re taking a left.

Route 108 coasts inland, leaving Burma and the teak forests behind. You can pass through Ob Luang National Park, or turn north on Route 1088 towards Mae Chaem, then 1192 to Doi Inthanon. As you’ve already seen the tallest waterfall, why not swing by Thailand’s highest peak?

Scenery on the way to Doi Inthanon. Photo: Mark Ord.

From Doi Inthanon, you can veer north via Mae Wang, or south via Chom Thong and then ease yourself back into the southern reaches of Chiang Mai.

Have fun!

Nuts and bolts

All the major legs are straightforward to do with minibus or songtheaw services. From Mae Sariang onwards, if you want to go via Mae Chaem and Doi Inthanon, it will take a bit of time, but direct to Chiang Mai is easy. For detailed transport information please see the related destination write–ups on Travelfish.

Most opt to do this by scooter. Always, always, always wear a helmet. Read your travel insurance carefully. If you’re unlicensed it is unlikely you will have any insurance cover in the event of an accident. The trip is also easily done by car and Chiang Mai has around 82 bazillion scooter and car rental outlets.

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Doom–scrolling through the Friday morning news isn’t a great way to finish the month—and what a shocker it has been. I thought 2021 was going to be better than 2020, not worse! To be honest, I’m not getting my hopes up about 2022 either—I’m on the 2023 train, and here’s why.

You must be the first mover

Dr Michael Ryan is an Irish epidemiologist and executive director of the WHO Health Emergencies Programme. Way back in mid March 2020, lending on his experience with Ebola, he declared “you must be the first mover.”

If only we’d listened—do give it a listen yourself.

Wise words in March, 2020.

A Pacific postcard

We’re over half way through 2021 and the remainder looks like a write–off. Erstwhile midterm safe bets like Thailand and Vietnam are dealing with worrying outbreaks. Others like Indonesia and Malaysia look even worse. Burma, in an awful state even before Covid, today is a humanitarian disaster—and terrifying.

Say a prayer for Burma. At Shwesandaw Paya, Pyay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

According to Gary Bowerman of The South East Asia Travel Show, active Covid cases across the region have gone from 304,750 on June 1, to 457,917 on July 1, to a staggering 1.164 million at the end of July. An almost four–fold increase in two months.

Countries across the region have either banned or severely curtailed recreational inbound and domestic travel. Phuket and Ko Samui are exceptions, but mostly you’ll need quite some determination to pull off a holiday.

When is this going to change? Not until vaccinations get plenty more scale.

To jump out of Southeast Asia to the Pacific for a second, the situation in Fiji is instructive. Writes Aljazeera:

“The current outbreak began after a soldier providing security at a quarantine facility caught the virus from a traveller who had recently returned from India. Fiji’s health authorities believe he then passed the virus onto one of the maids in the facility, who then infected several members of her family and another soldier working in the facility, who in turn passed it onto his wife. Fiji’s first super-spreader event occurred the same week when one of the infected quarantine workers inadvertently attended a funeral with some 500 mourners.”

From this single traveller, Fiji went from a total caseload of 70 by March this year, to clocking an average of over 900 cases a day. The medical system is on the ropes, and per capita Fiji is now one of the worst situations in the world. All from one traveller and an unfortunate chain of events that flowed on from that single person.

While some Southeast Asian nations have medical systems superior to Fiji, others don’t. Fiji’s situation illustrates why inbound tourism into a largely unvaccinated country, is rife with risk.

Slow motion jabs

There’s only one real bright spot—Singapore. The island state expects to have 80% of its population fully vaccinated by September. It’s a big drop to second place though, with Cambodia at 28% of its population fully vaccinated. Malaysia, has managed shy of 50% for the first shot. Everywhere else is floating around the 20% or below mark, if that—for the first shot only.

Vaccinate first. Bums on seats second. Ko Bulon Lae, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s many reasons for the slow motion jabbing across the region. Hoarding by wealthy countries jammed up supply, but local governments are not blameless. Looking for an example? Journalist Andrew Marshall wrote a withering assessment of Thailand’s quagmire. Not only has the roll out been slow, it has been uneven. Vaccinating the elderly and heroic frontline medical workers makes absolute sense. Other cases are not as compelling.

With economies overexposed to inbound tourism, businesses and employment took massive hits. Lobbied by travel industry big swingers, some nations tried to mitigate the effect. How? By vaccinating people in specific locations, so foreign tourists could return bubble–style. The two best known spots for this are Thailand’s Phuket and Ko Samui. Indonesia’s Bali and Vietnam’s Phu Quoc have taken then dropped, or are considering, variations on the same.

At a glance, it sort of makes sense—restart tourism to create jobs and so on. With a closer look though, it gets complicated fast. First, you vaccinate close enough to everyone in say Phuket or Bali. Then you mandate that all international visitors are fully vaccinated. The problem is, the majority of locals elsewhere in the country haven’t been jabbed. Foreigners can jet in for a beach holiday, but locals can’t set foot on the sand.

This seems manifestly unfair.

Have your som tam and eat it too

Governments try to explain this away—its the economy stupid! Boosting tourism will help business which will create jobs and so on. Are there public health risks? Yes. Are governments often ignoring medical experts? Yes. Here’s Dr Prasit Watanapa, dean of Thailand’s Mahidol University’s medicine facility, talking about the Phuket Sandbox, as an example:

“I think it is too soon to open the country to foreign tourists as the vaccines (for) locals cannot protect against every kind of virus variant,” he warned. “The province’s disease control measures are not strict or comprehensive enough if a new wave emerges.”

While governments and business wish it, this isn’t an either/or between business and health. Governments could implement financial support for workers tomorrow, but they choose not to.

Side–note: To the reader who emailed me last time I wrote this to call me a communist, there is no need to email me again—thank you.

A picture says a thousand words. Sihanoukville, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The tourism industries in my examples rely on labour from elsewhere in the country. In the early throes of Covid, many of these workers went home. In Phuket’s case often to Northeast Thailand, in Bali’s case to Lombok, Java or Sumatra. If a large number of these people lack vaccinations but want to return to find work, a problem arrises.

As seen in Phuket this week, some see their return as a significant risk to the island’s fragile Covid calculus. Since the opening of the Sandbox, the 7–day average of Covid daily cases on Phuket’s has gone from 4 to over 30. In response, on August 3 the local government plans to seal off Phuket from the rest of the country.

Does the economic benefit outweigh the risks to public health? Since July 1, Phuket Sandbox has welcomed almost 13,000 people—a little over 400 per day. Of these, just 30 have tested positive for Covid at some stage of their stay. Samui+, already described as teetering, has seen 93 people arrive since launch. Yes, ninety three.

So Phuket is about to be sealed off to Thais—even if they are vaccinated. So much for the value of the domestic market. How does this look from outside looking in? With the TAT’s ever–moving goalposts and a hotelier billionaire lying on TV, not great. As Gary Bowerman says:

“it just looks a little bit like you’re ghettoising travel and I’m not sure that’s building any confidence at all.” (8:35)

An equitable approach is to vaccinate all resident people first. Then allow them to travel in their own country. After that, and only after that, welcome international tourists.

How long is too long?

How long would it take though to vaccinate local populations? Lets look at three countries.

Bunker down. Gili Solobo, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Thailand’s vaccine quagmire suggests it won’t even have enough vaccines till 2022. The reasons are complicated and I’m not going to wade in, but if you’d like to learn more, try Andrew Marshall’s deep long read on the issue. Should coupist Prayut resign? Hell yes. The other day, the country banned Covid news that causes public fear—even if the news is true. Not encouraging. Best case: Mid– to late–2022.

Indonesia is likewise talking about a national target aimed at March 2022. Is this ambitious? Yes. Does Indonesia face challenges on a scale unlike any other nation in the region? Yes. Are some of the problems self inflicted? Yes. Full vaccination rates outside Bali, Jakarta and Yogyakarta are paltry. There is a long way to go, but thankfully the speed of the vaccination roll out has improved from back when pundits suggested it would take ten years to vaccinate 75% of the population. Best case: Late–2022 to mid–2023.

Under 1% of Vietnam’s population is fully vaccinated, though they are trying to speed things along. The government said this week they plan to vaccinate five million people in Hanoi by April 2022. Hanoi’s population ranges from four to twenty million depending on where you draw a line around the city. I couldn’t find a national target, but it is fair to assume Hanoi is being prioritised ahead of rural areas. Best case: Late–2022 to mid–2023.

Aside from Singapore and Cambodia, few look like hitting high vaccination rates by the end of this year. Every shot given is another tiny battle won—the battlefield though, keeps shifting.

The Four Horsemen and their mates

You’ve no doubt heard about Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Delta.

Thailand thought it had a good handle on things till Delta swept through. Since April 1 the country has seen half a million plus cases and over 4,500 dead. It has better testing levels and contact tracing, but Delta’s climb was eerily similar to Indonesia’s. The Delta rocket.

We prefer these kind of horses. At Pasola, Sumba, Indonesia. Photo: Sally Arnold.

In Indonesia, a newish variant, Delta Plus has emerged. Just as Indonesia’s horrific Delta–driven numbers looked to be abating, a new variant has emerged. It is too early to know what this means for a population ravaged by the virus and worn down by mixed messaging. The situation so far? Over three million cases and 80,000+ dead. These are the officia