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Leaving Ko Samui I grab a car ferry heading back to Don Sak on the mainland. While many of the travellers on the ferry are heading elsewhere, I turn south.

To the west lies Surat Thani, the transport hub for the region. Once there, many will continue west to Khao Sok or Krabi, or turn north to Chumphon or Bangkok. To the south though, lies roughly 50 km of beach backing onto the towns of Khanom and Sichon. It is to the former I’m bound.

Bye bye Samui. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The beaches along this strip are closer to those around Chumphon than those of the islands I’ve left behind. The sand isn’t as white and the waters not as clear, but the area more than compensates with a low key, little–visited vibe.

I first heard of the area courtesy of a German traveller in a cafe on Samui. Stefan Loose Handbook in hand, he painstakingly translated paragraph after paragraph to me. “This is the place,” he told me, “you must go here—it is perfect for you.” Of course I ignored him, and, like near everybody else went to Krabi. Years later, I took his advice and visited. Walking down the beach, I immediately regretted not taking his advice the first time.

What is it with Germans always having the up on everyone else?

Haad Nadan—this will do nicely. Photo: David Luekens.

Haad Nadan is Khanom’s primary strip of sand. This was the first area to see tourism development, yet despite the number of places to stay, the beach is empty. Perhaps five kilometres long, the wide sand runs due south, backing onto palms and little more. About two hundred metres in off the beach a simple narrow road follows the contour of the coastline. Interspersed by palm plantations, cafes, guesthouses and minimarts pass by. Dogs slumber on the road’s shoulder.

A little over halfway down, on the beach side of the road, I pull into Ban Sonmanee Homestay. Within, bamboo and wooden, thatch roof bungalows rest in the shade. The wind rustles in the trees above, while a short walk away, the beach goes and goes as a ragged surf stumbles in. The huts are a throw back to what were standard issue on Ko Pha Ngan in the early nineties. I feel like I’ve walked into a time warp, but the place ticks all my boxes.

Classic shack at Ban Sommanee. Photo: David Luekens.

This isn’t to say there are not flasher spots to stay in the area—Khanom (and Sichon to the south) are not backpacker hubs. In fact you’re likely to be the only backpacker in town—save a German or two of course. Most of the clientele you’re more likely to meet are Thais—and a few resident foreigners in the know. Full Moon Parties swapped for a cheap seafood dinner with a quiet beer on the sand—the pace of life in Khanom is slow.

The beach is one of a few strung out along this coast, to the north lies Haad Kho Khao and its beachside seafood cafes. Further north, people arrange boat trips to spot the pink Irrawaddy dolphins that frolic off the coast. To the south lay more beaches, while an inland waterfall offers respite from the heat if the ocean isn’t your thing.

I’ll work this off tomorrow. Photo: David Luekens.

In the scheme of things though, these are excuses for distractions. Many do little more than swim, read and walk the beach—and that is a large part of the appeal.

Tomorrow I’ll get two wheels and explore.

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On the northwest corner of Indonesia’s Sumbawa, a peninsula juts into the Alas Strait like a stray chicken leg. Along the leg’s east side, a narrow road runs up to Pelabuhan Pota Tano. From here car ferries shuttle back and forward, night and day, to Lombok.

Weather allowing, the trip takes around an hour and a half. The trip is long enough to stretch your legs, gaze at Rinjani, and, as you near Sumbawa, ponder some new islands. There’s eight in total, curving around in a half crescent around the chicken leg.

Holidays with Dad are fun right? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On my first trip to Sumbawa, Poto Tano was one of my last stops. At that stage I’d been on the island for about two weeks and was ready for a day off. Ok, to be honest I’d had a day off two days earlier exploring the amazing Moyo, but I felt like more island time.

A little to the west of the chicken leg there is a smaller wooden pier for local fishermen. There I rustled up a man with a boat and we spent the day snorkelling off three of the eight islands. We hit Paserang, Kenewa and the mangrove backside of another island.

Kenewa is good fun above the water as well. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was a fun day, and of the three I was particularly taken with Paserang. It had a half built bungalow joint on it, but nothing was happening. I asked the boatman if I could camp there. Why not? He asked. I took his number and started planning.

When the next school holidays hit, I bundled the kids into the car and we headed east. The car ferry took us from Bali to Lombok, and we drove across then overnighted at Pondok Siola in Labuan Pandan. I’ve written before about this spot—why keep driving when you can overnight at such a friendly place?

The view from Kenewa’s summit. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next morning I messaged the boat dude and he was ready to go when we drove off the car ferry and onto Sumbawa. We stashed the car, piled the tents, a few Aqua gallons and all our kit into the boat and we were off. Thirty minutes later he dropped us at Paserang’s rickety pier, promised to return in three days, and was off.

We had our own private island.

This was for three days—not three months. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The first debate was should we use one of the half–built bungalows or camp by the beach. We took a look around, then, about two hundred metres to the west of the pier we found the perfect spot. A grassy spread under a shade tree right beside a 750 metre long white sand beach. The kids were not happy about lugging the gear, but we made it. In no time the two tents were set up side by side. One was for all our stuff and the other for the three of us.

It was lunch time by the time everything was squared away and we all felt we’d earned that first swim.

Gili Paserang. Today in bloody awful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Paserang has a great house reef and we discovered we could walk back to the pier, jump in and nature would do the rest. The current would grab us and with no effort at all on our part, it would pull us all the way along the southern reef. At the end of it, we’d swim in, run back, jump back in, and repeat.

Three days of this. I tell you, it was hard.

The interior of the island has a small tabletop with an overgrown trail leading to the top. Once there, pavers led to viewpoints to both the east and west—perfect for both sunrise and sunset. We could see Rinjani to the west and to the east, some of the other islands.

Who needs a horizon pool? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

That first night we lit a bonfire then laid in the sand and counted the stars—or tried to anyway, as there were quite a few. No bright lights big cities nearby to dim the night sky.

We woke early, and the entire day saw not a soul other than each other. We cleaned a section of the beach, collecting plastic cups and noodle packets by the dozen. Later when we shipped back to the mainland, the boatman kept the rubbish to see what he could sell or re–use.

In the late afternoon, kids protesting, we hiked up what they were now calling “the mountain”. Another great sunset, another bonfire, another sky of stars.

Dancing genes clearly inherited from father. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

That second night though wasn’t to be as the first.

Around 3 am I woke to noise outside and lights flashing around. We’d seen nobody through the day, and so baffled, I opened the tent to see two small fishing boats pulling in.

“Pagi!” (morning!) I yelled, with a startled “pagi” echoing back.

At that stage I’m not sure who was more surprised, me or them. I do know though that they were the more surprised when they saw two bleary–eyed foreign kids crawl out. It turned out we camping at their regular spot.

We’re smiling because you just promised we never have to climb this again. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In no time they were showing Will their catch and asking me what on earth we were doing there. They told us most campers hit Kenewa as it is more famous and closer to Poto Tano. Small talk done, they got to work stringing nets and doing fishing boat stuff. It seemed they were planning on staying put for a spell.

When we started to pack up, they dropped everything to help us cart it all back—not without jokes about some of our gear. Then it was an hour spent jumping off the pier till we saw our boat back to the mainland approaching.

We’ll be back! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

An hour later we were loading the car for the drive down the west coast. Kertasari, Maluk, YoYo’s and Tropicals beckoned—but that’s another story.

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One side effect of Covid19 is it has brought out the inner statistician in pundits–a–plenty—yours truly included. This can be a good thing—numbers matter. They can provide often missing context and help educate readers. It helps though, if the numbers are correct.

I first came across fuzzy Covid math early last year. The planet was in the virus’ early throes and stories kept stating 70% or 80% of Bali’s economy was tourism dependent. I know Bali pretty well, and these figures struck me as exaggerated.

Not really feeling the 70–80%. Munduk, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Bali is a big place and while the south of the island is heavily touristed, much of the rest is devoid of it. As far as I could see, the 70 or 80% figure came from Wikipedia. Wiki in turn based it on an unsourced figure from a Time story in 2002. Yes, at the time, eighteen years earlier.

I did some digging and found a Bank of Indonesia report from 2017 on the Balinese economy. The report noted accommodation, food and transport contributed about 33% to the economy. Services another 13%. Other reports get the figure up to around 60%, but only by including the banking and telecom sectors.

Sure tourists might use an ATM or buy a sim–card, but it is a stretch to add those into the “tourism reliant” column. To my non–economist gut, somewhere between 30 and 50% felt about right.

This definitely counts. Alila, Candi Dasa, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Heading north to Thailand, you’ll likewise see plenty of fuzzy math. In Thailand’s case, the oft quoted “tourism dependent figure” is 20%—it is though, incorrect. The Bank of Thailand, puts the figure at around half that—11%. As with Bali, you can push it to 20% by taking your pick from a glad bag of services and other industries. The more you include though, the ropier the math gets.

My favourite though, as it is in the press non–stop at the moment, is Phuket. Media reports saying 95% of Phuket’s economy was tourism reliant, as with the Bali figure, felt wrong. After some digging I ended up with a not dissimilar figure to Bali—around 45%. As with Bali, you can get this higher by including transport and other services. Are car sales a “tourism related business”? They need to be if you want to reach 95%. What about wholesale retail? The banking system? You need them all in to hit 95%.

All the above is on the supply side—in Phuket’s case though, the TAT is been telling some wonderfully tall tales. In their case, they’re claiming that the average spend of Phuket Sandbox tourists is 40,000 baht per day. This is per person—not per football team.

95% of Phuket’s tourists are not on Sai Kaew Beach. Photo: Lana Willocks.

Now I don’t know about you, but this strikes me as a lot of som tam. So how on earth do they get this number? For starters, it turns out the 40,000 baht includes the cost of the inbound flight to Thailand. In the TAT’s alternate universe, that US$1,000 you spent to fly from Frankfurt to Phuket, is their revenue to count. That seems to me to be well dodgy.

Phuket has its fair share of fancy pants hotels. A quick search on Agoda found me ten nights for two at the Sri Panwa for a mere 106,091 baht. The rate includes free breakfast and free WiFi—I can’t tell you what a relief that was. So lets make the math easy and say 10,000 baht a night for two, that still leaves my friend and I 70,000 baht per day to spend. Som tam here we come.

As I’ve written before, the TAT has among the longest bows in the land. This widely reported figure though is complete garbage. The TAT making stuff up? I know right—I for one am shocked.

“I’d like 8,000 plates please.” Photo: David Luekens.

It has also been reported, that more than half of the Phuket arrivals so far are not “legitimate tourists.” Rather they’re returnees choosing to do quarantine in Phuket rather than Bangkok. Picking an island—even Phuket—over quarantine in Bangkok is totally understandable. Given they’ll be spending quarantine in Phuket (eating loads of som tam), I guess this is a less egregious TAT tale.

So where is the problem? To my mind there are two.

First, overstating the tourism reliance of any destination does nobody any favours. I’m not denying the severe situation those in the tourism industry are facing. Particularly in countries where financial support is minimal, the situation is brutal. Overstating the scale of the problem though, plays into governmental spin. The spin being, despite Thailand being largely unvaccinated, they had little choice but to embark on risky projects like the Sandbox.

Searching for the right numbers need not be as hard as finding a released gibbon. Photo: Lana Willocks.

Of course they had other choices—they had quite a few actually. Not mismanaging vaccine supply to a head–desking degree would have been a good start. That milk is spilt though. Financial support until nationwide vaccinations reach a viable level, is an obvious alternative. Governments deserve flogging on this—it isn’t as if the budget isn’t there—especially in Thailand’s case. Hell, even Cambodia managed it.

Secondly, if you’re a tourism business owner, you can’t be faulted for thinking now is the time to reopen. The truth though, is that tourism spending is, in all likelihood, a fraction of what the TAT is claiming. Other media reports have suggested the average spend is just 5,500 baht per day—a little over a tenth of what the TAT is saying. This strikes me as far more reasonable, and I can see how you could manage it—just stay at Sri Panwa! (Note in the podcast I mistakingly said 9,500 baht—sorry!)

No need to make stuff up—Phuket can sell itself naturally. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Numbers matter. Much has been written about concerns around official data for Covid caseloads. Regurgitating iffy numbers on the scale of the problem and the revenue from risky re–openings, are no more helpful. In a worse case scenario, these iffy numbers could could be just as dangerous as the dodgy Covid ones. To tourists and locals alike.

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Who hasn’t been there? You’re relaxing in a hammock under a couple of palms out front of your bamboo and thatch beachside hut. It is late afternoon, with a light sea breeze and the sun is getting ready to set. Someone just brought you an iced Chang beer and a plate of noname.

Then you think “Hell, I could run a place like this. How hard could it be?”

The sun setting from Bang Rak Beach, Ko Samui. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Let me tell you a story from years ago.

Jeff and Sarah* are late twenties Brightonites who arrived in Thailand about a year earlier. It was their first time to Southeast Asia and it took them only days to fall in love with the country. A few months later they walked along one of Ko Samui’s quieter beaches searching for a guesthouse. Towards the eastern end of the beach they found what felt like the perfect spot.

It was a rustic take on fall-down. The type of bamboo and wood job that looks like it could blow away in the next storm. All the huts needed work. The kitchen was a disaster area.

Ko Samui is not short of pretty spots. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

But it had a great vibe. The owner, Chok, was an islander, a young, fit, English–speaking Thai guy who got around in a sarong and not much else. His disarming manner beyond welcoming. The food and drinks were cheap. The bungalows, almost free.

They moved in and two months later were still there. They felt they’d grown to know Chok and his family quite well. “Good people” they told me. Chok had inherited the land from his father, and told them he built the place himself—it looked like it, they said.

Samui’s interior also delivers. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The thing was, he was charging so little he was barely staying afloat. His place was semi–popular, but most backpackers headed to neighbouring Ko Pha Ngan. He was rarely full—even in high season.

Jeff and Sarah had money, and they loved both the place and the vibe. They imagined the potential if some money was invested into Chok’s digs. Thailand was the first stop in what was to be a two year trip for them. They planned to later work in Australia to replenish their cash reserves, then head to South America.

Read more about Ko Samui on Couchfish:

* A weird hotel.

* Diversion: Ko Taen.

Laying around, the three of them hatched a deal. Jeff and Sarah would lease the resort for five years. During that time they’d turn it around, turn it into a mint, and after five years, give it back to Chok and continue their travels.

Expect food from all over the country. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Understandably, Chok thought that was a great idea. It took a month or so to do all the paperwork, change visas and so on. When it was all done and signed off, they threw a small celebratory party.

I walked into their place about eight months later.

The resort was, to be kind, falling apart, but, like Jeff and Sarah, I loved the vibe and was not bothered by the rustic. The potential as a backpacker hangout was clear.

I mentioned the food right? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Not long after the party, Chok vanished. Then the staff quit. Jeff and Sarah were from a finance industry background—they had the dosh, but not the expertise. They went through cooks quickly, often Sarah doing the cooking in between. Meanwhile, as Sarah put it, Jeff was busy learning what a hammer and nails were.

The math quickly unravelled. Despite them considering themselves residents, locals saw them as short–timers. Costs were higher than what they had been for Chok—they had to nudge up their prices. Manual labour was expensive and erratic. My grim favourite of their tales concerned the builder hired to replace the roofs. He removed them all then never returned. Petty theft from the huts and kitchen became a persistent problem.

No shortage of potential on Ko Samui. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

They said it was a steep learning curve, but, determined to make it work, they pressed on. The thing was, despite the warning klaxons from their bank manager, it was so pretty it was hard to not keep going. Next month things will improve.

When they took over the place, to the left and right sat small coconut plantations—vacant land. The area was far from Ko Samui’s most developed, but their spot was particularly natural.

Six months in, to their great surprise, Chok built a flotsam beach bar next door.

Stormy conditions ahead. Lipa Noi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It turned out he had inherited that land too. He used a portion of the money Jeff and Sarah had paid him to build the bar. It was a cool spot. If there was one thing Chok could do, it was to nail the beach shack vibe so many backpackers love.

He explained to Sarah and Jeff that this would be good for everyone as they could feed off each others’ business. They were not convinced, but what choice did they have? They went along with it.

Then he undercut their drink prices.

Time inches past on Mae Nam Beach. Photo: David Luekens.

Budget bungalows make their money on food and beverages rather than the huts. Their guests started buying their beers from Chok’s, so they complained to him but he wouldn’t budge. They considered asking their guests not to buy from him, but felt that was uncool. They dropped their prices to match, then Chok dropped his again.

It was a race to the bottom. Tempers frayed.

By the time I arrived around two months after the bar opening, matters were tense but civil. Despite being determined to see it through, Jeff and Sarah felt cheated. When I suggested they had been pretty naive going in, then nodded.

There’s always another island. Dawn over Ko Samui from neighbouring Ko Taen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Live and learn,” they said. Of the two, Sarah was the more philosophical about the unravelling experience. Yes, they were losing money, but in their scheme of things, not a lot. They’d made some good friends and had some very happy guests. She gestured out to the beach and sea and commented on how beautiful it was. The reasons they’d fallen in love with the place, Thais and Thailand remained rock solid.

The next time I returned to Samui a couple of years later, Jeff, Sarah, the bungalows and the bar were all gone.

The palms though, remained.

* Jeff, Sarah and Chok are not their real names—I have forgotten their names sorry!

While this is part of the itinerary series, I’ve made it a free–to–read post, as everyone wants to walk around an island.

Some people see a mountain and have to climb it. I’ve some of that in me, but give me an island and that is something I must walk around. Few islands are higher up on the circumnavigate by foot rankings than one of my favourite Thai islands, Ko Pha Ngan.

Some spots are worth the walk. Haad Saikantang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The following is a rough guide on how to walk around the island in 11 days. You can do it in five or six (less if you are a masochist), but I’ve slowed the pace to allow for those islanding with kids. Why? Speaking from experience, kids tend to get a bit feral after four or five kilometres—well, mine do anyway! At the other end of the spectrum, you could spend two months doing this.

For a couple of legs, consider doing it by longtail, as otherwise you’ll be walking interior roads for hours. Not much fun in the midday heat. Unless you are into bouldering, it is not possible to stick right to the coast the whole way around. Haad Salad to Mae Haad is absolutely not possible along the rocks—something I learned the hard way.

Pack light. Leave the bulk of your gear at whatever guesthouse you start at. All you need is a couple of changes of clothes, swimmers, a sarong, sunscreen and a hat. Make sure you have large refillable water containers.

There is plenty enough shade to go around on Plaay Laem. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve planned the stops at beaches that I know have solid family digs. You can easily swap out one beach for another. For example Haad Yao instead of Haad Salad. The west coast beaches are all so close together, it is easy to swap around. The northeast and east coasts are the most rugged. Ask around before leaving to make sure you have the right trailhead. It is easy to get lost, so a smartphone with mapping is worth sticking in your pocket.

* Want more Ko Pha Ngan? Check out our look at Ko Pha Ngan then and now on Travelfish.org.

I’ve started at Thong Sala as that is the arrival point for most visitors to the island, but you can start anywhere. The island is more or less round after all.

Ok, enough of the travel advisories—time to get walking!

Day 1: Thong Sala to Chao Phao via Laem Son (9-10km)

The road out to the north will take you by Nai Wok. As far as beaches go, this is a working beach and far from Ko Pha Ngan’s best. You can walk the length of the beach or stick to the road. Matters improve a little to the north at Plaay Laem. The beach is still a little scruffy, but sleepy. Shambala is a good family option if the kids are petering out, but otherwise press on.

Enjoy the sea breeze at Castaway. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you decide to press on (you started early right?!), take the interior road north to Hinkhong. This is a long sweeping bay with a fishing port along its length. There are a few seafood restaurants along here if you’re looking for a lunch break and a cold beer. Want to stay? Try Castaway.

Refreshed and refuelled, at the top end of the beach you’ll need to break inland a little to pass by Laem Son. The road runs around the east of the lagoon, but if energetic, cut through one of the resorts to walk Laem Son’s white sand. At the northern end you’ll reach one of Ko Pha Ngan’s most famous nudist beaches. When you see the sign and more flesh than you may expect, cut right, back to the road.

The road leads to Chao Phao and you should make a beeline for Seaflower. It is my favourite family–friendly place to stay on the island. Feet up, have a swim, grab a hammock, you’ve earned it. Today has been long and hard, but the next few days will be a breeze.

Getting all frosty at Seaflower. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If the kids are baulking at a ten kilometre walk on day one, get a songthaew to Plaay Laem and start from there.

Day 2: Chao Phao to Haad Yao or Haad Salad (2 km or 4km)

After yesterday’s epic, today comes in two flavours—Haad Yao or Haad Salad. Either way, take the road running north out of Chao Phao and consider breaking the trip at Secret Beach for a swim. On the northern headland sits Rahm’s Bar, one of the best appointed bars on the island. Swim and drinks done, it is a short walk on the road, then cut through a resort to the southern tip of Haad Yao.

A gorgeous beach, there are a tonne of places to stay here—Silver Beach is a good family option. If you’re pushing on, walk the length of the beach then follow the trail beside Haad Yao Bayview Resort. This will take you by the road to Haad Tien then lead to the southern end of Haad Salad near Cookies.

Chilling out at Haad Salad. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Haad Salad was where I first fell in love with Ko Pha Ngan—at the time there were just two places to stay—My Way and Salad Hut. Both are still in business and the latter is the better family option. By the time you drop your bags and collapse in a hammock the shadows should be getting long. Snorkelling the dropoff at sunset is pretty special. Enjoy!

Day 3: Haad Salad to Mae Haad (3km)

Mae Haad looks close on the map, but it is not possible to walk there on the rocks. The inland route is both hilly and not all that pleasant, so consider hiring a longtail for the run north. Either way it is about three kilometres.

Mae Haad’s accommodation is not great, but it is worth staying here a night to enjoy the sand pinnacle out to Ko Ma. I’ve heard of people camping there—you brought a tent right?

Day 4: Mae Haad to Chalok Lam (3km)

Mae Haad to Chalok Lam is another that is more pleasant by boat than via the inland roads. If you go by boat, make a day of it and arrange stops at Thong Lang and tiny Hin Ngam. Both are beautiful and isolated with some reasonable snorkelling along the way.

Lunchtime crowds at Malibu. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’ve had enough of thatch huts or want a real shower, Mandalai, in Chalok Lam village is a solid bet. If you’re fine with rustic, Malibu is popular with younger travellers. Fanta at the far eastern end of the bay is another option worth considering. If you have the energy, hop over the headland to quieter and prettier Haad Khom where there are a few spots to stay.

Day 5: Chalok Lam to Bottle Beach (5km)

Most take a boat from Chalok Lam to Bottle Beach, and once you’ve walked it, you’ll understand why. The trail is hard to follow and has many diversions. Allow a few hours as you most likely will get lost a few times—or just take the boat.

Oh Bottle Beach. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

White sand Bottle Beach is pretty and one of those spots where tight itineraries go sideways. If you’re trying to decide which beach to allow a few extra days on, this should be one of the top options. Ideal for kids, Bottle Beach I has the better accommodation.

Day 6: Bottle Beach to Thong Nai Pan Yai (6km)

I’ve only ever walked this once off road, it took all day and I got so lost it stopped being funny. I emerged behind Santhiya after sunset looking like something the cat dragged in. Pack water—lots of it. Looking at Google Earth, it appears the trail is clearer now, but if in doubt, hire a longtail.

Take us to your leader. Thong Nai Pan Yai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The first beach you’ll hit is Thong Nai Pan Noi, where most of the beachfront accommodation is upmarket. Unless you’re happy to bend the plastic, head over the headland to Thong Nai Pan Yai for more reasonable prices. Long Tail and Dolphin, both at the southern end of the beach are excellent options.

Day 7: Thong Nai Pan Yai to Than Sadet (3km)

The trail south from Thong Nai Pan Yai to Than Sadet is almost all inland and well hilly. If you have the energy, consider a diversion to Hide on High. It is roughly three quarters of the the way and worth the legwork to reach. Describing the joint as eclectic is a slight understatement—bring your own dayglo.

Plaa’s delivers great views over Than Sadet. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On Than Sadet, long–running Mai Pen Rai Bungalows remains a solid, if rustic, option. The bungalows at Plaa’s Than Sadet on the northern headland have amazing views, but the huts can be variable. Take a look at both.

Day 8: Than Sadet to Haad Yao then Haad Thian (8km)

Another leg to file under the “possible on foot but better by boat”, this one is best done with a bit of each. Take a longtail south to Haad Yao and then walk to Haad Thian from there. Haad Yao is long and nearly undeveloped—a sweeping beach with a shallow run out. Lose an hour or so swimming and sunbaking, then follow the trail from the southern end of the beach. The trail is easy to follow and deposits you at glorious Why Nam. From there it is a simple walk over the headland to Haad Thian.

Haad Thian. Please sink the longtails and let me stay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This beach is famous for the Sanctuary and its new age tilt, but also for the monthly parties at Guy’s Bar. Truly the yin and yang of Ko Pha Ngan in a single bay. The sandy stretch is small, but the sea is great for swimming. The Sanctuary is the pick of the crop, though there are some cheap digs back off the sand. If you want more options (and a better beach) traverse the southern headland to Haad Yuan.

Day 9: Haad Thian or Haad Yuan to Haad Rin (3km)

Regardless of which beach you stay at, it is about a two hour hike on a jungle trail from either beach to Haad Rin. There are also regular longtail services if you simply cannot face another walk.

Haad Rin: Bloody awful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On Haad Rin, where to stay?! There are three main beach areas, Sunrise—where the Full Moon Party happens—is a great beach. Sunset is no great shakes, but you get the sunset (duh!) and a sleepier vibe. A third option is Saikantang, which is on the sunset side but further south and has more midrange digs. Of the three, if outside the party times, I’d go with the Sunrise side, if party time, Saikantang.

Day 10: Haad Rin to Baan Kai (3km)

You’re on the home stretch! You can walk almost all of the way from Haad Rin to Thong Sala in a day on the beach, but it is more relaxing to break it up, overnighting at Baan Kai.

No shortage of swings on Baan Kai and Baan Tai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are dozens of places to stay, many of which are affordably priced. We’ve a soft spot for Golden Beach, but there are plenty of others to choose from. Regardless of where you stay, the sunsets are free.

Day 11: Baan Kai to Thong Sala (6km)

A last long slow walk along the beach will bring you to the periphery of Thong Sala, where this stroll started. Once you arrive, go pick up the rest of your gear and head back to whichever beach you liked the best!

Have fun exploring—I’m jealous already.

It is four in the morning. We left the wooden bungalow doors open overnight, forgoing the chilly air–con in favour of the sea breeze. Outside it is still pitch, but the fishermen are already up and about, pushing their jukung into the sea. The jukung’s keels rumble over the rocks, waking me.

Metres away, the small waves, churned up by last night’s storm, roll against the charcoal grey pebbles. The waves tumble in, then suck back rhythmically. Small round pebbles chatter as some roll back, a couple of inches closer to the sea. Then another wave pushes in, the sound of it and the pebbles reverberate through our room.

Good morning. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I rise and walk across the bare wooden floor. Broad varnished boards underfoot, then a rug, then more wood. The Javanese joglo creaks as I make my way out, across the deck, down the wobbly steps and onto the lawn.

There’s an overnight dew—it is cool season—and the grass is frosty on my bare feet. Down the curving path, palms overhead, past the pool, glassy water reflects the stars. I sit by the beach, save the waves and the pebble chit chat, it is silent. On the horizon I can see the bright green and white lights of a Pelni cruiser heading south. Perhaps from Makassar bound for Benoa on Bali, or Lombok’s Lembar. It inches across the horizon as the first hues of dawn surface.

A flower a day… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I know the sun is coming long before I see it. A pink crescent of high cloud stretches across the sky. Dark splotches of low cloud silhouette against the pink. One formation looks like a flying pig entering the jaws of a crocodile. Then they shape–shift in the wind, fading to white as sunrise nears.

To my right, the classic lines of Lombok’s Rinjani emerge from the dark. I can see where the summit must once have sat—the 1257 Samalas eruption is thought to have shaved 500 metres off the peak. The eruption buried much of Lombok and volcanic rocks landed as far afield as Bali and Sumbawa.

Hello Rinjani. This from Lean Beach, not Bunutan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The sun is about to break the horizon. Far away flecks of cloud glow incandescent white before vanishing in the orange fire. On the horizon I can see dozens of tiny triangular sails—the local fleet of jukungs. These traditional boats fish for mackerel, pushing out to sea around 4 am and returning around 9 am. On a good day, trawling a single long line, one boat might catch a hundred fish. On a bad day, nothing.

As dawn breaks, the deep red transitions to orange, then, ten minutes later, a bright yellow, then white. The green of the lawn, the blue of the sea, the grey of the stones, the multi–coloured offering in the shrine. They all radiate and glow for that magic twenty minutes.

A fisherman walks by gingerly on the pebbles, I see him every morning, we wave to each other, a “Pagi!” (Morning!) swapped between us. He’s hand–trawling, a wooden float, roughly shaped like a fish, floats thirty metres offshore. He’ll walk the length of the beach twice, every day.

Define tranquility. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The sun is higher now. I’ve had a few coffees, sipped on a lazy chair overlooking the sea. The fishing fleet is starting to make their way back. Their orange and white sails trimmed in the breeze, the jukung lean against an outrigger. The spars are curved high, when I see one head–on, it brings to mind a person trying to heave themselves out of the water.

A jukung is sailing in fast. At the last moment, the fisher pulls the sail in even tighter to ride over the back of a wave for an assist onto the pebbles. Compared to the light chatter of the waves over the stones, a jukung’s return is an unmistakable grumble. A few men run down, their shoulders under the spars, raising the jukung a little to heave it above the high water mark.

The catch can be variable. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then the nets come out, flickering silver in the morning light. Fish glitter, plucked out and thrown into plastic tureens. Women will later sort the catch in the nearby shade. Some kept, the larger fish sold to wholesalers who drive through, buying up the best of the catch. Final destination: South Bali.

By 10 am, the fishing fleet is packed away for another day. I walk the beach, it takes me around an hour end to end. Here and there fishermen tinker with engines, rethread sails or repair nets. There’s plenty of flotsam between the pebbles. Chunks of styrofoam, reused to death plastic bottles, and knotted fishing net offcuts. Further along, the pebbles make way for a span of smooth jet black sand.

The sun shining with torrential rain. Special. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At the far end of the beach there’s an enormous fairy–tale tree of the type that must once have lined the entire coast. Today it stands alone, right by the pebbles, its enormous roots hang onto boulders and dirt. It looks like it would only need one solid storm to topple it over, but its roots must run deep—I first saw the tree over a decade ago.

I sit beneath it. It is midday now. The sea has eased while the heat has risen—the plentiful shade is welcome. Birds, chattering and whistling, flutter overhead amongst its many strong arms. Now and then, they swoop down looking for cheap snacks in the shallows. I wade into the warm water, relaxing as it rolls around my thighs, the black syrupy sand between my toes. I can’t see another soul in the water.

One for me one for you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later, I cut through an empty resort and walk back along the road, past where I am staying. It is a half hour stroll, not counting the time running from the barking dogs, to a small nasi campur stall. The Ibu knows what I want and slaps it together, wrapping it in a banana leaf then tossing it into a plastic bag. Oh modernity.

I lose the afternoon back at The Kampung. The kids and I play in the cool pool waters, then relax for quiet time. Reading with feet in the pool, lounging in the dining sala or snoozing in our joglos. It is still baking hot outside and the shade and slight breeze mean we don’t even need the ceiling fans.

Sunset from Bunutan’s eastern headland. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Amed is a series of bays on Bali’s northeast coast, all in the shadow of Gunung Agung. Bunutan, where we are staying is midway along the coastline. Each bay bookended by headlands, the first few offer spectacular views to Agung. Depending on the time of the year, the sun sets to the left, right or directly behind the peak. A mercantile bar has fenced off much of the closest viewpoint, so I don’t bother walking up there. It doesn’t matter though, the light show reaches everywhere.

As with dawn, there’s a magic thirty minutes where everything glows. It is low tide and the waves are rolling in over basketball–sized, seaweed–covered stones. The seaweed is luminescent in the light, glowing against the stones that are now jet black thanks to the sea. Reflecting rays dance across the water.

Rinse and repeat daily. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then, like dawn in reverse, the show is over and I’m plunged into darkness. Above, the first of the stars glitter to life in the sun’s farewell rays.

The Kampung lies on Bunutan Beach, Amed, Bali, Indonesia. One day I’ll get back there.

About five minutes after sending this, I realized Travelfish is 17 years old—not 15. Says a lot about the last two years I guess…and my math skills. Apols!

I’d be lying if I said it feels like it was only yesterday that Sam and I launched Travelfish.org way back when on July 12, 2004—fifteen years and a day ago. Somedays, particularly over the last 18 months, it has felt like a lifetime ago—on another planet.

Travel in Southeast Asia changed massively over our first thirteen years. Then, in early 2020 it changed in a manner nobody foresaw. In mid 2021 the region (and much of the planet) remains mired on a Covid merry–go–round spinning at an increasingly worrying rate.

Sometimes a soothing salve can be to look back rather than forward. Face it, who knows when, and in what form, any sense of normalcy will return to independent travel. With that in mind, here are fifteen special moments from fifteen years of Travelfish. I know some readers have been on board from the very start, and I hope both you and more recent arrivals enjoy these.

Thank you for all your support over the years.

Also, a huge thanks to Sam and Melissa for the new Couchfish logo.

Stuart

Taunggyi Balloon Festival, Burma

Candle lit faces under a balloon, Taunggyi, Burma. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I found myself at the “Fire Balloon Festival” by chance. I was fresh off the Kalaw to Inle Lake trek and met up with some other travellers who had hired a car to get there for the evening. I tossed in for gas and experienced one of the most amazing festivals I’ve ever seen. Enormous candle–decorated hot air balloons were launched into the night air. There was no crowd control and you could get right under the balloons while the candles were being lit. The yellow flames cast an amazing hue over the crowds underneath each balloon, and while aloft they were magnificent, it was just as spectacular back on the ground.

Slinging bowls, Mandalay, Burma

Food merchant, Mandalay, Burma. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Still in Burma, so much gets written about the varying cuisines of Southeast Asia, and deservedly so. Fewer words though about the methodology. This guy, working a street–front stall near my guesthouse in Mandalay, was a machine. His “work station” was arranged to a tee, everything within reach of his hands with no more effort than a swivel to the left or right. He was hypnotising to watch. His bowls were good too.

A not for vegetarians food stall, Phnom Penh

Would you like some meat with that? BKK1, Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While in Phnom Penh I did a street food tour with Phnom Penh Food Tours (Note: one of the co–founders used to work with Travelfish). I was so impressed with the guide Vanarith, that I hired him for some more private exploring. I told him I wanted to go eat our way around a single city block, so in the lower reaches of BKK1, we did just that. By the time we hit this stall I was stuffed to the eyeballs, but I still managed to labour on. If you can do one thing well, stick with that—don’t diversify. I think this guy took this to heart.

Banteay Kdei, Angkor, Cambodia

Late afternoon at Banteay Kdei. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Through Covid, photos of a deserted Angkor Wat have become symbolic of how the virus has ravaged Cambodia and its tourist industry. This photo was taken at Banteay Kdei, a short ride (or long walk) from Angkor Wat, in peak season of the year before Covid. One of the wonders of greater Angkor, is that, with a bit of time and dedication, anyone can find a near empty site. Once found, you can find a shady spot and enjoy the late afternoon light show, with your only company the birdsong and the security guard asking to get off your bum ten minutes before closing time.

Amed, Indonesia

Bunutan Beach at sunset, Amed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Set on the north coast of East Bali, Amed’s black sand and pebble beaches have for years offered an escape from the heavier touristed south. A series of bays, many of the dividing headlands offer spectacular views over to Bali’s tallest and holiest peak, Gunung Agung. On a clear sunset, Agung appears like a volcano out a child’s book—a classic slope running down to the island’s north coast. In the foreground, crystalline bays host white jukungs bobbing in the gentle swell. At dawn, look right instead of left and watch Lombok’s Rinjani emerge out of the dawn. Some sniff at stone beaches, but in the right light and a light swell, they’re just another example of Bali’s earth–shattering beauty.

Lake Toba, Indonesia

From the rim with the scooter. Lake Toba. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From the centre of the archipelago to the far west, Lake Toba was made for superlatives. I spent an hour sitting beside a lake on an island within a lake within an island—wondering how many places on the planet can claim that. One day while scootering, I left the island and rode up the lake’s west coast. Following a dirt trail I found a viewpoint where I felt like I could see to the edge of the Earth. Below, the lake’s deep blue, the shades of green of a caldera rim plunging into it, and, in the distance, the purple blue of more volcanoes to the north and a sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. The brilliance and serenity were second to none—Toba is the kind of place memories are made of.

Nam Kading, Laos

On the Nam Kading. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To be honest I can’t remember why Sam and I even got off the bus here, but shortly afterwards we found ourselves on a tiny sampan heading up the Nam Kading. With a tiny outboard we cruised up the incredibly still river, untouched jungle tumbling down both banks. Once the traffic noise from the highway faded there was nothing but the putt putt of the engine and the occasional bird. About an hour in we reached a small set of rapids which blocked a journey further, but even our short trip was a lesson on three fronts. Always get off the bus. Laos is gobsmackingly beautiful. Always pack a pillow.

Pimai Lao, Luang Prabang, Laos

Kids wanting to share the joy. Pimai Lao, Luang Prabang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We first hit Luang Prabang in 1997, our trip accidentally coinciding with Pimai Lao—Lao New Year. Depending on the event, the multi–day celebration rolls through the city parade style, into the temples and even across the Mekong to the far bank. We knew it was for New Year, a Lao take on Thailand’s Songkran, but that was about it. Caught up in the flow each day it was fun, educational and exhausting—in about equal measure. Catching our breath sitting on the pavement near a temple one day, we caught the attention of this squad of kids, and they wanted to share their joy with us—even if it was in the form of powder then a soaking.

Seafood market, Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia

Something on fire—I can’t remember what it was, but it was hot! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Regular readers will know I love my food, and when it comes to seafood, well, a good seafood barbecue is hard to beat. Where better to arrange a seafood barbecue? At a seafood market where save catching the fish yourself it isn’t going to be any fresher. When it comes to seafood markets, Kota Kinabalu’s waterfront night market is about as good as they get. Packed to the gills (sorry!) with vendors there’s a vast array of options (sustainable fishing policies are unfortunately not a highlight here) to choose from. There’s also chicken wings—tonnes of them. Heaven on a stick I tell ya. The large number of stalls, all working over open flames and under low roofs makes for a smokey, delicious and memorable affair.

KL bar–hopping, Malaysia

PS150, Kuala Lumpur. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For many of my early trips to Kuala Lumpur a night out was little more than a few Tiger Beers in a backpacker bar or on Jalan Alor. Nothing wrong with that of course, but on a later trip an evening guide pried me away from large Tigers and into the city’s more fancy–pants scene. While Kuala Lumpur (and Malaysia in general) are not great havens for budget drinking, even with that in mind “kind of speakeasy–style bars” like Omakase, Pahit and PS150 had withering prices—withering. Still they were an interesting mash–up to meet, well, people who don’t chug Tigers on Jalan Alor. Favourite moment: the patron at Omakase who asked me, seriously, what I was doing there, then suggested I would feel more at home at the Reggae Bar. Thanks mate.

Those feet were made for walking, Singapore

Bukit Timah station, Singapore. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Ask anyone who has spent some time in Southeast Asian capital cities what they like about Singapore and chances are “walkable footpaths” will be amongst their top five. While Bangkok, Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur or Hanoi are each, in their own way, great walking cities, they are all “walk with care” cities—expect the unexpected. Try Hanoi on crutches for ten days—I do not recommend it. In Singapore however, you can just walk. You don’t have to fret about Grandma traps, traffic on the footpath or a random piece of metal well–placed to remove that left eye you don’t really need. So when in Singapore I walk a lot. Some of the great walks are indeed paved—not just the urban pavements, but also scenic walks such as the Southern Ridges. But before I wax too lyrical about pavements, one of the best walks I’ve found there is off the pavement, and on the train track. Walk the route the trains used to ply. Really.

Hin Wong Bay, Ko Tao, Thailand

My special place. Hin Wong Bay, Ko Tao. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With so many islands, it can be tricky to pick a favourite. I love Ko Pha Ngan and have spent more time there than on any other island, and Ko Tao would be far from my favourite island, but… there’s always a but. If I had to pick one spot, on one island, one with particular happy memories—one of those days that I wished just went on and on, forever—it would be Hin Wong Bay on Ko Tao. The bay has changed a bit since I first visited, with a few more places to stay and a much improved road (yes, low bar), but it is still a very chilled out spot on what was a very busy island. At the right time of the year, when the wind is offshore, the bay is as glass, and while there is little in the way of a beach, you can dive off the distinctive boulders scattered all over the island. Quiet. Peaceful. Lovely.

Northern Thailand on two wheels

Cosmonaut companions somewhere between Chiang Mai and Phrao. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yes I know. The easiest way to kill or maim yourself in Thailand is to get on a scooter. Bonus points for being unlicensed. Triple points for not wearing a helmet. That said, Thailand’s north is rivalled only by Vietnam for scooter–touring. Buddy up with some like–minded pals, grab some bikes and go. Stay off the highways, stick to secondary and below roads—skip the back way for the back back back way. The number of routes are near endless. Start with something simple and popular like the Mae Hong Son Loop, then maybe go for a northern loop via Mae Salong, or a Nan loop, or somewhere in between. It is a fabulous way to explore the country with little in the way of dull moments, though do expect a dull backside if you end up doing 18,000 km on a Honda Dream. Best of all, if you don’t like scooters, rent a car.

A good bowl, Vietnam

A good bowl of bún cá is hard to beat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve touched on food a few times, but in the case of Vietnam, I’m sorry, but both my choices are stomach related. While I don’t expect all to agree with me, I think Vietnam has the best cuisine in the region. It is just that good. There is so much of it and so much variety, you could eat something different for every meal for a year and still barely make a dent in it. I know phở is arguably the country’s most famous dish, but if I had to pick one dish, one which would be the last Vietnamese bowl I’d have for the remainder of my life, if would be the above bowl of bún cá from behind the market in Châu Đốc close to the Cambodian frontier in the Mekong Delta. As with everything in Vietnam, it wasn’t just the bowl. It was the company, the place, the staff, the temperature, the racket, the traffic, the sweeping, and the light all coming together into this sensory overload that could have had me linger all day. Sadly I didn’t as I had to go look at bloody Sam Mountain. If you find yourself in Châu Đốc, try this bowl and skip Sam Mountain.

All one needs is cà phê sữa đá

Coffee #543 for the day, Hue, Vietnam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Iced coffee with milk. Is there a better drink in the known universe? Refreshing yet energising. Beautiful to look at. The way the coffee drips down, caressing the ice cubes before plonking into the condensed milk sea at the base of the glass. That first sip. The way the ice crunches between your teeth. You’re hunched over in a small—too small

Let me preface this by saying, while I’ve always thought the Phuket Sandbox was a flawed and premature concept, I did want to see it succeed. Through fault not entirely of its own though, Phuket’s sandpit is doomed.

I’d love to see recreational travel restart—with the provision it protects the well being of locals. Not just locals—tourists as well—both foreign and domestic.

Not Covid, just a deadly phone–box. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Baby steps matter of course. It pays to test the water before leaping in. The last eighteen months are littered with the burst remnants of “travel bubbles”. It also pays to read the small print, and in Phuket’s case, reading the small print is instructive.

A Sandbox foundation was that 70% of Phuket’s local population would be fully vaccinated. Not half–vaccinated—fully–vaccinated. In the final weeks before the launch, it was clear that the 70% target was not going to be met.

Seventy percent: A moving target. Photo: Lana Willocks.

Suddenly, the target shifted, the waters were muddied, and half–vaccinated became ok—at least at a governmental level. Writes The Phuket News:

“In local and even national officials announcing the Phuket Sandbox model last month, having 70% of the island’s population vaccinated for COVID-19 was described as a critical factor without which the reopening to foreign tourists could not go ahead. Over the past week, that factor is no longer being recognised by any officials.”

The thing is, it isn’t ok—it is throwing public health under the wheels of a tourist minibus. While the Phuket News has been doing a solid job, media coverage of this has not been great from all quarters. I won’t get into that now as I’ve a whole other Couchfish on this topic more regionally, coming in a week or so.

Keep on spinning. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On that 70% though, you know what? Almost two weeks in and they’re still not there—they are getting close though.

The well–being of Phuketians be damned, come July 1 the Sandbox opened amid much fanfare. The inbound numbers were (as expected) paltry, but are expected to grow over time. Coupist Prayut even showed up for a meet and greet—then promptly had to go into self–isolation after a close contact with someone who was Covid positive. Oh the irony.

While some of the arrivals appear to be tourists, journalists have suggested others may not be, perhaps instead using Phuket as a back way into greater Thailand. Face it, 14 days of quarantine in Phuket is more appealing than a hotel on Bangkok’s Sukhumvit. This isn’t against the rules as far as I know—though to be honest the rules change almost daily, so who knows.

Just one thing missing. Laem Singh Beach, Phuket. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Some do appear to be real tourists. One of which was a guest inbound from UAE. Despite being fully vaccinated, they tested positive after arrival. The result for them was quarantine—at their expense, 52,000 baht according to one report. In its defence, Thailand was pretty clear on this.

What wasn’t so clear, was that 13 other passengers* on the flight were also quarantined—initially also at their own expense, though it appears refunds will be forthcoming. According to the The Phuket News, they’d dearly like to cut their trip short and go home now please—later reports confirmed they were allowed to leave. The trip of a lifetime indeed.

Read the small print people.

Sunset, Kata Noi, Phuket. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yesterday, there was a story about two unvaccinated Burmese kids who hit positive on their second test. I didn’t realise Burmese were permitted to participate in the Sandbox, so their nationality was a surprise. It is unclear at this stage if they picked up the virus before or during the flight, or afterwards in Phuket. Regardless, they’re quarantined. Their parents are quarantined too. Separately, as the kids are apparently being treated in hospital.

Now that’s a family holiday to remember. Also though, why are unvaccinated kids being allowed to fly into Phuket in the first place? Hello?

There were others who had (and continue to have) a good time on the island. There were complaints about hotels not being up with the rules, but in the scheme of things, largely minor stuff. I read one account from a family who were having a ball at a high–end resort. That’s nice. Social media was awash in PR fluff.

Nai Thon—now we’re talking. Photo: Lana Willocks.

There was always going to be positive cases slipping through. Here in Bali I know a couple of fully vaccinated adults who have been re–infected, and you might know some too. This was always a risk, but Phuket does seem to have a handle on these cases when they appear.

The thing is, while Phuket may have a handle on positive cases from a medical point of view, the rest of Thailand doesn’t. The country is in the throes of a health crisis.

Thailand’s current day to day positive caseload and number of deaths exceeds the country’s figures for all of 2020. That’s the scary thing about Covid, especially the delta strain. Districts are closing borders and Thais are queuing overnight for PCR tests. Some of the sick are being treated in hospital carparks.

Phuket Town’s old world charm. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Coupist Prayut has declared a non–curfew curfew and the worst hit areas are in varying states of lockdown. In the south of the country bordering Malaysia, the situation is not far short of an emergency. The Transport Company has cancelled bus services to all of southern Thailand. Thai Air Asia and other carriers are cancelling domestic flights. The local government in Phuket has ordered all schools closed for two weeks. Overall, the picture does not look promising.

Another Sandpit provision was that after 14 days in Phuket and after passing multiple PCR tests, visitors could travel freely within Thailand. Given Thailand’s abject mismanagement of its vaccination “plan”, the vast majority of Thais remain unvaccinated. Is letting foreign travellers, even if they are vaccinated, travel all over a near totally unvaccinated country really a sound idea? As already mentioned, a vaccination doesn’t make one Covid–proof, and some vaccines are proving to be not as effective as they could be versus the delta strain.

Meanwhile over at the TAT Braintrust, it is full steam ahead for Samui Plus. Seriously. The mind boggles.

Samui Plus. A rocky future? Lamai Beach, Ko Samui. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Thai government’s approach to Phuket reminds me of Indonesia’s approach to Bali. Indonesia, in case you missed it, sits at the precipice of a complete collapse of its medical system. Daily case numbers and deaths are at record levels. The primary niche for drone photography at the moment isn’t surf breaks—rather it is aerial cemetery photography.

As with Thailand and Phuket, Indonesia prioritised vaccines for Bali. Like Phuket, there were plans to reopen this month. They’re now shelved and the island is in strict (by Indonesian standards) lockdown. As far as I can tell, the approach is to vaccinate their way out of the problem. Like Phuket, Bali’s economy is over–exposed to tourism and local livelihoods have been hammered.

On one hand this piecemeal approach makes sense—tourism is a job creator and revenue raiser. On the other hand though, prioritising tourist areas ahead of everybody else stinks. Especially when the vast majority of each population remains unvaccinated. It is their country—not tourists’.

Ya Nui. Phuket is picture perfect in places. Photo: Lana Willocks.

Thailand couldn’t even manage to vaccinate 70% of Phuketians before opening. What happened to public health first? Where was the support to small businesses till say October 1 to allow for vaccinations at least in Phuket to finish? Actually where has the government financial support been throughout this entire crisis? Nowhere.

I said up top, Phuket’s sandbox is doomed. It is doomed because it was poorly thought out and driven by misguided motivations. It is to a destination within a country seeing record Covid growth. The government, through its policies, has clearly indicated public health is not a priority. Be it a sudden growth of cases in Phuket, or nationwide, I’d be amazed if the Sandbox is still running by the end of July. Ko Samui? A non–starter.

Push these piecemeal re–openings back, financially support small businesses and prioritise vaccinating local people. It is that simple.

Oh, and stop listening to whining billionaire hoteliers.

* This piece was updated on July 13, 2021 to clarify that when the 13 passengers were quarantined off the flight from UAE, they did not represent the full passenger load of the aircraft. Apols for any confusion.

Sorry about the recording quality—I’m at a cafe right by the surf!

I’m standing with Richard in knee–high grass looking across the water towards Adonara. There’s a long stretch of sandy beach and a beautiful shade tree set just back from the high water mark. His block runs a long way back up a gentle rise from the sea and he’s explaining what he wants to build.

Richard runs Hotel Rejeki, Lewoleba’s traveller hub on Lembata, in Indonesia’s Lesser Sunda Islands. I call it a traveller hub, but given a busy week for him is a couple of foreign faces, calling it a “hub” is an overstatement. Despite the paucity of trade, he’s excited about the potential of his block of turf. So am I.

Hello Ile Bolong. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Richard knows what I do for a living and he asks me what he should do with it. The potential is obvious. While he is thinking a few simple cinderblock rooms, I’m letting my mind outrun either of our chequebooks. Start with a few small wooden houses, ideal for couples or solo travellers, I say. A larger family–house could sit on the hill over there. An open plan restaurant to our left and a yoga sala beneath the broad shade tree.

“Yoga?” he asks—he hasn’t even considered yoga.

I point out the view straight across to Ile Bolong on neighbouring Adonara. The sun is already dipping towards its summit, bathing us in the late light and the serenity is palpable.

Plenty to explore. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Yeah,” I say, “I don’t even do yoga and believe me, this beats Seminyak. Get someone to run retreats here once a month, then you’re full for a week a month.” We both know this is far easier said than done, but the potential is there.

The potential—oh how often I encounter that word.

He mulls is over and we keep wandering. Pacing out areas, looking at views. There’s a clutch of what were from memory enormous sugar palms, and he talks about removing them. I suggest he try to keep them—build around the nature rather than changing it. It is such a beautiful spot, it lends itself to as little change as possible.

Today in bloody awful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He points out (rightly) if they’re left standing they’ll obscure some of the view. We walk up the hill a bit and stand behind them. He’s right, but if we put a house over there instead, and hammocks here, the trees would cast some shade perfectly. He nods.

Further back, we stand where the vegetable garden would be. At this point we’re about 100 metres back from the sea. I raise my arms and gesture how two garden paths could weave down the slope, depositing guests at the seaside cafe. I’m dreaming of a magical garden style spot, a hideaway.

Calm waters. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is though, just a dream. Richard has the land but not the funds, and I have ideas, but also not the funds. We agree to keep in touch and do for a spell.

Lembata’s western coast is lined with beaches like the one Richard’s block faces onto. One after the other running down the coast. Some host small fishing villages, others seem totally deserted. When I ride the coast on one of my trips to Lembata, I name one beach “Red Boat Beach”. Why? I can’t find a name for it and as I stand there on the white sand, a red sampan and fisherman drift by. It seems as good a name as any.

Pasir Putih, next stop—Kupang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Around the southern tip lies Pasir Putih, a glorious white sand beach with a surfable wave given the right swell. I walk and walk, plentiful shade the entire way. Deep golden sand and refreshing waves wash around my ankles. There’s a couple of villages, and kids show me fish they’ve caught. The looks are curious but the smiles are welcoming. I get the feeling they don’t get many of my kind in these parts.

A few days later I’m back in Lewoleba, I’ve tracked down Jim, a Dutch Indonesian guide. He used to run a guesthouse and lead the occasional Dutch tour group in the region. He shut down the guesthouse a few years earlier due to lack of business, but it remains a comfortable spot. We sip coffee and shoot the breeze in what was once the common area.

Getting all contemplative at Uran’s Prayer Garden. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Foreigners stopped getting off the boat,” he tells me, “now they fly here, fly there, no time for Lembata.”

I checked Google Earth while working on this piece and Richard’s block is easy to find. A single rooftop near the centre is all the satellites are giving away—though it looks like the sugar palms are still standing.

One day maybe.

The other day, referring to Thailand’s Ban Krut, I wrote “On a travel writer’s watch, somewhere like Ban Krut earns about four hours.” It earned me an incredulous email from a reader asking how could one hope to gain the nuance of a place in four hours.

As answering this appeals more to me than writing about Covid in Indonesia or Phuket’s Sandpit, here we go.

More research required. Alor Kecil, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The simple answer is “nobody can.”

Anyone with an interest in what they eat, wishes they’d never seen a video illustrating how sausage is made (here is how good sausage is made). God forbid they’re a fan of chicken nuggets. Like anything manufactured, a behind the scenes view tends to be less delicious than the finished affair.

Guidebooks—be they printed on paper or online—are no different.

When a reader sits down with a finished guide, it is much like sausage. There is some fresh mince (hopefully) along with walked over for years sawdust swept up off the floor.

Yeah, but what is in it? Nakhon Ratchasima, Thailand. Photo: David Luekens.

Think about the town you grew up in as a child. You know it well having walked the streets and watched it grow over the years. If you’re a fan of eating out, when a new place opens, you at least try it. You know which cinema has the better spaced seating and the cheaper popcorn. You know which train connects with the bus to get you where you are going. And so on.

Travel guide writers have the same brief—just not the same timeline. Moreso, they don’t have to do it for one town, rather they could be covering dozens upon dozens. Sometimes across countries.

Travel guide writing, more often than not, is a solitary undertaking. In part this is because the pay is so poor you either need to be single or have a partner with a real job to keep the wheels spinning. Also though, it is solitary because it is about as far from recreational travel as you can get. I don’t think I’d be the only one whose partner has said “I’ll join you for a week of the beach research, but forget the rest”.

Did someone say beach time? Phu Quoc island, Vietnam. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Solitary in person, but not in function. Supporting trips are rafts of tips from travellers and readers along the way. Like everything you see for yourself, these still need filtering, but are of great help. Thanks to the internet, there’s an entire array of secondary sources as well. Travel blogs, news website travel features, even Google Maps.

It all gets piled into the sausage factory.

Unless they’re owner operators, writers are mostly contractors, paid by the gig. It boils down to math. If your pay check is say $5,000 for a job, then it is in your financial interests to do it as fast as possible. Different writers have different approaches on how to achieve this. If they don’t speak the language they might hire a fixer to speed work up, or wheels to get around faster. Others call it in—in the trade “desk updating”— where the work is via online research only.

Local motorcycling guide, southern Cambodia. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

The tools for desk updating—as travellers would know—have improved over the years. With Google Streetview and room photos on Google Maps or OTAs, you can write up a hotel you’ve never seen quite convincingly. But this is a skin–deep mirage. Google Maps (at least not yet) won’t give you much insight into the personality of a place, but the room reviews might.

When I find somewhere not worth listing (as I wrote about the other day), I joke my job is wasting my time to save yours. Telling someone “don’t go” is no different to a charcuterie saying “don’t let this pass your lips”. It can save you money and an experience you’d prefer not to repeat.

Back to Ban Krut and it being worth four hours.

Places change... Sihanoukville, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The beach is pretty. While five hours would be great, I need five minutes to know this. There are quite a few places to stay, but a ride along the length of the beach can cut that in half. I may only want one mid range place, and I’m not going to look at all ten mid rangers if the first strikes me as great value. How do I pick the first? Personal then other recommendations, and if I’m still missing pay–dirt, trial and error. Rinse and repeat for each budget bracket I’m after.

Food is trickier—there is only so much squid I can eat in a day. Is a place busy? With whom? What time of the day? Is the place I listed three years ago still going? Always a good sign.

Logistics, well train stations don’t move often. For bus and other transport hubs a good guesthouse owner or travel agent can be invaluable.

…but often not entirely. Sihanoukville, Cambodia (Same trip). Photo: Stuart McDonald.

What is easiest (and what matters most—to me) is vibe. Good places go bad (or improve) regardless of accommodation options and so on. This comes only with familiarity. Google Maps can’t teach you this.

So daylight hours walking the walk, and, at least for me, some segment of the evening, spent writing stuff up. Sifting through the mental download, deciding what I’ll ditch and what I’ll add. Each writer has a different approach to this—and a differing filter. Who are you writing for? Mid-range families, stoner twenty–something singles—or both—there is crossover! This interview with Lonely Planet’s Nick Ray is well worth a listen regarding the value–adding of a good author.

What comes at of the end is the travel guide sausage. Traditional print, it could hit the shelves anything up to 18 months later, online, best case, same day. At the end though, as soon as you walk out of a place, your experience is out of date. Everything changes.

Should have been here last week. Ko Chang Noi, Thailand. Photo: David Luekens.

Pre Covid, change was gradual. A slow creep up into fancy pants, or a slow fade into obscurity. Don’t forget a pivot to a different market that won’t appeal to those who put the place on the traveller map in the first place.

Post Covid though, it has been a wrecking ball. Vast numbers of places have shut down, some for a spell, others forever. The ball though, has swung unevenly. Some seemingly roll on little–affected, others, levelled. For all intents and purposes, travel guides will need to be re–researched from scratch. But when? When is that magic moment to begin to start again?

The news of some places in Southeast Asia reopening to tourism is well premature—reckless I’d say. Nevertheless, on the back of this optimism, some publishers are commissioning updates now. Updates of what exactly? Wondering how things were, I talked to a couple of friends on gigs. They both had the same concern: So many listings gone with so little to replace them with.

Just start from scratch? Covid–period Lower Monkey Forest Road, Ubud, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As I write this beachside in Bali, the tide is receding and a few metres away a guy is digging holes for beach umbrellas. He does it every day. In about ten hours time, the waves will wash back up, and the holes will vanish. To me, this is travel in Southeast Asia at the moment. A fleeting dream of destinations re–opening, only for another wave to bury them again.

I think, in another year—or two—we’ll see travel guidebooks (both on and offline) in an altered format. They’ll take a far higher view on things.

If you’ve ever used a Lonely Planet or Rough Guide, you’ll be familiar with the layout. The front and back of the book holding the “big picture” stuff while the middle has the meat in the sandwich. The meat being the listings, the where to stay and eat and so on. Down the track, expect a lot more bread and a lot less filling. This shift was sort of on the cards pre Covid, but Covid has proven itself to be the accelerant overtourism wasn’t.

Figure out the details yourself. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The more I think about it, the more this strikes me as not entirely a bad thing. I don’t mean that only as a publisher, but also as a travel writer—and an avid traveller. For sure, I found fabulous places to stay, eat and be merry in the meat of my guidebook sandwiches. That said, from the front and back of the book, I learned far more about a country, its people and culture. You’ll learn even more on the road of course, but if I had to choose between one and the other, give me the front and back any day.

It feels like something of a forest and the trees moment—investing so much time in finding the “right” place to stay, when perhaps we should take a step back and remember why we’re there in the first place.

Yes, a different kind of sausage perhaps. I like to think though, perhaps one that delivers better understanding. And that has to be a good thing.