Couchfish

A few years ago I helped out a group who were in Bali looking for something “different”. I bring on board a high caste local friend who is better versed and connected than I’ll ever be, and we explore.

Part of the trip is visiting the less visited. Think waterfalls and eateries you’d never see on a top ten list—at least not one aimed at foreigners. We spend time in a Muslim village out West where we surf and meet the imam. I introduce them to a gifted masseuse whose touch is electric—really. We hike to near impenetrable waterfalls plummeting off Bali’s spine. In the East we stumble upon a cremation taking place on the periphery of a local sports field—we are invited to observe without a second thought.

Exploring the West. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Everywhere in Bali there is ceremony. Little things with far bigger meanings. Be it the offerings on the footpaths, the touching the heart after shaking hands or the masseuse praying before laying on hands. To the group, all of whom are new to Bali, these are quirky moments that sometimes involve mind bending explanations. Luckily my friend, who I’ll call Ketut* has a skill for unravelling one’s twisted mind. He can dismiss the endless “buts” with carefully thought, calming explanations.

We leave the West and later in the day pull into Sidemen in the East. From there three of us plus a guide begin the climb of Gunung Agung, Bali’s tallest—and holiest—peak. Aiming to summit for dawn, we leave from the carpark at around 1 am. Our headlamps illuminate the exterior wall of Pura Pasar Agung as we start our way up.

Didn’t quite make it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Within a couple of hours it is clear one of the guests is struggling. We are yet to reach the tree–line but they are not in a good place. We rest, and gaze at the city lights blinking in the distance below us for a spell, then decide to press on. Not long after, they almost collapse. I remember them sitting on the ground saying they could hear chanting.

We turn back.

Back in Sidemen, defeated, some of the group sleep the entire day. We rise in the late afternoon to drive down to Klungkung for streetside babi guling. There we talk about the next day—a day of magic.

Babi guling inbound. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Magic is a coarse word to describe some of the beliefs that are interwoven into daily life in Bali. Some days it feels like there’s a ceremony for everything imaginable. When we renovate our house, there is a ceremony before me move in. Years later, when we discover a ghost living in the pool, a ceremony calms the spirit down. A cleansing ceremony in a nearby house following the death of a resident includes the sacrifice of a dog. In my office there’s a small shrine on the wall, it faces Gunung Agung, and every day an offering is placed in it. You’ll find such an alter in almost every house or compound on the island—always angled to Agung. Pay the peak its dues—after all we’re all here at its pleasure.

There’s a lot more to it than colourful offerings sitting on the pavement and at intersections. Balinese Hinduism holds that for every good or positive, there is a counterbalancing evil or negative. With this in mind I want to give the group a small insight into traditional healing. We’ll visit two balians—one a practitioner of the former, then another of the latter. I’ll call them white and black magic, but like magic, these aren’t the most appropriate terms.

Getting down to business. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We find the white magic healer down a warren of laneways in Klungkung. His workplace is a simple open room with a mattress on the floor, a patient lying upon it face up. In the foyer, on a wooden bench, sit a local family with a baby. Ketut has pre–arranged out visit and the healer nods hello, explaining the foreigners to his patients.

Smiles and nods from the waiting locals as the healer continues his treatment. When finished, he gestures to us, querying who is next. One of the party lays down and he takes to her, prodding and poking. He examines her fingers, lower stomach and sides. He has a few questions, which Ketut translates. A sharper prod with a small wooden tool to one of her fingertips earns an involuntary yelp. With that, the examination is complete, his prognosis is translated, and we are on our way.

Oh hello unclimbable you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later, as we drive back towards Sidemen, the subject comments on a funny sensation to the healer’s touch. Not as profound as that of the masseuse in the West, but nevertheless something. Or perhaps it was the power of suggestion and their mind playing tricks. It was, interesting, if kind of uneventful.

We lose the middle of the day. We admire unclimbed Agung in the distance from the cool waters of the guesthouse pool. We walk the rice terraces, and visit a traditional weaver, a distant relative of Ketut. She explains how long a piece would take to make, the patterns memorised, learned from her mother. Patterns she’s now teaching to her daughter. Like the healer’s abode, her house is simple. Rising damp, flaking paint, a bare concrete floor, the creaking wooden loom aged. A simple life—as simple as her encouraging smile as she moves to let one of our party have a go. A process that looks so simple, yet soon polite laughter engulfs the room as our party learns it ain’t as simple as it looks.

Not at easy as it looks. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Night is falling when we hustle to go visit the black magic practitioner. Up into the hills behind Sidemen we drive. Darkness falls. Then rain—solid rain. We weave up an unlit narrow road, our headlights barely illuminating the path ahead. Then a tall wall to our left and we turn in to a closed gate. There we sit, the rain pelting on the roof. It feels perfect.

Someone within slides open the gate and we drive into a barely lit, open air compound. Near the centre a family temple of sorts sits, again dimly lit. Ketut drifts off with the gate opener for a spell, then ushers us into the temple.

Now what is a good tourist price? Klungkung market shopping. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Within, sheltered from the rain, we down our umbrellas and take in the surrounds. The centrepiece is a raised dais and upon it a man sits. The light is poor, but I can tell for a Balinese man he is heavyset—not overweight but it would be fair to say big boned. Old but not ancient, in his fifties I guess.

We sit below him, me, thanks to years in Thailand, instinctively with my feet behind me. There is an exchange in Balinese between Ketut and the priest. I assume some pleasantries and I guess a request that we can film, as Ketut turns and says they can turn the cameras on.

The priest asks, with Ketut translating, what was it we want to know. Nobody is sure, we are all a bit taken aback by the scene. Someone asks how did he become a balian?

Offerings for everything. Photo: Sally Arnold.

His power (again, like magic, a poor word to use) came to him years ago—“a gift from the spirits,” he says. It came to him before he was married and, through the years, his power has strengthened. He knows the way of the light and the dark, he says, and he can help those in need—regardless of if their needs are good or evil.

We ask are people scared of his power, and of him. A long back and forth between Ketut and the priest follows—I guess translating our clumsiness. The English version is short and to the point. I’m paraphrasing here!

“People come to ask me for help as a healer, and for that power they respect me. People know though, some come to me for bad things, and my power with this is proven. For that, they fear me. This fear, it makes my power stronger. I am the head of an important temple.”

Taking a moment. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I ask who comes to see him? When they ask for bad things, what do they ask for? Again a convoluted discussion in Balinese with a simpler explanation delivered in English.

“All sorts. Trouble in life, trouble in love, trouble with money. To talk to or hear from the dead. All sorts come. Balinese, people from outside [meaning non–Balinese Indonesians], sometimes Bule [foreigners].”

Learning that foreigners come to see him, I ask what sort of foreigners, and for what sort of problems? To this a long winded explanation about a teacher from a Balinese international school follows. They are seeking revenge on an errant lover and came to have him curse them. When I ask what kind of advice he deals out to errant lovers, Ketut says this is not an appropriate question and doesn’t translate it. Watching the priest though, I’m sure he understands what I ask.

Now that’s a kris or two. Islamic Arts Museum, Kuala Lumpur. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We’re all seated, prostrated below him, with Ketut between us and the priest. The priest reaches behind and pulls out a crudely fashioned knife, almost a kris, but not quite there. Saying something in Balinese, he offers it to Ketut—not aggressively, but Ketut jumps back. Not only does he not want to touch it, he doesn’t want to accept anything handed to him by the priest. The priest isn’t bothered and places it beside him.

The crew are dumbstruck and there’s a long pause. I’m wracking my brain for something vaguely sensible to ask. When our son was born, we lived in Sanur, and after his birth, we had a ceremony and buried the placenta in the garden. This is a common practise in Bali, and while neither Sam nor myself are religious, well, best to cover all the bases. So I ask:

“When our son was born in Bali, we buried the placenta under a plant in our garden in Sanur. We later moved to Umalas and dug both up and moved them to the garden at our new house. Was this the right thing to do?”

Not everyone was bothered by the ghost in the pool. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Ketut relays my question. The priest looks baffled, then asks if I’m Balinese–Hindu, to which I shake my head. He nods, and says, while not necessary, it would not have done any harm.

I ask about the ghost in our pool, and this interests him more. He asks if we had a ceremony. I said yes, a local mangku performed it, and the ghost seemed to have chilled out. He nods, then adds if the ghost causes more problems, we should call him.

Call Ghostbusters.

Later the gears change. He lifts the knife he’d tried to hand to Ketut earlier. Then, opening his mouth he extends his tongue and slices it clear across. The blood flows and he spits it on the floor. Then, he seems to stab himself in the stomach with the same blade. He’s speaking Balinese during this and Ketut is struggling to keep up. He’s flustered, and says the priest is demonstrating his power to us.

Some things just go together. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is hard to make sense of where the real deal morphs into theatre for foreigners. It brings to mind Sam seeing people in trances eating light bulbs in East Java. Is this real or spectacle?

By this stage Ketut is uncomfortable and wants to leave. At the first opportune moment, we thank him for his time and go to stand and step back. I’m not a religious person, but the whole scene feels like it is going sideways badly.

He isn’t done though. He retrieves a bone—human, from a nearby graveyard, he tells us. We’re welcome to return after midnight and he’ll take us down to dig up a few more. We politely decline.

We make our farewells, leave a donation for his time and drive back in silence.

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

Back at the guesthouse in Sidemen, Ketut excuses himself immediately. He needs to shower, to cleanse himself of what he’s just experienced. We don’t see him again until the next morning. The rest of us sit by the pool and listen to the insects. There is much to digest but we all seem lost for words, and we say almost nothing to be honest. Eventually we drift off to bed and the next day we’re snorkelling off Candi Dasa.

I heard recently from Ketut that the priest died in late 2019. Due to complications from surgery—the eighth attempt at fixing a physical problem he suffered from.

I wonder who his spirit passed his power on to.

* Ketut is a pseudonym.

There’s a beach bar a five minute bike ride from where I live and I head there most afternoons to write—I’m there now actually. I like it because it is right by the crashing ocean, but also because, even pre Covid, it was almost always empty. Save the staff of course, but half the time they’re not there either—I leave the money under a book on the bar when I leave.

It is a small, ramshackle place, a dozen tables, no music, no WiFi and barely a 3G signal. The surf though, is right there, and it clears my mind. Their coffee is dreadful, but the soda water is always icy and comes with an earnest smile.

Keep running. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Over the last year I’ve come to know the staff a bit—at a distance. They apologise when the owner is about, as when she is on site they have to add on a service charge. They told me when they got their first vaccination shot. The son of one of the staff likes to play a game I don’t understand on a cheap tablet. When there, he sits at the table beside me and always chirps hello when he sees me. He’s long given up trying to explain the game to me.

There’s a foursome of blue deckchairs on the sand, umbrellas wiggling in the wind, waving to the few potential walkers strolling by. They’re almost always empty, in the hot grey sand, raked and swept, kept tidy and presentable.

Before the world changed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The tables in the cafe area are wobbly. The umbrellas have holes in them—I like to think from coconuts, but more likely due to age and the weather. In wet season, the roof leaks.

Sometimes I’m here for an hour, other times, five or six, sometimes more. We make chit chat, but they mostly leave me alone, which I like. If I bring my kids down, they say hello to them, then the next day tell me how beautiful my grandchildren are.

I like it.

Offerings are in need. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Nearby there’s an older Balinese woman who does beach massage. She also sells sarongs, trinkets and bracelets and I’m sure if I had enough hair she’d offer to braid it. Thank god I don’t have enough hair for that.

We chat now and then. She’s from Denpasar and has been giving beach massages for “a long time”. She has five kids, but her husband is long gone—she’s said he ran away or died during different chats. I’d guess she’s in her 60s now. I can’t remember the last time I saw her give a massage. She often sits on her bedding on her phone, or snoozes—as she is now as I write.

When she wakes she’ll call out to me, holding up a blue and black sarong, it blowing in the wind as she stretches it out for me. There’s a huge toothy smile below the Ray Charles sunglasses she always wears. Above the shades a broad rimmed white linen hat—something my own mother would wear. Around her neck a cheap handbag dangles. I know it is filled with the tools for manicures, pedicures, foot scrubbing, ear candling and gawd knows what else.

A different kind of riptide. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It seems offensive to ask how business is, given the climate, but I do anyway. “Very slow,” she says, “worse than the bombs and Agung. No people, no business, no money for Mama.”

The bracelets she says she makes herself, the sarongs she sells on consignment. She makes more on the sarongs she says, but she’ll give me a special price with just 10,000 rupiah in her pocket because she knows I live here.

Then she’s gone, off to peddle her wares to a couple of tourists walking by in the afternoon sun. We both know they’ll pay more than me. This isn’t personal—it’s business.

This is business—not personal. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When we’ve chatted before, I’ve asked how she is getting by. Some of her kids still live with her, one of her sons has some kind of a governmental job and makes decent coin. In the place of the father, he’s the breadwinner. For her, coming to the beach is as much a product of habit as a means to an ends.

She’s back from the tourists. The woman paid 150,000 rupiah for a sarong and she’s delighted with that. They’re French or Russian (how you could confuse the two is beyond me) she tells me—on honeymoon. What a time for a honeymoon I say. She laughs at that, then says they asked her if she’d been vaccinated.

This was something I had been meaning to ask her but had forgotten to, so I take the opportunity. It is funny how in today’s world it is normal to ask a complete stranger this. She has been, thanks to her son’s job and her age she’s already had both shots. The vaccinations were free.

I ask, when they asked her, did she ask them if they were vaccinated.

Don’t ask, don’t tell. Fisher hut near Batu Belig. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She’s startled, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. She says no, she didn’t ask, then adds she thought all foreigners were already vaccinated—she thought they had to be to come to Bali. I explain that’s not the case, then she laughs, and says that she’d not asked, she thinks it would be rude. She pointedly doesn’t ask me.

I ask her if she knew anyone who has died of Covid. She shrugs, she’s not sure. A cousin, an uncle, a friend of a friend, someone she used to shop from at her local market. Maybe it was Covid. “They died early” is how she put it. No hospital, no doctor, no medical certificate. In the ground till the families can afford a cremation.

Trying to frame it as politely as I can, I suggest there’s nothing wrong in asking tourists if they are vaccinated. After all they asked her first. She’s not convinced. She pauses for a moment then says, “they’re guests here”.

All a true guest should leave. Seseh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She’s off wandering again. Plodding 3pm hot sand, looking for more honeymooners to pay over the market price for a sarong. But in her own way, she’s the front line of Bali’s (and many other) tourism industries.

A week ago, I was on Bingin beach in the south and a similar vendor asked me where my daughter Lyla was. Not only did she remember I had a daughter, but she remembered her name. It had been months since I’d been to Bingin with Lyla.

Maybe the vendor has a great memory, or perhaps Lyla overpaid so much, she’s now legendary—I lean towards the latter! But to be honest, I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. I would guess, the Bingin vendor’s personal situation would not be all that different to the woman above.

Oh Bingin. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Travel is a personal thing—it is different things for different people. For some it is a fancy pants hotels, some with private pool villas, for others, it is a fall down beach bar or a bamboo shack. But by and large the former is getting the column inches. I’m not suggesting the expat F&B Manager with a residence the size of a football field including a half–size Olympic pool ain’t hurting. Hurt is a relative thing I guess.

But when States say they don’t have the funds to lend financial support to the little people, it makes my blood boil. Even the most nominal amount would give these people some breathing room. And in turn, destinations the time they need to vaccinate enough of their own citizens. Locals first. Then, and only then, let’s start talking about reopening to inbound tourism.

Because, in my humble opinion, it is the little people who make the difference—and they deserve far better than what they are getting.

Yes, I’m back! After a longer than expected hiatus I am back in front of the keyboard. I’d planned to re–start yesterday, but still wasn’t quite up to it, and it felt better to restart with a free post for all readers. So while this is a part of the paid–for itinerary series, I hope it appeals to all. My heartfelt thanks for the kind comments over the preceding month—much appreciated.

Phetchaburi is a temple town. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Phetchaburi was the first “off the pancake trail” town I ever visited in Thailand. It was, and still is to an extent, a scruffy third tier Thai provincial capital a few hours by train south of Bangkok. I don’t recall why I decided to get off there that first time, but since then I’ve returned on many occasions.

Phetchaburi is a squat, slither of a low rise town, bisected by a grotty river. With a keen eye and some patience, you’ll see monitor lizards swimming in it, back and forth from one bank to the other. Like many Thai cities, Phetchaburi is a temple town with historical vestiges. There’s a hilltop royal retreat, an interesting cave, bats and a gaggle of mediocre beaches by the sea. Famed for a sickly sweet deserts—and also hit–men if you believe what you read in the papers.

No need to restrict yourself to sweet things. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This is the type of town that is easy to give a night to, or three if you’re travelling slow. A place to linger and wander in, do laundry and catch up on your reading. The sort of place that you’re unlikely to meet other travellers.

Until better accommodation appeared, Rabieng was where I’d stay. A fall–down wooden house wedged between a busy (by Phetchaburi standards) road and the river. Run by locals Nit and Tom, it was the backpacker haunt. Music from the 70s and 80s, backpacker menus from the 90s, affable owners, and, if there was another backpacker in town, them too.

This is a flattering photo of my room at Rabieng. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Nim was the one who really ran the place. Charming and friendly, Tom more looked after the entertainment side of things. He was musical and liked his yaa dong and was ever happy to share. He ran jungle tours to Kaeng Krachan National Park, and at that he was quite apt.

The rooms, well, they were simple, to say the least. The rock hardest beds on earth, not a straight corner in the place. The traffic noise piped in to under your pillow. These quibbles faded though, sitting on the deck in the late afternoon gazing for monitors. From memory there were posters of musicians, and a vast musical collection—Leonard Cohen springs to mind. We’d pass the afternoons and evenings, boozing, eating and listening to Tom’s tales. Looking back, there was probably a fine line between being a fun host and derangement. Still, my memories are fond.

The Buddha image in question. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Tom’s speciality was the jungle, but one late afternoon, killing time, he took us to Khao Luang, a vast cave complex not far out of town. As caves go, it is far from Thailand’s most spectacular, but it felt like a healthier proposition than more yaa dong.

There’s a vast central chamber stacked with Buddha images, where, at the right time of the day, light pours in bringing the images to life. On that day, walking down a row of seated buddhas I found a far smaller statue that caught the light just right. I snapped a single photo (this was back when slide film was the norm and every photo counted—and cost money). Later, it formed the cover image for a guidebook I co–wrote to Thailand in the mid 1990s.

There are plenty more buddhas in the cave though. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Some years after the books’s publication, I revisited the cave, looking for the same image. My guide, watching me, asked if I was looking for the “Buddha on the guidebook”, when I nodded, he led me down to it. It was still there, though seemed unlike the one I had photographed. Memory is funny like that, yet I was thrilled that someone, somewhere had used my book to find the image.

A little over a century before, an account from 1884 talks about two missionary women visiting the cave. In their account, they saw stalagmites near the cave entrance, and so broke off a few to take with. Quoted in Descriptions of Old Siam, They wrote:

“At the mouth of the [Royal] cave we found some curious rocks, and succeeded in breaking off several good specimens.”

Sadly they are not there for others to admire.

Wandering Kaeng Krachan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next day, Tom took a few of us into Kaeng Krachan for a trip. We’d walk and see what we could see.

I remember following a riverbank, it felt like we were in the heart of the jungle—after all we’d been walking for hours. Kaeng Krachan though is a park so vast, we were not even scratching the surface. It was hard going, and Tom’s machete came in handy. We sat on boulders, drinking, enjoying the silence. At a swimming hole of sorts we cooled our heels. The outside world felt like a lifetime away.

Hello hornbill. Photo: David Luekens.

As the hours lengthened, we climbed to a bit of a rise. It wasn’t a view point, but some large flat stones, slightly raised in a valley. Forest rose on both sides. There was the hubbub of the jungle—birds and butterflies—no monkeys, tigers or elephants. We chatted, making small talk.

Then Tom waved us to be quiet and listen.

Hummph humph hummph.

I don’t know how to write the sound of a helicopter, but that was what it sounded like. Distant, and reverberating off the ridges and trees above us. Hard to place. Getting louder, but only ever so slightly. I’d never heard anything like.

When driving in Thailand, you always should give way to size. Photo: David Luekens.

Then Tom pointed, “there, see?”

We all craned our necks. Nothing.

Hummph humph hummph.

Then we saw it, or rather, them.

Hornbills.

First one, then three, then I don’t know, perhaps a dozen or more. They flew over, oblivious to us, on the way to somewhere else. Their enormous wings buffeting the air, the sound like nothing else I’d ever heard.

The sun was low and five minutes later, they were out of sight. We lingered, hoping for more, but we’d had our moment, and started our long walk back to the ride home to Phetchaburi.

As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, my health took a bad turn that had me taking a couple of weeks off, well, everything. I spent the first week at home, sleeping, and much of the second week at Bingin, a beach I love in South Bali. At Bingin I also spent much of my time sleeping, but as matters began to improve my fingers started itching. The result? A Southeast Asia Tube Map.

To see a large version of the above, click here for interactive, click here for the PNG, or here for the PDF.

The London Metro Map is the most famous mass transit map in the world and I thought I’d turn the layout to Southeast Asia. Travellers tend to follow routes depending on their interest, so it seemed simple.

It wasn’t.

As I started to plan it out, the sheer variety of attractions in the region became all too clear. I wanted to try to group destinations by country, so it got complicated fast. Then I decided I’d only list each place once—doubly complicated. Does Hanoi belong on the Food, Colonial Vestiges or Family Travel line? You can only get so far with interchanges I tell you!

Sunset strolling at Bingin, thinking about tube maps. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Colonial Vestiges Line? I bet you don’t remember riding that one in London! That is what I renamed the Victoria Line as. From top to bottom, here is what I did.

Northern Line

The Northern Line became the Nature And Outdoors Line. The two northern spurs contain volcanoes to the left and parks and outdoors to the right. As it runs through downtown there is some surfing to the left, with the right being diving and more diving.

Piccadilly Line

It felt about right to rename this to the Banana Pancake Line. Starting at Bangkok’s Khao San Road it stops at many of the backpacker favourites in the region. Once it reaches Kuala Lumpur, either pivot north for Burma (Myanmar) or south to Indonesia.

Victoria Line

Of course this needed to be the Colonial Vestiges Line. From right to left, it commences in Yangon and terminates in Armenian Singapore. Along the way you’ll see the colonial relics left behind by all from colonialists to Sino trading houses.

Metropolitan Line

Yes, religion is far from a metropolitan concept. That said, the many stations lent itself to the many faiths and monuments you’ll find in the region. To the left, the two spurs are Thailand (with a couple of Singaporean spurs) and Burma. It then runs through Malaysia, Laos and Indonesia.

Central Line

The region’s antiquities tie it all together, and are central to what you see today. Ancient Times starts in Indonesia to the left, till it hits a Burma spur, then Thailand, Laos and a load of Cambodia.

Hammersmith & City and Circle Lines

Because these two lines link up with so many other lines, I called them both “A Bit Of Everything”. Handy for those who like to travel in circles. The one bit towards the left where it was just these two lines, I listed a few spots I happen to like.

District Line

The district line became the Food Line. To the right extreme we have Thai fare, then Khmer followed by Lao and Vietnamese. At Earl’s Court, take an upper spur for Singapore or Burma, down for Indonesia or left for Malaysia.

Bakerloo Line

This became the Family Travel Line. A glad bag of attractions and destinations across the region ideal for families. Singapore and Sabah in Malaysia are well represented here, but I pick up a few from elsewhere also.

Jubilee Line

I could make an entire map like this dedicated solely to islands, so this is a limited selection. At the top we start with Indonesia, then Malaysia, Thailand and Cambodia.

Outliers

This is a fun project, not to be taken too seriously, and there are some clangers. I know there are no Khmer ruins on Ko Jum, and Batu Karas has no colonial vestiges—though some probably surf there. Likewise Bia Hoi is not a colonial vestige, but drink at the right stall and you can probably see some!

Further reading

Each place name is linked to elsewhere for further reading. These are mostly to pages on Travelfish, though not all.

If you’d like to make a map like this, I suggest you start with the excellent tutorial Stéphanie Krus wrote here. It was a huge time saver.

If you’d like to republish this on your own site, by all means do so, but please link back to Travelfish.org. If you’d like a version for printing, use either of the following links. In the PDF the links are clickable, in the PNG they’re not.

Southeast Asia tube map (PDF)

Southeast Asia tube map (PNG)

There’s also an interactive version on Travelfish here.

Looking for the original London Tube Map? Here you go.

Sorry no Philippines—I’ve never been there!

As I wrote the other day, I met a group of Thai campers who invited me out for a night on the town. Their goal? To show me the “real Bangkok”. The one bit of input I was allowed, was selecting our rendezvous.

Multi–storey Phra Nakorn Bar is part gallery, part venue, part rooftop restaurant. It is a short walk from where I’m staying, on Khao San Road. We agree to meet in the late afternoon.

This video has not aged well.

We relax on the rooftop, drinking iced beers and enjoying the sunset. Set in the northern reaches of Bangkok’s Old City, the bar is three or four floors, making it one of the taller buildings in the area. From the roof we can see the Golden Mount glisten along with many other nearby spires.

Light show complete, we make our way downstairs and, with the traffic in mind, hustle up motorbike taxis. We head south along the khlong till we reach a bend on the Chao Phraya. We turn, then after a short distance we come across a large shade tree.

Give the Flower market a wave. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Beneath it, spread over a grubby patch of earth, there’s some plastic chairs and aluminium tables. Beside them stands an old woman behind a food cart and about 68,000 crates of beer. We sit and the beers come fast. It is a weird sort of a spot—it feels like a building site—but they’re clearly regulars. Their custom being commonplace becomes more obvious when, unasked, the lady slings us bowls of jok.

Jok is a congee–like rice porridge dish, often garnished with slices of chicken and condiments. It is also, to my knowledge, a breakfast dish. I’ve eaten many things with beer, but never, ever, jok. My companions say it is good for lining the stomach—and also the best in town. I remain, to this day, unconvinced—on both counts.

We chat, eat and drink, and the longer we sit, the more the appeal grows on me. A few other groups have shown up, and while we can’t quite see the river, I can hear the boat engines trundling.

There are worse rivers to booze beside. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We get another squad of bikes and continue east, along the river bank. I’m disorientated till I realise we’re somewhere behind the Flower Market. Further east and we’re into the back–blocks of Chinatown.

We pull up at a small bar. I know it is a bar only for the sound emanating from it. When one of my companions opens the door the iciness of the air–con it matched only by the racket. Seeking to redefine hole–in–the–wall, the place is so narrow there is barely room for the bar and a row of tables on the other side. The place is packed with young Thais, and we make our way through to a rear windowless area and a table.

A bottle of whiskey, glasses, a bucket of ice and a wheelie trolley of soda arrive. One of the women orders some food, and we continue drinking and talking. They explain the place is owned by the brother of the woman who ordered, and many of the guests are friends. I’m introduced to a stream of other patrons.

The sweet heart of the city. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The food comes. Perhaps a dozen small plates of drinking food. Grazing dishes like pork ribs, sausage, chicken tendons, and a dish of sliced beef with an amazing dip.

Whiskey gone and food exhausted, we walk outside but can’t find bikes, so they decide to walk. We break the trip at another hole–in–the–wall bar, even more jammed than the previous. With a live band, it is too loud to linger, so we move on after one.

Perhaps ten minutes later we’re on Yaowarat Road, Chinatown’s main through-fare. We walk up its length, past the famous T&K Seafood to another cluster of food stalls, on the southern side of the road.

These places are even more jammed than the bars, and we bide our time waiting for a table. We order while we wait, and are delivered an amazing dessert dish of gingko with longan syrup on shard ice. In the oppressive evening heat, amongst the steam and exhaust fumes, the horns and the racket, it is a delicious respite.

A cup of delicious. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We head east again, to somewhere on the periphery of the Si Phraya/Silom area. We pull up at a dated condominium, cram into the lift, and head to the roof.

It feels more like a private party than a bar. There’s a pool with a few people in it, lazy chairs scattered about. The hordes of people make the rooftop maze–like. We stand in a corner, drinking and enjoying the views. Like the earlier bar, this place is owned by a friend—they describe it as an “informal bar”. With hundreds of guests, it is anything but secret.

They ask if I’m still hungry, and I nod. Back down, into a cab and we head south, to around where the Chong Nonsi BTS station now stands. For the first time I’m on familiar ground and I know the strip of bars we’re at.

Eat everything. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We settle into an open air garden bar. Another bottle of whiskey, more soda, more ice. By this stage I’m flagging, but a seat and a less hectic scene helps. More food comes. Seafood this time—it goes down as fast as the drinks. For the first time in the night I see a foreign couple. I point them out and laugh, suggesting their secret is out. They shrug and ask if I could find any of the places they have taken me. Aside from the dessert stall, I shake me head, then we all laugh.

It feels like the right note to finish on, and an hour later I’m back on Khao San Road. I make my way back to the guesthouse, passing by the still heaving backpacker bars on the strip.

Despite considerable effort, I never manage to find that first hole–in–the–wall bar again.

Technology is all about making life easier right? I must confess today has not been a day made easier by technology. Fact. It started at 2 am with an email (thank you dear sender!) and my day has been careening downhill ever since.

It is days like this though, that have me harking back to the lesser–tech days of travel. Pre internet. Pre social media. Where, as soon as you hit a new town you’d be staying at for a while, your first port of call would be the post office. Why?

Even Charles Sobraj stepped into these. Screenshot: Stuart McDonald, The Serpent, Netflix.

Poste restante. Poste what? Poste restante, known as General Delivery in the USA, it was I guess, a kind of a precursor to email. It allowed the sender to send a letter, postcard, parcel, or whatever, to any post office in the world. All they’d need do is write the recipient’s name, along with the GPO for the city. As long as the recipient showed up to collect it, it worked.

If you’ve been watching The Serpent on Netflix, Poste restante features prominently early on!

Through much of my early travels, this was my lifeline to friends and family back home, along with people along the way. Post offices would hold a delivery for a month or so, and you needed some photo ID (normally a passport) to pick it up. It worked (and still does) amazingly well. As an added bonus, some post offices—hello Saigon and Phnom Penh—are gorgeous and attractions in their own right.

Within Ho Chi Minh City’s GPO. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I was an avid letter writer, and I’d tell friends and family my rough itinerary then would check the GPO in each town to see what had arrived. Save expensive international calls, it was the easiest way to keep in touch.

On the topic of international calls, again pointing to when the world seemed smaller... When I first arrived in the US in early 92, my companion and I each bought a phone card. It allowed us to call Australia at less prohibitive rates, to tell our families we were still alive. I’m not sure what the technology was behind it, but we had to call a number and talk to a woman who would put us through to Australia. It was always the same woman! As we worked our way across the States, we got to know her in a sense, and she’d ask, where are you boys now?!

Smaller world indeed.

If you’d like to Poste restante Travelfish with a complaint, Luang Nam Tha in Laos is your best bet. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With Poste restante it was simple. Having told the family where I’d roughly be in a few months, I’d show up and see what was there. I got every letter my parents sent save one. That one missed letter was at Bangalore in India. I arrived a week after the month holding period (very, very ... very long story) and the GPO had returned it to sender. It was upsetting!

Months later, I arrived in Kathmandu, Nepal. There were a few letters waiting for me. One, from my family, included the front page of a Sydney tabloid paper, declaring “We Won!”. Related to Sydney winning the rights to the Olympics, the news was a month or so old. When I opened the envelope and saw it, it was the first I’d heard of it. I showed it to a curmudgeon Australian I was hanging out with and he blurted out “Oh bad deal, it will bankrupt the city.”

He still grabbed the cutting off me once I was done, and read it.

Bangkok’s GPO is less welcoming than Ho Chi Minh City’s. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is funny thinking about this sort of correspondence now, with near–free international calling and social media delivering real–time updates. Back then it seemed normal to be totally out of touch for months on end. It feels on one hand stone–age, but on the other, refreshing.

A few years ago, Poste restante long out of my head, I was in a post office in Sanur, Bali. I was mailing out some packages (not to Poste restante!) and looked to my left. There was an open–top shoebox, envelopes crammed into it. On the front of the box, it read Poste restante. Amazed it was still working, I asked the staff who used it. Lots of bule (foreigners), they said. Great to see old style travel still works.

Smudges are from the humidity—not tears. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In today’s world of ever–connected travel, the idea of sitting down and handwriting a proper letter to someone seems archaic. There’s nothing wrong with newsy emails of course, but there’s something meditative about taking the time and putting pen to paper.

When I sat down to write this piece, I reached for my keepsakes shoebox, and pulled two letters from someone very close to me at the time. I still remember picking up the two letters from the GPO in Bangkok in 1997. It was late afternoon and hot as hades. The postal worker checked my passport then handed the two letters to me. I shuffled back to a wooden bench within the GPO to read them immediately. I pored over every word, reading each of the two letters over and over.

I have no saved emails from 1997.

At the height of my bad fashion sense, I bought a fake lapis necklace off a street vendor on Bangkok’s Khao San Road. I write “bad fashion sense” but at the time everyone wore fisherman pants, fake Birkenstocks and Hmong–print vests. Right? Oh.

A few months later, I was in a backpacker bar on Thailand’s Ko Phi Phi. It was about a decade before the Boxing Day Tsunami, but the island was already well over–developed. The “village” of Ton Sai was a rabbit warren of bars, dirt alleys and dirtbag–backpackers. On the dirtbag count, I should know—I was one of them.

Storms ahead. Ko Phi Phi Leh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I was at the bar with a tobacco–chewing American guy from somewhere in the South, and a Swiss woman. We were all staying at the same flophouse on Long Beach, and had gone to the bar together. We’d all only met that day, with me the last person to join the threesome. The bar was one of those lay–down bamboo and wood joints with axe pillows for chairs and low slung bamboo tables. Near everyone was smoking and all were drunk. The music was deafening. It was late. It was messy.

The American and I both had eyes for the Swiss woman and as the night wore on, things got tense. When she went to the bathroom, he told me to back off (though he used a different phrase). I feigned innocence, though was anything but. Later, when she fondled my necklace, commenting on how she liked it, he lost it, threw a tantrum and left.

Sadly my upper lip was not that hardy. Ko Phi Phi Don. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Not long after, as I walked out to go to the bathroom, he was waiting in hiding and attacked me. In the process he bottled me in the face with a beer bottle. The bottle smashed, slicing a gash in my upper lip almost all the way through. It left me with a scar barbers still comment on today, almost 30 years later. Through shock or drink (probably both), I collapsed and he fled. I later half filled a small water bottle with my blood as it gushed out of my new facial piercing.

Six months later, when we sadly parted ways, the Swiss woman, who was named Nikki—and who has featured previously on Couchfish—kept my lapis necklace as a keepsake.

The American was right after all.

On the way to a half–hour of abject terror, Phongsali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It wasn’t to be the first (or last) time I’d be attacked. A few years earlier I was stabbed in London. About a decade later I narrowly escaped being murdered in far northern Laos.

Whenever I give advice to first time travellers, I say two things before anything else. Pack your common sense and always wear a helmet when motorbiking. Do as I say, not as I do.

I travel by motorbike frequently, yet most of the close calls I’ve had, have had nothing to do with scooters. Far more common is the unexpected. In my case, tied to my own stupidity, arrogance, naivety, or, more often, all three combined. I don’t think this situation is limited to me.

The Phuketian Elbow Death Spider lives here somewhere. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Staying on a less–developed beach on Phuket, there was a jungle trail I’d walk through to reach the beach. One morning, my left elbow felt like it brushed a spike and stung. At the time I didn’t think much of it. Through the day the pain dulled to an ache, and I didn’t think much of it. The next morning it started to swell, to about the size of a third of a tennis ball. I still didn’t think much of it.

The next day, on the flight back to Bali, it swelled painfully. Very painfully. The skin started to peel off as it continued to expand in size. It was difficult to lift my arm. I started to think about Alien. It was only then that I thought about it as more than an inconvenience. Later, at hospital in Bali, a doctor explained it was from a spider bite. He said if I’d left it a few more days, I would have needed surgery.

Watch out for cat poo. On the related Thai island. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This sort of nonchalance is not limited to me. A friend was on a Thai island years ago, and a few days after he got home to Bangkok, he started feeling a persistent and painful itch on his foot. How painful? Painful enough walking was difficult. Did he seek medical attention? Hell no!

It wasn’t till the itch climbed up to his calf that he started to worry. Did he go to the doctor? No. It wasn’t until he observed what looked like tunnels under the skin of his lower leg that he sought attention. The diagnosis? Some parasitical thing that he had picked up after stepping on cat crap on the beach. By the time he saw a doctor, the parasite had been burrowing through his body for a month. Luckily he avoided amputation. Like my facial tattoo, he still has the scars to back up his tale.

It will never happen to me right?

Not flammable. Photo: David Luekens.

Back in the days when 50 baht beachside bungalows were the norm in Thailand, all huts carried warnings about fire. The huts were mostly wood and bamboo and, lacking any electricity, lighting was via a small oil lamp. Keep it away from the net and don’t smoke in bed were the two mantras. Like wearing a bike helmet, many ignored these warnings—and more than a few huts burnt down.

Waking to blood curdling screams one night on Ko Pha Ngan’s Ban Tai beach, I stumbled onto the balcony. A neighbour’s hut was ablaze. You might be surprised just how fast bamboo huts go up in flames. Unharmed, she lost almost everything, though it was good fortune she’d left her traveller cheques in the safe. Lucky for the owner too, as unlike another case I know of, she did pay for the bungalow. Fires of course are not restricted to thatch huts. I’ve written before about when my guesthouse in Hanoi caught on fire. At least that time it wasn’t my fault.

Expect the unexpected. Jepara, Indonesia. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Sometimes it really isn’t your fault though. I was in a bus accident in India where the bus rolled off the road after hitting a cow in the middle of the night. A Canadian friend saw a bus accident in Nepal where an oncoming bus went straight off a cliff, exploding in flames in the ravine. I know two guys who have each survived three plane crashes. Yes—two guys with six plane crashes between them—it boggles the mind. In Northeast Thailand once, my train hit a car at a level crossing. The vehicle cartwheeled through the air, landing upended in a rice paddy beside the train. None of these were my fault!

Other times, the fault is shared. An overloaded longtail in bad seas in Southwest Thailand with a stoned and drunk boatman? You need to ask? Yes, it sank. Yes I should have had the good sense to not get on. Live and learn I guess—there’ll always be another boat and calmer seas.

Excuse me while I have a quiet ciggie after being chased my machete–wielding maniacs. Maluk, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With age comes wisdom—or so I keep telling myself. A few years ago I met a foreigner younger than me, on Sumbawa in Indonesia’s east. Common wisdom there (and in nearby Sumba) was to not ride at night to avoid the risk of having “problems”. He told me an incredible story of a high speed chase with local machete–wielding thugs. He managed to escape as he had a bigger, faster, bike. When I suggested it was unwise to ride at night, he shrugged, not bothered by the risk. Lead a horse to water and all that.

I’ve written before about competitive travellers. That mindset where someone has always been to a better beach, or whatever, than you have. The same goes for things that go bump in the night.

A view worth a centipede or two. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve a favourite hideaway on Ko Tao. The bungalows are simple, scattered up a bouldered hillside, overlooking a stunning bay. Back then, the huts were spartan—wooden planks, no power, shared bathrooms and ill–fitting doors. The views and serenity though, were amazing.

One morning, I got up, grabbed my jeans off the floor and pulled them on. As I tightened the belt, I felt this searing pain on my upper leg. It was searing—like someone had driven a nail into my thigh. I fell back onto the bed and ripped my jeans off as fast as I could, casting them back onto the floor.

Hold on to the rope and watch your step. Solid advice. Ko Tao, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

An enormous and extremely painful welt throbbed on my upper thigh. I prodded my jeans with the broom, looking for my attacker. Shortly after, a bright red and black centipede, at least four inches long, slithered out, then vanished between the floorboards.

Later I recounted my experience to the guesthouse owner, Sahaat. He laughed out loud.

“Yes, one of those bit me too,” he said, “a long time ago ... on my cock”.

Someone always has a worse tale. Do you?

It took me about fifteen years of living in Southeast Asia to cross the equator on the ground. Sure I’d flown over it numerous occasions heading to and from Sydney, Australia, but on the ground? Never. It wasn’t until I was returning from an uber–relaxing stint on the Togean Islands that I managed it.

The Togeans are an archipelago sitting in the Gulf of Tomini towards the north of Sulawesi. They’re approached from Ampana to the south or Gorontalo to the north. We’d spent three weeks there, with a week at a resort towards the centre, then two weeks at a far flung western spot.

Chill time at Poki Poki. Togean Islands. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was one of the most relaxing holidays I think I’ve ever had. I learned to dive and we fitted in an awful lot of time doing nothing whatsoever. Eventually though, it was time to leave. We got a sampan from the resort, near Bomba, back to Wakai from where we’d get an overnight ferry back to Gorontalo.

We then had an overnight stay there then a mid–morning flight to Makassar with Garuda. We would then overnight in Makassar, then Sam and the kids would return to Bali with Lionair. I would fly on to Kuala Lumpur. It all seemed simple.

We had timed our departure a little inconveniently and we were on the last ferry out before the end of Ramadan. The ferry was jam–packed and our ticketed seating worthless. With the warm weather we decided to spend the night on the upper deck.

Form an orderly queue please. Departure from Wakai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We set up camp. Coasting through calm waters under a starry sky, felt like the perfect way to leave the islands. It was on this evening that I crossed the equator. I woke the kids to tell them, and it would be fair to say they were not interested.

As with boarding, disembarking was chaotic. In no time though we were in the local take on tuk tuks for the ride into town, to the long–running New Melati Hotel. Gorontalo’s backpacker crash–pad, owner Alex was a trove of information and a welcoming guy. We lost the rest of the day washing the grime off, putting our feet up, and eating satay. We ate a lot of satay. The relaxation level remained high.

Hello Equator. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The following morning, all packed and ready to go, I went to reception to sort out the bill. There was another foreigner there and she looked to be in a real state.

“Good morning,” I said, sidling up beside her, as I waited for her to finish with the receptionist. She turned, smiled, then blurted out something quite unexpected:

“I was in a plane crash last night. Our plane hit a cow.”

The woman and her family had been on the Lionair flight from Jakarta to Gorontalo via Makassar on Tuesday, 7 August 2013. Upon landing, the aircraft either hit a cow “idling” on the runway and skidded off into the grass, or skidded off the runway, then hit a cow. Both are perfectly credible as Lionair pilots do sometimes have trouble finding the runway.

That is not how you park a plane. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While uninjured, the woman was shaken. She had only just found out they hit a cow (via media reports online). Lionair had told her and other passengers nothing at the time. She said it felt like the plane had hit something before it bumpily halted. Passengers opened the emergency exits, but crew said to stay where they were, despite a burning smell. It was probably the cow.

I asked the receptionist if the airport was open or not. It was closed; so I hoofed it over to the Garuda office in Gorontalo for clearer information. They said the airport was closed, but that we were all confirmed on a Garuda flight the next day.

I have no idea how the cow got onto the runway. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Early on Thursday August 8 (at 3:17 am) I received a SMS from Gorontalo Garuda notifying of a flight schedule change. The flight would now depart at 13:50, with a note to call a number (that didn’t work) for more information.

We decided to be conservative and headed to the airport early. Arriving at 11:00, we were first in line and Garuda staff at the ticket desk told us the flight was “on time”. We then tried to change our original Lionair ticket for the flight onwards to Bali. Lionair staff said there would be a cancellation charge of 90%, as “there’s no problem in Makassar”. Cost: Almost 3 million rupiah. Happy days.

Travelling with Dad is the best. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At 12:35, Gorontalo Garuda texted that our flight was cancelled. I asked Garuda staff at the ticket office what was going on, but they said they didn’t know. Other passengers were told by other staff that there would be a flight at 14:00, then at 16:00. In the end, there were no flights.

No staff mentioned that the Lionair flight hadn’t been moved and this was why we couldn’t get out. The airport reportedly lacked the equipment to move it. We heard later they tried to move it with an excavator.

Gorontalo has terrific satay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Killing time, I took Will for a walk to see if we could see the plane. Not only could we, we also found a hole in the fence and we wandered through for a closer look. If nothing else, at least the cows all seemed to be gone.

I called Garuda in Jakarta and spent 30 minutes trying to get advice on what we should do. They were unable to tell me if any flight was happening that day or the next. With two tired children, we gave up and headed back to town.

Back at a hotel, we spent another half an hour on the phone with Jakarta Garuda. They said we had a confirmed reservation on Friday August 9. We then purchased connecting flights (with Garuda) to Bali for Sam and the kids. Cost: Another 3 million rupiah.

Arrival at Gorontalo three weeks earlier. Little did I know how useful these can be. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Other friends who were also hoping to fly on August 9 (with Lionair) headed to the airport earlier than us. Upon arrival, staff said the airport was closed to jets; they called the hotel to tell us. We then spent 80 minutes in total with Garuda Indonesia in Jakarta. We wanted to change our departure city from Gorontalo to Manado, a nine-hour drive away.

In the middle of this, we received an SMS from Garuda Gorontalo advising our flight was cancelled. Despite being on a confirmed flight on Friday from Makassar to Bali, Sam and the kids were now pushed to Saturday’s flight. That flight was full, so they were waitlisted.

On the first call, Garuda said they’d waive charges for the shift to Manado. In a later call, they reneged. We would have to pay an extra two million rupiah to fly from Manado. Whatever.

Hi Manado. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We then chartered a car for the drive to Manado (that’ll be another 1.2 million rupiah thanks). Lyla was coming down with tonsillitis—it is amazing how much a small body can vomit. That drive—so much perfect.

Roughly five hours into the drive, at 18:57, we received an SMS from Garuda Gorontalo. They wanted to let us know a flight from Gorontalo to Makassar was due to depart Gorontalo at 20:10. An hour’s notice to get to the airport that was 45 minutes out of town. No, I don’t think so guys!

Gorontalo airport then called at 20:33 to tell us the flight would indeed be departing. I explained that we were on the way to Manado and to give the seats to others.

Feels like a lifetime ago. Sunset Beach, Togean Islands. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next morning, the gracious Garuda staff at Manado agreed to waive the change fee on the tickets. One and a half hours later we were, finally, in Makassar. Sam and the kids though, were still waitlisted on the flight back to Bali. Lyla’s tonsillitis had flared and her fever was high. The idea of sitting outside the airport for four hours hoping for a seat was not appealing. Business class seats though were available.

We called it a minor emergency; Lyla was sick, the kids were starting school on Monday. We bought the upgrade. Ka–ching—another 3 million rupiah.

We were relaxed when we left the Togean Islands—72 hours later ... not so much. That’s travel!

A different (though now offline) take on this story ran on Travelfish back in 2013.

In early February 1992, when I left Australia on what became a two year overseas trip, my first stop was Hawaii. My companion and I spent a couple of days being silly on Oahu, then took a short flight over to Maui. We were both keen windsurfers at the time, and Maui was one of the top spots for the sport.

While there we met a flight attendant and she gave us a lift up to Haleakala. At just a smidgen over 3,000 metres in elevation, it is the tallest volcano on the island. After making our farewells, we hiked into the crater and camped. Like many volcanic craters, it was a moonscape of a place, desolate yet stunning. We each had a silver–coloured dome tent and we set up for the night.

Good thinking time. West Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I was woken the next morning by barking and emerged into the pre–dawn light. The barking seemed to be coming from some kind of bird—there were certainly no dogs in sight. Leaving the tent, I looked across the crater surface, our two silver domes, birds barking like dogs. I felt like I was on another planet, and the experience was burned into my memory. Since then, I’ve told many people about that morning.

Not all that long ago, I met an American who called Hawaii home. A keen hiker, I told her about the experience. She politely told me I must have been mistaken as Haleakala does not have birds that bark like dogs.

I don’t think I’ll forget this. West Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m so sure I heard birds barking like dogs—like 200% positive. Maybe the barking birds are seasonal and she’d never been there at the right time. Or perhaps it was the altitude playing with my head. Or perhaps she was right, and my imagination had slipped over into my memories.

Memory is a funny thing.

A few years ago I went through a period of obsessing about memory. I wanted to learn why memories of some events were so vivid yet others were forever lost. Sometimes trauma may emboss—or erase a memory. The same goes for extreme pleasure. There’s a glad bag of reasons to explain why some are kept and others lost or misplaced by the giant noodle above our shoulders.

Beach crabs mimicking my memory connections. West Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One thing I did learn is that every time you recall something, your brain “re–records” it. This re–recording is often not the same as the initial memory. It may be influenced by events since the memory formed, a changing world view, or an infinite number of other reasons. The more one recalls it, the more often it is re–written and the more it can change. It may not change, but it might.

This is one of the reasons police often treat eyewitness reports with some caution. Memory can be an erratic medium to say the least.

As regular Couchfish readers will know, some of the events I’ve written about happened a while ago. Sometimes years, sometimes decades. There’s scope for plenty of memory re–writing.

Memories can pass you by. West Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I was listening to a podcast this morning, an interview with American writer Pam Mandel about her book The Same River Twice. Her novel recounts her travel and life experiences in the early 1980s. Towards the end of the interview they talk about memory—how was Pam able to recount stories that happened almost 40 years ago. Says Pam:

“The more time I spent working on it, the more I recalled, so the longer I spent trying to mentally revisit Egypt, trying to mentally put myself back on that trip to Luxor, the more I was like oh I remember this girl with a parakeet. These very small things are what make stories real for you.”

Earlier this week I took a break to West Bali for five nights (why Couchfish is out of sync this week). We stayed in an isolated beach house on a near–deserted strip of black sand that was about five kilometres long. It was ideal for long solitary beach walks where I’d rarely if ever encounter another person. It was a great place for turning over old memories for a side–project I’m sort of commencing work on.

Me trying to remember which volcano I’ve climbed. West Bali. Photo: Samantha Brown.

I thought about Haleakala a lot. About those barking birds, our silver tents and the moonscape we were sleeping on. The image is so clear in my mind I could draw a picture of it, but if the birds were false memories what else was?

Pam talks about how she’d have one memory and as she thought about that, others would fall out, coalescing into something more whole. Couchfish has often worked like this. I’ve a whole collection of half–written pieces, half–formed memories, waiting for the rest to tumble out of my brain. Memories on the tip of my tongue and all that. Luckily I have many old notebooks, some dating back to 1994—yes, I am a pack–rat. A massive plastic box of thousands of slides, all with date and province written on the casing. These have been invaluable in plunging the depths of my memory.

Memories can look a bit different when they wash up the next day. West Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sometimes it is the simplest memory—seared for the most random of reasons into my mind. These need no trigger, it feels like they happened yesterday, yet some are false. I have this indelible one involving a South African girlfriend and us chatting to a cafe owner in Chiang Mai. The thing is we travelled together in Malaysia—not Thailand. Or at least I think that was where we travelled. How can I not recall which country we travelled in together, yet can firmly remember a conversation we supposedly had in Chiang Mai?!

More than anything though, my strongest memories—or at least those that feel the strongest, were from the first trips to each country. I could tell you in more detail what I did in India in 1993 or Vietnam in 1994 than what I did in Thailand or Vietnam in 2019. How does that work? Why do I still remember my childhood phone number but it took me two years to be able to remember the phone number I have now?

This photo is three days old and already I can’t remember which of the two I chatted with. West Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

My theory is that like everything, the first impression leaves the mark. The first kiss. The first flight. The first time in a country. These are the ones that really leave the mark. Yet the more I think about them, going on the rewriting theory, the more tenuous and nebulous these memories become.

So where am I going with this? I forget! That’s a joke—really. What I’m thinking is that first impressions matter. The first time you go to a place, it does leave a mark. Not an indelible one for sure, but one that forms the foundation for all subsequent memories.

Also, this is a note that Couchfish is the product of the shifting sands of my memory. An inexact science if there ever was one.

How is your memory? How indelible was your first trip?

So today I have a special podcast—a near hour–long chat with David Luekens—the founder of the best email newsletter on Thailand’s coast and islands, Thai Island Times. We talk about Covid in Thailand, sustainable tourism, David’s newsletter, and, of course, his pick of the crop.

Enjoy!

Peak hour on a southern Ko Lanta beach. Photo: David Luekens.

Stuart

OK, so I’m here with David Luekens and if you’ve ever traveled in Thailand on the back of Travelfish, it’s most likely you’ve been traveling on the back of his research. He’s been living in Thailand for almost a decade, although the first time he was in the region was 2005, which is what, like about 15 years ago.

After he got into the region, he traveled using Travelfish for a while and then he ended up working with us on the site and he’s done some incredible research, not just on the islands, although that’s what we’re going to be primarily talking about, but particularly also in Thailand’s Northeast, Isaan, as some people know it, and it’s one of the more under touristed parts of the country.

Now, earlier today I sent David an email with a couple of pre–interview questions, like where was home back in the States and that kind of thing, and one of the questions was how many islands has he stepped foot on? So David came back and said to me, well, it depends, it’s somewhere between 55 and 80 Thai islands. Depending on how you classify them, you know if you’ve got like a pair of islands like Ko Rok where there’s two islands, does that count as one or two?

It’s a bit like counting countries, but most people I know, like I thought I was doing alright with, I don’t know, I think I’m in the mid 30s, I think I’ve been to as many Thai islands as I’ve been to countries, but 55 to 80 is sort of pushing the envelope.

So anyway, David and I are gonna have a bit of a chat, about, well, we’ll get to the Thai islands, but we’re also going to talk about what’s on everybody’s lips, which is Covid and what’s happening in Thailand, and how Thailand is trying to open up and how it’s managing it. Then we’re gonna switch over to a bit of a chat about responsible tourism and sustainable tourism, and this is something I’ve been writing about on Couchfish a lot, about perhaps the silver lining to this whole s**t sandwich of Covid is how can we reinvent tourism, like how can tourism be done better? So we’ll talk about that.

And then we’re going to get to what, I guess everybody really wants to hear about, which is when you’ve been to up to 80 Thai islands, which is your favourite Thai island?

So before we get into this, David is in Bangkok at the moment, I’m in Bali, and David, what did you eat yesterday? What was a good meal you had to have?

David

Uh, som tam gai yang khao neow just at a new place opened up down the street from our little apartment here out in West Bangkok and we tried it out. It’s actually been packed, they have all kinds of Isaan food, like hot pot and it is really good, so we’re happy to have that.

There is more to the Thai islands than beaches. Panang seafood, Ko Jum. Photo: David Luekens.

Stuart

So what what made it so good?

David

Well the som tam was well balanced, you know it was spicy, it was sour, we got the Lao—style som tam with the fermented fish sauce and, I like it when it’s a little bit extra sour, nice taste of fresh lime juice, and I mean the gai yang was great, and the atmosphere was good it was kind of lively, so a classic Northeastern Thai restaurant in Bangkok.

Stuart

And this is in Thonburi, correct?

David

Yeah, pretty far out near in Bangla area of Bangkok, which is pretty close to like the far west end of the of the BTS Skytrain system, we actually live down the street from Bangla BTS Station, so it’s kinda out in the suburbs I guess you’d say.

Stuart

So when you say like the place is quite new and it’s busy like it sounds like it was teeming with people, in this age of Covid, how is it in Bangkok at the moment?

David

People really just are going about their business. You know, in the back in the first few months of the pandemic there was a lot of fear, and I mean back in like April of 2020 last year, half the city kind of shut down, malls were closed except for restaurants except for takeout and all the bars closed, and even interprovincial transport was really limited.

But you know gradually, I mean, we were lucky here to have like a solid six months of, basically no, or very very few known Covid infections, in the whole country. And that ended in December, when there was a big outbreak in Samut Sakhon, southwest of Bangkok. Since then it’s been kind of touch and go, but I think people are more used to the threat of it, people aren’t quite, I shouldn’t say everyone but it seems like a lot of people, especially younger people, are out in Bangkok. Everyone wears a mask and pretty much well I mean, almost everyone, at least you have to wear a mask like going on the Skytrain and stuff like that.

At that Isaan restaurant, it’s like you wouldn’t even know there was a pandemic really going on. People were crowding in there, which is, now we have another outbreak, and it’s been kind of like the numbers will go down to just maybe five or ten cases reported in a single day in Bangkok and then, now they’re back up again. I think 100 or something yesterday, and today in Bangkok and also in some of the provinces surrounding here so, it’s just the way it is, we’re still lucky compared to a lot of countries.

Stuart

So with your day to day life, if you look back to say like April last year and, we’re a year later so it’s early April this year we’re in just before Songkran, what’s a big difference between now and a year ago for you, like in day-to-day life?

David

I was actually thinking today how I was thinking back on a year ago at this time, Thailand had jumped to around 200 cases in a day and everyone was kind of freaking out, and they closed a lot of shops and restaurants and everything like Phuket was completely closed down, you couldn’t go on the beach same in places like Pattaya and some other places like Cha–Am, you weren’t allowed to go on the beach even.

Ao Si, Ko Jum. Photo: David Luekens.

There was an alcohol ban, there was 20 days, I think April 10th to May 1st, you weren’t allowed to buy any alcohol anywhere, even at like a convenience store or 7–eleven. There was a nationwide curfew where you had to be inside by 8:00 o’clock at night, so it’s far less drastic now in terms of the prevention measures.

I mean, if you really look at it, I was thinking how the situation then compared to now is really not that different, it’s about the same number of cases, being imported and very few people are vaccinated in Thailand, so yeah, so it’s kind of been a slow and tedious year, and I think that that’s going to continue.

Stuart

So do you know anybody personally, or know of anybody personally, in Thailand, who has come down with Covid?

David

I don’t no, not in Thailand. I know several back in the US but not in Thailand.

Stuart

Through this year, like a lot of travel has been shut down and it was very difficult to travel for a period, and obviously Thailand is largely closed for international tourism coming in, but I know you have done a little bit of travel, even if not by public transport, in the country, across this period, how is it different?

David

It depends on where you go. We took a trip up to Isaan in the Northeast, the northeastern region back in August, and it was like going back to normal again. Isaan has had very few cases relative to the rest of the country, which I mean the country has had, you know, a few cases relative to most other countries.

In Isaan, we did a long trip along the Mekong River, it’s beautiful, and I mean Isaan is a region that doesn’t get many foreign travellers, even when there’s not a pandemic going on. So it really felt like normal up there. We were in provinces that still haven’t reported a single case of Covid. Life was kind of going on more as normal there and that was kind of refreshing to get a taste of that, except that of course you’re seeing Laos across the border and knowing that you can’t use any of the border crossings to pop over there. That was the one big difference.

But then, for touristy areas like Ko Samui and Ko Chang is little bit better off compared to, Ko Samui, Phuket, places like that, are devastated. In some places like 90% of businesses are closed. I mean, even 24 hour convenience stores and that kind of thing, are closed.

I was thinking about all the work I’ve done for Travelfish over the years, in the islands and places that are quite touristy and how all that research is going to have to get thrown out after the pandemic. So many places are closed and are never going to come back. Even places, the hotels and other businesses that have stuck it out and are still going, they’re going to have to be looked at again with fresh eyes after the pandemic.

Just the upkeep of a resort and that kind of thing costs money that a lot of people I think don’t have. I think places are getting rundown. Thailand has a very moist, wet rainy season that causes damage to buildings and that kind of thing. Places like Chaweng and Ko Samui—how long is it gonna take? These are so developed and you can’t just get rid of these old these buildings and kind of start from scratch, so there’s going to be kind of a ghost town feel to a lot of these places, I think for several years to come.

Stuart

I totally agree with you about the research angle of things, it’s a complete nightmare, but just coming back to something you said, talking about how long businesses will be able to last, how has it worked in Thailand for government support? Not just businesses in the tourism industry, but in general like is there much sort of money crossing the table?

David

No, not not much, the government put most of their eggs into this tourism stimulus plan. They’re trying to, especially during those six months when there was basically no Covid in the country they were trying to get domestic tourists to travel. They were giving people, I don’t know, like big discounts on flights and you get like 1,000 baht back and that kind of thing.

A Ko Chang hideaway. Photo: David Luekens.

So that did help some businesses, but I think what the government didn’t really take into account and really appreciate was just how Thailand really has two separate tourism industries.

There’s the whole industry and some whole provinces are really geared towards Thai travellers and others domestic travellers and there’s a whole foreign tourism, a place like Phuket is very heavily tilted towards foreign tourism, so the places that are more geared towards foreign tourism were kind of left out, and I mean there’s a lot of overlap of course, between the domestic and foreign tourism.

My partner Chin runs a food tour company here in Bangkok that’s basically all foreign tourists, and she didn’t get any customers from this domestic tourism stimulus.

Stuart

When you were talking about traveling through Isaan, you said that region doesn’t see a tremendous lot of foreign tourists, I remember talking to Joe Cummings a while ago from ex Lonely Planet and he was saying it didn’t matter how much he pushed it, foreigners, most foreign tourists, just didn’t go there. So when you were traveling around there were you seeing a lot of businesses closed and that kind of thing? Or would you say it was business as usual, but a little bit off?

David

Yeah, business as usual, but a little bit off. I mean, we say that we went to Phimai for one night, where there’s some ancient Khmer ruins, there’s a place there called Moon River Resort, which is a nice little bungalow place like 600 baht 800 baht bungalows, right overlooking the Moon River, and that’s a place, and there are other some other guesthouses in Phimai, that you know, it’s probably about half of their business, at least came from foreign travellers who are passing through to see the ruins.

Also in Nong Khai there’s some guest houses that were mainly geared towards foreign travellers, they’re peppered around Isaan. There are guesthouses and other businesses that did cater more to the few foreign tourists who went through there who were travelling through on their way to Laos, or just checking out the region, and so I don’t mean that it’s completely normal there and that it was completely unaffected. Also a lot of people in Isaan go to work in places like Phuket and more touristy places so, there’s been a real kind of natural restructuring of the economy where people are doing whatever they can.

So many islands, so little time. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Here in Bangkok we know a lot of tour guides, people who have become fortune tellers, or are selling food in front of their their houses or doing street food. One guy opened a coffee shop. Some of these people will come back to th