Couchfish

While all of our island hopping so far has been short hops from island to island, our last is a long jaunt north, to Ko Ngai. It is a last minute addition as I’m not keen on hitting Ko Lipe, and it will give us a convenient out back to Trang for the train to Bangkok.

Lyla and Will’s take on exploring Thailand’s Southwest islands.

In the past for a long hop like this, you’d return to the mainland and get a bus from Satun north to Trang and head back out. More recently speedboats connect islands as far south as Langkawi all the way to Phuket. It is a more expensive manner of travelling, but it beats the bus. Or so I think.

Missed the earlier entries?

A good trip with kids. Part 9

A good trip with kids. Part 8

A good trip with kids. Part 7

A good trip with kids. Part 6

A good trip with kids. Part 5

A good trip with kids. Part 4

A good trip with kids. Part 3

A good trip with kids. Part 2

A longtail takes us from Bulon Lae’s School Beach to a back bay where we lay in wait for the speedboat north. It arrives perhaps fifteen minutes later, we pile aboard, and it is jammed full. I’m no fan of speedboats—the drivers tend to veer too far towards maniacs for my liking—but the kids are not bothered. The engines power up and we’re off. Yes, we have a maniac.

Like his father, Will can sleep anywhere. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Boom boom boom boooooom, the boat goes as we bang our way through moderate seas heading north. Spray washes in as we’re flung left and right. In theory it is a two hour trip north, but it feels longer. The kids watch Ko Lao Liang and Sukorn sail past, then doze off—I guess the banging of the hull dulls their senses.

We stop at Ko Kradan and Ko Muk dropping off and picking up passengers, then, finally pull to offshore from Ko Ngai. The triangular island’s primary beach is east–facing and we stop at Ko Ma, a stone outcrop about 150 metres offshore. There we float. And float.

There are worse places to be stranded I guess. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another speedboat arrives. A longtail comes out from the beach and ferries passengers in from that boat. We continue to float.

Passengers start asking what is going on and our captain stops being able to speak English. We keep floating. Thirty minutes after the second speedboat has left we’re still floating. Passengers, increasingly irritated, ask him what is going on. “No English” is all he says. We keep floating.

An hour.

We made it! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Still floating. A couple who are heading to Phuket are freaking out about missing a flight connection. Their pleas go unanswered. My kids are bored, but not fussed.

An hour and a half.

A longtail starts heading out towards us, and forty minutes later we’re on the sand. No explanation.

Like I said, I hate speedboats.

The house beach is reasonable. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Like nearby Ko Kradan, Ko Ngai is a tourist island. There is no real village to speak of—it is just pricey resorts and over–priced beach–bars. The beaches though—both the east–facing and the better southern one, are solid.

Our digs are peach coloured cinder–boxes, inexplicably built facing one another rather than looking to the sea. It was though the cheapest place I could find and there is room for a hammock. There’s a large lawn area, a massage sala sits by the sea, and a rope swing keep the kids entertained. It could be worse.

More hardship. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After lunch I set both the kids up for a one hour massage while I walk off to survey the accommodation. Lyla needs no convincing, but Will requires more. He relents finally when I say he can read a book while getting a rubdown. When I return an hour later he’s out cold and Lyla is angling for a manicure. Genetics are strong I tell you.

Massage sorted, we wade out to the house reef. In close it is all banged up, but the drop off is ok and the kids are well satisfied with the soft corals and parrotfish. We drift around for an hour or so as the sun sinks.

Grazing. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As dusk we walk down to a fall–down backpacker shack. The Light My Fire Society has a clutch of basic—and I mean basic—wood and bamboo beach shacks for 500 baht a night. That’s Ko Ngai pricing for you. The host though is a friendly, older local guy who makes for good company while the kids muck around on a bamboo platform he’s anchored just offshore.

It is about a kilometre back to our digs, and after dinner and drinks we walk along the beach in the dark. Fairy lights strung on trees lead the way. It is a pleasant enough spot, but the prices are killing me. Despite its proximity to the mainland, Ko Ngai has always been an overpriced island, and I’m regretting leaving Ko Bulon Lae. The kids are happy though—a small kiosk by the restaurant sells ice cream.

A shack with a view. At the Light My Fire Society. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next day, we take the jungle trail over the hill to the south–facing beach. This is the beach with the offshore reef we visited on a snorkelling trip from Ko Muk, but this time we have a lazy day in the sand and shallows. There are a couple of average resorts here, but when the day tripper boats are gone we have much of it to ourselves. It makes for a relaxed last day on Thailand’s Southwest Islands.

The next morning comes and it is time for the trip wrap up. We linger as long as we can, splurging on a chartered longtail back to the mainland. Because of the tide, the resort staff ferry us out to the boat by kayak—it feels like the perfect way to wrap up the trip.

Sad face. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Back on the mainland, we cool our heels in a cafe near Trang train station and before we know it are on a night train to Bangkok. We have about 48 hours in the Thai capital before our flight back to Bali. Three weeks on the islands with kids goes fast. I hope you enjoyed the trip as much as we did.

Side note: I’ve linked to a lot of other Couchfish writing in this post, but I’ve tried to link solely to the free–to–read pieces—enjoy! Want to read them all? Get 50% off a Couchfish membership here.

One year down—who knows how many to go. On March 30, Couchfish turned one year old. Before anything else, thank you for your support through the journey so far. I hope you’ve found the trip interesting, amusing, and at times, unusual. Most importantly, I hope I’ve succeeded, to some degree, at the founding goal of this entire project—keeping the region in your mind.

We made it! Mekaki Beach, Lombok. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While I lived in Japan and South Korea as a kid, I didn’t spend any real time in Southeast Asia until I was in my early twenties. In 1992 I left Australia with a Continental/Thai Airways round the world ticket. My companion and I departed Sydney on the morning of February 29. Thanks to the time line, we arrived on Oahu before we left Sydney and got to enjoy February 29 all over again—I like to joke we aged four years in twelve hours—no I don’t miss you Continental.

Couchfish is one year old!

Today is the one–year anniversary of Couchfish. To celebrate, I’m offering a 50% off deal until April 14 on annual subscriptions. So this means it costs US$35 instead of $70—for the year. Already a subscriber? First, thank you, second, feel free to send the link to your friends—all are welcome!

When I purchased the ticket, I had to nominate the stops all the way through. I picked Hawaii, San Francisco, then London, Delhi and Kathmandu. India was always the focus of my trip and when I had to pick a Southeast Asia stop, I didn’t really care. I knew nothing of the region and picked Bangkok because a RTW ticket with Thai was cheaper than with Garuda. I’ve often wondered how my life would have shaken out if my last stop had been Bali rather than Bangkok. Simple decisions can make for life–changing moments.

Nepal is better. Photo: Jen.

The India bit of the trip was three months of my life I could have done without. When the bus from Varanasi to Pokhara crossed the border, I got down on my hands and knees and kissed the ground.

Arriving in Bangkok a month later, the place intoxicated me. The heat, the pollution, the bright lights—and the fact that every man and his dog seemed to own a motorbike. That first month–long trip—portions of which I’ve touched on in Couchfish—was something else. It is easy to see why people come back to Thailand over and over and over again.

I did the same. As soon as I was back in Australia all I could think about was how do I get back there? I packed shelves at the supermarket, worked as a kitchen hand, did accounts work. Anything to be able to afford the ticket to get back. For the next three years I was in Southeast Asia more than I was in Australia. Sometimes travelling around, other times hanging out. I returned yet again in 1997, and have been travelling around in circles ever since.

A place to put your feet up. Loy La Long, Bangkok. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Over the next two dozen years, so much has changed. Borders opened. Living standards improved. A tsunami devastated. Some civil wars faded, others less so. There were coups and mayhem. The internet became a “real thing” and I stopped using Poste Restante. The volume of travellers exploded. “New” destinations became hits while others faded.

I changed as well. I matured (a little), and gained a slightly better understanding of the countries I was kicking around in. I worked for a while at a diplomatic mission in Bangkok, later at a Thai newspaper group. I freelanced a little bit. I got married and had two beautiful kids—who you’ve probably come to know a little through Couchfish! I remained alive, despite the occasional life–threatening incident. Sam and I started Travelfish.

I made friends and lost others—some travelling to their next life. I’ve always had better luck meeting people when travelling rather than wherever I lived. There’s been no shortage of memorable characters—sometimes for all the wrong reasons—along the way. Who ever said travel could be dull?

Islands come and go in popularity, Ko Tao, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When you’ve been travelling in circles for two decades, you’d think travel could get dull, but if anything it got more interesting—if sometimes a bit weird. That said, in the final throes of travel pre Covid, I’d look at my travel schedule with a degree of trepidation. The list of places I didn’t want to return to grew, but in almost all cases, my cynicism was misplaced.

Increasingly I’d be more likely to meet local travellers rather than foreigners—especially once I slipped off the mainstream trail. This ties back into what I wrote above about rising living standards. I could count on one hand the number of Thai guests I met in guesthouses in the early 1990s. This isn’t the case anymore—and that alone has been a fantastic change in the traveller scene. Post Covid this is only going to increase. Silver linings and all that.

Independent travel got smarter. People, to varying degrees, became more concerned with the impact of their travel. There is a growing awareness of how important sustainability is. What should we be doing today to make sure there is somewhere to travel to tomorrow? History seems to repeat itself over and over.

These are all though good, positive steps.

Everyone has a story. Kuala Lumpur. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Laying in a hammock on Ko Pha Ngan in the 1990s, these questions were all far from my mind. I spent almost a month on a beach there once and between Mark, Sam and myself the best we could manage was an 18–hole frisbee golf course. I did read Lord Of The Rings during that same stay—small victories and all that.

Travel can be different things to different people. For some, designing a low–tide frisbee golf course over cheap beers and endless plates of no–name is about as idyllic as it gets. For others, nothing could be more droll. When a friend recently told me she’d rather never travel than stand on a white sand beach, I almost fell over. Send me to the hills, to the jungle, where I can walk from village to village, now that is bliss, she said.

Years ago, when I was at the embassy in Bangkok, one of the other locally engaged staff had spent years in a Thai monastery. They were the most knowledgable foreigner on all things Thai in the entire joint. Not saying much, I know.

Life offers many paths. Wat Nong Pah Pong, Ubon Ratchathani. Photo: David Luekens.

In the early 1980s he’d been based in a mainland Thai wat (which can be amazing places) which overlooked a beautiful series of bays. At the time the nearby beaches were largely undeveloped tourism–wise. He told me how local fishermen and villagers would climb to the temple, asking advice from the monks. They had baht signs in their eyes. Speculators, who could see the potential, were buying up land left right and centre, often for peanuts. He’d tell them not to sell, not only because they were being offered a pittance, but also because he knew what would come.

They mostly sold, and what he foretold came.

By the time he was telling me this story, almost twenty years later, the area in question had developed into a prime resort strip. International resort groups sit on much of the beachfront. The local fishermen? They’re long gone. At the time, my take, was “well that is progress.” He demurred, this was land held for generations, the money would get them a new pickup and a house ... somewhere. And then what?

This is not ideal. South Lombok, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve thought about this over the years, seeing it play out over and over right across the region. How does one balance the needs? How can tourism be done better?

This is a subject I’ve been writing more and more about on the Friday Couchfish posts. Partly looking at how travel writing could be done better and partly at how tourism as a whole could be run better. While Covid has been an unadulterated nightmare, I do think it provides an opportunity to do things better. More attuned writing and more responsible travel strike me as good starting points. I am concerned that when destinations do re–open, there’s going to be a shift back to “business as usual.” To my mind that will be an opportunity squandered—not all have agreed with me. It is an enormous mountain the industry needs to decide it wants to climb.

When I started Couchfish, my goal was to keep Southeast Asia in reader’s minds. The more I wrote, particularly leaning on experiences from years ago, the more I remembered. Memory is a funny thing. Trawling through old photos, old diaries, my enormous box of still–to–be–scanned slides.

Old memories kept in a box. Northwest Vietnam, early 1990s. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’d see an old slide which would trigger a memory, that would daisy chain to another. I’d burrow through old notebooks and diaries, more daisy chaining, more memories. Long forgotten people and places. It has been at times awfully enjoyable, other times just plain awful.

If there’s one thing I’ve taken away from this whole project, it is that Southeast Asia is special. It can put its hooks into you for an innumerable number of reasons, and it isn’t one to let go—who would want it to?

I hope, dear reader, you’ve enjoyed this journey over the last twelve months. I hope I’ve had you reminiscing about your past travels and experiences, and I hope I’ve encouraged you to plan new ones.

Wandering outside Luang Nam Tha, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When we’re free of this plague, Southeast Asia, its wonderful people, incredible beauty—and yes its many flaws—will still be here waiting.

Last but not least, a huge thanks to all the writers who have written for Travelfish over the years, and whose photos, and

As I mentioned last week, Ko Bulon Lae in far southwest Thailand has long been a popular budget spot. This is particularly the case with travelling families, and this visit is no exception to the rule.

Couchfish turns one on March 31 (yes, tomorrow!)

Tomorrow is the one–year anniversary of Couchfish. To celebrate, I’m offering a 50% off deal until April 14 on annual subscriptions. So this means it costs US$35 instead of $70—for the year. Already a subscriber? First, thank you, second, feel free to send the link to your friends!

There’s an Italian family, with two daughters around the same age as Lyla and Will. We had run into them briefly earlier in the trip, on Ko Sukorn, but didn’t chat. On Ko Bulon Lae though, we have plenty of time to chat—why are Italians such terrific people?

Yes we’re there yet. School Beach, Ko Bulon Lae. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

They’re repeat visitors to Thailand—and to Ko Bulon Lae. With that gregarious Italian manner, they wave me over to join them, and in no time half the guests are sitting around. It is that kind of relaxed, easy going scene, where days slide into weeks, seemingly in the blink of an eye.

I’m sitting next to another traveller, and we swap the standard pleasantries. They’re a diver and spend a few months a year on the island. I ask do they work as a dive instructor, they reply no, instead saying “they’re a professional”. As they doesn’t seem to want to pursue the topic, I assume they mean on an oil rig or something like that.

An island jewellers. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later, after they’ve left, the Italian says the diver is a “water thief”. His English is good, but it takes a while to get to the bottom (geddit!) of what he means. The diver is a wreck diver—they search for lost wrecks, claim salvage and sell what they find. I wonder if there is much money in the trade, the Italian laughs “more than running an apartment in Milan!” I’m intrigued.

The kids and I wander down to the main beach. It is five minutes on foot—a blisteringly white beach with super fine, squeaky sand. Named School Beach thanks to the nearby school, it is the best beach on the island. It curls around the south west coast of the island and backs onto a grassy field dotted with shade trees. There are a few chairs and a hammock or two. There is little to do but loll about. Perfect.

Easy to see why it is popular with families. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The kids and I set up in the shade then muck about in the shallows for a spell. The water is near perfectly translucent, but not too deep. Ideal for throwing a ball or just floating about. There is the occasional sting ray and we spend ages looking for one—but have no luck.

When the wind starts to pick up and the sun bears down, we walk down the sand to Hug Bulon, a small blow–away cafe on the beach. It is a typical beach shack—the sound of the breeze taps down the murmuring voices and we take lunch by the sea. To the south we can see Ko Tarutao, and from memory, Langkawi’s main mountain beyond it.

Peak hour at Hug Bulon. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later we return to the beach. Then to the hammocks. Then back to the beach. Then back to the hammocks. Will, with too many of his father’s genes in him, is busy writing in his diary, then draws up a map of “Ko Massage”. The map lists various massages he’ll give me in return for screen time. Nice try buddy.

Dinner comes and goes and then the kids crash. Back at the cafe I get talking to the diver. The cold drinks have loosened their lips a little and we chat about their trade. You need to get in fast, before anyone else, they say. Once the authorities get involved, matters become complicated. I know nothing about the salvage trade, but even I know some of the wrecks they mention. The Italian was right—far more lucrative than running an apartment in Milan.

Trying to cut a deal. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The diver harks back a decade or so ago. Back then undiscovered wrecks were easier to find and exploit as they lay in shallower water. The authorities and regulations were not as “complicating” as now. They rattle off numbers behind good finds, and the auction houses that cleared the goods. Even subtracting a zero for bravado and beer, the numbers remain staggering. In one case they paid US$10,000 for the rights to a wreck in Indonesia—and made US$700,000 on the proceeds of what they found.

I ask how they find the wrecks. They laugh, “I dive”, but then go on to explain a network of contacts at fishing ports and so on. Often it starts with a trawler finding broken ceramics in their net—then it is all about who can get there first.

Beach food. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We shift off underwater looting and to Thailand over the years, as we’ve both been travelling the country for decades. Like me they’re a bit mystified by the differing development arcs between Ko Lipe and Ko Bulon Lae. They put some of it down to Bulon Lae having a well established village on the island. When I mention Lipe also had a village, they scoff, noting the Urak Lawoi were roaming in a way the Bulonese never did.

They also mention another reason I’d not heard before. They suggest Lipe is a far more lucrative trip for the speedboat companies than Bulon Lae. These companies are often affiliated with, owned by, or own, hotels. Simply, Lipe is a bigger money spinner.

“Lipe has better beaches granted, but you don’t know these guys—I do. If they decided the best bet for money was Hin Ngam [a lucky stone beach island in the same area], it would have exploded instead.”

I don’t share their cynicism, but I guess they’re the one who has been working with local boat crews for decades.

Will on a mission. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We part ways and I wander back down to Hug Bulon. I cross the school lawn field under a sky of a million stars. The bar’s coloured Hoi An–style lanterns dingle dangle in the breeze, but there’s only a couple of tables taken. The wind rushes in off the sea, its fresh touch tickles my skin, while my toes squirm in the dirt and sand.

I sit and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. The sea laps at the beach rather than crashes. Out beyond the black, trawler lights twinkle on the horizon ... looking for prawns not porcelain I hope.

It takes two seconds to tell someone about Ko Bulon Lae

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Alright so we’re trying something different this Friday on Couchfish. I’ve got in touch with with Nicky Sullivan, who wrote for quite a few years for Travelfish. She’s now in northern France at the moment and she’s going to be talking about a heart warming moment.

One way to make a difference. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

I don’t know about you, but just about everybody I know who does a lot of travel is sort of going out of their mind with Covid, vaccines and quarantine and all of this other stuff. Everyone’s missing travel and wants to travel, and I thought, well, let’s talk to some people who have some really heartwarming moments to talk about.

So I’m gonna put it over to Nicky and let’s hear what was a heartwarming moment for her.

Nicky:

So when you contacted me about that, I didn’t have to spend long thinking about it because one of the most important days that I’ve ever spent in my entire life was when Typhoon Ketsana came across Asia in 2011 [note: the typhoon was actually in 2009] and really terrorised the Philippines, then crossed over and hit Vietnam. In Cambodia we got the tail end of it.

Helping out with a smile. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

So I woke one morning to find the house had become an island, and the whole of Siem Reap was completely flooded, and the water stayed with us for about a week or two weeks, and the whole country had been battered. Tens of thousands of people, hundreds of thousands of people, were displaced. There were images of houses underwater up to their roofs. I mean it was a disaster, an absolute disaster.

There’s a woman in Siem Reap, Tania Palmer, an Australian woman, who arrived, gosh I’m not even completely sure of when she arrived, but she had come on a holiday, had seen what she saw in Siem Reap, and there were a lot of street kids at the time. She went back to Australia, then came back and set up the Green Gecko Project. She took in just under 100 children in the end, who maintained their connections with their families, but they spent their weeks with Tania at the project and Tania’s husband Rem, with a really solid program of education and health care. It’s a wonderful project.

Before and after Green Gecko. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

Tania and Rem had gone to Phnom Penh in the midst of all of the flooding across the country, and coming back had crossed through Kompong Thom and there were families at the side of the road everywhere.

They told the kids about it when they got back, and the kids were really shocked and concerned, and they really wanted to do something. I remember Rem telling me that he’d been giving a civics class, I think it was, and the kids were “we can donate our our rice rations for them, we can do this, that and the other”, and he was very, very touched.

Rem, co-founder of Green Gecko Project. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

So he and Tania got together with a couple of the hotel and DMC managers in town and they asked the kids to make a proposal to them, and to see if they would help them raise funds to support the relief distribution for companies in Siem Reap.

The kids made their presentation to the managers who received it, went back through their own networks and started fund raising, and then it went back to the kids who took responsibility for sourcing the rice, the fish sauce, the bottles of water. They did it all.

Tag it and bag it. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

I was lucky enough to spend a day with them, on one of the days that they distributed it to families in Siem Reap and to the south of Siem Reap. It was astonishing really, really, really astonishing to see these kids working so hard and these are kids who in principle have nothing, they come from the poorest families in town. But they worked so, so hard and they put their hearts and souls into it, and we distributed a lot, a lot of food that day and helped a lot of families.

It was astonishing to see how somebody, who you might think has nothing, who you might think comes from a position of disadvantage, can do so much when they put their minds to it, it was beautiful.

Khmer families wait at a food distribution point. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

Stuart:

So what sort of age would you say most of the kids were who were working on the project?

Nicky:

At that time they were in their mid teens, so they they’ve been with Green Gecko for about I think, about ten years a lot of them, but their ages varied, but on average around about mid teens.

Stuart:

Were they from the area around Siem Reap?

Nicky:

Yes, they were, I think they were mostly families that had been living along the riverside in Siem Reap, and a lot of those were cleared out. I’m not 100% sure how Tania connected with these particular families and these particular kids, but she set up a project that supported the families as well, so the kids would stay at Green Gecko to go to school.

An inundated house. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

To help the families make up the shortfall (because the kids were out working the streets) she distributed rice for the families, and gave them the support that they needed to make up for the loss of the child working on the street. So it was a very holistic program.

Stuart:

On the the day when everything was being distributed, how did that play out?

Nicky:

We all gathered at Green Gecko in the morning. There was rice and great big sacks everywhere, there were bottles of fish sauce and soy sauce and tins of tinned fish everywhere, so everything had to be arranged into sacks so they could be given individually to the families.

An entire family were living here. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

So we spent the morning doing all of that together, all of the kids. The guys from the hotels were there, there was Magnus Olafson from the Heritage Suites Hotel, Christian de Boer, who was at the Hotel de la Paix at the time, there was Dave King who was the manager of one of the DMC’s in town, and Tommy Bekaert from what is now Rambutan. Everybody got down and started sharing out all the rice, portioning it out, they brought all the water, and then we set to it.

Then it started raining again. We had three distribution points, and it was very well run with the authorities as well. At the pagoda that we went to, they had all of the families assembled and waiting for the food to be given out. Everybody waiting patiently in the sunshine, it was really special.

Working together to help those most in need. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

At the next distribution, that was when the rain started again, and these families were in big trouble, but it was a wonderful moment to see how coming together like that, no matter where you’re coming from, can have huge effects.

Stuart:

So you were living in Cambodia for quite a few years and when I asked you about this, about a heartwarming moment, I mean, anybody who’s lived in Cambodia has had many moments like that, but when you answered me, you said that you didn’t even need to think about it, like this was straight off the tip of your tongue kind. Why?

Nicky:

For me it was just a very powerful day of people working together, staying cheerful, even when it was grim and raining, and they got uncomfortable later in the day. Just seeing people working together, from everywhere, from positions of privilege, from positions of disadvantage, and everybody just coming around a single goal, which was to help the families.

Rise up and get things done. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

When we got down to the port, it was awful how their houses were completely surrounded by water. A lot of them were completely inundated. There was one family, their home was basically an old bed stand, and not much bigger than that, not much bigger than a double bed, under a plastic sheet, and that was how they were having to cope with surviving as a family, children, parents. The parents were very sick.

Stuart:

Was this down at Chong Khneas?

Nicky:

That’s it, yeah. The kids they worked so hard that day. It was so inspiring for me, as somebody who’s been fortunate enough to have grown up and been educated in the West, and sometimes you have moments thinking, oh gosh, I can’t do this, I can’t do that and moments of difficulty, and you think, you know what? If these kids can pull that off, then there’s not much to be afraid of.

For more information on the Green Gecko Project and the work they are doing, please see their website here.

The end is in sight my island–hopping friends! As I wrote last week, our next stop after Ko Lao Liang was Ko Sukorn, but as I’ve written about Sukorn here, I’m jumping south. To Ko Bulon Lae.

This video highlights the best beach on Ko Bulon Lae.

Ko Bulon Lae is a funny shaped island in the next province south, Satun. The province is far better known for the uber popular Ko Lipe and the large national park island Ko Tarutao. Bulon Lae sits just to the north of the route to these better–known islands is very much out of sight and out of mind.

The island lies close to the coast and is a rugged bump of a spot. Many of its bays lack good beaches, but a single curving peninsula of white sand to the west is perfect.

Missed the earlier entries?

A good trip with kids. Part 7

A good trip with kids. Part 6

A good trip with kids. Part 5

A good trip with kids. Part 4

A good trip with kids. Part 3

A good trip with kids. Part 2

For decades it has been a favourite with travellers looking for an affordable and local vibe. Ko Bulon Lae is, in many ways, the perfect antidote of over–touristed and over–developed Ko Lipe. This is why we head there from Ko Sukorn.

See you next time Ko Sukorn. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The boat trip is a few hours. The guesthouse owner suggests we leave early, as the trip involves what he calls “open seas”. We find two European backpackers to share the costs with, and we’re off. What I think the owner meant was “deep seas” and leaving Sukorn behind the waters transform into a deep dark blue.

The Europeans are staying on the other side of the island from us and the boatman asks if he can drop us all there. No problem I say, the island is small enough and I’m keen to take a wander—it has been over twenty years since I was last here.

In Bob we trust. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We run aground perhaps 50 metres out from Panka Yai Bay on the island’s north coast. The beach is rubble and mud, and we jump out into knee–deep water and wade in in single file. The kids watch for skipping mudflippers and other creepie crawlies. Sam returned to Bali from Sukorn, so it is back to just the three of us. I’m sure the kids are muttering “Mummy wouldn’t make us do this.”

Yes, back to island labour camp hopping with Dad.

Reaching the shore, I’m amazed how little things have changed. There are a few more bungalows about, but the smiles are the same. Like Ko Sukorn and Ko Muk, Ko Bulon Lae is a living island. There is a small village and a school here, and more than a few of the locals were born on the island.

Scenery wasted. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve encountered the vibe over and over—when you meet people who are from the island you’re on. They were born on it and there’s this amalgam of pride and welcoming that is hard to put my finger on. You were born on the island or you weren’t—it doesn’t matter how long you live there. This isn’t something you can earn—it is a birthright.

A local woman, a little younger than me, rubs my son’s head and grins at my daughter as she asks if we need a room. It is January 2 and, worried that everywhere would be full, I had booked ahead. It turns out half the places on the island are empty—well, except for those bookable online—they’re all full. I tell her where we’re heading, and she waves over her shoulder, directing me in the direction of the path over the hill.

Ko Bulon Lae has everything! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Ko Bulon Lae has always been a bit of a hippy chic island. Friendly locals, not much to do save perhaps a bit of diving or a boat trip. Small, blow–away–in–a–strong–breeze cafes by the sea. Plenty of pot. Plenty of hammocks. It is curious how Ko Lipe exploded in popularity while Ko Bulon Lae never got onto the radar. The rooms are smarter than they used to be, but it feels like an island where Thai tourism has stood still. It feels great to be back.

We walk over the hill. The road is concrete sealed now. We pass by a rasta–styled bar, a lone, thin–as–a–rake Thai guy is sweeping it out, readying for business.

“Hey girl,” he yells in a friendly manner to my daughter, “tell your Dad to come visit me later.” Lyla smiles and waves back, but then looks to me...

“Are we there yet?”

Detention. Island–style. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At the top of the hill there’s a telecommunications tower and a small solar array. The kids cheer up as we start down the hill then dogleg our way into our digs for the stay—Bulonhill Resort.

It is a five minute walk back off the beach, a cluster of Thai–style bungalows across a garden. German co–owner Katja pops over to say hello, the place is family–run, Chen is Thai, and they’ve been here for years. While we go through the pleasantries a decent–sized monitor lizard crawls past. Katja points it out to the kids, expecting squeals in wonder, but Will says he saw far larger ones at Komodo. Kids these days.

Today in terrible. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The room is simple. Cold water shower, a double bed for the kids to share and a mattress on the floor for me. It is cramped, but the place is friendly and there are a few other kids here. There’s a strong traveller vibe to the place and I like it. The veranda fits two hammocks and once slung I leave the kids swinging. I wander back to the restaurant to chat to some of the other guests.

In no time at all I’m chatting to a guy who made his fortune “excavating” wrecks all over Southeast Asia. In my experience, the more you drop off the map, the more interesting the people you meet. More on this next week.

Last week a few guidebook writers tweeted, lamenting their already researched books, were not going to press. Why? Covid.

Last weekend it was Nyepi (the day of silence) in Bali. We headed up to Amed in the northeast for a stretch. Pre–Covid there were hundreds of hotels and guesthouses open for business there. On a casual ride along Amed’s many bays, I’d guess about 75% of the hotels were closed and the same—if not more—for restaurants. It was hard to tell to be honest. Was the place closed until guests arrived? Or closed until Covid recedes? For sale? Some. Abandoned? Others.

A remote beach in East Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’re not familiar with Amed, it is a string of a little shy of a dozen bays in northeast Bali. The beaches are a mix of pebbles and grey to black sand. They’re all working beaches—fishermen first, tourists second. They’re far from Bali’s best. The vibe though, is lovely. At dawn on a clear day you can watch the sun rise over Lombok’s Rinjani. In the afternoon it sets behind Agung—Bali’s holiest and tallest volcano. There’s a single road that strings the bays together.

Every morning, around 4am, fishermen push their jukungs to sea. They’re back between 8 and 9 am, their fluttering sails reminiscent of felucca on the Nile. The sails are triangular, bright white, blue, red and orange. Back when tourists still visited, some were emblazoned with beer brands. Not so much anymore.

All hands on deck. Bunutan Beach, Amed, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

They fish for mackerel and tuna, but catch more of the former than the latter. On our last morning, I walked down to chat to a few of the guys unloading. The catch was paltry, 20 to 30 palm sized mackerel apiece. One used to work at a restaurant, another at a hotel. Jobs gone, they’d gone back to what they grew up doing—fishing.

Around the same time I saw the tweets about guidebooks, I saw a thread by David Whitley, a UK travel writer. He suggested, as travel opens up, there’ll be a race to get writers to destinations for updates after the Covid–forced hiatus. Walking back from the fishermen, I thought about this.

Slim pickings. Bunutan Beach, Amed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Perhaps Indonesia is a particularly bad example. They’ll be few people willing to stand up to say the administration has done a stellar job. Last week a health minister suggested April 2022 as a tentative re–opening date. Another minister suggested June 2021. Despite the various pronouncements, nobody really knows, and this uncertainty isn’t helping tourism–fronting businesses.

We’re over a year into this plague. A year in which three quarters of businesses in Amed are no longer in business. Who knows when—or if—they’ll return.

Thankfully, not all hotels are closed in Amed. The Kampung. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Over the last week I’ve been working on a travel consultation for a client hitting a few countries in the region. Towards the end of the piece they asked about a hotel to acclimatise in upon their arrival. My first pick, at least according to their website, was still open. Three others, appeared to have ceased to exist. I’m not talking about backpacker boltholes—these were premium properties. And not in Amed—rather a major Southeast Asian capital which has weathered Covid well.

At what time will enough have re–opened (or, more likely perhaps) re–branded, to warrant a research trip?

Sunrise over Rinjani and Lombok. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Candi Dasa is a clapped out tourist town most famous for destroying its beaches by mining the reefs for concrete. Nevertheless its popularity, particularly with the older European set, is resilient. To be honest for reasons I’ll never understand. Whenever I ride to Amed, I break the trip at Candi Dasa.

I’ve got into the habit of always stopping at a tourist cafe on the main drag. I’d say for a coffee, but their Bali coffee is so vile I just grab a soda or three. Most recently when I pulled up, the manager recognised me—from perhaps six months earlier. That is how slow business is. When I asked about staff, she said they’d gone from more than ten people to just her and a friend.

Early morning in Candi Dasa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Her place will roll on. I assume the owner owns the land, so keeping it open—even if for only a few patrons a day—keeps the lights on. I asked about the hotel scene, she said most were closed. I asked after her ten staff, she said they had all gone back to their villages—not to other jobs in Candi Dasa. I asked if they were from Candi Dasa, she said no, they were from all over. People work here to meet tourists and practise their English, she said. Not much of that going on.

Most of the other restaurants I rode past looked closed. Those that were open? I didn’t see a single guest eating in one.

I prefer Candi Dasa from the sea. Photo: Samantha Brown.

Nobody knows when many of these closed places will come back on stream—if ever. While it easy to fixate on hotels, of course tourism is far broader than that. My number one recommended Bali driver is now working as a house painter.

So I wonder, when will mainstream travel guide writing come back on stream? How long is too long? How long should a publisher wait before sending a writer there to cover it? When half of the businesses have reopened? Two thirds?

From my perspective there is no way I am commissioning research until I know it is safe for the writer. Secondly, I’d need to be sure it is safe for the destination to receive foreigners. By these two criteria that puts us towards when? I don’t know? Mid 2022 perhaps?

Back when there were tourists. Sunset over Agung and Jemeluk Bay, Amed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I get the wanting to be first, but there is little point being first if, as was the case in Amed, most places are locked up. It isn’t just the off the beaten track spots like Amed. As with my consult above, in a capital city many places, which would have been my number one choice, have vanished. Will they re-open? When? Ever?

As I’ve written before, the silver lining to Covid is a chance to reappraise travel. How do we do it smarter? How do we do it in a more sensitive manner? How do we support rather than stuff up local destinations and communities?

Fishing first, tourists second. Lean Beach, Amed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I see Covid as providing a tilting point with travel publishing. Even pre–Covid other platforms were more adept at telling you what the room rate was eight seconds ago. Or which bar has a two for one deal next Thursday. Or that a ferry company had added an extra service on Saturdays.

It could be another year before real on the ground research restarts, but that isn’t to say we should rest on our laurels. I think now is the time for publishers to step back a bit and reflect on a bigger and more important horizon. How do we travel smarter? Not only to benefit us, but also the destination, and the people who live there. What should we be writing about?

What do you think?

Don’t fret, the end is within sight on this multi–part Thai island sojourn—just a few to go! Today we leave Ko Libong for the longtail trip south to Ko Sukorn. As I’ve written about Sukorn previously, today I’m going to write about where we broke the journey at—Ko Lao Liang.

Please do watch to the end to see cheeky Will get his just desserts.

A part of Mu Ko Petra National Park, this stopover is directly west of Ko Sukorn, and is two islands rather than one. To the south lies Ko Lao Liang Nong (Little Brother Island) and to the north, Ko Lao Liang Phi (Big Brother Island). Both are karst islands, with cliffs plunging into the sea to the west and fringed by white sand beaches on the east. Separated by a channel that takes 20 minutes to kayak across, both beaches face onto coral gardens.

As with Ko Petra further to the south, the islands are swiftlet nest concessions. The bird nests are a key ingredient for a Chinese delicacy and thanks to the value of the trade, it keeps development at bay. Aside from a rustic national park building, the few shacks on each island are for the harvesters. Neither island is permanently inhabited.

Bye bye Ko Libong. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It wasn’t always this way though. For a spell a few years ago, a “glamping” resort ran here from October to April. Built around the ethos of leaving only footprints, the accommodation was all tents. Guests would camp, backs to the cliffs, in the foreground white sand. They’d wake daily, look across the sand and over the waters to the sun rising over the Thai mainland. At around 6,000 baht for three nights all inclusive, the experience was not cheap, but it proved to be very popular.

It wasn’t only camping—there was rock–climbing on bolted routes, with rope ladders leading up from the water. There was yoga, kayaking and swinging in the hammock. With twenty tents and daily boat services to the mainland, it was a lot for islands this small to absorb.

Hello beautiful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

And that was just those who were camping. Off the back of the camping, the islands surfaced on bucket lists. Flogged by travel agents in Trang, day trips were popular. Yachts visited from Phuket, along with longtails (like ours) from Ko Libong, Ko Muk and Ko Kradan. For those with more money than time, speedboats worked.

One longtail became two, became three, became five. The island hopper service stopped offshore for those heading to Ko Sukorn. Larger tour boats came from the mainland. More anchors. More anchor drag. Boats would run up onto the beach—easier for lugging supplies and helpful for tourists who didn’t want to get their feet wet.

The reef looks better from above the surface. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Thankfully it never reached the proportions of Ko Phi Phi Leh’s Maya Bay. According to a resort owner I talked to on Ko Sukorn though, leaving only footprints got hard.

“There were two toilets—one for men, one for women—for the campers, but everyone used. In December and January, so many people, so many boats—Oh My Buddha!”

Eventually, someone had enough and the camping was decamped. Day–trippers were still allowed, but without the anchor of the camping, visitors dropped off.

Back when camping was a thing. Photo: David Luekens.

While the beach and jungle were easy enough to clean up, for the reef, the damage was done. The same Sukorn hotelier unequivocally blamed boats for the damage—particularly speedboats from Ko Lanta and Phuket. Their propellers fall deeper than that of a longtail and the damage is irreparable. They said by the time the reef was protected by a ring of buoys, it was too late—and many boats would just motor over it anyway. In the common tradition of blaming anyone but locals, they said:

“These people, they are not from here. They are from Krabi, Phuket. They don’t care. The reef is dead now so they go to Ko Rok instead.”

We arrive on our longtail from Ko Libong in mid morning. As we approach from the north, we can’t see the beach till the last moment, and the reveal is breathtaking. Charcoal and white cliffs with tufts of greenery plunge into the sea. The waters, calm as a mirror, really are turquoise.

Even when there was a mooring line, many ignored it. Photo: David Luekens.

The longtail ties up to a buoy and waves us in to snorkel to the beach. He’s chuffed as we’re here early enough to dodge the national park fee. We dive into the warm waters and swim the thirty metres or so to the beach. There is not another soul here.

The reef is in banged up shape. There are plenty of small, bright coloured fish, but there is smashed coral everywhere. Compared to the soft corals, anemones and fans we saw in the waters of Ko Rok, this is bleak. At least, it is now roped off. Better late than never and all that.

Today in bloody awful. Photo: David Luekens.

Up on the sand, we walk along the beach. It is as picture perfect as it looks. Squeaky sand, a few birds, a bit of a breeze, and that is about it. We reach the end and go to turn back. As we turn I see a catamaran pulling in to the southern island. I feel like we’re intruding onto their island paradise—or them onto ours.

Another swim back out to our longtail. We float on our backs, peering at the cliffs above us. It is pretty special. In another hour we’ll be on Ko Sukorn.

As I mentioned last week, most of the resorts on Ko Libong are clustered around one beach on the island. Each has its own restaurant, but a walk along the beach took me to a ramshackle beach cafe/bar—Rimlay Restaurant.

A good wrap on the threats to dugong in Thailand.

Rimlay is owned by Mr Bangriam and his wife, both born and raised on the island. A fall down affair, the menu is simple—seafood, seafood and more seafood—and cheap. Bangriam doesn’t speak much English, but he has a boat and it is to his place we return today to visit the dugongs.

Missed the earlier entries?

A good trip with kids. Part 5

A good trip with kids. Part 4

A good trip with kids. Part 3

A good trip with kids. Part 2

A good trip with kids. Part 1

Often referred to as sea cows or sea pigs, dugong look pretty much exactly how you’d imagine a sea cow would. Thailand is home to 250 to 300 dugong, of which around 70% inhabit the waters around Ko Libong. They can also be seen off of Ko Si Boya near Krabi.

The outlook from Rimlay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A mammal which feeds on seagrass, in the past dugong were hunted for meat. Today though, the primary threats come from elsewhere. They get trapped in fishing nets or ingest plastic. Meanwhile marine pollution damages their primary source of food. The death in 2020 of an infant dugong named Mariam, went viral, helping to raise awareness of their plight in Thailand.

In viewing them from a drifting longtail or kayak, tourists put money in the hands of local community members. They also signal the value of the mammals. They’re best seen just to the south of Baan Bute, one of the main villages on Ko Libong. In the shadow of Point Dugongs, sea grass fields flourish, fanning out across the shallows, and it is to here Bangriam takes us.

The outlook is hard to miss. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is about a thirty minute trip in his longtail. Along the way we pass an isolated white sand beach, totally undeveloped—one of many on the island. As we approach the shallows, he cuts the engine and we drift.

It is earlyish morning and we’re the only ones here. We wait, sitting on the prow, looking for our first dugong sighting. It is a bit like fishing with your eyes—dugongs are not show–offs like dolphins—there are no cavorting leaps. Rather they’re whale–like, surfacing for a breath then vanishing. A dugong can hold its breath for six minutes and often surfaces for seconds—keen eyes are an asset.

“Yes Dad, I am bored.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For two hours we float, seeing nothing. Other tourists, who have climbed the spectacular Point Dugongs wave to us from the summit. I find myself wondering if we should have climbed that instead as dugong might be easier to spot from there. Then we’d have to climb it though—the thought passes.

Another boat arrives, the two of us drifting. Whenever one of us drifts too close to shore, we motor back out and start drifting again. The kids are bored. Sam is bored. I am bored. It is hot and there’s only so long you can gaze at the landscape.

Dugong! Yes, they are no dolphins. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then we see one! Everyone wakes and cranes our heads to where Bangriam is pointing. Just the slightest of glimpses. In the next hour we see four—or was it the same one four times? Sometimes they’re quite close, perhaps twenty metres away, but as they can hold their breath for a while, there’s no guarantee where they’ll resurface.

Stomaches are rumbling by the time we call it a day and ask Bangriam to drop us at the village for a bite to eat. He drops us at the municipal pier, at its end a seven floor viewing tower stands. Will and I climb it for tremendous panoramic views—though we see no more dugongs.

The views from the tower are not too bad. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Baan Bute has a clutch of locally–run homestays and, on the periphery of town a campsite. For us though, the real appeal is the seafood. We settle in to a seaside restaurant and order a lunch of crabs, squid and prawns. The food doesn’t get fresher than this and the prices are more than reasonable.

Later we stop by at a small street–side dessert stall. There’s a gift and snack shop beside it and I spy what looks like containers of dugong paste. Holding one up I ask the vendor if it is dugong and she looks at me like I’m mad then breaks into laughter. The kids roll their eyes—they’re done with my Dad jokes.

A light lunch, Baan Bute–style. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The village has a pretty mosque by the water, and plenty of simple but well kept houses. Heading for the campsite for a looksee, we walk between the rubber trees that blanket much of Libong. I grab a tapping cup and explain to the kids how the trunk is carved letting the sap seep out, collecting in the cup. Their interest is low.

Then it is back to the village, for a ride back over the island to our resort. The rest of the day is given over to hammock swinging, reading and throwing a ball.

Dugong paste—don’t knock it till you try it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later, the daily lightshow gets ready to kick off again and we settle in on the sand to enjoy it and talk about dugongs.

I’ve written before on how when I was living in Phnom Penh I needed to return to Bangkok once a month for a work meeting. I’d overland it via a hodge podge of share taxis, passing through Battambang and Pailin. From Pailin I’d cross into Thailand near Chanthaburi. I did the trip every month for a year or so—until the paper in Bangkok finally let me go.

Through these trips I spent a lot of time in Pailin. It is a scruffy town, with little of interest to tourists save a few ancient ruins and a waterfall. It was though one of the last strongholds, along with Anlong Veng, of the Khmer Rouge.

Oh Pailin, Oh I do miss thee. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One time in Pailin I was the only passenger in the share taxi by the time we rolled into town. Coasting through, me in the passenger seat, the driver asked if I’d like to drop in and say hello to “Uncle Khieu”.

He called him “Uncle Khieu,” but he meant Khieu Samphan—one of the most powerful officials within the Khmer Rouge. We slowed up at the front of his house and the driver waved away my concerns. “Speaks English and French,” he said, and then laughing, ”and Khmei!” We pulled to a stop outside a simple house. Nothing to distinguish it from any other.

“No thanks,” I said. He shrugged and we rolled on to the taxi station for the next leg of the trip.

The surrounds are prettier than the town. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

Thinking about it now, what was there to gain for me, what could I learn? I wasn’t (and still are not) well educated enough on the details of the carnage to ask anything challenging. I think, “You are an absolute piece of crap who should already be in the Hague,” wouldn’t have got me a second glass of tea.

From the other side of the equation, he missed out on playing court to yet another foreigner. I doubt he missed our potential moment.

A few months earlier, I was in Anlong Veng. Like Pailin, it is a holdout to the Khmer Rouge version of the “good old times”. Sitting with an old lady on the deck of her house, she shelled and soaked tamarind, while she reminisced. It was all through a translator (in my case a motodop driver), so there wasn’t much nuance.

Rural scenes near Anlong Veng. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

She was happy to talk, I guess she was in her sixties, telling my motodop how Pol Pot saved Cambodia. “Without Pol Pot, Thailand and Vietnam would have swallowed her home up.” Among people of her background, it is a common refrain.

The deaths she waved away as lies and or blamed the American B52s and Vietnamese soldiers. There’s only so much arguing you want to do with an old woman on her own deck. I can’t imagine what she lived through.

Not far from her house, we rode up a hill, on an appalling road, to the ridge line of the Dangrek mountains. The Thai frontier is spitting distance away (well ok you might need to be able to spit a couple of hundred metres). On this ridge Ta Mok and Pol Pot had villas—not Bali style (the KR never did horizon pools)—rather free standing houses. The outlook, even without a pool, is amazing—on a good afternoon it feels like you can see to the edge of Cambodia—to where it slides off the earth.

Gazing towards the edge of Cambodia. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

They wedged themselves up here towards the end of their days. Logging the blazes out of the lowlands and looting Angkor period temples—trading the goods to complicit Thai generals. The generals gorged on lumber and artefacts, the latter regurgitated into their gardens, or sold to clearing houses in Bangkok.

Ta Mok’s villa is the first off the rank, but you need to go further to find Pol Pot’s. At the time it was overgrown, we walked though waist high grass in the late afternoon to find the remnants of his house. Was it spooky? Did the hair stand up on the back of my neck? Absolutely.

It’s hard to get your head around—the guy who once spent time here. I remember as a seventies/eighties kid seeing the news headlines—“Kampuchea”. Famines, awful photos of emaciated kids, piles of bodies. This was his house—he overlooked the mayhem for a spell from here.

Good riddance. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Not far away is his grave, a nondescript place is a small garden. A corrugated roof over a burial plot with a blue and white signboard in Khmer. Locals, both Thai and Khmer come to make small offerings, hoping for good luck. It is a weird and sobering place.

How do you bury one of the planet’s worst mass murderers? I remember standing there—it is so forgettable, but in a way, shouldn’t be. How would people have buried Hitler? If they had, would it be an attraction on TripAdvisor? I mean, I can’t throw stones—we have a review of Pol Pot’s burial site on Travelfish.

On another trip, Sam interviewed ex Khmer Rouge people in Anlong Veng and Pailin. To their mind, these war criminals were good people. This from Bun Chhat, who at the time was 46, and had been a singer for Khmer Rouge radio for 15 years, talking about Pol Pot:

“I knew him very well because I stayed with him. I never disliked him because he educated me and invited me to do good things… The people who lived near him, the people who knew him well, they liked him very much.”

Haunted sunken forests near Anlong Veng. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

When I was talking to the old woman in Anlong Veng, I asked if she had seen people killed, or had a hand in it. My motodop waved away the question as being inappropriate. He was younger than me, in his early twenties. He may not have lived through the Khmer Rouge period himself, but I’m sure his parents and grandparents did. It was an arresting moment.

Back in Pailin, pulling up outside Khieu Samphan’s house took that arresting moment to a new level. That the driver offered it was pretty mad—to him, having tea with “Uncle Khieu” was some sort of “dark tourism” attraction.

Hammock salas at Ta Mok’s house—it was converted into a guesthouse. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

From a journalistic perspective, I get the appeal, but do travellers really go for it? Some must—why else would my driver have offered? When I asked on Twitter if people would have tea with a war criminal, most replied with an emphatic no. Journalist Sulome Anderson had a more nuanced take:

“... of course I would have tea with war criminals, and have had. How would we, as a society, know enough about war criminals to stop more of them; if some people didn’t sit down for tea with them, and find out how they came to do war crimes.”

I agree with this. There are plenty of talented journalists who interview terrorists and war criminals. Their takes matters. They deliver understanding to those of us who struggle to understand. The idea of dropping in on a war criminals’ house for coffee, in a non journalistic capacity, doesn’t sit well with me.

Shifting focus. Wasps and painted boards in Pailin. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

A good friend, who was working for an Australian NGO in Phnom Penh in the early 2000s, did visit. Educated Khmer friends in the capital had suggested he drop by—they described Khieu Samphan as a true Cambodian. “If he ran tomorrow for election, we’d vote for him,” they said.

The house he pulled up at was plain, indistinguishable from the next. Rough cut wood—a simple cottage. Inside it was the same. The couches were still plastic–covered. A karaoke machine, pulsed with neon lights, though thankfully no music.

The man himself, urbane yet in fisherman pants, that silver slick of hair up top. Khieu Samphan put out his hand to shake hands, he said, “I don’t get many visitors these days.”

Local produce, Pailin. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

My friend paused, thinking, do I want to shake hands with a war criminal. The moment passed and they shook. Over instant coffee they chatted about the de–mining work my friend was involved in. The questions were intelligent, but no commentary on why the mines were there in the first place.

In August 2014 Khieu Samphan received a life sentence for crimes against humanity.

As I wrote the other week, Ko Muk’s main village backs onto a working beach lined with a gaggle of beach bars. The beach is no great chop, but the bars are a comfortable spot to while away the late afternoon and catch the sunset’s shadow. In the distance to the south, lies the rising hills of Ko Libong.

Ko Libong off the starboard bow. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Libong, like Ko Sukorn further south, is a bit of an anomaly for the area. There have been bungalows on both islands for decades, but they never took off in the way Ko Muk, Ko Ngai or Ko Kradan did. Instead they’ve rolled along, very much on island time, neither with more than a handful of places to stay.

Missed the earlier entries?

A good trip with kids. Part 4

A good trip with kids. Part 3

A good trip with kids. Part 2

A good trip with kids. Part 1

Like Ko Muk, Ko Libong is a living island. Easily the largest of the islands in Trang province, it is home to a few villages and tourism is an afterthought. It swaps the white or yellow sand beaches of its more popular neighbours for golden sand. The interior is forest and vast rubber plantations. Perfectly straight rows of trunks, each with a tapping bowl attached, are hypnotising.

Island transport. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

All Libong’s resorts are gathered within walking distance of one another, on a bump on the island’s west coast. I’m not sure why this is the case, as the island has plenty of beaches, but for whatever reason, this patch of real estate is out of sight and out of mind for most of the island’s inhabitants.

It takes us a little over an hour on the longtail from Ko Muk to get within spitting distance of the island. We hoped to pull up on the resort beach, but the boatman explains because it is low tide, we need to go around to Ban Phrao, a small village set on an estuary. We can get a ride across the island from there he says.

More functional than fancy. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We leave the deep waters behind and skirt over a wide sandbar, the water shifting from a deep blue to translucent. Below us sea grass fields dot the white sand then we cruise into the river, our prow sinking as the boatman eases back, and we pull up at a ramshackle pier.

Ko Libong sees more Thai tourists than foreigners, but all come for the dugongs which the island is famous for. By the pier, the signage of the few shops selling dugong key rings and pre–packaged snacks are all in Thai. The smiles though are universal and we pile into a motorbike with a sidecar attached for the run across the island.

Another day at the office. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is about a thirty minute drive. The weather, clear as a bell and well warm, the shadows of the trees take some of the bite out of the heat. We go over a small rise, the bike groaning with its cargo, and then we pull up at our digs, Libong Beach Resort.

It is a large, but old school place. Spread over a vast beachfront block, the elevated bungalows are spaced out and all have a beach view. We’ve a family bungalow at one extreme of the resort, with a large deck and trees perfectly spaced for our hammocks. The room won’t be in Vogue Decor anytime soon, but aside from having a power plug near the roof, it all works well.

Time for a light lunch. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The boatman wasn’t joking when he said it was low tide. Out front there’s a golden sand beach, but beyond the sand a scrappy exposed reef. The waters beyond it are calm, but no swimming till the tide comes in. We relax and grab a lazy lunch at the restaurant then walk some of the beach. Despite being between Christmas and New Year, the resort is not busy at all. There are perhaps two dozen guests spread across the three resorts that sit near each other.

The vibe is very “island time”. In no time at all, we’ve run out of things to do, but the resort has anticipated this. There’s hammocks and lazy chairs, some under vast shade trees. A massage sala by the sand has a local woman giving a guest a work over. There’s no music or loud voices. Just the light breeze and the occasional longtail in the distance. We throw a ball, read a bit, put our feet up and watch the water—in the distance we can see both Ko Muk and Ko Kradan.

Blood pressure dropping. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later, as the sea runs in, slowly submerging the reef, the sun starts to sink and the light show begins. It is classic Andaman Sea stuff, with not a cloud in the sky. The sun plummets behind a small islet, and the sky transitions from a deep blue to purple, then a fiery orange. Last is the deep red before we plunge into darkness.

The beach lights up, but not in a beach party way, with fairy lights daisy–chained between a few of the trees. By the two small and sedate beach bars, sun–kissed bodies cluster, murmuring amongst a soft drift of tunes.

Pesky islet. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We’ve only got a few days here and I’m already regretting not allowing a week. Tomorrow, to the dugongs.