Couchfish

On the morning of February 1, 2021, Southeast Asia woke to the news that Burma was in the thralls of yet another coup.

Unlike past coups, this time around something was different. This time the revolution would be televised—if only on the small screens in our palms. My Twitter feed is awash in reports of increasing violence as the junta cracks down.

News and video reports broadcast by brave local and foreign journalists, along with everyday citizens. The coverage, both amateur and professional, has been staggering—and excellent.

Changing tides in Yangon. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Almost four weeks in, what is the situation like for a person living in Yangon? A few days ago, I gave an old friend a call, and we chatted for over an hour. We talked about what that first day was like, and how events have played out since.

So what is it like waking up to discover a coup is playing out in your backyard?

“We heard rumours over the weekend there might be a coup. It seemed a bit ridiculous and we didn’t take it too seriously, but we were like, best to be prepared. Thanks to Covid we were already stocked up, with big pantries, lots of rice, water and so on. Still, it was a real punch to the gut to wake up and see the reports. We still had internet and reading through, I realised oh s**t this is real. There is a coup.

I run a business here, and my first thought was the staff and their safety. I mean obviously my safety as well, but also the business. So it was a morning of phoning everyone to see if everything was ok. The team were absolutely devastated. I didn’t go in on the Monday, but I’d offered to give a team member a loan because their daughter was sick. When they came around to collect the money, they’d clearly been crying. When I went into work the next day, the team were teary eyed, blotchy faced, or absolutely furious.”

Sule Pagoda, Yangon. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When you see video of the protests on the news, it can be easy to overlook that the people on the streets, up until January 31, had normal lives, families and jobs. How do you and they manage these commitments?

“When we had reports about key days, we closed for people’s safety. Obviously the team want to go out and protest and I would never stop them from doing that. We have a big group chat, so I used that. I said: “You know I’m not from here, I’m not Myanmar, I will never understand this country in the way you do. All I will say is, stay safe.”

We have staff who were army linked, so we put them on compassionate leave. I don’t want them to come to any harm because there’s a risk of emotions running high. A few who lived upcountry went home straight away. Others didn’t want to be at work because they were too upset, so they took time off.

We worked through it with them, letting them guide us as to when we should open and when not. This was partly for their safety, but also to let them do what they wanted to do—to see this through as they wanted. If they’re on schedule and they’re going to pop off and do a little protest for an hour or so, that’s fine.

We’ve since reopened—but we know that can change at the drop of a hat. Guests have started to return and I think it is helping people gain a sense of normality. People want to be busy. If being busy is to go and have a beer with a friendly bartender then, that’s fine.”

No more bars please. 19th Street, Yangon. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One of the most distinctive images of Burma is the longyi. It is a long fitted wrap–around skirt, worn both by men and women. George Orwell describes a woman dancing in one, in Burmese Days:

“Her hands, twisting like snakeheads with the fingers close together, could lie back until they were almost along her forearms. By degrees her movements quickened. She began to leap from side to side, flinging herself down in a kind of curtsy and springing up again with extraordinary agility, in spite of the long longyi that imprisoned her feet.”

Imprisoned feet and street protests are not a good fit.

“I try to operate on a “what I don’t need to know, don’t tell me” basis. We have a very mixed team, male and female, and quite young overall, so I was concerned they would do something rash.

The Burmese ladies wear the traditional outfit—a longyi. It is a tight fitted full length skirt that is designed to stop you from walking fast and to keep your footsteps dainty. They wear it with slip on shoes. Neither are great if you’re going to be in a protest area.

I was aware that this is the sort of thing that you’re not allowed to do in HR, you’re not allowed to tell people what to wear. You’re certainly not allowed to tell them not to wear traditional clothes. Instead I recommended they wear trousers, something more substantial, in case they got stuck and needed to run. It was always phrased as a suggestion—they don’t need to do it—I just want them to be safe.

Some staff are definitely out in the midst of it and I sat down with them to ask them to try to protest as safely as possible. We talked about how to avoid getting bottlenecked into certain areas, to look for escape routes and so on.”

We’re on the Coup Circle train. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Despite the need for fashion advisories, day to day life in Yangon, in many ways remains unchanged—depending on where you were … and the time of the day. Come each evening the junta cuts the internet. Meanwhile unregistered aircraft fly in from China under cover of darkness—their cargo and purpose unknown.

“The weather is beautiful at the moment, and you could easily not know this is going on in some areas. In others you’re woken by chanting and protesters from as early as 06:30 as protesters muster up, meet and arrange.

In the beginning, the protests were calm and hopeful. There were kids and old people out, a huge amount of women and you felt extremely safe—as you always do in Myanmar. In the last week though, we’ve seen alleged military–paid thugs on the streets causing trouble. This was the first time that I felt unsafe, even though I was nowhere near what was happening.

Then this last week it escalated with the police turning on peaceful protesters. They arrested them and journalists. They’re using weapons, firing bullets in the air to disperse people, using shock bombs to stun people.

There’s a real sense that the police can arrest you for anything at any time—they don’t need a reason, they’ll arrest you. Switching off the internet overnight has created huge paranoia. The belief is they’re building some sort of firewall with Chinese help. I have no idea if that’s true or not, but educated people are suggesting this is the case.”

At around 80%, Burma has a higher smartphone penetration than the United States or Germany. The night–time cut–offs crippled a primary form of communication. With high tech off, the people went low tech—pots and pans.

A sign of solidarity and an early warning system. The pots and pans of Yangon.

“In the early days, we’d bang pots and pans at 20:00 each night. It is a traditional Myanmar way of protecting yourself from evil by scaring it away. This is still going on—every night—and it is getting louder and louder. If you hear it at other times of the day or night, that 8pm feeling of solidarity is replaced by a fear of what’s happening.

Often we go to bed hearing there are shots fired in these areas and arrests in those, but we don’t really know. It wears you down. The internet gets cut and we have to wait until it comes back at 09:00 to catch up. There’s a massive information push every morning, on Instagram especially, as people try to get everyone up to speed.

Everyone is watching, trying to warn others of dangers. It’s that sense of unrest where you don’t want to go to bed too early—assuming you’re able to sleep of course. Then you hear the pots and pans throughout the night—it disrupts everyone’s sleep. I think the junta thought people would get tired and give up, but they’re not. They’re getting more organised and more vigilant.”

Community. Photo: Christopher Smith.

The pots and pans were both a sign of solidarity and an early warning system, but they were also a sign of something more. The power of community.

“The Myanmar community is extremely strong. As in many Asian cultures, multi–generational families live together or in the same area. People know their neighbours—they know when something is up. People are feeding the neighbourhood watchers, collecting money to buy them protective gear.

I have friends whose streets are totally blocked off to people that the neighbours don’t know. I normally turn up bearing gifts, so I’ve been able to pass through to see friends, but others aren’t so lucky. This makes them more scared, to think that their street isn’t safe. It wears you down, an attrition on emotions.

During the day, people are determined more than scared. People are living a duality where they’re tired and afraid, but more determined than afraid. And they’re angry—they won’t stand for this. When you see people on a day to day basis, they’re not afraid—they’re angry, they’re upset.

The usual greetings of how are you doing—we’re not bothering with pleasantries like that. Instead it is what are you doing today? Where are you going today? How can I help? What can I do?”

If only the generals could read. Photo: Christopher Smith.

Yet despite all this, a semblance of normal remains, but it is the “new normal”—thanks to Covid.

“A lot of the restaurants are closed for dine-in guests—because of Covid. Everybody at the protests wear masks—truly huge numbers. So when you’re there, you feel protected from it. It’s very, very impressive. At some of the bigger protests people hand out masks if you don’t have one, or swap it if yours is old.

It’s interesting because these protesters don’t seem to have a leader as such. It’s more individuals within communities, within their social groups. They arrange their own group, then hear there’s going to be another group somewhere. So it’s quite hard for the military to clamp down when there are no obvious leaders.

But yes, you can have a “normal” time in Yangon if it wasn’t for the coup. I’ve heard you can go to some of the hotels on a Friday night, and there’ll be people there by the pool drinking and relaxing. When I say people, I mean mostly expats, the few still here.

For the Myanmar people it’s different—they’re not able to switch off.

This is not to say that expats aren’t supporting the protestors, I definitely don’t want to put that message across. How the expat community is holding fast is impressive, and many are helping as they can behind the scenes.”

If you cast your mind back to February 1 there was the coup’s first viral hit. The sight of Khing Hnin Wai leading an aerobics class while the coup played out behind her. It was an astonishing thing to watch.

“We were expecting parliament to open that day, and she was probably just as shocked as everybody else. It was a very visual moment, and this coup has been noteworthy for its many picture perfect moments. It is fascinating—during the Saffron Revolution, people were not as internet savvy as they are now.

Seven to eight years ago people were paying US$2,000 for a SIM card. Today, everybody has a phone—literally everybody. The phones might not be fancy, but they generally have internet capabilities. So people are conscious that in the past things happened and few outside Myanmar knew about it. This is why they’re so keen to make sure the international community is aware this time around.”

Support a free press. TBF I’m not sure what sort of press this was, but the pic fits. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So for those outside looking in, what can people do to help?

“In summary, raise awareness, donate if you can and put pressure on your government for action.

First of all, share the news, make sure people are aware of what is continuing to happen. As time goes by, Myanmar may fall out of peoples’ minds—people are going to forget about us—don’t let them.

Write to your local government representative and ask them what their stance is. We can’t just see blanket sanctions put in place again, that will only hurt the people. Instead, write and ask them about targeted military sanctions. Pressure them on this. Pressure companies dealing in the country to make sure money doesn’t end up in military purses.

You can also donate—there are so many options.

There are certain charities that are providing rice to people. Others providing protective gear. Others helping to keep journalists safe. Subscribe to paid media—Frontier Myanmar is a great new source and they need funds—as do others including Myanmar Now. If you don’t want to subscribe, consider a one–off donation.

Some friends and I decided, along with many, many, other people, that we’d collect donations to buy food for people. In the beginning we were on the streets feeding hundreds of people a day. In the last week, because of the risk of arrest, it’s been slightly less safe to do this. So we started to use the money to branch into other areas.

Bigger picture,

As you may be aware, over the last year and a bit, tourism—in just about all of its flavours—has collapsed. The heady days of overtourism put on hold (one hopes for good), chit chat has turned to what the scene will look like at the other end of the tunnel.

Not a horizon pool in sight. At Lake Toba, Sumatra. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At least within a Southeast Asian context, much of the focus is on “high value” tourism rather than backpackers. By high value, what tourism boards really mean is “high–spending”. This is a mistake—budget travellers are the biggest spenders of all.

Here’s some choice government quotes:

“One person can easily spend as much as five by staying at the finest hotels,” Phiphat Ratchakitprakarn, Thai Tourism Minister.

“There are many poor ones in NTT, we are tired of seeing these peasants,” Viktor Laiskodat, Governor of East Nusa Tenggara, Indonesia.

It isn’t just Southeast Asia. New Zealand is also in on the bandwagon, with new tourism minister Stuart Nash describing the ideal tourist as someone:

… who flies “business class or premium economy, hires a helicopter around Franz Josef [Glacier on the South Island’s west coast] and eats at a top-end restaurant”

This after characterising backpackers as people who “pull over to the side of the road and s**t in our waterways”. Thanks mate, excuse me while I look up private helicopter charters on my environmental vandalism check list. Idiot.

Guv: “We are tired of seeing these peasants.” In Komodo National Park. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Aside from roadside poo–droppers, the fixation here is on daily spend—and the argument that someone paying $200 a night is delivering more “value” than a backpacker paying $5.

This is wrong for two reasons.

Firstly, backpackers stay longer, and secondly it looks only at one side of the equation—what the tourist pays. It ignores the costs—referred to as “leakages”—of setting up the services required to attract those paying $200 per night.

Both canoeists and speedboat passengers can play a productive role. Wae Cicu, Flores. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Unfortunately, there has been little recent academic research into what backpackers spend in Southeast Asia. Australia has done some though (PDF), and it is instructive.

In 2007, Australia attracted 5.6 million international tourists, of whom 557,724 (roughly 10%) were designated as backpackers. The average duration of stay in Australia in 2007 for backpackers was 72 nights compared to 26 nights for other international visitors. So backpackers stayed roughly three times as long as other international visitors.

So what did they spend? They spent an average of $5,555 per trip. Meanwhile all other international visitors spent an average of $2,347. So your average backpacker spent more than double the average figure for everyone else.

These are backpackers. Trip length: Almost 4 weeks—3 times Thailand’s average stay. On Ko Kradan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Overall, in 2007 backpackers were responsible for 19% of tourist expenditure in Australia—while representing just 10% of inbounds.

Per capita, backpackers were twice as valuable as other tourists.

It kind of turns the concept of high value tourists on its head.

The length of stay is the killer—and yet it seems to be all but ignored by tourism boards.

Backpackers travel with locals. No need for fancy buses and services. Somewhere south of Luang Prabang. Yes, on the roof—sorry Mum. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This, again from very dated (1994) research quoted by Mark Hampton in a 2003 paper on local tourism in developing countries. Hampton notes:

“The average length of stay of the backpackers in Yogyakarta is 3.8 nights which is over twice as long as the average length of stay of 1.6 nights for international tourists.”

Taking a Indonesia–wide–look, the same paper notes:

“Backpackers’ total trip length is far longer than an average two–week holiday with 64% being on a ten week trip.”

So yes, backpackers may spend far less per day, but when they’re staying five times as long, not only does this differential reduce, but their money is also being spent far wider—and is more likely staying in country, often at a community or household level.

Getting ready for the boat to Chi Phat. Community Based Tourism done right—and on a budget. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

Give this story in Southeast Asia Globe a read. It highlights some high–end resorts in Cambodia working in a remote area of the country under the auspices of sustainable tourism. It seems a missed opportunity to have neglected to mention other, more budget–focused operations elsewhere, say in Chi Phat for example. These have been running for years and are well established, Community Based Tourism projects. Best of all, you don’t need to spend hundreds of dollars on a tent to be able to support their goals.

This brings me to my second point—the fixation on what tourists spend, while ignoring the costs—and opportunities—of catering to them. What needed to be imported to fit out the fancy–pants properties profiled in the Globe story? I bet a hell of a lot more than at Chi Phat! What sort of jobs for local residents are created in each?

Probably not a homestay going in here. Sapa, Vietnam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On the costs. Compare the leakages of a backpacker staying in a homestay (virtually none), versus someone staying in a five star resort (substantial). Of course, not everyone wants to stay in a losmen, but these costs should not be ignored. Then, as the same paper mentioned above notes:

“This raises the question of the type of job opportunities created by mass tourism, such as the difference between being a cleaner in a large international hotel compared to being the owner of a small losmen, cooking and serving at tables in their own place.”

So if you’ve got a class of tourist that stays longer, spends more, creates employment in local communities and has less environmental impact, why are they being ignored? Plenty of reasons, and as I’m already way over my word limit, I’m going to look at just one.

“We’re here for the culture”. One one on the right ended very badly. Full Moon Party, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

My theory is the word “backpacker” has become a bit of a pejorative. Many government ministers would have a few years on me, putting them in their teens or twenties through the 1970s and 1980s. This was the classic formative stretch of the Kabul–Kathmandu–Khao San Road–Kuta banana pancake trail. Drugs, free love, bad hair, worse fashion, and yes, probably not enough showering.

Of course there are still grotty backpackers—I’ve got that t–shirt! All tourists, regardless of spend are capable of grotty and/or depraved behaviour. However when two unhinged Americans chopped up a parent and put her in a suitcase, I didn’t see many editorials arguing for a reappraisal of the clientele who can afford to stay at the Saint Regis.

I’d argue characterising an entire class of tourists by your memories of what you observed as a teenager—or the actions of a minority today, doesn’t make for great policy.

More level heads are needed. Uluwatu, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Lastly, a quick gripe on the term backpacker. Many in the industry bracket it is someone who is 25 to 35 years old. This is ageist and, today, totally inaccurate. Being a backpacker is about more than your age, or if you have a bag without wheels. For many it is a mindset.

So why am I writing about this now?

Whenever travel does start to open up on a recreational basis, quarantine will most likely still be a part of the deal. In 2019 the average stay of an inbound traveller to Indonesia was just shy of nine days. Thailand was just over nine days. Cambodia was seven.

How many people are going to spend anything from five to fourteen days in quarantine when average stays are this low? I say those who increase the average, by staying the longest—backpackers.

It is a pretty simple concept. Photo: Sally Arnold.

As Nikki Scott (founder of Southeast Asia Backpacker) says in this story by Skift:

“Backpackers these days have money, and something that many other types of travelers don’t have: time. Unlike your average tourist, backpackers have the time to put up with a two-week quarantine in order to enter a country and stay there for three months.”

Australian travel writer Ben Groundwater makes some good points here about why backpackers might be a thing of the past. I’d argue, yes for a whole host of reasons, backpackers may not ever return to the same number of the past, but that need not be a bad thing. There will always be some who simply want to throw a pack on their back and go.

I’m not arguing that high end tourism should be consigned to the scrap heap—tourism comes in many flavours, and each has pros and cons. Backpackers though punch above their weight and it is folly by tourism boards to (at best) ignore them or (at worst) tell them to stay away.

More to read

Looking for more to read? Try these other pieces on free to read Couchfish, of better still, subscribe and read the lot!

Local talent: Some thoughts on using local travel evangelists to create a better travel guide.

The final stages of decay: Using some of Bali’s southern beaches as an example, thinking about mistakes not worth repeating.

Tell me your secrets: On travel writing and the death by a thousand cuts.

Single serving friends: Travel is often but a string of single serving friendships and experiences.

As I wrote last week, Ko Muk, in southwest Thailand, is best known for the “Emerald Cave”. If you turned your imagination towards a hidden pirate’s lair, you’d struggle to come up with a better image. Hidden away on the west coast of the island, approachable only by boat, the cave has hidden treasure written all over it. It is to the cave we’re heading today—but first we need a boat.

Missed the earlier entries?

A good trip with kids. Part 3

A good trip with kids. Part 2

A good trip with kids. Part 1

Every man and his dog on Ko Muk offers boat tours. There are fishing trips, snorkelling trips and island hoppers. Just about every option factors in a visit to the Emerald Cave. How is one to choose?

Jack Sparrow’s lair. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Our resort offers such a trip, and for a very reasonable price. When I start asking about how many people and so on though, the answers become evasive. I decide to look elsewhere. Walking down through the village, I stop in at a few agents. Prices all revolve around the same mark. Often though, they’re just agents—putting bums on somebody else’s boat. I keep looking.

About halfway back to the main pier, there is a rustic beach bar. I look closely and realise it is actually a boat bar, or a bar built around something that was once a boat. There’s not a straight angle in the place, full of nooks and crannies, seating in strange little decks and up on high platforms. If you’ve ever had the misfortune of watching Waterworld, they could have filmed the entire movie here.

Forever a work in progress. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The actual bar is staffed by an older French woman, who I think at first is Isa, a friend from years ago. It would be the perfect place to find her, but unfortunately she isn’t her. We chat for a spell, she’s been in the area for a long time, and we swap notes on how the islands have changed over the years. We’re definitely on the same page on many things and so I venture a question about getting a boat. Hell, this is a boat bar, they must have one.

“Come back tonight,” she says.

I return that evening and meet the captain. He’s one of those spindly half–pirate half Rasta Thai boatmen that dot the southern islands. Friendly and chatty, with excellent English, he gives me the spiel. It all sounds great. I ask after the price. He wants triple what the resort is after.

Cruisin… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I explain I don’t want to charter the boat, I’m happy to share it with others as long as there are not too many people. He says the price isn’t for a charter—it is a shared boat. I say it seems very expensive given what other are charging.

“You get what you pay for,” he replies.

I decide to think about it, and say I’ll chat to the family and get back to him. “Ok,” he replies—he seems not interested in bargaining, and lets me walk off.

Back at the resort we discuss. I mean, all we’re doing is hiring a few spots on a boat—how could is possibly be worth triple? The guy seems nice enough and I love the pirate bay vibe of the bar, maybe, somehow it will be better. I’m both torn and intrigued.

Well this looks awful. Ko Ngai’s back beach. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The proposed trip is an island hopper to a few islands, along with some karst cliffs—all for snorkelling. Then we finish at the Emerald Cave. The package is near identical to others I’ve been offered. It is just three times the price.

I decide to go with the pirate.

We show up the next morning and there are a half dozen others on the same trip—making for ten all up. The longtail is big, but a standard affair—and, for the money, it isn’t a great start. The captain though is true to form and the kids enjoy his “piratey” garb and manner—and he is great with them.

Watch out for sharks. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We chug north, to our first stop, the back beach at Ko Ngai. It is ostensibly a national park, with a long reef drift. The boat drops us at one end and we all dive in, letting the current gently push us along the way. As with many of the reefs in the area, it isn’t in good condition, but the visibility is great and there are a tonne of fish.

It is about a half a kilometre drift and the guide does a good job pointing out interesting stuff along the way. Later we cruise into the beach, mostly undeveloped, for a simple snack. While Ko Ngai is far from my favourite island, the back beach is beautiful.

Later we visit two uninhabited rocks, first Ko Cheuk, then, later Ko Waen. Both are roughly midway between Ko Ngai and Ko Muk, but the calm waters of the morning are getting rougher with the midday wind. We snorkel into caverns and under large overhangs. With one exception, we’re the only boat on site. The kids love it, though by Ko Waen, the chop and stronger currents are taking some of the pleasure away for them.

I think we just found everyone. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then, we head west, around the top of Ko Kradan to the back beach. The kids roll their eyes—“we’ve been here before” they whine. When the captain says we have an hour here though, they see an upside and, leaving the beach behind we walk over the hill to Paradise Lost for french fries.

Leaving the back beach, we circle around the southern tip of the island. Everyone jumps in, but within ten minutes we’re all out again—jellyfish. “No problem” says the captain and we motor around to the main beach, to the reef drop–off for another drift. The kids stay in the boat—they’re tired, have snorkelled this already, and want to see the Emerald Cave.

Leaving the Emerald Cave behind. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Finally we pull up at the Emerald Cave and work our way in. It is a collapsed sinkhole, with a fine crescent of white sand within. The swim through the tunnel to the sinkhole is perhaps thirty metres or so, in places pitch black. As we swim in, our hands and feet glance off the fish, then the light seeps in and we get the reveal.

I’ve seen photos of this tiny beach with at least eighty people standing on it, but today we’re the only ones. It is beautiful and we toss a ball around for a bit, falling into the chilly water. Too bad my phone battery is flat.

Sorry no pics of inside the cave, so here’s a sunset pic from Haad Farang instead. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

An hour later, we’re back at the bar, all say thank you and wander off. The bar is affiliated with a same–named resort and most of the other passengers are staying there. When I run into a couple of them later that evening, I ask them if they thought the trip was good value, as I’m unconvinced.

They say they thought it was great value. I’m baffled and ask them what they paid.

Less than half what we did.

Always bargain with a pirate.

Travel writing, at least in the travel guide niche is a bit akin to being something between a soldier and an archivist.

Big skies north of Bima, Sumbawa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Visits demand military planning. A method of approach to allow the writer to take in as much as possible in a minimum of time. Everything filed, for me in notebooks and a smartphone. Later it all gets regurgitated—hopefully into a state that makes some sense to the traveller.

Seeing everything but experiencing nothing

There’s the accommodation and sights, but also transportation and food. Is there a tourist office or police station? Where are they? Do they speak English? What days and hours are they open? Is there an English menu? What is the latitude and longitude? Do they have WiFi? Does it actually work? What is the password?

Years ago I read a piece by a travel writer working for a legacy publisher. The story has been lost to the interweb ethers, but there was a poignant moment that will always be with me.

Lost near Sape—at least there were signs. Sumbawa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Overcome with the vast array of information demanded, they sat on the bank of some gigantic muddy river in China, and cried.

To this, I’d add there can also be a friction with people. Why are you asking me this? Why do you want to know what time every bus goes to everywhere? Who are you? No more questions. Please.

A travel writer friend once described this gig as “seeing everything but experiencing nothing.” There’s a lot of truth to this. With military–grade planning you can factor in a loose day under a waterfall, but that day means a day lost elsewhere. Lingering has a cost—the piper must be paid.

Lining up ducks

Planning is a vital part of the process—at least if you want to emerge at the other end with change in your pocket. A few strands of sanity at the end are also welcome. As with travel itself, there is no right way to plan a travel writing trip, but one must plan. All have their own approach, and often one which varies with the terrain. Islands and beaches present different challenges to capital cities.

Paper maps are useful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I start with a paper map. I mark on it a rough itinerary, places worth more time than others. Possible day trips and overnighters off the main track. From there I go to notebooks, a page to a place, listing out my best hoped for result. Ideal world and all that. Will the bus from K to L breakdown? Will a bridge be washed out? Will the ferry sink or the flight be cancelled? You can line your ducks up in a row, but rare is the trip where all the ducks stay in place.

Depending on the destination I may find some books to read—a literary hook always fits for a hanger. I’ll also collate a list of people I know (or know of) and grill them for information. If our timelines dovetail, I’ll meet with them—more lost time, but sometimes terrific finds.

The most patient hotelier ever, in Alas, Sumbawa. His parting words: “Mengapa kamu di sini?” (why are you here?) Also, it there was ever a town with a fitting name, it is Alas. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ll also spend a good amount of time on, of all things, Instagram. For all the fakery and whining, it remains a solid resource for what stuff looks like. I’ve also found it a great reservoir for local talent.

Local talent

First, some definitions.

What do I mean when I write “local”? I mean someone who is from there—perhaps not born in the destination, but certainly from the country. Foreigners living in country can also be a terrific information source of course, but, like locals, can be hit and miss. It depends on what I am after. Are you after a listing of expat bars? Or are you after an expat with the lingo and terrific community connections. Both have their uses.

Chance of me finding this buffalo race outside of Sumbawa Besar by myself? Zero. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

By “local talent” I mean local travel evangelists. I don’t mean travel agents (who I try to avoid as much as possible), but rather people who are just “into where they live”. I try to meet up and if we’re on the same page, I’ll hire them for a few days to show me around.

It works pretty well. They want to showcase where they live and I need to know what is worth seeing. Where do they think is great, where do they eat, which hotels do they recommend to friends and so on. It is a great way to surface things I would not have found otherwise. Of course not all are hits—splitting the hits from the misses is my job (well, one of my jobs). I’m the filter.

Floresians on Easter break. Resort had beer, so passed my filter. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As much as you might think people from everywhere are into the same stuff, in real life it doesn’t work this way. In Ipoh for example, a guide took me somewhere I’d never recommend to anyone, ever. Ever. He loved it though, and was baffled why I hated it. Likewise with food. It is all well and good to promote local eateries, but I’m not going to list the brothel one guide took me to for lunch—even if the noodles were great.

Despite the few clangers, most of what they unearth veers between solid to amazing. Some I could have found by myself—eventually—but more often than not I wouldn’t have. When your guide has lived in the town all their life and you have 48 hours there, you’re at a slight disadvantage.

Local knowledge

One story I like to tell was when I was in a semi–remote area of eastern Indonesia. I’d hired a guide for four or five days, he’d arranged for me to borrow a friend’s scooter, and we rode all over the joint. It was fantastic.

We don’t get many of your kind here. Sumbawa Besar. Photo: Their mate.

At one stage we reached a junction in the road—another travel writer had told me the road to the left was safe. My guide said it wasn’t. The right turn though meant over a day of riding to reach our intended destination. I argued for the left, and he gave in, but wasn’t happy about it.

A while later we pulled up for gas and the attendant asked where we were going. When I said the name of the town, he did a double take and turned to my guide. They spoke too fast for me to follow, but the meaning was pretty clear from the old guy’s body language. The guide turned to me and said:

“He said the road is not safe. He would never take his family that way.”

That was good enough for me. We turned back and went the other way.

New peak, new friends. Atop Tambora, Sumbawa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On the upside, at the town we overnighted at, my guide had a friend there, another Instagram evangelist. We got in touch and she took us on a great half day tour through some spots I would have never ever have found otherwise. Glass half full and all that.

Sights and safety, food as well. All is super useful local knowledge that I’m able to filter into the guide. It is though, a shame few locals write for international travel guides on their own countries. I have a post on this subject which has been smouldering away for the last month, but it is a complicated case. Plenty of food for thought.

Perhaps related to this, an interesting side–point. In almost all cases, when I’ve asked the guide would they like a credit for their assist, the answer has been an emphatic no. They’re happy though for me to pass their contact details on to other travel writers (which I do). In my experience, they’re not in it for fame—the money is welcome though!

Take the leap. My guide showing how it is done, near Merente, Sumbawa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Instead, they’re after the pleasure of showing someone around places they love. Funnily enough, that is the same reason we started Travelfish.

And I reckon that is pretty cool.

Have you had a good local guide? Add your tale to the comments below!

As this is the 200th Couchfish itinerary post, I’m making it a free for all to read. Today is on the topic of a forest temple that touched my heart and I touched the earth—or something like that anyway! Thank you all for following the Couchfish itinerary day by day—200 down, 200+ to go. Thank you so much.

If you’d like to subscribe for the full version of Couchfish, it costs US$7 per month and you get access to the full archives. Cheers!

If you’re anything like me, you may have kicked off your overseas travels with a bit of a jaunt through Europe. At every new village, town or city my guidebook (Lets Go, sorry), would stagger towards churches (if anything). Stagger seems the right word going off the ex–Lets Go authors I know. I’m not religious, and there are only so many churches I can take, before I think “God, anything but another church”. Thailand is much the same. Meet “wat fatigue”.

Godliness of Goldliness. Within Wat Nong Bua, Ubon Ratchathani. Photo: David Luekens.

Before you start calling me a heathen, I know Thailand has some magnificent temples. Try a pre–dawn breakfast within Wat Pho (permission required), before Bangkok wakes up—memorable to say the least. For me though, by and large, the appeal is mostly in the buildings, the setting, the history, more-so than the divine.

According to the Asean Studies Centre (Thanks Pook!) there are over 40,000 Buddhist temples in Thailand. Roughly one temple for every 1,750 people. I have no idea what the figure is for churches in Europe, but as a 20–something not interested in churches, I’m sure I saw 40,000. Ok, I’m exaggerating, I’m sure I visited at least four—what are a few zeroes?

Hand–painted cinema posters, Ubon Ratchathani. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Where am I going with this? I’m going to Ubon Ratchathani (Ubon to its friends) in Northeast Thailand. It is, without a doubt, my favourite temple town in the country. It is also the hub of the best eating in the region. It might not rock a tourism board’s boat but in my opinion, godliness and stuffing face make good companions.

Ubon’s temple scene is a glad-bag of attractions. There’s bling. There’s an Indian temple knockoff. There’s crocodile guardians and lions with slicked back hairstyles. You can carve wax. In one, you can crouch down, rest your fingers on a stone marker on the floor, and have a vision of your life played out. Spoiler—it didn’t work for me—probably too much BBQ chicken oil on my fingertips. Damn it, always go for a revelation, then the barbecued chicken. The TAT loves this stuff, but my advice is to cast your net further.

Leave outside behind you. Photo: David Luekens.

I suggest you capture two forest wats with your net. They’re flung a little outside of town, but easily visited by tuk tuk or scooter. At these, I didn’t want to touch the earth for a cliched revelation—I wanted to touch the earth because I needed to. They’re those kind of places.

Ubon sits towards the southeast extreme of the Khorat Plateau. The terminus of the southern Northeastern train line. It lies within spitting distance (if you can spit that far) of the Lao and Cambodian frontier. Below it sits the “Emerald Triangle” a doomed tourism concept probably birthed in a TAT conference room. More on our trip to explore that another day...maybe.

All you need to keep the outside world out is a bamboo fence. Photo: Chin Chongtong.

I mention the plateau, because save the cliffs by Khong Chiam, the province is largely dead flat. Riding towards the first of the two temples, early morning, with big skies, something jutted out.

Trees.

People don’t call them forest wats for nothing. It is like a stand of forest dropped from the heavens. The epicentre of Thailand’s “forest tradition”. Fenced in, the woods seems doubly tall because all around them, as far as the eye can see, is knee–high rice stubble. No people—just blue steel carving up an ochre canvas.

Follow this guys. Photo: David Luekens.

We park the bike and walk in. The road outside is far from busy. An errant truck and young guy with an idiot exhaust pass by, but the outside world melts away as we walk in. Fast.

Thanks to our timing, there’s no chanting or activity. There’s a few birds above, but this isn’t a rainforest—it isn’t teaming with wildlife—this is dry northeastern woods. It just ... feels removed from everything. Everything.

We wander. There is an obvious way, but we take smaller footpaths—sometimes dirt sometimes paved. Above us, trees soar. We’ve not seen a soul since we parked the bike. There’s a morning breeze, not much though being dry season and all. Tree tops smooch and caress more than dance. It feels like we need to ask permission to breathe.

Can you see the light? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

How many places have you been where you felt you needed to silence your breath? Your thoughts? How does one breathe quietly? Walk quietly? Exist quietly?

Clear the mind. One step at a time. Follow the path.

I’ve tried meditation a few times, but it has never worked for me. My mind is too full of garbage and noise. At that forest temple though, thinking about it now as I write this, I couldn’t think about a better place. A better place for what? To calm a noisy mind of course.

We keep walking, wandering, still not a soul. There’s no squirrels or monitors, or anything else. We reach a few kutis—small simple wooden housing for monks—easy to build on Mindcraft, not so easy to live in. There’s saffron robes hanging on veranda railings—to dry I assume—but still, not a monk in sight. It feels abandoned, but it also feels like ours.

Must not think about Somtum Jinda. Photo: David Luekens.

I want to sit. Not because I’m tired, rather because I’ve never been anywhere like this before.

I don’t remember how long we spent walking. Thinking back, it feels likes hours. At one point, lost in the grounds, sitting on a log for a breather, a youngish monk, not a novice, walks past. He doesn’t ignore us—no, he’s not being rude—he simply seems not to see us—no, he wasn’t floating!

And that, more than anything, feels like the magic of the place.

Out of the woods. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Touch the earth, take a breath, squat down and push all ten fingers into the soil. Listen to the silence. Close your eyes. The trees sway, even in the stillest of days—listen carefully and you’ll hear. Look inwards. Close your eyes. Feel the planet roll.

Not all temples are equal.

Tomorrow, I’ll be jolting you out of this meditative revelry with some serious eating. Pack an empty stomach.

Across our few days on Ko Kradan, we spent our fair share of time watching the sinking sun’s rays garnish Ko Muk’s peaks. The island is famous for being home to the Emerald Cave, but has also long been the backpacker island of choice in the area. Both my wallet and I are keen to get there and a morning longtail is in order.

Changing planets. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Much as when we arrived, the sea is glassy as we chug back across. Chug being the active word as the longtail is the slowest one I’ve even ridden on. Even the kids roll their eyes. Much as we came, we skirt around the southern tip of Ko Muk, past the white sand spur then across seagrass fields to the pier.

Unlike Ko Kradan, Ko Muk is a “living island”. There are real villages here and local islanders have lived on the island for generations. Before the first backpackers arrived, fishing and tapping rubber were their main gigs. Today, despite the island hosting dozens of places to stay, tourism remains an afterthought for many.

Welcome to Ko Muk. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This “being an afterthought” is a large part of the appeal. The island doesn’t have the “tourist plaything” vibe of Ko Kradan—instead you feel like a guest. A feeling greatly assisted by the welcoming vibe the island’s people emanate.

As with a number of other islands on this coast, the locals are predominantly Muslim. On the main beach on the far side of the island, you might miss this, but we don’t—we’re staying on the village side. After walking down the long wharf, we wander along a narrow village path to find our digs. On the sea–side of the path there’s stilted wooden family houses over the water. Kids kick a ball, head–scarfed women chat and smile as we pass.

Walking through the village—there is always a motorbike. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Sawatdee Kah,” they say to us, the kids try to reply, but stumble on the phrase, and everyone laughs. Ko Muk is that kind of a place.

The resort is not great. On arriving we discover a guest is in the room we booked and is refusing to move out. He prolonged his stay that morning and doesn’t want to move. It is a mix–up, but he’s in a two floor house I’d booked specifically—we’re a travelling threesome, to be a foursome in a few hours. He won’t budge.

The resort offers an alternative—two adjoining concrete rooms instead of the house. They’re apologetic—it is their error—but I’m baffled by the foreigner’s attitude. We settle for the concrete boxes and will move in when Mr Stubborn leaves the next day. The whole exchange takes the edge off the smiling women in the village. Bloody tourists.

A fishing island with a sideline in tourists. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The resort is old. One of those places that has grown organically over the last twenty years or so. Every spurt of growth in a different direction and style. Sitting on the veranda, I look across the hodgepodge of rooms. It is easy to see which are the oldest rooms—we’re in the newest, but they are utterly devoid of charm. In the centre a decent–sized pool pleases the kids, but, like the rooms, it doesn’t fit in with anything.

The only part that does work are the lush gardens—nature will not be messed with. By the tumbledown edge to the sea, there are a few huge shade trees, hammocks pre–slung.

We walk into the village proper. It is that early afternoon heat where the only people stupid enough to be out and about are tourists like us. Planning on roti and coffee, the stall is untended, a woman asleep on the floor behind it. I leave her in peace and we wander further up for a simple one plate lunch. While we sit, foreigners pass by, some on foot, others on scooters, but the vibe is low key.

Dingle dangle. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After lunch, we continue through the village to the south side, where the village once again meets the sea. Along here there are a gaggle of sleepy beach bars. Business is dead—things won’t pick up till later in the afternoon, but we’re still greeted with a smile. As with the resort, there’s a large shade tree overhanging the scrappy beach. Glass bottles house candles and dingle dangle from the branches.

It is hot. Very hot. The three of us sit there in low chairs, enjoying the slightest of breeze off the water. Our drinks come. Water for Will, iced tea for Lyla and a soda for me. We sit there, in silence, slurping. There’s not another guest at the cafe, and save a couple who stroll past, it is like we’ve our own strip of beach. As the heat eases, and light begins to fade, we walk back.

No Minecraft required. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Once there, the kids and I swing and swim. Mum is due to arrive in the next hour or so. She’s joining us for a few days over New Years from Bali. While we float, she’s in a taxi from Hat Yai—we bet each other as to the hour she’ll arrive.

Later, in hammocks overlooking the water we gaze out. The tide ebbs, seeping out to reveal mudflats and the remnants of mangrove roots. Locals wander the shallows picking out shellfish and aluminium cans. The sun sinks and longtails buzz by out to sea.

Today’s post started out as something else, but ended up as an accidental book review of the excellent The Meaning Of Travel and yet another opportunity for me to take a dig at The Beach.

“The word ‘Utopia’ is Greek, and it is a joke on More’s part: it means ‘no–place’. Like travel books, utopian stories abounded during the European Age of Discovery.

...

Travel books and utopias both portray difference. They both involve physical journeys to reach new lands. They also both involve more metaphorical journeys: encounters with new peoples and new ideas. Further, travel books and utopias are both ‘reflexive’. They purport to show foreign places but really encourage readers to reflect on their home places. Travel books and utopias feed off each other. Utopias are modelled on travel books, and travellers searched for utopias.”

So writes Emily Thomas in The Meaning Of Travel. The book explores the Western philosophy of travel (other takes are reserved for future titles). I finished the book a week or so ago and since then have kept going back to it. I loved it.

Buy it and grab a hammock. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Thomas More was kicking around in the 15th and 16th century, and is perhaps best known for being beheaded—and asking his executioner to not damage his beard. His head fixed on a pike on London Bridge, his devoted daughter later nicked it and preserved it in spices—I blame Wikipedia for this gruesome tangent.

Thomas describes More’s fictional Utopia as “a thought experiment”. The island is home to fifty four cities and sits off the coast of South America. The society, cultural practises and laws, are considerably different to those of Europe at the time. No word on beheadings though.

Careful with the beard please. Photo: Wikimedia commons.

More is one of the earliest philosophers Thomas looks at. As the centuries roll on through her book, many of the conversations struck me as eerily familiar—and I’m not a frequent philosophy reader! How is it that some 400 years later, we’re still having the same discussions?

Thinking about More’s Utopia, I sat down to rewatch The Beach the other night. Set in Thailand, the Danny Boyle film was released in 2000 and is based on Alex Garland’s book from 1996. The book is a decent page turner, the film though, is pretty awful. Nevertheless, the double whammy positioning Thailand were a serious shot in the arm for the country’s tourism industry. Looking around for similar examples, you could argue Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love (2006) had a similar effect on Bali.

Sorry Richard, John Thornton was there back in 1701. Image: Bibliothèque nationale de France. Photo: Travelfish

Both were in the business of portraying a utopia—a place that never exists outside of the wildest fever dream.

Early on in The Beach, the protagonist, Richard, meets Daffy—the messenger, the gatekeeper to Utopia. From the script:

Daffy: “Ten dollars. I'll find a way to pay you back. How would you like to know about somewhere special? The perfect beach. Paradise. No one else knows about it. That's got to be worth something. What do you say?”

Who wouldn’t be intrigued by Daffy’s offer? Likewise who hasn’t met a traveller on the road who hasn’t made similar promises. Tips to find a magically untouched, deserted place—a secret place. Back to secrets again—something I’ve written about before.

Richard clearly told everyone. Ko Phi Phi Leh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Here also, is a strong example of what Thomas writes about—how utopias portray difference. Daffy’s beach is like nowhere else—and nobody else knows about it. It is a reflection on both Daffy and Richard’s home places—it is what they are not.

The irony of course, is that as these “utopias” are discovered, they become more and more like the “discovers’” home places. Thirty years ago I bet there wasn’t an Irish pub on Thailand’s Ko Phi Phi. People visit, more visit, more still. Each in turn packing a glad–bag of demands to make it more like home. On Thailand’s many southern islands, this process has repeated itself ad nauseam. Not just making them more like “home” but also, inevitably, more like one another.

And so the Utopia–seekers turn their gaze elsewhere.

Desperately seeking Leonardo. Photo: David Luekens.

As is the case with most travellers, Richard turns out to be a lousy secret keeper. The ink has barely dried on the map to Daffy’s Utopia when he’s spilling the beans to two French travellers. The power of bragging rights is strong in you young Richard.

Richard: “Hi. You want to take a hike? I mean a trip. A journey. With your girlfriend and me. I mean the two of you, and me. It's a secret island. Paradise. You know the kind of thing I'm talking about.”

Of course, without adding too many spoilers, the beach turns out to be far from paradisiacal. Imagine Golding’s Lord of the Flies with a 1990s soundtrack. I guess I’m showing my age here, but The Beach’s soundtrack is the sole highlight.

The On On was never Utopia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In the current climate most desires to jet around the world for a slice of Utopia are on hold. For now, and probably much of this decade, “local travel” is destined to be the rage. No sweat—Thomas and her philosopher crew have you covered.

On wilderness, Thomas writes, quoting a beautiful extract from Henry David Thoreau’s Walden; or, Life in the Woods:

“These small waves raised by the evening wind are as remote from storm as the smooth reflecting surface. Though it is now dark, the mind still blows and roars in the wood, the waves still dash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. The repose is never complete.”

Wow—“the mind still blows and roars in the wood”—how great is that?!

Thoreau had sought “solitude”, building a cottage by a lake in the woods. I put solitude in quotes as, in a moment of dry humour, Thomas points out he still had his mother on hand to wash his underwear.

You can’t truly enjoy Utopia without Mum right?

Woods, water and a dose of danger = Sublime. Hala Bala Wildlife Sanctuary, Narathiwat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One of my favourite themes though, centred around mountains and the sublime. Mountains were once viewed negatively writes Thomas.

“John Donne’s 1611 poem ‘Anatomy of the world’ describes mountains as ‘warts, and pock–holes on the face of th’ earth.”

Though by the 1800s, this changed and was often tied in with God, quoting Elena Ghica, writing of the Alps:

“The image of the infinite presented itself to my mind in all its formidable grandeur. ... I conceived such an idea of God that it appeared to me I had never before that day given him sufficient place in my heart.”

From something to be feared to an object of divinity. Here on Bali every house has an alter or temple built to face Gunung Agung—the holiest peak on the island. Divine indeed.

Touched by God. On the crater rim, Gunung Agung, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From the divine to the sublime. Writes Thomas:

“Beauty is relaxing, whereas the sublime is overwhelming. Our idea of beauty is founded on pleasure, whereas our idea of the sublime is founded on pain and danger. Unlike our experience of beauty, our experience of the sublime is mixed: it involves terror and enjoyment.”

I’d never thought of sublime in these terms—I’d always associated it with extreme pleasure. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised Thomas is right. Experiences I’ve had that I’d honestly describe as sublime, invariably had a dangerous aspect to them.

Which brings me back to that movie. A secondary character is attacked by a shark and Richard muses:

“The way I saw it, sharks live in the sea, so if you go swimming where they live, they might eat you. That's what sharks are good at, that's what they do. I could have explained this to Christo but I just knew he wouldn't see it.”

The island that hosted the beach also hosted local pot farmers—forever a shadow in the background. Utopia must be sublime, but you need danger to fully form it.

Waterfall near Merente, Sumbawa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Meaning Of Travel covers far more of course. The section on the dearth of female travel writers (and philosophers!) had me sheepishly realising I could only name one travel book I’ve read not by a man. Side note, do read Pam Mandel’s The Same River Twice, which I wrote about here. Likewise religion, and the God–fearing nature of many, and how their beliefs drove much early travel, was fascinating.

Overall, The Meaning Of Travel by Emily Thomas is a great read, well suited to a hammock strung in your own private Utopia. I can’t wait for the the Chinese, Indian and African philosophical takes on travel!

People travel for all sorts of different reasons. Some love the beaches, others the jungles, others still the cities. Grab three island lovers, and you’ll probably get three different islands. With this in mind, before I started writing this piece, I asked the kids what they loved the most about Ko Kradan.

Missed A good trip, with kids. Part 1? You can read it here.

Will immediately blurted out “snorkelling off that reef on the last day,” but then caught himself, “no wait, the Italian food!” Lyla meanwhile thought for a minute and then said “the Thai iced tea.” Walking stomachs I tell you. Me? I liked the sunsets off the back beach where it felt like the horizon was a thousand miles away.

Will on Ko Kradan…

All this from such a small island.

Much of the island is a part of Hat Chao Mai National Park, but it is also the site of a long running legal drama. In one corner the National Park office and in the other a person of influence.

Legal issues aside, in the meantime they’ve leased land to resorts along the beach. The National Park campground is around to the south—out of sight—and out of mind for most.

“Why can’t we stay on the beach Dad?” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We’re headed to Paradise Lost, a hidden away spot in the jungle in the centre of the island. Set up by an American sailor Wally Sanger, he moored at Kradan and, well, never left. Wally sadly passed away in 2015, but the resort is still running. We settle into a large two bedroom “family bungalow” that has seen better days, but the kids adapt.

They are a bit put out we’re not on the beach, but we’re on a budget! On the upside, while the beach resorts are busy, Paradise Lost is pretty sleepy and there is a large lawn to toss a ball on.

Home for a spell. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Best of all, by being in the middle of the island, we’re a short walk from all three of the main beaches. The house beach, the back beach and a third, hidden beach to the south. A bevy of choices—though they’re still not convinced.

I convince them on our first full day. First, in the late afternoon, once the day–trippers have bailed, we take a five minute stroll to the house beach. This is your classic Thai yellow– to white–sand beach. The sand squeaks underfoot and the water is a glassy turquoise. The reef is smashed up, but it is fine for floating and tossing a ball. As the sun starts to sink, bulbous Ko Muk glows in the distance.

Bloody awful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later we walk back, past Paradise Lost, and over the hill to the sunset side. Monitor lizards scamper out of the way, birds sing overhead. It is warm in the jungle, but not unpleasant, and then we reach the tumble down trail to the golden sand back beach.

Before we tumble, we follow a side–trail to the south that brings us to a small viewing platform. The sun is sinking, Ko Rok is in the distance, a couple of trawlers chug past. “Wow!” the kids exclaim.

We make our way down to the sand, the sun is low, that 30 minutes of magic light, when the grainy sand is like molten gold. We throw ourselves into the warm water. There’s only a handful of others on the beach, we float and jump off boulders. It is a great way to wrap up a day.

The back beach. No complaints. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another afternoon, we take the other jungle trail through to Ao Nieang. It is a longer walk, with a rougher trail. More trees, more birds, more lizards—and more huffing and puffing.

The pretty bay is home to the simple Ao Nieang Resort—the only true backpacker spot remaining on the island. Friendly and family run, we chat to the few other guests. They say the rooms are “so so” but then they gesture to the bay—nobody is complaining much.

Will and I grab some snorkelling gear and swim out to the reef. It is perhaps fifty metres offshore to a great drop–off. A gentle current pulls us through the deep crystal water, along the face of the reef. Soft corals wave, bright blue and green fish dart out, huge schools of minuscule silver fish swarm us.

Guess who didn’t wear sunscreen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Will is a confident snorkeller, and we take turns diving down. The sun is getting low and we look for lion fish in the shadows, lobsters and morays. As we float, the current picks up, and we leave it ten minutes too long before swimming back. By the time we’re back in the shallows, I’m exhausted. We almost got a free trip to Ko Rok!

We walk back to the guesthouse and order a simple Thai meal. Ko Kradan isn’t known for having affordable anything, but by the standards for the island, the food is decent, and it comes with a smile. We eat as the sun sinks, then make our way back along the jungle trail to Paradise Lost as night falls.

The outlook from the bungalow restaurant at Ao Nieang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The house beach, while beautiful, gets busy through the day with day trippers, so we avoid it middayish. Around the corner to the south though, the crowds fade and the beauty ramps up. Even finer almost white sand runs out into shallows, while old hammocks hang on low shade tree branches. I swing while the kids swim. We build sand castles, dams and lakes. We create miniature sand empires populated by hermit crabs. The sunburn factor is high.

Later, we walk back around to the house beach. Some of the resorts are Italian run and the food is fit for an Italian. To Will, this is heaven. Prices are almost Bangkok–level, but so is the quality. I’m glad this is our last night on Kradan as the kids would bankrupt me demanding to eat here day in day out.

Someone is up on the idea of Italian food. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then it is back down the forest trail to a last night surrounded by the jungle and howling birds at Paradise Lost.

Next Tuesday: A new day, a new island.

Please note, while the following is related to Bali, the same arguments can hold for many destinations across the region.

A few times a week, I try to get down to the beach to write. I love the ocean, and the sound of the surf helps me drown out everything else in my head. Our closest beach, Batu Belig, in South Bali, is five minutes away on a scooter.

It is a typical South Bali beach. Grey to blackish sand, a bit grubby, filthy after heavy rains. All up, standard for the area. The beach bar I go to is one of a string of a half dozen places in a row. They’re mostly made of wood and bamboo, sometimes with concrete foundations. They’re also metres from the high tide mark, and so by Bali’s regulations—and most people’s common sense—they shouldn’t be there.

Sunset on Batu Belig, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

They’re bulldozed now and then (twice in the last ten years if I remember correctly)—in acknowledgement of their dubious legality I guess. A more cynical eye may see them as collateral damage related to other, far larger properties. You can’t level your aim at a five star hotel for a pool too close to the high water mark when there are a string of bars right beside it. Hypothetically speaking of course.

Anyways.

We’re in the middle of wet season here, so the beaches are particularly vile, but still, I go there to write. The bar I hang out in is almost always empty (even pre–Covid19), which I like, and the staff, while friendly, leave me alone.

Where has the beach gone? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So I rode down yesterday, and the beach was gone. Well, not gone, but the huge surf was smashing against the concrete pipes used as a barrier to the ocean. In over a decade in Bali, I’ve never seen the sea like it there.

I spent about three hours at the bar, and in that time alone, the waves took their toll. They reached the base of the concrete pipes, which started to tumble over. Then, the wave’s probing fingers reached beneath the pipes, sucking out the sand packed to form the floor of the bar. I know this because the floor collapsed as I walked on it.

People talk about quicksand in a bar, but I have to say (incredibly) this was the first time I’d encountered it in person.

Contains One Whale. Do not re-open. Note, the pile was all gone yesterday. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Side note here: Last week, about 100 m to the south of where I was sitting, a dead 14 metre long Bryde’s whale washed up. Earth movers buried the carcass above the high water mark—just about right in front of the W Resort.

Talk about putting the whale in the W.

Around a kilometre north of where I was sitting, there is another clutch of beach bars. Again for years there was nothing but thatch shacks with beanbags. My favourite, “Naked Coconut” had a bar the size of a postage stamp—that was the entire structure.

Behind them were the remnants of the dune. Scrubby grass, palms and, 50 metres back, private houses (well villas as they’re called in Bali—for reasons I’m yet to understand). A few years ago, a nearby large but low rise private property abutting the beach was levelled. In its place came a huge multi–level bar club eyesore. As with many other large beachfront properties, build back rules didn’t seem to apply.

Naked Coconut: Build only beanbags. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Last year, another enormous beach club began construction. Like the vile multi–level place, build back laws don’t seem to matter. That it is being built in the very strip of land left vacant by the villa owners, I assume in a nod to build back rules, must be annoying.

Until the club’s construction began, the vacant strip of land was “public access”. It became a car and scooter parking area, but there was no charge—it was, for all intents and purposes—public land.

As all beach front land should be.

Don’t build on the dunes people. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is easy I guess to rail on high–end properties and dirty beaches. Not all hotels are parasites—some are involved in, or at least financially support, socially progressive activities—though these are, more often than not, a sideline to their main business. I guess, it is better than nothing.

Likewise while the filthy beaches are sometimes blamed on tourists, the reality is far more complicated. Witness the state of the beaches this wet season, over a period when international inbounds have collapsed. Often it is left to local organisations to clean up the mess—both on the beaches—and the rivers.

Sitting in my collapsing and encroaching beach bar yesterday, I dwelled on all of the above. I’ve only been in Bali a decade or so, but even in that time, the loss of public access to beaches has been staggering. A resort goes in and access vanishes. It isn’t like a five star resort is going to let Balinese families trot through the lobby to reach the beach. Ironically you’ll have more luck walking through as a white person.

“Lets block public access to a public beach with a really stylish wall. We’ll win design awards for it! Potato Head, Seminyak. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This beach access thing made me think of another issue, years ago, in Thailand. Two actually, both of which involve an old friend James Fahn. We were neighbours, living across the hall from one another, in a fall down (but awesome value!) apartment building in Bangkok. Many an evening we played Risk while often talking Thailand, environment, and tourism’s role in it.

While the furore over The Beach and Ko Phi Phi Leh, got the column inches, there was another issue that plays into the above. On the Railay Peninsula, a high end resort had blocked pedestrian access to Phra Nang Beach which was home to a revered shrine. Thai beaches are public land, but in blocking foot traffic, the resort grabbed it for their guests alone.

A local environmental group which Fahn was involved in, put pressure on the hotel. Eventually, the resort relented—grudgingly—allowing a walled–off, what was for a long time very grotty, pathway along the edge of the resort to the beach. It was a less than perfect solution, but as with the above, better than nothing.

Thailand’s Phra Nang Beach. Photo: David Luekens.

Why should local people—in this case people wanting to visit a religious site—have to accept “better than nothing”?

In the early 2000s, the filming of The Beach on Thailand’s Ko Phi Phi Leh was a lightning rod for Thai environmentalists. In the opposing corner, a tone deaf foreign producer and the novel’s author (who described the whole affair as “crazy”). On the issue, and other challenges in that part of the country at the time, writes Fahn, in A Land On Fire:

“The tourism blight ravaging Thailand has a very predictable life cycle: Promotion leads to encroachment and development, which is followed by pollution and decay. All too often, people notice only the final stages, when it is usually too late to prevent the environment from being despoiled.”

It feels like South Bali’s beaches are in the “final stages of decay” zone which Fahn refers to. Access is so limited, the encroachment so blatant, and the state of the beaches so appalling, you simply can’t not notice it.

Access is easier on the other side of the wall. Photo: David Luekens.

In a fit of frustration yesterday, I took to Twitter to vent. I suggested the encroaching properties should all be demolished.

“This is but one of the areas Bali (and plenty of other destinations in the region) should be looking at. Knock them down. Return the beaches to the people. Imagine a 50 to 100m deep stretch of public parkland from Legian to Seseh.”

Of course, I can’t see that actually happening and, I guess, practically speaking, I don’t mean it—the horse has well and truly bolted. Nevertheless, it infuriates me immensely—and I’m not even Balinese. I can’t imagine how enraging it must be for some segments of the local population. Yes there’s jobs—but at what cost?

I guess though, what I was trying to say—need it be pointed out, I’m often far from rational on Twitter—is that it seems like a missed opportunity.

Perhaps people will learn before Seseh goes the same way. Don’t hold your breath. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It isn’t like there isn’t precedent for this. Fahn’s book was published in 2003—eighteen years ago. I’m sure there were others published eighteen years before his, saying the same thing. And probably eighteen years before those.

How long will it take people to learn?

I’ve been so wound up following the sad events in Burma that I’ve forgotten what I was going to write about today. So, I’m going to write about something fun—I need something upbeat goddam it! So, I’m going to write about a trip I did with my kids a little over a year ago. Yes, pre–Covid19—remember then?! I’m going to break it out over a series, a new one every Tuesday—there is plenty to write!

First thing you need is a boat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In summary it was about a three week trip, spent island hopping in Southwest Thailand. Ignoring the logistics of getting to Thailand, we first saw the Andaman Sea from the coast near Trang. From there we went to Ko Kradan, then Ko Muk, then we turned south, first Ko Libong, then Ko Sukorn and Ko Bulon Lae. From there, we trundled back north (still on the water) to Ko Ngai, for a last couple of days before back to the mainland. With two kids, aged 11 and 13 at the time, it was just about the perfect trip. Here’s what we did.

For some it is the spicy food or broad smiling locals, but for me, the longtails are the quintessential sign you are in the south. Yes they’re noisy as all hell, and far from the most manoeuvrable or speediest craft on the open sea. But they’re spacious, moderately comfortable, colourful and, well, good fun.

Mindcraft. Everywhere I tell ya. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

My daughter was born in Thailand, but save a brief layover enroute to Japan, this is my son’s first time in the country. Neither have seen a longtail before. It’s love at first sight.

The boatman, still seated, keeps the engine at a low ebb at we cruise out of the estuary. As the river bleeds into the sea, he stands and guns the engine to a roar. He leans into the khan yôk (thanks Justin for this word!) —a long often aluminium pole, that extends from the engine. As he leans into it, the boat both tilts and accelerates as we round a marker buoy and into open water.

“Can I sit at the front?,” my daughter asks.

Taking a panorama with a level horizon on a longtail is impossible. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When I nod, within seconds they’re both huddled on the prow. Coloured ribbons jangle, seabreeze in their face. We can see Ko Muk in the distance, but we’re aiming for Kradan, an island further west, for now hidden behind Muk’s bulbous hills.

Above us are brilliant big blue skies, while calm muddy waters slide underneath like ice tea. As we break free of the estuary’s muddy grasps, the caramel fades, first into no–mans land green blue wash, then the bottom drops. It still isn’t all that deep, so is more of an aqua blue something or other. Regardless of the colour, it is still glass. So beautiful—one of the upsides of getting up early I guess. Later in the trip we’ll “longtail” over deep waters, so deep the water looks black, yet still glassy like a mirror. Magnificent.

Our lodgings in Trang. Anon: Mummy takes us to nicer places. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The previous evening I’d taken them to the Trang night market. They’ve seen no shortage of Indonesian night markets, but Thais do it different. Also Trang, while it is hardly a “tourist town”, does see tourists. The vendors, well acquainted with foreign curious kids, load on smiles and encourage my daughter’s attempts at Thai. We graze and try lots—we all eat our fill.

But this, right now, on the boat on the sea, surrounded by beauty. To me, this is Southern Thailand.

I watch Ko Muk appear, we veer to the south, to hook around the island’s sandy white thorn, to continue west to Kradan. The kids keep yelling at me, but I can’t hear them for the racket of the engine. The boy is watching jumping fish, other boats, birds wheeling above. My daughter is watching. Pensive. Soaking it up.

Destination sorted. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We round Ko Muk’s southern headland. My son points and yells “Is that it?” at eleven he still has a high pitched voice, and the wind—it is no longer a breeze—washes it back over me. He’s pointing to a small, long and thin island. Far smaller than Ko Muk, it still has a row of distinct hills—we’ll get to know them well in the coming days.

“Yes,” I yell back. He nods, then goes back to watching for sea creatures beneath the water.

It feels like longer than it is, but Ko Muk slips behind and Ko Kradan approaches. It has been almost two decades since I’ve set foot on the island. A long house beach wraps around the south and eastern coast. On the west coast a couple of small beaches—I remember them from the 90s as being popular with nudists. Popular because so few bothered to leave the main beach. I wonder what it is like now.

Are we there yet? Almost! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As we near the main beach, there are just a few longtails pulled up. Perhaps a half dozen people strolling. The tide is high and as we near, the boatman idles back his engine. The boat lolls, sinking into the water and we coast rather than rush, towards the shore. My ears ring.

The kids are peering over each side. The deep blues fade, replaced by the shallows, a banged up house reef slides underneath us. The kids gawk and point out brightly coloured reef fish—the greens and electric blues. They’re scant glimpses, so fast, as we pass over them.

What now? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The boatman throws out the rear anchor, and the prow grounds to a stop against Ko Kradan’s house beach. He positions the ladder and we climb out, feet into those warm Thai waters, golden sand underfoot. The kids loiter on the finer, whiter sand, while we get the bags out, then we’re done.

My daughter asks, “where are we staying?”

“Into the jungle,” I say, pointing to the sign reading “Paradise Lost”.

More next Tuesday.