Couchfish

Sorry I’m a day late with this—I had a few unforeseen dramas which required my attention yesterday. My apols.

For years, no decades, I’ve hated Surat Thani. If you’re not familiar with the city, it is a southern Thai provincial capital often used as a gateway to the Gulf islands. I had a particularly unpleasant time there one trip years ago, which only served to cement my loathing of the place. It turns out though, I was doing it wrong.

Surat is one of those places travellers try to spend as little time as possible in. At a quick glance—which is all many give it—the appeal of the place isn’t obvious. The centre of the old town, Ban Don, sits on the south side of a river (more on that in a bit). The immediate area by the riverbank is a fairly typical Thai town. There’s some older buildings and narrow lanes, a market, and a temple or three.

With the clock ticking down on beach time though, few linger. Instead they shuttle from the train or bus station to the pier—in and out. Getting stuck there overnight thanks to a late train or broken down bus, is a fate worse than death. Ok, I’m being a little melodramatic, but yeah, the general view is “Oh God no, not Surat—I wanted Samui!”

The side of Surat Thani too many miss. Photo: David Luekens.

Some of the local population in the tourist industry, know many travellers feel this way. They grasp that they may only have four to six hours to monetise the traveller. The result? Surat Thani has a not totally unfair reputation for scams and money–wringing.

It is the typical stuff. The ride from the train station drops you at a tourist restaurant. They sell you the ferry ticket and transfer and do all they can to keep you on site eating their mediocre food. More often than not, travellers, sleepless from the overnight trip from Bangkok, acquiesce. Many chug Chang beers, eat bad pizzas or greasy takes on pad thai. They play cards, stare at their phones—some even talk to one another. Few stray outside.

The night boat. My God the memories. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

My worst Surat Thani experience was when I (stupidly) bought a through bus ticket from Ko Pha Ngan to Bangkok. The agent in Thong Sala said they had VIP, first class and second class seats. I don’t remember the prices, but it was something like 1,000 baht, 750 baht and 500 baht. Fine with discomfort, I went with the cheapest ticket.

Unfortunately my idea of discomfort and the travel agents’ differed. When the bus showed up, everyone else boarded except for two women and myself. We were second class ticket holders. Once loaded, we were invited to get in … the luggage hold.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fit it. At the Raji Thani. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I remember thinking they were joking, but they weren’t. There was a tatty vinyl sofa in there. No windows. All the walls were covered in black carpet that stank of stale cigarettes and beer. The three of us looked at one another.

“No.”

The travel agent, to whom I’m being kind describing as a complete a*****e, smiled. “No problem—the bus can go without you”. He was well practised—no doubt he acted out this same routine daily.

No, this is not the Mekong Delta, it is a canal off the Tapi River. Photo: David Luekens.

We demanded they call the police—riding in the luggage compartment was unsafe, we argued. They refused. This was before smart phones, so none of us could call easily. One of the others went off to find a police officer while the remaining two of us argued with the agent. It was ugly. There were tears.

The constabulary arrived. Like the agent, I’m sure their performance was well practised. He feigned sympathy and asked to see our tickets. He looked at each ticket carefully, then handed them back.

“Your tickets are second class seats, and in this bus, second class is with cargo”.

Supporting the right kind of local business. Photo: David Luekens.

If we didn’t feel safe, he suggested we catch another bus and buy a first class ticket this time.

We rode in the luggage hold for the ten hours to Bangkok.

Screw you Surat Thani travel agent.

From getting off the ferry to sullenly climbing into the luggage hold, I’d been in Surat Thani about four hours. What chance was I giving the place?

I was doing it wrong.

Sleep by the water at the 100 Canals Homestay. Photo: David Luekens.

A few years ago, David Luekens headed to Surat Thani as a part of a Travelfish research project. David spent a few days exploring Surat Thani and the surrounds—rather than the few hours most do—and it paid dividends.

He found some of the more standard stuff—temples, some non–touristy quality places to eat and so on. But, David being David, he found more captivating activities as well. In particular, a local homestay programme running on the Tapi River.

The Tapi River? Where is this unheard of body of water? It is actually the river Surat Thani sits on! Exploring the river has been in guidebooks for decades, but you needed to read them closely. As I wrote a week or so ago, many, clearly including me, don’t. For years I’d passed through Surat Thani, trying to get in and out without touching the ground if possible.

Hello beautiful. Photo: David Luekens.

I should have been doing the opposite. Namely I should have slowed down.

Writes David:

“Setting out on a narrow longtail boat steered by boisterous Surat native, Mr Lek, we cut north into one of the many canals that crisscross the delta. Still within sight of Surat’s multi-storey concrete buildings, the simple houses set over the water and shrouded in greenery present an immediate contrast of rural and urban, side by side.

Continuing into the tropical trees on a sunny morning, we spotted cranes and other birds gliding or twirling over the treetops. For a moment, a pair of dragonflies hovered next to our boat. Bright orange and yellow wildflowers joined the red leaves of umbrella trees amid a dense backdrop of flora.”

Now that sounds far more appealing than ten hours in a bus luggage compartment.

As you may have heard, most recreational travel is on hold at the moment, and has been for much of the last twelve months. It is a frustrating time for travellers and a devastating time for people involved in the tourism industry worldwide. Stuck at home, perhaps on the couch (reading Couchfish I see!), gazing out the window, wondering when travel will restart.

Stuck on the couch or in the hammock—same difference. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

All is not lost! I’ve written before about ways to keep travel in mind—the last two Travelfish newsletters of 2020 focused on this. First with a year’s worth of reading online, then a year’s worth of books—though the latter will probably take me a decade to get through.

Today, I thought I’d take a look at video. With nothing but a mouse click and a set of earphones, you can get stuck into the region—from the couch! Best of all? No uncomfortable bus rides to get from A to B.

Before dawn: Rinjani, Indonesia

Ok, so you’d need to start climbing well before dawn, like two days before dawn, to reach the summit of Gunung Rinjani—Indonesia’s second highest volcano.

Once upon a time, back in the year 1257, the original peak, Gunung Samaras was thought to have reached 4,200 metres. A catastrophic eruption that year, blew the peak off leaving us with a revised elevation of 3,726 metres. In the process it delivered a mini ice age. Tambora, on neighbouring Sumbawa, repeated the process in the 19th century.

Climbs come in two- and three-day flavours, and the walking is hard—you will pant and sweat. When you’re on the summit though, it is more than worth it.

There is, of course, no better way to work up an appetite than climbing a volcano, so once you’ve taken your selfie with an elevation marker, jump into your transporter and head to Ho Chi Minh City—it is time to eat.

Breakfast: Bún thịt nướng, Vietnam

In a country with so much amazing food, it can be hard to settle on a single breakfast dish over all the others. Bún thịt nướng is as good a spot as any to start gorging on. A vermicelli noodle dish, layered in barbeque pork, a chopped spring roll (or three) and lashings of chilli and herbs, there is really no better way to start the day. You’ll find the dish everywhere, from street side to upmarket eateries. My preference is for street side, as it won’t cost me as much when I order a second bowl.

Don’t forget a steaming Vietnamese drip coffee with half an inch of condensed milk at the base. Heaven.

Sated? Caffeinated? Great, back into the transporter for a quick jump west.

Mid morning: Sukhothai, Thailand

An ancient Siamese capital, the ruins of Sukhothai, and to the north at Si Satchanalai are one of the most popular destinations in the Thai heartland. They’re best explored by bicycle, and as the ruins are set in park areas, you don’t need to worry about being mowed down by a bus. It is also a fantastic destination for families, with the smooth pathways and ample open space ideal for a leisurely exploration of Thai history. Pack a hamper, find a shady tree, and make a day of it.

Don’t raise your nose at Si Satchanalai to the north. The ruins are smaller and less manicured, but there are a few terrific home stays in the area, so make an overnight of it and you won’t be disappointed.

Sukhothai is also famous for its food, but hold your horses, we’re heading west again to fill that hole in your belly.

Lunch: Mandalay market fare, Burma

Burma’s northern capital, and most Chinese city, Mandalay runs a distant second to Yangon in many ways. There is not as much to do, the city is not as attractive and the traffic, well, you need to see it to believe it. Mandalay does hold its own though, at least one regard, its food. So it is lunch in Mandalay. Many give Burma a bad wrap for its food, characterising it as too oily, but I love it. Like the country, it sort of explains the transition from South Asia to Southeast Asia, from India to Thailand, and this is superbly reflected in its cuisine. While mohingya is the breakfast staple, there’s no law against eating it three times a day, and you’ll get some of the best bowls market–side.

Back in your transporter, we’re heading northeast and into the wilderness.

Afternoon: Nam Nern Night Safari, Laos

Often the only news that gets out of Laos are dire tales of dams and human rights. Sometimes though there are projects done right, and the Nam Nern Night Safari is one such affair. Set in the remote wilderness of northern Laos, the project deftly melds ecotourism done right, sustainable development and community based tourism. Head upriver into the jungle on a pirogue. The river gets smaller, rapids appear, the boat man poling you along the way. Eat traditional fare by the river, then when darkness falls, back onto the river for some wildlife spotting. For each creature spotted, money is deposited into a fund for surrounding villages—the more you spot, the more they get. The end result? A financial incentive to stop poaching. It is an amazing scheme, and we wish more like it existed in the region.

Back in your transporter for a long hop to the southeast. We’re headed to the Cambodian capital.

Dinner: Phnom Penh market grazing, Cambodia

Phnom Penh is not in short supply of fancy pants eateries—I confess to trying many of them myself—but there is a whole world of local fare out there worth trying. Khmer food may not receive the same accolades as that of its nearest neighbours Thailand and Vietnam, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth eating. It most certainly is. Hit the market, find a crowded stall, sit down, point, and start eating. Better still, do a street food tour.

Once you’re done eating local, do grab a more cosmopolitan vibe at Juniper Gin Bar—the evening views are fantastic, and you need to wash all that food down, as next stop is Malaysia—for a spot of diving.

Evening: Mabul night diving, Malaysia

Diving is great, night diving is even better. On my first night dive (around Indonesia’s Togean Islands) I felt like I was on the set of Avatar. The colours and the magical floating underwater beasties. The coral was just amazing—I’ve never seen a place like it.

Mabul Island, off the south coast of Semporna in Malaysia’s Sabah State, is another such place. What better way to work off a Khmer dinner than floating through this other–worldy underwater universe.

Late: An evening bicycle ride, Singapore

We started the day climbing a volcano, we cycled through historic ruins, floated into the jungle on a pirogue and dove into another world. Yes, we ate a bit too. Where better to finish the day then, than with a night–time bicycle ride through Southeast Asia’s most neon city, Singapore.

There are plenty of different routes worth considering. I’m sure you could finish the ride with yet another plate of noodles—and an iced Tiger Beer on the side.

This week I have an interview with my friend Caroline Mills. She’s an ex–Travelfish writer and now runs a small resort an hour south of Hoi An in Vietnam.

You can reach Caroline on Twitter at @misscvietnam, by email at [email protected] or the resort’s Facebook page is https://www.facebook.com/LD.Tamhairesort/.

The transcript of the interview is below—with some minor editing for clarity and removing rooster noises.

Blood pressure drops. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Stuart

Hi everyone, today I’ve got an interesting interview with an old friend of mine and an ex–Travelfish writer Caroline Mills. She’s currently the manager of Le Domaine Tam Hai, a small resort on a small island, about an hour south of Hoi An. She’s been running the place for a few years and she runs it with a merry gang who she calls “The Pirates”. It’s been an interesting experience and I thought it would be an interesting chat to have, about what it’s like running a resort in Vietnam, that little bit off the track.

Caroline spoke to me by phone from the resort. She was busy with the Pirates getting them to put away, I think it was an angle grinder, and we’ve got some relative quiet. You’ll have to excuse the roosters—they’re actually at my place, not hers.

Without any further ado, let’s go straight into the chat with Caroline.

Slow days by the river. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Caroline thank you very much for your time to have a bit of a chat about what it’s like running a resort in Vietnam. Before we get onto the nuts and bolts of what it’s like doing what you do, can you give me a little bit of a brief history. What brought you to Vietnam in the first place and how it was that you ended up on an island south of Hoi An?

Caroline

Ah OK, Long story short, we quit the UK, my husband and I quit the UK because the recession hit back in around about 2009/2010. We were both in the luxury service industry back there and so we just sold everything and bought one way tickets to KL. The whole plan was to travel and wait until things got better.

Six months into that, we ended up in Hoi An. I may have lost our travel card and it took about, I don’t know, about 8 weeks before we got a new one. We kind of got a little bit stuck there. In that time we made loads of friends, got offered work and we just thought we’d hang around for a bit. Ten years later, we’re still here.

For the island side of it, I found as Hoi An developed it became very touristy. It also became really Western, and for me it didn’t suit my thinking of living somewhere exotic and far from home. I first visited the island about eight years ago and fell in love with the whole traditional lifestyle. It felt like Vietnam. So when I got offered this job, I jumped at it, and fell more in love with the island. So that’s why I’m still here.

Everyday scenes. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Stuart

So the resort was already there?

Caroline

Yes. The resort opened about 15 years ago, and back then there were no main roads or anything to the island. So even from Hoi An it would take about four hours to get here. Now there are bridges and highways and things, so it’s an hour away. But yeah, the resort has been here for a long time.

Stuart

So, can you tell me a little bit about the resort like how big it is, how many rooms there are, that kind of thing?

Caroline

The land is huge, but there are only ten villas on the land and so it’s mainly a natural place. It has lots and lots of trees which caused us some problems this year with all the storms. So it’s a small resort on a really large peninsula on the island. Even once you’ve come from the mainland, you still have to go over bridges to get to us, or otherwise come by the river.

Cows are welcome. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Stuart

Your staffing there, are they all drawn from the local community? Or are you bringing people down from Hoi An and other centres in Vietnam? How does how does that work?

Caroline

Only islanders. When the resort first opened, it was considered a poor area, so there’s no attraction for people from Hoi An to travel and come and work here. For me it’s really important to be able to give employment to the islanders. This comes with a lot of complexities because the education here ends at 14, and the predominant work is in fishing. It’s quite interesting trying to train staff, but they’re all hard workers and they’re all amazing. So yeah, we employ locally.

Stuart

How many employees do you have?

Caroline

We have 25 and most of them predate me—I’ve been here three years. Most of them have been working for the resort, or going backwards and forwards between here and having babies, or taking time off, since the resort opened.

Step outside and into Vietnam. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Stuart

I often see you on Twitter talking about the Pirates. I think sometimes it’s a bit of a term of affection and other times a term of frustration. Why do you call them Pirates?

Caroline

When I started at the resort, there were many, many problems from before. The owner, always employed a Westerner as manager, as back then 50% of our market was international travellers. As there’s no English language skills on the island, having a Westerner would be a positive thing. But she employed badly, and basically there was a lot of fraud.

The managers had taught the Pirates how to be a little bit naughty with finances. So initially I called them Pirates because they were all thieving little buggers. But it is a fond term. I mean for them it was just what they’ve been taught. So we had to go through quite a lot. But yeah, they’re amazing. I love our staff, but they did come from bad bad training.

Stuart

Do you feel that you’ve learned a lot from them?

Caroline

Yes, I’ve learned so much. I’ve learned to um, to relax and just believe that things can happen when we’re given a deadline. You know, even if it feels impossible, we do achieve it. And that works with the way that I work as well. I’m quite relaxed about stuff until we have only two days to get it done, and it’s the same for them. So yeah, I’ve learned an awful lot from them.

When Vietnam closed, numbers dropped off. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Stuart

So you mentioned that you’ve got over 20 staff and they’re all from the island, is that correct?

Caroline

Yeah.

Stuart

So would you say that you’re supporting a large number of families through having this enterprise?

Caroline

I hope so. The island is very, very old fashioned. When you support one family, or looking at a household of about three or four generations, so by employing one in that household, you’re supporting the entire family in a tiny way.

I’ve changed things so that we only buy our market shopping and things, we do that all on the island. And I’m trying to do this for every single purchase we make—although that’s difficult—is from the island. So the support goes beyond the staff.

Stuart

So you’re casting a larger shadow across the island in a way.

Caroline

Yeah, well I hope so, I’m trying.

One of the many stars on Caroline’s Twitter feed, Fat Dave. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Stuart

You mentioned earlier that you’re the manager, rather than the owner. If I remember correctly, the owner is in Ho Chi Minh City. Would you prefer to be the owner, or do you enjoy managing it rather than owning it?

Caroline

I’d love to own it! I know it is a financial impossibility, but there are so many restrictions, and the owner is a city woman. She loves the island and but she still doesn’t understand it. She handed it over to me and said run it as an owner, just throw things by me. But, there are quite a lot of arguments we have, because she doesn’t understand the island, so it’s really difficult. Certainly if I owned this place, I would run things quite differently.

Stuart

You said a primary market is international travellers, but with Covid, international tourism has changed. I realise the resort is closed for different reasons at the moment, but are you trying to change the approach and cater to more of a domestic market?

Caroline

Absolutely. Always 50% of our market was domestic travellers and I really enjoy that market. They’re easy, they’re great fun and also, it suits the Pirates. It’s not a struggle for them to try to understand the different ways that international travellers holiday, and easier for communication.

As a knock on effect, having a larger domestic market means I don’t have to work quite as hard, which is appealing. So losing the international market isn’t something that I’m concerned about. I’m really happy and quite excited to be aiming for the domestic market for the next year, or however long it takes for the rest of the world to catch up with Vietnam.

Pick a shady spot, turn the phone off for a week. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Stuart

If you had to pick one distinguishing factor that differentiates an international guest from a local guest, what would it be?

Caroline

Spend.

Stuart

Spend?

Caroline

Yeah. Most of our domestic travellers are return or word of mouth guests. They know what they’re signing up for before they come here—and they’re really excited. They’ll come from the cities, and as our price point is four–star, so they know from that it’s not going to be the cheapest holiday they could have. They’re excited about experiencing the seafood, and excited about going on boat trips. It’s like going back to their childhood, when things were a lot more simple. They enjoy that, and so they spend a lot more on site than a western traveler would.

The Pirates at play. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Stuart

I remember you have tweeted quite a few times about some of the, what’s the word? more problematic? guests that you get, tending to be from the Hoi An expatriate community. Why do you think that is? Why do you think that they can be such a hassle?

Caroline

I think the same reason that I was uncomfortable living in Hoi An anymore. It became so Western that you don’t feel that you’re living in Vietnam. It arms you with all of that arrogance of you don’t have to make an effort to try to speak the language, everything comes easily.

There’s also this whole thing where Hoi An really promoted expat discounts and things. Therefore they feel entitled to that, and they feel that it should be a privilege for us for them to come and stay. So they don’t have any problems about being quite demanding for discounts to book.

They feel that their presence just being here is something that we should appreciate, because it will generate more business—which it never does. They’re also cheap, so they bring along all their own food and drink and things, then complain the entire time because it’s not Hoi An.

The carnage left behind by one of over a dozen storms that hit the island. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Stuart

I’ll come to the storm in a second, but before the storm, what would you say was your biggest challenge or surprise in getting into this?

Caroline

There is nothing, nothing as big as the storm. I mean, Covid I saw when it broke in Wuhan, and that was back at the beginning of the year. I was doing our financial forecasts, and that was when there were lots of things online about people dropping dead on the road. I knew, because we were on the border of China, that could potentially be a big problem for us.

So although Covid was a concern, in January I redid our entire financial planning to work around that. I offered to work for a year unpaid, working on how much money we had in the bank, and working on a year to make sure that we could keep the Pirates in employment and to keep everything going.

So Covid wasn’t really a big problem. And in the long run it didn’t turn into a big problem for Vietnam. They handled it incredibly well. But yes the biggest surprise was the unmentionable storm.

Stuart

So tell me about the storm.

Local villages on the island suffered terrible damage. Photo: Caroline Mills.

Caroline

It wasn’t just one storm, it was a series of, I think, about 14 or 15. So the floods came first and we were underwater at the resort because we’re at the lowest end of the island. So we were underwater at the resort for a couple of months. This didn’t help with the fact that we have so many trees, and it undermined all of the root systems. And then it was storm number nine which completely knocked us for six. That’s what we’re still recovering from now. Slowly.

After storm number nine we had storm number twelve which came from a different direction, so it was like Dominos. It was just that I was hoping we could open for Christmas. A lot of our Vietnamese guests celebrate Christmas because they get a little bit of holiday for New Year’s Day. They’re curious about the whole Christmas thing, so it’s a good market for us.

I was hoping if we hadn’t had the storms that we could take up a little bit of business, to

A couple of years ago I was in Eastern Indonesia and I caught a ferry from Baranusa on Pantar to Lewoleba on Lembata. The trip is roughly 100 km and it took around ten hours or so. It was slow travel.

The boat is a typical mid–sized Indonesian vessel—a mixed purpose RORO ferry with plenty of space to roam. There are only a couple of vehicles on board so it isn’t long before the car deck transforms into a picnic area of sorts. Mats are unrolled, food appears, and families set up for the slow, smooth, ride west.

Lembata slides past. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Outside, as Pantar fades to the east, the first of Lembata’s great volcanoes looms. At a tad over 1,500 metres, Ili Uyelewun is a baby by Indonesian standards, but flush to the ocean, and the sky a crystal blue, it is magnificent. It takes us an hour or so before the volcano is by our side. I’m on the ferry’s upper deck, feet dangling over the side, looking across the glassy water towards it.

Though it took us hours to reach the midpoint, the moment passes fast. I’m chatting to some other passengers, two guys from Kupang, then I look back towards it, and I realise it is falling behind us. An hour later, it is fading away. I look west—if I squint, I can just see the shadow of the next peak, Lembata’s star attraction, Lewotolo, better known as Ile Api. About ten metres shorter than Ili Uyelewun, even with the afternoon haze I can make out its beautiful lines.

It will take us another seven hours to be opposite it.

Approaching Ile Api. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve written before on how train is my favourite way to travel, but boats come a close second. As with the rails, at sea you can get up and wander around, live your life and so on. All the time moving from one place to another. Far preferable to being wedged into an aircraft or bus seat.

In archipelago Indonesia, the ferries are lifelines connecting one island to another. Sometimes, connecting towns on the same island—as I wrote about here on Pantar. Even without an archipelago, you’ll find “things that float” across Southeast Asia.

On the Chindwin. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve written before of a two day river boat trip in Burma from Monywa to Mawleik. As we call into small villages along the Chindwin, a dozen sampans paddle out to meet us. They pull up along side, disgorging throngs selling noodles, cigarettes and warm beer. The boat moors at night (Hello Kalewa!), but we’re still on the river at sunset and back on the water for dawn. Fast, smooth waters run past as we chug upriver. We sit beside the captain at the prow, Burma spread out in front of us, the view obscured only by fluttering flags.

On the Vomit Comet. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In Cambodia, while it no longer runs (to my knowledge), the “vomit comet” was a river speedboat used in the open seas from Koh Kong to Sihanoukville. Take my word for it, in rough weather, it earned its nickname. Long, narrow and squat, the cabin below was not for the squeamish. Instead you’d sit on the roof, in season with a mountain of backpacks in the middle. In rough weather, you’d need to hang on tight. They’d break the trip at Koh Sdach, where a large ice–making factory was the primary attraction.

Easily the most terrifying way to travel on the Mekong!

Riverine Laos, a country where for decades its rivers were the highway of choice. An improving road network and plenty of dams have put some boat trips into past tense, but others still run. The slow boat from Huay Xai to Luang Prabang, taking two days and a night, remains one of the best boat trips in Southeast Asia. Do it while you still can. Smaller rivers, smaller boats. Almost always big enough to fit a scooter on though. Be it slicing your way up the Nam Kading, down the Nam Ou or even paddling up the Nam Tha, every river is different and rewarding in its own way.

Wildlife spotting on the Kinabatangan. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Like Laos, Malaysia is no slouch when it comes to river travel. It is my favourite way to approach Taman Negara National Park (do not take the minibus!). In the east, the Kinabatangan trip combines the pleasure of boat travel with some of Malaysia’s most endangered wildlife.

I’m on a bumboat! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’re travelling with kids, and find yourself in Singapore, take them on a bumboat, because, well, it is a bumboat. A bumboat is also an ideal way to get off the main island and throw yourself into the wilderness. I remember the first time I caught the cute little boat across to Pulau Ubin. Leaving behind the glass and brass of the city for natural beauty. Abandoned granite quarries, now reservoirs, birds everywhere. Perfectly manicured nature—Singapore–style.

Fun times with the kids. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Thailand offers a mix. There are river trips like the Kok River in the north—touristy, but deservedly popular. The country comes into its own though, in the south. Long tails. Long, lumbering, beautiful and noisy as hell, they’re a great way to explore the southwest islands. It seems a million years ago I was there with the kids and we chartered longtails to hop from island to island. Sometimes the trips were long. I’d snooze while the kids counted birds and boats and asked me “are we there yet” too many times to count. Mostly we’d pull up on the sand, gliding down a channel or, through the crystal water over the remains of the house reef. No pier, no worries—there is something special about going sand to boat to sand. And hey, with a chartered longtail you can make your own adventure. Pull up at say Ko Lao Liang to snorkel in the early morning, with not another soul there.

Small river? Need a small boat. At Xeo Quyt. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Which leaves me with Vietnam. To my mind you can’t go past the Delta. There’s sampans and cargo boats and speedboats and longer distance ferries. No two boats, nor the resulting experiences are the same. A country within a country, crisscrossed by hundreds of canals and tributaries. And there are boats on every single one of them. My all time favourite was a two day trip from Mỹ Tho to Tân Châu by the Cambodian border (near Châu Đốc). Sunset, sitting on the roof, surrounded by baskets of fruit, feet up, wind in our faces. At the other end of the stick, still in the Delta, in a sampan this time, being paddled through the dense jungle at Xeo Quyt. How could anyone have fought a war in this?

Then there’s the people you meet—regardless of which country you’re in. There’s something camaraderie–like about boat travel. Perhaps it is just that all on board have so much time on their hands. People are going to walk up and say hello. Instant coffees are shared, perhaps some noodles. A few words as we stumble through each others’ languages. The phones come out, details are swapped.

I’m still Facebook friends with the two guys from Kupang.

Lingchi. It’s a form of execution where a knife methodically removes portions of the body over time, usually leading to death.

Why have I been looking up its definition?

Australian travel writer Ben Groundwater last week tweeted a screenshot of an email from a reader. It read:

“Thanks dickhead… [you get] paid to let thousands of people know about special places that have remained secret to a few until exposed by you. Good one. Anything for the dollar and recognition.”

At first I laughed—travel writing does pay about a dollar. But it got me thinking about so called “secret places” and my role, as a travel writer, in writing about them.

What is travel writing?

I settled on a broad interpretation. The medium is irrelevant—it is the message that matters. Guidebook, travel blog, narrative, film, Instagram post or Youtube video—all can encourage travel. Since I watched A Thin Red Line all I can think about is going to the Solomon Islands. Few would describe the film as a travel movie. What about Eat Pray Love, or The Beach?

What preceded even all these? The snail mail version of Instagram: Postcards.

A brief history of ruining destinations

The earliest known picture postcard was mailed on July 14, 1840, from Fulham to London. Through the 20th century, postcards were part and parcel of the travel experience: a means to stay in touch, to introduce the destination to people back home, to humble brag.

The earliest known picture postcard. Photo: Wikipedia.

On glowing about a destination, Alfred Russel Wallace writes in The Malay Archipelago, about Bali in the mid 19th century:

“During the two days that we remained here, I walked out into the surrounding country to catch insects, shoot birds, and spy out the nakedness or fertility of the land. I was both astonished and delighted; for as my visit to Java was some years later, I have never beheld so beautiful and well–cultivated a district out of Europe.”

So before you aim any outrage at influencers “spoiling Bali”, remember they’re just the latest take on an age-old practice.

The author of Lonely Planet’s first dedicated guide to Thailand (and many others), Joe Cummings was on the ground as the late 20th-century tourist wave crested in the region. Back in pre–internet days, travellers tended to either use Rough Guides or Lonely Planet. I’ve always thought these publishers had something of a gatekeeper role, the power to make or break a destination, but Joe tells me he disagrees.

“I think the assumed power of LP guides, and by extension their authors, was greatly exaggerated back in the day,” he says. “People fallaciously made the assumption that if a lot of travellers were congregated at a destination or eatery or whatever, and they were all carrying LP guides in their hands, that that meant LP brought them to the spot.”

After almost coming to believe this himself, Joe looked at his work, and compared it with what was popular. He saw little correlation.

“The most popular eateries tended to be those closest to accommodations. Those with English-language menus, for example. While all the while I was talking up places with Thai-only menus—a point of pride (or perhaps arrogance) with me. Almost no one was going to those places.”

But it wasn’t only food and accommodation—entire regions were ignored.

“Likewise I touted Isan [the northeast region of Thailand] like crazy especially in the early days. Yet even in the peak tourism era, from 2000 onwards, only around 2% of international visitors bothered with Isan.”

Write it and they will come

Write it and they will come—is often not the case. Not everyone has a spare three days to get to a place or two weeks to dedicate to Isan. Others, itineraries taken up to keep up with the Joneses back home, find little time to search for new spots. Even pre-Covid19, travel was changing. Gap year travellers had dried up and low-cost carriers drove shorter trips. If a gap traveller with time up their sleeve didn’t have time for Isan, what chance did a couple from Beijing on a four-day break?

Pattaya Beach, Ko Lipe in the early 1990s. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Perhaps giving away secrets in a region few will visit anyway isn’t much of a concern. But what about places more on the beaten track, such as a Thai island badly battered by the tourism stick, Ko Lipe, in the far southwest.

I first went there in 1993 or 1994 and loved it. Over the years, I repeated my thoughts in a guidebook and magazine articles, along with plenty of other travel writers. Over the decades, the island transformed, from four sets of basic huts when I visited initially to now well over 100 hotels.

A numbers game

In Lonely Planet’s 1997 coverage of the island, Ko Lipe received about half a column of print. In the 2003 edition, it warranted one and a half columns, but by the 2018 edition this stretched to four pages. Over the same period, Thailand’s international tourism inbounds rose from 7 to 38 million. The number of islands in the country didn’t change.

Pattaya Beach, Ko Lipe in 2017. Photo: David Luekens.

Is this a guidebook giving away a “secret” spot and then building on its coverage? Or is it an inevitable result of skyrocketing tourism?

David Luekens, a former Travelfish writer and author of the Thai Island Times newsletter, agrees Ko Lipe’s development has been problematic. But, he notes, residents have done well. Some run resorts, others leased their land. Some have become wealthy, but not all: Tourism has not been a win-win for everyone.

The road is long and hard

Four years ago, Lonely Planet author Celeste Brash hit the Batanes Islands in the Philippines. Remote and little visited, at least by foreign travellers, I asked whether she had qualms about writing it up.

“No qualms because I definitely wasn't worried about tons of people suddenly going there. Batanes was hard and expensive to get to. The only tourists there were Filipino—who have definitely discovered the area. The flights were only a few times per week and expensive. It took a lot of time just to figure out the logistics. That in itself will protect them.”

This mirrors my own experiences writing about some of Indonesia’s more remote areas. In practice, some may read about a place and dream of going there. Then they find out that getting there means at least two flights, an 8- to 12-hour ferry and then chartering a sampan. I don’t expect hordes to make the effort.

Where does a writer’s loyalties lie?

When writers talk about not writing about somewhere, where do their loyalties lie? To their readers? To their publisher? To the destination? To the locals? To the environment? To themselves?

It is complicated, and a delicate balancing act. It is here that a more experienced writer, familiar with the territory, earns their keep.

Travel writers need to keep their head. Khon Kaen, Isan, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A good writer should be able to balance these competing loyalties. The more familiar they are with the issues at play, the better able they are to make a solid judgement call.

On this, I come back to David, who plans to one day cover every island in Thailand. I asked him whether he had any concerns about doing so.

“I think the important thing is to be honest about places when sharing them, and possibly warning readers not to behave in certain ways,” he says. “I’ve always tried to be clear about what readers should expect. For example Thai-language skills are a must if going to Ko Chik. Ko Si Boya is a Muslim community so people need to be respectful of that. The environment at small national park islands is fragile so don’t visit on a damaging speedboat.

“Being honest and direct while doing a solid job of explaining the place to readers is very important. It's important for publications to have an ongoing narrative of respect for both the environment and communities. This should be woven throughout their content.”

Is it a secret if you don’t know about it?

Sheree is a British travel blogger who wrote about Cambodia’s Koh Rong Samloem for Southeast Asia Backpacker in 2016. The island was new to Sheree—she’d heard about it from other backpackers. She loved it. Many were not happy she was spreading the word. In a follow-up piece on her own site, she writes:

“The article in question was a lovingly written post about the gorgeous Koh Rong Samloem, a relatively undiscovered island just off the Cambodian coast near Sihanoukville. I never once considered that I had done the wrong thing by telling people about this isolated beauty spot, yet as the comments on social media rolled in, it became clear that not everyone agreed with me.”

Sheree writes of the backlash:

“Some commenters labelled me as selfish for seeking to get the article published, claiming that now that I had been able to enjoy the island and its raw perfection, I was seeking to ruin the experience for others.”

You should have been here yesterday. Koh Rong Samloem, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Both Koh Rong Samloem and neighbouring Koh Rong had been in guidebooks for years. By the time Sheree hit the sand, they’d been developing for a decade. They may have been a secret to some, but they were a secret in plain sight. Sheree tells me:

“I think rather than not writing about hidden beauty spots, it is far better to educate travellers about how to preserve them. With so many bloggers and guidebooks, someone is bound to share the destination, even if you don't!”

Amen.

The response Sheree received ties back to my chat with Joe. He is convinced that many who owned a Lonely Planet were not really reading it.

“I realized, after many years of meeting folks on the road with LP guides, that they weren't reading them with much depth.”

If people were not reading the book, how were they finding out where to go?

“I believed then, and I still do today, that word of mouth is most influential, and the penetration of social media, blogs, and so forth spreads it around much faster and on a larger scale than print media ever could.”

Word of mouth

Back on July 14, 1840, Theodore Hook sent a postcard to himself from Fulham to London. The postcard had an audience of one. Today, through platforms like Instagram, Youtube, Facebook and Twitter, a single post can reach millions.

Pre-Covid19, I did a little travel consulting, helping people plan their trips to the region. The biggest challenge was trying to convince clients to take my advice over that of people they knew. Word of mouth from family and friends trumps all else. With social media, and a more liberal interpretation of “friends”, word of mouth has an energy all of its own.

Mù Cang Chải is pretty enough without photoshopping. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As with the postcards of old, many want to retrace the steps of their favourite influencers. The desire for this is so strong that on Bali, GetYourGuide offers a tour for Instagrammers.

Visual purveyors of travel information get plenty of flack from the more traditional writing crew. They’re labelled as vacuous, self–centred and destination agnostic. They don’t care where they are, as long as they are in the photo. Fakery, as with Bali’s Gates of Heaven, or Mù Cang Chải, in Vietnam, damage both trust and destinations.

That said, plenty do a great job. Food in particular is well suited to more visual mediums. Take a look at the work of Mark Wiens, Vietnamese God or Aum Trang Ko’e and tell me your stomach isn’t rumbling.

Food

A spoiler up front. Don’t panic, Nakhon Nowhere, in name anyway, doesn’t exist. Rather it is a play on a common prefix in Thailand for towns and provinces. In this case I mean an off–beat, less–visited spot. It doesn’t matter where you are in Southeast Asia, Nakhon Nowheres lie everywhere in plain sight.

They’re the train stations that you pull up at on the way to somewhere that isn’t nowhere. Their platforms are small. So small if you’re in the wrong car, you’ll need to jump onto the ballast and make your way to the platform—watch your ankles! The platform has manicured gardens, flower pots, orchids dangle from the awnings. All are well loved and watered. Hell, when only two trains a day slow down, how else does a station master fill their day?

Start here. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We’ve all been at the bus station equivalent. More often than not in the dead of night. The bus pulls up at a near–empty platform, you dash off your bus for a toilet break, then wish you hadn’t. What is it with the aroma of bus station urinals? A few insomniac tuk tuks or songthaew drivers are lolling about, but the vibe is very 3 am. Where am I? Where is this place? Why do people live here? Are we there yet? No.

Get off your bus or train and find out.

I’ve written a few times in the past about why you should always get off the boat, but the same holds for trains and buses. Get off and see what you find. There is no such thing as the wrong station.

Slow down, smell the flowers along the way. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Assuming you’ve pulled in to your Nakhon Nowhere for the day, here are some pointers on how to navigate it.

First off, you want to find somewhere cheap to stay. In my experience you want a Thai–Chinese style hotel. Pay attention to the foyer. If the hour is late, scooters will be parked in it. The front desk is at the rear, they’ll have a huge ledger, where everything gets written in by hand. Nobody is in a rush. Be patient. More often than not there’ll be a fish tank with a single lonely fish. Long and silver. Swim left, swim right. “Please eat me,” its forlorn eyes cry.

Do wait for a station before getting off. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There will be one of those white cat with the moving paws things. If there isn’t, go elsewhere. Nobody will speak your language. Don’t worry about that. This is a major hang up for many, but in the scheme of things, it is a minor issue—as long as you have hands to signal with.

On the upside, the room will be big and have a slow moving (and most likely creaking) ceiling fan. Skip the air–con option—it will either not work at all, or be so noisy you won’t sleep. The paint will be peeling. The bathroom will be ordinary. There may be a bucket full of water in lieu of functioning plumbing. Don’t look too closely at the grouting. They’ll be a few bottles of water, perhaps a glass ashtray with a few condoms in it. A bar fridge and TV—both will be older than you.

Think character. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Room sorted, go eat. Every single town in Southeast Asia has a market. Go there. Eat something you’ve not eaten before. Drink. Beer, sure, but throw yourself at the fruit shakes stall without restraint. Point and pick a colour. It won’t kill you. Eat more. Drink more.

Hit a market dessert stall. Wave your hands randomly over the choices. If you don’t speak any of the language, just keep nodding and smile a lot. Laugh if it feels right. People are laughing with you, not at you. Hand over some money. Back at your aluminium table, discuss with your companions what you are eating. What is the caterpillar green worms? Are they worms? (They’re not). Try more. Pace yourself—the sugar hit can sneak up on you.

Are you having fun yet?

Hit me with one of each. Photo: David Luekens.

In the morning, head down to reception. Wake up the staff. Use sign language to state you want to go sightseeing in Nakhon Nowhere.

Here we come to the great truisms of every town in the region. There will be some temples. There will be some outlying sight of “natural beauty”. More often than not, a temple at the pinnacle of a cliff reached by eleventy million steps. Elsewhere, expect a pond or lake. Swan boats are a bonus. If you’re near the coast, they’ll be more water stuff—beaches, sea, boat rides and so on. In the countryside? A national park, forest and/or waterfalls may beckon. Note: Not all waterfalls fall equal.

If the front desk staff can’t help you, they’ll know someone who can. That person will have transport. Sometimes two wheels, sometimes three or four. I’m yet to encounter a unicycle fixer, but I’m sure they’re out there. They may even have a map.

Plenty of pretty everywhere. Photo: David Luekens.

Use your judgement, negotiate what you feel is a fair price. You want good value, but never expect someone to work for nothing. Price sorted, hire them for a day and see where you get to.

Be sure to fit in food. Ask them to take you where they eat. Meet their friends—sometimes their family. Hit it off? Don’t be surprised if you end up in their home for a bite. Try everything that is slung onto the table. Be polite. Ask lots of questions (starting with “what am I eating”). Offer to pay for their food.

Are you having fun yet? Have you looked in your guidebook yet? I hope not.

A world away, but not really all that far, from Sukhumvit Road. Photo: David Luekens.

When the light is fading, ask to go somewhere fun. It may involve more dishes you’ve never heard of. You may drink a little too much. You might meet more of your new friend’s friends or family. Make a night of it. It could be anything from karaoke to evening rituals at a family temple. Prepare yourself to be surprised. Let the evening take you where it wants. Go with the flow. If things become uncomfortable, or not your scene, be polite in bailing out—but don’t be shy to do so.

By the time you get back to your hotel (whose name most likely starts with Nakhon), the bodgy plumbing won’t matter. Lay on the rock hard bed. On the well worn, threadbare sheets, put your hands behind your head and look up.

The fan groans, while geckos gobble up insects around your sole fluorescent tube. Their tails curl and bodies quiver while they burp their distinctive call. Outside, through the rusted bars and near–permanently closed wooden shutters, a motorbike roars past. Or perhaps it is wet season and you can hear the kilo–sized rain–drops thudding onto the hard base outside.

You want cats not rabbits on the hotel foyer desk. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I hope it has been a memorable day—even if for all the wrong reasons. Best of all it has been your journey, your experience, and will be your memories.

Always get off the train.

Do you have a Nakhon Nowhere close to your heart? Where was it? Tell me your tale!

This week, something new—a podcast! I chat with Indonesian food guru Arie Parikesit about how Indonesia offers a continent’s worth of eating. Please click on the play symbol above to listen!

Says Arie: “You have breakfast in Aceh, and then you will have lunch maybe in Bandung, you have Sundanese food, and then you have dinner in Bali or Lombok—you will feel like you are in three different countries.”

The founder of Kelanarasa, Arie has been involved in the Indonesian food scene for decades. Jakarta–based, but harking from Solo in Central Java, Arie describes himself as a Jakarta boy with his roots in central Javanese culture. He’s also eaten his way from one end of the country to the other.

At Resto Pecel in Solo, Central Java. Photo: Sally Arnold.

In this interview, Arie explains some of the reasons behind why Indonesian food doesn’t share the same fame as Thai and Vietnamese fare. From Aceh in the west to Papua in the east, Arie touches on regional specialities as he explains the diversity and history of the food.

Most importantly, we get down to the thorny issue of bubur ayam—should you stir or not?

You can find Arie on Twitter, Instagram and if you’d like to contact him direct, email is best— [email protected].

Thanks again to Arie for his time—I don’t think I’ve ever done an interview that left me quite so hungry!

This is my first go at recording an interview like this, and the internet connection (and my mixing skills) did us no favours. My apologies in advance for the scratchy sound!

I’m aiming to do one of these every Friday, though not always this long! Please let me know what you think in the comments. Suggestions, as always, are greatly appreciated, and if you know someone you’d like me to interview, let me know!

A few years ago, I was on a night ferry from Bali to Lombok. Depending on the weather conditions, the trip takes around four and a half hours. For much of the first half, Bali fades from view. For most of the second half, Lombok approaches. In both segments, as with the landmasses, a phone signal first fades, then rises.

In the middle though, for a little under two hours, there is no signal at all—at least with my provider, Telkomsel.

It is a hole in the earth.

Change incoming. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On this particular trip, the car ferry slowed and its horn groaned across the water. A jukung (a small traditional outrigger common in both Bali and Lombok) had laid nets in our path. The horn woke me and I wandered up to by the bow, to see what was going on. As we slowed, I noticed dolphins riding our bow waves.

The waters were calm, but the skies were stormy. Dawn was breaking and the light was early morning special. That light washed clear through the night, delivering an amazing clarity of both vision and mind. I took some snaps, trying without luck, to catch a dolphin breaking the surface.

The ferry came close to stationary as the fisher pulled his nets in. Then the engine rumbled and we continued on our way as the weather closed in, as it does, all too fast.

Get off my lawn. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I walked back to the deck bench I’d been snoozing on and went to post a few of the photos on Instagram. It was only then I realised we were still in the dead zone. It would be another hour before a patchy signal came back and the emails started flowing in.

A hole in the earth. They’re becoming harder and harder to find in the ever more connected world we live in. I wasn’t seeking one, but when I realised there was no signal, my phone went into my pocket, and I watched the sun rise.

There are of course, some places that will always be holes in the earth. The literal ones are easiest. I’m sure, for example, Cindy Fan had no phone signal while underground in Vietnam’s En Cave for two days. Likewise if you’re of an outdoors inclination, you can trek into a national park—or climb a volcano. Most likely they’ll be no need to turn your phone on.

No signal, no worries. Indonesia’s Togean Islands. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Indonesia’s Togean Islands was once another stalwart in this regard. On my most recent visit a couple of years ago though, how often I could get a signal surprised me. I’m sure it has improved more since. After all local people do live there and they like their phone coverage as much as the rest of us.

Making your own hole is easy enough—turn the damned thing off—or better still leave it at home. Few do so. A decade ago I could rattle off dozens of places one could go and not have a phone signal. Today, I could count them on one hand—or so I thought.

Late last year we had a weekend away here in Bali, to an eco lodge in the hills behind Tabanan. It is both a beautiful spot and an inspiring one. Inside the restaurant, there’s a few of photos on the wall—photos of what the landscape was once like. Sarinbuana Eco Lodge is set up on high on a ridge overlooking a valley, and when the owners moved in, the land was denuded. A palm here and there, but otherwise barren.

And here I am complaining about the WiFi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A couple of decades later, the site is like something out of Avatar. Having seen the photos, I asked the owner if they had started with a grand–plan of how to regenerate the site. She said no—it had sort of just happened. Fallen into place, piece by piece, plot by plot. They’d imported some New Zealand ferns, which stood metres tall, adding to the Jurassic vibe of the place.

Down the valley a little, they’d constructed a large wood and bamboo yoga sala. The forest surrounded the platform, and thanks to the slope, it felt like you were sitting in the canopy. Both mornings I sat there, listening to one half of the forest fade as the other half woke up.

One morning I took the kids on a walk down into the valley. At its base, a small three tier waterfall tumbled by, with a swimming hole at each level. While the water was icy, once you acclimatised, much like the dawn air on the ferry, you had an amazing clarity of mind. Or perhaps it was the iciness of the water cutting off blood circulation to the brain—a bit of each I reckon.

Plotting how to get Dad in the water. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As they played in the pools and jumped off the ledges, I noticed a small bench, again not dissimilar to my ferry bench. It was hewn from stone, moss over much of it, I’d guess it had been a while since anyone had sat on it. I watched the kids play, while above us, drenched in morning birdsong, the forest towered.

There was no phone signal.

The lodge offered WiFi, but it only worked reliably in the restaurant. Our room meanwhile had a large sitting area, with a broad window overlooking the valley. When the weather cleared, we could see the Bukit Peninsula, miles away in South Bali.

Even I was tempted to do yoga. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The location rides on the back of Gunung Batukaru, the second highest volcano on Bali. The peak is also home to Pura Luhur Batukaru, one of Bali’s nine kayangan jagat—directional temples. Dating back to the 11th century (when there was definitely no cell coverage) the temple helps protect Bali from evil spirits. In an island awash in temples, this is one of the most sacred.

As with the ferry, the weather was changeable. From our lounge we watched a storm roll down the slopes above us, the valley filling with torrential rain. Later in the day, we watched other storms blow in over the sea, enveloping the south.

Evil spirit weather. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was elemental and easy to see why Pura Luhur Batukaru stands where it does.

I remember griping to the owner about their on again off again WiFi. Frustrated at one stage I went for a walk trying to find a phone signal (without luck).

Thinking about it now, I was a fool. We’d stumbled upon a hole in the earth just an hour or so from home—and it took me until now to realise it.

You can find out more about Saribuana Eco Lodge here.

Phan Rang–Tháp Chàm is two towns in one. Tháp Chàm to the west and Phan Rang to the east—they’re separated by the Phan Rang River. Around seven kilometres further to the east, on the beach front, lies Ninh Chữ. After jumping off the train on the Tháp Chàm side of things, it is to Ninh Chữ I direct my xe–om.

Maybe it is because the name is a mouthful, or because the sights are not that enticing, but few travellers stop here. This is a mistake. Yes the Cham towers aren’t the most amazing, and the city beach is a bit grotty, but the true appeal is the surrounds. I’m going to get onto the surrounds tomorrow though, as today’s tale is about the first time I visited here, in the mid 1990s.

Late light on Ninh Chữ beach. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Nga* is a Vietnamese returnee. Her immediate family fled the South following the North’s victory. They escaped by boat, first to Malaysia and then eventually settling in Australia. She was four when they fled.

Her father was a soldier in the South Vietnamese Army and they felt sticking around was not prudent. The family were living in Saigon when they decided to flee, but the extended family were all in Phan Rang–Tháp Chàm. Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles—they all stayed.

Life comes at you fast. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Fast forward to the early 1990s. Nga, now in her 20s and fresh out of university, decides to return to Vietnam. She wants to meet the extended family she never knew and wants to see the country she was born in. She is the first of her immediate family to return.

We meet one morning, as I am walking along what was then a mind–blowingly filthy municipal beach. Nga introduces herself and asks if I speak English. When I say I do, and that I’m Australian, the deal is sealed and we go for coffee.

By the time we meet, Nga has been in Vietnam for a few months—the homecoming is not what she expected. The way she explains it, the trip is about finding her roots and reconnecting with her family and country. She laughs, saying she learned how appropriate the term “uprooted” is. All my roots are gone, she says.

Watch out for old goats. Photo: Cindy Fan.

This is the first time I’ve knowingly met a returnee, and it is fascinating hearing about the jealousy from those who stayed behind. The family matriarch, a woman in her 80s, has been particularly difficult to deal with. Her father’s mother, she ridicules Nga’s accented Vietnamese without pause. The anger around a perceived lack of financial support from her son and his family is palatable.

I remember Nga saying how her grandmother didn’t understand how hard life in Australia was early on. She is thankful for the education and prosperity her new home provided her, but it was far from easy. Her parents worked hard. They learned the language, worked many jobs, and dealt with racism and discrimination daily. In the end, after many years, things worked out.

Rubbing salt in old wounds. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Yet this all matters nought to Grandma. The extended family, now, is doing ok by local standards, but the early years were hard. Very hard. I ask Nga, what did she expect?

She says she doesn’t know. She thought in returning, she’d be able to help, but the family here are a mix of farmers and low skilled labourers. She laughs that she knows how to eat rice, but not plant it. Nga has a business degree and thought she could help the relatives to become more prosperous. The resistance to any sort of input from her blew her away.

“I don’t know how many times I’ve been told ‘what would you know,’” she says.

Ninh Chữ beach was not always this clean. Photo: Cindy Fan.

I’m the first foreigner she’s seen since arriving in Phan Rang–Tháp Chàm. She tells me how she thinks it is a beautiful province. The beaches remind her of Australia with their emptiness, and of Vietnam with their dirtiness.

Later we walk, along the same fetid stretch of sand. I ask how long she is planning to stay. She’s not sure. She thought is would be easier. Her family were happy to see her—they dispatched a cousin to pick her up—but the welcoming smiles faded fast.

They thought I was bringing money or gold up, she says, I did bring some money, but it was not enough. It will never be enough.

Make an offering and hope matters improve. Photo: Don Morgan.

I ask does she feel more Australian or Vietnamese. I’m laughing when I ask, as her English carries a heavy Australian twang—far heavier than my accent.

She sighs.

“I was born here, so I will always be Vietnamese, but Australia will always be my home. It has taken this trip for me to understand this. My family here can be cruel, but I know, deep down, they are happy for my family in Australia. They just don’t know how to show it.”

Tomorrow: By the seaside

* Nga is a pseudonym.

The other day on paid–for Couchfish I wrote, talking about Ho Chi Minh City, that it was a “great walking city”. Many did not agree. Later, I tweeted “What is the most interesting/unexpected thing you found walking in a foreign city?”

Unfortunately auto–correct on my phone, turned “walking” into “w*****g”. You can imagine the responses—they were not helpful.

Just keep on walking. On the Kalaw to Inle trek. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Think of travel as a hierarchy of movement. Something like flying > trains > buses > cars > motorbikes > bicycles > walking > in bed at home. Each has its pros and cons. Some are fast, some are fun, some are neither, but I think walking is best.

So, here are some discoveries I’ve made along the way on two feet.

Burma: Walk to flowers and find balloons

Years ago I did the three–day Kalaw to Inle Lake trek in Burma. The selling point was a rural slice of the country side and homestay style accommodation. The walk was described as easy, though long—the full trek was about 60 km. Expect rolling hills, people said, and that was what we got. What I didn’t expect, were rolling fields of tree marigolds. With huge and clear blue skies and a distant ridge looked like it was resting in a bed of yellow pillows, it was memorable to say the least.

About to send a balloon aloft at Taunggyi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After the trek, I was walking around Nyaung Shwe and got talking to some other walking travellers. They invited me to join them for a visit to the Taunggyi Balloon Festival. It rivals the Rocket Festival in Thailand for the title of most insane public event I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even know it was on till I met the other travellers. Always walk—always talk.

Cambodia: Walk across an island

When the vomit comet from Koh Kong pulled in to Koh S’dach on Cambodia’s south coast, I asked if there was accommodation. Told there was, I jumped off—everywhere is worth a night and all that. The accommodation in the village was no great shakes. So I walked over the (thankfully) small island and found a half–baked guesthouse.

All aboard the vomit comet. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The place was a dump, but there was a bed and a little beach good enough to get into the crystal water from. An added reason to get underwater was that then I couldn’t hear the karaoke. Despite exploring the entire island on foot, I never saw another foreign face.

Indonesia: Walk to East Africa (kind of)

After Jakarta, Surabaya is the largest city in Indonesia. It would be fair to say it doesn’t scream out “walking city”. That said, I found it to be a terrific walking city, with plenty of sights I’d never have found if not walking.

Pasar Pabean. What a market. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Peneleh Graveyard, the House of Hadji Oemar Said Tjokroaminoto were both fascinating. Despite being a modern city, I found a stunning Art Nouveau panel on a dilapidated building. Later I learned it was the work of Jan Toorop, a Dutch Indonesian painter. Best of all though, Pasar Pabean, in the heart of the city’s East African quarter was all a wet market could be—and more. When I told friends from Surabaya about it later—they’d never heard of it!

Laos: The people you re–meet when on foot

While Vientiane now has a flash boardwalk stretch by the Mekong, if was once a far more rustic affair. Lined with simple food stalls and with plenty of iced beer on hand, it was a great stretch to finish off a day at.

Time to re–meet some old friends. Sunset, Vientiane. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Walking alone there one evening, I passed a table of four backpackers. I didn’t give them much of a look, till one called out to me. On hearing my name, I turned to see an English friend I had travelled with five years earlier on the Thai islands. How they even recognised me was beyond me, as I barely recognised them! A chance meeting which made for a fun few days—and if I’d not been walking, it would have never happened.

Malaysia: Walk to find a long–forgotten guesthouse

Kuala Terengganu doesn’t see many foreign travellers, and most it does stick to the south side of the river. So what was on the far side I wondered. To investigate I took a little boat across the river and started walking. Known for traditional boat building, there was a little bit of that on hand. I kept walking, then struck gold, a fall–down guesthouse.

The view from Awi’s. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Awi’s Yellow House was literally about to fall down. In business since 1972, it felt like not a lick of work had been done on the place since. Naturally, I moved in that day. The aged wooden huts on stilts sat over the mangroves and the river slid past. Owner Awi was a great guy, very friendly and welcoming. He also provided a window into what Kuala Terengganu—and travel—used to be like.

Singapore: Walk the southern ridges

When I think Singapore and walking, I think of food. There is an alternative though—the Southern Ridges walk. The walk links up Mount Faber, Telok Blangah, Hort and Kent Ridge parks and finishes with Labrador Nature Reserve.

Walking in the woods, Singapore–style. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A whole day lost taking in terrific scenery, impressive bridges, war history and enough to eat. My advice? Start early—earlier than I did. Take water too.

Thailand: Walk to an unexpected swim near Mae Lana

Down a small road to the north of Route 1095 between Soppong and Mae Hong Son lies Mae Lana. Asking at the guesthouse on what to do, he said “go walking”, so we did. We walked and walked, and walked some more. Along rice paddie walls, following dirt trails, random wandering. There were no signposts, no nothing. We found a hamlet and a teenager came out to say hello. He asked would we like to see the “lake”. Sure!

Thailand’s Mae Hong Son province is a great one for walking. Photo: Mark Ord.

It was about another hour from memory. Down a valley a bit then a hike up a ridge. We heard it before we saw it. A rock shelf, ten metres high, covered by a wide sheet of water that collected in a clear deep pool. There were no swings or Instagram props—to be fair this was in 1994, so Instagram didn’t even exist. Our guide said he needed to go, and left. Silence. With trees overhead, we ditched our cloths and swam in the pool. We were there for hours—and never saw another soul.

Vietnam: Walk the cities and the countryside

When I think of Vietnam and walking I always gravitate to the cities. Huế, Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City are all excellent walking towns—but the countryside is no slouch either.

Pù Luông is not bad for a wander. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Two spots, both accessible from Hanoi, offer some of the best rice terrace walking in Southeast Asia. Pù Luông to the west and Mù Cang Chải to the north. Both have plenty of places to stay, from homestays through to resorts, but the real appeal is free for all. While lodgings will steer you towards contrived Instagram–worthy spots, the real joy is just walking. Walk in any direction. Up a valley or down one. You’ll find rural scenes—be they farmers planting, kids with buffalo, or a tiny hamlet in the woods—and they’ll be your scenes, your discoveries.

And that’s what walking is all about. Discovering your own little find, be it a person, a meal, a sight or experience.

They’re the memories that really stick.

Got a travel memory that stuck thanks to a walk? Please share it in the comments!