Couchfish

Decades ago, I was in Thailand on one of my six month trips and two close Australian friends had joined me for a stretch. They’d never been to Southeast Asia and the whole joint kind of blew them away.

At one stage, we were staying on Haad Salad, on the west coast of Ko Pha Ngan. The beach was less developed at the time and there were only two places to stay. One afternoon, it was that magic hour of light, where everything seems to have a golden wash over it. I passed a woman on a rope swing, floating around in ever shrinking circles. She was bathed in the light, and as I passed I said to her “It is beautiful isn’t it.” She smiled this huge contented smile back.

Not the same red boat, same island though. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

My friends were sitting beside a wooden longtail, pulled up above the high water mark. It was on its side, and the hull, its red paint blistering, was catching the brunt of the light from the setting sun. My friends were both art–inclined and had been drawn to the boat by the colour of the hull.

As I arrived, they were both in tears laughing. Not far from the boat, they’d found the tin of paint responsible for the colour of the hull. On the side of the tin, there were only two words in English.

“Red boat.”

Moody weather. Haad Salad. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In Alain de Botton’s The Art of Travel, he writes:

“Why be seduced by something as small as a front door in another country? Why fall in love with a place because it has trams and its people seldom have curtains in their homes? However absurd the intense reactions provoked by such small (and mute) foreign elements may seem, the pattern is at least familiar from our personal lives. There, too, we may find ourselves anchoring emotions of love on the way a person butters his or her bread, or recoiling at his or her taste in shoes. To condemn ourselves for these minute concerns is to ignore how rich in meaning details may be.”

For me, it is often the smallest thing that swings the needle on a place—or a person—or a moment. Something that transforms it from memorable to seared into memory.

More often than not, my “small detail” is colour.

Pale blue doors, Phongsali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

De Botton’s front door might grab my eye, but it’s the pale blue on the doors in Phongsali’s morning light, that makes them unforgettable.

The setting sun, that fiery blast, the light glinting off a lover’s hair, a moment that forever, seems frozen in time.

I’ve been lucky enough to spend more than my fair share of days on the waters of eastern Indonesia. Once, on the north coast of Sumbawa, I was standing on Gili Pudu’s only beach. Offshore, a man dragged my green and red, yellow–edged boat through the shallows. When I think of turquoise I always draw the colour from that moment. Why? It was perfect.

One man, one boat. Gili Pudu, Sumbawa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It took me years to realise that my red boat moment was so stuck in my mind, not because of my friends having a laugh, but rather because of the colour itself.

Years after the red boat, I was reading The Art of Travel on the veranda at the FCC in Phnom Penh. It was a similar time of day, all was aglow. From memory, de Botton was writing about Vincent van Gogh and the hues of the fields in France. It’s hard to think of anything more removed from the Tonle Sap. I read the passage over and over as the sun’s fingers lengthened. He could have been writing about where I was sitting—it wasn’t about the place—it was about the colour.

Classic Cambodia. Photo: Mark Ord.

At the time, I had to commute between Phnom Penh and Bangkok once a month. I’d get a share taxi from Phnom Penh to Battambang, then on to Pailin. From there a bumpy road to the border, cross into Thailand, a van to Chanthaburi then a bus to Bangkok. It was a fun trip, but it was getting old. My record time was 14 hours door to door.

After that reading session at FCC, the next time I was on the run, the experience had changed. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a white banged–up Corolla, window down. It was wet season. The air was hot and soaked like only Cambodian air can be. The hardbase was wet dog black with red clay edging. Huge skies overhead, the emerald fields blasted out as far as the eye could see. Dotted with sugar palms, the tree which, for me, will always say “Cambodia”, the fields passed in a haze of colour.

No filter required. Sunset, Phnom Penh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At that point I’d done the trip at least a dozen times. Yet it was only on that day, that it struck me how beautiful it was. The fields were not emerald—the colour was far more complex. When we pulled over for a pee–stop I walked out into a field a little. I’m no stranger to rice paddies, but the more I looked, the more I realised “emerald” was a lazy writer’s descriptor.

The fields were awash and the storm clouds responsible reflected off the paddie water. The moody light filtered through the stalks as they swayed in unison. Their shadows streaked through the clouds reflected beneath them.

The driver called me back and we pushed on.

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It doesn’t matter if you’re travelling, or at home, everyone eats. If you’re at home, think about the meals you have had over the last few days. What does what you ate and drank say about you, your culture and the country you are living in?

A CNN video on Hanoi Street Food Tours.

I’m Australian, so Vegemite (not Marmite!) is on my list. The salty black paste would be a feature in the diets of many Australians, both at home and abroad. Who hasn’t been in a restaurant for breakfast and seen another guest sneak out a jar of the black gold? Odds on they’re Australian.

If we have foreign guests staying and they see the Vegemite, they often ask to try it. I hand over the jar, watch them layer it on like peanut butter, and wait for the inevitable.

“Oh my god what is wrong with you people?!”

“You have to scratch it on mate.”

Yes, food, along with oxygen and water, is an essential of life. It is also handy though for socialising.

The chance of me finding this snail place outside Hue without a guide was exactly zero. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When I lived in London, if I was going to meet up with Londoners, we would meet at the pub. Always. When I go to Bangkok, if I’m catching up with Thai friends, we don’t meet at the pub—we meet somewhere where food is the focus.

Curious about this, I asked a Thai friend who I often meet when in Bangkok. I could write an entire Couchfish edition on her reply, but the condensed version goes like this:

“A traditional way Thais greet one another is to ask “have you eaten yet?” When people gather, it always needs to be somewhere to do with food. We’re just into feasting. You could say we’re the Hobbits of Southeast Asia as, like the hobbits in Lord of the Rings, we love to eat five times a day.

Bangkok has become a place driven by capitalism where the rich suck profits out of the rest of us. This comes from the very top. From the monarch, to the government, to the big organisations, and finally to the small ones.

We have no Central Park in the way New York does—there are few places to walk or read books, or picnic on a nice day. Suan Lum is more for exercising, though some do socialise there. Free public spaces for leisure, where you can walk or sit with friends to catch up are limited. Instead, we humans of Bangkok spend our time in malls and restaurants, where the elite can exploit us.

In the end, we eat our bitterness away.”

Like I said, you can learn a lot as soon as you start talking about food.

Would this Bangkokian have told me his story without the help of Chin Chongthong? No. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Food is not simply food. It is a window into, and a learning opportunity about, other people, their culture and country. Get it wrong—eat pad thai with chopsticks, or say durian smells like a corpse, at your peril. When people feel their foods are being badly–reported, they let you know.

All the above are reasons why I suggest first time arrivals to a country do something food related early on. It could be a cooking course or a market tour, or, my personal favourite, a street food tour.

Foreign food can be intimidating. It isn’t only a question of what it is, but also how do I eat it, when do I eat it, what should I pay for it?

Food may mimic art, but still often needs explanation. In this case, by Chin. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Chin Chongthong, runs Chili Paste, a small food and cultural tours agency in Bangkok. For Chin it is very much about learning.

“On a food tour guests can try a full range of Thai flavours. They can learn about different ingredients and food’s regional differences across Thailand. Also some of the history, about the influences from Chinese or Lao or Mon people. What is Thai food? It’s a mix of so many different influences over many hundreds of years. ”

To a point a food tour is a contrived journey—more often than not, every stop is pre–planned with an experience in mind. It could be that the venue offers an exemplary serving of a dish. Another, a particularly “local” experience. Yet another because the vendor is personable and fun or has an interesting story. All boil down into what eating can be—enjoyable and educational.

A guide and I spend a few hours exploring a single city block in Ho Chi Minh City. This was a highlight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The first time I went to Vietnam, I knew nothing about the food. I ate pho and nem day in day out, partly because it was all I could say, but also because it was all I knew. At the end of the trip, in Ho Chi Minh City, I stayed at Miss Loi’s. She was so outraged at my limited diet she sent me out with one of her daughters to “eat properly”.

Van Cong Tu of Hanoi Street Food Tours supports this idea of discovering the unknown, saying:

“I think it’s primarily about having a tasty experience at places a traveller may not be able to find themselves. Equally it’s about giving them a skill set to navigate the territory solo. Take the fear away a bit. Culture and traditions around food are a great way to orientate a traveller in a new place through a lens of food.”

Every trip I’ve made to Vietnam since that first time, I’ve built on my food experience. Find a local who is into their food and go eat. Sometimes these are tours, sometimes more casual affairs. Food blends with so many things.

Eating my way through Malang—and what is left of its heritage buildings. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In Malang in East Java I did a combined architecture and food walk. As with all good food tours, every pause, every sit down to eat, wasn’t only about the food. It was also about the people who prepared it, those who ate it, and, in this case, the buildings it all happened within.

Then there are the guides. These are the people who pull all the threads together over a steaming bowl.

I asked Vanarith, the Phnom Penh food guide I wrote about in Friday’s paid Couchfish, about his early life. He said:

“I am from Koh Kong province and I was born into a banana leaf.”

I thought he was joking, that it was a turn of phrase, except it wasn’t. When the other guest and I realised this, it was like when you meet a fireman for the first time. Our questions came thick and fast. I learned a lot—not just about Vanarith, but also what life is like when you are born into a banana leaf.

“Not for vegetarians,” laughed Vanarith. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Back in Vietnam, a Vietnamese friend in Ho Chi Minh City offered to show me around Sa Dec, a cute Mekong Delta town. She was not a professional guide by any means, but she loved food and Sa Dec was her home town. What started as a bit of a whim, turned into one of my most memorable half day eating excursions.

This was in part because she knew great places to eat. There was more though—growing up there, she knew the people behind many of the places we ate at. I heard owner’s stories, including where in Australia their kids were studying.

Doing a food walk is an ice breaker. It moves a national cuisine from intimidating to slightly less so. It makes the people a little less mysterious and foreign. You learn something about them and they something about you.

Smiles always help—and more often than not are returned. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The language barrier though can make doing this solo, tricky. Lina Goldberg of Phnom Penh Food Tours, highlights this, saying:

“...taking a food tour is a delicious way for visitors who don't speak the language to connect with local culture.”

Outside of tours, I’ve always handled this challenge with the tried and tested “point at food” approach. I’ll finish with a quick tale.

I was in Cao Lanh, a little–visited province in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta. Out looking for dinner I sat down at a jammed beer and food place. The menu was only in Vietnamese and staff spoke no English. I pointed to what they were having at the next table, and gestured that I’d like that please.

The dish in question. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The dish came, it was a hotplate of beef and vegetables along with these pasty yellow, egg–like things. I wasn’t sure what they were and, signing, I tried to ask the next table what they were. They were drunk, but through their gesturing I deduced they meant testicles. You can imagine the gestures right?

I’m not great on testicles, so I took a photo of the dish and messaged it to above–mentioned Tu, asking what it was. The answer took me by surprise.

They were not testicles. Instead they were unlaid chicken eggs—removed from the inside of a slaughtered hen.

I’ve never in my life so wished I was eating testicles. The next table? We’re still friends on Facebook.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

There’s no Southeast Asian city that has a larger place in my heart than Phnom Penh. Over time it has played home to my highest highs and lowest lows—etched into who I have become. The city punches well above its weight for a place I only lived in for two years, and have visited a dozen or so times beside. But that’s Phnom Penh for you.

There’s always another storm on the way. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I first had the opportunity to visit the city in the early 1990s, after finishing a trip through Vietnam. My companion was flying in from Ho Chi Minh City and wanted me to go with. Spooked by the kidnapping of Jean-Michel Braquet, Mark Slater, and David Wilson, I said no. I opted for a flight direct to Bangkok, enjoying the country from the safety of 35,000 feet. It would be years before I visited and then finally moved there.

I struggle to put my finger on what it is for me about Phnom Penh—others find it a little easier. When we live there, it is a low–rise city, and the traffic is nowhere near as bad as now. A motodop is on almost every street corner, the rider reclined impossibly, snoozing. I walk out and yell “moto!”, one leaps up, pushes his cap back, kicks on his flip flops and wheels around to pick me up.

A cyclo with flair. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We live at the bottom of BKK1, a better serviced part of the city. That our electricity is (mostly) reliable is a distinguishing feature from other districts. The roads though are still rough, ours is half sealed—dusty in the dry, flooded in the wet.

The moto takes me up Pasteur. Past the cafes and walls with NGO signs. Past the alley entrance to Wat Langka lined with religious statues. There is never much traffic and the moto is never in a hurry. We hit Sihanouk Boulevard and wheel around the monument, then start dog–legging towards Phsar Thmei.

On the way to Wat Langka. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The motodop drivers are invariably men—some my age, some far older. They never really look where they’re going—aside from straight ahead of course. Everyone seems to work on the assumption others will see them and veer accordingly. It works most of the time.

I guess, when you’ve lived through the Khmer Rouge period, checking for traffic is an after thought. Sitting on the bike, I wonder if my driver thinks about that period often. As we coast by local cafes with dozens of banded, bright coloured banana chairs, what is on my driver’s mind?

The unadulterated horror to Tuol Sleng. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

That period impacted on any Khmer of a certain age. I can’t think of another country that survived such a universal cataclysm. Today, Khmers continue to suffer thanks to Hun Sen’s kleptocracy.

The moto drops me by Phsar Thmei, a butter yellow coloured ziggurat dropped from the sky. The cavernous centre is loaded with jewellery and precious stone sellers. The outer reaches offer tourist tat, fresh produce, cut flowers or clothes depending on where I wander. Kramas everywhere.

Within Phsar Thmei. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On foot, I head down leafy Street 130 towards the river. Past the stuffed baguette sellers—stomach torpedos to some—and sugar cane juice carts. I turn down a shoe shine from the boys who scuttle by in the shade. Near the river but not quite on, I sit in a cafe for a $1 beer or a coffee. I buy a copy of the Cambodia Daily or Phnom Penh Post (this is back when they were worth reading!) off one of the paper sellers. They return when I’m finished and offer to buy it back for half what they sold it for.

Then to the Tonle Sap. I turn right and walk down the promenade to a bump in the bank where some huge trees throw generous shade. Often sampans gather at the bank here, good for a sunset float on the water. I sit and watch. Kids come up wanting to practise their English. The ever–present card game scammers stroll, looking for new prey.

Big river. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Further along, towards the palace, more coffee or beer at another street front cafe. Sometimes from the fabulous deck at the FCC. As far as people watching goes, there are few spots in the world with as varied a crowd as this stretch.

Onwards to the park in front of the palace. Khmers relax on the grass, interspersed with balloon and snack sellers. There is always a bit of an understated festive feel here in the late afternoon and evening. The palace and temple roofs poke above the yellow, white edged palace walls.

Working out. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Just after we moved to Phnom Penh, we were robbed here. Sam and I in cyclos on the way home from a lazy afternoon by the river. A motodop raced past and snatched her purse. We’d just been saying how happy we were to have moved to Phnom Penh from Bangkok, then in a blink of an eye her handbag was gone.

“It had my passport in it!” Sam exclaimed. I said something like “Oh well, just get another one.”

“And yours!” she followed up with—bye bye Thai work permit!

The old and the new. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sam called one of her colleagues at Agence France Presse, Reach Sambath, for advice. Sambath, bless him, accompanied us to the police station for the reporting process.

He sadly died in 2011, just 47 years old. I was reading his obituary while writing this piece and this line leapt out:

“Mr. Reach Sambath sold ice and ferried passengers on a bicycle to support himself after the fall of the Khmer Rouge while he attended elementary and high school and learned English.”

From these humble beginnings, Sambath went on to report for AFP and the New York Times. Later, he was spokesman for the UN–backed Khmer Rouge tribunal. He was “a spokesperson for ghosts” he said.

Cambodia needs more Reach Sambaths and fewer, far fewer, Hun Sens.

Tomorrow: Lets eat.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

Every now and then in my travels I stumble upon a spot that is so perfect—for me—that I think I never want to leave. Then I meet the people behind it, people who manage to make the perfect even moreso, and I know I never want to leave.

Kepa Island, a smudge on the map, off the western tip of Alor, part of Indonesia’s Lesser Sunda Islands, is such a place.

Exploring Alor. Should have put in a longer leave form. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I first came across it on a research trip in the region. I’d been dossing in Kalabahi, the capital of Alor, exploring the island, but I wanted to find something on the beach. I’d read about Kepa and that it was home to a European–run dive resort, but I’d stopped diving, so the appeal was limited. Plus I wanted something more beach bummy—I put it to the side.

Alor is vaguely chicken–shaped, and I’d ridden all around the “head” looking for places. Some beaches were fantastic, but either lacked accommodation, or had only grimy losmen. Kalabahi, is ok, but what I was looking for—beach bungalows—seemed not to exist—at least not in an accessible spot.

A Kalabahi sunset. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I bit the bullet and sent a WhatsApp message to the number I had for the dive resort. Did they have a room for non–divers? They did. The next day I got an ojek over to the boat landing.

Somewhere to put your bag

Kepa is a rock. It has no natural water, and much of it is, well, a rock. On the north coast though, sits a small French run resort, L’Petite Kepa. In business since the mid 90s (depending on how you define “in business”), it offers rustic digs in a spectacular setting.

A traditional hut with a view. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I ask co–founder Anne why they picked Kepa. She tells me they were travelling in Indonesia in the mid nineties, and her partner, Cedric, was a keen diver. Says Anne:

“We were young ... I’d finished my studies ... Cedric started travelling in Asia [in 1994] and finished his trip in Indonesia ... he likes very much Indonesia. I come back to France, he comes back to France, I start to work ... and Cedric started to travel more. Travelling six months, working six months, and of course I was coming back to Indonesia more.

And so then, we started like a lot of people I guess, starting to speak Indonesian because it makes it easy to meet the people and we like it very much. He was travelling quite off the beaten track, and he knew this area, lets say the east, had some good sea. Then he came here, and there was nothing and he liked it and that’s it! ... He wanted to stop to travel but to put his bag somewhere.”

I interview Anne for 45 minutes, but “Somewhere to put your bag”, more than anything else, hits home. Sometimes you find a place and you just want to put your bag down—for a long time.

Lost backpackers

Remote is relative, and while low cost flights have made Alor more accessible, in the early days it was anything but. Says Anne:

“For two years I think, there were no flights anymore between Bali and Kupang, so it was a Pelni ship from Bali to Kupang. That took three days. Then from Kupang take the ferry to Kalabahi, 18 hours. It was quite a long trip but it was nice, because it was really rural Indonesia. This was more than 15 years ago, which means no motorbikes at all, very few boats, a lot of small sailing boats. It was quite remote. So our idea was more to have a place to come back to and I don’t know, to spend a few short months living a simple way.”

Our family house. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When I ask who their guests were back then, who had the time for journeys like this, Anne laughs:

“Lost backpackers.”

A simple life

There’s no denying, almost twenty years later, that life at L’Petite Kepa is simple. The accommodation is simple. There’s no air–con and the loos are bucket flush. If you want hot water, staff will give you a large black rubber bladder to fill up with cold water in the morning. You lay it on the lawn throughout the day. Come the evening, you pour it into your mandi, and you have a warm shower. Magic.

Maroon me at the back beach please. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

When I return the next year with the family, we rent a larger wooden house. It costs a little over 1,000,000 rupiah per night for the four of us, full board. It is a two bedroom affair, well one master and the kids’ bed by the living area. The kit out is simple. Thin mattresses, a bottom sheet, a couple of pillows and a mosquito net. But it is all we need. We have a large deck, perched by the cliff. At high tide the kids lay around and spot reef sharks in the shallows.

Me, less time for shark–spotting more for working. Our living area has a writing desk flush against a large un–glassed window. Every morning I set up there, laptop humming and look out the window.

Low tide views across to Ternate. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s the beach, then the house reef, then, beyond it, Ternate. Not the better known one, but it shares the same name. It towers before me. Jurassic.

It is a beautiful spot, but beauty can be deadly. The currents are dangerous and people swimming off Kepa have vanished without a trace. Get caught in the current and it is next stop Timor—or Australia. On check–in there is a detailed talk on where is safe and where isn’t. The back beach is good on this tide, but do not swim on that one. The briefing is friendly, but serious.

The ocean demands your respect.

Swim o’clock. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For us with the kids, it is no big deal. The powder white sand back beach is so gorgeous that when the tide is wrong we build sand castles, read or snooze. When the tide is right, we swim with baby reef sharks and snorkel out to the drop off—the big blue racing by.

A family feeling

Other guests are an eclectic mix. Yes, some are diving bores, but others have fascinating and varied histories. My favourite is a Roman couple. He’s a gifted photographer, but in a previous life was a journalist. His claim to fame? Being one of the first Western journalists to interview Aung San Suu Kyi after her release from house arrest. It was only post interview he realised his recorder was on pause. Another is an Indonesia–based French photographer. To this day, she fills my Facebook feed with drone photos of amazing beaches in this beautiful country. She never says where any of them are and it drives me nuts!

My old man chair. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Often resorts in remote parts of Indonesia will draw staff from Bali, due to perceived skill shortages. This is not the case at L’Petite Kepa—all Anne and Cedric’s staff are from the local community. They’re far from what you’d encounter at a front desk in some fancy pants Balinese resort. Instead they’re welcoming and forever assisting—reinforcing the family feeling for guests.

This also strengthens the bonds between the resort and the community. During another chat Anne mentions how many people they’re responsible for and I’m staggered. I say I’m surprised the number is so high. Anne explains that over time, as the resort grew so did their shadow. The way she talks about them, is as you would one large extended family—they’ve become part of Anne and Cedric’s life and them theirs.

Magic is a kind of diplomacy

In the early days, Anne worked with an NGO in the region, and later with a seaweed project on neighbouring Pantar. We get onto this topic via a circuitous route talking about black magic. While you can encounter this across Indonesia, like Nusa Penida off Bali, Alor is famous for its magic.

No need for Photoshop. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Across the water lies Pantar. Anne tells me a convoluted tale about a disagreement between communities over seaweed farming. Matters came to a head—well, came to machetes to be exact. Despite attempts by one to behead another, the machete “just couldn’t hit ... there was not a drop of blood”. She suggests feigned attacks for the lack of any real loose heads, but the story reverberates through the community as something else. “We tried to kill you, but your magic was too strong.”

“Magic is a kind of diplomacy”, Anne says.

Around off the back beach there is Kepa’s main “magic spot”. The place you go to make offerings for a safe journey at sea, to sacrifice chickens, or, boil rice in sea water to cast some bad juju towards another. It is a difficult time at the moment as what Anne calls “the tribe tree” has died. Locals are concerned about what it means. Anne gives me detailed instructions on how to find the spot, and I go looking for it. I get lost and instead find some beautiful coral off another beach. The underwater world here is magnificent.

The big blue

One day the kids and I join the dive boat. We’re not diving, but we’ll be able to snorkel. One of the other guests has a drone and as we lay over a reef off the north coast of Pantar, she sends it sky high. Later, back at the resort, she shows me a still. It is this magnificent feat of isolation. Us and the big blue. I love it.

My kind of isolation. Photo: Emma Davidson.

The house reef can only be safely snorkelled at certain times. I swim out to the drop off with the kids. The current grabs us and pulls us all the way around a third of the island, depositing us half an hour later, at the boat landing. We walk back around and do it again. And again. And again. The reef is in good condition and there is plenty of sea life. Reef sharks dart by in the shadows.

On the cliff, near the restaurant, there is a solitary old man chair. I need to clamour up sharp stones to get to it, but once on it, I’m suspended above the cliff. Depending on the tide, below me is gleaming white sand or turquoise water. In the distance, as always, Ternate.

Chill out here; Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On another vantage point, a wood and bamboo shelter waits for lovers. The kids swing behind it in their hammocks. The sunsets from here are magnificent.

It feels like home

L’Petite Kepa is full board, meaning three meals a day are included in the price. All are communal, and the food predominantly Indonesian. Often out East you find your self eating fish and rice or rice and fish, day in, day out. Here, despite the location, the fare is more varied—and excellent. The communal setting makes for an easy way to get to know other guests—our temporary family. Anne, Cedric and sometimes their two daughters, often eat with us.

The Romans about to go for a sunset snorkel. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Arriving as a non–diver at a dive resort, sometimes leaves me feeling like an interloper. Not at all here. It feels like home—and I can’t wait to be able to get there again.

Note: Due to Covid19 L’Petite Kepa is currently closed. Please see their website or Facebook page for more information.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

When you inspect hotels for a living, there are two grand truths. First, you’ll have the privilege to visit some amazing properties. Second, you’ll have the opportunity to see places that are memorable for the wrong reasons.

I’ve inspected thousands of resorts, hotels and guesthouses. I don’t know how many I’ve stayed in—at least a thousand or two. Some I never wanted to leave. Others I couldn’t get out of fast enough. I’ve had owners kiss me, and others attack me. Never a dull moment.

Slow times on Mae Nam. Photo: David Luekens.

What makes the “best” hotel can be functional—a reflection on the property, or the staff. Or, experiential—even a stay in a container can be burnt into memory when the stars align.

“Weird” is also subjective. I’ve inspected no shortage of weird and dreadful places. Insane owners, theft and other carnage. The death traps. The salt water coffee. The animals that come with the room. The general incompetence. The lies.

For me, the pinnacle of poo, was at a property on Thailand’s Ko Samui a couple of years ago. I’m going to call it Jo’s Lodge—at the time it was named after its owner (who I’m calling Jo). I know ownership has changed since, so I’m not using any real names here.

Stormy weather inbound. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I was on Samui at the time working on updates of Thailand’s gulf islands with co–writer David Luekens. While Samui has some great food, the island is neither of our kettle of fish—we’re both Ko Pha Ngan people.

We’re about halfway through Samui when I land at Jo’s Lodge. It is near one of Samui’s second tier beaches—a comfortable medium.

I don’t stay at Jo’s by chance. Recommended by a friend in Bangkok, she describes Jo as a “character” and his place is worth a look. “You’ll like it,” she says, as she sends me his phone number, “call him for a good rate”. Finishing up on another beach, I call the number. It rings and rings. I hang up. A few minutes later, a message pops up on my phone.

Don’t let anyone tell you all of Samui is a tourist trap. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Hello kah.”

That is it.

I reply saying I’m a friend of so and so in Bangkok and am looking for Jo’s Lodge.

“Jo call you kah.”

Jo never calls. I keep working, figuring he is busy. As the day wears on I don’t hear back, but I want to sort out a room for the next day, so I message again. Five seconds later:

“I SAY JO CALL YOU OK”

I message my friend in Bangkok asking if this sounds out of the ordinary. She replies saying the messages are from Jo’s wife who can be erratic.

“Go there. They won’t be full,” she texts.

Early morning. Lipa Noi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next morning, I ride over. It takes me ages to find the place as there’s no signage. I send a photo of a large wooden gate to my friend and she replies saying yes that is the place. I roll open the gate. The parking area is a mess of car parts, crates of empty beer bottles and piles of dishes. A huge dog explodes when it sees me and bolts at me so fast its chain catches it before I have time to react.

Voices echo from within, a Thai woman yells, then she steps into the parking area. She’s perhaps 5'8", wrapped in a sarong, and sopping wet.

“Who are you. What do you want? Why didn’t you ring the bell?” she yells.

“What bell?,” I reply, “I called yesterday, I’m a friend of so and so in Bangkok. She knows Jo.”

“I told you kah, Jo would call you.”

“Yeah I know, but he didn’t.”

Inland Samui also delivers. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At this, dragging at the dog’s chain, she starts screaming for Jo.

“Jo! Farang here for you, a friend OF A WOMAN YOU KNOW in Bangkok.”

Pandemonium.

Jo surfaces. He’s a Westerner, tanned and in good shape, a towel around his waist. I guess late forties. He stands by the woman and yells over the barking, asking who I am.

“I’m Stuart. A friend of so and so in Bangkok. She recommended I stay here.”

“Who?”

“So and so in Bangkok.”

“Never heard of her.”

I go to leave. I’ve stepped into a madhouse, but as I go to wheel the bike back, Jo yells do I want a room or not?

Last light. Thong Krut. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I say I’d like to see a room if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.

“I didn’t ask you if you want to see a room. Do you want a room? If your friend, who as I said, I don’t know, said it was good, why do you need to see it?”

Ok, I’d like a room. The woman drags the dog off and he kicks some of the trash to make room for my bike.

The set–up is a private villa with individual rooms for rent—it is more homestay than I expect—or want. We go upstairs to my room. As with the parking, the living area is a fire hazard of piles of papers, dirty plates and booze bottles.

The room is unexceptional, but, unlike the rest of the place, is clean. That white linen, dark wood look common in many Thai hotels. A small deck behind glass sliding doors overlooks a garden. For a night it will do.

Lamai is not all sleaze. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I go to the glass doors to see what I can see, and hear the door close. I turn, and see Jo is not only still in my room, but inches behind me. I jump back, bumping into the glass doors.

“Sorry about that downstairs,” he says, “yes I know so and so, how is she? My wife Noi gets crazy jealous, thinking I’m playing around. She’s beautiful but crazy.”

We chat, me explaining the latest on my friend in Bangkok. The whole time he stands inches from me, his sky blue eyes never breaking contact.

He asks for my passport and 800 baht for the room, then leaves. As he departs, he says over his shoulder I should shower, dress smarter, and then come downstairs. There’s a sarong on the bed, he says.

What?

There is always some dude selling floaties. Photo: David Luekens.

Like the room, the bathroom is clean and well kept. The accessories are all branded for a six star resort on the island. I strip and go to shower.

There’s no water.

I look for a switch or handle to turn it on but there’s nothing. The toilet likewise doesn’t work. I open the cistern and it is bone dry—it looks brand new. The basin also has no water.

I dress and walk out. The air–con doesn’t work. Nor do the lights. I pull back the cover on the bed to see a bare mattress—no sheets.

I walk downstairs. Sprawled on a sofa, Jo asks after my room. I say there is a problem with the water. He says the water works fine. I say it doesn’t. He says it does. I say it doesn’t. Sighing, he gets up and walks to the kitchen, turns the tap on and water gushes out.

Bang Po. Clearly a tourist hell–hole. Photo: David Luekens.

I say but the water isn’t working in my room. He rolls his eyes like I’m lying, and we go upstairs. I turn on the shower. No water.

That’s weird he says. He tries all the taps but no water comes. He’s acting surprised, but I get an inkling he knows full well the water doesn’t work.

“Bloody Thai plumbing,” he says, “I’ll get it fixed. In the meantime you can use my shower.”

“Sorry?”

“Use my shower. Use the ensuite downstairs, by the kitchen.”

“Can’t I just move to another room?”

“No. The upstairs rooms are on the same pipes. If this one isn’t working, the others won’t either. Use mine, it is no problem.”

He’s so insistent, I say ok.

Ko Pha Ngan beckons. Bo Phut. Photo: David Luekens.

I walk into his bedroom and his wife is laying on their bed still wrapped in a sarong, combing her hair. I’m intruding and go to leave, but she calls me over and pats on the edge of the bed for me to sit down. She’s a changed woman to the one who was yelling and holding the snarling beast earlier. Thai charm absolut. She spins around and sits beside me, her hand on my back, and asks if I like my room? Would I like a different room?

I say there’s no water, no sheets and no power. Like Jo, she behaves like this is a revelation. Mai pen rai, she says, they’ll get it fixed. Now you go and shower—for as long as you want Stuart—relax kah.

It is uncomfortable to me, but I go shower. When I come out, she’s gone, replaced by Jo. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his towel, as I scuttle through.

Closing in on Chaweng Noi. Photo: David Luekens.

He reaches out towards me as I pass, when he misses, he jumps up and follows me out. He makes small talk about why I’m on Samui and for how long—standard stuff. I lie, and say I’m on holiday and plan to ride around this afternoon—lets go and sit by the pool, he says.

He grabs a couple of beers and walks me out. The lawn is a fair size and the gardens walling it in are lovely. When I comment on this, he says he was a horticulturist in another life. We get to the pool, it is deep, that weird size between a splash and lap pool.

It is also empty.

Well, not empty. At the base there is a layer of brown sludge. I stare but he doesn’t even mention it. There’s deckchairs and Bali–style umbrellas and beanbags. He relaxes in one of the deckchairs and waves me to one beside him.

I sit on the edge, accept the beer, and ask after the pool. Where’s the water?

Wreck hopping near Na Thon. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s cool season he says. He empties it this time of year. He’ll clean it in a few months then refill it.

Don’t guests expect there to be water in the pool? I ask.

“The ocean isn’t far,” he replies, then, before I can say anything else, he asks me if I like his wife, Noi. Do I think she is beautiful? Again, before I can answer, he asks if I want to get high.

I say Noi is friendly enough, and yes she is beautiful, and no I don’t want to get high. Instead, I’d like to go out and take a look around.

“Hang on a minute, I’ll need to call Noi. She took your bike.”

“Sorry?”

Choeng Mon. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Her bike is out of gas and your keys were in yours, so I figured you wouldn’t mind. You were after all in my shower, in my bedroom, near my wife, in my house.”

The last bit, about it being his shower, wife and house isn’t delivered aggressively, but it isn’t far off. I say I do mind—it is my bike not Noi’s.

“No, it is not your bike. It is a rental. I checked. Please don’t lie to me. You’re my guest.”

Lost for words, I finish my beer and ask is there WiFi. He says yes, and tells me the details. As I head back to my room without water nor electricity, I ask if he could let me know when my rental bike is back.

“No problem,” he says, waving me off.

I should have just gone to Ko Taen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is hours before Noi returns. I know she is back because she lets herself into my room—I’m laying on the bed on my phone (the WiFi doesn’t work of course). She throws herself onto the bed beside me—way too close—dangles the bike key on her finger and says thank you. I take the key, thank her back, and sit up on the bed. She spins and sits on the far edge, says something in Thai that I miss, then turns and hands me my passport and my 800 baht.

“Jo thinks you should find a different hotel kah.”

I grab my bag and go find another hotel.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

I met Kate * in Battambang, a city in Western Cambodia. She was, I guess, in her late forties, and had lived her life in Vancouver, Canada. We got talking at a breakfast cafe and shot the breeze about Battambang and what we liked and disliked. I asked her if she was travelling alone, and she said no she wasn’t alone—she was travelling with her daughter.

Take the leap. Kids goofing off in Battambang. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

People travel for an endless variety of reasons. Some to discover the world, others themselves, others still, something else. Some are running away, others towards—but they don’t know towards what … yet.

I like travelling alone—and almost all the travel I do is solo. The loneliness doesn’t bother me much and I enjoy the self–reliance. The irony is, in travelling by myself, I meet people more than otherwise. A stream of other people’s lives I can dip my hand into as it flows around me.

Pick a lazy corner with lazy cafe, sit and chat. White Rose, Battambang. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

So often, I sit in a cafe or food stall; alone, nursing a coffee, watching life slide by. Then a complete stranger will walk up and ask if they can join me. Hell, some don’t even ask.

There was a spell where I met so many people with stories that I started to think of travel as a confessional. Phones have changed this to a point, but it still happens. As I wrote last week, travel can change people’s behaviour and have them do things they’d never contemplate at home.

My earliest memory of travel is part real, part a recurring dream I’ve had throughout my life. I was eight at the time, living on a small island in Japan’s inland sea. I went to a Japanese school there, one of two foreign kids.

Author and Ava, Innoshima, 1978. Photo: Mum or Dad!

In real life there was a field near my house, and one side had a steep drop–off—in summer, pretty little flowers grew by the edge. In the dream, I sit by the precipice with the other foreign child from school, a Swedish girl named Ava. We’d daisy–chain the flowers into bracelets for each other, put them on, and fly away.

Always travelling.

I don’t know how many travellers I’ve told of this dream—a lot—and many travellers have told me theirs. The stories people tell.

Pilgrims—both religious and other—tracing routes across the region. The New Zealander trying to walk the Angkor Road springs to mind. The couple who bought a sampan in Stung Treng and piloted it themselves to Siem Reap.

Grab a boat and go. Riverside, Stung Treng. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sure, many have simple desires—a palm tree, hammock and a cold drink, but even these can be life changing. Others don’t want to change, rather they want to change where they are—some for the better, others for the worse.

Some are unsettling. One followed me in secret for a week before buttonholing me in a Chanthaburi cafe. That was a short conversation—and a meeting that developed into a stalking problem for a spell.

The unusual stick in my mind, but they’re often sweet. There was a woman who had taught herself basic Thai in her home country, then flew to Bangkok. Her one rule, was she had to learn how to cook a dish in each town she visited. That’s slow travel. She’d never been to Thailand before. When I asked why she picked there, she said she liked the name of it. That was her sole reason.

The people you meet. Chanthaburi back road. Photo: David Luekens.

I’ve met many older travellers—whose kids have flown the nest, and a lifelong partner has passed away. “I’m starting my life over,” one said. “I loved my old life, but fate has dealt me a new hand—who says we should live only one life?”

There are plenty of others travelling double lives. One guy described the liberation that he found with travel. That moment when you walk through immigration and disappear from view.

“It is like changing planets,” he said, “nothing else comes close.”

Changing planets. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Kate said she was travelling with her daughter, but, as I found out later in the day, that wasn’t exactly true. Her daughter had been a keen traveller and Southeast Asia had been her stomping ground. Back home between trips, she died in a tragic car accident. Kate was a single mum and she and her daughter had been as close as close gets. A year after her death, she kept bursting into tears as we talked.

After the funeral, Kate had been sifting through her daughter’s possessions. Deciding what were keepsakes and what had a home with others. She found a cardboard box full of diaries. She’d never known her daughter to keep a diary, and the secret horrified her.

“I didn’t know what to do with them,” she told me, “Should I open them, read them? Would she be angry? What had she written? What did she think of me?”

The secrets people keep. Kids at Wat Banan, Battambang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She kept the box of diaries in her bedroom for months, torn on what to do. In the end she opened the first one and started reading.

“There were years of diaries, they were so beautiful and so full of love for here and the people she met on her travels. I binged on them, and would call in sick for work so I could keep reading.”

The diaries were part personal and part travelogue, all in a tiny cursive script. They were full of people’s names, with business cards and tatty photos glued in. Kate said reading them was the best thing that could have happened after her daughter’s death. She felt like she was with her, reading over her shoulder.

What mask to wear this trip? Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

Kate had never travelled to Southeast Asia before, and she made a decision on impulse. She bought a plane ticket to Bangkok and started retracing her daughter’s steps.

When we met in Battambang, she’d been underway for months. She was staying and eating in the same places, retracing her daughter’s steps as close as she could. When her daughter named people, she would try her best to find them—and read them what her daughter had written.

“I didn’t expect many people to remember her, but I guess that shows how much I didn’t know about her. Over and over people knew who I was talking about within seconds—and then we’d cry together. She was such a shiny coin.”

“She had touched so many lives and them hers—and what better reason for travel is there than that?”

* Kate is a pseudonym.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

We’ve all been there. A spectacular feat of traveller idiocy on Facebook or Twitter watched through half–closed fingers. Thinking no no no ... nooooooo what are you thinking?!

Watch out for yellow phone boxes. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

All I can say is I’m glad there was no such thing as social media when I was travelling in my twenties. Here are ten of my favourites.

Laos: The University connection

I dreamed about studying at a certain university, but missed out—sorry UTS! The closest I got to my dream uni though, was meeting a staffer from there during a trip to Luang Prabang in the mid 1990s. He was there on holiday, as was I. His particular area of interest was Buddhist icons.

Grabbing a small one is apparently the Asia studies way to go … for some people. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After a few too many Beerlao one evening, he told me he’d been grabbing statues from Pak Ou Cave. He’d go up at a quiet time of the day (easy at the time), climb the long stairs, and, when nobody was looking, grab a small one. I didn’t believe him till the next day, when he showed me a small bag full of them.

Indonesia: The tooth ripper of Tana Toraja

If you’ve ever been to Tana Toraja you’ll know the traditions matter to locals big time, but are also a tourism drawcard. When you visit the tombs there are bones everywhere. Everywhere. When I visited one of the sites, by a cliffside entrance there were a row of human skulls. Close enough to touch, but why would you want to? Maybe I’m squeamish.

Perhaps the rest of the teeth were pulled out by other idiots. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One had a very prominent tooth. Another in the group asked the guide if they could pluck it. I imagine the guides put up with a lot, but he answered with an emphatic “No!” They shrugged. Later I found out they swiped a femur.

Laos: You didn’t tell me I couldn’t eat it

Long ago, on the (no longer running) slow boat from Luang Prabang to Vientiane. The river did us no favours and we had to break the trip for a second night between Pak Lai and Vientiane. We slept on the river sand the second night and woke cold, dishevelled and ill–tempered. There was nothing to eat so all were a bit hungry and grumpy.

We saw nothing like a sunset like this, from the sandbank half way to this sunset. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A British traveller who was on the boat with us, not able to keep their appetite at bay, tried to eat the rice in the offering on the prow of the boat.

It was not delicious.

Laos: I ate it but I think the price is too high

This is my entry in this little ditty on traveller idiocy. Udomxai, under the influence of a couple of bottles of Hercules Wine, I had a huge meal. When the bill came, I babbled the food was too expensive and wanted a discount.

This dish was in Udomxai, though not at the place I made an abject fool of myself. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The restaurant staff were like, but you’ve already eaten it—pay the bill—are you ok? In the end I did. I should have paid double I was such an ass. My companions were suitably horrified at my behaviour.

Thailand: You didn’t tell me I couldn’t wear it

Ko Jum is a low key island on Thailand’s Andaman coast. While sun–worshippers often don’t get off the sand, the back side of the island has a traditional Muslim village. I was in the village, having a coffee with a friend, when all eyes diverted to the street.

Also “Please consider local sensibilities when you step outside. Photo: David Luekens.

A foreign tourist was walking down the road wearing nothing but a sarong around her waist. Locals said nothing to her at the time but considered it, well, very inappropriate dress. She was staying at the same place as us, so later we suggested more clothing would be appropriate.

Her response:

“I’ll wear what I want. I don’t tell them what to wear.”

Ok then.

Vietnam: They steal, I steal

A Canadian, a German and an Australian ride bikes from Hoi An to My Son. No, this isn’t a joke. At the time, the road didn’t go all the way to the site, rather you had to park, cross a river and walk the rest of the way. The parking area was notorious for theft. When an “attendant” came and asked for a parking fee, the Canadian and I paid, but the German refused.

Tomb Raider never had a bike nicked! What’s up with that! Photo: Cindy Fan.

When we returned a few hours later, his mirrors were gone. He shrugged and took the mirrors off another tourist’s bike. The “attendant” didn’t bat an eyelid.

It seemed like an idiotic way to save 2,000 dong.

Thailand: Always pay for the boat part I

Ko Pha Ngan Full Moon Party mid nineties, about 1 am. A plain–clothed dead sober Western guy, with an entourage of sober Thais, walks up to our beach cushions. “Hey do you know where I can get some acid?,” he asks. Before I can reply, Shakar, an Israeli I was with, points to an obnoxious American we’d had a run in with earlier. “I bought it from him,” he says.

Just another evening at the Full Moon Party. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The westerner and the Thais immediately make a beeline for him, restrain him, and drag him away.

I turn to Shakar and ask what the hell is he talking about, and he says “He refused to pay his share for the longtail from Sanctuary. Screw him.”

Thailand: Always pay for the boat part II

At the time there were no direct boats from the mainland to Ko Lipe. Instead your boat would layover at Ko Tarutao for thirty minutes or so. Agents in Pakbara (the port town) would sell you a through ticket, but you had to keep the chit. I’d been on Tarutao for a few days and boarded the boat to continue to Lipe. I’d lost my chit, so paid for the onwards ticket.

Ko Tarutao. Not a swimming Italian in sight. Photo: David Luekens.

An Italian traveller likewise had lost his chit, but he wasn’t willing to pay again. He got in an argument with the ticket collector as the boat was pulling out. We’re all on the top deck and he’s telling the ticket guy to get the captain to call the agent on the radio (no smartphones then). The ticket guy was patient but had limited English (and the Italian had no Thai), and he kept saying the same thing over and over.

“You pay, no ticket, no problem, pay for a new ticket.”

The Italian lost his bundle, threw his bag off and jumped off the deck into the ocean. We were only about 100 metres from shore, but the boat didn’t stop—we just kept going.

At the time the ticket to Lipe was perhaps 200 baht. It struck me as a slight over-reaction. I guess he survived.

Malaysia: If you’re going to rob me, run fast (and not from me!)

One evening at Antarabangsa Enterprise in Georgetown, Penang, the staff kept warning me about a guy I was with. He was a Brit, my age, and well sketchy, but chatty and good company. We’d met earlier in the day walking around, and I had suggested we meet for a drink later on.

This pic has nothing to do with Antarabangsa—it just makes me miss Georgetown. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Other clientele watched the guy like a hawk. Every time I went to the bar or loo the staff would ask if he was with me and if he was bothering me. I’d say yes and no each time.

Later in the night, we were chatting about India, then, like a bullet out of heaven, he jumped up, grabbed my bag and bolted. If it was down to me I’d have never seen my bag again. Thankfully (for me) it wasn’t left to me. Another guest jumped up, grabbed an aluminium fold out chair and smashed the guy in the head, decking him. Another sat on him while staff called the police.

He’s a bad man, they said.

I’m a travel writer—comp me

I’ve met so many travellers working this gaff. Travellers who subsidise their trip by saying they work for a publisher. I work for X, give me a free room and I’ll write something nice. Inside baseball perhaps, but there are legendary cases of ex–authors doing this. You know who you are!

Siem Reap & surrounds seems a good image on this topic. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

These people are parasites, and I hope your scooter mirrors are missing when you leave.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

To be honest, it feels like one hundred years since I started the daily entries for Couchfish. This being the one hundredth I thought I’d look back to highlight some of the entries I’m happy with.

Counting the free Couchfish posts (Diversions and Friday afternoon), I’m up around the 130 post mark now. As such I’m pulling from all for this collection—and this is a free to read for all post. I’ve marked the pay–to–read posts with a $ sign.

Thanks again for reading Couchfish. I hope you’ve all found some enjoyment in my attempts to bring a little bit of the region back to you daily. May sanity return to the planet before I reach the 300 post mark!

Couchfish Day 4: On a train $

Cruising on the Khon Kaen to Udon Thani train. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If I had to choose one way to travel, it would always be train. There is something about sitting in a car and feeling that first pull, wobble and clang as the train gets moving. Pull out of one station and arrive in another. It is everything flying isn’t.

Couchfish Week 2: “You’re a lucky man”

Laneway art, Khao San Road. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This story, about me getting scammed by a psychic near Bangkok’s Khao San Road remains one of the most read stories on Couchfish.

Couchfish Day 25: Nan, into the jungle and under the ground $

Always remember to look up. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The first part of a two part piece on trekking in Nan in northern Thailand—my companions were, well ... just read it.

Couchfish Diversion 2: Kien Svay, Cambodia

Meet lunch. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sometimes a diversion is only a 30–minute tuk tuk ride away, but will take you a world away. This was a simple trip, but it was a fun day, with excellent company.

Couchfish Week 4: Always get out of the boat. Part II

Chugging up the west coast of Pantar. Classic Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Eastern Indonesia is one of my favourite parts of the world. This story shows how ending up in the wrong place can deliver an all the more memorable experience. And, the world is never short of honest local people stepping up to help out.

Couchfish Week 5: Your arm, I need it!

Not creepy enough? Try here. Photo: Mark Ord.

Regular readers will know I’m not in short supply on the odd story front. This, in Takeo south of Phnom Penh, was one of my oddest experiences.

Couchfish Day 43: On a slow boat with a competitive traveller $

Ships that pass in the night. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’ve ever travelled, you’ll no doubt be able to identify with this experience. In a boat, you cannot run and hide—other than to the roof.

Couchfish Week 11: Never trust a French arms dealer

Zafo is a moron. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Combine Eastern Indonesia, a volcano and a French arms dealer. The result was a memorable and frustrating day.

Couchfish Week 12: The fabulist

The night I met a fabulist. He’s out of shot. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The night I met a guy in Bangkok who said he worked for Travelfish—except he didn’t.

Couchfish Day 64: The worst day of travel. Ever.

Sam Neua to Ha Noi … the long way. Map: Stuart McDonald.

I’d need to reach back into my time in India to dig up a more epically bad stretch of travelling than this. When crossing the Lao Vietnam border took slightly longer than planned.

Couchfish Diversion 12: You should have been here yesterday. Really?

Not a WiFi signal in sight … Rudana Museum, Ubud. Photo: Sally Arnold.

How can we become better travellers?

Couchfish Week 15: The unluckiest traveller on earth

Cooling off at Ao Manao. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

People are not always who they say they are.

Couchfish Week 17: I need a gun

On the way to Mae Sam Laep. Photo: Mark Ord.

Another one from the “this story might upset my Mum” file.

Couchfish Week 18: The artefact smuggler

I was so fashionable in the 1990s.

That thing where you hitch a ride in Laos only to discover you’re riding with antique smugglers. Happens to everyone right?

Couchfish Day 93: Gearing up $

The perfect feed pho a cold day. Photo: Cindy Fan.

This was my favourite piece by Cindy Fan. Travel writing isn’t all horizon pools.

Special deal for hitting 100 posts

If you’re on the free list and would like to get onto the full list, you can get 50% an annual subscription (so US$35 rather than US$70) here.

Thanks again for reading Couchfish!

Stuart

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

Sometimes a good diversion is a side–trip or a weekender, other times it is a way to break up a longer trip. Châu Đốc, just shy of the Vietnamese Cambodian border falls into the latter category.

The second largest centre in An Giang province (Long Xuyên is the capital), Châu Đốc is far more than a simple overnighter. The town has been welcoming travellers ever since the river border crossing opened. This put it on the map for tour companies running Phnom Penh to Ho Chi Minh City overland trips via the Mekong Delta. Most, well almost all, overnight in Châu Đốc, but few stay longer.

You should. Let me explain why.

In the central market, Châu Đốc. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In many ways, Châu Đốc is a classic Mekong Delta town. It has a stunning riverside setting—and the river never sleeps—there is always something going on. There’s a large market and excellent food. To the south of town lies two sights well worth your time. To the north, across the river, there is at least another.

In fact, grab a bicycle and head in any direction and you’ve got a good half day to a day exploration laid out in front of you.

First, where to stay. The town centre has your typical mini–hotels to choose from. I opt for the Vietnamese–Australian run Murray Guesthouse on the eastern edge of town. Flashpacker prices, but I always go for a family–run spot over a mini–hotel. And, they have great bikes.

Family–run digs. Murray Guesthouse. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The first morning, I cycle down to Trà Sư Ecological Park (Rừng Tràm Trà Sư)—it is about 30km south of town, so some pedalling is involved. Trà Sư is a wetlands area and once there, I cycle around three sides of it (having miss–read my map). It reminds me of forest wats in Thailand—an incongruous stand of trees surrounded by rice fields.

Once within, I charter a boat for a paddle through the brackish waters. It might not sound that interesting, but it is well pretty. At the centre, I climb a watch tower to enjoy a 360 degree view over the surrounds. Afterwards I snack and drink at the food stalls dotted about the base.

Trà Sư. Putting the wet in wetlands. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A 65 km round trip leaves me not too interested in anything else. Instead I laze, then catch the suns’ last rays over the river, have a second dinner and call it a day.

At the crack of dawn I hit the Châu Đốc floating market. It happens a little to the southeast of town, but my guide and I take a sampan from central Châu Đốc and are there in no time. The market is nowhere near as busy as the ones for example around Cần Thơ, but it is still well worth it—and I’m the only foreigner about.

Back to port, we head a short walk off the river bank for an excellent bowl of bún cá at Bún Cá Dì Lệ. A rice vermicelli soup with a fish base, Châu Đốc is famous for the dish. Delish. There is a variety on the dish, bun kan, which we miss out trying, but it has a coconut base—next time.

Bún cá. Hit me. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sated, I hire a scooter and ride to Sam Mountain (Núi Sam). More of a hill than a mountain, it punches above its weight solely because the Delta is as flat as a pancake. There are two highlights—a cluster of temples at the northern base, and the viewpoint from the summit.

At the base, don’t miss Chùa Bà Chúa Xứ, notable for the offerings of entire roast pigs given up here. At the summit, the views speak for themself.

Pig anyone? At Chùa Bà Chúa Xứ. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After a post climb phở, I ride back into town, have a second lunch, then cross the river. On the far bank there is a sizeable Cham Muslim community. A ferry ticket costs 1,000 dong for a foot passenger or just a little more for a bicycle or scooter. Once on the other side, I break right, to the Jamiul Azhar Mosque.

Afterwards, I ride back to the west and just kept going. Think interesting pagodas, weaving, sausages hung out to dry, traditional wooden houses, and all manner of rural Mekong scenes. With more time (well, a motorbike), I’d have pushed on north to Tân Châu, for more weaving, but it is getting late and the night market is calling me back.

Grabbing a quick bowl at the floating market. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The sun setting, I catch the ferry back over, bathed in the last light of the day, and head to the night market for yet another feast.

I could easily have given Châu Đốc another day.

Looking for something similar in the Delta? Consider Sa Đéc.

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As with diving, I took to climbing volcanoes later in life. My first attempt, climbing Agung on Bali was a failure. Rinjani, on Lombok, almost killed me.

Before I get on with this tale, I’d just like to mention a crowdfunding campaign running on behalf of Katni Wati, the founder of Rinjani Women Adventures, of Senaru in Lombok.

On the Agung climb, there were three of us plus a guide. At around 4 am, above the tree line but still with a ways to go, one of the others said he couldn’t continue.

“When I close my eyes I can hear chanting,” he blathered.

With only one guide, and given his state, we couldn’t leave him there, so we turned back. I stopped wanting to kill him before we reached the carpark.

Atop the rim at Agung. Note the shadow flung over Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’d never climbed a volcano before, but it wasn’t till I failed to climb one, that I caught the bug. On my second attempt, I hired the same guide and climbed one on one. We made it.

There is something about standing at the top of a volcano that is special.

After the successful climb I ticked off a bunch of others, some big, some small. Tambora on Sumbawa, Sirung on Pantar, Ile Api on Lembata. Each had its own challenges and rewards.

Rinjani overshadows all. This from West Sumbawa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Rinjani though, loomed.

At 3,726 m Rinjani is the second highest volcano in Indonesia. Climbers start in Sembalun Lawang to the east, trek to the summit and leave to the north, finishing at Senaru. Most do the trek in three days. You camp the first night on the rim, ascend to the summit for dawn, then camp the second night in the caldera by the lake. The next day, you hike out. Sounds simple.

I was trekking with a friend from Jakarta and two of her friends from Surabaya, making a foursome. Accompanying us were the guide and two porters.

Cows don’t climb. Cows are smarter than people. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The seven of us couldn’t have been more different, but walking together, we got to know each other fast. My friend I’d known for years—she was a retail assistant and we ate pig fat satay at a street front joint when I was in Jakarta. The Surabayans were from a fabulously wealthy family. The guide and porters from a village outside Sembalun Lawang on Lombok.

The first day was hard—I had underestimated the level of fitness required. By the time we reached the rim, exhaustion was upon me. We watched sunset, ate and crashed. The guide said he’d wake us at 2 am for the ascent.

The meadows go and go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We got going by 3am by which time there was a steady stream of climbers making their way up towards the summit. Walking in the dark, I could see the dot dot dot of headlamps ahead of us. Some were so far away it was like a glittering snake pulsated in the dark above us.

Not that I had much time to look up. The climb was hard. Made more–so by the rutted condition of the clay and rock trail and the volume of people—some fast, some slow. Worse was to come.

Nearing the rim. A bit steep. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The clay and rock gave way to stone and the stone to scree. Climbing in the scree—small to tiny, pebble shaped stones—was like climbing in a bed of marbles. One step forward, two steps back. Slipping and sliding. Brutal on the knees and ankles, our trekking poles near useless.

It was still night, a satin sky, teased by the first shadows of light. Left right, left right. Every five minutes my friend and I would stop to catch our breath. We passed people in tears. Others vomited.

Our budget trip did not include chairs! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The rest of our group had moved ahead, but we willed each other forward. Four more minutes, then another break. Four more minutes, then another break. Counting the steps. Counting the breaths. Twenty more breaths then I can sit down again.

More people crying.

The satin above us folded back, as the first rays sliced up the sky. Deep hues, the offspring of black and purple, split by white gold ribbons. We were going to miss dawn from the summit, but neither of us cared. All that mattered was getting there.

Left right, left right. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On the last few hundred metres of the ascent, a narrow steep ridge curves around to the right. Now with first light we could see the precipice on each side. If we fell to the right, we’d stop in the crater base. To the left, it felt like the ocean. For the first time I was glad the climb had been in the dark.

As the sun broke the horizon an added challenge came into play. Walking up scree is hard enough, walking down (as I would later find out) harder still. Climbers who had had their fill of the summit were starting down, but rather than walk in the scree—they’d run.

Are we there yet? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was insane.

These climbers, already exhausted would run down the rim, almost out of control. A collision with someone still climbing could see both barrelling off into the abyss.

We made the summit. Caught our breath. Every summit is spectacular in its own way, but Rinjani is magnificent. We counted off the other peaks we could see—Agung and Tambora were the two easiest. The weather was crystal.

Some still had the energy to smile. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As our guide said, “You need to feel some pain to get something good.” He was right.

The obligatory photo with an altitude marker, then we started the long slog down. On the crater rim we ate, loaded up and continued into the crater.

It was on dusk when we reached the campsite by the lake. The scene was filthy with rubbish, but the porters had found a less fetid spot and had started to set up the tents. Go hit the hot–springs the guide said.

The next morning by the crater lake. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At that stage standing was painful, but a soak in hot–springs appealed. Despite the crowds at the lakeside, the hot–springs were not too busy. Warm and soothing, we floated and swam, splashed strangers—everyone laughed. Like the bath you never want to get out of, we lingered, not realising that once out, we would be back in an altitude climate.

None of us had brought a change of clothes nor towels. We ran like mad shivering chooks trying to find our camp as a thick cloying mist fell and enveloped all. Camp found, still shivering we laughed at our stupidity as the guide told us off. We gulped down hot coffee and stuffed down carbs. We slept like the dead—little did we know how close they were.

Porters. In the rain. In flip flops. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next morning we started late. The guide had said the last day was easy, so we opted for a later start.

It was not easy.

My friend and I reached the outskirts of Senaru around 7 pm, the Surabayans a couple of hours later. The guide had carried one for a spell. Exhaustion everywhere. Tempers frayed. Badly.

I am SO DONE. Photo: Trekking companion.

Late that evening, I was alone and back in Senggigi. A hot shower washed off three days of grime and pain. I sat on my little balcony and cried. Half relieved it was over, half overjoyed I’d completed it.

A few days later I read online that an Indonesian trekker had died in the crater the night we were there. They’d been in the same hot–springs, also into the dark, got lost on the way back to their campsite and died of exposure (the story says they may have drowned, my guide said it was exposure when I contacted them to ask). We probably swum with them, maybe even splashed them.

As our guide said “Give Rinjani the respect it deserves. It does not forgive.”

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