Couchfish

Seems weird to have four thousand islands to choose from but pick from one of four. Ok, I am being unfair. Many of the other 3,996 are but low tide rocks with a tuft of grass. Still, it seems like a bunch of wasted real estate. So which of the four should you go for? I say Don Khon, the southern most of Laos’ inhabited 4,000 islands.

Why Don Khon and not Don Dhet just to the north, or a ways upriver to Don Khong? There’s also apparently a guesthouse on Don Son, though I have to admit I’ve never been there.

Further north still lies Don Daeng, opposite Champasak. It does have accommodation, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t considered a part of the Four Thousand Islands. I could be wrong though.

Those crazy French I tell ya. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So why Don Khon?

Don Khon because you can walk to its southern bank, sit on the old French boat landing, and watch the Mekong flow into Cambodia. Even the walk there is great. Pass by the old rusted French locomotive, and along the ballast that the French laid in their loony scheme to make the Mekong navigable. The woods along the way are cool too. Keep your eyes peeled and you may even see dolphins off the southern bank.

There are two sets of waterfalls—rapids really—Li Phi on the west coast and Khone Pa Soi on the east. When the water level of the Mekong is right, there is even a sandy beach on the west coast you can chug back iced Beerlao on.

Li Phi falls. Photo: Cindy Fan.

You’re also a smidgen closer to the grandfather of the Mekong rapids around here, Khone Pha Pheng. They’re not on Don Khon, but of all the rapids they are the most spectacular.

By the north bank of the island you’ve got a couple of French period buildings. Some are smart digs to relax in, and then, of course, the bridge linking you to Don Dhet.

Late light. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Don Dhet is the epicentre of the backpacker scene in these parts (or what is left of it). The island has to have one of the highest concentrations of hammocks per square inch in Asia. It should come as no surprise it also has a tonne of budget orientated places to stay.

I’ve always preferred the digs on Don Khon. Yes, I pay a little more, but the extra creature comforts are welcome. Also as it faces north, rather than east or west, the main accommodation scene offers a bit of sunrise and sunset.

Did someone say hammock? Photo: Cindy Fan.

Take my word for it, if you’re a late riser and you opt for a hut on the sunrise side of Don Dhet, you will be a late riser no more. The river though is just gorgeous along there.

Don Dhet also offers more relics of the French colonial period, but for many the main attraction is swinging in the hammock and not much else. For the energetic, perhaps some kayaking.

Cycle the interior. Pink bicycle is optional. Photo: Cindy Fan.

The 4,000 Islands are also a great destinations for families—there is plenty of scope for days spent cycling—or just walking—the interior of either island. There is also swimming, tubing and kayaking, though do watch those currents.

Itineraries get blown out on 4,000 islands—regardless of which island you are staying on. If you’re handy on two wheels, the islands are a perfect base for scooter trips. Up to Champasak—one of my favourite laid back riverside towns—would be my first choice. From there, visit Wat Phu and Don Daeng.

“Call the boss, tell them I’ll be a month late back to work.” Photo: Cindy Fan.

For the environment–inclined, consider Ban Khiet Ngong—it is easier to find than say. It lies by the buffer zone to Xe Pian National Protected Area—but, well, that’s another diversion in itself.

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

A persistent stereotype about Vietnam is that it’s hot year round. The quip, “There’s two seasons in Vietnam: hot and hotter” applies only to the south. I’m delighted when beachwear-clad tourists arrive into Hà Nội airport in January. No doubt they spend their first day panic shopping for knock-off North Face gear that is too small and reeks of plastic.

Video by 10th grade English majors at Vo Nguyen Giap Gifted High School in Dong Hoi.

The Central Coast climate north of Đà Nẵng is extreme. I’ve survived one summer living in the region. Six months of broiling sun and air so humid a walk feels like swimming in bún bò Huế. Now it is my first winter. If it’s not lashing down or drizzling, a grey damp chill pushes in from tormented seas. The tile and concrete buildings, ideal for hot temperatures, are iceboxes.

Weather is on my brain as I gaze out the train window rolling into Đồng Hới. The morning sky is bleak. The sun ain’t coming. Vietnam has plunged into a cold snap with record low temperatures. It is snowing in the north. Thousands of cattle and pigs have frozen to death, crops are ruined. It doesn’t bode well for my research day in Đồng Hới.

The cold weather gear I brought with me when I moved here are worn through. Replacements are impossible given the sizing in this country. Jacket sleeves are a good three inches too short on me. I stopped looking for trousers after I tried on a pair and got stuck. Stuck? Imagine a motorised sausage stuffer shooting a human into a casing. All I have is a Lao scarf, heavy leather cowboy boots, an old fleece pullover and a flimsy raincoat.

Boats at the ready. Photo: Cindy Fan.

I drop off my pack at the guesthouse and “gear up”—in other words, I layer on everything. I wrap the scarf over my head like a babushka, tug on the boots over two pairs of socks, and wear socks on my hands like mittens. If anyone sees me pedalling a rusty bicycle around Đồng Hới, they’ll think I’m crazy. Then I realise that nobody will—the city is empty. Everyone has wisely locked down in their icebox, watching TV. Outside, biting winds strengthen.

Đồng Hới would be pleasant in sunnier times. For tourists it’s mainly a transit point to Phong Nha, where I’m headed tomorrow. I cycle kilometres of beach lined with empty seafood joints. In summer they’d be packed with Vietnamese tourists.

The ride reminds me of the country’s many under-the-radar coastal spots. Rough around the edges, but good for ocean swims, local vibe and cheap, fresh seafood. Chân Mây near Lăng Cô and the coast all the way from Vĩnh Hy through Phan Rang–Tháp Chàm down to Ca Na come to mind.

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

I cross the Nhật Lệ River and am blasted by headwind. Pins and needles fade; my body is now simply numb. A news image from this morning flashes to mind, a cow frozen dead in a ditch. This will be me, I say to myself.

A dog barks. I turn to see one running towards me. 

The rule of thumb with dogs in Southeast Asia is to pretend to ignore them and continue on slowly; do not flee. They will follow and bark their head off until you’re out of their territory, then will slink back.

Old and new in Đồng Hới. Photo: Cindy Fan.

I pedal languidly. The snarling beast sprints then lunges, sinking his teeth around my ankle. He can’t bite through the leather but tries with all his might. I shake and kick until he slips off.

“RESEARCH DAY IS OVER,” I yell, firing off expletives as I flee.

The cowboy boots weren’t so ridiculous after all.

Better with sun … and warmth. Photo: Cindy Fan.

In the evening the temperatures flirt with freezing. I wander the ghostly city in search of food. Drawn by glowing lights, I find 7th Heaven—my heaven.

Gusts rattle the windows, but the food warms me up, as does the conversation with a handful of travellers.

Sơn Đoòng comes up. The world’s largest cave is what put the region on the map. The expeditions are costly, yet are booked solid with a long wait list.

“I wish I could see Sơn Đoòng,” I say wistfully.

“Can I stuart? Please, please please? They say it will be warm there.” Photo: Cindy Fan.

“Do you have time for Hang Én Cave?” someone asks. It turns out he works for Oxalis, the only outfitter operating in Sơn Đoòng. “Hang Én is the first night of the Sơn Đoòng trek. It’s incredible and gives you a taste. Let me see if there’s availability,” he says checking on his phone.

On 1/25 9:49 PM Cindy Fan wrote:

Subject: urgent: yes or no

Hi Stu, 

Happened to meet someone who works for Oxalis, the same people who do Son Doong ($3000 cave). He recommended Hang En as more affordable alternative and there's an upcoming spot.

I'm not prepared for trekking but I could wing it with what I have.

let me know tonight if possible. thanks

Sent from my iPhone

On 1/26 7:57 AM Stuart McDonald wrote:

Hey Cindy,

Look it will be warmer underground!

I'm fine with the price - do you think it is worth doing?

/s

On 1/26 8:00 AM Cindy Fan wrote:

He said it’s warm in the cave.

Yes.

Sent from my iPhone

Tomorrow: Hang En Part 1

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

The first time I went to Ko Tao in the Gulf of Thailand was in the early 1990s. It wasn’t a very successful visit. I didn’t dive at the time and was just looking for a quiet island. It turned out to be quieter than I planned.

A day after we arrived, the weather turned unseasonably ugly. Ugly. At the time there were no flash Lomprayah catamarans, rather the ferries were old and not great. The night boat was a notorious shocker. The boats stopped running. They wouldn’t recommence for at least a week. Thank god there was no social media then—I might have panicked.

Ko Tao’s east coast—no shortage of places to hideout. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

My partner and I had checked into a little beach hut joint at the northern end of Mae Haad. I can’t remember the name of it, but if you know Ko Tao, it was right before the hill that separates Mae Haad from Haad Sairee. The huts were simple rattan–walled, wood–framed, palm frond–roofed jobs. A squat loo was out back and the amenities extended to a mosquito net and an oil lamp for when the generator went off. As with the name, I don’t recall the price, but it wouldn’t have been much—100 baht a night maybe.

Before the weather turned, it was a fun time. The water was twenty metres away and we’d get up, stagger to the sea and fall in. Almost all our meals were at the dinky little restaurant on site. On the first night we strolled to a Mom and Pop seafood place over the water in Mae Haad. Adventurous.

Then the weather turned.

Simpler times. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Over the next week we got to know the confines of our bungalow and the onsite restaurant well. I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten as many no–names in the same period since. We got sick. The staff were sick. There were only two other guests, two British women, but we hardly ever saw them. The bungalow staff kept telling us they were “sicker than the rest of us”. When one finally surfaced she was as thin as a rake, out of money and said her friend had cholera. I recoil even now typing that, almost thirty years later.

I don’t know if she actually had cholera, but that’s what her friend said—and they both looked like death warmed up. They were on the first boat out. We waited for the second one.

Pretty at a glance … Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next year I returned to the island with my partner of the time. Neither of us dove but she was a keen free diver. We headed to a spot on the back of the island known for bouldering and snorkelling. It was glorious.

We went for a week, stayed six, and neither of us caught cholera.

The roads over the island were a joke then, so you’d catch a long tail from the pier at Mae Haad around to the far side. It was the perfect decompress from the ferry ride. The long tail would rock with the swell around the north side of “Turtle Island” before ducking into your bay of choice. Depending on the bay, a gaggle of huts would run up the ridge or be low slung by the water’s edge.

But it pays to read the small print. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The guesthouse owners were colourful to say the least.

One, back in his teens, had allegedly killed a guy in Bangkok in a knife fight. He’d show you his scars after enough bongs and Thai whiskey. After the fight, he fled to Ko Tao and had been there ever since.

“You should see the other guy,” he’d growl in a well-rehearsed line.

Another had a sideline in smuggling. She’d pay backpackers to carry precious stones on flights between Colombo and Bangkok. “Free holiday to Sri Lanka” was how she sold it. We passed.

Pirates welcome. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One place had the foundations of a hut at the centre of the property. The story goes a backpacker, smoking in bed, set his mosquito net on fire. Side note here, this is a very serious risk—never smoke under a mozzie net. The hut burnt to the ground and when the owner asked him to pay for the damage, the backpacker cried poor boy. The figure of 10,000 baht sticks in my mind, but I could be wrong.

Regardless of the amount, the owner agreed to let him go to the mainland to get the money (there were no ATMs on Ko Tao then). Quell surprise, he never returned. The foundations stood untouched. When I returned to the place in 2018, they were still there. “He’s still not come back, maybe next year,” the owner laughed from his lazy chair as we shot the breeze.

There was another place elsewhere on the island—island folk—born on the island. As with many islands, it doesn’t matter how long you spend there, you were either born on the island or you weren’t. You can’t fake it—and when push comes to shove it matters.

Roads have improved a it. Photo: David Luekens.

Her place was notorious for petty theft, but it sat very close to a drop dead gorgeous beach. It was, in all aspects a terrible place—don’t be fooled by the “resort” suffix—but the punters kept coming. The thefts kept happening. A little money here, a camera there. Trekking boots or a sleeping bag would vanish.

Returning from a night out, a guest walked into his bungalow to find staff riffling through his gear. Words were exchanged. The owner and her husband (also an island person and crazy as a cut snake) appeared. Things heated up. A door got kicked in and a knife got pulled. The backpacker lost everything—they marched him out of the “resort”, gave him 100 baht of his own money back, and told him to get lost.

The next day he reported what had happened to a police officer. When they found out the resort, they refused to even take a report.

It is best to keep your distance. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Being born on the island matters.

Decades passed. In recent years, Ko Tao has earned an unsavoury reputation thanks to ghastly murders and mysterious deaths. The tabloid press, and even the New York Times, has labelled it “Death Island”. Ironic for an island that kicked off as a political prison in 1943.

When I was there in 2018, I lost an afternoon at a beach bar chatting with one of the children of the knife fighter who fled to Ko Tao. I asked them what they thought of what the island had become.

Is the sun setting on a classic Thai destination? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“I never go over there anymore,” they said (referring to the more developed side of the island). “Greedy and stupid people, almost nobody is from here. Just about money. They don’t understand Ko Tao—they’ll kill it.”

Following their lead, I asked about the killings.

“Everyone knows who did it, but they were born here, so nothing will happen.”

I asked were they born on the island?

“I was born there,” they said, pointing to a patch of grass below the restaurant.

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

Towards the end of last year, before the madness hit, I was in Cambodia for a spell on two Khmer islands. Personally, it was an extremely rough trip, but two beaches on two islands made the whole trip almost worthwhile.

That is Long Set in the distance. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For me, it is hard to write about Cambodia and not get upset. I only lived there a couple of years, but of everywhere I’ve lived in the region, nowhere touched me more than there. While it is lame to use another writer’s words to express how you feel, journalist Lauren Crothers nails it:

“There are still so many wonderful things about Cambodia that will sustain my love for it—the growling sky before a rainy season downpour; the sound of a Tokay gecko piercing the quiet of a night thick with humidity; the people.”

and earlier in the piece, and, in my opinion, more importantly, Crothers writes:

“If that is exhausting for a foreign journalist, I still to this day cannot imagine what it is like for Cambodians, who have been working on these issues far longer than I ever did, and who will continue to, for many years to come.”

Koh Toch “Don’t touch me”, Koh Rong. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Aghast at Sihanoukville, I removed all our coverage of the place—save a one–pager, subtitled:

“To reach heaven one must pass through hell.”

Then I got on the ferry to Koh Rong.

Years earlier, when we were living in Phnom Penh, we were offered the opportunity to “buy” a beach on Koh Rong. The price was US$30,000 (yes, I still have the emails!) and while it would have exhausted our savings (and some), it was tempting. Land title was unclear (duh!), and the whole shebang was beyond dodgy, but we talked about it. In the end, a wiser friend counselled “Dude do you really want to lose your life savings on an island called Ko Rong?!”

This is not the beach I thought about buying. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We passed. Fast forward a decade and it was wise counsel.

Koh Rong has gorgeous beaches—that true white sand meets turquoise waters thing. The landing point though for most, is Koh Toch, and it is a dump. Stacked back with cheap digs though, it is where a lot of budget travellers stay.

After a few days, I moved to Long Set (4K) Beach which was better. It wasn’t till a few days later that I grabbed a scooter and made my way via a garbage trail to Lonely Beach that I hit paydirt.

Access to some beaches remains limited. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s only the one place to stay, Lonely Beach Eco Resort, and for once the self–appointed “eco” earned its keep. The beach is a golden sand rather than the searing to the eyes white. Palms shade the sand. Hammocks swing by the water’s edge.

Thanks to me getting lost on the “trail” I hit the beach a ten minute walk from the resort. A Khmer family were camped there, fishing. They had a small fire going and waved me over to chat. My Khmer and their English was worse than the trail so it was all sign language, but they tossed me a beer for a buck and offered me a tiny fish barbecue. They’d keep an eye on my bike they signalled, and I wandered down to the resort.

Hello Lonely Beach. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Lonely Beach nails the hippy chic rustic vibe. Super welcoming staff and the managers happily walked me through a bunch of rooms. They’re all built back from the high tide mark “We work hard to stay legal” they said, and each hut, while rustic, charmed. Come with a lover I thought.

The next day I was on the big beach, Sok San. It is the classic beautiful beach on the island, but the digs all fell way short. I hadn’t been off Lonely Beach 24 hours and already I missed it.

The beach shacks are simple. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A few days later I was on the sister island, Koh Rong Samloem. Again I stayed on the main beach, walking, checking hotels, and gas-bagging with bar owners. The beach is exposed and the weather had not been not kind, so Saracen Bay was far from looking its best. The sand was still white and the water crystal, but garbage was a big issue.

On the third day there, I had a run in with a hotelier. He marched down making a beeline for me, and demanded to know if I was a travel writer.

Beach cafe on Saracen Beach. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I fessed up and he went on this tirade. I had no idea who he was, nor how he had identified me. Regardless, someone, somewhere had s**t–talked his establishment and he was not happy. Getting all shouty he pushed me a couple of times as I tried to extricate myself from his madness. As I wasn’t in the frame of mine to have a fist fight with a lunatic European, to a trail of abuse I walked off and had a bad pizza. Happy days.

Looking to get off Saracen and avoid another confrontation, the next day I walked over to Lazy Beach.

Need a shack to write your Masters? Here you go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If there was ever a beach that earned its name, it is this one. As with above mentioned Lonely Beach, there is only one place to stay. According to the English management I talked to, this was the first place to open on the island. It remains one of the best.

Oversized wooden bungalows are scattered right along the beach. They’re more solid and less quirky than at Lonely Beach, but the appeal remains solid. The one weird thing, was in the room there was a black vinyl lounge that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bus station, brothel or Thunderbirds set. The bathrooms are very basic. Very. Aside from these points though, it is pretty fab. Again, pack ten books, one lover and turn your phone off for a week.

Peak hour. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The beach has a steeper drop-off, but it is a similar golden sand to what they have on Lonely Beach. You know the sand—the type your feet sink into, and give a foot massage at every step.

I can feel it now.

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

This is an old story, more suited to my Friday afternoon entries on mishaps and mayhem, but I figured as I’m in Hanoi, why not?

On one of my early trips to Hanoi, in 1995 I think, I spent some time visiting spots like Tam Dao, Ninh Binh and Cuc Phuong. Between the visits I’d just hang out in Hanoi, mostly in the Old Quarter.

The Old Quarter then still had a bunch of places to stay, but a fraction of how many there are today. They were generally crappier, with cramped double rooms and dingy dorms being the norm. The entire area was more local and less tourist zoo.

Street side dining, Hanoi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sometimes the sleeping arrangements were unusual.

At one spot, a French speaking older Vietnamese man had double beds on the ground, first and second floors. The place was kind of open plan, with the beds separated by curtains. He slept on the ground floor in the same kind of arrangement. It was odd, but it was cheap.

I stayed there at least three times. Not due to the social sleeping arrangements‚ but rather because the owner was a character. He would have been in his seventies and he’d hold court on his front steps, telling tales of the War period in French. The only French word I knew was baguette, but Franco travellers would translate.

Food will always come to you in Hanoi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It might sound a bit boring, but one of the real joys (at least for me) of Hanoi was sitting around doing exactly nothing. Bahasa Indonesia has a word “nongkrong”. It sort of means hanging out with good friends and shooting the breeze but sort of doing nothing—for hours on end. I don’t know if there is a Vietnamese equivalent, I’d not been to Indonesia at the time, but I reckon we were nongkronging.

The mornings were for coffee and cigarettes listening to the host. Most would filter off at lunch to eat, or often food would come to us. There was a tiny, filthy, kitchen out back from where sometimes food would emerge. Free. Sated, the beers would start, then dinner, then more beers.

As was the norm, when he’d had enough, around 11pm, the owner would call it a night and tell everyone to go to bed. His shopfront had heavy metal shutters on the ground floor which he’d drag closed and padlock from the inside. If you were locked out, there was a hole you could reach through and ring a bell and he’d let you in. Anything after about midnight made him unhappy.

None of these are the fire brigade’s number. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The last time I stayed there, it was about 3am in the morning when I was woken up by a smashing sound from downstairs. It was a little smoky and I could hear people yelling downstairs, trying to open the metal doors.

I roused the others on my floor from their comatose sleep, and we made our way down. The first floor had an atrium–like set–up that looked down onto the ground floor. None of the lights were working. I couldn’t see the fire, but there was a fire somewhere and we were locked inside. As far as I knew there was only one way out.

Because it was dark, it was difficult to tell what was going on. The stairs up from the ground floor, were near the kitchen, at the rear of the shopfront. People were still trying to open the steel shutters and I could hear the old guy yelling in French. It was bedlam.

Keys can be useful. At Hoa Lu. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The old guy came upstairs and headed into the bathroom. There was a large bucket for water in there and we tried to drag it down the stairs. As we started down, someone slipped and everything went flying. I can’t remember what it was—a garbage bin perhaps—but water went everywhere, and the owner kicked the bin downstairs.

Everyone was coughing, and torch beams flying around made it feel, for a second, like a god–awful night club.

Then I heard running water, more yelling from the owner, and the sound of water getting splashed all over the joint. Someone was retching, most were down on their haunches. Still the owner and a traveller were in the kitchen going batshit with the water.

What we needed, was water. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

They got the fire under control, and the owner came out, took a key off a nail on the wall and pried open the shutters. The blast of fresh air was like a wave of life washing over us. A gathered crowd out front cheered.

A traveller had been let in at around 2am. He had loitered in the kitchen for a bit, where he had another beer and smoked. When done, he threw his last cigarette butt into the garbage bin. The fire started there. The butt lit some other trash, and all the smoke was from what was burning in the bin. If the fire had escaped the bin, we all would have probably died.

Am sure a few offerings were made the next day. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Come daylight, account was taken of the damage, and, in the scheme of things it wasn’t too bad. The nearby laundry–lady made a killing washing everyone’s clothes and the linen.

Ever since that night, if I’ve stayed at a place with metal shutters that are locked up at night, I’ve always asked for a key. No key—no stay.

Tomorrow: Unsightseeing in Hanoi

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

At the time the road from Luang Nam Tha to Huay Xai in Laos was a scar in the earth. A long bauxite trail running southwest through towns and hamlets, you’d never read about. Vieng Phou Kha and Ban Donchai some how stick in my mind, but there were plenty of others.

Rustic clutches of wood and bamboo huts. Battered palm leaf roofs. It was dry season, so everything had at least a half an inch of the red dust all over it. Kids everywhere. Grinding, grinding poverty.

This was northern Laos in the early to mid 1990’s. To be honest, despite the last two decades, even today you don’t need to go far off piste to find a similar level of poverty. What a sad sad joke the Lao government is.

Northern Laos knows how to do wilderness. Photo: Tim Clark.

So, what was I doing on a saffron tinted highway through the jungle in Laos in the mid 90’s? I had hitched a ride ... with an artefact smuggler.

I’d been kicking around Laos’ far north on some unproductive travel and found myself in Luang Nam Tha, but needing to get back to Bangkok. At the time it was a grinding ten to twelve hour trip on a truck–bus thing. The dust came free.

Sitting in a hole–in–the–wall in Luang Nam Tha, I meet a Canadian. They’re involved in an inter–governmental project and we chat about development and stuff in Laos. It is typical traveller meets expat fare, and they ask me where I’m going the next day. I say I’m headed to Huay Xai, as I need to get back to Bangkok for some personal stuff.

“Do you want a ride? I’m going there tomorrow,” they say.

We chat a bit and it turns out they’re leaving early, and they’re sure they’ll beat the truck bus back. We haggle on the price a bit, but as I have had my fill of truck buses, I give in and we shake on it.

I was so fashionable in the 1990s.

I’m expecting a shiny SUV out the front of my guesthouse in the morning. Even in the 1990’s that style of vehicle, washed down every morning, was typical of acronym–funded NGOs. What greeted me was a little different.

I’m not a military guns and ammo kinda guy, but I can do Sci–Fi. You know, in the first Alien sequel, they had the low lying vehicle that they drove out of the flying thing? Just before the Aliens killed almost everyone? My vehicle is sort of like that—but canvas–topped and without the Aliens.

It is low slung, has six wheels on each side and the whole thing already has an inch of dust on it. My Canadian friend is standing beside it and asks “I bet you didn’t expect this?”

I’m dumbfounded. The Canadian steers me into the back (no backpackers in the front seat it seems) and I get in. As they walk to the driver’s seat, they yell back “I need to pick up two more people and some cargo, then we go.”

I’m expecting them to do a guesthouse run—picking up more backpackers. Instead we drive out to the outskirts of Luang Nam Tha and pull up at a typical wooden house. Downstairs is open—for cattle and what not—while the living quarters are upstairs.

A Lao couple walk down the stairs and join us. They’re both middle aged. He’s in pants and a shirt—almost business like, she in a sinh and a decorative top. They’re not upland people—both have smooth hands. They force out a half polite half quizzical “hello” at me.

Pleasantries over, the Canadian and the Lao guy head back under the house and emerge with a large object. Wrapped up in fabric, it is heavy but not too onerous. About a half metre wide and round, about the same distance deep, I have no idea what it is.

They lift it into the back of the six wheel thing and push it up against the back of the cab. Then other cardboard boxes, full of who knows what, get piled in front. For all I know the boxes are full of cocaine, but whatever is wrapped up in the cloth is clearly the prize.

I ask some questions, as I am, to be honest, a bit concerned. The Canadian fobs me off—it is something going to Bangkok, they say. Given I’m not planning on crossing the border in the six wheel Aliens throwback, I’m, ok whatever, and jump in.

Akha village, Luang Nam Tha Province, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Lao couple are friendly, but I can tell they’re as mercantile as it gets. Their English seems limited, but I’m sure they understand far more than what they let on to.

We make good speed. The Canadian has driven this road more than a few times, and while it is bumpy, we’re moving far faster than a truck bus would be.

I ask the Lao couple after the package.

Stony faces.

About six hours later we pull into Vieng Phou Kha. At the time there was no Gibbon Experience, and it was nothing more than a truck stop. We stop to eat and drink.

The Canadian and I trade more traveller chat, then I ask after the package. What is it? They brush me off, but I can tell they want to tell me. We keep drinking and I keep pressing.

“What is it?”

At this stage I’m thinking maybe precious metals—drugs seem unlikely as they go down the river. Guns? I dunno. Do gun–runners pick up backpacker hitchhikers? Seems unlikely.

The Lao couple see what is about to happen and jump up. There is a long conversation between the Canadian and them in Lao, which I can’t follow. They relent.

We walk to the back of the truck, and climb in. The Canadian pulls back the cardboard boxes and they drag the cargo down, between the two bench seats.

An example of a frog drum. This one in the Alor Museum in Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We sit opposite each other, it between us, and as they go to pull the hessian bags that cover it off, it hits me. I know what it is.

“It has to be a frog drum,” I think.

They peel the layers off the top, and sure enough, it is a frog drum.

I’m no antiquities expert, but it is in magnificent condition. The frogs are perfect, the circular rings across the top of the drum are like a tattoo even I’d pay for. No erosion. no damage.

To this day, it is the most perfect frog drum I’ve ever seen. It is an absolute work of art. I run my hand over the surface, the concentric circles running under the skin of my palm. It is almost sexy, like I’m cheating somehow, touching something I shouldn’t.

The Canadian shatters my dream moment, and breaks down to math.

“The couple who are so annoyed I’m showing you this,” they say, “paid a village headman upcountry from Luang Nam Tha $500 for the drum. We’re meeting a middle man on the border who is paying them $5,000 for it [the Canadian claims]. From there, who knows, I guess to River City in Bangkok unless a private collector snaps it up first.”

The drum is as beautiful as I feel dirty. And for the next six hours down to Huay Xai I brood about what I am a part of. The Lao couple and I do not speak. The Canadian just drives.

Crossing the Mekong at late light. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is nightfall by the time we reach the Mekong. We’re on the outskirts of Huay Xai somewhere.

It turns out the river is but metres away. The host bids us all to relax while the cargo is lifted out of the vehicle and taken into the house. The Canadian tells me it will cross the border “unofficially” in the morning. From there, once in Chiang Khong, onwards to Bangkok.

We start to argue. I point out, among other things, that it is outrageous a priceless artefact is leaving Laos for only $500.

A Thai guy who has been there the whole time, jumps up, annoyed by my questions. He’s got the snake hips look of a Thai police officer about him, but he’s bare chested and in jeans. Let’s say he’s in good shape and he knows it. There is not an inch of fat on him. Not one. Believe me, I know my inches of fat.

He gets up off his ghastly wood monstrosity of a chair and swaggers over to me. He barks at the Lao couple, asking if I speak Lao, but he well knows I don’t.

He sits beside me. Closer, but not too close for comfort. He’s been drinking and is a bit high, but is in control. Then he asks:

“Would you like this drum Mr Australian?”

I can’t tell if he is joking. I mean I’d love to have the drum, but I have about 400 baht in my wallet. So, as he wraps his arm around me, smoking, I say

“No thank you. It is beautiful, but I think it is yours.”

I’m sure he is the smuggler. The guy responsible for doing the single dangerous leg for the poor frog drum. But I can’t help but think it has gone to his head. Dude, have you seen how long this river is? Find a quiet spot—you don’t have to be a scary hitman to manage it.

Of course I don’t actually say this, because the whole scenario is pretty bonkers.

Hello River City. Photo: David Luekens.

He’s scary and a bit mad, but more than anything else, I don’t understand why I am here. Why the hell didn’t they drop me off beforehand?

Then, the Canadian leaps up. “Lets go,” they declare. They’re so sudden in their actions, it jolts everyone and the Thai guy chills, then laughs. We both stand, slap hands and part ways.

The Canadian gives me a lift to where I’m planning to stay in Huay Xai. Standing outside my guesthouse, I ask him, why do you do this?

I’m still a bit shook up by the Thai guy. To be honest, he scared the hell out of me. I stand there, in the dust, looking the Canadian in the eye. Why are you a part of this, I ask.

“It pays the bills,” they say.

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

Over the last eighteen days Couchfish has been all about the Dien Bien Phu Loop in northwest Vietnam. This loop was one of the most popular bike trips to do in the country through the 1990’s and 2000’s. More recently it has been eclipsed by the Ha Giang Loop in the country’s far north. It is still well worth doing and I hope you’ve found the last 18 days of travel interesting.

This post is part of a series of the paid version of Couchfish, but I’m sending it to everyone today as I’m not sure I’ll have time to do the free post this afternoon (sorry Chris!), and I thought this, as a wrap post, would be interesting to everyone.

A viewpoint near Ðiện Biên Phủ. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The purpose of this post is to wrap the route up and deal with a few common questions about the trip.

Motorbiking and insurance

This is easily the most important point to keep in mind. Unless you have a Vietnamese license, any insurance you have will probably be worthless. Unless there’s been a change in regulations, Vietnam does not recognise International Driving Riding permits. This may result in you getting pulled over and fined by the police. A more pressing issue is that your insurance most likely will not cover you in the event of an accident.

I recommend two wheels with an engine. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

You will be riding 100% at your own risk—this is what I did.

Vietnam’s roads can be challenging. Some of the driving practises you encounter can be unorthodox. I would not recommend a novice scooter rider trying the Dien Bien Phu Loop.

Be aware of the risks—and read your travel insurance documentation carefully.

Always, always, always wear a helmet. I can’t stress this enough. The roads are not softer in Vietnam and the standard of medical care in rural areas is not great. Make sure your horn works—and is loud. You’ll be using it.

Pack your Easy Rider playlist. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I rented my bike from Tigit Motorbikes in Hanoi. No complaints whatsoever and I would use them again.

Right of way

In Vietnam size matters when it comes to “right of way”. You are expected to yield to anything bigger than you. Others drive with the expectation that you know this. Trying to hold onto “your territory” on the road is a recipe for disaster. Shoulders are often non–existent or in poor/dangerous condition.

Falling piano out of shot. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Drive or ride defensively always. As with wearing a helmet, this really needs emphasis. I encountered everything from trucks and buses to herds of buffalo, flocks of geese, a snake, and plenty of kids. When riding anywhere near civilisation, slow the hell down. Expect a piano to fall from the sky. Don’t assume the road will still be there around the corner.

Can you ride the Loop on a bicycle?

Are you mad? Yes? Ok sure you can. As long as you are in good enough shape to ride 80–100km a day, sometimes very hilly, you’ll be able to find accommodation at every stop. Much of the advice for motorbiking holds here. Please note that often you will not have a shoulder suitable for a pushbike.

Factor in landslide time. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Expect plenty of smiles and waves. I saw not a single foreigner on a bicycle on this trip, but travellers do do it. The mountain passes near Sapa and Mai Châu will be HARD WORK! I would also suggest leaving early daily to allow for the unexpected.

Can you drive the Loop in a car?

Yes. Almost all the roads I took on this trip are doable on four wheels rather than two. Car hire is affordable in Vietnam. Once you have three people, you won’t be paying much more than you would for three bikes.

While I had no problems whatsoever with the authorities, obey signage and don’t play silly buggers. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Can you do the Loop by public bus?

Yes. But to cover all the ground I did, it will take you a while. Unless you are on an open–ended trip I would suggest being selective in where you get off the bus. Vietnamese buses in this part of the country have improved over the years, but comfort can still be an issue. The going can be slow and breakdowns are common.

Will you meet other travellers?

Outside of Sapa, most likely no. In the whole trip, outside of Sapa and Bắc Hà, I met a couple of French guys in Ðiện Biên Phủ and another cluster in Mù Cang Chải. I saw a couple of others in Mai Châu. Pack books. Start with a phrasebook.

Is it safe?

I rode the trip alone and had no real issues, but travel is always safer in at least a pair. I timed my trip legs to avoid riding at night (unless within a town)—and I would suggest you do the same. At no stage did I feel in danger or at risk. In all my dealings with locals I had no problems.

Raw fish in Sapa? Now we’re talking dangers! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It pays to behave yourself, dress sensibly (both with a view to local sensibilities and safety). Always stay in control. Many appear to have no issues with getting tanked and riding or driving home. Need I say, this is unwise—and another reason to stay off the roads at night. If a situation begins to feel uncomfortable, leave—don’t hang around waiting for it to get worse.

For solo women travelling, yes women ride this trip solo. The same holds as for everyone—safety comes in numbers. I’d also suggest considering spending a little more money on accommodation. Steering clear of the cheapest guesthouses (signage will read: Nhà Nghỉ), might be prudent.

How long?

The route on Couchfish took 18 days. You could do it in less in a car or on a bigger bike, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I could have done with at least another week. At least.

The best way to enjoy Sapa is to keep your back to the town. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Other towns I just rode through include Mộc Châu, Yên Châu and Lào Cai. Each could have done with at least a night. Others I could have easily spent longer in include Lai Châu, Sìn Hồ, Pu Luông and Mù Cang Chải.

Creature comforts

Outside of Sapa expect little in the way of fancy fare or western food. In most cases local fare was the predominant offering. Do spend time in the coffee shops. ATMs and WiFi are easy to find in most centres.

Tomorrow is vegetarian day. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The route

Here is a screenshot of a rough map I made in Google Maps. Click here for the full version. It is not 100% accurate because there is only so long I can try and make a map on Google Maps before I have a mental breakdown.

I hate Google Maps. Screenshot: Photo Stuart McDonald.

The blow by blow are in the individual posts (not all are linked here), but in summary, my route was:

Hanoi—Mai Châu

Mai Châu—Pu Luông

Pu Luông—Mai Châu

Mai Châu—Sơn La

Sơn La—Ðiện Biên Phủ

Ðiện Biên Phủ—Mường Lay

Mường Lay—Sìn Hồ—Lai Châu

Lai Châu—Sapa (with a side trip to Bắc Hà)

Sapa—Mù Cang Chải

Mù Cang Chải—Tân Sơn

Tân Sơn—Hanoi

If you don’t have the best part of three weeks, consider a smaller loop taking in Mai Châu and Pu Luông.

If you are into war history, Sơn La and Ðiện Biên Phủ are the highlights—you can fly to Ðiện Biên Phủ (and hire a bike or car there) from Hanoi.

The road ribbons. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another option could be Hanoi to Mù Cang Chải to Sapa and back, but that would involve a few rather long riding days.

Which ever route you take, once you get to Sapa, you can throw your bike on the train back to Hanoi. This will save you two to three days of riding.

More time? Consider continuing east from Bắc Hà to explore the Ha Giang region and Vietnam’s far north. Vietnam Coracle aces this area with a bunch of suggested itineraries.

Final thoughts

The Dien Bien Phu loop is not for everyone.

Expect about 82 million photo requests. Photo: Her boyfriend!

The primary attraction (for me) is the scenery, the motorbiking and the lack of other foreigners. If having an international food scene is important to you, you will struggle. Do not expect to meet other travellers along the way. That said, I had plenty of fun times with locals despite my extremely limited Vietnamese.

Would I do the trip again? Absolutely. Though I’m glad to be off my virtual motorbike for the next leg of the trip!

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

You’ve been baking on the beaches of Lombok’s Gili Islands for the last week or so and your next notch to mark off, is Komodo. There’s a problem though. Your guidebook says Sumbawa is kind of crap. So, you’re edging towards a backpacker boat to Flores instead.

Don’t do it—Sumbawa rocks! It has everything—except tourists.

Whales and Waves now has a skate ramp—time to return!

It has a magnificent volcano—Gunung Tambora. Tambora’s eruption, in 1815, was the most powerful volcanic eruption in human history. Over on the banks of Lake Geneva (yes in Switzerland) the eruption delivered moody weather according to some sources. How moody? Moody enough to get Mary Shelley’s creative juices flowing.

Yes, Frankenstein is truly a child of Indonesia!

Note, not all agree on this (and the Conversation doesn’t even pay its writers, but whatever), but seriously, what better eruption to birth Frankenstein than the largest in human history?!

Tambora is wild. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sumbawa has superb beaches, and some of the best surf breaks in the world. Not a surfer? How about deserted islands perfect for a family camping trip. Not a camper? Salubrious resorts (well, at least one) exist—hotels are not Sumbawa’s strong–point. Best of all, Sumbawans are way cool and super friendly.

With limited words, I’m sticking to the west of the island. If the following gets your feet itching, do check out my full coverage on Travelfish from a trip I did there a coupla years ago.

Dad, will there be WiFi? No. Photo: Mean Dad.

From Lombok, your first mission is to get your ass over to the eastern ferry port at Kayangan. With extra time, consider a side–diversion to Labuhan Pandan—a personal favourite. No time? Jump on a “great white ferry” (as my son calls them) for the 45 minute trip to Poto Tano—Sumbawa’s western port.

Islands within an island

On the way in you’ll see islands dotted about. There are seven main ones, but they’re undeveloped. If you’ve a tent and like to snorkel, consider chartering a boat in Poto Tano for some island time. Ask for either Gili Paserang (another personal favourite), or Gili Kenawa. Ask the boat man to pick you up in a few days time. You will need to be one hundred percent self–sufficient, including drinking water. I took the kids camping on Gili Paserang a few years ago, and it was fabulous—the house reef there is excellent.

Who needs WiFi? Camping on Gili Paserang, Sumbawa. Photo: A less mean Dad.

By the time you see the boat man returning to pick you up you’ll be kicking yourself for lolling on Lombok’s silly Gilis for so long.

Mainland. Take a breath.

First stop heading down the coast is Kertasari. There is one semi–fancy, though not super expensive resort there—Whales and Waves. Is it a terrific choice for families. If it breaks your budget, there are surfer–orientated homestays as well. There are a bunch of beaches to explore around here.

Hello Kertasari. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Next is Jelenga. The beach sits behind a huge bluff and, at least on my last visit (a coupla years ago), there was zero phone signal. Yes—these places still exist! If it is still running, The Wood Garden is a great budget spot, though it looks like it has faded away. Jelenga Lodge has re–branded as Scar Reef Resort. Also check AirBnb.

Wherever you stay, hire a boat dude to take you to the outer reef for snorkelling and deepish free diving. Better still, take a look around the northern headland. There you’ll find some fantastic little beaches you’ll be sharing with nobody but crabs (and the boat dude).

Struggling through the beaches near Jelenga. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s a waterfall inland you can also visit—dodge weekends if you can. The swing is fun, but do watch the rocks…

Time to go? Where did those three weeks go?

Further down the coast is Maluk—a larger and not particularly enticing town. The beach though, is terrific—despite the local tourism mob’s attempts to make it even more beautiful. The break offshore is amazing. On the backside of the southern headland is Super Suck—a break I was told people fly from Hawaii to surf when it is working. Heady praise.

Watching the break from Merdeka House, Maluk. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Atop the southern headland, there is a cluster of homestays, my pick, easily, is Merdeka House. Great place, greater people and greater still views. Will never forget sitting on their outside deck watching the surf roll in.

You want more? South again to Yo Yo’s (well Ranteng is the beach, Yo Yo’s the break). This is very much a surfer hang out (unlike the others ha!) and the beach was pretty scruffy on my last pass, but the surf was delivering. There is plenty of accommodation to choose from. Some owned by, or catering to, workers from that ghastly scar on the planet, the Batu Hijau mine, which is not far away. Do check it out on Google Earth—perhaps just search for “eyesores”. It is also, by the way, an environmental shocker. A-grade.

Late light at Yo Yo’s. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Last, but not least, the perfect named Tropicals. As far as picture perfect beaches go, it doesn’t get better than this. The beach goes and goes ... and goes. Many visit here on scooters from Maluk or Yo Yo’s. However you swing it, do visit. There is also a semi–abandoned airport here you can speed on if you want to see if you can get your Honda Scoopy up to 120km/h.

As I mentioned, Tropicals goes and goes. The further west you go, the quieter it gets. In fact, it can get so quiet you might feel like you and your lover are the only people there.

Hang on to your clothes at Tropicals. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

You might feel the need to take off all your clothes just so you can both feel that beautiful ocean and sand, on your bare skin. Just bare (geddit!) in mind, that you may not be as alone as you think. Emerging later to find all your clothes nicked will lead to an embarrassing ride home.

You’re welcome.

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

It is 2 am when Jones* shows up—he’s only two hours late. To Pete*, Matthew* and I, waiting at the less than salubrious nightclub at Bangkok’s Grace Hotel, those two hours feel like an eternity. Jones is drunk and short on apologies—both typical of him.

He’s a journalist who I’ve known for some years. Pete and Matthew are both diplomats, and friends. At the time, the Grace Hotel has a notorious reputation for people smuggling and prostitution. It is a dump.

River scenery near Mae Sariang. Photo: Mark Ord.

“Why the hell are we meeting here?,” is Pete’s first question. Matthew just glares.

Jones, a self–branded investigative journalist, with, well no published stories that I know of, goes on a tirade. He’s worried that subjects he is writing about are following him. He figures they won’t think to look here.

We agree.

He had a meeting with his “sources” a few days earlier—we’d met beforehand. Petrified these sources were going to shoot him on the steps of where the meet was, I told him not to go. With Jones it was difficult to separate fact from fiction, and both from paranoid delusion. He went to the meet. And here he is at the Grace Hotel.

Big skies near Khun Yuam. Photo: Mark Ord.

The story he is working on involves the Thai and Burmese military, the KNU, and timber and weapon smuggling. It is a catchall of hot topics people may kill you over. Pete, Matthew and I think he is bananas pursuing it.

Pete and Matthew don’t know Jones. Jones had asked if I knew anyone who was “connected but a bit dodgy”and these two are about the best I can muster. Before straightening out, Pete had smuggled hashish from Morocco to Spain. Matthew has survived three plane crashes, is good company and also has a somewhat dodgy past involving gold smuggling. My connections to organised crime are limited.

None of us actually know what Jones wants. He’s been sucked up into the border situation and spends months in Mae Sot, Khun Yuam and Mae Sariang. He sneaks over the border and meets with “contacts”. His stories are wild to say the least, but as with the fabulist I wrote about a few weeks ago, of uncertain foundation.

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

Jones is short and a bit tubby, with scrappy ill-cut long hair, roughly tied back in a ponytail. I try to imagine him crashing through the jungle in fatigues, but it is, well easier to imagine him just crashed. He likes his drink.

When Jones’ ramble finally winds up, sharply dressed Matthew, ever the smooth talker, leans over and asks in his soft London accent;

“So Jones, nice to meet you and all, but why are we meeting and why the hell are we meeting here?”

Street scenes, Mae Sot. Photo: David Luekens.

Jones lights another cigarette and replies;

“I told you, I’m worried they want to kill me.”

Matthew gives me a death stare, and suggests next time I let him know if I’m arranging a meeting at a potential shoot–out. Then he looks to Jones and asks:

“Yes, ok Jones, but what do you want from Pete and I?”

“I need a gun,” blurts out Jones.

Pete, bursts out laughing.

Months later, I’m riding down the Thai Burma border. It is a beautiful ride. Vast teak forests, the road a dropped satin ribbon winding between the fallen golden leaves. To the east mountains, to the west the Salween River. To see the river I have to ride west on side roads off Route 105, to outposts like Mae Sam Laep near Mae Sariang.

Meet Mae Sam Laep. (Very old photo!) Photo: Stuart McDonald.

They’re true outposts, the border seems like such an artificial construct when I’m there. The people on each bank grow up together, separated only by the muddy ever–flowing waters. If you happen to find yourself in the area (I recommend you do!), time your visit for late afternoon. Grab some cold drinks and a bite to eat and watch the sun set over another country. It is special.

Jones is staying in Mae Sariang at the time, so I make contact and we arrange to meet up. He is not in great shape, but is still popping over the border now and then. He offers to take me over, we’d be gone for four of five days, he says.

I love the jungle. Less so the jungle with armed people running around in it. I decline.

A spell by the river, near Mae Sariang. Photo: Mark Ord.

I ask about the story he’s been working on. It is going nowhere he says. No publisher will touch it—and given the subject matter, I can’t say I’m surprised. Even if only a fraction of what Jones tells me about it is true, it is explosive.

We drink and chat. His ever-patient Karen partner cooks us all a fine meal, and like Jones, she is very entertaining company.

Rural scenes, outside Mae Sariang. Photo: Mark Ord.

I ask about the gun, she laughs, just as Pete had back in Bangkok months earlier.

“Oh you and your gun baby,” she says leaning over and slapping him affectionately.

“No he did not get his gun. He lives in dreamland this guy. It is why I love him.”

Then:

“If he wants a gun, I can get him a gun. No problem. I ask my Dad, though he probably wants me to shoot you Jones!,” she says laughing.

* All the names in this story are pseudonyms.

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 like to surf. I’m not very good at it, but I enjoy it. Actually, it is not so much the surfing as the sitting out the back, behind the break.

Straddling the board, feet dingle dangling in the water, rising and falling with the swell. I muse over sharks and wonder if I look like a delicious enough morsel from the depths. I reckon yes!

This wave size is suited to my ability. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is dreamy and relaxing. It clears my mind and I do it far from often enough. When I do, I often end up chatting to other surfers out the back and sooner or later one of them always says:

“You should have been here yesterday.”

Unless you happen to have a time machine, it is a pointless, impossible to act on, thing to say.

I hear this related to travel all the time. Spending as much time as I do in Bali, if I talked to some old hand, they’d tell me Bali hasn’t been worth going to since 1972. If I hung out with more centenarians, I’m sure one would tell me it has all been downhill since 1934.

“Life in Bali” by I Nyoman Lesung, Neka Art Museum, Ubud. Photo: Sally Arnold.

I’m sure Bali was “amazing” in 1972 and 1934, and I’m sure the surf was better yesterday, but I’m here today. How is what you’re telling me going to help me tomorrow?

An old friend from when we lived in Phnom Penh had spent time on Ko Samui in the early 1970s. She’d travelled there by a freighter carrying coconuts. There was one boat a month and it ran from Samui to Bangkok or Surat Thani—I can’t remember which. The end port doesn’t matter—that there was only one boat a month feels like it should matter far more.

They’d camp on the beach, light huge bonfires, drink and smoke too much, take all their clothes off, bemuse the locals. Sometimes they’d marry them.

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

Her stories were always entertaining—I remember her as being quite eccentric. Like reading Travels With My Aunt, amusing in a far off, kind of removed from reality, way.

On paid–for Couchfish, over the last few days I’ve been writing about Sapa in northern Vietnam. I was first there in 1994, and my trip there last year was not enjoyable—in many ways I wish I’d never returned.

A few readers got in touch, telling me they felt I was being too harsh on the mountain town. I shouldn’t look at it through a 1994 lens.

Getting back to your roots … traditional market, Bắc Hà, Vietnam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While I was in Sapa, one evening in a cafe I got chatting to the owner. He had been born in Sapa and, like me, was unenthusiastic about what the town had become. For him though, there was a significant upside.

His kids were getting a good education—far better than he had received. He was sure that would bring a world of opportunities to them. He was affluent, there was no Mercedes parked out front for sure, but I got the impression he was doing well. He was proud of what he had built. His parents were farmers—and he would have been too—if Sapa had not become what it had.

Mains water, reliable electricity, education and healthcare of a decent standard ... safety. I’m not sure how common any of these were around Sapa in 1994, on Samui in the early 70s—or on Bali in 1934. Hell we still rely on well water in 2020!

Dig deeper. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

During this age of Covid19 there has been a thread of conversation that ties in with this.

The argument goes that the collapse of tourism is an opportunity for destinations to re–calibrate—this is the time to wean yourself off tourism. A piece out today in the New York Times, suggested exactly this for Bali. Go back to the land—back to your roots. Whose roots exactly? It writes:

“Mr. Yudi, 33, who himself attended a tourism academy and used to work as a hotel butler, said Bali should devote more resources to farming, a more sustainable enterprise. Instead, it has become overly reliant on tourism.”

It’s a concept that gives some travellers fever dreams of exoticism. The noble poor, living in their unspoilt villages and all that. Not a WiFi signal for miles. Pol Pot gave that a whirl—it didn’t work out too well.

Oh Sihanoukville I do not miss thee. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s no shortage of examples of tourism doing bad. It is undeniable though, that it has led to rising living standards for some. That said, there is still plenty of work required.

For every Sapa there are hundreds of other villages where people live in abject poverty. Writes a World Bank report from 2018: “Ethnic minorities—many of them living in highland areas—account for 72 percent of Vietnam’s poor”.

If my cafe owner had instead grown up on the land, what future would have been on the cards for his kids? As the story I linked to in the Travelfish Newsletter this week—the outlook is often beyond bleak.

The opportunity in Covid19 isn’t to re–calibrate tourism out of people’s lives, but to do it better. What Sapa has become isn’t the only way.

Do things different. En route to Chi Phat, Cambodia. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

Circling back (like a peckish shark) to what the surfers said to me, the question isn’t “how is what you’re telling me going to help me tomorrow?” Instead it should be “how is what you’re telling me going to help me better help others tomorrow?”

How can me being a traveller help rather than hinder?

On my second day in Sapa last year, aghast at what I was looking at, I went to the tourist office for answers. I wanted to find out what the hell was going on. I asked the staffer a simple question:

“Was there a plan for how Sapa was developing?”

Their answer was as simple as my question:

“No.”

Start there.

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