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People often say “if only we’d known then what we know now,” and so it was the other day, when I stumbled upon a 2006 Overseas Development Institute working paper by Caroline Ashley. Titled “Participation by the poor in Luang Prabang tourism economy: Current earnings and opportunities for expansion” it shows that people did know. If you’ve ever wondered just where your money goes, you should read it. It is dated—16 years is a long time—and there are a few typos, but regardless, it provides a valuable snapshot of Luang Prabang and plenty of insight worth considering for travellers who believe their travels should actively work to help those most in need.

The year is 2006 and Luang Prabang has been at the pinnacle of the nation’s “must see” list for at least a decade. In 2000 there were 65,225 international arrivals—a number that would rise to 133,569 in 2005, and which, by 2019, would skyrocket to 860,035. For a country with stubbornly high—and persistent—poverty levels, can tourism help?

Everything in Luang Prabang is photogenic. Photo: Cindy Fan.

The working paper’s executive summary does a good job of, well, summarising:

“This report explores the workings of the tourism economy of Luang Prabang from a pro-poor perspective. It makes rough estimates of where tourist expenditure goes, and where poor and poorish people are earning incomes from tourism. It assesses four sub-chains of the tourism value chain: accommodation, food and drink, handicrafts, and excursions. The estimates of expenditure and income are extremely rough. Nevertheless, they paint a picture of where money is flowing in the tourism economy.”

According to the report, at least US$6 million flowed to semi- and un-skilled people in Luang Prabang in one year. This represented around 27% of the total tourism receipts of about $22.5m. Food and drink earned the lions’ share (over half), followed by crafts.

So what was a typical tourist in Luang Prabang in 2006 like? About 72% were from the West, with Europeans making up 50% of the total. Asian visitors made up the other 28%, the majority of whom were Thai. Around half flew in (half on international flights, the other half on domestic), the other half by boat or bus. The majority of tourists were independent travellers. Package groups were over-represented at the top end.

Laters of pretty. Photo: Cindy Fan.

The report goes on to say:

“The majority of tourists in Luang Prabang are backpackers who are travelling for several weeks or months. They stay in budget accommodation, eat local food, drink beer, buy curios that are light, and arrange their own local transport and trips. They are generally under 40. The up-market tourists are quite different: their hotels or guesthouses cost ten to 30 times as much, they fly in and out, they are more likely to book through travel agents and tour operators and go on organised excursions.”

The average stay was around five days, and while most stayed around three days, a minority stayed far longer. While budget travellers accounted for 58% of the market, they accounted for 68% of the bed nights. At the time, Luang Prabang had 17 hotels and these were often family-owned though some had a foreign hand. Women owned only a third. Meanwhile, there were 131 guesthouses, with an average of ten rooms apiece. Virtually all were family-run local businesses and most had women as the registered owner.

Pay more, get more. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Where it gets interesting with accommodation is with regard to where the money went. According to the report, the total tourist spend on accommodation was $8.6m. The amount that went in wages and benefits? Around $550,000—six percent. Here, the upper end hotels paid more and used more staff—roughly 1.3 per room versus 0.3 in a guesthouse, but despite this, as a percentage of revenue, their labour costs were below average—five percent. The guesthouses? They were more likely to hire family members and semi- or un-skilled staff. Anyone who stayed at a guesthouse in Luang Prabang in the 2000s would back this statement up.

While guesthouse staff levels were lower, these workers lacked the skills for a hotel job. This is another point the report emphasises—a need for more training. It notes that at the time training was adhoc, with plenty of scope for improvement.

Another factor to consider is how accommodation was changing the town. According to Analysis of the Changing Landscape of a World Heritage Site: Case of Luang Prabang, Lao PDR, between 1999 and 2009 there were big changes as demand ramped up. Looking at conversions from residential houses versus new builds, 78 residences became guesthouses while 24 were in new buildings. In comparison, 14 hotels were residential conversions while seven were in new buildings. Guesthouses dominate conversions as they required less capital and were less regulated. In total 141 conversions took place and the image below puts the transition in context.

Red marks a decade of change, from 1999 to 2009. Source: Analysis of the Changing Landscape of a World Heritage Site: Case of Luang Prabang, Lao PDR, page 8.

On the food side, Luang Prabang had an incredible 1,242 restaurants. The majority of these were family-run, offering 10-30 tables and meals at around the $5 mark. Foreign-owned (often French) restaurants were in the minority. The playing field in this regard could not be more different today—at least there is no Starbucks.

The report estimated that in one year tourists ate over one million meals in Luang Prabang and spent about $7m. Of this $7m, about half went to producers of Lao meat, veges, fruit, rice and so on. This was the biggest single financial flow into the local economy. A raft of suggestions were made about building on this, including import substitution, smoothing connections between hotel food buyers and the producers, showcasing more Lao food on menus, and, of course, there’s a whole section on seaweed. In case you are wondering, in 2006, a Western traveller drank on average one beer per day—I was surprised it was this low to be honest.

With shopping, the report took a detailed look at textiles, where tourists spent $3m in the year. A large proportion of the workers were women and a minority from ethnic minorities. Of this spend, some $1.1m ended up with local producers, vendors and workers. Upmarket tourists spent about three times as much as backpackers on souvenirs. I guess in part, because they didn’t have to carry the the bloody things on their backs for the next three months. The report highlights the night and day markets as excellent approaches. Product diversification and higher value goods are also earmarked as desirable. Both changes have taken place.

You will need to buy another backpack. Photo: Cindy Fan.

On transport, for day trips and so on, the difference in village participation was stark. Some integrated themselves well—if bizarrely—but most left plenty on the table. The report highlights selling food and drink—the simplest of actions—as being an easy step. Excepting Muang Ngoi, which is a destination in its own right, overnight stays didn’t move the needle. Why? One reason was many don’t have the time.

You need to be in Luang Prabang for a while to have the luxury of contemplating a series of day trips or an overnight one. An obvious step would be to mandate that tour groups must stay long enough to allow something like this to happen. It is though, a hard sell. From tour operators I have spoken to for another piece in this series, by day two or three, clients’ feet are itching. “They [the pax] don’t need five days or a week to tick a box,” was how one put it.

Take me to another place. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So what did people spend back then? Budget travellers spent $20 to $30 a day and $118 per trip, while high-end tourists spent $100 or over per day and $344 per trip. For the former, food was the biggest expense, while for the latter it was, by far, accommodation. That accommodation, if booked through an online agent, immediately offshored some revenue. How much? Anything from ten to fifty percent—or more. That might not feel so onerous when you’re paying $10 a night, but at $300 a night, it is a significant loss for the destination—and the hotel! [This OTA commission stuff is me talking—it wasn’t covered in much depth in the report.]

Per trip, semi- and un-skilled people earned about $35 for each budget traveller and $59 for an upmarket one. This suggests the latter are better, but roughly 30% of a backpacker’s spend accrued to the semi and un-skilled while only 17% of an upmarket tourist’s did.

So what am I doing writing about what a working paper reported back in 2006—some 16 years ago? For starters, this is the most detailed report I’ve seen that looks at where peoples’ money goes in a specific destination in Southeast Asia. I found the report to be very interesting and I encourage you to read it if you’ve the time. Clearly some others have, as over the 16 years since, many of the changes recommended in the report have seen the light of day. At least to some degree anyway. This is good.

Get out on the river before they dam the whole thing. Photo: Cindy Fan.

I’m also writing about it because as per the report, independent travellers were important. Yes, it was a mixed bag, the conversion of residential properties in particular is a problem. That said, a greater share of independent travellers’ money reaches the semi- and un-skilled than any other. If you feel that tourism can have a role to play in poverty alleviation, this matters.

I’m also writing about it because to some degree every town in Southeast Asia is its own Luang Prabang. For government talking heads to do their upmost to deter independent travellers is both damaging to their very own people, and just plain dumb.

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

* National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)

* Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)

* The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)

* The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)

* Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)

* The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)

* Reality Check (Tour companies)

* Follow the Money (Money matters)

* Foundations Matter (Community Based Tourism)

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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 the third part in a series I’m writing about tourism in Southeast Asia. Part one looked at World Tourism Day and part two at sustainable tourism.

So with sustainable tourism behind us, what about its bedfellow, responsible tourism? To be honest, on the clarity stakes, matters don’t improve much, but it does give us some better bones to build upon. The term is often used in a synonymous fashion alongside sustainable tourism, but they are different beasts.

The term came into popular use in Cape Town, South Africa, when, in 2002 it formed the centrepiece of the Cape Town Declaration. Tourism academic Harold Goodwin is commonly seen as the mover and shaker behind the concept, but many of its points were already in widespread use. What the declaration did, was to wrap up a glad bag of practices into a cohesive bundle and present it to the travel industry.

I’m not suggesting you should take the bus to Domodedovo. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The industry, seeing a lucrative new niche, coopted many of its principles into a “new” form of travel. They took it, particularly in the UK, packaged it up, and sold it—at a premium. A cynic might even say responsible tourism exists not because it is the right thing to do, but because it is a nice earner.

At its core, the declaration sees responsible tourism as having seven anchors. To its mind, responsible tourism:

* Minimises negative economic, environmental, and social impacts;

* Generates greater economic benefits for local people and enhances the well-being of host communities, improves working conditions and access to the industry;

* Involves local people in decisions that affect their lives and life chances;

* Makes positive contributions to the conservation of natural and cultural heritage, to the maintenance of the world’s diversity;

* Provides more enjoyable experiences for tourists through more meaningful connections with local people, and a greater understanding of local cultural, social and environmental issues;

* Provides access for physically challenged people;

* Is culturally sensitive, engenders respect between tourists and hosts, and builds local pride and confidence.

The declaration recognises the damage tourism is capable of and, through these steps, it advises on how to reduce the bad. The policies are sound, but, as is the case with sustainable tourism, in reflecting the differences inherent to a variety of destinations (and travellers) the principles are advisory rather than instructive.

Train stations are not hard to find. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m not going to go through them one by one, but to illustrate my point, take the top item: “Minimises negative economic, environmental, and social impacts.” What does this actually mean? How does a traveller act on this? Is minimising your economic impact staying at an enormous resort (which provides lots of jobs) or staying at a family-owned homestay (which employs a local family). Is not standing on coral minimising your environmental damage? Wouldn’t not doing a snorkelling trip at all be a more responsible approach?

You could answer in the affirmative to all four of my questions and satisfy the lead point. Each, in their own way, satisfies the demands of responsible tourism. It can indeed be everything to everyone. So while responsible tourism has clearer guidelines, they remain open to broad interpretation. There’s no imperative to adopt them all, nor to any prescribed degree, instead we’re left with “minimise,” “contribute,” and “involve.” Before you know it, we’re back enjoying a piña colada with a bamboo straw by our private horizon pool. This is not ideal.

In Baja California yes, in Bali no. Photo: No idea, just found it on my laptop.

As with sustainable tourism, behind the headlines, there is a commercial imperative at work. Responsible tourism is an agent of minimisation not negation. While it may be true that if you want to be an environmentally responsible traveller, you should start by not getting on an airplane, that’s simply not going to fly (sorry!). It is hard to sell Thailand tours in the UK if one of your responsible precepts is to not get on an airplane.

Instead travellers have a set of principles which they then need to figure out how to adopt. How can one apply the core tenants of responsible tourism but still travel? Some might choose to take the long-haul flight, but not fly domestic in-country. This is better than nothing, and easy to do, and yet there’s no imperative in the declaration to do so.

I’m not always responsible myself (I eat tacos in Bali, not that I don’t know how to use a toilet), but pre-trip research is always a good idea. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Responsible tourism relies to an extent on a benevolent lie—or myth—and one that is necessary for it to survive. I wonder though, seeing some of the activities packaged as responsible, just how benevolent the lie really is. In buying into the arguments that underwrite responsible travel, you’re buying into its ideology. In essence it is a salve for the often destructive consumerism that embodies modern tourism.

So how does an independent traveller best instil this ideology? None of the steps suggested by the declaration are bad. Firm targets, tailored to one’s own travelling style, would be a good start. I like to think about trying to travel in a responsible manner like packing before a trip. I’ve long said that when packing you should place all your kit on your bed and then put half of it back in the cupboard. With travelling responsibly, it is the opposite. Make a list of everything you can do, make firm, clear, actionable targets, then double the length of your list—or your targets.

Drink local—your waistline will not thank you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

What do I mean by actionable targets? Taking again the headline item, what can you, the individual do, to best embody this?

As already mentioned, you could avoid going anywhere near a domestic flight. Avoid the offshoring of your money by using only locally owned operations. Visit a national park only if sufficient safeguards are in place. Eat only locally-produced food—do not eat seafood. Learn about the destination you are planning to visit before you arrive—yes, read books and buy a guidebook.

Take my word for it, much of the information needed to inform these decisions—by design—is not easy to come by. Look at the website of any major tourism business and try to figure out who owns it, what they pay their staff, or better still, where (or if!) they pay tax. Good luck with that.

Responsible tourism needs many helping hands to get things right. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As with sustainable tourism, destinations need an honest application of the practice. This should be an all-encompassing one. Examine every part of your typical travel routine and ask yourself “how can I do better?”

To say the least, for most, this will be a challenge. A bit of hard work though never hurt anyone. Aside from having less impact, you may learn a thing or two in the process. I do suggest skipping the lessons offered by Battambang’s local wineries though.

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

* National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)

* Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)

* The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)

* The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)

* Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)

* The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)

* Reality Check (Tour companies)

* Follow the Money (Money matters)

* Foundations Matter (Community Based Tourism)

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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

Today, I’m looking at sustainable tourism and what it is. This could be a very short post as I could simply write “nobody agrees on what sustainable tourism is,” but I’ll try. While you’ll see it used with both tourists and industry in mind, at heart, it’s an industry-directed term.

I was going to go through a potted history of sustainable tourism, but thought the better of it. In summary, its roots lie in sustainable development, a term coined by the Brundtland Commission. This was then adapted for tourism. Below I’ve noted the Commission’s take along with an oft-cited view from academia. There is, by the way, no broad-based consensus on what sustainable tourism is. Don’t tell that to any tourism minister.

Brundtland, defining sustainable development, states:

“... development that meets the needs to the present generation without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.”

Tourism academic Richard W Butler builds on this to firm up something nebulous around sustainable tourism. In this 1999 paper (quoting an earlier one of his from 1993) he writes:

“... tourism which is developed and maintained in an area (community, environment) in such a manner and at such a scale that it remains viable over an infinite period and does not degrade or alter the environment (human and physical) in which it exists to such a degree that it prohibits the successful development and well being of other activities and processes.”

If you want to read one, read the latter as it is by far the more interesting. It is not paywalled, though his earlier one seems to be.

It is a bit mad when you think about it. Sustainable tourism slogans are everywhere and an army of consultants butter their bread with it. Yet, there is no broad agreement on what it actually means. Within an industry awash in greenwashing and fantasy peddling, yet another meaningless slogan feels almost normal—I’m surprised it isn’t called “nice tourism.”

Looks better pre-harvest—and pre-resort? Time for some Net-Negative. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Only the most delusional could look at tourism’s state pre-pandemic and not feel alarm. Be it overtourism, environmental degradation, crime or cultural offensiveness, tourism has it all. Who wouldn’t want a better form of tourism? This is to say, the goal of the whole undertaking feels admirable—if only I knew what it meant. The UNWTO, always keen on meaningless terms, has declared it should be “the new normal.” How do you make something undefined the new normal?

To be fair to the UNWTO, they did come up with the catchy “people, planet and prosperity,” which summaries the premise. They also push a wish list with a colour palette—the Sustainability Development Goals—three of which hook into sustainable tourism. Neither the catchy slogan nor the SDGs pretty colours engage much with the “how”.

The SDGs: A wish list with a colour palette.

The phrase sustainable tourism has been around for over 30 years, yet a clear definition is yet to emerge. Why?

It is impossible to define, that’s why. Put aside the simple differences around geography (the where), and start with for whom. Sustainable for the resort developer or the family-run bungalow? For the community activist or the politician? For the tax-man or the environmentalist? For the traveller or the local? For the economy or the planet? Being sustainable is a balancing act. One needs to balance the needs of all the above (and a bunch of others) and hope to still make a buck.

Think about some of the ways it plays out. I’m using hotels in the examples below, but sustainable tourism is to be all-encompassing.

It is common for hotels today to stop using single use plastic. This is good for the planet, and they’d argue it is a practice supporting them being a sustainable operator. That they have one hundred private pool villas out back doesn’t enter into the equation. Sustainable tourism needs to take a holistic view—it needs to encompass all aspects of the business.

Clearly Bali needs more Banyan Trees. Batu Belig Beach, late 2021. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Net-zero pledges almost always only concern hotel operations. “Removing” residents then carving a scar in the earth and building the joint in the first place doesn’t count. This is of course complete garbage. If a hotel wants to claim sustainability, of course its construction needs to be in the equation. Operations should not be Net-zero, they should be Net-Negative. Set a prescribed period of say ten or twenty years to negative out the build out. If that makes the project unfeasible from an economic point of view, then don’t build the bloody thing.

It isn’t all bad though—hotels also do good things. Check out this video from Banyan Tree that I had to sit through the other day for university. Make yourself a stiff drink first.

Drinks please.

In the video they state the group holds four environmental cleanings per year per property. In 2017, 33 tonnes of trash were collected. To put this in perspective, as of the end of 2021 they had 58 operating hotels (I’m not sure how many they had in 2017). So, if each of those 58 properties held four cleanups a year, that is 232 cleanups to gather roughly 33,000 kg of trash. So each cleanup gathered around 150 kg of rubbish. In comparison, Sungai Watch a small Indonesia-based NGO with 50 employees, removed 333,000 kg of trash from Bali’s rivers in 2021. Don’t get me started on Banyan Tree’s statement about their clingfilm usage: “Over 2,100 km of cling film has been reduced, almost the equivalent distance from Singapore to Manila.” Who the hell thought this statement would work well—I mean how much are they still using?!

This isn’t to say all the fault lies at the high end, and that budget guesthouses are blameless. I’ve stayed in no shortage of beach flop houses that have no water treatment, burn rubbish, exploit staff and so on. None of this is ok. That said, Jo’s Festy Beach Flop House isn’t paying Earthwatch $6,600 to get a Bronze sustainability pat on the back.

Take an enormous resort going into a pristine and remote area, one so remote there’s hardly any mains power. If the resort was serious about being sustainable, it would be renewables-driven. In this case, it isn’t. Instead it will rely on new coal-fired plants. Their propaganda? Near every second word is sustainable. When I asked them about this contradiction, they ignored me. I later heard (second hand) that they view other aspects of their project to be sustainable. I guess bamboo straws then.

None of this is good enough.

Repeat to self: The straws are bamboo. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are plenty of easy ways to make a tourism business “more sustainable.” There’s engaging with the local community in a mutually beneficial manner. There’s paying staff well and under good conditions. There’s not using single use plastic (or clingfilm), or low energy lightbulbs. There’s using locally supplied food and not importing goodies from the motherland. These are all steps in the right direction and plenty of hotels do these and much more. That doesn’t though, make these steps enough, and it sure doesn’t make these properties examples of sustainable tourism. And yet, go read their websites.

After all, these sort of steps should be a normal part of business—most of them will save the property money. Is it even possible to buy a high energy lightbulb anymore? Why is it noteworthy for a hotel to undertake a beach cleanup? Could the bar be lower? The planet is on fire and we’re awarding accolades for using bamboo straws. It seems a bit much.

In my view, unless applied in a holistic manner, sustainable tourism is an oxymoron. Even if one wanted to, one can’t be sustainable for everyone. One can’t equally prioritise people, planet and profit all in the same breath—it’s a fool’s errand. One can work hard to be “more sustainable,” and that’s a start—I’m just not sure it needs a round of applause.

There is only one. Photo: NASA.

If you come across a property claiming to be a sustainable tourism business, drop them a line and ask them to help you understand. Question everything they say. It shouldn’t have to be this way of course, but it is, and the industry has nobody to blame for it other than themselves.

Sustainable tourism, well, it is only half the battle. The other half? That’s responsible tourism’s paddock. I’ll be getting into that tomorrow—and I’ll try not to swear.

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

* National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)

* Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)

* The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)

* The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)

* Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)

* The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)

* Reality Check (Tour companies)

* Follow the Money (Money matters)

* Foundations Matter (Community Based Tourism)

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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

Tuesday September 27 was World Tourism Day. You didn’t know? You’re not the only one. As my mate Ian at Travel Massive pointed out, on one website, National Chocolate Milk Day got more shares than World Tourism Day. Slow clap fellas.

I’d planned to write a piece to coincide with the day, but I’ve been a bit off health-wise and, as regulars would have noticed, posts have been, to say the least, erratic. My apologies. Anyway, I’m more or less back on deck, and have decided to write a series about tourism in the region rather than a one off piece. Each day, I’ll be looking at one aspect of tourism in Southeast Asia, and use a specific region or destination to illustrate my thoughts on it. Today is an introductory piece looking briefly at the UNWTO and World Tourism Day.

As this is a bit different from the regular programming, the posts will be going out to the full list. The regular itinerary series will resume when I’m done. I hope you find these pieces of interest and, as always, your thoughts and feedback are much appreciated.

Thank you.

So where to start? Let’s start with a brief look at the day itself, and what it has highlighted over the years.

World Tourism Day is the brainchild of the United Nations World Tourism Organisation (UNWTO). I’ll use their own words to describe the role of the UNWTO as they see themselves. The order of what tourism drives is instructive.

“As the leading international organization in the field of tourism, UNWTO promotes tourism as a driver of economic growth, inclusive development and environmental sustainability and offers leadership and support to the sector in advancing knowledge and tourism policies worldwide.”

The choice of September 27 marks the day of the adoption of the UNWTO statutes in 1970, and it has run every year since 1980. Its purpose is to raise awareness of the role of tourism with regard to cultural, economic, political and social values.

Each year the day has a theme, this year, the 43rd such event, and hosted by Indonesia, is “Rethinking Tourism.” You can see a full list of the various themes here, and if you scan down the list, you’ll notice a recurring theme. Can’t see it? Here I made a word cloud of the words used most often, to better illustrate—the more often the word features, the bigger the text is.

Word Cloud via the smart cookies at WordClouds.

The word “environment”? It hasn’t featured since 1997 (“climate change” slipped in in 2008—yes, tweleve years ago). “Development” meanwhile, is the most used word after “tourism”. To be fair, it is sometimes with “sustainable,” but development is a growth term and that’s what the UNWTO is all about. Making stuff—in particular, economies—grow.

If you read the list from bottom up, you might see a shift in focus that may or may not reflect wider concerns of the time. Here’s a quick timeline working on the slogans—not the substance—of each event. For each decade, I note the number of international arrivals (worldwide) in the first year of the decade, and the share of arrivals that was absorbed by Asia and the Pacific. All numbers are from Our World in Data, I’m not sure why their most up-to-date numbers are from 2018.

In summary, inbound tourism went from 278.1 million in 1980 to 1.4 billion in 2018, while Asia and the Pacific’s share of those inbounds rose from around 8% to almost 25%. Staggering.

The Eighties

International arrivals in 1980: 278.10 million

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 8.27%

Through the 1980s the focus was on responsibility, peace, cooperation and friendship. Heritage, mutual understanding, and education for all, also featured as themes. To my mind, these are all staples of the “good” tourism has the potential to bring.

The 80s was also a stretch when a great many worried about dying in a nuclear firestorm, so there’s that too—perhaps we all needed a bit more love after the 1970s.

The Nineties

International arrivals in 1990: 439.40 million

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 12.79%

With almost double the number of tourists of the previous decade, an economic tilt appears. “Peace,” “harmony,” and “tolerance” all make it in, but a business focus begins to rear its head. Delight in the wonkish “Public-private sector partnership: the key to tourism development and promotion.” I want that on a t-shirt yesterday.

1997 also saw the Asian Financial Crisis which kicked off in Indonesia and rolled right across the region. Thanks to the collapse in the value of many currencies in the region, it became a hell of a lot cheaper to travel in for inbound tourists.

The Naughties

International arrivals in 2000: 682.10 million

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 16.21%

Another decade, and another couple of hundred million people coast through immigration. I mention immigration as refugees are not on the UNWTO’s radar—they’re more the UNHCR’s gig—which is to say the volume of humanity on the move was far larger than the UNWTO’s figures.

The 2000s sees empowering women, celebrations of diversity and climate change as highlights, though the economic focus continues to grow. For example, tourism has a role in job creation, and poverty alleviation—worthy of attention thanks to the various economic crises around the world across the decade.

The Twenty-tens

International arrivals in 2010: 950.80 million

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 21.61%

Off the back of a boom in outbound tourism from China (from under 60 million in 2010 to over 160 million in 2018), worldwide tourism skyrockets. Midway through this explosion, in 2015, we have the non-alarmist yet totally alarming theme “1 billion tourists, 1 billion opportunities.” Opportunities for what exactly?

Some form of development features in almost half the themes through the decade. There are though, the first indicators that not all might be good with incessant growth. Biodiversity, water, and accessibility all feature. Who is getting to travel—and who is paying the price?

The Twenty-twenties

International arrivals in 2018: 1.4 billion

Share of arrivals into Asia and the Pacific: 24.43%

News stories related to overtourism are dime a dozen as destinations lurch under the load of hundreds of millions of new bums of seats. This is, after all, what unfettered growth is all about.

In the first years of the new decade, World Tourism Day settles for rural development and inclusive growth. After the last couple of pandemic years, I don’t think anyone could fault a “Rethink” as being desirable.

Chart via Our World In Data (It only goes till 2018, not sure why).

Overtourism is yet to feature as a theme. The UNWTO did publish this report in response to it though. It includes eleven “strategies and measures to address visitors’ growth in cities.”

Not one suggests taking steps to arrest the overall growth in tourist numbers.

PS: For arrival data through to mid 2022, see the UNWTO data dashboard.

Other episodes in the Rethinking Tourism series:

* National Chocolate Milk Day (World Tourism Day)

* Nice Tourism (Sustainable Tourism)

* The Benevolent Lie (Responsible Tourism)

* The Year Is 2006. The Town Is Luang Prabang (Pro-poor Tourism)

* Zoom in to the Red Plastic Chairs (Slow Travel)

* The Petro-bourgeoisie (Flying, carbon etcetera)

* Reality Check (Tour companies)

* Follow the Money (Money matters)

* Foundations Matter (Community Based Tourism)

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

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A few years ago, in the late 15th century, as Islam supplanted Java’s Majapahit Empire, Java’s Hindus edged east. For a spell, they clung to Java’s eastern reaches, especially around modern-day Banyuwangi, but over time, most crossed the Bali Strait to, well, Bali.

One of those making up the eastward move was Dang Hyang Niratha. A Shiva-Buddhist high priest, with purported psychic and supernatural powers, he made the crossing in 1489, 1537 or 1546 (accounts vary). There were no car ferries back then, so he made the crossing on the back of a pumpkin or a breadfruit tree leaf—again accounts vary. As an aside, one pumpkin source suggests this is the root of why Balinese Brahmin refrain from eating pumpkin. To my knowledge, no such ban on breadfruit exists—it must have been a pumpkin then, I guess.

I came by neither pumpkin nor breadfruit leaf. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Accounts are more settled on where he landed, along a coastal strip by Negara in West Bali. Once on terra firma, he enjoyed a spell beneath a fig tree. To commemorate his landing, his followers built Pura Ancak (fig is ancak in Balinese) on the very site. A temple known for its white coral construction, it later became Pura Purancak. It was to be the first of many temples in Bali associated with Niratha.

Aside from his supernatural tendencies, Niratha was also a keen wanderer. Once he was well rested, he got going.

I’ve not been able to find a list of all the temples associated with Niratha, but some of Bali’s greatest, including Rambut Siwi, Tanah Lot and Uluwatu, are. It was at the latter where he attained moksha, and was freed from the shackles of reincarnation. After his “elevation,” luhur was added to the temple’s name. Uluwatu is a combination of ulu (end) and watu (stone), which, if you’ve ever been to Uluwatu, makes perfect sense. In adding luhur (go up/rise/above), the temple’s full name Pura Luhur Uluwatu is, in essence, a description of what became of Niratha and where it happened.

Soaking up Balinese culture by one of the holiest temples on the island, Pura Luhur Uluwatu. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Some time after landing in Bali, though before he reached the south, he grabbed a haircut at a scenic headland west of Medewi. A remnant of those cuttings is retained on site at Pura Rambut Siwi, a particularly magical spot. Moving on east, he plunged his staff into the waters of the Balian River, giving it healing properties. Today, pesky bull sharks on occasion savage surfers at the break out from Balian River’s mouth. I’m told the sharks head upriver when they’re feeling off, so perhaps Niratha had them in mind.

Niratha wasn’t only the mover and shaker behind some of Bali’s greatest temples. Lesser known ones, including Pura Petitenget in the heart of Seminyak, owe their origins to his wanderings and keepsakes. The temple’s name, from Balinese peti for small box and tenget for sorcery, is a reference to Niratha’s betel nut holder which he left with a resident spirit as he made his way to Uluwatu.

On ceremony days, this staircase is a sight to be seen. At Pura Rambut Siwi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Pura Purancak, Rambut Siwi, Tanah Lot and Uluwatu (along with a few others) are Bali’s “sea temples.” They’re strung along the coast, in theory within sight of one another, forming a coastal protective belt against evil spirits.

So where am I going with this?

A few months ago I started working on what I thought would be a quick story on the treatment of Islamic sites in Southeast Asia by travel publications. There’s no end in sight to me finishing that one, but I have been dwelling a lot on houses of worship—of all faiths.

While I’ve used Bali in the example above, I could as easily weave a tale around sites of other faiths from elsewhere. The above information was not, as it turned out, easy to find. Even the simplest point—did Niratha travel by pumpkin or breadfruit leaf—is up for debate.

Tell me something I don’t know. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

What isn’t up for debate is that across the region, the mantra we hear daily, details a desire for “quality tourists.” While many believe this is shorthand for big-spenders, I’ve been wondering what a quality tourist is.

Is a quality tourist a bigger spender? Many think so. What about a more responsible tourist? One that travels in a more sustainable manner? A slow tourist? A short-stay tourist? Or are longer stays better? It’s a crapshoot and a highway to boring and droll straw man whataboutisms.

I do think there is one facet of a tourist that could be broadly agreed upon as being an element of quality. That is, a desire to learn about where they are.

Why should learning about a place be an indicator of quality? I’d argue for at least three reasons. It educates the traveller, which should help them to understand why things are as they are. This in turn should translate into a better trip for them. A destination-educated tourist should be more aware of cultural norms, and that is good for residents.

A different type of quality. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One of the core ways to begin to understand a nation is to have a handle on the various faiths of its people. Comprehending why people behave as they do due to religious beliefs can explain a lot. Done sensitively and with the cooperation of worshippers, places of worship could be the perfect place to start down this road. To help tourists understand unfamiliar practices, and to learn the what, the how, and the why.

Yet, broad strokes, go to any house of worship, of any faith, anywhere in Southeast Asia, and they’ll be little of this. There may be a signboard explaining how to dress and what areas are off limits, but it generally stops there. Of course this signage is important, but come on, tell me something I don’t know—tell me about the temple. Often a visit is little more than either gawking at, or ignoring, devotees. Temple visits done bad tend to be very bad.

This seems like a missed opportunity. Two of the Bali’s “sea temples,” Uluwatu and Tanah Lot, are over the top popular. Yet most foreign tourists go not to learn. Instead it’s a sunset selfie, a contrived tourist spectacle, to buy tacky imported souvenirs, or to be savaged by macaques. In their own way, these are all lessons on why Bali is how it is, but these are not the lessons I’m thinking of.

Not a macaque in sight—just waves rolling in and Java beyond. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I went to Pura Rambut Siwi this morning, as it is down the beach from where I am staying. When I told a Balinese friend I’d leased a house near the temple, she said “Ohhh so magical.” She was right, it is a stunning spot, atop a headland overlooking the breaking surf with Java in the distance. The grounds are pretty, and there is no shortage of meditative spots. Save the lady who took my 20,000 rupiah and furnished me with a sash and sarong, there wasn’t another soul there.

There also wasn’t anything about Niratha, Bali’s sea temples, or the relationship between them. Near the entrance there is a beautiful, ancient-looking tree, with a shrine beside it. There’s no explanation of the shrine’s purpose, but it was easy to imagine Niratha beneath the tree, gazing to the sea, as his locks fell to the ground. In other words, the interpretation of the site was left entirely to me.

These temples are religious and pilgrimage sites for Balinese Hindus. They are important and revered. They are the places people visit at pivotal moments through their lives. They matter. So of course, caution must be taken to tread with care. I’m not suggesting that tour buses should start clogging temple carparks. We all know how that works—look no further than the tourist circuses at Uluwatu or Tanah Lot. Around the world, religious sites are over-run by tourists behaving badly. Nobody needs more of that.

Come for the temple—stay for everything else. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With the right steerage though, directed to the right people, there is an opportunity of sorts here. Not only to educate tourists, but to get them out of their tourist hubs. It can’t be about the temples and nothing else. Who hasn’t been to Europe and vomited a little bit in their mouth at the suggestion of another church? The churches though, are the bookends between shelf upon shelf of destinations. There’s no reason why it should be any different in Southeast Asia. I’ve written about Bali here, but this could be as much an outline for sights anywhere in the region. Give tourists the tools to help them get more out of their trip—in a sensitive and responsible manner—and introduce them to new destinations while you are at it.

Why couldn’t a trip to Bali retrace Niratha’s stroll. Each temple has its own unique setting and its own community with its own characteristics. Each is within easy reach of hotels and the other trappings most tourists want. Each could also serve to reinforce some point of understanding about Balinese culture. Bali is after all, supposedly a cultural destination.

My “house beach” from the temple. No, I am not complaining. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yes, guiding standards across Southeast Asia need vast improvement. But guiding is political—no element plays a larger role in steering a tourist’s interpretation. Good guides matter. Yet one doesn’t need to reinvent an entire educational system as a first step. Instead, how about some signboards? Some storytelling? I don’t know, title them “Niratha’s wanderings.” Each board could have a map, Niratha’s story, and the role each temple played in it. This need not be a huge nor costly undertaking—big things can start small.

Just settle on breadfruit or pumpkin before you go to the printers.

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

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As this Couchfish leg, from Kuala Lumpur to Medan, will be the only flight of the entire itinerary, I thought I’d write a bit about flying. Also, for a bit of fun, I’m giving away eight annual subscriptions (worth US$70 apiece) to Couchfish—all you need do is tell me the answer to any one of the photo quizzes below. Answers are only accepted here, in the comments—not on Twitter, email or by postcard. First correct answer for each wins.

The crackling AirAsia voiceover is in my head as I lever myself into my legroom-free “window seat,” and it feels like a lifetime ago that I took my first flight. In fact, it just about is. I was a young kid on an Australian domestic route, I don’t recall where, but I can imagine the thrills. Flying!

My planes all had legroom. Thanks Mum for the album! (Note, this photo is not a part of the competition!)

As a child, like many who were lucky enough to fly at a young age, it was a pretty exciting event. By the time I was on the verge of teenagerdom, I’d flown overseas for long stints in South Korea, Japan and Italy, among others. I was a well-travelled teenager, that’s for sure.

The highlight of those years of flying was a first class trip (my one and only) from Rome to Sydney. It was just my two younger sisters and me, heading home ahead of the folks. I remember that another kid in the pointy bit of the Qantas 747 had a boomerang. One of the flight attendants entertained us with it, throwing it inexpertly around the cabin. I can imagine the social media outrage now “Qantas staffer appropriates culture and endangers children—AT 35,000 FEET!” Life was different then.

Quiz 1: Where is this? (Province will do if nobody guesses the town, as this one is quite obscure—it is probably not where you are thinking!).

We had a stopover at what was then Bombay and I asked the boomerang-wielder if I could disembark. Sure, she said, and I wandered the airport alone for an hour or so while they gassed up the plane. It was the first time I had set foot in South Asia, and even though I stayed airside, I already had the bug big time.

Through these years I developed an obsession with aircraft. While living on a South Korean island, I made toy airplanes out of cardboard, colouring them in with the various carriers’ insignia. Looking at the photo I can make out a KLM DC-10 and an Air-France concord—I aged better than both of those. Today, my son is an avid plane-spotter—he recently started selling a calendar of his best pics—no, this isn’t a sponsored post! But yeah, genes—strong stuff.

Quiz 2: Which specific airport this is?

Later, when I headed off on my first solo trip, I was on what was then the tried and tested Continental Thai RTW. First stop was Hawaii, and we flew on February 29, arriving before we left Sydney thanks to the time line. I joke that we aged four years in half a day. Today, pretty much any flight leaves me feeling like I aged four years.

On the same trip, after cashing up in London for a spell, I made my way to India. I flew Thai and they deposited me in New Delhi at an ungodly hour, leaving me to spend six hours in a novel-worthy scam. Still, the flight was direct and painless. For all its detractors, I’ve always found Thai to be a carrier that mimics its country near perfectly. The good, the bad, and the ugly, of course.

Quiz 3: Where is this flight on the way to (not from)? Specific destination please! (Thanks Exacto for the pic!)

Later, I was in Pushkar, doing the typical India backpacker circuit. I met a French guy on the guesthouse roof and we traded flight tales. Flying and its stories were a quintessential part of breaking the ice between travellers. Sometimes the tales got pretty tall.

He’d left from Paris with Aeroflot he said, with stops in Moscow, some other Russian town, Kabul and then New Delhi. At the second Russian stop, crates of munitions were loaded into the cabin where a section of seats were missing. They were later unloaded at Kabul. Given the Russian Afghanistan adventure had finished a couple of years earlier, I’m dubious, but it made for a good tale. It also made me feel like the tourist given my direct Thai flight took a little less than the 40-odd hours his did. His was cheaper though—therefore he was the better traveller. Or so the logic went in our 20-something brains.

Quiz 4: Which specific airport is this. This one is easy so be quick!

Once I picked up the Thailand bug, I bounced back and forward between Australia and there. I wouldn’t fly domestically as it was too expensive and I was happy to save 82 baht even it it meant 82 hours on a rathole bus. I did do one regional flight though, a Biman run from Bangkok to Singapore. The flight hit a bad air pocket and we dropped like a stone for what felt like way too long. When the flight bottomed out, the oxygen masks deployed. I remember thinking at the time that a ticket on Swiss was only a few dollars more. At least I was going to die on a flight that had leg room.

It was a few years later that Tony Fernandes bought debt-ladened AirAsia and reinvented it—and legroom. The slogan “Now everyone can fly” rang true, and more than any other single event, it changed how people travel in the region. Flying changed too—the legroom sure as hell vanished.

Quiz 5: Which airport is this. Look carefully!

I flew more and more, bouncing around the region in a manner that would have been financially impossible for me only a few years earlier. With flights often cheaper than a bus ticket, millions of others did the same. The joy I once got from flying began to fade as it became more of a chore—not that that stopped me doing it—I just whined more.

In the year before the pandemic hit I was through KLIA more times than I care to admit. I once flew from Bali to Bangkok for a night to catch up for beers with an old friend who had returned from the States. I started running into friends who were travelling as much as me—at some random airport. Of course I should have known better, but I was far from the only one.

Quiz 6: Which airport is this? Many clues in the photo!

Towns which for decades had required considerable travel to reach were now within an hour of Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur or Singapore. Hubs that saw tens of millions of inbound tourists—some trickle down was inevitable. Smaller overland travel hubs began to wither as more flew than took the bus, removing the need to overnight or transit in Nakhon Nowhere. Taking a weekend break to Luang Prabang, Siem Reap or Hoi An, became totally workable. Despite being ill-equipped for the influx, these town, and many others like them, exploded. Southeast Asia’s travel map was being redrawn faster than you could say carbon emissions are cooking the planet.

As more and more flew, flying became less and less comfortable. Buying a ticket became an exercise in discretionary charge avoidance. How the hell can a seat be an optional add-on?

Quiz 7: Which airport is this. Easy peasy!

Statistically, flying may be safe, but in a region not famous for aircraft maintenance, the statistics loomed. I met a guy who had survived three crashes. Then we lost friends in a flight disaster in Java. Then I met another who’d also survived three crashes. What are the odds of that? There’s two people I have no interest in flying with—ever.

More recently, as the planet rotated from slow roast to charcoal baby, awareness grew. Flight-shaming started to grow legs. People started to better consider the external costs of jumping on a jet plane. Not only the environmental vandalism, but also what flying was doing to destinations.

Then the pandemic came and near everything stopped. It seemed fitting I was on one of the last AirAsia flights from Kuala Lumpur to Bali. Little did I realise, that as we sailed over the near-endless palm plantations, it would be years before I was airborne again.

Quiz 8: What airport is this flight on final approach to?

Over those years there’s been plenty of talk. Talk about reducing discretionary flying. Talk about making travel more sustainable. Talk about encouraging people to travel locally. Talk about catching the train—like in Laos, where it is almost as fast as the skyrocketing inflation. By and large though, it is just that—talk.

I hope though, that through the last 300+ flightless entries on Couchfish, I’ve shown there is little reason to get on a plane once here. It’s a small step in my making up for flying to Bangkok for that night on the town. Or so I’m telling myself anyway. Please though, grant me this one flight.

I’ve been on final descent for a spell now. The northeast coast of Sumatra slid underneath a few minutes ago as we line up on final to Kualanamu. I can almost feel the humidity and smell the clove cigarettes through my window. Tomorrow, Medan.

A quick update on the answers so far—I’ve added a clue (the country) to each of the ones not yet guessed—seems people are struggling with Indonesia!

1: Clue: Indonesia

2: Ban Lung, Cambodia

3: Clue: Laos

4: Chiang Mai, Thailand

5: Clue: Malaysia

6: Clue: Indonesia

7: Bali, Indonesia

8: Clue: Indonesia

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Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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

Just a quick administrative note. While this is, strictly speaking, a part of the itinerary series, as I’m finishing up mainland Southeast Asia, I thought I’d send it to the whole list. Any post I link to from this one has been un-paywalled, so if you’re a free subscriber, please have some fun poking around a bit.

Plenty of travel is needing to get from here to there. You pull out a map, find where you’re planning to go, then figure out how to get there. Sometimes, not always, the distance is far. Between where you are and where you need to be is fill, a blur, a distraction. No name towns, parks, beaches, fishing towns, hamlets and cities—most, if not all, you’ve never heard of before. These are the between fars.

Wandering a Burmese between far. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Leaving Ko Chang Noi behind, I’ve got plenty of passing time to play with. My goal is the Malaysian capital, Kuala Lumpur, then, for the first time on Couchfish, a short flight. I’m done with the mainland—for now—you see, and am changing universes. Before I go though, I’ve got one last stretch, and it is one full of between fars.

I’ve written before about Nakhon Nowhere, a fictional town that I imagine any town could be. These between fars are full of such places. People’s hometowns and graveyards, for some, the universe of their lifetime. They slide by your bus or train window or dapple the earth from 35,000 feet.

I was talking to a Balinese guy the other day, someone I’ve got to know a bit, and we were going through the pleasantries. You know, family-tree stuff, siblings, parents, kids and so on. The stuff that fills each of our universes. He’s the youngest of three, with two elder brothers. One is still in the village, coaxing a plot of land through a cycle of corn, watermelon and rice, year in year out. The other though, he lives far away, my new friend said.

Not far from my own between far. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It turns out he lives in the next banjar, a few kilometres away give or take. When I say that doesn’t seem like all that far, my new friend scoffs and says “well it is too far to walk.” A different take on far I guess—it’s all relative. Sydney, where my parents live, we both agree is far—very far. I guess if I had to walk to his brother’s house, it would seem far enough.

Us travellers, we fly around the globe and burn through thousands of kilometres on the ground. For many, the point of the journey is the journey—we have a different take on far. Yet between our starts and finishes there are plenty of between fars. People fill these in different ways—there’s no right way to fill a between far. They may chat or read a book or three, watch something on a screen, gaze out the window or just sleep it away. All at once, they’re making time, passing time, and losing time.

So back to my own journey, from Ko Chang Noi to Kuala Lumpur. The fastest way by ground is a bus from Ranong to Surat Thani from where I can catch a south-bound train. From there, a bus or train onwards to Kuala Lumpur. My second option, if I wanted to stick to buses, would be to get one south to Hat Yai, then the border, then Kuala Lumper.

Not Vietnam but Surat Thani! Photo: David Luekens.

Either way, with time for bus or train changes as required, it is, give or take, 24 hours of travel. Doing it in one hit though is a bit droll, after all, there are plenty of between fars. Shall we break it down a bit more?

If I was to go with option one, I could linger in Surat Thani, or do a side trip to Khanom and Si Chon. Once I’m that far I may as well continue down to Nakhon Si Thammarat. From there, I could finally get on a train for the leg to Phattalung and throw myself into the CBT schemes there. Then, I guess Songhkla, and onwards south—security situation allowing—Pattani, Yala, Narathiwat. Time to slow the clock down.

South of the border, I could fit in an island break and head out to the Perhentians, or linger in Kota Bharu. From there I could get a through train to Kuala Lumpur, but maybe I should pop down to Kuala Terrenganu and Kuantan. Then it’s a hard right to KL, but wait, there’s Taman Negara along the way, I should fit in one more mainland jungle trek.

My daughter unwinds on a southern Thailand between far. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With the second option, the whole Andaman Sea coast is a between far awash in distractions. I’d return to Krabi, do some island trips out from there. In season I could always island hop my way all the way to Langkawi. I don’t know if I’d do that though, as that would mean I’d miss all that southern Thai fare in Trang, Satun and Hat Yai. Decisions decisions. Another loop, another month.

As with Thailand, on the Malaysian side, there’s islands and mainland towns and cities to break up the trip. Why would anyone choose to turn down the chance to spend more time stuffing face in Penang or Ipoh?

Many of the above have featured on Couchfish at some stage or another as I’ve meandered around the place. There are plenty more between fars though, far more than I’ve covered. That is the amazing thing about Southeast Asia, with even 326 days I’ve barely scratched the surface.

A dozen of these will do. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While I know not all have 326 days—hell it took me 20+ years to accumulate these experiences—do allow linger time when you can. Before you book that overnight train or three-day “direct” bus, look at a map and pick a few between fars. If you don’t have a lot of time up your sleeve, you might make do with one. If you have more time on your hands, there’s no reason why you couldn’t pick dozens. What about a trip where you only went to between fars? That would be a diary worth reading.

Looking out the bus window I can see KLIA terminal looming. I’ve a flight to catch (the only one on Couchfish so far), I’m heading to a universe like no other.

Indonesia.

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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

Leaving Ko Phra Thong behind, it was a straight run up the coast to Ranong, the wettest provincial capital in Thailand. A funny little town, little more than a bowl of winding roads with a sizeable fishing port perched on its western rim. The port does a heavy trade in fisheries, but also in labour—legal and otherwise—and drugs—just otherwise—thanks to its location on the frontier with Burma.

I’m not there for a fishing gig, nor to stock up on my supply of illicit, jungle-fashioned pharmaceuticals, rather I’m there to hit an island—Ko Chang. No, there’s not a fold in the space-time-continuum, rather Thailand has two Ko Changs—the big one that everyone knows, in eastern Thailand near Cambodia—and this one, which I’ve always known as Ko Chang Noi, Little Ko Chang.

Peak hour. Photo: David Luekens.

It’s not a tiny island, but it is small—smaller than say Ko Tao, but bigger than Ko Lipe. A comfortable size with enough beach and jungle to go around without it ever feeling too crowded, and not a tailor shop in sight. Overall, my kind of place.

The same friend in Phuket who had recommended Ko Phra Thong, had likewise turned me on to Ko Chang Noi. They told me it saw few people, was less popular than nearby Ko Phayam—except for Germans of course, they’d said—but you’ll always find Germans everywhere.

They suggested a place on the hill, past the northern tip of the main beach. There’s a spot run by a New Yorker with her Thai husband, it’s your kinda place—Rasta Baby—they said. Think sunsets and laying around doing nothing save waiting for the next sunset. It’s rustic but you’ll be fine.

The official Rasta Baby taxi boat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We arranged transfers by long tail from the port direct to the “resort,” and as we motored out, the hum of Kawthaung, Ranong’s counterpart in Burma, buzzed. At the time the crossing wasn’t open to foreigners, with only high-priced liveaboards cruising Burma’s archipelago, so it remained a smudge on the horizon for us. Like gazing across from Si Chiangmai to Vientiane before Laos opened up again, so close and yet so far—just water and paperwork in the way.

As my friend said, Rasta Baby sat on the hill, though you wouldn’t know it from the water as you could barely see it as we pulled in to its rocky excuse for a beach. Knowing that the main beach was the real affair, and just around the headland, it wasn’t the best introduction to the island as we alighted and scrambled up the scruffy and steep trail to our lodgings for the next week.

A good spot for some down time. Photo: David Luekens.

The bungalows were wooden, well in part anyway, thrown-together basic Thai beach shacks is how I’d describe them. The sort that would blow away in a storm—of which, in off season, Ko Chang Noi gets plenty—and they looked like the storm had already given them a beating and a half. The grounds, likewise were more beaten than bountiful, despite all the rain the area gets, the garden, like the trail, was scruffy. There was a small wood and bamboo decked common area, and it was from there that the wisdom of the location became evident.

Looking out to sea it felt like we could see to the end of the Earth. Burmese islands, including the enormous Zadetkyi, broke a horizon of forever water. Trawlers slunk back and forth, none too close to us, but their wake and smoke from their stacks added a dose of pleasure to the view.

The two who ran it, their names I sadly can’t recall, were a youngish Thai American couple, looking to run something a bit less mainstream than what you could find down on the main beach. Friendly and affable, I remember losing days on the deck shooting the breeze with them, all the while with that view as a backdrop.

The golden sands of Ao Yai. Photo: David Luekens.

The beers flowed and the food, while simple, was cheap and filled a hole. Mornings flowed into middays that flowed into afternoons that flowed into evenings. It was four or five days before I managed to find the energy to walk down to the main beach, where Cashew Resort held sway as the place to stay.

As my Phuket friend had mentioned, the scene was heavily German. Middle-aged couples with kids, retirees, and younger travellers, near all from Germany. It’s funny how some places, thanks to a specific mention—in this case from the excellent German language guidebook—develop a trade from just the one country. The “crowd” at Rasta Baby was far more mixed, but there was only a half dozen or so of us, the place was newer and it wasn’t in the Stefan Loose guide, though it wasn’t in any guidebook as far as I knew. Still they ticked over. They weren’t making money, I remember the New Yorker saying, it was a lifestyle thing for them—and their savings I assume.

The horizon is ok. Photo: David Luekens.

That motivation, running a place as a lifestyle business—or a hobby—creates a different vibe in my experience. There’s a differing, less mercantile, attitude from the owners, while the guests, at least those who linger, often end up taking on their own responsibilities. Making your own coffee morphs into making your own breakfast. There’s no billing system, rather you just write down what you’ve had in a book for your room. You help carry stuff up from the boat, because it feels like the right thing to do—and let’s be honest, you’ve done nothing all day anyway! The owners never ask for help, rather the guests offer—they get the idea, it’s the owners’ lifestyle and that of the guests.

The thing is, desired lifestyles change over the years, and often this style of business doesn’t last. The maintenance and running costs of a bungalow joint, even a fall-down basic one, can be surprisingly high. One bad season can shift the waters from pleasantly floating on ones’ savings to drowning fast.

At Rasta Baby things were still in the pleasantly floating stage. It was still fun. The bungalows though, would be needing some work, they had another season or two before they’d make that transition from needing work to needing replacement. With a baby on the way, priorities there might shift, and the desired lifestyle with it.

A good spot to think things through. Photo: David Luekens.

This all seemed far from the front of our brains as we sat there in the late afternoon, throwing back beers and savouring yet another sunset. The owners would tell tales of seeing the Burmese navy firing upon—and sinking—fishing boats, yet, when asked after fatalities, there were shrugs all round. It is Burma—who knows?

At the time, Burma was under the boot of another of its many juntas, a brutal and murderous regime, that had no problems using slave labour on projects—including some tourism-related ones. Many foreign tourists (myself included) boycotted the country in response. Thinking back, it’s funny what moves the needle when it comes to boycotts. Nowhere in Southeast Asia is doing well—or has done well in the past—on human rights, yet we sat there on Rasta Baby’s deck, ruminating on why travel to Thailand was fine but travel to Burma wasn’t. Thinking back, there was plenty enough naivety to go around during those sunset sessions.

A few years later, on neighbouring Ko Phayam, some holidaying friends on a beach walk one morning came upon a body. Assumedly that of a Burmese fisherman, they returned to the guesthouse and reported the find. Later in the day, when they realised the body was still there, they asked what was going on, and the owner replied that they were “only Burmese,” adding someone would collect the body later in the day.

A few more years later, on a return visit to Ko Chang Noi, Rasta Baby was gone.

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Apologies for the radio silence. A couple of weeks ago my laptop imploded and it has taken north of two weeks to sort it out.

The other day I came across a post about Norman Doors. If, like me, you don’t know what a Norman Door is, you can start here. Better still, read You should not open a door and see someone pooping on Experimental History. Don’t want to read either? A Norman Door is a door that is confusing to use. Why are some things that should be simple not? It should come as no surprise that it got me thinking about travel.

Why is so much of travel badly designed?

When it comes to travel, bad design is everywhere. In some cases, more or less anything online, bad design is a feature not a bug. The point of websites more often than not is to squeeze every penny out of you. User experience? What’s that?

Welcome to Kupang, yes the airport grounds are on fire. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Who hasn’t picked the shortest queue at check-in only to find themselves behind a dude checking a cat in on a multi-leg flight? My belated apologies to the ever-lengthening queue behind me at the time. Why is “Express check-in” never express. Why after using an AirAsia check-in kiosk does one then need to join the main queue to check bags? Why keep carry-on to under seven kilos when fellow passengers are carrying seventy? In summary, why is every part of the airport experience 110% s**t? Why are better alternatives not used? Travel is supposed to make us all better designers, and yet…

But rather than spending one thousand words whining about flying, I wanted to zoom out a bit more. Why is “travel” so badly designed? It isn’t like poor design is left for the plebs while the high flyers get a better product—they don’t. I mean, they’ll tell you they do, through their business class seats or member lounges, but it’s just a more fragrant garbage fire.

Will with an air-con upgrade to an overnight ferry trip. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Now that large parts of the planet have convinced themselves we are in a post-pandemic stage of the ongoing pandemic, there has been much talk about a need to reappraise travel. By and large this is blather, talk about “quality tourists” as if fatter wallet will make better ballast for keeping rising sea levels at bay. Asinine commentary from tourism boards struck a new high the other week when New Zealand’s tourism brain trust declared that two minute noodle eaters would no longer be welcome.

A moment to digress on this point. This statement was but that latest in an ongoing droll saga bemoaning backpackers as being a bad deal for destinations. This is of course complete rubbish—they stay longer and put more money in locally owned small businesses than any other segment. And in a world where sustainability is all the rage, they tick more boxes than anyone else. Yet, as far as New Zealand is concerned they seem to prefer high-spending two minute tourists rather than backpackers eating two minute noodles. For a nation as geographically isolated as it is, actively steering away from people who will stay longer—and thus defray the bazillion carbon kilos their flight expelled to get there—in favour of short stay carbon vandals, is, well, dumb.

Anyway, I digress.

NZ needs to go back to noodle school. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Sustainable or responsible travel has many touch points with much crossover to the UN Sustainable Development Goals, but if I had to boil it down to five key points, they’d be:

* Fly as little as possible.

* Work to spend your money in a manner that leaves as much of it as possible with local communities.

* Stay in places that operate in an environmentally responsible fashion.

* Travel slowly—spend more time in fewer places.

* Eat local fare.

Much of travel does none of these things. I mean sure, some people travel this way, but they are in the minority.

Why?

Slow down and smell the coffee. Halfway down Tambora, Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There was a good piece the other day on some of the challenges around sustainable travel in Southeast Asia. Two points stood out. First it highlighted that most countries in this region lack the legislation to enforce sustainable development. Second, it noted that the existing infrastructure was built to support pre-pandemic volumes of travellers. Thailand has an infrastructure to (in theory) support north of 40 million tourists a year. Apparently one shouldn’t expect the country to sit idle on 75% of its supposed capacity. Perish the thought they repurpose some of that infrastructure.

So this talk of making travel sustainable, at least from governments, is just that—talk. And while flogging tourists for the behaviour of some, or the impacts of their industry, might hold water, things are often more complicated. Take a look at national parks, are tourists really the primary threat vector? I don’t see much coverage of tourists illegally logging, or poaching (great story on this here), or expropriating national park land for residences. Maybe I’m reading the wrong outlets.

In Salavan go for the ant eggs rather than smashed avo. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

With the governments talking head outlets, responsibility for being responsible is left to private industry and travellers themselves. This too is a mixed bag, to say the least. One can flog the airlines for being the environmental vandals they are, but the hotel industry isn’t far behind. Southeast Asia is awash in basket cases of ill considered development projects—look to almost any island in the region to see evidence of this. Much of the luxury trade press ignores the environmental impacts of the places they feature.

Then there’s the inbound tour companies, where there are some bright indicators. Australian operator Intrepid for example continues to up their game, but at the end of the day, these businesses are extractive, and much of the money spent by passengers gets offshored. Choose your operator with the upmost care.

The international travel industry is a complex amalgam of many moving parts, yet few—if any—are well designed. Travel media is awash in brands declaring they are “doing things better” as if they deserve accolades for doing what they should have been all along. As I’ve written before, developing unsustainable eyesores then bragging about bamboo straws is ludicrous.

Do better. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This leaves us with the traveller—you dear reader. Everyone knows the embarrassment of pushing on a pull door, yet few notice how effortless it is when they push on a push one. Good design is good for everyone, it just works, and it shouldn’t be noteworthy. It should be the norm.

Travellers—and particularly destinations—deserve better than an industry built around Norman Doors. Demand better and take your business where you find it—it is right through that push or pull door over there.

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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

Many years ago I was researching for Travelfish on a Thai island. It is a popular one, heavily developed with a tonne of visitors. Responding to this demand, it also had a tonne of hotels. While there was some beach time, there was much trudging from one mediocre hotel to another.

One place I looked at had a good beachside location. It wasn’t perfect, many of the cheaper rooms looked onto the car park for example, but in the scheme of things, it wasn’t bad. I listed it. In the write-up, I wrote the place was foreigner-owned. This was a mistake, as while it was clearly Western-managed, the owners were not. I learned this when I got an annoyed email from management. I corrected the error, noting there were “plenty of Western staff,” and let them know of the correction.

Looking for stuff to write about on Ko Chang Noi. Photo: David Luekens.

This wasn’t enough though. They wanted me to remove the bit about the budget rooms overlooking the car park. Their best rooms were beachfront, they wrote, and they wanted those highlighted. This was true, they had beachfront rooms, but at quadruple the price. I felt the budget rooms were more likely to be the rooms Travelfish readers would go for. I refused.

This annoyed them. They said I was being unfair. There was some more back and forward, but it seemed easier to delete the listing, which I did. This enraged them, but after a while, I didn’t hear from them again.

Many years later, in Indonesia, I was travelling in a somewhat remote area. While there, I found a small beachside hotel I liked. I wrote about it saying just that. As always, I used my photos.

Shack spotted—better investigate. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A few months later I received an email from the owner. They were thankful for the write-up—it was through a Travelfish guest they’d found out about the listing. They had one quibble though, they wanted the photos changed. I had four attached to the review, one beach shot, one internal and two bungalow shots. I’m no fine-art photographer, but to my mind, they were a good representation of what I had seen.

In their email, they attached four photos they wanted me to use. They wanted all four replaced. The photos they sent me were beautiful, quite exceptional. A quick look on their Airbnb page confirmed they were from there.

Only in exceptional situations do we not use our own photos. I’d struggle to think of a dozen situations where we haven’t and we’ve listed, over the years, around 8,000 places to stay.

Some work required, Kep. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

While their photos were beautiful, they didn’t replicate what I saw. In particular, the interior shot, which was of the same room I inspected, was hard to recognise. I wrote back and explained I would not use their photos. Like the case above, they were not happy.

My final example is from a popular coastal town in Cambodia. The place we listed as our pick—the best place to stay in town—got in touch. They wanted the listing removed.

I assumed it had changed hands or something, and I wrote to confirm this. No, it hadn’t changed hands, rather, I’m quoting here:

“Hi Stuart,

We prefer to keep control of our online presence. Please delete the listing as requested.

Regards etcetera”

Yes, Stuart, the bridge is still broken. Salavan. Photo: Cindy Fan.

The place was on Agoda, Booking, TripAdvisor, LP and all the other usual suspects. Their response seemed absurd. A word here—if the place had not been on all the above—along with the hundreds of “guest reviews,” I would have removed it. But it was. The review was staying on Travelfish. More than anything though, their response baffled me.

I refused, saying I felt as the property was listed everywhere, it would be a disservice to Travelfish readers to remove it. I never heard from them again. I did though hear from a friend living in the town. The owner, a Westerner, had invested considerable time in bad-mouthing my research efforts. They’d suggested I’d coasted from freebie to freebie, but they’d refused to pay and now “I was being a dick.” Awesome—also I didn’t even do the research for that town.

Ahhh the joys of timetable collection in Yangon. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Anyways, where am I going with this?

Three things.

Some hotels are well used to having some—or all depending on the writer—degree of control over how they are portrayed. While there are three examples up top, I have dozens of similar tales. Errors happen and I understand the need to have these fixed as soon as possible, but opinion is opinion. If you don’t want your rooms overlooking a car park written about, don’t build rooms overlooking the car park. Your guests will thank you. Thinking about the experience for your guests—all of them—matters.

In July, high-end travel rag Travel & Leisure posted a train wreck of a piece. Titled “The 15 Best Cities in Asia,” (here I am linking to it which I guess is the point of publishing this rubbish), the listicle lists Ubud in Bali as first, and is worth quoting the lead:

“With a mix of stunning temples, rain forests, white-sand beaches, and a thriving city center, Ubud truly has something for everyone.”

Ubud has no beaches—of any sand colour. The closest beach is an hour or two away (depending on the traffic). Now I’m no fan of glossy mags, though they are capable of publishing good stuff—see this example on Trang in CNT for example—though there are so many ads it keeps crashing my browser! The listicles however are trash, and, in turn, are republished ad nauseam by cash-strapped travel sections worldwide. Spreading idiocy like the luminescent strawberry jam they never mention is included with breakfasts. This matters.

Imagine having this for breakfast in Ipoh?! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

T&L is what many hotels want. Mindless and uncritical, cliche-ridden features glossing over the problems of destinations. Problems which these pieces often contribute to. Imagine showing up in Ubud for the beach? Undisclosed comps for writers are the norm—that place you’re reading about, most likely the stay wasn’t paid for. This matters.

Lastly, the other day, Vietnam Coracle turned ten. If you’re not familiar with the title, it is an online guide to Vietnam with a focus on travel by scooter. I’ve long been a fan of the site and encourage anyone headed to the country to give it a read. While I’d quibble with some of the hotels site-owner Tom reviews, his material overall is ace. When I’m in Vietnam and on two wheels, his site is open on my phone all the time. Unlike T&L, as a writer, he is one hundred per cent transparent about how he works. This matters.

Neither Travelfish nor Vietnam Coracle are multi-million dollar enterprises. We have no fancy pants glass and brass offices in a faraway city with free yoga classes and table tennis. We both live in the region and have for years. We have a passion for what we do and the region we live in—we walk the talk. While Tom has got travelling again earlier than me, eventually we’ll be both up on the road again.

When we are, we’ll be travelling like you—and writing about it, as we see it. This matters too.

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

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