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On my second trip to Laos, in the mid-1990s, I was on a slow boat from Huay Xai to Luang Prabang. If you’d like to read about a competitive traveller I met on the trip, read this. Today’s piece though isn’t a gripe about annoying travellers.

A few hours south of Huay Xai, I guess about halfway to Pak Tha, the boat moored at a small village. “All foreigners off please,” the boat dudes asked, “but bags stay on board.” The half dozen or so of us peeled ourselves off the deck and roof and ambled up into the hamlet. None of us knew what was going on.

Do as we say, not as we do. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At the time, travel in Laos wasn’t the free-wheeling scene it was to become. Visas had only recently dropped in price from US$100 for a week and travellers remained a curiosity. Where you could go remained restricted, and the village had an immigration checkpoint. We formed a motley queue as a uniformed but diminutive Lao guy, sitting at a desk in a bamboo hut, wrote our names down.

There was no request for passports. When it came to my turn, I missed what he said and replied “Sorry?” The guy dutifully wrote down Mr Sorry.

Names recorded, it was back to the boat to continue our trip downriver. I like to think that somewhere in the village there’s a hut full of reams of paper, each filled with his careful script. Somewhere, on a page not yet eaten by termites, one reads “Mr Sorry.”

Papers, please. The Mekong from Pak Tha, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m not going to venture too far into the pointlessness of that little exercise. Thailand ex-pat residents will be familiar with the 90-day reporting rule, something I remember from my years there. At the now-gone office on Soi Suan Phlu, a room held metric tonnes of paper slowly gathering dust. After doing it once, I didn’t bother again—even by Thai governmental processes, it seemed asinine. I remained in Thailand for another four or five years and never got pulled up on my intransigence. Who knows if they’ve got an APB out on Mr Sorry.

At the time I was working at the Australian Embassy in their education department. I was a “locally engaged staff,” meaning I sat in a weird middle ground between local staff and the staff sent from the motherland. The job paid better than English teaching, but at least that came with a work permit—something the embassy refused to do. Instead, they had some weird dodge which had me spending plenty of time at Suan Phlu immigration.

Storms ahead. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Spend long enough at immigration offices and you see all sorts of crazy stuff. On one occasion there was a fight between an enraged French guy and officers. They took him mid-rant to another room where, out of sight, I could hear the Thai officers yelling at him.

“Shut up now or I hit you.”

Happy days.

Immigration is a weird beast. At worst it is the public face of a nation’s racism and xenophobia, with rules dictated by the girth of your wallet—and the colour of your skin.

Simple rules are easier to follow. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I once had a heated argument with an immigration officer entering the USA from Canada. For my efforts I was strip searched and given the ahhh full hands-on examination. After that, I stopped arguing with immigration. I guess if the Thais had picked me up for skipping 90-day reporting, or Laos had jailed me for supplying a false name, I’d have avoided doing those things too. Thankfully neither did.

There is a bizarre story from when I was living in Bangkok. A friend of a friend was picked up for reasons I don’t remember. Unable to furnish his passport (he had lost it some years earlier), he was sent to immigration detention. He then entered this weird circuitous journey between detention and a holding centre near the airport. I don’t remember why he kept getting sent back and forward between the two, but he was in the circuit for months. On one of the runs, his transport pulled up at the side of the road and the officers told him to get out and go. He did. Who wouldn’t? As far as I know, he is still in Thailand—I have no idea if he ever got around to getting a passport again.

It is enough to make you want to stream. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was one of those weird stories, and my memories are foggy on the details—I’ll see if I can track down the full tale for another piece. I mention it though, on behalf of someone he met on his trips back and forward. An African guy (I don’t remember his nationality sorry) who had been in lockup for over six years. His country had no diplomatic office in Thailand, and he had no money. The guy who was released on the side of the street? He was white.

In the midst of the pandemic, there was a rash of foreigners deported from here in Indonesia. Deportations are not all that rare, but there seemed to be on the rise. There were so many I considered starting a newsletter called the Deportation Daily.

Bangkok is great for cycling around in circles. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The reasons were typical and not all that unexpected. Crime—particularly drugs—was a big one, followed closely by working illegally. Then there was a whole bunch of weirder and whacky ones. A guy rode a scooter off a pier at Padang Bai as a social media prank, but social media bit him back hard and he was out. There were others, some even more batty. I think in part this reflected a combination of two things. First, people locked indoors for prolonged periods were losing a few marbles. Secondly, the people who were willing to try recreational travel in the middle of a global pandemic sometimes had a different take on behaviour.

In the end, I didn’t bother with the newsletter idea. It felt a bit ghoulish in a “dancing on others’ graves” kind of a way. The stories though keep coming. For every kooky story, however, was almost impossible to defend deportations. Journalists and activists continued to be targeted across the region. One I know was deported from a country in the region simply because the immigration officer responsible had a quota to meet. The officer apologised to my friend, explaining his hands were tied by his seniors. The friend went without a peep, hoping to get back in after a spell. He’s still cooling his heels offshore. When the targeted person is hard to harass, their family may earn a closer look.

A whack for each day of visa overstay. Photo: David Luekens.

Of course, having abhorrent immigration rules are the right of every country. The United Kingdom, Australia and the USA all excel at horrific policies. The rules are opaque by design, a catchall to provide a means to offload those they (or their citizens) don’t want. Long it has been this way.

This has come into sharp focus as the world tries to re-open during a down-dip in the pandemic. The ever-changing rules for entry have required a degree of intestinal fortitude that has taken some by surprise. The complaints from travellers have been incessant. Why is this so complicated, accompanied of course by the entitled cry of “don’t they want tourists?”

For many nationals though, like the man in Bangkok immigration detention for six years, the rules have always been this way.

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The water cooler at immigration offices around the world is a happening place it seems. Every now and then, when there is nothing else to talk about, the topic of “digital nomad visas” pops up. Thailand has had it. Vietnam has had it. Indonesia has had it. Cambodia has had it. As have countries elsewhere on the planet.

It’s an ideal one to shoot the breeze over between deportation reconciliations. It sounds like such a good idea. So simple. The problem is, it isn’t. It isn’t simple, and, to be honest, I’m not sure it is even a good idea.

This morning, the Jakarta Post ran an editorial on the topic, and in a sea of iffy stories on the subject, it takes the cake. It does serve a purpose though—aside from generating clicks—it neatly wraps up many of the problems. By accident.

Pick the Digital Nomad. At Kep National Park. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

For those not in the know, the base concept behind a “digital nomad visa” (DNV) is to allow digital nomads (DN) to work while travelling. Boiled down, the idea is that by allowing them to work, they’ll stay longer and spend more. This in turn will benefit local economies. This is all true—to a point.

The reason for the perceived need for the DNV is that most visa rules came about when “remote work” wasn’t a thing. If you were going to work in a foreign country, you would get a job in that country. Be it pulling beers, teaching English, or accounting, the visa rules were designed for people working at places of work. Visa rules did not anticipate a situation where people brought their work with them. This mode of work, to a large part, is a post-internet thing.

Was taking this photo work? At an impossible to photograph today location, Kep. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In general terms, getting a work permit can be quite involved. In a way this didn’t matter, sure, it was a headache, but given you were going to be in country X for a few years, it didn’t matter. Who cares if deciphering ancient tomes from Jupiter requires less intestinal fortitude? Your employer (often though not always) would assist, and, well, it was just a process that had to be done. It could take anything from a couple of weeks to six months ... or more. It was often expensive—thousands and thousands of dollars depending on the country.

If you’re interested in the Digital Nomads phenomena, Counterflows by Lauren Razavi belongs in your email inbox.

The thing is, if one is only planning on being in a country for six months, this isn’t a tempting option. Often it wasn’t even possible, as one generally needs an employer in-country to get a work visa.

This brings us to the DNV and the “problem” it is trying to address. That is, nomads are already working in-country, just on the wrong visa. They might be on a social or tourist visa, a non-immigrant visa, or whatever. With a longer-stay visa, ostensibly for tourism, they work between hill tribe treks and margaritas.

Sort-of nomad buys beer and melons at Kompong Cham, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

But what is work? The executive checking her email by the pool while on a two-week holiday in Vietnam is working. I mean, even taking a work call is work. What about the novelist taking a six-month island break to finish their next best seller? Or the therapist doing video sessions with clients back in her home country? These people are, to varying degrees breaking the rules.

What about if they’re doing a job that a national could? The Jakarta Post highlights this, writing:

“The government also should set safeguard measures to prevent them from entering the local labor market or from doing digital businesses with domestic enterprises.”

Then, it goes on to say, in the same paragraph no less:

“Remote jobs such as marketing consultants, software engineers, program developers, graphic designers, architects and data analysts, are some of the professional services provided by the target tourists for the nomad visa program.”

Now I hate to break it to the brains-trust at the Jakarta Post, but Southeast Asia has a well-developed programming and graphic design labour force. Take a look at any freelance job market and you’ll see hundreds of well-rated Southeast Asian workers.

This is a problem.

A boat load on some nomads and not-nomads. On the vomit-comet, Koh Kong. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

DNs, through simply being in-country, are contributing to the local economy. They may not be paying tax (aside from VAT/GST or whatever), but they are putting money into the economy. If their jobs are offshore, should they pay tax?

In answer to this, some DNV schemes suggest the visa should be tax-free. I get the logic to a point, but if I was a local programmer and saw foreigners coming into my labour pool, tax-free, I’m not sure I’d be thrilled. If a DN’s earnings are 100% offshore in an industry not served in-country, then it is more reasonable. But how are the authorities to check? Should DNs need to supply their entire client list for the last three years? I’m sure that would go down well.

A common rebuttal I see is DNs saying if country X doesn’t offer a DNV then they’ll just go elsewhere. This reeks of the exact colonial/extractive aspects of tourism many are arguing the industry has to rid itself of.

Immigration policies could do with a shave—just in the right places. Phnom Penh street shaver. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The common alternative view is to make a DNV a bit more pricey in lieu of tax. I don’t know, let’s say US$500 a month. This removes a need to delve into taxation returns but brings us to the next problem.

If a DNV is say $500 a month, some would go for it. I know DNs who earn enough working remotely that paying that would be a no-brainer. That said, I know other DNs who are flat out earning $500 a month. For them, a DNV, almost regardless of the cost, would be a non-starter.

So a DNV would need to come up with a policy of cracking down on DNs using other visa routes. Remember the raids on Chiang Mai cafes looking for people doing WordPress templates versus emailing their Mum? Not ideal. Immigration staff, already under-resourced, would be as excited as the DNs would be.

We’re here to round up the capacity-builders. At Java Cafe, Phnom Penh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The whole DNV thing goes hand in hand with discussion around “high-value tourists.” The Jakarta Post of course jumps in on this, stating:

“Since the direct benefits expected from tourists with nomad visas are their spending or consumption of domestic goods and services, the government should ensure through regulations that tourists using nomad visas should stay at star-rated hotels or apartments and not backpacker accommodation.”

Because no software entrepreneur ever stayed in backpacker accommodation. Because people staying in backpacker accommodation don’t consume domestic goods and services. Who knows what goes on in the Jakarta Post editorial brain.

Phnom Penh’s Sundown Social—looking out and down. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So what is the solution?

First, one needs to determine what the real problem is. On the downside there are a couple of obvious problems. To some extent, DNs are swimming in the local labour pool rather than in the Gulf of Thailand. They are contributing to the local economy although not really to the tax system. On the upside, they stay far longer than a typical tourist would. Regardless of which bucket they fall into, they spend plenty of money—for that bracket.

On the other hand, there are foreigners wanting to stay long-term in the region. They want to start businesses that will create jobs and careers. Long-term companies that will create long-term wealth for local people. The focus should be here.

Nomads did not build this. At Banteay Chhmar, Cambodia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yes, streamlining immigration systems is desirable. Not particularly for DNs though—rather for long-term, serious investment. Long-stay expatriates offer far better bang-for-the-buck than flyby DNs. They spend more, friends and family visit, they travel extensively in-country. They pay tax.

DNs get the noise, but, like the 30-year-old dude sans headphones in a cafe on a zoom call, they’re a distraction. Regional governments need to take a longer-term view.

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As anyone who has been to Ko Lipe in the last decade or so will know, the island I’ve described over the past two days no longer exists. The island, at least pre-pandemic, was home to over 100 hotels and north of one thousand rooms. Damaged reefs, pollution, water access and various social and land-ownership issues are common. This is a transition Thai islands are well familiar with, with the country having honed “paving over paradise” to a fine art. For another, more slow-moving example, I look across the water to the east, to Ko Bulon Lae.

Closer to the coast, the island stumbled onto the backpacker radar around the same time as Lipe. It lacks Lipe’s bounty of fine beaches, but it does have one particularly lovely white-sand beach. As Lipe’s popularity took off, Bulon Lae was more of a slow burner. A popular one with long-stay, repeat visitors, particularly families with young kids.

Ko Bulon Lae has all sorts of pretty. Photo: David Luekens.

Development on Bulon Lae has been slower, yet the issue train is still rolling along. Home to only a dozen or so places to stay versus Lipe’s hundred, the number has barely budged over the last two decades. For residents, tourism offered an escape from a life of relative poverty. Tourism could be a better-paying alternative.

In practice, as this 2016 thesis by Banthita Limpradit discusses, the results—so far—are mixed. If you’re not up for reading the whole thing, skip ahead to Chapter Six and Seven.

Let’s start with the upside—tourists like to eat. Restaurants, an area that offered in particular employment opportunities for women, showed promise. Local women saw fishing as “men’s work” and for cultural reasons tended to stay at home and care for the family. By running a home kitchen, women were able to earn some extra money. This, in turn, bolstered savings, insulating against downturns in fishing (an omnipresent issue), or when the breadwinner was unable to fish.

Will doing beach research on Ko Bulon Lae. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are also (yet-unrealised) opportunities to showcase local food. Tourists spend about a third of their money stuffing their faces, so leveraging that into local produce makes sense. Every product imported from the mainland (or overseas) sees money leave the island. Local fare equals money staying local. Eateries could offer prawn crackers and fish crisps in lieu of french fries for example.

Bulon Lae lacks land for largescale cultivation, so imports are unavoidable, but every change counts. Restaurants offering pizza, pasta and wine may please tourists, but they hurt the local economy. Stronger linkages could be developed between restaurants and food suppliers on the island. “Bulon food” could be a thing. Tourists eating in such establishments would expand the demand for local agricultural practices. This in turn would financially benefit those not directly involved in tourism.

Off the beach and out of mind. Photo: David Luekens.

This is already happening in the fisheries. Fishers prefer to sell their catch to tourist restaurants over middlemen as it gets them a better price. Bulon Lae’s fisheries may be over-exploited, but commercial trawlers—rather than local fishers—are to blame. Restaurants could showcase their seafood as line-caught by locals—if it is—and charge a premium for it.

An added benefit for fishers who own their boats is running trips for tourists. Be it snorkelling, beach or island trips, they can sometimes double their income doing this. Often with considerably less effort, using a boat that would otherwise be idle.

Over the years, other benefits including a phone signal (and so, WiFi) arrived. As did improved ferry access from the mainland town of Pakbara and other islands in the Andaman Sea. While these came to meet the demands of tourists, locals also benefitted. As they did through improved power (via a solar set-up) and water management.

Better for the local economy than a pepperoni pizza. Photo: David Luekens.

The island’s cultural heritage also received a shot in the arm. Traditional dance, long feared to be fading, picked up, boosting locals’ cultural pride. Monthly community meetings served as forums to discuss a wide variety of issues. Tourism-related ones, such as scanty dress and consumption of alcohol were common talking points.

While education is compulsory in Thailand, kids are sometimes withdrawn from school to help with fishing. Insufficient schooling leaves the kids facing a choice of fishing or unskilled work. Language courses, in a variety of forms, took place over the years, but courses were often too short. “A waste of time that was better-spent fishing” in some locals’ view.

Beach jeweller with funds supporting local kids. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The core issues though were (and remain) a lack of capital, affordable loans, and land ownership. One example is instructive. The TAT required proper toilets for tourism businesses, yet this was beyond the means of some. Other requirements, around business management and so on, were beyond the skills of many. The transition from crab fisher to guesthouse manager has little crossover. This lack of training and know-how often left unskilled work, such as cleaning, the only in to tourism. Conditions are often exploitative, with work sometimes paid less than fishing—as little as 200 baht per day.

The core issue though is land. The first tourist accommodation was Pansand, opened by some mainland investors in 1990. It remains, to this day, the only property on the island with a legal land title. Of thirteen bungalow businesses on the island, only four are local-owned. Many are off-the-beach, in part due to them starting as an extension from the local’s house—due to lack of capital. The outsider-owned properties, on the best stretches of beach, with tourism expertise, have thrived. The local-owned businesses, not so much.

For many, tourists remain off the menu. Photo: David Luekens.

The above sounds like a mixed bag of results, and it is. That said, on almost all counts, Ko Bulon Lae has fared better than Ko Lipe. If the island could wind back the clock two decades, what could be done even better? Land title is the obvious one, a small language, business and tourism training centre another. Access to soft loans a third.

That is only one side of the coin though. Tourists need to look at their own practices as well. To seek out locally owned businesses. To skip burgers and pizza and try, then grow to love, local fare—shrimp crackers are great! To stay longer and eat wider. To avail themselves of more boat tours and snorkelling trips. To work harder to make sure whatever impact they’re having is, as much as possible, a positive one.

That’s the best way to avoid another Ko Lipe.

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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In late June, news outlet Kompas reported on an increase in admission fees for Komodo National Park. Commencing August 1, 2022, the fee will increase to US$260 (3.75m rupiah) per head, with no word on a lower rate for Indonesians. This represents an increase from the current 150,000 rupiah (5,000 rupiah for Indonesians). The argument presented for the increase is “conservation” and talking heads are at pains to describe it as a conservation fee which will be valid for a year of entries—not an entrance ticket.

This is but one of many suggested price-changes for the park in recent years. In late 2018 a revised admission of $500 appeared, then, a year later a “membership fee” of US$1,000 did the rounds. Both vanished. Around the same time, talking heads noted the need for the park to attract “high value” tourists. This mantra, common in Indonesia since the 1970s, has played out in a similar fashion in neighbouring countries. Distinguished for railing against backpackers as much as tempting luxury travellers, details are scant. At the time of the $500 fee being thrown around, backpackers were described as “peasants” and the governor of the region encompassing Komodo was quoted as saying the park was for “extraordinary people” and those without the funds should not enter.

How long will these calm waters last? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Komodo was inscribed as a World Heritage Site in 1991 under two criteria. Criterion vii: To contain superlative natural phenomena or areas of exceptional natural beauty and aesthetic importance; and Criterion x: To contain the most important and significant natural habitats for in-situ conservation of biological diversity, including those containing threatened species of outstanding universal value from the point of view of science or conservation.

It is worth quoting UNESCO’s description of how the park satisfies these points at length.

Criterion (vii): Komodo National Park is a landscape of contrasts between starkly rugged hillsides of dry savanna, pockets of thorny green vegetation, brilliant white sandy beaches and blue waters surging over coral, unquestionably one of the most dramatic landscapes in all of Indonesia. Demonstrating exceptional natural beauty that is all the more remarkable as a counterpoint to the dominant lushness of vegetation which characterizes vast areas of forested Indonesia, and with which most of the world associates the archipelago.

Criterion (x): Komodo National Park contains the majority of the world’s areas in which wild populations of the Komodo dragon lizard still exist. The largest and heaviest of the world’s lizards, the species is widely known for its impressive size and fearsome appearance, its ability to effectively prey on large animals, and a tolerance of extremely harsh condition.

Fast forward a couple of decades and the 2020 IUCN World Heritage Outlook notes the conservation outlook for Komodo is one of “Significant Concern.” UNESCO meanwhile in 2021, while noting some progress, notes their concern about “different tourism infrastructure projects undertaken and planned in the property,” and then, in the next paragraph, notes “Also urges the State Party to halt all tourism infrastructure projects in and around the property that have the potential to impact on its OUV until the revised EIA is submitted and reviewed by IUCN.”

Angel Island looking not so angelic. (This island is outside the park boundaries). Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In a more detailed letter, they requested information regarding a re-zoning of the park in 2020 which resulted in a decrease of the wilderness zone to one-third of the previous area, reported new legislation that would exempt infrastructure works in the property from the obligation of undergoing an EIA, and a new tourism target of some 500,000 people per annum (page 254).

If you missed the memo, Rinca Island has been closed for some time while some sort of “Komodo arena” is constructed. A photo of a Komodo dragon facing down a construction truck went viral on social media at the time. Plans are also afoot for tourism developments on both Padar and another island within the park boundaries. Details are scant, but it seems UNESCO (and domestic conservation groups) are less than thrilled, the concerns are widespread.

One of the construction sites on UNESCO’s shitlist, this on Rinca. Via Google Maps.

This brings me back to the mooted US$260 conservation charge. Part and parcel with this increase is a cap on visitors to the park of no more than 200,000 people—despite UNESCO asking about a rumoured 500,000. The only time Komodo has surpassed this number (officially) was in 2019, when 221,703 visitors entered the park. Thanks to Covid, this plummeted to around 50,000 in 2020. Given the increase in admission, it would be fair to assume that the chances of reaching 200,000 entries anytime soon are unlikely.

It is important to clarify something at this point. In practice, Komodo has two fields of touristic appeal. There is the terrestrial part of the park, which encompasses Komodo, Rinca and Padar. These are where you see the dragons, or in the case of Padar, climb to a viewpoint. The second field is the marine part of the park, which is home to some of the best diving on the planet.

The park is lovely. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The primary point of access to Komodo is Labuan Bajo. Permanently settled only in the 1950s by three Bajo families, it saw explosive growth since 2007, with its population reaching 52,000 by 2014. Recently named one of Indonesia’s “New Balis,” and buoyed by massive investment, you wouldn’t know it by looking at some facts and figures. In 2015 80% of Labuan Bajo’s population lived below the Indonesian poverty line, more than a quarter had more than five children and only 24% had access to piped water. The city was recently described by NGO Swiss Contact as being at the “tipping point.”

In the department of tipping, an airport expansion in 2015 raised capacity from 150,000 to 1,500,000. A planned second upgrade will increase capacity to four million passengers per year. If only 200,000 people will be allowed into the park per year, I’m curious what the other 3,800,000 will do. I reckon they should hit Dapur Tara.

Train them young and they’ll return again and again—if they can afford it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Tourism is viewed as Labuan Bajo’s only sizeable industry and it is a considerable employer, with the dive industry forming an important sector. In early 2022 I had a number of conversations with dive shop managers and owners about the effect of the pandemic. Foreign-focused shops noted 95% of their business was foreign divers, and for them, the pandemic had been brutal. Locally-focused shops were not hit as hard, but business was far from plain sailing. When I asked about staff sourcing, all operators sourced significant numbers from the local community and elsewhere in Flores. Conditions are not always ideal though, writes Swiss Contact:

“The dominance of small and medium sized businesses creates a divers business environment on the one hand. On the other hand it comes along with a high degree of non-compliance with Indonesian labour regulations. The staff is in many cases dependent on employers’ goodwill, which is not sufficient to guarantee decent working conditions and social security.”

Some form of tourism/vocational training exists in both Labuan Bajo and Ruteng (a provincial capital to the east), but migrant labour remains a common stop-gap. The prime market for both graduates and migrants is Labuan Bajo—even if the conditions are not great.

Got the promenade sorted, piped water … not so much. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Many of the favoured dive sites are within the park’s marine boundaries yet operators often only dive—they don’t visit the dragons. If the $260 charge extends to dive operations, what dampening effect will that have on the trade? Will job losses result as operators go belly up—that doesn’t seem like a stretch.

There’s no denying that pre-pandemic the park had overcrowding issues. At the Batu Bolong dive site for example, in 2017 and 2018 it averaged 500 divers per day—a level characterised to me by dive shop managers as “excessive.” This led to a WWF-led carrying capacity study which set an allocative limit of two dive boats per hour. Operators know that their business relies on the dive experience being a good one—I didn’t speak to an operator who didn’t support the Batu Bolong exercise.

Above the surface though, challenges remained unaddressed. In 2019, the viewpoint on Padar attracted 400 to 600 hikers per day, and a study found considerable trash on the trail, with cigarette butts representing over 30% of the total. Only one garbage bin is on site. Sometimes simple and affordable solutions—like more bins—exist.

Why the hell would you want to model this on Bali? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

To the dragons themselves, repeated studies have found that the primary issue revolves around the roll-on effects of waste practices. Disposal of kitchen scraps and other waste around the ranger stations has led to dragons congregating around there. This in turn has resulted in exposure to large numbers of tourists, and the Komodo dragons have been found to exhibit less wariness, greater body mass, and other altered behaviours. On Rinca, frequent tourist visits deterred natural prey species such as water buffalo and feral pigs, while crab-eating macaques, being more familiar with humans, were not deterred and became the Komodo dragons’ second largest food source.

In the 1990s rangers used to stake live goats to guarantee sightings for tourists, but when this practice ceased dragon numbers dropped and within two years some 30% of tourists saw no Komodo dragons at all. Assuming the waste situation is addressed and the dragons head back to the woods, how many people will be up for paying US$260 for a 30% chance of not seeing a dragon?

When a promenade can’t even meet up with a bridge, one does wonder. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The answer perhaps lies in Rinca. In conversations in Labuan Bajo, I was repeatedly told that the long-term plan was for Rinca and its “zoo” to be the focal point for tourism. Komodo, on the other hand, would be reserved for “scientific research”. Yet if the setting on Rinca is to be in a zoo-like amphitheatre, where does that stand on the authenticity stakes? You can have that experience in one of Bali’s dire zoos. In this context, it is hard to see the logic of the current stance.

If the authorities want to limit numbers in the park, there is a straightforward solution to this. Regardless of the price, limit the number of tickets available. Setting a stratospheric price while capping the number of allowed visitors at a near all-time high level, seems disingenuous in the extreme. According to Cole, past governing Regencies had form, noting that in 2012 there were 219 cases involving misuse or embezzlement of some US$3.2 million from state budgets.

The bathroom at this joint was bigger than Will and my room lol. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

No doubt, given the ongoing construction of luxurious hotels outside the park confines, there will be some demand for people willing to pay US$260 to enter the park. After all, if you’re paying around $1,000 a night what is a couple of hundred bucks more? But for the vast majority of us, those who are not in a position to pay this kind of money, the question begs, why visit Labuan Bajo at all? What will happen to all the guesthouses, hostels and budget hotels when the primary attractions—the diving and the Komodo dragons—are beyond the budget of most of their guests?

How many of those small hotels, cafes and restaurants in Labuan Bajo are locally owned? How many of the five-star hotels are? Swiss Contact reported that in 2016 two-thirds of the tourism-related businesses in Labuan Bajo were not owned by Floresians, though 40% were Indonesian-owned. What do the local people own and run? Budget accommodation and tour operations (

On Saturday, Indonesia’s Coordinating Minister for Maritime Affairs and Investment took to Instagram. This in itself isn’t unusual—many government departments and ministers here are active on the platform. What he had to say though, was a little out of the left field.

The Minister announced his decision to limit the number of tourists visiting Borobudur to 1,200 per day. Alongside the revised visitor numbers he announced new admission tariffs. Indonesians would pay 750,000 rupiah (with students remaining at 5,000 rupiah). Foreigners would pay US$100. In the past, Indonesians paid 50,000 rupiah and foreigners paid US$25. The increases, fifteen-fold and four-fold respectively, are significant. As a reference point, 750,000 rupiah is roughly half of the monthly minimum wage in many cities in Indonesia. Seems like a lot to pay to see your own cultural heritage? Sure is.

Something is going up in smoke. Photo: Sally Arnold.

A later announcement noted that the old ticket would remain on offer, though I think only for Indonesians. If you wanted to climb to the summit—what you could do on the old ticket—you would need to buy the new pricey ticket.

If you’ve never heard of Borobudur, I’ll pass the baton for a moment to Travelfish writer Sally Arnold, who, after describing Borobudur as “One of the world’s greatest treasures,” goes on to write:

“Under the shadow of temperamental Gunung Merapi, one of Indonesia’s most active volcanoes, the ancient Buddhist monument Borobudur emerges majestically from the surrounding jungle and farmland.

On first impressions, the rather squat grey mass of volcanic stone that makes up Borobudur may not seem as impressive as other towering structures—the temple has no chambers you can enter. Instead, the massive complex envelops a small hill, which when viewed from above follows the form of a giant mandala.

The lower, almost-square-shaped base stretches approximately 120 metres each side, topped by six concentric square terraces decorated with 2,672 exquisitely carved relief panels and 504 Buddha sculptures, leading to an upper trio of circular-shaped levels topped with 72 bell-like stupas, culminating with a large dome at the centre. [Ed: Sally, that sentence is too long!] By walking the ancient pilgrims’ path, roughly five kilometres clockwise around each level, past the lower galleries with images of “desire,” to the levels of the teachings and life of Buddha, and finally to the realm of “nothingness”, you can appreciate the sheer splendour of this antiquity, the world’s largest Buddhist monument.”

Sally, never one to hold back, has another two thousand-odd words on the site here. Go on and read it. I’ll wait.

You will meet people. Photo: Sally Arnold.

It is, particularly at dawn, with Merapi smoking in the distance and the vast mist-draped savannah-like forest to the side, an undeniably exquisite site. Across the region, Borobudur is in the same class as Angkor and Bagan, yet to many, its diminutive size lends itself to scale comparisons with somewhere like Wat Phu in southern Laos. And while you can take the five-kilometre stroll as described by Sally above, most don’t. And here lies the rub—the site is popular, very popular.

In 1974 Borobudur saw around 260,000 visitors. By the mid-1990s that had risen ten-fold to about 2.5 million. Thanks to the Asian Crisis of 1997 and 1998, followed by a challenging domestic period, growth slowed. By 2013 visitors were over three million, over 90% of whom were domestic travellers. In 2018, on the cusp of the pandemic, 3,663,054* domestic and 192,231* international tourists visited. Almost four million people or over 10,000 per day.

* Important Note: These figures marked with * are sourced from a paper using data from Magelang Regency (home to Borobudur). The thesis I mention (PDF) elsewhere has figures almost twice as high but had no verifiable source. Regardless, there are loads of people in a restricted amount of real estate.

It is very big in a small kind of a way. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Most of those four million were not taking Sally’s five-kilometre route. Instead, they were climbing the stairs at the east side of the temple—the quickest way to the top. In this interesting thesis, the author notes that calculations done by Balai Konservasi Borobudur (Indonesian language only) noted that for every two million tourists, there were 0.2 millimetres of wear and tear (on the stairs I assume—rather than the entire monument!) That might not sound like much, but when you’ve got six million tourists per year it accumulates fast.

This brings us, I guess to the Instagram announcement on Saturday. Antara reported:

“He [Minister Luhut] said that the step has been carried out solely for the sake of preserving the historical and cultural wealth of the country.”

Regular Indonesia-watchers will be aware this is far from the first time tourism policy has appeared somewhat impromptu. Like when Komodo was going to be $1,000 a head as the latest step towards Indonesia’s drive for “high-quality tourists”—something it has been talking about since the 1970s. It’s the classic hammer nail solution that one sees right around the planet. “Too many tourists? Let’s put the prices up—that’ll fix it.”

Locals waiting for the arrival of digital nomads. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The prices will undoubtedly see a reduction in visitor numbers. After I saw the news, I added a poll on Twitter asking if people would pay US$100 per head to visit Borobudur. Almost 22% of people (395 have voted as I type this) said they’d only pay that much if it was one hundred Zimbabwe dollars. This was a greater number than the total number who said yes or maybe. In fact, it pretty much mirrors the drop in numbers (from 10,000 to 1,200) the Minister is after.

There’s a whole raft of reasons why this might not be the right idea. Doubly so with a marque site like Borobudur, and holds particularly true with foreign tourists on organised tours. To a point the site and the city it is most often visited from—Yogyakarta—anchors the entire Java experience. I gave Mark Ord, founder and CEO of All Points East (and an old friend) a call.

Can’t link because my account is private. Twitter so frustrating sometimes.

It turned out he hadn’t heard the news—which raises concerns about how much outreach or research goes into decisions like this—he should follow Indonesian ministers on Instagram I guess. I asked him if he thought the increase in prices would see them drop Yogyakarta from their Java tours. His reply was instructive:

“Don’t think you could reconsider Yogya without reconsidering Java! It’s the most tourist-friendly town, and Borobudur is the highlight. The government has got you by the short and curlies.”

You can’t do a tour of Java and not visit Borobudur. Therefore you have to pay.

Chillin, waiting for the other 9,923 people to arrive for the day. Photo: Sally Arnold.

I wonder, stepping away from organised tours if independent travellers will feel the same way. For those with the funds, those who have already spent thousands to get here, and for whom Indonesia is but a whimsy of luxurious (and often foreign-owned) resorts, spas, and hotels—why not?

Others not so much. The obvious calculus will be “Is Borobudur more than twice as good as Angkor (where one-day admission is US$37)?” The answer, at least in my humble opinion, as magnificent as Borobudur might be, is a resounding no. But why is Indonesia forcing me to ask myself this stupid question?

The authorities would be well-advised to look into some of their neighbour’s plans. Where destinations have multi-day passes which work out as far better value and encourage multiple visits—Borobudur is worth at least two. Best of all, hopefully, a longer stay in Yogyakarta—to the benefit of all the people involved in tourism services there—and better for tourists too, who will have time to better appreciate a fascinating city. Yes, you now have time to visit the Chicken Church! Instead, this policy seems to want people to stay for as short a time as possible. Why?

Of course, you must visit here. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The thing is, looking at the numbers, foreigners are but a rounding error. So I had a chat with Trinity, an Indonesian travel writer, who kicked off her travelling fame with The Naked Traveller series. Emphatic that the price is too high, she noted the action may well protect Borobudur but will kill tourism in the process. As Trinity sees it, the essence of Borobudur are the stories on the reliefs, and to see those, one needs the pricier ticket.

When I ask her about alternative ways to protect the monument, the suggestions come thick and fast. Organised time slots to better manage visitors and mandated online ticket purchases. Tighter regulations, more guards and stricter staff. In conclusion, she notes a maximum price of 250,000 rupiah seems palatable, but with that should come transparency—where exactly is all this money going?

Amen.

I don’t think anyone who has visited the site in the last decade wouldn’t admit that people management is an issue. That the situation has been bad for so long, makes this weekend’s announcement all the more depressing. Why? Because there are far more equitable approaches to this problem and it isn’t like people haven’t had time to consider different options.

Damn this is a beautiful country. Photo: Sally Arnold.

While I’m not trying to tell anyone how to do their job, if they were looking for alternatives, they could consider any of the following. Limit ticketing thus requiring booking in advance. Restricting large groups to certain less popular times of the day. Setting aside a small portion of the tickets for sale on the day—first come first served. Encourage more people to take Sally’s stroll rather than zooming straight to the top. Install wooden walkways to protect the monument in areas of wear and tear. Perhaps also listen to the dudes that granted the heritage listing in the first place—that’d be UNESCO, who do seem to be banging their heads on their desks and are “seriously concerned”.

There are pros and cons to each of these, and some would have more challenges to put in place than others. All are more difficult than simply jacking up the price. These are all though, far fairer approaches than simply stating one of the world’s greatest treasures, and a highlight of Indonesia is now largely for the wealthy alone.

What would Buddha think?

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At the moment I’m reading a novel by British journalist Monisha Rajesh titled Around India in 80 Trains. It traces her journey through the country, much of it with a profoundly irritating companion. Her companion though isn’t the sole irritant.

On a train in Rajasthan, Rajesh recounts a meeting with “a younger version of Neil from The Young Ones.” Neil, it should be said, could easily be me—I circumnavigated much of the country by train in the early 1990s—like Neil, slumming it in the cheapest seats. Why? I was seeking to experience the “real India.” To anyone I shared a car with back then, I apologise for my tediousness.

This wasn’t the India I fixated on. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Chatting about the train classes one should travel by while in India, after noting he only travels in general class, Neil says:

“... That way you actually get to see the real India,” then, “Yeah, you don’t get to see what real India is like if you travel up in the air-conditioned classes. You can’t sit and talk to real people or understand how they live.” He then finishes with, “They’re not the ones who define India. It’s the poor who make this country what it is.”

Boy, did I ever feel seen when I read this exchange. To be fair, I was 22 and beyond clueless, but yeah, I was once Neil. The question is, putting Neil to the side, what does define a country?

My image was more something like this. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Of course, there’s no one segment of a population that does. The definition comes from its history, culture, environment, and many other factors—including its people. That definition then gets interpreted in as many different ways as the factors that form it. Everyone has their own take on what that definition means to them.

So, if one is looking to gain even a limited understanding of any social aspect of a country, what should one do? Of course, one can throw themselves out into the world and see what meaning they can shake out. Many though, opt for a tour, yet, looking at what is on offer, you’d think many of the tours were designed by Neil.

If you’re looking for a tour that offers insight into how people live day to day, the tours almost invariably focus on one segment. The poor—Neil’s people. It is important to emphasise “people” here. As travel writer Tim Bewer points out on Twitter, “There are mansions galore turned into tourist attractions, including some where people still reside there.” He’s correct, I’ve visited Bangkok’s Grand Palace more times than I remember, and hundreds of tours go there. I’d argue though, that in these cases you’re often presented with a shell, a walk-through postcard, without people living it.

What about a tour to where they live? Photo: David Luekens.

Who hasn’t done a tour of a lived-in palace or mansion only to find half the property roped off? This isn’t the case though with a tour through say a poor community in Bangkok. More often than not, in these cases, access is about as comprehensive as it gets. There is often, after all, only one room.

So the wealthy might offer you a glimpse of opulent living, but their privacy is well-guarded. The poor, not so much.

This tourism, where one gets to poke around the lives of those less well off, is poverty/slum tourism. The ickiness of ogling the poor I’ll leave for another post, but it centres on Neil’s belief that an understanding of a country comes from its poor. Why do people think this?

Should tourism be restricted to the highway up top? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If I think back to 20-something me, wedged into a Bangalore-bound train, it was down to my preconceptions. The country was full of poor people. These poor people, unadulterated by Western influences and technology, held their traditions close. As my friend Kate points out on Twitter, often their financial situation gives them no other choice. The affluent, well to my thinking, they were all tainted, they weren’t “real India.” I wanted authenticity—a whole other glad bag of tourism woe and contradiction I am not going to get sucked into here.

Following this logic, it is from the poor I should soak up my cultural understandings. There was also plenty of seeing how these people were living made me all the more thankful for what I had. Offering the poor as a cultural salve to make one feel better about oneself is less than ideal. Everyone was 22 once, right?

The thing is like I said up top, there is all manner of factors that flow into defining a nation. One of these is the wealthy. For better or worse, wealthy celebrities and magnates provide models that others, often of lesser means, seek to emulate. Sure, plenty of these may be foreign, but there’s no shortage on the local front. These people are responsible for more shaping of popular culture—going forward—than any other demographic.

Want to eat where many Thais eat? Go to McDonalds. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Yet tourists, by and large, are not so interested in the “going forward” bit. Tourism is largely a backwards-facing industry. The image a tourist forms in their mind of a place they’ve never been is the product of decades of often subconscious learning—dare I say indoctrination. When they arrive, many tours and other services work off and amplify this.

Who hasn’t done a tour to Cu Chi in southern Vietnam only to find their 23-year-old Vietnamese guide speaking with a Texan twang? Why are there farming tours but no banking tours in Bali? You have both farms and banks in your country right? Why is one interesting but the other not? How much is poverty and an unadulterated, non-mechanised life, both more in line with the tourists’ preconceptions, the real draw?

Who wants to do a tour that spends the entire time turning guests’ preconceived ideas on their heads? A good tour should do this, it should challenge participants’ ill-founded beliefs. Yet, why are there so few tours to the houses of middle-class Bangkokians who work as bankers, stockbrokers or nurses? Yes, people have these jobs in their own countries too, but life—and culture—is more than one’s day job. Why are these people somehow less interesting? Why are we even doing tours into anyone’s lives?

I can hear the Texan twang as I type. Photo: Cindy Fan.

I’ve done plenty of ill-considered tours. I’ve gawked inside people’s houses, at what they were eating, at their walls held together with tape. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t learn a thing or two, but I’m not sure I needed to—at least not in that fashion.

And this is an important point. Not all tours and organisations are equal. Some do a better job than others. Some do involve—or are run by—the communities they feature, in better, more progressive and inclusive ways. The middle-class and high-end though, not so much. Instead, tourists end up with their poverty preconceptions largely unchallenged as they’re often not exposed to anything else in any meaningful way—other than walking past it on the street.

I’d love to do a tour of some fancy-pants restaurant full of guests. Well, not really, this is more of a fever dream. In said dream, the restaurant is packed with clientele who earn more in a minute than I will in my lifetime. I’d like to lean over their table and have them answer my inane questions about the challenges of being loaded, a silver spoon halfway to their mouth. I’d like to ask them if that $28,000 bottle of wine is worth it. And you know what? If they didn’t offer me a glass of it to taste it for myself, I’d ask, because, in poorer communities, they offer before you even have time to ask.

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Given my efforts so far you might be thinking I have it in for Penang. I’ve covered wrong-headed missionaries, wonky UNESCO efforts and unhinged travellers, but it isn’t all bad news.

I’ve had many a fun time there, most often spent wandering, poking around a little and eating a lot. This is where George Town excels. Like anywhere, it has its mainstay sights—restored houses, and some museums for example—but the real deal is elsewhere. In my personal opinion, the best way to experience the town is to get lost.

No, you are not in Shan State. Photo: Sally Arnold.

So how does one get lost in George Town? Get a taxi of course.

I tell my driver I want to go to the “Thai and Burmese temples,” and for my efforts receive a blank stare followed by an “eh?” Regardless, not knowing our final destination isn’t enough to stop him from starting on our merry way.

If you’re a George Town taxi driver, I apologise in advance, but all your colleagues suck. We’ve driven for five minutes or so by the time I finally manage to make myself understood, and, of course, we’ve been driving in the wrong direction. He laughs it off and I, for far from the first time, lament my language skills. He chatters distractedly as George Town’s façades slide by, and about 45 minutes later we pull up a short walk from the temples.

Fence peacock. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The two Buddhist temples face off across Lorong Burma, flipping their motherlands’ geographies. The Thai temple, Wat Chaiyamangalaram lies to the northwest. To the southeast sits Burma’s contribution, Dhammakarama Temple. Much to the chagrin of the Thais, the latter temple is the older.

Established in 1803 to cater to resident Burmese fishers and farmers, Dhammakarama Temple is my first stop. From the street, white stucco elephants flank the red and gold painted archway. To the left and right a white fence sports decorative peacocks, while within, flip flops lay scattered.

There to lend a helping hand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The site is busy with devotees, prostrate before the feet of a golden-robed, standing Buddha with the slightest of smirks. Its hands point in opposite directions—fearlessness—but you wouldn’t guess that from the worshippers. Behind it, hundreds of small white icons in the same pose stand on tiny pedestals. Beneath each is a name, I assume that of a donor.

Outside, a moderate-sized chedi brings Yangon’s Shwedagon to mind in a vague kind of a way. Beyond it sits another temple building that could be straight out of Shan State—or Mae Hong Son for that matter.

Altogether now. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The site isn’t shy when it comes to its colour scheme. There are baby blues and pinks aplenty. One display has a cement lotus flower in a pond, aluminium arms stretching out to support bowls and candles. Behind it, a mural tells a story layered atop a pastel blue sky dotted with vanilla clouds. It is easy to imagine the lotus flower spinning like a fairground carousel—all that is missing is the fairy lights.

Across the road, Wat Chaiyamangalaram, may not be the oldest Buddhist temple in town, but it is the largest. Built around forty years after Dhammakarama, the Governor of the time granted the land to the Thai community following their request for an allotment. As with the Burmese temple, there are flip-flops aplenty outside the main enclosure, though in this case, a nearby sign warns to “beware of shoe thieves”—not all have mindfulness front and centre.

Poking around. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Around a dozen years after its founding, on the 2,500th anniversary of the birth of Gautama Buddha, the temple added a large reclining Buddha. At some 30 metres long, at one time it was considered to be the third-longest on the planet. This title may well be long lost, but it remains a stalwart of the sightseeing scene.

As with the Burmese temple, the Thais have doubled down on pastels. The Buddha reclines upon a teal axe pillow with a baby blue wall filling out the background. The statue’s shiny pointed toes offer up a near glowing skin tone. Quite the comparison to the more sombre reclining Buddha tootsies you’ll see in Thailand.

These tootsies were not made for walking. Photo: Sally Arnold.

More interesting is a story behind the temple’s first abbot. Honourable father Kuat was a particular fan of Penang laksa—and to this day devotees bring steaming bowls of the dish to offer up at his shrine.

I’ll be sure to honour him with a bowl later in the day but will most definitely eat it. More on getting lost in George Town tomorrow.

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I’m working on a story at the moment and when done, you’ll be reading it here first on Couchfish. That said, it isn’t done, yet here I am writing about it.

The idea started out as the simplest of thoughts—something I rode past while on the bike trip in Java. I didn’t pull up for a better look at it as I still had a while to go, but as I rode on towards Bali, it became all that I thought about.

Since then I’ve interviewed a bunch of people—travel writers, photographers, academics, bloggers—and have more to go. With those I have spoken to, the universal reply—excepting one—has been the same. Well, not exactly the same, but the gist was.

What happens when I am not concentrating on the road. (This is in southern Laos—not Java). Photo: Samantha Brown.

“This is a super–interesting question, and you know what, it is something I have never ever thought about.” One added, “There’s a dissertation in this,” I agree—not mine though.

Now I’m not going to spoil the surprise and spill the tea on what I am writing about, but it got me thinking. As travellers, how many other things do we walk past and either take for granted or not notice? Why are we interested in this, but not that?

Particularly for travellers already familiar with the region, what is “normal” can shift. It can be something as simple as the roosters next to my office. I don’t even hear them anymore—except between my every breath when recording Couchfish [Note: they totally shut their beaks right here when I was recording!]. When we lived in Thailand, around half of Bangkok’s soi dogs lived on our soi. They were always keen to offer a noisy welcome to anybody and everybody. After being in our apartment for barely a minute, a visitor said he couldn’t understand how we could live there. It took me more than a moment to realise he was talking about the dogs.

Quite possibly the most interesting thing in Luang Nam Tha, Laos. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s much more than the racket of course. It’s the colours, the smells, the sights, the people, the food, and much more. I’ve written before of the first time I arrived in Bangkok and the leaden air under the overpass at Don Muang and how everyone had a motorbike. That first waft from a wok ablaze with dried chillies crackling, while smashed garlic sloshed in fish- and oyster- sauce. Hard to forget—I can almost smell it as I type today, over twenty years later.

I’ve staggered out of Don Muang’s arrivals area more times than I could count. Don’t ask me how many woks I’ve stood too close to. Yet, embossed upon my brain is that first time—everyone remembers their first time.

Yet for every first time I remember, there are hundreds, if not thousands, I don’t. What I rode past in Java, I’d walked, rode, drove and flown over thousands of times. Dwelling on it the other day, I tried to think back to my first time, my first encounter with one, and I drew a blank. So busy off to see and seek out other stuff, I was missing what was right in front of me.

Nam Nern Night Safari looks interesting. Photo: Cindy Fan.

People talk about needing to acclimatise when they arrive in a new country. For long-haulers off a dozen hours in airports and flying metal tubes, this is understandable. The form of acclimatisation though is often a curious one. A comfy hotel, a pool, a deckchair, or, if you’re flying an LCC, an eight-hour massage.

“I need a day to adjust,” people say. Sure, there is a climate time-zone sandwich to shake off, yet there is more to this. For repeat travellers, it is a bit of remembering where they are. One needs to reacquaint oneself with money’s colour-coding, rudimentary language, and the price of a beer. For first-time travellers, it is more akin to a decompression chamber. As a traveller once put it to me, flying internationally is “like changing planets.”

Once out of decompression (or is it decontamination?), people dive in, and this is where it gets interesting. Travellers are a diverse crowd, with interests as varied as it gets. Beaches, mountains, cities, temples, parties, shopping—the list goes on. The interests of no two people are truly alike, one of the reasons travellers can be so interesting—okay, not always.

This monoculture that has driven vast deforestation is interesting apparently. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Some interests though are more popular than others. Akin to fashion—in vogue and then out, cool and then uncool. The destinations pivot and adjust, looking to harness the prevailing tourism winds. Some manage it better than others—destination equals of tie-dye jeans litter Southeast Asia.

Others seem destined never to hit the catwalk. Like the cafe you love that nobody else seems to, they sit there timeless-like, tourism passing them by without even a camera click. Then something changes, often the most random of occurrences, and a place explodes. Yesterday, I rode around the corner to my favourite, near always deserted, cafe and there was a queue for a seat. Which influencer can I blame for this? Maybe it was just the death of a thousand knives, in which case some of the blame falls on me.

What makes somewhere or something interesting? Why is this cultural undertaking considered photogenic while that one is not? Why is a rice field view more desirable than one over a palm oil plantation? Why are sandy beaches more popular than pebbly ones? What is the thought process behind what gets written about, photographed and promoted. What bias is at play? What is the root of that bias? Whose interests does it serve and is that bias a healthy one?

On the other hand, this is more interesting than palm oil plantations. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The answers to these questions, well, they’re as interesting as the questions themselves. They also say as much about the traveller as they do about the destination, and as they do about those raising the interest in the first place. Yet, these are rarely asked questions—in any direction.

Who plants the seed that germinates into tourism worthiness? It’s a hybrid for sure—travel writing, social media, tourism boards, and word-of-mouth all dovetail in. Some, like avocado, take years—and much patience—to bloom. Others, well, they’re like weeds—fast-growing and easy to kill.

I went to write that some seeds are never planted, but I’m wrong on this, in fact, they flourished years ago. They’ve always been there. The trees stand before us, towering above, casting shadows we shelter in without a second thought. They’re yet to blossom though. Instead, they wait for the right monsoon storm to scatter their interest seeds afar.

When you’re travelling, what does and doesn’t interest you? Why?

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Riding home this morning from Medewi in West Bali, I pulled up at a pretty spot, took a photo and posted it to Instagram and Twitter. It took all of 30 seconds.

Getting to where I took the photo was a little more involved. I’d spent 45 minutes dancing between farting buses and belching trucks travelling east along Bali’s coastal thoroughfare. Without traffic, it’s a pretty and scenic ride. Having it without traffic is rare indeed.

I can’t even get the horizon straight—back to influencer school for me. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A little east of Balian, the main road turns inland for a looping route through Tabanan, but I scooted off that quick smart onto a backway that for a large part is devoid of traffic. Devoid of traffic because it’s a tiny road not ideal for cars (though some do drive it) and impassable for trucks.

It’s a beautiful ride, looping and weaving among Tabanan Regency’s rolling hills of rice. At high points, you have the Indian Ocean to one side, volcanoes to the other. In between, vast terraces of rice as far as the eye can see.

I have an Insta-puppy. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I didn’t go there specifically to take a photo, but almost every time I ride through I take one, it is that beautiful. Photo taken, I often post it to social media. I wouldn’t classify myself as an influencer, but in doing this, I guess, in theory, I qualify.

There are lots of hatin’ on influencers, including a decent dose from me. They’re variably described as vacuous and self-centred braggarts who care more for having themselves in the right light than wherever they’re standing. There’s some truth to this, and as I’ve written before if you’re in the business of apportioning blame for overtourism’s worst excesses, these social photoshop practitioners of “Insta-tourism” belong on your radar.

Bought breakfast here, 10,000 rupiah, better share it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A common refrain is they put more effort—and time—into getting “the right shot” than they do understanding or soaking up the location. That whole jump out of the SUV, spend 30 minutes shooting off a virtual handful of rolls, then jump back in to roll onto the next shoot thing. Oh, and stuff face—must Instagram your favourite meals. The night is lost, pouring over the laptop, finessing the tan lines and cropping out other tourists—beautifying the real. Then they’re beamed online, generating rapture from their throngs of fans—most of whom they’ve never met.

Before you know it, they’re back on the plane to Portugal, Senegal or Hawaii.

A while ago I wrote, as a part of a larger post, a brief history of the postcard. If Instagram had parents, the aerogramme and postcard would be them.

Said breakfast. People were mostly curious about the purple thing. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If I cast my mind back to my pre-internet travels, I dedicated a not-insignificant amount of time to writing postcards and aerogrammes. Recipients included family and friends back home, and new friends made on the road, Poste Restante was my home away from home. More often than not I’d seek out a postcard illustrating somewhere I’d been, be it the World Trade Center, the Themes, Taj Mahal or Ko Wherever in Thailand. I’d never be in the photo of course, but I’d make the photo about me on the flip side. Proof of life, but also proof I’d been there—humble bragging and all.

Yet I can’t remember ever reading much hatin’ on postcard-writers. People never pulled me up for spending hours in a cafe postcard bragging to all and sundry, nor for spending too long in the trinket shop sorting through postcards, trying to find the one that mimicked the view I had experienced. I never got a talking to for not spending more time soaking up culture and less time writing “wish you were here” without meaning it.

And yet, today these are all common Insta-gripes.

This one I actually took twice, as in the first photo I missed the plastic bag. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I don’t know, is this an old(er) people thing? Is it “Millenial Shaming”? Young people today I tell ya, back in my day blah blah, please get off my lawn etcetera. To be honest, I’m thankful there was no social media when I started out, as there were no shortage of idiocies along the way that would have well qualified me for some online derision—I still manage it even now I guess.

Much is made of how Instagram is a one-way vehicle, it’s all about the practitioner, then the location, the consumer a distant third. But that’s not so different to postcards, and who hasn’t had at least some joy in seeing a magnificent photo in their feed? It can get the feet itching just as much as a postcard did. Who didn’t look at the photo first before flipping it to read the asinine scrawling? Who didn’t on occasion think, “My God, I have to go there in my lifetime—just not with the postcard author”? See, just like Instagram.

If I was a real influencer, I’d have timed this better for sunset—and got the horizon straight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Of course, the one difference is the audience—which can amount to sometimes tens- or hundreds- of thousands of people. That said, more reach can equate to more joy, more feet itching, more thoughtfulness—okay, maybe that last one is a stretch. Having a greater audience need not be a bad thing—even if you have no idea who most of them are. It can even be a power for good—really!

Instagramming is just one outlet for this kind of thing—I didn’t send my postcards to tens of thousands of people I’d never met—I took up travel writing to satisfy that need instead. And travel writing, well, it’s older than postcards themselves—dare I say it’s Instagram’s grandparent.

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A little to the north of Candi Dasa in East Bali the forest-lined road winds up a ridge, leaving the beach behind. Before you start down again, towards the turn-off to White Sand Beach, there’s a point over-run with macaques. To the east, a bumpy road runs out of sight.

Quite a few years ago, I followed the bumpy road as far as I could go. When the road tapped out, I parked and walked. After a bit of a stroll, I reached a small temple. I walked around to the back of it, hoping for an ocean view.

To be fair, there wasn’t a “no nudism” sign at the temple. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It wasn’t a location designed for viewpointing, but, I scrabbled through the bush, holding out hope. In the end, I got what I came for, a decent view over the sea. Though that wasn’t all I got.

As I stood there, a Western guy emerged nearby. He was stark naked.

It was so many years ago I can’t remember if I asked him “how’s it hanging?” or anything like that, but I do remember moving on sooner than planned.

What is it with Bali and tourists wanting to get their gear off?

The view I was looking for. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you’ve missed the news over the last few weeks, there’s been three cases that have hit the dailies and done the rounds.

First, there was a Canadian “life coach influencer” who climbed Mount Batur, stripped naked and did the haka. He then posted a video of the performance on social media. No, I’m not making this up. He said he didn’t know the peak had a religious value—or something like that anyway.

Then, a few days ago, a Russian tourist/yogi posed nude at the base of a revered tree. Again, she posted the image to her social media account. The photo would have qualified as fine art—to my eye at least. The choice of location, however, among the enormous roots of a holy tree, was not inspired. It was a terrible choice.

Me looking for tree-nudists, near Labuan Pandan, Lombok. Photo: Samantha Brown.

Then we have another tourist, whose nationality is unknown (to me at least). He included a Balinese waterfall as one of the top places to masturbate outdoors. Again he posted it online. There is apparently a video of it, which I do not recommend you search for on Google.

In all three cases, social media exploded. Last I heard the Canadian was awaiting deportation, while the authorities were searching for a “nude Russian woman.” I have no idea of the status of the waterfall w****r, though I assume they’re coming for him too.

Stories of tourists doing dumb and offensive stuff are as old as tourism itself. Colonialists loved carting off ancient relics, and what are tourists but a 21st century take on the same? While these three cases might seem like a rash of idiocy, this is a scab scratched off with regularity in Bali.

Cultural sensitivity can be a challenge for some. Ko Samui, Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One need not take their clothes off to create a stir of course. All sorts of social and cultural miss-steps can score what some might feel as an outsized level of outrage. Often—here and elsewhere—elements of the outrage turn to misogyny and racism. On one hand, this turns a mirror to some of the outraged, and nobody looks good. The underlying cause though, a seeming lack of awareness of norms, plays out over and over.

But is it a lack of awareness or a lack of a willingness to moderate one’s behaviour? When is it ok to drop your gear on the floor? While I don’t suggest turning to Instagram for educative purposes, in this case, it gives an assist. Look at how some Bali hotels represent themselves there. While it doesn’t swing a deal for me, it seems acceptable to get nude and cavort by your horizon pool or rice field view. The objectification of women in particular is often so over the top, I wonder who they’re marketing to. Not me I guess—bamboo lux joint in Sideman I’m looking at you. I guess it works for those who dig it, horses and courses etcetera.

Engage brain before lifting camera—or skull. At Trunyan on Bali, where some guides are known to encourage this sort of idiocy. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Posing nude by a holy tree, yeah not cool. Would she have reclined over the altar of an Orthodox church in Moscow? I’m not up on fine art nudism in places of religious importance, but I’d like to think she would have at least asked first.

I’d also like to think having a do’s and don’ts brochure, or a video on inbound flights might be a help. Then there are the decades of warnings about gem scams in Bangkok, and yet people continue to get sucked in. You can lead a horse to water but it can still strip naked and do the haka.

The underlying problem is not education. Rather it is a dismissive attitude towards the considerations of the local communities. Add to this the taking advantage of locals’ need (however choiceless it may be) to accommodate even the most unhinged.

How can one plead ignorance of the religious importance of a peak? Ascending Gunung Batur, Bali. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Take for example a beach bar I often write at. Almost every day over the last year, there’s been a woman sunbathing topless out front. In public places in Bali, this is not allowed, but it is often tolerated. Never once have I noticed the staff taking her coconuts suggest she put on the other half of her bikini.

It need not even involve nudity. Last night, at a nearby restaurant with my kids, six 20-something Australians walked in, full Bintangs on board. As they sat, a staffer pointed to the beers and said they don’t allow outside drinks. The Australians waved her off, saying they had almost finished them (they hadn’t). Later, when they had finished them, one dashed out to get another half dozen. The staffer, annoyed, pointed it out to the manager. The manager, rather than kicking them out, seemed to tell her not to worry about it.

The perfect place for a white Canadian life coach influencer to strip naked and do the haka. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Now more than ever they need more business rather than more scenes. Had he stepped in, would his restaurant have scored an outraged post on TripAdvisor? The power (for lack of a better word) rested with the tourists, and they wielded it without a second thought. I doubt they would have behaved in the same way in Oz.

This comes to the core of the problem. People with the financial power, how trivial it may be in their own country, lording it over people here. They can’t, or rather, they shouldn’t. Seeing this sort of behaviour, day in and day out, grates on me—and I’m not even from here! It’s a testament to the tolerance of the Balinese they put up with it. Then, as seen by the social media outrage, in some cases, they’re not.

New arrivals should have a spare 82 hours to watch cultural sensitivity videos here. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m not blameless, there’s no angel here tapping away. The other day I was riding my bike on the footpath due to the traffic gridlock. While paused at a jam (yes, a footpath jam), again an Australian, pointed at me, yelling “You should know better!” She’s right of course, I’d never ride a motorbike on a footpath in Australia, but hell lady have you seen the traffic?!

But yes, guilty as charged. At least I wasn’t nekid.

I don’t know what the solution is. I don’t think social media witch-hunts are the way forward, they’re unhealthy and often bigoted. Also, the fine print of what actually happened sometimes gets buried in the rabid foaming.

The only sort of foam you want to stir up. Batu Belig Beach, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A brochure or video, or asking people to sign a pledge to be culturally responsible as in Palau, could all help. I should also turn the mirror to myself. I could have said something to the six Australians in the restaurant or the topless woman at the beach. The behaviour you walk by is the behaviour you accept and all that.

One thing I can do—and do—and you should too, is to make the effort to get educated about what is acceptable and what isn’t. If you’re not sure, ask. It isn’t hard.

Except when it comes to riding home from Batu Belig Beach at 4 pm, in that case, riding on the pavement is totes ok.

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