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“... But this was the centre of a broad boulevard, and at the side of the boulevard was a line of cafes and small shops, all brightly lit, all open, and all utterly silent and empty beneath a sky thick with stars. The hot night was laden with the scent of flowers and with the salt smell of the sea.

Will looked around carefully. Behind him the full moon shone down over a distant prospect of great green hills, and on the slopes at the foot of the hills there were houses with rich gardens and an open parkland with groves of trees and the white gleam of a classical temple.”

So writes Philip Pullman in The Subtle Knife, the second book of his series His Dark Materials. I’m rereading the series at the moment for a side-project.

Me reading His Dark Materials for the first time. Photo: Samantha Brown.

I’ve written before about colour and how travelling in Southeast Asia helped me to better understand it. The beauty and memorability of it might come with a smog assist, but regardless, that four in the afternoon light can be magnificent. The region’s smells and aromas though, outside of food writing, don’t get much of a mention.

Re-read the two paragraphs I lead with, they run one after the other in the text. The first, with the flowers and salt air, creates the image far more than the second, despite the latter being more descriptive.

Dinner cooking (very slowly!), sand, cut grass, french fries, beer, wine, salt air, something burning from afar, sea shells. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Smell is hard-wired into our brain. That waft of wet market aroma so thick you could slice it, takes a nerve highway through the olfactory bulb into our limbic system. There, the amygdala and hippocampus, our emotional and memory engine rooms, boil them up and file them away. This is one of the reasons why a smell you can’t quite place often triggers déjà vu.

Combine smell and taste, as we do on average three times a day (or more!) and you’ve got a veritable memory bank of experiences seared into that noodle inside your skull.

And yet, outside of food, smell doesn’t break the surface in much travel writing. In food writing it is unavoidable, smell and taste are the experiences. Elsewhere, only say in a wet market, by a piggery, or within the single loo at Cheap Charlies, where it is so obvious you can’t not mention it, does it see some column inches.

Dried fish, a hint of fish scales, salt air with a petroleum chaser. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Part of the reason for this is that smell is a hard sense to write about. When I lived in Bangkok, our place was on a side-soi off of Sukhumvit Soi 27. About a ten minute walk away was Soi 33, the Painters’ Soi. So named for all the bars named after painters—or was it that the near-universally male clientele got painted there? Regardless of paint jobs, as I walked past the mouth of the soi most days, it had a unique smell—the Soi 33 smell. I couldn’t begin to describe it, but I’d know it immediately if I smelt it.

See, I told you it is hard to write about.

One of the reasons smell is so personal is that it is the only fully-developed sense a fetus has in the womb. The sense remains our strongest until around age ten when eyesight takes over. This ten-year stretch is a formative one of creation, laying a foundation of smells you like and hate. If I’d had a chunk of my early years in Thailand and Malaysia rather than Japan and South Korea, perhaps I’d be better with durian.

Charcoal, coconut husks, oil, fish scales, cut grass, sea breeze and sunscreen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So it is hard to write about, and it is personal. What somewhere smells like to me isn’t what it smells like to you. Get five complete strangers and give them each a ripe durian—or stand then at the mouth of Soi 33—and have them describe it. Good luck with the similarity count.

All the senses are, at their core, subjective. I like walking on sand barefoot, so much so the type of sand grain matters to me. The feeling of the sand on my skin, the sound of it sliding around my toes, and yes, the smell of the salt air—and the sand.

Yet others can’t bear to walk on sand barefoot. When a friend suggested the squelching sand sound was like fingernails down a blackboard, I thought she was joking. She wasn’t, somehow we’re still friends. By the way, the best sand for walking on in Southeast Asia is at Bali’s Balangan Beach. Yes, I will die on this hill.

Oil, grease, drying paint, seashells, sweat, salt, coconuts, beer, and seawater. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve written about squelchy sand and perfect round sand grains near a million times. The smell of the sand though, when you lift a fistful of the wet stuff to your face and inhale it? Not so much—never in fact. Yet it can be an amazing olfactory experience. There’s the grains, the water that washes over them, that fish or seaweed background. See, I told you smell is hard to explain.

The one time I do write about smell quite a lot is not in relation to smell at all. Regular readers will have encountered me writing “slow down and smell the coffee,” but I’m not writing about the coffee or its smell. Rather it’s a throwaway line to suggest people slow down, so they’ll have time to smell the coffee. Thinking about it, it is a stupid thing to say, because what is there to write about coffee smells?

What does it smell like to you? What’s a smell that says Southeast Asia to you?

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On one of my trips to KL, I’ve been there so many times I can’t remember which, I find myself at Heli Lounge Bar. With plans to meet a couple of other travellers from my hostel (not the Italians), for sundowners, I arrive early. There’s only so much plodding through hotels one can do before sitting alone at an empty bar in the blazing sun wins out.

So here I am, and let me tell you, I’m not exaggerating with the blazing sun bit. Heli Lounge Bar is one of my favourite KL spots for a sundowner, but before the sun gets into the down mode, well, it is hot. Anvil under the sun hot. So hot I don’t know why they are even open at this time of day.

The only way is up. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Dotted with tall bar stools with too small tables, lounge settings and Bali-style bamboo things, the deck has barely one iota of shade, and I give myself into the sweat. The only thing sweating more are the beers, condensation bubbling then streaming down the glass. Aside from staff, I’m the only person here, but they leave me in peace as I inhale beers and collate my notes of the day.

Despite all the gizmos, my primary tools remain pen and paper, and I have a mountain of Moleskin rip-offs to prove it. Then there are the business cards, back of paper maps or receipts. All this stuff I need to shape into something usable on the same day, as by midday the next day I’ll have as much again and it all starts to blur. As I collate details, I screw up the cards and other scraps, and there’s a growing pile on one side of my table.

It is at least an hour of this before any other customers show up, and the bored-to-death staff are happy to have someone other than the sweaty white guy screwing up paper to serve. For a short time he holds the bar up, making small talk with the staff, too casual to be management, I guess he’s a regular. He’s a well-dressed man, not a hair out of place and not a drop of sweat coming through his business shirt. How do people do it? He’s wearing a tie for God’s sake.

Far from the highest spot in town. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He strolls over and introduces himself as Rick. Pointing at my pile of screwed up paper, he tells me both he and the staff are curious about what I’m doing. I say “I’m collating,” and before I can finish he asks “What, like in Alien?”

I look blankly at him and ignore his comment—I only get his joke about 15 minutes later—and explain what I do and that I’m combining my notes of the day. We have a brief chat about what I do, but he’s feigning interest, bored.

He points at the pile of screwed up papers and asks if he can have them. I say no. He asks why not, rolling on to ask are my notes secret? I tell him they’re not, but he can’t have them and start scooping them into my backpack. Defeated, he sighs and asks if I want a drink, I nod, and he calls to a staffer by name—I knew he was a regular—and orders two beers. While we wait, we sit there, perched on the high stools in silence, him staring at me. It is weird.

A basket for basket-cases. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The drinks come and he declares “I’m a flight attendant.” Nothing more, nothing less. That is all he says. I don’t know if this is code or a prompt for me to ask the ten questions one always wants to ask a flight attendant, but all I manage is “Oh.” The silence returns and I take an undue interest in sipping my beer. I can go a long time without talking, but eventually, I yield and ask who he flies with.

“Cathay for now,” he tells me, “but I’ve flown with a few, I love the friendly skies.” There’s a sleazy sexual innuendo to how he says it, and I’m glad I can’t think of nine other questions. He isn’t deterred though and launches into a monologue dedicated to his exploits.

He has, well, many exploits, and isn’t shy about sharing. He keeps alluding to sailors and ports, but every time gets the phrase wrong. I start wondering if he’s high, his manner is off, but I feel like there’s something else working behind the scenes. His stories veer between the obscene and quite funny, he knows how to tell a tale, I’m just baffled about why he’s telling me.

Kuala Lumpur’s haze often gives an assist. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Drinks are up, so I offer to buy, but I walk over to the bar to order. There, I ask the staff who he is. They laugh, confirming he works for an airline and comes here a lot. He’s also crazy, they say, going on to suggest I shouldn’t keep drinking with him. Sound advice.

When I return with the drinks, he’s on the phone, I think he’s speaking Mandarin, but whatever the language, he’s arguing. When I put the drinks down, he hangs up and chugs down the beer. He was talking to a friend in Taipei, and he tells me, they’re annoyed he won’t be back for some time. He grabs his phone and flicks across the screen melodramatically, his face frowning and a mock puzzled look on his face. “Here,” he says, flipping the phone so I can see it. It’s their friend, naked.

The bar is filling up now and my friends from the hostel are ten minutes late but it feels like ten years. He asks am I waiting for someone and I nod, he asks—in a very crude way—if they’re single, and I gesture to the barman for the bill. Rick waves his hands, apologising for the photo thing, and asks me to stay. But I’m going, I can intercept my friends at the lift and go elsewhere.

Another sunset, this one Rick-free. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He’s not drunk, but he’s on the way. Behind him, the sun is sinking and the sky is lighting up, but all I want to do is leave. He grabs my arm as I go to stand, telling me he has to fly tonight, so why don’t I stay for one more drink. I shake my arm loose and step back, how could he fly in this state, I wonder.

The bill comes, and I turn, my back to Rick. I leaf out a wad to pay, telling the barman to keep the change. Looking back, for one last look at the sunset before fleeing, I see Rick has vanished.

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In the past entry for Kuala Lumpur, you may have picked up on a bit of a stuffing face theme. If so, you’d be on the money—when it comes to eating, KL delivers. In fact, I’d go as far as to say writing the food section for the city was about an eight-kilo task. I’m serious. So, with that in mind, let’s bounce around town for a bit of all-day grazing.

Breakfast

I have no idea why I had a heart attack last year. At Selangor Mansion. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The most important meal of the day doctors say, but I’d rephrase it to say “get out of the hotel and enjoy it outside.” This, dear reader, is a command—not an advisory. Regular readers will know I’m a fan of roti for breakfast, so it should come as no surprise that I’m starting my day before a plate. Set by the bank of the Klang “River” in Little India, Selangor Mansion slings plates 24 hours a day, and it is humming. Their “special” is an artery choking dish of torn up roti and two runny eggs, all bathed in curry and sambal. Thank God I’ll be walking a bit today.

Second breakfast

Edging towards Chinatown, though not far away on Jalan Tun H.S. Lee sits Restoran Santa. A little more polished than Selangor Mansion, its chapatis are anything but pretentious. Light and fluffy—go on, have two.

Simple but delicious. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Roti and chapati ingested, I need to walk, and while KL is not a great walking city, it has some great walking spots. One is KL Forest Eco Park, a patch of some 20 hectares of forest in the middle of the city. Blows the mind to think that once the whole joint was like this. Anyways, a solid hour or so walking the trails and the rope bridges gets me about a half-roti credit. If greenery isn’t your thing, try the nearby Telekom Museum.

First lunch

Chinatown-bound, I ignore the bastion of deliciousness on Jalan Ampang and push south. I’m here for one bowl but will be back later in the day. I’ve touched on Shin Kee Beef Noodles in a past post, but yes it is worth a second mention. Almost pho-like, it’s like three meals in one—just about the last thing I need.

Love in a bowl. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are quite a few beef noodle joints in the area, another I’ve tried nearby is Soong Kee Beef Noodles, but really, once I’ve found a bowl as good as Shin Kee’s I’m loath to risk a bad bowl by trying somewhere else.

Second lunch

From here, there’s a bit of walking and transport involved to get up to Kampung Baru. One of the best districts for Malay fare in the city, I settle in to Chunburi Seafood for two side by side dishes. On the left sits laksam and on the right nasi kerabu. Of the two, the former is my favourite, smooth thick noodles in a rich fishy broth. The heat, it sneaks up on you.

Laksam on the left—Oh My God. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I could write a whole post dedicated only to what I’ve eaten in Kampung Baru. Many of the food walks take you through here, but it is also a great area to simply wander and explore—and eat. It is a fascinating area with plenty of history wrapped up within its borders. If there was one place I must mention, read on.

Third lunch

You didn’t think I was going to stop at two surely. It is about a twenty-minute stroll north to MZ Darul Naim. A beggar’s banquet of what seems like a million options, the ayam percik, with budu and tempoyak on the side... where is a recovery hammock when you need one?

Shut up and eat. At MZ Darul Naim.Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Intermission

Option one: Return to the guesthouse and sleep for a few hours. Option two: Head to the Petronas Towers and wander KLCC Park for a spell. While both work, I recommend seeing the tower—the views are pretty ace—then go find a shady corner in the park and sleep for a bit.

Sunset

It isn’t all that far to walk from KLCC south to Heli Lounge Bar which, as the name suggests, is a helicopter pad. Repurposed as a sunset bar, the prices are not quite as high as the 34th floor the bar sits on. I have met some very odd people here (entry coming!), adding a bonus attraction to the excellent views. Take the stairs to work off some of the food.

Advice for idiots. At Heli Lounge Bar. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Dinner

Back into Chinatown, we go. I’m tempted to swing by Jalan Alor for some of the chicken wings at Wong Ah Wah, but, I’ve got pork on the mind. Towards the bottom of Jalan Sultan sits Seng Kee, a hole in the wall where the pork train pulled in and never left.

Start a day with eggs and finish it with one too. At Seng Kee. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On one visit I ordered three dishes and the waiter asked if I wanted to wait for my friend—I was dining solo. If three dishes are too much, go with the clay pot pearl noodles—amazing.

A cold drink after all that eating

Unlike the food, boozing in Kuala Lumpur is not a budget game. Omakase + Appreciate and PS150 will melt your plastic faster than your ice. I prefer the latter, it has gone full tilt on a red-light theme, the drinks are great, and the crowd is well eclectic. Both can be a little tricky to find. My favourite though is Pahit, a gin bar with some comfy hidden corners to relax in.

Find a booth to share with a new friend at PS150. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Best of all, it is only a ten-minute walk from the chicken wings on Jalan Alor.

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This issue is in your inbox thanks to an email I received in response to yesterday’s “Couchfish turns two.” The reader wrote of their intrigue around making Travelfish more responsible. “How do you make a travel guide responsible?” they asked, “it isn’t like you’re cutting down trees to print guides.” As this is something that has been on my mind for much of the last two years, I thought I’d lay out a short version of my thinking. Feedback and suggestions, as always, are more than welcome and appreciated. Back to our regular schedule tomorrow!

In Travelfish’s case, responsibilities flow in two ways: to the reader and the destination. An approach may benefit a reader, but damage a destination or vice-versa. Then there’s our bottom line—we do need to make money, so that comes into the mix as well. There is no shortage of balancing required.

Couchfish is two years old!

Wednesday was the two–year anniversary of Couchfish. To celebrate, I’m offering a 50% off deal until April 14 on annual subscriptions. So this means it costs US$35 instead of $70—for the year. Already a subscriber? First, thank you, second, feel free to send the link to your friends—all are welcome!

When it comes to responsibility, I see five bases. Planet, places, people, profit and publishing. Below I touch on each of these briefly—this is not an exhaustive look at my thoughts on this matter!

Planet

Let’s start with the easy one. Flying. The evidence is clear, flying is the single best way for you to up your contribution to cooking the planet. Yet, people are flying more than ever. In 2019, air travel made up 59% of holidaymakers’ transport-related emissions (UNWTO). That’s up from 46% in 2000. The long haul flight may be unavoidable, but what’s the best way to encourage people not to use a domestic flight? That is, aside from saying “don’t do flying.” Remove the flight section? That seems a bit overbearing. I’m still at a loss here.

Four hours to go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Before Covid-19 we had writers in many of the countries we cover, so for them, there was little flying. For me though, in 2019 I was outside of Indonesia for about two weeks every month, all short trips, with a lot of flying. No going back to that.

Places

Then there are the destinations themselves. When is it ok to write about somewhere? Here the responsibility pulls in two directions. Is it to the reader who wants to know about places that are rarely written about or visited? Or to a destination, where residents may not want or be able to absorb, foreign visitors at all?

Boiled down, this revolves around the “right to travel” mindset—a concept I don’t agree with. Travel is a privilege—not a right. As travellers, we’re privileged to have a foreign country allow us to visit. And yet, who, travelling in Laos in the 1990s didn’t cringe at the “No tourists please” signs around Muang Sing? How do we avoid that rinse and repeat cycle?

Three hours to go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Small islands and remote areas are particularly challenging to get right. They’re often ill-equipped to accommodate vast visitor growth over a short period of time. Small island economies like Ko Tao often develop an over-reliance on tourism. This in turn leaves them susceptible to changes in demand outside their control. On Ko Lipe, tourism exacerbated issues around water, food and infrastructure. In Senaru on Lombok, outside entrepreneurs cornered the tourism market. The list goes on.

Here, much responsibility falls upon travel guides and writers to do a better job. To consider the ramifications of crowing about a “new unspoilt island”. Yes, it is true, Travelfish raving about some “new remote area” may not result in Rick Steves driving a bus there. Yet, every word written is one of the thousand knives. After all someone, years ago, first told travellers to go cycle to the villages around Muang Sing.

People

Then there’s people and their places where, if it was up to them, they’d be nobody visiting. These need better consideration and consultation. It should be their decision. Ok, so as a writer, who do we ask? Who makes that decision? What happens when some people want tourists and others don’t? I’ve encountered this sort of challenge myself, and it is one I’m still trying to figure out how best to navigate.

Two hours to go. Photo: Stuart McDonald

A good travel guide can play a crucial role in mediating the relationship between travellers and local people. A guidebook can be invaluable as a cultural cookbook, explaining at a novice level, why things are as they are. Yet, outside of the “front or back of the book” local people often end up on the cutting room floor.

How often have you read that you can “have a destination all to yourself”? What does that mean? Are there no local people there? Do they not matter? Write about destinations in this way, as I have many times, and you risk influencing how readers view and interact with residents. They might start viewing them as nothing more than a postcard background. Need it to be said, this is problematic. I have so much of my own writing to rewrite in this regard.

Profit

What about hotels? Did you know that the largest single expense of a typical medium-sized hotel is electricity? Is that energy coming from a renewable source? In most cases in Southeast Asia, no. It’s easy to say, don’t use the air-con, but a typical modern hotel room assumes you will. More often than not, a room is uninhabitable without it. So what to do?

One hour to go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Small things help. Don’t leave the spare room key in a slot to keep the air-con pumping. Change the temperature from sub-Arctic to the low twenties—Centigrade! If your room has windows, forgo air-con and open them. Unplug the TV, DVD player and minibar. Skip the room with a private pool.

On the topic of water, what about it? The average guest at a small hotel uses over eighty litres per day. Stay at a golf course resort and that figure can increase a bit. How much? How do 2,425 litres a day sound? If you’re thinking there’s no way you use 85 litres a day showering, you’d be right. There is though a swimming pool, and gardens and grounds that need watering. What about the decorative water feature in the lobby. They all count. Doubly so for properties in a location already dealing with water accessibility issues.

Here plenty of responsibility falls into the hotels’ lap. They can run their electrical devices in a sane manner. They can install water-saving tap fittings and repair leaking loos. They can only supply a bar fridge if a guest requests it. And you know what? These steps will all save the property money in the longer term. Saving the planet and making money—why do so many hotels need convincing on this?

I’m not suggesting travel guides get in on the environmental audit business as that’s already well catered to by grifters. A good start though would be to outline all the above steps—and more. Yet, on Travelfish, I’ve written nothing on this. Onto the list, it goes.

Publication

Sticking with hotels for a moment. One of Travelfish’s main revenue sources was hotel booking commissions. A classic responsibility trade-off area.

Almost there. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Online Travel Agents (OTAs) like Agoda, Booking, Expedia etcetera can take a hefty commission. That commission then gets off-shored, meaning it doesn’t stay in-country. Booking for example has headquarters in Holland. So when you pay $100 for a room, a chunk of that may go to Holland—and some to Travelfish if you clicked through from us. Thank you!

So, to keep money in-country, the responsible thing is to recommend readers book with the hotel direct. Hotels complicate this though as they often charge more than the OTA. So doing this will cost you money. Also, as the hotel doesn’t pay Travelfish anything, it costs us money too.

Subscribe to Talking Travel Writing

This post is all a bit travel writing inside baseball, but if that’s your kind of medicine, you should definetely consider signing up for Talking Travel Writing. Written by travel writers Lottie Gross and Steph Dyson (among other guests) it comes in free and paid flavours and, well, if you’ve an interest in travel writing, it belongs in your colection of newsletters.

Putting the reader first, you could list the OTA and the official website (this is what we do on Travelfish). In this way, we push the decision to the reader, yet, many have no clue how the OTA sausage factory works. We need to better inform our readers.

With the writing process, for the most part, I’m comfortable. I get the math and understand why it happens, but the whole complimentary stay/media rate thing is unethical in my opinion, so we don’t do it. We’ve always had a strict “no freebies/media rates” approach. So in this regard, we operate in a responsible fashion.

There are two other copy areas though, where I’m far less comfortable. In the language we use around local people (see above), and, colonial aspects of our coverage. In these areas, we can do far better—and will, eventually. It is already on my list. See here for a good primer on decolonising how you travel.

The other area in the writing process is the writers themselves. While, over the years, we’ve had three Singaporean writers, we’ve never had a writer from anywhere else in the region. Another area where we must improve.

Making a good trip better, for everyone

For most service travel writing (guidebooks, Travelfish etc), the historic primary duty is clear. To the reader. Tell them how to get there, where to stay, what to eat and see. To a point, there is nothing wrong with this. Yet, travel writing needs to do a better job of informing readers of the true calculus of their travels. Yes, the financial costs of their journey, but also the social and environmental ones. Travel writing also needs to do a far better job taking on the needs and concerns of people living in the destination.

Bingo. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It need not be an exercise in making people feel s**t about their holiday. Rather, showing them an improved way to travel. One that better benefits local communities, the destination’s wallet and the planet’s health. That has to be a good thing.

I hope so because this is where I’m heading.

As I wrote up top, feedback and suggestions, as always, are more than welcome and appreciated. Please let me know what is important to you when you think about travelling responsibly. What could we do better?

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. Better still get 50% off all plans (until April 14) here.

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

Side note: I’ve linked to a lot of other Couchfish writing in this post, but I’ve tried to link solely to the free–to–read pieces—enjoy! Want to read them all? Get 50% off a Couchfish membership here.

Most days I ride down to the beach to write. It isn’t far, five minutes on a scooter. Today, thanks to a new neighbour who has decided to learn the saxophone, I head down earlier. I get my pot of 15,000 rupiah bad coffee and write for an hour, as that’s as long as my laptop battery lasts. It’s amazing how much I can get done in that 60 minutes, but today it isn’t enough. Laptop flat, I gaze at the surf and beach wanderers with their dogs, the saxophone was still rattling around in my head.

My beach writing companion. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Today, Couchfish is two years old and I have a bit to say—or more than an hour’s worth of typing anyway. Two years. Where did that go? I re-read the one-year post—depending on the day, it feels like I wrote it yesterday—or a decade ago.

Between dog walkers, I read. The Routledge Companion to Travel Writing no less. To be honest, it’s not my kind of travel companion, it’s a right tome, even if an electronic one. It’s one of those anthology things, with dozens of chapters on all things travel writing, from post-colonial critiques, and the ethics of fabulation (no, I didn’t know that was a word either), through to ironic adventures and yes, guidebooks. Perfect procrastination material.

Couchfish is two years old!

Today is the two–year anniversary of Couchfish. To celebrate, I’m offering a 50% off deal until April 14 on annual subscriptions. So this means it costs US$35 instead of $70—for the year. Already a subscriber? First, thank you, second, feel free to send the link to your friends—all are welcome!

In the section on travel blogs, it references a travel writer by the name of Jeff Greenwald, who has been credited with uploading the first-ever travel blog—in 1994. That leads me to a piece in WIRED which I can only partly read as it is paywalled. An amusing anecdote recounts him attempting to transmit a postcard from Kathmandu to the States, the first-ever sent from the Nepalese capital. Greenwald writes:

“The main bottleneck, of course, was transmission speed. In June, 1994, I’d reached South Asia. Working with the brilliant Sanjib Bhandari (then known as “The Bill Gates of Nepal”), we scanned and uploaded the first image ever sent by Internet from Kathmandu: a postcard of elephant-headed Ganesha, the Hindu god of good beginnings. Sending the picture to WIRED took the technicians at Bhandari’s computer center nearly 14 hours.”

Nineteen ninety-four. Less than thirty years ago. I’d been kicking around Kathmandu the year before Greenwald’s visit and wouldn’t have known what an Internet cafe was if I was standing in front of it. Poste Restante? Yup. Internet cafe? Nope.

Pull up a seat. This might take a while. Savannakhet, Laos. Photo: Cindy Fan.

This sort of thing feels like memories from another lifetime, but in trying to read Greenwald’s actual first piece, I hit the paywall and it gives me pause. Not so much to consider if I’m going to pay WIRED (I’m not) but rather what the landscape would be like today, both in travel publishing and in travel more generally, had a paywall been the norm back then. A question I’m sure still keeps newspaper publishers up at night.

Side note: I understand that when Greenwald’s piece was first published it wouldn’t have been paywalled, but rather has been paywalled since, but bear with me, it’s just a handy in to what I want to write about.

I’ve been working on a story about overtourism for what feels like an age now. The more people I talk- and listen to, and the more I read, I keep circling back to travel writing’s role in it all. So not being able to read the planet’s first-ever travel blog because of a paywall sort of leaves me gazing at the waves for a spell.

My pensive place. Bingin Beach, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In the same anthology, Scott Laderman writes, on guidebooks and their “marginality” or lack of value for analysis within academia:

“On the contrary, guidebooks constituted probably the most influential form of travel writing of the twentieth century, helping countless tourists set their itineraries and interpret what they would see.”

And then, a little later, writing on what guidebooks do and the context they can provide, highlighting the very essence of what a good guidebook has that Instagram never will:

“They inform tourists what is worth visiting or noticing, and, crucially, they suggest how these worthwhile attractions should be interpreted and understood."

And then, finally, the money quote:

“By implication, those places that go uncovered find themselves relegated to unworthiness. If guidebooks elect not to sacralize a destination, does it really merit a visit?”

The flip side of Laderman’s implication being the old chestnut of guidebook writers ruining places. The Lonely Planet touch of death and all that.

This brings me back to the paywall thing. Any sentient being can tell you paywalling material online means fewer people read it. I Google “best things to do in Bali” and the search engine tells me it has 132,000,000 results. I wonder how many of the results people would pay for? No, I’m not going to sledge the results (though yes, there are some awful search engine results on page one), but if travel had been hidden behind a paywall from 1994 when Greenwald used up the entirety of Nepal’s bandwidth to beam Ganesha across the Pacific, how many of those 132,000,000 results would have ever existed? Is it a chicken and the egg thing? I’m not sure.

We flew. Over and over. The kids will be the ones who pay for it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

People rightly flog low-cost airlines with regard to overtourism. Take AirAsia, who, like other budget airlines, by ignoring the environmental costs of its services is able to offer seats priced on par with a bus ticket, and then declare “Now everyone can fly.” They sure can—and they have—future generations will pay the real costs of all those cheap and often frivolous flights.

But how about the internet in general? How many people would have travelled overseas without the internet to get their feet itching thanks to a bazillion lists of what to do in Bali? While I have absolutely no firm evidence for this, my gut feeling is “less”.

So, by extension, online travel writing, including the over a million words on Travelfish and the roughly 150,000 on Couchfish, shares some portion of the blame for overtourism.

Wow, that is a very scenic route to get to what I woke up this morning wanting to say.

As I’ve written before, on multiple occasions, the two-year pandemic-enforced travel shutdown presents a once in a lifetime (or once in a till-the-next-pandemic time) opportunity for both travellers and the travel industry to recalibrate. Regarding the latter of the two parties, if you’ve read any of the news of the last week or so, the travel industry (by and large, yes I know there are exceptions) has no intention whatsoever of changing its practices. That leaves it to the former to change their behaviour, but let me start with me, well, me as a travel publisher.

It is easy to sit here and say “do better”, but the best path to travel publishing in a “more responsible” fashion is akin to climbing a volcano—pitfalls and eruptions aplenty. How do you make a travel publication more socially, culturally, environmentally and economically responsible? Oh, and remain profitable? For the two years of the pandemic, I’ve been asking myself this question. Late last year I thought I’d finally got my head around a solution and I built an assignment for my Masters around it. I asked “how do I make Travelfish more responsible?” Not only did I almost fail, I got the lowest mark in my class—a new experience for me. Nobody says this is going to be easy.

Ko Kut’s beaches—I’d use a lot more qualifiers now. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Take a look at what the big travel publishing houses are running as things warm up again, and, like the airlines, for many, it’s a speedway back to 2019. The industry, be they airlines or travel publishers, or whatever, will eventually follow the money though. If enough people change how they travel, they may even move in the right direction.

My favourite example here is “responsible travel,” a term coined by the UK travel industry to define a market. There were already people travelling in a “responsible” manner, but the label made them a market. An industry emerged catering to what developed into a lucrative niche. I should say, lucrative for the agencies more than the destinations, but it was a step in the right direction. While responsible travel is less than perfect, it did indicate the scene is capable of following traveller-led change.

A few months ago, I received an irate email from a reader after I’d published one of my many “travel is eating the planet” style pieces. They wrote, in part:

“You write about the travel industry like it’s the coal industry. It isn’t. You need to fix your perspective.”

I’ve mulled over the above a lot, but I can’t help but think if, over the last thirty years, a more critical eye had been levelled at the travel industry as a whole, perhaps it would have developed in a more responsible manner.

Couchfish is two years old!

Today is the two–year anniversary of Couchfish. To celebrate, I’m offering a 50% off deal until April 14 on annual subscriptions. So this means it costs US$35 instead of $70—for the year. Already a subscriber? First, thank you, second, feel free to send the link to your friends—all are welcome!

It is afternoon now, and I’m sitting across from rice fields, around the corner from where I live. They’re being filled in for more villas. The whole debate feels academic, all spilt milk really, it is what it is.

It isn’t all bad though, change is happening—really—but it needs to happen faster, and that’s something we, as travellers, can help along.

Hoi An, less than a year before Covid-19 hit. Overtouristed? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At Couchfish I’ll keep beating the drum, the itinerary of course will continue, but I’ll not be easing back from demanding better.

So how can we, as travellers, help? Regular readers will already know my take on this, but here’s my cheat sheet, in no particular order. Pick and choose what works for you—all of these will help, some more than others.

1) If there’s perfectly adequate ground transport that doesn’t take 82 days for the same journey, don’t fly domestically.

2) Don’t take frequent short trips that involve flying.

3) Travel locally.

4) Learn from your mistakes.

5) Buy a guidebook, a paper one, read the front and back bits.

6) Read books about where you are. It need not be some dense historical tome. We have a bunch on Travelfish to get you started.

7) Ask yourself how your being somewhere benefits the local community. How can you increase those benefits—and reduce the costs?

8) Stick with a loose plan full of wriggle room—you’re travelling, not on a military expedition.

9) Stay another day, slow down, linger.

10) Spend time with a local travel/food/whatever evangelist.

11) Do support small, family-owned or independent businesses.

12) Eat local food.

13) Think before you eat imported.

14) Stick to one country and explore it.

15) Do make an effort to have a constructive impact—be it helping with a

Leaving behind the scratchy tourism boom town of Labuan Bajo, it doesn’t take long to be into the hills. The road climbs and twists. On hairpins, pokey cafes cling to ridges and offer up views across the Manggerai lowlands. In the distance through the haze, Komodo shimmers.

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After a half-hour or so, on the right, there’s a scruffy dirt track with a gaggle of scooters pulled up. It would be indistinguishable from all the other dirt trails we’ve passed save for the sign.

“Dapur Tara Flores Cuisine.”

Warnings from back Labuan Bajo fresh in mind to not bother trying to ride the trail, we park and start walking. It’s a slow, gentle decline into a valley of sorts, and in no time, the sounds of grinding truck gears and tooting scooters fade, replaced by squelching mud, birds in the trees and the reverberating hum of cicadas.

Meet Ratna and Kris at Dapur Tara Flores. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After more mud, we reach a garden running off to our left with a half dozen bright lumbungs overlooking it. Beyond, a simple gate then a path leading to a wood and thatch hut. There is nobody in sight though we can already smell food.

A young man steps out of the hut and approaches.

“Welcome to Dapur Tara Flores,” Kris says with a broad smile.

Part restaurant, part homestay, part educational outreach, Dapur Tara’s humble appearance belies its importance. This isn’t only a place to sample Floresian cuisine. Rather it is a signpost to a style of travel different to what we left behind in Labuan Bajo.

A month after our visit, I’m chatting on the phone with Liz, Dapur Tara’s founder, and I ask how long people stay. “Oh months,” she says, “people come for a night and stay for a week, two weeks.” This is slow travel—and nothing goes part and parcel with slow travel like slow food.

Where the magic happens. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Behind the hut, a tumbledown stone path leads to the base of a grand tree. Woven mats cover a wooden platform, with draped traditional fabrics as a backdrop. To the side, a narrow creek, its waters crystal clear, gurgles. As we sit, Kris asks if we’d like a drink, and suggests coffee. I nod, while my son Will asks for water. Kris scurries back to the shack and we recline in the shade.

Will pulls his phone out, stares at it, then at me, horrified. There’s no signal.

Liz harks from Maumere, a town on the north coast of Flores, a comfortable three-day ride from where we sit. She left her village in Maumere’s mountains for Malang, a university town in Java. There she studied Tourism and Hospitality Management, spirituality, meditation and midwifery. No, not all in the same course. Later she found herself working in Banyuwangi, in the far eastern reaches of Java, and then Bali. But the pull of Flores was strong.

The dining room is not fancy. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She wanted to create something that not only showcased Flores—its food yes, but also its people and hospitality—but also differentiated it from the rest of the country. She wanted to create that feeling of being a part of a family, where even a first-time guest feels like they are returning to the fold.

Kris returns with our drinks. My syrupy kopi Flores has a bite to it, of the caffeine, but there’s something more. I look to Kris quizzically, “It’s spicy,” he smiles. Laden with cloves, turmeric, ginger, cinnamon and galangal, it’s also delicious.

Off to a good start. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This is not our first visit to Dapur Tara. We’d ridden out the previous day only to find it closed. With Covid-19 and all, we needed to make a booking in advance. When I relate this to Kris, he laughs and says “yes when you do not book, we cannot smoke the chicken.” The chicken needs to be smoked for six hours. I ask if I can take a look.

One end of the hut is given over to the dirt-floor kitchen, and inside, Ratna and two other staff work away. There’s an open fire on the floor, and a meter above, a splayed whole chicken is on a rack, in the final stages of smoking. The smokiness is almost overpowering—in a good way.

Time to eat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Liz tells me when she returned to Maumere after her stints in Java and Bali, she saw the schooling standards had not changed since her time as a schoolkid. According to World Bank data, Indonesian government spending in 2019 as a percentage of GDP on education was 2.8% in 2019—the third-lowest in the region. Ill-equipped schools aside, even the best teachers are overworked and under-compensated. Students, and their education, suffer. A trained teacher, Liz talks about instilling an awareness of the wonders of Indonesia’s natural beauty—and the need to preserve and protect it—in kids. The beauty of Indonesia—and the peril it is in—sadly is news to many schoolkids.

While Dapur Tara was still a figment of her imagination, Liz found herself travelling along the Trans Flores Highway. Rain hit, and taking shelter from the storm just shy of Melo, she got chatting to some local people. As is so often the case in Indonesia, the chatting led to coffee—and more chatting. It turned out there was some land available, in a well-wooded bowl-like valley. Behind it, a mountain stood—not unlike in the village near Maumere where Liz grew up. In the valley, there was good energy—it seemed to collect there, Liz tells me.

I can’t begin to tell you how good this chicken was. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Our food starts to arrive. First come some local bananas, dressed with coconut shavings and a dashing of brown sugar. Then the mains arrive. There’s kolo (nasi bambu), lomak (a cassava leaf salad), pineapple sambal, crispy papaya, red rice, and of course the smoked chicken. Kris talks me through the banquet, explaining not only are they all Floresian dishes but that all the produce is local. The herbs and vegetables all come from their own organic garden. The chicken and red rice from their local community. The plates are woven with a banana leaf laid on top. Indeed the only thing manufactured is the cutlery and the shot glass a wild purple concoction comes in later on. The meal is easily the best meal we have in two weeks on Flores.

Sitting under the tree stuffing face, with Kris, Ratna and the birds for company, it is easy to feel alone, but there are at least three nearby villages. It is in these villages that the dream of giving local kids’ future a push is playing out. In one village that lacked a school, they started one. Aside from teaching they manage donations of books and other materials to assist the kids. Kids are taught about trash collection and the environment that surrounds them.

Must eat everything. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

More than once as Liz talks, she mentions “golden kids.” By this, she means kids who get it, kids who, given the opportunity and resources, are able to truly shine. She says she just needs a few from each class—that will be where the change comes from.

After the meal, Kris shows me around the bungalows. They’re as simple as they are bright, with little in the way of creature comforts. They’re doing it right though. The power is solar, bathrooms are shared, there’s no WiFi—not even a phone signal. I can imagine spending a couple of nights here as a digital detox, but when Liz says guests stay weeks and months, I wonder how they fill their time.

Jungle cocktail. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She tells me guests read, and chat away with Liz and the staff. Sometimes they cook and eat together. The culture exchange goes both ways. Sometimes they might help in the garden, or volunteer at a village—there is, after all, plenty of work to be done. When night falls, they might play music and dance.

After the jarring commercialism of Labuan Bajo, I want to say Dapur Tara is a refreshing blast, but it’s more of a soothing balm. The longer I sit around, chatting to Kris and Ratna and just, well, soaking up the atmosphere, the longer I want to linger.

Pineapple sambal. Who knew? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I ask Liz what her plans are? She says she dreams of a string of similar places dotted across Flores from west to east, each amplifying what makes that area so special. The government is blind to the real attractions of Flores—What is Starbucks? she asks rhetorically. She’s preaching to the converted here.

While we only have the pleasure of a few hours at Dapur Tara, it is is a highlight of our time in Flores. I get the impression Liz is the sort of person who starts small but dreams big, and it’s easy to dream of places like Dapur Tara dotted across the island. Each with their own team of golden kids blazing a new, more exciting and more sustainable flavour of tourism.

Not only across Flores—but across the whole country.

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After a couple of false starts, Indonesia’s Island of the Gods, Bali, is pretty much open for business. Over the weekend a couple of announcements hit the airwaves. First, and of most importance, the island would enter a “quarantine-free” trial. Second, the long-asked-for Visa On Arrival (VOA), would restart—at a cost of 500,000 rupiah. Both are for only a selected list of nationalities.

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Quarantine-free is in quotes as there is some small print. Bali is one of Indonesia’s most vaccinated provinces—inbound travellers likewise need to be fully vaccinated. Tourists must stay at a CHSE-certified hotel for the first three nights. It is not clear if bookings through an OTA like Agoda is acceptable. Guests can leave the hotel and kick around (it seems) but they must stay at the same hotel for the initial stretch. During the stay, guests must have (and pass) a PCR test on the first and third day. After that, they can travel anywhere within the country.

Fingers crossed. At a Kecak performance, Uluwatu. Photo: Sally Arnold.

For a full list of requirements, the Welcome Back to Bali website (affiliated with the Bali Hotels Association) is doing a good job. Other good resources for keeping on top of a changeable situation are the Bali Covid-19 Update Facebook group and The Bali Beat newsletter. All of these are free services.

Finally! I don’t know about you, but it has been a very long two years.

Bali is different things to different people. Many come for the people, others for the food, others still for the places. Me? I come for the sea, so I’d be starting there.

Bingin from the cliff-top. Photo: Sally Arnold.

One of the beauties of Bali is it sits astride the Pacific and Indian oceans. When clear of trash, the beauty of the long blue walls trundling in from Antarctica is something else. The swell swings around Bali’s south, the Bukit Peninsula, in the process racking up some of the best surfing on the planet. On the western extreme of the Bukit lies Pura Luhur Uluwatu—one of Bali’s most revered temples. Sitting atop a stretch of cliff hundreds of feet tall, the temple lords it over the ocean.

Some of Bali’s best beaches—all surf beaches—ring the Bukit. Wild high-tide surf lashes the white to golden sands (depending on the beach) that line the base of the cliffs. When the tide ebbs, the fury recedes to reveal rock pools for hopping, calm waters for floating and sand stretches for walking. In the late afternoon, the sea-breeze takes the bite out of the sun as it falls into the sea. Spectacular doesn’t come close.

Another busy day on Nyang Nyang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve many favourites down that way—Nyang Nyang for long walks and no people sits atop my list. If I’m overnighting though, Sun and Surf Stay, at Bingin, pretty much takes the cake. Unlike Thailand’s islands, true on-the-beach rooms in Bali are few and far between. Sun and Surf has a row of simple rooms elevated right over the sand—and hammocks come standard. Best of all, rates start at around the $40 mark, so it doesn’t break the bank.

Leaving the waves behind, I’d head up to east Bali, to Amed’s bays and their pebble-strewn jet-black sand. Wrapping around Bali’s eastern-most bulge, palms and enormous trees replace the cliffs of the south. Hundreds of white-hulled jukungs lay above the high tide mark as fishermen mend nets in the shade. Come early morning pebbles reverberate as fishermen drag the jukungs over them into the sea. A couple of hours later, the sun rises over Rinjani’s striking peak on neighbouring Lombok. An hour after that, the fleet returns, often under sail. Their bright-coloured triangular sails flutter and snap as they run up onto the same pebbles and black sand.

Family time in Amed. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Spread across the bays are hundreds of places to stay, yet most of the development is low rise. In Amed it is all about blending in. A single scraggly road winds from bay to bay, up and over a headland and back down. People coast more than drive or ride. Travellers fill their days with diving and snorkelling, cycling or walking. The real attraction though is the ebb and flow of life. Pack a book—or three. After a days’ worth of chapters the sun falls, this time behind Bali’s greatest peak, Gunung Agung.

The Kampung at Bunutan is where I head, and I like it so much I’ve written of it before. It offers a collection of wooden joglos set across three compounds. One is an enormous affair suitable for a family of 58, but the other two have two and three joglos respectively. An ideal spot for travelling families, groups of friends—or decadent couples. Sunrise is perfect from here.

Time for a wander in Sidemen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For another angle on Agung, head to Sidemen where the morning sun catches it postcard perfect. Think of a rice field valley where you can walk and walk without the annoyances of Ubud. The village has grown up a bit over the last decade, with more upmarket digs coming on tap, but you need not overspend. Sleep in, slow down. soak it up. That is the point of Sidemen. If you need some more action, climb Agung—Nyoman is an excellent guide—you can contact him via Whatsapp on +62 853 3845 8258

Then head west, skipping over Bali’s many peaks, to Munduk. A village smudged along a steep mountain ridge, gaze at a distant ocean on one side and rice terraces on the other. If activity is a requirement, then, like Sidemen, this is a village made for walking. There are at least three glorious waterfalls within easy walking distance. Prepare yourself for having the falls to yourself. An unambitious pace would be one a day. The town has affordable places to stay, good ribs, goat satay and coffee. Who needs nouveau cuisine or a wine list?

Typical Munduk scenes. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

If you stand on Munduk’s main road looking uphill, on your right you’ll see another near perfect-shaped peak. Mount Batukaru. If you stood on its peak and rolled south, you’d hit Pura Luhur Jatiluih (which I’ve written about before here). Then, roll a little more, and you’d hit the adorable Sarinbuana Ecolodge. As I’ve written about it here as well before, I won’t repeat myself too much. What I will say, is while some grandstand about their sustainability, others, they just live it. Why? Because if you can, it is the right thing to do. Sarinbuana falls into the latter category. Dawn here, looking across the jungle valley with the rain hammering down—is just amazing.

The above would tie into a simple three to four-week trip. Sure you could add in a few of the crowd-pleasers like Ubud, Canggu or Nusa Penida, but really there’s little need. A long, slow holiday—who doesn’t feel like one of those right about now?

If you’re thinking of a Bali break and would like a driver, I recommend you drop Putu a line. I’ve known him for over a decade and he’s absolutely trustworthy, reliable and, as an added bonus, a safe driver. You can contact via Facebook here or Whatsapp on +62 819 9904 0594.

Take your time, see what you find. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As I said up top, it has been a very long two years, but now is an exciting time. Is that a light at the end of the tunnel? I don’t know, but I do know it has been a very long tunnel and I’m ready for some light! There could be some more false starts and there will be hiccups. More than ever, plan for the unexpected. The suggestions above are but a small sample, a few places that are worth a look and worth your support. Many don’t want the heady days of overtourism to return. Instead, they’re hoping the coming weeks and months will be baby steps into a brighter future. You can play a part in this.

Travel further, slower and for longer. Spend a day watching the surf roll in, the fishing fleet coming and going or a waterfall thundering. Bring a book, finish it and leave it behind. Soak it up. Enjoy.

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It is about a five-minute ride from my house to the beach, and I head down most mornings to do some writing by the sea. It is a straight run down Jl Pettitenget, which is far quieter than pre-Covid times when it resembled a parking lot. Today, it is more like a speedway—in the mornings at least.

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So trundling down, stuck behind two loaded trucks, another bike sidled up beside me. The rider was foreign, not wearing a helmet nor mask, but did have on a set of gigantic earphones. Nearing a blind bend, they went to overtake. It was a reckless move, and when a car came the other way, they tried to accelerate their way out of it. When that wasn’t going to happen, they braked hard and veered back, behind the truck, almost knocking me off my bike in the process. They finished their work of speeding modern art by careening onto the footpath and crashing the bike.

Might need to come back tomorrow—and next year—and the year after. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The trucks didn’t slow down—I’d guess they were unaware of what had happened. When I pulled up and walked back to check on the rider, bloody but not beaten, they launched into a tirade aimed at everyone except themselves. I left.

In itself, none of the above was unusual. I’ve seen no shortage of scooter idiocy here—by both Indonesians and foreigners alike. Plenty of prangs, though thankfully only the one fatal accident. Pre-Covid, tourist meets scooter accident meets voided (or non-existent) insurance, meets GoFundMe campaign were dime a dozen. Like the gem scams in Bangkok, the card scams in Phnom Penh and so on, some people seem to want to learn the hard way.

This is now a restaurant and car park. Umalas. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It isn’t entirely their fault I guess. Well, it is, but there are varying levels of slackness of enforcing existing laws by officialdom as well. Police take a payoff rather than levy a fine for no helmet or take a cut from the gem store or the card sharks. The world keeps turning for most—if not all. In the scheme of things, these tales of the unfortunate remain a footnote, a rounding error, to the millions who have an uneventful vacation.

Yet in an “if it bleeds it leads” world, the uneventful vacation doesn’t make the papers, so instead, these are the stories we read. In a way, they serve as a counterpoint to the newspaper travel section where unspoilt beaches and smiley residents prevail. An accurate picture is somewhere between the two extremes.

Often, no improvements are required. Batu Belig sunset. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As the region stutters its way through a hodgepodge of re-openings, there has been a new style of tourism story. One that tends to come out of destinations that saw the worst of overtourism, Kyoto for example. They argue that residents, now accustomed to having their town back, quite like it bereft of tourists. If you had the misfortune of being in Bangkok, Bali or Boracay in 2019’s heady days, it’s an easy sentiment to grasp.

Of course, not everyone feels this way. In particular, the many who had tourist-facing livelihoods would like their jobs back. Likewise, countries that were over-dependent on inbound tourism would like their dollars back. Tourism though, brushes with an uneven hand—it doesn’t float all boats.

This is one of the reasons why nations need to think about what post-Covid-19 tourism is going to look like. There’s all the blah blah about big-spending tourists, but let’s face it, the region has been talking about this since the 1970s and they’re yet to replace normal people. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t see anything amiss with wanting tourists to spend money—someone has to pay for the infrastructure that supports them. Making their spending the sole determining factor though, seems short-sighted.

Desa Seni—sustainability surrounded by the less so. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Two stories from yesterday are instructive. One was an announcement out of the EU about their long term goals for tourism. Titled the Transition Pathway for Tourism, it is a dense document (though readable by EU standards). Heavy on sustainability- and resilience-speak, in a section on tourism to rural and remote areas, they write:

“The EU can boost the long-term resilience of remote regions by comprehensive smart and sustainable tourism strategies, based on the unique strengths of the region, well-planned market segmentation, diversification of tourism services to different customer bases and by integrating the wellbeing of local residents with the services provided for tourists.”

The second was a statement reported yesterday out of Labuan Bajo in Indonesia’s Flores. The town is to be one of the country’s “super-premium” destinations and has seen a tonne of investment. Not all are fans of the changes the investment has brought, but on how Bali’s G20 could benefit Flores, the story reads:

"The calculation assumes that G20 tourists have seven times the purchasing power of tourists in general. Ten side meeting activities with approximately 800 participants multiplied by US$2 thousand. This is still a rough calculation, not to mention if there are participants who want to increase their stay."

Perhaps it is unfair comparing a single comment to an EU report. That said, I’ve been reading this sort of coverage side by side for a while now and different visions are playing out around the planet.

Please don’t ask me what this is being replaced by. Berawa Beach. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

For residents to want tourists to return in any form, the changes that come with them need to do a few things. Sure, they need to be sustainability-minded, but that is just the foundation. They need to benefit residents and improve their lives beyond a paycheck. Residents are more likely to forgive the price they pay for the idiotic few we read about in the papers if they feel it buys a better life for their children. Governments whose vision is squarely on today’s rather than tomorrow’s money are selling their people short.

So what does this all have to do with a maniac on a scooter on the beach road this morning? For me, a lot of it boils down to respect—or lack thereof. It goes both ways—seeing foreign visitors as nothing more than a cash cow likewise lacks respect. I think it is fair to say most foreign tourists travel somewhere because they have an interest in the place. So, why is it so difficult for countries to see the benefits of building on this interest? The whole turning tourists into advocates, furthering cross-cultural understanding and all that. That is a thing, right?

Tourism can mix things up—in a good way. Mural, Kuta Beach. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Fixating on short term pay-offs that benefit the select few will only deliver long-term costs for the many. And that is about as intelligent as riding down to the beach without a helmet.

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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.

As regular readers might remember, last year I went back to university to do a Masters degree. Travel was off the cards and I figured in doing one in Responsible Tourism Management, then when travel did restart, I’d be better informed (maybe). Given the title, it should be no surprise that the environmental impact of travel is a bit of a theme.

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The current unit touches on hotels’ environmental impact, and it makes for plenty of interesting material. What is the most baffling though, is there is often (if not always) a clear business case for taking a greener approach. The readings’ focus tends to be on higher-end hotels and global chains, but there are lessons that would work for the smallest guesthouse too ... yet ... examples are few and far between. I did write on one recently for Mekong Review (paywalled).

Keeping your emissions down Ko Chang Noi-style. Photo: David Luekens.

I’ve written before about my misgivings regarding much of the “green award” industry. Getting a green star for using low-watt bulbs while offering private pool villas seems dumb. Yet, plenty of small places (where the only horizon pool is a flooded cistern) don’t even bother with bulbs. Why? I don’t understand.

Below are a few examples. It seems to me, these are no brainers, and I’d love to hear back from readers who can explain why these are not the norm. While you’re at it, please do let me know if the sustainability of your lodging actually matters to you. Thanks!

Water

It is the stuff of life right? According to the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals, 26% of Earth’s population lack safe drinking water. It goes on to say that 129 countries are not on track to have sustainably managed water resources by 2030.

In a Southeast Asian context, outside of Singapore, there is nowhere I’d be comfortable drinking the tap water. Yes, this is a catastrophic case of governmental neglect. It was telling that on my recent trip to Labuan Bajo, for all the money to make it “super-premium,” residences and hotels still rely on well-water. What gives? How super premium is that? It is authentic, I guess.

No, I think I’ll get my own water thankyou. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Dropping down from introducing piped water to an entire destination, at a hotel level things are not much better. According to SungaiWatch’s annual report, the plastic bottles and single-use cups of Danone, a Spanish food conglomerate, are the number one source of trash on Bali’s beaches. Yet, open a hotel minibar and you’re almost guaranteed to see two plastic bottles of Danone water. Why?

Sometimes you’ll see the larger gallon water bottles in each room atop a dispenser. You can use that to refill your own water bottle. I say sometimes, because in the scheme of things they’re still kind of rare. I asked one hotelier a while back why they didn’t do their water that way. The answer? Guests complain. What?

As a typical guest may not drink a gallon of water during their stay, the room ends up with a half-filled container, and when the next guest comes, they question how long the water has been there. Really? I suggested if that was such a problem, couldn’t the remnants be repurposed to kitchen use after checkout, with a new gallon coming in for the next guest. The owner seemed unconvinced.

Gallon bottles are far cheaper per unit than smaller bottles, so taking this approach would save hotels money. Given the small bottles are often supplied for free, it is hardly a profit centre. Also, infrastructure exists to refill gallon bottles—unlike the smaller ones, which, often end up in landfills or, on the beach. This brings me to my next point.

Trash

One of the most popular secondary uses of single-use water bottles seems to be having them wash up on the beach. It isn’t just the bottles of course. Again referring to Sungai Watch’s report, from October 2020 to December 2021 they audited a subset of the waste they collected from Bali’s beaches and rivers. In total they categorised 227,842 individual items, which broke down as follows:

* Sachets: 69,825

* Cup: 67,242

* Plastic bottle (PET): 38,614

* Hard plastic (HDPE): 36,253

* Glass: 8,811

* Metal: 7,097

If you’re curious why glass and metal are so low, in part it is because there are clear recycling routes for these. Waste collectors scavenge both the beach and bins for them to sell—often for a pittance. While I’m a huge fan of what SungaiWatch is doing, another organisation putting together some interesting resources is Bali Partnership—their site is well worth a look.

Thanks, Danone. This mess on Bali’s Batu Belig Beach took three weeks for volunteers and govt employees to clean. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Plenty of beaches in Southeast Asia already have organisations running beach (and to a lesser extent, river) cleanups. When was the last time you were staying in a beach hotel and on Sunday morning staff approached you asking if you’d like to join a cleanup? Never? Same.

They’ll often be a flyer at reception or something, but places need to get more proactive. They need to get guests off the arses and down to the sand. They may be on holiday, but simply being on holiday means they are contributing to the mess. They may not be tossing trash onto the beach themselves, but rest assured some businesses they frequent are.

Cleaning up the mess daily though is a finger in the dike. While much of the region is generations behind other countries in education around littering, just because the awareness isn’t where it should be, doesn’t mean businesses can’t change their own practices. Hotels are hubs of single-use plastics and while a growing number are refillable, plenty are not—so guests should start demanding that hotels change their ways. Once they go out in the trash, what happens to them is anyone’s guess, so an alternative is to not use them at all.

The problem is far wider than straws or water bottles and the Sustainable Hospitality Alliance has a handy cheat sheet to use as a starting point.

Food

You can’t talk about plastic bags without talking about food. Individuals using their own reusable bags for their groceries instead of plastic continues to grow. Though do note, you may well need to use that tote bag 20,000 times to offset the overall impact of its production. How you use your bags matter. Hotels buy in bulk, so if the goods are being delivered, get them in cardboard boxes. Better still, where feasible, grow your own. Please note this advice is coming from someone who has only ever managed to grow basil and papaya successfully.

Reduce food waste by eating everything. Works for me. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From fancy-pants resorts to humble street stalls, food wastage is a major issue. One study found that Stateside, food waste totalled around 63 million tons per annum, with 40% coming from restaurants and hotels. The smart cookies at Hotel Kitchen have made a clever toolkit and also a downloadable PDF outlining some solutions. While many of the suggestions focus on the higher end of the business, plenty scale down.

There will always be some food waste, but minimising it is a smart move for everyone—guests, the bottom line, and the planet. Two of the simplest things to start with? Smaller plates and servings, and vegetarian or vegan menus. Smaller plates and servings directly translate to less waste (and maybe save you a new notch in the belt), while plant-based foods have a drastically lower carbon load versus anything with legs or fins. Don’t forget to eat lots of fruit—Southeast Asia has some of the best and they come naturally wrapped—no plastic required. Hell, you can even throw the wrapping in the compost. Your hotel does compost, right?

Power

Ok, this is the last one. I started off this piece babbling about light bulbs, and I do miss the old yellowish ones, but I get why I can’t have them anymore. Plenty of hotels though, don’t seem to have received the memo. Start by sorting out your lighting.

Indonesia and potential, chapter 68. Image: Solargis. © 2020 The World Bank, Source: Global Solar Atlas 2.0, Solar resource data: Solargis.

The biggest head-scratcher though is the dearth of solar power you see in the region. Indonesia in particular is a laggard on this count—if you’d like to learn a bit about why this paper from the IEEFA is instructive. I’m not going to get into the solar stuff, but that said, there are plenty of other angles hotels can look at.

Start with the gadgets. DVD players, espresso machines, enormous TVs that you need a PhD in networking to link to your laptop so never use. Survey your guests, ask how many actually make an espresso while drying their hair watching a Die Hard DVD on the LCD TV the size of a small nation. Times have changed. Ok, the hairdryers can stay.

Lava-covered rooftop at Alila Uluwatu, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The beast in the room, of course, is air-conditioning. Windows that can be opened, standing fans, hell, even covering the roof in lava, can reduce the need for this. Cap the remotes so lunatics can’t turn it down to 16 degrees. Make sure the room seals up—open a window and the air-con turns off—there has to be tech for that. Offer a discount if guests forgo air-con. Hell, don’t even offer it. If you’re doing well-designed beach bungalows with plenty of windows and tall ceilings, you don’t even need air-con. If guests complain, give them another standing fan.

Word of mouth

Ok, this is really my last point. If your hotel is doing none of the above, two questions: Why are you staying there? Did you ask them why they’re not bothering with any of it? If, on the other hand, your hotel does some, most, all, or more still of the above, then tell your friends. Chances are the property will be on a sounder financial footing than their neighbours doing none of it. That means they’ll still be around by the time your friends arrive after travel has restarted.

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Hi everyone!

What was going to be a two-week break turned into something considerably longer—my apologies. Couchfish is back to the regular posting schedule, with the first post for paying subscribers tomorrow, and billing has been turned back on (for paying subscribers). Many thanks for your support and here’s to hopefully a brighter year this time around!

Almost two years ago I was in a Kuala Lumpur taxi heading to the airport for a flight back to Bali. I’d been in KL for a week or so sorting out some paperwork as the first wave of Covid rolled across the region. I’d picked up my passport from the embassy that morning—it was to be the last time for quite a spell they’d be handling visas.

Settling into my AirAsia seat, I remember grimacing thinking I’d be back in KL in under a month for another trip. Little did I know, it was to be one of the last AirAsia flights from KL to Bali. A travelling friend I’d met up with in KL had decided to linger rather than push on, “this thing will blow over,” he said. He ended up stranded there for almost a year.

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Last week I stepped into an airport for the first time since then, vaccination certificate and rapid test in hand. On the almost full Batik Air flight, it feels like nothing has changed. People take forever to stow their luggage, rustle their bags of snacks and keep their phones on for too long. The one difference is near every passenger is wearing a mask.

Hello old friend. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Bali’s airport sees a fraction of the air traffic it used to, so there is no wait for take-off. With the mangroves at our back, the pilot puts the pedal to the metal and we sink into our seats. Moments later we soar over Airport Reef then enter a gentle left arc and climb high towards smudges of clouds.

Over the next fifty minutes, two of Indonesia’s greatest volcanoes slide past. First Gunung Rinjani, the anchor of Lombok. The 1257 Samalas eruption—“the most powerful volcanic blast since humans learned to write”—formed the volcano as it stands today. The blade-shaped summit marks one of the most distinctive peaks in Indonesia.

Rinjani took a pound of flesh for every metre off each of the four of us. Photo: Some other lunatic who likes climbing volcanoes.

Lombok behind us, we fly over Sumbawa’s western reaches towards Gunung Tambora. Like its sister peak Rinjani, when Tambora went off, it didn’t bother with half measures. On the fifth of April, 1815, it exploded. The eruption shaved about 1,400 metres off its height and people heard the detonation in Sumatra. The eruption has been linked to a temporary climate change that saw famine across parts of the Northern Hemisphere. It was during this “year without Summer,” that Mary Shelly penned Frankenstein in a Swiss villa owned by Lord Byron. The connection has been somewhat debunked, but it makes for a good story.

As Tambora slips from view, the next peak, Sangaeng appears in our forward window. It lacks the bombastic history of the previous two, but it remains active. The last time I tried to visit, the harbour guard at the coastal village opposite asked me if I was nuts.

The harbour master would not have blinked an eye if I’d tried to take that boat to Sangaeng. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Our ears pop as the flight descends over the Sape Strait making a beeline for Labuan Bajo on Flores. On the wrong side of the plane, we miss Banta and Komodo National Marine Park, but it isn’t a complete loss. As we wheel onto the final approach, beneath us reefs glimmer like dollops from a rainbow. Brilliant green hills run down to the water’s edge—the landscape is about as far removed from Bali as you can get. It is beautiful.

We’re on final and my plane-spotting obsessed son films the landing for his trip report on his YouTube channel. The landing is smooth enough and before we know it we’re in the airbridge, then a taxi driving to our hostel.

Our driver is from Ruteng, a city to the east, and he peppers us with questions. When I tell him we’re Australian, he jumps with excitement, “you can come to here now?” he asks, only to be crestfallen when I tell him we live in Bali. Still, he isn’t shy about shuffling us brochures for boat trips and other tours. “Labuan Bajo is very quiet,” he says, “call me if you need a driver, I can take you anywhere.”

We dump our bags at our boho hostel and later in the day, go for an afternoon walk. It is my first time back to Labuan Bajo since it was deemed one of Indonesia’s “New Balis” and it is near unrecognisable. A boardwalk lines the sea and families and young people wander its length. Older men cluster in shaded salas backing onto the boardwalk. They chat, laugh and smoke. Kids scream “Hello Mister” and ask us where we are from. By the time we reach the end of one pier we’ve done half a dozen selfies. The scene has a festive feel despite the dour tourism mood.

Around the 8,000th photo with random people on the pier. Photo: William McDonald.

Later we watch the sunset. It blazes behind the dozens of pinisi and other dive boats idle at anchor. The town has changed to look at, but thanks to the people the vibe remains oh so familiar.

As I write this, we’ve already prolonged our stay in Labuan Bajo twice—maybe this year will be better.

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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.