When my partner proposed a trip with his family to celebrate his brother’s 50th in Thailand over Christmas, I salivated at the idea. Literally. Real Thai spicy food as opposed to tempered for European, broad-church tastes delivered in depressing Deliveroo boxes! Indulging in durian (aka the stinkiest fruit that exists, so much so it’s illegal to carry it on public transport in parts of Asia)! Body massages that aren’t softy-softy but delivered with deceptive smiles and back-breaking intensity! Sure we were going to have to schlep the three-month-old sprog with us, but the chance to go to Asia for the first time since before the pandemic was the main draw. Of course, what I didn’t bank on was my other half’s epic bout of gastroenteritis, the emergency hospital visit and the lost luggage that would plague the outbound journey. But the comically disastrous start to the holiday is merely an aside here.
How to put this delicately? It was perhaps the ‘whitest’ experience of Asia I’d ever had, and I say that with tongue firmly in cheek because just to put out a full disclaimer, lest my partner’s family excommunicates me, I have nothing but love and respect for them. We found ourselves ensconced in a picturesque villa in Koh Phangan, which was clearly in the midst of a post-Covid tourism surge that I hadn’t quite factored in when I was dreaming of a localised back-to-Asia trip.
There was Zen Beach, where several very blonde women donned dreadlocks without a fleck of cultural care. There were the bands of yoga practitioners, who also plied a trade of tantric sex therapy on the side. When we went to a night market, instead of the trucks of legit street food and local Thai bartering banter that I was yearning for, there were feather necklaces and grainy bars of soap made by middle-aged women from Los Angeles who had clearly come to this island to ‘find themselves’ and never left. If The White Lotus takes the piss out of very privileged, very white tourists in a luxury resort, then this was the alt-hippy version, where trustafarians enjoying Mai Tai’s in a macramé hammock actually describe themselves as ‘digital nomads’ without a shred of irony. To be fair, Koh Phangan was also gearing itself up for its infamous Full Moon Party, hence why every spot we went to felt like a global village rife with hippy clichés and fire poi throwing.
If ‘The White Lotus’ takes the piss out of very privileged, very white tourists in a luxury resort, this was the alt-hippy version
Then there was the food situation. Regular readers will have clocked the importance of food in my life. In Asia, making every meal count is even more urgent. In a food itinerary beyond our control, I sadly did not get many fixes of real Thai-spicy. When we wound up at a pasta place, there was the realisation I had flown 12 hours to eat spag bol. As I typed this to my WhatsApp group of friends who incidentally were enjoying jaunts to Bangkok and Tokyo FOR-REAL, I was duly chastised. ‘Girl! You’re eating f***ing pasta? Go wash your mouth out and do better!’
When it got to eating limp pizza at a boujie beach bar on New Year’s Eve and the sight of £48 toro sashimi listed at a ‘Peruvian-Japanese’ hotel ‘concept’ restaurant, I was really feeling the shame. Put it down to a lifetime bouncing around Asia with frugal parents whose raison d’etre is going to South East Asia to see how many sub £1-per-head meals they can find. I wanted to atone and go find a shack with harsh strip lights, no English menu and sit and suck juicy prawn heads. Alas, the trip came to an abrupt end on the first day of 2023. Rest assured, I’ll be back and there will be no fire poi or pasta.
