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.
