Land of tourists

When does a place have too many tourists? It’s a natural part of the tourist experience to judge, almost exclusively in a negative light, all the other tourists. The way they travel, the way they eat, the way they treat the locals, the impact they have on the area. I wrote quite extensively about the impacts of tourism on Colombia and my own confused feelings toward the matter, and in Japan most of the tourists I encountered were so invested in Japan that it was easy to overlook the randos being disrespectful at the temple or damaging the rock and flora for that top shelf selfie.

But in Thailand…

There’s no way that’s road legal

In Bangkok it’s a different story than the other major cites, let alone the islands and tropical paradises Thailand boasts. Bangkok, while stylish and forward thinking, economically advanced and educated, has many excuses for tourists to stop by, including its somewhat overhyped party reputation. Somewhat. But it is a locals-city more than anything, or perhaps more accurately, a business city. This is where the business of normal life and international business endeavors happens. Venturing further afield, to places like Chiang Mai or the Krabi, things start to feel very different.

Surely, not every single Brit on a scooter has their Thai motorcycle license, a requirement for riding a scooter in Thailand, a requirement not met by an international driver’s permit, a requirement that almost certainly demands a non-tourist visa to fulfill. Surely not. So you have to wonder why people visit an island like Koh Tao, whereupon not a single pair of points exists more than four hours apart by foot, and rent a scooter, something that many of them are not legally allowed to ride and, worse, don’t know how to ride, as evidenced by their excessive gauze and bandaging.

How many mediocre restaurants flourish in the country on the strength of their menu’s English translation or tourist proximity rather than the taste of their cooking? Everyone raved about the food in Thailand, but it was all too easy to walk into a place that was absolute overpriced rubbish. My favorite dish happened to be at a place I would have probably ignored, missed, because I wouldn’t have recognized it for a restaurant had it not been for an expat’s recommendation. For a western tourist, of which there are so many in Thailand, it’s easier to suss out food when it’s written in a western language. That makes the profitability higher for those restaurants focused on marketing than those on culinary quality.

What does the internet say

For months, perhaps years, an article has been regularly advertised to me, titled “Against Travel” or something to that effect, in the New York Times or Post or perhaps the -er, I don’t recall. Nevertheless it outlines a rather thin case against traveling, a very particular and narrowly defined sense of traveling, of course, and relies on the prestige of a handful of poets, statesmen and philosophers and their decontextualized quotes to lend credibility to its stance. While I appreciate it its attack on grammable bucket list traveling, overall I think it’s quite impotent, even in its condemnation of web karma farmers.

But maybe traveling is awful after all. Let’s ignore all the arguments above, all of my negative experiences in Colombia and Thailand with entitled, grubby-handed tourists there, and just focus on my own experience.

Because I’m so fucking done traveling.

It takes so much energy

It takes physical energy in the form of having to walk around all the time, between hostel and transit, or around all the fancy sights and hikes, to a restaurant or festival, even with an illegal scooter it’s so much physical energy getting around. And once you’re ready to move on to a new place, a new part of the city or another part of the country or world, it comes time to repack all the baggage and schlep it up and down stairs, into and out of busses and trains and overhead bins and through airports and seaports. Good exercise, for sure, but it wears on one, spending so much time moving from point a to point b.

But that’s just life. Life is 99% moving things from one place to another: the groceries from the store to the pantry, from the pantry to the pan, from the pan to the plate, the plate to the teeth, teeth to butt, and finally into the toilet, where it becomes a municipal responsibility. What about the rest of the time when traveling?

Still mostly moving things from one place to another. A lot of the normal, quotidian activities like moving money around, moving soap and clothes around in water, stretching metaphors even further by moving words around to build and maintain relationships, the classic chores that leave one tired at night. Then pretending for eight hours a day one is a travel agent: constantly researching flights, public transit, maps, entry fees, hosting costs, restaurant menus, weather and climate, while trying to maintain the presence of mind necessary to enjoy the beautiful nature, interesting museums, delicious culinary traditions and local architecture.

You’re always low on sleep because two Germans in the dorm hooked up on a squeaky top bunk. Because someone sounds like they’re dying of dengue and you’re pretty sure you’re next. Because the window was damaged and mosquitos flood in every night. Because the hotel next door hosts cover-free foam parties. Because your bank blocks IPs from the country you’re in and you’re not sure if the next one will be better or if your trip is going to be cut short by overzealous fraud prevention. Because you ate something a little adventurous and haven’t been able to keep anything down for a week.

And I don’t give a fuck at this point

It’s not that I’m not grateful for this opportunity, that I’m not enjoying myself, it’s just that I can’t find any goddamn time to do anything but travel, anything but plan further travel. The common joke in backpacking circles is that after backpacking you need a vacation. I spoke to an Irish man the other night who was two months into his travels feeling like he needed a two week break.

But it’s not even that. I mentioned previously I haven’t been able to find time to play the mandolin I’ve been dragging around. I keep having ideas for games I want to prototype but I can barely find a couple hours a week to sit down with my computer: look at how slowly these blog posts are being produced, and they’re mostly off the cuff, mashed out in 20-30 minutes. The most time consuming part is usually picking out photos to break up the walls of text. There’s just no time and no energy for it. I just can’t do anything I find pleasure in.

Epiphany

Herein lies the key to my whole reason for traveling. I want to know how to spend my time on this earth: what activities am I so angry about being separated from? Cut everything out of your life, divorce yourself from creature comforts, hobbies, skills, and you eventually realize what is most important to you. I’m starting to think I have discovered what is most important to me.

And of course that means now I’m presented with a decision. How long to continue. Do I accept I’ve got it all figured out and pack up, head home; do I continue on the more or less planned trajectory to hone my ideas or prove to myself that this is what’s important? Perhaps life is indeed 90% moving things from one place another. Then perhaps that remaining 10% is deciding what things ought to be moved where.