The catch-22 of tourism expansion: an exclusive Longtail Boat ride in Thailand

By Connor Newson

Part of why Thailand attracts so much foreign tourism is down to its exotic and natural beauty. Beauty that in the last twenty years has helped boost its economy significantly. However, in many cases these inherently magnificent sights are overshadowed by the thousands of hostels, bars and other infrastructure that is needed to cater for such an industry. It is this sort of development that is constantly susceptible to overconsumption, to a point where the aesthetic romanticism of such landscapes are overwhelmed by relentless tourism that can bear heavily on the environment and its inhabitants. Places such as Koh Phi Phi, Phuket, and other crowded southern islands are an apt example of this. Still, not everywhere has been engulfed just yet. Laemsak, an isolated village in the south, is one of those.

I have been volunteering here for three weeks now, teaching English to the local community for a project that aims to bring community-based tourism to the locals in order to have a fair share of Thailand’s growing capital that hasn’t yet managed to reach them. An advantage of my role is being offered excursions to locations that not many other visitors have been before – free of charge! The catch? There are cameras following to capture the action and promote community-based tourism in the area. I can only assume that a show of my foreign genetics is a way of showing other tourists that this is a place worth seeing.

And so I have been torn between contributing to locals that want to gain economically from an established industry elsewhere, and the uncertainty that it may just expand hideously and tarnish the aesthetic of Thailand’s remaining beauty. My reluctance to deny the desires of my new friends who so desperately want to put themselves on the global map – and rightly so – causes me to agree to this latest adventure. In essence, today I am a guinea pig running the wheel that no other tourist has ran before. We embark on a new route, a trial run for future tourists, and what we are about to discover will be a surprise even to the locals and cameramen following.

After waking up at 6am and driving north for a while, myself and four colleagues (Teo, Sutima, Natalie and Jamie) arrive at a small pier on the river near Ban Lui. We climb onto a Longtail boat at 7am with a driver and a local cameraman. Five minutes down the river we stop at a floating fishing village where our cameraman jumps from our boat into a different one. The identical vessel is complete with a driver, two other crew members from the village, and three canoes squeezed on deck in which they sit. They come from three different villages, and so their coalition is based around this tour which would collectively provide money to all involved communities – community-based tourism. The drivers rev the huge engines, submerge the propellers, and speed away from the fishery down the widening river.


As subjects we were given no instructions, although I had already assumed the appropriate attitude for my role. Chill and enjoy as a tourist would – especially when it’s free. I lay comfortably on the nose of the boat as the sun begins to peak over the surrounding mountains. Its illuminating light gives life to the flourishing and tangled greenery that climbs up the mountains on either side of the river. We are the only boat on the river for kilometres, besides the camera boat that has been weaving from one side to the other to catch the best angle. Soon enough, even that becomes a ghost that blends in as a picturesque silhouette on the canvas of rural, untouched Thailand.

We continue around a curve until our boat slows at the sight of a few figures in the middle of the river. As we get closer I notice they are the shoulders and heads of local fishermen. Their bodies are submerged as their arms dig deep, only re-emerge again with shrimp, crab or other creatures clenched in their hands. Each catch is thrown into a basket that is wrapped around their torso. I look to my right and watch as a single bamboo seems to drift past. Upon closer inspection I notice the bamboo stilts on which it sits only a few inches above the water. Detached from the land and only accessible by boat, it is the only structure visible for the entire day after passing the fishery.

Soon we become enclosed on both sides by bicycle tyres that are strung together by sticks and rope anchored into the thick muddy riverbed. Some tyres are partially buried beneath, some hove above water level, all confuse me as to their purpose. Fortunately, Sutima – local to the area – is able to explain that these are Oyster farms. The tyres are immersed in water twice a day due to the rise and fall of the Andaman tide. Eggs released by oysters near the mountain float down the river and attach themselves to anything they can – including bicycle tyres. Here they are able to grow before being harvested by fishermen. The tyres run for hundreds of metres until we come to a small sandy island in the centre of the river.

We dock on the shore and jump off, unwittingly stepping onto an island inhabited by thousands of red crabs scuttling about. They move in their masses and split as we approach. Some of the younger crabs become stranded at the sudden sight of us alien visitors, so they rapidly dig in a downwards spiral to hide beneath the sand. Noticing this as an obvious sign of intrusion, we decided to board the Longtail once more and carry on down the river, leaving the cast of crabs in peace.

Eventually, we come to an opening of a sprawling mangrove forest. We had travelled 20 kilometres down the river, and finally it was time to use the canoes that had been squeezed into the identical boat at the floating fishing village. We both cut our engines and the crew lift the canoes into the water for us to clamber into. Teo and I share one, Natalie and Jamie climb into another, and the cameraman and his driver occupy a third as we set off into the undergrowth of the mangrove.

Now, with no spluttering engine to spoil the silent serenity, this really feels like a hidden paradise. Even more so than the seclusion we had been experiencing for the past couple of hours. The sun flickers through the leaves above and onto the spider-like roots of trees that stretch sporadically, from the suspended trunks into the riverbed below. We weave in and out of the maze, watching in awe as mudskippers ripple across the water’s surface. The tiny fish below our canoe distract us and we become stranded on the shallow waters. But the warmth of the river is inviting enough for me to get out and pull our canoe into slightly deeper water. After half an hour of breathing in the fresh sea air that emanates from up ahead, we reach our Longtail boat which had taken an alternative route.


Back on deck with the Andaman sea now in full view, we turn around head back towards the pier. Our promotional excursion was almost at an end – or so everybody thought. As I bask once again on the nose of the Longtail boat in the setting sun, reflecting on how gloriously exclusive the river has been, the engine suddenly cuts out. A serene silence blesses us once more. I look up at the cameraman who is now stood at the rear of the boat, staring intently a hundred metres to the side. I follow his eye line to the water and catch a glimpse of a what I initially think is a large fish momentarily surfacing. A couple of seconds later, just off to the right, it appears again. This time I see its pink head and shiny grey back elegantly rise and fall, and its heart shaped tail flick up before diving below once more.

This is no fish. What we are witnessing is an Indo-Pacific Humpback dolphin, more commonly known as a pink dolphin. In fact, we begin to notice a entire pod of about six pink dolphins working in harmony with a small fishing boat on the river rounding up their food. I was soon made aware as to why the driver and other locals seem just as surprised as us. These mammals are some of the rarest animals in the world, and it is a first sight for them as it is for us. We stay to watch them surface for air and spit water as they released air from their blow holes. I had never seen a dolphin before, and felt amazed that my first time is seeing them now, in the wild, in such an untouched part of Thailand. However, my amazement soon turns to concern as I am reminded of my purpose on this boat by the sound of a clicking camera behind me.

The cameraman is eagerly trying and catch the moment a foreign tourist watches as pink dolphins frolic about from the close proximity of his friend’s boat. This is a potential goldmine opportunity that he did not want to miss. And I was his guinea pig from which tourism would soon follow. After other areas have seen the influx of wealth flow in, it is understandable and justified for secluded communities such as this to want a piece of the moneycake. And to criticise this would make myself a huge hypocrite. However, after a day of being surrounded by genuine culture and raw nature, unscathed by the sprawling effects of tourism, my mind sits uneasily at the prospect of tourism completely consuming another beautiful part of the world.

As a tourist, it seems there is little escaping the chance of negative contribution. This is a concern that unfortunately comes simultaneously with exposing myself to cultural differences in order to understand diversity within the world, and wanting to help a community weigh in on the incoming capital. And so I feel it is important to draw attention to that. However, in light of wanting to enjoy the beauty and romanticism of the breath-taking landscape that surrounds me, I lay back down and relax. As our boat rocks gently on the water, my mind casts back to a fitting quotation by Scott Fitzgerald that I once read back in secondary school. “We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past”. On one hand we are all entitled to benefit from tourism whether that is economically or culturally, yet at the same time we desperately desire to hold onto the exclusive serenity of beautiful and undisturbed places such as this that may one day become a memory. I can only hope that my input here will be put to healthy use and not overuse.

Credit: Sutima

Acting for tourism amongst the beautiful islands of Krabi, Thailand.

By Connor Newson

A few days ago I arrived at a small village in a remote part of Krabi province, to teach English to the local community. Admittedly this was partly because I was guaranteed free accommodation and food which would definitely help my withering budget, but also because if I was going to volunteer then I would be sure to do something worthwhile. Little did I know that I was about to become an actor for in their promotional tourism film, and for a group of university students majoring in Tourism Communications with their final film project.

At 5.30am Teo and I (the other volunteer) were awoken at our dorm room and coaxed into a car with bleary eyes. “We need to leave now so we can catch the sun rise” explained A’om, one of the students. Five minutes later we pulled up to the pier of Laem Sak with four other crew members – Punpun, Pueng, Pam, and Floke. We waited by the sea until another car arrived. Dissaya and Toto (of climbed out and unloaded the equipment as a fisherman walked by and jumped on a boat to start its engine.

I climbed aboard and watched as a wooden table, two chairs, a picnic basket, and various film equipment was passed from one person on the pier to the other on the boat. We set off into the darkness of early morning, still barely awake and unable to see much around us as we chopped through the gentle swaying of the shallow waves. Minutes later our boat had driven up the bank of an isolated beach that was too small to be called an island, yet large enough for it to need a warning light for passing boats.

The sky had begun its spectacular transformation after we stepped onto land. Above our heads the midnight blue skies merged with a concoction of wispy orange clouds that sprouted from behind the silhouette islands in the distance. Within seconds they had turned a bright candyfloss colour as myself and Teo took our seats beside the conveniently placed table in the centre of the beach. The sun then finally breached the horizon with explosive luminosity. Suddenly the famous Krabi Islands were no longer blackened obstacles in the dark, but beautiful rocky, green canopies seemingly floating on the calm blue sea in their own magical isolation.


I was distracted by the sound of something more unnatural than rippling waves running up the sand. It was the sound of a Phantom 4 drone that had been launched into the sky, cutting through the air with its four propellers and an underbelly camera directed towards us as we sat in front of the colourful backdrop. I looked at the table in front of me – which was furnished with a table cloth and local sticky rice with banana and coconut wrapped in banana leaf, and a coffee, all laid prettily for a picturesque shot. “Action”, someone from the distance shouted.

We ate whilst the drone circled overhead, with other cameras following on foot for close-up shots. Unlike other roles back in England, I felt no pressure this timeas I was too tired to care and too focused on the much needed coffee in my hands. However, my morning caffeine dose was soon cut short – literally.

“Do you mind if one of us replaces one of you?”, someone called after the cameraman called cut.

The crew explained that they instead thought it best for a female crew member to replace a male for this shot. I guess perpetuating the normality of using a heterosexual couple to sell a romantic breakfast at sunrise is better fitted for this particular scene. Nevertheless, I volunteered to stand out and observe for the rest of the scene.

After wrapping up we hopped back in the boat and sped to a nearby island. We pulled up to a tiny alcove where an unusually large ladder led to a cave inside. We climbed and explored as the cameras and crew followed, occasionally being directed to repeat certain actions. When Theo and I climbed back down, we spotted another crevice for which to squeeze through.

Credit: Punpun

Inside a small stream ran by our feet as we crawled through the algae-covered ceiling that glowed from the shimmering water. Seconds later we emerged on the other side to a vast open marshland, looking almost untouched with towering rock faces and thriving greenery surrounding us. It looked like a location where The Beach could have been filmed at, the one with Leonardo DiCaprio, and it could easily be one considering their actual location isn’t too far from here.

After taking a couple of steps forward I found my ankles had been completely submerged in the mud. Attempting to move forward was messy. So we ran, trying to move quicker than gravity could take us, for that proved somewhat logical at the time. It was not. And just like that, we had been reborn as children, falling and throwing handfuls of mud at each other, playing in the marshy green paradise.

After a quick swim in the warm sea to rinse our caked selves, and a short journey by boat, we arrived at a private beach hidden inside the masses of floating islands. I relaxed in the sun as the crew figured out the most aesthetically pleasing angles to shoot. Shortly after I was sat on a picnic blanket with Dissaya, the girl from the sunrise scene, chatting away as various cameras filmed the scene.


The lack of direction was relaxing, despite this meaning that I wasn’t really acting. Instead I was simply a tourist and I guess that is an accurate depiction for both tourism projects. The freedom in our movement limited the extent to which false representations of tourism could be made. After all, one of the most annoying things when travelling is to be sold something that is different to what you were originally told.

Hoi An’s Beauty wont last forever: the destructive power of tourism

By Connor Newson

My initial impression of Hoi An was of admiration, despite it having an excess of tourists crowding the streets. This I don’t mind so much after being isolated in the monsoons of North Vietnam, with barely anyone else to talk to for a few days. Seeing other friendly travellers is actually quite a relief. However, this admiration soon turned to concern as I manoeuvred through the picturesque, UNESCO-recognised town, becoming acutely aware of a tragic downfall that looms over Hoi An as it is known today.

My intrigue for Hoi An came to fruition upon arrival when I was told by a local that once a month, the ancient town switch off the harsh bright lights of shops and streets and replace them with colourful lanterns, allowing the glow of the moon to shimmer off the river that runs through the centre. It just so happens that my visit falls on the same day. So I set off in the evening to explore.

As I walk I notice the moon’s struggle to break through the blanketing clouds as I walk out of a narrow and darkened alleyway. My eyes, desperately searching for light to pave my way as I turn onto another street, are instantly drawn to the hundreds of colourful lanterns suspended from wires above my head. Each one a different hand-painted design and each row an alternating colour.

The streets are now warm with a gentle glow and a charming flow of people strolling up and down. Along the street I see traders of Vietnamese food, Weasel coffee, clothes, local art, and Fairtrade crafts on every doorstep – attempting to coax myself and other tourists into their shops. I turn into another dimly lit alleyway and begin to hear the faint sound of traditional acoustic music echoing from the other end. A captivating sound, and one that begs for an audience. So I follow with a brisk walk.

As I emerge once again from the shadows of the backstreets, I see the clouds beginning to dissipate and the glimmering river comes into view ahead of me. It is swollen, seemingly at one with its artificial riverbanks, churned up and murky from the endless monsoon rain and yet surprisingly calm. Small wooden canoes and touring vessels sit idly along the ridge, with each gentle sway of a passing boat spilling water onto the sidewalk. I hear the music once more, this time it comes from a boat directly in front of me. A vocalist and two guitarists intricately pluck their notes for on-board couples to swoon over as they sit at their candle-lit tables. Like these romantics, I too feel compelled to dwell in the beauty of Hoi An. So I stand for a while, basking in an ambient concoction of colour and sound. To think how tranquil it must be to live here for a while, to take a stroll by the river in the morning and enjoy the quaintness of this little ancient town. My mind wanders a little longer until I am interrupted by a sharp tug on the sleeve of my right arm.


I look down and notice a small woman staring back in anticipation. Confusion is my first feeling, at the sudden violation of my personal space as I come back to the reality of what is no longer a charming flow of people, but instead a flock of tourists. I retrieve my arm with a polite refusal and turn back to the music, but as do so she grasps my arm once more – this time forcing a promotional flyer into my hand.

“Happy hour. Very cheap just for you”, she says in an excessively loud voice. “Happy hour, you want?”.

Happy hour. Since when do masseuses offer happy hour on massages? And I’m pretty sure I don’t own any unique qualities that would justify singling out just myself for this – clearly a sales technique. Agitation is my second feeling, at the physical restraint cast upon me and the obvious lack of understanding my initial refusal. I refuse once more. This time I begin to walk away to avoid tarnishing the chilled mood any longer. However, as I attempt to navigate through a thickening crowd, I am stopped and grabbed repeatedly by locals selling Christmas cards, more promotional flyers, various ‘Happy Hour’ discounts, and a cacophony of voices quickly escalating around me.

“Yes, you buy?”

“Very cheap for you”


“Happy hour”

It seemed then that my mood had suddenly spread amongst the surrounding tourists. I looked around for an escape but instead noticed the general ignorant attitude towards these local traders. Rude responses, abrupt interjections, mocking sarcasm and belittling laughs from privileged holiday dwellers seemed more obvious. Then it dawned on me that after weeks of futile refusals, I too had somewhat adopted this ignorance in an effort to avoid the incessant pestering. My thought was that by not replying at all, I wouldn’t be seen as a willing customer. Feeling a little ashamed and guilty, my mind wanders once more as to why this rudeness seems so common amongst ordinary tourists and backpackers. I know already that it is partially due to a vocalised – and physicalised – hassling from locals. But what causes that? Tourism as a whole?

Tourism is evidently useful in bringing jobs and wealth to the area, which is why many locals grab the opportunity to capitalise from relatively wealthy tourists, putting themselves and their business – quite literally – in the path of their consumers. For local traders, it seems that to be persistent and proactive, or rather persistently intrusive, is to make money. Here, tourists have a tendency to become agitated by both the relentless hassling (even after saying “no” three times), and the arbitrary price-tags imposed on tourists (based on their assumption of perceived wealth). And so the reply is often a negative and somewhat sarcastic or ignorant one. The retaliation of the trader can sometimes be, deservedly, argumentative and insulting. Although it appears more so than not that any retaliation is suppressed due to the fact that she or he relies on this business.

I walk on with a fresh and compassionate attitude towards the local traders. Suddenly I am greeted with possibly the most beautiful attraction of the evening: thousands of candle-lit floating lanterns gently sailing down the river. A local tells me that the lanterns are said to bring good fortune – an admirable tradition. However as I watch the river a little longer I notice that no locals are partaking, instead they sell them to tourists who proceed to fill the river. What just seemed so beautiful to me had just become defined by the death of a local tradition and the subsequent commodification of traditional culture. Not to mention the masses of plastic, card and wax that continues to pile up in the river as hundreds of lanterns are sold for a small fee every day, and thousands sold on the night of a full moon. Where does it all go?


So Hoi An’s downfall may be imminent. With the substantial increase of tourism documented by city’s Office of Trade of Tourism, specifically around the monthly lantern festival, we can only assume these effects will continue to suffocate the beauty of the ancient town as a whole. The long-term effect of catering for a rapid increase in tourism has a disastrous impact on the environment, the local economy, and human sociality of such areas. Escalating consumerism requires the expansion of commercial urban spaces to accommodate trade, and a rise of waste and pollution follows – which is particularly obvious with the precarious water level and increasing amount of lanterns in the river. As a result, the living price within and around the ancient city increases and locals are forced to move elsewhere. However the opportunity for locals to capitalise on the incoming tourism draws them back to the centre for work. Market competition is therefore concentrated also. These deteriorating aspects are topped off with the vicious social spiralling between tourist-trader interactions.


It is a depressing thought only made more so by the juxtaposition of such a beautiful location. But alas, maybe something can be done. Maybe traders will stop wrapping bananas in plastic wrap and serving every single item of food in a separate plastic bag. Maybe consumers will become slightly more conscious of the economic position of local traders, and traders will realise and respect the right to refuse. environmental and social impacts of developing cities. I guess only time will tell.