After 340 days, I have returned to the place where I began my life in Asia.
It feels as if I left here just today.
It feels as if a century has passed since I left here.
Experiences
As I began writing this piece, two separate trains of thought crossed my mind. The first was sparked by a couple of events that occurred over the last few days. I felt a strong urge to write about them, but I wasn’t sure where to fit it in—would it be overkill to make it a standalone post? And if so, which existing post would be the right place for it? The second train of thought helped me find the right direction.
Back during the Nomad Cruise, a particular feeling struck me. A common part of any introductory conversation is the question: “How long have you been on the road?” I remember how I felt back then—the sheer awe I experienced when someone I was talking to would casually say, “I’ve been traveling for eight years.” Most people were like that; they measured their travels in years.
Around the sixth month of my own journey, I began to notice that people would take note when I mentioned how many months I’d been traveling. Eight more months have passed since then. Now, I see that same look on other people’s faces—the very same expression that must have been on mine back on the Nomad Cruise.
I’m not sure how many months or years of travel it takes for someone to be considered an “experienced” world traveler. I don’t think such a clear-cut line even exists—not least because everyone travels at a different pace. We all have different levels of openness to the world and different appetites for adventure. We also have different budgets and varying degrees of physical preparedness.
In any case, I certainly feel experienced now. And it seems, more and more often, that others think this about me, too.
Over the weekend, a friend from Hungary reached out. He’s planning a trip to Asia with his son in January—perhaps to Phuket, where I happened to be at the time. He asked if I could recommend any good accommodation. How could I have? I’d only arrived in that city a day earlier. Still, I began sharing a few thoughts with him—things to look out for, services worth using. Suddenly, I realized that my replies filled several screens in our Messenger chat. It turned out I *did* have plenty to share, even if I couldn’t suggest a specific place to stay.
On Monday, I arrived on the island of Koh Samui after a long bus ride followed by a short boat trip. A fellow traveler struck up a conversation. When he learned that I had already lived on this island for three months, he started asking questions. It was an incredible feeling to be able to answer him by speaking about places I had actually visited, experienced, and lived in.
This line of questioning sparked a new train of thought: just how many memories do I carry from this single island?
So many people—whose names and faces I still remember clearly. The streets I walked down countless times. The rides around the island on a motorbike. The experience of walking the entire perimeter of the island. The “OM” symbol on my hand. The image of the sea…
It is Monday. I am sitting on a ferry, writing. In about 45 minutes, I will arrive at the island. I will pause here—in my recollection and in my writing. I plan to publish this post tomorrow, Tuesday.
I would like to describe how the island and I recognized each other once again.
Well, how, then?
After getting off the boat, I had to find a taxi. It was raining, and my accommodation was 18 km away. While still on board, I quickly checked the prices on Grab; the cheapest ride was 570 baht. So, when the taxi drivers—who swarmed me the moment I stepped off—asked how much I’d pay, I could only laugh. They wanted 1,200 baht. I waved them off, saying that was out of the question. “How much, then?” one asked. I said 550, and he walked away. Another man, however, jumped in and offered to take me for 600. I told him I wouldn’t pay more than the price shown on Grab.
He agreed to 570, and off we went. There was bottled water in the car door, and he invited me to take some; he also offered me some candy. By the time we left the port area, I told him, “Alright, let’s make it 600.” I didn’t actually take the water or the sweets, but his thoughtfulness was certainly worth an extra 30 baht.
That’s how I arrived on the island—with a smile. This style of bargaining has become so familiar to me now, though it felt completely alien when I first arrived. Back then, knowing nothing, I simply accepted a taxi driver’s offer—and ended up paying 10 USD for a 5-kilometer trip. I know now that I was overcharged. Today, the price for an 18-kilometer journey was 600 baht. I got out of the car at the entrance to the familiar Fisherman’s Village. I had deliberately chosen not to be dropped off right at my doorstep; I wanted to take a stroll along the familiar street. I arrived here with a smile on my face. Nothing had changed. Sure, there are a few nice new shops, but for the most part, everything is exactly the same.
Just then, my older younger brother called, so I stopped to take the call—right in the spot where I usually stop to chat. As we caught up, I gazed out at the sea and the island of Koh Phangan—just as I always do.
I popped into the GreenLight Hotel to surprise the owner, but he wasn’t there. No matter—he’ll be surprised next time instead.
I walked along the seaside road—a path I must have traversed about 120 times over the course of three months. As I neared my place, I noticed some new construction, a building that was no longer there, and a “spirit house” that had been relocated. That’s how the last 11 months have passed along this road.
Jody! I’m not sure how one goes about surprising a dog, but I think she was surprised. She spent a minute sniffing me and snuggling up—or at least, as much as an “old lady” dog can snuggle.
My host—a friend of mine—wasn’t surprised; he knew I was coming. It was wonderful to see each other. We chatted for a good fifteen minutes, and then I settled into my old room. Everything in the house is exactly as it used to be. I knew that the false ceiling in my room had once collapsed—right onto the bed. But there’s no trace of it now. Everything in this room is exactly as it was the last time I saw it.
My first Asian-style bathroom… It smells exactly as I remember. The colors and all the fixtures are familiar. I took a look at the kitchen, too—needless to say, everything here is just as it used to be.
After chatting a bit more with my friend, I headed out to run some errands and grab lunch—at the very restaurant where I’d so often eaten my favorite Massaman curry. I placed my order and sat down at my usual table. When the owner brought the food over, she asked, “You were here last year, too, right?” LOL. Of course I was! She asked about the friend I used to eat here with; I told her he’s in Cambodia—I’d actually seen him just a few weeks ago. I remembered the day I walked all the way around this island—arriving at this restaurant, exhausted, soaked, and hungry. That same friend was already waiting for me. And I ate Massaman curry.
I could say that was the end of the day, but that wouldn’t be true. That evening, my host—my friend—and I went out. We had a few beers, just as we’d done so often over the last few weeks. We talked a lot, drank plenty of beer, and listened to some great music—just like before. Well, that’s how the first day ended.
It was here, in Asia, that I first felt like I was home—two or three days after I’d arrived.
This time, it didn’t take that long.
Buy me a coffee?
If you enjoyed this story, you can buy me a coffee. You don’t have to – but it means a lot and I always turn it into a new adventure.
Buy a coffee for Steve
Linktree
Short introduction