Cafes and pools have integrated themselves so thoroughly into modern travel that we seem incapable of experiencing a civilisation without first ordering a beer in it. From Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City, from Siem Reap to Singapore and finally Bali, the ritual becomes strangely familiar. There we sit, pleasantly marooned beside an infinity pool at Omma Dayclub, Bali, Indonesia, watching people bathe, eat, drink, photograph the food before eating it, and waste enough water to make a small village nervous. Solace, perhaps. Peace would be overstating the achievement.
Then came Pub Street in Siem Reap, where night arrives with the volume permanently stuck on maximum. Neon flashes, music escapes from every doorway, and beer flows with missionary zeal. Tourists who spent the morning reverently contemplating the thousand-year-old stones of Angkor Wat spend the evening contemplating one more cocktail. Civilisations rise and fall; Happy Hour survives them all.
Cambodia has its own perfectly respectable currency, the riel, yet the US dollar receives almost royal treatment. Prices appear in dollars, bills arrive in dollars, while the riel often enters as change, like a supporting actor grateful for three lines. And the dollar must maintain standards: offer a note too torn or crumpled, and it may be inspected like a forged passport. Apparently, the dollar must look ready for a White House reception; the riel may look as though it has survived a shipwreck.
So there we were: Angkor behind us, Pub Street blazing ahead, dollars in the wallet and riels multiplying mysteriously in our pockets. Historical enlightenment by day, financial confusion by night.
At Potato Head in Seminyak, Bali, even the name seemed to be spinning while we sat solemnly eating sweet-potato fries and corn ribs that resembled the dental remains of some prehistoric animal. Around us, Seminyak performed its curious balancing act: Bali outside the gates, the international leisure republic within. Nobody asked why corn needed ribs. Modern civilisation has progressed beyond such questions. If a vegetable can be given an anatomical part, seasoned, charred and served on an expensive plate, it has successfully entered the global economy.
At Omma Dayclub, a natural waterfall provided a magnificent backdrop, while deep infinity pools, conspicuously free of lifeguards, sat rather uneasily with the travellers. Apparently, once you have crossed oceans for adventure, swimming at your own risk becomes part of the cultural experience. Nature supplied the waterfall; tourism added cocktails, loungers and a disclaimer.
Around us moved that astonishing multitasking labour force of the international holiday industry: carrying plates, clearing glasses, arranging towels, answering questions, taking photographs, remembering allergies and smiling through it all. A cheerful “Thank you for coming” seemed permanently adhesive to their lips. One sometimes wondered whether, after the tourists had finally gone, they went home, removed the smile carefully and placed it beside the uniform for tomorrow.
Meanwhile, political turmoil simmers across much of the world, economies wobble, governments quarrel, wars refuse to end and ordinary people worry about the price of tomorrow’s breakfast. Yet from the beaches of Bali to the polished waterfronts of Singapore, bury all that beneath enough hot sand, chilled beer and resort lighting, and it becomes surprisingly difficult to see. The holidaymaker knows only one foreign policy: enjoy to the fullest. If enjoyment requires gulping down an ocean, we shall ask for a straw. If the setting sun over the Indian Ocean looks particularly beautiful, we shall photograph it from seventeen angles and attempt to take it home. We have paid for the holiday; naturally, the solar system must cooperate.
When travellers become travelders
Somewhere between the third beer and the sunset selfie, however, an uncomfortable question surfaces: when did travelling stop being about entering another culture and become an exercise in persuading that culture to resemble home?
Perhaps we need a new species of traveller: the travelder, part traveller, part invader. The old invaders arrived with armies, flags and cannons. Travelders arrive with wheeled suitcases, dietary requirements, Wi-Fi passwords and a firm belief that every civilisation should contain an infinity pool. They do not conquer territory; they conquer menus. The local breakfast quietly retreats, avocado toast advances, the old tea shop becomes an “artisan café”, and a centuries-old neighbourhood wakes up one morning to discover that its principal contribution to human civilisation is now an Instagrammable wall.
The modern travelder is particularly fascinating because we spend months dreaming of going somewhere “authentic”, then become mildly distressed when authenticity actually appears. Hanoi may give us steaming bowls from a pavement kitchen, Siem Reap the shadow of Angkor, and Bali its temples, offerings and ceremonies, but sooner or later somebody asks: Is there oat milk? Is there air-conditioning? Does the taxi take cards? We cross oceans in search of difference and then award five stars when difference has been successfully removed.
And destinations, understandably, cooperate. Tourism pays salaries, fills hotels and keeps restaurants alive. So, in the race to become “world-class”, places bend, polish, upscale and sanitise themselves to accommodate people who have travelled thousands of miles apparently in search of precisely what they had left behind. A café in Seminyak begins to resemble one in Singapore, which resembles one in London, which resembles one in New York. Same distressed furniture. Same hanging plants. Same sourdough. Same solemn little bowl containing something nobody can identify but everybody photographs. Geography changes; the menu apparently missed the flight.
Everywhere is the same
Culture has not disappeared. It has simply been moved slightly to the side so that the infinity pool gets a better view.
And we sit there, sipping our beer, enormously pleased by how wonderfully “international” everything has become. Somewhere behind us, perhaps, an old woman in Bali is still preparing food the way her grandmother taught her, or a family in Hanoi is eating a meal that has never needed to be called “authentic” because it simply is. But we are busy. The corn ribs have arrived, the sunset is beginning, and somebody needs to find Portrait Mode.
Perhaps one day we shall travel from Delhi to Hanoi, Siem Reap, Singapore and Seminyak, look around and discover that we have finally succeeded: everywhere is exactly the same. There will, of course, be a pool. And avocado toast.
(Dr Bina Biswas is an author, academician and translator. She writes on literature, history, education and culture)
