The Cultural Kaleidoscope of Southeast Asia: Navigating the Differences Between Male and Female Travellers

In the weeks prior to my departure from Edinburgh, in an unnerving, albeit well-intentioned gesture from my father, I was given four pink rape alarms.

Graphic, cautionary tales of spiking, trafficking and abductions echoed my ears as I packed. Alongside them, tragic news links littered my emails. Stories of kidnappings, drug abuse and gang violence were quickly regurgitated to fit and foretell my impending nomadic narrative. Over dinner, in the car, and almost everywhere else, conversations metamorphosed from general small talk to forewarnings on the necessary precautions I ought to be taking. Do not accept drinks that you haven’t seen made, do not trust strangers, and most importantly, do not trust men. Tricky, considering I was travelling alongside one.

Despite my dad being no exact oracle, his acute comprehension of violence against women was, naturally, embedded in the predictable tendencies of reality. While it may be easy to categorise his guidance as the familiar hypochondriac behaviours of any loving father, I prefer to think of his concerns instead as a symptomatic trait of being well informed about the reality women face. Although I was comforted by a moderate assurance that, given the right precautions and, of course, an abundance of rape alarms, I was unlikely to encounter anything quite so severe, his relentless input did little to regulate my already temperamental nervous system. As the days passed and emails persisted, I became ever more aware of an already stark contrast in the precautions I was being encouraged to take, as opposed to my male school friend, whom I was due to travel alongside. As I delegated each alarm into different backpacks, I soon found myself increasingly conscious of the need to rapidly absorb not only an understanding of an entirely new culture, but also the glaringly different experiences that were had between male and female travellers.

Having spent the best part of twenty-two years gradually adjusting to the different treatment between sexes, it customarily came as no shock that my adventure would vary from that of my friend Ruaridh’s. While my travelling forecasts had been largely pessimistic, his remained mostly playful, with the main cautionary focus being a potentially deceptive ladyboy encounter. I quickly came to realise that in order to successfully navigate Thailand’s eternal orchestra of tuk-tuks and taxis, I must first rely on my expertise of a lifetime predominantly conditioned to comprehend and adapt to prejudice, the first of which came in our connecting transfer at Doha airport.

As we shuffled toward the militant bustle of security, I glanced ahead at the intimidating abundance of wealth. Throughout the airport were luxurious retail stores, a glamorous array of fine dining options, and a world-class lounge for which a pass was likely the equivalent of our weeklong hostel stay. Beside me, Ruaridh remained oblivious to the subtle tension of sexism that had accompanied me throughout the airport. While he had encountered airport staff whose vocabulary consisted of ‘Sir’, ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, I was repeatedly ushered with nothing but hand gestures. As we approached the security queue, Ruaridh walked forward to gleaming pleasantries of ‘Good morning, Sir, how are you today? Just this tray over here, no, yes, that one, yes! Have a good day, Sir.’ Two feet behind, I waited, before the same man tsked and ushered me impatiently, stern and unspoken. Time and again, it was made abundantly clear that I was seen as a nuisance. Not because of my orderliness, not because of my tray packing etiquette, but because I was a woman. Despite my consideration that this was just one individual’s attitude, I soon found this to be a consistent and collective occurrence which encapsulated my very short time there.

Of course, a country in which Qatari law sustains a profoundly patriarchal system is not one I could simply pass through and expect an exemption from culturally embedded misogyny. It did, however, offer me a thought; we know that men and women experience the world immensely differently, but what exactly are the underlying issues which surface as a result of exploring new cultures? As we use the experience of travelling to see the world through a new perspective, which lenses are left smudged by the stain of misogyny?

Following almost seven years spent working in the hospitality industry, the most consistent and frequently expressed regret I found amongst regulars, colleagues and managers was ‘I wish I had seen more of the world.’ In my role as both a pint pourer and a listening audience, I was routinely given access to an intriguing angle on the sheer volume of regret that often weighed so heavily on people. The perfect cathartic recipe, as I discovered after two days on the job, was roughly four rounds of Tennent's combined with my inability to escape from my listening duties behind the bar. Some had desired a life in Australia and were halted by the steadiness of marriage, others had been too afraid to take a leap in career paths and instead remained comforted by their paralysing familiarity. Regardless of the particulars, most conclusions had little variation: marriage, kids, stagnancy, and an ache for the paths untrod. Long after last orders, as I gathered their emptied glasses into the washing tray, their stories lingered in my thoughts. Habitually, I assured myself with the knowledge that we were different people; that I was more determined, that I was part of a generation with more opportunities, that I’d somehow make sure I did not fall victim to the same fate. As I did so, how many people, I wondered, had had the same thoughts that I was experiencing now? And how many times had they been wrong? Confronted with the potential of this, I walked promptly home toward my dusty attic, in which my 50L Duke of Edinburgh backpack gathered cobwebs. A fate of yearning would not be one I would subject myself to.

I knew that, were I to subside my curiosity of travelling and instead dive straight into a career, the likelihood, as well as the convenience of backpacking, would only diminish with time. Not only did I have youthful passion (and naivety) to surge me forward, so too did I have enough technological exposure to witness what I was missing. In the modern world, our almost constant accessibility to what may seem like lives better lived is an undeniable catalyst for the desire to travel. Not only do I attribute this as contributing to my own backpacking cravings, but this too applies to all aspects of alternative lifestyles, from appearances to careers to hobbies. It’s no secret that for most of us in this day and age, there is an ever-evolving, insatiable appetite for something we aren’t even sure of ourselves. The drive for consumption has, it seems, never been greater in younger generations, the result being that we are in a constant state of thirst for more, regardless of whether or not we know what that ‘more’ entails. As well as this, I know that in the coming decades (particularly if I am to follow the likely eventuality of settling down and having children), the opportunity for travel, though not impossible, would inevitably have a very different definition. What may once have been a pensive long-haul flight spent gazing out at the world below would instead morph into a ten-hour dance of fidgeting, sticky-crisp fingers and a struggle for sanity. The internal question that faced me, therefore, had never been to stay or to go, but rather how and when?

No more than four hours had passed as I realised that Thailand, our first stop, was a place in which two stereotypes held steadfastly true: balding men in pursuit of Thai women, and an undying surplus of British tourists looking to drink themselves to oblivion. Both of which were evident upon our first night's arrival in Bangkok. Often, the two overlapped. For many, travel is a means of not only experience, but escapism. Tuk-tuks substitute trainline commutes, briefcases yield to backpacks, and inhibitions to alcohol. With tropical, bar-inhabited beaches and eternal opportunities for socialisation, backpacking can serve as a gateway to be temporarily unburdened from the familiarity of 9-5 jobs, boredom, hometowns and even relationships. Unfortunately for female travellers, the wonders of Southeast Asia offer no escape from patriarchy, despite its deceiving embodiment of what could easily be paradise.

In a country notorious for its allure of sex tourism, it’s no surprise that we encountered such outspoken desire for it. Our first night in Bangkok led us to explore the infamous commotion of Khao San Road, a street filled with crocodile skewers, tattoo parlours and all-night parties. Amongst it, we found ourselves caught up in the collective chaos, cheap beer in hand and weaving our way through an array of illuminated bars blasting 2000s Western hits. In what was soon to be a regular occurrence, we grew accustomed to the habitual chore of convincing new people that we were purely platonic and that our dynamic as man and woman had never exceeded otherwise. Of course, when no one believed that (or when those who did resorted to relentlessly questioning me on whether or not I would ever sleep with him), we later opted to simply say we were cousins. On one such occasion, roughly an hour into our night and before we had conceived our trusty cousin storyline, our line of questioning came from a group of New Zealanders.

When our second attempt at persuasion that we were nothing more than friends was deemed successful, there was an instant shift in atmosphere. Eyes turned away from Ruaridh and instead onto me. Before this, I had simply been a woman who was there, a sexually inaccessible extension of the man they had befriended. Prior to this, they had asked me no questions other than my name, taken no interest in what I had to say, and instead were intently focused on the game of pool at hand. Afterwards, the newly established presence of sexual pursuit was almost tangible, and I felt myself being considered differently, not just as a woman who happened to be there, but as a newly valid option that could potentially be enjoyed. Two of them became almost instantly dedicated to knowing more about my home country and how I spent my time in it, whilst another became persistent in his efforts to ‘help’ my pool-playing positioning (which, of course, obliged him to touch my hips as he did so). Minutes later, as I grew uncomfortable and ventured downstairs to the bar, one appeared again next to me, before asking with an insinuating grin if I wanted to join him in the bathroom for ‘some fun’.

Of course, the difficulty in dissecting this lies within variable circumstances. In reality, a situation like this could have happened just as easily back home; after all, lustful creeps are never too far. The difference, however, is that these encounters are spoken in a cultural language we may likely be unfamiliar with. When faced with similar circumstances back home, not only do we tend to feel less vulnerable than we would when travelling, but we also have the context in which our misogyny is being delivered. Though it likely does not make the experience any less uncomfortable, we at least tend to have the contextual fluency to understand it better. Given that we have the historical, social and anthropological comprehension in which our sexism is received, we perhaps feel more equipped to deal with it. In this regard, it may not be a question of new experiences that are unique to travelling, but rather that, in what is likely an entirely new adventure of language, culture and climate, the added exposure of sexual vulnerability undeniably shapes the daily choices and characteristics of female backpackers.

Rarely (if ever) do we see cultural examples that are embedded in a matriarchy that steadfastly sexually exploits its men. In a small number of ancient Mediterranean and South Asian fertility cults, men may have been symbolically sacrificed or used in ritualised sex, but they were episodic, not societal matriarchies. Sexual exploitation exists throughout history only as a male-dominated systemic institution due to what anthropologists have argued are reasons of physicality, political power, property ownership and structures of warfare. Contrastingly, societies that gave women more power tended to emphasise cooperation and community, not domination. This is not to deny the potential of male sexual violence victims, just to emphasise the immensely higher statistical likelihood of female-targeted experiences. Certainly, for myself, I found that while Ruaridh and I shared a large array of the anxieties which accompany many backpackers, his lack of foundational sexual fear and influence allowed him to operate at an enormously greater ease than I found myself comfortable in. In many instances, the evidence of this contrast in sexual vulnerability between men and women could be easily found, with one frequent example being the male backpacking fascination with taking ‘the road less travelled’.

Obviously, my own aspirations for travel adhere to a certain desire for exploration that at least partially aligns with this appetite for expedition. The difference, however, was the transparency of arrogance that accompanied many of these men. Despite my reluctance to discredit the excitement of adventure, the ignorance with which they expressed their presumed freedom from danger was a trait I found difficult to digest. The usual culprit tended to come from a background of privilege. Time and again, it was a man in his early twenties, English, scruffy, and armoured with a characteristically aristocratic name. Usually, the impulse to habitually hitchhike, travel Afghanistan, walk the paths ill-advised by guides, and ignore the constraints of women’s fundamental liberties in their surrounding circumference was an impulse I found only in men. Of course, not all men who participate in this thirst for unconventional routes fit this stereotype, just every single one that I met. My issue lies not just with these male travellers, but more so with the aching acknowledgement that their privilege is not shared among women. Grace Millane, Danielle McLaughlin, Vasilisa Komarova, Louisa Jespersen and Maren Ueland are among a seemingly endless list of victims who suffered sexual assaults, gang rapes, strangulations and beheadings while backpacking, leaving me eternally unable to shake the recognition that women are historically stagnated by men. This isn’t a new revelation, of course, just one that rekindles my heartache for women every time an ignorant man takes to the jungle. Not because we as women cannot choose to take to the wilderness ourselves, but rather because our likelihood of sexual violence is often enough to deter any desire for it.

It was clear that, for many, Thailand’s reputation for sex tourism was the magnetic pull at least partially responsible for their journey. Chiang Mai, situated in a mountainous region known as the Thai highlands, was notoriously recognised as a sort of spiritual oasis. Shrooms and hippie jewellery stalls were available on almost every corner, monks could be spotted wandering through 7/11, and evening temple chanting activities were a common occurrence for those seeking the full experience. When we first arrived at our hostel, we were greeted by a man named Violet (barefoot, with dreadlocks, and wearing only violet-coloured clothing). He put down his acoustic guitar, bowed to us, and told us to come to him if we’d like to purchase any drugs. It was here that we befriended a Canadian. Tom was 6’3, witty, and was about to assume a leading role in his father’s tech company. Within five minutes, I was acquainted with both him and the details of his long-distance girlfriend, a master’s student studying physics in Vancouver, who was not only the centre of our conversational orbit, she was also his lock screen; a gorgeous, doe-eyed embodiment of elegance. That night, he joined us for dinner.

Whether it was the fact that almost everyone was consistently high in one form or another, or that people felt encompassed by an air of spiritual accountability, Chiang Mai was magnetic enough to override the frequent pretentiousness. As we perched on our child-sized plastic chairs and waited for our Pad Thai, I slipped into a daydream of people watching, half-listening to the conversation I was yet to contribute to. Two beers in, the topic veered once more onto Tom’s girlfriend. While Ruaridh and I indulged in our dubious single anecdotes, Tom exchanged details of his relationship: how they met, how they managed long-distance, what their plans for the future were (moving in together, adopting a cat, matching obscure fine-line tattoos). The mere mention of her name seemed to fill him with an inherent source of romantic pride, far from the conversations I had grown accustomed to having with others who were visibly suffering the challenges of long-distance. In contrast, Tom’s genuine earnestness was enough to convince me of his authenticity. Not only did he talk about her in the same fashion I had imagined belonged exclusively to literature, but he also had an air of dedication around him that seemed to circulate loyalty. There was an undeniable finality in his affection toward his partner, whom he told us, after a quick phone call home, was nestled up on the sofa looking for a short getaway for them to enjoy together when he returned. The next evening, he told us about the happy ending massage he’d just received. Ruaridh and I exchanged a glance. Upon further clarification, they weren’t in an open relationship; to Tom, it simply didn’t mean anything. ‘Telling her would just make her upset,’ with a tone that indicated that this was far from his first rodeo, ‘…and why would I want to upset her when it’s just not necessary?’

Just like that, he had cemented himself as a loser. Gross, apathetic, and worst of all, predictable. I soon came to realise that this was a thought process shared among many backpackers with relationships waiting back home. While many, like Tom, seemed only interested in the emotionally vacant exchanges shared with sex workers, others let it pave the way for deception of all and any kind. For many, Thailand was a tropical, erotic playground in which the behavioural defects that led to serial cheating were allowed to run rampant. While I often found culprits of both men and women partaking in infidelity, the habitual enjoyment of Thailand’s infamous sex tourism industry was a practice I found exclusively belonged to men. 

I struggled to distinguish whether this was a result of ignorance, greed or apathy. In time, I concluded that it was often a cocktail of all three. Being an overwhelmingly male-driven industry, sex tourism’s exploitative nature is not only inherently dangerous, it also encourages the demand for child prostitution, an issue found not only in Thailand but also largely in Cambodia and the Philippines. Cambodia’s sex industry is an intricate and multifaceted issue, firmly embedded in the country’s cataclysmic history and socio-economic struggles. After the Khmer Rouge had decimated the country’s infrastructure, the subsequent decades of recuperation have meant that most women have entered the sex industry due to economic necessity, while others are trafficked entirely against their will. In an audio-guided tour of the Cambodian killing fields, stories of systematic sexual violence under the Khmer Rouge echoed through my headset. Reminders of women’s consistent sexual suffering were everywhere; from a confessional segment from a gang rape survivor claiming: ‘I am filthy from other people’, to an enormous pit in the ground that once contained women and children’s bodies, raped and naked.

The next evening, as we wandered through the streets of Phnom Penh, again, the impact of genocide was unavoidable. Hundreds of sex workers stood in clusters on either side of the street, beckoning Ruaridh to come closer and engage as he walked just a few short steps ahead of me. Men of all ages apprehensively shuffled toward them, attempting to display some kind of ethical reluctance before eventually making their way inside. Others made no such attempt and instead strode quickly up to a presumably preconceived building. I left thirty minutes afterwards, grateful for the geographical luck that separated my existence from one such as this, and mulling over my disgust with men’s reliable unethicality.

Ultimately, despite what may appear to be a pessimistic view of the fate of female travellers, it is a journey I would choose again and again. Whether you are crossing borders or walking the familiar paths of your hometown, misogyny can, and likely will, find you anywhere. You can't outrun it by staying still, so don't let it be the reason to stagnate you. Go anyway. The obstacles of patriarchy are not bound by geography; they are unconfined and international. They shapeshift, speak different languages and abide by different laws, but they are always there, and the issue has rarely been women’s lack of courage, but rather men’s recurring lack of conscience. To travel as a woman is to know that the world can be ugly, and yet to hunger for it all the same. The challenge, therefore, is not only to keep women safe as they explore the world, but to strive for a world that does not make safety a privilege of men.