A few weeks ago I visited Phuket for a “holiday”: Journalists are never really on holiday because there is always the possibility of a tantalising story. You run into someone who tells you something amazing or you find a fantastic old building which is full of untold histories, and then you write about it. It’s the joy of discovery and the pleasure of telling people about it that keeps us journos going.

I decided to do some homework before my trip, and rang the Thai Tourist Board. “We don’t really promote Phuket but maybe I could put you in touch with the local director?” was the response. A few days passed: nothing. I sent a polite email and got a reply which was, I suppose, sent with a dash of irony – “I am a senile old man and I have quite forgotten your query. Could you remind me?” I did and he courteously sent the required information, including a phone number. (It’s often helpful to have contacts and information before the trip as it can shorten the leg work, and I only had three days.)

What interested me about Phuket is that it is something of a sister island to Penang. They’re not dissimilar in size, both are in the Andaman Sea (well, Penang almost), and both have attracted immigrants. In the past the Chinese came to mine tin, while today tourists flock to both islands in search of winter sun and expatriates arrive in search of a dream lifestyle. Francis Light, the founder of Penang, lived in Phuket (known then as Junk Ceylon) before he came to Penang and considered making the former the main trading post for the region. The East India Company was less keen, and so Penang was chosen. Even the name Phuket is not Thai; it is derived from the Malay word bukit (hill). Penang received World Heritage Status in 2008
– which has changed the face of George Town – while Phuket is currently applying.

When I got to my hotel in Thailand, I called the number that I had been given by the tourist board. A Thai voice answered, and I spoke in English before realising it was an answering machine. I tried at various times in the day, but still met the same, incomprehensible, polite voice.

There was only one thing for it. I decided to hire a car and drive there; surely someone could assist me. I wanted to know more about the heritage quarter of Phuket Town, which was modelled on Penang’s shop houses, and how well the buildings are preserved. I wanted to find out whether they are facing similar or different issues to George Town: are the older ways of life being preserved in the face of modernisation? How is Phuket coping with the needs of expats looking to invest in property? Are they at risk of overbuilding to satisfy a perceived need, risking being left with a ruined environment and slagheaps of rotting concrete? And most important of all; do the people of Phuket think their heritage is worth preserving?

Alas, the weather intervened. Two tropical storms, in the process of being upgraded to cyclones, arrived, and even with the windscreen wipers going full blast, visibility was poor at best. Driving along, the sturdy power cables resembled the masts of great square-rigged sailing ships, their hulls sunk deep within the pavements. As the storm howled around me, I felt as if I were a passenger on a windswept clipper sailing into uncharted seas. Unfortunately, that was exactly what it proved to be. The road signs, all in Thai with some thoughtful fragments of English at the bottom, were unreadable. With the savage rain, it was as much as I could do to keep the car on the road, let alone navigate.

I never found the Tourist Board or even the old Peranakan quarter of Phuket. I did find a shopping mall, and it was a winner; hands down better than anything in Penang. The place was beautifully designed with gorgeous shops selling delectable goods, and the food hall was amazingly cosmopolitan. Plus the whole thing was under cover; I started to feel human again. On the way back, I noticed a sign saying in large English letters “SHORT CUT TO THE AIRPORT”. It sounded too easy and, like most shortcuts, left me high and dry at the next crossroads until some obliging locals cheerfully pointed out the way. There was even time for a meal before my flight left. I was torn between “drunken stir-fried squid” and “boiled Thai police/ crab/fish” (I don’t think law enforcement officials would be quite so accommodating in Penang), but then “pork roast with sweet words” won the day. As I munched through my meal, I reflected that the purpose of travel is not necessarily to get what you want, but to have experiences that open you to receiving what you need.

Read more:

• Family Relationships: Hands On or Hands Off?
• Disconnection Difficulties
• Moving to Malaysia

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