By Lara Bamping | Lifestyle & Reviews Contributor
What happens when the holiday never ends — but starts to feel hollow? In this heartfelt reflection, longtime expat and artist Lara Bamping opens up about the transition from beach-hopper to true island dweller. It’s a story for anyone caught between vacation mode and building a life, told with wit, warmth, and just the right amount of chilli.
✨ Leaving the Tourist Bubble: How I Found My Real Phuket
The Glittering Mirage
I arrived in Phuket the way so many of us do — sun-seeking, soul-searching, and slightly burnt out. It was the late ’80s when I first washed up on these shores, equal parts curious and chaotic, clutching a Lonely Planet guide and dreams of something freer than the life I’d left behind in Sydney.
Back then, the island felt like a postcard come to life. Mangoes were sweeter, the days slower, and the nights crackled with possibility. I lived for the rhythm of reggae bars and motorbike rides, Thai whisky shared with strangers, the promise of reinvention. I’d spend hours beach-hopping like it was a full-time job — from the powdery stretches of Kata Noi to the buzzy edge of Patong, each cove held the illusion of a new beginning.
For a while, I mistook motion for meaning. I wasn’t really living in Phuket — I was drifting through it, wrapped in the same cotton-silk sarong as a hundred other hopeful wanderers. We called it freedom, but looking back, I see how I clung to the comforts: Western cafés where the baristas knew how to spell my name, resorts with infinity pools and infinity mirrors. Everything reflected back a version of paradise I didn’t question.
And why would I? The island seduced me daily. The sunsets staged performances just for me, or so I liked to think. I danced barefoot on beaches and dated men who didn’t ask about my last name. I filled my days with smoothies and spa appointments and swore this was it. I’d made it. I was living the dream.
But there’s a truth that sneaks up on you if you stay long enough. One day, the smoothie feels like a script. The spa music gives you a headache. And you catch yourself looking out past the infinity pool, wondering what’s beyond the manicured edges. I remember the exact moment — sipping a third overpriced Aperol spritz at some rooftop bar surrounded by holidaymakers on their third day in Thailand, while I was months, maybe years, deep.
That’s when the shimmer started to dull.
🌴 Part One: Life Inside the Bubble
In those early years — or what I now call my satin sarong phase — I was technically living in Phuket, but really, I was just floating on top of it.
My days were dipped in ease. I’d start with a yoga class in a beachfront studio where the scent of lemongrass mingled with foreign accents and fresh coconut oil. Breakfast meant smashed avo at a café with reclaimed wood tables and playlists that made me nostalgic for Melbourne laneways. I knew every new brunch spot before the influencers did. My tuk-tuk drivers were on WhatsApp. I was in deep — but only with the version of the island that had been polished for comfort.
We called ourselves expats, but we were just long-term tourists, really — orbiting the local culture like moons circling a very warm, very spicy sun. I knew how to ask for my curry mai phet and say thank you with a wai, but beyond that? It was more performance than presence.
Even my home — a serviced apartment with weekly linen changes and a front desk that spoke four languages — kept me snug in the bubble. And I didn’t question it. Why would I? It was delightful, easy, curated like an Instagram feed. I bounced between beach clubs, wine tastings, charity galas with expats in flowy dresses and linen shirts. We talked about “the locals” like they were a separate species.
There was safety in the bubble. Familiarity. Predictability. It was life in soft focus — beautiful, but a little bit blurred.
Still, the cracks started to whisper.
It was subtle at first. A growing discomfort when I realised I didn’t know the name of the woman who made my som tam every Tuesday. A sense of shame when I couldn’t read the signs at the market near my soi. A longing, strange and sudden, to belong — not just exist alongside.
That’s the thing about the bubble — it holds you gently, until one day it doesn’t. You start to feel the membrane thinning. And eventually, you realise it’s time to press your palm against it… and see what’s on the other side.
💡 Part Two: Cracks in the Surface
It didn’t happen all at once. No great epiphany, no dramatic departure from my brunch-bubble life. Just little things. A slow peeling back of the gloss.
One of the first moments I remember — really remember — was on a Tuesday afternoon in October, the kind of day when the monsoon rolls in sideways and you can smell the ozone before it hits. I was on my bike, a little red Honda I’d named Ruby, zipping back from the gym with a takeaway iced latte balanced precariously between my thighs. And then — splat — rain like a wall, and the bike, sweet Ruby, decided she’d had enough.
I skidded to a stop outside a hardware shop I’d never noticed before. A dusty, cluttered little joint with a rusty corrugated roof and a hand-painted sign in looping Thai script. Inside, a man I now know as Uncle Lek waved me in with a towel, not a word of English between us, but warm eyes and a firm nod that said you’re alright, come in.
We didn’t talk much — not with words. He handed me a cup of instant coffee in a chipped Doraemon mug. I sat on an upturned bucket, soaked and grateful, watching rain ribbon down the front of the shop like silver strings. He fixed Ruby’s loose chain without fuss, refused money, and sent me off with a grin and a plastic bag over my helmet. That was the first time I felt it — not service, not hospitality. Kindness. Quiet, unscripted, without a TripAdvisor review in sight.
Then came a hundred moments like that. My landlord, a retired teacher named Khun Wan, started leaving fresh guava by my door. I learned that her daughter taught dance to local kids just down the lane — one night I wandered past and got pulled in, bare feet and all, to an impromptu lesson in Thai classical movement (spoiler: I was terrible, but they clapped anyway).
A street vendor near the roundabout began saving the crispiest pieces of pork for me. A teenager at the 7-Eleven complimented my clumsy Thai with a high-five and a “suay mak!” that left me beaming all afternoon. A monk I passed each morning outside the temple began nodding in recognition — a subtle gesture, but one that felt like an invitation to belong.
Bit by bit, my Phuket started to shift. I wasn’t just in the island anymore — I was of it.
It didn’t mean giving up everything familiar. I still had my wine nights and my Spotify playlists. But something had turned. The days felt less like a holiday I was stretching out and more like a life — rooted, imperfect, rich with rhythm.
The gloss had cracked, and something far more beautiful had started to bloom through it.
🏡 Part Three: Becoming Local (Sort Of)
Now, let’s be clear — I’ll never really be Thai. My wai still sometimes hovers awkwardly between too low and too limp. I speak the language with all the fluency of a slightly drunk parrot. And yet, something shifted when I started trying — really trying — to live in rhythm with the island instead of just skimming along its surface.
It began with mornings. These days I wake up early — not because I have to, but because I want to. There’s a little noodle stall on the corner of my soi where the broth tastes like someone’s grandma poured her soul into it. The woman there, Dao, knows I like it spicy but not suicidal, and she adds an extra scoop of garlic because she says I look like I need the strength. I still have my oat milk lattes and smashed avo on toast — old habits die hard — but sometimes, I just can’t resist those noodles.
I started exploring the wet markets too. Sometimes I still head to Villa Market for the luxuries — decent wine, good cheese, a few hard-to-find bits that remind me of home — but there’s something deeply grounding about wandering through rows of dragonfruit, stepping over puddles, and being scolded (lovingly) by an aunty in slippers for touching the mangoes too firmly. The food’s fresher, the stories thicker, and the smells? Let’s just say you don’t forget them.
Learning Thai has been humbling and hilarious. I once told a vendor I was pregnant with rice. Meant to say “beautiful flower” and somehow managed to call him a boiled egg. But these missteps turned into moments — little cracks where connection found its way in. I hum along to luk thung songs in the tuk-tuk, and one day, I’d love to know the words.
These days, I’ve let go of the beach clubs and the long, boozy lunches. Instead, I find myself at my “club” — not really a club, but that’s what we call it. It’s a cosy little bar with a good mix of Thai locals and farang regulars, where no one cares what you’re wearing or who you know. We sit together, dance when the mood hits, sip something strong and be merry. It’s simple, warm, and wonderfully unpolished — and I wouldn’t trade it for a rooftop brunch if you paid me.
The truth is, I didn’t stop being me. I just stopped pretending. I let go of the need to curate my life here like it was something to impress anyone. I let it be messy, real, deeply felt.
And in doing so, I didn’t just find a new version of Phuket — I found a new version of myself.
❤️ Part Four: Finding My Phuket
What “real” means isn’t fixed — it’s fluid, personal. For me, it’s a patchwork stitched together with slow mornings, papaya-stained fingers, and laughter that rolls out of a bar that’s not really a bar but we call it our “club.” It’s plate after plate of khra pow on rice with a crispy fried egg, eaten with friends who straddle two languages and a dozen lifetimes between them.
We sit together at our spot — Thai and farang, young and not-so — passing around bottles, belting out ballads, dancing when the mood strikes. Some nights it’s rowdy, some nights soft. No dress code, no DJ, no curated cocktails — just connection. I look around and I know these people. We may not have arrived in Phuket for the same reasons, but somehow, we’ve all chosen to stay.
And no — this isn’t a rejection of the tourist dream. I still adore a cold martini with a sea view, a linen sundress catching the breeze, a sunset that knocks you sideways. But the dream has changed. Expanded. It’s deeper now. It has wrinkles and a backstory.
Phuket’s still paradise — but now I know where the cracks are. And I love it more because of them.
For anyone reading this and feeling that quiet tug — that sense that maybe there’s more to this island than smoothies and sunbeds — I’ll say this: step outside the bubble. Let it burst. Take the long way home. Say yes to the awkward, the unknown, the invitation to really live here.
Because somewhere beyond the beach clubs and resort brunches, there’s a version of Phuket that doesn’t sparkle — it glows. Quietly. From the inside.
And when you find it, you’ll know.
About the Author
Lara Bamping is a linen-clad, lipstick-wearing expat who landed in Phuket in the 1980s and never quite left. A storyteller, artist, and passionate people-watcher, she splits her time between Thailand, Bali, and the back verandahs of Australia. She writes about cocktails, community, and the joy of ageing fabulously.
