This is a travelogue from July. Looking back on it now, especially after a short trip to Ho Chi Minh City last month, it feels somewhat different.

Before this trip, my only experience of Southeast Asia had been Malaysia and Singapore, and what I knew of the region's history came in scattered pieces: the Vietnam War, the Khmer Rouge, the Thai monarchy, a few other stories. The Khmer Rouge years had left the deepest mark. Over the previous year I had watched hundreds of interviews with survivors, along with documentaries and other accounts of that period. I had not yet been to Cambodia, but I was deeply curious about what had happened there, all the more so after the border clashes between eastern Thailand and Cambodia only a few months before I left.

I had always thought well of Thailand. I associated it with inventive advertising, gentle people, devout Buddhism, and elephants. Still, much of it felt different from what I was used to, and I found myself, almost without meaning to, comparing it with Shanghai and London.

The metro, for one, was not cheap. Wages and purchasing power are lower than in Shanghai, yet the fares were noticeably higher. There were no day passes, and no way to pay with a bank card or Apple Pay. The ticket machines took cash and gave out small plastic tokens.

From the airport I took the train to Ratchaprarop Station, and then a tuk-tuk (a charming little motorised three-wheeler) to my Airbnb. As we travelled along an elevated road, I saw, for the first time in my life, what I would call a real slum. Not the places Europeans or Americans sometimes call "slums" at home, but the kind of extreme poverty you associate with Mumbai. Bamboo shacks stood beside stagnant water and heaps of rubbish. At first I took them for abandoned structures waiting to be torn down. Then I saw people moving inside, and cooking pots through the gaps in the bamboo, and the reality of it reached me all at once: people lived there, and had probably lived there for a long time. All this was within my first hour in the country. I had no time to think about it then, but the image of those broken-down shacks has stayed with me.

The density of 24-hour convenience stores, especially 7-Elevens, is remarkable, higher even than in Taipei. I sometimes wondered whether there could really be enough spending to keep so many of them going. Later, travelling in Vietnam, I found it was much the same there, so I will leave that question for another time.

As in Malaysia and Singapore, durians are treated almost as hazardous goods, and often appear on lists of prohibited items.7

Perhaps because of the sheer number of motorbikes, the traffic feels almost as stressful as Taipei's. Taxis are also surprisingly expensive, sometimes more so than in Shanghai. Fortunately there are motorbike ride-hailing services, quick and about half the price. Riding pillion feels strange at first, but it also gives you a small sense of slipping into local life.

Many vendors also like to pack food into plastic bags puffed up with air. I even saw steaming soup served this way.

It reminded me of nearly ten years ago, when my father used to go out to buy breakfast. Sticky rice sometimes came in bags like these too, though not quite the same: the plastic was crinklier and looser, not smooth and taut like the ones in Thailand. Vinegar sometimes came in a fully puffed-up bag as well, and I used to like watching it slowly sink as we used it.

In Thailand, though, the sheer quantity of plastic went beyond what I was comfortable with. I remember walking through a wet market where nearly every stall was lined with those inflated triangular bags. Seen optimistically, you might call it a local quirk. But even without much scientific knowledge, it is hard not to wonder about the health effects, especially when very hot food is poured straight into plastic.

What stayed with me most, though, were the people. On my last night, walking back towards the city centre from a shopping mall, I passed many elderly women, frail and weathered, still sitting beside their glass food carts, the same kind of carts I would later see again in Ho Chi Minh City, filled with fruit or hot food. It was nearly eleven at night. There were few people left on the streets, and some streets were barely lit. I kept wondering why they were still there, when they would go home, and what would become of the food they had not sold.

I was afraid to let myself think about it too deeply. In moments like this I feel like a coward. I am an emotional person, quick to feel what others feel, and I felt a deep sympathy for these grandmothers. This kind of sympathy, especially when it is associated with the political left, is sometimes dismissed as self-serving: a way of feeling morally superior, of helping the vulnerable to soothe one's own conscience. That is not what it is for me. If anything, I am afraid of it. I fear that once I enter someone else's situation, I will not easily find my way back out. The images stay, and so does a lingering guilt, because I do not know what I could actually do to help. I do not have that kind of emotional resilience, so sometimes the only thing I can do is make myself stop thinking.

They inevitably reminded me of my grandmother, who used to rise very early to make and sell noodles, working through cold mornings for very little. The bitterness of those memories has never really left me. Even now, thinking back to what I saw three months ago, I sometimes cannot hold back my tears.

That night, it became clearer to me why, despite my East Asian background, I prefer life in Europe, and am willing to give up some of Asia's convenience and efficiency for it. Many tourists from wealthy Western countries, I have noticed, never really think about what lies beneath. They enjoy the convenience, the efficiency, the low prices, and leave satisfied. But there is always a trade-off somewhere. Many people envy the low cost of living and labour in places like China, but can one really be entirely at ease with it? A delivery rider might work for an hour and clear only a few RMB; an elderly woman might sit out all evening just to cover the basics.

Because we do not see, whether out of simple ignorance or because we would rather not understand, we can enjoy these services without thinking about what lies behind them. Yet I strongly feel that within this kind of value system, people are reduced to commodities, made one-dimensional. Even a little understanding of their lives makes it hard to enjoy those services without some discomfort. And I say this as someone who benefits from the same system.

At the same time, people living under this kind of pressure may need stronger entertainment and greater convenience simply to numb themselves. I have noticed this in the small details of city life in Thailand, China and Vietnam alike. It becomes a self-perpetuating cycle, deeply ingrained, and unlikely to change any time soon.

I think a large part of it is that people do not really understand why different countries have developed along such different paths. In countries built on cheap labour, high efficiency, and weak protection of human and labour rights, people may come to see these conditions as normal, and begin to define their values and sense of self around them. In many wealthy welfare states, on the other hand, people may have little idea of what real hardship looks like. Even those who are unemployed or homeless can usually still find basic food and shelter. Many are born into the greenhouse of democracy, yet some still romanticise authoritarianism, complain about the freedom and security they already have, or carry a strange guilt about having them. This seems more common among younger people in the West.

I believe every human being has the right to a happy life. We are able to reflect on how we want to live, and much of human progress has come from the wish to make life better. I accept that some countries offer stronger safety nets and a better quality of life than others. What I still cannot accept is that people who work so hard can remain unable to build a better life.

The incident a few months ago, when Italian tourists openly insulted and discriminated against Thai passengers on the subway, shows where this way of seeing people can lead. Beyond their bad manners and self-absorption, I think they had, consciously or not, come to see local people mainly as commodities, as service providers. That creates a perceived hierarchy in which they feel superior, and from there it is no great surprise that they treat others as objects to be judged. Many people take advantage of others' kindness; I saw similar behaviour from Western tourists at Mount Fuji a couple of years ago. This time, at least, Thai people stood together and pushed back, and the outcome was a good one. I found that genuinely reassuring.

This was my Bangkok. Chiang Mai or Phuket may be quite different. I simply hope that these kind, ordinary people can have better lives. Perhaps because of this trip, I find myself thinking more and more about how to create something of real value, and about what the meaning of life really is.