SPANDEX, BOOBS, AND THE LOST ART OF DRESSING: A DISSECTION OF WESTERN "FASHION" IN SOUTHEAST ASIA
- Jan Writer
- Nov 2, 2024
- 4 min read
One night, after too many cervezas and an existential debate with a coconut vendor in Cebu, it struck me—and not lightly—that the world is, indeed, an absurd theater. And we, humans, are the clowns.
But there’s a special kind of performance that really deserves a standing ovation of side-eyes: Westerners in Southeast Asia, decked out in synthetic activewear and sweaty bravado, as if each moment were a Spartan race under an oppressive equatorial sun.
Before you accuse me of gatekeeping—which I proudly would, by the way—take a minute to remember that I am Filipino. That gives me some kind of backstage pass to this discourse. I know the sights of Manila, Boracay, and Palawan like an old lover’s familiar smile, and I’ve seen them invaded by the spandex revolution. Stretchy neon tank tops paired with shorts so high and snug they seem to be embroidering hymns into strangers' retinas.
Bali and Thailand are no strangers to this phenomena either—where shrines of millennia-old spirituality now share landscape space with muscle tanks proudly broadcasting “Good Vibes Only” and sports bras barely holding back a rebellion of cleavage.
Sacrilege? Maybe.
But, let’s pause. Let’s rewind to a time when travel implied a kind of reverence. When explorers like Raden Saleh painted the splendor of Java with his soul and sweat, not to parade his pecs or pretend his flip-flops were cultural ambassadors.
“Clothes make the man,” said Mark Twain, though if he were alive today, standing in front of some digital nomad whose main office is a bean bag in Ubud, he might add, “But not whatever the hell that is.” The sheer gall! The audacity! It’s like the modern Westerner believes Southeast Asia is their personal yoga mat—stretch and sweat at will.
Now, I can almost hear the rebuttal from every sunburned, mango-smoothie-sipping backpacker: “But it’s hot, man. It’s cultural immersion!”
Oh, really? Since when did cultural immersion include parading half-naked in front of temples older than your great-grandmother’s knitting patterns? Did Gautama Buddha meditate for 49 days under the Bodhi tree just so Chad could show up shirtless and Instagram his abs?
It isn’t just an issue of fabric, my friends. It’s an issue of cultural sensitivity—or lack thereof.
And while we’re at it, let’s address the gender imbalance here. Women traipse around with string-laced tops that look like rebellious cobwebs. Men? They saunter shirtless through sacred markets, glistening like bronze deities from an ironic pantheon of pretentiousness. God forbid they meet an auntie’s disapproving stare.
That stare is a weapon forged through years of cultural fortitude, designed to cut down peacocks and philistines alike.
What’s particularly irksome is that these offenders don’t pull the same stunts back home.
Let’s play detective for a moment. Have you seen Derek or Jessica strolling shirtless through Vatican City or posing in sports bras in front of Notre Dame? No, because even they know those sacred sites would demand respect—and any attempt at such behavior would be met with outrage.
But Southeast Asia? Here, the sun and the scent of lemongrass seem to lull them into a state of sartorial anarchy. The temples and palaces, replete with complex carvings and history so thick it’s practically a second atmosphere, somehow become nothing more than a colorful backdrop to their sweaty, half-clad, yoga poses.
In The Society of the Spectacle, Guy Debord once remarked, “In a world that really has been turned on its head, truth is a moment of falsehood.” I think of this each time I watch some tourist’s ass-cheek-peeking shorts stride past the 9th-century Borobudur Temple, where bas-reliefs tell stories of enlightenment and human suffering.
Can you imagine Siddhartha's bemusement, perhaps muttering, “Damn, and I thought I had distractions.”
Sure, there are exceptions, and not all Western travelers are participants in this parade of synthetic audacity. Some tread respectfully, with an understanding of the narratives sewn into the local threads.
But exceptions are just that—exceptions. The larger picture is a grotesque parody, and it’s been normalized.
Perhaps the modern Western traveler sees this as a reclamation—an idea of the body liberated, free of Victorian hangups and self-imposed prisons of fabric.
But when did that libertine ideal become a license for buffoonery? There’s a difference between liberation and narcissistic exhibitionism.
Some of this comes down to a post-colonial hangover. There’s a subconscious equation that plays out: “Here, my cultural norms don’t apply. Here, I am the explorer, not the visitor.” It reeks of entitlement. And listen, I’m not saying every Filipino or Balinese or Thai person is scandalized. We’re resilient, used to brushing off all kinds of cultural insensitivity. But used to it doesn’t mean it’s acceptable.
Western tourists have turned the concept of travel attire into a spectacle so shallow, not even a puddle would dare reflect it.
So, the next time Chad, Jessica, or whoever contemplates their Southeast Asian wardrobe with that insufferable nonchalance, I hope they’ll stop and hear the echo of an ancient drum or the whisper of batik cloth brushing the skin. A reminder that places carry stories and spaces have souls—and Spandex just might not be the best narrator for either.
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