How I Built This (Or What I Learned from Being a Scammy Marketer)

As I approach my ten-year anniversary of blogging, I want to tell a tale. The tale of an accidental travel writer who simply wanted to afford beer, dorm rooms, plane tickets, and backpacker pub crawls.

I shared part of this story before but, today, I want to go into more depth.

Once upon a time, I started this website with a selfish goal: to make money to keep myself traveling. I wanted my website to be an online résumé where editors could see my writing and go, “Yeah, we want to hire that guy!” — and then paying to go somewhere and write a story about it. I imagined myself a cross between Bill Bryson and Indiana Jones. My dream was to write guidebooks for Lonely Planet. I imagined no cooler job than a guidebook researcher.

Anything was better than working in the cubicle I was sitting in at the time.

These days, it’s not about how I can keep myself traveling. It’s about how I can help others travel. Every day, the team and I constantly ask ourselves: “How do we help and inspire others to travel cheaper, better, and longer?”

Today, it’s all about you.

But, back then, the only thing I ever said was “How do I help myself?”

So how did I get from a me centric to a reader centric website?

In those early days, I worked as an English teacher in Bangkok and Taiwan. Blogging was never meant to support me full–time — let alone lead to book deals, conferences, speaking events, and so much more.

In fact, I didn’t care much about this website. I mean, sure, worked on it and didn’t want it to fail. I wanted it to become popular.

But building it into something bigger than myself was not the goal.

Instead, I wanted the dream: passive income. I wanted money to be coming in while I slept.

I was 27 with no responsibilities. I wasn’t looking toward the future. I just wanted the good times to never end.

While I earned a little bit of money from affiliates and selling links on this site (back in those days, you could make a lot of money selling text links to companies looking to artificially increase their Google ranking), I spent most of my time creating AdSense websites, designed solely to get people to click on Google ads. Yes, I was a scammy internet marketer!

I put all that money I made back into these websites — getting people to write articles, optimizing the websites for search, and creating more websites — and lived off my teaching income.

I found keywords that paid well and designed very niche and ugly websites around those subjects. I had websites on teaching English, growing corn, taking care of dogs and turtles, and even raising pigs. At one point, if you went searching for advice on how to train your beagle, every website on the first page was mine.

Yes, those were some weird days. All the content was legit (I hired dog trainer friends to write the articles), but the websites lacked soul.

As time went on, between this website, my teaching job, and those AdSense sites, I made more than enough money, earning upwards of $8,000 a month.

Then one day it all changed.

I was part of this group called the Keyword Academy. It was run by two guys from Colorado, Mark and (I think) a guy named Brad. (We’ll call him Brad for this story.) As part of my membership, we had monthly consulting calls. During one, Brad said, “Matt, why are you building this crap? You know travel. You have a website that people read and like. You have a skill set. Focus on that. This shit is stupid. We only do it because it’s quick cash.”

And he was right. That shit was stupid. All I was doing was taking advantage of the fact that Google couldn’t differentiate spam websites from real websites. Travel was really my passion.

So, in late spring 2009, I shifted my focus back to this blog and, over time, let those other websites die or sold them off. (They made money for about a year after I stopped updating them.)

And, when Google finally learned to filter those spammy websites out, all the people I knew from those days were left with nothing. I have no idea what they do now. It’s certainly not running websites as I’ve never come across their names again.

But the experience taught me some important lessons about creating an online business:

First, until your hobby can pay your rent, don’t quit your day job. There are a lot of people telling you to “follow your passion” — but they neglect to tell you that unless your passion can pay your bills, you should keep your “unpassionate” day job. Teaching English and those scammy websites allowed me to have some income while I focused on “Nomadic Matt.” It wasn’t until the end of 2009 / early 2010 that Nomadic Matt earned enough where I needed no other sources of income.

Second, no matter how good or helpful your blog is, marketing is important. If no one knows how to find your website, it’s all for naught. Those crappy, scammy websites taught me how Google and SEO worked as well as the importance of marketing and messaging. I took that experienced to improve this website, optimizing my content for Google, created products, and started networking with bloggers outside travel.

I think this is one of the things that gave me an edge over other bloggers at this time. While they focused solely on writing and social media, I focused on that as well as SEO. This ensured that I ranked high in search engines, got visitors every day, and helped get my “brand” other there (I got interviewed on CNN once because the writer found me on Google).

And, as I built this community and saw my friends’ incomes collapse with the change of an algorithm, I learned the most important lesson of all: when you create a business that helps others, you create something sustainable and gives meaning and joy to your own life. I hated those other websites but I will work 24/7 on this one because I love what I do.

I don’t agree with basically anything I did in those early days. It was a very scammy way to make money. But I don’t regret one moment of it because it showed me a better way and helped get here. I guess the saying is right. When you find a job you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.

P.S. – If you’d like to learn how to start a blog the right way, avoid my early mistakes, nd get a peek at all the processes and methods I use to continue to grow this website (without scammy ads), check out my blogging course. It gives you all my screts as well as direct feedback on your website from me and tech support from my tech team.

The post How I Built This (Or What I Learned from Being a Scammy Marketer) appeared first on Nomadic Matt's Travel Site.

March 26, 2018 at 03:00PM

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Ko Lipe: The Greatest Month in All my Travels

In November 2006, I was 5 months into my (supposed) year long trip around the world. While emailing my parents to let them know I was still OK, I saw a message in my inbox:

“Matt, I’m stuck in this placed called Ko Lipe. I’m not going to meet you as planned, but you should come down here. It’s paradise! I’ve been here a week already. Find me on Sunset Beach. — Olivia”

Olivia, a friend from MySpace, was supposed to meet me in Krabi, a tourist destination famed for its limestone karsts, rock climbing, and kayaking.

I looked up Ko Lipe on a map. There was only a small mention of it in my guidebook. It was really out of the way and would require a solid day of travel to get to.

As I looked around the crowded Internet café and onto the busy street, it was clear that Phi Phi was not the tropical island paradise I had envisioned. The crowds were coming back, the beach was filled with dead coral, boats seemed to ring the island, and the water was polluted with a thin film of…well, I don’t want to know. A quieter, calmer paradise held great appeal.

“I’ll be there in two days,” I replied. “Just let me know where you are staying.”

Two days later, I took the ferry to mainland, a long bus to the port city of Pak Bara, and then the ferry to Ko Lipe. As we passed deserted, jungle-covered islands, I wandered to the top deck where a guy was playing guitar for the few people going to Lipe.

After he finished, we struck up a conversation.

Paul was tall, muscular, and thin, with a shaved head and slight stubble. His girlfriend Jane was equally tall and athletic, with curly brownish-red hair and ocean-blue eyes. Both British, they were meandering around Asia with until they were ready to move to New Zealand, where they planned to work, buy a house, and eventually get married.

“Where are you guys staying?” I asked as we lounged in the sun.

“We found a resort on the far end of the island. It’s supposed to be cheap. You?”

“Not sure. I’m supposed to stay with my friend, but I haven’t heard back yet. I don’t have a place.”

The ferry neared the island and came to a stop. There was no dock on Ko Lipe. Years before, a developer tried to build one, but the project was canceled after protests from the local fishermen who take passengers to the island for a small fee, and the developer mysteriously disappeared.

As I got in one of the longtail boats, I dropped my flip-flops into the ocean.

Watching them sink, I yelled, “Shit! That was my only pair! I hope I can get some on the island.”

Paul, Jane, and I went to their hotel, joined by Pat, an older Irish guy, who also lacked a place to stay. The hotel overlooked a little reef and the small Sunrise Beach, which would become our main hangout spots during our time on the island.

I decided to bunk with Pat since I hadn’t heard from my friend Olivia and splitting a room was a more budget friendly. Back then saving a few hundred baht was the difference of one more or less day on the road. Paul and Jane took a bungalow overlooking the ocean. (Their terrace would be another of our little group’s most popular hangouts.)

We headed out to find my friend, who had said she could be found on Sunset Beach at the Monkey Bar.

As we walked to the other side of the island, I could see Olivia was right: Ko Lipe was paradise. It was all gorgeous jungles, deserted beaches, warm, crystal-clear blue water, and friendly locals. Electricity was only available for a few hours at night, there were few hotels or tourists, and the streets were simple dirt paths. Ko Lipe was the place I had dreamed of.

We found Olivia pretty quickly. Sunset Beach was not big, and Monkey Bar, a small thatch-covered shack with a cooler for drinks cold and a few chairs, was the only bar on the beach. After quick introductions, we ordered beers, asked the typical traveler questions, and sat around chatting about nothing.

Pat turned out to be a snorer so, after two nights, I moved into a bungalow in the middle of the island for 100 baht ($3 USD) a night. Nestled behind a restaurant that served the best squid around, this hardwood structure painted red, with a white roof, small porch, and near-barren interior — a bed, a fan, and mosquito net — seemed to be built by the family for a wave of tourism that had never come.

I gave up trying to find new flip-flops. There was nothing I liked or fit. I’d wait until the mainland and just go barefoot in the meantime.

The five of us formed a core group that grew and shrank with the arrival and departure of other travelers. Other than Dave, a young Frenchman, and Sam, a weathered British expat who had been on the island every season for a decade (having once been trapped there after the last boat left), we were the only permanent Western fixtures on the island.

Our days were spent playing backgammon, reading, and swimming. We rotated beaches, though we mostly hung out at the beach by Paul and Jane’s. Within swimming distance was a mini-rock with a sheer drop that provided excellent snorkeling. We’d occasionally leave the Ko Lipe to explore the deserted islands in the nearby national park, fish, and dive. There’s nothing quite as lovely as having a whole tropical island to yourself.

At night, we would rotate restaurants: my guesthouse owner’s restaurant, Mama’s for fresh squid and spicy curry, Castaway on Sunset Beach for massaman curry, and Coco for everything else. Afterwards, we’d move to Monkey Bar for beach games, beer, the occasional joint, and more backgammon. When the power generators were switched off, we would drink by flashlight before going to bed.

The days seemed to pass by endlessly. My original three-day visit came and went. I lost any concept of time.

“I’ll leave tomorrow” became my mantra. I had no reason to leave. I was in paradise.

Paul, Jane, and I became close friends as time went by. We formed a mini-group within the group.

“What are you guys going to do when you get to New Zealand?” I asked.

“We’re going to work for a few years and build a life there. We have nothing that’s pulling us back the UK,” said Paul.

“I’m going there on this trip so I’ll visit. It’s my last stop on the way home,” I replied.

“You can stay with us. Wherever we are,” said Jane as she passed the joint to me.

Sitting on the beach one day, I had an idea.

“You know what would be cool? An eco-friendly hostel. New Zealand would be the perfect place. Wouldn’t it be cool to own a hostel?”

“Yeah, that would be fun,” said Paul.

“We could call it The Greenhouse,” replied Jane.

“That’s a great name.”

“Yeah, seriously.”

Paul said, “I bet we could do it pretty easily. Eco-friendly places are all the rage, and there’s a lot of space there. We’ll have a garden, solar panels, and all the other bells and whistles.”

We were half-serious about our hostel, discussing the details every day: what it would look like, how we would get funding, the number of beds. It was a pipe dream — but dreams like this helped us pass the days on the beach.

We became aware of time again when, one day, our bill at Mama’s was suddenly double.

“What’s going on? This fish was half the price yesterday!”

“It’s Christmas! More Europeans this time of the year, so we raised our prices.”

Ahhh, capitalism at its best.

Christmas also meant something else: I would have to leave soon.

My visa ran only until just before New Year’s, so I would have to leave to renew it before heading to Ko Phangan for the holiday.

I didn’t want to leave.

We were in paradise. Paul, Jane, Pat, and Olivia were staying and I felt like I was being ripped apart from my family, never knowing when I would see them again.

But the visa forced my hand.

Paul, Jane, and I decided to have own our Christmas together. It was only fitting. We wore our best clean shirts and wandered over to Coco’s for its luxury Western dinner.

“I got you guys a gift.”

I handed Jane a necklace I saw her eyeing a few days before and Paul a ring he had admired.

“Wow. That’s amazing, mate! Thanks!” said Paul.

“But this is funny,” he continued. “We got you something too.”

It was a hand-carved necklace with a Maori fishhook on it. It was their symbol for traveler. I wore it for years afterward, a symbol of our friendship, my time on the island, and of who I was.

Traveling quickens the bonds of friendship. When you are on the road, there’s no past. None of the baggage of home is with you or anyone you met. There’s only who you are right now. There’s nothing to get in the way of the now. No meetings to attend, errands to run, bills to pay, or responsibilities.

I once heard that the average couple spends four waking hours a day together. If that is true, then we had just spent the equivalent of four months together, but it felt like triple that since there was nothing to keep our minds off the “now.”

I’ve never been back to Ko Lipe. The development that’s sprouted would burst my image of perfect. Ko Lipe was my beach. The perfect traveler community. But all things must end.

I would run into Paul and Jane again years later in New Zealand, but I would never see the rest of the group again. They are out there in the world doing their thing. Yet for that month, we were the best of friends.

As I packed my bags and put on my shoes for the first time in a month, I said good bye to Plick Bear, the raggedy teddy bear I found on my porch that became our mascot, and I hoped that the journey ahead would be as good as the one I was leaving behind.

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March 15, 2018 at 04:04PM

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