Why You Should Visit Thailand
Southeast Asia Diaries
Talk to anyone who has been to Bangkok, and they’re likely to regale you with blurry tales of its nightlife, street food, or how the city reminds them of New York on steroids. It is a place with one speed — constant. In virtually every corner of the city, the unrelenting traffic makes rush hour in Los Angeles look like a drag race. The cacophony of exhaust pipes, whether tethered to a tuk-tuk or customized diesel truck, never abates. The same might be said of the jet lag that accompanies twenty-five hours on three metal birds. A week into my journey, dusk and dawn are still interchangeable.
Still, the country that means “free” feels appropriate in the ways people seem liberated to express themselves. One gets the sense you can be yourself, which is not insignificant in a world that sometimes feels less tolerant.
My first day is marked by self-inflicted wounds — the kind of hiccups I have grown accustomed to in exploring the world. Knowing seamless journeys rarely lead to interesting stories, I have also learned to relish my talent for making life harder than it needs to be.
I arrive at Don Mueang Airport at noon. I am face-to-face with a masked customs agent for seconds when she tells me I need to get checked for yellow fever. I should have known having been quarantined years earlier after getting off another plane from Ethiopia. I clear customs some twenty minutes later in search of a driver that has been scheduled to take me to my Airbnb. He is nowhere to be seen, and won’t be, I discover, until the same day next month. I booked my lodging for July instead of June. For a moment, I wonder how less amusing my adventures would be if I paid closer attention.
The next day, after several futile attempts to hail a cab, I am taken by a driver named Chau, who is eager to practice his English. He tells me about his four children, beaming as he shows me a picture of his twin girls. He suggests I take a boat down the Chao Phraya River, handing me a pamphlet that seems to appear out of thin air. He drives me down a narrow side street as leery vendors peer into the cab as though they know something I don’t. I am in a back alley when a plump middle-aged man appears by the door and ushers me to a gentleman counting money at a folding table.
My sixth sense comes to life, but not the way it did in the dubious lounges in Shanghai and Istanbul where I was cornered into paying for drinks I didn’t order. The ordeal feels less slippery, though I know I’ll be overcharged, which I reason is a small price to pay for a good story. “When do we go?” I want to know. The man behind the table laughs as though I’ve asked a joke he knows the punchline to. “Now!” he says. I am taken to a long-tail boat and am not surprised to discover I am the only passenger. For the next forty-five minutes, we motor down the Khlong Saen Saep as my misgivings gradually surrender to gratitude.
I am dropped off near the entrance to the Grand Palace, which turns out to be as remarkable as advertised. Built in 1782, the grounds were the setting for the court, and royal government, and are still the official residence of the King of Thailand. I marvel at the stunning craftsmanship, the detail, and how the temples delicately straddle the line between garish and ornate. No one has the patience to make anything like this anymore, I think to myself.
I am equally intrigued and unsettled by the throngs of tourists with selfie sticks who would rather be seen than see. They brush past murals and sacred temples that took lifetimes to build. Their concern lies not in the experience but in documenting the illusion of one. I grow disheartened by two universal truths my passport has brought to my attention— the entire world is buried in their phones, and we are all wreaking havoc on the planet. Amidst the smog from tired exhaust pipes and single-use plastics, I wonder how much time we have before it's too late. Lost in my tangled thoughts, I pause long enough to recognize my hypocrisy. I have the largest carbon footprint of anyone I know. I start to consider if it’s time to hang up my passport for a while.
I decide I need a change of scenery to break up my heavy thoughts. Soon, I am holding on for dear life on the back of a scooter taxi. My driver weaves and dodges like a prizefighter as we make our way through thick Bangkok traffic. The ride is thrilling and dangerous — two experiences I seek and find progressively difficult to differentiate. I’m dropped off in Chinatown, still intact, and wander the city streets for several hours.
My time in Bangkok ends at a Muay Thai fight — the country’s national pastime dating back to the 16th century. I am only one of dozens of Westerners with the same idea. For the next few hours, I watch nearly seven matches of young men, some that don’t look old enough to shave, thrusting lethal limbs in this ancient Thai art. There is not an ounce of fat on any of these warriors, their bodies sculpted into violent machines. They look like alabaster statues in motion.
In one particular match, a boy no older than sixteen takes hit after hit but refuses to quit. His nose drips blood on the canvas as he swings wildly, occasionally connecting with an opponent with superior technique. He lasts all five rounds before losing by decision but has won over the crowd. His greatest strength is his heart.
Meanwhile, the commotion in the stands is equally entertaining. My attention shifts from the ring to the spectacle of men placing bets on each fight. The orchestra of chants comes in waves, while the Phleng Muay — the music that accompanies each fight, plays throughout each match. The three musicians playing a Thai oboe and cymbals match the tempo and intensity of the fight, providing a soundtrack that fills the stadium.
Later that night, I am whisked away by another scooter. My driver is a fearless fifty-something who avoids narrowly being clipped by a van on the way up an onramp. There is an artistry to his madness as I watch the bright city lights reflect off his helmet.
The drive reminds me of a similar ride two decades earlier on the streets of Shanghai. Returning from the bars one night, my inebriated twenty-something self sat in the back of a cab watching the meter like a heart monitor. When the fare matched the money in my pocket, I asked the driver to pull over. He agreed, though confounded why anyone would want to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere at 3:00 am. I began the two-mile walk home when I saw a man getting on his motorcycle. He asked for money before I pointed to the knockoff Rolex on my wrist and away we went.
The next day, I arrive in a city in the Northeast region called Khon Kaen. The smaller city proves to be a needed respite from the relentless clamor of Bangkok. The cab driver and I talk for several minutes on Google Translate, passing the phone back and forth on our short ride. He asks me where I’m from, and as usual, is surprised when I say the United States. “But your face is like Thai,” he says. I smile and force some grace, accustomed to how my face has inspired games of world map on six continents.
For a moment, I marvel at how Hollywood films and magazines have convinced the world that being American means looking a particular way. To be anything else instantly invokes the question, “But where are you really from?” The inquiry comes from the well-intentioned, even the well-educated, but the concept that the United States is a country of immigrants still seems to elude most. Still, I cling to a quiet comfort knowing being Korean and Italian could not make me more American.
Within minutes of settling into my hotel, I rent a scooter and am riding like a local. My confidence on two wheels exceeds my skill, which for once, serves me well in a land where traffic laws are mere suggestions. Anything goes, including sidestepping traffic on sidewalks and driving in the opposite direction on one-way streets. I see entire families huddled together on motorbikes, including newborns, and even children with their scooters driving to school.
Yet, somehow, there is a flow to the chaos. Most remarkably, there is no road rage, and everyone seems to possess reservoirs of patience. Maneuvers that would make even the most docile soccer mom flip the bird, don’t even warrant a sideways glance from the drivers here. Traffic feels like the perfect metaphor for what I’ve grown to admire most about the people I’ve met in the non-Western world. In South America, Africa, and Southeast Asia, everyone seems less irritable. There is an ease in their stride— a refusal to get worked up over the trivial and an innate understanding of where energy need not be spent.
I see more in half an hour than I could in two days by foot, stopping by street markets, Bueng Kaen Nakhon, and the coveted Wat Nong Wang Temple. But the most memorable part of the ride is on the outskirts of town. I buzz past oxen, paddy fields, and bamboo homes. I feel as though I’m driving in a postcard. Southeast Asia is the first place that looks exactly the way I imagined, not the least of which is because of its singular beauty. What took me so long to get here? I think to myself.
My final stop in Thailand will be in Chiang Mai, the largest city in northern Thailand, a destination I chose after being featured on my favorite show, Parts Unknown. I am taken to town by a thin middle-aged man named Zain. He speaks perfect English with an accent I can’t quite place. He tells me he is from Southern Thailand but grew up in Saudi Arabia. He speaks four languages, including Arabic and a southern Thai dialect. We talk easily for the next ten minutes. I share that after seven years, I just completed a feature film I wrote. He tells me he is impressed before trying to convince me to promote the movie on America’s Got Talent. I like him instantly and ask if he’ll drive me around the following day.
At 8:00 am the next morning, Zain takes me to a tiger sanctuary thirty minutes outside the city. As much as I try to avoid the same sights and watering holes frequented by every tourist, I, too at times, become a walking Lonely Planet. But Tiger Kingdom, a conservation center dedicated to education and close encounters with tigers born at the facility, proves too hard to resist. I am the first person to show up, and within minutes of my arrival, I am petting a Bengal Tiger. The experience is exhilarating, though part of me wonders if I’m doing more harm than good. Still, what surprises me most is the complete lack of fear I have before being confined with two 500-pound tigers. Maybe the bungee jumps, skydives, motorcycle rides, and bull runs have finally left me unaffected by what should give me pause.
Zain drops me off on the corner of a hip district in Chang Mai. I see fellow Westerners ducking in and out of chic stores toting shopping bags and sipping boba tea. “Can you take me to the airport tomorrow?” I ask. “I don’t think I’m available,” he says. I tell him I understand and pay him more than he’s asked. After a few moments of insisting, he finally accepts the folded bills in my hand. “Thank you,” I say before he drives off. I spend the rest of the day touring temples and walking the streets of Nimmanhaemin, Old City, and the Night Bazaar. Even with a drizzle, the streets are vibrant and the music continues. I wish I could bottle the energy in Southeast Asia.
The next morning, I prepare for my journey to Laos. A late-night text from Zain says he’ll be downstairs at 6:30 am sharp. I take in Thailand one last time as the streets start to come back to life. We pull up to the departure curb before Zain helps me unload my bags. I tell him if his twenty-year-old son ever wants to come to the United States I will see that he is taken care of. He smiles, before confirming we have one another’s contact information. “Now you have my number and email,” I tell him. “We can keep in touch.” He shakes my hand before saying, “Yes. We must.”
Do you have a travel story to share?
