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Thailand, Part 1: An Easy Country, Until It Isn’t

  • Jan 30
  • 6 min read

Updated: Feb 13

“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” -Ernest Hemingway



After weeks wrestling with India’s chaos and Laos’ quiet resilience, Thailand should have been the easy chapter - a place where roads were smooth, paperwork was stamped without drama, and we could remember what normal travel felt like. Instead, from the moment we rolled toward the border, Thailand insisted on becoming another lesson in how little control you really have once you set off in a truck the size of a small house.



Improvisation as Paperwork


After our time in India, we headed headed back to Laos and we were informed that our Thailand paperwork was finally ready for the truck, and so it was time to begin the next part of the journey.

As an aside, Laos holds the record for the most bombed country in the world. That fact never quite leaves your head when you’re pottering around getting jobs done.

The day before we crossed into Thailand from Laos, I was getting the truck serviced when we received an urgent message from our agent  the man who had arranged all the paperwork to get the truck into Thailand.

When I say serviced, I should probably be honest. They changed the oil. Supplies of anything are limited in Laos, so the oil filter was removed, washed out in diesel, and refitted because they couldn’t source a replacement for a Mercedes truck. Improvisation is not a philosophy out here -it’s just how things get done.


Getting the Oil filter cleaned and ready to go again.


The agent’s urgent message was about the motorbike. On the official paperwork it was registered as red. After an accident in Africa we’d changed the plastics, and it was now white. The agent said it had to be red. No discussion.


The garage leapt into action. Red stickers appeared from nowhere. The mudguards were removed and spray-painted red with an aerosol tin. It worked. The bike was red again -at least on paper and just enough in reality to keep someone happy.


The bikle getting its makeover.


At the time, it felt like a big problem. In hindsight, it barely registered compared to what came next.


Theatre at the Border


At the point that the agent’s message came through, we were already in that familiar headspace. Paperwork spread out. Passports checked, then checked again. We weren’t talking much. We never do before borders. Nothing dramatic - just a quiet narrowing of focus, the sense that whatever was going to happen next was already out of our hands.

It was a short drive from Vientiane to the Thai border, and we were soon in line to get the truck processed. There was a wide lane clearly designed for buses, so I joined it. An overzealous Thai border official didn’t agree and ordered me back into the narrow car lane.

I think he regretted that decision almost immediately.


A Roof Comes Away


The lane was impossibly tight. As I edged forward, half the roof of the immigration office peeled away like the lid of a sardine tin and then a very sudden silence.

What followed was the familiar border theatre we’ve come to dread.

 Shouting. Threats. Cops and officials closing ranks. I was told I would pay for the damage. I was told I would be deported. I was handed a document I couldn’t read and told to sign it.

My argument - calmly, repeatedly -was that I’d been forced into a lane that was never designed for a vehicle of our size. Eventually, after enough posturing on both sides, I was allowed to go. We hadn’t even entered Thailand yet.

Luckily, the truck itself was undamaged.


I ran back before we left and saw the damage isnt so severe, but not the best introduction to a new country. At least they cleaned away the debris quickly.


Chanting in the Dark


That first night inside Thailand, we didn’t travel far. We parked on what looked like a random patch of open land. Only after we’d settled down did we realise there was a monastery hidden behind the trees. As if on cue, chanting drifted across the darkness.

A slow, rhythmic sound that carried on long after we fell asleep. It felt like therapy. Calm, grounding, and completely unexpected. The perfect antidote for our recent stresses and quite beautiful. I’m sure that experience will stay with me for a long time.


Easy, On the Surface


It was still the end of the rainy season, though, and that brought mosquitoes the size of your foot. Living in a metal box with limited airflow became hard work. Dusk and dawn were times to endure rather than enjoy.

Once we got moving properly, Thailand was easy - at least on the surface. Good roads. Easy parking. Food everywhere. We started to feel like tourists, and almost without noticing, stepped onto the tourist treadmill.



The Tourist Treadmill


We visited the palaces in Chiang Mai and Chiang Rai. The White Temple really was special -magnificent - but it was hard to absorb anything properly with coachloads of tourists flooding through. Everywhere felt overrun.

I think we’ve been on the road so long now that we no longer know how to interact with mass tourism. It unnerves us. Watching people queue for the perfect selfie while barely glancing at the building they’ve come to see leaves me quietly cynical. The monument becomes a backdrop; the photo becomes the point.



Some of the beautiful Thai temples that are becoming a mere back drop for selfies.


Charlotte using her camera to take a photo of something else other than herself.



An Actual Conversation


At Wat Chedi Luang in Chiang Mai, we escaped the crowds and stumbled into something far better - Monk Chat. Younger monks invite visitors to sit and talk, explaining Buddhism while practising their English. A proper exchange.

We talked about life, discipline, and football. I asked how they dealt with emotions - winning, losing, frustration, desire. They smiled. Emotions, they said, aren’t controlled; they’re acknowledged and allowed to pass through you while you focus on your teachings.

I was unreasonably pleased with that question. And with their answer.

I don’t think I’ll ever become a monk.



What a treat. I really enjoyed talking to the young Monks.


Old Friends, Old Fear


Following the circuit south, we headed for Phuket for some rest and recovery. Still missing the vibrancy of India, Thailand left us feeling oddly flat.

Phuket itself wasn’t really on our list except that we were meeting an old friend. called Hope. An Australian who goes back more than ten years, to when we were both studying for our Royal Yachting Association Yachtmaster qualification.

That period was full of nerves and quiet fear. Long nights revising. Talking through dread. Helping each other hold it together. The Yachtmaster practical exam lasts around twelve hours, with the instructor handing you command of the boat without warning, then ripping it away again. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done - and I did it for fun. And yes, Hope gave me .... Hope?

Now Hope is a dive master. We went diving together, and after ten years out of the water, I was nervous. There was no better person to lead that dive. Hugging her afterwards was genuinely emotional.




Tourism Turned Up to Eleven


Phuket, though, is tourism turned up to eleven. The truck drew constant attention - who are you, why are you doing this, where have you come from? We’re used to that and, if I’m honest, we quite enjoy it.

But shopping in a 7/11 instead of a street market felt strange. Piped music. Special offers. Fairy lights strung along perfect beaches selling cheap beer. We escaped to the quieter ends of the resort where staff and expats outnumbered tourists. Much better.



A few random shots showing the wonderful Soy (Street) dogs shelter, Charlotte actually driving ! The power of social media at the fuel station and a funky Combine harvester for good luck.


When Culture Becomes Performance


Back in the north, still riding the tourist treadmill, we took a boat to visit a Karen village -accessible only by water. Originally refugee settlements from Burma, they now exist almost entirely for tourism. The women wear their long-neck coils by day and watch Netflix by night.

Tourists arrive, pay a fee, take photographs, buy trinkets, and leave.

I spoke to some of the women. They were pragmatic. The alternative, they said, would be far worse. Harder work. Losing the place they loved. It left me uneasy. If tourism stops, the villages disappear. If tourism continues, the culture slowly turns into performance.

What is right? What is wrong?





What Lies Beneath


Further south, we stopped at Khuek Khak and visited the tsunami museum. A stark reminder that beauty often hides its history. It’s hard to believe the devastation of 2004 when everything looks so rebuilt, so clean.


Then southern Thailand flooded.



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India (Part 2): Varanasi, Delhi, Jaipur and the Things You Don’t Expect to Learn

  • Jan 16
  • 6 min read

Updated: Feb 2




“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” — Marcel Proust


Back to India - Varanasi and the Burning Ghats


With the truck waiting for us in Thailand and the next stage already lined up, I thought this part of the journey would just be a pause- a simple stop on the way. I was wrong.


In Dhaka, I’d said that things change fast out here, and that you only notice them if you’re paying attention. I didn’t realise how quickly that thought would come back to me.


Returning to India - this time to Varanasi - felt like being dropped straight into the deep end of everything you try not to think about: endings, rituals, fires that have burned for centuries. It wasn’t dramatic, just quietly insistent. One moment you’re travelling; the next, you’re face to face with something you didn’t know you’d been avoiding.


Guys hang out on the banks of the Ganges.


Varanasi is a place where devout Hindus bring their dead to be burned and have their ashes scattered into the Ganges, a perfect end in their belief.


Fires burn day and night, fuelled by vast amounts of wood carried through the narrow alleys by men who look half the weight of their loads. The ashes are tended by the so-called Untouchables lowest caste-working, working simply to stay alive, without recognition and barely any pay.

Preparing garlands to adorn the bodies.


As we walked the narrow backstreets, we saw at least six bodies being carried-wrapped in cloth and flowers, bearers chanting as they moved. We only photographed from a boat, at a respectful distance.


My internal reaction surprised me. Part shock, part respect, part discomfort. I wanted to look away, but still found myself staring.


Seeing the bodies carried past like that brought something else home to me. It’s hard not to think about your own fire. You tell yourself you’re just observing a different culture, but when the flames are right there, and you can almost feel them, it all feels a bit too close for comfort.


Delhi – Chaos, Diwali, and the Quiet Promise We Didn’t Expect to Make


Delhi was my old stomping ground, and chaos felt like an old friend. We stayed near New Delhi Railway Station, in the same hotel I’d used many years ago. I joked with the two young Sikh lads behind reception that I used to stay there, and one stood up, claiming to be the same guy I remembered. Great marketing-but I’m not convinced.


We ate in the local restaurants, crazily busy with commuters. Hygiene wasn’t exactly top of the list, but we were used to that-or thought we were. Before dinner, we ducked into a seedy bar and watched two of the biggest flies I’ve ever seen crawl across a discarded plate. After dinner, a rat swaggered into the same restaurant we’d just left. I felt something shift then. Our days of roughing it are over. Not because we’re soft, but because we’ve done our time-cockroach infestations in Sri Lanka, filthy receptions and rooms in too many countries to recall, £20 hotels, all of it.


A spot of man keeping - India style.


It hit me more than I expected—maybe Varanasi had opened a door somewhere, and Delhi was where I realised I couldn’t keep approaching the chaos in the same way. Maybe age doesn’t announce itself as you might expect it to.


It was Diwali – The festival of light, and on the main night of Diwali, we were out seeing friends and took a tuk-tuk back to our hotel. Even then, moving through the fog and fireworks, I felt that odd mix of nostalgia and realism. The city I’d once charged through now felt like a place I could navigate more easily. The smoke from the fireworks hung like a thick fog across the city. The fireworks of choice are the cheap bangers, mostly made illegally-and they go off constantly. Some are so loud you genuinely think a bomb has exploded… I read in the papers the next morning that the already bad Delhi air quality had actually fallen off the scale. It didn’t surprise me in the slightest.



Normally, tuk-tuk drivers don’t say much, but this one was unusually chatty and keen to take us to his uncle’s shop (we declined). He told me he rented the tuk-tuk for about £4.30 a day because he couldn’t afford to buy his own. They’re a brilliant way to get around the city, and with the way they cut through the chaos, you can see why tourists call them Indian helicopters. People sometimes get put off by having to barter for a fare, but once you get used to it, it’s an exhilarating way to move through a city and actually see what’s happening on the streets…you might not end up where you thought you were going, but you’ll have a hell of a time getting there.  No, really, they are fine.

One of my favourite images. Two old ladies looking at a phone photograph............. Ouch!



Delhi is, in my opinion, amazing. Ox carts still labour through Old Delhi. Cows wander wherever they like, and cars, buses and lorries just swerve around them as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Beggars still work the traffic lights, hands outstretched, trying to make a living. Everyone seems to have a “boy” who can be anything from 12 years old to 35+ years. It’s all part of the food chain. someone to fetch, carry, or tidy. The food chain is long; the bottom is brutal.

Some years ago, I was told and have seen severely disabled children crawling on the streets, begging. I am told, parents would disable them by breaking limbs at a young age, so they could beg. I can’t say I know this for a fact, but on previous visits, I saw this.  I didn’t see disabled children begging this time, although I had on previous visits. A small mercy, if it holds.


Life goes by.


Isn't this adorable? - Just hangin'



Jaipur - Colour, Craft and a Visit Years in the Making

Jaipur, the Pink City, was our final stop. It’s a beautiful place full of local colour and the women dressed in traditional clothing. A real feast for the eyes.


The nickname, Pink City, comes from the city being painted pink back in 1876 for a visit from the Prince of Wales, who later became King Edward VII. Not sure what it says about him, but it certainly left its mark.



We’d come partly because Charlotte has been buying dresses from a small factory there for years. People often admire them, and she wanted to see where they were made.


The factory sat on a scruffy industrial estate, but inside, Pradeep Nahata welcomed us like royalty. His company, Karni Exports, is the definition of hard-earned success.  I spoke with Pradeep about his early struggles and the sheer effort it took to build his business. Hats off to him.



Charlotte bought four dresses for less than a hundred dollars-not bad for something handmade. Here’s an unashamed plug for a guy who has worked so hard to get where he is now.  Do check out his wares at www.karnieexports.com.


The so-called Indian Helicopter. Great fun and our chosen mode of transport - always.

We ate street food every day and never got ill.


Leaving - The Road Pulls Us On


The truck awaited us in Thailand, paperwork done, flights booked. We left one of my favourite countries behind place where traffic weaves in and out, horns are mandatory, and every layer of life sits openly on the street.


I’ve been to India many times, and I’m certain we will be back.  On this run it stirred up a lot I’d normally push to the back of my mind – what with the Apatani tattoos, the smart hotel on the edge of a slum, the pride in Dhaka’s rickshaws, the fires in Varanasi…and lets not forget that rat in Delhi, which we should thank every time we might be considering the cheaper option.


But all that being said, it has a way of staying with you - its beauty, its chaos, its colour, its eccentricities, the hard moments and the good ones all mixed. You end up seeing more than you ever planned to.  If you have never been, go. It’s not called Incredible India for nothing.





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India Part 1: Ziro to Kolkata - At the Fading Edges of India

  • Jan 1
  • 6 min read

Updated: Jan 16


 “The world is always in motion, but we notice it only when we move with it.”- Rabindranath Tagore (paraphrased from his essays)


Every picture tells a story.



After weeks drifting down through Southeast Asia, we left Laos behind and dropped back into the sheer intensity of India - a place that never eases you in gently. A hop through Bangkok en route, a packed flight to Hyderabad, and then into the familiar rhythm of Indian railways. The trains in India still feel magical to me. Hawkers pacing the carriages, chai sloshing in paper cups, and full-blown meals appearing out of nowhere. I found myself back in the doorway of the old swing-door carriages, leaning out into the warm air and watching the world blur past, hoping the train didn’t suddenly lurch and send me onto the tracks. Imagine doing that in Europe or the States  -  no chance.

We arrived at the end of the line, hauled up for the night, and went straight into the bureaucracy of applying for permits to get into Nagaland and the Ziro Valley. I asked why we even needed them; the answer was to protect the tribes that still live traditionally in those areas and to preserve their way of life.

The department processing ours was exactly what you’d expect - endless bits of paper being passed from one desk to another, stamped, clipped, checked again, and then pushed somewhere else. Everything had to be handwritten, in triplicate, and signed off by what felt like ten different officers before anyone would even look at the next form. One of those places where you realise there’s no point getting frustrated, because this is just how things are done.


 Incredible India. Beautiful country, beautiful people.


Once complete, we headed for the Ziro Valley by car. 4 hours bumping and grinding on the mountain roads. The Ziro valley sits on the other side of Bangladesh, nudging the Myanmar border. It feels like the end of the earth - mountains all around, rice paddies stepping down the hillsides, and women carrying rice on their heads as though gravity worked differently for them.

The initial demure appearance only tells half a story. Look closely at their faces.


One thing that stayed with me emotionally was the older Apatani women with their facial tattoos - a tradition only halted in the 1970s by government order. It was devastating to think women in the 20th century would undergo such pain to uphold a custom, and equally sad that it vanished so abruptly.


It reminded me how quickly things change out here, and how easy it is to miss it if you’re just passing through.

Posted separately - they deserve space.


The Ziro Music Festival itself was an interesting take on a festival - not great, but a joy to be part of.  With accommodation taken for the festival, and as we didn’t have anything booked, we were eventually invited into a homestay. An old timber house, where everything was cooked on an open fire inside, with no chimney. Smoke clung to the rafters and to our clothes. Hage, our hostess and her friend introduced us to Hage’s mum, who welcomed us with the warmth only people with very little seem able to offer so freely.


The house we stayed in and cooking inside with ventilation for the smoke.


Ziro was quiet, remote, and fading at the edges-exactly the kind of place you miss if you’re always in a hurry.


Kolkata  -  Durga Puja and the Weight of Contrasts

Next stop: Kolkata (Calcutta as it was). It was Durga Puja  - the festival celebrating the goddess Durga’s victory over evil - and Kolkata is its beating heart. Shrines everywhere, some simple, some staggeringly ornate. Coming straight out of the quiet hills into this tidal wave of colour and noise felt like being dropped into a different world overnight.


The Shrines. Absolutely all over town.


Our hotel sat in Salt Lake City, a part of Kolkata; it was colonial-looking and grand, but surrounded by slum areas. The contrast couldn’t have been starker. Inside: polished marble floors and well-dressed families who had travelled to celebrate the festival. Outside, people scraped by selling chewing tobacco, cheap chocolate bars, whatever kept life ticking over.

 

And the last one, the Grand Hotel, we stayed in and everyone in their finery, not 100m from the slum to the hotel front door.


Seeing it side by side like that really raised several questions for me. The people in the streets, though, were the most engaging, wanting to talk, laughing easily, proud of their neighbourhood during festival week. Wonderful.

India is a country of extremes.  No doubt about that. 



Bangladesh  -  A Weekend in Dhaka

After days in Kolkata’s festival storm, we had a couple of free days before heading back toward Delhi, so we hopped over to Bangladesh-a short flight and a weekend there presented us with a completely different kind of chaos.  India is poor; Bangladesh is worse.The streets were stacked with rickshaws - petrol, electric, bicycle, and some still pulled by hand by barefoot men for a few Rupees.



What struck me wasn’t just the poverty but the pride in the rickshaws themselves - bright colours, careful patterns, each one its own moving artwork.

It was chaos again, but a different flavour to Kolkata—less spectacle, more grit, and a surprising amount of dignity woven through it.


One evening, we took a bicycle rickshaw for a few hundred metres, simply so I could pay the driver far more than the fare. Cheap for us, critical for him - and frankly, it helped me waddle home after a huge chicken biryani.


 

We were invisible without our truck - just two foreigners with white skin moving through it all. What I didn’t expect was how friendly the rickshaw drivers were with each other. When the traffic jammed - and it often did - they’d chat across handlebars as though they were lifelong friends. Once again, we were brought back down to earth by the simple way people look out for each other, even when they have nothing.


We also started spotting how many men had their hair or beards dyed bright orange - a marker of having completed the Hajj. Once you know, the whole place suddenly feels more colourful and rooted in something deeper. Pity the same effort didn’t make its way into the cooking. The food had none of that care or vibrance, just cheap ingredients thrown together. Pretty dire to be honest.


Leaving Dhaka, I couldn’t shake the sense that hardship and pride often live in the same space -you don’t see that combination much in the West.  Stepping off the plane back into India only reinforced it. This place can knock you sideways in seconds. But in the noise and colour and grit, I kept realising how fast things change, and how easy it is to miss them if you’re not paying attention. Maybe that’s why we travel this way - to catch those moments before they slip past for good. What I didn’t know then was that the next stop would leave its own mark on me, quietly and unexpectedly.




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....and if you want an insight into where we are and we we are doing in between blogs do check us out on Facebook.




Catch up with our travels so far…


For the binge readers! Our new improved blogs start here...




Kazakhstan to Kyrgyzstan, on through Mongolia and Central Asia — chaotic borders, forced separations, visa dead ends, brutal heat, breakdowns, and the slow grind of overland reality trips the romance from the Silk Road



Other posts our readers loved...


A must read for those considering taken the road less travelled . Is this as scary as it gets? We certainly hope so!



Bribes, breakdowns, and flooded crossings. One minute it was dust and diesel, the next it was gangs, collapsed bridges and a demand for 1.25 million in “cash.”

 

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