Thailand, Part 1: An Easy Country, Until It Isn’t
- David Stephenson
- 5 days ago
- 6 min read
“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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