Journey to Pai

The peaceful days at Tacomepai eventually had to come to an end. That morning, the sky was clear, and a cool breeze brushed softly against my skin. I packed my things, went down to the kitchen, and shared one last cup of sweet grass tea with Pure before saying goodbye and heading toward Pai.

Pure offered to drive me there, but I refused. I wanted to try hitchhiking, something I’d been longing to experience for a long time. Friends who had been here before told me that hitchhiking around Pai was quite easy. The locals were kind and familiar with travelers raising their thumbs for a ride. Pure encouraged me to give it a try, assuring me it would be fun, even suggesting I hitchhike all the way back to Chiang Mai. He himself had traveled across Thailand this way – catching rides from strangers and trusting the road.

With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I took one last look at the farm, handed Pure a little note with a few words from the heart, then walked toward the main road. He walked me part of the way and said I would always be welcome here – to come back anytime. We exchanged a warm hug, then parted, each heading our own way.

I continued my journey as I always had, with a mix of excitement and quiet ache. I’ve never liked staying too long in one place, because goodbyes always leave me torn. But I know I must learn to get used to it – to the hugs shared along the road, the fragile promises, the bittersweet pull of departure.

The morning air was still cool; soft sunlight slipped lazily through the trees, casting gentle shadows on the empty asphalt road. Tacomepai was only seven kilometers away from Pai, so walking didn’t feel daunting. I simply craved the feeling of being myself again, a wanderer, a child of the sun, melting into the mountain breeze, raw, free, and unburdened.

There’s something about hitchhiking that makes me feel invisible, transparent, like a quiet spirit moving through the world.

My backpack rested obediently on my shoulders as I walked, admiring the wildflowers and greenery along the roadside. Of course, I couldn’t get too distracted, my thumb needed to stay out, signaling for a ride. A few cars passed without slowing down, barely noticing the tanned girl trying her luck by the road. After a while, I started to feel a little discouraged. Hitchhiking wasn’t as easy as I’d imagined.

How do people manage to travel across entire countries this way? Could I really make it back to Chiang Mai like this? The thought of spending the night alone in the vast, quiet mountains crept into my mind. Maybe this was a foolish idea after all.

Just as I was lost in a swirl of uneasy thoughts about hitchhiking, I suddenly heard someone calling me. A white van pulled over. On the back of the vehicle were two men and a jumble of construction tools. I stepped closer, trying to speak clearly and loudly, explaining that I wanted to go to Pai and was hoping for a ride. One of the men leaned toward the driver and said something, then the driver waved me to climb in.

And just like that, I was hitching a ride with complete strangers, in a completely unfamiliar country, and, to make it even more thrilling, they didn’t speak English! I tried to start a conversation, but all I got were shakes of the head. Occasionally, after hearing me say something, the two men would look at each other and laugh awkwardly. Realizing this, I stopped talking much and simply sat back, letting the wind hit my face and savoring the fleeting, peculiar thrill of hitchhiking.

The van stopped at the edge of town. I had arrived in Pai exactly the way I wanted. I thanked everyone on the van, asked politely if I could take a quick photo, then hoisted my backpack and set off to find where I would stay for the next few days.

I would be staying at a hostel just across the Pai River. To get there, I had to cross a small bamboo bridge. The hostel was tricky to find, but thankfully, after some fumbling with a map, I finally arrived. By then, it was early afternoon. While waiting for check-in, I took the chance to update my best friend back home. A few days on the farm without Internet had made communication tricky, and they needed to know where I was. Keeping someone I trust informed while traveling alone is important, even for someone like me, who is naturally quiet and used to moving through the world in silence.

What is the story of Pai?

As I write these lines, I’m lying in the sun at the base of Mor Paeng Waterfall with Loren, a friend from New Zealand whom I met at the hostel. That day, we decided to rent a motorbike and wander around Pai. Our first stop was Mor Paeng Waterfall, because Loren loves water and wanted to swim at the base, while I had already explored Pai when I went with Pure. The road to Mor Paeng wasn’t long, but it was framed by deep green trees and foliage.

The waterfall itself wasn’t particularly remarkable compared to others I’ve visited, and there were only a few scattered visitors. Whenever I wander in a new place, I try to discover its own story to remember it, to transform the land into a memory worth keeping and cherishing. What is the story of Pai? Perhaps this time, it is I who will write it.

Loren played in the water while I lay here on the rare patch of green grass beside the falls, closing my eyes as sunlight spilled across my face, listening quietly to the water, to the sounds around me. The sky was clear, a smooth, endless blue, not a single cloud in sight – a pure, soft shade of blue that could make anyone’s gaze linger in delight.

Bathed in golden sunlight, I felt transported back to days long past, days spent chasing sunshine and clouds, days of leisure and carefree wandering.

Soon, I’ll ride Loren back to the hostel and then head to Pai Canyon to watch the sunset. I wonder, will the sunset at Pai Canyon be as beautiful as the sunsets of those distant, bygone days?

(to be continued) – Pai, 2018.11