The city was still dark when I left the flat in Ari, but the air already had that thick, wet weight that means rain is coming. I had one full day left in Bangkok before the train north, and I wanted to spend it on the river. Not the tourist boats with the loudspeakers and the plastic seats – the ordinary commuter ferry that people take to work, the one that costs about fifteen baht a ride and smells of diesel and damp wood. That is the real Chao Phraya.
I walked down to the Saphan Taksin BTS station, where the pier sits right underneath the tracks. The sky was a pale grey, the kind that could go either way. There was a queue of office workers and monks and market women with their trolleys, all waiting for the next boat. I bought my ticket from the little booth – about fifteen baht, less than fifty cents – and joined the shuffle onto the dock. The boat came in with a low horn, a long wooden thing with a canopy and bench seats, and we all piled on without a word. That is the thing about the river in the morning: everyone knows the drill.
The ferry pulled away from the pier and the city opened up around me. We passed the brown water of the river, churning with the wake of bigger boats, and the skyline of glass towers on one side, and on the other the old wooden houses on stilts that have been here for a hundred years. The rain started just as we rounded the bend near Wat Arun. Not a drizzle – a proper monsoon downpour, the kind that comes down in sheets and turns the river into a drum. The canopy over the boat did nothing. Water came in from the sides, and everyone pulled their collars up and laughed, because there is nothing else to do. A woman next to me offered me a corner of her plastic bag to cover my head. I took it. That is Bangkok: a city of small kindnesses in the rain.
I got off at the Tha Chang pier, near the Grand Palace. The rain was still hammering down, and the square in front of the palace was almost empty – just a few monks with umbrellas and a couple of tourists sheltering under the eaves. I ducked into a narrow soi and found a small coffee shop, just a counter and a few stools, the kind of place that does not have a name I can pronounce properly. I ordered a cappuccino – about seventy-five baht, a bit over two dollars – and sat by the window watching the rain turn the street into a river of its own. The barista was a young woman who told me she had moved here from Isaan three years ago. We talked about the rain, about how it never really stops in August, and she laughed and said, 'That is why we have coffee.'
By the time the rain eased, the sun was trying to come out, and the air was steaming. I made my way to the river again, this time to the Tha Tien pier, and took the little cross-river ferry to Wat Arun – the temple of dawn, though I was seeing it at midday. The fare was about four baht, ten cents, and the crossing took less than a minute. Wat Arun was still wet from the rain, the porcelain tiles on the central prang gleaming like a million mirrors. I climbed the steep steps – they are notorious – and looked out over the river and the city. The rain had washed everything clean. Even the smog was gone. I stood there for a while, just breathing.
I have been in Bangkok for six days now, and I have learned that this city does not reveal itself all at once. It gives you a little, then it hides again, and you have to be patient. The river is the best teacher. Every time I take a boat, I see something new – a golden temple tucked behind a warehouse, a line of washing strung between two shophouses, a monitor lizard swimming lazily along the bank. The city is always moving, always changing, and the river is the artery that keeps it alive.
After Wat Arun, I walked back across the river to the Bang Rak district, the old neighbourhood of embassies and shophouses and the famous Oriental Hotel. I had heard about a market there – not the tourist one, but the one where locals buy their food – and I wanted to find it before lunch. The streets were still wet, and the air smelled of rain and frying garlic. I turned down a small lane and there it was: a covered market, no more than fifty metres long, with stalls selling everything from fresh coconut milk to live crabs to stacks of green papaya. I bought a plate of som tam – green papaya salad, about fifty baht – and ate it standing at a counter, the chillies burning my tongue while the rain started again outside.
I checked my phone. There was a message from the landlord in Ari, confirming the deposit on the flat. That was good – I had a base now, a place to come back to between trips north. I had been planning this journey for months: the old railway lines that snake up through Ayutthaya, the ancient capitals, the mountain valleys of the far north. But Bangkok was always going to be the anchor, and now I had one.
In the afternoon, the rain stopped for good, and the sun came out hot and bright. I took the BTS from Saphan Taksin to Chit Lom, just because I wanted to see the city from above, the skytrain tracks threading between the buildings. The fare was about twenty-five baht, less than a dollar. I got off at Chit Lom and walked to the Erawan Shrine – that busy corner of the city where people come to pray with jasmine garlands and offer thanks for answered wishes. The air was thick with incense and the sound of classical Thai music from the dancers performing for the shrine. I stood at the edge, watching. A man in a suit knelt and lit a candle, closing his eyes. A mother lifted her child to touch the golden statue. Everyone had a wish. I thought about mine – a safe journey, a good year – and let the incense curl around me.
For dinner, I went to RONGROS, a restaurant I had been to earlier in the week, a converted shophouse on the river with a view of Wat Arun. The waitress remembered me and smiled. I ordered a pad krapao with a fried egg – about a hundred and twenty baht – and a cold Singha, and sat on the balcony watching the lights come on across the river. The temple glowed gold against the dark water. A longtail boat puttered past, trailing music. I thought about the two years ahead, the thousands of kilometres of track, the unknown towns and the familiar faces I would meet on the way. But tonight, I was still here, in this city of rivers and rain, and that was enough.
As I paid the bill – about two hundred baht all told, six dollars – I realised something. I had stopped being a tourist. I had a bank account now, a SIM card that worked, a flat with my name on the lease. I knew which boat pier to use at which hour, and how to order som tam without specifying the spice level, and that the rain could always be trusted to come at four. Bangkok had accepted me, or at least tolerated me, and that was as much as anyone could ask.
I took the BTS back to Ari, the last ride of the day, and walked the quiet soi to the flat. The night was warm and humming with cicadas. I unlocked the door, kicked off my sandals, and lay on the bed with the window open, listening to the city settle. Tomorrow, I would pack my bag and take the train north, but tonight I was just a person in a room in Bangkok, and that was exactly where I wanted to be. Sawasdee, Bangkok. Sawasdee, the river. I will see you again soon.
If you are planning your own trip to Bangkok, here is what I would tell you. The river boat is your best friend – cheap, fast, and you see the real city from the water. The BTS and MRT are easy and air-conditioned, but they cost a bit more. A single ride is about twenty to forty-five baht now, depending on distance, and there are monthly passes if you are staying longer. Eat where the locals eat – a plate of pad thai from a street stall will set you back about fifty baht, a full meal under a hundred. For the coffee lovers, a cappuccino at a good cafe is about seventy-five baht, and it will be as good as anything you get in Melbourne or Seattle. The monsoon is not a problem if you carry an umbrella and plan your day around the afternoon downpour. And if you need a base, consider Ari – it is quiet, green, and a one-bedroom condo near the BTS will run you about twelve to twenty thousand baht a month.
That is all from Bangkok for now. I am heading north tomorrow, to the old capitals and the railway lines that will carry me through the mountains. But the story is just beginning, and I will tell it to you as it happens. Thank you for listening, and for being part of this journey. This is Ploy, signing off from the banks of the Chao Phraya.
One last thing – I almost forgot. The Thailand Digital Arrival Card, the TDAC, is mandatory for all foreign arrivals, and you need to fill it in within seventy-two hours before your flight. Do not forget it, or you will be filling it in at the airport with a queue behind you. That is my tip for the week. Now go, and enjoy the rain.