Hitchhiking in Thailand

Great. Except for the 25 views and not a single comment. 😐

I read it, I liked it, I hit "follow"... that's about all because the flu wiped me out 😕 Happy New Year anyway!

Wishing you a speedy recovery and that the rest of your year goes better than it started.

As usual, I'm loving your stories, Thierry, and I hope your wife left Mr. in the car until he sobered up 😂

Second experience.

This time, I find myself in the early 2000s in Ubon Ratchathani province, in Khong Chiam (15°19'4.96"N 105°29'44.71"E), the village where the Maenam Mun (another major river in Thailand) flows (splash!) into the Mekong, with Laos right across. I need to get to Ubon to catch a night train, which I haven’t booked, to Bangkok. The distance to Ubon isn’t that far—about 80 km—but only regular buses cover it, and the trip took 3 hours on the way there. Then, at 2 PM in Khong Chiam, I learn the next bus leaves at 4 PM: not great for catching a night train, especially since Ubon’s train station is actually at the Warin Chamrap rail terminus, about 5 km south, which I’d still need to reach by songthaew. Another option: get to Phibun Mangsahan (which is on the way to Ubon) because I know direct buses to Warin Chamrap leave from there. So, I decide to hitchhike, figuring it’ll be easier if I leave the village first. Off I go, walking. And it’s uphill—thanks a lot, terrain!...

Anyway, I eventually come across a bus shelter shaped like a pagoda, like you see everywhere along the country’s roads. That’s where I take cover from the sun to wait for a car to pass. In the area, nothing—nada—not even a som tam vendor, and as for cars, they’re not exactly lining up.

The first one only shows up after a quarter of an hour. No time to waste, I get up from my bench, where I was starting to doze off, and wave it down. It stops. It’s a long-cab pickup. A young woman rolls down her window, looking stunned, and I immediately feel the AC’s chill. In the back, an elderly woman and two kids. In the front, next to the young woman, her husband, driving, leans toward me with a questioning look. "Hello, kind folks, wouldn’t you be heading to Phibun or Ubon?" "To Ubon, yes." "Would you take this exhausted traveler with you? I need to catch a train to Bangkok and I’m worried I’ll miss it if I have to wait for the bus first…" "Well, hop in, friendly Westerner." I head toward the bed of the truck, but the young woman calls out: "No, no, ride with us." The father tells the kids to move to the back and his wife to switch places to sit next to her mother. "Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am, I can ride in the back." But the husband disagrees—he must be worried I’m some kind of weirdo. So, here I am, sitting next to him.

A little over an hour later, they drop me right in front of Warin Chamrap station. "In front," and I mean *really* in front! I give them my sincerest thanks, followed by a grateful wai to the adults and a smile to the kids. They drive off toward their destiny. I go into the station, head to the ticket counter: there’s still space. And in fan-class sleeper berths, too—I won’t have to put up with their crappy air-conditioned berths and will arrive at my destination without being exhausted. And after Bangkok, what’s the next stop again?

"So, nothing special happened during the ride in that one, huh?" "Nah, not really." "Oh. Well…",

The third time.

Late 2000s. I’m in some backwater town whose name I can’t remember, somewhere along Route 212 that runs along the Mekong between Nong Khai and Bueng Kan. The day before, I arrived in this village around 5:30 PM. Bad surprise: the only guesthouse I was expecting to find had been demolished. Problem—at that hour, there’s no transport left to push on to Bueng Kan to find lodging. What to do? In such a situation, there’s one exceptional stopgap solution that should only be considered as such: I ask for hospitality from the monks at the local temple—"the monks," though in reality, there’s only one in this particular temple. He lets me stay. Later in the evening, he invites me for a chat, and before long, a bottle of *sky* (local whiskey) and his pack of cigarettes come out. We "chat" like this until around midnight, then I go to bed, not exactly fresh, on the floor in the room he’d given me for the night.

4:30 AM. I get up but don’t disturb anyone. Since you don’t sleep in at a temple, I leave after placing a bill near the altar. It’s still dark, so no question of hitting the road right away. A street soup vendor already open for business gives me a place to grab breakfast and let the day start waking up—what a lazybones. After last night’s antics, the short sleep, and the fact I couldn’t shower, I can tell from the woman’s looks that I don’t exactly have the appearance of a guy heading to city hall for his wedding.

Eventually, daylight starts to show, so I head to the road and start walking while hoping for a bus to Bueng Kan, where I plan to catch another to Nakhon Phanom for the night.

I keep walking, listening for the sound of a bus coming my way, but nothing—hardly any traffic at all. No big deal, my bag only weighs 7 kilos (always travel light, that’s my motto), and the temperature’s still pleasant. I’ve just got a bit of sun in my face, but it’s fine—at this hour, some transport will surely come along eventually.

I keep moving forward. At one point, I hear a car approaching... and it slows down to my level. The driver rolls down the passenger window and asks: "Where are you headed like that, poor lone wanderer in the rising sun?" "To Bueng Kan, sir." "Get in!"

It’s now broad daylight. I hop in—picked up without even hitchhiking. I quickly notice a big radio blasting at the bottom of the dashboard. I must look surprised because the guy points at himself and says, "Police." Well, I’m in good company...

What I first take as his cop instincts makes him question me: "What are you going to do in Bueng Kan?" "Catch the bus to Nakhon Phanom." He checks his watch and speeds up.

A few dozen minutes later, we arrive at the bus station of this town whose name I still won’t write yet. He gets out of the car, suggests I wait, then comes back two minutes later. "Too bad—the bus left 10 minutes ago, and the next one isn’t for another 2 hours..." "No problem, I’ll wa—" "Stay there, I’ll take you."

Take me where? I don’t dare ask. We leave the town, and on the road, he drives like a maniac. I get it: after a while, we catch up to the bus, and he imperiously signals it to stop immediately.

Our goodbyes are quick. A *wai* of thanks from me, a smiling and magnanimous look from him, and I board. The road still follows the Mekong. So do I.

Your adventures are such a pleasure to read... especially since they remind us of the ones we’ve experienced ourselves.

And now I’m imagining a French cop doing the same with a foreign tourist—it’s nice to dream, so thanks, Thierry! 😂

And then I imagine a French cop doing the same with a foreign tourist

Another time, it was an Immigration officer who had finished his shift and gave me a ride when I entered Thailand from Cambodia through a remote border with no public transport. He dropped me off about 40 km away on Highway 24, where I only had to wait a short time before a bus to "ugly" Khorat passed by.

One more story: during my first trip to Thailand, I left the Sukhothai ruins around 8–9 PM (back then, the hours were flexible and entry was free). At the exit, there was a small police station, and given the late hour (no transport + risk), the cops stopped a passing car to take me to the city.

This time, the action takes place during a ride deep in Nan province. I set off by bike after 3:30 PM to enjoy the fading heat and visit an ethnic village about fifteen kilometers west of Thung Chang (where I’m staying for five nights). The road to the village is a series of ups and downs—basically, I’m suffering for an hour before I finally arrive.

Once there, I take photos of the surrounding nature, chat as much as possible, exchange smiles, and get curious looks from both sides. Then I come across some giggling kids who, after a bit of clowning around (from both sides...), offer to introduce me to the village monk (another one???) who also serves as their teacher. No problem, off we go to meet him: introductions, a wai from me with my palms at forehead height, and then the kids go back to their bike-related activities. Now I’m chatting with the monk in saffron robes. Instead of pulling out a bottle of sky , he offers me tea, the water for which is already heating in a soot-blackened kettle over an equally blackened stove. Even though teatime is a bit late, I accept—I don’t dare refuse (that’s just how we are in the gentry...).

Problem: the tea is scalding hot, and I can’t stand drinking anything too hot. I have to wait for the brew to cool down a bit, which wouldn’t be a big deal if it weren’t getting late and the sun wasn’t about to set while I still have to get back. Plus, I’d have liked to take a few more photos. But I can’t just leave the guy hanging without touching his tea! So I resign myself to waiting, trying to take small sips and burning myself each time. Time passes. And that damn tea just won’t cool down. I stop listening to my host’s conversation—I’m only thinking about one thing: getting out of there. Finally, after what feels like forever, I make my move. A quick wai as thanks, and off I go, hopping back on my bike. I still take a few last-minute shots of the area before heading back.

But now, dusk is fast approaching. I decide to hitchhike. It won’t be easy—first, I haven’t seen a single car, and second, I’ll have to transport my bike too. Luck is on my side: after barely five minutes, here comes a pickup truck, exactly what I need. I signal (hand horizontal at thigh, hip, or head level, or even higher with a palm-up gesture), and it stops. Inside, a couple is surprised to see me in such a remote area (as usual): "Dear couple, would you be heading to Thung Chang?" The man nods timidly. "Would you take me with you before I’m swallowed by the depths of the night? (If that doesn’t tug at their heartstrings...)" "..." Since he doesn’t seem to refuse, I take his silence as another yes. I head to the back, he gets out to help me load the bike into the bed, then invites me to sit in the front with them. He moves his wife to the narrow space behind the seats, which is usually meant for small luggage. After about fifteen minutes, he drops me off in Thung Chang where the road to my guesthouse begins—a hundred meters away in the countryside. It’s dark. I’m hungry. Darn, at this hour, Madame Papui (pronounced "papoo-ee"), the old lady who sells amazing Khao Soi, has been closed for ages...

And that’s the end of my hitchhiking experiences in Thailand.

Here are a few constants I’ve noticed: - Hitchhiking was never a pre-planned decision; I only did it for a good reason (except in the third story where I was taken "officially"), - It never happened on busy roads, - It was never for long distances, - I never started after night had already fallen, - I never had to wait long, and it was always the first car that stopped that picked me up—I never got refused, - And finally, it was never for economic reasons.

Do Thai drivers refuse to stop when someone on the side of the road signals them?

This topic, my stories, and the list of constants above are not meant to encourage or discourage hitchhiking in Thailand.