When I first told my friends and family I was going to Thailand, everyone regaled me with stories of pristine beaches, crystal clear waters, delicious food and affable people. When I told them I was going alone, however, they quickly changed their tune. Their stories of paradise were immediately replaced with words of caution. Suddenly, everyone had a friend of a friend who had been mugged or conned. My aunt knew someone who had been gassed and robbed while riding an overnight bus. My cousin had heard a story about a woman who was thrown in jail for refusing to pay off corrupt police officers. My friend knew someone at work whose brother was forced off a bus and left in the middle of nowhere with only the clothes on his back.
For some reason, these nightmarish tales with which my loved ones bombarded me only seemed to happen to people traveling alone. Never to couples or groups. “Just be careful,” my loved ones said. “We’re telling you this for your own good,” they assured me. What they succeeded in doing, however, was to replace the usual thrill and excitement I felt about traveling with anxiety and uncertainty.
Traveling alone was not a new experience for me, but taking a holiday entirely by myself was. Never before had I planned a vacation that didn’t involve meeting up with someone I knew, or dropping in on a friend. This trip, however, was completely on my own. And after hearing the horror stories of the mishaps that single tourists seemed to encounter in Thailand, I was more than a bit nervous.
After studying the “potential dangers” section of my guidebook, I felt I was savvy (and paranoid) enough to avoid any possible threats. I knew to take only registered taxis, not buy jewels from men on the street, and avoid private bus tours that offered deals too good to be true.
I arrived in Bangkok at 1:30 a.m. and took a cab—a registered cab of course—to my hotel. After a good night’s sleep, I set off for the Grand Palace. Although I had witnessed some extraordinary architecture on past travels, I wasn’t prepared for the vibrant color and intricate detail of this palace. I was stunned. I wandered the grounds, soaking in the mosaic-covered buildings and temples. The sensations of fear that my family and friends had instilled in me were starting to wash away in the presence of such beauty.
Although traveling alone can apparently make you more vulnerable to potential mishaps, it also offers the luxury of doing whatever you please, whenever you please. The next morning, on a whim, I hopped a train to the historic city of Ayutthaya. This city, once the capital of Thailand, is home to several temple ruins. I spent the afternoon visiting massive Buddha sculptures and majestic brick wats. After a long day of sightseeing, I stopped at a food stall near my hotel and quickly wolfed down some green curry and rice. While eating my delicious dinner, I realized my anxieties about the “potential dangers” of the country had all but disappeared.
The next day I decided to continue my adventure further north and set off for Chiang Mai. My trusty guidebook recommended taking a trek outside of the city to see the lush jungle. Upon arriving in town, I was overwhelmed by the number of treks offered. There were countless tour operators that led walks into the jungle, and every traveler I spoke to swore the trek they’d taken was the best in Chiang Mai. I ended up choosing an operator named Panda Tours simply because it was closest to my hotel and offered reasonably priced day trips.
My guide, Gong, picked me up the next morning in a small, red truck. As we pulled away from my hotel, he informed me that since I was the only person booked on the trek he had invited a friend of his to join us. The anxieties of traveling alone that I had so recently managed to suppress suddenly welled up again. I was about to go into the jungle with two complete strangers. Who knew what sort of doom lay before me—I could be robbed or left to rot in the jungle. None of my family or friends knew where I was. It would be at least another two weeks before anyone realized I was missing. I had let my guard down and been lulled into a false sense of security. “If only I had listened to my friends,” I said to myself. I sat in the truck wondering if I should try to jump out at the next red light.
I eyed Gong’s friend suspiciously as he climbed into the truck. He didn’t seem dangerous, but one could never tell. My panic subsided after a few minutes of idle small talk. Andy, a meteorologist from Wales, was entirely non-threatening and all-around good company. As we moved out of the city, I silently chastised myself for succumbing to my irrational fears.
As we drove further into the mountains, the landscape changed from cultivated rice paddies and groves of banana palms to a wild, lush jungle. Our first stop on the trek was an elephant bush camp. Gong pulled off the dirt road and parked in a small clearing. He led us down a path to a platform standing in the forest. Next to the wooden scaffolding was a large, hairy elephant with a bench strapped to its back. The only way to reach the bench was by climbing from the platform onto the elephant’s head. I hesitated, fearing I would hurt him. The elephant backed away impatiently, only to be urged into position by a harsh beating from the elephant guide. Deciding that my body weight had to be far less painful than the hard stick beating his hindquarters, I planted my foot firmly in the middle of the elephant’s leathery, gray head and jumped aboard.
I expected the elephant ride to be similar to the horseback-riding tours I had been on back home—a slow meander along a flat surface. Instead our guide led us up a steep hillside into the jungle. At first, I thought we were taking a short-cut or a detour to the road, but our guide continued to lead us deeper into the forest. The terrain was rough, and with each step the elephant took, our bench lurched side to side. It was by no means the gentle ride I had envisioned. I wasn’t sure what to be more worried about: our bench sliding off the side of the elephant or the elephant stumbling on the treacherous path. I gripped the arm of the bench praying, with each step, that I wouldn’t feel the weigh of the elephant come crashing down on top of me. Once again, my fears were unwarranted. The elephant, probably more sure-footed in the forest than myself, successfully navigated the trek and brought us safely back to the wooden platform.
Our next stop was Anka, a Hill Tribe village situated in the jungle. The village consisted of bamboo huts with thatched roofs scattered about a dry, dusty hillside. Women and children dressed in traditional tribal costumes sat on blankets selling arts and crafts. On one young girl’s blanket were thin wooden tubes decorated with intricate carvings. I stopped to inspect the little tubes and asked the young girl what they were. Before she could answer, an elderly woman dressed in a small black cap and a brightly decorated tunic came running across the road. She started shouting at me excitedly and yanked the tube from my hand. I stepped back wondering what was wrong. Had I broken it? Was it poisonous or dangerous? Was she distracting me while someone picked my pockets? The old woman put the thin piece of wood into her mouth and began to make a gentle twanging sound. It was a musical instrument. The old woman had simply wanted to show me how to play it.
She offered me the instrument to try but I was able to produce only a quiet wheeze. The old woman, her well-tanned face covered in deep wrinkles, couldn’t stop laughing at my failed attempt. I also started to laugh, at both my musical ineptitude and for constantly letting my fears get the better of me. As I looked at the smiling face of the giggling Anka tribeswoman, I realized how foolish I had been. Of course, all travelers—whether alone or not—need to be cautious, but my constant fretting about the unknown was ruining my holiday. The only place I seemed to encounter the dangers my friends and family warned me about were in my imagination. I blew again on the instrument—this time producing a tiny twang. The woman clapped her hands excitedly. I smiled, realizing my music teacher’s friendly enthusiasm had taught me more than just how to play an Ankan mouth harp.
