Today, as an old family friend pulled up to say hello, I found myself doing a little mental exercise. He was wearing the same red shirt I last saw him in 10 years ago, riding the same rusty old motorbike with its sidecar. I imagined plucking him right out of this scene and dropping him into Bangkok traffic just to see how wildly out of place he’d look.
Once I had that image clear in my mind—him looking utterly lost on Sukhumvit Road—I took it even further. I transported him to Times Square in New York City.
This man has never truly seen traffic in his life. I asked him point-blank to describe the worst traffic jam he’d ever experienced, and he complained about having to wait at two red lights a year ago—the first time he’d ever been held up at a stoplight for an extra two minutes.
All the while, we were having this conversation about how, as a kid, I was known as the cow girl—or the cow whisperer, I suppose—because I was obsessed with the cattle around here. And just as I finished playing my little mental movie of him struggling through New York City traffic, I told him,
“You are one of the luckiest people I know.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you don’t know cities, or traffic, or stress. You could be dropped into this exact spot a hundred years ago, and you’d fit right in without a second thought.”
“Probably so,” he said, wishing me a good day as he rode off.
Not even five minutes later, about twenty foreigners came charging down the path on their bicycles. Part of the Backroads tour, the same company I see every week, charging them $7,000 USD for a week-long “authentic” rural adventure—visiting the same places I walk to every day. No doubt they were rushing back to the Anantara Elephant Camp Resort, where they’d be staying the night for $1,200.
I felt like yelling, “Uh, guys? There’s a nearly identical elephant experience three minutes that way”—I’d toss a stone toward the field—”and it’s only $70 a night. But whatever.”
From across the field, the owner of the cattle whistled and called them home for the night. But since I had been feeding them grass by hand, they were too far away to listen or obey, so I herded them up the road and across the raised path that separates the rice paddies. They followed in step behind me, and I wondered aloud if this was the kind of moment those $7,000 adventure seekers were paying for.
I guess what I’m getting at is, after spending the last 15 years in cities, I feel completely disconnected from that life—and completely at home here.
It’s funny, though. Every week, I keep running into that Backroads team.
You remember the hills of pineapple crops behind my house, right? At the end of the rainy season, when the pineapples are so ripe they practically glow orange under the sun, that same Backroads team rolls in. First comes one of their lead vans, setting up tables and chairs for the 20 cyclists trailing behind a few minutes later.
Meanwhile, I’m perched at the top of the hill—part of my daily climb—sitting on my ass, cutting open a pineapple with the nearest semi-sharp stone, tearing it apart with my bare hands, and smashing my face into the juicy, succulent flesh inside. A full-blown barbarian feast.
Down below, the tour crew is delicately arranging trays of pre-sliced pineapple onto dishes, decorating their tables with a few freshly picked ones for effect. Then, there’s this one guy whose entire job seems to be going around sticking toothpicks into every single slice—so none of the dainty cycling tourists get a drop of juice on their precious fingers.
I’m honestly surprised they don’t have a team of manicurists ensuring nobody’s nails get dirty.
After finishing my pineapple like an animal, I stood up, poured the rest of my water bottle over my head—it’s ungodly humid in August—and carried on with my walk.
Every time I see another Backroads group, I’m reminded how lucky I am to live here. Other than the roads being paved, nothing about this place has changed in the last 200 years. Almost everyone I know has lived into their 90s—healthy, eating straight from the fields, never really retiring because there’s always something to do, no matter how old you are.
It’s such a different life.
And it makes me wonder—surely there’s a market for tourists who want to see all the same places Backroads takes them, but without the ridiculous markup? Imagine a more down-to-earth experience: local homestays, charming three-star guesthouses, the same breathtaking views… for a quarter of the price.
No toothpick guy required.
W. Beneath
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