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Set towards the centre of Thailand’s north, you’ll find Sukhothai (map link). From the Sanskrit, Sukhothai translates as “dawn of happiness”. Yet it could just as easily be “dawn of the nation” given the pivotal historical role it played.

The Kingdom of Sukhothai ruled for a short period (1238–1438) but it got plenty done in that short spell. Under the reign of King Ramkhaemhaeng (reigned 1279-1298), territory, religion and culture thrived.  

Hello New Sukhothai. Photo: David Luekens.

Influence stretched from Luang Prabang in the north to Nakhon Si Thammarat in the south. The arts blossomed—graceful and beautiful Buddha images derived their own Sukhothai style. Theravada Buddhism spread and the roots of the Thai alphabet took hold.

Yes, it was a busy few years.

Sukhothai is often compared to Ayutthaya—especially by those trying to decide on a visit between the two. While they’re both ancient capitals, they are quite different in the experience they deliver.

Take a wander and see what you find. Photo: David Luekens.

In Ayutthaya, ruins intermingle with a living, modern city. In Sukhothai, as with Kamphaeng Phet, the ruins are in a historical park. In this case though, the park is some 12 kilometres from the modern city, known as New Sukhothai. You can stay either near the historical park or in New Sukhothai. I’m going with the latter. Why? Food.

My bus drops me at Sukhothai’s bus station at the northwest corner of town. By Thai standards, it is a foreigner–friendly affair. Signs are in English and so on, but the tuk tuk drivers are no less rapacious.

Bungalow living at TR Guesthouse. Photo: David Luekens.

“Lotus Village: closed!” the first driver exclaims—referring to a popular hotel which sadly closed in 2018. Of course he has no shortage of (no doubt commission-paying) alternatives. But I know where I want to go and the haggling starts. After a millennium or so, we settle on a fare to my hotel of choice, long-running TR Guesthouse.

Sukhothai has no shortage of budget digs. Split by the Yom River, most Sukhothai guesthouses are within walking distance of it—and one another. I pick TR because I’ve stayed there before, it’s good value (300 baht for a simple fan room), and it’s close to spots I like to eat at. Food again. With me, it is always food.

I plan to visit the historical park tomorrow. I’ll catch a songthaew out there, then hire a bicycle for the day. This afternoon however, all I’m going to do is eat.

Hello beautiful. Photo: David Luekens.

Sukhothai is famous for kuay tiao Sukhothai, a dry or wet varietal on the more typical noodle soup you’ll see across Thailand. The Sukhothai blend features rice noodles with crushed peanuts and sliced long beans. On the side comes a slightly sweet broth (add lime to it). The broth comes either on the soup (sai nam) or on the side (heng). And as luck would have it, a great street cart slings bowls just around the corner from TR.

From here, I dawdle. An iced tea along the river, an exploration of some back lanes. While New Sukhothai is a modern city, it still makes for a pleasant walk. The tourist hub is on the east side of the Yom River, but you only have to walk a block to be back in Thailand.

Traphang Thong Market: Thailand is one country I can lose my head over the food in. Photo: David Luekens.

For dinner, I’m torn. David has written about a khao soi place I haven’t heard of—I’m leery of missing out on the bowl. Or there is the night market. In the end, I go with the latter—after all I’ll still be in Sukhothai tomorrow night.

The night market does not disappoint and I go to bed early to digest the rich massaman curry and the spicy duck salad I put away.

Tomorrow I’ll be spending all day exploring Sukhothai’s historical park by bicycle. Don’t forget your hat and sunscreen and I’ll see you then.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

“Never get out of the boat. Absolutely goddamn right. Unless you were goin all the way.”

Don’t listen to Captain Willard.

So says Captain Willard at a pivotal moment in Apocalypse Now. He and a crew member had got off their boat to look for mangoes and were almost attacked by a tiger for their efforts. 

While I love mangoes, I’m not sure I’d risk a tiger attack over one. That said, I’m always one to get off the boat at every opportunity.

On one of Sam and my early trips to Laos, we had a Lonely Planet atlas to the country—this was pre-Google Maps. The atlas was handy for finding stuff to take a look at—and also to draw lines on.

Slow boats at the ready. Photo: Cindy Fan.

The day before, we planned to get a boat from Huay Xai to Luang Prabang. We sat in a cafe and I poured over the map. Where could we go? Then I saw a town with a population marker for 25,000 to 50,000 people that was kind of in the direction we were heading. It was called Pha Udom.

According to the atlas there were no roads, only a river. Sounded like something worth checking out. So, the next day we trundled down to the riverfront with a half dozen other backpackers, and off we floated.

According to the atlas, our starting point was the Nam Tha, whose confluence with the Mekong was at Pak Tha. We tried to buy tickets just to Pak Tha, but the ticket dude would have none of it—“Pakbeng or Luang Prabang” he said. 

Tracing lines on a map. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So we sat on the boat trying to figure out which village was Pak Tha. Every time I asked the boat driver, he’d look at me with a face that said, “You mean Pakbeng right?’

Nooooo.

A few hours later we pulled up on the muddy bank and everyone had to get out for a document check. It wasn’t till we were in the wooden shack waiting for a guy to look at our papers, that we realised we were in Pak Tha.

A scrabble of a village to be sure, but we figured we could find somewhere to sleep. Back to the boat to grab our bags. Another traveller pointed out this wasn’t Pakbeng, and we said, yeah we know.

Down town Pak Tha. Photo: Adam Poskitt.

Trudging back up to town, we asked around and ended up in a room at the local school for the night. It was as simple as simple got. A threadbare mattress, no sheets, but a mozzie net for each of us.

At the time there were no restaurants in Pak Tha, so we ate barbecued sweet bananas for dinner. Believe me there are only so many you can eat. That evening a raucous party kicked off on the muddy river bank. Sponsored by Singha, the sound system reverberated into the early hours.

The next morning, I found a boatman to take us up the Nam Tha. At the time, the river led all the way to Luang Nam Tha, but we only wanted to go as far as Pak Hat. As with many rivers in Laos, the Nam Tha has since been dammed.

This is what it is all about. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Pak Hat was a dot on the map, and the atlas had a wiggly blue line that led from there to Pha Udom. To say the boatman was bemused at us wanting to go there was a slight understatement. We got going though, in a small sampan, with he and his wife paddling us upriver.

Within 20 minutes the village was behind us and thick forest tumbled down to the banks. A low mist added to the atmosphere. There was no other boat traffic. It was magnificent.

An hour or so later we made landfall at Pak Hat—a village so small it made Pak Tha look like an urban centre. Our boatmen hustled off to hustle us up transport to Pha Ubom and a little later a Russian jeep appeared. Negotiations were fierce but polite. I can’t remember what we paid, but, at the time, it seemed like a lot. It was probably $20!

From the trail head it was another hour or so along a decent dirt track. As with the river, jungle everywhere. In one spot I remember a waterfall collapsing onto the road—we drove through it. Splish, splash.

Always get off the boat—and ideally onto another. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another hour, and the jungle thinned and the tight hills opened to reveal a broad valley. Below us was a large village—huge in fact. The driver explained many people living here were relocated from elsewhere in the region. This was in 1997—almost 20 years before a dam on the Nam Tha would forever change the landscape.

We took a walk around a small part of Pha Udom. As in much of rural Laos, the poverty was grinding. Then we backtracked, first in the jeep, then in the sampan.

That night, bananas again, though no Singha Beer concerto. Late the next morning, back on the slow boat to Pakbeng.

This week gone on Couchfish

Day 10: Khlong Lan National Park

A full day enjoying a waterfall in Khlong Lan National Park, not far from Kamphaeng Phet.

Day 11: Mae Sot and the Burma border

I arrive in Mae Sot, visit some temples, a market and find plenty to eat.

Day 12: The Death Highway

One of the best motorbiking roads in Thailand—the trip doesn’t go quite as expected.

Day 13: Umphang

A visit to the breathtaking Thi Lor Su waterfall.

Day 14: Every town is worth a night

Heading for Sukhothai, I get waylaid by a broken down bus and end up in Tak for the night.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

Route 1090 runs south from Mae Sot to the isolated, mostly Karen, town of Umphang. The name “Death Highway” dates back to the 1980s. At that time, opium cultivation—and the security issues that come with it—was common. Opium is still grown in Tak province, but thanks to crop substitution work, has been reduced by some 80%. The days of seeing mountain ridges shimmering with poppy fields are gone.

The road though, has retained its name—at least in travel writing circles. With 1,219 curves, no traffic and ace scenery, this is one of Thailand’s top rides.

This Youtube video, from around the 5 minute mark, catches the beauty of the ride.

For all but the most determined, Route 1090 is a dead end—there is no road to Sangkhlaburi. You can trek there, though. The walk takes six to seven days, weaving you backwards and forwards over the Thai–Burma border.

I’ve been to Umphang a few times over the years, though the most memorable was quite a few years ago.  Here we go with a tale from back then.

My girlfriend Nikki and I had arranged months earlier to meet a friend, Mark, in Umphang. We’ve been riding down the border from Mae Hong Son for weeks on an over-extended Mae Hong Son loop. By the time we roll into Mae Sot what is another 165 kilometres?

Bye bye Mae Sot. Photo: David Luekens.

Leaving the wooden No 4 Guesthouse, we hit the market. After a breakfast of coffee, jok and cheap cigarettes, we get going. The first 45 kilometres takes us through farmland, mountains in the distance, bright warm sunlight on the skin. Bliss. Just after Ban Rom Klao, we pass an unmanned police checkpoint and start climbing.

The air cools, the road shoulders dampen, and the traffic drops from light to non-existent. Forest closes in and we start working our way through the road’s 1,219 curves.

Valley scenes before the hills begin. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Nikki and I have been working on quitting smoking for weeks. With the fresh morning air blasting in my face, now seems as good a time as any to quit. So while Nikki enjoys the scenery, I pull our last pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. Then, unbeknownst to her, drop them to the road along a lengthy fast straight.

Littering I know, and, well, karma would come fast and furious.

Taking a rest stop with a view of what is coming. Photo: David Luekens.

Another 15 kilometres brings us to a series of switchbacks. We haven’t seen a vehicle in 30 minutes, then, while pulling out of a hairpin, the bike feels real soft.

The back tire is all over the place and I sense Nikki wriggling, trying to see what the problem is, and then I hear it.

Thud thud thud thuuuuuud.

We have a flat. Oh crap.

I pull up. The rim is hot to touch, the tire, like me, deflated.

Double crap.

I wheel the bike onto the shoulder. Spinning the wheel I see a bent nail.

B*****d!

Of course we have no puncture kit—and as Nikki is about to discover, no cigarettes.

Padding her pockets, she asks for them.

“I threw them away.”

“What?”

“I threw them away. After the checkpoint. I thought we were going to give up.”

“Are you f%$^ joking. This is not funny.”

“No. Sorry.”

“You are an idiot. Do not speak to me.”

I won’t go any further into the blow by blow as I’m sure you get the idea. Believe me, the one way to make having a flat tire in a remote area worse is by throwing away your only cigarettes 15 kilometres ago without telling your girlfriend. 

If you’re not riding yourself, songtheaws are the way to go. Photo: David Luekens.

Nicotine issues aside, we are in a bind. We know there’s a town about 15 kilometres back, but it will be a very hilly push. We decide to wait for a ride so one of us can go find a mechanic.

For two hours we sit by the side of the road. What a glorious and loving two hours it is.

Then, a pick-up slows to a stop. They toss the bike and us into the back and drive into town. No way will they take our money.

Tire fixed, and yes, cigarettes purchased—two packs in fact.

“If you want to throw away cigarettes, throw your own away. Idiot.”

Happy days.

The ride improves our mood... well after 100 kilometres or so.

We pass through thick forest, but I don’t have time to look up as I’m concentrating on the road. Nikki later remarks it is one of the most beautiful rides we’ve done—and we’ve done a lot of miles at this point. 

This video has some great drone shots capturing what the road is like.

The forest opens up now and then, revealing vast cabbage and corn plantations. In Umphang we’re told cabbage is crop substitution at work, but it needs vast deforestation to set up. As the guesthouse owner surmises:

“You need to sell a lot of cabbage to earn the same as opium.”

About 40 kilometres shy of Umphang we pull up at a viewpoint. It feels like we’re gazing right across Burma—ridge after ridge after ridge. Though the early afternoon light washes it out somewhat, the layering is magnificent.

The last segment is a beautiful valley run. Agriculture surrounds us, distant mountain ranges to the left and right. We’ve seen perhaps 20 cars through the entire ride. The heat is easing and if we were running any later, a jacket would be welcome.

Umphang is a village more than a town and we don’t need a map to find the guesthouse. It is almost last light when we pull up out front, the friendly owner greets us and we say we’re here to see our friend Mark.

“Who? There’s nobody here.”

Tomorrow, more on our search for Mark and the gobsmacking beauty of Umphang’s surrounds. See you then.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

As this is the first issue of Couchfish Diversion, a quick word on what it is.

Sometimes you’re in a well travelled spot and you're looking for something a bit different. Perhaps just for a night, perhaps for 10 nights ...

Couchfish Diversion is all about this. Each Tuesday at 5pm GMT+8 I’ll send paid and free subscribers to Couchfish a piece that takes a popular spot in Southeast Asia and recommends a diversion.

Let's gets diverted!

Ko Samui has been on the mass tourism dance card for decades. It was the first Thai island I ever visited. I lazed away on what was then low-key Lamai Beach. Back then, a beachfront shack with a shared bathroom at Amity Bungalows cost 60 baht. Really. This was, by the way, just after the dinosaurs left the face of the earth (so yeah, 1993).

Early morning on Ko Taen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’ve been back many times since, but on the way to my preferred Ko Pha Ngan. Most times, Samui is little more than a stopover. Straight off the south coast of Samui though, lies Ko Taen, and if you’re looking for a diversion, this is it.

I ask the round-island songthaew driver to drop me at Thong Krut on Samui’s south coast. This was once a fishing village, but like much of the island, much has moved over to tourism. The coastline is lined with a gaggle of bars and restaurants, some stilted, to take in the sunset. But just past the breakwater and across the sea lies my destination.

Island bound. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are no public ferries—it's close enough that you could kayak there ... though there's no way I would. Instead, I charter a longtail, paying what turns out to be an inflated 1,500 baht for the return trip. The boatman will drop me there and when I want to come back all I need do is call him.

“One night, one year, no problem,” he says.

We slide across the smooth morning waters in his longtail. In the still air, spray is light, and 30 minutes later his engine burps and chortles as he navigates the shallows. He tosses an anchor out to sea then needles the prow softly against the crescent shaped yellow sand beach.

Squelch.

Thankfully it wasn’t low tide when I arrived. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’d called the guesthouse ahead of time to snare a room. The guy who answered laughed, and sure enough, I’m the only guest at Koh Tan Village Bungalows.

The owner is off somewhere, so a friendly young woman who doubles as cook, cleaner and boat meeter, walks me up the sand to my beachfront room. I’d expected bamboo and thatch—instead I have polished concrete with tri-coloured stained glass windows. There’s a deck (though no hammock) and the bathroom, is, well okay. For 1,000 baht a night I’ve seen much worse!

Later, the owner surfaces. Meesak is a third-generation islander. His parents were born on the island and so was he, he says. Like so many island people in the region, being born on the island matters. He’s an affable guy and we chat for a bit as he makes himself comfortable on my sole veranda chair.

My humble abode. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Meesak explains how the island tried to become an eco-destination, but that didn’t work out. Over time the full-time population dwindled from a few hundred families to just 27 permanent residents. I don’t bother asking why the lock on my door doesn’t work as, well, I guess Meesak knows all 27 people on the island.

I swim and laze around for a significant part of the day. Day trippers come and go from Samui—there are a couple of other places to stay—yet nobody stays. Crazy.

Around four in the afternoon, Meesak suggests I walk over to the other side of the island for sunset. I oblige—it isn’t like I have any other pressing engagements.

My own personal sunset. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A cement-paved road (I turn right at the pig monument and so should you) leads the entire way. On the southwest coast, it winds out through a mass of mangroves, finishing at a dead end by the sea. The sun sets almost right in front of me, yet I feel like I’m the only person on the planet. The air is still, crabs scrabble in the mangroves and I watch the rich green of their leaves fade to black.

I am the only man on earth.

I walk back (sans torch, a major error I should say) and have a seafood dinner back at the guesthouse. This was the only sting of the stay, with the price well higher than I expected. When you’re the only guest on an entire island, though, what's a fair price?

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com