Pai: Thailand’s Mountain Backpacker Paradise (or Hell?)

I didn’t like Pai. Wait. Check that — I liked Pai, I just didn’t love Pai. For years, travelers have told me how much they loved Pai. “It’s aaaaa-mazing! It’s so much fun. There’s healthy food, incredible drinks, and beautiful mountains. You’ll never want to leave,” they would explain, as if talking about the Garden of Eden.

When I started traveling this region in 2006, I rarely heard the name Pai mentioned. It was far off the beaten path, and back then I was all about staying on the beaten path. Over the years, Pai grew in fame as a destination where people smoked weed, drank, hiked, and did yoga. Having never been to Pai, I decided on this trip that it was time to finally check out what all the fuss was about.

Driving through northern Thailand into the mountains, my bus twisted and turned. The road to Pai has over 700 turns, but I barely noticed them as I stared out the window at the densely covered hills rolling like waves into the horizon. It was green as far as I could see, and I was again struck by the beauty of the Thai countryside. We drove on for hours as our bus driver auditioned for an unseen F1 judge. But the heart-stopping speed was worth it to once again see such beautiful tropical forests.

As I explored town later that day, I understood why backpackers love Pai, why they write so effusively about it and accentuate the world love when they mention it. Nestled in the mountains and surrounded by waterfalls and wondrous hiking trails, Pai is a tiny town where life moves at a pace that would frustrate even the most laid-back Spaniard. It’s also a Western paradise: there’s organic food, wheatgrass shots, specialty teas, and Western food in shops lining the streets of the town. Additionally, drinks and accommodations are cheap, and the party goes late.

It is a backpacker’s mountain paradise.

But it was often just those things that turned me off to Pai. The town is simply too touristy and culturally washed over for me. I’m not one to hate the tourist trail — I’m writing this in a Western café in Luang Prabang, Laos while having a lemonade. But when people seek out imported food, drink beers from Belgium, and when the street food consists of burgers, bruschetta, and lasagna, I think things have gone too far.

Thailand itself seems to have gotten lost in Pai as waves upon waves of Westerners and Chinese tourists reshape most of town. One had to wander to find Thai restaurants that catered to the local population. (They were delicious and cheaper than the food found at the “market” on Walking Street.)

Of course, Pai is not all bad — there’s plenty to see and do. From town, you can hike to waterfalls, wander through farms and rice terraces where the only sounds are the birds and farm animals, and bike to caves and more waterfalls.

I especially loved the day trip to the Tham Lod caves. In mid-afternoon, you’re driven by one of the many tour operators (don’t worry which, they all go the same way) to Mo Paeng waterfall, where you can go for a swim, and then to Sai Ngam (secret) hot springs, a viewpoint, and finally the caves, where you arrive right before sunset. After a hike along a short path, a Thai guide leads you through three large chambers before you board a raft to float down the river that splices this cave in half. There the cavern opens up as you witness thousands of birds flocking around the entrance. It was mystifying, breathtaking, and the highlight of my time in Pai.

What I loved about Pai was the setting, not the vibe. In a town that charges you to plug your computer in, I found watching bare-chested backpackers get drunk obnoxious. As to fully showcase what Pai had become, my trip was bookended by overhearing two girls discussing whether they are “damp” or not according to Chinese medicine and two older guys discussing how Monsanto and governments are conspiring to depopulate the world.

I can see why so many travelers come here and love it: cheap accommodation, excess partying, the beautiful setting, the good Western food. If I were a first-time traveler and much younger, this travel atmosphere would be great. You get to interact with a lot of other travelers, maybe meet a few locals, and have a wild time.

But it’s not for me anymore.

The Pai of the backpacker is not the Pai that interests me. I love what made Pai famous in the first place: the mountains and the long forest paths to secluded waterfalls, caves, stunning vistas, and a quiet place to read a good book.

This is where Pai shines. This is what makes Pai the place to be. And why you should go to Pai, stay on the outskirts town in a lovely little bungalow, rent a bike, traverse the hills, bathe in cool waterfalls, or explore some caves.

Pais is much more than a haven for Westerner hippies, backpackers, and yoga teachers.

NEXT STEP: Click here to plan your trip to Thailand with my detailed guide.

A Lesson in Kindness While Hitchhiking Through Iceland

“Where are you going?” he asked from the driver’s seat.

“Thingeyri,” I replied. A confused look appeared on the man’s face.

“Thingeyri,” I said again, this time changing the intonation in my voice.

“Ahh, Thingeyri! Yes, I can take you there!”

I had been standing alone by the side of the road for two hours, hoping someone would give me a lift. Earlier that morning I’d taken the ferry to Brjánslækur, where I naïvely assumed the bus would align with the ferry’s arrival. But after landing, the dock master corrected that assumption: there wasn’t a bus until 6:30 p.m.

I looked at my watch. It was 11 a.m.

Crap, I thought.

I raced to the top of the dock in hopes a car would pick me. But as the cars exited the ferry, driving off to complete their journey, none did. Scores of other people walked toward waiting cars filled with friends and family. They too ignored my jutted-out thumb.

Alone, I went into the ferry terminal, ate some soup, and ventured back to the road. To my left was the empty dock and, past that, a vast, tranquil bay that shimmered on this sunny day. To the right side of the road were farms, sheep, and rolling hills. The only sign of human activity was the little red ferry building where, if all else failed, I could stay until the bus came.

No cars passed.

I waited.

And waited some more.

In the distance, a car.

I stuck out my thumb.

As the car passed, the driver looked at me but didn’t slow down.

A few more cars passed as if I wasn’t there.

It was a beautiful, warm, clear day — the first that entire week. The sun shone bright above, and the sheep grazed in the meadows. I decided to walk to the gas station, six kilometers away. Maybe I would have better luck at the crossroads.

I stopped often along the way to marvel at how quiet it was. The only sounds were the wind and my footsteps. I was in no rush, and the serenity and calm of my surroundings made the long walk bearable. I passed black sand beaches filled with sheep — even they knew to take advantage of the weather. Streams that started in the glacial mountains ended their journey in the salty bay.

At the crossroads I saw a family eating at the picnic area. Maybe they would give me a lift. I made sure to look in their direction often.

Hours passed. Cars came up the main road. I stuck out my thumb but the drivers shrugged, turned on their blinkers, and headed off in the wrong direction. The family continued to have the longest picnic ever.

Finally, as they packed up their picnic, the family looked over at me. This is my chance, I thought. Please go my way!

They got in their car, turned toward the crossroads…but then went right, heading to Reykjavik. I needed them to go left, toward me and Thingeyri!

I was defeated and hungry. When I had hitched Iceland’s main ring road, rides were abundant, but here they were nonexistent.

I was ready to give up, trudge back to the ferry building, and wait for the bus, but then, like an Icelandic angel descending from heaven in a gigantic steel cage, Stefan stopped his SUV and picked me up.

Stefan drove like Speed Racer. The road was in rough condition, opened only a few weeks ago due to a late winter and cold spring. There was still a lot of snow on the ground. “In the winter, this is all snow and you can’t drive here,” he said.

The road turned to gravel as we whizzed through the mountains. I was jostled up and down as we hit a few potholes, and I closed my eyes as we took turns too fast for comfort, hoping he would notice that and slow down.

He did not.

But for all the discomfort, I stared agape at the landscape that unfolded before me. Around me were melting glaciers, with rivers of clear blue water cutting into the snow. To my left were huge valleys where waterfalls fell down mountains into rivers and snows disappeared under the summer sun, leaving the growing grass a bright green. On flatter ground, the water pooled into lakes, and travelers stopped to take pictures.

Stefan and I talked a bit. His lack of English and my lack of Icelandic made long conversation difficult but we shared the basics. He was a fisherman from Reykjavik and married with four kids. “Triplets,” he says giving me a “right, I know” look. He was returning to Thingeyri to prepare for another ten days at sea.

During the journey, he pointed out landmarks and searched for the English word to describe them. I helped him when I could. I’d poorly repeat the word in Icelandic, Stefan would correct me, and I would fail again.

We drove through the mountains into a thick fog. When we could barely see a meter ahead, he slowed down, taking his time to drive the mountain road. As we crept along, I occasionally glimpsed the snow-covered precipices we would careen over if he wasn’t careful. I was relieved Stefan had finally decided to drive with caution. As we made our way down the mountain, the fog lifted and he pointed to a small town ahead. “Thingeyri.”

He dropped me off at my guesthouse and we said good-bye — he was off to sea, I was off to hike the mountains.

The next morning I awoke to see the fjord and mountains, clear of fog. As I hiked up Sandfell Mountain and enjoyed the beautiful day, I thought fondly of Stefan and his willingness to help a stranger my side of the road. Wherever his boat was, I hope he was filling it with fish and knew that somewhere out there was lone traveler eternally grateful for the experience.

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The Ultimate Packing List for Thailand

A trip to Thailand is practically a rite of passage for any seasoned traveler. Its enormous popularity is well-earned: postcard-perfect slices of white sand backed by mossy emerald karst mountains; ancient ruins and ornate temples; mind-bogglingly delicious food at unbelievably cheap prices; all-night parties that fade into lazy mornings filled with spa treatments; and enough scuba diving, rock climbing, kayaking, and trekking opportunities to satiate even the biggest thrill-seeker. Did I mention you can bathe with baby elephants? If it sounds like paradise, that’s because it is.

There are plenty of ways to do Thailand, from backpacking and roughing it on a budget to luxuriating on a romantic getaway. Any way you plan to travel, the packing lists are surprisingly similar, as you’ll have to prepare for sweltering sun, sand, humidity, and bugs — lots and lots of bugs.

Related: These Are the Best Times to Visit Thailand

So that you can focus on planning the itinerary of a lifetime rather than worry about what to bring, we’ve assembled the ultimate packing list for any type of trip to Thailand, no matter if you’re bunking up in a 10-person dorm or planning to lounge in a private infinity pool in the honeymoon suite. Use this list as a packing guide and you’ll have everything you need for hopping between the incredible cities, islands, and mountains of the Land of Smiles.