I spent my first two hours in Bangkok stuck in crosstown traffic. With precious vacation time ticking away, I swore off wheeled transport and decided to take boats from then on. For most of Bangkok's 220-year history, boats were the only way to get around the Thai capital, which straddles both the Chao Phraya River and a tangled network of klongs, or canals. Even though many of the old waterways have been paved over, most of the city's major attractions can be reached by boat. The Chao Phraya Express serves the river like a public bus, stopping at selected piers, such as Tha Tien (for the Grand Palace, Wat Po and Wat Arun). The ubiquitous water taxis, called longtails, ply the places in-between.
I couldn't get a water taxi to take me out of town, however. That required a bit more planning. Once again I used history as my guide. For hundreds of years the Chao Phraya served as the main entrance to central Thailand. Immense wooden barges patrolled its banks, exchanging cargoes of teak and rice for gold, precious stones and imported goods from abroad. The ancient Thai capital of Ayuthaya was considered to be the entryway to Asia, and ambassadors from as far away as France, Portugal and Japan camped at its doorstep seeking concessions and passage from the Thai Kings. Some of the old teak rice barges are still around, and a few have been converted into floating hotels.
"In the late 1980s Bangkok was suffering from a lack of hotels," says Vincent Tabuteau, director of East-West—call (66-2) 256 0168—a travel operator that focuses on traditional Southeast Asian adventures. "We had this old barge and thought that it would be a good idea to plan a relaxing cruise that would introduce tourists to Thai lifestyle and culture." He and his partners named the first boat Mekhala, after the goddess of water from the Thai epic Ramakian.
I met the Mekhala II, a similarly renovated sister of the original—complete with a tiered, tiled roof in the traditional style—at a pier in southern Bangkok. I immediately kicked off my shoes, knowing that I wouldn't be needing them for a while, and savored the feel of well-polished wood beneath my feet. My room, one of six, fit two people comfortably and was charmingly decorated in teak with silk cushions and Thai art. The clever design of the cabin made up for the limited space, placing the double bed above the well-equipped sunken bathroom. I could have watched the river from my room's window, but the sun-filled upper deck beckoned, as did the bar. I joined the 10 other guests for a welcome drink, and we pushed off at 3 p.m.
There was nothing to do but sit back in comfortable teak chairs and watch the city go by. Bangkok is so crowded that it is difficult to get an idea of the city's shape, but from the comparatively open space of the river, the view was unobstructed by tall buildings. Soon the city skyline, haunted by the skeletal remains of half-finished luxury hotels—relics of a building boom cut short by the economic crash—gave way to factories, villas and then modest villages on stilts, interspersed with gaudy, golden-roofed temples.
As the sun went down the breeze was cool and refreshing (if not always fragrant). We chugged up the river at a leisurely six knots and stopped for the night at Wat Kai Tia, a sleepy Thai temple on the banks of the river about 50 kilometers from Bangkok. Our multitalented crew, which had been giving foot and head massages to the guests only minutes before, laid out a sumptuous candlelit Thai meal on the upper deck and we ate under the light of an almost full moon.
Sated by the sun and rocked by the wakes of slow-moving night barges, I don't even remember falling asleep, but I woke soon enough to the sound of Ton, our chef and captain, preparing breakfast on deck—above my head. Before eating, the guests offered alms to the monks at the nearby temple, who sent us on our way with a prayer and an exhortation to return.
The sun began to burn off the morning mist, and accompanied by the sounds of the waking villages, the pilot switched on the engines and we moved upstream once again. All along the banks, river residents started on their morning chores, washing clothes, dishes and themselves. I saw that the docks became extensions of the houses they served. Men sat out in the sun reading the paper, while women nursed babies in the cool morning air. Koong, one of the friendliest of the four crew members, watched the waking river for a while and asked me how I was enjoying the trip. "It's good for tourists to see the real Thai lifestyle," he said. "They won't see it in Bangkok. There it is just rush, rush, rush."
Too soon we arrived at Bang Pa-In, about 80 kilometers from Bangkok. It was time to put our shoes back on and leave the Mekhala II for a tour of the royal family's summer palace. Taken in hand by a quick-talking guide who hustled us through the rococo and Victorian follies of the Disney-esque architectural park, I longed for the tranquil pace of the Chao Phraya. We eventually returned to the river, but the Mekhala II was already on her way back down to Bangkok. Instead we boarded gaily colored longtails and were whisked off to Ayuthaya in a roar of engines.
For a few hours we explored the ruins of the ancient capital, trying to imagine what it was like when it was one of the most important trading cities in Asia. Established as the royal capital in 1350, Ayuthaya was the center of Thai culture, wealth and religion for more than 400 years, and home to more than 1 million people by the time of its fall to Burma in 1767.
At the end of the day we motored back to the 21st century in an air-conditioned bus. It was only 24 hours later, but I felt like I had taken a week's holiday—until we hit Bangkok's evening rush hour. I got out of the bus. It was faster to walk.
