BANGKOK & SAKON NAKHON
SOME JOURNEYS ARE BETTER TOGETHER
Priyam Biswas, January 26, 2026
Bangkok has a reputation problem — not a bad one, just an overfamiliar one. The moment you mention the city, most Indian readers mentally pack their imaginary shopping bags, summon a tuk tuk, and prepare themselves for a story they think they already know. Which is precisely why I should warn you: this is not that story. In fact, if you’re expecting the usual Bangkok clichés, you might as well hold on to your seat — because the real surprise of this journey waited far from the capital, in a place whose name most Indians can’t pronounce on the first attempt.
(Watch detailed videos of the trip by clicking the link - https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL4selxLPjGIAR-hTKWFyE53piDSEm3G4L )
But before I get to Sakon Nakhon — the quiet, cultural, unexpectedly soulful corner of Thailand that gently rearranged my assumptions — I must begin where the journey began; on the river that built Bangkok.
I arrived with no dramatic expectations, no checklist of “things to do,” and no desire to pretend I knew the city better than I did. Bangkok and I had crossed paths before, but only in the polite, surface level way acquaintances do — enough to recognise each other, not enough to claim familiarity. Which, in hindsight, was perfect. It meant I could look at the city without the burden of nostalgia or the arrogance of expertise.
The Amari Don Mueang Hotel welcomed me with the kind of efficiency that makes you wonder if they had been expecting you for weeks. After breakfast, Khun Nam (my guide) suggested that I begin the day on the Chao Phraya — not as tourist, but as a student of the city. I did not realise how right she was until the boat began to move.
A BLUEPRINT OF THE CITY
The river was not just a river. It was a blueprint. As the boat glided forward, Khun Nam explained how Bangkok’s very shape was carved by royal intention. In 1705, King Süa ordered the excavation of a shortcut canal — a bold engineering project that redirected the flow of water, trade, and life itself. Over time, the canal widened, deepened, and eventually became the main course of the modern Chao Phraya River. Bangkok was not built around the river; it was built because of it.
And then I saw him.
A middle-aged man stood by the riverbank, clarinet in hand, playing to no one and everyone at once. His notes drifted across the water — soft, steady, unhurried — as if he were in conversation with the river itself. There was no audience, no performance, no expectation. Just a man, a melody, and a morning that did not need anything more.
It was one of those moments that does not announce itself as important but stays with you anyway — a reminder that cities reveal themselves not only through monuments, but through the quiet rituals of the people who live beside them.
As the boat curved along the river’s spine, the skyline shifted, and Wat Arun rose into view.
Rising over the Chao Phraya River, Wat Arun — the Temple of Dawn — is one of Bangkok’s most iconic landmarks. Its origins trace back to the Ayutthaya period, but it gained prominence in the late 18th century when King Rama II began shaping it into the towering structure we see today. The temple’s central prang, soaring over 70 meters high, is covered in delicate mosaics made from broken porcelain — once used as ballast on trading ships arriving from China. In sunlight, these fragments catch and scatter light, giving the temple its signature glow.
Wat Arun is not just an architectural marvel; it is a symbol of Thailand’s resilience and cultural continuity. For generations, it has stood as a gateway to the old capital, a spiritual anchor for communities along the river, and a reminder of the artisanship that defines Thai heritage. And when you stand here, surrounded by its intricate spires and shimmering tiles, the beauty of Wat Arun feels almost otherworldly — a place where every surface tells a story, every detail reflects devotion, and the river breeze carries centuries of living tradition.
THE LUXURY WHITE
By evening, the river softened into gold. We boarded the Luxury White dinner cruise — a floating dining room with soft lighting and a band that played familiar melodies with unfamiliar tenderness. Bangkok shimmered on both sides; its temples and towers reflected in the water like a city rehearsing its own memories. And then the fireworks began. They rose from Memorial Bridge (Phra Phutthayotfa Bridge) — in perfect arcs, bursting above the river in colours that felt too vivid for the night sky. Red, gold, green — each explosion mirrored on the water below, turning the Chao Phraya into a shimmering tapestry of light.
For a moment, it felt as if the river was holding the sky in its hands.
It was a gentle ending to a day that had begun with history, drifted into music, and settled into light.
The next morning, we walked to Don Mueang Airport through an air conditioned skybridge that felt like a metaphor for Thailand itself: practical, thoughtful, and quietly impressive.
SAKON NAKHON
The flight to Sakon Nakhon was short enough to feel like a comma rather than a new paragraph. When we landed, the airport greeted us with the kind of simplicity that makes you instinctively lower your voice, as if noise might disturb the calm.
Lunch at The Pizza Company was unexpectedly excellent — a reminder that sincerity often tastes better than reputation.
ONSON DISTILLERY
Our first major stop was Onson Distillery, where Tiger (Tammawit Limlertcharoenwanich) greeted us with the relaxed confidence of someone who has built something meaningful with his own hands. His red 1968 Alfa Romeo sat outside like a punctuation mark, a small declaration that passion does not always follow logic.
Inside, the distillery felt like a workshop of ideas. Tiger explained how Thai law restricts the naming of local spirits, which had led him to invent an entire dictionary of playful alternatives. “Thai quila” was just one of them — a sample from a collection of spirited wordplay that made legal limitations feel like creative prompts. But the real story was not the spirits. It was Tiger’s philosophy.
He spoke about Sakon Nakhon with the tenderness of someone speaking about family. He told us how young people had been leaving the province in search of opportunity, how the cultural heritage of the region — its crafts, its traditions, its way of life — was slowly thinning out. His goal was not just to build a distillery. It was to build a reason to stay. He wanted young people to see value in their own land, their own skills, their own stories. Sustainability, for him, was not about materials — it was about continuity. About ensuring that the next generation did not inherit a place stripped of its identity. That is why he refused mass production. That is why he used local cane sugar and coconut flower sap. That is why every bottle was wrapped in hand dyed fabric made by artisans from nearby villages.
“Craft keeps people rooted,” he said. And in that moment, I understood that Onson was not a business.
It was a bridge — between past and future, between tradition and innovation, between leaving and returning. We blended our own spirits, sealed our bottles, and left with the faint satisfaction of having participated in something rooted in purpose.
COMMUNITY MARKET AND THE CUISINE
The evening market that followed was a gentle reminder that not all markets need to be loud to be alive. Children darted between stalls, vendors smiled without urgency, and the air carried the scent of grilled meat, fresh herbs, and something sweet I could not quite identify.
Dinner was at a local eatery where Khun Wirote took charge of ordering — a decision that rewarded me with bold, earthy, unapologetically Isaan flavours.
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TEMPLES & TRADITIONS
The next morning, we drove to Wat Tham Pha Daen, a temple perched on a hill with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from being carved into the landscape rather than built upon it. The rock‑carved Buddha, the serene Ganesha and Vishnu sculptures, the panoramic view of the valley — everything felt like a collaboration between nature and devotion.
Later, at Wat Prathat Choeng Chum, Sakon Nakhon’s spiritual centre revealed itself in layers. The temple’s architecture is understated but deeply symbolic — a low, graceful viharn leading to a slender white stupa that rises like a flame. According to local belief, this stupa enshrines the footprints of four Buddhas: Kakusandha, Konagamana, Kassapa, and Gautama. For centuries, it has been a gathering place for communities across the province, a site where faith, identity, and tradition converge. And that identity is unmistakably Isaan.
When we arrived, the courtyard was alive with rehearsals for the Phu Tai Mass Dance, the signature performance of the annual festival. There were thousands of dancers — women, men, elders, teenagers, and children — all dressed in traditional Phu Tai attire, moving in long, sweeping formations that filled the temple grounds. The scale alone was breathtaking, but what struck me more was the unity: generations dancing side by side, each step echoing the rhythms of their ancestors. The sound of khaen — the bamboo mouth organ that defines Isaan music — drifted through the air, its warm, reedy tone carrying a sense of longing and pride. Drums and cymbals added a heartbeat beneath the melody, grounding the dance in the agricultural rhythms that shaped Phu Tai life for generations.
Watching thousands of people move as one — palms curved, steps measured, expressions serene — felt like witnessing a living archive. A culture not preserved in museums, but carried in bodies, passed down through families, and renewed every year in front of this ancient stupa.
It was Sakon Nakhon telling its own story.
MUDDSAKON
MUDDSAKON felt like a quiet continuation of everything the morning had revealed — a place where food, land, and culture meet without needing to announce themselves. The restaurant stands out immediately: a distinctive structure that blends the openness of a pavilion with the warmth of a contemporary barn. It sits beside a small farm and a still pond that mirrors the sky, giving the entire space a sense of calm that feels almost rural, yet intentional.
But what makes MUDDSAKON truly special is not just its setting. It is the philosophy behind it — a belief that food should be rooted in the land, shaped by the seasons, and prepared with the kind of sincerity that does not need embellishment. The team here does not cook to impress; they cook to honour what they are. They grow much of their own produces, harvest ingredients at their peak, and let the flavours speak for themselves. Even the pasta is made in-house, shaped by hand, and served with a quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly where every ingredient comes from.
There is a gentleness to the place — in the way the staff move, in the way the kitchen adapts to what the farm offers, in the way the menu shifts with weather and soil. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels forced. It is a kind of hospitality that does not perform; it simply exists.
The meal tasted fresh and deliberate — the kind of food that reminds you sustainability is not a concept here. It is a lived practice, woven into daily routines rather than written on chalkboards. MUDDSAKON describes itself as a “Source of Happiness,” and for once, a tagline felt accurate. The happiness came quietly — through the pond, the farm, the flavours, the sincerity.
THE CHRISTMAS STAR PARADE
By the time we reached St. Michael’s Cathedral, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting a warm glow over the boat shaped structure. The cathedral was celebrating its 150th year, and the air carried a sense of anticipation that felt almost tangible.
The Christmas Star Parade was not just an event; it was a living, breathing expression of community.
The streets glowed with handcrafted star lanterns — some small enough to be carried by toddlers, others towering above the crowd like luminous sculptures. Each star was unique, shaped by the hands that made it, carrying stories that stretched across generations.
The parade moved with ceremonial grace. Children dressed as angels walked beside elders in traditional attire, their faces illuminated by the warm glow of the lanterns they carried. The floats were simple but heartfelt — wooden frames wrapped in coloured paper, adorned with lights that flickered like memories.
The by lanes added their own magic.
On one side, a street food lane stretched like a fragrant ribbon — charcoal smoke rising from grills, skewers sizzling, coconut desserts stacked like edible snowflakes.
On the other, a clothing and accessories market unfolded — indigo fabrics, embroidered skirts, handmade jewellery, vendors chatting softly.
As darkness settled, the parade reached its crescendo. A meticulously choreographed drone show began — hundreds of drones forming stars, angels, gift boxes, and finally, Merry Christmas. The sky became part of the celebration.
MANN GARDEN CREATIVE CRAFT CENTRE
If Sakon Nakhon had a moment that felt like it reached directly into my chest and rearranged something quietly, it was Mann Garden Creative Craft Centre.
Contrary to my anticipation, it was not a single workshop. It was a village of creativity. A thin forest held clusters of small studios, open air workspaces, and humble shops where artisans sold what they made — indigo scarves, hand woven textiles, natural dyes, bamboo crafts, pottery, and delicate jewellery. Nothing felt commercial. Everything felt personal.
I wandered into a silk making corner first, where women were gently boiling cocoons, teasing out impossibly fine threads, and spinning them into silk with a rhythm that felt older than memory. Watching silk emerge from something so small felt like witnessing alchemy. Then came the indigo.
The workshop was not a demonstration; it was an initiation. I learned how to prepare the cloth — stretching it, smoothing it, understanding its grain. I learned how to paint designs with molten wax, watched it cool into delicate lines that resisted the dye like tiny acts of rebellion. And then came the indigo vat — deep, ancient, almost alive. We dipped the cloth into the vat, and when it emerged, it was green. Only when it touched the air did it slowly turn blue — a transformation so subtle and magical that I felt like I was watching a secret being revealed. Every detail fascinated me. Every step felt like a conversation with time. And then the music began.
A group of school students started playing live Isaan music — bamboo instruments, soft percussion, gentle vocals. The sound drifted through the trees, weaving itself into the scent of wax and dye, turning the entire environment into something otherworldly. It felt less like a craft centre and more like a living, breathing cultural sanctuary — a place where tradition was not preserved behind glass but practiced, shared, and passed on.
THE REAL THAILAND
This journey shifted something in me — not loudly, not dramatically, but in the quiet way certain places do when they are not trying to impress you. Sakon Nakhon did not deMannd attention; it earned it. Through its craft, its music, its parades, its people, it revealed a Thailand that does not appear on billboards or brochures — a Thailand that lives in gestures, in traditions, in the way communities hold each other.
If you want to experience Thailand differently, go to Sakon Nakhon in late December. Come for the stars in the parade, stay for the indigo on your hands, listen to the music in the forest, and let the people — especially the ones like Tiger — show you a Thailand that lingers long after you’ve returned home.
Some journeys end when the plane lands.
This one does not. It settles quietly inside you, colouring everything that comes after.
For detailed video of the trip please click the link below -
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL4selxLPjGIAR-hTKWFyE53piDSEm3G4L