There's a peaceful side to Bangkok—if you know where to look

This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).

Captain Tai is the embodiment of Zen. He hops onto the deck of his royal-blue wooden boat, twiddles a few switches and we glide away from the canal bank in silence. Around us in the neighbourhoods that stem from the western banks of the Chao Phraya River, longtail boat owners race along the water, engines roaring, faces crumpled in scowls. But Captain Tai? Smiling.

Welcome to an entirely new version of Bangkok. This chaotic city is known for its pulsing energy and bright lights — they’re just some of the reasons why I love it here. And yet, that heat. It can be savage. The noise? Even more so. It’s a place that can leave travellers feeling exhausted as well as exhilarated. But today, it already feels different.

“These longtail boat tours,” Tai says, nodding towards a huddle of wilting travellers packed onto a nearby boat, “they’re just ‘glimpse and go’ rides. No time to take in the city. Then it’s just a peep town.”

The 60-something captain, whose formal name is Mongkol Kiatkanjanakul, skippered yachts on the Andaman Sea for over 30 years and is newly retired from ocean life. Seeking something as equally serene as sailing — and wondering how that would be possible in a city as busy as Bangkok — he came across a solar-powered boat, one of only 50 or so in the city.

“I had to have one,” he tells me. “So I could be on the water, but still live a calm life in the city.”

In our boat, where I’m propped up by colourful cushions and reclining at a 45-degree angle, I’m taking in a different kind of tour — one that keeps me away from the busy canals and instead meanders into the quieter backwaters that are home to some of Tai’s favourite spots. Powered by solar panels, the boat’s top speed is a leisurely five knots, around 5.5mph. It’s sustainable, silent and slow going — and that’s exactly the point.

We spend a while being overtaken on the main khlongs (canals) that thread through much of the western part of the city, some 1,600 remaining of the thousands that once existed here in Bangkok. Centuries ago, it was a city navigated on water. These arteries were a lifeline, important for transport, irrigation and trade. Today, we see trains trundle across bridges over our heads and roads full of mopeds with high-pitched engines that create a constant hum. In the water, kids cool off next to derelict rice mills, joyfully escaping the searing heat. At other points we spot Grand Designs-worthy homes, some of which belong to top chefs: vast glass structures with gardens meeting the water, sitting beside precariously stilted wooden houses where washing lines almost collapse under the weight of laundry.

Tai knots the ropes on the bank at our first stop, Wat Ratchaorasaram, and encourages me to explore. This ancient Buddhist temple is his favourite in the city, thanks to the decorative style that King Rama III, former king of the then Siam, chose for its renovation back in the 19th century. Despite its good looks, the temple rarely makes its way onto travellers’ itineraries. The entrance displays an arresting fusion of Thai and Chinese design, with hundreds of pieces of colourful porcelain decorating the exterior. Above me, dozens of tiny wind chimes lining the roof tinkle at the slightest hint of a breeze. Inside, a 65ft-long, golden Buddha statue reclines across the width of the room. A handful of people bow their heads in silent respect. I’ve visited dozens of temples in Bangkok, yet as the city’s popularity grows, few retain their purpose: a sanctuary for quiet reflection and prayer.

It’s not just religious temples that are quiet spots here in Bangkok — I’m surprised to find that entire neighbourhoods can offer up the same tranquillity. At another mooring we venture into Kudi Chin, an area little visited by travellers in the city’s southwest that’s long been home to a large Portuguese community. It’s made up of a web of narrow alleyways, barely wide enough to squeeze a moped through. Homes open right onto the street, allowing you peer into living rooms with tiled floors and defeated, decades-old beige armchairs. At odds with the rest of the city, there are no 7-Elevens here; drinks and snacks — including khanom farang kudi chin, a Portuguese- and Chinese-influenced cake — are sold directly from a handful of shophouses. In the main square, the Catholic Santa Cruz Church stands in the beating heat. Built by the Portuguese in 1770, it’s one of the oldest in Bangkok.

Breathing space

We pootle on, gliding down the peaceful Khlong Dan, Khlong Bang Mod and Khlong Bang Kuntian, passing huge bushes of canary-yellow bougainvillaea and purple shop fronts. Eventually we arrive at Tai’s favourite and final stop of the journey, in the Thonburi neighbourhood. “Welcome to my home,” says Tai’s friend Andaman Tiensup, known as Khun Andy, who greets me as I step from boat to pontoon.

In front of me is a peaceful, fruit tree-filled public space for in-the-know city residents. It also happens to be the garden of Andy’s family house — one that he’s made available to visitors. I take in something incredibly rare in Bangkok: three or so acres filled with dozens of tree species, plants and flowers. Butterflies float through the jasmine-scented air and for the first time in the city, I notice a strong and very welcome cooling breeze, as if I’ve stepped into a paradisiacal microclimate.

As we walk beneath huge swags of swaying Spanish moss, Andy explains how the space — which started life as a lychee orchard and is now called Poomjai Garden — has come to be. The orchard was passed through four generations by his ancestors. Other residents of the city took the opportunity to sell land like this — working as a gardener isn’t a lucrative choice after all, while selling land for development is. But Andy’s grandparents had worked tirelessly on the land and his mum, Khun Aey, refused to let their values die out. Instead, she took on the space, tending single-handedly to every flower, tree and plant across the orchard. I come across her watering plants. “The garden is my third son,” she tells me with a smile, pushing her wide-brimmed hat up from her eyes as she pauses to chat.

“My mother has always been an incredibly visionary woman,” Andy tells me. “She understood decades ago that green spaces like this would become rare in a rapidly growing city like Bangkok.” As we continue to stroll, he adds: “Because of her foresight, Poomjai Garden stands as a reminder of the importance of these green spaces, which are now more valuable than ever. Poomjai means ‘proud’. It embodies our family’s dedication to protecting our roots and sharing them with the city.”

But tending to such a huge garden isn’t cheap, and it’s Andy who’s helped keep it alive by turning it into a community space. The family’s Natura Cafe, which uses produce from the gardens in a menu of Andy’s ancestors’ recipes, also brings in money to help keep the place going.

There’s a number of people in the garden, but with this much land, there’s still plenty of breathing space. Secret pathways allow visitors to get quietly lost. Streams wiggle between bilimbi (a sour fruit), coconut, jackfruit and pomelo (an Asian fruit similar to grapefruit) trees, interspersed with huge lemongrass, Thai basil and jasmine bushes.

After a wander around the orchard, I stop by the open-air bamboo pavilion that houses the family’s cafe and order Captain Tai’s favourite — Andy’s grandma’s spicy pomelo salad, topped with slow-roasted coconut, peanuts, dried shrimp and shallots. Served with a dressing of palm sugar, fish sauce, lime juice and chilli, it’s an addictive combination. Every flavour feels magnified by the serene atmosphere in which I’m able to savour it, listening to the rustle of the leaves and cooled by the garden’s fresh breeze.

A noticeable absence from the garden cafe’s menu are the lychees that once provided an income for Andy’s ancestors. This is the last remaining lychee orchard in the city today, according to Andy, who blames the spread of the high-rises and concrete for their demise. Pollution and global warming have meant that the last lychee trees in the garden bore fruit six years ago.

“The challenge now,” he says, “is to inspire younger generations to recognise the irreplaceable value of trees. It’s a question of whether we can find the will and the means to keep our land as it was, even amid the pressures of a rapidly modernising city where everything has a price.”

The price for not having access to spaces like this feels too huge to contemplate. After just a couple of hours here and on the water I feel calm and regulated by the unexpected silence in the city. The whirring in my brain slows, my shoulders relax and my breathing is deeper and slower. “We’re just small people with a big dream,” Andy tells me as I rejoin Captain Tai. “But we believe in making this dream happen — keeping this green space alive and inviting everyone to slow down, breathe and find peace in the heart of Bangkok.”