Thailand, flood evacuation
When I was 19, I did what every responsible teenager does: I flew across the world to volunteer for an NGO called AIESEC in Peru with absolutely no clue what I was doing. I met people on gap years who somehow survived indefinitely by “volunteering,” “working online,” or “just vibing.” It blew my mind. For the first time in my life, I was completely independent. No parents, no plans, no idea. Freedom tasted like cheap street food and questionable decisions.
During that trip, I met an Irish guy in his twenties, the kind of guy who looks like he’s never owned a calendar. Over a beer, he gave me life advice that sounded suspiciously like destiny: “Travel Southeast Asia in your twenties. You’ll never forget it.” Naturally, I treated this as sacred prophecy. When I turned 20, my parents gifted me a plane ticket, I saved all year, and somehow convinced myself that $3,000 for three months was more than enough. At the time, hostels and street food were luxury. Now I panic if a hotel doesn’t have good pillows.
Enter Khao San Road in Bangkok, the unofficial capital of bad ideas and great stories. I’d watched The Beach with Leonardo DiCaprio and remembered the sacred rules: Never refuse an invitation. Never fail to be polite. And if it hurts, it’s probably worth it. So when a fellow traveler invited me to Koh Tao to do a diving course together, minutes after I watched him swallow a bug for €10, I said yes. Obviously.
Koh Tao was paradise. Crystal water, palm trees, and me on a rented motorbike pretending I knew how to ride it. Scuba diving was unreal: learning hand signals, floating over the ocean floor, water so clear it felt fake. I thought, This is it. I’ve cracked life. The universe immediately disagreed. The next day, it started raining. And didn’t stop. Ever. Streets turned into rivers, shops closed, and the vibe shifted from “tropical dream” to “mildly concerning disaster movie.”
Returning my motorbike early turned out to be the smartest decision I’ve ever made. That night, the rain became a full tropical storm, and the hotel told us to evacuate. No explanation. Just go. I packed everything and headed toward the port, because apparently my survival instinct said, boats = safety. Water was waist-high, my backpack was heavier than my future, and at one point I watched my rented motorbike float past me like it was on vacation.
I got stuck in a strong current, locals yelling at me to hold onto a pillar because they were afraid I’d get swept away, or crushed if it fell. Someone threw me a rope, and I made it to a safer spot, soaked and questioning every life choice. Then salvation arrived: a massive construction caterpillar machine pushing earth to redirect the flood. The driver waved me on like this was totally normal. I climbed aboard, rode through the flood like an action movie extra, and was dropped off somewhere vaguely safe. I nearly kissed the ground, except it was mud.
That night, I stayed in a sketchy hostel near the port and befriended an older guy with a huge motorbike and chaotic energy. At 5 a.m., the rain was back, worse than before. Streets were rivers again. I wasn’t walking anywhere. My new friend showed up and said, “I won’t let a mate down.” Then he casually did some cocaine. For the first time in my life, I seriously reconsidered my definition of “mate,” but I got on the bike anyway. I lost a boot, pushed the bike through water, feared for my life, and somehow made it to the ferry.
After the roughest ferry ride imaginable, I arrived in Koh Phangan alive, bootless, and ready for the Full Moon Party. The Irish guy had been right. Southeast Asia was unforgettable. Mostly because I genuinely thought I might not survive it.