Page 37 of The Big Race
Second Nature
Ray was already flagging down a tuk-tuk. “Let’s go!”
The driver seemed to understand “Tha Tian Pier” and sped off through Bangkok’s congested streets, weaving between cars and motorbikes with alarming precision. I gripped the metal bar in front of me as we narrowly missed a food cart, and Cody nearly lost his grip on the front rail.
Twenty minutes later, we arrived at a bustling pier along the Chao Phraya River, the same one we had visited the day before. Only this time, we were looking for a long-tail boat rather than the ferry.
The water stretched before us, brown and turbid, with a dizzying array of vessels crisscrossing its surface—sleek tourist boats, rustic wooden craft laden with goods, and speeding long-tail boats with their distinctive propellers mounted on long shafts.
“There!” Ray pointed to a long-tail boat with the distinctive red and blue race marker. A race official stood next to it, clipboard in hand, who handed me the next direction card.
We jogged over, and the official handed us each a wildlife identification chart and a yellow bandana.
“This is a Second-Nature challenge,” she explained.
“Bangkok’s canal system has been the city’s lifeblood for centuries, supporting a rich ecosystem despite urban development.
Today, you’ll navigate the traditional delivery route while interacting with the natural environment. ”
She gestured to the boat, where a weathered Thai man with deeply tanned skin and a wide straw hat stood waiting.
“This is Khun Chai. He will be your guide through the klongs. You must deliver the correct produce to five different locations marked on this map.” She handed us a water-stained paper with Thai script and crude drawings of different stops.
“But,” she continued, “at each location, you must also correctly identify a specific plant or animal from the canal ecosystem before you can receive your delivery token. Furthermore, Khun Chai will only assist with navigation—you must propel the boat yourselves through certain sections using traditional paddle methods when the engine cannot be used.”
As the official explained, I noticed the sorority sisters, Gemini and Blaine, arriving at the pier. They looked exhausted but determined as they received their instructions at another boat.
“Good luck, guys,” Cody said, as he helped adjust the cameras on our heads. “I’ll see you at the other end.”
“I’m glad you didn’t fall out of the tuk-tuk,” I said, and he laughed.
The boat was loaded with woven baskets brimming with tropical fruits, vegetables, and what looked like bundles of herbs and flowers. A pair of long wooden paddles rested along the gunwales.
“Each stop has specific order,” Khun Chai said in halting English, pointing to colored tags on the baskets.
“Match color tag to color flag at house. Very important—deliver correct items, identify correct wildlife. Water not always friendly today—monsoon season brings strong currents and many creatures.”
“Creatures?” Ray said, eyebrows raised. “What kind of creatures are we talking about?”
Khun Chai pointed to our wildlife chart, which showed illustrations of water monitors, various birds, and fish species native to Bangkok’s canals. “Nothing dangerous if you respect. But monitor lizards big, sometimes come on boat looking for food.”
“Great,” I muttered, eyeing the murky water with new apprehension.
We settled into the boat, and instead of taking his place at the engine, Khun Chai handed Ray one of the long wooden paddles. “First section—no engine. Too many water hyacinths. You paddle through plant barrier.”
Sure enough, ahead of us stretched a section of canal covered with a thick carpet of beautiful but invasive water hyacinths, their lavender flowers belying the dense, impenetrable nature of their root systems.
Ray and I exchanged glances, then without discussion, positioned ourselves on either side of the boat.
Three weeks ago, we might have argued about the best approach, but now we moved in silent coordination.
Ray, with his upper body strength, took the starboard side where the growth looked thickest, while I positioned myself to port where I could help navigate.
“Ready?” Ray asked, dipping his paddle into the water.
“Together on three,” I replied. “One, two, three!”
We dug our paddles deep, finding a rhythm almost immediately. The boat inched forward through the mass of vegetation, requiring significant effort to push through. Behind us, I heard the sorority sisters already bickering about paddle technique.
“Hon, you’re splashing me!” Gemini’s drawl carried across the water.
“Well, if you’d actually put some muscle into it instead of worrying about your manicure...” Blaine shot back.
Ray and I shared a small smile but kept paddling. Sweat beaded on my forehead in the intense humidity, but there was something satisfying about the physical effort, about watching our progress through the tangled plants.
“Look,” Ray said softly, nodding toward a partially submerged log ahead.
What I had taken for a piece of driftwood suddenly blinked—a massive water monitor lizard, nearly six feet long, was sunning itself on the log.
Its dark, scaly skin glistened in the sunlight, and its forked tongue flicked out to taste the air as we approached.
“Water monitor,” Khun Chai identified. “Very common in klongs. Remember for wildlife challenge.”
We carefully steered around the log, giving the impressive reptile a wide berth. It watched us pass with unblinking eyes but made no move to approach.
After fifteen minutes of hard paddling, we broke through the hyacinth barrier into open water. Khun Chai started the engine, and the sudden acceleration as we moved into the main canal system was a welcome relief.
The difference between the main river and the smaller canals was immediate.
The busy river gave way to a quieter, more intimate waterway—a klong perhaps twenty feet across, lined with wooden houses built on stilts over the water.
Many had small platforms or piers extending into the canal, where residents washed clothes or dishes directly in the water.
“This is incredible,” I shouted over the engine noise. “It’s like traveling back in time!”
Ray nodded, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. “Look at those houses—some of them look like they’re barely hanging on!”
Indeed, many of the structures leaned precariously, their wooden supports weathered by years of exposure to water and humidity.
Laundry fluttered from lines strung between windows, and potted plants adorned many of the small balconies.
Children waved at us from doorways, and elderly women looked up from their washing to watch us pass.
Suddenly, Khun Chai cut the engine, pointing ahead. “Current change here. Water from tributary comes in strong. You paddle again, stay in main channel.”
I saw the confluence where a smaller canal joined our waterway, creating a visible disturbance in the current. The water swirled and eddied, forming small whirlpools that could easily push our shallow-draft boat off course.
Again, Ray and I took up our paddles without discussion, each intuitively understanding our roles.
As we approached the turbulent section, a flock of white egrets rose from the canal banks, startled by our approach.
They circled overhead, their long legs trailing behind them, before settling again further along the canal.
Ray nodded, focusing on keeping us in the main channel as the crosscurrent tried to push us toward the bank. The muscles in his arms and shoulders strained with the effort, and I matched his tempo, our paddles dipping and pulling in perfect synchronization.
We navigated the challenging section successfully and were soon approaching our first delivery stop—a house with a red flag hanging from its small wooden pier. Khun Chai restarted the engine just long enough to position us alongside the pier before cutting it again.
“First stop,” he announced. “Red tag baskets. Also, must identify one canal plant before delivery accepted.”
We scrambled to identify the baskets with red tags—three in total, one containing mangoes, another filled with what looked like morning glory greens, and a third with tied bundles of some kind of herb I didn’t recognize.
“I’ll hand them up if you take them to the house,” I suggested to Ray, who nodded and positioned himself near the bow.
An elderly woman emerged from the house as we bumped gently against her pier. She looked surprised to see two farang in the delivery boat but recovered quickly, smiling and gesturing for the produce.
Before accepting the delivery, she pointed to various plants growing along the water’s edge. According to our guide, we needed to correctly identify one of them.
“That looks like water spinach,” I said, pointing to a leafy green plant growing partly submerged near the pier. “They use it in stir-fries.”
Khun Chai translated my identification to the woman, who nodded approvingly.
Ray carefully stepped off the boat, baskets in hand.
The pier swayed alarmingly under his weight.
“Careful!” I called out, but he managed to keep his balance, presenting the baskets to the woman with a respectful wai—the traditional Thai greeting with palms pressed together.
The woman returned the gesture, then inspected the baskets. She nodded in approval and handed Ray a small token with a symbol stamped on it.
“Proof of delivery,” Khun Chai explained. “Need all five.”
As Ray carefully made his way back onto the boat, the wake from a passing vessel hit us broadside, making the boat rock violently. Ray lost his footing and teetered on the edge of the pier.
“Ray!” I lunged forward, grabbing his arm just as he was about to pitch into the murky canal. With Khun Chai’s help, I hauled him back into the boat, both of us collapsing onto the bench in a heap.