Faces of Thailand
Many come to Thailand for its postcard-perfect allure: the ancient, golden temples of Chiang Mai, the vibrant energy of Bangkok, and the glittering, turquoise waters of islands like Koh Samui. It’s a country globally celebrated as a tropical paradise, but during my time exploring its crowded markets, hidden alleyways, and sacred grounds, I found that the true soul of Thailand isn’t found in its geography. It is found entirely within the quiet devotion and everyday lives of its people.
Stepping away from the standard tourist tracks, I navigated sprawling, working-class markets and tightly packed neighboring alleys, at times coming face-to-face with the hard realities of the city’s poorest communities and migrant workers. Moving from the insanely busy Bangkok to the quieter northern regions, I saw just some of the country’s vast diversity. From a roadside island food truck where a vendor proudly handed me homemade coconut ice cream with an unforgettable smile, to a shaded temple pavilion where a novice monk shared how conversations with travelers were redefining his spiritual path, these faces revealed a complex, deeply moving portrait of the “Land of Smiles.”
I found this bare-chested man at Khlong Toei, Bangkok’s oldest and largest market: a sprawling, working-class maze that has fed the city for decades. It’s not a tourism draw; it’s where the locals shop for their food every day.
He was working the floor when I spotted him, somewhere between the fishing nets and the industrial blue drums stacked against the wall behind him. He wore a bandana with his glasses perched on top, and a black leather apron worn smooth at the edges. He had some prominent tattoos: a coiling dragon over one shoulder, a thorned rose at the center.
He was initially wearing a face mask, but when I raised my camera, he pulled it off so I could see his face. He held himself steady and gazed at me with a slight smile, not performing or cheesing for the camera, just present. I’m still not quite sure why he was shirtless, but it suited the environment.
Part of my Thailand trip was solo, and part was a group tour with Intrepid. During the Intrepid leg, they arranged an unforgettable lunch at a local woman’s home outside Sukhothai in northern Thailand. We had spent the morning biking around the nearby ancient temple complex, so were ready for some tasty food.
As our small group filed down a quiet pedestrian lane toward what I can only describe as a family compound, this elderly woman was already there, smiling from an open-air kitchen. She was leaning against the sink, watching us with bright, curious eyes. She looked to be in her eighties, though she had such a youthful energy to her. She may have been doing dishes, or she may have just wandered over to see what the commotion was. Either way, she seemed entirely pleased that we had arrived.
When I raised my camera and asked permission to take her photo, she smiled brightly and leaned in. Behind her, a banana tree arched over the corrugated roof of the house next door, and the whole scene felt like a glimpse of an afternoon that had been going on like this, quietly and happily, for decades.
I spotted this gentleman first from my own boat as I was floating down the canal (via an Airbnb experience I booked). He was parked against one of the covered stalls that lined the water’s edge at Khlong Lat Mayom: one of Bangkok’s last genuine floating markets. Unlike some of the other, less authentic floating markets, locals still come here to buy their vegetables (rather than tourists their souvenirs). He wasn’t traveling the canal, though. His boat was his shop, anchored in place while customers parked alongside him in their own vessels.
His boat was loaded with the morning’s produce: long beans bundled in thick green sheaves, banana fingers in plastic bags, herbs and roots laid out on banana leaves. A small jasmine garland (phuang malai) was draped over the engine; these are commonly placed on Thai boats and vehicles as an offering for the guardian spirit. He wore a pink apron and dark sunglasses, silver-haired, just waiting for his next customer to pull up. When I walked over and asked to take his portrait, he agreed easily, the way someone does when they have nowhere else to be.
The floating market of Khlong Lat Mayom isn’t only for boats. Along the canal’s edge, a permanent stretch of covered stalls stands. On this Sunday, it was pretty crowded with food vendors, produce sellers, and locals going about their weekend. I found this lady, seated next to a large laminated chart covered in rows of numbers, each one color-coded and carefully arranged.
She was selling lottery tickets, one of the most visible fixtures of everyday life in Thailand. The government lottery draws twice a month and licensed vendors like her can be found outside markets, near transit stations, and along almost every busy street in the country. The culture around them runs deep: Thais often choose numbers based on dreams, omens, or events they consider lucky.
This lottery seller seemed very relaxed, settled into her spot, just waiting for the next customer. She signaled that it was okay for me to take her photo, though she wasn’t smiley like the man on the boat. Then, she went right back to work, watching the foot traffic move on the sidewalk.
Chiang Mai, in northern Thailand, is sometimes called the “City of Temples,” as there are over 300 within the city alone. Wat Phra Singh, where this photo was taken, is among the most revered. Like most major temples, it has a small economy operating just outside its doors: vendors selling incense, candles, and shawls for tourists who arrived with their shoulders uncovered. This woman, however, was inside the temple grounds entirely, selling traditional flower garlands to be offered to the Buddha by devotees.
It was a 90°F day, a hot and extremely humid afternoon deep in Thailand’s monsoon season. I was drenched in sweat from walking around, yet here she was, completely covered from head to toe to stay out of the sun. She sat on an ancient stone ledge, ready to make a sale. Behind her, the golden chedi sparkled.
Her garlands were made of jasmine blooms, pulled from a large plastic bag and arranged for sale. Any worshipper who bought one would carry it inside to lay at the feet of a Buddha statue — a small, quiet act of devotion repeated thousands of times a day across Thailand.
She didn’t look up while I photographed her. She had garlands to sell and her customers were waiting.
This elderly woman is part of the Kayan ethnic minority, a subgroup from Myanmar who fled political unrest in the late 1980s and settled in northern Thailand. Today, many hold refugee or stateless status, which means they can’t legally work elsewhere in the country.
The Kayan women are known as the “Karen Long Neck tribe” for the brass rings they wear. It’s a tradition that begins in childhood, with coils added gradually over the years. This woman was the oldest I saw that day, and thus, had the most rings around her neck. Yet the elongated neck is only an illusion: the weight of the rings doesn’t actually lengthen the neck, it compresses the collarbone, creating the appearance of a long neck.
For these women, tourism has become their livelihood by necessity. They live in villages like this one — fenced, ticketed, and lined with stalls selling handmade scarves and souvenirs. It must be a complicated existence: remaining tied to a cultural identity that has become, in large part, an attraction.
I came away with a lot of photographs but only one scarf. It’s a ratio I’m not comfortable with, and after seeing this and learning more, it’s not something I’d go back to.
Wat Chedi Luang is one of Chiang Mai’s most ancient temples. It is also home to one of the city’s most unique offerings: the Monk Chat program, where visitors can sit down with monks and novices (monks-in-training, under age 20) for a conversation. The goal of the program is for visitors to get a view into monastic life and for monks to practice their English.
I sat with four monks and novices that morning, at wooden tables under a shaded pavilion at the temple’s edge. San, pictured here, was the most talkative by far. He was still a novice, though he had been practicing since he was very young. He sat across from me, talking with expressive hands and gripping a pen.
He explained that for the majority of the past 12 years, his study of Buddhism was largely academic, memorizing the teachings primarily to pass exams. It wasn’t until he began learning English and fielding complex questions from tourists that his relationship with his faith transformed.
During these Monk Chats, he was asked questions he didn’t have a response for. He said, “When I don’t know, I cannot answer. So I look for the answer.” This desire to provide genuine answers to tourist participants drove him to look more deeply at the scriptures, moving him past rote memorization and giving him something to truly understand and believe.
Not far from the Bankgkok market, the Khlong Toei neighborhood opens into a maze of narrow back alleys. This is one of Bangkok’s oldest neighborhoods, but it also unfortunately one of the most densely packed and poorest. My photo tour guide, Noah Shahar, had lived in Thailand for almost ten years and had been to this neighborhood dozens of times. Yet, because it was such a labyrinth, he said that he always got lost.
This young man was sitting in a blue plastic chair outside a wooden door. His legs and neck were covered in tattoos and he was casually chatting with someone across the alley. He wore a floral-sleeved zip-up jacket, and his face and shins were covered in a white paste. This was called thanaka, Noah explained. It’s a traditional skincare product from Myanmar, made by grinding the bark of the thanaka tree into a paste with water. It acts as a natural sunscreen, with a cooling effect on the skin.
His presence here made sense: Khlong Toei is home to one of Bangkok’s largest communities of Myanmar migrant workers. He let me take his portrait without much fuss and then got back to his chat with the neighbor.
Just before the alleys narrowed into the deeper maze of the Khlong Toei neighborhood, we passed this elderly man sitting quietly in a doorway. He wasn’t doing anything in particular — not talking to anyone, just sitting, hands folded, staring out into the distance.
When I took in the details of the scene, I noticed the small, cluttered space behind him. This was not a storage room or a shop; it was where he lived. Behind him there were stacked belongings: a pair of shorts hanging behind his head, an old fan, bowls and bottles. The realization landed hard; this was someone’s home. Just across from his house, a man slept in a hammock strung from a chain-link fence. The whole block had that quality: lives arranged in whatever space was available.
He was kind and friendly, happy enough to be photographed. He smiled easily. That smile, against everything behind him, is pretty remarkable.
Koh Samui is Thailand’s second largest island. During my few relaxing days here, I hired a private tour guide (thanks, Mr. Samui!) for one of those days. My guide, Pot, took me all around the island, letting me plan my itinerary. But during our drive along the coastline, I thre my agenda out the window when he made some stellar suggestions.
The most refreshing place he took me to was a food truck: “Lamai Fresh Coconut Ice Cream,” parked right along the road with a hand-painted menu across the top. It was still pretty early, so there was no line. I looked at all my options (honestly, too many for an indecisive lady like me) and ordered.
I watched her put my bowl together step by step. First, she took an actual coconut and used a wooden tool to scrape the inner flesh, making room for the most important part. Then came scoops of homemade ice cream, followed by crushed peanuts and a drizzle of condensed milk. At the end, she held the finished bowl up to the camera and smiled — that smile — like she already knew what my reaction was going to be. I took my mid-morning dessert, walked down the path a bit, and ate it by the glittering water. Just delish!
It is genuinely one of the most joyful photographs I have ever taken.
Beyond the temples and beaches, Thailand is endlessly layered.