Why are there flip flops in this museum, I wonder. I consider if it’s a prank, but packets of instant noodles—endearingly nicknamed poverty index and dorm boy’s bae—on one side and a ‘lucky bag’ (a paper bag used in the sixties) on the other suggest a trend of sorts. The curious artefacts in this gallery, an information panel confidently vouches, can’t be found anywhere in the world apart from Thailand.

While the flip flops, balms and beverages in plastic bags might be all too familiar to Indians, there are indeed objects unique to the country. The ‘coffee ears’, a flimsy strap of plastic looped around an iced coffee cup which keeps your fingers from getting clammy, or the cylindrical ticket vending contraption that bus conductors carry never failed to fascinate during my first few days there.

These are some of the many oddities that make Museum Siam in Bangkok a delight. Set in a 19 th century neoclassical building, it is one of the youngest museums in Thailand; the Decoding Thainess permanent exhibition was founded in December 2017. In its 14 rooms spread over two floors, you will rarely find dusty relics entombed in glass cases. Rather, it is a playground of sorts, where you dig through cabinets, take selfies with cut-outs, make jigsaw puzzles, follow laser displays and revel in multi-sensory simulations. There are few signs directing you and it’s up to you to explore the museum the way you want it.

I begin in a gallery lined with drawers. Among the endless trivia, I discover how the economic crash of 1997 led to formerly rich people selling their household goods, leading to the establishment of flea markets that are popular even today. There is information about trendy haircuts, the revival of Thai culture in public imagination in 1982 and the controversial ‘tuk tuk dress’ of Miss Thailand that won the Best National Costume award at Miss Universe 2015. But most interesting of all is the foreign origins of certain quintessentially Thai things.

While the influence of Hindu mythology on Southeast Asian countries is well-known—there is a statue of Kali in the museum—not as talked about are the Indian origins of a formal outfit for men known as Raj pattern. It is a white jacket with five buttons and a Mandarin collar—like a Nehru jacket, albeit with full sleeves. King Rama V designed it on a visit to India in 1872; it was first made by a tailor in Kolkata and soon became a fixture in weddings and official occasions in Thailand.

I drift from gallery to gallery, stopping only when I encounter unexpected commotion. Children are picking up plates and banging them onto tables, which light up with information about the food drawn on the plate. Here, I chance upon another unexpected tidbit: the pad thai, anointed as the national dish, is actually Chinese! In the ’30s and ’40s, nationalist leader Phibun reincarnated the Chinese stir-fried noodles as a Thai specialty. Ironically, he decried the expensive pork as a Chinese ingredient, resulting in a meatless stir-fry, to which people later added dried shrimp.

Pork satay traces its origins to Arab grilled beef and is usually served with achar—a word that would be rather familiar to Hindi speakers. The desserts, thong yip and foi thong, both made from egg yolk, derive from the Portuguese trouxas de ovos and fios de ovos (which was also adapted into Mappila cuisine) respectively. Marie Guimar, a Catholic Japanese lady, introduced these treats to Thailand in the 17 th century.

In the Degrees of Thainess gallery, there are mannequins sporting ‘Thai’ costumes. Along with the distinctive attire of Phra Ram in Khon, a performance of the epic Ramakien (Thai version of the Ramayana), there is one of Lady Gaga in a scanty outfit and chada (traditional headdress) she wore for a Bangkok concert in 2012 as well as Ronald McDonald performing a wai (namaste).

The various galleries are fascinating exercises in storytelling; they tease out assumptions and fill in gaps, without providing any definitive answers. But when you’re least expecting it, the narrative shifts gears—for soon after Gaga, I come across a poster with concentric circles representing the degrees of Thainess, which places the royal family at the core of nationhood, followed by royal descendants and commoners, with ethnic groups at the periphery. Subsequent galleries, however, discarded the nebulous definition of Thainess for fealty to the king. As an exhibit fervently declares with a heart emoji: “We love the king”.

The museum digs deep into the propaganda in a simulated classroom, which initially provides a fun setting to relive school. I sit on the bench, shuffle through desks and flip through textbooks. And then, I espy an explainer: “Students were taught for the first time to stand up straight singing a song to salute the national flag at 8 am.” But even the heady patriotism of that line does not prepare me for what follows: “They were indoctrinated to be patriotic and submissive to the leader.”

While I can grasp the underpinning of the king in light of Thailand’s turbulent politics, I find it hard to reconcile the contradictory messages. Regardless, it gives me interesting insights into a country that I had been only exploring through its tourist attractions—and remarkably, the most fun I’ve ever had in a museum.

An edited version of this article was published in The Indian Express in May 2019.

Despite the well-intentioned advice of travel bloggers suggesting less trodden alternatives, I chose to go to the touristy Erawan National Park. It was the photos of pools spanning a gamut of colours (digitally enhanced, they said) and its proximity to Bangkok that brought me here. After a three-hour journey on a WWII-era railway line from the capital, I reached Kanchanaburi. From there, Erawan National Park is a 90-minute bus ride away. It is located in a 550-sq-km section of the Tenasserim Range, a 1,700-km-long mountain chain that forms a natural boundary between Thailand and Myanmar. 

The lowest tier of the falls lived up to the supposedly photoshopped images I had seen. Under a canopy of rattan, makha, bamboo and woody vines, the water dashed into limpid pools. As the sunlight flitted through the foliage, the stream segued between emerald, cerulean and a host of other hues. In the clear waters, I could see abundant fish, which unsuccessfully tried to take cover from the splashing children. I stood transfixed, but eventually had to leave as I wanted to visit the six other levels, of which the last was a 2-km trek from the entrance.

The second level shelters a little cavern under the waterfall, while at the third, water falls from quite a height. After this, the path becomes steeper. The fourth has smooth rocks that people use as water slides.  I had planned to take a dip in the highest level, but by the time I reached the fifth, I was soaked in sweat. I dangled my feet in the stream, but immediately recoiled – tiny fish begin nibbling at your skin! While I had experienced fish spas in waterfalls before, the scale of the assault was unprecedented. It took an hour to acclimatise myself to the ticklish sensation and get over the fear (induced by irresponsible travel bloggers) of the foot-long fishes tearing chunks off my body. Once I began swimming, however, the critters moved away and I could finally bask in the surprisingly cool waters. Afloat on my back, I enjoyed the patterns the forest canopy drew against the cloud-studded sky.

While Erawan is famous as a seven-tiered waterfall, there are countless cascades along the stream, each forming cosy pools. As in most of Thailand, references to Indian mythology are never far away. The highest tier of the waterfall, with its three cascades on bulbous rocks, is said to bear a resemblance to Erawan (Airavata in Sanskrit), the three-headed elephant who was the mount of Indra and has several shrines dedicated to him across the country. 

During my visit, the park was fairly packed – even though I was visiting on a weekday in the low season. However, the crowds are rarely overwhelming as the trail is wide enough and there are quiet niches all along. Besides, few of the day trippers make it to the higher levels. Regardless, for such a treaded destination, Erawan is remarkably clean – I could not spot a single piece of plastic along the trail or the stream. It helps that picnicking isn’t allowed beyond the second level and there are plenty of park rangers who keep things orderly.

As the sun drooped towards the horizon, I rushed out to make it to the seventh tier before closing hours. The path from the fifth level onwards was slightly trickier. I occasionally had to clamber over rocks or negotiate precarious wooden ladders. After another dip at the highest level, I retraced my steps to explore the ‘nature interpretation’ trails I had seen on the map at the entrance. 

One ran along the stream, while another cut through thick bamboo groves. The former ended soon after it began and the latter was largely unremarkable, until I came to a fork in the road, which, interestingly, did not figure on the map. I did what would have made Robert Frost proud and after an hour of walking alone, reached the summit of a hill. Through the gaps in the thick vegetation, I could see the surrounding mountains, all crackling golden in the parched weather. I had no idea where I was, but was glad to preside over this little piece of paradise. 

View of the Erawan National Park from a hiking trail. Photo by Syed Saad Ahmed

I was so engrossed in the view that I didn’t realise I had missed the last bus back to Kanchanaburi. I darted back to book accommodation in the reserve before the visitor centre closed down. I wasn’t expecting much, but as I crossed the rickety rope bridge to the campsite, I was astounded. It was a grassy expanse fringed by tall trees and the Khwae Yai river, over which loomed hills. And the best part – you could pitch your tent right next to the stream! The crowds also disappeared – just four other people stayed at the camp that night.

The next morning, I was woken up by the sunlight filtering through the tent. It was remarkably cold – more so since it was peak summer. I stepped out to see the sun edging out from a mountain peak, its shimmering rays rippling in the water. A thick mist smoldered over the river and the trees were aflutter with birdsong. Ensconced by the bank, I relished the most beautiful sight of my fortnight-long trip in Thailand.

Sunrise over the Khwai Yae river. Photo by Syed Saad Ahmed