If you’ve been to Thailand, chances are someone has told you all about Pai.
You know the type. Slightly sunburnt, moderately spiritual, entirely convinced they’ve found themselves. They’ll tell you how they accidentally spent six weeks there, fell into the “Pai Hole”, and never wanted to leave. Magical mountain town. Life-changing vibes. “You’re gonna love it, bro”.
I was intrigued.
I didn’t know much about it beyond the vague promise of “good vibes”. A little town nestled in the mountains of Mae Hong Song, and a mystical ability to trap travellers indefinitely. A hidden gem. Off the beaten path. Where hammocks outnumber humans. A solid proposition.
Welcome to the Pai Hole
The road to Pai was, quite frankly, terrifying. I genuinely thought I would die — and people have. 762 turns. The driver had a clear death wish. Overtaking on blind corners and consistently above the speed limit. But I made it.
First impressions? The town was heaving with backpackers — drunk, tripping, potentially both. The only magic in the air seemed to be the mushrooms. I’ve never seen so many bandaged limbs in one place. And yes, I’m aware of the irony in being a tourist and complaining about the number of tourists. But there’s over-tourism, and then there’s Pai. And lately, it’s been attracting a less-than-ideal crowd.
Beyond the hangovers and crutches, there’s no denying the surrounding area is beautiful. From hot springs and rolling hills, to canyons and vast underground cave networks. It seems to have it all going for it. The caves were genuinely impressive. I followed a local guide holding a flickering gas lamp through the vast underground world, and it really felt like I’d accepted a side quest in Skyrim. Only with less treasure and more bats.
Part of my problem was getting around. I’ve never ridden a scooter, and I wasn’t about to use Pai as my training ground. But this meant group tours, packed into the back of a songthaew, herded from site to site like cattle. Not quite the free-spirited mountain escape I’d envisioned.
Still, there were moments. I ended my time in Pai watching the sunrise from Yun Lai Viewpoint, watching the low-lying mist flow through the valley. I was surrounded by lovely people. It was calm. Quiet. I was almost getting it.
But maybe I just needed to accept that Pai wasn’t my place.
The trouble with expectations
It’s all too easy to romanticise a place before you arrive. It’s even easier to let other people’s experiences become your expectations. You imagine everything to be a perfect utopia. You forget to factor in the part where you’re dodging drunk 20-year-olds on scooters and you’re on the verge of suffocating a snoring bastard at 2am in a dorm room.
Was Pai the problem? Or was it just not the version of Pai I’d created in my head?
Probably both.
But this is the problem with expectations. They rarely match reality. And when they don’t, it’s the reality that feels wrong, while the expectations get off scot-free. Even if the place is fine. Even if it’s actually pretty good. You still end up yearning for the version that never existed.
We often set ourselves up for disappointment by expecting perfection. Recognising this can help us adjust our mindset and appreciate places for what they really are, and not what you thought it would be.
The anti-Pai
I got over the fact I didn’t find my version of Pai. It was a false preconception, after all. But it’s like looking for your car keys. You flip the house upside down, relocate the sofa to a new postcode, and install the carpet on the ceiling. You give up. And then where are they? On the box of Yorkshire Tea, obviously.
That’s the thing that tends to happen when you stop looking for something: you find it. Only this time, there was no Yorkshire Tea. But there was Nong Khiaw.
I had no expectations for Nong Khiaw, but that gave it space to surprise me. It turned out to be everything I was looking for in Pai.
Expect a follow-up on this wonderful place in the near future.