After Chiang Rai, I decided to head down to Kanchanaburi. Several travelers I met along the way had mentioned it with that little knowing smile that says: “it’s not on the bucket list, but you’ll understand why I’m insisting.” I wasn’t really sure what to expect, but I went for it. And honestly? No regrets. It’s a less-known city than Bangkok or Chiang Mai, but it has a calm, historical, and deeply human atmosphere.

To get there from Chiang Rai, there’s no simple direct route, so it’s done in several stages. Most travelers start with a bus or night minivan to Bangkok (often around 10 to 12 hours of driving, depending on stops and the company). This is usually the longest and least glamorous part of the trip: reclining seats, aggressive air conditioning, and unpredictable stops at gas stations. Once in Bangkok, you then take another bus from the Mo Chit Bus Terminal or a train from Bangkok Railway Station (Hua Lamphong). The ride to Kanchanaburi takes about 2 to 3 hours. It’s much simpler, more local, and you already start to feel the pace slow down as you leave the capital. In total, it’s about a 14 to 18-hour journey depending on connections and waiting times between segments. It’s long, a bit tiring, but pretty standard in Thailand when you cross the country from north to south.

And somehow, that length is also part of arriving in Kanchanaburi: you feel like you’ve left the most touristy areas behind, you move away from the noise, and arrive somewhere quieter, more peaceful, almost suspended.

The park itself is simply… wow.

The waterfalls of Erawan National Park are made up of seven levels, and each level has its own natural pool of an almost unreal turquoise color. The water is clear, fresh, and the jungle is everywhere around: dense, green, alive. You move forward step by step, as if the trail reveals the park gradually, never giving everything at once. At each level, the atmosphere changes slightly. The lower tiers are more accessible, so they are also more lively: Thai families come to spend the day there, you see children jumping into the water, groups picnicking on the rocks, people laughing, talking, resting in the shade. It’s very alive, but never stressful. Everyone seems to just… enjoy it.

The higher you go, the quieter it becomes. The sound of people fades, replaced by the sound of falling water, birds, and the jungle. The pools also become wilder, sometimes surrounded by slippery rocks, roots, and small waterfalls slipping between stones. You find yourself walking through a setting that becomes almost unreal, as if you were moving away from the world. And then there are those famous fish. In several pools, small fish come and nibble the dead skin off your feet. It’s completely disorienting at first: you put your feet in, and suddenly it tingles everywhere. You look down and see dozens of little fish around you, all focused like they’re running a collective spa. It’s a strange sensation, somewhere between tickling and surprise, but so funny that you end up getting used to it… or even sitting down on purpose to let them do it.

Arriving at the top, soaked, tired, and proud, I bumped into a guy from my hostel — an Israeli. And that’s where my day took an unexpected turn (I would end up running into him again months later in Nepal — the world is apparently very small). We continued the day together. He told me about his military service, the war, a friend of his who had been held captive for several months in Gaza… and in that moment, I realized how different our realities are. I travel, I look at waterfalls. Others live war. It shook me.

I met a lot of Israelis during this trip. Many travel for a long time after their mandatory military service. With the current context in Palestine, conversations were often heavy, complex, full of emotion. I’m keeping those discussions for another vlog, because they deserve their own space.

Later, we rented motorbikes and decided to go see an elephant sanctuary. It was closed. A local recommended another one. We went there… and immediately got a bad feeling. Elephants chained up, looking exhausted. Tourists riding on their backs. Nothing like a sanctuary. Just a business. We left almost right away. The reality is that elephant exploitation in Thailand is still a major issue. Many are still used for tourism, despite awareness campaigns. Real sanctuaries do exist, but you really have to be careful and do your research before going.

At the end of the day, we went to the skywalk in Kanchanaburi, a glass bridge overlooking the river. It’s beautiful, yes. But honestly? Paying to go up… not essential. The sunset itself was free and perfect.

The next day, I went alone to do the iconic Death Railway, the famous railway built during World War II by prisoners of war and forced laborers.

It was a project launched by the Japanese army in 1942 with a very concrete strategic goal: to connect Thailand to Burma in order to secure a land supply route during the war. But the project became one of the most tragic episodes in the region. Tens of thousands of Allied prisoners of war (British, Australian, Dutch) and Asian laborers were forced to build this line through jungle, mountains, and rivers in extreme conditions. The reality was brutal: scorching heat, tropical diseases (cholera, dysentery, malaria), famine, a complete lack of equipment, and constant violence. Estimates vary, but around 100,000 people are believed to have died during its construction. That’s why this railway became known as the “Death Railway,” and why some accounts describe a chilling logic in which every stretch of track cost human lives.

Today, part of this line is still used as a local and tourist train, and that’s the one I took from Kanchanaburi Railway Station toward Nam Tok. There are a few departures per day, and tickets are bought directly on site, no complicated booking needed. The train is very simple: wooden carriages, open windows, hard seats. But it’s exactly that rawness that makes the experience so powerful. You’re not separated from the outside — you’re part of the landscape. The wind comes in, the sound of the tracks is constant, and the jungle passes slowly, almost as if time itself is slowing down.

What makes the journey so unique is this constant contrast between beauty and memory. The nature is spectacular: steep cliffs, rivers below, dense vegetation, peaceful villages. But it’s impossible to look at it without thinking about what these rails represent historically. You are literally traveling on a line built through suffering.

The most striking moment is crossing the Wang Pho viaduct. The train moves slowly along a wooden structure clinging to the cliff, overlooking the Kwae Noi River. It creaks, it shakes slightly, and you realize how fragile it all seems… and yet it still stands. It’s impossible not to think about the men who built it by hand, in the jungle, without modern machinery, under unimaginable conditions.

At Tham Krasae station, you can get off the train and walk directly on the tracks, right next to the cliff. There’s a small cave with a Buddha statue, a few local stands, and an incredible view of the river below. It’s a place where everything coexists: tourism, spirituality, memory, and everyday life.

It’s both beautiful and heavy. One of those places where you take photos… and then put your phone away without thinking, because you realize you’re standing in front of something that deserves to be felt more than captured.

And it was on this train that I met Dawson. An American of Filipino descent, now living in the Philippines and working online as a digital nomad. We talked for the entire ride: travel, family, freedom, life choices. The kind of encounter that makes me love traveling so much. Two strangers sitting on a train full of history, talking about life as if it were simple for a few hours. We exchanged numbers. And a few months later, Dawson would host me for several weeks in the Philippines, in his apartment in Manila. But that… is another story. Go check my blog to find out😉

Le soir, je suis retournée dans le centre de Kanchanaburi, là où les rails passent en plein milieu de la rue. Il y a des horaires précis à respecter, parce que quand le train arrive… tout le monde doit se pousser. Des vendeurs installaient leurs étals directement sur les rails. J’ai vu des anguilles se tortiller dans des bassins pendant qu’un train passait à quelques centimètres. Surréaliste, mais très thaï. Et puis il y avait ces trois enfants : un qui dansait, deux autres à la guitare. Un petit groupe improvisé, un public de routards et de locaux. Un moment simple, doux, inattendu. Un de ces moments qui ne coûte rien mais qui reste longtemps.

Kanchanaburi isn’t the most spectacular city in Thailand. But it blends nature, history, encounters, and deep reflections in a unique way. It’s a destination that doesn’t always appear on itineraries… and yet, for me, it was absolutely worth the detour.