Ubon Ratchathani

I awoke to a shake of the shoulder; we had arrived in Ubon Ratchathani. The sky was a mess of white forks and billowing, bleeding purple, and shards of rain were striking the coach window. It was three-thirty in the morning, and I was afraid of the dark.

We should have arrived four hours earlier, but thanks to a lengthy delay, we had turned up at a time when I doubted taxis were operating. The storm was relentless, and I was certain it was my fate to die as human lightening conductor by the side of a dusty access road. In my head, kids with sticks poked at my smoking remains.

Of course, like most things we fear, that never happened. Taxis were waiting, and by the time I arrived in town, the storm had passed. But there was another problem waiting for me.

I poked my head inside a guesthouse described as ‘cheap and cheerful’ by the guidebooks. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone, but was met by a surly-faced man with a broom. The broom, I supposed, was there to sweep away people like me, as he spat on the ground when I asked for a night. “No room.”

I knew of nowhere else to stay, and, because of the time, figured there was no point in looking. There was little option but to walk around until sunrise, and so I did.

After twenty minutes of wandering, I caught a flash of orange passing a corner. I followed, and saw three monks going door to door, greeting residents, collecting alms. It was all grace and serenity, a light-flecked stream through the stillness of dark, and I needed it.

Eventually I was led to a park - a mass of green with a large, golden sculpture of a candle float at its entrance - and it was in this park that my anxiety dissolved and I learnt why travel endures.

A buzz of activity was building in the nascent dawn, and I found a bench to enjoy it. Flanked by temples and outdoor gym equipment, elderly Thais jogged the edges of the park; some alone, others in groups of two or three. Stray dogs came up and sniffed me, others sat with me. Music filtered through, and looking to its source I saw the slow, synchronised movements of a class practising Tai Chi.

I sat on that bench until the sun came up, watching as the underbellies of the clouds were gradually dusted pink. I looked at my watch: 6am. Tensions melting, I sunk into the bench and basked in the rare moment of a cool breeze. I considered myself lucky to be witnessing a side of Thailand I hadn’t yet seen, and thanked the monks for the surge of happiness that was filling me from head to toe.