I love nature for what nature gives us, and for the way nature simply is.
Summer, winter, and the rainy season—each season brings changes to nature. These changes may seem simple, but for me, they carry within them a philosophy for living.
The more time I spend with nature, the more I have learned to accept the conditions it gives us and to adapt myself to those moments and circumstances, without rushing to judge what is in front of me as good or bad simply because it does not match what I expected.
But would you believe me if I told you that I did not always think this way?
Yes, I Used to Have Expectations
Many times, we look at nature according to what we want it to be, until nature becomes a finish line or a milestone that we feel we have to conquer.
When trekking, we may think about how many kilometers the trail is, how long it should take, or how quickly we can reach the summit.
Our eyes become fixed on the destination and the clock. Sometimes we overlook the small trees beside the trail, changes in the forest, or details of the ecosystem surrounding us.
We keep looking only at what is directly ahead.
Yes, I used to be like that.
It was the same when rafting 120 kilometers on the Wa River. We looked for fun and challenge. Which wave would be the biggest? Which rapid would give us the greatest thrill?
Again, we kept looking only at what was ahead.
Sometimes it felt as though we were spending our time and experience simply searching for those moments of excitement.
And yes, I used to be like that too.
I do not believe there is anything wrong with this perspective. There are always reasons for people to see things differently.
Travelers come a long way. There is a price to pay for the journey, and naturally they bring expectations about what they want to experience. Completing a 120-kilometer rafting journey or standing on the summit of a high mountain can be meaningful goals for many people.
Excitement, challenge, and the satisfaction of achieving a goal remain part of adventure.
But as the years passed, their meaning for me began to change.
When My Eyes Began to Look to the Sides
One advantage of my work is that I have the opportunity to spend time in nature more often than most travelers do.
After encountering the same rapids and large waves many times, the excitement and adrenaline gradually became less intense.
My eyes had always looked ahead, wondering how exciting the next rapid would be or whether the next wave would be bigger than the last. Over time, I became accustomed to those things.
So I began looking around me instead.
I started observing the landscape.
I started looking at the trees.
I became aware of the humidity, the smell of the earth, the forest, and wildflowers.
And I began to realize that the same river is never truly the same from one season to another.
The River Through the Seasons
During the rainy season, the water moves quickly and the world around us passes our eyes rapidly.
When winter arrives, the river slows down and we begin to have more time to notice the details.
By summer, the water becomes slower still. The landscape around us seems more still, giving us an opportunity to notice details that we may never have seen before.
I began to appreciate these things more.
Nature does not give us less simply because the river is no longer as powerful.
Nature is simply giving us a different kind of experience.
Nature always gives something back to us. Sometimes we simply need to change the way we think and the way we look.
The feeling of being a conqueror gradually became less important.
I became more of an observer.
The excitement is still there. It still brings color and enjoyment to a journey. But for me, it is no longer the whole picture.
Sometimes what nature gives us beyond excitement is peace.
When we become quiet and still enough, we begin to see and hear certain things more clearly.
When we find ourselves surrounded by nature that is far greater than we are, our ego begins to diminish. Our senses begin to open in ways that connect us more closely with the natural world.
We begin to notice the smell of the earth, the moisture in the air, the trees, and the forest.
The way we see nature gradually begins to change.
I believe that accepting the power and greatness of nature also reduces the ego we carry toward it.
I Began to Look at Places Differently Too
The way I learned to look at nature gradually began to influence how I choose the places I introduce to travelers.
I am not interested only in how famous a place is, how grand it looks, or how many people come there to take photographs.
I am often drawn to places that have the ability to create interest through something that comes from within the place itself.
In my own mind, I call these “living places.”
What Is a Living Place?
A living place does not necessarily need to be full of people.
Some are still used regularly by local people as part of everyday life.
Some continue to pass on stories and create interaction between people in the community and those who come to visit.
And some places may have nobody there at all. Yet when we enter, we can still see traces or sense something that makes us ask questions and want to discover what happened there before us.
For me, that is another meaning of “life” within a place.
Wat Nong Bua — When a Place and Its Community Are Still Connected
Wat Nong Bua is one example of what I mean when I describe a “living place.”
What interests me is not only the temple itself, its murals, or its architecture.
It is the relationship between the temple and the surrounding community that continues to exist.
Local people help care for the temple and take part in its affairs. They speak with visitors and make an effort to share stories about the temple and their community.
The temple is the guest room of their own home.
When I bring travelers there, I therefore do not believe my job is to stand in front of them and tell every part of the story on behalf of the people who live there.
Some stories should come from the people who own those stories.
My Role Is to Be a “Translator of Meaning”
I see my role as providing the wider picture, so that travelers have enough context to understand how the things they are about to encounter are connected.
But when we come to the details, and when the opportunity exists, I prefer to let people from the place tell some of their own stories directly to us.
My role then becomes that of a “translator of meaning.”
Sometimes I am translating language.
Sometimes I am translating context between two cultures.
Sometimes I need to shorten or reorganize a story so that someone who has never known the place can understand it more easily.
But whatever I do, I try to preserve the essential meaning of the person whose story it is as completely as I can.
I do not want to take all of the stories belonging to local people and turn them into my own stories.
I simply want to help two sides understand each other a little better.
The Same Place Does Not Need to Speak the Same Language to Everyone
Every traveler is different.
Taking several people to the same place and expecting all of them to understand it or feel the same way would be difficult.
So I try to find different dimensions within a place—different perspectives that may connect with the personality or interests of each person.
Some are interested in history. Some are interested in people. Some notice architecture. Some are drawn to nature. And some may simply want to take a photograph.
If someone wants to take a photograph, I do not think I need to stop them and ask them to listen to a long explanation.
I let them choose the angle they want to photograph. Then I may add a short piece of information connected to whatever appears in that image.
They do not need to remember every word I say.
Perhaps one small story that they can still recall when they see that photograph again is enough to give the image a little more meaning than it had before.
Nature Never Promises That Everything Will Go According to Plan
Working with nature continually teaches me one thing: We cannot predict everything correctly all the time.
Heavy rain may fall in summer. The water level may change. A route may become unsuitable. Or a place we planned to visit may simply not be accessible that day.
For me, change and unpredictability do not mean that a journey has failed. Sometimes they become part of the experience we remember most.
When something we planned cannot be done, my responsibility is to explain the reason to my travelers and find another place or experience that can still offer something within a similar context.
Every place has a story. It depends on which part of that story we choose to bring forward.
When something unexpected happens, we may not receive exactly the experience we originally planned. But that does not mean we cannot have a good experience.
Sometimes we simply need to accept what is in front of us and leave space for something else to happen.
I Want to Be More Than a Good Guide
For me, a good guide already works within professional standards and ethics.
A good guide has a defined role, responsibilities, a duty of care, and a responsibility to communicate stories and information to travelers. These are fundamental.
But I do not want my role to stop at being a guide.
I want to be more like a host welcoming relatives into my home and taking them around.
For me, the difference is in the relationship.
The relationship between a guide and a traveler may be based on professional responsibility and expectations.
But when I see myself as a host, the people traveling with me begin to feel more like people I know, or relatives who have come to visit.
For me, that feeling comes close to the meaning of family.
When I take a friend around Nan, I would not simply look at my watch and say, “We have completed everything on today's list, so the day ends here.”
If we still have time and my friend becomes interested in something along the way, I might say, “There is another place connected with this, and it isn't far from here. Would you like to see it?”
I try to do the same with the people who travel with me.
Sometimes the agreed itinerary is already complete, but if we still have time and my travelers become interested in something, I may take them somewhere else without thinking that everything added to the journey must automatically come with an additional price.
But I will first explain where we could go and ask whether they are interested.
Because ultimately, it is their journey too.
Flexibility Has Its Limits
Being a host does not mean that I will do everything my travelers ask me to do.
There is one thing I will not trade away:
Any form of risk.
This is particularly important when we are doing outdoor activities. Nature creates certain conditions that we cannot negotiate with.
Sometimes respecting nature does not mean entering it when the conditions are unsuitable.
Sometimes it means accepting that: Today, we should not go.
I may change the itinerary, change the location, add or remove an activity, or adjust the way we travel when there is a reasonable explanation that both sides can understand and accept.
But safety is not something I will trade for a traveler's satisfaction.
For me, that too is part of being a good host.
If we care for someone as a person visiting our home, then we also have a responsibility for them—and a responsibility to explain what should and should not be done in that place.
What I Hope They Take Home
When a journey ends, I do not expect my travelers to remember everything I have told them.
They may forget the names of some places. They may forget dates or historical details. They may not even remember how many kilometers we traveled together.
Those things are not the most important part for me.
I want them to feel that they discovered certain places and saw them through perspectives that emerged because I brought them there—through the stories I shared, through the people who live there, or sometimes through an environment that was able to tell its own story.
My role is to bring them there. To communicate what needs to be communicated. To help connect the different pieces.
And then to leave enough space for them to see, observe, learn, and sometimes begin asking their own questions during the journey.
I do not need to be the person who answers every question.
Because when the journey ends, everything they have seen, heard, felt, and questioned may gradually settle into a meaning of their own.
When those things become their experience—something they still remember and something they can take home with them—for me, that is a good travel experience.
And that is what creating and guiding a journey means to me.
— MR A
Nan Adventure Tour