Bangkok is not a city that simply lives in the present. It is, at once, past, future, and absolute chaos. Upon stepping into the Thai capital, the first impression that strikes you is that this is a restless metropolis, where public transportation is the truest reflection of its duality. Modernity and tradition intersect daily—often at the same corner—and, in a way that defies logic, it works.
The BTS Skytrain is a symbol of what Bangkok aspires to be. Elevated, clean, punctual, and air-conditioned, it snakes above the city’s infernal traffic jams. Alongside it, the MRT, the underground metro, sketches out a Bangkok that wants to establish itself as modern, connected, and efficient. These are the systems that tourists immediately embrace, grateful for not having to face the endless gridlock.
But while these tracks of the future cross the city, the ground still belongs to a past that refuses to fade away. Bangkok’s buses, many of them without air-conditioning and with decades of wear, are a mix of nostalgia and patience. Cheap and predictably unpredictable, they remain a lifeline for those who cannot afford the newer alternatives. On the Chao Phraya River, old boats—closer in spirit to cargo transport than passenger vessels—continue ferrying people from one side to the other. It’s an option as functional as it is romantic, if you can ignore the smell of the water.
And then there are the tuk-tuks, those mythical three-wheeled creatures that are the city’s emblem. They belong neither to the past nor the future—they exist in a parallel present. Riding a tuk-tuk is an experience in itself, though the fun comes at a price: haggling over the fare is a game the driver always wins. Nevertheless, it’s an iconic ride.
If the Skytrain and MRT represent Bangkok’s glass towers, the songthaews—pick-up trucks converted into shared mini-buses—are its makeshift shacks, still supporting a large part of the population. They serve as public transport for the city’s peripheries, a clear reminder that Bangkok is much more than its gleaming skyscrapers. Much like the motorbike taxis, zigzagging through the city in frenetic bursts, they embody the Thai way of improvisation: practical, affordable, and slightly terrifying.
Bangkok doesn’t try to hide its contradictions; it proudly flaunts them. Between the shine of the Skytrain and the burnt oil of the old buses, there is a city that balances, almost poetically, between a past that hasn’t left and a future that hasn’t fully arrived. It’s a chaos that works—and it’s impossible not to fall in love with it.
