Somewhere, in the dusty pile of childhood memory, there’s an old magazine, National Geographic, maybe. A woman looks out from the page. Brass coils around her neck like a question mark. Her eyes are quiet. Her skin powdered white. I remember colours, linen, and a stillness in her face, the one we usually see in scared animals. When I dust my memory, some words appear around her: refugee, civil war… and the words human zoo that echo like a mantra. Back then, I had no idea that one day I would visit a Longneck village in Thailand myself, hoping to understand what lies beyond the stereotypes of those photographs.
When I heard that the Huay Pu Keng was a handful of days from Chiang Mai, I didn’t hesitate much, I did some quick research, just to be sure to not fall into a tourist trap. Despite the controversy of visiting a longneck village, I decided to hop on a scooter and drive my way there! Mostly because since I’ve been travelling I’ve tried to make up my own mind about things I only know from magazines or the internet. Isn’t that what it is all about? Not just traveling,… Life!
This article is the final piece in a four-part series about our time in Huay Pu Keng, the most notable Longneck village in Thailand. If you’re curious to dive deeper, feel free to explore the other articles. While there may be some overlap, each is written from a unique perspective. An invitation to marvel at the beauty, diversity, and resilience of minority communities.
Getting There
Chiang Mai, Huay Pu Keng how to curve.
There are 235 kilometers that separates Chiang Mai to Huay Pu Keng. A road that curves like a ribbon through the mountains, winding all the way to Mae Hong Son! I decided to rent a scooter and to make my way there in a couple of steps. I knew they were homestay available, that felt like enough information to start my adventure.
I drove there in 3 days enjoying the, approximately, 2000 curves between Chang Mai, Pai and Mae Hong Son. I visited some canyons and a fragrant night market. I made some detours to visit little towns close to Myanmar, I got rinsed by the rain and warmed up by the sun, feeling the freedom of riding a scooter on the deserted road of Mae Hong Son!
On the third day, at a quiet crossroad, a woman pulled up next to me on a motorbike.
— “Are you going to the longneck village?… Turn right here and follow the road, you’ll see a sign!”
She pointed, smiled, and drove off before I could even thank her.
The road she showed me slipped into the forest. Grass crept onto the edges, bamboo leaned low across the path. A narrow track that hadn’t seen much traffic since the pandemic.
Thirty curves later, the sign Longneck Village appeared.
Crossing the river
I parked my Honda Click close to another motorbike, grabbed my clothes bag from the trunk and walked towards the river.
I walked down to the river. No one around. Across the water, two long wooden boats were tied up. One of them had a man sitting in it. As he noticed me he pushed the pirogue in the water and with one agile burst of the engine propelled his bark on my side of the river.
— “Huay Pu Keng?” I asked.
He nodded. No words, just a gesture to get in. Engine off, he used the oar to steer us across. I stepped out of the boat and found myself, alone on the other riverbank.
A young man approached. He asked for the entrance fee—200 baht—and 20 more for the crossing. He handed me a paper receipt, the numbers written by hand in blue ink.
The settlement moved slowly, half-asleep. Since Covid, few people make it this far. I felt a bit lost. I hadn’t made any arrangements, but I knew I wanted to stay. Next to the man is a hand drawn map with a sign that says homestay.
A roof full of leaves
I follow the main path, passing a small shop and a few houses, some with stalls displaying handmade crafts. In front of one, a group of women were chatting. There was no sign of a homestay.
Halfway through the village, I saw a young woman crafting a scarf. With the hope she spoke English, I asked:
— “I’m looking for a homestay…”
She set the loom aside, stood up, and shouted towards the house across. An older woman stepped out of the house. A few melodic syllables flew between them, soft, swift, and in a tongue I couldn’t follow. Then the younger woman turned to me and said:
— “You can stay at my parent’s place.”
She told me her name was Mu Tae and that I was free to walk around.
I left my bag at the house and went for a quick walk. But walking at noon in the Thai summer heat isn’t ideal so after a short loop, I stopped at the shop near the entrance, bought some water, and sat on the wooden steps.
That’s where I met Mua!
Mini triber Mua
Mua’s story is a bit unclear. She’s probably around 14 and doesn’t really speak. She spends most of her time in that store and seems to be taken care of by the owners.
On my second day, as I sat day dreaming outside the homestay, she jumped in front of me and in one syllable said:
— “Muua!”
She then pointed toward the end of the road, making it clear she wanted to show me around. Who am I to say no to a visit done by a local tour guide!
Mua took me to the old school, now a museum, where I learned about the different Kayan tribes who found refuge in Huay Pu Keng — their customs, dialects, and stories. Then we walked to the pig farm, where she literally introduced me to each pig, one by one! After that, we visited the new church, the Kayan sacred ground, the football field, and the new school, where kids from the village receive a basic education from a Thaï teacher. Eventually, we made our way back toward the entrance.
We walked back to the store and picked up drinks in the big orange cooler. She introduced me to the owner and relaxed there in silence.
I learned that because of her disability, she can’t go to school. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for her to live in a remote place where no one really understands her. It made me reflect on the challenges that children with special needs face in touristic and rural areas.
When I asked about her name, no one seemed to know, but everyone called her Mua. Mostly because that’s the sound she makes when she tries to say something. It is heartbreaking.
I am glad that she picked me up for a tour of the town, dragged me around and with one word, reminded me that the only language you need when you travel is kindness. If you’re ever around, do me a favour, say hi to her! If you are kind enough you might enjoy a tour of the village!
Life in the house
The beauty of homestays is that you can enjoy life as locals do. It’s a unique way to be invited into a culture and to feel the difference between a room and a home. In a short time you learn the habits of the family that hosts you. You share the same space, the same food, the same life. In Huay Pu Keng, homestays are part of community based tourism (CBT) initiative, which also means that your visit directly supports local families and helps preserve traditional ways of life.
Staying several days with people who barely speak your language can be a tough experience. But it is also a perfect way to travel differently and to step out of your comfort zone.
My accommodation
My room smells of dark teak wood, in the center, a skinny mattress lies on the floor, a mosquito net on top. The inner walls are made of bamboo, a curtain replaces the door, and a window that doesn’t close connects the inside and the outside. It is not a place for privacy, but what I seek here is to feel part of the village’s flow, however uncomfortable that may be.
Here, life starts before the sun! The first wake up call is the cacophonic concerto of roosters, starting as early as 4h30 in the morning. Followed by the dogs, then the babies… Slowly everyone is up and running! Around 6h30, you can hear people laughing, kids playing, getting ready to go to school, dog fighting,…
The life of the traveler is not about escaping, but about entering, entering another life, another home, another way of being.
Anonymous
In the distance, an old man is humming, more dogs are barking, chickens are clucking and geckos are squeaking. Eventually an old Nokia is ringing. Together, these sounds form the soundtrack of another day beginning.
Eating together
Every day, Mu Tae cooked some simple Burmese: spicy potatoes with tomatoes, chicken leg and clear broth with betel leaves with even more potatoes. The food is simple, savoury, tasty, and fatty. She tells me:
— “Burmese food is spicier than Thai food!”.
Not entirely true for the dish itself, but they do add plenty of spicy green peppers, hotter and more fragrant than the classic red Thai ones.
Around sundown I sat with the family to eat. They laugh at the small quantity of rice I eat compared to them. I realise why food is such an important part of humanity, it is not the act of eating that matters but the fact of sharing, sharing the stories of our days, as well as sharing whatever we have with others.
Evenings
At night, the whole family gathers on the large porch. All generations are welcome. Kids beg adults for candies, parents sit on the floor playing cards, grandparents perch on the stairs chatting on the phone with relatives on the other side of the world.
Villagers come and go, dropping by to say hello, join a card game, gossip, and laugh. As time passes, the surrounding fills with the sounds of the family, then slowly quiets, fading into the gentle noises of nature. The last light has gone out.
Moon Ceremony
On their sacred ground, the Kayan hold ceremonies for the moon. They work only half a day at the new moon and not at all during the full moon.
Press play and let the sounds carry you into the heart of the sacred rhythm of the Kayan moon ceremony, deep in the hills of northern Thailand.
Despite being an animist religion, the hall is oddly arranged like a church, with an altar in the middle and wooden benches on either side. This is no real surprise, knowing that French missionaries converted part of the Burmese population in the 19th century. Their rituals today are a mix of animism, Catholicism, and hints of Buddhism.
I count about ten women and a little more than twenty men. Some children sit quietly with their mothers. Behind the altar, the holy man gives a short sermon before the whole village begins to sing.
Like a mantra, the song is a repetitive prayer. They sing together to show gratitude for being alive, for having food, and to thank their pantheon (and ours too). I close my eyes and let myself drift with the rhythm, carried by the voices rising and falling in unison.
Some of the tribe chew on maak, occasionally spitting outside the hall. While a small council starts to take place, talking about the tasks for the weeks to come, two younger women, sitting at the back, are mesmerized by videos on their phones. It’s a surreal scene — a blend of ancestral tradition, colonial legacy, and the quiet presence of technology, all coexisting in a single sacred moment.
Is it ethical to take photos in Huay Pu Keng?
During my two days on a scooter, I couldn’t help but reflect on what it means to be there — as a human being, as a storyteller, and as a photographer. Taking portraits and documenting life is quite exciting, but it can sometimes feel awkward when meeting locals. To make my experience there exceptional, I came up with two rules.
Rule number one: No photos on the first day
I remembered the story of Eugene Smith, who, in the mid-1940s, followed country doctor Dr. Ernest Ceriani for 23 days, documenting his visits to rural areas in the Rocky Mountains. It’s said that Smith spent several days without a film in his camera, allowing the doctor and the patient to grow accustomed to the presence of this bulky strange object.
In a similar way, I spent my first day with my Canon hanging by my side, without taking any photos. The idea was for the villagers to get used to seeing me around with a camera. After that first day, it felt easier to take more candid shots of the life around me. Though it worked to some extent, I found that the Kayan women in the village are so accustomed to tourists asking for photos that they’d often pose proudly when they see a camera. The men never cared!
Rule number two: only one battery for my 3 day stay
If you’ve ever read a photography blog, you know that one of the top tips for preparing a trip is to bring plenty of spare batteries. But for these three days, I decided to take only one battery and leave the charger behind (not that there was much electricity around). The idea was to stay more focused on my surroundings, write more, and really let life sink in, rather than be distracted by the need to capture everything.
Did it work?… Yes, I had more conversations than expected. I also spent more time sitting, observing, and slowing down to match the pace of the place. Not having the camera as a constant shield to hide behind, forced me to find the courage to approach people. And in doing so, I built better connections that, in the end, led to more meaningful photos and stories to tell.
Did I regret it?… Only a little. My battery died on the morning of my last day, and I felt I missed a couple of goodbye snaps. But in the end, I realised that while photography has become more accessible, especially with the democratisation of smartphones, a camera can sometimes be more of a wall than a bridge especially for those looking for a genuine experience.
Final thoughts on photography
Whether it is ethical to take photos in a Longneck village in Thailand ultimately depends on your own approach and intentions. Villagers are not attractions; they are human beings with lives, histories, and dignity. Today, many communities rely heavily on tourism to survive, which makes it important to respect CBT practices and the guidelines set by the families themselves. The so-called “human zoo” effect is shaped not only by local conditions but also by the choices and behaviour of visitors. By approaching photography with curiosity tempered by respect, it is possible to find a balance that honours both the community and your own storytelling.
Conclusion of my visit of the most notable longneck village in Thailand
Spending three days in the Longneck village of Huay Pu Keng, Thailand, left me with more than just memories. It left me with questions, emotions, and a deeper respect for a way of life that balances tradition, resilience, and adaptation. The warmth of my hosts, the laughter shared over simple meals, the silent moments of connection, and even the quiet discomforts reminded me that I travel to experience humanity in its many forms.
This journey reinforced for me the value of community-based tourism. Choosing homestays or locally-run initiatives, like those in this longneck village of the North of Thailand, means your presence directly supports families, helps preserve cultural practices, and ensures tourism can be a force for good. By not just passing through, you’re contributing, even in a small way, to the community’s well-being.
I encourage you, if you ever consider visiting, to take the time, stay a few days, and let yourself slow down to the village’s rhythm. Approach with respect, curiosity, and kindness. Let the experience shape you, rather than seeking to shape it.
If you want to learn more about how to plan a meaningful visit, check out our other articles linked below. And above all—go, see, listen, and make up your own mind.
