Chasing the Horse-Riding Monks of Northern Thailand
Some stories stay with you. For me, Buddha’s Lost Children was one of them. I had watched the documentary one quiet evening, not expecting much more than a meditative hour of Thai landscapes and orange robes. Instead, I was drawn into a world of Thai-boxing monks riding horses through the golden hills near the Myanmar border—rescuing orphans, teaching dharma, and helps build healthy communities in a region deeply affected by drug trafficking.
I didn’t just watch it—I felt it. And I knew: one day, I would find them.
Here is the trailer for some context for this article:
First Stop: Chiang Mai
A few years later, I found myself in Chiang Mai with dusty shoes, a camera bag, and an overambitious plan. I knew the monks were based somewhere up north, but online info was scarce. At that time, this wasn’t the kind of place you could just Google and get a Tripadvisor route.
The hotel staff had no clue where the temple was. But when in doubt in Thailand—ask the tuk-tuk guys. If they don’t know, they’ll find someone who does.
Caption: At Tha Phae Gate, I was looking for drivers when this duo rode by on a scooter—a man and his dog. Photo: Frank Hansen
The Tuk-Tuk Tribunal
I showed one driver a photo from the documentary. Within seconds, I was surrounded. They all spoke rapid-fire Thai, pointing in different directions and arguing animatedly.
Then, as if on cue, a neon-lit tuk-tuk rolled into the scene—spray-painted with dragons, glowing like a spaceship, and blasting a stereo loud enough to shake a coconut loose. Out stepped Pang, clearly the boss of the lot.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, and the crowd went silent.
I showed him the photo. He gave it a quick look.
“I know that place. Like the back of my hand. I grew up in the next village.”
Caption: In Chiang Mai, if you're searching for anything—directions, stories, or a ride—the tuk-tuk corners have your back. Photo: Frank Hansen
Pang Knows the Way (and Has a Car)
I asked if we could go by tuk-tuk.
“Too far,” he said. “We’ll need to drive into the mountains. We leave at sunrise. My private car.”
Deal.
Next morning, 6 a.m. Chiang Mai was just beginning to wake up. Monks in saffron robes were already on their daily bin ta bat rounds, collecting alms and giving blessings. The sky was glowing red, and the soundscape was a mix of scooter engines and trickling water from the moats around the Old City.
I had all my cameras charged—and had loaded up on Imodium the night before, just in case. The last thing I needed was a bathroom emergency mid-jungle.
“Khun Frank!” shouted Pang from across the street.
"Khun" is a polite Thai prefix, and hearing it made me feel like I was on a diplomatic mission, or at least a respected fool on an adventure.
Out of the City – and Into the Wild
We grabbed grilled meat skewers and Red Bulls before hitting the road in Pang’s old, but surprisingly comfy car. From his rear-view mirror hung 10–15 Buddhist amulets, swaying with every bump.
“For protection,” he smiled.
We talked about Thai magic—mantra, yantra symbols, sacred tattoos, and the mystical power of amulets.
“It gives strength to the heart,” Pang said.
After three or four hours on the main road, we turned off onto a winding path that climbed steadily into the mountains. The air grew cooler, the jungle denser, the horizon more cinematic. I rolled down the window and stuck my hand out. The sound of the forest hit me like a living wall—millions of insects, buzzing in chaotic harmony.
Forest Treasures and a Detour
Then we saw a small group of people by the roadside. Pang pulled over.
“My wife called. She said I need to bring home wild mushrooms, vegetables, and honey.”
A hilltribe had set up a makeshift stand selling jungle produce. Wild mushrooms, bamboo shoots, herbs, fruit, and honey bottled in used whiskey flasks. You can’t get more organic than that.
Caption: Hilltribe villagers offering wild mushrooms, jungle fruits, and honey in old whiskey bottles—fresh from the forest. Photo: Frank Hansen
Caption: Bamboo shots, lichee and other harvest from the jungle. Photo: Frank Hansen
Arriving at the Temple of the Golden Horse
We passed through a few small villages on our way. Pang waved to old friends and familiar faces, slowing down now and then for a roadside chat only he could pull off without being annoying. Eventually, we pulled up at the temple gates—adorned with golden horses rearing skyward. I felt a wave of anticipation rise inside me. This was it. The place I’d seen in the documentary. The home of the horse-riding monks.
As we walked through the gate, I double-checked my camera settings. The last thing I needed was to come all this way and return with overexposed, pixelated disappointments.
Caption: Poster of “Kruba” at the gate of the temple. Photo: Frank Hansen
A Temple Unlike Any Other
Inside the temple grounds, I spotted a small stall selling offerings, a stable with a few resting horses, and, surprisingly, a full-sized boxing ring in the middle of it all. Welcome to Northern Thailand, where the sacred and the profane share real estate. I love it!
But something was missing—people. Aside from a couple of curious domestic tourists, the place felt empty. No monks. No Kruba.
Pang started asking around. Word had it that Kruba—the revered leader of the temple—was off helping villagers in a remote mountain area. Of course he was. That’s exactly what he’s known for: riding horseback across rugged, roadless terrain to reach hill tribe communities. Places plagued by poverty and drug trafficking. Places where few others go.
It was slightly disappointing not to see him in person, but honestly, it made the whole thing even more real. This wasn’t some staged tourist attraction. This was a man out there, doing the work.
Caption: A thaiboxer in Wai-Khru, a “dance” performed to honor their teacher. Photo: Frank Hansen
Caption: The thaiboxing ring at the temple. Photo: Frank Hansen
Caption: stall selling offerings to the temple. Photo: Frank Hansen
Then, Hoofbeats
As we were walking back toward the car, heads a little low and minds preparing for a long ride home, someone called out to us.
“Come! Come!”
We turned—and in the distance, we saw them: a group of young monks riding horses toward the temple. It wasn’t Kruba, but it was his nens—child monks trained under his guidance. A whole gang of them, in orange robes and serious expressions, clopping steadily toward us.
We returned to the temple grounds, and Pang helped translate as I spoke to the boys and took a few photos.
Caption: The novice monks has responsibility for their own horse. Photo: Frank Hansen
Photo: Frank Hansen
I asked them why Buddhist monks would train in Thai boxing.
“It teaches us discipline,” one of them said. “It teaches us to rely on ourselves, to take care of our bodies and minds.”
They emphasized they were against violence. The boxing was not for hurting—it was for freeing. A way to maintain a strong body and a free heart. A way to resist being a slave to desire—especially the kind of desire that leads people into addiction.
As Kruba teaches in the film:
"Do good, and happiness will follow. Don’t get caught up in your good deeds. Forget your past and don’t place any hope in the future. Don’t regret your past—because if you regret the past, it will consume you, and you’ll find no peace."
Caption: novice with sakyant buddhist tattoo. Photo: Frank Hansen
A Message to the Mountains
Though I didn’t meet Kruba that day, his presence was everywhere. The young monks, the murals, the spirit of the place. I remembered one particular scene from the documentary, where Kruba speaks to villagers in a remote hill tribe:
“Listen—how can your village develop if your hearts aren’t opening? How can your village be happy if your hearts are still not happy? How can your village be strong when your bodies are weak and addicted to drugs?”
He wasn’t just giving sermons—he was delivering medicine for the soul. His teachings were direct, sometimes raw, but rooted in love and clarity.
On the Road Back
On the way back to Chiang Mai, bumping along winding mountain roads with mushrooms in the trunk and Red Bull in my system, I thought about what I had just witnessed.
Kruba is not just a monk. He’s a lightbearer. A man who found wisdom in his heart and chose to share it with those who need it most—Buddha’s lost children. The ones born into hardship, addiction, and neglect. Children who have never truly been seen, held, or loved. To them, Kruba brings not just shelter, but hope.
His teaching is simple: kindness. And the belief that good hearts build good communities.
I genuinely believe the world would be a better place if more people—especially those in charge—visited Kruba and learned from the wisdom of a horse-riding monk who teaches boxing, compassion, and the art of caring for those in need.