How We Survived Thailand’s Big 2011 Flood
Yesterday there was a six-lane highway outside our front gate. This morning it had disappeared beneath a fast-moving brown river. Within minutes, water was exploding under the compound wall and racing towards our house. We had just enough time to climb upstairs and watch our world disappear.
Some Background
This is a personal true story of how we lived through, and survived, a huge natural disaster while thousands of others died, and millions were left grieving, homeless, and deeply in debt.
At its peak, the floods covered a third of the country. For us, it became an absurd, sometimes almost comic, two-month experiment in upstairs living. For many others, it was a huge catastrophe. That contrast has always been the first thing I say when people ask about the 2011 flood: we were unbelievably lucky.
In 2011, I was living a fairly comfortable life with my late spouse in Nonthaburi province, not far from the Chao Phraya River. Three years earlier we’d travelled around Vietnam, then returned to Thailand and moved into a new single house in a friendly gated community.
Right outside was a brand-new six-lane highway running straight into central Bangkok. Beyond that, we were mostly surrounded by rice fields.
We’d worked hard and saved hard to be lucky enough to afford a quite luxurious new home, with four bedrooms, walk in closet, three ensuite bathrooms, a big garden with a koi pond, banana trees, and professionally landscaped flower displays. The house was modern, but we made it our own with a lot of beautiful Thai decorations that we had bought in Chiangmai, and some others from Vietnam.
We had space undercover for two cars, and a driveway (with an electric gate) that could fit four more, but one car was enough at any time.
We were also fortunate to have a charming, honest live-in maid and her daughter, who cooked and cleaned for us. We covered their health and university bills as they were part of our small household. When the floods started coming our way, we sent them home to stay with family.
I’m not telling you this to show off. It’s to show what we had, what our lives were like, and how much we stood to lose. Others in the community were much like us – or we were much like them.
Warning Signs Given
In the second half of 2011, we started seeing reports on TV of flooding in the north. Floods happen almost every monsoon, so it wasn’t unexpected. Sad, yes. Surprising, no. The same places often suffered every year.
As the days went by, the flooding spread, slowly at first, then relentlessly. The Chao Phraya River, running through the heart of the country, began to overflow. Dams spilled. Rice fields and agricultural areas vanished under water. Larger villages and towns were inundated.
Hospitals, schools, universities, and factories in the path of the fast-moving water shut down before it arrived. Others weren’t so lucky. Flood waters widened unexpectedly, trapping people in homes and workplaces.
The military was called in. All three branches moved quickly to evacuate citizens and build temporary centres to house and feed them.
I remember watching on TV the Navy rescuing people trapped in their homes in Bang Bua Thong, a relatively poorer, low-lying area that was hit very hard. People had been forced to the top floors of wherever they were, and the waters were still rising fast. There were babies, children, disabled people, and the elderly, all being rescued in difficult circumstances.
It was impossible not to feel that, sooner or later, the water would find us.
It’s Inevitable
We realised pretty quickly that we would get flooded. The riverbank on our side had no sandbags or flood prevention at all. The opposite bank had a barrier of sandbags, mud, and stones that worked surprisingly well, but that didn’t help us.
We began moving whatever we could upstairs. What we couldn’t move was piled on the lounge floor, with the most important things near the top. We built brick-and-mortar flood barriers around all the doors, leaving just enough space to open one while still protecting it. We disabled the electric gate and built a ladder so we could climb over the garden fence if we needed to.
The house had been designed with the electricity circuit board and all the outlets well above ground level. We’d originally thought that a bit odd. It turned out to be a lifesaver.
We converted a very large guest bathroom on the first floor into a workable kitchen: microwave, mini-oven, fridge, food storage in stackable plastic drawers, and everything else we could think of. One of the guest bedrooms became our dining room and lounge.
We had flashlights, batteries, medical supplies, a TV, radio, internet, and phones. We had contact numbers to call for assistance if needed. While the government dithered, the military were doing a remarkable job saving, feeding, and housing hundreds of thousands of people whose homes had been flooded, or washed away entirely.
We were offered the chance to evacuate but initially declined. We thought we’d done all we could. Perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad…
The Mad Car Idea
One crazy issue: we’d taken our car in to be serviced, and the dealership had given us a loan car. We had a date to return it, but ended up keeping it for more than two months.
As it wasn’t our car, we felt responsible for keeping it safe. This led to a less-than-brilliant idea; build a platform and park the car on top.
With the help of our wonderful neighbours, we used concrete construction slabs lying around (the housing estate was still under construction, but all the workers had left). We’d planned to go a meter high, but gave up at about half that. It was hard work, and the neighbours were so kind we didn’t feel it was fair to push them further. None of the neighbours copied this “innovative” idea. Surprise, surprise.
Why would you do that? You may well ask. The idea was that it wasn’t our car, and we had a responsibility to keep it dry and safe. Yes, I can imagine what you’re thinking right now.
There’s a real surprise about this car, but that comes later.
The Waters Broke
We’d been following the flood reports for about a week. Water was moving fast. We’d just finished breakfast when a neighbour shouted, “Come to the main entrance, come and see this!”
We climbed over our front fence and walked the short distance to the compound’s main entrance. What we saw wasn’t completely unexpected, but it still hit like a shock.
Last night there had been a six-lane highway out the front. This morning it was gone, replaced by a raging river. The big speed hump at the compound entrance, which everyone had complained was too high, was holding it back. Now it seemed to be, maybe, possibly, saving us.
But there was something else, unexpected and very sudden. A huge volume of water started bursting out from under the wall surrounding our communal compound. By the time we ran back to our house and climbed over the fence, we could see the water coming, moving fast, and getting higher.
We retreated upstairs and watched from a window as our little world drowned.
Our barriers around the doors worked for a while. The base of the house was about 1.5 metres higher than the community roads—we’d deliberately filled the land before building so monsoon rain could run down onto the road and into the drains. We felt like we might get lucky.
Sink or Swim
But we’d overlooked something; the flood water backed up through the sinks, bathrooms, and other pipes downstairs, allowing it to rise and fill the ground floor with about half a metre of water. Our carefully built flood barriers were suddenly useless.
The bright side was that the public clean water supply pipes had been isolated when the house was built, so we could drink clean water (though it still went through our filter), cook, and have quick showers. We still had electricity and the internet. This was a lot more than many homeowners had.
After a few days, a boat arrived with supplies. At that time we didn’t need food, but we did request cat food for our twin Siamese cats. The officials in the boat told us a supply boat would come about once a week to every house with basic food and bottled water, and that we could request anything else we needed.
In reality, they came much more often – a remarkable feat for those crews, considering how many people were trapped and how many needed evacuation. The crews were local officials, navy, army, and air force personnel, Red Cross workers, and volunteers.
The Navy had responsibility for our area. That meant not just feeding people, but saving and housing thousands, providing medical assistance, patrolling in armed boats to prevent crime, and flying helicopters regularly to get an overall picture. They did an absolutely brilliant job, as did everyone else.
We discussed leaving, but we had everything we needed for quite a few weeks. We decided to stay put, but if the power failed we would ask to be evacuated. Many other residents in our community were evacuated and were well cared for.
Luck Followed Us
For us, as the days went by, we were fairly comfortable, we had enough food and fresh water, and surprisingly the electricity never went off in the more than two months we spent upstairs. We entertained ourselves by watching TV (with a keen eye on the regular flood reports almost every hour) and chatting on the phone with friends and neighbours.
From the regular reports, we had a good overview of where the floodwaters were going, and what was pushing them along, we knew without a doubt we’d be stranded for a lot longer than a few weeks. There was nothing more we could do other than accept it, especially as we had a big shock of food and a reliable supply of drinking water.
Some of our neighbours weren’t as lucky as us, and because their land plots were lower than ours, the water inside their homes was higher than in ours. One neighbour was taken quite ill, so we called the Navy; they responded very quickly sending a helicopter to rescue her and take her to hospital.
Nighttimes were a little eerie, there was an almost compete lack of sound, as the water around us seems to muffle any noise we were used to in normal circumstances; no dogs barking, no passenger planes, no cars on the now underwater highway outside, no laughter from neighbours enjoying a drink. It was a bit unnerving at first and initially we stayed up much later than we would normally, watching movies or music concerts, or just chatting.
Getting Into A Routine
Every morning, the first thing we did wasn’t a shower or breakfast – it was checking the water level on a utility pole across the street. After the initial rush of fast-moving water had settled, for the first few weeks we could see a very slow but steady rise each day.
There was nothing we could do about it. We had our showers, made breakfast, but didn’t wash the dishes. We decided water was too important to waste; washing up was once, maybe twice a day.
Next, we fed our twin Siamese cats. They seemed to settle in faster than we did. While they were obviously baffled by the water downstairs, they were very nonchalant about it all, in a very typical cat way.
After that, we’d go halfway down the stairs to check the situation there. A murky lake surrounded our piled-up furniture. Eventually, after a couple of weeks, it collapsed into the water.
The rest of each day was spent watching the news, checking in with the community centre, cleaning as best we could, playing with the twins, and preparing meals.
A couple of days a week, a boat would pull up right under our bedroom balcony. “Are you guys OK?” “What supplies do you need?” We always asked the crew about their own situations before requesting anything, like more cat litter and cat food. In the early days, that was all we needed. Supplies were put in a makeshift basket and we hauled them up with a rope.
When we asked for cat food, the crew didn’t bat an eyelid. They asked what breed the cats were, whether they were healthy, and if there was anything else they needed. A day or two later they returned with the food, and a charming gesture of a couple of new cat toys. Somehow, surrounded by two metres of floodwater, it all seemed perfectly normal.
Crocodiles and Cobras
Floods have all kinds of unexpected consequences. Some are just inconvenient; some are life-threatening.
As if the flood itself wasn’t enough, reports began circulating that crocodiles had escaped from flooded farms and rivers. Thailand has both wild freshwater crocodiles and many commercial crocodile farms, and with rivers overflowing, it wasn’t hard to believe.
For a while there was genuine concern about what might be lurking beneath the muddy water. In reality the danger, although real, was limited and proved to be smaller than many feared, but at the time nobody knew that.
Snakes are another matter altogether. They’re common, fast-moving, strong, expert swimmers, and many have a nasty bite, or an over-eager hug. Most of the fish in garden ponds, including ours, were washed away in the initial rush of water and may have been eaten by snakes or monitor lizards.
Our immediate neighbour had a huge deep aquarium filled with koi and other expensive species. It survived the initial rushing wave but was damaged at the top. One afternoon we heard him shouting from an upstairs window. When we went to look, it was a shock.
A huge king cobra was half in and half out of the aquarium, having a lunch of fresh fish. If you’ve ever seen a video of one of these monsters, you’d make a hasty retreat.
This snake couldn’t hear the neighbour’s shouting but was agitated by the sudden movements above it. It took seconds for it to leave its lunch and stand up almost a metre, tongue tasting the air. The neighbour rapidly ducked back inside. In a lucky break, the snake decided to go elsewhere.
The community center was warned and told the few remaining residents. Most people had left before the flood or were evacuated. After this, the cobra wasn’t seen again – but other snakes were, including our own close encounter a few weeks later.
Monitor lizards, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home. We saw far more of them than usual, swimming effortlessly through the floodwater. They looked prehistoric, but despite their intimidating size they generally wanted nothing to do with people.
When The Weird Became Mundane
When telling this story to friends who didn’t experience it, there were always lots of questions. No doubt you’ve thought of a few too.
Did we get bored or frustrated, stuck living upstairs? No, not really. We got used to it very quickly and had plenty of entertainment with the TV, internet, and phone chats with friends and neighbours.
After getting used to our maid doing all the laundry in the washing machine in our big ground-floor kitchen, we had to improvise. Clothes were scrubbed in the sink and hung on a line on the balcony. Fortunately, despite all the millions of litres of water surrounding the house, it was the dry season during most of our ‘jail’ time upstairs. That meant virtually no rain but plenty of sun to dry everything.
The only serious problem we had, along with everyone else, was what to do with garbage. Naturally, it was impossible for the garbage collectors to work during a massive flood, and they had families to take care of. This was a serious problem not just for us, but for perhaps a million people across the flood zones.
We opted to store our waste in plastic sacks on the garage roof, which we could reach with a little gymnastics. It was above the water but soon attracted hungry birds that ripped the bags open. After that, we had to take them downstairs and dump them in the water in the kitchen. Not elegant, but it worked.
A Chopper And Mystery Balls
It wasn’t long before the water, both inside the house and outside, became foul-smelling. I mean a strong, disgusting smell and colour.
We called the helpline and explained the problem. They told us to wait and someone would call us back. Expecting to wait a few days, we were surprised to hear the phone ring in less than an hour.
And even more surprised by their response: a helicopter was on its way, and we should wait on the balcony. The chopper crew would lower a heavy box, which we should try to unhook and take inside, then read the instructions inside.
Within another hour we heard them coming, getting louder as it hovered well above the house. The phone rang. A voice told us that getting the box onto the balcony might be a bit tricky, and we must be very careful if it swayed or the cable moved around.
The mysterious box was slowly lowered towards the balcony, swaying as it came down, but with a bit of luck we managed to snag it, pull it onto the balcony, and then stand well back as we released the clasp.
The chopper moved off, but not far. We broke open the box and, before even reading the note, looked at each other and said: “Golf balls?” That’s exactly what they looked like. White, a bit smaller than a real golf ball, and giving off a slight chemical smell, but still at first glance just like a golf ball.
The note was short but clear: “Find some gloves or some way to protect your hands. Don’t touch them with your bare hands. Throw the balls into the water inside the house, evenly spread as best you can. Use half today and half tomorrow. The helicopter will start dumping them in the water outside and around the area. Don’t worry if you hear strange noises.”
We followed the instructions but had no idea what would happen next. The chopper was dumping a lot of them; it sounded like hail falling. We found out later they’d already been doing the same in other areas, but we never saw it mentioned on the news or in the flood reports.
So, what were these “golf balls,” and what did they do? I can’t really answer. The balls dissolved in the water and within three days the smell had gone and the water looked a lot cleaner. We can only assume it was some kind of chemical compound, but it worked pretty well. To this day, it remains a complete mystery.
The Shopping Expedition and The Slithering Snakes
Some weeks into our comfortable confinement, some food essentials began running low. We started accepting the free rice, vegetables, and small amounts of meat from the boat crews, and ordering other essentials, which we happily paid for.
Not long after that, the water level began to drop slowly, a very welcome sign.
Soon after, the community supervisor said the water levels were low enough for anyone fit and healthy to go on a shopping trip. There was, of course, a caveat: we would have to wade through chest-high water to the clubhouse and climb aboard an ex-army 10-wheeler truck, which could get through the water to dry land. On returning home, we’d need waterproof bags for the shopping and hold them over our heads as we waded back to our soggy homes.
So we went, prepared, along with the last half-dozen remaining residents. All of us soaked, wearing old clothes, and most likely a bit smelly too. It was quite refreshing to get out of the house, even in such weird circumstances, and actually have a chance to chat with neighbours face to face again.
Dry land was surprisingly near in a vehicle, but far enough away that you might never make it on foot. The truck took us to an overpass that was open to traffic and connected two areas of higher, unflooded land. But the truck couldn’t get onto it, so we climbed up some well-placed concrete steps, over the safety barrier, and were told what time the truck would come back for us.
We knew there was a large supermarket about 2 km away, plus some other stores and restaurants, so we started to walk. Within a few minutes, pickup trucks and cars were stopping and offering us rides. One look at us told them immediately what our situation was, and Thai people are immensely kind.
I was given a ride by a charming man from a town in Ayutthaya province, an area that for years has constantly been flooded during the monsoon. For him, this wasn’t new – except the scale. In many ways we were much better off than him and his family. This was a one-off for us; for him, it was a regular event, and he seemed more intrigued by me than by the flood itself.
We did our shopping, had a meal in a restaurant, and took a stroll; three luxuries we’d done without for almost two months. It might not sound important, and I suppose it wasn’t in the greater scheme of things, but it felt like a breath of fresh air, being back in an almost normal situation after weeks of confinement. We were on dry land for about three or four hours, which felt like a small holiday.
The truck was waiting. We scrambled aboard with our bags and boxes, checked that everyone was accounted for, and the truck rolled on its way.
My partner had bought something in the kids’ department of the supermarket that I initially laughed at, but turned out to be a clever idea. It was a spur-of-the-moment buy.
When we arrived back at the clubhouse, the first thing we noticed was the water level: it had dropped noticeably, although it was still deep. My partner opened his “toy box” to reveal an inflatable paddling pool. After pumping it up, we dumped all our shopping into it and carefully pushed it ahead of us on the way home. It saved us from holding everything above the water or dropping food into it.
We hadn’t got more than a few metres when I noticed movement in the water off to our left. Two long snakes were swimming very slowly, about 15 metres away. We decided to keep moving, but more slowly, to reduce any splashing that might attract them. Luckily they either didn’t notice us or were exploring something more interesting. It was a tense few minutes. Not all snakes are venomous, but we really didn’t want to find out if these two were.
We didn’t get another shopping trip. Within a week or so, the water subsided, and we were left with a huge mess to clean up, and a borrowed car to get down from its “safe from the water” platform. We decided that could wait while we figured out what important jobs to deal with first.
Cleanup, Compensation, and the Car That Wouldn’t Die
I can’t go through all the details of the cleanup. It was a mix of hard graft on our part and some excellent, but expensive, professional help. It took many months, and revealed serious damage and losses, including most of the furniture left downstairs.
Apart from the furniture, all the wooden fixtures had begun to rot. That meant replacing all the doors, plus all our mini-kitchen cupboards. Some tiles had to be replaced, paintwork cleaned, and in a few areas removed down to the brickwork and repaired. Our beautiful garden was a swamp.
The final blow was discovering that our home insurance didn’t cover flooding, or any kind of water damage.
We spent several more weeks living upstairs while the cleanup went on. Apart from all the slime, sludge, and residues left by the receding waters, there were dozens of smaller but important jobs: cleaning all the equipment in the main kitchen, making sure everything was safe and dry, washing pots, pans, cutlery, and so on, en masse. The garden was professionally restored but took a while to return to its former self.
Then there was the loan car still sitting outside our front gate on its half-metre platform of concrete slabs. The dirty water had got inside, and it stank—a really disgusting smell. The cloth seats were soaked in it, as was most of the car. First, we reverse-engineered our platform, with some help, and got the car down onto the road.
We called the dealership boss and told him that, basically, their car was ruined. He was unfazed and said he would send a low-loader truck to pick it up and return our car, which had been kept safe from the flooding.
I jokingly suggested to my partner that we try to start the soggy loan car. I took a quick look at the engine, which didn’t look too healthy, and then turned the key. Stunningly, it started first time, as if nothing had happened.
We were genuinely shocked and amused at the same time, and couldn’t stop laughing. After everything; the platform, the worry, the smell, the imagined conversation with the dealership, the loan car refused to die. It felt like the flood’s final joke.
Empty Pockets
After many weeks of hard work, the house was more or less clean, fresh, and livable, but the cost of it all was a killer. The government paid compensation to every affected household, a figure which ran into many billions of baht of public funds.
For us, grateful as we were, it was a drop in the ocean: we received a cash hand out which, while very welcome, was only a tiny fraction of the cost of the clean up and renovation. Thankfully, we never had flooding there again. But the costs involved in renovating it resulted in us selling the house about six months later.
Lines on the Wall
For years after the flood had receded, you could see traces of the water level on walls, buildings, and utility poles, clearly showing how deep the water had been. The final renovation job on our house was to paint over those marks.