Bangkok’s Unlikely First Responders: The Firefighters Who Spend More Time Catching Snakes Than Fighting Flames

BANGKOK — When the alarm sounds at fire stations across Thailand’s sprawling capital, the emergency is often not a blazing inferno but something far slipperier: a python coiled beneath a kitchen sink, a cobra stretched across a school playground, or a monitor lizard that has taken up residence in a suburban garage. In a city where rapid urbanization has pushed wildlife into every corner of daily life, Bangkok’s firefighters have quietly become the nation’s unofficial snake-catching brigade — responding to thousands of reptile-related calls each year that far outnumber actual fire emergencies. It is a strange and fascinating transformation of a public safety force, one that says everything about the collision between a megacity’s relentless concrete expansion and the wild creatures that refuse to simply disappear.

The numbers tell the story better than any official job description ever could. Across Bangkok’s 50 districts, firefighters respond to roughly 30,000 to 40,000 snake rescue calls annually, a staggering figure that dwarfs the actual fire incidents these trained professionals are expected to handle. On any given day, a crew might race to extinguish a small electrical fire in the morning, then spend the afternoon coaxing a four-meter python out of a drainage pipe. For the men and women in Bangkok’s fire stations, this has become the new normal — a reality that has fundamentally reshaped their training, their equipment, and their entire approach to public service. Yet while the job description has changed, one thing remains constant: the snakes are never killed, and that is entirely by design.

At the center of this remarkable shift stands a man named Pinyo Pukpinyo, a soft-spoken wildlife specialist who has spent more than two decades training Bangkok’s firefighters in the delicate art of snake capture. Pukpinyo does not carry a badge or wear a uniform, but he is as essential to the city’s emergency response system as any piece of firefighting apparatus. He has traveled to nearly every fire station in the capital, teaching crews how to identify venomous species, handle aggressive reptiles safely, and extract snakes from the impossibly tight spaces where they inevitably hide. His students range from raw recruits fresh out of the academy to veteran firefighters with decades of experience — and all of them quickly learn that catching a snake is an entirely different skill set than fighting a fire.

Pukpinyo’s training program is part biology lesson, part practical hands-on workshop, and no small amount of psychological preparation. He begins by teaching firefighters to read snake behavior — the defensive posture of a ready-to-strike cobra, the patient stillness of a python waiting for prey, the nervous energy of a rat snake trapped in a corner. Students learn to distinguish the wedge-shaped head of a venomous viper from the slender form of a harmless python, and they memorize the distinct markings that separate Thailand’s most dangerous species from their benign cousins. Then comes the hard part: actually catching the animals. Using nothing more than a metal snake hook, a thick burlap sack, and an almost clinical calm, Pukpinyo demonstrates techniques that have saved countless firefighters from painful — and sometimes deadly — bites.

But what truly sets Pukpinyo apart is not his technical expertise; it is his unwavering refusal to kill the creatures he helps capture. In a country where fear of snakes runs deep and the instinct to dispatch them quickly is widespread, Pukpinyo has built his entire career on a simple and steadfast principle: every snake that is rescued is a snake that deserves to live. He is, by his own admission, running out of room to keep them all — and that is precisely the problem he is confronting now. His modest facility, already overflowing with temporary enclosures, buckets, and modified storage containers, has reached critical capacity, and the flood of rescued reptiles shows no sign of slowing down. The containers stack higher every week, and Pukpinyo knows that the city’s snake problem is only going to grow.

The root of this exploding demand lies in Bangkok’s extraordinary urban ecology. The Thai capital is situated in one of the most biodiverse regions on the planet, and its rapid development has created a mosaic of habitats that snakes find almost irresistible. Canals that once served as natural waterways now double as hidden highways for pythons hunting rats. Construction sites churn up soil and displace wildlife, sending snakes slithering into adjacent neighborhoods. Even the city’s famous street food markets — teeming with rodents and scraps — have become unintentional feeding grounds for predators of all sizes. As Bangkok continues to expand upward and outward, the boundary between human and animal territory blurs further, and the snakes, quite simply, are winning the battle for urban space.

For the firefighters under Pukpinyo’s tutelage, the work has taken on a rhythm that is equal parts routine and unpredictability. A typical shift might begin with a call about a common sun skink — easily dismissed — followed by a much more serious report of a king cobra in a kindergarten classroom. Each response requires quick thinking, steady hands, and a commitment to the no-kill philosophy that Pukpinyo has embedded in every lesson. His philosophy is pragmatic as much as it is ethical: snakes control the city’s rodent population, and killing them only opens the door for more rats — and more snakes to hunt them. Preservation, he argues, is not merely a moral choice but a practical strategy for managing the city’s wildlife in a sustainable way.

Yet the strain on resources is becoming impossible to ignore. The containers Pukpinyo once used to transport a handful of snakes now serve as makeshift homes for dozens awaiting relocation to safer, wilder environments. He has converted every available space into temporary housing, from repurposed water tanks to stacked plastic bins with air holes punched in the lids. Every morning begins with the same ritual: checking each container, ensuring proper humidity and temperature, and feeding the animals — an undertaking that has become a full-time job in itself. His colleagues tease him about his ever-growing “snake nursery,” but the humor masks a serious concern. Without additional facilities, funding, or alternative release sites, the entire rescue-and-rehabilitate operation could collapse under its own weight.

The situation has drawn attention far beyond Bangkok’s fire stations. Conservation groups have begun studying Pukpinyo’s methods as a model for other cities facing similar human-animal conflicts, while municipal officials have started exploring more systematic approaches to urban wildlife management. There are discussions of establishing a dedicated reptile rescue center, complete with veterinary care and controlled release programs that would send captured snakes to protected forest areas rather than simply relocating them to the nearest canal. For now, though, those plans remain on paper, and Pukpinyo continues to do what he has always done: training firefighters, rescuing snakes, and finding creative — if temporary — places to put them all before the next call comes in.

There is, in all of this, a deeper story about adaptation and coexistence. Bangkok’s firefighters were never supposed to be snake catchers, and Pukpinyo never imagined he would become the unofficial keeper of the city’s rescued reptiles. But both parties have adapted to an extraordinary new reality, building a partnership that protects both human residents and the wild creatures that share their urban environment. The snakes, for their part, show no intention of leaving. And so the containers keep piling up, the firefighters keep training, and the calls keep coming — a steady, slithering reminder that even in one of the world’s most crowded capitals, nature has a way of finding a place to call home. Pinyo Pukpinyo, for one, would not have it any other way.