Between Temples and Dust: A Bicycle Journey Through Cambodia
147 CAMBODIA (9.1)913 Km – 25 Days
2 February – 27 February 2019
913 Km – 25 Days
2 February – 27 February 2019
PHOTOS
FLIP-BOOK
Prologue —
The Best-Laid Plans (and Other Myths)
Every big
trip starts with a grand idea, a map, and at least one person who thinks, “How
hard can it be?” In our case, it was four women, four bicycles, and absolutely
no consensus on what counted as a “small hill.” We set off anyway—armed with
optimism, questionable snacks, and the firm belief that Google Maps would never
betray us (it did, repeatedly).
This is the
story of what happens when you follow the road, trust strangers, and hope your
seat post doesn’t snap before lunch.
Thailand - The Soft
Beginning
334 Km – 5 Days
18 January – 24 January
2019
Jomtien - Janice’s arrival
Janice
landed in Bangkok after a marathon of flights from South Africa, stepping into
the humid brightness of Thailand with that dazed, elastic sense of time only
long-haul travel can produce. Together we drifted onto a bus bound for
Jomtien—a place where one could exhale, eat noodle soup on the beach, and sip
night‑market smoothies while the sea breathed in and out beside us.
Jomtien to Phale Beach (60
km) – Settling Into the Journey
For
three days, we fussed over bicycles and panniers, tightening straps, adjusting
seats, and gathering the small things that make a journey feel possible. At
last, we pointed our wheels toward Cambodia, where Erma and Megan would join us
for a month-long ride through Cambodia. I felt a quiet thrill at the thought of
the four of us pedalling through a country stitched with temples, rice fields,
and improbable kindness.
Cycle
touring always arrives in a rush of colour and scent—diesel fumes and frying
garlic, incense drifting from a shrine, the sudden flash of a fishing boat’s
paintwork. Even though our first day was a modest sixty kilometres, it brimmed
with the sensory abundance that can overwhelm a newcomer. Janice handled it
with admirable grace.
Our
first stop was Ban Chak Ngaeo, a Thai-Chinese community that still clings to
its traditional rhythms. Red lanterns swayed above narrow lanes, and old wooden
shophouses leaned companionably toward one another as if sharing secrets. From
there, we rode on to the vast Wat Yansangwararam complex, a serene sprawl of
temples in wildly different architectural styles, all reflected in the lake's
stillness. The gardens were immaculate, the air soft, the whole place humming
with a quiet, orderly peace.
Minor
roads eventually delivered us to the coast, where Phale Beach waited with its
easy charm. Our guesthouse sat right on the sand, the kind of place where you
could wriggle your toes into the warm grains while watching the horizon blur
into dusk. We wasted no time slipping into the lukewarm Gulf of Thailand,
letting the saltwater rinse away the day’s heat.
At
sunset, we wandered along the beach, passing fishermen preparing their boats
for the night. Later, we ate dinner at a beachside restaurant—simple, delicious
food under a rising moon. It felt like the perfect ending to our first day, and
I couldn’t help feeling proud of Janice, who had taken to cycle touring with
far more ease than she probably realised.
Phale
Beach to Ban Phe (60 km) - Along the Gulf: Saltwater, Lanterns, and Quiet Roads
Morning
arrived warm and forgiving, the kind of coastal dawn that invites a swim before
thought has fully returned to the body. After drifting in the gentle Gulf
waters, we set off along the shoreline, the road curling past quiet beaches and
the sprawling Map Ta Phut Industrial Estate. It’s an odd juxtaposition—idyllic
coastline on one side, the world’s eighth‑largest petrochemical hub on the
other—but cycle touring thrives on such contrasts. They sharpen the senses.
The
day unfolded in long, unhurried stretches of beach, the sand pale and nearly
empty, as though the coastline had been reserved just for us. Coconut stalls
appeared at perfect intervals, each one a small oasis. We sat on low stools,
sipping the cool juice while prying out the soft flesh with improvised spoons.
The ocean shimmered beside us, unbothered by our slow progress.
Rayong
arrived around midday, but the day still felt young, so we pressed on to Ban
Phe, a coastal settlement humming with the quiet industry of seafood
processing. Fishing boats were moored three and four deep along the piers,
their hulls bright with paint and years of salt. The air carried the
unmistakable tang of fish sauce—sharp, fermented, alive.
Ban
Phe offered no shortage of accommodation, being the gateway to Ko Samet, but
our evening was subdued. Janice had come down with a cold, her energy slipping
away as the day wore on. We wandered briefly to the docks at sunset, watching
boats shuttle passengers to and from the islands, but soon retreated to rest.
Travel has its own rhythm, and sometimes the body insists on a slower tempo.
Ban
Phe to Kung Wiman Beach (70 km) — Bicycle Lanes and Lavender Evenings
From
Ban Phe, the road continued faithfully along the coast, a ribbon of tarmac
tracing the curve of the sea. Morning light spilt across bridges where brightly
painted fishing boats clustered along the banks like confetti caught in a tide.
The surprise of the day was a dedicated bicycle lane—nearly the entire way—an
unexpected luxury that made the ride feel effortless.
By
afternoon, the road delivered us to the serene sweep of Kung Wiman Beach, a one-lane
fishing village where life seemed to move at half speed. Our guesthouse sat
just across from the ocean, and we barely had time to drop our panniers before
wading into the warm, glassy water. The Gulf held us gently, as if welcoming us
back.
Dinner
came from a beachside eatery, the kind of place where plastic chairs sink
slightly into the sand and the food tastes better for being eaten outdoors. The
sunset put on a performance—lavender, gold, and fire—spilling across the water
in a way that made conversation unnecessary. It was enough simply to sit and
watch the day fold itself away.
Kung
Wiman Beach to Chanthaburi (61 km) — Temples, Fish Farms, and Gem Road
I
woke early and jogged along the coast, the air still cool enough to feel kind.
The route carried me over two small hills to a lookout, then down into a tiny
fishing hamlet where boats rested on the sand like sleeping animals. By the
time I returned, Janice was already packed, patient as ever despite my late
start.
The
day’s ride was another 60-kilometre gift—quiet roads, fish farms shimmering in
the sun, and beaches that seemed to appear just when we needed them. During the
morning we crossed paths with Kim, a cycle tourer I’d met online. We chatted in
the easy, immediate way cyclists do, then continued in opposite directions,
each pulled along by our own journey.
Chanthaburi
welcomed us with history. This was where King Taksin rallied his troops after
the fall of Ayutthaya, and the city still carries the weight of that past. A
bike shop fitted mirrors to our bicycles—small additions that made the road
feel safer—and then we crossed the Chanthaburi River, where the River
Guesthouse caught our eye. It was simple, reasonably priced, and exactly what
we needed.
In
the evening, we wandered to the night market via Sri Chan Road, known as Gem
Road for its bustling trade in gems and jewellery. The market itself was a
feast of colour and scent—grilled meats, fresh fruit, sizzling pans—and we ate
our way through it with the enthusiasm of travellers who know the next day will
demand more energy.
Chanthaburi to
Ban Phakkat (83 km) - Waterfalls, Forest Roads, and the
Twelve-Humped Camel
We left
Chanthaburi through the Historic Market, its narrow lanes and wooden shophouses
giving the morning a nostalgic, lantern‑lit start. Vendors sold unfamiliar
snacks, a gentle beginning to what became a demanding day.
The road soon
turned rural, climbing toward Khao Khitchakut National Park and the Khao Bunjob
Waterfall. The hills were steeper than expected, but the forest softened the
effort. Searching for the waterfall, we spotted a temple across a small river
and followed a faint upstream path to a hidden suspension bridge. Dragging our
bikes across its narrow planks felt ridiculous and triumphant in equal measure,
but it delivered us to an easier road and back to our route.
The main road
had one final test: a steep pass that demanded patience. At the top, the world
opened again, and soon we reached the turnoff to Ban Phakkat. Wanting to
encourage Janice, I promised the road ahead was mostly flat with “a few small
humps.” Later she insisted the “camel” had at least twelve—and she wasn’t
wrong.
Ban Phakkat
appeared like a small miracle. We found a 400‑baht bungalow at the town
entrance, and I felt a surge of pride watching Janice roll in after such a
tough day, still full of grit and good humour.
Ban Phakkat,
Thailand to Pailin, Cambodia (20 km) Crossing Into
Cambodia - Bureaucracy, Bougainvillea, and a Darker History
Morning
arrived soft and pale, the border town feeling suspended between countries. A
short ride took us to the frontier, where noodle soup and omelette fortified us
for the bureaucratic shuffle ahead. The Thai side offered a small comedy: a
gleaming new building stood empty while the real departure office was a modest
prefab tucked off to the side. Stamped out, we rolled toward Cambodian
immigration, where a 1,000‑baht visa cost 1,500—still, it opened the gate to a
new country.
Despite a pesky
cold and an unsettled stomach, Janice climbed steadily to the first settlement
on the Cambodian side. A sign for the Bamboo Guesthouse tempted us, and it
proved a small paradise: bougainvillaea‑draped bungalows, a shimmering pool,
and a restaurant serving unexpectedly excellent food. Twelve dollars bought us
comfort, quiet, and the luxury of doing nothing.
We drifted
between the pool and the restaurant all afternoon, plates of fragrant Cambodian
dishes appearing before us, washed down with cold Angkor beer. With no ATM
nearby, we paid in Thai baht and felt lucky for the flexibility.
Yet beneath
the tranquillity lay a darker history. Pailin was once a Khmer Rouge
stronghold, home to many of its leaders. It’s said nearly seventy percent of
the area’s older men fought for the regime, and few have ever been held
accountable. The contrast between the peaceful present and the violent past lingered like a quiet echo.
Into Cambodia (Part 1)
7 Days – 301 km
1 March – 7 March 2019
Pailin
to Sdao (60 km) - Red Dust and Horseshoe Crabs
We
began the day with practicalities—searching for an ATM, buying SIM cards, and
picking up a blanket for Janice to use when camping. At a pharmacy, we stocked
up on Royal‑D, the ubiquitous Asian oral rehydrate, knowing it would be
invaluable in the heat.
The
road quickly deteriorated into rutted dirt tracks, and we bounced along to the
delight of children who waved and shouted greetings. Water stops drew curious
stares; foreign women on bicycles were clearly a novelty. Eventually, the back
road spat us out onto the main highway, where the riding became easier.
Roadside
stalls offered their usual array of surprises. Horseshoe crabs lie neatly
arranged, their prehistoric forms unchanged for hundreds of millions of years.
I found myself thinking about their blue blood—copper-rich hemocyanin carrying
oxygen through their bodies, a biological quirk that felt almost mythical.
Nearby, vendors sold grilled chicken tails, mice, rats, and squirrels, all
displayed with the same casual normalcy.
Janice,
still unwell, was fading fast, and by late afternoon, we decided to camp early
at a Buddhist temple in Sdao. Supper was a small misadventure. I went to the
shops while Janice set up her tent, returning proudly with cup noodles and a
Cambodian baguette. Unfortunately, the noodles were too spicy for her, and the
baguette contained an assortment of ingredients that defied easy
identification. Buying food for others is always a gamble. I apologised; she
tried to smile.
Sdao
to Moung Ruessei (68 km) - Naked-Neck Chickens and a Swimming-Pool Salvation
The
monks were already deep in their morning chants when we rolled out of Sdao,
their voices rising and falling like a tide. Outside the temple gates, women
sold pork pau beneath a massive tree, and I had the distinct sense that the
entire community had gathered to watch two foreign cyclists eat breakfast. Dust
swirled around us as we set off along a dirt track lined with naked-neck
chickens and bare-bottomed children playing in the sand.
Carts
carrying monks under yellow umbrellas overtook us, their wheels creaking
softly. Elderly women shuffled along the road, their faces lined with years of
sun and labour. The cultural distance felt immense, yet the warmth of the
people bridged it effortlessly. Houses on stilts appeared at intervals, cattle
tied beneath them, smoke rising from small cooking fires.
Eventually,
the jarring dirt became too much, and we turned toward the paved road, passing
carts stacked high with pottery. Janice, exhausted and coated in dust, was
relieved when Moung Ruessei finally appeared. The Kheang Oudom Hotel, with its
pristine swimming pool and comfortable rooms, felt like a reward for surviving
the day. We slipped into the cool water, letting the dust dissolve around us,
and later sipped Cambodian beer on deckchairs with a sense of deep contentment.
We
stayed an extra day to rest—Janice needed it, and the hotel made it easy to
linger. I was eager to reach Phnom Penh to meet Megan and Erma, who would join
us for a month-long ride. The contrast between their home country, Namibia and
Cambodia, amused me: Namibia, a vast desert with sparse rainfall; Cambodia,
lush and humid with monsoon skies. Megan, a gifted photographer, and Erma, a
pharmacist and avid hiker, would soon add their own rhythms to our journey.
Moung
Ruessei to Pursat (62 km) — Highway Monotony and Market Wandering
The
road to Pursat was a highway—uninspired, straight, and humming with traffic—but
sometimes the body needs monotony more than beauty. Janice’s backside certainly
did. After days of rutted dirt tracks and bone-shaking corrugations, the smooth
tarmac felt like mercy.
The
kilometres slipped by without incident, the landscape flattening into long
stretches of rice fields and roadside stalls selling fruit, petrol in Coke
bottles, and the occasional improbable snack. By midday, we rolled into Pursat,
capital of the province, where Janice once again insisted on picking up the tab
for the room. Her generosity had become a quiet thread running through the
trip.
A
short walk took us to the market—a labyrinth of covered stalls where vendors
sold everything from vegetables to plastic buckets to mysterious fried snacks.
The air was thick with the smell of grilled meat and incense, and we wandered
through it with the slow curiosity of travellers who have nowhere else to be.
We
stayed an extra day. Janice felt unusually tired, and Pursat, with its easy
pace, allowed for rest. We searched for cooler cycling clothes, a task made
comical by the fact that Cambodian sizes seemed designed for people half our
height and width. Ordering food was equally entertaining—our lack of Khmer and
their lack of English turned every meal into a small adventure. But that’s the
charm of travel: the miscommunications, the surprises, the dishes you order
without knowing what they are.
Phnom
Penh: A Pause in the Chaos
Time
was running short, and I wanted to reach Phnom Penh before Megan and Erma
arrived, so we surrendered to practicality and took the bus. The ride was
uneventful, the scenery blurring past in a wash of green and dust. Phnom Penh
greeted us with its usual chaos—motorbikes weaving like schools of fish, tuk‑tuks
honking, vendors shouting, the whole city pulsing with heat and movement.
We
checked into the Golden Boat Guest House, a place that could charitably be
described as “functional.” It wasn’t the cleanest, but at fifteen dollars it
did the job. In the cooler evening air, we wandered to the waterfront, where
the river widened into a broad, shimmering expanse. Later, we met friends—Dan,
Chop, and Teressa—for a beer. Familiar faces in a foreign city always feel like
a small blessing.
The
next day drifted by in errands and small pleasures. We visited the central
market, its golden dome rising like a sunburst above the stalls. We searched
for a bike shop so Janice could buy an inner tube, weaving through traffic that
seemed to operate on instinct rather than rules. Phnom Penh is a city that
demands alertness but rewards it with unexpected pockets of calm.
Jogging
along the riverfront at dawn is one of Phnom Penh’s quiet joys. The promenade
stretches wide and welcoming, the river glowing with early light. Monks walk in
saffron robes, fishermen cast nets, and the city feels briefly gentle.
Later,
we threaded our way through bumper-to-bumper traffic toward the supermarket,
walking in the road because the pavement was claimed by motorbikes, food carts,
and baguette vendors. The baguette—one of Cambodia’s enduring gifts from the
French—remains a national treasure, crisp and airy and sold from baskets on
every corner.
What
I love about Phnom Penh is its ability to surprise. One moment you’re dodging
traffic; the next, you turn a corner and find a peaceful temple shaded by
ancient trees. By evening, the sun dipped behind the city, monks returned to
their monasteries, pigeons returned home in a golden sky, and ferries shuttled
passengers across the Mekong. We sat on a low wall watching boats set out for
sunset cruises, their lights flickering on as the sky deepened.
Cambodia (Part 2) When the
Group Becomes Four
Phnom Penh
- Megan and Erma’s arrival - Temples, Eyebrow Relics, and a Sunset Cruise
Megan
and Erma arrived late in the afternoon, stepping into the thick Phnom Penh heat
with the unmistakable appearance of long-haul travellers: bodies tired but eyes
bright and curious. It was a joy to see them. The city seemed to expand around
us, as if making room for the new energy they brought.
There
wasn’t much daylight left, but we meandered to the promenade anyway, joining
the flow of Khmers out doing their evening exercises. Phnom Penh sits at the
meeting of the Tonle Sap and Mekong Rivers, and the water gives the city a kind
of restless serenity—always moving, always reflecting something new. We watched
the river slide past, the sky softening into dusk, and then headed to the night
market for supper.
There,
under strings of lights, we picked dishes from countless stalls and ate them
sitting cross-legged on mats, as everyone does. The food was fragrant and
plentiful, and the atmosphere festive. But exhaustion soon claimed Megan and
Erma, who had left Namibia nearly twenty-four hours earlier. They turned in
early, and rightly so. Tomorrow would come quickly.
Jetlag
has its own logic, and by dawn we were all awake, blinking at the pale light
creeping across the city. We set out early, ambling toward the Royal Palace
while the air was still cool and the streets not yet fully awake. Kipling’s
line—“the dawn came up like thunder”—felt apt as we passed the Preah Ang
Dorngkeu Shrine, where devotees were already lighting candles and offering
prayers for good luck. The smell of incense hung thick and sweet.
We
wandered through the grounds of Wat Ounalom, the headquarters of Cambodian
Buddhism. Founded in 1443, it carries centuries of quiet authority. The stupa
is rumoured to contain an eyebrow hair of the Buddha—a detail so intimate and
improbable it feels like a secret whispered across time.
Later,
once the bicycles were reassembled, Megan and Erma set off by tuk-tuk to
explore the city’s famous sights. Janice and I stayed behind to tackle a few
lingering chores. Time slipped by quickly, and before long it was evening—the
perfect hour for a sunset cruise.
By
evening we boarded a ferry via a narrow gangplank, armed with a few beers, and
drifted along the river as the sun melted into the horizon. Phnom Penh glowed
gold and rose, the water catching every colour. Supper afterwards was done in
true Khmer style: a table full of dishes shared between the four of us. The
frog was unexpectedly delicious, as were the salad spring rolls and everything
else that arrived at the table.
Phnom Penh to
Koh Dach (Silk Island) A Test Ride (52 km) - Silk
Island and the Snapped Seat post
Chinese New
Year preparations filled Phnom Penh as we pedalled out—red banners, incense,
paper offerings, and families calling “Happy New Year!” from doorways. The nine-kilometre
ride to the ferry wound past stilted wooden houses and hand-drawn carts,
temples buzzing as monks received mountains of holiday food.
We crossed to
Koh Dach, Silk Island, where weaving traditions predate Angkor. On the ferry, a
woman invited us to her home to watch her family spin silk. Their hands moved
with generational ease, patterns rising like stories from the loom.
A quiet lane
circled the island, shaded and gentle. We stopped for coconuts, the vendor
slicing them open with swift strokes before carving spoons from the shell so we
could scoop out the flesh. Children stared at us—four foreign women on
bicycles—unsure whether to smile or flee.
After pork pau
and ice cream, we turned back toward the ferry, only to find Erma’s seat stem
snapped. A tuk‑tuk whisked her to the guesthouse where we later searched for an
open bike shop—most closed for the holiday—until luck delivered one with its
shutters up. Seat fixed, we returned for showers and another easy night at the
market.
Phnom
Penh to Oudong(k) (52 km) - The Way North Chinese New Year Traffic, Brick
Kilns, and Hilltop Stupas
Leaving Phnom
Penh on Chinese New Year felt unexpectedly peaceful. The traffic—still chaotic
by any normal measure—was gentler, and my friends navigated it with calm
confidence. Soon, the city gave way to quieter roads lined with brick kilns,
their tall earthen chimneys glowing from within.
We passed
children playing “kick the flip flop,” a game whose rules we never quite
grasped, and others riding broom horses with fierce concentration. Roadside
stalls sold tamarind and lotus seeds, neither as delicious as we’d hoped. At
one eatery, the owner nearly toppled over when four foreign women on bicycles
stopped for noodle soup.
Farther along,
we found Wat Sowann Thamareach, a temple that looked like a replica of
something ancient and half forgotten. Light filtered through its windows in
soft, golden beams. It felt like a place waiting to be discovered.
A country lane
led us toward Phnom Udong, where a hill crowned with stupas rose like a fairy‑tale
castle. The central stupa is said to hold the remains of past kings, and the
steep climb rewarded us with sweeping views. My friends took the stairs without
complaint, even after a full day of riding.
From the
hilltop, it was a short ride to Oudong, where we found a guesthouse across from
a restaurant. Our first day as a group of four ended with tired legs, full
stomachs, and a quiet sense of accomplishment.
Oudongk
to
Kampong Chhnang (55
km) - Ants, Accidents, and the Kindness of Strangers
We
woke to an invasion. Ants — not a few, not a polite scattering, but a full‑scale
occupation. They marched across our snacks, our towels, our panniers, and, most
disastrously, my pants. I yanked them off in a panic, already covered in bites.
It was a ridiculous, itchy start to the day, but travel has a way of turning
even discomfort into a story.
The
road out of Oudongk was congested and noisy, the kind of traffic that forces
you into a meditative state simply to endure it. With no minor roads available,
we stayed on the highway until a small turnoff offered a brief reprieve — a
rural lane winding through quiet countryside. The peace didn’t last long.
Rounding a sandy corner, Megan slipped and landed in a ditch in a puff of dust.
Before she could even stand, the entire community materialised around her,
hands outstretched, faces full of concern. She was unhurt — just a dirty bum
and a bruised ego — but the kindness of strangers softened the moment.
A
coconut stall offered shade and a chance to regroup. The vendor hacked open the
coconuts with the effortless precision of someone who has done it thousands of
times. Janice, ever curious, asked to try. Her attempt nearly cost her a thumb.
We cleaned and bandaged the wound as best we could, prying the machete from her
hands.
By
the time we reached Kampong Chhnang, the heat had settled heavily on our
shoulders. The Garden Guesthouse — a true traveller’s lodge — welcomed us with
its easy charm. Janice and I took a tuk-tuk to the health centre, where her
wound was cleaned and re-bandaged. The next morning, we returned for an
anti-tetanus injection. Better safe than sorry.
While
Janice, Megan, and Erma visited the floating village, I stayed behind to tend
to chores. Kampong Chhnang, with its pottery heritage and river life, felt like
a place suspended between past and present — a place that asks you to slow
down.
Kampong
Chhnang to Ponley
(55
km) - Clay, Wells, and the Weight of Heat
The
name Chhnang means pottery, and the region wears that identity proudly. Our
first stop was Andong Russey, a small settlement where pots were stacked high
beneath stilted homes. We wandered from house to house, watching families shape
clay with practised hands, the rhythm of their work as steady as breath. The
scene was photogenic, but more than that, it felt intimate — a glimpse into a
craft that has outlived empires.
The
road carried us past wells where people pumped water by hand, past rice drying
on tarps, past temples rising like bright punctuation marks in the landscape. A
young man climbed a bamboo ladder fixed to a sugar palm tree, collecting the
sweet juice that would later be boiled into palm sugar. He offered us a sip. I
hesitated, then tasted it — sweet, earthy, unexpectedly delicious.
A
watermelon vendor provided a welcome break. She peeled and sliced the fruit
with swift, sure movements, serving it with a plate of sugar, salt, and
chillies — a combination that shouldn’t work but somehow does. Janice, for
obvious reasons, was kept far from the knife.
By
the time we reached Ponley, the heat had become oppressive, pressing down on us
like a physical weight. An air-conditioned room felt like salvation. We spent
the rest of the day horizontal, letting the cool air stitch us back together.
Ponley
to Kampong Luong Floating Village (35 km) - Into the
Floating World
We
left Ponley in the company of krama-clad women on bicycles, their scarves
bright against the morning light. Roadside stalls sold fruits we’d never seen
before — milk fruit with its purple skin and soft, blueberry-like flesh; sugar
discs made from palm juice; fermented vegetables; dried buffalo meat. It was a
parade of unfamiliar eats.
Being
the weekend, we passed several wedding celebrations. Entire wedding parties
were dressed in matching silk outfits, shimmering in the sun like tropical
birds.
A
sign pointed toward Kampong Luong, and a few kilometres later, we reached the
boats that ferried people to the floating village. Leaving our bicycles at the
“office” was easy — Cambodia excels at uncomplicated logistics. We boarded a
boat and drifted past floating homes toward a homestay.
Space
was scarce, as it must be when your house floats. We were shown two tiny rooms
with mattresses on the floor and mosquito nets overhead. The veranda overlooked
the water, and from there we watched life unfold — children rowing boats with
the confidence of seasoned sailors, families cooking, washing, bathing, all on
the same water that carried their homes.
Kampong
Luong was a complete settlement: shops, petrol stations, schools, temples, even
a police station — all floating. The water was used for everything, and
everything returned to it. It was both astonishing and humbling, a reminder of
how adaptable humans can be.
Kampong
Luong to
Pursat (65
km) - Ice Cream, Heat, and the Return to Land
A
boat taxi collected us at dawn, returning us to our bicycles. The day began on
rural roads lined with scrawny white cows and ornate temples. Houses on stilts
sold petrol in Coke bottles, others de-husked rice by hand. Shops offered
water, penny‑line sweets, and drinks far stronger than water.
The
heat rose quickly, turning the air thick and metallic. Dust clung to our skin,
our clothes, our eyelashes. We stopped at every shop to refill our bottles.
When we spotted the ice‑cream man, we were as excited as the village children,
joining the queue amid giggles and curious stares.
By
the time Pursat appeared, we were coated in red dust, our faces streaked with
sweat. The promise of a hotel with a bathtub felt almost decadent. We soaked,
scrubbed, and emerged human again.
Pursat
to
Moung Ruessei (62
km) - Temples, Pineapples, and Unexpected Generosity
We
began the day with a detour into the past. An old brick-making factory stood
abandoned on the outskirts of Pursat, its cavernous interior cool and shadowed.
The place felt haunted in the gentlest way — shafts of light cutting through
broken tiles, dust motes drifting like slow-moving spirits. Outside, monks and
their helpers collected food offerings. What struck me, as always, was the
quiet dignity of the exchange. Monks don’t say thank you; almsgiving isn’t
charity but a mutual pact — the lay community supports the monks physically,
and the monks support the community spiritually. A beautiful reciprocity.
By
midday, the heat had grown fierce, and temples became our sanctuaries. They
offered shade, water, and the occasional toilet — all precious commodities. One
monastery in particular held us longer than expected. Young boy monks darted
shyly between the buildings, their saffron robes bright against the pale walls.
They were curious but cautious, peeking at us from behind pillars. We snapped a
few photos, careful not to intrude.
The
road carried us past fruit stalls, and the pineapples were irresistible —
sweet, golden, and cut with the kind of precision that made Janice’s earlier
machete mishap feel even more comical. We ate them standing in the shade, juice
dripping down our wrists.
By
the time we reached Moung Ruessei, the Oudom Hotel with its pristine swimming
pool felt like a mirage made real. We didn’t hesitate. Dusty clothes were shed,
bodies slipped into cool water, and the world softened. Supper at a nearby
restaurant brought an unexpected kindness: Steve, a generous Cambodian man,
bought us beer and then quietly paid for our meal. His gesture lingered long
after the plates were cleared.
Moung Ruessei
to Battambang (86 km) - Rats, Rice Mills, and the Road to
Battambang.
We left before
the heat rose, rolling through smooth pavement that soon crumbled into a bone‑rattling
dirt track. Even so, the countryside was lovely — half‑hidden temples,
villagers moving through their morning routines with quiet ease.
An old rice
mill drew us in: a maze of belts and gears dusted with drifting light. Not long
after, a woman appeared with a basket of grilled rats. Curiosity won. For 1,000
riel we tried one — tender, smoky, unanimously better than chicken. Megan,
believing it was squirrel, took a polite single bite.
Realising our
chosen route would take far too long, we doubled back to the main road, adding
an unnecessary twenty kilometres. A tailwind carried us toward Banan, where the
good pavement ended and the final rough stretch began. The hilltop Angkor‑era
temple radiated heat and history.
From there, an
easy ride delivered us to Battambang and the welcome embrace of the Royal
Hotel.
The next
morning we tuk-tuked to Ek Phnom, stopping for warm, sun‑dried rice paper and
watching ironmongers hammer sparks into the air. By sunset we were at the bat
cave, watching a living ribbon of wings pour into the sky — a nightly migration
written across the dusk.
Battambang to
Siem Reap (by boat) (14 km) – Crossing the Tonle Sap Lake,
Floating Villages, Neon Nights
We rose before
dawn for the boat to Siem Reap. In the dry season the lake retreats, so instead
of a short cycle we endured a long, dusty fifty‑kilometre tuk‑tuk ride to reach
the pier.
The boat
journey stretched across the entire day — shimmering lake, floating villages,
children paddling with effortless grace, fishermen casting slow arcs of net. By
the far shore we were sun‑tired and grateful to disembark.
A short pedal
brought us into lively Siem Reap. Our twenty‑dollar hotel felt miraculous:
pool, breakfast, twin room. That evening we wandered Pub Street, letting the
neon and bustle sweep us along.
We’d arranged
a tuk‑tuk tour with Mr Lam for the next morning — Angkor’s temples and Bayon at
sunset. Megan’s guidance on shooting inside temples was a gift; she taught us
how to read the light and let the shadows do the work.
Ive
visited Angkor countless times, yet Im always in awe seeing the temple’s spires
rose above the treeline, sharp silhouettes against the Cambodian sky.
Wandering
through the sprawling grounds felt surreal, as though we had slipped into a
dream. The temples stood like guardians of time, their sandstone walls etched
with intricate carvings that whispered stories of gods, kings, and forgotten
battles. Nature pressed in from all sides—roots coiled around crumbling stone, vines
draped over doorways, and birds darted through the shadows as if reclaiming the
ruins for themselves. It was a reminder that even the grandest human creations
eventually bow to the earth's persistence.
What
struck us most was not just the scale of Angkor, but the resilience it
represented. Built nearly a thousand years ago, it had endured wars, neglect,
and the relentless jungle. Yet here it stood, a testament to human imagination
and devotion. I thought of Cambodia itself—scarred by history, yet vibrant and
alive. The temples were more than stone; it was a mirror of the country’s
spirit, a reminder that beauty can survive even the darkest of times.
As
the sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the towers, we felt a quiet
gratitude. This was not just sightseeing. It was communion—with history, with
culture, and with the enduring strength of a people who had built something so
extraordinary that it still spoke across centuries. Leaving we didn’t carry
only photographs but a sense of awe that would linger long after the journey
moved on.
By evening, a
bottle of wine vanished before supper, and the night unfolded with easy joy.
Siem Reap to
Svay Leu Temple (67 km) - Rural Paths, Temple Hospitality and Meak Bochea
Preparations
We pedalled
out of Siem Reap after breakfast, quickly finding a rural path that led through
tiny hamlets and seldom-visited corners of the countryside. Women carted
toddlers in homemade wooden wagons, perhaps on their way to school. Our dirt
path was shared by pot sellers, tuk-tuks, and women leading cattle to greener
pastures. Children sold boiled corn, which made for perfect snacking. At a
temple, monks were preparing their midday meal, and we snapped a few photos
before continuing. Svay Leu appeared in the late afternoon, and permission was
granted for us to sleep at the temple. It turned out to be a fascinating
experience — monks preparing for Meak Bochea, the holiday commemorating
Buddha’s final sermon. Villagers watched with curiosity as four foreign women
wandered into a nearby restaurant, where ordering noodle soup required a
lengthy combination of gestures, guesses, and good humour.
Svay Leu
Temple to Preah Vihear (98 km) - Cashew Country, Cloudy Skies and Four Dusty
Farangs
Sleep was
elusive. Temple dogs howled through the night, and music played at what felt
like full volume until dawn. When the chickens began crowing, the dogs joined
in, and we surrendered to the inevitable. Breakfast was another bowl of noodle
soup — comforting, familiar, and hot. The ride to Preah Vihear was long, but
the sky remained mercifully cloudy. We stopped often to refill water bottles,
grateful for the cooler air. The road passed vast cashew plantations — strange,
bulbous fruits dangling from branches, the nuts still forming beneath them.
Much of the landscape was either planted with cashews or filled with nurseries
preparing the next generation. By late afternoon, four hot, dusty farangs
rolled into tiny Preah Vihear, ready to devour anything edible.
Preah
Vihear to
Chhaeb (57
km) - Temple Feasts, Quiet Roads and A Hazy Full Moon
We
allowed ourselves a slow start after the previous day’s long ride. Breakfast
was rice porridge — simple, soothing. Our first stop was a Buddhist temple
where Meak Bochea celebrations were underway. Devotees brought food, and monks
and nuns sat on mats enjoying the feast. We took a few photos, offered thanks,
and continued.
The
road to Chhaeb was quiet and desolate, the kind of stretch that encourages
steady pedalling and few distractions. Even motorbike salesmen pulled off to
rest in the shade — a testament to the heat. We pressed on and reached Chhaeb
early.
A
guesthouse offered reasonable rooms and a short walk to the temple, where monks
chanted and a small fanfare unfolded. We waited for the full moon, but the sky
was too hazy for the photos we’d hoped for. Megan, unsurprisingly, still
managed to capture magic. Dinner was fried noodles, rice, and cold beer from a street-side
eatery.
Chhaeb
to
Stung Treng (88 km) Early Light, Easy Riding and a Golden River Arrival
We
visited the temple once more before leaving, but the light had already shifted
— too late for good photos. Megan, who had gone earlier, captured the best
shots of the trip.
The
ride to Stung Treng was effortless — excellent tarmac, gentle undulations, and
favourable weather. The rhythm of the day felt familiar: load the bikes, cycle,
stop for water, admire the landscape, repeat. By afternoon, we rolled into
Stung Treng and checked into the Golden River Hotel, perched right on the
riverbank.
Stung
Treng to
Kratie (by minivan) – Finding the Irrawaddy Miracles
The
stretch between Stung Treng and Kratie was 130 kilometres of unremarkable road.
We were considering a bus when a minivan driver approached us with an offer:
twenty dollars per person, bicycles included. It was an easy yes.
In
Kratie, a tuk‑tuk carried us to the pier for dolphin viewing. The skipper
didn’t have to go far — the Irrawaddy dolphins were playing close by. We
watched them surface and disappear, their rounded heads and blunt noses unlike
any dolphins we’d seen before.
They
are rare, vulnerable, and genetically closer to killer whales than to other
dolphins. Their tiny, lensless eyes can barely distinguish light from dark. Yet
here they were, thriving in this stretch of the Mekong — a quiet miracle.
Kratie
to
Peace Hut (86
km) - Life Along the Mekong, Bamboo Sanctuaries.
We
followed the river trail south, the Mekong guiding us like a living compass.
The route felt like a single, unbroken village — families fishing, farming
rice, tending to children, living lives shaped by the river’s moods. Cambodia’s
heart beats along the Mekong, and we felt it with every kilometre.
By
late afternoon, The Peace Hut appeared — two simple nipa huts on stilts
overlooking the river. Each room had mats for sleeping and a bamboo deck
perfect for watching the water drift by. A bamboo viewing platform became our
evening sanctuary, where we sipped beer and watched the river darken. Two
dollars per person — a bargain for such serenity.
Peace
Hut to
Kampong Cham (40
km) Riverbank Villages and a Bamboo Bridge
We
crossed the river shortly after leaving, then followed the opposite bank toward
Kampong Cham. It was a short ride, but full of life — children running
alongside us, fishermen hauling nets, women selling fruit from woven baskets.
The
Mekong Hotel offered fifteen‑dollar air‑con rooms with river views — a luxury
after the simplicity of the Peace Hut. We spent the next day exploring Kampong
Cham, a relaxed town perfect for lingering. A short cycle took us to the bamboo
bridge — rebuilt every year after the rainy season, a kilometre-long marvel of
engineering and tradition.
We
had planned to cycle to Phnom Penh, but the highway traffic was notorious, and
the ride was usually unpleasant. A minivan was arranged instead — a far more
enjoyable way to end the journey.
Kampong
Cham to
Phnom Penh (by minivan) - Final Rides, Morning Markets, Farewells to Friends
The
minivan arrived at nine, and with bikes strapped to the back, we headed toward
Phnom Penh. Relief washed over us when we arrived to find all four bicycles
intact.
Megan
and Erma spent their final days shopping, eating, and revisiting favourite
spots. We returned to the morning market, where steam rose from pots and pans,
vendors fried and steamed their delicacies, and early shoppers filled their
bags with produce. The air was thick with aromas — sweet, savoury, smoky.
Soon
enough, their bikes were boxed, their shopping packed, and they were on their
way to the airport, bound for Namibia.
Cambodia (Part 3) - The
Road to the Thailand Border
7 Days – 301 km
1 March – 7 March 2019
Phnom Penh to
Angkor Borei (93
km) - City Chaos, River Roads, The Butt Saga Continues
After Megan
and Erma’s return to Namibia, Janice and I pedalled out of Phnom Penh, our
panniers lighter for the memories they now held.
Men crouched
beside mobile carts, slurping noodle soup; motorbikes swarmed around us in
darting, horn‑bleating waves. Only after twenty kilometres did the city finally
loosen its grip.
Seeking
quieter roads, we turned onto a narrow path along the Tonle Sap River, the
water moving beside us like a slow, breathing animal. Halfway along, Janice
bought a new saddle — another attempt to solve her ongoing butt saga. With
mostly paved roads and only a short dirt stretch, we reached Angkor Borei in
good time, grateful for rural Cambodia’s gentler rhythm.
Angkor Borei to
Kampot (103
km) - Slow
Ferries, Sandy Tracks and Kampot’s Irresistible Calm
We set out
early, knowing the day would be long, but Cambodia had other plans: the Angkor
Borei–Takeo ferry only stirred to life around 8 a.m. Packed in tight, we
skimmed across the lake, relieved to avoid the punishing ride around it.On the
far side, the reality of rural infrastructure returned.
No paved road
linked Takeo to the highway, and we wrestled along a sandy, rutted track until
blessed tarmac appeared. Once on the highway, the kilometres slipped by — until
twenty kilometres from Kampot, where the road dissolved into a construction
zone. Vehicles carved dusty arcs around potholes, and we followed, swallowed by
red grit.
By the time we
reached Kampot, we were coated head to toe. Kampot River Bungalow was full, but
the Naga House next door had a nipa hut on stilts overlooking the river. It was
peaceful, beautiful, impossible to leave. Staying an extra day required no discussion.
Kampot to
Sihanoukville (105
km) - Drought Roads, Dust Storms, A City Transformed
Despite being
the dry season, this year had brought no rain at all. With most of the country
relying on subsistence farming, drought is more than an inconvenience — it’s a
threat. For us, it meant hot, dusty riding.
The road began
smooth and fast, but halfway to Veal Renh we hit the dreaded roadworks.
Vehicles abandoned the road entirely, carving new tracks through the dust,
while minivan taxis ploughed through potholes big enough to swallow a wheel.
We pushed on
through the haze until we rolled into Sihanoukville at peak hour. The city was
unrecognisable — a vast construction site of empty lots and half‑built towers.
I was relieved to find The Big Easy still standing, though now an eye‑watering
thirty dollars for a fan room. It was clear we needed to escape to the islands.
Sihanoukville to Koh Rong
(ferry) - Salt Water, Slow Days, Island Stillness
We left our
bicycles and panniers at The Big Easy and boarded the ferry with only a small
bag. Koh Rong greeted us with clear water and a slow, soothing rhythm. We swam
in the lukewarm Gulf of Thailand, lazed on the sand, and ate meals at tables
perched over the water. Days blurred into sun, salt, and stillness.
Eventually, it
was time to return to the mainland — and to Thailand, where Janice had stashed
her bike box and would soon fly home to Cape Town.
Koh Rong to
Sihanoukville (ferry) - Return to the Mainland, Sand‑Between‑Toes Suppers
With so many
ferries running, we left leisurely. Back in Sihanoukville, we collected our
bicycles and panniers and began the hunt for a room — The Big Easy was fully
booked. Supper was at a beach restaurant, where I indulged in one of my
favourite simple pleasures: eating with my toes buried in the sand.
Thailand - The Return to
Bangkok
15 Km – 8 Days
7 March – 14 April 2019
Sihanoukville,
Cambodia to
Klong Yai, Thailand (15
km) - Late Buses, Smooth Crossings, A Hard Day for Janice
Our
Cambodian visas had run out, so we bought bus tickets to the Thai–Cambodian
border. The bus was scheduled for 8 a.m., but in true Southeast Asian fashion,
it left considerably later. To our surprise, it took us all the way to the
border. The crossing was smooth — no complications, no delays — and soon we
were stamped out of Cambodia and into Thailand.
From
the border, it was only fifteen kilometres to Klong Yai, a small town with
accommodation and a lively night market. The next morning, we caught a
songthaew to Trat. Janice wasn’t feeling well — stomach trouble from the
previous night’s cuisine — and the ride, though inexpensive, was uncomfortable
for her. The songthaew dropped us at the Trat bus station, where we had four
long hours to wait for the next bus to Pattaya. Janice lay curled on the
plastic chairs, pale and exhausted.
By
the time the bus arrived and delivered us to Pattaya, the sun had long set. We
cycled the last few kilometres to Jomtien in darkness, bringing Janice’s
holiday to a quiet close.
Pattaya
- Rest, Recovery, Last Walks by the Sea
Being
a day ahead of schedule, we made good use of the time. We strolled to the
beach, letting the sea breeze wash away the fatigue of travel. Janice gradually
felt better, well enough to do last-minute shopping, pack her bicycle, and
prepare for her flight to Cape Town. Far too soon, the moment arrived for her
to head to the airport.
Pattaya
to
Bangkok - Laundry, Repacking, A New Chapter Begins
I
had exactly one day to do laundry and repack before heading to Bangkok, to meet
Rouen — my brother-in-law — and Micah, my niece and godchild, for a three-week
backpacking holiday in Thailand.
The
easiest route was to catch a bus to the airport, then another straight to Khao
San Road. From there, it was only a short walk to the Riverline Guesthouse, my
usual refuge in the city.
The
journey continues.
Epilogue
— After the Sweat and Dust
Looking
back, the kilometres blur, but the absurdities remain crystal clear: ants in my
pants (literally), Janice nearly losing a thumb to a coconut, and the floating
village where even the police station bobbed gently like it had somewhere
better to be.
Cambodia
left us sunburned, dusty, tired and strangely proud of ourselves. We survived
heat, bureaucracy, and snacks we still can’t identify. And in the end, the road
gave us exactly what it always does—stories we’ll be laughing about for years,
and legs that may never fully forgive us.
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