173 CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (10)

 Gravel Roads, Kindness, and the Long Way South

2 October - 19 October 2024

1,042 Km – 17 Days

MAP

 PDF

FLIP-BOOK 

VOICEOVER

 

Prologue

Gravel Roads, Kindness, and the Long Way South

Cambodia has a way of pulling me back—not with grand gestures, but with the quiet insistence of gravel roads, river winds, and the soft chorus of “Hello Farang” drifting across the fields. Five years had passed since I last cycled here, yet the border crossing felt like stepping into a familiar story whose pages had shifted in my absence. I didn’t know what waited beyond the first stretch of broken road—only that the country would meet me, as it always had, with a mix of challenge, generosity, and the unexpected. This is the tale of those seventeen days: of ancient bridges and muddy detours, festival winds and roadside kindness, and the long, slow unravelling of the road south.

 

Crossing Into Cambodia

 

Gravel, Ghost Roads, and Festival Winds

I began my day with a steaming cup of coffee as I prepared for my ride from Muang Khong, Laos- across the bridge to join Route 13 South. Despite the brisk wind tugging at my clothes, I felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of returning to Cambodia after nearly five years, when I cycled the country with my friends Megan, Erma, and Janice.

The process of getting stamped out of Laos turned out to be surprisingly straightforward, despite the border post’s notorious reputation for bribery. The officers requested a $2 stamp fee, but I firmly declined, and they didn’t push the issue. The Cambodian immigration process was much smoother, and I paid the $35 visa fee before resuming my journey.

The road leading south was in a sorry state due to ongoing repairs, covered in a thick layer of gravel that made cycling a challenge. Fortunately, motorbikes had carved out a single track next to the road. Although signs periodically indicated the “End of road work,” the gravel would quickly reappear, and I kept reassuring myself with the mantra, “This too shall pass.”

On a more positive note, I had the pleasure of meeting another cyclist from Japan who was also on a cycling adventure through Asia. I also discovered that Cambodia was in the midst of celebrating Pchum Ben, or the Festival of the Ancestors, one of the country’s most significant and grandest festivals. I caught glimpses of the festivities, witnessing two-wheel tractors laden with villagers passing by in the opposite direction.

By the time I arrived in Stung Treng, it was late, and I struggled to find a hotel with rooms available, most likely because of the festivities. I settled for one that offered an air-conditioned room with a window for $12, but I found the cleanliness lacking, and I wondered if my frugality was worth it.

I decided to stay in Stung Treng the next day to withdraw Cambodian Riel or Khmer Riel (KHR) (4,000 KHR = 1 US$), a SIM card, and take care of a few other things.

 

Surge of Energy and the Ride to Preah Vihear

The next morning, I felt remarkably energetic, and the weather and the road were good. As a result, I pushed on. I forgot just how scenic Cambodia is. Numerous unusual sights kept me occupied, and I again realised just how comfortable the Cambodians are on a motorbike, as twice I saw people returning from the clinic with an IV drip bag on a stick attached to their arm.

I don't know what was in the drink I bought from a roadside vendor, as I was so energetic that I cycled the 140 km to Preah Vihear. Once there, I was more than happy to find Javier Guest House, with a lovely, spacious room for only $7.

 

Koh Ker in the Forest: A Detour into the Ancient Capital

I wasn’t all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and my morning search for a baguette revealed nothing, so I got on the road and headed toward Siem Reap. Again, the scenery was unsurpassed, and it turned out to be a lovely day of riding. Sixty km later, I came upon Koh Ker, a UNESCO World Heritage and Archaeological Site. This Ancient capital of the Khmer Empire, between 921 and 944 CE, is now partially hidden in a dense forest; I dropped my bags at a guesthouse and went exploring. It was after six p.m. that I returned and headed straight to a restaurant, starving.

 

Hello Farang: Rain, Rural Roads, and the Chaos of Siem Reap

It rained throughout the night, and I could still hear it pouring when I woke up. I stayed in bed with a coffee and played on my phone until I heard that the rain had subsided. It was thus late morning by the time I saddled my old iron horse for the ride to Siam Reap. I felt immensely happy to be on the bike, pedalling down a rural road. The sound of children calling “Hello Farang” always brought a smile to my face, their voices blending with the sound of cattle. If you didn’t respond, they would keep calling louder and louder, their excitement echoing through the countryside.

This is such a rural part of Cambodia that, at times, I could imagine I'm on a different planet. By the time I neared touristy Siam Reap, 100 km down the road, I was somewhat taken aback by the urgency of the drivers and the chaotic dance of traffic, which sharply contrasted with the peaceful countryside. Still, I joined this dance and made my way to Smiley Guesthouse, which has ground-floor budget rooms and a swimming pool. It’s a good place to lay low, and I paid for three nights.

On stepping out, I thought I could easily spend the three days eating as the aroma of the local delicacies wafted through the air. I imagined myself exploring all the culinary delights of the area.

The following day, I took the bicycle to the bike shop to be cleaned and oiled. I was shocked at the prices in Siam Reap. When prices are quoted in US$, you know you have been overcharged. So, nothing much came of eating at all the restaurants that looked so inviting the previous evening, as they were clearly priced with tourists in mind. Eventually, I grabbed a baguette with egg and salad from a mobile vendor at less than half the price of the sit-down restaurants. I also handed in my laundry for a proper machine wash, since the fee is one I never complain about.

 

The Old Khmer Highway and the Bridge That Outlived Empires

I made a bit of a detour because I didn’t want to cycle along the main road, but the minor road I chose soon spat me out on the main road south. I guess I’ll never get used to Cambodia's ingenious means of transport. There is nothing they cannot transport by bicycle or a two-wheel tractor.

Once away from Siam Reap, the road was quiet and a pleasure to cycle. The rain lasted no more than 10 minutes, and soon, the sun was shining bright again. I met the nicest people; a man stopped and handed me a Pocari Sweat. How nice was that? Later, I stopped to take a break and met a mum and her daughter who could speak some English. She was ever so helpful, and we took a few selfies.

I was on the old Khmer highway between Angkor and Phnom Penh. It's a new road today, but surprisingly, the Kampong Kdei Bridge is still in use. Built in the 12th century, Spean Praptos, also known as the Kampong Kdei Bridge, was once the world's longest corbeled stone-arch bridge, with over 20 narrow arches spanning 87 metres.

I arrived in Stoung around four p.m. It is a typical Cambodian small town with a market, a temple, muddy roads, a petrol station, bug vendors, and the ever-present mobile food carts. My guest house cost 8 Dollars, and the room was as big as a dance hall. Taking the stir my presence created, I didn’t think a farang had ever stayed at this establishment; great was my surprise thus when I discovered a young American lady also staying at the guesthouse and travelling by bicycle. She was heading to Siam Reap and this was her fourth day on her first cycling holiday.

 

Ambok Makers and the Rhythm of Rural Cambodia

In a 2021 survey, it was found that approximately 63 per cent of households in Cambodia are engaged in agricultural production. It's thus common to see wooden houses on stilts with chickens, buffalos, cows, palm and mango trees next to rice fields. Today, I came across many "Ambok" or flattened rice producers along the road. The rice seemed to be first roasted in a pan with a mechanical stirrer, then pounded in a wooden bowl and separated from the husk in a sieve. During the rice harvest, some rice is specially prepared for certain Khmer ceremonies and family gatherings. I regret not buying any, but hopefully, I'll find them again tomorrow. After 110 km, I found Win With Guesthouse, a perfect spot midway between Phnom Penh and Stoung. Once again, the experience of finding food was fascinating and amusing.

 

Spider Village and the Easy Roll Into the Capital

The ride to Phnom Pehn was surprisingly easy, as it is a new road. Still, it was pretty boring, and I believe that my ride along the river trail was far more interesting. However, it was easy riding, though not much happened except for a stop at Skun, known as Spider Village. The reason is that it’s well known for its exotic tarantula cuisine. Vendors sold deep-fried tarantulas coated in garlic and chillies, and although the aroma was appetising, I don’t think I'll ever get myself to eat one. The last stretch into the capital was easy-going except for the chaotic traffic. I rarely made a booking, but this time I did, and as always, it was a total disaster, and I didn’t stay at the place booked. I, however, easily found a room, as nearly every second building in Phnom Penh is a guesthouse.

I stayed in Phnom Penh for three nights as I quite like the place, and I had the usual housekeeping to attend to. I also met up with Matt, a friend for many years, and we had supper at the Addis Restaurant. I love Ethiopian food, and the food at Addis is excellent, which made for a lovely and relaxing evening.

 

River Roads, Chisor Temple, and a Race Against Mosquitoes

As I left the bustling city of Phnom Penh, I found myself navigating through the chaotic Monday morning traffic. It always takes some time to adjust to the constant flow of traffic and to trusting the traffic around me. Once I cleared the city limits, I followed a narrow path along the serene Bassac River. A sign directed towards Chisor Mountain Temple caught my eye, prompting me to change my course to the west. To my delight, I stumbled upon the ancient ruins of this 11th-century temple perched high on a hill, accessible by a lengthy staircase. Despite the heat and swarms of mosquitoes, I persevered and was delighted to reach the remains of this old temple. However, my battle with the mosquitoes eventually forced me to cut my visit short. By the time I finished, it was already late afternoon, but I decided to cycle to the next village, which was only 30 km away.

 

The Predictable Highway and the Slow Days Beside the Kampot River

Again, the Main Road to Kampot was a dead boring affair. That said, the road was new, wide and in good condition, so I shouldn’t complain. It’s just that I don’t like such predictability. In any event, I stuck to the main road and soon landed in the lovely riverside town of Kampot. I’ve visited Kampot on many occasions and this time I chose to stay in the village. Good Morning Kampot Guesthouse was an ideal place to stay as it was slap bang in the centre and right on the river. It also offered spacious, budget-friendly rooms on the upper floors, with a restaurant below. Reviews stated that the food was excellent; I think whoever made those comments must have been British, as the food was so bland that I had to ask for a portion of fresh chillies to make it more palatable. LOL

I paid for two nights and thus rose slowly the following morning. With no plans for the day, I handed in my laundry as whenever I have a chance of having my laundry done for a dollar, I can’t resist. I did truly little the rest of the day except visit the Kampot market as no one can be in Kampot and not go to the market or buy the famous Kampot pepper, known as the best pepper in the world.

I was up early to collect my laundry, but the lady couldn’t find it and asked that I return later. There wasn’t much to do in Kampot, so I took my bicycle and cycled to the old fishing village on the opposite side of the river. Much later, I returned and was happy to find that my laundry was located. I was so happy that I treated myself to Nachos & Gaugamela in Kampot Alley, where noodles are still handmade, and something is always steaming in a pot.

 

The Minefield Road: Mud, Madness, and a Brothel for the Night

After doing almost nothing for two full days, I felt pretty energetic and was eager to get underway. I had no specific plan and contemplated going to Sihanoukville.

The day started with a lovely scenic ride, and I was happy to be out on the bike. This euphoria, however, came to a grinding halt when the paved road abruptly disappeared after approximately 25 km. It was not a disaster until I realised this was no ordinary dirt road but one that had been neglected for years, and I thought it resembled a minefield (not that I knew what it looked like). In any event, I persevered, bouncing over the potholes and slip-sliding through the muddy patches. Conditions worsened as the day progressed, and I had my eye set on the junction 20 km away, believing conditions would improve from there. I clawed onto the handlebars for dear life, and after 5 km, I stopped to take a breather, feeling happy I managed 5 km. My wrists and arms felt shaky, but I returned to the bike, determined to reach the main road. And so it went until I reached the junction.

It was already quite late, and instead of going to Sihanoukville, I decided to head straight to Srae Ambel. You can imagine my surprise when I found the road (although paved) in dreadful condition, busy and narrow. So narrow was the road that two trucks could barely pass one another, let alone avoid bicycles or motorbikes. Motorbikes mainly used the no-man’s land next to the paved road, and I followed suit. This was no easy ride, as the no-man’s land wasn’t meant for vehicles and was, by then, potholed and muddy. I was in this mess and had to persevere. The continuous rain didn’t make the ride any more manageable. Once, I stopped for coffee to get out of the rain and rest my wrists, but I still had a way to go and soon got back on the bike.

A new road was under construction, making the way one huge construction site. The hills at the end of the day left me gasping for air, but I pushed on. 5 km from Srae Amble, the weather came in again, and I pedalled like a woman possessed to reach the town before the storm broke. I reached the town just as raindrops started falling and pulled into the nearest Guest House. I was relieved I made it, but soon discovered it was a brothel, LOL, not that I could care less as I was far too tired to be concerned about that.

 

The Impassable Road and the Kindness of a Seatless Bus

I was optimistic that the new road leading to the border would be completed, but unfortunately that wasn't the case. Despite my determination to continue, the mud clogged the chain and gears, forcing me to stop and clear the wheels. What a mess! Seeking advice on the road conditions ahead, I stopped at a roadside eatery, only to be informed that the road was impassable for a bicycle. Although I usually take such warnings lightly, I decided to heed the advice this time. I was directed to a bus, where I was surprised to find no seats, just an open space. As we traversed the bumpy road, the driver and his companion were incredibly amiable, even buying me a coffee and offering water and a baguette. Initially told that the journey would take seven hours to cover 125 km, I was relieved when we arrived in Koh Kong after just 5 hours. I paid the driver 50,000 riel for the ride, which I thought was a bargain. He seemed content with the payment and even offered me change, which made me chuckle. Afterwards, I cycled around town searching for budget accommodation and found Rene’s Pasta Bar & Guesthouse, which offered a fan room for only $11. The room was sparkling clean, the staff helpful, and the food delicious. I couldn’t be happier.

 

The Border Where Rain Becomes a Country

Morning in Koh Kong held me the way a soft hand lingers on a shoulder — gently, insistently, as if asking me to stay. The room was too comfortable, the air too forgiving, and every small task stretched into a kind of slow ritual. But the bags were packed, and momentum — even reluctant momentum — has its own gravity. I strolled to the money exchange, watching the last of my Cambodian riel transform into Thai baht, the way one life quietly becomes another.

The border was only ten kilometres away, but borders are never measured in distance. They are measured in waiting rooms, in fluorescent lights, in the slow shuffle of passports across counters. By the time I stepped out of the immigration office, it was past noon, and the heat pressed down like a hand on my back. Ninety kilometres to Trat suddenly felt like a sentence rather than a plan.

 

 

Epilogue

What the Road Leaves Behind

By the time I reached the coast, the mud had dried, the bruises had faded, and the chaos of the journey had settled into memory. Cambodia had once again revealed itself in layers—its rural rhythms, its relentless roads, its quiet acts of kindness that arrive just when you need them most. I left the country the same way I travelled through it: slowly, gratefully, carrying the dust of its backroads and the warmth of its people with me. The long way south had been unpredictable, exhausting, and utterly worth it. And as always, the road—imperfect, generous, and alive—had the final word.

 

172 CYCLE TOURING LAOS (9)

 

Sabai-dee, Falang!
Encounters of Kindness on the Lao Roads 

 

13 September – 2 October 2024

964 Kilometres – 19 Days

VOICEOVER 

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

 

 

Prologue: Where the Road Begins

Journeys rarely announce themselves with fanfare. They begin in the quiet moments—when a familiar restlessness stirs beneath the ribs. I did not set out to chase adventure, nor to conquer distance. I set out because the world still surprises me, because kindness appears in the most unlikely places, because the road has a way of revealing who we are when everything else falls away.

Laos was meant to be a passage, a stretch of kilometres between borders. Instead, it became a mirror—reflecting storms and serenity, frustration and grace, the small human gestures that stitch a journey together. This is not a story of perfect days. It is a story of muddy roads, flooded fields, unexpected generosity, and the quiet beauty found in motion.

Every journey has a beginning. Mine began with a simple truth: the world is kinder than we think, if only we keep moving long enough to see it.

 

 

Chapter 1: Borderlines and Beginnings

 

Scams, storms and friendly faces.

The morning rain tapped gently on the corrugated roof of the guesthouse in Nong Khai, Thailand, as if urging me to linger. With only thirty kilometres separating me from Vientiane, Laos’s capital, there was no rush. The guesthouse owner, a woman whose warmth seemed to radiate from every gesture, made it even harder to leave. We spoke in fragments—her English, my Thai, and the universal language of smiles—but the exchange was enough to remind me why I travel: for these fleeting connections that leave a lasting imprint.

Eventually, I wheeled my bicycle out into the damp air and pedalled toward the Thai immigration office. The process was surprisingly smooth, a rare gift at border crossings where bureaucracy often tangles into chaos. But the relief was short-lived. On the Lao side, the officers demanded $50 for a visa instead of the usual $30. I protested, but my words dissolved into the humid air. At the border, one is always at the mercy of authority. With reluctant resignation, I handed over the money, the sting of injustice clinging to me like the drizzle that refused to let up.

Crossing into Laos should have felt like a homecoming. Six years had passed since my last visit, and I had imagined a joyful reunion with familiar streets and the languid rhythm of the Mekong. Instead, irritation shadowed my arrival. Even the river, swollen and furious from the rains, seemed to mirror my mood. Its waters pressed against the banks, threatening to spill over, a reminder that nature, like bureaucracy, has its own unyielding power.

I wandered the riverfront, trying to shake off the frustration. Vientiane changed in my absence. Some of the improvements were welcome—new pavements, brighter facades, but others carried a bittersweet edge, as if the city were trading pieces of its soul for progress. The old charm lingered in pockets: the scent of fresh baguettes wafting from bakeries, the quiet dignity of temples weathered by centuries, the slow pace of life that resisted the rush of modernity. Yet I couldn’t ignore the undercurrent of loss, the way memory and reality collided, leaving me unsettled.

That evening, as the Mekong surged beside me, I reflected on the paradox of beginnings. Journeys rarely start with the clean slate we imagine. Sometimes they begin with irritations, delays, and small injustices. But perhaps that is the point. Travel demands resilience. It asks us to carry both the beauty and the bitterness, to accept that the road ahead will be paved with potholes and kindness alike. And so, with the rain still falling and the city lights flickering across the water, I resolved to let Laos reveal itself on its own terms—scams, storms, and all.

 

Wandering Vientiane

The drizzle lingered into the next morning, soft and persistent, as though the city itself wanted to slow me down. Vientiane is not a place that rushes. Its rhythm is measured, unhurried, and I found myself falling into step with it. After a leisurely breakfast, I set out beneath my umbrella, chasing small errands that would become the day’s unlikely adventure: a lens cap for my camera, lost somewhere along the road, and a mirror for my bicycle, essential in a country where traffic flows on the opposite side.

What should have been a simple task unfolded into a meandering pilgrimage across the city. The streets carried me past temples whose gilded roofs glistened in the rain, their walls whispering centuries of devotion. Monks in saffron robes moved quietly through the drizzle, their presence a reminder of the spiritual heartbeat that pulses beneath the surface of daily life. Each temple seemed to hold its own story, a fragment of Laos’s layered past, and I lingered at its gates, humbled by the weight of history.

The scent of food was everywhere—grilled meats, steaming bowls of noodle soup, and the earthy aroma of sticky rice. Yet it was the humble baguette that drew me in, a legacy of French colonial days that has become a staple of Lao cuisine. I bit into its crisp crust and soft centre, marvelling at how something so simple could feel like a feast. Travel often teaches that joy lies not in grand gestures but in small, unexpected pleasures.

As the day stretched on, I realised that my errands had become an excuse to wander, to let the city reveal itself in fragments. Vientiane is the capital, but it does not bear the weight of power. Its streets are lined with modest shops, its pace dictated more by bicycles and tuk-tuks than by the urgency of politics. Even the rain seemed to conspire to keep things gentle, softening the city's edges and blurring its lines.

By evening, I returned to my guesthouse with a new lens cap, a bicycle mirror, and a heart full of impressions. The drizzle had not let up, but I no longer minded. Vientiane had offered me something more valuable than errands completed: a reminder that wandering without a destination is its own kind of pilgrimage. In the slow rhythm of its streets, I found a lesson in patience, in savouring the ordinary, in letting the journey unfold without haste. In the process, I met the very talented artist, Tim Williams, from the UK, but living in Thailand.

 

 

Chapter 2: Heading South in The Season of Floods

 

Into the Floods

The morning broke with a rare gift: sunlight. After days of drizzle, the sky seemed to open in a gesture of mercy, and I hurried to pack my gear before the clouds could change their mind. Vientiane was still stirring, its streets not yet alive with the hum of traffic, and I relished the quiet as I pedalled out of the city. My destination was Buddha Park, a place I had visited years before, hoping this time the journey would be smoother.

The road surprised me. Where once there had been rough gravel and potholes, now a ribbon of fresh pavement stretched ahead, gleaming in the morning light. It felt like a small victory, a cyclist’s dream. But as I approached the park, the triumph dissolved into shock. Much of the area lay underwater, swallowed by the swollen Mekong. Concrete statues of gods and demons rose eerily from the flood, their faces half-submerged, as if the river had claimed them back into its mythic embrace. It was a reminder that in Laos, nature always has the final word.

I pressed on, searching for Route 13—the artery that runs south through the country toward Cambodia. Asking for directions proved futile. The locals smiled politely, nodding in ways that suggested agreement but offered no clarity. It was not dishonesty, but a cultural kindness: better to nod than to disappoint. And so I relied on instinct, following the road as the signs of flooding grew more severe. Soldiers lined the banks, stacking sandbags in a battle they seemed destined to lose. The water crept closer, indifferent to human effort.

When I finally reached Route 13, relief washed over me—only to be replaced by frustration. The road was narrow, crowded with buses, trucks, and cars, each vying for space. Potholes yawned like traps, deep enough to swallow a wheel whole. It was a rider’s nightmare, a gauntlet of hazards that demanded every ounce of concentration. The beauty of the landscape blurred into the background; my eyes were fixed on the asphalt, scanning for danger.

For a brief stretch, salvation arrived in the form of a “two-wheel tractor,” a slow-moving machine that carved a path through the chaos. I tucked in behind it, riding its slipstream, grateful for the buffer it provided against the onslaught of traffic. But the reprieve was short-lived. Soon I was alone again, navigating the madness, my nerves frayed by the constant roar of engines and the jolt of every pothole.

By mid-afternoon, and after a mere 80 kilometres, the sight of the Dokphet Hotel felt like a mirage. It was only 3:30 p.m., and I had covered barely eighty kilometres, but I did not hesitate. I needed to rest my mind, a place to breathe. The hotel was a sanctuary: spacious rooms nestled in a lush garden, a restaurant nearby, and a price so modest it felt like a gift. For the first time that day, I exhaled fully, letting the tension drain from my body.

That night, as I wrote my journal in the quiet garden, I reflected on the paradox of the road. Travel is not always about beauty or discovery. Sometimes it is about endurance, about surviving the chaos long enough to find peace at the end of the day. The floods, the potholes, the relentless traffic—all of it was part of the journey, as essential as the temples and the smiles of children. To cycle through Laos was to accept both the serenity of its landscapes and the fury of its roads. And in that acceptance, I found a strange kind of joy.

 

Paksan to Vieng Kham, 90 km

I woke to a lovely overcast morning, the kind that invites adventure. Setting out, I was greeted by a good road, albeit with some narrow stretches that tested my balance. Still, cycling was a breeze, and I found myself captivated by the incredible scenery. It amazed me how resourcefully the locals had adapted to the flooding—every household had a boat, and even the tiniest kids were skilled rowers!

I’ve always enjoyed zipping through villages, often pursued by young ones on bicycles. These days, though, what used to be a bicycle race is now a chase on electric scooters. Times are changing, and I find it both amusing and heartwarming.

I rolled into Vieng Kham around midday and, despite it being early, I decided to spend the night. The room here was even cheaper—80,000 LAK—but definitely lacked the charm of the previous night’s stay.

 

Sleepless Nights, Spectacular Rides

(Vieng Kham to Thakhek – 104 km)

The night in Vieng Kham was restless from the start. Just as I had surrendered to sleep, a knock rattled the door. My heart leapt as though I had been jolted awake mid-ride, adrenaline surging through my veins. It was nothing more than a case of mistaken identity, but the damage was done. Sleep fled, leaving me wide-eyed in the dark. I turned to the glow of my phone, scrolling through videos until the hours dissolved into dawn. By the time the rain began its morning percussion on the roof, I was exhausted. I forced myself onto the road. The air was thick with humidity while small hills rose ahead, demanding energy I did not have. My stomach growled, reminding me that I had skipped breakfast.

Fifty kilometres in, I stumbled into a roadside eatery, where an omelette on rice became salvation. The simple meal energised me, a reminder that sometimes survival is measured in eggs and grains.

Dark clouds gathered as I ate, threatening another deluge, and soon the road narrowed into a stretch of construction. Gravel and dust clung to my tyres, but mercifully, the disruption lasted only a few kilometres. When the clouds drifted away, the landscape revealed its grandeur. To my left, the Annamite Range unfurled like a living wall, its peaks rising in jagged defiance against the sky. Mist curled around the slopes, softening their edges, while the river shimmered at their base. The sight was so arresting that fatigue dissolved into awe. Every turn of the road offered a new perspective, a fresh revelation of beauty.

By late afternoon, I rolled into Thakhek, a riverside town perched on the Mekong. The day’s hardships—the sleepless night, the hunger, the sweat—fell away as I checked into the Mekong Hotel. My room was modest, but the view was extraordinary. From the outdoor restaurant, I watched the river surge past, its surface alive with currents, while across the water the lights of Thailand flickered like stars. Dinner was simple, but in that moment it felt like a feast, a celebration of endurance and arrival.

 

Muddy Roads and Instant Noodles

Thakhek to Roadside Guesthouse – 75 km

The rain returned with vengeance as I left Thakhek, turning the riverside road into a quagmire. Mud clung to my tyres, each rotation a battle against suction. Progress slowed to a crawl—five kilometres in half an hour—and frustration gnawed at me. By the time I reached seventy-five kilometres, I was caked in mud, my body weary. A roadside guesthouse appeared like a lifeline. The proprietress charged me more than seemed fair, but I didn’t argue. At ten dollars, even an overpriced room was salvation. With no food vendors nearby, I turned to my emergency stash of instant noodles, slurping them in gratitude before collapsing into bed. Travel teaches humility: sometimes survival is measured in noodles and shelter.

 

 

Chapter 3 - Savannakhet and Vat Phou

 

 

Chapter Seven: Savannakhet Supplies

Roadside Guesthouse to Savannakhet – 45 km

The next morning, the road improved, and so did my spirit. Savannakhet welcomed me with its wide boulevards and colonial echoes. I wandered its streets with purpose, stocking up for the long stretch south toward Cambodia. Bamboo shoots, mushrooms, lotus seeds—markets brimmed with the bounty of the rainy season.

 

 

Markets of Plenty

Leaving Savannakhet, I cycled under an overcast sky that mirrored the lush scenery. Roadside stalls overflowed with mushrooms and lotus seeds, women led buffalo to pasture, and villagers fished in flooded paddies. Each scene was a reminder of resilience, of life lived in rhythm with the rains. That evening, a humble guesthouse became my refuge. The manager, seeing my hunger, hopped on his motorbike to fetch me a meal. It was modest—rice piled high, a few vegetables—but it was delivered with kindness. In Laos, generosity often takes the simplest form.

 

Pakse and the Xe Don River

The road south carried me to Pakse, where the Xe Don River meets the Mekong. Guesthouses lined the banks, and I chose one perched above the water. The carnival lights of riverside stalls flickered in the dusk, their aromas mingling with the scent of rain. My room was less than pristine, but I laughed as I scrubbed it clean, armed with bathroom cleaner and insect repellent. Travel is not about perfection—it is about embracing imperfection with humour. Pakse became a place of rest, of sorting through photos and nursing the beginnings of a cold, while the river flowed endlessly past.

 

Vat Phou and the Little Guide

From Pakse, I rode to Champassak, where the ruins of Vat Phou awaited. The UNESCO site rose from the landscape like a memory of empires past, its stone stairways leading to a summit with sweeping views of rice fields below. The grandeur of Khmer engineering humbled me, a reminder of civilisations that once flourished here. Nearby, at Prasat Hong Nang Sida, a seven-year-old girl appeared, her laughter and gestures transforming her into my impromptu guide. She led me through the ruins, handed me a lotus leaf to shield against the sun, and held my hand with a sweetness that lingered long after. In her innocence, I found the purest form of hospitality, a gift more precious than any monument.

 

Four Thousand Islands

The Mekong widened into a labyrinth of islets, the famed Si Phan Don—Four Thousand Islands. Crossing by boat was daunting, but watching motorbikes loaded with ease reassured me. On Don Khong Island, I lingered, savouring the slow rhythm of river life. Boys leapt from bridges into the current, laughter echoing across the water. Storms rolled in, thunder cracking overhead, forcing me to shelter in abandoned buildings. Yet even in the chaos, the islands offered peace. I spent an extra day here, updating my journal, spending the last of my Lao kip, and letting the river’s rhythm seep into my bones.

 

Crossing into Cambodia

The border loomed, notorious for corruption, but fortune favoured me. The Lao officers asked for a two-dollar “stamp fee,” which I refused, and they let it pass. Cambodia welcomed me with smoother bureaucracy: a visa stamped for $35. The road south was rough, the gravel thickly laid, but motorbikes had carved a narrow track that guided me forward. “This too shall pass,” I repeated, a mantra against frustration. Along the way, I met a Japanese cyclist whose journey mirrored mine and glimpsed villagers celebrating Pchum Ben, the Festival of the Ancestors. Two-wheel tractors carried families to ceremonies, their laughter a reminder of continuity, of traditions that bind generations. By the time I reached Stung Treng, rooms were scarce, the town alive with festival crowds. I settled for a modest hotel, whose cleanliness was questionable, but its air-conditioning was a blessing. The journey had carried me across borders, through floods and kindness, into Cambodia’s embrace.

 

Epilogue: Lessons from Laos

Laos revealed itself in contrasts: flooded roads and serene temples, scams at borders and gifts of kindness in villages, exhaustion and awe. To cycle through its landscapes was to live in tension—between hardship and joy, chaos and beauty. Yet it was the people who defined the journey. Children waving from stilted homes, guesthouse owners welcoming me with smiles, strangers fetching meals when none were available. Their generosity carried me forward, reminding me that resilience is not only about enduring storms but also about embracing kindness when it appears.

As I crossed into Cambodia, I carried Laos with me—not just its rivers and mountains, but its spirit of hospitality, its lessons in patience, its reminder that joy often arrives in the simplest forms. Travel is never just about distance covered. It is about transformation; about the way landscapes and people reshape us. In Laos, I found not only roads and rivers but also resilience, kindness, and the quiet beauty of connection. And that, more than any kilometre, is the true measure of the journey.

 

Epilogue: What the Road Leaves Behind

When I pedalled out of Laos and into Cambodia, I carried no souvenirs—only the imprint of moments that refused to fade. The flooded roads, the laughter of children, the quiet meals shared with strangers, the temples standing patient against time. Laos taught me that resilience is not loud; it is steady. It lives in people who rebuild after every monsoon, who offer help without hesitation, who greet travellers with warmth even when the world feels uncertain.

The road south was rough, but my heart was light. I had arrived expecting landscapes; I left remembering faces. Kindness had become the compass that guided me through storms, fatigue, and the long, unspooling solitude of the ride.

Journeys end on maps, but not in memory. Laos remains with me—in the rhythm of the Mekong, in the echo of generosity, in the reminder that even the hardest days can soften under a stranger’s smile. And so I ride on, grateful for the miles behind me, and for the quiet truth the road keeps teaching: that connection, however fleeting, is the real destination.

 

171 THAILAND - THE SOUTH COAST AND BEYOND

From the Gulf to the Mekong: Pedalling North Through Thailand

 PHOTOS

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER

 

Prologue

I only meant to slip away for a few days — a quick coastal wander before Dawn arrived and life shifted into holiday mode. But the moment I pedalled out of Jomtien, something tugged me forward. Maybe it was restlessness. Maybe it was the quiet thrill of leaving, even when you don’t know where you’re going.
Thailand had been home for too long, long enough for comfort to turn stale. So I followed the road, letting weather, whim, and the occasional 7‑Eleven decide my direction. What began as a short escape stretched into a slow, surprising pull toward the Mekong — a ride stitched together by rainstorms, temples, forest roads, kind strangers, and the simple joy of moving north, one unplanned day at a time.

 
170 Thailand (22.2) – The South Coast
305 Km - 4 Days

10 July – 20 July 2024

 

The South Coast: A Short Escape Before Goodbye

I left Jomtien earlier than expected, surprised at my own eagerness. Perhaps it was because this wasn’t a grand expedition, just a brief ten-day wander before Dawn arrived. Her visit shimmered ahead of me—days of eating, laughing, and decidedly not cycling. My long stay in Thailand was drawing to a close, and though I loved the country, I hoped I might finally move on before the year ended. Too many months in a hotel room can make even paradise feel small.

Pedalling out of Jomtien, I chuckled to myself. There is always a spark of exhilaration when I set off toward the unknown, even when the unknown lies along familiar roads. The sky hung low and grey, and I drifted through daydreams, barely taking any photos. Most of my attention was consumed by my new Garmin watch—an impulsive purchase I instantly regretted. It was complicated, fussy, and not much better than my cheap Xiaomi. But what’s done is done; I would simply have to learn its moods.

By the time I reached Rayong, the day felt ready to end. The Richy Grant guesthouse—cheap as chips, with washing machines, filtered water, and a night market nearby—was too tempting to pass up. I should have eaten a snack before heading to the market; instead, I returned with enough food to feed a small battalion. I spent the evening reorganising panniers and working my way through the mountain of snacks.

 

Rain, Repairs, and the Slow Drift Down the Coast

The night sky had raged with thunder and lightning, and morning arrived wrapped in drizzle. I lingered, sorting my belongings at leisure, waiting for the clouds to loosen their grip.

When the rain finally eased, I set off—only to be chased back under shelter five kilometres later. An Amazon Café at a petrol station became my refuge. But the day soon transformed: a soft ocean breeze, thin cloud cover, and the kind of gentle light that makes cycling feel effortless.

Progress was slow, interrupted by small adjustments—watch, chain, tyres—and by the irresistible urge to stop for photos. The South Coast always draws me in with its quiet beauty. By late afternoon, after only 85 kilometres, I found a cluster of roadside cottages with shops and restaurants nearby. It felt like the right place to stop.

 

Coastal Curves, Old Town Streets, and the King of Fruit

I woke at six to birdsong, brewed coffee, and the soft hush of an overcast morning. The coastal road unfurled ahead of me, winding between viewpoints that demanded short climbs and rewarded me with sweeping sea views.

In Chanthaburi, I checked into Laluna River House—simple, affordable, and perched above the river. I spent the afternoon grazing through the night market: banana‑leaf parcels, spicy salads, flavours that lingered long after the last bite. The next day drifted by lazily as I wandered the old town’s narrow lanes, admiring its historic shophouses and vibrant street life.

Durian—Asia’s self‑proclaimed king of fruit—made its presence known everywhere. Enormous, spiky, and unapologetically pungent, it is a fruit that demands commitment. I’ve never bought one (too pricey), but I adore durian ice cream. Its smell is so potent that many hotels ban it outright. Only in Southeast Asia could a fruit be both revered and outlawed.

 

Forest Roads and an Unexpected Reunion

With no fixed plan, I followed minor roads until they spilt me onto the main highway. I escaped it at the first chance, slipping onto a quiet forest road that felt forgotten by the world. Hardly a soul passed me. Dense greenery pressed close, and the silence felt ancient.

Then, unexpectedly, Bo Rai appeared—a tiny town with a lovely hotel and a 7-Eleven. As I settled in, a message arrived from my friend Anil: he was in Pattaya. After missing him in India, I had promised we’d meet there. So I arranged a ride back, my heart lifting at the thought of familiar faces.

 

A Sudden Turn Back and a Month of Friendship

Just like that, I was back in Pattaya. Anil and his friends welcomed me into an evening of laughter at the Beer Garden. With Dawn arriving in four days, I stayed put.

Her visit became a month of indulgence—food, drinks, stories, and slow days that slipped through our fingers. We spent time on Ko Samet, wandered Bangkok’s streets, and met up with Luke before they flew home. We had grand plans, but life had its own pace, and we surrendered to it.

Back in Jomtien, I waited for my second bicycle to be serviced and began packing for my upcoming journey around Asia. I cleaned the room, sorted my belongings, and discarded the unnecessary things I had accumulated—objects that had no place on a bicycle.

 

171 Thailand (22.3) – Jomtien – Nong Khai

28 August - 13 September 2024

1 010 km – 16 Days

 

Immigration Errands and a Chaotic Start to the Northbound Ride

I finally pedalled out of Jomtien on 28 August, though “pedalled out” makes it sound far more romantic than it was. In truth, I limped away from the Immigration Office after spending the better part of two hours securing a re-entry permit, so my Non-Immigrant visa wouldn’t evaporate the moment I crossed a border. Bureaucracy has a way of turning even the strongest coffee into regret.

By 11:30 a.m., passport in hand, I pointed the bike north with all the confidence of someone who had absolutely no plan. The minor roads looked innocent enough on the map, but in reality, they were clogged with trucks, cement mixers, and construction vehicles that seemed to multiply every time I blinked. It felt like cycling through the backstage area of a nation under renovation.

Accommodation was equally elusive. Every guesthouse was full of long-term construction workers, and the traffic was becoming so unhinged that even my stubbornness began to wilt. Eventually, I surrendered, turned around, and slunk back to a guesthouse I’d passed earlier. Not my proudest moment, but at least I survived the day with all limbs attached. Time to consult the map again — preferably with a stiff drink in hand.

 

A Day of Admin, a Veranda Cat, and a Slow Reset

I keep saying I stayed in “Khao Khan Song,” but honestly, it could be the name of the town, the guesthouse, or the cat. Everything was written in Thai, and I was too frazzled to investigate further. What I did know was that I’d left Jomtien in far too much of a hurry, trailing a small comet of unfinished tasks behind me.

Fortunately, modern life allows one to conduct an entire existence from a plastic chair and a patchy Wi‑Fi signal. My room came with a table, a veranda, and a resident cat who appeared to be the property’s true manager. With such luxurious amenities, staying put felt like the only sensible choice.

My online work swallowed the day, and by the time I resurfaced, it was already 5 p.m. I wandered to the supermarket for dinner and a beer, feeling oddly content. Sometimes the road demands motion; sometimes it demands stillness. Today, the cat won.

 

Tailwinds, River Roads, and Thai Table Manners

The next morning, I saddled my old iron horse — a creature of questionable elegance but unwavering loyalty — and rolled back onto the main road. Thankfully, this stretch was newly paved and boasted a shoulder wide enough to host a small wedding. I attempted a detour onto a quieter route, but the road fizzled out like a bad idea, so I returned to the highway and let a generous tailwind push me northward.

I flew into Bang Khla just as the sky decided to empty itself. I darted into the first accommodation I saw and paid a little more than usual, but the reward was a spacious, air-conditioned room with hot water for $14. At least I was out of the madness — the trucks, the dust, the construction zones that felt like cycling through a nation mid‑renovation — and finally heading north. The promise of river roads, temples, and green horizons tugged me onward. Thailand has a way of rewarding perseverance with beauty, as if patting you on the back and saying, “There, there. Have a waterfall.”

Over a plate of fried rice that tasted far better than my day deserved, I had a small revelation: Thailand’s table manners are a quiet masterpiece. While other cultures duel with knives or twirl pasta like Olympic gymnasts, the Thais have perfected a gentle choreography. The spoon — chon — is the star performer, gliding food gracefully to the mouth. The fork — som — is the backstage crew, nudging rice into place, never daring to enter the spotlight itself. Knives are largely unnecessary; everything arrives already in bite-sized diplomacy. It’s elegant, efficient, and frankly, a relief for someone who has dropped more noodles than she cares to admit.

 

Temples, Fruit Bats, and a Lunch Without Words

The next morning, I pedalled a few kilometres to Wat Pho Bang Khla, a temple believed to date back to the reign of King Taksin the Great. Its architecture carries whispers of Ayutthaya and Rattanakosin, but the real showstoppers are the fruit bats — enormous, leathery creatures dangling from the trees like oversized ornaments. They rustled and shifted above me, a living ceiling of wings.

The so‑called floating market came next. “Floating” was perhaps optimistic; it was more of a food market politely sitting beside the river, but the smells alone were worth the detour. Then on to Wat Pak Nam Jolo, a temple said to be around 200 years old, shimmering quietly in the morning light.

From Bang Khla, the ride along the Bang Pakong River was pure joy — the kind of cycling that makes you forget the weight of your panniers and the questionable decisions of the previous day.

By midday, hunger struck, and I pulled into a roadside shelter. A startled woman emerged, and without a single shared word, she conjured a plate of rice, spicy vegetables, and a fried egg that could have won awards. We communicated entirely through gestures, smiles, and the universal language of “Yes, more chilli is fine.” The whole exchange was so seamless and absurdly charming that I laughed out loud.

Just before reaching Nakhon Nayok, I detoured to the ruins of Dong Lakhon, an ancient town dating back to the ninth to eleventh centuries. Not much remains — a well, a moat, a few quiet stones — but the place hums with old stories. It’s the kind of spot where you stroll slowly, letting the centuries settle around you.

 

Waterfall Dreams in Khao Yai National Park

I stayed an extra night and ventured into Khao Yai National Park, dreaming of serene waterfalls and a peaceful lunch with my 7‑Eleven sandwich. The park is vast — over 2,000 square kilometres — and proudly Thailand’s oldest, a UNESCO World Heritage Site no less.

But it was a beautiful Sunday, and Bangkok is far too close for solitude. My waterfall fantasy dissolved into a cheerful crowd of weekenders, selfie sticks, and families picnicking with admirable enthusiasm. Still, the park was undeniably gorgeous. Next time, I’ll cycle through one gate and out another — a grand traverse, and hopefully with fewer humans.

 

Frangipani Roads and a Quiet Night by the Water

The following day’s ride was a balm. My chosen route skirted the edge of the National Park, weaving through small communities where every woman seemed to be pounding something aromatic in a mortar or coaxing magic from a wok. Some concoctions were so potent they made me sneeze as I cycled past.

Frangipani trees lined the road, their blossoms perfuming the air, and the scent of freshly cut grass drifted across the fields. With no destination in mind, I followed signs to the Pasak Chonlasit Dam. Being a Monday, the campsite was nearly empty — just one other cyclist and a Thai couple who later approached me shyly to ask for a photo. Apparently, I make quite an impression. LOL.

The evening settled softly over the water, and for the first time in days, everything felt unhurried. Just me, the quiet, and the long road north waiting patiently for morning.

 

Pasak Chonlasit Dam to  Sa Kruat

I woke before sunrise, not because of any noble intention, but because the other cyclist in the campsite decided to rummage through his plastic bags at an hour only owls should witness. If you’ve ever slept in a hiking hut, you know that sound — the frantic rustling that suggests someone is either packing for Everest or searching for the meaning of life at the bottom of a Ziploc.

Just as I thought the symphony was over, he put on music — something soothing, I’m sure, as he gazed dreamily over the dam. Unfortunately, sound travels beautifully across open water, so I too was up at the crack of dawn.

Cycling across the dam wall, I felt a rush of gratitude. I was heading somewhere — I wasn’t sure where — and that uncertainty felt delicious. The road along the eastern shore was blissfully quiet, shared only with a few motorbikes, herds of buffalo, a snake, and a large, determined Shongololo crossing the road with the confidence of a creature who knows it has right of way.

By midday, I stopped for fried rice — always an entertaining affair when you’re the lone foreigner in a tiny village. The clouds thickened in the afternoon, and when the sky began to growl, I called it a day in what I think was Sa Kruat. I stopped partly because of the weather, partly because I was toying with the idea of visiting the Si Thep Historical Park in the morning. Decisions, decisions.

 

Ancient City Walls and a Guesthouse Fried Rice Adventure

I woke early, well-rested, and decided Si Thep was worth the detour. The historical park holds the remains of an ancient city inhabited from the third to fifth century CE and occupied until the thirteenth. Once one of the great city-states of central Thailand, it was added to the World Heritage List in 2023 — a well-deserved nod to its quiet grandeur.

After wandering the ruins, I checked into a guesthouse across the road to tackle laundry and fix the slow leak in my back wheel. Later, I cycled 1.5 kilometres to a supermarket, only to be ambushed by a sudden downpour. I sheltered for ten minutes, then continued in full sunshine. Thailand’s weather has a sense of humour.

Dinner turned into an unexpected adventure. When the guesthouse owner asked if I wanted food, I casually said, “Fried rice,” imagining he’d point me to a kitchen. Instead, he hopped on his motorbike and zoomed off to fetch it from a restaurant two kilometres away. He returned drenched but triumphant, clutching a steaming hot meal. I paid him $2.50 for a $1.25 dish — where else in the world can you get home delivery, complete with dramatic rainstorm, for that price?

 

Heat, Hills, Ice Cream with Sticky Rice, and a Poolside Beer

In the morning, I cycled to Wichian Buri to buy a new inner tube. The people there were wonderfully kind — they not only directed me to the right shop but also handed me two bottles of water. A blessing, as the heat was fierce and the climb steeper than expected.

Despite the temperature, the ride was glorious. I drifted off the main road and onto a narrow secondary route threading through small communities. After cresting the pass, I found an ice cream vendor and immediately stopped. The treat came with sticky rice, tiny scoops of ice cream, peanuts, and a drizzle of condensed milk — a combination that sounds improbable but tastes like joy.

Sugar-fuelled, I sped downhill until I screeched to a halt at Haus Luneburg, a charming guesthouse with a swimming pool. I didn’t even pretend to be dignified. I unloaded the bike at record speed and jumped straight into the pool with a cold Chang beer in hand. Bliss.

 

Rainstorms, Rural Roads, and an Early Stop

Another day, another beautiful ride. Route 2037 has been an absolute delight — a ribbon of road winding through tiny hamlets, each with its own temple, school, and market. Midway through the day, the sky opened, and I cycled through a torrential downpour. Since it wasn’t cold, I simply kept going, enjoying the absurdity of it.

When the rain eased, I continued until I spotted a row of roadside cottages. It was early, but the clouds were gathering again, and I decided not to push my luck. Stopping early meant there wasn’t much to do, so I tackled the dreaded laundry and hunted down a tap to wash the mud off the bike.

Sometimes the road gives you adventure; sometimes it gives you chores. Both are part of the journey.

 

A Perfect Ride into the City and a Day of Chores

I wore a permanent grin today — the kind that sneaks up on you when everything aligns just right. The weather was soft and generous, the rice paddies impossibly green, the corn standing tall like proud sentinels. I counted myself among the luckiest humans alive. The kilometres drifted by as if the bike had sprouted its own wings, and even the village dogs, usually self-appointed border patrol, didn’t bother to chase me.

A stiff breeze nudged me through a string of small settlements and past temples painted in colours that would make a parrot blush. By the time I rolled into Khon Kaen, I felt sun-kissed, wind-blown, and utterly content. Two days here, I decided — time for chores and a reset.

The next morning, I tackled laundry at the laundromat conveniently located right outside my room. Then I wandered around the city lake, a shaded loop dotted with temples and the occasional monk gliding past like a saffron ghost. Later, I cycled to a bike shop that turned out to be a gem — well-stocked, professional, and staffed by people who actually knew what they were doing. They adjusted my gears and fitted an odometer, which felt like giving my bike a tiny brain.

By evening, I drifted through the night market in search of vegetarian food. Slim pickings. I settled for freshly made French fries and, fearing starvation, added a pizza that cost the same as my room. Foreign food always comes with a surcharge — a tax on nostalgia.

 

Holy Ponds, Cobra Villages, and a Smooth Highway Finish

I slept surprisingly well on the lumpy mattress — for 350 THB, one must adjust expectations — and was up at six, rolling by eight. Khon Kaen revealed itself to be far larger than I’d imagined, and the morning traffic was lively. Yet, in true Thai fashion, drivers stopped to let me cross the road. Only in Thailand.

Soon enough, I was back among the rice paddies, music blaring far too loudly, feeling like the star of my own low-budget travel film. The holy pond at Ku Ban Na Kham Noi appeared like a mirage. I learned the surrounding structures once served as a hospital during the reign of King Jayavarman VII — a Khmer king with a flair for infrastructure.

Next came the Cobra Village. I didn’t linger. No matter how well‑treated, no animal dreams of a life in captivity, and I wasn’t keen on supporting the spectacle.

Toward day’s end, I veered toward the main road in search of accommodation. The highway was smooth as a baby’s bottom, and despite my dislike of such roads, I pushed on another 30 kilometres. When the weather turned moody, I pulled into the nearest guesthouse and found a charming 350 THB bungalow — clean bedding, air‑con, fan, and two bottles of water. No lumpy mattress. A bargain by any measure.

 

Monkey Parks, Red Lotus Lake, and a Night in a Temple

The next morning’s ride was a treasure hunt of oddities. First up: Monkey Park. The map made it sound promising; reality revealed a city park with outdoor gym equipment and volleyball courts entirely commandeered by monkeys. Not a human in sight. I didn’t dare leave the bike — those monkeys had ambition. A very accurate name indeed.

A little further on lay the Red Lotus Lake. No red lotus flowers in sight — perhaps the season had passed, or the water level was too low. Still, the ride along its shores was peaceful, and the surrounding villages hummed with the rhythm of fishing life.

Thirty kilometres later, I stumbled upon Ban Chiang — a remarkable archaeological site and one of the most important prehistoric settlements in Southeast Asia. Wet‑rice culture, ancient burials, pottery older than most civilizations — the place radiates quiet significance. It’s humbling to stand where humans lived, farmed, and loved thousands of years before the idea of Thailand even existed.

After leaving Ban Chiang, I headed north toward the Laos border. My presence caused quite a stir — I suspect foreigners are rare here. The area was so rural that I didn’t spot a single guesthouse. When the rain began, I ducked into the nearest Buddhist temple and asked if I could pitch my tent. They pointed me to a large covered area, and just as I finished setting up, the lady monks began chanting. Their voices rose and fell like waves. It was the gentlest, most unexpected lullaby.

 

Pre‑Dawn Chanting, Wet Roads, and the Mekong at Last

At three in the morning, the nuns began rummaging through their belongings — monks and cyclists share a fondness for early starts — and by four, the chanting was in full swing. LOL. I was on the road by six, which must be some kind of personal record.

My first stop was a food vendor, always a highlight. Breakfast in Thailand is never dull. The ride was wet but manageable, and by midday I rolled into Nong Khai. I checked into Mud Mee Guesthouse, a charming, inexpensive place right on the Mekong River, complete with a garden restaurant and coffee shop. I paid for two nights — my body insisted.

I did very little for the rest of the day. By evening, I sat in the garden with a beer and a vegetarian green curry. A massive storm rolled in, thunder shaking the building. I was profoundly grateful not to be in my tent.

The next morning, I slept in, then wandered to the supermarket to gather a few supplies for Laos. The day drifted by in a haze of riverfront strolling and Mekong‑watching. Sometimes the best adventures are the quiet ones.

 

At the Edge of Laos

By the time I reached Nong Khai, the Mekong felt like a finish line I hadn’t known I was racing toward. I let the river hold me still for a day — storms rolling in, curry steaming on the table, my legs finally allowed to rest. Tomorrow I would cross into Laos, but for now, it was enough to sit by the water and feel the long road settle behind me. A pause, a breath, a quiet beginning disguised as an ending.