Northbound Through the Kingdom
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Thailand (8)
2,133 Kilometres – 31 Days2
August – 2 September 2016
VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
Where the Journey Circles Back
Prelude
Some
journeys return you to the place you began, not to repeat the story but to
reveal what it has made of you. In these last days with Tania, the road folds
back toward Bangkok—toward familiar streets, familiar chaos, and the quiet
truth that travel is measured as much in companionship as in kilometres. What
unfolds here is a small circle closing: rain‑soaked borders, wooden jetties and long uncomplicated roads.
Border & Monastery Rain (110km)
We woke to a
small miracle. Tania’s two-dollar prescription—mysterious, potent, and very
Cambodian—had worked its quiet magic overnight. Colour had returned to her
cheeks, and with it, her spark. We pedalled the short stretch toward the
Cambodia–Thailand border, weaving through a chaos of tuk-tuks, trucks, and
buses that churned the mud into a restless brown sea.
Crossing out
of Cambodia was unexpectedly smooth, and soon we were rolling once more on Thai
soil, the air softer, the roads familiar. The route to Trat carried us along a
quiet coastline of hidden beaches and gentle bays, the kind of landscape that
feels as if it’s waiting for someone to notice it. Along the way, four Thai
cyclists on a two-day ride hailed us down. We exchanged stories in the
universal language of touring—gestures, laughter, admiration—before parting
ways.
Rain found us
after lunch, a steady curtain that soaked us through by the time we reached
Trat. But the town offered a gift: a monastery with a long wooden jetty
stretching over a river, sheltered by a canopy and lit by a single warm bulb.
With much pointing and smiling, the monks permitted us to camp. They locked the
gate behind us, showed us the toilets, and left us with a kindness that lingers
long after the moment passes.
We brewed
coffee, cooked noodles, and watched the tide rise to swallow the mangroves—an
evening wrapped in rain, river light, and quiet gratitude.
Mangroves at Dawn - Trat to Na Yai Am (111 km)
At dawn, the
mangroves came alive. Crabs scuttled beneath the jetty in a frantic morning
ballet, and the smell of Tania’s coffee drifted through the air like an
invitation to begin again.
We had a
mission: reach Bangkok in three days, leaving enough time to pack Tania’s bike,
and perhaps—if we were lucky—a sliver of time for shopping before her flight
home to South Africa.
That night,
we found refuge at a petrol station in Na Yai Am, complete with a 7-Eleven and
a lively night market humming beside it. The public restrooms felt like luxury,
and we settled in with the contentment of travellers who have learned to love
the simplest comforts.
A Quiet, Easy Road - Na Yai Am to Anata Nakorn (135 km)
The day
unfolded without drama, a long ribbon of road beneath a forgiving sky. A mild
breeze, soft temperatures, and the steady rhythm of pedalling carried us
forward. By late afternoon, fatigue crept in just as the town of Anata Nakorn
appeared like a small blessing.
We found a
modest hotel offering hot showers and enough electrical outlets to revive our
weary devices. The ride may have lacked excitement, but the ease of the day—and
the promise of rest—made it feel quietly perfect.
Into the Bangkok Maze (82 km)
We left
early, imagining a smooth glide into the capital. Instead, we collided headlong
with Bangkok’s morning traffic—a dense, honking organism that swallowed us
whole. Cars pressed in from every direction, and the city’s pulse quickened
around us.
Navigating
the CBD demanded absolute focus: the map, the traffic, the endless weaving, and
always, always keeping Tania in sight. After what felt like hours inside a
living maze, we finally emerged into the familiar chaos of Khao San Road—the
very place where our journey had begun nearly two months earlier.
We found a
ground-floor room with a window, air-conditioning, and space for our bikes—a
rare treasure. And just like that, Tania’s Southeast Asian odyssey came to its
triumphant close. I felt a swell of pride watching her—she had met every challenge
with grit and humour, and she had thrived.
Packing & Possibility
The next day
buzzed with purpose. Tania began the ritual of packing her bike, while I set
off in search of new panniers—my old ones were more hole than fabric by now. I
also dropped off my camera and lenses for recalibration, knowing I’d be without
them for two weeks.
Bangkok felt
alive with possibility, as if the city itself were urging us toward whatever
came next.
River City, Skytrain, Cheesecake
We took the
river taxi that morning, drifting past a city of contrasts. Old wooden shacks
leaned over the water, their crooked silhouettes framed by gleaming
skyscrapers. Barges lumbered upstream, ferries darted between them, and
temples—bright, ornate, impossibly intricate—watched from the riverbanks.
Vendors sold noodle soup and skewers of grilled chicken asses, the smoke
curling into the humid air.
At Taksin
jetty we boarded the Skytrain, gliding above the city toward MBK to find the
Canon repair centre. Later, we rode to Amarin Plaza, where I finally bought two
luminous green Ortlieb panniers—bright enough to be seen from space, and
exactly what I needed. We celebrated with coffee and a slab of cheesecake large
enough to qualify as a meal.
That evening
we ventured to Chinatown for dim sum at Hau Seng Hong. We ate until we could
barely move, then half‑ran, half‑waddled toward a tuk‑tuk as the sky cracked
open with rain.
The Last Goodbye
The morning
arrived too soon. It always does on the last day. Tania packed the final pieces
of her gear, and just like that, it was time for her to fly home.
Her departure
left a quiet space in the day—a gratitude, a reminder that journeys are shaped
not only by landscapes but by the people who ride beside us.
The
Art of Wandering Slowly
Prelude
899 Kilometres waited ahead, 26 days
unfolding like quiet pages. I didn’t know the story yet—only that the road
would write it one slow breath at a time. Sometimes the road begins in
stillness. In the pause between plans, in the weight of waiting, in the soft
pull of a city that holds you just long enough for the next direction to reveal
itself.
Bangkok in Limbo
After
Tania left, Bangkok opened around me like a crossroads—wide, humming, and full
of unanswered questions. Canon had thrown my plans into disarray: three weeks
to calibrate a lens. Three weeks of waiting, of drifting, of wondering what to
do with myself in a city that pulsed with life while I felt strangely still.
I
rented a small room to think, but thinking soon dissolved into boredom. A minor
injury kept me from jogging; the absence of my camera left my hands oddly
empty. I bought a rear rack bag I didn’t need, mended clothes, washed laundry,
and sat in the thick Bangkok heat feeling suspended between journeys.
Eventually,
a decision rose through the haze: China. I imagined the northern autumn
waiting for me, imagined cycling toward Laos on a new route, imagined my camera
ready just in time to photograph the border crossing at Nong Khai. I imagined a
bus ride back to Bangkok to collect the camera, crossing into Laos, a Chinese
visa, Kunming—bright ideas sketched on the canvas of possibility. I knew my
relationship with plans was tenuous at best, but dreaming felt good.
While
waiting, I tended to myself in small ways: a haircut, a pedicure, new
sunglasses, a bicycle service. Tiny rituals of care, reminders that even in
limbo, life could still feel gentle.
A Walk That Became a Pilgrimage
The
Queen’s birthday holiday electrified the city, but recent bombings left me wary
of crowds. Khaosan Road bristled with police; the tension in the air nudged me
away. Instead, I wandered toward the MBK building, letting the city pull me
into its quieter folds.
What
should have been a short walk became an all‑day pilgrimage through garland
makers, food vendors, and artisans shaping begging bowls. By the time I reached
MBK, I had acquired a new companion—a Panasonic Lumix compact camera, a small
spark of joy.
Pom Mahakan’s Hidden World
On
the way back, I missed a turn and slipped into a hidden neighbourhood pressed
against the railway line. Narrow alleys, startled faces, the warmth of people
guiding me through their maze. I must have been the first foreigner to wander
there; their surprise was almost tender.
Then
came Pom
Mahakan—a community of fireworks makers, birdcage craftsmen,
fighting cocks, and centuries-old homes. Fifty households living under the
shadow of eviction, yet full of resilience. A 200-year-old fig tree stood at
the centre like a guardian. The oldest house belonged to a gold merchant who
once collected gold dust from second-hand clothes by burning them to reclaim
the metal. A life’s alchemy hidden in plain sight. Years later, the government
would evict them to build a park, but on that day, the community breathed with
quiet dignity.
Bike
Ready, One Last Dim Sum
As
my Bangkok days dwindled, I longed for one last bowl of wonton soup from Hong
Kong Noodle. The bike shop was still waiting on a part. The next morning, a
message arrived: my bicycle was ready. Bok Bok Bike—Bangkok’s finest touring
shop—had worked its magic. My bike gleamed like new.
Before
leaving, I wandered into Chinatown for dim sum. Two blocks from the tourist
crush, life unfolded in its own rhythm: boy monks laughing on their way to
school, incense curling into the morning air, merchants balancing baskets of
produce. A final feast before the road called me onward.
The Quiet Road Out of Bangkok
A
taxi carried me out of Bangkok’s sprawl—twenty-five kilometres of chaos before
I was dropped at the city’s frayed edge. I wasn’t sure the fare had been worth
it.
I
followed a narrow path, hoping for rural charm, only to find myself at a vast
rubbish dump. The day felt heavy; my body ached, my legs cramped, and
exhaustion clung to me like humidity. I feared another virus, but stubbornness
kept me moving.
By
late afternoon, I reached Kanchanaburi as food carts began to bloom along the
streets. I had no appetite—only a longing to lie down. Rainbow Lodge offered a
simple A-frame bungalow beside the River Khwae, and I surrendered to rest.
Suphan Buri’s Dragon Shrine (100 km)
I
visited the famous bridge over the River Kwai—less cinematic than expected, but
still carrying its own quiet gravity. A tailwind lifted my spirits, pushing me
past rice paddies and Ayutthaya‑era ruins.
In
U‑Thong, relics of the first Ayutthaya king whispered from the earth. By
evening, I reached Suphan Buri and admired the Pillar Shrine, its dragon statue
coiling in vibrant colour. The Mind Hotel lured me with its façade, but inside,
the room sagged with age. The mattress swallowed me whole; even the white
bedding felt tired. I half‑expected bedbugs to march out in formation.
Three Temples Before the Road (81 km)
Before
cycling onward, I visited three temples:
•
Wat Phra Rup,
home to a reclining Buddha said to have the most beautiful face in Thailand.
•
Wat Phra Sri Rattana
Mahathat, a treasure of ancient ruins.
•
Wat Khae,
where a thousand-year-old tamarind tree sheltered serene Buddha statues.
The
ride to Sing Buri was radiant—sun blazing, butterflies dancing, dragonflies
stitching silver lines through the air. A puncture slowed me briefly, but I
fixed it with practised ease. I passed through buffalo villages and the
Monument to the Bang Rachan Heroes, reminders of resistance and resilience.
These are the details I write down because memory, like the road, can be
slippery.
Lop Buri’s Monkey Kingdom (30 km)
I
set off toward the Lao border, 560 kilometres away, but a canal-side road led
me into daydreams of NooM Guest House’s food. Hunger won. I turned toward Lop
Buri.
The
town is a living museum—Khmer and Ayutthaya ruins woven into everyday life,
monkeys ruling a 600-year-old temple, ancient stones peeking from behind modern
buildings. I ate, did laundry, repaired tubes, and let the slow rhythm of Lop
Buri settle into my bones. One more day felt right.
Canals, Thunder & Roadside
Kindness (96 km)
A
beautiful day of canals, farmland, and small communities. By afternoon, thunder
rolled in, and rain fell in heavy, deliberate drops. I sheltered in an empty
police booth—clean, dry, and miraculously equipped with electricity.
Across
the road, a small eatery welcomed me. The owner and her daughter invited me to
dinner: green bean and bamboo shoot salad, pork with cassava, an omelette,
rice, and a chilli sauce that could wake the dead. Their kindness warmed me
more than the food.
Rain, Markets & Curious Eyes (106 km)
Sleep
was elusive beside the highway, but the morning felt fresh. Mist clung to the
hills; the road stretched like a promise. A Thai couple recognised me from the
day before and offered their phone numbers “just in case.” Such generosity
always catches me off guard.
Rain
found me again, forcing me under a bridge. By the time I reached Ban Kok, I was
soaked and shivering. I found a guesthouse and wandered the market, feeling
like the town’s unofficial attraction. I wondered if any farang had ever stayed
there before.
Route 201’s Rolling Hills (108 km)
The
following day unfolded slowly—too many stops, too many temptations. Markets,
photographs, adjustments. Canon had delayed my camera another week, so there
was no need to rush.
I
chose Route 201 over 202, and it rewarded me with rolling hills, rocky
outcrops, and sun-bleached landscapes. Mushroom stalls lined the road, hinting
at nearby forests. A sign for a thousand-year-old cycad grove tempted me, but
the detour was long.
Storm
clouds gathered as I approached Kaeng Khro. Rain hammered down, and I found
refuge at SK Place, tucked behind a school. A cosy room, a bowl of noodle soup,
a cold beer, and the curious eyes of villagers—small comforts on a stormy
night.
Cattle with Long Ears, the Ubol Ratana Dam & a
Swimming Pool (109km)
Rice
fields shimmered in morning light; sugarcane rustled like silk. Temples rose
from the landscape, serene and watchful. White cattle with impossibly long ears
wandered the roadside.
I
cycled toward Ubol Ratana Dam, with water on one side and a national park on
the other. I had hoped for a scenic guesthouse overlooking the dam, but instead
found the Reaun Araya Spa—an unexpected luxury with a swimming pool that felt
like a gift.
Storms into Udon Thani (115 km)
A
complimentary breakfast sent me off in high spirits. The weather, however, had
other plans—three downpours before noon, and a final deluge as I entered Udon
Thani. My orange poncho billowed behind me like a superhero cape battling the
storm.
Floodwaters
rose quickly. Traffic stalled. Shopkeepers fought the invading water with
brooms and buckets. I pushed my bike through the chaos, wary of open drains and
hidden canals. Eventually, I found the King’s Hotel—worn but spacious, and
blessedly dry.
The
next day became a feast: green curry, doughnuts, brownies, pastries. By sunset,
I was determined to finish the last of my fruit—a small, silly victory.
Nong Khai & the Mekong (54 km)
Still
full from yesterday, I set off late toward Nong Khai, following the Mekong’s
gentle curve. I rehearsed the speech I planned to deliver to Canon after their month-long
delay.
Vendors
sold feather dusters, brooms, and roasted coconuts so sweet they felt like
dessert. At Mut Mee Guesthouse, overlooking the river, I received the long-awaited
email: my lens was ready. I booked the night train to Bangkok immediately.
Night Train to Bangkok - Lens Collected, Bodies Revealed
The
train arrived at dawn. With hours to spare before MBK opened, I wandered the
waking city, coffee in hand. After collecting the lens, a visit to the Human
Body Museum followed—fourteen dissected bodies, skinless and strangely
peaceful. Fascinating, unsettling, unforgettable.
The
day offered markets, watching musicians, and observing the city’s endless
theatre. A ten-baht shower at the station revived me before I boarded the night
train north again.
Crossing into Laos
Arriving
in Nong Khai was at sunrise – I walked to Mut Mee, savouring the quiet. With my
final tasks in Thailand complete, I packed my bike and pedalled toward the
border.
Crossing
the Friendship Bridge into Laos felt like stepping into a new chapter.
Vientiane greeted me with heat, colour, and the promise of possibility. At the
Chinese Embassy, I learned the visa would take two weeks—an unexpected pause.
I
checked into the Dhaka Hotel, armed with insecticide and determination. Later,
wandering the streets, I heard my name called through the evening air.
Ernest.
An old cycling friend, appearing as if summoned by the road itself. We laughed,
embraced, and fell easily into stories. In that moment, Vientiane felt less
like a waiting room and more like a reunion with the unpredictable magic of
travel.
Epilogue - The Road Shifts
By the time I crossed into Laos, I
understood that long-term travel isn’t only about movement. It’s the moments
that stop you, the detours that reshape you, the unexpected voices that call
you back to the simple truth that the journey continues wherever you choose to
stand still.
Where the Journey Circles Back
Prelude
Some journeys return you to the place you began, not to repeat the story but to reveal what it has made of you. In these last days with Tania, the road folds back toward Bangkok—toward familiar streets, familiar chaos, and the quiet truth that travel is measured as much in companionship as in kilometres. What unfolds here is a small circle closing: rain‑soaked borders, wooden jetties and long uncomplicated roads.
Border & Monastery Rain (110km)
We woke to a
small miracle. Tania’s two-dollar prescription—mysterious, potent, and very
Cambodian—had worked its quiet magic overnight. Colour had returned to her
cheeks, and with it, her spark. We pedalled the short stretch toward the
Cambodia–Thailand border, weaving through a chaos of tuk-tuks, trucks, and
buses that churned the mud into a restless brown sea.
Crossing out
of Cambodia was unexpectedly smooth, and soon we were rolling once more on Thai
soil, the air softer, the roads familiar. The route to Trat carried us along a
quiet coastline of hidden beaches and gentle bays, the kind of landscape that
feels as if it’s waiting for someone to notice it. Along the way, four Thai
cyclists on a two-day ride hailed us down. We exchanged stories in the
universal language of touring—gestures, laughter, admiration—before parting
ways.
Rain found us
after lunch, a steady curtain that soaked us through by the time we reached
Trat. But the town offered a gift: a monastery with a long wooden jetty
stretching over a river, sheltered by a canopy and lit by a single warm bulb.
With much pointing and smiling, the monks permitted us to camp. They locked the
gate behind us, showed us the toilets, and left us with a kindness that lingers
long after the moment passes.
We brewed
coffee, cooked noodles, and watched the tide rise to swallow the mangroves—an
evening wrapped in rain, river light, and quiet gratitude.
Mangroves at Dawn - Trat to Na Yai Am (111 km)
At dawn, the
mangroves came alive. Crabs scuttled beneath the jetty in a frantic morning
ballet, and the smell of Tania’s coffee drifted through the air like an
invitation to begin again.
We had a
mission: reach Bangkok in three days, leaving enough time to pack Tania’s bike,
and perhaps—if we were lucky—a sliver of time for shopping before her flight
home to South Africa.
That night,
we found refuge at a petrol station in Na Yai Am, complete with a 7-Eleven and
a lively night market humming beside it. The public restrooms felt like luxury,
and we settled in with the contentment of travellers who have learned to love
the simplest comforts.
A Quiet, Easy Road - Na Yai Am to Anata Nakorn (135 km)
The day
unfolded without drama, a long ribbon of road beneath a forgiving sky. A mild
breeze, soft temperatures, and the steady rhythm of pedalling carried us
forward. By late afternoon, fatigue crept in just as the town of Anata Nakorn
appeared like a small blessing.
We found a
modest hotel offering hot showers and enough electrical outlets to revive our
weary devices. The ride may have lacked excitement, but the ease of the day—and
the promise of rest—made it feel quietly perfect.
Into the Bangkok Maze (82 km)
We left
early, imagining a smooth glide into the capital. Instead, we collided headlong
with Bangkok’s morning traffic—a dense, honking organism that swallowed us
whole. Cars pressed in from every direction, and the city’s pulse quickened
around us.
Navigating
the CBD demanded absolute focus: the map, the traffic, the endless weaving, and
always, always keeping Tania in sight. After what felt like hours inside a
living maze, we finally emerged into the familiar chaos of Khao San Road—the
very place where our journey had begun nearly two months earlier.
We found a
ground-floor room with a window, air-conditioning, and space for our bikes—a
rare treasure. And just like that, Tania’s Southeast Asian odyssey came to its
triumphant close. I felt a swell of pride watching her—she had met every challenge
with grit and humour, and she had thrived.
Packing & Possibility
The next day
buzzed with purpose. Tania began the ritual of packing her bike, while I set
off in search of new panniers—my old ones were more hole than fabric by now. I
also dropped off my camera and lenses for recalibration, knowing I’d be without
them for two weeks.
Bangkok felt
alive with possibility, as if the city itself were urging us toward whatever
came next.
River City, Skytrain, Cheesecake
We took the
river taxi that morning, drifting past a city of contrasts. Old wooden shacks
leaned over the water, their crooked silhouettes framed by gleaming
skyscrapers. Barges lumbered upstream, ferries darted between them, and
temples—bright, ornate, impossibly intricate—watched from the riverbanks.
Vendors sold noodle soup and skewers of grilled chicken asses, the smoke
curling into the humid air.
At Taksin
jetty we boarded the Skytrain, gliding above the city toward MBK to find the
Canon repair centre. Later, we rode to Amarin Plaza, where I finally bought two
luminous green Ortlieb panniers—bright enough to be seen from space, and
exactly what I needed. We celebrated with coffee and a slab of cheesecake large
enough to qualify as a meal.
That evening
we ventured to Chinatown for dim sum at Hau Seng Hong. We ate until we could
barely move, then half‑ran, half‑waddled toward a tuk‑tuk as the sky cracked
open with rain.
The Last Goodbye
The morning
arrived too soon. It always does on the last day. Tania packed the final pieces
of her gear, and just like that, it was time for her to fly home.
Her departure
left a quiet space in the day—a gratitude, a reminder that journeys are shaped
not only by landscapes but by the people who ride beside us.
The Art of Wandering Slowly
Prelude
899 Kilometres waited ahead, 26 days
unfolding like quiet pages. I didn’t know the story yet—only that the road
would write it one slow breath at a time. Sometimes the road begins in
stillness. In the pause between plans, in the weight of waiting, in the soft
pull of a city that holds you just long enough for the next direction to reveal
itself.
Bangkok in Limbo
After
Tania left, Bangkok opened around me like a crossroads—wide, humming, and full
of unanswered questions. Canon had thrown my plans into disarray: three weeks
to calibrate a lens. Three weeks of waiting, of drifting, of wondering what to
do with myself in a city that pulsed with life while I felt strangely still.
I
rented a small room to think, but thinking soon dissolved into boredom. A minor
injury kept me from jogging; the absence of my camera left my hands oddly
empty. I bought a rear rack bag I didn’t need, mended clothes, washed laundry,
and sat in the thick Bangkok heat feeling suspended between journeys.
Eventually,
a decision rose through the haze: China. I imagined the northern autumn
waiting for me, imagined cycling toward Laos on a new route, imagined my camera
ready just in time to photograph the border crossing at Nong Khai. I imagined a
bus ride back to Bangkok to collect the camera, crossing into Laos, a Chinese
visa, Kunming—bright ideas sketched on the canvas of possibility. I knew my
relationship with plans was tenuous at best, but dreaming felt good.
While
waiting, I tended to myself in small ways: a haircut, a pedicure, new
sunglasses, a bicycle service. Tiny rituals of care, reminders that even in
limbo, life could still feel gentle.
A Walk That Became a Pilgrimage
The
Queen’s birthday holiday electrified the city, but recent bombings left me wary
of crowds. Khaosan Road bristled with police; the tension in the air nudged me
away. Instead, I wandered toward the MBK building, letting the city pull me
into its quieter folds.
What should have been a short walk became an all‑day pilgrimage through garland makers, food vendors, and artisans shaping begging bowls. By the time I reached MBK, I had acquired a new companion—a Panasonic Lumix compact camera, a small spark of joy.
Pom Mahakan’s Hidden World
On
the way back, I missed a turn and slipped into a hidden neighbourhood pressed
against the railway line. Narrow alleys, startled faces, the warmth of people
guiding me through their maze. I must have been the first foreigner to wander
there; their surprise was almost tender.
Then
came Pom
Mahakan—a community of fireworks makers, birdcage craftsmen,
fighting cocks, and centuries-old homes. Fifty households living under the
shadow of eviction, yet full of resilience. A 200-year-old fig tree stood at
the centre like a guardian. The oldest house belonged to a gold merchant who
once collected gold dust from second-hand clothes by burning them to reclaim
the metal. A life’s alchemy hidden in plain sight. Years later, the government
would evict them to build a park, but on that day, the community breathed with
quiet dignity.
Bike
Ready, One Last Dim Sum
As
my Bangkok days dwindled, I longed for one last bowl of wonton soup from Hong
Kong Noodle. The bike shop was still waiting on a part. The next morning, a
message arrived: my bicycle was ready. Bok Bok Bike—Bangkok’s finest touring
shop—had worked its magic. My bike gleamed like new.
Before
leaving, I wandered into Chinatown for dim sum. Two blocks from the tourist
crush, life unfolded in its own rhythm: boy monks laughing on their way to
school, incense curling into the morning air, merchants balancing baskets of
produce. A final feast before the road called me onward.
The Quiet Road Out of Bangkok
A
taxi carried me out of Bangkok’s sprawl—twenty-five kilometres of chaos before
I was dropped at the city’s frayed edge. I wasn’t sure the fare had been worth
it.
I
followed a narrow path, hoping for rural charm, only to find myself at a vast
rubbish dump. The day felt heavy; my body ached, my legs cramped, and
exhaustion clung to me like humidity. I feared another virus, but stubbornness
kept me moving.
By
late afternoon, I reached Kanchanaburi as food carts began to bloom along the
streets. I had no appetite—only a longing to lie down. Rainbow Lodge offered a
simple A-frame bungalow beside the River Khwae, and I surrendered to rest.
Suphan Buri’s Dragon Shrine (100 km)
I
visited the famous bridge over the River Kwai—less cinematic than expected, but
still carrying its own quiet gravity. A tailwind lifted my spirits, pushing me
past rice paddies and Ayutthaya‑era ruins.
In
U‑Thong, relics of the first Ayutthaya king whispered from the earth. By
evening, I reached Suphan Buri and admired the Pillar Shrine, its dragon statue
coiling in vibrant colour. The Mind Hotel lured me with its façade, but inside,
the room sagged with age. The mattress swallowed me whole; even the white
bedding felt tired. I half‑expected bedbugs to march out in formation.
Three Temples Before the Road (81 km)
Before
cycling onward, I visited three temples:
•
Wat Phra Rup,
home to a reclining Buddha said to have the most beautiful face in Thailand.
•
Wat Phra Sri Rattana
Mahathat, a treasure of ancient ruins.
•
Wat Khae,
where a thousand-year-old tamarind tree sheltered serene Buddha statues.
The
ride to Sing Buri was radiant—sun blazing, butterflies dancing, dragonflies
stitching silver lines through the air. A puncture slowed me briefly, but I
fixed it with practised ease. I passed through buffalo villages and the
Monument to the Bang Rachan Heroes, reminders of resistance and resilience.
These are the details I write down because memory, like the road, can be
slippery.
Lop Buri’s Monkey Kingdom (30 km)
I
set off toward the Lao border, 560 kilometres away, but a canal-side road led
me into daydreams of NooM Guest House’s food. Hunger won. I turned toward Lop
Buri.
The
town is a living museum—Khmer and Ayutthaya ruins woven into everyday life,
monkeys ruling a 600-year-old temple, ancient stones peeking from behind modern
buildings. I ate, did laundry, repaired tubes, and let the slow rhythm of Lop
Buri settle into my bones. One more day felt right.
Canals, Thunder & Roadside
Kindness (96 km)
A
beautiful day of canals, farmland, and small communities. By afternoon, thunder
rolled in, and rain fell in heavy, deliberate drops. I sheltered in an empty
police booth—clean, dry, and miraculously equipped with electricity.
Across
the road, a small eatery welcomed me. The owner and her daughter invited me to
dinner: green bean and bamboo shoot salad, pork with cassava, an omelette,
rice, and a chilli sauce that could wake the dead. Their kindness warmed me
more than the food.
Rain, Markets & Curious Eyes (106 km)
Sleep
was elusive beside the highway, but the morning felt fresh. Mist clung to the
hills; the road stretched like a promise. A Thai couple recognised me from the
day before and offered their phone numbers “just in case.” Such generosity
always catches me off guard.
Rain
found me again, forcing me under a bridge. By the time I reached Ban Kok, I was
soaked and shivering. I found a guesthouse and wandered the market, feeling
like the town’s unofficial attraction. I wondered if any farang had ever stayed
there before.
Route 201’s Rolling Hills (108 km)
The
following day unfolded slowly—too many stops, too many temptations. Markets,
photographs, adjustments. Canon had delayed my camera another week, so there
was no need to rush.
I
chose Route 201 over 202, and it rewarded me with rolling hills, rocky
outcrops, and sun-bleached landscapes. Mushroom stalls lined the road, hinting
at nearby forests. A sign for a thousand-year-old cycad grove tempted me, but
the detour was long.
Storm
clouds gathered as I approached Kaeng Khro. Rain hammered down, and I found
refuge at SK Place, tucked behind a school. A cosy room, a bowl of noodle soup,
a cold beer, and the curious eyes of villagers—small comforts on a stormy
night.
Cattle with Long Ears, the Ubol Ratana Dam & a
Swimming Pool (109km)
Rice
fields shimmered in morning light; sugarcane rustled like silk. Temples rose
from the landscape, serene and watchful. White cattle with impossibly long ears
wandered the roadside.
I
cycled toward Ubol Ratana Dam, with water on one side and a national park on
the other. I had hoped for a scenic guesthouse overlooking the dam, but instead
found the Reaun Araya Spa—an unexpected luxury with a swimming pool that felt
like a gift.
Storms into Udon Thani (115 km)
A
complimentary breakfast sent me off in high spirits. The weather, however, had
other plans—three downpours before noon, and a final deluge as I entered Udon
Thani. My orange poncho billowed behind me like a superhero cape battling the
storm.
Floodwaters
rose quickly. Traffic stalled. Shopkeepers fought the invading water with
brooms and buckets. I pushed my bike through the chaos, wary of open drains and
hidden canals. Eventually, I found the King’s Hotel—worn but spacious, and
blessedly dry.
The
next day became a feast: green curry, doughnuts, brownies, pastries. By sunset,
I was determined to finish the last of my fruit—a small, silly victory.
Nong Khai & the Mekong (54 km)
Still
full from yesterday, I set off late toward Nong Khai, following the Mekong’s
gentle curve. I rehearsed the speech I planned to deliver to Canon after their month-long
delay.
Vendors
sold feather dusters, brooms, and roasted coconuts so sweet they felt like
dessert. At Mut Mee Guesthouse, overlooking the river, I received the long-awaited
email: my lens was ready. I booked the night train to Bangkok immediately.
Night Train to Bangkok - Lens Collected, Bodies Revealed
The
train arrived at dawn. With hours to spare before MBK opened, I wandered the
waking city, coffee in hand. After collecting the lens, a visit to the Human
Body Museum followed—fourteen dissected bodies, skinless and strangely
peaceful. Fascinating, unsettling, unforgettable.
The
day offered markets, watching musicians, and observing the city’s endless
theatre. A ten-baht shower at the station revived me before I boarded the night
train north again.
Crossing into Laos
Arriving
in Nong Khai was at sunrise – I walked to Mut Mee, savouring the quiet. With my
final tasks in Thailand complete, I packed my bike and pedalled toward the
border.
Crossing
the Friendship Bridge into Laos felt like stepping into a new chapter.
Vientiane greeted me with heat, colour, and the promise of possibility. At the
Chinese Embassy, I learned the visa would take two weeks—an unexpected pause.
I
checked into the Dhaka Hotel, armed with insecticide and determination. Later,
wandering the streets, I heard my name called through the evening air.
Ernest.
An old cycling friend, appearing as if summoned by the road itself. We laughed,
embraced, and fell easily into stories. In that moment, Vientiane felt less
like a waiting room and more like a reunion with the unpredictable magic of
travel.
Epilogue - The Road Shifts
By the time I crossed into Laos, I
understood that long-term travel isn’t only about movement. It’s the moments
that stop you, the detours that reshape you, the unexpected voices that call
you back to the simple truth that the journey continues wherever you choose to
stand still.
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