Ancient Wonders and Everyday Life
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929 Kilometres – 21 Days
3 May – 25 May 2015
MAP
PHOTOS
VOICEOVER
THAILAND
AND CAMBODIA:
Between Kingdoms: My
Reluctant Journey Through Thailand and Cambodia
Prelude
Now
and then, the journey throws in a gentle reminder that you are not, in fact, in
control. This particular chapter began with a perfectly reasonable plan: Cycle
through Myanmar to India. Simple. Efficient. Almost professional.
Naturally,
it fell apart almost immediately.
Instead
of smooth progress, there were a lost passport, deadlines, two-week visa
limits, embassy queues, and the creeping suspicion that I had seriously
underestimated how long anything takes in real life. Throw in a bit of tropical
heat and some highly questionable decision-making, and things were off to a
solidly chaotic start.
What
followed was less a well-executed route and more a loosely connected series of
events involving cycling at odd hours, improvising solutions to self-created problems,
and occasionally wondering why I thought any of this was a good idea.
THAILAND
Racing
Time and Chasing a Passport
Mae
Sot to Bangkok: The Bus, the Mud & the 3 a.m. Goblins (31 km)
My
main priority was reaching the South African Embassy in Bangkok to apply for a
new passport — a process I suspected would be neither swift nor emotionally
nourishing. Thailand, in its infinite administrative wisdom, only granted
two-week stays at land borders at the time, so I had to move fast. I packed up,
pedalled to the bus station, and discovered the next bus was at 18:50.
Naturally.
With
hours to kill, I wandered around Mae Sot until the heat convinced me that
wandering was a terrible idea and that hotels existed for a reason.
The
bus ride was comfortable enough that I drifted off, only to be spat out at the
Bangkok bus terminal at the ungodly hour of 3 a.m. The station was 10–15
kilometres out of town, surrounded by roadworks and mud — the sort of mud that
looks suspiciously like it’s hiding something sinister, like open utility holes
or portals to other dimensions.
Cycling
into Bangkok at 3 a.m. sounds romantic until you realise there are no
streetlights and the only people awake are the homeless, the drunk, and the
genuinely bizarre. I realised, with some concern, that I fit at least one of
those categories.
Bureaucracy,
Ice Cream & Existential Horror
The
Embassy was a hive of form-filling, fee-paying, and general adulting — things I
hadn’t done in ages and didn’t miss. Men in suits strode around making deals,
clutching briefcases, and speaking urgently into phones. Their body language
alone made my stomach turn. I walked past licking an ice cream, thinking, “Been
there, done that,” and feeling deeply grateful for my iron horse and tent.
(Though I reserve the right to retract that statement on the next mountain
pass.)
Then
came the news: the new passport would take five months.
Five.
Months.
Since
my current passport had only two empty pages left, and I suddenly had the
gestation period of a baby to kill, I decided to explore Southeast Asia again.
There are worse ways to wait for paperwork.
Escaping
Bangkok took nearly an entire day. The city is like a giant, sticky spiderweb:
once you’re in, you can leave, but only after a prolonged struggle and some
swearing.
Bangkok
to Chachoengsao: The Great Escape (85 km)
I
finally broke free of Bangkok’s gravitational pull and headed east. The ride
was hot, sticky, and full of the usual Thai roadside curiosities — but at least
I was moving again.
Chachoengsao
to Sa Kaeo: Rain, Coffee & the Calculator Lady (125 km)
The
day was blisteringly hot until clouds gathered and unleashed a storm. I
sheltered at a roadside restaurant where the lady spoke no English, and I spoke
no Thai. Still, we communicated perfectly through the universal language of
pointing at a menu and nodding.
Later,
I stopped at a building that looked vaguely hotel-ish. The receptionist didn’t
speak English either, but she wielded a calculator with the confidence of a
Wall Street broker. She typed the room rate, I nodded, and the deal was done.
International diplomacy should be conducted this way.
CAMBODIA
Ancient
Wonders and Everyday Life
The
Border Market Gauntlet (107 km)
The
Po Pet border crossing was less a border and more a chaotic marketplace with
immigration hidden somewhere inside like a bureaucratic treasure hunt. Leaving
Thailand’s relative organisation and stepping into Cambodia felt like switching
from a tidy library to a carnival run by enthusiastic toddlers.
But
I was in, passportless and free, pedalling east toward Siem Reap.
Saophoan
to Siem Reap: Dust, Heat & Decompression Needs (107 km)
The
road was mostly good except for a resurfacing section that produced dust thick
enough to qualify as a weather event. I wore a buff over my face and pretended
I was a desert explorer instead of a sweaty cyclist in Cambodia.
The
temperature hovered around 40°C. I occasionally soaked my shirt to cool down,
but it dried in minutes. I felt like a diver needing decompression — except
instead of nitrogen, I was saturated with heat and needed an air-conditioned
room to “de heat.”
Siem
Reap seemed chaotic and over-commercialised compared to the countryside. Water
cost 500 riel in rural areas but up to 4000 riel in town. I suspect the extra
3500 riel was a “tourist confusion tax.”
Ivy
Guesthouse had fan rooms, but the fans were decorative. At 11 o’clock, the
weather bureau claimed it was 30°C, but it felt like 35°C. I went out exploring
because it was cooler outside than inside my room — never a good sign.
Siem
Reap: Angkor Thom & the 216 Faces of Judgement
I
found better accommodation and bought a three-day Angkor ticket. My first stop
was Angkor Thom, whose entrance gates are flanked by 54 demons and 54 gods
locked in an eternal tug of war. Inside, 54 towers display 216 enormous faces
of Avalokiteshvara, who looks suspiciously like the king. If I had 216 giant
stone faces carved in my likeness, I’d probably feel quite powerful too.
Siem
Reap: Sunrise, Hobbits & Tomb Raider
I
woke at 5 a.m. for sunrise, which was unimpressive — a recurring theme. Ta
Prohm was stunning, though full of renovation scaffolding. I half expected to
see Lara Croft or a hobbit wandering around.
Siem
Reap: Ruins, Heat & Strategic Retreats
With
my three-day ticket, I explored in the mornings and retreated to my
air-conditioned room during the day like a sensible mammal. The ruins were
magnificent; the heat was not.
Siem
Reap to Kampong Kdei: Bamboo Rice & Ancient Bridges (61 km)
After
three days off the bike, I expected to be energetic. Instead, I felt like a
deflated balloon. The route passed stilted houses where people lived, ate,
socialised, and relaxed in hammocks beneath their homes — a lifestyle I fully
support.
Vendors
sold bamboo rice cooked in bamboo stalks over open fires. Delicious.
Then
I stumbled upon an ancient bridge built between 1181 and 1220 AD — 86 metres
long, 16 metres wide, with 21 arches, 20 columns, and a 9-headed Naga
balustrade. It was still in use, which is more than can be said for many modern
bridges.
The
guesthouse beside it offered a $6 room with a fan, a squat toilet, a mandi, and
the obligatory toothbrush, soap, and a communal hair comb. I cannot imagine who
uses a communal comb, but judging by the blackness of the teeth, it’s a popular
item.
Kampong
Kdei to Kampong Thom: Falang! Falang! (90 km)
I
left early and enjoyed the cool morning air. Schoolchildren filled the road,
even though it was Saturday. Every few minutes, someone shouted “Falang!” and
children materialised from behind banana plants like excited meerkats.
Wedding
marquees in pink and yellow dotted the roadside. I peeked inside more than
once. Curiosity is a powerful force.
Kampong
Thom: Temple Hunting in the Forest
Rumour
had it that pre-Angkorian temples were hidden in the forest 30 km away. A tuk
tuk took me there, and I spent hours following trails and stumbling upon
ancient ruins like a very sweaty archaeologist. More than 100 structures are
scattered through the woods. The area was once called Isanapura, capital of
Chena in the early 7th century. Fascinating stuff.
Kampong
Thom to Kampong Cham: Rubber Trees, Snakes & the Mother River (113 km)
I
passed roadside workshops carving Buddha statues in clouds of dust that surely
violated every health guideline ever written.
Rubber
plantations lined the road. I learned how latex is harvested and decided not to
rest in the shade after cycling over a snake earlier.
Kampong
Cham was charming, perched on the Mekong. I found a riverside room, bought a
beer, and watched the Mother River flow past. I stayed another day, eating
everything in sight and feeling gloriously content.
Kampong
Cham to Phnom Penh: The Vanishing Sunrise & The Springy Bridge (107 km)
I
woke early to catch the sunrise, took one photo, and watched all the colours
vanish as if someone had unplugged the sky. Sunrises and I were clearly not on
speaking terms.
Cycling
along the Mekong sounded romantic — Google Maps disagreed, insisting no road
existed. But the Mekong is 4,350 kilometres long, and I refused to believe an
entire riverbank was uninhabited. So I went anyway.
My
first stop was the bamboo bridge, a marvel of engineering that could hold a car
but still felt like riding across a giant xylophone. Soon the path dissolved
into sand, then into a dusty track, then into something that barely qualified
as a suggestion. Villagers stared at me as though I had arrived from Mars.
Children yelled “Hello, farang!” with the enthusiasm of a welcoming committee.
Thirty
kilometres from Phnom Penh, the trail spat me out onto a brand new highway.
Civilisation! Air conditioning! Guesthouses with bar fridges! The Royal
Guesthouse offered all of these for $13, so I stayed five days. I had no plan
for those five days, but not packing up felt like a luxury spa treatment.
I
went to a traditional Cambodian dance show, which reminded me how much I missed
theatre — and how terrible I was at photographing fast-moving dancers in low
light.
Then
came the Killing Fields and S 21. Depressing, unavoidable, and deeply sobering.
Cambodia’s history is a brutal reminder of how a mighty empire can collapse
into unimaginable horror. The school turned torture centre looked
heartbreakingly ordinary. I left with a heavy heart.
Phnom
Penh to Traeng Trayueng: The Pannier Incident (90 km)
Leaving
Phnom Penh at 8 a.m. on a Monday during roadworks was like trying to escape a
collapsing circus tent. Cambodians drive on both sides of the road, sometimes
simultaneously. A motorbike collided with me head-on, ripping my front pannier.
Duct tape held it together for the rest of the trip, giving me the look of a
cyclist held together by hope and adhesives.
Route
4 was narrow, rough, and windy — the kind of wind that cools you down while
also ensuring you never arrive anywhere quickly. Ninety kilometres later, the
Chanreah Guesthouse appeared like a mirage.
Across
the road, a restaurant served curry noodle soup so delicious I immediately
returned for a second bowl. The guesthouse owner had built a massive shed with
volleyball courts and snooker tables for village kids — free of charge: no
alcohol sales, no fees, just kindness. Cambodia’s resilience was quietly
astonishing.
Traeng
Trayueng to Veal Rinh: Hills & Hesitation (93 km)
The
landscape grew hillier as I approached the Cardamom Mountains. I arrived in
Veal Rinh and decided I absolutely did not want to cycle an extra 50 km to
Sihanoukville that day. A guesthouse appeared. Decision made.
Veal
Rinh to Sihanoukville: The Pool & The Failed Diving (53 km)
The
next morning I cycled the short distance to Sihanoukville and checked into the
Reef Resort — bungalow, swimming pool, great deal. I intended to stay briefly.
I stayed longer. The diving was disappointing, so I abandoned all ambition and
floated in the pool like a contented manatee.
Sihanoukville
to Koh Kong (By Bus): The Lazy Pannier Escape
Rain
hammered down. My pannier was still broken. I had done nothing to fix it during
my lazy pool days. The duct tape had peeled off. Instead of repairing it, I
hopped on a bus to Koh Kong, which solved nothing except my desire not to cycle
in the rain.
In
Koh Kong, I attempted to fix the pannier. It was beyond repair. Everything went
into a waterproof bag. I Googled “Ortlieb shop Bangkok” and made a plan.
Koh
Kong: The Jungle, The Waterfall & The Coconut Man
Rather
than cross into Thailand, I took a river trip. The boat puttered upriver for an
hour and a half, then we hiked through dense forest behind a guide armed with a
machete. The waterfall was lovely, the swim refreshing, and the humidity
intense.
Halfway
back, our guide climbed a tree like a cheerful jungle ninja and returned with
coconuts. He chopped them open and made straws out of reeds. It was one of
those moments that makes you think, “I will never be this competent.”
THAILAND,
AGAIN
Fifth
entry into Thailand. Passport still pending. Duct tape still involved.
Koh
Kong to Trat: Rain, Rain, Rain (108 km)
The
Cambodian immigration office was 10 km away; Thailand’s was just beyond. Rain
poured all day. I cycled 100 km to Trat anyway, soaked but triumphant. Cambodia
was behind me; Thailand welcomed me for the fifth time.
Trat
to Klaeng: The Day of No Toilets (136 km)
Rain
continued. The temperature dropped, making cycling pleasant — except for the
urgent need for toilets, which were tragically absent. I will spare the
details, but reaching Klaeng felt like a spiritual victory. I washed my cycling
pants with the reverence of a religious ritual.
27
May — Klaeng to Chon Buri: Accidents Everywhere (108 km)
The
rain stopped. The heat returned. A truck overturned seconds ahead of me. Later,
a scooter collided with a car. I was reminded of a cycle tourist killed in
Turkey and became acutely aware of my vulnerability. I hugged the road shoulder
like it was a long-lost friend.
Chon
Buri to Samut Prakan: The Love Motel Chair (85 km)
I
escaped the highway and followed a minor coastal road. I needed a new pannier
urgently — duct tape was no longer enough. But finding a budget room on
Bangkok’s outskirts was impossible. Eventually, I settled for a love motel,
complete with a suspiciously convenient chair. I chose not to think too hard
about it.
Samut
Prakan to Oena Resort: Panniers & Traffic Hell 40 km
I
took a taxi into Bangkok, bought new panniers (sold only in pairs), and
replaced my lost lens cap. Returning to the motel after midday, I cycled into
the worst traffic imaginable. I surrendered and stopped for the day.
Oena
Resort to Samut Songkhram: The Railway Market Without Trains (85 km)
I
detoured to the Maeklong Railway Market — the famous one where trains pass
through the stalls. Except no trains came. Repairs. The market remained
charming, though slightly less dramatic.
The
weekend floating market was wonderful — packed with locals, not a Westerner in
sight. Food was served from boats, and for 50 baht I took a canal tour. Fellow
visitors translated temple explanations with great enthusiasm. By 6 o’clock,
the market was buzzing.
Samut
Songkhram to Cha Am: Salt Farms & Bike Lanes (95 km)
The
coastal route was flat, scenic, and familiar from previous trips. Salt farms,
fishing villages, and a designated bike lane made for a pleasant ride. Rain
arrived just as I reached Cha Am — perfect timing to find a room.
Cha
Am: A Mani Pedi Kind of Day
Cha
Am was lovely, so I stayed another day. I walked, jogged, did laundry, and
visited a hairdresser for a mani pedi. A cyclist must maintain standards.
Cha
Am to Prachuap Khiri Khan: The Soaking 125 km
The
ride out of Cha Am was flat, easy, and lined with roadside stalls selling fruit
and fishy snacks of questionable origin. Everything was pleasant until the
weather abruptly decided it had had enough of my optimism. The sky turned
black, the wind picked up, and despite pedalling like a caffeinated hamster, I
was soaked long before reaching Prachuap.
Fortunately,
Prachuap had accommodation everywhere — the kind of town where you could throw
a stone and hit three guesthouses and a man offering you a room above his
cousin’s shop.
Prachuap
to Bang Saphan (Nipa Beach Bungalows): The Italian Going the Wrong Way (93 km)
The
route south was beautiful — long stretches of white sand, palm trees, hammocks,
and resorts hidden behind bougainvillaea and frangipani. It was the sort of
coastline that makes you wonder why anyone lives inland.
After
months of solo travel, I finally met another cyclist: an Italian man cycling
from Cambodia to Italy. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was going the wrong
way. He seemed cheerful enough, though, so perhaps he knew something I didn’t.
Nipa
Beach Bungalows appeared across from the beach like a sign from the universe
saying, “Stop here.” I obeyed.
Bang
Saphan to Sea Beach Bungalows: The Cyclist Convention (99 km)
The
ride was stunning but hillier, and I was racing the clock — my visa time was
up, and Thailand does not negotiate with cyclists. I needed to leave the
country soon.
Just
before Chumphon, I stumbled upon Wua Laen, a coastal village with a gorgeous
beach and beachside bungalows. I stopped to enquire, and another cyclist
arrived from the south. Peter Yoong from Malaysia — friendly, warm, and
instantly likeable. We both rented rooms at Sea Beach Bungalows.
While
we were chatting on the veranda, the Italian cyclist arrived, too. He didn’t
recognise me at first — apparently I looked different with clothes on. Travel
friendships are built on moments like these.
That
evening, the three of us ate together and joined other cyclists for a lively
night. Peter, a Warmshowers host, invited me to stay with him once I reached
Malaysia — the beginning of a friendship that would last years.
The
next morning was glorious. I knew staying another day meant I wouldn’t reach
the border in time, but the beach was too lovely to leave. I walked, swam, and
enjoyed the morning like someone who had completely forgotten about immigration
laws.
Hat
Yai to Alor Setar (Malaysia): The Bus, The Border & The Paradise of Roti
(105 km)
I
had no choice but to take a bus to the border — I’d cycled that stretch before,
so I didn’t feel guilty. A 30 km ride took me to Chumphon’s bus terminal, where
buses ran to Hat Yai. From Hat Yai, a 55 km ride led to the border.
Immigration
was blissfully smooth. I wish all borders were like this — no fuss, no drama,
and a 90-day stay handed over automatically. Malaysia instantly won points.
Another
60 km brought me to Alor Setar, gateway to Langkawi (though I had no intention
of going there). I just needed a room.
Malaysia
may not be perfect, but it is dangerously close to paradise. The food alone —
Malay, Chinese, Indian — could convert the most cynical traveller. I
unknowingly booked a room next to the night market and was spoilt for choice.
Roti canai cost RM1 each. I ate more than one. Possibly more than three. I
retired with a very full belly and a deep sense of contentment.
Epilogue
By
the end of it all, a few things were clear.
The
passport was still processing at the speed of continental drift, the pannier
had officially given up on life, and any illusion of being a well-organised
traveller had been thoroughly dismantled.
What
remained was a collection of moments that, at the time, ranged from mildly
uncomfortable to deeply questionable—but in hindsight, were exactly the kind of
stories you end up keeping.
But
in between all that, there was also good stuff: quiet stretches of road,
unexpected encounters, generous people, and the kind of freedom that only
exists when you’ve fully committed to not knowing what comes next.
Cambodia
lingered the longest—not just for the heat, but for its history and the
resilience of its people. Thailand, as always, was equal parts comfort and
chaos. And Malaysia, waiting at the edge, promised something simple and
important: good food and a bit of a reset.
