A Long, Wet, Wonderful Detour on the Way to Myanmar
THAILAND (6) 1,099 Km - 29 Days12 September - 10 October 2015
MAP
PHOTOS
VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
Prelude
Some
journeys begin with meticulous planning, colour‑coded spreadsheets, and a
farewell party featuring at least one person crying into a quiche. Mine began
with an itch. Not a metaphorical itch for adventure — a literal one between my
shoulder blades that suggested I had been stationary for too long and that
movement, any movement, was now medically advisable.
So I got on my bicycle.
The road, as it turns out, is gloriously
indifferent. It doesn’t care about your past, your future, or whether you’ve
remembered to pack clean underwear. It simply offers a deal: keep moving
forward, and in return it will provide discomfort, confusion, and the
occasional moment of transcendent beauty. Travelling by bicycle means accepting
this deal without negotiation. No air‑conditioning. No reclining seats. No
pretending you’re not responsible for your own propulsion. Every kilometre is
earned, and every mistake is felt.
A Border,
Two Passports, and One Bureaucratic Meltdown - Guran, Malaysia to Thailand (105 km)
My last day in Malaysia was marked by a rare
celestial event: sunshine. After days of rain, the sky finally remembered its
job and turned a brilliant blue. I took a minor road north — the kind of road
that looks scenic on a map and turns out to be even more scenic in real life,
with rice paddies shimmering like someone had spilled a bucket of emerald paint
across the countryside.
Approaching the Malaysia–Thailand border, I
discovered that I had accidentally created the perfect recipe for bureaucratic
confusion: one cyclist, one old passport, one new passport, and one immigration
officer who clearly wished he had chosen a different career. The Thai
authorities demanded proof that I possessed 20,000 Baht in cash, apparently
believing that bank statements were a form of witchcraft. So off I went to
withdraw a small mountain of banknotes, which made my wallet look like it had
swallowed a brick.
Once they realised I was travelling by bicycle —
and therefore unlikely to be a threat to national security — they relaxed. No
return ticket required. Just a pat on the back and a stamp in the correct
passport. By then it was evening, and I rolled into Sadao feeling like I had
survived an administrative obstacle course.
The Day I
Delete My Entire Digital Life (60 km)
Hat Yai was only sixty kilometres away, so I took
my time, drifting into the city like a contented snail. I settled in, caught up
online, and then — in a moment of catastrophic button‑pressing — deleted my
entire Flickr account.
Not a photo. Not an album. The entire thing.
It was less “Oops” and more “I have just erased my
own history.” After a brief period of mourning, I contacted my friend Lois, and
we made plans to meet in Bangkok. This helped soften the blow, though not
enough to stop me from muttering darkly at my laptop for the rest of the day.
Cold Drinks,
Warm People, and My Failed Career as a Videographer - Patthalung (97 km)
Heading north toward Bangkok, I was ambushed by
kindness. Two young locals on a scooter pulled over, handed me a chilled
100Plus sports drink, and zoomed off again before I could properly thank them.
Thai generosity is like that — sudden, sincere, and slightly bewildering.
The road was lined with fruit stalls bursting with
colours so bright they looked Photoshopped. Temples appeared like ornate jewels
dropped casually along the roadside. I attempted to capture the magic with
short video clips, but the results resembled shaky footage from a
malfunctioning security camera. I returned to still photography, which at least
didn’t make me seasick.
Brunch,
Postcards, and the Slow Decline of My Energy Levels (97 km)
Route 41 delivered me to a roadside café also named
Route 41 — a level of branding commitment I deeply admired. The owner, a
photographer with an eye for beauty and a heart for generosity, gifted me a
postcard book of his work. I felt honoured and slightly guilty, as the only
thing I could offer in return was my sweaty presence.
The skies were overcast, which made cycling
pleasant, but my body had begun sending polite hints that cycling every day
without rest might not be ideal. After brunch, my energy plummeted like a stone
dropped from a tall building. I limped into Thung Song and found a budget hotel
with spacious rooms and ground‑floor bike access — the cyclist’s equivalent of
a five‑star resort.
The Moment I
Realised I Needed a Rest Day (108 km)
Somewhere along this stretch, it dawned on me that
I had cycled over 1,000 kilometres without a single rest day. This revelation
arrived with all the subtlety of a frying pan to the face.
Rainstorms chased me relentlessly, forcing me to
hide under shelter for an hour before continuing. By the time I reached the
Surat Thani intersection, I was ready to collapse. I found a place to stay
conveniently attached to a petrol station — not glamorous, but at that point I
would have slept inside the petrol pump if they’d let me.
Rain,
Defeat, and the Joy of a Petrol Station Room (30 km)
A brief break in the weather tempted me into
optimism. I packed quickly, set off, and was immediately punished by another
storm. I battled through it until I reached a petrol station offering rooms. I
surrendered instantly. When the universe sends you a room at a petrol station
with a 7-Eleven, you take it.
Spa
Temptations, Thunderstorms, and the Joy of Cup Noodles (90 km)
The forecast promised three hours of cloudy skies
before the next deluge, so I set off early. Halfway through, I spotted a sign
for a spa hidden in the forest. Naturally, I detoured. The baths were serene,
soothing, and entirely incompatible with the incoming storm.
I managed to outrun the rain until the final
stretch, when the heavens opened just as I reached a 24‑hour roadside joint. To
my delight, it offered bungalows at negotiable prices. I unloaded my soggy gear
and discovered a small shop selling cup noodles, beer, and crisps — the holy
trinity of cyclist survival. Life was good.
A Day in
Which I Outrun a Monsoon and Collapse into a Bar Named After Myself (90 km)
The forecast promised thunderstorms, but I pedalled
toward Chumphon with the determination of someone who has recently consumed too
much caffeine. The sky hung low and heavy, like a damp towel someone had
forgotten to wring out. Rivers overflowed, drains clogged, and every house not
built on stilts looked like it was auditioning for a future as an aquarium.
I cycled nonstop, partly out of efficiency and
partly out of fear that stopping would allow the rain to catch me and drown me
where I stood. Miraculously, I reached Chumphon just minutes before the heavens
opened, turning the landscape into a failed plumbing experiment.
I ducked into The Farang Bar — a place that had
once been lively but now felt like it had taken a vow of silence. Still, it had
cheap food, cold drinks, and a roof, which made it the most desirable
establishment in Thailand at that moment.
Breakfast,
Gulf Views, and the Rare Sight of Other Cyclists (110 km)
Twenty kilometres into the ride, my body staged a
protest and demanded breakfast. After feeding it, I continued along the Gulf of
Thailand, which was showing off in a way that felt almost smug — glittering
water, dramatic coastline, the whole postcard package.
Then, like spotting unicorns in Lycra, I
encountered fellow cycle tourists. I hadn’t seen any in months, so I nearly fell
off my bike from excitement. They were racing the clock to exit Thailand before
their visas expired, which made them pedal with the urgency of people being
chased by tax collectors. We swapped stories, tips, and mutual admiration
before parting ways.
By the time I reached the turnoff to Nipa Beach
Bungalows, I felt triumphant. I had cycled far enough, met humans, and avoided
drowning — a solid day by any measure.
Snakes,
Heatwaves, and the Slow Death of My Motivation (100 km)
Morning arrived with temperatures in the mid‑30s,
the kind of heat that makes snakes come out to sunbathe and cyclists reconsider
their life choices. I pedalled carefully, scanning the road for reptiles who
might object to being run over.
The ride itself was uneventful but scenic, and I
eventually reached Prachuap Khiri Khan and Maggie’s Homestay — a cosy
refuge where I promptly melted into a chair.
The next day, I woke up with the strong desire to
remain horizontal. Lois messaged to say she couldn’t meet me in Thailand, which
gave me the perfect excuse to stay lazy. I set up a new blog (thanks to the old
one being locked behind a phone number I no longer possessed), then spent the
rest of the day doing absolutely nothing of consequence. It was glorious.
Tailwinds,
and a Room on Stilts (101 km)
A tailwind pushed me toward Hua Hin like a
benevolent hand on my back. The town itself was a lively resort full of Western
restaurants, bars, and older European men proudly escorting their much younger
Thai companions with the swagger of men who believe they invented romance.
I found a basic room perched on stilts over the
water — charming, slightly wobbly, and perfect. I stayed longer than planned,
mostly because the rain refused to stop. It poured relentlessly, turning the
world outside into a grey blur while I remained snug inside, listening to the
soothing soundtrack of “torrential downpour featuring occasional thunder.”
Rice Paddies
and Fishing Villages (118 km)
The sun returned, the breeze behaved, and the road
led me through some of the most beautiful countryside imaginable. Rivers
sparkled, rice paddies shimmered, temples glowed, and fishing villages lined
the route like a series of charming postcards.
Villagers greeted me warmly, children chased me on
their bikes, and sleepy dogs barely acknowledged my existence. A few locals
stared at me with suspicion — a foreign woman on a bicycle being a rare and
possibly mythical creature — but their curiosity only added to the charm.
By the time I reached Samut Songkhram, the food
stalls were setting up, filling the air with aromas that made my stomach
applaud. Hometown Hostel offered tiny rooms, but they were mine alone, and
after a long day, solitude felt luxurious.
Plastic‑Bag
Drinks, Traffic Chaos, and a Ferry Crossing That Tests My Balance (98 km)
I chose village lanes over the main road, which
turned the ride into a delightful parade of “Hello, farang!” greetings and
irresistible food carts. Drinks came in plastic bags with straws poking out — a
system so convenient I wondered why the rest of the world hadn’t adopted it.
Approaching Bangkok, however, was less charming.
Phetkasem Road was a gridlocked nightmare of honking, fumes, and existential
despair. I crawled along until I spotted a small path leading to a ferry across
the Chao Phraya River.
The crossing involved steep stairs, jostling
crowds, and the delicate art of not dropping my bicycle into the river. Helpful
hands appeared, and soon I was safely across, rolling into Peachy Guesthouse —
my Bangkok sanctuary.
A Day of
Bureaucracy and the Sudden Realisation That I’m Not Going Anywhere
With grand plans to cycle from Thailand to India
via Myanmar, I took a rest day. I visited the Indian Embassy, where I learned
that my visa would take nine working days. Nine. Working. Days.
Bangkok, therefore, became my temporary home. The
city welcomed me with its chaotic charm, and I settled in to wait, wander, and
rethink my route — because nothing says “adventure” like bureaucracy.
In Which
Bureaucracy Punches Me in the Face, and the Blood Moon Steals My Lens Cap
Monday began with optimism — the kind that makes
you believe embassies are friendly places staffed by helpful people. I arrived
at the Indian embassy bright and early, clutching my application like a child
presenting homework. My enthusiasm lasted approximately twelve seconds.
“The rules have changed,” they said. Foreigners
could no longer apply in Bangkok.
This contradicted the embassy’s own website, which
had cheerfully informed me, “Your application was successfully submitted.”
To my pea‑sized brain, this meant success. To the embassy staff, it meant
absolutely nothing. Arguing with them was like arguing with a brick wall,
except the wall would probably have shown more empathy.
I walked back to my guesthouse to calm down,
choosing the scenic route so I could photograph Bangkok’s daily life. The
universe, however, was in a mischievous mood. My lens cap leapt off my camera
and flung itself into the river, presumably in honour of the blood moon in
Aries. Astrology enthusiasts would call it cosmic energy. I called it annoying.
A call to the Indian Visa Centre in Kuala Lumpur
revealed that foreigners could apply there — but with a “50/50 chance.”
I had been hoping for a simple yes-or-no, not a coin toss. Thankfully, the Indian
embassy in Myanmar restored my faith in humanity by confirming I could apply in
Yangon. Perfect. Myanmar was on my route anyway.
Bangkok, meanwhile, continued being its glorious,
chaotic self. Where else can you hop on a water taxi, leap onto a Skytrain
minutes later, and then wander past stilt houses clinging to the river like
stubborn barnacles? Longtail boats prowled for tourists, temples glowed,
skyscrapers shimmered, and pierced, dreadlocked farangs roamed the streets like
decorative wildlife. I adored every bit of it.
A Haircut
Catastrophe and a Temple All to Myself
The next day began with a simple plan: get a
haircut. It ended with me looking like someone had attempted to prune my head
with garden shears. I left the salon with so little hair that extensions
suddenly seemed like a practical idea.
I spent the rest of the day recovering from the
trauma, but by evening my courage returned. I grabbed my tripod and went for a
walk. To my surprise, Wat Po was open — not the main temple, but the grounds.
With almost no one around, I wandered through the serene complex alone, bathed
in the soft glow of twilight. It felt like the city had gifted me a private
viewing.
I also realised I had procrastinated for an entire
week about servicing my bicycle. After 8,000 kilometres on the same chain and
cogs, it was practically begging for mercy. Myanmar and India awaited — and my
bike deserved a spa day.
Canals,
Chickens, Alms Bowls, Fertility Phalluses & A Motorbike Ride That Shortened
My Lifespan
While processing my Myanmar visa, I drifted into a
pleasant lull. I cycled to Bok‑Bok Bike to drop off my trusty steed, then set
off exploring Bangkok’s ancient klongs — narrow canals where history clings
stubbornly to the edges.
The alleys were alive with families trading,
chatting, cooking, and occasionally yelling at chickens. I ducked through
doorways, stepped over shoes, sidestepped poultry, and inhaled the intoxicating
mix of street food aromas and canal humidity. It was chaotic, colourful, and
utterly captivating.
Returning to the bike shop days later, I found it
closed. Undeterred, I wandered on and stumbled upon artisans crafting monks’
alms bowls — a tradition dating back to the 1700s. Watching them hammer metal
with such devotion made me feel both inspired and slightly lazy.
My route then led me through bustling markets, neon‑lit
malls, and finally to the unforgettable Goddess Tubtim Shrine — a garden filled
with enormous phalluses of every shape and size. Women hoping to conceive come
here to pray, and if successful, return to donate another phallus. It was like
wandering through a forest of enthusiastic fertility symbols. Wonderfully
strange.
After absorbing this spectacle, I hopped onto a
canal water taxi. Boarding required impeccable timing and mild acrobatics,
especially while clutching a camera. The boat skimmed along the water, spraying
passengers with equal parts breeze and questionable droplets.
The final leg home was on a motorbike taxi. My
driver ignored every traffic rule ever invented, weaving through Bangkok’s
chaos with the confidence of someone who believed he was immortal. I chose not
to look. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and quintessentially Bangkok.
Ghost
Towers, Australians, Police Threats & A Rainy Escape to Mae Sot (38 km)
Always drawn to the unusual, I set off to
investigate the Sathorn Unique — a 50‑storey ghost tower abandoned since the
1997 economic crash. It loomed over the city like a concrete cautionary tale.
There I met a young Australian couple who were
equally lost. Together, we tried wandering into the cordoned‑off area through
an adjacent restaurant. The restaurant owner reacted by slamming the door and
threatening to call the police. Her boyfriend pleaded with her while I seized
the moment to take photos, because nothing says “travel memoir” like
documenting your own impending arrest.
The caretaker appeared, furious, until the
Australian girl switched to fluent Thai and explained our situation. Her mother
was Thai — a plot twist that saved us. After a tense negotiation, the caretaker
unlocked a side gate and let us escape. The boyfriend’s expression was
priceless.
The next morning brought drizzle. I loaded my bike
and decided to leave Bangkok early. Halfway out of town, the rain paused long
enough for me to catch a bus to Mae Sot — a route I’d cycled twice before and
had no desire to repeat while covered in mud.
We arrived in Mae Sot under a torrential downpour.
I navigated the slick streets in darkness until I reached the Porn‑The Hotel —
a name that made me laugh but turned out to be surprisingly cosy.
I had jumped the gun thinking India was just around
the corner. In reality, it was 1,500 kilometres away, and I still needed to
cross Myanmar again to get my Indian visa — hopefully without losing my
passport this time. The only border crossing into India required a special
permit, rumoured to be obtainable in Yangon. That adventure would come soon
enough.
Into Myanmar: Mountains, and A Town That Switches
On at 6 PM. (55 km)
Breakfast
at Krua Canadian fuelled me for the short ride to the border. Crossing into
Myanmar was blissfully uneventful. I withdrew 300,000 kyats (briefly feeling
like a millionaire) and pedalled into the mountains.
The
new road was beautiful but treacherous — I passed two truck accidents,
reminders that progress sometimes arrives faster than people can adapt. At the
summit, dark clouds rolled in, and I was soaked during the descent.
I found a guesthouse in Kawkareik, a remote village where electricity only arrives after 6 o’clock. Restaurants were closed, so I foraged for snacks like a determined squirrel. Myanmar flavours were unfamiliar, surprising, and delightful — a perfect ending to a day already filled with plot twists.
Epilogue
Travel has a way of stripping
life down to its essentials. Expectations dissolve, plans wobble, and certainty
becomes a luxury item you can’t afford. What remains are the moments — the
generosity of strangers, the endurance you didn’t know you possessed, the
lessons that arrive disguised as inconveniences.
The value of the journey was
never in the kilometres pedalled or the borders crossed. It lived in the quiet
revelations, the unexpected kindnesses, the storms outrun, and the small
triumphs that stitched each day together. Though this chapter ends here, the
impulse to keep moving — to chase the next horizon, to learn the next lesson —
continues long after the final page.
