THAILAND: Where I Came for a Bike
Part and Left with a Condo
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THAILAND (9.1)
521
Kilometres – 43 Days
8
April – 20 May 2017
MAP
PHOTOS
VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
PROLOGUE
After Janice
flew home, I stayed behind in Thailand with only two guiding principles:
- Don’t overheat.
- Don’t lose anything important, including myself.
Bangkok
greeted me with the kind of heat that makes you reconsider your relationship
with clothing, movement, and ambition. I handed in my laundry, found a room
with a “bathroom inside” (a phrase that always sounds like a warning), and
hoped life would sort itself out. It didn’t — but it did become entertaining.
Bangkok
When
Janice’s taxi disappeared into traffic, I stood in Bangkok like a confused
extra who’d wandered onto the wrong film set. So I did the only sensible thing:
I handed in my laundry.
The
laundress worked in a narrow alley where sunlight had clearly surrendered. She
had a few machines under a tarp and enough laundry bags to clothe a small
nation. The only free space was a tiny rectangle where she appeared to sleep,
possibly upright. When I returned, she plunged her hand into the textile
avalanche and produced my laundry instantly. My slip of paper had no name, no
number, and no identifying features whatsoever, so I was impressed. Apparently,
my clothing emits a distinctive aura.
The next day
I found cheaper accommodation: the Sleep Inn. It had a fan, air‑conditioning, a
window, and a “bathroom inside,” which always raises questions like: Inside
what? And why specify? Still, it was a bargain. I’ve stayed in worse. Much
worse.
While
waiting for my new jockey wheel to arrive, I did absolutely nothing — with
dedication. I attempted a morning jog, but my hamstrings had unionised and were
staging a protest. I stopped in a park to stretch with locals, who politely
ignored the foreigner grimacing like a puppet with tangled strings.
A walk to
Chinatown took me through the fish market, where the produce looked like it had
been dredged from the Mariana Trench. The flower market afterwards was a relief
— cool, fragrant, and not actively threatening. The vegetable market was full
of mysterious items I would probably eat if chopped finely enough.
Chinatown’s
“New Market” was only new if you consider “built in the last geological era”
recent. It sold everything short of live livestock. The day was blistering, so
I retreated via river taxi, which at least provided a breeze and the illusion
of progress.
By evening,
I decided a massage might help my hamstring. It did — for about twelve minutes.
Then the pain returned, smug and victorious.
Most evenings
I hunted for cafés with the holy trinity: beer, food, and functioning WiFi. If
all three existed simultaneously, it felt like witnessing a rare celestial
alignment. I’d edit photos until my patience evaporated, which didn’t take
long.
I visited
the Holy Rosary Church, built by the Portuguese in 1786 after a dramatic
fallout at the Santa Cruz Church. Apparently even churches have interpersonal
issues. The building was lovely and mercifully cool.
Meanwhile,
Songkran — the Thai New Year — was approaching. The word “Songkran” comes from
the Sanskrit “Sankranti,” meaning “astrological passage,” which sounds elegant
until you’re being ambushed by a toddler with a water gun the size of a
bazooka.
Bangkok – The Songkran Festival
On the 13th,
temples overflowed with devotees bathing Buddha statues, pouring fragrant
water, making wishes, and receiving blessings. Nearly all businesses closed as
people returned home to celebrate. It was beautiful, spiritual, and deeply
meaningful.
And then the
water war began.
A full‑scale
aquatic apocalypse erupted in the alleys. Everyone — adults, children, and
possibly a few confused pets — was armed with plastic water guns. Give a grown‑up
a water gun and they instantly regress to age seven. The best part was seeing
people laughing in the streets instead of staring at their phones like mildly
depressed zombies. It’s the most fun you can have while being repeatedly shot
in the face.
Once Bangkok
dried out, I wandered to the amulet market, where trade revolved around tiny
talismans. Monks, taxi drivers, and anyone in need of luck browsed the stalls.
Some amulets were barely a centimetre tall. Vendors claimed certain pieces were
antique, and clients examined them through magnifying glasses with the
seriousness of jewel thieves. There were also odd, vaguely voodoo‑like
figurines. I didn’t ask questions. Fertility seemed the theme, and I didn’t
need clarification.
My search
for a good night‑photography spot failed, so I returned to the Gecko Bar, which
had become my unofficial headquarters. There I met Silvia (Germany), Patrick
(India via England via Spain), and Jeff, an English teacher in Myanmar. Bangkok
excels at collecting people who appear to have fallen out of entirely different
storylines.
Shortly
after Songkran, BokBok Bike informed me that the jockey wheel had arrived.
While they serviced the bike, I browsed for inexpensive condos. Most were far
beyond my budget, but eventually I found one and contacted the agent. The next
day, I took a bus to Jomtien to meet Benn from Immobilien Pattaya.
The unit was
small — “rabbit hole” is generous — but close to the beach and had a pool. The
building was older, low‑rise, and unpretentious. The price, however, was the
real attraction. I paid a deposit and hoped for the best.
Bangkok to Bang Saen – 80 km
Time to
leave the Big Mango. Easier said than done. In avoiding main roads, I found
myself among dubious food stalls and shrines that looked like they’d been
assembled from spare parts.
April is hot
and dry in Thailand, but halfway to Bang Saen, the heavens opened. I sheltered
at a golf driving range with a few motorcyclists. The storm lasted longer than
expected, but eventually I continued and reached Bang Saen Beach, which was
surprisingly lovely.
Bang Saen Beach to Jomtien, Pattaya – 56 km
A pleasant
ride took me to Pattaya, where I visited the Immobilien office. We discussed
the condo, and I realised the process would take time. Buying property in
Thailand is a legal obstacle course, and I was entirely at the agency’s mercy.
Not comforting.
I checked
into Beachspot Hostel. The dorm had two beds, and I was the only occupant. It
was essentially a sauna with a fan, but the balcony overlooked the beach, so I
pretended it was intentional.
At sunset, I
walked to the night market, bought a beer from 7‑Eleven, and sat on the beach
contemplating life, humidity, and my questionable financial decisions.
Jomtien – Buying a Condo
My morning
jog along the beach was delightful. A dip in the ocean revealed the water was
warm enough to poach an egg, but I wasn’t complaining. I waddled around like a
contented hippo.
I discovered
coin‑operated laundry machines, which made life easier. By midday, I retreated
to my room to avoid melting.
The condo
transfer took longer than expected. The “condo” was really just a room, but I
had my reasons: dwindling funds, the desire for a permanent base, and the fact
that Thailand still allows foreigners to buy inexpensive property (not land,
but close enough).
The unit was
tenanted, which suited me fine. Immobilien helped me open a bank account,
though the internet banking password would take two weeks to arrive. The most
astonishing part was paying for the property with my bank card. I’ve never
bought real estate using the same method one uses to buy groceries.
Just like
that, I became a property owner in Thailand. Traveller to expat in one swipe.
While
waiting to sign documents at the land office, I took the ferry to Koh Larn
Island with Emmy and Katae from Immobilien. It was a lovely day. Back in
Jomtien, I ate mushroom soup on the beach while watching the sunset — a simple
pleasure.
Apparently,
the previous day had rejuvenated me. I was up at 5:30 and jogging by 6:00,
shaving three minutes off my usual time. Still slow but satisfying. A swim and
coffee on the beach completed the morning.
It’s
remarkable how much one sees during a jog: fishing boats returning from the
sea, women selling the morning’s catch, vendors selling noodle soup to
fishermen, troubled souls sleeping beside empty bottles, ladyboys returning
from a night out with high heels in hand, monks collecting food. A full
spectrum of humanity before breakfast.
I passed the
venue where Thailand played Afghanistan in the Asian Beach Handball
Championships and watched for a while. Later, I signed papers at the Land Office.
I ate spicy noodle soup (again) and did laundry in a wastepaper basket — a full
day.
Jomtien and Surrounds
My daily
ride took me past U‑Tapao airport, the turtle conservation centre, and through
quiet backroads — about 80 km in total. I returned around 3:30, which seemed
like an excellent time for coffee and cake.
A jogger
passed me while I was staring into space, and it looked appealing. I put on my
shoes and ran 11 km instead of my usual 10. Still slow, but energetic. Perhaps
coffee and cake are performance enhancers.
Inspired, I
repeated the cycling and running routine (minus the cake). The weather was
overcast with drizzle — perfect cycling conditions.
Most
attractions in Pattaya turned out to be fake, including the cultural village
and floating market. I did, however, find an unusual “park” around the Ban
Amphoe Reservoir with fountains, manicured gardens, temples, and stupas. From
there, the road led to Big Buddha Mountain, where Buddha’s image had been laser‑carved
into the cliff face. It was 109 metres tall, 70 metres wide, and filled with
gold. Subtle.
Rain poured
down, and I returned to Jomtien for green curry.
The next
morning, I woke with a stiff neck/shoulder, despite not having swung from any
chandeliers. I skipped jogging and walked along the ocean instead. Boats were
adorned with colourful ribbons and garlands to honour Mae Yanang, the goddess
of travel. I considered decorating my bicycle similarly. My neck improved
slightly, though lifting a beer remained a challenge.
Impatient, I
cycled to the bank to enquire about the password. They informed me there was
another form to sign. Naturally, I refused to wait another week.
Finally, I
was ready to leave Jomtien. I returned to the dorm, did laundry, and packed up.
Jomtien to Rayong (80 km)
A storm hit
during the night. By morning, the streets looked like a typhoon had passed
through. I set off anyway and made it exactly five kilometres before taking
shelter. It felt good to be back on the bike among roadside stands and chasing
dogs (words I never expected to say), but I was Thailand‑out and needed to move
on.
The weather
worsened as I approached Rayong. The wind reached storm strength, and I clung
to the handlebars while dodging flying corrugated iron, plastic tables, and
chairs. Camping was out of the question. The Mee Dee Hotel saved me.
Rayong to Kung Wiman Beach (101 km)
The weather
improved marginally. People were busy clearing debris. The ride was humid but
scenic, with a bicycle path along the coast. It was durian season, and vendors
sold surprisingly tasty durian crisps.
I reached
Kung Wiman Beach, where a temple offered camping. The tent instantly became a
sauna, but the mosquitoes were enthusiastic, so I crawled in anyway.
Kung Wiman Beach to Trat (98 km)
The heat
encouraged an early departure. The weather was miserable, and rain poured for
most of the ride. A woman on a scooter stopped to give me a raincoat — very
kind. I wore it despite finding raincoats too hot. I stopped only once, to look
at mud sculptures. Sopping wet, I reached Trat and found Pop Guesthouse, which
was friendly and affordable.
Trat, Thailand to Koh Kong, Cambodia (106 km)
Rain delayed
my departure. When it eased, I cycled to the border. The route was scenic, with
mountains and coastline, though too wet to enjoy properly.
The border
crossing was routine. I entered Cambodia and continued to Koh Kong, the first
town on the other side of the river.
I found an
inexpensive room, changed into dry clothes, and went in search of a SIM card
and food. English was scarce, but restaurants had pictures, which saved me from
having to mime poultry.
EPILOGUE
By the time
I pedalled out of Thailand, I’d survived storms, bureaucracy, durian crisps,
and the purchase of a condo I still wasn’t entirely convinced I meant to buy.
The border crossing into Cambodia felt almost calm by comparison — just stamps,
rain, and the familiar sensation of not fully understanding what anyone was
saying. I rolled into Koh Kong, soaked and hungry, and attempted to order dinner
with hand gestures that probably alarmed the staff. Thailand had left me sun‑bleached,
waterlogged, and unexpectedly responsible for real estate. Cambodia, I
suspected, would bring its own brand of confusion. I pedalled on anyway.
