Thailand (8)
FLIP-BOOK
Where the Journey Circles Back
The Last Days with Tania
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 through a quiet
coastline of hidden beaches and gentle bays, the kind of landscape that feels
like 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.
Coffee and Crabs
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.
We thus saddled up and cycled the
110km to Yai Am where, we found refuge at a petrol station, 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.
The following 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, and after biking 135 kilometres, 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.
Riding into Bangkok
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.
Lazy days in Bangkok
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.
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 morning arrived too soon. It
always does on the last day.
Her departure left a quiet space in
the day—a soft ache, a gratitude, a reminder of how journeys are shaped not
only by landscapes, but by the people who ride beside us.
Thailand (8.1)
The Art of Wandering Slowly
Prologue
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 waiting
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.
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.
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.
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, and after 100
kilometres, 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.
The Road Suphan Buri
Before cycling out of Kanchanaburi, 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 after
100 kilometres and stopped to admire 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.
The temples of Suphan Buri
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.
The Monkey Temple of Lop Buri
By morning, I left Sing Buri and 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.
Kindness on the Road
A beautiful day of canals, farmland,
and small communities. By afternoon, thunder rolled in, and rain fell in heavy,
deliberate drops. I sheltered in a vacant 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 and Generosity
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. 110 km down
the drag, 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.
A Cosy room, a Bowl of Soup, a Cold Beer,
and Curious Eyes
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 and the Gift of
a Swimming Pool
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, the
water on one side, a national park on the other. I had hoped for a scenic
guesthouse overlooking the dam, but instead found the Reaun Araya Spa—a place
of unexpected luxury with a swimming pool that felt like a gift after cycling
110 kilometres in the heat.
Into the storm
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 and the Mekong
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.
The Train to Bangkok
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.
Across the Border to Laos
Arriving in Nong Khai was at sunrise –
I ambled to Mut Mee Guest House, savouring the quiet. With my 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 buddy,
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
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.
