069 CYCLING THAILAND (3) - BANGKOK TO MAE SOT

Bangkok to Mae Sot and the Myanmar border

69 THAILAND (3)
572 Kilometres – 15 Days
16 March – 29 March 2015

MAP

PHOTOS

 VOICEOVER

  PDF

FLIP-BOOK

Prelude

There comes a moment in every long bicycle journey when you realise you’ve pedalled yourself neatly into a corner and must now fly out of it. Mine arrived in Colombo, where—having triumphantly circled Sri Lanka—I found myself booking a 7:20 a.m. flight to Bangkok, a time chosen by airlines specifically to test human resilience.

By 3:00 a.m. I was in a taxi, bleary‑eyed, clutching a bicycle box the size of a small shed, and wondering, not for the first time, why I couldn’t have taken up a sensible hobby like knitting.

Bangkok promised temples, street food, and—most importantly—a Myanmar visa. I had no idea what the next two weeks would hold, but I suspected it would involve sweating, wheezing, and at least one encounter with an animal that wanted to steal my lunch. I was right on all counts.

 

 

Colombo to Bangkok: A Visa, a Skytrain, and Scorpions on Sticks

I finished my cycle around Sri Lanka by rolling triumphantly into Colombo, where I immediately booked a flight to Bangkok—mostly because Myanmar insisted on a visa and Bangkok insisted on being the place to get it. My taxi collected me at the ungodly hour of 3:00 a.m., which is the sort of time normally reserved for bakers, burglars, and people fleeing the country.

Banglamphu—also known as Backpackerville—was exactly as I remembered it from six years earlier: loud, colourful, and selling everything a traveller could possibly need, plus several things no traveller should ever need, including fake IDs and deep‑fried scorpions on sticks. I checked into a guesthouse on Phra Athit Road, which became my temporary home and, more importantly, my temporary laundry facility.

The next morning I submitted my passport to the Myanmar Embassy, where it disappeared for several days. With nothing else to do, I wandered Bangkok, taking the Skytrain like a seasoned local who pretends to know where she’s going. I even attempted to buy a phone charger, which in Bangkok is a quest of heroic proportions.

I visited temples, because in Thailand it is physically impossible not to. They are everywhere—glittering, ornate, colourful, and apparently designed by people who thought subtlety was a character flaw.

Naturally, I popped into Wat Pho to see the famous Reclining Buddha, who is 46 metres long, 15 metres high, and looks like he’s having the best nap in human history. Unfortunately, the hall was packed with tourists, all of whom seemed determined to stand exactly where I wanted to walk. I fled before I became a cautionary tale.

Outside, I passed a cart selling second‑hand false teeth. I thought: When someone sells used dentures, you cannot accuse them of lacking entrepreneurial spirit.

A few days later, my passport reappeared with a Myanmar visa inside, and I was ready to pedal out of Bangkok toward Mae Sot. The border was a week away, and the route promised temples, ruins, and the occasional monkey. I was in no hurry.

 

Rice Paddies and Ancient Glory (90 km)

Cycling out of Bangkok was easy but slow, thanks to roadworks that appeared to be designed by someone who hated bicycles. Eventually I escaped onto a rural canal path, where bright green rice paddies stretched out like someone had ironed the countryside.

Ayutthaya welcomed me with affordable accommodation and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Founded in 1350, destroyed in 1767, and still managing to look better than most modern cities, Ayutthaya was once one of the wealthiest places in the East. Today it is mostly ruins, but very dignified ruins—the kind that make you feel underdressed.

I spent an extra day exploring temples and crumbling structures, pedalling around like a sweaty Indiana Jones.

 

The Monkey Kingdom (65 km)

Lopburi was a short, pleasant ride away. I checked into NooM Guesthouse, which caters to backpackers and therefore has seen things.

The town’s main attraction is Prang Sam Yot temple, home to a troop of monkeys who behave like they own the place—and, frankly, they do. According to Hindu‑Buddhist beliefs, monkeys have divine connections, which means they cannot be harmed, only tolerated. Tourists adore them. Shopkeepers do not. The monkeys steal anything not nailed down, and possibly some things that are.

 

Rivers and Rice in Bamboo (131 km)

The day was overcast, which made cycling pleasant and gave me the illusion that I was fitter than I actually am. I reached Nakhon Sawan, a town with few attractions but a very convenient hotel, P.A. Place, which had ground‑floor rooms and nearby restaurants—two things that make a cyclist weep with joy.

Nakhon Sawan sits at the confluence of the Ping and Nan Rivers, which join to form the mighty Chao Phraya. I admired this geographical fact briefly before collapsing into bed.

 

Ruins, Rice, and a Lost Phone (126 km)

The partly cloudy weather continued, so I pedalled toward Kamphaeng Phet, another UNESCO site. On the way I met Mel and Lee, an Australian‑Thai couple who had cycle‑toured for three years and now lived in Chiang Mai. They looked fit and cheerful, which made me suspicious.

I bought rice cooked in bamboo from a roadside stall, and it was so delicious I briefly considered abandoning my bicycle and dedicating my life to bamboo‑rice appreciation.

Kamphaeng Phet’s Three J Guesthouse had quirky rooms, which I always enjoy because they make me feel like I’m living inside someone’s eccentric hobby.

I spent the next day exploring 14th‑century ruins, running around like a famous explorer—until I lost my phone. Nothing kills the romance of ancient history faster than modern stupidity.

 

Eight Years of Madness (70 km)

This day marked my eighth year of cycle touring. In that time, I had crossed deserts, mountains, and several questionable borders. I had eaten things that should never be eaten and met people who restored my faith in humanity. I had also questioned my sanity on a near‑daily basis.

Fortunately, the ride to Tak was gentle, following the Ping River. Tak was the perfect place to rest before tackling the mountain range ahead—the final obstacle between me and Myanmar.

 

Mountains, Wheezing, and a Very Fast Descent (90km)

I left Tak without breakfast, assuming I’d find food along the way. This was optimistic. The day turned into a slow, hungry slog over steep mountains. Every time I reached what I thought was the top, another incline appeared, smirking at me.

Cars honked as they passed, which I assumed was a good‑luck gesture, though it might have been encouragement, sympathy, or a warning that I looked like I was about to keel over.

Eventually I reached a temple perched on a hill—the unofficial sign that the worst was over. The descent was thrillingly steep, and I hurtled into Mae Sot at nearly 60 km/h, which is faster than I travel intentionally.

Mae Sot’s First Hotel was old, enormous, and filled with Burmese teak furniture. Even the corridors had wooden carvings, giving the impression that the building had been decorated by a very enthusiastic forest.

I spent the next day doing laundry and eating enough food to alarm the staff.

Mae Sot is a fascinating border town. I had lunch at Khrua Canadian, run by Dave and his wife for 17 years. Dave knew everything—food, local history, politics, gossip. If he didn’t know it, it probably wasn’t worth knowing.

 

Crossing the Line (10 km)

The Friendship Bridge was only five kilometres away. With my visa already sorted, all I needed was a stamp and a sense of adventure.

It never ceases to amaze me how crossing a line on a map can change everything. Myanmar was immediately different—people, clothing, food, currency, language. Even the air felt different, though that might have been my imagination or the lingering scent of paan.

I withdrew kyats from an ATM. The exchange rate was 1,000 kyats to 1 USD, so I suddenly possessed a wallet thick enough to stun a small animal.

Men wore longyi, many had red‑stained teeth from chewing paan, and almost everyone wore face paint. Myanmar was clearly going to be interesting.

 

Epilogue

Crossing from Mae Sot into Myanmar felt like stepping through a portal into an entirely different universe—one with longyi, paan‑stained smiles, and an ATM that spat out so many kyats notes I had to buy a new wallet just to cope with the bulk.

It struck me, not for the first time, how absurdly magical borders can be. One moment you’re in Thailand, dodging monkeys and eating bamboo rice; the next you’re in Myanmar, surrounded by face paint, new customs, and a currency that makes you feel briefly wealthy until you try to buy lunch.

I pedalled away from the Friendship Bridge with my overloaded wallet, my newly stamped passport, and the familiar sense that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing—but was delighted to be doing it anyway.

068 CYCLE TOURING SRI LANKA

Coconuts, Chaos & the Kindness of Strangers: A Cyclist’s Sri Lankan Misadventure

68 SRI LANKA
1045 Km – 22 Days
22 February – 16 March 2015

MAP
Photos
 PDF
FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER 

Prelude

Sri Lanka arrived in my life the way a sudden monsoon does: warm, chaotic, and impossible to ignore. I landed with a bicycle, half a plan, and the naïve belief that luggage always follows its owner. What I found instead was an island humming with colour and kindness, where tuk‑tuks behaved like caffeinated insects, monks drifted past in saffron robes, and every road promised either enlightenment or mild terror. I didn’t know it yet, but this small teardrop of land would become one of those rare places that feels instantly familiar, even as it surprises you at every turn.

 

 

Arrival in Sri Lanka - Missing Luggage & Snake Charmers

The flight from Muscat to Colombo touched down in the bleary, pre‑coffee hours of 22 February, a time of day when no one should be expected to make life decisions, let alone locate luggage. SriLankan Airlines, clearly agreeing with this philosophy, had misplaced my bag entirely. The bike, however, arrived—because of course the one object shaped like a small industrial machine makes it through, while the bag containing my worldly possessions vanishes into the ether.

After drawing a few rupees and acquiring a SIM card from a man who looked genuinely surprised anyone would want one at that hour.

Still, I left the airport—minus luggage—and hailed a taxi into Colombo.

Sri Lanka was love at first sight. As the taxi rattled toward town, I realised I had entered the land of tuk‑tuks, paan, Buddhas, monks, and traffic that behaved like a large, excitable family reunion. Everything was green and humid and slightly chaotic, and I felt instantly at home. 

The next morning, the airline phoned to say they had located my bag, presumably in the same place it had been all along. It was delivered to the Clock Inn hostel, my temporary Colombo residence. The bag had been opened, but only my Swiss Army knife was missing, which suggested someone had rummaged through my belongings, discovered nothing but tattered cycling gear, and thought, “Well, at least I can take the knife.” I imagined them sighing in disappointment. I reassembled the bike and set off to explore the historic part of town.

The old market was impossible to cycle through. It was the kind of place where even pedestrians walked single‑file. I pushed the bike along narrow lanes while vendors shouted, chickens objected loudly to their existence, and the smell of spices drifted through the air like a warm invitation.

Later I ambled to the beachfront, where the sunset itself was unremarkable—more of a polite dimming of the sky—but a snake charmer appeared, apparently hypnotising a snake with a pungi. I didn’t know snake charmers still existed outside of cartoons. The snake looked unimpressed, but the charmer was having a wonderful time.

 

Traffic, Temples & Tropical Rain (80 km)

Sri Lanka is small enough that one needn’t race around it like a contestant on a reality show. After breakfast, I loaded the bike and headed south toward Galle.

Cycling in Sri Lanka is an adrenaline sport. My hands were permanently on the brakes, and my eyes were glued to the road. I wove through tuk‑tuks, buses, trucks, ox carts, and the occasional holy cow who clearly believed traffic laws did not apply to her. The coastal route passed temples and fruit juice stands, and I felt as though I never truly left Colombo—the traffic simply continued, like a long, unbroken conversation.

I reached Bentota shortly after midday. The village offered everything a weary cyclist could want: accommodation, food vendors, a river, a beach stretching for miles, and the Galapata Vihara Temple with its underground tunnels that looked suspiciously like they were designed for people much smaller than me.

Then the rain arrived—tropical, theatrical, unapologetic. I put my feet up, opened a beer, and watched it pour down in biblical quantities. It was perfect.

 

Temples & Tourist Pricing in Galle(70 km)

Sri Lanka is a country of many religions, all of which seem to coexist with admirable patience. Every village had a church, a Buddhist stupa, a mosque, and a Hindu temple, as though the town planners had simply decided to include one of everything.

The Hindu temples were my favourite—immensely ornate, colourful, and impossible to pass without taking a photo. Buddhist monks drifted past in saffron robes, looking serene while I looked sweaty and dishevelled.

Galle, famous for its Old Dutch fort, was more of a citadel than a fort. Today it’s a bustling town within ancient walls. Accommodation inside the fort was pricey, but I found a room for 2000 rupees. Food was equally expensive, so I wandered to the main gate where traders sold snacks for 10 rupees apiece. I ate several, partly because they were delicious and partly because I felt triumphant at having outsmarted tourist pricing.

 

Unawatuna Coconuts & Hippies (7 km)

Stacks of yellow coconuts lined the roadside, ready to be machete‑opened by vendors who wielded their blades with alarming enthusiasm. I usually stopped for one. After drinking the coconut water, the vendor would crack it open and fashion a spoon from the shell so I could scrape out the meat. It was a small act of craftsmanship that made me absurdly happy.

A sign pointed toward Unawatuna, the old hippie town, so I veered off and found a lively tourist village full of clothes, jewellery, and slightly overpriced everything. I located a room and set off exploring. It was pleasant, colourful, and unapologetically touristy.

 

Stilt Fishermen & Paradise Bays (80 km)

The going was slow because Sri Lanka kept throwing interesting things at me: Buddha statues, old forts, temples, and the famous stilt fishermen perched on poles like philosophical seabirds. I believe these spots remain in families for generations, which must make for interesting inheritance conversations.

Tangalle appeared like a postcard—paradise‑like bay, cheap beach accommodation, and a general air of “Why don’t you stay forever?” The New Beach House was not new, but at $10 a night, it was perfect. I parked myself down, beer in hand, and congratulated myself on excellent life choices.

 

The Safari That Wasn’t (100 km)

Bundala National Park looked promising, and the Lagoon Inn, set in a lush garden, seemed ideal. Unfortunately, one couldn’t cycle into the park. A mandatory jeep was required, and hiring one for a single person was priced as though I were renting the entire vehicle for a safari expedition of 40. I settled for cycling the short entrance road, which was scenic but not exactly the wildlife adventure I’d imagined.

 

Coconuts, Elephants & Frangipani Air (40 km)

The short ride to Kataragama, the holiest town in Sri Lanka, made for an early arrival. The town was sacred to Buddhists, Muslims, and Hindus alike. A massive park stretched along the Menik Ganga river, where people bathed, washed laundry, and occasionally scrubbed an elephant, which is not something one sees every day.

The Maha Devale shrine featured two enormous boulders where pilgrims smashed coconuts while muttering prayers. I found the whole ritual strangely mesmerising—half spiritual, half enthusiastic coconut destruction.

Theravada Buddhism is the religion of roughly 70% of Sri Lankans. At the temples, the scent of frangipani and incense hung thick in the air. Families brought offerings of flowers and fruit to their preferred deities. It was colourful, intriguing, and utterly captivating.

 

The Jungle Road & Imaginary Elephants (65km)

The road from Kataragama to Monaragala was known locally as “the jungle road,” which sounded thrilling until villagers began asking whether I wasn’t scared. They didn’t specify of what, which left me wondering whether I should fear the people, the animals, or perhaps some mysterious third category of danger unique to Sri Lanka.

In the end, the ride was uneventful. I kept an eye out for elephants—dangerous ones, preferably, so I’d have a story—but saw none. Not even a mildly irritated one.

The weather was boiling, the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices, but thankfully the road was dotted with small shops selling water. When I finally spotted a cheap‑looking guesthouse, I staggered inside and enjoyed the relative coolness of a room that was only slightly cooler than the outdoors.

 

Heartburn & Ancient Ruins (80km)

Breakfast consisted of leftover spicy fried rice, which promptly declared war on my oesophagus. I never learn.

Shortly before Arugam Bay, I veered off to the Magul Maha Vihara Ruins—a 5th‑century BC site tucked into dense forest. Built by King Dhatusena, it was most likely part of a royal compound, though today it mostly serves as a place where tourists wander around trying to look knowledgeable.

Sri Lanka (or Lanka, as locals call it) is a street‑food paradise. I popped into roadside stalls for prawn vadai—best eaten straight from the pan while still crunchy—and dipped in sambal, chutney, or curd. At night, the streets came alive with kothu stalls. Kothu is made by chopping roti, vegetables, meat, eggs, and unidentifiable sauces with two metal blades in a rhythmic clanging that sounds like someone trying to play the drums with kitchen utensils. The result is delicious.

Arugam Bay itself was a swing‑in‑a‑hammock kind of place. I swam in the lukewarm Indian Ocean and ate chickpeas with chilli, coconut, and curry leaves—a perfect snack.

 

Batticaloa — Blistering Heat & Dutch Forts (115 km)

The next day was long, blisteringly hot, and the kind of ride where you begin to suspect the sun has a personal vendetta. I crawled into Batticaloa and found a basic room with a fan that moved air in the same way a depressed butterfly might.

A walk across the bridge revealed food and an ATM—two things I desperately needed. The following day I explored the Old Dutch Fort and other historical sites before retreating to my not‑so‑cool digs to melt quietly.

 

The Pied Piper of Sri Lanka(115km)

The road hugged the coast past rice paddies and tiny settlements. Every child with a bicycle decided to follow me, giggling, as though I were leading a parade. I felt like the Pied Piper.

Colourful Hindu temples dotted the way, each more ornate than the last. The heat was oppressive, the humidity worse, and by the time I reached Mutur I was ready to collapse—even though Trinco was only 30 kilometres further.

My guesthouse had clearly never hosted a foreign tourist. Other occupants came to observe this unusual event. The owner arrived later to check whether I was still alive, then sent his “house boy” to fetch me fried rice from a restaurant. It was oddly touching.

 

Relaxing in Uppuveli (40km)

The ride to Trincomalee—Trinco to everyone except mapmakers—was flat and scenic, past China Bay with its colourful fishing boats. Trinco itself didn’t grab me, but six kilometres further the beach village of Uppuveli rolled into view like a pleasant surprise.

The Aqua Hotel sounded fancy but wasn’t. It was, however, a solid backpacker joint with a bar, a pool, and tables right on the beach. The kind of place where one could easily stay for days. I had no intention of doing so, but naturally stayed an extra day.

There wasn’t much to do besides chill or walk along the beach past rows of fishing boats and fishermen hauling in nets. The area had been hit hard by war and the 2004 tsunami, and many houses looked as though they couldn’t withstand a strong breeze, let alone another disaster.

The hotel’s internet allowed me to research my next move. I came up with no brilliant ideas except that returning to Thailand and cycling to Myanmar seemed feasible. Bangkok was rumoured to be the easiest place to obtain a Myanmar visa. I hoped the rumour would remain true long enough for me to get there.

 

Yoga, Tailwinds & Ancient Cities (120km)

After an early morning yoga session—my attempt at being a balanced human—I hopped on the bike and headed toward Anuradhapura. The road was mercifully flat with a slight tailwind, a rare and glorious combination.

Finding accommodation took some pedalling, but bicycle‑riding touts roamed the streets looking for lost tourists. I usually avoid them, but this time they proved useful, pointing me toward reasonably priced digs hidden in an alleyway.

Anuradhapura was meant to be a one‑night stop, but the city was overflowing with ancient relics. I spent the next day exploring the sacred city, built around a cutting of Buddha’s fig tree brought by Sanghamitta, a Buddhist nun, in the third century.

The Kingdom of Anuradhapura flourished for 1,300 years before being invaded in 993. Today it’s a sprawling complex of archaeological wonders, ruins, and monkeys who behave as though they own the place.

The Jetavanaramaya Stupa was astonishing. Built in the third century, it once stood 120 metres tall and contained more than 90 million bricks. A British guidebook from the early 1900s calculated that those bricks could build a three‑metre‑high wall from London to Edinburgh. I’m not sure why anyone would want to do that, but it’s an impressive statistic.

The sacred Bodhi tree, said to be the oldest plant in the world with a known planting date, was… scrawny. Much like the Mona Lisa, I expected something grand. Instead, I found a tree that looked as though it needed encouragement.

 

Puttalam — The Guesthouse I Absolutely Didn’t Need (80km)

The ride to Puttalam on the west coast was uneventful—pleasant, even. Shortly before reaching the A3 highway toward Colombo, a budget‑looking abode caught my eye. There was absolutely no reason to stay there. None. But I did anyway, mostly to drag my Sri Lankan ride out for one more day, like someone refusing to leave a party even after the host has started washing dishes.

I rinsed my cycling clothes, took a short walk to the shops, found food, and congratulated myself on my commitment to procrastination.

 

Fruit Stalls & Flying Juice (105km)

The road south was lined with colourful fruit stalls, each offering a refreshing drink and a brief escape from the sweltering heat. Watching these drinks being prepared was a performance worthy of a small stage and an enthusiastic audience.

First, the vendor sliced an orange or lime in half and squeezed it into a glass. Then came a pinch of salt, water, and crushed ice. Next, in a flourish that would impress a Las Vegas magician, the vendor switched the drink between glass and jug, tossing it through the air with alarming precision. The juice travelled a good metre, landing neatly in the pitcher every time. I half expected applause.

Temples appeared along the way, each decorated with peafowl—Sri Lanka’s favourite temple accessory. The birds gave the temples a festive, slightly flamboyant feel, as though they were perpetually ready for a parade.

The day stretched longer than expected, not that it mattered. I had no intention of reaching Colombo. A hundred kilometres in, the sky opened and rain came bucketing down. I pedalled to the nearest hotel, dripping like a disgruntled sponge.

 

Colombo Terror & a Timely Downpour (50km)

The next morning I rode into Colombo, where the traffic behaved like a large, chaotic family reunion—everyone shouting, no one listening, and tuk‑tuks darting around like hyperactive toddlers. It took all my concentration to stay alive.

I reached the Clock Inn hostel minutes before another tropical downpour. Fortunately, they had kept my bike box, sparing me the ordeal of hunting down a new one. I packed the bicycle, rearranged the panniers into one large bag, and visited a hairdresser who made me look almost normal.

 

Bangkok — Backpackerville & Deep‑Fried Scorpions

With a flight to Bangkok booked, I arranged a taxi and soon found myself airborne. A few hours later, the plane touched down in Bangkok, which looked exactly as I remembered it—chaotic, colourful, and slightly surreal.

I headed straight to Backpackerville, where one can stroll past ornate temples and buy deep‑fried scorpions on a stick. It’s the kind of place where you can have a spiritual awakening and a questionable snack within the same five minutes.

 

Epilogue

Leaving Sri Lanka felt a little like waking from a vivid dream—one filled with coconut water, temple bells, tropical downpours, and the constant hum of life unfolding in every direction. I packed my bike, rearranged my panniers, and stepped back into the world of airports and onward plans, carrying with me the scent of frangipani and the memory of roads where children pedalled behind me like a giggling entourage. Sri Lanka had been generous, bewildering, and endlessly alive. As my flight lifted toward Bangkok, I realised I wasn’t done chasing places that made me feel that way. Not yet.

066 - 067 CYCLE TOURING THE UAE & OMAN

From Skyscrapers to Sand Dunes: My Two‑Country Desert Ramble

THE UNITED ARAB EMIRATES & OMAN

548 Kilometres – 20 Days

2 February - 22 February 2015

MAP

PHOTOS - Oman

PHOTOS - UAE

FLIP-BOOK

PDF

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

  

Prelude

The United Arab Emirates was never on my list of “places I absolutely must cycle through before I die,” mostly because I assumed it consisted entirely of skyscrapers, shopping malls, and people who could buy and sell me before breakfast. But travel has a way of nudging one into unexpected corners of the world, and so I found myself flying into Dubai at an hour normally reserved for insomniacs and international criminals. What followed was a whirlwind of glittering towers, gold‑laden souqs, improbable gardens, and the kind of hospitality that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally become royalty. It was dazzling, bewildering, occasionally exhausting—and, as always, far more entertaining than anything I could have planned.

 

THE EMIRATE OF DUBAI

 

Arrival at the Hour of the Undead

There are few things more disorienting than landing in Dubai at 3 a.m., a time of day normally reserved for bakers, burglars, and people making life‑altering mistakes on the Internet. My flight from Cape Town via Doha was uneventful, unless you count the slow erosion of one’s will to live that accompanies long‑haul travel.

Mercifully, Anton and Andre—friends of my friend Lois, who lived in Oman—rescued me from the airport. Without them, I would’ve been forced to confront Dubai’s prices, which are so astronomical they should really be listed on the stock exchange.

We chatted until 5 a.m., which is the hour when even owls start thinking about bed. Then we collapsed into sleep, grateful for friendship, hospitality, and the absence of hotel bills.

 

Dubai: Where Everything Is the Biggest, Shiniest, and Most Likely to Bankrupt You

We emerged late, blinking like moles. Dubai, the UAE’s glittering metropolis, is essentially what happens when a city is given unlimited money and told to go wild. Everything is the biggest in the world—shopping centres, aquariums, egos.

We took a water bus around the marina, which felt like a gondola designed by someone who thought Venice lacked ambition. Then we wandered through the Dubai Mall, the Gold Souk, and an aquarium so large it probably has its own weather system.

We enjoyed lunch beside the dancing fountains, which performed enthusiastically against the backdrop of the Burj Khalifa—the tallest building in the world at the time and possibly visible from Mars.

We ended the day with a 3D movie, popcorn, and wine.

 

Souqs, Skyscrapers, and the Reassembly of a Bicycle

I woke earlier, though “earlier” is relative when one only finishes breakfast at half‑past eleven. I reassembled my bicycle, a task that always feels like performing delicate surgery with the wrong tools.

We visited a bike shop for bits and bobs, then wandered through Souq Madinat Jumeirah, a place where gold, spices, and tourists mingle in equal measure. Lunch at the Noodle House came with a view of the Burj Al Arab, a hotel shaped like a sail and priced like a small nation.

Later, we visited Elvira, who lives in an 83‑storey building. From the top, Dubai stretched out like a futuristic Lego set built by a child with unlimited bricks. We ate pizza and socialised, which is the correct way to spend time in a city where everything else costs the GDP of a medium‑sized island.

 

Miracle Gardens and Palm‑Shaped Questionable Decisions

We spent another day exploring Dubai, beginning with the Miracle Garden—a place so improbable it feels like someone tried to outwit nature and succeeded. Buildings covered entirely in flowers, in a desert. It’s the botanical equivalent of a magic trick.

Next came Palm Island, the world‑famous palm‑shaped development where accommodation is so expensive you need a financial advisor just to look at it. I couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t the ideal place to be during a tsunami, but perhaps that’s not mentioned in the brochures.

Lunch at Carluccio’s restored my faith in Italian cuisine, and then we boarded a driverless metro train. It whisked us off to the Spice and Gold Souq, proving that Dubai trusts robots more than I trust myself with a toaster.

We ended the day at Carrefour, gathering ingredients for Anton’s traditional Uzbek plov (or palov). It was the perfect end to yet another day in a city that seems determined to out‑glitter the rest of the planet.

 

THE EMIRATE OF ABU DHABI

The Great Escape

After several days of Dubai’s relentless shininess, I was delighted to be back on my bicycle. There’s nothing quite like pedalling off in a direction you’re not entirely sure about—it’s freedom with a hint of mild panic.

Anton and Andre had been wonderfully generous, but their warnings about Dubai’s drivers lingered ominously. Surprisingly, motorists slowed down and waved me across busy highways, possibly out of sheer astonishment at seeing a woman cycling in the UAE.

The road to Abu Dhabi was a dead‑straight, mind‑numbing four‑lane highway. Petrol stations became my entertainment, and I stopped at every single one, chatting with travellers who inevitably asked where I was from and where I was going. Then came the photo shoots—because apparently a lone cyclist is more exciting than the Burj Khalifa.

I reached Rahba (not sure if that was the name of a town) at sunset and found a room that was costly but convenient—Dubai’s influence clearly extends beyond its borders.

 

Rahba to Abu Dhabi: A Short Ride and Unexpected Police Escort

The ride into Abu Dhabi was shorter than expected, but the city had one last surprise for me. My route spat me out into the fast lane of a busy highway, leaving me stranded like a bewildered chicken. The police eventually helped me across, and two kind Samaritans gave me a lift into town. The police only left once they saw me safely inside the car, presumably relieved they wouldn’t have to scrape me off the motorway.

My phone’s GPS refused to work without a local SIM card, so I hunted one down. Dinner was falafel and samosas for a few dirhams—proof that not everything in the UAE requires a trust fund.

 

Abu Dhabi to Ramah: Mosques and Monotony

I stopped at the magnificent Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque for photos, then pointed my bicycle toward Oman. I planned to cycle halfway to the border, but camping spots were non-existent unless one enjoys sleeping on gravel beside a highway.

Service stations once again became my lifeline—water, snacks, and the comforting illusion of civilisation. I arrived at the Ramah rest area long after sunset, guided by the solar‑powered flashing light Andre had gifted me. It switched on automatically in low light, making it far more intelligent than I am after a long day of cycling.

 

Wind, Date Palms, and Camel Markets

The ride to Al Ain was straight into the wind, which is nature’s way of reminding cyclists who’s in charge. Even the service stations had given up and no longer sold snacks. Then, out of nowhere, a stranger stopped and handed me a small souvenir. I was so surprised I’m not sure I even thanked him properly.

Al Ain appeared around midday, a welcome oasis town with shady date palms and ancient irrigation systems. The Al Ain Oasis offered a maze of cobbled streets and nearly 150,000 date palms—excellent for wandering, less excellent for navigation.

I visited the Palace Museum, the old fort, and Al Jahili Fort, built in 1891 as a summer residence for Sheikh Zayed the First. Apparently, escaping coastal humidity was a tradition long before air‑conditioning.

Carrefour provided supplies, and the nearby camel market provided entertainment. Dinner was falafel and samosas for the third night running. At this point, I was practically chickpea‑powered.

 

OMAN

Prelude

There are countries one drifts into gently, like slipping into a warm bath. And then there is Oman, which I entered in my usual fashion: late, slightly disorganised, and already behind schedule. I had been promised mountains, deserts, camels, and the kind of hospitality that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally wandered into a fairy tale. What I didn’t expect was how quickly Oman would charm me—wind, heat, border oddities and all. It was a place where ancient traditions met modern kindness, and where every day seemed to offer something quietly extraordinary. Or loudly extraordinary, depending on how close one stood to a turtle.

 

Into Oman, Eventually

Some days one springs out of bed, ready to conquer mountains. Other days one stares at the tent ceiling wondering why bicycles exist. This was the latter. By the time I’d packed up and coaxed myself into motion, it was already past 10 a.m.

The Omani border was a mere 10 kilometres away—a gentle roll through Al Ain. On the Omani side, I performed the usual traveller’s ritual: ATM, breakfast, SIM card. By the time I actually entered Oman, it was noon, and I had achieved approximately nothing.

The road into the Hajar Mountains shimmered like a mirage, and the scenery consisted of barren mountains, desert, and camels who looked at me with the pity only camels can muster. Oddly, the real Omani border was another 50 kilometres further, making the entire stretch a sort of diplomatic no‑man’s land. I half expected tumbleweed to ask for my passport.

Once stamped in, I filled my water bottles and headed for the hills. The wind blew, but in a strangely peaceful way—like nature whispering, “You chose this, remember?”

Darkness fell soon after sunset, but to my delight, streetlights lined the entire road. Oman, it seemed, was determined to illuminate my suffering.

Sobar appeared unexpectedly large, chaotic, and full of roadworks. A taxi driver pointed me toward a nameless hotel, which suited me perfectly. I cooked pasta in the room—an act of culinary violence I regretted immediately. I should’ve stuck with falafel.

 

The Lure of Cold Beer

My friend Lois had arranged to meet me at the Millennium Resort for a drink. The promise of a cold beer is a powerful motivator, and I pedalled into the wind with the determination of a woman who has suffered one too many bowls of terrible pasta.

I crawled into the resort shortly after 6 p.m., wind‑blown and mildly dehydrated. Lois was already there, and to my utter delight, she had organised a room. A luxury room. Overlooking the Gulf of Oman. It’s good to have friends—especially ones who understand the emotional importance of beer.

We babbled for hours, catching up on years of life, travel, and questionable decisions. Then we retreated to our plush room, where I slept like someone who had cycled 113 kilometres for a drink.

 

A Day of Leisurely Sightseeing

We began the day with a massive breakfast overlooking the Gulf of Oman—one of those breakfasts that makes you question why you ever eat anything else.

Lois persuaded me to load the bike into her car and join her for a sightseeing trip to Muscat. I agreed instantly; I am not above cheating when mountains are involved.

Our first stop was Al Sawadi, a beautiful beach where boats ferried people to a nearby island for a day of leisure. From there, we drove to Barka, hoping to witness the famous bull‑butting. Sadly, the bulls had other plans and wouldn’t be performing until much later.

Lunch was deliciously Arabic, and then we continued to Seeb, where Lois lived. My bicycle, meanwhile, enjoyed its day off.

 

Muscat: Mountains, Mud‑Brick Villages, and Turtles

Lois hauled me out of bed and announced we were driving up a mountain. The views were spectacular—hazy landscapes stretching into forever—and I was profoundly grateful to be in a car rather than pedalling up it like a lunatic.

A steep walk down brought us to an abandoned village clinging to the mountainside, its mud‑brick houses still stubbornly intact. After a hot, sweaty climb back up, we rewarded ourselves with refreshments at an upmarket hotel overlooking tiny green terraces far below.

Next came Nizwa, reached via a nearly vertical mountain road. The fort was imposing, and the Souq was enormous—selling everything from vegetables to livestock, pottery, jewellery, and guns. It was the kind of place where you could buy a chicken, a teapot, and a firearm in one convenient transaction.

Back in Muscat, days drifted by in a haze of exotic dishes and sightseeing. The hop‑on‑hop‑off Big Bus tour was money well spent, and I even met another cyclist following the Oman Cycle Tour. Misery loves company.

On the 19th, Lois took the day off work, loaded the car, and we headed south along the coast. The desert landscape was dotted with unexpected gems.

First stop: Bimmah Sinkhole, also known as Hawiyat Najm or The Falling Star. Legend says a meteor created it. Experts say limestone dissolved. I know which version I prefer.

Next: Sur, home to traditional dhow‑building. No sketches, no blueprints—just craftsmen building boats the way their ancestors did. It was oddly comforting.

Our destination was Ras al‑Jinz, the famous turtle reserve. We stayed at a nearby hotel and walked to the beach at night. I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t giant prehistoric turtles hauling themselves ashore like weary dinosaurs.

We watched them dig metre‑deep holes, lay around 100 perfect golf‑ball eggs, then cover everything meticulously. Then they dug a fake hole to confuse predators—turtles are apparently smarter than most politicians.

In the morning, we returned to the beach and saw newly hatched turtles scurrying toward the water. It was magical. Thank you, Lois.

After breakfast, we headed inland, stopping at a wadi high in the mountains for lunch. Then we continued to a beautiful desert camp nestled among magnificent dunes—a rustic haven in the arid landscape.

 

Farewell to Oman

All too soon, it was time to return to Muscat. I packed my belongings, and Lois drove me to the airport for my flight to Sri Lanka. On the way, we stopped for one last memorable meal: a camel‑meat burger. A first for me. Surprisingly tasty. Possibly life‑changing.

I couldn’t thank Lois enough. She showed me more of Oman than I ever could’ve seen alone—and paid for everything. I will forever be indebted to her generosity, hospitality, and impeccable timing.

 

Epilogue

Oman slipped away far too quickly, like a good book you wish had a few more chapters. One moment I was wandering through souqs and watching turtles perform their prehistoric rituals, and the next I was packing my panniers and eating a camel‑meat burger on the way to the airport. Thanks to Lois—who fed me, housed me, chauffeured me, and generally ensured I didn’t perish in the desert—I saw more of the country than I ever could have managed alone. Oman left me sun‑kissed, well‑fed, and slightly in awe of turtles, mountains, and the improbable kindness of friends. Sri Lanka awaited, but a part of me stayed behind among the dunes.