076 CYCLE TOURING MYANMAR (2) - EN ROUTE TO INDIA

 

Cycling the Golden Spine;

Through Myanmar’s Backroads, Borders and Beliefs

MYANMAR (2)
1,256 Kilometres – 29 Days
11 October – 7 November 2015

MAP

PHOTOS

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER

  

Prelude

Some countries announce themselves with grandeur; others reveal their character kilometre by kilometre. Myanmar did the latter. From the very first turn of the pedals beyond the border, it became clear that this would not be a journey measured not only in kilometres, but in patience, sweat, small kindnesses, and moments of quiet wonder. Roads dissolved without warning, electricity flickered like a luxury, and curiosity followed me through villages where a lone cyclist was still something of a spectacle. Yet beneath the challenges lay a steady rhythm of human warmth—tea offered without words, hands reaching out to help, smiles that bridged every language gap. This chapter begins where certainty ends: at the border, facing a landscape—and a way of life—that demanded I slow down, pay attention, and ride not just through Myanmar, but with it.

 

 

Maesot to Kawkareik, Myanmar - Into the Golden Spine (56 km)

My adventure kicked off with a delightful breakfast at Krua Canadian, a hidden gem in Maesot run by an exceptionally knowledgeable Canadian expat who has made this town his home for the past seventeen years. The food was a refreshing change from the usual noodle soup I had grown weary of – a true feast for the senses!

After my forgettable attempt to reach India seven months prior, I set out with renewed determination, cycling the short 10 kilometres to the Thailand-Myanmar border, hoping this time to traverse into India without any passport mishaps. The border crossing was surprisingly uneventful – I was even greeted by the satisfying whir of the ATM dispensing 300,000 Burmese kyats. With that, I was able to snag a Myanmar SIM card and set myself up for a few days’ adventure ahead.

By the time I rolled out of Myawaddy and began my ascent into the mountains, it was well past midday. Discovering that the new road was open was a pleasant surprise, but I quickly realised the pass was far steeper than I had anticipated. Evidence of the road's newness flashed before my eyes as I passed two truck accidents – a reminder for everyone to take caution.

As I wound my way through the misty mountains, the weather took a dramatic turn. The sky darkened ominously, and before long, a heavy downpour drenched me to the bone. But relief was just around the corner as I finally reached Kawkareik, a sleepy town that rarely sees foreign visitors. Checking into the only guest house, I ventured out to explore, instantly feeling the weight of the locals' curious stares – I was a true anomaly here.

Starving after my ride, I quickly discovered the town had no electricity, with power only available after 6 p.m. The quest for food proved challenging, and I settled for a cold bite. Even the roti vendor was absent! Nevertheless, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction that came from being in such a remote village, experiencing life stripped to its essentials.

 

Kawkareik to Hpa-An: Narrow Chaos, Mountain Mist, and a Market‑side Refuge. (95 km)

The following day’s ride to Hpa-An was exhilarating but arduous. The terrain was rough, the roads narrow, and poorly maintained – my bicycle rattled and shook as I navigated through the chaos. I had to keep ducking off the road to avoid oncoming trucks and buses, making me feel like the smallest fish in this bustling sea of traffic.

Yet, it wasn’t all tough sailing; the roadside eateries offered me much-needed breaks, serving up steaming cups of tea and respite from the uphill grind.

Arriving in Hpa-An, I discovered that the power was still out, but at least food was within reach since my guesthouse was conveniently located in the market area. There, I found Than Lwin Pyar Guesthouse, a cosy spot with reasonably priced ground-floor accommodations—just my style!

I decided to linger in Hpa-An for another day, eager to soak in the exciting attractions that awaited. There was so much to explore, and I was more than ready to embrace every moment!

 

Hpa-An to Kyaikto: Rice Fields and Golden Legends (123 km)

The route from Hpa-An to Kyaikto was a refreshing change compared to the previous day's journey. While it was still narrow, the road's smoothness made for a pleasant ride. Myanmar’s rural charm was palpable, with farmers out in full force, busily planting rice and tending to their fields under the gentle drizzle of the rainy season.

Upon reaching Kyaikto, I couldn't resist the inviting atmosphere of the Happy Guesthouse. Sure, it was a bit pricey, but the comfort it offered was just what I needed. The next morning, eager to explore, I set out to visit the legendary Mt. Kyaiktiyo, also known as Golden Rock. My adventure began with a motorbike taxi to Kinpun. From there, I hopped onto a crowded truck heading up the steep mountainside to Kyaiktiyo. We were packed in so tightly that it felt like a comical sardine can, perched on hard benches barely six inches wide—not exactly designed with comfort in mind, especially for foreign visitors!

Once at Kyaiktiyo, I was struck by the sight of the enormous boulder that seemed to defy gravity as it sat at the mountain's edge. Covered in gold leaves, this rock was crowned with a stunning stupa, said to house a hair of the Buddha—an extraordinary relic with a fascinating backstory of rescue and adventure from the bottom of the sea, brought here by a miraculous boat that turned to stone. Nearby, a rock resembling that very boat stood as a testament to this legend. The atmosphere was electric, filled with pilgrims who gathered in droves to pay their respects and hope to witness the miraculous.

 

Kyaikto to Bago: Pilgrims, Canadians, and the Long Glide West (95 km)

During breakfast, I had the delightful opportunity to meet two fellow cyclists from Canada, on their own journey to Thailand. It’s not every day that you cross paths with other bike tourers, so we shared stories and laughs over steaming cups of coffee before heading out on our separate paths. The ride from Kyaikto to Bago was pure bliss—smooth sailing all the way, and I arrived earlier than anticipated.

In Bago, I found a welcoming haven at the Emperor Hotel, complete with a ground-floor garage for my bike. However, the climb to my room was a workout in itself, with stairs so steep they felt almost vertical! Thankfully, the kindness of the locals always shines through in Myanmar, and I was fortunate to have a few helping hands along the way.

 

Bago to Yangon: Yangon’s Golden Heartbeat (90 km)

Setting off to Yangon, the ride turned out to be a bit of a challenge—highway congestion quickly turned into a rough, bumpy detour. But once I veered off onto a quieter road, I found peace, with the traffic chaos left behind. Arriving in downtown Yangon, I was instantly drawn to the iconic Sule Pagoda. This breathtaking golden temple has graced this area for over two thousand years and serves as the vibrant heart of a bustling roundabout.

Eager to soak in the vibrant atmosphere, I checked out a few budget accommodations in the old district. The Ocean Pearl Inn caught my attention with its great value, even though it wasn't the absolute cheapest option. Just as I got settled in, I realised it was the weekend, so my Indian visa application wouldn’t be processed until Monday. My heart sank a bit—why hadn’t I checked the calendar before planning?

With a few extra days on my hands, I set out to explore the vibrant streets of Yangon on foot, immersing myself in the sights and sounds of this captivating city. Monday rolled around, and at the embassy, the news hit me like a cold shower: my visa photo was the wrong size. Darn! But on the bright side, I applied for the necessary permit to enter the restricted area at the India-Myanmar border. At $100, it was no small change, but all I walked away with was a receipt. The lady at the embassy assured me it would reach the border officials, but the permit had strict validity dates, which meant it would only cover my arrival on the last day of my Myanmar visa. I could only hope for smooth sailing ahead.

On my way back, I made a quick stop at the world-renowned Shwedagon Paya, the holiest site in Myanmar. This sprawling complex of temples and shrines was a sight to behold, bustling with people eager to honour their faith. While I wasn’t a fan of the crowds, I managed to snap a few pictures before making a hasty retreat, leaving the throngs behind but taking with me the spirit of this incredible place.

On Tuesday morning, I made my way to the Indian consulate, armed with the required forms and photos. To my delight, I discovered that the whole application process was free! What a fantastic surprise! The only catch? I’d have to wait three days to collect my passport, which meant I’d be counting down the hours until Friday.

 

With the passport in limbo, I decided to slow down and soak in all that Yangon had to offer. A little trip to the Canon store worked wonders; they reset my camera settings, and it finally sprang to life! Hallelujah!

Yangon isn’t known for its towering skyscrapers, so I took a lift up to the 20th floor of Sakura Tower. The view was absolutely breathtaking; a vigorous city panorama that made the steep price of that single, luxurious cup of coffee worth every single kyat.

I heard whispers about a circular train that promised a unique experience, so I jumped on the next one at the station. However, my enthusiasm quickly waned, and the ride didn't live up to my expectations. I hopped off and opted for a pickup taxi—a quirky little ride complete with benches and a canopy. Just like a tiny adventure on wheels, sometimes sharing the space with live chickens headed to market! The traffic was heavy, so I ended up walking the last couple of kilometres.

As I strolled through the streets, I noticed mothers lovingly checking their children’s hair for nits. It might sound unpleasant, but the tender moments between a mother and child were beautiful to witness. Fun fact: head lice are pesky little critters that live solely on human scalps, but they don't pose any health risks. I continued my walk, captivated by the sights—a monk doing laundry, countless vibrant mobile food carts, and lively street vendors. It felt like I was living inside a colourful tapestry of life.

 

The day had finally arrived! I was buzzing with anticipation to pick up my passport, but there was a twist—I found out the office wouldn't open until 3 p.m. With some time to kill, I ventured to a modern complex nearby that housed a supermarket. This area felt worlds apart from downtown Yangon—like stepping into a different country!

After grabbing my essentials, I returned to pick up my passport. The line for collection was long, but oh-so-fascinating. I found myself surrounded by Burmese nationals and fellow foreigners, each with their own stories and journeys. I met Eric, a laid-back French-Peruvian traveller, who—like me—followed his whims wherever they led. And then there was a free-spirited French youth, meandering across the globe to meet his adventurous mom in India.

Later that evening, I set off for the Vista Bar, hoping to enjoy the famed views of the Shwedagon Pagoda illuminated at night. While the scenery was stunning, my photography dreams didn’t exactly pan out. The speakers, vibrating to fantastic music, weren't kind to long-exposure shots. Oh well!

The walk back to my accommodation turned into an unexpected adventure. The streets came alive with food stalls, and people were gathered on plastic kindergarten chairs, relishing delicious pork offal and other traditional dishes. I felt a rush of excitement as I absorbed the vibrant atmosphere—another captivating day in Yangon.

 

Yangon to Okekan: Northbound Through Humidity and Curiosity (110 km)

With a sense of exhilaration pulsing through me, I mounted my trusty iron horse and pedalled out of Yangon. Fortunately, the heat of the day wasn’t as relentless as my last trip; yet, the humidity still had me sweating buckets. The road, a patchwork of potholes, wound northward towards Mandalay. Along the way, I passed charming little settlements where water buffalo leisurely grazed in lush rice paddies, and oxen pulled carts heavy with freshly cut fodder, the scent of the earth rich and inviting.

Cycling through these villages, I often felt like an exhibit in a museum — curiosity etched on the locals' faces as they watched me. It was a beautiful exchange of wonder; however, on this particular day, I caused quite a stir. One startled villager exclaimed, “Sweet Jesus!” Perhaps my weary appearance was truly something to behold!

I continued along my bumpy journey until I arrived at the quaint village of Okekan—a perfect spot to rest my weary legs. The Okkan Hotel welcomed me like royalty; an enthusiastic team rushed out to help unload my bike, their smiles infectious. They giggled as they offered me cold water, cranked up the air-conditioning, and ushered my bike into a secure storeroom. In that moment, I could almost believe I was the Queen of Sheba!

 

Okekan to Gyobingauk: A Golden Orb Forests and the Rhythm of Rural Life (95 km)

Despite it being a Sunday, Okekan bustled with activity, vibrant as a Saturday. The rice harvest was in full swing, and everywhere I turned, villagers were engrossed in the laborious but rewarding task. It was fascinating to observe the sheer ingenuity of transportation—a bamboo pole balanced with baskets at either end effortlessly carried goods, demonstrating an impressive rhythm I attempted to mimic. A friendly vendor encouraged me to give it a shot, but the weight and balance proved too challenging.

The standout moment of the day was when I stumbled upon a forest filled with gigantic golden orb spiders, their webs glistening like jewels in the sunlight. These spiders were colossal—easily larger than my hand—creating a spectacular, albeit slightly creepy, sight. As I rolled into the outskirts of Gyobingauk, I reached the Paradise Guesthouse. While it wasn’t quite the paradise its name suggested, it served as a convenient rest stop on my way to Pyay.

 

Gyobingauk to Pyay: Effortless Riding, Relentless Attention (100 km)

After a hearty breakfast at a nearby café, I hit the road towards Pyay. The route was mostly flat and boasted a concrete shoulder, making for a blissfully effortless ride. However, one peculiar quirk of Myanmar proved challenging: locals have a habit of clapping to get your attention! As I pedalled along, I was met with a chorus of enthusiastic claps and exclamations of “Hey you!” It felt as if I was coming down with a cold, and the constant attention made the ride feel more burdensome than it should have.

The number of bicycles I encountered along the way was astounding; the loads people could carry were nothing short of mind-boggling. By the time I reached Pyay, I found myself checking into a hotel that turned out to be the worst place in town. The room was in such disarray that I felt a shiver run down my spine; I dutifully armed myself with a can of disinfectant before settling in, half-wondering what might crawl out from under the wobbly bed.

The next day was a well-deserved rest in Pyay, an opportunity to shake off the pesky cold that threatened to take hold. I sauntered around, exploring the nearby temple and the bustling market, indulging in some much-needed vitamin C and savouring the delights of the night market. By then, I could feel the fog lifting, a sure sign that my spirits—and health—were improving.

 

Pyay to Aunglan: Short Miles and Big Kindness (75 km)

As I set off from Pyay, the excitement of the day ahead buzzed in my veins. Myanmar’s laws make camping a challenge, so I took extra care in planning my sleeping arrangements. Aunglan, the only nearby town with accommodation, kept my ride relatively short.

As I pedalled into Aunglan, I felt a mix of fatigue and anticipation. I inquired about a room at the Win Light Guesthouse and was pleasantly surprised by the kindness of the man who greeted me. He not only showed me the way but also carried my heavy panniers inside! The guesthouse, located along the bustling main street, offered spacious rooms and a lovely balcony—though at $25, it was a bit of a splurge.

 

Aunglan to Magway: Shaded Lanes, and a Well‑earned Splurge (133 km)

The ride to Magway turned out to be a test of endurance. The road unfolded before me—long and undulating. I felt as if the tarmac was holding me hostage. Thankfully, the narrow, shaded route provided a respite from the sun’s relentless heat.

With not much along the way to distract me, I buried my head and pushed forward. By late afternoon, I rolled into Magway (pronounced Magwe). Exhausted, I decided to treat myself and checked into the first hotel I encountered at the roundabout. It wasn't the budget option—more like a treat after a long day on the road—but given the darkness creeping in and the chaotic lack of vehicle lights, I deemed it the safest choice.

 

Magway to Chauk: False Flats and Dusty Chaos (120 km)

The segment between Magway and Chauk was agonisingly slow. I even stopped for a brief brake check, wondering if my gears were playing tricks on me. Could it be a false flat? Just past the 90-kilometre mark, I finally sensed a shift as the road gently sloped down into Chauk.

Chauk greeted me with its dusty, vibrant chaos. Yet, to my dismay, there was no accommodation to be found. The police pointed me toward a nearby hotel, but it quickly became clear that they were at full capacity. Back to the police I went, explaining my plight. After a lengthy discussion—and a rather steep $20 fee—I secured the most basic lodgings. I couldn’t help but feel I’d been charged more than double the average rate, but sometimes in Myanmar, that’s just the way it goes.

 

Chauk to Bagan: Mud, Goats, and the First Glimpse of Bagan (40 km)

The next morning, I shuffled across the street to my bike, which I had left at the police station. I packed up and set off toward the legendary Bagan. The night rain had transformed the path into a muddy obstacle course—thankfully, it was a short ride, and I was glad for it because trudging uphill was not on my agenda that day!

The route from Chauk to Bagan was enchanting, weaving through rural landscapes dotted with small hamlets, ancient temples, and the occasional herd of goats. I couldn’t help but smile as I rode behind a woman leisurely herding her cattle past thousand-year-old pagodas—no one rushed her; buses, cars, and trucks all waited patiently until she turned off the road.

Returning to Bagan brought a wave of nostalgia. Even though I had visited not long ago, the sight of countless ancient temples breaking through the forest canopy took my breath away once again. I didn’t make many stops; the drizzling rain urged me to seek shelter rather than get drenched. It was a day filled not just with kilometres, but with moments of pure wonder.

 

Bagan: A Thousand Temples and Golden Light.

Stepping into the central plains of Bagan feels like wandering through a living museum, where the air is thick with history and spirituality. The sheer number of temples—each one unique in its design—creates a stunning landscape that stretches out as far as the eye can see. I dedicated my time to exploring the interiors of these architectural marvels, each telling its own story. Yet, I couldn’t resist the allure of climbing one of the taller temples for a bird’s-eye view of this extraordinary place. The moment I reached the top, I was rewarded with a breathtaking panorama. Standing there, with the sun casting a golden glow over the ancient structures, I truly felt like I was on top of the world.

Did you know Bagan's roots stretch back to 849 AD? Its golden age spanned 1044 to 1283 AD, when countless temples were commissioned—many of which still stand today- a staggering legacy of approximately 2,000 temples. They echo the rich culture and history that envelop this enchanting region.

Morning brought an unexpected twist: my laundry was still sopping wet! Rather than rush off, I decided to linger a little longer. Later that day, a charming horse-drawn cart whisked me away to some outlying temples that I hadn’t yet explored. The day was nothing short of idyllic, and I was captivated by the sight of local life thriving amidst these ancient wonders. Farmers toiled in their fields, children played joyfully, and villagers worshipped in these thousand-year-old sanctuaries, all contributing to the incredible tapestry of life in Bagan.

 

Bagan to Pale: Narrow Lanes, and a Family Home Turned Guesthouse (130 km)

Having spent too long in Yangon, I felt the weight of time slipping away and knew I needed to make tracks to the border. But I couldn't help but embrace the journey ahead, determined to see how far I could go.

Setting off later than I intended, I found myself on a narrow, uneven road—thankfully not too hilly. Just as I approached Pale, the road vanished for a moment before miraculously reappearing. I rolled into Pale just as the sun dipped below the horizon. This quaint settlement was a charming mix of a few shops lining the main street. When I inquired about a place to stay, I was directed to a humble building that looked more like a family residence, yet offered a few basic rooms complete with a shared toilet and shower in the backyard.

Realising the slow part of the journey could be better navigated with a lift, especially since the owner was kind enough to offer assistance with the bus timetable to Gangaw or Kale, I decided to take him up on it.

 

Pale to Kale (Kalay): Eleven Hours of Mountain Madness.

However, getting a bus proved challenging. The small, agile minivans couldn't accommodate bicycles, while the larger bus only rolled out at 8 p.m. This detour meant losing another precious day, but with no other choices on the horizon, I settled into my waiting game. I was less than thrilled about a night-time bus ride over the mountains.

An early morning walk turned my spirits around as I set off in search of breakfast. I stumbled upon a hidden gem—a little restaurant with a dirt floor and wooden tables, where locals gathered. The array of food was delightful, and the friendly villagers snapped pictures of me as their laughter echoed around. In a wonderful twist, they refused to charge me for my meal, a generous gesture that warmed my heart.

As the day wore on, the village buzzed with pre-election fervour. Truckloads of enthusiastic locals cruised down the main road, massive speakers blaring music and promises of a brighter future. Flags danced in the air, and the communal joy was infectious.

Finally, at 8 p.m., a bus rolled up, but it was already packed to the brim. By a stroke of luck, the driver managed to wedge my bike into a tight spot, and we set out on a narrow mountain road. The ride was a wild adventure—bumpy and chaotic, with no hope of catching any sleep as the music blared on, probably more for the driver's entertainment. After a long, uncomfortable journey, we finally touched down in Kale at around 7 a.m., having conquered 270 kilometres over 11 long hours. What a ride!

 

Kale to Tamu: The Dash to the Border (140 km)

The moment I stepped off the bus, the adventure began. With my bike ready to roll, I set my sights on Tamu. The rumours swirling around suggested the journey might be too ambitious for a single day — perhaps friends were angling to offer me a ride. Ignoring the doubts, I grabbed a quick bite, the hunger gnawing at me more than my need for sleep. It was time to hit the road, the thrill of the unknown propelling me forward.

The distance loomed large ahead, but the landscape was mercifully flat, allowing me to focus on the road rather than the strain of climbing hills. As I pedalled on, I was pleasantly surprised to encounter a fellow cyclist heading the opposite way, a reassuring reminder that I wasn’t the only one brave—or perhaps a little crazy—enough to tackle this remote path.

Finally arriving in Tamu just before dusk, I marvelled at the fading light as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting everything in a golden glow. My path led me to the Shwe Oakar Guesthouse. It looked welcoming, and all I could think about was a hot shower and a cold beer to toast my day’s journey. A restful night awaited me, and I slept soundly, my mind easing into the comfort of the unknown.

My permit required me to cross the border on 7 November, giving me a whole day to soak in Tamu before the next leg of my journey. As luck would have it, election day buzzed to life around me, turning the town into a lively spectacle. The streets were alive with truckloads of supporters, flags flapping in the breeze, their chants ringing with hope and fervour. It was impossible not to feel the infectious energy, though I couldn't help but notice that the lack of electricity provided an ironic twist to the celebrations. My guesthouse had a generator that ran from 6 p.m. to 10 p.m., and during the day, it relied on sunlight.

 

Tamu to Moreh, Manipur: Into India, Over a Stony Hill.

On the morning I was to enter India, I rolled up to the Indian immigration office, expecting a smooth transition. Instead, I found the door shut tight — a minor hiccup in my plans. But patience is key in travel, so I lingered for a while. By one o'clock, I crossed the river into Manipur, the anticipation building as I approached the immigration office. Just my luck, it was deserted. A quick chat with some locals led me to the nearby police station perched atop a stony hill, accessible only via a rugged dirt track.

After navigating the somewhat chaotic formalities, I finally set off to explore the village. Upon reaching the Sangai Lodge, the place's energy was infectious. This modest accommodation seemed to be the hub for wandering cyclists like myself. The owner was a treasure trove of information and stories, helping me feel more at home in this vibrant new environment. The sights and sounds around me echoed with a distinctly different vibe, almost more reminiscent of Africa than of India, filling me with a sense of wonder at the diverse tapestry of experiences this journey promised.

 

Epilogue

By the time I reached the edge of India, Myanmar had already left its imprint. It lingered in the dust still clinging to my bags, in the cadence of clapping hands on the roadside, in the image of ancient temples rising from fields where daily life carried on uninterrupted by history. The country had tested my endurance and my expectations. Still, it also reshaped them—teaching me that progress is not always smooth, that inconvenience can carry meaning, and that hospitality often arrives unannounced and unrecorded. As I crossed the final border, tired but fuller than when I entered, I realised that Myanmar was not simply a place I had passed through. It was a stretch of road that altered the journey itself, reminding me why I ride: to feel the world at human speed, and to let it change me along the way.

075 CYCLING THAILAND (6) - EN ROUTE FROM MALAYSIA TO MYANMAR

A Long, Wet, Wonderful Detour on the Way to Myanmar

 

THAILAND (6)

 1,099 Km - 29 Days

12 September - 10 October 2015 

   MAP

   PHOTOS

PDF

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.

 

 

074 CYCLING MALAYSIA (2) - WAITING FOR A NEW PASSPORT

The Great Malaysian Loop

Diving, Dodging Monkeys and Defying Bureaucracy

MALAYSIA (2)
3,205 Kilometres - 66 Days
8 June – 11 September 2015

MAP
PHOTOS
PDF
VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

  

Prelude

Malaysia wasn’t part of any grand plan. It was simply where I happened to be when life, bureaucracy, and a missing passport conspired to keep me still. Yet the country had other ideas. It swept me up in its humid embrace, fed me roti canai at irresponsible hours, introduced me to monkeys with questionable morals, and offered roads so quiet I could hear my own thoughts — and occasionally my own swearing. What began as a place to wait became a place to wander, to linger, to get lost, and to be found again. Malaysia, in all its smoky sunsets, coastal shortcuts, and unexpected kindness, turned out to be the perfect detour.

 

 

Crossing Borders & Chasing Roti (105 km)

After a breezy 55 km pedal, I rolled up to the Thailand–Malaysia border expecting bureaucracy, queues, and at least one official who looked like he’d rather be fishing. Instead, I was waved through with a 90‑day stay as casually as if they were handing out coupons. I nearly hugged the immigration officer.

Sixty kilometres later, I reached Alor Setar — gateway to Langkawi, apparently, though I was only looking for a bed and possibly something fried. Malaysia, I quickly discovered, is one of those countries that seems to have been designed by a committee of people who really like food. Malay, Chinese, Indian — all happily mingling in a fragrant, sizzling culinary utopia.

The night market next to my guesthouse was a sensory riot. Spices perfumed the air, hot plates hissed like angry cats, and roti canai cost RM1 each. I ate more than one. I regret nothing.

 

Ferrying into Food Paradise (100 km)

The ride to Butterworth was a gentle glide past rice paddies, temples, and mosques — the sort of scenery that makes you feel like you’re starring in a slow‑paced travel documentary narrated by David Attenborough.

From Butterworth, I boarded the ferry to Penang, sharing the deck with pedestrians, cars, and motorbikes that looked like they’d been welded together during the 1980s. Minutes later, we docked in Georgetown, the famed Pearl of the Orient.

I found a crappy but blessedly air‑conditioned room with a window — luxury by my standards. Georgetown’s streets were a living museum: rickshaws pedalling past Chinese shophouses, lanterns swaying overhead, and food vendors everywhere. I inhaled a plate of Nasi Goreng before my backpack even hit the floor.

 

Street Art Safari in Georgetown

Georgetown may be a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but it’s also a fully functioning town where people live, work, and honk at you. Rickshaws ferried tourists through chaotic lanes lined with British Raj architecture, retro pubs, and Chinese shophouses.

I spent the day hunting for street art with the enthusiasm of a treasure‑obsessed pirate. The murals were scattered all over town, turning the day into a delightful scavenger hunt. Every time I found one, I felt absurdly triumphant — as if I’d discovered it personally and should probably be awarded a medal.

 

Love Lane & More Wandering

I wasn’t done with Georgetown, so I stayed another day. My wanderings took me past joss stick makers, goldsmiths, garland makers, and food vendors who seemed determined to test the limits of human stomach capacity.

I drifted through Little India, Little China, and the old clan jetties before returning to my abode on Love Lane — a name that suggests romance but mostly delivers backpackers, scooters, and the occasional confused tourist.

 

Rain, Ferries & Tiger Beer (55 km)

I wasn’t in the mood to cycle, but I wasn’t in the mood to stay either — a classic traveller’s dilemma. I dragged myself to the ferry and headed back to the mainland.

Moments after departure, the sky unleashed one of Southeast Asia’s signature downpours — the kind that makes motorcycles pull over en masse like a synchronised swimming team. I joined them, waiting for the deluge to pass. A few kilometres later, the heavens opened again. At that point, the only sensible thing to do was find shelter, order a tall Tiger beer, and watch the weather from a porch like a woman who had absolutely no intention of getting wet again.

 

The Wettest Town Lives Up to Its Name (44 km)

Taiping is famous for being the wettest town in the region. Even in June — allegedly the “dry” month — it receives 159 mm of rain. I arrived soaked, dripping all over the hotel’s shiny tiles like a malfunctioning fountain.

The rain never stopped. I spent the rest of the day indoors, eating and listening to the storm batter the windows. Taiping: come for the scenery, stay because you physically cannot leave.

 

A Pleasant Surprise (95 km)

Breakfast was McDonald’s (don’t judge), followed by a 95 km ride to Lumut, gateway to Pangkor Island. The rain had finally given up, leaving behind cooler air and humidity thick enough to swim through.

Lumut surprised me. It was charming, calm, and pleasant enough to tempt me into staying the night instead of hopping straight onto the ferry. Sometimes the best travel decisions are made out of sheer laziness.

 

Monkeys & Bad Influence in Lumut

I started the day with shopping at the mall, then read a photography magazine at Starbucks — a dangerously expensive pastime, as it immediately made me want a new lens.

On the way back, I stopped at the Mangrove Park to photograph monkeys. While I was busy composing the perfect shot, the little thieves stole my water bottle straight off the bike. I shook my fist at them, but I swear they laughed from the treetops. Malaysia’s wildlife: adorable, agile, and morally questionable.

 

Waiting for a Passport & Settling in Lumut

I was dragging my heels because I was waiting for my new passport. Malaysia was one of the few countries that allowed a 90‑day stay, and if you needed more time, you could simply pop into Singapore and return for another three months. Bureaucracy with a side of convenience.

Lumut turned out to be an excellent place to wait. It had ocean views, was near Seri Manjung, had plenty of restaurants, and had a steady stream of tourists heading to Pangkor Island. I found a lovely studio apartment with a balcony and a massive pool — which was entirely mine thanks to Ramadan keeping things quiet.

The staff were wonderfully accommodating: they gave me balcony furniture, did my laundry, and even lent me a laptop with a big screen. If waiting for a passport was supposed to be stressful, Lumut clearly hadn’t received the memo.

 

Lumut: The Fitness Experiment

I decided to become one of those people who jog in tropical humidity and pretend it’s enjoyable. This required running shoes and swimming goggles, which I dutifully acquired. The jogging part, however, was less successful. My legs moved at the speed of continental drift, and I wasn’t sure I possessed the patience required to become “running fit.” Still, I swam afterwards, which felt far more sensible for someone living in a sauna.

 

Lumut: Monkeys, Museums & Mild Cabin Fever

I adore the tropics, but renting an apartment for an entire month turned out to be a touch excessive. Before reaching the halfway mark, I was already itching to leave. Even the monkeys sensed my restlessness and tried to steal my shopping, forcing me to dodge them like a contestant in a bizarre game show.

In search of excitement, I cycled to Marine Island for scuba diving, only to find the shop closed. So, I went to the mall instead, where I treated myself to a facial and then visited the Rahmat Maritime Museum — a navy battleship turned tourist attraction. It was surprisingly fun, though I suspect the facial did more for my morale.

 

Lumut: Island Hopping

Pangkor and Pangkor Laut sit just three miles offshore, dotted with fishing villages and traditional Malay houses. The ferry costs only 10 MYR, which is practically free, so I joined the crowds of backpackers and domestic tourists to explore the islands. They were charming, colourful, and full of life — the perfect antidote to my Lumut-induced boredom.

 

The Passport Plot Twist

Months after applying for a new passport, the saga took a dramatic turn. A call to the Bangkok Embassy revealed I had to pay double the original fee because I’d lost the passport — a detail no one had bothered to mention. Worse, I had to pay in person. Bureaucracy truly is stranger than fiction.

I threw a few things into a backpack and hopped on a bus to Bangkok, muttering darkly about administrative surprises.

 

Bangkok and the Familiar Pannier

Twenty-four hours later, I arrived in one of my favourite cities. Peachy Guesthouse was still cheap as chips, so I checked in. Near the rubbish bin, I spotted a familiar-looking pannier — Ernest’s, my old cycling buddy from the Americas. It appeared he had stayed there recently and, like me, his panniers were also falling apart. Some friendships are built on shared suffering.

 

Bureaucracy & Headless Goddesses

I caught a water taxi to the Embassy, thrilled to be using public transport like a proper city dweller. After paying the fee, I wandered through Bangkok’s malls before heading to the National Museum.

A special exhibition celebrated HRH Princess Maha Chakri Sirindhorn’s 60th birthday: Feminine Deities of Buddhism, Hinduism and Indigenous Cults. Most of the statues were headless, which made me wonder whether they were unpopular or simply victims of poor storage.

 

Backpackerville & Muay Thai Magic

Bangkok is dangerously easy to stay in. Khao San Road was its usual circus of backpackers, vendors, and questionable life choices. You could get pierced, tattooed, dreadlocked, or buy fake IDs and photographer’s passes — the latter being temptingly mischievous.

I shopped for jewellery and clothes, watched an outdoor cultural show, and then headed to see Muay Thai. It’s a sport where knees, elbows, shins, hands, and feet all seem to be fair game. The fighters were impressively built, which was reason enough for me to watch.

Eventually, it was time to return to Malaysia. I chose the train — far nicer than the bus. I loved the tray tables with tablecloths, the beds magically made at night, and the hypnotic clickety-clack of the wheels. It felt like travelling in a long-lost era.

 

Lumut: Home Again

Returning to Lumut felt oddly like coming home. The staff greeted me with the usual Malaysian warmth: “Hi, hello. Did you enjoy your holiday? Have you eaten?” In Malaysia, food is both a greeting and a lifestyle.

 

Back on the Road (107 km)

My final day in Lumut arrived, and I was thrilled to pack up and resume my journey. Cycling the same country twice can be monotonous, but Malaysia always offers new corners to explore — and I had no choice but to wait for the passport.

I reached Sungai Besar and found inexpensive accommodation. It was Eid, and families celebrated Hari Raya Aidilfitri in coordinated outfits. Men wore loose shirts and trousers; women wore elegant silk ensembles. The matching colours symbolised unity, and the whole town shimmered like a walking Pantone chart.

 

The Stomach Bug Day (25 km)

A stomach bug hit me hard, and I limped into Sekinchan with survival, not sightseeing, on my mind. Accommodation was pricier due to Eid festivities, and while the festival focused on forgiveness, most people seemed far more interested in eating — which, frankly, I admired.

 

Rain & Relief (80 km)

I waited for the weather to clear, but the drizzle persisted most of the day. Still, it was better than the previous day’s emergency bush runs. The overcast skies made for comfortable riding, though the traffic was hectic. Thankfully, a smaller path ran parallel to the main road, saving me from becoming a hood ornament.

 

Warmshowers Royal Treatment

From Klang, I headed inland to visit Peter Yoong — fellow cyclist, Warmshowers host, and all‑round legend I’d met months earlier in Thailand. The ride was easy, thanks to a dedicated motorbike lane complete with its own road signs, which made me feel like a VIP on two wheels.

Peter’s family welcomed me like a long‑lost relative, and he even had a cold beer waiting. I knew instantly I’d chosen the right host.

The next morning, we visited the market, and then Peter casually baked three pies. Three. Pies. I wasn’t sure if Warmshowers had a Michelin category, but Peter deserved one. By evening, another cyclist, Ivan, arrived, and Peter drove us to Kuala Lumpur so we could photograph the Petronas Towers like proper tourists.

 

The Secret Coastal Shortcut (115 km)

Peter suggested a coastal shortcut to Port Dickson, and it turned out to be a brilliant idea. The route was quiet and scenic, winding through oil palm plantations until it reached a river, where a tiny ferry shuttled people across. On the opposite bank, Lukut awaited — peaceful, understated, and perfect for a night’s rest.

 

Rooftop Living & Bonsai Wonders (100 km)

The ride to Malacca was classic Malaysia: big rivers, swampy greenery, and lush landscapes that looked like they’d been painted by someone who really likes the colour green.

My Warmshowers host, Howard, ran a small guesthouse where cyclists could sleep on the rooftop terrace for free. He offered complimentary coffee and tea, which made him instantly heroic in my eyes.

I had my bike serviced, wandered through old Malacca’s UNESCO‑listed streets, and stayed an extra day because Malacca is the kind of place that gently insists you linger. I joined a free walking tour, had my camera cleaned, and stumbled upon a bonsai show. I know nothing about bonsais, but these were magnificent — tiny trees with more personality than some people I’ve met.

 

Rain Delay Malacca (88 km)

Not much happened except rain. I took shelter, waited it out, and continued on. Some days are simply wet and uneventful.

 

The Abacus Hotel (77 km)

I rode to Pontian Kecil, stopping for water and snacks as usual. I’d planned to stay with a Warmshowers host, but a misunderstanding sent me searching for a hotel instead.

The hotel staff used an abacus to check me in. An actual abacus. It was oddly charming — a reminder that the world is full of delightful surprises, especially when you least expect them.

 

Traffic, Rain & Curry Salvation (105 km)

The day was spent on busy main roads, which was about as enjoyable as cycling through a swarm of angry bees. Rain arrived, but thankfully didn’t last long. By the time I reached Kota Tinggi, I’d had enough of traffic and checked into a hotel. A food court next door served curry noodle soup, which restored my faith in humanity.

 

Undulating Roads & Embassy News (105 km)

The route to the East Coast rolled gently through oil palm plantations. In Mersing, the Embassy Hotel offered the best value in town, so I booked two nights.

I phoned the South African Embassy in Bangkok, and — miracle of miracles — my passport application was finally on the Home Affairs system. I dared to hope the saga might eventually end. The rest of the day was spent doing typical rest‑day chores.

 

Smoke, Swiftlets & Storms (96 km)

Route 3 led me past forest clearing operations — a depressing sight made worse by fires used to speed up the destruction. A little further on stood a massive brick aviary for swiftlets, whose edible nests sell for thousands of dollars per kilogram. It’s a strange world when bird spit is worth more than gold.

I stayed in basic chalets along the river, but the air was thick with smoke. I mentally planned what to grab if evacuation became necessary. Thankfully, a thunderstorm rolled in and cleared the air. I exhaled deeply — crisis averted.

 

Bamboo Rice & Night Market Temptation (111 km)

Roadside stands sold lemang — sticky rice baked in bamboo — and I was grateful for my habit of taking photos, because sometimes I think nothing happened until I look back and realise the day was full of small wonders. Someone once said, 'Travellers see more than they remember and remember more than they see.' Very true.

Kuantan was larger than expected. The backpackers’ hostel had no bicycle storage, so I chose a guesthouse opposite the night market. I hadn’t eaten all day, so shopping hungry was a terrible idea — I wanted everything.

The next morning, I tried to fix my laptop’s touchpad and instead broke the entire thing. Off to the computer shop I went.

 

Freedom & No Beer (97 km)

I laughed out loud leaving Kuantan — the joy of moving on can be overwhelming, especially on a downhill. Although there were interesting sights along the way, I didn’t feel like stopping and rode straight to Kerteh.

Conservative Kerteh had few attractions. Not even beer. But it had a bed, and that was enough.

 

Fishing Villages & 3D Art (117 km)

Another pleasant ride past fishing villages and wide rivers reminded me I was deep in the tropics. The Seaview Hotel had no sea view but did have a ground‑floor room for the bike, which was far more important.

Chinatown offered good food and colourful streets. The next morning, I dropped off my laundry and returned to explore the 3D street art — so realistic it was hard to tell where reality ended and paint began. Markets overflowed with unfamiliar smells and mysterious merchandise. Kuala Terengganu was a feast for the senses.

 

Headwinds & Hunger (109 km)

The 109 km to Kuala Besut took most of the day thanks to a mild but persistent headwind — the kind that feels polite at first but slowly erodes your will to live. The road hugged the coast, flat as a pancake, with small islands dotting the horizon like decorative sprinkles. The Perhentian Islands beckoned.

By the time I reached Kuala Besut, food stalls materialised like a mirage. I hadn’t eaten all day, so I descended on them with the enthusiasm of someone who’d just discovered eating.

 

Perhentian Islands: Diving, Snorkelling & Warm Seas

The guesthouse owner kindly stored my bicycle while I hopped on a ferry to the Perhentians. I got off at Long Beach, where budget accommodation and cheap diving awaited. Oh La La offered a decent deal, so I booked a dive and spent the rest of the day snorkelling in water so clear it felt like swimming in blue glass.

The next morning, we headed to a pinnacle 20 minutes offshore. Visibility wasn’t perfect, but the reef was alive with marine creatures doing whatever marine creatures do. That evening, I joined other divers for dinner on the beach — the kind of meal that tastes better simply because you’re barefoot.

The following day’s dive took us to a cave. The water was so warm I wore only a T‑shirt, which felt wonderfully rebellious. We returned just in time for me to catch the ferry back to the mainland.

 

The Boob Snatcher (112 km)

Some days are stranger than others, shortly after leaving Kuala Besut, a motorbike pulled up beside me. With lightning speed, the rider reached out, grabbed my boob, and sped off. I unleashed a torrent of profanity and gave him the middle finger. He likely didn’t understand “Jou ma se moer!” but it made me feel better.

Later, a kind man stopped and offered me a lift to Terengganu, insisting it was too far to cycle — even though only 50 km remained. I declined, thanked him, and pedalled on with my faith in humanity partially restored.

I reached Terengganu in good time, picked up fried noodles and beer in Chinatown, and returned to the Seaview Hotel without the sea view.

 

Odd Shoes & Bad Rooms (94 km)

The route was lined with stalls selling satay‑skewered chicken wrapped in banana leaves and grilled over smoky charcoal. At one stall, I realised I was wearing mismatched shoes — impressive, considering I only owned two pairs.

A stiff breeze slowed me down, and halfway to Dungun the rain came down in sheets. Dungun had several beachfront accommodations, all expensive, so I chose the cheapest. Big mistake. It was the worst place I stayed in Malaysia. On days like this, I remind myself I’m not buying the place — I only need to survive it until morning.

 

Ghost Town by the Sea (86 km)

Cherating was once a popular R&R stop for travellers heading to the Perhentians. Now it had a ghostly air of decline — charming, but quiet enough to hear your own thoughts echo. Accommodation was plentiful and cheap, so I stayed an extra day, did laundry, and lounged about like a cat.

 

Rivers & Decisions (90 km)

Retracing my steps wasn’t thrilling, but Pekan was interesting. The Sungai Pahang — the longest river in Peninsular Malaysia — flows into the South China Sea here, and the town is lined with traditional Chinese shophouses.

At my guesthouse, I debated where to go once my passport arrived. The monsoon was approaching, India’s was ending, and Bangladesh — still uncycled — was calling my name.

 

Pekan to Rompin (94 km)

A pleasant ride along the ocean brought news from the Bangkok Embassy: my passport had supposedly been sent to Bangkok instead of Cape Town and was already in the diplomatic bag. I was sceptical. If true, I could collect it or have it couriered, provided Thai border control allows me entry with a nearly full passport.

 

Coffee Stops & Laptop Death (66 km)

Mersing was close, so I skipped breakfast and enjoyed a scenic coastal ride full of coffee stops and ocean views. The Embassy Hotel was an easy choice: hot water, air‑con, TV.

My laptop finally gave up. The screen shook like it was possessed. I suspected its days were numbered.

 

Trucks & Tragedy (90 km)

The next day the road was narrow, trucks were plentiful, and oil palm plantations stretched endlessly. A patch of natural forest offered relief — until I saw a distressed monkey pacing beside her dead baby, likely hit by a vehicle. It was heartbreaking, and I carried the image with me for the rest of the day.

 

Language Lessons (108 km)

Still no passport news. Sigh. The route to Muar was uneventful, but the town was larger than expected. I chatted with the receptionist, impressed to learn Malaysians often speak up to six languages — Malay, English, Cantonese, Mandarin, and various dialects. My brain felt lazy in comparison.

 

Beach Camping Bliss (126 km)

I pushed on to Port Dickson, having cycled this stretch before. I pitched my tent under trees on the beach, with a view over the ocean. I watched the sunset, then wandered to a nearby restaurant. It was one of those perfect travel evenings.

 

Storm Survival (90 km)

I woke to a massive storm. I had to brace the tentpole with all my strength to keep the tent from collapsing. Rain hammered down, waves crashed alarmingly close, and when the storm passed, seafoam sat inches from my tent. Too close for comfort.

Sopping wet, I cycled to Puchong to stay with Peter until my passport arrived.

 

Hungry Ghosts & Laptop Resurrection

I spent my days chatting with Peter and his family. Carolina from Brazil was also staying there, helping with the garden through HelpX — a programme where travellers work in exchange for accommodation. She was energetic, kind, and endlessly helpful.

My passport was still in South Africa, but arrangements were finally made to send it to Malaysia. My laptop, miraculously, came back to life.

It was the Hungry Ghost Festival — when the gates of hell open and hungry spirits roam the earth. People left food and paper money outside, and temples burned elaborate paper houses, cars, phones, and shoes so ghosts wouldn’t go barefoot. If overeating, drinking, gambling, and smoking lead to ghosthood, I’m doomed.

 

Puchong: A New Hindu Temple

Peter drove us to a newly built Hindu temple that was still being painted. Hindu temples are breathtaking — elaborate, colourful, and full of symbolism. Artisans had been brought from India to complete the work.

Swami Vivekananda taught that temples are merely supports for reaching the divine. I liked that — a reminder that spirituality doesn’t need a building, just intention.

 

The Haunted House Expedition

Peter and I went searching for Puchong’s infamous haunted house. Legend says a wealthy businessman went bankrupt and his family died mysteriously — suicide, murder, or something worse, depending on who tells the story.

Bomohs (witch doctors) allegedly use the house for rituals. People claim to see lights flickering despite no electricity, hear children screaming, and spot shadowy figures. Pontianaks — female vampire ghosts — are said to live there.

We found the house. No ghosts. Just thousands of mosquitoes behaving like possessed demons. We fled.

 

Passport Arrival & New Plans

At long last, my passport arrived. I was thrilled to move on. India and Bangladesh were top choices, and applying for visas in Kuala Lumpur made sense — except the Bangladesh Embassy only issued visas to Malays.

I decided to cycle north to Bangkok and apply for an Indian visa there. Onward, at last.

 

Coastal Quiet & Lizard Company (110 km)

Leaving Peter and his family was bittersweet, but the road was calling. Peter suggested a smaller coastal path — a brilliant idea. It was peaceful, scenic, and blissfully free of traffic. Just me, the beach, a few monkeys plotting petty theft, and the occasional monitor lizard lumbering across the path like a prehistoric crossing guard. My kind of cycling.

 

Roti, Regret & Rising Haze (127 km)

Breakfast was roti canai, which was perfect until the chillies staged a coup. Ten kilometres later, I made an emergency Gaviscon stop, cursing my own optimism.

I re-joined the tiny coastal path from the previous day, weaving past fishing hamlets and resorts perched on stilts over the water. Palm plantations stretched endlessly until I reached a river — mercifully equipped with a ferry.

The smoke haze worsened. Newspapers blamed forest burning, factories, vehicles, and open fires. I blamed all of them. The air tasted like a barbecue gone wrong. I pushed on to Sitiawan, hoping tomorrow would be clearer.

 

Night Zoo Adventures

A drizzle accompanied me to Taiping, but never enough to stop me. I arrived starving, having skipped breakfast, and immediately hunted down food.

Taiping’s Night Zoo was open, so I wandered through dimly lit paths that felt like walking under a full moon. The forest smelled damp and alive. Grunts, stomps, and chewing echoed around me. I wondered what I’d do if a crocodile lunged out — then a deer bounced from behind a bush and nearly stopped my heart. Night zoos: highly recommended, mildly terrifying.

 

Back to the Pearl (101 km)

After a quick breakfast, I followed minor paths north. Malaysia is so modern that you sometimes forget it’s tropical — until you cross rivers jam‑packed with fishing boats in every shape imaginable.

Butterworth spat me out at the ferry terminal. Despite the bridge, the ferry was still wildly popular with cars and motorbikes. I boarded and felt privileged to return to Penang — land of street art, street food, and endless charm.

I needed a three‑month Thai visa (RM150) because land borders only allow a two-week stay. I planned to apply for Indian and Bangladesh visas in Bangkok, so the three‑month option made sense. I handed my passport to a visa agent and hoped for the best.

 

Penang: Blog Battles

While waiting for the visa, I had a relaxing day — until I tried accessing my old blog. Despite knowing the password, email, and username, I couldn’t get in because I no longer had access to the ancient phone number linked to it. Technology: the gift that keeps on giving.

I started a new blog instead. The last update had been in the Philippines in 2013, so I had some catching up to do. It took another seven years before I finally deleted the old one.

 

Penang: Hungry Ghosts & Hot Keyboards

I collected my passport at midday and continued updating the blog. A stroll around town revealed Penang in full Hungry Ghost Festival mode — giant joss sticks, food stands, and live performances everywhere.

Different neighbourhoods celebrated at different times, so some areas were winding down while others were just getting started. Penang was buzzing.

 

Penang: Rain & Motorbike Nomads

Rain poured relentlessly, so I stayed put at Love Lane Inn. I met fascinating travellers — at least five of them on motorbikes. A French guy rode an Australian “Postie”; an Indian man and a French couple had their own bikes; and an Australian bought and sold local motorbikes as he travelled, avoiding border fees. We drank beer and swapped stories while the rain drummed on the roof.

 

The Missing Ferry (110 km)

I finally left via a secondary path. Drizzle came and went, but nothing dramatic. In Pantai Merdeka, I searched for the ferry across the river — but it had vanished. Even after asking around, no one could help. So I returned to the main road and continued to Gurun, which at least had food and a bed.

 

Bureaucracy & Blue Skies (105 km)

The day was perfect for cycling — blue skies, fresh air, and rice paddies flooded from recent rain, glowing green under the sun. A small path ran alongside the main road, making the ride easy and scenic.

The border crossing, however, was less charming. I now had two passports (old and new), which confused the officers. They also demanded cash and a return ticket. I cycled to the bank, withdrew money, and returned. After explaining I was travelling by bicycle, they mercifully waived the ticket requirement.

By then it was late, so I stayed in Sadao — officially back in Thailand, ready for the next chapter.

 

With my new passport finally in hand — guarded as fiercely as a dragon guards treasure — I pedalled north toward Thailand, hoping the universe had finished toying with my paperwork. The coastal haze thinned, the rice paddies brightened, and the familiar rhythm of the road returned as I crossed back into the Land of Smiles. Ahead lay Bangkok, visas, and the promise of new borders. Beyond that waited Myanmar: golden stupas, quiet mornings, and roads that would test both my legs and my patience. And this time, I vowed, I’d keep a firm grip on my passport… preferably with both hands.

 

Epilogue

In the end, Malaysia let me go the same way it held me: gently, chaotically, and with a final flourish of paperwork. I pedalled north with a new passport, a revived laptop, and the lingering smell of satay in my panniers. The Hungry Ghost Festival faded behind me, the coastal haze thinned, and the monkeys no doubt plotted their next theft. What remained was the quiet certainty that detours often make the best chapters — and that sometimes the road you never meant to take becomes the one you remember most. Ahead lay Thailand, Myanmar, India… but Malaysia had already left its mark, somewhere between the ferries, the food stalls, and the long, laughing kilometres.