Part
1 - Malaysia
Across
the Straits – Dumai, Indonesia to Port Dickson, Malaysia
I woke to the warm, comforting aroma
of an Indonesian breakfast drifting through the room — a small, fragrant
promise that the day would begin well. Energised, I hopped onto my bicycle and
pedalled the short distance to the ferry office. I arrived far too early, but
eagerness has its own logic; I was ready to check in, ready to begin whatever
the day intended to offer.
As the hour crept toward eleven, the
weather shifted with theatrical suddenness. The sky darkened, the wind
stiffened, and the ferry crossing over the Strait of Malacca became a wild,
heaving ride. The boat pitched and rolled like a creature shaking off a foul
mood, and seasick bags appeared in trembling hands like tiny white flags of
surrender. It was a sharp reminder that the road — or sea — rarely cares for
our plans.
By the time we reached Malaysia, storm
clouds hung low and heavy, and the world felt blurred at the edges, softened by
mist and rain. I cycled toward Kuala Lumpur through a landscape washed into
watercolour — greys, greens, and muted blues bleeding into one another. When
the Grandpa Hotel finally appeared, glowing faintly through the drizzle like a
modest beacon, I surrendered. I knew I wouldn’t reach Peter’s place that day,
and the thought of a dry, cosy room felt like the right kind of surrender.
Later, I wandered to the Giant shopping
mall, where the fluorescent aisles glittered with abundance. It felt like
stepping into an adult candy store — shelves stacked high with colour, novelty,
and luxury. I didn’t buy a thing, but the simple pleasure of wandering, of
letting my eyes feast on the excess, was enough.
Reunion
with the Yoong family, Janice’s arrival - Port Dickson to Puchong
Breakfast
was humble—fried rice, fried egg, hot tea. Heavy rain had fallen overnight, but
the skies had cleared, so I hopped on the bike for the eighty kilometres to
Peter’s place on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur.
The
ride was pleasant—smooth roads, no potholes—through oil palm plantations and
past the Malaysian Grand Prix circuit. Fruit stalls flashed by, and a massive
solar farm glinted in the sun. Somehow, I ended up on a toll road and twice
slipped past toll booths unnoticed, making for a quick, comfortable ride to
Puchong.
Arriving
at Peter’s felt like returning home. It was lovely to see the Yoong family
again. That evening, we collected Janice from the airport—my excitement almost
too big for my chest. Our long‑imagined
journey was suddenly real. She reassembled her bicycle with quiet determination,
and I felt a deep sense of shared purpose and anticipation for what lies ahead.
Thaipusam at Batu Caves - The trance,
the spikes, the climb,
Before
dawn, we joined the river of devotees flowing toward Batu Caves. Thaipusam, celebrated
by the Tamil community on the full moon of the Hindu month of Thai, unfolded
like a fever dream—milk pots balanced on heads, bodies pierced with hooks and
spikes, drums pounding like a second heartbeat. Men with freshly shaven heads
climbed the 272 steps in a trance. The air was thick with incense, sweat,
devotion. Hundreds of devotees ascended toward the cave—it was packed—one could hardly move. Unsettling yet unforgettable.
Puchong
Temples, Lakes, and Last Lanterns of the New Year
I
ran at sunrise, legs remembering what they’d forgotten. Peter whisked us to the
market, but first we stopped at the temple dedicated to the snake goddess
Nagaswari Amman, shimmering, unlike anything I’d seen. Breakfast afterwards was
a feast only the Chinese could orchestrate.
By
evening, Peter, Alice, Janice, and I cycled around Putrajaya Lake—a delightful
ride in a beautiful setting. Before returning home, we stopped for dinner, as
one inevitably does in Malaysia.
Janice
and I prepared for departure. We tested the bicycles with a ride to Tesco and
picked up a few items for the journey ahead. It happened to be the last day of the
Chinese New Year, and Peter arranged a Hot Pot feast. He invited a fascinating
mix of people: two South Korean cyclists, Lina and Siew; their WarmShowers
host, Rose; two British motorbike travellers, Maggie; Alice’s cousin, Ginger;
her mother; and my friend, Saras, whom I’d met cycling in Malaysia a year
earlier: a great evening—good company, delicious food.
The
Kabins and the First Taste of the Road
Finally,
Janice and I set off on our little adventure to Bangkok. Peter kindly
accompanied us to The Kabins, leading us along secondary roads—pleasant riding
on small paths past the remnants of Chinese New Year celebrations. Janice did
exceptionally well on her first day, and we reached The Kabins early.
The
Kabins offered a luxury night after our first ride: container rooms stacked
around a lovely swimming pool. Air‑conditioning, fridge, kettle, coffee,
tea—everything we needed. Boiling, we wasted no time jumping into the pool.
There’s nothing quite like having a large swimming pool all to yourself on a
tropical afternoon. We spent the evening chatting on our little veranda.
Bukit
Malawati and the Fireflies
We
drifted out late, following the coast until the road vanished, dissolving into
sand and scrub. We walked the bikes, laughing at the absurdity. Still, the ride
was comfortable along a rural road through oil palm plantations, with monkeys
darting across our path.
Cycle
touring compresses life; so much happens in a single day, it’s easy to forget
the details. This day brought two weddings—exquisite outfits, multiple costume
changes. We passed creeks lined with fishing boats waiting for the tide, and
temples where joss sticks burned slowly, sending their heavenly scent to the
spirits.
We
rolled into Kuala Selangor early and checked into the Melawati Hotel. A short
walk took us up Bukit Malawati, once the stronghold of the Selangor Sultanate:
cannons, monkeys, fragments of history. I didn’t feel well, so I rested while
Janice visited the nature park.
Later,
while searching for dinner, we ran into the Korean couple again and invited
them to join our firefly trip. It turned into a magical evening—thousands of
fireflies blinking like a living galaxy. None of us expected quite so many.
Punctures,
Wishing Trees, and the Kindness of Strangers
We
left Kuala Selangor along the coastal road, passing heaps of oil‑palm fruit and
iguanas stretched out in the sun like lazy emperors. Small fishing communities
appeared one after another, their boats lying four‑deep, waiting for the tide
to return.
Then
came the day’s frustration: Janice’s puncture. Not the usual kind, but a hole
on the inside of the tube—rim side. Only rough spoke holes or protruding spokes
could cause that. We filed edges, taped them, replaced the tube. It lasted 200
metres. We repeated the process—this time it held.
At
Pantai Redang, a colourful wishing tree caught our attention. To make a wish,
ribbons are sold at the temple and thrown into the branches. We didn’t follow
the ritual, and perhaps that was our undoing—shortly after Redang, Janice had
another flat. None of our patches stuck. After four or five attempts, we ran
out entirely.
There
was nothing for it but to carry the wheel to the nearest motorbike repair shop.
Mercifully, they had a bicycle tube. In minutes, we were rolling again. The
tube held all the way to Sungai Besar, where we met Raja, a friendly cyclist
with a generous heart. He showed us to a hotel, bought us a meal and a drink,
and even drove us to a bike shop for rim tape, patches, and glue. His kindness
was immense.
Trinidadian
Folklore and River Crossings
Raja
waited outside the hotel at dawn, eager to film us cycling. We rode along farm
roads, laughing as he tried to capture the perfect shot. Along the way, we met
Wim and Monique from the Netherlands, enjoying coconut shakes. They’d been
cycling Southeast Asia for seventeen years, returning annually for a two-month
ride. Raja left us to accompany them back to Sungai Besar.
Our
path continued through coconut plantations, we stopped often, inspecting
curiosities—one being the Kapok tree, whose fluffy seed pods are used for
pillows and toys. Trinidadian folklore claims a carpenter carved seven rooms
inside such a tree and tricked the demon Bazil into entering, locking him
inside forever. People say he still lives there.
Our
rural path ended abruptly at a river, but a small ferry carried us across.
Shortly beyond, a conveniently placed hotel appeared—perfect for leaving
seventy kilometres to Lumut the next day.
Island
Time and Blowfish Art
We
didn't meander too much on what would be Janice’s longest day since Kuala Lumpur.
I expected a dull ride, but it turned out pleasant—hot, yes, but beautiful.
We
crossed rivers of every size, from narrow streams to wide channels hosting
massive ships. Chinese temples and Hindu shrines punctuated the landscape.
Roadside vendors offered snacks. A bird seller showed us a curly-feathered
pigeon—an odd, charming creature.
We
stopped at a camera store - Janice bought an 18–200mm lens, ideal for travel.
In Lumut, a ferry carried us to Pangkor Island. The Sea View Inn sat right on
the beach, and we paid for two nights, well deserved.
We
woke to a beautiful morning. I jogged along the beach, then jumped into the
pool before breakfast. The morning dissolved into the usual housekeeping, and
we hired a scooter to explore the island.
We
found the remains of an old Dutch fort and a sacred rock carved with the image
of a tiger holding a child—if one used imagination. Legend says a Dutch
dignitary’s child disappeared mysteriously; some blamed a tiger, others, angry
Malays wanting the Dutch gone. The rock also bears symbols of the Dutch East
India Company.
We
circled the island in two hours—it’s only eight kilometres across. Despite
being a resort island, it remains a fishing hamlet at heart. A memorable stop at
the blowfish man followed; he crafted hats, clocks, and lampshades from dried
blowfish. He insisted the fish were accidental catches, already dead when
found.
Rivers,
Curry Puffs, and the Road to Taiping
By
morning, a short ride brought us to the ferry. Back on the mainland, we faced a
few technical issues: Janice exchanged her lens for a more compatible one, and
her phone finally gave up the ghost. Unable to find a repair shop, she bought a
new one. By the time we left, it was 3 p.m.
Still,
the ride to Pantai Remis was easy—rivers, spirit houses, sugarcane juice, curry
puffs. We checked into Pantai Hotel and later wandered among the mobile food
carts. I settled on a soup with many ingredients; Janice chose a bag of fried
goodies. The evening was spent setting up her new phone.
Spirit
Houses and a Nightly visit to a Zoo
Rain
overnight left the morning fresh and overcast. Our days had settled into a
rhythm—ambling along, stopping when something caught our eye. We passed dense
palm plantations overgrown with moss and ferns, piles of coconut husks guarded
by spirit houses, and roadside stands selling food at dirt-low prices. Rivers
crossed our path endlessly.
Kampungs
stirred with barking dogs and crowing roosters. Residents called “hallo!” from
behind banana plants, curious about where we came from. We stopped at Trong
Leisure Farm & Resort for refreshments—chalets perched on a dam, peaceful
and inviting. But Taiping awaited.
By
evening, we visited the night zoo, wandering in the dark, listening to animals
chew and snort—an unusual, slightly eerie experience.
Street
Art, Visas, and the Small World of Cyclists
We
rose early for the long ride to Butterworth. The main road wasn’t scenic, but
it was the shortest route. Janice kept a steady pace, barely stopping. It
became her longest ride in ten years, she said, and she handled it brilliantly.
The
ferry carried us to Penang, docking around 3 p.m. Despite being tired, Janice
still had the energy to explore Georgetown’s UNESCO-listed streets—its street
art, its food, its charm. We even ran into Lina and Jihoon, the Korean
cyclists. Small world indeed.
The
next morning was for visas, laundry, and wandering Georgetown’s historic lanes.
Rain,
Tea, and the Road to Langkawi
We
left at leisure, boarded the ferry to the mainland, and continued north. At
first, we had no choice but the main road, but soon we found a smaller path—far
better riding. In one small settlement, a friendly Malaysian man invited us for
tea. He’d visited South Africa and spoke fondly of Cape Town.
Rain
set in, warm but relentless. We arrived at Pantai Merdeka, soaked through, and
surrendered to the resort’s comforts. Clothes dried, spirits lifted. Janice
finally found a non-spicy meal—rare in these parts.
Kinky-tailed
Cats and the Ferry to Langkawi
After
breakfast, we rode to the waterfront to find a boat across the river. While
waiting, we watched children play on the sand and befriended the village
cats—all with kinked tails, a curious genetic quirk.
A
boat arrived, sparing us a long detour. The coastal path beyond was
beautiful—tiny fishing hamlets, farmland, scrawny cows, lush forests, distant
mountains. After sixty kilometres, Kuala Kedah appeared, and a ferry carried us
to Langkawi.
We
took the obligatory photo at the eagle statue, then cycled the final twenty-two
kilometres to Cenang Beach. Janice found a place with air‑conditioning, a
fridge, and a pool. Despite being tired and sunburned, we walked to the beach
in search of dinner.
Langkawi
- Tourist Tides, Mangrove Rush, and a Sunset Worth Staying For
Langkawi
was swarming with tourists. Still, we joined a mangrove tour—more of a tourist
conveyor belt than a nature experience. We were herded into a minivan, driven
at breakneck speed, and loaded onto a boat that sped past cliffs and mangroves
in a blur. Caves, floating restaurants, tight schedules—it was all rushed, but
the scenery was undeniably stunning.
Back
in the room, Janice discovered another puncture—again on the rim side. We
couldn’t fix it, so we bought a new tube. We decided to stay an extra night, a
wise choice. We swam in the lukewarm ocean and walked to the beach at sunset,
letting the day soften around us.
Part 2 —
Thailand
Crossing Borders and
A Warm Thai Welcome
Langkawi, Malaysia to
Satun, Thailand
The ferry wouldn’t leave
until early afternoon, so the morning unfolded gently — a jog through humid
air, a quick plunge into the pool, the slow ritual of packing panniers.
Twenty-two easy kilometres carried us to the terminal, where Malaysia released
us without fuss. An hour later, Thailand received us just as simply.
Rain greeted us at the pier,
a soft curtain over the twelve-kilometre ride into Satun. An ATM spat out a
handful of baht — enough for a SIM card and a room at the grandly named,
modestly appointed Pinnacle Wangmai Satun Hotel.
At the night market, the
world was skewered, fried, rolled, and ready: bugs beside sushi, sweets beside
soups. Even the fussiest eater would find something to nibble beneath the neon
glow.
Stilted Homes, Jackfruit
Trees, and the First Dip in the Andaman
Barely ten kilometres out, a
quiet country lane tugged us off the main road. Janice, ever patient with my
detours, followed without complaint. The path slipped through villages where
timber houses stood on stilts, smoke curled from open fires, and elders rocked
in hammocks beneath their homes.
We pedalled past jackfruit
heavy on branches, cows with long, floppy ears, and properties where mango,
avocado, and frangipani trees grew as naturally as breath. Rubber plantations
appeared in orderly rows, soothing in their symmetry. Tiny eateries offered
noodle soup and conversation.
By late afternoon, Pak Bara
Beach welcomed us. We walked straight into the Andaman Sea, letting salt water
rinse away the day’s heat.
Karst Landscapes, Pineapple
Hospitality, and Curious Eyes
A late start followed my
morning jog. Our route wound through farmland and rubber plantations, past
temples bright with colour, beneath the watchful silhouettes of karst cliffs.
Caves dotted the landscape, but laziness kept us from long detours; the few we
explored were deserted or sealed by time.
A pineapple vendor beckoned
us over. She peeled and sliced fruit faster than we could eat it, and soon the
village gathered — word spreading that foreigners had arrived. Children were
placed on our laps for photos, their parents laughing behind their phones.
Ban Thung Yao appeared
around mid-afternoon, its Cupid Hotel charming but inconvenient: no twin rooms.
At sunset we wandered to the market, where foreign women seemed a rarity. Every
glance lingered, curious and unfiltered.
Rubber Roads, Red Soda
Shrines, and Pad Thai Rewards
We followed rural roads
shaded by rubber trees, watching latex drip in slow, milky threads from grooves
cut into bark. Our first stop was a coconut stall, where the vendor hacked open
young coconuts so we could scoop out the thick flesh.
We entertained ourselves by
filming small moments. Villagers peered from doorways as we passed; even the
dogs retreated, as if unsure what to make of us.
Shrines appeared at the
edges of fields, each one bright with offerings of red soda. When land is
cleared, spirit houses are built to shelter displaced earth spirits — not
religion, just custom. Red soda, the spirits’ favourite.
Trang arrived in good time.
The Yamaha Hotel offered budget comfort, and we rewarded ourselves with Pad
Thai — noodles, peanuts, egg, and the familiar warmth of a dish that tastes
like arrival.
Trang to Krabi
We left Trang beneath a soft morning
haze, pedalling past stupas and temples that rose like quiet guardians along
the road. I hadn’t intended to ride all the way to Krabi — the distance felt
unreasonable — but Janice had other plans. She pressed on with a steady,
stubborn rhythm, barely pausing, as if the kilometres were beads she meant to
slide cleanly along a string.
The main road offered little beauty,
but it was honest and direct. We passed homes where life unfolded in simple
gestures: bamboo slivers drying in the sun, chickens scratching in the dust,
cows tethered beneath trees. Ordinary scenes, yet comforting in their
constancy.
By the time we reached Krabi, I was
proud of Janice — 130 kilometres on a loaded bicycle is no small triumph. After
showers and a wander through the night market, we surrendered to the cool hum
of our air-conditioned room.
We stayed an extra day, letting our
legs soften. A boatman guided us through mangroves and caves, his longtail
weaving between roots like a needle through cloth. The tide slipped away while
we were deep inside the mangroves, but his skill carried us out without fuss.
Karst Towers, Kayaks, and the Warm
Blue World Below - Krabi to Ko Phi Phi
After my morning jog and a dim sum
breakfast, a short ride delivered us to the ferry. In less than an hour, we
were transported into a postcard — limestone karsts rising from water so blue
it felt unreal. Finding affordable accommodation was harder than reaching the
island, but Sabai House offered the best balance of price and sanity.
From the moment we stepped off the
ferry, Phi Phi swept us into its whirl: backpackers with sunburnt shoulders,
neon party buckets, tattoo parlours, and the constant chorus of “You want
massaaaaage?” We skipped the buckets and the massages, choosing instead the
quiet logic of the sea.
A kayak carried us around the bay for
hours, our paddles slicing through water clear enough to see the shadows of
fish beneath us. Later, we prepared for a night out, though the island’s energy
felt like it might outlast us.
The next morning came early — a
two-tank scuba dive in warm, glassy water. Visibility stretched far; fish
drifted around us like confetti. Swim-throughs beckoned, and we followed,
weightless and content. Back on land, we still had time for a half-day
snorkelling trip. The return at sunset — sky aflame, sea turning molten — was
pure magic.
From Island Paradise to Neon Nights
The ferry to Phuket left at 14h00,
granting us a slow, lazy morning. By the time we arrived at 18h00, only a steep
hill separated us from Patong Beach. We crested it in fading light and found a
room in the heart of the chaos.
Patong is unapologetic: sex tourism,
neon bars, tattoo studios, and massage houses stacked shoulder to shoulder. The
noise never stops. When I went for a run at dawn, the last partygoers were only
just stumbling home. Some hadn’t made it home at all — bodies lay asleep on the
sand, mercifully above the tide line.
The day disappeared into
practicalities: blogs updated, photos sorted, laundry washed and hung to dry.
Big Spiders, Bigger Hills, and the
Long Road North
The bridge linking Phuket to the
mainland lay fifty kilometres away. Once across, we veered off onto a smaller
road and were rewarded with a quiet ribbon of tarmac hugging the ocean. New
resorts gleamed where pre-tsunami nipa huts once stood. The coastline was
heartbreakingly beautiful — no wonder developers rushed in.
It became “the day of the big
spiders.” Golden Orb Weavers hung in their webs like ornaments, each massive
female attended by a few tiny, hopeful males.
The hills tested our patience. By late
afternoon, Janice had reached her limit, but we still rolled into Khao Lak in
good time. Fasai House offered a soft landing.
Brake Troubles, Hidden Waterfalls, and
a River on Stilts
Coffee by the pool set the tone for
the morning. A bike shop fixed Janice’s disc brake, but the day soon unravelled
into mechanical mischief — I lost a brake pad entirely, leaving me with no rear
brake.
A sign pointed toward a waterfall, but
the path dissolved into confusion. Still, the detour was worth it — rural,
quiet, and green, though relentlessly hilly. When Janice’s brakes acted up
again, we resorted to the universal mechanic’s solution: a generous spray of
WD-40.
Kuraburi appeared after five. Tararin
Resort offered ramshackle wooden bungalows perched on stilts above the Nang Yon
River. Our room was large, with a tiny balcony overlooking the water —
imperfect, but charming.
Fixed Brakes, Hot Hills, and a Quiet
Beach to Rest
A tiny bicycle shop in Kuraburi saved
the day — new brake blocks for me, a proper fix for Janice. Relief washed over
us like cool water.
We set off late, and the heat rose
quickly. The road climbed and dipped through temples, forests, and small
hamlets. Iced coffees kept us moving. By afternoon, Janice had had enough of
the hills, and we turned toward Bang Ben Beach and the welcoming shade of
Wasana Resort.
After showers, we cycled to the
harbour for dinner — green curry for me, fish for Janice. Both perfect.
We stayed an extra day, letting time
stretch. We cycled to the deserted beach for a swim, wandered to the pier in
the evening, and watched boats resting high and dry, waiting patiently for the
tide to return.
Forest Shade, Slow Miles,
and the Comfort of Hot Springs
Morning light filtered
softly through the trees at Wasana Resort, dappling the ground in shifting
gold. After a slow breakfast, we packed our panniers and rolled back onto the
road. The hills returned almost immediately—long, steady climbs softened by the
cool hush of forest shade and the occasional flash of sea between the trees.
Thailand’s west coast has a way of making even the hard days beautiful.
We pedalled past tiny
hamlets where chickens scattered at our wheels and children waved from
verandas. Roadside stalls offered iced drinks, and we gratefully stopped at
nearly every one. The heat pressed down, thick and insistent, but the
scenery—lush, green, unhurried—made the effort feel almost meditative.
By afternoon, the road
dipped toward Ranong, a town known for its hot springs and its nearness to
Myanmar. We found a simple guesthouse and settled in for a few days. Ranong had
a sleepy charm: steaming pools, quiet streets, and a night market where we
wandered between stalls, sampling whatever caught our eye.
Our rest day was spent at
the hot springs, letting mineral water ease the ache in our legs. Locals
watched us with amused curiosity, but welcomed us with warm smiles. Evening
brought a soft rain that cooled the air and washed the dust from the trees.
Drizzle, Noodle Soup, and a
Town Exhaling at Dusk
We left Ranong under a sky
still heavy from the night’s rain, the air warm and metallic with the scent of
wet earth. The road out of town was gentle at first, winding past steaming
pools and wooden houses where early risers swept their verandas. The west coast
has a softness to it—lush, green, unhurried—and the morning felt like cycling
through a world just waking up.
Rubber plantations stretched
in neat rows, each tree marked with a small bowl catching the slow drip of
latex. Workers moved silently between them, knives flashing briefly in the
filtered light. Dogs barked halfheartedly from the shade, more out of habit
than threat.
A light drizzle began,
cooling us as we pedalled. We stopped at a roadside shack for noodle soup,
where the owner insisted on adding extra herbs “for strength,” tapping her
bicep and laughing. The broth was fragrant and restorative—the kind of simple
meal that tastes perfect because the day has earned it.
The landscape opened into
wide fields dotted with palms, distant hills rising like soft blue silhouettes.
Traffic was sparse; the world felt ours alone. By mid-afternoon, Kra Buri
appeared—a small, unassuming town with a quiet main street and a handful of
guesthouses.
We found a room, showered
off the day’s sweat and rain, and wandered to the market for dinner. Fried
chicken, sticky rice, fresh fruit—simple, satisfying. The evening settled
gently around us, warm and still, as if the town itself were exhaling.
Triggerfish and Thai Hospitality
- Kra Buri to
Thungwualaen Beach
We left Kra Buri beneath a
soft grey sky, the air warm but gentle enough to make for pleasant riding. The
road carried us through farmland and long stretches of rubber plantations, the
trees standing in orderly rows like slender sentinels. Workers moved quietly
between them, collecting latex in small bowls, their movements rhythmic and
unhurried.
Traffic was sparse, and the
world felt wide and open. We pedalled past wooden houses on stilts, dogs dozing
in the shade, and roosters announcing their territory. Small shops appeared at
just the right intervals, offering iced drinks in plastic bags—sweet, cold
relief that dripped condensation down our wrists.
The landscape shifted
gradually as we moved eastward. Hills rose and fell beneath our wheels—never
steep enough to break us, but enough to remind us we were earning our
kilometres. We stopped often, not because we needed to, but because Thailand’s
rural roads invite lingering. A fruit stall here, a shaded bench there, a
curious villager wanting to know where we came from.
By midday, the heat settled
in properly, thick and insistent. Still, the promise of the coast pulled us
forward. The final stretch toward Thungwualaen Beach felt almost effortless—the
air growing saltier, the breeze cooler, the horizon widening into blue.
Thungwualaen Beach appeared
like a sigh of relief—long, quiet, washed in late-afternoon light. We found a
room near the water, dropped our bags, and walked straight to the sea. The
waves were gentle, the sand warm beneath our feet, and the entire shoreline
seemed to belong only to us.
Dinner was at a simple
beachside restaurant where the tables sat almost on the sand. We ate with the
sound of the surf in our ears, the sky turning pink and gold as the sun slipped
away. After a long day on the road, it felt like the perfect ending—soft, calm,
and utterly unhurried.
We rose early, though not
early enough to catch the sunrise over the Gulf of Thailand. Instead, we sat on
our little veranda with steaming mugs of coffee, watching the morning soften
into shape. When it was time, i pedalled to the dive centre, where the boat lay
anchored in the bay. A rubber dinghy ferried divers out, bouncing lightly over
the water.
The first dive was just the
divemaster and me; the others chose to snorkel. All went well until halfway
through, when a Triggerfish shot out of nowhere and launched itself at the
divemaster. He fended it off as best he could, but the fish kept
coming—relentless, territorial. Then it turned on me, ramming my cylinder and
trying to bite my hair, which, admittedly, is not a difficult target. The
divemaster banged his tank to scare it off, and we kicked away from the reef as
fast as our fins would carry us. The Trigger was clearly defending its patch.
Only once back on the boat
did I notice the divemaster had a chunk missing from his nose. Have you ever.
He returned to shore immediately, and I was transferred mid-sea to another
boat. The new boat was a proper Thai operation—little English spoken, the food
was deliciously Thai and the atmosphere warm. I did two more beautiful dives
(even though I’d only paid for two), including a wreck dive. The visibility
wasn’t perfect, but being underwater is always pure joy.
Temples, Tiny Fish, and the
Long Blue Coast
After a jog and a swim, we
cycled out of Thungwualaen. The day unfolded beautifully—part coastal, part
inland, past colourful temples and villages where people dried nipa leaves for
rolling cigarettes. The young leaves were laid out in the sun, then folded
neatly into bundles. I wished I spoke Thai; there was so much more I wanted to
ask.
A Naga Buddha temple offered
a chance for photos, and the road carried us across rivers where fishing boats
lay three or four deep, waiting for the tide. Villagers dried tiny fish on
wooden racks, the sun turning them crisp. We passed idyllic beaches and a
gorgeous coastal route with a dedicated cycle path—pure bliss.
Bang Saphan Beach appeared
like a reward. We found bungalows across from the sea, and the heat made the
ocean irresistible. Dinner at the next-door restaurant was delicious, and the
bill—two plates of food plus beer—came to only 190 baht.
Brochure‑Blue Beaches and
the Art of Doing Nothing
The coastline north of Bang
Saphan is one of the most beautiful stretches imaginable—snow‑white beaches,
palm trees, lone hammocks swaying in the breeze. We couldn’t resist breakfast
on the sand before setting off.
A quiet country road hugged
the ocean, the kind of route cycle tourers dream about. Not long after leaving,
a guesthouse at a postcard‑perfect spot lured us in. We surrendered without a
fight. The rest of the day was spent doing almost nothing—swimming, resting,
soaking in the beauty.
Shrines, and the Monkey Lady
- Ban Krut to
Prachuap Khiri Khan
Janice felt energetic, so we
rode up Khao Thong Chai Mountain to its hilltop temple, arriving just as the
first tour buses pulled in. Afterwards, we ambled along the coast, passing
shrines, temples, and people going about their daily tasks—fishing in ponds,
making charcoal from coconut shells, selling goods from carts piled high.
One shrine caught my eye:
instead of the usual red soda offerings, it had bright orange bottles and
colourful plastic flowers. A glass case beside it held silk garments, and a
small wooden canoe with two carved figurines sat under a shelter. I wondered
about its story.
We reached Prachuap just as
the food stalls were being set up—perfect timing. Maggie’s Homestay became our
base, a laid‑back place where everyone stayed longer than planned. We spent the
next day doing chores before visiting Wat Thammikaram, the Monkey Temple.
The macaques were endlessly entertaining.
They’d learned to pry up brick paving to crack nuts, and one had found a shard
of mirror and couldn’t stop admiring herself. Mothers cradled newborns tenderly
while youngsters ran wild. The “Monkey Lady,” an elderly woman selling bananas
to tourists, was a character in her own right—sharp as a tack and impossible to
photograph unless you bought a bunch of bananas. A business genius in disguise.
Coconuts, Railways, and
Sam Roi Yot National Park
We packed up leisurely,
waiting for the bike shop to open at nine. The coastal road led us through
fishing villages, where we stumbled upon what seemed like a festival—or perhaps
a funeral. It felt almost Hindu: music, dancing, mountains of food, and
coconuts smashed dramatically. A “batsman” stood ready with a baseball‑like
bat, smashing coconuts hurled at him. I was allowed to take photos.
We turned off the highway
and discovered a beautifully maintained railway station with manicured gardens.
The stationmaster spoke no English, but the place radiated pride. Our route
passed temples and quiet villages until we reached Khao Sam Roi Yot National
Park. Baan Pak Rimkong Guesthouse, perched on stilts above the river with
fishing boats moored below, made a perfect overnight stop.
Caves of Light and the Road
to Hua Hin - Sam Roi Yot to
Hua Hin
A ten-minute boat ride
carried us around the headland to Laem Sala Beach. From there, a steep trail
climbed the mountain before descending gently into Phraya Nakhon Cave. A hole
in the cave ceiling allows sunlight to illuminate the royal pavilion, but the
sky was overcast, so we missed the famous light shaft. Still, the cave was
magnificent.
We returned to the bikes and
followed a coastal route north. Shortly before Hua Hin, a cycle path made for
easy riding into the bustling city. Tourists swarmed everywhere. Bird Guest
House—a rickety place on stilts over the water—became our home. Its wooden deck
was perfect for enjoying the cool evening air and watching the tide roll in.
The next morning, I jogged
along the beach and dipped into the ocean, though the 30°C water offered little
relief. Hua Hin’s bike shop was well stocked, and Janice bought new cycling
shorts, a pump, and a handlebar bag with space for a phone.
Salt Workers and the Heat of
the Day - Hua Hin to Samut Songkhram
We left late, as had become
our habit. Cycling was easy and interesting, and although we planned to stop
halfway, Janice felt strong, so we pushed on.
The Hua Hin airport runway
crossed the road—mercifully via a bridge—but it was still odd watching planes
land straight toward us. Our route followed tiny paths between salt pans until
the path dissolved entirely, forcing us to walk our bikes back to the main
road.
The salt workers were the
day’s highlight. Men and women of all ages carried heavy loads of salt in
bamboo baskets slung from shoulder poles. Even children—no older than ten or
twelve—worked alongside them. It was shocking to witness in modern Thailand.
We stopped for sugarcane
juice, gulping it down greedily. Samut Songkhram greeted us with food stalls
setting up for the evening. We headed straight to Hometown Hostel—my third stay
there—and it felt almost like returning home.
The Market That Moves for
the Train
We
rushed to the famous Maeklong Railway Market, where stalls spill onto the tracks,
and we watched as the train approached. Vendors whisk their produce and awnings
back just enough to let it pass. The train crawls through, inches from baskets
of vegetables and trays of fish. Once it’s gone, everything snaps back into
place as if nothing happened.
On
the road to Kanchanaburi, a kind man stopped and handed us a large plastic bag
filled with water, biscuits, and flavoured milk. “You must be strong,” he said.
I wanted to reply, “Of all the things I am, strong isn’t one of them,” but I
only smiled and thanked him.
We devoured the treats in
the shade before continuing. Kanchanaburi offered bungalows at Rainbow Lodge
right on the River Kwai—250 baht for a room with a sunset view. We unpacked and
watched the sky turn gold over the river.
We spent the next day
exploring the sombre history of the Death Railway. The war cemetery, with its
endless rows of graves, brought a deep sadness. Humanity’s greed for power has
never known limits.
Ruins, Rice Fields, and the
Delux Hotel
Another cyclist arrived at
Rainbow Lodge, and we chatted before setting off. The day was easy and
fascinating—rice paddies, sugarcane fields, temples, and ancient ruins. We
stopped at Wat Phra That Sala Khao, built between 1424 and 1488, and later at
Wat Kuti Song.
In Suphan Buri, we found a
room at the ironically named Delux Hotel. The single faint light forced us to
use torches to find our belongings, and the towel rail fell off the wall during
my shower. The “Delux” part clearly referred to a bygone era.
Monkeys, Mothers, and the
Heat of Lop Buri
Some days are simply more
bizarre than others. Every temple claimed something special—ancient ruins, the
most beautiful Buddha in Thailand, a 300‑year‑old sacred tree, even sculptures
of Buddha riding a giant bee. Roadside stalls sold fruit with chilli‑sugar dips
and, unexpectedly, grilled squirrels.
We reached Lop Buri early,
but the heat—37°C, feeling like 40°C—kept us indoors until evening. Lop Buri’s
ruins were closed by the time we ventured out, so we visited the monkey temple
instead. Monkey society mirrors our own in uncanny ways—family bonds,
rivalries, tenderness, chaos.
The next morning, we rose
early to explore before the heat set in. I witnessed a monkey giving
birth—messy, raw, extraordinary. The mother clutched her newborn and placenta
fiercely, baring her teeth at any monkey that approached. Infanticide is common
among males, and she knew it. Eventually, she turned her back to the world and
faced the temple wall, shielding her baby. It was a privilege to witness.
The Fallen Capital and the
Memory of Kings
Ayutthaya arrived shortly
after departing—encircled by rivers, steeped in history. Once the capital of
Siam, founded in 1350, it grew into Asia’s trading hub and by 1700 was the
largest city in the world. All of it ended abruptly in 1767 when the Burmese
invaded and razed it.
I never tire of Ayutthaya.
Its ruins feel like the heartbeat of Thai history.
We stayed at Baan Lotus, an
old schoolhouse turned guesthouse. The owner remembered me—something that
always astonishes me. After a shower, we hopped on our bikes to explore the
ruins, nearly all built during the Thai heyday.
Riding the Canal into the
City
The ride into Bangkok
followed a quiet canal path, then a route along the new Skytrain line, still
under construction. We slipped into the city like seasoned pros, arriving in
the Khaosan Road area while the rest of Bangkok was still napping.
This marked the end of
Janice’s cycling tour of Southeast Asia. Thankfully, we still had nearly a week
to enjoy Bangkok together.
Bangkok, Dim Sum, and the
Last Days of the Journey
We wandered through the
chaos of Bangkok—along canals, through markets, into odd corners of the city.
In the evenings, we met Andre and Anton, friends from the UAE, and ate at my
favourite dim sum restaurant in Chinatown. The next night, we joined them again
at their fancy resort hotel, and they generously picked up the tab both times.
The days slipped by quickly.
Soon it was time for Janice to pack her bicycle and panniers and prepare for
her flight back to South Africa. The city buzzed around us, but our little
bubble of shared adventure felt calm and complete.
Epilogue
Journeys don’t end at the city limits.
They end slowly, in the quiet moments after —when the bicycle is boxed, the
panniers emptied, the sunburn fades, and the legs still twitch at night as if
pedalling through dreams.
The road leaves its mark in unexpected
places: In the soft callus on the palm, in the memory of a monkey clutching her
newborn, in the taste of sugarcane juice on a hot afternoon, in the echo of a
train squeezing through a market, in the laughter shared over cheap meals and
the kindness of strangers who appear at the exact moment you need them.
Bangkok was the end of the
map, but not the end of the journey. The real journey continues.
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