152 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (19.2)

Tailwinds, Temples and the Slow Shape of the Road

152 THAILAND (19.2)

1,261 Kilometres - 18 Days
10 November – 27 November 2019

PHOTOS

MAP

 VOICEOVER

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

 

Prelude

Every long journey begins long before the first kilometre is ridden. Mine began in a tangle of logistics, persistence, and mild absurdity—chasing bank cards across continents and boarding a flight to South Africa simply to convince my own money to cooperate. By the time I finally rolled out of Pattaya, the practicalities were resolved, but something less tangible had also shifted: I was ready again for the quiet, uncertain rhythm of the road.

What lay ahead was 1,261 kilometres through Thailand over 18 days—moments that would unfold slowly and unpredictably. There would be the easy pleasures of roadside coffee and ocean air, the strain of long days through traffic and heat, and the quiet intervals in between where the journey reveals itself most clearly. Travel, I’ve come to realise, is rarely about reaching somewhere else. It is about settling into movement, into discomfort and wonder in equal measure, until the unfamiliar begins to feel, unexpectedly, like a kind of home.

 

Breaking Free: Banking Battles, Bucket Toilets and the Open Road - Jomtien to Chonburi (65 km)

After what felt like a long-running diplomatic standoff with my bank—complete with relentless follow-ups, unanswered queries, and the occasional existential sigh—my cards finally arrived. Victory, however, was short-lived. Moving money from South Africa to Thailand proved to be about as straightforward as herding cats through airport security.

Naturally, I did the only reasonable thing: I flew to South Africa, opened an FNB account in person, and forced the issue into submission. It was a ridiculous solution, but undeniably effective. I returned feeling like a financial pioneer, or at the very least, someone who had outwitted a particularly stubborn spreadsheet.

With the condo locked and my mobile home packed to a level of organisation best described as “optimistic,” I rolled out of Pattaya. The city’s chaotic streets did their usual best to discourage human ambition, but once I broke free, the world opened up in glorious fashion. Temples drifted past like postcards, cassava plantations stretched to the horizon, and the road ahead whispered promises of freedom—or at least fewer motorbikes attempting to occupy the same patch of asphalt as me.

Chonburi greeted me in full celebratory mode for Loy Krathong. The beachfront was alive with holidaymakers, lanterns, and an energy that suggested nobody had any intention of going to bed at a reasonable hour. I, meanwhile, seized a far less glamorous opportunity: a hotel room for 300 baht.

It was, objectively speaking, a very strange room. Stark white tiles gave it the ambience of a mildly cheerful operating theatre, and the bucket-flush toilet required a level of user participation normally reserved for DIY plumbing enthusiasts. Still, it had walls, a door, and a price that made me feel like I’d beaten the system.

Sorting through my panniers revealed that my packing strategy had been less “carefully curated” and more “enthusiastically stuffed.” It took time to restore order, but soon enough I was back in control—or at least in the comforting illusion of it.

 

Bangkok Beckons: Birds, Backroads and a Brush with Chaos - Chonburi to Pha Pradaeng (110 km)

The day began with promise and quickly descended into something more character-building. The northern Gulf of Thailand is never straightforward, and Bangkok loomed ahead like an unavoidable exam you forgot to study for.

The first 20 kilometres, however, were delightful—alive with birdlife and mercifully calm. I paused at a restaurant on stilts for an iced coffee, taking a moment to reflect on how well things were going, which in hindsight was probably tempting fate.

Then came the highway.

To call it chaotic would be generous. It was an all-out sensory ambush—noise, fumes, traffic, and the occasional existential questioning of my life choices. I clung to the service road like a lifeline, inching past Bangkok’s automotive enthusiasm until I crossed the Bang Pakong River and escaped onto smaller, saner roads.

From there, things improved dramatically. A quiet canal road appeared like a gift from the universe, complete with villagers resting under enormous trees and ducks ambling about with the confidence of creatures who know they own the place.

A ferry across the Chao Phraya River spared me a long detour and added a touch of adventure that didn’t involve dodging buses, which I considered a win.

By evening, I reached the Rimnam Hotel, where Loi Krathong was in full swing. The streets filled with families launching their floating offerings, lights flickering against the water. It was beautiful, meaningful, and—refreshingly—moving toward environmentally friendly traditions. I watched quietly, feeling fortunate to be exactly where I was.

 

One Plug Socket and a Banana-Leaf Breakfast - Pha Pradaeng to Samut Songkhram (79 km)

Mornings on the road require strategy, resilience, and, ideally, electricity. My budget hotel, however, offered precisely one plug socket—which, in an impressive display of defiance, didn’t work.

Leaving without coffee felt deeply unnatural, but I soldiered on, eventually finding salvation at a roadside stall. Breakfast arrived wrapped in banana leaves, presenting the age-old traveller’s dilemma: delicious mystery or culinary gamble. Fortunately, curiosity prevailed, and breakfast did not attempt to fight back.

The route once again flirted with Bangkok’s outer chaos before giving way to flatter, swampy terrain dotted with stilt houses. Life here revolved around fishing and boat-making, with the steady rhythm of water defining everything.

Reaching Samut Songkhram early felt like a strategic masterstroke. I washed my cycling gear, charged my devices, and briefly experienced the rare and glorious sensation of being organised.

As evening approached, the town transformed into a street food haven. Vendors filled the air with sizzling aromas, though vegetarian options were still something of a treasure hunt. Still, I managed to piece together a respectable meal before retreating to my modest accommodation, content and slightly over-salted.

 

Wrong Turns, Salt Fields and Familiar Temptations - Samut Songkhram to Cha-Am (113 km)

The day unfolded as a zigzagging exploration of the countryside, where roads meandered with little regard for navigation or human expectation. It was endlessly charming—until, of course, a promising route would abruptly end, forcing me into an undignified retreat.

The landscape was a patchwork of salt farms, their surfaces shimmering faintly as crystals began to form—nature quietly preparing its next harvest.

Although I knew this route, Cha-Am itself was new territory for me. On arrival, I quickly realised it bore a striking resemblance to Pattaya. The town buzzed with older European men whose enthusiasm for life appeared to have been recently—and enthusiastically—rediscovered in the company of younger women.

It was, if nothing else, a curious scene. There was laughter, music, and a general sense of determined enjoyment that carried well into the early hours.

Good for them, I thought. Everyone deserves a second wind—provided, of course, it comes with kindness and respect.

 

A Short Ride and the Dangerous Comfort of Staying Put - Cha-Am to Hua Hin (31 km)

If ever there were a stage designed specifically for a weary cyclist, it was this one. The short 31 kilometres from Cha-Am to Hua Hin felt less like a journey and more like a thoughtful gesture from the universe.

I arrived in Hua Hin with just enough energy left to make a dignified entrance—by which I mean I rolled straight to Bird Guesthouse, my old favourite perched heroically on stilts over the sea. Within minutes, I was planted in a chair with a glass of wine, gazing at the ocean in a manner that suggested I had personally organised the sunset.

The following day was devoted to the less glamorous side of long-distance travel: laundry and the ongoing discovery of items I had somehow failed to pack. The supermarket provided some relief, as did a visit to the local bike shop where I acquired a new back tyre—something called a CST Pedium. I had never heard of it before, which, in cycling terms, meant I was either about to discover a hidden gem or make a regrettable life choice.

That evening, I met up with Gavin, a friend living in Hua Hin. In keeping with long-standing traditions, we celebrated our reunion with a thoroughly unreasonable number of beers. The conversation flowed easily, memories were revisited (and slightly improved with each retelling), and the evening slipped away far quicker than good judgment would recommend.

 

The Morning After: Slow Pedals and Missing Gloves - Hua Hin to Prachuap Khirikhan (118 km)

Morning arrived with all the subtlety of a marching band. Unsurprisingly, I felt less like a determined cyclist and more like a cautionary tale. For a moment, I considered staying another day in Hua Hin purely out of survival.

Eventually, however, stubbornness triumphed over common sense, and I set off toward Prachuap. Progress was... unremarkable. Each pedal stroke required negotiation, and I stopped frequently to address a thirst that felt both personal and accusatory.

Hours later—though it may have been days; time is unreliable under such conditions—I rolled into Prachuap and checked into Maggie’s Homestay, a place so perfectly priced (220 baht) that I briefly wondered if there had been a clerical error.

Naturally, I extended my stay. The amenities—water purification, washing machines, and the elusive promise of order—made it irresistible. It also gave me time to deal with a lingering mystery: the disappearance of my cycling gloves. Losing one glove is understandable. Losing both suggests either foul play or a level of absent-mindedness that should probably be studied.

 

Coastal Perfection and the Art of Finding a Good Bungalow – Prachuap to Bangsapan Beach (110 km)

The ride to Bangsapan was one of those rare, perfect days where everything seems to cooperate. The road hugged the coastline, the breeze was kind, and pedalling required far less negotiation than the previous day.

Upon arrival, I embarked on the traditional ritual of budget accommodation hunting, which involves wandering around looking hopeful until something affordable presents itself. After a modest search, I found a charming bungalow for 400 baht.

It had air conditioning, a welcoming atmosphere, and—most importantly—a sense that I could happily do very little there for an extended period. I immediately decided this was a place I would return to, which is traveller shorthand for “I have found somewhere that understands me.”

 

Caves, Mosquitoes and Small Discoveries - Bangsapan Beach to Chumphon (112 km)

The day began with an excellent coffee, which set unrealistic expectations for everything that followed.

Feeling optimistic, I diverted to explore a nearby cave. The path leading to it was overgrown to the point of mild discouragement, suggesting that either few people visited or those who did had quickly reconsidered their life choices. Naturally, this made it irresistible.

The cave itself was beautiful—light streaming in, creating an atmosphere that hinted at discovery and adventure. Unfortunately, it also hosted a highly motivated population of mosquitoes who appeared delighted by my arrival. I left sooner than planned, having contributed generously to their continued wellbeing.

The rest of the day was quieter, with fewer distractions and a steady rhythm of cycling. In Chumphon, I found a hotel that allowed me to wheel my bike straight inside—a small but deeply satisfying luxury. After a day of sharing space with traffic, dust, and insects, it felt only right that the bike should enjoy indoor accommodation too.

 

Riding into the Storm and Finding Refuge by the Sea - Chumphon to Pak Nam Langsuan (86 km)

With a night ferry to Koh Tao planned for later, I granted myself a slow morning—encouraged further by a gentle drizzle that made the idea of moving seem unnecessarily ambitious.

Eventually, however, even the most committed idler must act. I set off, and the day quickly improved as the weather cleared, revealing a lovely stretch of countryside. Around 60 kilometres in, I stopped at a small restaurant and enjoyed an excellent plate of fried rice—one of those simple meals that somehow feels like a reward for effort.

Naturally, this marked the precise moment the weather decided to collapse.

As I returned to the road, a storm rolled in from the Gulf of Thailand with dramatic enthusiasm. Rain lashed horizontally, wind howled, and visibility declined to what might generously be described as “suggestive.” I donned my plastic raincoat—a heroic but ultimately limited defence—and pressed on, blinking through the onslaught.

The road became muddy, the conditions deteriorated, and by around 85 kilometres I was approaching a philosophical discussion with myself about the wisdom of continuing.

Then, as if arranged by a particularly kind storyteller, a hidden bungalow appeared among banana trees.

I called out, somewhat desperately, until a young woman emerged, her expression suggesting she hadn’t expected to encounter a drenched foreigner materialising out of the storm.

She showed me to a tiny wooden bungalow perched directly at the water’s edge. It was so close to the ocean that I briefly wondered whether it came with a life jacket. Inside, space was… economical. The bed dominated proceedings, and the bathroom consisted of a squat toilet and a concrete reservoir that required a certain level of cooperation.

And yet, it was perfect.

At 250 baht, it felt less like paying for accommodation and more like accidentally discovering a secret.

As I sat watching the tide creep in—uncomfortably close to the floorboards—I reflected that this might not be the most structurally reassuring place I’d ever stayed, but it was certainly among the most memorable.

With no restaurants nearby, I relied on my modest supplies. The local fisherman and his family kindly invited me to dinner, but I declined, not wanting to impose on what was clearly a carefully balanced meal.

Instead, I settled into my little retreat, eating cup noodles and listening to the waves, which felt like a perfectly reasonable alternative to fine dining under the circumstances.

 

Coffee, Coastlines and Rain at the Finish Line - Pak Nam Langsuan to Surat Thani (124 km)

I awoke with the quiet satisfaction of discovering that both I and my seaside bungalow had survived the previous day’s storm. Given how enthusiastically the weather had tried to rearrange the coastline, this felt like a small but meaningful victory.

The owner appeared shortly after with a cup of coffee—an act of kindness so well-timed it bordered on heroic. I sat on my tiny veranda sipping it while he wandered off to inspect the sea conditions. Watching him consider heading out in what looked like entirely unreasonable water, I couldn’t help but admire the optimism. A small boat in those conditions seemed less like a livelihood and more like a wager with nature.

The day’s ride to Surat Thani started off beautifully, winding along the coast through scenery that seemed almost suspiciously picturesque—limestone cliffs, pale beaches, and the sort of views that make you wonder if someone’s carefully arranged them overnight.

Naturally, the weather had other ideas. The sky settled into a steady grey drizzle, and just as I approached Surat, it escalated into a full performance. The final five kilometres were completed in a determined downpour, threading through traffic while negotiating both visibility and my increasingly questionable navigation skills.

Arriving in town felt like docking after a long voyage. I located My Place Hotel—an astonishing bargain—and immediately prioritised a shower, which felt less like hygiene and more like restoration.

Dinner was sourced from the nearby night market, a wonderfully fragrant operation where everything looked tempting and slightly mysterious—exactly the sort of place where one makes culinary decisions with confidence and occasional regret.

The following day was spent in Surat, which is not so much a tourist destination as it is a place where actual life happens. That, of course, made it immediately appealing. People went about their routines, markets buzzed, and vendors guarded their produce with the focus of seasoned strategists—particularly when it came to pigeons, who were clearly viewed as hostile forces.

 

The Unexpected Pleasure of an Easy Day - Surat Thani to Tha Khuen (108 km)

The weather was mercifully cooperative, making for one of those rare days where cycling feels almost effortless. I intended to deviate from the main road but found it so pleasantly quiet and accommodating that I simply stayed on it, like someone who has accidentally found the correct queue.

Villages slipped by, roadside stalls appeared at convenient intervals, and temples punctuated the landscape with reassuring regularity. The whole day had a gentle, unhurried feel, as if the road itself had agreed not to complicate matters.

I ended the day at a “24-hour” establishment, which provided both a bed and what I can only describe as a proper bathroom. After recent experiences, this felt like an extravagant luxury—proof that one’s standards, given enough time on the road, can shift quite dramatically.

 

Quiet Roads, Curious Faces and a One-Baht Crossing - Tha Khuen to Hua Sai (115 km)

Setting off south, I anticipated a fairly routine ride. Instead, the day unfolded into something unexpectedly delightful. This was clearly not a route frequented by foreign cyclists, which meant I attracted a steady stream of curious looks and cheerful greetings—some amused, some openly puzzled.

The scenery was spectacular: shimmering coastline, rice paddies glowing in the sun, temples standing in quiet dignity, and brightly painted fishing boats completing the picture. For long stretches, I became so absorbed in the ride that distance ceased to matter entirely.

After several days of minimal conversation, I stopped to chat with a couple making cigarette paper from palm leaves. The interaction was brief but satisfying, neatly fulfilling my weekly quota of social engagement.

Progress was interrupted when the road simply… stopped. Fortunately, a small ferry provided a solution, shuttling people across the river for the impressive price of 1 baht. I spent a moment wondering how such an operation remained economically viable before deciding it was best not to interfere with mysteries of this nature.

On the far side, I entered a compact, lively village where narrow walkways and busy stalls created an atmosphere of organised chaos. It was one of those places where there is always something happening, and nobody appears remotely surprised by it.

Later, the coastline reappeared—this time accompanied by towering wind turbines that seemed almost comically large up close, as though someone had scaled them incorrectly.

Despite it being “winter,” the temperature hovered firmly in the mid-30s, proving that Thai seasons are largely conceptual.

By late afternoon, I located a room by the ocean for 300 baht, which felt like an excellent conclusion to an unexpectedly rewarding day. After watching the sunset, I cycled into the village in search of dinner, reflecting on how effortlessly the day had unfolded.

 

Rain, Lost Things and an Earned Arrival - Hua Sai to Songkhla (110 km)

The morning began with the polite suggestion of rain tapping on the window, encouraging me to linger over a second cup of coffee and reconsider all ambitious plans.

Eventually, I set off, though the weather continued its indecisive performance—alternating between drizzle and brief clarity just often enough to keep things interesting. It also meant photographing anything required swift, tactical thinking.

At one point, I managed to lose my lens hood in a river—an achievement that baffled me, as it had previously demonstrated a strong commitment to remaining attached to the camera. The exact mechanics remain unclear, though I suspect gravity played a leading role.

Later, just before Songkhla, I encountered a car ferry crossing the mouth of Songkhla Lake. It felt like a welcome shortcut, sparing me what would undoubtedly have been a longer and less scenic route. The crossing itself added a sense of minor adventure, which I was happy to accept at this stage of the journey.

I arrived in Songkhla around mid-afternoon, thoroughly decorated in a layer of rain-soaked road grime—a look that, while not fashionable, was undeniably earned.

Finding Bo Yang Guesthouse, I treated myself to a slightly more expensive room, and it felt like a triumph. Clean white sheets, air conditioning, and—most luxuriously of all—a bath. After days of improvisation and compromise, this felt less like accommodation and more like a reward.

 

Exploring Songkhla - Old Town Stories, Strange Sculptures and an Improbable Legend

I awoke to the steady drumming of rain against the window—a sound that, under most circumstances, might inspire urgency. On this particular morning, however, it inspired the exact opposite. I smiled, turned over, and allowed myself the small luxury of ignoring the world for a little while longer.

Eventually, responsibility—or at least curiosity—prevailed. Armed with a bag of laundry and a vague plan, I stepped out to explore Songkhla, a town that doesn’t shout for attention but quietly rewards those who wander.

It didn’t take long to find Old Songkhla, a place so rich in history it almost seemed to hum underfoot. For several centuries—from roughly the 10th to the 14th—this had been a bustling centre of trade, with connections stretching as far as Quanzhou in China. Later, in the 18th century, Chinese settlers added their own layers to the place, creating a cultural blend that still lingers today.

Now, it’s all wooden shophouses, narrow lanes, and temples that appear to have been positioned with great care for maximum charm. Even a section of the old city wall still stands, quietly reminding visitors that this once mattered on a much larger scale than its sleepy present might suggest.

At some point, I found myself heading up Songkhla Hill, which offered wide views over the town and coastline—exactly the kind of vantage point that justifies the effort of climbing it. Coming back down, I wandered along the beach and into a sculpture park populated with artworks that ranged from intriguing to mildly baffling, as though someone had given artists complete creative freedom and then quietly stepped away.

Naturally, Songkhla comes with its own legend, and it is a delightfully improbable one. According to local lore, a Chinese merchant once sailed here with a cat and a dog, who—being understandably bored at sea—conspired with a mouse to steal a magical crystal that prevented drowning. Their escape plan was bold but poorly executed, resulting in the loss of the crystal and the collective demise of all involved. The aftermath, however, was creatively interpreted: the cat and mouse became islands in Songkhla Lake, while the dog became the hill itself.

It is, if nothing else, a compelling argument against trusting animals with supernatural objects.

 

Turning West: Monsoon Warnings and the Border Looms - Songkhla to Padang Basar (80 km)

The morning brought a weather warning of impressive seriousness: heavy monsoon rains and possible flash floods across southern Thailand. This seemed like the sort of information best taken seriously, so I adjusted my plans accordingly. Rather than continuing south along the coast, I turned west toward the Malaysian border, aided by the timely arrival of a helpful tailwind.

The route was not particularly scenic—mostly main road—but it served a clear purpose: make progress quickly before the weather turned theatrical again. My backup plan, should conditions deteriorate, was to retreat to Langkawi and wait things out, which struck me as a highly acceptable contingency.

As I neared Padang Basar, subtle changes began to appear. Mosques dotted the landscape, and more women wore head coverings—the quiet but definite signals that I was approaching a cultural shift.

Arriving in town, however, was less inspiring. Like many border settlements, Padang Basar appeared to have been designed with minimal regard for aesthetics and maximum focus on functionality. Dark clouds gathered overhead, nudging me toward the sensible decision to stop.

In hindsight, I may have stopped slightly too soon, as the rain never quite delivered on its threat. Still, my accommodation—a pink, windowless room of considerable modesty—was already secured, and so I committed to the decision.

Dinner was sourced from nearby food carts, after which I retired to my room, reflecting that not every stop on a journey needs to be memorable—though this one, in its own way, probably would be.

 

A New Country, a Fresh Stamp and the Road Continues -  Padang Basar, Thailand to Alor Setar, Malaysia (87 km)

Morning brought sunshine and with it the satisfying sense of transition. As I set off, the road ahead felt different—not physically, but in that subtle way that signals the beginning of something new.

The Thai-Malaysian border arrived quickly, and the crossing itself was refreshingly straightforward. A passport stamp, a brief exchange, and just like that, I was granted 90 days to explore an entirely new country. No interrogation, no complications—just the quiet efficiency of a system that had clearly done this before.

And with that, Thailand—after hundreds of kilometres, countless roadside coffees, questionable accommodation choices, and more than a few conversations with myself—was behind me.

I rolled onward toward Alor Setar, the open road stretching ahead with its familiar promise: that whatever happens next will almost certainly be unexpected, occasionally uncomfortable, and very likely worth it.

 

By the time I reached the border at Padang Basar, Thailand had become something more than a stretch of road I had crossed—it had settled into me in ways that are difficult to measure. Not through singular, dramatic moments, but through an accumulation of small, persistent encounters: the rhythm of villages waking and sleeping, the generosity of strangers, the weight of monsoon skies, and the steady, almost meditative act of moving forward each day.

There had been discomfort, certainly—rooms that tested expectations, weather that demanded resilience, and stretches of road that seemed to resist progress entirely. But there had also been an ease that emerged over time, a quiet acceptance of whatever the day offered. Somewhere within those 1,261 kilometres, the journey ceased to be about distance or destination, and became instead a way of paying closer attention—to place, to people, and to myself.

Crossing into Malaysia felt less like an ending and more like a continuation—another line on the map, yes, but also an extension of the same unfolding narrative. The road, as it had been from the beginning, remained open, indifferent, and full of possibility.

150 A VISIT TO THAILAND - Micah & Rouen

150 Thailand (19.1)

Micah & Rouen
15 March - 5 April 2019

Photos

13-14 March – Jomtien, Pattaya

I’d precisely one day to do laundry and repack bags before travelling to Bangkok to meet Rouen (brother-in-law) and Micah (Niece) on a three-week holiday in Thailand. The easiest way of getting to Bangkok was to catch an airport bus and, from there, a bus direct to Khao San Road, leaving a short stroll to the Riverline Guesthouse.

 

15 March - Bangkok

Rouen and Micah arrived around 3.30 pm, and we wasted no time exploring the nearby area. They must have been exhausted following their long flight but never indicated they wanted to stay put. As Rouen’s bag didn’t arrive on the same flight, we hoped it would reappear the following day. Still, we searched for clothing, just in case the bag didn’t materialise. Finally, enough time remained to do my favourite budget sunset cruise on the Chao Phraya River. The trip involved catching the late ferry to its final destination and returning on the last boat. All at 30 THB. Luckily, the weather was good, and the ride offered a spectacular sunset. The Chao Phraya River is a busy river with a constant traffic flow, and the river breeze is a welcome relief from the Bangkok heat. Our ferry passed barges carrying huge loads moving slowly upstream as people commuting to and from work filled the boat.

Returning, we hurried to the famous Gecko Bar for beer and food. That night, Rouen and I sat on the terrace of the Riverline Guesthouse, reminiscing about old times. Finally, after a few beers, we concluded the world was in the right mess and stumbled off to bed.

 

16 March - Bangkok

Following a delicious plate of noodle soup, we roamed the streets of old Bangkok. Our meander took us past the old Phra Sumen Fort, one of only two remaining forts out of 14 built more than two centuries ago. Following the Burmese destruction of Ayutthaya in 1767, Bangkok was established as the new capital. Initially, Bangkok was a walled city with canals dug to act as a moat. However, the university campus has an excellent location, right on the busy River Chao Phraya, and a walkabout revealed ruins of the old city wall.

The amulet market sported a beautiful and bizarre collection of amulets, albeit somewhat creepy. The market sells small talismans and is primarily frequented by collectors, monks and taxi drivers. The clientele mainly appeared men looking through magnifying glasses at tiny amulets, primarily used for “good luck” or fertility. Several items appeared more ominous looking than innocent Buddha necklaces. In fact, a few seemed downright voodoo-ish!

Before popping into one of Bangkok’s most visited spots, Wat Pho temple, home to a massive reclining Buddha, it was necessary to remove shoes. The statue measures 46 metres long and 15 metres tall and is covered in gold leaf, an impressive sight by anyone’s standards. The reclining Buddha represents the historical Buddha during his last illness, about to enter parinirvana. On leaving the vast hall, one could purchase a bowl of coins which were then dropped in the 108 bronze bowls lining the length of the wall. Dropping the coins into the bowls made a beautiful ringing sound. I understood the money went towards helping the monks renovate and preserve Wat Pho. One hundred and eight is a significant number in Buddhism, referring to the 108 positive actions and symbols which helped lead Buddha to perfection.

That evening we strolled along the famous Khao San Road, ate a few bugs, and drank smoothies from the cart around the corner. We further learned it was election day, and no beer was sold. Fortunately, Rouen brought two bottles of red wine from home. So we sat on the roof terrace looking out over the Chao Praya River, enjoying a good bottle of South African wine.

 

17 March - Bangkok

A slight misunderstanding caused missing the train to Samut Songkhram, home to the Maeklong Railway Market.

Still, we managed to catch the 10.30 one, but it took a long wait for a connecting train. So a better option was a minivan taxi. This allowed us to watch the train come through the legendary Maeklong Market. Here a warren of stalls spilt over onto the railway line. As the train approached, traders hastily packed produce and canopies, allowing the train to pass. Once passed, everything went back into place in record time and trade continued as if nothing had happened.

Then onto the Amphawa floating market in Songthaew. Eventually, we returned to Bangkok by minivan, where we opted for beer on the roof terrace.

 

18 March - Bangkok

Feeling lazy, we all slept in and thus late when we had breakfast at the Gecko Bar. Micah wanted a tattoo, so we enquired at Divine Ink about time and prices. Bangkok was sweltering, and after having our fill of dim sum, we made our way to the relative coolness of our guesthouse to relax until sunset.

 

19 March Bangkok – Ayutthaya by train

The following day we headed to the train station to board a train to Ayutthaya. The train was hot and the seats hard, but it came at a very reasonable price. Arriving in Ayutthaya was in the mid-day heat and we flagged down a tuk-tuk for the short ride to Baan Lotus Guesthouse. The sweltering weather made opting for an air-con room in this lovely old building.

Later a short walk took us to the UNESCO World Heritage Park. Once the capital of the Kingdom of Siam, Ayutthaya was founded around 1350. The city enjoyed an ideal location between China, India, and the Malay Archipelago and soon became Asia’s trading capital. By 1700 Ayutthaya had become the largest city in the world, sporting a total of 1 million inhabitants. However, all this came to a swift end when the Burmese invaded Ayutthaya in 1767 and practically raised it to the ground.

Albeit too hot to take pictures, we snapped a few before returning to our aircon room, only to reappear long past sunset.

 

20 March Ayutthaya – Kanchanaburi – by Mini Van

A minivan picked us up for the ride to Kanchanaburi. Less than three hours later, we were dropped at Tamarind Guesthouse, where we booked a barge on the River Kwai. Brutally hot, we stayed indoors until around 5 o’clock before wandering to the bridge over the famous River Kwai.

The bridge is a significant tourist attraction in Kanchanaburi. Hundreds of people were milling about, taking pictures and strolling across the bridge to the opposite side. En route to our abode, we followed suit and uncovered a roadside eatery and beer.

 

21-22 March - Kanchanaburi – Hua Hin

Finally, we headed to the famous Thailand coast for a beach holiday. A tuk-tuk took us to the bus terminal, where minivans ran to Hua Hin. Again, a 3-hour ride and dropped within easy walking distance to our guesthouse. A room in an old, rickety guesthouse situated on stilts right over the water became home for the next two nights. We wasted no time heading to the beach, where the rest of the afternoon was spent in the shade of a large umbrella. In fact, so pleasant was Hua Hin we stayed an additional day.

 

23 March - Hua Hin – Koh Phangan

Checking out was at midday, although our bus to Surat Thani was only at 22h00. Micah and I found it pretty impossible to sleep, but Rouen dozed off occasionally. Our arrival in Surat Thani was around 8h00, from where a bus transported us to Don Sak pier to catch our ferry to Koh Phangan. Arriving at the Tropicana Resort, we were dead tired but headed straight to the ocean.

 

24–29 March - Koh Phangan

The days slipped by without doing a great deal. Instead, we swam in the lukewarm water of the Gulf of Thailand, drank cold beers and ate numerous plates of Thai food. Rouen and I attempted half-heartedly to run but never covered a significant distance. Eventually, Rouen rented a motorbike and, with Micah, set off to explore the remainder of the island.

 

30 March - Koh Phangan – Bangkok

We checked out of our comfortable accommodation and strolled to the ferry port, where enough time remained to grab a bite to eat. The ferry to Surat Thani takes almost 2.5 hours, and once there, all were ushered into a bus to the city centre. From the city centre, passengers were taken by tuk-tuk to a different bus station to catch the bus to Bangkok. This gave us enough time to explore the night market and sample an array of tasty dishes. Eventually, we boarded the night bus, a long and uncomfortable ride into Bangkok.

 

31 March – Bangkok

A day of leisure was spent in Bangkok as Micah had an appointment at the tattoo studio. Afterwards, we headed to Pattaya, where a few days were spent.

 

1-4 April - Pattaya

We lazed around the swimming pool and walked along the beachfront, nibbling food from the night market while drinking copious amounts of smoothies, iced coffees, and Chang beer. Unfortunately, we didn’t do half the planned, but Micah and Rouen had to return to Cape Town.

Having them was a pleasure; I hoped it wouldn’t be 12 years until their next visit.

146 CAMBODIA (9.2) - JANICE - PART 2 - PHNOM PENH TO THAILAND

 

146 CAMBODIA (9.2) – Janice - Part 2

Phnom Penh - Thailand
301 Km - 7 Days
1 March – 7 March 2019

MAP

PHOTOS

  

1 March – Phnom Penh – Angkor Borei – 93 km

Janice and I biked out of Phnom Penh amidst hectic morning traffic and past men eating noodles soup from their haunches from mobile carts. Twenty kilometres later, we were fortunately out of the thick of things.

Having had enough of the congestion, we veered off onto a smaller path running alongside the Tonle Sap River. Halfway through, Janice stopped and bought a new saddle, hoping it would solve her butt problem. The road was mostly paved, and we encountered only a short stretch of dirt road, so we arrived in Angkor Borei in good time.

 

2-3 March - Angkor Borei – Kampot – 103 km

Knowing it would be a tough cycling day, we set out as early as possible. However, the Angkor Borei/Takeo ferry only got underway at around 8h00. Packed in like sardines, the boat sped across the lake, saving us a long and rough ride around the lake. Unfortunately, there was no paved road connecting Takeo to the main road. We struggled along a sandy, rough track until reaching the highway. Once there, the going became considerably more manageable, and a good time was made in the direction of Kampot.

Unfortunately, 20 kilometres from Kampot, the road deteriorated (to put it mildly) as a new road was being built. In the company of other vehicles, we snaked our way around potholes, a cloud of dust trailing us, making dreadfully slow progress. Covered in dust, Janice and I eventually biked into Kampot and headed straight to Kampot River Bungalow. To our dismay, they were full, but mercifully, a nipa hut on stilts next door at the Naga House was available. Naga House is a beautiful riverside setup, featuring a wooden dock over the water.

Staying the next day came easily as we couldn’t drag ourselves away from such a beautiful setting.

 

4 March - Kampot – Sihanoukville – 105 km

Although February is the dry season in Cambodia, rain usually falls during this time. Unfortunately, we haven’t had any rain since departing Bangkok a month and a half ago. Over three-quarters of Cambodia’s population relies primarily on subsistence agriculture. Drought can thus push large numbers of people into poverty. For us, the lack of rain made the ride a dry and dusty affair.

At first, the road was brand new and going well. However, halfway to Veal Renh, we encountered the dreaded roadworks. We found that nearly all vehicles preferred driving alongside the road rather than on it. Only the minivan taxis seemed unfazed by the enormous potholes.

We pushed on regardless, following the snaking traffic through a cloud of dust, eventually arriving in Sihanoukville during peak hour. Unfortunately, Sihanoukville was nothing but a vast building site. All the old and well-known guesthouses were gone, and, by then, either empty lots or places where new ones were being constructed. I was relieved to find the Big Easy still holding its own, albeit at the absorbent price of $30 a fan room. Time to head to the islands, and that was exactly what we did.

 

5 March – Sihanoukville – Koh Rong (by ferry)

Arrangements were made to leave our bicycles and panniers at the Big Easy and, armed with only one small bag; we headed to the ferry port. In no time at all, we found ourselves on Koh Rong Island with its crystal-clear water and laidback lifestyle. We lazed around and swam in the lukewarm waters of the Gulf of Thailand. We ate at tables on the water’s edge and did truly little apart from lounging about.

Eventually, the time came to return to the mainland and Thailand, where Janice stowed her bicycle box and planned to fly home to Cape Town, South Africa.

 

6 March - Koh Rong – Sihanoukville (by ferry)

The ample choice of ferries to the mainland made for a leisurely departure. Once in Sihanoukville, we collected our cycles and panniers from the Big Easy and went on the hunt for alternative accommodation, as it was fully booked. Supper was at one of the beach restaurants and, to me at least, it’s always a novelty to eat whilst wiggling my toes in the sand.

 

Thailand (19) – Janice – Cambodian border to Pattaya

15 Km – 8 Days

7 March – 14 April 2019

7-8 March - Sihanoukville – Klong Yai - 15 km

Out of visa time, a bus ticket was purchased from Sihanoukville to the Thai/Cambodian border. The bus departed at 8 o’clock, and we were ready to roll at an early hour. Unfortunately, the bus didn’t leave until considerably later and, surprisingly, took us all the way to the border. Border crossings can be tedious affairs, but all went well, and we were stamped out of Cambodia and into Thailand without any problems. From the border, a mere 15 kilometres led to Klong Yai, which had accommodation and an exciting night market.

The next morning, a Songthaew (a covered pickup truck with open sides and seats along each side) took us to Trat. Unfortunately, Janice wasn’t feeling well and had stomach problems (it must’ve been from the previous night’s food). However, the ride was inexpensive, and the Songthaew dropped us at the Trat bus station. From Trat, busses ran to Pattaya.

Janice was terribly ill, and with at least four hours to wait until the next bus, there wasn’t a good deal she could do but try and lay down on the uncomfortable bus station plastic chairs. Eventually, the bus arrived and the sun was long gone on arrival in Pattaya. In darkness, we cycled the last few kilometres to Jomtien, bringing to an end Janice’s holiday.

 

9-12 March - Pattaya

Being a day ahead of schedule, good use was made of our time and on emerging at leisure we strolled to the beach. Janice, by then, felt considerably better, and could do last-minute shopping, pack her bike and get ready for her flight to Cape Town. But, unfortunately, far too soon the time came for her to head to the airport for her flight to South Africa.

 

13-14 March - Pattaya

I’d precisely one day to do laundry and repack bags before heading to Bangkok, where I met Rouen (brother-in-law) and Micah (niece and godchild) for a three-week backpacking holiday in Thailand. The easiest way of getting to Bangkok was to catch a bus to the airport and, from there, a bus directly to Khao San Road, leaving a short meander to the Riverline Guesthouse, my abode of choice.

147 CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (9.1) - A RIDE AROUND CAMBODIA - CAMERA IN HAND - MEGAN, ERMA & JANICE

Between Temples and Dust Bicycle

Journey Through Cambodia

 

MAP

PDF

VOICEOVER

PHOTOS

FLIP-BOOK

 

 

Prologue — The Best-Laid Plans (and Other Myths)

Every big trip starts with a grand idea, a map, and at least one person who thinks, “How hard can it be?” In our case, it was four women, four bicycles, and absolutely no consensus on what counted as a “small hill.” We set off anyway—armed with optimism, questionable snacks, and the firm belief that Google Maps would never betray us (it did, repeatedly).

This is the story of what happens when you follow the road, trust strangers, and hope your seat post doesn’t snap before lunch.

 

 

Part 1 - Thailand
The Soft Beginning
334 Km – 5 Days
18 January – 24 January 2019

 

 

Jomtien - Janice’s arrival

Janice landed in Bangkok after a marathon of flights from South Africa, stepping into the humid brightness of Thailand with that dazed, elastic sense of time only long-haul travel can produce. Together we drifted onto a bus bound for Jomtien—a place where one could exhale, eat noodle soup on the beach, and sip night‑market smoothies while the sea breathed in and out beside us.

 

Jomtien to Phale Beach (60 km) – Settling Into the Journey

For three days, we fussed over bicycles and panniers, tightening straps, adjusting seats, and gathering the small things that make a journey feel possible. At last, we pointed our wheels toward Cambodia, where Erma and Megan would join us for a month-long ride through Cambodia. I felt a quiet thrill at the thought of the four of us pedalling through a country stitched with temples, rice fields, and improbable kindness.

Cycle touring always arrives in a rush of colour and scent—diesel fumes and frying garlic, incense drifting from a shrine, the sudden flash of a fishing boat’s paintwork. Even though our first day was a modest sixty kilometres, it brimmed with the sensory abundance that can overwhelm a newcomer. Janice handled it with admirable grace.

Our first stop was Ban Chak Ngaeo, a Thai-Chinese community that still clings to its traditional rhythms. Red lanterns swayed above narrow lanes, and old wooden shophouses leaned companionably toward one another as if sharing secrets. From there, we rode on to the vast Wat Yansangwararam complex, a serene sprawl of temples in wildly different architectural styles, all reflected in the lake's stillness. The gardens were immaculate, the air soft, the whole place humming with a quiet, orderly peace.

Minor roads eventually delivered us to the coast, where Phale Beach waited with its easy charm. Our guesthouse sat right on the sand, the kind of place where you could wriggle your toes into the warm grains while watching the horizon blur into dusk. We wasted no time slipping into the lukewarm Gulf of Thailand, letting the saltwater rinse away the day’s heat.

At sunset, we wandered along the beach, passing fishermen preparing their boats for the night. Later, we ate dinner at a beachside restaurant—simple, delicious food under a rising moon. It felt like the perfect ending to our first day, and I couldn’t help feeling proud of Janice, who had taken to cycle touring with far more ease than she probably realised.

 

Phale Beach to Ban Phe (60 km) - Along the Gulf: Saltwater, Lanterns, and Quiet Roads

Morning arrived warm and forgiving, the kind of coastal dawn that invites a swim before thought has fully returned to the body. After drifting in the gentle Gulf waters, we set off along the shoreline, the road curling past quiet beaches and the sprawling Map Ta Phut Industrial Estate. It’s an odd juxtaposition—idyllic coastline on one side, the world’s eighth‑largest petrochemical hub on the other—but cycle touring thrives on such contrasts. They sharpen the senses.

The day unfolded in long, unhurried stretches of beach, the sand pale and nearly empty, as though the coastline had been reserved just for us. Coconut stalls appeared at perfect intervals, each one a small oasis. We sat on low stools, sipping the cool juice while prying out the soft flesh with improvised spoons. The ocean shimmered beside us, unbothered by our slow progress.

Rayong arrived around midday, but the day still felt young, so we pressed on to Ban Phe, a coastal settlement humming with the quiet industry of seafood processing. Fishing boats were moored three and four deep along the piers, their hulls bright with paint and years of salt. The air carried the unmistakable tang of fish sauce—sharp, fermented, alive.

Ban Phe offered no shortage of accommodation, being the gateway to Ko Samet, but our evening was subdued. Janice had come down with a cold, her energy slipping away as the day wore on. We wandered briefly to the docks at sunset, watching boats shuttle passengers to and from the islands, but soon retreated to rest. Travel has its own rhythm, and sometimes the body insists on a slower tempo.

 

Ban Phe to Kung Wiman Beach (70 km) — Bicycle Lanes and Lavender Evenings

From Ban Phe, the road continued faithfully along the coast, a ribbon of tarmac tracing the curve of the sea. Morning light spilt across bridges where brightly painted fishing boats clustered along the banks like confetti caught in a tide. The surprise of the day was a dedicated bicycle lane—nearly the entire way—an unexpected luxury that made the ride feel effortless.

By afternoon, the road delivered us to the serene sweep of Kung Wiman Beach, a one-lane fishing village where life seemed to move at half speed. Our guesthouse sat just across from the ocean, and we barely had time to drop our panniers before wading into the warm, glassy water. The Gulf held us gently, as if welcoming us back.

Dinner came from a beachside eatery, the kind of place where plastic chairs sink slightly into the sand and the food tastes better for being eaten outdoors. The sunset put on a performance—lavender, gold, and fire—spilling across the water in a way that made conversation unnecessary. It was enough simply to sit and watch the day fold itself away.

 

Kung Wiman Beach to Chanthaburi (61 km) — Temples, Fish Farms, and Gem Road

I woke early and jogged along the coast, the air still cool enough to feel kind. The route carried me over two small hills to a lookout, then down into a tiny fishing hamlet where boats rested on the sand like sleeping animals. By the time I returned, Janice was already packed, patient as ever despite my late start.

The day’s ride was another 60-kilometre gift—quiet roads, fish farms shimmering in the sun, and beaches that seemed to appear just when we needed them. During the morning we crossed paths with Kim, a cycle tourer I’d met online. We chatted in the easy, immediate way cyclists do, then continued in opposite directions, each pulled along by our own journey.

Chanthaburi welcomed us with history. This was where King Taksin rallied his troops after the fall of Ayutthaya, and the city still carries the weight of that past. A bike shop fitted mirrors to our bicycles—small additions that made the road feel safer—and then we crossed the Chanthaburi River, where the River Guesthouse caught our eye. It was simple, reasonably priced, and exactly what we needed.

In the evening, we wandered to the night market via Sri Chan Road, known as Gem Road for its bustling trade in gems and jewellery. The market itself was a feast of colour and scent—grilled meats, fresh fruit, sizzling pans—and we ate our way through it with the enthusiasm of travellers who know the next day will demand more energy.

 

Chanthaburi to Ban Phakkat (83 km) - Waterfalls, Forest Roads, and the Twelve-Humped Camel

We left Chanthaburi through the Historic Market, its narrow lanes and wooden shophouses giving the morning a nostalgic, lantern‑lit start. Vendors sold unfamiliar snacks, a gentle beginning to what became a demanding day.

The road soon turned rural, climbing toward Khao Khitchakut National Park and the Khao Bunjob Waterfall. The hills were steeper than expected, but the forest softened the effort. Searching for the waterfall, we spotted a temple across a small river and followed a faint upstream path to a hidden suspension bridge. Dragging our bikes across its narrow planks felt ridiculous and triumphant in equal measure, but it delivered us to an easier road and back to our route.

The main road had one final test: a steep pass that demanded patience. At the top, the world opened again, and soon we reached the turnoff to Ban Phakkat. Wanting to encourage Janice, I promised the road ahead was mostly flat with “a few small humps.” Later she insisted the “camel” had at least twelve—and she wasn’t wrong.

Ban Phakkat appeared like a small miracle. We found a 400‑baht bungalow at the town entrance, and I felt a surge of pride watching Janice roll in after such a tough day, still full of grit and good humour.

 

Ban Phakkat, Thailand to Pailin, Cambodia (20 km) Crossing Into Cambodia - Bureaucracy, Bougainvillea, and a Darker History

Morning arrived soft and pale, the border town feeling suspended between countries. A short ride took us to the frontier, where noodle soup and omelette fortified us for the bureaucratic shuffle ahead. The Thai side offered a small comedy: a gleaming new building stood empty while the real departure office was a modest prefab tucked off to the side. Stamped out, we rolled toward Cambodian immigration, where a 1,000‑baht visa cost 1,500—still, it opened the gate to a new country.

Despite a pesky cold and an unsettled stomach, Janice climbed steadily to the first settlement on the Cambodian side. A sign for the Bamboo Guesthouse tempted us, and it proved a small paradise: bougainvillaea‑draped bungalows, a shimmering pool, and a restaurant serving unexpectedly excellent food. Twelve dollars bought us comfort, quiet, and the luxury of doing nothing.

We drifted between the pool and the restaurant all afternoon, plates of fragrant Cambodian dishes appearing before us, washed down with cold Angkor beer. With no ATM nearby, we paid in Thai baht and felt lucky for the flexibility.

Yet beneath the tranquillity lay a darker history. Pailin was once a Khmer Rouge stronghold, home to many of its leaders. It’s said nearly seventy percent of the area’s older men fought for the regime, and few have ever been held accountable. The contrast between the peaceful present and the violent past lingered like a quiet echo.

 

Part 2 - Into Cambodia (Part 1)
7 Days – 301 km
1 March – 7 March 2019

 

Pailin to Sdao (60 km) - Red Dust and Horseshoe Crabs

We began the day with practicalities—searching for an ATM, buying SIM cards, and picking up a blanket for Janice to use when camping. At a pharmacy, we stocked up on Royal‑D, the ubiquitous Asian oral rehydration, knowing it would be invaluable in the heat.

The road quickly deteriorated into rutted dirt tracks, and we bounced along to the delight of children who waved and shouted greetings. Water stops drew curious stares; foreign women on bicycles were clearly a novelty. Eventually, the back road spat us out onto the main highway, where the riding became easier.

Roadside stalls offered their usual array of surprises. Horseshoe crabs lie neatly arranged, their prehistoric forms unchanged for hundreds of millions of years. I found myself thinking about their blue blood—copper-rich hemocyanin carrying oxygen through their bodies, a biological quirk that felt almost mythical. Nearby, vendors sold grilled chicken tails, mice, rats, and squirrels, all displayed with the same casual normalcy.

Janice, still unwell, was fading fast, and by late afternoon, we decided to camp early at a Buddhist temple in Sdao. Supper was a small misadventure. I went to the shops while Janice set up her tent, returning proudly with cup noodles and a Cambodian baguette. Unfortunately, the noodles were too spicy for her, and the baguette contained an assortment of ingredients that defied easy identification. Buying food for others is always a gamble. I apologised; she tried to smile.

 

Sdao to Moung Ruessei (68 km) - Naked-Neck Chickens and a Swimming-Pool Salvation

The monks were already deep in their morning chants when we rolled out of Sdao, their voices rising and falling like a tide. Outside the temple gates, women sold pork pau beneath a massive tree, and I had the distinct sense that the entire community had gathered to watch two foreign cyclists eat breakfast. Dust swirled around us as we set off along a dirt track lined with naked-neck chickens and bare-bottomed children playing in the sand.

Carts carrying monks under yellow umbrellas overtook us, their wheels creaking softly. Elderly women shuffled along the road, their faces lined with years of sun and labour. The cultural distance felt immense, yet the warmth of the people bridged it effortlessly. Houses on stilts appeared at intervals, cattle tied beneath them, smoke rising from small cooking fires.

Eventually, the jarring dirt became too much, and we turned toward the paved road, passing carts stacked high with pottery. Janice, exhausted and coated in dust, was relieved when Moung Ruessei finally appeared. The Kheang Oudom Hotel, with its pristine swimming pool and comfortable rooms, felt like a reward for surviving the day. We slipped into the cool water, letting the dust dissolve around us, and later sipped Cambodian beer on deckchairs with a sense of deep contentment.

We stayed an extra day to rest—Janice needed it, and the hotel made it easy to linger. I was eager to reach Phnom Penh to meet Megan and Erma, who would join us for a month-long ride. The contrast between their home country, Namibia and Cambodia, amused me: Namibia, a vast desert with sparse rainfall; Cambodia, lush and humid with monsoon skies. Megan, a gifted photographer, and Erma, a pharmacist and avid hiker, would soon add their own rhythms to our journey.

 

Moung Ruessei to Pursat (62 km) — Highway Monotony and Market Wandering

The road to Pursat was a highway—uninspired, straight, and humming with traffic—but sometimes the body needs monotony more than beauty. Janice’s backside certainly did. After days of rutted dirt tracks and bone-shaking corrugations, the smooth tarmac felt like mercy.

The kilometres slipped by without incident, the landscape flattening into long stretches of rice fields and roadside stalls selling fruit, petrol in Coke bottles, and the occasional improbable snack. By midday, we rolled into Pursat, capital of the province, where Janice once again insisted on picking up the tab for the room. Her generosity had become a quiet thread running through the trip.

A short walk took us to the market—a labyrinth of covered stalls where vendors sold everything from vegetables to plastic buckets to mysterious fried snacks. The air was thick with the smell of grilled meat and incense, and we wandered through it with the slow curiosity of travellers who have nowhere else to be.

We stayed an extra day. Janice felt unusually tired, and Pursat, with its easy pace, allowed for rest. We searched for cooler cycling clothes, a task made comical by the fact that Cambodian sizes seemed designed for people half our height and width. Ordering food was equally entertaining—our lack of Khmer and their lack of English turned every meal into a small adventure. But that’s the charm of travel: the miscommunications, the surprises, the dishes you order without knowing what they are.

 

Phnom Penh: A Pause in the Chaos

Time was running short, and I wanted to reach Phnom Penh before Megan and Erma arrived, so we surrendered to practicality and took the bus. The ride was uneventful, the scenery blurring past in a wash of green and dust. Phnom Penh greeted us with its usual chaos—motorbikes weaving like schools of fish, tuk‑tuks honking, vendors shouting, the whole city pulsing with heat and movement.

We checked into the Golden Boat Guest House, a place that could charitably be described as “functional.” It wasn’t the cleanest, but at fifteen dollars it did the job. In the cooler evening air, we wandered to the waterfront, where the river widened into a broad, shimmering expanse. Later, we met friends—Dan, Chop, and Teressa—for a beer. Familiar faces in a foreign city always feel like a small blessing.

The next day drifted by in errands and small pleasures. We visited the central market, its golden dome rising like a sunburst above the stalls. We searched for a bike shop so Janice could buy an inner tube, weaving through traffic that seemed to operate on instinct rather than rules. Phnom Penh is a city that demands alertness but rewards it with unexpected pockets of calm.

 

Jogging along the riverfront at dawn is one of Phnom Penh’s quiet joys. The promenade stretches wide and welcoming, the river glowing with early light. Monks walk in saffron robes, fishermen cast nets, and the city feels briefly gentle.

Later, we threaded our way through bumper-to-bumper traffic toward the supermarket, walking in the road because the pavement was claimed by motorbikes, food carts, and baguette vendors. The baguette—one of Cambodia’s enduring gifts from the French—remains a national treasure, crisp and airy and sold from baskets on every corner.

What I love about Phnom Penh is its ability to surprise. One moment you’re dodging traffic; the next, you turn a corner and find a peaceful temple shaded by ancient trees. By evening, the sun dipped behind the city, monks returned to their monasteries, pigeons returned home in a golden sky, and ferries shuttled passengers across the Mekong. We sat on a low wall watching boats set out for sunset cruises, their lights flickering on as the sky deepened.

 

Part 3 - Cambodia (Part 2)

When the Group Becomes Four
913 Km – 25 Days

 

Phnom Penh - Megan and Erma’s arrival - Temples, Eyebrow Relics, and a Sunset Cruise

Megan and Erma arrived late in the afternoon, stepping into the thick Phnom Penh heat with the unmistakable appearance of long-haul travellers: bodies tired but eyes bright and curious. It was a joy to see them. The city seemed to expand around us, as if making room for the new energy they brought.

There wasn’t much daylight left, but we meandered to the promenade anyway, joining the flow of Khmers out doing their evening exercises. Phnom Penh sits at the meeting of the Tonle Sap and Mekong Rivers, and the water gives the city a kind of restless serenity—always moving, always reflecting something new. We watched the river slide past, the sky softening into dusk, and then headed to the night market for supper.

There, under strings of lights, we picked dishes from countless stalls and ate them sitting cross-legged on mats, as everyone does. The food was fragrant and plentiful, and the atmosphere festive. But exhaustion soon claimed Megan and Erma, who had left Namibia nearly twenty-four hours earlier. They turned in early, and rightly so. Tomorrow would come quickly.

 

Jetlag has its own logic, and by dawn we were all awake, blinking at the pale light creeping across the city. We set out early, ambling toward the Royal Palace while the air was still cool and the streets not yet fully awake. Kipling’s line—“the dawn came up like thunder”—felt apt as we passed the Preah Ang Dorngkeu Shrine, where devotees were already lighting candles and offering prayers for good luck. The smell of incense hung thick and sweet.

We wandered through the grounds of Wat Ounalom, the headquarters of Cambodian Buddhism. Founded in 1443, it carries centuries of quiet authority. The stupa is rumoured to contain an eyebrow hair of the Buddha—a detail so intimate and improbable it feels like a secret whispered across time.

Later, once the bicycles were reassembled, Megan and Erma set off by tuk-tuk to explore the city’s famous sights. Janice and I stayed behind to tackle a few lingering chores. Time slipped by quickly, and before long it was evening—the perfect hour for a sunset cruise.

By evening we boarded a ferry via a narrow gangplank, armed with a few beers, and drifted along the river as the sun melted into the horizon. Phnom Penh glowed gold and rose, the water catching every colour. Supper afterwards was done in true Khmer style: a table full of dishes shared between the four of us. The frog was unexpectedly delicious, as were the salad spring rolls and everything else that arrived at the table.

 

Phnom Penh to Koh Dach (Silk Island) A Test Ride (52 km) - Silk Island and the Snapped Seat post

Chinese New Year preparations filled Phnom Penh as we pedalled out—red banners, incense, paper offerings, and families calling “Happy New Year!” from doorways. The nine-kilometre ride to the ferry wound past stilted wooden houses and hand-drawn carts, temples buzzing as monks received mountains of holiday food.

We crossed to Koh Dach, Silk Island, where weaving traditions predate Angkor. On the ferry, a woman invited us to her home to watch her family spin silk. Their hands moved with generational ease, patterns rising like stories from the loom.

A quiet lane circled the island, shaded and gentle. We stopped for coconuts, the vendor slicing them open with swift strokes before carving spoons from the shell so we could scoop out the flesh. Children stared at us—four foreign women on bicycles—unsure whether to smile or flee.

After pork pau and ice cream, we turned back toward the ferry, only to find Erma’s seat stem snapped. A tuk‑tuk whisked her to the guesthouse, where we later searched for an open bike shop—most closed for the holiday—until luck delivered one with its shutters up. Seat fixed, we returned for showers and another easy night at the market.

 

Phnom Penh to Oudong(k) (52 km) - The Way North Chinese New Year Traffic, Brick Kilns, and Hilltop Stupas

Leaving Phnom Penh on Chinese New Year felt unexpectedly peaceful. The traffic—still chaotic by any normal measure—was gentler, and my friends navigated it with calm confidence. Soon, the city gave way to quieter roads lined with brick kilns, their tall earthen chimneys glowing from within.

We passed children playing “kick the flip flop,” a game whose rules we never quite grasped, and others riding broom horses with fierce concentration. Roadside stalls sold tamarind and lotus seeds, neither as delicious as we’d hoped. At one eatery, the owner nearly toppled over when four foreign women on bicycles stopped for noodle soup.

Farther along, we found Wat Sowann Thamareach, a temple that looked like a replica of something ancient and half forgotten. Light filtered through its windows in soft, golden beams. It felt like a place waiting to be discovered.

A country lane led us toward Phnom Udong, where a hill crowned with stupas rose like a fairy‑tale castle. The central stupa is said to hold the remains of past kings, and the steep climb rewarded us with sweeping views. My friends took the stairs without complaint, even after a full day of riding.

From the hilltop, it was a short ride to Oudong, where we found a guesthouse across from a restaurant. Our first day as a group of four ended with tired legs, full stomachs, and a quiet sense of accomplishment.

 

Oudongk to Kampong Chhnang (55 km) - Ants, Accidents, and the Kindness of Strangers

We woke to an invasion. Ants — not a few, not a polite scattering, but a full‑scale occupation. They marched across our snacks, our towels, our panniers, and, most disastrously, my pants. I yanked them off in a panic, already covered in bites. It was a ridiculous, itchy start to the day, but travel has a way of turning even discomfort into a story.

The road out of Oudongk was congested and noisy, the kind of traffic that forces you into a meditative state simply to endure it. With no minor roads available, we stayed on the highway until a small turnoff offered a brief reprieve — a rural lane winding through quiet countryside. The peace didn’t last long. Rounding a sandy corner, Megan slipped and landed in a ditch in a puff of dust. Before she could even stand, the entire community materialised around her, hands outstretched, faces full of concern. She was unhurt — just a dirty bum and a bruised ego — but the kindness of strangers softened the moment.

A coconut stall offered shade and a chance to regroup. The vendor hacked open the coconuts with the effortless precision of someone who has done it thousands of times. Janice, ever curious, asked to try. Her attempt nearly cost her a thumb. We cleaned and bandaged the wound as best we could, prying the machete from her hands.

By the time we reached Kampong Chhnang, the heat had settled heavily on our shoulders. The Garden Guesthouse — a true traveller’s lodge — welcomed us with its easy charm. Janice and I took a tuk-tuk to the health centre, where her wound was cleaned and re-bandaged. The next morning, we returned for an anti-tetanus injection. Better safe than sorry.

While Janice, Megan, and Erma visited the floating village, I stayed behind to tend to chores. Kampong Chhnang, with its pottery heritage and river life, felt like a place suspended between past and present — a place that asks you to slow down.

 

Kampong Chhnang to Ponley (55 km) - Clay, Wells, and the Weight of Heat

The name Chhnang means pottery, and the region wears that identity proudly. Our first stop was Andong Russey, a small settlement where pots were stacked high beneath stilted homes. We wandered from house to house, watching families shape clay with practised hands, the rhythm of their work as steady as breath. The scene was photogenic, but more than that, it felt intimate — a glimpse into a craft that has outlived empires.

The road carried us past wells where people pumped water by hand, past rice drying on tarps, past temples rising like bright punctuation marks in the landscape. A young man climbed a bamboo ladder fixed to a sugar palm tree, collecting the sweet juice that would later be boiled into palm sugar. He offered us a sip. I hesitated, then tasted it — sweet, earthy, unexpectedly delicious.

A watermelon vendor provided a welcome break. She peeled and sliced the fruit with swift, sure movements, serving it with a plate of sugar, salt, and chillies — a combination that shouldn’t work but somehow does. Janice, for obvious reasons, was kept far from the knife.

By the time we reached Ponley, the heat had become oppressive, pressing down on us like a physical weight. An air-conditioned room felt like salvation. We spent the rest of the day horizontal, letting the cool air stitch us back together.

 

Ponley to Kampong Luong Floating Village (35 km) - Into the Floating World

We left Ponley in the company of krama-clad women on bicycles, their scarves bright against the morning light. Roadside stalls sold fruits we’d never seen before — milk fruit with its purple skin and soft, blueberry-like flesh; sugar discs made from palm juice; fermented vegetables; dried buffalo meat. It was a parade of unfamiliar eats.

Being the weekend, we passed several wedding celebrations. Entire wedding parties were dressed in matching silk outfits, shimmering in the sun like tropical birds.

A sign pointed toward Kampong Luong, and a few kilometres later, we reached the boats that ferried people to the floating village. Leaving our bicycles at the “office” was easy — Cambodia excels at uncomplicated logistics. We boarded a boat and drifted past floating homes toward a homestay.

Space was scarce, as it must be when your house floats. We were shown two tiny rooms with mattresses on the floor and mosquito nets overhead. The veranda overlooked the water, and from there we watched life unfold — children rowing boats with the confidence of seasoned sailors, families cooking, washing, bathing, all on the same water that carried their homes.

Kampong Luong was a complete settlement: shops, petrol stations, schools, temples, even a police station — all floating. The water was used for everything, and everything returned to it. It was both astonishing and humbling, a reminder of how adaptable humans can be.

 

Kampong Luong to Pursat (65 km) - Ice Cream, Heat, and the Return to Land

A boat taxi collected us at dawn, returning us to our bicycles. The day began on rural roads lined with scrawny white cows and ornate temples. Houses on stilts sold petrol in Coke bottles, others de-husked rice by hand. Shops offered water, penny‑line sweets, and drinks far stronger than water.

The heat rose quickly, turning the air thick and metallic. Dust clung to our skin, our clothes, our eyelashes. We stopped at every shop to refill our bottles. When we spotted the ice‑cream man, we were as excited as the village children, joining the queue amid giggles and curious stares.

By the time Pursat appeared, we were coated in red dust, our faces streaked with sweat. The promise of a hotel with a bathtub felt almost decadent. We soaked, scrubbed, and emerged human again.

 

Pursat to Moung Ruessei (62 km) - Temples, Pineapples, and Unexpected Generosity

We began the day with a detour into the past. An old brick-making factory stood abandoned on the outskirts of Pursat, its cavernous interior cool and shadowed. The place felt haunted in the gentlest way — shafts of light cutting through broken tiles, dust motes drifting like slow-moving spirits. Outside, monks and their helpers collected food offerings. What struck me, as always, was the quiet dignity of the exchange. Monks don’t say thank you; almsgiving isn’t charity but a mutual pact — the lay community supports the monks physically, and the monks support the community spiritually. A beautiful reciprocity.

By midday, the heat had grown fierce, and temples became our sanctuaries. They offered shade, water, and the occasional toilet — all precious commodities. One monastery in particular held us longer than expected. Young boy monks darted shyly between the buildings, their saffron robes bright against the pale walls. They were curious but cautious, peeking at us from behind pillars. We snapped a few photos, careful not to intrude.

The road carried us past fruit stalls, and the pineapples were irresistible — sweet, golden, and cut with the kind of precision that made Janice’s earlier machete mishap feel even more comical. We ate them standing in the shade, juice dripping down our wrists.

By the time we reached Moung Ruessei, the Oudom Hotel with its pristine swimming pool felt like a mirage made real. We didn’t hesitate. Dusty clothes were shed, bodies slipped into cool water, and the world softened. Supper at a nearby restaurant brought an unexpected kindness: Steve, a generous Cambodian man, bought us beer and then quietly paid for our meal. His gesture lingered long after the plates were cleared.

 

Moung Ruessei to Battambang (86 km) - Rats, Rice Mills, and the Road to Battambang.

We left before the heat rose, rolling through smooth pavement that soon crumbled into a bone‑rattling dirt track. Even so, the countryside was lovely — half‑hidden temples, villagers moving through their morning routines with quiet ease.

An old rice mill drew us in: a maze of belts and gears dusted with drifting light. Not long after, a woman appeared with a basket of grilled rats. Curiosity won. For 1,000 riel we tried one — tender, smoky, unanimously better than chicken. Megan, believing it was squirrel, took a polite single bite.

Realising our chosen route would take far too long, we doubled back to the main road, adding an unnecessary twenty kilometres. A tailwind carried us toward Banan, where the good pavement ended and the final rough stretch began. The hilltop Angkor‑era temple radiated heat and history.

From there, an easy ride delivered us to Battambang and the welcome embrace of the Royal Hotel.

The next morning we tuk-tuked to Ek Phnom, stopping for warm, sun‑dried rice paper and watching ironmongers hammer sparks into the air. By sunset we were at the bat cave, watching a living ribbon of wings pour into the sky — a nightly migration written across the dusk.

 

Battambang to Siem Reap (by boat) (14 km) – Crossing the Tonle Sap Lake, Floating Villages, Neon Nights

We rose before dawn for the boat to Siem Reap. In the dry season the lake retreats, so instead of a short cycle we endured a long, dusty fifty‑kilometre tuk‑tuk ride to reach the pier.

The boat journey stretched across the entire day — shimmering lake, floating villages, children paddling with effortless grace, fishermen casting slow arcs of net. By the far shore we were sun‑tired and grateful to disembark.

A short pedal brought us into lively Siem Reap. Our twenty‑dollar hotel felt miraculous: pool, breakfast, twin room. That evening we wandered Pub Street, letting the neon and bustle sweep us along.

We’d arranged a tuk‑tuk tour with Mr Lam for the next morning — Angkor’s temples and Bayon at sunset. Megan’s guidance on shooting inside temples was a gift; she taught us how to read the light and let the shadows do the work.

Ive visited Angkor countless times, yet Im always in awe seeing the temple’s spires rose above the treeline, sharp silhouettes against the Cambodian sky.

Wandering through the sprawling grounds felt surreal, as though we had slipped into a dream. The temples stood like guardians of time, their sandstone walls etched with intricate carvings that whispered stories of gods, kings, and forgotten battles. Nature pressed in from all sides—roots coiled around crumbling stone, vines draped over doorways, and birds darted through the shadows as if reclaiming the ruins for themselves. It was a reminder that even the grandest human creations eventually bow to the earth's persistence.

What struck us most was not just the scale of Angkor, but the resilience it represented. Built nearly a thousand years ago, it had endured wars, neglect, and the relentless jungle. Yet here it stood, a testament to human imagination and devotion. I thought of Cambodia itself—scarred by history, yet vibrant and alive. The temples were more than stone; it was a mirror of the country’s spirit, a reminder that beauty can survive even the darkest of times.

As the sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the towers, we felt a quiet gratitude. This was not just sightseeing. It was communion—with history, with culture, and with the enduring strength of a people who had built something so extraordinary that it still spoke across centuries. Leaving we didn’t carry only photographs but a sense of awe that would linger long after the journey moved on.

By evening, a bottle of wine vanished before supper, and the night unfolded with easy joy.

 

Siem Reap to Svay Leu Temple (67 km) - Rural Paths, Temple Hospitality and Meak Bochea Preparations

We pedalled out of Siem Reap after breakfast, quickly finding a rural path that led through tiny hamlets and seldom-visited corners of the countryside. Women carted toddlers in homemade wooden wagons, perhaps on their way to school. Our dirt path was shared by pot sellers, tuk-tuks, and women leading cattle to greener pastures. Children sold boiled corn, which made for perfect snacking. At a temple, monks were preparing their midday meal, and we snapped a few photos before continuing. Svay Leu appeared in the late afternoon, and permission was granted for us to sleep at the temple. It turned out to be a fascinating experience — monks preparing for Meak Bochea, the holiday commemorating Buddha’s final sermon. Villagers watched with curiosity as four foreign women wandered into a nearby restaurant, where ordering noodle soup required a lengthy combination of gestures, guesses, and good humour.

 

Svay Leu Temple to Preah Vihear (98 km) - Cashew Country, Cloudy Skies and Four Dusty Farangs

Sleep was elusive. Temple dogs howled through the night, and music played at what felt like full volume until dawn. When the chickens began crowing, the dogs joined in, and we surrendered to the inevitable. Breakfast was another bowl of noodle soup — comforting, familiar, and hot. The ride to Preah Vihear was long, but the sky remained mercifully cloudy. We stopped often to refill water bottles, grateful for the cooler air. The road passed vast cashew plantations — strange, bulbous fruits dangling from branches, the nuts still forming beneath them. Much of the landscape was either planted with cashews or filled with nurseries preparing the next generation. By late afternoon, four hot, dusty farangs rolled into tiny Preah Vihear, ready to devour anything edible.

 

Preah Vihear to Chhaeb (57 km) - Temple Feasts, Quiet Roads and A Hazy Full Moon

We allowed ourselves a slow start after the previous day’s long ride. Breakfast was rice porridge — simple, soothing. Our first stop was a Buddhist temple where Meak Bochea celebrations were underway. Devotees brought food, and monks and nuns sat on mats enjoying the feast. We took a few photos, offered thanks, and continued.

The road to Chhaeb was quiet and desolate, the kind of stretch that encourages steady pedalling and few distractions. Even motorbike salesmen pulled off to rest in the shade — a testament to the heat. We pressed on and reached Chhaeb early.

A guesthouse offered reasonable rooms and a short walk to the temple, where monks chanted and a small fanfare unfolded. We waited for the full moon, but the sky was too hazy for the photos we’d hoped for. Megan, unsurprisingly, still managed to capture magic. Dinner was fried noodles, rice, and cold beer from a street-side eatery.

 

Chhaeb to Stung Treng (88 km) Early Light, Easy Riding and a Golden River Arrival

We visited the temple once more before leaving, but the light had already shifted — too late for good photos. Megan, who had gone earlier, captured the best shots of the trip.

The ride to Stung Treng was effortless — excellent tarmac, gentle undulations, and favourable weather. The rhythm of the day felt familiar: load the bikes, cycle, stop for water, admire the landscape, repeat. By afternoon, we rolled into Stung Treng and checked into the Golden River Hotel, perched right on the riverbank.

 

Stung Treng to Kratie (by minivan) – Finding the Irrawaddy Miracles

The stretch between Stung Treng and Kratie was 130 kilometres of unremarkable road. We were considering a bus when a minivan driver approached us with an offer: twenty dollars per person, bicycles included. It was an easy yes.

In Kratie, a tuk‑tuk carried us to the pier for dolphin viewing. The skipper didn’t have to go far — the Irrawaddy dolphins were playing close by. We watched them surface and disappear, their rounded heads and blunt noses unlike any dolphins we’d seen before.

They are rare, vulnerable, and genetically closer to killer whales than to other dolphins. Their tiny, lensless eyes can barely distinguish light from dark. Yet here they were, thriving in this stretch of the Mekong — a quiet miracle.

 

Kratie to Peace Hut (86 km) - Life Along the Mekong, Bamboo Sanctuaries.

We followed the river trail south, the Mekong guiding us like a living compass. The route felt like a single, unbroken village — families fishing, farming rice, tending to children, living lives shaped by the river’s moods. Cambodia’s heart beats along the Mekong, and we felt it with every kilometre.

By late afternoon, The Peace Hut appeared — two simple nipa huts on stilts overlooking the river. Each room had sleeping mats and a bamboo deck, perfect for watching the water drift by. A bamboo viewing platform became our evening sanctuary, where we sipped beer and watched the river darken. Two dollars per person — a bargain for such serenity.

 

Peace Hut to Kampong Cham (40 km), Riverbank Villages, and a Bamboo Bridge

We crossed the river shortly after leaving, then followed the opposite bank toward Kampong Cham. It was a short ride, but full of life — children running alongside us, fishermen hauling nets, women selling fruit from woven baskets.

The Mekong Hotel offered fifteen‑dollar air‑con rooms with river views — a luxury after the simplicity of the Peace Hut. We spent the next day exploring Kampong Cham, a relaxed town perfect for lingering. A short cycle took us to the bamboo bridge — rebuilt every year after the rainy season, a kilometre-long marvel of engineering and tradition.

We had planned to cycle to Phnom Penh, but the highway traffic was notorious, and the ride was usually unpleasant. A minivan was arranged instead — a far more enjoyable way to end the journey.

 

Kampong Cham to Phnom Penh (by minivan) - Final Rides, Morning Markets, Farewells to Friends

The minivan arrived at nine, and with bikes strapped to the back, we headed toward Phnom Penh. Relief washed over us when we arrived to find all four bicycles intact.

Megan and Erma spent their final days shopping, eating, and revisiting favourite spots. We returned to the morning market, where steam rose from pots and pans, vendors fried and steamed their delicacies, and early shoppers filled their bags with produce. The air was thick with aromas — sweet, savoury, smoky.

Soon enough, their bikes were boxed, their shopping packed, and they were on their way to the airport, bound for Namibia.

 

Part 4 - Cambodia (Part 3)

 -The Road Back to the Thailand Border

7 Days – 301 km

1 March – 7 March 2019

 

Phnom Penh to Angkor Borei (93 km) - City Chaos, River Roads, The Butt Saga Continues

After Megan and Erma’s return to Namibia, Janice and I pedalled out of Phnom Penh, our panniers lighter for the memories they now held.

Men crouched beside mobile carts, slurping noodle soup; motorbikes swarmed around us in darting, horn‑bleating waves. Only after twenty kilometres did the city finally loosen its grip.

Seeking quieter roads, we turned onto a narrow path along the Tonle Sap River, the water moving beside us like a slow, breathing animal. Halfway along, Janice bought a new saddle — another attempt to solve her ongoing butt saga. With mostly paved roads and only a short dirt stretch, we reached Angkor Borei in good time, grateful for rural Cambodia’s gentler rhythm.

 

Angkor Borei to Kampot (103 km) - Slow Ferries, Sandy Tracks and Kampot’s Irresistible Calm

We set out early, knowing the day would be long, but Cambodia had other plans: the Angkor Borei–Takeo ferry only stirred to life around 8 a.m. Packed in tight, we skimmed across the lake, relieved to avoid the punishing ride around it.On the far side, the reality of rural infrastructure returned.

No paved road linked Takeo to the highway, and we wrestled along a sandy, rutted track until blessed tarmac appeared. Once on the highway, the kilometres slipped by — until twenty kilometres from Kampot, where the road dissolved into a construction zone. Vehicles carved dusty arcs around potholes, and we followed, swallowed by red grit.

By the time we reached Kampot, we were coated head to toe. Kampot River Bungalow was full, but the Naga House next door had a nipa hut on stilts overlooking the river. It was peaceful, beautiful, impossible to leave. Staying an extra day required no discussion.

 

Kampot to Sihanoukville (105 km) - Drought Roads, Dust Storms, A City Transformed

Despite being the dry season, this year had brought no rain at all. With most of the country relying on subsistence farming, drought is more than an inconvenience — it’s a threat. For us, it meant hot, dusty riding.

The road began smooth and fast, but halfway to Veal Renh we hit the dreaded roadworks. Vehicles abandoned the road entirely, carving new tracks through the dust, while minivan taxis ploughed through potholes big enough to swallow a wheel.

We pushed on through the haze until we rolled into Sihanoukville at peak hour. The city was unrecognisable — a vast construction site of empty lots and half‑built towers. I was relieved to find The Big Easy still standing, though now an eye‑watering thirty dollars for a fan room. It was clear we needed to escape to the islands.

 

Sihanoukville to Koh Rong (ferry) - Salt Water, Slow Days, Island Stillness

We left our bicycles and panniers at The Big Easy and boarded the ferry with only a small bag. Koh Rong greeted us with clear water and a slow, soothing rhythm. We swam in the lukewarm Gulf of Thailand, lazed on the sand, and ate meals at tables perched over the water. Days blurred into sun, salt, and stillness.

Eventually, it was time to return to the mainland — and to Thailand, where Janice had stashed her bike box and would soon fly home to Cape Town.

 

Koh Rong to Sihanoukville (ferry) - Return to the Mainland, Sand‑Between‑Toes Suppers

With so many ferries running, we left leisurely. Back in Sihanoukville, we collected our bicycles and panniers and began the hunt for a room — The Big Easy was fully booked. Supper was at a beach restaurant, where I indulged in one of my favourite simple pleasures: eating with my toes buried in the sand.

 

Part 5 - Thailand 

The Return to Bangkok

15 Km – 8 Days

7 March – 14 April 2019

 

Sihanoukville, Cambodia to Klong Yai, Thailand (15 km) - Late Buses, Smooth Crossings, A Hard Day for Janice

Our Cambodian visas had run out, so we bought bus tickets to the Thai–Cambodian border. The bus was scheduled for 8 a.m., but in true Southeast Asian fashion, it left considerably later. To our surprise, it took us all the way to the border. The crossing was smooth — no complications, no delays — and soon we were stamped out of Cambodia and into Thailand.

From the border, it was only fifteen kilometres to Klong Yai, a small town with accommodation and a lively night market. The next morning, we caught a songthaew to Trat. Janice wasn’t feeling well — stomach trouble from the previous night’s cuisine — and the ride, though inexpensive, was uncomfortable for her. The songthaew dropped us at the Trat bus station, where we had four long hours to wait for the next bus to Pattaya. Janice lay curled on the plastic chairs, pale and exhausted.

By the time the bus arrived and delivered us to Pattaya, the sun had long set. We cycled the last few kilometres to Jomtien in darkness, bringing Janice’s holiday to a quiet close.

 

Pattaya - Rest, Recovery, Last Walks by the Sea

Being a day ahead of schedule, we made good use of the time. We strolled to the beach, letting the sea breeze wash away the fatigue of travel. Janice gradually felt better, well enough to do last-minute shopping, pack her bicycle, and prepare for her flight to Cape Town. Far too soon, the moment arrived for her to head to the airport.

 

Pattaya to Bangkok - Laundry, Repacking, A New Chapter Begins

I had exactly one day to do laundry and repack before heading to Bangkok, to meet Rouen — my brother-in-law — and Micah, my niece and godchild, for a three-week backpacking holiday in Thailand.

The easiest route was to catch a bus to the airport, then another straight to Khao San Road. From there, it was only a short walk to the Riverline Guesthouse, my usual refuge in the city.

 

The journey continues.

 

Epilogue — After the Sweat and Dust

Looking back, the kilometres blur, but the absurdities remain crystal clear: ants in my pants (literally), Janice nearly losing a thumb to a coconut, and the floating village where even the police station bobbed gently like it had somewhere better to be.

Cambodia left us sunburned, dusty, tired and strangely proud of ourselves. We survived heat, bureaucracy, and snacks we still can’t identify. And in the end, the road gave us exactly what it always does—stories we’ll be laughing about for years, and legs that may never fully forgive us.