096 CYCLE TOURING VIETNAM (2)

 Vietnam (2)

 Karst, Coffee, and the Long Road

 North 

1,205 Kilometres - 21 Days

5 October – 25 October 2016

MAP

PHOTOS

PDF

VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

 

 

Prologue 

 

The road into Vietnam opened under a soft veil of rain, mountains rising like old storytellers along the border. I entered the country slowly, on two wheels, letting incense smoke, coffee steam, and the echo of old wars fold themselves into the rhythm of my ride. 

Travel asks only this—to surrender to what appears, to the kindness of strangers, to the rain that soaks you, to the stories waiting in the quiet between hills. 

Cycling through history, hospitality, and the quiet strangeness of everyday life 

 

 

Crossing Into the Green Silence - Ban Dong, Laos → Dong Ha, Vietnam 

A short twenty-kilometre ride from my Laos guesthouse brought me to the border, where immigration went surprisingly smoothly. Vietnam greeted me with a detour into Lao Bao—just long enough to withdraw a generous three million Dong and pick up a local SIM card before the road tilted upward into the mountains. 

The climb revealed sweeping vistas, the kind that hush the mind. Descending again, I passed turnoffs to war-scarred sites, including the Rockpile—a jagged karst outcrop once used as an American observation post. Its silhouette lingered like a bruise on the landscape. 

Yet the region felt as rural and gentle as Laos. Women smoked long, slender pipes while selling banana hearts; people carried goods in woven baskets strapped to their backs. Their laughter drifted across the road like a soft breeze. I followed the hilly ribbon of asphalt all the way to Dong Ha, a hundred-odd kilometres down the drag. 

 

Rain Over the DMZ 

I woke to drizzle tapping at the window, torn between staying cocooned in my room or surrendering to the wet world outside. Restlessness won. I pedalled into the grey morning, the drizzle thickening into a steady rain. 

Crossing the DMZ felt surreal—this land once carved by conflict now lay peaceful, quilted with rice paddies and grazing buffalo. In the constant rain, my focus wavered, and I missed the turnoff to the tunnels. I refused to backtrack. The downpour dulled the day, kept my camera tucked away, and left me sighing at the missed photographs. Still, there’s a strange refreshment in cycling through warm rain, a cleansing of sorts. 

I arrived in Dong Hoi after another 100-ish kilometres. The town quickly taught me about prices and the art of not being duped. Vendors laughed when I challenged them, refunding me with good humour. I learned to order only from menus with printed prices; shops without them left me feeling like a fish out of water. 

I stayed an extra day, wandering a city still bearing the scars of the 1965 B52 bombings. Only fragments remain—water tower, city gate, a Catholic church, a lone palm tree. I cycled between them, drinking cup after cup of aromatic Vietnamese coffee, sheltering from the rain, swapping stories with travellers, and sampling the local cuisine. 

One thing struck me: the absence of stray dogs. Instead, motorbikes carried wire cages filled with dogs destined for the dinner table. Dog meat, eaten with rice wine, is considered a delicacy. Though unsettling, I reminded myself that cultural practices often sit in uncomfortable grey zones. 

 

Funeral Smoke and Karst Mountains 

After a hearty breakfast, I set off toward Phong Nha National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site where some of Asia’s oldest karst mountains rise like ancient sentinels. The landscape unfolded in dramatic sweeps—towering peaks, lush valleys, the rhythmic hum of my wheels. 

Halfway there, a funeral procession caught my eye. A man in a brown robe chanted while mourners in white gathered around offerings of food and incense. They urged me to take photos, then stuffed my handlebar bag with fruit and snacks until it bulged comically. I performed an exaggerated puja in thanks, palms pressed together, bowing repeatedly, laughing at my own theatrics. 

In Son Trach, I found a guesthouse and headed straight for Phong Nha Cave. A boat ferried me up the Son Trach River to its yawning entrance. Inside, the world transformed—stalactites and stalagmites rising like frozen cathedrals, each formation more magical than the last. 

 

The Hidden Cathedral Beneath the Earth - Son Trach and Paradise Cave 

Packed and ready to leave, I felt a tug—an intuition that I wasn’t done here. I stayed another day. 

The road to Paradise Cave wound through rice paddies and karst peaks, leading to a modest entrance that concealed one of the longest caves on Earth—thirtyone kilometres of hidden splendour discovered only in 2005. A wooden staircase carried me into its vastness. Even with a tour group nearby, the cave swallowed sound and space, leaving me in quiet awe. Words fail; even my photos feel inadequate. 

 

Along the Old Ho Chi Minh Trail  

Dark Cave tempted me, but the cost of the adventure tour nudged me back to practicality. Instead, I savoured my included breakfast—Vietnamese omelette, baguette, iced coffee strong enough to wake the dead. 

“Where you go?” they asked as I packed. “China,” I replied. Blank stares. The concept seemed distant, abstract. 

The road north carried me through quintessential Vietnamese countryside—rice fields, buffalo, karst silhouettes. Farmers ploughed with oxen; fishermen cast nets from slender boats. I followed an old Ho Chi Minh trail, its history heavy with sacrifice. Old graves dotted the landscape like quiet reminders. 

A sugar cane juice vendor offered sweet relief. A missed turn pushed me onto the main road, but it became a blessing—women collecting recyclables, men tending buffalo, two women herding geese and ducks with effortless grace. I ended the day after biking 125km when I spotted the Yang Hotel, grateful for the nearby restaurant. 

 

Buffalo Rivers and Strange Conversations 

My morning began with drama: an Australian woman demanded I delete a photo of dogs being transported by bike, threatening to make me “friendless.” As if that would stop the Vietnamese from eating dog meat. I wondered which of my Facebook friends might receive odd messages from her. 

Later, a man insisted cycling was easier for women because we are “stronger,” while men struggled—this from someone riding a motorised bicycle. His logic escaped me, but at least someone shouted a cheerful “Welcome to Vietnam.” 

The AH1 highway made a dull, busy, 110km ride to Dien Chau. The day’s highlight was watching a herd of buffalo swim across a wide river—graceful, powerful, unexpected.  

 

 

Laughter in the Face of Collision 

The following day unfolded like a comedy of errors. Rounding a parked truck, I nearly collided with a woman riding against traffic. She dropped her bike; I rode straight over it. She burst into laughter—Vietnamese humour at its finest. 

Locals approached me to practise foreign languages—English, German, French. My repeated “I don’t understand” did nothing to deter them. One man greeted me with “Salaam alaikum,” and I responded with the only Arabic phrase I knew. I must have looked wildly out of place, but it made us both laugh. 

Closer to Hanoi, the road grew chaotic—trucks, buses, produce drying on the tarmac. Mining scars marred the landscape, but farmers harvesting rice and women cycling with heavy loads brought beauty back into the frame. I ended the day's ride at Thanh Hoa. 

 

The Limestone Kingdom of Tam Coc 

A short 60-kilometre ride led me toward one of Vietnam’s most iconic landscapes. Tam Coc buzzed with tourists, but its beauty was undeniable—boats gliding between limestone cliffs rising from emerald paddies, a land reminiscent of Ha Long Bay. 

Rain threatened, and I debated whether a boat trip would be worth it. The sky held the answer. 

 

Into Hanoi’s Warm, Rain‑Soaked Embrace 

The drizzle persisted, nudging me toward Hanoi rather than upriver. After breakfast and a strong coffee, I surrendered to the city’s pull. 

The route wound through rural settlements where women balanced wicker baskets on shoulder poles. A surprise stop at ancient Hoa Lu—Vietnam’s former capital—offered moss-covered walls, old temples, and narrow alleys steeped in history. 

Eventually, the AH1 swallowed me again, narrowing into a potholed single lane. The final stretch into Hanoi was a heart-pounding dance with chaotic traffic. Arriving soaked and exhausted, I found refuge in a cheap guesthouse tucked into the old quarter’s maze. 

The days that followed became a tapestry of street food, coffee, laughter, and nights out with Bret, Hayley, and their friends. Rumours of a typhoon kept me lingering. Each morning, the weatherman declared, “Today’s the day,” and each day I booked another night. 

 

 

Following the Duong River’s Quiet Pulse  

Nothning much came of the storm and I packed up. Leaving Hanoi felt like peeling myself away from a warm embrace. I drifted through settlements along the Duong River—matchbox houses, rice paddies, red-roofed homes that reminded me strangely of Eastern Europe. 

My GPS, set to “walking” by accident, guided me through markets, cobblestone alleys, temples, and residential lanes. Buffalo wandered freely; chickens and pigs added their soundtrack. Farmers tended vegetable plots by hand. Villagers dried rice on the tarmac, turning it with quiet precision. 

I hesitated to take photos, but couldn’t resist capturing a man carrying not just fishing gear on his shoulder pole, but an entire boat.  I pedalled on for about 115 kilometres before calling it a day at a roadside Hotel. 

 

Halong’s Haze and a Forgotten Passport  

A blissfully short ride carried me into Halong City, framed by karst formations rising like ancient guardians. Yet the city itself felt like a construction site—development booming under Vietnam’s free trade agreements. 

Then came the realisation: my passport was still in Hanoi. The hotel receptionist sprang into action, calling her brother, a minivan driver, who retrieved it and delivered it to my hotel in Halong City!. Kindness, once again, saving the day. 

 

A Day Devoured by Fog and Food - Halong City  

The weather turned foul—pollution, haze, fog. A boat trip was out of the question. Instead, I surrendered to the pleasures of food and drink, letting the city feed me in its own way. 

 

Rice Fields, Ruins, and Rice Wine Invitations 

Northern Vietnam is a paradox—achingly beautiful yet suffocated by pollution. As I moved inland, the haze lifted, revealing rolling hills and ripening rice fields glowing gold. 

Old houses crumbled gracefully beside the fields. Locals at roadside stands offered food and drink; kiosk owners beckoned me to join them for rice wine. I declined with gratitude. 

I reached Dam Ha after 120 kilometres and found a guesthouse beside a simple restaurant serving one dish and Bia Ha Noi on tap. Pointing was enough to order. The meal—rice, tofu, sausage, greens—was enormous and unexpectedly delicious. 

 

The Curious Eyes of Mong Cai  

A short 60-kilometre scenic ride brought me to Mong Cai, a bustling border city alive with markets and cross-border trade. I stood out immediately—foreigners rarely pass through here. People peered into my shopping bags, watched me eat, and hovered with curiosity. Two women sat beside me and stared until I packed up and left to get takeaway elsewhere. 

Adventure comes in many forms! 

 

Into China, Under a Sky of New Possibilities Mong Cai, Vietnam → Qinzhou, China 

Crossing into China felt like stepping into a quirky indie film. Crowds gathered around me, inspecting my handlebar bag, my solar panel, my jewellery. Their curiosity was intense, almost overwhelming. 

Immigration officers examined my passport with puzzled fascination—perhaps they’d never seen someone from “Nanfei.” Eventually, they waved me through. 

In Dongxing, I withdrew 4,000 yuan and hunted for a SIM card. The first shop couldn’t help, but a kind woman led me to the main office. By 11 a.m., I was ready to ride. 

The road to Qinzhou was a delight—quiet, scenic, refreshing. Urban sprawl appeared intimidating at first, but Chinese cities proved surprisingly easy to navigate. 

Evening fell early with the time change. I splurged on a luxurious hotel—double my usual budget, but worth every yuan. After dinner, I attempted laundry in a tiny basin, grateful for the drying rack beneath the air conditioner. 

A new country, a new rhythm, a new chapter unfolding. 

 

 

Epilogue 

By the time I reached Mong Cai, 

Vietnam had settled into me— 

its rain, its laughter, its open‑handed generosity. 

Crossing into China felt like stepping from one dream into another, 

the road ahead wide and waiting. 

I pedalled forward knowing that every border crossed 

is simply the beginning of the next story. 

 

095 CYCLE TOURING LAOS (4)

 LAOS (4)

 

897 Kilometres – 33 Days

2 September – 5 October 2016

MAP

Photos

 PDF

VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

 

Prologue

Laos unfolded before me like a country suspended between breaths—unhurried, unassuming. I crossed into it with no grand plan beyond the simple truth that I had time—thirty-three days of it—and a road that would eventually stretch into 897 kilometres of quiet discovery.

The Mekong was my first companion, a broad, slow-moving presence that seemed to set the rhythm for everything that followed. Its waters carried stories older than memory, and as I cycled along its banks, I felt myself slipping into that same ancient tempo.

I didn’t yet know that Laos would test my patience as much as it soothed it. That visas, documents, and bureaucratic detours would weave themselves into the journey as insistently as the river’s curve. That storms would arrive without warning. That the road would offer both frustration and grace in equal measure.

 

  

        A Gentle Interlude on the Road to China

Crossing Into the Quiet Country Nang Khai, Thailand to Vientiane, Laos

I awoke refreshed as the rhythmic clattering of the train's wheels lulled me into a deep slumber. By seven o’clock, I stepped onto the platform at Nong Khai station, rested and ready. A three-kilometre jaunt led me to the inviting doors of Mut Mee Guesthouse, but with nothing else left to explore in Thailand, I eagerly loaded my mobile home and headed for the Friendship Bridge.

Crossing the border into Laos was a breeze; sunlight glinted off the Mekong as I pedalled the short 25-kilometre distance into Vientiane, the capital unfolding in soft, unhurried tones. My first stop was the Chinese Embassy—forms collected; expectations adjusted. A two-week wait for a visa was not what I had planned.

With little choice, I found a room at the Dhaka Hotel, a place that whispered of bedbugs, but after a quick spray of insect repellent, I figured it was better to unpack than sleep on the pavement.

In the spirit of exploration, my first priority was to get local currency and set up a SIM card. As I strolled toward the riverfront, I suddenly heard someone call my name. To my surprise, it was Ernest—a familiar face from the past! We cracked open a couple of beers and caught up, sharing stories, the kind of easy companionship that travel sometimes gifts without warning.

 

Vientiane - Days That Drift Like the River

A week drifted by with the slow rhythm of the river. I moved to Christian’s apartment—a WarmShowers host from Germany whose immaculate condo overlooked the Mekong. I had a room to myself, a quiet refuge, though I suspected my traveller’s chaos tested his tidy sensibilities; let’s be honest, I wasn’t quite in that league!

 

North Along the Mekong’s Gentle Curve – Vientiane to Ban Noa (105 km)

The 19th was marked on my calendar as the day I could collect my visa, but that was still a week away, and adventure awaited! I hopped on my bike and rode upriver. The Mekong’s vast expanse unfolded before me, a winding ribbon of beauty as I gradually made my way along its banks, passing through charming rural communities. The joyful calls of children, “Sawadee, falang!” (Hello, foreigner), mingled with the sweet sounds of cowbells and the bleating of baby goats, filling my heart with cheer.

The scenery was nothing short of spectacular—typical Laotian cloud formations floating majestically in the sky, with low-lying fog teasing the peaks of distant mountains, creating an exquisite backdrop for my ride. As I pedalled along, indigenous markets popped up, showcasing a humble selection of banana hearts and bamboo shoots. The first part of the journey unfolded along a smooth, flat road, but before long, it transformed into a narrow, winding path that twisted through quaint settlements, where I dodged chickens and piglets who seemed all too curious about this foreign traveller.

Every curious gaze I met told me I was off the beaten path; this area wasn’t frequented by “farangs.” The delighted giggles of children echoed in my ears, and I couldn’t help but smile as playful dogs darted into their yards.

After riding 105 kilometres, a guesthouse near Ban Vang caught my eye—my first sighting of accommodation all day! I figured it was destiny and decided to make it my overnight stop. The charm of the place was amplified by a basic restaurant across the road, serving delicious noodle soup, cold beer, water, and sodas—exactly what I craved, even if the bed felt like sleeping on a rock. But who was I to complain? I was in Laos, savouring every moment of the journey!

 

Rough Roads and Small Reckonings - Ban Noa to Guesthouse (50 km)

As the first light of day broke through, my morning took an unexpected turn. I hopped out of bed and, to my horror, found myself stepping straight onto a scorpion! It turned out that the unfortunate creature was already dead, but the pain still sent me dancing around the room, clutching my foot like a woman possessed. Thankfully, I had heard that Laos didn't boast any deadly scorpions, so after a brief moment of panic, I pushed aside my worries about blurry vision and palpitations.

Soon after departing Ban Vang, the road transformed into a bumpy dirt track, and the ride became a slow, exhilarating trek. With each dangerous incline and daring descent, I manoeuvred around potholes, all the while taking in the breathtaking views of the distant mountains and the shimmering river that marked the border with Thailand. I couldn't help but imagine the smooth, paved roads just across the water—it felt both tantalising and frustrating.

Along the route, villages were few and far between; the occasional buffalo looked up in surprise as I whizzed past. It wasn’t long before I realised a pressing email about an apartment purchased warranted calling it a day. Knowing I’d need internet access and a printer—luxuries not guaranteed on this stretch of road it was best to return to Vientiane. In retrospect, I might have rushed my departure from Vientiane.

 

A Return Through Rain and Red Tape

The crows of roosters and the chatter of hens woke me from my slumber, nudging me into action. It was time to take a bus back to Vientiane and tackle the essential tasks that awaited.

The early morning ride to the bus stand was a delightful hubbub, filled with life. Children dashed off to school, farmers set off for the fields, and women bustled through market stalls, while others made their way to temples—a vivid tapestry of daily life in rural Laos.

At the taxi stand, communication barriers melted away; the driver understood my request without needing to exchange a single word. After loading my bike, I enjoyed a steaming plate of noodle soup while I waited for the minivan to fill up. As the rain began to pour outside, transforming the roads into muddy rivers, I settled into the van, feeling an odd sense of comfort in the chaos.

By the time we reached Vientiane, the familiar streets felt almost comforting. I returned to Mixok Guesthouse, ready to dive into the whirlwind of tasks that awaited me. Each step felt like a part of an adventure—one that I was determined to embrace, even amid the challenges.

 

Vientiane-Waiting, Wandering, and the Weight of Paperwork

As I signed and scanned the necessary forms, afterwards I took a detour to the old city wall—a fragment of Vientiane's past that few seem to notice. Originally flanked by three brick walls, the city was laid waste by Siamese troops in the mid-16th century, leaving just a sliver of history behind. Standing in front of the remaining section, I felt as if I had uncovered a hidden gem, enjoying the quiet presence of a site most people know nothing about.

Next, I ventured to Buddha Park, a place unlike any other. The park is an eclectic blend of reinforced-concrete Buddhist and Hindu sculptures, each a fascinating creation that beckoned attention. Among them stood a colossal reclining Buddha, a sight to behold. This surreal park was crafted in the late 1950s by an artist who was part priest, part monk, and part guru, mingling the philosophies of Buddhism and Hinduism in his own quirky style. His artistic journey took an unexpected turn when he chose to flee Laos for Thailand, disillusioned with the communist government’s ideologies.

 

A Visa in Hand, a City in Pause

The morning dawned with excitement as I finally collected my long-awaited Chinese visa. With that hurdle crossed, I immersed myself in the busy work of copying documents that required certification. A quick stop at a hairdresser spiced up my look—I felt like a new person. However, my search for a Notary Public to certify my passport copy quickly spiralled into a frustrating quest. Despite the daunting task, I soon learned that my options were limited; without a South African Embassy in Laos, finding someone who could assist and speak English proved to be an uphill battle.

 

The Bureaucratic Spiral

Packed and ready to leave, an email arrived from the attorneys: seven more documents needed to be signed. My frustration simmered. For two weeks, I had stressed the urgency of receiving everything by the 19^th. Now, on the brink of heading to China, I faced a serious dilemma.

The disconcerting reality was their apathy; they were indifferent to whether I missed a bus or incurred extra costs. A successful transfer meant they didn’t need to prioritise customer service, so they charged exorbitantly for their lacklustre assistance—no wonder I was fuming!

At 9 AM, I made my way to the Office of the Supreme People’s Prosecutor, hoping to find a Notary Public—this turned out to be neither quick nor cheap. Afterwards, I landed in an internet café to scan and send off those vital documents. By late afternoon, I returned to the Mixok Guesthouse, begrudgingly paying for an extra night and hauling my bags upstairs. Time felt like it slipped away from me, forcing me to revise my plans. The northern chill now seemed ominous, and I decided it was better to cycle to China through Vietnam, exploring the vibrant south coast of China instead. The adventure continued, and one thing was clear: my journey was far from over! The road, as always, would decide.

 

Back to the Open Road 

Mixok Guesthouse had wrapped me in its warm embrace, but as my laundry spun and dried, a pull in my chest nudged me toward adventure. "Are you leaving us?" the cheerful chap at reception asked, his smile gleaming with genuine curiosity. I couldn’t help but grin back—every departure felt like a reunion with the open road.

Pedalling away from Vientiane, I revelled in the thrill of watching the city shrink in my rear-view mirror. Each rotation of the pedals felt like a small rebellion against the ordinary. A quick stop at a bustling baguette stall filled my bag with deliciousness. Even though I had traversed this route not long ago, the landscape captivated me anew. The road south unfolded gently. I rode alongside schoolchildren who giggled as they matched my pace. Women in conical hats balanced their wares on shoulder poles; elderly women wove brooms from dried grasses; markets brimmed with baskets, mats, and clay stoves. A man on a motorbike rode past with goldfish in plastic bags, their orange bodies flickering like small lanterns, ready for a new home!

The day turned out to be a delightful mix of warmth and easy riding. By late afternoon, I reached Thabok and found a modest guesthouse—simple, quiet, enough.

 

Buffalo Paths and River Ligh 

As I set out, the cheerful shouts of “Sabaidee falang!” from small children punctuated the day, while surprised adults looked up, their curious faces echoing the familiar question, “Where you go?” I waved and smiled, knowing the details would mean little to them. The skies were overcast, and I braced for the anticipated rain that, thankfully, never came.

Cycling through this rural wonderland, I became enchanted by images of ladies leading buffalo to lush pastures and fishermen sitting patiently in long, slender boats, awaiting a bite. The rice fields glimmered a vibrant green under the cloudy sky, a breathtaking backdrop to the laughter of kids gleefully jumping into the river below.

Then, I caught an effortless slipstream behind a two-wheel tractor—talk about a game-changer! Riding alongside at a steady 20 kilometres per hour, I felt like I was gliding on the wings of the wind, making great time toward my next destination.

Finally reaching sleepy Pakkading after biking 100 km and was pleased to find an excellent guesthouse nestled at the confluence of the Mekong and Kading Rivers—serene and pristine, a perfect spot to rest after a day of exploring.

 

Storms, Stomach Aches, and Small Mercies

I awoke to a light drizzle, which was a bit unsettling, especially since my stomach had decided to join the chaos. Navigating the landscape with dampened spirits, I wished for clearer skies. Though it wasn't ideal, nature insisted on keeping things interesting—after all, when could a cyclist ever escape an unexpected bush stop in the rain?

Fortunately, the clouds relented around midday, though the overcast skies still offered a gloomy backdrop to my ride. Not long after lunch, dark clouds loomed menacingly ahead, and I hesitated just a few kilometres from my destination, questioning if I’d make it before the heavens broke loose again.

And then it happened: a torrential downpour drenched the landscape. Seeking shelter among a gaggle of motorbikes, I huddled with other travellers, holding my breath until the storm passed.

When it finally eased, I continued toward Ban Thangbeng. Aomchay Guesthouse appeared after 100-odd kilometres, just as the clouds darkened again. After a hot shower, I wandered to a small eatery where the simplest ingredients transformed into a meal of surprising depth—one of those dishes that lingers in memory long after the journey moves on.

 

Markets, Myths, and the Great Wall of Laos 

The morning ride to Thakhek was bright and easy. and the morning couldn’t have been more perfect! The sun broke through the clouds, casting a warm glow that made every pedal stroke feel invigorating. As I cycled along, I unexpectedly stumbled upon a traditional market. What caught my eye was not just the vibrant colours and bustling atmosphere but a shocking display of wildlife for sale. It felt wrong—even illegal, considering the furtive glances of vendors as they hurriedly hid their wares beneath tables. I couldn’t resist capturing a few sneaky shots of this surreal scene: a baby deer peeking out from beneath a cloth, a curious cat-like creature, and a bizarre assortment of animals, including iguanas, squirrels, and even what I guessed could be guinea pigs. The fish were equally mysterious, adding to the market's oddity.

As I approached Thakhek, I made a spontaneous stop at the Great Wall of Laos. This natural wonder took my breath away. Formed by geological fissures, it resembled a massive human-made structure and was steeped in local legends. Some believe it dates back to the Sikhottabong Empire in the 19th century, serving as a defensive barrier, while others claim it functioned as a dike to protect against flooding. The possibilities sparked my imagination!

Once I entered Thakhek, I found a charming place to stay right along the riverbank. True to my routine, I made a beeline for the market in search of local flavours. The vibrant sights and scents promised an exciting culinary adventure!

 

Mud Roads and Hidden Buddhas

Today unfolded like a mini-adventure as I ventured deeper into the wonders of Thakhek, setting my sights on the famed Buddha Cave. Armed with my camera gear and a heart full of anticipation, I waved down a tuk-tuk, ready for a ride that promised to be anything but ordinary.

I had chosen not to cycle, swayed by whispers of treacherous roads, and those whispers turned out to be spot-on. The “poor condition” label was a gross understatement! The tuk-tuk lurched and bounced over potholes, sloshing through muddy puddles like a boat navigating stormy seas. At one point, it felt like I was part of an off-road expedition, including a little push from me to get through particularly sticky patches. By the time we arrived at the cave, I was a tad messy, but exhilaration trumped all.

The entrance fee was a modest 5,000 Kip, and they offered the option to rent a traditional Lao skirt for the same price. However, I opted for a sarong, feeling more comfortable with my choice. The real twist awaited me inside—after navigating the muddy trek, a prominent sign announced that no photographs were allowed. Talk about a buzzkill!

But the cave held a compelling story of its own. Discovered in 2004 by a farmer on a bat hunt, it housed 229 bronze Buddha statues believed to be over 450 years old. Legends whisper that they were hidden away during the Thai ransacking of Vientiane, part of a royal collection tucked safely underground. While I gazed at the awe-inspiring Buddhas, the haunting history echoed within the cave walls. The story lingered with me as I made my way back to town, my wallet lighter but my curiosity satisfied.

 

Rain Trails and River Towns

The next leg of my journey surged forth as I rolled out on the river trail. This path, lined with vibrant fishing communities, sent waves of serenity through me, yet I soon faced the challenge of its fading presence, disappearing into the wilderness. Determined, I discovered a minor path clinging to life along the river—my trusty guide through this rugged landscape.

As I pedalled on, the dirt track buckled and turned into a game of dodge-the-pothole, and then, as if scripted, storm clouds gathered ominously overhead. The sky unleashed a downpour that made me seek shelter, and I watched the world turn murky through the rain-soaked canopy. Time stretched as I waited for the storm to ease, and eventually, as daylight began to fade, I slinked into Savannakhet after 125 km.

Immediately, I found myself drawn to the buzz of the night market, eager to soak up local flavours and sights. The following day was refreshingly straightforward as I tackled the Vietnamese visa application—a simple form, an effortless win! With my paperwork sorted, I embraced a day of leisure, diving into the overwhelming task of sorting through my ever-growing photo collection. The heat was sweltering, but with every image organised, I felt one step closer to capturing the essence of my journey.

 

Vientiane - The Long Detour of Documents

Ah, September—a month that tested my patience more than I anticipated. As an Aries, I was thrilled to bid farewell to its chaos, but the lingering effects of Mercury retrograde had me feeling like I was navigating a maze blindfolded. Communication? An absolute mess! Picture a frustrating wait for essential paperwork like my Chinese visa and legal documents dripping in like a leaky faucet.

Then came an email from Savannakhet—more signatures and verification needed. Ugh, why is finding a Notary Public with an English stamp like hunting for a needle in a haystack? I rose early the next day, fuelled by a sense of urgency, and hopped on a bus to Vientiane. Little did I know that this trip would feel like an epic journey; we rolled in after 17h00, well past my hopeful return time!

With my Laos visa expiring soon, I rushed to extend it. The next morning, I returned to immigration, then to the courthouse, where I waited for officials to finish a meeting. Eventually, everything was stamped, signed, and DHL-ed. I allowed myself a cold beer at sunset, grateful the tide seemed to be turning.

 

Savannakhet - Lost Bags, Found Kindness

At 10 sharp, I was back at the immigration office, triumphantly picking up my Laos visa extension before racing over to the bus station, eager to return to Savannakhet. The bus finally rolled in just past 21h00, and I felt a rush of excitement for the adventure ahead.

I woke up early the next day, ready to grab my Vietnamese visa, only to have my spirits deflated—I’d forgotten it was a Saturday! But Savannakhet had its charms. A small town with a rich history, it was lovely wandering the old quarters where century-old buildings whispered tales of the past, offering perfect backdrops for sunset photos. The riverfront was alive with vibrant food stalls, a fantastic spot for a bite to eat and a chance to practice some photography skills.

But horror struck! As I meandered through the night market, I suddenly realised: my handlebar bag—my beloved camera bag—was missing! My heart raced; not only was it precious to me, but it held my passport, critical documents, and all my bank cards!

In a panic, I retraced my steps (visions of applying for a new passport loomed large in my mind). I first checked the old quarters, but it was a bust. Then I rushed back to the lively riverfront—and there it was, sitting right where I'd left it! My bag was surrounded by people enjoying the sunset, a small oasis of serenity amidst the chaos.

I marvelled at how many places one could leave a bag in such a bustling area and return to find it untouched. I quickly thanked the bystanders who were blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding, then rushed back to the night market, where I’d left my beer. Miraculously, aside from a bit of melted ice, my drink was exactly like I’d left it. In that moment of relief, Laos, I thought, was a place where one could still lose a bag and find it again.

 

Toward the Border, Through a Landscape of Memory

Hurray! After much anticipation, I finally bid farewell to Savannakhet and set my sights on the Vietnamese consulate, arriving bright and early at 7:30 AM to collect my visa. The atmosphere was a mix of excitement and nerves as I stepped inside—only to be greeted by a friendly face at the counter. He dated my visa from the moment I collected it, which was a pleasant surprise.

But just as I was revelling in my small victory, I emerged to find my phone utterly lifeless. Panic set in for a moment, but I headed to the nearest Samsung office, praying for good news. The culprit turned out to be a faulty memory card—a simple fix! Phew! Filled with relief, I pedalled away from the bustle of the city and toward the Vietnamese border.

On my journey, I stumbled upon remnants of a turbulent past: one of the old war relics from the infamous "Secret War." It was a haunting reminder of the CIA's covert operations in Laos from 1961 to 1975, where 2.1 million tonnes of ordnance fell over the land. The statistics were staggering—260 million unexploded sub-munitions still litter the landscape, a testament to the legacy of conflict. Thankfully, organisations like COPE in Vientiane are working tirelessly to provide rehabilitation services for those impacted by this history.

The rest of the day was marked by a lighter mood. As I cycled through the lush scenery between the Mekong River and the Vietnam border, I could see that life here pulsated with nature. The countryside softened the weight of history. Rice paddies shifted from green to gold, signalling harvest. After 115 kilometres, I stopped at a roadside guesthouse, grateful for rest.

 

Mist, Mountains, and the Last Long Ride

The day marked my last day of cycling in Laos, and it felt bittersweet. The landscape remained as enchanting as I remembered from my travels seven years ago, echoing the rural charm of Africa. I watched as bare-bum kids dashed about, laughing and playing with old tyres, while delightful aromas wafted in from nearby homes where women cooked over open flames. Chickens and goats roamed freely, and with every village I entered, the familiar calls of “falang, falang” from the children welcomed me.

Serious-looking mountains loomed ahead, yet the road gracefully twisted around them, making for easy pedalling. As it was rice harvesting season, women dotted the roadside, selling bundles of dried bamboo slivers for tying rice, and mist clung to the valleys. I met two cyclists—rare companions on this route—, and we chatted briefly before parting ways. Near the border, another small guesthouse appeared, and I settled in with a bowl of noodle soup.

 

Ban Dong, Laos – Lao Bao, Vietnam –  A Quiet Crossing Into What Comes Next

A short but exciting 20-kilometre ride brought me to the border, where a swift stamp in my passport welcomed me into Vietnam with a 30-day stay. The small village of Lao Bao awaited just down the road, and I decided to explore a bit before fully diving into this new chapter. I found an ATM and withdrew 3,000,000 dong—quite the haul at the exchange rate of 22,000 dong to the dollar! After that, I picked up a new SIM card, ready to stay connected as I continued my ride. Excitement buzzed in the air as I anticipated what lay ahead in this vibrant new country.

 

 

Epilogue

My last morning in Laos unfolded with the same understated grace that had carried me through the country. A short ride to the border, a stamp, a nod, and suddenly the road ahead belonged to Vietnam. Yet as I pedalled toward Lao Bao, I felt the weight of departure settle gently on my shoulders.

Laos had been a lesson in patience and presence. In the art of waiting—sometimes willingly, sometimes not. In the quiet resilience of rural life. In the way landscapes can mirror one’s inner state: mist lifting slowly from mountains, storms arriving without warning, rivers moving at their own unhurried pace.

It had been a place where I lost things and found them again. Where strangers kept watch over my belongings without knowing it.

As the border receded behind me, I carried with me the softness of the Mekong, the laughter of children, the rhythm of wheels on quiet roads, and the unexpected calm that comes from surrendering to a country’s pace.

Vietnam awaited—but Laos lingered, like a gentle echo.

084 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (8)

 Thailand (8)

Northbound Through the Kongdom

 

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VOICEOVER 

FLIP-BOOK

Where the Journey Circles Back

The Last Days with Tania

We woke to a small miracle. Tania’s two-dollar prescription—mysterious, potent, and very Cambodian—had worked its quiet magic overnight. Colour had returned to her cheeks, and with it, her spark. We pedalled the short stretch toward the Cambodia–Thailand border, weaving through a chaos of tuk‑tuks, trucks, and buses that churned the mud into a restless brown sea.

Crossing out of Cambodia was unexpectedly smooth, and soon we were rolling once more on Thai soil, the air softer, the roads familiar. The route to Trat carried us through a quiet coastline of hidden beaches and gentle bays, the kind of landscape that feels like it’s waiting for someone to notice it. Along the way, four Thai cyclists on a two-day ride hailed us down. We exchanged stories in the universal language of touring—gestures, laughter, admiration—before parting ways.

Rain found us after lunch, a steady curtain that soaked us through by the time we reached Trat. But the town offered a gift: a monastery with a long wooden jetty stretching over a river, sheltered by a canopy and lit by a single warm bulb. With much pointing and smiling, the monks permitted us to camp. They locked the gate behind us, showed us the toilets, and left us with a kindness that lingers long after the moment passes.

We brewed coffee, cooked noodles, and watched the tide rise to swallow the mangroves—an evening wrapped in rain, river light, and quiet gratitude.

 

Coffee and Crabs

At dawn, the mangroves came alive. Crabs scuttled beneath the jetty in a frantic morning ballet, and the smell of Tania’s coffee drifted through the air like an invitation to begin again.

We had a mission: reach Bangkok in three days, leaving enough time to pack Tania’s bike, and perhaps—if we were lucky—a sliver of time for shopping before her flight home to South Africa.

We thus saddled up and cycled the 110km to Yai Am where, we found refuge at a petrol station, complete with a 7-Eleven and a lively night market humming beside it. The public restrooms felt like luxury, and we settled in with the contentment of travellers who have learned to love the simplest comforts.

 

The following day unfolded without drama, a long ribbon of road beneath a forgiving sky. A mild breeze, soft temperatures, and the steady rhythm of pedalling carried us forward. By late afternoon, and after biking 135 kilometres, fatigue crept in just as the town of Anata Nakorn appeared like a small blessing.

We found a modest hotel offering hot showers and enough electrical outlets to revive our weary devices. The ride may have lacked excitement, but the ease of the day—and the promise of rest—made it feel quietly perfect.

 

Riding into Bangkok

We left early, imagining a smooth glide into the capital. Instead, we collided headlong with Bangkok’s morning traffic—a dense, honking organism that swallowed us whole. Cars pressed in from every direction, and the city’s pulse quickened around us.

Navigating the CBD demanded absolute focus: the map, the traffic, the endless weaving, and always, always keeping Tania in sight. After what felt like hours inside a living maze, we finally emerged into the familiar chaos of Khao San Road—the very place where our journey had begun nearly two months earlier.

We found a ground-floor room with a window, air‑conditioning, and space for our bikes—a rare treasure. And just like that, Tania’s Southeast Asian odyssey came to its triumphant close. I felt a swell of pride watching her—she had met every challenge with grit and humour, and she had thrived.

 

Lazy days in Bangkok

The next day buzzed with purpose. Tania began the ritual of packing her bike, while I set off in search of new panniers—my old ones were more hole than fabric by now. I also dropped off my camera and lenses for recalibration, knowing I’d be without them for two weeks.

Bangkok felt alive with possibility, as if the city itself were urging us toward whatever came next.

 

We took the river taxi that morning, drifting past a city of contrasts. Old wooden shacks leaned over the water, their crooked silhouettes framed by gleaming skyscrapers. Barges lumbered upstream, ferries darted between them, and temples—bright, ornate, impossibly intricate—watched from the riverbanks. Vendors sold noodle soup and skewers of grilled chicken asses, the smoke curling into the humid air.

At Taksin jetty we boarded the Skytrain, gliding above the city toward MBK to find the Canon repair centre. Later, we rode to Amarin Plaza, where I finally bought two luminous green Ortlieb panniers—bright enough to be seen from space, and exactly what I needed. We celebrated with coffee and a slab of cheesecake large enough to qualify as a meal.

That evening we ventured to Chinatown for dim sum at Hau Seng Hong. We ate until we could barely move, then half‑ran, half‑waddled toward a tuk‑tuk as the sky cracked open with rain.

 

The morning arrived too soon. It always does on the last day.

Her departure left a quiet space in the day—a soft ache, a gratitude, a reminder of how journeys are shaped not only by landscapes, but by the people who ride beside us.

 

 

Thailand (8.1)
The Art of Wandering Slowly

 

Prologue

899 Kilometres waited ahead, 26 days unfolding like quiet pages. I didn’t know the story yet—only that the road would write it one slow breath at a time. Sometimes the road begins in stillness. In the pause between plans, in the weight of waiting, in the soft pull of a city that holds you just long enough for the next direction to reveal itself.

 

Bangkok waiting

After Tania left, Bangkok opened around me like a crossroads—wide, humming, and full of unanswered questions. Canon had thrown my plans into disarray: three weeks to calibrate a lens. Three weeks of waiting, of drifting, of wondering what to do with myself in a city that pulsed with life while I felt strangely still.

I rented a small room to think, but thinking soon dissolved into boredom. A minor injury kept me from jogging; the absence of my camera left my hands oddly empty. I bought a rear rack bag I didn’t need, mended clothes, washed laundry, and sat in the thick Bangkok heat feeling suspended between journeys.

Eventually, a decision rose through the haze: China. I imagined the northern autumn waiting for me, imagined cycling toward Laos on a new route, imagined my camera ready just in time to photograph the border crossing at Nong Khai. I imagined a bus ride back to Bangkok to collect the camera, crossing into Laos, a Chinese visa, Kunming—bright ideas sketched on the canvas of possibility. I knew my relationship with plans was tenuous at best, but dreaming felt good.

While waiting, I tended to myself in small ways: a haircut, a pedicure, new sunglasses, a bicycle service. Tiny rituals of care, reminders that even in limbo, life could still feel gentle.

 

The Queen’s birthday holiday electrified the city, but recent bombings left me wary of crowds. Khaosan Road bristled with police; the tension in the air nudged me away. Instead, I wandered toward the MBK building, letting the city pull me into its quieter folds.

What should have been a short walk became an all‑day pilgrimage through garland makers, food vendors, and artisans shaping begging bowls. By the time I reached MBK, I had acquired a new companion—a Panasonic Lumix compact camera, a small spark of joy.

On the way back, I missed a turn and slipped into a hidden neighbourhood pressed against the railway line. Narrow alleys, startled faces, the warmth of people guiding me through their maze. I must have been the first foreigner to wander there; their surprise was almost tender.

Then came Pom Mahakan—a community of fireworks makers, birdcage craftsmen, fighting cocks, and centuries-old homes. Fifty households living under the shadow of eviction, yet full of resilience. A 200-year-old fig tree stood at the centre like a guardian. The oldest house belonged to a gold merchant who once collected gold dust from second-hand clothes by burning them to reclaim the metal. A life’s alchemy hidden in plain sight. Years later, the government would evict them to build a park, but on that day, the community breathed with quiet dignity.

As my Bangkok days dwindled, I longed for one last bowl of wonton soup from Hong Kong Noodle. The bike shop was still waiting on a part. The next morning, a message arrived: my bicycle was ready. Bok Bok Bike—Bangkok’s finest touring shop—had worked its magic. My bike gleamed like new.

Before leaving, I wandered into Chinatown for dim sum. Two blocks from the tourist crush, life unfolded in its own rhythm: boy monks laughing on their way to school, incense curling into the morning air, merchants balancing baskets of produce. A final feast before the road called me onward.

 

The Quiet Road Out of Bangkok

A taxi carried me out of Bangkok’s sprawl—twenty-five kilometres of chaos before I was dropped at the city’s frayed edge. I wasn’t sure the fare had been worth it.

I followed a narrow path, hoping for rural charm, only to find myself at a vast rubbish dump. The day felt heavy; my body ached, my legs cramped, and exhaustion clung to me like humidity. I feared another virus, but stubbornness kept me moving.

By late afternoon, and after 100 kilometres, I reached Kanchanaburi as food carts began to bloom along the streets. I had no appetite—only a longing to lie down. Rainbow Lodge offered a simple A-frame bungalow beside the River Khwae, and I surrendered to rest.

 

The Road Suphan Buri

Before cycling out of Kanchanaburi, I visited the famous bridge over the River Kwai—less cinematic than expected, but still carrying its own quiet gravity. A tailwind lifted my spirits, pushing me past rice paddies and Ayutthaya‑era ruins.

In U‑Thong, relics of the first Ayutthaya king whispered from the earth. By evening, I reached Suphan Buri after 100 kilometres and stopped to admire the Pillar Shrine, its dragon statue coiling in vibrant colour. The Mind Hotel lured me with its façade, but inside, the room sagged with age. The mattress swallowed me whole; even the white bedding felt tired. I half‑expected bedbugs to march out in formation.

 

The temples of Suphan Buri

Before cycling onward, I visited three temples:

• Wat Phra Rup, home to a reclining Buddha said to have the most beautiful face in Thailand.

• Wat Phra Sri Rattana Mahathat, a treasure of ancient ruins.

• Wat Khae, where a thousand-year-old tamarind tree sheltered serene Buddha statues.

The ride to Sing Buri was radiant—sun blazing, butterflies dancing, dragonflies stitching silver lines through the air. A puncture slowed me briefly, but I fixed it with practised ease. I passed through buffalo villages and the Monument to the Bang Rachan Heroes, reminders of resistance and resilience. These are the details I write down because memory, like the road, can be slippery.

 

The Monkey Temple of Lop Buri

By morning, I left Sing Buri and set off toward the Lao border, 560 kilometres away, but a canal-side road led me into daydreams of NooM Guest House’s food. Hunger won. I turned toward Lop Buri.

The town is a living museum—Khmer and Ayutthaya ruins woven into everyday life, monkeys ruling a 600-year-old temple, ancient stones peeking from behind modern buildings. I ate, did laundry, repaired tubes, and let the slow rhythm of Lop Buri settle into my bones. One more day felt right.

 

Kindness on the Road

A beautiful day of canals, farmland, and small communities. By afternoon, thunder rolled in, and rain fell in heavy, deliberate drops. I sheltered in a vacant police booth—clean, dry, and miraculously equipped with electricity.

Across the road, a small eatery welcomed me. The owner and her daughter invited me to dinner: green bean and bamboo shoot salad, pork with cassava, an omelette, rice, and a chilli sauce that could wake the dead. Their kindness warmed me more than the food.

 

Rain and Generosity

Sleep was elusive beside the highway, but the morning felt fresh. Mist clung to the hills; the road stretched like a promise. A Thai couple recognised me from the day before and offered their phone numbers “just in case.” Such generosity always catches me off guard.

Rain found me again, forcing me under a bridge. By the time I reached Ban Kok, I was soaked and shivering. 110 km down the drag, I found a guesthouse and wandered the market, feeling like the town’s unofficial attraction. I wondered if any farang had ever stayed there before.

 

A Cosy room, a Bowl of Soup, a Cold Beer, and Curious Eyes

The following day unfolded slowly—too many stops, too many temptations. Markets, photographs, adjustments. Canon had delayed my camera another week, so there was no need to rush.

I chose Route 201 over 202, and it rewarded me with rolling hills, rocky outcrops, and sun-bleached landscapes. Mushroom stalls lined the road, hinting at nearby forests. A sign for a thousand-year-old cycad grove tempted me, but the detour was long.

Storm clouds gathered as I approached Kaeng Khro. Rain hammered down, and I found refuge at SK Place, tucked behind a school. A cosy room, a bowl of noodle soup, a cold beer, and the curious eyes of villagers—small comforts on a stormy night.

 

Cattle with Long Ears and the Gift of a Swimming Pool

Rice fields shimmered in morning light; sugarcane rustled like silk. Temples rose from the landscape, serene and watchful. White cattle with impossibly long ears wandered the roadside.

I cycled toward Ubol Ratana Dam, the water on one side, a national park on the other. I had hoped for a scenic guesthouse overlooking the dam, but instead found the Reaun Araya Spa—a place of unexpected luxury with a swimming pool that felt like a gift after cycling 110 kilometres in the heat.

 

Into the storm

A complimentary breakfast sent me off in high spirits. The weather, however, had other plans—three downpours before noon, and a final deluge as I entered Udon Thani. My orange poncho billowed behind me like a superhero cape battling the storm.

Floodwaters rose quickly. Traffic stalled. Shopkeepers fought the invading water with brooms and buckets. I pushed my bike through the chaos, wary of open drains and hidden canals. Eventually, I found the King’s Hotel—worn but spacious, and blessedly dry.

The next day became a feast: green curry, doughnuts, brownies, pastries. By sunset, I was determined to finish the last of my fruit—a small, silly victory.

 

Nong Khai and the Mekong

Still full from yesterday, I set off late toward Nong Khai, following the Mekong’s gentle curve. I rehearsed the speech I planned to deliver to Canon after their month-long delay.

Vendors sold feather dusters, brooms, and roasted coconuts so sweet they felt like dessert. At Mut Mee Guesthouse, overlooking the river, I received the long-awaited email: my lens was ready. I booked the night train to Bangkok immediately.

 

The Train to Bangkok

The train arrived at dawn. With hours to spare before MBK opened, I wandered the waking city, coffee in hand. After collecting the lens, a visit to the Human Body Museum followed—fourteen dissected bodies, skinless and strangely peaceful. Fascinating, unsettling, unforgettable.

The day offered markets, watching musicians, and observing the city’s endless theatre. A ten-baht shower at the station revived me before I boarded the night train north again.

 

Across the Border to Laos

Arriving in Nong Khai was at sunrise – I ambled to Mut Mee Guest House, savouring the quiet. With my tasks in Thailand complete, I packed my bike and pedalled toward the border.

Crossing the Friendship Bridge into Laos felt like stepping into a new chapter. Vientiane greeted me with heat, colour, and the promise of possibility. At the Chinese Embassy, I learned the visa would take two weeks—an unexpected pause.

I checked into the Dhaka Hotel, armed with insecticide and determination. Later, wandering the streets, I heard my name called through the evening air.

Ernest. An old cycling buddy, appearing as if summoned by the road itself. We laughed, embraced, and fell easily into stories. In that moment, Vientiane felt less like a waiting room and more like a reunion with the unpredictable magic of travel.

 

Epilogue

By the time I crossed into Laos, I understood that long-term travel isn’t only about movement. It’s the moments that stop you, the detours that reshape you, the unexpected voices that call you back to the simple truth that the journey continues wherever you choose to stand still.