109 CYCLE TOURING LAOS (6) - BECOMING KIP MILLIONAIRES

BECOMING KIP MILLIONAIRES

LAOS (6)

429 Km –  5 Days
13 – 18 September 2017

MAP

 PHOTOS - LAOS

VOICEOVER

 PDF

FLIPBOOK

 

Prologue

I should have known this stretch of the journey would be trouble the moment I realised I still had a functioning Lao SIM card. Nothing good ever comes from being too prepared. Within days, we’d be illegally cycling across an international bridge, becoming Kip millionaires, hiding from a typhoon that wasn’t technically ours, and discovering that guesthouse power supplies have the emotional stability of a toddler.

 

 

Khemerat, Thailand to Savannakhet, Laos (105 km) – An Illegal Crossing

The ride from Khemerat, Thailand, to Savannakhet, Laos, felt like cycling through syrup — the kind of sluggishness that whispers, “Remember those hills yesterday?” We did. We drifted lazily toward the Thai–Laos border, admiring locals who were out foraging with baskets like it was the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile, I can barely forage through my panniers without losing something important. The Thais, however, pluck leaves from shrubs and somehow turn them into Michelin-star meals. It’s honestly rude how talented they are.

Lunch was a glorious noodle soup accompanied by a basket of greens so fresh it practically introduced itself. Every slurp tasted like a tiny celebration. Then came immigration — the usual stamps, the usual bureaucracy, and the unusual rule that cycling across the Thai–Laos Friendship Bridge is forbidden. Apparently, the bridge is for cars, pedestrians, and bus-transported cyclists, but not actual cyclists. Naturally, this made us want to cycle across it immediately.

So we did. We hopped on our bikes and shot across the bridge like two teenagers escaping boarding school. Border officials were not amused. We, however, were delighted with ourselves, laughing like fugitives who’d stolen nothing but a moment of joy.

Laos welcomed us with a $30 visa and a charming guesthouse called Savanpathana. The ATM was the real highlight: withdrawing 1,000,000 Kip made me feel like a millionaire, even though it barely bought me any snacks. And, in a rare moment of organisational triumph, I still had my old Lao SIM card — just needed a top-up. A small victory.

 

Savannakhet - A Visa, a River Stroll, and a Banana‑Leaf‑Wrapped Pig Brain

Savannakhet turned out to be full of surprises, starting with the Vietnamese consulate, which made getting a visa absurdly easy. For $45 you get 30 days; for $55 you get 90 days. Obviously, we chose the 90-day option because we are nothing if not value-driven wanderers.

We wandered the leafy old quarter along the Mekong, where time seems to have politely stopped and refused to move on. The riverbank eateries were gorgeous, though one menu item — pig’s brain wrapped in a banana leaf — reminded me that culinary bravery has limits. Mine, specifically.

 

Savannakhet - Typhoon Panic, Power Outages and Comfort Food

Rumours of a typhoon off Vietnam’s coast had us mildly panicked, despite being 300 km inland. The rain, however, behaved as if the typhoon were right outside our window. So we surrendered to an indoor day, which mostly involved eating comfort food and pretending we were being productive.

We collected our visas at 3 PM, just in time for the guesthouse's power to go out. The building plunged into darkness, just as I accidentally locked us out of our room. Perfect timing. Fortunately, guesthouses like these always have spare keys — unfortunately, they are stored in the most obscure places imaginable. After a long, comedic search in the dark, the key was found, and we were reunited with our room like long-lost lovers.

The rain continued the next day, so we stayed put, embracing the cosy gloom like two cats refusing to go outside.

 

Savannakhet to Muang Phalanxay (119 km) - Early‑Bird Tania and Late‑Bird Me.

We left Savannakhet early as Tania was ready at 5:50 AM, bright-eyed and efficient. I, on the other hand, was trapped in a vortex of last-minute packing — the kind where you keep zipping and unzipping bags because you’re convinced you’ve forgotten something important, like your passport or your dignity.

We headed east toward the Vietnamese border, rolling through peaceful countryside. Just outside Savannakhet, we found a rural path leading to Ban Bungva, where a lake shimmered prettily and restaurants perched on stilts begged us to stop for lunch. We didn’t, but we admired them like art.

Next came That Ing Hang, a stupa said to house a relic from Buddha’s spine. We took photos, feeling appropriately reverent, before continuing through landscapes so green they looked Photoshopped. Tiny villages, lively markets, and endless fields kept us entertained.

After bike about 120 km we found a rustic guesthouse for 60,000 Kip (about $7) in Muang Phalanxay. It had the essentials: a bed, a roof, and the faint hope that nothing would crawl on us in the night. For the price, we couldn’t complain.

 

Muang Phalanxay to Ban Dong (115 km) - Mud, Markets, Bare‑Bottomed Children, and Livestock With Zero Respect for Traffic Rule

Rain hammered the roof all night, and by morning the world was still soggy. We pedalled out of Muang Phalanxay through a muddy, potholed road that sliced straight through the morning market. Locals stared at us like we were rare migrating birds. Children giggled. Adults giggled. Honestly, everyone giggled. “Farangs” clearly don’t pass through often.

The day unfolded like a documentary about rural life, narrated by someone who keeps getting distracted by adorable children and livestock. Houses on stilts, woven baskets slung over shoulders, meals cooked over open fires all felt timeless. Kids herded cattle with the confidence of tiny CEOs. The smell of woodsmoke drifted everywhere.

We passed people heading to market in wooden carts, and longboats gliding upriver with the grace of creatures that have never known traffic jams. Bare-bottomed children played in the dirt, shrieking with laughter, while their parents sold bamboo slivers used to tie up rice. It was all wonderfully, beautifully real.

Lunch was another bowl of noodle soup from a roadside stall, eaten while admiring the scenery like two queens surveying their kingdom.

Arriving in Ban Dong, we navigated a cheerful chaos of chickens, goats, and black pigs who clearly believed they owned the road. We found a guesthouse conveniently located across from a food vendor — the kind of strategic placement that makes you feel the universe is on your side. A simple, satisfying end to another day of pedalling through 115 kilometres of magic.

 

Ban Dong, Laos to Cho Cam Lo, Vietnam (90 km)

Breakfast came from a lady across the street who produced food with the speed and confidence of someone who had been feeding confused foreigners for decades. Fuelled by mystery noodles, we pedalled toward the Laos–Vietnam border, where Vietnam welcomed us with a SIM card shop and an ATM that spat out 3,000,000 VND. Nothing makes you feel like a billionaire quite like Vietnamese currency.

Barely out of Lao Bao, Tania’s chain snapped with the dramatic flair of a soap‑opera breakup. Luckily, the road back into town was downhill, allowing us to free‑wheel into civilisation like two exhausted swans gliding into harbour. The bicycle shop we found was more of a “motorbike graveyard” than a “bicycle repair facility”, but the owner was cheerful and unfazed. Then came the real plot twist: Tania’s derailleur was cracked. At this point, the bike was basically held together by optimism and cable ties.

Still, the countryside was gorgeous. Motorbikes zoomed past carrying improbable quantities of bananas — entire mobile fruit empires balanced on two wheels. We passed the Rockpile, a dramatic karst outcrop once used by the U.S. Army, now looking like a moody geological influencer posing for photos.

 

Epilogue

By the time we rolled into Ban Dong—dodging pigs, goats, chickens, and the occasional existential crisis—we’d survived rainstorms, border bureaucracy, noodle‑soup dependency, and my talent for locking us out of rooms. We were muddy, mildly confused, and deeply satisfied. Laos made us millionaires, albeit only in Kip; it also gave us children who found us funnier than we deserved. One thing was clear: the road ahead would be just as chaotic, just as beautiful, and almost certainly just as damp.

106-108 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (11) - A Change of Plans and a Quick Visa Run to Laos

A Change of Plans and a Quick Visa

 Run to Laos

Thailand (11)

635 Km – 11 Days

21 August – 11 September 2017

1,636km - 22 Days

MAP

PHOTOS

 PDF

VOICE-OVER

FLIP-BOOK

Prologue

There are moments in long-distance cycling when life presents you with a fork in the road. One path leads to China, adventure, and the smug satisfaction of having a plan. The other leads to a sudden message from a friend saying, “Actually, I am coming to Thailand,” followed by the realisation that your visa is expiring and you now need to cycle to another country before lunch.

Naturally, I chose the second path.

This chapter begins with that familiar traveller’s cocktail: excitement, mild panic, and the dawning awareness that international borders are sometimes just glorified speed bumps for people on bicycles. What follows is a tale of baguettes, bureaucracy, rainstorms, headwinds, and the kind of rural hospitality that makes you question whether you’ve accidentally joined a travelling circus.

 

 

 Nong Khai, Thailand to Vientiane, Laos (35 km)

Big news: Tania had changed her mind and was coming to Thailand after all! Suddenly, my grand plan to cycle into China evaporated like a puddle in the Bangkok sun. Instead, we were now meeting in Bangkok on September 1 for a one-month bicycle tour of Southeast Asia. A thrilling adventure for sure—though it did mean I had to abandon my China dreams and instead focus on the far more glamorous task of… renewing my Thailand visa.

Since my visa was about to expire, I did what any sensible traveller does: I pedalled to another country. The next morning, I packed at a leisurely pace (because nothing says “urgent immigration matter” like dawdling) and cycled the short distance to the Thai–Lao border. After acquiring a Laos visa with surprising ease, I rolled into Vientiane—the world’s most relaxed capital, where even the traffic seems to be on a tea break.

First order of business: money and a SIM card. I emerged from the money changer with a wallet so stuffed with Lao Kip (1 USD = 8300 LAK) that I felt like a cartoon villain about to buy a small island. Then came the SIM card—my shiny new lifeline to the world.

Hunger struck, and salvation appeared in the form of a Laotian baguette vendor. This glorious creation—lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, onions, egg, and chilli sauce—was basically a salad pretending to be a sandwich, and I loved it. Feeling fortified, I headed to the Thai consulate… which, naturally, was closed. But with two weeks to plan Tania’s visit and make my way to Bangkok, I wasn’t too bothered. Bureaucracy could wait; baguettes could not.

 

Vientiane, Laos (88 km)

Vientiane is one of those cities where wandering feels like a legitimate activity. I strolled past ancient temples, silk shops, and baguette vendors who seemed to be multiplying by the hour. The next morning, I submitted my Thailand visa application. Vientiane is famous for its easy visa runs—just an application form and two photos. I was handed a slip with the number 366, which suggested I might age significantly before being called. Instead of standing in line, I crossed the road to a restaurant, where I spent a blissful hour and a half doing absolutely nothing productive. When I returned, the queue had shrunk enough for me to collect my visa without drama.

That evening, I met up with Christian, a Warmshowers host I’ve stayed with twice before. He’s a German who has lived in Laos for six years and knows every good eatery within a 10 km radius. Staying at his cosy home felt like slipping into a warm bath—relaxing, familiar, and slightly addictive. Between the good company, good food, and good beer, I found myself happily plotting Tania’s September route with the enthusiasm of a cyclist who can’t wait to share their experiences.

 

 Vientiane, Laos to Udon Tani, Thailand (87 km)

After saying goodbye to Christian and dropping off his key at work, I cycled to the immigration checkpoint. A quick stamp later, I was back in Thailand. Moments after crossing the border, the heavens opened. Not a gentle drizzle—no, this was biblical. I sheltered under an awning until the deluge eased, then continued toward Udon Tani, surprisingly cheerful despite being soaked like a sponge.

Weeks of heavy rain had turned rural roads into mud wrestling arenas, so I stuck mostly to the main roads. The few times I ventured off-road, I found myself on charming country lanes where villagers pedalled past on their fixies like a local cycling club with zero Lycra and infinite style. The landscape was lush—ponds and dams overflowing, farmers fishing, and lotus flowers swaying dramatically in the breeze like they were auditioning for a nature documentary.

I checked into the Kings Hotel—cheap, air-conditioned, and with hot water. Luxury! As I settled in, excitement bubbled up for the journey ahead with Tania.

 

Udon Tani to Namphongkao (105 km)

The day began with me desperately hunting for minor roads, only to be repeatedly spat back onto the main highway like a rejected suitor. After 105 km of uninspiring tarmac, I stumbled into Namphongkao—a tiny village that turned out to be unexpectedly delightful. Arriving early meant I could tackle chores, including laundry. The downside of stopping early? I ate everything in sight. Apparently, boredom and hunger are identical twins.

 

Namphongkao to Kaeng Khro (120 km)

The next day’s ride was a joy—one of those days where cycling feels like flying, minus the wings and plus the sweat. I glided through small settlements, soaking up the scenery, until I reached Kaeng Khro, where I camped at the local police station. Nothing says “adventure cyclist” like pitching a tent next to law enforcement.

 

Kaeng Khro to Chatturat (85 km)

Packing up my tent the next morning turned into a spectator sport. Villagers and police gathered to watch, as if I were performing a magic trick instead of wrestling with tent poles. I felt like a hermit on display. The ride felt sluggish—headwinds will do that—but I eventually reached Chatturat and treated myself to a night at Ratchanee Place Hotel. A shower, a bed, and the ability to recharge both my devices and my soul. I hated feeling pressured to reach Bangkok, but the calendar was not on my side.

 

Chatturat to Tha Luang (128 km)

I surprised myself by leaving early. Route 201 was dull enough to make paint-drying seem thrilling, so I veered onto rougher roads. The hills were refreshing, the headwind was not. I passed a wind farm where the turbines looked deceptively small from afar—up close, they were giants.

After a glorious downhill, I rolled into Tha Luang absolutely ravenous. I inhaled two meals—green curry and stir-fried rice—plus cake, crisps, a Pepsi, and a beer. My supplies dangled precariously from my handlebars like a travelling circus act. I found the first available accommodation and spent the night feasting like a queen who had survived a famine.

 

Tha Luang to Nong Khae (110 km)

The ride was uneventful but hilly enough to keep me awake. The flat sections were mind-numbing. I considered detouring to Lopburi or Ayutthaya but had visited both too many times to justify the effort. Bangkok beckoned, and I took the simplest route.

 

Nong Khae to Bangkok (93 km)

I woke to torrential rain, which eventually eased enough for me to set off. The ride became a soggy but entertaining journey along a canal, where everyday Thai life unfolded—temples, markets, vendors selling banana hearts, and the usual organised chaos.

With 30 km to go, I left the peaceful canal and followed the railway tracks, weaving through Skytrain construction zones. Despite the mess, it was an easy ride into the Big Mango. Arriving at my old haunt felt like coming home. Bangkok—with its chaos, tourists, alleys, and irresistible food stalls—always wraps me in a warm, spicy embrace.

I had errands to run before meeting Tania for her ride to Hanoi. My bike needed a service, and I needed a few essentials. After a quick trip to Pattaya to sort out my condo, I returned to Bangkok—just in time to find Tania ready to hit the road.

 

Epilogue

By the time I rolled into Bangkok—damp, gritty, and decorated with a fine layer of canal mist—I had crossed borders, dodged storms, camped at a police station, eaten my bodyweight in green curry, and been observed by more curious villagers than a zoo exhibit.

I had also, against all odds, successfully renewed my visa.

Bangkok welcomed me back like an old friend: noisy, chaotic, fragrant, and utterly irresistible. There were errands to run, bikes to service, and snacks to inhale. Anticipation settled in: Tania was on her way, and the next chapter of the journey was about to begin.

108 THAILAND - A Country That Tried to Kill Us With Kindness
A Ride from Bangkok to Hanoi (Part 1) 

 

 

Prologue

Thailand is a land of ancient temples, neon‑green rice fields, and people so generous they will hand you fruit even when you’re already sweating pineapple juice. It is also a land where dogs howl all night, ants form military coups under your tent, and storms arrive with the subtlety of a flying brick. This section chronicles our attempt to cycle across this beautiful country while being repeatedly rescued by strangers, repeatedly humbled by hills, and repeatedly reminded that we are not, in fact, rugged adventurers—just two women who keep accidentally camping in the wrong places.

 

 

Bangkok to Phanat Nikhom (75 km) - Escaping Bangkok

After much deliberation (and several rounds of “Are we really doing this?”), we stuck to our original plan. The taxi ride out of Bangkok’s pulsing core did absolutely nothing to remove us from the chaos; it merely relocated us to a slightly different flavour of chaos. When the driver dropped us off, the city seemed to inhale deeply and swallow us whole again.

There was nothing left to do but pull on our metaphorical big‑girl panties—mine were clearly still in the wash—and brave the traffic. After what felt like a lifetime of dodging scooters, trucks, and the occasional rogue chicken, we finally escaped the urban sprawl and found a rural road so peaceful it felt like we’d slipped into a parallel universe.

Suddenly: rice paddies glowing neon green, temples painted in colours Crayola hasn’t invented yet, and skies so blue they looked photoshopped. Locals handed us cold water with the casual generosity of people who have no idea how close we were to emotional collapse. One shop owner even gifted us drinking yoghurt—because apparently Thailand is determined to outdo kindness in every other country on earth.

After 75 km, we rolled into Phanat Nikhom, home of the world’s largest woven basket—because of course it is—and a friendly lady pointed us toward accommodation near food stalls and the omnipresent 7-Eleven, Thailand’s true national treasure.

 

Phanat Nikhom to Sronlai homestay (70 km) – Fruit and Spirit Houses

Today’s ride was a love letter to rural Thailand. Wetlands, farmland, pineapples, cassava, papayas—basically a tropical fruit salad with roads. At one stand, a woman insisted on gifting us a pineapple. I nearly cried. It felt unfair that we were on holiday while she worked so hard, but she seemed delighted, so we accepted with the grace of someone who absolutely did not deserve free fruit.

We passed rubber plantations, each with its own spirit house—tiny shrines for benevolent earth spirits who, I assume, are much better at handling humidity than I am.

Seventy kilometres later, our ride ended at Sronlai homestay, a lakeside retreat with cottages and kayaks. It was so picturesque I half expected a film crew to appear and ask us to sign release forms.

 

Sronlaihomestay to Khlong Hat (87 km) - Cycling Through an Elephant Reserve

Tania was up at dawn, buzzing with energy, while I emerged from bed like a confused sloth. The ride along the dam wall was glorious, and the countryside lanes—lined with corn and sugar cane—felt like cycling through a postcard.

We passed through an elephant reserve, though the elephants apparently had the day off. Still, the lush greenery made up for the no-show. With a tailwind pushing us like an enthusiastic stage mom, we reached Khlong Hat by 3 PM and camped at the local police station. Because nothing says “adventure” like pitching your tent under the watchful eye of law enforcement.

 

Khlong Hat to Aranya Prathet (88 km) - Caves, Chickens, and a Temple with Too Many Steps

Sleeping in? Not with Tania. She dragged me out of Khlong Hat to explore nearby caves at an hour when even the sun was still yawning. The caves were slippery, dark, and absolutely not designed for people without headlamps—so naturally, we went in anyway.

We then hiked to a viewpoint with panoramas so stunning they almost made up for the near-death cave experience.

Back on the bikes, we visited Prasat Khao Noi, an ancient Khmer temple with a 7th‑century lintel that made my inner history nerd squeal. Rain began to fall as we descended the 254 steps—because of course it did.

I was excited for Prasat Muang Phai, an ancient Dvaravati city, but it turned out to be… a pile of stones. And chickens. Lots of chickens.

We ended the day after biking 88 km in Aranyaprathet, slightly damp but thoroughly enchanted.

 

Aranyaprathet to Non Din Daeng (Lam Nang Rong Dam) (105 km) - Ancient Temples and Hospitality

The ride from Aranyaprathet to Non Din Daeng was a highlight reel of surreal temples and the ancient ruins of Sdok Kok Thom, an 11th‑century Khmer temple dedicated to Shiva. The star attraction was a 1000-year-old inscribed stela describing daily life and temple duties—basically the world’s oldest HR document.

Thai kindness continued to overwhelm us: cold water, mangos, steamed rice in banana leaves. I began to suspect there was a national competition for the title of “Most Generous Human.”

We climbed the Sankamphaeng Range under a sun that seemed to have a personal vendetta. At the summit, mobile carts sold passion fruit and chilled juice—proof that the universe occasionally rewards suffering.

In the afternoon, dark clouds chased us to Lam Nang Rong Dam, where stall owners let us camp under a covered area just as the rain arrived. Dinner by the moonlit dam felt like the perfect ending to a long, sweaty, mango-filled day.

 

Lam Nang Rong Dam to Khao Kradong Forest Park (112 km) - Dogs, Ants, and the Cotton Candy Miracle

I woke to a sunrise so beautiful it almost erased the memory of the dogs howling all night, as if they were auditioning for a horror film.

We visited Prasat Nong Hong, then cycled through rice fields and villages guarded by cows with ears so long they looked like they were catching radio signals.

I bought bananas from a toothless lady selling them from an old pram—a scene so charming it should be on a postcard.

Prasat Mueang Tam was breathtaking, part of the ancient chain linking Angkor to Phimai. Abandoned for 700 years, it radiated mystery and the faint smell of historical drama.

Then came roti saimai—Thai cotton candy wrapped in sweet roti. The stall owner gifted us a whole bag, presumably because she sensed Tania was sugar-deficient.

We cycled past men in conical hats herding cows and parents ferrying children home on bicycles. It felt like stepping into a simpler, gentler world.

At Khao Kradong Forest Park, we attempted to find food carts, only for a sudden downpour to soak our tents. A kind lady offered me a blanket, restoring my faith in humanity.

Then the rains returned, the ants arrived, and chaos reigned. We fled into our tents like panicked squirrels.

 

Khao Kradong Forest Park to Surin (57 km) - Ants Stage a Coup; We Flee to Noodle Soup

“Ants are everywhere!” Tania announced, as if reporting a natural disaster. She wasn’t wrong; the ants had declared war. The staff arrived with bug spray like a SWAT team, saving us from certain doom. We packed up at record speed and escaped.

Breakfast was noodle soup, which tasted like victory. The countryside was a dream: rice fields, potholed lanes, scrawny cattle, and toothless paan-chewing ladies who smiled like they knew all the secrets of the universe.

We reached Surin and checked into the “New Hotel,” which was only “new” in the sense that it still existed. But at 180 THB, it was a bargain. Street food stalls popped up outside, turning the evening into a delicious festival.

 

Surin - A Day of Food and Bike Parts

Surin was a paradise of cheap food and excellent bicycle shops. Breakfast was cold white noodles in curry sauce with fresh greens—simple, perfect, and probably illegal in some countries for being too delicious.

I found several bike shops with high-quality parts and bought an odometer and an inner tube.

Dinner under the stars at 10 p.m., in shorts and T-shirts, surrounded by street vendors, felt like the kind of moment you store in your heart for later.

 

Surin – Uthumphon Phisai (100 km) - Heatstroke, Fried Fish, and the Abandoned Glass Temple Plan

I had planned to visit the glass temple, but the main road was so uninspiring it felt like cycling through a spreadsheet. So we detoured through villages where locals looked at us like we were rare migrating birds.

We stopped for snacks, craving corn and pineapple, but were instead given sticky rice and tiny fried fish—unexpected, but delicious.

We visited ancient ruins, then the heat hit Tania like a frying pan. We found refuge in a guesthouse opposite Tesco Lotus, where the air conditioning revived her like a wilted plant given water.

 

Uthumphon Phisai to Phibun (130 km) - Gongs, Baskets, and the Longest Road in Thailand

Today’s ride was long but not particularly dramatic—just quirky roadside stands selling bamboo furniture and woven baskets, luminous rice paddies, and craftsmen making gongs with the intensity of people who take their percussion seriously.

The main roads were a slog, but we pushed through to Phibun, where we camped at a Buddhist temple. Peaceful, serene, and blessedly flat.

 

Phibun to PK Resort (60 km) - Sunsets, Storms, and the Great Tent‑Holding Olympics

We crossed the Mun River and followed it toward the Pak Mun Dam, heading for Khong Chiam, a tiny village where the Mekong and Mun Rivers meet. It was charming enough to make us consider early retirement.

At Pha Team National Park, we camped by the Mekong. The sunset turned the sky into a dramatic painting—orange, brown, and slightly ominous.

Then the wind arrived. Then the rain. Then the apocalypse.

I yelled at Tania to hold the tent poles while the storm tried to relocate us to Laos.

The resort owner braved the deluge to rescue us and offered shelter in the conference room. I have never been so grateful for concrete walls.

 

PK Resort to Khemerat (115 km) - Hills Too Steep for Dogs and a Temple Sleepover

“Wow, at least the wind has calmed down,” Tania said, still wide-eyed from the night’s trauma.

We climbed gently to the main road, then followed rolling hills shaded by lush greenery. Tania joked that the hills were so steep that even the dogs refused to chase us.

We detoured to a “scenic viewpoint” that was… not. But we took photos anyway, because that’s what travellers do.

In Khemerat, we were allowed to camp at the temple, then politely relocated to the women’s room.

Hungry and exhausted, we set out in search of fried noodles, ready for whatever adventures tomorrow would bring.

 

 

Epilogue

By the end of our Thailand ride, we had learned many things:

Ants are not to be underestimated.

Storms do not care about your camping plans.

Thai people will save you even when you don’t deserve it.

And Tania will always, always wake up before you.

We left Thailand sunburned, overfed, and with hearts full of gratitude—and tents that will never be the same again.

105 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (10) - ATTEMPTING ADULTHOOOD

Attempting Adulthood

 (Briefly)

 

Thailand (10)
1,779 Km – 58 Days
20 June – 18 August 2017

MAP

FLIP-BOOK

 VOICE-OVER

PHOTOS

PDF

 

Prologue

There comes a moment in every long-term traveller’s life when they think, perhaps I should stop living like a snail with a passport. Mine arrived somewhere between Cambodia and Thailand, when I realised, I had bought a condo—an actual, stationary unit with walls, a door, and the theoretical possibility of a sock drawer.

This chapter chronicles the brief period in which I tried to be a responsible adult, failed spectacularly, and fled back to the open road—where at least the chaos makes sense.

 

Poi Pet, Cambodia to Sa Kaeo, Thailand (85 km)

Poi Pet greeted me with its usual charm: dust, noise, and traffic behaving like it had been raised by wolves. I threaded my way through carts, queues, and motorbikes until immigration waved me to the front, possibly out of pity.

Once in Thailand, I withdrew rent money using my Thai card and felt like a financial prodigy. Then, with no plan whatsoever, I chased a dramatic limestone pinnacle because it looked like the sort of place that might contain enlightenment—or at least a monk.

I climbed a staircase steep enough to qualify as a spiritual test and was rewarded with a blessing. Camping there was tempting, but the monkeys were eyeing my panniers as if planning a coordinated raid. I retreated to Sa Kaeo, where the main attractions were a Big C and a KFC. Accommodation signs were all in Thai script, so I relied on intuition and blind optimism.

 

Sa Kaeo to Plaeng Yao (110 km)

The next day’s ride was uneventful, which felt suspicious.  Hard out of Sa Kaeo I met two Chinese cyclists napping in a bus shelter; our conversation was a masterpiece of mutual confusion.

Eventually, I escaped to smaller roads where temples appeared like spiritual pop‑ups and fruit vendors offered mysterious produce that turned out to be delicious.

The Rich Inn in Ban Plaeng Yao looked nothing like an inn, but inside it was a tiny oasis with air‑con and hot water. I did laundry in the wastepaper bin and stared at the walls. A glamorous life.

 

Ban Plaeng Yao to Jomtien (123 km)

Rural Thailand delivered its usual magic: old men guarding single cows as if they were national treasures, women tending rice paddies with enviable grace, and temples gleaming in the sun.

I bought a 10‑baht flower garland “for good luck” and hung it proudly on my handlebar bag.

Rolling into Pattaya, I collected the key to my new condo—my first home in a decade. It needed work, but it was mine. A sanctuary! A nest! A place to leave things without locking them to a bicycle!

Jomtien

I plunged into cleaning and discovered that my previous tenant had left behind enough belongings to stock a small thrift shop. Seven garbage bags later, I had unearthed:

• six lip balm holders

• several lipstick tubes

• receipts dating back to the Ming Dynasty

• shoeboxes containing… more shoeboxes

My body ached more than after a 100‑km ride.

I bought new bedding, towels, and two of everything—except wine glasses, because one must have standards. I even organised my documents into a file, which made me feel like a functioning adult.

Pattaya, however, was… Pattaya. A city where 10 a.m. is considered a perfectly acceptable time for a drunk foreign man to cling to a bar counter while a Thai girl pretends to find him charming. Jogging made me look like an alien.

I cycled to a viewpoint for sunset, but the sky refused to cooperate. A storm rolled in, and I sprinted home like a Tour de France rider escaping paparazzi.

 

 Pattaya to Prok Fa (102 km)

Escaping Pattaya after a month and a half felt less like “leaving a city” and more like “fleeing the scene of a mildly questionable life choice.” I pedalled away without so much as a nostalgic glance, propelled by the looming deadline of crossing into China and the faint fear that if I stayed any longer, the neon lights might start addressing me by name.

The countryside welcomed me like a cool cloth on a fevered forehead. Temples appeared in serene clusters, coconut plantations swayed innocently, and pineapple fields stretched out like nature’s apology for everything Pattaya had just put me through. It was blissful, quiet, and—most importantly—devoid of nightlife that required a tetanus shot.

A temple on a hill lured me in. The monks handed me the key to the shrine—apparently trusting sweaty strangers with sacred spaces is normal here. I climbed, admired the view, locked up, and continued.

By late afternoon, I found a lively village with a market and a sign for accommodation. Down a dirt track was a modest room that felt like a palace after Pattaya.

 

Prok Fa to Khlong Hat (111 km)

The owner gave me coffee and bananas—breakfast of champions—and I set off along rural roads near the Cardamom Mountains. Rubber plantations, chilli fields, and pineapples lined the route.

I hoped to see elephants but only found their dung, which was impressive in its own right.

Locals insisted on feeding me at every water stop. I didn’t resist.

In Khlong Hat, the police let me camp at their station, fed me, and showed me the bucket‑and‑scoop shower system. I ended the day with a giant crispy crepe filled with sweet goodness. Bliss.

 

Khlong Hat to Aranyaprathet (85 km)

I chased a sign promising caves 4 km away. At 4 km, there were no caves. At 7 km, still no caves. Eventually, I found a sign pointing uphill. The path was so overgrown it felt like nature was trying to hide the viewpoint from me.

I climbed until my water ran low, then retreated. The caves were dark and spooky, so I skipped them as I had no flashlight.

Prasat Khao Noi, a 6th-century Khmer sanctuary, was a delight—until the sky dumped rain on me. I hid, waited, and continued to Aranyaprathet, where the Aran Garden Hotel had no garden but did have prison‑green floors.

Dinner was noodle soup from a mobile stall while my laundry spun somewhere in the background.

 

Aranyaprathet to Non Din Daeng (108 km)

I escaped town and immediately found tiny lanes leading to Prasat Sadok Kok Thom, an 11th‑century temple guarded only by an old man and his water buffalo. My kind of tourist attraction.

Rice fields, buffalo, temples, and Friday markets filled the day. Locals whispered “farang, farang” as if spotting a rare bird.

I reached Non Din Daeng, found yet another temple ruin, and decided I was temporarily templed‑out.

 

Non Din Daeng to Khao Kradong Forest Park (111 km)

After a good night’s sleep, I felt energised, and I visited the ruins of Nong Hong Sanctuary (deserted except for cows), then Prasat Muang Tam, which was spectacular and deserved far more visitors than just me.

A truck driver gifted me water and cola—proof that angels sometimes drive pickup trucks.

After biking 110 km, Khao Kradong Forest Park surprised me with food carts, trails, and camping. I pitched my tent just before the rain arrived, feeling smug and accomplished.

 

Khao Kradong Forest Park to Surin (50 km)

Woken by roosters, I packed up and headed east. Central Thailand’s fertile plains and Khmer history made for a beautiful ride.

Surin appeared unexpectedly, and I checked into “My Hotel,” which was conveniently opposite the station. Rain kept me indoors the next day, which was perfect for catching up on work.

 

Surin to Uthumphon Phisai (125 km)

Just two kilometres out of Surin, I found a rural path that delivered a perfect day: green rice paddies, friendly people, and only one backtrack required.

I visited a silk village, then Prasat Chom Phra, a 12th-century Mahayana Buddhist medical station. Locals gifted me water, fruit, and a sweet bun—fuel for the final kilometres.

I chased signs to more ruins, but after 13 km of nothing, I gave up, as I had already cycled 125km. I searched for accommodation and went to Tesco Lotus. Food solves everything.

 

Uthumphon Phisai to Phibun (130 km)

The highway dominated the day—boring, hot, and uninspiring. I arrived in Phibun exhausted and ready for bed.

 

Phibun to Pha Taem National Park (65 km)

A short but eventful day. I followed the Mun River to the Pak Mun Dam, which was dramatically overflowing.

A cash mix-up forced me to detour to Khong Chiam, where I admired the Two‑Colour River Viewpoint—blue and brown waters swirling like a giant latte.

Later, a cable-pulled boat ferried me across the river, assisted by a helpful local who clearly doubted my ability to load a bicycle without drowning.

I found PK Riverside Resort and camped under trees beside the Mekong. For 100 baht, it was paradise.

 

Pha Taem National Park to Khemmarat (117 km)

I drank coffee by the river, watched boats glide past, and considered abandoning cycling to become a riverside hermit.

The day was full of rolling hills—fun in the morning, hateful by afternoon. The 3,000 Stones rock formations were surreal and worth every curse word uttered on the climbs.

Khemmarat welcomed me with food stalls and an air-conditioned room. Heaven.

 

Khemmarat to Mukdahan (85 km)

A day of mild inclines and maximum fatigue. I crawled into Mukdahan, ate everything in sight, and collapsed.

 

August 13 – Mukdahan to Sakhon Nakhon (122 km)

I tried to cross the Friendship Bridge into Laos, but bicycles were banned. I sighed dramatically and continued on the Thai side of the river.

A dirt track through rubber plantations restored my mood. Villagers fed me again—Thailand is basically one long buffet.

I reached Sakhon Nakhon, discovered a night market, bought two meals, and managed to eat only one. A personal tragedy.

 

Sakhon Nakhon to Sawang Daen Din (90 km)

Floods had turned parts of the region into lakes. Villagers fished in the streets. Rivers roared under bridges.

I sheltered at police stations, rode farm tracks, and eventually reached Sawang Daen Din, where I found a 250 baht room with air con. Luxury!

 

Sawang Daen Din to Nong Khai (125 km)

Flood damage made the roads unpredictable. Workers repaired them while farmers dried dyed grasses on the tarmac.

A flat tyre slowed me down, but the villages I passed were full of life—charcoal makers, fishermen, vendors, cattle herders.

I raced a storm to Nong Khai and reached Mut Mee Guesthouse just as the sky exploded. My 200‑baht room was basic but spotless. Perfect.

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Epilogue

My brief attempt at domesticity had ended exactly as expected: with me fleeing a condo full of newly purchased cutlery and running headlong back into the arms of the open road.

Some people settle down. Some people build homes. And some people—my people—buy a sleeper sofa, admire it for a week, and then abandon it for a tent pitched beside the Mekong.

Thailand had reminded me of who I was: a wanderer on a bicycle, with a sense of humour and a talent for arriving everywhere just after closing time.