070 MYANMAR (1) - LOSING A PASSPORT

PEDALLING MYANMAR (1): A Catalogue of Misadventures

MYANMAR (1) 

764 Kilometres – 27 Days
30 March – 25 April 2015

MAP

PHOTOS

 VOICEOVER

 PDF

FLIP-BOOK

 

Prelude

I crossed into Myanmar with the innocent optimism of someone who believed the ride would be a pleasant, if sweaty, cycling adventure. Instead, I found myself in a country determined to test my patience, my bicycle, my paperwork, and occasionally my sanity. What followed was a heat‑struck, water‑soaked, passport‑less odyssey through temples, traffic, bureaucracy, and bus rides that felt like punishment for crimes I hadn’t committed. It was, in short, unforgettable — though not always for the reasons one hopes.

 

 

Crossing the Friendship Bridge, Mae Sot, Thailand to Myawaddy, Myanmar (10 km)

Crossing the Friendship Bridge should have been a simple affair: roll up, get a stamp, smile politely, and pedal off into a new country. Instead, Myanmar greeted me like an over‑enthusiastic host who had prepared far too many surprises.

I always find it astonishing how a single line on a map can separate two entirely different universes. One moment you’re in Thailand, the land of iced coffee and motorbike efficiency; the next, you’re in Myanmar, where men wear longyi, everyone paints their faces, and the currency comes in such voluminous quantities you need a new wallet just to store the notes. I withdrew cash and instantly felt like a corrupt politician.

The heat was a biblical 40°C, the kind of temperature that makes you reconsider all your life choices. By midday, I decided to stay in Myawaddy rather than tackle the mountains. This, as it turned out, was the first in a long series of poor decisions.

The hotel owner informed me that the road over the pass was so narrow and so catastrophically bad that traffic was only allowed in one direction every second day. Naturally, the direction I needed had already gone. I would have to wait. Myanmar, it seemed, had decided to introduce itself slowly—like a novel with too many footnotes.

 

Myawaddy - A Parade, a Prince, and Pork Offal on a Stick

I woke to a racket outside that sounded like a marching band falling down a staircase. Curious, I followed the clanging and drumming until I stumbled upon a ceremony so colourful it made Mardi Gras look underdressed.

During school holidays, young boys enter the Buddhist Order for a week or more. These boys—dressed like princes, carried shoulder‑high, and showered with popcorn—were paraded through the streets in a procession that included trucks blasting deafening music and what appeared to be the entire population of Myawaddy. It was festive, chaotic, and utterly wonderful.

Food in Myanmar is an adventure, especially if you enjoy not knowing what you’re eating. Enter Wet Thar Dote Htoe—pork offal cooked fondue‑style in bubbling soy sauce and skewered on bamboo sticks. Pig lungs, intestines, tongue… basically everything except the oink. You eat it perched on tiny plastic stools designed for toddlers, which adds a certain humility to the experience.

 

The Bus of Shame - Myawaddy to Hpa-An

After being thoroughly terrified by warnings about the road to Hpa-An, I caved and took the bus. I should have known better. Advice about cycling conditions is almost always wrong, especially when delivered with dramatic hand gestures.

The road was indeed narrow and in appalling condition, but the real spectacle was the traffic: buses, taxis, and trucks forming a single, endless line over the mountain. Corners were so tight that vehicles had to perform three‑point turns, which is not something one expects on a highway. A new toll road existed, apparently, but everyone avoided it because it was “too expensive”—a phrase that in Myanmar seems to apply to anything costing more than a cup of tea.

Hpa-An, mercifully, had plenty of guesthouses. Clay jars of water stood around town like ancient hydration stations, reminding me of Sudan. Myanmar was clearly a hot country—just in case the 40°C hadn’t already made that obvious.

 

A Narrow Road and a Thousand Paan Stalls - Hpa-An to Thaton (50 km)

By early morning, my clothes were already clinging to me like needy toddlers. The road north was narrow but lively, shared with motorcycle salesmen carrying their entire inventory, bicycle taxis with sidecars, and three‑wheel motorbikes transporting families, chickens, and occasionally both.

The entire route was lined with stalls selling paan. Myanmar, I discovered, is held together by betel nut and optimism.

In Thaton, I planned to visit the famous mountaintop pagoda. Only after checking in did I realise the pagoda was in the next village. This was mildly inconvenient, but I was already too hot to care.

 

Monks, Heat, and the Art of Diving Off the Road - Thaton to Kyaik to (68 km)

I set off early enough to see barefoot monks collecting rice from villagers—a serene sight that lasted approximately three minutes before the heat arrived and tried to kill me.

The road was flat, good, but extremely narrow. My mirror became my best friend. Every time a truck appeared, I hurled myself off the road like a startled gazelle. It was a system that worked surprisingly well.

In Kyaikto, Happy Guest House offered an air‑conditioned room for 16,000 kyats. I had planned to visit the mountaintop pagoda, but the heat had other ideas. I stayed indoors, communing with the air‑con.

 

The Road to Bago - Kyaikto to Bago (90 km)

April is Myanmar’s hottest month, which is a polite way of saying “don’t do anything outdoors unless you’re a lizard.” The ride to Bago was blistering. The heat rose from the road, fell from the sky, and wrapped itself around me like a hot, damp blanket.

Water stops were plentiful, but hydration was a losing battle. I drank constantly and remained as dry as a raisin.

In Bago, I found the bright green Emperor Hotel, which looked like it had been painted by someone with a grudge. The stairs were nearly vertical—Everest in architectural form. Thankfully, the staff took pity on me and carried my panniers upstairs. I must have looked like a melted candle.

 

A City, A Nightmare, A Missing Passport - Bago to Yangon (90 km)

I left early, determined to outrun the heat. The road was a “highway” in the sense that it had two lanes and a shoulder, though the shoulder was more pothole than pavement.

The last 20 km into Yangon were a pure nightmare. Despite being Sunday, the traffic behaved as though the entire city had decided to go for a drive at the same time.

At the Ocean Pearl Inn, I discovered my passport was missing. This produced the kind of panic normally reserved for house fires. I unpacked everything, called the Emperor Hotel, and mentally retraced my steps. Nothing.

By evening, I met John from New Zealand, who had rented a car and driver. He offered me a ride back to Bago the next morning. I accepted instantly, clinging to hope like a koala to a eucalyptus tree.

 

The Great Passport Hunt (Featuring Power Cuts and a Giant Buddha) - Yangon to Bago

John dropped me at the Emperor Hotel, where the manager—an absolute saint—drove me from police station to immigration office, translating everything. Unfortunately, the town promptly lost power, and the police couldn’t type the letter I needed.

While waiting, we had lunch. Food always tastes better when eaten with locals, especially when you’re stressed enough to eat the tablecloth.

Still no power. So I visited the enormous Shwethalyaung Buddha—55 metres long, 17 metres high, built in 994, lost for centuries, and rediscovered in 1881 by railway contractors who must have been very surprised.

Back at the office, still no power. We took the letters to a street kiosk, then returned to find the street transformed into a bustling market selling fruit, meat, and spices.

Finally, the letters were signed. I was instructed to take them to “Myanmar Travel Tourist” in Yangon. Tun-Tun, the manager, arranged a taxi. I left Bago exhausted, passportless, and deeply impressed by Myanmar’s ability to turn even simple tasks into epic quests.

 

Bureaucracy, Water Fights & Other Natural Disasters - The Immigration Office That Wasn’t

Armed with the mysterious address from Bago (written in Burmese, naturally), I wandered Yangon asking strangers to decipher it. After much pointing and shrugging, it turned out the address was simply… the immigration office. If only someone had mentioned that earlier.

The immigration office sent me off for photos, and when I returned, they were closed for lunch. Lunch, I discovered, is Myanmar’s most sacred institution. Eventually, I received a letter confirming my visa number and entry date. “This letter is as good as a visa,” they assured me. Which was lovely, except I still didn’t have a passport.

Meanwhile, the South African Embassy in Bangkok emailed to say there was no South African Embassy in Myanmar and that I should approach the UK Embassy. So off I went, only to find the UK Embassy also out to lunch. I began to suspect Myanmar was powered entirely by lunch breaks.

Once inside, the staff requested translations of the letters from Bago. This led me down a small alley lined with typists, translators, and photocopiers operating from plastic kindergarten tables. It felt like joining a queue for a very bureaucratic carnival ride.

Then came the internet café, where I attempted to print the email from the SA Embassy. Yahoo refused to send me the login code. By the time I succeeded, the Embassy had closed. And after lunch, I discovered my passport photos were the wrong size. Of course they were!

Eventually, all forms were filled, copies made, photos resized, and fees paid. The lady at the Embassy admitted they had never encountered a case like mine and weren’t entirely sure what to do. She promised to contact Bangkok and email me updates. I agreed to stay in Yangon for a day or two, in case more information was needed — or more forms invented.

 

Colonial Charm & Newspaper Detectives - Yangon

With nothing to do but wait, I took a walking tour of Yangon. The city was a delightful mix of colonial buildings: some restored, some crumbling, and some clearly waiting for someone to remember they existed.

I placed a reward advert in the newspaper, thanks to an exceptionally kind Burmese man who helped me navigate the process. Myanmar’s kindness often arrived just when I needed it most.

Sunset was the best time to be out. Food vendors lined the streets, markets spilt into bus lanes, and every shop blasted music louder than the one next door, creating a sort of urban symphony. Pedestrians shoved their way along the pavement while vendors fried, steamed, and skewered everything imaginable. I ate the samosas but not the pork offal on sticks!

 

Thingyan Looms (and Bureaucracy Retreats) Yangon

By now, the passport situation had become a royal pain in the backside. Still, I wasn’t the first person to lose a passport, and I wouldn’t be the last. Waiting a few days didn’t bother me.

What did bother me was discovering that Thingyan — the Burmese New Year and Water Festival — was about to begin. A four‑to‑five‑day national water fight. The phrase “Son of a bitch” escaped my mouth with impressive regularity.

The Embassy would close for the festivities, meaning no progress whatsoever. Yangon was gearing up for the celebrations, and it was clear I needed to move along. If bureaucracy was taking a holiday, I might as well resume my travels.

 

The Road to Okkan (111 km)

I didn’t get away early, and the roads were already clogged. I tried a different route to avoid the worst of the traffic. It was longer, but quieter — until I reached Route 2 North, which was narrow, uneven, and terrifying.

Buses and trucks hurtled past at alarming speeds, but they seemed used to sharing the road with bicycles, oxcarts, tricycles, and scooters. Shade was the only redeeming feature.

Somewhere along the way, I found 30,000 kyats — three neatly folded 10,000‑kyat notes. A considerable sum for villagers. I'm sorry for whoever lost it, but I put it toward a room at the Okkan Hotel. Myanmar giveth, Myanmar taketh away.

 

Paradise (Sort Of) Okkan to Gyobingauk (90 km)

After breakfast, I headed north. The road was still narrow, the traffic still terrifying, and the heat still relentless. The Water Festival hadn’t officially started, but people were already throwing water, which was a blessing. Even the bitumen seemed to be melting.

Gyobingauk was conveniently halfway to Pyay. Down a dirt road, I found the Paradise Guest House. It wasn’t much of a paradise, but it had air‑conditioning and cost only $10. The air‑con wasn’t exactly powerful, but it made the room slightly cooler, which was enough.

 

The Water Festival Begins (and I Become a Target) - Gyobingauk to Pyay (90 km)

Holiday traffic meant fewer buses and trucks — a welcome change. But with the Water Festival officially underway, there was no escaping getting drenched. Kids armed with buckets and water guns lay in wait, shrieking with delight as they spotted me pedalling toward them.

They ran to refill their containers and soaked me repeatedly. I received a double dose everywhere I went, but in the heat, it was bliss.

By the time I reached Pyay, I was thoroughly waterlogged. Myat Lodging House was my chosen abode — well‑known, but a bit of a dump. But after a day of being gleefully attacked by small children, I wasn’t picky.

 

Water Fights, Wheel Woes & The Bus Ride From Hell - Thingyan: The Day Photography Died

Thingyan — the Burmese New Year Water Festival — officially began, and with it any hope of taking photographs. The streets transformed into aquatic war zones. Bandstands armed with hosepipes and enormous speakers blasted water and sound at anyone foolish enough to pass. Side roads offered no escape; children manned their own miniature bandstands and were even more ruthless.

I spent an extra day in Pyay enjoying the festivities. Everyone was having the time of their lives — on foot, in pickup trucks, or perched on motorbikes — all soaked to the bone. It was impossible not to get swept up in the madness.

 

The Wheel That Cried Wolf - Pyay

I left Pyay in a spray of water, only to hear an alarming noise from the back wheel. It grew progressively worse. Lubricant did nothing. I returned to Pyay, hoping for a bike shop. But everything was closed — and would remain closed for four days. Thingyan had shut the country down.

I was convinced the hub was dying. But once the bike dried, the squeaking vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. I didn’t trust it. I also didn’t trust the motorbike riders with bottles of whiskey tucked into their back pockets. The roads were chaos.

Bagan had bike shops. Getting there by car was expensive, but at least it would get me off the road. I reluctantly arranged a lift.

 

The Ride I Shouldn’t Have Taken – Pyay to Bagan (by car)

In hindsight, taking the ride was idiotic. I thought Thingyan lasted four more days. It didn’t. This was the last day. The owner of Myat Lodging House had lied — he wanted the hefty fee for driving me to Bagan.

The festival made the journey slow. I arrived at the View Point Inn, which had plenty of options, including a dorm.

Bagan itself was extraordinary — in the same jaw‑dropping category as Angkor Wat and Petra. Between the 9th and 13th centuries, kings built over 4,000 temples; around 2,000 remain. The temple‑studded plain stretched across 40 square kilometres and looked like something dreamed up by a very enthusiastic archaeologist.

New Year’s Day was quiet. Everything was closed. I cycled out to explore, but the heat soon became unbearable. The sunset didn’t deliver the colours I’d hoped for.

I stayed another day to take more photos, but the light never improved. The bike shop search yielded nothing. The one person who looked at my bike found no problem. I was annoyed — I’d missed a large part of the route, had poor photos, and still didn’t know if the bike would survive. Myanmar was testing me.

 

The Lethargy of Myingyan - Bagan to Myingyan (55 km)

After so much time off the bike, I expected to feel energetic. Instead, I felt lethargic and sluggish. Myingyan was halfway to Mandalay, so I stopped at Kaung Kaung Guesthouse. The rooms were pricey, and the Wi‑Fi didn’t work. “Have Wi‑Fi” apparently meant “Have a sign that says Wi‑Fi.”

 

The Road to Mandalay (Not as Kipling Imagined) - Myingyan to Mandalay (110 km)

The route was hot, dry, dusty, and slow. I wondered if something was wrong with me, but the road turned out to be a false flat. The second half felt downhill.

With temperatures around 40°C, only mad dogs and cyclists were out. Around midday, truck and motorbike drivers pulled over to nap in roadside shelters. I pressed on, determined to reach Mandalay.

Mandalay was not the romantic vision Kipling described. It was dusty, sprawling, and decidedly unpoetic. The cheapest bed was at AD1 Hotel, located in the onion market. My $13 room had an en‑suite and air‑con, and the market had that timeless Asian feel. I liked it immediately.

 

Back to Yangon (and Back to Bureaucracy)

I spent one more day in Mandalay, then took a bus to Yangon to see if my passport had turned up. My visa was running out. The bus was cheap ($10) and surprisingly comfortable — reclining seats, air‑con, and minimal stops. We rolled into Yangon around 5:30 p.m. The short cycle from the bus station to the hotel was a nightmare: horrendous traffic and dark streets.

 

A Twist of Luck at Last Yangon

No passport had turned up. But — miracle of miracles — my old passport (which I’d kept because it contained my American visa) turned out to be still valid. I’d assumed getting a new passport cancelled the old one. It didn’t. It still had two blank pages. No emergency travel document needed.

The UK Embassy agreed to refund the fee. Things were finally turning in my favour.

I bought a ticket on the first available bus to the Thailand border. But buses only ran every second day. The next bus was in two days — a night bus — meaning I’d arrive at the border on the day my visa expired. I would leave Myanmar by the skin of my teeth.

The Bus Ride From Hell - Yangon to Myawaddy (Thailand border)

Expecting a bus like the Mandalay–Yangon one, I was horrified to find the opposite. The seats were narrow, designed for tiny Burmese, not bulky Europeans. Two people barely fit side by side.

Sleeping was impossible. There were no toilet facilities, and the bus rarely stopped, so drinking water was risky. By daybreak, we’d only reached Hpa-An.

Then came the mountain road — narrow, steep, exposed drop‑offs. Roadworks caused long delays. Everything was done by hand. Supplies were carried in woven baskets dangling from shoulder poles. It felt like travelling through the 1800s.

Not long after, while negotiating a tight corner, a massive bang erupted under the bus. People screamed and instinctively moved to the opposite side — impressive, considering they’d all been asleep moments before. The driver and his crew crawled under the bus. An hour later, we continued.

We stopped at a temple where monks handed out drinks in exchange for donations. Then crawled toward Myawaddy, arriving long past midday.

Immigration took longer than usual since I was leaving with a different passport. But once cleared, I cycled off to Mae Sot, Thailand, immensely relieved.

Thus ended a problem‑studded ride in Myanmar. My next priority: get to the South African Embassy in Bangkok to apply for a new passport — a process I believed would take months.

 

 

Epilogue

By the time I pedalled back into Thailand, damp, dusty, and clutching the wrong passport, Myanmar had given me more stories than kilometres. The country had thrown festivals, roadblocks, lost documents, broken wheels, and cliff‑edge bus rides at me, and somehow I’d survived all of it — barely. My next stop was the South African Embassy in Bangkok, where I hoped the process of getting a new passport would be less dramatic than the journey that made it necessary. Myanmar had been beautiful, baffling, maddening, and marvellous, often all at once. And although I left by the skin of my teeth, I left with a grin. I will be back.

069 CYCLING THAILAND (3) - BANGKOK TO MAE SOT

Bangkok to Mae Sot and the Myanmar border

69 THAILAND (3)
572 Kilometres – 15 Days
16 March – 29 March 2015

MAP

PHOTOS

 VOICEOVER

  PDF

FLIP-BOOK

Prelude

There comes a moment in every long bicycle journey when you realise you’ve pedalled yourself neatly into a corner and must now fly out of it. Mine arrived in Colombo, where—having triumphantly circled Sri Lanka—I found myself booking a 7:20 a.m. flight to Bangkok, a time chosen by airlines specifically to test human resilience.

By 3:00 a.m. I was in a taxi, bleary‑eyed, clutching a bicycle box the size of a small shed, and wondering, not for the first time, why I couldn’t have taken up a sensible hobby like knitting.

Bangkok promised temples, street food, and—most importantly—a Myanmar visa. I had no idea what the next two weeks would hold, but I suspected it would involve sweating, wheezing, and at least one encounter with an animal that wanted to steal my lunch. I was right on all counts.

 

 

Colombo to Bangkok: A Visa, a Skytrain, and Scorpions on Sticks

I finished my cycle around Sri Lanka by rolling triumphantly into Colombo, where I immediately booked a flight to Bangkok—mostly because Myanmar insisted on a visa and Bangkok insisted on being the place to get it. My taxi collected me at the ungodly hour of 3:00 a.m., which is the sort of time normally reserved for bakers, burglars, and people fleeing the country.

Banglamphu—also known as Backpackerville—was exactly as I remembered it from six years earlier: loud, colourful, and selling everything a traveller could possibly need, plus several things no traveller should ever need, including fake IDs and deep‑fried scorpions on sticks. I checked into a guesthouse on Phra Athit Road, which became my temporary home and, more importantly, my temporary laundry facility.

The next morning I submitted my passport to the Myanmar Embassy, where it disappeared for several days. With nothing else to do, I wandered Bangkok, taking the Skytrain like a seasoned local who pretends to know where she’s going. I even attempted to buy a phone charger, which in Bangkok is a quest of heroic proportions.

I visited temples, because in Thailand it is physically impossible not to. They are everywhere—glittering, ornate, colourful, and apparently designed by people who thought subtlety was a character flaw.

Naturally, I popped into Wat Pho to see the famous Reclining Buddha, who is 46 metres long, 15 metres high, and looks like he’s having the best nap in human history. Unfortunately, the hall was packed with tourists, all of whom seemed determined to stand exactly where I wanted to walk. I fled before I became a cautionary tale.

Outside, I passed a cart selling second‑hand false teeth. I thought: When someone sells used dentures, you cannot accuse them of lacking entrepreneurial spirit.

A few days later, my passport reappeared with a Myanmar visa inside, and I was ready to pedal out of Bangkok toward Mae Sot. The border was a week away, and the route promised temples, ruins, and the occasional monkey. I was in no hurry.

 

Rice Paddies and Ancient Glory (90 km)

Cycling out of Bangkok was easy but slow, thanks to roadworks that appeared to be designed by someone who hated bicycles. Eventually I escaped onto a rural canal path, where bright green rice paddies stretched out like someone had ironed the countryside.

Ayutthaya welcomed me with affordable accommodation and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Founded in 1350, destroyed in 1767, and still managing to look better than most modern cities, Ayutthaya was once one of the wealthiest places in the East. Today it is mostly ruins, but very dignified ruins—the kind that make you feel underdressed.

I spent an extra day exploring temples and crumbling structures, pedalling around like a sweaty Indiana Jones.

 

The Monkey Kingdom (65 km)

Lopburi was a short, pleasant ride away. I checked into NooM Guesthouse, which caters to backpackers and therefore has seen things.

The town’s main attraction is Prang Sam Yot temple, home to a troop of monkeys who behave like they own the place—and, frankly, they do. According to Hindu‑Buddhist beliefs, monkeys have divine connections, which means they cannot be harmed, only tolerated. Tourists adore them. Shopkeepers do not. The monkeys steal anything not nailed down, and possibly some things that are.

 

Rivers and Rice in Bamboo (131 km)

The day was overcast, which made cycling pleasant and gave me the illusion that I was fitter than I actually am. I reached Nakhon Sawan, a town with few attractions but a very convenient hotel, P.A. Place, which had ground‑floor rooms and nearby restaurants—two things that make a cyclist weep with joy.

Nakhon Sawan sits at the confluence of the Ping and Nan Rivers, which join to form the mighty Chao Phraya. I admired this geographical fact briefly before collapsing into bed.

 

Ruins, Rice, and a Lost Phone (126 km)

The partly cloudy weather continued, so I pedalled toward Kamphaeng Phet, another UNESCO site. On the way I met Mel and Lee, an Australian‑Thai couple who had cycle‑toured for three years and now lived in Chiang Mai. They looked fit and cheerful, which made me suspicious.

I bought rice cooked in bamboo from a roadside stall, and it was so delicious I briefly considered abandoning my bicycle and dedicating my life to bamboo‑rice appreciation.

Kamphaeng Phet’s Three J Guesthouse had quirky rooms, which I always enjoy because they make me feel like I’m living inside someone’s eccentric hobby.

I spent the next day exploring 14th‑century ruins, running around like a famous explorer—until I lost my phone. Nothing kills the romance of ancient history faster than modern stupidity.

 

Eight Years of Madness (70 km)

This day marked my eighth year of cycle touring. In that time, I had crossed deserts, mountains, and several questionable borders. I had eaten things that should never be eaten and met people who restored my faith in humanity. I had also questioned my sanity on a near‑daily basis.

Fortunately, the ride to Tak was gentle, following the Ping River. Tak was the perfect place to rest before tackling the mountain range ahead—the final obstacle between me and Myanmar.

 

Mountains, Wheezing, and a Very Fast Descent (90km)

I left Tak without breakfast, assuming I’d find food along the way. This was optimistic. The day turned into a slow, hungry slog over steep mountains. Every time I reached what I thought was the top, another incline appeared, smirking at me.

Cars honked as they passed, which I assumed was a good‑luck gesture, though it might have been encouragement, sympathy, or a warning that I looked like I was about to keel over.

Eventually I reached a temple perched on a hill—the unofficial sign that the worst was over. The descent was thrillingly steep, and I hurtled into Mae Sot at nearly 60 km/h, which is faster than I travel intentionally.

Mae Sot’s First Hotel was old, enormous, and filled with Burmese teak furniture. Even the corridors had wooden carvings, giving the impression that the building had been decorated by a very enthusiastic forest.

I spent the next day doing laundry and eating enough food to alarm the staff.

Mae Sot is a fascinating border town. I had lunch at Khrua Canadian, run by Dave and his wife for 17 years. Dave knew everything—food, local history, politics, gossip. If he didn’t know it, it probably wasn’t worth knowing.

 

Crossing the Line (10 km)

The Friendship Bridge was only five kilometres away. With my visa already sorted, all I needed was a stamp and a sense of adventure.

It never ceases to amaze me how crossing a line on a map can change everything. Myanmar was immediately different—people, clothing, food, currency, language. Even the air felt different, though that might have been my imagination or the lingering scent of paan.

I withdrew kyats from an ATM. The exchange rate was 1,000 kyats to 1 USD, so I suddenly possessed a wallet thick enough to stun a small animal.

Men wore longyi, many had red‑stained teeth from chewing paan, and almost everyone wore face paint. Myanmar was clearly going to be interesting.

 

Epilogue

Crossing from Mae Sot into Myanmar felt like stepping through a portal into an entirely different universe—one with longyi, paan‑stained smiles, and an ATM that spat out so many kyats notes I had to buy a new wallet just to cope with the bulk.

It struck me, not for the first time, how absurdly magical borders can be. One moment you’re in Thailand, dodging monkeys and eating bamboo rice; the next you’re in Myanmar, surrounded by face paint, new customs, and a currency that makes you feel briefly wealthy until you try to buy lunch.

I pedalled away from the Friendship Bridge with my overloaded wallet, my newly stamped passport, and the familiar sense that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing—but was delighted to be doing it anyway.

068 CYCLE TOURING SRI LANKA

Coconuts, Chaos & the Kindness of Strangers: A Cyclist’s Sri Lankan Misadventure

68 SRI LANKA
1045 Km – 22 Days
22 February – 16 March 2015

MAP
Photos
 PDF
FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER 

Prelude

Sri Lanka arrived in my life the way a sudden monsoon does: warm, chaotic, and impossible to ignore. I landed with a bicycle, half a plan, and the naïve belief that luggage always follows its owner. What I found instead was an island humming with colour and kindness, where tuk‑tuks behaved like caffeinated insects, monks drifted past in saffron robes, and every road promised either enlightenment or mild terror. I didn’t know it yet, but this small teardrop of land would become one of those rare places that feels instantly familiar, even as it surprises you at every turn.

 

 

Arrival in Sri Lanka - Missing Luggage & Snake Charmers

The flight from Muscat to Colombo touched down in the bleary, pre‑coffee hours of 22 February, a time of day when no one should be expected to make life decisions, let alone locate luggage. SriLankan Airlines, clearly agreeing with this philosophy, had misplaced my bag entirely. The bike, however, arrived—because of course the one object shaped like a small industrial machine makes it through, while the bag containing my worldly possessions vanishes into the ether.

After drawing a few rupees and acquiring a SIM card from a man who looked genuinely surprised anyone would want one at that hour.

Still, I left the airport—minus luggage—and hailed a taxi into Colombo.

Sri Lanka was love at first sight. As the taxi rattled toward town, I realised I had entered the land of tuk‑tuks, paan, Buddhas, monks, and traffic that behaved like a large, excitable family reunion. Everything was green and humid and slightly chaotic, and I felt instantly at home. 

The next morning, the airline phoned to say they had located my bag, presumably in the same place it had been all along. It was delivered to the Clock Inn hostel, my temporary Colombo residence. The bag had been opened, but only my Swiss Army knife was missing, which suggested someone had rummaged through my belongings, discovered nothing but tattered cycling gear, and thought, “Well, at least I can take the knife.” I imagined them sighing in disappointment. I reassembled the bike and set off to explore the historic part of town.

The old market was impossible to cycle through. It was the kind of place where even pedestrians walked single‑file. I pushed the bike along narrow lanes while vendors shouted, chickens objected loudly to their existence, and the smell of spices drifted through the air like a warm invitation.

Later I ambled to the beachfront, where the sunset itself was unremarkable—more of a polite dimming of the sky—but a snake charmer appeared, apparently hypnotising a snake with a pungi. I didn’t know snake charmers still existed outside of cartoons. The snake looked unimpressed, but the charmer was having a wonderful time.

 

Traffic, Temples & Tropical Rain (80 km)

Sri Lanka is small enough that one needn’t race around it like a contestant on a reality show. After breakfast, I loaded the bike and headed south toward Galle.

Cycling in Sri Lanka is an adrenaline sport. My hands were permanently on the brakes, and my eyes were glued to the road. I wove through tuk‑tuks, buses, trucks, ox carts, and the occasional holy cow who clearly believed traffic laws did not apply to her. The coastal route passed temples and fruit juice stands, and I felt as though I never truly left Colombo—the traffic simply continued, like a long, unbroken conversation.

I reached Bentota shortly after midday. The village offered everything a weary cyclist could want: accommodation, food vendors, a river, a beach stretching for miles, and the Galapata Vihara Temple with its underground tunnels that looked suspiciously like they were designed for people much smaller than me.

Then the rain arrived—tropical, theatrical, unapologetic. I put my feet up, opened a beer, and watched it pour down in biblical quantities. It was perfect.

 

Temples & Tourist Pricing in Galle(70 km)

Sri Lanka is a country of many religions, all of which seem to coexist with admirable patience. Every village had a church, a Buddhist stupa, a mosque, and a Hindu temple, as though the town planners had simply decided to include one of everything.

The Hindu temples were my favourite—immensely ornate, colourful, and impossible to pass without taking a photo. Buddhist monks drifted past in saffron robes, looking serene while I looked sweaty and dishevelled.

Galle, famous for its Old Dutch fort, was more of a citadel than a fort. Today it’s a bustling town within ancient walls. Accommodation inside the fort was pricey, but I found a room for 2000 rupees. Food was equally expensive, so I wandered to the main gate where traders sold snacks for 10 rupees apiece. I ate several, partly because they were delicious and partly because I felt triumphant at having outsmarted tourist pricing.

 

Unawatuna Coconuts & Hippies (7 km)

Stacks of yellow coconuts lined the roadside, ready to be machete‑opened by vendors who wielded their blades with alarming enthusiasm. I usually stopped for one. After drinking the coconut water, the vendor would crack it open and fashion a spoon from the shell so I could scrape out the meat. It was a small act of craftsmanship that made me absurdly happy.

A sign pointed toward Unawatuna, the old hippie town, so I veered off and found a lively tourist village full of clothes, jewellery, and slightly overpriced everything. I located a room and set off exploring. It was pleasant, colourful, and unapologetically touristy.

 

Stilt Fishermen & Paradise Bays (80 km)

The going was slow because Sri Lanka kept throwing interesting things at me: Buddha statues, old forts, temples, and the famous stilt fishermen perched on poles like philosophical seabirds. I believe these spots remain in families for generations, which must make for interesting inheritance conversations.

Tangalle appeared like a postcard—paradise‑like bay, cheap beach accommodation, and a general air of “Why don’t you stay forever?” The New Beach House was not new, but at $10 a night, it was perfect. I parked myself down, beer in hand, and congratulated myself on excellent life choices.

 

The Safari That Wasn’t (100 km)

Bundala National Park looked promising, and the Lagoon Inn, set in a lush garden, seemed ideal. Unfortunately, one couldn’t cycle into the park. A mandatory jeep was required, and hiring one for a single person was priced as though I were renting the entire vehicle for a safari expedition of 40. I settled for cycling the short entrance road, which was scenic but not exactly the wildlife adventure I’d imagined.

 

Coconuts, Elephants & Frangipani Air (40 km)

The short ride to Kataragama, the holiest town in Sri Lanka, made for an early arrival. The town was sacred to Buddhists, Muslims, and Hindus alike. A massive park stretched along the Menik Ganga river, where people bathed, washed laundry, and occasionally scrubbed an elephant, which is not something one sees every day.

The Maha Devale shrine featured two enormous boulders where pilgrims smashed coconuts while muttering prayers. I found the whole ritual strangely mesmerising—half spiritual, half enthusiastic coconut destruction.

Theravada Buddhism is the religion of roughly 70% of Sri Lankans. At the temples, the scent of frangipani and incense hung thick in the air. Families brought offerings of flowers and fruit to their preferred deities. It was colourful, intriguing, and utterly captivating.

 

The Jungle Road & Imaginary Elephants (65km)

The road from Kataragama to Monaragala was known locally as “the jungle road,” which sounded thrilling until villagers began asking whether I wasn’t scared. They didn’t specify of what, which left me wondering whether I should fear the people, the animals, or perhaps some mysterious third category of danger unique to Sri Lanka.

In the end, the ride was uneventful. I kept an eye out for elephants—dangerous ones, preferably, so I’d have a story—but saw none. Not even a mildly irritated one.

The weather was boiling, the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices, but thankfully the road was dotted with small shops selling water. When I finally spotted a cheap‑looking guesthouse, I staggered inside and enjoyed the relative coolness of a room that was only slightly cooler than the outdoors.

 

Heartburn & Ancient Ruins (80km)

Breakfast consisted of leftover spicy fried rice, which promptly declared war on my oesophagus. I never learn.

Shortly before Arugam Bay, I veered off to the Magul Maha Vihara Ruins—a 5th‑century BC site tucked into dense forest. Built by King Dhatusena, it was most likely part of a royal compound, though today it mostly serves as a place where tourists wander around trying to look knowledgeable.

Sri Lanka (or Lanka, as locals call it) is a street‑food paradise. I popped into roadside stalls for prawn vadai—best eaten straight from the pan while still crunchy—and dipped in sambal, chutney, or curd. At night, the streets came alive with kothu stalls. Kothu is made by chopping roti, vegetables, meat, eggs, and unidentifiable sauces with two metal blades in a rhythmic clanging that sounds like someone trying to play the drums with kitchen utensils. The result is delicious.

Arugam Bay itself was a swing‑in‑a‑hammock kind of place. I swam in the lukewarm Indian Ocean and ate chickpeas with chilli, coconut, and curry leaves—a perfect snack.

 

Batticaloa — Blistering Heat & Dutch Forts (115 km)

The next day was long, blisteringly hot, and the kind of ride where you begin to suspect the sun has a personal vendetta. I crawled into Batticaloa and found a basic room with a fan that moved air in the same way a depressed butterfly might.

A walk across the bridge revealed food and an ATM—two things I desperately needed. The following day I explored the Old Dutch Fort and other historical sites before retreating to my not‑so‑cool digs to melt quietly.

 

The Pied Piper of Sri Lanka(115km)

The road hugged the coast past rice paddies and tiny settlements. Every child with a bicycle decided to follow me, giggling, as though I were leading a parade. I felt like the Pied Piper.

Colourful Hindu temples dotted the way, each more ornate than the last. The heat was oppressive, the humidity worse, and by the time I reached Mutur I was ready to collapse—even though Trinco was only 30 kilometres further.

My guesthouse had clearly never hosted a foreign tourist. Other occupants came to observe this unusual event. The owner arrived later to check whether I was still alive, then sent his “house boy” to fetch me fried rice from a restaurant. It was oddly touching.

 

Relaxing in Uppuveli (40km)

The ride to Trincomalee—Trinco to everyone except mapmakers—was flat and scenic, past China Bay with its colourful fishing boats. Trinco itself didn’t grab me, but six kilometres further the beach village of Uppuveli rolled into view like a pleasant surprise.

The Aqua Hotel sounded fancy but wasn’t. It was, however, a solid backpacker joint with a bar, a pool, and tables right on the beach. The kind of place where one could easily stay for days. I had no intention of doing so, but naturally stayed an extra day.

There wasn’t much to do besides chill or walk along the beach past rows of fishing boats and fishermen hauling in nets. The area had been hit hard by war and the 2004 tsunami, and many houses looked as though they couldn’t withstand a strong breeze, let alone another disaster.

The hotel’s internet allowed me to research my next move. I came up with no brilliant ideas except that returning to Thailand and cycling to Myanmar seemed feasible. Bangkok was rumoured to be the easiest place to obtain a Myanmar visa. I hoped the rumour would remain true long enough for me to get there.

 

Yoga, Tailwinds & Ancient Cities (120km)

After an early morning yoga session—my attempt at being a balanced human—I hopped on the bike and headed toward Anuradhapura. The road was mercifully flat with a slight tailwind, a rare and glorious combination.

Finding accommodation took some pedalling, but bicycle‑riding touts roamed the streets looking for lost tourists. I usually avoid them, but this time they proved useful, pointing me toward reasonably priced digs hidden in an alleyway.

Anuradhapura was meant to be a one‑night stop, but the city was overflowing with ancient relics. I spent the next day exploring the sacred city, built around a cutting of Buddha’s fig tree brought by Sanghamitta, a Buddhist nun, in the third century.

The Kingdom of Anuradhapura flourished for 1,300 years before being invaded in 993. Today it’s a sprawling complex of archaeological wonders, ruins, and monkeys who behave as though they own the place.

The Jetavanaramaya Stupa was astonishing. Built in the third century, it once stood 120 metres tall and contained more than 90 million bricks. A British guidebook from the early 1900s calculated that those bricks could build a three‑metre‑high wall from London to Edinburgh. I’m not sure why anyone would want to do that, but it’s an impressive statistic.

The sacred Bodhi tree, said to be the oldest plant in the world with a known planting date, was… scrawny. Much like the Mona Lisa, I expected something grand. Instead, I found a tree that looked as though it needed encouragement.

 

Puttalam — The Guesthouse I Absolutely Didn’t Need (80km)

The ride to Puttalam on the west coast was uneventful—pleasant, even. Shortly before reaching the A3 highway toward Colombo, a budget‑looking abode caught my eye. There was absolutely no reason to stay there. None. But I did anyway, mostly to drag my Sri Lankan ride out for one more day, like someone refusing to leave a party even after the host has started washing dishes.

I rinsed my cycling clothes, took a short walk to the shops, found food, and congratulated myself on my commitment to procrastination.

 

Fruit Stalls & Flying Juice (105km)

The road south was lined with colourful fruit stalls, each offering a refreshing drink and a brief escape from the sweltering heat. Watching these drinks being prepared was a performance worthy of a small stage and an enthusiastic audience.

First, the vendor sliced an orange or lime in half and squeezed it into a glass. Then came a pinch of salt, water, and crushed ice. Next, in a flourish that would impress a Las Vegas magician, the vendor switched the drink between glass and jug, tossing it through the air with alarming precision. The juice travelled a good metre, landing neatly in the pitcher every time. I half expected applause.

Temples appeared along the way, each decorated with peafowl—Sri Lanka’s favourite temple accessory. The birds gave the temples a festive, slightly flamboyant feel, as though they were perpetually ready for a parade.

The day stretched longer than expected, not that it mattered. I had no intention of reaching Colombo. A hundred kilometres in, the sky opened and rain came bucketing down. I pedalled to the nearest hotel, dripping like a disgruntled sponge.

 

Colombo Terror & a Timely Downpour (50km)

The next morning I rode into Colombo, where the traffic behaved like a large, chaotic family reunion—everyone shouting, no one listening, and tuk‑tuks darting around like hyperactive toddlers. It took all my concentration to stay alive.

I reached the Clock Inn hostel minutes before another tropical downpour. Fortunately, they had kept my bike box, sparing me the ordeal of hunting down a new one. I packed the bicycle, rearranged the panniers into one large bag, and visited a hairdresser who made me look almost normal.

 

Bangkok — Backpackerville & Deep‑Fried Scorpions

With a flight to Bangkok booked, I arranged a taxi and soon found myself airborne. A few hours later, the plane touched down in Bangkok, which looked exactly as I remembered it—chaotic, colourful, and slightly surreal.

I headed straight to Backpackerville, where one can stroll past ornate temples and buy deep‑fried scorpions on a stick. It’s the kind of place where you can have a spiritual awakening and a questionable snack within the same five minutes.

 

Epilogue

Leaving Sri Lanka felt a little like waking from a vivid dream—one filled with coconut water, temple bells, tropical downpours, and the constant hum of life unfolding in every direction. I packed my bike, rearranged my panniers, and stepped back into the world of airports and onward plans, carrying with me the scent of frangipani and the memory of roads where children pedalled behind me like a giggling entourage. Sri Lanka had been generous, bewildering, and endlessly alive. As my flight lifted toward Bangkok, I realised I wasn’t done chasing places that made me feel that way. Not yet.