073 CYCLING THAILAND (5) - WAITING FOR A NEW PASSPORT

Through Heat, Rain, and Kind Roads:

Rolling South to the Border

73 THAILAND (5)

866 Kilometres – 12 Days
25 May – 7 June 2015

MAP

PHOTOS

VOICEOVER

 

Prelude

Thailand greeted me not as a clean slate, but as a familiar chapter reopened—one written in steam‑heavy air, unpredictable skies, and roads that demanded equal parts patience and resolve. This was my fifth time crossing into the kingdom, yet familiarity did not lessen the challenge. From dripping border crossings and rain‑soaked highways to frantic city traffic and blissfully empty coastal lanes, Thailand unfolded as a land of contrasts.

 

 

25 May - Koh Kong, Cambodia to Trat, Thailand (108 km)

The Cambodian immigration office was just a stone's throw away, a mere 10 kilometres across a stunning River. Before I knew it, I was navigating through the bustling Thai border control. The sky poured as if it were trying to quench the earth after a long dry spell, signalling the end of the dry season. Despite the relentless rain, I pushed myself through 100 kilometres to Trat, a charming little town with a handful of basic guesthouses. This day marked a significant milestone—my fifth entry into Thailand, leaving behind the vibrant landscapes of Cambodia.

 

26 May - Trat to Klaeng – (136 km)

Emerging from my windowless room the next morning, I found that the rain had not let up. With each drop, I could feel the humidity creeping back into the air, making the ride to Klaeng a challenge. As I pedalled along, I passed by intriguing spots that beckoned for exploration, but the relentless downpour pushed me to keep moving. Every day has its tales, and on this soggy adventure, I wished for restrooms more often! Let’s say, I was immensely relieved to finally roll into Klaeng and find a place to crash—time to wash those cycling pants! If you were ever considering envying my adventure, believe me, today was not that day!

 

27 May - Klaeng to Chon Buri (108 km)

Thank heavens, the rain finally let up, and the typical hot, humid weather returned, making the 100-odd kilometres to Chon Buri a bit more pleasant. Just moments before I arrived in Chon Buri, I witnessed a truck overturn right in front of me. It was a sobering reminder of how quickly things can go wrong. Miraculously, the driver walked away unscathed. Yet, just down the road, another accident unfolded between a scooter and a car. These harrowing scenes made me acutely aware of how vulnerable we cyclists can be on the road. I’d often naively assumed that traffic rules remained constant across borders, but it turns out each country has its own interpretation. Even with a well-defined shoulder, it wasn’t a designated bike lane, and I kept my bike as close to the edge as possible. Staying safe truly felt like a team effort today!

 

28 - 29 May - Chon Buri to Samut Prakan (85 km)

Soon enough, I found a welcome opportunity to veer off the hectic highway onto a peaceful coastal road, breathing in the salt-scented air. I planned to find a place to stay on the outskirts of Bangkok so that I could pop into the city the next day. A new front pannier was desperately needed—my old one was barely holding on with duct tape and prayers, slowly costing me my belongings. With a two-week limit at land borders, making it to Malaysia seemed nearly impossible, so I opted to take a taxi into Bangkok to get my panniers and return swiftly.

However, finding a budget room on the city’s outskirts turned into a real mission. While the streets were lined with hotels, most had price tags that made my wallet wince. In the end, I settled for a quirky love motel, complete with a convenient chair that made me chuckle. Reflecting on it now, I think biking into Bangkok to snag those panniers would have been the better call. But, hey, every misstep is a part of the grand adventure!

 

29 May - Samut Prakan to Oena Resort, Khet Bang Khun Thian (40 Km)

The next morning, I hopped into a taxi, my excitement bubbling over as I headed into the bustling heart of the city. My mission? To hunt down some much-needed panniers—only available in pairs, of course. I also picked up a new lens cap after tragically losing mine on an escapade during the Cambodian boat trip (a story for another day). By the time I returned to the motel, the midday sun was blazing, but I was unprepared for what lay ahead. Navigating the northern tip of the Gulf of Thailand, I found myself trapped in the maddening city traffic, inching along amidst honks and heat. Frustrated and weary, I decided to call it a day, hoping that the morning would bring clearer skies and clearer roads.

 

30 May - Oena Resort to Samut Songkhram (85 km)

Samut Songkhram wasn't in my original plans, but sometimes detours lead to the best adventures. I headed straight for the famous Railway Market, and what a spectacle it was! At first glance, it appeared to be a typical market, alive with vibrant colours and cheerful vendors. But look down, and you’re walking on the very train tracks themselves! Each time a train was scheduled to pass, the stallholders sprang into action, quickly packing up their goods to make way. Unfortunately, no train came that day—maintenance issues kept it at bay.

But the day was far from dull! With it being the weekend, I ventured to the Amphawa Floating market, where the atmosphere buzzed with excitement. It felt like a well-kept secret among locals, with not a single Westerner in sight. The food? Divine! Freshly cooked delicacies were served straight from the boats, and at only 50 Baht, I couldn’t resist the tempting canal tour. Fellow visitors graciously shared insights about the temples we visited, bringing the Thai culture to life for me. By the time we returned, the market was a lively hive of activity, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon.

 

31 May - Samut Songkhram to Cha-Am (95 km)

Having cycled this route between Bangkok and Malaysia twice before, I still relished every moment of this scenic coastal journey. The road was as flat as a pancake, flanked by bustling salt farms and charming fishing villages. Plus, I was thrilled to have a dedicated bike lane all to myself. When I finally rolled into Cha-Am, the weather threw me a curveball, clouds darkening the sky. It seemed like a perfect excuse to find a cosy room and hunker down for a bit.

 

1 June - Cha-Am

Cha-Am was so delightful that I decided to linger an extra day. I savoured a long stroll along the coast, followed by a short yet invigorating jog. With time on my hands, I tackled some much-needed housekeeping, and in a spontaneous moment of self-care, I treated myself to a mani-pedi at the local hairdresser. Pure bliss!

 

2-3 June - Cha-Am to Prachuap Khiri Khan (125 km)

Leaving Cha-Am, I cruised on a flat and easy ride, stopping to savour roadside stalls filled with tropical fruits and delicious fishy snacks. Just before reaching Prachuap, the skies unleashed their fury, drenching me despite my best efforts to speed through. Thankfully, once I arrived in Prachuap, finding accommodation was a breeze—there were plenty of options!

 

4 June - Prachuap Kiri Khan to Bang Saphan (Nipa Beach Bungalows) (93 km)

I took my sweet time on the way to Bang Saphan, the route winding through breathtaking scenery that felt like a painter’s canvas. After months of solitary travel, I finally encountered another kindred spirit on two wheels—an Italian cyclist on a remarkable journey to Italy from Cambodia, whom I couldn’t help but think was going the wrong way! Thailand’s beautiful beaches were a sight to behold; wide stretches of powdery white sand beckoned, all blissfully empty. Quiet resorts nestled behind canopies of bougainvillaea and frangipani flowers lined the coast, complete with hammocks lazily swaying between palm trees. When I stumbled upon Nipa Beach Bungalows right across from the beach, I knew I had found my oasis for the night. What a perfect way to end the day!

 

5-6 June - Bang Saphan – Sea Beach Bungalows (99 Km)

The ride from Bang Saphan was nothing short of breathtaking, weaving through hills that seemed to dance under the golden sun. My destination was Chumphon, the pressure of visa time looming overhead like a storm cloud, pushing me to leave the country sooner rather than later.

Just before I reached Chumphon, I discovered Wua Laen, a coastal village boasting a beach that looked like a slice of paradise. The beachside bungalows immediately caught my eye, and as fate would have it, another cyclist named Peter Yoong, a cheerful guy from Malaysia, arrived just as I was considering a stay. Together, we secured rooms at Sea Beach Bungalows.

While we chatted on the charming little veranda, in walked an Italian cyclist I’d met earlier in the day—though he initially didn’t recognise me in my "civilian" clothes (we shared a good laugh over that!).

That evening, the three of us set out for dinner, creating a delightful atmosphere filled with laughter and the camaraderie of fellow cyclists. Peter, a Warmshowers host, generously invited me to crash at his place once I reached Malaysia. Little did I know that this meeting would spark a friendship that would last for years.

The next morning greeted me with glorious weather, and despite knowing it would put my border timeline at risk, I decided to linger a bit longer in this slice of bliss. After a stroll and a refreshing swim, I savoured the simple joys of travel before digging into breakfast.

 

7-8 June - Hat Yai, Thailand to Alor Setar, Malaysia (105 Km)

With a bit of reluctance, I accepted that cycling wasn’t an option to cross into Malaysia this time. Instead, I hopped on a bus to the border, without a twinge of guilt since I’d ridden this stretch before. A scenic 30-kilometre ride led me to the bustling bus terminal in Chumphon, where the buses to Hat Yai awaited.

Upon reaching Hat Yai, an easy-going 55-kilometre bike ride took me right to the border. Navigating immigration was a breeze, and I thought to myself, “If only all borders could be this seamless!” I stepped into Malaysia with a grin, eagerly welcomed by a generous 90-day visa—now that’s the kind of entry I could get used to!

After rolling another 60 kilometres, I found myself in Alor Setar, the gateway to Langkawi. While I had no plans to visit the island, I certainly needed a comfortable place to lay my head for the night.

No place is without its quirks, but some countries sweep you off your feet, and Malaysia was truly enchanting. The food scene, a vibrant tapestry of Malay, Chinese, and Indian influences, had me swooning. I stumbled upon a room only steps away from the night market—talk about lucky! With Roti Canai priced at just RM1, I indulged in a few too many, leaving the table utterly satisfied. There’s nothing like savouring delicious food while surrounded by the vibrancy of a night market—it was an experience I wouldn't soon forget.

 

Epilogue

As Thailand slipped quietly behind me, I carried more than tired legs and stamped pages. I carried small, lasting impressions: markets that transformed at the sound of a train, roads flanked by salt fields and fishing boats, beaches so empty they felt borrowed from a dream, and chance encounters that turned strangers into companions.

This stretch reminded me that travel is rarely about perfect timing or flawless plans. It’s about adapting when the rain refuses to stop, laughing at inconvenient detours, lingering when a place feels right, and knowing when it’s time to move on. Thailand once again proved to be a place where the road tests you—but also looks after you, just enough.

With a final push toward the border and the promise of new flavours, landscapes, and stories ahead, I rolled onward—grateful for the miles behind me and quietly excited for what waited beyond the next line on the map.

 

072 CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (2) - WAITING FOR A NEW PASSPORT

Ancient Wonders and Everyday Life

CAMBODIA (2)

929 Kilometres – 21 Days
3 May – 25 May 2015

MAP

PHOTOS

FLIP-BOOK

PDF

VOICEOVER

 

THAILAND AND CAMBODIA:

Between Kingdoms: My Reluctant Journey Through Thailand and Cambodia

  

Prelude

 

Now and then, the journey throws in a gentle reminder that you are not, in fact, in control. This particular chapter began with a perfectly reasonable plan: Cycle through Myanmar to India. Simple. Efficient. Almost professional.

Naturally, it fell apart almost immediately.

Instead of smooth progress, there were a lost passport, deadlines, two-week visa limits, embassy queues, and the creeping suspicion that I had seriously underestimated how long anything takes in real life. Throw in a bit of tropical heat and some highly questionable decision-making, and things were off to a solidly chaotic start.

What followed was less a well-executed route and more a loosely connected series of events involving cycling at odd hours, improvising solutions to self-created problems, and occasionally wondering why I thought any of this was a good idea.

 

 

THAILAND

Racing Time and Chasing a Passport

 

 

Mae Sot to Bangkok: The Bus, the Mud & the 3 a.m. Goblins (31 km)

My main priority was reaching the South African Embassy in Bangkok to apply for a new passport — a process I suspected would be neither swift nor emotionally nourishing. Thailand, in its infinite administrative wisdom, only granted two-week stays at land borders at the time, so I had to move fast. I packed up, pedalled to the bus station, and discovered the next bus was at 18:50. Naturally.

With hours to kill, I wandered around Mae Sot until the heat convinced me that wandering was a terrible idea and that hotels existed for a reason.

The bus ride was comfortable enough that I drifted off, only to be spat out at the Bangkok bus terminal at the ungodly hour of 3 a.m. The station was 10–15 kilometres out of town, surrounded by roadworks and mud — the sort of mud that looks suspiciously like it’s hiding something sinister, like open utility holes or portals to other dimensions.

Cycling into Bangkok at 3 a.m. sounds romantic until you realise there are no streetlights and the only people awake are the homeless, the drunk, and the genuinely bizarre. I realised, with some concern, that I fit at least one of those categories.

 

Bureaucracy, Ice Cream & Existential Horror

The Embassy was a hive of form-filling, fee-paying, and general adulting — things I hadn’t done in ages and didn’t miss. Men in suits strode around making deals, clutching briefcases, and speaking urgently into phones. Their body language alone made my stomach turn. I walked past licking an ice cream, thinking, “Been there, done that,” and feeling deeply grateful for my iron horse and tent. (Though I reserve the right to retract that statement on the next mountain pass.)

Then came the news: the new passport would take five months.

Five. Months.

Since my current passport had only two empty pages left, and I suddenly had the gestation period of a baby to kill, I decided to explore Southeast Asia again. There are worse ways to wait for paperwork.

Escaping Bangkok took nearly an entire day. The city is like a giant, sticky spiderweb: once you’re in, you can leave, but only after a prolonged struggle and some swearing.

 

Bangkok to Chachoengsao: The Great Escape (85 km)

I finally broke free of Bangkok’s gravitational pull and headed east. The ride was hot, sticky, and full of the usual Thai roadside curiosities — but at least I was moving again.

 

Chachoengsao to Sa Kaeo: Rain, Coffee & the Calculator Lady (125 km)

The day was blisteringly hot until clouds gathered and unleashed a storm. I sheltered at a roadside restaurant where the lady spoke no English, and I spoke no Thai. Still, we communicated perfectly through the universal language of pointing at a menu and nodding.

Later, I stopped at a building that looked vaguely hotel-ish. The receptionist didn’t speak English either, but she wielded a calculator with the confidence of a Wall Street broker. She typed the room rate, I nodded, and the deal was done. International diplomacy should be conducted this way.

 

CAMBODIA

Ancient Wonders and Everyday Life

 

The Border Market Gauntlet (107 km)

The Po Pet border crossing was less a border and more a chaotic marketplace with immigration hidden somewhere inside like a bureaucratic treasure hunt. Leaving Thailand’s relative organisation and stepping into Cambodia felt like switching from a tidy library to a carnival run by enthusiastic toddlers.

But I was in, passportless and free, pedalling east toward Siem Reap.

 

Saophoan to Siem Reap: Dust, Heat & Decompression Needs (107 km)

The road was mostly good except for a resurfacing section that produced dust thick enough to qualify as a weather event. I wore a buff over my face and pretended I was a desert explorer instead of a sweaty cyclist in Cambodia.

The temperature hovered around 40°C. I occasionally soaked my shirt to cool down, but it dried in minutes. I felt like a diver needing decompression — except instead of nitrogen, I was saturated with heat and needed an air-conditioned room to “de heat.”

Siem Reap seemed chaotic and over-commercialised compared to the countryside. Water cost 500 riel in rural areas but up to 4000 riel in town. I suspect the extra 3500 riel was a “tourist confusion tax.”

Ivy Guesthouse had fan rooms, but the fans were decorative. At 11 o’clock, the weather bureau claimed it was 30°C, but it felt like 35°C. I went out exploring because it was cooler outside than inside my room — never a good sign.

 

Siem Reap: Angkor Thom & the 216 Faces of Judgement

I found better accommodation and bought a three-day Angkor ticket. My first stop was Angkor Thom, whose entrance gates are flanked by 54 demons and 54 gods locked in an eternal tug of war. Inside, 54 towers display 216 enormous faces of Avalokiteshvara, who looks suspiciously like the king. If I had 216 giant stone faces carved in my likeness, I’d probably feel quite powerful too.

 

Siem Reap: Sunrise, Hobbits & Tomb Raider

I woke at 5 a.m. for sunrise, which was unimpressive — a recurring theme. Ta Prohm was stunning, though full of renovation scaffolding. I half expected to see Lara Croft or a hobbit wandering around.

 

Siem Reap: Ruins, Heat & Strategic Retreats

With my three-day ticket, I explored in the mornings and retreated to my air-conditioned room during the day like a sensible mammal. The ruins were magnificent; the heat was not.

 

Siem Reap to Kampong Kdei: Bamboo Rice & Ancient Bridges (61 km)

After three days off the bike, I expected to be energetic. Instead, I felt like a deflated balloon. The route passed stilted houses where people lived, ate, socialised, and relaxed in hammocks beneath their homes — a lifestyle I fully support.

Vendors sold bamboo rice cooked in bamboo stalks over open fires. Delicious.

Then I stumbled upon an ancient bridge built between 1181 and 1220 AD — 86 metres long, 16 metres wide, with 21 arches, 20 columns, and a 9-headed Naga balustrade. It was still in use, which is more than can be said for many modern bridges.

The guesthouse beside it offered a $6 room with a fan, a squat toilet, a mandi, and the obligatory toothbrush, soap, and a communal hair comb. I cannot imagine who uses a communal comb, but judging by the blackness of the teeth, it’s a popular item.

 

Kampong Kdei to Kampong Thom: Falang! Falang! (90 km)

I left early and enjoyed the cool morning air. Schoolchildren filled the road, even though it was Saturday. Every few minutes, someone shouted “Falang!” and children materialised from behind banana plants like excited meerkats.

Wedding marquees in pink and yellow dotted the roadside. I peeked inside more than once. Curiosity is a powerful force.

 

Kampong Thom: Temple Hunting in the Forest

Rumour had it that pre-Angkorian temples were hidden in the forest 30 km away. A tuk tuk took me there, and I spent hours following trails and stumbling upon ancient ruins like a very sweaty archaeologist. More than 100 structures are scattered through the woods. The area was once called Isanapura, capital of Chena in the early 7th century. Fascinating stuff.

 

Kampong Thom to Kampong Cham: Rubber Trees, Snakes & the Mother River (113 km)

I passed roadside workshops carving Buddha statues in clouds of dust that surely violated every health guideline ever written.

Rubber plantations lined the road. I learned how latex is harvested and decided not to rest in the shade after cycling over a snake earlier.

Kampong Cham was charming, perched on the Mekong. I found a riverside room, bought a beer, and watched the Mother River flow past. I stayed another day, eating everything in sight and feeling gloriously content.

 

Kampong Cham to Phnom Penh: The Vanishing Sunrise & The Springy Bridge (107 km)

I woke early to catch the sunrise, took one photo, and watched all the colours vanish as if someone had unplugged the sky. Sunrises and I were clearly not on speaking terms.

Cycling along the Mekong sounded romantic — Google Maps disagreed, insisting no road existed. But the Mekong is 4,350 kilometres long, and I refused to believe an entire riverbank was uninhabited. So I went anyway.

My first stop was the bamboo bridge, a marvel of engineering that could hold a car but still felt like riding across a giant xylophone. Soon the path dissolved into sand, then into a dusty track, then into something that barely qualified as a suggestion. Villagers stared at me as though I had arrived from Mars. Children yelled “Hello, farang!” with the enthusiasm of a welcoming committee.

Thirty kilometres from Phnom Penh, the trail spat me out onto a brand new highway. Civilisation! Air conditioning! Guesthouses with bar fridges! The Royal Guesthouse offered all of these for $13, so I stayed five days. I had no plan for those five days, but not packing up felt like a luxury spa treatment.

I went to a traditional Cambodian dance show, which reminded me how much I missed theatre — and how terrible I was at photographing fast-moving dancers in low light.

Then came the Killing Fields and S 21. Depressing, unavoidable, and deeply sobering. Cambodia’s history is a brutal reminder of how a mighty empire can collapse into unimaginable horror. The school turned torture centre looked heartbreakingly ordinary. I left with a heavy heart.

 

Phnom Penh to Traeng Trayueng: The Pannier Incident (90 km)

Leaving Phnom Penh at 8 a.m. on a Monday during roadworks was like trying to escape a collapsing circus tent. Cambodians drive on both sides of the road, sometimes simultaneously. A motorbike collided with me head-on, ripping my front pannier. Duct tape held it together for the rest of the trip, giving me the look of a cyclist held together by hope and adhesives.

Route 4 was narrow, rough, and windy — the kind of wind that cools you down while also ensuring you never arrive anywhere quickly. Ninety kilometres later, the Chanreah Guesthouse appeared like a mirage.

Across the road, a restaurant served curry noodle soup so delicious I immediately returned for a second bowl. The guesthouse owner had built a massive shed with volleyball courts and snooker tables for village kids — free of charge: no alcohol sales, no fees, just kindness. Cambodia’s resilience was quietly astonishing.

 

Traeng Trayueng to Veal Rinh: Hills & Hesitation (93 km)

The landscape grew hillier as I approached the Cardamom Mountains. I arrived in Veal Rinh and decided I absolutely did not want to cycle an extra 50 km to Sihanoukville that day. A guesthouse appeared. Decision made.

 

Veal Rinh to Sihanoukville: The Pool & The Failed Diving (53 km)

The next morning I cycled the short distance to Sihanoukville and checked into the Reef Resort — bungalow, swimming pool, great deal. I intended to stay briefly. I stayed longer. The diving was disappointing, so I abandoned all ambition and floated in the pool like a contented manatee.

 

Sihanoukville to Koh Kong (By Bus): The Lazy Pannier Escape

Rain hammered down. My pannier was still broken. I had done nothing to fix it during my lazy pool days. The duct tape had peeled off. Instead of repairing it, I hopped on a bus to Koh Kong, which solved nothing except my desire not to cycle in the rain.

In Koh Kong, I attempted to fix the pannier. It was beyond repair. Everything went into a waterproof bag. I Googled “Ortlieb shop Bangkok” and made a plan.

 

Koh Kong: The Jungle, The Waterfall & The Coconut Man

Rather than cross into Thailand, I took a river trip. The boat puttered upriver for an hour and a half, then we hiked through dense forest behind a guide armed with a machete. The waterfall was lovely, the swim refreshing, and the humidity intense.

Halfway back, our guide climbed a tree like a cheerful jungle ninja and returned with coconuts. He chopped them open and made straws out of reeds. It was one of those moments that makes you think, “I will never be this competent.”

 

THAILAND, AGAIN

Fifth entry into Thailand. Passport still pending. Duct tape still involved.

 

 

Koh Kong to Trat: Rain, Rain, Rain (108 km)

The Cambodian immigration office was 10 km away; Thailand’s was just beyond. Rain poured all day. I cycled 100 km to Trat anyway, soaked but triumphant. Cambodia was behind me; Thailand welcomed me for the fifth time.

 

Trat to Klaeng: The Day of No Toilets (136 km)

Rain continued. The temperature dropped, making cycling pleasant — except for the urgent need for toilets, which were tragically absent. I will spare the details, but reaching Klaeng felt like a spiritual victory. I washed my cycling pants with the reverence of a religious ritual.

 

27 May — Klaeng to Chon Buri: Accidents Everywhere (108 km)

The rain stopped. The heat returned. A truck overturned seconds ahead of me. Later, a scooter collided with a car. I was reminded of a cycle tourist killed in Turkey and became acutely aware of my vulnerability. I hugged the road shoulder like it was a long-lost friend.

 

Chon Buri to Samut Prakan: The Love Motel Chair (85 km)

I escaped the highway and followed a minor coastal road. I needed a new pannier urgently — duct tape was no longer enough. But finding a budget room on Bangkok’s outskirts was impossible. Eventually, I settled for a love motel, complete with a suspiciously convenient chair. I chose not to think too hard about it.

 

Samut Prakan to Oena Resort: Panniers & Traffic Hell 40 km

I took a taxi into Bangkok, bought new panniers (sold only in pairs), and replaced my lost lens cap. Returning to the motel after midday, I cycled into the worst traffic imaginable. I surrendered and stopped for the day.

 

Oena Resort to Samut Songkhram: The Railway Market Without Trains (85 km)

I detoured to the Maeklong Railway Market — the famous one where trains pass through the stalls. Except no trains came. Repairs. The market remained charming, though slightly less dramatic.

The weekend floating market was wonderful — packed with locals, not a Westerner in sight. Food was served from boats, and for 50 baht I took a canal tour. Fellow visitors translated temple explanations with great enthusiasm. By 6 o’clock, the market was buzzing.

 

Samut Songkhram to Cha Am: Salt Farms & Bike Lanes (95 km)

The coastal route was flat, scenic, and familiar from previous trips. Salt farms, fishing villages, and a designated bike lane made for a pleasant ride. Rain arrived just as I reached Cha Am — perfect timing to find a room.

 

Cha Am: A Mani Pedi Kind of Day

Cha Am was lovely, so I stayed another day. I walked, jogged, did laundry, and visited a hairdresser for a mani pedi. A cyclist must maintain standards.

 

Cha Am to Prachuap Khiri Khan: The Soaking 125 km

The ride out of Cha Am was flat, easy, and lined with roadside stalls selling fruit and fishy snacks of questionable origin. Everything was pleasant until the weather abruptly decided it had had enough of my optimism. The sky turned black, the wind picked up, and despite pedalling like a caffeinated hamster, I was soaked long before reaching Prachuap.

Fortunately, Prachuap had accommodation everywhere — the kind of town where you could throw a stone and hit three guesthouses and a man offering you a room above his cousin’s shop.

 

Prachuap to Bang Saphan (Nipa Beach Bungalows): The Italian Going the Wrong Way (93 km)

The route south was beautiful — long stretches of white sand, palm trees, hammocks, and resorts hidden behind bougainvillaea and frangipani. It was the sort of coastline that makes you wonder why anyone lives inland.

After months of solo travel, I finally met another cyclist: an Italian man cycling from Cambodia to Italy. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was going the wrong way. He seemed cheerful enough, though, so perhaps he knew something I didn’t.

Nipa Beach Bungalows appeared across from the beach like a sign from the universe saying, “Stop here.” I obeyed.

 

Bang Saphan to Sea Beach Bungalows: The Cyclist Convention (99 km)

The ride was stunning but hillier, and I was racing the clock — my visa time was up, and Thailand does not negotiate with cyclists. I needed to leave the country soon.

Just before Chumphon, I stumbled upon Wua Laen, a coastal village with a gorgeous beach and beachside bungalows. I stopped to enquire, and another cyclist arrived from the south. Peter Yoong from Malaysia — friendly, warm, and instantly likeable. We both rented rooms at Sea Beach Bungalows.

While we were chatting on the veranda, the Italian cyclist arrived, too. He didn’t recognise me at first — apparently I looked different with clothes on. Travel friendships are built on moments like these.

That evening, the three of us ate together and joined other cyclists for a lively night. Peter, a Warmshowers host, invited me to stay with him once I reached Malaysia — the beginning of a friendship that would last years.

The next morning was glorious. I knew staying another day meant I wouldn’t reach the border in time, but the beach was too lovely to leave. I walked, swam, and enjoyed the morning like someone who had completely forgotten about immigration laws.

 

Hat Yai to Alor Setar (Malaysia): The Bus, The Border & The Paradise of Roti (105 km)

I had no choice but to take a bus to the border — I’d cycled that stretch before, so I didn’t feel guilty. A 30 km ride took me to Chumphon’s bus terminal, where buses ran to Hat Yai. From Hat Yai, a 55 km ride led to the border.

Immigration was blissfully smooth. I wish all borders were like this — no fuss, no drama, and a 90-day stay handed over automatically. Malaysia instantly won points.

Another 60 km brought me to Alor Setar, gateway to Langkawi (though I had no intention of going there). I just needed a room.

Malaysia may not be perfect, but it is dangerously close to paradise. The food alone — Malay, Chinese, Indian — could convert the most cynical traveller. I unknowingly booked a room next to the night market and was spoilt for choice. Roti canai cost RM1 each. I ate more than one. Possibly more than three. I retired with a very full belly and a deep sense of contentment.

 

Epilogue

 

By the end of it all, a few things were clear.

The passport was still processing at the speed of continental drift, the pannier had officially given up on life, and any illusion of being a well-organised traveller had been thoroughly dismantled.

What remained was a collection of moments that, at the time, ranged from mildly uncomfortable to deeply questionable—but in hindsight, were exactly the kind of stories you end up keeping.

But in between all that, there was also good stuff: quiet stretches of road, unexpected encounters, generous people, and the kind of freedom that only exists when you’ve fully committed to not knowing what comes next.

Cambodia lingered the longest—not just for the heat, but for its history and the resilience of its people. Thailand, as always, was equal parts comfort and chaos. And Malaysia, waiting at the edge, promised something simple and important: good food and a bit of a reset.

071 CYCLING THAILAND (4) - APPLYING FOR A NEW PASSPORT

Racing Time and Chasing a Passport

71 THAILAND (4)
 338 Kilometres - 7 Days
26 April - 3 May 2015

MAP

PHOTOS

 VOICEOVER

Between Kingdoms: My Reluctant Journey Through Thailand and Cambodia

 

 

Prelude

 

Every now and then, the journey throws in a gentle reminder that you are not, in fact, in control. This particular chapter began with a perfectly reasonable plan: Cycle through Myanmar to India. Simple. Efficient. Almost professional.

Naturally, it fell apart almost immediately.

Instead of smooth progress, there were a lost passport, deadlines, two-week visa limits, embassy queues, and the creeping suspicion that I had seriously underestimated how long anything takes in real life. Throw in a bit of tropical heat and some highly questionable decision-making, and things were off to a solidly chaotic start.

What followed was less a well-executed route and more a loosely connected series of events involving cycling at odd hours, improvising solutions to self-created problems, and occasionally wondering why I thought any of this was a good idea.

Somewhere along the line, Cambodia entered the picture—bringing with it temples, heat intense enough to melt ambition, and a history impossible to ignore.

In short, the plan didn’t survive. But, as it turns out, that’s often when things get interesting.

 

 

 

26–27 April – Mae Sot to Bangkok (By Bus, with Questionable Life Choices)

After losing my passport in Myanmar—a minor inconvenience unless you enjoy borders refusing to let you pass—I miraculously rediscovered my old passport buried at the bottom of a pannier. Like most important things in life, it had been there all along, quietly minding its own business.

It even had two blank pages left. Two. I was practically rich.

My mission was clear: get to Bangkok and apply for a new passport before my current one officially retired from active duty. At the time, Thailand allowed a two-week stay at land borders, which meant I was not operating under a very relaxed, completely manageable, not-at-all-stressful deadline.

Naturally, I sprang into action… and immediately hit my first obstacle: the next bus only left at 18:50.

With nothing else to do except wait and sweat, I left my bike at the hotel and went on a short exploration of Mae Sot. By “exploration,” I mean I lasted about ten minutes in the heat before retreating indoors like a sensible person who had made several poor decisions leading up to that moment.

The bus ride itself was surprisingly pleasant. I dozed off and woke up at 3 a.m., which is never a reassuring time to wake up anywhere, least of all on the outskirts of Bangkok.

The bus station was about 10–15 kilometres outside the city, surrounded by roadworks and puddles that looked like they might contain either water… or the end of my journey. It had rained the night before, and I found myself cycling through mud in near darkness, carefully avoiding anything that looked even slightly suspicious—which, unfortunately, was everything.

At that hour, Bangkok was eerily quiet. The streets were occupied by a strange mix of the homeless, the drunk, and the mildly unhinged.

It didn’t take long to realise I fitted in beautifully.

 

28–30 April – Bangkok (Paperwork and Existential Reflections)

The next few days were spent rushing around the embassy, filling out forms and handing over money—an experience I hadn’t missed nearly as much as I thought I might.

It felt like a brief return to my old life, except this time I was wearing cycling shorts and carrying everything I owned in bags that smelled faintly of damp socks.

While waiting, I noticed men in suits marching purposefully past, talking into phones, making deals, and generally looking important. Their tone, posture, and seriousness triggered something deep inside me—a faint memory of deadlines, meetings, and PowerPoint presentations.

I stood there, eating an ice cream, watching them, thinking:
“Been there, done that… and I definitely prefer this.”

Of course, that feeling might change somewhere up the next mountain pass, but for now, homelessness with a bicycle felt like an upgrade.

 

1 May – Bangkok to Chachoengsao (85 km of Regret and Traffic)

Good news: the new passport will be ordered and sent to Bangkok.

Bad news: It took five months and I only had two weeks in Thailand.

Clearly, the only logical solution was to pretend this wasn’t a problem and continue cycling around Southeast Asia.

Getting out of Bangkok took almost the entire day, which felt more like a gentle departure than a slow escape. The city seemed reluctant to let me go, throwing traffic, heat, and general chaos in my path.

Eventually, I broke free—slightly traumatised, but free.

 

2 May – Chachoengsao to Sa Kaeo (125 km of Heat, Rain, and Coffee Diplomacy)

Another day, another attempt to slowly cook myself alive.

Thankfully, clouds rolled in around midday, followed by rain—sweet, glorious rain. I pulled over at a roadside restaurant, where communication was limited to pointing, smiling, and hoping for the best.

Miraculously, this strategy produced a decent cup of coffee.

We may not have shared a language, but we shared something more important: a mutual understanding that coffee was non-negotiable.

I waited out the storm, stretched the coffee experience as long as socially acceptable, and continued on to Sa Kaeo, where a signless “hotel” and a calculator-based pricing system secured me a room. International communication, at its finest.

 

3 May – Sa Kaeo, Thailand to Cambodia (107 km and a Gentle Introduction to Chaos)

The Po Pet border marked a noticeable shift: leaving Thailand’s relatively organised environment and stepping straight into Cambodia’s more… improvisational approach to structure.

The crossing itself doubled as a full-blown market, requiring me to navigate what felt like an obstacle course of stalls, noise, and general confusion before reaching immigration.

It was chaotic, loud, and slightly overwhelming.

In other words, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. 

At this point, any lingering illusion that this journey was under control had quietly slipped away somewhere between the muddy potholes of Bangkok and a roadside coffee stop in the Thai countryside.

From here on, things would only get hotter, dustier, and significantly less predictable.

Perfect.

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.