075 CYCLING THAILAND (6) - EN ROUTE FROM MALAYSIA TO MYANMAR

A Long, Wet, Wonderful Detour on the Way to Myanmar

 

THAILAND (6)

 1,099 Km - 29 Days

12 September - 10 October 2015 

   MAP

   PHOTOS

PDF

VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

  

Prelude

Some journeys begin with meticulous planning, colour‑coded spreadsheets, and a farewell party featuring at least one person crying into a quiche. Mine began with an itch. Not a metaphorical itch for adventure — a literal one between my shoulder blades that suggested I had been stationary for too long and that movement, any movement, was now medically advisable.

So I got on my bicycle.

The road, as it turns out, is gloriously indifferent. It doesn’t care about your past, your future, or whether you’ve remembered to pack clean underwear. It simply offers a deal: keep moving forward, and in return it will provide discomfort, confusion, and the occasional moment of transcendent beauty. Travelling by bicycle means accepting this deal without negotiation. No air‑conditioning. No reclining seats. No pretending you’re not responsible for your own propulsion. Every kilometre is earned, and every mistake is felt.

 

 

A Border, Two Passports, and One Bureaucratic Meltdown - Guran, Malaysia to Thailand (105 km)

My last day in Malaysia was marked by a rare celestial event: sunshine. After days of rain, the sky finally remembered its job and turned a brilliant blue. I took a minor road north — the kind of road that looks scenic on a map and turns out to be even more scenic in real life, with rice paddies shimmering like someone had spilled a bucket of emerald paint across the countryside.

Approaching the Malaysia–Thailand border, I discovered that I had accidentally created the perfect recipe for bureaucratic confusion: one cyclist, one old passport, one new passport, and one immigration officer who clearly wished he had chosen a different career. The Thai authorities demanded proof that I possessed 20,000 Baht in cash, apparently believing that bank statements were a form of witchcraft. So off I went to withdraw a small mountain of banknotes, which made my wallet look like it had swallowed a brick.

Once they realised I was travelling by bicycle — and therefore unlikely to be a threat to national security — they relaxed. No return ticket required. Just a pat on the back and a stamp in the correct passport. By then it was evening, and I rolled into Sadao feeling like I had survived an administrative obstacle course.

 

The Day I Delete My Entire Digital Life (60 km)

Hat Yai was only sixty kilometres away, so I took my time, drifting into the city like a contented snail. I settled in, caught up online, and then — in a moment of catastrophic button‑pressing — deleted my entire Flickr account.

Not a photo. Not an album. The entire thing.

It was less “Oops” and more “I have just erased my own history.” After a brief period of mourning, I contacted my friend Lois, and we made plans to meet in Bangkok. This helped soften the blow, though not enough to stop me from muttering darkly at my laptop for the rest of the day.

 

Cold Drinks, Warm People, and My Failed Career as a Videographer - Patthalung (97 km)

Heading north toward Bangkok, I was ambushed by kindness. Two young locals on a scooter pulled over, handed me a chilled 100Plus sports drink, and zoomed off again before I could properly thank them. Thai generosity is like that — sudden, sincere, and slightly bewildering.

The road was lined with fruit stalls bursting with colours so bright they looked Photoshopped. Temples appeared like ornate jewels dropped casually along the roadside. I attempted to capture the magic with short video clips, but the results resembled shaky footage from a malfunctioning security camera. I returned to still photography, which at least didn’t make me seasick.

 

Brunch, Postcards, and the Slow Decline of My Energy Levels (97 km)

Route 41 delivered me to a roadside café also named Route 41 — a level of branding commitment I deeply admired. The owner, a photographer with an eye for beauty and a heart for generosity, gifted me a postcard book of his work. I felt honoured and slightly guilty, as the only thing I could offer in return was my sweaty presence.

The skies were overcast, which made cycling pleasant, but my body had begun sending polite hints that cycling every day without rest might not be ideal. After brunch, my energy plummeted like a stone dropped from a tall building. I limped into Thung Song and found a budget hotel with spacious rooms and ground‑floor bike access — the cyclist’s equivalent of a five‑star resort.

 

The Moment I Realised I Needed a Rest Day (108 km)

Somewhere along this stretch, it dawned on me that I had cycled over 1,000 kilometres without a single rest day. This revelation arrived with all the subtlety of a frying pan to the face.

Rainstorms chased me relentlessly, forcing me to hide under shelter for an hour before continuing. By the time I reached the Surat Thani intersection, I was ready to collapse. I found a place to stay conveniently attached to a petrol station — not glamorous, but at that point I would have slept inside the petrol pump if they’d let me.

 

Rain, Defeat, and the Joy of a Petrol Station Room (30 km)

A brief break in the weather tempted me into optimism. I packed quickly, set off, and was immediately punished by another storm. I battled through it until I reached a petrol station offering rooms. I surrendered instantly. When the universe sends you a room at a petrol station with a 7-Eleven, you take it.

 

Spa Temptations, Thunderstorms, and the Joy of Cup Noodles (90 km)

The forecast promised three hours of cloudy skies before the next deluge, so I set off early. Halfway through, I spotted a sign for a spa hidden in the forest. Naturally, I detoured. The baths were serene, soothing, and entirely incompatible with the incoming storm.

I managed to outrun the rain until the final stretch, when the heavens opened just as I reached a 24‑hour roadside joint. To my delight, it offered bungalows at negotiable prices. I unloaded my soggy gear and discovered a small shop selling cup noodles, beer, and crisps — the holy trinity of cyclist survival. Life was good.

 

A Day in Which I Outrun a Monsoon and Collapse into a Bar Named After Myself (90 km)

The forecast promised thunderstorms, but I pedalled toward Chumphon with the determination of someone who has recently consumed too much caffeine. The sky hung low and heavy, like a damp towel someone had forgotten to wring out. Rivers overflowed, drains clogged, and every house not built on stilts looked like it was auditioning for a future as an aquarium.

I cycled nonstop, partly out of efficiency and partly out of fear that stopping would allow the rain to catch me and drown me where I stood. Miraculously, I reached Chumphon just minutes before the heavens opened, turning the landscape into a failed plumbing experiment.

I ducked into The Farang Bar — a place that had once been lively but now felt like it had taken a vow of silence. Still, it had cheap food, cold drinks, and a roof, which made it the most desirable establishment in Thailand at that moment.

 

Breakfast, Gulf Views, and the Rare Sight of Other Cyclists (110 km)

Twenty kilometres into the ride, my body staged a protest and demanded breakfast. After feeding it, I continued along the Gulf of Thailand, which was showing off in a way that felt almost smug — glittering water, dramatic coastline, the whole postcard package.

Then, like spotting unicorns in Lycra, I encountered fellow cycle tourists. I hadn’t seen any in months, so I nearly fell off my bike from excitement. They were racing the clock to exit Thailand before their visas expired, which made them pedal with the urgency of people being chased by tax collectors. We swapped stories, tips, and mutual admiration before parting ways.

By the time I reached the turnoff to Nipa Beach Bungalows, I felt triumphant. I had cycled far enough, met humans, and avoided drowning — a solid day by any measure.

 

Snakes, Heatwaves, and the Slow Death of My Motivation (100 km)

Morning arrived with temperatures in the mid‑30s, the kind of heat that makes snakes come out to sunbathe and cyclists reconsider their life choices. I pedalled carefully, scanning the road for reptiles who might object to being run over.

The ride itself was uneventful but scenic, and I eventually reached Prachuap Khiri Khan and Maggie’s Homestay — a cosy refuge where I promptly melted into a chair.

The next day, I woke up with the strong desire to remain horizontal. Lois messaged to say she couldn’t meet me in Thailand, which gave me the perfect excuse to stay lazy. I set up a new blog (thanks to the old one being locked behind a phone number I no longer possessed), then spent the rest of the day doing absolutely nothing of consequence. It was glorious.

 

Tailwinds, and a Room on Stilts (101 km)

A tailwind pushed me toward Hua Hin like a benevolent hand on my back. The town itself was a lively resort full of Western restaurants, bars, and older European men proudly escorting their much younger Thai companions with the swagger of men who believe they invented romance.

I found a basic room perched on stilts over the water — charming, slightly wobbly, and perfect. I stayed longer than planned, mostly because the rain refused to stop. It poured relentlessly, turning the world outside into a grey blur while I remained snug inside, listening to the soothing soundtrack of “torrential downpour featuring occasional thunder.”

 

Rice Paddies and Fishing Villages (118 km)

The sun returned, the breeze behaved, and the road led me through some of the most beautiful countryside imaginable. Rivers sparkled, rice paddies shimmered, temples glowed, and fishing villages lined the route like a series of charming postcards.

Villagers greeted me warmly, children chased me on their bikes, and sleepy dogs barely acknowledged my existence. A few locals stared at me with suspicion — a foreign woman on a bicycle being a rare and possibly mythical creature — but their curiosity only added to the charm.

By the time I reached Samut Songkhram, the food stalls were setting up, filling the air with aromas that made my stomach applaud. Hometown Hostel offered tiny rooms, but they were mine alone, and after a long day, solitude felt luxurious.

 

Plastic‑Bag Drinks, Traffic Chaos, and a Ferry Crossing That Tests My Balance (98 km)

I chose village lanes over the main road, which turned the ride into a delightful parade of “Hello, farang!” greetings and irresistible food carts. Drinks came in plastic bags with straws poking out — a system so convenient I wondered why the rest of the world hadn’t adopted it.

Approaching Bangkok, however, was less charming. Phetkasem Road was a gridlocked nightmare of honking, fumes, and existential despair. I crawled along until I spotted a small path leading to a ferry across the Chao Phraya River.

The crossing involved steep stairs, jostling crowds, and the delicate art of not dropping my bicycle into the river. Helpful hands appeared, and soon I was safely across, rolling into Peachy Guesthouse — my Bangkok sanctuary.

 

A Day of Bureaucracy and the Sudden Realisation That I’m Not Going Anywhere

With grand plans to cycle from Thailand to India via Myanmar, I took a rest day. I visited the Indian Embassy, where I learned that my visa would take nine working days. Nine. Working. Days.

Bangkok, therefore, became my temporary home. The city welcomed me with its chaotic charm, and I settled in to wait, wander, and rethink my route — because nothing says “adventure” like bureaucracy.

 

In Which Bureaucracy Punches Me in the Face, and the Blood Moon Steals My Lens Cap

Monday began with optimism — the kind that makes you believe embassies are friendly places staffed by helpful people. I arrived at the Indian embassy bright and early, clutching my application like a child presenting homework. My enthusiasm lasted approximately twelve seconds.

“The rules have changed,” they said. Foreigners could no longer apply in Bangkok.

This contradicted the embassy’s own website, which had cheerfully informed me, “Your application was successfully submitted.” To my pea‑sized brain, this meant success. To the embassy staff, it meant absolutely nothing. Arguing with them was like arguing with a brick wall, except the wall would probably have shown more empathy.

I walked back to my guesthouse to calm down, choosing the scenic route so I could photograph Bangkok’s daily life. The universe, however, was in a mischievous mood. My lens cap leapt off my camera and flung itself into the river, presumably in honour of the blood moon in Aries. Astrology enthusiasts would call it cosmic energy. I called it annoying.

A call to the Indian Visa Centre in Kuala Lumpur revealed that foreigners could apply there — but with a “50/50 chance.” I had been hoping for a simple yes-or-no, not a coin toss. Thankfully, the Indian embassy in Myanmar restored my faith in humanity by confirming I could apply in Yangon. Perfect. Myanmar was on my route anyway.

Bangkok, meanwhile, continued being its glorious, chaotic self. Where else can you hop on a water taxi, leap onto a Skytrain minutes later, and then wander past stilt houses clinging to the river like stubborn barnacles? Longtail boats prowled for tourists, temples glowed, skyscrapers shimmered, and pierced, dreadlocked farangs roamed the streets like decorative wildlife. I adored every bit of it.

 

A Haircut Catastrophe and a Temple All to Myself

The next day began with a simple plan: get a haircut. It ended with me looking like someone had attempted to prune my head with garden shears. I left the salon with so little hair that extensions suddenly seemed like a practical idea.

I spent the rest of the day recovering from the trauma, but by evening my courage returned. I grabbed my tripod and went for a walk. To my surprise, Wat Po was open — not the main temple, but the grounds. With almost no one around, I wandered through the serene complex alone, bathed in the soft glow of twilight. It felt like the city had gifted me a private viewing.

I also realised I had procrastinated for an entire week about servicing my bicycle. After 8,000 kilometres on the same chain and cogs, it was practically begging for mercy. Myanmar and India awaited — and my bike deserved a spa day.

 

Canals, Chickens, Alms Bowls, Fertility Phalluses & A Motorbike Ride That Shortened My Lifespan

While processing my Myanmar visa, I drifted into a pleasant lull. I cycled to Bok‑Bok Bike to drop off my trusty steed, then set off exploring Bangkok’s ancient klongs — narrow canals where history clings stubbornly to the edges.

The alleys were alive with families trading, chatting, cooking, and occasionally yelling at chickens. I ducked through doorways, stepped over shoes, sidestepped poultry, and inhaled the intoxicating mix of street food aromas and canal humidity. It was chaotic, colourful, and utterly captivating.

Returning to the bike shop days later, I found it closed. Undeterred, I wandered on and stumbled upon artisans crafting monks’ alms bowls — a tradition dating back to the 1700s. Watching them hammer metal with such devotion made me feel both inspired and slightly lazy.

My route then led me through bustling markets, neon‑lit malls, and finally to the unforgettable Goddess Tubtim Shrine — a garden filled with enormous phalluses of every shape and size. Women hoping to conceive come here to pray, and if successful, return to donate another phallus. It was like wandering through a forest of enthusiastic fertility symbols. Wonderfully strange.

After absorbing this spectacle, I hopped onto a canal water taxi. Boarding required impeccable timing and mild acrobatics, especially while clutching a camera. The boat skimmed along the water, spraying passengers with equal parts breeze and questionable droplets.

The final leg home was on a motorbike taxi. My driver ignored every traffic rule ever invented, weaving through Bangkok’s chaos with the confidence of someone who believed he was immortal. I chose not to look. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and quintessentially Bangkok.

 

Ghost Towers, Australians, Police Threats & A Rainy Escape to Mae Sot (38 km)

Always drawn to the unusual, I set off to investigate the Sathorn Unique — a 50‑storey ghost tower abandoned since the 1997 economic crash. It loomed over the city like a concrete cautionary tale.

There I met a young Australian couple who were equally lost. Together, we tried wandering into the cordoned‑off area through an adjacent restaurant. The restaurant owner reacted by slamming the door and threatening to call the police. Her boyfriend pleaded with her while I seized the moment to take photos, because nothing says “travel memoir” like documenting your own impending arrest.

The caretaker appeared, furious, until the Australian girl switched to fluent Thai and explained our situation. Her mother was Thai — a plot twist that saved us. After a tense negotiation, the caretaker unlocked a side gate and let us escape. The boyfriend’s expression was priceless.

The next morning brought drizzle. I loaded my bike and decided to leave Bangkok early. Halfway out of town, the rain paused long enough for me to catch a bus to Mae Sot — a route I’d cycled twice before and had no desire to repeat while covered in mud.

We arrived in Mae Sot under a torrential downpour. I navigated the slick streets in darkness until I reached the Porn‑The Hotel — a name that made me laugh but turned out to be surprisingly cosy.

I had jumped the gun thinking India was just around the corner. In reality, it was 1,500 kilometres away, and I still needed to cross Myanmar again to get my Indian visa — hopefully without losing my passport this time. The only border crossing into India required a special permit, rumoured to be obtainable in Yangon. That adventure would come soon enough.

 

Into Myanmar: Mountains, and A Town That Switches On at 6 PM. (55 km)

Breakfast at Krua Canadian fuelled me for the short ride to the border. Crossing into Myanmar was blissfully uneventful. I withdrew 300,000 kyats (briefly feeling like a millionaire) and pedalled into the mountains.

The new road was beautiful but treacherous — I passed two truck accidents, reminders that progress sometimes arrives faster than people can adapt. At the summit, dark clouds rolled in, and I was soaked during the descent.

I found a guesthouse in Kawkareik, a remote village where electricity only arrives after 6 o’clock. Restaurants were closed, so I foraged for snacks like a determined squirrel. Myanmar flavours were unfamiliar, surprising, and delightful — a perfect ending to a day already filled with plot twists. 

 

Epilogue

Travel has a way of stripping life down to its essentials. Expectations dissolve, plans wobble, and certainty becomes a luxury item you can’t afford. What remains are the moments — the generosity of strangers, the endurance you didn’t know you possessed, the lessons that arrive disguised as inconveniences.

The value of the journey was never in the kilometres pedalled or the borders crossed. It lived in the quiet revelations, the unexpected kindnesses, the storms outrun, and the small triumphs that stitched each day together. Though this chapter ends here, the impulse to keep moving — to chase the next horizon, to learn the next lesson — continues long after the final page.

 

 

074 CYCLING MALAYSIA (2) - WAITING FOR A NEW PASSPORT

The Great Malaysian Loop

Diving, Dodging Monkeys and Defying Bureaucracy

MALAYSIA (2)
3,205 Kilometres - 66 Days
8 June – 11 September 2015

MAP
PHOTOS
PDF
VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

  

Prelude

Malaysia wasn’t part of any grand plan. It was simply where I happened to be when life, bureaucracy, and a missing passport conspired to keep me still. Yet the country had other ideas. It swept me up in its humid embrace, fed me roti canai at irresponsible hours, introduced me to monkeys with questionable morals, and offered roads so quiet I could hear my own thoughts — and occasionally my own swearing. What began as a place to wait became a place to wander, to linger, to get lost, and to be found again. Malaysia, in all its smoky sunsets, coastal shortcuts, and unexpected kindness, turned out to be the perfect detour.

 

 

Crossing Borders & Chasing Roti (105 km)

After a breezy 55 km pedal, I rolled up to the Thailand–Malaysia border expecting bureaucracy, queues, and at least one official who looked like he’d rather be fishing. Instead, I was waved through with a 90‑day stay as casually as if they were handing out coupons. I nearly hugged the immigration officer.

Sixty kilometres later, I reached Alor Setar — gateway to Langkawi, apparently, though I was only looking for a bed and possibly something fried. Malaysia, I quickly discovered, is one of those countries that seems to have been designed by a committee of people who really like food. Malay, Chinese, Indian — all happily mingling in a fragrant, sizzling culinary utopia.

The night market next to my guesthouse was a sensory riot. Spices perfumed the air, hot plates hissed like angry cats, and roti canai cost RM1 each. I ate more than one. I regret nothing.

 

Ferrying into Food Paradise (100 km)

The ride to Butterworth was a gentle glide past rice paddies, temples, and mosques — the sort of scenery that makes you feel like you’re starring in a slow‑paced travel documentary narrated by David Attenborough.

From Butterworth, I boarded the ferry to Penang, sharing the deck with pedestrians, cars, and motorbikes that looked like they’d been welded together during the 1980s. Minutes later, we docked in Georgetown, the famed Pearl of the Orient.

I found a crappy but blessedly air‑conditioned room with a window — luxury by my standards. Georgetown’s streets were a living museum: rickshaws pedalling past Chinese shophouses, lanterns swaying overhead, and food vendors everywhere. I inhaled a plate of Nasi Goreng before my backpack even hit the floor.

 

Street Art Safari in Georgetown

Georgetown may be a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but it’s also a fully functioning town where people live, work, and honk at you. Rickshaws ferried tourists through chaotic lanes lined with British Raj architecture, retro pubs, and Chinese shophouses.

I spent the day hunting for street art with the enthusiasm of a treasure‑obsessed pirate. The murals were scattered all over town, turning the day into a delightful scavenger hunt. Every time I found one, I felt absurdly triumphant — as if I’d discovered it personally and should probably be awarded a medal.

 

Love Lane & More Wandering

I wasn’t done with Georgetown, so I stayed another day. My wanderings took me past joss stick makers, goldsmiths, garland makers, and food vendors who seemed determined to test the limits of human stomach capacity.

I drifted through Little India, Little China, and the old clan jetties before returning to my abode on Love Lane — a name that suggests romance but mostly delivers backpackers, scooters, and the occasional confused tourist.

 

Rain, Ferries & Tiger Beer (55 km)

I wasn’t in the mood to cycle, but I wasn’t in the mood to stay either — a classic traveller’s dilemma. I dragged myself to the ferry and headed back to the mainland.

Moments after departure, the sky unleashed one of Southeast Asia’s signature downpours — the kind that makes motorcycles pull over en masse like a synchronised swimming team. I joined them, waiting for the deluge to pass. A few kilometres later, the heavens opened again. At that point, the only sensible thing to do was find shelter, order a tall Tiger beer, and watch the weather from a porch like a woman who had absolutely no intention of getting wet again.

 

The Wettest Town Lives Up to Its Name (44 km)

Taiping is famous for being the wettest town in the region. Even in June — allegedly the “dry” month — it receives 159 mm of rain. I arrived soaked, dripping all over the hotel’s shiny tiles like a malfunctioning fountain.

The rain never stopped. I spent the rest of the day indoors, eating and listening to the storm batter the windows. Taiping: come for the scenery, stay because you physically cannot leave.

 

A Pleasant Surprise (95 km)

Breakfast was McDonald’s (don’t judge), followed by a 95 km ride to Lumut, gateway to Pangkor Island. The rain had finally given up, leaving behind cooler air and humidity thick enough to swim through.

Lumut surprised me. It was charming, calm, and pleasant enough to tempt me into staying the night instead of hopping straight onto the ferry. Sometimes the best travel decisions are made out of sheer laziness.

 

Monkeys & Bad Influence in Lumut

I started the day with shopping at the mall, then read a photography magazine at Starbucks — a dangerously expensive pastime, as it immediately made me want a new lens.

On the way back, I stopped at the Mangrove Park to photograph monkeys. While I was busy composing the perfect shot, the little thieves stole my water bottle straight off the bike. I shook my fist at them, but I swear they laughed from the treetops. Malaysia’s wildlife: adorable, agile, and morally questionable.

 

Waiting for a Passport & Settling in Lumut

I was dragging my heels because I was waiting for my new passport. Malaysia was one of the few countries that allowed a 90‑day stay, and if you needed more time, you could simply pop into Singapore and return for another three months. Bureaucracy with a side of convenience.

Lumut turned out to be an excellent place to wait. It had ocean views, was near Seri Manjung, had plenty of restaurants, and had a steady stream of tourists heading to Pangkor Island. I found a lovely studio apartment with a balcony and a massive pool — which was entirely mine thanks to Ramadan keeping things quiet.

The staff were wonderfully accommodating: they gave me balcony furniture, did my laundry, and even lent me a laptop with a big screen. If waiting for a passport was supposed to be stressful, Lumut clearly hadn’t received the memo.

 

Lumut: The Fitness Experiment

I decided to become one of those people who jog in tropical humidity and pretend it’s enjoyable. This required running shoes and swimming goggles, which I dutifully acquired. The jogging part, however, was less successful. My legs moved at the speed of continental drift, and I wasn’t sure I possessed the patience required to become “running fit.” Still, I swam afterwards, which felt far more sensible for someone living in a sauna.

 

Lumut: Monkeys, Museums & Mild Cabin Fever

I adore the tropics, but renting an apartment for an entire month turned out to be a touch excessive. Before reaching the halfway mark, I was already itching to leave. Even the monkeys sensed my restlessness and tried to steal my shopping, forcing me to dodge them like a contestant in a bizarre game show.

In search of excitement, I cycled to Marine Island for scuba diving, only to find the shop closed. So, I went to the mall instead, where I treated myself to a facial and then visited the Rahmat Maritime Museum — a navy battleship turned tourist attraction. It was surprisingly fun, though I suspect the facial did more for my morale.

 

Lumut: Island Hopping

Pangkor and Pangkor Laut sit just three miles offshore, dotted with fishing villages and traditional Malay houses. The ferry costs only 10 MYR, which is practically free, so I joined the crowds of backpackers and domestic tourists to explore the islands. They were charming, colourful, and full of life — the perfect antidote to my Lumut-induced boredom.

 

The Passport Plot Twist

Months after applying for a new passport, the saga took a dramatic turn. A call to the Bangkok Embassy revealed I had to pay double the original fee because I’d lost the passport — a detail no one had bothered to mention. Worse, I had to pay in person. Bureaucracy truly is stranger than fiction.

I threw a few things into a backpack and hopped on a bus to Bangkok, muttering darkly about administrative surprises.

 

Bangkok and the Familiar Pannier

Twenty-four hours later, I arrived in one of my favourite cities. Peachy Guesthouse was still cheap as chips, so I checked in. Near the rubbish bin, I spotted a familiar-looking pannier — Ernest’s, my old cycling buddy from the Americas. It appeared he had stayed there recently and, like me, his panniers were also falling apart. Some friendships are built on shared suffering.

 

Bureaucracy & Headless Goddesses

I caught a water taxi to the Embassy, thrilled to be using public transport like a proper city dweller. After paying the fee, I wandered through Bangkok’s malls before heading to the National Museum.

A special exhibition celebrated HRH Princess Maha Chakri Sirindhorn’s 60th birthday: Feminine Deities of Buddhism, Hinduism and Indigenous Cults. Most of the statues were headless, which made me wonder whether they were unpopular or simply victims of poor storage.

 

Backpackerville & Muay Thai Magic

Bangkok is dangerously easy to stay in. Khao San Road was its usual circus of backpackers, vendors, and questionable life choices. You could get pierced, tattooed, dreadlocked, or buy fake IDs and photographer’s passes — the latter being temptingly mischievous.

I shopped for jewellery and clothes, watched an outdoor cultural show, and then headed to see Muay Thai. It’s a sport where knees, elbows, shins, hands, and feet all seem to be fair game. The fighters were impressively built, which was reason enough for me to watch.

Eventually, it was time to return to Malaysia. I chose the train — far nicer than the bus. I loved the tray tables with tablecloths, the beds magically made at night, and the hypnotic clickety-clack of the wheels. It felt like travelling in a long-lost era.

 

Lumut: Home Again

Returning to Lumut felt oddly like coming home. The staff greeted me with the usual Malaysian warmth: “Hi, hello. Did you enjoy your holiday? Have you eaten?” In Malaysia, food is both a greeting and a lifestyle.

 

Back on the Road (107 km)

My final day in Lumut arrived, and I was thrilled to pack up and resume my journey. Cycling the same country twice can be monotonous, but Malaysia always offers new corners to explore — and I had no choice but to wait for the passport.

I reached Sungai Besar and found inexpensive accommodation. It was Eid, and families celebrated Hari Raya Aidilfitri in coordinated outfits. Men wore loose shirts and trousers; women wore elegant silk ensembles. The matching colours symbolised unity, and the whole town shimmered like a walking Pantone chart.

 

The Stomach Bug Day (25 km)

A stomach bug hit me hard, and I limped into Sekinchan with survival, not sightseeing, on my mind. Accommodation was pricier due to Eid festivities, and while the festival focused on forgiveness, most people seemed far more interested in eating — which, frankly, I admired.

 

Rain & Relief (80 km)

I waited for the weather to clear, but the drizzle persisted most of the day. Still, it was better than the previous day’s emergency bush runs. The overcast skies made for comfortable riding, though the traffic was hectic. Thankfully, a smaller path ran parallel to the main road, saving me from becoming a hood ornament.

 

Warmshowers Royal Treatment

From Klang, I headed inland to visit Peter Yoong — fellow cyclist, Warmshowers host, and all‑round legend I’d met months earlier in Thailand. The ride was easy, thanks to a dedicated motorbike lane complete with its own road signs, which made me feel like a VIP on two wheels.

Peter’s family welcomed me like a long‑lost relative, and he even had a cold beer waiting. I knew instantly I’d chosen the right host.

The next morning, we visited the market, and then Peter casually baked three pies. Three. Pies. I wasn’t sure if Warmshowers had a Michelin category, but Peter deserved one. By evening, another cyclist, Ivan, arrived, and Peter drove us to Kuala Lumpur so we could photograph the Petronas Towers like proper tourists.

 

The Secret Coastal Shortcut (115 km)

Peter suggested a coastal shortcut to Port Dickson, and it turned out to be a brilliant idea. The route was quiet and scenic, winding through oil palm plantations until it reached a river, where a tiny ferry shuttled people across. On the opposite bank, Lukut awaited — peaceful, understated, and perfect for a night’s rest.

 

Rooftop Living & Bonsai Wonders (100 km)

The ride to Malacca was classic Malaysia: big rivers, swampy greenery, and lush landscapes that looked like they’d been painted by someone who really likes the colour green.

My Warmshowers host, Howard, ran a small guesthouse where cyclists could sleep on the rooftop terrace for free. He offered complimentary coffee and tea, which made him instantly heroic in my eyes.

I had my bike serviced, wandered through old Malacca’s UNESCO‑listed streets, and stayed an extra day because Malacca is the kind of place that gently insists you linger. I joined a free walking tour, had my camera cleaned, and stumbled upon a bonsai show. I know nothing about bonsais, but these were magnificent — tiny trees with more personality than some people I’ve met.

 

Rain Delay Malacca (88 km)

Not much happened except rain. I took shelter, waited it out, and continued on. Some days are simply wet and uneventful.

 

The Abacus Hotel (77 km)

I rode to Pontian Kecil, stopping for water and snacks as usual. I’d planned to stay with a Warmshowers host, but a misunderstanding sent me searching for a hotel instead.

The hotel staff used an abacus to check me in. An actual abacus. It was oddly charming — a reminder that the world is full of delightful surprises, especially when you least expect them.

 

Traffic, Rain & Curry Salvation (105 km)

The day was spent on busy main roads, which was about as enjoyable as cycling through a swarm of angry bees. Rain arrived, but thankfully didn’t last long. By the time I reached Kota Tinggi, I’d had enough of traffic and checked into a hotel. A food court next door served curry noodle soup, which restored my faith in humanity.

 

Undulating Roads & Embassy News (105 km)

The route to the East Coast rolled gently through oil palm plantations. In Mersing, the Embassy Hotel offered the best value in town, so I booked two nights.

I phoned the South African Embassy in Bangkok, and — miracle of miracles — my passport application was finally on the Home Affairs system. I dared to hope the saga might eventually end. The rest of the day was spent doing typical rest‑day chores.

 

Smoke, Swiftlets & Storms (96 km)

Route 3 led me past forest clearing operations — a depressing sight made worse by fires used to speed up the destruction. A little further on stood a massive brick aviary for swiftlets, whose edible nests sell for thousands of dollars per kilogram. It’s a strange world when bird spit is worth more than gold.

I stayed in basic chalets along the river, but the air was thick with smoke. I mentally planned what to grab if evacuation became necessary. Thankfully, a thunderstorm rolled in and cleared the air. I exhaled deeply — crisis averted.

 

Bamboo Rice & Night Market Temptation (111 km)

Roadside stands sold lemang — sticky rice baked in bamboo — and I was grateful for my habit of taking photos, because sometimes I think nothing happened until I look back and realise the day was full of small wonders. Someone once said, 'Travellers see more than they remember and remember more than they see.' Very true.

Kuantan was larger than expected. The backpackers’ hostel had no bicycle storage, so I chose a guesthouse opposite the night market. I hadn’t eaten all day, so shopping hungry was a terrible idea — I wanted everything.

The next morning, I tried to fix my laptop’s touchpad and instead broke the entire thing. Off to the computer shop I went.

 

Freedom & No Beer (97 km)

I laughed out loud leaving Kuantan — the joy of moving on can be overwhelming, especially on a downhill. Although there were interesting sights along the way, I didn’t feel like stopping and rode straight to Kerteh.

Conservative Kerteh had few attractions. Not even beer. But it had a bed, and that was enough.

 

Fishing Villages & 3D Art (117 km)

Another pleasant ride past fishing villages and wide rivers reminded me I was deep in the tropics. The Seaview Hotel had no sea view but did have a ground‑floor room for the bike, which was far more important.

Chinatown offered good food and colourful streets. The next morning, I dropped off my laundry and returned to explore the 3D street art — so realistic it was hard to tell where reality ended and paint began. Markets overflowed with unfamiliar smells and mysterious merchandise. Kuala Terengganu was a feast for the senses.

 

Headwinds & Hunger (109 km)

The 109 km to Kuala Besut took most of the day thanks to a mild but persistent headwind — the kind that feels polite at first but slowly erodes your will to live. The road hugged the coast, flat as a pancake, with small islands dotting the horizon like decorative sprinkles. The Perhentian Islands beckoned.

By the time I reached Kuala Besut, food stalls materialised like a mirage. I hadn’t eaten all day, so I descended on them with the enthusiasm of someone who’d just discovered eating.

 

Perhentian Islands: Diving, Snorkelling & Warm Seas

The guesthouse owner kindly stored my bicycle while I hopped on a ferry to the Perhentians. I got off at Long Beach, where budget accommodation and cheap diving awaited. Oh La La offered a decent deal, so I booked a dive and spent the rest of the day snorkelling in water so clear it felt like swimming in blue glass.

The next morning, we headed to a pinnacle 20 minutes offshore. Visibility wasn’t perfect, but the reef was alive with marine creatures doing whatever marine creatures do. That evening, I joined other divers for dinner on the beach — the kind of meal that tastes better simply because you’re barefoot.

The following day’s dive took us to a cave. The water was so warm I wore only a T‑shirt, which felt wonderfully rebellious. We returned just in time for me to catch the ferry back to the mainland.

 

The Boob Snatcher (112 km)

Some days are stranger than others, shortly after leaving Kuala Besut, a motorbike pulled up beside me. With lightning speed, the rider reached out, grabbed my boob, and sped off. I unleashed a torrent of profanity and gave him the middle finger. He likely didn’t understand “Jou ma se moer!” but it made me feel better.

Later, a kind man stopped and offered me a lift to Terengganu, insisting it was too far to cycle — even though only 50 km remained. I declined, thanked him, and pedalled on with my faith in humanity partially restored.

I reached Terengganu in good time, picked up fried noodles and beer in Chinatown, and returned to the Seaview Hotel without the sea view.

 

Odd Shoes & Bad Rooms (94 km)

The route was lined with stalls selling satay‑skewered chicken wrapped in banana leaves and grilled over smoky charcoal. At one stall, I realised I was wearing mismatched shoes — impressive, considering I only owned two pairs.

A stiff breeze slowed me down, and halfway to Dungun the rain came down in sheets. Dungun had several beachfront accommodations, all expensive, so I chose the cheapest. Big mistake. It was the worst place I stayed in Malaysia. On days like this, I remind myself I’m not buying the place — I only need to survive it until morning.

 

Ghost Town by the Sea (86 km)

Cherating was once a popular R&R stop for travellers heading to the Perhentians. Now it had a ghostly air of decline — charming, but quiet enough to hear your own thoughts echo. Accommodation was plentiful and cheap, so I stayed an extra day, did laundry, and lounged about like a cat.

 

Rivers & Decisions (90 km)

Retracing my steps wasn’t thrilling, but Pekan was interesting. The Sungai Pahang — the longest river in Peninsular Malaysia — flows into the South China Sea here, and the town is lined with traditional Chinese shophouses.

At my guesthouse, I debated where to go once my passport arrived. The monsoon was approaching, India’s was ending, and Bangladesh — still uncycled — was calling my name.

 

Pekan to Rompin (94 km)

A pleasant ride along the ocean brought news from the Bangkok Embassy: my passport had supposedly been sent to Bangkok instead of Cape Town and was already in the diplomatic bag. I was sceptical. If true, I could collect it or have it couriered, provided Thai border control allows me entry with a nearly full passport.

 

Coffee Stops & Laptop Death (66 km)

Mersing was close, so I skipped breakfast and enjoyed a scenic coastal ride full of coffee stops and ocean views. The Embassy Hotel was an easy choice: hot water, air‑con, TV.

My laptop finally gave up. The screen shook like it was possessed. I suspected its days were numbered.

 

Trucks & Tragedy (90 km)

The next day the road was narrow, trucks were plentiful, and oil palm plantations stretched endlessly. A patch of natural forest offered relief — until I saw a distressed monkey pacing beside her dead baby, likely hit by a vehicle. It was heartbreaking, and I carried the image with me for the rest of the day.

 

Language Lessons (108 km)

Still no passport news. Sigh. The route to Muar was uneventful, but the town was larger than expected. I chatted with the receptionist, impressed to learn Malaysians often speak up to six languages — Malay, English, Cantonese, Mandarin, and various dialects. My brain felt lazy in comparison.

 

Beach Camping Bliss (126 km)

I pushed on to Port Dickson, having cycled this stretch before. I pitched my tent under trees on the beach, with a view over the ocean. I watched the sunset, then wandered to a nearby restaurant. It was one of those perfect travel evenings.

 

Storm Survival (90 km)

I woke to a massive storm. I had to brace the tentpole with all my strength to keep the tent from collapsing. Rain hammered down, waves crashed alarmingly close, and when the storm passed, seafoam sat inches from my tent. Too close for comfort.

Sopping wet, I cycled to Puchong to stay with Peter until my passport arrived.

 

Hungry Ghosts & Laptop Resurrection

I spent my days chatting with Peter and his family. Carolina from Brazil was also staying there, helping with the garden through HelpX — a programme where travellers work in exchange for accommodation. She was energetic, kind, and endlessly helpful.

My passport was still in South Africa, but arrangements were finally made to send it to Malaysia. My laptop, miraculously, came back to life.

It was the Hungry Ghost Festival — when the gates of hell open and hungry spirits roam the earth. People left food and paper money outside, and temples burned elaborate paper houses, cars, phones, and shoes so ghosts wouldn’t go barefoot. If overeating, drinking, gambling, and smoking lead to ghosthood, I’m doomed.

 

Puchong: A New Hindu Temple

Peter drove us to a newly built Hindu temple that was still being painted. Hindu temples are breathtaking — elaborate, colourful, and full of symbolism. Artisans had been brought from India to complete the work.

Swami Vivekananda taught that temples are merely supports for reaching the divine. I liked that — a reminder that spirituality doesn’t need a building, just intention.

 

The Haunted House Expedition

Peter and I went searching for Puchong’s infamous haunted house. Legend says a wealthy businessman went bankrupt and his family died mysteriously — suicide, murder, or something worse, depending on who tells the story.

Bomohs (witch doctors) allegedly use the house for rituals. People claim to see lights flickering despite no electricity, hear children screaming, and spot shadowy figures. Pontianaks — female vampire ghosts — are said to live there.

We found the house. No ghosts. Just thousands of mosquitoes behaving like possessed demons. We fled.

 

Passport Arrival & New Plans

At long last, my passport arrived. I was thrilled to move on. India and Bangladesh were top choices, and applying for visas in Kuala Lumpur made sense — except the Bangladesh Embassy only issued visas to Malays.

I decided to cycle north to Bangkok and apply for an Indian visa there. Onward, at last.

 

Coastal Quiet & Lizard Company (110 km)

Leaving Peter and his family was bittersweet, but the road was calling. Peter suggested a smaller coastal path — a brilliant idea. It was peaceful, scenic, and blissfully free of traffic. Just me, the beach, a few monkeys plotting petty theft, and the occasional monitor lizard lumbering across the path like a prehistoric crossing guard. My kind of cycling.

 

Roti, Regret & Rising Haze (127 km)

Breakfast was roti canai, which was perfect until the chillies staged a coup. Ten kilometres later, I made an emergency Gaviscon stop, cursing my own optimism.

I re-joined the tiny coastal path from the previous day, weaving past fishing hamlets and resorts perched on stilts over the water. Palm plantations stretched endlessly until I reached a river — mercifully equipped with a ferry.

The smoke haze worsened. Newspapers blamed forest burning, factories, vehicles, and open fires. I blamed all of them. The air tasted like a barbecue gone wrong. I pushed on to Sitiawan, hoping tomorrow would be clearer.

 

Night Zoo Adventures

A drizzle accompanied me to Taiping, but never enough to stop me. I arrived starving, having skipped breakfast, and immediately hunted down food.

Taiping’s Night Zoo was open, so I wandered through dimly lit paths that felt like walking under a full moon. The forest smelled damp and alive. Grunts, stomps, and chewing echoed around me. I wondered what I’d do if a crocodile lunged out — then a deer bounced from behind a bush and nearly stopped my heart. Night zoos: highly recommended, mildly terrifying.

 

Back to the Pearl (101 km)

After a quick breakfast, I followed minor paths north. Malaysia is so modern that you sometimes forget it’s tropical — until you cross rivers jam‑packed with fishing boats in every shape imaginable.

Butterworth spat me out at the ferry terminal. Despite the bridge, the ferry was still wildly popular with cars and motorbikes. I boarded and felt privileged to return to Penang — land of street art, street food, and endless charm.

I needed a three‑month Thai visa (RM150) because land borders only allow a two-week stay. I planned to apply for Indian and Bangladesh visas in Bangkok, so the three‑month option made sense. I handed my passport to a visa agent and hoped for the best.

 

Penang: Blog Battles

While waiting for the visa, I had a relaxing day — until I tried accessing my old blog. Despite knowing the password, email, and username, I couldn’t get in because I no longer had access to the ancient phone number linked to it. Technology: the gift that keeps on giving.

I started a new blog instead. The last update had been in the Philippines in 2013, so I had some catching up to do. It took another seven years before I finally deleted the old one.

 

Penang: Hungry Ghosts & Hot Keyboards

I collected my passport at midday and continued updating the blog. A stroll around town revealed Penang in full Hungry Ghost Festival mode — giant joss sticks, food stands, and live performances everywhere.

Different neighbourhoods celebrated at different times, so some areas were winding down while others were just getting started. Penang was buzzing.

 

Penang: Rain & Motorbike Nomads

Rain poured relentlessly, so I stayed put at Love Lane Inn. I met fascinating travellers — at least five of them on motorbikes. A French guy rode an Australian “Postie”; an Indian man and a French couple had their own bikes; and an Australian bought and sold local motorbikes as he travelled, avoiding border fees. We drank beer and swapped stories while the rain drummed on the roof.

 

The Missing Ferry (110 km)

I finally left via a secondary path. Drizzle came and went, but nothing dramatic. In Pantai Merdeka, I searched for the ferry across the river — but it had vanished. Even after asking around, no one could help. So I returned to the main road and continued to Gurun, which at least had food and a bed.

 

Bureaucracy & Blue Skies (105 km)

The day was perfect for cycling — blue skies, fresh air, and rice paddies flooded from recent rain, glowing green under the sun. A small path ran alongside the main road, making the ride easy and scenic.

The border crossing, however, was less charming. I now had two passports (old and new), which confused the officers. They also demanded cash and a return ticket. I cycled to the bank, withdrew money, and returned. After explaining I was travelling by bicycle, they mercifully waived the ticket requirement.

By then it was late, so I stayed in Sadao — officially back in Thailand, ready for the next chapter.

 

With my new passport finally in hand — guarded as fiercely as a dragon guards treasure — I pedalled north toward Thailand, hoping the universe had finished toying with my paperwork. The coastal haze thinned, the rice paddies brightened, and the familiar rhythm of the road returned as I crossed back into the Land of Smiles. Ahead lay Bangkok, visas, and the promise of new borders. Beyond that waited Myanmar: golden stupas, quiet mornings, and roads that would test both my legs and my patience. And this time, I vowed, I’d keep a firm grip on my passport… preferably with both hands.

 

Epilogue

In the end, Malaysia let me go the same way it held me: gently, chaotically, and with a final flourish of paperwork. I pedalled north with a new passport, a revived laptop, and the lingering smell of satay in my panniers. The Hungry Ghost Festival faded behind me, the coastal haze thinned, and the monkeys no doubt plotted their next theft. What remained was the quiet certainty that detours often make the best chapters — and that sometimes the road you never meant to take becomes the one you remember most. Ahead lay Thailand, Myanmar, India… but Malaysia had already left its mark, somewhere between the ferries, the food stalls, and the long, laughing kilometres.