084 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (8)

 Thailand (8)

Northbound Through the Kongdom

 

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VOICEOVER 

FLIP-BOOK

Where the Journey Circles Back

The Last Days with Tania

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

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

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

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

 

Coffee and Crabs

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

Riding into Bangkok

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

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

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

 

Lazy days in Bangkok

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

 

Thailand (8.1)
The Art of Wandering Slowly

 

Prologue

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

 

Bangkok waiting

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Quiet Road Out of Bangkok

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

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

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

 

The Road Suphan Buri

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

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

 

The temples of Suphan Buri

Before cycling onward, I visited three temples:

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

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

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

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

 

The Monkey Temple of Lop Buri

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

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

 

Kindness on the Road

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

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

 

Rain and Generosity

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

Cattle with Long Ears and the Gift of a Swimming Pool

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

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

 

Into the storm

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

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

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

 

Nong Khai and the Mekong

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

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

 

The Train to Bangkok

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

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

 

Across the Border to Laos

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

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

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

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

 

Epilogue

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

083 CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (3)

 CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (3)

Rain & Rice Fields
A Journey Through the Heart of Cambodia

 
July–August 2016
1,336 Kilometres – 23 Days

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 VOICEOVER 
FLIP-BOOK

PROLOGUE

Cambodia arrived like a whisper on a dusty road —a border, a stamp, a dirt track dissolving into green. Children’s voices rose from behind banana leaves, monks drifted through morning light, and the Mekong moved with the patience of centuries. Here, life balanced on stilts above the earth, rice dried in the sun, and kindness met us long before we learned the words for thank you.

 

 

Leaving Laos, Entering Dust - Maung Khong, Laos to Stung Treng, Cambodia (100 km)

Crossing the last stretch of Laos felt like leaving a gentle friend behind. “I feel quite emotional leaving Laos,” Tania murmured as we rolled toward the border, the morning soft and forgiving. At the border, an unofficial $2 exit fee vanished into the border officials’ pockets, but we claimed poverty, and a long wait later, our passports were stamped. Next, we scurried off to the Cambodian border, where officials charged a dollar for not having a yellow vaccination card and five extra dollars for the visa bureaucracy.

Beyond the border, the world opened into a quiet countryside of red dust and scattered wooden shops. The dirt road was kind, the air warm, and the small stores along the way kept our bottles full. Tania exchanged her last Lao kip at a petrol station—an unlikely but welcome stroke of luck.

Stung Treng appeared in a haze of heat and market noise. We found an ATM dispensing only US dollars, then a guesthouse with no water, then another with just enough comfort to collapse into. The day ended with the familiar exhaustion of border crossings—dust in our hair, hunger in our bellies, and the sense of stepping into a new chapter.

 

The Long Road to Kratie - Stung Treng to Kratie (140 km)

We left Strung Treng far too late for such a long day, stopping to exchange money, popping into a pharmacy, and taking loads of photos kept us busy for most of the morning. Only thirty kilometres in did the urgency hit: we needed to move.

The road south was a ribbon of rural life. Women in bright pyjamas sold steamed duck eggs from roadside stands—houses perched on stilts above the dust, hammocks swaying beneath them like slow pendulums. Children shouted “hello!” from behind banana plants, their voices carrying across the fields. Invitations to share meals drifted toward us like warm breezes, but the headwind pushed back, reminding us of the distance still ahead.

Storm clouds gathered. Roadworks slowed us. By the time we reached the Kratie turnoff, the sky cracked open. We sheltered, waited, and when the rain finally eased, darkness had already fallen. We rode the last stretch by the glow of our headlamps, dodging potholes and puddles, arriving soaked and relieved at a riverside guesthouse. The shower washed away the day’s grit, but the memory of that long, wet ride stayed with us.

 

By morning the Mekong carried us upriver in a small boat, its surface smooth as brushed silk. We searched for the elusive Irrawaddy dolphins, and when they surfaced—rounded heads, soft breaths—it felt like witnessing a secret.

They are nearly blind, the guide told us. Tiny eyes, no lenses. They sense the world through sound and shadow. Their population is fragile, scattered across rivers and estuaries from the Ganges to the Mekong. Watching them rise and disappear into the brown water felt like watching time itself—ancient, endangered, and impossibly gentle.

 

The River Trail Kratie → Stung Trang (89 km)

Leaving Kratie, we chose the river trail over the main road, and it rewarded us with a day of pure rural poetry—houses teetered on stilts above the floodplain, their wooden steps worn smooth by generations. Oxcarts creaked along the path, children skipped to school, and women pedalled bicycles laden with vegetables.

Rice dried in the sun. Bare-necked chickens darted across the dust. Fishermen cast nets into narrow rivers, their silhouettes framed by morning light. Vendors sold sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves, and sugarcane juice dripped down our chins.

By afternoon we reached the ferry—a wooden platform drifting across the Mekong—and crossed to Stung Trang, lulled by the slow rhythm of river life.

 

Fields Without End -Stung Trang to Kampong Thom (97 km)

From Strung Trang we turned inland toward Kampong Thom, leaving the river behind. The landscape widened into vast rice fields, green as emerald cloth. Children stared at us with shy curiosity; even the stray dogs seemed startled by our presence.

Rubber plantations stretched in regimented rows. Cassava fields rippled in the breeze. Signs pointed toward ancient Khmer ruins hidden somewhere beyond the horizon. Dust-covered artisans carved statues for temples; their hands white with stone powder.

It was a day of quiet pedalling, the countryside unfolding like a long exhale.

 

A Day When Nothing Happened (Except Everything Did), Kampong Thom to Kampong Kdei (89 km)

A day when “nothing happened,” except everything did. Monks in saffron robes collected alms. Women ploughed fields with oxcarts. Traders pushed carts stacked with wooden furniture, baskets, and improbable loads of live chickens.

Children cycled to school with astonishing balance—tiny legs pumping, friends perched on handlebars or rear racks. Watermelon stands and coconut juice stalls offered sweet relief. By evening, we reached Kampong Kdei, where a surprisingly comfortable guesthouse awaited us.

 

The Ancient Bridge - Kampong Kdei to Siem Reap (64 km)

We rolled through the morning market, weaving between vendors and curious stares. Soon after, the ancient Kampong Kdei Bridge appeared-an 11th-century marvel of laterite and stone, once the longest corbelled-arch bridge in the world. Now bypassed by the highway, it remains a quiet relic of Khmer engineering.

The road to Siem Reap was lined with bamboo-cooked rice, fruit stalls, and herds of cattle. Fifteen kilometres out, temple ruins began to appear like ghosts in the trees. By afternoon, we reached the city, ready for rest, repairs, and a few days of stillness.

 

Stillness in Siem Reap

Two days of errands and small pleasures. Tania explored Angkor’s ancient stones while I tended to the mundane: laundry, bike service, camera repairs. The circus surprised us—ingenious, intimate, full of heart. Cambodia’s creativity shone in that small tent.

 

Across Tonle Sap – on a boat to Battambang

The boat across Tonle Sap was slow, old, and charmingly unreliable. It sputtered, broke down twice, and carried empty beer cans beneath the driver’s seat. But the floating villages were unforgettable—schools, shops, police stations, all drifting on the water. Children steered boats before they could walk. Life here was buoyant, precarious, and utterly unique.

A crocodile farm floated ominously among the houses. We shuddered at the thought of escapees.

By the time we reached Battambang, our backs ached from the wooden benches, but the night market revived us with food and colour.

 

The Bamboo Train – Battambang to Pursat (118 km)

We set off the next morning, soon reaching the “bamboo train” - more trolley than train—a wobbling platform on wheels that rattled through the forest. We laughed the whole way.

Back on the bikes, the road south offered familiar scenes: rice paddies, friendly children, pottery sellers, motorbikes stacked with pigs in woven baskets. Storm clouds gathered late in the day, and we raced the rain into Pursat, arriving just in time.

 

Flying Snakes & Coconut Ice Cream - Pursat → Kampong Chhnang (96 km)

“This is Cambodia, baby!” Tania exclaimed as we pedalled into a cloud of morning fumes. The road was alive with tuk‑tuks, buffalo, buses, and vendors selling steamed buns.

We devoured an entire watermelon at one stand, then coconut ice cream on bread, drenched in condensed milk. We declined the fermented ant larvae. Flying snakes—dropping from trees and slithering into the grass—were unsettling enough.

 

Into Phnom Penh (93 km)

Nine years on the road, and still the world surprises me.

We passed monasteries, rice planters, petrol sold in Coke bottles, and unidentifiable animals hanging from roadside branches. Trucks overflowed with chickens. Farmers led buffalo through rivers. English was scarce; smiles were abundant.

Phnom Penh swallowed us in Friday traffic—chaotic, dusty, relentless. We ducked and weaved through carts and markets until we reached the city centre and found a room good enough to stay a week.

The next day brought the sombre weight of the Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng. History pressed close. I visited the Canon store—bad news: the lens needed calibration in Singapore. I applied for a Thai visa and Tania bought a tent for our onward journey.

 

The Monastery at Takeo (77 km)

Leaving the capital was a battle through morning traffic. Flatbed tuk-tuks carried elderly women in wide hats; trucks towered with hay and passengers. Tania grinned through the chaos: “This is Cambodia, baby!”

We visited the Phnom Tamao Wildlife Rescue Centre—6,000 acres of forest sheltering elephants, tigers, gibbons, and sun bears. It was Tania’s world, and she lit up among the enclosures.

By evening, we reached Takeo and camped at a monastery. The monks offered the temple floor, a bucket shower, and electricity. Their kindness felt like a blessing.

 

The Road to the Coast — Takeo to Roadside Camp (104 km)

We rode past luminous rice paddies, coconut piles, and duck stalls selling every imaginable part of the bird. The closer we came to the coast, the hillier the land grew. Rain hammered down. I fixed a flat tyre in the downpour, longing for my Schwalbe tyres.

Near Kampot, a sign for “Café & Camping” appeared—a rarity in Cambodia. Two Turkish travellers welcomed us with coffee and stories. They were making a film about their journey. We camped under a canopy, grateful for the unexpected companionship.

 

Everything breaks at once - Roadside Camp to Sihanoukville (85 km)

Tania’s $20 tent collapsed overnight, leaving her in a sad, flat heap. We laughed, but it was disappointing—we’d hoped to camp more.

The road wound past oyster farms, fishing villages, and neon-green rice fields. My cheap tyre tore; duct tape held it together long enough to reach a town. My scandal broke too. Rain poured. It was one of those days where everything fails at once, and you keep pedalling anyway.

Sihanoukville was touristy but full of rooms. We scrubbed off the day, repacked, and attempted to fix the tent poles. No luck. I glued my sandal and hoped for the best.

 

Chasing the Bus

I rode the early bus back to Phnom Penh to collect my Thai visa. The tent shop refunded Tania’s money. I bought a tyre, tube, and gloves at the Giant store. The visa wasn’t ready until 17:00, so I spent the day wandering the mall like an expat.

When I finally collected the visa, I rushed to catch the return bus—only to find it had already left. A motorbike taxi gave chase, and we caught the bus kilometres down the road. Only in Cambodia.

 

Rain, Fatigue & Petrol Station Camping - Sihanoukville to Sre Ambel (98 km)

Rain hammered down in the morning, delaying our start. Tania felt unwell—lethargic, nauseous—but insisted on riding. The drizzle persisted all day as we retraced our route to Veal Renh and turned west toward Thailand.

By afternoon, the rain returned in sheets. We sought shelter at a petrol station, where the staff kindly let us camp under a canopy with lights and power. A humble but welcome refuge.

 

Into the Cardamoms - Sre Ambel to Andong Tuek (43 km)

There’s no sleeping late at a petrol station. Tania still felt ill, but we continued toward the Cardamom Mountains. The vegetation grew lush and wild.

At Andong Tuek, boats ferried travellers upriver to Chi Phat, a community-run eco‑tourism village once home to loggers and poachers. We found a rustic bungalow and booked a trek. Supper was rice, boiled cabbage, and goose eggs—simple, filling, forgettable.

 

Hammocks Under the House - Chi Phat Trek

Cambodia continued to astonish. Children half the size of cattle herded them confidently along the road. Five-year-olds rode motorbikes. Life here began early.

We set off with our guide into the Cardamom Mountains. My “fixed” sandal broke immediately, and the guide phoned a friend to fetch my sneakers from my panniers—delivered by motorbike, there is nowhere Cambodians can't reach by motorbike.

The forest was dense, fragrant, alive with insects and strange plants. Lunch was cooked over a small fire—rice and vegetables ready in minutes. By late afternoon we reached a family home where we hung our hammocks beneath their stilted house. Chickens and dogs scurried around the kitchen area. The family cooked pumpkin flowers, bamboo shoots, chillies, garlic, and wild greens into a delicious soup.

They lived with almost nothing—no electricity, no running water, no toilet—but with a grace and resourcefulness that humbled us. We fell asleep to the forest’s chorus.

Morning came with roosters and the smell of boiling water. The family offered us coffee—a luxury for them. After breakfast, we hiked back to Chi Phat, then caught a boat to the main road. Tania’s stomach cramps worsened. We hoped rest would help.

 

Illness in the Mountains - The Road to Koh Kong (43 km)

Tania woke with severe bloating, cramps, and nausea. She insisted on riding, and we climbed slowly into the Cardamom Mountains. The scenery was breathtaking, but worry shadowed the beauty.

At a riverside rest stop, we visited a small clinic. The nurse gave Tania two tablets and a place to lie down, but nothing improved. We flagged down a minivan to Koh Kong, where the driver dropped us at the hospital door.

The doctor diagnosed her illness quickly and prescribed medication. Relief washed over us both.

We found a room along the river and settled in, hoping tomorrow would bring strength.

 

The Border & the Bay - Koh Kong, Cambodia - Trat, Thailand – 100 km

Morning arrived with relief. The $2 medication had worked its quiet magic, and Tania woke with colour in her cheeks. We pedalled the short distance to the border, where tuk‑tuks, trucks, and buses jostled for position in muddy puddles. Cambodia spat us out in a flurry of noise; Thailand received us with a kind of gentle order.

The road to Trat was quiet, lined with bays and beaches that felt untouched by tourism. The air smelled of salt and wet leaves. Midday brought four Thai cyclists on a two‑day ride — cheerful, curious, eager to chat. Their presence felt like a small celebration of Tania’s recovery.

Rain found us again in the afternoon, soft at first, then insistent. By the time we reached Trat, we were soaked through. The monastery by the river welcomed us with a jetty — a long wooden platform above the mangroves, with a canopy, lights, and the soft hum of evening insects. The monks locked the gate behind us, pointed out the toilets, and left us to the river’s rising tide.

We cooked noodles, drank coffee, and watched the mangroves disappear beneath the water. It felt like the world was tucking us in.

 

Epilogue — Cambodia

When we left Cambodia, the red dust still clung to our panniers and the echo of “hello!” lingered in our ears. The Cardamom Mountains faded behind us, but their hammocks, their fires, their soft forest nights stayed close. Cambodia did not end at the border. It travelled with us —a gentle weight, a changed way of seeing.

082 CYCLE TOURING LAOS (3)

 Cycle Touring Laos (3)

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FLIP-BOOK
VOICEOVER

Pedals and Paddy Fields: Fourteen Days Across Laos 

 

Prologue 

There’s a unique anticipation that comes with embarking on a bicycle journey—an openness to the unknown, a readiness to embrace discomfort, and a hope that the road will reveal something new about the world and oneself. Our 14-day, 966-kilometre ride through Laos was more than a physical challenge; it was a passage through landscapes, cultures, and moments that would shape our memories and perspectives long after the final kilometre. 

 

 

Udon Thani, Thailand to Vientiane, Laos (80 km) 

The morning air in Udon Thani was thick with the scent of smoky BBQ stands as we pedalled towards the border. Tania’s infectious smile mirrored my own anticipation as we pedalled toward the border, pausing only for fresh coconut juice—a simple pleasure that set the tone for the days ahead. 

Crossing the Friendship Bridge over the Mekong was a symbolic threshold. The $30 visa felt like a ticket to adventure, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. French colonial architecture, the aroma of strong coffee, and the sight of baguettes stacked high in market stalls signalled our arrival in Vientiane. The city’s gentle pace was a balm after the rush of travel; we settled in, savouring green curry and cold Lao beer by the riverside, watching the city’s life unfold. 

The next day, we wandered through ornate temples and the bustling morning market, absorbing the city’s blend of tradition and modernity. As the sun set, the riverside came alive—a communal celebration of food, conversation, and the simple joy of being outdoors. 

The border crossing was more than a change of country; it was a reminder of how arbitrary lines shape lives and cultures. The warmth of Vientiane’s people and the city’s accessibility made me realise how travel by bicycle invites connection—every stop, every meal, every smile is an opportunity to engage. 

 

Vientiane to Pak Ngum (71 km) 

As we cycled out of Vientiane, we were drawn to Pha Luang, Laos’s most sacred monument. The legend of Buddha’s breastbone enclosed within its stupa lent a sense of reverence to our departure. The road soon narrowed, flanked by rice fields and temples peeking from the forest. Children walked to school, their independence a testament to the safety and simplicity of rural life. 

We stocked up on baguettes and bananas, noting the prevalence of new cars—a curious contrast to the rustic surroundings. The day’s ride was gentle, the scenery lush and welcoming. By early afternoon, we found bungalows nestled among green fields, a peaceful haven that encouraged us to slow down and appreciate the quiet beauty of the countryside. 

Rural Laos offered a lesson in contentment. The absence of urgency, the rhythm of daily chores, and the hospitality of strangers reminded me that happiness often resides in simplicity. 

 

Pak Ngum to Paksan (87 km) 

Departing Pak Ngum came with a symphony of sights and sounds: mountains looming to the left, the Mekong glinting to the right, and villages where vendors offered dried and smoked fish with generous smiles. Children called “Sabai dee!” from stilted homes, and even the stray dogs seemed at peace. 

We biked into Paksan with time to spare, grateful for the chance to shower and explore the riverside. The evening meal was a celebration of local flavours—a ritual that became a cherished part of each day. 

The friendliness of the Lao people was striking. Their openness and curiosity made every interaction feel genuine, and I found myself reflecting on the power of small gestures—a wave, a greeting, a shared snack—to bridge cultural divides. 

 

Paksan to Vieng Kham (90 km) 

Rain greeted us at dawn, and we waited, hoping for a break in the weather. By mid-morning, the drizzle persisted, but we saddled up for the ride to Vieng Kham. The road grew muddier and more remote, with farmers tending cattle and planting rice in fields that seemed to stretch forever. Stalls sold petrol by the bottle and steamed duck eggs—a testament to resourcefulness. 

Tania wasn’t feeling well, but refused to let it slow her down. The landscape became increasingly rural, and Google Maps proved useless—reminding us that some places remain untouched by digital mapping. Vieng Kham, though absent from any map, was sizable and welcoming, offering shelter and sustenance. 

The day’s challenges underscored the unpredictability of travel. Yet, the willingness to adapt—to accept discomfort and uncertainty—became a source of resilience. I learned to trust the journey, even when the path was unclear. 

 

Vieng Kham to Thakhek (108 km) 

Thunderstorms were forecast, but the day dawned clear. Misty mountains framed the horizon, and the road wound through forests and villages where innovation thrived—two-wheel tractors transformed into multipurpose machines, and woven baskets carried the day’s harvest. 

Markets were a feast for the senses, selling everything from unfamiliar meats to illegal wildlife. Rice planters worked knee-deep in water, their backs bent in silent endurance. Near Thakhek, we encountered the Great Wall of Laos—a geological wonder shrouded in myth. 

A riverside hotel offered comfort, and dinner by the Mekong was a reward for the day’s effort. 

The ingenuity of rural life was inspiring. People made do with what they had, adapting tools and traditions to meet their needs. The landscape, shaped by both nature and human hands, was a reminder of the delicate balance between progress and preservation. 

 

Thakhek to Savannakhet (125 km) 

Fatigue lingered from a restless night, but the road called. The terrain was undulating, and a steady breeze tested our resolve. Children filled the roads, enjoying school holidays, and temples stood as silent witnesses to centuries of faith. 

A shortcut trimmed the route, but a minor accident left Tania bruised yet undeterred. Her resilience was a source of inspiration. Savannakhet welcomed us with convenient lodging near the night market. 

Physical challenges are inevitable on a journey like this, but the true test is mental. The ability to push through discomfort, to find humour in mishaps, and to support each other made every setback a shared victory. 

 

A day of rest in Savannakhet allowed for reflection and exploration. An early jog revealed ancient temples and colonial buildings, their faded grandeur hinting at stories untold. The dinosaur museum, though modest, offered a glimpse into the distant past, and a staff member’s guided tour bridged the language gap. 

As we wandered the riverfront, I realised that rest days are essential—not just for the body, but for the mind. They offer space to absorb experiences, to notice details, and to appreciate the journey’s unfolding narrative. 

 

Savannakhet to Muang Lakhonpheng (131 km) 

Anticipating a long ride, we set out from Savannakhet early. The countryside was alive with activity—rice planting, children managing chores, and water buffalo grazing lazily. Villages provided respite, and the landscape was a patchwork of green paddies and colourful temples. 

Lakhonpheng, though unmarked on maps, offered guesthouses. Our choice was less than ideal, but the discomfort was temporary—a reminder that not every day ends in luxury. Travel teaches flexibility. Plans change, expectations are challenged, and comfort becomes relative. The ability to adapt—to find joy in imperfection—is a skill honed on the road. 

 

Muang Lakhonpheng to Pakse (112 km) 

By morning, rain persisted, and we rode out under grey skies. A torn tyre was patched with duct tape, then replaced at a roadside shop—a stroke of luck that underscored the kindness of strangers. Pink water buffalo and mushroom vendors added colour to the journey, and the scent of wet, smoky wood mingled with damp earth. 

By evening, we reached Pakse, hungry and grateful for a hot meal. The road is unpredictable, but generosity is a constant. The willingness of others to help—a spare tyre, a warm meal—reminded me that travel is as much about people as it is about places. 

 

Pakse to Champasak (55 km) 

The rain finally relented, and we cycled through vibrant rice fields and misty mountains. In Champasak, we stayed by the river and visited the Vat Phu ruins—a UNESCO World Heritage Site steeped in history. The ancient Khmer temple complex, set against Mount Phu Kao, was a highlight, followed by a sunset meal overlooking the Mekong. 

Reflection: History is alive in Laos. The ruins, the temples, the rituals—they are threads in a tapestry that connects past and present. Cycling through these landscapes, I felt a sense of continuity, a reminder that every journey is part of a larger story. 

 

Champasak to Don Khong Island (107 km) 

A muddy track led to a ferry crossing and then south toward the Cambodian border. The Four Thousand Islands (Si Phan Don) beckoned, though a chaotic ferry landing nearly ended in disaster. Fortunately, all was well, and a riverside guesthouse provided comfort. 

The next morning, we joined villagers at the market, sampling local snacks and enjoying the slow pace of island life. A boat trip upriver revealed riverside villages and fishermen at work—a fitting end to our adventure. 

The islands were a place to pause, to savour the journey’s end. The rhythm of village life, the beauty of the river, and the camaraderie of shared meals made me grateful for the road travelled and the lessons learned. 

 

Epilogue 

Fourteen days and nearly a thousand kilometres later, Laos had left its mark: landscapes of green, resilient people, and a journey stitched together by the rhythm of cycling and discovery. The road was both a challenge and a gift—a reminder that adventure is not just about reaching a destination, but about embracing every moment along the way. 

Final Reflection: Cycle touring in Laos was a lesson in humility, gratitude, and wonder. The country’s beauty lies not only in its scenery, but in its people, its history, and its ability to reveal the extraordinary in the everyday. As I look back, I realise that the actual journey was inward—a transformation shaped by the road, the rain, and the kindness encountered at every turn.