109 CYCLE TOURING LAOS (6) - BECOMING KIP MILLIONAIRES

109 LAOS (6) - BECOMING KIP MILLIONAIRES

LAOS (6)
429 Km –  5 Days
13 – 18 September 2017

MAP

 PHOTOS - LAOS

 

Prologue

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

Savannakhet - Typhoon Panic, Power Outages and Comfort Food

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

Epilogue

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

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

A Change of Plans and a Quick Visa

 Run to Laos

Thailand (11)

635 Km – 11 Days

21 August – 11 September 2017

1,636km - 22 Days

MAP

PHOTOS

 PDF

VOICE-OVER

FLIP-BOOK

Prologue

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

Naturally, I chose the second path.

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

 

 

16 August – Nong Khai, Thailand to Vientiane, Laos (35 km)

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

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

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

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

 

17–20 August – Vientiane, Laos (88 km)

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

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

 

21 August – Vientiane, Laos to Udon Tani, Thailand (87 km)

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

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

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

 

22 August – Udon Tani to Namphongkao (105 km)

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

 

23 August – Namphongkao to Kaeng Khro (120 km)

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

 

24 August – Kaeng Khro to Chatturat (85 km)

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

 

25 August – Chatturat to Tha Luang (128 km)

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

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

 

26 August – Tha Luang to Nong Khae (110 km)

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

 

27–31 August – Nong Khae to Bangkok (93 km)

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

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

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

 

Epilogue

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

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

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

105 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (10) - ATTEMPTING ADULTHOOOD

Attempting Adulthood

 (Briefly)

 

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

MAP

FLIP-BOOK

 VOICE-OVER

PHOTOS

PDF

 

Prologue

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

Sa Kaeo to Plaeng Yao (110 km)

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

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

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

 

Ban Plaeng Yao to Jomtien (123 km)

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

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

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

Jomtien

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

• six lip balm holders

• several lipstick tubes

• receipts dating back to the Ming Dynasty

• shoeboxes containing… more shoeboxes

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

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

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

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

 

 Pattaya to Prok Fa (102 km)

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

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

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

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

 

Prok Fa to Khlong Hat (111 km)

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

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

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

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

 

Khlong Hat to Aranyaprathet (85 km)

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

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

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

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

 

Aranyaprathet to Non Din Daeng (108 km)

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

Khao Kradong Forest Park to Surin (50 km)

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

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

 

Surin to Uthumphon Phisai (125 km)

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

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

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

 

Uthumphon Phisai to Phibun (130 km)

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

 

Phibun to Pha Taem National Park (65 km)

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

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

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

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

 

Pha Taem National Park to Khemmarat (117 km)

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

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

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

 

Khemmarat to Mukdahan (85 km)

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

 

August 13 – Mukdahan to Sakhon Nakhon (122 km)

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

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

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

 

Sakhon Nakhon to Sawang Daen Din (90 km)

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

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

 

Sawang Daen Din to Nong Khai (125 km)

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

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

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

.

Epilogue

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

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

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

104 CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (4) - Buffalo, Weddings, and Monsoon Winds

 Buffalo, Weddings, and Monsoon

    Winds: Cambodia on Two Wheels

CAMBODIA (4)
902 Km – 30 Days
21 May – 20 June 2017

MAP

PHOTOS

PDF

VOICE-OVER

FLIP-BOOK

 

 

Prologue

I slipped out of Trat during what I optimistically called “a break in the downpour,” only to discover that Cambodia had prepared a full monsoon welcome party. Within hours, I was flying down the Cardamom Mountains in rain so heavy it felt personal, dodging potholes and oil slicks.

But Cambodia has a way of rewarding stubborn cyclists. Between buffalo in ponds and women in bright pyjama bottoms, children called “Hello, farang!” from stilted houses. By the time I reached Otres, splattered in mud and slightly feral, I was fed curry, handed a drink, and absorbed into a community of free spirits who seemed to have forgotten to ever leave.

And that’s how my Cambodian adventure began: soaked, muddy, and already in love with the place.

 

Trat, Thailand to Koh Kong, Cambodia (106 km)

My journey kicked off under a blanket of pouring rain, and I was holding off until the first teasing break in the downpour. With the scent of wet earth in the air, I slipped out of Trat, ready to tackle the short but picturesque ride to the Thailand-Cambodian border. The landscape was a feast for the eyes, with majestic mountains to one side and the shimmering coast to the other. But alas, the clouds looked threatening, and my plans for a leisurely exploration quickly turned to a single goal—keeping the pedals turning amidst the rain.

The border crossing was business as usual, complete with the familiar exit and entrance stamps that often feel like a passport to new adventures. Just a short 10 km ride later, I arrived in Koh Kong, the first Cambodian town on the banks of the Koh Poi River. After securing a budget-friendly room that provided much-needed shelter, I donned some dry clothes and set off to find a Cambodian SIM card and a hearty meal. Navigating the language barrier proved trickier than expected, but the menus featuring tantalising pictures made ordering simple—thankfully, as my stomach growled impatiently, and I really wasn't in the mood to mimic poultry or pigs!

 

I decided to linger an extra day in Koh Kong to tackle some lingering tasks and take a breather. It turned into a blissfully lazy day filled with laundry, updating my blog posts, and reminiscing over my time in Thailand as I sorted through photos. Rest was exactly what I needed.

 

Koh Kong to Botum Sakor (103 km)

As I pedalled out of Koh Kong, the road snaked up out of the river valley and began ascending the Cardamom Mountains. I huffed and puffed my way up, fighting against the sweltering heat, beads of sweat drenching me and pooling in my sandals. Yet, with persistence, I reached the first high point, only to have ominous dark clouds gather above me. Within moments, rain began to pour down like a monsoon, turning my descent into a thrilling yet treacherous ride.

Dressed in my raincoat, I flew downhill with the wind whipping around me, hoping to dodge potholes and oil slicks with my heart racing. Sadly, it looked like the road maintenance crew had left a pitfall; loose gravel lay in wait like a predator. Spying a taxi in a ditch only solidified my determination to stay upright. The rest of the day was a relentless pattern of uphill climbs, speedy descents, and fording rivers—each cycle revealing the beautiful but sparsely populated area, where I was grateful for the occasional roadside stall that helped fill my water bottle.

Finally, a final hill loomed ahead, and soon enough, a tower marking the apex came into view, offering sweeping views of the valley below. After a hundred-odd kilometres of riding, I rolled into Botum Sakor, where I found a basic room and food waiting for me.

 

Botum Sakor to Otres (135 km)

The 135 km ride to Otres was a welcome shift—while not completely flat, it felt much more enjoyable. A light drizzle accompanied me throughout the day, keeping me comfortably cool as I cycled past charming wooden houses on stilts, grazing buffalo, and women in bright pyjama bottoms biking with their goods.

Upon reaching Route 4, the busy highway linking Phnom Penh and Sihanoukville, the road transformed from peaceful countryside to a chaotic hustle. The narrow stretch allowed almost no space for cycling. I squeezed into the muddy no-man’s-land beside the pavement, caked in dirt but laughing at the absurdity of the situation as I twisted and turned through the muck. When I finally slipped into Otres, my bike, panniers, and I were completely splattered with mud.

Just as I was pondering my next move, I was greeted by Shelly, an old friend from Bangkok, who graciously invited me into her home in Otres. I was met with a massive plate of mouth-watering curry and rice—definitely a welcome change from my earlier struggles! The next day unfolded at a leisurely pace, filled with chill vibes and catching up with Rad, whom I had crossed paths with in Hanoi the previous year. What are the odds!

Shelly had made Otres her home for the last four years, and it felt like I had stumbled upon a vibrant community of free spirits. Friends flowed in and out of her bohemian abode, where laughter mixed with the sounds of clinking glasses. In this colourful neighbourhood, I felt an undeniable kinship with the eclectic crowd—each individual embracing their unique quirks and dreams. Otres felt like the Wild West of Southeast Asia—a place where the rules seemed fluid; here, creativity thrived without restraint.

During monsoon season, the muddy streets were an unwelcome but familiar sight, and life flowed in a psychedelic haze. This incredible slice of paradise drew people in, and it seemed like the wanderers who arrived with plans often ended up staying longer than they ever intended, living out dreams they hadn’t even known they had. In this sleepy and chaotic haven, where parties and friendships blossomed amidst the vibrant chaos, I found my heart echoing the spirit of Otres.

 

Otres to Kampot (100 km)

As the rain finally eased, I bid farewell to the warm-hearted locals of Otres, eager to set off toward Kampot, the renowned home of the world's finest pepper. Riding through monsoon season with roadworks at every turn felt like traversing an obstacle course, yet I pressed on. Though the route held no compelling attractions, I took time to capture the vibrant life along the river, where houses perched on stilts swayed gently, and boats glided by—each wave echoing the rhythm of daily life in Cambodia.

A stop for one of Cambodia’s celebrated snacks became a delightful necessity. I tracked down a delicious Nompang, a baguette packed to the brim with unexpected flavours. Settling into a cosy spot, I savoured every bite as I watched locals plant rice, their hands immersed in the earth. Half my Nompang vanished as I enjoyed the view, leaving a little treat for when my ride was done. Arriving in Kampot, I found a welcoming haven at Uptown Guesthouse, complete with ground-floor rooms, a bathroom, and mosquito nets—all at a price that didn’t break the bank.

 

Kampot

Kampot revealed itself as a charming tapestry of old-world allure—its dilapidated French colonial buildings echoing a rich history, juxtaposed against the tranquil riverside setting. Wandering through the bustling traditional market, I was greeted by a flurry of activity, though the sweltering heat had me seeking refuge. Kampot certainly offered an intriguing mix: quirky “Happy Pizza” joints coexisted with quaint French-style coffee shops, while nimble Cambodian women hustled from their mobile carts, trading wares with spirited conversations.

As I roamed through the streets, I couldn't help but chuckle at the playful misspellings on signs, a reminder of the cultural dance between languages—just as the Latin alphabet holds little meaning for Cambodians, the Abugida script baffles me. Eventually, I returned to my guesthouse, hopped back on my bike, and ventured out to explore some nearby caves. Ironically, it was the ride itself that captivated me more than the caves!

I passed cheerful women pedalling home from the market, their laughter ringing out like music, a stark contrast to the stoic faces I often encountered in the West during morning commutes. Dapper men on motorbikes zoomed by, pigs securely tied on the back, and school kids rode their bicycles alongside, giggling as they waved, “Hello, farang!” from their stilted homes. In that moment, every pedal stroke felt like a celebration of life!

 

Kampot to Guesthouse (110 km)

Leaving the charming town of Kampot, I set my sights northward toward bustling Phnom Penh. The sky stretched above me in an enchanting shade of blue, perfectly framing the lush rice paddies that overflowed with water from the recent monsoon rains. I was surrounded by the gentle sight of water buffalo meandering through ponds and cows lazily grazing on the vibrant green roadside. It felt like a postcard scene—truly, the very essence of that phrase, “I was in my happy place.”

As I pedalled along, I encountered vibrant local markets brimming with tantalising produce and curious trinkets. Dirt tracks branched off into mysterious, inviting paths, each whispering promises of adventure. The route was alive with friendly monks going about their morning rituals, and warm smiles from women selling juicy watermelons and the emerald hues of colourful temples lining the way. Children returning home from school giggled and huddled together, their eyes wide with curiosity as they spotted a lone cyclist weaving through their world. I couldn’t help but chuckle as meat vendors jovially pointed out an unusual delicacy—buffalo penis—highlighting the resourcefulness of a culture that seems to honour every part of the animal.

Suddenly, the day took a dramatic turn. A powerful wind swept through, dark clouds loomed ominously overhead, and soon, big raindrops began to plummet from the sky. Seeking refuge, I ducked into the nearest guesthouse, where they must’ve recognised the look of a drenched cyclist because the room rate felt a little steep. Still, they treated me to a delightful Cambodian feast: rice paired with stir-fried vegetables and ginger, all crowned with a perfectly fried egg and a kick of fiery chillies. Just what I needed after a day on the road!

 

Guesthouse to Phnom Penh (40 km)

A short 40 km but chaotic ride whisked me into the heart of Phnom Penh. Manoeuvring in and out of this bustling city is no easy feat—the traffic is a maze of chaos! Yet, amidst the congestion, it was mesmerising to witness the ingenuity of riders balancing impossibly large loads on their motorcycles and how much my bicycle could endure.

Dodging through the honking vehicles, I found myself in the beloved backpacker hub of Boeng Kak. Sadly, the lake that had once drawn travellers like a magnet had been sold and filled in, diminishing the vibrancy of the area. However, a few hidden budget gems were still tucked away, and I revelled in the charm of the back streets, the eye-catching street art, and the quirky long-term residents they seemed to attract. I chose the Grand View Guesthouse, which ironically had no grand view to speak of, but at just $5 a night, it felt like a steal. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by a lively group of travellers from 13 different countries, gathering around the table and swapping stories.

The following day, I turned in my cherished Panasonic Lumix camera for repairs. With that sorted, I set about applying for a Chinese visa while I waited for my camera’s return. As I strolled through the city, I was struck by the palpable tension in the air as Cambodian elections approached. Large sums of money were visibly thrown around by the ruling Cambodian People’s Party, even amidst whispers of staggering corruption. Unlike the wealthy elite who seemed untouchable, the everyday people continued pushing their carts, striving to gather enough to feed their families. It was a stark reminder of the contrasts that define this fascinating country, where luxury and squalor coexist uncomfortably.

Sadly, a message from the property agent in Thailand revealed that the tenant was relocating. I couldn’t help but wonder if purchasing the unit was such a good idea. I've only just left, and already I need to return to sort out the room.

Finally, after two weeks, everything fell into place: my camera was fixed, and I secured both a Chinese visa and a three-month Thai visa.

 

15 June - Phnom Penh to Kampong Chhnang (97 km)

As I bid farewell to the wonderfully welcoming folks at Grand View Guest House, a familiar tug of nostalgia pulled at my heart. It's true what they say — “There’s no place like home.” But for me, that sentiment extends to the open road after a long layoff. The thrill of cycling again was exhilarating, and I barely stopped for photos. Instead, the refreshing taste of coconut and sugarcane juice from local vendors beckoned me for a brief respite.

Along the way, I couldn’t help but marvel at the vibrant markets bursting with life, watching farmers tenderly bathing their cattle in the rivers, and greeting children with their cheerful “Hellos” as I pedalled past. The smiles exchanged with surprised old ladies added a nice touch to my journey. Arriving in Kampong Chhnang, I easily settled into Ly Hour Guest House for the night.

 

Kampong Chhnang to Pursat (96 km)

If the previous day’s ride was pure joy, this day felt like a test of patience on the rugged, bumpy road that stretched ahead. The irritation of the jolts beneath me faded, however, as I soaked in the relentless heat and the energy of the landscape. I passed the Andoung Russey pottery factory, where heavily laden carts hustled their beautiful wares to market. The recent rains had painted the rice fields a brilliant green, a stark contrast to the seedlings eagerly awaiting replanting.

I encountered vendors selling zesty fermented vegetables and artists skillfully crafting Buddha statues. The narrow, busy path kept me engaged, although much of my ride was on a dirt section alongside the road. As I rolled into Pursat, a wave of relief washed over me—though the ceiling fan in my room wobbled ominously, it was a welcome relief after a long day. And there it was—the sun setting over yet another extraordinary day in Cambodia.

 

Pursat to Battambang (107 km)

Each day on this journey unfolds like a new chapter filled with fascinating scenes. It’s incredible how quickly we adapt, using what the land offers, eating what’s available, and planting what the soil permits. Yet, what continues to intrigue me the most are the diverse modes of transport. In Cambodia, the motorbike reigns supreme, demanding profound respect.

As the day wore on, hunger struck like a thunderbolt! I stumbled upon a roadside eatery where I pointed to a steaming bowl of soup. It was delicious, though I couldn’t shake the sensation of curious eyes fixed on each mouthful I took, making me wonder about the mysterious ingredients.

Battambang, a charming town adorned with old buildings and a lively market, welcomed me with open arms. I snagged a baguette from a lady gracefully balancing food on a shoulder pole, and thank goodness I didn’t question the ingredients—I was too hungry to care! With its array of sights and sounds, Battambang captivated my heart. Choosing to stay an extra day felt absolutely right, and I couldn't wait to see what adventures awaited me.

 

Battambang to Poi Pet (114 km)

The journey from Battambang to the Thai-Cambodian border wasn’t particularly thrilling, and I toyed with the idea of taking an alternative route. But then, just as I was about to veer off, I stumbled upon a vibrant wedding procession that drew me in, offering a captivating glimpse into Cambodian culture.

I watched in awe as families celebrated a traditional Khmer wedding—truly one of the most joyous moments in a Khmer family’s life. These grand festivities can last anywhere from three days to an entire week! The scene was alive with colour, music, and energy, with traditional instruments echoing through the air. The couple looked regal, and the bride changed outfits multiple times throughout the day, showcasing the splendour of Khmer bridal fashion.

What struck me most was the atmosphere among the guests; unlike the often-formal Western ceremonies, here people were animated, fully engaging with the rituals. It was perfectly acceptable to stand up and stretch your legs, or even to wander in and out of the room, creating a relaxed environment that felt inviting rather than rigid.

I learned that in this custom, the bride waits at her parents’ home while the groom assembles a colourful procession of family and friends, symbolising Prince Preah Thong’s legendary journey to meet his bride, Princess Neang Neak—two monumental figures in Khmer folklore. As the groom’s entourage approached the bride’s home, they bore platters filled with fruit and Khmer desserts, led by musicians and singers who created an infectious buzz of excitement.

After soaking in the joy and vibrancy, I continued my journey, navigating a bustling road filled with a mix of strange and wonderful modes of transport. At a coconut juice stall, I met Husan, a fellow cyclist from Turkey who was embarking on a year-long cycling adventure. We exchanged tales over refreshing drinks while stalls around us offered delicious rice cooked in bamboo and tempting sausages that I guessed were made from buffalo meat. Before rolling into the border town of Poi Pet, I captured a final burst of joy as Cambodian children squealed in delight around me.

Arriving at the Phnom Pich Guesthouse, conveniently situated on the main road, it hit me just how surprising travel can be, no matter where you go. I chuckled at the sight of my fellow guests, realising I was the only one not using the communal comb and sandals!

 

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

Morning arrived with a short, dusty ride from Poi Pet to the chaotic Cambodian-Thai immigration. The border was a bustling whirlwind of activity, with traders manoeuvring their produce-laden carts and foot passengers winding through long queues. Motorised traffic swirled around us, careening from right to left, but the thrill of my bicycle made that chaos feel almost exhilarating.

As I weaved through this madness, I couldn’t help but revel in the small victories; cyclists were waved to the front of the queue, a privilege I graciously accepted while taking in the vibrant tapestry of life unfolding around me. This journey was turning out to be richer than I ever expected!

 

 

Epilogue

By the time I reached Poi Pet, I had cycled through monsoon storms, rice fields, wedding processions, and at least one meal where the entire restaurant watched me eat. I’d slept under wobbling ceiling fans, dodged traffic that defied physics, and learned that in Cambodia, even the buffalo parts you didn’t know existed can end up on a plate.

At the border, cyclists were waved to the front of the queue—a small but glorious victory after 902 kilometres. As traders pushed carts, motorbikes swerved in every direction, and dust swirled around us, I realised Cambodia had done what it always does: surprised me, challenged me, and left me grinning like an idiot.