152 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (19.2)

Tailwinds, Temples and the Slow Shape of the Road

152 THAILAND (19.2)

1,261 Kilometres - 18 Days
10 November – 27 November 2019

PHOTOS

MAP

 VOICEOVER

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

 

Prelude

Every long journey begins long before the first kilometre is ridden. Mine began in a tangle of logistics, persistence, and mild absurdity—chasing bank cards across continents and boarding a flight to South Africa simply to convince my own money to cooperate. By the time I finally rolled out of Pattaya, the practicalities were resolved, but something less tangible had also shifted: I was ready again for the quiet, uncertain rhythm of the road.

What lay ahead was 1,261 kilometres through Thailand over 18 days—moments that would unfold slowly and unpredictably. There would be the easy pleasures of roadside coffee and ocean air, the strain of long days through traffic and heat, and the quiet intervals in between where the journey reveals itself most clearly. Travel, I’ve come to realise, is rarely about reaching somewhere else. It is about settling into movement, into discomfort and wonder in equal measure, until the unfamiliar begins to feel, unexpectedly, like a kind of home.

 

Breaking Free: Banking Battles, Bucket Toilets and the Open Road - Jomtien to Chonburi (65 km)

After what felt like a long-running diplomatic standoff with my bank—complete with relentless follow-ups, unanswered queries, and the occasional existential sigh—my cards finally arrived. Victory, however, was short-lived. Moving money from South Africa to Thailand proved to be about as straightforward as herding cats through airport security.

Naturally, I did the only reasonable thing: I flew to South Africa, opened an FNB account in person, and forced the issue into submission. It was a ridiculous solution, but undeniably effective. I returned feeling like a financial pioneer, or at the very least, someone who had outwitted a particularly stubborn spreadsheet.

With the condo locked and my mobile home packed to a level of organisation best described as “optimistic,” I rolled out of Pattaya. The city’s chaotic streets did their usual best to discourage human ambition, but once I broke free, the world opened up in glorious fashion. Temples drifted past like postcards, cassava plantations stretched to the horizon, and the road ahead whispered promises of freedom—or at least fewer motorbikes attempting to occupy the same patch of asphalt as me.

Chonburi greeted me in full celebratory mode for Loy Krathong. The beachfront was alive with holidaymakers, lanterns, and an energy that suggested nobody had any intention of going to bed at a reasonable hour. I, meanwhile, seized a far less glamorous opportunity: a hotel room for 300 baht.

It was, objectively speaking, a very strange room. Stark white tiles gave it the ambience of a mildly cheerful operating theatre, and the bucket-flush toilet required a level of user participation normally reserved for DIY plumbing enthusiasts. Still, it had walls, a door, and a price that made me feel like I’d beaten the system.

Sorting through my panniers revealed that my packing strategy had been less “carefully curated” and more “enthusiastically stuffed.” It took time to restore order, but soon enough I was back in control—or at least in the comforting illusion of it.

 

Bangkok Beckons: Birds, Backroads and a Brush with Chaos - Chonburi to Pha Pradaeng (110 km)

The day began with promise and quickly descended into something more character-building. The northern Gulf of Thailand is never straightforward, and Bangkok loomed ahead like an unavoidable exam you forgot to study for.

The first 20 kilometres, however, were delightful—alive with birdlife and mercifully calm. I paused at a restaurant on stilts for an iced coffee, taking a moment to reflect on how well things were going, which in hindsight was probably tempting fate.

Then came the highway.

To call it chaotic would be generous. It was an all-out sensory ambush—noise, fumes, traffic, and the occasional existential questioning of my life choices. I clung to the service road like a lifeline, inching past Bangkok’s automotive enthusiasm until I crossed the Bang Pakong River and escaped onto smaller, saner roads.

From there, things improved dramatically. A quiet canal road appeared like a gift from the universe, complete with villagers resting under enormous trees and ducks ambling about with the confidence of creatures who know they own the place.

A ferry across the Chao Phraya River spared me a long detour and added a touch of adventure that didn’t involve dodging buses, which I considered a win.

By evening, I reached the Rimnam Hotel, where Loi Krathong was in full swing. The streets filled with families launching their floating offerings, lights flickering against the water. It was beautiful, meaningful, and—refreshingly—moving toward environmentally friendly traditions. I watched quietly, feeling fortunate to be exactly where I was.

 

One Plug Socket and a Banana-Leaf Breakfast - Pha Pradaeng to Samut Songkhram (79 km)

Mornings on the road require strategy, resilience, and, ideally, electricity. My budget hotel, however, offered precisely one plug socket—which, in an impressive display of defiance, didn’t work.

Leaving without coffee felt deeply unnatural, but I soldiered on, eventually finding salvation at a roadside stall. Breakfast arrived wrapped in banana leaves, presenting the age-old traveller’s dilemma: delicious mystery or culinary gamble. Fortunately, curiosity prevailed, and breakfast did not attempt to fight back.

The route once again flirted with Bangkok’s outer chaos before giving way to flatter, swampy terrain dotted with stilt houses. Life here revolved around fishing and boat-making, with the steady rhythm of water defining everything.

Reaching Samut Songkhram early felt like a strategic masterstroke. I washed my cycling gear, charged my devices, and briefly experienced the rare and glorious sensation of being organised.

As evening approached, the town transformed into a street food haven. Vendors filled the air with sizzling aromas, though vegetarian options were still something of a treasure hunt. Still, I managed to piece together a respectable meal before retreating to my modest accommodation, content and slightly over-salted.

 

Wrong Turns, Salt Fields and Familiar Temptations - Samut Songkhram to Cha-Am (113 km)

The day unfolded as a zigzagging exploration of the countryside, where roads meandered with little regard for navigation or human expectation. It was endlessly charming—until, of course, a promising route would abruptly end, forcing me into an undignified retreat.

The landscape was a patchwork of salt farms, their surfaces shimmering faintly as crystals began to form—nature quietly preparing its next harvest.

Although I knew this route, Cha-Am itself was new territory for me. On arrival, I quickly realised it bore a striking resemblance to Pattaya. The town buzzed with older European men whose enthusiasm for life appeared to have been recently—and enthusiastically—rediscovered in the company of younger women.

It was, if nothing else, a curious scene. There was laughter, music, and a general sense of determined enjoyment that carried well into the early hours.

Good for them, I thought. Everyone deserves a second wind—provided, of course, it comes with kindness and respect.

 

A Short Ride and the Dangerous Comfort of Staying Put - Cha-Am to Hua Hin (31 km)

If ever there were a stage designed specifically for a weary cyclist, it was this one. The short 31 kilometres from Cha-Am to Hua Hin felt less like a journey and more like a thoughtful gesture from the universe.

I arrived in Hua Hin with just enough energy left to make a dignified entrance—by which I mean I rolled straight to Bird Guesthouse, my old favourite perched heroically on stilts over the sea. Within minutes, I was planted in a chair with a glass of wine, gazing at the ocean in a manner that suggested I had personally organised the sunset.

The following day was devoted to the less glamorous side of long-distance travel: laundry and the ongoing discovery of items I had somehow failed to pack. The supermarket provided some relief, as did a visit to the local bike shop where I acquired a new back tyre—something called a CST Pedium. I had never heard of it before, which, in cycling terms, meant I was either about to discover a hidden gem or make a regrettable life choice.

That evening, I met up with Gavin, a friend living in Hua Hin. In keeping with long-standing traditions, we celebrated our reunion with a thoroughly unreasonable number of beers. The conversation flowed easily, memories were revisited (and slightly improved with each retelling), and the evening slipped away far quicker than good judgment would recommend.

 

The Morning After: Slow Pedals and Missing Gloves - Hua Hin to Prachuap Khirikhan (118 km)

Morning arrived with all the subtlety of a marching band. Unsurprisingly, I felt less like a determined cyclist and more like a cautionary tale. For a moment, I considered staying another day in Hua Hin purely out of survival.

Eventually, however, stubbornness triumphed over common sense, and I set off toward Prachuap. Progress was... unremarkable. Each pedal stroke required negotiation, and I stopped frequently to address a thirst that felt both personal and accusatory.

Hours later—though it may have been days; time is unreliable under such conditions—I rolled into Prachuap and checked into Maggie’s Homestay, a place so perfectly priced (220 baht) that I briefly wondered if there had been a clerical error.

Naturally, I extended my stay. The amenities—water purification, washing machines, and the elusive promise of order—made it irresistible. It also gave me time to deal with a lingering mystery: the disappearance of my cycling gloves. Losing one glove is understandable. Losing both suggests either foul play or a level of absent-mindedness that should probably be studied.

 

Coastal Perfection and the Art of Finding a Good Bungalow – Prachuap to Bangsapan Beach (110 km)

The ride to Bangsapan was one of those rare, perfect days where everything seems to cooperate. The road hugged the coastline, the breeze was kind, and pedalling required far less negotiation than the previous day.

Upon arrival, I embarked on the traditional ritual of budget accommodation hunting, which involves wandering around looking hopeful until something affordable presents itself. After a modest search, I found a charming bungalow for 400 baht.

It had air conditioning, a welcoming atmosphere, and—most importantly—a sense that I could happily do very little there for an extended period. I immediately decided this was a place I would return to, which is traveller shorthand for “I have found somewhere that understands me.”

 

Caves, Mosquitoes and Small Discoveries - Bangsapan Beach to Chumphon (112 km)

The day began with an excellent coffee, which set unrealistic expectations for everything that followed.

Feeling optimistic, I diverted to explore a nearby cave. The path leading to it was overgrown to the point of mild discouragement, suggesting that either few people visited or those who did had quickly reconsidered their life choices. Naturally, this made it irresistible.

The cave itself was beautiful—light streaming in, creating an atmosphere that hinted at discovery and adventure. Unfortunately, it also hosted a highly motivated population of mosquitoes who appeared delighted by my arrival. I left sooner than planned, having contributed generously to their continued wellbeing.

The rest of the day was quieter, with fewer distractions and a steady rhythm of cycling. In Chumphon, I found a hotel that allowed me to wheel my bike straight inside—a small but deeply satisfying luxury. After a day of sharing space with traffic, dust, and insects, it felt only right that the bike should enjoy indoor accommodation too.

 

Riding into the Storm and Finding Refuge by the Sea - Chumphon to Pak Nam Langsuan (86 km)

With a night ferry to Koh Tao planned for later, I granted myself a slow morning—encouraged further by a gentle drizzle that made the idea of moving seem unnecessarily ambitious.

Eventually, however, even the most committed idler must act. I set off, and the day quickly improved as the weather cleared, revealing a lovely stretch of countryside. Around 60 kilometres in, I stopped at a small restaurant and enjoyed an excellent plate of fried rice—one of those simple meals that somehow feels like a reward for effort.

Naturally, this marked the precise moment the weather decided to collapse.

As I returned to the road, a storm rolled in from the Gulf of Thailand with dramatic enthusiasm. Rain lashed horizontally, wind howled, and visibility declined to what might generously be described as “suggestive.” I donned my plastic raincoat—a heroic but ultimately limited defence—and pressed on, blinking through the onslaught.

The road became muddy, the conditions deteriorated, and by around 85 kilometres I was approaching a philosophical discussion with myself about the wisdom of continuing.

Then, as if arranged by a particularly kind storyteller, a hidden bungalow appeared among banana trees.

I called out, somewhat desperately, until a young woman emerged, her expression suggesting she hadn’t expected to encounter a drenched foreigner materialising out of the storm.

She showed me to a tiny wooden bungalow perched directly at the water’s edge. It was so close to the ocean that I briefly wondered whether it came with a life jacket. Inside, space was… economical. The bed dominated proceedings, and the bathroom consisted of a squat toilet and a concrete reservoir that required a certain level of cooperation.

And yet, it was perfect.

At 250 baht, it felt less like paying for accommodation and more like accidentally discovering a secret.

As I sat watching the tide creep in—uncomfortably close to the floorboards—I reflected that this might not be the most structurally reassuring place I’d ever stayed, but it was certainly among the most memorable.

With no restaurants nearby, I relied on my modest supplies. The local fisherman and his family kindly invited me to dinner, but I declined, not wanting to impose on what was clearly a carefully balanced meal.

Instead, I settled into my little retreat, eating cup noodles and listening to the waves, which felt like a perfectly reasonable alternative to fine dining under the circumstances.

 

Coffee, Coastlines and Rain at the Finish Line - Pak Nam Langsuan to Surat Thani (124 km)

I awoke with the quiet satisfaction of discovering that both I and my seaside bungalow had survived the previous day’s storm. Given how enthusiastically the weather had tried to rearrange the coastline, this felt like a small but meaningful victory.

The owner appeared shortly after with a cup of coffee—an act of kindness so well-timed it bordered on heroic. I sat on my tiny veranda sipping it while he wandered off to inspect the sea conditions. Watching him consider heading out in what looked like entirely unreasonable water, I couldn’t help but admire the optimism. A small boat in those conditions seemed less like a livelihood and more like a wager with nature.

The day’s ride to Surat Thani started off beautifully, winding along the coast through scenery that seemed almost suspiciously picturesque—limestone cliffs, pale beaches, and the sort of views that make you wonder if someone’s carefully arranged them overnight.

Naturally, the weather had other ideas. The sky settled into a steady grey drizzle, and just as I approached Surat, it escalated into a full performance. The final five kilometres were completed in a determined downpour, threading through traffic while negotiating both visibility and my increasingly questionable navigation skills.

Arriving in town felt like docking after a long voyage. I located My Place Hotel—an astonishing bargain—and immediately prioritised a shower, which felt less like hygiene and more like restoration.

Dinner was sourced from the nearby night market, a wonderfully fragrant operation where everything looked tempting and slightly mysterious—exactly the sort of place where one makes culinary decisions with confidence and occasional regret.

The following day was spent in Surat, which is not so much a tourist destination as it is a place where actual life happens. That, of course, made it immediately appealing. People went about their routines, markets buzzed, and vendors guarded their produce with the focus of seasoned strategists—particularly when it came to pigeons, who were clearly viewed as hostile forces.

 

The Unexpected Pleasure of an Easy Day - Surat Thani to Tha Khuen (108 km)

The weather was mercifully cooperative, making for one of those rare days where cycling feels almost effortless. I intended to deviate from the main road but found it so pleasantly quiet and accommodating that I simply stayed on it, like someone who has accidentally found the correct queue.

Villages slipped by, roadside stalls appeared at convenient intervals, and temples punctuated the landscape with reassuring regularity. The whole day had a gentle, unhurried feel, as if the road itself had agreed not to complicate matters.

I ended the day at a “24-hour” establishment, which provided both a bed and what I can only describe as a proper bathroom. After recent experiences, this felt like an extravagant luxury—proof that one’s standards, given enough time on the road, can shift quite dramatically.

 

Quiet Roads, Curious Faces and a One-Baht Crossing - Tha Khuen to Hua Sai (115 km)

Setting off south, I anticipated a fairly routine ride. Instead, the day unfolded into something unexpectedly delightful. This was clearly not a route frequented by foreign cyclists, which meant I attracted a steady stream of curious looks and cheerful greetings—some amused, some openly puzzled.

The scenery was spectacular: shimmering coastline, rice paddies glowing in the sun, temples standing in quiet dignity, and brightly painted fishing boats completing the picture. For long stretches, I became so absorbed in the ride that distance ceased to matter entirely.

After several days of minimal conversation, I stopped to chat with a couple making cigarette paper from palm leaves. The interaction was brief but satisfying, neatly fulfilling my weekly quota of social engagement.

Progress was interrupted when the road simply… stopped. Fortunately, a small ferry provided a solution, shuttling people across the river for the impressive price of 1 baht. I spent a moment wondering how such an operation remained economically viable before deciding it was best not to interfere with mysteries of this nature.

On the far side, I entered a compact, lively village where narrow walkways and busy stalls created an atmosphere of organised chaos. It was one of those places where there is always something happening, and nobody appears remotely surprised by it.

Later, the coastline reappeared—this time accompanied by towering wind turbines that seemed almost comically large up close, as though someone had scaled them incorrectly.

Despite it being “winter,” the temperature hovered firmly in the mid-30s, proving that Thai seasons are largely conceptual.

By late afternoon, I located a room by the ocean for 300 baht, which felt like an excellent conclusion to an unexpectedly rewarding day. After watching the sunset, I cycled into the village in search of dinner, reflecting on how effortlessly the day had unfolded.

 

Rain, Lost Things and an Earned Arrival - Hua Sai to Songkhla (110 km)

The morning began with the polite suggestion of rain tapping on the window, encouraging me to linger over a second cup of coffee and reconsider all ambitious plans.

Eventually, I set off, though the weather continued its indecisive performance—alternating between drizzle and brief clarity just often enough to keep things interesting. It also meant photographing anything required swift, tactical thinking.

At one point, I managed to lose my lens hood in a river—an achievement that baffled me, as it had previously demonstrated a strong commitment to remaining attached to the camera. The exact mechanics remain unclear, though I suspect gravity played a leading role.

Later, just before Songkhla, I encountered a car ferry crossing the mouth of Songkhla Lake. It felt like a welcome shortcut, sparing me what would undoubtedly have been a longer and less scenic route. The crossing itself added a sense of minor adventure, which I was happy to accept at this stage of the journey.

I arrived in Songkhla around mid-afternoon, thoroughly decorated in a layer of rain-soaked road grime—a look that, while not fashionable, was undeniably earned.

Finding Bo Yang Guesthouse, I treated myself to a slightly more expensive room, and it felt like a triumph. Clean white sheets, air conditioning, and—most luxuriously of all—a bath. After days of improvisation and compromise, this felt less like accommodation and more like a reward.

 

Exploring Songkhla - Old Town Stories, Strange Sculptures and an Improbable Legend

I awoke to the steady drumming of rain against the window—a sound that, under most circumstances, might inspire urgency. On this particular morning, however, it inspired the exact opposite. I smiled, turned over, and allowed myself the small luxury of ignoring the world for a little while longer.

Eventually, responsibility—or at least curiosity—prevailed. Armed with a bag of laundry and a vague plan, I stepped out to explore Songkhla, a town that doesn’t shout for attention but quietly rewards those who wander.

It didn’t take long to find Old Songkhla, a place so rich in history it almost seemed to hum underfoot. For several centuries—from roughly the 10th to the 14th—this had been a bustling centre of trade, with connections stretching as far as Quanzhou in China. Later, in the 18th century, Chinese settlers added their own layers to the place, creating a cultural blend that still lingers today.

Now, it’s all wooden shophouses, narrow lanes, and temples that appear to have been positioned with great care for maximum charm. Even a section of the old city wall still stands, quietly reminding visitors that this once mattered on a much larger scale than its sleepy present might suggest.

At some point, I found myself heading up Songkhla Hill, which offered wide views over the town and coastline—exactly the kind of vantage point that justifies the effort of climbing it. Coming back down, I wandered along the beach and into a sculpture park populated with artworks that ranged from intriguing to mildly baffling, as though someone had given artists complete creative freedom and then quietly stepped away.

Naturally, Songkhla comes with its own legend, and it is a delightfully improbable one. According to local lore, a Chinese merchant once sailed here with a cat and a dog, who—being understandably bored at sea—conspired with a mouse to steal a magical crystal that prevented drowning. Their escape plan was bold but poorly executed, resulting in the loss of the crystal and the collective demise of all involved. The aftermath, however, was creatively interpreted: the cat and mouse became islands in Songkhla Lake, while the dog became the hill itself.

It is, if nothing else, a compelling argument against trusting animals with supernatural objects.

 

Turning West: Monsoon Warnings and the Border Looms - Songkhla to Padang Basar (80 km)

The morning brought a weather warning of impressive seriousness: heavy monsoon rains and possible flash floods across southern Thailand. This seemed like the sort of information best taken seriously, so I adjusted my plans accordingly. Rather than continuing south along the coast, I turned west toward the Malaysian border, aided by the timely arrival of a helpful tailwind.

The route was not particularly scenic—mostly main road—but it served a clear purpose: make progress quickly before the weather turned theatrical again. My backup plan, should conditions deteriorate, was to retreat to Langkawi and wait things out, which struck me as a highly acceptable contingency.

As I neared Padang Basar, subtle changes began to appear. Mosques dotted the landscape, and more women wore head coverings—the quiet but definite signals that I was approaching a cultural shift.

Arriving in town, however, was less inspiring. Like many border settlements, Padang Basar appeared to have been designed with minimal regard for aesthetics and maximum focus on functionality. Dark clouds gathered overhead, nudging me toward the sensible decision to stop.

In hindsight, I may have stopped slightly too soon, as the rain never quite delivered on its threat. Still, my accommodation—a pink, windowless room of considerable modesty—was already secured, and so I committed to the decision.

Dinner was sourced from nearby food carts, after which I retired to my room, reflecting that not every stop on a journey needs to be memorable—though this one, in its own way, probably would be.

 

A New Country, a Fresh Stamp and the Road Continues -  Padang Basar, Thailand to Alor Setar, Malaysia (87 km)

Morning brought sunshine and with it the satisfying sense of transition. As I set off, the road ahead felt different—not physically, but in that subtle way that signals the beginning of something new.

The Thai-Malaysian border arrived quickly, and the crossing itself was refreshingly straightforward. A passport stamp, a brief exchange, and just like that, I was granted 90 days to explore an entirely new country. No interrogation, no complications—just the quiet efficiency of a system that had clearly done this before.

And with that, Thailand—after hundreds of kilometres, countless roadside coffees, questionable accommodation choices, and more than a few conversations with myself—was behind me.

I rolled onward toward Alor Setar, the open road stretching ahead with its familiar promise: that whatever happens next will almost certainly be unexpected, occasionally uncomfortable, and very likely worth it.

 

By the time I reached the border at Padang Basar, Thailand had become something more than a stretch of road I had crossed—it had settled into me in ways that are difficult to measure. Not through singular, dramatic moments, but through an accumulation of small, persistent encounters: the rhythm of villages waking and sleeping, the generosity of strangers, the weight of monsoon skies, and the steady, almost meditative act of moving forward each day.

There had been discomfort, certainly—rooms that tested expectations, weather that demanded resilience, and stretches of road that seemed to resist progress entirely. But there had also been an ease that emerged over time, a quiet acceptance of whatever the day offered. Somewhere within those 1,261 kilometres, the journey ceased to be about distance or destination, and became instead a way of paying closer attention—to place, to people, and to myself.

Crossing into Malaysia felt less like an ending and more like a continuation—another line on the map, yes, but also an extension of the same unfolding narrative. The road, as it had been from the beginning, remained open, indifferent, and full of possibility.

150 A VISIT TO THAILAND - Micah & Rouen

Heat, Tuk-Tuks, and Questionable Decisions

150 Thailand (19.1)

A Family Journey Through Thailand

15 March - 5 April 2019

PHOTOS

PDF

 VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK 

 

Prelude

It began, as many excellent misadventures do, with a wildly optimistic timetable and a backpack that may or may not have contained everything required for three weeks in a tropical climate. Within hours, we were reunited, partially dressed (thanks to missing luggage), and standing in Bangkok—one of the world’s great cities—trying to look like people who knew exactly what they were doing.

We did not.

What followed was a journey involving trains that tested the limits of human resilience, tuk-tuks driven with philosophical disregard for mortality, markets that politely folded themselves away for passing trains, and an alarming number of decisions made in extreme heat. Along the way, we encountered history, culture, beaches, temples, and more varieties of food than seemed strictly necessary—some of which stared back at us.

It was, in short, exactly the kind of trip that begins sensibly and then wanders cheerfully off course.

 

 

13–14 March – Jomtien, Pattaya - Laundry, Logistics, and the Dangerous Illusion of Readiness 

I had precisely one day—an absurdly optimistic allocation of time—to do laundry, repack, and convince myself I still knew where my passport was, before heading to Bangkok to meet Rouen (brother-in-law) and Micah (niece) for what would become a three-week adventure in Thailand.

The journey itself was commendably straightforward, which is always slightly suspicious in Southeast Asia. An airport bus, followed by another bus to Khao San Road, and finally a short stroll to the Riverline Guesthouse—no navigational errors, no existential crises, and only a mild sense that I’d boarded at least one vehicle on blind faith.

 

15 March – Bangkok - Missing Luggage, River Breezes, and Early Philosophical Conclusions

Rouen and Micah arrived at around 3:30 p.m., looking remarkably composed for people who had just endured a long-haul flight—an experience usually akin to being slowly tenderized in a metal tube. Impressively, neither showed any desire to collapse into a horizontal position and remain there for days.

Unfortunately, Rouen’s luggage had chosen to holiday elsewhere, which meant an immediate and slightly frantic search for clothing. There is nothing quite like buying emergency outfits in Bangkok to make one reassess both style and dignity.

With time still on our side—and priorities firmly in order—we embarked on my favourite budget activity: the grand 30 THB sunset cruise on the Chao Phraya River. This involved catching the last ferry to its final stop and returning on the final boat, a strategy that felt both economical and faintly rebellious.

The river itself was a scene of glorious chaos—barges lumbering along like overfed hippos, commuters packed into boats with admirable patience, and a steady stream of traffic that suggested nobody had ever seriously considered slowing down. The breeze, however, was magnificent, providing a fleeting illusion that Bangkok might be something other than a large, extremely humid oven.

We returned in time to head for the Gecko Bar for food and beer—both essential cultural experiences. Later that evening, Rouen and I sat on the Riverline terrace, solving the world’s problems with increasing confidence as the beers disappeared. By the end, we agreed the world was indeed in a terrible state, though neither of us could remember exactly why, and retired to bed feeling oddly satisfied with our analysis.

 

16 March – Bangkok - Golden Buddhas, Curious Charms, and a Nation’s Unfortunate Timing with Alcohol

After a deeply satisfying bowl of noodle soup (proof that happiness can be achieved for a few baht and a plastic stool), we set out to explore old Bangkok.

Our wandering took us past Phra Sumen Fort—one of only two survivors of the original fourteen—a statistic that immediately suggests the others did not enjoy especially long or peaceful careers. Following the destruction of Ayutthaya in 1767, Bangkok became the new capital, complete with walls and canals designed to keep undesirable visitors at bay—although modern traffic appears to have breached those defences quite thoroughly.

We then drifted into the amulet market, a place that exists somewhere between sacred tradition and mild unease. The stalls were filled with tiny charms and talismans, eagerly examined by men peering through magnifying glasses with the intensity of diamond merchants. Intended for good luck, protection, or fertility, some items looked reassuringly spiritual. Others looked like they might summon something unfortunate if handled incorrectly. A few, frankly, seemed best left entirely alone.

Next came Wat Pho, home to the enormous reclining Buddha, which is less a statue and more a golden tidal event. At 46 metres long and 15 metres high, it gives the impression that Buddha has simply decided to lie down for a moment and may not be getting up again anytime soon. Shoes off, we shuffled in with appropriate reverence.

On exiting, we purchased bowls of coins and dutifully dropped them into 108 bronze bowls lining the wall. This produced a surprisingly beautiful ringing sound, somewhere between meditation and a particularly gentle slot machine. The money, I was reassured, goes towards maintaining the temple—so at least one of my financial decisions that day could be considered virtuous.

That evening we strolled along Khao San Road—a place that manages to be simultaneously chaotic, lively, and faintly absurd. We sampled insects (an experience I can confirm is optional but memorable), drank fruit smoothies, and learned that it was election day—meaning no alcohol was being sold. This would normally be devastating news, but Rouen, demonstrating admirable foresight, had brought two bottles of South African red wine. Crisis averted.

We enjoyed them on the roof terrace overlooking the Chao Phraya River, feeling quietly triumphant in the face of regulatory inconvenience.

 

17 March – Bangkok - Bangkok / Maeklong / Amphawa - Trains Through Markets and Other Perfectly Sensible Arrangements 

A “slight misunderstanding”—a phrase that covers a multitude of travel sins—resulted in us missing the train to Samut Songkhram, home of the famous Maeklong Railway Market.

Undeterred, we caught a later train, endured a lengthy and character-building wait for a connection, and eventually decided that a minivan taxi might be a more efficient expression of modern civilisation.

This turned out to be an excellent decision, as it allowed us to witness the spectacle of the Maeklong Railway Market in full operation. Here, a bustling market spreads directly over the train tracks—a concept that seems questionable until you see how efficiently it works. As the train approaches, vendors expertly fold away awnings and pull back their goods with remarkable calm. The train glides through at an almost conversational pace, and within seconds everything is restored as if nothing had happened. It is choreography of the highest order.

We continued on to the Amphawa floating market via songthaew—essentially a mobile experiment in how many passengers can be politely squeezed onto a vehicle—before returning to Bangkok for the entirely sensible activity of rooftop drinks.

 

18 March – Bangkok - Heat, Hesitation, and the Pre-Tattoo Pause 

We began the day with a group decision to do very little, which we executed with admirable dedication, resulting in a late breakfast at the Gecko Bar.

Micah, perhaps emboldened by travel, expressed a desire to get a tattoo. We made enquiries at Divine Ink regarding time and prices—because nothing says “thoughtful decision-making” like organising permanent body art in tropical heat.

Speaking of which, Bangkok had become impressively hot—less “warm climate” and more “walking into a hairdryer set to maximum.” After dim sum and a growing sense of lethargy, we sensibly retreated to the relative coolness of the guesthouse to recover until sunset.

 

19 March – Bangkok to Ayutthaya by Train - Bangkok to Ayutthaya - Ancient Glory, Modern Heat, and the Strategic Use of Air Conditioning 

The following day we set off for Ayutthaya by train—a mode of transport that is both charmingly traditional and faintly punishing. The carriage was hot, the seats firmly committed to the concept of discomfort, but the price was so reasonable it felt churlish to complain, so we did so only gently and amongst ourselves.

Arriving in Ayutthaya at midday, we were immediately reminded that Thailand takes its heat very seriously. A tuk-tuk was flagged down with the urgency of people who had briefly considered melting, and we made our way to Baan Lotus Guesthouse. The decision to upgrade to an air-conditioned room was made quickly and without debate—indeed, it may have been the most unanimous decision of the entire trip.

Later, we wandered to the UNESCO World Heritage Park, which, despite the heat, was undeniably impressive. Ayutthaya, we learned, had once been a thriving capital founded around 1350 and had grown into a bustling international trading hub of astonishing size—reportedly home to about a million people at its peak. This golden era came to a rather abrupt and unfortunate end in 1767 when the Burmese invaded and flattened most of it, demonstrating once again that history has very little interest in happy endings.

It was far too hot to do anything sensible, including photography, but we took a few pictures anyway out of sheer stubbornness, before retreating to our blissfully cool room, where we remained until the sun had the decency to disappear.

 

20 March – Ayutthaya to Kanchanaburi - Bridges, Barges, and Late Afternoon Survival Tactics 

A minivan collected us for the trip to Kanchanaburi, which took under three hours—an impressively smooth journey by regional standards.

We checked into Tamarind Guesthouse with a room floating on the River Kwai, because if one is going to visit somewhere famous, it seems only right to float on it. However, the heat once again asserted dominance, and we sensibly remained indoors until late afternoon.

At around five, we ventured out to the iconic bridge over the River Kwai—now something of a magnet for tourists, photographers, and anyone in possession of a camera phone. We joined the crowd, shuffled across the bridge in an orderly fashion, and paused often to admire the view and avoid bumping into fellow admirers doing exactly the same.

On the way back, we located a roadside eatery—arguably the most important discovery of the day—and settled in for food and beer, both of which were consumed with enthusiasm.

 

21–22 March – Kanchanaburi to Hua Hin - Stilts, Sea Air, and the Art of Doing Very Little, Very Well 

At last, we headed for the coast, which felt like a deeply sensible progression after several days of heat-based endurance tests.

A tuk-tuk delivered us to the bus terminal, and from there a minivan whisked us to Hua Hin in roughly three hours. Our accommodation was a charmingly precarious wooden guesthouse on stilts over the water, with enough personality to make up for any structural concerns.

Naturally, we wasted no time getting to the beach, where we spent the afternoon under a large umbrella—an invention that, under these conditions, deserves far more recognition than it typically receives.

Hua Hin proved so agreeable that we extended our stay by an extra day, a decision that required almost no discussion whatsoever.

 

23 March – Hua Hin to Koh Phangan - Sleepless Journeys and the Gentle Reward of the Ocean 

Checkout was at midday, but our bus wasn’t until 10 p.m., leaving us with a long and rather drowsy wait. Micah and I attempted to sleep with limited success, while Rouen demonstrated an admirable ability to drift off at intervals—something I regarded with a mixture of envy and suspicion.

We arrived in Surat Thani at around 8 a.m., at which point we were efficiently funnelled into a bus, then delivered to Don Sak pier for the ferry to Koh Phangan. Travel logistics in Thailand often resemble a relay race in which you are the baton.

By the time we arrived at the Tropicana Resort, we were deeply tired but somehow still capable of heading straight into the ocean—a decision that felt both restorative and faintly heroic.

 

24–29 March – Koh Phangan - Days of Drift, Dubious Fitness Ambitions, and Island Time Proper 

The days on Koh Phangan drifted by in a pleasantly unstructured fashion. We swam in the warm waters of the Gulf of Thailand, consumed generous portions of Thai food, and maintained a steady intake of cold beer.

Rouen and I made several noble but largely symbolic attempts at running, covering distances that could best be described as “encouraging starts.” Eventually, good sense prevailed, and Rouen rented a motorbike, taking Micah along to explore the island more thoroughly—and, presumably, at a slightly faster pace than our jogging efforts.

 

0 March – Koh Phangan to Bangkok - Ferries, Buses, and the Grand Relay of Getting Somewhere Else 

We checked out and wandered to the ferry port with enough time to eat, which, by now, had become something of a guiding principle for all travel planning.

The ferry to Surat Thani took about two and a half hours, after which we were ushered onto a bus, then into another transfer involving tuk-tuks and another bus station—all conducted with an efficiency that suggested someone, somewhere, knew exactly what was happening.

With time to spare, we explored the night market and sampled a wide variety of dishes, because it would have been irresponsible not to.

Eventually, we boarded the night bus to Bangkok—a journey that was long, uncomfortable, and just sufficiently memorable to ensure we would complain about it for at least a day afterwards.

 

31 March – Bangkok - Tattoos and the Return to Urban Chaos 

Back in Bangkok, we adopted a relaxed pace, as Micah had a tattoo appointment—an event approached with a mixture of excitement and the quiet realisation that tattoos are famously difficult to return if unsatisfactory.

Afterwards, we made our way to Pattaya for a few final days of leisure.

 

1–4 April – Pattaya - Pools, Beachfront Wandering, and a Noble Commitment to Refreshments

These final days were spent in a highly disciplined routine of swimming-pool lounging, beachfront strolls, and enthusiastic sampling of night-market offerings.

We consumed impressive quantities of smoothies, iced coffee, and—most notably—Chang beer, which seemed to appear whenever required and occasionally when not.

We did not achieve everything we had theoretically planned, but this felt entirely appropriate. Travel, after all, is often less about ticking boxes and more about enjoying the accidental moments in between.

All too soon, Micah and Rouen had to return to Cape Town. Their visit had been thoroughly enjoyable, and I could only hope it wouldn’t take another twelve years for the next one—although, given our collective talent for planning, it seemed wise not to make any firm assumptions.

 

 

Epilogue

In the end, as with all good journeys, the memories were far more coherent than the events themselves. We had travelled the length of Thailand by an assortment of vehicles of varying reliability, survived heroic temperatures, consumed admirable quantities of food and drink, and somehow returned each evening with stories—some accurate, others improved by retelling.

Plans had been made, naturally, but treated more as gentle suggestions than binding agreements. We missed things we intended to see, discovered things we hadn’t planned, and perfected the fine art of doing just enough each day to feel accomplished without ever becoming exhausted by it—except when absolutely unavoidable.

Most importantly, we laughed—a great deal, often at ourselves—and ended the trip in the firm belief that travel is less about precision and far more about patience, curiosity, and a willingness to accept that occasionally, the luggage (or indeed the plan) may simply go missing.

And should it take another twelve years to repeat the experience, one can only hope we are just as unprepared.

146 CAMBODIA (9.2) - JANICE - PART 2 - PHNOM PENH TO THAILAND

 

146 CAMBODIA (9.2) – Janice - Part 2

Phnom Penh - Thailand
301 Km - 7 Days
1 March – 7 March 2019

MAP

PHOTOS

  

1 March – Phnom Penh – Angkor Borei – 93 km

Janice and I biked out of Phnom Penh amidst hectic morning traffic and past men eating noodles soup from their haunches from mobile carts. Twenty kilometres later, we were fortunately out of the thick of things.

Having had enough of the congestion, we veered off onto a smaller path running alongside the Tonle Sap River. Halfway through, Janice stopped and bought a new saddle, hoping it would solve her butt problem. The road was mostly paved, and we encountered only a short stretch of dirt road, so we arrived in Angkor Borei in good time.

 

2-3 March - Angkor Borei – Kampot – 103 km

Knowing it would be a tough cycling day, we set out as early as possible. However, the Angkor Borei/Takeo ferry only got underway at around 8h00. Packed in like sardines, the boat sped across the lake, saving us a long and rough ride around the lake. Unfortunately, there was no paved road connecting Takeo to the main road. We struggled along a sandy, rough track until reaching the highway. Once there, the going became considerably more manageable, and a good time was made in the direction of Kampot.

Unfortunately, 20 kilometres from Kampot, the road deteriorated (to put it mildly) as a new road was being built. In the company of other vehicles, we snaked our way around potholes, a cloud of dust trailing us, making dreadfully slow progress. Covered in dust, Janice and I eventually biked into Kampot and headed straight to Kampot River Bungalow. To our dismay, they were full, but mercifully, a nipa hut on stilts next door at the Naga House was available. Naga House is a beautiful riverside setup, featuring a wooden dock over the water.

Staying the next day came easily as we couldn’t drag ourselves away from such a beautiful setting.

 

4 March - Kampot – Sihanoukville – 105 km

Although February is the dry season in Cambodia, rain usually falls during this time. Unfortunately, we haven’t had any rain since departing Bangkok a month and a half ago. Over three-quarters of Cambodia’s population relies primarily on subsistence agriculture. Drought can thus push large numbers of people into poverty. For us, the lack of rain made the ride a dry and dusty affair.

At first, the road was brand new and going well. However, halfway to Veal Renh, we encountered the dreaded roadworks. We found that nearly all vehicles preferred driving alongside the road rather than on it. Only the minivan taxis seemed unfazed by the enormous potholes.

We pushed on regardless, following the snaking traffic through a cloud of dust, eventually arriving in Sihanoukville during peak hour. Unfortunately, Sihanoukville was nothing but a vast building site. All the old and well-known guesthouses were gone, and, by then, either empty lots or places where new ones were being constructed. I was relieved to find the Big Easy still holding its own, albeit at the absorbent price of $30 a fan room. Time to head to the islands, and that was exactly what we did.

 

5 March – Sihanoukville – Koh Rong (by ferry)

Arrangements were made to leave our bicycles and panniers at the Big Easy and, armed with only one small bag; we headed to the ferry port. In no time at all, we found ourselves on Koh Rong Island with its crystal-clear water and laidback lifestyle. We lazed around and swam in the lukewarm waters of the Gulf of Thailand. We ate at tables on the water’s edge and did truly little apart from lounging about.

Eventually, the time came to return to the mainland and Thailand, where Janice stowed her bicycle box and planned to fly home to Cape Town, South Africa.

 

6 March - Koh Rong – Sihanoukville (by ferry)

The ample choice of ferries to the mainland made for a leisurely departure. Once in Sihanoukville, we collected our cycles and panniers from the Big Easy and went on the hunt for alternative accommodation, as it was fully booked. Supper was at one of the beach restaurants and, to me at least, it’s always a novelty to eat whilst wiggling my toes in the sand.

 

Thailand (19) – Janice – Cambodian border to Pattaya

15 Km – 8 Days

7 March – 14 April 2019

7-8 March - Sihanoukville – Klong Yai - 15 km

Out of visa time, a bus ticket was purchased from Sihanoukville to the Thai/Cambodian border. The bus departed at 8 o’clock, and we were ready to roll at an early hour. Unfortunately, the bus didn’t leave until considerably later and, surprisingly, took us all the way to the border. Border crossings can be tedious affairs, but all went well, and we were stamped out of Cambodia and into Thailand without any problems. From the border, a mere 15 kilometres led to Klong Yai, which had accommodation and an exciting night market.

The next morning, a Songthaew (a covered pickup truck with open sides and seats along each side) took us to Trat. Unfortunately, Janice wasn’t feeling well and had stomach problems (it must’ve been from the previous night’s food). However, the ride was inexpensive, and the Songthaew dropped us at the Trat bus station. From Trat, busses ran to Pattaya.

Janice was terribly ill, and with at least four hours to wait until the next bus, there wasn’t a good deal she could do but try and lay down on the uncomfortable bus station plastic chairs. Eventually, the bus arrived and the sun was long gone on arrival in Pattaya. In darkness, we cycled the last few kilometres to Jomtien, bringing to an end Janice’s holiday.

 

9-12 March - Pattaya

Being a day ahead of schedule, good use was made of our time and on emerging at leisure we strolled to the beach. Janice, by then, felt considerably better, and could do last-minute shopping, pack her bike and get ready for her flight to Cape Town. But, unfortunately, far too soon the time came for her to head to the airport for her flight to South Africa.

 

13-14 March - Pattaya

I’d precisely one day to do laundry and repack bags before heading to Bangkok, where I met Rouen (brother-in-law) and Micah (niece and godchild) for a three-week backpacking holiday in Thailand. The easiest way of getting to Bangkok was to catch a bus to the airport and, from there, a bus directly to Khao San Road, leaving a short meander to the Riverline Guesthouse, my abode of choice.