169 Thailand (22) - Exploring the Central Plains

169 Thailand (22)
9 January – 20 January 2024
1 377 Kilometres – 22 Days

PHOTOS
MAP

9 January - Jomtien – Bang Saen Beach – 83 km

It was already past midday when I finally set out, and I was determined to stick to rural roads and avoid the chaotic traffic that plagues the route between Pattaya and Bangkok. Despite the challenges, I navigated my way through the winding roads until I finally arrived at the tranquil Bang Saen Beach in Chon Buri. The sense of relief was palpable as I found a comfortable $10 room and settled in for the night, feeling as happy as the proverbial pig.

As the sun began its descent towards the horizon, I walked the short distance of less than 200 meters to the beach. I sat on the sand, feeling the warmth of the grains between my toes and the gentle breeze of the sea on my skin. The colours of the sky changed with each passing moment, creating a breathtaking spectacle that left me feeling blessed and privileged to be back on the road.

10 January – Bang Saen Beach – Chachoengsao – 65 km

The first 30 kilometres of the ride ran along a scenic part of the Gulf of Thailand partly via a road built over the ocean. The Northern Gulf of Thailand is shallow, with abundant birdlife and fishing opportunities. Afterwards, I veered inland along the Bang Pakong River but couldn't find country lanes, which is a rarity in Thailand.

Interestingly, authorities have persuaded fishermen on the Bang Pakong River to stop shrimping to protect the Irrawaddy dolphins, and 30 to 40 fishing boats have been modified to offer dolphin sightseeing tours. I was hoping to find a path along the river, but it never happened, and I never saw the dolphins.

Heavy traffic made cycling unpleasant, so I called it a day in Chachoengsao. I found an inexpensive room and needed to look at the map more closely.

My early arrival allowed me to explore the area, including the 100-year-old Banmai Market. Nowadays, the market is only a weekend market, but traders live inside this ancient riverside complex. The light was beautiful. Back in my room, it was time to do the dreaded laundry.

 

11 January - Chachoengsao – Amphoe Nong Khae, Saraburi – 110 km

From Chachoengsao, it was a much better day of cycling as I had plenty of rural roads to choose from. It was an absolute pleasure to pedal past rice paddies and tiny hamlets.

At one point, I picked up a red cloth, which I thought of using as a flag, but it was too large, and I tied it to the rear rack, hoping it would make me more visible. For most of the day, my chosen path ran alongside a canal until, after 110 kilometres, it spat me out at a busy intersection where I decided to end my ride. I was surprised to find a fancy room for only $14! Hahaha, or as fancy as a $14 room can be.

 

12 &13 January - Nong Khae – Lopburi – 80 km

I took far too many pictures during the ride to Lopburi. It was a brilliant ride, partly along the railway line and partly next to a canal. Lopburi is an ancient town filled with old ruins that are all within easy walking distance. Nowadays, the old city is home to ordinary Thai life and a group of monkeys, who even have a temple of their own.

I'm glad that I arrived early as it was pretty warm (35°C). The $10 room that I rented wasn't very fancy, but it had a fan, which was good enough for me. I felt like all I did was eat since I arrived, but there are so many good food options in Lopburi.

There's much to see in Lopburi and I decided to stay one more day. The windows of my room couldn’t open, as the monkeys were notorious for breaking into rooms through the windows despite having bars on them. They can be quite a menace. The rest of the day was spent exploring the ruins of Lopburi.

 

14 January – Lopburi – Khok Mai Den – 110 km

Not much happened en route to Khok Mai Den. I again followed a canal, or maybe it was a river, meaning there were many luminous green rice paddies and people fishing. I must have been way off the beaten track as I encountered very few villages. I loved the ride and felt energetic and happy to be out there. What a privilege.

Of course, there’s always the ever-present Buddhist temple with its bright yellow Dharma flags blowing in the wind. These temples make peaceful and convenient stopping places, offering plenty of shade. Eventually, after 110 kilometres, I veered towards the highway to find food and accommodation.

At my accommodation I realised you'll hardly ever find a bed in Asia facing the door as it's the worst possible position, according to feng shui principles. People who practice feng shui call it the ‘dead man’s position’ or the ‘coffin position’ because it resembles how we carry the dead through the door.

I was well into the Thai lifestyle and ordered a takeaway from 7-Eleven. Delivery is free, and even with a good tip, I still considered it a bargain as I didn't feel like getting on the bike to cycle the two kilometres to the shop in darkness.

 

15 January – Khok Mai den – Nakhon Savan (Anodard Hotel) 53 km

I dawdled and didn't leave my comfortable bungalow until past nine in the morning.

My first destination for the day was the Khok Mai Den Ancient City ruins, located just two kilometres away. The city was founded between 457 and 957 AD during the Thawarawadi period. I parked my bike at the temple and walked to the top of the hill to explore the ruins. Upon my return, I found a bag hanging from my bike's handlebars containing rice and soup. The monk who left it gave me a Buddhist talisman as well. I expressed my gratitude and proceeded to a roadside shrine to eat the food, but I couldn't stomach the soup, which was a watery broth with bird-like chunks.

From the ruins, I followed the Chao Phraya River upstream to its origin at the confluence of the Ping and Nan rivers in Nakhon Sawan. From here, the river flows 372 kilometres south to the Gulf of Thailand, and the surroundings are mostly farmland with small villages. The fried banana snack is a popular treat in these hamlets, and petrol is sold in Coca-Cola bottles from hole-in-the-wall shops. Although most rice farming is still done manually, I saw farmers using drones to spread either seeds or fertiliser, but I couldn't determine which one.

 

16 January - Nakhon Savan - Tha Makhuea – 92 km

Biking out of Nakhon Savan was amidst heavy traffic and workers installing decorations for the upcoming Chinese New Year festivities. A path next to the Ping River took me north through small riverside villages. I passed by sleeping cats and dogs and chickens pecking in the dirt. Women were selling goods on their bicycles, and I could hear monks chanting at colourful temples. The ride was easy, and the kilometres flew by quickly.

At my many water stops, people would shyly ask, "Where are you from?" and I would respond, "Africa Thai" (one of the few Thai words I know). They would usually exclaim, "Oh, you speak Thai!" The next question was generally about my destination, but as I was not sure where I was headed, I replied with the name of the next big town, to which they would always ask, "By bicycle?" LOL. Eventually, they would ask, "Only one?" My answer usually ended the conversation as a woman travelling alone by bicycle isn't something rural Thai people seem to understand.

 

17-18 January - Tha Makhuea – Kamphaeng Phet – 56 km

The way to Kamphaeng Phet was along a busy road with large trucks carrying sugarcane to the mill, and the road surface was littered with sugarcane stalks.

My visit to Kamphaeng Phet was to explore its UNESCO World Heritage Site, which features ruins of structures dating to the 14th century, roughly the same time as the better-known kingdom of Sukhothai, a bit further north. Three J Guesthouse offers cute wooden bungalows at 350 THB. The guesthouse has a friendly owner and heaps of information, and is set in a jumble of arty nooks and crannies. Due to the short distance, I arrived early, but it was already 4 pm before I put my laundry in the machine and went to the famous Heritage Park. Unfortunately, it was too late to explore, but I snapped a few pictures before they closed the gates.

The following morning, I explored Kamphaeng Phet by bicycle, a vast area of ancient ruins, trees, and shade - what a delightful experience!

 

19 - 20 January – Kamphaeng Phet – Sukhothai – 85 km

From Kamphaeng Phet, I again opted for a rural path that ran past rice, banana, corn and sugarcane plantations. The weather was perfect, and I biked along, hardly stopping as the going was super easy.

 

Thailand's central region is a fertile plain that provides easy cycling. It's also the birthplace of the culture and language that defines Thailand today. Sukhothai is, therefore, immensely touristy, and a budget room came at 400 THB. Once booked in, I realised my wallet was nowhere to be found! I have two wallets, one containing my day money, which is in my handlebar bag and the other holding my bank cards and remaining cash. At my destination, there was no sign of my main wallet! I freaked right there and then! It doesn't matter how much money you have, without access to it you have nothing!

 

I contacted my sister, Amanda: Please send money! But even that would take at least 24 hours. Adding that I couldn't access my Thai bank app, made my stress levels go through the roof! Many hours later, I had money in my wallet, and I hoped the money transfers would show the next day. Phew! What a day! Thanks to Vitoonguesthouse2Fanroom, who allowed me to book in without paying - it is much appreciated!

An additional day was spent in Sukhothai as I waited for the money transferred to show in my bank account and to investigate the area. Sukhothai was the capital of the first Kingdom of Siam in the 13th and 14th centuries, and the area has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The old walled city is home to some of the most well-preserved and impressive ruins I've seen in Thailand. A delightful day was spent cycling the outlying area. The park is open until 8 pm, and as I was staying across the road, I walked to the nearby temples. The park was much nicer to explore at sunset than in the midday heat.

 

21 January – Sukhothai – Phitsanulok 78 km

From Sukhothai, a 78-kilometre ride took me to Phitsanulok. The route was relatively uneventful, but I was fortunate to find a bike lane along the main road. With the wind at my back, I made good progress and arrived in Phitsanulok early.

 

I was surprised by the town, mainly because it reminded me of India. The old town, with its famous Buddha and charming historical structures, also gave me an Indian vibe.

 

My accommodation was quite intriguing, as it was bounded by the highway, the railway line, and a mosque! Although immensely central, I thought it best to walk to the nearest 7-Eleven to buy a two-pack, as I didn’t think I would get much sleep. LOL.

 

22 January – Phitsanulok – Taphan Hin – 100 km

I was pleasantly surprised by the comfort of my hotel despite the muezzin's call. I didn't hear the muezzin but woke to the hustle and bustle of the street below (it must have been that two-pack - LOL).

After a breakfast of coffee, fried dough, bananas, and biscuits (included in the room rate), I nervously attempted to cross the busy Main Road and I must have made such a spectacle that cars stopped allowing me to pass. I continued south along the Nan River, passing temples and people living on barges. The weather was pleasant, and most rice paddies were still green, as they were near the river and not dependent on rain.

After 100 kilometres, and spotting the New Hua Hin Hotel (which wasn't new, not even by any stretch of the imagination), I decided to call it a day. The small village was bustling as food vendors set up their stalls. After a quick shower, I barely had to walk 100 metres to find a delicious noodle dish. It was such a novelty that I opted for a takeaway.

 

23 January - Taphan Hin – Tha Tako – 98 km

The morning market was already in full swing on departing the (not-so-new) New Hua Hin Hotel. I continued south along the river, passing the, by now, familiar small villages and bright green rice paddies.

Around noon, I decided to change my route and head east instead of going through Bangkok. However, I soon realised I needed to withdraw more cash, but Miss Smarty Pants' decision to cancel her Bangkok Bank card meant I couldn't make a cardless withdrawal. The word “fuck” left my mouth with alarming frequency! Fortunately, I had just about enough money for a room and food. Still, I desperately needed to stop at the nearest Bangkok Bank, 55 kilometres to the south, first thing in the morning. The drama was never-ending!

 

24 January - Tha Tako- Nakhon Sawan – 48 km

By morning, I blitzed the 50 kilometres to Nakhon Sawan, where I came to a screeching halt in front of Bangkok Bank. Not much later, I walked out with money and a new bank card in my wallet. Phew!

I was so relieved that I booked into a nearby hotel and walked to the mall. My wandering took me through the city park, a massive area with bike and walking lanes, as well as basketball and volleyball courts. I love new destinations where everything is unfamiliar, and I can't understand the language. The city was buzzing with preparations for the Year of the Dragon celebrations, and red lanterns and dragons were everywhere.

 

25 January – Nakhon Sawan - Chai Nat – 92 km

If I followed the main road, the day’s distance would have been 62 kilometres, and if I followed the route suggested by Organic Maps, it would have been 72 kilometres. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I again followed the river, and a winding river it was. The little settlements I encountered were old-worldly, and wooden shophouses lined the path. I loved it. The Chao Phraya River is one of the main rivers in Thailand and, like any other important waterway, it comes with an ancient history. It’s a place where the temples are old and the boats long!

There was no need to stop in Chai Nat, but it looked like a sizable town with inexpensive accommodation.

 

26 January – Chat Nai - Ang Thong – 100 km

The next morning, I followed the route indicated by Organic Maps for about five kilometres before veering off onto a smaller path. What a delight to make my way through these tiny hamlets where cats, dogs and water monitors lay sleeping on the road. One can easily assume they are dead. I tried to make a noise to warn them I’m coming, but their eyelids or ears only flickered.

I dragged my heels a tad, and it must have been near 4 pm when I arrived in Ang Thong. Shortly before the town, I stopped at Wat Sukkasem Thammikaram, a 130-year-old temple home to a 38.9-metre-high statue of Phra Siwali Mahalap. The statue can be seen from many kilometres away. According to ancient belief, Phra Siwali Mahalap brings good fortune and lottery results. Hence, villagers flock here to pay homage and ask for blessings by offering honey, fresh fruit, and white or fragrant flowers. The honey may have something to do with the swarm of bees that annually nest under the arm of the statue, and hundreds of people visit the temple during that time.

Finding inexpensive accommodation was easy, and I soon spotted the popular budget Ang Thong hotel. I couldn’t wait to get in the shower - as I have often said: a shower is never overrated. Afterwards, I washed my cycling clothes in the wastepaper bin, and I’m sure they never had such a clean bin. Then, I could finally walk to the 7-Eleven for my evening beer and portion of vegetarian fried rice.

 

27-28 January – Ang Thong – Ayutthaya - 65 km

I had no intention of going to Ayutthaya but ended up there anyway. Again, the way was mainly along a canal dotted by typical Thai-style timber homes on stilts and, of course, numerous temples, one more ornate than the other.

In Ayutthaya, I cycled to the train station thinking of taking a train into Bangkok, but there was a two-hour wait for the train and, instead, I sought out my old favourite Baan Lotus Guesthouse, a converted old schoolhouse. I felt tired and only walked to the shop for food and relaxed for the rest of the afternoon.

 

29-30 January – Ayutthaya – Bangkok – 85 km

Although I wasn't feeling up to it, I decided to cycle the 85 kilometres to Bangkok. Luckily, it was Sunday and the traffic light. However, cycling into a city with a population of 11 million can be pretty nerve-wracking. I was relieved to finally arrive at my destination, but I chose to take the train from Bangkok to Pattaya as I had cycled that route too many times before and wasn't in the mood for the traffic.

I slept so well that I woke up too late to catch the train, but it wasn't a big deal since I enjoy spending time in Bangkok.

 

31 January – Bangkok – Pattaya 15 km (by train)

The previous evening, I made sure the alarm was set and I cycled the five kilometres to the train station in the dark. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if drivers could see me.

Getting the bicycle onto the train was challenging since the door was relatively narrow, and it required careful manoeuvring to get the bike into the coach. Three hours later, it took the same effort to get off at Pattaya station.

Once I arrived at my room, the washing machine worked overtime, and I cleaned the bike bags so they would be ready for use after mid-March. I'm wondering which route I should take next, as there are many exciting destinations.

166 THAILAND - A RIDE ALONG THE SOUTH COAST

166 THAILAND - A RIDE ALONG THE SOUTH COAST

20 February – 26 February 2023

358 Kilometres - 6 Days

PHOTOS 

20 February - Pattaya – Rayong – 78 km

It was “take two”! Early in the morning, my panniers were packed and ready, but I wasn’t heading to India as intended last November. Instead, I planned to do a short meander around Thailand as my friend Dawn arrived on the 27th. The main aim was to ensure the bike and equipment were in good condition and working order.

Although keen to get going, it was almost midday when I cycled out of Sodom and Gomorrah. In no time at all, I found myself on rural roads past cassava plantations with elephants grazing in the far distance, colourful temples, and Buddha statues. Then, up and over Big Buddha Mountain, still grinning from ear to ear.

By the time I pedalled into Rayong, I could feel I’d spent the best part of the day on the bike and called it a day at Richy Grand. Situated in the Chinese quarters, the guesthouse is well-located close to the night market. One should never go to the night market hungry!

 

21 February - Rayong – Pak Nam Krasae – 70 km

It was almost ten before I biked out of Rayong, and it was an immense pleasure to find myself upon a minor road past grazing cattle and through tiny settlements with brightly coloured homes—places where almost everything is peddled from motorbikes with sidecars. I’m sure Thailand is the only place in the world where a BBQ is allowed next to a petrol tank.

Soon my chosen route spat me out flush next to the coast on a road sporting a bike lane. The slight breeze was refreshing in the midday heat. At one of these communities, I met a Hungarian chap who has been living in Thailand for the past 40 years, and he invited me for a cold drink. How kind of him. Refreshed, I ambled over large rivers and past mangrove swamps until crossing the Prasae Sin Bridge. Here I spotted an authentic-looking village along the banks of the river. Turning in, only a few foreigners appeared to visit Pah Nam Krassae, as no English was spoken. I love places like that! However, it isn’t rocket science to explain that you’re looking for a place to sleep, and soon I was comfortably ensconced in a lovely room with air-con and hot water. At first, I thought finding food would be more problematic, but everyone understood “mangsawirat” (vegetarian) and “khaw phad” (fried rice). I had so much time I even rinsed my clothes!

 

22 February – Pak Nam Krasae – Chanthaburi – 75 km

Twenty kilometres after leaving, I stopped at a 7-Eleven for food, after which I continued along the coastal route. I love that a cycle lane ran almost the entire way to Chanthaburi. It was easy riding and a pleasure to be out on the bike. Once in Chanthaburi, I opted for the old quarters along the river, allowing plenty of time to stroll along the river, find food and relax.

 

23 February - Chanthaburi – Roadside guesthouse - 65 km

After umming and ahhing whether to stay in Chantaburi an additional day, I eventually saddled up and slowly started the return trip to Jomtien. The ride was pleasant, and the going easy. On spotting a three hundred THB room, I called it quits as finding inexpensive accommodation isn’t easy along the coast. My 40 THB meal of fried noodles was so much I couldn’t finish it.

 

24 February – Roadside Guesthouse – Rayong – 75 km

I took a different route, which was easy as there were hundreds of more minor roads. In fact, I don’t think I could find my original way even if I tried. The South Coast is relatively flat and, in places, resembles an estuary or delta. Thus, I crossed many rivers where fishing appeared as the main occupation. Back in Rayong, I cycled straight to Richy Grant as rooms were only 300THB and a place where one could wheel the bike right in, add a nearby night market, and it was a winner.

 

25 February - Rayong – Jomtien – 70 km

I zig-zagged through the countryside along farm roads, which always makes for an enjoyable day out. Little happened, as I was in the area only a few days prior. I thus didn’t stop and cycled back non-stop. It was somewhat of a stupid thing to do as I arrived starving and couldn’t wait to unlock the door and devour whatever was available.

Time to chuck the dirty laundry in the washing machine, shower and relax.

I was pleased with my little Tour d’South; although my arms are not 100%, they held up well (if I kept the distances short). Hopefully, my arms will be much stronger when I leave on the next trip around the end of April.

 

26 February Jomtien

Sorting out photos kept me busy the entire morning, and soon it was midday and time to collect the key to Dawn’s apartment. In the process, I had a beer with Karen and friends and was thus useless for the rest of the afternoon.

 

27 February – Jomtien

Seeing I had a day of rest the previous day, I donned the running shoes for an eight km jog along the beachfront. Returning dripping with perspiration, I first swept the floor and put the bedding in the washing machine before jumping in the pool for my daily kilometre swim. Funny how swimming always feels energising. Then back in front of the computer to sort out the last photos. Staving, I fried an egg, not something I often do as I think it’s too much trouble washing a pan. LOL. I must’ve been ravenous.

 

165 A DISASTROUS 2022

RECOVERY THAILAND
July 2022 – January 2023

 PHOTOS

 

9 July – Jomtien

Bouncing out of bed on a heavily overcast morning had nothing to do with my agility but rather the sing-along music playing. Music that made a person want to punch the air, exclaiming, “let’s go, baby”! Thus, Dire Straits was still blaring in my ears as I set off to the beach at a brisk pace. Unfortunately, the euphoria was short-lived, as I’d become rather unfit during the past six weeks. Having no running shoes, my old sandals had to do, and running in sandals isn’t all comfortable. Still, it was a pleasant walk, and the threatening rain never materialised. People were surprised to see me back in Jomtien, but so was I.  Returning, I picked up a bunch of bananas from my favourite fruit lady before heading into town to hunt for running shoes. Unfortunately, I scarcely made it to Beach Road before a storm broke. The weather came down with such force that it brought trees and electric poles down. The 7-eleven made an excellent place to hide from where a cab took me home—no point shopping in such weather.

 

10 July – Jomtien

Mundane tasks in a house or apartment take up much time. May it be sweeping, dusting, making a bed or doing dishes. These are actions not required when cycling. What a complete waste of time, as these jobs are never-ending. Thus, none of the above got done, and I lazily made coffee - left the mug on the coffee table and showered without picking up the towel. Instead, I listened to peaceful Reiki music said to increase positive energy. It was wonderfully relaxing, but still, no housework got done.

With my energy restored, I ventured to the mall, searching for new running/hiking shoes. Of course, it’s never an easy task finding such a combination. Still, I located a pair of trail running Hoka’s primarily designed for technical running and hoped they would be suitable for running.

 

11 July – Jomtien

By morning I keenly set out to test the new shoes. But, unfortunately, couldn’t say they were super comfortable as they were too narrow around the toe area. It’s so much easier to stick to shoes you know. Still, it wasn’t the end of the world, and I cut holes where the pressure points were.

Once home, it was back to finalising the last of the Malawian blog, as the longer I left it, the less I felt like doing it.

 

12 July – Jomtien

Early morning, I again set out for a jog. Being the rainy season, there weren’t many people on the beach. The umbrellas and chairs looked forlorn in the breeze, but still, stall owners were optimistic and put out tables, shrines and coconuts. The gentle breeze was a blessing as the weather remained hot and humid even though overcast.

Feeling surprisingly energetic, I pumped the bicycle tires and cautiously tested riding. Yes, it can be done, but it’s far from comfortable.

 

13 July

With nothing planned for the day, I cycled to the Lotus to test cycling and pick up a few things needed from the supermarket. Unfortunately, the hand remains uncomfortable, and I can’t see myself cycling any distance for a while.

Being Asalha Bucha day, a public holiday in Thailand, the streets and mall were quiet. This day, the first full moon of the eighth lunar month, commemorates the Buddha’s first sermon in Deer Park in Benares, India and the founding of the Buddhist sangha (monkhood) about 2,500 years ago. (The date in Thailand is thus 13 July 2565 BE)

In the sermon, known as ‘Setting the Wheel of Dhamma in Motion’, the Buddha first spelt out the Four Noble Truths and the Noble Eightfold Path.

 

July 2022 - February 2023

Eventually, my wrist healed, although it would never be 100%. But, at least I could cycle relatively easily using a wrist brace.

In the meantime, I had word from Dawn and was excited to learn she was planning on visiting Thailand. A fantastic month was spent eating, drinking, and doing other fun stuff. It was good to see my friend again.

After a month, Dawn returned to Australia, and I was excited to return to India. The Indian visa is an uncomplicated process, but the two wheel rims ordered took forever to arrive. Eventually, it took going to Bangkok myself, something that should’ve been done months ago, instead of waiting until the last minute. Finally, all was in place to leave for India. Sadly, while cycling back from the beach after taking a few sunset pictures, a scooter knocked me off the bicycle, resulting in two broken elbows.

To make a long story short, a week later, in early November 2022, I flew to South Africa. As can be imagined, I was mighty relieved to get off the chock-a-block plane. A visit to the hospital revealed what was already known. As in Thailand, doctors seemed more concerned about the fractured radial head, which I thought was my good arm. A CT scan was booked for 15 November (it’s a government hospital). Only after the scan will a decision be made. Both arms were again placed in a half cast (back slab), and there, I thought I could sneak in a short jog. Unfortunately, it seems walking was my only option for a while.

All went smoothly, and I was mighty impressed with the medical service received. The dislocated elbow was realigned, and a metal plate and screws were fitted to hold the fractured olecranon together. The radial head couldn’t be repaired and was replaced with a metal piece. Finally, the ligaments around the elbow were repaired and reattached using a screw.

Phew, happy that’s behind me! I’m even more impressed that I’ve regained almost full motion and rotation barely six weeks after the operation. And to think all at US$30.00. Finally, my bags were packed, and I was ready to return to the tropics and my bike. Although I stayed with my sister, it remained less expensive in Thailand. Thanks, Amanda!

I hope 2023 will be kinder to me. Back in Thailand, cycling remained, nonetheless, highly uncomfortable, but changing the bike’s setup made it easier to ride the bike.

164 CYCLE TOURING MALAWI (2)

 

Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand

BETWEEN DUST AND WATER

MALAWI
Km 650 – 55 Days
10 May – 4 July 2022

PDF

VOICEOVER

PHOTOS

 

 

CYCLE TOURING MALAWI

 

 

Chapter 1: Into Malawi

 

Border crossings

The border lay scarcely twenty kilometres from Chipata, yet it felt like a passage into another world. A slip of paper, twenty dollars, and a perfunctory nod were all it took to cross. No queues, no PCR tests, no fuss. Africa has its own way of smoothing the edges of bureaucracy, and I found myself pedalling into Malawi with a stamped passport and a sense of curiosity.

Malawi is a sliver of land, narrow and elongated, hemmed in by neighbours and dominated by its great lake. I had imagined it would take little time to traverse, but the country immediately proved otherwise. Borders are not just lines on maps; they are thresholds of culture. Within minutes, the scenery shifted. Sugarcane appeared in abundance, stalks clutched in every hand, chewed with a rhythm that seemed to pulse through the villages. The potholes deepened, bicycles multiplied, and the cadence of life slowed into something distinctly Malawian.

At roadside stands, meat sizzled over open flames, chips fried in battered pans. The smell of sizzling oil drifted across the dusty roadside, and as I handed over a few kwacha, the crowd pressed closer, curious to see how the foreigner would eat their everyday food. It felt like the entire neighbourhood gathered as though a circus had arrived. Children shrieked in delight, their voices rising in a chorus of “Azungu, azungu!” — wanderer, foreigner, spirit. The word carried echoes of history, once used to describe restless spirits, now applied to anyone with pale skin. Their laughter was infectious, though tinged with awe, as if my presence cracked open a window to another world.

After 90 kilometres, midway to Lilongwe, I surrendered to the lure of a rest house. The walls were unpainted, the bedding tattered, the bathroom a hole in the ground at the far end of the yard. Yet the rate was four dollars, and the door closed firmly. In Africa, my comfort is often measured not in thread count but in the simple luxury of privacy. I told myself I would shower in Lilongwe.

 

 

Chapter 2: Smoke and Birdsong

 

Barefoot Lodge and Kindness

Dawn arrived with the crowing of cocks and the squeak of doors as guests shuffled to the latrine. Smoke hung low over the village, fires stoked for breakfast, children walking to school, women tending chip stands. The smell of smouldering wood was unmistakably African — earthy, sweet, and alive. I brewed coffee on my stove, watched by curious eyes, and set off once more.

The road narrowed, winding through villages where every purchase became a spectacle. Nearing Lilongwe, a sign pointed to Barefoot Lodge, a place another traveller had recommended. I veered off the main road and found a haven: cottages, a campsite, dorms shaded by trees. Rudolph, the owner, welcomed me with a smile and offered cyclists a free night if they paid for one. I pitched my tent, grateful for kindness, and spent the next day in idleness, though I should have done laundry.

 

A hop and a skip to Lilongwe

Birdsong woke me the next morning, a gentle chorus that felt like a blessing. I loaded my bike slowly, for the day’s ride was short — only fifteen kilometres into the capital. I chose a rural path, weaving through traditional villages where life unfolded in rhythms far removed from the city. Children followed, wide-eyed, their laughter trailing behind me. In Lilongwe, I found Mabuya Camp, a backpackers’ lodge shaded by trees, but empty of travellers. The absence was palpable; international tourism had not yet returned to its former pulse.

I walked to the city mall, withdrew kwacha — one US dollar equalling a thousand — and bought supplies for the journey south. The streets were alive with informal trade. At traffic lights, vendors sold jeans, brooms, fruit, vegetables. Commerce spilt into every corner, vibrant and unrestrained. I loved the ease with which people moved, the improvisation of daily life. Back at Mabuya Camp, I repacked my panniers, preparing for the road to Blantyre, where Caron would join me for three weeks of shared adventure.

 

 

Chapter 3: The Road to Blantyre

 

The Road to Salima

The road from Lilongwe to Salima was a narrow 110-kilometre ride, hemmed in by hills that demanded patience and strength. Each incline slowed my pace; children ran alongside, their voices rising in a chorus of “Muzungu, muzungu, give me money!” At first their demands grated, but I discovered that a simple greeting — a smile, a question about their well-being — dissolved the tension. Connection, even fleeting, was stronger than coins.

The final descent carried me toward Lake Malawi, the country’s beating heart. The air shifted, cooler and damp, as the horizon opened into blue. Villages along the way revealed rectangular huts, a legacy of colonial encouragement to build “proper” European-style homes. Yet, I thought of the circular huts I had seen elsewhere in Africa, their geometry echoing communal life: circles around fires, circles of elders, circles where no one is hidden. Round walls resist the wind; they resist exclusion too.

Salima offered a courtyard guesthouse, inexpensive and unpretentious. My laptop gave up the ghost that evening, a cruel twist for a writer on the road. I hoped Blantyre’s repair shops might breathe life back into it. For now, I surrendered to the rhythm of the land.

 

Ceremonies in Dust

A 80 km bike ride to Kolomoti carried me past baobabs, their trunks swollen like ancient guardians, and women balancing baskets of pumpkins on their heads with effortless grace. Men herded cattle along dusty tracks, and roadside markets spilt colour into the landscape.

Then came the ceremony. Drums thundered, dust rose, and dancers stamped in unison, their bodies adorned with masks and tribal cloth. The air vibrated with energy, a spectacle both mesmerizing and intimidating. I longed to capture it with my camera, but the crowd pressed close, demanding money for each click. The atmosphere shifted from celebration to claustrophobia, and I slipped away, carrying the rhythm in memory rather than pixels.

That night was spent in a modest lodge down a dirt road. I paid 7000 kwacha for a room. The scrutiny of villagers was intense, but the door closed firmly, and I was content. Privacy is a currency of its own.

 

Headwinds and Silence

Breakfast was a feast: chips, eggs, salad, porridge, coffee. I needed every calorie, even though the road to Balaka was short only 85 km it was punishing. A headwind pressed against me, relentless, and each kilometre felt doubled. Villagers reacted to my presence with fear — a woman dropped her bundle of wood and fled into the bushes, children carrying water buckets scattered at the sight of my camera. One slipped down an embankment in panic, a moment that left me stunned. I tucked the camera away.

Yet amid the unease, there was peace. The countryside carried a rhythm of its own, unhurried and self-contained. Life here was not harder, I thought, merely different. The concrete jungle has its own burdens; the rural path its own serenity.

 

Toward Blantyre

From Balaka to Zalewa, the road climbed steadily. I bought mandasies — fried dough balls — for fifty kwacha each, and the purchase drew a crowd of curious eyes. Every transaction was theatre. Later, the asphalt ended abruptly, replaced by uneven gravel. Vendors sold grilled mice on sticks, bamboo cages with bright birds, curiosities of survival and trade.

The wind rose again, and fatigue pressed hard. I surrendered to the lure of an upmarket guesthouse, pricey but promising a warm shower. Blantyre lay only sixty kilometres ahead, and Caron would not arrive for several days. I had time to pause.

In Blantyre, I waited for Caron, and after her arrival, we ambled into town for a SIM Card and a few needed items.

 

 

Chapter 4: Mulanje — The Mountain of Spirits

 

Across the tea plantations

We pedalled out of Blantyre well-fed and rested, panniers bulging with supplies for the days ahead. The road toward Mulanje carried us past tea plantations, their luminous green stretching endlessly, workers bent low as they plucked leaves with rhythmic precision. The chaos of market towns gave way to quiet paths, and by evening we reached Likhubula, where guides and porters waited beneath the shadow of the massif.

Mulanje is no ordinary mountain. Its granite shoulders rise abruptly from the plains, cloaked in cedar forests and mist. Legends speak of spirits dwelling in its ravines, and as we arranged our hike, I felt both anticipation and reverence. Vincent, our guide, greeted us with calm authority, and a porter shouldered our bulging pack. We were ready.

 

Day One: Into the Clouds

Fog lay low as we set off, walking sticks freshly carved and engraved. The trail wound upward through dense woodland, damp earth releasing its scent beneath our boots. Soon we emerged at a waterfall, its spray cool against our faces, before climbing higher still.

By midday, the mist parted, unveiling peaks that pierced the sky. Chambe Hut awaited us, a simple refuge with a caretaker who brewed tea and heated water for washing. Caron took the shower gratefully; I chose to remain unwashed, content to sit by the fire with a Carlsberg beer, watching the sun sink behind the ridges. The mountain had welcomed us gently.

 

Day Two: Fragrance and Fellowship

The morning dawned bright, and we set off at a leisurely pace. Shrubs brushed against our legs, releasing herbal fragrances, while cedar trees perfumed the air. Birds sang unseen, their melodies weaving into the silence.

At midday we paused at a hut, sharing lunch with two hikers from New Zealand. Later, at Tuchila Hut, we met a Belgian traveller who had brought not only a guide and porter but a cook. Her meal included dessert, while ours was instant noodles. We laughed at the contrast, envy softened by camaraderie. Travel humbles and delights in equal measure.

 

Day Three: The Break

The morning was glorious, sunlight spilling across granite outcrops. We descended into fern-filled ravines, the air cool and damp. Then came the slip. My foot lost grip, and I fell hard. Pain shot through me, and when I looked, my wrist bent at an unnatural angle.

It is a terrible thing to see your own body betray you. I wanted to cry, to rage, but neither would help. Caron’s holiday shattered in that instant, yet she remained calm, steady. Vincent tried to push the bone back into place — agony beyond words — before fashioning a splint from tape and wood. We cooked pasta that night, speaking little. I felt the weight of guilt, of inconvenience, of fragility. The mountain had turned from companion to adversary.

 

Day Four: Descent

The final walk was slow, each downhill step a trial. My shoes lacked tread, my wrist throbbed, but the scenery remained magnificent. Tea plantations stretched luminous and endless, a reminder that beauty persists even in pain.

At the trail’s end, Vincent arranged a ride back to Likhubula. The hike was over, not as planned, but complete, nonetheless. Mulanje had given us vistas, fragrances, fellowship — and a broken wrist. It was a lesson in humility, in the unpredictability of journeys. We stowed our bikes and began to plan the next stage, knowing that resilience would carry us forward.

 

 

Chapter 5: Casts and Kindness

 

Zomba

We left Mulanje with my wrist bound in a makeshift splint, Caron steady at my side. Pain pulsed with each movement, but there was nothing to do except soldier on. A small car carried us and our bicycles to Zomba, its backseat crammed with panniers and frames. The driver laughed at the improbable load, yet somehow it fit.

Pakachere Backpackers welcomed us with dorms and camping, and I slowly pitched the tent, each task a reminder of my injury. Caron, ever resourceful, arranged a day trip to the plateau while I sought medical help.

The hospital was a labyrinth of ramshackle buildings, patients bleeding and limping through corridors. Equipment squeaked, offices resembled storerooms, and yet care was given freely. X-rays revealed the fracture, and a half-cast was applied. “Return in three days,” they said, “once the swelling subsides.” The bones did not align, but concern seemed minimal.

Zomba itself was cool at 1000 metres, the air crisp. We borrowed blankets, wandered dusty markets, searched for food and a backpack for my bus journeys ahead. On the plateau, Emperor’s View opened wide, named for Haile Selassie’s visit in 1965. Rastafarians still climb to honour the place, pipes in hand, smoke curling into the sky.

Back in town, I returned reluctantly to the hospital. The swelling had eased, and a full cast was applied. My arm was heavy, awkward, but secure. We ended the day with beer and chips, small comforts against the weight of circumstance.

 

Liwonde — Hippos and Elephants

Caron set off bravely on her first solo ride, pedalling toward Liwonde. I followed in a minivan, my bicycle stored safely in Zomba. The road was rough, potholes deep, but kindness smoothed the way. A helper carried my bag on her head, laughing at my astonishment.

Bushman’s Baobab camp was closed, but fortune intervened. Across the road, a half-built lodge offered us a vast room at the price of camping. We settled in beside the Shire River, lulled by the grunts of hippos in the night.

At dawn, we set out by canoe. The riverbanks teemed with life: elephants moving with gentle grace, hippos surfacing with snorts, their skin glistening in the sun. They cannot sweat, I learned, but secrete a reddish oil that acts as sunblock — the origin of the myth that hippos sweat blood. The air was alive with birdsong, the water rippled with movement.

Here, amid wildlife, my broken wrist seemed insignificant. Nature carried on, vast and indifferent, yet profoundly soothing. The elephants reminded me of resilience, the hippos of adaptation. I watched them for hours, forgetting pain, remembering wonder.

 

Monkey Bay — Edge of the Lake

From Mangochi, Caron pedalled onward while I wrestled with the unpredictability of public transport. Minivans sputtered, broke down, and transferred passengers mid-journey, each hiccup a reminder that riding a bicycle could be simpler than relying on engines. By the time I reached Monkey Bay, Caron was already there, smiling despite fatigue.

Mufasa Lodge sat at the water’s edge, a haven of simplicity. Our days dissolved into idleness: chasing monkeys who tried to steal our food, watching the lake shift from silver to blue, debating whether its waters were colder than legend claimed. Lake Malawi, part of the Great Rift Valley, stretched vast and ancient, home to more fish species than any other lake in the world. Its immensity humbled me.

 

Cape Maclear — Nets and Sunsets

A short ride carried us to Cape Maclear, where Fat Monkeys Lodge offered shelter. The village pulsed with activity: fishermen mending nets, children splashing in the shallows, women washing clothes in the lake. The wind was strong, boats stayed ashore, and we watched as the rhythm of life unfolded in communal tasks.

We joined the crowd at sunset, beer in hand, as the sky blazed red. The lake mirrored the fire above, and for a moment, everything stilled. Malawi’s beauty was not in grand monuments but in these ordinary rituals, shared and repeated across generations.

 

Chapter: Domwe Island — Silence and Solitude

Caron paddled across the bay in a kayak, her strokes steady, while I followed by boat with our gear. Domwe Island lay only five kilometres offshore, yet it felt worlds away. The camp was rustic, perched on wooden platforms beneath thatch, and we were the only guests.

There was little to do but listen: to the wind rustling through trees, to the lap of water against rocks, to silence itself. We tried swimming, but the lake’s chill drove us back quickly. Instead, we lingered in hammocks, grateful for solitude. Two days passed like a dream, unmarked by clocks or obligations.

 

 

Chapter 6: The Ilala Ferry across Lake Malawi

 

A Floating Theatre

Monkey Bay’s pier was alive before dawn, a hive of bodies and bundles. Bags of tomatoes, potatoes, and maize flour balanced on heads, children clutched chickens, traders shouted over the din. Caron and I joined the throng, tickets in hand, and were swept aboard the MV Ilala.

The ferry was old, more than seventy years, and famous for delays. Its cabins were crowded, its decks chaotic, but it offered a perspective no road could. At each lakeside village, the Ilala’s arrival was spectacle. Only a few harbours had piers; elsewhere, fishermen’s boats ferried passengers and cargo through the waves. Goods were shoved, lifted, balanced, shouted over. Boarding and disembarking became theatre, performed in the glow of lanterns or under the stars.

By the time we reached Nkhata Bay, it was two in the morning. Disembarking was slow, bodies pressed together, bags tumbling. At last, we stumbled into Mayoka Village, a cliffside lodge overlooking the lake. At four a.m., exhausted, we collapsed into bed, lulled by the sound of waves against rock.

 

 

Chapter 7: Cliffside Kindness
 

Nakata Bay

Back on terra firma, I received the heart-wrenching news that my mother has passed away, and it struck me profoundly how a mother embodies unconditional love. Despite my tumultuous journey and frequent missteps, she remained my unwavering anchor, always there, steadfast and solid as a rock, offering support and warmth.

Mayoka Village clung to the cliffs above the lake, its huts and terraces tumbling toward the water. For three days, we lingered, doing little but watching the rhythms of life unfold. Caron paddled kayaks across the bay, her strokes steady and sure, while I sat with my cast, listening to the waves slap against the shore, thinking of my mum. Always there, never demanding, never loud.

The lodge itself was a marvel of ingenuity. Showers were heated by “donkeys” — fires lit at sunset, keeping water hot until morning. Toilets were eco-friendly, ash and sawdust replacing flushes. It was simple, sustainable, and oddly luxurious.

Each walk into the village brought encounters with curio sellers and Rasta men offering “meditation cookies.” Tourism had not yet returned to normal, and their optimism in the face of hardship was humbling. Seeing my arm in plaster, they instinctively placed their hands on their hearts, saying softly, “I’m so sorry.” Their compassion was immediate, uncalculated. Malawi’s kindness was everywhere, woven into daily exchanges.

 

Chapter: Mzuzu — The End of the Ride

Caron’s time in Malawi was running short. We loaded panniers once more, she on her bicycle, me in a shared taxi. The road to Mzuzu wound through hills, fifty kilometres of effort for her, a cramped ride for me.

Umunthu Lodge welcomed us with comfort and good food, a fitting place to pause. For Caron, Mzuzu marked the end of her cycle ride. Ahead lay buses, schedules, and the return to Lilongwe. For me, it was another reminder of how journeys shift — from wheels to feet, from freedom to farewell.

Just when I believed life couldn't possibly take a darker turn, I received the heartbreaking news that my dear friend Dawn's husband, Dan, had passed away. During the long, isolating nights of the two-year COVID-19 pandemic, we spent countless evenings together, laughter and stories shared over frosty beers. They were more than just friends to me; they were true comrades, an inseparable part of my chosen family. The loss hit me like a thunderclap, leaving me utterly devastated and grappling with a profound sense of emptiness.

Caron and I walked to the bus station together, the air thick with diesel fumes and chatter. The ride south would carry us back toward the capital, but the memories of Malawi — its lake, its mountains, its ceremonies, its kindness and my losses — would remain etched deeper than any map.

 

Lessons from Malawi

Malawi was never just a line on my route. It was a country of contrasts: potholes and laughter, ceremonies and silence, hardship and losses, but also generosity. It was the place where my wrist broke, where I lost my Mum, lost a trusted friend, lost a member of our COVID tribe, where Caron’s resilience shone, where strangers carried my bags on their heads and offered sympathy without hesitation.

Travel is not about perfection. It is about surrender — to breakdowns, to delays, to kindness, to awe. Malawi taught me that fragility and resilience coexist, that our time here is fleeting, that beauty persists even in pain, and that the simplest gestures — a smile, a hand to the heart — can carry more weight than money.

As we boarded the bus south, I knew the journey was far from over. I did not conduct myself well. But Malawi had left its mark: a chapter of dust, sadness and water, of laughter, regret, loss and struggle, of kindness that lingers long after the road ends.