169 THAILAND (22) - EXPLORING THE CENTRAL PLAINS

Pedalling the Plains of Siam

169 Thailand (22)

9 January – 20 January 2024
1,377 Kilometres – 22 Days

PHOTOS
MAP
FLIP-BOOK
PDF
VOICEOVER

 Prelude

Before the map is folded open, before the first turn of the pedals, there is a quiet knowing that the road will offer more than passage, more than miles marked and completed.

It begins in stillness, in the space between intention and departure, where the horizon is not yet reached, only imagined.

To travel by bicycle is to surrender to the elements, to the slow unfolding of land and light, to the unhurried language of rivers. Each kilometre is earned, each breath a measure of presence, each encounter a thread in something larger than journey alone.

What follows is not simply a crossing of Thailand’s plains, but a wandering through time and texture—a drifting between ancient ruins, quiet villages, and endless sky, where movement becomes meditation, and distance dissolves into something softer, more infinite.

 

 

Setting Out Beneath a Heavy Sky - Jomtien to Bang Saen Beach (83 km)

It was already well past midday when I finally rolled out of Jomtien. The heat hung heavily in the air, and with it came my determination to avoid the chaotic traffic that clogs the corridor between Pattaya and Bangkok. I threaded my way onto quieter rural roads, where progress was slower but infinitely more pleasant. Eventually, after a testing ride, the calm of Bang Saen Beach came into view. Relief washed over me as I checked into a modest ten‑dollar room. It felt like luxury. I was, as the saying goes, as happy as a pig in mud.

As the sun sank towards the horizon, I wandered the short distance—less than two hundred metres—to the beach. I sat barefoot on the sand, warm grains slipping between my toes, a gentle sea breeze brushing my skin. The sky transformed minute by minute, colours deepening and shifting in a spectacle that felt almost theatrical. Sitting there, I felt immensely fortunate—grateful to be back on the road, back in motion, back where I belonged.

 

Following the Water’s Edge - Bang Saen Beach to Chachoengsao (65 km)

The day began beautifully, with the first thirty kilometres tracing the edge of the Gulf of Thailand, partly along a road built directly over the sea. The northern gulf is shallow and alive with birdlife, fishing boats scattered across the water like punctuation marks. Further inland, I followed the Bang Pakong River, though true country lanes proved elusive—a rarity in Thailand.

Efforts to protect the endangered Irrawaddy dolphins have transformed local livelihoods here, with former shrimp boats repurposed for dolphin‑watching tours. I hoped for a quiet riverside track and perhaps a glimpse of the dolphins themselves, but neither materialised. Heavy traffic eventually soured the ride, and I called it a day in Chachoengsao.

My early arrival gave me time to explore the atmospheric Banmai Market, more than a hundred years old and now open only on weekends. Traders still live within its weathered wooden buildings, perched above the river. The afternoon light was exquisite. Back in my room, reality intruded in the form of laundry—the least romantic but most necessary ritual of life on the road.

 

Through Fields and Quiet Villages - Chachoengsao to Amphoe Nong Khae, Saraburi (110 km)

Leaving Chachoengsao, I was rewarded with a far better day of cycling. A maze of rural roads unfolded before me, threading through rice paddies and tiny hamlets. The rhythm of pedalling through such landscapes is deeply soothing.

At one point, I picked up a bright red cloth, intending to fashion it into a safety flag. It proved far too large, so I tied it to my rear rack instead, hoping it would make me more visible. Much of the day unfolded beside a canal, its quiet presence guiding me kilometre after kilometre. After 110 kilometres, the tranquillity ended abruptly at a busy intersection, where I decided to stop. I was delighted to find a surprisingly fancy room for just fourteen dollars—“fancy” being, of course, a relative term.

 

Among Ruins and Restless Monkeys - Nong Khae to Lopburi (80 km)

I took far too many photographs on the way to Lopburi, unable to resist the beauty of the route. The ride followed railway lines and canals, an effortless glide through a landscape steeped in history. Lopburi itself is an ancient town, its ruins woven seamlessly into everyday Thai life.

The city is also home to its infamous monkey population, complete with a temple of their own. I arrived early, grateful, as the temperature climbed to a sweltering 35°C. My ten‑dollar room was basic but equipped with a fan, which was all I needed. Food became my primary occupation—Lopburi offers an endless parade of tempting dishes.

I stayed an extra day to explore. The monkeys were notorious enough that my windows remained permanently shut; even barred windows offer little deterrent to determined primates. The day passed wandering among ruins, history unfolding quietly around me.

 

Along the Green Arteries of the Plains - Lopburi to Khok Mai Den (110 km)

The ride to Khok Mai Den was uneventful in the best possible way. I followed water again—a canal or perhaps a river—flanked by luminous green rice paddies and fishermen casting their lines. Villages were few and far between, and I felt delightfully off the beaten track. Energy and contentment carried me forward. What a privilege it is, I thought, to experience the world at this pace.

Bright yellow Dharma flags fluttered outside ever‑present Buddhist temples, offering shade and quiet places to rest. After another 110 kilometres, I turned towards the highway in search of food and accommodation.

That evening, I noticed once again that beds in Asia rarely face the door. According to feng shui, this is the “dead man’s position,” resembling the way bodies are carried out. I embraced the Thai way of life completely and ordered takeaway from 7‑Eleven—free delivery, even with a generous tip, and no need to venture back into the dark.

 

A Gift by the Roadside - Khok Mai Den to Nakhon Sawan (53 km)

I lingered over the morning and didn’t leave my comfortable bungalow until after nine. Just two kilometres away lay the ruins of Khok Mai Den Ancient City, dating back to the Thawarawadi period. After exploring the hilltop remains, I returned to find a bag hanging from my handlebars—rice and soup, left by a monk, along with a Buddhist talisman. I was deeply touched, though the watery soup, complete with bird‑like chunks, proved a challenge to swallow.

I followed the Chao Phraya River upstream to its birthplace at the confluence of the Ping and Nan rivers in Nakhon Sawan. The surrounding farmland felt timeless: fried bananas sold roadside, petrol dispensed from Coca‑Cola bottles, farmers tending rice fields—some manually, others using drones whose purpose I could only guess at.

 

Northward with the River’s Rhythm - Nakhon Savan to Tha Makhuea (92 km)

Leaving Nakhon Sawan meant navigating heavy traffic and Chinese New Year preparations. Soon, however, a peaceful riverside path led me north past sleeping cats, dogs, and chickens. Women pedalled by with goods for sale, monks chanted at colourful temples, and kilometres slipped by effortlessly.

At water stops, shy conversations unfolded. “Where are you from?” “Africa Thai,” I’d reply, prompting delighted laughter. The inevitable follow‑up—“By bicycle?”—always ended with disbelief when I confirmed I was travelling alone.

 

Echoes of Kingdoms Past - Tha Makhuea to Kamphaeng Phet (56 km)

The road to Kamphaeng Phet was busy, sugarcane trucks rumbling past, stalks littering the tarmac. My reward was the UNESCO World Heritage Site—ruins dating to the 14th century, quieter and more contemplative than Sukhothai.

I stayed at Three J Guesthouse, a charming jumble of wooden bungalows and artistic corners. Laundry delayed my visit to the Heritage Park, and I arrived just before closing, snapping a few hurried photos. The following morning, cycling through the vast ruins beneath towering trees was an absolute joy.

 

Loss, Kindness, and Ancient Light - Kamphaeng Phet to Sukhothai (85 km)

Rural roads once again guided me past rice, banana, corn, and sugarcane fields. The weather was perfect, and I rode almost without stopping. Central Thailand’s fertile plains make for gloriously easy cycling.

Sukhothai, birthplace of Siam, was predictably touristy. After booking in, disaster struck—my wallet was gone. Panic surged. Without access to money, nothing else mattered. Calls were made, stress levels soared, and eventually relief arrived. The kindness of Vitoonguesthouse2Fanroom, who allowed me to stay without payment, will not be forgotten.

I spent an extra day exploring Sukhothai’s magnificent ruins. Cycling the park at sunset, rather than in the midday heat, revealed its true magic.

 

Riding the Tailwind of Fortune - Sukhothai to Phitsanulok (78 km)

A straightforward ride delivered me to Phitsanulok, aided by a rare bike lane and a tailwind. The town surprised me, its old quarter and famous Buddha giving off an unexpected Indian vibe.

My accommodation sat improbably between a highway, railway line, and mosque. Anticipating a sleepless night, I bought earplugs—but slept surprisingly well.

 

The Long Curve of the Nan River -Phitsanulok to Taphan Hin (100 km)

After breakfast, I nervously crossed the main road, drawing enough attention that cars stopped to let me cross. Riding south along the Nan River was pleasant, with temples, river barges, and green paddies all around.

Taphan Hin bustled as evening food stalls appeared. A shower, takeaway noodles, and early rest rounded out the day perfectly.

 

A change of Plans - Taphan Hin to Tha Tako (98 km)

The morning market was already alive when I left. The river guided me again through familiar villages and fields.

Around noon, I impulsively changed my route to avoid Bangkok — only to realise I needed cash. But I had cancelled my Bangkok Bank card, not realising it would also disable the cardless withdrawal feature. No money. The air turned blue with my swearing.

I had just enough for a room and food. The nearest bank was 55 kilometres away. Tomorrow’s problem.

 

The search for a Bank - Tha Tako to Nakhon Sawan (48 km)

I flew the 50 kilometres back to Nakhon Sawan and practically skidded to a halt in front of the bank. Minutes later, I walked out with cash and a new card. Relief washed over me like cool water.

I spent the afternoon wandering the city park, watching preparations for the Year of the Dragon. Lanterns and dragons everywhere — red, bright, celebratory.

 

The River Runs South - Nakhon Sawan to Chai Nat (92 km)

The main road would have been quicker, but the river tempted me again. It wound through old‑world settlements where wooden shophouses leaned toward the water. The Chao Phraya carries centuries in its current; you can feel it.

There was no need to stop in Chai Nat, but it looked pleasant enough with inexpensive accommodation.

 

Temples, Honey, Flowers and Bees - Chai Nat to Ang Thong (100 km)

I followed Organic Maps for a few kilometres before slipping onto smaller paths. The hamlets were sleepy, animals sprawled across the road like discarded rugs. Even the water monitors barely twitched.

Near Ang Thong, I stopped at Wat Sukkasem Thammikaram, home to the towering 38.9‑metre statue of Phra Siwali Mahalap. Villagers brought honey and flowers, hoping for blessings and good fortune. Bees nested beneath the statue’s arm — a living omen.

After biking 100 km, a budget hotel was easy to find. The shower felt like salvation. I washed my cycling clothes in the wastepaper bin and rewarded myself with a beer and a plate of vegetarian fried rice from 7-Eleven.

 

A Ruined Capital - Ang Thong to Ayutthaya (65 km)

I hadn’t planned on Ayutthaya, but the road led me there anyway—canals, timber houses on stilts, temples rising like ornate mirages.

At the train station, the next train to Bangkok was two hours away. I abandoned the idea and returned to my favourite Baan Lotus Guesthouse. The old schoolhouse welcomed me like an old friend.

 

Into the City - Ayutthaya to Bangkok (85 km)

Despite my reluctance, I cycled the 85 kilometres to Bangkok. Sunday traffic was merciful, but entering a city of eleven million still rattles the nerves. I arrived safely and decided to take the train to Pattaya — I’d ridden that road too many times.

I slept deeply, missed the train, and didn’t mind at all.

 

Returning, But Not the Same - Bangkok to Pattaya by Train

The following morning, I cycled to the station before dawn, anxious about being seen in the dark. Getting the bike onto the train required awkward manoeuvring; getting off required the same.

Back in Pattaya, I washed everything — clothes, bags, the residue of the road. By evening, I was already wondering where to go next.

There are so many possibilities. But before I could do that, I had a few tasks to complete, as my wallet held not only my Thai bank card but also my South African cards, ID, and other documents.

 

 

Epilogue

 

And then, almost without ceremony, it ends—or perhaps only changes shape.

The wheels come to rest, but the journey lingers, echoing in the body and settling quietly into memory. Roads once travelled do not disappear; they remain—etched in sunlight, in dust, in the rhythm of breath remembered.

There are fragments that endure: the hush of morning over still water, the gold of temples flickering in late light. The kindness of strangers, offered without question or weight.

In the end, it is not the distance that stays, but the slowing—the gentle unravelling of urgency, the rediscovery of enough.

And somewhere, beyond the last page and the final mile, the road continues—unseen, unending—calling not loudly, but patiently, as all true journeys do.

166 THAILAND - A RIDE ALONG THE SOUTH COAST

Pedals, Panniers, and Poor Dietary Decisions

166 THAILAND

20 February – 26 February 2023
358 Kilometres - 6 Days

PHOTOS 

 

 

Pattaya to Rayong (78 km)

This was Take Two of my great adventure—proof that the road always gets a second chance, even if it’s not leading to India this time. At a respectable hour just before noon (cyclists laugh at mornings), I rolled out of Pattaya, panniers packed, optimism high, and expectations firmly lowered.

The route whisked me through serene rural roads lined with cassava plantations and the occasional elephant casually minding its own business. Temples and Buddhas appeared like friendly checkpoints, silently judging my cadence. The climb over Big Buddha Mountain was worth every laboured breath, delivering views so good I almost forgot my legs were filing a complaint.

Rayong welcomed me with a glowing sunset and the Richy Grand, ideally positioned near a night market designed to punish anyone foolish enough to arrive hungry. Lesson noted. Too late.

 

Rayong to Pak Nam Krasae (70 km)

I set off around ten, which by touring standards counts as “keen.” The small roads delivered everything I love about Thailand: smiling locals, colourful houses, and food vendors operating from motorbikes that appeared to violate several laws of physics—BBQs inches away from petrol tanks included.

Reaching the coast felt like unlocking a bonus level. A dedicated bike lane, a breezy tailwind, and the realisation that cycling can, in fact, be pleasant. A Hungarian gentleman—who had sensibly settled here forty years ago—invited me in for a cold drink. Hospitality: undefeated.

Pak Nam Krasae was one of those beautiful places where English mysteriously disappears. With hand gestures, smiles, and my now-reliable Thai food vocabulary, I secured a comfy room and a full belly. Laundry done too. Peak efficiency.

 

Pak Nam Krasae to Chanthaburi (75 km)

After twenty kilometres, I made my daily pilgrimage to 7‑Eleven, proof that all spiritual journeys now end in plastic-wrapped snacks. Refuelled, I followed the coast along glorious cycle lanes and scenery that felt almost unfairly photogenic.

Chanthaburi’s old riverside quarter was perfect for slow wandering, street food grazing, and pretending I wasn’t on a bike trip with kilometres still to ride.

 

Chanthaburi to Roadside Guesthouse (65 km)

I briefly considered staying an extra day in Chanthaburi—a sure sign I was enjoying myself too much. Instead, discipline prevailed, and I turned back toward Jomtien.

A roadside guesthouse appeared just as my motivation dipped, offering a room for 300 THB. Destiny. Dinner was a heroic plate of fried noodles for 40 THB, weighing approximately the same as my bike. Even I couldn’t finish it, which historians will note as a rare personal defeat.

 

 Roadside Guesthouse to Rayong (75 km)

New routes, countless side roads, and just enough confusion to make the day feel adventurous. The South Coast unfolded as flat, watery landscapes dotted with fishing boats and lazy estuaries.

Back in Rayong, I returned to the dependable Richy Grand—cheap, bike-friendly, and conveniently close to the kind of night market that demands second dinners.

 

Rayong to Jomtien (70 km)

I zig-zagged through farm roads, feeling oddly local and significantly too confident. I skipped stops. This was a mistake. Home arrived just as hunger reached cinematic levels.

Laundry, shower, and collapse followed. Arms complained but ultimately admitted they had survived. The Tour d’South was complete, and optimism for the next adventure remained dangerously high.

 

Epilogue: 

The following days were devoted to sorting photos (an activity that somehow eats entire mornings), collecting apartment keys, and conducting vital social research over beers. Physical activity resumed with an 8‑km beach run and a daily swim—proof that suffering is optional but routine.

Thailand’s South Coast delivers scenery, kindness, affordability, and just enough unpredictability to keep things interesting. Would I do it again? Absolutely. Would I eat before night markets next time? Probably not.

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 a lot of 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 to search for new running/hiking shoes. Of course, it’s never easy to find such a combination. Still, I found a pair of Hoka trail-running shoes primarily designed for technical terrain 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 despite the overcast.

Feeling surprisingly energetic, I pumped the bicycle tyres 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 my bike and pick up a few things 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 malls 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 that she was planning to visit 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 process is uncomplicated, but the two wheel rims I 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 fractured 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 was less expensive in Thailand. Thanks, Amanda!

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

164 CYCLE TOURING MALAWI (2)

 

Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand

BETWEEN DUST AND WATER

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

PDF

VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

PHOTOS

 

 

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.