172 CYCLE TOURING LAOS (9)

 

Sabai-dee, Falang!
Encounters of Kindness on the Lao Roads 

 

13 September – 2 October 2024

964 Kilometres – 19 Days

VOICEOVER 

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

 

 

Prologue: Where the Road Begins

Journeys rarely announce themselves with fanfare. They begin in the quiet moments—when a familiar restlessness stirs beneath the ribs. I did not set out to chase adventure, nor to conquer distance. I set out because the world still surprises me, because kindness appears in the most unlikely places, because the road has a way of revealing who we are when everything else falls away.

Laos was meant to be a passage, a stretch of kilometres between borders. Instead, it became a mirror—reflecting storms and serenity, frustration and grace, the small human gestures that stitch a journey together. This is not a story of perfect days. It is a story of muddy roads, flooded fields, unexpected generosity, and the quiet beauty found in motion.

Every journey has a beginning. Mine began with a simple truth: the world is kinder than we think, if only we keep moving long enough to see it.

 

 

Chapter 1: Borderlines and Beginnings

 

Scams, storms and friendly faces.

The morning rain tapped gently on the corrugated roof of the guesthouse in Nong Khai, Thailand, as if urging me to linger. With only thirty kilometres separating me from Vientiane, Laos’s capital, there was no rush. The guesthouse owner, a woman whose warmth seemed to radiate from every gesture, made it even harder to leave. We spoke in fragments—her English, my Thai, and the universal language of smiles—but the exchange was enough to remind me why I travel: for these fleeting connections that leave a lasting imprint.

Eventually, I wheeled my bicycle out into the damp air and pedalled toward the Thai immigration office. The process was surprisingly smooth, a rare gift at border crossings where bureaucracy often tangles into chaos. But the relief was short-lived. On the Lao side, the officers demanded $50 for a visa instead of the usual $30. I protested, but my words dissolved into the humid air. At the border, one is always at the mercy of authority. With reluctant resignation, I handed over the money, the sting of injustice clinging to me like the drizzle that refused to let up.

Crossing into Laos should have felt like a homecoming. Six years had passed since my last visit, and I had imagined a joyful reunion with familiar streets and the languid rhythm of the Mekong. Instead, irritation shadowed my arrival. Even the river, swollen and furious from the rains, seemed to mirror my mood. Its waters pressed against the banks, threatening to spill over, a reminder that nature, like bureaucracy, has its own unyielding power.

I wandered the riverfront, trying to shake off the frustration. Vientiane changed in my absence. Some of the improvements were welcome—new pavements, brighter facades, but others carried a bittersweet edge, as if the city were trading pieces of its soul for progress. The old charm lingered in pockets: the scent of fresh baguettes wafting from bakeries, the quiet dignity of temples weathered by centuries, the slow pace of life that resisted the rush of modernity. Yet I couldn’t ignore the undercurrent of loss, the way memory and reality collided, leaving me unsettled.

That evening, as the Mekong surged beside me, I reflected on the paradox of beginnings. Journeys rarely start with the clean slate we imagine. Sometimes they begin with irritations, delays, and small injustices. But perhaps that is the point. Travel demands resilience. It asks us to carry both the beauty and the bitterness, to accept that the road ahead will be paved with potholes and kindness alike. And so, with the rain still falling and the city lights flickering across the water, I resolved to let Laos reveal itself on its own terms—scams, storms, and all.

 

Wandering Vientiane

The drizzle lingered into the next morning, soft and persistent, as though the city itself wanted to slow me down. Vientiane is not a place that rushes. Its rhythm is measured, unhurried, and I found myself falling into step with it. After a leisurely breakfast, I set out beneath my umbrella, chasing small errands that would become the day’s unlikely adventure: a lens cap for my camera, lost somewhere along the road, and a mirror for my bicycle, essential in a country where traffic flows on the opposite side.

What should have been a simple task unfolded into a meandering pilgrimage across the city. The streets carried me past temples whose gilded roofs glistened in the rain, their walls whispering centuries of devotion. Monks in saffron robes moved quietly through the drizzle, their presence a reminder of the spiritual heartbeat that pulses beneath the surface of daily life. Each temple seemed to hold its own story, a fragment of Laos’s layered past, and I lingered at its gates, humbled by the weight of history.

The scent of food was everywhere—grilled meats, steaming bowls of noodle soup, and the earthy aroma of sticky rice. Yet it was the humble baguette that drew me in, a legacy of French colonial days that has become a staple of Lao cuisine. I bit into its crisp crust and soft centre, marvelling at how something so simple could feel like a feast. Travel often teaches that joy lies not in grand gestures but in small, unexpected pleasures.

As the day stretched on, I realised that my errands had become an excuse to wander, to let the city reveal itself in fragments. Vientiane is the capital, but it does not bear the weight of power. Its streets are lined with modest shops, its pace dictated more by bicycles and tuk-tuks than by the urgency of politics. Even the rain seemed to conspire to keep things gentle, softening the city's edges and blurring its lines.

By evening, I returned to my guesthouse with a new lens cap, a bicycle mirror, and a heart full of impressions. The drizzle had not let up, but I no longer minded. Vientiane had offered me something more valuable than errands completed: a reminder that wandering without a destination is its own kind of pilgrimage. In the slow rhythm of its streets, I found a lesson in patience, in savouring the ordinary, in letting the journey unfold without haste. In the process, I met the very talented artist, Tim Williams, from the UK, but living in Thailand.

 

 

Chapter 2: Heading South in The Season of Floods

 

Into the Floods

The morning broke with a rare gift: sunlight. After days of drizzle, the sky seemed to open in a gesture of mercy, and I hurried to pack my gear before the clouds could change their mind. Vientiane was still stirring, its streets not yet alive with the hum of traffic, and I relished the quiet as I pedalled out of the city. My destination was Buddha Park, a place I had visited years before, hoping this time the journey would be smoother.

The road surprised me. Where once there had been rough gravel and potholes, now a ribbon of fresh pavement stretched ahead, gleaming in the morning light. It felt like a small victory, a cyclist’s dream. But as I approached the park, the triumph dissolved into shock. Much of the area lay underwater, swallowed by the swollen Mekong. Concrete statues of gods and demons rose eerily from the flood, their faces half-submerged, as if the river had claimed them back into its mythic embrace. It was a reminder that in Laos, nature always has the final word.

I pressed on, searching for Route 13—the artery that runs south through the country toward Cambodia. Asking for directions proved futile. The locals smiled politely, nodding in ways that suggested agreement but offered no clarity. It was not dishonesty, but a cultural kindness: better to nod than to disappoint. And so I relied on instinct, following the road as the signs of flooding grew more severe. Soldiers lined the banks, stacking sandbags in a battle they seemed destined to lose. The water crept closer, indifferent to human effort.

When I finally reached Route 13, relief washed over me—only to be replaced by frustration. The road was narrow, crowded with buses, trucks, and cars, each vying for space. Potholes yawned like traps, deep enough to swallow a wheel whole. It was a rider’s nightmare, a gauntlet of hazards that demanded every ounce of concentration. The beauty of the landscape blurred into the background; my eyes were fixed on the asphalt, scanning for danger.

For a brief stretch, salvation arrived in the form of a “two-wheel tractor,” a slow-moving machine that carved a path through the chaos. I tucked in behind it, riding its slipstream, grateful for the buffer it provided against the onslaught of traffic. But the reprieve was short-lived. Soon I was alone again, navigating the madness, my nerves frayed by the constant roar of engines and the jolt of every pothole.

By mid-afternoon, and after a mere 80 kilometres, the sight of the Dokphet Hotel felt like a mirage. It was only 3:30 p.m., and I had covered barely eighty kilometres, but I did not hesitate. I needed to rest my mind, a place to breathe. The hotel was a sanctuary: spacious rooms nestled in a lush garden, a restaurant nearby, and a price so modest it felt like a gift. For the first time that day, I exhaled fully, letting the tension drain from my body.

That night, as I wrote my journal in the quiet garden, I reflected on the paradox of the road. Travel is not always about beauty or discovery. Sometimes it is about endurance, about surviving the chaos long enough to find peace at the end of the day. The floods, the potholes, the relentless traffic—all of it was part of the journey, as essential as the temples and the smiles of children. To cycle through Laos was to accept both the serenity of its landscapes and the fury of its roads. And in that acceptance, I found a strange kind of joy.

 

Paksan to Vieng Kham, 90 km

I woke to a lovely overcast morning, the kind that invites adventure. Setting out, I was greeted by a good road, albeit with some narrow stretches that tested my balance. Still, cycling was a breeze, and I found myself captivated by the incredible scenery. It amazed me how resourcefully the locals had adapted to the flooding—every household had a boat, and even the tiniest kids were skilled rowers!

I’ve always enjoyed zipping through villages, often pursued by young ones on bicycles. These days, though, what used to be a bicycle race is now a chase on electric scooters. Times are changing, and I find it both amusing and heartwarming.

I rolled into Vieng Kham around midday and, despite it being early, I decided to spend the night. The room here was even cheaper—80,000 LAK—but definitely lacked the charm of the previous night’s stay.

 

Sleepless Nights, Spectacular Rides

(Vieng Kham to Thakhek – 104 km)

The night in Vieng Kham was restless from the start. Just as I had surrendered to sleep, a knock rattled the door. My heart leapt as though I had been jolted awake mid-ride, adrenaline surging through my veins. It was nothing more than a case of mistaken identity, but the damage was done. Sleep fled, leaving me wide-eyed in the dark. I turned to the glow of my phone, scrolling through videos until the hours dissolved into dawn. By the time the rain began its morning percussion on the roof, I was exhausted. I forced myself onto the road. The air was thick with humidity while small hills rose ahead, demanding energy I did not have. My stomach growled, reminding me that I had skipped breakfast.

Fifty kilometres in, I stumbled into a roadside eatery, where an omelette on rice became salvation. The simple meal energised me, a reminder that sometimes survival is measured in eggs and grains.

Dark clouds gathered as I ate, threatening another deluge, and soon the road narrowed into a stretch of construction. Gravel and dust clung to my tyres, but mercifully, the disruption lasted only a few kilometres. When the clouds drifted away, the landscape revealed its grandeur. To my left, the Annamite Range unfurled like a living wall, its peaks rising in jagged defiance against the sky. Mist curled around the slopes, softening their edges, while the river shimmered at their base. The sight was so arresting that fatigue dissolved into awe. Every turn of the road offered a new perspective, a fresh revelation of beauty.

By late afternoon, I rolled into Thakhek, a riverside town perched on the Mekong. The day’s hardships—the sleepless night, the hunger, the sweat—fell away as I checked into the Mekong Hotel. My room was modest, but the view was extraordinary. From the outdoor restaurant, I watched the river surge past, its surface alive with currents, while across the water the lights of Thailand flickered like stars. Dinner was simple, but in that moment it felt like a feast, a celebration of endurance and arrival.

 

Muddy Roads and Instant Noodles

Thakhek to Roadside Guesthouse – 75 km

The rain returned with vengeance as I left Thakhek, turning the riverside road into a quagmire. Mud clung to my tyres, each rotation a battle against suction. Progress slowed to a crawl—five kilometres in half an hour—and frustration gnawed at me. By the time I reached seventy-five kilometres, I was caked in mud, my body weary. A roadside guesthouse appeared like a lifeline. The proprietress charged me more than seemed fair, but I didn’t argue. At ten dollars, even an overpriced room was salvation. With no food vendors nearby, I turned to my emergency stash of instant noodles, slurping them in gratitude before collapsing into bed. Travel teaches humility: sometimes survival is measured in noodles and shelter.

 

 

Chapter 3 - Savannakhet and Vat Phou

 

 

Chapter Seven: Savannakhet Supplies

Roadside Guesthouse to Savannakhet – 45 km

The next morning, the road improved, and so did my spirit. Savannakhet welcomed me with its wide boulevards and colonial echoes. I wandered its streets with purpose, stocking up for the long stretch south toward Cambodia. Bamboo shoots, mushrooms, lotus seeds—markets brimmed with the bounty of the rainy season.

 

 

Markets of Plenty

Leaving Savannakhet, I cycled under an overcast sky that mirrored the lush scenery. Roadside stalls overflowed with mushrooms and lotus seeds, women led buffalo to pasture, and villagers fished in flooded paddies. Each scene was a reminder of resilience, of life lived in rhythm with the rains. That evening, a humble guesthouse became my refuge. The manager, seeing my hunger, hopped on his motorbike to fetch me a meal. It was modest—rice piled high, a few vegetables—but it was delivered with kindness. In Laos, generosity often takes the simplest form.

 

Pakse and the Xe Don River

The road south carried me to Pakse, where the Xe Don River meets the Mekong. Guesthouses lined the banks, and I chose one perched above the water. The carnival lights of riverside stalls flickered in the dusk, their aromas mingling with the scent of rain. My room was less than pristine, but I laughed as I scrubbed it clean, armed with bathroom cleaner and insect repellent. Travel is not about perfection—it is about embracing imperfection with humour. Pakse became a place of rest, of sorting through photos and nursing the beginnings of a cold, while the river flowed endlessly past.

 

Vat Phou and the Little Guide

From Pakse, I rode to Champassak, where the ruins of Vat Phou awaited. The UNESCO site rose from the landscape like a memory of empires past, its stone stairways leading to a summit with sweeping views of rice fields below. The grandeur of Khmer engineering humbled me, a reminder of civilisations that once flourished here. Nearby, at Prasat Hong Nang Sida, a seven-year-old girl appeared, her laughter and gestures transforming her into my impromptu guide. She led me through the ruins, handed me a lotus leaf to shield against the sun, and held my hand with a sweetness that lingered long after. In her innocence, I found the purest form of hospitality, a gift more precious than any monument.

 

Four Thousand Islands

The Mekong widened into a labyrinth of islets, the famed Si Phan Don—Four Thousand Islands. Crossing by boat was daunting, but watching motorbikes loaded with ease reassured me. On Don Khong Island, I lingered, savouring the slow rhythm of river life. Boys leapt from bridges into the current, laughter echoing across the water. Storms rolled in, thunder cracking overhead, forcing me to shelter in abandoned buildings. Yet even in the chaos, the islands offered peace. I spent an extra day here, updating my journal, spending the last of my Lao kip, and letting the river’s rhythm seep into my bones.

 

Crossing into Cambodia

The border loomed, notorious for corruption, but fortune favoured me. The Lao officers asked for a two-dollar “stamp fee,” which I refused, and they let it pass. Cambodia welcomed me with smoother bureaucracy: a visa stamped for $35. The road south was rough, the gravel thickly laid, but motorbikes had carved a narrow track that guided me forward. “This too shall pass,” I repeated, a mantra against frustration. Along the way, I met a Japanese cyclist whose journey mirrored mine and glimpsed villagers celebrating Pchum Ben, the Festival of the Ancestors. Two-wheel tractors carried families to ceremonies, their laughter a reminder of continuity, of traditions that bind generations. By the time I reached Stung Treng, rooms were scarce, the town alive with festival crowds. I settled for a modest hotel, whose cleanliness was questionable, but its air-conditioning was a blessing. The journey had carried me across borders, through floods and kindness, into Cambodia’s embrace.

 

Epilogue: Lessons from Laos

Laos revealed itself in contrasts: flooded roads and serene temples, scams at borders and gifts of kindness in villages, exhaustion and awe. To cycle through its landscapes was to live in tension—between hardship and joy, chaos and beauty. Yet it was the people who defined the journey. Children waving from stilted homes, guesthouse owners welcoming me with smiles, strangers fetching meals when none were available. Their generosity carried me forward, reminding me that resilience is not only about enduring storms but also about embracing kindness when it appears.

As I crossed into Cambodia, I carried Laos with me—not just its rivers and mountains, but its spirit of hospitality, its lessons in patience, its reminder that joy often arrives in the simplest forms. Travel is never just about distance covered. It is about transformation; about the way landscapes and people reshape us. In Laos, I found not only roads and rivers but also resilience, kindness, and the quiet beauty of connection. And that, more than any kilometre, is the true measure of the journey.

 

Epilogue: What the Road Leaves Behind

When I pedalled out of Laos and into Cambodia, I carried no souvenirs—only the imprint of moments that refused to fade. The flooded roads, the laughter of children, the quiet meals shared with strangers, the temples standing patient against time. Laos taught me that resilience is not loud; it is steady. It lives in people who rebuild after every monsoon, who offer help without hesitation, who greet travellers with warmth even when the world feels uncertain.

The road south was rough, but my heart was light. I had arrived expecting landscapes; I left remembering faces. Kindness had become the compass that guided me through storms, fatigue, and the long, unspooling solitude of the ride.

Journeys end on maps, but not in memory. Laos remains with me—in the rhythm of the Mekong, in the echo of generosity, in the reminder that even the hardest days can soften under a stranger’s smile. And so I ride on, grateful for the miles behind me, and for the quiet truth the road keeps teaching: that connection, however fleeting, is the real destination.

 

171 THAILAND - THE SOUTH COAST AND BEYOND

From the Gulf to the Mekong: Pedalling North Through Thailand

 PHOTOS

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER

 

Prologue

I only meant to slip away for a few days — a quick coastal wander before Dawn arrived and life shifted into holiday mode. But the moment I pedalled out of Jomtien, something tugged me forward. Maybe it was restlessness. Maybe it was the quiet thrill of leaving, even when you don’t know where you’re going.
Thailand had been home for too long, long enough for comfort to turn stale. So I followed the road, letting weather, whim, and the occasional 7‑Eleven decide my direction. What began as a short escape stretched into a slow, surprising pull toward the Mekong — a ride stitched together by rainstorms, temples, forest roads, kind strangers, and the simple joy of moving north, one unplanned day at a time.

 
170 Thailand (22.2) – The South Coast
305 Km - 4 Days

10 July – 20 July 2024

 

The South Coast: A Short Escape Before Goodbye

I left Jomtien earlier than expected, surprised at my own eagerness. Perhaps it was because this wasn’t a grand expedition, just a brief ten-day wander before Dawn arrived. Her visit shimmered ahead of me—days of eating, laughing, and decidedly not cycling. My long stay in Thailand was drawing to a close, and though I loved the country, I hoped I might finally move on before the year ended. Too many months in a hotel room can make even paradise feel small.

Pedalling out of Jomtien, I chuckled to myself. There is always a spark of exhilaration when I set off toward the unknown, even when the unknown lies along familiar roads. The sky hung low and grey, and I drifted through daydreams, barely taking any photos. Most of my attention was consumed by my new Garmin watch—an impulsive purchase I instantly regretted. It was complicated, fussy, and not much better than my cheap Xiaomi. But what’s done is done; I would simply have to learn its moods.

By the time I reached Rayong, the day felt ready to end. The Richy Grant guesthouse—cheap as chips, with washing machines, filtered water, and a night market nearby—was too tempting to pass up. I should have eaten a snack before heading to the market; instead, I returned with enough food to feed a small battalion. I spent the evening reorganising panniers and working my way through the mountain of snacks.

 

Rain, Repairs, and the Slow Drift Down the Coast

The night sky had raged with thunder and lightning, and morning arrived wrapped in drizzle. I lingered, sorting my belongings at leisure, waiting for the clouds to loosen their grip.

When the rain finally eased, I set off—only to be chased back under shelter five kilometres later. An Amazon Café at a petrol station became my refuge. But the day soon transformed: a soft ocean breeze, thin cloud cover, and the kind of gentle light that makes cycling feel effortless.

Progress was slow, interrupted by small adjustments—watch, chain, tyres—and by the irresistible urge to stop for photos. The South Coast always draws me in with its quiet beauty. By late afternoon, after only 85 kilometres, I found a cluster of roadside cottages with shops and restaurants nearby. It felt like the right place to stop.

 

Coastal Curves, Old Town Streets, and the King of Fruit

I woke at six to birdsong, brewed coffee, and the soft hush of an overcast morning. The coastal road unfurled ahead of me, winding between viewpoints that demanded short climbs and rewarded me with sweeping sea views.

In Chanthaburi, I checked into Laluna River House—simple, affordable, and perched above the river. I spent the afternoon grazing through the night market: banana‑leaf parcels, spicy salads, flavours that lingered long after the last bite. The next day drifted by lazily as I wandered the old town’s narrow lanes, admiring its historic shophouses and vibrant street life.

Durian—Asia’s self‑proclaimed king of fruit—made its presence known everywhere. Enormous, spiky, and unapologetically pungent, it is a fruit that demands commitment. I’ve never bought one (too pricey), but I adore durian ice cream. Its smell is so potent that many hotels ban it outright. Only in Southeast Asia could a fruit be both revered and outlawed.

 

Forest Roads and an Unexpected Reunion

With no fixed plan, I followed minor roads until they spilt me onto the main highway. I escaped it at the first chance, slipping onto a quiet forest road that felt forgotten by the world. Hardly a soul passed me. Dense greenery pressed close, and the silence felt ancient.

Then, unexpectedly, Bo Rai appeared—a tiny town with a lovely hotel and a 7-Eleven. As I settled in, a message arrived from my friend Anil: he was in Pattaya. After missing him in India, I had promised we’d meet there. So I arranged a ride back, my heart lifting at the thought of familiar faces.

 

A Sudden Turn Back and a Month of Friendship

Just like that, I was back in Pattaya. Anil and his friends welcomed me into an evening of laughter at the Beer Garden. With Dawn arriving in four days, I stayed put.

Her visit became a month of indulgence—food, drinks, stories, and slow days that slipped through our fingers. We spent time on Ko Samet, wandered Bangkok’s streets, and met up with Luke before they flew home. We had grand plans, but life had its own pace, and we surrendered to it.

Back in Jomtien, I waited for my second bicycle to be serviced and began packing for my upcoming journey around Asia. I cleaned the room, sorted my belongings, and discarded the unnecessary things I had accumulated—objects that had no place on a bicycle.

 

171 Thailand (22.3) – Jomtien – Nong Khai

28 August - 13 September 2024

1 010 km – 16 Days

 

Immigration Errands and a Chaotic Start to the Northbound Ride

I finally pedalled out of Jomtien on 28 August, though “pedalled out” makes it sound far more romantic than it was. In truth, I limped away from the Immigration Office after spending the better part of two hours securing a re-entry permit, so my Non-Immigrant visa wouldn’t evaporate the moment I crossed a border. Bureaucracy has a way of turning even the strongest coffee into regret.

By 11:30 a.m., passport in hand, I pointed the bike north with all the confidence of someone who had absolutely no plan. The minor roads looked innocent enough on the map, but in reality, they were clogged with trucks, cement mixers, and construction vehicles that seemed to multiply every time I blinked. It felt like cycling through the backstage area of a nation under renovation.

Accommodation was equally elusive. Every guesthouse was full of long-term construction workers, and the traffic was becoming so unhinged that even my stubbornness began to wilt. Eventually, I surrendered, turned around, and slunk back to a guesthouse I’d passed earlier. Not my proudest moment, but at least I survived the day with all limbs attached. Time to consult the map again — preferably with a stiff drink in hand.

 

A Day of Admin, a Veranda Cat, and a Slow Reset

I keep saying I stayed in “Khao Khan Song,” but honestly, it could be the name of the town, the guesthouse, or the cat. Everything was written in Thai, and I was too frazzled to investigate further. What I did know was that I’d left Jomtien in far too much of a hurry, trailing a small comet of unfinished tasks behind me.

Fortunately, modern life allows one to conduct an entire existence from a plastic chair and a patchy Wi‑Fi signal. My room came with a table, a veranda, and a resident cat who appeared to be the property’s true manager. With such luxurious amenities, staying put felt like the only sensible choice.

My online work swallowed the day, and by the time I resurfaced, it was already 5 p.m. I wandered to the supermarket for dinner and a beer, feeling oddly content. Sometimes the road demands motion; sometimes it demands stillness. Today, the cat won.

 

Tailwinds, River Roads, and Thai Table Manners

The next morning, I saddled my old iron horse — a creature of questionable elegance but unwavering loyalty — and rolled back onto the main road. Thankfully, this stretch was newly paved and boasted a shoulder wide enough to host a small wedding. I attempted a detour onto a quieter route, but the road fizzled out like a bad idea, so I returned to the highway and let a generous tailwind push me northward.

I flew into Bang Khla just as the sky decided to empty itself. I darted into the first accommodation I saw and paid a little more than usual, but the reward was a spacious, air-conditioned room with hot water for $14. At least I was out of the madness — the trucks, the dust, the construction zones that felt like cycling through a nation mid‑renovation — and finally heading north. The promise of river roads, temples, and green horizons tugged me onward. Thailand has a way of rewarding perseverance with beauty, as if patting you on the back and saying, “There, there. Have a waterfall.”

Over a plate of fried rice that tasted far better than my day deserved, I had a small revelation: Thailand’s table manners are a quiet masterpiece. While other cultures duel with knives or twirl pasta like Olympic gymnasts, the Thais have perfected a gentle choreography. The spoon — chon — is the star performer, gliding food gracefully to the mouth. The fork — som — is the backstage crew, nudging rice into place, never daring to enter the spotlight itself. Knives are largely unnecessary; everything arrives already in bite-sized diplomacy. It’s elegant, efficient, and frankly, a relief for someone who has dropped more noodles than she cares to admit.

 

Temples, Fruit Bats, and a Lunch Without Words

The next morning, I pedalled a few kilometres to Wat Pho Bang Khla, a temple believed to date back to the reign of King Taksin the Great. Its architecture carries whispers of Ayutthaya and Rattanakosin, but the real showstoppers are the fruit bats — enormous, leathery creatures dangling from the trees like oversized ornaments. They rustled and shifted above me, a living ceiling of wings.

The so‑called floating market came next. “Floating” was perhaps optimistic; it was more of a food market politely sitting beside the river, but the smells alone were worth the detour. Then on to Wat Pak Nam Jolo, a temple said to be around 200 years old, shimmering quietly in the morning light.

From Bang Khla, the ride along the Bang Pakong River was pure joy — the kind of cycling that makes you forget the weight of your panniers and the questionable decisions of the previous day.

By midday, hunger struck, and I pulled into a roadside shelter. A startled woman emerged, and without a single shared word, she conjured a plate of rice, spicy vegetables, and a fried egg that could have won awards. We communicated entirely through gestures, smiles, and the universal language of “Yes, more chilli is fine.” The whole exchange was so seamless and absurdly charming that I laughed out loud.

Just before reaching Nakhon Nayok, I detoured to the ruins of Dong Lakhon, an ancient town dating back to the ninth to eleventh centuries. Not much remains — a well, a moat, a few quiet stones — but the place hums with old stories. It’s the kind of spot where you stroll slowly, letting the centuries settle around you.

 

Waterfall Dreams in Khao Yai National Park

I stayed an extra night and ventured into Khao Yai National Park, dreaming of serene waterfalls and a peaceful lunch with my 7‑Eleven sandwich. The park is vast — over 2,000 square kilometres — and proudly Thailand’s oldest, a UNESCO World Heritage Site no less.

But it was a beautiful Sunday, and Bangkok is far too close for solitude. My waterfall fantasy dissolved into a cheerful crowd of weekenders, selfie sticks, and families picnicking with admirable enthusiasm. Still, the park was undeniably gorgeous. Next time, I’ll cycle through one gate and out another — a grand traverse, and hopefully with fewer humans.

 

Frangipani Roads and a Quiet Night by the Water

The following day’s ride was a balm. My chosen route skirted the edge of the National Park, weaving through small communities where every woman seemed to be pounding something aromatic in a mortar or coaxing magic from a wok. Some concoctions were so potent they made me sneeze as I cycled past.

Frangipani trees lined the road, their blossoms perfuming the air, and the scent of freshly cut grass drifted across the fields. With no destination in mind, I followed signs to the Pasak Chonlasit Dam. Being a Monday, the campsite was nearly empty — just one other cyclist and a Thai couple who later approached me shyly to ask for a photo. Apparently, I make quite an impression. LOL.

The evening settled softly over the water, and for the first time in days, everything felt unhurried. Just me, the quiet, and the long road north waiting patiently for morning.

 

Pasak Chonlasit Dam to  Sa Kruat

I woke before sunrise, not because of any noble intention, but because the other cyclist in the campsite decided to rummage through his plastic bags at an hour only owls should witness. If you’ve ever slept in a hiking hut, you know that sound — the frantic rustling that suggests someone is either packing for Everest or searching for the meaning of life at the bottom of a Ziploc.

Just as I thought the symphony was over, he put on music — something soothing, I’m sure, as he gazed dreamily over the dam. Unfortunately, sound travels beautifully across open water, so I too was up at the crack of dawn.

Cycling across the dam wall, I felt a rush of gratitude. I was heading somewhere — I wasn’t sure where — and that uncertainty felt delicious. The road along the eastern shore was blissfully quiet, shared only with a few motorbikes, herds of buffalo, a snake, and a large, determined Shongololo crossing the road with the confidence of a creature who knows it has right of way.

By midday, I stopped for fried rice — always an entertaining affair when you’re the lone foreigner in a tiny village. The clouds thickened in the afternoon, and when the sky began to growl, I called it a day in what I think was Sa Kruat. I stopped partly because of the weather, partly because I was toying with the idea of visiting the Si Thep Historical Park in the morning. Decisions, decisions.

 

Ancient City Walls and a Guesthouse Fried Rice Adventure

I woke early, well-rested, and decided Si Thep was worth the detour. The historical park holds the remains of an ancient city inhabited from the third to fifth century CE and occupied until the thirteenth. Once one of the great city-states of central Thailand, it was added to the World Heritage List in 2023 — a well-deserved nod to its quiet grandeur.

After wandering the ruins, I checked into a guesthouse across the road to tackle laundry and fix the slow leak in my back wheel. Later, I cycled 1.5 kilometres to a supermarket, only to be ambushed by a sudden downpour. I sheltered for ten minutes, then continued in full sunshine. Thailand’s weather has a sense of humour.

Dinner turned into an unexpected adventure. When the guesthouse owner asked if I wanted food, I casually said, “Fried rice,” imagining he’d point me to a kitchen. Instead, he hopped on his motorbike and zoomed off to fetch it from a restaurant two kilometres away. He returned drenched but triumphant, clutching a steaming hot meal. I paid him $2.50 for a $1.25 dish — where else in the world can you get home delivery, complete with dramatic rainstorm, for that price?

 

Heat, Hills, Ice Cream with Sticky Rice, and a Poolside Beer

In the morning, I cycled to Wichian Buri to buy a new inner tube. The people there were wonderfully kind — they not only directed me to the right shop but also handed me two bottles of water. A blessing, as the heat was fierce and the climb steeper than expected.

Despite the temperature, the ride was glorious. I drifted off the main road and onto a narrow secondary route threading through small communities. After cresting the pass, I found an ice cream vendor and immediately stopped. The treat came with sticky rice, tiny scoops of ice cream, peanuts, and a drizzle of condensed milk — a combination that sounds improbable but tastes like joy.

Sugar-fuelled, I sped downhill until I screeched to a halt at Haus Luneburg, a charming guesthouse with a swimming pool. I didn’t even pretend to be dignified. I unloaded the bike at record speed and jumped straight into the pool with a cold Chang beer in hand. Bliss.

 

Rainstorms, Rural Roads, and an Early Stop

Another day, another beautiful ride. Route 2037 has been an absolute delight — a ribbon of road winding through tiny hamlets, each with its own temple, school, and market. Midway through the day, the sky opened, and I cycled through a torrential downpour. Since it wasn’t cold, I simply kept going, enjoying the absurdity of it.

When the rain eased, I continued until I spotted a row of roadside cottages. It was early, but the clouds were gathering again, and I decided not to push my luck. Stopping early meant there wasn’t much to do, so I tackled the dreaded laundry and hunted down a tap to wash the mud off the bike.

Sometimes the road gives you adventure; sometimes it gives you chores. Both are part of the journey.

 

A Perfect Ride into the City and a Day of Chores

I wore a permanent grin today — the kind that sneaks up on you when everything aligns just right. The weather was soft and generous, the rice paddies impossibly green, the corn standing tall like proud sentinels. I counted myself among the luckiest humans alive. The kilometres drifted by as if the bike had sprouted its own wings, and even the village dogs, usually self-appointed border patrol, didn’t bother to chase me.

A stiff breeze nudged me through a string of small settlements and past temples painted in colours that would make a parrot blush. By the time I rolled into Khon Kaen, I felt sun-kissed, wind-blown, and utterly content. Two days here, I decided — time for chores and a reset.

The next morning, I tackled laundry at the laundromat conveniently located right outside my room. Then I wandered around the city lake, a shaded loop dotted with temples and the occasional monk gliding past like a saffron ghost. Later, I cycled to a bike shop that turned out to be a gem — well-stocked, professional, and staffed by people who actually knew what they were doing. They adjusted my gears and fitted an odometer, which felt like giving my bike a tiny brain.

By evening, I drifted through the night market in search of vegetarian food. Slim pickings. I settled for freshly made French fries and, fearing starvation, added a pizza that cost the same as my room. Foreign food always comes with a surcharge — a tax on nostalgia.

 

Holy Ponds, Cobra Villages, and a Smooth Highway Finish

I slept surprisingly well on the lumpy mattress — for 350 THB, one must adjust expectations — and was up at six, rolling by eight. Khon Kaen revealed itself to be far larger than I’d imagined, and the morning traffic was lively. Yet, in true Thai fashion, drivers stopped to let me cross the road. Only in Thailand.

Soon enough, I was back among the rice paddies, music blaring far too loudly, feeling like the star of my own low-budget travel film. The holy pond at Ku Ban Na Kham Noi appeared like a mirage. I learned the surrounding structures once served as a hospital during the reign of King Jayavarman VII — a Khmer king with a flair for infrastructure.

Next came the Cobra Village. I didn’t linger. No matter how well‑treated, no animal dreams of a life in captivity, and I wasn’t keen on supporting the spectacle.

Toward day’s end, I veered toward the main road in search of accommodation. The highway was smooth as a baby’s bottom, and despite my dislike of such roads, I pushed on another 30 kilometres. When the weather turned moody, I pulled into the nearest guesthouse and found a charming 350 THB bungalow — clean bedding, air‑con, fan, and two bottles of water. No lumpy mattress. A bargain by any measure.

 

Monkey Parks, Red Lotus Lake, and a Night in a Temple

The next morning’s ride was a treasure hunt of oddities. First up: Monkey Park. The map made it sound promising; reality revealed a city park with outdoor gym equipment and volleyball courts entirely commandeered by monkeys. Not a human in sight. I didn’t dare leave the bike — those monkeys had ambition. A very accurate name indeed.

A little further on lay the Red Lotus Lake. No red lotus flowers in sight — perhaps the season had passed, or the water level was too low. Still, the ride along its shores was peaceful, and the surrounding villages hummed with the rhythm of fishing life.

Thirty kilometres later, I stumbled upon Ban Chiang — a remarkable archaeological site and one of the most important prehistoric settlements in Southeast Asia. Wet‑rice culture, ancient burials, pottery older than most civilizations — the place radiates quiet significance. It’s humbling to stand where humans lived, farmed, and loved thousands of years before the idea of Thailand even existed.

After leaving Ban Chiang, I headed north toward the Laos border. My presence caused quite a stir — I suspect foreigners are rare here. The area was so rural that I didn’t spot a single guesthouse. When the rain began, I ducked into the nearest Buddhist temple and asked if I could pitch my tent. They pointed me to a large covered area, and just as I finished setting up, the lady monks began chanting. Their voices rose and fell like waves. It was the gentlest, most unexpected lullaby.

 

Pre‑Dawn Chanting, Wet Roads, and the Mekong at Last

At three in the morning, the nuns began rummaging through their belongings — monks and cyclists share a fondness for early starts — and by four, the chanting was in full swing. LOL. I was on the road by six, which must be some kind of personal record.

My first stop was a food vendor, always a highlight. Breakfast in Thailand is never dull. The ride was wet but manageable, and by midday I rolled into Nong Khai. I checked into Mud Mee Guesthouse, a charming, inexpensive place right on the Mekong River, complete with a garden restaurant and coffee shop. I paid for two nights — my body insisted.

I did very little for the rest of the day. By evening, I sat in the garden with a beer and a vegetarian green curry. A massive storm rolled in, thunder shaking the building. I was profoundly grateful not to be in my tent.

The next morning, I slept in, then wandered to the supermarket to gather a few supplies for Laos. The day drifted by in a haze of riverfront strolling and Mekong‑watching. Sometimes the best adventures are the quiet ones.

 

At the Edge of Laos

By the time I reached Nong Khai, the Mekong felt like a finish line I hadn’t known I was racing toward. I let the river hold me still for a day — storms rolling in, curry steaming on the table, my legs finally allowed to rest. Tomorrow I would cross into Laos, but for now, it was enough to sit by the water and feel the long road settle behind me. A pause, a breath, a quiet beginning disguised as an ending.

169 THAILAND (22) - EXPLORING THE CENTRAL PLAINS

Cycling Thailand's Central Plains

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

PHOTOS

FLIP-BOOK

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 open on weekends, but traders live within 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 I'd use as a flag, but it was too large, so 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, with its ruins 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 way of life 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 the 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.