172 CYCLE TOURING LAOS (9)

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

172 LAOS

13 September – 2 October 2024
964 Kilometres – 19 Days

PHOTOS

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 

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 

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

 

 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.

 

170-171 THAILAND (22.2) - FROM THE GULF TO THE MEKONG

From the Gulf to the Mekong: Pedalling North Through Thailand

THAILAND (22.2)

Thailand (22.2) – The South Coast and Beyond
1,315 Km – 20 Days

 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.

 Thailand (22.2) – The South Coast

 

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

 

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 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, 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

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.