Heading south from Siem Reap there are just over 300km of almost completely flat riding which we start with a tough but manageable 150km day (our longest day of the trip so far). The towns along the route are small and dusty but always filled with smiling faces and shouts of “Hello” from the children. For one of the country’s main highways the road is narrow and the often heavy traffic gives us good reason to cover the distance quickly. The cold water bucket showers on offer at the guesthouses we find en-route provide a welcome relief from the road dust and heat.

In Kampong Thom we store our bikes overnight next to an ice factory which roars day and night to produce the ingredient vital for refrigeration in a country without reliable electricity. In Skuon we pass a vendor balancing a plate of deep fried spiders (a local delicacy) on her head. With her back towards us we are not quite quick enough to attract her attention to sample a few. “Oh well, maybe next time” I tell Emma. Overnight we wake to the sound of rain hammering on the tin roof outside our room. It is the first rain I have heard in around three months. The sound lulls me to sleep.

Approaching Phnom Penh on a narrowing road with no hard shoulder I cycle behind and slightly to the traffic side of Emma. With our wide fully laden bikes we occupy well over half a lane giving cars no room to squeeze by us. Surprisingly drivers who previously raced past us tooting and flashing their lights, now wait patiently behind us and pass slowly when I move aside to give them space. My opinion of Cambodian drivers as maybe the most dangerous we have encountered on our trip to date is slightly improved.

Following advice from Dutch cyclists Bauke and Elske we head to a cheap hotel near the centre of town. The next day we meet with them for lunch at their regular haunt, a vegetarian cafe with a truly mouth-watering menu. Outside is an impressive array of touring bicycles while inside a throng of cyclists sit eating and chatting. With the conversation and food flowing freely we feel transported into a busy social scene that seems a world away from how we spent our morning.

Before lunch we had visited the Tuol Sleng or S-21 Museum with a Dutch cycling couple and their backpacker friends from a neighbouring hotel. The museum courtyards were filled with sunshine and birdsong as visitors walked sombrely along passageways all too recently filled with horror. From the detention rooms you catch incongruous glimpses of bustling city streets and colourful flower filled balconies. The details of the inmates were meticulously recorded by the Khmer Rouge regime and looking at row after row of their photographs is almost too much to absorb. Its easy to forget that each face bears its own individual story of suffering and yet remains largely a mystery to me.

The following day we visit the Choeung Ek memorial site the best known of a number of sites collectively known as The Killing Fields. The grassy site surrounds a tranquil pond with views across rice paddies in stark contrast to the sombre concentration displayed by the visitors. Proceeding between small numbered markers the excellent audio guide provides an insight into the events that took place. With personal commentary from inmates, their family members and former Khmer Rouge soldiers, the emotion behind how the regime impacted the lives of the Cambodian people can be forcibly felt.

Our neighbouring cyclists, Martje and Frank are heading northwards and while I enthusiastically talk through our Laos and China cycling route, Emma spends her day on a cooking course learning the secrets of Cambodian cuisine (thanks to a kind donation from reader Gayle). Between adding Pumpkin Custard, Banana Leaf Fish Sausages and Fish Amok to her repertoire, she chats with the tutor and fellow students about Cambodian life. Emma ends the day feeling a little under the weather and despite her firm protestations, I lay the blame with a full day of eating and cooking.

Heading south to Kampot via national route two then switching to route three the roads continue to be narrow and busy with traffic. We are again racing through the flat coconut palm-strewn countryside and realise that with an earlier start we could have been in Kampot in just a single day. A fellow cyclist had told us that rooms in Kampot could be hard to find thanks to what he described as their “we don’t know who is checking out today non-system”. Finding a decent room at our early arrival time of 9:30am, we grab it and settle in for internet chores and a selection from their fine breakfast menu.

Leaving Laos we avoided the spurious stamp fees the officials asked for and simply ducked under the barrier into no-mans land. I was expecting the hounds to be unleashed, sirens to blare and machine gun fire to strafe the ground at my feet, alas not even a flicker of interest from the Laos border officials.

With Emma feeling off colour after a night spent largely in the bathroom, we were surprised that the obligatory Cambodian temperature test came back all clear and she wasn’t sent back to Laos. We quickly moved on to being taught the Cambodian for “thank you” (aw khun) and negotiating reductions for more spurious “stamp fees” with the Cambodian officials. Its amazing how two dirty cyclists bargaining over a few dollars quickly gets old when a bus full of tourists with shiny new backpacks arrives. We were swiftly waved on.

The road to Stung Treng is sparsely populated and has little shade making for hot cycling. The sizzling temperatures aren’t helped as we pass stretches where the fields either side of the road have been deliberately set alight to clear them for agriculture. With a stiff wind blowing hot ash across the sky and not a soul in sight we wonder how controlled the fires really are.

From Stung Treng we planned to cross the Mekong by ferry, head west on route 214 towards the Koh Ker temple complex then drop south past Beng Mealea and join the main route 6 into Siem Reap. Discussing this plan with a local at our guesthouse, he advises that the 214 road is in very bad condition and we will need to cycle 150km to reach the first guesthouse. With the first ferry leaving at 7am the next morning, we head to bed with our sense of adventure restored.

Timetables, signs and any sense of safety are all absent from the ferry the next morning. As a man signals at us not to board, we insistently push our bikes past him onto the barge. With a grader, numerous motos and foot passengers already on board, we don’t see how our touring bikes will tip the balance. A short while later we watch in amazement as the grader shuffles forward to allow a lorry and a smaller truck to squeeze in. The barge lowers noticeably in the water and I ponder if in a pinch my panniers could double as flotation devices.

The ferry is pushed by a small tug that has seen better days from the Tonle San river into the fast flowing Mekong where the water noticeably muddies and the tug’s engine pitch goes up a few notches. With careful precision the tug captain guides the barge into the far shore where a mad scramble to exit ensues.

We are following some notes about cycling route 214 from cyclists Kate + Jason we met in China containing ominous warnings of construction crews cutting a new road across the old jungle track. Its not long until we see Chinese surveyors dressed in immaculate light blue boiler suits and white hard hats. They stand incongruously amongst pecking chickens and children playing games in the dust as they take sightings for the new road. I wonder if they have a full laundry service at their camp.

Although we find small sections of the original jungle track it has largely been bulldozed out of sight in preparation for construction of what seems to be a dual carriageway. Over the next few hours of cycling we witness road building Cambodian-style. Heavy machinery pushes and pulls the earth apart, workers escape the midday sun in hammocks and small fires slowly nibble away at the jungle under the watchful gaze of guardians whose main fire control tool seems to be a stick. There is no traffic, save the occasional moto, and with few villages along the route which terminates at the Mekong, we wonder who will use the new road when it is finished.

Following a moto equipped with bell, chiller, ice-shaver and vividly coloured flavour jars (the local version of an ice-cream truck) for most of the afternoon, we drink our water supply dry and refill from a gleaming new water pump. The environmental cost of road progress seems to be partially paid for by the installation of these new pumps in most villages we pass.

In almost total darkness after 138km of dusty, hot riding we reach Tbeng Meanchey’s strip of street lights and a guesthouse. The security guard asks where we came from and when I say Stung Treng he looks at me seriously and says “That’s a long way”. Wearily cleaning and oiling our bike chains, I nod my head in agreement.

In our hotel room, we strip off to find the exposed parts of our bodies have been coloured in deep earth tones by the pervasive brown road dust clinging to our skin. The shower water runs brown for a good long while as we both rinse off and soak under a rare hot shower.

A quick morning of cycling with a tailwind gives way to brutal heat as the sun climbs the sky and although we arrive at the Koh Ker temple complex by lunchtime we are already drained. The only room available is a little pricey but we take it, dump our bags and jump back on the bikes for the 6km ride into the park. Other than two dirt bike riding tourists we wave to in one temple, we have the place to ourselves and spend four exciting hours clambering over ruins and feeling like regular explorers.

The jungle while cleared from the ruins is never far away and it is easy to imagine the buildings falling into disrepair to be slowly consumed by trees and forgotten by local villagers. The thrill of ducking through partially collapsed passages and peering at moss covered inscriptions is hard to beat for its sheer childish pleasure. However forming an impression of how the vast temple complex may have been used in day-to-day life is more difficult with little information available at the site about their historical roles.

With rumbling stomachs we decide to forgo a visit to the main temple and instead eat at a small restaurant where the owner rocks her baby to sleep in a hammock. The hammock is swung with an almost dangerous level of force but whenever the motion stops the baby wakes. As a result all available adults are kept busy making sure the hammock is kept in full swing. The stall owner seems sad as so few tourists visit these ruins and we wonder if her business and family are struggling.

The next morning we breakfast in a small local village on instant noodles (the only dish available) and drink thick strong iced coffee. We are amazed at how widely basic English is spoken even in rural Cambodia as we talk with the cafe owner about our trip and first impressions of the country.

Cycling along a mixture of dirt and paved roads we stop for regular fluid top-ups with fresh coconut juice being our favourite. After around 40km we reach the temple site of Beng Mealea where Emma befriends a stall holder in order to park our bikes under her watchful eye. We later repay the favour by drinking more coconut juice from her stall.

The site is a huge overgrown maze of ruins where you can climb and clamber to your heart’s content. We follow a string of children winding their way through the ruins as they chatter and chase each other pausing only for breath or to sell snacks to less energetic foreign tourists. I think this must be the best local playground in the world.

With this being a single site (and by eavesdropping on a few tour guides), its easier to get a sense of the place Beng Mealea would have held in an ancient society. As the sun climbs higher in the sky most tourists are whisked off to lunch by their waiting buses. The few remaining visitors sit scattered around the ruins in quiet contemplation while the laughter of the playing children drifts through the air.

We stay overnight in the junction town of Dam Dek, cycling the last 35km to Siem Reap the following day. Arriving in this tourist mecca early, we are surprised that many guesthouses are fully booked but after an hour on foot, Emma has found us a hotel. Over dinner that night we plan our approach to visiting the Angkor Wat temple complex and hope that our previous days have not laid the ground for a dose of temple fatigue.

The camera’s self-timer produced a few extra snaps including the second photo below where we were thanking the guy for his help.

I have always been less of a coffee aficionado than Emma (being easily satisfied with a sacrilegious ‘3n1’ Nescafe sachet) who on the road carries a Turkish cezve, a Vietnamese coffee maker, single cup coffee filters and will only in the direst circumstances submit to a cup of anything instant. Bearing all this in mind I thought it wise to agree to a visit to the town of Paksong where we would find an enigmatic Dutch expat known as “Koffie” to educate us about his specialist topic.

Between Thakhek and Paksong there were three days of 100km+ riding preceded by three days off the bike in Thakhek. Not such a bad ratio and one that we are growing more accustomed to as we make our way through South East Asia at a snails pace.

Thakhek is the main stopping off point for people traversing “The Loop” and being located on the main North/South highway also sees its fair share of cycle tourists passing through. One evening we got chatting with Matthew, a British cyclist on his way to Singapore. He had spent the last ten years living in China and until recently was running the GoKunming website that we found useful for planning our cycling in Southern Yunnan.

Leaving Thakhek we hit the road a few hours ahead of Matthew, but he easily caught us in time to enjoy lunch together before he disappeared into the horizon at racing speed. We laughed that he would probably get to Singapore before we get to Bangkok!

Its hot riding. The landscape undulates gently but offers little in the way of shade. In the sky above a relentless sun bleaches the empty rice paddies a dun-brown and burns any exposed skin in minutes. We resort to wearing socks and sandals to save our feet from getting burnt and seek shelter in roadside shacks for drinks and shade.

One village we pass through has a large Christian church and no wat, which is unusual in this Buddhist-dominated country. Each household has a small altar outside which the residents sit solemnly beside. While they smile and wave as we pass there is no indication of what they are waiting for, creating a strange atmosphere that makes us feel like interlopers on the busy main highway. Outside the town is a large bustling fair where avoiding pedestrians stumbling drunkenly towards their motorbikes gives Emma a reason to cycle extra cautiously for the next few kilometres.

The night before Pakse we were hoping for a guesthouse but had also heard reports that this stretch was devoid of any. Pushing on into twilight we finally found one around the 545km marker complete with an almost empty but still ear-piercingly loud karaoke bar serving food a few doors down.

We make Pakse by early afternoon and find a big room complete with balcony and fridge. Opening the door of the empty fridge I hold my feet in the stream of cold air that emerges and think I could spend the next four days doing only this.

There are four proper western style cafes in town and over the next few days we make a point of visiting each one to try the house brew. One evening we stroll by the Mekong and as the colours of the sky fade towards dark and the waters gently lap below us we watch the patrons of the simple riverside beer shacks ebb and flow. Pakse is an easy town to pass time in with few sites to visit, a steady stream of tourists flowing through the town and a good variety of food with Indian and a Laos fusion joint being our firm favourites.

We decide not to cycle the largely uphill 40km to Paksong (note: we are sticking religiously to the new lazy cycling regime mentioned above) in favour of a day trip by public bus. After spending an hour on the bus collecting passengers from all over Pakse the freedom of our bikes makes us reconsider. The town of Paksong is a single row of dusty shops and in the distance we see a faded sign reading “Coffee”. It is here that we meet Koffie.

We set off with our guide on what proves to be an informative and highly enjoyable stroll around his neighbourhood. We wander through coffee farms seeing plants in various states of growth while he enthusiastically explains aspects of the plants themselves, the local coffee economy and what separates a coffee farm from a plantation. Koffie’s enthusiasm for his topic (maybe fuelled by the multiple cups of    freshly ground Bolaven Plateau Espresso drunk before the tour) is infectious and I quickly find myself engrossed in his stories.

Post tour we down a few more espresso shots, managing to miss flagging down our bus, although the mad scramble Koffee does attempting to catch the drivers eye makes us all laugh. Finding a backup bus we farewell Paksong but not before loading the roof of our already groaning vehicle with a few hundred cabbages on their way to market.

A short half day ride from Pakse is the Xi Pian National Park and the Kingfisher Ecolodge where as a Christmas treat we have reserved a bungalow for two nights. Our bungalow overlooks a wetland area where a large herd of buffalo noisily squelch through the mud and munch grass, flocks of ibis swoop low across the ground using their long beaks to skewer the occasional small fish. One evening we spot a few of the local domesticated elephants wandering the horizon.

The sight of the elephants convinces us to use a donation (thanks Emma’s dad) to take an elephant ride around the wetland area on Christmas day. The ride is great with our elephant named Kona being guided carefully through the village while children scamper around her feet and wave Sabaidee.

At one point the mahout trades places with me and I’m in ‘control’ of Kona. Using my feet to nudge behind her ears I manage to guide her towards a small opening between fields but I cant quite coax her through the gap. Handing the front seat back to the mahout, I decide that driving an elephant is much harder than riding a bicycle, though maybe if we took Kona with us she could carry our luggage.

The below documents what two hungry cyclists ate in one day in Laos.

Breakfast

Bowls of vegetable and pork fried rice plus a fried egg for Justin. Deep fried spring rolls filled with things like lettuce, rice noodles and mystery meat on the side. Not pictured is some very spicy dipping sauce for the spring rolls. N.B. We didn’t eat all of the spring rolls, eggs and rice pictured!

Snack

We snacked on bananas and biscuits all through the day. The bananas are the tiny sweet tropical variety while the biscuits are our favourite “Jam O’Jam” (similar to a New Zealand Shrewsbury) or the less nice (but hey 12 to a packet can’t be that bad) Jack N Jill plain chocolate.

Lunch

Vegetable noodle soup with our own selection of chilli, fish sauce and MSG added from the table condiments. Accompanied by a side of mint leaves that we added to the soup and ate raw, unsure which style of eating is correct. Drinks of two different iced coffee brands for a taste comparison – Justin preferred Nescafe and Emma the Birdy.

Dinner

A repeat of breakfast – more stir fried rice but this time vegetable for Emma and Pork for Justin (takeaway as our hotel was more than 1km from the only eatery around). Justin had double fried eggs to top his rice. Justin also ate two steamed buns filled with mystery meat and egg that had been floating around our panniers for a few days. That’s a lot of egg!

In Laos we need to head south, but with so much time (we will spend two months in the country), so few roads and such little total distance to cover, we are spending a lot more time deliberating over our route. We have even purchased our first ever printed guidebook! This deliberation is new to us as is the sense of anticipation that it brings.

Before we even arrived in Luang Prabang we were aware of the big double dip climb that lay ahead. We knew the distance and heights we would cycle in detail along with the locations of guesthouses. As we relaxed in Luang Prabang we pondered how the climb would compare with our cycling on the Tibetan Plateau and more recently the hilly roads in the north of Vietnam. Normally we actively seek out hill climbing, enjoying the challenge and sense of achievement. This time as our apprehension and anticipation built, we weren’t so sure.

The day of departure we had to rouse the security guard at our guesthouse to open a gate. He waved us off into the morning gloom with one hand while the other rubbed at his bleary eyes. In Laos dawn comes quickly and the sky was light as we cycled past rows of brightly clad chanting monks receiving alms in a setting far removed from the flashbulbs of the central tourist district.

The weather was on our side with low cloud keeping us cool during the climb to the top of the first hill of the day. It was barely mid-morning and with our confidence building we flew down the descent, knowing that we would make it to our destination in daylight. With barely a pause for breath, the road began to climb again and this ascent was longer and higher.

As our energy flagged we stopped for lunch of tomato and cucumber sandwiches. Not long after we passed through a village where two small boys, both under 10, grabbed the backs of our bikes and pushed with all their might. We sat back in amazement, as they raced our fully loaded bikes uphill with us on board. Laughing we began to spin our legs and encourage them on until they both dropped away panting and waving to us from the side of the road.

Alerted by the noise of our race, what seemed like every other child in the village was now waiting for high fives and shouts of “hello”. Long after we left the village behind we were still smiling and the next few kilometres of climbing flew easily by. Finally we began to flag and the last 7km to the village of Kiewkacham saw us cycling in silence both concentrating on the simple act of turning our exhausted legs.

Selecting the guest house with the best views from the three on offer, we sank into plastic chairs and ordered plates of food to try and plug the gaping holes in our stomachs. As we ate we watched in amazement at what seemed like a steady stream of cycle tourists arriving in town. Some of the cyclists were on an organised tour while others travelled singly or in pairs. Our table was joined by three English and two Spanish cyclists all heading north. We jealously described the downhill that lay in store for them while they gave us tips about our route. To our dismay we had further climbing ahead.

All the other cyclists were wrapped up in fleeces and hats and complained about the cold temperatures and their lack of warm clothing. To us the temperature felt just fine and we wondered how we would feel when we hit the flat lowlands and their hot tropical climate in a few days.

We hit the road early the next morning, as the other cyclists were sitting down for breakfast and their relatively leisurely day of cycling to Luang Prabang. We waved farewell and headed into the surprisingly chilly morning mist. The morning riding followed an undulating ridge before a short downhill led us into a long winding climb to the junction town of Phou Khoun. We arrived into the town for lunch both exhausted by the climb and dreading the further climbing on our planned route eastwards to Phonsavan and the Plain of Jars.

Over lunch we discussed the pros and cons of heading east versus continuing on the main route 13 south. We knew that only a couple of hours south were hot pools and a guesthouse, along with reportedly stunning scenery of karst formations. Eastwards was likely to be a 260km return journey with up to 60km of climbing. Our decision was easily made and my legs seemed to get a burst of energy with the promise of a soak in thermal water not far away.

Our evening was spent soaking aching muscles and watching a steady stream of locals swimming and bathing in the natural pools, while the occasional bus emptied a load of tourists for a quick toilet and photo stop. We wondered how many holiday albums will include shots of our smiling falang (foriegner) faces.

We left at dawn under a sky painted pink by a sunrise that quickly faded into haze and heat making the humid air feel like treacle. There was no breeze or morning mist to cool us and our bodies were drenched in sweat that refused to dry. We celebrated briefly at the top of a small hill, expecting it to be the last significant climb for a long while.

In the notorious backpacker town of Vang Vieng, I spent one day sick with man-flu that rendered me capable of nothing but sleeping. Emma explored the town discovering a cafe that served pizza-sized salads. Yum! We cycled to a few local caves and swimming holes, amazed at our freedom to explore the massive Tham Phu Kham cave unsupervised. With the date of our return to New Zealand not far away we researched flight options and weighed our belongings – 50kg each including bikes.

Each evening we watched the “party people” return to town after a day of tubing down Nam Song river. Their uniform seemed to be day-glow swimwear, day-glow wrist or ankle bands (for bar access), and bare feet. Many also sported dirty bandages over scrapes, cuts and bruises sustained while tubing or maybe walking bare foot on broken glass – the local hospital and bandage supplier must do a roaring trade. The town reminded us of a music festival with fewer health and safety concerns.

Overall though, the town was not as bad as we had been warned – even Party Island seemed to be shut. I felt bad for the idle owners of cafes, where rows of empty tables stretched into the distance while episodes of Friends, Family Guy and South Park droned endlessly. Has anybody considered opening a cool music bar here or did we just miss it?

Cycling away from Vang Vieng we met a Dutch cyclist and then two Swiss cyclists, all headed the same way as us. The road surface was not great, but was almost totally flat and we made good time chatting as we rode. We parted ways to take a diversion via route 10, hoping for an improvement in the road conditions in exchange for the slightly longer distance.

After an hour of fast riding, the road narrowed and we saw a river ahead with no bridge in sight. Confused, we confirmed with a couple of motorcyclists that we were heading towards Vientiane rather than some random island, before boarding the ferry. With evening approaching and the 115km we had cycled taking its toll, we found a tiny guesthouse and spent the next hour rigging our (to date unused) mosquito nets. Not quite as easy as it sounds when all four walls are made of concrete!

Our ritual of early morning riding continued the next day, as we discovered there was only 65km to Vientiane, about 20km less than we had expected. The road was now dead flat and we flew along scanning roadside stalls for any signs of breakfast.

Emma stopped at what on first glance appeared to be a cafe full of people. A man greeted her in perfect English, inviting us to sit and eat. We realised that we had stumbled into a religious ceremony, but our host insisted we stay. We were served a massive platter of sticky rice, fish, pickles, pork, sweet coconut jelly, coconut milk and soup.

While we ate the local women assembled further platters of food to be served to the monks arriving to take their places around an ornate wooden table. Inside the building people took it in turns to approach a small altar where they made offerings and briefly prayed before rejoining the general hubbub of conversation and laughter.

The owner was a rice farmer from Thailand, but has a Laos wife and, from what we gathered, the religious ceremony at his house is a fairly regular thing. We dreaded invading the proceedings and having our “falang-ness” detract from the importance of the occasion. We ate quickly while chatting with the farmer, before offering a donation that he declined and taking our leave. Our departure towards Vientiane was barely noticed by the local people, but two young monks nodded and smiled shyly at us from their enveloping wooden thrones.

Our start from Dien Bien Phu for the border was a 6am dawn call but the bonus of cycling with Austrian cyclists Valeska and Phillip put the morning chill from our minds while the often steep 25km climb to the border post caused only minor interruptions to our steady chatter. Heading along the flat away from town we were fighting a stream of city bound traffic with school kids on bikes smiling shyly at us and giving the occasional wave. For a few minutes the sun broke through the mist filling the landscape with an otherworldly glow to make the passing cyclists seem to float on a carpet of golden light.

The Vietnam border post seemed prepared for a lot of traffic with a large empty car park but along with a handful of locals we were quickly stamped out of Vietnam and waved onto the 6km road to Laos border control. A handily placed cafe enticed us inside for a cold drink which was swiftly downed as we realised lunch time was fast approaching and the border was likely to close.

Unfortunately our timing was bad and the border guards started a long lunch as they saw us coming. A little later having eaten our own picnic lunch, had our temperature taken for H1N1 virus, filled forms, paid various “fees”, returned our passports to have some mistakes corrected and with all our details laboriously transcribed by hand into a ledger, we were waved into Laos. As we had read, it seemed that in Laos things did move a little more slowly.

The road descending from the border had been widely reported to be in a bad state so expecting to only cover around 40km before dusk we descended towards the town of Muang Mai trying not to inhale too much dust along the way.

The town was small and dusty, but had an appealing riverside guesthouse, local traders we could exchange US dollars with, a cafe with cold beer and extremely friendly locals. Walking through the town as the sun set groups of giggling children ran after us with shouts of “Sabaidee” (Hello) which we excitedly returned. Day one and we had already learnt a word of Laos!

Over the next few days we follow a pattern of being on the road before dawn to cover distances of between 65km – 85km to reach the next village with a guest house. Each morning we are greeted by thick mist which clears as we cycle higher to reveal magical views below us of cloud filled valleys. Along the road older children travelling on foot or by bike wave shyly and smile widely. As we travel further from the border the road conditions improve while the hordes of younger roadside children clamouring for our attention never fail to bring smiles to our faces.

Before lunch on our second day we cross into Muang Khoua by barge and sit down for lunch with a view over the river. Below us children splash in the shallows, slow boats cruise in and out of port, local pigs scavenge for food scraps along the beach while all around the dense green forest jostles up close to the fast flowing river. The town seems nothing short of idyllic.

In the village of Sin Xai we share dinner with a Swedish road engineer who has worked in Laos on and off since the mid 80s. He regales us with stories of his life working in far flung countries and his views on the development of Laos over the last twenty years. He leaves us with much to think about as we head for an early night.

On the gently undulating road to Odumxay we meet a local cycle touring guide who tells us the road ahead is all downhill. We are more than a little disappointed when a few kilometres further on we begin to climb with only a short downhill section before we hit the main town.

Odumxay has our first ATM, a welcome bakery and a range of guesthouses to choose from. The town has enough sights to entertain us through a stunning sunset and more tales from the seemingly endless store of our cycling companions. Emma and I ponder our route ahead a little before deciding to continue south with Philipp and Valeska to enjoy their company (and conversation) for a few days more.

Our start the next day is too early for the local bakery but not for local joggers who share the inner city streets with brightly clad groups of monks. Riding away from the city we see the residents of every hut gathered around small open fires preparing breakfast and trying to drive away the damp morning chill.

We spend a night in the junction town of Pak Mong, where a few stray tourists seem as surprised to see us as we are to find them in town. From here we have around 115km to Luang Prabang which we plan for the next day. After the hill climbing of the previous few days we are expecting the riding to be mostly flat or downhill so with yet another pre-dawn start hope to arrive in town with time to settle into a hotel before dark.

The distance flies by and before we know it we are zipping across a small footbridge leaving the busy main road behind. Trucks and buses are banned from the historic city centre leaving room for all the trimmings of a busy tourist resort. The contrast to the villages we cycled through just a few hours previously leaves us open-jawed in amazement.

Despite a huge number of guesthouses we have trouble locating a place to stay. The few recommended hotels we visit are all full while prices at many other are well outside our budget. After Emma and Valeska spend an hour walking the streets we are settled on a guest house where we plan to spend up to a week relaxing. With a flip of a coin the decision of who is in which room is made and we settle in for yet another long break. Beer in hand I think that I could get used to a cycling life of five days on and five off.

Here are some facts and figures from our time cycle touring in Vietnam:

• 371km cycled (longest day 88km, shortest day 32km)
• 10 nights in hotel beds
• 11 bowls of Pho (noodles) enjoyed
• 5 other international cycle tourists met (two of them cycled with)
• 4 words of Vietnamese learnt (mostly related to food)
• 3 Vietnamese style coffees drunk (before Emma brought her own coffee maker)
• 3 leech bites (all on Emma’s ankles, Justin must taste bad)
• 2 breakfast buffets eaten for all they were worth
• 1 meal of pure carbs mistakenly ordered (Noodle soup + steamed rice)
• 1 house burnt to ground in front of our eyes
• 0 punctured inner tubes thanks to new Maxxis tyres
• 0 problems with bikes aside from coating of road dust

Justin’s most interesting taste-bud tingle: Drinking fresh squeezed sugar cane juice and thinking it tasted a bit like squashed butterflies. Maybe I had been in the fierce tropical sun a bit long that day.

Emma’s best food discovery: Popping head into the doorway of a dark and dingy cafe and finding a old lady sat behind a round hot plate creating goopy rice pancakes which were filled with a meat and mushroom mixture and served with a side of fish sauce. Much nicer than the standard fare of noodle soup!