After pedaling through a thunderstorm, we were exhausted and sought shelter in a schoolroom.
We quickly ate and crawled into our tent for the night.
However, the locals had other plans. “This isn’t comfortable! You must come and sleep with the village headman,” they insisted.
We tried to reassure them, but an hour later, the chief arrived. It took nearly another hour to convince him that we were fine.
The only guesthouse in town had just a single room over.
We tossed a coin to see who would get the bed. I won.
My sleeping mat is comfortable and, above all, clean!
Blue is a ‘calming’ color, yet our hotel room was anything but.
Paul opened the door for some ventilation, and in wafted the scent of the toilet down the hall.
Then he opened the window.
“Honk, honk! Bam, bam, bam!”echoed through the room.
We gave up and went into ‘meditation mode,’ repeating the mantra, “Tomorrow we leave at daybreak!”
When they can no longer be repaired, they’re brought to Dhaka’s rickshaw graveyard.
It’s an eerie yet strangely beautiful sight.
Every inch of a rickshaw—from the handlebars and saddles to the awnings and fenders—is embellished.
But it’s the frames where the artists truly go wild. Film stars, gun-toting heroines, villains, lions, ships, birds, planes and even flowers can be seen on rickshaw undercarriages.
We could hear the brass band blasting, followed by dancers whirling around.
Bolivians love performing in parades, even when there isn’t a spectator in sight!
Bolivians flocked to the Independence Day celebrations, turning the town into a great place for people-watching.
Dull, plain busses are just so passé.
Why not do as the Bolivians do and jazz up public transport with some bad photoshop.
These rolling works of art regularly screamed past us.
They were also a godsend when, after pushing through eight hours of sand and washboard, we declared, “Enough is enough!”
During the midday heat, we would sit in the shade of a famous temple. (Note: deserted pagodas are atmospheric, but touristic ones have vendors selling ice-cold drinks.)
Then when the temperature cooled, off we went.
Our favorite time was sunset.
It was magical, riding past fields of pagodas bathed in the golden evening light.
We’re just Western cyclists.
But for the girls, we were foreign, new and exciting!
They wrote down our names and beamed while standing next to us.
In Yangshuo, tourists rent bikes to see the sights.
Their happiness was infectious as they pedaled through the gorgeous karst scenery.
Yunnan’s steep gorges are dotted with ancient villages and terraced fields.
We saw it all as we pedaled up and down and up and down again over each successive mountain ridge.
What’s in the pot? Who knows?
Sometimes, it was delicious, but on other occasions, we found beaks and chicken claws.
By some restaurants the smell was so horrendous that we had to cover our noses as we rushed by.
When we saw the windshield adorned with flowers, we assumed, “Public transport isn’t operating during the festival.”
How wrong we were…
Lazy Louie was a legend that you didn’t want to miss.
In Hartville, Missouri he built the “Lazy Louie Bicycle Camp,” a popular rest stop for cross-country cyclists.
On his old Gibson guitar, he played his unforgettable bicycle touring songs such as Biker’s Dream and My hard bicycle seat.
Our hotel room overlooked the bus stop.
