Sleeper trains in Egypt for the foreigner are extortion. At first glance, the denomination solely given in USD for a 14-hour sleeper train seems quite the mountain to climb. After all, you’re told “tourists can only buy the sleeper car” for night trains, of which the entire cabin needs to be bought if one would like to not sleep next to a stranger, for $110. And this price for Egyptians, you ask? A paltry (in comparison) $45. As the former costs more than a flight and takes five times as long, the only natural response is to look for a loophole.

I brought forth this predicament to the hostel workers at my locale in Cairo. Before I could further lament the rail system’s price gouging, one of the employees replied, “We can get you a black market ticket. It’s much cheaper at $18 and the seats are quite nice”. Loophole, found. Essentially, a friend of one of the employees or the employee themselves will go to the train station and purchase a ticket, in cash, for whomever the end recipient is. The ticket will then be dropped off at the hostel for pickup with a nice commission build in to the total ticket price. Capitalism wins again. As luck would have it, there was one seat open on the day I desired to leave to Aswan. The process ran its course and I found myself post-Uber drop in Ramses Station in Cairo, to find my train. After many gestures and futile charades to find the proper track, I was directed to the car where my throne was awaiting.

The high (comparatively) price of the ticket was due to its location in first class. A quiet, over-air conditioned box with semi-lay flat seats that would give domestic first class seats a run for their money and sealed windows completed the section. I made my way over to 33C, a single window seat. After placing my bag in the metal rails above the seat and reclining more than should be possible, I lay down to adjust the sleeping mask and attempt to pass the 14-hour journey knocked out. As luck, coincidence, and a few other like terms would have it, a couple say down next to me. Not Egyptian, they began to discuss the trip in rapid Spanish. Being polite, I greeted them with a “buenas” and received a taken-aback but friendly response. We began to chat as the remaining passengers settled in for the long haul. A couple from Barcelona, they were taking advantage of a glut of vacation time to explore Egypt as well as trek down to Sudan via boat. At least that was the plan. The train began to pull away from the station and a mutually shared “we’ll talk in the morning” was exchanged. I drifted off to sleep; the only respite from the bright cabin lights a fragile silk sleeping mask.

Fast-forward 14 hours and we had arrived into the greenery and unabashed heat of Upper Egypt. The Nile provided lush fields and the proximity to Sudan combined with being in a desert created an atmosphere that was significantly warmer than Cairo. The three of us stepped outside and began to discuss plans. They weren’t completely sure about the cruise any longer and as it was mid-morning and no one had eaten, agreed to stop for lunch. Wandering through the dusty streets of Aswan was a far cry from the madness of Cairo. Nowhere near the traffic, sound of honking horns, touts asking if you’d like to see their shop and buy papyrus, and perpetual layer of smog that coated the city. We managed to circumvent the town’s souk as nourishment after such a long ride was more important than being hassled to buy yet another gallabiyah. After we had just exited the souk, the scent of fried fish was ever so slightly filling the air. We made our way over to a semi-covered concrete block respite with boxes full of seasonings, a fryer, 2 girls, and a few smiling, waving Nubian men. To call it a restaurant would be doing a disservice to so many fine establishments around the world. This place combined street stalls with a concrete patio to create an open-air setting filled with a couple of chairs and tables. All were unoccupied and covered with a thin layer of dust. The one cooking the fish waved us over and asked, “Hungry? Good fish here. You want?” to which we inquired the price. “10 pounds one kilo”. At around sixty cents, this was a steal. As we were to found out, the steal aspect was confirmed; we fell for a bait and switch act. The 10 pounds seemed to be a multiplier as we were quoted after the meal 200 pounds, or four dollars each. Hardly a pittance comparatively.

Almost immediately after the order for one kilo of Nile Perch was placed, the chef brought over a selection of Egyptian meze, or starters. Diet bread, tahini, pickled vegetables, and salad rained down like manna from heaven. In the midst of this flurry and food, a local came over and asked if we’d like anything to drink, as there was no bottled water or beer available. He left for the market across the street and came back with 3 ice-cold, slightly dusty cans of Pepsi, quoting thirty pounds for a four pound retail can. No matter; having our thirsts quenched was more than worth the minor inconvenience of dusting off each can. While waiting the main course, the three of us talked about our lives, plans, and aspirations. The plans portioned turned quickly into where I was staying for the duration of this visit to Aswan, for which I didn’t have an answer. “Why don’t you check with our Airbnb host? They may have a room open. I can give you the number to call.” As a result, I ended phoning an enthusiastic Nubian woman who told me she’d check if there was space and would call back immediately. Not 2 minutes later, my phone rang. “Mr. Alec? If you’d like, we have room. 400 pounds one night. And Abu Simbel? I check for space and call you back”.

The anticipation of her answer was shattered with the thud of one kilo of fish hitting the table. We underestimated how much food was to be had; 4 filets, 2 fried and 2 grilled were ours for the taking. The fish were both cooked to perfection; even the flies circling the table had their eyes on our remnants. Flaky and delicately moist white meat lined our stomachs as whole fish quickly turned to bones and succumbed to the appetite of three voracious travelers. Wiping my fingers with the one napkin provided, the phone went off. “Mr. Alec? Abu Simbel I confirm space for you. Bring passport and see you soon.”

Arriving into Colombo’s airport at 03:30 in the morning, my mind was anywhere but present; stuck in the customs line waiting to access the cavalcade of ATMS and taxis that would grant me access to the capital. After penning my hostel address and giving the reason for visiting *tourism*, I was cleared to stack my wallet with multi-colored notes the accumulated size of a phonebook and source transit into the city. With the forthcoming twinge of back pain due to inches of notes, I approached a driver about costs. “Sir, good price. 21,000 rupee to get to the train station? Too much? Okay, okay my friend. 19,000. Good deal, friend, we have good car. With air conditioning. A-I-R C-O-N-D-I-T-I-O-N-I-N-G. But that extra. 2,000 rupee, cheap. Okay, 21,000 my friend and we take you. Where from?”

Stepping outside into the sticky heat of the monsoon season, my clothes seemed to shrink, growing both tighter and ever so more wet. My backpack doubling in weight, every word seemingly hanging in the air. No longer were we in the throes of a Midwestern spring. “Where to, my friend?” began the taxi driver. “Train station? Okay. Train where? Ah, Kandy. Kandy is very beautiful. Welcome to my country.” With 90 minutes to make it to the central station to catch a train to the East, this option, albeit more expensive, was far more efficient than the Lonely Planet-adored combination of a local bus and tuk-tuk for next to nothing, which took up to 90 minutes to reach said location. Due to the antiquated reservation system of needing a local sim card to reserve tickets in advance, I and throngs of both locals and backpackers advanced towards the central station before the sun had risen. After a squished journey in a car that wasn’t built to handle larger frames, we arrived, with an hour to spare before departure.

Train stations in Sri Lanka are not quite up to the same standard as their global brethren. Built by the British back in the fading days of the Empire, the structures were sound, with wooden ticket counters and chipped paint dating to decades past. Stepping up to the ticket counter, three options presented themselves. First class; the relative luxury, complete with air conditioning, seat reservations, and packed with Westerners seeking home-like comfort. Second class; what I had flown halfway around the world for, all locals, fans, no reservations, and nary an outlet to be seen. Third class; much like second class, but with less fans and more cramped seating, for the pernicious amongst us. Stepping forwarding, my choice was clear. For the princely sum of $5, I had a ticket for Second class. All aboard.

As the sun began to slightly break over the palm trees, I heard a whistle and the shriek of numerous delighted patrons. As the train pulled into the station, I realized a mistake had been made. Due to the lack of a seat reservation, what amounts when the train stops is essentially a free-for-all. Age, size, gender matters not, for the premise (or hope) of a seat trumps any physical limitation. Not knowing where to stand, I had aligned with the first class cabin and after watching a band of locals pile in, pushing and shoving, I had to run over the next coach and file suit. As luck would have it, after 40 hours of traveling, I was not to have a seat. Bags, expecting mothers, monks, students, had occupied every inch of seat; a veritable cornucopia of culture. No problem. In doing as the locals do, I opened a side door, filling the passing area with light and laughter. Yes, the locals thought it quite funny seeing a tourist joining them on each of the sides, legs off the edge, feet on the steps, gripping the grab handles. Soon after, the train began to pull away from the station, belching smoke and chugging along at the rapid pace of 20 miles per hour. As we gained speed, the city of Colombo passed. Gleaming pillars of glass and steel turned first into small brick hovels and then tin shacks. Sri Lanka is by no means a wealthy country, and this was quickly reflected in the throngs of women and men walking the tracks at daybreak, in search of a day’s pay or short-term labor. With what seemed to be a lack of restrooms, the scenery of temples, greenery, and blue skies was filtered by men, women, and children squatting alongside the tracks.

The train continued chugging along eastbound. As light continued to filter into the main cabin, samosa and coffee sellers began making their rounds. The scent of fresh beans and the sound of “Samosa fresh samosa cheap” rang throughout the metal cabins. I stood up momentarily to purchase both and enjoyed the first of many Sri Lankan snacks. The samosas; crunchy, fragrant, and savory, filled with a piping hot spiced mash. The coffee was instant-quality, but welcome after flying halfway around the world. After polishing off this breakfast-on-the-go, I returned to my post on the open train carriage. Wind whipping in my face, we edged closer to Kandy. Back home, trains generally slow down before approaching a platform and have ample clearance between the steps and the ground. Not so much in Sri Lanka. CRACK. My foot had smacked into the concrete below the steps at the now-current stop, with all of a gap of a few inches. A glancing blow which would have incurred a fracture, if not for wearing closed-toed leather shoes and wool socks. There’s a first time for everything, including being thankful the majority of sandals don’t work with my feet. An attendant comes running “sir look out, are you okay?” pulling me backwards by the backpack, foot managing to catch the extended metal of the large door. With the only damage a large bruise (but no breaks), he told me it was quite dangerous at my height to be sitting outside. I thanked him and hobbled back inside the train to find a seat.

Naturally, there was no seat to be had. Families lay strewn across rows and multiple seats, leaving the aisle as the only open space. Those in the middle had to contend with the traveling food salesmen and making sure they weren’t being pickpocketed. I tossed my pack onto the metal holders above the seats and held onto the rails, the heat from the car taking my attention away from the throbbing foot. More samosas and tea passed the time and after a few hours, my watch signaled that Kandy was close. Of course town sign visibility was non-existent, which meant asking a number of locals where Kandy actually was. After a number of puzzled stares and being waved along, a grizzled old man grabbed my forearm and led me towards the door. Pointing to my watch and then outside, the man uttered “Kandy. Yes. Us” and waved goodbye. After close to two days in total transit, I had finally arrived to the first stop on the route. Now, to haggle with a tuk-tuk driver to reach the hostel. And why are there so many images of teeth?

Mexico had never been high to visit on my personal list. It may have had something to do with the proximity to home, the misguided thought of “it’s not exotic/adventurous enough”, a lack of knowledge on the country itself, or having already visited. There are a couple things wrong with the above. For starters, a five hour flight to the capital is by no means a short hop and the diversity of the country in terms of languages, landscapes, and cuisine is enough to make a sociologist blush.

My family had visited over a decade ago, visiting Tulum and Riviera Maya. Cenotes and beaches do not an entire country make. Fast forward to the present and on a whim, I was browsing flights and found a cheap one into the capital. As luck would have it, the weekend I was due to arrive, Club America was playing a game at the Estadio Azteca. For football fans, the stadium is a mecca, akin to one of the seven wonders of the world of football stadiums, along with Wembley in Britain, Maracana in Brazil, and the Santiago Bernabeu in Spain, to name a few. Instantly, I was hooked. Flights were booked and tickets were perused, with zero expectations holding the two together. Little did I know, the weekend would turn into one of the most enjoyable trips I would come to take.

Tickets to Club America matches only went on sale the week of, unless you were a socio, or member, of the organization. They could be ordered online only by paying with a Mexican credit or debit card, neither which I possessed. Ergo, the only option was to purchase tickets in person and arrive early to the stadium to cue. Games are played on Saturday or Sunday evenings, making it easy to time the long trek via the metro plus a bus transfer to make it to the stadium. Easy does it.

The Friday morning sun broke through the wispy curtains of my hostel bunk; an implicit signal that breakfast had been served on the rooftop deck. Stumbling over backpacks and clothes strewn on the floor, I headed up the wrought iron stairs to catch a glimpse of the skyline as well as fill my stomach with beans, tortillas, and chilaquiles; a welcome respite from the previous weeks of chain hotel continental breakfasts. Plate piled high with carbs, I sat down with a few other hostelers to gauge interest in the match. Around our wire-frame circular table sat one Kiwi and two Germans. Each one traveling alone, we bonded quickly over discussing sites to see, potential activities, swapping travel stories, and sharing itineraries. The majority found themselves in CDMX to learn or practice Spanish as well as take advantage of the low costs of living (albeit temporarily). With the match being played Saturday night, I raised the idea. The Germans had no interest in attending while the Kiwi thought the opposite. Due to stadium capacity of 80,000, we decided it best to purchase tickets in line on premise.

As luck would have it the next morning, I brought up the idea again to gauge interest. The Kiwi relayed that he discussed the match with 3 additional Kiwis also staying at the hostel and that they’d like to go. Phenomenal; we had a veritable troupe to take in the experience. Fast-forward to a couple of hours before game, we re-grouped on the rooftop and created a plan of action to attend the match. Another Canadian had joined the posse to make us 6. Although uber was a cheap alternative, we sided with a more local experience to take the combined metro and bus to the stadium gate for a pittance. Despite being pickpocket and deposed of my phone for any contact or directions, I decided to give the metro another shot. We disembarked towards the metro, but not before picking up a pre-match snack of chapulines, or grasshoppers. Rows of stands selling meats, vegetables, drinks, and other bites lined the promenade before the entrance to the metro. I am never one to turn down eating bugs when given the opportunity. A tiny bag, filled with hot sauce, chili powder, and topped with line came to a little more than one dollar. Gas station fare, this was not. Although we had an early start, in typical traveling fashion, things did not go according to plan. First, the Canadian, ever dehydrated, dropped like a stone on the metro proper. We exited the first stop, rushed to grab her water, and luckily, she came to and was rejuvenated. One of the Kiwis hailed a taxi as she returned to the hostel. Two of the Kiwis then left to use the bathroom and promptly got lost. Returning 15 minutes, already now behind schedule, we jumped in a car and speed off. Jumped is too of a word. One of the Kiwis, as the doors were closing on our entry, stuck his arms inside and physically pried them open so that we could all enter. Brute strength combined with the smallest bit of liquid encouragement kept us on track.

As we sped down the road making it to the bus and then transferring for what seemed to be hours, the bus suddenly ground to a halt, the Azteca in front of our eyes. Only one problem remained: purchasing tickets, sitting through a rain storm, and waiting in line. Side note; the game and started and 10 minutes had already passed. Churning through the line ever so tortoise-like, finally the gate approached. 5 tickets were purchased, upper level and to the NW of the home team’s goal. Sprinting to our seats, slightly wet, and turning down offers of overpriced micheladas, we had arrived. Though an off night, the grandeur of 80,000 seats stood abreast. Piling in, air buzzing with thousands of screaming fans and the drums of the aficionados, the night was electric. Vendors began to circle the seats. American vendors would do with taking a page out of their book. Ramen, mac n cheese, elotes, cotton candy, Subway, Wendy’s – it was like being a glutton in a mall fast food court, with everything at half price and the constant bombastic cheers in Spanish. Simply to take in the sights, sounds, and smells made worth the $6 price of admission.

From a footballing perspective, America ran circles around the opposition. An entire gulf in class apart, the home side pinged countless effortless balls over the top for their runners to latch onto as well as possessed a defense that handled any whiff of trouble with ease. The keeper was rarely tested. Minutes before the half was to end, a deep diagonal ball to one of the fullbacks beat the opposition’s backline. As the center halves dropped in, the fullback produced a cutback to the top of the penalty box where the America forward put his foot through, placing the ball into the back of the net. GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLL erupts thousands of screaming fans. The drums get louder, beer is drank rapidly, and hugs, high-fives are exchanged all around. Strangers and neighbors turn into friends, even for the brief 90 minutes. As the game continued and more concessions were procured, America managed another, around the 70^th minute. Cue goal sequence number 2 with no less aplomb. Final score: America 2, opposition 0; 3 points to the home squad. As we filtered out of the stadium, though the football could have been higher quality, we were all satisfied with the experience as a whole. Another stadium, another match, another check off the list. Latinos are passionate people, and nowhere is this greater identified than while attending a classic futbol match. For neutrals and hardcore fans alike, the atmosphere alone is enough to transport one to another locale. Quite possibly the best $6 I’ve ever spent.

 

Aqaba was never on anyone’s mind. But leaving Petra, sunburned and exhausted from two consecutive hikes, we decided that it would a good idea to have a beach day. The ragtag bunch – myself, a Dane living in Nablus, and a German living in Amman, had met on the bus to Petra, though the German and myself were introduced at a cultural center in the capital. With varying levels of Arabic, we set off for the resort town located on the shores of the Red Sea.

The first obstacle was transportation. Outside of tourist buses, local transport is bountiful but runs on odd hours. The three of us ended up riding in a old green Toyota family van that was likely older than all of our combined ages, where we were able to stretch out and discuss a plan. Shooting purely from the hip. Combining our middling Arabic with the driver’s basic English, enough commonality existed to converse about Aqaba and what options were available to cover the day.  In the short distance to the town, the landscapes changed from desert and rock-hewn to condominiums and resorts. Quite the contrast; the ancient desert where time itself stood still, compared to the knights of economic development: Hilton and McDonalds. From windswept burnt red rock arches, penetrating the desert dunes as far as the eye could see, to the Golden Arches.

Aqaba is a resort town. Tourists and affluent Jordanians alike visit to relax, eat seafood, stare at docked cargo ships, and swim in the Red Sea. The salty sea smell hangs in the air and shops selling swimming attire invite you to take a dip. Although the Dane and myself had packed swim suits, the German had forgotten hers. We went off to look for location-appropriate gear; this was to be no scene from Baywatch. After the floral number was selected, hunger set in. Luckily near the port, numerous bakeries plying their trade turned out pitas, hommos, and baked goods like an assembly line. Literally, a conveyor belt connected to an oven churned enough pitas to feed a hotel, and for next to nothing. We collected a stack of these still-hot pieces as well as tubs of hommos and walked around the town. As resort towns are, a tourism booth stood in the center near the harbor. The three of us inquired about beach options – would the best beach access be free? Can we snorkel? Supposedly, a tank was buried in the depths of the Sea, just off the shore on the outskirts of town. The German made a deal with one of the tourism operators for a package involving snorkeling, private beach access, and transportation. So we beat on, wheels against the pavement, borne ceaselessly into the tide.

As expected with the deal, the snorkel gear was low-quality. The masks would immediately fog and fill with water, limiting the already slightly-murky quality of the sea. Mouthfuls of salt water only increased the excitement. Swimming on, we never found the tank, but ran into another obstacle. Splat. Vision obscured. What’s that? Is that…a jellyfish? Uh oh. The water was filled with jellyfish off the reef. About the size of a fist and red in color, they floated like lures around the surface of the water. Panicking, I swam as fast as possible towards the shore, slightly scraping my leg on the rough raised coral edges. Both the German and the Dane had seen the jellyfish and after the fact, informed me that they were harmless. Non-stinging. All that effort to escape the tentacles for naught.

After snorkeling, we noticed a pier had been built into the area. We took turns jumping, diving, slipping, and flipping into the warm salty sea. All thoughts of burned skin, home responsibilities and later transit slipped from memory. Bobbing up and down in the foam, time seemed to fade. As our program was coming to a close, we decided to look for accommodation. Couchsurfing was the selection and the German decided to handle the requests. In waiting, we elected to walk around town and take in the sunset from a park, beers in hand, listening to rap from a bluetooth speaker brought by the Dane. We discussed life goals, objectives in Jordan, favorite rappers, travel stories, and experiences. As the sun slipped lower and lower, illuminating the park and surrounding the hotels with a dark orange glow, we moved on.

As luck would have it, Real Madrid was playing Atlético de Madrid in the Champions League semi-final. The Middle East is crazy for football, so finding a venue was of no concern. We selected one with outdoor seating and abundant hookahs – mint as the flavor de jour. With a 2-1 defeat but passage through to the next round, half the crowd as Madrid fans were elated. I high-fived numerous locals celebrating – although we weren’t able to converse in a shared tongue, the language of football and joy is global.

After waiting and not hearing a response from the supposed host, we were about to make the decision to pass the night sleeping on the beach with our backpacks, but Abdullah arrived at the eleventh hour to take us to his apartment. A bed is far preferable to sand and not having to worry about bag theft made sleeping much easier. The day ended as we tucked in the guest room, swapping our experiences of the voyage. Tomorrow’s transportation was irrelevant.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do, so goes the ancient saying. Generally, this is good advice to follow in any foreign country so not to make any faux passes or further out oneself as a visitor. In Southeast Asia, this involves a motorbike/scooter. Watching the locals whiz through rush hour traffic nonplussed while tourists struggle to even cross the street on their own two feet is a sight to behold. Combine the thrill of open air riding with sometimes inaccessible public transport and topped off with the wallet-lightening cost of around $5 daily plus gas, and it’s no surprise that riding a motorbike is atop the list of many travelers to the region. It’s like riding a bike – only faster, more dangerous, and may result in loss of limbs or life. Rev your engine.

The majority of travelers that ride do as their first experience. Sure, one could continuously pay a motodop driver to take them around daily, but those costs add up. Second, as someone who is taller than most people in the region, a local’s idea of weaving and squeezing into space is neither the most comfortable nor accommodating. Ergo, here lies the ever-present hostel or bike rental shop. They may ask for a passport, but try to use instead an old ID or some document with a photo on it. No sense in leaving a passport. Keep in mind that unless you have motorcycle/additional travel insurance, your home insurance may not cover any costs resulting from accidents, such as colliding with a cow, or being forced off the shoulder due to a wrong-way driving semi. Strap on your flimsy, wholly unprotecting helmet and dig your flip flops into the footrests. Let’s explore how to drive.

As stated, a scooter is essentially a larger, faster, heavier, and more dangerous bicycle. As the majority of rentals will be automatic, there’s no need to focus on shifting gears. Only grinding them. The speed in increased by revving the throttle on the right handlebar and hand breaks serve to prevent a crash. The turn signals and lights may or not work, so take the Vietnamese method and constantly blare the horn. Saying hello? Honk. Passing? Honk. Notify your party to stop? Honk. Racing? Don’t even think about letting go of the horn. The average rental will be around a 125cc engine, or have a top speed of 100km/60mph. Above that pace, the mass Honda Waves may quite literally fall apart. For $5 a day, do you really expect a Ferrari?

Most riders won’t have any problems if they avoid the big cities and learn first in the smaller towns. Going in blind to drive in Bangkok or Hanoi is like being a hemophiliac and then fighting MMA. You will get hurt. Horror stories are abound in the region – too many have the infamous thai tattoos – a burn from the exhaust pipe or nasty bruises from skidding out on the road. Sand and rocks mean danger for the bike and without knowing how to handle uneven terrain, there likely will be problems. However, learning away from traffic and slowly building up to congestion will be easier for the learner. I generally err on the side of caution and am constantly on my horn, due to learning in Vietnam. The Cambodians and Thais are more laid back so I’m sure I was quite the scene. Before long, you’ll feel comfortable weaving through traffic on the highways and overtaking larger cars. Other drivers are masterful within the organized chaos and will be able to read your path, so long as is it’s constant. Hold your ground save for trucks, and succeed. It’s an addition to the Southeast Asian experience that, when handled properly, can turn the trip from extraordinary to unforgettable. Numerous travelers also purchase bikes and go on to either circumnavigate the region or bike the Ho Chi Minh trail from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh. Others simply ride on a daily or weekly basis, to avoid paying for one or paying off border guards to cross checkpoints. Either way, it’s an aspect I firmly believe should be integrated into traveling Southeast Asia.

I rode motorbikes throughout my initial trip, but all rentals were done in short-term fashion. Here’s a list of memorable and not-so-memorable biking experiences on the road.

Battambang, Cambodia. My first rental, after driving around a few backstreets to practice, was to head out into the countryside to visit a cave. However, an intersection bisected the road. In the middle of a left turn, I hit the gas too quick and subsequently braked hard. Lurching forward, the bike began to tip. I jumped off and caught it to slow the fall, but still had wiped out in traffic. Luckily, everyone drove around me as I hauled the bike to the side to check our damage. No bruises and a slight crack on the mirror. Success. Not long after, I would be weaving in traffic and pushing the odometer until the bike rattled. This was necessary due to night falling and the headlights not functioning. Quite literally racing the sun.

Kep, Cambodia. Experiencing developed and non-developed segments of a town. Riding on a dirt road before arriving seaside and taking advantage of fresh asphalt. Again, testing the speed and fragility of the bike while dodging livestock and fruit vendors on the side. Never had I felt more alive that in that stretch of pavement riding to find an atm, as the only one in town didn’t work.

Ko Lanta, Thailand. The entire gamut. Exploring jungles and hidden beaches during the day and driving in the darkness at night. Long stretches of the island were unlit and roads were okay. You watch your speed until a fellow hosteler wants to race. Not the smartest idea, but we gunned down semi-lit stretches going 100km/60 mph and weaving around other bikers. I won. Then, having the bright idea to ride back during a monsoon without eye or other protection. I was okay, no damage, but driving with next to no visibility was idiotic. Also, speeding throughout in torrential rains and destroying the DWR coating on my rain jacket.

Nan, Thailand. Driving a bright pink Honda into the hills without a map or directions. I intended on traversing to the Lao border but was held by time. As a result, took the bike into various hill tribe villages and met a few surprised, but friendly villagers. Seeing this traditional way of life and employment was an incredible experience. There’s nothing quite like maxing the throttle on an empty road that’s been recently constructed. Note – make sure to write Nan in Thai. All but one of the bus station workers didn’t know what it was until the manager helped me book a bus ticket.

Save owning a motorbike here, I see my next trip further pushing my comfort zone. Perhaps the Monkey Run sponsored by the Adventurists – one week of North to South in Morocco. No map, driving the Sahara. Excellent.