A Farewell to Tree Sleep
After many days of comfort and familiarity, it was time to say goodbye to Tree Sleep. Each morning had begun with the same simple routine: a bowl of cornflakes and slices of bread. It became part of my rhythm, a small piece of home in a foreign place. But in travel, farewells are inevitable.
This morning, I woke up earlier than usual, at five. It turned out to be the right decision. I finally completed something I had put off for weeks—sharing my journey in English. Early mornings truly bring unexpected blessings. With that done, I packed up, adjusted my bike, and prepared for the road.
Today would be the longest ride since starting this world journey: more than 90 kilometers. But with the good weather and a refreshing breeze, I felt ready and excited.
The Road Ahead
The roads were smooth, and the scenery inviting. Yet just twenty minutes in, I was already drenched in sweat. Sweat on the road can be dangerous—once the breeze cools it, the body chills quickly. I remembered my first day riding out of Bangkok, when sickness had struck me hard. I promised myself not to repeat that misery.
Just as I was focused on managing my body, pain shot through my foot. Something had stung me. The sharp itch was unbearable, far worse than any mosquito bite. I clenched my teeth and carried on, reminding myself that discomfort, too, is part of the journey.
At a roadside stall, I stopped for breakfast. At first, I thought the dish was too light, just rice porridge. But as I dug in, I found tender meatballs hidden inside. It was warm, filling, and gave me the strength I needed. I thanked the staff with a smile, truly grateful for their kindness.
New Scenery, New Encounters
By the time I had cycled about 50 kilometers, I realized how special this route was. Mountains lined the horizon, standing close as if to watch over me. The landscape was different from what I had seen before, and it filled me with energy.
Something else struck me too—no barking dogs. In many towns, stray dogs had been a constant source of tension, but here, silence replaced that fear. Even more, the people here greeted me with warm smiles and waves. It seemed like there was less suspicion, less distance. Many of the locals were Muslim, and I noticed how beards were common. Somehow, their presence made the atmosphere calmer, softer.
Soon, a sign appeared: “Cave.” Curious, I took a short detour. The entrance was quiet, unstaffed, perhaps only open during certain times of the year. Even so, I admired the jagged rocks hanging from the ceiling, lit faintly by the daylight. It felt mysterious, as if the cave held secrets of its own. Next time, I promised myself, I would check the season and return.
Meals on the Road
For lunch, I stopped at another stall for noodles. At first glance, the soup looked incredibly rich, but when I tasted it, the flavor was surprisingly light. I chuckled to myself, wondering what seasonings had been used—or left out. Still, I finished the bowl gratefully and thanked the woman running the stall.
Food on the road was never just about filling the stomach. It was also about human connection. Each bowl, each plate, came with a smile, a gesture of care.
Reaching the Guesthouse
By late afternoon, I finally reached my guesthouse. The room was spacious, and the Wi-Fi faster than anywhere I had stayed so far. Small comforts like these feel enormous when traveling long distances.
I’ve noticed something during my travels: even if a hotel looks “unavailable” on Google Maps, walking in directly often works. Perhaps the owners prefer not to pay commission fees to booking sites. Either way, I’ve learned to trust direct encounters more than digital labels.
But there was something more urgent to think about—money. With only 240 baht left, and a ferry ride ahead, I wasn’t sure if it would be enough.
An Unexpected Gift
Before heading out to exchange money, I hung my laundry to dry in the garden. Just then, I met a family running a nearby food stall. They offered to take me to the ATM. The nearest one was five minutes away by motorbike—an impossible walk under the heat. Their kindness truly saved me.
When we returned, their young daughter surprised me with words I will never forget. In Japan, I was often told that my beard made me less attractive. But this little girl, no older than primary school age, looked at me and said something positive about it. Hearing those words from her made me incredibly happy.
And then, the greatest surprise of all: she gave me a dinosaur stuffed toy as a gift. I was speechless. Such a gesture, so pure and unexpected, filled me with joy. I promised to carry it with me on my travels as a treasure.
Giving Something in Return
Back at the guesthouse, I felt a strong urge to give something back. I looked through my belongings and my eyes landed on a yukata—traditional Japanese clothing—that my grandmother had given me. I had carried it all this way but rarely used it.
I thought: one day, it might be ruined in the rain, or simply left behind. But if I gave it to someone now, and it could bring smiles, then its value would live on.
So I offered the yukata to the family. It wasn’t about money or labels of “treasure.” It was about sharing something meaningful, creating a circle of gratitude and joy.
In that moment, I realized again that travel is not just about places, but about people—and the gifts, small or large, that we exchange along the way.
