This winter, we thought we would manage just fine with our dear Volkswagen and a good set of winter tires.

Well, we didn’t.

Let me take you through the two recurring winter scenarios that kept showing up, again and again.

Scenario one usually happened early in the morning, when I had to leave for work.

Especially when it had snowed heavily during the night, our inclined driveway would transform into a ski slope. Our Volkswagen was simply not made for this, and would just refuse to go up.

So there I was, shoveling snow at 06:00 a.m., hoping I would still make it to work on time.

Slowly, I tried to get the car moving, bit by bit. I spread gravel and placed some of those plastic traction mats under the tires. But they would just fly away the moment I pressed the gas.

Running late, I could feel the frustration, stress, and impatience building up.

Meanwhile, Bernardo stood behind the car, pushing with everything he had. Eventually, the car would start to move. And at that point, there was only one way out: accelerate.

So I pressed the pedal, fuelled by all that built-up tension and stress, which made me quite the expert at pressing the gas a little too hard…

And that brings us to scenario two.

If I pressed too hard, the car wouldn’t stop at the road. It would slide all the way to the ditch, straight into the deep snow.

So there I was again, at 06:30 a.m., accepting I would be late for work.

Honestly, in temperatures dropping to -15°C, this was far from the calm Norwegian winter morning I had imagined. But anyway.

The second scenario had one interesting element.

In our small village, there’s only one place people go to early in the morning: the salmon factory. And with just one road running past our house, all the employees drive by.

In other words: it was always the same people being present at the crime scene.

The same friendly Norwegians would step out of their cars, again and again, to rescue me out of the snow. They pushed, gave instructions, climbed into the passenger seat to steer, or crawled underneath the car to attach a rope.

After a while, we started recognizing each other. It almost felt like we had developed a shared morning routine.

“Ah… there she is again.”

Whenever they helped me, I felt really grateful. But also helpless. A little embarrassed. Dependent. All of it, at once.

Out of that discomfort, I tried to show that I was at least prepared. I had everything ready: a rope, gravel, traction mats, two shovels (one for me and one for my savior).

“Eh… guys, do we need this?” I would ask, hoping I could contribute something to the mess. Most of the time, none of it was even used. But at least I felt prepared for my own rescue.

In the end, there were only two things that really worked:

A 4x4.

Or a proper Norwegian.

Luckily, there are plenty of both around here.

And even more luckily, helping each other seems to be part of the Norwegian nature. It comes naturally, and I’m incredibly grateful for that.

So I might as well take this moment to say tusen takk (a thousand thanks) to all the salmon factory employees, and the other villagers who never once hesitated to stop and help. Not once did I sense impatience or frustration. Just kindness, every single time.

Turns out, surviving winter here is about having the right equipment, but even more about having the right people around you.

I guess that’s why I survived.

Thank you for coming along!

Jule Noah

“It’s almost here…” I mumbled, stirring the silver teaspoon through the pitch-black coffee our neighbour had just brewed. Outside, the dark sky hinted that the polar night was about to begin.

I stared into the cup.

So dark…

“Is it really going to be this dark?” I asked.

Our neighbour, with his own mug steaming in his hands, reassured me:

“Don’t worry… you’ll still be able to read the newspaper outside.”

His words stayed with me as I thought about the weeks to come.

We had been preparing ourselves for this unusual stretch of darkness, both mentally and physically. We stocked up on vitamin D, worked out regularly and tried to eat healthy. Everything to make sure we felt as good as possible when the darkness arrived.

We spoke to many people. Locals, friends, others who had lived through the polar night before. What could we expect?

The answers didn’t make us much wiser.

“This is the hardest time of the year.”

“Actually, I love this season.”

“I make sure I’m abroad then.”

“Honestly, it’s the coziest time of the year.”

One thing was clear: we had to experience it for ourselves.

On December 4th, it finally started. The sun disappeared and would stay behind the horizon for at least a month.

We stood at a viewpoint, watching the sun act shy. But the light stretched too far to hide completely. In the clear blue sky, a soft pink glow appeared.

We stood there quietly, simply taking it in.

Until one of us whispered what we were both thinking:

It’s not so dark…

It was nothing like the black coffee I had been staring at. Our neighbour was right.

Here, in Hinnøya, the polar night is not an endless black tunnel. It’s more like a room with the lights dimmed. A sort of twilight: darker than day, but not pitch black. You can clearly tell day from night.

For a brief moment this realisation felt more like disappointment than relief. I had been curious about a stretch of complete darkness.

But let’s not make it sound like this period let me down. On the contrary.

Because the sun floats so close to the horizon, a beautiful pink light spreads across the landscape. With no real sunrise or sunset, this glow lasts for the entire ‘daylight’ period: around four hours each day.

On clear days, of which there were many, the sky was luminous. We spent hours under that light, simply watching, and feeling how lucky we were to be living here.

Looking back, this dark period arrived at exactly the right moment. We were still settling in: unpacking the last boxes, navigating immigration paperwork, and finding our rhythm in a new life. Everything took time, and somehow, the polar night made it feel as if we were allowed to take that time.

And it wasn’t just us slowing down.

Everyone seemed to move at a relaxed pace. The days were short, even if not completely dark, and life seemed to adjust to that rhythm. We met with neighbors from time to time, but everything felt easy and unforced. There was no rush or pressure, and that suited us perfectly.

Visually, the polar night was perhaps less dramatic than we had imagined. But emotionally, it meant more to us than we thought it would. We loved curling up in our little house, wrapped in blankets on the couch, getting lost in a good book, trying out new recipes, lighting a few candles…

It was simple. It was good.

I can already imagine looking forward to this time of the year again: a season that forces you to slow down, to breathe, and to simply be.

I think it’s a beautiful invention.

Thank you for coming along!

Jule Noah

I had been in Norway for only two weeks. Hardly enough time to fully process that I live here now. And yet, life was already taking shape. In that short time, I had found not one, but two jobs.

It all started when I bumped into the local cleaning lady, Marit.

Together with a colleague, she runs the local laundromat. Due to illness, that colleague had to step away. And just like that, I was offered the job.

From our first meeting, it was clear Marit needed help. But she didn’t try to convince me. Instead, she asked if I wanted the job. If it felt right. If I was willing. My comfort seemed to matter just as much as her need for help.

Very Norwegian, as it turns out.

I quickly felt at ease with both Marit and the work, so I accepted the job. Still, she mentioned a hotel that was also looking for staff. She thought it might suit me as well. That’s how I ended up with a second job, though that’s another story.

Just as I had expected, Marit and I work well together. We drive from house to house, turning every place upside down (quite literally).

“Should I move this table to clean underneath?” I asked once.
“Move everything,” Marit said. “And clean under everything.”

The work is hard. But from time to time, we’re welcomed with coffee or, on special days, traditional Lefse. These little breaks give us the energy we need before heading to the next house.

Sometimes, while scrubbing a neighbour’s toilet, I realise how unexpected this new life still feels. I never imagined I’d get so close to people so quickly. I see them literally in their homes, figuratively in their lives, and then again in the supermarket at night. Coming from the city, this world feels small, and that takes some getting used to.

For Marit though, it’s all routine. With only one laundromat in the area, everyone depends on it. She cleans houses of former teachers, her doctor, people who are somehow close to her. And yes, their shower drains clog with hair, just like anyone else’s.

Everyone is connected to everyone. And although it’s different from what I grew up with, I’m starting to appreciate it.

When the houses are done, the laundry begins.

Dozens of kilos of clothing pass through our hands. We straighten them, fold them, and stack them with precision. Quite ironic, cause I’m actually not precise at all…

I’m the kind of person who ‘folds’ her clothes… in the air. I just toss them together, close the door and call it ‘clean.’ And don’t even ask about my underwear. I’ve never folded that in my entire life.

Yet now, folding clothes has become a big part of my days. And honestly, I love it. Not because of the work itself, but because of what it brings into my days.

As we drive, Marit tells me about Norwegian habits and the latest village gossip. We talk about people, about life, about everything in between. She points out details I would never notice on my own, and gives advice that put me at ease during this first period of settling down.

By spending time with Marit and learning the rhythms of this place, I’ve started to understand something about work. The value of work goes far beyond the practical side of it. The real meaning is found in the life around it, and the connections it creates.

Cleaning, in another chapter of my life, might have felt small. Temporary. Here, it feels bigger. Meaningful.

It fits within my life, and adds a lot of value.

I’m getting to know people. I’m starting to understand their habits, humor and language. And because of that, I start to feel part of something. And that, I’m realising, makes a real difference between a house and a home.

I couldn’t have wished for a a better start of this new life.

Thank you for coming along!

Jule Noah

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Hello everyone!

It’s been a while. And honestly, it feels really good to be back. I’ve missed writing here. And I’m genuinely excited to open our new chapter together.

I think, deep down, I also need this. Writing has always helped me make sense of big life changes, and this one has been exactly that. Of all the possible scenario’s, it was really the last one I could have imagined…

We were supposed to be somewhere between India and Pakistan by now, still deep inside our dream of cycling west from Singapore. We believed in that dream completely, and were determined to make it all the way to Europe. But as the numbness in Bernardo’s hands kept getting worse every day, the dream began to slip away.

In Bangkok, a neurologist confirmed what we already feared: we had to stop.

We left our bikes in Thailand and flew back home, believing this was just a pause. As soon as the neuropathy faded, we would return and pick up where we left off.

For Bernardo, the months that followed were all about recovery. He tried everything: physiotherapy, medication, supplements, diets, meditation, and sometimes nothing at all, learning that focusing too much can actually have the opposite effect. In short, it was a struggle.

For me, the months just passed, without really getting anywhere. I was afraid that committing to something new would mean admitting this chapter was over. Should I go back to work? And if so, for how long, if we might leave again someday? I came home, but I didn’t really land. I just couldn’t commit.

When you dedicate yourself to a single goal for so long, it becomes more than just a line on a map. It becomes part of who you are. And when it suddenly ends, because of something outside your control, the loss feels almost personal. As long as this chapter didn’t feel closed, it was difficult for us to move on or begin something new.

But months passed. And slowly, waiting turned into acceptance. Into realising that this dream was not on pause, but it was ending.

We’ve learned to see Bangkok as a beautiful place to end. And I think we can simply be proud of getting that far…

Eight months have passed, and we’ve accepted things as they are. It was painful, but it also created space to let life unfold the way it did…

During that period, when we were not sure what the next step would be, Bernardo sent me a listing for a house.

In Norway.

“Ehh… nice,” I replied. “But what do you mean?”

The suggestion was quite unexpected, so I assumed he was joking.

I didn’t take it seriously, until Bernardo brought it up again and again. He seems to have a talent for indoctrination.

Bit by bit, the idea started to spark some excitement in me. Just the idea, that we could live in such a beautiful house, with a lot of outside space and potential for renovation. That was our dream, but with the exploding housing markets in the Netherlands and Portugal, a dream we couldn’t touch. And suddenly, in Norway, it was possible.

I started checking houses too. ‘Just to look’, you know…

And then…whoops.

I stumbled upon the house we now live in.

I still can’t quite believe it, but there’s no way around it:

We moved to the Arctic Circle.

Everything happened so fast. The day we saw the house online, we signed up for a viewing and booked flights for later that week. Before we had fully processed the idea, we were standing inside the house.

Suddenly, we had a million questions. How would it feel, just the two of us living there? So far from family and friends? Were we ready for harsh, unpredictable weather? Was it too far? Too remote? Too extreme? Did we really want this?

We tried to picture what life could look like, but that imagination never felt enough. The only way to find out, was to dive in.

So, we did.

We’re creating ‘home’ from that charming, white house. And I think we’ve crossed that line where a place stops feeling temporary. It feels like home now. It is our home. And for the foreseeable future, we don’t feel the need to imagine ourselves anywhere else.

Life can take such unexpected turns. We never imagined trading the tropical sun of Asia for a place where, in winter, the sun doesn’t rise at all. Sometimes, when you accept that your route has changed, life really surprises you.
This was definitely a good one :)

And, perhaps even more important: Bernardo is ‘in good hands’ in Norway. Being able to edit videos again, feels like a big milestone. It gives us hope that full recovery lies just ahead.

Which means we’re ready to share again!

Bernardo will be documenting our life on YouTube, and I’ll be writing here on Substack. It took us a while to get here, but we’re truly happy to be back.

I hope you’ll enjoy following along as we build this new life.

Thank you for being here!

Jule Noah

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It’s been two months now since we put our adventure on hold. Life at home is good; we’re spending time with family and friends, Bernardo is seeing various specialists for his hands, and in the meantime, I’m topping up my savings, working as a barista in a caravan. We’re getting by.

We’re grateful for the stability of home, but still, one thought dominates: we want to go back.

As I pour coffees, I find myself daydreaming about the bubble we were in. And there’s one day in particular that keeps coming back. A day where one special moment flowed into the next. The kind of day where we felt so lucky, constantly turning to each other with a smile, saying: “What a life”.

That day marked our entry into the Gulf of Thailand: a coastline between Surat Thani and Bangkok that felt like a (literal) warm bath: ocean temperatures above 30°C, and people welcoming us with warmth on a whole other level.

The route, designed by Nicolas — a Thai-based cycling specialist and founder of Local Routes — led us past several cafés known for great coffee. Of course, we had to stop. Breakfast wasn’t local, but delicious: a berry smoothie for Bernardo, a cappuccino for me. And since it was easter, we shared a croissant with, you guessed it, egg. Happy Easter!

The next 60 kilometers flew by. We were absorbed by the landscapes and cheered on by locals, waving back with huge smiles.

During this section, a car drove past. Moments later, it came back around and disappeared from view.

Several minutes went by.

Suddenly, the car returned. The driver pulled up beside us, rolled down his window and handed us eight ice-cold cans of Coke and Fanta. Unbelievable.

Thirsty as we were, we each drank two cans. Then we handed out the rest to some kids. They received them thankfully, with big smiles. It was such a small gesture, especially compared to everything what we’ve been given along the way: meals, places to sleep, even money. But still, something about that moment stuck with us.

For the first time, we truly felt what we had only understood in theory: that accepting can be just as meaningful as giving. Seeing how openly the kids received what we offered, and how happy it made them, did something to us. It brought back a reflection I shared earlier, in this article: accepting might be even more powerful than giving.

It also brought to mind a passage from The Alchemist:

“When you accept something, you allow someone else to make you happy. And in doing so, you make them happy too.”

That simple exchange, a few cold drinks, a few grateful smiles, became a wake-up call. If it feels so good to have something small accepted with such joy… then why do we so often hesitate to receive things ourselves?

We're learning, slowly, that receiving is not about taking. It's about allowing. And that’s a generous act too.

Still mindful of that insight, we continued the ride.

We passed a temple, located on a hill like so many here. Curious, we decided to climb up and take a look. Once there, we were greeted by a monk, who came over with bottles of cold water. The temple was closed, but he opened it just for us. Under the blazing sun, we wandered around.

Every now and then, the monk reappeared, checking in on us with a gentle smile. Just before we left, he returned once more, carrying a plastic bag filled with cupcakes and tangerines. He invited us to use the bathroom and even offered us a place to stay for the night.

As he offered us these gifts, we were reminded once again of that lesson: receiving with gratitude allows others to give with joy.

Since it was only midday and we still had some distance to cover, we thanked him kindly and moved on, sugared up from the cupcakes and tangerines. As we hopped on our bikes, we looked at each other and said: “What a life.”

Not every day on the bike feels like a dream. We both have off days. Sometimes together, which can be comforting. Other times alone, when the challenge is not to let it spread. We try not to overthink it. Ups and downs are part of the journey, and maybe that’s why days like this stand out so clearly.

We felt complete and alive, and without even realising it, we had covered more than 100 kilometers.

At the end of the day, we reached a campsite. It was closed, but the gate stood open, so we took full advantage: showering, charging our devices and enjoying the warm glow of fairy lights. This made the place feel so cozy! Even with the place shut, it felt like the day itself kept on giving. And all we had to do was: receiving.

Full of gratitude we pitched our tent, layed down and closed our eyes. And we whispered once more: “What a life”.

We can’t wait to return to this dream.

Thank you for coming along!

Jule Noah

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When my bike was assembled for this trip and I sat on it for the first time, I was asked: “Well girl, how does it feel?”

To which I answered: “Uhh… like a bike?”

It felt good, I thought, but honestly, I had no idea what ‘good’ was even supposed to feel like.

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realised how ridiculous I must have sounded, considering the ambitious plans I had with this bike.

I did a little test ride and came back, still unsure if everything felt right. The guys at the bike shop looked at me expectantly. So I nodded seriously and said, “Yeah… I think the handlebars could go a bit more forward.”

Did I feel that?

Not really.

Did I know what that would even change?

Eh, no.

But I said it with such confidence that they actually adjusted it. I think they still assumed I was some kind of serious cyclist.

Well, I’m not.

And to embarrass myself even further: I was born and raised in the Netherlands; a country where cycling isn’t just a hobby, but a way of life.

In the Netherlands, riding a bike feels as instinctive as breathing. With the infrastructure perfectly designed for it, the bicycle has always been my go-to mode of transport. To go to school, to visit friends, to grab groceries; I hop on my bike without even thinking about it.

But to be honest, when I got a flat tire, I looked at my dad with puppy eyes (shame on me). And when the chain slipped, I was already at the bike shop before I even realised I had simply shifted incorrectly. I just couldn’t care less about bike mechanics.

So, it’s actually quite interesting that I have now decided on cycling the world. How does that work?

Well, for me, it’s not about the act of biking itself. I’m not chasing speed or counting kilometers. I’m in it for the adventure.

The bike lets me travel slowly, actively and close to the people and places I pass. Instead of hopping from city to city, I get to see what happens in between, the small towns, the quiet roads, the everyday life. The bike makes that possible.

So no, I wouldn’t call myself a ‘cyclist’. I’m more of a traveler who happens to be moving by bike.

Of course, there are times when I wish I had paid more attention to my dad’s lessons on bike mechanics. Well, no worries though, I have Bernardo now!

Just kidding. I’m determined to figure things out for myself. Learning by doing, right? Tackling problems as they pop up, getting a little more capable with every technical hiccup.

So, to put that mindset to the test, I decided to spend three days cycling solo in Chiang Mai, which you can read about in this article.

Honestly, before leaving, the possibility of a technical problem was my only concern. I would be without Bernardo. Maybe even without a single person around to help, completely on my own. That thought scared me, and that’s exactly why I went.

That kind of confidence, that level of independence on the bike, is something I want to have. And to get there, I know I’ll have to fall flat on my face at least once. Only then will I experience what it’s like to get back up on my own.

But sadly… my princess carried me through the entire trip without a single technical hiccup. How disappointing! (not)

So, I’m not quite at that level of independence yet.

Luckily, Bernardo doesn’t just fix problems, he helps me avoid them too. And I’m learning from those (tough) lessons…

He has probably yelled “Watch the derailleur!” at me a dozen times when I’ve recklessly dropped my bike on the wrong side.

And every time, I thought: ‘The derailleur?’ (turns out to be a super sensitive mechanism sticking out on one side of the bike that doesn’t like hitting the ground….whoops).

At first, I tried to fake knowing what he meant. So what did I do? Just moved the bike a few centimeters up or down, still on the wrong side, right where the derailleur is.

Expert move, I know.

Obviously, Bernardo knew right away that I had no idea what he meant. But after a few firm lessons, I finally got it. Now I at least know the derailleur is something very very important. Progress!

So if you see me cycling out there, know I’m not just chasing adventure. I’m slowly mastering bike mechanics too (dad must be proud hehe).

And since the trip is on pause for now, you might think this would be the perfect time to study up. To dive into derailleur theory and master the mechanics.

Well… I’m afraid I’ll never feel the urge to learn that stuff, unless I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with no other option. That might be the only moment I’ll feel truly motivated.

I do want the result, though. I want to feel calm and capable when things break. But getting there? Honestly, it feels a bit like flossing. You know it’s good for you, but you have to force yourself every single time. I might regret this mentality badly, but that will be part of the adventure too.

So yea, I think that’s it for now.

What about you, dear reader? Do you travel by bike? Do you consider yourself a cyclist or a traveler?

Curious to hear your story!

Jule Noah

After weeks of denial, it’s time to face the truth: we’re off the bike.

Bernardo has neuropathy: damaged nerves in his wrists.

Recovery could take months.

Shit.

We know there are far greater concerns in the world, but still. It’s hard to accept. And we’re okay with you knowing that.

With 3,000 kilometers in our legs, we now know for certain: cycling is what we want to do with our lives right now. But reality caught up with us and showed that we’re not always in control. Maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe this is what protected us from something far worse. The burnt toast theory. Look it up.

The neuropathy, in fact, wasn’t the only sign that something was telling us to stop.

While Bernardo’s symptoms worsened, my grandmother was growing weaker by the day. For weeks, the same question kept circling in my mind: Will I still make it home in time to see her alive?

Then, in Bangkok, the hammer came down: a neurologist told Bernardo he was absolutely not allowed to cycle anymore.

That gave me my answer.

We booked a flight back to the Netherlands, planning to get back on the road after Bernardo’s recovery.

The night before our flight, I called my grandmother to tell her the news. Tears streamed down her face when she heard we’d be able to hug the very next day. She was overjoyed.

The following day, we took off. But during our layover in Abu Dhabi, I got the call.

She had passed away.

No final hug. I was too late.

Even after the long lead-up to her death, the moment still came as a shock. But she left this world believing we would see each other again, and I choose to believe that brought her peace.

It’s been a month now. We’ve had a beautiful goodbye with my grandmother, and Bernardo is slowly making progress, taking baby steps forward.

We try to stay positive and remind ourselves how lucky we are. Time is on our side. The journey isn’t over, only paused. And whenever the moment comes, we’ll be back.

But honestly? These baby steps feel painfully small. Especially for Bernardo, who’s the one facing this injury every single day.

While he knows we’ll return, it’s not always easy to feel that way. Every morning he wakes up with numb hands. That makes it hard to keep things in perspective. Hard to feel hopeful, when each day starts with the same reminder that he's not there yet. It’s like being stuck in a waiting room with no clock, knowing the door will open eventually, but not knowing when. And that unknowing takes its toll.

And while he’s stuck in the waiting room, I’m quietly struggling too…

I’m writing this from the Netherlands, while Bernardo is in Portugal, trying to pick up the pieces. For both of us, it feels like we’re not supposed to be here. But life goes on, and bills don’t pay themselves.

Apart from a few amazing paid subscribers on Substack (thank you!!), I don’t have a remote income yet. I’ve moved back in with my parents, which helps keep expenses low. But even then: groceries, a coffee on a terrace, a birthday gift for a friend, life’s gotten so expensive that my savings won’t last for months.

So yes, I’ll need to work.
But that’s where I’m stuck.

I usually land on my feet quickly after a trip. I find a job, settle in and so I keep moving. But this time, I’m struggling. It’s not that I can’t work. I just can’t bring myself to fully commit.

The idea of a steady job, with fixed hours, asks for a kind of rootedness I simply don’t feel right now. As said before, it feels like I’m not meant to be here. And instead of pushing that feeling away, I’ve decided to be okay with it.

So for now, I get by with freelance jobs. Think of: washing dishes, stocking shelves, babysitting. But also one that secretly brings me a lot of joy: a job as a barista in a tiny, pale blue caravan. It has exactly the kind of charm I imagine for my future coffee truck (hmm maybe that’s part of why I’m here haha).

These are all jobs without fixed hours. They let me earn just enough without asking me to settle, keeping the door open. If, suddenly, we get to go again, I can.

And until then, we hold on to hope. Hope that this will pass. Hope that followers will stick around. Followers like you, dear reader. We hope you’ll stay.

I’ll keep writing here on Substack, looking back and wandering forward. And when we’re ready to go again, I hope you’ll be there with us. We’ve got something to finish.

“Hope keeps us going,” my grandmother used to say. And as always, she was right.

Thank you for being here!

Jule Noah

One shot per moment, that’s the rule. Just one chance to capture what was. And that’s exactly what makes it so special (and a little nerve wracking) to see the results.

It’s been refreshing to capture moments without getting lost chasing ´the perfect’ shot or overwhelmed by all the tools digital photography demands. That’s why we brought an analog camera on this trip.

I’m happy to share a few shots with you today. Just a handful, since most are patiently waiting for their moment to shine in a (spoiler alert) book!

So, let’s get into it!

Let’s start off with our best shot and worst story. Brace yourself.

We were in bustling, noisy Hua Hin and quickly realised it wasn’t our kind of place. So we booked the cheapest hotel room we could find (13 euros) and planned to leave the next morning.

Since I tend to get a bit paranoid when riding in hectic cities, we agreed on the following: wake up at 5:00 a.m. and get moving before rush hour hits.

But the next morning, Bernardo had other plans.

Between being tired, struggling with numb hands and not exactly being a morning person, it was a struggle. Long story short: he didn’t get up.

Meanwhile, I had everything ready: bikes packed, bottles filled, route planned.

Bernardo? Still snoozing.

So yeah… my patience ran out. That’s how I woke him. Not my most gentle moment, I’ll admit.

But he got up, and we hit the road.

I rode at a solid pace to make up for lost time, while Bernardo was still stuck in sleep mode. At a red light, I stopped and expected him to pull up next to me.

But…..no signs of Bernardo.

I waited.

And waited.

Then, finally, he appeared, saying: “I just had to take a picture.”

I should have seen that coming.

Honestly? In that moment, I couldn’t care less about that picture. But I can’t deny, this shot, of monks patiently waiting for their breakfast, turned out (annoyingly) beautiful.

So, would we take it again?

Bernardo: Yes.
Jule: No.

But that’s us too.
Not just the photos, but the frictions, the differences and the misaligned mornings.
The messy parts that make the story real.

Time for something warmer.

While riding across Khao Sok National Park, we were stopped by a family offering ice pops. The family members were busy cracking open Areca nuts and peanuts to dry in the sun. They stepped away from their work to offer us the treats. Just a small act of kindness, or so we thought.

Soon, uncles and aunts joined us, their family pig was proudly introduced and we were invited to join them for lunch. So, we sped off to the market, squeezed onto a Saleng (not to be confused with a tuk tuk), clinging to the railings as we bumped along the road. Bernardo tried to vlog the chaos, which you’ll see on the upcoming video :)

As quickly as we had left, we were back with bags full of papaya salad, sticky rice, shrimp paste, sugar mango, chili and soft noodles. A spontaneous feast, assembled by strangers who now felt a bit like family.

But the day held more than food and laughter. In the middle of it all, I learned that the father of a close friend of mine had passed away. That afternoon, I had the chance to attend his funeral online. I hesitated at first, unsure how to ask, but when I explained, the family immediately prepared a quiet corner for me, set up a fan, and offered Wi-Fi so I could join in peace and privacy.

Meanwhile, Bernardo offered to help in the kitchen, asking if he could tidy up or do the dishes, but the family gently declined. It simply wasn’t allowed. Their hospitality was clear and they insisted we rest while they took care of everything.

As he watched, unable to lend a hand, he noticed how beautifully the scene unfolded around him. Prow, one of the daughters, was doing the dishes in soft golden light, completely at ease. It was a quiet, everyday moment that perfectly captured the care and kindness of this family. Bernardo picked up the camera and took the shot. This has become the reminder of the unexpected warmth we found that day.

What started as a quick break in the shade became one of our most memorable experiences so far.

And all because we accepted those ice pops.

This is a shot of the Phraya Nakhon Cave; a hidden temple tucked away in Sam Roi Yot National Park, in Thailand.

Getting there was half the adventure: we cycled to a small village, took a boat to a remote beach, and then hiked another 20 minutes through steep terrain. After such an effort, we expected to have the cave to ourselves, but that was wishful thinking.

Dozens of others had made the trek, all hoping to capture the same shot. It took time to wiggle our way to the front, but yes, it was worth it.

Still, as we walked back out of the cave, we both felt a little empty. Or at least, not as fulfilled as we know we can feel, like after spending time with that local family, for instance.

This temple is a tourist must-see, and we get it. Hidden inside a cave, surrounded by tropical plants, with sunlight streaming in just right. It’s really beautiful.

But beyond the image, there wasn’t much to connect with. No interaction with the place itself, no locals to talk to, no deeper layer.

It’s not that we don’t appreciate the beauty, we do. But beauty alone doesn’t move us. At least, not in the way people, encounters, and shared stories do.

That’s what we’re really searching for: moments that don’t just show us a country, but let us feel it. This shot reminds us of that.

We’re happy to have this memory, of two absolute legends we met on our way to Cameron Highlands, in Malaysia.

We passed them as they walked along the roadside, heavily loaded with gear and proudly waving the Indonesian flag. They had a steady rhythm going.

At first, we just cycled right by. But we couldn’t stop wondering where on earth they were heading, especially in this brutal heat. So we turned around to ask.

Turns out, they were on a pilgrimage.
On their way to Mecca.

They proudly shared their story, along with photos from the road and a glimpse into their rising TikTok career.

Some friends followed in a support vehicle, but these two champions? They were planning to walk all 8000 kilometers.

On Crocs.

Crazy!

This shot shows the calm after the storm, but every time I see it, I’m instantly reminded of that scary night.

The day before, we tried to reach a small village at the foot of the mountains, but due to the heavy rainfall, that wasn't possible. This was the best camp spot we could find. A viewpoint high up in the mountains, overlooking a valley.

A beautiful spot, but in stormy conditions? Not so much. The lightning was fierce, and the thunder answered back with a speed that made our hearts jump.

One, two, three, four, five...
We counted the distance between us and the lightning.

We tried to recall the rule, how do you measure the distance again?
No signal, of course. But we barely made it to three... and that felt frighteningly close.

“Shouldn’t we cycle down? Just to be safe?” we asked each other that question about a dozen times.

The place was surrounded by trees taller than us, so that gave us some comfort. And we were lying on air mattresses, those must insulate, right? (turns out, that was total nonsense). We weren’t sure about any of it, really. We were just trying to reassure ourselves.

But luckily, the seconds between flash and rumble began to stretch.
The lightning backed off and seemed to wish us a quiet goodnight.

I’m grateful for the memory, but even more relieved it remained just that: a memory.

And well, that’s it for now.

These shots don’t just show where we’ve been, they remind us how it felt. And hopefully, a little of that feeling reaches you too :)

Thank you for being part of it!

Jule Noah

If you had told me two years ago that I’d be traveling with a YouTuber, I would’ve laughed. Not out of judgement, it just didn’t feel like me. I pictured someone always filming, editing on temple steps, vlogging a perfectly curated lifestyle in Bali. Meanwhile, I’m someone who gets camera shy just taking a selfie. So no, I didn’t see that coming.

But here I am, traveling with Bernardo.

And I love it.

Bernardo turned out to be nothing like the YouTuber I imagined. However, there are still plenty of cameras involved. And my awkwardness on camera, combined with Bernardo’s perfectionism, doesn’t always make for a smooth behind the scenes. When we first met, I didn’t even have Instagram. I thought reels were something you used for fishing. He calls me ‘grandma’ sometimes. I’m afraid I can’t blame him.

Anyway, this story is about my experience of traveling with a YouTuber. I want to show you our picture-imperfect but amazing lifestyle and how this has changed the way I see traveling, him, and myself.

For the record: Bernardo read this too. As my trusted co-reader, he approved every line. So, let’s dive in.

Of course, every YouTuber is different. Every creator is a person, with their own personality, their own life, their own kind of videos. Still, I think YouTubers share something in common: a need to tell stories, to share, to send something of themselves out into the world. And I’ve learned that this requires patience, determination and a willingness to be vulnerable in public. Talking to a camera in the middle of the street? Bernardo wouldn’t call that my finest moment.

But over time, I’ve come to see that ‘youtubing’ (is that a verb now?) is more than just vlogging and waiting for the perfect light. It’s a creative, sometimes strange, often inspiring rhythm of life. And if you happen to be traveling with a YouTuber, chances are you’ll find yourself right in the middle of the story, with a camera in your face.

And that’s where I would freeze.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I’m painfully awkward on camera. You won’t notice it in the final video, but you have no idea how much footage doesn’t make the final cut.

In the first few months, I barely said a word on camera. Not out of protest, just pure discomfort. The idea that thousands of people might see it, didn’t help either. Whenever he asked me a question, I’d burst out laughing, my face turning a deeper shade of red with every take. I simply didn’t know what to do with myself.

Until one day, Bernardo gently said:
“Try to look at me, not at the camera.”

Magic words.

When I look at him it feels more natural. More like a conversation. Sure, it’s not how you host a travel show. But I’m not trying to be the host. Bernardo is. I’ve just gone from a shadow in the frame to someone who genuinely enjoys being part of it.

And strangely enough, this way of traveling changed how I see the world. It has made me realise how often I used to move through places without really looking. Now, I pay more attention to light, color and detail, even without a camera. Sure, the frequent stops can be frustrating. But more often, they make the journey feel more deliberate.

Above all, I believe in what Bernardo is doing, so it feels good to contribute to something that matters to him.

Can’t you tell?

Okay, maybe not always.

Sometimes I’m tired or just not in the mood to smile at the camera. So yeah, that’s when you get me posing for a thumbnail with a sleepy face and a forced grin. Nope, we don’t always speak the same language.

Like the following struggle.

When we’re cycling, Bernardo can suddenly disappear out of sight. I look back, he’s gone, I get off my bike, and wait. And wait. And wait…

Those few minutes feel like hours because I start to worry. By now, I usually know he has probably stopped to film something, but I can’t be sure. So I end up worrying and ride back. And there he is: carefully filming a coconut from ten different angles.

If anyone has tips for walkie-talkies to travel with: hit me up. I honestly think they could save us a few headaches (hihi).

Another struggle: filming in public.

I’m a patient person, really. But not when there’s an audience of strangers watching me talking to the camera. I try to not care about the stares, but I can feel them burning. I know, I know: most people are caught up in their own lives and hardly paying attention. But I don’t have the thick skin Bernardo has built up over years of filming in public. Where he shrugs it off, I shrink a little.

So once again, we don’t always speak the same language.

And that’s totally fine.

In fact, it’s part of why I’ve started to see him, and the way we travel, in a new light. There are moments when his focus on filming means he’s not always fully present, when capturing something seems to take priority. At times, I wondered if documenting might risk overshadowing the experience itself. But looking back, that never happened. In stead, it brought us closer to the places we visited.

And over time, I started to see the craft in it. The hours he spends editing aren’t just about polishing content, but they’re acts of care. And that made me appreciate his presence in a new way. Not less real, but layered. Composed.

Not always speaking the same language might just be what keeps us learning from each other. And what keeps me learning about myself, too.

I used to think I wasn’t “the type” for the internet. Not performative, not polished, not made for the spotlight. But being around someone who creates constantly has made me reconsider what I thought I couldn’t do. I still freeze on camera sometimes, but I’m also writing this. Putting myself out there. I’m not becoming a YouTuber, but I am becoming more visible. To others. And maybe most of all, to myself.

Turns out, the unfamiliar has a way of showing us who we are.
I didn’t expect this journey, but I’m grateful for it.

Thanks for coming along :)

Jule Noah

Every cell in my body was begging me to quit. Alone on a muddy road in the mountains of Northern Thailand, I was pushing my overloaded bike uphill. And all I could think was: what the hell have I gotten myself into?

Ever since the start of our trip, I’d been wondering what it would be like to cycle on my own. A solo ride has its own rhythm, its own pace — and I wanted to feel that. The full weight of it — physically, emotionally, all of it.

But I hadn’t expected that moment to come so quickly. Traveling with Bernardo feels so easy and comfortable, I didn’t see myself taking a different direction anytime soon.

Until life decided for us.

After weeks of nerve pain in his hands, Bernardo had them checked at a hospital. The diagnosis: neuropathy in both hands. No more cycling for now. A real blow for him — and, in a strange way, an opening for me.

It felt odd, honestly, to just set off without him. But something in me knew: this was the moment to check in with myself.

For under ten euros I took a night train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. You do sleep upright, squeezed between three teenagers playing a shooting game, but hey, we’ll let that slide. From Chiang Mai, a local bus brought me to Chom Thong where the route set off — bike strapped to the roof, let’s go.

The Tiger Head Mountain Loop had caught my attention. This route takes you through the land of the Karen people — an Indigenous community in Northern Thailand’s mountains, known for their warm welcome.

The original route was designed by Pele and Bec, but because of the rainy season, Bec’s partner Sam Rice created a modified version — better suited to the conditions. Thanks Sam!

I wanted to be prepared for everything, so I packed my whole life: camping gear, thick sleeping bag, laptop….every bag filled to the brim. Terrible idea.

The first few kilometers — still at the foot of the mountains — led me past some beautiful rice paddies. Now and then, a pointed straw hat would pop up — someone working quietly among the young sprouts. But soon the fairytale landscape turned into brutally steep roads, impossible to cycle with an overloaded bike. I had no choice but to push my bike uphill. And so went the entire morning: push, push, push…

It was only the first morning and my body was already begging me to quit. And to make things worse, I was on my period. Yes, gentlemen, an uncomfortable truth, or maybe it sounds like a lame excuse, but this really messes us up sometimes. Give it a week and I probably could have climbed those hills with one hand tied behind my back.

Just as I wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into, a car stopped. A young woman stepped out and asked: “You come with me?”

Her name was New, belonging to the Karen community. She gave me a lift to the nearest village — her home. As soon as we arrived, she offered me lunch and a place to sleep: “Homestay, we have!” She warned me that the next village was close and easy to get to, but after that: “very hard”.

However, it was only 11 a.m. My rational side figured I could keep going, but my body had nothing left. I’m indecisive on a normal day, but with hormones in charge, my indecisiveness was squared.

New didn’t know what to do with me either. She casually dropped the word ‘homestay’ again, hoping I’d bite. And I did.

Over dinner, New told me about her village and everything she does to bring the community together. She organises cooking afternoons, sewing workshops — even camping trips. The homestay grew from that. It’s not only something travellers enjoy, but also something the community needs. Farming alone doesn’t provide enough, so any extra income, even just enough to pay for school, makes a real difference.

Her words reassured me I was making the right call.

The next day, I had to face reality — and New hadn’t been exaggerating. I spent the entire day dragging my bike up the mountain. The rain had turned the dirt roads into slippery clay tracks, and where it was dry, loose gravel made it almost impossible to get grip.

This experience made me realise how nice it is to share this kind of intensity — to complain, laugh, or turn frustration into something light-hearted. I felt a bit lonely at the time, not knowing that later that evening, an eight-year-old girl would quietly ask me: “Do you want me to sleep with you?”

But before evening settled in, once again the kindness of the Karen people showed itself:

Just when I needed it most — sitting by the roadside, my arms still tingling from the effort — a car pulled over and took me to the next village. That saved me another three kilometers of climbing.

Shortly after, evening fell and I arrived in a small town. I asked if I could pitch my tent there. The head of the village walked up to me and said:

“The Karen tribe always welcomes their brothers from other tribes.”

And then, once again, the kindness came flooding in…

A young woman offered me her home. She lit a fire, made up a bed and pointed me to the bathroom so I could shower while she cooked.

After I’d showered, more people came to sit around the fire in the hut I would be sleeping in. We passed the phone around, chatting through Google Translate, laughing at the awkward translations.

Among them was an older woman who quietly took charge. While calmly peeling an apple, she handed out tasks to her fellow villagers. Soon, extra blankets arrived, a flashlight, a juice box, a bottle of water... and meanwhile, she kept handing me apple slices in between.

Then, just before the night ended, the eight-year-old girl broke my heart with those eight simple words: “Do you want me to sleep with you?” — like she just knew I was feeling a little lonely.

The next morning, I said goodbye and set off to finish the loop — the final stretch, mostly downhill, through the beautiful, lush landscape of Chiang Mai.

Along the way, I wiped away a few tears. These past few days had hit me deep, but above all, I was overwhelmed by the incredible warmth and kindness of the Karen community.

There’s a beautiful short film about this route by Pele and Bec, the route’s creators. The film isn’t just about the challenges of the ride, but about the people who live along it—the Karen community. Just like in my own experience, they’re the ones who turned a tough ride into something unforgettable. Whether or not you plan to ride the route, I highly recommend giving the film a watch.

A huge thanks to everyone I met along the way, to Pele and Bec for creating something so special and to Sam Rice for adapting the route so I could still experience it, even with the tough conditions.

And of course, a huge thanks to you, dear reader. Thank you for coming along.

I hope you felt a bit of the magic too :)

Jule Noah

After appearing in some of Bernardo’s videos, I took a peek at the comments—and apparently, I’m French and my name is either Joe, Jewel or Joel. Credits for the creativity! But I have to step in—none of that is true. So, let me clear things up.

My name is Jule Noah, I’m 26 years old and I’m Dutch; happily born and raised in the Netherlands. And for those wondering how I (financially) manage to keep up with Bernardo’s travels—and how we even crossed paths in the first place—read along!

Before Bernardo and I met, I was a student in nursing and educational sciences. Nursing was completed, but after two years of educational sciences, I decided to take a break. I felt the need to explore the world before getting myself into work life, so that’s what I did.

To make it happen, I worked full-time as a receptionist and saved up for a car. I fitted my tiny, red Daihatsu with a bed, transforming it into a campervan and set off from the Netherlands, traveling through Spain, Portugal and Morocco, all alone.

While passing through Marrakesh, I found a spot for the night. Call it fate, luck, or perfect timing—something lined up that day, as I parked right next to Bernardo’s baby blue van. And just like that, our paths crossed. From that day on, things took a turn.

Just between us – a snippet from my diary, Marrakesh 2023:

When I arrived in Marrakesh, I went straight to the city’s chaotic square, Djemaa el-Fna—just to say I’d seen it. I figured I might take a quick look into the medina too, but that would be it. Mostly, I just felt overstimulated. And melting.

Standing there, the urge to move on only got stronger. My new plan: leave for Casablanca the next morning. That was the idea—until I met my neighbour: Bernardo Bacalhau.

From the comfort of my princess-bed setup in the back of my car, I spotted him casually strolling in front of his smurf-blue van. “Nice setup,” he said—the start of a conversation that could’ve happened sooner, if we hadn’t both been a little shy.

We ended up chatting the night away and sharing bowls of Harira soup on the, now much calmer, Djemaa el-Fna square. That’s when I found out Bernardo is actually a big deal on YouTube. With 180,000 subscribers, he’s able to live off of his videos. What an inspiring adventurer—I like him hihi.

So…it looks like I’m not heading to Casablanca just yet.

I still can’t believe how that one evening ended up changing the course of my life.

Something just clicked that night, and it still does, even though our lives are quite different. Bernardo lives off of his travels, while I don’t have a remote income. This means I still rely on local jobs in the Netherlands, saving up for the adventures we want to go on together. Over the years, I’ve switched between several jobs: rushing around as a waitress, assisting people with special needs and pouring tulips as a barista. It’s hectic at times, but worth everything I get in return.

Of course, I do benefit from what Bernardo has built online. Some of the sponsorships help us save money in certain areas. A good example is our road trip across the U.S.—because of Bernardo’s collaboration with MINI, we were able to use one of their cars. That made a huge difference! But the biggest expenses, like flights, food, and everything in between, we cover ourselves.

I don’t mind going back to the Netherlands to work when needed—but of course, it would be amazing to become less dependent on that. That’s why I’m now cautiously exploring the online world, starting with this Substack. I’ve never been active on social media before, so I’m still figuring out whether this is the right fit for me.

And while navigating it all, there are moments where I think: Shouldn’t I have figured this all out by now? But then I check in with myself and ask: Are you still happy? Is your savings account still breathing? Are you still doing okay? If the answers are yes, I know there’s no reason to worry. And then I remind myself to just take it day by day, like I’ve always been doing.

Still, there are small dreams parked in the back of my mind—like growing as a barista and maybe even starting a little coffee bar someday, or turning my red car into a coffee truck (haha). But right now, on this trip, I’ve clearly got other mountains to climb. And who knows—by the time we’re back in Europe, I might see things completely differently. Today, I do what makes me happy, and tomorrow… we’ll see.

So, that’s me in a nutshell.

If you’ve made it this far: thanks for reading and being here!

Jule Noah

Before I take you behind the scenes, let me start with this: the struggles I’ll describe are luxury problems. So take all of this with a grain of salt and know that we’re incredibly grateful to live this life. That’s beyond question.

It’s funny how we, like so many others, chase that one perfect shot — as if it defines the entire experience. The reality is that ‘the perfect shot’ rarely comes without effort.

That became clear right at the start of our trip, in Singapore.

Bernardo wanted to kick off our adventure in style, right in front of the iconic Merlion — Singapore’s famous statue with the body of a fish and the head of a lion, spouting water into the bay. It felt like the perfect, symbolic spot to say: this is where it all begins.

So, off we went — bikes packed, full of adrenaline. The day we’d been talking about for months had finally arrived. We were more than ready.

The sun, however, was not…

When we arrived, the sky was a blanket of dull grey clouds. The uplifting, sunny vibe that Bernardo wanted to create in the video had vanished. We tried to read the clouds, hoping to find a spark of sun, but no luck. The sun had checked out for the day.

Life isn’t always what we expect, and Bernardo knows that better than anyone. He captures reality as it comes, but beyond that, he’s an artist. As much as he embraces life as it is, there’s always that drive to create something that resonates, something that sparks inspiration. It’s not just about recording what’s happening, but also about shaping what’s happening to tell the right, inspiring story.

This means that he constantly has to find a balance between capturing reality and listening to that creative instinct, that pushes him to deliver not just reality, but content that moves people. A dark, grey start to this uplifting adventure didn’t align with that balance.

So we waited. We stayed another night in Singapore, hoping the next morning would bring a little sun. And luckily, it did. That’s the version you see in the video. Bright, warm, and with the uplifting energy Bernardo had in mind to set the tone for the journey ahead.

So, what you see in the final video is real, but it’s not always the full story.

Let me take you to another moment, that shows how much work can hide behind a few seconds of footage.

On our way to the tea plantations in the Cameron Highlands, we had around 2,000 meters of elevation gain ahead of us, spread out over just 50 kilometers — so yes, it was steep. The higher we climbed, the cooler the air became. A small consolation for our burning legs, but it was still tough. Groaning (perhaps a little dramatically), we pushed our way uphill.

But of course, reality had to be captured. Halfway up a hill, it was time for a tripod shot. I suddenly found myself in charge of not just my own, but also Bernardo’s heavy bike. On these steep roads, the kickstands didn’t do much, so I squeezed the handbrakes with everything I had, trying to keep both bikes upright. Meanwhile, Bernardo hiked up the hill to find the perfect camera angle. Then, he jogged back down and we cycled up together for the shot. Of course, someone had to retrieve the camera — so we repeated our bike handover ritual and Bernardo jogged back down once more. By the end of this trip, he might as well sign up for a marathon with the amount of running he’s doing to get these shots.

We repeated this tripod shot several times, but only one clip made it into the video. By now, you must understand that we’re really hoping you, dear reader, thoroughly enjoyed this shot in the video.

In the midst of it all, I try to keep up with Bernardo’s creative flow. I help out when I can — whether it’s holding bikes, setting up the tripod or riding the same hill a few times in a row because the light wasn’t quite right yet. Filming takes time: angles get tested, mistakes happen, light changes, shots get repeated. So as Bernardo fine-tunes his shots, I mostly exercise my patience muscle. Or I eat peanut butter. I had pictured myself coming back from this trip as a fit girl, but with the amount of peanut butter I’m consuming, I might just return as a walking jar of it.

So, the road to ‘the perfect shot’ is not always as smooth as the final cut suggests, but maybe that makes the result even more rewarding.

Thank you for coming along!

Jule Noah

Thailand is known for its beautiful islands — so of course, we had to take a look. We planned a route from Satun to Phuket, hopping from island to island, aiming to visit six of them along the way. Some crossings were a challenge, but as I’m writing from Phuket, I can proudly say that we made it!

The video gives you a twenty minute impression of the two weeks it took us to tick them all off. In this article, I’ll dive into more details — small moments and impressions that stayed with us.

So, ready to join? Let’s go!

Koh Muk

As we arrived at the pier on Ko Muk, we thought we saw a giant oil slick in the ocean. It turned out to be a school of dozens of fish, moving in perfect sync through the crystal-clear water. We were mesmerised and wanted to be part of it, so dipped a toe in, only to realise that the Andaman Sea feels like a hot spring — it can reach 30°C! A refreshing dip is out of question, but you won’t hear us complaining.

Just before hopping onto our bikes to explore, a quick bathroom stop reminded me that, yes — we were on an island. Sand poured down my legs like water. Minutes later, it had made its way into my hair, slipped into my bags and somehow even infiltrated our snack stash. Our unsalted peanuts turned into salty ones.

The island life took a little adjusting, but those tiny inconveniences quickly became part of the charm.

We racked up quite a few kilometers on Koh Muk, which consists of less than eight square kilometers. It’s small, but just big enough to cycle around. The mopeds and tuk tuk traffic felt overwhelming at times, but it was nice to see that this island finds a good balance between tourism and local life. The authentic feel is definitely thanks to the hospitality of the people living there.

This island introduced us to our Thai food crush: Massaman Curry. To this day, we flip open every menu hoping to spot it. If this rich, nutty, creamy stew is on there — decision is made. No need to look any further. With the discovery of this dish, we’ll often look back warmly on this small but charming island.

After three days on Koh Muk, we were ready to move on — and that brought us to Koh Kradan!

Koh Kradan

With less than 3 square kilometers, Koh Kradan was the smallest island on our route. And although cycling was quite impossible there, it still left a warm impression on us.

We met Mix, a seven-year-old of Italian and Thai roots, in the heart of Koh Kradan’s jungle. His parents run an Italian restaurant and resort there. The place is enclosed by tropical trees, which made it a comfortable spot to escape the sun during the hottest hours of the day.

Mix proudly gave us a lesson in folding paper cars and we spent hours crafting together. Talking with him gave us a sense of his life on the island. There’s no school, so he takes online classes. He doesn’t have any friends, but stays in touch with many of the tourists who visit. Though it seems isolated, Mix’s outgoing personality allows him to interact with many different people and cultures.

Meeting him gave us a taste of the authentic Koh Kradan. That said, the island is clearly focused on tourism. Though we usually prefer local places, we did enjoy the beautiful beaches. There's no getting around it: it just looks like a paradise out there.

Our bikes, however, strongly disagreed. With only one trail crossing the jungle, we quickly found ourselves going in circles. We were stared at a lot and felt pretty exposed, especially with our squeaky brakes — thanks to the salty water. And honestly, I get it: bringing bikes to a place where cycling is impossible was a bit silly. However, our massive tires actually made it work to bike on the beach.

We spent the night at a little campsite — something we hadn’t expect to find on such a small, touristy island, packed with expensive resorts. But we did, and ended up sleeping on a grassy patch with a sea view — for less than the price of a bottle of water.

On our last morning, we wanted to say goodbye to Mix, but his father told us that he had gone fishing at 4:00 AM. Clearly, he was living the island life. We’re curious to see how this young man will grow and evolve. Who knows, maybe one day we’ll cross paths again, when he’s captaining a boat instead of folding paper cars...

Koh Ngai

From Koh Kradan, we moved on to Koh Ngai (still not sure how to pronounce that).

Once again, this island is mainly home to tourists or locals working in the resorts. It’s a beautiful holiday destination, but with a bit less of that authentic feel.

For six euros, we pitched our tent on a tropical patch of jungle, tucked beneath an army of palm trees. We picked the one spot with the lowest coconut-to-head risk and settled in with a card game and snacks.

That night, however, we nearly cooked ourselves. The heat was unbearable, and with the mosquitoes around, sleeping outside was out of the question. It was a struggle, but it led to the discovery of what we now call the ‘don’t burn alive in your tent life-hack’.

Here’s how it works: take a cold shower (in any form), leave your clothes on, skip the towel and dive straight back into your tent. You’ll cool down, fall asleep quickly and suddenly the night doesn’t feel endless anymore.

Camping in Asia is beautiful, with a small hiccup now and then. We take it as it comes and get to discover our ways to deal with it.

On to the next island: Koh Lanta!

Koh Lanta

Koh Lanta, covering about 80 square kilometers, was the largest island we visited. On this island we were clearly being punished for the days we barely cycled. It’s hilly landscape was no walk in the park, but at least we could cycle again! No complaints there.

After a quick tour around the island, we made our way to the old town district. This is where we stayed for a few days to get some work done. We stumbled upon a bakery selling sourdough bread. Although we’re still far from tired of Asian food, a proper slice of bread just hits the spot. Especially for Bernardo, who — being Portuguese — has a deep-rooted appreciation for good bread. Portugal just knows how to make bread right, and he misses it sometimes. In this little bakery, his craving was quickly satisfied.

On Koh Lanta, we got to witness Iftar: the breaking of the Ramadan fast. Local families happily gathered in the streets to share food and celebrate. With over 80% of Koh Lanta’s population being Muslim, it brought a lovely sense of life and community back to the public space.

With all due respect, we enjoy seeing that kind of energy in the streets again. During Ramadan, the streets had been quieter, with many restaurants being closed. And since we’ve experienced such warmth and openness from the Muslim community, it feels good to see them out and about again.

Koh Lanta was where we realised just how important interacting with the native people is for us. We both acknowledged that we sometimes longed for the authenticity of the mainland, where conversations just happen and nothing feels forced. On the islands, it feels different; the locals, so used to tourists, make it harder to form those real moments. And its’s those moments that give a place meaning to us.

But before we could fully reflect on that, there were still two islands left to explore. We were curious to see what they had in store!

Koh Yao Noi

Koh Yao Noi delivered the perfect balance: cozy feel, beautiful beaches, plenty to explore, yet still small-scale and authentic. And, the cherry on the pie: bike-friendly roads! This might just be my favorite island of all.

Since we kept spotting a new, charming little restaurant every time we tried to stop, we decided to split up our lunch and sample a few different places along the way. This perfectly reflects the island’s laid-back and cozy vibe.

We attempted to reach the island’s most beautiful beach up north, but as the landscape turned into a sea of hills and the skies erupted up with a rainstorm, we turned around. We headed back to town in search of shelter, which we found — once again — under a pergola (we love those things). That’s where we pitched our tent and spent the night.

As usual, we had locked our bikes together for the night. But the following morning, the key had mysteriously vanished. We still blame each other.

Fortunately, the tragedy was short-lived. Bernardo found a garage, an angle grinder and a helpful man, who gave him a ride on his moped to ‘the crime scene’. Although Bernardo was eager to drill through the lock himself, the helpful man took care of it. A happy ending after all.

Koh Yao Yay

Just a stone's throw away from Koh Yao Noi, you'll find its bigger brother: Koh Yao Yai. We thought about swimming there, but couldn’t just leave our bikes behind, so we took the boat instead.

On this island, we found the most beautiful beach of all the islands we visited. You can see it in the intro of the video, how at low tide, a sandbank emerges, stretching out in a shape that cuts through the turquoise water. Of course, we couldn’t resist riding our bikes a few meters across it.

There’s an abandoned house on this beach, where we spent two stormy nights. It sounds creepy, and honestly, it was. Lightning flashes blinded us and liters and liters of rain poured down. We had to put in earplugs to block out the overwhelming noise of the rain, hitting the metal roof.

That’s part of life on a tropical island. And it was all worth it for the mornings we woke up there; without a cloud in the sky and as the only souls around, enjoying this beautiful piece of earth.

After six islands, we’ve drawn the following conclusion: Island-hopping was an adventure we wouldn’t trade for anything, but it also made us value the mainland rides even more. We find it easier to connect with the local people there and feel more fulfilled if we can make real ground, instead of pedalling in circles.

But again, with everything this journey has given us — the people who helped us hop from island to island, the adventure that came with it, biking across beaches and returning with beautiful footage — we wouldn’t have done it any other way.

We’re happy with this little piece of Line On A Map.

Thanks for coming along with us :)

Jule Noah

Some wild camping nights are pure magic, others are a total mess, but one thing is certain: you always wake up with a story.

Through experience, we've learned that wild camping often leads to the most memorable moments. It has shown us that, no matter what, there is always a way forward. But above all, it has reminded us that most people in this world are genuinely kind—willing to help, offering support and opening their doors without hesitation. These experiences have given us so much trust in the world.

I’d love to take you along on two of our wild camping experiences, so you can get a better sense of what I mean.

After a long day behind us, we had been searching for a camp spot for what felt like forever. We’d already asked several people along the way, but no luck.

Just as we were starting to feel desperate, a man directed us to a park. Many people had gathered in this park, to break their fast for Ramadan. The man pointed out a pergola where, according to him, we could spend the night. At that moment, the spot was still crowded with people enjoying their meal. To give them space, we waited patiently, eating a bowl of Laksa soup. Just as we finished, a woman offered us two cups of lemonade and coffee—a small gesture that made all the difference…

Hours passed.

Around midnight, the pergola was still occupied. The people were clearly drunk and, from the looks of it, not planning to leave anytime soon. After some hesitation, I gathered the courage to ask if we could set up our tent there. They allowed us, so we started setting up camp, but the people showed no signs of leaving.

A little irritated, I blew up my air mattress, hoping they’d take the hint. We were tired and just wanted to sleep. But as I inflated my mattress, it knocked my bike down, which then fell onto the tent—CRACK, the tent pole snapped.

The magic of camping was nowhere to be found. Bernardo fixed the broken pole with a selfie stick and duct tape (a must have on these trips). Not perfect, but good enough. Just as he finished, they thought it was the perfect moment for a bunch of selfies. That was the last thing we felt like doing, but we went along with it. Luckily, they picked up on the hint and left soon after. We crawled into the tent and, after tossing and turning through the restless evening, we eventually fell asleep.

The lemonade and coffee the lady offered was a small gesture, yet it made all the difference in how we experienced that night in the park. It wasn’t about the perfection of the night, but about how that small offer shifted our perspective, turning it into a moment of trust. It reassured us, making us feel that everything would be fine. Despite the restless night, we now look back on it as a beautiful story. And isn’t that what we came for?

Let me share another of our experiences, just to make sure that by the end of this article, you have all the confidence you need to take on your own wild camping adventure.

After a long day of cycling, we decided it was time to call it a day. Full of confidence we pedalled around, in search of a place to pitch our tent—surely there had to be something? But no, nothing. No grassy field, no sheltered spot, nothing at all.

Plan B: the campsite we found on Google Maps. Confident it would be perfect, we arrived, only to find it closed.

At that point, hunger took over. We found ourselves in a Chinese restaurant, feeling a bit stuck. By the time we finished our meal, the sun had completely set and the discomfort started to kick in.

Rather than riding around in the dark again, we asked a restaurant employee for advice. Our intention wasn’t to ask if we could sleep there, but that’s exactly what she offered. And so, that night, we ended up sleeping in a Chinese restaurant.

Wild camping is not only about chasing the most beautiful spots beneath the stars. It’s about trusting that, in a world full of genuinely kind people, things will always work out.

I would wish these experiences for everyone, as they bring you a little more faith in a world that, at times, feels upside down…

Jule Noah

Our adventure is being fully documented. However, there are moments that simply can’t be captured on film—because they happen too quickly, take us by surprise, or just don’t feel right to pull out a camera. Still, some of those moments are worth sharing.

So, here we are. No photos, just words—taking you along through the moments we lived as they happened.

Monkey car crash

Our first encounter with Malaysia’s cheeky monkeys was one to remember. It all happened in a split second, and it went something like this:

As we cycled through what felt like a dreamland of palm trees, banana leaves, and bamboo groves, we spotted two monkeys crossing the road in the distance. “Ah, so cut…”—but before I could even finish my sentence, the situation became a lot less cute. Suddenly, three more monkeys appeared, following the first two straight onto the road. At that exact moment, a car came speeding by. The last monkey, blindly running across, slammed headfirst right into the side of the vehicle. SMACK!

I covered my eyes, preparing myself for a bloody scene. But when I carefully looked up, I saw that the monkey had not only survived—he was fighting back. He jumped up, chased after the car, and stretched out his paw as if he was trying to show the driver his anger. That’s how smart they are. Crazy.

Bernardo and I looked at each other in a bit of a shock. It was surreal and, honestly, kind of hilarious—mostly because the monkey seemed totally unharmed.

For a few minutes, we just stood there, trying to process what we had just seen. And I think it’s clear there was no way we could have filmed this...

Lizard with a fish

This is a short one. And as the title of this scene already gives away—we saw a lizard with a fish.

A big lizard, by the way. Basically a mini crocodile.

He crossed the road, head held high, clearly proud of his catch, almost as if he was showing it off to us. And honestly, we got it. It was a serious fish. A real trophy.

There’s just something bizarre about seeing a lizard casually strolling by with a massive fish in its mouth. At least, for us. Maybe you, dear reader, are used to sights like this. But for us, it was like watching National Geographic—if National Geographic had terrible camera work.

Breakfast paid for by a stranger

This story is one of the many beautiful moments we shared with the people of Malaysia. If you haven’t read this article yet, where I describe another such moment in more detail, I recommend it. It will take you straight to Malaysia.

Just like the following act of kindness:

On this beautiful morning, we enjoyed a local breakfast—Nasi Lemak for me (once again) and Roti Canai for Bernardo (yet again). By the time we sat down, we had already covered 20 km, so we were more than ready for it. When our plates were empty, I casually walked over to the counter to pay, only to be told by the waitress that our meal had already been paid for. I looked up, surprised, and asked, “But by whom?”

We had been so focused on our food that we hadn’t exchanged a single word with the people sitting next to us—including the man who had quietly covered our bill.

Completely taken aback, I walked over to him. It felt a bit awkward, but I had to ask: “Did you pay for our breakfast?“ He simply smiled and explained that, just by looking at our gear, he had decided we deserved a free meal. We were speechless, but I hope our expression made our gratitude clear.

The generosity of the Malaysian people is unbelievable. I could say it a thousand times and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Thanks to a monkey

Now, here’s a story about a monkey who unexpectedly helped me on my way to a minimalist lifestyle.

In the video, you see how Bernardo and I are enjoying a dive into a waterfall—clothes and all. Lovely. But meanwhile, someone had other plans…

As we climbed out of the water, we spotted a monkey messing around by our bikes. We rushed over, only to discover that one of my bags was wide open. My sunscreen and towel were left abandoned on the ground. But what especially caught the monkey’s attention was my toiletry bag. It was gone. Nowhere to be found. I’m still visualising him brushing his teeth with my pink toothbrush.

In the meantime, I’ve realised that, with the exception of my toothbrush, everything in my toiletry bag was pretty much unnecessary. So, that monkey did me a favor. I’m now one step closer to my minimalist life goals.

Smoking police officer

Last but not least, a story that sums up the randomness of our trip.

It all started when we found ourselves stranded—tired, hungry, and cycling in circles in the dark, searching for a place to camp. Just as we were starting to accept a night of mosquito bites and improvised sleeping, a car pulled over. An older couple stepped out and simply said:"You can stay with us."

A miracle. With one minor obstacle—their house was still 10 kilometers away. Normally not an issue, but after already cycling almost 90 kilometers that day, it felt like a bit of torture. But relief won out, so we pushed through.

When we arrived, we sipped on soft drinks. The man proudly shared stories about his life as a police officer in Kuala Lumpur—at which point, filming suddenly felt illegal. We put the camera away. It was a simple, innocent evening—or so I thought…

Fresh out of the shower, I caught Bernardo’s sneaky smile.

“The man just invited me to smoke a joint.”

I laughed. “The cop?”

Bernardo: “Yep. And his wife doesn’t know.”

I copied Bernardo’s sneaky smile.

A man who made a living enforcing the law, yet now found himself breaking it (in Malaysia, getting caught with even a small amount of weed can mean up to five years in prison).

The irony went up in smoke and filled the room.

Oh well, you’re not going to tell me that every dentist flosses daily or that every yoga teacher meditates at sunrise. At the end of the day, this cop is just a person too. And that’s probably what made him such a great host.

I’ll leave it at that for now. But I’m sure this article will have a follow-up. So, to be continued.

Thanks for living these moments with us, just as they happened.

Jule Noah

As I write this, I’m slurping up the last bit of coconut sauce that came with the Klepon—a traditional Malaysian dessert we received on the house. The people in this restaurant insisted that we try the green, sticky rice balls filled with palm sugar and coated in shredded coconut. Sometimes, the food just comes to us, and really, what choice do we have but to try? Such a tough life, honestly! Not just us, but also the locals think we should try as much of the local cuisine as possible. What a great team we make!

And that brings me to the main topic of this article: food. In Malaysia, it plays such a prominent role that it deserves a story on its own. Consider this your warning—I won’t be holding back when describing all the deliciousness (and less deliciousness) we’ve tasted. If a trip to Malaysia isn’t in your plans, prepare yourself for some serious regret. This is your last chance to click away before your mouth starts watering…

Malaysia is home to a diverse mix of cultures, including Malays, Chinese, Indians and indigenous groups. This melting pot is very clear in their cuisine. We’ve spent a serious amount of time exploring hawker centers—open-air food courts where Malay, Chinese, Indian and even Western dishes are served side by side. These centers offer so many choices that eating there feels a bit like speed-dating. You walk around, trying a little bit of everything, hoping to find 'the one’. Sometimes, it’s a perfect match; other times, it’s a little awkward (and maybe the sambal is too spicy for a second date), but it’s always interesting.

To start off, I’d like to zoom in on two dishes we tried at hawker centers— ones that still leave me wondering whether I actually liked them or not…

Let me first introduce you to Ais Kachang. "Ais" means ice in Malay and "Kachang" means beans. Yes, you read that right: ice with beans. Eehhh… is that a dessert? You bet it is! And it’s actually very popular among the locals, so we had to give it a try.

As you can see in the video, Ais Kachang is served as a proper art piece. You get a mountain of shaved ice, topped with a rainbow of syrups and yellow corn. On top of that, a handful of agar-agar (some type of jelly), candied fruit, and sweets. Super healthy, right? Doesn’t it sound like an excellent way to balance out your daily vegetable intake? To me it does. And it definitely tastes like that too. I’m still not sure if I liked it or if I’m still recovering. The explosion of flavours was just as overwhelming as it looks. Chaos.

And then: Durian. Who hasn’t seen this terrifying fruit on social media? The one with such a strong smell that it’s even banned in some public places. Does that scare you off, or make you curious? As for me, I’m all about the curiosity. And honestly, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. While the fruit does have a peculiar scent (somewhere between garlic and onion), the taste is surprisingly refreshing, like jackfruit (which is a mix of banana, mango, and pineapple). And the soft, creamy, almost pudding-like texture of the flesh? I actually enjoy it! Bernardo, however, doesn’t quite agree. He’s too distracted by the overpowering smell. So, it was up to me to finish our portion. I didn’t love it, but didn’t hate it either—it was more of a 'meh' experience. If this unclear conclusion hasn’t sparked your curiosity, I’m out of ideas.

Apart from hawker centers, Malaysia offers entire neighbourhoods and markets dedicated to specific cuisines. In these places, you truly feel as if you've stepped into the country of origin. Ever since I was little, I’ve dreamed of traveling to India. Here in Malaysia, I secretly feel like I’ve already had a taste of it. It’s amazing how, in a neighbourhood like Little India, you can completely get lost in the atmosphere of India—the aroma of masala, colourful shops, rich spiced food that is, of course, eaten by hand. And then the people—always offering a nod of approval and a friendly smile. Bernardo, who lived in India for half a year, confirms that this is the place where you can experience the feeling of India without actually being there. We find it incredible how Malaysia allows you to step into different worlds. It’s like having a taste of different countries without ever having to leave.

Although the different cultures live peacefully side by side, you never actually see a Chinese person in an Indian restaurant, or the other way around. Everyone seems to take pride in their own cuisine and sticks to it – and rightly so! We’d happily offer the Chinese a bite of Indian roti Canai and the Indians a plate of Chinese Char Kway Teow, but hey, that’s up to them. It’s a parallel, but harmonious society where respect for one another is key – also when it comes to food.

After many hours spent as professional eaters, both in hawker centers and dedicated spots, we’ve drawn our conclusions. My favorite: Nasi Lemak; Malaysia’s national dish. This dish consists of creamy coconut rice, sambal (the game-changer of this dish, so good!), dried anchovies, roasted peanuts, a boiled egg and sometimes a piece of chicken or rendang. I often ordered this dish vegetarian and for breakfast. For me, it was real comfort food. The creamy coconut rice, combined with the salty, crispy anchovies and the fresh, sweet and spicy sambal makes it absolutely finger-licking good.

As I mentioned before: the sambal is essential in this dish. Bernardo laughed at me every time I scraped the bowl so clean that it could be reused. He’s not a fan of the sambal due to its fishy taste. No complaints here—more sambal for me!

Now it's Bernardo's time to shine. His absolute favorite: Roti Canai. He loves dipping this stretched flatbread pancake into dahl, chicken curry, or coconut chutney. The dish originates from India, brought to Malaysia by Indian migrants, where it quickly became a local favorite. You can find it on every street corner, but not at all hours of the day. Traditionally a breakfast dish, it often left Bernardo crying at lunch and dinner, missing his beloved roti. But he dried his tears with a warm, fresh one the next morning. And how lucky he is that India is still ahead of us!

Well, I think it’s clear now that we enjoyed trying all the different dishes. But discovering new cuisines is about more than just filling our stomachs. In Malaysia, we’ve learned that offering food is a way of welcoming, taking care of others and showing protection. From that simple act, many of our conversations with the Malay people began over a plate of food. Trying new dishes is a way to connect with the culture and its people, helping us better understand their world. And the stories that arise from these experiences are the ones that stay with us, long after the last bite.

Thank you, Malaysian cuisine. It was a pleasure blending in.

Jule Noah

Starting from the southernmost point of Asia, we cycled north along Malaysia’s west coast. We were completely surprised by the beautifully paved roads, right in the heart of Johor’s rainforest. As we cycled through this biodiverse region, we encountered our first cheeky monkeys. It felt like a safari, but with the luxury of perfectly smooth, flat roads. A paradise for cyclists like us.

But what truly sets Malaysia apart isn’t just its landscape—it’s its people. Like the family we met that night.

That night, still searching for a good spot to pitch our tent, we passed by a farm. We spotted a guy working in the field and asked if we could camp there for the night. He looked a bit surprised, probably because tourists rarely come through this area. On top of that, he didn’t speak much English. Still, he understood us and made it clear that it wouldn’t be a problem. A little later, after speaking with his mother, we felt completely welcomed.

His father shook Bernardo's hand. Out of respect for his faith (he is Muslim), he didn’t shake mine; instead, he gave me a friendly, welcoming look. Similarly, when Bernardo greeted the mother of the house, she didn’t shake his hand but acknowledged him with a warm smile. They welcomed us to use the shower and relax in the living room, where we could protect ourselves from the mosquitoes. We can be thankful if we don’t get infected with Dengue, but aside from that, the place felt like a little paradise.

As the evening went on, we got to know the family better. Their youngest daughter arrived home after a long day, exhausted but still smiling. The 20-year-old part-time student told us about her hectic life—working at a kindergarten during the day and studying from 1 to 6 during the night. That leaves her with just three hours of sleep per night. For us, it’s hard to imagine, but for her—and many of her peers in Malaysia—it’s just a way of life. Knowing how little rest she gets, made us appreciate her time and attention even more.

We offered to cook for the family, but they insisted on cooking for us instead. Soon, the table filled with freshly made dishes: sticky rice wrapped in palm leaves, noodles with vegetables and beef, fried octopus, rendang, lychee in rose syrup and a creamy strawberry drink, all prepared by the mother of the house. It felt like a warm family evening, with everything we could have wished for.

We spent the evening chatting and laughing, feeling as if we had been part of this family for years. To help Bernardo recover from the long ride, the father massaged him with tiger balm, saying “This will make you feel strong.” When the family discovered that Bernardo is a YouTuber, they passionately explored his channel and took plenty of photos and videos. Meanwhile, the father was caught up in his own form of live reporting. With his camera rolling, he enthusiastically narrated the entire event in Malay. We couldn’t understand what he was saying, but from few words we recognized—"Portugal" and "Hollanda"—it was clear we were the main topic. It was hard to tell whether he was filming a documentary or an abstract piece of art, as his camera wandered between us, the room, the ground, and occasionally nothing in particular. Yet, he kept chatting away, completely absorbed in his storytelling. Then, with great importance, he sent his masterpiece off to his family.

He was clearly grateful to have us as guests and even prayed for us. You can only imagine how thankful we were to be there.

Although we had set up our tent, we ended up sleeping in the living room, on a bed the mother and daughter had prepared for us. We woke up to the wonderful smell of Nasi Lemak, once again prepared with care, by the mother of the house. During breakfast, an aunt joined us—most likely informed by the father’s ‘live report’ from the night before. She welcomed us like a warm silk blanket and, to our surprise, even gave us some pocket money for the journey ahead.

We’re still getting used to the generosity here. Whether it’s food, drinks, or even money, our instinctive Western reaction is to politely refuse, even when we appreciate it. But here, that’s not how it works. When people offer something, they genuinely want you to accept it, and declining might even be seen as impolite. We’re learning that sometimes, the best way to show gratitude is simply to accept. And so, we accepted the money —a meaningful reminder of our time with this family.

After breakfast, we said our goodbyes and left with full bellies—and even fuller hearts.

Little did we know this was just the beginning of the many wonderful moments we would share with the people of Malaysia…

Jule Noah

We visited ‘the city of the future’—a place that probably has the cleanest waste management system in the world. Not because it’s so efficient, but simply because there are hardly any people to produce waste…

Forest City was supposed to become a lively, eco-friendly metropolis with space for 700,000 residents. The ambitious project started in 2015, with impressive plans for golf courses, shopping malls, restaurants and international schools. This was meant to be the hotspot for expats and investors.

But things didn’t go as planned. The city was built for wealthy Chinese buyers, but when China tightened its money rules, the housing market froze. The luxury apartments—complete with swimming pools and sports facilities—were meant as big investments. Now, if you visit, you’ll probably have the entire pool to yourself (if there’s still water in it).

So there’s not much going on in this city, but because of that, we were curious. We rented an Airbnb that, given the circumstances, was super cheap. For a nice apartment right in the city center, with an amazing view and swimming pool, we only paid around 30 euros per night.

As we explored, it was easy to tell that Forest City is still waiting for its people. Shopping malls were quiet, most stores were closed and the streets felt empty. With barely any other road users, we had the streets to ourselves. Despite the presence of plenty of security guards, no one batted an eye when we rode on the wrong side of the road, took a roundabout in the opposite direction, or even cycled against traffic. We even biked through the shopping mall… In a city this empty, the usual rules didn’t seem to apply.

And yet, despite the silence, the city is carefully maintained. As we cycled through, we saw workers non-stop keeping everything in perfect shape. The plants were in bloom, the grass well trimmed and every tile in all the stores was perfectly mopped. It all looked like it was ready to be admired every day -but by whom?

It’s almost heartbreaking to see how dedicated the gardeners, security guards and other workers are maintaining a city that is barely used. You can’t help but wish for a bit more life here; some energy and just a few more people who could appreciate their hard work.

However, for the people who live here—mainly immigrants from India and Bangladesh—the city feels far from empty. Several residents told us they are happy living in Forest City. We could also see this in the local Indian restaurant, where we stopped by several times a day—not only because of the delicious food, but also because of the warm, welcoming atmosphere. Bernardo discovered this place on our first night, while I was stuck in the bathroom with traveler’s tummy. He came back completely surprised —because, of course, It’s quite bizarre to find such a crowded spot in a city that feels so empty.

This Indian restaurant became our go-to spot. As the only tourists among the many workers who gathered there for their meals, we were warmly welcomed. In those moments, the city suddenly felt alive, just as it was meant to be. But as soon as we stepped outside, the silence returned.

This ‘city of the future’ is clearly full of contrasts: perfectly maintained, but mostly empty. A city with all the facilities, but without the people. An ‘eco-city’, but built on artificial islands, which swallowed up a natural habitat. What started as an ambitious project, has now become more of an example of how not to build a city.

And still, despite everything, there’s something fascinating about this place. The silence, the space and the almost surreal beauty make it feel like something out of a fairytale. And let’s be honest—if you hate crowds, traffic and noisy neighbours, this could actually be the perfect city for you. If you go shopping here, you’re guaranteed personal attention, because you’re probably the only customer. And while in Singapore you’d have to pay a fortune for an apartment, in Forest City, you can get one for a bargain (with a guaranteed parking spot right at your doorstep). Not bad, right?

Maybe, one day, this city will get the hustle and bustle it deserves.

Time will tell….

Jule Noah

Bernardo was all set to document our adventure right from the airport in Singapore. Unfortunately, that plan fell apart before we even left the terminal. He lost his voice due to the aircon on the plane. Great start! Because of that, we were offline for the first few days. But I’d love to tell you what we’ve been up to :)

Our very first observation, while cycling from the airport to our first stay: sportiness. Everywhere we looked, people were on the move. Runners, cyclists, rowers, tai-chi practitioners, and the most intriguing group: the clappers. We spotted several people walking energetically while clapping their hands—or even slapping their thighs. And not just a casual clap, but clapping like there’s no tomorrow—with intense focus. I did a quick search and found out that it comes from traditional Chinese medicine, where clapping is believed to stimulate circulation, activate acupressure points, and boost energy flow. Who knew that applauding yourself could be a workout? We sure didn’t. But maybe we should start practicing :) It fits perfectly into the image of a city that never stands still.

After getting our first feel of the city—well, actually only my first; Bernardo’s fourth, but he pretended to be just as excited—we were welcomed into the apartment of Andrea and Phill. Together with their two teenage daughters, they live in a beautiful apartment on the edge of the city center. When we arrived, the table was set, and our beds were made. Their youngest daughter had even given up her room for us, and Andrea had thoughtfully placed books about cycling adventures on the bedside table. As if that wasn’t enough, their housekeeper, Susana, prepared the most tender Rendang we had ever tasted. It made us feel completely at home.

The days we spent with the family gave us insight into life in ‘The Lion City’, and what it’s like for them to live there. As expats, they enjoy a good life, but they also shared the other side of this prestigious destination. During the TreeTop Walk, they explained that while Singapore’s flora may appear rich and tropical, it is actually carefully maintained. Trees and plants are strategically placed and replaced, ensuring that something is always in bloom. Even the ‘wild’ parks are carefully designed, with walking trails that never become overgrown.

Daily life in Singapore is just as regulated as its nature, with strict laws and some unique rules. For example, chewing gum is completely banned and spitting on the street can result in serious fines. Even forgetting to flush a public toilet can lead to a significant penalty (there are even inspectors who check if you flush properly!). All these regulations are in place to maintain clean public spaces.

Andrea and Phill also told us about the COE (Certificate of Entitlement), a permit that can cost up to $150,000 just to own a car. This means that only those who can afford it are able to drive, helping to keep the number of vehicles in the city ‘low’—not that you’d notice; traffic is still crazy. But once again, this is an example of how everything in the country is carefully regulated to keep things running smoothly. Because of this regulation, Andrea and Phill don’t have a car—but with Singapore’s efficient and affordable public transport, they hardly need one. Well, except maybe on IKEA days.

After spending three comfortable and insightful days with Andrea, Phill and the kids, we moved on to our next stay. This time, we were welcomed by ‘Auntie’—as we were invited to call the Scottish owner of the house. Exhausted and drenched from the rain, we arrived—unfortunately, late. We quickly learned that being late doesn’t quite fit with the norms of this culture. Nevertheless, we were well taken care of. We enjoyed freshly baked bread and homemade yogurt at breakfast, Auntie not only washed but also ironed our laundry and she gave us detailed recommendations for the area. Once again, we felt very welcomed.

Those were comfortable days, giving us plenty of time to settle in, get used to the bikes and make the final preparations for our adventure. We had time to tackle our growing to-do list. When we arrived, that list had just one bullet point, but somehow, it kept getting longer. My bank card got swallowed by an ATM, Bernardo forgot to bring a long-sleeve shirt (a must in this harsh sun), I realised that I had only packed half of my underwear and my phone battery decided to give up on me. Small hiccups, but things that needed to be sorted out. These days gave us all the time to take care of them before hitting the road.

In between these little tasks, something peculiar kept happening—people wanted photos with our bikes. A few times, we were included, but most of the time, the bikes were the real divas—apparently more photogenic than us. At one point, we considered turning it into a business. Honestly, I can’t blame them—our bikes are pretty cool.

Of course, I can’t wrap this up without talking about the food. We fully indulged in the Asian cuisine, conquering every food court in town. The final judgment: all approved! Our favorites? Roti paratha with dal and Susana’s amazing rendang (though unfortunately, you won’t find that one in a food court!).

With our guide Bernardo—on his fourth visit to Singapore and still not tired of it—we explored every corner of the country. After days of great food, new insights, and warm hospitality, we can confidently say: Singapore is worth a visit!

The only advice we’d give you: bring some patience. At crossings, we had enough time to plan our next meal, analyse the traffic flow, rethink our life choices and still wait another minute before the light finally turned green. But well, even that was an experience we won’t forget.

It was good!

A huge thank you to Andrea, Phill & Auntie. You made our stay just great.