Neither Charl nor I are your average cyclist. I am 57; Charl 64. While Charl is merely fat, I am morbidly obese. In fact, I weigh so much more than a mere 100 pounds over ideal weight (the official definition of morbid obesity), that I probably fall into some untitled category!

Recently, when Charl told a young Turk beside whom I was seated that we were cycling through Turkey, he looked away, embarrassed. I turned to Charl and said: “He does not believe you.” The young shopkeeper turned back and said that while he believed Charl was biking, he did not think I was doing so. When Charl confirmed that this was in fact so, the Turk’s eyes dropped from my face to my body, and he shrugged his continued disbelief. Even those who have watched me dismount outside a restaurant or hotel ask Charl whether I am cycling with him, despite the obvious evidence of their eyes...

Here are some “fat stories” I sent to friends following two previous cycle trips...

Burma 2007…

Southeast Asians are tiny people. I mean tiny. As I could easily pass for a Sumo wrestler or the Michelin Man, you can just imagine how large I am by comparison to them. Despite everyone being by culture and inclination very polite, Asians never seem to mind commenting on the size of westerners. Knowing this from my previous experiences in the east, the first thing I packed for this trip was my sense of humour.

Visiting friends in Thailand one year, I overhead their daughter, Pascale, then six, saying in response to a comment by the cook whom I was meeting for the first time: “Yes, she’s very fat, but she’s very nice.” Welcome to Thailand!

During the week I spent in Laos that same year I was reminded of my size with almost every encounter. I crossed the border and negotiated, for 50 baht, a ride into Vientiane in the back of a small truck. Every other passenger arriving thereafter, whether local or foreign, was charged 30 baht. I mentioned this to the driver who exclaimed: “Yes, but you are very, very fat!” Welcome to Laos! During the hour or so I spent at Buddha Park, I fell into (largely incomprehensible) conversation with a shaven-headed monk in orange – a slightly portly young fellow. Who, 30 minutes into our discussion, asked: “So – how much do you weigh?” I mentioned that in my country it was impolite to ask such a question of a woman. He said it was not impolite in Laos, informed me that he weighed 69kg, and said that all his classmates thought he was “…very, very fat.” No ways in hell was I going to reveal my weight after that! The next day, during a long and exceedingly uncomfortable truck ride north to Vang Vieng, a non-existent elderly woman seated beside me, could not resist comparing my arms to her thighs by repeatedly squeezing first one then the other and discussing her findings with her broadly-smiling friend (ouch!).

Even these gems could not compete, however, with my all-time favourite when a man approached me on a street in India and said, apropos nothing at all, “Hello. You are not a small man.” Right on both counts!

…and Vietnam 2009

As usual in southeast Asia, where the locals are tiny, my size (now bigger than ever) brought comment and laughter. Skinny men approaching Charl and I on the street would look me over then turn to Charl and, with a sound of awe, draw a large circle with both hands, beginning above their heads like a child describing the size and shape of the earth. If their hands were busy, holding onto the handlebars of a scooter, for example, they would puff up their cheeks and twinkle their eyes at me above their pursed lips and bulbous faces. One man accosted me in a hotel lobby. He was virtually moaning with pleasure as he walked around me, squeezing my upper arms. He then proceeded to measure me. Placing his thumb at a point on my left arm he stretched his hand as wide as possible to place his pinkie at another point; bringing his thumb forward to meet his pinkie, he caterpillar-ed his way around my back to my right arm. He resisted measuring my chest but stood in front of me defining circles with his hands, looking as though he thought he could get lost in me and never be found! Later that same evening Charl and I went for a massage. I had two young women massaging my feet, giggling and sniffing; Charl had one. When Charl’s masseuse was done with him she came to join me and as I sat up on the bed she reached out with both hands and squeezed my breasts. I was still gasping when the other two decided to follow suit… Luckily I had had several similar experiences in Korea during my first ever cycle trip, so was not too fazed… (Many women squeezed me subsequently – breasts, hips, belly, arms. Not a sexual encounter, just a naïve expression of awe. I felt quite often like a particularly juicy Xmas turkey.) The next day, at the top of the Heaven and Earth Pass, taking a Coke break in a café in the clouds, I heard Charl exclaim (in Afrikaans), “What are you doing?” He came out to join me at the bike looking somewhat bemused and explained that the young mother who had served us, complete with toddler on hip, had squeezed his breast – and that he now knew how I felt. He had already been called a “happy Buddha” (the happy Buddha is the fat, grinning Buddha one sees at times, not the skinnier southeast Asian Buddha) and was attracting attention in his own right for a change. My favourite incident of the trip? In the city of ghosts I laughed until I cried when a young boy reached up and squeezed Charl’s breast.