After our time at Positive Living Community, Charles and I decided to go for a cycling adventure around Malaysia. We bought a couple of bikes from Rawang for £60 each and set off with not much of a plan. Taken from the diary I wrote at the time, here are some anecdotes and highlights from the trip.
We packed my small rucksack with a mosquito net, one change of clothes each, our phones and our wash bags and then left Batu Arang in the early hours. The road out of Batu Arang twisted through the jungle, and we soon came upon a troop of long-tailed macaques on the side of the road. As we cycled past, they chased after us barring their teeth – just the adrenaline kick we needed to wake us up.
The road was wide, the tarmac smooth, and as was the case for most of the trip, there wasn’t much traffic on the roads other than the odd truck that trundled by, passing us generously. Malaysia is a far safer place to cycle than back in the UK!
Mist hung over the Selangor Fruit Valley as we descended into the land of palm oil. Vast plantations stretched as far as the eye could see, land which was all once rainforest. There was something sinister about the plantations, perhaps the lifelessness and uniformity of them or more likely the signs proclaiming ‘trespassers will be shot’ and the armed guards of the Sime Darby mafia.
Malaysia is the second-largest producer of palm oil in the world (after Indonesia) and the plantations have expanded to occupy over 20% of the land with devastating environmental effects. The industry employs over half a million people and accounts for nearly 15% of GDP, and can we blame Malaysia when a huge amount of palm oil is exported to the West, where it’s used in 50% of packaged goods in supermarkets, mostly in cosmetics and food?
After a monotonously straight road that went on for miles we stopped for a milk tea and 100 plus in a roadside cafe, watched over by the local hitman- a guy with a big ruby ring, aviator glasses and leather shoes, smoking a blunt.
Eventually, we arrived in Slim River, a small town that was the site of an important battle in WWII between Japanese and British forces which effectively ended British hopes of defending Malaya. At the time I was reading a book by an idol of mine, Freddy Spencer-Chapman, who had spent time in Slim River. A British naturalist, arctic explorer, mountaineer and war hero, Chapman ran a commando campaign behind enemy lines that was effective enough for the Japenese to deploy an entire regiment to hunt him down. He survived alone in the Malaysian jungle for over three years, despite being racked by tropical diseases.
Just as we left Slim River, the freehub on Charles’ bike, a worrying mechanical problem to occur so early on the trip. We pushed back to the town, found a bike shop and had tea while it was fixed. Then we continued on to Sungkai where we found a hotel and a Chinese restaurant apparently famous for pork knuckles (with good reason it turned out).
As we set off in the morning the Titiwangsa mountains, the central range that runs down the Malaysian peninsular, loomed above us in the clouds, Mount Korbu at over 7000 feet. I realised that perhaps we’d started the trip a little hastily, for Charles was not a seasoned cyclist, and his legs were tired.
We got to Tapah and began to climb up to the Cameroon Highlands, an area of the Titiwangsa mountains that was recognised by William Cameroon as a suitable location for a hill station in 1885, because of its natural plateau and cooler climate. British colonials built a road up there in 1930, and people moved to grow tea and vegetables, and live in the resort towns where the air was fresher.
We cycled up this road through luscious green undergrowth that dripped with moisture and hummed with the sound of insects and birds. An occasional stall was on the side of the road selling honey and plants from the jungle, and stray dogs came out of earthy burrows in the banks of the road as we passed.
The incline was steep and we worked up a sweat, so it was a welcome break to stop and strip off at a waterfall to bathe in the cool mountain water. After a couple of fresh coconuts, we set off again up the twisting road, cooled now by a light drizzle.
The temperature dropped and we were engulfed by the clouds at around 1200 metres. Eventually, we reached Ringlet, an isolated, bleak town nestled in the bowl of a hill, that had the feel of an Andean mining town (although I’ve never been to one). Our search for a hotel was fruitless – there wasn’t one – so we had no option but to carry on to the next town.
Charles’s legs were exhausted, so we decided to hitch a lift. I found some yellow card in a bin and made a sign for Tanah Rata. I’d have to be selective, as the vehicle needed to carry our bikes too. In less than 10 minutes, I’d flagged down a white pick-up truck and we jumped in the back with our bikes. The driver turned out to be a complete maniac, driving up the twists and turns of the road at crazy speeds and overtaking cars on blind corners. I held on to a handle for dear life, convinced any moment we’d crash or be thrown out of the shallow cargo bed. The driver grinned as he dropped us off, either taking pleasure in scaring us or thinking we were impressed.
We cycled to The Chapel Of Our Lady Of Mount Carmel, a Roman Catholic chapel sat on top of a hill looking over the town, surrounded by a beautifully kept garden. There we met Father John who said we could sleep in a couple of tin sheds in the garden with mattresses in them, and we could stay as long as we’d like. Feeling very hungry, we went and had dinner, where we met two middle-aged Malaysian women, Apple and Angela. Like a couple of hyperactive kids, they chatted incessantly at a frenetic pace, and although we were had no idea what was going on, we understood Apple would meet us at the chapel the next day at 8.00.
Returning to the chapel in time for Mass, we met Elias, an Austrian man in his mid-thirties who was there as a missionary. Charles and I both felt a little uncomfortable attending Mass, neither of us being Roman Catholics, and both of us having nothing to wear but a T-shirt and shorts, but Father John knew this and had invited us to attend nonetheless. However, he began by reprimanding his congregation for not dressing smartly, and we couldn’t help but feel his eyes lingering on us. The whole service was very intense, especially since we were standing next to Elias, who worshipped with disturbing vehemence, shouting with tears rolling down his contorted face. Mass over, we went for a walk with Elias, who turned out to be crazy too. We were left unsettled and stunned as this devout Christian ranted about his plans to eliminate Muslims and create a super society.
It had been a long and mad day, and not one I’ll ever forget. Here I was, lying in a tin shed outside The Chapel Of Our Lady Of Mount Carmel with rain pitter-pattering on the roof, an insane Austrian neo-Nazi somewhere outside, and an appointment with Apple the next day.
We met Angela in a rather grotty looking pub that, in fairness, did cook me a delicious banana chapati with three different sauces. Apple then picked us up in her car and revealed she was giving us a tour of the Cameroon Highlands. We had a bizarre day visiting some agricultural tourist sites including the Boh tea plantations, a honey farm, and ‘cactus valley’, but Angela and Apple’s generosity was touching.
We said goodbye to all of the characters we’d met in Tanah Rata and then headed on. The road rose and fell between the towns of the Cameroon Highlands and then we freewheeled for miles, following a boulder-strewn river that twisted down a valley through the jungle.
The weather had been kind on our trip so far, but after we’d had lunch in a roadside restaurant, the heavens opened and we were caught in a torrential rainstorm. The road was exposed with nowhere to shelter, and within minutes we were soaked through, the road now a muddy river. At this moment a boy approached us on a moped with a box full of ice creams on the back, and I think we were equally surprised to see each other. We bought two ice creams and ate them just standing in the pouring rain, having accepted our fate. Further on, we sheltered under a sheet of corrugated iron and getting cold now, hitched a lift to Gua Musang.
Around Gua Musang were some impressive limestone mounds that rose up out of the ground and towered above the surrounding land. Local folklore said that seven hunters were once climbing the biggest hill when a stone staircase appeared before them. They climbed it and at the summit six of the men drank from a bowl of pure water they found beneath a tree. On the descent, the hunter who hadn’t drunk from the bowl turned around to a blood-curdling scream, to find his six friends had vanished, taken by the God of the cave. Their bodies were never found.
We turned off the main road into Taman Negara national park, one of the world’s oldest rainforests at more than 130 million years old, and home to Malayan tigers, Asian elephants and Sumatran rhinos. It would be over 100km before we reached the next town and Charles’s legs were fading so we sat on the side of the road, and waited for a ride. Nothing passed for 1/2 hour, and then two Chinese aluminium merchants in a pickup truck stopped and we jumped in the back. It was a great journey with amazing views of Kenyir Lake, a huge artificial lake, the biggest in Southeast Asia.
The men took us to a house they were building in Kuala Berang and said we could stay in a spare room they had. It was basic, with just a mattress on a dusty concrete floor, but we needed nothing more.
Now on the East coast of Malaysia, the flat coastal roads were a welcome respite. We cycled through fishing villages, wooden boats lying on the banks of muddy creeks next to gnawed wooden shacks and continued our culinary tour of Malaysian street food.
One day the wheel on my bike became loose and we had to walk a kilometre to the outskirts of Chukai. There I found a garage and a man fixed it, giving me two adjustable spanners in case it happened again. Every person we met on our trip was so kind and generous. Hitchhiking was easy, even with bikes, as the first car to see our sign would stop immediately. Often we would stop to eat during the journey, and the driver would insist on buying us the meal.
The coast turned into an endless stretch of golden sand, and it was a joy to swim at the end of a hot day.
One night, I convinced Charles we should build and sleep in a shelter by the beach. I somewhat regretted this in the morning when goats had kept me up all night and my skin looked like salami from mosquito bites.
We continued South to Pekan, then crossed back over the country to Malacca via Muadzam Shah, and finished our tour in the metropolis of Seremban.
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