Sepang Gold Coast to Hutan Melintang

Hutan Melintang to Butterworth

Singapore

Whenever I’ve been lucky enough to visit the tropics, the excitement I feel as I disembark from the plane is immense. The heat and the smells that rush up to meet my olfactory senses alert me to the fact that I’ve arrived somewhere utterly different from home. The rest of my jetlagged body usually takes a little longer to adjust. This is Southeast Asia, where the atmosphere of so many of its cities is sauna-like: a heavy dampness; a humidity that wraps itself around the skin, trapping everything within it, not least the exhaust fumes from a million vehicles. Twenty-five years ago, when I first visited southeast Asia, I swear, the smell of Bangkok stayed in my nose for days after I’d left; as if the humidity and pollution was stained into my very skin. Such is the life for a person with hyperosmia.

Today, our arrival at Singapore airport is no less enthralling. My husband and I join the queue at immigration with hundreds of others who’ve come from all over the world to check into this tiny island. It is the ultimate multi-cultural hub. After immigration comes another long queue for the taxi rank but here it seems I have a secret weapon. The gentleman managing the queue spots my husband Steve, struggling with our large bike boxes and waves him immediately to the front. I can’t be sure but I suspect that this man, who is as grey haired as my husband, has decided to give priority to a fellow oldie (one of the bonuses of Asian culture: they still respect their elders), and we slip gratefully into the back seat of an air-conditioned minivan.

We must go gently on ourselves. Inevitably, jet lag gets tougher the older you get and at 42 and 60, recovery takes time. I find I am envious of my younger self, when neither tiredness nor hangovers bothered me. Still, we manage to reassemble the bikes and then wonder around Singapore with guide book in hand. It is alarming how often we both sigh at the fierceness of this heat, only eighty-five miles from the equator, but we are careful to avoid speaking out loud what we really feel. I marvel over and over at this island’s staunch impression of a multi-cultural society living harmoniously side by side; I should have known better. On our third night, a young Singaporean waiter shatters my illusions as he launches into a diatribe on the wider population of the Malay Archipelago. It is the usual biased rubbish you can hear almost anywhere. ‘Don’t go to Malaysia; they will rob you.’ Or ‘’We Singaporeans can’t stand the Chinese; they are all filthy rich.’ In a forgiving mood, I try to remind myself that bigotry is inflamed by a society’s inequalities and the first thing people notice about Singapore, aside from the heat, is that it is eye wateringly expensive. As tourists, we are charged £10 and £25 respectively for a pint of beer and a pizza, but to live and work here is exorbitant. We learn the average waiter takes home around eight hundred British pounds each month and a nurse one thousand. To rent even the tiniest apartment is double that. Singapore has very little natural resources but it does well from the manufacture and export of goods: chemicals, electronics, oil drilling equipment to name but a few. It also has its fingers in the financial services and oil refining pies. Surprisingly, the food and beverages market, or F&B as its snappily referred to here, is the 8^th biggest contributor to the economy. Going by the prices we’ve been charged; this suggests there are a lot of wealthy Singaporeans who like to eat out a lot.

After four days we both agree Singapore had made a big enough dent in our budget. My overriding memory of that first day is of sweat: buckets of it, and that is just from the exertion of putting panniers on my bicycle. As I rub at my eyes, stinging from sweat, I turn to my husband, finally breaking our silent pact and say ‘Remind me why the hell we’re doing this?’ Steve, who diplomatically chooses to stonewall the question has spent his whole life firmly rooted in the temperate zone to avoid just this kind of heat. I think he is cussing the fact that I talked him round. My own behaviour has not been smart. Since leaving the UK, a little too much food and a lot too much alcohol is threating my ability to deal with this situation effectively; I am about to experience the fastest alcohol detox of my life.

Despite this being a crowded island, Singapore’s traffic is nowhere near as bad as we’d feared. An internet search reveals it is perfectly legal to ride on pavements, unusual for a country with a rule-making fetish, and we do so whenever possible since pavements provide much welcomed shade. To avoid the busiest times at the Johor Causeway Bridge, we set out at 11am. A typical Singaporean day hovers at around 32° Celsius but once you factor in the humidity it feels way closer to 42. My heart won’t stop pounding, even when we stop to rest and poor Steve is so overheated, he begins to shiver which, we learn later, is a symptom of heat stroke; a potentially serious condition. I keep telling myself it will be better in the upcoming days because we’ll leave early in the morning, although I wonder how much difference 3 or 4 degrees Celsius will actually make?

Crossing the Johor Causeway Bridge into Malaysia is an experience I’m not in a hurry to repeat; we’ve researched the process thoroughly online so think we know where to go and what to expect but the reality is a thousand times worse. We queue with hundreds of motorcycles but at the Woodlands Checkpoint, it is just a tedious waiting game. The fact we are under shade does little to mitigate the humidity or the fact no one bothers to turn off their bike engines, and we wait and sweat and breath in an awful lot of petrol fumes. Never, in my entire life have I felt so dirty or in need of a shower. Locals, who must do this crossing daily have become adept at nudging their way to the front of the queue. At least when they bump into us, they turn to say sorry with beautiful smiles that make you want to forgive them anything. Finally, after an hour and a half, it is our turn. The officials aren’t interested in searching our bags and they stamp us out of Singapore with a smile. The ride across the causeway is awesome; the thrill of an international border crossing makes it all worthwhile and finally, we are in Malaysia, where we join the dozens of others who have stopped to smoke and chat and take a well-earned break.

Malaysia

For our first night in Malaysia, we have chosen to stay in a hotel with a restaurant so we won’t need to go out again after the long day. When we arrive, we see porters on the door and realise it’s actually a five-star place, a little surprising since it wasn’t very expensive, or at least not by European standards. Our arrival attracts quite a lot of attention. Thankfully, English is widely spoken in Malaysia and it is great to be able to converse freely with people. The only problem is, neither of us feel comfortable with the way staff are instructed to wait on their guests hand and foot. I want to tell the staff that it’s fine; I can pour my own beer and pick up my own bag thank you. But we’re happy to leave tips for people’s kindness. So, when a young Malay lad helps us carry our multitude of panniers up to our room, Steve hands him a Singaporean five-dollar bill. The young man looks at it awkwardly for a second before declaring ‘I cannot accept this tip; it is way too much money.’ My mind flashes back to the Singaporean waiter who had declared ‘all Malaysians are thieves’ and I wonder; would he have done the same?

On our first morning we are woken by the beautiful sound of the call to prayer from the local mosque. Whilst Malaysia is technically an Islamic society, it is also a multi-ethnic one. Islam is followed by all Malays who make up roughly 57% of the population whereas most Chinese citizens, who account for 23% of the population, align themselves with Buddhism. There is also a substantial number of Hindu and Christian followers. Despite looking on the surface like a tolerant society (non-Muslims are not required to live by Islamic laws), underneath there are tensions bubbling. The Malay-controlled government openly and positively discriminates in favour of the its Malay (or Bumiputera) citizens. And in matters such as housing, finance, governance and education Chinese and Indian citizens are severely disadvantaged. With these policies enshrined within Malaysia’s laws, it doesn’t look as if there will be changes to these attitudes any time soon.

We don’t see great deal of Johor Bahru, (affectionately called JB by locals). Its pleasant enough and it feels safe and friendly and many of the its citizens make a higher-than-average wage by working over in Singapore. Moreover, we read that many Singaporeans are choosing to come and live in JB since it is 90% cheaper which is great, if you can deal with that bridge crossing twice a day. But I guess many people must do since 300,000 crossings are recorded every single day. We stay an extra day in JB because I need to do something about my footwear. I’ve made the rookie error of thinking I could save on weight by just bringing sandals; cycling in the same footwear as I wear off of the bike but before I was even out of Singapore, I realised it was a mistake. The soles of these new sandals are way too thin; I can feel every push on the pedals. I scout around a few shops before finding a pair of trainers that should suffice. They are a hideous black and orange colour but at only five pounds, I can’t complain.

Johor Bahru to Malacca: 187 Miles.

Our first day riding in Malaysia does not go well, and something I’m sure has nothing to do with the fact that it’s Friday the thirteenth! The road we intend to ride on turns out to be private and is protected by a very large, very locked gate. Perhaps there are politicians living here? We could just slip around the side of it but decide we don’t want to risk getting so far and then being sent back the way we came. Unfortunately, the alternative is the notoriously busy route one. We will have to ride on it for five miles until we reach route 51, a much quieter road that will then take us out of the city. We set out gamely but after, oh about ten seconds, it becomes clear that it’s way too dangerous. There are lorries thundering by and there is no hard shoulder to ride on. Rather than risking our lives, we grumpily resign ourselves to pushing our bicycles up the narrow grass verge for the next five miles.

Thankfully, we soon see a service road on the opposite side, running parallel to route one. With relief, we cross to it by hauling our bicycles up and over a footbridge but after 3 miles, the service road ends abruptly; it does not link up with anything, least of all route 51; we have no choice but to return to route one. The trouble now is, how do we get back to the northbound side? There is no way we can cross 6 lanes of extremely busy, extremely fast-moving traffic so back we must go, all the way to the footbridge where, for the second time that morning, we strain our backs hauling our bikes up and over it. But this is not our only problem. Steve’s front brake keeps sticking against the wheel rim every time he uses it. Although he is adept at cycle maintenance, it’s a fiddly operation which takes almost an hour to fix. All this carry on would piss anyone off but imagine doing all this when it’s as hot as the inside of a sauna. It’s too much for two pale and pasty Brits who are more used to the climate of northeast England. By now it is eleven o’clock, and we’ve only covered five miles; there is nothing I want less then to ride another thirty. I drag Steve into a Burger King restaurant so we can cool down in their air conditioning and make use of the free WIFI. Gloomily, my husband agrees that we should give up on today, find the nearest hotel and start out again early next morning when it is cooler. He doesn’t say as much but I know he sees this as a failure. We make an online booking for a hotel just around the corner where we sink gratefully under a cold shower and lie in the air-conditioned room and recover. Never has reaching Penang felt more unlikely.

Later that evening as the sun sets, we head out to find something to eat and come across a vegetarian Indian restaurant. I am really looking forward to a cold drink, preferably a beer, since I feel we deserve some compensation for such an awful first day however, it is not until after we’ve ordered that we realise they don’t serve alcohol. Lucky the food is so good it more than makes up for it and I start to feel optimistic again; surely today was just a blip? As we tuck in, we realise the young waiter intends to stand at our table for the duration of the meal, and unashamedly stare as we eat. There are some cultural differences you just can’t get used to.

By 0730 we and all other hotel guests are up and away. Many families are on their way to Legoland which I understand is Malaysia’s first international theme park. At this time of the morning, it does indeed feel mildly cooler; maybe the humidity isn’t so bad first thing, and we speed the final few miles up route one with gritted teeth, arriving in one piece on to the thankfully much quieter route 51. Today, we are heading for the coast at Pontian Kecil. For the majority of this trip, we will be following Malaysia’s route 5 which winds its way up the West Coast. I’ve been told it is not the most scenic side of the country but I am sure it will be interesting.

Once out of JB’s suburbs, we begin to see our first palm oil plantations. The palm oil trees look similar to what we Brits think of as the traditional coconut bearing palm tree, only shorter and squatter in appearance. They were first introduced into Malaysia by the British in 1870 as an ornamental plant and were first grown as a commercial crop in 1917. By the 1980s, Malaysia had become the world’s biggest exporter of Palm Oil with plantations cover almost 20% of the country. These plantations provide jobs for half a million of its citizens and accounts for around 8% of its Gross National Income. But you won’t need me to tell you that Malaysia has come under fire from the rest of the world for cutting down its rainforests in order to grow these crops. During the year of our Malaysia tour in 2018, the EU was attacking Malaysia for its poor environmental polices and deciding on whether to ban all future import and use of palm oil use within the EU. Suffice it to say the Malaysian government were very disgruntled about this. We frequently read in Malaysian newspapers that the government was not only heavily denying its poor environmental policies, but claiming the whole thing was just an attempt by the west to keep poorer nations poor.

The benefit of the ‘cooler’ morning air only lasts until 0930 when the day becomes sauna-like again. We stop regularly under the road side shelters to rest and recuperate, but even then, the sweat just keeps on dripping. On one of these breaks, a demure and well-dressed woman walks by us, and she can barely disguise the look of revulsion on her face: The sight of two sweaty, dirty cyclists sat outside her shop. Steve and I giggle when she’s gone. The thing is, I don’t need anyone to tell me how grimy and awful we look because I can feel it. We’ve already noticed, Malaysians rarely look hot or bothered, least of all sweaty. They must have a special heat-coping gene that we don’t.

As we ride, we are delighted to see monkeys and bright yellow parrots in trees and cattle egrets in fields. We also see a huge lizard by the road side which runs away when it sees us, chased by three mangy dogs. We finally link up with Route 5. There is only one lane but it does have a hard shoulder and sometimes even a motorbike lane which we take full advantage of. Driving standards in Malaysia can be a bit precarious; both cars and motorbikes like to use the hard shoulder to overtake on the inside so we must remain vigilant. By 1130 I am seriously flagging with 15 miles still to go but my spirits are raised by the non-stop supply of friendly Malaysians who wave and shout hello to us all day long.

**Roadside shelters are always gratefully used**

It is a relief to reach the coast and feel a breeze after five hours straight of sweating. The Straits of Malacca is a dirty brown colour and there are no beaches to speak of, just rocks and mud but we’re treated to an impressive lightening show out to sea. It feels odd for me to be by the sea and there not to be any seagulls. When we stop for a break, an Indian gentleman comes over to say hello and offers to buy us some water. How very thoughtful.

Our hotel in Pontian Kecil is owned by a friendly Chinese guy who in the morning, despite the fact we’ve already had breakfast and are packed up ready to go, insists we come back inside to eat pineapples with him; pineapples grown on his own farm. Never one to turn down the chance to learn more about Malaysia, we follow him back up to the roof terrace for our second breakfast. Unfortunately, this man’s only topic of conversation turns out to be all about his hotels and his pineapple farms rather than about Malaysia itself, and he talks about them for almost an hour. Ever mindful of the clock ticking and the day getting hotter we eventually try to make a move, whereby our new friend insists he accompany us on his moped so he can give us a tour of his pineapple fields. One look at my husband’s face tells me everything I need to know about his feelings on this idea and so, gently but firmly, I tell the hotel manager we have to get going; now. He looks more puzzled than offended.

It takes us four days to ride to Malacca. One night, in the town of Simbang Renggam we notice the locals tracking our movements, suggesting they don’t get many tourists here. Later that evening, when Steve returns from checking on our bicycles he says, ‘I’ve just had the weirdest experience. As I was pumping up our bike tyres, this old Chinese guy stopped to stare at me for like, fifteen minutes. He never said a word, he just gawped.’ I giggle. My husband couldn’t look more foreign if he tried, with blue eyes, pale skin and a shock of white hair. Perhaps he appeared ghost-like to this man? By day four, every bit of me hurts: my thighs, wrists, and bottom, not to mention the soles of my feet; it seems my five-pound trainers don’t have thick enough soles either. We decide on a nice hotel in Batu Pahat and take a day off.

One lunchtime, we have rather an amusing incident. Stopping at a roadside stall, Steve goes to buy water and bananas but when he returns to where I’m waiting with the bikes, he says, ‘Nah, the guy said he hasn’t got any bananas.’ I splutter in amazement. Even from the other side of the road I can see bunches and bunches of the things, hanging all along the top of his stall. Is he taking the piss? I insist Steve goes back to buy us at least one of this multi-banana collection, whilst I watch from the other side of the road. I see them talking. Then the guy shrugs and takes down a bunch of his bananas and sells them to Steve. Satisfied, we cycle on. A bit later, when we find a roadside shelter, I take out one of these bananas. It is still a little on the green side, but I unpeel it anyway and take a bite. Urgh, it is inedible; hard with a floury taste like no green bananas I’ve ever tasted before and finally it dawns on me; the guy at the stall was right, he didn’t have any bananas; he only had plantain. Well, wasn’t I the big idiot? Steve takes the piss out of me for the rest of the day.

We are establishing some daily routines. If a hotel doesn’t offer coffee or breakfast, we find a 7-11 shop. These are everywhere and sell cups, pre-filled with coffee, sugar and whitener which you pay for then fill from the shops hot water tap. The same can be done with pots of noodles so hey presto, that’s an instant breakfast right there. Sometimes, if we feel we need extra protein we add nuts or a small tin of fish to the noodles. During the daytime we rely on roadside stalls for snacks and, oh my goodness: the bananas (now I’ve learnt to tell them apart from plantain) are incredible. My favourites are the big juicy ones which are so filling I can barely even finish one. Steve’s favourites are the very small dark yellow ones. As there are hundreds of different varieties of edible bananas in this world, I wander why British supermarkets only ever stock the same boring variety. For our evening meals, we eat in all sorts of places: local restaurants, hotel restaurants, western-style fast food outlets or Malaysia’s own fast-food chain: Maryland, which is a bit like a KFC selling chicken or fish burgers with fries.

All day long we hear hello’s and how are you’s from the Malay people. If they stop to talk to us, they usually ask Steve his age (they aren’t shy about this) and are always impressed that a sixty-year-old is cycling the length of Malaysia. The Muslim Malay women are particularly friendly towards me and as they pass, I more often than not get a wave and a big sisterly smile. We already decided before we set out that if anyone asks us about children, which they often do, we tell them we have three grown up children. (I reel off the names of my sister’s children when asked). Whilst I am all for normalizing a childfree life, I don’t wish to get into these discussions on my tours. Meetings on the road are so brief anyway and when in another culture, it is my desire to demonstrate the similarities between people all over the world, not highlight the differences. It is easier for Steve and I since we are clearly past child bearing age anyway, but I do know that younger people travelling in Asia, women especially, often receive incredulous looks when they reveal they don’t have children.

Not everyone is pleased to see us. A man exiting a factory car park on a motorbike gives us a long disapproving look but I tell myself he must be the Malaysian equivalent of a Daily Mail reader. In Muar, I want to photograph the beautiful town with the river behind it, but in the car park where we stop, a group of deeply conservative and religious looking men stare in a hostile manner and shake their heads at us. But just up the road from here, we encounter four Malay racing cyclists going in the opposite direction at immense speed; three males and one female. All are wearing tightly clad Lycra with plenty of flesh on display. I can’t help wondering what the head shakers will think when they see this female cyclist.

Route 5 was built in the late 1800s and before Malaysia’s Expressways were built, those travelling up and down the country would most likely have taken this coastal route. These days it is relatively quiet and for many stretches, we ride under the shade of mature trees growing on either side of the road. I love that the road builders had the foresight to plant them. I guess in those days, most people still walked and cycled and would have benefited from the shade as we do now. I doubt modern-day road designers bother with such details now that the vast majority of the population use combustion engines to get around.

Malacca to Sepang Gold Coast: 78 Miles

Having read that Malacca is a ‘must see’ destination for tourists, I must say, I’m not overly convinced of its charms at first. But there again, we don’t get off to the best start. There are two hotels that go by the name of The Rucksack Cartel and I thought I’d booked us into the one by the park; the one with ample bicycle storage. But somehow, I’ve messed up and booked us into the one situated on Malacca’s busiest, narrowest street with absolutely nowhere to leave bikes. As we stand outside in the broiling heat arguing about what we should do, a man who works as a security guard at the bank next door overhears us and comes to our rescue. He beckons us over and moves his motorbike aside, revealing a set of railing which we can safely chain our bicycles too. We thank him profusely. What a kind and thoughtful man.

Built on the Straits of Malacca, this city was an important trading centre for the east for many hundreds of years. These days it is still a wonderfully diverse place, if a little run down now. We go to Jonkers Walk night market and eat various snacks cooked by Chinese women on charcoal burners. We visit both the oldest Chinese Temple and the oldest Muslim Mosque, then finish our night at the Geographer’s Café. It’s a lively place, decked out with paraphernalia supposed to give an air of British colonial times but really, we’ve just come here for the burgers and beer. We sit outside and people watch long into the night and talk about the thorny subject of British colonialism. Aside from it being wholly unethical and something I’m glad was long ago consigned to the history books, I also find it weird that there was once a time when you could travel half way across the globe and rather than finding ‘exotic’ foreign cultures, you’d simply find thousands of Brits. Interestingly enough, most Malays we’ve spoken to so far, say they have zero interest in visiting the UK, and I’m wondering if this has anything to do with the fact that Britain once colonised their country?

As soon as we are away from tourist-saturated Malacca, the friendliness resumes. We hit the coastal road once more and share it with many young Malaysians on weekend jaunts to the coast. As the groups of motorcycles pass, they practice their English on us and we ride to a chorus of hello my friend and how are you? That night, we stay in a rural guest house for the first time and it is bliss to lay in bed at night and hear silence. Malaysia is for the most part a noisy country. Noise made chiefly by motorbikes whizzing around at all hours that always leaves me wondering where the hell people are going at 3am and why they never seem to sleep. Not that I think Malaysians are bothered by noise. I’ve often secretly mused over how they’d feel about an enforced quiet hour once a week. Would they be amazed and enjoy the peace or would they not see any point to it? I think it speaks of the vast cultural differences between North Europeans and Southeast Asians. One is a vibrant and shared culture where life is lived outside, where personal space is a non-existent concept and where people prioritise socialising. The other is a much more reserved culture, lived indoors and shut away from anyone not in the immediate family and heavily dominated by time keeping and rules.

Just before we arrive at the Laman Guest house, the skies open and the rain pounds down on us but it is much welcomed and refreshing. This guest house is run by a young Malay couple who fetch us towels to dry ourselves and tell us they went to Scotland last year for a holiday and loved it. The Malaysian lunch they provide is incredible: seabass, chicken curry, rice and vegetables. And later that evening, they bring chocolate to our room and apologise that their restaurant isn’t open Sunday evenings but say they can make us stir-fried rice if we so wish. They even tuck our bikes into bed, covering them with a tarpaulin to keep them dry.

**Asian Water Monitor lizard seen on river bank (approximately 1.5 metres in length)**

Next morning, we immediately notice the heat. It is only 8 o’clock but it feels almost as hot as it usually does at midday. This does not bode well. Thankfully, we don’t have too far to go; just fourteen miles today to a holiday resort at Port Dickson and we want to stop along the way to see Cape Rachado, an 80 hectares reserve of prime rainforest. We hike the circular trail, spotting monkeys and bird life along the way and at the top, where there is a lighthouse built by the British in 1863, we get the most incredible views. By the time we’ve finished our short hike, the heat is unbearable, even under the trees. As we cycle the final mile to our hotel, I begin to feel wobbly and woozy and I am getting concerned; shouldn’t I be getting used to this heat by now?

Our hotel tonight is at a five-star resort with its own golf course, a shopping mall and several restaurants. We take a romantic walk on the beach and drink a beer at the beach bar whilst watching the sun setting over the ocean; dusk is over in a mere 20 minutes this close to the equator. Back in our room, we uncover evidence that our five-star resort is in slow decline. The décor is definitely 70’s and could do with a lick of paint and its cleanliness needs attention. We find fag butts on the balcony and dead flies in the kettle and in all the lampshades.

At breakfast, I get chatting to another guest, a young Chinese woman nursing her new born baby and she tells me that yesterday was exceptionally hot and very uncomfortable, even for the locals. Intrigued, we do some research online and find out the temperature got up to 37 degrees Celsius, and that was without factoring in the humidity. Wow. Suddenly, my woozy episode makes sense. Mercifully, the temperature has now dropped back to a more comfortable 31… If you’d asked me before we made this trip, I wouldn’t have understood the significance of this: surely 37 and 31 degrees are both hot? But you have to experience exercising in 37 degrees to fully appreciate the meaning of only 31.

Today, route 5 detours several miles inland to the town of Sepang, where we cross the Sungai Sepang River then head back for the coast. Before we got here, I was wondering: why the detour? Now I see that we are being diverted around a hilly area covered with palm oil plantations. Whole villages have been built amongst the forests for its employees, with the biggest bungalow reserved for the Estate Manager, identifiable by the proud plaque on the door. Despite the road builders attempt to detour around the hills, they couldn’t avoid all of them and as we head inland, we begin to climb. It’s a fairly shallow gradient and by the time we reach the top, I’m amazed by how high we’ve climbed: one thousand feet if Steve’s mini altimeter is to be believed. But any gradient is too much in this heat and when we stop to rest, it is my turn to start feeling cold; that dangerous sign of overheating. By now though, I’ve discovered the quickest way to stop yourself overheating and cool down your core body temperature: pour cold water over your head. We’ve both noticed how during the day we barely urinate because of all the sweating. The trouble in these humid climates is that sweat can’t evaporate very easily so the body’s natural mechanisms for cooling itself down isn’t so efficient here.

**Palm Oil Plantations as far as the eye can see**

Sepang Gold Coast to Hutan Melintang: 131 Miles

Over the coming days, we have to circumnavigate Malaysia’s capital city. Kuala Lumpur is huge; a mecca of sky-rise buildings, shopping malls and freeways, and it holds about as much appeal to a cyclist as an abattoir does to a vegan. We’ve just enjoyed a couple of days staying in a beautiful beachside resort on the Sepang Gold Coast and the rest seems to have done me the world of good. For the first time on this tour, I am enjoying the cycling for cycling’s sake. Up to now, I’ve been too preoccupied with my aches and pains, or fretting about traffic or suffering in the heat. We ride with mud flats and glimpses of the sea to our left and banana plantations to our right. I notice there are plastic bags tied around each bunch of fruit, presumably to protect it from animal raiders as they grow. It must take the farmers ages to do this.

A few miles from our hotel at Banting, another potential disaster looms: Steve announces his lock ring, which holds the rear cassette to his bicycle, has somehow come loose and he doesn’t have the tool to tighten it. This is a problem when cycle touring: you simply cannot carry a tool for every potential mechanical problem. We decide to press on to our hotel so we can use their WIFI to search the internet for possible solutions; maybe find a cycle mechanic. But just as we are agreeing to this plan, I suddenly notice where we are: we have stopped in a part of town, populated predominantly by a Chinese population. The road is lined with those open fronted shops and just a few doors down, I spot what looks like a cycle shop. Result. The cycle mechanic speaks perfect English and has the correct tool for the job. (I see Steve wince as the mechanic not very delicately wrenches the lock nut up a little too tightly.) And for the third time in Malaysia, the cycle shop will not accept our money for the job they do. The mechanic wants to know how much we paid for our bicycles. I proudly tell him I have had my bicycle for twenty years.

Right outside our hotel that night is a shoe shop and I buy another pair of trainers to replace my black and orange pair which have already split across the width of the sole. In the morning, the Chinese couple who own the hotel come to see us off. The woman tells us her uncle lived in Doncaster in England but that he has now passed away, and she asks us, if they ever go to England, can they stay with us. I nod and tell her ‘You have my email.’ But it is a strange situation. The two of them own this large property with many rooms over three different floors; I think it never occurs to them that we would live in anything other than the equivalent in England. The truth of the matter is that we don’t actually have room for guests in our tiny one-bedroomed apartment.

Slowly we inch our way around Kuala Lumpur’s outskirts, trying to stay with route 5. Sometimes there is a hard shoulder to ride on and sometimes not. On a particularly hair-raising stretch, route 5 flows into the E20 Expressway where I risk a glance behind me. I think how only a week ago, the sight of all that traffic rushing up behind us would have scared the hell out of me. Now, well used to Malaysia’s often chaotic roads, I simply take it in my stride. For some reason, I am flying along today; I told you that six degrees drop in temperature makes all the difference and for once, it is Steve who is struggling to keep up with me. This trip has really consolidated my love for him. It was never his mission in life to ride 600 miles across the tropics in 40 degrees of heat and yet here he is, doing it without complaint. Sometimes, I still pinch myself that I have found such a good man. (Just for the record, Steve was a racing cyclist when we met, and a much stronger rider than me. Over the last few years, I’ve been busy converting him into a cycle tourist and now he loves it as much as me.)

We pass through Klang, a vibrant town with a large Indian population and here we pass a sign advertising a school for motorcyclists. Without missing a beat, Steve says, ‘That must be where they teach motorcyclists to change lanes without giving a fuck.’ In Klang, we pass a huge Mosque on a riverside location where Islamic Fundamentalist party flags are flown off of every available building. It is the run up to Malaysia’s 14^th general election. Currently, the two main players are the blue flagged Barisan Nasional (National Front) who hold the majority (47%) of seats in government and the Pakatan Harapan (Alliance of Hope), the reds, holders of 37% of government seats. (Where Pakatan Harapan won the election, knocking the Barisan Nasional off its seat of power for the first time since Malaysia gained independence in 1957.) If you were to go by the thousands of flags flying in Malaysia, one could be forgiven for thinking the Malaysia’s Islamic fundamentalist and conservative party: the Pan-Malay Islamic Party (PAS) who hold just 15% of seats, were in fact favourites to win. I am reminded somewhat of the UK independence party (UKIP) who, in the run up to the British general election in 2017 were gaining so much press attention that people were starting to think they might win, or would at least be forming a coalition government. But when the results came in, UKIP’s share of the vote went from 12% to 1% and they lost their only seat in parliament. If there is a message in all this, I guess it might be: don’t assume a party’s popularity just because they shout loud.

We stop to chat to a young Malaysian cyclist who is on his way to Pangkor Island. He is riding a mountain bike complete with front panniers and tells us he regularly cycle-tours. We are off to the island too but as it’s still 100 miles away, we aren’t intending to get there today as he is. Outside of our hotel in Kapar, a dozen Indian school children rush excitedly at Steve yelling ‘Hello Uncle’ and asking him many questions. As a man not overly fond of children, I watch Steve with amusement but he seems to deal with the exchange in his stride and is happy to answer all of their questions. I have noticed we don’t get so many people stopping to talk to us or shouting hello since leaving the state of Johor. For us, it was the friendliest part of Malaysia and I miss it.

We take another day off in Sekinchan where we take a basic but clean room on the sixth floor and where we are treated to the most amazing views of the sun coming up over the paddy fields next morning. Unfortunately, I am not feeling so great; I can feel the glands in my neck are swollen and I fear its tonsillitis which is bad news indeed. I have a history of things not going to plan on my tours. In the past, I sprained my ankle whilst in Italy. In Trinidad and Tobago, I got seriously ill after some insect bites became infected. I fell off my bicycle in Australia last year. The year before that I was robbed in Indonesia and on a different trip to Italy, I had to cut my tour short when I came down with Tonsillitis. Just for once, it would be nice to finish a tour without a trip to the local Emergency department. I start on my antibiotics, hoping they do some good. Sekinchan is another predominantly Chinese town and not surprisingly for a coastal settlement, is full of fish restaurants. We see menus advertising fishes head soup and shark fin dishes. The whole town has a strong smell to it and fishy smells emanate from every gutter and drain. Probably because I feel poorly, I recoil from it and back at our hotel room, I gratefully tuck into plain noodles.

The further we get from Kuala Lumpur, the less traffic there is, but today, we are sad to see a sign issued by the Malaysian government, declaring their intentions to turn this lovely Route 5 into a west coast expressway; it looks like we came just in time, before another road becomes too dangerous for cycling. North of Sekinchan half the road is cordoned off ready for the work to begin but for now, it is good news for us. As there is nobody around, for the next twenty miles, we ride behind the cordons safely out of the way of all other traffic. We have noticed time and again how in Malaysia, motorbikes are not regarded as traffic in the way cars are and therefore don’t follow the same road rules. For example, if someone wants to go from their house to a shop just down the road, they often don’t bother to cross to the correct side of the road to travel, they simply ride up the hard shoulder in the wrong direction, even on busy dual carriage ways, and no one ever bats an eyelid. For two people who were raised by a nanny state, this lack of rules seems reckless at first but slowly it becomes strangely liberating. We once saw that a set of traffic lights were broken on a busy cross roads and according to the proprietor of our hotel, they hadn’t worked for weeks. When I asked him if there had been many accidents, he said no, none. After observing the crossroads for some time, it struck me that the lack of working infrastructure wasn’t really an issue. Everyone knew the lights weren’t working and people just approached the junction with more caution. We have also noticed the distinct lack of road rage here in Malysia and cars are enormously patient whenever they get stuck behind us as we ride. The same could not be said for the majority of British drivers back home, nor the Australians when we toured there last year.

Since I’m not feeling well, we decide to take a proper rest at lunchtime and stop at a small Malay roadside restaurant. There are no English-speaking staff or menus but the staff are helpful and we have a delicious meal. We are usually a little shy about going into places like this; places where we aren’t sure how locals will receive us or where our lack of Malay (other than a few basic words) might be a burden on those who work there. Full disclosure: we are not the bravest of travellers. I’ve known people who will stroll into the local gin joint of any town and not feel the slightest bit self-conscience. Likewise, I’ve met travellers who are keen to stay in the homes of locals. Now, I’m not knocking them but when I travel, I prefer not to burden locals with my presence, nor automatically assume they will even want to engage with me. I prefer to let people come to me if they wish to talk. Don’t forget, locals can be shy too. One night we sat in a Chinese restaurant for ages waiting to be served whilst waiters repeatedly swerved our table to serve Chinese customers. I was hungry at the time and getting a little peeved but all became clear about forty-five minutes later, when their only English-speaking colleague arrived and they sent her sent straight over to take our order. The waiters, it turned out weren’t t ignoring us; they just didn’t speak English and were worried they’d feel stupid or awkward because of it. See, shy and reserved are universal human traits.

Hutan Melintang has a large population of Indian citizens and here we see extraordinary numbers of blue and PAS flags flying. It seems a typical tactic of right-wing political parties: to canvas for votes in areas where minority groups live, preying on the fears and bigotry of the ethnic majority population. Our hotel tonight is run by an extended Indian family who keep it spotlessly clean and we marvel at the army of women roaming the corridors all day long with mops and buckets, leaving the place smelling permanently of bleach. The family let us leave our bicycles at reception and when Steve goes to check on them later, he finds two men standing over them talking animatedly. They introduce themselves. They are off-duty policeman from Kuala Lumpur who are cycling enthusiasts and they engage Steve in a long conversation. Once again, they ask how much we paid for his bicycles; it seems money is not a taboo subject here. Myself, I spend the rest of the afternoon sleeping and sweating out my fever until Steve wakes me at seven o’clock with some much-welcomed fried chicken.

Hutan Melintang to Butterworth (Penang Island): 157 Miles

On the day of our longest ride, I am feeling much better and we hit the road at first light hoping to cover as many miles as we can before the humidity starts in earnest. Thankfully, it’s overcast and a little cooler than usual, plus we have the added bonus of a flat road with a wide hard shoulder. Result.

I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but as I write this, I am cringing at the number of times I use the word thankfully and even now, I’m struggling to word some sentences without it. I think it’s a good indication of just how much the health and wellbeing of a cyclist is in the hands of chance (or fate, or God or whatever you want to call it). But then, this is also true of life; no amount of careful planning can mitigate every one of life’s setbacks and mishaps. In a way, cycle touring has done me a favour by helping me face up to this. Sadly, I’ve known people who’ve struggled their whole lives, desperately clinging to the illusion that they can control things that they can’t and I don’t think it is a particularly healthy mindset to live by.

Here in Malaysia, people from all over Perak are making their way to Pangkor island. It is a popular weekend retreat. We meet the Malaysian cycle tourist again, on his return journey and we all wave and smile like old friends. By midday though, Steve is struggling. I’ve noticed how we seem to experience alternate days: flying or flagging both physically and mentally. At least there is always one of us feeling buoyant enough to raise the other’s spirits. I wonder what will happen on the day when we are both flagging.

Six miles from the ferry port at Lumar, we decide we will shop in one of the big Tesco supermarkets we’ve seen all over Malaysia. We’ve avoided them up to now, preferring to support locally owned shops but after weeks of Asian food, I dunno, perhaps my desire for a fix of European-style food is subconsciously drawing me to them. Steve heads inside whilst I wait with the bicycles. The sun is out again and Steve is gone for what feels like an eternity and since there’s no shade in the large car park, I am rapidly starting to overheat. To try and placate my increasingly grouchy disposition I fantasise about what Steve might find inside: will there be a deli counter selling pasta salad, how about some cheese sandwiches or even a Cornish pasty? I’m practically drooling. It’s ridiculous because I know full well that supermarkets cater to their local market but like Pavlov’s dog, I am powerless to resist making the association between a familiar supermarket and British food. When Steve finally emerges, he has the usual bag of bananas and water and not a lot else. At times like this it is hard not to take out our frustrations on one another.

On the final mile before the ferry terminal, we have our first dog incident and as we ride past a large red-bricked house, three medium-sized snarling dogs charge at us. Now, the advised way to handle this situation is to stop and put your bicycle between you and them; they are almost certainly barking at the bicycle, not at you, and once they realise that you’re human after all, they will lose interest. (At the very least, you should be safe behind the bike until the owner turns up to find out what all the commotion is about.) It is a really bad idea to keep riding in the hope of outrunning a dog because first of all, your chances of success are remote and second, there is nothing a dog likes more than to chase things; if it lunges at you in the excitement, you might both end up in a heap in the road. Now, I realise this advice goes against one’s natural instinct to flee from danger but I’ve put this method to the test several times across the USA and it works. Today however, and not having had the benefit of my experience, my darling husband lets his natural instincts get the better of him. He crosses to the other side of the road and keeps on pedalling and as muggings here is at the back, it is my heels the dogs snap at. I am fuming. Thankfully (there’s that word again), the dogs get bored pretty quickly and bugger off home but when I catch up with Steve, well let’s just say I have a few choice words to say on the matter.

We spend a restful couple of days on the island of Pangkor, reading on the beach under the trees, photographing birds I’ve never seen before and swimming in the warm tropical sea which is looks considerably cleaner than it did further south. We get all our clothes laundered at the hotel and sleep through the hottest parts of the day. On our second night here, we are awoken by an almighty thunderstorm and open the curtains so we can lay in bed and watch the light show.

**Beautiful hornbills on Pangkor Island**

The morning we leave Pangkor, we breakfast on the beach whilst listening to ominous cracks of thunder overhead. This next bit of our route is the most remote area of Malaysia we’ve cycled through so far and I’m hoping this means it will be light on traffic. Because our ferry doesn’t arrive back on the mainland until 10am, we miss the coolest hours in which to ride but worse is to come. Whilst there are no towns on this stretch, it turns out that entire area is covered by palm oil plantations and we have to share the road with a constant stream of transportation lorries. Not good news when the road is also hilly, narrow and with no hard shoulder. When we finally arrive at our motel that night, tired and pissed off, we are even more depressed by our windowless room. It’s the final straw. Both of our morals have flagged and we go to bed early, dreaming of the end.

**Firefighters of Pangkor fire station**

In the morning, I have a bit of a dicky belly and can’t even finish my breakfast of noodles which is most unlike me. Was it something I ate? Did I swallow too much seawater or are the antibiotics upsetting my digestive system? At times like this, I am glad I ride with an ample stash of pharmaceuticals to hand. Imodium: the traveller’s friend.

Today, we final solve the mystery of the squealing towers. We have seen these buildings, attached to people’s homes, all over Malaysia and the noise as you pass by has to be heard to be believed. Steve wondered a few times if the high-pitched noise is the whine of electricity; maybe they are electrical substations. I had the impression they were empty agricultural buildings that attract a lot of noisy birds. I am sort of right. We now know them to be swiftlet farms. Only the other day, Steve had noticed bird’s nest soup on a Chinese menu but I had brushed it off, saying, of course it won’t be an actual bird’s nest. But that’s because my mind was imagining a pile of twigs and leaves rather than a bowl of gelatinous bird spit. We’ve learnt that Swiftlets build their nests from their own saliva which is high in calcium, iron, potassium and magnesium. And since these minerals are all good nutrition for humans, swiftlet nests have become a Chinese delicacy. Farmers all over southeast Asia encourage these birds to nest. Their big empty agricultural buildings with their small openings mimic caves and caves just happen to be a swiftlets favourite nesting spot. The reason they are so loud is because farmers record the screeches of the birds and play them back through an amplifier, which then attracts more swiftlets to come and nest there. Farmers then harvest these nests for the Chinese food market and it is apparently a very lucrative business for them. In many ways, swiftlet farming does sound like it could be an environmentally friendly form of farming, but only if nests are not over farmed and are left alone long enough for chicks to hatch and fly their nests. Does swiftlet farming help or hinder swiftlet populations? The jury is still out on that one. Birds nest soup has been a marketable Chinese delicacy since the 1500s. By providing nesting places, some people believe it can only increase swiftlet populations and it stops people pillaging nests from the wild. But there is a worry that the expansion of ‘farm-raised’ swiftlet nests only raises the appeal of wild cave-fresh nests, something rich people are prepared to pay top dollar for, believing them to be of superior quality to farmed nests.

Taiping has a different feel compared with other cities we’ve visited. There is a sense of space unusual in Malaysia and the place is surrounded by hills, parks and gardens which make it very beautiful. Despite the fact that Taiping has a large majority population of Chinese, the PAS Fundamentalist flags out in force and we see woman walking under umbrellas stamped with the party logo. Our hotel tonight has stunning views and it is such a treat after our windowless cupboard last night. We spend a romantic evening sitting outside the hotel under its veranda, eating Malaysian style fish and chips, drinking beer and watching the most spectacular thunderstorm yet; Taiping has the highest levels of recorded rainfall in the country. In hindsight, I wish we’d stayed a few days in Taiping and seen more of the city but by this stage of our tour, Steve and I are road and heat weary and are rushing headlong for Penang and the finishing line.

Next morning, we follow a twisty, winding road uphill out of town and for the first time on our tour, someone sounds their horn in annoyance at us. After the hundreds of miles of ‘hello horns’ it sounds very aggressive. The scenery in this part of Malaysia is spectacular. Fields are flooded and sectioned into squares to farm prawns and they attract a lot of bird life. We see many a cattle egret, black crowned heron and black-capped kingfisher helping themselves to crustaceans from pools not netted properly. As we still have another week before we fly home, we decide to split our last ride into two; no point sweating unnecessarily. It is an easy 21 miles into Bagan Serai. On our way into the town centre, we get caught up in a traffic jam. There is a mini-van up ahead travelling slowly with its back doors open and lights flashing on top. A long line of people is following on foot and policemen on motorbikes are carefully directing traffic around the them. We saw similar in Taiping yesterday and I had assumed it was something to do with election campaigning but when it comes to our turn to overtake, I see there is a coffin in the back. It appears to be a Chinese funeral procession.

And so, our final day dawns. We have 35 miles to ride to the ferry terminal in Butterworth, from where we will take a ferry to George Town on Penang Island. We intend to stay on Penang for the rest of our time in Malaysia. Ever the optimist, I cheerfully tell Steve that since Route 5 into Butterworth runs parallel with the Expressway, it is bound to take the bulk of the traffic and leave our road relatively quiet. Huh. Not only, is it exceedingly busy, it’s also filled with motorbike riders who must have attended the aforementioned school. I spend most of my morning muttering expletives and trying to avoid the dickheads who use the hard shoulder as an overtaking lane. I’m going flat out in an attempt to end the misery as soon as possible and by the time we stop at a garage to buy more water, I am boiling on the inside and out. Stunned by the heat and noise and upset with the traffic I rant almost incoherently at Steve. After a few moments listening, he makes the unprecedented move of tipping a bottle of water over my head. For a split second I stare at him furiously and then we both burst out laughing. It was a bit of a gamble on his part but it succeeded in making me feel much cooler and much, much calmer.

**On the Butterworth-Penang ferry crossing**

Butterworth ferry terminal is in the process of undergoing major renovations and it takes us a while to figure out where we’re meant to go but it’s still a breeze compared with our Johor Causeway crossing. We once again queue with the motorbikes but at least here, people are required to switch off their engines. The crossing itself only takes ten minutes and I’m almost dizzy with excitement as we head down the ramp and into the old colonial streets of George Town. That night, in the roof top bar of our hotel, we sip our complimentary glasses of chilled white wine and toast our safe arrival. As the call to prayer sounds out from the mosque along the street, we talk through our trip excitedly, recalling all of our adventures without any mention of the heat or traffic. They, along with all other niggles are instantly forgotten in our excitement of having completing our journey.