THE LONG GREEN THREAD:
CYCLING MALAYSIA’S QUIET HEART
1
January 2025 –11 January 2025
693
Kilometres – 11 Days
PHOTOS
FLIP-BOOK
VOICEOVER
CHAPTER 1 – THE COAST CALLS
In
the border town of Padang Besar, the first morning of the year arrived bright
and clear. it was the kind of morning that makes you believe anything is
possible. I woke with a single, stubborn intention: Langkawi. I hadn’t set foot on the island in
years, and the idea of returning tugged at me with the force of nostalgia and
curiosity combined. So, I packed up, tightened the straps on my panniers, and
rolled out into a new country and a new year.
The
road to Kuala Perlis unfurled like a glossy travel brochure—blue sky,
shimmering paddies, and a breeze that felt like a blessing. The distance was
short only forty‑odd kilometres, but every one of them felt like a gift. I
hummed along to my music, the rhythm syncing with the steady turning of my
wheels.
Then
I reached the ferry terminal.
The
queue of vehicles waiting to board stretched into the horizon like a scene from
a dystopian film. Cars, vans, trucks—an endless metallic serpent inching toward
the sea. Still, I parked my bike and marched to the ticket office, only to be
met with a surprise: customs
clearance required for bicycles.
I blinked at the official, half expecting him to laugh and say he was joking.
But no. Langkawi, it seemed, had rules.
I
weighed the hassle against the joy of the ride I was already having. The
decision was easy. I turned my handlebars south and let the coast guide me
toward Alor Setar instead.
The
road hugged the shoreline, the ocean glittering to my right while rice paddies
stretched out in luminous green to my left. Swiftlet houses punctuated the
fields like odd, windowless monoliths. The light was soft and golden, the kind
that makes even the ordinary look cinematic. I felt suspended between sea and
land, between the year I’d left behind and the one just beginning.
I
reached Alor Setar after 100 kilometres, sun-soaked, salt-crusted, and utterly
content. I checked into the Comfort Motel, a place that has probably looked
exactly the same since the 1970s. Fifty ringgit bought me a ground-floor room,
air‑conditioning, a shower, and the warm welcome of the elderly owners—who, if
I’m honest, are probably younger than I am. I wheeled my wagon straight into
the room and felt instantly at home.
Malaysia’s
official language is Bahasa Malaysia, but with its multicultural tapestry, you
hear everything from Tamil to Hokkien to English. My own Bahasa is mostly
learned from road signs—functional, slightly comical, and just enough to get me
into trouble.
As
night settled over Alor Setar, I felt the familiar thrill of being back on the
road: the freedom, the uncertainty, the small joys that accumulate like beads
on a string. Day one of the new year had not gone according to plan, but it had
delivered something better—a reminder that detours often hold the real magic.
CHAPTER 2: PENANG AND HISTORIC GEORGE
TOWN
Morning in Alor Setar arrived warm and bright, the
kind of tropical light that seems to rise fully formed rather than gradually
waking. Before leaving town, I couldn’t resist one last look at the Zahir
Mosque. Its Moorish domes floated above the city like something lifted from a
dream—white, elegant, impossibly serene. I snapped a photo, knowing full well
that no picture ever captures the way a place makes you feel.
Then I pedalled out of town and immediately found
myself on a quiet canal path threading through rice fields. The sun, only 5.5
degrees north of the equator, wasted no time asserting itself. Within minutes,
I was drenched in sweat, but it didn’t matter. The world around me was lush and
alive—villages tucked among palms, women in burkas selling homemade snacks, the
smell of frying dough drifting across the road. I felt like the luckiest person
alive, gliding through a landscape that seemed to open itself just for me.
Malaysia’s countryside has a way of sneaking up on
you. One moment you’re cycling past a simple wooden house, the next you’re
staring at distant hills draped in green, the sky a perfect, impossible blue. I
hummed along to my music, the rhythm of the road settling into my bones.
At Tanjong Dawai, I boarded a small ferry to cross
the wide Merbok River. The fee was steep for such a short hop, but it saved me
a long detour on a busy road. Besides, there’s something magical about crossing
water with your bicycle—like being granted passage into a slightly different
version of the world.
The day stretched on in a series of small,
beautiful moments: stopping to take photos, pausing to admire the light on the
paddies, watching clouds gather and drift apart. By the time I reached
Butterworth, the sun was low and the new ferry terminal felt like a maze
designed by someone who had never actually taken a ferry. Eventually, ticket in
hand, I rolled my bike aboard and let the boat carry me across to Penang.
George Town felt like a homecoming. I headed
straight to Hotel Noble, a place that has seen decades of travellers and still
offers the cheapest beds in town. I barely dropped my panniers before hunger
drove me back out the door toward the famous food stalls. After a full day of
cycling on nothing but snacks, the first bite felt like salvation.
From the ferry, Penang had looked modern—high‑rises,
glass, steel. But a short walk to the ATM revealed the truth: George Town is a
living museum, a UNESCO World Heritage Site layered with centuries of trade,
migration, and monsoon‑driven waiting. Ships once lingered here for months,
trapped by the winds, and in that waiting they created a cultural stew that
still simmers today.
The heat was blistering, so I didn’t explore much.
Instead, I wandered down to the Clan Jetties—wooden villages built over the
water, each belonging to a single Chinese clan. The planks creaked under my
feet, and the houses stood on stilts like quiet sentinels of another era.
Later, I met Connie Chew, a friend I’d known online
for nearly a decade but had never met in person. Social media is strange that
way—it connects people who might never cross paths otherwise. Connie, a
fermentation specialist with a mind full of bubbling cultures and microbial
magic, arrived with her son Mark, who kindly drove us around Penang in search
of its famous delicacies.
Iced coffee mixed with tea—something I never
imagined could taste good—turned out to be divine. Coconut roti melted on my
tongue. We talked, laughed, shared stories of travel and life. It felt like
meeting old friends rather than new ones.
By the time I returned to my room, full and
content, I felt deeply grateful—for the road, for the people it brings into my
life, for the way travel keeps expanding the edges of my world.
CHAPTER 3 – ROADS OF RICE AND RAIN
I left Penang late, rolling onto the ferry at ten
o’clock with the kind of reluctant farewell you give a place that has fed you
well, sheltered you kindly, and reminded you that the world is full of
unexpected friendships. The crossing to the mainland was short, but it felt
like a small rite of passage — a gentle push back into the rhythm of the road.
What I expected to be a straightforward ride
quickly became a day of improvisation. Malaysia’s development is astonishing,
but it also means that quiet backroads are disappearing, swallowed by highways
and toll roads that cyclists are not welcome on. I zigzagged through
neighbourhoods, industrial edges, and half‑finished roads, trying to avoid the
roar of traffic. Every time I thought I’d found a peaceful route, it dead‑ended
into a construction site or a toll plaza.
Eventually, I surrendered to the coastline, and the
world softened again. A narrow road traced the edge of the sea, the air thick
with salt and the smell of drying nets. Villages appeared like small
exhalations — a cluster of houses, a shop selling cold drinks, a cat sleeping
in the shade. The road was quiet, almost meditative, and I felt myself settle
back into the steady rhythm of pedalling.
By mid‑afternoon, the sky darkened with the kind of
tropical warning that needs no translation. I checked my map and realised the
nearest affordable accommodation was still far off. The only hotel within reach
was expensive, and the thought of cycling forty more kilometres to Taiping made
my legs protest. So I turned inland, back toward the main road, hoping for
something more reasonable.
The hotel I found was indeed cheaper, but it came
with a long list of rules — a full page of what not to do, printed in stern
lettering. It was clearly a Muslim‑only establishment, or at least one that
preferred it that way. Still, it had a bed, a shower, and a roof that would
keep the rain out. After a day of chasing quiet roads, that was enough.
I lay in bed listening to the call to prayer drift
through the humid evening, mingling with the hum of traffic on the highway. It
wasn’t the most memorable stop, but travel isn’t made only of highlights. Some
days are simply stepping stones — necessary, unglamorous, and part of the long
thread that ties a journey together.
Tomorrow, I told myself, would bring new roads, new
landscapes, and perhaps a little magic again.
Malaysia’s one‑hour time difference had been
playing tricks on my body since I crossed the border. I kept staying awake
until one in the morning, convinced it was still early, and then waking to a
world that remained stubbornly dark until well past seven‑thirty. If it weren’t
for the muffled sounds of other guests stirring, I might have slept straight
through the morning.
When I finally opened my eyes, rain drummed softly
on the roof — not a storm, just a steady, unhurried drizzle. I lay there for a
moment, listening to it, feeling that familiar tug between reluctance and
resolve. Eventually, resolve won. I packed my panniers, wiped the moisture off
my saddle, and rolled out into a world washed clean.
As the rain eased, the morning revealed itself in
layers: mist rising from the rice fields, water pooled in the paddies like
mirrors, egrets standing motionless as if carved from bone. The air smelled of
wet earth and new beginnings. It was one of those mornings that makes you
grateful for the simple act of moving through a landscape under your own power.
The ride to Taiping was short but beautiful. Away
from the highways, Malaysia becomes a different country — quieter, softer, more
intimate. Villages appeared like small pauses in the green, each with its own
rhythm: a man sweeping his porch, a woman hanging laundry, children splashing
barefoot in puddles. Life unfolding in its unhurried way.
By late morning, I rolled into Taiping, a town
whose name means “everlasting peace.” It felt fitting. I had documents waiting
that needed printing and signing, so I decided to stay the night.
Unfortunately, my accommodation choice turned out to be a mistake. OYO, in its
infinite mystery, had delivered a room that felt like it had given up on life
sometime in the early 2000s. The mattress sagged, the walls were tired, and the
air smelled faintly of damp resignation.
I told myself it was only for one night.
Still, the day had been good — a gentle ride, a
fresh morning, a reminder that even short distances can hold their own quiet
magic. As evening settled over Taiping, I felt the familiar mix of restlessness
and contentment that comes with long‑term travel. Tomorrow would bring new
roads, new challenges, and perhaps a little more of that Malaysian green that
had already begun to seep into my bones.
CHAPTER 4: THROUGH THE PALM OIL KINGDOM
I woke before dawn, unsure whether it was the lumpy
mattress, the lingering time‑zone confusion, or simply my body deciding it had
had enough of OYO hospitality. Outside, the world was still dark — winter in
theory, though Malaysia never truly feels like winter. The sun wouldn’t rise
until nearly half past seven, so I lingered, letting the morning unfold slowly.
By the time I finally rolled out of Taiping, it was
almost nine. The air was cool, the light soft, and the road ahead felt wide
open. Not much happened in the early hours — just me, the bike, and a long
ribbon of tarmac threading through the countryside. It was a proper road, a
secondary one, but busy enough with trucks to keep me alert. Their engines
growled past in waves, the wind of their passing tugging at my panniers.
The landscape shifted as I rode. Dense oil palm
plantations rose around me, their fronds arching overhead like dark green
cathedral ceilings. Beneath them, ferns and mosses thrived in the filtered
light, creating a layered world of greens. It was beautiful in its own way —
not wild, but lush, orderly, and humming with life.
I didn’t stop much. There wasn’t much to stop for.
No temples tucked into hillsides, no unexpected villages, no scenic detours.
Just the steady rhythm of pedalling, the hum of tyres on asphalt, and the
occasional monkey darting across the road like a mischievous thought.
As I approached Lumut, the landscape shifted again.
The Sungai Munjung appeared — a wide, calm inlet reaching in from the Strait of
Malacca. The road crossed it on a long bridge, and suddenly the world was full
of trucks again. Lumut Port and its industrial sprawl stretched along the
water, a hive of warehouses, cranes, and cargo. It wasn’t pretty, but it was
alive with purpose.
Yet even here, nature insisted on having the last
word. A vast mangrove forest spread out along the inlet, its roots rising like
knotted sculptures from the mud. Mangroves are easy to overlook, but they are
quiet heroes — protectors of coastlines, nurseries for fish, and some of the
most efficient carbon‑capturing ecosystems on the planet. I often forget how
extraordinary they are until I’m standing beside them, watching the tide
breathe in and out through their tangled roots.
By the time I reached Lumut proper, I was tired in
that satisfying, full‑body way that comes from a long day of steady riding. It
hadn’t been a dramatic day, but it had been honest — a day of movement, of
landscapes shifting slowly, of the quiet interior of Malaysia revealing itself
one kilometre at a time.
Tomorrow, I knew, would be longer. But for now, I
let the day settle into my bones, grateful for the road, the mangroves, and the
simple fact of arriving.
The morning in Lumut began on a narrow country
road, the kind that feels like it was laid down just for cyclists and wandering
souls. One lane, quiet, almost shy. The world was still waking up — a few birds
calling from the trees, a distant motorbike, the soft rustle of palm fronds
shifting in the early breeze. It felt like the kind of road that invites you to
breathe deeper, pedal slower, and pay attention.
Once I reached the coast, I stopped at a small
roadside stall to refill my water bottles. The vendor handed me a triangular
packet of nasi lemak wrapped in brown paper — rice, peanuts, a boiled egg,
sambal, and those tiny anchovies that Malaysians adore. I spent an absurd
amount of time trying to scoop out the miniature fish, each no longer than a
fingernail. It was a comical battle, but the food was delicious, eaten while
watching fishermen on a boat coax a school of fish toward their net. Or at
least, that’s what I assumed they were doing. The choreography of it was
beautiful — men, sea, and movement in quiet synchrony.
Malaysia’s climate doesn’t believe in seasons. It
believes in rain — generous, unpredictable, and ever‑present. The country
receives anywhere from 1000 to 2500 millimetres of rainfall a year, and some
regions even more. The sky can turn from blue to bruised in minutes, and today
was no exception. Much of the day unfolded under shifting clouds, the air thick
with the promise of rain.
I cycled through vast rice fields and endless oil
palm plantations. Malaysia is the world’s second‑largest producer of palm oil,
after Indonesia, and the scale of it is staggering. Row upon row of palms
stretched into the distance, their trunks dark and straight, their crowns heavy
with fruit. It’s a landscape that is both beautiful and unsettling — lush,
orderly, and undeniably altered by human hands.
Toward the end of the day, I crossed the Perak
River — Sungai Perak — a wide, dignified sweep of water that seemed to carry
centuries of stories. It is the second‑longest river in Peninsular Malaysia,
beginning near the Thai border and winding its way south. Crossing it felt like
stepping into a new chapter of the country.
By the time I reached Sungai Besar, 120 kilometres
later, I was tired in that deep, satisfying way that comes from a long day of
honest effort. My legs ached, my clothes were damp with sweat and humidity, and
my mind felt pleasantly quiet. There’s a particular kind of peace that comes
after 121 kilometres — a peace earned kilometre by kilometre, breath by breath.
As night settled over the town, I felt grateful for
the road, for the fishermen, for the tiny anchovies I had battled at breakfast,
and for the way Malaysia kept revealing itself — not in grand gestures, but in
small, steady offerings.
My day in Sungai Besar began with the familiar
comfort of roti canai — warm, flaky, impossibly soft, served with a small bowl
of curry that tasted like sunshine and spice. I ate it at a roadside stall
where the air smelled of frying dough and woodsmoke, and where the vendor greeted
me with the kind of effortless kindness that seems woven into the fabric of
rural Malaysia. It was the perfect start to a short, easy day.
I set off along quiet roads that threaded through
rice fields ready for harvest. The paddies glowed gold in the morning light,
their colours shifting with every passing cloud. Farmers moved slowly through
the fields, bent silhouettes against the shimmering landscape. The air was warm
but gentle, and the kilometres slipped by almost without effort.
Kuala Selangor arrived earlier than expected — a
small, unhurried town perched at the edge of history. After checking into my
room, I wandered up Bukit Melawati, the hill that once served as the stronghold
of the Selangor Sultanate. The climb was short but steep, and at the top I
found cannons, stone foundations, and a troop of monkeys who clearly believed
the hill belonged to them.
The wind carried the scent of the sea, and the view
stretched across the river and mangroves. It was hard to imagine the battles
that once raged here — the Dutch invasion of 1784, the sultan’s remarkable
recapture of the fort, the shifting tides of power. Now the hill was quiet, the
cannons sun‑bleached, the monkeys lounging like bored sentries.
I lingered there for a while, letting the history
settle around me. Travel has a way of collapsing time — one moment you’re
sweating up a hill, the next you’re standing in the echo of centuries.
Back in town, the afternoon unfolded slowly. I
wandered, I rested, I watched the world drift by. It was a gentle day, a
necessary pause between longer rides. A day of roti canai, golden fields, and a
hill full of stories.
CHAPTER 5: TOWARD THE CAPITAL
Kuala Selangor → Puchong, Kuala Lumpur (77 km)
I woke feeling anything but bright-eyed and
bushy-tailed. Something was off — a heaviness in my limbs, a fog behind my eyes
— and finding a tick in my bed did nothing to improve my mood. I must have
picked it up during my wander through the little nature park the day before. I
flicked it away with a shudder and hoped I wouldn’t end up with tick‑bite
fever. The road would tell.
Riding into a major city is rarely pleasant, and
Kuala Lumpur was no exception. I tried to stay on minor roads, but they were
narrow, busy, and full of trucks that seemed determined to pass as close as
possible. The air grew thicker, the traffic louder, the landscape more
industrial. It was one of those days when cycling feels less like freedom and
more like survival.
But then — relief. The kind that arrives all at
once.
I reached Puchong and rolled into the familiar
orbit of my friend Peter, a WarmShowers host I’ve known for a decade. I
expected a couch or a spare mattress. Instead, he handed me the keys to a
lovely little flatlet — my own space, clean and quiet, with a fridge stocked
with beer. I could have hugged him. After days of cheap hotels, lumpy beds, and
the creeping suspicion that something was wrong with my health, the flatlet
felt like a sanctuary.
The next day, I did almost nothing. I let myself
sink into the comfort of the room, the cool air, the stillness. The bite — or
what I thought was a bite — had grown into a large, red, blistering patch under
my arm. It spread across my chest and back, angry and insistent. I didn’t feel
sick, exactly, but I was lethargic, drained. Something wasn’t right.
Still, I stayed put, waiting for documents that
needed to be verified at the embassy. The road could wait. My body, clearly,
needed a pause.
There’s a particular kind of gratitude that comes
when you’re vulnerable on the road — when you’re far from home, not feeling
your best, and someone offers you a place to rest without hesitation. Peter’s
flatlet became that place. A small island of comfort in the sprawling chaos of
Kuala Lumpur.
Tomorrow, I told myself, I would figure out the
rash, the documents, the next steps. But for now, I let the day be what it was:
a pause, a breath, a moment of stillness in the long, unpredictable rhythm of
travel.
CHAPTER 6: ILLNESS, KINDNESS AND BUREAUCRACY
Rest Days in Puchong
The next morning unfolded slowly, the way mornings
do when your body is tired and your spirit is grateful for stillness. I had
planned to fly to India soon, and there were things to prepare — documents to
sort, logistics to arrange — but for the moment, I let myself move gently
through the day.
Peter, ever the generous host, handed me a bike box
as casually as if he were passing me a cup of tea. His kindness seemed endless,
woven into every gesture. Later, we walked to a nearby food court for
breakfast, where I discovered kari laksa — fragrant, spicy, comforting. It
became my instant favourite, the kind of dish that feels like a warm hand on
your back.
In the afternoon, Gan arrived — Peter’s friend, and
another familiar face from the strange, sprawling world of social media. We’d
followed each other’s journeys for years, two cyclists orbiting the globe in
our own ways. Meeting in person felt natural, as if we were simply continuing a
conversation that had begun long ago. We shared beers, stories, and the easy
camaraderie that only fellow travellers truly understand.
The following morning, I allowed myself the luxury
of sleeping in. Saras — a woman I’d met five years earlier in Kuala Selangor —
was coming to visit. She arrived with her warm smile and gentle presence, and
we went out for lunch together. I felt a flicker of embarrassment as I realised
I hadn’t paid for a single meal since arriving at Peter’s. Hospitality in
Malaysia is not a performance; it’s a way of being. Still, I felt the tug of
wanting to give something back.
Peter had plans to go camping at Sungai Sendat in
Ulu Yam, so I spent the night at Saras’s home to celebrate the start of Pongal,
the harvest festival. In her kitchen, she prepared traditional sour and sweet
rice, the aromas filling the house with warmth and memory. Then she dressed me in
a salwar kameez, elegant and bright, and we made our way to the temple. The air
was thick with incense, chanting, and the soft murmur of devotion. It felt like
stepping into a different rhythm of life — slower, deeper, anchored in
tradition.
But beneath the beauty of the day, something darker
was unfolding. The “bite” under my arm had spread across my chest and back, a
red, blistering map of pain. I decided it was time to see a doctor before
heading into the hills for camping.
The diagnosis surprised me: not a bite at all, but
shingles. Shingles! As if the universe had decided I needed a plot
twist. I stared at the doctor, half amused, half horrified. The road gives, and
the road takes — sometimes in the form of a virus you didn’t ask for.
Peter picked us up around ten, and we drove to
Sungai Sendat. Despite the diagnosis, the day was lovely. Peter prepared a
feast, the weather held, and the forest wrapped around us like a green
cathedral. For a few hours, I forgot the burning under my skin.
But returning to Peter’s, the pain surged. Shingles
is a cruel companion — sharp, electric, relentless. I went back to the clinic,
collected antiviral tablets and cream, and stocked up on painkillers with the
determination of someone preparing for battle. If the virus wanted a fight, I
was ready.
Back at the flatlet, I lay down, exhausted but
strangely grateful. Travel isn’t just about landscapes and kilometres; it’s
about the people who catch you when you falter, the kitchens where you’re fed,
the rooms where you heal, the festivals you’re invited into. These days in
Puchong were not glamorous, but they were deeply human — a reminder that
journeys are made not only on the road, but in the quiet spaces between.
By mid‑January, my days in Puchong had settled into
a strange rhythm — part recovery, part logistics, part waiting for the universe
to cooperate. The shingles burned beneath my skin like a secret fire, but the
antiviral tablets were beginning to take the edge off. I moved slowly,
carefully, as if my body were made of thin glass.
Then, at last, the documents I’d been waiting for
arrived.
I gathered my papers, tucked them into a folder,
and ventured into the city centre. Kuala Lumpur’s heat wrapped around me like a
heavy shawl, and the traffic roared in every direction. Embassies always feel
like portals — places where your life is temporarily reduced to signatures,
stamps, and the whims of officials who hold your fate in their hands.
When I finally returned to Peter’s, exhausted but
hopeful, I discovered the most crucial document hadn’t been signed at all. A
missing signature — one small stroke of a pen — had undone an entire day.
I stared at the page, feeling the kind of
frustration that sits low in the stomach. Travel teaches patience, but it
doesn’t make you immune to irritation. I would have to do it all again.
As if to underline the point, my attempts to
withdraw money were declined — three times. Each time, the ATM insisted the
transaction had failed, yet the money still vanished from my account. I stood
there in the fluorescent glow of the machine, feeling a mix of disbelief and
resignation. The road gives, the road takes, and sometimes the road simply
laughs at you.
Thankfully, Peter was there — steady, generous,
unflustered. It’s humbling, the way kindness appears exactly when you need it
most.
The next days passed in a haze of rest and low‑grade
pain. The shingles spread across my chest and back like a map drawn in fire. I
stocked up on two different types of painkillers, determined to wage war on the
virus. Some moments were manageable; others were sharp enough to steal my
breath.
Travel isn’t always about landscapes and adventure.
Sometimes it’s about paperwork, painkillers, and the quiet determination to
keep going. These days in Puchong were not glamorous, but they were necessary —
a reminder that journeys are stitched together from all kinds of moments, not
just the beautiful ones.
CHAPTER 7 - The Second Embassy Visit and the Locked
Bank Account
By the time the 20th rolled around, I felt like I
had become a regular fixture in the embassy’s waiting room — a weary traveller
orbiting the slow, indifferent machinery of officialdom. But this time, I
walked in with a quiet determination. I had rehearsed my explanations,
organised my documents, and steeled myself for whatever bureaucratic obstacle
might appear next.
To my surprise, the process went smoothly. Papers
were stamped, signatures were checked, and the official nodded with the
solemnity of someone granting passage to another chapter of my life. I walked
out into the bright Kuala Lumpur sun feeling lighter, as if a knot that had
been tightening for days had finally loosened.
But the universe, ever fond of balance, had another
test waiting.
My visit to the bank — the one I hoped would
resolve the frozen account and the vanished ATM withdrawals — dissolved into a
polite but immovable wall. After explaining the situation, after waiting, after
being transferred from one counter to another, the verdict was delivered with
the calm finality of a judge:
There was nothing they could do.
If I wanted my account unlocked, I would need to
visit a Bangkok Bank branch in Thailand.
I stared at the teller, half amused, half
exasperated. The solution to a Malaysian banking problem lay across a border,
in another country entirely. Travel has a way of turning even the simplest
tasks into international quests.
I stepped back out into the heat, the city buzzing
around me, and let the news settle. It wasn’t the answer I wanted, but it was
an answer. And at least Thailand was already on my horizon.
Back in Puchong, Peter greeted me with the same
steady kindness he had shown since the moment I arrived. His home had become a
refuge — a place where I could rest, heal, and gather myself before the next
stretch of road. The shingles still burned beneath my skin, but the antivirals
were slowly winning the battle. I moved more easily now, breathed more freely.
That evening, I sat in the quiet of the flatlet,
the hum of the fan filling the room, and felt a strange mixture of frustration
and gratitude. Bureaucracy had tested my patience, my body had tested my
resilience, and yet — I was still moving forward. Still on the road. Still held
up by the kindness of people who had no obligation to help me, yet did so
without hesitation.
Travel isn’t just about landscapes and kilometres.
It’s about these moments — the ones that challenge you, humble you, and remind
you that the journey is as much internal as it is external.
Thailand awaited. A bank awaited. A new chapter
awaited.
And I was ready to meet them all.
CHAPTER 8 —Leaving Malaysia, Arriving in Thailand
My flight to Bangkok wasn’t until noon, but I woke
early, the way travellers do when a transition is coming. I packed my panniers
with the familiar ritual of someone who has done it a thousand times: roll,
fold, tuck, tighten. The bicycle and panniers stayed behind at Peter’s —
another kindness added to the long list he’d given me.
The flight to Bangkok was uneventful, the kind of
short hop where everyone sits politely, avoiding eye contact, silently
negotiating elbow space. I stared out the window at the clouds, feeling that
familiar mix of excitement and melancholy that comes with leaving a place that
has held you — even imperfectly.
Just before reaching my little “emergency bunker,”
I ran into my neighbours, Peet and Charmy. They greeted me with the easy
friendliness that seems to come naturally to long-term expats, and before I
knew it, we were sharing a few beers. The conversation flowed, the laughter
came easily, and by the time I stumbled home, I felt the pleasant fuzziness of
arrival.
I took two painkillers before bed — to ease the
shingles — and slept like a stone.
Morning arrived with a sense of purpose. First on
the agenda: the bank. I walked there early, determined to finally resolve the
card issue that had shadowed me since Kuala Lumpur.
The process took most of the morning — forms,
signatures, polite smiles, the usual dance of bureaucracy — but eventually, I
walked out with a new bank card in hand. A small victory, but a satisfying one.
Back in my room, I tried to log in to the banking
app and couldn’t. Locked out again. I stared at my phone, half laughing, half
groaning. Some problems, it seems, refuse to resolve themselves neatly.
I decided to leave it for the next morning. Even
this, I reminded myself, will end.
The afternoon drifted by quietly. After weeks of
movement, illness, paperwork, and uncertainty, the stillness felt like a balm.
I let myself rest, knowing the road — and the next chapter — would unfold soon
enough.
