The Great Malaysian Loop
Diving, Dodging Monkeys and Defying Bureaucracy
MALAYSIA (2)
3,205 Kilometres - 66 Days
8
June – 11 September 2015
Prelude
Malaysia wasn’t part of any grand plan. It was simply where I happened
to be when life, bureaucracy, and a missing passport conspired to keep me
still. Yet the country had other ideas. It swept me up in its humid embrace,
fed me roti canai at irresponsible hours, introduced me to monkeys with
questionable morals, and offered roads so quiet I could hear my own thoughts —
and occasionally my own swearing. What began as a place to wait became a place
to wander, to linger, to get lost, and to be found again. Malaysia, in all its
smoky sunsets, coastal shortcuts, and unexpected kindness, turned out to be the
perfect detour.
Crossing Borders & Chasing Roti (105 km)
After a
breezy 55 km pedal, I rolled up to the Thailand–Malaysia border expecting bureaucracy,
queues, and at least one official who looked like he’d rather be fishing.
Instead, I was waved through with a 90‑day stay as casually as if they were
handing out coupons. I nearly hugged the immigration officer.
Sixty
kilometres later, I reached Alor Setar — gateway to Langkawi, apparently,
though I was only looking for a bed and possibly something fried. Malaysia, I
quickly discovered, is one of those countries that seems to have been designed
by a committee of people who really like food. Malay, Chinese, Indian — all
happily mingling in a fragrant, sizzling culinary utopia.
The night
market next to my guesthouse was a sensory riot. Spices perfumed the air, hot
plates hissed like angry cats, and roti canai cost RM1 each. I ate more than
one. I regret nothing.
Ferrying into Food Paradise (100 km)
The ride to
Butterworth was a gentle glide past rice paddies, temples, and mosques — the
sort of scenery that makes you feel like you’re starring in a slow‑paced travel
documentary narrated by David Attenborough.
From
Butterworth, I boarded the ferry to Penang, sharing the deck with pedestrians,
cars, and motorbikes that looked like they’d been welded together during the
1980s. Minutes later, we docked in Georgetown, the famed Pearl of the Orient.
I found a
crappy but blessedly air‑conditioned room with a window — luxury by my
standards. Georgetown’s streets were a living museum: rickshaws pedalling past
Chinese shophouses, lanterns swaying overhead, and food vendors everywhere. I
inhaled a plate of Nasi Goreng before my backpack even hit the floor.
Street Art Safari in Georgetown
Georgetown
may be a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but it’s also a fully functioning town
where people live, work, and honk at you. Rickshaws ferried tourists through
chaotic lanes lined with British Raj architecture, retro pubs, and Chinese
shophouses.
I spent the
day hunting for street art with the enthusiasm of a treasure‑obsessed pirate.
The murals were scattered all over town, turning the day into a delightful
scavenger hunt. Every time I found one, I felt absurdly triumphant — as if I’d
discovered it personally and should probably be awarded a medal.
Love Lane & More Wandering
I wasn’t
done with Georgetown, so I stayed another day. My wanderings took me past joss stick
makers, goldsmiths, garland makers, and food vendors who seemed determined to
test the limits of human stomach capacity.
I drifted
through Little India, Little China, and the old clan jetties before returning
to my abode on Love Lane — a name that suggests romance but mostly delivers
backpackers, scooters, and the occasional confused tourist.
Rain, Ferries & Tiger Beer (55 km)
I wasn’t in
the mood to cycle, but I wasn’t in the mood to stay either — a classic
traveller’s dilemma. I dragged myself to the ferry and headed back to the
mainland.
Moments
after departure, the sky unleashed one of Southeast Asia’s signature downpours
— the kind that makes motorcycles pull over en masse like a synchronised
swimming team. I joined them, waiting for the deluge to pass. A few kilometres
later, the heavens opened again. At that point, the only sensible thing to do
was find shelter, order a tall Tiger beer, and watch the weather from a porch
like a woman who had absolutely no intention of getting wet again.
The Wettest Town Lives Up to Its Name (44 km)
Taiping is
famous for being the wettest town in the region. Even in June — allegedly the
“dry” month — it receives 159 mm of rain. I arrived soaked, dripping all over
the hotel’s shiny tiles like a malfunctioning fountain.
The rain
never stopped. I spent the rest of the day indoors, eating and listening to the
storm batter the windows. Taiping: come for the scenery, stay because you
physically cannot leave.
A Pleasant Surprise (95 km)
Breakfast
was McDonald’s (don’t judge), followed by a 95 km ride to Lumut, gateway to
Pangkor Island. The rain had finally given up, leaving behind cooler air and
humidity thick enough to swim through.
Lumut
surprised me. It was charming, calm, and pleasant enough to tempt me into
staying the night instead of hopping straight onto the ferry. Sometimes the
best travel decisions are made out of sheer laziness.
Monkeys & Bad Influence in Lumut
I started
the day with shopping at the mall, then read a photography magazine at
Starbucks — a dangerously expensive pastime, as it immediately made me want a
new lens.
On the way
back, I stopped at the Mangrove Park to photograph monkeys. While I was busy
composing the perfect shot, the little thieves stole my water bottle straight
off the bike. I shook my fist at them, but I swear they laughed from the
treetops. Malaysia’s wildlife: adorable, agile, and morally questionable.
Waiting for a Passport & Settling in Lumut
I was
dragging my heels because I was waiting for my new passport. Malaysia was one
of the few countries that allowed a 90‑day stay, and if you needed more time,
you could simply pop into Singapore and return for another three months.
Bureaucracy with a side of convenience.
Lumut turned
out to be an excellent place to wait. It had ocean views, was near Seri
Manjung, had plenty of restaurants, and had a steady stream of tourists heading
to Pangkor Island. I found a lovely studio apartment with a balcony and a
massive pool — which was entirely mine thanks to Ramadan keeping things quiet.
The staff
were wonderfully accommodating: they gave me balcony furniture, did my laundry,
and even lent me a laptop with a big screen. If waiting for a passport was
supposed to be stressful, Lumut clearly hadn’t received the memo.
Lumut: The Fitness Experiment
I decided to
become one of those people who jog in tropical humidity and pretend it’s
enjoyable. This required running shoes and swimming goggles, which I dutifully
acquired. The jogging part, however, was less successful. My legs moved at the
speed of continental drift, and I wasn’t sure I possessed the patience required
to become “running fit.” Still, I swam afterwards, which felt far more sensible
for someone living in a sauna.
Lumut: Monkeys, Museums & Mild Cabin Fever
I adore the
tropics, but renting an apartment for an entire month turned out to be a touch
excessive. Before reaching the halfway mark, I was already itching to leave.
Even the monkeys sensed my restlessness and tried to steal my shopping, forcing
me to dodge them like a contestant in a bizarre game show.
In search of
excitement, I cycled to Marine Island for scuba diving, only to find the shop
closed. So, I went to the mall instead, where I treated myself to a facial and
then visited the Rahmat Maritime Museum — a navy battleship turned tourist
attraction. It was surprisingly fun, though I suspect the facial did more for
my morale.
Lumut: Island Hopping
Pangkor and
Pangkor Laut sit just three miles offshore, dotted with fishing villages and
traditional Malay houses. The ferry costs only 10 MYR, which is practically
free, so I joined the crowds of backpackers and domestic tourists to explore
the islands. They were charming, colourful, and full of life — the perfect
antidote to my Lumut-induced boredom.
The Passport Plot Twist
Months after
applying for a new passport, the saga took a dramatic turn. A call to the
Bangkok Embassy revealed I had to pay double the original fee because I’d lost
the passport — a detail no one had bothered to mention. Worse, I had to pay in
person. Bureaucracy truly is stranger than fiction.
I threw a
few things into a backpack and hopped on a bus to Bangkok, muttering darkly
about administrative surprises.
Bangkok and the Familiar Pannier
Twenty-four
hours later, I arrived in one of my favourite cities. Peachy Guesthouse was
still cheap as chips, so I checked in. Near the rubbish bin, I spotted a
familiar-looking pannier — Ernest’s, my old cycling buddy from the Americas. It
appeared he had stayed there recently and, like me, his panniers were also
falling apart. Some friendships are built on shared suffering.
Bureaucracy & Headless Goddesses
I caught a
water taxi to the Embassy, thrilled to be using public transport like a proper
city dweller. After paying the fee, I wandered through Bangkok’s malls before
heading to the National Museum.
A special
exhibition celebrated HRH Princess Maha Chakri Sirindhorn’s 60th birthday: Feminine
Deities of Buddhism, Hinduism and Indigenous Cults. Most of the statues
were headless, which made me wonder whether they were unpopular or simply
victims of poor storage.
Backpackerville & Muay Thai Magic
Bangkok is
dangerously easy to stay in. Khao San Road was its usual circus of backpackers,
vendors, and questionable life choices. You could get pierced, tattooed,
dreadlocked, or buy fake IDs and photographer’s passes — the latter being
temptingly mischievous.
I shopped
for jewellery and clothes, watched an outdoor cultural show, and then headed to
see Muay Thai. It’s a sport where knees, elbows, shins, hands, and feet all
seem to be fair game. The fighters were impressively built, which was reason
enough for me to watch.
Eventually,
it was time to return to Malaysia. I chose the train — far nicer than the bus.
I loved the tray tables with tablecloths, the beds magically made at night, and
the hypnotic clickety-clack of the wheels. It felt like travelling in a
long-lost era.
Lumut: Home Again
Returning to
Lumut felt oddly like coming home. The staff greeted me with the usual
Malaysian warmth: “Hi, hello. Did you enjoy your holiday? Have you eaten?” In
Malaysia, food is both a greeting and a lifestyle.
Back on the Road (107 km)
My final day
in Lumut arrived, and I was thrilled to pack up and resume my journey. Cycling
the same country twice can be monotonous, but Malaysia always offers new
corners to explore — and I had no choice but to wait for the passport.
I reached
Sungai Besar and found inexpensive accommodation. It was Eid, and families
celebrated Hari Raya Aidilfitri in coordinated outfits. Men wore loose shirts
and trousers; women wore elegant silk ensembles. The matching colours
symbolised unity, and the whole town shimmered like a walking Pantone chart.
The Stomach Bug Day (25 km)
A stomach
bug hit me hard, and I limped into Sekinchan with survival, not sightseeing, on
my mind. Accommodation was pricier due to Eid festivities, and while the
festival focused on forgiveness, most people seemed far more interested in
eating — which, frankly, I admired.
Rain & Relief (80 km)
I waited for
the weather to clear, but the drizzle persisted most of the day. Still, it was
better than the previous day’s emergency bush runs. The overcast skies made for
comfortable riding, though the traffic was hectic. Thankfully, a smaller path
ran parallel to the main road, saving me from becoming a hood ornament.
Warmshowers Royal Treatment
From Klang,
I headed inland to visit Peter Yoong — fellow cyclist, Warmshowers host, and
all‑round legend I’d met months earlier in Thailand. The ride was easy, thanks
to a dedicated motorbike lane complete with its own road signs, which made me
feel like a VIP on two wheels.
Peter’s
family welcomed me like a long‑lost relative, and he even had a cold beer
waiting. I knew instantly I’d chosen the right host.
The next
morning, we visited the market, and then Peter casually baked three pies.
Three. Pies. I wasn’t sure if Warmshowers had a Michelin category, but Peter
deserved one. By evening, another cyclist, Ivan, arrived, and Peter drove us to
Kuala Lumpur so we could photograph the Petronas Towers like proper tourists.
The Secret Coastal Shortcut (115 km)
Peter
suggested a coastal shortcut to Port Dickson, and it turned out to be a
brilliant idea. The route was quiet and scenic, winding through oil palm
plantations until it reached a river, where a tiny ferry shuttled people
across. On the opposite bank, Lukut awaited — peaceful, understated, and
perfect for a night’s rest.
Rooftop Living & Bonsai Wonders (100 km)
The ride to
Malacca was classic Malaysia: big rivers, swampy greenery, and lush landscapes
that looked like they’d been painted by someone who really likes the colour
green.
My
Warmshowers host, Howard, ran a small guesthouse where cyclists could sleep on
the rooftop terrace for free. He offered complimentary coffee and tea, which
made him instantly heroic in my eyes.
I had my
bike serviced, wandered through old Malacca’s UNESCO‑listed streets, and stayed
an extra day because Malacca is the kind of place that gently insists you
linger. I joined a free walking tour, had my camera cleaned, and stumbled upon
a bonsai show. I know nothing about bonsais, but these were magnificent — tiny
trees with more personality than some people I’ve met.
Rain Delay Malacca (88 km)
Not much
happened except rain. I took shelter, waited it out, and continued on. Some
days are simply wet and uneventful.
The Abacus Hotel (77 km)
I rode to
Pontian Kecil, stopping for water and snacks as usual. I’d planned to stay with
a Warmshowers host, but a misunderstanding sent me searching for a hotel
instead.
The hotel
staff used an abacus to check me in. An actual abacus. It was oddly charming —
a reminder that the world is full of delightful surprises, especially when you
least expect them.
Traffic, Rain & Curry Salvation (105 km)
The day was
spent on busy main roads, which was about as enjoyable as cycling through a
swarm of angry bees. Rain arrived, but thankfully didn’t last long. By the time
I reached Kota Tinggi, I’d had enough of traffic and checked into a hotel. A
food court next door served curry noodle soup, which restored my faith in
humanity.
Undulating Roads & Embassy News (105 km)
The route to
the East Coast rolled gently through oil palm plantations. In Mersing, the
Embassy Hotel offered the best value in town, so I booked two nights.
I phoned the
South African Embassy in Bangkok, and — miracle of miracles — my passport
application was finally on the Home Affairs system. I dared to hope the saga
might eventually end. The rest of the day was spent doing typical rest‑day
chores.
Smoke, Swiftlets & Storms (96 km)
Route 3 led
me past forest clearing operations — a depressing sight made worse by fires
used to speed up the destruction. A little further on stood a massive brick
aviary for swiftlets, whose edible nests sell for thousands of dollars per
kilogram. It’s a strange world when bird spit is worth more than gold.
I stayed in
basic chalets along the river, but the air was thick with smoke. I mentally
planned what to grab if evacuation became necessary. Thankfully, a thunderstorm
rolled in and cleared the air. I exhaled deeply — crisis averted.
Bamboo Rice & Night Market Temptation (111 km)
Roadside
stands sold lemang — sticky rice baked in bamboo — and I was grateful for my
habit of taking photos, because sometimes I think nothing happened until I look
back and realise the day was full of small wonders. Someone once said,
'Travellers see more than they remember and remember more than they see.' Very
true.
Kuantan was
larger than expected. The backpackers’ hostel had no bicycle storage, so I
chose a guesthouse opposite the night market. I hadn’t eaten all day, so shopping
hungry was a terrible idea — I wanted everything.
The next
morning, I tried to fix my laptop’s touchpad and instead broke the entire
thing. Off to the computer shop I went.
Freedom & No Beer (97 km)
I laughed
out loud leaving Kuantan — the joy of moving on can be overwhelming, especially
on a downhill. Although there were interesting sights along the way, I didn’t
feel like stopping and rode straight to Kerteh.
Conservative
Kerteh had few attractions. Not even beer. But it had a bed, and that was enough.
Fishing Villages & 3D Art (117 km)
Another
pleasant ride past fishing villages and wide rivers reminded me I was deep in
the tropics. The Seaview Hotel had no sea view but did have a ground‑floor room
for the bike, which was far more important.
Chinatown
offered good food and colourful streets. The next morning, I dropped off my
laundry and returned to explore the 3D street art — so realistic it was hard to
tell where reality ended and paint began. Markets overflowed with unfamiliar smells
and mysterious merchandise. Kuala Terengganu was a feast for the senses.
Headwinds & Hunger (109 km)
The 109 km
to Kuala Besut took most of the day thanks to a mild but persistent headwind —
the kind that feels polite at first but slowly erodes your will to live. The
road hugged the coast, flat as a pancake, with small islands dotting the
horizon like decorative sprinkles. The Perhentian Islands beckoned.
By the time
I reached Kuala Besut, food stalls materialised like a mirage. I hadn’t eaten
all day, so I descended on them with the enthusiasm of someone who’d just
discovered eating.
Perhentian Islands: Diving, Snorkelling & Warm
Seas
The
guesthouse owner kindly stored my bicycle while I hopped on a ferry to the
Perhentians. I got off at Long Beach, where budget accommodation and cheap
diving awaited. Oh La La offered a decent deal, so I booked a dive and
spent the rest of the day snorkelling in water so clear it felt like swimming
in blue glass.
The next
morning, we headed to a pinnacle 20 minutes offshore. Visibility wasn’t
perfect, but the reef was alive with marine creatures doing whatever marine
creatures do. That evening, I joined other divers for dinner on the beach — the
kind of meal that tastes better simply because you’re barefoot.
The
following day’s dive took us to a cave. The water was so warm I wore only a T‑shirt,
which felt wonderfully rebellious. We returned just in time for me to catch the
ferry back to the mainland.
The Boob Snatcher (112 km)
Some days
are stranger than others, shortly after leaving Kuala Besut, a motorbike pulled
up beside me. With lightning speed, the rider reached out, grabbed my boob, and
sped off. I unleashed a torrent of profanity and gave him the middle finger. He
likely didn’t understand “Jou ma se moer!” but it made me feel better.
Later, a
kind man stopped and offered me a lift to Terengganu, insisting it was too far
to cycle — even though only 50 km remained. I declined, thanked him, and
pedalled on with my faith in humanity partially restored.
I reached
Terengganu in good time, picked up fried noodles and beer in Chinatown, and
returned to the Seaview Hotel without the sea view.
Odd Shoes & Bad Rooms (94 km)
The route
was lined with stalls selling satay‑skewered chicken wrapped in banana leaves
and grilled over smoky charcoal. At one stall, I realised I was wearing
mismatched shoes — impressive, considering I only owned two pairs.
A stiff
breeze slowed me down, and halfway to Dungun the rain came down in sheets.
Dungun had several beachfront accommodations, all expensive, so I chose the
cheapest. Big mistake. It was the worst place I stayed in Malaysia. On days
like this, I remind myself I’m not buying the place — I only need to survive it
until morning.
Ghost Town by the Sea (86 km)
Cherating
was once a popular R&R stop for travellers heading to the Perhentians. Now
it had a ghostly air of decline — charming, but quiet enough to hear your own
thoughts echo. Accommodation was plentiful and cheap, so I stayed an extra day,
did laundry, and lounged about like a cat.
Rivers & Decisions (90 km)
Retracing my
steps wasn’t thrilling, but Pekan was interesting. The Sungai Pahang — the longest
river in Peninsular Malaysia — flows into the South China Sea here, and the
town is lined with traditional Chinese shophouses.
At my
guesthouse, I debated where to go once my passport arrived. The monsoon was
approaching, India’s was ending, and Bangladesh — still uncycled — was calling
my name.
Pekan to Rompin (94 km)
A pleasant
ride along the ocean brought news from the Bangkok Embassy: my passport had
supposedly been sent to Bangkok instead of Cape Town and was already in the
diplomatic bag. I was sceptical. If true, I could collect it or have it
couriered, provided Thai border control allows me entry with a nearly full
passport.
Coffee Stops & Laptop Death (66 km)
Mersing was
close, so I skipped breakfast and enjoyed a scenic coastal ride full of coffee
stops and ocean views. The Embassy Hotel was an easy choice: hot water, air‑con,
TV.
My laptop
finally gave up. The screen shook like it was possessed. I suspected its days
were numbered.
Trucks & Tragedy (90 km)
The next day
the road was narrow, trucks were plentiful, and oil palm plantations stretched
endlessly. A patch of natural forest offered relief — until I saw a distressed
monkey pacing beside her dead baby, likely hit by a vehicle. It was
heartbreaking, and I carried the image with me for the rest of the day.
Language Lessons (108 km)
Still no
passport news. Sigh. The route to Muar was uneventful, but the town was larger
than expected. I chatted with the receptionist, impressed to learn Malaysians
often speak up to six languages — Malay, English, Cantonese, Mandarin, and
various dialects. My brain felt lazy in comparison.
Beach Camping Bliss (126 km)
I pushed on
to Port Dickson, having cycled this stretch before. I pitched my tent under
trees on the beach, with a view over the ocean. I watched the sunset, then
wandered to a nearby restaurant. It was one of those perfect travel evenings.
Storm Survival (90 km)
I woke to a
massive storm. I had to brace the tentpole with all my strength to keep the
tent from collapsing. Rain hammered down, waves crashed alarmingly close, and
when the storm passed, seafoam sat inches from my tent. Too close for comfort.
Sopping wet,
I cycled to Puchong to stay with Peter until my passport arrived.
Hungry Ghosts & Laptop Resurrection
I spent my
days chatting with Peter and his family. Carolina from Brazil was also staying
there, helping with the garden through HelpX — a programme where travellers
work in exchange for accommodation. She was energetic, kind, and endlessly
helpful.
My passport
was still in South Africa, but arrangements were finally made to send it to
Malaysia. My laptop, miraculously, came back to life.
It was the
Hungry Ghost Festival — when the gates of hell open and hungry spirits roam the
earth. People left food and paper money outside, and temples burned elaborate
paper houses, cars, phones, and shoes so ghosts wouldn’t go barefoot. If
overeating, drinking, gambling, and smoking lead to ghosthood, I’m doomed.
Puchong: A New Hindu Temple
Peter drove
us to a newly built Hindu temple that was still being painted. Hindu temples are
breathtaking — elaborate, colourful, and full of symbolism. Artisans had been
brought from India to complete the work.
Swami
Vivekananda taught that temples are merely supports for reaching the divine. I
liked that — a reminder that spirituality doesn’t need a building, just
intention.
The Haunted House Expedition
Peter and I
went searching for Puchong’s infamous haunted house. Legend says a wealthy
businessman went bankrupt and his family died mysteriously — suicide, murder,
or something worse, depending on who tells the story.
Bomohs
(witch doctors) allegedly use the house for rituals. People claim to see lights
flickering despite no electricity, hear children screaming, and spot shadowy
figures. Pontianaks — female vampire ghosts — are said to live there.
We found the
house. No ghosts. Just thousands of mosquitoes behaving like possessed demons.
We fled.
Passport Arrival & New Plans
At long
last, my passport arrived. I was thrilled to move on. India and Bangladesh were
top choices, and applying for visas in Kuala Lumpur made sense — except the
Bangladesh Embassy only issued visas to Malays.
I decided to
cycle north to Bangkok and apply for an Indian visa there. Onward, at last.
Coastal Quiet & Lizard Company (110 km)
Leaving
Peter and his family was bittersweet, but the road was calling. Peter suggested
a smaller coastal path — a brilliant idea. It was peaceful, scenic, and
blissfully free of traffic. Just me, the beach, a few monkeys plotting petty
theft, and the occasional monitor lizard lumbering across the path like a
prehistoric crossing guard. My kind of cycling.
Roti, Regret & Rising Haze (127 km)
Breakfast
was roti canai, which was perfect until the chillies staged a coup. Ten
kilometres later, I made an emergency Gaviscon stop, cursing my own optimism.
I re-joined
the tiny coastal path from the previous day, weaving past fishing hamlets and
resorts perched on stilts over the water. Palm plantations stretched endlessly
until I reached a river — mercifully equipped with a ferry.
The smoke
haze worsened. Newspapers blamed forest burning, factories, vehicles, and open
fires. I blamed all of them. The air tasted like a barbecue gone wrong. I
pushed on to Sitiawan, hoping tomorrow would be clearer.
Night Zoo Adventures
A drizzle
accompanied me to Taiping, but never enough to stop me. I arrived starving,
having skipped breakfast, and immediately hunted down food.
Taiping’s
Night Zoo was open, so I wandered through dimly lit paths that felt like
walking under a full moon. The forest smelled damp and alive. Grunts, stomps,
and chewing echoed around me. I wondered what I’d do if a crocodile lunged out
— then a deer bounced from behind a bush and nearly stopped my heart. Night
zoos: highly recommended, mildly terrifying.
Back to the Pearl (101 km)
After a
quick breakfast, I followed minor paths north. Malaysia is so modern that you
sometimes forget it’s tropical — until you cross rivers jam‑packed with fishing
boats in every shape imaginable.
Butterworth
spat me out at the ferry terminal. Despite the bridge, the ferry was still
wildly popular with cars and motorbikes. I boarded and felt privileged to
return to Penang — land of street art, street food, and endless charm.
I needed a three‑month
Thai visa (RM150) because land borders only allow a two-week stay. I planned to
apply for Indian and Bangladesh visas in Bangkok, so the three‑month option
made sense. I handed my passport to a visa agent and hoped for the best.
Penang: Blog Battles
While
waiting for the visa, I had a relaxing day — until I tried accessing my old
blog. Despite knowing the password, email, and username, I couldn’t get in
because I no longer had access to the ancient phone number linked to it.
Technology: the gift that keeps on giving.
I started a
new blog instead. The last update had been in the Philippines in 2013, so I had
some catching up to do. It took another seven years before I finally deleted
the old one.
Penang: Hungry Ghosts & Hot Keyboards
I collected
my passport at midday and continued updating the blog. A stroll around town
revealed Penang in full Hungry Ghost Festival mode — giant joss sticks, food
stands, and live performances everywhere.
Different
neighbourhoods celebrated at different times, so some areas were winding down
while others were just getting started. Penang was buzzing.
Penang: Rain & Motorbike Nomads
Rain poured
relentlessly, so I stayed put at Love Lane Inn. I met fascinating travellers —
at least five of them on motorbikes. A French guy rode an Australian “Postie”;
an Indian man and a French couple had their own bikes; and an Australian bought
and sold local motorbikes as he travelled, avoiding border fees. We drank beer
and swapped stories while the rain drummed on the roof.
The Missing Ferry (110 km)
I finally
left via a secondary path. Drizzle came and went, but nothing dramatic. In
Pantai Merdeka, I searched for the ferry across the river — but it had
vanished. Even after asking around, no one could help. So I returned to the
main road and continued to Gurun, which at least had food and a bed.
Bureaucracy & Blue Skies (105 km)
The day was
perfect for cycling — blue skies, fresh air, and rice paddies flooded from
recent rain, glowing green under the sun. A small path ran alongside the main
road, making the ride easy and scenic.
The border
crossing, however, was less charming. I now had two passports (old and new),
which confused the officers. They also demanded cash and a return ticket. I
cycled to the bank, withdrew money, and returned. After explaining I was
travelling by bicycle, they mercifully waived the ticket requirement.
By then it
was late, so I stayed in Sadao — officially back in Thailand, ready for the
next chapter.
With my new passport finally in hand
— guarded as fiercely as a dragon guards treasure — I pedalled north toward
Thailand, hoping the universe had finished toying with my paperwork. The
coastal haze thinned, the rice paddies brightened, and the familiar rhythm of
the road returned as I crossed back into the Land of Smiles. Ahead lay Bangkok,
visas, and the promise of new borders. Beyond that waited Myanmar: golden
stupas, quiet mornings, and roads that would test both my legs and my patience.
And this time, I vowed, I’d keep a firm grip on my passport… preferably with
both hands.
Epilogue
In the end, Malaysia let me go the same way it held me: gently,
chaotically, and with a final flourish of paperwork. I pedalled north with a
new passport, a revived laptop, and the lingering smell of satay in my
panniers. The Hungry Ghost Festival faded behind me, the coastal haze thinned,
and the monkeys no doubt plotted their next theft. What remained was the quiet
certainty that detours often make the best chapters — and that sometimes the
road you never meant to take becomes the one you remember most. Ahead lay
Thailand, Myanmar, India… but Malaysia had already left its mark, somewhere
between the ferries, the food stalls, and the long, laughing kilometres.
