Between Momentum and Misjudgement
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625
Kilometres – 11 Days
28
November – 9 December 2019
PHOTOS
MAP
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VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
The Road South Continues
After
the slow, immersive rhythm of Thailand, Malaysia arrived almost quietly—no
grand transition, no dramatic change, just a stamp in a passport and a subtle
shift in the road beneath my wheels. Yet within a few kilometres, it was clear
that something had changed. The landscape opened up, the air felt different,
and the journey, which had settled into a familiar cadence, found a new tone
almost without asking permission.
Over
the next 625 kilometres and 11 days, Malaysia would reveal itself not through
spectacle, but through contrast: wider spaces, gentler traffic, and a cultural
blend that expressed itself most vividly in its food and daily life. It was a
place where mosques, temples, and roadside stalls coexisted with quiet ease;
where the road alternated between effortless progress and mild misjudgement;
and where even the simplest ride could shift unexpectedly into something worth
remembering.
A Quiet Border, a Strong Tailwind and a Promising Start - Padang Basar to Alor Setar (87 km)
Crossing
into Malaysia turned out to be refreshingly uncomplicated—almost suspiciously
so. A short ride brought me to immigration, where a single stamp granted me 90
days in the country. No interrogation, no paperwork marathon, not even a mildly
disapproving glance. It felt less like entering a new country and more like
being casually waved through a garden gate.
It
was already past 9:30 by the time I finally got going, which meant my “early
start” had once again failed to materialise—an ongoing theme of the journey.
Still, Malaysia seemed determined to reward my lateness. Almost immediately,
the landscape opened up. Compared to Thailand, there was more space, more
breathing room, and fewer moments where I felt personally targeted by traffic.
The
northern scenery was striking in a quietly confident way—limestone outcrops
rising from flat plains, rice fields glowing an almost theatrical green. With a
strong tailwind behind me, I had the rare sensation that cycling was less an
effort and more a cooperative arrangement between myself and the elements.
Malaysia
revealed itself quickly as a cultural mix, and nowhere is that more evident
than in the food. After weeks in Thailand, I suddenly found myself confronted
with an entirely new culinary landscape: Chinese, Indian, and Malay influences
all competing for attention—and winning.
My
first encounter was a bowl of Mee Goreng from a roadside stall, which I
approached with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what she
was ordering. It was excellent—comfortingly familiar in structure yet entirely
new in flavour. I made a mental note to continue this highly scientific method
of ordering at random.
Accommodation,
however, required a small adjustment in expectations. The ringgit was stronger
than the Thai baht, which translated into rooms that cost just enough more to
make me notice—and just little enough to keep me from complaining too loudly.
By
mid-afternoon, I arrived in Alor Setar and checked into a modest guesthouse. A
short walk revealed I was firmly in the Chinese part of town, which, as luck
would have it, meant excellent food and an abundance of cold Tiger beer. It
didn’t take long to settle into the comforting routine of travel: eat, drink,
reflect briefly, and then repeat as needed.
Backroads, River Crossings and Eating for Historical Accuracy - Alor Setar to Georgetown, Penang (95 km)
Not
in the mood to test my relationship with traffic, I immediately escaped onto
the backroads, where the day improved in direct proportion to the lack of
vehicles trying to overtake me at improbable angles.
The
route wound through rice fields and small villages, where locals greeted me
with a warmth that felt both genuine and faintly amused, as though they were
quietly wondering where exactly I thought I was going.
At
the Merbok River, a ferry carried me across, sparing what would undoubtedly
have been a long and unnecessary detour. I’ve developed a particular fondness
for these small crossings—they give the impression that even geography is
occasionally willing to cooperate.
From
Butterworth, I made my way to the ferry terminal and crossed to Penang Island,
gliding over the Strait of Malacca—one of the world’s most historically
important waterways.
For
centuries, ships from Europe, the Middle East, India, and China passed through
here, often waiting days or weeks for the winds to change. Those waiting
periods, it seems, were put to excellent use: cultures mingled, recipes were
exchanged, and eventually, entire communities took root.
Today,
this legacy continues most noticeably in the food—and I felt it was only right
to honour this history in the most respectful way possible: by eating as much
of it as I could reasonably justify.
Samosas,
falafel, and other delights appeared in rapid succession, each one making a
compelling argument for staying longer than intended. All of it, naturally,
accompanied by a tall Tiger beer, which by now had established itself as
something of a travel companion.
Georgetown - A City Designed for Wandering and Staying Put
A
drizzly morning arrived, and with it the deeply satisfying decision not to
leave. There are few things in travel as pleasing as discovering a place that
justifies doing absolutely nothing ambitious.
Georgetown
is one of those places. It isn’t so much visited as wandered through, and even
then, direction feels optional. The streets are dense with activity—food stalls
competing for attention, narrow lanes leading to unexpected discoveries, and
buildings that appear to have been collected rather than planned.
The
island’s history is visible everywhere, layered like an architectural timeline.
Chinese traders, Indian merchants, Dutch explorers, and British colonials have
all left their mark, resulting in a place where temples, mosques, and colonial
structures coexist with admirable indifference to categorisation.
One
of the more fascinating areas was the clan jetties—wooden walkways built over
the water, lined with houses that have been occupied for generations. First
established in the 19th century, they still function today much as they always
have, which is both impressive and slightly disorienting in a world that
usually insists on constant change.
Time in
Georgetown slipped by easily. Days stretched just enough to feel unstructured,
and for once, progress wasn’t measured in kilometres but in meals,
conversations, and the general sense that staying put was, for now, exactly the
right decision.
Following My Nose into Mud, Regret and Eventual Progress - Georgetown to Taiping (110 km)
After
two pleasantly unproductive days in Georgetown, it was time to resume forward
motion—an activity I approached with the enthusiasm of someone who had grown
very accustomed to not doing it.
The
plan seemed simple enough: follow the indicated cycle route out of town.
Unfortunately, I decided instead to “follow my nose,” a phrase that sounds
adventurous but in practice often translates to “ignore perfectly good advice.”
This
turned out to be a mistake of admirable thoroughness.
Within
a surprisingly short time, I found myself thoroughly bogged down in mud,
pushing the bike through terrain that had clearly not been designed with
cyclists in mind—nor, come to think of it, with any particular use in mind. It
was an experience that combined physical effort with ongoing regret.
Eventually,
I admitted defeat and returned to the highway, now carrying a generous coating
of Malaysian countryside. Once on the main road, however, escape proved
difficult. There was no convenient turn-off, no gentle alternative—just a long,
unwavering commitment to forward progress. It took nearly 40 kilometres before
I could leave it, by which point I was no longer in the mood for exploration or
philosophical reflection.
Clouds
began to gather, adding a sense of inevitability to the day. About ten
kilometres before Taiping, the sky delivered on its promise with a tropical
downpour of impressive conviction.
And
then, just as quickly, it stopped.
Within
minutes, the road was dry again, as though the entire episode had been a brief
but enthusiastic misunderstanding.
Arriving
in Taiping, I made my way to my old standby, the Peking Hotel, only to discover
it had undergone a transformation—one that included, regrettably, higher
prices. Progress, it seems, comes at a cost.
Fortunately,
Sojourn Beds & Café offered a far more agreeable arrangement. At 35
ringgit, with the added bonus of being the only guest, it felt less like a
hostel and more like a private residence I had temporarily acquired.
Its
location—directly opposite the night market—was particularly helpful, eliminating
the need for further decision-making. After a day that had not gone entirely to
plan, this felt like a fair and reasonable reward.
Time Zones, Palm Oil and the Comfort of Simply Continuing South - Taiping to Lumut / Sitiawan (100 km)
The
following morning revealed an unexpected discovery: Malaysia is, in fact, one
hour behind Thailand. This explained why my “early start” was once again
occurring at a time that could more accurately be described as late morning.
There
is something comforting about discovering that it isn’t entirely your fault.
With
no strong feelings about route choice, I pointed myself south and set off
through the countryside. The landscape quickly settled into long stretches of
oil palm plantations, laid out with methodical precision. Malaysia, along with
Indonesia, dominates global palm oil production, and once you’ve seen one
plantation, you have, in a sense, seen several thousand.
That
said, there is a quiet rhythm to riding through them—orderly roads, gentle
curves, and just enough variation to prevent complete monotony. The cycling
itself was easy, the road smooth, and for long stretches it felt as though I
had slipped into a steady, manageable routine again.
Somewhere
along the way, I realised I had fully transitioned into “journey mode”—that
stage of travel where you stop questioning the road and simply follow it,
trusting that it will eventually lead somewhere suitable.
By
day’s end, I arrived not so much in Lumut as in nearby Sitiawan, which offered
a more promising collection of accommodation and food. Experience has taught me
that flexibility in such matters is not merely useful but essential—geography,
after all, is often less concerned with your plans than you are.
A Day of Unreasonable Distance and Unexplained Determination - Sitiawan to Kuala Selangor (145 km)
I’m
not entirely sure what happened on this day, but something—whether chemical,
psychological, or mildly supernatural—shifted rather dramatically.
For
reasons that remain unclear, I set off early. Not “my version of early,” which
tends to drift comfortably toward mid-morning, but genuinely early—as though I
had suddenly become one of those efficient people who greet the day with
purpose and intent.
And
then I kept going.
Breakfast
was skipped, which in my experience is usually not so much a decision as an
oversight that quickly becomes a regret. But on this occasion, there was no
regret. In fact, there was no hunger at all. I rode on, hour after hour,
without stopping, without snacking, without even giving the matter proper
thought.
At
some point, I began to suspect that I was no longer entirely in charge of
events.
Normally,
a day on the bike is punctuated by small, necessary rituals—coffee stops, food
breaks, moments of negotiation with one's legs. But all of that vanished. I
simply continued, propelled forward with an efficiency that felt both
impressive and faintly alarming.
“I
was like a woman possessed,” I had written in my notes afterwards, and for once
it did not feel like an exaggeration.
The
main road, however, refused to cooperate. It was busy, loud, and in the process
of being widened—an activity that seems to involve dismantling a road while
simultaneously encouraging people to continue using it. Seeking relief, I
veered off onto smaller country lanes, where the day improved considerably.
The
route zigzagged through oil palm plantations, occasionally returning to tarmac
but just as often dissolving into dirt tracks. It required attention, but
somehow this only added to the sense that I was moving with purpose—even if I
wasn’t entirely sure what that purpose was.
A
ferry crossing over the Bernam River provided a brief pause, though even this
felt less like a rest and more like a procedural delay in an otherwise
uninterrupted advance.
And
then, almost without warning, it was evening.
I
arrived in Kuala Selangor having covered 145 kilometres—a distance that, under
normal circumstances, I would have approached with careful planning,
nutritional strategy, and a degree of caution. Instead, I had simply… done it.
By
the time I checked into the Melawati Hotel, the spell had begun to wear off.
The room itself was so small that it required a moment of spatial adjustment.
The single bed fitted neatly inside, leaving just enough space to stand and
reconsider one’s life choices, but not quite enough for anything else. A
bedside table would have required structural modifications.
Oddly,
it felt entirely appropriate.
After
a day of uncharacteristic efficiency and inexplicable stamina, being confined
to a room roughly the size of a generous cupboard seemed like the world gently
restoring balance.
Into the Sprawl: Traffic, Roadworks and Fading Enthusiasm - Kuala Selangor to Puchong (Kuala Lumpur) (88 km)
The
following morning began later than intended, though in fairness, this was
partly the result of my windowless room, which gave no indication of time,
weather, or indeed whether the outside world still existed. It could have been
dawn, dusk, or a minor geological epoch—I had no way of knowing.
Eventually,
I emerged into reality and set off toward Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia’s sprawling
capital. The route, however, lacked the charm of previous days. As I moved
closer to the city, the landscape shifted from countryside calm to a steadily
expanding urban presence.
Kuala
Lumpur—known simply as KL—is not so much a city as an ongoing project. With a
metropolitan population of over 7 million, it appears to be in a permanent
state of development, with roadworks serving as a unifying theme.
Unfortunately, this is less enjoyable when experienced from a bicycle.
There
were moments, I admit, when my enthusiasm waned slightly—particularly when
sharing narrow, disrupted roads with traffic that clearly had more pressing
engagements than accommodating a cyclist. Still, progress was made, and as
always, small pockets of calm appeared when least expected: roadside temples,
brief quiet stretches, and the occasional moment where everything seemed to
align just enough to keep going.
KL
marked the end of my Malaysian ride, and with it came a quiet inventory of
recent mishaps: one unfortunate encounter with mud, a broken pannier, a
mysteriously vanished lens hood, a flat tyre, and what I can only describe as a
deeply misguided attempt to cross a bio-slim ditch.
Taken
individually, each incident was manageable. Taken together, they suggested a
pattern.
Nevertheless,
I arrived in good time and checked into my hotel before meeting my friend Peter
and his wife, Alice. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, which meant the
evening quickly dissolved into conversation—catching up, filling in the gaps,
and gently rewriting a few stories in the process.
Kuala Lumpur - Boxes, Beers and the Gentle Unravelling of a Journey
The
following days were spent in a different kind of activity: dismantling the
journey. Packing the bike, sorting panniers, organising the small details that
allow travel to continue in another form. Peter had kindly sourced a bicycle
box in advance, and with his help, the process became surprisingly efficient.
Laundry was done, gear packed, and, naturally, a few beers were
consumed—already chilled, which felt like an act of quiet genius.
It’s
the sort of generosity that stays with you long after the journey moves on.
Departure – Budget Flights, Sleepless Nights and Questionable Comfort - Kuala Lumpur to Chennai (India)
Budget
flights, I have learned, come with their own particular philosophy—one that
tends to prioritise affordability over nearly everything else, including
comfort, convenience, and occasionally basic human expectations.
My
flight departed at 2 a.m., a time that exists largely to test commitment.
Peter, displaying far more kindness than the hour deserved, drove me to the
airport, and before long I was navigating the slow rituals of departure once
again.
What
followed was a lesson in the true cost of inexpensive travel. The luggage fees
were impressive, the seat narrow enough to encourage introspection, and the
recline function appeared to exist more in theory than in practice. Sleep,
unsurprisingly, did not occur.
The
journey routed via New Delhi before continuing to Chennai, with a three-hour
layover that provided just enough time to remain awake without achieving
anything useful. By the time I arrived in Chennai around midday, I had reached
that curious state of fatigue where everything becomes both intensely vivid and
faintly unreal.
Arrival
in Chennai, India
A Sudden Shift: Into Noise, Heat and a Different World Entirely
A
taxi ride into the city—made more expensive by the presence of a bicycle—delivered
me to Paradise Guesthouse, a name that demonstrated a bold commitment to
optimism. The room, while affordable, was notably lacking in certain luxuries,
such as a towel.
Still,
at seven dollars, one learns to adjust expectations accordingly.
And
then there was India.
It
does not ease you in gently.
Stepping
outside was like walking into a fully formed world, already in motion. Traffic
surged and improvised itself in real time. Tuk-tuks negotiated space with the
confidence of vehicles that had given up on rules altogether. Cows moved calmly
through the chaos, entirely unconcerned with human urgency.
Amid
it all, life unfolded at multiple levels: vendors calling out, incense drifting
from roadside shrines, people navigating daily routines with an ease that
suggested this was all perfectly normal—which, of course, it was.
The
sounds, the smells, the movement—it was immediate, immersive, and slightly
overwhelming.
It
took the rest of the day to slow down, to breathe, and to begin adjusting to a place
that does not so much welcome you as absorb you.
After
the measured rhythm of Thailand and the gentle unfolding of Malaysia, India
felt like being dropped into the middle of a story already moving at full
speed.
And
just like that, the journey had shifted again.
Epilogue
By
the time I rolled into Kuala Lumpur, the journey through Malaysia had taken on
a strangely complete feeling—despite its relatively short distance. There had
been days that unfolded effortlessly, others shaped by poor navigation choices
and tropical downpours, and one that defied explanation entirely, powered by a
form of momentum I could neither control nor fully understand.
There
was also, as always, the quiet accumulation of smaller things: roadside meals
chosen more by instinct than knowledge, conversations that required little
shared language, ferries that appeared exactly when needed, and accommodations
ranging from unexpectedly perfect to spatially improbable. None of it dramatic
in isolation, but together forming the substance of travel itself.
Because
by then, another transition was already waiting.
India
did not ease into view. It arrived all at once—loud, immediate, and entirely
unconcerned with the pace I had grown used to.
And
with that, the road shifted again.
