A Journey Across Sarawak, Brunei and Sabah
057 Malaysian Borneo
1,794 Kilometres – 57 Days
10 July – 4 September 2013
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VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
PRELUDE
1,794
kilometres. 57 days. It’s
remarkable how a journey that felt endless at times can be summarised in two
neat numbers. But Borneo was never neat. It was humid, hilly, unpredictable,
occasionally bureaucratic, frequently generous, and always—always—hot. I
arrived with a bicycle, a vague plan, and the misplaced optimism that the road
would behave. It didn’t. Instead, it rose sharply, fell suddenly, twisted
unexpectedly, and delivered snakes, storms, sugarcane angels, and more oil‑palm
plantations than any human should witness in a lifetime.
I
met strangers who bought me drinks, waved me into hammocks, guarded my
belongings, and stared at me as though I were a visiting exhibit. I slept in
hostels, homestays, chalets, hammocks, and one establishment that turned out to
be a brothel.
This
chapter is the story of those kilometres—long, hot, beautiful, absurd, and
unforgettable.
Leaving
the Americas, Entering one of the last Great Wildernesses
Leaving
the Americas wasn’t exactly part of my grand plan, but life—like airport
luggage scales—has a way of surprising you unpleasantly. I returned to South
Africa for a handful of personal reasons, one being the long‑awaited arrival of
my bank cards, which had taken so long I suspected they were being hand‑delivered
by a tortoise with a union‑regulated lunch break.
Erika,
my saintly sister, drove me to the airport. At check‑in, I discovered my bag
was a mere five kilos overweight. Five kilos. A weight so small it could be
lost simply by exhaling. Naturally, the airline treated this as a catastrophic
violation of aviation physics and charged me a fee so large it should have come
with a complimentary shareholding. I was miffed—especially since several passengers
waddling around me were clearly carrying at least five kilos more body fat than
my luggage, and no one was charging them extra.
To
add insult to injury, the staff informed me that my luggage could only be
checked through to Kuala Lumpur, because the onward flight to Kuching was
operated by a different airline. I understood the logic, but still felt like I
was being gently mugged.
Once
aboard, I discovered Mark and cousin Marida were on the same flight, en route
to Phuket. I imagined we’d bump into each other in Dubai, perhaps share a
coffee, maybe complain about airline food together. But Dubai airport is
roughly the size of a small European nation, and I never saw them again.
I
took the airport train to Terminal 2—because of course the terminal I needed
was located somewhere near the Earth’s mantle—and eventually boarded the flight
to Kuala Lumpur.
Lost
Luggage
Upon
arrival in Kuala Lumpur, I dutifully marched to baggage claim, where my luggage
was conspicuously absent. After some investigative work (mostly me staring
helplessly at conveyor belts), the lost‑luggage staff cheerfully informed me
that my bag had already been sent to Kuching. This was both reassuring and
infuriating, because by then I had missed my flight and had to buy a new
ticket. I paid, grumbled, and boarded yet another plane.
At
last, I arrived in Kuching—capital of Sarawak, gateway to Borneo, and the place
where my luggage had apparently been enjoying a holiday without me.
Borneo,
the third‑largest island in the world, had always fascinated me. Politically,
it’s shared among Malaysia, Brunei, and Indonesia. Geographically, it straddles
the equator. Culturally, it’s a kaleidoscope. Biologically, it’s a jungle fever
dream. Logistically, it’s where my luggage had been waiting patiently for
hours.
A
taxi whisked me into town, and I found a hostel without much trouble. I was
exhausted, but thanks to the six‑hour time difference, my body insisted it was
time to reorganise my backpack, contemplate life choices, and stare at the
ceiling instead of sleeping.
Kuching
- Chinatown, Chargers & the Great Food Fog
Beds
Guesthouse, tucked into Chinatown, was perfectly located—close to a bike shop,
food stalls, and the kind of convenience stores that sell everything except the
one thing you actually need. The bike shop kindly offered to collect my bicycle
from the guesthouse, sparing me the indignity of lugging a boxed bike through
the streets like an incompetent furniture thief.
I
found a cup‑heater for coffee (a lifesaver), a pair of sandals (essential in
Southeast Asia, where shoes are treated like biohazards), and discovered I had
left my laptop charger behind. Naturally. That problem would have to wait until
morning.
Kuching
itself was delightful—colourful, walkable, and full of surprises. Chinatown was
lively, and the waterfront boardwalk was a perfect place to wander aimlessly
while pretending to be productive.
By
sheer luck, I arrived on the first day of the annual food fair. More than two
hundred stalls were frying, steaming, grilling, and flambéing their way through
every imaginable delicacy. Smoke hung over the area like a benevolent fog of
deliciousness. There were dumplings, skewers, mysterious fried spheres, things
wrapped in leaves, things wrapped in other things, and even hamburgers for
those who feared flavour.
Chinese,
Malay, Indian—every cuisine was represented. If you couldn’t find something to
eat, the problem was not the food.
Cats,
SIM Cards & Sunset Snacks
My
body finally staged a coup against my ambitions and refused to get out of bed
until 11h00. Jet lag is a peculiar thing: it doesn’t just make you tired; it
rearranges your internal wiring so that you wake up feeling like you’ve been
lightly sedated and then rolled down a hill.
Once
upright, I wandered into the pedestrian lanes of Chinatown, which were lined
with Chinese shophouses from the 1920s and ’30s—rows of pastel‑coloured,
shuttered buildings that looked like they’d been designed by someone who loved
symmetry but distrusted architects. From there, I drifted into the Indian
quarter, where the alleys were a cheerful riot of textiles, jewellery, and food
stalls. Every few metres, something sparkled, steamed, or smelled delicious.
And
then there were the cats.
Kuching
is famously cat‑obsessed. Not mildly fond of cats—obsessed. The town boasts at
least four cat‑themed roundabouts, each featuring statues of cats in various
poses, as though the city planners had been instructed to design traffic
infrastructure based on the fever dream of a nine‑year‑old. There is even a cat
museum, which I didn’t visit but imagined as a place where one could learn
about feline history, admire cat memorabilia, and possibly be judged by actual
cats.
My
walk yielded a laptop charger, a USB modem, and a SIM card—an unexpectedly productive
haul. Feeling triumphant, I returned to the food fair at sunset to continue my
noble mission of eating my way through Kuching.
Boats,
Bush Pigs & Bako Bliss
I
intended to leave Kuching, but the city had other plans. There was still too
much to see, and my curiosity is easily bribed by the promise of wildlife.
A
bus took me to Bako National Park, and from there a boat ferried visitors to
the park headquarters. The boat fare was charged per vessel, not per person, so
I teamed up with a couple heading the same way. This made the trip cheaper and
provided company—always welcome when venturing into a place where the wildlife
has fangs.
The
boat skimmed past the legendary Cobra, a rock formation sticking out of the
ocean that resembles a snake rearing up to strike.
We
were dropped at an idyllic beach, the kind that makes you momentarily consider
abandoning society to live off coconuts. A path wound from the beach to the
park entrance, and the scenery was spectacular—dense jungle, tangled roots, and
the occasional rustle that made you wonder if you were being watched by
something with opposable thumbs.
We
encountered strange‑looking monkeys, including proboscis monkeys, which appear
to have been designed by a committee that couldn’t agree on a nose size. There
were also bush pigs snuffling around with the air of creatures who had very
important business to attend to.
The
boat collected us at 16h00, and I returned to Kuching starving. Naturally, the
easiest solution was to revisit the food fair, which by now felt like my second
home.
Orangutans
& Hostel Air‑Con Salvation
I
discovered I needed a visa for Brunei, so I popped into the Brunei Consulate.
The staff informed me that a visa would take three days, but travellers could
obtain a transit visa at the border. This seemed like a wonderfully casual
approach to international travel—“Just get one when you get there”—as though
visas were snacks you could pick up at a convenience store.
Armed
with this information, I hopped on a bus to Semenggoh Nature Reserve, about
forty‑five minutes out of town. The reserve is home to orangutans, and twenty
years ago, eleven individuals were rescued after being orphaned or kept in
captivity. The rehabilitation programme was so successful that the surrounding
forest now hosts a thriving population of adolescents and young adults living
and breeding in the wild.
Watching
orangutans is mesmerising. They are immensely human‑like—thoughtful,
expressive, and occasionally disdainful in a way that suggests they know
exactly how ridiculous humans are. I could have watched them for hours.
Back
at the hostel, life unfolded in typical hostel fashion: some people watched TV,
others cooked, and a few lay around in hammocks contemplating the meaning of
life. I chatted with fellow travellers before retreating to my tiny room,
grateful for the icy air‑conditioning, which was set to a temperature normally
reserved for storing frozen peas.
Into
the Heat and onto Serian Ranchan Pools (70 km)
This
was the day—my grand departure into the wilds of Borneo. I woke up excited,
ready to conquer jungles, rivers, and whatever else the island felt like
throwing at me. Unfortunately, Borneo woke up equally excited and decided to
greet me with the kind of heat normally reserved for industrial furnaces. It
was the precise hothouse effect one expects from one of the world’s last great
wildernesses: a place where plants thrive, animals thrive, and humans melt.
There
was one paved coastal road leading all the way to Sabah, but the truly
interesting bits lay inland along rivers and waterways. I pedalled past rural
settlements, each one a cluster of houses that looked as though they had been
dropped there by a distracted giant.
Because
traffic drives on the left, I stopped at a motorcycle repair shop to switch my
bicycle mirror to the opposite side. The mechanic was wonderfully friendly and
seemed delighted to help, possibly because it was the most unusual request he’d
had all week.
My
next stop was a small shop for water. The lady behind the counter spoke English
and was curious about my travels. We chatted for a while, and as I left, she
hurried out with a packet of biscuits for me. It was such a sweet gesture that
I momentarily forgot how hot it was.
Shortly
past Serian, I found a recreational area with a glorious swimming hole. Camping
wasn’t allowed, but bungalows were available, and I was more than happy to
embrace this unexpected luxury. After a day of cycling in tropical conditions,
even a mattress felt like a five‑star experience.
At
around 20h00, I wandered to the nearby restaurant and chatted with the owners.
The temperature had dropped to a blissful 28°C—practically arctic by Borneo
standards—and it was lovely to sit outside, even with the occasional flying
insect attempting to join the conversation. Supper was nasi goreng and tea,
simple and perfect.
Then
the sky cracked open. Thunder, lightning, and rain came pelting down with the
enthusiasm of a weather system trying to prove a point. Thankfully, the
restaurant had Wi‑Fi, so I stayed put, surfing the net until the storm calmed
enough for me to dash back to my chalet without being washed away.
Biscuits
for Dinner & Rain for Dessert at Selepong (100 km)
Breakfast
was coffee and cereal mixed with Milo. By the time I loaded the bike, it was
past 9h30, and I set off into another day of oppressive heat. The sun beat down
with merciless determination, as though it had a personal vendetta against
cyclists.
The
route included a few sharp inclines, one of which forced me to walk the bike
up—an undeniable sign of how unfit I had become. Every small shop along the way
was visited to top up on water. I drank so much I’m surprised I didn’t slosh
when I moved.
Realising
I wouldn’t reach Sri Aman before sunset, I surrendered upon spotting a school
with large grounds. I pitched my tent, only to discover I had no food except
the biscuits the kind lady had given me the previous day. With no shop nearby,
the biscuits became supper. They were surprisingly satisfying, though that may
have been the hunger talking.
Mercifully,
I still had water, because the taps were dry. All stinky and sweaty, I crawled
into my tent. No sooner had I zipped it up than the rain began—proper tropical
rain, the kind that arrives with the subtlety of a waterfall. It continued all
night, but at least my tent was waterproof. Small mercies indeed.
Sri
Aman & the Tidal Bore (30 km)
I
woke early, prompted by the arrival of cars dropping off schoolchildren.
Packing up a wet tent is never pleasant, but doing so in front of an audience
of curious kids adds a certain theatrical flair. I waved goodbye and cycled the
short distance to Sri Aman.
There
was no practical reason to go there, but the promise of a shower and a plate of
mee goreng proved irresistible. Sri Aman sits on the Batang Lupar River and is famous
for the benak, or tidal bore—a wave that surges upriver from the river mouth,
filling the river in about ten minutes. The crest can reach two or three
meters, and surfers gather along the riverbank to catch it. It’s one of those
natural phenomena that sounds improbable until you see it.
At
around six o’clock, the heavens opened again, and I was grateful to be indoors,
watching the rain through the window. Once the storm passed, I returned to the
riverfront, where stalls served nasi goreng kampung. The portion was
enormous—fried rice topped with an egg, a piece of chicken, and tiny dried fish
about five centimetres long. It came with a small bowl of soup,
Betong
Detour & Ramadan Nights (81 km)
Two
more mountains loomed ahead, but the road was blessedly more level than the
previous days. Even better, a layer of cloud cover drifted in, turning the ride
from “tropical punishment” to “mildly sweaty enjoyment.” It was almost relaxed
cycling—something I hadn’t experienced since leaving Kuching.
I
hadn’t planned to turn off toward Betong, but ten kilometres past the junction
another sign appeared, and my curiosity—always stronger than my common
sense—won. I veered off.
Betong
turned out to be far more substantial than expected. It had at least three hotels,
several shops, and a vast modern sports field that looked like it had been
built for a population three times the town’s size. As I wandered around, I
received a few curious stares, the kind that suggest foreigners are rare and
possibly mythical.
Judging
by the food options, Betong had more Muslim residents than Chinese. But because
it was Ramadan, virtually all restaurants were closed during the day. The town
felt like it was collectively holding its breath until sunset. When the food
market finally opened, it burst into life with sweet treats, curry chicken,
curry fish, and all the fragrant Malay dishes that make you forget you ever
doubted your detour.
Palm
Oil and Heatstroke to Sarikei (128 km)
I
set off early, sharing the road with trucks hauling loads to palm oil mills.
The forest was slowly giving way to palm oil plantations—endless rows of
identical trees, like a botanical army standing at attention. Occasionally I
heard monkeys calling from the remaining patches of dense forest, though they
rarely showed themselves. I suspect they were watching me and judging my
cycling technique.
The
heat was ferocious. Borneo is not for people who dislike humidity; it is
humidity. The road grew hillier as the day progressed, and I had the option to
turn off toward Saratok, which I absolutely should have taken. But the map
promised a nature park a little further on, and I am easily seduced by the idea
of nature parks.
Sebangkoi
Nature Park and Resort turned out to be neglected and disappointing, the kind
of place where even the trees looked bored. I filled my water bottle and
continued toward Sarikei, chastened and very sweaty.
The
oppressive heat made the day exhausting, and Sarikei lured me in with its
promise of food and accommodation. Even by Malaysian standards, Sarawak has an
extraordinary mix of people. The largest ethnic group isn’t Chinese (26%) or
Malay (21%), but the Iban (29%), famously known as the fiercest head‑hunters in
Borneo. It’s not every day you cycle into a town where the dominant ethnic
group once specialised in collecting skulls.
The
food was equally varied—Malay, Chinese, Indian, and a wide selection of ethnic
dishes. Sarikei leaned more Chinese, judging by the stalls, and supper was a
substantial plate of Chinese noodles with a bowl of soup. Exactly what the
doctor would have ordered, had he been cycling through Borneo in blistering
heat.
Pineapples,
Pepper & Riverfront Breezes
I
decided to stay even though. Sarikei didn’t offer much in the way of
attractions; still, it was an intriguing Sarawakian town with many old Chinese
shophouses from the 1930s. The area is famous for pineapples and pepper, and
the town proudly displays a gigantic pineapple statue—because if you’re known
for pineapples, you might as well commit fully.
Sarikei
sits beside the Rajang River, where the water eventually empties into the South
China Sea. Boats operate between Sarikei, Kuching, and Sibu, and the riverfront
is the breeziest place in town. Practically everyone gathers there to chat,
snack, and enjoy the view. Naturally, I joined them, grabbing something to eat
while watching the sunset.
Ships
moving upstream were surprisingly large. I hadn’t thought the river was deep
enough for such vessels, but Borneo is full of surprises—many of them humid,
all of them interesting.
Shortcut
to Sibu (70 km)
A
second look at the map revealed a shortcut to Sibu—one of those rare moments in
travel when the universe leans over and whispers, “You don’t actually have to
suffer today.” Instead of the expected hundred‑odd kilometres, the distance
shrank to a pleasant 65 or 70, and the road was surprisingly flat. I arrived
early in Sibu feeling almost smug, as though I had outsmarted geography.
Sibu
turned out to be a remarkably modern city perched beside the mighty Rajang
River. From here, the river runs nearly 560 kilometres into the heart of
Sarawak, and it behaves like a watery highway—busy, loud, and full of purpose.
Cargo ships loaded and unloaded containers with the enthusiasm of creatures in
a feeding frenzy. Passenger boats lay three deep at the terminal, waiting to
ferry villagers upriver. Everything moved, hummed, clanked, or shouted.
Sibu
also boasts the impressive Tua Pek Kong Chinese temple, a seven‑storey pagoda
adorned with dragons and murals of the Chinese zodiac. A huge golden bowl
overflowed with incense sticks, and outside, massive joss sticks sent smoke
curling into the air. Devotees lit candles, placed fruit and flowers, and moved
quietly through the space, creating an atmosphere of peace that felt almost miraculous
given the chaos of the riverfront.
That
evening, the night market provided roti and curry sauce—simple, perfect, and
exactly what one wants after a day of cycling and temple admiration.
Markets,
Stares & Chinatown Tea
My
plan was to take a boat upriver to Kapit, a three‑hour ride into the interior.
Unfortunately, the bank was offline, and without cash, my grand upriver
adventure was postponed. The day drifted by with me going nowhere, which is a
surprisingly common travel experience.
Still,
Sibu offered plenty to explore. I spent ages wandering through its enormous
covered market, where virtually anything that could be sold was being sold.
Fish of every shape and size lay in neat piles—catfish, shrimp, and strange
shellfish that looked like props from a science‑fiction film. Live chickens
were wrapped in newspapers like oddly shaped parcels (poor things), and
slaughtered ducks lay unceremoniously nearby, which instantly killed my
appetite.
I
retreated into the zig‑zagging lanes of Chinatown, passing hardware shops,
motorcycle stores, and—tragically—no bicycle shop. Occasionally, a sidewalk
café offered green tea and shade, which felt like a small miracle.
Since
leaving Kuching, I hadn’t seen a single Westerner and stuck out like a sore
thumb. Being taller, lighter‑skinned, and curly‑haired made me impossible to
miss. People watched me with intense curiosity, as though I were a travelling
exhibit. I understood their fascination, but the constant attention was
exhausting.
Walking
through backstreets toward the night market, shop owners peered out of doorways
to inspect the foreigner wandering their neighbourhood. Children called,
“Hello, how are you?” and then dissolved into giggles. It was charming,
bewildering, and slightly overwhelming all at once.
Longhouses
& Milo Stops to Selangau (80 km)
Cycling
out of Sibu, the river was already alive with activity. Barges headed
downstream carrying enormous logs, and longboats ferried people to and from
remote riverside villages. My route passed colourful Chinese temples and
indigenous settlements where people still lived in longhouses.
Traditionally,
longhouses were built entirely of timber, but nowadays wood and brick are used.
They’re raised on stilts and divided into a communal veranda in front and a row
of private single‑room quarters behind—each with one door per family. Cooking
areas are often separate, and the whole structure feels like a blend of
practicality, tradition, and architectural charm. These villages made
convenient places to refill water bottles or enjoy a glass of iced Milo, which
is practically a religion in Sarawak.
It
was a relatively short ride to Selangau, a village along the Pan Borneo
Highway. The original settlement was near the estuary of Sungai Selangau, but
when the road was completed in the 1960s, everyone moved to the new town beside
the highway. As a result, Selangau had a few shops, a gas station, and a
market—just enough to feel like civilisation.
The
village’s remoteness made me feel like a circus act that had unexpectedly
arrived in town. People were polite and helpful, eagerly pointing me toward the
inn. After a bite to eat, I spent the afternoon luxuriating in my air‑conditioned
room. In Borneo’s heat, air‑conditioning feels like a spiritual experience.
At
sunset, villagers gathered at the river. Kids swam, adults fished, and the
whole scene felt wonderfully timeless. While taking photos, I met the local
English teacher, who told me about a similar village eighty kilometres away.
This was valuable information, as the next major town—Bintulu—was 145
kilometres from Selangau, a distance that felt heroic in the heat.
Dinner
was a local dish from a sidewalk eatery, washed down with sweet tea. I returned
to my room at the City Inn, only to discover it was a kind of brothel—complete
with sound effects. Travel is full of surprises, but some surprises are louder
than others.
Smoke,
Snakes & Tatau (85 km)
The
next day’s ride was equally enjoyable—by Borneo standards, which means the sun
was only moderately trying to kill me. A thin cloud cover offered blessed
relief, and I pedalled past enormous logging farms and tiny settlements where
villagers moved at a pace suggesting they had collectively agreed not to let
the heat rush them. Even the dogs looked too lethargic to give chase, which was
a small mercy.
Unfortunately,
the air was hazy with pollution. Oil palm companies and logging operations have
long used fire to clear land, and although it’s illegal, several companies
still do it. That year’s fires were worse due to dry conditions, and the smoke
hung over the landscape like a reminder that humans are not always the best
stewards of forests.
I
dragged my heels, knowing Tatau was barely eighty‑five kilometres away. When a
storm rolled in, I sheltered at a bus stop—one of those concrete structures
that look like they were designed by someone who had never actually seen a bus.
Luckily, tropical rain rarely lasts long, and soon I was back on the road.
Tatau
initially appeared to be nothing more than a few houses on stilts, but
mercifully there was more to the village beyond the river. As I moved further
from cities, English became scarce, and Iban was the primary language. Finding
food and lodging became a game of charades, pointing, and hopeful smiling.
Green
Toast & Log Trucks to Bintulu (60 km)
I
had a slow start, then headed downstairs for breakfast: eggs and toast. Except
the toast was green. Not mouldy—intentionally green, as though someone had
decided breakfast needed more whimsy. It came with jam, and the coffee was
sweet enough to power a small generator thanks to the condensed milk. No
complaints; extra energy is always welcome when cycling.
The
road remained hilly, and trucks hauling logs thundered past on their way to
Bintulu’s harbour. At one point, I saw a man wearing a loincloth—something not
often spotted in modern life. It was a reminder that Borneo contains
multitudes.
I
reached Bintulu and spent some time hunting for accommodation. Prices were
slightly higher here, but the Queen’s Inn offered a reasonable rate and was
conveniently located near the night market and right on the riverfront. After
lugging my bicycle and bags up near‑vertical stairs, I collapsed into the room.
The heat made me nauseous, so I stayed indoors until sunset.
Not
feeling hungry, I waited until after eight to wander to the night market. The
promenade was the perfect place to watch ships and barges carrying logs
downriver. Logging is big business in Borneo, and only when you see millions of
logs stacked along the riverbank—waiting to be shipped elsewhere—do you truly
grasp the scale of it.
Kopi,
Markets & Tribal Treasures
I
sat with a kopi (as coffee is called) and watched life unfold around me.
It was clear I needed another rest day. I spent it doing the usual chores,
exploring markets, and searching for a few essentials.
The
market was a treasure trove of intriguing items, including a tiny electric pot
that could cook small amounts of food. It was cheap, lightweight, and flimsy
enough to raise doubts about its lifespan, but I bought it anyway. The market
also displayed exotic tropical produce and beautiful tribal clothing.
Sarawak
is home to around forty ethnicities, each with its own language and customs,
making the markets endlessly fascinating. Malay, Chinese, Indian, and ethnic specialities
filled the stalls. I wondered whether I could bring myself to eat sago
worms—the larvae of the giant Capricorn beetle—considered a delicacy and high
in protein. I suspected the answer was no.
The
traditional costume of Iban women was especially impressive. The ngepan Iban
includes silver headgear, vibrant beaded collars, woven skirts, belts, corsets,
and bangles called tampa (pronounced tempo). I bought a whole set, because when
in Borneo, why not acquire ceremonial jewellery?
As
the mullah called the faithful to prayer, the heathen (me) set off toward the
night market in search of dinner. Walking through a residential area, children
called out, “What’s your name, what’s your name?” from dimly lit doorways.
Cheating slightly, I replied with any simple name that came to mind and heard
them repeating it among themselves, delighted. Too sweet.
Snakes,
Nudists & Similajau Solitude (30 km)
The
day turned out to be unexpectedly memorable. Instead of following the highway,
I took a smaller path that veered toward the coast—always a gamble,
occasionally a delight, and sometimes an invitation for strange men to expose
themselves. I’ve come to suspect it’s a behavioural quirk found in regions with
particularly unhealthy relationships between men and women. Either way, it’s
always a shock, and never the good kind.
A
sign pointed toward Similajau National Park, barely ten kilometres away. On the
way, I almost rode over a snake sunning itself on the tarmac. Fortunately, it
saw me first and slithered off with impressive speed. I missed it by
centimetres, which is exactly the distance one prefers between oneself and a snake.
The
park was wonderfully comfortable, offering chalets and two hostel buildings at
reasonable prices. Hardly anyone was around, and I had an entire four‑bed dorm
to myself. I headed straight for the South China Sea and swam in its lukewarm
waters before wandering along a forest trail. The walk was marvellous—no
people, just birds chirping and mysterious rustlings in the undergrowth. Few
things are more enjoyable than a forest hike: the thick bed of leaves
underfoot, the earthy smell of soil, and the sense that the world is quietly
getting on with things without you.
Eventually,
hunger forced me back to the canteen, where I inhaled a bowl of delicious
noodle soup.
Later,
I teamed up with three other women and rented a boat to go upriver in search of
crocodiles. We didn’t find any, but the river was magical—dead quiet, pitch
dark, lit only by fireflies. Life doesn’t get much better than drifting along a
silent river in the tropics with fireflies for company.
Oil
Palms, Snakes (Again) & Niah National Park (130 km)
I
debated staying another day, but waking to a half‑overcast sky made the
decision easy. The map showed Niah was quite far, with no kampungs in between,
so I loaded up with ample water. Breakfast at the canteen with the other ladies
delayed my departure until 09h30.
As
promised by the map, not much happened along the way—just vast expanses of oil
palm plantations. Halfway, a few food stalls appeared, and not far beyond that,
another cluster of kiosks where I refilled water bottles. Then the kilometre
markers vanished, and without an odometer, I had no idea how far I’d gone. I
refrained from asking locals, as islanders tend to measure distance in
time—“one hour by moto”—which is useless when you’re on a bicycle.
Like
the day before, I nearly ran over another snake. I only noticed it when it
lifted its head in indignation, clearly offended that I had interrupted its
journey. I shrieked, lifted my legs as high as possible, and the snake made a U‑turn
and slithered away. I also encountered a monitor lizard feasting on roadkill.
Tragically, it was so engrossed in its meal that it didn’t see a truck coming
and ran in the wrong direction. Poor thing.
Toward
the end of the day, the road dragged on endlessly. I was relieved to reach
Niah—until I discovered the park wasn’t where the map indicated but an
additional fifteen kilometres down a rural path. There was nothing to do but
put my head down and get it over with.
The
park looked lovely, but it was too late to explore. I ambled to the canteen and
devoured a plate of fried rice.
Deep
Skull & Great Cave Wonders
Yesterday’s
distance was still in my legs, so I had a leisurely start. After breakfast, I
crossed the river on foot and followed the four‑kilometre forest trail to the
Niah cave complex—an enormous system of caves famous for the discovery of the
“Deep Skull,” a 42,000‑year‑old human skull, the oldest modern human found
outside Africa.
The
first cave was Traders Cave, where nest collectors gather to sell their
harvest. Thin poles snaked up from the cave floor to the ceiling, but no one
was collecting during my visit.
Next
was the aptly named Great Cave, measuring 250 metres across the mouth and 60
metres high. The trail disappeared into pitch darkness, but dramatic beams of
light shone through overhead vents whenever the sun shifted. For thousands of
years, these caves were used as burial grounds, with bodies placed in boat‑shaped
coffins.
Bamboo
poles and ironwood ladders showed where bird’s nest collectors climb to harvest
swiftlet nests—made entirely from the birds’ salivary secretions. When cleaned
and cooked, they become the famous bird’s nest soup, prized in Chinese cuisine
as highly as caviar in the West.
Collecting
nests is dangerous work. Fatalities are not uncommon, but the price—over
US$1000 per kilo for the best quality—makes the risk worthwhile. Unfortunately,
such a valuable commodity attracts poachers, and over‑harvesting is a constant
concern. Park management monitors the caves continuously to deter illegal
collectors.
Spider
Bites & Bukit Kasut Rainstorms
Laundry
was the first order of the morning, which is always a humbling reminder that
adventure travel still involves socks. Halfway through rinsing, the camp lost
power—meaning no water. Thankfully, an outside tap still sputtered out enough
to finish the job. I wrung out my clothes, hung them up, and set off along the
Bukit Kasut Trail.
The
beginning was lovely. The trail hugged the river and wound through peat swamp
forest, making the walk soggy but pleasantly atmospheric. Wild orchids appeared
like delicate surprises, and bizarre mushrooms sprouted in shapes that
suggested nature occasionally experiments without supervision.
At
the foot of Bukit Kasut, a long wooden staircase rose steeply up the mountain.
After that came a scramble so vertical it felt like climbing a damp bookshelf.
Then the rain arrived—proper tropical rain, the kind that doesn’t fall so much
as hurl itself at you. The trail turned into a slip‑and‑slide, and I found
myself swinging from branches like a panicked monkey trying not to tumble back
down the mountain.
In
the process of grabbing for handholds, I was bitten by a spider. Twice. They
weren’t poisonous, as evidenced by the fact that I’m writing this, but
still—being bitten by a spider is never on anyone’s list of preferred holiday
activities.
Near
the top, ladders made the ascent slightly more manageable, and the final
stretch came with a rope to cling to. The summit was rumoured to offer
beautiful vistas, but with the rain pouring down, visibility was approximately
one metre. I turned around and descended mostly on my backside, carefully and
quickly, aware that it could be weeks before anyone else visited this trail.
Heat,
Tailwinds & Oil‑Rich Miri (85 km)
With
nearly all the park’s activities done, I headed toward Miri. The day began
promisingly, but soon the relentless heat returned. A slight tailwind helped
during the final stretch along the coast, which felt like cycling through a
sauna with scenic views.
Arriving
in Miri was a shock. The city was oil‑rich, modern, and full of colossal
mansions and high‑rise buildings—an architectural plot twist after the rest of
Sarawak’s modest towns. I headed straight for the old part of the city, where
things felt more authentic and less like a brochure for offshore drilling
wealth.
Shopping
Without Success
I
spent the morning wandering Miri’s streets, searching for a bicycle computer
and a lightweight tripod or gorilla pod. By the end of the day, I had purchased
several things—none of which were the items I actually needed. This is a
special talent of mine.
I
debated whether to go to Mulu. The boat upriver was far more expensive than a
flight, and I was dithering. Then I bumped into Monica and Silvia—easy to spot,
as we all stood head and shoulders above the rest of the population. They
invited me to dinner at a seafood restaurant, where we consumed more beer than
food. It was another delightful evening with two wonderfully eccentric women.
Mulu
Indecision & Ramadan Nights
My
indecision about Mulu continued, so I stayed another day. Eventually, I bought
a bicycle computer, had my bag sewn at the market, and checked flights to Mulu.
Fate intervened: the first available flight was in a week, and I wasn’t going
to linger in Miri that long.
I
resumed the hunt for a gorilla pod, convinced it was the perfect solution.
Shops sold excellent lightweight tripods, but the real question was whether I
would actually use one—take it out, unfold it, mount the camera, and then take
the shot. I suspected the answer was no.
That
evening, I sat at a pavement café with a beer and some food, listening to
mosques calling people to prayer. Ramadan was nearing its end, and people were
shopping with feverish enthusiasm. Once the sun set, fireworks lit the sky and
restaurants filled instantly.
As I
sat there, someone asked about my trip. After I explained the where, when, and
how, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “I don’t believe you.” I
couldn’t care less whether he believed me. This wasn’t the first time I’d had
such a response—apparently I don’t look the part. Hahaha.
Visa
Chaos & the Long Bus Back to Kuching (60 km + bureaucracy)
I
left Miri at 08h00, unsure whether the day would turn into a long slog or a
pleasant jaunt. It turned out to be the latter—an effortless thirty kilometres
to the Brunei border, past busy rivers and people working fields under conical
hats, looking exactly like the Southeast Asian postcards one suspects were
staged.
At
the border, officials informed me they could not issue transit visas. I would
have to return to Kuching to obtain one at the consulate. This was not the
information given by the embassy, but arguing with immigration officials is
like arguing with a brick wall—except the wall is armed and has a stamp.
Tail
between my legs, I cycled back to Miri, found a place to store my bicycle and
panniers, and boarded a night bus to Kuching.
The
fourteen‑hour bus ride was long, potholed, and occasionally airborne. The seats
were comfortable, but the road was not, and several times I felt certain I might
bounce right out of my seat and into someone’s lap.
Kuching
- Consulate Success & River Sunset
I
must have drifted into a half‑sleep, because suddenly I was in Kuching. A taxi
whisked me to the Brunei Consulate, where I filled out forms, paid the fee, and
was told to collect the visa in two days. Bureaucracy is rarely pleasant, but
at least this part went smoothly.
Beds
Guesthouse became my home again for two nights. That evening, I took a sunset
boat ride along the Sarawak River—peaceful, scenic, and a welcome reminder that
travel isn’t always about sweating, cycling, and paperwork. Dinner came from
one of the many Chinese restaurants, and as expected, it was excellent.
Cultural
Village & Lemang Fever
By
now, I had seen nearly everything Kuching had to offer. The only remaining
attraction was the cultural village, a forty‑five‑minute shuttle ride away.
Cultural villages are usually fake—tourist dioramas with suspiciously cheerful
actors—but this one was surprisingly good. The dance show was genuinely
enjoyable, and the show longhouses, though empty, were wonderfully cool inside.
Back
in town, the markets were buzzing. The next day marked the end of Ramadan, and
bazaars overflowed with people buying food, clothes, and gifts. Mobile carts
sold lemang—glutinous rice cooked with coconut milk in bamboo over an open
fire—an immensely popular treat at this time of year.
Hari
Raya Bus Crush - Kuching to
Miri (Hari Raya Aidilfitri)
I
collected my passport in the morning and boarded the night bus. It was Hari
Raya Aidilfitri, one of the most important celebrations for Muslims. Many
people return to their hometowns during this period (Balik Kampung), and the
bus was understandably crammed. We shook, rattled, and rolled through the
night, arriving in Miri at 09h30 the next day.
Backstreets
& Boiling Heat
I
headed straight to the inn where my bicycle was stored and was relieved to find
everything still in place. It was already late, so I stayed one more night.
Outside, the weather was boiling, and an air‑conditioned room felt like a
sanctuary.
A
wander through the backstreets revealed an eatery still open, frequented mostly
by villagers. It was a fascinating glimpse into local life—quiet,
unpretentious, and far more interesting than anything in the glossy part of
town.
BRUNEI
Into
Tiny, Wealthy Brunei (121 km)
Venturing
further east brought me to the Brunei border and into tiny Brunei. I say tiny
because the entire distance from the border to the ferry point for Sabah is at
most 150 kilometres—practically pocket‑sized by country standards.
Brunei
is remarkable in several ways. First, it’s a Sultanate, and an extremely
conservative one. Second, it’s wealthy—spectacularly wealthy. The Sultan of
Brunei is worth around US$22 billion, thanks to oil. Education and healthcare
are free, houses and cars are subsidised, pilgrimages to Mecca are subsidised,
and personal income tax is a mythical concept that doesn’t exist.
This
all results in a country full of fancy, fast cars. The problem is that not all
owners of fast cars are good drivers. Add alcohol to the mix—despite Brunei
being officially dry—and cycling becomes a sport requiring nerves of steel.
Judging by the number of empty beer cans along the tarmac, not everyone adheres
to the no‑alcohol rule.
A
threatening storm loomed all day but produced only a few drops. Seria, the
first town, was a convenient place to draw Brunei dollars, which seemed
suspiciously low compared to the US dollar. Back on my mobile home, I pedalled
along until reaching Tutong around 16h00, which seemed a sensible place to
overnight. The single hotel in town was hellishly expensive—but this was
Brunei.
It
was the second day of Hari Raya Aidilfitri, and everything was shut except a
tiny supermarket. I dug into my emergency food stash, grateful I occasionally
plan ahead.
Kampong
Ayer & Golden Domes - Bandar Seri Begawan (55 km)
Brunei
isn’t large, and my path soon spat me out in Bandar Seri Begawan (or simply
Bandar), the capital. En route, I stopped for a cold drink. When I tried to
pay, the owner waved me off—the drink was already paid for. This kind of
spontaneous generosity happens mostly in Muslim countries, and it never fails
to warm the heart.
In
Bandar, I hopped on a water taxi to Kampong Ayer, the sprawling stilt village
across the river. The boats—nicknamed “coffins” due to their shape and alarming
speed—zip back and forth between the city and the village. Not long ago,
Kampong Ayer was Bandar. Today, it stretches almost eight kilometres along the
Brunei River and houses around 30,000 residents. It’s a fully functioning
floating town with schools, clinics, police stations, fire brigades, and
mosques. Walkways and bridges connect everything, and wandering around was
enormous fun.
Back
on the mainland, I ambled to the Sultan Omar Ali Saifuddin Mosque. Built in
1958, it features a golden dome, Italian marble walls, and an elevator. Rumour
has it the Sultan uses tunnels beneath the mosque to move around town
discreetly. The minaret stands at 44 metres, making it the tallest building in
the city. The Islamic Bank of Brunei once tried to outdo it, but when their
building exceeded the mosque’s height, they were instructed to remove the top
storey. One does not out‑tower the Sultan.
That
evening, I boarded another coffin to glimpse the Sultan’s residence. I had
hoped to take photos, but photographing anything from a violently vibrating
boat in darkness is impossible. The palace is enormous—1,788 rooms, larger than
Buckingham Palace or the Vatican. The Sultan also owns two Boeings and 5,000
cars. Yes, five thousand. It’s not a typo.
Sabah,
Borneo
Ferries,
Motorboats & Survivor Country - Bandar →
Muara → Ferry to Pulau Labuan →
Kuala Penyu, Sabah (75 km)
A
short cycle took me to Muara, where ferries were supposed to run to Lawas. Once
there, I learned ferries only went to Pulau Labuan. Fortunately, from Labuan,
ferries and motorboats operate to various other locations.
The
ferry departed at 13h00. Inside, it resembled a submarine—tubular, enclosed,
and claustrophobic. As soon as we were underway, I hoped it had submarine‑like
stability, because the seas were rough and the boat rolled violently from side
to side. Still, it must have been fast, because we docked at Pulau Labuan an
hour later.
From
Labuan, the mainland was visible, so I took a motorboat to the tiny village of
Menumbok. My bicycle was strapped to the roof, and the boat sped across the
open sea at breakneck speed. I clung on for dear life, hoping I wouldn’t see my
bicycle floating away behind us.
Miraculously,
we arrived in Menumbok with both me and the bike intact. From there, Kuala
Penyu was barely forty kilometres away, reached via a remote part of the
country. Few people ever venture there, as the road is a dead‑end. It was so
remote that I stumbled upon the filming location of the first Survivor series.
Rain‑Locked
in Kuala Penyu
I
woke to pouring rain—the kind that doesn’t merely fall but arrives with the
enthusiasm of a marching band. Any plans to explore Tiger Island or the wetland
reserve dissolved instantly. Instead, the day became a laundry day and a day of
loitering around Kuala Penyu, which is about as thrilling as it sounds.
A
stroll to the river revealed a few restaurants serving noodle soup and sweet
tea. My arrival caused what can only be described as a small riot. People
crowded around, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the foreign woman in
their midst. I kid you not. Eating noodle soup while an entire village watches
is an experience that should be listed under “extreme sports.”
13
August – Beaufort Floodlands & Railway Dreams (40 km)
I
soon reached Beaufort. With such an English‑sounding name and a desperate need
for an ATM, I pulled in. The village was a typical jungle settlement—except it
had a railway station, which felt oddly sophisticated. Beaufort is notorious
for annual flooding, so shops and homes are built on stilts. Rows of blue, two‑storey
wooden shophouses gave the town a rustic charm.
Finding
accommodation was easy, and I spent the rest of the day lazing around. Plans to
visit the wetland reserve proved impossible, and nothing came of them. The railway
intrigued me, and I would’ve loved to take the train to the end of the line
just to see what was there, but no trains were running. Typical.
Valley
Roads to Kota Kinabalu (98 km)
None
of my plans came to anything, and every inquiry produced a different answer. I
eventually gave up and resumed my journey. The road was busy and narrow, which
made cycling feel like a game of survival.
Halfway
to Kota Kinabalu, a high mountain range loomed ahead, reminding me never to
become too blasé. Fortunately, the road followed a valley instead of climbing
the mountains, and the ride turned out beautiful—lush green farmlands, hamlets,
riverside settlements, and interesting people going about their day.
I
finally got into a rhythm: the wheels spun smoothly, making a soft whirring
sound, and the kilometres flew by. I pedalled past women carrying baskets
strapped to their backs, durian stalls, and scrawny dogs too timid to give
chase.
Intriguingly,
the route passed custom‑built concrete bird’s nest factories. Edible bird’s
nests are among the priciest animal products consumed by humans. Made of
interwoven strands of solidified saliva, they’re high in calcium, iron,
potassium, and magnesium. It’s astonishing what people will pay for when told
it’s good for them.
Eventually,
I slinked into the big, modern city of Kota Kinabalu—just KK to its friends.
Windowless
KK & Tourist Lane Misery Kota Kinabalu
I
had a slow start. The room was windowless (one of my pet hates), but the price
was right. With no real plans, I wandered around to see what KK had to offer.
The waterfront was the only part that sparked interest—fishing boats, markets,
food stalls. The rest was blazing hot and not conducive to walking.
The
bank was offline and couldn’t dispense money, which was infuriating. By
evening, instead of visiting the night market as usual, I sought out the
tourist lane—restaurants playing Western music, massive TV screens, beer,
pizza. Strangely, most patrons were locals. The foreigners were at the night
market, and the locals were at the tourist strip. I endured ear‑splitting
music, overpriced beer, and lousy food before retreating to my digs, having had
my fill of Western culture.
Island
Hopping & Wrinkled Fingers
In
the morning, I jumped on a boat to the nearby islands. Tunku Abdul Rahman
National Park consists of five islands off the coast of KK. The day was barely
long enough to explore three of them—and what a blast. I snorkelled until my
fingers and toes wrinkled. The water was lukewarm and crystal clear, the fish
colourful and plentiful. There are times I genuinely think I’m happiest in the
water.
Sadly,
the time came too soon to return. If I’d known camping was allowed on the
islands, I would’ve brought my tent.
I
spent an additional day in KK. Sadly, World War II bombs destroyed nearly all
of the city. Apart from the waterfront markets, the islands were the only real
points of interest.
Upside‑Down
Houses & Sugarcane Mercy to Kota Belud (75 km)
I
picked up my laundry, grabbed a Chinese bun and coffee, and pedalled out of
Kota Kinabalu. Just outside Tuaran stood an upside‑down house—an architectural
oddity that demanded investigation. The entire structure was inverted: tables,
chairs, beds, lamps, all hanging from the ceiling like a domestic bat colony.
Even the car was suspended from the carport roof, as though gravity had taken
the day off. It was bizarre, delightful, and a welcome distraction before the
suffering began.
Because
soon, the road became extremely mountainous. The weather was blisteringly hot,
and I crawled up the inclines at a pace that would make a tortoise impatient.
Sweat poured off me in sheets.
Then—salvation.
A vendor selling ice‑cold sugarcane juice. I approached, ready to buy one, but
the vendor waved frantically and pointed to a drink already waiting for me. An
anonymous traveller had paid for it and instructed the stall owner to flag me
down. How wonderful is that? I gulped it down, fuelled by sugar and goodwill,
and suddenly felt capable of tackling a few more hills.
The
Endless Climb to Poropok View (45 km)
Overnight,
I had a change of heart and decided to cycle over the mountains past Mt.
Kinabalu National Park. Unfortunately, I had already passed the main turn‑off,
so I took the secondary route—an innocent‑sounding phrase that in reality means
“prepare for suffering.”
The
hills were nasty. The uphill went on and on, kilometre after kilometre, and I
gasped my way up the near‑vertical gradient, drenched in perspiration and
questioning all my life choices.
Eventually,
a kind man stopped and offered me water, informing me that seven kilometres
remained to the top. Soon after, another good Samaritan stopped and offered me
a ride. I seriously considered it—my legs were staging a mutiny—but in the end,
stubbornness prevailed and I continued huffing and puffing up the mountain.
“Top
of the hill” turned out to mean the junction with the main road from KK. From
there, the going was more manageable—still uphill, still slow, but no longer
resembling a punishment devised by medieval monks.
Just
when I felt I could go no further, a settlement selling handicrafts and snacks
appeared. I asked if I could pitch my tent, and no one seemed remotely
surprised. They pointed me to a covered area with electricity, a tap, and
nearby toilets. Bliss. It rained all night, and I was immensely grateful for
the roof. I learned I wasn’t the first cyclist to camp there—three others had
done so before. Misery loves company.
Storms,
Homestays & Kinabalu Clouds (16 km)
Local
wisdom claimed a seven‑kilometre climb remained before the road levelled out.
Local wisdom was wrong. The road continued skyward, and I nearly had a humour
failure. Eventually, though, I reached the park.
Sadly,
the park’s accommodation had been handed over to a resort company that had
jacked up prices dramatically. Staying outside the park gate at a homestay was
far more reasonable, and I was thrilled to be done with the hills.
I
enquired about hiking Mt. Kinabalu, but the trek was far too complicated.
Instead, I rinsed my sweaty clothes and had a bite to eat at the adjacent
restaurant. The weather turned foul, and I was grateful to be indoors rather
than halfway up a mountain.
Kinabalu
Trails & Lucia’s Company
The
storm dissipated overnight, and I woke to clear skies and a magnificent view of
Mt. Kinabalu rising 4,101 metres above sea level. After the usual noodle soup
breakfast, I set out along one of the park’s trails. I soon met Lucia—from
Spain but living in Mozambique—and we continued together. The route was
pleasant, full of unusual plants. Afterwards, we barely had time for lunch
before Lucia had to catch her bus back to KK.
Superwoman
Downhill & Telupid Triumph (115 km)
I
flew downhill the twenty kilometres to Ranau. All I needed was a red cape and I
could’ve been Superwoman—an image that kept me giggling the entire way. I swept
past settlements clinging precariously to the mountainside, each house with its
patch of land forming a pretty mosaic of lines and colours. The jagged peaks of
Mt. Kinabalu slowly faded behind me.
Soon,
the road began snaking up yet another mountain, and it continued in that vein
for the rest of the day. There’s not much one can do except put your head down
and get on with it. The weather was sweltering, and water became the biggest
challenge. I stopped at every conceivable watering hole to refill my bottles.
For
reasons unknown even to myself, I had my eye set on Telupid—almost 120
kilometres from Mt. Kinabalu. Determined, I tackled hill after hill, and the
kilometres slowly ticked down. My mood lifted when a signboard announced four
kilometres to Telupid. I was nearly there.
At
the same moment, a significant climb appeared. Bloody hell. Thankfully, so did
a sign for the Golden Star Hotel. I decided instantly that the remaining
distance could wait until morning.
The
hotel was unusual—relatively new, and everything worked. The air‑con was icy
cold, the shower warm, the bed firm. Heaven. The downstairs restaurant was
popular despite the remote location.
By
evening, I sat on the veranda with a beer, watching large trucks battle up the
hill in dreadful weather. I had the distinct feeling the staff drew straws to
decide who would serve the foreigner. A fair amount of giggling occurred before
one shyly emerged, pointing to her mouth to ask what I wanted to eat. I was
perfectly content with a massive plate of fried rice.
Later,
I giggled again as I crawled into bed, listening to the rain pour down as only
tropical rain can.
Heat,
Trucks & “Another One Down” (80 km)
I
couldn’t pretend to be refreshed as I tackled the first hill of the day. My
legs felt like damp rope, and lethargy clung to me like a second skin. No
sooner had the road cleared one mountain than it headed straight over another.
Up and down it went, past oil palm plantation after oil palm plantation, all
under the day’s scorching heat.
The
ride was exhausting—not just physically, but mentally. I had to keep my eyes
glued to the rear‑view mirror to spot trucks barreling up behind me. More than
once, I had to fling myself off the tarmac because there simply wasn’t enough
space for me and two trucks. The kilometres passed painfully slowly, and each
time I saw a signboard, the phrase “another one down, another one down” popped
into my head. It drove me absolutely bonkers. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t
shake it. “Another one down, another one down.”
Then
came the day’s biggest surprise. Ahead, a line of traffic stretched over the
hill and into the distance—completely stationary. At first, I assumed it was
due to road maintenance, which seemed to be a permanent feature of Sabah. I
tried weaving through the jam, but trenches dug alongside the road left barely
enough room for two cars, let alone two trucks and one sweaty cyclist.
I
pulled off at a street trader, who informed me there had been an accident
ahead—and that a guesthouse and restaurant lay just 500 metres further on. How
lucky can one be? “Another one down, another one down.”
Traffic
Terror & Hammock Heaven (30 km)
The
traffic was no better the next day. The ride was physically and mentally
draining—I was off the tarmac more than on it. Trucks flew by in both
directions, making cycling feel like a dangerous hobby best left to people with
better insurance.
Thirty
kilometres later, I reached the turn‑off to the Sepilok Orang‑Utan Centre and
felt immense relief to leave the main road behind.
Various
accommodation options lay beyond the turn‑off, including the popular Uncle
Tan’s. I needed no second invitation. I off‑loaded the bicycle and was soon
swinging in a hammock under a colossal mango tree, utterly exhausted. The
bungalow was pricey, but the rate included three meals—a blessing, as there
were no shops nearby.
The
following day, I visited the orangutan centre and spent the rest of the day at
leisure. Uncle Tan’s was perfect for unwinding, with its jungle setting, open
space, and hammocks that practically begged you to stay another day.
Kinabatangan
Wildlife Cruise -– Orangutans at Last
A
boat trip up the Kinabatangan River was a novel way to see Sabah’s famous rainforest.
The river is the longest in the state, beginning high in the Crocker Range and
flowing 560 kilometres to the Sulu Sea. First came a mini‑bus ride to the
river, then an hour by boat to our jungle camp.
By
late afternoon, we were out on the river searching for wildlife. We saw plenty
of monkeys settling into treetops for the night, along with crocodiles and
monitor lizards. Birdlife was abundant—eagles, owls, hornbills, kingfishers,
and many others whose names I didn’t know.
The
jungle camp consisted of half‑open structures with mattresses on the floor and
much‑needed mosquito nets. The night was noisy—monkeys, frogs, and countless
unidentifiable sounds. Toilets were miles away and not somewhere one wanted to
visit in the dark.
Early
the next morning, we were out again searching for orangutans. We didn’t find
any, but saw numerous birds, a few crocodiles, and plenty of monkeys. After
breakfast, we hiked through the jungle, spotting tiny insects and unusual
plants. By evening, we returned to the river. Even though we didn’t see much,
it remained a pleasant outing. Later, wearing wellies, we ventured into swampy
wetlands and uncovered intriguing insects and birds—mostly fast asleep.
On
our final day, we took one more boat trip—and finally spotted orangutans calmly
going about their business while we stared in awe. Then, sadly, it was time to
return to civilisation.
I
stayed one more night at Uncle Tan’s. It was a highly convenient, swing‑another‑day‑in‑a‑hammock
kind of place.
Water
Villages & Sandakan Arrival (35 km)
The
busy main road led me toward Sandakan and past the water village of Kampung
Buli Sim‑Sim. This village was the nucleus around which Sandakan expanded in
the nineteenth century. It was a fascinating world, and villagers found me as
curious as I found them. “Farang, farang!” the children shouted before running
for their lives. (Farang being the Thai word for someone of European ancestry.)
Once
in Sandakan, I inquired about the ferry to Zamboanga City on Mindanao
Island—the southernmost island of the Philippines. No one could tell me when or
from where it sailed.
I
suspected the lack of knowledge stemmed from Mindanao’s reputation as one of
the Philippines’ most dangerous islands. Kidnappings were not uncommon, and
several foreigners had been captured in Zamboanga City. This was not a place
where one wanted to be mistaken for a journalist. The island’s Muslim
population (the Moros) had long sought autonomy, and since the Maguindanao
massacre in 2009—when 57 civilians, including four journalists, were
killed—Mindanao ranked second only to Iraq as the deadliest place for
journalists. An attack even occurred during my visit, leaving many dead and
resulting in a tense hostage crisis—more about that in the next post.
Eventually,
I cycled to the ferry port and learned the ferry only sailed on Tuesdays. I
wished it were the next day, but there was nothing to do but wait five days. I
found a bed at Sandakan Backpackers and wondered how on earth I’d pass the
time.
“Merdeka,
Merdeka, Merdeka.” The next day was Hari Kemerdekaan, Malaysia’s Independence
Day. The town was alive with food stalls, balloons, jumping castles, and
parades. The waterfront was packed with people sipping noodle soup and drinking
tea. I didn’t feel uncomfortable taking photos—thousands of photos must have
been taken of me.
The
following day, Independence Day celebrations continued. Having had enough of
crowds, I wandered back to Kampung Buli Sim‑Sim. The water village was well
organised, and it was fun meandering along wooden walkways. Kids ran up wanting
their pictures taken. Every so often, I heard “Welcome to Sim‑Sim” from inside
the houses. I felt oddly at home.
The
Sunday market was fascinating—selling everything from clothing to food to pets.
The
next day, I bought my ferry ticket—and had to buy a return ticket, as the
Philippines required proof of onward travel. It was costly, but less
troublesome than flying.
Ferry
Chaos & Fluorescent Nights to Zamboanga City
At
last, the third arrived. Although the ticket stated a 16h00 departure, we were
told to board at 18h00. Shortly before leaving, the rain bucketed down. The
last thing I wanted was to cycle eight kilometres to the ferry in pouring rain.
Luckily, tropical rain comes hard and fast, and soon cleared.
The
port was a madhouse—people, trucks, buses, minivans. Once aboard, I discovered
double bunk beds on the deck (better than sleeping on the floor). My bed was
No. 317—and that was only on Deck 1. People kept pouring in, and it was common
for two or more passengers to have the same bunk number.
We
finally departed after 22h00. The tiny canteen was jam‑packed and hardly worth
the wait. The bunks were crammed together, and the night was noisy—snoring,
coughing, burping, farting, all under blazing fluorescent lights. Eventually, I
fell asleep.
Zamboanga
Arrival & Midnight Hotel Hunt – Zamboanga City, Mindanao, Philippines
I
woke to more chattering, coughing, burping, farting, and radios blaring. The
vessel crawled along at a snail’s pace—engine problems, apparently.
Being
the sole foreigner aboard, I attracted plenty of attention. People gathered at
the end of my bunk, staring motionlessly. Fortunately, the ladies beside me
took it upon themselves to protect me, telling onlookers when it was time to
leave. Perfect—someone was always available to watch my belongings.
Hours
passed. The sun sank below the horizon. Still no land in sight. I sat on deck
watching Muslims perform evening prayers to the soothing sounds of an impromptu
mullah—calming and peaceful against the vibrant sunset.
We
docked around 21h00, but didn’t disembark until after 23h00. Everyone wanted
off first. Passengers then had to wait for transportation to immigration.
Meanwhile, kids hopped aboard, scavenging for anything—unattended luggage,
leftover food. They moved like monkeys, scaling the ferry’s sides with
astonishing speed. Security had no chance of catching them.
Immigration
was chaos. The queue snaked across the building. People pushed and shoved,
though it achieved nothing. The room was stuffy and hot, sweat pouring down
faces. People fanned themselves with passports—uselessly.
By
the time I was done, it was far too late to search for accommodation—especially
given the island’s reputation. I followed deserted streets by headlamp, passing
only a few homeless people. The first two hotels were full, the third too
expensive. The fourth was perfect. I closed the door at 1h30 a.m., utterly
spent.
EPILOGUE
Borneo
was a long, hot, hilly lesson in human generosity and geographical mischief. It
gave me rivers at dusk, jungle trails at dawn, strangers who waved me onward,
and landscapes that made every kilometre feel earned. I left sunburnt, bitten,
stared at, occasionally bewildered—and grateful.
The
kilometres were long. The days were hot. The journey was unforgettable.
