In the carpeted, air-conditioned comfort of the arrivals lounge, Fleur, Ron, Cees, Bruce and I reassembled our bikes and secretly congratulated our selves on having moved self and stuff so far without damage or discomfort.  Even our time zone remained unchanged.

All Singapore’s populace of three million emerged for our ride into the afternoon peak hour traffic, but the local drivers sensed our confusion and were tolerant.  With the country’s total area a mere 646 square kilometres, we must have seen nearly everybody by the time we’d passed through Queenstown, mended Bruce’s first puncture and reached the Johor Bharu Causeway. 

The pedestrian lane through Immigration looked our best bet, but no;  we were instructed to join a noisy column of thousands of motorcycles extending back further than our horizon;  motorcyclists crushed in six abreast and barely moving were enveloped in a filthy two stroke exhaust haze which hung motionless in the still, humid air.  These Malaysian riders endure this suffocating, eye stinging discomfort 12 times a week in order to work in tiny Singapore’s juggernaut economy. 

After several attempts to find a better way, each frustrated by one particularly officious policeman, we broke into a car lane and found ourselves referred to an obliging senior immigration officer.  We completed the usual border crossing formalities and pushed off into the evening darkness for a bewildering ride without headlights through chaotic Johor traffic.  We were in the Federation of Malaysia. 

Several decades of sustained economic growth and political stability have made Malaysia one of the buoyant and wealthy countries of the region, recovering well after the recent economic downturn in Asia.  The political power of the Malays and the economic influence of the Chinese continue to be divided along racial lines.

Like Australia, Malaysia’s population numbers about 21 million people.  Over half are Malay and indigenous groups, one quarter Chinese, and the remainder Indian and others.  None of us spoke Bahasa Malaysia or any Chinese dialects but we usually made ourselves understood.  Occasionally Cees was able to communicate with people of Indonesian connection using Dutch.

Cees was our first to be propositioned by one of the local ladies, but he would be, wouldn’t he?  We settled on the Johor Gateway Hotel for the night, where the lift was big enough to take one bike at a time, provided it was stood with the front wheel pointing heavenwards.



Our night’s sleep would have been bliss had it not been for the rowdy party outside, which Bruce eventually identified as his radio in the pannier at the foot of his bed.  And the party really boomed when he hit the wrong knob and it rose to full volume.



But Bruce is hard of hearing so it wasn’t too upsetting for him.  And while he was up he turned down the air-conditioning because he was cold.  It took the rest of us quite a while to determine the cause of our sticky discomfort.

 We were no fools on the first of April.  We rose early, set up our bikes in front of a fascinated crowd, had our first breakfast of local fare and followed Fleur northwards.  Fleur, by this time, had established herself as popular leader, and she was heading for Kota Tinggi. 

Our morning pit stop gave Bruce an opportunity to spread some of the abundant good will we had brought to Malaysia, including his gift of a little koala to one of the local children.  There were quickly two other deserving children on the scene, and then several more, and soon all Bruce's dozen koalas were spreading good will on our first day.  The village was overflowing with good will when we left.

By mid morning we had seen no other cycling enthusiasts so it came as quite a surprise to be caught by a group of Singaporean cyclists, among whom were several Bike E riders.  They and their bikes were beautifully turned out for a training run to Kota Tinggi in preparation for a charity ride.

Kota Tinggi Waterfalls Resort proved to be a bit of a disappointment in that it was just a pleasant place to have dinner by a waterfall and to spend the night.  It was anything but spectacular and proved to add a most inconvenient 15 or so kilometres to our long ride on the following day.

On 2 April we started early back to Kota Tinggi and then northward to Mersing.  This leg proved to be our hardest, with 130 km of mostly undulating jungle countryside and an extremely hot afternoon.  The rubber plantations and road smart monkeys were fascinating, but the last 50 km had us stopping for a rest every 10 km.  Nevertheless we made it to Mersing and the old Embassy Hotel.  Mersing is the main town on the south-east coast of Peninsular Malaysia and is the base for a large fishing industry.  In recent years it has become the principal mainland connection for the tourist industry of Pulau Tioman in the Seribuat Archipelago.  Mersing also has a dhobi house where Bruce charmed the old lady into mending his torn trousers when she did his washing.

Because of its two volcanic peaks, its soft sand, swaying palms, and vibrant profusion of tropical wildflowers, an early Malaysian legend claims Pulau Tioman to be a transformed dragon princess.  Apparently the beautiful princess stopped en route to Singapore from China to admire the charms of this spot.  So enraptured was she that she decided to discontinue her journey, take the form of an island, and remain there as a place of shelter and comfort to passing travellers.  Tioman was the location for the film version of the musical ‘South Pacific’;  it is Bali Hai.

We had earned a rest day and spent 3 April wandering around Mersing’s early morning fish markets, watching the impeccably uniformed Muslim children swarm home from school, and catching up on e-mail in the local internet cafe using the slowest imaginable computers.  By now we were out of range of Singapore’s TV and radio, and were left with local programs of endless boredom.  Malaysia is a constitutional monarchy with pictures of the King and his Queen displayed prominently in every reception area.  The Prime Minister Dr. Mahathir bin Mohamad, however, dominates the TV news, radio news and newspapers, and his deputy Abdullah bin Ahmad Badawi.

The glorious beaches were a frequent reminder of Malaysia’s vast tourist potential.  With mysterious islands immediately offshore, coconut palms, white sand and beginners’ surf, the setting is ripe for Mr Hilton to clean up the rubbish, close down the quarries and build his hotels.  Malaysia’s famous turtles would have to be better trained though because they didn’t show up for us.

Remembering what a good read the Straights Times used to be, I was very disappointed to find that the Malaysian equivalent, the New Straights Times, was no better than my community newspaper at home, and Australia just didn’t get a mention.  Perhaps Dr Mahathir is editor.

An early start on 4 April gave us plenty of time for Bruce’s second puncture repair and a fast run to Endau.  Here we had a pork soup and rice breakfast while Fleur’s rear wheel was repaired.  Our hilly road continued through lush jungle and over wide rivers, all so different from our parched WA and its record dry spell.  The last 20 km to Rompin flattened out and we made good time to the Rompin Beach Resort and its superb swimming pool.  Rompin town had little to offer other than good campong food.

Whilst dining in Rompin that night, we met a Kiwi couple who were riding a tandem through to China.  We met them again the next day when they caught us at a roadside cafe and joined us for breakfast.  Bruce, Cees and I set a cracking pace to outrun the tandem riders, and the overcast weather and smooth, flat road enabled us to cover 20 or so kilometres before they overtook us.  Why do recumbent riders have this proud, sneaky streak?

In Pekan we were flagged down by a local who led us to our best accommodation of the tour, the Sultan’s Guest House.  The building’s high ceiling fans, wide timber plank walls and louvered veranda windows are in the tradition of the British raj.  Formerly his polo clubhouse, the Sultan uses it now for accommodating his personal and paying guests.  The local turned out to be the manager, and he was happy to do our washing. 

Pekan, a clean and tidy royal town, is of little interest other than for the Abu Bakar Palace and the Sultan’s grounds and stables.  The business district has a one-way traffic system designed to frustrate the visitor.

Our pre-dawn starts and the flat roads north of Rompin enabled us to reach our destinations before the intense afternoon sun slowed everything down.  North of Pekan on our way to Kota Cherating we stopped for particularly good pancakes and curry sauce at one of the remote roadside stalls.  We never did establish how to identify from the road which roadside cafes had good (or any) food, and whether they would charge us the price for locals or add a few ringgits to the bill for us rich tourists.  The food rarely disappointed though, and it was surprising how little we ate considering the energy we expended.

Navigating the busy city of Kuantan was not easy.  Here we saw the first collision caused by drivers paying more attention to us than to their driving.  Ironically, their acute interest in us served also to protect us.  Drivers generally bipped their horns in greeting and gave us a wide berth.  Bus drivers would slow down to drive abreast of us and wave through the passenger door. 

As we passed through an industrial town north of Kuantan where workers were streaming out of a factory gate, a car hit a motorcyclist from behind.  The rider was catapulted ten metres forward and onto his head.  Both driver and rider had been distracted by us.

My impression of Kota Cherating, our next stop, was that of a downmarket beach bungalow village which based its inflated accommodation charges on the exquisite location.  Our charming palm leaf hut proved to be poorly lit, badly plumbed, dirty and cooled by a noisy, inefficient air conditioner.  It was comforting to be able to slip into the lightweight sleeping bags we carried, and sleep on our own pillows rather than have to use the bed linen provided. 

Before dawn on 7 April we had barely left the village when Bruce had his third puncture to fix.  We continued for just a few kilometres before stopping again to make a brew.  The early morning traffic had became too menacing in the darkness on this narrow, winding road so we waited for sunrise before continuing on to Koala Dungun. 

It was during this leg that Ron and Fleur told us of their intention to turn back.  The fresh forest surroundings of the morning changed to vast oil refineries and huge industrial sites in the afternoon.  The last 25 km, with roadworks and yet another accident caused by careless drivers peering at us, probably served to re-enforce their decision. 

The Sri Dungun hotel in the old part of town was adequate, and happy to have us stow our bikes up stairs.  The fridge held an abundance of drinking water but none of the bottles were sealed;  obviously filled from the local water supply.  We drank the water in the better hotels, but generally we bought bottled water.  After all, we had been travelling a week now without sickness and had eaten all the local food. 

On 8 April, a short and pleasant 85 km ride through glorious coastal scenery brought us to Kuala Terengganu and the Seri Indoh hotel.  On the way we stopped for a refreshing surf, but the charm of the deserted beach, coconut palms and white sand was marred by litter.  The hotel’s big pool was perfect.

The following morning Cees, Bruce and I bid farewell to Ron and Fleur and set out for Permaisuri, about 90 km up the coast.  On the way we rode into the grounds of a magnificent mosque and, apparently without attracting any hostile attention, slipped off our sandals, washed ourselves and roamed freely within the building.  We climbed several flights of stairs and walked around the marble floored galleries.  From here we overlooked the main centre of worship on the inside and the extensive gardens on the outside.  Above us was the huge central dome.  Only later did we realise that our lack of leg cover could have caused offence.

The road was flat and quiet with forest and beach scenery and the occasional small campong with children calling ‘hello’, over and over.  Goats along the road verge seemed more common the further north we travelled.  Most wore some form of collar so they were obviously domesticated.  Large Lizards, nearly two metres long, sun baked on the hot road, and herds of cattle wandered across our path leaving sloppy mounds to dodge. 

Cees had seen worse hotels in Cuba, but Permaisuri boasts the most awful hotel I have ever used.  This was one occasion where to drink the local water or not was an easy decision.  A short walk away lay a vast derelict park in a cleared jungle setting, straddling the river and immediately behind the town markets.  Paved pathways, suspension bridges and elegant flights of steps led up to pergolas offering shelter and views of the lush countryside.  This neglected gem of town planning had become a home to grazing cattle and a resting place for tired recumbent cyclists.

A local school soccer match provided good afternoon entertainment, despite the intense sun and extreme humidity.  Next morning, 10 April, we loaded our bikes, carried them down a long flight of stairs and departed well before sunrise without disturbing the night porter.  He was still asleep on the battered reception lounge, watched over by framed portraits of his King and Queen.

On 10 April en route to Kota Bharu we saw our first rice paddy fields as Highway 3 took us away from the coast and through more advanced towns and villages.  We missed our mid morning surfing break but there were plenty of roadside stalls and shops for drinks and snacks.  Bruce’s wife, Morven has lived in Kota Bharu so we knew where to look for a hotel.  Fortunately the Kenkana Inn was convenient and comfortable because we stayed there five nights.

It had been our intention to ride up to two hundred kilometres into Thailand but recent unrest near the southern border, and advice from radio sources and our Chinese hotel manager, suggested that this would be foolhardy.  Instead we had a good look around Kota Bharu and ate well in what is reputed to be the country’s best night market.  Nevertheless Bruce led us on several wicked forays to KFC and A&W for decadent western food and root beer.

We spent a morning at the batik factory in Kota Bharu.  The manager showed us the process of printing silk, and then we kept the whole workforce idle for quite some time while they stood around our bikes chatting with us.  Cees doubled a lady side-saddle up the road, much to the amusement of the other women.  Sari clad Malaysian women are adept at maintaining their modesty whilst perched precariously on a motorcycle pillion seat.

The three of us rode to Sungai Ko-lok, on the border, to have our passports stamped;  a round trip of about 110 km.  It was so easy riding unencumbered by panniers (with our luggage in the hotel) and we had the cooling shade of trees lining both sides of the road for much of the way. 

My first impression of Thailand was the huge disparity in prices for local foodstuffs.  Fruit and vegetables were a fraction of Malaysian prices.  Living standards were obviously lower, and public facilities appeared considerably inferior;  but the people loved us and there was the same constant greeting and interest in our bikes. 

During our return to Kota Bharu we stopped to sample slices of pineapple offered at roadside stalls.  It became obvious that we were the first customers to want only the sample slices and not whole pineapples.  The ladies got the idea eventually and kept putting slices into our mouths until we had had our fill;  all for one ringgit each.

The trees on the other side of the road shaded us back to Kota Bharu.  Cees booked his passage on the jungle train, bought a rucksack and departed early the following morning.  Bruce and I chose to see more of the local area and have some rest.  We rode to Pantai Cahaya Bulan (PCB), a rather jaded resort on the northeast stretch of the Kelantan coastline, about 10 km away.  This perfect beach is shaded by tall casuarina trees;  too bad about the litter.  The road to PCB is dotted with interesting cottage industries including batik printing, songket weaving and kite making.

E-mail from Fleur said that they were on Pulau Tioman on their way back to Singapore and all was well with them.  Our hotel manager said how fortunate we were to be in Kota Bharu for the international bird singing contest to be held about 100 metres from the hotel and commencing early tomorrow morning. 

Knowing that birds sing their best in the early morning, Bruce and I wandered down there at about 0600.  The site was deserted so we continued on to a Chinese breakfast of soup, oblivious of the fact that it was Good Friday.  Over two thirds of the world population of Muslims live in Asia.  They pray five times a day facing Mecca;  at sunrise, noon, mid afternoon, sundown and before bed time.  Two prayers are said during the night too, making a total of seven prayers each day.  There are few reminders of Christianity in Malaysia.

By 0900 the bird fanciers were starting to arrive, mostly on motor bikes and holding bird cages to the side in their left hand.  The cages were shrouded (it was not yet dawn for the birds inside).  But there had been a misunderstanding:  this was just the weekly meeting, not the annual international contest.  The birds did sing sweetly but they didn’t keep our interest for long.  We went back to the hotel to read the New Straights Times and more of Dr. Mahathir.

The Kota Bharu tourist office never opens.  Five attempts we made to get tourist information, and we nearly succeeded once when we pushed on the huge wooden doors and they opened, but there was nobody there.  They must save a fortune on salary, stationery and cleaning.

Our first return leg was a 122 km ride to the village of Penark (not on the map) where we stayed in an exorbitantly expensive thatched coconut leaf hut near the water.  One day Mr Hilton will have this site too;  another perfect setting with the ubiquitous turquoise sea, offshore islands, coconut palms and soft white sand.

With only 67 km to ride down the coast road to Kuala Terengganu, we reached the Seri Indoh hotel by lunch time;  the same hotel, same room, same pool, and loving it. 

Fundamentalist Muslim influence is strongest in the state of Terengganu, and it is here that the move towards enacting traditional Muslim law in Malaysia is most advanced.  If it were to be enacted in Terengganu, my reading of the New Straights Times suggests that the Malaysian Government would prevent it being exercised.

I am reading Bruce’s copy of ‘Johnny Ginger’s Last Ride’ by Tom Fremantle.  The city of Fremantle was named after Tom’s Royal Navy ancestor.  Tom’s book is an account of his solo bicycle ride from Swanbourne England to Swanbourne Australia.  It begs, for me, the question of how this Malaysian trip would be travelling solo.  I think I prefer company.

We started for Kuala Dungun at 0610, before dawn and with the muezzins’ morning adhan (call to prayers) coming from several directions.  This monotonous yodel from mosque minarets is a constant reminder that one is in a muslim country.  A cynic might suggest that these calls are recordings, but all seem different, and occasionally the muezzin can be heard clearing his throat or coughing.  (I suppose that could have been recorded too.) 

By late morning we had reached the outskirts of Kuala Dungun and were having a long drink of iced coconut milk from a street vendor.  The Sri Dungun Hotel was only a few kilometres further on so we were soon settled in and having an afternoon rest.  In the cool of the evening we walked around the wharfs speaking to the fishermen, inspecting their boats and admiring the magnificent river. 

Chinese restaurants become rare towards the north of Malaysia, but by Kuala Dungun there is usually one to be found.  That night my Chinese pork in a clay pot was a delicious change to the nasi ayam (chicken and rice) I’d become so accustomed to.

The 108 km leg to Cheraton the following day was marred by heavy traffic, but by mid afternoon we were resting in our palm leaf hut.  The morning swim at yet another perfect beach en route, the evening walk around the village, and Cees’ home made pancakes compensated for most of the filthy diesel trucks that had tormented us earlier.

We departed Cheraton on 19 April at 0650, late enough to ensure that Bruce’s next puncture was repaired in daylight, just a few kilometres down the road.  Cees had a puncture too, nevertheless we had a fast and interesting 103 km ride down to Pekan.  Breakfast consisted of more pancakes, but these were the local variety smothered in a tasty curry sauce.  Our dining table overlooked a picturesque beach, but not even Cees was game to swim in the dirty water.

While passing through Kuantan we met a rare local cyclist, complete with lycra outfit and aluminium frame, who led us to the coast road.  There was no traffic, just delightful beach scenery and more goats, buffalos and monitors.  I must admit though that, by now, I was getting tired of waving constantly to village children (and their parents) calling ‘hello’.

The Sultan’s Guest House made Pekan a welcome stop.  I’d been denied cash from several auto tellers at earlier stops and by now was owing everybody money.  So I was somewhat alarmed when the Pekan bank machine also refused to pay me;  twice it said no.  Frightened of having my card gobbled at the next attempt, I asked a teller to pay me over the counter.  When she read my auto teller transaction slips she said that the bank would be unable to assist.  Islamic culture makes it difficult for a woman to argue with a man so I was quickly referred to the male manager.  He told the teller to accompany me back to the auto teller for another try.  I went through the process once again while she looked over my shoulder, and out came my money.  Her sweet smile was worth all the inconvenience.

We were packed and departing Pekan for Rompin by the first adhan.  While riding past what appeared to be a huge fish farm, our bikes spooked a herd of roadside cattle.  These lumbering animals ran beside us for several hundred metres at an incredible 25 kph. 

That day Bruce warned us that he intended to fly home as soon as we reached Singapore in order to have some rest before returning to work.  Cees and I decided to spend a few days in Singapore.

The Beach Resort manager in Pekan gave us an enthusiastic welcome, and was no match for Cees and Bruce together beating him down on the room price.  He didn’t have much choice though because we were the only guests in his 46 room luxury resort.  (A few locals arrived that evening and it would be interesting to know what they paid.)  The huge pool was over hot, but we were refreshed after an hour’s soak and rode the few kilometres into Pekan for dinner and more delicious iced coconut milk.

A pre dawn start got us well down the road before Bruce’s last puncture.  We’d forgotten how many hills there were on this section and had maintained a very fast pace.  We’d also misjudged a stopping place for breakfast.  There were no food stalls and I was running low on water.  Eventually we found a snack of campong specialities wrapped in palm leaf, and some water. 

With all this mismanagement we still made Mersing by late morning.  On our way to the ferry terminal a newspaper reporter who wanted photos and a story stopped us.  He assured us that the boat followed Malaysian time and that we should spare him ten minutes or so.  We did, and he turned out to be most helpful in getting us and our gear on board with several minutes to spare.  Connections were good and by early evening we had passed through Singapore customs.

  Changi Airport Terminal Nº1 marked the end of our odyssey.  The three of us drank Starbucks coffee with a club sandwich, prepared our bikes for flight, and parted.  Bruce took the next plane home, and Cees and I went to our hotel.  Where were Ron and Fleur?

   PS

Whilst Bruce was back home, and Cees and I were in Singapore, Ron and Fleur caught the Indian Pacific to Coolgardie and rode their bikes back to Chittering Valley.

End

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Last Updated - 11 Jan 2004.