Malaysia
Culinary Adventures, Unexpected Plunges and a Day in the Mosque
In Malaysia, we experience a fascinating
Table of Content
- Fried Prawns and Raw Turnip Pancakes
- A Twilight Plunge
- Malaysian Curiosity and a Birthday in Georgetown
- Culinary Delights at the Chinese Buffet
- When Plans Go Awry, Adventures Begin
- Life’s Surprises – The Most Treasured Experiences
- Sisterhood in the Mosque – Warmth, Hospitality and Shackles
- The Muslim Festival of Sacrifice Eid al Adha
- An Encounter with Indigenous People
- Two Megacities in One Week
Fried Prawns and Raw Turnip Pancakes
Malaysia welcomes us with a steep climb through the dense jungle. At temperatures hovering around 30°C and humidity nearing 100%, our t-shirts cling to us like a second, sweat-soaked skin within minutes. Monkeys leap through the lush green curtain of tropical trees, bushes, and grasses along the roadside. The chirping of birds echoes through the rainforest.
Reaching the first major town, Kangar, we pick up a SIM card, withdraw cash, and sample some new food. As we ride on, the landscape changes. We opt for narrow farm tracks through the rice fields to avoid the busy main road. For the first time in Southeast Asia, we spot more cars than scooters!
After what feels like an eternity in the tropical wilderness, we finally spot a small cluster of wooden huts. It turns out to be a collection of food stalls with plenty of tables and chairs right by the sea, overlooking the muddy tidal flats. Nearly every table is taken. We’re amazed by the cultural mix: groups of Muslims in traditional long-sleeved robes and hijabs sit next to Chinese Malaysians in t-shirts and shorts. Everyone smiles at us with friendly curiosity.
When a plate of fried prawns arrives alongside our iced tea—on the house—we’re completely taken aback. We hadn’t expected such generosity on our very first day in Malaysia! Joel orders something from a nearby stall that looks suspiciously like a pancake drizzled with chocolate sauce. Turns out it’s actually a raw slice of turnip with hoisin sauce and peanuts. Interesting, but… not exactly a new favourite.
A Twilight Plunge
The plan for the night? Pitch our tent along one of the many little paths cutting through the rice fields. However, our timing is nothing short of disastrous. Thanks to the time difference, we’ve lost an hour, and dusk is already setting in. We find ourselves in the heart of Alor Setar, a bustling city of 370,000 people. As the crimson sky darkens, I grumble inwardly, “Joel planned today’s route—why didn’t we just stop before the city?” I start nagging.
Joel, ever the navigator, leads us through a residential area with narrow, winding streets. Suddenly, our path is blocked by a one-metre-wide canal filled with foul-smelling black water. A makeshift bridge of two wooden planks is the only way across. Just as I brace myself to turn back, Joel takes the plunge—literally. He pushes his bike onto the planks, wobbles for half a second, and then… SPLASH! Both he and the bike tumble straight into the murky depths.
Shocked, I drop my bike and rush to help. Thankfully, the water isn’t deep, reaching only up to Joel’s knees. “Are you hurt?” I ask, worried. Dripping with sewage, Joel fumbles with his panniers and glares at me. “This is all your fault!!,” he snaps, hurling the bags in my direction. I barely manage to catch them and set them down by the roadside.
By now, the neighbours have gathered to witness the spectacle of a hapless tourist submerged in their local drainage system. Several kind souls help Joel and his bike out of the sludge, while an elderly woman arrives with a bucket of water and paper towels. We must look ridiculous. Still bickering, we inspect the damage and thank the lady. No one speaks English, but their kindness speaks volumes. Joel appears unharmed—just incredibly filthy and smelling like a sewage plant.
The kind neighbour offers Joel the use of her bathroom. Meanwhile, I resign myself to tossing out nearly half our food supplies—everything inside the panniers is coated in the vile gunk. When Joel emerges, barely cleaned but still grumpy, he curtly thanks everyone and attempts to pedal away.
A young man who’s been observing the chaos asks in English: “Where are you going to stay?” Joel shrugs. “Oh, we’ll find something,” and off he goes. I scramble to catch up. He rides on in silence, while I follow the dim glow of my bike light—the only beacon in the pitch-dark streets. “Shouldn’t we stop and look for a hotel?” I suggest. “No way,” Joel snaps. “You said we need to camp to save money, so camp we shall.” Sheepishly, I reply, “Yeah, but that was before your little adventure. Things have changed, haven’t they?”
About 20 minutes later—now well outside the city—I spot a grassy patch between the trees, just big enough for our tent. We stop, make peace, and share the few snacks we managed to salvage. As the distant call to prayer echoes from the city, we’re just relieved to have made it out in one piece.
Malaysian Curiosity and a Birthday in Georgetown
To our delight, the next morning we find a roadside stall offering a variety of breakfast treats—sweet and savoury pastries, rice noodles, and fried dumplings. As we sit down to eat, a man at the next table offers to pay our bill. While we appreciate the kindness, we’re relieved to have already settled it ourselves; accepting constant generosity from people with far less than us feels awkward.
Even as we continue our ride, the curiosity from passersby never wanes. At every red light, car windows roll down: “Where are you from? Where are you going? Do you like Malaysia?”
That day, we cycle a staggering 107 km before finally reaching the ferry to Georgetown on Penang Island. Perhaps we overdid it—I end up with a nasty tonsillitis.
We spend a few days recovering in a lovely AirB&B, exploring Georgetown—a vibrant city with Chinese, Indian, British, and Malay influences. On Joel’s birthday, we celebrate with coffee and cake by the pool, enjoying a well earned break from our wild journey.
Culinary Delights at the Chinese Buffet
The sticky, tropical heat is taking its toll on us. It’s only 10 a.m., and we had a hearty breakfast, yet our moods are beginning to sour. We desperately need food!
Around the next corner, we spot a large building with an open front and Chinese characters on the façade. Looking suspiciously like a run-down factory I am skeptical at first but as we approach, we are stunned. It’s a Chinese buffet restaurant, and dozens of dishes are being meticulously arranged in gleaming stainless-steel trays. The sheer variety leaves us paralysed with indecision—everything looks unbelievably delicious.
In the end, we pile our plates high with rice, aubergines, fried tofu, chicken, grilled pork, and other vegetables. As we dig in, more aromatic and mouthwatering dishes are brought out from the kitchen. We’ve arrived at the perfect moment! The bill? A mere €4 for the two of us. We decide on the spot: Chinese buffets are now a non-negotiable part of our travel itinerary.
When Plans Go Awry, Adventures Begin
Our next stop is Ipoh, a bustling city and our gateway to the Malaysian Highlands. We’re eager for cooler temperatures—finally a chance to sleep without waking up drenched in sweat! Before embarking on the climb from zero to a thousand altitude metres, we stock up on supplies at a small shop on the city’s outskirts. A friendly man strikes up a conversation and unexpectedly gifts us a quarter of a watermelon. Just as we’re about to leave, the heavens open up and torrential downpour ensues. We take shelter under the shop’s awning, convinced the rain will stop soon—it usually does in Southeast Asia.
But an hour later, the road ahead resembles a raging river. I glance at the sky: a solid, unrelenting grey. The rain shows no sign of letting up.
The man who gave us the watermelon suddenly reappears on his motorbike, holding an umbrella. “Come with me! I’ve arranged a room for you. You can stay at our mosque tonight and celebrate the Feast of Sacrifice with us tomorrow!”
It turns out that the man, Saiful, is the head of the local mosque. We hesitate briefly but then gratefully accept. Saiful is right—riding further in this weather would be madness.
Life's Surprises - The most Treasured Experiences
Often, the most memorable moments of our journey come from the unexpected—like this one.
We follow Saiful through the pouring rain and arrive at a modest guesthouse. It’s equipped with a few bedrooms, one with an en-suite bathroom, and even a living room with a sofa. The kind man with gentle eyes and a rather long beard invites us to join the mosque’s communal breaking of the fast that evening.
We inquire about the dress code. After a moment’s thought, Saiful replies that a long shirt and jeans will suffice for Joel, while he arranges for a few women to assist me with appropriate attire. Then he adds, quite excitedly: “Everyone must dress particularly formally tonight because the Sultan is visiting!”
The Sultan of Perak, Nazrin Muizzuddin Shah, is a constitutional monarch and a regional celebrity. This is no small occasion.
A few hours later, the doorbell rings. Three middle-aged women—Nur, Shima, and Ati—arrive, carrying a bag full of garments. While Shima and Ati flit around me like giddy schoolgirls, Nur, a dentist with impeccable English, takes charge. She repeatedly apologises, explaining, as Saiful did earlier, that the Sultan’s visit necessitates strict adherence to the dress code.
I’m not offended in the slightest—quite the opposite. I’m humbled by their kindness and their effort to treat me like an honoured guest. My cycling shorts are swapped for a two-piece, deep-red polyester dress with golden embroidery, topped off with a light brown headscarf. I barely recognise myself in the mirror.
Sisterhood in the Mosque - Warmth, Hospitality and Shackles
As we cross the street to the mosque, Joel and I part ways at the side entrance. Tonight’s celebration of the breaking of the fast is strictly segregated by gender. Joel follows Saiful to the main entrance while I trail behind the women.
Suddenly, I’m nervous. Joel is usually the one who effortlessly strikes up conversations with strangers. Now, I’m on my own.
But my worry is unfounded. Though I blend in outwardly—apart from my skin tone—I stand out immediately. The narrow corridor leading to the prayer room is lined with tables and chairs. On the left is a buffet overflowing with vibrant dishes; on the right, a small sink.
“Come on, Jana, grab a plate and help yourself,” Nur urges me. Another woman approaches. “Hello! Where are you from? You must try the vegetables—and the fish curry too!” The food looks incredible. I heap my plate full and am soon waved over to a table. As I look around for cutlery, Zita beside me chuckles, “We eat Malay-style here—with our hands!”
As we eat, I’m peppered with questions from every side. Normally, being the centre of attention isn’t my thing, but these women are so genuinely warm and curious that I can’t help but enjoy it.
Before I’ve finished my meal, everyone abruptly rises and moves to the prayer room—it’s time for the evening prayer.
…but what about Joel?
After fascinating conversations and countless selfies, we say our goodbyes for the night. Many of the women I met are highly educated—teachers, dentists, nurses. Traditional professions seem to hold particular prestige in Malaysia. I learn a great deal about Malaysian Islam and its customs, yet I can’t shake a lingering sense of sadness. These remarkable women appear bound by visible and invisible shackles.
The visible constraints are the heavy, stifling garments that cling to the body in the relentless heat. The invisible ones? One woman confides that she can no longer engage in outdoor activities because her husband disapproves. A bicycle journey like ours? Acceptable for men. Unthinkable and inappropriate for women of this culture.
The Muslim Festival of Sacrifice Eid al Adha
The next morning marks the celebration of Eid al-Adha, the second most significant festival in the Islamic world. It is based on a story from the Quran, in which Ibrahim (biblical Abraham), is commanded by God to sacrifice his son, Ismail (biblical Isaac), as a test of faith. At the last moment, God sends a ram to be sacrificed instead of the child.
The festival lasts for four days and includes communal prayers, large family gatherings, and the slaughtering of countless cattle, buffalo, and sheep.
Our mosque sacrifices a total of seven cows and one buffalo. A portion of the meat is immediately distributed to the poor. Seven families share the cost of purchasing a cow, which is a considerable investment—each family contributes around € 300. Being part of the group that buys an animal is considered a great honor. Zita is a little disappointed; she had hoped to take part this year, but the list of volunteers filled up instantly.
Fortunately, we miss the actual slaughtering—known as dhabiha, where the animals are killed by a cut to the throat without prior stunning. This practice is largely banned in the EU, with few exceptions, as it causes significant pain, breathing distress, and fear in the animals. We are surprised to learn that dhabiha is often portrayed in the Muslim world as a humane and painless method of slaughter.
The field in front of the mosque looks like a battlefield—lifeless cows lie on the ground, their empty eyes staring into the sky, and the grass is soaked in blood. We seem to be the only ones who find the scene unsettling. The other attendees watch intently as the animals are professionally butchered by the responsible families. Here, children learn from a young age how to process an animal carcass. Zita explains to me that witnessing the ritual brings Muslims closer to God— “after all”, she shrugs, “God created the animals for human consumption.”
Once the animals are fully butchered and packed into plastic bags, only the bloodstained grass remains as evidence of the sacrifice. We chat with some of the festival guests for a while, but soon it’s time to move on. It’s now almost midday, and in my jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and headscarf, the day’s heat is becoming unbearable. After two truly fascinating days that offered us deep insights into a different culture, I’m relieved to finally continue our journey in short sleeves and without a headscarf.
An Encounter with Indigenous People
After two days of climbing through the dense rainforest vegetation, we reach Malaysia’s highlands. We stay at a hostel and pitch our tent in a massive greenhouse next to flower plantations. For dinner, we enjoy a rice dish from a Chinese buffet. For the first time in almost six months, we can sit outside without sweating.
We escape the popular tourist area and ride through a remote stretch of rainforest. Aside from a few passing cars and motorcycles, the paved road is the only sign of human presence. Finally, we can enjoy the sounds of nature again—birds chirping, crickets buzzing, and leaves rustling in the wind.
However, the solitude comes with a downside: there are no accommodations anywhere in sight. Using Google Maps’ satellite view, we spot clusters of identical houses scattered along our route, completely isolated. As we pass the third settlement, dusk is approaching.
The houses are set back from the main road, but there is a covered bus stop right next to the road. It seems like the perfect spot to pitch our tent. An elderly couple is sitting on the bench under the shelter. They must be from the village, so we can ask for permission. In Malay, I ask the woman if she’s from here. She nods and points to the houses in the background. Great! I continue, “We have a tent.” She eyes me with little interest. “So what…?” I try again, “Can we sleep here?” pointing at the ground. She shakes her head firmly: “No, you cannot!” Then she gives us a stern look and turns away.
I’m completely taken aback. This is the first time in Malaysia that we haven’t been warmly welcomed. Later, we understand why the couple was so unfriendly. They belong to the Orang Asli, the indigenous people of Malaysia. Around 13 years ago, many of them were forced to leave their villages in the rainforest to make way for the construction of the massive Ulu Jelai hydroelectric power plant. They were relocated here, to small huts in the middle of nowhere. After five years, financial compensation was cut off, and the promised dividends from palm oil plantations have yet to materialise.
The Orang Asli traditionally relied on farming and foraging in the forest, but now they have no land to cultivate and often worry about how to get by. All of this, under the guise of progress—Malaysia aims to become carbon neutral by 2050. No wonder the Orang Asli are not welcoming to strangers.
Two Megacities in One Week
We leave our bikes with a friendly guy named Saiful in the port city of Port Dickson and take a detour to Singapore! After what feels like an endless journey—several buses, border controls, and trams—we finally reach the city center in the late afternoon. It’s a complete culture shock, and we love it. Towering postmodern skyscrapers with breathtaking architecture are intertwined with lush green plants, making it feel like a jungle-city hybrid.
With Joel’s friends Kenny and Paula, we visit Satay Street and indulge in delicious freshly grilled chicken and shrimp skewers. Between exploring Marina Bay, Haji Lane and Chinatown, we even squeeze in a coffee at the Ralph Lauren Café. It’s refreshing to spend a few days without counting every cent.
After three days, we reluctantly leave the ultra-modern metropolis and make a stop in Kuala Lumpur. Our sweet life continues, thanks to Joel’s brother, who treats us to a night in a luxurious hotel. However, my lingering toothache puts a damper on things. Even a visit to a local dentist doesn’t bring any relief. Back in Port Dickson, I catch a nasty cold, delaying our journey to the Island of Sumatra in Indonesia. Instead, we spend five days holed up in a windowless hotel room, confined to a tight space.
