Monitor lizard in Melaka, Malaysia Day 400
Location: Bangkok, Thailand
Miles on the clock: 14,720
A few days at a friend’s house in Kuala Lumpur were passed predominantly by eating cereal and cowering from the soaring outdoor heat. However, I reluctantly allowed myself to be swept up with the stop-start traffic trickling out of the city and onto the road to Melaka which I reached after two days and a boring amount of punctures. The small port city was conquered by the Portuguese in 1511 and then again by the Dutch in 1641 before the Union Jack was planted in 1824. An arterial river snakes through it and is home to hundreds of monitor lizards. The largest I saw was only 5ft but they can grow up to an imposing 9ft and live off rats and the occasional unfortunate cat.
Location: Bangkok, Thailand
Miles on the clock: 14,720
A few days at a friend’s house in Kuala Lumpur were passed predominantly by eating cereal and cowering from the soaring outdoor heat. However, I reluctantly allowed myself to be swept up with the stop-start traffic trickling out of the city and onto the road to Melaka which I reached after two days and a boring amount of punctures. The small port city was conquered by the Portuguese in 1511 and then again by the Dutch in 1641 before the Union Jack was planted in 1824. An arterial river snakes through it and is home to hundreds of monitor lizards. The largest I saw was only 5ft but they can grow up to an imposing 9ft and live off rats and the occasional unfortunate cat.
'Dutch Square' in Melaka, Malaysia Setting up base in a pleasant hostel with a courtyard of chaotically overgrown plants in a Chinatown backstreet, I allowed the city’s calm atmosphere, friendly people and numerous art galleries to absorb me for a week. There was nothing to do, and plenty of it. I ambled through a crumbling Chinese cemetery, lazed around the decayed Portuguese fort and walked endlessly up and down the riverside. The peace was only ever broken by the intermittent passing of large and obedient Chinese tour groups with matching baseball caps and a flag-wielding guide. One day I witnessed the accidental collision of two of these traipsing trains of tourists at the crossroad of two narrow alleys. I watched the muddle with amusement as Nikons and Canons vied for snaps documenting ever-superior mundanity.
The road into Singapore Sadly, my seven day siesta came to a close and I embraced the heat again for the final 160 miles to Singapore. The night en route was spent in my sweat-puddled tent with monkeys howling in the trees behind and the spluttering roar of trucks only 10 yards in front. I followed the main highway, taking refuge in its ample hard shoulder and arguing my way past two sets of policemen who sermonised that cycling on this road was dangerous and prohibited. I had no intention of being relegated to the pot-holed lesser roads with no room for a widely-loaded bicycle.
As the sky faded from a scenic sunset of smoggy pink and orange to a collection of dull greys, I crossed the causeway onto the island of Singapore. It was a landmark of sorts but went unacknowledged for the time being due to sunburn, fatigue and nightfall. I found my way to the flat of a family friend in the East of this tiny island nation and settled into ceaselessly kind hospitality and the welcome feeling of being at home.
As the sky faded from a scenic sunset of smoggy pink and orange to a collection of dull greys, I crossed the causeway onto the island of Singapore. It was a landmark of sorts but went unacknowledged for the time being due to sunburn, fatigue and nightfall. I found my way to the flat of a family friend in the East of this tiny island nation and settled into ceaselessly kind hospitality and the welcome feeling of being at home.
My wonderful hosts Yati and Abdullah, Singapore The following day, I pitched up at a pre-arranged time and place to meet the cousin of a close friend from England. I was looking around for a likely candidate when my friend himself bounced into view. Jamie’s elaborate ruse had me speechless with surprise; it had been over a year since I last saw him. His cousin Ben arrived soon after and the night took us to the VIP area of a world beer festival with a peerless Beatles tribute act and my first real ale since leaving England.
A few days later, joined by Jamie and another friend, I rode the final few miles to the end of Asia. On a small island to the South of Sentosa Island (itself a small island South of the main Singapore island) we found a sign marking the “Southern Most Point of Continental Asia” and the end of the second leg of my journey. Almost exactly a year after leaving the familiar village of Bowerchalke in South-West England, I had achieved the second of my “Four Corners”. We pulled some cold beers out of a bag and sat facing the water. My odometer read 13,470 miles and the entire expanse of Asia lay behind me, to the North. We finished our drinks and turned to face that expanse. My jubilation was quietly drowned. I was quietly daunted.
A few days later, joined by Jamie and another friend, I rode the final few miles to the end of Asia. On a small island to the South of Sentosa Island (itself a small island South of the main Singapore island) we found a sign marking the “Southern Most Point of Continental Asia” and the end of the second leg of my journey. Almost exactly a year after leaving the familiar village of Bowerchalke in South-West England, I had achieved the second of my “Four Corners”. We pulled some cold beers out of a bag and sat facing the water. My odometer read 13,470 miles and the entire expanse of Asia lay behind me, to the North. We finished our drinks and turned to face that expanse. My jubilation was quietly drowned. I was quietly daunted.
Jamie and me at the 'Southern Most Point in Continental Asia', Singapore
Alex on the causeway between Malaysia and Singapore Shortly after, a plane brought my friend, Alex, on a two week visit. We explored the city briefly (Singapore Slings at Raffles, a trip up the Marina Bay Sands eyesore, and a couple of characterless malls) before hitting the East coast of Malaysia. Plucked from the city-of-London womb, far-from-fit Alex bought a bike and valiantly endured my unsympathetic pace through undulating hills, theatrical electrical storms, 35°C heat and 90 per cent humidity. We unwound on the sedate beach of Tioman island for a couple of days with a bungalow half a stone’s throw from the water. I death-stared a sting ray, was stung by a smuck of jellyfish and ate fresh seafood twice daily.
Alex about to take a quick wash, Malaysia
Cresting a gentle hill, Malaysia When we continued North we did so with dense jungle to our left and the unrefreshingly-warm South China Sea to our right. The next stop was the small city of Pekan; seat of the Pahang sultanate. Every bed in town was taken; from flea-infested, windowless dives upwards. After two hours search we rode out of town and chanced upon a polo club with a poorly-attended game in progress. A team manager introduced us to the neighbouring golf club’s manager who offered us a bedless room. We gratefully accepted and passed the next three days watching polo, punishing balls (with comical inconsistency) on the driving range and chatting with the young Argentinean men imported to Malaysian teams along with scores of their nation’s horses (or ponies for pernickety polo aficionados).
Our last day held the tournament final (unfortunately rained off) and the one-sided 3rd place playoff. The victorious Royal Pahang team consisted of the crown prince, his two sons (on holiday from English boarding schools) and a one-man team called Carlos. After the game, the prince’s private secretary (who had exuberantly sycophanticised on the Tannoy system all afternoon) informed us that “the Boss plays with Prince Charles” before introducing us. The man-who-will-be-king gave a few curt grunts of acknowledgement while one of his comically-shaped goons crouched beside him waving flies off a plate of satay chicken. Malaysia has nine hereditary regional sultans who share the national throne on a 45-year rotation and this small, incommunicative man will rise to a five-year stint of power in 20 years.
Our last day held the tournament final (unfortunately rained off) and the one-sided 3rd place playoff. The victorious Royal Pahang team consisted of the crown prince, his two sons (on holiday from English boarding schools) and a one-man team called Carlos. After the game, the prince’s private secretary (who had exuberantly sycophanticised on the Tannoy system all afternoon) informed us that “the Boss plays with Prince Charles” before introducing us. The man-who-will-be-king gave a few curt grunts of acknowledgement while one of his comically-shaped goons crouched beside him waving flies off a plate of satay chicken. Malaysia has nine hereditary regional sultans who share the national throne on a 45-year rotation and this small, incommunicative man will rise to a five-year stint of power in 20 years.
Ed and Alex in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia Alex’s final session of Charlie-led heat torture took us to Kuantan where I stowed my bike in a hotel and loaded a backpack before we jumped on a bus across the peninsula to Kuala Lumpur to meet my schoolmate Ed fresh off a plane from Heathrow.
The three of us made two concessions to the capital’s tourist attractions consisting of a visit to the 1,483ft tall Petronas twin towers and the “world’s largest free-flight walk-in aviary” where over 200 colourful species squawked and swooped; ostriches and eagles, hens and hornbills.
The three of us made two concessions to the capital’s tourist attractions consisting of a visit to the 1,483ft tall Petronas twin towers and the “world’s largest free-flight walk-in aviary” where over 200 colourful species squawked and swooped; ostriches and eagles, hens and hornbills.
The several peaks of Mt. Kinabalu at sunrise, Borneo When Alex boarded a Boeing home, Ed and I were Borneo bound. We arrived in Malaysian Borneo (which shares the world’s third largest island with Brunei and the Indonesian state of Kalimantan) on a muggy morning and made our way to the National Parks office. Borneo is tightly bound in red tape and permit systems plague almost every visitor.
Our plan was to climb the highest mountain in South East Asia; Mt Kinabalu. First we needed to book a climbing slot, a guide, insurance, park entrance and climbing tax. Most people stay one night in a lodge halfway up but the dormitory beds cost a shamelessly extortionate £70 which we didn’t want to pay. We asked if we could sleep outside on the mountain but the response was an indignant negative. How on earth can the state extort maximum dollar out of tourists if they try to take initiative by themselves? One option remained. Two days later we walked through the park gate at 1800m and began climbing the steep but well-maintained track. It was a hot, clear day and for the first couple of hours we followed the route as it wove upwards through lush greenery; alive with animal noises.
Our plan was to climb the highest mountain in South East Asia; Mt Kinabalu. First we needed to book a climbing slot, a guide, insurance, park entrance and climbing tax. Most people stay one night in a lodge halfway up but the dormitory beds cost a shamelessly extortionate £70 which we didn’t want to pay. We asked if we could sleep outside on the mountain but the response was an indignant negative. How on earth can the state extort maximum dollar out of tourists if they try to take initiative by themselves? One option remained. Two days later we walked through the park gate at 1800m and began climbing the steep but well-maintained track. It was a hot, clear day and for the first couple of hours we followed the route as it wove upwards through lush greenery; alive with animal noises.
On Mt. Kinabalu, Borneo Above the tree line we enjoyed far-reaching views and cooler air as we plodded on towards the messy collection of craggy peaks. Cloud closed in and eerie whiteness prevailed. Only the muffled sounds of our movements broke the silence as we neared the top. After four and a half hours we stepped onto ironically named Low’s Peak and shook hands in a stifled, British manner. From the height of 4095m we were rewarded with an indistinct view of dreary grey nothingness so we celebrated with a packet of biscuits. In order to catch a mid-afternoon bus to the East coast of Borneo, our descent was made almost at a run. We picked up our “guide”, who had followed at a sometimes significant distance, and bounded down the mountain in our sandals at a dangerous pace while drizzle turned surfaces treacherous.
Ed on the summit of Mt. Kinabalu, Borneo
Flying the flag for Lifeboat Tea on Mt. Kinabalu, Borneo Just seven hours after entering, we walked out the park gate feeling very self-satisfied and caught sight of a board of record times for what we had just completed. An Italian had managed it in 2 hours and 34 minutes a year or two before. Somewhat crest-fallen we boarded the bus imagining the swarthy record-holder sitting on a veranda somewhere on the Mediterranean; proud owner of a pair of bionic legs. When I got off that bus I could barely walk.
Orangutan, Borneo Next was a morning at the Sepilok Orangutan Rehabilitation centre where we stood in the jungle on a raised viewing platform with 60 other tourists; cameras poised and sweat pouring. A ranger appeared with a bucket of fruit and the orange apes began to gather, arriving from all directions with their inimitably graceful swing; a perfect study of nonchalance. They ate slowly, often stopping to shoo away the small monkeys wanting to join the feast. Some soon left with food held in their feet while their great arms (which can grow to a span of 2.5m) casually carried them away in great, long lopes.
Mosques near Kuala Terengganu, Malaysia We had a couple of day’s downtime on the beach before returning to Kuala Lumpur and Ed continuing to England. I was alone again and the hard work began. Picking up my bike in Kuantan, I hit the road for a 1,000 mile, 11-day ride back to Bangkok.
Hugging the coast as near as possible, I pushed hard on the pedals and observed the world whizzing by. Tall jets of flame dancing atop a crude oil refinery towers; stark bolts of lightning jagging down on the dark, cloud-depressed horizon; continual assault on my olfactory senses by the unpleasant putrefaction of many large road-killed lizards littering the wayside; a dead three-meter python, its body half flayed by the truck that killed it; the traditional dress of Malaysia’s most conservative Islamic state where supermarkets have single-sex queues; ubiquitous mosques suddenly being replaced by equally frequent Buddhist Wats (monastic temple complexes); a crowd of 20 boys gawping at the mesmeric sight of a hairy white man washing under a tap; a day when the air is thick with swarms of mating pairs of brownish/yellow dragonflies.
Hugging the coast as near as possible, I pushed hard on the pedals and observed the world whizzing by. Tall jets of flame dancing atop a crude oil refinery towers; stark bolts of lightning jagging down on the dark, cloud-depressed horizon; continual assault on my olfactory senses by the unpleasant putrefaction of many large road-killed lizards littering the wayside; a dead three-meter python, its body half flayed by the truck that killed it; the traditional dress of Malaysia’s most conservative Islamic state where supermarkets have single-sex queues; ubiquitous mosques suddenly being replaced by equally frequent Buddhist Wats (monastic temple complexes); a crowd of 20 boys gawping at the mesmeric sight of a hairy white man washing under a tap; a day when the air is thick with swarms of mating pairs of brownish/yellow dragonflies.
Road-killed python, Malaysia The heat provided a constant torment as I rode hard each day, thrashing the pedals along roads I had already ridden earlier this year. Breezes felt more akin to the blast one gets when opening an oven door. I pushed on with gritted teeth and a joyless cocktail of saddle sores and sweat-stung eyes. Short, violent downpours punctuated the swelter and I sheltered from them in wooden shacks; getting back on the road afterwards while the road hissed itself dry. A couple of opportunities to grab the back of slow-moving trucks presented themselves and I didn’t squander them. One truck driver stopped and brought me lunch, another hurled an unopened bottle of water which bounced painfully off my head. I enjoyed the bemused stares and excited shouts from roadside lollygaggers as I zipped past clinging to the side of a trundling truck like some sort of bicycle-borne motorway remora fish.
Candle and Buddha statue in a temple, Thailand
On the road to Bangkok, Thailand For the last week on the road to Bangkok I slept in wats and each one provided a different and uniquely strange experience. In one, near the town of Songkhla, I was given the key to a stilted 2x4m bungalow thick with cobwebs, rat-droppings and their several creators. It felt more like a cell. In another I slept with six undeterrable kittens nestled against my body.
One night I arrived at Wat Tham Tu Khao Tong after dark and was immediately surrounded by six vociferous dogs. All was dark and it took me a couple of minutes to spot a doorway illuminated from within by the dim flicker of candlelight. I approached the door and, as my pupils swelled in the dark, 60 silent monks came into view, all sat in the lotus position and facing a large, gold-gilded Buddha. An old woman in white robes and a shaven head, bent and androgenised with age, took me by the wrist and led me to a floor space at the front and gestured I should sit down and meditate along with the rest. It was not a request but an order so, with difficulty, I bent my legs underneath me and felt them swell with lactic acid. The calm was unnerving at first. Three minutes earlier I had been cycling along at 20mph and now I sat before an orange-robed sea of tranquillity with sweat beading on my skin and my heart thumping almost audibly.
One night I arrived at Wat Tham Tu Khao Tong after dark and was immediately surrounded by six vociferous dogs. All was dark and it took me a couple of minutes to spot a doorway illuminated from within by the dim flicker of candlelight. I approached the door and, as my pupils swelled in the dark, 60 silent monks came into view, all sat in the lotus position and facing a large, gold-gilded Buddha. An old woman in white robes and a shaven head, bent and androgenised with age, took me by the wrist and led me to a floor space at the front and gestured I should sit down and meditate along with the rest. It was not a request but an order so, with difficulty, I bent my legs underneath me and felt them swell with lactic acid. The calm was unnerving at first. Three minutes earlier I had been cycling along at 20mph and now I sat before an orange-robed sea of tranquillity with sweat beading on my skin and my heart thumping almost audibly.
Monk studing English, Thailand It wasn’t long before I grew uncomfortable and restless. I had no idea how long I would be here but I didn’t want to disturb anyone so I didn’t even turn my head for sidelong glances. My busy mind began darting around and leap-frogging over itself while I imagined 60 enlightened ‘third-eyes’ burning a hole in the back of my head. After a short while I decided to count down from 300, one count with each exhalation, and creep out after I reached zero. 300, 299, 298, 297... I impatiently stared at a gently-swaying candle flame two yards in front of me. 274, 273, 272... My breath steadied and the count slowed accordingly. 237, 236... My eyes began to glaze and the crawling count required all my concentration. The orange sea’s tranquil tide swept over me. I don’t remember reaching 200 but the next thing I knew, a hand settled softly on my shoulder. I looked into the deeply-lined face of the woman who had showed me in. She was smiling knowingly and the monks behind me were stretching out chatting quietly. I was wide awake with my back bolt upright and my eyes wide open when she touched me but my mind was utterly without thought. I was happy. I checked the time; over an hour had passed. Through coercion and the self-imposed social pressure not to disturb, I had successfully meditated. I was given a large plate of rice and a glass of mango juice before sleeping very soundly.
Two days later I worked my way to the heart of Bangkok with ease and found the flat of a friend’s friend. A few blissful days off and some visa organisation lay before me.
Two days later I worked my way to the heart of Bangkok with ease and found the flat of a friend’s friend. A few blissful days off and some visa organisation lay before me.
What a difference a year makes. The day I left and 13 months later
Now that I’ve spent over a year on the road, I thought I’d post a few facts and figures about the journey so far for those interested:
Total mileage: 14,720
Most miles in one calendar month: 2,425 (July 2010; first month)
Least miles in one calendar month: 370 (March 2011)
Total punctures: 50
Broken spokes: 11
New tyres: 5
New chains: 6
New brake pad sets: 1
Mountain ranges crossed: 7
Deserts crossed: 3
Top speed: 51mph (in a tunnel 200 meters beneath the Berents Sea)
Top speed while holding onto truck: 56mph (Southern Thailand)
Most consecutive nights spent in tent: 61 (Scandinavia)
Longest without shower: 36 days
Pairs of underwear used: 2
Highest temperature: 41°C (Northern Laos)
Lowest temperature: -40 ° C (Tibetan winter)
Countries visited: 26
Currencies used: 22
Number of vomits: 5 (three from food poisoning, two from alcohol poisoning)
Animals assaulted in self-defence: Badger, Arctic Tern, Tibetan Mastiff x2
Books read: 31
Wipeouts: 10
Other cyclists accompanied: 13 (ranging from 1 day to 5 weeks)
Total mileage: 14,720
Most miles in one calendar month: 2,425 (July 2010; first month)
Least miles in one calendar month: 370 (March 2011)
Total punctures: 50
Broken spokes: 11
New tyres: 5
New chains: 6
New brake pad sets: 1
Mountain ranges crossed: 7
Deserts crossed: 3
Top speed: 51mph (in a tunnel 200 meters beneath the Berents Sea)
Top speed while holding onto truck: 56mph (Southern Thailand)
Most consecutive nights spent in tent: 61 (Scandinavia)
Longest without shower: 36 days
Pairs of underwear used: 2
Highest temperature: 41°C (Northern Laos)
Lowest temperature: -40 ° C (Tibetan winter)
Countries visited: 26
Currencies used: 22
Number of vomits: 5 (three from food poisoning, two from alcohol poisoning)
Animals assaulted in self-defence: Badger, Arctic Tern, Tibetan Mastiff x2
Books read: 31
Wipeouts: 10
Other cyclists accompanied: 13 (ranging from 1 day to 5 weeks)
Next Saturday (13.08.11) is my 24th birthday so if anyone is feeling generously inclined then a donation to one of the two worthy charities I am supporting (RNLI and Future Hope) would be a very welcome gift. You can donate by clicking on one of the two links below or by visiting the ‘Charity’ page of my website. All donations go directly to the charities. Many thanks.
To donate to the RNLI please click here
To donate to Future Hope please click here
To donate to the RNLI please click here
To donate to Future Hope please click here
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