Malaysia (Parts 1 and 2)

September/October 2000

On the Sunday evening of Day 309, Paul and I entered Malaysia, the 15th country of my trip. At the new modern concrete frontier with Thailand, we filled in the free visa immigration form, which declared in bright red letters "Drug offences carry a death penalty in Malaysia. You have been warned!” We walked into the adjoining town of Pabang Besar in the pouring rain and found it closed. The ATM did not work; there were no buses and only one grubby overpriced guesthouse. We had no choice but to stay the night. The time had moved on an hour ahead of Thailand.

Malaysia is one of the most prosperous countries in SE Asia. Getting about is usually very fast and easy. Malaya was originally a British colony, but gained independence in 1957. In 1963, the northern Borneo states of Sarawak and Sabah joined to form Malaysia. The main peninsula south of Thailand is shaped like a finger pointing to Indonesia below it. The population of 21 million, is a mixture of Malay, Chinese and Indian descent.

In the morning, while waiting for an early bus south, an off-duty policeman bought me tea and chatted about many things including English soccer and how 'Mr Bean' was the funniest man alive. Not another tourist in sight. The bus took us to Butterworth near Penang, the main tourist resort. En route, the Malaysia army stopped the bus and checked everyone's papers. They also went through the luggage. It was here that we suspected that £200 was lifted from Paul's backpack - but he only found out hours later. The bus buzzed with mobile phones going off all the time. One had the 'Mission Impossible' theme which was impressive.

First impressions of Malaysia were of excellent roads, driving on the left like Thailand, and a very English looking road system. It could have been the M6. Cars filled the roads rather than mopeds. Very westernised with a Muslim/Chinese slant (signs often had those languages and English all together). There were endless palm oil plantations and flooded paddy fields everywhere (I'm not surprised, it rained non-stop for the first 4 days in Malaysia). Malaysian people were very friendly and relaxed. Lots of smiling and very few beggars. They seemed pleased to meet the few tourists that were here. There was a lot of nationalist pride about Malaysia's economic achievements. It had just moved up to 25th in the world's most prosperous countries. The Muslim culture predominated. Bad news for us, because it meant that beer was double the price of Thailand and getting on for English prices.

For all the supposed efficiency in public transport, we would be plagued by delays throughout mainland Malaysia. No bus left on time, and many broke down. We ended up waiting 2 extra hours at Butterworth because our connecting bus had broken down. While we waited, hundreds of Muslim schoolgirls walked down the street in white chadours (headwear) and sky blue skirts. Like bunches of while/blue skittles! Very picturesque. After further delays waiting at Ipoh for another bus that had broken down, we finally reached the Cameron Highlands up at 4500ft at 11pm - and holed up at Tanah Rata, an old English colonial hill station. Many travellers come to 'chill out' here to get away from the summer heat. No wonder. It was bloody freezing.

Our hostel ran a free organised 'trek' through the jungle which we joined, but soon left behind, because everyone else walked at a snail's pace. We climbed through thick jungle trails to the summit of Gunong Jasar (5,365ft), then down and up to Gunong Perdah (5,170ft) and finally attempted the highest peak of Gunoung Brinchang (6,666ft) whose trail disappeared into a muddy swamp. After extracting myself from knee-deep mud, we decided to follow any trail anywhere into the jungle.

A torrential downpour started and forced us back to the road, which was flooded as was the golf course. The putting greens were now lakes. The rain was so heavy, there was no point trying to stay dry, even in waterproofs. We splashed through the floods for 3 miles like Gene Kelly 'Singing in the Rain' and returned to the hostel like drowned rats. The visitors' book was full of tales how people had spent weeks up here relaxing. We left the next day, fed up with the endless rain.

The bus ride down to Kuala Lumpur was an experience. We had the 'runaway bus' syndrome. We hightailed it down the steep, twisting curves, coming around corners so quickly that the bus seemed to lurch around on two wheels and the suspension made grinding noises beneath us. Paul thought we should copyright the ride and sell it to a theme park. It was rather like an Indian bus ride without the horn blowing. Finally the smooth main motorway down the eastern side of Malaysia carried us to the capital city.

Kuala Lumpur (KL) - meaning 'muddy estuary', is a curious blend of old and new. This modern, fast moving city, has gleaming high rise office blocks and also a collection of old British colonial architecture. We holed up on the edge of Chinatown near the central bus station in a cheap 3rd floor hostel. I left Paul to doze away the afternoon, while grabbing a complimentary umbrella to go sightseeing in the rain.

At the heart of colonial KL is Merdaka Square, ringed by fine old buildings including the mock Tudor Royal Selanger Club - the social centre for high society in the 'tin-rush days' of the 1890s. Across the road was the impressive Sultan Abdul Samad building designed in the same decade by the English to resemble a Moorish Palace, and topped with a 43m English clock tower. In the centre of the square, where Malaysian Independence was declared in 1957, was a 100m flagpole with the Malaysian flag - the highest in the world. Down the road was the magnificent 1911 central railway station - an English designed Moorish fantasy of spires, minarets, towers, cupolas and arches. What is it with the Brits and Arab architecture?

As the rain bucketed down, I walked to the National Museum which was a well laid out and informative glance at Malaysian cultures. The most interesting exhibit was the "Royal Circumcision Ceremony". Get this. In the early Twentieth Century, circumcision was the most important ceremony to the Malaysian male (even more so than his wedding day). Consequently, there was always a fuss made of any member of the Royal family getting snipped. The last one occurred in 1935, whereby the 12-year-old Prince was paraded on a giant model of a mythical bird called Petatawani. It was 12 ft high and looked like, what I can only describe as 'Big Bird' from 'Sesame Street' dressed up in multicoloured kitchen foil. Apparently, the surgeon performing the operation was liable to execution if he buggered it up. A snip too far?

I dragged Paul out for the early evening sunset and we sipped beers at an outside cafe in a packed, animated Chinatown, full of stalls and restaurants near the "Fook In Coffin Shop". Inevitably, we had a huge Chinese meal afterwards where 'Frog Porridge' was on the menu. No takers there.

The following morning, we trekked out to the Indonesian Embassy to confirm that we would be issued free visas on arrival in Sumatra. (The guidebooks were confused about this). We were told it would be no problem. Then we set off to visit the highest building in the World (as you do).

The road system in KL is excellent. We never saw a traffic jam, even during the rush hours. They had also started to build a monorail system. However, for all the talk of modern KL existing at the leading edge of Asian cities, I read a newspaper report that said that British Airways, Quantas and Lufthansa airlines were all pulling out of “uneconomical” KL. It can't compete with Bangkok or Singapore's airports which attract huge amounts of tourists.

The Petronas Twin Towers is the tallest building in the world (for now), standing at 452m and just beating the Sears Roebuck building in Chicago - just to prove a point about Malaysia's dynamic economy. The statistics are impressive - 88 floors, 37,000 tonnes of steel, 77,000 sq. metres of glass to cover it, 65,000 sq. metres of steel cladding. Built in the early 1990s, it was the last major building construction in the Twentieth Century. Petronas is the major Malaysian oil company.

The two colossal glass towers are straddled by a 60m walkway on the 42nd floor, which is as far as you can climb as a tourist in a fast lift (1 floor a second). The executive suites keep you away from the better views. The walkway is a modern architectural gem of 750 tonnes that was slotted in between. It is designed to shrink or expand depending on how strong the wind outside is blowing the towers. At night, the building looked like something out of Batman's Gotham City. At the base was an obsessively clean 5-storey shopping mall with air conditioning from the South Pole. The view from the walkway was of the 16 other new buildings that made up a new central complex of businesses/hotels. Best thing about it? Free admission to the walkway. A great way to attract the tourists, most of which were Malaysian.

Despite that view, we needed something higher, so we walked to the 276m KL Tower, where we could ascend to the observatory which was much higher than the walkway. Our stomachs dropped out of our bottoms in the rapid lift up. It was so fast, my ears popped. This is the 4th tallest communications tower in the world (Toronto's CN Tower topping them all). I was amazed to discover that I had seen or ascended 10 of the top 14. The best thing about this was watching the rainstorms appear on the horizon and then envelop the tower. Within 10 minutes, all we could see was mist and rain. A loudspeaker apologised for the lack of visibility outside. Paul asked "Can we get our money back?".

Dunkin Donuts saved the day at the Central bus station as we waited for a bus to Melacca. In Melacca, we ate at Madam Fatso's at 'Glutton Corner'. Travelling with a hungry Welshman, you get used to the fact that he needs 7 meals a day just to feel comfortable.

Melacca has been an important trading port since the Fifteenth Century when the Portuguese arrived. They were kicked out by the Dutch who were likewise kicked out by the English, who decided it was strategically placed for any trade in SE Asia. While Paul slept off Madam Fatso's, I spent a morning walking around the old heart of the city. The old Portuguese church stood on the hill above the town square which contained the massive Dutch red town hall - the 'Stadthuys', built around 1650 and the oldest Dutch building in SE Asia.

It had typical Dutch architectural features - huge thick walls, wooden floors, and lots of ventilation to keep the air inside cool. Inside, there was an excellent historical museum with an extensive display of Melacca's history. I had the place to myself, while the security guards watched the Olympics on TV. The Olympics virtually passed me by. I saw a few reports in newspapers, but very little on TV. Next door was the impressive bright red 'Christ Church'. Pink bricks were bought from Holland and faced with local red plaster when it was constructed in 1753.

I also took a stroll around Chinatown. Wherever there is trade, you will find the Chinese. Chenghoon Teng's temple, built in 1646 was the oldest Chinese temple in Malaysia but undergoing extensive renovation. Nearby was Kampong Kling's Mosque - one of the oldest in the country. As you can see, Malaysia has always had a mixture of cultures.

Hang Jebat's Mausoleum was a plain whitewashed affair with a yellow painted stone tomb. Known as the Malaysian 'Champion of Justice" he died after a non-stop 3 day/3 night dual of honour with Hang Tuah, the other big shot in the city who accused Hang Jebat of a crime he didn't commit (where have you heard that before?). It must have been some fight - using stuntmen, a range of weapons and special effects - 16th century style.

And that was my first brief foray into Malaysia. My original plan was to do the whole of mainland Malaysia before moving into Indonesia, but Paul was keen to visit Sumatra, so I left the east coast of Malaysia until later. There are daily ferries sailing from Melacca to Sumatra - which was convenient.

We had bought ferry tickets in advance and when we turned up for the boat in the afternoon, it had been cancelled. A company rep dashed off to a rival company and booked us onto their ferry with no fuss. Inevitably, that ferry was nearly 3 hours late in leaving for the short but comfortable 90 minute crossing which included changing to a larger high-speed ferry once we were out of the harbour. The clocks went back an hour as we approached the huge island of Sumatra in western Indonesia. It was still raining.

Back to Malaysia for the second time. The traffic delays meant that we wouldn’t have time to reach the bus station from Singapore immigration to catch a bus to the airport. We resorted to a taxi from the border crossing, with a friendly chatty driver. But even the bus/taxi combination was cheaper than a direct airport bus from Singapore. Johor Bahru (JB) airport was very efficient. The plane took off on time! We were served orange juice, newspapers and a chicken curry brunch. They even gave us second meals because we were “starving”.

Prior to Malaysian independence in the 1950s, Sabah, a 72,500 sq. km area, was known as North Borneo and controlled by the British North Borneo Company. It is called “The land below the wind” falling below the typhoon belt. Unfortunately, it was not the “Land below the rains”. Borneo typically evokes images of headhunters and impenetrable jungle, but it is now an integral part of Malaysia due to its oil, timber and agricultural exports. The logging industry has raped vast portions of the forests. Tourism is a growing market (up 20% this year). Over 10,000 British tourists alone had visited it in 2000 (up to August). After my stay here, I guarantee that you will all visit Borneo in your lifetime.

We arrived in the capital city of Kota Kinabalu (KK), Sabah, Eastern Malaysia on the north-western coast of the island of Borneo. Not a single taxi driver came up to us. We walked to the main road and got a minivan into the centre for 20p. After checking out everything at the National Parks office, we headed for the bus station. Two touts came up asking if we were heading for the Kinabalu National Park (every tourist is). “There is a big bus arriving in 5 minutes. Give us your money”. “Not until the bus arrives”. “Give us your money”. 10 minutes elapsed with no sign of the bus. I walked around the terminal and found a minivan leaving for Kinabalu National Park with two seats free, which were cheaper than the bus. We climbed aboard and took off. The touts cursed at the driver and us. Sorry pal, I’ve been travelling too long. We could have waited hours for the supposed bus once they had our money.

It was only a 90-minute ride to the National Park. Mount Kinabalu dominated the horizon with its steep sides. Are we really going to climb this? - the highest mountain in SE Asia (4101m). I found it amazing that we could leave Singapore in the morning and arrive at the foot of the mountain by late afternoon. At the HQ, we started losing money quickly - park entrance, camera fee, accommodation and the mandatory guide (£5.50 each). They were not happy with our idea of climbing up and down in one day and we had to get permission from the top dog (“We just climbed Gerung Kerichi in Sumatra in a day. That was 42 km, this is only 16km and is only 300m higher - so what’s the problem?” “It is very tough and very dangerous”. “So why are all these schoolkids allowed to climb it?”). We were given permission and got a large dorm room to ourselves with hot water. Well I got the hot water. Paul lost out - trying to find something to eat.

The following morning outside at HQ, at 7am, we met our guide called Melodious (cool name!), a short chap less than 5 ft tall but all muscle. He had been a guide here for 7 years and knew absolutely nothing about the world famous vegetation. “So what’s that tree called?” “I dunno”. But he was fit. He’d climbed up and down 3 times in the previous week. Word had got around about the two “crazy Englishmen” who would attempt the ascent/descent in a day. The locals called us the “Up and Down Men”. I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

The “Kinabalu Climbathon” had taken place the previous week, where competitors attempt to run up and down the 4000m mountain. The record was, inevitably, held by an Englishmen who completed the 21km course in 1999 in 2 hours 45 mins - not bad for an 8 pints a night man. The record had not been beaten this year because the conditions were worse.

A bus (we cheated a little and avoided a 6km hike), took us to the start at 7.30am and we were let loose on the 16km hike under overcast skies. I think our guide was a little taken back by our speed. We could hear him coughing his guts up behind us. “What’s that tree?”, “cough, cough, cough, woorgh - who cares?”. The sun came out and we really began to sweat. The trail was superb and easy. A well trodden (it’s Sabah’s number one attraction) and well-maintained path through various levels of vegetation according to the altitude. It started with lowland tropical rainforest at the base up to montane oaks and fig trees. Copper leafed rhododendron shrubs with orange blossoms at the Temperate Zone had gnarled and twisted tree trunks with their branches loaded with mosses, ferns and orchids. Conifers/alpine vegetation petered out below the summit level. There were wooden steps up the steep parts (I’d call that cheating) and shelters and water tanks at every kilometre. It was one of the easiest climbs I’d ever done.

We were the first hikers off and we passed no one but people coming down who had stayed at the resthouse the night before. Your normal walker, climbs up to a modern Swiss chalet resthouse (with all mod cons) around 3,400m, holes up there for the day and ascends to the 4,101m - over 14,000ft peak for sunrise. Then descends to HQ afterwards. We didn’t see the point of spending 18 hours in a hostel full of screaming kids waiting to see a sunrise that doesn’t happen in the rainy season.

While I paced myself, ‘Boy Wonder’ Harris took off again. I knew he’d collapse at high altitude. We covered the first 5 and ½ km in 2 hours. After we passed the resthouse at 11,150ft, we saw no one. Everyone had already been up and down to the summit for sunrise. The air started to thin and Paul was started to gag for oxygen. From this point on, we had steep wooden steps to climb rock faces and ropes to pull ourselves up. ‘Everest Boy’ left Paul behind. The experienced guide, now coming into his own, stayed sensibly midway between us. As I climbed the steep rock faces, I could see the various rock outcrops - St John’s Peak, Ugly Sister’s Peak, Donkey’s Ears (and “Welshman Losing His Breakfast” Peak). It was a very spectacular climb. There were ropes leading you all the way to the top of “Low’s Peak”. I was up there in 3 hours 45 with Paul only 15 minutes behind.

We spent 30 minutes at the windy summit gazing at the barren steep cliffs of “Low’s Gully” covered in mist below. In 1993, the British Army decided to have an expedition to explore this “unexplored” area. A 10-day trek, turned into an internationally followed 30-day survival experience. It was close, but they were rescued just in time. It all looked so remote. We had the summit to ourselves and a wonderful panorama over northern Borneo.

We descended at top speed. Once we got below 10,000ft, Paul pushed on with air in his lungs. It was a killer on the knees. The guide stayed with me. He showed us some of the famous ‘Pitcher plants”. They were shaped like toilets, and even had a toilet seat lid. Inside, was a liquid solution. Any insect that ended up there was dissolved by the solution to feed the plant. Strange but true. We passed all the panting and puffing hikers coming up to stay the night. The guides would yell “It’s the Up and Down Men!”

Paul raced ahead and even jogging the last kilometre, I was still 15 minutes slower. We claimed equal times of 6 hours 45 minutes for the ascent and descent. Our guide was very impressed, but he looked in better condition than we did. We got certificates, patches and T-shirts to acknowledge our success.

When we returned to our dorm room, our gear had disappeared and had been replaced by a room full of screaming schoolkids. We had been moved to another dorm room down the road. We shared it with Malaysian adults while two dozen kids screamed the place down. They kept it up until 2am but I was obliviously asleep by 8pm.

The following day, we had long weary bus rides to Sandakan by the coast. It was a windy, overcast day and we were glad that we had climbed yesterday. The bus showed World Wrestling Federation videos. I’m in Borneo and I’m watching American wrestling. It came from another planet, but the other passengers were glued to their seats. They liked the women wrestlers - a lot.

Sandakan, completely wiped out during World War Two (those damn Japanese again) was the former British capital of Sabah. It is the major port, shipping out timber, rubber, rattan and palm oil. It is an ugly place but the markets were full of lychee fruit sellers. I bought 3 kilos for 80p which I consumed during the next 300km journey by landcruiser (a posh 4 wheel drive job) down to Tawau. We roared past dozens of trucks. It was not a good road for stray dogs. En route, I counted 7 dead bodies en route. They just walk across the road like the dumb animals they are and get run over.

We arrived in Tawau, in the south-east area of Sabah in mid evening. The town was closed on a Sunday night. But we checked into a nice en suite, a/c room with TV and found a local café open. The hotel fridge had beer and we settled in to watch the Malaysian soccer Cup Final. It was like watching Sunday league football at the park. We almost stayed awake until the end.

On a lovely sunny day (for Sabah) we caught a minivan to Semporna 100km east, by the coast. One of the world’s top ten scuba diving sites lies off the island of Sipidan nearby. Western tourists had been kidnapped there in April, held in the Philippines for months and the tourist trade had ground to a halt - except for us. During my research of this trip, an Aussie, Peter who ran a diving business in Semporna, had contacted me. Despite the international boycott of the area, he’d emailed me and said “Come on down”.

We found Peter and arranged some diving. Sipidan was still off limits. The island had been closed down. Police coastguard boats surrounded it. Even the diving was touch and go depending on police permission. We arranged a 2-day, 1-night excursion to the nearby island of Mabul with 3 dives. If they could get us in, we’d dive off Sipidan. Semporna offered us the best of both worlds. A decent cheap supermarket, cheap Internet café, a comfortable affordable hotel and excellent cheap food at a restaurant.

We had arranged to meet our Malaysian divemaster, Bahrman at 6.30am the next morning. On very rough seas, our powerboat took us out to Mabul an hour away. We just held on. Paul described it as “We’re bloody drug smugglers, man, getting persued by the coastguard”. It was rough, smacking though the waves as well as over them.

When we arrived at the tiny atoll of Mabul, we found a ramshackle collection of wooden huts on stilts and two plush resorts with 4 tourists staying. Our home was a family home and we had the dorm room next to the family bedroom. All meals were included and they were tasty and in large portions with fish the main ingredient. There were a friendly Dutch couple staying - Fred and Antoinette, who were also diving. After pancakes and coffee for breakfast, Bahrman said "We're going to Sipidan. Lets do it!" and we rushed aboard the motorboat with our scuba gear.

It was another rough choppy crossing. So rough, I thought the boat would tip. Even Bahrman told the pilot to lessen the engine speed. Police coastguard boats surround Sipidan. Noone can land, but we were allowed to float nearby to do our diving. It had been a month since we last dived in Thailand but we remembered everything. Bahrman gave us a briefing about communication and said we'd descend to 28m by the side of a devastating 600m drop to the ocean floor.

It was a smaller, different type of boat we were used to and the four of us had to somersault backwards into the water. It was all very quick. We pulled up, donned the gear, did safety checks and were in the water within 10 minutes.

At 'Mid-Reef Point", we descended into the black void. We followed the sheer cliff down to 28m, and below us was just a scary darkness. There was lots of coral, but much of it was dead. Local fisherman used dynamite to catch fish and had destroyed the underwater environment. It was happening all over the world.

The first thing that struck me was the teeming numbers and varieties of colourful fish everywhere. Even more than the Maldives. We set off following Bahrman, who would point out various species with hand signs. We spotted our first sea turtle gliding down past us into the depths below. And another above, with the suns rays highlighting the profile. Huge shoals of angelfish, Wrasse and Triggerfish passed by - all colours and shapes.

We gradually rose and followed the cliff against the strong current. More turtles appeared. Large yellow/lime-green shelled vessels peacefully paddling through the water. The first dive is always the deepest and "Mr Active" Paul Harris ran out of air within 25 minutes and had to return to the surface. I was up in 30. The Dutch couple and Bahrman remained underwater for 45 minutes. They were more experienced and knew how to control their breathing. We were also out of practise. During our hour-long break between dives on the surface, I went snorkelling.

After motoring to "Turtle Patch", we changed air tanks, got on the gear and down we went. We descended to 14m and followed the cliff face. We saw at least 20 sea turtles - an absolutely stunning sight (some were over 6ft long), resting on the cliff edge. They would glide right past us. You could hold onto the back of the shell and get dragged through the water (not very good underwater etiquette). Wonderful gentle animals which were mesmerising. We also saw a 5-foot, white-tipped shark swim below us, along with large grubas, skinny shiny barracudas, jackfish, bluefish and a host of others. Paul and I were very impressed, especially when we stayed down under for 45 minutes.

We roared back to Mabul for an excellent lunch before going back out on the boat. The Dutch couple had another dive that afternoon off Mabul. We decided to leave our third dive until tomorrow and snorkel off the boat instead. Visibility wasn't as good but we saw an excellent selection of shoals of fish.

We had bought our own beer (as you do) and could get cheap ice from a shack shop. We had an excellent evening with the Dutch couple and exchanged travel stories. I meet Dutch people everywhere and they are one of the nicest, easiest going, travelling nationalities you will ever talk to. And they speak better English than we do.

At 4am, a large thunderstorm reigned over our corrugated iron roof. The leaks in the roof were mainly over Paul, who in the morning was suffering from a headcold. He opted to snorkel rather than dive. Our first dive that day was at 'Pandlima Point' off Mabul. We descended to 21m but visibility under the choppy seas was bad. It was a strange dive where the current took us rapidly along the cliff edge - you just let the flow take you along. We found a shark skeleton on the rocks, a couple of turtles but nothing outstanding. I had my breathing under control and lasted 50 minutes underwater.

Paul generously donated his spare dive to me. We took off around Mabul to 'Kapalai Island' and the next 55 minutes underwater were a stupendous array of new sightings. We had a trainee divemaster, but I stayed with Bahrman who had more time to look around and we found plenty. Huge bloated pufferfish on the bottom, white stingrays scooting around, a couple of ornate 'lion fish', a long narrow yellow trumpet fish and a huge crocodile fish that lay on and looked like a rock, along with massive sea slugs and an immense variety of colourful fish and the odd turtle. The best dive of my life so far.

After another excellent lunch, the 4 of us headed back to Semporna where the supermarket, Internet, decent room and food awaited. After so many months away from home, its amazing how interesting a supermarket can be.

The next morning Paul and I split up. Lovers tiff? No, he couldn’t be arsed to bus it back to KK and opted for a short cheap flight from Tawau. "I need a couple of days by the beach before the Grand Prix and lots of food". I spent the day on buses past dreary, never ending, coconut palm oil plantations almost to Sandakan. I had come to see more orang-utans at Sipolok.

I checked into "Uncle Tan's" hostel - a wonderful character. He had been into eco-tourism before they called it eco-tourism and for the last 20 years has run cheap trips for backpackers to see the jungle wildlife and the Borneo experience. When he rolled up from his 'jungle camp', he had a chatty early 50s Canadian couple, Susan and Don who had been travelling for months and a Dutch girl. He offered to take us to a local village. "What will it cost?" I asked, ever the travelling sceptic. "Just a smile" he beamed.

He drove us to the village where we watched sago getting processed (more popular than rice as a basic ingredient for any meal). We were invited into a wooden shack and fed lychees, bananas and coconut milk. Back at his hostel, over an all you can eat dinner (with stingray stew and barracuda steaks) included in the £3 room price (and breakfast), I persuaded Uncle Tan to tell us his life story which was riveting. As a youth, he worked for the British army in the 1950s and was trained to suppress any Communist uprisings. He learnt many skills including jungle survival and medicine. Ending up in Singapore, he then became a doctor, then a teacher and finally tourism.

He had many tales about local politics. His last hostel had been burnt down under suspicious circumstances and his mother in law nearly died. He suspected the logging companies because of his well-publicised eco-tourism stand. But he had picked himself up, got going again and was the most interesting person I met in Borneo. I learnt how to skin and gut a pig and chicken, how to fish in the jungle and how to deal with uppity Borneo youth. "Always carry a gun. A large fucking gun" he laughed over his late fifties potbelly.

I fancied the jungle camp, but I'd be there on my own and I would see the same wildlife elsewhere. He dropped us all at the Orang-utan sanctuary the next morning. This was a little upmarket from the Indonesian one I had visited, but you still saw the orang-utans coming down to get fed. It was in your face stuff and close up camera shots. Great animals, but my attention was diverted by the dozens of macaque monkeys who were fearless.

The females on heat had colourful red backsides. The sole male would see a gleaming backside, jump on for 5 seconds, do the dirty and hop off looking for the next backside. If only it were so easy for us men. No wonder he had a smile on his face.

It was a lovely complex in protected rainforest and inundated with tour groups. The animals were used to tourists and came right up to you. In Sumatra, they weren't used to humans and stayed at arms' length. It was worth a morning and an unmissable sight in Sabah. Two mesmerised Aussie girls had visited it 4 days on the trot. "so how many photos have you taken of these vermin?" I asked - "almost 6 films". "But there are only 6 orang-utans". "Yeah. 1 film for each of them". Surprising, no orang-utan understood "Right Turn Clyde" from the Clint Eastwood movie "Every Which Way but loose". I thought it was in the genes.

I was sad to leave Uncle Tan who came to pick us up from the sanctuary - free of charge. He represented what you all imagine Borneo is like. But it isn't. It’s a fully-fledged western-Malaysian society. There is no more into the "heart of darkness" (unless you drink the 'Danish Stout') because a bus or boat will take you there. Westernisation has taken over and traditional headhunting and culture has been replaced by KFC.

Sabah has an interesting event taking place in November called the “Kiulu 4m challenge” - a quadrathon sporting event of survival skills and traditional sports. To complete the competition, you had to do a 6km run, 5km bamboo rafting, 1.3km swimming with long bamboo canes and 0.2km walking on bamboo stilts. Stilt walking should be added to any triathlon - to sort the men out from the boys.

That same day, I had another dull day's bus travel back to KK. It took an age. I was dumped at a main intersection 10km up the road from Uncle Tan's. A shitty little hamlet full of fruit seller stalls. I re-met the two Aussie girls from the sanctuary who were on a private car tour of the area. "So what do they call this?" I asked. "A shitty little hamlet full of fruit sellers where we have lunch" they replied.

I rolled wearily but gratefully back into KK (Kota Kinabalu) and found a hostel and an young Scotsman who had just flown in that day for a 9 day holiday ("ooch, Borneo sounded so romantic. All my friends think I'm headed into hell"). I took him for a tour of cheap Chinese cafes for cheap late night beers. He soon found out what hell was. A town that stops serving about 10.30pm.

I was kicked out of the hostel. Not through embarrassing-lets-not-tell-the-folks-antics, but because a Malaysian group had booked out the whole hotel for the weekend. I checked into another and left immediately. Paul had said he was heading for a hostel 20km south of KK for two days R&R before the Grand Prix. And to catch "catch up on the suntan to impress the boys back home". I had the guidebook address but it was wrong. My bus took me to the address and it was nowhere near a beach. No matter. Paul was flying to KL later that afternoon so I turned up at the airport around 3pm to find Paul checking in. As he ate his way through the pizza stand, he told me about his last two days.

He had eventually found the hotel ("just 5 German women and me" he winked) and had awoken at 4am to find his pillow covered in blood dripping from his ear. He got a taxi to KK hospital and had waited an age for a specialist who proclaimed that he had an ear infection on both sides of his eardrum from the scuba diving. It was cleaned out, drugs distributed and at noon the same day, after the £15 fee, he returned to the guesthouse to eat himself silly. "Lamb curry like you wouldn't believe!" No suntan though.

We bade farewell to each other. It had been a hectic but enjoyable 7 weeks. We had covered everything on the planned itinerary and Paul had visited 4 countries. No arguments. I'd miss the bastard. It’s great to travel as a pair of who-gives-a-shit males. He flew to KL and I flew to an Internet cafe to alert the United Kingdom that "the Welshman has left Borneo".

The next day was a Sunday morning and I wanted to visit the largest market in Borneo at Kota Belud, but a horrendous rainstorm started at dawn and just didn't stop. I abandoned the idea and caught a bus west, to Beaufort, for Sabah’s only train - a ride into the jungle. The diesel train arrived 90 minutes late, for the 2 and a half-hour bone-shattering ride to cover 49km, of rain-forested tracks. We followed the Sungei Padas River throughout the journey, which was beautiful. Across the river, the forested slopes laid shrouded in mist. Kids waved at the train as we passed through their tiny villages.. Many trees had died in various areas for whatever reason, leaving bare slopes. But it was still more dramatic than the Thailand ‘Death Railway’ ride. Upon reaching Tenom, I discovered that the only way back to Beaufort was by rail. I climbed aboard the same train for the same journey in reverse. At least it had stopped raining.

It was 5pm on a Sunday, and I was headed for Brunei. I attempted to hitch, but at 6.30pm a bus finally stopped and delivered me to the small but uninteresting (especially in a downpour) town of Sipidan 2 hours down the road. There were few places to stay but I managed to find one.

Now, you would think that a town near the border of another country, would have an efficient bus system running to it. Wrong. I had to get to Brunei via two ferries via the duty free Malaysian island of Labuan.

I caught the 8.30am fast ferry to the island of Labuan. I don’t know what power it was packing but this ferry boat with 3 engines, covered in boxed luggage, went through the waves rather over them. There were 20-ft waves blowing up at the sides. There was a very portly woman across from me. Her brown face turned blue and I expected her breakfast to hurl over me. She, thankfully, held on. We hit the waves so heavily, I expected the boat to fall apart and for water to pour in through the sides.

Labuan, bathed in sun, was a tax-free haven. I wandered around the shops, found the central mosque which looked like an upside down badminton shuttle, and more importantly found a bottle of rum going for £1. It was the kind of place I could have found an excuse to stay.

The fast ferry of 90 minutes to Brunei was rough, but not as bad as the boat before. It would be my 18th country and Muslim. God help me.

Costs in Malaysia for 6 days (in British Pounds Sterling)

(Other Malaysian costs for Parts 2,3 and 4 on other Malaysian page).