Curried Pineapple and Colonial Echoes
The morning broke in brilliance, the sun casting a golden sheen
across the road as I set off toward Ipoh, a mere eighty-eight
kilometres away. After the previous day’s thunderstorms, the clear
skies felt like a gift, the perfect companion for a day in the saddle.
The ride unfolded like a moving tapestry—lush landscapes, shifting
light, and the quiet joy of motion. Malaysia may demand a little more
from the wallet than its neighbours, but it rewards the observant
traveller. I’ve learned to follow the truck drivers: where they pause,
good food awaits. Sure enough, I stumbled upon a bustling roadside
dhaba and indulged in curried pineapple with rice—a dish so
unexpectedly exquisite it felt like a secret whispered by the road
itself.
Later, I crossed paths with another cycle tourer, his bike so laden it
seemed to carry not only gear but the proverbial kitchen sink. We
exchanged stories, laughter, and the camaraderie of the road before
parting ways, each spinning onward into our own journeys.
Ipoh welcomed me with its colonial charm. I found a guesthouse
nestled among weathered facades, just steps from the grand old train
station—a place that seemed to hold the echoes of countless
departures and arrivals. It was the perfect base to pause and
breathe.
That evening, my faithful notebook finally surrendered, its pages
refusing to hold another word. Instead of repair, I chose impulse: a
new laptop, purchased without justification. Perhaps that’s the
essence of travel—sometimes you simply embrace the moment,
trusting that the story will continue to write itself.