The alarm goes off at six, but there is no thunder this time. Just the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint sound of a motorbike on Jalan Sultan Haji Ahmad Shah. Day five in Kuala Lumpur, and I am still not used to the fact that the city can go from a monsoon downpour to a perfect, clear morning in under an hour. Today is a preparation day — the last full one before I board the Jungle Railway tomorrow morning. And I have a list as long as my arm.
First, the practical errands. I have already got my bank account, my SIM card, my Touch 'n Go card loaded up. Now it is about the small things: a proper rain jacket that I can actually fold into my backpack, a few extra power banks, and maybe a good book for the sixteen-hour train ride. There is a shop near Chow Kit market that a friend recommended — the kind of place that sells everything from camping stoves to phone chargers. I find it on the second floor of a shophouse, and the owner, a cheerful man in his fifties, helps me pick out a lightweight jacket for about RM 80 — roughly seventeen dollars. He throws in a packet of dried mango slices for the train, which I suspect is just him clearing out old stock, but I take it anyway.
From there, I walk to the market itself. Chow Kit at nine in the morning is a different world from the late-night street food stalls. The air is full of the smell of fresh herbs and the sharp, sweet sting of durian. I stop at a stall selling nasi lemak — the real deal, wrapped in banana leaf, with sambal that makes my eyes water. It costs me RM 5, about a dollar. I eat it standing up, watching the morning business of the city unfold. This is the first time I have properly tasted what everyone has been telling me about. The coconut rice, the anchovies, the cucumber, the sambal — it all comes together in a way that makes me understand why this is the national breakfast.
After the market, I decide to take the MRT to the National Museum, which I somehow have not visited yet. It is a short ride from Chow Kit — about twenty minutes, two ringgit, less than fifty cents. The museum is air-conditioned, which is a relief, and nearly empty on a Wednesday morning. I spend two hours walking through the galleries, starting with the prehistoric exhibits and moving through the rise of the Malay sultanates, the arrival of the British, the rubber and tin booms, and finally the struggle for independence. Standing in front of a photograph of the moment the Union Jack was lowered at Dataran Merdeka in 1957, I feel a strange weight. This city — this whole country — was built on so much more than the skyline I have been staring at.
The museum has a small café, and I stop for a bowl of curry laksa — about RM 9, two dollars — before heading back out into the heat. I have one more thing to do: check the train schedule one last time and make sure I have all my digital paperwork in order. There is a Kopitiam near the Merdeka MRT station that I have been meaning to try, a branch of the classic Malaysian coffee shop chain. I order a teh tarik — the pulled tea, frothy and sweet — and sit by the window with my phone, double-checking my e-ticket for the Jungle Railway. The confirmation looks good: departure from Tumpat, which is actually a few hours north of KL by bus, so I have to factor that in. I book a night bus ticket online for about RM 30 — six dollars and change. It leaves at nine tonight.
Back in TTDI, I do the final pack. My backpack looks smaller than it did five days ago, which is a good sign. I have layered my clothes, stashed my toiletries, and charged every device. There is a moment of panic when I realize I forgot to buy a proper water bottle, so I walk down to the 7-Eleven and grab one for RM 5. The evening air is warm, and the streets are full of families out for a stroll. I grab a quick dinner at a hawker stall in the neighborhood — a plate of mixed rice, or nasi campur, with fried chicken, some greens, and a scoop of curry. It costs me RM 8. I eat it on a plastic stool, watching the sky turn orange and pink behind the high-rises.
At eight, I take a Grab to KL Sentral. The driver is a young Malay man who spends the whole ride talking about the upcoming Merdeka Day celebrations, how the whole city is draped in Jalur Gemilang flags, and how he remembers watching the World Cup final at Dataran Merdeka last month, only to wake up to a viral story about the rubbish left behind. He shakes his head. 'Some people have no shame,' he says. I nod. It is a small reminder that this country is not all glossy travel brochures — it has real conversations about public behavior and civic pride, and locals are not shy about voicing them.
The bus terminal at KL Sentral is a controlled chaos of people and luggage and the constant hiss of air brakes. I find the counter for my night bus to Tumpat, hand over my e-ticket, and get a boarding pass. The bus is a double-decker with seats that recline almost flat, and I have a window seat on the top deck. As the bus pulls out of the station, the city lights of KL blur past. I feel a small flutter of excitement. Tomorrow morning, I will be on the Jungle Railway, the old train line that cuts through the heart of the peninsula, through rubber plantations and rainforest, past small kampungs and sleepy towns, all the way to the east coast. It is the leg of the journey I have been most looking forward to, and it is finally here.
I sleep for a few hours on the bus, waking just before dawn to find that we have crossed into Kelantan. The landscape has changed — more palm trees, more open fields, a different quality of light. The bus pulls into the town of Tumpat at seven in the morning, and I step out into the heat and dust. There is a small station building, and a man in a faded uniform is already at the ticket counter, waving me over. The Jungle Railway — the East Coast Line, as it is officially called — is not just a train. It is a journey back in time, a slow, meandering line that was finished in the 1930s, built to open up the east coast. I have a window seat on the left side, which I have read gives the best views of the mountains. The conductor blows a whistle, the brakes release, and the train eases forward with a lurch.
I am not going to lie to you — the first hour is not glamorous. The air-conditioning is weak, and the smell of durian from the guy two seats down is strong. But once the train leaves the outskirts of Tumpat and starts following the Kelantan River, everything changes. The water is wide and brown, with fishing boats at anchor. The tracks run alongside the river for a while, then cut inland through rice paddies and small villages where kids wave at the train. Every few kilometers, there is a small station — a tin-roofed building with a sign in Jawi and Roman letters, and a single bench where someone is always waiting, even though no one gets on or off. I am told that some of these stations are over a hundred years old, built when the line was first opened.
By midday, we are deep in the interior. The paddies have given way to thick, secondary rainforest — tree ferns and palms and vines hanging over the track. The heat is intense, but the train pushes through at a steady forty kilometers an hour, stopping at every station, no matter how small. I check the map on my phone, but the signal is patchy, so I give up and just watch. There is a strange rhythm to the journey, the clacking of the wheels, the occasional blast of the horn at a level crossing, the murmur of voices from the other passengers. A woman across the aisle offers me a piece of kuih — a kind of steamed rice cake — and I take it, smiling. It is sweet and sticky, and I wash it down with some of the water I bought at the last stop.
The afternoon sun beats down on the tin roof of the car, and I develop a kind of half-doze, the kind where you are not quite asleep but not fully awake. I think about the day ahead, about the plan I have made: to follow the east coast dry-season belt south, through working towns like Kota Bharu and Kuala Dungun, maybe make it to the islands before the monsoon shuts the beaches in November. I have a rough itinerary, but I am leaving room for surprises. I did not come all this way to stick to a schedule.
As the train pulls into a small station called Dabong, I see a waterfall in the distance, a thin white ribbon coming off a limestone cliff. I step onto the platform for a moment, just to stretch my legs, and the air is cooler here, almost fresh. There is a little stall selling iced cendol — shaved ice, green jelly, coconut milk, palm sugar — and I buy one for RM 3. It is the most perfect thing I have eaten all trip, and I stand there in the late afternoon light, watching the cendol melt in the cup, thinking about how close I am to the next chapter of this journey. The train whistle blows, and I climb back on board. The east coast is still several hours away. But I am in no hurry.
It is dark when the train finally pulls into the station at Tumpat — no, wait, I have my timeline wrong. The train actually ends at Wakaf Bahru, a town just outside Kota Bharu. I get off there at around eight in the evening, tired and stiff, but happy. I find a cheap hotel nearby, about RM 60 a night — thirteen dollars — with a bed that is too soft and a ceiling fan that clicks. I eat a bowl of rice and fish at a roadside stall, drink a teh tarik, and go to bed early, with the sound of crickets through the window. Tomorrow, I will explore Kota Bharu and start the slow journey south along the coast. The monsoon is still months away, and the whole east coast is waiting for me.