Hitchin', Campin', Cavin'

After closing down the Sibu Market, Lise and I had our sights, nay, or mouths, set on Bintulu, the next city along the main highway crossing the Malaysian state of Sarawak in Borneo. Our plan was to get feet, nay, or thumbs wet on the hitchhiking in Borneo.

We took a local bus out of town to the next village. When we got there, we were quite the sight. Nobody knew why we had stopped in their village, they just kind of stared from a distance. We walked out of the village to avoid the stares and confusion.

The thumb is all for the camera. Hitchhiking here requires you're whole hand out, waving up and down.

Most cars that passed seemed too amused by the presence of two foreigners in the sticks with their arms out to realize why we were doing this. Finally, a guy pulled over for us. He was not going all the way to Bintulu, but could drop us off before he turned off the road for his home. He drove a small sporty car, with some of the plastic wrapping still on the seats. He said he had had the car for two years. Most cars in Malaysia were pretty new, but it still seemed funny to leave the plastic on the seats for that long.

After getting dropped off, we only had to wait about two cars before catching the next ride. It was with a young man who also had a small sporty car, with even newer plastic wrap on the seats. He said he had just picked up the brand new car in Kuching and was delivering it for his brother. He already had the obligatory Islamic decorations emblazoned with Arabic script dangling from the rearview mirror.

He said he was going to Mukah, and we said, ok, just drop us off there. He seemed surprised. He said, ‘are you sure? You really want to go to Mukah?” “Yes, yes,” we responded, “please please, take us to Mukah!” He turned left, almost immediately, off the main highway. I grabbed for my map, and quickly realized that, no, we did not want to go to Mukah. I understood why he had questioned our desires, but he was cool and even drove us back to the turnoff.

It wasn’t long at all before another new car stopped for us. I really hate hitchhiking in new cars. As soon as I get into them, with their pristine leather seats and blasting air con, everything smelling fresh, I get a double dose of self-consciousness, fully realizing how much I must smell, and that my bag is probably soiling whatever surface I put it on. But I don’t hate it enough to not hitchhike. Maybe these are the things that give us all the hospitality we are blessed with when hitching. Maybe, the upper class are the type that realize that it is possible that there are westerners that are not rich, and even though they are traveling it does not mean they can always afford the same luxuries as the local in the SUV. I might have issues with the class divisions in the developing world, but even at my dirtiest, the upper class

has (almost) always treated me well. Unfortunately it is not hard to understand why.

So the man was going all the way to Bintulu on a business trip. He told us all about the city about Borneo culture. He informed us that we could, in fact, arrive at most longhouses anywhere in Borneo, and the people would be happy to take us in for the night. This excited us, and we though me just try to do this. We realized, after being on the road, that this would not be too difficult, as most of the rural areas, even along the highway, had plenty of longhouses, some more modern than others.

The man took showed us the town and where all the cheap hotels were, and invited us for a drink. Being a Muslim, this meant iced tea or juice, but just as good I figured. He ordered some dumplings and snacks for us to share, and then we went on our separate ways.

Like in Sibu, we went after the night market. It was clearly inferior to the one in Sibu, but it still served its purpose. The most interesting thing we noticed about the town was how the commercial strip on the edge of the river that we were staying on gave way to old, wooden slums merely by crossing the street. On one side of the road was 5-story hotels, on the other side, wooden shanties on stills. It was surprising to me, as my first impression of Malaysia was that it was one of the least class-divided places I had been. Maybe I didn’t look hard enough, but I never saw slums in Kuala Lumpur. Sure there were many rich people, but I didn’t see anyone living in squalor. I still don’t know if my perception about Malaysia is accurate, but this was a shock to see. (Just saw a statistic that shows Malaysia’s income disparity as just below America and the Philippines, somewhere around 50^th in the world)

We took the same approach to hitching the next day on our way to Niah National Park to check some caves. We took the local bus to the outskirts of town and got a ride within minutes. Another big clean car, this one an SUV. It was a researcher for a palm oil company and his driver. He goes around to the palm oil plantations to conduct research and also to instruct in the proper methods of palm oil farming. In much of Malaysia, the jungle has been replaced with palm oil fields as far as the eye can see. It actually creeped me out the first time I saw it, probably because I knew that it is so bad for the environment. I wanted to ask his opinion about the environmental impact, but knew certain etiquette of politeness should be followed when hitchhiking. Also, the guy was super nice. He was going very close to where we were going, but still insisted on driving the last five km to our destination. He even offered to pick us up the next day and drive us to the nearest bus station. He gave us his phone number to call him when we were ready. Oh, and he also stopped along the way at a truck stop to have a coffee with us.

Niah National Park is known for their caves, which house some incredibly old paintings and burial sites. We debated going out there as soon as we got there, but it was a three km walk and we only had two hours before sunset. We camped at the park since it was far cheaper than the guesthouse. Although we had to pay, it was an informal camp spot. Just anywhere on the grass, we were told. We were 20 meters from the cafeteria.

We should have made a better effort to get to the caves earlier. We were up early, but took our time with coffee and breakfast. By nine, the tour groups were arriving in their heavy hiking boots, quick-dry zip-off khakis, giant sun hats, sunscreen, etc. It seemed like overkill, especially when finding that the two-mile trail to the caves was actually a flat boardwalk.

Limestone formations in the jungle.

The caves themselves, though were pretty spectacular. And I can always appreciate a cave that can be visited without guides. At the entrance there was some bamboo scaffolding, which was used by the Penan people to harvest the nests of swiftlets. Swiftlets are birds that make their nest out of hardened saliva, which is the main ingredient in “birds-nest soup”. The Iban people, however, have the less glamorous task of harvesting guano.

Bamboo poles hanging from the ceiling are used to climb up to collect the birds nests.

Of course the caves were spectacular. They’re damn caves! What else to say? Big holes in the earth, it was dark and slippery and awesome and smelled like mold.

After a twenty minute walk through the cave, we emerged near the “painted cave”. Apparently there is evidence of this area being inhabited 40,000 years ago, but we never found out how old the actual paintings were. They were faint, and blocked by a big, obtrusive chain-link fence and barbed wire. Not the most atmospheric historical sight I have been to, but interesting nonetheless. A little further into the cave sat a surprisingly unprotected archaeological site in progress. There were some “death ships” or small canoes that served as coffins. Supposedly the belief was that the person was buried in this canoe, and it would take them onto the next world.

An archaeological site at the mouth of the cave.

Those wooden stairs are the path into the cave.

Back at the headquarters, we packed up the tent and the bags, and stuck our thumb out, hoping some other tourists would be leaving. We thought about calling our friend for a ride, but we didn’t have a phone. There is not much traffic on this road, since the only destination is the national park. For some reason, though, two guys in their 20’s in a massive, brand new truck stopped for us. Their faces showed more curiosity than kindness. As modern as their car and their styles of dress were, they did not speak any English, but understood that we wanted a ride. The hip-hop music was blaring and they kept the windows down. It really appeared these guys were just cruising in rural Borneo. Maybe it was their dad’s car and he was out on a business trip. They even took us to the bus station (it seemed to be the only thing they knew how to say in English). They obviously weren’t going there, but also had nowhere better to go.

We got lucky with the ride, but hitchhiking next to a bus station turned out to be more difficult than expected. Everyone that passed us pointed at the bus station, as if we had been sitting there the whole time wondering how to get to the next town, and hadn’t even thought to take the bus. Even a few taxi drivers came and offered us rides for obscene amounts of money. After waiting for an hour, the rains started up and we gave in. We at least wanted to make it to the next National Park before dark.

It took some searching in the station before finding someone that could explain to me in English if there was a bus going to “Lambir Hills National Park”. When speaking with the guy in the ticket booth, I even used the Malay word for National Park, but he still had no idea that I was looking for a bus there…at the bus station ticket counter. No matter, before long we were on hour way. It wasn’t so far, and it felt absurd to spend $3.50 for a one-hour bus ride.

Luckily when got to our stop at the national park, the rain had stopped, and we only had to deal with some wet ground. Again, the camping spot was just wherever we could set up. The ground was soaked everywhere, so I was feeling fortunate for having my tarp to put under my tent.

There was plenty to do in Lambir Hills National Park, but we weren’t feeling too ambitious. We could have gone on hikes all day, but we figured, why bother when there is a perfectly awesome waterfall within a 20-minute walk. Especially since we were not there on the weekend when it is overrun with local tourists. We basically had the place to ourselves. We spent all morning lounging in the falls, swimming about, letting the fish nibble our toes, while the occasional western tourist stopped by to take pictures (of the falls, not us), and move on.

Later that day, back on the road, we got a ride from an Indonesian man. He spoke no English and drove a modest car. He was unlike most of our rides, but also what one might expect when hitching in developing countries. I discovered a bucket of fish in his trunk when I put my backpack in, but he said he was not a fisherman. I don’t know what he was, but he seemed to be going to Miri, the next city, for some sort of business.

He dropped us off in the city and we went on our typical hunt for the city’s cheapest room. We had basically stopped using the Lonely Planet guide for finding accommodation, as it regularly failed at showing anything affordable. In fact, the day before flying to Borneo, I saw what they quoted for room prices, and we considered traveling through Indonesian Borneo instead. Unfortunately, the lack of roads on that side of the island would have made the trip impossible, expensive or incredibly slow. So we held our breath and hoped for better deals. We discovered, though, that all these cities have a wealth of modest Chinese-owned hotels of acceptable quality for far cheaper than everything else listed in the guide book. Frequently the book would say something to the effect of, “any budget accommodation in Miri is scaping barrels you didn’t know existed, and it would be wise to spend the extra money for a decent room”. We scraped those barrels every day, and were always surprised to find that we would get more for our money. We always had a private bathroom, TV, and sometimes air conditioning; luxuries rarely afforded to guests at backpacker-oriented places and half the price. I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t put these perfectly good hotels in the book. Maybe it was because most travelers really don’t like to be in plain hotels. Maybe they need a place set up to meet other travelers, or a cool bar or restaurant attached, with guide services and a book exchange. Or maybe people are just offended by seeing hourly rates on the board.

Miri was a bigger challenge, though, and after a long search, we had to settle for paying a little more than usual, for a tiny room without a window. The first time we had a windowless room, we didn’t care since it was cheaper. We quickly realized, though, that sleeping in a place without windows is definitely not preferable. Usually we would wake up disoriented, probably having overslept, with no concept of what hour of the day it was.

The guidebook described Miri as having a sketchy, border town vibe, due to its proximity to Brunei. With Brunei being a dry country, and Miri being the most accessible nightlife, it made sense. We never saw the sketch or the sleaze described, though, and it seemed like one of the more upscale cities we had seen in a while.

We couldn’t find the night market for dinner, but we did find a dingy food court, that basically had cheap beer and noodles. Yes, more smuggled beer at rock bottom prices. While the fools were paying $6 a beer at the Spanish Tapas bar or Irish pub down the street, we were getting top notch chicken rice, cheap brews, and a lively atmosphere. The people seemed to pay more attention to us than in other places and seemed amused with our presence in this humble establishment. We sat near the most popular stall serving chicken rice and chicken noodles. They were so slammed, I was pretty sure that if we didn’t learn Malay or Chinese, or get really aggressive, we would never be served. The man chopping chicken was in a zone. He was a master. There was nothing outside of his world beyond grabbing the next little boiled bird and chopping it efficiently into the right pieces. Everyone else at his station did their jobs impeccably and with ease. It is a simple dish, just boiled chicken served with rice or noodles, but when done so perfectly, it is truly special. It was really familiar to any good kitchen during rush, with everything moving mechanically and on cue like a chugging food machine, and having the restaurant turned inside out for our viewing pleasure made it that much more enjoyable. Needless to say, when the chicken did arrive, we were pleased.