There’s a rare flower in Malaysia that only blooms for a few days every year.
During its brief but spectacular existence, the Rafflesia slowly unfurls its large, spotty red velvet petals and leers at you as if it’s contemplating its next supper. Which it is, because this is a carnivorous creature, though its diet consists of smaller victims such as insects and occasional rodents that fall into its pot-like centre. It’s the world’s largest flower at a metre wide, and you can track it down by the smell of putrid meat it exudes to lure its prey.
Fortunately, everyone else in Malaysia is far friendlier, including the guides who led us on a hike to find this endangered flower deep in the sprawling rainforest of Royal Belum State Park. This is one of the world’s oldest rainforests, dating back 130-million years and predating the far more famous Amazon. Amid the ancient trees and twisting creepers is the Belum Rainforest Resort, my home for two days during a trip across the country. The rainforest was a highlight, offering an experience that may one day disappear as mankind encroaches ever further into nature.
A notice at the hotel reads the rainforest is home to 14 of the world’s most threatened mammals, including the Asiatic elephant, Sumatran rhinoceros, tapir, white-handed gibbon, sunbear, Malaysian tiger and golden cat. The sign isn’t old, but it’s already sadly outdated. Malaysia’s last Sumatran rhino died in November 2019, and only about 80 still survive in Indonesia.
The indigenous Orang-Asli tribe still lives on the fringes of the jungle, and we set out in a motorboat one morning to meet them in their stilted homes that sprout on the banks of Lake Temenggor. They’re well used to tourists now, taking scant notice as we wander around the tiny village taking photos and asking questions through an interpreter. Our visit coincides with the arrival of a pastor who comes once a month to deliver basic foodstuff and some craft supplies, so the women can make jewellery to sell to tourists to help sustain their ancient lifestyle.
The 70km long Temenggor Lake with forests lining its jagged shores is beautiful, but the story behind it is less attractive. The lake is man-made, created when a river was dammed and a valley flooded in the early 1970s, submerging the forest. The aim was to generate hydroelectricity and prevent uncontrolled flooding by the river. Conflict was a key reason too, because it created a barrier to prevent communist rebels crossing into Malaysia from their bases in Thailand during clashes between the Malayan Communist Party and federal security forces.
Now the big fight in Malaysia is for conservation, to counter the wholesale felling of rainforests to farm palm oil. My heart was stolen by orang-utans in a rescue and rehabilitation sanctuary on Bukut Merah Orang-utan Island, home to these gorgeous apes that are being displaced by habitat loss, or rescued from the illegal pet trade. They live in relative freedom on Bukut Merah, with visitors viewing them from wired-off walkways, so we’re in the cages, not they. It’s wonderful to see them larking around and flapping like furry clothes on a washing line as they swing down to the beach.
The rainforest and orang-utan island are within a day’s drive of Kuala Lumpur, but a world away in every other sense. The capital is home to about 1.8-million people, who move through the city centre in skywalks and air-conditioned malls to avoid the sweaty, traffic-clogged roads below.
The most famous attractions are the 451m tall glass and steel skyscrapers of the Petronas Twin Towers. Visits to the skybridge and observation deck had sold out days in advance, but I wasn’t too disappointed because the best views come from outside anyway. For 20 ringgits (R70) you can sip a cocktail in the Skybar of Traders Hotel opposite and admire the towers sparkling amid a panorama of skyscrapers.
Kuala Lumpur means “muddy confluence” in Malay, an unattractive but accurate description of the point where the Klang and Gombak Rivers merge, with a picturesque mosque sitting in the middle. This is the old colonial quarter, built when Malaysia was occupied by the British. The Sultan Abdul Samad Building is a stunning piece of British Raj architecture, with arched balconies, round turrets and the quintessential English clocktower, topped with a jaunty copper dome.
Across the road the Royal Selangor sports club stands as if transposed from an English village, stoically wilting under the hot tropical sun since 1884. There’s a cricket pitch too, of course, where the Malay flag was first raised in 1885 to celebrate independence.
A short stroll away is Petaling Street in the heart of Chinatown, where the narrow streets are filled with an explosion of noise and colour from stalls selling cheap clothes and batik knock-offs.
The Central Market here is liveliest at night, but the quiet mornings give you time to chat. I struck up a conversation with a stallholder as she showed me how to tie on some elaborate silky “happy pants”. More like nappy pants really, and highly impractical in a country of squat toilets. She’d been married off at 15, and had three children with a husband she never loved. When she finally pushed for a divorce he let her take the children, she said, but absolutely nothing else. Haggling is the norm in Chinatown, but I overpaid for my oriental trousers, hoping it helped a little.
As you stroll the markets you’re assailed occasionally by a distinctive, musty smell. The love-it-or-loathe-it durian is a spiky football-sized fruit that’s justifiably banned from public transport and hotel rooms. It’s a pungent and pricey treat, and it takes a while before you grow to like its lingering savoury aftertaste. I inhale deeply, and imagine monkeys swinging through durian trees in their disappearing jungles.
Would you like to comment on this article?
Sign up (it's quick and free) or sign in now.
Please read our Comment Policy before commenting.