Malaysia > Local food in Kundasang

After breakfast, I take the boat back across the river. The weather is dry and clear. I load my luggage back into the bus. Today I set course for Mount Kinabalu, a drive of about four hours. I pass the roadworks without much trouble—the mud is much less than two days ago. After an hour’s drive, I stop at a palm oil storage site.

Malaysia - A local fruit market

The palm oil fruits are stacked up, and men are busy transferring them into trucks. The large palm oil plantations on Borneo threaten the rainforest. Because of the profit from palm oil, vast areas of land are cleared for plantations. Since I’m simply in the way of the workers, I quickly get back on the bus to continue my journey. At a local market along the roadside, I buy some fruit—nice to have for on the bus. The next stop is for lunch. Again, I can choose from several small restaurants in a row. It’s fun to see the group spread out among the eateries rather than everyone sitting together. I choose a Malay restaurant, while others opt for typically Chinese food. As I drive into the town of Ranau, I approach Mount Kinabalu. Ranau is the largest town in the region. At the supermarket, I buy a bottle of wine for New Year’s Eve tomorrow. I also withdraw money from the bank. Finally, at the end of the afternoon, I arrive in Kundasang. Kundasang is a small village about six kilometers from the entrance of Mount Kinabalu National Park. The village lies on the slopes of Mount Kinabalu, which, at 4,095 meters, is the highest point on Borneo.

Malaysia - Eating in a simple local restaurant in the center of Kundasang

The mountain is hidden in a thick blanket of clouds. The simple hotel is just outside the center. The rooms are very small—I hardly have room to put down my luggage. I’ll be staying at this location for three nights. This gives enthusiasts the chance to climb Mount Kinabalu. Two fellow travelers will start the climb tomorrow and return the day after. I have decided not to do the climb—it is New Year’s Eve after all. In the evening, I walk to the central square in Kundasang. The messy square is still littered with trash from the weekly market. Can I even get a good meal here? On the side, I find a nice little local restaurant. The Indonesian owner is delighted that I’ve chosen his place. The Malay menu on the wall doesn’t provide much clarity, so I just tell him in English what I’d like. “Well done, and fry the egg on both sides,” he repeats my order. “No problem, no problem.” From the kitchen, every bite I take is carefully watched to see if I like it. The owner also offers me a small bowl of soup to taste. I strike up a conversation with him. On his phone, he shows me pictures of Indonesia. A little later, his wife comes over with their five-month-old baby boy. Proudly, he shows off his big guy. When I settle the bill, the entire meal for two doesn’t even reach three euros—including a generous tip.