Borneo: Sarawak

In my previous three visits to Malaysia, Borneo remained a distant dream—always on the list, never on the itinerary. This time, I finally crossed the South China Sea to explore the island of Borneo -- the third largest island in the world, shared by three nations: Brunei, which claims a sliver of sovereignty; Malaysia, whose states of Sarawak and Sabah hug the northern coast; and Indonesia, which occupies the lion’s share under the name Kalimantan.

Flying in domestically to Kuching from Kuala Lumpur, I was surprised to find myself in a passport queue again. It felt oddly international for a domestic hop—until I read up and realized why. Sarawak, as a founding member of the Malaysian federation, retained its own immigration autonomy. That means even fellow Malaysians need to clear a separate checkpoint when entering.

I got a room with a view of the Sarawak River on the south side of town. It looked serene—but a quick read reminded me it’s anything but. The river flows roughly 120 kilometers before emptying into the South China Sea, and it’s long been a lifeline for Sarawak’s trade, transport, and fishing economy. A working river, not just a pretty one.

First things first—I went walking in search for food. A few blocks in, I stumbled upon a Ceylonese restaurant—large, bustling, and completely full. Easily a hundred people were packed inside or hovering outside, eagerly awaiting a spot.

The owner, a young looking man with a warm smile took my name down. When I mentioned I’d traveled through Colombo, Kandy, Galle, and Sigiriya, his face lit up, and within minutes, I was ushered past the one-hour queue and seated like an old friend returning home.

After settling into the comfort of the familiar—a crisp dosa (or thosai, as it’s called here), paired with a fiery lamb shank —I was offered something I hadn’t seen before. The dessert, pisang keju susu—which translates simply to banana, cheese, and milk, but the experience is anything but simple. Warm and golden, layered with fried bananas and a soft, salty cheese, it was delightful, and the portion was generous.

Kuching, which means “cat” in Malay, wears its name proudly. Cat statues are scattered across the city—some regal, some playful, all part of the charm.

Kuching is a city that surprises with its order—clean streets and a well-laid road network. Each day I wandered to its many cafés, passing by St. Peter’s Church in Padungan, the latest and largest Roman Catholic church in the city, it reopened on June 28, 2025, after a major redevelopment marked by a week-long consecration. Its Gothic-inspired architecture blends Catholic tradition with Sarawak’s Dayak motifs—soaring spires with intricate stonework.

Seafood in Sarawak is delicious, plentiful, and surprisingly affordable. Clams, razor clams, mussels, and fish are pulled fresh from the coast and tossed into woks with ginger, garlic, and herbs.

The side dishes were no afterthought—just-pressed greens, okra, and midin, a wild jungle fern native to Sarawak. Stir-fried quickly with garlic or belacan, they arrived crisp, vibrant, and deeply satisfying. Other favorites—green beans, eggplant, mushrooms—were plentiful too.

At night, Kuching glitters—not from neon excess, but from the quiet shimmer of reflections dancing on the Sarawak River. The Astana Palace glows softly across the water, its colonial silhouette mirrored in gentle ripples. Boats drift by, ferrying folks on evening cruises. On the southern bank, high-rise buildings flicker to life, their glass facades catching the last blush of sunset.

Wandering through Carpenter Street, I stumbled upon the Hokkien Chinese temple—an ornate landmark tucked into the rhythm of old Kuching. Believed to date back to 1840, the temple stands as a testament to the city’s multicultural soul.

Its façade gleams with intricate carvings, vivid reds and golds. Dedicated to Kong Teck Choon Ong, the temple comes alive each April with a grand procession—floats, lion dancers, and dragons weaving through the streets in a celebration of faith and community.

On the banks of the Sarawak, a boatman offered me a one-hour ride for 19 ringgits—five dollars for a front-row seat to Kuching’s twilight transformation. As we glided past the Darul Hana Bridge, the city began to shimmer. The Kuching Floating Mosque—Masjid India—rose gracefully from the water, its domes catching the last light of day. Built to replace the 186-year-old Masjid India, originally founded by Indian Muslim traders, the new mosque floats with quiet majesty, accommodating up to 1,600 worshippers.

Borneo had always meant orangutans to me. To chase that dream, I headed to Semenggoh Nature Reserve—just 30 minutes from Kuching. Unlike a zoo, it’s a sanctuary where rescued orangutans roam semi-wild.

I walked the one-mile stretch from the entrance to the feeding platform, skipping the electric car ride and embracing the rainforest walk instead. The trail was shaded by towering trees, it was humid, hushed, and deeply grounding—each step a slow immersion into Borneo’s wild heart.

Though the band of orangutans didn’t appear, I was lucky enough to witness the alpha male—150 kilograms of muscle and grace, soon to be crowned king of this jungle. He moved with quiet authority, limber and lithe, cracking open a coconut with ease. Then, with effortless strength, he climbed the suspended rope above, hundreds of onlookers including me, phones raised, trying to capture this moment.

After a hearty meal at Borneo Delight Café and a sip of Tuak—the sweet, fermented rice wine of Sarawak—I set off for Bako National Park.

Just a short drive and boat ride from Kuching, Bako transports one to another world.

Near the park entrance, I was greeted by a Bornean bearded pig. Above, in the tall canopy, a proboscis monkey perched silently, its pendulous nose half-hidden by leaves. It refused to face my camera, and I continued on my long rainforest hike.

The hike to Teluk Pandan Besar began with bamboo groves—tall, swaying, and unexpectedly armed with clumps of spiky thorns. I found myself behind a large group of American tourists. Slipping past them on a narrow bend, I reached a weathered sign: Beware of crocodiles. It was both thrilling and sobering—a reminder that Bako’s beauty comes with danger.

Crossing a low wooden bridge, I paused to watch dozens of fiddler crabs scuttling across the mudflats—each brandishing a single oversized claw like a tiny flag.

The trail to Teluk Pandan Besar wasn’t gentle. It twisted through dense forest, climbing steep ridges and dipping into muddy hollows. Hundreds of tree roots crisscrossed the path like nature’s tripwires—gnarled, slick, and unapologetically wild.

The best stop on the trail came unexpectedly—a patch of forest where a Venus flycatcher nestled among moss and leaf litter. Its delicate, jaw-like traps stood open, waiting.

In a park known for wild pigs and elusive monkeys, this tiny predator felt like a secret—silent, still, and strangely elegant.

The trail unfolded like a gallery—cliffside vistas, tangled jungle, and the famed mushroom-shaped rock formations sculpted by wind and time. Each turn offered a new frame of Borneo’s wild beauty.

After reaching the edge of Teluk Pandan Besar, I retraced my steps through root-laced paths and bamboo thickets. Three hours in the rainforest—steep climbs, quiet encounters, and the kind of solitude that lingers long after the hike ends.

As I waited for the boat back to Kuching, the forest offered one last gift—a proboscis monkey, perched high in the canopy, finally facing my lens.

Its pendulous nose and amber fur framed against the green made for a surreal sight. I snapped photos, recorded a short video, and stood still for a moment—neck craned, breath held. It wasn’t easy to look up for long with a crick forming, but I didn’t dare move.

As I happily took the video of proboscis monkey, a macaque perched nearby, watching me with unnerving stillness.

It was time to leave Kuching’s rivers and rainforests behind and head deeper into Borneo. I boarded a MASwings short-hop flight—an ATR-72 turboprop, humming low and steady across the jungle canopy.

Mulu National Park offers charming cabins tucked right inside the rainforest—simple, cozy, and surrounded by the hum of nature.

It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site, celebrated for its staggering biodiversity and dramatic karst landscapes. Towering limestone pinnacles, vast cave systems, and dense rainforest make it one of Southeast Asia’s ecological crown jewels.

The two-mile walk to Lang and Deer Caves inside the Gunung Mulu park was more than a trail—it was a slow-motion immersion into rainforest wonder. Towering buttress trees anchored the forest, while Kayu Cempaka trees released a faint, spicy scent into the humid air.

Green lizards darted across the path, and flying lizards glided between trunks. Epiphytes clung to branches drawing nutrients from the air and mist. Every step felt awe-inspiring.

The limestone caves carved into Mulu’s karst mountains loomed ahead—cathedral-like chambers hosting millions of bats across twelve species. Deer Cave, in particular, was home to the wrinkled-lipped bat, whose nightly exodus is one of nature’s great spectacles.

If the tropical skies held back their rain, I might witness it: a swirling ribbon of wings spiraling out at dusk, darkening the sky in coordinated flight. It’s not guaranteed—some evenings the bats stay in, sensing shifts in weather or predators. But when they do emerge, it’s like watching the rainforest breathe. The guide said, they make patterns like A or S or any other alphabet.

The Lang Cave was the first cave I visited, and it had boardwalks at the start.

Soon, my eyes adjusted to the dim cathedral of limestone, and I saw them—bats hanging silently from the cave ceiling. Roundleaf bats clustered in tight groups, their leaf-shaped noses twitching with echolocation. In a recessed hole, I spotted the elusive bell bat, solitary and still, its delicate frame barely visible against the rock. The air was thick with guano and mystery, and the silence broken only by the occasional flutter of wings.

Inside the Lang and Deer Caves, the limestone formations were everywhere—stalactites dripping from the ceiling like frozen chandeliers, stalagmites rising from the floor like ancient sentinels. Ribbon-like flows of calcium curled along the walls, delicate and surreal, shaped by water and time. Each formation was a story of slow erosion and the quiet persistence of nature. The guide pointed to a formation that looked like jellyfish.

The cave exit opened up to the rainforest and leads to the Deer Cave.

The Deer Cave—Luyang Payau—is one of the largest cave passages in the world, named after the deer, that once gathered at its entrance to lick salt from the rocks, the cave is a marvel of scale and ecology. Its vast chamber, the size of a supermarket, hosts 3 million bats whose nightly exodus sustains a complex food web.

From guano-feeding insects to predators that rely on them, the cave breathes life into the rainforest beyond.

We proceeded to the heart of Sarawak’s rainforest, where the Penan people, one of the last nomadic hunter-gatherer communities in the world, live deep in rainforest. Their way of life is rooted in molong—a philosophy of restraint and respect. Never take more than you need. Leave enough for others. Mark a fruiting tree with a machete cut, not to claim it, but to preserve it.

Their forest is a living system of signs, stories, and shared memory. Penan hunters use blowpipes and poison darts, but they also communicate through sticks planted in the ground, leaves folded into symbols, and trails marked with quiet intention. Danger, food, direction—all conveyed without a word.

Their deep knowledge of plants and animals, their spiritual bond with the land is vastly different from ours, we are overstimulated, and they are content in their ancient ways.

Next stop was at the entrance to the Cave of the Winds. Millions of years ago, this cave was a river in motion, dissolving rock and shaping strange formations that now seem to grow out of the walls. Today, the water is gone, replaced by cool breezes that blow through the 350-meter passage. Some formations are massive and abstract, others delicate and ribbon-like, still forming from slow drips overhead.

Clearwater Cave was my last stop before the Pinnacles—and what an entrance it was. Towering limestone cliffs framed a stairway of nearly 200 stone steps, leading into one of Southeast Asia’s longest underground cave systems.

At the mouth of the cave, nestled in the twilight zone where light barely reaches, is something extraordinary: Monophyllaea pendula, the single-leaf plant endemic to this region.

The cave itself pulses with cool air and the sound of water flowing beneath, a subterranean river born from Mount Api. It felt like crossing into another world—one shaped by erosion, silence, and rare life.

After exploring the depths of Clearwater Cave, we boarded a longboat for the next leg—an hour-long ride upriver to Kuala Litut. The boat skimmed over the Melinau, winding past dense rainforest and limestone cliffs, the engine humming against the quiet.

At the jetty, our guide gave a simple instruction: walk. The trail to Camp 5 stretched nine kilometers through lowland forest, shaded but humid, flat but relentless.

With packs on our backs and sweat already forming, we began the hike—each step taking us deeper into the wild, toward the base of Gunung Api and the promise of the Pinnacles.

From Kuala Litut, the trail to Camp 5 unfolded like a green corridor—dense forest on either side, towering dipterocarp trees laced with thick vines overhead.

The Melinau River kept us company, its waters weaving beside the path like a quiet guide. We crossed narrow rope bridges, one hiker at a time, swaying gently above jungle streams.

The eleven of us moved in rhythm, packs on our backs, boots crunching on leaf-strewn ground. It took about two and a half hours, but the time blurred— a hornbill overhead, a splash in the undergrowth, the hush of forest breathing around us.

We reached Camp 5 by late afternoon, cooked a simple dinner, and turned in early—sleeping to the hum of the jungle and the huge downpour, knowing the next day would test us.

By 5 a.m., we were up, headlamps on, boots laced, packs light. The Pinnacles hike is deceptively short—just 2.4 kilometers—but climbs a staggering 1,276 meters, nearly 4,000 feet, straight up the limestone slopes of Gunung Api.

It’s not a trail—it’s a vertical scramble over roots, rocks, and ladders. The forest was still dark as we began, each step a negotiation with gravity and resolve. This was no ordinary trek. It was a climb into the clouds

By the first cutoff, I was tired. I’d made it in time, but my heart was racing—and not just from the climb. It had only been six weeks since my HAPE episode in Bolivia, and the memory of breathlessness still lingered.

I paused, listened to my body, and made the hard call: turn back. The descent was no less demanding—treacherous, slippery, and slow. Back at Camp 5, regret crept in. The Pinnacles would remain unseen, for now.

But there was also a quiet pride in choosing caution over conquest. The mountain isn’t going anywhere. And neither is the next time.

The next morning, we retraced our steps—nine kilometers through the forest from Camp 5 to Kuala Litut. The trail felt gentler this time, familiar yet still wild, with vines overhead and the river murmuring beside us.

The rope bridges swayed again, but now with the ease of memory. At the jetty, our longboat waited, its engine humming softly. We climbed in, packs lighter, hearts heavier, and drifted back toward Gunung Mulu National Park.

The rainforest receded slowly, like a story closing its final chapter. I looked back once more at the limestone cliffs and whispered to myself: next time, I’ll reach the Pinnacles.

At Mulu International Airport, the MASwings turboprop stood waiting—its blades still, its cabin quiet. I climbed aboard, carrying more than just a backpack: memories of caves carved by water and time, forests alive with lizards and epiphytes, and the quiet wisdom of the Penan.

Borneo had offered me biodiversity in motion, kindness in every encounter, and seafood that sang with freshness. As the plane lifted off, I looked down one last time at the green expanse below and whispered thanks—to the land, the people, and the stories still unfolding.