This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
This isn’t a dream — I’m being bumped out of bed. I drop back onto the mattress, bleary-eyed and blinking away residual sleep in the inky darkness of early morning, and then there’s one second, two seconds of rattling before the next bump comes. For one more brief moment I’m airborne, hanging like a magician’s assistant in mid-air.
I’m on the Eastern & Oriental Express, a Belmond train that quite literally goes bump in the night. Relaunched and revamped in February 2024 after a pandemic-induced four-year hiatus, the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express’s Southeast Asian sister has returned to ply the jungles of Malaysia. And once it gets going, it rarely stops moving.
It’s fitting that its emblem, picked out in brilliant gold stripes against the forest green and cream of the carriages, is a sinuous tiger arching in mid-spring. In the blackness of my room, the experience of riding the train is exactly how I imagine riding a tiger might be. It feels perpetually ready to pounce — pausing, reassessing, winding up, reversing, before taking a series of bouncing strides along the tree-lined tracks, confident and proud as any big cat.
The train had left Singapore the day before, and now, after crossing the border into Malaysia, I’m en route north via thick jungle and one-horse towns to Taman Negara, one of the world’s oldest rainforests. It’s an adventure without any effort on my part — a chance to plunge deep into the wild from under a duvet.
The plan is simple: first we’ll disembark to explore the national park, one of the last bastions for the rare Malayan tiger, before turning back for the fork in the tracks that leads to arty George Town on the island of Penang. In all, it’ll take four days to complete the Wild Malaysia itinerary — one of two new seasonal routes launched to celebrate the train’s rebirth.
The Eastern & Oriental Express passes through Kluang, a town north of Singapore. Photograph by Lauryn Ishak
While nights can be bumpy, mornings, it turns out, break gently. The strong, earthy smell of black coffee wafting under my door rouses me like an olfactory alarm clock. By this time, the early morning sun is filtering in through a gap in the tasselled curtains, producing a singular blush-pink ray that scans the room as the train tries its best to rock me back to sleep. We’re on a calmer stretch of track now.
I draw back the curtains and let the light wash in. I’m in a two-berth State Cabin, decorated in an aquatic colour scheme of emerald greens and peacock blues in velvety homage to coastal George Town. All 15 of the train’s carriages have been revamped and refreshed, but the cabin feels almost time-capsule-like in its dedication to tropical Victoriana, with Malaysian embroidery, cherrywood chequerboard marquetry and floral Lalique crystal lampshades. And here and there, amid it all, springs the tiger: adorning every luggage tag, every boarding pass, every quilted slipper.
My carriage is at the end of the train, one away from the observation car, with its open-air viewing deck enclosed by polished gold railings. The previous evening, after-dinner revellers sat long into the night here, taking in the moon-washed palms and chasing handfuls of Bombay mix with fizzy jungle pineapple cocktails. Now it seems the perfect spot for early risers like me who want to cradle a mug while still wrapped in a dressing gown.
After a pinballing foray down the rocking wood-panelled corridor, I step out beyond glass doors fogged with humidity, feeling a rush of warm air against my face. I’ve got company — a uniformed off-duty driver from the state railway, which powers and operates the train. He’s sitting in silence on one of the benches, arms crossed tightly over his chest — eyes drooping, head nodding, hypnotised by the spectacle.
It’s easily done. When I join him, I can’t help but feel lulled by the sight of the train tracks forever racing away along the line’s regimented, palm-fringed corridors, frond after frond hurrying towards that streak on the horizon where jungle meets sky. Details rush into and then rapidly back out of view: vine-draped clearings, alabaster limestone karsts craggy as giants’ toenails, sluggish rivers.
Every so often, pockets of corrugated iron roofs emerge abruptly from the mist and I catch flashes of morning rituals playing out between them: a woman waving her child off from the doorstep; a family riding three to a moped; street dogs napping in the amber glow of the rising sun, barely lifting an ear between them as we rattle on by. A herd of goats suddenly scatters, startled as our tiger pounces.
The State Cabin is decorated in an aquatic colour scheme of emerald greens and peacock blues, paying homage to coastal George Town. Photograph by Lauryn Ishak
The 15-carriage train has been revamped and refreshed since closing during the pandemic. Photograph by Lauryn Ishak
Hidden claws
There’s an oil rig in the jungle. At least, that’s what it looks like from afar. The rust-orange tower soars from the forest floor, snaked by a staircase that reaches a circular observation deck. In this sea of every imaginable shade of green, where gibbons sing melancholy songs over the monotonous whirring of insects and fish shimmy through muddy waters, it feels strangely man-made — but there’s a good reason for it.
“Something’s moving,” says our guide, Muhammad bin Othman, who’s almost reached the tower ahead on the treetop walkway. I’d left the train after breakfast, and now it’s late morning the sun’s starting to feel hot on my neck, its rays filtering through gaps in the swaying canopy on either side of us in broken shards of tremulous light. On the horizon, the mist hangs in blue sheets over the distant humps of the Tahan mountains. The tropical heat has thickened the air, making it feel as heavy as water.
“Hornbill!” Muhammad calls, pointing at a monochrome blur of feathers in flight. “That’s an oriental pied hornbill,” he says as the bird’s tail vanishes between hanging vines. “We have nine species in all. The scariest one is the helmeted hornbill, because its call gets faster and more annoying. We call it the mother-in-law bird.” He plays the sound on his phone, its hoots growing more and more frenzied until they culminate in a cackling finale worthy of a supervillain.
Having entered Taman Negara National Park on the western edge, we’re now hiking a loop on the walkway through the forest canopy, which minimises our impact on the jungle floor. Not long ago, Muhummad saw a panther from this treetop lookout, curled up in the shade below. This region is home to seven cat species in all, including clouded leopards and the critically endangered Malayan tiger. Muhammad’s never seen one of those, though.
If Rudyard Kipling is to be believed, the tiger is a beast to fear above all else — a flurry of claws and fangs; white-hot fury incarnate. But here in Malaysia, opinions are rather more positive. Tiger mascots appear everywhere, from the Malaysian coat of arms to football shirts. The animal’s wile and strength is expressed in the Malay idioms tunjuk belang, meaning to show stripes or your true colours, and sembunyi kuku, which means hidden claws or hidden talent. The Malay martial art silat harimau is influenced by the tiger’s movements — precise, fluid, yet powerful. Some believe that masters of this fighting style can even turn into tigers themselves.
After a bouncy drive in the bed of a pick-up truck deeper into the forest, past a concrete house that’s been partially caved in by forest elephants, we reach Dewan Terbuka Open Hall, little more than a peaked roof in a clearing. Fish scales glitter like gemstones on a log nearby — evidence of another forest dweller, the otter. But we’re here to learn more about the Malayan tiger from the volunteers at MYCAT, a citizen conservation programme.
Travellers take a ride in a pickup truck in Taman Negara National Park to find tigers. Photograph by Lauryn Ishak
Eric Chan is leaning against a picnic bench inside the Open Hall, dressed in black with a tattoo in capital letters visible on one forearm — ‘natura nihil frustra facit’, or ‘nature does nothing in vain’. He fills us in on the importance of the tiger locally. “The tiger’s survival is particularly important for the Batek Indigenous people who live here,” he says. “They believe that they can mimic the calls of other animals and that they can shapeshift. Why is this important? To them, whatever sound they hear, even in the skies, could be a tiger. This is where the reverence comes from — the respect,” he continues. “Many believe the tigers indicate the health of the forest, too — if they’re doing well, the ecosystem is doing well.”
It can’t be doing very well, then. The Malayan tiger is the smallest sub-species, found only in Peninsular Malaysia and, like the global population, its numbers have dwindled — from an estimated 3,000 in the 1950s to fewer than 150 now. They’re on the brink of extinction, picked off by poachers who use their body parts for traditional medicine, and so scattered across this jungle that even researchers like Eric have never seen one.
Alongside its work campaigning to rewild areas of deforestation and introduce viaducts to connect remaining pockets of forest for wildlife, MYCAT is keeping tabs on the tiger population through motion-sensing camera traps. Through the Cat Walk community ranger programme, travellers are also invited to contribute towards local conservation efforts, hiking into the jungle alongside professionals to document evidence of tigers and poachers.
That evening, back on the train, the wall of jungle sweeping past the windows is so dense that it’s easy to see why researchers go their whole lives without seeing a tiger. It’s dinnertime, and at one end of the packed Malaya dining car stands Taiwanese chef André Chiang: stoic, dressed in immaculate whites and so tall that his buzz cut brushes the upper edge of the door frame. “Spices are what trigger your sense of place,” he says with honed theatrical flair to me and my fellow diners as we sit in red velvet seats, our Champagne flutes clinking softly on starched tablecloths. “With this menu, you should be able to guess where you are with your eyes closed.”
Flair comes naturally to chef André. In a space equivalent to a cupboard under the stairs, with no chance to turn back for forgotten ingredients, he prepares three-course meals that lean heavily into our Southeast Asian location while occasionally borrowing some of the things he picked up in the Michelin-starred kitchens of France. Over the past two days, standout dishes have included punchy kimchi niçoise and a fiery 16-hour braised beef cheek with nine-pepper jus.
By the time teacups have been reunited with saucers, most of the other passengers have filed out into the piano bar car. It’s late, but the festivities have barely begun. “I’m nervous!” says Janet Lee into her microphone, placing a black satin-gloved hand on the chest of her glittery carmine-red gown to feign pre-show jitters. She’s not, of course. She sashays through the crowded carriage with practised ease, each step a moving target as the train careens through the night, singing operatic snatches of O Mio Babbino Caro accompanied by a bow-tied pianist. “I forgot the lyrics!” she says with a mischievous grin, pausing for laughs.
On the treetop walkway, guide Muhammad bin Othman points out the sights of Taman Negara National Park. Photograph by Lauryn Ishak
Everything about the wood-panelled bar car feels cinematic; the film plots would write themselves. Guests recline on canary-yellow crushed velvet couches on either side of the gangway, sipping caramelised tropical fruit cocktails that a few seconds previously were on fire. Barmen vigorously stir martinis; a woman in a green dress takes pictures as another beverage is set alight. There’s a booming laugh from a man in a lilac suit — the punchline incomprehensible over the hubbub. You can’t help but imagine who would be the detective, the businessman, the murderer. Janet flounces by, the carriage transformed into a catwalk.
End of the line
There’s no denying that motorcyclist Zulfadli Fadhli is cool. I meet him the following morning, after leaving the train at Butterworth on the mainland to catch a ferry across the strait to Penang island. Dressed in black with dark sunglasses and a Pogues T-shirt, Zulfadli is navigating his Vespa into pole position at the traffic lights, through a swarm of mopeds all puttering like pots on the boil. I’m on the back seat clinging to that Pogues T-shirt, and when the lights turn green, I’m thrown back by the acceleration.
We’re in George Town, the capital of Penang, on a tour of the city’s creative side. Leaving behind the ferry terminal, where the sound of boat horns mingles with lapping waves and coconuts bob in the surf, we enter a medley of honking buses, lorries and scooters. On either side are shuttered shophouses, Chinese shrines and onion-domed Hindu temples, the latter growing more prolific as we near the Indian quarter, where the smell of spices hangs like incense in the air.
Guide Low Chung Tsu, who’s wearing a black bandana over his silver hair, pulls up on another Vespa and gets off. He’s lived in George Town all his life and can trace his ancestry here back six generations, when his family fled China to avoid famine. More than half of George Town’s residents have some Chinese ancestry, while around one in 10 have Indian heritage — partly the legacy of British colonialists, who brought with them migrant workers from India in the late 18th century.
Low Chung walks us past a mural of an elderly Indian man, whose head is wrapped in an orange turban, standing at the stern of a rowing boat with his intense gaze fixed on some far-off point. His feet have long vanished — peeled off with the crumbling plaster to reveal bricks underneath. Motorcyclists buzz by, barely seeming to notice the man with the fierce eyes.
Chef André Chiang cooks dishes for passengers inspired by both Southeast Asian and French cuisine. Photograph by Lauryn Ishak
On board the train, passengers in each car are serenaded by singers. Photograph by Lauryn Ishak
“After 2008, street art like this really took off,” says Chung Tsu, stepping out of the path of a moped. “The government decided to give artists free rein to paint wherever they liked, so long as they got permission.” Artists are now omnipresent in George Town, as much a part of the fabric of society as hawker centres and traffic. We ride on, past buildings painted lurid green and art installations brought to life in bent metal, until we arrive on Lebuh Carnarvon.
Standing in a doorway, Peishern Kang waves us over, wearing patterned red culottes under her matching cropped top. A former medic turned modiste, she’s transformed her family’s 200-year-old shophouse into an artists’ studio where she designs clothing with Southeast Asian fabrics for her business Betterthanblouses, while her husband Thomas Powell paints and her father sells antiques. We meet Thomas inside, his brown hair skimming the collar of his shirt, his jeans fittingly splattered with paint.
Shophouses like this were designed to mix domestic life with business — as places where commercial enterprises could be run from home, with the shop part opening onto the pavement. Many have been in families for generations, and heritage buildings like this are one of the reasons why George Town eventually became a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2008. “What’s special about this space is that you can see a shophouse in its original form,” says Peishern. “Most of them are now Airbnbs, but we’ve kept ours how it’s always been.”
It’s a long and narrow space. Railings of batik-print clothing give way to stacks of paintings and assorted bric-a-brac — vintage suitcases, antique silk screens, hat boxes. Above our heads, an air shaft next to rotating ceiling fans lets in sunlight. All too soon, the spluttering of a moped pulling up outside signals that it’s time to leave, and I’m weaving through traffic back towards the ferry terminal.
The train is a welcome retreat after the hubbub of George Town. Arriving in time for lunch, I take my place in the Malaya dining car. As we slip south towards our journey’s end in Singapore, the view from the windows on either side takes a sudden aquatic turn. It’s as if we’ve lost our bearings and ended up at sea — a sheet of water slips, perfectly flat, from the tracks below all the way to the horizon, where, between the gaps in the blue mountains, it seems to drop straight off the edge of the world. Here and there, grassy islands and stunted trees emerge like sodden survivors from the flooded landscape. We’re in the middle of Bukit Merah lake, a vast pool bisected by train tracks, formed from the rivers that flow from the forest reserve of Pondok Tanjung.
The journey across feels fluid, almost dream-like, as I ride this castaway train with nothing but water whichever way I look. But after a few minutes, we reach dry land with a bump, and the train lurches nose-first around a corner like a cat that’s caught a scent. One by one, crystal glasses slip across tabletops covered in pristine linen, only to be caught by chuckling passengers — though one topples past a silver ice bucket and shatters onto the floor. Riding the tiger isn’t always the smoothest journey, but that’s all part of the adventure.
Published in the December 2024 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK).
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