2026 Raya Run. Chocks away at 6.30am on Raya eve – the sort of ungodly hour where only masochists, madmen and motorcyclists willingly function. The air was cool, the roads forgiving, and the promise of open tarmac ahead was enough to jolt the soul into something resembling life.
We hit the twisties at Sungai Koyan via the new Raub highway and rolled into Tanah Rata just before 11am. Along the way, Captain MK Ganesan and I entertained ourselves like overgrown children – a couple of cheeky sneak passes, some loose line abreast formation, and what I will insist was a perfectly executed double tuck-over roll – never mind that it existed only in my head.
Traffic was mercifully light, save for a minor fender bender just before the Bentong toll plaza – the usual reminder that not everyone deserves a driving licence. Once we cleared that, it was ‘fight’s on’. The Raub highway opened up like a runway and we Hoovered up the asphalt like it owed us money.
At one point, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the morning sun shimmering as it burned off a veil of mist draped across the valley floor – the sort of view that makes poets weep and Instagram influencers foam at the mouth. I had about half a second to appreciate it before returning to the business of not dying. Airspeed peaked at 99 knots. Allegedly.
We puttered around Tanah Rata for a bit before I finally rolled into Ye Olde Smokehouse about 1pm, feeling like a cross between Ewan McGregor and an overheated ayam percik. I was early – but Sarbjeet Singh at the front desk took one look at me and, in a moment of mercy and sound judgment, handed me the keys without fuss.
Ground floor unit? Sorted. Bad knee? No problem. Bike parking? Initially told to move it after unloading – fair enough. Then, later, without me even asking, I was told I could park my Suzuki V-Strom 800RE right in front of The Croft. That, right there, is how you win a man’s heart.
Quick shower. Lights out. Coma. Iftar that evening was a full-blown assault on restraint. Sirloin steak that could make a vegetarian reconsider life choices, pommes purée smoother than a politician before elections, roasted potatoes that deserved their own fan club, and an apple pie à la mode that bordered on the spiritual. I went to bed fat, dumb, happy – and entirely at peace with my flawed decisions.
First day Raya was meant to be civilised. A nice, quiet lunch with the good Captain at Highland Spices, followed by a gentle ride around the hills. Kampung Taman Sedia – usually packed tighter than a budget airline seat – was eerily quiet. Did two slow orbits like we were on patrol, then decided to head up to Brinchang.
Big mistake. Monumental.
Traffic was an absolute dog’s breakfast. Cars everywhere. Snaking. Crawling. Idling. Apparently, this was THE day for vegetables and strawberries, and the entire population from Ringlet to Mentakab had converged here, at this very spot, with a shared, unholy purpose. All dressed like they were attending a royal wedding.
We moved a couple of klicks up, then a couple down, before accepting defeat and executing a tactical withdrawal with what little dignity we had left.
Back at the Smokehouse, the real story unfolded.
The place isn’t just charming – it’s run by people who genuinely care. Nanang, Lalit and Paul at the restaurant handled dinner service with warmth that wasn’t rehearsed or forced. Just genuine, easy hospitality.
Then there’s Harvin Kaur.
Ebullient, sharp, and just… on the ball. The kind of front desk presence that makes you feel like you’ve arrived somewhere that knows exactly what it’s doing.
She had recommended Highland Spices earlier in the day – brilliant call – but somewhere between my biryani with cashew nuts and aloo gobi and poor life choices, I left my water tumbler behind. I mentioned it to her casually, just so the restaurant could be informed I’d pick it up the next day.
She immediately offered to go get it herself after her shift.
I thought, “Nice gesture. Not necessary, but appreciated.”
That night, I get a call.
“Sir, your tumbler is here.”
She had arranged for it to be delivered. Same night. No fuss, no drama.
That wasn’t service. That was care. The kind you don’t train easily, but somehow, they’ve managed to build it into the place.
Even the gardener, Shan – and his colleague whose name I completely failed to catch – greeted me like I belonged there. Not like a guest. Like someone expected.
That’s rare.
Most places, you’re lucky if one or two people stand out. Here, it felt like the entire team got the memo.
And here’s the thing – with Visit Malaysia Year being pushed hard, with all the slogans, campaigns and glossy promises, this is what actually matters. Not the taglines. Not the concepts. Not the endless stream of ideas cooked up in meeting rooms.
It’s the people.
The kind of genuine, unforced Malaysian hospitality I experienced here is what keeps visitors coming back. You can build the nicest hotels, design the cleverest campaigns, and spend millions on branding, but if the people on the ground don’t care, none of it sticks. Invest in them, train them well, trust them to do what they do best – and the rest will take care of itself.
Sunday’s ride home was punishment. Left Tanah Rata at noon. The mercury had already climbed to about 34°C, and by the time we hit Bentong, I was hallucinating. At one point, I was fairly certain I was being hunted by flesh-eating penguins. I now understand, on a deeply personal level, what a charbroiled chicken goes through.
We stopped, rehydrated, questioned our life choices, and I somehow limped home by the skin of my teeth.
And yet, I can’t wait to do it again.
Thanks for flying chase, Captain.
