Camping : The Rainforest Park Genting Highland - Vol 3

The year did not begin with fireworks or a feast.

It began with guilt.

Quiet, persistent kind that sits in your chest...

I saw Maher and Thalia every day, of course I did. Breakfasts, school runs, goodnights. But presence is not measured in proximity. It’s measured in attention.

And mine had been scattered thin by life’s small, relentless demands.

So when the calendar turned, I did something deliberate.

I took my family camping.

A few days before we left, I pulled out the camping gear. The smell of dust rose immediately, unmistakable and accusatory.

Equipment that had waited patiently to be useful again. Neglected, but forgiving.

I smiled. It was a fair reflection of me. Underutilised doesn’t mean useless. It just means it’s time to begin again.

We left for Genting Highlands right after dawn, chasing empty roads and a promise of cool air. Online stories warned of five-hour traffic nightmares.

We slipped through quietly, efficiently, luck or intention, I couldn’t tell.

This time, convenience didn’t extend all the way. We had to unload everything into a four-wheel drive to reach the campsite.

It felt fitting. If you want something real, you carry it in pieces.

My brother Anas had flown in from Singapore for the holidays. I invited him casually, half-expecting hesitation.

Instead, he showed up with a tent and enthusiasm. Some people don’t ask questions. They just say yes and roll with it. Which was a blessing.

The campsite revealed itself slowly, tall trees standing like silent witnesses, mist hanging low, the ground damp and alive.

We set up the tent and the dining area just as the rain began to fall. Not dramatic rain. Persistent rain. The kind that tests your patience and your knots.

By evening, I cooked pasta. Simple, filling, unremarkable...except it tasted like relief. We ate early. By nine, everyone had surrendered to sleep.

The mountain air claimed us easily.

Sleep came like a reward. Cold. Foggy. Rain tapping rhythmically above us. I slept deeply, completely, the way you only do when your body remembers it belongs to the earth.

At 5:30 a.m., a dog’s howl cut through the mist. I woke smiling! Boiled water. Made coffee.

I am convinced, absolutely convinced, it was the best coffee I’ve ever had. Not because of the beans, but because of where I was standing when I drank it.

The day unfolded without urgency. We played hangman with the kids. Talked about the moon and stars with Khaled. Conversations wandered and lingered.

Time stretched, unbothered.

We hadn’t brought much food, assuming we could resupply easily. We couldn’t. So dinner came from a nearby restaurant. Improvised, imperfect.

Then we made a fire. Marshmallows skewered on forks. The children’s faces lit by flame and joy. That glow, that happiness, was not something you could photograph properly.

It had to be felt.

We saw frogs once. Just once. And not in the toilet this time. Progress, apparently.

The kids called out constantly.

“Hey ma.”

For everything.

By the fifteenth time,

I snapped “Don’t hey ma me!”

Silence.

Then laughter.

The kind that wraps around you and forgives you instantly.

We waited for midnight patiently. From the highlands, fireworks bloomed in the distance, soft, far away, almost private. I kissed my family and wished them a happy new year. Then we went back to sleep.

Again, despite the damp ground and awkward positions, I felt ease. I love sleeping on the earth. Rain sounds. Nature breathing around us. It reminds me that comfort is not the absence of discomfort, it’s the presence of peace.

We woke late the next morning. Packed up slowly. Watched the kids ride at the back of the four-wheel drive, laughter trailing behind them like flags. A new adventure etched quietly into their memories.

Forty-five minutes later, we were back in Kuala Lumpur. Reality resumed. I sent Khaled to dialysis. Life did not pause for sentiment.

Now I’m home, looking at the photos. Smiling. I’ll print them. Put them in the kids’ album. I hope, truly hope that this is something they remember when they’re old.

Not the tent. Not the rain.

But the feeling of being seen.

The gear is still waiting to be unpacked, dried, organised.

Courage for that can come later.

For now, I’m happy.

We did this.

A right start to 2026.

May it be filled with love, adventure, wealth, health, and time that actually counts.