The famous Wishing Tree in Sekinchan. — Photos: ABBI KANTHASAMY
If you’ve spent enough time in Kuala Lumpur, you know that the city is a restless beast – loud, chaotic, always moving. It’s a symphony of honking cars, sizzling woks, and high-rises clawing at the sky.
It’s also a place where people are willing to drive two hours – yes, two whole hours – for a meal that’s worth all the trouble. And when my dear friend suggested we take this pilgrimage for some seafood, I knew there was no debating it.
So, we packed up the family and hit the road. The destination? Sekinchan in the Sabak Bernam district of Selangor. A name that might not mean much to someone who hasn’t ventured beyond the steel and concrete of KL, but to those who know, it’s a little slice of rural Malaysia where life slows down. Where blue skies stretch endlessly over golden padi fields. Where the air is thick with salt, and fishing boats rock gently against the docks.
A place where, for a few hours, you forget about the deadlines, the traffic, the constant need to be somewhere.
Sekinchan isn’t just a town. It’s a reset button.
The drive up is scenic in that old-school, kampung way – palm trees lining the roads, roadside stalls selling freshly made cotton pillows (why? I have no idea, but I respect the hustle), and padi fields that glow under the sun.
Most of the restaurants in small towns like Sekinchan are no-nonsense eateries where everything is served fast and fresh.
If you’re looking for white tablecloths and fancy wine pairings, this ain’t it. Restoran Wan Lau is a no-nonsense, roll-up-your-sleeves kind of place. It’s the kind of restaurant where you order fast, eat with your hands, and leave happy. It’s loud, it’s messy, and it’s perfect.
The star? Mantis prawns. These prehistoric-looking little monsters arrive at your table still steaming, their shells barely containing the sweetness inside. One bite, and the world fades away.
The crunch of crispy baby squid, golden and light, is followed by an involuntary moan – the kind that gets heads turning. Every bite is a reminder that fresh seafood is a privilege, not a right.And that’s the thing about places like this: There’s no pretension, no Instagram gimmicks, no fusion nonsense. Just seafood, pulled from the water, cooked right, and devoured. It’s a reminder that food, at its best, is about simplicity.
After lunch, we took a short drive to Redang Beach, a spot that feels like a little secret, known only to those willing to stray from the main road. The sand stretched lazily along the shore, waves rolling in with just the right amount of drama.
When visiting a fishing village, it is almost guaranteed that the seafood served will be fresh.
Cheran, my three-and-a-half-year-old, was in his element. The wind howled through the beach, pulling the kite high above us, and he laughed, the kind of belly laugh only little kids can do – unfiltered, infectious.
He ran along the sand, arms outstretched, chasing after the kite as if he could take off with it. At one point, he was so lost in his own world of wind and waves that I had to stop and just take it in, because this, this moment, was why we made trips like this.
Then there’s the Wishing Tree. An old, gnarled giant draped in red ribbons, each one carrying a prayer, a hope, a desperate plea. Cheran was fascinated, his tiny hands grasping at the ribbons, eyes wide as he listened to me explain that people come here to make wishes. He didn’t hesitate – he grabbed a ribbon, whispered something only a child’s heart could truly believe in, and tossed it into the branches with all the force his little arms could muster.
Did his wish stick? I don’t know. But watching him, I wished for more days like this, for more chances to see the world through his eyes.
Some city folks will brave the traffic and drive for a few hours just to have seafood in places like Sekinchan.
Sekinchan wears two hats. By day, it’s a fishing village, with boats heading out at dawn and coming back loaded with the ocean’s bounty. By night, it’s home to some of the most fertile padi fields in the country, feeding millions of Malaysians with its high-yield rice production. It’s a place where farmers pray for rain, and fishermen pray for calm seas. Where life is dictated by the weather, and where technology and tradition exist in a fragile dance.
And as the sun sets over the fields, turning everything into shades of gold and fire, you start to realise why people keep coming back. Not just for the food, not just for the view, but for the reminder that Malaysia is so much more than its cities.
Sekinchan isn’t just a day trip. It’s a lesson in slowing down. And damn, is it a good one.
The views expressed here are entirely the writer’s own.
Abbi Kanthasamy blends his expertise as an entrepreneur with his passion for photography and travel. For more of his work, visit www.abbiphotography.com.
