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The centre of the highlands is Tanah Rata, the base for all the enthusiastic walkers and trekkers that fill up the guesthouses in the Cameron Highlands.
Stepping off of the coach, I was collared by a shifty Malay guy in a leather jacket, saying things like, "what's up pardner?" and "need a place to stay?" in a cruel skeleton of hollywood/malay english. I've learnt to accept these offers without a blink of an eye (there were no Hostel/Saw/Wolfcreek vibes off of this guy). It keeps me interested and to be honest, these chances have repeatedly been the better choices on my journey. So, without much further discussion and a swift exchange of cigarettes and male nods, I slung my backpack into the unmarked van and we bobbled up towards a cluster of buildings on one of the surrounding hills. Father's Guesthouse. A great hostel, with some beautiful misty mountain top views - may I reference you to the pictures. It was pristine weather, clear and crisp like an English summer, but on the second day everything went grey and the town was in the throes of an early monsoon. Just like an English summer.
Oh, before I forget, Bob
(the shifty leather jacket wearing pool hustling jack in a box) was legendary throughout the stay. If you ever end up at the Tanah Rata bus station, choose the dodgiest van tout you can see, and you'll be laughing all the way. And a few years ago he was chased through the mud and stings of Taman Negara, on foot, for eight days, by a squad of narcotics policemen. And he used to smuggle tins of sardines into prison the only way we know how. Whole tins. Good lord.
Anyway.
Settling in nicely and some pool games later, a group of travellers had formed. This was the first taste of group travel. The rest of them had arrived in pairs, and like some alignment of the planets, or last supper, it left my Jesus-like figure as man in charge, but only due to my massive gooseberry presence. Or maybe not. Either way, saying stuff with absolute confidence and wearing the right aviators, people will follow.
So, we were clustered about the pool table, planning tomorrow's trek. Robinn and Jill are from Canada and when the mini-group disbanded after the jungle, they pegged onwards to Nepal (which I'm
sadly not visiting... next time kathmandu, next time). Next up were Badril and Florence. Badril was a streetwise Malay guy owned a burger stand in nearby Jerantut and Florence was a a dainty english rose. And finally there was Chris and Claire. Lovely couple who live in Sheffield (I think - damn, I hope that's right). They made me laugh and we bonded over liking the tv show Spaced, which led to me creating the Daisy group on Facebook. Anyway, this was the traveling group for the next two weeks.
Paths 10, 11 & 12 (see map - the first truly special moment for my mobile phone, seeing as the little picture was our only guide) seemed to cover a decent amount of the surrounding hills of Tanah Rata. It was more a rocky trail leading to jungle interior. Famously, way back in 1910 or so, Raffles got lost in the highlands and never returned. Tigers were pretty widespread back then.
Forcing our way through the heady tangle of roots and vines, we made our way to the top and watched as a professional butterfly catcher plied his trade. The slow swoops of the net were a little
eerie to watch against the backdrop of the highlands. This image has not left me. The moment of serenity as I clambered out of an explosion of spiky foliage (I'd scampered on ahead of the couples, to find a route, which was basically pure bliss for me) was awesome. And I mean awesome as awe-inspiring, not "That's Awesome!" like you say when you open a new pack of star wars cards and get that Executor you needed. Butterflies! The surrounding peaks were dipped in mist and the slow arcs of the net stopped me dead. Sense of place, time and reason crashed home. I would have cried if someone had hugged me then.
After wringing the sweat from my shirt (literally) and eating a little, a decision was made to head to the next path. I'm still not sure if we found it. About two or three hours later, we arrived back at town having traversed most of the roads and paths we could find. Great fun. But of course, this being the second day, our trip back from the summit was a storm-drenched march. My passport has never been the same - coupled with a later dip in
a Taman Negara river, the bleaching and air bubbles are the lovingly scrutable gold of many a border security checkpoint.
So, the days, as I have made sure of explaining many times previously, blended together. The pool tournaments became epic duels of wit, banter and the occasional wild jump shot. Beers were sunk, songs sung and Malaysia started to creep into my conscious. The slowing down had begun. Heroic analogies are fluttering in all our minds, of course... so bear with me... but the Cameron Highlands had been the highest peak to climb and now I must plunge to my darkest centre to find that which will allow me to persevere. That dark centre is a certain cave in a certain jungle. With just a touch of time in Malaysia, I felt as though I had found a home away from home.
Onwards to Taman Negara. Onwards to leeches, mosquitos, rivers and lactic burn. Onwards to absolute darkness, bats, vipers and sleepless nights. Onwards. Always onwards.
P.S I haven't written anything about a cup of tea. And now I have.
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