Politics and Police in Cameron Highlands

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I realize that no trip will ever be the same for anyone—never the same ray of sun or cloudy skies, religious Sams, or Ramadans. Each journey is a unique strand intertwining in and out of a city’s braid.

Ipoh to Cameron Highlands

At Ipoh Bus Station, there is a mess of buses, and I fail to discover a means to find mine. The woman who sold me the Kurnia Bistari bus ticket says, “Just go there.” I look at my ticket for a clue and finally realize it corresponds with the license plate numbers. I wander about looking for the correct plate. Beside me are other foreigners whose lost expressions reflect my thoughts. One Irish couple and I find reassurance in our mutual helpless state, so we just stand, wait, and chat.

The wife is eager to talk, “I lived in Ipoh from the ages 8-13. Town’s gotten a lot more rundown now. Back then there were a lot of soldiers and tin miners, you know. My dah was a tin miner.”

I note that I clumped her in with the rest of the “foreigners” and catch myself on the assumption. It doesn’t matter how open-minded I think I am, there’s always a new lesson to show me otherwise. We spot our bus and board.

On the way to Cameron Highlands, I see a group of children too short to reach a fruit in a tree prodding at its branches with a stick. The jungle terrain is overtaken by palm oil trees. The road is smooth, and the bus crawls uphill at approximately 5mph (if we’re lucky). I count my blessings and just hope it doesn’t break down.

The scenery quickly grows wilder with muddy brown rivers. The trees seem to tangle, bubble and boil together. Orange streams of flowers occasionally decorate the green landscape. There are travelers everywhere. The holidays have culminated to combine school vacation with Hari Raya, Ganesh’s birthday, and who knows what else. As we near the highlands, the roads become congested. The Irish couple and a few other foreigners hang onto my word that we haven’t reached Cameron Highlands yet as I read the street markers. They constantly ask, "Are you sure?" To which, I reply, "Well, no. This is my first time, too." But, they still sit behind me waiting.

When we arrive in the city full of Tudor architecture, I contact Father’s Guest House. They promise to send a driver right away. I wait, and wait, and wait about an hour-and-a-half. Finally, a van shows up. We arrive at the guesthouse 1 minute later. I could have walked.

Still, the guesthouse is so beautiful that I forgive them in a split second. There’s a gorgeous garden right outside my room and a long sloping staircase that leads to the city below. The people are very friendly, and I highly recommend this guest house to anyone headed to Cameron Highlands.

Politics and Malaysia

As I set up my netbook to check the internet (I went through withdrawal during Ipoh), a man continues striking up conversation with me. He and his friend are obviously locals. They have keys to the stored beer and seem harmless enough. I’m still a little hesitant based on my previous experience with Preacher Sam.

One of them is a hardcore environmentalist. He’s passionate about Cameron Highlands’ jungles. He quotes statistic after statistic saying, “I can walk 7km of jungle every day. A bulldozer can do that in an hour. Do you realize how many medicinal properties are in the jungle? There could be a cure for AIDS and cancer, but there have already been so many rare species eliminated by the bulldozers. We know a mere 1%!o(MISSING)f what exists in these jungles.” Evidently, he’s quite outspoken and has made appearances on CNN to voice his politics and beliefs. His friends encourage him to run for a political position.

He concludes by saying, “My wife says I think too much and I'll go insane.” Though he’s reluctant, it appears his passion may lead him into it. I think, it’s the reluctant leader that makes the good leader, the whole Marcus Aurelius bit. We discuss how to save the jungles.

The irony is that to protect the forest, you need money. To gain money, unless you’re already rich, you have to involve tourism. Tourism inevitably destroys the environment. So, you return to square one, though you’re probably better off than the bulldozers sadistically slashing trees down.

The other guy is also political but in a more simple storyteller’s way. He moves random objects on the table as props for his explanations. The Tiger Beer represents a tiger. A few bottle caps and other items represent a village of people. “A tiger enters a village because he is hungry. The people kill the tiger. Is the tiger evil? Is it dangerous? No. People are dangerous. People are not hungry. They kill the tiger. And they kill each other, too. People are dangerous.” He speaks of working under Michelle Yeoh, who is originally from Ipoh. I couldn’t recall who she was when people would say, “The James Bond girl.” Then I realized it's the woman from “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.” Evidently, she’s helped boost the Malaysian economy with many ventures but she does not receive much recognition from the government.

On the whole, the conversations are refreshing, unexpected and a welcome shift into the underlying politics of Malaysia. The two guys are part of the Opposition group, not party (they don’t like to be called that), that hopes to diversify the government so that it is not predominantly Muslim. It's led by a previous government official that was imprisoned for the longest time and recently released. I won’t go further into the subject because I'm still so ignorant on the matter.

I get treated to Tom Yam, which is essentially a Chinese hotpot in my book, and meet and drink with a lot of other locals. I’m repeatedly told by one of them that, “We begin at zero, we return to zero, life is what comes in between and we’re all nobodies. That’s all we need to know. If I think of my grandfather or Michael Jackson, sure, I may feel sad, but it’s a passing moment. Doesn’t mean anything. We’re all nobodies in the end.”

Rafflesia Tour

There are a few tours available, and I choose the Rafflesia because it includes everything. The Rafflesia is one of the biggest flowers in the world. Crazy stuff. It has no roots and is actually born from a hanging vine. It opens 3-7 days and you have to get the right timing/season to witness it. I got lucky.

I go with a French family of four. When the tour guide, Ravi, includes me in their group, the mother comments, “Oh. Really?” I’m somewhat surprised there wasn’t a sniff in between the words. The comment is unwelcome, but I decide to ignore it and just enjoy the day.

We meet up with a member of the Orang Asli Village. He claims to speak no English when the French parents ask him about the water pipes randomly installed throughout the forest, but I suspect he understands more than he lets on. Reminds me of my students in Korea.

We trek through the mud. My shoe gets sucked into the watery brown mass and my socked foot slips out right into the mud. Nice. Well, that’s one way to begin a trek. I laugh at myself and stick my muddy socked foot back into my muddy shoe. It seems to break the ice. The French father asks after my well-being and I ensure him I’m fine.

We pass thick vines and strange plants I’ve never seen before. But on the whole, it’s just a loud green mass of jungle. He takes out his machete and hacks apart branches that are in the way. He makes me a walking stick out of one, but I leave it behind because it’s easier to hike with my hands free.

The family falls back frequently, and I stick close behind the guide. Each time we wait, we chuckle. As the trek goes on, he points out little things to me from plants to a banana tree that increases our quiet camaraderie.

The French family also opens up more and becomes considerably friendlier. Each time we stop, I wave my hand to let them go in front since I've been behind our guide the whole time. But the father says, "Oh no, Michelle, you are able to keep up. Go first. Besides, that way we'll know whether our shoe will get stuck in the mud." And, we laugh together.

As we near the aim of our fast-paced 2-hour uphill trek, there are round egg-like plants that our guide (whose name I forgot to write down, dammit) points out saying, “Beh’by. Beh’by flow’r.” When we reach the Rafflesia, we see two. And it’s the biggest “flower” I’ve ever seen. Its carnivorous-looking bud is the size of my hand. What’s crazier is it can grow to double the size I witnessed, the bud can grow the size of people’s heads.

During our trek up, I offer him my water, but he refuses. I understand why after he hacks bamboo stems for all of us. The stems are full of natural water that tastes a hundred times better compared to the plastic aftertaste of bottled water. I say, “Now, I understand why you didn’t want any water.”

He nods and says, “This much bettah. Mo’ flav’r.”

We drink our fill and wash our hands with the remaining water. Then we head back down. The French girl is miserable and probably wanting to party with her friends back home at this point. Her brother seems to be the only one enjoying the trek in his flamboyantly tight jean capris. At one point, the family has fallen back quite a bit.

We’re next to a waterfall. I point and ask if I can climb down. The guide (damn, I think his name was Aung? If you meet him, do let me know) grins and nods okay. I don’t get a good photo, but it’s a beautiful waterfall. I expect the family to come down as well, but when I head up, the father and sister have forged ahead while our guide, the brother and mother wait.

Afterward, we visit the Asli village. It's a sobering experience. The poverty is quite apparent in the rundown sacks and graffiti and trash. They have a baby monkey inside a cage that they use to knock down fruits high-up in trees. The children stare out, some with curiosity, some with animosity (?). I hand our guide some extra money at which he beams. It’s a measly 20rm, and a part of me feels ashamed that it means so much to him.

After lunch, Ravi maneuvers past throngs of cars to the Boh Tea Plantation. “This is where I grew up. I don’t work here, but my mother does. I will take all of you to my secret viewpoint,” he shares.

As we round blind corners of the hills, the green shrubs of black tea coat the land in a way that is surreal. Because of the rectangular patterned shrubbery spanning kilometers of hills as far as the eye can see, it’s serene beauty is simply breathtaking. There’s silence as we take it all in.

After tea-time, we drop by the butterfly farm, which I don’t particularly love. The gigantic bugs and snakes are fun, especially when they set black scorpions, geckos and various mantis’s on your hands. But, the butterfly portion is dreadful with crushed butterflies and tattered wings. I much prefer the one in Colorado where the space is wider, the species more varied, and less carnage everywhere. But, when it comes down to it, call me a tree hugger if you will, I think my interest in captive animals has died since I took an anthropology class covering zoos and the depressed symptoms observed in apes that are strikingly similar to human prisoners of war.

The next stop is more lighthearted at the strawberry farm. I order a strawberry lassi I’ve been craving for the past few days, and it’s the BEST lassi I’ve ever tasted. Try it. Try it. Try it. I'm writing this a few weeks after the fact. I've tried more lassi, and that one is still the best.

Instead of growing from the ground, the strawberry seeds are imported and grown from the husk of coconuts inside white plastic bags. That’s how most of the crops are grown around here because the soil is not good for much else besides tea.

By the end of this day, the French family has warmed up considerably. I believe that the French and Americans suffer a lot of similar experiences in terms of stereotypes. Americans are considered stupid. French are considered rude. Unfortunately, there are many examples that support these presuppositions. But, if you wait it out, I think it becomes possible to see another side of things. Regardless, they were quite engaging towards the end of the day and I confess I enjoyed their company. Hopefully, they enjoyed the "American" as well, though most people (minus Koreans) see me as Korean.

Cops

After a second meal of Indian food with my friends from the previous day, we grab a car, bags of grocery beer, and plenty of good conversation. This reminds me of drinking with friends at home. Much more cost efficient and enjoyable. In the midst of pleasantly buzzed humor, frogs croaking, and other enigmatic sounds, a car pulls up and the guys hiss, “Cops! Cops! Shit!”

Crap, I think, perhaps it’s illegal to be drinking beer in a parked car? Otherwise, I’m not sure why they would be hassling us. I start thinking perhaps the guys are freaking out because they have other illegal contraband? Oh my god, that would seriously suck ass. Though, they don’t seem like the type to do so, so then I wonder if it’s political?

And even though I’m freaked out, I stay calm. I can practically hear my father commenting on my calm as “signs of a misspent youth” usually reserved for games of pool.

They flash the lights into the car and see the beer and speak quickly in Malay. In the end, I fork over 10rm because everybody else only has big bills they don't waste on the cops, then everybody (including the cops) laughs and jokes, and everything’s okay again. I ask, “Why did we need to bribe them?”

One of the guys says, “They thought that you were a Filipino immigrant worker.” (Har har)

To be honest, I still don’t understand why everyone was so freaked out if we weren’t doing anything wrong but, eh, I’m grateful I’m not in jail. I suspect that because a few of the guys are involved with local transportation from taxis to tour buses, they have greater instances of being bullied by local authority.

They try to get me to extend my trip and stay for a Hindu festival they are hosting that also correlates to the Opposition group. I waver and contemplate extending my stay for the festival, but the idea of learning how to scuba dive spurs me on to the Perhentian Islands (Parallel Universes and Infinite Possibilities on the Island of Stub-Tailed Cats).

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Photos

Rafflesia Flower
aka "Corpse Flower" or "Meat Flower"

Comments

[FYI]

Michelle (Bond gal) Yeoh, a former Miss Malaysia, became a national hero(ine) in Malaysia when the Bond movie, Tomorrow Never Dies, was released in 1997. She hasn't done any Western produced movie for sometime.