Day 95: Cameron Highlands

Photos: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2057797&l=33d82&id=1101094

The Cameron Highlands turned out to be jumping with Western backpackers to an extent I hadn’t seen since Thailand. My guest house alone housed nearly 50 of them, mostly Europeans and Australians on month-long trips through Malaysia and Thailand. I did meet one American—a girl originally from Chicago who had taught English in China for the past four years. At first I thought there was hope for us getting along, but then I heard her spout out a wide array of self-righteous “I’ve lived in China for four years and now know everything there is to know about life” bullshit, and I avoided her as best I could for the rest of the day. Fittingly, though, she ended up in my Land Rover in the afternoon, and I had to listen to more of revelations. But I sat quietly and didn’t ask any questions, and soon enough she shut up.

A bit disappointed that I wouldn’t have the place to myself, I sucked it up and bought a seat in a Land Rover for a full day tour of the Highlands. I wasn’t sure how long I’d stay in Tanah Rata, so I figured I’d see as much as I could today and then decide in the morning whether to stay another day.

Our tour guide was a Tamil named Satya who had grown up in the Highlands, spoke perfect English, and was quite the comedian as well. One of the best guides I can remember, he kept us occupied for most of the day with his stories—and more importantly, he kept the Chicago girl quiet.

The day began with a stop at a local tea plantation. The Cameron Highlands are famous for producing tea, and basically every hill surrounding Tanah Rata is covered in tea bushes. Satya talked to us for a while about the tea-making process, and then he mentioned that many of the laborers on the plantations are migrants. I dug a little deeper after he finished he spiel and found out that most of the laborers come from Indonesia, Bangladesh, and Nepal. They generally come alone for a period of three years, live in huts on the plantations, and send their earnings home to their families. The tea-harvesting jobs in Malaysia are physically demanding, but they pay quite well, which is why workers come from as far as Nepal to work. Apparently the wages on northern Indian tea plantations (think Darjeeling) can’t compare.

We drove from the tea plantation up to Gunung Brinchang, the highest point in the Highlands, for a view of the surrounding countryside, but cloud cover prevented us from seeing much of anything. Apparently it had been over a week since the sky had been clear. I guess there’s a price you pay for cool mountain climate.

We hiked around the forest just below Gunung Brinchang for a bit, and Satya pointed out different plants and animals indigenous to the Highlands. In general the animal life was lacking, although we did see a few snakes and a spider as big as my hand. The most interesting plant was a colorful pod that caught and ate insects.

We came out of the forest with our shoes caked with mud, and while in the forest more than half the ground had slipped and fallen—apparently it rains nearly every day here. We drove back down the mountain to the largest tea factory in the area and observed the tea-making process firsthand, and afterward we tried a cup of tea in the factory’s café. India, I now realize, ruined me for tea drinking—I can’t drink a cup now without loads of milk and sugar. The finished product usually tastes something like hot cocoa.

We were on our own for lunch in Tanah Rata, so I decided to peel off and do my own thing—I’d had enough backpacker talk for one morning. I went to an Indian restaurant called Bunga Suria, but I didn’t recognize much of the food, probably because I visited northern India but most of the Indians in Malaysians are Tamils from the southern part of the country. In any case, like a good Indian I ordered the vegetarian special, which turned out to be a series of small dishes served on a banana leaf. My first real experience with south Indian food, I left full, happy, and determined to get back to India sometime soon.

That afternoon we took the Land Rover over what must be some of the worst roads in Malaysia, all the way to a village two hours from Tanah Rata populated by what Malaysians called the “orang-asli”—literally, the original people. There are 18 distinct groups of orang-asli living in Peninsular Malaysia, but they all have their own languages and cultures, so the only real thing that ties them together is that they all migrated from present day Cambodia between six and eight thousand years ago. For Malaysia, that’s as indigenous as you get.

Originally animist, most of the orang-asli tribes have now converted to either Islam or Christianity, mostly because Malaysian law requires citizens to follow one of the “major” religions to qualify for economic aid. But due to their living far from modern Malaysian civilization, much of the rest of their culture has been preserved—they still build all their houses solely from bamboo, their medical knowledge comes from the local medicine man (who sounds more like a witch doctor), and they maintain a semi-nomadic lifestyle in that they move every few years when the hunting gets difficult.

We spent the afternoon interacting with the villagers, some of whom spoke a few words of English. Children, in particular, were all over the village, which wasn’t surprising once we learned that each family had between five and twelve kids. But the highlight of the afternoon was testing out the hunters’ blowgun, used to shoot a poison dart into small animals in the forest. The accuracy of the gun was quite impressive—I was able to hit a 6-inch diameter target from 20 yards away, and I assure you that my blowgun skills are not extraordinary. My num-chuck skills, on the other hand….

That evening, back at the hostel, I decided that I’d head north the following morning. The Cameron Highlands, I’d determined, were something of a rest stop for weary travelers—the climate was refreshing, the language was familiar, and the American movies were plentiful (Father’s Guest House showed four per day, for instance). But I wasn’t a weary traveler; indeed, my trip was just beginning. So in the morning I’d be gone. Before the Chicago girl even knew what hit her.