Cameron Highlands - trekking and tea plantations

Cameron Highlands
Hostel: Daniel's Lodge
Places of interest: the Mossy Forest, Gunung Brinchang, Gunung Irau, BOH Tea Plantation

Day 65 - 2nd July 14

I am a little late leaving the hostel and walk briskly to the bus station through the humid heat, where I am told I can buy the ticket on the platform. This information turns out to be incorrect, so I run to the ticket hall and back to the bus, by which time I am dripping, only to discover that my new grey marl t-shirt shows up sweat like no other. I need the toilet and whereas normally I could rely on Hannah to ensure the bus doesn't leave if the late driver turns up in my absence, I am now bereft of such an option. I decide to take the risk

anyway, rather than enduring an uncomfortable bus ride and I leave my big bag with other travellers, arriving back just in time.

Most of the journey is along a smooth wide motorway with little traffic on the road. Out of the window, never-ending forests of planted palm trees grow. As we approach the highlands the road winds up the mountains. In the white light of the late afternoon, the hills are a serene blue, fading in both colour and contour as they undulate into the distance.

I arrive in the evening and stay at Daniel's Lodge - the only guesthouse with a dormitory. A bed for the night is incredibly cheap at 12 MYR, a fifth of the price of Reggae Mansion. There is a pleasant large outdoor porch area for the guests to relax in. The furniture is outdated, the sofas a little dirty and old. The dormitory houses 16 beds, looking a little like my idea of an orphanage bedroom in the Victorian era.

I eat at a nearby Indian restaurant, popular with tourists - a tandoori chicken breast and a naan with daal, curry sauce and a delicious, spicy mint green sauce. It feels strange to be completely alone in an alien setting.

Day 66 -3rd July 14

In the morning I sit in the communal area reading. I overhear someone asking another girl if she wants to go for a walk and I pluck up the courage to ask if I can join. We eat lunch first in the same restaurant - a garlic roti with daal. Max has suggested a couple of trails in the area we can walk. The map provided by the hostel is very misleading but we eventually find the start of trail 5. It is a disappointing walk – it takes 10 minute to reach a tiny waterfall, with a bridge overhanging which has now fallen into disrepair, rubbish littering the river below. The next trail proves just as difficult to locate and Fabienne, the Dutch girl with us, excuses herself as she is still suffering from the remnants of a cold.

We start up a path at the back of someone's house. I am dubious that this is a path at all, but as Max's main weekend pastime in New Zealand is jungle trekking, I choose to trust his judgement. There is definitely a track, but it seems seldom used. On reaching the summit of the hill, an odd metal structure sits on the peak. We start our descent down the opposite side, the path becoming less clear and the way down continuing much further than the way up. A storm breaks out and water gushes through the leafy canopy soaking our clothes.

Eventually Max has to admit defeat - that there is no longer a path and we are quite possibly lost. Vines catch me around the waist like spindly arms and wrap around my ankles. It is a continuous effort to detangle myself. A spiky plant common in this patch of jungle recurrently catches us by our hair, our clothing and draws scratches on our bare legs. We use the trunks of trees to assist our way, keeping a keen look out not to grab hold of any thorn covered branches. Max takes the brunt of the beating since he leads the way and warns me as I travel through the undergrowth behind him.

Through a gap in the trees we can just make out some form of civilisation down the hill to our left, so we make our way down the hill's steep side, the soft floor of decomposing vegetation softening my fall when I miss my footing. It is with relief that I reach the bottom, bruises and scratches covering my legs, as I look down onto a vegetable plantation, with Indian workers picking beans. Straight rows of cabbages, lettuces, spring onions, mint, coriander are being grown. I assume a lot of fertiliser must be used to produce such picture perfect plants. Dogs bark at us from huts, protecting the vegetables from thieves. We arm ourselves with rocks for protection. We walk along the road attempting to catch a ride. Eventually a truck picks us up. He's heading into the same town. We stand on the back hoping the wind rushing past us will dry our clothes.

We eat dinner with Fabienne in the same Indian restaurant and discuss our plans for tomorrow. I am trying to decide whether to join Fabienne on a tour or Max who is climbing a mountain in the area. Although wary after today's walk, I opt for the latter, after reading a couple of blogs to ensure there will be a clear path to follow. The trek sounds tough and challenging.

Day 67 - 4th July 14 gunning irau

We take the bus into Brinchang town and eat noodles for breakfast at a Chinese restaurant. I buy chocolate bars and we pack rotis with little plastic bags filled with sauce (coconut, daal and curry) from an Indian restaurant for lunch. The start of the path is just past the mosque outside town, up a side road to the left. At the top of the road, the path has been blocked by an industrial plant, but we can make out a yellow sign on the other side so we walk around the metal fence surrounding the site. The sign clearly states Gunung Brinchang.

We start the climb up the steep incline ahead. The path is muddy and slightly slippery, roots of trees zigzagging across which assist our footing and can be used to pull ourselves up with our arms where necessary. It takes almost 1 and a half hours to reach the top, by which time I am utterly exhausted and would be happy to admit defeat before even beginning the main trek. But I decide not to give up yet and to keep my initial qualms to myself. A few cars are parked at the top of the hill where tourists have come to peruse the view from a wooden tower set above the tree line, which I choose not to climb to save my legs the unnecessary additional work.

The time now is 11.30 and a taxi driver warns us against climbing Gunung Irau this late in the day, but gives me an extra bottle of water from his minibus when he realises we are not to be deterred.

The entrance to the trek is a short walk down the road, beneath a big wooden sign for the Mossy Forest, a popular tourist attraction. There is a boardwalk through the trees so that this section of the wood is easily accessible for anyone to see. As per its namesake, the close knot trees are completely covered in a thick coating of green moss, clumps of moss dangling off vines in places. It's an utterly magical surrounding.

The boardwalk finishes and at the start of the path sits a fallen mossy

tree trunk to balance across. The muddy path is similarly covered in dark wooden roots and fallen trunks, mahogany in colour, sometimes with a reddish tint. Sunlight dapples the forest floor shining through the trees. Almost every step requires a 90 degree leg up. My thigh muscles are aching but I persevere, desperately trying to keep up with my ultra fit companion, who stops and waits for me at regular intervals. After an hour and half of hiking, we pass a group of Malaysian girls. They tell us we're half an hour away, but we realise they have only been as far as Mini Irau, the smaller peak prior to our goal.

A family is picnicking in the clearing of Mini Irau on arrival. They are from Penang and they make us a cup of Japanese tea in little plastic cups. They're also stopping at this point as it would be too much for the children to continue. As a family, they switch effortlessly between Chinese and English when talking to each other, not just when the conversation is directed at us. One of the guys, a regular hiker in the area, ensures us that we're less than an hour away from the main peak and reckons that we could make it in half an hour. The reality is that we arrive at our destination 45 minutes later. I'm relieved that we've arrived at the top as I now know we will be able to reach the bottom before dark, but I'm not yet sure how I'm going to conjure up the energy to get back.

We sit on a sheet of white tarpaulin that has been left there and Max digs a little hole in the ground with the heel of his trainer, in which he places an empty packet of seeds propped up with sticks and pours in the bag of curry sauce. We greedily dip our roti, dripping orange splashes on the ground. I'm soon full and leave him to finish the remainder. On our way down, we stop to take photos beneath the canopy of trees just below the peak of the mountain. The moss covered branches twist and turn towards the centre of the path creating a tunnel over our heads, the sun above provides a white ghostly glow. It's both beautiful and eerie. Seeing this section of the wood has made continuing to the top all the more worth it.

We reach the road again half an hour sooner than it took to climb the mountain. I'm not prepared to walk back down the same path into town, although it will be quicker than taking the road, as my legs are like jelly, but can just about function on a smooth road using the downhill gravity pull. We hopefully attempt to flag down cars and eventually one stops - a minibus of tourists who are heading back to the same town we are staying in. We inadvertently join the end of their tour and stop with them at the strawberry farm, I enjoy strawberry jam on a scone with cream (disappointingly whipped, not clotted) and tea. I tell Max that it is a very British tradition, but I keep

on repeating myself, and the word British without noticing I am doing this. He laughs at me good-humouredly. The minibus is full of French tourists. Max chats away fluently with them and I stare out of the window, ashamedly unable to understand or converse and wishing I'd made a bit more effort at school.

I have a long hot shower and head for dinner late to grab a naan from the Indian down the road. I join 3 guys from the hostel who are sitting outside the restaurant. They are all solo veteran travellers who have been away for a long time. They have all previously stayed in our current hostel and this is their 2nd trip to the highlands. The English guy is the most vocal of the group. He's been travelling on and off for years and works in Switzerland to earn money before leaving again to continue. He's originally from Bletchley Park, where apparently the Enigma machine originated from. I tell him I don't know what this is.

He scoffs patronisingly and asks what they teach at school nowadays. He feigns intellectual superiority and is disinterested in any other travelling stories but his own. He is the superior traveller and anything I may have experienced would clearly pale to insignificance. I find him overbearing and arrogant and I wonder whether he is hiding underlying insecurities.

Day 68 -5th July 14 tea

Max and I catch a bus to the BOH tea plantations in the morning. It's a crisp, dry day and the sun is shining. We walk along the winding road to the tea plantations. It takes about 45 minutes. The organic patterns created by the rounded clumps and rows of green tipped bushes, undulate over rolling hills. There's a wonderful faint aroma of fresh tea heating beneath the sun. The landscape really is beautiful and the atmosphere peaceful, except for the few cars passing on their way to the same destination.

The tea plantations were originally started by an Englishman and BOH is now a very successful tea company. There is a large dark wooden building on stilts, with glass on all sides which look out over the hills of tea. We have a cake and choose a tea and appreciate the vista in this elegant setting. There are lots of tourists doing the same. There is a small tea factory where we can watch the workers sorting the dried tea ready to sell.

An American girl called Lily has joined us from the bus stop. She leaves us to walk the road up to Gunung Brinchang and we head back into town. My legs are still aching so I want to rest in the afternoon. The bus doesn't appear at the appointed time and Max is in a rush to catch a bus to Penang, so we attempt to hitch hike again and are eventually picked up by a nice couple with a toddler, who live in

Penang but are on holiday.

I say bye to Max, who has a few days left in Penang before heading home. He's just embarked on a PHD in linguistics and has been reading and researching whilst also travelling. His subject is to look into the main motivation for people to learn a second language, especially for those for which English is their mother-tongue. He's young, enthusiastic and very outdoorsy, and he's been a cheery travel companion.

I leave the hostel for a late lunch. The Turkish guy from the previous evening sees me crossing the road and asks to join. His English is slightly lacking and he's not particularly forthcoming so conversation is a bit of a struggle. He's been travelling for 4 years on this particular stint and he's funding his travels by renting out his flat like me. He looks like he's in his forties. He has a bald head, his face is gaunt and he has an unhealthy complexion. In the evening, I manage to get stuck with him in the hostel drinking tea by the fire and struggle to disengage not wanting to appear rude. I ask whether he gets lonely travelling alone. He concedes and misinterprets my question as suggestive, asking whether I have a boyfriend and suggesting we travel together. I politely decline his offer and excuse myself for bed.

The English guy from the previous day comes and sits on the bed opposite me to talk. The subject turns to lady-boys and the overtly abnormal amount within the population in SEAsia, especially Malaysia. The conversation is broached as the receptionist in this hostel is most likely a transvestite. He steers the discussion towards the topic of prostitution and makes it very clear that he uses sex workers often, as do 'all' men he suggests. He is unashamed, informing me that people in Asia are much more open sexually than the Western world, which he finds refreshing and easier. He questions why, if they are happy to sell their body for money, anyone has an issue with this business. I say that it is sad that their families are so poor and desperate that they feel forced into this line of work. He claims that they could choose to work in a rice field but they make this choice in order to earn a lot more money.

I suggest that the problem with this industry does not lie so much with those who have chosen this way of life, but the exploitation of females and the human trafficking that occurs due to the men who are willing to pay for sex. He ignores this point and moves on to discuss the amount of women he has met who exploit young men in the same way. He questions why this is information is not as prevalent in the media and why the focus is always on men using prostitution not women. I don't know the answer but would guess it is far less common. He talks about an older women he met who was in a short-term relationship with a young local man, and who paid for all his expenses. He describes how greatly he offended her by suggesting that this was simply a form of prostitution.

Eventually I manage to get rid of him and go to sleep. I am happy that I will be leaving the following day after meeting 2 such strange characters who are both remaining in this hostel and who have made me feel a little uncomfortable.

Day 69 - 6th July 14 to KL

I catch the midday bus and arrive in KL in the afternoon. I return to the shopping malls and buy a black bikini top in Topshop. It's expensive but I've wanted one for a long time. I eat in the food court at a Japanese stall: chicken gyoza and a huge salad with an Asian dressing. Back in the hostel, there is only wifi on the rooftop garden so I sit with a beer and use the Internet. The girl from my room joins me. She's from Australia and has taken a holiday for 10 days to travel Malaysia alone. She's really bubbly and fun and we have a great evening together on the roof of the hostel - drinking beers, chatting to other guests and having a little dance before heading to our beds.

Day 70 - 7th July 14 luxury

The following day I check out of the hostel. I catch the metro to KL Sentral where the National Museum resides. Outside of the station is a maze of highways which are impossible to cross. I try asking for directions but nobody I as has heard of the museum. I am pointed in the wrong direction by a taxi driver and have to retrace my steps. Together with 2 French girls who are trying to locate the same museum, we eventually discover a pedestrian bridge and reach it.

It’s a fairly impressive building standing in the midst of a construction site. The exhibits take you from prehistoric Malaysia through to the present day. One section focuses on the Melakan empire and another on the colonisation of the area by the British, up to the Japanese invasion. There's an impressive amount of information, translated into impeccable English.

In the afternoon I check into the Shangri La hotel and enjoy the luxury of the pool - a little oasis beneath the surrounding skyscrapers. I pick up Akin from the airport in the evening. It's late by the time we go to eat and a downpour prevents us from walking to the street stalls nearby. The hotel receptionist lends us 1 umbrella at first, saying while winking and smiling that we must share as it's romantic but after seeing the sheets of rain he gives us one each. With sodden feet we walk through the flooding roads to a nearby bar to eat. The food is mediocre.

The decor in our hotel room is a bit dated, with a dark brown desk and faux leather chair, a small table with complimentary fruit and box of chocolates and a large wardrobe complete with white bathrobes. The bathroom is swanky and the bed huge with crisp, white sheets and a luxurious duvet. It's the most comfortable night of my trip so far. I wish I could afford to sleep so well every night.