Malaysia Part Three: The Path To The Rainforest – Tires, Invisible Cars, & Boisterous British Girls

A large white van suitable for a very fertile soccer mom pulls up to the hostel. MLTC and I have placed bets as to when it might arrive. Stunned, we both lose as it shows up almost on time. MLTC and I toss our bags into the back, wave goodbye to the backpacker’s haven away from home, pat the scruffy dogs goodbye and are greeted by two smiling blonde girls sitting in the second row of seats. They have beautiful accents that I can’t quite place. I learn they are cousins from Slovenia- a rather small country that I know little of. We chat during part of the ride; one of them is studying tourism and getting some practical experience plowing through Thailand and Malaysia. The other is destined to become an art teacher. We swap stories and information that we have gathered on our travels thus far in Malaysia. We treat each other like old friends, exchange tips on the best foods to try, the easiest ways to get around (clearly, the eight hour buses) and commiserate silently over the bizarre, extraterrestrial, trance, disco music that our driver seems to heartily enjoy. Yet, we never ask for names. Appellations become unimportant as we are fleeting, single-serving friends. Instead of exchanging names, faltering to remember them, we skip the niceties and jump headfirst into the nitty gritty.

Without much warning the hypnotic, stoner music comes to a halt along with the van. This is definitely not the rain forest. Our driver announces we will have an hour break. We pile out and line up in front of a questionable looking toilet which would qualify as being a hybrid: not quite a western toilet but not quite a squatter either. A large, prominent hole has been gouged into the door at a most disadvantageous location for anyone favoring a door with a purpose, and at a most advantageous location for any curious child passing by. The rest stop town seems to embrace the tire industry as numerous tire stores surround the covered outdoor eateries. Malaysia is, after all, famed for a few things: rubber being one of them.

The Cousins, MLTC and I sit in the shade idly chatting but all mildly impatient to get on the road again since a scenic tire stop was not necessarily on our itinerary. Several other obvious tourists are sitting languidly around, some playing cards, some engrossed in Stephen King novels to kill time. Eventually courtesy of a few meaningful looks to the driver and some shuffling over to the van and repeated jiggling of the door handle, we manage to convey that we have had enough tire spotting and are ready to set out.

Confusion ensues. Musical chairs proceeds. All the passengers change vehicles and MLTC and I find ourselves in our own private van en route to the ancient 180 million year old rain forest - Taman Negara. The techno music is replaced with a boy band composed of eunuchs extravaganza, which I suspect may be for our benefit.

Hundreds of different kinds of leaves and trees engulf us. The ground becomes redder with a hint of clay. The previously rather thin trees morph into tall, lithe pineapples- their modest, thick trunks clothed in dresses made of ferns. Thick black, twisted power lines run above us connecting the wilderness to the 21st century and almost blending into the jungle atmosphere as if they were black, wizened creepers. We zoom by the occasional small, one story, rundown house on stilts many of which still manage to boast a satellite dish on the roof, which barely looks able to support the weight. Half naked children run out to see the passing disturbance. Colorful laundry hangs all around the houses to dry grateful for the blazing bright sun, which compensates for the damp humidity. We speed past a school bus picking up children. A field of vibrant colors swirls past courtesy of their head wraps and scarves. I can only assume that these work the exact opposite of camouflage, and allow their parents to find them should they get lost in the monochrome jungle of green.

Traffic on the road consists of our van and numerous trucks weighed down with huge tree trunks. They are precariously loaded and fastened with thick, yet somewhat questionable rusty chains. The trees are old, thick and appear to have lived relatively full lives. I wonder to myself about the need to transport felled trees from one area of the jungle to another, as there appear plenty to be had. Old Malay men with walkers hewn from those very same trees pass the lumber-bearing trucks. Thankfully, our driver zooms by both.

The van jostles us around on the bumpy dirt roads, slowing down once in a while to avoid a deep pothole or to maneuver around a lazy, cavalier cow. I have never ridden a camel on amphetamine before but imagine the rides would be comparable. Our speedy camel comes to a stop in a dirt cul-de-sac filled with other vans and SUVs. The door slides open and before we can even tumble out and stretch our cramped legs, a thin Malay man sporting long hair, and a crocodile Dundee-like ensemble pokes his head eagerly into the van and begins shooting us more packaged deals, shoving brochures under our weary noses.

“No, that’s quite alright. We already have a reservation at a hostel.”

“You do? Well where are they? I’ll call them!”

Pleased by his immediate go-getter attitude and willingness to help, I give him the number.

“Hm, I think they may have, you know, forgotten about you. But they said they know. Okay then. That’s that.”

Five minutes pass. We turn around and the man, his long hair and crazy vest are gone. The pick-up we were promised is nowhere to be seen. The clouds turn a dark shade of gray and begin to accumulate above us and our heifer packs.

A girl emerges from one of the nearby chalets, wanders over and asks US with that Liverpool accent of hers if we know where the store is. I look down at our bags and then back up at her, “No. We just got here. Quite literally. Off that very bus over there as a matter of fact.”

She’s from England and has been wandering around Asia with her friends for some time now. She seems decidedly bored with Malaysia and advises us NOT to go on the hill trek, as the promised spectacular views are a letdown. We sit around chatting for a while. We share pointers about the Cameron Highlands where she will venture next, and she rather listlessly tells us what she’s done so far in Taman Negara. It then dawns on her that she needs crisps so she continues on her mission to find the store.

Minutes later our English friend is back and happily munching away. She offers us some of her chips, “Still waiting here, huh? Where the bloody hell are they? HEY, EXCUSE ME. EXCUSE ME. HEY YOU. HEY YOU. GUY WASHING THE CAR. YEAH. YOU.”

“EXCUSE ME” and “HEY YOU” elicit no response. But “GUY WASHING THE CAR” gets the Guy Washing The Car’s attention. A Malay man who presumably works at the nearby establishment has been at work for the past 20 minutes sudsing up his car. He turns around surprised.

MLTC and I stand there, equally as surprised that she’s taken it upon herself to help our passive American asses.

“These girls have been waiting for a very long time to be picked up. Can you give them a ride? They’re going to the Traveller’s Home. It’s over there somewhere. Can you give them a ride? In your car here? Yes, this car. I know you have a car. Right here, the one you’re washing.”

The Guy Washing The Car looks profoundly perplexed. “Uhm. I will tell the guy over there then.”

“…WHAT?”

“The man over there is from Traveller’s Home. He is waiting to pick up.”

Well. Wasn’t it convenient of him to wait over THERE, behind the brambles, behind the trees, behind the rocks, down the road, away from all the people, under his cloak of invisibility.

Huffily we grab our bags and hurry on over. Our anger subsides quickly however the minute we walk into the hostel.

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Published:
5.21.07 / 2pm
Category:
what i call life, travel, culture, unschoolish