Wayward: Fetching Tales from a Year on the Road

cameron highlands, malaysia

Tanah Ratah is a particularly ugly town in an extraordinarily beautiful setting. It sits smack-dab in the middle of the Cameron Highlands, a crisp and cool area of Malaysia that supplies enough tea for the whole country. The tea plantations are mostly owned by a Scottish family, who has made a killing by hiring locals at .20r per kilo of tea picked. Sweat shops in fields.

The place has a laid back feel, but not in a hippy-mystical sort of way. Eyesores like the abandoned development in the center of town are forgotten when you look at the hills, while sipping a cup of tea or eating a local strawberry.

My first accommodation choices were booked and I randomly stumbled upon Papillion, a small guesthouse set back a superhero’s stone throw from town. The owners are about the nicest people you will ever meet and my room was perfect, with the added indulgence of a hot shower.

It was in Tenah Ratah that I realized how vitally different the races inhabiting this country are. The predominant split is between the Chinese and Islamic factions, who seem to talk about each other behind closed doors, yet are all smiles in public. I rode by an apartment for let with which specified “for Chinese only” at the bottom of the sign. Food stalls next to each other waft a conflicting mix of curry and stir-fry.

There is the attempt to present this culture as “Malaysian” but it has been obvious through my travels that there is no such thing, only symbiotic factions who live in the same place. Yet there is no hint of upheaval or conflict, as with many countries in the same situation.

Truthbetold,sightseeing here is littered with tourist traps, all trying to sell you what is displayed on the tour. There are berries at farms, tea at plantations and honey from hives. I spent one day touring them all and that was plenty. The real treasure here lays in the nooks and crannies.

The shining example of the vibe here is T Cafe, where I ate every day. The owner’s six year old served as hostess during the afternoon, ushering me to a seat in a way that almost made me interested in having kids. “You sit, you eat, you love!” Postcards from people who remembered it fondly lined the room. I’ve never had service that felt as genuine before and the owner is greatly flattered when you return for the third time, almost to the point of being embarrassed. Her look says “but we really don’t do anything THAT special here.” They do.

I spent my mornings playing with Max The Puppy and my nights tossing wood on the bonfire at Daniel’s Guesthouse, where a dozen backpackers gathered each night to swap stories. The nights were chilly and I stayed close to the fire, even when the wind changed direction and blew smoke in my face. Each morning I woke up smelling a bit like a fireplace.

I had one notable encounter while in town, writing at a corner bar. A 20-something guy ripped me out of my writing trance, asking me if he could sit down and have a beer. I had the sense that I was being hit on and I was right. His name was Ryan, a Filipino living here for two years, studying hotel management. He pointedly asked me if I liked boys or girls and I coughed up the boy answer, outing myself to the only gay for miles. He said he had been watching me for two days and I heard a tone in his voice that concerned me - absolute loneliness.

It had been two years since he had sex in this largely Islamic town and several since he’d had a magical kiss. I began to catch a tone that unsettled me, the “take me away from here” thing that I have encountered before in other small towns. Ryan had been daydreaming about me and I think he had swept himself up into a fantasy that I was The One, or at least A One. I created a story about a boyfriend back home in order to sidestep a dream-crushing. His face fell but he continued to work me over, offering that he found white guys “delicious.” I couldn’t break it to him that I found white guys delicious too and had no urgings for men of the Flip variety. Better to let him think that Mike The Banker was the reason for my below-the-belt indifference.

We had a couple of beers and I left before his small town sadness could seep into the pleasant buzz that this town was giving me. Anyone looking for a nice Flip guy, just park yourself at the corner bar here and make yourself known. Also, they are probably lying about there being no tap beer, so they can nab an extra two Ringit for a bottle. Raise an eyebrow and you’ll get your pint.

I am sitting in the yard, writing this with In Rainbows on my headphones and Max chewing on the lace of my shoe. Three nights in Tanah Ratah has been just right. Tomorrow I head back to Kuala Lumpur, where I have splurged on a luxury hotel room. It may be another solo Valentine’s Day but at least I will be dreaming in sheets with a thread count higher than my IQ.