goneawol.net

The 5 hour bus ride to Tanah Rata, the heart of the Highlands, was a steep ascent through a bright green jungle on a curvy, steep road. Yet, as our old bus crawled up the sheer hair-pinned turns, I was preoccupied with only one thought: how the ride down would be.

At the info booth in town we met Gil. A legend around the area and one of the few people we could ask for trail recommendations who didn't try to jam us up for a tour. As far as I know he is the only person ever listed in a Lonely Planet as "just a cool guy to talk to." He said trail 9A was the best one around, but due to an avalanche it was impassable, so he recommended regular old trail 9 and into the jungle we went. It was like walking into a children's book. It's kind of hard to explain, but colors, sounds, smells, everything was at a new level. Hiking through this wilderness was like watching the Wizard of Oz when it goes from black and white into over saturated color. I don't know, maybe it was just the altitude playing tricks with my eyes, but I've never seen electric blue ivy before. On the other end of the trail we walked through some farms to get to the main road to the Boh Tea Plantation which was another another recommendation from Gil. One thing that I loved were the shrines burning incense in in every field.

In any tourist trap the hired transport can be extortionate, so after a five hours in the jungle we hitched a ride in a groovy old Land Rover to the tea plantation where we had a hearty lunch, a tour, and were treated to every flavor of tea you can imagine. After the Boh Plantation, we sauntered down the mountain and through an orchid plantation, which was between the carnation plantation and the rose plantation. While orchiding we saw a very strange massage technique. This particular masseuse was beating the poor woman with chopsticks. She had huge red welts all over her arms and shoulders and looked like she would faint at any second. As Helen and I stared dumbfoundedly, the man laughed and and spat out the word “massage.” The woman barely lifted her head, grunted, and let it drop back down. I shall pass on that one, thank you. Hitching back to Tama Rata after having enough of  tea, plantations, orchids, and old women getting the crap beat out of them, we were picked up by this really sweet old local who couldn’t speak a lick of English so we just sped along listening to the Chinese opera he had blasting on his cassette player.

The second Helen and I saw our guesthouse we knew we were in for a bumpy stay. I’ve refrained writing negative things about particular places, but now I feel compelled. As we have found along the way, when many establishments get listed in Lonely Plant their quality slips, hence the newly coined phrase: Lonely Planet Syndrome. I mean, it was a nice location and all, even the building was probably quite pleasant…50 years ago, but the owners and management of Father’s Guesthouse have let it run into the ground. I’m going to spare you the extremely disgusting details of our room, but I will tell you they nickel and dimed everyone to death. Pay for the DVD (library of about 6 discs), pay for internet, pay for hot water for tea, I asked to turn on the TV so I could watch the news and the woman actually went to the manager to ask how much she should charge me. I was going into the bathroom in their so-called “DVD viewing area” and their little Satan-spawn child literally stuck his foot in the door as I was closing it and asked me to leave so he could go in front of me. I’m pretty sure he learned his first expletive that very moment! When we asked for a blanket they told us they had no more (it gets below 40 degrees there every single night of the year). All the windows on the top row of the pane had been knocked out and not replaced. When asked about this, the manager replied that the building had been built in the 1920’s – so, I guess that’s why the glass couldn’t be replaced, right? Oh, and the stack of spare tires, or was it a strategically placed sculpture on the side of the garden, made the place look like Sanford and Son. The second day their barely hot water system failed and they told us it was a citywide problem, but it was only the hot water that was gone. I asked about the hot water heater and he said the heater was fine, it was just the citywide hot water!?!? I was patient until other people in the guesthouse told us they had taken gloriously long hot showers. Management’s story persisted even though I told them the cold water had lots of pressure and the rest of town was fine. Finally, at 9pm we walked. I can honestly say that after a year and a half of traveling it is in the running for The Most Poorly Run and Filthiest Place Award. We met a fellow guesthouse refugee while walking to the bus stand the next morning and he said that Father’s was on the verge of a revolt – well, Vivre la Revolution! If you go Tama Rata stay at Daniel’s.

So now, my burning question was going to be answered. And it was answered as they were passing out the sick bags before even leaving the bus station. I’ve never been on a bus where they actually handed out barf-bags before the ride (in India they just throw open the window or hurl on the floor). Being violently thrown from side to side on every corner felt like I was stuck on a roller coaster for about an hour. Kinda fun. Kinda scary. Kinda queezy.

Oh, yes, and the statue in the middle of town that’s dedicated to fruits and vegetables…I have no idea.
journey
bios
contact