The 'Wild Boy' of Jungle Walk No. 9

Travel Story by Hauquan Chau

Cameron Highlands, Malaysia

"You dont want to go down that way," said the man. He was an older gentleman, with a burly Hemingway aura to him, but with a faint European accent. Swedish maybe? Beside him was a nervous-looking woman, who kept looking over my shoulders, at a distant patch of mangrove trees.

"Theres a wild boy down there," he continued, pointing at the Jungle Walk No. 9 trail that descended slightly and fenced in on both sides by dangling green plants, vines and branches that obscured the windy path towards Robinson Falls where I was headed. He went on: "He doesnt have any shoes and is covered with dirt. Must have been living in there for his whole life. Like Tarzan. He was waiting for us in the bushes down further. Be careful."

So they decided to turn back.

So here I was in the Cameron Highlands, one of the most luscious areas of Malaysia, a stop for most travelers doing the Penang - Kuala Lumpur route, surrounded by brilliant emerald greens that filtered through the canopy above me, and just starting my solo walk down to the famous Robinson Falls, when I came upon this couple telling me about a 'wild boy that preyed on innocent hikers.

For a moment, I thought of turning back myself but I had come so far and the weeks of traveling alone across three continents had already taken its toll on me mentally. The 'famous, 'not-to-be-missed attractions began to look all alike, the cheap guesthouses were all infested by one form of vermin or another (cutting antennas of cockroaches that lived inside the bathroom wash basins was becoming a bit of a chore) and the daily consumption of food from roadside vendors was not satisfying the tapeworms that had hitched a ride somewhere between Malacca and KL. How else could I explain my insatiable appetite for Tandoori chicken?

When the couple had left, I was on my own. There really was no choice. I felt like I was on a sort of race to the finish, to finally end this long journey and be able take long hot showers and to cuddle up in warm clean sheets. Turning back only meant delaying that final approach home.

So I trudged further down the slippery path, eyes straining to see the boy that was supposedly hiding and waiting for me. It had recently rained and the trail was wet so clambering down the steeper parts of the trail consisted mostly of a series of side steps and grasping frantically at any hanging branches to support my weight. Whenever I thought I made too much noise, I would freeze and duck down, hoping the boy didnt notice I was coming. At first I couldnt see anything up ahead but on about my third stop, drop and freeze maneuver, I did notice someone ahead of me. It looked like we were on different trails altogether. While I was edging a bend around to the right, I would see him (only his head with shaggy hair) going to the left, bobbing in between the leaves and tree trunks, as if he were a forest sprite floating effortlessly through the dense vegetation. But as I walked further on, I realized the trail was so twisted that we were in fact walking on the same path. More importantly, he didnt even notice I was behind him, on account of my Rambo tactics, no doubt, of evading the target and blending in with the jungle. The orange polo shirt I was wearing and the crackling of the branches that tore loose from my holds didnt help much though.

I was closing in on him now. So close in fact that I could see what he was wearing: A sports shirt with the number '57 on it and a pair of beige khakis. His feet were bare as the European man had said. When I thought he saw me, I darted off the trail and jumped behind a piece of shrub, keeping low and motionless. But he must have heard me in the end because without any warning, he sped off until he was out of sight for good. The rustling of leaves became more distant until the only sounds were the insects buzzing around me.

I cant even remember if I ever saw the 'famous Robinson Falls after all or was it another falls in Mexico that I mixed up with in my head. Like I said everything started to look the same.

Days later when I made another hike that took me out of the sleepy town of Tanah Rata to an even sleepier town of Brichang, known for its tea and vegetable farms, I happened upon a wooden house. I was looking for directions to the bus stop that would take me back into Tanah Rata where I was staying. Outside was a young child, no more than five years old, alone riding a tricycle. He just kept on staring at me and even when I greeted him, he remained still. When I knocked on the door, an Indian woman came out along with a pair of curious eyes behind her, an older boy. At first I thought it was the same boy I had followed days before. The 'wild boy that the couple was warning me about. The one now, timidly looking out from behind his mother. He had the same ruffled hair and wearing a similar shirt. But in the end, it couldve been anyone.

When the mother kindly gave me the directions, even walking me down part of the way to the bus stop, I couldnt help but think back when I was scrambling on and off the trail, ducking and in and out of trees in attempt to track down this 'wild boy that couldve been this womans son.

On the bus ride back, I imagined myself as a wild animal on the prowl, hunting down this unsuspecting Tarzan boy that supposedly preyed on foreign hikers. Looking back, during the excitement of the hunt, the lines became blurred and I guess I could have been mistaken for a 'wild boy myself. A story for the 'civilized tourists to chat around the dinner table about.

Something like this perhaps:

Hemingway-man: Oh, I remember that day as if it were yesterday. Your grandma and I were hiking down towards Robinson Falls in Malaysia in some steamy tropical jungle and out of the darkness, there sprung this wild man, leaping in and out of the trail as if he had just escaped from some lunatic asylum. More like an animal than a man actually. We barely escaped with our lives.

Hemingway-mans grandchild: Oh, grandpa, what then?

Hemingway-man: Oh dear, when it saw me, with its black animal eyes, it started going nuts, jumping up and falling down, as if to tell me this land was its territory. It was sure a frightful sight and the sounds it made, ripping the branches off the trees as if they were no more than matchsticks made such a terrible din that I thought the whole jungle was going to collapse around us.

Hemingway-mans grandchild: Oh grandpa!

No doubt, as the story gets passed around, Ill become bigger and even more grotesque, each narrator adding in his or her own details about this 'wild man who lived up in the jungles of Cameron Highlands among the tea plantations. I could grow a pair of bloody fangs or have horns coming out of my head or maybe yet even lose all my clothes and be covered from head to toe with brown fur. Who knows, I could be the next Big Foot.

Illustration by Bob Veon
(Bob Veon's Website)

Read more about the author of this story:
Hauquan Chau

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