Lost in the footprints of Jim Thompson

The American silk lord Jim Thompson famously went for a walk one day and never came back. This was loooong ago in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia, and although many have claimed to know the fate of the man with a suspected CIA past there has never really been any conclusive truth as to what actually happened to Big Jim, and so the legend lives on - as does his silk empire.

The Cameron Highlands are a magical place of high mountain jungles and tea plantations, and it was the first place that I ever visited and rode through in Malaysia. That journey started something of a love affair that has continued for near on 20 years now, and yet this tale from a lone ride I took back in 2001 sticks with me as vividly as the lush greens of this high rise paradise.

One off coin les highland flings , from many years ago

Okay, so by now I should have reached this damn teashop. I figured that having kept up a speed not far off ten miles per hour that I should be at least half way around this ride by now. And after 20 kms there was supposed to be a shop at a tea plantation, the place I’d scheduled for my essential mid ride refuelling. But no, I must have been at least 30 kms in by now, minimum, and there was no sign of the teashop, let alone a bloody plantation.

It was becoming clearer with every disappearing drop of my rational water allowance that something was not quite right. I’d printed off a brief route description from a web site, and the first 20 kms to this teashop looked pretty straightforward, Well to be true there were absolutely no directions for this first half leg. So it must be the same trail. Yet this jungle path I’d followed had been peppered to extra hot point with turning options, but the only other option that I could of seriously considered was some 20 kms or so back up the path, err 20 kms uphill back up the path I should say.

This was crunch point. Here I was (in a familiar quandary), in the middle of a jungle, miles from base, and lost. Mid afternoon, and the temperatures were hovering around mid thirties, and the humidity steaming in to the nineties. All I had with me was a basic tool kit, some cash, my phone, a dried pastry cake and quarter of a bottle of water. For navigational purposes I’d got a few printed directions and an estimate of six hours on the ride.

The whole thing had started on a high note, after breakfast of fresh strawberries, scones and tea at Balas guest house in the hill resort of Cameron Highlands I’d made a late start on the Jim Thompson loop, a route plotted by some local biking buddies of mine. The route was a near 50 km circuit of some of the wildest jungle in Southeast Asia, which was garnished with a stunning rush through the local Boh Tea plantation. Six hours, no way – there was a good section of tarmac thrown in, so I reckoned on three, and had arranged to meet up with my partner three hours or so later. 

From the early days of digital (for me)

Carrying a minimal pack of supplies I’d hit the trail on the back of a weeks bed ridden sickness (so less of the ambitious bit). Riding high on a ridge I weaved my way along a Landrover track, leaving the fresh flower and fruit plantations in my wake. With each pedal rev I ploughed further and further in to the real jungle. Most of this was down hill, and included one awesomely technical 2 km descent. Wow, I wouldn’t want to come back up that I mused at the time.

Less than an hour in to the ride and I descended down to the riverbank, and in to my first native village. Not wishing to alarm the natives too much I stormed through at full speed, electing to take the unfortuatous right fork on the edge of the village.  Like a great white knight on a gleaming silver charger I steamed on at full pace, while the native children ran for the cover of their stilt and straw houses. By now I was already way out of things, and heading in to uncharted territory, and in to a place where a white man on a bike had not been seen before.

The adrenaline was gushing. I was on to one of my classic epic adventures, and the jungle trail was leading me further and further in to this great adventure. The trail weaved up and down, rolling high above the river. Every few kilometres I’d pass through a native village. The locals cutting bamboo nearby, or cooking away in their stilt dwellings. Truly awesome.

Two hours in and I was nearly out of water, and starting to wilt. By now I was encountering snakes and lizards with every turn, yet it was still a real buzz. 

Three hours in and I was getting seriously concerned, time to re-asses this mission! Better call and arrange for a jungles edge pick up. But needless to say mobiles don’t work in the jungle, and I daredn’t try my Tarzan call, just in case. Ahead of me I heard voices, at last! A group of native men were splashing around in the river; “ Which way Boh Tea? ” I questioned of the bemused natives. Sadly their answer was not the one I’d been hoping for, it was 20 kms back in the opposite direction, that original village fork had indeed been the one. Straight ahead? Nothing, unless you count days of jungle traverse as an option that is. These boys were showing a little too much interest in the white boy for my liking, and questioned over and over to see if I was alone. Hurriedly I assured them that a group of my friends were just a couple of minutes up the trail. Turning tale I dived back in to the jungle at full speed, to find my friends of course.

Downing those last sips of warm water my mind termed to Mr Jim Thompson, the namesake of this route. Jungle Jim had set off for an afternoon walk in to this very jungle many years ago, and never returned. His body was never found, and rebellious natives had always been suspected of his disappearance. I almost gulped at this though, but my throat was so dry that I couldn’t swallow. 

If I took it steady it would just be a couple of hours or so until I got back to civilisation, I hoped. But the ride out was almost all uphill. With jungle Jim playing on my mind I ground on at a snails pace, snakes and lizards dodging my path. An hour more and I’d made very little progress. On the ride in I hadn’t taken that much notice of the route, and in reverse it looks a whole lot different. Everything looks pretty much the same in the jungle, especially when you start to get to the hallucinatory point. 

Counting down the villages I hoped above all that I may find some water, and that the natives who had previously ran for cover would not be out greet me with stones and spears. The great white knight was now a dirty pale grey colour, and his charger had taken on the identity of a lame mule. To add to the problems my SPD’s had dried up, and getting my feet out in anything resemblant of a reasonable time was a none option, thus I kept falling over.

Further in and I was spending most of my time on foot, even on the flat I was incapable of dealing with anything remotely technical. By this point I was in a serious state, and paranoia has set in. In this kind of situation the jungle can be a very scary and noisy place. Bugs, birds and wild animals combine to make a hellish chorus that you hardly notice when all, is well. 

Bellow me was a raging jungle river, all dirty and polluted; “ Water, water, all around, but not a drop to drink.” It was an option, but having once been tropical hospitalised through Guardia I figured that it was a none starter. Yet the constant obsession with water was doing strange things to me. Licking the sweat from my helmet did little to help things. Again and again I put off the own pee drinking option – if I was still out here at 4 o’clock, then half past, then five. Each and every time the deadline came around I was still there, bent over my bike in a sad trance like pose, pushing slowly onwards. Luckily I was now so dehydrated that I couldn’t pee anyway.

The relics of a colonial past live on

Eventually I hit the base of the long descent, in the direction I’d dreaded, the one that turned it to a near vertical climb. It took a whole hour of near tearful pushing to reach the top. At least now I was on the ridge ride back to base, or so I’d hoped. But needless to say things weren’t going to be that straightforward, especially in my state, and with no usable pedalling system.

Another 45 minutes of pushing and praying later and I hit the base of the final jungle climb. A short concrete vert through a vegetable plantation. Dirty water ran tantalisingly down beneath me, washing out in excess from the surrounding greens. Seconds later and I was arse down sitting in it, but not by design; the water drenched concrete wall did not take kindly to my hard soled shoes, and climbing it became more akin to scaling an ice wall in roller blades.

Much to my relief I finally reached the sanctuary of the road, and rolled and pushed the next 8 kilometres to the next village, where I trembled in to a Chinese shop and purchased several cans of cold coke and water. As I sat there on the dirty sidewalk the locals gazed on in amazement. Was it Jungle Jim returning from the dead? 

Just a few hours later I was sipping cold beer, eating a mound of Chinese food, and grinning like crazy. Okay so it was close, and not so pleasant at the time, but hey, this is what it’s all about – go have yourself an epic!

Jim’s place, I hope he didn’t leave the light on when he left