jungle booked

let me turn this on its head and start with what it taught me. a little after two days in the heart of taman negara, possibly the world’s oldest tropical rainforest, this is what i figured out: nothing in the jungle cares about who you are. above you, lemurs will shriek. beneath, scorpions may roam in tight circles. by 7 pm, all is black, and you can’t tell tree from sky. you are left to confront no one but yourself. in that moment of clarity, things as mundane as your career cease to matter.

these lessons were a surprise, considering they came to me a mere five hours from glittering kuala lumpur. i had stepped into this 130 million-year-old world via a 9 am boat-ride from kuala tembeling jetty, not far from the city centre. for three hours, the fragile boat had weaved through the tembeling river that was often smooth, sometimes furious. there were sharp turns, sandbanks, even sudden, shallow drops that compelled the boatmen to step off and push for deeper water. and through it all, on both sides, stood the ominous forest. it stretched into forever, covering over 4,343 square kilometres, trees by the riverbank stretching as high as 50 metres into the sky. according to one of the boatmen, there were more than 100 species crowding each hectare.

the boat finally stopped by a pier outside the mutiara resort, where a comfortable wooden chalet awaited me. on the narrow paved walkway leading to my room, a monitor lizard glared, obviously still annoyed by the intrusion of man into what had long been his domain.

taman negara, in the national language bahasa melayu, simply meant park (taman) of the nation (negara). it was a rather underwhelming name for a place so vibrant, so otherworldly. national park suggested tame shaded walkways where one could point at flamingos. this, on the other hand, was wild, untamed land, with fireback pheasants swooping above, while tapir, sambar deer and malayan wild dogs prowled below. safe in my chalet, i lay back and acclimatised my ears to the subtle cacophony of the forest. around 350 kinds of songbirds called this home, from the malayan pied hornbill to the blue-throated bee-eater. keeping them company were cicadas, a million other insects, and 53 fish species in the gurgling river i had left behind me.

early the next morning, my forest guide kadeeri told me about molly, a 30-year-old american woman who, six years before, had allegedly stepped into the rainforest one bright morning. traces of her had yet to be found. as kadeeri led me down a well-trodden path — pointing out some of the rarest orchids in the world, or the occasional scorpion — i couldn’t help but think of molly. the possibility of her being alive didn’t exist but, walking beneath those gentle green giants, i wanted to believe it did.

when darkness fell, we followed luminous fungi to a jungle hide. trying hard to stay still, kadeeri and i peered through slits cut into the walls, hoping for a peek of an endangered sumatran rhinoceros moving towards a waterhole below. “if you’re lucky, you can even spot an elephant,” kadeeri whispered, waiting for an accustomed gasp of surprise in reply. “elephants sometimes beg for money on the streets of my hometown mumbai,” i retorted, leaving him in some doubt about what animal to mention next.

i asked kadeeri if he lived at the resort staff quarters. he replied in the negative. most guides came from neighbouring villages, and were paid depending on the number of tourists they took around. it was the need to supplement an otherwise meagre monthly family income that compelled them to trek through forest all day, organise special night treks like the one we were on, or climb up mountains and set up camp. one of the more popular spots was malaysia’s highest peak, gunung tahan, although its summit could be reached only after a 7-day trek. why did people do it? because, for one, the view from the top had stayed much the same since the ice age.

citing the onset of arthritis, i dropped the option of a hike, and picked an easier amble across the park’s canopy walkway instead. stretching across 1,311 feet, at a height of 81 feet, this was supposed to be the world’s longest walkway. considering there was nothing but wood and rope keeping me from a frantic close-up with hard earth, i was understandably concerned at first. a few steps in, however, i simply began to feel what our primal ancestors must have, swinging as they had in a green world not unlike this one.

as the hours ticked on, my learning sessions with mother nature progressed. i learnt, for instance, that feeding fish could be therapeutic. not when there were two of them in a little bowl, but when 2000 arrived at once, thrashing about in unison, leaping out of water to swallow morsels strewn about. they came as i stood on the banks of the tembeling, thousands of them, each over a foot-long. these were the prized 20-pound kelah, popular among locals for their sweet flesh that was served steamed. feeding them for a few minutes, i felt like a minor deity. around me, the boatmen stood, watching in silence.

another thing i learnt was that monitor lizards have little that is therapeutic about them. at 8 am, they would lie on the riverbank, sunning themselves, huge animals with forked tongues testing the air before them. they were slow, until one decided to annoy them. given my history of infuriating people, i knew it was only a matter of time. the thai people ate them, according to kadeeri. i told him i’d pass.

around an hour into the jungle path, we arrived at lata berkoh, a popular — but dangerous, and supposedly bottomless — swimming spot. one of kadeeri’s tasks as a tourist was to bring me back alive. so, when informed of my questionable swimming experience in deep water, he threw me a rubber tube.

clinging on, i watched as a five-year old australian girl swam past like a little mermaid. i detected a smirk, but didn’t care. hours from civilisation, only molly and the jungle occupied my mind. watching me paddle was a slow-moving lemur, 25 metres above.