I
imagine that cat’s name must have been Tiger, or its equivalent in Malay (Harimau),
but I think of him as Blake’s ‘Tyger’. He was certainly one of the most
striking cats that I have ever seen. He lay there, in that long greenhouse,
stretching to his fullest extent, on that old wooden table, with the table’s
grey only serving to make that animal’s fur even more golden, and his stripes
more pronounced. It was as if that aging table, the greenhouse, the plant
nursery and maybe the whole hill too - belonged to him, and maybe it did.
I had
spent the entire morning, and most of the afternoon, on that hill, at Janda Baik,
near Bukit Tinggi, in Pahang. It was an hour’s drive through Selangor, on the
way to Genting Highlands. There was a nice little R&R, conveniently
situated at the bottom of the hills. Mc Donalds’ had proved a convenient
convenience and, after loading the SUV with bottles of wild nectar – courtesy of
the local Orang Asli, I meandered my way up that hill, up narrow roads and espied
countless rest houses, camps, training centres and one or two really charming
places, which would not have had to try too hard to seduce me to stay. But stay
I didn’t.
That
golden cat, stretched in all his furry feline glory appeared after a midday sojourn
wandering around the open gardens of that Malay political writer Syed Hussein Al-Attas.
There was a hand-painted sign cheekily calling those gardens - Wadi Hussein. After a morning traipsing
around Janda Baik, with its similarities to Perak and Cameron Highlands, it was
a sheer delight to fall into the gardens of that author’s The University of Life, and be introduced to one of the most
magical and surprisingly serene places that I have, to date, visited. It truly
seemed to be an oasis.
Being
an Englishman, I was a little wary about just marching through someone else’s
gates, and helping myself to their obvious delights, but my companion egged me
on and I followed into the most amazing gardens. All my apprehension and
pseudo-middle class British pretentions melted away like so much dairy produce
in the noon-day heat.
It is
needless the say that the day was moist; Malaysia is mostly moist, it is moister
still in hills where humidity lurks amongst the dense foliage. I was moist, my
shirt was moist, and moistness was creeping in places that I would rather not
have a moistness creep.
I
wandered hither and thither. I gazed at amazing waters, gawped at surprisingly
coloured urns (not Greek), and was charmed by the splendid array of blossoming
flora. Within those grounds sprouted houses, guest lodges, small and large
ornamentation - organically blended amidst the planted flora until it was
difficult to tell which had been placed and which planted. It was a veritable
wonder assailing my eyes. Every nook echoed a cranny, and every cranny had a
marvel to present.
My
eyes darted everywhere. My camera clicked until it could click no more – flat battery.
There was so much to see, to take in and to savour. I peered and snooped with,
and without, mechanical devices – my mind was enraptured. It is true, I wax
eloquent. I ramble like a poet in my writing, but since having entered those
gardens it has become difficult not to do so.
The
midday sun, berated by Noel Coward, formed painterly patterns on tiles, grasses
and statuary. Light, and its tricks, conjured a wonderland replete with giant
concrete mushroom. I half expected to see a gigantic caterpillar smoking a pipe.
Was I the Mad Hatter? My hat was a little age-worn and discoloured, but did
that make me mad? I longed for tea, and a biscuit or three and travelled on.
Food
was to come later – down the hill, and after the stroking of that magnificent
golden being who appeared to be half-civet and half-cat. Photographs were
forbidden in the plant nursery not five minutes drive from Al-Attas’s gardens.
The nursery was where ‘Tyger’ rested his golden mane, so I took no photographs.
That act of forbidding robbed me of any joy that I may have had in that nursery.
It robbed the Helliconia of their sun-kissed glory and made the fruiting Mulberries
mere commonplace. That censorship deprived us of the ability to relive the
scents and sounds of that nursery, for of that enterprise and their
multiplicity of plants I shall say no more.
After
a late lunch (which threatened to empty our collected wallets) we tumbled into
Bukit Tinggi and the fruit market. Red bananas were bought, as were passion fruit.
On the way back, the Al- Attas gardens haunted me, as did the fact that I didn’t
get to meet that gentleman himself. I was also haunted by that spectacular golden
beast, seen in the plant nursery – calling it a cat is insufficient, and other
words seem either too pompous or too belittling.
That
day seemed as though an angel had stripped Lou Reed’s song of its negativity,
and strove to create a Perfect Day in actuality. It was the sort of day that
your mind returns to time after time, dipping its toes in the serenity and the
peacefulness of that place and time. I should like to thank my companion for
that day and S.H. Al-Attas for weaving the dream which is his garden.
