First, there's the territory: teeming cities, lush rain forests, islands with ravishing resorts and beaches. Then there's the cultural mix of Malays, Chinese, and Indians—and their many faiths. Let's not forget the colonial overlay—and the, er, spicy politics. Call it (and the country's fabulous food) Asian fusion on speed

There is a straight road, The highway, to the Cameron Highlands, but my Malay driver has decided not to take it. "I know a shorter way, but it's very twisty lah!" he says in the local singsong. It sure is twisty. I am gripping the door handle as we take acute turns that zigzag through the mountains, barely missing oncoming trucks. "You all right?" the driver asks cheerfully, after hearing me groan.

"Not really."

"Ha! We almost there!"

But I see a sign saying we have twenty-four miles to go. At this rate, that's more than an hour. A few raindrops start to splash onto the windshield, then more, then a deluge.

"The wipers don't work?" I ask. "Oh yes, they do," says my driver. I can hardly see the road through the window. Eventually, he turns them on, and I unclench my fists a little.

The Cameron Highlands region is at the heart of Malaysia's old colonial world. The British, who ruled the country until 1957, used to retreat here from the summer heat of the capital, Kuala Lumpur, to cool hills and tea plantations. They built enclaves of Tudor-style mansions and guesthouses, where they would do their best to replicate life at home, playing badminton and croquet, having dinner parties with plenty of servants to keep the gardens looking as lush as in Surrey.

The Cameron Highlands Resort is one such building dating back to British days. A receptionist walks me to my elegant room, past a fishpond with giant orange-and-white carp. His hips swing in an exaggerated way, reflecting a strange heels-first stride, as though he's wearing shoes for the first time. I decide to do the colonial thing and have afternoon tea—a three-tiered silver tray stacked with salmon and egg sandwiches and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

The Highlands—just like any other resort in Asia you can think of these days—has become a Japanese golf destination. At dinner in the pretentious colonial restaurant, with far too many wine glasses on the tables, a group of Japanese men wearing jackets over golf shirts are seated to my right. Opposite, a Malaysian woman in a head scarf is sitting alone. My waitress, from the Philippines (why do so many luxury chains forget the value of local staff?), asks if I would like shiraz or cabernet. I request shiraz and she brings cabernet, which has turned to vinegar. When I look up from my notebook, the Malay woman has disappeared, replaced by a young European couple. I head off for bed, leaving behind a group of Australians and a tipsy Malaysian Chinese woman in the living room, belting out "Memory" by a baby grand piano.

A small local industry has been built around the final mysterious moments of Jim Thompson, a Bangkok-based American silk trader—some say spy—who vanished on Easter Sunday in 1967 while on a hike in the jungle here. To this day, nobody knows what happened—did the alang, aboriginal people living in the jungle, shoot him with a poisoned blow dart? Did he get lost? Or did he decide to be "vanished"? In the hotel lobby there is a Jim Thompson shop selling T-shirts and Jim Thompson Thai silk. I succumb to the mystery and go off into the forest with Shahril Kamarulzaman, a guide.