Jungle Fever

I am as excited about trekking as much as the next gal--the next gal being a 7-month pregnant woman with triplets, on bed doctor-ordered bed rest. But I am in the north of Thailand and that seems to be the thing to do. So I readily signed up for my three-day hike into the jungle, passing through the Golden Triangle. Sounds soooo interesting! Within 45 minutes I had more regrets than a college student the morning after a night of binge drinking. The trek started up a steep narrow path, that can best be described as a vertical line. I started panting and sweating profusely, trying to stop reminding my self that I have only 2 days and 10 hours left.

The jungles are beautiful and peaceful and spiritual. But amazingly after four to five hours these adjectives are replaced by: hot, fucked up, ridiculous. . . All of that self-love you walked into the jungles with turns into self loathing" Why am I doing this to myself? What was I thinking? What the fuck?!! Am I insane, I wonder? Only white people do this crazy shit."

Trekking in front of me was a Swiss guy, wearing flip-flops and practically chain smoking. I am clearly in awe of him, as he is walking like he is strolling through Central Park on a Saturday afternoon. He later--way way way later, when I was able to communicate again, told me that he grew up in the Alps, where they had to walk to get where they wanted and so trekking through the jungles was nothing to him, inclines and all. To someone who will unabashedly take a cab from 34th Street and Broadway to 42nd Street and Broadway, I know I am way out of my league.