Rumble in the Jungle

Once away from the city, the rabbit-pulse of life simmers, and you find yourself in the most laid back country in the world. The new beat lumbers along, taking its sweet time, and enjoying (and eating) everything in its path - slightly like the elephant that I'm sitting on.



I bounced north to the travel mecca of Chiang Mai, where nary a shop can be found without the stains of western influence, and enrolled in one of the famous jungle treks. This involves leaving the ranks of the round-the-world ticket troubadours, and associating myself with the two-week pleasure seeking bards. The different tune had me scrambling to find the right footwork to stay synchronized with some of these people, as I just couldn't grasp the thought process behind someone who comes all the way to Thailand, only to go, "Where are the burgers and fries? I absolutely MUST try one of those here, yes that would suit my adventurous pallet quite well." Sure, I think they can whip up some cheese to go with that wine in the middle of the jungle. Regardless, the trek was definetaly an experience.

We were led by two guides, Captain Jack Sparrow, and a man we just referred to as Monkey. Both men of deeply playful nature, Sparrow countered Depp's rum induced swagger with a whiskey tilt of his own, although he tended to take machete wielding a bit too liberally at times, making you wondering how whimsical his temperament really was. Monkey can't really be described. Probably one of the most colorful characters that I've ever encountered, he seemed to zip through life with a zest that came from god knows where...or just from whatever he was constantly smoking. Together, they attacked everything with a comical, yet twisted approach, which ensured that something out of the ordinary was sure to lay ahead when we awoke each day. From their campfire yodeling, accompanied with a serious thrashing of a guitar, to their scampering through the jungle and over dry rice paddies, which left us trekkers feel like we were running from a t-rex, they definetaly greased any rusty social interactions between our very international group.





On the second day of the three day trek, we found ourselves in a Karen Hill Tribe Village. I instantly bonded with my mother from another life, an old lady with the warmest of smiles, who sealed the deal on our past relation by physically going and getting scissors, in a seriously flawed attempt to cut my beard. Between vigorous hand signals, I made it clear that no such nonsense would occur. Still, I slept with one eye open, as I wouldn't put it past her, and that cunning grin she assumed with clippers in hand...




We closed out with bamboo rafting. Although the trek provided ample photo-ops and good times around the campfire, the adrenaline rush provided that initially filled me to the brim was drained by the guilt that consumed me, which was born from the elephant riding and Hill Tribe visit. There was a little demon running through my stomach, distributing the nauseous feelings of abuse and intrusion. The elephants lives consist of transporting tourists in circles all day long, their existence stripped to such a basic routine that the entire experience had a metallic, mechanical, almost robotic feel to it. As for the Hill Tribe, as much as I loved that woman, I still felt as though my presence was invasive. I'm sure that the money earned from tourists helps to modernize the tribe, but the double sided blade also requires that it cut away pieces of their culture as a tax. The rubbish strewn about the village payed testimony to this.
Some more pics...