Travel mishaps often make the best stories

View of the Rio Shiripuno from our Day 3 camp.

If you travel enough, eventually you're going to encounter some oddball circumstances. Especially if you travel outside of North America, and away from the main travel routes.

However, if you've had good luck for quite a few trips, the caca hits the fan from all sorts of different sources, all at once.

Like that time in Ecuador...

What began as a leisurely morning paddle on a jungle river had turned into a race against time and the Fates - and it looked like the two of them were going to whip our butts.

When we arose that morning, our final day of a five-day kayak trip on Ecuador’s Rio Shiripuno, we knew we couldn’t lollygag along the river, as we had to be off the river and on the road in time for a noon flight out of Coca, back to Quito. Still, there was no rush, no sense of emergency as we paddled downstream after breaking camp. 

After all, we wanted to enjoy the jungle one last time, we wanted to try and stretch out our final hour on the water. Our guides assured us as long as we kept a steady pace, and didn’t take too much longer than an hour, there would be no difficulties.

Famous last words.

Maybe we should have paddled faster...

We arrived at our takeout where we had left the van that was to drive us back to the airport, about a three-hour trip down mainly rural dirt roads. We packed everything in, but when Ricardo, one of the guides, tried to start the engine, there was nothing but silence. It was dead.

Okay…so while the guides worked furiously, trying to figure out what was wrong and how it might be fixed, we had to prepare ourselves for the possibility of missing that flight. I mean, we’re miles from any town or service station, and there was nothing resembling cell coverage out there in the Oriente.

After half-an-hour of sweating and swearing in Spanish, they managed to get the engine started. But now we really had to boogie if we wanted to make that flight.

We were all aboard, ready to roll – except one of our fellow travelers, a lady from New York, decided to go around and say some drawn-out good-byes to the Huaorani natives who had accompanied us. “C’mon, Susan,” our head guide Alfredo said in an exasperated voice. “We really need to get going…”

Off we went down the road. We’d be okay.

Twenty minutes down the road, as we were driving past a farm, a group of four or five cows decided to wait until we were 10 feet away before crossing the road. We stopped in time to avoid hitting them, but then they just stopped in the middle of the road and stood there looking at us. And stood there. And stood there. It’s like these cows had it in for us – they really did not want us to make our flight. Ricardo honked the horn, Alfredo leaned out and yelled, waving his arms, we all started to yell at them, some of us in English, some in Spanish. When we started to make threats about turning them into hamburger for an impromptu barbecue, they finally decided to saunter the rest of the way across the road to the greenery on the other side.

Okay, that was just a short five or ten-minute delay. No problem, right? We’ll still make it. As long as we don’t experience any further delays.

Well, delays seemed to be our lot, that day.

Twenty minutes later, we came to a long, single-track bridge crossing a deep chasm with a river at the bottom. And par for the course, there were two large transport trucks parked in the middle of it, nose to nose, with two guys yelling at each other and shaking their fists. Apparently, they’d both arrived at the middle of the bridge at the same time, and neither would back up to let the other go across first. It looked like one of those Ecuadoran standoffs you always hear so much about.

As neither truck had its engine turned on, it was pretty obvious to anyone watching that neither of these guys intended to back down and move for the other one any time soon.

Ricardo turned put the brake and emergency brake on (we didn’t dare turn the engine off for fear it wouldn’t start up again), then ran down to the bridge to try to negotiate some kind of deal so we could get across.

We could've used a blowgun to break up the battle
on the bridge - but we didn't need to. This time.

We couldn’t hear what was said, and maybe some money exchanged hands, but he came running back to tell us after he’d explained about the van full of turistas (well, five turistas, anyway), our need to get to the airport and make our flight, the drivers had agreed to move in order to let us past.

So they both backed up, simultaneously, clearing space for the van to drive across the bridge, and we continued on our way.

 

Our van cleared the bridge and waved to the one driver, and as we drove up the hilly road, I looked back and saw the two trucks jockeying back into position on the bridge to continue their standoff. Maybe they’re still there. Or maybe they figured their operation was a good way to generate extra income, and decided to charge a toll to everyone who wanted across.

We didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, at least I didn’t. Me, I was trying to focus on visualizing us actually getting to the airport on time, after all these delays. Don’t give the alternative any energy…

Okay, so we’re rolling along, we should still be able to make it on time for our flight. If nothing else goes wrong. Of course, no one would say anything like that, no one wanted to give it any energy. We actually were starting to enjoy the ride through the countryside after we were able to drive for 30 minutes without anything else happening.

That’s when we got a flat tire.

Oh well, it gave us a chance to get out, stretch our legs, check out the scenery, since the guides had to remove some of our equipment to get at the spare tire.

The tire change only took 10 minutes, but we were starting to inch past the point of no return for having enough time left to get to the airport in Coca.


We couldn't even call for roadside assistance, like this guy.
We had to change our own tires! And there was no cold beer waiting for us!

Ricardo put the pedal to the metal, and drove as fast as he could and still be safe on the dirt roads – and not lose another tire, since we had no more spares and another flat would doom us. Not that we weren’t already starting to feel a bit put upon…

But, what else could happen? We’d already encountered and dealt with engine trouble, stubborn cows, stubborn drivers and a flat tire – surely the Fates had dished out everything they could, right?

For the longest time, the rest of the drive went smoothly. When we got to within about 30 minutes of Coca, we started to see more traffic on the road. Not a big deal. We started to feel hope, we started to relax and thought, maybe we’ll get there on time, after all.

That hope continued to grow - until we happened to come across some hot dog who obviously had no real schedule and nothing better to do than play a slightly different form of “chicken” on the road.

We came up behind a pick-up truck full of locals, mainly young men and one older, matronly-looking woman riding in the back. The cab was full as well, filled by the driver and two others.

The road was still a dirt road, and there was some room to pass, as long it was done carefully. The guy driving the pick-up saw we wanted to pass, so he motioned us to do so and slowed down a bit.

As soon as Ricardo sped up and began to pull over into the other lane, the truck ahead sped up, forcing us to slow down. Ricardo swore, only partially under his breath.

We could see the driver of the other vehicle laughing. We could see the guys in the cab laughing. We could see the guys in the back of the truck laughing. They all thought it was hilarious. It was so hilarious in fact, the driver decided an encore performance was necessary. He slowed down, then motioned us, several times, and finally Ricardo started to try to pass – and the truck ahead immediately sped up.

This time we all swore.

This is how it continued for the next few minutes, a pick-up truck and a van zooming down the road, laughter pealing from one vehicle, expletives in Spanish and English flying out of the other one.

Where was a jungle traffic cop when you needed him?

Hmmm, we might be sleeping another night in tents.

This happened several more times before Fate joined the game once again, this time in the person of the matronly woman in the back of the pick-up who had apparently decided enough was enough.

The cab had an open top, as if someone had decided a sun-roof would be a good idea and cut a hole in it but never put any glass in the opening. Lucky for us.

The lady – who obviously was the REAL boss of this bunch – leaned in through the opening and started just hammering the driver with her bag, repeatedly. You could see her yelling at him, pointing to the side of the road – and it didn’t take long for him to slow down and pull right over to let us by.

She waved at us, as if to say, “Sorry for this idiot driver!” and we waved back as we zipped by and down the road.

It was really going to be touch-and-go at this point.

We got into town, and of course, encountered plenty of traffic. Nothing abnormal, but enough to make sure we had to drive the speed limit.

We pulled into the airport parking lot and piled out, grabbing our gear and rushing into the airport. We had about 10 minutes before our flight was to leave, but we still had to check in, go through security, all the usual airport pre-flight boarding protocols. We were hoping since it was a small airport and a small plane, the process might be quick enough that we could still catch it.

We got in and saw Alfredo, who had been checking at the counter, turn around shaking his head, which was facing down toward the floor.

Uh-oh. That’s not usually a good sign.

Then his head came up and we saw a grin on his face.

“The plane coming in from Quito was late leaving,” he said. “Our departure has been delayed for at least 45 minutes.”

There have probably been other announcements about flight delays that created the kind of reaction it did with our group, but I doubt if any group was ever so ecstatic about being told they’d have to wait an extra 45 minutes. We high-fived each other, hugged each other, breathed in huge sighs of relief that we would not have to say in Coca for the night, or worse – take the dreaded South American bus trip – back over the mountains and into Ecuador’s capital.

The Fates, as it turned out, were just toying with us, keeping us busy so we wouldn’t have to sit in the airport for an extra hour, just making sure we had a real travel story to tell to augment the ones we’d tell about our ecological and cultural adventures in the Oriente.

And maybe they needed a good laugh, albeit at our expense. I would imagine the Fates get bored some time, too.

I just hope they never get this bored on one of my trips, again.

Not every trip into the Huaorani jungle ends like ours. Mostly, they're more like this.

Getting surreal in Ecuador with Batman and weird pizza

There is one aspect of travel that is almost guaranteed, if you travel enough.

You are going to have a few very surreal moments.

We've all had them, I think; and one corollary to that is the fact that what may be surreal to one traveller may be ordinary, run-of-the-mill stuff to another traveller.

The experience that immediately comes to mind when I think of this topic is one I had in Ecuador - Quito, to be precise - during my first trip to South America.

In a nutshell, it boils down to this:

I found myself eating unpalatable Pizza Hut pizza, watching Batman, in Spanish at 1 o'clock in the morning in the capital city of the South American country famous for its Galapagos Islands.

(By the way, we're not talking Michael Keaton or Christian Bale, here - we're talking Adam West. The cheesy 1966 TV series. Actually, come to think of it, I wish my pizza had been that cheesy...) 

"Buenos dias, Senor Batman. Como esta? Donde esta el Riddler??" and so on.

And I was doing this while eating a really bad Pizza Hut veggie pizza.

How did come to this undesirable state? Funny you should ask...

View of the cloud forest (Adventure Life photo).

It actually came about as the result of a near-fatal case of altitude sickness, suffered by my travelling companion, the Divine Ms. K. 

We had spent a week paddling in the jungles of Ecuador with a native tribe, then returned back to Quito before starting out on a second week of adventure in the cloud forests of the Andes, hoping to see wild parrots. 

Both trips were co-ordinated by a company called Adventure Life.

However, one of her lungs started to fill up with fluid because of the altitude, she couldn't breathe and we had to rush back to the city at 3 in the morning to get her fixed up. Luckily our guide knew the ins and outs of the medical system and took us to a private hospital where she was looked at almost immediately (apparently we might have waited as much as half a day to see someone at the public hospital, and that could have been tragic).

She was okay; but it left us without an itinerary.

I spent the next day setting up a trip for me, as she had to remain in hospital. (She did not want me sitting there bored out of my gourd for four days, so shooed me off).

That night, after spending some time with her at the hospital until visitor hours ended, I went back to our hotel, the Hotel Sierra Madre. The dining room was closed, though, due to some celebration or something.

Cue the Rod Serling music ... this is where I start to enter the Surrealism Zone.

The girl at the front desk told me she was going to order in a pizza from - Pizza Hut! That's right, even back in 2002, they had Pizza Hut established in Ecuador.

As I found out though, their versions of the recipes are a b-i-t different from what they dish up in North America.

Green vs. Black: no contest.

I ordered my regular veggie pizza with feta cheese, black olives, onions and peppers, then waited.

When it arrived I went down to pick it up and the minute I took it in hand, I must have gotten a weird look on my face, because the girl asked me what was wrong.

Something about the pizza just smelled .... well, different. Not quite off or bad. And when I opened the box I saw why.

They didn't use black olives on their pizzas in Quito. They used green olives.

I don't know if many people realize it, but the taste and scent of the two different kinds of olives are very much different - at least to my palate.

I HATE the smell and taste of green olives. I won't even have them in my Martinis.

And my pizza - my only meal since lunch, my only chance to eat before breakfast - reeked of them.

Disappointed, discouraged, disheartened, but still hungry, I tried to explain to the girl, but she didn't get it. So I took my pizza and slunk up to my room.

For the next hour, I tried to pick off the olives, in vain, so I could eat the pizza. It didn't help much.

I turned on the TV, hoping it might distract me enough to get some of the pizza down, but of course it was all in Spanish. My Spanish consists mainly of "Cervezas, por favors," and "Donde esta el bano?" so it was not really all that entertaining.

I tried watching the Three Stooges --- "You chica?? MI CHICA!" --- then Zorro (ironic to watch that old TV show in Spanish, since it is set in Spanish settlements), then finally, Batman. All the while, I was trying to pick off more olives and ignore the taste of the olive brine that had soaked into the pizza, trying to gag something down, with minimal success.

And not even a beer in sight to wash it down with, since the bar was closed.

Bad pizza. Bad TV. No beer. I'd had enough. Time to turn out the lights, the party's over.

And I will never, EVER order a pizza from Pizza Hut in Ecuador, again. Unless I channel my inner Macaulay Culkin and make sure it's just a plain, cheese pizza.

And that would be even more surreal.

The mother of all upgrades

Often when I tell people outside of the travel industry that I am a travel writer, they almost scoff as they invariably get around to coming out and saying, in one way or another, "Oh, you get paid to go on vacation!"

Of course, any full-time, professional working travel writer worth his or her salt knows it's not all cold Mai-Tais on the beach or five-course dinners served on board a yacht.

That's not to say the job doesn't have its perks, mind you ...



Fountain in front of the hotel.

 If you're not a travel writer (or maybe, even if you are!) you might want to get up and walk away from the computer before reading this post any further...you could end up being a tad envious (and rightly so, this time!) or even developing a serious case of jealously by the time you finished read about this particular experience.

So I'm in Malaysia, at the end of a 16-day media trip hosted by Tourism Malaysia. We start our day by waking up at 5 a.m. in the jungle in Sabah, at the tip of the northeast corner of the island of Borneo. We spend the morning on a wildlife river cruise, then boat back downriver from our jungle lodge, the Kinabatangan Riverside Lodge to visit some more tourist sites in the city. We then fly out, through two connections, to Kuala Lumpur. We're boarding a plane at noon the next day to fly back from the Malaysian capital to Vancouver, via Taipei.
 In other words, it's a typical travel writer's day on the road: very long - with lots of ground covered, and lots of travel miles piled up.

We arrive at our hotel for the night, the gorgeous and glorious Shangri-La Putrajaya Hotel, 30 minutes outside of the capital city of Kuala Lumpur. It's 9 p.m., so we've been on the go for 16 hours. We're tired, grubby, hungry and definitely in need of a drink.


Welcome to my humble abode.


Our city guide, Aliza, makes sure we get the registration process started, then, since she's local, she bids us good night and heads home, telling us she'll be back at 11:30 the next morning to make sure we get to the airport on time.

So I get up to the desk a few minutes later, give them my name and the man starts looking at his computer screen for the information about my room.

Then he says, "I'm very sorry, Mr. Geary, but the room we had hoped to make available to you is no longer available."

Pause.

My heart jumps a beat. My guide is gone. I've just been told I don't have a room. For half-a-second, I'm feeling, "Whoa, what the heck am I to do?"

I don't know if he was doing it for dramatic effect, but before I've recovered from that mini-shock, before I have a chance to catch my breath, before I have a chance to say anything, he continues.

"However, we can provide you with an upgrade to the Presidential Suite, if that would be acceptable."

Double whoa!

Except this time, my heart went pit-a-pat with a happy beat rather than an alarmed one.

Keeping my cool as best I could, I simply replied in my best "quiet-and-reserved" tone, "Yes, that would be fine, thank you."

Let's get clean - one more time!

Meanwhile, inside, I'm doing a happy dance. "Yes-yes-yes!" (Picture the dance Wesley Snipes - a.k.a., Willie Mays Hayes - does in Major League when he finds out he's made the club - that's how excited I was!)


The Presidential Suite. It deserves to be capitalized.

I'd never stayed in anything that even sounded so luxurious, so palatial.

Well, it was all that ...

And more.

There must be something about even being a resident of that suite that bestows special status upon you. The bellhop carrying my bags up showed me in, and was very nervous as he toured me around the room, showing me where everything was. Then someone else came in with a bowl of fresh fruit as gift, and he was nervous, too. Hey, for all they knew, if I was staying in the Presidential Suite, maybe I was president of something ...

The tour was quick, but I found myself wandering around again, afterward, trying to find my way around. The room was bigger than my house! No exaggeration: My house in Vancouver is 1500 square feet; this suite was 2255 square feet.

The master bedroom was as big as my living room/dining room at home, complete with king size bed, office, big screen TV on the wall and a large sofa with a coffee table.

The suite also came with another bedroom with two queen-size beds each with their own TV, as well. All the bedrooms featured en suite bathrooms. There was also a common bathroom accessible from the hallway.

Between the three bathrooms, I had three showers and two jacuzzi tubs.

View of the main living room, from the main office desk.

Rounding out the suite was a small but fully equipped kitchen (no beer in the fridge, though, damn it!); a large living room area, complete with a bar; a dining room and an office area separate from the one in the master bedroom.

I thought, "Man, I've died and gone to Hotel Heaven!"

Two minutes after that, I thought, "Holy crap! I organized a last night final-drink-together party in the bar downstairs! But I don't wanna leave...but I gotta show up, it's my party!"

So, down I went. Duty called, after all.

I didn't say anything when my colleagues asked me how my room was, other than, "Oh, it's great!"

After all, I didn't want the "riff-raff" invading my sanctuary, did I? (Snickers, tongue-in-cheek).

After drinks, I went back up to the room and took a bath in one of the suite's bathroom Jacuzzis.

I had a hard time sleeping...I knew I had to leave in about 12 hours and why would I want to waste it, sleeping in this wonderful suite? I wanted to enjoy it!

In the morning, I took a shower in another bathroom (as a travel writer, I'm obligated professionally to test everything out, right?)

I'd booked a massage with the hotel spa the previous night, but, since I really didn't want to leave the suite, I had the masseuse come up for an in-room massage. Because how often can you get a massage in the Presidential Suite - any presidential suite?

So, after a very good breakfast, and another bath (I swear I was the cleanest guy in the hotel by the time I left!), I lounged on the sofa for a while before answering the knock on the door when my massage therapist showed up.

It was a great massage, befitting a setting like this. Very elegant room, very elegantly dressed masseuse, and a very relaxing, elegant massage (I blogged about this a few months ago). All-in-all, a great way to finish off my stay at the hotel. Well, after just one more shower, that is. Have to wash off those excess massage oils!

All too soon, it was time to call for help with my bags. As much as I was looking forward to getting home after 16 days on the road, I really could have stayed one more night here...

As I walked down to meet our group in the lobby, I reflected on what a contrast I'd experienced in 12 short hours during my final full day in Malaysia: starting my day in a very Spartan cabin at a jungle lodge to finishing it in the most luxurious accommodation I'd ever stayed in.

I glanced back one final time at the door to the suite.

What a room. To quote Bogart from The Maltese Falcon, it was "the stuff that dreams are made of."

Journey into the jungle, let its rhythms float your cares away

"When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back tino the jungle ..."
- Martin Sheen as "Captain Willard" in the 1979 film, Apocalypse Now!

Okay, so I mentioned in my last blog post that I spent some time in Thailand at the River Kwai Jungle Rafts lodge. I stayed there one night, but I really wish I could have spent more time there.

View of the main eating and drinking area, from my "porch."

I arrived in a torrential downpour, via dugout canoe (motorized, thankfully, or I would have really been soaked.) Not that it would have mattered that much. Being wet is part of being in the jungle. As long as I can keep my camera gear dry, I'm happy.

What is it that's so special about a jungle lodge - or for that matter, being in the jungle?

It's really hard to explain, at least to someone who has never been in the jungle or someone who doesn't feel the same tug. Obviously, there's a romantic appeal to being in the jungle, at least there is for me. I love the sounds, the scents, the feel that there's so much life contained within its environs. As a kid growing up, I loved watching movies or cartoons that involved jungle adventures. Still do, as a matter of fact...that's why I have the complete original Jonny Quest series on DVD, as well as all the Indiana Jones movies.

At the same time, there are things about the jungle that are not all that appealing, chief among those being the heat, the bugs, and the fact you never seem to have dry clothes to wear because you've soaked everything you own in sweat during your forays into the jungle.

Like Martin Sheen's character demonstrates in the opening scene of the movie Apocalypse Now!, there can be a real ambiguity about being in the jungle, at times it seems like a love-hate relationship.

A Mon woman demonstrating one of her tribe's dances.

For me, it's mostly love. I love the jungle. Of course, one of my passions - parrots - is centered around the jungle, as that's where most parrot species live. I've been very fortunate in my life that I have seen wild parrots in jungles around the world - as well as some other pretty cool wildlife like gorillas, orangutans, hornbills, monkeys and snakes to name but a few.

So, it stands to reason, someone with my interest and love of the jungle would also love staying in jungle lodges. (I've camped in small tents along jungle rivers, and while it's fun, it's also nice to have a bed to sleep in, as I have on trips to Ecuador, Bolivia, Peru, Malaysia and now Thailand.)

The lodge at River Kwai Jungle Rafts does it a bit better than most because it floats on the river. It has no electricity (which I think is kind of cool) so kerosene lamps are used to light your room at night. (It also helps if you bring a Petzl headlamp). There is also no air-conditioning, but the river seems to help keep things cool at night.

There's an outdoor "Jungle Bar" you can sidle up to and order a cold beer like a Singha or a Chang. It has great views of the jungle surrounding you on all sides. It even has a jungle spa if you want to relax with a massage.


Time for a cold Singha after the show.


The lodge also offers plenty of other activities, including canoeing/kayaking, elephant rides, fishing, bird-watching and hiking. At night, after supper, members of the Mon tribe of Burma entertain guests with cultural dance.

Then there are the sounds...
Lying in my bed in the dark, I hear night birds calling to each other in the depths of the forest.

Then I hear something large crashing through the underbrush on the other side of the river. A wild boar perhaps, or maybe a deer. Over breakfast, I hear the trumpeting of elephants, announcing the start of another day in paradise.

Yes, I definitely have jungle fever ... I can hear that jungle rhythm...

My latest off-the-wall massage experience: jungle spa

Trust Thailand to provide me with Number 10A in my list of odd, interesting, unique and amusing massage experiences, as related in my first posts on this blog.

No, it wasn't a "happy ending" massage; and it didn't involve paint masks, reiki, gum-chewing waitress types or even a pregnant massage therapist asking me to "feel (her) belly."

What made this particular massage creep onto the list was its location, combined with its immediate ambiance.



Welcome to the Jungle (spa)...

It took place at the River Kwai Jungle Rafts, a really interesting jungle lodge accommodation located right on the Kwai River. And I mean literally on the river. The lodge is set on floats, and it sits away from the shore.
I love jungle lodges, and this one was no exception - it was pretty cool, just being able to stay there for a night, drink beer at the "Jungle Bar," watch the Mon tribe from Burma put on a cultural dance display, and listen to the sounds of the jungle on either shore during the night.

They also have a jungle spa there, where you can get Thai massage, foot reflexology, or my personal favorite, an aromatherapy massage.

What made this particular massage experience unique/odd/amusing/interesting (pick one!) was the set-up for the massage.

While Thai massage is done fully clothed, on a mat, usually on the floor, a massage with oil on a table usually requires a bit more privacy, since most, if not all of your clothes, are removed.



Spa menu at River Kwai Jungle Rafts
(32 baht = $1 Cdn)

I walked into the spa after booking my appointment and saw the tables. They were side by side - and there were no walls anywhere. The only thing giving you any privacy are some gauze-like curtains the massage therapist rolls down. But there are gaps, and even without the gaps, people outside the curtains can still see the massage taking place through the curtains. The client can hear people talking in the waiting area.

"Hmmm...mmm..." I'm thinking. "I wonder how this is going to work?"

I should point out, that during any kind of regular therapeutic massage I receive from a Registered Massage Therapist in Vancouver, I'm basically naked, but completely covered with a sheet, other than the area immediately being worked on. That's pretty standard procedure.

Given that, I think you can figure out why I felt a little hesitant about the set-up at this jungle spa.

Then my therapist, a really nice Burmese lady, told me to take off my shirt.

Okay, no problem.


The rather non-private massage tables


Then she told me to take off my pants...so I start taking them off, but I'm a bit hesitant, as I can see and hear people about 20 feet away. She senses my slight discomfort, takes a quick look, and says, "Oh, good, you have underwear on."

Yeah. Good, indeed.

Really, that's the only way to do it, given that kind of set-up. I sure wasn't about to get down to my birthday suit if the room was not completely private.

Once that was settled, I jumped up onto the table, and enjoyed a nice relaxing 60-minute massage. Except for the mosquitoes. Where's that Tiger Balm when I need it? (In Thailand, it seems Tiger Balm is a cure all for everything. Got muscle aches? Slap on the Balm. Mosquito bites? Rub some TB on them. I even had a guide put it on a scalp cut I got when I banged my head in a temple.)

Anyway, the massage itself was great. I left the spa and went immediately to dinner, in ultra-relaxed mode.

Dinner involved three bottles of Singha beer, so I was even more relaxed after eating.

Life in the jungle is definitely good ...

Hiking in the Land of Leeches

After dealing with a jungle thunderstorm that temporarily cut off power at Northern Thailand's Pang-Soon Lodge - a torrential downpour that  threatened to curtail our scheduled activities - when the sun started to come out at mind-morning, we thought nothing could daunt us.

Wrong.

We headed out for an afternoon nature hike along the Mae Lai River. It started with a bit of a tough uphill stretch, but soon we were strolling past vast groves of bamboo, vanilla trees, tea and numerous coffee trees. The terrain began to change, sending us back and forth across the river along narrow wooden bridges and up and down mossy stone steps cut into the rock.

Several beautiful waterfalls of various sizes highlighted the path, and when we got to the grandaddy of the falls, we did have the option of swimming in the river at the foot of the falls. Not a bad idea, considering how hot and humid we'd become during our 45-minute trek up to the falls.

Until the leeches showed up.

They weren't bi g- but they were insidious, and the little black,worm-like creepy-crawlies seemed to be everywhere. I was the last one in our group to get to the falls, and as I was approaching the edge of the bank, everyone else was rushing the other way, beating a hasty retreat away from the falls.

"Leeches!" came the cry.

One of the ladies in  our group showed me one of the little parasites on her leg. Meanwhile, our lead guide was encouraging me to step out onto the rocks in the river to get a good angle for a photo of the falls.

"What the heck," I thought. "I don't see any leeches lurking about on the rocks, the leech didn't look that big - and I'll only be a few minutes."

So out I walked, to shoot some photos and video of the falls.

Several minutes later, my mission accomplished, I made my way back to the shore. That's when the assistant guide pointed down at my crotch.

There was something small and dark, wiggling around (and no, I had not accidentally left my fly open!)

It was a leech, hanging on to the front of my pants, looking to gain access to my skin, so it could attach itself and start sucking (my blood, people, my blood!)

I quickly flicked it off, then did a hasty survey. There didn't seem to be any more of his disgusting little playmates on me, so off I went, trudging back down the path.

Belly button courtesy of Norah Murphy;
leech courtesy of nature.
(Photo by Laura Byrne Paquet)

I took my time heading back, stopping to shoot several photos along the way. At one point, I was passed by two of the ladies in our group, who had been behind me. They were practically running down the trail, and only took time to mutter something like, "Leeches! Gross!"

I continued to saunter along the path, taking photos.

When I got back to the lodge, the staff told me to stop and put my gear down. A bit perplexed, I did as I was bid - then figured out why they told me to do that.

It was time for a leech inspection.

They found seven on me, mainly on my socks and pants, (which were tucked into my pants, thankfully). They sprayed them with what can only be described as "leech-off." If sprayed on the leeches vigorously enough, they would curl up and eventually fall off.

After that, I headed straight for the shower and while stripping off my T-shirt, found one final determined leech stuck to the inside of my shirt. It took quite a big of convincing (it really was a determined little blood-sucker!) but eventually I managed to get him off my shirt and into the toilet which I flushed quickly and with no small amount of satisfaction.

Then into the shower I jumped. I don't think I ever washed so thoroughly in my life, especially given the fact it was a essentially a cold shower (this is a jungle lodge, after all).

It turns out, I got off easy. Everyone else in our group had at least one leech on their skin, including one lady who had it attached to her bell button. (Shades of Alien!)

While it wasn't quite as bad as Humphrey Bogart's leech scene in The African Queen, my leech experience certainly didn't leave me thirsty for more.

I loved the hike, the scenery and the sounds and smells of the jungle.

But I think next time I hike in this area, I'll make sure to bring some of that leech-off. Or at least a large shaker of table salt.