XII. Fake Snakes and Elephant Dung, Part Three

Beth glanced over my shoulder, “What’s Pascal got over there?”

Pascal was one of those adventurous young men annoyed by my mothering, always wandering off somewhere without me. He was squatting on a rock about fifty yards downstream. A cigarette dangling from his lips, a stick in his hand, he was poking at something lying next to him. Beth and I went to investigate. When we got close enough to see what it was, Beth froze. Pascal was poking at a cobra.

After never seeing any at all on the trails, we encounter two poisonous snakes on the same trek, the trek with the girl afraid of snakes. This had to be more than mere coincidence. This was practically a Cosmic Joke. Pascal, oblivious to the irony, or perhaps all too aware of it (one can never tell with the French), continued his poking. The cobra seemed to be taking it well, but I was fairly certain its good humor wouldn’t last much longer.

“Pascal,” I whispered, “Stop what you’re doing. Move away from the snake. Slowly.”

He turned to me with a well-practiced dismissive expression, then resumed.

“That’s a Cobra, you idiot!” I hissed, “Get away from there!”

He stood up, “I must have a photo!”

He jogged to his backpack and got a camera. He stepped in for a tight shot of the snake. It was too dangerous for him to be that close. I had to stop him. If he needed a photo, then by golly, it was my responsibility as the Jungle Guide to take it for him (it seemed to make sense at the time). I took his camera. As I focused in on the snake, I noticed one of Pascal’s cigarette butts lying next to it, spoiling the shot. I reached in to remove the butt. My hand was less than an inch away from the snake. At that moment, I looked up and saw the horrified expression on Beth’s face. That was when I fully realized what I was doing.

I always used to scoff when I heard stories about travelers traipsing around the world as though they were in some sort of protective bubble, immune from the environment. There were stories of blissfully ignorant Swiss hikers caught on erupting volcanoes, not believing that they were active, and of naïve Japanese safari tourists mauled by lions, just as they were flashing the peace sign for the camera. (The stories always seemed to involve the Swiss or Japanese.) Oh, how I scoffed. I scoffed and scoffed. Now, here I was, inches from death because of a cigarette butt, because I was a Jungle Guide with a misguided set of priorities, because I was just as idiotic as any Swiss or Japanese tourist.

I dropped the butt, slowly moved my hand out of frame, and backed away from the snake. I shoved the camera into Pascal’s hands, took him firmly by the arm and, ignoring his threats and complaints, escorted him and Beth away.

XI. Fake Snakes and Elephant Dung, Part Two

We all crawled, one after another, through the tight, pitch-black tunnel that connected the chambers of the meditation cave. The air was thick and musty; the only sounds were our breathing and the steady drip-drip-drip from who-knows-where. I held a small flashlight between my teeth, illuminating only a few feet in front of me. The rest of the group was behind me in complete darkness, feeling their way along, occasionally piling into each other.

After several feet, the tunnel opened up a bit; we could stand almost upright and walk, although it was still completely dark. The group crowded in tight; they were disconcerted and claustrophobic. Once more, I had them right where I wanted them. They didn’t know what they were approaching, but I did: a large rock on which a monk had carved a rather realistic-looking snake. I abruptly flashed my light onto the carving.

“Snake!” I shrieked.

Beth, fresh-faced and fresh out of college, absolutely freaked out. She was out of control, to the point of hyperventilating. It was more of a reaction than I expected. I tried calming her down, “Hey, look, it’s just a carving. See? It’s not real. I was just playing.”

“You’ve got a lot of god-damned nerve!” she hit my arm hard, “That wasn’t nice! I’m really afraid of snakes!”

“You do realize we’re going into the jungle tomorrow, don’t you. There are real snakes in there. Are you going to be okay with that?”

“I’ll be fine!” she pushed past me and stormed off ahead in the dark, then stopped, realizing she couldn’t go any further. I could almost hear her cross her arms in defiance.

I wasn’t making it up. There were snakes in the jungle, lots of them: pythons, cobras, green pit vipers and others, all potentially very dangerous. The truth was we rarely ran into them. They tended to stay away from the trails, at least when people were on them. Of course, there was always a possibility. I didn’t think she fully realized this. I tried to broaching the subject the next morning before we set out, but she wouldn’t speak to me. Maybe she had something to prove.

After a few hours of hiking in pretty thick terrain, we arrived at a clearing. There were a couple of fallen trees, probably pushed over by elephants some time ago. Each traveler staked out a seat as I passed out their lunches: cold fried rice and bananas. Beth sat at the far end. She took the Styrofoam container without saying a word or looking at me. I let her be and chatted with the others as we ate. Suddenly, we heard a scream from Beth’s end. We turned to see her as she leaped off her log, “Snake! I sat on a snake!”

A green pit viper, highly poisonous, quickly slithered off the log and into the bushes. She was damned lucky it didn’t bite her. When she sat on it, she probably scared it as much as it scared her.

The one traveler to encounter a snake on the trail, and it had to be her. What if she had been bitten? Could I have gotten her to a doctor in time? I didn't even carry a penknife to cut the bite and suck out the venom. Hell, I wasn't even sure if that was the right thing to do. All my experience again had boiled down to which television shows I watched.

Once Beth calmed down and could even laugh a little about it, we collected our trash and continued on the trail. We ended up, as we so often did, at a waterfall, always a perfect place to relax and wash the grime of the trail off. Beth spent her time there off alone on a rock. After a while she approached me. I began to apologize for the trick, and for not watching out for her, but she cut me off, “No, you were right. I probably shouldn’t have come here.”

“Look, that was just a freak occurrence, a one in a million thing. We never see snakes. You just got… lucky.”

She smiled, “Thanks, but I should have listened. You’re the one with the experience. I mean, I’ve only been out of the States for two weeks. I don’t know anything about jungle.”

I didn’t have the heart, no, strike that, the balls to tell her that I left the States only about a month earlier and didn't know what the fuck I was doing.

X. Fake Snakes and Elephant Dung, Part One

My newfound sense of responsibility as the ever-diligent, ever-helpful Jungle Guide had a two-fold effect on the travelers. For the young men who, not unlike myself, came to Thailand looking for adventure, I was sucking the very life out of the jungle. They couldn’t see that I was doing it for their own good. Nothing bad was going to happen to them, not here, not on my watch.

Everywhere they turned, there I was, holding every branch, testing every step. If they wandered two feet off the path, I’d be an instant one-man search party. I’d be there to assist at even the smallest of river crossings.

“Here, let me help you across,” I’d hold out my hand.

“No, I’m fine. Really.”

“The rocks are very slippery. You’d better give me your hand.”

“Leave me alone already!”


As for the less adventurously inclined, those who perhaps felt a bit apprehensive about venturing into the unknown, my constant exhortations and warnings only served to confirm their fears. It was a dangerous place indeed, the jungle, and only under the watchful eye of a seasoned professional, such as myself, could they possibly make it out alive. With these travelers, the more I fed their fears, the closer they clung to me, and the closer they clung, the more I realized how easy it would be to fuck with them.

I led a group through open grassland, an area resembling what I’d seen (in documentaries) of the African Savannah. I loved this spot. I would imagine that I was leading safaris (as if the jungles of Thailand weren’t adventure enough). We passed a rather large elephant turd, measuring at least six inches in height. I bent down and held my hand over the massive mound of waste, “It’s still warm… no more than an hour old…” then I stood up and surveyed the grasslands with my knowing, inscrutable squint, “The elephant that made this is can’t be too far off. We’d better keep our eyes open. Stay sharp, everybody,” I moved on along the trail, the travelers followed, stopping short every time a twig snapped.

It wasn’t a complete lie. Elephants actually did come through here, the dung was proof of that. It was, however, a pretty dried-out turd, probably days, if not weeks, old. But there was no need of letting the travelers know that. Why spoil their excitement? I was giving them a little more bang for their baht.

At the far end of the grasslands, there was a decomposing tree stump. Deep inside the rotted-out hole at the top, something glowed like two tiny eyes. One week back, when I first saw it, I thought it was a large insect or a small snake, but after watching it for a while, I saw that the eyes never moved or blinked. I was pretty sure it was inanimate, so I reached my hand in and nothing bit. I found a long, skinny stick alongside the stump and placed it inside the hole for later use, specifically one week later.

“Hey, look!” I beckoned the group over, “I think there’s something in here!”

One by one, they cautiously peeked inside and saw the glowing eyes. They argued about what it might be. If anyone got in too close, I’d warn them to back off a bit; they didn’t know what was in there. I had them right where I wanted them. I rolled up my sleeves, “I’m going to find out what it is.”

“Are you crazy?” they protested, “You don’t know what’s in there!”

“Relax. I know what I’m doing,” I reached in and rooted around, “Hold on. I think I got someth-- Oh fuck!” I tore my hand out of the hole, “FUCK… FUCK!!!” I spun around in panic, flailing my arm every which way, trying to shake this “thing” off my hand.

“Oh God! Somebody help him!”

“Wait a minute. What is that? Is that… is that a stick?”

“You asshole!”

They stormed off without me. I let them go while my evil cackling subsided. I knew they wouldn’t get far, the trail forked up ahead. They wouldn’t know which way to go. They needed me.

IX. The Accidental Savior

I was on the far bank of the river, tying my shoelaces, when I heard the cry, “Get Phil!” Pam, the young English girl who was supposed to be in my care, was crossing the river when the current swept her legs out from under her. She was clinging to a tree branch in panic, her legs flailed, searching blindly for something to stand on.

Why was she screaming for me? It wasn’t as dramatic as all that; it wasn’t a treacherous crossing. The rocks were large, flat, and close together. She could have easily put her feet down and walked across the river, using the branch like a railing. Besides, there was a strapping young man right in front of her. If she just stopped and calmed down for one second, she’d see his outstretched hand, only inches away. But she needed the Jungle Guide. She needed The Guy in Charge, The Alpha Male. And that, although I never truly believed it, was me. I suppose I was supposed to be there.

Granted, she was pretty, blonde and vulnerable; I had no problem with being her savior. I made my way down the bank, brushed past the strapping young man and gave her my hand. “I’m here,” I said in dulcet tones.

She looked at me with big, brown, adoring eyes as I took her by the waist and walked her across the rocks, smirking past the rolling eyes of her rejected savior. Yes, I felt heroic. Yes, I felt manly. But something told me that maybe there was more to this job that I had originally thought. This notion didn’t last long.

I took the group ─ leading with a swagger, my damsel closely behind ─ to a pond with a small waterfall. Without a word or looking back, I undressed and jumped right in. I swam across the pond and through the falls, into a crawlspace between the rock wall and the water’s cascade. Alan, a thin, goateed, decidedly non-strapping young man swam up behind me. He reached the wall and clutched at it, his breath heaving. He was having an asthma attack. He should have told me earlier about his condition. Or maybe I should have asked. Not that I could have, or even would have, done anything about it. Either way, it was too late now. He turned to me with a look that practically screamed for help.

Was this some kind of cursed expedition? Three weeks of being a Jungle Guide and nobody had any trouble, and now twice in one day. Well, the first one didn’t really count, but still…

Curse or not, I had to do something. I saw a small log bobbing around behind the falls with us. I got hold of it and brought it over to him. I managed to unclutch his grip, finger by finger, from the wall, and transfer him to the log. We floated safely back to the shore and found an inhaler in his backpack.

When I first took this job, or more accurately, fell ass-backwards into it, I thought, “Wow! I’m gonna be a Jungle Guide!” and that was the extent of my consideration. It never occurred to me that I might be responsible for others’ lives, whether they were in danger or not. Now that it did occur to me, I realized that I really wasn’t prepared for that. I had no jungle experience. I had no jungle training. I had no jungle skills. If there were a real catastrophe, I would be completely useless.

So, as we hiked back home, I made note of every rock that could be tripped over, every wet leaf that could be slipped on, and every low branch that could be walked into; and I made damn sure that everybody knew about every single one of them.

I instantly made the leap from Irresponsible Jungle Guide to Overprotective Jungle Jewish Mother.

VIII. Dharma Talks

On days off, when Maow wasn’t testing my survival skills, Tom sought to enrich my spirit. Tom was a lanky Swede, the most easy-going man I met in Thailand, which is saying a lot. No matter which direction fate took him, Tom went along without much fuss. As a young man, he joined the Merchant Marines to see the world; he didn’t care which country. When he happened to land in Thailand and happened to discover Buddhism, he happened to become a monk. After about a year at the monastery, while on a visa renewal trip to Bangkok, Maow saw him walking down the street and, deciding on the spot that he would make a fine husband, took him home with her. He was okay with that as well. For the past three years, they ran tours together in the jungle.

Tom still had a love for Buddhism and would talk about it to anyone who would listen. I had an on-again, off-again, flirting relationship with the religion for years, but never delved too deeply. Having precious little to read and no television, I accepted Tom’s books and tutorials. He took me to local monasteries and even arranged for an audience with his former abbot, a wizened, smiling, bald man who could have been dipped in gold and placed on an altar. Since I didn’t speak much Thai, the meeting consisted of me smiling uneasily at the foot of the abbot, who seemed to gaze directly into the back of my brain. This went on for several long minutes before the abbot made an obscure hand gesture towards me. This meant, Tom said, that I was to sit and meditate for the next hour with the abbot. I wasn’t exactly prepared for this, but how do you say “no” to the Buddha? I couldn’t even say “no” in Thai. Before we began, Tom taught me the traditional Thai mantra, “Pu-,” with every inhale, and “toh,” with every exhale. Over the course of the hour, my mind stayed with the mantra a total of maybe three minutes. Tom assured me that this would get better with practice, as would the knee and the back pain.

On the ride back home, we passed a Traditional Thai Massage parlor. I convinced Tom that he owed my aching back that much, so we stopped in. As our buttocks were being dabbed with hot sacks of herbs by chattering masseuses, Tom told me about his time in the monastery, “When you first get there, you think it’s great, but after a few months, the novelty wears off. It’s not that glamorous, sleeping on a stone bed with a wooden pillow, waking up every single morning at 4:30. It’s just a job after a while, a sixteen hour, seven day a week job.”

I asked him if it was worth it. He said it was for the occasional glimpses, moments when his mind would “pop open like a cork,” and then everything would be clear. But these moments were fleeting; he knew the process took a lifetime. His long-term strategy was to return to the monastery when he was sixty and finish out his life as a monk.

As our respective masseuses kneeled on top of us and bent us into a variety of shapes, Tom told me, between groans, about some of the older monks who, having been regularly meditating for decades, developed telepathic abilities. Once, when Tom was thinking of quitting, one of these elders convinced him to stay, referring to an incident in Tom’s past which he never told anyone about. “I don’t know how else he could have known. I think maybe (Christ!) when you meditate for a long time, it clears out the noise in your mind and you (Fuck!) can access some kind of shared consciousness (oh, that’s better).”

He wanted to develop that in himself, but was warned that chasing after those powers was considered “off the path.” If certain abilities developed, he was to note them, but let them go. “Go back to the breathing, always go back to the breathing,” they told him. The only time he should use these abilities was if it would help somebody. Anything else was considered a dangerous ego feed.

While my masseuse made me painfully aware of my body’s limitations, I realized that my ideas of Buddhism were just as limited, especially after Tom told me the story of the young monk who was stuck in a state of bliss. The monk thought he had reached Nirvana and he had stopped progressing. The abbot brought in a specialist monk from another monastery, a “fixer” (I pictured Harvey Keitel with a shaved head and saffron robes). He came to shock the young monk out of his blissful state. It all happened in private over many days. Tom didn’t see the procedure; he thought maybe it was like cult deprogramming, or maybe like the eye-clamp scene in A Clockwork Orange. I probably would have been as content with the blissful state as the young monk. I always thought that bliss and Nirvana were the same thing.

We drove home in silence, our bodies relieved, relaxed, stretched out, and smelling like Tom Yam with lemongrass, each lost in our own thoughts. I had no idea what enlightenment, or Buddhism, was really all about. I had a lot to learn and over the next few months, in between tours, Tom was happy to oblige me.