"Is slant like this..."

"Is slant like this..."Three versions of one event.

Kevin:

I don' t know about you, but when forced to converse with  people  whose English is weak, I have a tendency to nod stupidly in agreement even when I haven't a clue what they are saying. Sometimes I'm just too lazy to decipher.  It's the flip side of shouting at them to make them understand what I'm saying. Instead of finding the perfect phrasing to be understood, I bellow, thinking that the decimal level will force comprehension.  

So...when Atta our guide asked us which route we wanted to take up the mountain I really didn't understand that that two village route was much harder and longer than the other route which went straight to the town where we would stay.  I shouted " two towns "'really loudly, thinking we'd  be getting more for our money and apparently not understanding the part about it being much longer and steeper.  Anyway, Nellie voted for the "two town" option too and so I figured she knew what he was talking about. Therefore what ensued was partially her fault. After all, he warned us it was "slant like this."(visualize hand in karate position. 


Before I describe the physical agony of the upward climb, I should mention that the walk, climb, trek... whatever...was too beautiful for words. At times it seemed almost heavenly..the air clean and sweet smelling, the views hazy and spectacular, the vegetation strange and lush.  Atta grew up in a hill town and had lots to say about life in a town you have to climb through the woods to get through.  Speaking for myself, I wouldn't have missed this for anything. It was like waking and finding oneself in a Kurosawa film only you understand the words.


However the trail was steeper than we had been led to believe and lots of the hard clay soil was terraced into tall steps up the hillside.  A lot of the time we were using our hands as well as our feet because most of the way to the first town was straight up. Soon we were panting and sweating and straining leg  muscles that had long ago assumed we would never call upon them again.  Atta barely broke a sweat  and chattered frequently and often interestingly about everyday life up here where people grow crops in fields that, with the subtraction of a few degrees, could be called cliffs.


Once we dragged our sorry asses into the first town, the hardest part was over. The town, like most of this country was incredibly backward....and yet, I spotted solar panels and satellite dishes screwed to the sides of shacks.  Babies, pigs,dogs and residents roamed around and only occasionally noticed our presence (see below)


Of course there was also a store in the center of town. No matter how isolated and lonely a place is here, there is always a run down corner shop in front of and often comprising part of someone's house. I mean in a town of ten families, where baby pigs are running free and chickens are everywhere,  you can still buy a bag of Lays potato chips often in exotic flavors  like "Nori Seaweed" or (I swear to god) "Curry Crab."  Many people do, as evidenced by the drifts of litter that fill the sides of dusty roads. (The plastic bag will prove to be the downfall of Southeast Asia if the smog or road carnage don't get it first.)



The minute one walks out of the woods in one of these towns the people start pulling out there wares to hawk..."Lookee... Lookee!" Some of the trinkets are clearly  made in China..but others are sewn goods in the hill people style. We have developed a thicker skin about buying the stuff but left a few baht behind in these towns. How many carved elephants can you fit in a small day bag?


The rest of the trip to the outpost  was a more moderate up and down trail between the two towns...a second wind was enjoyed by all as the trail flattened and widened. We walked through mountain fields as the sun waned, the air cooled  and the views became a darker mixture of green and gold. Lovely. 


Finally, the lodge loomed above us, a shaky perch made almost totally from bamboo. It creaked and swayed a bit when anyone walked and the thin bamboo  lattice floor strained under our western weight. A wide veranda faced east  and behind it our rooms, elegant and rudimentary--futons and mosquito nets. We sat on pillows on the deck, enjoyed the sunset (each with our own bags of chips) and the moonrise and then ate a five course meal Atta cooked  without appliances and modern utensils by candlelight sitting on the floor. 


Sleep came easy in the colder mountain air, and we woke to the beautiful sunrise and breakfast, a strange  and delicious rice gruel with chicken and carrots left over from last night. We agreed that we could get used to this if they put in an escalator.


Atta lowered the boom after breakfast by admitting that going downhill was harder than the ascent. In a sense he was wrong-- one didn't get out of breath as one descended what was in many places a staircase with giant risers. However one expended greater effort and used different muscles to take each giant step There were times when each of us ended up sliding on our ass.   A good walking stick became essential.


The way down involved a stop at a waterfall where a small women in a hut sold us yet more trinkets and tempted us with a selection of...you guessed it...Lays potato chips.<br />
<br />
Nell-


While the trudge up the mountain tested my legs, I spent most of our journey exhausting myself with the worry that I very well may have killed my dear parents in agreeing to this route.  As fatigue set in, I found myself wondering how exactly I would transport them out of the jungle, should need be.  Short of thumbing a ride on an elephant, dragging them seemed the only feasible solution. With the intelligence I am told elephants posses, I doubt we could have convinced them to walk that trail.  May one learn from their wisdom. 


The lodge, our final destination for the day, was wonderfully rustic.  While I was too distracted trying to win the affections of the village strays, Mom and Dad spent the&nbsp;&nbsp;few hours consumed with worry that they might just fall through the bamboo flooring (these were valid concerns).  To my fathers dismay, the only other guests were a German family: a mother, father, their son and his girlfriend. Having taken the easier route, they beat us to the top by who knows how long (cowards). In a typically German fashion, they had usurped all of the cushions on the porch with a good view of the mountain.  My father and I were forced to enjoy our congratulatory beer in the corner, staring at the son groping his girlfriend as she perused the inevitable display of souvenirs provided by the locals. Giddy that both of my parents had made it up in one piece, my mood could not be spoiled by this act of greed.  My father on the other hand, let me know repeatedly how little he approved of our lodge mates.  My mother, desperate for kinship in her struggles, immediately reached out to the Germans, making friends with the mother who was also too exhausted to move.  At dinner, the Germans took the table and we were forced to eat on the floor (cough), which was okay in the end because it allowed me to share the last bits of Lays Nori Seaweed chips with a pregnant stray cat who wandered in.  I don't this she liked the Germans much either.  


The next morning, Dad took off at a rapid pace down the mountain, determined to keep our lead on the Germans despite a brief hold up at the site of a new school being built by volunteers from the city.  My mother, having refused a walking stick for most of the climb up, was the only one who still had hers the next morning (albeit thanks to me).  Dad, having been the sole advocate for their use initially, had managed to lose his overnight. Filled with resentment for my mothers stick, but knowing we'd be chasing after her tumbling body down the mountain should he take her up on her offer to give him it-Dad chose to very audibly play the martyr and make due with what he could find next to the trail.  It was sort of like Goldie Locks and her legendary chairs, this one's too big, not round, too floppy.  We all suffered.  


Ata, our guide, had rubbed me the wrong way when we first met him.  I found him too eager and eager often strikes me as desperate (I inherited my tolerance from my father).  Yet, in the end, I am grateful for his patience.  We were a motley crew and there was probably more than one occasion that he thought he might have to leave us in the jungle to save himself. If he keeps a journal, his account of our trip would probably give David Sedaris a run for his money. 


Kate:


Due to problems with PTSD,  Kate will not be able to offer her version of these events. We feel her time is better spent relearning how to walk.