Klempner – Thailand
I set out early, catching the sunrise and making the most of what passes for the cool of the dawn here. Even given the purpose of my trek, I can take the time to look around and appreciate the beauty of my surroundings.
I’ve travelled pretty much everywhere that is reachable without being Shackleton or Hillary, and while it is something I enjoy, the actual ‘travel’ part of travelling is usually uninteresting. There’s only so much variety in cabins and airports.
But this is different.
There is something about walking: hiking to your destination, connecting with the landscape, that makes the journey more real. And it doesn’t get any realer than it is here.
So early in the day, hiking up the trail through verdant forest, high up the mountain; sun-slanted mist weaves through the canopy.
Trail over-plays the track I’m following. No human laid this route. Some animal probably made it, but of course, most of them are much closer to the ground than I am. From my six foot vantage point I hack my way through dense vegetation. The machete is seeing sterling service, but my wrist is aching already.
What kind of animal?
Wild pigs maybe?
Not an appealing thought…
I don’t much fancy meeting a wild pig except with an apple stuck in its mouth. I’ve seen versions of them all over the world and none of them were sweet little pink things saying Oink. They’re dangerous creatures; wickedly tusked and fast moving. Omnivorous too. If they get you down, there won’t be a corpse to be found by the time they’re finished.
But hopefully the local version will be sleeping in daylight. In any case, most wildlife doesn’t come looking for trouble. Or if it does, a machete isn’t a bad defence against unwanted attentions.
Birds and, I think some kind of monkey, screech and howl above me. I can’t see much of the local wildlife other than, way up, the odd flapping wing between one tree and the next. But the noise is cacophonous.
Just now, the temperature in the low seventies, the walking isn’t bad. But the humidity is climbing and sweat gathers between my shoulder blades, streaking my shirt and making it harder to stay cool.
And the temperature is rising.
Here under the canopy it shouldn’t get too hot, at least as the glass measures it, but the moisture in the air is draining. My lips taste salty and my eyes sting.
I can’t do anything about the rucksack, other than packing it properly in the first place for balance and to be sure I don’t have cutlery jamming into my spine, but the rifle is a different matter. I pause a few seconds to shift it from one shoulder to the other, rubbing at the ache.
Getting too old for this game?
I slap at an arm.
Fucking things…
What do these things eat when they can’t get hobbit?
The choice is to leave my arms bare and get bitten. Or cover up and swelter. I settle for the bites but slather on citronella gel…
Maybe it’ll poison the little bastards…
Then I stop to pluck thorns that have somehow penetrated my pants and boots: in theory, the toughest trail clothing available. But the local vegetation is unimpressed by the claim, merely rising to the challenge of spiking the unwary.
The sun rises higher, gleaming green and gold through a shimmering roof of leaves. I could wish to be in better mood to appreciate it, but sweat trickles down my face, itching abominably.
How does anyone stand having a fucking beard all the time?
I’m beginning to dream of a razor and foam.
I’m well up the mountain now.
Shouldn’t it get cooler with altitude?
But with the heavy exercise, my load and the ever-climbing humidity, the blood rises up my neck and face and somehow, the bloody boots have doubled their weight.
How far have I come?
I take out a phone, opening the mapping app, scissoring and zooming.
Not so far as I’d have liked…
The heat is intense now. Sweat streams uselessly down my forehead, not cooling, only soaking my clothes as it trickles down. My eyes are watering and as I swipe over my face, my palm tastes briny.
The sun continues to climb, hovering in its blue dome, assaulting tree and insect and me. The earlier howl and squawk has stilled. Even the insects are quieter. I stand, hands on hips, simply breathing, reaching for air that, against all sense, isn’t there.
What’s that?
I freeze, cocking my head, listening.
The sound of running water…
No, the roar of running water.
Stepping smartly, out, breaking from the trail, I follow the sound, until with shocking suddenness, the trees open in front of me.
The luxuriant foliage clears. To one side, the forest stretches as far as the eye can see. To the other, a waterfall.
And I stand, looking up, gaping.
‘Waterfall’ doesn’t do it justice. Waterfalls would be more correct: dozens, scores, even hundreds of them; all interconnected and weaving from one to another. Level by level, from hundreds of feet above, stretching wide all around me, tier upon tier of water cascades in cataracts and streaming ribbons, dancing and frothing as it falls to the river before continuing its journey to the sea far below.
Water as clear as crystal, clean as a maiden’s conscience, rushes in a never-ending dream.
All other sound is obliterated by the song of the falls. My heart thumps under my ribs, but I hear nothing but the water.
How can this not be in the tourist brochures?
Did I simply miss it in overly hasty research on the area?
On the other hand, given the strenuous approach, few but the most determined would reach here.
And I stand, simply gazing at a vision of heaven.
Fine spray fills the air: not the cloying humidity of only a few minutes before, but a refreshing mist that casts rainbows arcing above me and washes, clean and invigorating, over my face and hands and arms.
Sucking at my cheeks, I check the phone again for my position.
Then I glance up at the enemy sun.
What’s the hurry?
I’ll work better for a rest…
… and a wash…
Stooping, I run fingers through the water. It laves my fingers, caressing and cooling…
No competition…
Then havering, I look around.
What if I’m seen?
It is beyond belief that this place isn’t known…
Surely there must be visitors?
Tourists… Gawkers…
There’s always someone willing to make a ridiculous journey to see the truly unique.
And sure enough, as I look, I see another trail, much broader than my own, well-trodden. There are even tire tracks.
But that water is calling me.
I wander the edges, searching, stepping from one polished rock to another, placing my boots carefully…
No place for a twisted ankle…
Away from the main torrent of falling water, a clear pool sits to one side, deep and wide, edged by rocks polished smooth, and still, save for the small eddying swirls which sparkle and spin in the sunshine. And better, it vanishes under a rock overhang, curtained off by cascading water, well away from any possible passer-by. Perfect shelter.
Stepping with care, I edge along a craggy edge. The water has long ago polished away any crevices for fingers, and moss, thick and green coats much of it. But snatched handfuls of ferns balance me as I skip over one slick stepping-stone to another until, abruptly, I find myself out of the sunlight and in a dim green space, the pool at my feet screened by frothing water.
I heave, shrugging off both pack and rifle. The pack drops with a clunk. The rifle I lean against a rock wall. Not that it’s fragile, but a pro looks after his equipment.
Stripping off the sweat-stained vest, I toss the stinking thing to one side. Boot laces next…
Aaahhhh…
I kick them off and fresh air kisses my feet. The rest of my clothes follow.
Naked, I stand on a flattish rock, and leaping, I dive, cutting into the water…
… then surface, spluttering and gasping, snatching sweet, stinging air into shuddering, heaving lungs
“Fuck!”
Christ, but that’s cold!
Puffing, I stand, waist high in the water, then with a yell and a laugh, duck again, swimming long strokes across the pool and back again.
An hour later, clothed again, I sit by the pool edge, just on the edge of my water-curtain cover. Sipping from a tin mug, I watch the pageant of the waters. A trail bar in one hand, I take a bite, then chewing, watch the spectacle. Occasionally, I survey my surroundings.
No other people in sight…
Still… Thailand…
It has a reputation as a different kind of tourist destination.
Another five minutes; I check my watch, refill the water bottle from the pool then, repacking, I heave up the backpack, slinging the rifle back over a shoulder, and set off again along my pig-trail.
Uphill all the way…
*****