Dances with forest

In Thailand (1983?), one trip included a jungle trek from Chang Rai. We hiked up forest-clothed mountain flanks, sleeping in small villages. Porters carried up warm cokes and beers by another route, to sell to us each night at progressively higher prices. Sleeping was in huts, eating the spicy food each traditional village provided. I don’t think any of it was dog, although our guide pointed out one or two long-haired dogs with chunks cut out of their haunches, then tied up to heal. The handover for our party from one village to another could mean passing a couple of fierce-looking local Rambo types, sporting huge machine guns and watchful eyes at a river crossing as lines of women passed with produce or poppies. One well-guarded valley and hillsides belonged to the Kuomintang, where they made pineapple liqueur (lao sapalot?) which was red and tasted like delicious cough liquid. We had 2 energetic and hairy New Zealanders with us and after all had indulged in the herbs freely sold in large bags in back alleys, and fortified ourselves with pineapples, we would overtake the traditional dancing displays put on for our benefit, with displays of kiwi dances, Pole Cat strut or other rockabilly. The day after the Kuomintang, our guide was far behind as we moved on, clutching treetrunks with one hand and his head with the other, the sun far too bright suddenly. We’d walk to the next hilltop and wait for him to catch up. The biggest machine guns were near the Burmese border, in the heart of the Golden Triangle, where Mark and me climbed up and over the ridge into what we were told was Burma, sitting and smoking a bit while contemplating the endless sea of forested mountains ahead. We wondered what lives were being won or lost in those forbidden valleys, but not what lives we could expect.