There’s a tiger somewhere on the other side of the river.
I’d spent a couple years volunteering at a big cat rescue. I knew what tigers sounded like. And there was one on the other side of the river.
I’d just slid down the trunk of a fallen tree laid against a steep hillside, and landed in a tangle of rattan palms. I managed to keep from being too deeply impaled.
I was trying to get back to the river. The trail had become overgrown and the river was the only thing I had left to orient myself.
My trip had started a bit easier.
At the bus station in Surat Thani, I’d met a couple guys who drove me to Khao Sok, a little village on Thailand’s Malay Peninsula, and the gateway to a national park that shared its name.
In the coming days I’d learn that they were tattoo artists; they spent about seven hours applying a dragon to my arm with sewing needles tied to the ends of bamboo skewers.
It was the only time I was ever tattooed by two people at the same time. A third man held my arm steady and stretched my skin taut — a more receptive canvas.
Unlike the buzzing and the grinding feeling of a tattoo gun, I could feel every time the needles entered and exited my skin.
The four of us were arranged around a large, futon-type mattress, in a bamboo hut with holes in its thatch roof, and paintings of Bob Marley and Che Guevara on the walls. I watched geckos chasing insects across the ceiling as the needles popped in and out, in and out.
The guys arranged for me to camp on the lawn at an eco-resort for free, as long as I promised to only use their guide services and to have some meals in their restaurant.
I took a boat trip with their guide just to hold up my end of the bargain, but the rest of my time was spent hiking in the jungle.
The first day I went out, a village dog went with me. All I’d done was pet him, but that was all it took. His owner was certain I’d given him treats, but I had not. We’d just kind of clicked.
It was nice to have a companion, but hiking with a dog doesn’t make for very good wildlife viewing, so the following day, when he tried to join me, I insisted he stay behind, and he was smart enough to understand.
This time I took a different route, deeper into the rainforest.
The first leech I was aware of dropped from a tree and landed on the back of my hand. Many more would follow.
As I made my way up the trail, I found that if I took a break, hordes of leeches would immediately come somersaulting in my direction. Best to keep moving.
I reached a flat area with scattered, small trees and bamboo, where the air felt hotter, heavier, and the smell left no doubt — elephants had just been here. As much as I’d have liked to see wild elephants, I didn’t want to meet them on foot. I kept walking.
The leeches sat on the ends of twigs and on leaf tips, waiting for the next mammal to pass by. They can detect vibrations, body heat, carbon dioxide, and odors. I’d been counting them as I scraped them from my legs. Thirty-six, thirty-seven …
Their anticoagulant saliva left thin streams of blood running down my legs — trails for other leeches to follow.
Soon my earlier bites were drawing clusters of new passengers, arranging themselves around each feeding site like the petals of a flower.
Sixty-one, sixty-two …
By the time I heard the tiger, I’d already been fed upon for a few hours, and I was ready for it to stop. The one place the leeches couldn’t reach me was the middle of the river.
I walked out into the water, noting schools of Cyprinid fishes, similar to many I’d seen in my years working in a tropical fish store.
I found a large rock in the center of the river, where I could sit comfortably for awhile. I rolled up my pant legs and flicked away the last remaining leeches, and took a moment to relax.
Relaxation gave way to a stinging sensation on my upper, inner thigh — something between pain and itch, and it was intensifying.
I unzipped my pants and pulled down the waistband of my boxer shorts to reveal the biggest leech of the day, engorged, the size of a large grape, pulsating about an inch away from my left testicle.
Seventy-eight …
And then, the tiger.
It was time to go back. I left the relative sanctuary of the river and hacked through more jungle until I found the trail.
I didn’t stop to pick the leeches off until I reached a deep pool below a waterfall, where some tourists had gathered for a swim.
I waded to a large, flat slab where several of them were sitting, removed my boots and socks, and to their mild horror, I began flicking leeches from my legs.
Eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four …
As the airborne annelids landed on the horrified hikers, they shrieked and scrambled to escape. There were other waterfalls farther up the trail. This one was mine.
Alone, I stripped down and had a private swim before making my way back to the village.
I lost track of the leeches somewhere in the nineties.
Lar gibbons were well into their dusk chorus by the time I reached the edge of the village. My canine friend greeted me.
Back at the lodge, there was no hot water for a shower, only a bucket of water and a bowl to pour it over myself. I picked the last of the leeches from my body and did my best to wash away the blood.
My bites would take months to heal, whether they became infected from the leeches themselves or from all my scratching.
It was my first trip to the humid tropics, a blood initiation into the penetrating heat, the cacophony of birds and insects, and the intermingled scents of growth and decay that would draw me back for the rest of my life, and become the lodestar in my search for Home.