Trekking and Tribes in Chiang Mai: Part 2

At VS Guesthouse (our current hostel, that somewhat resembled a prison), we were awoken at 6 in the morning with someone banging on our door. After the most uncomfortable night's sleep, sharing a roomy double bed between the three of us and only a fan to keep us cool, we were stripped down to our underwear to try to sleep, in the small stuffy room. (For £2 per night, we could hardly complain- we had got what we paid for, but considering we could get air con for a mere 50p more, we soon upgraded!) Frantically scrabbling for clothes wondering what on earth was going on, I peeked out of a small window, and saw an unfamiliar man in the hallway.

'Who is it?'
'Should we answer?'
We realised we weren't left with much of a choice as the knocker wasn't going anywhere.

Gingerly, I opened the door to be greeted by a man requesting our passports. We need to make records of them for the trek, he said. Well I certainly wasn't being taken for a fool, I didn't fancy a trip to the British Embassy later on because I had been stupid enough to hand over three passports to a total stranger who had no proof that he was even part of the trek we had booked. So after asking him to prove who he was, we settled on taking some identification card for safekeeping, despite him protesting at first.

After slapping on plenty of DEET and packing our minimal supplies, we were speeding off in a seat-belt free jeep, meeting the other trekkers; Jenny and Charlotte (who it turns out were from near our town back home) and three friendly Brazilians.

First stop: the local market. After loading up on food for the first day, we jumped back in the vehicle and were on our way to rural Thailand.

We pulled onto a dusty track and headed further away from civilisation and into the woods.

The jeep pulled to a stop next to a stream where some men with bamboo rafts awaited to take us on a scenic journey down the creek. Or so we thought.

Wading in and climbing on the raft, we realised the water was colder than we first thought and out 'gentle' bob along the water seemed to take a turn as locals lined the banks with buckets and water pistols and proceeded to soak the ''farangs!'' (foreigners)