"Your hotel is not far!" drifted back to my ears, although it might have been a hallucination--the jungle equivalent of a desert oasis. Our guide asked Rita in a quieter voice, "You sure the wheezer back there is going to make it?"

Rita laughed at the question, a short bark that silenced a hidden army of birds. She hiked about ten trees ahead. Her silky-straight black hair flipped around in its ponytail. A sweet smile spread across neat, tan features as she glanced back at me. She looked like an ad for a trendy magazine in her khaki shorts, somehow crisp white shirt and chunky hiking boots.

"You'll be all right, Vicky! Almost there! Need help?"

"Fine," I wheezed. "Feeling ... one ... with nature." The guide stopped to wait for me, and chatted a bit with Rita. Our guide was short and tan with calves like grapefruits and a natural, perpetual smile. She wore a visor with "Jungle Adventures!" printed in cartoon snakes, which matched her t-shirt. Her painfully pink shorts glowed among the greenery.

But her voice! When speaking quietly, Elsa sounded perfectly normal. But the whole, miserably long hike she screeched out descriptions and facts, rattling the fillings in my teeth. Her voice always ended in a crescendo.

"And now, see above us, the scarlet macaw! It lives high up in the canopy! It has a very loud screech!"

Thinking they heard one of their own, a troop of red and green parrots flapped out of the canopy and shouted back. One of them lobbed a nut at her. She made a neat sideways dodge, as though she were quite used to this. "Ooh, that's a naughty little birdie!"

They screeched back and forth a while, bird to woman. I covered my ears, silently waiting for my organs to stop vibrating.

Behind me, Lynette snapped picture after picture on a state-of-the-art camera. She had brilliant green eyes, short brunette hair, and wide teeth that made her smile seem bigger. The knees of her jeans were caked with mud, since her concentration on the world above distracted her from the more urgent and lumpy world beneath her feet.

The jungle boiled with life and activity. Things flew, swung, hooted, grew, rotted, screeched, evaporated, chirped, pooped, sprinted and ate. And they all somehow did this in air so hot, humid, and suffocating, it was like hiking through an elephant's small intestine.

To a couple of these creatures, our little troop was prey. We kept talking so as not to sneak up on anything, and the guide assured us that her tiny little gun would stop an attack.

Me, I just focused on not dying.

I had never felt so much like an evolutionary dropout. Asthmatic, out of shape, short, and near-sighted; I sometimes wondered if the panthers shouldn't just take me out. In a nature special I would be the weak, nervous-looking gazelle, the hope in every lion's heart.

And like the weak gazelle, I knew that safety came in numbers. So I sucked down another squirt of my inhaler, hoisted my pack higher on my sweating back, and hustled up to Rita and our guide.

"You should feel happy!" called the guide. "This is unusually dry weather! It hasn't rained for nearly six minutes now!" Overhead, I saw a macaw clap its wings to its ear holes.

A thump, grunt, and cry of "I'm okay!" told me that Lynette had caught up. We all squeezed between two trees like skyscrapers. The rough red bark scratched a new hole in my much-abused yellow t-shirt. I didn't care. I would gladly flash anybody for a glass of ice water.

"Here you are! Your home away from home!" Elsa stood proudly and stretched an arm out toward a stack of dried leaves.

Oh, wait ... a stack of dried leaves with wood stuck underneath.

"You are in luck, my friends!" Elsa said. "We just dug holes for the outdoor toilets!"

Rita and Lynette cried out in happiness. I just cried.

Chapter Two

"Why did I let you talk me into this Rita?" I groaned. The rickety bamboo chair poked my rear no matter how I sat. The square bamboo table was too high and hit me just under the boobs. My honey-blonde hair, frizzy on a good day, floated freely above my head in the smothering humidity. My glasses fogged constantly no matter how often I cleaned them. And dinner was late.

She filed a nail. "Because you are the world's biggest cheapskate. Because you've found six white hairs this week and your biological clock is starting to chime. Because we all needed to get away from the pet business. Because your husband is away at a computer game convention and you hate being alone. Shall I continue?"

Lynette and I worked together walking and washing pets. I was the walking end and Lynette did the washing in her specially-equipped van. We started out walking only dogs, but so did a couple other self-employed and very determined individuals in our area.

These individuals did everything they could to damage our business; from starting rumors that Lynette cut off the ear of a Shih-tzu during a shaving, to slashing my tires. We had to resort to walking and washing any creature that needed it. Thus far the list included ducks, hairless cats, chinchillas, and on one memorable occasion, a puppet.

Rita owned a high-end pet supply store ... the kind that sells actual diamond-studded collars. Her clients typically carried their pets in large, fancy handbags. She referred plenty of business our way. Unlike ourselves, she had no competition for her products, and turned a hefty profit at the price of extended hours to accommodate all of her clients.

We all needed a break.

I sighed and spent a moment trying to corral my hair.

The air was thick with sounds: raindrops pounding on leaves and the bamboo roof; high-pitched twitters of little birds; quick creaks from insect legs (cricket speak for "hey-baby, hey-baby"), and deep, strong monkey hoots. The jungle was busy enjoying its life and striving to make new ones.

Doors banged and a middle-aged man with short black hair and rows of freckles trudged through the curtains. He wore frayed jean shorts, a red t-shirt, and a pink apron that was too small for him and that said "Kissin' wears out, Cookin' don't."

He carried three bowls nested one on top of the other. He weaved left and right and bumped into the other tables. When he finally arrived at our table, he bathed us in alcohol breath while plunking down the wooden bowls.

"Name's Soku. Here's dinner." After tossing chopsticks from his pocket like he was feeding pigeons, he slumped onto the railing to watch the rain. Soku looked miserable.

The surround-sound noise lulled for just a moment, just long enough for Rita to fart. Loudly.

Rita leapt out of her chair. I snorted into my napkin and Lynette laughed out loud. Wiping tears from her eyes, she showed Rita a small black box.

Rita looked from her to the chair and plucked a similar box from under the table. "A remote fart maker? Are you ten years old?" She slammed it next to Lynette's plate, returned to her chair and scooted her bowl closer.

Soku lifted himself from the railing and gave us a look of sheer disgust. He turned and wove his way back to the kitchen.

Our laughter died as we gazed at dinner. Some sort of brown, meat-like chunks glistened in a brown, gravy-like sauce on brown, possibly-edible, rice. Little black flecks dotted the surface. The whole mess smelled somewhere between half-cooked fish and wet dog food.