Nanga is bigger, hairier, dirtier, larger-nosed and, at 67, older than most females I've ridden. Her tough gray skin feels like dried out leather, so someone should really pick her up some moisturizer. She smells liker a pungent combination of hay and rotten bananas and could really use a bath. If I'm lucky, I'll strip down to my skivvies and join her.
It's midday and Lexi, Tata, and I are at Kanchanaburi's Elephant Park and I'm sitting on Nanga's head, resting comfortably right behind her giant, thin, floppy ears, which sway back and forth like flags. Nanga's trunk is pinkish-orange with tiny gray polka dots. Her well-worn eyes exhibit dense crow's feet, giving away her age. Her head is covered in sparse, coarse black hairs which wave in the wind. She has huge heavy feet with toenails the size and shape of mallowmars. During our walk, Nanga is quite obstinate, pausing frequently for a snack of nearby leaves, ignoring all my conversation like most females I encounter.
The ride is incredibly bumpy, not unlike a pogo stick, bouncing up and down with each giant step. Although she is massive, Nanga easily traverses through mud pits, beach, forest, and down curvy narrow stairs, which would seem difficult for a 67-year old human.
Despite working a fanatical advertising job that forces ones to become a circus-quality project juggler nearly 24 hours/day, Nanga's multitasking abilities put me to shame. During our walk, she simultaneously eats, speaks, laughs, taunts her mahout (trainer) with her trunk, plays with neighboring pachyderms, and expunges waste.
Reaching the water means it's time for a bath and Nanga rushes into the surf like a Twi-hard on opening night. We stay on her back as she sops up water with her trunk and showers us with a thick rain. Nanga is half submerged and enjoys playing a game of chicken, where she rotates her body, challenging us to hold us. Alex, my Irish co-captain and I lose every time as our elephant host laughs.
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| With her trainer (mahout) |
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| Marco? |
When the bathing and riding is over, I'm standing shore-side, practically naked, dirty, and sopping wet, speechless by the experience. I turn back, craving one last mutual glance -- a parting moment if you will -- but Nanga marches off, back turned to me without even as much as a goodbye. I guess we have a trend on our hands.
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