I'm sure I must be absolutely disgusting. At this point I'm literally dripping with sweat, my antiperspirant doesn’t seem to be up to ‘jungle standard,’ and my mouth is so dry it feels like cotton balls have been stuffed into it, even though the rest of my body is completely moist. And even the fact that I just used the word moist shows you exactly what kind of shape I’m in at the moment because, moist. Eww.
I hear the faint sound of running water, maybe a creek or a river or some such, but I'm so close to delirium I assume my mind is playing tricks on me. It seems like we've been walking for years now, even though I know it's all just one horrid, sweat-filled, starving, terrifying, humiliating afternoon. The sound of the water reminds me I haven’t gone to the loo in a very long time, which reminds me of something I’m trying very hard to ignore. I need to pee … and do the other thing you do in the loo. But since I refuse to ask Mr. Condescending how, I’ve resigned myself to holding it until we reach the sweet relief of a hotel toilet.
I can hold it for several days, can’t I? I’m sure I’ve heard of people doing it before. I doubt it’s advisable, but then again, nothing I’ve done since my first flute of champagne at that bloody wedding has been in any way a good idea.
It's not just the overwhelming ocean of regret I'm swimming in. I’m drowning in hatred for this man. I can’t believe I’ve chosen to spend the next several days (or the last few days of my life, depending on how this works out) with someone like him. All day, he’s been providing his ultra-condescending survival commentary. I know he has to do it as part of the show, but there is a definite undercurrent of passive-aggressiveness to it, like everything he's saying is with the express intent of scaring the living shit out of me.
I glare at his back and imagine myself kicking him into a deep ravine, then wiping my hands while my lips curve up into a satisfied smile. But, since he’s my only way out of this hell, I suppose I shouldn’t try to off him. Bollocks. My feet have never been this sore in my entire life, and I once wore Manolo Blahniks that were two sizes too small to a gala because I loved them so much, but the store didn't have my size. The blisters took weeks to go away. But that was nothing compared to the pain I’m in now. I’m scared to take off my boots in case I have already contracted trench foot. Can you even get trench foot in the heat of the jungle or is that only in cold climates? I should really Google that because I've heard it's a terrible way to go. Except I can’t Google anything because I don’t have my mobile, and even if I did, I imagine this stupid jungle doesn’t have Wi-Fi. Is it still called trench foot if it’s in both feet, or is that trench feet?
I’m delirious, aren’t I?
Will stops suddenly. “All right, normally I’d be farther along by now, but we’ll have to stop here for the night.”
Oh, would you? You’d normally be farther along because you’re a superhuman godly specimen of manliness, stuck with a princess-sized albatross around your neck. Fuck you, you fucking fuckwit. “Brilliant. That actually didn’t seem that far now that we’re here.” I unclip my backpack and it falls to the ground with a thud.
Will shakes his head. “Oh, no. Not here. We need to get down there first.”
He points and I peek over the ledge we’re standing on, only to see it’s a good thirty-foot drop to the riverbank below.
“Of course we do,” I murmur, picking up my bag and strapping it back on to my aching torso.
He smiles at the camera. “Lucky for us, these vines should provide a safe and easy way to get down there.”
“More rappelling,” I say. “Fantastic.” Fan-fucking-tastic.
He grabs a thick vine growing out of the ground and tugs on it a few times, seeming to decide it's safe. “I'll go first so I can help you if you run into any trouble. Unless you want to go first? I don't want to be sexist about it.”
“Just go.”
“Gladly. If you could just lean over the edge and film me while I make my descent, that would be very helpful.”
I do as he asks and watch as he rappels a little more than halfway down, then jumps to the ground while looking up with a big grin on his face and two thumbs up.
“Show off,” I mutter.
“Okay, your turn. I’ll film you and you go,” he calls.
“Perfect,” I murmur. “Make sure you get lots of footage of my sweaty arse in these baggy pants while I slam into the side of the cliff repeatedly. Or better yet, when my arms give out and I fall, killing us both. At this point, I’d welcome death so long as I take you out with me.” I crouch and pick up the vine, pulling on it as I turn away from the ravine. “You don’t want to be sexist. Sure you do, arsehole,” I say, then start imitating his voice as I get my footing. “Everything out here can kill you. Don't touch anything and don't drink anything and don't eat anything except these putrid larvae. Oh, and don't be here because I don't want you here.”
I start down the cliff, gripping the slippery vine while I continue muttering to myself. I shut up as I near the ground, not wanting Mr. Thinks His Shit Doesn’t Stink to hear my spot-on imitation of him.
When I finally get to the bottom, he says, “Hey, that was pretty good. You didn't shout any curse words that time.”
“That's because I've lost my will to live. At this point, between being faced with the prospect of spending another few days out here with you or just ending it all quickly, the second option sounds far more appealing to me.”
He stares at me long enough for me to wonder if he’s considering drowning me in the river. Then he nods. “The first day is always the worst.”
“Oh, is it?” I quip.
I clomp over to the stream and crouch down, plunging my hands into the cool water to refresh my skin. Aahhh, that’s better.
Except that it’s reminding me I really must use the ladies’ room. I cup my palms together and am just about to have a sip when he says, “Oh, don't do that. We need to boil that first.”
“Obviously I wasn’t about to drink it,” I lie. “I only meant to splash some on my face.”
“Don’t do that either. You could get a parasite in your nose or mouth, and it’ll be game over.”
I stand and shake my hands off without offering a response.
“I can have our camp set up in about fifteen minutes, but it’ll be a good two to three hours until we can eat.”
“No. That can’t be right.” I’m too hungry for that to be right. I take my backpack off and drop it, then crouch, unzip it, and start taking everything out even though I already know we don’t have anything to eat “We must have some protein bars or something. They wouldn’t have sent us out here to starve.”
“We’re not going to starve. We’re going to survive. Did you not understand the premise of the show?”
“Yeah, I got it, thank you,” I snap, scowling at him. “I'm just a bit hangry right now is all.”
Unlike me, he’s still in nature documentary host mode. “Well, the good news is we’re surrounded by vegetation and protein sources. Since the rhino beetles weren’t your thing, I'll catch us some fish and dig up some wild yam tubulars. In about three hours, we’ll be nice and full.”