Photos courtesy of Antonio Graceffo

Having survived the water, we continued up the mountain through very dense undergrowth. Again, I was amazed that Veriak didn't carry a machete. I had to go on my belly under obstacles which he leapt over lithely. If there had been an ambush, I'd have been trapped, helpless, like a tortoise on his back.

Along the trail, Veriak called a halt because he had seen a snake with its head up, ready to strike. Without Veriak's eagle eyes looking out for me, I would have been dead in a minute. Even with him pointing, I couldn't see the deadly viper. The bush-craft these rangers possessed was impressive. The ability to spot a poisonous snake is a protection mechanism inborn in people who live close to the earth.

The inability to spot poisonous snakes is the result of what scientists call the stupid gene. I obviously had it. And I would pass it on to my children, making them stupid as well. If Veriak hadn't stopped me, I would have died in an act of Darwinism designed to breed out those traits which made humans unable to survive in a natural habitat. Having a guide with me was artificially tampering with the survival of the human race as a whole. Although he probably didn't know it, Veriak was a genetic engineer, creating a race of city-dwellers, incapable of surviving in the jungle.

Animals are designed to survive in their own environment. Dolphins don't do well in the Sahara. So, arguably, I possessed those skills necessary for survival in an urban setting. I wondered how Veriak would do on Wall Street. Probably better than me, or I wouldn't be here in the jungle, walking on poisonous snakes.

We city people have lost the basic skills which nature endowed us with. When we stopped for lunch, the difference between East and West was even more apparent. From my overstuffed backpack, I produced a veritable feast: pate, pudding, potted meat, coffee and chocolate. Veriak had a huge bag of white rice and a small bag of something else, probably meat or vegetables.

All Veriak he needed was a little cold rice and rat meat, I thought, quoting my favorite film again.

Veriak's food was indigenous to the region. It was exactly what he would have eaten if he had been home with his wife and child. My food, on the other hand, was as foreign as I was. I had bought it at a small grocery store in town the previous night.

The architecture of the colonial buildings had been very French, with large stone balconies and tremendous, shuttered windows. It had probably been a quaint little town during the colonial period. But, like everything else in the country, years of civil war and poverty had turned the entire town a weathered shade of gray. Today, the town was four times the size it had been during the French occupation. And I wondered what sort of Frenchman chose to leave France and live in a tiny village in the middle of the Cambodian jungle?

The architecture wasn't the only remnant of the French. The grocery store carried coffee, Nutella, pate, anchovies and bread -- all items introduced by the French. There was no deodorant anywhere to be found and the shopkeeper's dog was pregnant.

"Yes, a Frenchman has been here," I thought to myself.

After lunch, the terrain got worse. There were several water-crossings, and we were forced to swim in at least two of them. In places, the current was really strong and it reminded me of my favourite adventure sport, river tracing. The only difference was, this was real. We had no specialized equipment, no safety, and no backup. A slip here could have meant disaster. I kept having mental images of myself with a broken leg hearing Veriak say, I will be back tomorrow with help.

To allay my fears, I tried to concentrate on the one subject every New Yorker loves, fashion. In all of my adventures, I always experiment with local gear. Since I am generally operating in under-developed countries, it is safe to make two assumptions: first, the average monthly income is less than my hourly wage back home; and second, none of the locals has heard of North Face or Eddy Bauer. Since they have been surviving in this environment for centuries, I would have to believe that they know how to survive, and for less money.

My experimental piece of gear on this trip was a pair of Thai army jungle boots which I had purchased in Chiang Mai for 80 Baht (less than $2.50). They were like high-top sneakers with rubber bottoms and canvas above, similar to Chuck Tailor basketball shoes. If I were reviewing them for a magazine, I would say that their overall performance was good. They were excellent for wading through a slow moving river and very good when we were mired in mud up to our thighs. But they had no traction at all over slippery wet rock.

Veriak was wearing some kind of plastic slip-on shoes which were one step above the Uncle Ho sandals worn by the Vietcong -- shoes made from old car tires. They seemed to get good traction on the wet rock. He wore them without socks, so they were easy to slip on and off. He would take them off before climbing a tree. Wearing no socks was also more hygienic since it prevented jungle rot.

It was tempting not to wear socks, but that also meant more leeches. We were both covered in them, but Veriak was particularly hard hit on his ankles and between his toes, because he had no socks. The jungle was crawling with the bloodthirsty beggars. By the end of the day, I had picked about twenty of the awful beasts off of me, mostly off my legs and hands.

A huge red patch would suddenly appear on your thighs, soaking through your pants, like you had been shot. This was where a leech had attached itself to you under your clothes, gorged itself till swollen, and then exploded. The whole process happened without you knowing about it. Sometimes you would feel some little prickling or a little discomfort. You would drop your pants and check for leeches, but see nothing. But mere moments later, there would be a huge leech where none had been before. The leeches were extremely small, and difficult to see, but they would swell very quickly. When you brush off the leeches, they leave behind evil looking hickies.

You can buy Antonio Graceffo's latest paperback, "The Desert of Death on Three Wheels," by clicking here.

Where Veriak was able to cross the streams, skipping from stone to stone, I had to jump in the water and walk across on the bottom. At one crossing, the water was deep and moving so fast I could just barely make headway. To keep from being washed over a low falls, I had been following along a rock wall. But the current was too strong at the breach. There was nothing to hold onto and nothing to climb onto to escape the current.

Giving up on walking, I tried to swim across. As soon as my feet left the bottom, I felt the current pushing me towards the breach and over the side. I swam as hard as I could. Suddenly, I was doing vector mathematics in my head. For each six inches I moved forward, I moved two feet closer to the edge. So, how many six-inch units could I move forward before I was swept away? Quick calculations told me it was about even. Just as I reached the other side, the current got me, and started to take me down. "I forgot to carry the two!" I shouted, realizing the error I had made in my computations.

Frantically reaching around under the water, I grabbed hold of a slippery rock. But, I was just slightly too far off to be able to grab the foliage growing on the opposing bank. Veriak tried reaching out his hand, but it was just out of reach.

Looking for something to lengthen his grip, the best Veriak could come up with in short order, was his AK-47. He pointed the 8mm barrel of the deadly weapon at me and yelled in Khmer, "Take it!" Did he mean for me to commit suicide rather than be drowned?

I wanted to wag my finger in his face and give him a dressing down, lecturing him about firearm safety. But as soon as I let go with one hand, the current peeled me off the stone and I was headed for the falls. Eagerly, I grabbed the end of the weapon with my teeth. Okay, no, I actually grabbed it with my hand. But I was thinking, maybe Veriak's idea hadn't been so bad after all. I thought back to lessons our mothers had taught us. As far as I could remember, there was no specific prohibition against swimming with firearms. I mean, it wasn't like we were running with scissors.

Sweet intentions can often be a bit intimidating. Amazingly, although I was wet head to toe, I had managed to keep the backpack above water. A quick check said that my phone, wallet, camera, and notebook were all fine. The non-biodegradable plastic bags from the grocery store had done their job, thus proving that another word for environmentally unfriendly is waterproof.

In addition to saving hundreds of dollars by wearing local shoes, you can also save money by buying a cheap backpack at the local Cambodian market. For about three dollars, you can get a counterfeit North Face daypack. The pack won't be waterproof, but you could protect your gear with free plastic bags that you get from the grocery store. Your North Face will be affordable, convenient, waterproof and, best of all, fashionable. And, if your pack gets shredded while you are in the jungle, no worries, just throw it away and buy a new one.

Part: 1, 2, 3, 4

Check out Antonio's website: speakingadventure.com

Get Antonio's books at amazon.com
- The Monk from Brooklyn
- Bikes, Boats, and Boxing Gloves
- The Desert of Death on Three Wheels
- Adventures in Formosa