Such Self-Conscious Animals

In the rainforests of northern Thailand, Janice and Thomas Markham delight at the small-eared elephants of the conservation center. The elephants kick soccer balls with legs like thick-skinned columns, scoring point after point into a goal made of pipes and net. They paint flowers on canvases, drag felled trees to the margins of their dusty stage. At the end of the performance, the Markhams wave bright money to attract the elephant trainers for pictures. The big animals tread over to them, wrap trunks around their waists and smile with open mouths for the camera.

On the path to the gift shop, an elderly hill woman approaches them. She carries a tray of elephant figurines made of smooth, polished wood, her small silver-bangled arms clattering as she moves. Her eyes are shiny black marbles set in an impermeable face, her skin dense and furrowed like tree bark. Janice turns to her husband, who smiles at her, clutches the smooth hand of his wife. They have read about people like this in the books, the poor hill people who sell their wares to tourists. They purchase one small elephant from her tray, hand her a large bill and refuse change.

The sales girl at the gift shop greets them with a bow, her hands pressed together like the middle of a clap. The Markhams return the gesture. “Sa-wah-dee,” they say proudly and fill their eyes with the novelties in the shop. Janice runs her fingers down the curled trunks of bookends and hair clips and key chains and puppets while Thomas marvels at a 3-D elephant puzzle. Janice holds an information card printed on elephant dung paper; she reads aloud to describe the elegance of the rainforest to her husband. Her voice swells into the store. When they finally leave with all of their purchases, they feel satisfied with their large contribution to the elephants and the disregarded rainforest.

Clouds bloom overhead, swelling and constricting like an elephant’s foot in the rise and fall of walking. Shadows roll over the treetops, the canopy rising from the foothills, a wet, verdant ascension. Colors like limes and olives, moss and money. Pine and sage and frogs. Sharp wind sweeps through the mountains, surges like the Ping River between rosewood and teak trees, scenting the air as it rushes past Janice and Thomas, who can notice none of this, nothing but the delicate balance between their bodies and the many bags they carry. The first cool drops arrive as they reach their rental scooter. Janice drops one of her bags and struggles to pick it up. Thomas helps her, dropping one of his own. They look at each other. Neither had remembered they’d arrived in such a small way.

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