Up a Sacred Mountain

The humidity is a sodden blanket over our heaving bodies. We are climbing through the jungle to view a temple on top of a mountain. The exertion is draining us, I have to nail words together to form constructed sentences. Amorphous clouds of vagaries form miasma's in my head. I don't even care about the temple despite my Buddhist leanings but these evangelical missionaries are as keen as mustard - go figure. I thirst for a cold beer, a cold anything. We are sweating through our clothes choking in the heat-haze, but the keen young nurses and doctors are all for struggling on. I'm just a follower; a lone Brit in a happy mob of Americans thank God they don't all burst into hymnal songs or call for an ad hoc prayer or two. At the top I am wheezing, sweat blinding my eyes i'm hating these good folks with a satanic fervor, though too weak now to curse. The temple is very old and it's okay in an ancient way. I want to sit here and meditate a while but this forking girl and boy scout tribe I am with want to explore. In my mind I see a laughing Buddha a Pu Tai figure rocking back and forth on his fat ass.