My brothers—all five of them—thought I needed to get my head examined. My close friends, though tactful, were just as unsupportive and critical. Their reactions ranged from “Why throw away good money to haul a big pack, eat measly rehydrated food, and trudge through mud?” to “Days without showers, proper beds and hot meals? You’ve got to be kidding!” Then there was “It’s not like you were a guy” comment that riled me no end.
In short, everybody found my vacation plan—a week long trek in a remote part of New Zealand—objectionable and ridiculous. The overwhelming verdict was that “Chinese/Asian girls don’t do this sort of thing.” I was advised to abandon the idea and take the conventional tour, one that hops from town to town instead of from one mountain hut to the next.
Their reactions, instead, only strengthened my resolve to proceed with the plan. For weeks, I ran up and down the stairs in my apartment block and read everything I could find on hiking and backcountry survival tips. I then purchased trekking poles, duct tape, a Swiss Army knife, a mini medical kit, sleeping bag, and a gorgeous wide-brimmed sun hat. By the time I left for Auckland, I was physically and mentally prepared, energized, and raring to go.
Fast forward to day three of my 80 km hike. I felt, rather than saw, the speculative glances thrown in my direction when we arrived at the mountain hut. “Here we go again,” I thought. But the ten-hour trek traversing three valley floors and two 1,800-meter peaks had been exhausting, so anything more than a cheery “Hi there” would have to wait. There were more urgent things to attend to, including dashing to the outhouse, grabbing a bunk, getting out of my squelching boots, and of course, relieving myself of the 25 kilograms backpack and flexing my shoulders.
Once my sleeping bag was unpacked, boots unlaced and energy bar consumed, I headed out to the spot where my guide, Steve, and six fellow hikers were enjoying the late afternoon sun. The question came even before my rear end touched the grass. “Where are you from? USA?” asked one guy holding a fat David Eddings novel. “I’m from Malaysia,” I said, knowing very well what his response would be. He didn’t disappointed: “Don’t think I’ve ever seen an Asian on this trail before, and I’m here almost every season.” The other hikers, two guys and a family of three, nodded in agreement. My guide chimed in, “You know, you’re my first Asian client, and I have been guiding on this particular trail for more than fifteen years.”
Visitor/hiker logbooks in all seven huts confirmed their observation: not a single Asian name to be found. And over the years, on my other hiking trips, I often took the time flipping through every logbook, and Asian-sounding entries were noticeably rare. (In retrospect, perhaps my brothers and friends have hit the nail on the head.)
But why is this so? Are Asians too spoiled by mod cons to rough it out in the wild? Have we got so accustomed to the concrete jungle that we no longer feel comfortable venturing into the real jungle? Or have we become elitist and consider hiking a low-class pursuit? If so, then we are depriving ourselves (and consequently our future generations) of the joy of hiking and being with nature.
