The jungle air was viscous. It clung to my skin like Saran wrap fresh from the roll, suffocating and sticky. A cacophony of sounds—chirping, whooping, rustling—swelled as if the volume knob on Mother Nature herself had been cranked to eleven. I was in Sarawak, Malaysia, deep in the Borneo rainforest, and rapidly coming to terms with the fact that I was not at all prepared for whatever this trip had in store for me.

Now, let me be perfectly clear: I am not an "adventure" kind of girl. Sure, I’ve hiked Table Rock in Boise, and I once went whitewater rafting on the Payette River, but the controlled wilderness of Idaho? That’s different from being dropped into the real, untamed wild. So how did I, a self-professed townie, find myself on the other side of the world, sweating in a rainforest where even the mosquitoes seemed resentful I was trespassing?

Blame it on a boy.

Love Will Make You Do Weird Things

We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Caught up in the heady rush of a new relationship, dialed up to full rom-com mode, making decisions that your rational self would casually side-eye. For me, that moment struck when I was dating Luke, an earnest environmental conservationist with a penchant for quoting E.O. Wilson and wearing biodegradable sandals. When he invited me to join him on a two-week trip to Malaysia to visit an orangutan rehabilitation center, he looked at me with those big, idealistic eyes, and well—what was I going to do? Say no?

Of course, I tried to play it cool. “Some adventure would be fun,” I said. Fun. Like we were popping over to the zoo and not trekking into a jungle where the nearest Starbucks was roughly 10,000 miles away.

A week later, I was crammed into a tin can of a plane, staring down at an unbroken expanse of green that looked, frankly, like something out of Jurassic Park, convincing myself this would all be worth it. Spoiler alert: It was. But not in the way I expected.

A Lesson in Controlled Chaos

On day three of our trip, I had my moment—the perfectly insane, unforgettable experience that currently has me typing this at my desk, still in awe years later. Luke and I had joined a tour upriver (because apparently this jungle was only accessible by boat... or sheer determination). Our destination? A remote Iban longhouse, home to a community that had lived in the rainforest for generations. A cultural exchange, Luke called it. I called it my worst nightmare, complete with humidity-induced frizz and a near-constant need to check for leeches.

The longhouse itself was remarkable: a massive wooden structure that resembled the kind of treehouse an eccentric billionaire might build. It was elevated on stilts, presumably to keep it safe from floods, predators, or just the odd curious tourist. The Iban people welcomed us warmly, offering a dinner of smoked fish and rice wrapped in banana leaves, followed by tuak, or rice wine, that could probably singlehandedly fuel a fleet of cars.

It was when the tuak started to flow, however, that the night took a turn.

Burn It Down (But Not Really)

I hadn’t anticipated the chanting. Or the sheer volume. Or the fire.

It started innocently enough: a group of Iban women sat cross-legged in the communal area, singing—a low, rhythmic chant that sounded equal parts calming and mysterious. The men began a ritual dance, moving in tight, deliberate circles around a central flame. This was their way of honoring their ancestors, I was told—what they referred to as a “gawai” ceremony. But then they handed Luke—and eventually me—a torch.

“We join?” I asked, every bit the awkward American unsure whether saying yes would offend them or if declining would be worse. Luke, predictably, encouraged me. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, Les,” he whispered, already two torches deep.

The dance turned feverish—a hypnotic rhythm of stomping feet and flickering firelight. I didn’t think, I just moved, stepping and swaying, trying to copy the frantic energy of those around me. I held my flaming torch with a death grip that suggested I might accidentally burn the whole rainforest down.

I caught Luke’s eye somewhere in the chaos. He looked wild with joy, shouting something I couldn’t quite hear. That’s when it hit me—not just the wonder of the moment, but how deeply ridiculous I looked. In the middle of this sacred ceremony, self-consciousness melted away like the wax dripping off my torch. We were all just a bunch of humans grappling with connection—some through fire and dance, others through awkward apologies when they stepped on a fellow dancer’s foot (oops).

What the Jungle Taught Me About Love

Look, I’m not going to pretend this was some grand spiritual awakening—or that we can somehow torch-dance our way to the secrets of love and connection. What I can say is that there’s something transformative about leaving your comfort zone (and your dry-shampooed, well-air-conditioned world) and immersing yourself in someone else’s.

Here’s what I learned:

  • Dating is a dance. (Yes, even if you can’t dance.) Whether it’s throwing yourself into someone else’s interests or letting them glimpse the quirks of your own, connection is about movement. A little give-and-take, a little clumsiness, a lot of saying “yes” to the moment.

  • Fear and fun often go hand in hand. I was terrified of looking foolish that night, but fear and fun are often two sides of the same torch—uh, I mean coin. Stepping into the unknown is where the best stories (and bonds) are born.

  • Shared memories beat perfect plans. Luke and I didn’t last forever, but guess what? I don’t remember half the dates I had in quiet, conventional settings. This? I’ll remember this until I’m old and gray and telling my grandkids about the time I almost set my hair alight in a rainforest ceremony.

The Aftermath

As for Luke and me, life eventually tugged us in different directions—him toward conservation work in Africa, me back to Boise to write about topics closer to home. But if love is about the memories we get to keep, then this one sculpted itself into my heart like a carving on an old tree.

The craziest place I’ve ever been wasn’t just about where I was—it was about stepping into someone else’s world and letting myself get messy, uncomfortable, and awed in the process. Isn’t that the essence of what we’re all looking for, from flirtation to familiarity?

So take the leap—or, in my case, the flaming torch. The best stories aren’t always the ones that make logical sense. Sometimes they’re just the ones that make us feel wildly and beautifully alive.