We trekked for three days and two nights through a squelchy brown-black mud, across makeshift bridges swarming with ants, up and down gently-graded Thai mountains, by sizable termite-hills and thundering waterfalls and ravines so deep they echoed, all the while encompassed by the subliminal hum of a chorus of crickets. Everywhere was pristine green splendour. But then, in one fleeting glance, I spotted a conspicuous glitch of red; this lonesome flower, a long way from home.

Thailand's national animal is the elephant. They maintain a prolific presence across the country's entire expanse - roaming the bustling streets of Bangkok with languid, lumbering steps; carrying ferang in pre-ordained loops within the lush green prairies of far northern provinces; posing for the blinding flash of new-age cameras in Phuket, trunks upheld. But every elephant I've seen thus far has been tethered to something, usually its merciless trainer. They may be lauded as a most sentient animal and revered as a staple of Thailand's unique cultural heritage, but the cold hard truth is that the elephants live a tough and miserable existence here, and it will only worsen. For them, I cry elephant tears.