Eventually I found myself at the Bamboo Bridge, a rickety contraption that made me feel as if every step would be my last. It squeaked and it rustled and gave enough with each footfall that I almost turned around immediately.
But in the spirit of travel (which means doing things I don't usually do), I made it almost a third of the way across before making my way back.
I read later that every year locals disassemble the bridge before the rainy season and rebuild it again in the dry. Which could mean they've very, very good at this — or that the bridge has all the stability of a carnival ride.