If I had owned a pith helmet I would have donned it as I jauntily stepped out the door and into a week of jungle adventure. Little else symbolizes the true explorer spirit like the pith helmet.
However, a secondary symbol of the explorer is the journal. So, to prove my credentials as an explorer extraordinaire, I hereby present to you these daily entries of the journal that I should have kept while on this adventure.
Wednesday: I bid farewell to my co-workers. I think nothing of their masterfully hidden tears, nor of their desperate but unvoiced pleas that I reconsider this dangerous excursion into the wilds. My mind is set; my heart has already gone before me. The unknown lies out there somewhere and how can I but move forward?
I square my shoulders, swat at several obnoxious horseflies and, along with a group of friendly natives, embark upon this most phenomenal of fishing expeditions.
At noon, after several hours of sitting motionless in the dangerously overloaded canoe, we approach a tall clay riverbank upon which are constructed several primitive tribal dwellings. In the time-honored tradition of voracious vultures, we descend upon this unsuspecting village and eat all their food. Waddling back to the canoe an hour later, we provide big targets for any disgruntled hungry villager seeking revenge and left-overs, but we manage to leave unharmed and unhindered by all but our bloated stomachs. There is something to be said for at least half of this feast-or-famine mentality.
With canoe even more overloaded, we continue upriver ’til darkness overtakes us. We pull up to sandbar, swing our hammocks and mosquito nets, and sleep under stars.
Thursday: Natives are restless and at dawn we break camp and continue journey. Several bends upriver, the navigator, standing tall in prow of canoe, notices turtle swimming under boat. His hands, as though connected to arms of rubber, instantly stretch down into water and snap rest of body after them. Surfaces empty-handed.
Late in the afternoon we finally arrive at rapids! Herd Flock School Bunch of monkeys protest our arrival by screaming and carrying on in the treetops. Tough. As we prepare shelter, torrential downpour drenches us. Fish soup for supper.
Friday: Awoke before dawn. Cooking fire was crackling, almost as loudly as my aching spine. Breakfast menu consisted of excessively ripe bananas smoked in the peel over the open fire. True explorers don’t eat breakfast. Men fish all day long with little to show for it. Women not at all impressed. Tough. Fish soup for supper.
Saturday: Skip breakfast again. New fishing strategy revealed today. Instead of casting line into river, we must now swim out into raging torrent with baited hook in hand. Dive down ’til find bottom, insert hook upside down into riverbed and frantically swim back to dry ground before getting swept into the yawning mouth of hungry waterfall.
One drawback to this new method is fish don’t always wait for you to return to firm footing before taking the bait. Other drawback is finding riverbed with lip or forehead. Good catch today. Women properly impressed. Fish soup for supper.
Sunday: Pretty much same as Saturday. Wild turkey soup for supper. YES!
Monday: In the morning, men take leave of fishing duties and instead take to jungle foraging for fruit. On way back to camp, loaded down with stalks of palm fruit and guided by instincts of natural woodsman, I precede several natives down trail.
Reaching especially overgrown section, I glance back to seek input on how to detour around obstacle. I see only an empty trail, but hear muted voices diminishing down a different trail. Could it be they would be so foolish as to question my directional instincts?
Unwilling to embarrass the natives by pointing out that they had taken the wrong trail, I scramble to fall silently into step behind them. I did not wish for them to get separated from me, as they would eventually be requiring my services when the trail petered out.
As luck would have it, they somehow stumble across the campsite anyway. We pack up our stuff, load up the boat with much smoked fish, and head downriver ’til darkness overtakes us. Sleep on sandbar under stars until midnight, at which point we sleep on sandbar under thunder-clouds and sheets of icy rain. Could really go for some of that fish soup right about now.
Tuesday: Home stretch. Only excitement when navigator knocked out of boat and into river by low-hanging tree branch. Other natives hide concern behind hysterical laughter.
In effort to maintain atmosphere of light amusement, I later step out of boat pretending to be totally unaware of depth of water, which I find to be considerable. Natives seem pleased with this selfless gesture on my part. Perhaps they’ll invite me on future expeditions.
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