A simple game of tug-o-war set off my latest adventure…putting my shoulder back together again.
In August, after playing a raucous round of tug-o-war with my dog Lola for the umpteenth time, I was getting a bit bored. With my left hand still firmly grasping Lola’s tug toy, I picked up my phone with my right hand and started to text. In an effort to show me that I should be playing, not texting, Lola suddenly jumped backward and shook her head side to side. The motion pulled my arm out of its socket, detaching cartilage and tendons in the process. After months powering through the pain, I gave in and had surgery in early November.
During my forced downtime, my creative juices have percolated and I’m looking to start of 2017 with a strong brew of adventures to share.
“Coffee turkey!” our driver shouts while laughing and slapping his thigh. An incensed turkey angrily gobbles at our passing car. The sun has yet to rise and I have just dumped a cup of steaming hot coffee out of the truck window. The turkey has the misfortune of being in the path of the stream.
“Do we need to pay for the turkey?” my husband semi-jokingly inquires. In this remote part of the Petén district of Guatemala, causing damage to livestock comes with a fee. A chicken will set you back a few dollars. Harm a cow and expect to have your automobile surrounded by the locals until you can reach a resolution with the village chief. As the turkey isn’t damaged, just upset, we drive on.
We are making a three-hour drive to Sayaxché, where we will then take a 1.5 hour boat ride down the Rio De La Pasión before beginning a long hike to the ancient Mayan ruins of Ceibal.
Bumping along these rough roads, I regret the two hours of sleep that I got the night before. Not as much as I regret this raging hangover. We had stayed out all night with two local friends who harmlessly asked us to dinner before taking us on a whirlwind of a journey that culminated in too much alcohol and the slightest possibility of landing ourselves in a Guatemalan prison.
I will myself to fall asleep. When we reach the river, my eyes open to an alarming sight. The dock is teeming with military soldiers, automatic weapons strapped to their shoulders, machetes hooked to their belts. “Don’t look at them” our guide advises.
A decade ago, as a brutal civil war came to an end, this river is said to have run red with blood. During the 36-year campaign of terror, mainly perpetrated by military hands, an estimated 200,000 lives were lost. The appearance of the soldiers today serves as a bleak reminder that pockets of violence and instability remain.
As the soldiers pack themselves on a boat, my husband takes a risk and snaps a photo. Despite shooting it from waist level, the digital image shows that this action did not go unnoticed. Several soldiers angrily stare at the camera. Days later, this photo mysteriously disappears.
We hire a boat and continue our journey. The boat ride is a nice reprieve from my hangover. With the wind on my face, I’m able to enjoy the sights of the river. Caiman slide into the water. Blue heron perch on floating logs. Toucans skim bugs from the water’s surface. We stop the boat to watch three tamanduas pick fruit off of a fallen fig tree, a rare daytime sighting of these nocturnal anteaters.
Our hike begins. The sun is baking the moisture out of the trees and the jungle is thick with fog. As we climb our way up a steep forest path, the stifling humidity steals my breath and curls my hair into sticky tendrils. The excitement of the journey led to a clear oversight of a most important resource: water.
Every step deeper into the jungle intensifies the dehydration created by a night of boozing. Our guide, Jesus Antonio, comes fully equipped with jungle survival skills. (“Don’t call me Jesus…it’s too much responsibility.”)
Spotting a strangler vine, he pulls a knife out of his belt and hacks away until water begins gushing out. The three of us take turns sucking water from the vine. It tastes of the way the jungle smells, earthy and green, like drinking a mouthful of chlorophyl.
The nutrients of the jungle turns everything into gargantuan versions of their normal selves. Single leaves are as big as we are tall. Millipedes seem to stretch on for eternity. Nothing illuminates this more than the mosquitos. They sound like B-52 bombers and leave behind welts the size of a quarter. When starting the journey, Jesus Antonio laughed as we covered ourselves in Jungle Juice, a concentration of 98% DEET. “That’s not enough,” he said before whipping a can of 100% DEET out of his backpack and spraying both of us to the point that the chemicals turned our eyes red and our lips numb. “This still won’t be enough. Don’t stop moving. The mosquitos will catch up to you,” he had warned. True to his word, we are now overwhelmed with mosquitos. The joy of drinking from the vine is short-lived. As one person drinks, the other two run in circles and swat madly at the air. The five-minute break results in too many bites to count.
Continuing on, we climb up and down giant hills. Only when I trip over a rock do we come to find that the hills are not as they seem. We are climbing up and over uncovered ruins of the Ceibal complex. The dense tropical forest has claimed the ruins over 1100 years. Jesus Antonio estimates that Ceibal could be larger than Tikal. He would know. His father, a prominent archeologist, began digging Tikal out of the jungle in the 1950’s. Growing up at the dig site gave Jesus Antonio a keen eye for what lies beneath.
Walking toward the only two excavated temple platforms, we have the site to ourselves yet dozens of eyes watch our every move. High above, branches rattle. Howler monkeys begin to scream, enraged by our presence. It is a haunting noise, guttural and primordial. Goosebumps creep up my spine.
(Press play to hear a howler monkey.)
In this clearing, with no trees to shade us from the tropical sun, the need for water intensifies. We are left to investigate the area on our own while Jesus Antonio searches for more strangler vines. The heat is unbearable. We find a single shady spot in the ruins, only big enough for one. Giant scorpions scurry away as we take turns pressing our backs into the cool stone. Returning from his search, Jesus Antonio shakes his head with disappointment. There is no source of water in the immediate area. It will be a long trip back to the car.
Just as we cross back into the trees, my husband gets pegged on the head. I grab the binoculars and look toward the sky. Before we can figure out what hit him, it happens again. From 130 feet above, a hailstorm of small fruit rains down on the forest floor. We are standing underneath a ramón tree and a large troop of spider monkeys are stripping it of its tiny fruit.
“We can drink from them” Jesus Antonio says, scooping one up and popping the orange-fleshed fruit into his mouth. We follow his lead. The skin is astringent but piercing it releases a teaspoon of sweet juice. Working quickly, we steal from the monkeys, stuffing fruit into our pockets and, when those are full, gathering them in the bottoms of our shirts. Shrieks ring out as the troop leader discovers our thievery. Fruit stops falling. The entire troop quickly moves to the lowest branches of the tree and begin screaming at us in unison. Several monkeys run down to the ground to grab fruit before we can get our greedy little hands on more. When one bears his very sharp teeth, we take it as an invitation to leave, dropping the fruits in our shirts as a mea culpa. One should not argue with a two foot tall primate.
The hike back to the river is mainly downhill. We make double time, anxious to get to potable water, stopping only to crack a few coconuts that are lying on the ground. As we near the boat, a stranger emerges from the jungle, filthy and wild-looking, a large machete in hand. Startled, I trip over the exposed roots of a banyan tree and face plant into the muddy trail. The stranger jumps into action, helping me up and fretting over the new gash in my hand. I pull my hand away, wipe the blood on my pants and clean the cut in the river. I am not a delicate flower.
The stranger asks for a ride back to Sayaxché. He’s spent the past four months trekking through the jungle and is now in a hurry to leave. His machete is simply a useful tool for cutting through the dense overgrowth, for killing dinner, and for protection against the multitudes of poisonous snakes.
He tells us of two days in which he is stalked, of knowing that his life is in danger by an unseen threat. On the third day, he gets lucky. A tapir wanders into his path. In a flash, a jaguar leaps out from behind him and takes out this pig-like creature. Death is instant. The predator shrinks back into the jungle with its prey clutched firmly between its teeth.
This, and the other dangers of the jungle, have nothing to do with the stranger’s urgency to get back to Sayaxché. A few days back, he had come across a village. The inhabitants passed on a rumor that trouble was on the way…soldiers were supposedly heading into the area. He does not want to chance an encounter. I confirm the rumor and my husband shows him the photograph taken earlier that day. We become his saviors, offering a direct route back to town.
The stranger digs through his pack looking for some way to thank us. He pulls out several bottles of water and we pounce on them. He has become our savior. I down my bottle in three long gulps and settle in for the long journey home.
I strain my ears to listen as the lions are at the far boundary of our mobile safari camp.
As dinner comes to a close and the siren song of sleep rings loud, the roars increase in decibels. The lions are coming closer. Our guide, Lovemore, loads his rife to walk us back to our tent. As we walk, he tells us of the two males making the sounds and the pride that they govern.
“You must sleep with your tent flaps down, please. Lionesses came to my tent, five of them. I had slept with my tent flaps up and woke to them breathing against my tent screens.
I made noises to let them know that I was there. I couldn’t move, not a bit. It would only trigger their predatory instinct.
They left but then came back a bit later with three more lionesses. The tent was now surrounded by eight of them. I knew I had to call my wife immediately. Very slowly, I picked up my cell phone. When she answered, I told her that I was surrounded, I loved her, and that I didn’t know what would happen next.
Costa then heard me talking and shouted ‘Lovemore, is everything okay’?
No man! Everything is not okay! I’m surrounded by lions.
Costa grabbed a rifle and started the safari vehicle, driving fast to my tent and chasing the lions out of camp.
So, please, it’s not safe. You must sleep with your flaps down.”
Excited about the story, I ask “How long ago did that happen, Lovemore?”
“Five days ago”, he replies.
My husband and I exchange looks of restrained terror.
By the time we finish our short walk to the tent, their presence is clear. As I prepare for nighttime, the roaring begins to rattle me to the core.
“I can’t do this. Should we be doing this? I don’t know if I can do this,” I nervously announce to my husband.
The calls reach their peak as the lions move in even closer. A cacophony of grunts, roars, and growls fill the blank space of night.
(Listen to a similar recording of lions here:)
My muscles tighten as my “fight or flight” triggers instinctually take over, although there is no fight, only flight. I have no misconceptions about my true place in this food chain.
“What was I thinking? These are wild African lions. I can’t do this? Why am I doing this?” I continue, my fear all-consuming.
The lions sound as if they have us surrounded. With roars seemingly coming from all directions, we continue our bedtime routine. Toothbrush in hand, I unzip the back of the tent and step out into our fenced-in restroom under the stars. As the water starts to flow from the outdoor bucket shower, I assess the two foot gap between the canvas fence and the ground. I think of my Siamese cat back home. He sees any small gap as an opportunity to stick his paws through to see what he can find. I imagine a lion, crouched on his stomach on the other side of the fence, waiting for the perfect moment to put his own paw under to swipe my ankle. Could a lion pull me under the fence and into the night? I curse my imagination for presenting each possible scenario in vivid, rapid-fire imagery.
By the time the shampoo is in my hair, I am petrified and non-sensical. As I repeat “I can’t” and “I’m so scared” in every single sentence, my husband does the only thing he can think of. Pulling me close and running his fingers through my wet hair, he holds me like a father would hold a scared child. “I’m scared too,” he says. “But I know it’s going to be all right.” Despite being in nerve-racking situations together in the past, David has always maintained his cool, hiding his own fears to comfort mine. This shocking revelation of his fear somehow settles down my own.
As he smooths his hands over my back, the lions wander off, looking for better things to do. Tracking the lions the next morning, I’m surprised to find that they had remained a half mile away from our tents. They had sounded so close.
We never do see the brothers, only hear them roaring nearby. By our last night, I know that they are ghosts in the darkness. There is no need to sleep with the tent flaps down. With abundant game nearby, I’m confident that they have better prey to pursue. I open up every flap in the tent, looking forward to catching a cool breeze on a sweltering night.
The following morning, as we gather for our final breakfast with our guide, my father speaks up.
“I heard the lions last night. They walked right between our tents.”
Our guide’s eyes widen as he lets out a small chuckle. “You heard that?” he asks of my father.