left the country beforeâor even gone camping. But it was now irrelevant. Yes, I had grown up a sheltered girl with a love for animals and ballet, but now I was chasing wild animals and spitting on my food.
After a few days of village life, it was time to go on in search of the sakis. The team now included an elderly Amerindian villager whose knowledge of the forest would prove invaluable; his daughter, who seemed to be in her early 20s; and her teenage brother, who was partly deaf from quinine, the malarial cure heâd taken since birth. The kids would paddle and assist us in hacking through the nearly impenetrable wall of trees. Then, of course, there was me and Dr. Handsome, who weighed in at more than 200 pounds. We would all climb into an unstable dugout canoe together. Buckets were essential to bail water whenever one of us shifted position.
We left with not much more than a bag of food, a few camping supplies, and hearts filled with hope. We planned to be away three months. After paddling for a while, we set up camp. Sleep did not come easily. Though during the day the forest seemed like a tranquil place, at night the sounds were deafening. Frogs, bats, even monkeys made up the chorus. I wouldnâtsay I was scared exactly. But I was. Between that and the malarial dreams that had me covered in blood, I wasnât overly eager for shut-eye.
The next morning we loaded our belongings into the canoe and pushed off again. I took notes on the wildlife and mused at just how small humans figure in nature. I noted the quiet surroundings. Suddenly, our guide motioned me to duck down as a boat of âport knockersâ was coming around the riverâs bend. What are port knockers, I thought, and why does everyone look so scared?
As it turned out, port knockers are small-scale miners who pan for gold along rivers and streams. They are the prospectors of Guyana, intrepid individuals who, like the cowboys of the Wild West, are part of the national identity and the subject of many tales. And judging by the guideâs reaction, they can be your worst nightmare. That is, if your worst nightmare is to get robbed, beaten, and possibly raped and killed if you put up too much of a fight, or if theyâre simply drunk enough. We hid the boat and ourselves under some fallen trees and sat in frightened silence as the loud, drunken sailors cruised by.
Unfortunately, we wouldnât see any monkeys that day, and as the sun was setting, we tied up our canoe, set up camp, and rested our bodies on damp hammocks. I was starting to think we would never find them and that, anyway, I wasnât cut out for this. That night I learned how the rain forest got its name. It rained longer and harder than any storm I had ever endured in Miami during the hurricane season. On the upside, the pots and pans we left out overnight sparkled in the morning. Natureâs Maytag,I thought. But then I noticed that in the mad rush to get the tarps up I had forgotten to bring in my designer field vest. I glanced at the label and swore it was mocking me: Dry Clean Only.
The rain never really let up, and over the next several weeks I was awakened daily by howler monkeys. Howler monkeys are like rats in South America. Anyone who has spent the night in a South American rain forest has at the very least heard them from a distance. I think they actually take great pleasure in waking people they have identified as ânot a morning person.â Howlers will find the tree you are under and perch there while making their incredibly loud cry. At first, I thought it was exciting and added to the experience of living in the wild. Soon I just found it annoying. But since there was no chance it would stop, Iâd get out of my hammock, bathe in the river, filter some water, take my antimalarial pills, throw on my boots, and wonder what the cheerleaders were doing that day.
Tarantulas soon became an even greater nemesis. They would climb to the top of
After a few days of village life, it was time to go on in search of the sakis. The team now included an elderly Amerindian villager whose knowledge of the forest would prove invaluable; his daughter, who seemed to be in her early 20s; and her teenage brother, who was partly deaf from quinine, the malarial cure heâd taken since birth. The kids would paddle and assist us in hacking through the nearly impenetrable wall of trees. Then, of course, there was me and Dr. Handsome, who weighed in at more than 200 pounds. We would all climb into an unstable dugout canoe together. Buckets were essential to bail water whenever one of us shifted position.
We left with not much more than a bag of food, a few camping supplies, and hearts filled with hope. We planned to be away three months. After paddling for a while, we set up camp. Sleep did not come easily. Though during the day the forest seemed like a tranquil place, at night the sounds were deafening. Frogs, bats, even monkeys made up the chorus. I wouldnâtsay I was scared exactly. But I was. Between that and the malarial dreams that had me covered in blood, I wasnât overly eager for shut-eye.
The next morning we loaded our belongings into the canoe and pushed off again. I took notes on the wildlife and mused at just how small humans figure in nature. I noted the quiet surroundings. Suddenly, our guide motioned me to duck down as a boat of âport knockersâ was coming around the riverâs bend. What are port knockers, I thought, and why does everyone look so scared?
As it turned out, port knockers are small-scale miners who pan for gold along rivers and streams. They are the prospectors of Guyana, intrepid individuals who, like the cowboys of the Wild West, are part of the national identity and the subject of many tales. And judging by the guideâs reaction, they can be your worst nightmare. That is, if your worst nightmare is to get robbed, beaten, and possibly raped and killed if you put up too much of a fight, or if theyâre simply drunk enough. We hid the boat and ourselves under some fallen trees and sat in frightened silence as the loud, drunken sailors cruised by.
Unfortunately, we wouldnât see any monkeys that day, and as the sun was setting, we tied up our canoe, set up camp, and rested our bodies on damp hammocks. I was starting to think we would never find them and that, anyway, I wasnât cut out for this. That night I learned how the rain forest got its name. It rained longer and harder than any storm I had ever endured in Miami during the hurricane season. On the upside, the pots and pans we left out overnight sparkled in the morning. Natureâs Maytag,I thought. But then I noticed that in the mad rush to get the tarps up I had forgotten to bring in my designer field vest. I glanced at the label and swore it was mocking me: Dry Clean Only.
The rain never really let up, and over the next several weeks I was awakened daily by howler monkeys. Howler monkeys are like rats in South America. Anyone who has spent the night in a South American rain forest has at the very least heard them from a distance. I think they actually take great pleasure in waking people they have identified as ânot a morning person.â Howlers will find the tree you are under and perch there while making their incredibly loud cry. At first, I thought it was exciting and added to the experience of living in the wild. Soon I just found it annoying. But since there was no chance it would stop, Iâd get out of my hammock, bathe in the river, filter some water, take my antimalarial pills, throw on my boots, and wonder what the cheerleaders were doing that day.
Tarantulas soon became an even greater nemesis. They would climb to the top of
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