hands vibrating and jittered his head around. Paulo laughed.
‘Ele bebeu café demais? Que engraçado!’
‘Quite right,’ said Ernie. ‘Look, chaps, I think we should turn back now. It’s going to be the hottest part of the day soon; I think you’ll find all the birds and insects will go into hiding, and so should we.’
Thomas took a last longing look at the blues gliding in the treetops and turned with his companions towards home.
Thomas knew that his time in the jungle would never be as sweet as those first few days. Every discomfort — his creaky hammock, the oppressive humidity, the strange food prepared by the black cook Antonio had hired for them, and the relentless attack of mosquitoes and gnats — was overpowered by the devastating beauty of the rainforest and all that he found within it.
They quickly established a routine. They rose just after dawn, drank coffee, which seemed to be in abundance, then strolled around the forest collecting specimens until two or three in the afternoon.
Thomas liked nothing better than the peacefulness of stalking a butterfly, when he could disappear into the jungle and into his thoughts for hours at a time. He never left the established paths, but he sometimes managed to go all morning without seeing another soul. Occasionally he would pass a native hut by a stream, and a tribe of children would line up to stare at him as he passed.
Even having George near, digging into trees and squatting gingerly in the undergrowth so as not to dirty himself looking for beetles, was harmonious. Ernie would inevitably disturb their peace if he was close, ribbing them and blasting away with his gun, not caring how soiled his clothes got with blood and guts, but John also preferred to collect on his own and the men would often go all day without seeing him.
The heat in the afternoon became oppressive, and while their neighbours slept away the worst of it, Thomas and his companions rested under the shade of the veranda’s awning and discussed their day’s finds, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, which Thomas had recently taken to. It was Ernie who had started him off, when George’s new team of boys — dark-eyed Indian children — began to carry things and to hunt for him. George paid them well, and there would be knocks on the door at any time of the day with shouts of ‘Olha que flor bonita!’ or ‘Uns lagartos pra vocês!’, which Thomas soon learned, through their daily Portuguese lessons from Antonio, was alerting them to a flower, or a handful of lizards that the boys had hunted out. One day they arrived with a boa constrictor in a cage, and Thomas reluctantly helped George lift it onto the porch.
Ernie stood by, leaning against the doorframe, smoking.
‘What a magnificent taxidermy project for you, George,’ said Ernie. His pink lips quivered beneath his moustache. ‘I’ll help you.’ George made a point of ignoring him. While Ernie was expert at stuffing, it was something George was yet to master, and he didn’t like to be reminded of the fact.
‘Smoke?’ Ernie held the packet out to Thomas.
‘You know I don’t,’ said Thomas, annoyed that Ernie seemed to be teasing him for his discomfort. He had imagined the boa tightening itself around his chest and found himself short of breath. He could hear the creature’s lungs, like bellows, a deep wheezing whistle, and its great black head seemed to be looking straight at him.
‘Calms your nerves, old man,’ said Ernie. ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor.’ He took one out of the packet and held it out to him.
Thomas took it and rolled it around between his fingers. He didn’t want Ernie to think his nerves needed calming, but the doctor was already striking a match and holding it out for him. He put the cigarette tentatively to his lips and let Ernie touch the end of it with his flame. He sucked at it, careful not to shock his lungs by inhaling straight away. Clouds of smoke billowed in front of his face
‘Ele bebeu café demais? Que engraçado!’
‘Quite right,’ said Ernie. ‘Look, chaps, I think we should turn back now. It’s going to be the hottest part of the day soon; I think you’ll find all the birds and insects will go into hiding, and so should we.’
Thomas took a last longing look at the blues gliding in the treetops and turned with his companions towards home.
Thomas knew that his time in the jungle would never be as sweet as those first few days. Every discomfort — his creaky hammock, the oppressive humidity, the strange food prepared by the black cook Antonio had hired for them, and the relentless attack of mosquitoes and gnats — was overpowered by the devastating beauty of the rainforest and all that he found within it.
They quickly established a routine. They rose just after dawn, drank coffee, which seemed to be in abundance, then strolled around the forest collecting specimens until two or three in the afternoon.
Thomas liked nothing better than the peacefulness of stalking a butterfly, when he could disappear into the jungle and into his thoughts for hours at a time. He never left the established paths, but he sometimes managed to go all morning without seeing another soul. Occasionally he would pass a native hut by a stream, and a tribe of children would line up to stare at him as he passed.
Even having George near, digging into trees and squatting gingerly in the undergrowth so as not to dirty himself looking for beetles, was harmonious. Ernie would inevitably disturb their peace if he was close, ribbing them and blasting away with his gun, not caring how soiled his clothes got with blood and guts, but John also preferred to collect on his own and the men would often go all day without seeing him.
The heat in the afternoon became oppressive, and while their neighbours slept away the worst of it, Thomas and his companions rested under the shade of the veranda’s awning and discussed their day’s finds, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, which Thomas had recently taken to. It was Ernie who had started him off, when George’s new team of boys — dark-eyed Indian children — began to carry things and to hunt for him. George paid them well, and there would be knocks on the door at any time of the day with shouts of ‘Olha que flor bonita!’ or ‘Uns lagartos pra vocês!’, which Thomas soon learned, through their daily Portuguese lessons from Antonio, was alerting them to a flower, or a handful of lizards that the boys had hunted out. One day they arrived with a boa constrictor in a cage, and Thomas reluctantly helped George lift it onto the porch.
Ernie stood by, leaning against the doorframe, smoking.
‘What a magnificent taxidermy project for you, George,’ said Ernie. His pink lips quivered beneath his moustache. ‘I’ll help you.’ George made a point of ignoring him. While Ernie was expert at stuffing, it was something George was yet to master, and he didn’t like to be reminded of the fact.
‘Smoke?’ Ernie held the packet out to Thomas.
‘You know I don’t,’ said Thomas, annoyed that Ernie seemed to be teasing him for his discomfort. He had imagined the boa tightening itself around his chest and found himself short of breath. He could hear the creature’s lungs, like bellows, a deep wheezing whistle, and its great black head seemed to be looking straight at him.
‘Calms your nerves, old man,’ said Ernie. ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor.’ He took one out of the packet and held it out to him.
Thomas took it and rolled it around between his fingers. He didn’t want Ernie to think his nerves needed calming, but the doctor was already striking a match and holding it out for him. He put the cigarette tentatively to his lips and let Ernie touch the end of it with his flame. He sucked at it, careful not to shock his lungs by inhaling straight away. Clouds of smoke billowed in front of his face
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