Handicapped accessible it was not.
Lucio led us deep into nature’s bosom via a thin, barely visible path; through dense thickets of slashing leaves and whipping stalks, up and down ruts and ravines obviously newly arrived with the latest rains. The jungle was astoundingly thick, dizzying 3D maze of green. Hill after hill we brushed aside countless branches and smacked aside countless leaves and shook our limbs free of countless snagging vines.
And it was hot. Really hot. Jungle hot. Our seared lungs groaned under the extra pressure of so much water in the air. A desert tortoise would have drowned just breathing.
After half an hour of this extreme hiking, we were suddenly surrounded by gargantuan chicken-foot trees. Above ground roots snaked over the ground, looking less like the feet of a chicken than those of a tyrannosaurus rex. The roots alone were three feet thick, supporting in their gnarled grasp trees hundreds upon hundreds of feet high.
Then I saw it.
The stuff of legend, the stuff of Atari 2600’s Pitfall, of childhood fantasy even middle age could not shake the desire to encounter: a slender, swaying bridge in the jungle stretching precariously over a chasm bottomed by a crocodile-infested river. Indiana Jones, Allan Quatermane, Danger Mouse—move over!
The bridge was about two hundred feet across, looking all the narrower for being barely over two feet wide. It flapped in the breeze as if in sore need of support, though in fact plenty of rusted wires played at anchorage. While disappointingly not floored of rotting wooden planks threatening a drop into the chasm of evil jungle doom, the bridge did boast transparent grill work. Yes, each step out over the chasm offered an untrammeled view straight down, down to the depth, down to the crocodiles. Cool.
“Is safe,” Lucio said reassuringly. “But not for all at one time. I go with mama y chico. Then dos hermanos with bonita. Then el jefe y chico grande. No problemo.”
“So I’m Chico and you’re the Man, eh?” I said to Greg, elbowing him in the rib. Luckily he was old enough to get the joke. He still didn’t laugh.
Lucio, Shirley, and Square crossed with little issue, other than Square too tightly gripping the back of his mother’s shirt. Next came Amber and the twins. Cliff leaned over the side for a peek, but the entire bridge warped and wobbled, threatening to pitch them all. He quickly centered himself. Amber gave him a slap before continuing.
Finally Greg stepped onto the bridge. The span was so narrow his sides pressed against the cable rails. I was downright impatient to set foot on the bridge—until I actually did so.
Each step rocked the structure precariously. Once I set my feet into the middle of the grill and, to my shock, the metal grate dipped severely. In fact, the entire bridge was twisting precariously; handrails dipping with each footfall enough to dump us. It was far, far less stable for Greg and I than it was for the others.
Wind began gusting up the canyon, and soon the bridge was downright swaying. The opposite ridge, our ‘safe harbor,’ was nothing but thrashing trees. Branches snapped before me, crocs snapped below me. It was the coolest moment of my life!
But by the time Greg reached the middle of the chasm, the swaying was recoiling back upon itself and amplifying. He halted immediately and gripped the cable rails with his huge hands.
“Hey!” Greg yelled to the far side. “How much weight can this thing handle?”
“No problemo!” Lucio called back over the blowing wind. “Two hundred kilos!”
Greg twisted to look at me, but the twisting of the thin span stopped him. Instead he called over his shoulder.
“You know what that is?”
“Well,” I stalled as I waited for the swaying to steady. “I weigh two hundred pounds, which is ninety kilos, as I recall.”
“That’s just great,” he called in amusement. “I weigh three hundred and sixty pounds.”
I blinked in alarm.
“You do? That’s a problem.”
“That’s a problem,” Greg repeated. “I don’t think our little local friend has any idea how big Americans are.”
“Surely this will be our only misunderstanding today,” I added drily, warily glancing over the side.
“Surely,” Greg replied with a snort. Then he said, “How ‘bout you stay here and I’ll go on alone?”
“How ‘bout you stay here and I go back alone?” I retorted.
Greg snorted again, but was already gingerly continuing on. I stayed in the middle of the bridge, feet pressed against the edges of the bucking grill, hands gripped tightly to the wriggling rails. At one point I glanced down to the crocodiles below. They didn’t seem particularly expectant for me to fall, but that may have just been me rationalizing. Eventually we all crossed the chasm without any trouble.
The trek continued until a collective gasp escaped us all. Below us, stretching to the verdant mountains of the horizon, was a vast panorama of dense jungle hills. The valley was gargantuan and untrammeled by mankind, home only to nature and a thin layer of mist draping over the deeper valleys.
A small, but sturdy—mercifully sturdy—platform was built into the earth at the very edge of the precipice. A less small—and decidedly less sturdy—bridge reached out into the void, soaring above the tree tops, to anchor upon the trunk of a huge tree.
Recognizing the same construction as the bridge over crocodile canyon, Lucio, the Greggs, and I spread out thinly to cover the distance. Directly below us were two brilliantly colored macaws hopping from branch to branch, struggling to get a better view of us. Everywhere toucans flashed in mad scrambles of black, red, and yellow. One entire tree fairly groaned beneath the weight of an entire flock of little red birds. So dense were their numbers, I had thought the tree had been blossoming!
The whole experience was part adrenaline and part tranquil observation from the unparalleled view from the sky bridge.
Eventually we all clustered onto the platform perched on the massive trunk that anchored the far side of the birdwalk. Even this high up, the trunk was a whopping six feet in diameter. At least, I presumed we were high up: the earth below was not visible. Both above and below was a mass of living, breathing greenery shot through with brown branches and trunks.
Yet, as big as the tree was at this point, it actually grew bigger above. The mud-smeared metal flooring was nestled tightly in the claw-like crotch where the trunk split in three—each a meter thick—towering even higher into the sky. Heaped in the crotch beside the platform was a mass of earth covered in wet, rotting leaves. Curled upon that, slumbering contentedly, was a massive snake.
I nearly stumbled into the sleeping serpent, who looked as innocent as a cat napping on a pillow. The diamond pattern on his back reminded me of a Western rattlesnake, though this fellow was significantly larger. He must have been about two meters in length and easily two inches thick at his middle.
“What kind of snake is that?” I inquired casually of Lucio. The words were not received casually, however.
“Holy shit!” Cliff cried, leaping back. Amber let out a surprised cry, and—not surprisingly—Square all but leapt into his mother’s arms.
“Díos mío!” Lucio cried. “Very dangerous, do not touch!”
Lucio leapt about so frantically, and was so loud, the remainder of the Greggs panicked. Soon the platform was rocking with bodies struggling over each other to get away from the tree, pushing to the dubious safety of the wriggling birdwalk. It would have been comical had I not nearly been shoved right onto the serpent.
“Calm down, people!” I cried, pushing back whichever frenzied body had thumped me from behind.
Soon all Greggs but Greg himself were clinging to the awkwardly swaying birdwalk, peeking above each others’s bodies in fear. Though an undeniably brave man, Greg, too, looked like he wanted to flee. Alas, he was trapped by his size to remain on the platform, lest he put his family in danger. I forgave him, of course, because even Indiana Jones was scared of snakes. Another bridge offered escape but was only accessible by passing the snake.
&
nbsp; “Is called Fer-de-Lance,” Lucio explained, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “Very dangerous. It kills more people than any other snake in Central America.”
Though I liked to think I was the bastion of bravery, it was really only that I understood snakes. Long ago I had learned how to remain calm around them. Accidentally kicking numerous rattlesnakes while trail running the wastes of Nevada provides much stimulus to learn about them. As usual, with knowledge comes power.
Generally older and, thusly, larger snakes—like this one—have no reason to waste their venom on you, unless they are frightened of you, or think you’re dinner. This guy was far too big to be a young and restless type, who bites first and asks questions later. So if I didn’t bother him, he probably wouldn’t bother me. Alas, if it were only that easy with my ex-wife. That was not the first time I equated her with reptiles.
“Be very careful,” Lucio repeated, worriedly eyeing the snake’s proximity to the platform. “His average bite has 100 milligrams of venom.”
“So how much venom does it take to kill a man?” Greg asked nervously.
“Fifty,” Lucio answered. “Enough to take down even you, el jefe.”
Silence fell among the group.
“Surely this will be our only animal drama today,” I quipped. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
3
In the jungle, time flows differently than in the city. Perhaps it’s the overwhelming stimulus. Certainly the big city provides equally overwhelming stimuli—with an equal volume of peril, too—but the jungle is different. The jungle is not a construct of man utilizing metallurgy, chemistry, geometry. No, the jungle is not beholden to man’s limited understanding of the laws of nature. Time, like the muddy rivers and sodden ravines, like the reaching branches and spreading canopies, exists in a very organic, non-linear manner.
Either that, or time flies when you’re having fun.
We had a ball watching the birds and laughing over our close call with a vicious serpent. But, as always, the time to go was too soon. The bus, and our stalwart, Spanish-only speaking driver, beckoned. Of course, it broke down again. Where? Where else? Right in front of Restaurante Cocodrilo.
“These guys must make a killing,” Greg muttered as our bus came to a stuttering halt on the bridge. This time communication was not difficult, however, as the engine had obviously overheated. Steam poured from vents around the hood. When the driver pried it open, the white-hot cloud billowed out to envelop him. Knowing the drill, the entire Gregg family tumbled out the door and trekked to the restaurant.
We occupied a couple of tables on the deck, beers in hand. Amazingly, Old Man Nazca remained right where we left him hours ago, still with eyes closed beneath the brim of his straw hat.
The sun began its descent into the west. The jungle was dark, but twilight still lit much of the greenery with a warm, golden sheen. Rain drops glistened and fell as drops of pure gold. It was the perfect evening setting to regale ourselves with talk of the adventurous day we enjoyed. Well, that most of us enjoyed: poor Square still looked pale and pathetic.
“Right here is where we saw the black panther,” Greg was saying to Shirley. “It was magnificent!”
“You weren’t scared?” Square asked, lips all but quivering at the thought of a big cat encounter.
“Well, Brian was,” Greg roared with satisfaction. “He almost pissed his pants. But I was here to protect him.”
I rolled my eyes, and Shirley reached over the table to pat my arm.
“Don’t worry,” she reassured. “I’m on your side.”
“What a surprise,” Greg muttered into his beard, hiding his grin.
“You saw coati,” the waiter corrected as he delivered another round of Imperials. “No panthers here.”
“Are these guys trained to say that?” Greg muttered after the waiter departed. “Worried we’ll go home and scare off potential tourists, or what?”
Suddenly Amber leaped up with a shrill squeak.
“Ouch!” she cried, rubbing her thigh. “Something bit me!”
“Oh my God!” Square cried, as if he had been waiting for this all along. “A Fer-de-Lance? Oh my God!”
“No, no,” she muttered, eyeing a large wasp that squirmed on the deck below her. “I must have sat on a wasp. Damn it, I’m allergic to stings!”
Chris immediately leaned over to get a better look, and Greg and Shirley rushed around the table. Greg ordered Amber to stand for a clear view. In the fading light, we could already see a huge welt spreading across the back of her thigh.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Chris reassured as Amber began to pace. “You know I’ve always got your prescription Epi-Pen.”
Chris felt in his pocket for the self-injecting device, then paused with alarm. A bit more frantically he fished in all of his pockets before his eyes bulged in realization.
“It must have fallen from my pocket!”
“Oh my God!” Amber repeated, now genuinely scared. “How far are we to the ship? Is that piece of shit van even going to work? If I don’t get my epinephrine, I am in big, big trouble. Last time I almost died from this, and that was just some dumb bumble bee. Who knows what the hell is in this goddamn jungle!”
“And I can’t believe my own son would litter in the jungle!” Greg teased, earning a big ol’ wallop from Shirley. Greg held up his arms in surrender, saying, “I was just trying to prevent the panic that’s already brewing. Junior, you’re the paramedic. Take a look.”
But Square was even more panicked than Amber. “I’m a paramedic, but I don’t have any of my equipment. What am I supposed to do? I need equipment, medicines, things! I have no things!”
“I’ll go see if they have any antihistamine in the restaurant,” Cliff volunteered, already rushing off to the main restaurant.
The red welt on Amber’s leg continued to spread angrily, even as she tried to remain calm—unsuccessfully. The moment she complained of being dizzy she nearly fell down on the bench. Square felt her pulse and noted that it was quickening dangerously. Her throat and face already visibly swelled.
I had never seen an anaphylactic reaction to a bee sting before, and was astounded by how quickly the symptoms wracked her body. After merely two minutes, Amber was literally having trouble breathing!
Yet lo and behold, Old Man Nazca leapt forward with all the energy of a man who had rested for twenty hours. He boldly threw aside his bulky hat and snatched up the table’s salt shaker. Unscrewing the top, he upended all the salt into his palm. Without a word to Amber, he roughly pushed her over to expose her swollen thigh. His coarse hands smashed the salt into the welt and aggressively rubbed it in.
“Mas!” Old Man Nazca ordered curtly. Even as Amber squealed, he reached out a hand for more salt. Greg poured him a handful and the old man returned to his work. For five solid, long minutes he rubbed and pressed and scoured Amber’s thigh with the salt. Amazingly, Amber’s rasping pants began to ease.
“I’m, I’m feeling better,” she eventually stammered.
We all watched anxiously as Square counted her pulse for a tense sixty seconds, but it was obvious that the danger had passed. Amber looked like she was going to be OK. Square looked like he was going to faint.
“Surely this will be our only animal drama today,” I said flatly—for the third time that day.
“‘I have no things’,” Chris mockingly whined to his brother.
“Thank you,” Amber said to the old man.
He replied with a big, toothless grin, then casually collected his straw hat. He paused to look up at the towering figure of Greg. Though the brim of his straw hat barely reached Greg’s chest, the old man puffed up with great authority.
“Coati!” he said. Marching back to his bench, he closed his eyes and—as if nothing had happened at all—went back to his nap.
Chapter 19. Picasso and a Cat
1
My three checkout assistants and I shared a martini at the Society Bar. Dressed in sweaty auction attire,
we looked like survivors from a wild night on the Las Vegas Strip. Petra’s ultra-mini-skirt tube dress somehow managed to pull up even further to reveal more than a little thigh, but her sleepy gaze never passed her appletini. Not to be undone in the ‘I’m so sexy without even noticing’ department, Tina’s pink lingerie-style halter-top was completely unlaced for maximum titillation. My third assistant from Australia, Sarah, was the most presentable. She eschewed makeup in deference to her tom-boyish personality, yet wore a classy pantsuit outfit. Sarah slouched deeply into her chair directly opposite me with legs spread wide open. Sadly, the pantsuit made this posture decent.
I leaned back on the couch between Petra and Tina and sighed with fatigue. Though hot, I was too tired to take off my jacket, so instead just loosened my tie. We had just finished the last ball-busting, crazy-busy auction, and I was infused with a deep sense of relief and accomplishment. I had not only met Goal 2, but blew it away.
What’s more, I had accomplished this feat on a ship heavily depleted of high end art, and without the assistance of an associate auctioneer. That is not to say I did it alone. I would have been lost without the steady assistance of Petra, or even the dubious assistance of Tina. Sarah had provided a much-needed peacekeeping force between the two, who sniped at each other constantly.
The post-G2 celebration was a ritual that I had not enjoyed for quite a while. With Bill as auctioneer success was a foregone conclusion. We drank like fish anyway, Bill and I, and partied hard, but it was never accompanied by a sense of achievement. I found myself strangely longing for my time with Charles and Tatli. While life was stressful on the Widow Maker, a sly drink with them had always felt right. Being in such hot water together, the three of us made a pretty solid connection in a comparatively short time. Unlike many of the international folks I worked with at sea, I could envision myself inviting Charles and Tatli into my home on land. But what about poor, ulcerated, impotent Rookie of the Year Shawn? Maybe. And Bill, invited to my home? Forget about it. I had no illusions about Bill: he was never coming back from Thailand’s cheap hookers.
Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 31
