Sisimito I--Ox Witz Ha

by Henry W. Anderson

  “Why two fires, Hulse? You also have the kerosene lantern lit.”

  He didn’t look at me, but answered, “If one mountain lion could come down to drink water on the sani-bay on the other side of the river, his friends and family may decide to come down on this side.”

  I smiled to myself. Even Hulse had his ‘flippin’ fears. “Good night, Hulse,” I said, as I placed my bergen under my head and tried to settle my body into a comfortable position on the boulder I had chosen for my bed.

  I was facing the east and watched as the moon broke above the tree line. It was the night before the full moon and the stars were rapidly disappearing as the brilliance of the moon lit the jungle scene. The peeniwali had mostly finished their dancing, which began at dusk, and only a few of them remained. I knew that Hulse did not light the two fires for the sake of illumination, but it was because the smell of the smoke would keep away the large predators of the night. Just before falling asleep, I wanted to shout ‘mountain lion’, remembering that it was still April First, All Fools Day. I changed my mind. As I was about to close my eyes, I saw the shadow of a lone owl flying slowly against the surface of the brilliant moon.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WALKING UP THE COCKSCOMB BRANCH.

  Easter Sunday, April 2, 1972

  It was Easter Sunday, April 2nd, in the Year of our Lord, 1972. Because of the strenuous walking, intermixed with the beauty of the jungles we were travelling through, I had completely put aside thoughts of the usual happenings of the Easter Holidays. I must confess that I did not necessarily follow all the religious activities and had always been more involved in the social events, offsprings of the religious holiday. Once Good Friday was over, it was time for partying, Holy Saturday, Easter Sunday, and Easter Monday. But there I was, in the middle of my jungle, parts of which no man or very few men had seen before … and I was very happy.

  We had awakened at dawn and had a breakfast of dry corn flakes, Vienna Sausages, and hot coffee after which I gave each of the men an Easter chocolate I had brought with me. I had kept the chocolates in a closed tin and even though they were soft because of the warmth, they still retained their egg shape.

  It was a beautiful and bright morning. We wished each other Happy Easter and I was glad to see that the high enthusiasm I had seen the evening before, irrespective of Taylor’s ‘feelings’, still remained. After cleaning the camp site, Lance Corporal-the-Bas-Shal called us together for an Easter prayer.

  “Thank you for putting your heads together with me, this Easter morning,” he began. He had his Bible in his hands. “I will read to you One Corinthians, Chapter Thirteen, Verses Four to Eight:

  Love is patient,

  Love is kind.

  It does not envy,

  It does not boast,

  It is not proud.

  It is not rude,

  It is not self-seeking,

  It is not easily angered,

  It keeps no record of wrongs.

  Love does not delight in evil

  But rejoices with the truth.

  It always protects,

  Always trusts,

  Always hopes,

  Always perseveres.

  Love never fails.

  “It is God’s love for us that made Him send His only son, Jesus, to die on the cross, to be crucified by us for us. But, today, Easter Sunday, we celebrate His resurrection from the dead, a great victory for Love. May we in turn love God, all of mankind, and ourselves. Amen.”

  “Amen,” we all replied. I couldn’t help waiting for Taylor to say something about his love for virgins, but it didn’t come. It was hard to believe it was the same group of men lined up shitting two days before.

  We started walking to the north-northeast and were soon climbing a moderately steep hill. I noted that the men were less talkative than usual. I supposed that they were thinking of Bas’s message and possibly about their own love ones at home … or of the festivities they were missing. I frowned as I realized that I really didn’t have anyone to think about. Love had somehow eluded me. But was that really the case? Or, was it that I had eluded love because of the way I chose to live. I swung my machete strenuously at a stout liana that blocked my path. Was I angry? I smiled, almost aloud. It was a long time since I had felt the warmth of love … possibly only as a child when Na’ hugged me. And, I wasn’t a child for very long. My taat? He took me everywhere as was his duty and he taught me everything he knew. I always wondered why he never hugged me. Maybe he just didn’t like hugging and, thinking of it, I never saw him hug Na’. Yet, somehow, there was my sister and there was me, so he must have done some kind of hugging. Whenever I thought of Taat, I always promised myself to one day just run up to him and hug him. I would probably frighten him to death. I smiled again. There was sadness somewhere there, I acknowledged. I kept on walking and macheting.

  Luckily, the undergrowth was not very thick and we did not have to use the machete as intensely as I had at first anticipated and Hulse kept cutting markers as we went along so that on the return trip we could travel the same path. After crossing the hill, we entered a small valley through which the Cockscomb Branch flowed on its way down to The Fork. I decided to start walking up the shallow river as it would take us in a northerly direction and towards Victoria Peak. The map showed an upcoming fork where we expected to find the remains of New Home Camp. We would continue on the right branch, northerly, on to Don Pedro Camp after which the river forked again. The left branch would take us to the foot of Victoria Peak. Anderson had expressed concern about walking up the river for the next two days as he feared that the men’s feet would begin to deteriorate. I agreed there was the possibility but decided to push on as I knew it would take more than two days for problems to develop. Also, there were enough anal78 and other herbs growing in the jungle to make herbal baths for sore feet. Perhaps, the time had come for me to give Anderson, our Medic, a lesson in rainforest remedies.

  Again, I was enraptured by the beauty of my jungle. The tall broadleaf jungle came down to the water’s edge and large branches, fifty to a hundred feet and more above us, arched and intertwined above the river forming a canopy of varied greens. The massive trunks of giant amates,79 home to a world of jungle creatures within the thousands of shiny, dark green, oval and pointed leaves, whitish flowers and pale green fruits, fenced the banks at times. Lianas were everywhere. Some carried wild flowers and others multishaped leaves as vines wrapped themselves around the hanging lianas. More wild flowers covered the shrubs along the banks and the only sound that differed from the sounds of the jungle was the constant clicking of the shutter from Clarke’s camera. I knew that he had never seen anything like that before. Neither had I. Colorful bromeliads decorated the barks of the tall trees while cauliflorous trees blossomed from their own branches and trunks. That was my Eden. Even without an Eve, that was my Eden. And there were birds. Many birds. An occasional cot,80 or White Hawk as it is also called, perched quietly along the jungle edge of the Cockscomb Branch awaiting its prey that would comprise snakes and other reptiles, small mammals, insects, and even small birds. Jut-juts,81 sat quietly in the trees, often switching their long tails back and forth like a pendulum. I regarded the jut-jut as one of the most beautiful of birds. Its blue crown, orange-brown throat and breast, its green and blue wings made the bird easily identifiable. It was the tail, however, that was distinctive. The bird completely striped a small area near the end, leaving rounded racquets at the tip. I also saw a male Slaty-tailed Trogon,82 with its orange eye-ring and bill. There were many kingfishers and small flocks of Keel-billed Toucans.83 The Great Curassow84 was abundant. Many elegant males, with their glossy black feathers and bright yellow unfeathered knob beneath their curling crest, peeked down at us from perches high in the canopy before flying down to the jungle floor in search of fruits, seeds, and insects. I lamented that we did not have the time to shoot and clean a couple of the curassows. I was already tasting Easter Sunday dinner, a delicious curassow stew, even if it
had only salt and black pepper for seasoning. I hoped that at the end of the day, at least one Curassow would be found wherever we were.

  Walking up the shallow river was not very easy as there were a lot of small boulders and rocks. Most of them were covered with moss and so slippery and we had all taken a fall at some time. No one complained. I expected no one to. and I would have tolerated no one. Fortunately, there were no serious injuries and each fall was followed by laughter and Anderson’s voice warning us not to sprain our ankles or to get them cut on the rocks. Lightheartedly, we continued walking north at a steady pace.

  Illustration 28: Walking up the Cockscomb Branch (1).

  Illustration 29: Walking up the Cockscomb Branch (2).

  It was about midday and I saw that the men were beginning to get tired for walking upriver was difficult. Clarke and Parham talked, from time to time, about the sand in their boots. That allowed Anderson to continue pestering me to stop for a while and have the men look after their feet. I regarded Expedition Bold as a mission, not just an expedition or a hike to climb a mountain, but an opportunity for the men to train in the jungle. There had to be some hardships and I wasn’t going to stop every time someone got sand in his boots. It probably meant he had not put on his garters properly, or in the case of the civilians, not tied their pants cuff over their boots as I had showed them. But, I had to agree, feet were important. I was trying to decide whether or not to stop when I saw Taylor, who was leading, suddenly take a big leap backward.

  “Madafoka!” he yelled, raising his hand, indicating to us to stop. He quietly added, “Yellow-jawed Tommygoff,”85 as he pointed to the riverbed in front of him.

  At first, I could see nothing as Taylor’s body was partially blocking my view. I moved to the side and still saw nothing, coming to the conclusion that the snake’s color had blended in completely with the rocks and sand making it difficult to see. I was about to ask him to point to the snake when I heard Clarke’s camera shutter going off, again and again, rapidly. A snake is a snake, I thought. Why would someone want to take so many pictures of a snake? But, perhaps, there were no snakes in Barbados.

  “Come,” Taylor murmured, “but be careful. Don’t make too much noise.”

  About ten feet ahead of Taylor, about mid-river, I saw the large black head of a snake rising slowly out of the water, looking directly at Taylor, at all of us, for that matter. Flashes of sunlight reflected off its black eyes as it held its stance in the middle of the Cockscomb Branch. As I watched it, I heard the low whistling sound of air being sucked into its mouth. The hissing sound of a snake was one of the most obnoxious sounds of the jungle. It stabbed fear into both man and animal. The hairs on my body were reacting to the sound and my skin was becoming cold and raised as koal seed spread over me. I felt the uneasiness of the men as, slowly, its yellow throat began to swell, almost engulfing its yellow jaws and nose. It progressively became the most evil looking of snakes I had ever seen in my jungle, and the largest, its swollen head was about a foot across. I looked at the left bank and saw that the black and yellow body of the snake was as yet undulating from out the jungle and into the river. The body must have been about eight to ten inches in diameter, rows of bright yellow spots arranged in irregular angling lines like streaks of lightening down its sides. How long it was, I could only estimate twenty to twenty-five feet. I watched the head slowly begin to move towards a sani-bay on the right. What was unnatural was that, although the snake was moving in a straight line towards the right bank, its head remained upright and out of the water, its eyes looking directly at us. I glanced towards the left bank and the end of its tail had not yet appeared. I saw Taylor getting his rifle in position for a shot.

  “No Taylor!” I blurted out. “Bocotora clapansaya.”86

  “That’s no Bocotora clapansaya,” argued Taylor. “It’s a Tommygoff and a fokin big one.”

  There was a lashing sound and I looked, once more, towards the left. The tail was then in the water, switching its way across, sprinkling us as we stood. The snake suddenly picked up speed and was slithering very quickly to the jungle on the opposite bank. Without warning, the tail swung towards Taylor, coiling itself around his feet and pulling him down forcibly into the shallow stream.

  Illustration 30: The attack of the Bocotora clapansaya.

  (Note: At the center of the original photograph taken while walking up the Cockscomb Branch, one can see a large Wowla or Boa Constrictor leaving the water as it climbs the bankside.)

  “Madafoka!” shouted Taylor, a second time, as the snake pulled him towards the river bank and the dense undergrowth. He glanced towards me, holding his rifle above him with both hands. “Shoot the foka,” he shouted. I threw myself on top of him, wrapping myself around his torso, while Parham began running forward, water splashing, his machete in the air ready for a downward swing at the body of the snake. Anderson rushed towards us and grabbed Taylor by his shirt; yet, all three of us were being pulled rapidly towards the bank, our bodies bearing down on the rocks. Clarke stood motionless and I did not hear the clicking of his camera shutters anymore. Bas was already climbing the bank with his rifle aimed at the loud hissing sound coming from my jungle. Clouds of droplets of mucous from the snake’s throat discharged forcibly from out my jungle and began forming a mist about us. I heard Bas’ rifle blast and saw Parham’s machete start its descent towards the snake. The Bocotora clapansaya was no longer there. It had completely and instantaneously disappeared into the dense undergrowth.

  We were all wet, wet from the river, from sweat, and from the droplets of the snake’s expectoration that coated us. Clarke, more than any of us, was sweating profusely. “Sucks!” swore Hulse, but the other men said nothing. Taylor, Anderson, and I sat in the water while Parham stood, his machete still in his hand. Bas came down the bank towards us and I began washing my face and arms, trying to get the unpleasant smelling muck off me, the men doing the same, all of us remaining quiet.

  Wah-co!-Wah-co!-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

  We all looked towards the cry and I felt tension rising. I couldn’t allow it to escalate. I had to break it down.

  “They don’t have snakes in Barbados, do they?” I asked. Clarke shook his head, but did not speak. I smiled. “We have a few here,” I said. “Big ones.”

  “That fokin thing almost got me. Why didn’t you let me shoot it from the beginning, Sarge?” asked Taylor, his eyes enlarged with anger.

  “Oh, it was only a harmless snake,” I insisted. “I do agree that I’ve never seen one so big. They are usually quite slender. Anyhow, we don’t want to interrupt the food chain, Taylor,” I joked in poor humor. Taylor stared at me.

  “Well, that harmless snake was big enough to include me in its food chain,” grumbled Parham. “I won’t be able to sleep at nights again until I am out of here. It looked so evil. It looked like an overgrown Thunder-and-lightning snake to me.”

  “That’s what it was. Bocotora clapansaya and Thunder-and-lightening are the same snake, only different names. I do agree I have never seen one so fokin big … like the mountain lion … fokin big too. Remember, men, we are in mostly unexplored jungle. If we were to see only the things we are used to, where would the excitement be in that? What would then make this mission different from others? We are not the natives here. We are the visitors. We won’t destroy what we do not understand, what we are not used to. We are explorers, here to see, here to learn. When we leave here, it will be as is we were never here, even when it comes to snakes.”

  “And it kept looking at me,” grunted Taylor. “All the time it was moving away, it kept looking at me … looking at me. It fokin intended to eat me.” He shook his head. “I still think it was a fokin Tommygoff… I should have shot that madafoka dead.”

  “What, Private?” I asked, pointedly.

  “I should have been given permission to shoot that madafoka dead,” Taylor corrected himself. He got up and started to walk upstream again, moving away from the dying mist of spit.

&nb
sp; “You weren’t. Okay! Let it go at that,” I responded, firmly.

  “Sarge!” he shouted.

  “I saw it looking at me too,” stated Clarke.

  “It was looking at all of us,” added Parham.

  “Okay, men. Let’s rest a bit on that sani-bay on the right,” I suggested. Taylor stopped, but did not look around. The other men looked at me as if I were absolutely crazy and none of them moved toward the sani-bay where the snake had disappeared. I smiled inwardly. It seemed that the snake was ominous enough to provoke a small mutiny. “Okay,” I chuckled and began to walk upriver. “Let’s go on then if you don’t need to rest.”

  What had happened wasn’t good as it was totally unexpected. I had not anticipated anything like that and I was angry at what my jungle had thrown at me? Indeed, we were in deep and unexplored jungle, but it was my jungle. My jungle! “Fok!” I shouted and kicked at the water in front of me. The men must have been expecting some reaction from me for they just kept on walking upstream, saying nothing, but I felt Bas looking at me. We all stunk of the snake spit and, of course, our sweat and dirty combats and clothes. Fifteen minutes later, we came upon the first fork and the ruins of New Home. We rested there under the beautiful pink flowers of a bukut87 tree, looked after our feet to the satisfaction of Anderson, and had a larger than usual lunch. We were no longer conscious of the smell of the snake for the smell of our feet, socks, and boots had completely subdued the other. At least, that smell was our own. For dessert, we had Taylor cut a pole and bring down some of the long podlike fruits of the bukut, popularly called ‘stinking toe’. It’s one of the foulest smelling of fruits, but delicious. How appropriate a smell, I thought. Much to our amusement, Clarke refused to eat it.

  Again, we knew exactly where we were and that was most important. I had noticed, however, a change in the flora as we approached New Home. There were two aspects to that subtle yet somewhat blatant change. It was not as definitive as going from broadleaf jungle to pine forest, but there was a change in the health of some of the trees and the types of trees. Trees with buttresses were becoming more numerous and many times I was unable to see beyond the wall the large radiating root systems made. Chaparrals88 were often present, and I found that strange. I tried to tie the chaparrals into the long-ago presence of the loggers, but I couldn’t convince myself. The loggers wouldn’t have just cleaned out small areas of the jungle, arbitrarily. I also noticed the increasing presence of stranglers89 having encompassed their then dead hosts with their thick and woody embrace. Yet, there were also other dead and dying trees that had not been choked by the stranglers. It was unusual to see several dead trees in a living jungle … my jungle, and I could see no obvious cause. Was there some disease why, amidst my living jungle, there was the presence of death and decay? Was my jungle at war with itself? There certainly was no one to do harm there? I hated to see a tall elegant tree dead even if it were at the hands of nature. It was also odd that the dead trees all were in similar states of decay suggesting that whatever the cause was, it all began about the same time. I frowned, feeling cold.