Sisimito I--Ox Witz Ha

by Henry W. Anderson

  Illustration 31: A prevalence of Stranglers, Dead and Dying trees,

  and the Mountain Lion with an Owl (Icim) on its back.

  If it were not for the beautiful bukut tree, death would have stood out. The field surrounding New Home was diseased and I wanted to get out. I ordered the men to get ready and we continued up the Cockscomb Branch. The mood of the men had changed and seemed more somber, less talkative, as if reacting to the change in the jungle around them. It may simply have been the heavier than usual lunch, but I wondered if they kept going back to the snake … the owl … the mountain lion. Perhaps, it was good that they did not know of the burnt wood with teeth marks. We continued walking and, as evening approached, we saw what looked like a road on the left bank. I sent Hulse and Parham to investigate it. It was not a road, but from the top of the tall bank we were able to see the foothills of Victoria Peak just beyond and there was an immediate elevation in the men’s spirits.

  Heavy clouds and approaching nightfall was darkening the jungle and it began to drizzle. I ordered a halt to the walk and we set up camp some two hundred yards off the left bank under the large umbrella of a guanacaste90 tree that must have stood a hundred and fifty feet high.

  Using dried brambles as rakes, we cleared out a small area of litter which was mainly the Monkey’s ear brown pods of the guanacaste tree. We made light tapescos and leantos,91 using kuhoon leaves cut from nearby trees to provide the covering. The palm fronds would, hopefully, protect us from the drizzle that came through the canopy while we slept on the jungle floor.

  Illustration 32: Mr. Parham prepares to have his feet examined by Private Anderson.

  Hulse was making fire for coffee when we heard a distinct movement in the jungle just behind Clarke who was sitting, his back against a large chacah92 tree. I put a finger to my mouth and opened my hand, indicating to Clarke that he should not move. He did not, but, immediately, beads of perspiration glistened against his black forehead. We heard the noise again and it slowly walked past Clarke and into camp.

  I had never seen Hulse handle a machete with such urgency and such accuracy. In one quick movement, the blade flashed across from Clarke’s body and the head of the large hamadili93 was off, blood spurting all across Clarke, the animal still standing upright … headless. The best of Bajan curses roared from Clarke’s mouth as he rushed down to the Cockscomb Branch. The Easter Bunny had not provided curassows, but a hamadili would do just as well for Easter Dinner. I was elated.

  There was still a bit of sunlight left as we all went happily down to the river to clean the armor-plated mammal, the men congratulating Hulse on the kill. Clarke had cleaned his face and arms of the blood and was still cussing that Hulse had barely missed cutting him by an inch with the sharp machete. The men were all laughing and it was very apparent that even the cussing Clarke was happy at the kill.

  Hulse was an expert and after removing all entrails and the scent sacks, which if left in place would tarnish the taste of the meat, he cut off all the body fat and kept that in a small cooking pan. He removed the meat from the hard shell that covered the animal and cut it into thin strips, using the hamadili’s shell, which he had washed, as a container for the meat. We took the opportunity to wash our soiled khaki combats and underwear while Hulse worked on the hamadili. Light was failing rapidly and there was no washing soap so it was more of an attempt at washing. I suggested that someone wash Hulse’s clothes since he was busy with the game meat, but no one offered. There was continuous humorous commentary on the suggestion, however, to which Hulse appeared oblivious.

  We returned to the camp, whistling happily, and put on our shorts. Luckily, there were very few flies and that helped, immensely, with what was turning out to be an excellent evening. Hulse used only guanacaste branches for the fire as the wood leaves no distinctive odor or taste. He then put the pan with fat on the fire and allowed the fat to melt. While waiting on the fat, he seasoned the meat with only salt and pepper. As the fat liquidated, he dropped in the strips of meat. We had eaten no fresh meat for four days and the smell was delicious. When we ate, the sweet taste of the meat was even more so and I could state with certainty that Hulse was our hero. Even Clarke eventually thanked him for the kill. It was not only the meal that was good, but a sense of deep camaraderie developed that night as the men laughed and talked and ate. After a while, I lay down on the two kuhoon leaves that were my bed and covered with my ground sheet. I stared up at the broken canopy and noted, with awe, the big difference in height between the canopy of the guanacaste tree and the rest of the jungle around it. Occasionally, the bright full moon broke through darkening clouds. It was night and I did not see the dead trees that were in my jungle, so I was at peace with my jungle. I closed my eyes as it continued to drizzle.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE LONESOME VALLEY.

  Easter Monday, April 3, 1972

  I woke up to Bas kicking me on the rump. I pulled off my ground sheet and opened my eyes to see him smiling at me. It was dawn. “Don’t worry,” he reported. “I took care of things … organized the duty rooster … everything.

  We voted unanimously to give you a good night’s sleep.”

  “You should have awakened me,” I uttered. I lifted my head from under the lean-to, but closed my eyes, allowing the rain to beat down upon my face. The ground sheet had kept me covered and until I was awakened, I hadn’t been aware of the rain. I rubbed my face with my hands. “God, I smell like shit,” I mumbled, smelling my armpits.

  “We all do.” Bas smiled. “It’s been raining all night, sometimes even harder than it is now.”

  “Must be a damn leftover cold front,” I suggested. “It’s not supposed to rain heavily here in April. There goes the forecast. I just hope it doesn’t last too long,” I added, stretching, watching little rivulets running across the camp site.

  “Well, you know how the weather goes. Once, we had a tropical storm off the coast in February. 1952, I think.”

  I shook my head, always amazed at what Bas knew. “I suppose that tore up the statistics.” I shook my head. “I was supposed to be getting out of here today, returning to drink and women,” I said, half-smiling. “Well, as long as we get to Victoria, it’ll be worth it. By the look of things, we may be in here for as much as ten days. If we don’t get back by then, however, Headquarters will send out a Search Patrol. I can’t let that happen.”

  “Seems you’ll be in the jungle for your birthday, Parham,” I shouted.

  “That’s okay, Sarge. Just need to hunt some game for a good birthday dinner.”

  “That, we’ll do. And we’ll season it with only salt and pepper.”

  “Hulse! Hulse! Hulse!” laughed the men.

  Actually, I felt rested and was grateful for the night’s sleep. I looked around the camp. It was in no way as elaborate as the first camp and the wet jungle floor, the rain, buzzing flies and singing mosquitoes, helped to form an air of gloominess, but I was happy. Hulse was struggling with a fire to make coffee while the other men sat around, ready to resume the walk. Taylor, however, was sleeping. I nodded towards him, asking Bas, “Why is he still asleep?”

  “He didn’t sleep most of the night. Kept complaining that he just couldn’t sleep.”

  Anderson handed me a bottle of insect repellant he had been passing around, advising me to apply it liberally, which I did. Hulse, finally, brought over a cup of coffee. “Hot?” I asked, as I stood at the edge of camp pissing.

  He shook his head. “The jungle facilities do not guarantee anything hot this flippin morning.” Hulse smiled. “Actually, it is almost hot. Watch your tongue … and, anyway, nobody should grumble after that gourmet dinner last night.”

  “Thanks! I can always depend on you, Hulse.” He bowed elaborately and went back to his failing fire and the pot he was using.

  The coffee was, indeed, almost hot and I was glad for it. The heavy rain had stopped, but there was a continuous hard drizzle. We remained relatively dry, however, as we had the
ground sheets wrapped around us. I kicked Taylor’s boots. “Time to eat,” I told him.

  I felt deeply responsible for the men. There was Clarke. He was making sure that his cameras were secured from the rain. I still didn’t know how he had gotten himself placed on Expedition Bold; it was the same with Parham. Yet, they were there, approaching the foothills of Victoria Peak. Taylor, Anderson, and Hulse. I had spent a lot of time soldiering with them, but yet I knew very little about them as persons. Maybe, it was better that way. And there was Bas. We knew a lot about each other.

  We ate some soda biscuits and Vienna Sausages after which I got the men involved in a brief meeting. I wanted their input with respect to the direction we were going to take. We decided to leave the Cockscomb Branch; we would not continue walking upriver towards Don Pedro Camp. Our estimated position was four miles south of Victoria Peak and we were going to cut through the jungle. We were close and that awareness gave us a sense of urgency. Even the return of the heavy rain did not dampen our spirits that Easter Monday morning and no one seemed to miss the usual festivities of the holiday. Yet, I noted occasional concern on Bas’ face as we began climbing a steep and high mountain. I dropped back and fell in line with him, leaving the machete work to Hulse and Taylor. “What’s wrong, Corporal,” I asked.

  “Preoccupied,” he remarked. I frowned. “The jungle. It continues to change.” So, he had noticed also. “If anything’s going to happen it will happen from now on.”

  I stopped walking. “What do you expect to happen, Bas? What the fok are you talking about?” I was, suddenly, very irritated. “I can put up with Taylor’s premonitions … but you.” I shook my head. “You are like me. This is our jungle. It’s just a few dead trees.”

  He looked at me. “It’s not that they are dead. It’s how they died. Strangled. One here and there is okay. It’s nature at work. Have you noted how many there are?”

  “Fok, Bas. You’re being too sensitive … too something.”

  “Maybe, but I can smell them rotting. I can almost hear them screaming for help. This is not our jungle anymore.”

  I breathed out loudly. I had to stop him.

  “Don’t you smell the rot?” he asked, smiling dolefully. I stared at his smile, the look he had troubled me greatly. It was a sad smile seemingly laced with acceptance, but acceptance to what? He reached to his neck and held his green scapular in his hand. “It’s just that I was always a little unsure of this mission. Maybe it’s because it was happening during Awas Q’ij. I don’t know why, but I always had a bad feeling about having the mission being during Awas Q’ij. Yet, Stephen, I have always believed that nothing bad would ever happen to me during Awas Q’ij. I somehow always felt I’d be protected during that time.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s now Easter Monday, Awas Q’ij is over and the jungle is changing, looking ill. I don’t know if I am protected anymore.” He looked deeply into my eyes. “I’m sorry. I just can’t shake the bad feeling, Stephen. I don’t know why. I know it shouldn’t happen. I don’t even know why I have such a feeling.”

  It was the first time he had called me Stephen on the mission. I ignored any possible significance and I had to try very hard to control myself as he was making me very agitated. “What makes you think that something bad is going to happen? Fok! Everything is going well. Don’t overdo this religion thing now.”

  “I’d never do that,” he retorted, angrily. He closed his eyes, knitting his forehead. “It’s just a stupid feeling, I suppose.” He shook his head. “But, as I said, I just can’t shake it. I won’t bring it up again.”

  “You’re my Second in Command. On this mission you are a soldier first. Act like one, Corporal. Make sure your preoccupations don’t spread to the rest of the men or hamper your military judgement. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sarge,” he answered, looking away from me. We resumed walking. His unhappy smile came back to me and lodged in my brain. I was fokin disturbed.

  The men were sweating, their perspiration soaking them more that the drizzle that made it through the canopy. The mountain was steep, muddy, slippery, and difficult to climb. Litter and blowdowns covered with conk94 make ascending more arduous. The rain had increased the humidity to unbearable levels and dense fog was settling, lower and lower, through the overhead canopy forming what could best be described as a cloud forest.95 The easy undergrowth of small herbaceous plants and trees that we had been travelling through over the last few days had disappeared. The shrubs of the undergrowth had become quite bosky96 and heavy foliage increased the apparent darkness we were travelling through. Again, even the frequency of Clarke’s snapping shutters had diminished. I heard Hulse and Taylor cussing as they worked with their machetes; then Hulse turned and came towards me.

  “We’ve just come upon another chaparral and this one is filled with give-and-take.”97

  “Mis,”98 I murmured. “Oh fok!” Hulse glared and frowned. “It’s not you or the give-and-take, Hulse. I’m just fokin irritated.”

  “I think we should go around this one. If we chop through it, we’ll be stopping to rest every ten to fifteen minutes,” Hulse complained. “And that doesn’t include the time we’ll spend taking prickles off our flippin backsides.”

  “And those scratches will get infected,” added Anderson. “Especially in this wet and heat.”

  “I think I see more light up ahead. There may be a clearing or the canopy my not be as dense as here,” continued Hulse. “Once we get around the chaparral, I’ll have a better idea.”

  We had no choice but to go through the chaparral. Hulse and Taylor did a brief reconnoiter and we discovered that we were travelling along a narrow ridge, the sides going downward for hundreds of feet. Unfortunately, the chaparral continued along both sides of the ridge making passage there just as difficult. Further complicating the matter was the presence of a lot of deadfall99 at the bottom of each ravine.

  Illustration 33: A Dense Chaparral.

  Illustration 34: A Dense Chaparral and Thorny Leaves.

  We took turns chopping at the chaparral. An hour later we were out, but we were exhausted, itchy, scratched, bleeding from superficial wounds, and breathing heavily. I supposed that the height of the mountain may have had something to do with the exhaustion as all of us were sea level men. Clarke had thrown himself to the wet ground. I looked at him and assumed that Barbados didn’t have any real mountains. I didn’t know. I decided to order a rest and some food.

  The rain had, once again, lessened. I sat upon my ground sheet that I had placed on some leaves. A small woody covert100 directly in front of me caught my attention as, from time to time, there seemed to be slight movement around its dark center. I stared at it, wondering if it were tired eyes that had imagined the movement or if the movement were actually there. I decided I would examine it more closely when I got up, sensing that there was no immediate danger from it. I closed my eyes. I immediately had the strange sensation of someone or something looking at me. I jerked my eyes opened. From the covert I saw a large pair of eyes watching me. I jumped up and moved in closer. It was actually the nest of a large, fully camouflaged icim, a Mottled Owl. I stared at the medium sized bird, about fifteen inches in length, and it stared back at me with its ominous dark eyes, occasionally turning its round head; yet, it was always staring at me. Its beige belly had dark brown streaks on it and its round head carried no ear tuffs. “Fok,” I cussed aloud. “You can’t be the same fokin bird.” Before I could say anything else, everyone was around and Clarke’s shutters were clicking away so I resumed my place of rest on my ground sheet.

  “Why do we keep seeing a Mottled Owl?” asked Parham, to no one in particular.

  Taylor moved away saying, “You shouldn’t look into an owl’s nest. It will make you morose and unhappy for the rest of your life.”

  “My people!” commented Bas. Then he continued, “They say that a perched owl signifies sickness and death. When you hear it hoot, it means that someone in the area has died.”

&
nbsp; “Well, thank goodness it’s not hooting yet,” declared Clarke. “I’m too young and virile to die.”

  “Its hoot is actually like this, injected Bas. “Gwow-gwow-gwow-gwow-gwot.”

  “Well, it better not gwow-gwow …”

  “Cut it,” I growled, aloud. I didn’t feel like humoring a conversation about sickness and death. “I know it’s damn gloomy and today’s been the most strenuous and miserable day we’ve been through, but let’s keep the mission in mind and don’t forget we’re tuff fokin soldiers who will soon be climbing Victoria Peak. What did you think … that the jungle was all beauty?” The men stared at me, nodded, and moved away from the nest, sitting as far away from it as the small clearing we had made allowed them.