Contents ( 49)
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
All around us, in the darkness, caiman watch from the shore or the water, their eyes red orbs. Omar tells me that every animal’s eye-shine in the night is different: cats’ eyes—jaguars’—are bluish green when a light is shone on them. Fish eyes glow orange or silver, neon green for snakes, and they never blink. Spiders’ eyes flash as they skitter across the water, tiny white orbs. Nestled in the branches above, three owl monkeys observe us with orange eye-shine; I can make out their round bodies, white-and-gray faces, all hugging one another, bushy tails intertwined, a family.
Omar tells me that in the jungle you need to be in a state of chronic watchfulness as well as readiness. Both are necessary to stay alive. Every tribe has their own word for how the jungle can mesmerize, or put you in a trance of watchfulness only, a dangerous state. In Tatinga, the word is umahtar, pronounced oo-mah-tahr. It’s easy for the jungle to umahtar you into a state of watchfulness only, forgetting readiness.
The moon’s face looks down on us, dour, asks why we are there. I stare at my hands: otherworldly white, wrinkled skin that never seems to dry. My back aches with the weight of the baby. Omar covers me the best he can with what mosquito netting we have, but mosquitos land and bite anyway. All around us the river curls and rumbles, wrapping itself around the boat, pulling, eager to wear away the lianas that tether us to an overhanging branch. When full dark hits, Omar leaves me and stands at the prow, watching for snakes, listening for jaguars huffing at the bank. Because he sits in readiness, I let myself doze, holding every detail of his graceful form in my mind’s eye.
THIRTY-FIVE
The next morning, Omar hid the boat, disappearing it completely along the bank under vegetation that he marked with a few subtly crossed branches. He stepped into dense forest with no hesitation. Turning back to me, he offered his outstretched hand, whatever anxieties he felt hidden behind a determined expression. Behind us, the splash of a fish left a soft scar on the water. My baby kicked up under my rib cage, more interested in living than I was at that point. Finally, I took Omar’s hand and pushed myself through the pulsing, ticking green.
We walked for hours, stopping only to drink from plants or vines. Even though he made a few forays to search out my favorite fruit, a kind of apple called annona, by the time he was done cutting and peeling some sweet sections, I had no appetite, for that or for the dried tapir meat. I told him I craved peppermint, so he climbed a small tree that bent with his weight and broke off some leaves that tasted strongly of mint. Though dizzy with the stabbing pain in my skin, I hadn’t let myself look at the lesions that morning: it would have given the microscopic demons more power. Instead, I chewed leaf after leaf, breathing peppermint air as I trailed just behind him, his lean back shining with sweat as he hacked through the vines, machete flashing in the wan light.