Things Change

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THE BLUE HERON

Sitting in the back of Patrick’s red pick-up truck, I watch the ribbon of dusty, yellow road stretch endlessly behind us. It marks our path along one of Belize’s only two highways as we hurtle further and further away from the tiny jungle town of San Ignacio. It is nearing the end of the dry season and the stunted trees that whiz by are thirsty for the coming rains. The earth is cracked and parched after almost three months of drought. Despite the reckless speed of the driver, time seems to be moving at half speed. James wakes me out of me reverie and lazily passes me a loosely rolled joint. It is hard to believe that it was only yesterday that Emily and I hooked up with Patrick and six others over a beer in town, and planned to head out to the river this morning.
The early morning heat acts as a sedative, and I feel like I am half asleep as we haul the canoes off the rack and begin heading down to the river’s edge. The Belize River cuts through the centre of the country like an appendix scar, and stretches out for almost two hundred kilometres before it finally reaches the Caribbean waters. Finally in our boats and pushing off from the dark, mucky bank it dawns on me for real. There is nothing but two hundred kilometres of curving banks and emerald green forest ahead of me. It does not take long for the sounds of the forest to lull my senses into submission for everything that is about to unfold.

The olive water beneath us now is some of the deepest that we will travel through over the next couple of days. The scorching temperatures have deprived the river bed by almost five meters of water through January and February and the pale, muddy cliffs on either side are a testament to the season. In some places the banks had given out, and the thin trunks with their heavy broccoli tops had tumbled into the water, revealing the rapid life cycle of the vegetation in this sub-tropical jungle. I feel like every breath I take has been created just for me, and every living thing here breathes with me.

As the morning wears on, we weave our delicate course back and forth to avoid the treacherous, shallow, sandy banks. Back and forth, like the tip of a cat’s tail, methodically planning its next pounce. We are gliding and drifting, and allowing the current to do the work pulling us to our ultimate destination, days away. Patrick is in the back of my canoe, expertly slicing his paddle in to steer us on our zig-zag course. We have all been eerily silent over the last couple of hours, drinking in the entire jungle experience. I am lost in my thoughts and dreams and I linger in my pleasant isolation. My ears are hyper sensitized to the songs of all of the life forms present around me, and I am utterly captivated.

* * *

The essence of rural settlement pierces my nose before my eyes are ever introduced to what lies high up on the banks around the next river bend. Smoke from a fire looms into view as we approach the three run down buildings that make up a small riverside town. I am surprised to see these signs of habitation, assuming that my travel companions would be the only people I would see over the coming week. The midday sun has raised the humidity level, and every sight, smell, and sound feels close. The scent that alerted me to the human presence hovers in the heavy air, and becomes ever more offensive as we float towards the town. The pungent odour of blood assaults my brain as we gently approach what can only be a slaughterhouse. Two men clad in stained tank tops and faded jeans stop their butchering long enough to wipe the sweat from their foreheads, smearing them with blood. The world goes mute as I stare into the faces of the men. I am holding my breath under their gaze as we slip by. Leaving the town behind us, I turn to face the way ahead. There is the unmistakable sound of splashing as lumps of massacred flesh and sharp bone deemed unfit for human consumption become a tasty snack for the lazy crocodiles that lie below the calm surface.

As the sun reaches its zenith in the sky, our baking skin is screaming for mercy. We decide to stop at a low sandy bank to have some lunch and a respite in the shade of the thick bush. Unable to deal with the idea of making a fire, the consensus is that we make sandwiches and crack into the rum punch while there is still ice in the cooler. I plant myself on the soft banks, and my ass is grateful for a change from the hard seat of the canoe. The sun has sapped me of my energy and my eyes become fixated on the water that seems to be calling my name. I look around at Patrick, Julie, Emily, and Dred who have fallen asleep under a giant palm. Steve is writing in his journal next to James, who is having his own fantasies staring at the water. He looks up and catches my eye, he is grinning. The sound of splashing breaks our locked gaze, and gives me cause for alarm. Crocodiles? Both of our heads snap back towards the river in time to see two young boys playfully swimming by. If they are in the water, there must be nothing to fear in this part of the river. Our eyes fix on each other again, but only for the two seconds before we leap up and start tearing off our clothes. We run screaming to the edge and dive in without a moment of hesitation. Our whoops of delight rouse the others and soon a full scale water fight is underway as we try not to lose our footing on the steep, slippery rock beneath us.

* * *

The sun burns its path down the centre of the river, and it seems that our only goal for the afternoon is to stay as cool as possible. The insects are humming and buzzing their protest to the heat, creating an electricity in the air. I am covered in a film of sweat that attracts a vibrant, shimmering blue butterfly to land on my arm and begin to absorb the minerals that are leaking out through every pore. I dip my hand into the silky warmth of the water and douse my head for the umpteenth time since we left our shady lunch spot. Patrick steers the boat to hug the banks wherever the depth will allow. Our three boats are drifting close enough together to allow us to pass the bottle of rum punch back and forth. No matter how much I swallow, it never seems to be enough. The afternoon temperatures have drawn the wildlife closer to the water, in the hopes it will have a cooling influence. The result is an increase in the overall volume of the wildlife sounds around us. The intensity is almost too much, and I fear that the sun’s effects will make me crazy. My skin is searing.

I spot a beautiful overhanging tree up ahead and encourage Patrick to park it for a moment and roll one. I tie the leader to one of the low hanging branches and the other boats moor onto ours. A slight breeze picks up and dances over the surface of the water, rustling the pile of dead giant palm leaves that have collected around a fallen log not far ahead. The moment of relief has a brief quieting effect as everything from the smallest frog to the largest mammal just stops to savour the breath of air that plays across their faces. Time stands completely still. I don’t know how long my face was turned up into the draft, but I do know it did not last long enough to cool my boiling blood. The forest comes back to life again, their calls raging in protest against the blazing rays. Another gust gathers force and blows across the crowns of the trees far above us. I can hear it, see it, even smell it. It rattles a family of howler monkeys sleeping high in the branches of the tree we are sitting under, and they are annoyed to be awakened from their slumber, responding with thrashing growls that sound more like wildcats. Dred responds with his own growls that encourage a communication of sorts between them. My mouth hangs open in awe and fascination as they voice their frustrations to each other. When the head of the howler family begins to descend the boughs for a closer investigation, I untie our line to the shore and set us all adrift in a clump.

The sluggish current carries the canoe island while we drink and smoke. Birds accompany us on our journey as they troll the water for fish. A giant white egret stands on the shore with its beak under its wing though it emerges to witness the strange sight sailing by. In perfectly magical, synchronized intervals, blue and white herons swoop down off of their perches with a single deafening flap of their wings and then glide gracefully, silently just above the surface. Kingfishers plunge and dip in their dance and lead our procession. It seems like we are being given our own private show as finally the sun’s intensity begins to wane. My body is starting to feel relief as we begin looking for a good flat clearing on a high bank to pack it in for the night. The spot has to be just right.

* * *

As we all sit around the campfire after dining on rice, beans, and iguana, I reflect on the events of the day. To my amazement, the setting of the sun has brought the rest of the animals that sleep during the day to life. Crickets chirp as the howlers roar all around us. Some type of bird provides percussion with an unfailing whoop that will last through the entire night. Thousands of different species of frog sound their mating calls, timing it precisely so that each croak is heard individually. The jungle symphony rises in pitch and then falls away, over and over again. We shine our flashlights into the water in the hopes of spying the reflective eyes of prowling crocs. We smoke constantly to keep the mosquitoes out of our eyes, while I can sense the small jungle animals rushing in the bushes. Our three fires at the corners of the campsites mark our territory to any curious, unwanted visitors. Somehow I feel safe even though I can feel hundreds of pairs of eyes studying my every movement.

Finally, it comes time to say good night and head off to my tent. My mind is on sensory overload and I need to still it. On the path up from the bank I am enveloped by a swarm of fireflies. Before today, I thought they were fictional. Their glowing bodies enchant me and I stop and watch them flit around me, and then off to their next destination. I climb into my tent and lie down on top of my sleeping bag since it is still way too humid to be inside of it. I have no idea how I will ever get to sleep when the sound of the nighttime musicians is amplified off of every surface to the point of almost deafening me. As I am slowly engulfed by my dreams, I realise that I cannot wait to get up and do this all again tomorrow...