by Paul Rosolie
The snake was in some bamboo by the river’s edge, and looked about nine feet long. Emma took one look and motioned to the driver to swing around and head for it. “JJ, get ready! Paul’s going to teach you how to catch a snake!” Prior to coming I had told Emma that I knew my snakes and wanted to study them during the expedition, an offer she took seriously.
JJ had been dozing with eleven-month-old son Joseph on his chest. He sat up and handed Joseph to Emma. “Go to mama,” he cooed while removing his blue alpaca wool sweater. “Okay we go?” he asked, and smiled at me. The boat pulled up next to the bank, and the large snake froze, waiting to see what would happen next. JJ took off his shirt and then pants, and slid into the water in his underwear. I followed, and though I hate to admit it now, I was feeling a little nervous, but not about the snake.
When you grow up in a place like New York, the heart of so-called civilization, the Amazon is burned into your mind as a place where some way or another, you are going to die. I tried not to think of what could be under that brown water, and the hundreds of crocs I had just seen, or piranha, the penis-eating fish, stingrays, electric eels, or the even worse things I didn’t know about. But when I plunged in there was nothing. The river bottom was sandy and without seaweed or leaves, only smooth, uninterrupted sand. The water was cool and refreshing. It was my first lesson in Amazonian Mythbusting 101.
We closed in together, me in front, JJ following. But before we could get within arm’s reach of the snake it bolted with impressive speed. “Oh dear!” JJ said in a half-British, half-Spanish accent, and laughed. “I am a little glad he went. I was poco scared!” Then JJ bent down and took a big gulp from the river.
“You can drink that?” I asked.
“Oh, sí!” JJ said enthusiastically, and cupped his hands to drink more as an example. “Will you try?” Once again the New Yorker in me cringed, but I took a big swig and found it delicious. Lesson two. It was smooth and fresh, and as JJ and I climbed back into the boat he was happy. “Anyone else want to try?” he asked the sitting volunteers, but none took him up on it. “Most people they come and don’t drink, but this is the best water in the world,” he said, holding his arms out. “Es muy delicioso, no?” I agreed with him and he turned to Emma with raised eyebrows as if to say “not bad.” It wouldn’t be the last time that a snake encounter would spark something profound.
We arrived at the station later that day and as we unloaded the boat, for the first time in my life I entered a jungle. I fell several times carrying luggage and boxes of food up to the station. I couldn’t help myself: it was incredible. When the supplies had been put on the deck of the station Emma instructed everyone to take a half hour to wash up and relax; then we’d have an orientation to go over station basics. I seized the opportunity.
I ran back down the path and to the head of a trail labeled “Link to Transect A.” I had no idea what that meant but followed it. Slowly. It was nearly dusk and the twilit interior of the jungle was ominous. I was acutely aware of being alone. It was terrifying and wonderful. Trees loomed so high that it was impossible to see where many of them crowned. There was life everywhere; every inch of everything was extravagantly draped in other things: mosses, lichens, ferns, mushrooms, trails of leaf-cutter ants, and butterflies. There were strange smells and I could hear creatures moving and calling all round me. It was a complete sensory overload. My courage allowed me to go only at a snail’s pace down that trail, each step tentative and hushed beneath the ancient trees bearded in moss and vines. I came to a place where the land dropped off steeply to reveal a startling jungle vista. Miles of steaming, savage wilderness stretched before me in the twilight.
No matter the documentaries I had watched, the books I had read, and the daydreaming, I was wholly unprepared for the fantastic world around me. Every atom in my body was humming as I hyperventilated, clutching my forehead. I had never been so awed.
The research station was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. It sat about a half mile from the river, nestled in the middle of the jungle, surrounded by green foliage and decorated with brilliant heliconia flowers. It had a palm-thatched roof, with a kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms, and hammocks to relax in. There was no barrier to the outdoors, and each room was open to the jungle. Geckos, hummingbirds, bats, snakes, and rainbow lizards could all be seen without ever leaving the main deck. In the large rectangular central area was the medical box, hammocks, and library; a cabinet was filled with studies, reports, and field guides, as well as novels left by travelers. There was no electricity or communication to the outside world, and the food we ate came entirely from the sacks of rice and other dry items we had brought upriver, supplemented by produce such as bananas, tomatoes, and papaya from the station’s small farm.
Every morning we would wake up at five o’clock to begin research shifts. Sometimes we’d work on mammal senses transects, and other times we would study macaws. Around the stations were several transects, four-kilometer-long paths that had been blazed perpendicular to the river. The goal was to walk as quietly as a ninja, identifying all mammal life encountered, and in recording these observations over time, construct a picture of the local ecosystem. This was where you really got to see some wildlife, as well as Emma and JJ’s impressive skill. Back in New Jersey I had been the guy who could find wildlife no one else could, but this was the big league. JJ could predict when spider monkeys were coming, or smell a troop of peccary a half mile out. He spoke of tracks in the mud the way a violinist reads sheet music, interpreting symbols with deft precision, explaining thoughts and motives of each creature while he knelt. “The jaguar came here last night to check for agouti,” or “the huanganas [peccary] were here for the palm this morning.” At first it was all over my head, as was everything about JJ. Once while inspecting the carcass of a peccary killed by a jaguar, he pulled a tusk from the boar’s skull and handed it to me, without a word.
At thirty-four years old, JJ was handsome and athletically built, with sharp eyes that were always moving beneath the shadow of black spiked hair. In the forest his intensity was unmatched, and while talking and joking at dinnertime that warm energy was explosive, his smile contagious.
On research transects each morning I was able to observe JJ in what was undeniably his natural habitat. He would often walk miles with no shoes, his calloused feet immune to thorns, nettles, and stinging creatures of the forest floor. While looking toward the canopy he could mimic any animal’s call, sometimes carrying on conversations with birds or monkeys, translating to the rest of us. Sometimes he’d cut a piece of bark and hand it to one of the volunteers to sniff, and then explain that it could cure infection or some other ailment. Other times he’d pluck sweet wild fruit from the jungle. Bare-chested, with shoulders slouched and his machete held idly at his side, he’d interact with the forest in a way I hadn’t known to be possible. To him the Amazon was not a savage battlefield of dangers and impending doom, as so many explorers had claimed, but rather a bountiful wonderland filled with treasure and simplicity.
Many have documented the curious fact that in the Amazon, despite being surrounded by extraordinary biodiversity, it is possible to walk for days without seeing a creature. The men who recorded such things clearly didn’t have JJ as a guide. One day’s journal entry recorded the species revealed by JJ’s skill in a single morning:
ANIMAL SIGHTINGS:
Spix’s Guan, squirrel monkeys, saki monkey, mealy parrots, white throated toucan, saddle back tamarins, giant Amazon squirrel, red and green macaws, peccary (50+), screaming piha, red throated cara-cara, yellow crowned parrot, red howler monkeys (heard them, but no sighting), grey brocket deer, blue morpho butterfly, common swamp snake (two), yellow footed tortoise, leaf cutter ants, and a cane toad.
The macaw research was very different. Instead of walking trails we’d sit inside a mosquito net and count the birds as they screamed at each other and ate mud. Having a macaw colpa by the station was a big deal: it meant that our forest was a mecca for th
e birds, and that we could easily see them foraging or nesting in the surrounding forest. Most macaw species are vanishing. Though they once ranged from Mexico down through Bolivia, today macaws are in steep decline. This is mostly due to habitat loss and poaching for feathers and food. The Madre de Dios is one of their last strongholds.
Macaws require primary forest to breed. The ones that frequented our colpa were scarlet and red-and-green macaws, both of which roost exclusively in tree hollows, high in the canopy. Most often they use ironwood trees. But finding a large enough tree with the perfect hole is difficult; studies have shown that suitable hollows are so rare that there is usually only one for every sixty-two acres of forest. This limited real estate means that the birds have to rotate who breeds and when, resulting in only 10 to 20 percent of the population actually reproducing each year.
When poachers go after macaws they often don’t have the expertise or desire to climb the giant ironwood and so instead they cut it down. This removes one of the rare nest sites from the forest and it could take more than a century for another to fill the gap. In this way the poachers affect not only that family of macaws, but the entire population, and future generations. Thus when forest is removed en masse the effects are multiplied. This is how macaws have become so endangered.
Humans have always been fascinated with the brilliant birds, and a pair of scarlet macaws was among the initial gifts Columbus brought back for the queen as proof of his discoveries—it was the first time the birds were seen on European soil. Even today the birds are coveted as they disappear, and you can find their plumage in earrings and decorations sold in tourist shops throughout Central and South America. The birds are so valuable that the last pair of wild Spix’s macaws, a brilliant blue species, was reportedly sold in Switzerland for forty thousand dollars. Now Spix’s macaws exist only in captivity, where they are being bred in the hopes of one day reintroducing the species to the wild.
Watching the monogamous scarlet and red-and-green macaws caw and argue on the riverside was mesmerizing. Even after seeing it every day for weeks, the spectacle was hard to comprehend. The green of the forest and brown clay below were sharply contrasted by the tapestry of yellow flowers that fell near the colpa, and once the crimson birds with blue tails arrived each day, it almost seemed unnatural to see so much color.
When research was over for the day, we’d eat lunch and often be free for the afternoon. I would walk the trails by myself, stalking, listening, eager to see everything. I kept notes of every species I saw: birds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, fish, and even insects. At night I would go out on night walks with JJ, and then prowl around the station with my headlamp even after he’d gone to bed. The next morning at five it would start over again.
I was so wired all day long that JJ was worried.
“You please sleep, no?” JJ asked me in the second week. Everyone else had slouched into hammocks after a long morning’s work, but I was only changing my socks before heading back out alone. He studied my face concernedly. “Don’t you need to sleep?” I told him I was fine. “You love the jungle so much why? I mean, we have sooooo many people come from everywhere and no one is like this—you love la selva, no?” He grinned and stuck a finger under the boar-tooth necklace I was wearing, made from the tooth he had given me from the jaguar kill. I told him about where I had come from, and how long I’d waited to see this place. He squinted as I spoke, and absorbed every word. Then he flashed his wicked smile. “Okay, but tonight you sleep, okay? Tomorrow I’ll show you.”
“Show me what?”
“You see tomorrow.” He said, “Nigh’nigh,” and I was left wondering what the morning would bring.
We woke at 3 A.M. for a reverse transect. By the time we had finished at 8 A.M. everyone in the group was beat and trudging back to the station. JJ grabbed me by the arm and told everyone else to continue on. With his machete he pointed into the forest, off the trail, and said, “Let’s go.”
I had to struggle to keep up with him. He moved like a breeze, fluidly passing through the underbrush, his shirt over one shoulder, machete in the opposite hand. We spent much of the brilliant day walking, and by afternoon the jungle was warm and bright. We traveled without saying a word, moving forward with intensity. I would soon learn that JJ possessed a love of adventure similar to mine, and that he did not joke around about reaching that goal. In those early moments together JJ was teaching me one of his most important lessons about the jungle: if you go where others don’t, and spend enough time really feeling what is around you, anything can happen. It was an unspoken philosophy that we would take to extremes in the future, but on that sunny day in the forest walking I was green as hell and JJ repeatedly turned to me to say “Shh.” Though I was doing my best to keep up, speed and silence are competing qualities to all but the most skilled in the bush.
Every so often, with his finger in his mouth, JJ made a loud wobbling wail that echoed through the jungle. He repeated this in intervals and within ten minutes we heard spider monkeys calling back and tracked them to a fig tree, where they were eating high in the canopy. When we approached the troop was moving slowly east; we followed. For the better part of an hour the long-limbed primates gave us a thrilling acrobatics show. Daring leaps from one tree sent some monkeys through the air for fifty feet before swooshing into the foliage of their target. Mothers with babies leapt nimbly from branch to branch, stopping to observe the humans below, using all four legs and prehensile tail as equal limbs in maneuvering through the canopy.
Moving on, we began following a small forest stream. This stream, JJ said, was one he knew well, and as we walked in silence he stopped often to show me a tarantula burrow, an edible fruiting vine, tapir tracks, or a large catfish. For maybe twenty minutes we hopped and balanced through the small brook, taking in the forest. But upon rounding one bend in the channel, JJ exploded into action. He grabbed my shoulders and pointed straight ahead with his machete. Lying across the width of the stream was a crocodilian more than six feet long.
Seeing any sizable croc for the first time, up close, is like seeing a dragon. Their size and beauty are mesmerizing. Built like armored tanks, the forest caiman in Amazonia is especially formidable. This particular caiman perched above a small waterfall with its mouth open, letting the rushing water carry fish and other morsels into its jagged maw as it basked. In years to come I’d often watch caiman for hours exhibiting this behavior: dozing in a sunbeam for hours, barely awake, occasionally snapping their jaw shut on a fish.
For JJ, who had grown up surrounded by caiman of all sizes and species, this was a mundane encounter. But he wanted to test me. “Catch it! I want to check if he is male or female,” he said, no doubt curious how the kid who loved catching snakes would do on a larger reptile. Having grown up watching Steve Irwin religiously, I had daydreamed this scenario many times, usually during class.
We approached the croc slowly, JJ to the flank, and me from the rear. I knew that with reptiles, the neck is the place to grab—but the problem was getting there. “Just grab his tail!” JJ said with a grin on his face and his eyes sparkling more than ever. I had never seen Steve Irwin grab a croc by its tail and knew it was a bad idea, but JJ insisted.
With my heart pounding, I took a quick step forward and snatched the tail, with its sharp spiked scoots. The croc, which had been lying motionless, exploded into action and, anchored by the grasp I had on its tail, came whipping around through the air, 180 degrees. I dropped the tail and fell back just as the foot-long jaws filled with teeth came whipping past my face, snapping shut with a powerful whack that echoed through the forest.
The croc sprinted for the safety of the stream, disappearing beneath the surface. JJ clapped his hands and laughed at my shocked face. I should have known better, and in later years would learn to never grab a croc by the tail. I had almost lost my face.
JJ leapt into the stream, eyes wide and knees bent, in full action mode. “Come!” he said, beckoning me to join him in the water that
hid the reptile. We walked up and down the shallow pool up to our waists, feeling with our feet. Both of us were sure it hadn’t made it away from there; we would have seen it since the water was shallow where the pool let out. JJ’s eyes were intense and he didn’t speak as his feet explored every crevice of the streambed. Then, finally, he looked up with excitement. “Here!” he said. “There is a cave underwater!”
I used a machete to cut a sturdy pole and stepped above the hole to slowly lower the stick inside. At first there was nothing, but when the branch was almost two feet below the surface I felt a shock. A muted whack came from below, and the stick trembled and stiffened. Startled, I took my hands off the stick, and it stood there, held by an unknown force.
My eyes met with JJ’s as another grin grew on his face. “Pull!” he excitedly whispered. I pulled and lifted the stick upward gradually, until the jaws of the croc emerged above the surface of the water, clenching the stick. JJ launched toward me to grab the furious croc, but it released its grip and fled upstream in a mighty splash. JJ sprinted after it and the croc chose fight over flight and turned on him, jaws agape. The strike missed his legs by less than an inch and he dived to the side—and for an instant the croc’s focus was only on JJ’s flailing body. I dived then, fully horizontal like a shortstop on a line drive, landing on the croc’s back, hands clasping its neck. The moment I landed the croc lashed left and rolled right, throwing me to the side and then launching over me. For a moment I went underwater and then was brought right side up as JJ crashed on top of the croc and me, pinning it.
We shouted in celebration. Lifting the croc from the stream, we inspected the most incredible animal I had ever seen. Its large and threatening eyes were livid, ready to shred either of us if given the opportunity. JJ checked the sex of the croc by inserting a finger into its cloaca. “Male,” he said, still grinning. It measured slightly less than six feet. Still shaking in excitement, I asked JJ to snap a photo of me with my first-ever croc, which he did, before releasing the giant reptile.