by Paul Rosolie
Over the months I thought about the Amazon almost incessantly. Being away from it allowed me to view it with a new perspective. I thought of the secluded research station, and the anaconda expedition with JJ, Chito, and Pico. More and more I began fantasizing about one day returning all the way up to the point where we had had to turn back, and going on. It became a recurring daydream, a world in which I spent more and more time. The more time passed, the stronger the urge grew, and gradually I concluded that at some point in my life, I would escape the world and journey into the deepest parts of the Amazon alone. Somehow, it seemed like I was obligated to do so.
When I wasn’t studying or exploring, my time at the ashram was peaceful, and highlighted by new and interesting relationships. And the fact that there were plenty of snakes around campus. By the first week I had become established as the nutjob-who-catches-snakes, in a countryside where virtually every person fears and kills them. Trent had pointed out that beneath the many termite mounds around the ashram, some as tall as a man, there were holes where cobras often lived. People of the Indian countryside had great respect and fear for these lairs and the snakes that lived within them, especially cobras. One man told me that if you see a cobra and don’t kill it, it will slither into your bed during the night and kill you. He killed every snake he saw. Wherever you go in the world, snakes are among the most gravely misunderstood animals, often deeply tied to superstition and fear.
Though I have never been superstitious, it is a fact that snakes have always been harbingers of great events in my life. The first snake I ever saw, in third grade, was a brilliant blue garter snake. I spotted it while walking with a teacher through a patch of woods and instantly wanted to hold it and marvel at it. For young me, it was a momentous and wondrous moment in life. My teacher, knowing that there was no way of stopping me, scared it away, and then left. Distraught, with tears running down my cheeks, I remained in the woods searching for the snake. Noel came by just then and did his best to help me look for the snake, overturning rocks and logs—and thus began a lifelong friendship. On my first trip on the Las Piedras, JJ and I jumped into the river to go after that huge whip snake, an event that jump-started a friendship that led to us unlocking the Amazon. Had I not met JJ, or connected with him as I did, there would have been no Lulu, no Pico, and no anacondas.
Throughout the semester in India I caught all manner of snakes, from yellow rat snakes to vipers and even cobras. But it was a small checkered keel-back, an unimpressive water snake, that heralded the most important intersection of fates in my life, and was the result of a friendship forged in a tragic moment.
Over the semester Rajesh, the grounds manager at the ashram, who had been so curious about my elephant searches, became a close friend. He found my snake love puzzling and terrifying, and would often run screaming when I’d burst in with a new capture. He preferred to spend peaceful evenings teaching me the rules and skills of the game of carom, which I came to love. We spent a lot of time together, and I returned his tutelage by helping him practice his broken Indian English.
But one day in the computer lab, researching tigers and elephants, I heard a cry that sounded like Rajesh. Then I heard other voices. Instantly the hackles on my neck rose. Most of the students on the study abroad program had gone into the city for the day to shop and party, leaving just me and one other student working. We looked at each other as the din of terror-stricken voices grew in magnitude: something was happening.
Rushing from the tranquil computer lab and down the stairs, we ran toward the noise. What we found was confusing chaos. A dozen men from the surrounding villages were drunk and furious, carrying rakes and poles and other implements of destruction. They were shouting and frantic, with bloodlust written all over their sweating faces. The workers of the ashram, many of whom I had become close to in the previous months, were in a state of terror.
They had sought safety from the mob in a caged patio: workers inside and assailants outside. The village men swung their weapons against the cage; they wanted in. A woman stood at the gate, desperately imploring them to calm down, but they were rabid with rage. One of the villagers kicked the gate and sent the woman backward into the stone wall, where her skull hit the unyielding brick and she fell limp to the floor. The other women within the patio cage shrieked in terror and for the first time I noticed my friend Rajesh on the floor in the corner. His face was bloody and swollen from blows, and his clothes were torn. Several others were shielding him with their own bodies from the oncoming attack. Though I couldn’t understand the words that were being yelled by attackers or victims, it was suddenly very clear what was going on: the mob was trying to kill Rajesh. I knew I would have to wait to find out just why they wanted him dead (although in the end, I never did find out what caused the conflict).
As the gate swung open, a young and very skinny man took over where the woman had fallen, straddling her limp body. But the mob was seething, shouting, and their viciousness was now concentrated wholly on the young man holding the gate. They landed repeated blows on him through the bars, and his courage made my chest shiver. In the dilated, adrenaline-fueled super-reality of the moment, I suddenly wondered if I was about to see a person beaten to death before my eyes. Now they were slashing at him with a machete. I turned to see my student friend from the computer lab, but he had vanished. The mob assaulted the gate, slashing and cursing and spitting. I knew I had to do something but was kept still by the reality of more than ten men with weapons against one kid with none. It was terrifying.
However, as I watched the struggle at the gate door an idea surfaced. Practically flying, I sped to my room and grabbed a large padlock and my camera tripod, and a large bowie knife, which I stuffed into my pants. In a few moments I was back on the scene, where now even more people had gathered. Another ashram worker, husband to one of the women in the patio, had tried to reason with the mob, and when I arrived they rained punches and kicks onto his limp body on the ground. The young guy inside the gate was barely hanging on. Rajesh was bleeding badly within, and a woman shrieked through the bars in desperation as the mob beat her husband on the ground where he lay. Still, though, the focus of the mob was on getting to Rajesh.
In panic, I jumped into the fray of bodies and thrust my arm through the bars, meeting the gaze of the bloodied young man who was holding the gate. He had taken several blows, but in that moment we locked eyes as friends—albeit ones who could not speak a single word of the other’s language—and I handed him the lock. I put my shoulder into the crowd and took a rattling blow to the head while buying my friend the crucial moment he needed to close the gate fully and slip the padlock through the hole. Once he had done it, I retreated. The mob was furious and began throwing stones and thrashing the gate with their farm tools, demanding Rajesh. As their assault intensified, it suddenly seemed that they would rip the entire patio cage to pieces.
At this crucial moment a new figure arrived on the scene. He was well over six feet tall, a villager. But he was not part of the mob. He approached the savage scene wearing his skirt-like lungi and button-down shirt, his impressive pillar-legs set firm on the earth. He roared like a bear and threw one of the mob clear through the air, over the heads of his fellow attackers. Suddenly they all paused, shouting new threats toward the man. He was a giant. The biggest Indian I have ever seen. His stern brow shadowed eyes of black fury above a heavy black mustache. He faced the drunken mob with a quiet promise of pain, as his hands patiently tightened the knot of his lungi.
Like a pack of dogs, the mob turned on the man, shouting and brandishing their weapons, but hesitating to attack. He stood strong, knees bent and powerful arms hanging ready at his sides. Was he going to take on all of them? Onlookers stood transfixed. In a moment of thoughtless support, I rushed to his side, with my camera tripod poised over my shoulder like a baseball bat: two of us against twenty men. For a palpable moment all-out war seemed imminent. But as we stood our ground, others joined us. With each additional person o
n defense, the mob, like all cowardly mobs faced with real opposition, began to lose its enthusiasm.
The day ended without any deaths. The mob was persuaded off the grounds and we spent the day cleaning up Rajesh, and standing watch in case they mounted another attack. The woman who had been knocked out came to, and we all had chai and nursed the wounded in the kitchen. The young man who had held the gate and I sat together for many hours, drinking chai in silent recognition of what had passed. In the days that followed, peace eventually resumed at the ashram.
The strong man in the lungi with the impressive legs and heavy mustache vanished before anyone had a chance to thank him. However, weeks later I saw him once more, riding his bicycle. I waved to him and for a moment he regarded me with a scornfully stern gaze before recognition dawned on his face. He nodded, with a wry smirk of acknowledgment that we had stood together in that dire moment. Not a single word passed between us.
After that Rajesh and I were brothers. We spent even more time playing carom and practicing English. He began calling me whenever someone saw a snake, so that I could capture and relocate it, instead of it being killed. It was a good system. I repaid his many gifts by helping wherever I could. He was in charge of the festivities that surrounded the ashram’s annual music festival, and I helped him along with the other students to prepare. We spent weeks decorating, organizing, and planning.
On the night of the show, thousands of people flocked in. It took place in a stunning stone amphitheater that descended in large pews to a stage over which an old banyan tree grew. It was a beautiful spot. Everyone at Fireflies prepared night and day for weeks beforehand, and when the night finally came it was well worth the effort. Bands from all over India played the music of their heritage, ranging from the ancient to traditional to fusion Indian rock. The audience was like what you would see at an Olympic opening ceremony in terms of diversity, with people from all over the world. The energy was explosive. It was a festive night, and as I helped usher bands from their rooms onto the stage I kept sneaking shots or tokes from friends; by midnight I was pretty buzzed.
Amid the haze of light and sound Rajesh came running and grabbed me by the wrist. “There is a snake by the stage, boss, you have to come!” Instantly I sprinted after him. We both knew that if the locals got there first, they would surely kill the snake. As I arrived near the stage people were recoiled in fear, staring at a hole among the roots of a tree. “Where is it?” I asked, and several helpful onlookers informed me that the snake had vanished into the hole. The snake was safe, but people were still scared.
Just as I was reassuring people that there was no way the snake would come out again, a girl skidded to a halt directly in front of me. My eyes widened when I saw her black hair and big eyes; she was stunning. I had been scanning the crowd all night, admiring the abundant female beauty, but this was different. We all go through life with an image of what we desire in another, emotionally, physically, etc., and frequently copy and paste various traits into an unfocused collage of who we hope is out there, and I instantly recognized the girl before me as the focused manifestation of mine. I was breathless. “Where is the snake?” she demanded with melodic authority. I smiled and countered with “Why would you like to know?”
She gave me a vexed grimace. “Because in my country they will kill a snake if they get the chance. I have to catch it and get it out of here. Now, where is it?” I was mystified. Who was this beautiful girl who caught snakes? I explained that it had gone into the hole, and pointed out where. She dropped to her knees and peered in. If her physical beauty was the first punch I received, her genuine concern for the safety of a small creature was the finishing blow. Now I was swimming. Who was this girl?
“Hey, look,” I said, “I work with snakes professionally. It won’t come out again tonight; it should be fine.” She was standing now but still gazing toward the hole to be sure.
“You work with snakes?” she asked.
“Yeah, anacondas, bushmasters—all different stuff—in the Amazon.” I was hoping that she would have been more impressed than she was.
“Cool. This was probably a cobra. Have you ever worked with cobras? A few months ago,” she continued without pausing, “I was in Rajasthan and we were on elephant back in the high grass and we saw a king cobra; it was incredible.” She could see my questioning look and explained: “We were on a class trip and went tracking rhinos, which has to be done on elephant back. Actually, we found one and it charged us. Pretty scary! We came so close to getting . . .” As she spoke, the exotic orange glow from the stage and ancient foliage of the banyan’s branches illuminated her features. I tried not to stare at her, but I was reeling from the shock of what I saw and heard. I remember at one point during the night seeing Rajesh smiling and wobbling his head at the sight of so many sparks resulting from his snake call.
Though I talked to this girl as much as I could during the long night, I remained mostly occupied with various jobs, and by morning we politely exchanged email addresses and parted ways. In the months that followed, I wrote to her many times, but I never got a single message back. I tried to convince myself that my mind was embellishing memories, but in my mind the girl at the music festival had become the girl.
Despite thinking about her all the time, I tried hard to shake it off. The foundation, rule number one, for me, had always been to remain free; to focus on exploration and wildlife, and hone skills that would allow me to push the boundaries of exploration in the Amazon. At the time, the idea of getting tied down by some girl was detestable—especially one that lived all the way across the globe in India! With determination, I coached myself into letting it go.
During the semester I had become good friends with a guy named Ananda, whose father ran the ashram. Ananda and I shared a fascination for snakes and other wildlife. Together we planned to travel when our classes were done to a rainforest reserve in the Western Ghat Mountains. There, Ananda promised, were tigers and elephants, as well as snakes and many other creatures.
Just two weeks before I was to meet him for the journey, he phoned to ask if a good friend of his could join us. “She said she met you at the music festival, something about a snake? Her name is Gowri.” How it happened I still don’t know, and I won’t dare begin to calculate the odds, but somehow the one close friend I had made in India was a classmate and friend of the girl haunting my memory.
We planned to meet in two weeks and head out to the jungle. In the interim I could not help but be excited, despite my efforts to the contrary. We had agreed to a rendezvous point where I would meet up with Ananda and Gowri. When the day finally came, Ananda waved as his rickshaw approached. When he reached me he hopped out and gave me a hug, and that’s when I saw Gowri inside, beaming. Without exaggeration, I can say that when our eyes met this time, we both knew.
The three of us spent a magical week together amid the unfathomable beauty of the Western Ghats rainforest. Though the area is not in any way comparable in size to the Amazon, I found myself in similarly wondrous rainforest. Hornbills and monkeys called from the canopy, and herds of elephants left tracks in the streams—even a few tigers made their living in the verdant rainforest. Rich, flowering foliage supported limitless wonders, from Malabar gliding frogs to king cobras to stunning flowers. In an orchid garden, Gowri and Ananda and I would marvel at pit vipers; once we found a stick insect as thick as a man’s finger and ten inches long.
With each passing minute it became unbearably obvious that there was a powerful magnetism between Gowri and me. We climbed strangler figs, caught snakes, and adventured together. She was as at home in the jungle as I was. I had never been so lost in someone, so completely at ease. Being with Gowri was a different plane of reality; there simply weren’t enough hours in the day for us to interact. She had an honest and unassuming, almost childlike enthusiasm, and a way of existing in the moment that was unlike anyone I had encountered. In the refreshing glow of her energy I felt like I had for the first time found a member of
my own species.
By the time the week had ended I was desperate to continue my relationship with this incredible girl and see where our friendship would go. But I was flying back to the United States and down to the Amazon in just two days.
Leaving the jungle with Ananda and Gowri, we boarded a sleeper bus back to Bangalore. Over the course of a night spent watching the Indian countryside pass by while others slept, we made the most of our last moments together. To make a long story short, after much whispering, positioning, and gradually drawing closer, we took advantage of the only chance we would ever get and kissed—kissed like the world was ending, which in a way it was.
It was as exciting as it was tragic. There was no longer any denying the enormity of what had swept us up. Moments after it happened Gowri began to cry, and we both confessed to holding back the entire week because of the logistical wall we were up against. I told her that all I knew for certain was that every molecule in my body was aware that this was not the kind of connection that happens twice in a lifetime. Still, I was leaving in just a few hours for the other side of the world. In all likelihood, life would go on, time would pass, and we would never see each other again.
By morning we arrived in Bangalore and got breakfast and the world felt new, somehow on fire. It was wonderful and horrible. Once again we were carried by luck. I had gone back to the ashram to pack and promised Gowri that I would meet her in the city before flying out the next morning. But with my bags ready to go, mere hours away from leaving, I noticed my passport was missing. After a few frantic hours of searching I realized that weeks earlier I had left it with a friend while I went swimming. That friend was now a thousand miles away. There was no way I was flying out tomorrow.