How to Walk a Puma

by Peter Allison

  ‘What the hell is that?’ the Minke asked me.

  ‘Howler monkeys. The world’s loudest land animal,’ I replied, grinning in the dark. I’d glimpsed them before in the Pantanal, but hadn’t heard them calling properly until now, and only knew what the sound was because there was simply nothing else it could be.

  The aptly named howler monkeys kept their chorus going all through our breakfast, then went silent as they headed off to find their own food.

  By now, despite some sunburn and Thema’s uncanny ability to wait until people had just begun to doze off before hitting us with a phrase of an unknown song, I was more relaxed than I had been in years. South America was teaching me that it wasn’t just adventure I had given up to sit behind a desk. Feelings of peace and contentment had become so foreign to me during the last seven years in Sydney that at first I resisted them, in case I became accustomed to them and was heartbroken once they were taken away again. But the river won, and by the fourth day I was little more animated than a carrot, but surely much happier. Having Lisa to share it with made it even more special, and she whispered in my ear one night that she was glad we came on the trip, and even more that we’d been on the same bus all those months ago in Patagonia.

  •

  On the fifth day, though, everything changed. Somehow we had made up the lost time from our late arrival and Cesar promised that we would make it to our destination, the small jungle town of Rurrenabaque, by nightfall.

  ‘Lah, lah, lah,’ Thema responded flatly to the news.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ I protested. ‘That’s not even a song.’

  Despite the pleasure we had all taken in the trip we now began fantasising about a shower, a bed that didn’t deflate during the night, beer, and fatty food like pizza (Reina’s impressive earlier fare had dried up and our more recent meals had been variations on fried plantain—which, without condiments, we discovered to be as tasty as an old sponge).

  The scenery, which had been subtly changing since our trip began, gave way dramatically, with sheer cliffs soaring on either side of us, their sides worn smooth from years of the river’s work. By now the water was clear, and at last I saw some herons, standing on rounded ledges, staring intently at the river, waiting to spear any fish that ventured too close to them.

  Then just as suddenly we emerged from the canyon, and the river fanned out to the greatest width we had seen so far, perhaps two hundred metres across. The currents and countercurrents this change set up made the surface a sequin-dazzle of ripples, and our little raft jolted as if being dragged over cobbles.

  A sideways thrust suddenly caught us and despite hard paddling from Abel and some desultory stirs at the back from his son, the raft was dragged close to the bank. A visible current ran against the river’s flow, and a line as definite as lane markings on a highway showed where the two currents met each other. The circular span of spinning water covered almost the whole width of the river, and there was no way of avoiding it. Soon we were heading back upriver, until the current we were trapped in pushed against the rocks and shot us back in the direction of Rurrenabaque. Yet this was no cause for celebration, because we were heading towards far more turbulent water. My heart thumped as I realised we were going to be sucked into the dangerous-looking whirlpool ahead of us.

  The front left corner of the raft dipped down as we hit the swirl, water rushing up and over Abel, then onto the Minke, myself and English Nick. Bucking and bobbing, the raft spun round in a sickening circle. Despite being drenched, Abel kept his rowing regular and strong. As we spun faster and deeper into the whirlpool I clutched at my smaller backpack like it was my baby. My larger backpack could be sacrificed but this one contained all my most treasured possessions—a camera, my binoculars and bird books.

  The whirlpool abruptly spat us out, soaking everyone at the back, then the raft was caught once more in the cross-current and we shot back in the direction we’d come. Again, Abel leant hard into his strokes. Glancing back I saw Captain Useless dipping his paddle as though he were stirring tea and didn’t want it to slosh out of his cup.

  The whirlpool had an inexorable pull, and after one lap past the bank we were sucked straight back into the centre, sinking deeper, the water coming up to my waist and grabbing me like desperate hands, pulling and tugging.

  ‘Hold on,’ I shouted, as much to myself as anyone else, as we spun deeper into a chaos of foam and turgid water. The stoic Abel kept paddling, somehow not flung from the raft despite having no handhold.

  A sudden savage lurch saw the paddle ripped from Abel’s grasp and accelerate past us into the spiral of water. I looked back at Abel’s son, who was similarly empty-handed, his paddle also ripped away, or perhaps thrown away for fear of having to use it.

  ‘Without a paddle!’ I shouted, laughing hysterically despite the danger we were in. The whole raft angled sideways now, leaning into the vortex, and while it wasn’t quite a science-fiction waterspout with a huge cavity that could swallow us whole, I did imagine that when we hit its middle we’d all be sent flying; in that sort of water even the Minke with her fins for feet might struggle.

  The rear of the raft dipped, touched the middle; we spun, and somehow crested out of the turbulence, back into the mad looping current again. We could maybe paddle for the bank, using our arms and whatever tools we had, then portage the raft until we were past the vortex, but Abel and Cesar gave no orders.

  ‘A paddle!’ the Dutchman shouted, and we turned to see it bob to the surface, tantalisingly close. ‘I’ll get it,’ he added, making as if to dive in.

  ‘No! You’ll die,’ shouted the Minke, causing his girlfriend to clasp a vice-like hand on his arm.

  Attached to the raft by twine was a loose tube which we’d used as a dinghy of sorts when someone wanted off the main vessel. The Minke offered to get into it and scull her way to the errant oar, but Abel had a better idea, and reeled the tube towards himself, then threw it like a life ring, snaring the paddle and drawing it in.

  At the same time we were heading back into the whirlpool. Abel leant deeper into his strokes, and those on the same side as him used their hands and even a book to paddle along with him. The sucking noise of the whirlpool grew louder, and we drew closer, angling in despite the grunts of effort aboard; then the front of the raft nudged the edge of the maelstrom, but this time it did not dip, and instead we sailed past, the circle broken, on the way to Rurrenabaque.

  ‘My God, did we almost die then?’ came the voice of someone from the back.

  ‘Yep,’ I answered, still looking resolutely ahead, still holding the raft so tightly it’s amazing I didn’t pop a tyre tube. A pulse thrummed in my ear and I knew that I was grinning, feeling a thrill usually reserved for some wildlife encounter. ‘Makes you feel alive though, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Loony,’ said the Minke, leaning over to peck my cheek.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I thought, ‘loony for sure, but alive. Alive!’

  Drunk with relief we laughed through the last leg, cheering the sun on as it sank and threatened to break Cesar’s promise of arrival by sundown, then erupting into cheers when the town came into sight as the barest solar sliver hovered over the river’s surface.

  ‘Nicely done, Cesar, nicely done,’ I said, still buoyant in the adrenal afterglow, and not even minding when, to celebrate our arrival, Thema burst into song.

  One Hundred Ways to Bleed

  After our miraculously punctual arrival in the small jungle town of Rurrenabaque, we spent two days luxuriating in warmish showers and well-stocked bars. Our next adventure—again a watery one—would set off three hours down yet another rattling South American road.

  Old hands now, I turned to Lisa as we departed another cramped minivan, with a different group of travellers this time, and asked, ‘Are my teeth loose?’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘All of them.’ I grinned maniacally.

  Unlike the epic rafting trip with Abel and Captain Useless, this river journey would offer situa
tions literally more hairy, as this was a wildlife-rich area. Many tour operators used the same point as an embarkation area, and almost one hundred people were milling around, waiting to be allocated a canoe and guide. The cluster the Minke and I had joined was a mixed bag of a pair of my fellow Australians, an English couple and two French travellers, who were either mute or had no interest in speaking to us, Eric, our guide, or each other. I’d only figured their nationality based on the names they’d given when I introduced myself.

  •

  Despite being landlocked, Bolivia maintains a navy, a relic from the days before they lost coastal access in a war with Chile. We watched and waited while a Bolivian official, spruce in his uniform, made sure that the flotilla of motorised canoes we’d be travelling in for the next stage of our journey were counted and ticked off. He did so with all the professionalism that fully loaded battleships would require, frowning as he double-counted every vessel. As the little group that would join the Minke and me waited to be told to board, our guide, Eric, stood watching with a broad smile that we were soon to realise was semi-permanent.

  Eventually there were only a few canoes left. ‘All those ones,’ said Eric, waving towards the river as the last few canoes disappeared, ‘will go too fast, and make too much noise. We’ll go slowly and quietly, and see lots of animals!’

  ‘Oh, I like this,’ I thought. So with smiling Eric in the rear, our small group set off last, saluting the naval officer, who just glared back at us, maybe imagining a vast ocean he might one day command, or perhaps just lay his eyes on.

  Unlike the jungle we’d got used to seeing on our raft trip, this time we were surrounded by sprawling pampas on either side. Pampas areas are tropical, but with far more expanses of open grassland than jungle. And while this habitat lacks the kaleidoscopic biodiversity of the rainforests, we were likely to see more animals because the open pampas allows viewers to see that much further, and animals that live there are more accustomed to being watched by humans and are thus less inclined to run away.

  A few trees sprang up from the plains, and in places the river banks were overrun with scrambled shrubs and liana vines in which monkeys clambered. Often the monkeys would beg for fruit from people in the passing boats, behaviour resulting from bad tourism practices, and I was glad to see that grinning Eric didn’t encourage such activities.

  As Eric steered us along the river’s wending course, smiling at his surrounds, giggling at the monkeys and occasionally pointing out the caimans sunning themselves on the bank, my hopes rose that this was the right sort of place to see a jaguar.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ Eric exclaimed, the phrase sounding quaint in his accented English. ‘I’ve never seen that before!’

  I swivelled around, trying to see what he was referring to. Nearby, a flicker of movement became a ripple, and I realised that what I was looking at was a caiman that had caught a snake. But not just any snake. It was an anaconda.

  ‘Wow! Take some photos, please. The other guides won’t believe me!’ said Eric, laughing, as if their doubt was the funniest thing imaginable. Quite thrilled, we carried on. I felt my luck curve take an upswing and wondered if maybe, just maybe, we might see something very special here. Something with spots.

  Not long after our sighting of the anaconda-eating caiman, a certain smell began to tickle my nose which I recognised as the distinctive odour of marijuana. Puttering around a corner we caught sight of another canoe, moving even more slowly than ours, puffs of grey-white smoke emanating from it, and not from the motor.

  The guide for the magic dragon group stood at the back, wearing a khaki camouflage shirt with torn-off sleeves, a knife of ridiculous proportions hanging from his belt. I’ve never been to a wilderness area that didn’t have guides like him, the sort that take the job not because they love animals or the outdoors, but because they think it makes them look tough and will impress girls. At the front of El Macho’s canoe stood one of the tourists, heavily muscled, with a military-looking close crop of hair.

  In countries with tourism industries, the least-popular tourists will often be those who visit in the greatest numbers. Thus, in parts of Africa, Americans are unloved; in Mozambique, South Africans are often reviled; the Brits have a reputation in southern Spain. But in Bolivia the dominant and most disliked tourists are Israelis, and this canoe clearly held a group of Israelis doing their bit to further damage the reputation of their country.

  I didn’t care where they were from, or that they were smoking weed, or even that they were making more noise than is appropriate in a wilderness area, but my hackles rose as I saw the muscle-bound tourist reach down into the canoe and come up with a stick which he threw at a caiman that was sunning itself on the bank. Even though the stick was little more than a twig, and it missed, and even if it had hit the caiman’s armoured skin could easily take such a blow, a cold fury began to course in my veins as it does whenever I witness any sort of cruelty to animals.

  My icy rage grew as he reached back down and then threw another stick, missing again, but this time sending the caiman scuttling into the water. For a while we lost sight of him as his canoe rounded a bend but then saw him again throwing sticks at caimans. Mutters of ‘what a wanker’ rose from our canoe.

  ‘He’ll run out of sticks,’ I thought, steam all but whistling from my ears. Sure enough, he was soon out of ammo. But the guide then did one of the worst things I’ve ever seen a guide do, pulling over so Muscles could gather more sticks. Apoplectic with rage by now, I was ready to dive into the water and try to overtake their canoe with furious paddling, haul the muscly guy out of the boat, and then … well, I had no plan, but something that would hurt him before he drowned me. But the Minke made soothing noises at me and maybe even physically restrained me.

  Now Muscles started throwing sticks at anything in sight, including a heron that had its back to him yet somehow detected the missile in the last fraction of a second and flared its wings, sidestepping the stick he’d thrown. Birds not only lack the caiman’s armour, but have bones light and hollow for flight, and even a small blow can break their limbs. The bird would have died had it been hit, possibly not immediately but over some days as it weakened.

  By now I hated not just the stick thrower, but the guide. ‘Why doesn’t he stop him?’ I asked Eric, just to say something and unclench my jaw.

  For once Eric was not smiling; he simply said, ‘That guide is not a good one.’

  I was also furious with Muscles’ group. Surely there was someone aboard who could see that what he was doing was wrong? Maybe he was such an alpha male that the men were cowed, but one of the women could have humbled him. Yet no one did anything; they just puffed away at their joints and laughed at every missile he threw.

  Finally they slowed, and nudged into a bank near a campsite festooned with the word ‘Flecha’, Spanish for arrow. It wasn’t planned, but as we puttered within range I stood up abruptly, causing a slight sway in the canoe that Eric was forced to correct, taking us a little closer to the alighting group.

  ‘Hey! Digestive exit!’ I shouted, or words that described such a thing in cruder terms.

  Not surprisingly, they all turned to look at me.

  ‘No, you! Genital skull!’ I shouted (or words to that effect), waggling an outstretched finger at the muscled man as I called him after many unmentionable forms of waste, as well as accusing him of taking great pleasure in activities with his family that were not only distasteful but, frankly, impossible without surgery.

  Muscles just stood there looking in perplexity at the frenzied little man shouting at him; finally it dawned on me that he genuinely didn’t know what he’d done to earn this diatribe. Eric sensibly had not slowed nor deviated in his course, clearly not wanting to be part of any intergroup brawl, and I was now swivelled at the waist shouting back at Muscles. I tried to think of a strong finish, but could only come up with, ‘Don’t throw sticks!’ Then, after a brief pause, I added, ‘At animals!’

  And they w
ere gone. I sat down, feeling a tad foolish, shaking with the adrenalin that any sort of conflict produces. Loud applause followed, and the sound of many birds taking flight, and I realised my group was clapping me.

  As my fury waned and the ice left my veins I began to wonder about the origins of the tattoo I’d seen on Muscles’ shoulder. It was likely, I realised, that we’d run into his group again over the next few days. Maybe he was special forces, I thought. Or a ninja.

  I was dead, I just didn’t smell like it yet.

  •

  We arrived at our camp that evening to discover it was a shared one, and among the group already there found David/Adair from the rafting trip. I genuinely liked David so it was great to see him. After a quick catch-up the conversation turned to the antics of his countrymen that afternoon, with the Minke describing the stick thrower’s behaviour.

  He was very embarrassed, and explained, ‘He’s probably straight out of the military. They come here because it’s a cheap place to visit, but they’re just looking to let off steam and probably have no real interest in where they are.’

  ‘Don’t worry, one day I’ll meet you in Bali and then I can be embarrassed by Australians,’ I said; then, still curious, I described the shape and positioning of Muscles’ tattoo.

  ‘Hmm, really?’ said David. ‘Ex-commando.’

  ‘So not a ninja, then. Thank goodness,’ I said.

  ‘He’s the sort of guy who knows a hundred ways to make you bleed.’

  ‘Excellent. Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Pretty brutal what they do,’ said David. ‘Hopefully you won’t run into him again.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ I said, and though I didn’t really believe what I was saying, I still didn’t regret what I’d done.

  ‘Okay. Just be careful though. Those guys aren’t known to be forgiving.’