La Selva

My mind worked hard to find a place for the jungle in its knowledge. First in the truck, then on the motorized canoe images flew past. Vines, flowers, soccer balls, suits, bare feet, distended little kid tummies, hammocks, blue butterflies, GREEN, burning oil, pipeline, heat, my bum bouncing hard on the seat, scarlet macaws, bright yellow on black bird (cseke?), nests shaped like tear drops, red crumbly soil, mud, brown river. When we arrived at the bridge we ate and quiet faces watched us from a distance. When I could eat no more, Julio, our guide, stretched out his hand to a little boy ¨Tome¨. He did. As we travelled down stream, leaving the bridge people behind, my mind kept skipping back to the Chattooga River, finding similarities in so many aspects, even the screen and wood candle lit room we passed the night in at Bataboro lodge, but really there was little pecedence for the extreme foliage, insects, and diversity that surrounded us.