Realities of Life in the Amazon

Leaves will crackle.

Mud will squelch.

Sticks will snap.

But the quieter you can walk in the forest, the more you will see.

We live too quickly. In a normal hike through the Amazon, we pass by so many plants, insects, birds, and mammals without seeing. Not because we can't, but because seeing them requires a second glance. And a third. And a fourth. Simply sitting quietly without moving, so many more forms of life will reveal themselves to you.

On a hike at sunrise this morning, we did not see a single bird or mammal. The mist filled the treetops, and the forest sounded alive with life. A group of seven, we walked quickly, hoping to stumble on a tapir, or a jaguar, or an anteater. I believe we have only an infantessimal chance of seeing anything, sprinting through the forest like that.

Later this morning, I walked by myself on the one trail I am allowed to walk alone: Melo's Port, to Old Camp. A short, straight, well-marked trail to where camp used to be located and remnants of a table, a bench, a watertower and some seedbeds still remain. 10 quiet steps into the forest and an agouti ran across the path in front of me. On that short trail to Old Camp I saw many birds, lizards, and insects, all because I was walking silently, one silent step at a time. Walking like this allows you to become more connected to the forest; walking quickly and carelessly, the animals know you are there long before you could ever have a chance of observing them.

The Amazon rainforest is beautiful and full of life, but it is also a dangerous forest that makes sure to let humans know that our modern way of life does not belong here.

I keep my computer in a box with rice in it and my phone in a plastic bag because the humidity has the potential to make them dysfunctional in a matter of days.

Clothing is nearly impossible to keep clean: I hand wash my clothes when I shower with the same biodegradable soap I wash my face and body with. I only wash clothes when the sun is shining. Clothes, once wet, often take 3-5 days to dry. After about two weeks, several of my shirts acquired a putrid stank that a handwashing will not remove and makes them unpleasant to wear.

I keep my clothes in sealed ziplock bags to preserve them from the moisture, at least a little bit. A big part of my nighttime ritual consists of rolling, stuffing, and sealing the clothes into various bags that make up my wardrobe.

The water that comes from the tap here is streamwater, and it is often murky brown.

Showers are, of course, unheated, and so I must make sure to shower before the sun goes down. The first plunge into the cold water is a test of bravery and endurance every time.

Although my body hardly reacts to mosquito bites anymore, the bites come with the possibility of various diseases. Several times a day, I cover myself in toxic chemicals to fend off the carriers of these unseen life forms that would call my body home.

Fungi and mold spread on whatever surfaces they can: leather is preferable, and my leather belt sports a new white coat every few days, even when sprayed with anti-fungal spray. My ukulele case is the same.

These are realities of my life here that I hardly even think twice about. However, they have helped me realize and appreciate the conveniences of life in a developed country to an extent I could have never seen before.