After the Howling Monkeys

I can still hear them, almost 40 years later, scrambling above us and howling at our presence down below. It’s like a musical refrain cemented in my brain; haunting yet so familiar. The jungle can do that to you. It can enlighten, threaten and even kill you in a heartbeat.

In our case, that could have come in the form of six different varieties of poisonous snakes, anyone of which could have killed us with just one small nick of their fangs. Yet on we trudged through the nearly impenetrable jungle in search of some great cinematic shots, which unfortunately, we never got.

In hindsight, the trip could have easily cost me my job. I returned without a script, a good shot list and no discernable story to tell of our venture. My interpretation of the trip wasn’t the television special my boss had hoped for. Fortunately, other distractions took his attention away from my ‘failure to deliver’ and l lived on to work another day at the television station.

This jungle venture began when I was asked to headed up a small film crew that was part of a group of photojournalists invited by the Costa Rican government to explore Corcovado National Park in Costa Rica and (hopefully) write or create television programs to promote it.

The Park is located on the Osa Peninsula in southwestern Costa Rica. National Geographic has called it “the most biologically intense place on Earth in terms of biodiversity.” My boss, the CFO, thought this would be a great opportunity for our station to produce a documentary on Costa Rica and enlisted me in that effort.

We flew into the park after arriving in San Jose, capitol of Costa Rica. Our base camp consisted of a park ranger’s station and separate bunkhouse carved out of the surrounding jungle. The bunkhouse was full so we opted to sleep in tents on the ground nearby.

Every morning after breakfast, we hiked a different route through the jungle. The rules of jungle hiking are quite simple. First, jungle terrain is seldom flat. That only happens in Tarzan movies. It’s hilly, rugged and laced with jungle vines that can send you sprawling down a slope in nothing flat. Caution is the word.

Secondly, we were told to watch out for spider monkeys. They love to pee on you as you pass underneath. Howler monkeys just yell a lot. Most frogs are poisonous so don’t touch.

The third rule is also pretty simple. Snakes will kill you if they can. Watch where you step or be prepared to die. Never step over a log or object on the ground. Never lean up against a tree. Always step on top of the log then step over to the other side. Look at the tree first before you lean against it or sit next to it.

There were many species of venomous snakes in the park. The Fer-de-Lance and Bushmaster were tops in their game. One bite…thirty minutes…hello, heaven. Even the poison dart frog could do you in.

On the first day of a long hike, I casually asked our guide if he had snake bite serum with him after he described the numerous poison snakes that abounded in Corcovado. He said no, he’d left it back at base camp, a four-hour hike away. I guess when your time comes, it comes. We all walked a little more gingerly back to camp that day. And made sure he had it with him every time we went out after that.

On almost every hike, we’d have to ford some river or inlet to the sea. Always at low tide since the currents were so strong at high tide that it was very easy to get swept out to sea no matter how strong a swimmer you might be.

When we came upon some backwater pool, in the middle of the jungle, five hours into our hike, taking off our clothes for a dip seemed surprisingly logical, rational and very appealing. I can’t remember who suggested it first. Probably the eccentric professor from out east. He always had great ideas.

The men took off their clothes first…boring. Then the two women in our group…no Brazilian trims there. Suddenly I felt very foolish hiding behind my sunglasses. It had quickly become apparent that the soothing coolness of the water, that magical pond in the middle of the steaming jungle, and the lively banter going on was more interesting than body parts seen or imagined. And after a few glances, seriously, who cares?

One time, at the end of our gallivanting in that backwater pool, came with an announcement from one of our more eccentric travelers. It seemed that he had a rubber raft in his backpack and was looking for someone to float with him down the river to the sea, approximately four miles away. Strangely enough he got no takers. We just stood there, putting on our clothes, wondering if he was really serious.

Undaunted by the silent stares he got, the eccentric one tossed his clothes bag into his backpack, gave the pack to someone else and proceeded to inflate his rubber raft. Then with his hat and flip-flops on and nothing else, he began floating away. We all looked in astonishment as his snow-white ass got smaller and smaller in the distance. Then it was gone all together.

Somehow it all seemed perfectly logical at the time. I think we just collectively shook our shoulders, agreed that the eccentric one would find that a normal thing to do (floating down an unknown river in the middle of the jungle, in the nude), and wondered if or when we’d ever see him again. I know it’s stupid, dumb and illogical but I still wonder what it would have been like if I’d taken him up on his offer.

He showed up that evening sporting his torn flip-flops and beet red ass. Then over warm beer, he regaled us with stories of the sights and sounds that greeted and then followed him down the river all the way to the sea.

About the second night back in San Jose, one of our fellow travelers (I think it was the red-butted floater) who said he’d found a quaint bar in town. They had American beer, the women there were all beautiful, and they played American rock and roll every evening. Sounded like a great opportunity to check out the local pub scene and mix it up with the locals.

I was surprised that the pub wasn’t in the commercial part of town. Instead, it was a little further out of town in what looked like a huge plantation house. There were lots of cars parked outside and loud music was coming from within.

Upon entering, we saw a huge bar, beautiful women dancing with the locals and beer taps that spelling out our favorite liquid refreshments. The women were all smiles and their clothes (or lack of) weren’t hard to look at either. We grabbed several tables to put to-gether and ordered the first of several rounds.

I was struck by the beautiful women all around me. Costa Rican women don’t show the Mayan influence that women in a number of Central and South American countries do. Their skin has a light brown or chocolate tone, beautiful dark hair and facial features that would rival even the most glamorous of Paris models.  Several came up and asked some of us for a dance. Fortunately, my introvert nature kicked in and I demurred.

Several of our group jumped at the opportunity to take their turn on the dance floor. When they finished, the girls would ask for a drink to which these guys happily obliged. Being an introvert and principally cheap didn’t hurt me that evening.

It was only when one of our group began chatting up the locals that we realized where we were. It seems there was a whorehouse upstairs and these beautiful women were really working professionals. The women were amorous with intent (relatively speaking) expensive (in their currency) and aiming to turn a quick profit (oh, that explains their charm).

In reality, our quaint happy bar was a Central American Wild West saloon. And there were gunslingers about. We suddenly became the tenderfoot tourists venturing into unfamiliar territory. And those guys in tight jeans and bulging t-shirts weren’t just a part of the scenery. We finished our drinks, smiled at the locals and got the hell out of Dodge.

Foresight isn’t my forte. Yet, even as I was trudging through the jungle, I knew this was the chance of a lifetime. I tried to soak up as much of the atmosphere as I could. That included the stifling heat, humidity, insects, poisonous snakes, sharks in the rivers, strange sounds day and night, sleeping on rocks, listening to the barking of the Howler Monkeys and drinking warm beer.

Those three weeks in Corcovado produced many wonderful experiences and great memories with some fascinating folks. I should be so lucky to hear those howling monkeys ever again.