February 2021

A trip to the Ecuadorian jungle prompts the writer to reevaluate the comforts of her life in the U.S. An observant onlooker, upon watching her fellow passengers in the airplane, might have noticed a girl who lacked the lethargic nonchalance of the other voyagers. This girl peered, fascinated, through the stained window. She appeared to be caught in a lustrous reverie that refused to release her. She was, unlike most of the other passengers on the airplane, not fully aware of inhaling the sickly airplane oxygen. Even the most attentive spectator could not have known that this girl was imagining the dense, fragrant air peculiar to the jungle, savoring the delicious rapture of a life about to be changed. I was the girl caught in a dream. I didn’t return to awareness until the airplane landed and we boarded a bus that transported us to the next leg of our Ecuadorian jungle trip. The bus lugged us through the city of Coca, just outside Yasuni National Park. Bodegas displayed toys and foods bursting with color, a stark contrast to the rickety, rotting frames of the buildings. Children milled around a brick courtyard, dressed sharply in school uniforms. I watched elderly men hobble along the uneven concrete tiles, surveying the youth with melancholy glances and hiding behind stooped shoulders. The bus bumbled to a stop at the bank of the muddy Coca River. I slipped onto a bench on an idling river boat and stared into the murky water. What’s down there? Water snakes? Secretive freshwater fish? The boat revved its engine and flew forward until the sound of the wind and water drowned out any conversation. For the entire two-hour journey, I sat wrapped tightly in my poncho as the rain scraped its gnarly fingers across my face and dragged mud into my mouth and eyes. I was grateful for my unrelenting imagination keeping me company during the uncomfortable ride. When the boat reached the shore at last, my mom passed around a bottle of bug spray, and we feverishly shielded ourselves against malaria, dengue, and yellow fever. “I hate using bug spray. It smells disgusting, and it feels sticky on my skin! No wonder the bugs don’t like it,” I grumbled. “You know what’s even worse than bug spray?” my mom asked. “Dengue.” My knowledge of the jungle consisted of rumors about poisonous frogs, blood-sucking parasites, and prowling jungle cats. I was excited beyond words! The idea of such mystery and danger invigorated me: I anticipated countless species of iridescent insects, carnivorous plants, vibrant amphibians, and weird reptiles. Still, the fact that we had been inoculated against yellow fever and swallowed malaria pills before leaving, along with the lack of protection for dengue, made me more than a little apprehensive. Our naturalist guide, Dany, and local guide, Dario, greeted us. Dany asked if we were physically fit enough to handle hikes through the jungle. “It’s strenuous, but you say you’re strong . . .” He sized us up. Evidently, the guides were satisfied, and we trekked deep into the dense foliage. The entire jungle seemed to be one living being, exhaling warm, sticky breaths. There were looming trees, reverberating with the uncanny hum of life. Insects shuttered their pearlescent wings and hastily flitted away. Velvety moss shrouded the wiry, twisted branches, and birds plunked down strange notes from the canopy. The trees solemnly guarded the billowing sky above and the lively forest below, their damp boughs puncturing bulbous clouds and snagging tendrils of breeze. “In other parts of the jungle,” one of our guides said, “people with a lot of money pay for the trees to be chopped down and shipped out. Deforestation is so common in Ecuador . . .” If only these dignified soldiers could understand that humans are coming to chop them down, I thought. Do they know that their spectacular armor can be sliced thinner than a sliver of breeze, that their emerald-studded crowns are worthless in the eyes of many twisted humans? I recalled a fact I had read once, that every 1.4 seconds, a football field-sized area of trees is cut down in rainforests. As we continued to hike, the guides pointed out strangler fig trees. “Strangler figs wrap themselves around smaller saplings, then suck the life and nutrients out of them, in turn growing more powerful,” Dany said. “They’re appearing all over the forest.” I thought of the strangler figs taking the lives of others to supplement their own. I believe that this behavior isn’t particular to trees, though . . . Tired and hungry after a muddy hike, and having not eaten lunch, our guides ushered us into a canoe. We glided down a thin vein of black water, the blood of the jungle. This is exactly how I imagined it! I craned my neck for a sight of golden monkeys or extravagant toucans. Soon, I was lulled by the constant, contented purr of birds and insects in the trees. The stagnant water smelled of decomposition and rain. Silky air wrapped around me. The syncopated splashes of the canoe paddles melted into the trilling symphony of animals hiding in the slippery shade. Eventually, the canoe slid onto the shore of an indigenous village, home to the native people of the Ecuadorian jungle. We eagerly stepped off the boat and waited at the base of a slight hill that led up to several huts surrounded by trees. A young woman treaded lopsidedly down the slope to greet us, her dark hair tied in a long braid down her back. She’s pregnant! She doesn’t look like she’s any older than twenty . . . The woman smiled shyly, exposing a dark gap where her front teeth should have been. “I am Dacy,” she said, using the only English phrase she knew. Dacy led us into one of the shady huts, pointing out the roof constructed of woven yucca leaves. Our guides acted as interpreters. The hut was cool inside, and fragrant wisps