I’m sitting here brushing insects off, which then head to their doom as the many geckos grab them out of the air, the geckos then pooping on the floor of the platform where I sit writing. After a while observing the ants munching merrily on the gecko poop, I get up and sweep the ants and poop off the floor and into the undergrowth.
You have to protect your area in the jungle, as everything is vying for space and survival. Anything coming into our corner runs the risk of a fast brutal death by man or woman. Outside of our small area, anything goes and we respect the environments of the other animals, reptiles, birds and insects, but here, in our space, it’s war.
Of course like in war you sometimes exist in a state of mutual unease. The huge tarantula that was not killed but rather encouraged to move on. The mouse that we left to the cat who lived with us, the geckos running everywhere in the rafters, keeping the insect populations at bay whilst singing along merrily together with the rest of the jungle and the pounding of the waves.
I take another pull of the joint and as the smoke enters my lungs, everything seems to be where it should be. Everything has it’s place at this moment in time. Breathing out slowly, the sounds shift, things dying and others being reborn. The cycles continue, micro and macro, oblivious to the Gregorian calender, uncountable, unquantifiable.
The next day we paddle up an estuary in kayaks, through mangrove forests and into crocodile country. I was nervous, but thankfully so were the crocodiles and as we approached, they would glide down into the water off the land and disappear, the only sign of them being the air bubbles popping on the surface of the water near our kayaks. I was reminded about the importance of protecting your area in the jungle and paddled a bit faster to move on.