Into The Jungle (Pt. 1)
It was a solid trip planned between the two of us: my father and myself had somewhat been at odds with one another for a very long time. A much-needed team-building experience was in high demand. I had been working alongside of his nearly vacant business-lot for way too long and hurtled with exhaustive long-hour days throughout the week. Our trip? The sub-tropical jungle-rainforests of Africa—to seek out the Silverback Gorilla for observation and adventure within the well-charted regions of Gabon and Rwanda.
Neither of us had been to Africa before—a continent so foreign to us that even the thought of it might frighten either of us for the sake of inexperience. From what we had been told, the continent itself was a storehouse of mystery and intrigue and the search for our relationship’s revival might even be discovered there. So faj and I gathered up our things, took flight, landed and began our journey within the rainforests of Gabon. Gabon was a country left outside of the general public eye. It stood on the West Coast of Africa neighboring the Atlantic Ocean ans sandwiched between the countries of Camaroon on the Northern end, Republic of The Congo on the South, Equatorial Guinea on the Northwest corner, and more Republic of The Congo on the East-end border. The capital city of Libreville insisted that we as Americans go no further than Mouila—a small village-city on the Eastern side.
Upon discovering this news, Chard and I glanced at one another and determined it acceptable to remain informed through the astute guidance of our native-Gabonese tour-guides. They were not messing around. They knew the terrain—they knew their people—and Rishad and I wanted nothing else to do with interfering with our journey. We had done enough, we agreed, simply based upon our arrival. Now it was time for business at-hand: our journey.
An old Chevrolet truck brought us through the main-streets and into the back-wilderness. I rode in back while Chardeaux sat shot-gun. He was the quiet one and we were both familiar with the American colloquialism, “A quiet fish never gets caught.” So we decided it best, agreed upon it rather fastidiously in spite of my sharp-shooter curiosity. I knew this would be our ticket to the either the best, or worst, location possible. But I trusted in Do-chard and made it a point to take the gamble on the quiet, rock hard rusty truck bed. Then the truck stopped. Parked. We were told that we were at the trailhead. This was it. Grab our bags and go! Type execution. We hadn’t expected anything less.
How safe and reassuring it felt amongst the trees and the underbrush. It was relatively early morning, but we could almost feel nature calling to us both as the sounds and smells unraveled amidst our presence. Rich and I glanced at each other again and we immediately sought the trail to begin our hike.
With only two-minutes into the hike, Rich’s shoelace had become un-done. Big surprise. Chard didn’t seem to notice as he continued to trudge along in front of me. “But hey! Rich! Your shoelace is undone!” I wanted to say to him. Something to you about it kept me entranced wondering whether he would ever step on it and trip—fall off the trail and then get taken away and eaten by some hungry baboons. “No! Stop! Stop it you angry baboons! Why can’t you just leave him alone!?” but that was a frightening thought, but yet I decidedly said nothing and walked along—figuring he’s a grown-ass man and knows whether his lace is undone. Surely I don’t have to tell him that. That’s way too basic. And apparently as it appeared, the no-talking rule still applied to our forest congressional environment.
“Ah, shoot!” I heard him say as he looked down at his left boot and stopping off to the side of the trail. Essentially he was recognizing what I had figured he had known for himself all along. “My shoe’s untied!” Gosh, Rich? You think? That was ten minutes ago, I muttered internally to myself. But maybe that was part of the issue between us? Maybe that internal dialogue of sarcastic, Hart-Heidenesque “Why am I taking this so seriously?” jovial humor needed to alter? We were—afterall—in a foreign country. Backpacking. By ourselves. No guides (too expensive). No guns (too expensive). No phones to call home with (what good would they be in the face of danger, right? Monitor our daily progress? Or our heart rates? A compass? A clock? A map maybe even? No. The truth was—“international service rates cost a fortune” A.K.A. too expensive). Even still, the internal voice needed to stop. According to the map we were making excellent progress anyway, and so it wasn’t really a bother hanging for a minute while he fixed his boot. He was a nice, old-man. Old. Older than the trees even. Yet swiftly and confidently he moved along carrying the weight of the pack that held our tent, and thus meaning? It was the heavier pack. He might have deserved a medal for being a good father too—if he hadn’t raped my mind with his scarcity mindset. I might have been less of a bitter-person towards him. I might have been less sarcastic and lunatic ally deranged. But I was at a point in my life of acceptance. And whether he raped me or not with his word-choice and educated parental rhetoric—this was now. This was the time to stay focused. We were on a trail—in the middle of the jungle! A tiger or leopard, or some charismatically charged gorilla might step out and claim us as quickly as they might. We were in their space now…neither Rich nor myself belonged. Alright! All tied up I gather? We were moving again. The pace was swift, but nice. I could sweat and still feel refreshed by the electric charge of the atmosphere.
“You got the bug-spray!?” Rich zipped back my way suddenly. He was getting bit.
“Yes Dad. Yeah. It’s in the bag.” I spoke over to him in a rather rushed tone.
“Well? Get it out. We have to take care of these suckers.” He pointed to and swatted at the whirling cloud of feisty mosquitos that had begun to clamber and attach themselves onto his sweating skin. I was fine. They wouldn’t bother me. I read the manual beforehand: quinine. Mosquitoes hated quinine. Where do you get quinine? Oh simple! Tonic water. Justice. I drank about two gallons of tonic water before settling onto the trail. The mosquitoes knew better.
“I’m getting it. Are you sure you want to stop here though?” I was starting to feel sorry for the guy. The mosquitoes did look pretty gnarly. Hungry-mosquitoes are no-joke: an easy smash-down of any possible fun-times. “Here you go.” I handed him the dice and he immediately began to spray. All over. Like? All—over. There was a point I wanted to say stop to him—that stuff will get into your blood stream ASAP. But again? I kept my mouth shut. The man was old-enough to know better. I figured they might have toned down on toxic chemicals included in their mixture over the years as well.
There were many times in my life when I can remember my father coming out on top from the back of the line. I admired that about him—he was a really strong man. Held tightly to the idea of resiliency because of him. He could truly inspire a person to be better—hands down—right quick. He finished spraying his entirety. The cloud of mosquitoes had disappeared. Then he looked over at me and asked, “You need some?” I smiled.
“Nope. i’m good.” See? The thing about oxygen masks in an airplane—if they ever came down—they describe the procedure at hand: first? Put the oxygen mask over yourself. Then? Place the oxygen mask over your child. And I really get that. That is a good sourcing idea—makes absolute perfect sense. But in this case? Out in the middle of the Gabonian jungle—foreign territory—I would argue—and for the sake of two, large grown-ass men—that it is best to take into consideration the strongest link first—that would be ME—but only because I had the wherewithal to do my research, earn my merits and pack enough quinine in the bloodstream to uplink a storehouse—I was not mad he so generously thought to ask of my wellbeing. I’m definitely a brat—a nitwit—a turd-jockey—for not having the respect for me father he deserves, but something special inside of me calls out. It cries out. THAT was the same “it” that needed to be uprooted! I knew this journey would give me some work to do. I didn’t expect it to be this type of work, but I was all for it because something in my life had to give—somewhere I had to make the space.