He points out parakeets flying to and from a termite nest they are raiding to feed their young. He tells me about all the animals we’re likely to run into. Badgers, armadillos, and squirrel monkeys. Lizards, iguanas, countless varieties of birds with shocking green and yellow feathers. “Just tell me what’s going to eat me,” I say. “Jaguars, though no one ever really sees them. But there is the poisonous beaded lizard. I’ve seen plenty of those. Tarantulas, of course.” “Are you serious?” “Lots of snakes.” “If we don’t make it to the kiosk, where are we going to spend the night?” “Here somewhere. We don’t have a choice.” I glance around at the thick brush and what I now know is an enormous parota tree, which the indigenous people use to make canoes. I imagine lying on the ground with snakes and tarantulas crawling across my prone body. Some kind of insect nesting in my wound. We may as well have tried to make it to the consulate. We seem doomed either way.
