The river was Apocalypse Now, another world of vine dripping trees creeping along the banks as the brown water eddied and rushed past. A cluster of tiny black bats slept shaded beneath a leaf, and black iguanas baked in trees and fallen branches. A turquoise lizard defied odds in the middle of the river, Francisco telling us the name is an abbreviation of “Jesus Christ that lizard is walking on water”.
A brown treetop ball was a Spectacle Owl high above the water, and termite mounds dotted canopies imitating sloths. Barely concerned by our bright blue presence, river otters tore at fish by the shore as we drifted past. Even less phased, a crocodile, black and stone-baked still on a log, 2 meters away. I don’t even think it blinked as the raft lolled along beside it.
Howler monkeys appeared silently as we drifted towards docking, black silhouettes uncanny in the treetops, human enough to fear for their safety. But with stretched limbs hanging upside down they seemed so content, mesmerizingly happy with their canopy choices.
a year in the garden 