To Bee Or Not To Bee

April 2, 1978

In our settlement on the Rio Hediondo, our rustic log houses stood in a row facing the airstrip with their backs to the river. That was nice because we did not have to go far to get water when the skies were stingy and refused to provide enough rain to keep our barrels full. The river was handy, too, for cooling off after a hard days work and for taking baths in the late afternoon. Gone were the days of scooping water into a tin cup from a swamp or mudpuddle and pouring it over our heads like we did at the Pension. Upon returning home from that remote jungle, we had gleefully converted from being sprinkling Presbyterians to full fledged dunking Baptists, at least when it came to bath time!

Our swimming hole on the Stinky River

April came after the hottest months of the year when the river water would be lukewarm, when soap and water would wash away the dirt and sweat of the day, but before one could dry off with a towel, the body would already be sweating profusely because the humidity was so high. Also, the month was before Suraso season when blasts of Antarctic air would roar through the jungle and drop the temperatures from the high nineties into the low forties, making the river feel like ice water. The cold snaps were short-lived, however, usually lasting less than a week with each morning being a little bit warmer than the one before until it was sweating time again. In April, however, the water still felt good to a weary body.

Our routine was to bathe in the river after work and before eating supper. I felt better if I could cool off, wash up, and put on clean clothes before eating, making the evening more enjoyable and sleeping easier come bedtime. Floating in the water with just my head out was so relaxing and a bit of swimming or dogpaddling was good for the body, as well. If we waited until dusk to hit the river, myriads of hungry mosquitos would devour us.

Our dock was a split-palm platform floating on top of two extra swamp tractor tires. Like every other day since we returned from the Pension, I dropped my soap and towel on the dock, pried off my tennis shoes, and dove into the water. Surfacing from my dive I continued to swim towards the far shore. When I stopped, I heard a loud buzzing in my ears. I blinked the water from my eyes and saw I was surrounded by a large swam of insects flying in tight circles around my head. My first thought was they were horseflies, but I had never seen so many attacking at one time. I did not want to be fodder for horseflies! An even bigger fear was that they might be bees! They flew in a frenzy, so fast it was hard for me to tell what they looked like. The Bolivian jungle had many types of bees I had never seen before. Horseflies or bees, I didn’t know, but I had never experienced either one in so great numbers and attacking with a pack mentality.

I dogpaddled back to the dock, cupping my hands and pulling handfuls of air into the water with all the force I could muster. Like “depth charges” the tactic made the water explode and sent geysers high into the air. I wanted to shoot my enemy down with water flak, send confusion into their ranks and make the rest flee in disarray. I wanted to, but it didn’t work! The flying horde harassed me all the way back to the dock.

I was afraid to get out of the water and soap up to finish my bath, and I was fearful to make a dash to the house, not knowing what kind of insect plagued me. I stayed in the water waving my hand around my head hoping to deprive my tormentors of a landing strip. I waited for them to go away, but they possessed more patience than I did. In desperation, but without splashing, I slowly dogpaddled my way to mid-river. They followed. I held my breathe, went under, and swam as far away as I could. When I came up for air, the horde still buzzed all around me. It was like they had sonar for brains and could track me through the depths. I made my way back to the dock praying I could determine if they had stingers or not. Reason told me that If they were bees, they should have already attacked my head and stung me to death! If they were horseflies, well, I hoped I could make a run for it and survive with a few itchy bites!

As I got back to the dock, the sound of a trapped insect drowned out the incessant buzzing of the others around my head. A large spider that lived under the split-palm boards of our platform had somehow nabbed one of the offending bugs. The captive struggled to escape with a flurry of vibrating wings but to no avail. I did not feel sorry for it in the least! How the spider grabbed it out of the air l did not know. The arachnid had no web in which to catch it. Though I did not particularly like spiders, I felt an affinity with that one because it was about to suck the life juices out of an insect that really bugged me! Held in chelicerae of steel, the doomed prey slowed down in its futile struggle to be free and I saw that it had no stinger. It was a great relief to me to know that it was just a mean old horsefly!

I hoisted myself onto the dock, and grabbed my soap and towel in preparation to flee. As I fumbled with my shoes, a horsefly bit the back of my leg. I swatted at it, but only got a red handprint on my skin for the effort. Up the bank I ran, swinging my towel wildly around me to keep the pursuing insects at bay. They chased me all the way to my front door. I felt lucky being bitten only one time. However, another horsefly must have hitched a ride on my back, but didn’t bite me until I was safe within my abode. If it had plans to brag to its fellows about its daring exploit, I didn’t give it the chance to do so. It was on my turf, now, and I made sure it would never leave!

FIN

This story was from the category Tales From Green Hell. If you would like to read more of my experiences in the jungles of Bolivia, please click on that link below.

More Writings by Phil

Rio Hediondo = Stinking River

Pension = a place that serves food. A humble restaurant

Suraso = A cold front originating in Antarctica that can make the temperatures in the jungle drop into the forties, and occasionally to freezing. In 1975 the coffee crop in Brazil froze making the cost of a cup of joe climb to Biden Prices.

Writings By Phil