Don't Tell Anyone

I thought we’d never get to the clearing Juan had described. We did, finally, but scratched and bruised. Jungles can be terribly uncomfortable. One is either overdressed or underdressed. Never just right.

I was overdressed and sweated profusely in my ‘safari’ outfit comprised of khakis, two shirts, boots and thick socks! I also wore a blue and red bandana. My hat was like the one Indiana Jones wears in those popular flicks everyone has seen. I’d drunk from my canteen every fifty paces. I’d swatted this and that pest. The miasma of vines had tried to overwhelm me the whole journey. Juan, of course, was accustomed to it all. He’d been born in the jungle, so, his struggles were only difficult outside it. That’s where I came in handy. Here, he was fine and surrounded by the familiar.

He motioned for me to follow him to a clear stream. It was deep. He said we could wash up. Also, he had something to show me. Something to try. Hmm, I thought. When Juan says try, I get tense. Attribute it to experience. But out in the jungle miles from civilization, one doesn’t argue with the guide. He fished a package from the stream and opened it. He took out what seemed a bite-size chunk of meat and offered it.

“Laura,” he said. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

Laura had been one of our mutual friends. At the mention of her name, I recalled I hadn’t seen her lately. I motioned for Juan to wait, scurried behind a nearby tree and barfed violently.