Magnolia of the Jungle

From the boat, I can barely see Boca Manu in the mist. Slate coloured and slung low, the cloud stretches like a blanket, tucking the village into the jungle. We slip downstream, a mess of mammoth leaves streaking the banks, occasionally pierced by the scarlet of a primeval plant laden with thick barbs of shiny foliage. Our young captain weaves us effortlessly around submerged logs and dances with eddies as we approach the bank; a real child of the Rio Manu.

Clambering ashore, I navigate my way around oversized bouquets of bananas and sacks of rice, the wet heat slipping over my skin. I remember Lima, where leafless trees had reached thirstily towards me and I had wondered if it would ever rain. Here, everyone glistens and wades fully clothed into the rushing water, rinsing the slick from their bodies downstream. The churning sky spills purple light, promising an afternoon storm, so I join the race to offload the precious cargo: a dozen crates of warm beer.

Instantly a throng of tiny faces surround me, dirt streaked and unruly. Under their bright-eyed duress, I explain that I have come to Boca to teach English. A striking girl with thick black hair, cut bluntly at the shoulders, introduces herself first, showing off her English. Her name is Magnolia and she is ten. Grabbing my hand, she leads me from the group, taming the invading vines with a small machete as we go. Reaching a clearing, I first notice the woodsmoke and cooking spice that hang in the air; then I see the cat.

A leash of twine attaches the animal to a tree, its ribs bulging through patches of pink skin and fur. Magnolia pours the cat into my arms; heavy, tepid and already dead. With sad almond eyes she explains that she had heard a white teacher was coming. Surely such a person could save her pet?

Later I return to the river to prepare my lesson for the next day, but I cannot concentrate. Shrouded in mosquitos I watch the lightning flay the evening horizon. This might be harder than I thought.