II. I Take the Tour, Part One

The Jungle Adventure Tour Company was a low-budget operation run by Tom, a Swedish ex-monk ex-Merchant Marine, and his wife Maow, who was from a long line of Thai hunters. He knew travelers. She knew the jungle. Their basic business strategy was to wait around until at least five travelers strayed into their compound, load them onto a beat-up pickup truck and drive into the jungle, with some bananas and fried rice picnic lunches.

The first stop on the tour was not actually jungle. It was a forest monastery. Our group’s confusion and disappointment quickly evaporated when we saw a large hole in the middle of the grounds. Tom led us crawling into the hole which opened up into a vast underground cave, a prehistoric cathedral. Christmas lights were strung along stalactites, and there were Buddhas everywhere. Off the main chamber were hundreds of pitch-black, deadly-quiet nooks and crannies, perfect for meditating monks.

Those monks probably didn’t notice us crawling around, exploring the cave. The non-meditating monks, on the other hand, sat around the larger chambers, watching us and smoking cigarettes, giving us the thumbs up as we passed.

After the cave, we were piled back onto the truck and driven to the next stop: a small mountain. Most of the travelers were not in good shape and slowed the group down, but Tom kept pushing us to get to our secret destination by sunset. Something special was to happen then. As we got closer, the secret began revealing its odor, a pungent combination of match-heads and shit. The higher we climbed, the stronger it got. What was it we were in such a rush to get to? And why?

It was another cave, but it was no meditation cave. The Buddha himself couldn’t meditate in there. Tom dared us to enter the floor of the cave, covered with a thousand years’ worth of bat droppings. What choice did I have? Living by a credo is not always a bed of roses.

Breathing through my mouth, I entered the cave. I sank into guano up to my ankles, thanking God that I wore my boots. Every step was a struggle, accompanied by a sickening squishing suction sound. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see the cave was not so deep but very high. The ceiling was covered by what looked like soundproofing. A piece of it fell off, then swooped down and shot past my head: a bat. Another fell off, and then another. Soon, a steady stream of bats were whizzing past my head, getting thicker by the second. The air was filled with buzzing, humming, flapping, and high-pitched whistling. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of bats were waking up to the sunset and swarming out into the night, while hawks and owls waited outside, poised to strike. Flying directly into the stream of bats, the birds snatched them one by one, right out of the air. Tom, not one to be shown up by a bird of prey, climbed a rock next to the mouth of the cave, reached his hand in, and plucked out a bat of his own. It squealed, as did the travelers. Tom spread its translucent wings, giggled, and then let it go. In the Tuna Fish Ice Cream game, there is always a faster gun.

The bat flow eventually ebbed and we stumbled our way down the mountain in the dark, following Tom’s lone flashlight. I wondered if I’d ever get the smell out of my clothes. Maybe there was a Laundromat in the jungle.

To be continued...