At five in the morning the deck was as deserted as a steak house at a vegetarian convention, that is of
people. Scuttling across the deck were hundreds of brown insects the colour and shape of a Tom
Thumb cigar with legs. Closer examination revealed them to be a form of cricket, similar in form to the
very rare Mole Cricket. Other overnight visitors included five or six species of beetle, a similar number
of true bugs (heteroptera), two species of coneheaded bush crickets, three or four of grasshoppers,
three species of true crickets, three species of wasp, six different hawk moths and at least eighteen
other species of moth. Progress around the deck was slowed by the need to photograph as many as
possible. It was further slowed by the appearance of other walkers at 6:30.
"Can you tell me what that is, please?"
"A coneheaded cricket. If you look at its head it seems to be wearing a dunces cap and its antennae reach back over its whole body."
"Thank you."
"Have you finished?" to the enquirer.
"Yes."
"Then please can you tell me what these are?"
"They are crickets, related to mole crickets. If you look at their front legs the tibia are toothed and adapted for digging."
"Thank you."
"Ah, just the fellow. Stand there. Need to take your picture."
It was The Captain.
"This moth is much prettier."
"Not pretty things. Need your picture - important person on this cruise. The Bug Man." Click, flash and that transient immortality provided by electronic media.
Smoking on the ship is limited to three outside areas aft on the starboard side. They gathered there from before dawn, a tanned lady in colourful shorts and blouses was always the first. Rich brown, her tan revealed frequent visits to warm and sunny climes while her eyes disclosed an alertness on the very edge of fear. Each morning she would twist suddenly towards each of the early walkers scanning faces for something that she didn't want to see.
"Good morning."
After the usual scan, "good morning," with a look of relief until the next walker came around the corner. No more than fifteen minutes later the nervous lady was joined by another whose presence seemed to offer some comfort as the two ladies fell into conversation.
The Captain was on his dawn patrol offering staccato salutations to all he knew and some he did not. The ladies had been joined by the Cornishman and his friend as well as Jimmy the crag-faced Scot, the limping man and the anatomical figure. The latter, a cadaverously thin and terminally gaunt character, sat on the same chair all day smoking Old Holborn as if breathing air would cause him to die. The cigarette was his snorkel as he swam painfully through the humid river air.
The Captain brought himself to a halt and turned smartly towards the group. "Greetings smoking people." He then swung round and continued his tour. "Greetings again important bug man."
"Greetings French lady. Dawn soon. Won't see it. Too much rain."
Madame Chateau, poised and willowy as ever replied.
"Oh that is such a shame. I love the dawn and watch it every morning from the terraces at our home near Cannes."
The Captain stopped on the rail staring fixedly east.
While making the final lap of the deck, answering questions and taking pictures, a movement under the stairs to to deck 8 caught the eye. Closer and stealthy investigation clarified the impression: a large bat was hanging beneath one of the steps. Dark brown, some eight inches long and slightly pot bellied having, no doubt, feasted on the many insects drawn to the ship's lights, it hung in classic bat pose,
"A coneheaded cricket. If you look at its head it seems to be wearing a dunces cap and its antennae reach back over its whole body."
"Thank you."
"Have you finished?" to the enquirer.
"Yes."
"Then please can you tell me what these are?"
"They are crickets, related to mole crickets. If you look at their front legs the tibia are toothed and adapted for digging."
"Thank you."
"Ah, just the fellow. Stand there. Need to take your picture."
It was The Captain.
"This moth is much prettier."
"Not pretty things. Need your picture - important person on this cruise. The Bug Man." Click, flash and that transient immortality provided by electronic media.
Smoking on the ship is limited to three outside areas aft on the starboard side. They gathered there from before dawn, a tanned lady in colourful shorts and blouses was always the first. Rich brown, her tan revealed frequent visits to warm and sunny climes while her eyes disclosed an alertness on the very edge of fear. Each morning she would twist suddenly towards each of the early walkers scanning faces for something that she didn't want to see.
"Good morning."
After the usual scan, "good morning," with a look of relief until the next walker came around the corner. No more than fifteen minutes later the nervous lady was joined by another whose presence seemed to offer some comfort as the two ladies fell into conversation.
The Captain was on his dawn patrol offering staccato salutations to all he knew and some he did not. The ladies had been joined by the Cornishman and his friend as well as Jimmy the crag-faced Scot, the limping man and the anatomical figure. The latter, a cadaverously thin and terminally gaunt character, sat on the same chair all day smoking Old Holborn as if breathing air would cause him to die. The cigarette was his snorkel as he swam painfully through the humid river air.
The Captain brought himself to a halt and turned smartly towards the group. "Greetings smoking people." He then swung round and continued his tour. "Greetings again important bug man."
"Greetings French lady. Dawn soon. Won't see it. Too much rain."
Madame Chateau, poised and willowy as ever replied.
"Oh that is such a shame. I love the dawn and watch it every morning from the terraces at our home near Cannes."
The Captain stopped on the rail staring fixedly east.
While making the final lap of the deck, answering questions and taking pictures, a movement under the stairs to to deck 8 caught the eye. Closer and stealthy investigation clarified the impression: a large bat was hanging beneath one of the steps. Dark brown, some eight inches long and slightly pot bellied having, no doubt, feasted on the many insects drawn to the ship's lights, it hung in classic bat pose,
upside down trying to hide its face behind its leathery wings as if by doing so it would become
invisible.
By this stage on the trip there was a clear expectation from many passengers that it was the duty of the Bug Man and the Twitchers, Geoff and Sally to point out anything of interest to those on deck.
"You might be interested - there's a bat under the steps there - if you're careful it shouldn't fly away." "Thank you."
Drizzle had reduced the number of deck walkers but still this exchange was repeated twenty times until disaster struck. Well, not so much disaster as the appearance of a couple walking, lady first in single file around the deck. He was small and inoffensive while she was very, very 'county'. If they were available she would have been wearing tweed shorts and tropical, green Hunter wellingtons.
"I say, you. Where's this bat. we want to see the bat."
"It's just along there - see hanging under the second step from the top. Approach it carefully, I'm sure many others will want to see it."
They had marched on before the last words had reached them. More correctly, she marched and he simpered in her wake like a feeble native bearer for whom carrying the camera was all that he could manage.
They stopped by the stairway, there was a small altercation and when they had gone, so too had the bat."
"Excuse me, please."
"Yes of course, how can I help?"
"Would you mind awfully telling where he bat is?" It was Auntie. "I hope it won't get you into trouble like before."
"Ah, the bat. Unfortunately that lady ahead of you has either eaten it or frightened it away."
"Eaten it?"
"No, sorry. I was joking, feeling mean spirited because trying to get too close she has frightened it away."
"Oh what a shame. Some people."
The trip ashore in the tender took fifteen minutes against a strong current ad at the top of the muddy path from the flimsy landing stage a crowd of children and teenagers reached out to take gifts or the hand of passengers.
"You come, I show."
To one side a group of men held up signs, some hand written but many printed from a computer and laminated, that offered "30 minute canoe ride $5. Whole morning $15 per head."
Further along the path into the village mothers stood in the warm drenching rain, next to small girls dressed in a pastiche of indian costume. Photographs were taken and small damp hands reached out for payment. Some passengers, seasoned in such visits, had salved their consciences and brought colouring pencil sets, pencils, colouring books and note books. Others had pockets full of sweets while the remainder handed out dollar bills. Small boys stood holding out sloths or some other unfortunate, one-time denizen of the surrounding forest
The wet, defeated sloths hung disconsolately while a toucan ran back and forward on a stick to which it was tethered with a strip of plastic. A man stood holding out a stick upon which perched an immobile tarantula while his daughter grasped an iguana firmly by its neck and her brother proffered a huge longhorn beetle.
By this stage on the trip there was a clear expectation from many passengers that it was the duty of the Bug Man and the Twitchers, Geoff and Sally to point out anything of interest to those on deck.
"You might be interested - there's a bat under the steps there - if you're careful it shouldn't fly away." "Thank you."
Drizzle had reduced the number of deck walkers but still this exchange was repeated twenty times until disaster struck. Well, not so much disaster as the appearance of a couple walking, lady first in single file around the deck. He was small and inoffensive while she was very, very 'county'. If they were available she would have been wearing tweed shorts and tropical, green Hunter wellingtons.
"I say, you. Where's this bat. we want to see the bat."
"It's just along there - see hanging under the second step from the top. Approach it carefully, I'm sure many others will want to see it."
They had marched on before the last words had reached them. More correctly, she marched and he simpered in her wake like a feeble native bearer for whom carrying the camera was all that he could manage.
They stopped by the stairway, there was a small altercation and when they had gone, so too had the bat."
"Excuse me, please."
"Yes of course, how can I help?"
"Would you mind awfully telling where he bat is?" It was Auntie. "I hope it won't get you into trouble like before."
"Ah, the bat. Unfortunately that lady ahead of you has either eaten it or frightened it away."
"Eaten it?"
"No, sorry. I was joking, feeling mean spirited because trying to get too close she has frightened it away."
"Oh what a shame. Some people."
---OOO---
The ship was at anchor by 7:30 am, the gangway and landing stage lowered into place and the two
tenders launched from their davits: all was set for a run ashore to the village of Boca de Valeria. Eight
or nine canoes, most with motors began to swarm around the ship. Each contained a man at the
paddles or outboard, one or more teenage girls and a small child of indeterminable gender holding up
a wild animal or bird of some kind. It was clear that this was an attempt to solicit donations that could
be thrown down from the deck. The questionable use of animals, children and scantily clad teenagers
was distasteful at best and simply wrong at worst.
The trip ashore in the tender took fifteen minutes against a strong current ad at the top of the muddy path from the flimsy landing stage a crowd of children and teenagers reached out to take gifts or the hand of passengers.
"You come, I show."
To one side a group of men held up signs, some hand written but many printed from a computer and laminated, that offered "30 minute canoe ride $5. Whole morning $15 per head."
Further along the path into the village mothers stood in the warm drenching rain, next to small girls dressed in a pastiche of indian costume. Photographs were taken and small damp hands reached out for payment. Some passengers, seasoned in such visits, had salved their consciences and brought colouring pencil sets, pencils, colouring books and note books. Others had pockets full of sweets while the remainder handed out dollar bills. Small boys stood holding out sloths or some other unfortunate, one-time denizen of the surrounding forest
The wet, defeated sloths hung disconsolately while a toucan ran back and forward on a stick to which it was tethered with a strip of plastic. A man stood holding out a stick upon which perched an immobile tarantula while his daughter grasped an iguana firmly by its neck and her brother proffered a huge longhorn beetle.
"Hey, Bug Man, have you seen that kid over there with the beetle? He'll let you take a picture if you
give him a dollar. I gave him change that I found in my bag - it was English money but they won't
understand."
"Thank you, I might have a look."
The track through he village was lined by zoological misery, the rain persisted and beautiful birds flew free in the tops of the trees.
Below a giant and beautiful catfish lay on a crude table gasping for water to pass its gills. It lay there dying quietly for hours.
The avenue of abuse went on for half a mile, passed the church outside of which a scantily clad teenaged girl posed suggestively with preternaturally bright feathers on bands around her neck ankles and wrists. She swayed, balancing on a greasy rock outside the Church of Our Lady, held out one hand while the other she ran through her hair. Enough was not more than enough: any was more than enough. With a turn of the heel and eyes averted, too ashamed of what the tourist trade had done to this village to risk eye contact with any of the victims, human or animal, purposeful steps went away fro the village and into the edge of the forest to the far side of the landing stage. Here it was possible to walk alongside the river and away from a village that had clearly drawn inhabitants of other nearby villages into a culture of prostitution. Exploitation of children and animals, the greatest riches of the village and of its environs could only leave sensitive and decent visitors dejected and dirtied by association.
The Professor had said that he and his wife would not be going ashore as they had visited 12 years ago and 6 years ago. He would not be drawn on the reason and suggested that people should visit and make up their own minds. Later a conversation revealed that twelve years ago the village had welcomed visitors with a native hospitality that did no more than share a small part of their lives with delighted guests. Their second visit had demonstrated that the descent into hell was well under way. It had once been a prosperous, simple community living in balance and wanting for nothing but had become a degraded cultural brothel - selling what it believed the outside world expected of it, selling its dignity and selling its soul.
Feeling slightly better for as brisk a walk as the temperature and humidity would allow the rain eased slightly and, soaked anyway, an hour was passed sitting on a decaying log listening to the sounds of the forest and spotting the occasional bird or butterfly high up in the canopy. Careful picking away at the bark of the tree uncovered, in the gloom, another world of beautiful things that were too small to attract sufficient attention to become victims of the tourist trade. It was soon time to go, and walk the mile or so back to the landing stage and the tender back to the ship. The forest edge was haunted by memories of sad-faced sloths enduring lives in a hopeless prison, the large eyes of a small child in which could be seen her incomprehension and the wet body of the teenager displayed like the dying catfish for the entertainment of the visitors.
The reactions expressed by others on the tender as it made its way back to the ship ranged from the slightly reassuring to the horrific.
"I don't think I liked that - those poor animals."
"I thought it was awful - did you see that fish. It was gasping for air."
"They should, have killed the fish first."
"I thought the parrots were probably pets but some of the other animals were tied up."
"That was fascinating. I always like to a see how people live in other cultures."
"I thought they'd be naked."
"I could have spent another day there - it was amazing. All those animals to photograph, you'd never get that close in the wild."
Classically British: those who spotted something wrong were concerned only for the animals. On that tender: no one mentioned the children - a ship of fools.
"Thank you, I might have a look."
The track through he village was lined by zoological misery, the rain persisted and beautiful birds flew free in the tops of the trees.
Below a giant and beautiful catfish lay on a crude table gasping for water to pass its gills. It lay there dying quietly for hours.
The avenue of abuse went on for half a mile, passed the church outside of which a scantily clad teenaged girl posed suggestively with preternaturally bright feathers on bands around her neck ankles and wrists. She swayed, balancing on a greasy rock outside the Church of Our Lady, held out one hand while the other she ran through her hair. Enough was not more than enough: any was more than enough. With a turn of the heel and eyes averted, too ashamed of what the tourist trade had done to this village to risk eye contact with any of the victims, human or animal, purposeful steps went away fro the village and into the edge of the forest to the far side of the landing stage. Here it was possible to walk alongside the river and away from a village that had clearly drawn inhabitants of other nearby villages into a culture of prostitution. Exploitation of children and animals, the greatest riches of the village and of its environs could only leave sensitive and decent visitors dejected and dirtied by association.
The Professor had said that he and his wife would not be going ashore as they had visited 12 years ago and 6 years ago. He would not be drawn on the reason and suggested that people should visit and make up their own minds. Later a conversation revealed that twelve years ago the village had welcomed visitors with a native hospitality that did no more than share a small part of their lives with delighted guests. Their second visit had demonstrated that the descent into hell was well under way. It had once been a prosperous, simple community living in balance and wanting for nothing but had become a degraded cultural brothel - selling what it believed the outside world expected of it, selling its dignity and selling its soul.
Feeling slightly better for as brisk a walk as the temperature and humidity would allow the rain eased slightly and, soaked anyway, an hour was passed sitting on a decaying log listening to the sounds of the forest and spotting the occasional bird or butterfly high up in the canopy. Careful picking away at the bark of the tree uncovered, in the gloom, another world of beautiful things that were too small to attract sufficient attention to become victims of the tourist trade. It was soon time to go, and walk the mile or so back to the landing stage and the tender back to the ship. The forest edge was haunted by memories of sad-faced sloths enduring lives in a hopeless prison, the large eyes of a small child in which could be seen her incomprehension and the wet body of the teenager displayed like the dying catfish for the entertainment of the visitors.
The reactions expressed by others on the tender as it made its way back to the ship ranged from the slightly reassuring to the horrific.
"I don't think I liked that - those poor animals."
"I thought it was awful - did you see that fish. It was gasping for air."
"They should, have killed the fish first."
"I thought the parrots were probably pets but some of the other animals were tied up."
"That was fascinating. I always like to a see how people live in other cultures."
"I thought they'd be naked."
"I could have spent another day there - it was amazing. All those animals to photograph, you'd never get that close in the wild."
Classically British: those who spotted something wrong were concerned only for the animals. On that tender: no one mentioned the children - a ship of fools.
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