In Gil’s Hands: Discovering The Pantanal

The Pantanal is the world’s largest wetland system.  Boasting some 650 bird species and 80 mammal species (jaguars, powerful, elusive, and fierce, rule the land), it is twenty times the size of the Florida Everglades.

I hadn’t considered a trip to The Pantanal until I decided that Bolivia would follow Brazil.  Once I determined my route, it made sense to visit the ecosystem on my way out of the country.  I pre-arranged a tour with Gil, and when I arrived at the airport, he had a young American couple thinking about joining the tour as well.

It was 2:45 PM.  Gil wanted to get us all on a 3 PM bus out of Campo Grande.  Meagan and Greg, the couple from Maine, and I boarded the bus, and  I soon had the opportunity to remark on what a small world it is when I learned that Meagan and Ihad both graduated from Bucknell University–she in ’07 and me in ’03. 

I was happy to have travel companions for this leg of the journey, and Meagan and Greg turned out to be very cool people, indeed.

Our decision to take the immediate bus was a wise one as we were the only people on the tour for the better part of the trip.  Two sweet Danish girls joined us, but it wasn’t until the last leg of our Pantanal tour that the number of travelers rose substantially (and the food quality declined noticeably). 

Our guide, Luiz, was an English-speaking Brazilian who, with his wife, Cida, owned the pousada (guest house) where we were to stay for the three nights and three day tour.  Taking us out on a boat ride down the Rio Paraguai, Luiz pointed stopped the boat to point out swimming sea otters, tree-swinging monkeys, capybara (world’s largest rodent), tiger herons, vultures, storks (the symbol of The Pantanal), marsh deer, a 1m-long iquana, and loads of caiman (fish-eating small alligator).

Boat ride up RioParaguai

Using bamboo fishing poles, we fished for piranha and saved most of them for dinner, though we caught so many (I’m the proud fisherwoman of the largest one that morning!), we shared a few with the lingering and anxious caiman.  (And thanks to Meagan and Greg’s 98% DEET insect repellent, I barely got bitten by the feisty and persistent mosquitos.)

In the afternoon, following a lunch where vegetables were plentiful (thank God!), we went horse-back riding through the vast land, now dry. 

The following day included a jeep safari ride, a long walk through the jungle and savannahs, and lunch at an outdoor bar and cafe.  Before this adventure, I’d never considered myself a bird person.  Before, they barely interested me, but it was quite a thrill to be so close to so many rarely-seen-elsewhere species.  We didn’t spot any jaguars or anacondas, but it was a worthwhile trip and one that now has me itching to head to Bolivia’s slice of the Amazon, in spite of the fact that I probably saw much more wildlife in The Pantanal than I’ll get to see in The Amazon.

Does My Face Look Fat in This?

I was trying not to be a baby.  I didn’t want to complain (again) as it seemed I’d been dealing with various physical ailments since arriving in Salvador on June 29th.

But, damn, my face hurt!  It felt like someone had punched both sides of my face, and I was left with the painful bruises as reminders.

I chalked it up to TMJ (perhaps I`d been clenching my jaw tightly the previous night?), popped some Aleve, and hopped on an overnight bus with Naseef, a fellow from Scotland I`d befriended earlier in the week.  We were headed to Lencòis, a diamond-mining town six hours west of Salvador to do some trekking and laid-back exploring.  We both agreed that Salvador was a bit of a disappoinment and were looking forward to spending a couple of days in chilled-out Lencòis, where the pousadas were famous for their fabulous breakfast spreads!

But on Saturday morning, once we woke from a few hours of sleep following the journey, my face hurt even more and felt swollen to the touch.

One look from Naseef confirming that it was indeed puffy and then one brief, horrifying look in the mirror, and I was both worried and frightened.

When a phone call to my parents yielded no information (it was habit to consult my father, a physician, and my mother, a nurse, when I experienced symptoms I couldn`t self-diagnose), I allowed Diego, a boy who worked at the pousada to take me to the hospital.

At this point, it hurt to talk, and I could barely open my mouth.  Diego was kind and jovial and managed to make me laugh a couple of time, but that, too, hurt, and I was scared of my imminent diagnosis.

Coxumba, the doctor at the clean but spare clinic announced and then hastily filled out a prescription for what turned out to be mostly nonsense: Tylenol, basically and anti-inflammatory pills.

My friends on Facebook  quickly informed me that coxumba was mumps as Diego, who spoke English fairly well, hadn`t been able to translate.

Vaccinated with MMR as a child and then re-vaccinated on April 10, 2009, I was one of the unlucky few who contracted the virus, regardless of immunization.

During the first few hours after my diagnosis, I felt ok.  I was exhausted and bummed that I had been ordered to stay in bed, for the little bit I’d seen of Lencòis had me wanting to see more, but bummed is the strongest word I`d use to describe my state of mind early morning, July 4th.  I`d read about various day treks and gotten Naseef on board; the last thing I wanted to do was stay in bed!

But as the day went on, the swelling worsened, and each time I looked at myself in the mirror, I knew there was no way I was going on a trek, much less leaving the cozy pousada or the confines of the room.  Make no mistake; I looked monstrous.

Naseef, fearful of getting infected, switched to another room but made sure I was well looked after, bringing me coconut water and offering to stay in town with me until I was well enough to travel.   Changing our bus tickets and asking if there was anyone he could call or write for me, Naseef was my only friend in the world.

The long, arduous night of July 4th, 2009, I wrote a will in my head, noting my desire to be cremated, the songs I wanted played at my funeral, messages for my sister to relay to my parents, Eileen, my Grandma Seliga.  I woke every hour in a fit of sweats, wrestling with the sheets, and then wrapping tightly the wool blanket around my limbs, chilled to the core.  I longed to hold my sister’s soft, little hands and have her lull me back to sleep.

Not one to turn to prayer, I prayed like I’ve never prayed before, but mostly, I felt like giving up.  This was the end for me.  I was sure of it. Although I knew there were those who had suffered (and who were suffering) far worse than me,  I could not bear it.

Because my face and throat were so swollen by this point (in the end, I deleted the few hideous self-portraits), finding a comfortable sleeping position proved elusive.  If I tried sleeping on my back, my face, the muscles and glands sliding back on the pillow, throbbed.  It felt like someone had beaten my face to a bloody pulp, yet there was no blood, no pulp.  Sleeping on one cheek was sometimes possible, but first I`d have to allow for a period of adjusting to the pressure and pain asserted on the chosen side.

I made it through that brutal night, of course, and drafted a will to Stephanie via e-mail.  Fearful of my own reflection, I stopped looking in the mirror.  Because I couldn’t open my mouth more than the width of a finger (with the help of a finger, no less), I barely ate.  Managing a few bites of soft breakfast cake, I forced some substance into my body for fear of starving.

I slept on Sunday, the following day.  All day and fitfully.  Naseef informed me that the hostel owner, Olivia Taylor, an unembracing, cold British woman,  thought it best that I move to a vacant house down the street.

Olivia, who wouldn’t come within twenty feet of me, had stocked the empty, house with water and laid out a mattress on the cold, hard floor.  I’d been crying quietly nearly all day, but as I surveyed the room in which I was banished, my tears grew louder, my sobs impossible to ignore.  Olivia looked past me, like a man who is uncomfortable or embarrassed by a woman`s tears, and although I knew I should be grateful to her for giving me this place to rest my head, I hated her.

Naseef, a genuinely kind-hearted man and good friend in only six days time,  sat with me  and let me cry.  Offering positive words of encouragement and soothing me as best he could, he promised to see me in the morning.  (Olivia, via Naseef, forbid me from going inside the pousada’s domain.)

On Monday, I experienced somewhat of a miraculous–to me, at least, the change in how I felt was nothing short of miraculous–recovery, and I was no longer imagining who was going to be at my funeral.  I had little pain, and the swelling had gone down a great deal; I could show my face without catching looks of fear and/or disgust from those whose eyes I met on the street.  Mentally, I had regained strength as well and thought how far I`d come as I killed two cockroaches, each the size of my heel, with one lone pot in the vacant house.  It was time to remove myself from quarantine, I thought as I nervously shot glances around the bathroom, waiting on the edge of my seat, er, toilet, for another roach to appear.

A day later, on our bus ride back to Salvador, I turned to Naseef and asked, Can you believe how fat my face was?

Our laughter turned into a blog-brainstorming session, and it is Naseef who must be credited with the title of this post.

It`s a bit of a clichè to say it, of course, but my experience living through the mumps in a developing country by myself, save for a recent friend in Naseef, makes me feel like I can conquer all future obstacles on this trip.  Nothing will pose a greater challenge than surviving the mumps in Brazil.