The Jungle Trip Part I

When I was 16, I climbed into Major Bob’s VW bus with my backpack before the sun came up. He was taking a bunch of kids from the “Dungeon” on a little trip. The “Dungeon” was actually a concrete room in the officers barracks that the Base had donated to Major Bob. It was officially supposed to be for “Catholic Youth Organization” functions, but in reality it was just a hangout. Major Bob had a regular life as an officer in the Air Force, but after work he would come to the Dungeon, unlock the door and play cards or talk smack with anyone who came along. His son, Scott, was always there. The rest of us would show up whenever, and hang out until Bob kicked us out so he could go home. Every now and then, Bob would get a wild idea and take us somewhere cool. This time we were going into the Darien Province in eastern Panama. This area is known for having the densest jungles on earth.
There were about a dozen of us crammed into 2 vans. There were boys and girls from 14 to 18 years old. We headed out and drove east across the Bridge of the Americas, through Panama City, and finally out into the countryside. As we drove, the population got thinner and the jungle got thicker. Eventually the pavement gave way to gravel, and finally to mud. We drove until we got to the end of the road… There was an armada of huge earthmoving equipment parked in the mud nearby. We clomped about in the heavy mud and called each other names while we waited for our guide to arrive. We heard he was a Vietnam vet who moved into the jungles after the war. We also heard that the locals called him Rambo. Major Bob kept looking up the road, so I expected that the guide would arrive in an old jeep or something. We had a lot of ground to cover that day, and the clock was ticking.
The broad green leaves baked in the tropical sun, while the monkeys, birds and insects filled the air with complex jungle concertos. The acrid smell of jungle rot hovered over the steaming red mud. Bob stood akimbo by the van as a hole opened in the jungle behind him. A bearded camouflage man emerged from the hole with a machete in one hand, a machine gun hanging from one shoulder, and a pistol on his belt. There were random knives peeking from special pockets and sheaths strapped to his arms and legs. He walked into the middle of the group and immediately started talking to us like a drill sargeant, “They call me Rambo, we’ve got a lot of walking to do today. Stay with me and everything will be fine.” He paced authoritatively as he spoke. “Don’t leave the trail, don’t lag behind, and don’t giggle……I hate giggling. You better have water because you’ll need it. Plan on getting dirty….if you don’t wanna get dirty, you shoulda stayed home with your mamas. You can take pictures of the trees or the birds or the jungle, but don’t take pictures of people. The people out here think you’re taking their soul when you take their pictures. They will kill you to get their soul back. The sticks the men carry are blow dart guns. If you take their picture, you’ll have a poison arrow in your temple before you can blink. Now… get you’re packs on. In five minutes I’m turning around and walking into that jungle.”