Peter Allison - How to Walk a Puma

Muscles just stood there looking in perplexity at the frenzied little man shouting at him; finally it dawned on me that he genuinely didn’t know what he’d done to earn this diatribe. Eric sensibly had not slowed nor deviated in his course, clearly not wanting to be part of any intergroup brawl, and I was now swivelled at the waist shouting back at Muscles. I tried to think of a strong finish, but could only come up with, ‘Don’t throw sticks!’ Then, after a brief pause, I added, ‘At animals!’

And they were gone. I sat down, feeling a tad foolish, shaking with the adrenalin that any sort of conflict produces. Loud applause followed, and the sound of many birds taking flight, and I realised my group was clapping me.

As my fury waned and the ice left my veins I began to wonder about the origins of the tattoo I’d seen on Muscles’ shoulder. It was likely, I realised, that we’d run into his group again over the next few days. Maybe he was special forces, I thought. Or a ninja.

I was dead, I just didn’t smell like it yet.

We arrived at our camp that evening to discover it was a shared one, and among the group already there found David/Adair from the rafting trip. I genuinely liked David so it was great to see him. After a quick catch-up the conversation turned to the antics of his countrymen that afternoon, with the Minke describing the stick thrower’s behaviour.

He was very embarrassed, and explained, ‘He’s probably straight out of the military. They come here because it’s a cheap place to visit, but they’re just looking to let off steam and probably have no real interest in where they are.’

‘Don’t worry, one day I’ll meet you in Bali and then I can be embarrassed by Australians,’ I said; then, still curious, I described the shape and positioning of Muscles’ tattoo.

‘Hmm, really?’ said David. ‘Ex-commando.’

‘So not a ninja, then. Thank goodness,’ I said.

‘He’s the sort of guy who knows a hundred ways to make you bleed.’

‘Excellent. Thanks,’ I said.

‘Pretty brutal what they do,’ said David. ‘Hopefully you won’t run into him again.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ I said, and though I didn’t really believe what I was saying, I still didn’t regret what I’d done.

‘Okay. Just be careful though. Those guys aren’t known to be forgiving.’

‘Please feel free not to tell me any more.’

Unfortunately, David’s comments had piqued the interest of the rest of the group, and over dinner that night the conversation largely centred on the highly trained ex-commando I’d berated earlier that day. I pretended to be unconcerned but privately started to imagine a number of different scenarios, most of them including an ambush and significant loss of blood on my part.

The mere thought of conflict usually makes my eyes water, and I’d long believed there was no finer form of self-defence than absence (I also put a lot of faith in my one athletic gift—I am a very fast runner). But revelation came in the form of a quote from Winston Churchill, who’d once said, ‘I do not trust a man without enemies. It means he has never stood up for anything.’ I believed in the stance I had taken on the boat, and did not mind having an enemy. I just wished it was one I was more likely to defeat in combat.

‘I have a plan. I’m going to blame Aaron,’ I said to the Minke, pointing at the largest member of our group, a heavily built Australian with broad shoulders and an imposing beard.

‘Won’t work,’ said the Minke laconically. ‘The commando saw your mouth moving. And your hands flapping around.’

‘Aha!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll just have to say he’s a ventriloquist and had his hand up my bum.’

‘You really have no shame, do you?’ the Minke said with more resignation than dismay.

The very next day we saw the magic dragon group trudging through a swampy section of the pampas, no doubt in search of anacondas. A few minutes later their guide, still in his macho vest, held one up above his head with a roar of triumph.

Before we’d set out, Eric had cautioned us against picking up any anacondas we saw: some of them were big enough to eat us, he explained, but it was also impossible to know what sort of stress it caused them. Most of us were wearing insect repellent, which might harm them if it was transferred to them. Now, at the sight of the snake being manhandled, the usually smiling Eric stormed over and delivered a rapid-fire mouthful of invective at the other guide, who had draped the anaconda around the neck of one member of his group. Despite his unimpressive physical presence, Eric’s tone had sufficient authority that the snake was quickly released and Macho’s group moved on. Luckily, the ex-commando didn’t see me standing behind the Minke.

On the final day of our tour, without having had a whiff of jaguar, we set out before dawn to do some wildlife watching before the nocturnal animals settled down for the day. Eric guided our canoe to a high bank of the river, which we scrambled up to be rewarded with a view of the surrounding flatlands and the wobbling sun as it rose. It was so serene that for the first time since I’d seen sticks being thrown at animals I forgot about commandos, stopped hearing the nagging voice reminding me I had not seen a jaguar, and exhaled.

My reverie was soon broken by the revving of a motor, and another canoe soon arrived at what I already thought of territorially as our spot.

‘Oh goody,’ I thought, seeing the distinct military haircut at the bow. At least he wasn’t standing up. At least he wasn’t holding sticks. It surprised me that his group had managed such an early start, as their focus in our brief meetings had seemed to be on partying, not wildlife, but they now moved with some urgency up the bank to catch the last of the sunrise—a futile measure, as close to the equator the sun ejects from the horizon like bread from a toaster.

As their group formed up, maintaining a distinct divide from us in the way humans do when two herds meet, I kept my eyes firmly on the commando, ready to break eye contact (and probably wind) if he looked at me. He stood aggressively, shoulders bunched as if ready to swing into violent action; it was the pose of an alpha gorilla unlikely to let an insult pass. Usually I aim to defuse tension with humour, but in this case there could be a language barrier, so in the event of conflict my only chance, I decided, was to make a dive for the river and rely on the slim hope that commandos couldn’t swim.

One of his group broke away and headed into some waist-high grass behind us, a wheaty expanse for many hundred metres. As he moved, the commando looked my way with a scowl. I turned and braced myself to take a running dive.

From behind us came the rasp of a zip, clear in the still morning air, and I waited for the gush of urine that the departed Israeli was surely going to unleash (at what I thought was an impolite proximity to the gathering). Instead there was a girlish squeal, the thunder of feet and a guttural Hebrew curse.

Both groups had been facing the now-risen sun, watching its reflection redden the water, but we all swivelled en masse at the disturbance. The erstwhile urinator had woken a sleeping capybara that was now desperate to avoid being peed on, or was perhaps furious at the indignity of it all, and was doing what capybara do when threatened, and heading for the water. Unfortunately our group was in its way.

Capybaras are far from sluggish and this one was coming at us at ramming speed. Weighing up to forty-five kilos, a capybara bowling you over could cause serious injury, and I really wished that I knew how to handle this species like I did those in Africa. Should you stand your ground or run? Or throw a commando at it and let them sort it out? But there was no time to put that plan in place. Several of us sidestepped, some throwing themselves bodily out of harm’s way as the rodent charged through the gap we’d made then scampered down the bank and plunged into the river, its splash exposing a jagged stump that would have impaled me had I made my own planned exit.