Alone in a Dark Alley

“Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” -Helen Keller

After 5 days of hard travel, Vay and I decided to spend our last few Sri Lankan hours relaxing. After some quick debating, we chose to head to the little beach town of Negombo. Negombo does not have a lot going for it. There are prettier beaches to the South, better waves to the East and more adventures in the North, but what it does have is a short walk to the ocean, lots of good bars and a 20-minute ride to airport, and since our flight was leaving insanely early the next morning – it was perfect.

And it was perfect. We spent our day lounging by the pool and sipping Caiprihnas. I read two girly books and tried to ignore the idea that we would be leaving the following day. But, much too soon, the evening snuck up on us and it was necessary to pack. Despite the fact that Vay had brought 3 times what I had, she was packed in minutes and ready to hit the town. I, however, needed time and space to pack, so I begged off walking to the bar with her, and instead promised to meet her in an hour or so – when my bag was ready and my book completed.

She took off and I stretched out – luxuriating in the quiet of the hotel room. 2 hours later, I was packed. I slipped on a tank top and headed out the door. As I shut the hotel gate, I was surprised by the absolute darkness. It was nearly 10 o’clock and I knew it would be dark – but I hadn’t really realized that our hotel’s alley had no street lamps. A shiver of fear ran down my spine – there was a creepiness to the darkness and emptiness of the street, but the main thoroughfare was not far ahead and completely bathed in light, so I had little to fear.

After just a few steps, I heard a squeak pierce the night. It came from behind me, so I threw a quick glance over my shoulder. An old man on a rickety bike cruised off to my right. This was no surprise. Every time we had walked the alley, men on bikes had cruised past. It was the locals’ main form of transportation. Still I clutched my satchel’s strap with my spare hand and kept my look determinedly ahead to discourage interaction.

He rode past me and mumbled something. I didn’t want to be rude, so I nodded my head and glanced in his direction. He continued on for about 50 meters, then suddenly hopped off his bike and fumbled with his pants. He was facing the fence and I assumed he was urinating, so I looked the other way. However, as I walked past, I realized he was enjoying himself immensely (this is a euphemism)  and staring directly at me. He shouted something and I sped up – the main street was so close.

With amazing speed, he zipped his pants and leapt back on his bike. For such an old man, he was surprisingly agile. He approached on my right again and for the first time I was really afraid. I realized that I was alone in a dark alley in a foreign country (sorry, Dad). I clutched my purse and began to calculate how difficult it would be to replace everything within. He rode closer and I moved as far left as I could. I was now literally walking between a high wooden fence and an old man on a bike. He pedaled in a steady rhythm, keeping me trapped.

Suddenly, he lunged. I was ready for him and I swung my purse around to my other side. But he wasn’t reaching for the purse and he had perfect aim. I gasped as I felt him grab my left boob and squeeze. I came to a sudden stop and reacted without thinking. My left arm came up and slammed him hard in the chest. I shouted, “No. I said. NO.” I hit him, again – harder. It knocked him off his bike and he stumbled back. Then I added, “Good. NO. Thank you.” None of this was said in a pleading manner, rather it sounded very factual or like a parent speaking to a toddler. Although, why I felt the need to be polite while someone was grabbing my boob, I’ll never know.

He was still standing and he reached for his bike. I took this as my sign to get out of there and half-ran/half-walked to the main street. I was determined to not look as scared as I felt. As I rushed onto the street, a tuk-tuk driver glanced up at me. Before I could speak he rushed past and screamed at the old man. The old man simply shrugged it off though and rode in the opposite direction.  This was much more anti-climatic than I had hopped. My adrenaline was ebbing and now that I felt safe, I was very, very angry at the old man and his grab-hands.

Before, I could do something stupid though, the driver motioned me into the tuk-tuk and drove me the few blocks to the bar. I thanked him profusely. Seeing Vay sitting on a bar stool, sipping a beer, was the most welcoming sight I could imagine and I practically rushed into her arms just to be off the street and with friends. We spent the rest of the night having way too much fun (which was the plan), but when it was time to leave you can bet I had a large group of people walk us home.

“If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion, and avoid the people, you might better stay at home.” -James A. Michener

Blood Sucking Fiends

They rose from the ground like zombies, or vampires – even better - since their goal was to suck our blood. Their scrawny worm-like bodies hovered in the air, waving back and forth, waiting for us to step closer. They would latch onto our sneakers and begin their ascent toward our ankle inching quickly along, until they reached flesh. Then they would attach themselves and suck and suck, fattening their gaunt bodies on our delicious blood.

I knew there was going to be leeches on the trek. I had been warned. It was even mentioned in the online description, “ two day trek… more than 30 kilometers… camping… must be in good shape… leeches are rampant on trail…” The first part of the hike, though, was easy and beautiful and we spent more time spent admiring flowers, than worrying about climbing a mountain or watching for leeches. But, just when we had been lulled into a sense of safety, we entered the jungle and everything changed.

The air was suddenly humid and the ground was moist. Puddles appeared on the trail and spiky vines crisscrossed our way. The guides sprayed our ankles with a mixture of oil and water and left us smelling like the horses during fly season. But I still mistakenly thought the leeches would be rare, one or two, if any at all. Not hundreds, visible as I walked, waving at me like the souls Ursula collected in the Little Mermaid. It was disconcerting and honestly, it frightened me, much more than I wanted to admit.

At first, I looked down often. Staring at the tiny creatures that appeared to be reaching up to me. I focused on our destinations, the 7 different waterfalls, counting the steps that would lead me to safety, streams and leech-free rocks. Each time we reached a one, I would shout for joy - ecstatic that not a single leech had reached me. Positive with every passing minute, that I was exaggerating their abilities and needs.

Then we reached the steepest part of the trek. The climb was close to 90 degrees, and we had to basically claw our way up the dirt. Vay went first, grabbing roots and branches, to pull herself up, twice she slipped and twice we cheered her on. Then it happened. Standing at her feet, I watched a teeny, tiny blood-sucking leech inch his way across her shoe. Before I could speak he ducked over the edge and was inside. I yelled gibberish, trying to decide if it was better to tell her now, or wait till we were back on solid ground, since there was nothing she could do right then.

I told her. It was the wrong thing to do. She started shaking her foot, hoping to dislodge the creature, but it was a lost effort, he was safely ensconced inside. She began to slide back down and the guides made angry faces at me. They grabbed her, steadied her and she made her ascent. The whole time I stood below, hopping from one foot to the other, trying not to give the leeches time to find my feet and crawl inside.

From that moment on, I would check my ankles every three steps. I made it a rhythm as I walked. The second I saw one, I would let out an involuntarily yelp, lift my foot and gesture wildly. It was embarrassing. The guides simply wore flip flops and when a leech attached to them, they would casually flick it off and continue walking, while I, a supposedly tough, outdoorsy woman, would turn into a little, helpless girl, practically crying at the sight.

I wanted to be tough. B had asked me if I would be a "I-can-take-it-I'm-a-country-girl" or a "gross-get-it-off-me-girl” and I was clearly the latter, but I wanted to be the former. I would tell myself ‘be strong’, ‘its just a worm’ (with blood sucking fangs), ‘it won’t hurt’, but then just when I was sure I could handle it, another would latch on and I would cry out and hop uncontrollable until the guide rescued me once again. Embarrassing.

We did eventually make it to the summit of the first knuckle (the mountains are know as Knuckles Range, due to looking like a closed fist). Pictured above is our joy at achieving our goal and not succumbing to the leeches. (Not pictured above is all the blood pooling at the base of Vay's right ankle because she got sucked so many times.) Yay us!

Straddling a Pregnant Camel

Ever since we backpacked Australia, I have wanted to ride a camel. It doesn’t seem that difficult a goal, but I am finding it rather impossible to fulfill.

I actually had the chance to ride a camel in Oz, but held off because I had heard of a wine-tasting and camel-riding tour and wanted to do that instead. However, once we reached Adelaide, I was disappointed to find the tour closed for the season and I haven’t seen a camel since.

This was expected to change on our recent holiday. I had read that the Sheikh had a 600+ camel farm in Bahrain that was open to the public. Even more exciting, it supposedly offered bareback camel rides.

I convinced B to go on Saturday afternoon. We followed the directions out of town and toward Saudi Arabia. We drove across the island and eventually found our turn off. We cruised down the road, keeping our eyes peeled for a camel farm. There appeared to be no signs and no farm. We doubled back and tried again. No success. Just as we were beginning to give up, a guard flagged us down, warning us to not continue down the road we were on. We requested directions to the farm and he gestured for us to turn right at the next entrance.

An ornate entrance appeared on our right soon afterwards, but it had a huge sign stating, “Stop! Private Property!” B started to drive by, but I convinced him to turn in. I argued that we had already been stopped and turned away by one guard, what’s another.

As we parked, it was clear we were in the right place. Hundreds of camels stood before us. Some were in corrals, others were hobbled, and still others seemed free to wander. A large sign instructed us that we must not touch, stand close to or climb the camels. It seemed a simple request, but as I walked among them, I itched for the photo opportunity of standing near, touching or better yet climbing up on one and riding away.

I must have shown some of my longing, because soon after we entered, a young Indian caretaker approached us and offered to show us some of the newborn calves. He started by leading us around a large open air barn of young males. He warned us not to get too close as the males were known for biting and spitting.

Next, we approached a large corral full of mother camels and young calves. The youngest had just been born the week before. Much like a foal, it was already galloping around on shaky legs and alternating between wanting to nuzzle us and wanting to hide in fear.

Lastly, the caretaker introduced us to a very pregnant camel. She was 6 months in and HUGE. She still had 6 months to go before she would give birth. He had her lay down and then invited us to perch atop her. I was worried about hurting her, but he assured us it was fine. So we sat behind her hump and took a few photos. We looked, and felt, quite silly straddling a pregnant camel on a farm of 600 others, but that was the closest I was going to get to a ride, so I took it.

As we exited the farm I asked if the Sheikh raced the camels or rode them. The caretaker shook his head and in an aggrieved voice told us that the camel farm was just a hobby. “Just a hobby,” he said, “Not for eating, not for racing, not for money. Just costs money, lots of money. For hobby.” He gestured to the elaborate barns, well maintained sidewalks, gorgeous pools of water and the many, many camels. “All this for hobby,” he paused and shook his head, “I paid 18 BD* a month, a month! I live off that. That is all. I get 18. And this, all this, just for hobby. He comes once a year, the Sheikh. Hobby.”

I looked at him, chagrined, and offered a 2 BD tip. It was the best I could do, I had not come prepared with small change. I knew part of his spiel was purposeful, to cajole a tip, but I also knew that 18 BD was probably not an understatement. He had been very helpful and entertaining. He had earned it.

Oh. And I still need to ride a camel.

*BD – Bahraini Dinar. 18 BD is approx. 58 dollars (a month). 

Sit Down & Shut Up!

We got our first taste of Kuwaiti Bureaucracy today. Unlike Honduras, where we were the top of the chain, in Kuwait we fall much more in the middle of the hierarchy. Not only do we need to know the right people to get service, it would also be a huge boon if those right people were Kuwaiti and not white.

The story. Tomorrow is the first day with students. All of us are giddy, nervous, excited and filled with that fluttery first day feeling that every teacher gets, no matter how many first days you’ve had. We are suddenly blessed with this huge blast of energy. Our minds are filled with plans and stories and lessons and creations and we are ready to go and work and prepare. It is the absolute worst day to have us leave early and get fingerprinted, so that is exactly what we did.

Instead of working in our classes, putting our energy to good use, we spent the morning learning about Kuwaiti bank accounts and health plans. Good and important meetings, but not nearly fun and creative enough for my taste. Then at 1:00 we were loaded onto a bus and taken to a government office. We had heard this could take awhile so most of us had books and snacks to get us through the afternoon.

We arrived in a mass of laughs and noise. We are teachers. We are loud and assertive by nature. Put 40 of us in a room, the majority women, and we are going to garnish attention. Add to the fact that we are the only women in a small room filled with Kuwaiti and other Arab men. We are dressed western. Ankles are showing, hair is down and opposite sexes are intermingling.

For the first hour, we talk and laugh and chat and yell and eat and giggle and generally act like happy, boisterous North Americans. In hour 2 we are hushed. A man walks around and politely tells us to quiet down or we will be kicked out. We quiet, but not enough. 5 minutes later he clarifies, NO talking or we are out in the desert heat. It is silent, for a minute, maybe two, then, just like our students, we begin whispering, chatting, quietly laughing and nibbling on food. Minutes later we are told to stand up and move.

So we do. We are moved to a smaller, more crowded room, with chairs closer together and men standing and watching us. I am not uncomfortable. I wish for the bathroom (it is behind closely guarded locked doors) but otherwise I am content with my kindle and B with his ipad. We wait. Honduras has prepared us well.

Other teachers are not so content. Many of the teachers feel it is unfair that the Arab men and even the male teachers can talk, but if one of the female teachers open their mouths they are promptly scolded and reprimanded. There is more and more crumbling as we sit there. Then the final straw breaks. We are told we should not and cannot be eating. Moments after this a teacher accidently drops her soda bottle on the floor. Glass and pop are everywhere. Before anyone can react we are hustled out the door and into the hot, hot air. Eventually we load back onto the bus. There we sit for the remaining 3 hours. The bus has air-conditioning and we are allowed to speak but that is the limit of its perks. It is small and cramped and noisy. B and I are lucky to secure the long back seat so we settle in for a game of ipad chess and wait. (I lost.)

Finally, we are told we may reenter and form a line to be fingerprinted. We must be silent. We must not speak or stand near those of the opposite sex. We must not act like North Americans. We have learned. We walk in meekly and obediently to form our 2 lines. We wait and wait and wait.   Another group of North Americans come in as we wait. They are teachers from a different school. They are predominantly white and loud. Oh, so loud. We begin to cower in fear. What if they associate these teachers with us? What if we get kicked out again? We are so, so close to being fingerprinted. Don’t kick us out. Please, don’t kick us out.

Luckily, before any of this can happen, a very short man comes out from behind a wall. He screams (and I mean, SCREAMS!!) in Arabic at all of us. He gestures and screams some more. He yells at the school official from the new school to translate. He does – the translation is basically “SHUT UP! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Seriously, SHUT UP! I have been working in this hot, sweaty office since 7 this morning and it is now 6 at night and I am trying to keep working and you all are giving me a headache so SHUT UP!” (This is not an exaggeration; this is more or less what was translated to us.)

So they shut up and we stayed silent with our fingers and toes crossed and we made it. We all got fingerprinted. We are that much closer to being Kuwaiti citizens. The only thing stopping us now is chest X-rays and blood tests on Tuesday. Let’s hope for more patient officials and calmer teachers.

Cheers from Kuwait!

Volcano Boarding

We woke up bright and early Monday morning, ready to board a volcano. We were stoked. I had read about volcano boarding years ago and as more and more people I knew tried it, the urge to board down the side of an active volcano on loose ash became overwhelming. Thank goodness I have such a kicka** little sister who will jump out of airplanes and board down volcanoes with me.

Our hostel offered a bed, volcano boarding trip, 3 mojito and 1 beer deal so we took them up on this offer and climbed in their large orange converted flat bed truck along with 15 other adventurous souls. Our guides name was Anthony. He hailed from New York but was busy making Nicaragua his new home. Within minutes it was clear he had a fat crush on robin. I encouraged her to take advantage of this, but she felt I was exaggerating his infatuation (it would later be proven multiple times, I most definitely was not.)

The ride to Cerro Negro, our volcano, was an hour long. The truck drove at neck breaking speeds down one lane roads and tiny dirt ruts. It honked at horses, cattle and children that got in its way, never slowing down for a minute. The cab had a porthole on the top and at multiple points in the trip Anthony would climb out of the cab and into the back to join us, the tourists, clinging for dear life to the benches. During one of these sojourns he informed us that Volcano Boarding Cerro Negro had just been listed #2 on CNNs Thrill Seekers Bucket List and #4 on Readers Digests Top Death-Defying Adventures List. Robin sarcastically added, “Riding on the back of this truck must be #1.”

Here is CNNs description: “Snowboarding is old school. The latest extreme way to slide a slope can be found at Cerro Negro in Nicaragua. The live volcano, which erupted as recently as 1999, has become a hot spot for extreme boarders. Boarders can reach speeds of up to 80 kilometers per hour as they course down the volcano's sides. “ See why we had to do this?

Once we finally reached the base of the volcano Anthony had adequately pumped us up. He had bragged about his own best time (90 km/hr) and had informed us that if we broke the month or all-time record we would earn extra mojitos. I had seen that the June record for girls was 48 k/h and I was positive I could break that so I was ready to climb on my board and go… too bad we had to hike the volcano first.

We grabbed our gear and commenced a raggedy-taggedy line up the trail. At first we lead the line but soon Robin was kind enough to drop back with me to the end, since I felt pressure to walk quickly at the start of the line, and I am not a natural hiker at the best times, let alone when I am carrying a liter water bottle, orange jumpsuit and a giant piece of plywood. Luckily, there were lots of water breaks and I made it up in one piece.

When we reached the half way point we had a good view of one of the craters created by a recent explosion. There was a nice rock located on the edge just begging for people to hang off it and take a massive number of pictures and our tour group complied happily. We clung to the rock, jumped on it, jumped off it and posed near it. As the pictures wrapped up Anthony turned to me and said, “Take a picture of your sister and I doing a jumping shot.” This would have only been a little odd on its own, but 4 pictures later he was still unhappy with how they were looking and replaced me as photographer. It was at this point Robin admitted he may have a small attraction to her.

Soon after this we reached the top. Looking down at our tiny tonka-sized big-rig truck, we realized just how high we were, 600 meters high. We were instructed to climb into our orange jumpsuits and listen to how to control our boards.

Driving the board is simple. The boards are basically long pieces of heavy plywood with strips of plastic attached with glue to one side of the bottom. Then a rope is tied to the wood and you are seated on the very edge of the back of the wood holding onto the rope. As you go down the volcano, you stick your feet straight ahead and don’t let them touch down unless you want to brake. If you get going too fast then you don’t brake, because if you do, you will be slammed off your board and that is how people break collarbones and such. At the bottom, the volcano evens out and your board will eventually coast to a stop, assuming you managed to hang on that long. We were now ready to go.

Robin and I were the third couple to go. We were seated near each other. The girls who had gone ahead of us had drug their feet almost the whole way down and had never gotten any speed at all. I was determined to get speed and I decided to just not think about repercussions. Robin pushed off first. She was the first girl to keep her feet up and get some speed, she looked good and in control, she made it look easy. About 10 seconds later I pushed off. I could see her ahead and to the right, she was about half down. I lifted my feet and picked up speed, I wanted to test steering so I carefully and quickly tapped my left foot, this was supposed to steer me to the left, instead I rolled lightly off the board – I had been going too fast and the sudden tap and thrown me off. But it hadn’t hurt at all. I brushed off and climbed on again. All fear was gone. I had already fallen off and proven it was harmless. I lifted my feet and gained speed quickly. I clung tight. Robin was now 75% down the mountain. I quickly caught up to her and flew past, I was too close for comfort but I was afraid to try to steer again and I really wanted to get a good time. I was flying.

Suddenly I bounced and my left foot touched the ground. BAM! I was tossed into the air like a rag doll. I landed hard on my left side and immediately bounced again. I did this over and over again, gaining speed as I rolled down the volcano’s side. I could hear robins gasp, followed by uncontrollable laughter as she watched my body and face slam again and again into lava rocks – she later apologized for this reaction – she said her laughter was instinctive but she really was worried about me. According to the people at the base of the volcano, I rolled somewhere between 9 to 16 times and was awesome to watch, arms flailing and legs flying. As I came to a stop, I was so able to quickly assess that nothing was broken but my left side was definitely bruised and cut a bit and my goggles were no longer anywhere near my face.

My board was further up the mountain and I looked up at it as Robin coasted by. She later told me I quietly whispered to myself, “Ow. That hurt…” but I have no recollection of this. All I really remember is climbing back up the side of the volcano, dusting off my ash covered board and climbing on for the end of the ride. Robin crossed the line with a speed of 20 k/h and I crossed right behind her with a speed of 27 k/h. Disappointing to be sure... but everyone assured me I had been flying up until that point and I have the cuts and bruises to prove it.

At the end of the day, we decided volcano boarding was just as awesome as we had hoped it would be and the biggest bummer was we only got to do it once… this trip.

Fishing For Piranha

When we weren’t eating, sleeping or riding in the boat, there were not a lot of options of things to do. Relaxing in hammocks and playing cards can only fill so much time.

Our guide convinced us that we must swim in the Amazon. Despite the inherit dangers (caiman, piranhas, strong current, the fact that the outhouses were located in it) he assured us that it was something every person must do in their life. He described to us the magical powers the water carried and the belief that if we were to drink some of the river we would later return, as does everyone who carries a little part of the Amazon inside them.

So, armed with this knowledge, we climbed in. Entering the river was not difficult; we simply walked out the front door. Standing on the front porch meant you were thigh deep in water, walking down the stairs meant you would be doggy paddling before you ever reached the third stair. None of us swam far from the porch. Jorge’s assurance meant little in the face of the Giant River and moving current.

Once we were all in, Jorge asked the ladies if any of us were on our period. This seemed an awkward and inappropriate question, but we all shook our heads no, staring at each other like, “What?!?!” He laughed and explained. According to legend the pink dolphins are attracted to any woman experiencing her flow. As soon as the lady steps into the water the pink dolphins can sense it and immediately swim to her. Then, overwhelmed by their need for her, they capture her and bring her into the depths of the river, keeping her for always. This is why no woman should ever go into the amazon during that time of her month. He looked at us again giving us a knowing look. Soon after we climbed out.

The only other activity offered was fishing. This was what Brian had come for, so of course this was meet with a resounding, “Let’s go!” Jorge drove us out to a part of the river, known for its good fishing. Each of us was given a stick with a piece of line and hook tied to it. We stuck raw pork on the hook and dropped it in. No luck. We moved to a new location. All the lines were dropped in again. We felt small tugs but when we pulled up the meat was gone and no fish hung in its place. This was done again and again, but nothing changed.

Brian had brought his traveling fishing pole. After 30 minutes with the stick, he took out his reel and pole and cast off the side. Within a minute he had a fish, he did this again and again, piranha after piranha were caught and released. The rest of us continued to catch air. One of Brian’s was quite large with a bright red belly. Our guide shouted at Brian to be careful, but before he could release it, the piranha freed itself. Jorge assured us this was better for everyone, especially Brian’s fingers.

We stayed out fishing for a few hours, during this time Brian caught numerous fish, mostly piranhas, David and Rueben also caught a few using the stick poles, Jessica, Heather & I caught nothing but mosquito bites, but that made sense - we were the sweetest in the river.

The Elusive Pink Dolphin

The amazon is known for its wildlife. The original plan had been to stay one night at the lodge and another camping in the jungle, hammocks for beds. However, this was out of the question, as the jungle trek was buried under 15 feet of water. Instead, we would do all our wildlife spotting from boat. Not a terrible tragedy, but a disappointment to those who love to hike (something Brian & I have never confessed to loving).

As evening approached, we all climbed into the boat. It was nice escape, after just a few hours in the lodge we were all feeling trapped and wet. Rueben drove us out to a place where the river was wide and flat. There we relaxed, the boat gently rocking, our cameras ready. A few minutes’ later dolphins began to leap. Pink and grey dolphins frolicked around us. The grey ones looked just like ocean dolphins, leaping with grace and beauty. The pink ones looked like a fish-pigs, barely able to get their bodies above the water.

We took picture after picture but to no avail. The grey ones were easy to catch film, leaping high into the air, the pink ones were impossible, mere glimpses of their pinkish hue visible above water before they dove under again. Still it was enthralling to see an animal that seemed as real to me as a unicorn and we enjoyed the sight immensely.

We returned to the lodge for dinner and soon after were out in the boat again. It was now pitch black. We were going caiman hunting. Our guide, Jorge, and another man were armed with flashlights and amazing eyesight. Rueben trolled us slowly along the jungles edge, as Jorge and the caiman hunter stared out into the bush. After what seemed like an amazingly short time, the hunter yelled out and lurched from the boat, as he leaned back in he held a small caiman in his hands. They passed the animal around, promising us it wouldn’t bite off our fingers as long as we kept them away from its mouth. We did this successfully and soon released him back into the wild. All of us glad to know that this was another animal we could now worry about sharing our rooms with.

Monkeys were the final animal we were promised on the tour. The next morning we rose much too early and headed out as the sun rose. For the next few hours, we trolled along the jungle, looking for sloths, river wolves and monkeys. Our guide warned us that this would be difficult, that due to the flooding most of the animals were now residing deeper in the jungle since the river had spread out so far, we held out hope though. We just wanted to see something. 

Just as I began to drop off to sleep Rueben called for our attention. He pointed at a shaking tree, we all stared and stared, and were eventually rewarded by seeing the cutest, tiniest monkeys ever, leaping from branch and branch chasing each other. We watched until they disappeared further back into the jungle, then returned to lodge, content in knowing that our Amazon animal sighting had been successful.