“Fear not that life shall come to an end, but rather fear that it shall never have a beginning.”

John Henry Cardinal Newman

The heat was almost unbearable.  It wrapped itself like a warm wet blanket around the small group as they made their way through the heavy undergrowth, swatting away the pesky mosquitoes’ that were insistent on sucking them dry at every opportunity, and avoiding the backlash of released branches and leaves from the tour guides that led the way.  The canopy of the trees above them blocked out most of the sunlight, so the heat that enveloped them seemed to be coming from the ground upwards, a humidity that was almost tangible, laced with the rotting smell of decomposing plants that crunched under their feet as they walked.  The main tour guide, a large dark-skinned man wearing a dirty white vest and knee-length khaki shorts, was doing his best to carve a pathway through the jungle ahead of him with a very large machete, skillfully slicing away the intrusive liana’s, a type of climbing vine, and the oversized heliciana leaves which wrapped around the bright orange flowers of the plant.

The rainforests of the Amazon seemed to be a living, breathing entity on its own, as the sounds of hundreds of insect species merged with the bonking sound of the occasional monkey frog, topped off with the strange and unique roar of the red howler monkeys in the distance.  It was early December, a time of the year when this south eastern section of Peru experienced heavy downpours, interlaced with the incredible humidity that seemed amplified by the canopied roof of the forest. 

“How far do we still have to go?” a panting, overweight British man in the group gasped from near the rear of the now single-file line of tourists.

The local white-vested tour guide, whose name was Roger surprisingly, paused in his hacking of a pathway and pointed ahead, “Only five more minutes.”

“Thank God!” the tourist replied.  “Who would have thought it would be such a trek just to see the Peruvian long-whiskered owlet!”

“Oh come on, Ian!” the middle-aged English woman directly behind him exclaimed.  “It’s the first time it’s been spotted in twenty-six years!  Can you imagine adding a picture of it to our photo album?”

“Yes dear.” Ian sighed resignedly, deciding not to pursue his complaint any further, based on thirty-two years of marital experience.

It was hard to tell from their position on the jungle floor, but overhead above the canopy of trees, the sun was glaring down on the expansive Amazon rainforest, five and a half million square kilometres of mostly uninhabited land, split into two by the glorious Amazon River which was fed by eleven-hundred tributaries.  It was a beautiful, sacred and incredibly dangerous place, a favorite destination for tourists such as this bird-watching tour group.   They were based at Puerto Maldonado, a small village along the Tambopata River, at a lodge called the Wasai.  The river itself was considered a Mecca for birdwatchers, and every year thousands flock to it on packaged tours in the hope of spotting that one rare bird that may never be seen again in their generation.  This group was no different to any other, except that a few of them had heard about the recently spotted Peruvian long-whiskered owlet, which had made an appearance again after a twenty-six year absence, and they had paid the tour guide a fair amount to stray from the usual route for bird watching, to take them to where he believed they would be able to see and photograph one before leaving for home the next day. 

Their detour had taken them several kilometers from the banks of the Tambopata River and into the dense undergrowth of the jungle, to a point where they could no longer tell which way was east or west, and they had to rely entirely on the direction and instincts of their local guide.  He seemed competent enough, as he smashed his way through the jungle, sweat dripping from his body as he swung his machete around with a vengeance.  His arduous efforts seemed to have paid off, though, as they suddenly broke through the dense foliage and into a small clearing, where the sunlight streamed down and had them squinting their eyes against its sudden brightness. 

“We are here!” Roger exclaimed proudly, waving his arm towards the opposite end of the clearing. 

  “Good job, my friend!” Stefan van Jaarsveld replied, patting the guide on the back gently.  He was the only South African in the group, on a working assignment as a freelance photographer for the local travel magazine, ‘SA Travel’ back in his home country. 

They paused for a water break at the edge of the clearing, and Stefan stood to one side, surveying the rest of his group as he quenched his thirst from a canvas-covered canteen that had been strapped to his hip.    Although the trek had been tough, the rest of the group was not accustomed to the extreme heat and humidity, whereas it was only slightly more uncomfortable for Stefan than what he was used to back home.  There were five other people in the group in total, excluding the two tour guides and Stefan himself.  There was Ian and his wife Brianne, from England, a middle aged couple who had taken a few weeks off from running their own restaurant to pursue their hobby of bird watching.  Then there was Damon and Lena, a young newly married Swiss couple who had decided a trip to the Amazon might be a good honeymoon destination, but from the looks of them currently, sweaty, covered in dirty streaks, legs scratched and bleeding from the pesky low branches and twigs that had littered the non-existent pathway up to this point, they may be having second thoughts!  Finally there was Mark, the American from New York City, a recent divorcee on a getaway trip from his collapsed life, trying to find a reason for the existence of mankind, and hoping to find it in the remotest parts of the world.

The only thing the group of six tourists had in common was that they were all carrying cameras.  Stefan was the only one who had a camera which still used film, while all the rest used more modern digital cameras.  His Canon EOS 5QD was a relic in today’s modern world, but Stefan wouldn’t change it for anything.  It had earned him several awards for wildlife photography, despite or perhaps due to, its old school charm.    As the rest of the group rested up, Stefan took the time to prepare his camera by cleaning the lens and attaching an additional zoom lens to it.  After a few minutes the group followed Roger as he made his way across the clearing towards a small outcrop of rocks near the other end.  When he reached them he held his finger to his lips and pointed towards the nearby jungle excitedly.

“The owlet was last seen in this area, nestled in the trees.  Perhaps we will be lucky enough to see it from here!” he whispered, and the members of the group began pulling out their cameras and setting up to scan the nearby tree line and bushes. 

Stefan gave the nearby undergrowth a quick once-over through the lens of his Canon, but found nothing interesting.  To be honest, he was hardly concerned with the Peruvian long-whiskered owlet, or any other bird, for that matter, and had merely tagged along with the suggested detour in the hopes of coming across something a little more interesting instead.  As the rest of the group whispered quietly to each other, commenting on imaginary sightings of the reclusive bird, Stefan headed off to the left, towards the nearest shaded area at the edge of the jungle, trying to escape the overbearing heat of the sun.   He found a fallen tree trunk just a few meters into the undergrowth, and sat down to cool off.  From his vantage point he could see the others as they huddled together like silent unarmed hunters, and he had to smile to himself at their eagerness, the long and grueling walk through the jungle now forgotten as they focused on the reason they were there.

Stefan felt something land on his shoulder, and then bounce off again, a small object like a leaf or twig.  He looked down between his feet, but the floor was covered with hundreds of dead leaves and twigs, all part of the decomposing plant matter that kept the jungle alive, and it was impossible to see what it might have been.  He was about to look away from the ground, when the slightest movement of a dead, brown leaf caught his eye, and he bent forward to get a better view. 

The ant was large, as far as ants go, at least two centimeters in length, black in colour but with a large brown head.  Stefan recognized it as the Carpenter ant, a common species worldwide, with thousands of variations.  In South Africa they were slightly smaller than the one he was looking at now, but still very similar in color and shape.  Generally speaking they were quick little creatures, always running around crazily at full speed as they burrowed or foraged in the undergrowth, which was their preferred scavenging ground.  They usually resided in the hollowed out sections of dead wood, like the type found in the thousands of trees of the jungle, and it appeared this one had just fallen from its perch up above somewhere.  There was something unusual about the movements of this particular ant, and Stefan couldn’t quite place his finger on it at first.  It was only while he watched the Carpenter ant as it headed away from his foot, towards the darker and wetter sections of the jungle, that he realized what it was that seemed so peculiar about its behavior!

The ant was walking in a completely straight line, totally out of character for their usual haphazard pattern of movement!  Stefan found this fascinating, as he had never seen a species of the Carpenter behave this way before.  As the ant made its bee-line path into the dark jungle, Stefan stood up to follow it, his group of tourist friends temporarily forgotten.