Sometimes, when I was a child and we lived in TigrePlaya, I would wake up at night—either to take a quick trip to the toilet or simply because I woke on my own and lay wide awake. The bedroom had a window facing directly into the forest. On certain nights I would sit by that window, listening and watching.
At night there was a kind of absolute stillness. No boats, no people disturbed it. Everyone slept, except the animals of the forest and the countless insects. TigrePlaya lay deep in the jungle of northern Peru. No roads led there; the surrounding swamps made overland travel impossible. There was no telephone, no electricity. Television signals never reached us, nor did FM radio. Our mailbox was located four days downstream by boat along the Marañón River, in the city of Iquitos. That was also where the nearest bank, pharmacy, supermarket, hospital, and other services were found.
It is said that two-thirds of all insect species exist only in tropical regions. At night, they held a phenomenal concert. Different species of owls took turns singing. The panorama of stars was utterly unmatched. The nearest house with electricity lay at least sixty kilometers away, allowing the stars to glitter completely undisturbed in the darkness. The air deep in the rainforest was remarkably clean. The Milky Way stretched across the sky like a white, luminous veil.
Outside the window, in the garden, stood several banana plants. In the moonlight they cast long, eerie shadows that stretched far across the grass. In my imagination, those shadows became frightening silhouettes. I sat there, safe and warm behind the mosquito netting, grateful for the solid door that kept the jungle’s dangers outside. I remember watching the mosquitoes, endlessly running along the netting, tirelessly searching for a tiny hole through which they could enter. The yellow-green flashes of fireflies filled the air as they drifted along the forest edge and across the lawn. The forest blinked without pause.
I also imagined what was happening deep within the jungle itself. I could almost see the jaguar gliding silently along the path toward the swamp—the very swamp where I fished in the afternoons. Its large yellow eyes stared straight at me, a gaze that seemed to penetrate the soul. Its lean, powerful body was always ready to spring with explosive strength and perfect coordination. And then there were the constrictor snakes—their glossy bodies sliding through the moonlight over logs and roots. Perhaps one was even now near the log where I usually sat while fishing? Rats scurried across the forest floor in search of food. Vampire bats flitted through the trees hunting warm blood. Ants, tireless even at night, crawled over everything and everyone, ready to sting the first thing they touched.
I was grateful to be inside the house. Even the thought of stepping outside made the six-year-old body shudder. “I will never go alone into the jungle at night,” I promised myself whenever I sat at the desk by the window, watching the forest.
Change of perspective and transition to adulthood.
Fifteen years later, I lay in my hammock on the veranda of the second floor. We had since moved to Betania, also situated along the Marañón River. It was late afternoon. The day’s work was finished, my body freshly washed. I lay completely still so as not to start sweating again, enjoying the view of the river and the sunset. To the west, hills marked the beginning of the Andes Mountains. The sun painted the sky in shades of orange, yellow, and red as it hovered low over the hills, and the river mirrored every color as it flowed endlessly between me and the horizon.
The river flowed and flowed. Incredible. Where did all this water come from? Day and night it passed by—millions of liters every second. And it had been doing so for hundreds of years. How could it never end? Large trees drifted past—truly enormous ones, some up to fifty meters long. Some were so fresh they still carried their leaves; others were bare trunks with dry branches pointing skyward. Imagine floating the entire 3,200 kilometers down the Amazon to the Atlantic Ocean atop one of them, seeing everything along the way—people and animals, day and night.
Large foam patches created by the current also drifted past. These were nature’s own soft ice cream, filled with debris, plant remains, and insects. To alert spiders, they were floating restaurants. The spiders scurried back and forth across small sticks and logs caught in the current, eager but careful not to be crushed flat between rolling trunks in the swirling water.
As I lay there, I thought about how afraid I had been of the forest as a six-year-old. Much had changed since then. Fear had given way to a deep respect for the jungle. Perhaps it was time to venture alone into the forest—and even sleep there. There was no doubt that jaguars lived deep within. I casually mentioned the idea to my mother after dinner. She looked at me and replied, “You don’t really want to do that, do you?” For me, the question was no longer whether—but how.
A Plan Above the Ground.
There is no doubt that sleep is sweetest without ants, rats, snakes, scorpions, and yellow-and-black-striped, hairy centipedes that look as though they sting and burn. “If I could just float freely in the air among the branches, I’d probably be left alone,” I thought. The solution, perhaps, was to suspend myself from a single line, four or five meters above the ground—then only creatures capable of flight would pose a problem. With that, my plan was formed. And after rummaging through my father’s boxes of odds and ends, the equipment was ready as well. When you live that remotely in the bush, you never throw anything away. Everything may one day prove useful.
Into the Green Maze.
The next day, at half past four in the afternoon, I headed back into the forest along the paths I had cut myself. The jungle is so dense that you cannot simply walk between the trees as you can in Norway. Here, you must carve your way forward with a proper jungle knife. My equipment consisted of food, one liter of water, a hammock, rope, a Walkman to record the sounds of the forest at night, a machete, plastic in case of rain—meteorologists are scarce in the Amazon—an extra sweater, and a tracksuit. I also carried weapons: a revolver, a semi-automatic rifle with a 22-round magazine, and a shotgun. “Even if I never hit the jaguar in the dark when it attacks,” I thought, “I’ll at least choke it with gunpowder smoke.”
I knew of an area I liked, five or six kilometers into the forest. There was a long depression in the forest floor, about 200 meters long, with a large, oblong pond at the far end. No trees grew there—only low plants resembling miniature banana trees. By the pond, I had seen fresh jaguar tracks in the mud a few weeks earlier, so I knew the cat was somewhere in the forest, sleeping and preparing for the night’s hunt.
It took far more effort than I had anticipated to rig the equipment—and especially to hoist myself up. Fortunately, I had left early. After an hour and a half of work, I was suspended about five meters above the ground. I was drenched in sweat and grateful to change into clean clothes. It was already dark beneath the canopy, though the clouds above glowed red. Hanging between the trees, I could see both up and down the forest depression; elsewhere, the jungle was so dense that visibility was limited to a few meters. “Perhaps I’ll see animals coming down to drink,” I thought.
Night falls, complete Darkness!
At the equator, darkness falls swiftly. In an instant, I could no longer see my hand in front of my face. I fumbled for food, finally managing to untie the bag. Doing everything blind was no simple task. I loaded the shotgun, the rifle, and the revolver before eating. Sitting there, armed to the teeth, I couldn’t help but grin. “If a jaguar attacks now, there won’t be much left of it,” I thought. I imagined a tattered piece of jaguar tail hanging on a wall in Norway as I told my grandchildren, “This one tried to eat me alive on December 29, 1989, while I was settling in for the night in what was once the Amazon rainforest.”
The food tasted excellent after all the effort. With ears alert, I ate while trying to swallow as little mosquito as possible and as much bread as I could. The mosquitoes multiplied relentlessly, as did the hum of countless wings. One might have thought I was sitting on the runway at O’Hare Airport rather than in the Amazon. “Good thing I’ve already had malaria,” I thought. “At least I don’t have to worry about getting it again.” After eating and all the effort of climbing, I was desperately thirsty. I found the water canteen by touch and drained it. Then I lay back, listening to the forest and relaxing.
The sky soon clouded over, plunging everything into complete darkness. I moved my hand ten centimeters from my eyes—nothing. True darkness. “If I go blind right now, I wouldn’t even notice,” I thought. “Where have the fireflies gone?” Perhaps there were fewer deep inside the forest. I pulled the hood of my tracksuit tight against the mosquitoes. “How could I forget mosquito repellent today?” Fortunately, I am immune to mosquito bites—they neither itch nor swell.
The Visitor.
After about an hour, I thought I heard footsteps. If my ears hadn’t already been alert, they were now. I held my breath, unmoving. There was no doubt—something was walking through the darkness. Leaves crunched underfoot. The sound came from behind me. Slowly, I reached for the flashlight—a heavy one with five D-cell batteries, sturdy enough to serve as a club. At night, the eyes of animals reflect flashlight beams, making identification easy.
Different animals reflect different hues. Jaguars’ eyes glow pale blue, and they move their heads back and forth, trying to see past the blinding light. The footsteps were coming toward me, heavy and steady. This was no mouse or opossum. Either it didn’t know I was there—or it knew all too well. My heart raced. Adrenaline surged. I grabbed the shotgun, twisting carefully in the hammock. Finally, I switched on the light.
The beam sliced through the foliage. The footsteps stopped. No eyes. I swept the beam back and forth—branches, leaves, nothing else. The darkness seemed to swallow the light. I turned it off. The footsteps resumed—closer. Ten, maybe fifteen meters away. I turned the light on again. Was the animal clever enough to hide its eyes? My finger tightened on the trigger. Should I fire into the darkness? What if it was a person? But people don’t walk like that.
Then a dark, round shape entered the beam—dull eyes, barely reflective. A large armadillo. I almost laughed. I had forgotten that armadillos’ eyes reflect very little light. I considered shooting it—many would have eaten it gladly—but decided against it. Blood would attract predators. Better not invite the jaguar for dessert. The ants would strip it to bone by morning anyway. I relaxed back into the hammock as the armadillo bolted away, crashing through the undergrowth. We had frightened each other thoroughly.
The Long Night
Sleep didn’t come easily after that. And then another problem arose—I needed to relieve myself. From a hammock five meters above the ground, this required improvisation. I managed—though I later discovered my shoes below had collected an alarming amount of “yellow dew.” Oh no.
I had also forgotten the bats. Now that the sky cleared, I could see them flitting among the trees. Some tried to land on me, but a few swats with a sweaty T-shirt solved that. The mosquitoes had mostly disappeared. Fireflies reappeared. The air smelled of damp earth and leaves. The temperature was perfect. Wisps of mist clung to treetops. Lianas hung motionless. The stars glittered fiercely. The Milky Way blazed bright across the sky. At the equator, it is astonishingly clear. Insects, grasshoppers, and owls sang in chorus. I finally relaxed, absorbing it all. For those who love the jungle, nothing compares.
I must have fallen asleep, for I woke to monkeys leaping through the trees—night monkeys known as Choshna, with reddish-brown fur. I recognized their whistles. It was so bright that I could faintly see the green of the trees. I remembered hunting them at night—never seen by day, noisy and easy to locate. You aim between the glowing orange eyes. The hardest part is finding them afterward; they are remarkably well camouflaged. I once stepped on a green parrot before noticing it—in broad daylight.
Morning Belongs to the Birds.
I slept surprisingly well. Occasionally I woke to small animals rustling below—rats, mice, opossums. Once or twice, a bat landed on me and crawled across my body.
At dawn, birds sang in chorus. It was overwhelming. The sky brightened, though stars were still visible. Night birds sang farewell while others greeted the morning. I felt deeply rested. I lay there for hours, watching parrots fly in flocks, toucans hopping through branches, hummingbirds buzzing among leaves.
Reluctantly, I packed up and headed home. The weather had been kind. Even the dew hadn’t reached me. Back home, a bath and breakfast awaited. My mother wondered why I was so late. They had expected me to knock on the door at four in the morning.
