Student Perspectives

Jungle of the Day Malia Goldeberg We drift out on the glass mirror lake, Shaking off the last clingy tendrils of sleep. A heartbeat sunrise, Birds cry with joyous shrieks, Their morning welcome to the sun. As a brand new day unfurls, Cotton candy skies Give way to a crisp blue canvas, Contrasting rich green hues of foliage With the soft browns of the forest floor. Dew drops, fresh and glimmering in the bright sunshine, Roll off giant lily pads, Bright green prehistoric pancakes, Afloat on the pale green water. Red kapok pods hang high above, Suspended from their string-like stems, Listless in the dense still air, Brewing heat for the hours to come. We make our way onto the shore, The giant Ficus tree stands erect, A massive statue wise and strong, Mossy groves in its roots lead To hiding places of elves And whimsical beasts of childhood dreams. In the radiant sunlight the rainforest glistens. Life teems without regard to the human eye. Ants traverse well-worn paths, No obstacle is too large, Over leaves and rocks and rotting tree trunks. A flash of crimson darts across the path. Civilization left behind for A wild world, Teeming with the vibrant energy of life.

Jungle of the Night Malia Goldeberg The flimsy screen door slams shut. I am awake, Alone. With the night sky as my only companion. The southern cross is bright above, A compass for the weary wanderer, Lost in a forest labyrinth Of strangling vines with deadly spines And swarming mosquitoes. Jungle sounds echo through the heavy air, I tune my ear to the eerie resonance of nocturnal life, The rustle of leaves, As monkeys crash from limb to limb, In their canopy playground high overhead. Mighty trees stand steady still, Attentive audience to a nightbird’s calls, Resonating off the treetrunks with an unearthly ambience, Like an exotic instrument from a lost civilization. Secrets lurk in the warm jungle night, As sinister creatures of other realms Slink in shadows of wet blackness, Unseen and just out of reach. Eyes glow in dense patches of undergrowth, Apparitions with sinister plots to snare the naive visitor. Spirit shadows dart to and fro, In the occasional patch of moonlight on the for est floor. It is getting hard to tell if this world is real, Or simply a manifestation of Darting delusions caught by The first silky strings of panic Slowly weaving their web of madness over my mind.

Rickety, Simple, and Pure
Kendra Flood

I cautiously placed my klunky rubber boots onto the thin, loosely assembled floor pieces that were laid carefully across the shaman’s small Amazonian hut. I was sure that at any moment I was going to plummet through this alien hardwood floor to the chigger infested grass five feet below.

Dancing? No way, not on that floor. I could see the headlines now, “gringos party a little too hard with Indian tribe and shaman, Don Ramon’s house goes down....” But I saw the innocent looks in the eyes of the children that had circled around me. Two little boys squirmed to see who could grab my hand first, and a little girl had found a home in my lap, intertwining her slender legs around mine. “Vamos chiquitos, bailamos!” I exclaimed rising to my feet, and the floor and I began to build a pact of trust as I brought my clan of munchkins out onto the rickety, mystery surface.

We probably danced for over and hour, but the concept of time was the farthest thing from me or anyone else occupying Don Ramon’s home that night. We just were. The flickering candlelight gleamed on the rough faces of the three older men playing authentic Peruvian music in the front of the room. This iridescent effect on the flautist, the drummer, and the man on maracas, provided an ambiance that was surreal as we circled round and round the dance floor, surrounded with children, overtaken by smiles and laughter.

As the night progressed onwards, the children progressed to bed, and the still unidentified floor and I took our relationship to yet another level. The circle that we had been dancing in created the blueprints for the circle we fashioned, seating ourselves on the irregular surface for a healing ceremony with the shaman. At that moment, I had no clue that he was performing a healing ceremony, nor did I know exactly what one was at that point in time either, but whatever happened in that circle was something real and something pure.

Skeptical at first, I did not know if the floor and I would be able to see at the same plane, its rutted surface wearing on my bottom, making me far from comfortable during what I presumed would end up being a rather lengthy ceremony. But the two glistening candles that now sat at the center of the circle in front of Don Ramon, combined with the incantations that floated from the shaman’s mouth in a language that somewhat resembled Spanish, caused my mind to be whisked away to a quiet place. I felt as if I almost melted into the floorboards that had provided such tart conflict before.

I left Don Ramon’s home that night with an elated feeling. The mystery floor panels and I met again back at my tent that was set in an abandoned hut very similarly constructed to Don Ramon’s. Although the panels felt like no less than spines in back, surprisingly I did not mind. I slept through the loud Amazonian night probably better than any previous night I had spent in my cozy, mosquito net-covered bed back at the lodge.

We met with Don Ramon the next morning and he asked us about our dreams. Somehow the prior night I had missed, in his garbled Spanish, the request for us to try and remember our dreams. I wanted to kick myself for not remembering, but now that I reflect on what I said, I do not think that was the point. For when it came time for me to share my dreams I managed to sputter out in my broken Spanish, “No recuerdo mucho, pero recuerdo tranquilidad,” something that in essence I have not found in my fast-paced, hectic, American life for maybe years. Maybe there was a little more strength in those simply laid, wobbly old floor boards than I initially suspected.