After our morning’s little jungle tour and history lesson, Peder and I collected a hand-drawn map to the top of the “smoking waterfall” and set off on our own into the rainforest.
We first made our way up the paved road that we’d taxi’d up the night before, turning off into a small local village. One dirt road through a few dozen deteriorating homes and buildings, and up into the mountains through grazing cows and banana orchards. Everyone we passed looked over with an expression of pure shock: “What the hell are these two gringos doing HERE??”
At one point I noticed a herd of cows particularly near the road and decided to climb up a small embankment for a closer look.
Bad idea.
Suddenly both feet were engulfed in flame. Small pinpoints of excruciating pain shooting up my leg like I was being stabbed with a thousand poisoned needles. I jumped down from the embankment, almost loosing my footing in the process, and began dancing and flailing my limbs in a most maniacal fashion. Peder thought it was hilarious. Apparently I’d unwittingly stepped in a colony of tiny little super jungle ants, who in a massive coordinated attack all chomped down on my feet in perfect unison. And those little bastards were hanging on for dear life. Even with my violent foot-stomps they held on; I had to pull and flick off every single ant one-at-a time.
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