Tid Bits

Huzefa & Reena Mehta

(short episodes from travels to be continously updated)

Jungle mein Mor

The first time I heard a Howler, my heart leapt into my throat and stuck there; which is just a euphemism for the truth -- that my testicles retracted up into my torso, which not all of my readers may relate to, or indeed, approve of my speaking of in public. I suppose that both my throat and my torso were full of vital organs at that point, and I suspect that my eyes were saucers and my palms clammy.

Myself and Reena have broken a few rules. And here we were in Tikal, climbing back into the ruin complex when it was already well past closed to see and feel the ruins in the forest in the full moon.

The first time we heard a howler, we were standing on the ledge of the ruined Mayan temple atop Pyramid V (that's 'five') at Tikal in Guatemala, a little after midnight. The breeze was brisk but warm, and through the treetops we could see the distant forms of the night guards, lit occasionally by the glow of their cigarettes as they patrolled the main square of the Central Plaza of Tikal far below, wandering among the moon shadows of Pyramids I and II.

It sounded very much to me like the howl of a jaguar that someone had by the balls (perhaps this explains my physical reaction). I've never seen a jaguar in the wild, but this sounded like a tiger in extreme distress. That's a really scary thought; what could there be -- out there in the dark rustle of the jungle -- that could make a jaguar cry out like that, like something had it by the balls and was squeezing very hard and not letting go?

Reena crept closer in my arms secure under the false sense of bravado I was projecting.

Shivers, chilly sweat, and erect hair follicles appeared on the back of my neck. Somewhere in the vicinity of my jugular, my heart throbbed.

What the hell is out there? And what can it do to a goddamn jaguar that it can't do to us!? We had just crawled through half a mile of jungle on our bellies -- across the 'steam bath' section of ruins at Tikal -- to sneak our way into the site, long past the 6 pm curfew. And we would hopefully be crawling our way back out that way sometime before daybreak. But, what the hell is out there?

So there we stood -- having crawled under a wire fence and through the dark jungle as others consulted a torch-lit map, then scrambling up through the roots of giant trees and over countless blocks of ancient carved stones -- atop the Pyramid of Temple V, shrouded still in the canopy of the jungle and overlooking the distant manicured padang of the great plaza of Tikal, to the north.

We stood on that narrow ledge beside the temple atop the crumbling pyramid, looking out through the tree-tops across the vague rustling darkness of the Central American jungle. In fact, it was 190 feet straight down to the jungle floor, somewhere down there in the dark dankness; and we were standing on a one-and-a-half-foot wide ledge, leaning over it like it was a doorsill. After a brief peek into the darkness, my back and palms were pressed respectfully hard against the smooth stone walls of the temple, and my scrotum had shrunken considerably in size; maybe it was the cool breeze.

It was at about that time that I heard it, the Saraguate. From somewhere out there in the distant depths of the swaying jungle, the male Black Howler Monkey raised its magnificent brachiating roar across the tree-tops, and it sounded to me like a very large jungle cat in the throes of excruciating pain. What is out there?

The black howler male may reach a size of only up to about 35 pounds -- fairly large for monkeys, although most are somewhat smaller. But its roar is amplified by its large throat-box and by hyper-ventilation. His howl is of course his macho claim of dominance over territory and of all the females therein.

The howler's roar rises gradually out of the depths of the jungle. At first it is a low distant growling rumble that begins to reverberate above the normal rustling and chirping of the jungle; then it becomes a heavy rhythmic gasping in and out, like an emphysemiac on his last legs. Then the rhythm gathers pace and volume and a depth that sounds like it could only come from the great lungs of a large predator. That's when the guttural power of his roar starts the sweat running down the back of your shorts. Then he digs his nails into a branch, he rolls back his lips and screams like a banshee foretelling the death of heroes. That's the blood-curdling scream that sent my gonads into full retreat.

It was not until after, over a beer the next afternoon, that someone told me of the black howlers. "No jaguars around here, mate, not recently anyways. It was only a goddamn monkey!"

In the light of day, the black howlers are a pleasant and presentable tribe of social monkeys, and I have enjoyed their antics on several riversides and jungle clearings in Central America. Only the large square jaws of the males hint at their howling prowess, which, while also performed in the daytime, is most memorable and attention-grabbing in the depths of the night. One finds oneself awakened suddenly and sitting bolt upright in bed with eyes bulging and cold sweat trickling down. "Damn monkeys!" you say, to try and regain your composure. Calling them mere "monkeys" seems a suitable insult to the magnificent howlers.

Along the upper reaches of the Amazon of Peru, we have also seen and heard the red howlers of South America; they are just a bit smaller, but their howl pales in comparison to the heart-stopping roar of the Saraguates -- the black howlers of Central America.