‘Transpantaneira’ by Chantelle Whitehead
The sky is pristine, the sun bestowing its blessing over the land. Despite the immaculate blue stretching to and uniting the horizon, there is a tingling, niggling sense of rain. The air smells of dried grass and dirt, dulled by the scorching months of the dry season. The earth eagerly awaits the deluge.
A battered truck weaves across the cracked mud road, clanking and grinding, unsuccessfully navigating the many potholes, rocking violently from side to side. The Travellers in the open top rear, decorated with hats, sunglasses and cameras with huge lenses, are tossed about like they were traversing the ocean over one thousand miles away. The engaging commentary of the Guide pleasantly duetting with the engine, his voice conveying enduring love and continued respect for his surroundings.
Travellers from five continents are coated in dust, glinting trickles of sweat on their bare arms and legs the only visible consequence of the hours driving. The Travellers sit within their bubble of sunscreen and insect repellent, heads continually sweeping left and right, hoping to be the first to spot the next wonder. A shared language of arm taps and pointing, whispered exclamations and hearts leaping. A shared wager in joining the very last tour before the wet season starts. A shared goal of spotting the elusive endangered Jaguar.
The route is marked by assemblies of languid caiman, swishing and stretching. Lounging across each other and disinterested in the truck passing by. The odd energetic reptile taking a few steps and directing a half-hearted snap at the Travellers. Saffron finches dance across the scene like sunbeams. Multiple toucans with their iconic enormous yellow-orange beaks look down on the Travellers from the parallel power lines.
Small quick moving shadows gambolling over upturned faces announce the arrival of a kaleidoscope of butterflies. The sight of their underwings is initially overwhelmed by the bold smudge of traffic-light red. The Travellers eyes eventually rest on the uneven concentric rings, drawn with fine brush strokes, producing targets upon the brilliant white. Heads tilt to confirm that the wings are not displaying targets but two eights. A pair of Travellers exclaim with joy and explain that there will now be good fortune and prosperity. A butterfly lands on an arm. A tongue swiftly unspools like a party blower as the butterfly eagerly steals salts and minerals.
The truck rumbles on regularly chaperoned by birds like the vibrant chested Jabiru, towering like a teenager but striding like an elder stateman heading to make very important decisions. The truck stops and the Travellers are overwhelmed by the tranquillity when the engine is switched off. Slowly dampened senses reawaken as the Travellers identify and focus on the reason for the pause. A small copse of very tall trees. Up, up, up and at the top of the tallest tree is a huge nest occupied by three Jabiru; parents and child.
The Travellers look up as Dad extends his wings and Junior then mimics Dad, standing proudly. Dad flaps his wings, but Junior appears frozen with wings extended. Mum also flaps her wings to no avail. Parents close their wings and turn to each other. Pause. The tutorial starts again with Dad flapping his wings. It is fourth time lucky when Junior mirrors Dad. The Travellers ignore the sun beating down transfixed on the show above them.
The Jabiru successfully repeat the sequence adding on extra flaps but then suddenly all is still. Disappointingly lessons seem to be finished but then the parents flap their wings and rise above the nest. A veritable windmill of flaps but no launch by Junior. The Travellers have forgotten their aching bodies, leaning forward invested in the exhibition. A few jumps by Junior and the Travellers start to lift out of their seats too, willing him skyward. Up? Up? Up? And suddenly Junior is airborne! The Travellers start to cheer and clap but belatedly realise they could cause a crash so vicariously celebrate with fist pumps and nodding heads. Safe landing, schools out and then the soundtrack of clashing bird songs is again eclipsed by the clackety engine.
The air now smells heavier, damper. The Travellers look behind them and are shocked that the blue is being invaded by dark grey cloud monsters. Reaching out in all directions. Realising that they have likely miscalculated, they each chide themselves for taking the risk. The Travellers are too raw to be consoled by thoughts of what they’ve already seen, and they choose instead to sink into self-pity. The storm is chasing them, gaining on them, determined. The land around them seems to be withdrawing from the Travellers, the birds have disappeared and the bountifulness of the caiman taunts them that there are no more treasures for the likes of them, unlucky gamblers.
Shoulders slumped, heads bowed, the Travellers are united by all seeking reassurance from maths: eighty-three bridges crossed equals how many left? Three millimetres of rain in ten minutes means the tyres need to be how tall? The sky was now dark behind them, the occasional loud crack of thunder intruding. Their calculations had not comforted the Travellers at all.
“Two” calmly said the Guide, pointing. The travellers follow his finger upwards, puzzled as they had paid the truck frame little regard up to now. “Two planks are all we’ll need today if the bridges are out.” The planks fixed to the top of the frame were now just as popular as the family of capybara the Travellers had seen earlier crossing the road. “Plus, you all getting out and pushing of course”. The Travellers were divided as to whether he was joking but the Guide’s jovial laughter still scared away the gloom.
The Travellers resolutely look only at the road ahead. That way lies Jaguar, stopping is not an option, behind is defeat. The ominous clouds have caught them, and the engine noise is now drowned out by the thunder. The rain starts to fall, slapping their faces, stinging their bare limbs and soaking straight through their clothes. The gloom is again on the offensive when the Guide turns around and shouts “Did you know that Jaguars are excellent swimmers?”.
Chantelle Whitehead wrote this story in response to the prompt Look Up, as part of June’s Just Write! short story competition.
