TWO NIGHTS IN A JUNGLE HUT

I woke up this morning to the sounds of the river Napo and surrounding life it supports. I hadn´t slept much. My bones ached and I was freezing cold. The damp night air left me feeling like I had camped outside on a wet bathing suit. I was in a thatched-roofed jungle hut in Misahaulli with only screen windows to keep the biting insects from my flesh. And some had holes.
            I fell back onto the damp mattress covered with one musty blanket and thought of the prior day when I had hiked in the jungle. So cool!  I had eaten heart of palm straight from a stalk in the ground, chewed on cinnimon leaves, and held butterflies the size of a football. I had fallen in love with the Amazon and wanted to get to know more about her and her host town, Misahaulli. So after a stuffed avacado for breakfast at La Tortuga in Tena, I hopped on a 45 minute bus and checked into Hostel France Amazonia. 
    The bus dropped me off on the dusty two lane road and I walked up to an 8 foot wooden door. The sign instructed me to ring the bell that was hidden behind a venus fly trap. A tall French guy about my age wearing navy Keds cracked the door to peek at me. He smelled like sun-tan lotion and lemons. He was the owner. He opened the door just wide enough for me to get my luggage through and then led me through a secret Garden of Eden, complete with a fresh-water swimming pool, bar, and sand pit for bon-fires. This heavenly discovery would set me back just $20 a night. Now, considering how poor the beds are, I wouldn´t want to pay much more.
              His Asian wife led me to a cliff on the river´s edge where my room is. She gave me a padlock and key to the door and said to ring a brass bell at the bar if I needed anything. I changed into my flip flops and walked into town five minutes away. I was determined to see some monkeys. And monkeys I saw.
         The day before, Hanibal had told me that the monkeys hang out at the beach. So I walked to the small sandy area right past the Ruani restaurant. There they were, in Monkeylandia, stealing drinks and chips from the tourist just like Hanibal had said. I grabbed a empty bottle from the ground and offered it to a baby monkey that was walking by. He took it from my hand but then slammed it down and huffed off after realizing it was empty. I continued on to the water´s edge where other Ecaudorian families were swimming. I took my flip flops off and walked in up to my ankles. The water was cool and clear, much cleaner than any river I have ever seen. 
       By now it was about 1pm. It was around 85 degrees and the sun was beating down on me. I´m in the rainforest but still haven´t seen it rain once. This time of year, Hanibal said, it mostly rains just at night. I walked up to the bar where I had eaten breakfast with that family thr morning before and ordered a glass of juice. She fixed me a fresh pitcher of tomate de arbol, tree tomato, which is sweet like orange juice but thick like a smoothie. Their son rode his bike in circles around me while I cooled off. He´s on his summer vacation. His mom left the bar to tend to something else and I ended up having to pay the kid. He said it was $1.25. I´ll never know if he lied or not, but the juice was good. Then I walked over to another outdoor eatery and had a wonderful chicken lunch overlooking the river. After that, I treated myself to an icecream sandwhich and ate it in the main square where other locals sit all day and play cards, drink fresh juices, and stare at tourists. Besides this, the actual town of Misahualli offered nothing. And I wasn´t bored.
               Back at France Amazonia I decided it was time for an afternoon dip in the kidney-bean shaped pool. I had it all to myself and I reveled in the warm sun and cloudless sky. Yellow birds took turns diving into the deep end, just enough to get their hair wet. Huge dragon flies buzzed around my bangs and whispered in my ear ¨Go get a drink at the bar¨. I dried off and rang the huge brass bell on the bar. A young Ecuadorian boy, maybe 17 years old, fixed me a piña colada and then left me to go make a fire in the sand pit. I followed, cold drink in hand. Inside I was still squealing with delight that I had this mini gated paradise to myself. Near the fire are hammocks and low canvas chairs. My ice melting now, toes in the sand, reading my Kindle, and occasionally looking up at the river, I sat there for countless hours. A few other guests arrived, but none made enough noise to disturb my peace. Before I knew it, the moon shone like a polished silver platter over the Napo and the fire was now just glowing coals.
               I was hanging up my wet bathing suit this morning when I heard someone ring the brass bell. It was the French guests and they were ready for breakfast and piña coladas. Although tired from a cold restless night I went down to the bar to join them. The owner brought me breakfast to my private wooden table: papaya, fresh strawberry juice, croissants, scrambled eggs, 3 types of home-made jelly, and real hot coffee. By then the French guests were already drunk and splashing in the pool. They were here to party. I was here to go back to bed.