Chapter 4: Under the Sun
"Where are we again?" Prof. Butler queries Ranger Greg.
"We are again at the municipality of Porto de Moz in the state of Pará in the magnificent country of Brazil. We launched from here back in '74," the pathfinder replies, his arms akimbo on the Amazon's exotic shore.
"I know that, boy. Or, 'eu sei disso, moz' in Portuguese," Katie chides, "I need to rehear the coordinates that you just gave so that I can find the coordinates that Jana and I agreed upon."
"Girls can't read maps," Greg sticks out his tongue and raspberries. He is being funny.
His companion gives a crooked smirk and an evil eye. Then, she deftly folds the big paper map with nimble hands. Behold her power. "Girls don't need maps. They can reconnoiter better than Ranger Rick," says she.
Dr. Butler raspberries back. And, for a moment, she is young again along the Amazon's inspiriting banks. She withdraws her tongue and closes her eyes. Her mind envisions the old such as her parents in their prime, kid brother, and childhood dog. The familial five are about to board a bright red raft that they intend to paddle upstream the Xingu. That craft will capsize somewhere far south where the Xingu River meets the Iriri. The rapids will form a whirlpool that propels them through an underground cavern into the Valley of the Dinosaurs.
"You can almost picture Digger right there," Greg interjects at his sister's ear. His index points-out a piece of Amazonian shore.
Kate's consciousness rises from its reverie. Current surroundings transpose over the old memories. Like a woman, the river and rainforest are very much alive. Mother Earth changes over time. She evolves into different Amazonian contours as the river shifts. She renews her fecund forest features again and again until they are something both new and ancient. Even the mountains in the distance and the sun shining over them appear different after twenty years have passed in human life.
"But perhaps, I am just developing cataracts. All humans do over time," Doc Katie jokes to herself. Jokes help a person cope—whether facing aging or an incensed cavebear in the Valley.
"Take a picture. It'll last longer," Greg gibes after watching his sis stare for some time.
"That phrase is so '80s retro," Katie turns her gaze to Greg, "Besides, we don't always have a camera for long while down here in South America."
"True," her brother shrugs, "The Butlers had some nice photos at this very locale, Boa Vista, in 1974. However, the rafting accident cost us our camera (and its film), our watercraft, and most changes of clothing. I feel as though we wore basically the same outfit everyday in the Valley."
"Well, I had both a white sleeveless blouse and a yellow sleeveless blouse," Katie notes, "But, the camera I missed. We could have collected some fascinating Pics of the Dinosaurs!"
"Well, have faith," brother brandishes a 35mm from his backpack, "We'll capture the Creature from the Black Lagoon." He clicks Katie, still contemplative. He clicks a corroded, faded steel sign in the vicinity.
Greg points, "Boa Vista. It means 'good view'. And, now that we've had a good look, let's move down shore toward the town of Porto de Moz."
"You should leave the cutesy wordplay to me," Katie corrects. Both chuckle as their backpacks roam south along the shoreline.
The Butlers near the settlement and see dirt streets between steel-roofed shanties housing some parties and sturdier, stucco buildings holding other parties. Before them boatsmen bustle at the fish market, and small businessmen busy themselves at their shop fronts. Neglected billboards advertise international corporations who have fingers in the Amazon region. In view is an escola where boys boisterously play football outside while girls gaze at the chalkboard in an open-air classroom. This site of six thousand residents looks sufficiently happy.
Beside the Butlers, jungle runs parallel. The plush flora rings with songbirds and simians concealed in the canopied growth. The creatures savor Southern Hemisphere summer as much as the broad forest leaves soaking in the sun and simmering with pungence that permeates the sultry air. On the trees, sizable insects and amphibians show themselves, and they skip from branch to branch, sometimes sampling succulent fruit.
Suddenly, from the shadows, something moves swiftly like a jaguar or a ghost. In a split-second, it stomps and bounds along tree boughs. It launches. Large leaves scatter. Ululating, she swings forth on a very long vine. Adjusting key and delivery, the towheaded tamarin—about five-foot tall-sings a soprano Tarzan song. Parabolically projected, the pseudo-pongid releases the plant pendulum at its apex. Whipped high, a wild woman silhouettes against the sun. Her tresses bloom like golden tillandsia. Her scant dress defines her fit figure against eclipsed Sol. Her form fleetly flows through the ether. Then, the lovely loon lithely somersaults—her momentum sending her toward the trekking Butlers. Seeking to evade, the siblings slip-slide on the sloppy terrain between the river and a rainforest. But, their boots find only tricky traction.
Sailing Jana's bare feet splash in the swamp muck. Sludge sprays and sediment smudges Katie and Greg. Sister spits a smidgen of smut. Her brother simpers at the silly scene. Jana simply smiles. Like a marsh deer, she sprints over the soft ground and embraces Katie hard.
Katie may have flunked acrobatics in high school (E15), but Jana obviously did not.
Stepping back, Jana jostles her pen pal, "You look just like the photo that you sent."
Slipping a strong grip, Kate canvasses Jana too. Somehow, the svelte "savage" looks somewhat as someone would expect. She presents a simple and natural presence. Jana has a healthy head of long blonde hair that any woman (or man) would admire. The golden hair, confidently worn longer than Katie's, accessorizes bare tan shoulders above a fine, fit physique, perfect in fat and muscle. A sharp red and black collar necklace sits at her throat. An animal-hide frock complements Jana's form as well. It covers her rightly from bust to hourglass abdomen to its high-on-the-thigh cut at the hips. There, Jana is equally exposed yet humbly-covered, like Tarzan's loin cloth.
Katie admires her correspondence buddy. Jana appears every bit the self-actualized warrior woman who 1990s Americans want to be.
Next to Katie, Greg gazes at the "jungle girl" who just arrived. The red-blooded male salivates slightly—though he feels ashamed. Modern men must change their attitudes, and he knows it. Still, Jana's sweet sweat wafts on the sweltering wind, and Greg sniffs it in. He takes her in. Long blonde hair flutters in the breeze and tickles her tan shoulders. Her tan skin trails to a fawn (brown) frock tight on her tantalizing body. And, the costume's cut makes her appear both wholesome and wild. Greg could fancy her on a children's show, such as The Electric Company, or he could see her on a pulp cover. Either way, she looks like Wonder Woman (she sounds like Wonder Woman on the Super Friends too; and, she archetypically resembles Diana, the Roman deity, as well). However, boy Butler should remember something. Jana of the Jungle is essentially a superhero, and male viewers are to take her seriously.
Greg blinks a few times. He sees Jana. She is going to lead his sister and him somewhere. Greg offers his hand for a handshake. Jana's hand is both primally strong and pleasantly smooth.
Shoulders squared, the jungle queen sashays south through tall swaying grass. She takes the Butlers toward town. Along the way, the trio hear the trill of katydids accompanied by the screech of the curassow. They spot camouflaged geckos keeping quiet close by hyperkinetic chameleons. A black stray crosses their path.
The tall stalks give way to a sandy stretch leading to solid concrete streets. Jana strolls casually into town, and no one much turns a head. Certainly, many men are shirtless and women's summer dresses are skimpy—by American standards. It must be thirty-two Celsius outside, so a jungle queen is perhaps just dressed for the weather.
Patting perspiration, Katie makes conversation, "I am always glad that mutual colleague Dr. Ben Cooper got us in contact, Jana. It turns out that you and I have stuff oddly in common."
"Yeah, our stories are similarly written," Jana acknowledges, "We are both young ladies of the '70s, meaning that we were necessarily born around 1960. We both have parents who took us on ill-fated Amazon expeditions in which our boats overturned. After each event, we can thank our lucky stars that there were friendly 'natives' to save and foster us. And, we each wound-up roughing it for a while. In my case, I made it a way of life."
"What is your specific origin again?" Katie queries, "My brother has perhaps not heard it."
Almost rhythmically, Jana recites, "The last thing I remember was traveling up the Great River with my father. He had just given me my special necklace when . . . our boat capsized. I was rescued by Montaro, a noble descendant of a lost warrior tribe. Endlessly searching for my lost father, Montaro and others helped me guard the jungle from those who dwell within it. I grew up by the laws of nature and the animals of the jungle became my friends. I am Jana of the Jungle!"
"Wow," states Greg.
Jana navigates the Butlers to an alley entrance off the street. She exits stage left. "There's Montaro now," the jungle queen gestures.
A middle-aged man sits in a rocking chair. He still has the posture of a warrior, but his white hair indicates that many undertakings indeed have passed. Unbeknown to the Butlers, his black tennies have replaced white boots that he always used to wear, so his shoes indicate the same. Like Jana, his lengthy hair leads to skin basking in the hot Brazilian sun—except Montaro doesn't wear a dress. Besides footwear, his only apparel is a blue skirt tightly girded with modern gym shorts peaking forth. The kilt has symbols from Montaro's Amerindian culture. The shorts sport a corporate logo. Overall, Montaro symbolizes static and dynamic life and time. Like a river, he remains, and he changes.
Montaro turns to guests. "Hello again," he states.
"Again?" Katie wonders at his words.
"Yes, young lady, we met about a quarter-century ago," the old-timer tipples some l.s. tea, "A family of four and their dog came wandering down the Xingu. They casually camped on Kayabi tribal land and commandeered what natural resources they wanted. Concerned, the Kayabi contacted me. I spoke English, as I still do."
Greg interrupts, "I vaguely remember this occasion. We kept calling those people—the Kayabi—the Katuchi. They corrected us crossly."
Quietly chafed, Montaro subtly shakes his chin. Jana states, "The Katuchi are a tribe of ape-men that Montaro and I once encountered. So yeah, don't confuse the two."
Montaro continues, "I put on my holy head-dress and went to meet you squatters."
Greg interrupts, "I vaguely recall this meeting. Dad and Mom met some guy in a blue head-dress adorned with gold. He had some ouro on his arms too. As the ultimate accessory, he had what he called the Staff of Power! Whooooo!" The wise guy raises his hands and shakes them emphatically, being unintentionally rude.
Montaro chuckles, "Well. Now, an old man needs no ornamentation when he has white hair."
"May we all have white hair one day," Jana backs her mentor, "Please go on with your story."
Montaro continues again, "John and Kim Butler seemed like okay people. They seemed like Dr. Ben Cooper, Jana's lost father, or that couple from when I was a boy, Dr. Reed and Ms. Lawrence. Like all men, these Northerners celebrated curiosity, and that is good. We all should know Creation's design and beauty. In our limited years, we should know the Earth intimately, as American scientists often attempt to do, whether they voyage to Amazonia from schools or corporations.
However, Creation must be respected. A human is only part of it. We are the world's children. And, we do not need to know all of everything's secrets. And, we need only know certain things when we have the actual wisdom to do so. Respect your mother. My people would tell you that. Care for Creation rightly. Your Christian Bible would tell you that. Missionaries visit these parts too."
Dr. Kate studies Montaro. He seems well-read, and that facet pleases her. Certainly, everyone—from a jungle queen to scientific adventurers—would agree that one shouldn't watch TV all day. Your healthy mind needs more than cartoons.
The wiseman proceeds, "I warned the Butler family back in '74 not to trifle with the river's mysteries. But, the Butlers butted ahead like the Iberian goats, introduced four hundred years back. They must explore and—having explored and found—consume anything and all.
"Your father John, although a nice guy, could not be wisely deterred. So, the Butlers cast-off the next day and pushed upstream against the current. And, they met their fate in a turbulent river canyon—that I could have told you about."
Greg snickers, "The Xingu is known for its occasional impressive rapids, so I suspect that my folks surely anticipated the surprise." Within, the soldier and ranger anticipates successfully challenging the chancy channels too.
"Yes, the river is," Montaro lurches forward, "That is why I did not mention those years ago that my tribe raised a little white girl who speaks English. I wanted to protect her from perilous plans."
"I am glad that you did. Jana is a precious pal," Katie politely compliments.
Greg informs, "In the canyon, we met a massive maelstrom. It swallowed us and spat us out. We emerged in the Black Lagoon."
"Sure, in the Valley of the Dinosaurs," Montaro sits back smirking.
The Butler kids look surprised. "You know of the Valley?" Greg inquires.
"Well, most people know of Jana and her tales before they ever know about the Valley of the Dinosaurs," the raconteur relates, "But yes, an old Indian knows of that place. It can be very hard to escape. I am most impressed that you did."
Katie admits, "We did at least physically. In our minds, we Butlers have forevermore peered into Pandora's box. In part, that is why we Butlers are back in Brazil. We don't want to visit the Valley but vicariously anymore. We want to truly be back there."
Montaro sighs, "I told you then, and I tell you now. . . . ."
Beside him, Jana gets her foster father's forewarning. Certainly, Jana is of the jungle. Mostly, she is always as one with its ways. Indubitably, to disturb it is to disturb part of herself. However, Jana of the Jungle is also a hero. Like Tarzan, she plays the champion to this land and to its people. The noble jungle queen cannot allow ill to occur in her kingdom, her province, her paradise. She must protect her people from their wild Amazon. She has summoned outside allies for a reason. They progress a piece of peace and order.
"Thank you, Montaro," Jana teases her blonde hair and speaks, "I support your sage advice. There are awesome animals in the Amazon and its arms. They are everything from the edacious ant to the jumping jaguar to the occasional aberrant evil individual."
"To the Iguanodon and Allosaurus," Katie cleverly clucks in.
"Indeed," Jana enjoys her friend, "And, these living things pursue their purposes: territorial protection, predatory behavior, pursuit of propagation, presentation of power, pleasing of curiosity, and placating of hunger. In this ecosystem, a piscine primate has popped up recently, for whatever reason. He, or it, rises from the dark river depths and runs amuck in the villages. That is the poop that I get from peripheral settlements. Sometimes, this phenomenal being smashes everything in sight: 'screw this, and screw that'. Sometimes, he steals assorted food. Sometimes, this gill-man, with physique like a man but gills and scales like a fish, seems about to steal the most precious prize of all: a person. His pitiless eyes fix upon a provincial maid, and he licks his livery lips. He extends big, wide, webbed hands as though he would net and nab a nubile young lady and then, glommed onto her, haul her away to his secluded grotto for supremely grievous acts."
"Has anything like that last part happened?" Greg interrupts. He hopes that it hasn't.
"Well no," Jana's wide eyes return to normal, "However, the stealing and destruction have. This aquatic ape has been an incessant pest and a scary presence for the Pará provincial population. We must intercede."
"The awful beast sounds awfully like the Creature from the Black Lagoon," Katie suggests, "Have you ever seen that movie, Jana?"
"No," Jana replies, "Dad always said that I was too young to see it before he and I came down here. Since here, scientist Ben Cooper and shaman Montaro have always considered the tale hokum. My mentors immure me from the monster movie."
"The Creature is real," Montaro mentions, "But, Hollywood. Ay-yi-yi. Western media is unreal. They will corrupt living lore like candiru açu on an unfortunate."
Dr. Kate deduces, "So, Greg and I are the only creatures from a Black Lagoon that you have ever encountered."
"What?" Jana looks puzzled.
"There is a Black Lagoon in the Valley of the Dinosaurs," Katie explains, "I mentioned it previously in this talk."
"Oh. Okay, I get your joke," Jana nods nicely. Katie equips herself a cutesy quip at every occasion (but, cartoon fans know that).
Momentary silence follows. Greg breaks it, "Ever since seeing the 1954 flick, I have hankered hunting a merman. That's all I know. Thus, this expedition seems like a dream come true to my inner eight-year-old. Neither he nor I could imagine that monstrosities and dinosaurs are real. Yet, I have met the one, and I am about to meet the other." The naturalist beams.
"Monsters can be very real," Montaro assures, "You can ask Kim or Katie Butler. It is true. But, as mentioned, you could also ask Miss Kay Lawrence who the Creature captured and nearly killed forty years ago. Or, you could simply listen to me this fine noon."
Nodding, Greg claims that he understands. Beside her brother, Katie proclaims the same, and she promises to respect this region's creatures and culture. Beside Montaro, his adopted daughter avers that the expedition has Jana of the Jungle, wise to the rain forest.
Knowingly, the old warrior offers to get an Indigenous guide for the naïve gringos. Ranger Greg attests that he can lead the way.
"Hmph, good luck," says wise, seasoned Montaro.
