Happiness is Green

By Donna Mulvenna

Donna aimlessly daydreams of pulling up stakes and starting a new life, but never imagines a chance encounter with a new man will lead her to make a wild, impetuous decision that catapults her on a soul-changing journey.

Living in the Amazon rainforest where a host of curious jungle creatures visit her jungle shack, she narrowly dodges dis

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stormbird Press
• Release date: May 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781925856019

Donna Mulvenna

Donna Mulvenna is a horticulturist, whose journey as a nature writer began when she moved to the Amazon rainforest. Donna is a Fellow of the International League of Conservation Writers, and the author of Happiness is Green, Wild Roots: Coming Alive in the French Amazon, and The Awe of Nature. She co-authored All Things Breathe Alike: A Wildlife Anthology, and is the co-editor of Tales from the River: An Anthology of River Literature.

Book preview

Prologue

‘I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright.‘

—Henry David Thoreau.

Adrenaline spiked my heartbeat as I brushed against a plant with leaves large enough to hide a jaguar. I searched the trail for something familiar but found nothing. I called out, above the cicadas buzzing their tymbals off, ‘We’re lost, aren’t we’. I glared at our leader who claimed to be a wild animal himself.

An hour passed, the sun dipping low in the sky while I trudged through a knee-deep marsh. I was so damn hot and thirsty, and the pain in my forehead warned of an imminent full-blown dehydration headache.

Branches snapped in my face as I pressed forward and tried to figure my way out. I scanned the foliage for signs of earlier machete marks, a footprint, any hint of us having passed.

Nothing.

‘Have you found the way?’ My voice sounded pitiful, barely audible to my own ears, as if I had accepted our fate.

I looked through the tangle of trees. A shape emerged in the darkness. ‘Who’s there?’ I croaked, the effort rasping against my dry throat. The shape faded in and out, and whispers not mine slid between the trees.

I lost sight of the group, but determined to find my own way back. Never had I dreamed I’d be wandering around the Amazon rainforest, parched, anxious, and lost. But that was exactly where I was meant to be.

1

Heading west

‘I lived the life of my friend the tiger. The jungle that kills did not have me, it spared me because I loved it fervently, because I owed it everything, because it taught me to be free.’

—Jean Galmot.

Keen to explore the territory’s rivers, Frank and I drove our dusty Kangoo van west along the only highway in French Guiana, known by the locals as simply Guyane, Gwee-en, a land notorious for having little road access. At the roundabout outside Cayenne, police officers searched vehicles and impounded mopeds belonging to helmetless drivers, many of whom had hair-netted dreadlocks piled a foot above their heads. Those helmets that did perch on top of swaying coiffures offered no protection to skulls. Four policemen, with an arsenal of semi-automatic weapons, stood over two men lying spread-eagled on the sidewalk. A policeman stared in my direction. I fought an urge to make a run for it even though I’d done nothing wrong.

Before we reached the vandalised static speed camera, the lens of which had been painted pink, we turned onto the Montsinery River Road. Frank drove at the speed limit, acquainting himself to driving on the right while irritated locals hurtled around the jungle-fringed corners because they knew what was there.

We’d headed off early, before the predicted afternoon deluge turned the track to a river, but when the asphalt ran out, our tyres spun and our car fish-tailed through rim-deep mud. If we got bogged, we’d need the entire riverside village to push us out. We parked beneath a tree, dodging ant nests and swatting horseflies as we lifted the canoe from the roof rack.

It had been a challenge to buy a roof rack. The salesman at the local auto store directed us down the road to the furniture store. ‘Buy a mattress,’ he said.

‘A roof rack would be safer,’ said Frank.

‘It’s not neccessary in Guyane,’ said the salesman. ‘Just tie your load down.’

The riverbank, lined with river cocoa flowers that bloomed in bursts of yellow and pink, pulsated with animal sounds. Each creature, it seemed, desperate to be heard above the other buzzes, chirps, and caws. A mangrove rail, resembling a high-stepping chicken, peered at us. She bobbed her head up and down, then probed the mud with her curved beak.

Frank lowered a sprint canoe borrowed from a local paddlers club into the water. ‘Donna, don’t go far, there’s a strong current.’

‘I’m not worried.’ I shook my head.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ He kneeled on the floating pontoon and waved.

Although a beginner at paddling in a high-kneel position, sitting in kayaks and ocean skis had been a big part of my life growing up on the East coast of Australia. Living on the iconic Gold Coast, it’s expected you surf and swim. Many of the long stretching, clean, sandy beaches face south, picking up any skerrick of swell and catching ocean-goers off guard with flash rips. That was the Pacific Ocean. This was only a river.

Setting off at a smart pace, I looked over my shoulder and gave Frank my ‘I-told-you-I’d-be-fine,’ look.

Before meeting Frank, not even my daftest dreams conjured up a life in South America. It was luck I met him while out kayaking on an Australian lake. The decision to follow him to French Guiana wasn’t an easy one because my earlier divorce created a phobia that I might be rejected again. I had some fears to overcome before I worked up the courage to take such a bold, life-changing leap.

Half a mile from the pontoon, the river narrowed and the brackish water descending from the Tumuk Humak mountains picked up speed. Whirlpools swirled around the canoe, pushing me towards a clump of mangrove roots. I tried to paddle in a wide arc, but a strong gust of wind snatched the boat. Like an unsteady gymnast on a high beam, I twisted in the air, and fell. The canoe shot away midstream.

With my paddle in one hand, I freestyled one-armed through leaves, over logs, and around bobbing coconuts. When I latched hold of my canoe, the current picked me up like a piece of driftwood and pushed me seaward. The harder I pushed against the current, the harder it thrust back. The fear of drowning clamped my jaw shut, and I freaked about the bull sharks and stingrays lurking beneath.

‘Frank!’ I yelled, again and again, hoping the wind would carry my voice. I held my breath which spiked my heart rate. Deep down I knew a long exhale would relax my body and reboot my brain, but in my panicked state that knowledge got swept away in the current.

I heard the words of my surf lifesaver Dad.

Stay calm.

Breathe.

Think.

I exhaled before drawing a deep breath.

Struggling was futile and the raging river would swallow me if I tired myself. Floating beside the canoe, I considered my options.

Pushing down against the boat and kicking my legs as hard as I could, I lunged at a group of overhanging roots. They slid through my fingers, but the effort slowed me enough to grab another slimy root and hang on. I prayed the root would hold. If not, a slurry of mud thick enough to swallow a cow waited to pull me under.

Frank appeared in the distance, the water glistening from his suntanned arms as he swam around the river bend. I clung harder to the root from which there was a chain; red-legged crabs with bug-eyes on stalks waving their pincers, me clinging for my life with one hand, and a canoe full of water.

He shouted out. ‘Why didn’t you let go of the canoe?’

I hadn’t thought of that. He placed my paddle across the deck and in a feat of strength, heaved himself over the side. No matter how many times I’d tried, I couldn’t manage that manoeuvre.

‘Hold on,’ he said between short breaths. ‘I’ll tow you back, but we need to stay close to the bank.’

Oh great, I thought. Where caiman, anaconda and electric eels that can stun a horse live.

Holding tightly to the stern, I pressed my mind to focus on something else. It settled on the words of Mary Kingsley, an eccentric English woman who journeyed through the Congo alone.

‘Unless you are interested in it and fall under its charm it is the most awful life in death imaginable. It is like being shut up in a library whose books you cannot read all the while tormented and terrified… And if you do fall under its spell it takes the colour out of other kinds of living.’

I turned my gaze from the muddy depths to the blue sky, slowed my breath, and enjoyed the ride.

‘Are you kicking?’ Frank called.

‘Of course.’ I started to kick, startling a shoal of whiskered fish.

Along the bank, limbs of fallen trees formed barricades that created slimy pools of rotting leaves and sticks. Above, pouch-shaped nests of green Oropendolas swung from branches, the canary-yellow birds clinging to the sides like mountaineers. Downstream, the village’s power lines came into view. I kicked harder.

Safely back on the pontoon, Frank asked, ‘Lesson learned?’

I opened my mouth to make an excuse, but couldn’t think of a good one. I scrutinised my muddy feet. ‘Yes, lesson learned.’

A horde of tiny, biting midges migrated towards my scent. They looked harmless enough until they burrowed into my eyes, stomped about in my ears, and left itchy welts over my arms. Should I ever leave this place, it wouldn’t be unscathed.

2

As tough as nails

‘He who knows no hardships will know no hardihood. He who faces no calamity will need no courage.

Mysterious though it is, the characteristics in human nature which we love best grow in a soil with a strong mixture of troubles.’

—Harry Emerson Fosdick.

Standing at the kitchen sink, I removed a dozen black-shelled beetles that had burrowed into the sponge overnight. I flicked them outside and yawned. My sleep had been disturbed before dawn when the wind blew dozens of plump, pink mangoes down on the tin roof. With a laundry basket, I walked outside to gather the fruit, mindful not to walk under the coconut palm. The coconut that plummeted past my face the day before nestled in a three-centimetre divot in the ground.

‘Smoothie?’ I asked Frank. He reached up to cut a hand of fat, red bananas from those hanging under the patio roof.

‘The monkeys are in the mango tree again,’ he called. The horde of golden-handed tamarins sailed through the air from tree to tree. As they cruised past they gawked at me open mouthed, like laughing clowns in a sideshow game.

All black, apart from the golden hair on their hands and feet, the tiny monkeys romped through the canopy, leaping up to sixty feet.

I looked from the swaying branches to my hand. ‘I hurt my hand when I fell in the river yesterday,’ I said, massaging my finger joints.

‘You’ve probably pulled a muscle. I’ll take a look after work.’ A trained sports masseur, Frank could usually knead out my aches and pains.

I yawned again. Why was I so tired? Despite mango bombs hitting the roof, I’d still had eight hours sleep. Over the course of the day other joints ached, my stomach was upset, and my head pounded like a monkey clanging on cymbals.

When Frank arrived home that night, he found me curled in a foetal position, shaking with chills. My temperature was high and my swollen fingers wouldn’t bend.

‘How long have you been like this?’

‘Since lunchtime,’ I croaked.

In a haze, I heard Frank talking to our neighbour on the phone. When Patricia arrived carrying herbal medicine, she took one look at me and crossed herself. ‘Oh mon Dieu,’ she said. ‘C’est le paludisme.’ Oh my God, it’s malaria. Her generous frame filled the doorway and her cotton frock hitched up on one side. I guessed she was well into her sixties but her face was age-spot free and her hair jet black. Her signature makeup was bright cherry red lipstick and high eyebrows drawn with liquid eyeliner.

‘You got malaria Miss.’ The muscles in her face tensed. ‘No chance to see a doctor tonight Miss. I go with you tomorrow.’

I wondered if I’d live through the night. Under the light cotton sheet I radiated heat like a kiln-baked brick.

The last time I consulted a doctor was in Australia, when I’d visited the international medical centre for my mandatory yellow fever vaccine. I had cringed when the doctor said, ‘I hope you come home.’

My mouth turned as dry as a sandbox. ‘Safe,’ I said, ‘you forgot to say come home safe.’

When morning came, the pain increased in waves, small lulls giving me false hope of an end.  There was nausea too, and a headache so debilitating it dominated my every thought. I prided myself on being able to soldier on through sickness, but the searing pain in my shoulder put the kibosh on getting out of bed. Sobbing and clutching my churning stomach, I curled up into a ball instead. At 7 am, I cried out as Frank helped me from the bed. Feeling like a rag doll, I draped my arms around his neck