Indio Maiz Biological Reserve, Nicaragua , May 2009

The persistent, rhythmic watch alarm roused me from a restless sleep. The room was dark; in the night I had sensed some creature above or around me. I had visions of some strange, feral entity lurking nearby. Whatever its nature —animal, hallucination, or some mad combination of both— it was gone. Through the gauzy mosquito net and the open-air window I could see the first inklings of a sunrise outlined above the ragged silhouette of jungle canopy. 

In the inky distance I heard a chorus of deep guttural growls and howls from the treetops. I sighed, partly cursing the young hour and partly relieved to end the night. I sorely wanted to remain in bed, but I roused myself anyway. 

My friend Chris Ayles and my father, Jeff, himself a veteran of Latin American travel, joined me in the jungles of Nicaragua’s Indio Maiz Biological Reserve near the San Juan river, along the southern border with Costa Rica. The area covers about 2,800 square miles, and is home to more species of trees, birds, and insects than exist in all of Europe. 

Though little mentioned today, for many years the San Juan river held strategic international importance as a link between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. In fact during the 1800s, the river was the fastest route between New York and San Francisco. 

Over the centuries, the San Juan carried pirates of many nationalities, as well as African slaves, dignitaries, famous military heroes, and even a young writer named Mark Twain in 1866, who described the area as “an earthy paradise.” 

The area is remote and difficult to get to, and access to the biological reserve is strictly controlled and patrolled. Visitors must obtain a permit and be accompanied by an official park guide while in the area. Hunting and logging are forbidden, and only guides may stay there. Because of such restrictions, animals are plentiful (including puma, jaguar, boar, tapir, and monkeys). 

 At the visitors’ compound on the edge of the preserve where we had booked lodging, the staff of two (one cook/housekeeper and her assistant) introduced us to Fernando Casanova, a local wildlife expert and official Indio Maiz Biological Reserve park guide. During our brief meeting he agreed to take us out early the next morning in search of animals. 

The jungle, as seen on film and television in the cool comfort of a movie theater or living room couch, is close to Twain’s “earthy paradise.” Brightly colored birds squawk, insects busily build or destroy, and monkeys chase each other over treetop islands. 

A sense of the surreal permeates the jungle. This is a place of constant movement and rhythmic sounds—clicking, whirring, croaking, and bird calls of all meter and description. There is activity on all sides, directly above, and below the feet—much of it obscured by dense foliage, thick trees, and steep hills. Trees climb impossible heights in search of sunlight, and plants develop leaves as large as windshields to snatch what little light trickles down through the canopy. This is a place where tree sap can cure disease and ants can kill.  Some local lore even holds that certain trees can walk across the forest floor. 

The next morning well before daybreak, Fernando met us near our hut and we headed out. As we hiked the dark trails we often heard animals before we saw them. Fernando led us a mile or so, and for an hour we tracked families of howler monkeys and spider monkeys high above us, watching them swing effortlessly from tree to tree. No matter which direction you look, animals can be (and often are) above, behind, around, and below you. Visitors who spend their time looking up and around will discover many hidden animals, though paying such attention can come at a dear price. Those looking up at the trees are not looking down at the trail, which is constantly cluttered with ankle-wrenching vines, roots, and branches. Pausing still and silent is the most effective way to locate animals, though even staying motionless invites hazards. It gives hungry mosquitoes a chance to swarm around any exposed skin, and if you’re not careful you may unwittingly pause while standing on top of one of the many nearly-invisible ant trails that criss-cross the jungle floor, bearing a caravan of ants carrying tiny leaf fragments. While you are gazing into the dark canopy above and around, you may not notice the dozens of ants silently climbing your boots and pants (as I discovered from personal experience). 

That evening after a dinner of fish and rice, we headed to our rooms before the mosquitoes turned out in force. The electric generator was turned off nightly about an hour after sunset to conserve fuel. Late that night in the darkness, for the second time in as many nights, I thought I heard something moving above me. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of something gently flapping, above our wooden door. A faint whooshing sound, difficult to distinguish from the screeching cicadas, croaking frogs, and chirping crickets.  I flicked on my trusty Maglight flashlight and played it around the hut, but didn’t see anything. Chris asked what I saw or heard, confiding that he, too, had slept fitfully, unnerved by his own vivid experiences.  

We tromped trough the jungle one more exhausting day, spotting puma tracks and howler monkeys. That night, our last, Chris and I stayed up later than usual inside our hut packing bags in preparation for the next day’s midday departure. As we chatted, I heard a familiar noise above. Chris heard it too.  I played the light around, but saw nothing. I knew something was there, but it seemed invisible. I could hear it, almost feel it, but couldn’t see it. 

Being naturally skeptical of invisible creatures, I assumed that it was moving too quickly for my flashlight to catch, and the ambient light was too dim for my eyes. On a hunch, I took out a digital camera from my pack and took a quick series of flash photographs in the air all around the room. Most of them were out of focus or revealed only wooden support poles. But I did capture one image of the creature that had been flying above our beds and invading our dreams. The monsters of my nightmares did not reside in my imagination, but in the thatched roof above. It may have been an insectivore, or it may have been a blood-sucker, but it was certainly a bat. In fact there were now two. 

We laughed uneasily and finished packing while the bats circled a few feet overhead. The spooky sound which had puzzled and terrified us for three nights remained, but the once-fearsome flapping was now almost calming. We slept soundly and left the earthly paradise behind. 

Benjamin Radford