By BC Cook
For Variety
NEAR Bird Island at the northern end of Saipan there is a trail that leads west through the jungle, over the hump of Marpi and down to As Matuis. It is not for everyone but if you want to feel the island breathe, take its pulse and smell its scents you should hike this trail. Don’t rush it. Spend an entire day. Get your bearings and stay in the jungle past nightfall. Wear good shoes and bring a compass and plenty of water.
As we left the parking lot at Bird Island and hiked up the hills into the jungle it felt like we disconnected from civilization and even from time. The jungle had been there for a thousand years, it had always been there, and we were outsiders, visitors, intruders. But the jungle opened up to us and invited us irresistibly in.
Before long we reached a portion of the trail that passes through a crevice in the cliffs. Judging by the look of it we were not the first. It seemed to be the obvious place to camp and we soon found evidence of a long-ago campfire. A broken glass bottle among the bushes, a metal button with strange writing on it, pieces of charred wood that indicated a fire. We stood in the midst of a World War Two Japanese camp site.
We scaled the cliffs and hiked toward the spine of the ridge. As we neared a cluster of trees we heard the sound of buzzing. It was the sound of motion, energy, similar to the roar of an approaching wave at the beach. We tried to discover the source of the sound with our eyes and ears. We spotted a hornet flying out of a hole in a log. Then another and another. We realized we stood amid a massive hornets’ nest. Perhaps a thousand little bugs flew around us, establishing their supremacy over this part of the jungle. We knew better than to dispute their claim and quietly left them as we found them, marking the spot on the map so we would not stumble on it again.
The smells of the jungle are hard to describe. The best things and the worst things I have ever smelled were there. I cannot forget the beautiful scent of the red flower on the middle of the thorny green bush. The sweetness and serenity were worth getting impaled. Neither can I forget the awful stench of rotting animal flesh and decomposing vegetation. With the endless, hyperactive cycle of life that is the jungle, everything is constantly reproducing and dying. It is incredible to hack a plant with a machete and almost watch it regrow before your eyes. And how to describe the smell of mold? It is everywhere.
I heard a rustle under the leaves, near the rocks. I saw a coconut shell moving but not in a natural way. Sliding it to the side with my walking stick I spied the coconut crab. He looked surprised to see us, leery but not scared. He acted as if we intruded on his meal and wished us to leave. He backed slowly into a small hole in the rocks and we decided to back away as well. Even if we caught him he would spoil before we could get home to cook him.
When it began to rain the sounds of the jungle were replaced by the avalanche of noise of rain hitting the trees and bushes. The larger the leaves the louder the sound, first a pat-pat-pat, followed by a roll of a snare drum, then the symphonic crash of a full orchestra. The leaves felt waxy, almost plastic, so the water hit and splashed off, creating yet more sound, so loud we had to raise our voices to talk to each other.
“Do you want to head back?” was the question. “No, but I guess we should,” was my answer.
Dr. BC Cook taught history for 30 years and is a director and Pacific historian at Sealark Exploration (sealarkexploration.org). He currently lives in Hawaii.
