12 Jul Becoming the Jaguar
There is a passage in Josh Waitzkin’s book, “The Art of Learning” that I keep up on my wall. I go back to it before every competition. Before I fight as I pace I see myself as the Jaguar stalking. I constantly feed myself the imagery of being completely relaxed and measured until I deem it time to move into action.
I know when I finally meet my opponent there are two options.
- They are wilted by the pressure of competition and I will be ready to pounce.
- They will rise to the occasion, in that case, this is the person I am truly meant to struggle against and to test myself.
Here is the passage. I have the book as the most important one on the Elevate Reading List, but this passage deserves to stand on its own as well.
“There is a sense among Amazonians that the jungle sits poised to devour the unwary. No one walks into the forest alone. Most people carry weapons. The danger is too great.
While we lived in the rainforest, a man named Manuel acted as our guide. Manuel is a native Amazonian, born in Tupana, about 50 years old, powerfully built with shining brown eyes and the jungle is his blood. He led us through the dense foliage, quietly pointing out medicinal trees, animal tracks, insects, monkey vines, the signs of the forest. From time to time he would stop, raise a hand. Minutes passed. We stood silent and listened, the air alive with the sound of animals feeding or moving nearby. Manuel carried a shotgun. His friend Marcelo trailed us with another. Cats were always on the mind.
Throughout the trip, Dan and I asked a lot of questions about the jaguar. Walking through the forest at night, we wanted to be prepared for an encounter. We were given spears, which made us feel better. But over and over Manuel shook his head and explained that if a jaguar really wants you, there will not be much fight. It is rare for someone to speak of seeing a jaguar in the forest. If you see one, it’s probably too late. People traveling in groups will, for the most part, be left alone. From time to time, the last person in a procession will be picked off from behind, but cats generally avoid teams. They are stealth hunters. A lone traveler will be moving through the forest, and the cat will be crouched on a limb of an overhanging tree, blending into the forest canopy, listening, waiting. Then the ambush emerges from nowhere and the cat is on your neck. In Manuel’s descriptions of the jaguar, there seemed an almost religious respect for its power, cunning and intensity. But what if I have a machete? How could I not have a chance?
One Evening lying in hammocks above the forest floor, engulfed by deep blackness and the wild symphony of night sounds, Manuel told us what happened to a friend of his a few years before. This man was named Jose. He was born in the Amazon. He knew the jungle’s sounds, its smells, its signs. He knew how to heal every conceivable ailment with saps an boiled barks of trees, roots, leaves. He climbed vines like a monkey, hunted every evening with a blowgun and darts laced with venom of poisonous frogs. Jose could operate from sound and smell alone, freezing in the dark forest, listening, then shooting his dart into the dusky woods and hitting his mark for his family’s dinner. He was one of the rare ones who ventured into the forest alone. On these evenings he wore a mask on his head, eyes pointing backward so the cats would not ambush him from behind. His only weapon was his small blow gun and a machete he apparently wielded like a samurai.
One night Jose was moving through the forest, darkness closing in, on the way home with a small capybara strapped to his back. Suddenly his skin prickled. He stopped, listened, heard the deep rumble of a cat. He smelled the animal, knew it was near. He felt for his blowgun, but it had been a long night of hunting and there were no darts left. Jose was standing next to a giant Sumaumeria tree, which are often used by Amazonians for communicating over long distances in the jungle. Immediately, Jose took his machete and swung it back and forth in a blur, clanging against the tree’s magnificent exposed root and sending a pounding call for help through the darkness. These vibrations can be heard over a mile away. Hopefully his son would be listening.
Then Jose stood in silence, waiting. He smelled the cat. It was close. A few moments later a large black jaguar, onza negra, over two hundred pounds, glided down from a tree twenty feet ahead of him and started moving in. Jose remembered the glowing yellow eyes, as though a demon were coming for him. He knew if he ran the cat would be on him instantly. He tossed the night’s catch forward onto the forest floor, then held his machete and stood his ground, moving his weapon rhythmically, preparing for the fight of his life. The cat walked straight towards him, and then changed course about eight feet away. It started pacing. Back and forth, keeping distance, but never taking its eyes off Jose. It watched the machete, followed its movements.
At first, the Jaguar’s pacing felt good. Jose thought maybe it was indecisive, considering the dead rodent. The minutes passed. Jose’s arm got tired from swaying. He watched the rippling muscles of the cat’s legs, imagined them hurling the beast on top of him. There would be only one chance. When the cat came, he would need to dodge and strike in a blur. He would have to get the neck or take off a limb and somehow roll away from the razor claws. It would all happen in an instant. But the waiting was eating him up inside. His whole being was on edge, poised for battle, exploding, while the cat paced, languid, easy, yellow eyes glowing, edging closer, now seven feet away, now six feet. After 10 minutes the tension was unbearable. Jose was drenched in sweat, his right arm shook from the weight of the machete. He switched hands, felt the weapon in his left, hoped the cat didn’t notice the new awkwardness for a minute or so while he recovered. He felt dreamy, as if the cat were hypnotizing him. Fear overwhelmed him. This man of the jungle was falling apart.
After 15 minutes, the cat started moving faster. It edged in, coiled, watched the machete move, then turned back to pacing. It looked for openings, felt the timing of the weapon. Jose was all strung out. His nerves were frayed. The yellow eyes were taking him over. His body shook. Jose started sobbing. He back away from the cat, and this was a mistake. The jaguar moved in. Straight in. It showed its teeth, crouched to leap. Jose had no fight left. He gave himself up and there was a crack through the night. Then shouting. The cat turned. Another crack rang out and then two young men ran through the bush screaming. Jose’s son took aim with his gun, but the cat vanished into the darkness, leaving a father weeping on the jungle floor. Three years later, Jose still hadn’t recovered from this encounter. The villagers say he went mad. His spirit was broken.” Josh Waitzkin – The Art of Learning