Bob: The Monkey Who Bit Me

It all started at the Anoconda Lodge in Puerto Maldonado in the jungle region of Peru. (Yes, we picked the lodge based on its name.) Blair and I had just finished a successful three day eco tour on the Tambopata River and had two days to relax before heading back to Cuzco. (The reason why I say it was a "successful" trip is because I didn't get eaten by a caiman or ripped to shreds by piranhas which was a ridiculous, yet real fear of mine.) 

Upon our arrival at the lodge, we were literally stalked by monkeys who wanted to hold our hands and climb on our backs. Scary and cute all at the same time. The owners of the lodge had exactly one monkey they kept as a pet. His name was Bob. Bob was present at every meal and was a regular fixture at the pool. He would jump in your lap, steal anything that wasn't tied down and was just so damn cute, you didn't mind that your sunglasses were now dangling from a high up tree limb because that's where Bob wanted to put them. 

We had several pictures of Bob and the other playful monkeys, but Blair wanted a picture of herself holding Bob. Our taxi to the airport was on its way to pick us up when we spotted Bob sitting by the pool. I casually walked over to Bob and put my hand out to pick him up to give him to Blair.  And that's when it happened. That little fucker bit me. Right index finger. Blood. FUCK. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I immediately dunked my finger in the pool, squeezed as much blood from it as I could and ran to the kitchen in the main house to wash it with soap and water. Fuck. 

Did I really just get bitten by a monkey? In Peru? Of all of the many ways I pictured myself going down on this trip, THIS was not one of them. 

I got the bleeding to stop and put a band-aid on it. The taxi arrived and we went to the airport. I found a "doctor" at the airport and she gave me some voodoo tree sap that was supposed to be like an antibiotic. I smeared that shit all over my finger and said a prayer. 

Throughout the next few weeks in Peru, I did not die or even get sick (well, not sick from the monkey bite, but I definitely got sick from the "ranch" dressing that was sitting in a dish on a table that I drizzled all over my pizza in Aguas Calientes). 

It wasn't until a year later, after being diagnosed with latent onset Type 1 Diabetes, when countless doctors and nurses asked me, "Have you gotten any infections in the last year?" that it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Bob was the culprit.