My grandson begged me to take him on a real safari, not another lame drive-through at Great Adventure, so I raided my savings and arranged a Billy-and-Pops Costa Rican expedition to celebrate his middle school graduation. Just us. Without his helicopter parents or his nervous grandma — my ex-wife.

We’re hiking through the rainforest —Billy, me, and my arthritis —behind El Guia, who’s slashing overgrowth with his machete, searching for Howler Monkeys, Red-eyed Tree Frogs, and Yellow-throated Toucans. He stops by a swarm of tiny insects. “Mariola bees. No sting,” El Interprete tells us. “Traditional eye-infection remedy. Feels like fire, but cures.”

El Guia  and El Interprete both attest to the fire-honey cure from first-hand experience. Billy’s impressed, but I’m not. I’ll stick with Visine and a warm washcloth.

El Guia waves us on, pointing out blue butterflies, an orangey iguana, and a sloth with green algae growing in its damp fur. Then he cups his hands around his mouth, releasing a deep guttural sound. Monkeys grunt back.

Billy’s delighted. Hoping to appeal to his adolescent humor, I do my chimp imitation “E-E. Ooo. Ah-ah.”

El Guia shakes his head, pokes his stomach, and releases a low growl, more zombie than chimp.

“I see monkeys!” Billy squeals.

I just see my grandson applauding our macho scout, ignoring me. I’m tired and thirsty, and my legs ache despite my compression socks, but we’re on the move again. El Guia scrambles up an incline like a raccoon escaping from a dumpster, Billy on his heels. El Interprete takes my backpack, holds my arm in case I slip on my own sweat.

El Guia spins around, talking fast and acting out a scene: he pretends to chew his arm, then bares his teeth, jogs in place. El Interprete explains: El Guia once found a jaguar right here, gnawing on a dead dear. He scared the predator away, then hacked off a deer leg for himself. The jaguar returned, enraged, so he threw the bloody limb and ran.

Billy swoons while I feel sorry for myself, wondering why I’m paying this guy to make me feel like an old geezer who can hardly cut his own toe nails, much less saw off an animal’s appendage.

Until Billy starts miming a slithering reptile with his arm, bragging about the time I hand-wrangled a snake. He doesn’t mention it was a harmless Eastern Garter Snake who hides in damp basements all over the east coast. Just boasts about his Pops.

When El Interprete recounts the tale, El Guia slaps me on the back. Almost topples me over, but I force myself to stand steady.

Then he leads us into a sunny open patch. Thwacks at a tree, knocking down four greenish coconuts and offers me his machete. I hesitate, but Billy’s cheering me on, “Do it! Do it!”

Gripping the machete, I surge with adrenaline, although I’m clueless what to do.

“Hit the top in four places, so we can open it, drink the juice,” our interpreter explains.
Praying I don’t chop off my own damn hand, I widen my stance, whack a coconut. Accidentally split it in half, but at least my ten fingers are still attached.

I lean over, scoop up the oozing, open fruit, and gulp. Doesn’t taste great, but I feel like Popeye eating spinach as the milky liquid drips down my chin and swells my fragile ego.