Lost in the Jungle (17 page)

The horrible dance of death went endlessly on. The current was incredibly swift. The raft was swept along like lightning. There was another small bend in the river, and then, still far away, I saw it: a mountain of rock in the middle of the river, almost blocking its entire breadth. The water pounded against it with a terrible roar. White foam sprayed in all directions, the white-capped maelstrom swirling at the foot of the terrifying crag, and I knew that I would never make it past.

I lay down on the raft facing the stern, not wanting to watch as death approached. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and clutched at the straps for all I was worth. There was a crash. I felt nothing. I was simply flying through the air, then landing back in the water, my eyes still squeezed shut. I was sucked under the black waters for what seemed an eternity. I could feel the pressure in my ears, my nose, the sockets of my eyes. My chest was bursting. Then once more an invisible hand plucked me out of the current and, just in time, drew me to the surface. I lifted my head, gasped for air – a lot of air – before I would be pulled back under. Far behind me I could see the mountain of rock receding. I couldn’t believe it. I had passed it. But how? I didn’t feel any pain. No, I was uninjured. It was a miracle.

The raft was in front of me not far away. The logs had become loosened from one another. I managed to climb up onto what was left of it. The leather straps were torn, and I had nothing to cling to. I knew that I had to get to the life raft. I mustn’t lose the life pack, I couldn’t survive without it.

I jumped into the water, and two strokes brought me to the life raft. Again I crashed into the stone walls of the canyon; only now I no longer had a wide, solid raft to protect me. The life raft was small and narrow. Every blow lifted it half out of the water. Once again I rammed into a rock, injuring my knee, but much worse than that, the precious life pack came loose and fell into the water. I grabbed hold of it just as it was about to float away, but it was heavy, and I was afraid that it would drown me. I tied the waist belt to one of the logs and hoped that it would hold. But I was wrong. One more knock, one more dive over a fall, and the precious pack was bobbing behind me, out of my reach. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

I mustn’t lose sight of it
, I told myself.
I mustn’t lose it, no matter what
.

I was fairly certain that I was already through the pass but still in a canyon. Steep stone walls rose on both sides, but the river was getting wider, the current milder, and I could have swum to the bank, but I couldn’t abandon the pack. As long as I could see it bobbing behind me followed by the large raft, I didn’t swim ashore.

The river turned a bend, and I waited in vain for the pack to make the bend behind me. It must have gotten caught on something. Nor did the raft appear. So, as the life raft neared the right bank, I took the chance to leap ashore, having no other choice but to abandon the big pack and raft.

I landed in the water close to the bank and, wonder of wonders, felt sand beneath my feet. I could actually stand up. I staggered out of the river, unbelieving. I had landed on a rocky strip of shore. Solid ground. I was alive!

It was a few moments before my breathing became regular. Then my thoughts returned to my present situation. The life pack was lost, nowhere to be seen, but maybe it would turn up. Couldn’t the current knock it free?

And what about Kevin? Surely he would find me. I had seen him running in my direction. He would certainly make it this far today – or tomorrow at the latest. Yes, everything would be all right. I was sure. He would find me, and together we would walk to Curiplaya. How far could we be from each other? I didn’t know. How long had I spent on the river? I didn’t know. Maybe twenty minutes. The thought of the river made me shudder.

A steady rain had been falling and now grew stronger. There was no more point in waiting. It would be better to climb up into the jungle to find shelter for the night. I clawed my way up the stone wall. When I reached a height of about fifteen feet, I looked down and was overcome with joy. I could see the big raft. It was trapped between some rocks near the shore, bobbing and banging softly, maybe three hundred yards upstream. Now that I could see it, I could hear the sound that it made as it hit against the rocks. What luck! I thought that the pack was probably stuck there too.

I hurried down to the bank, but the bend in the river blocked my view, and except for the spot where I was standing, the river had no bank at all. I wouldn’t be able to get any closer to the raft by foot. I waded into the river, very close to the bank, and tried to walk upriver, fighting the current. I progressed a few feet but then slipped and fell as if the bottom had been pulled out from under me. I was terror-stricken and scrambled back to shore.

Now what would I do? I was seething with anger and frustration. I desperately needed the pack. Maybe I could reach it by land, but scaling the stone walls could take hours. I choked back tears.
No, don’t cry. Be strong. Don’t give up. You’re a man of action. Get on with it, do whatever must be done.

I knew I couldn’t make it to the raft that day. It was already growing dark and still raining. I had to find some kind of shelter. I started climbing again, chanting to myself in a whisper, ‘Man of action, man of action.’ I could see the raft bobbing among the rocks.

Please stay there until tomorrow. Please stay put.

Improvising a shelter was no easy task. I uprooted small bushes, broke off branches, tore off leaves, and dragged it all back to a little alcove in the stony hillside. I scattered leaves about on the floor and piled branches in the opening until they formed some kind of barrier.

I was famished. I hadn’t eaten since morning. A way down the hillside I saw a
palmetto
tree. I could eat the palm heart, as Karl had taught us. The tree was small, but its roots went deep into the rocky ground. I dug around them with my hands until I finally succeeded in uprooting it. The heart was at the very top. I took a large rock and smashed it against the trunk until I uncovered the soft, white heart. It was a small amount of nourishment, but I gathered every bit.

Suddenly I heard shouting.

It must be Kevin
, I said to myself, and roared, ‘Kevin! Kevin! Kevin!’ but there was no reply.

It must have been my imagination. No, I could hear something. A family of monkeys. I trembled with fear. Karl had told us that there were always jaguars in the vicinity of bands of monkeys.

God, let Kevin get here
.

I was wearing a blue T-shirt that Marcus had given me, a brown flannel shirt, rough underwear, jeans, socks, walking shoes, and a large bandanna tied around my neck. I crawled into my camouflaged little niche. The stones cut into my back, but they weren’t as bad as the cold. I was soaking wet and had no fire or anything with which to cover myself. I took the bandanna from around my neck and tied it over my face, and the warmth of my own breath gave me at least the illusion of comfort. Frightening thoughts filled my mind: wild animals, snakes. What if I didn’t find the pack? What if Kevin didn’t get here? I would either be devoured by wild beasts or die of starvation. I felt desperate, desolate, and I leapt out of the niche.

‘Kevin! Kevin! Kevin!’

‘Oha, oha,’ the cursed monkeys chattered.

I fled back to my alcove. I was choked with tears.

Don’t cry. Don’t break now. Be a man of action
, I coaxed myself.

It was already dark. I replaced the bandanna over my face. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get the frightening thoughts out of my mind.

Karl, why didn’t I listen to you? Marcus, why was I so cruel to you? Now I’m being punished
.

I told myself that when morning came, I would find Kevin, and together we would make it out of this. When I found myself feeling hopeless, I whispered my mantra, ‘Man of action, man of action.’ I don’t know where I had gotten the phrase. Perhaps I had picked it up from one of Carlos Castaneda’s books. I repeated it over and over: a man of action does whatever he must, isn’t afraid, and doesn’t worry. But when I heard the rustle of branches outside, my motto wasn’t all that encouraging. I held my breath and waited for the rustling to recede into the jungle.

I felt better in the morning. I pushed the branches aside and crawled outside. I roared Kevin’s name a few times but then went back to being a man of action and sized up my situation. For starters I was absolutely certain that I was past the canyon. I remembered Karl’s description well: the waterfalls, the rapids, the gigantic rock blocking the river. Yes, I was sure that that had been the
mal paso
, and Curiplaya was supposed to be not far from the pass, on the right bank, the bank I was standing on. There was a chance that I could make it there. There were cabins and equipment in Curiplaya. Karl had said that there was also a banana grove. And from Curiplaya it was four days’ walk to San José de Uchupiamonas. There should even be a path cut through the jungle. I allowed myself to feel optimistic. I could do it. Not more than one day’s walk to Curiplaya and from there on a path to San José. There might even be someone left in Curiplaya.

I hunted around for something for breakfast but found nothing. I decided to try to retrieve the pack once again. It would be worth investing an entire day looking for it as long as there was even the slightest chance of finding it. There was food in the pack, along with matches, a map, and a flashlight. If I could only find it, I’d be set.

It was no easy task. I started walking up-river. The route took me over jagged cliffs and smooth rock faces. I walked for two hours, climbing higher to progress and then back down to see if I could reach the shore. The stony walls were steep and smooth. I lost my footing a few times but luckily was caught by trees and bushes. Finally, from a cliff that towered fifty feet over the river, I spotted the raft in the water, still beating against the rocks. I was positive that the pack must be nearby.

At that point the bank of the river was a thin strip of land. I had no choice but to take the risk and started slowly climbing down, clawing at the sharp rocks. I took tiny steps, groping with my foot for a hold that would support my weight, my body covered with cold sweat. I said a silent prayer,
Don’t slip. Don’t fall
. If I broke an arm or leg, I didn’t stand a chance. The last time I had gone rock climbing, I had fallen but had been saved by a miracle: Uncle Nissim’s little book had been in my pocket. Now it was in the backpack. I should never have left it there.

It was still raining, hadn’t let up at all since yesterday. The stones were damp and slick, but I kept climbing. My pants caught on a jagged edge and ripped. My knees were scratched, my fingers bloody. The strain on my legs was tremendous, terribly painful. I could tell that the rash was spreading over my wet feet again. When I was about ten feet above the ground, I turned and slid down the rock face on my rear end. My back was scraped, but I landed safely on the riverbank. I started searching, skipping over rocks until I reached the raft.

It was hard to believe, but the raft was still in one piece. All seven logs were still bound together. Yes, Don Jorge knew his business. Why hadn’t we listened to his wife and stayed back there?

Before I began my search for the pack, I secured the raft well, just in case I met up with Kevin and the two of us might make use of it. I looked around among the rocks and crevices, and there, about ten yards away, in the cleft of a small rock, sat the precious pack, soaking wet but still afloat.

Thank you, God.

Words could not describe my happiness. I lay down on the rock and fished the pack out of the river and hurriedly opened it. I was saved! The contents were only slightly damp. The rubber bag had protected them well. There was everything: rice and beans, the flashlight and matches, the lighter, map, mosquito netting, red poncho, medicines, and most important, my wallet with Uncle Nissim’s little book. Now I wouldn’t die. I felt safe.

I opened the first-aid kit hoping to find some petroleum jelly for my feet. There was none. I found a bottle of pills, some of them unmarked, and a small box labelled ‘Speed.’ The pills might come in handy. There was also snakebite serum in the kit.

Thus equipped, I felt better.

Somebody up there likes me
, I thought.
Just let Kevin find me.

Up until now I had thought him the better off of the two of us – at least he had the machete – but now I was a wealthy man, and he, poor guy, had only the clothes on his back. Poor Kevin had nothing; he must need me. I had food and could start a fire. He just had to find me. Without me he didn’t have a chance.

It was still pouring with rain, and I shivered with cold. I hurriedly closed the pack and set it down in a niche of the cliff. I kept only the poncho to protect me from the rain. Then it occurred to me that I should hang it up in some conspicuous place. It was bright red and might catch Kevin’s eye. I saw a crag jutting prominently over the river. I climbed up to it and spread the poncho out over it, weighing it down with heavy stones so that it wouldn’t blow away in the wind. Again I called out to Kevin, but I knew the shouts were pointless. The roar of the water was deafening, and there was no chance of anyone’s hearing me.

On my way back to the pack I noticed a few yellow fruits lying on the shore and stopped to pick them up. Most of them were rotten, but I found one hard, fresh fruit and took a bite. It was delicious. I looked up and spotted the source: a tree laden with wild yellow plums at the edge of the stone wall.