Lost in the Jungle (19 page)

I had to be on my way. I was in better shape physically. My fever had gone down. My feet had gotten better. I enriched the soup with another spoonful of rice and one of beans and ate every drop that clung to the bottom on the pot.

I sat near the fire studying the map and estimated that Curiplaya could be no more than six or seven miles away. I hoped to make it in one day’s walk. I would wait for Kevin to catch up with me. It seemed the logical thing to do. Kevin must be trying to get there too. He knew as well as I did that there would be food and shelter. Surely we would meet up in Curiplaya. If Kevin was still alive, that is.

I was beginning to lose all hope that he was still alive. Maybe he couldn’t walk. Maybe he had drowned in the river or broken a bone. Even if he hadn’t drowned, his clothes were still wet, and he couldn’t have started a fire as I had. And what about his feet? I was sure that he must be suffering from the same problem that I was, but he had no medicine. And he had no food. He could die of starvation. The poor guy must be freezing at night. I felt awful.

For the first time my thoughts carried me far away. In my mind I had already been rescued from the jungle. I had made my way to a village, to La Paz, and from there by plane to Miami. From Miami I head for Oregon, where Kevin’s family lives. I have already phoned them, telling them of his death, but still I owe them a personal explanation of what happened and how. Having to face his parents is the hard part.

I am going by Greyhound bus, and the trip from Miami to Oregon takes three days. Every few hours the bus pulls over for a rest stop and a snack at McDonald’s, Burger King, or Jack-in-the-Box. I go into the restaurant just like all the other passengers, but when I get to the counter, I order four Big Macs and five fish sandwiches, six orders of fries, two large shakes, and three pieces of apple pie. The clerk thinks I am ordering for the group, but then I sit down at a table by myself. I bite into the hamburger, the melted cheese oozing out, the onion and pickle crunching; the milk shake goes down smooth and easy. The other passengers stare at me in amazement. They’ve never seen anyone eat like that.

Finally, I reach Kevin’s parents’ home.

‘It wasn’t my fault. Please believe me. I waited for him five days. I waited, but he never showed up. I saved food for him, I didn’t eat it all by myself. I kept calling out to him. I waited and waited, and he never came. I had to go on. Believe me, I had no other choice.’

Kevin’s father and mother cry, and I cry with them. I look for the blame in their eyes, but they only ask me to tell them everything about the way it happened. I tell them how we set out on the trip, how close Kevin and I became, like brothers. I tell them how Kevin had told me all about his family and repeat the Santa Claus story for them and all his other stories about hunting and fishing in the forests of Oregon.

After an emotional farewell I feel better. They don’t blame me. I get back on the Greyhound for the trip back to Miami. Once again I order gargantuan amounts of food at every stop.

I had this daydream hour after hour, lingering over every detail of the food I consumed until I was drooling with hunger and my stomach was howling. I drank another cup of the soup water and determined to stop torturing myself.

I still had some time before evening and planned my trek the next day to Curiplaya. Above me I could see the distant mountains, their crests forming a continuous, jagged line. I could climb to the crest, I thought, where the foliage must be sparse. I would only have to keep going straight and to make sure that the river was always on my left. I would be able to make faster progress.

I put my shoes on and hesitantly began to practice walking, mostly on the heels and sides of my feet, for the soles were very sore. I walked over to the cleft where the water ran. It trickled down slowly, drop by drop. I set a tin under the trickle of water and was about to turn back when I saw two snails clinging to the damp stone wall. I pounced upon the find and, when I got back to the fire, tossed them into the soup. From now on I would be more alert. There must be plenty of food to be had around here.

I removed my shoes and checked my feet. I thought that they could support my weight, but the skin was still open in a few places and I felt a strong burning.

There’s no other choice,
I repeated stubbornly to myself.
Tomorrow I start walking. If my feet give out or I come to another dead end, I’ll go down to the riverbank and wait there for help.

Karl had said that it was always best to wait on the bank; that was where help would come.

I took a small notebook and pen out of the pack, settled down into my regular position, my feet stretched out toward the fire, and started writing. I wrote down everything, beginning with the flight from La Paz until December 1, the day we were separated in Ipurama. I wrote about the relationships among the four of us and how we had all changed. I wrote about the upset on the river and how I had been spared from what should have been certain death. I described my isolation and ended with these words: ‘Thinking about Kevin is driving me crazy. Will he make it anywhere with only a machete? How could he dry his clothes? What kind of shape are his feet in? Can he get a fire going somehow? But he has the strength of three men. I pray for him and for myself. There’s a wallet in the backpack, and in it is Uncle Nissim’s little book.’

That was the fifth of December.

At dawn my arsenal went back into the pack along with the rest of my things. I slipped my shoes on warily. Leaving the laces loosely tied. I tried hobbling about the campsite. It hurt, but I could walk. I slung my pack onto my back and set off. I was certain that I would make Curiplaya that day, and from there it was only a few days’ walk to San José. There I would be able to organise a rescue party to search for Kevin.

I was still determined to follow a straight course along the crest of the range. After a few unsuccessful attempts I finally found a place where I could climb, but my pack kept pulling me over backward, and I was afraid of falling once more.

Just don’t hurt yourself, Yossi. No matter what, you can’t let yourself get hurt. All you need is a sprained ankle and you’ve had it.

I left my pack behind with the fishing line tied to it and continued up slowly, step by wary step, carefully testing each foothold, stone by stone. I trailed the fishing line behind me, letting out slack little by little. I inched my way higher up the face of the cliff, paused to heave a sigh of relief, and then dragged the backpack up after me. It wasn’t particularly heavy, but still the fishing line sliced deeply across my palms.

I went on like that for several hours. The physical effort was draining, the humidity was high, and the heat was relentless. I was dripping with sweat. Worst of all, I was thirsty and had no water. It had been a serious mistake to leave the river.

Eventually I heard the distant rumbling of rushing water. Its roar was so loud that I was sure I was about to come upon a river at least as wide as the Tuichi. The sound grew louder, and I soon found myself standing next to a stream. It was narrow, but it flowed from a ledge high above and cascaded down in a tremendous waterfall at least one hundred feet high. Its sparkling waters struck the rock below in a deafening torrent. The rock face around it was overgrown with moss and green climbing vines. The view took my breath away. I was surprised that even in my present circumstances I could still appreciate natural beauty.

I lay down on my stomach and drank in some of the pure water and remained there resting in the shade for about half an hour. Wiser now, I filled the two tin cans I had with water. The water would mean another thirteen pounds to carry on my back, but at least I wouldn’t find myself parched with thirst.

The climb became more treacherous. I proceeded cautiously and prayed that I would make it to the top in one piece. I could already see the crest from where I clung. It wasn’t much farther, and this was the last rock face that I would have to scale.

Less than an hour later I dragged myself to the top. There was no shelter up there, and a strong wind was blowing. Now I had to keep going straight and make sure that the river was always on my left. But where was the river? Which way was I supposed to go? The view in every direction looked the same, and I couldn’t recall in which direction the sun had set relative to the river the previous evening.

I was confused. Wherever I looked, I saw wooded slopes. Only now did I understand what a foolish mistake I had made. From a distance the mountains had appeared to be one continuous range, along the crest of which one could walk a straight course, but they were, in fact, individual peaks, and in order to progress, it would be necessary to descend to the foot of one and climb back up the next.

I felt suffocated with panic, a fist of fear tightened about my chest. I started running, refusing to resign myself to the error I had made. It took me a few minutes to get hold of myself and think things through. Tomorrow I would have to make the descent back to the river. If it was possible to walk along the bank, I would do so. Otherwise I would stay on the shore and wait. Perhaps help would arrive. Marcus and Karl would surely make it to La Paz by tomorrow or the next day, and on the fifteenth of the month Lisette would call the Israeli embassy. I could hold out until then.

It was growing dark, and I could find no shelter. There were no crags or cliffs, no caves or niches. Where could I spend the night? I had to choose a campsite quickly and get a fire going while there was still daylight. I chose a level area, cleared away the damp leaves, and replaced them with fresh, dry ones. I took out one of the mosquito nets and tied it down to four tree stumps with vines, so that it formed a long, narrow, translucent green pup tent. I looked for dry wood but didn’t find any. I gathered a few branches and tried to break them and strip them away to the dry inner parts. It was impossible without a machete. My attempts at lighting a fire only wasted the fluid in the lighter and brought me to a state of despair. Reluctantly I crawled under the tent of mosquito netting and wrapped myself in the remaining net and red poncho. I took my arsenal out of the pack: the flashlight, the lighter, the mosquito repellent, and the snakebite serum. To these I added a tin can and a spoon. If any wild animal should approach me, I would make a horrendous clatter and scare it away. So I thought.

I tried to close my eyes, to escape into my fantasies, but I was too tense, uneasy. My stomach was growling with hunger, for I hadn’t eaten anything all day. The fear, however, was harder to bear. I was in the heart of the jungle, totally vulnerable, with no means of protecting myself, no cave to hide myself in, no fire. I kept hearing animal calls, the cries of birds, and the buzz of insects. I secured the edges of the mosquito netting with rocks so that no snakes could come slithering in. The flashlight was near my knee. I kept hold of it for fear that I wouldn’t be able to find it in the dark if I should need it. Off in the distance I could hear bloodcurdling screeches. A jaguar must have caught a monkey or some other prey.

A few hours went by; I was in total darkness. Suddenly I heard the snapping of branches, the stealthy thud of footsteps, something coming. Fear gripped me. It’s only your imagination, I kept telling myself, only your imagination, but the rustle of the leaves and branches on the ground was so clear. I stuck my head out from under my covers, moved one of the rocks away from the mosquito net, and peered into the darkness. I turned on the flashlight. I couldn’t see a thing. I sighed with relief but didn’t really feel any better. The fear weighed upon me; I had never been so terrified. I tried to lie back down and cover myself up, but I kept hearing sounds all around me, and my heart was pounding frantically.

God, just don’t let a wild animal devour me.

I ran my fingers over my makeshift weapons, afraid that I might become hysterical. Again I heard rustling sounds around me. I sat up with a jolt, gripped the spoon, and started banging on the tin can. It made a dull sound, and I called out, ‘Shoo! Shoo! Go away! Shoo!’ as if I were about to be set upon by a flock of chickens. I lay back down, my heart thumping. The sounds drew closer.

No, it’s nothing. There’s nothing out there. It’s only your imagination. It’s all in your mind.

I heard the rustle again, too close and too real to ignore. I clutched the flashlight, stuck my head out of the mosquito net, turned it on... and found myself face-to-face with a jaguar.

It was large, covered with black spots. One of its paws was raised off the ground, as if it had been about to take another step. When I turned the light on it, it put its foot down without stepping forward. It stood at a distance of about twelve feet. Just stood there looking at me. It wasn’t blinded by the light, but it stopped and looked me over. It didn’t appear particularly menacing; it wasn’t roaring or licking its chops. Its eyes were neither ferocious nor meek. They were just great cat’s eyes, staring at me. The jaguar stood perfectly still; only its tail waved slowly back and forth.

‘Go away,’ I whined. ‘Get out of here. Beat it. Do you hear me? Get away.’

I was trembling and started to scream loudly at the jaguar. ‘Get out of here, you son of a bitch! Go away! I’ll burn you up! Get away!’

The flashlight had a chain to hang it from. I clamped it between my teeth in order to have both hands free. I felt around on the ground by my knees and found the repellent spray and the lighter. I held the lighter in my left hand and the spray in my right hand. Now I was calm. I didn’t scream or tremble.

Maybe I shouldn’t try it.
I hesitated.
It might just make him mad, and then he might attack me
. But then I pushed down on the spray button and lit the lighter.

It worked. The spray caught fire and spewed an enormous blaze. I could smell the scorched hair on my left hand, and I was completely blinded. I held it for a few minutes, until the spray ran out and the flame of the lighter grew weaker. My makeshift flamethrower was exhausted.

My sight returned gradually, in concentric circles of fading darkness, and finally I could see the beam of the flashlight. The jaguar was gone. I shined the light around in fear, right and left, in back of me. The jaguar had vanished. I thought I could hear receding footsteps. Had it worked? Had I scared it off? I felt neither joy nor relief. I kept the flashlight on for a while but was afraid of running it down and turned it off.

I sat inside the mosquito net, wide awake, my heart jumping wildly at every sound until the merciful morning light. The sunlight gave me a tremendous sense of security, as if no danger could befall me. I packed up my gear while I murmured a hasty prayer of thanks and got out of there as fast as I could.

Now that the sun was shining, I remembered exactly in which direction the river should be and walked on rapidly. ‘Straight and to the left, straight and to the left.’ I sang out the rhythm of my steps as I made for the river along a diagonal course. Singing helped to keep my spirits up.

There was far less foliage on the higher ground, and I progressed quite rapidly. From time to time I came across a stream and stopped to drink. I felt I could safely empty the two big cans of water, and my shoulders were greatly relieved.

After a few hours’ walk, however, I once again felt the dread of uncertainty. The sun was directly overhead, and I hadn’t the slightest idea where I was. I feared that I might well be marching away from the river. I might end up on the other side of the mountain, lost forever where no one would find me. It was so easy to lose one’s way and one’s wits.

Nevertheless I knew that any source of water, however small, would lead me to the river, and before long I found a rivulet flowing in an irregular course. It trickled downward, and I followed it along. It descended the rock faces in leaps and bounds, cascading in waterfalls, and I was forced to leave it in search of a more moderate slope on which to make my own descent. I went on like that until I came to a waterfall that gushed downward from an immense height of one hundred and fifty feet, far higher than any other I had encountered. The sight of the water surging down from that height was awesome. For a moment I considered getting Kevin’s camera out of the pack and taking a picture, but it would have been a difficult feat, and I changed my mind.

Down below, where the waters of the fall struck the earth, I could see another stream. I looked for a place where I could climb down, but by the time I found one, I could no longer hear the rush of water. The stream was not in sight. I didn’t want to waste time and energy going back to look for it, so I decided to continue on my way down until I ran into another trickle, which I soon did. This time I was determined to stick with it no matter what.

I followed it down steep inclines and made my way around some small falls. I took great care not to get my feet wet. When I had to cross the stream, I did so by vaulting over it or tiptoeing across the larger rocks in its path. Once in a while I was helped over by fallen trees. Other streams joined the one I was following, and it widened.

I was walking along a river. The ground was flatter, but the undergrowth was quite dense, and without a machete to cut through it, the going was rough. I had no choice but to follow the natural lay of the land, which formed a sort of pathway, frequently obstructed. I scrambled over rocks and crawled under branches. Thorns tore at my clothes. I occasionally stuck my hand into a nettle and was stung. Once I disturbed the wrong branch and was attacked by a trail of fire ants, which dug their way into the back of my neck. The weather had given out as well, and it was pouring rain again. All my efforts to keep my feet from getting wet were wasted.

Since I was drenched anyway, it seemed like a good idea to wade in the river. It was quite shallow. The water came up to my knees or at times to my waist. Every now and then I lost my footing, alarmingly going under water for a moment. Although the pack was buoyant, it still made it difficult to surface. I was tense and listened attentively to the roar of the river, cautiously keeping an eye out for falls and rapids that might sweep me away. Helpless to do anything to prevent it, I could feel the painful rash spreading over my feet.