Lost in the Jungle (21 page)

I dragged the pack and the mosquito nets out of the cave and spread them out around the fire. The bags of rice and beans were damp and mouldy. I washed my socks out in the river and hung them up to dry. My feet were a pleasant surprise; they weren’t as bad off as I had expected. They were covered with a light rash, but the skin wasn’t peeling. There was no blood or pus.

I gingerly walked barefoot over the rocks with the fishing line and climbed up on a log that lay at the junction of the two rivers and set the line down there. First I had to catch a minnow, but even to catch a minnow I needed bait. The horseflies that were constantly droning would serve that purpose well enough. I lay in wait for them, letting them land on my bare legs and stroll about a bit looking for a choice, juicy spot, and just as they were getting ready to dig in, I took them by surprise. I squished one fly between two fingers, impaled it on a small hook with no float or sinker, and cast the line into the river. It floated on the surface a first, but after the fly got wet, it went under. I lost a few flies before I succeeded in catching a minnow.

The sun shone gently over me. Every now and then I put another ripe tamarind into my mouth and greedily sucked the sweet flesh from the pits. Wild beauty surrounded me: the two rivers, the mountains, and the never-ending jungle. And I alone in the heart of the wilderness along with whomever was watching over me. Before long I had four minnows. I went to try my luck with them in the mighty Tuichi.

I stuck a whole minnow on a larger hook, drew back, and cast it into the water. The current was swift, and the hook disappeared beneath the white waters. I waited a while, and when I tried to draw the line in, I felt that it had snagged on a rock. Nothing I did succeeded in loosening it. I let it go slack and then gave it a good yank and then another. I tried angling in various directions, waiting for the river itself to set the line free, but it remained firmly planted. The current was rapid and foamy, and it would be too dangerous to try to wade into the water. The thought of doing so made me dizzy with fear. I was not going to put myself at the mercy of the Tuichi again. I had no choice but to break the line. That meant losing one of the last two hooks I had left. The line itself was strong and resilient and hard to break. I wrapped it around my waist a few times and backed off, stretching the line tightly until it snapped to shore with a shrill whine.

I took my supply of minnows back to the fire and tossed some more wood on. I filled a tin with water and set it in the hottest part of the fire. I scraped the scales off the fish with my fingernails and gutted them using a spoon I had sharpened against a stone. I tossed the minnows into the boiling water and added some spices and salt. Three minnows and three quarts of water aren’t exactly a recipe for the most delicious soup in the world. Watery, bland, and disgusting would be a more accurate description, but I drank it down to the last drop, even munching the crunchy bones. I was proud of myself for not having used up any of the rice or beans. I would keep them for an emergency. I no longer thought I was saving them for Kevin, though I did harbour some hopes of meeting up with him in Curiplaya.

The X that Karl had marked on the map appeared to be right on the bank of the Tuichi just past its junction with the Turliamos. I would surely make the camp the following day. I grew impatient. My clothes were completely dry, and the skin on my feet was healthy. Only the flies and mosquitoes pestered me. At the outset of our journey we had taken pills to ward off malaria, but they had long ago run out or been lost, and I hoped I wouldn’t come down with the illness here. The mosquitoes sought out every bare patch of skin showing through my tattered clothing and attacked mercilessly. Since my encounter with the jaguar I was out of repellent and had no defence but swatting them with my hands. The mosquitoes were determined, however, and I gave up first. Then I had an idea. I would sew my clothes together, offering them fewer targets. I toiled a long while over my shirt, using the thin fishing line and a small hook. Then I repaired my trousers as well.

Proud of my resourcefulness and industry, I set about making my bed. I didn’t surrender to laziness but put my shoes back on and went into the jungle to gather large leaves with which to feather my lair. I made a huge pile at the entrance and meticulously carpeted the damp ground. The leaves offered excellent protection from the cold and damp. I decided to put in central heating as well. I cautiously moved a few smouldering logs into the cave. I arranged them in a triangular shape and poked twigs and branches between them. After I blew on them a few times, they caught fire. I gathered the rest of my belongings into the cave in case of rain. Using the bags of rice and beans for my pillow, I covered myself as usual.

I was tempted to stay there on that shore and wait for rescue. Any plane that passed overhead would easily spot me, and there was a clearing large enough for a helicopter to land. Starvation was no threat here. The tamarind fruit could keep me alive for a month. I had the cave to sleep in as well. I could have done a bit of remodelling, stopped up the leaks, put in a chimney, brought more leaves for padding. It was an ideal spot, but I went on packing. I tied my shoes together by their laces and slung them around my neck. I would cross the Turliamos barefoot, dry my feet on the other side, and continue on my trek with dry shoes.

I was all set to cross the Turliamos when I noticed that my bandanna, the kerchief that Kevin had given me, had vanished. It had come in very handy. I had used it for a hat, a scarf, a bandage, a bedspread, and it reminded me of my friend, whom I missed so terribly. I went back into the cave and searched it thoroughly. I raked through the leaves, walked up the Tuichi, looked under the tamarind tree, went back into the jungle and found the spot where I had stooped to empty my bowels, but the bandanna wasn’t anywhere. Greatly disappointed, I gave up the search and crossed the river.

For a while the Tuichi had a shoreline that I could walk along. Then the bank grew rocky. I crawled carefully over the boulders, taking care not to slip and fall into the river. The rocks kept getting larger, forming a low cliff parallel to the river. The jungle spread out above the cliff on an incline. There was no place suitable for walking. It might have been easier going had I climbed to the top of the ridge, but I was scared of getting lost again. Curiplaya had to be nearby. It was on the riverbank, and I mustn’t miss it. Come what may, I was going to stick with the Tuichi.

The going was slow and hazardous. I was afraid of turning my ankle and falling straight into the frothy river. I walked along the rocks, climbed up to the jungle, and trod at its edge for a while, then descended once more to climb over the rocks and so on. I stopped for a break after a few hours. I drank, ate a few pieces of fruit, and plodded on. The slope flattened out. I gave up wending my way over the rocks and headed up to the jungle, never letting the river out of my sight.

A few more hours passed, and I thought that I surely must have gone more than half a mile. Doubt began to gnaw at me. What if I didn’t find Curiplaya? How did I know that it even existed? Since it wasn’t marked on the map, I had only Karl’s word to go on. Maybe Karl had been mistaken or maybe he was lying. No, Karl would not have told an outright lie.

I remembered how concerned he had been for us. But he was a strange guy. And we had never seen the island and the little beachhead that were supposed to warn us that we were heading into the canyon. That could have cost us our lives; perhaps it had taken Kevin’s. At first Karl had claimed that he had travelled the length of the river twice and then had contradicted himself when he said that he had never been down it. We hadn’t been told about San Pedro Canyon until we were almost halfway there.

No, Karl wasn’t particularly reliable. I remembered something else that was weird. Karl kept changing the date that he was supposed to return to La Paz. Looking back, the whole business about the truck he was to bring to his uncle’s ranch seemed a bit fishy. Still I had seen the letter with my own eyes. I didn’t know what to think. It was hard to figure Karl out.

If Karl had misled us about Curiplaya as well, if it didn’t exist, what would I do then? I could go back to the Turliamos and wait there for a rescue party, which would surely arrive before long. Or I could try to go on, straight to San José. I was convinced that the camp did exist, however; it was marked so clearly on the map.

I was still trying to figure out what I should do when I noticed a fallen palm tree. It had been chopped down at an angle, undoubtedly by a machete. I cried out for joy – Ihad made it! There had been people here!

I ran ahead in search. I saw a great many machete marks on branches and tree trunks, and more palms that had been chopped down. Yes, the people in Curiplaya had been eating palm hearts. I ran on, following the machete gashes. I was overcome with joy that nourished a flickering hope. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be people there. In no time I stood on a hill overlooking a flat, rocky bank upon which four huts had been built. ‘Ya-ho-hoo!’ I bellowed and slid down to the shore.

The place was obviously deserted, but at least I had made it to Curiplaya. I took off my pack and set it under one of the thatched huts. Signs of life abounded; flat, rusty tin cans, cardboard boxes, a circle of rocks around a burned-out campfire. The shelters were cleverly built: four sturdy trunks, on which a peaked roof rested, covered with palm fronds latticed in such a way that no rain could leak in. At the joints where the pilings of each hut met the roof there was a sort of ceiling and above it a kind of conical crawl space. A lot of equipment was stored up there in the first: panels of
chonta
wood and all kinds of poles, sticks, and large tins. I rummaged further, hoping to find more treasures, but the other huts contained nothing useful.

On the floors of the huts were V-shaped stakes. Between every pair of stakes lay a long, round piling, and the spaces between the pilings could be covered by the flat panels of
chonta
wood. They made a bed, raised a foot off of the ground. It was a clever idea.

I had everything I needed in the crawlspace, and I put a good, sturdy bed together for myself. Tonight I would sleep in a bed, with a roof over my head. Incredible.

Forgive me, Karl, for doubting you.

I stretched out on my bed to give it a try. The wood panels were hard but level. They felt like a featherbed to me. I noticed some rope ends straggling from the pilings and knew that these would serve to hang the mosquito netting. I took one net out and tied its corners to the dangling ropes. I now had an airy tent above my bed. I felt like royalty, the sacks of beans and rice under my head, my legs stretched out luxuriously, my body relishing the comfort.

Since it had stopped raining, I ventured out to check the area. In one of the huts I found a tube that still had a little repellent in it. In another I found a broken pole with a sharpened end; this would serve as a walking stick and a spear with which to protect myself. I scouted a wide circle around the camp but discovered no sign of a banana grove. I went back to my palace, stretched out on my canopied bed, and waited for the sunset.

Tonight I had nothing to fear. The fire in the hut was fantastic. I made some soup of rice and beans, one tablespoon of each. I sat on the bed in comfort and stretched my feet out toward the fire. The flies and mosquitoes barely troubled me. I gave myself over to physical pleasure and a sense of luxury, and it suddenly didn’t matter to me that I was lost and alone. I was content with my lot: hot soup, fruit, shelter, a bed, and bedcovers. I felt good, safe, and optimistic.

Within a few days I will make it to San José,
I told myself
. There must surely be a trail from here. People come here from San José every year; the trail must be wide and clearly marked. I have nothing to worry about. I just have to stay on the trail and hope that it won’t rain a lot so that I’ll be able to get a fire going at night. Fantastic.

I was going to rescue myself. Now I hoped that no one was looking for me yet. It would be a great letdown if they found me just as I was about to make my own way out of the jungle. It was going to be so simple. I could make it on my own.

In the morning, while it drizzled outside, it was lovely lying in the warm, dry hut. It reminded me of rainy winter days, sitting inside a pleasantly heated home, with my nose up against the windowpane. I decided to spend the day there. I needed to rest before setting out on a long trek. I would get my feet thoroughly dried, get my strength back, eat my fill, and tomorrow... tomorrow maybe it wouldn’t be raining. In any case, I would start out tomorrow.

I felt a little guilty about being so soft, spoiling myself this way, but it was so pleasant. I had no trouble appeasing my conscience.

Dreams crowded my mind, and I slipped easily into fantasy. Good daydreaming just takes practice. Once you get the hang of it, you cross oceans and continents at will. My knee suddenly itched. I scratched it and felt something round that didn’t want to let go. I pulled hard and found myself holding a leech, about half an inch long and a quarter inch wide, gorged with blood. I heaved it into the fire with disgust and began checking myself over head to foot.

I panicked. I found about twenty leeches all over my body. They were everywhere: in my armpits, on the back of my neck, on my back, between my legs, between my buttocks even. All of them bloated and repulsive. Damn bloodsuckers! I squashed them one by one and threw them into the fire. I vowed to check myself each night before going to sleep to make sure that I wasn’t covered with parasites.

The weather cleared up in the afternoon. I took advantage of the opportunity to gather more twigs and firewood. I found a huge grasshopper, about four inches long, among some twigs. I caught it to use as bait for fish. I tied my last hook to the line and stuck the grasshopper on it. The current was swift, and I couldn’t understand why Karl had told us that this was a good, quiet place to fish. There wasn’t much point in trying, and I was afraid of losing the hook. The grasshopper was still on the hook, but the current had mangled it, and it looked disgusting. I decided not to add it to the soup.