by Paul Rosolie
In the panic of the journey I had largely pushed the subject of the highway to the back burner, forced to forget the questions that gnawed inside me. Yet as I stared out at the world of natural serenity in the forgiving hours of that storm, my thoughts remained haunted.
At 1 A.M. the sky exploded like nothing I have ever seen. The rain fell in fat droplets and the entire world became a rushing mass. Flooding in the west had caused the river to rise more than twenty feet just in the time I had slept, and when I stepped out of my hammock I found myself in thigh-deep water. There was no choice but to untie the hammock and retreat to higher ground. It was a miserable and cold night spent sitting at the base of a tree, soaked, waiting for morning. Yet the morning changed nothing. The deluge continued with frightening power. After the days of madness in the maze, and now this, my body was beginning to feel significantly run down. With no end to the storm in sight, I had to move to keep warm, and so started making my way downriver.
The following day the storm only worsened. Another sleepless cold night beneath abusively loud thunder had taken its toll on me. In fact, the thunder was so loud it was terrifying. Each time lightning flickered I took shelter under my arms. Booming avalanches of thunder raged in the sky just above the canopy, at such volume that my eardrums hurt. Billions of collisions between water and leaf created a ceaseless din.
The flood had swallowed all the beaches and transformed the river. Overnight it had changed from a lazy lowland tributary to an aggressive, gushing mass. As a result I was forced to hoof it through the jungle. By midday I knew I couldn’t spend another night in this rain; my body was in bad shape. I was cold, soaked, and unable to maintain the calories to support the constant frenetic movement and exertion of navigating the jungle. I knew that I had gotten lucky in escaping the swamp maze; I knew how bad that could have gone. Now with the storm and my deteriorating condition, I felt hyperaware that if I didn’t get out now, I might not have another chance.
As I hiked downstream the river became an impressive parade of timber. Entire trees, some as thick as a bus, floated down the racing current. JJ and I had often caught rides on logs to get places, so long as those destinations were downriver. But out here the river was fast, and the trees gigantic and very dangerous. For a while I hesitated, but as the rain continued, it seemed safer to hop on a log and get to shelter and humans than to spend another night out there in the storm. When an especially large tree came barreling by, I plunged into the water, swam to it, and climbed aboard. Such was the tree’s girth that balance was not an issue, I wasn’t large enough to influence its movement and could stand and even walk on its broad trunk as it was swept downstream.
Atop the massive beam I was surrounded by debris in the turbulent river. Giant timbers creaked and groaned as they collided, and every few minutes my tree would hit another giant, sending me sprawling onto my face. It was dangerous, but the travel speed was unbeatable. From the open river I watched the canopy buckling under the high winds of the storm, as lightning reached down in arcs to the land. Two hours after I climbed on, my tree had taken me back onto the larger Tambopata River, where the turbulence at least was much softer. But on the larger river, lightning was a greater concern, as was the fact that there were now thousands of huge trees swarming and smashing beside me. As I rounded a bend I could see that my tree, whose base was nearly twelve feet in diameter, was headed for disaster. From a quarter mile away I saw the logjam, where thousands of beams of every size were smashing into each other and being splintered in the current.
To jump into the river would have been suicide, so instead I jumped from log to log, making my way toward the shore. Fortunately there were enough logs that I was able to get to the river’s edge without incident. The rain, at last, seemed to be lessening, though my pack and everything in it were soaked and heavy.
An hour later I had made my way to the top of a cliff that looked out over the river. I hoped someone would come by in a boat, but in that timber-choked river you would have to be insane to try that. On top of the cliff I sat in the soft drizzle, opened a bag of Brazil nuts, and began stuffing fuel into my empty stomach. For a time it seemed like the rain had at last tired itself out. However, as I ate, a drawing of wind and a rumble seemed to silence everything. The worst was about to come.
Dark clouds curled and twisted as they approached. I watched as miles of canopy were devoured in the approaching gloom. The ground began to shake. A hissing, imperceptible at first, grew in volume, roaring and lurching over the jungle as rain stampeded in a deafening siege, like the sound of a thousand freight trains. Jumping to my feet, I watched the shadow avalanche over the tops of the canopy and raze the surface of the river. The water boiled under the sky’s wrath, the river’s surface a chaotic sheet as the storm enveloped the world. I ran, sprinting along the tree line as the ground shook and all hell broke loose.
I was now surrounded by one of the most important bio-geochemical processes on the planet. They say the Amazon is the lungs of our planet, and it is true that nearly 20 percent of the oxygen on earth is produced there. Yet in the Amazon most of the oxygen that the jungle produces is absorbed back up each night through respiration. Inhaling and exhaling, the basin is almost entirely a closed system of self-sustaining processes. It is in fact the fallen leaves that lead to the creation of oxygen in a magnificently large process.
When South America drifted away from Africa’s embrace millions of years ago, their relationship was not ended. Today the two giants converse in a language as old as time, trading gifts between oceans. This takes the form of phosphorous-rich sediment dust that leaves Africa, borne on the wind. Carried over the Atlantic Ocean, the nutrient-rich particles sweep over the Amazon, where they are absorbed by raindrops and hurled to earth. Each rainy season, nourished by African minerals and watered by rain, billions of photosynthesizing organisms over thousands of miles jump into fertilized hyperdrive. As the growth explodes and leaves fall to the forest floor, their nutrients are almost entirely consumed by fungus and reabsorbed by trees (if organic matter were not broken down by fungus so efficiently, the jungle would bury itself in leaves). The torrential flooding caused by the incessant deluge turns the forest to river, where the currents sweep the jungle floor’s bio-sediment of nutrient-rich detritus into tributaries that dump into the main Amazon River; as much as two million tons can be swept from the basin every twenty-four hours.
Laden with the stored energy of so many tons of organic material, the Amazon River carries its litter 4,000 miles across the continent, finally dumping it into the Atlantic Ocean. The mouth of the Amazon is more than a hundred miles wide; its bulk also pushes out nearly that far into the ocean before salt and fresh water mix. It is there that microscopic plankton in the ocean feast on the nutrients in the fresh water, absorbing carbon dioxide and releasing oxygen into the atmosphere. The plankton blooms that spew from the Amazon’s mouth can cover twenty-five thousand square miles.
Even the lightning is a source of life. Blasting through the air at five times the temperature of the surface of the sun, lightning rips apart air molecules that reorganize into nitrate, which join the phosphates from African dust that dissolves into raindrops and falls into the jungle below.
Lost and desperate in the apocalyptic storm, I was at the center of the engine, a violent, cataclysmic act of creation. The tons of leaves and trees speeding past would continue across the continent into larger and larger rivers, traveling down the body of the Amazon to be released from the great river’s mouth, like a giant serpent breathing life into the earth.
As the rain overwhelmed the earth, the jungle purged its contents into the river. Along the riverbank I ran, screaming at the storm to give me its worst, in adrenaline-induced madness. Hurricane winds ripped trees from their roots, and splitting timber echoed the thunder as giants were thrown to the ground. As the jungle tore at itself, lightning added to the genesis, lacerating the sky, producing ozone and nitrate-rich raindrops that pelted the jungle below. The v
ital nutrients produced by lightning each day across our planet are absorbed by vegetation and consumed by animals, including humans; that night, wicked purple fingers ripped across the sky, slashing at the treetops, overwhelming the night in overexposed snapshots of the storm that were burnt into my eyes for moments after.
The thunder was so bad, so monstrously close overhead, that at times I fell to the ground. Like cosmic Velcro tearing in the heavens, the thunder roared, cascading. Flasssssssh-BOOM! It felt like the world was ending. In the surreal dimness beneath the clouds, raindrops turned visibility to almost nothing. The storm raged on and I ran. There was no way to stop; I couldn’t. Looking back, I think it’s easy to claim that I ran for those hours amid the madness because it would keep me warm, because if I stopped I’d be shivering and screwed within moments; but in reality I didn’t know why I was running, and I still don’t.
In The Call of the Wild, Jack London wrote, “There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive.” The pounding reality of the storm demanded the full attention of my every faculty and I slipped into that magical plane where thought and consciousness fade into present action.
Though in hindsight the experience seems somewhat romantic, in reality I was in trouble. Moving through the jungle was deadly dangerous as limbs fell, and the muddy banks of the river frequently sucked my body up to my waist. Finally, while I was attempting to traverse a sixty-foot cliff by holding on to a root, the bank gave and I went tumbling down. Buried so badly that for a moment I thought I would suffocate, I had to fight to the surface, where I lay panting. It was over.
The storm continued as I lay prostrate. My machete was gone. On hands and knees I crawled over the mud, too broken to stand. Beneath a tree, I drew my knees up to my chest as my body began to shiver violently. I knew I was in trouble. My watch said it was eight o’clock at night, which meant it was only going to get colder. Nine hours until morning.
With no shelter I shivered in isolation on the bank of the river. My body was covered in deep gashes, cuts, and bruises from the mudslide. James Murray, alumnus of the legendary Shackleton Antarctica voyage of 1914–16, once said of the Amazon, “Without a machete, it means death to be lost in such a forest,” and he was right. Without a blade there was no way for me to make shelter. Without some way of getting out of the rain and getting warm, I was in very grave risk for exposure. How I cursed myself.
One hour passed, then another as I lay in the mud. I was shivering uncontrollably. I tried to think of some way of . . . something, anything to get out of the rain. But I was too weak, and there was nothing but jungle. If I had made it farther downriver on that log, it would have been possible to find help—the lower Tambopata has plenty of farms. The truth was, though, that I had no idea where I was.
I had always been lucky. Every time it had seemed like the hammer was going to fall, I had been saved. The jaguar just two nights ago. Hell, Gowri and everything that happened in India in the twenty-fifth hour, JJ showing up just as my ribs were about to be collapsed by the anaconda on La Torre . . . But, lying in the mud, I realized that this time I wasn’t getting bailed out. There was no one to bail me out; it was only me. For the first time, I was in real trouble with no chance of being saved; it was going to be a very long night.
I lay in the rain, slipping in and out of consciousness. My shivering woke me at 11 P.M. I had only lain in the mud for three hours. The rain had slowed but the cold had worsened. Wrapped in my hammock, I shivered convulsively. My teeth chattered and I hung my jaw loose; I groaned through the clacking. Trying to sleep was miserable, but I was determined to keep my eyes shut. Time wore on.
When I first saw the light I thought I was cracking up. One second it was there, then it was gone. For a long moment, I stared into the blackness. Then it flashed again, and my pulse hastened: humans, shelter, warmth! It was more than a half mile away, too far to yell. I stood up and grabbed my headlamp and set it to the rescue setting: flashing on and off. For five minutes I stood with my hand high above my head, hoping the light would see me, but with each passing moment it became clear that they were simply too far off.
In despair I let my hand fall. Whoever it was, they were not looking my way. Please let them look in my direction just once! It looked like a powerful spotlight, which was confusing. Locals wouldn’t normally have such a powerful beam. Could it be that JJ had rallied people to come rescue me? Even from a half mile away, I could see that they were using the light to scan the banks of the river. But that also didn’t make sense. I had told him I’d be gone for at least a week.
The river was swelling and where I had once been standing on solid earth, I was now in knee-deep water. Ghostly black trees floated past me with menacing velocity. Then suddenly light swung in my direction. I desperately waved and shouted with my headlamp aloft. The mysterious light was pointing directly at me for some moments, before it extinguished completely: then I knew that they were looking at me.
For the next forty minutes I kept waving and screaming as the mysterious boat continued to scan the jungle and riverside, occasionally checking in my direction. It was more than an hour before they grew sufficiently curious and came toward me. Blinded in the light of their torch, and covered in blood and mud, bent and filthy, I waved my hand to whoever might be on board. I was shielding my eyes from the torch beam when a voice came from the other side of the light: “Hola.” It was clear that the boat was having trouble maneuvering the rapid current and the timber. “Hola!” I called back over the din.
A skinny young man shouted to me from the boat, “Where are your friends, em . . . your guide?” I smiled and told him I was alone. He assumed I didn’t understand the question and repeatedly asked where my guide was. But after getting nowhere, finally he asked if I would like a ride. Catching a rope and pulling the boat in, I grabbed what was left of my gear and climbed on board.
I stepped into the boat and limped past a couple of German tourists. “Hey!” I said with a friendly grin, but they both averted their gaze and said nothing. They didn’t seem at all amused; instead they appeared almost frightened of me (to be fair, I was covered in mud and blood, and my clothes were rags). We shoved off and I learned that the wiry guy was a guide. On board were also two German tourists and a boat driver. They had been out scanning for caiman in the storm because it was the Germans’ last night in the jungle with Inotawa Expeditions, before heading out to Machu Picchu. Once I had been seated on a gasoline canister, the guide politely asked if I was fit to sit tight while they finished their hunt. I told them that was fine.
I sat shivering but happy as we drove; I was just glad to be out of the rain. The guide finally caught a baby spectacled caiman and presented it to the tourists. He asked the wife if she would like to hold it, but she declined and instead took a photo of her husband holding it up. What happened next was a moment of awkwardness in which the guide did not know exactly what to do. He turned to me and asked, “Would you like to hold it?”
“No, gracias,” I replied, smiling in the dark. Then the German woman turned to me. “It’s okay,” she said. “I was scared to hold it, too!”
We traveled downriver and that night I was given a castaway’s welcome at Inotawa Lodge. My clothing, camera, and other ruined possessions were dumped, and the staff provided a hot shower and loaned their own shirts and pants for me to wear. They brought me tea and invited me into the kitchen while the many tourists staying at the lodge ate in the dining area. I watched in dazed disbelief as the staff placed warm soup, coffee, tea, bread, cake, cigarettes, and chocolate before me. And as I dug in, they asked questions and tourists snuck glimpses through the door. Again and again I thanked them for their incredible care and kindness. When I had finished enjoying the new faces and many gifts, I excused myself and limped slowly to my room, where a deliciously clean, safe, dry bed awaited. There I fell
into a deep and carefree sleep for the first time in a week.
14
Poaching Poachers
Tightly choked pump-action scatterguns with heavy pellets were our weapons of choice against poachers, for in the dark, in the bush, things are about as close and personal as you can get.
—LAWRENCE ANTHONY
Two days later, when the storm finally broke, an Inotawa boat bound for Puerto gave me a lift. I collapsed outside JJ’s house and waited. He arrived with eyes wide “Pauool! Oh dear, I thought . . .” He hugged me. “It was so bad! I was thinking, and seeing the terrible storm and thought oh, he is in biiiiiig trouble.” Pico came limping into the yard a moment later with a similar reaction: “Puta Madre! You look like shit!” We moved to a café and as lunch was served, I told them what had transpired, and how Inotawa had rescued me. They took in the story with relish.
When I had finished, however, I noticed that both brothers were staring at each other and they began conversing rapidly. Though I couldn’t follow completely, I gathered that there was something that wasn’t making sense to them. Finally, JJ, looking confused, asked, “How did you get on the Tambopata?” I explained my route and showed him what was left of the map. Pico threw his head back laughing as JJ’s shoulders began to shake. They hooted, howled, and explained that it had all been for nothing. Apparently I had assumed that Don Santiago’s sketch meant one river, when in fact it meant another more than forty miles away. “He wasn’t even close!” Pico spat and coughed in laughter. I began to laugh too, though my face and everything else hurt.
I had fled into the wild in search of answers and had been hammered and broken down by the jungle and storm, brought to the edge and then back again, and emerged reforged. I had experienced Amazon in brutal, intimate communion, and lived. I was acutely aware of being alive. Everything felt illuminated. Perhaps it was residual adrenaline or profound relief, but for two quiet days I had drifted in and out of consciousness at Inotawa, contemplating what I had just experienced, and the world seemed brighter. My fear and frustration had been replaced by a powerful and almost irrational hope.