by John Koloen
Murphy looked at Walker and the videographer, who were busy preparing their equipment and carrying on their own conversation. Murphy looked at the ground under his feet nervously.
“Are you trying to scare me?”
Thomas smiled faintly.
“You know, now that I think of it, we should be recording this,” Murphy said.
65
THE BROKEN TREE Productions crew that would document Duncan’s expedition consisted of field producer/soundman Bob Mitchell and videographer Joe Robinson. Mitchell called ahead to arrange to pick up Duncan at his hotel, arriving in a rental van driven by a local driver who would take them to the airport after loading equipment. It was early morning and Duncan and Cody Boyd were having their first coffee of the day, which Boyd bought at the hotel’s restaurant.
The twenty-something Mitchell greeted Duncan and Boyd enthusiastically, while Robinson, the oldest man in the room and twice Mitchell’s age, asked if he could have a cup of coffee. He snarled when Boyd told him the coffee came from the restaurant and left the room in a huff.
“Sorry about that. They tell me Joe’s a little difficult to work with sometimes,” Mitchell said apologetically. “Anyways, I’m really looking forward to this. It’s my first time as a field producer and I want everything to go right.”
Boyd introduced himself as the consultant on the project. Before he finished, Mitchell extended his hand to Duncan and shook it eagerly.
“And you must be Dr. Duncan. I have heard so much about you. It’s an honor to be part of your expedition. I can’t tell you how happy I was when I got the call to get my ass to Manaus.”
Duncan looked at Boyd skeptically but said nothing.
“So, did you get a chopper for us?” Boyd asked.
“A chopper?” Mitchell said doubtfully. “I don’t think so. Let me check my phone. They’ve been sending me instructions ever since I left Cali.”
“Columbia?” Duncan asked.
“Oh, no. Fornia,” Mitchell said, as he paged through emails. “Ahh, here it is. We’re flying in on Fronteira Airline. Says here they’re already on the ground waiting for us. That’s exciting. I’ve never flown into the jungle before, how about you guys?”
Boyd shook his head.
“Have you ever been in South America?” Duncan asked.
“This is my first time.”
Duncan and Boyd exchanged dubious glances while Mitchell loaded a document into his phone.
“O-kay,” he said. “Do you have all your equipment? I’m not sure what you’re bringing, but the van should be able to hold everything. And with an airplane instead of a helicopter we shouldn’t have a problem bringing it in one trip. We’re actually traveling pretty light, only a hundred pounds or so. Joe will be shooting HDV on a Sony and I’m bringing a boom, wireless mics and…I can tell you aren’t interested in the details so maybe you should tell me exactly what it is you’ll be doing. I sorta need a heads up. All they told me was that we’d be shooting in the field in the jungle.”
“You heard about our previous expedition?” Boyd asked.
“Oh, you mean where those people were killed? Yeah, but I’ve been so busy on another project and there seemed to be so much confusion out there that I figured I’d wait until I could get it from the horse’s mouth. So to speak.”
Mitchell spoke in the speedy, staccato voice of a person who had too much coffee and too little sleep. Duncan’s expression turned from slightly amused to troubled as the young field producer spoke. When he was finished, Duncan wanted to parlay with Boyd in private but couldn’t think of a way to do it without seeming disrespectful toward Mitchell.
“Dr. Duncan is trying to capture an insect called Reptilus blaberus,” Boyd said. “Actually, we’re not sure whether it’s an insect or some kind of reptile, or a reptile-insect hybrid.”
“Oh, really. Insects. I wasn’t sure about that. O-kay. That’s helpful. How big are they?”
Duncan, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, lifted his head toward the ceiling and sighed, shaking his head.
“Is there something wrong, Dr. Duncan?”
Duncan lowered his head and was about to respond when a knock came at the door. Boyd let the videographer in.
“You know, the coffee’s really good here,” Robinson said as he entered. “So, what have I missed?”
Taking turns, Duncan and Boyd gave a five-minute synopsis about blaberus and their plans to capture specimens. When they’d finished, Mitchell glanced at Robinson who, with his previous work on the Thomas expedition, shrugged nonchalantly.
“O-kay. So, what you’re saying is that we’re gonna document you as you collect your insects.” Looking at Robinson, Mitchell added, “What happens if you don’t find them? Where does the story go?”
“What they’re saying is that if they find too many of them we could end up dead,” Robinson said, finishing his coffee. “Anybody want another cup?”
This was the excuse Duncan was looking for.
“Hey, Cody, you wanna go get the coffee with me? How do you guys like it?”
“Extra black,” Robinson said.
“Cream and sugar, two packets,” Mitchell said.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Duncan took several steps and stopped.
“What have you gotten me into, Cody?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” Boyd said defensively. “I never met the guy.”
“Jesus, if I’d known we were going into this with someone as clueless as this kid…”
“Well, I don’t think we’ve got a choice. We’ve both got contracts.”
“Maybe I should talk to a lawyer about that?”
“Like you’d do that. Besides, they got a plane for us. You wanna wait a few days for transportation…”
“No, no, no. We can’t do that.”
Before they could finish their conversation, Robinson entered the hallway, approaching them.
“I’m going out for a smoke. I can get my own coffee,” he said.
Boyd and Duncan smiled nonchalantly.
“I bet you’re wondering what’s going on with this kid. Am I right?
“Sorta, yeah,” Duncan said. “Does he realize how dangerous this could be?”
“When you were his age, did you realize how dangerous things could be? Neither did I,” Robinson said. “The story I got is that he was a hotshot at UCLA. Did a student documentary using iPhones that won some awards.”
“Really?” Boyd said. “He’s good, huh?”
“That’s what I’m told. Besides, his dad’s like vice president of the company.”
“You’re kidding,” Duncan said.
“I never kid,” Robinson said, moving toward the elevator. “You guys coming?”
66
AFTER PICKING UP Antonio Suarez, Duncan’s group rode the van on BR-174 toward Eduardo Gomes International Airport. As they drove past the eastern edge of the airport, the driver continued north before turning off the federal highway onto a narrower, paved road that led to another turn onto an even narrower unpaved road in a sparsely populated area, a portion of which had been cleared of trees. Duncan and Boyd exchanged bewildered looks while the others behaved as if nothing unusual was happening. As the drive got bumpier, Duncan whispered to Boyd.
“Where are we going? We passed the airport way back there.”
Boyd tapped Bob Mitchell on the shoulder
“Where we going?”
“Yeah, we’re not flying out of the airport. There’s a strip ahead. You’ll see the plane pretty soon, I think. The driver knows where we’re going.”
“I don’t like this,” Duncan whispered.
“Yeah, I kinda thought we’d be flying out of the airport. It never occurred to me to ask.”
Around the next turn, they got their first glimpse of the airplane. Sitting on the edge of what might have been a road at one time was an ancient Douglas DC-3, its silvery nose pointed toward the bright blue sky.
“What the fuck?!” Dunca
n said, louder than he’d intended.
“This is the best we could do on short notice, Dr. Duncan,” Mitchell said, who was sitting in the front seat, looking over his shoulder. “One good thing is there’s plenty of room for passengers and equipment.”
“Why aren’t we flying out of the airport?” Duncan asked.
“Some kind of administrative problem, I think. Anyway, look at the bright side, we won’t have to check our baggage.”
Duncan fumed at the flippant response. Boyd put his hand on Duncan’s shoulder.
“Let’s just wait and see, OK. He probably doesn’t know any more than we do.”
“That’s what’s got me concerned,” Duncan whispered.
“It’s either this or we wait for a chopper,” Boyd said.
Everyone was looking at the plane as the driver brought the van to a halt. They were met by the co-pilot, who greeted them in Portuguese.
“Bom dia,” Boyd replied. “Você fala Inglês?”
“Um pouco.”
“Falo um pouco de português,” Boyd said, haltingly, nodding to Suarez to translate. “Ask him how old it is.”
“He says it was built in 1943 and has had many, uh, repairs, ever since. It flies good, he says.”
While Suarez and the co-pilot talked, the others circled the ancient plane, pointing out riveted patches to the aluminum skin, droplets of a dark liquid pooling slowly in the dirt under one engine and other anomalies.
“I think I know why they couldn’t land at the airport,” Duncan said aloud.
“I’ve flown worse,” Joe Robinson said. “We’re only going like a hundred fifty miles.” Looking at the cloudless sky, he added, “At least we don’t have to worry about the weather. Back in the ’80s I was on a DC-8 in India and we ran into a storm and ended up with what you might call a hard landing. One of the landing gear collapsed and we lost a wing tip and one of the props fell apart, but nobody got killed. Just a few injuries. Took a week to get outta there. ’Course, I was workin’ for a news agency usin’ my own equipment back then, shootin’ sixteen millimeter. Camera got banged up and the agency wouldn’t reimburse me. Never worked for them again, I’ll tell you.”
Duncan smiled politely and joined Boyd who, along with the co-pilot, directed the others to load their gear into the rear of the plane. Passenger seating consisted of five rows, two seats on one side of the narrow aisle and one on the opposite side. Three rows of seats had been removed to accommodate cargo. In the rear was a lavatory. The interior smelled of damp carpeting. As Duncan nervously fastened his seat belt, he gave Boyd a forlorn look.
“I don’t like this one bit,” he said quietly.
“Neither do I,” Boyd said. “It is what it is.”
“I hate that phrase.”
“Me too,” Boyd said, peering out the window, watching the van as it drove away trailed by clouds of dust. “Unless you want to walk back to Manaus, we’re stuck with it.”
“I just hope the landing gear doesn’t collapse.”
67
FIELD PRODUCER CARL Murphy thought of the subjects of reality TV as performers who happened to be involved in unusual or compelling activities. He coached them to sprinkle expletives into their speech so they could be bleeped when televised. It brought out emotions, which helped to connect the audience to the performers and their story. He also encouraged them to be honest in their reactions. He encouraged them to show anger when they felt it, even though there was a chance it could become personal and have lasting consequences for relationships. But he recognized quickly that he couldn’t do that with Nolan Thomas’s assistants. They were afraid of their autocratic boss, who could end their careers as easily as he could promote them. They complained about his bossiness behind his back, but none would dare contradict him to his face. Which is why, even though they had reservations about their vulnerability in the dense undergrowth, they didn’t raise even their most serious apprehensions. They were familiar with the general outlines of what had happened to Duncan’s expedition but none of them had a real appreciation for the horrible things their quarry could do to them. Even Murphy felt somewhat intimidated by Thomas, even though he’d been cooperative and affable from the start.
As soundman Jack Walker and videographer Andy Wilson joined Thomas and Murphy on the hill, the producer instructed them to capture B-roll and audio to be used when the series was edited.
“Make sure you get the guys in the frame for establishing shots,” he said. “And Jack, get some of the monkey noise.”
“It’s pretty loud.”
“We’ll tone it down in post. Once you’ve got all that—make sure you get video of the monkeys, OK—then follow those guys down there,” Murphy said, pointing toward Gruber and his partner, “before they get out of sight. Any questions?”
“Light’s not great,” Wilson said.
“I don’t have to tell you how to do your job, do I?” Murphy said, sternly.
“Nope. Got it covered.”
68
LOOKING OUT HIS window as the plane circled the village, Cody Boyd was surprised by the aggregation of tents clustered across a vacant area behind the village’s housing. Some were emblazoned with logos of media companies. Several small satellite dishes sprouted like mushrooms on stalks.
“Look at that,” he said, pointing out the window.
Duncan, his seat mate, grimaced.
“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You don’t think they’re here because of me, do you?”
“How would they know we’re coming?” Boyd said. “We didn’t even know until this morning.”
Looking across the aisle at Bob Mitchell, Duncan said loudly so he could be heard over the engine noise, “Did you know about this?”
“Know about what?”
“The media,” Duncan said, pointing at Boyd’s window. The young producer leaned toward the window.
“Nope.”
Several crews on the ground filmed the plane as it banked and started its final descent, the pilot dropping the nose like an anchor the instant the tail cleared the surrounding forest canopy, pulling up at the last second as the wheels touched the grass and dirt runway in a plume of red dust, using most of it to slow down enough to turn around in a single, unbroken motion, coming to a stop in front of the administrative building, its nose towering above the roof.
As the pilot cut the engines, the co-pilot walked down the aisle, opened the door at the rear of the plane, dropped the short ladder, and chocked the wheels, Duncan leaned toward Mitchell with a doubtful expression. Mitchell ignored this and led the way out of the plane, his company’s logo and name standing out prominently on his cap and shirt. As soon as they saw the producer emerge, the media on the ground turned away, as if to say there’s no story here.
Boyd got a kick out of it and nudged Duncan.
“See that? As soon as they realized our crew is media they lost interest in us. You know, they gave me a shirt and hat.”
“You oughta put it on,” Duncan said. “It’s like camouflage.”
“I wish I’d thought of that in Manaus. I’d have gotten one for you,” Boyd said. “I know what! You wear the hat and I’ll wear the shirt.”
While Boyd changed shirts and Duncan exchanged his floppy hat for Boyd’s billed cap, Walker and Mitchell unloaded several hard cases and duffel bags, setting them under the wing.
Mitchell smiled as Duncan and Boyd emerged, followed by Antonio Suarez, who looked and dressed like a villager. The wardrobe adjustment was not lost on Joe Robinson, who had moved away from the plane to smoke. The videographer watched with amusement as Duncan and Boyd each grabbed a hardcase plastered with Broken Tree Productions logos.
“So, you’re working for us now,” he said as they set the cases under the overhang of the building’s thatched roof.
“We hope it looks that way,” Boyd said.
Mitchell beamed.
“Brilliant, just brilliant,” he said earnestly.
69
AT THE START of th
eir first full day searching for Reptilus blaberus, Nolan Thomas’s assistants scouted the forest floor with trepidation, fearful that they might inadvertently find themselves in the midst of a colony of the man-eaters and become their next victims. They were hyperaware of the stories of people being eaten alive and dying horrible, excruciating deaths. It didn’t help that the human remains near where they parked their ATVs served as a reminder that their fears were not without foundation. But, as the day wore on and the heat and humidity increased, mosquitoes presented a more immediate threat. That and the boredom and the difficulty of making their way through vine-infested undergrowth that made it virtually impossible to see what was underfoot. Jason Gruber started thinking that the children who had thrown together the mound of small, dead mammals had done a thorough job, leaving only a couple of squirrel carcasses for him and his companions to find.
Though disappointed with his assistants’ lack of success, Thomas was not discouraged. At the end of the day, his team would have done their jobs by eliminating the search area from consideration, which would allow them to widen the hunt when they returned the next day, and the next day, and the next day, however long it would take. He knew from experience that patience and persistence were the most important skills to have when doing field work. Most of his success had come not from brilliant insights and eureka moments, but from tedious, time-consuming investigation.
However, producer Carl Murphy was annoyed at the lack of opportunity to record anything but background sound and B-roll. There was only so much footage of screaming monkeys climbing trees and long shots of the gloomy forest that they would need and they had captured it. The only shot they got on film that might be even remotely useful was when one of the assistants tripped and face-planted on the forest floor. His partner laughed reflexively as he watched the man go down, but seeing the terror on his friend’s face as he sprang to his feet like a gymnast, sent a shiver down his neck. It wasn’t funny after all. It was a reminder that even a small mistake in the rainforest could have big consequences.