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 s
omething 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.
I once again sought the banana grove, the dried balsa logs, and the hidden tools but found nothing. I did, though, think that I had discovered the trail to San José. Tomorrow I would set out on it, and that would be that.
I saw an enormous fruit tree on my way back to the hut. A lot of big, heavy fruit lay on the ground. I happily split a piece of it open against a rock but found its pulp hard and green and oozing a white oily substance. I tried a bite anyway but spat it out with a grimace. It was inedible. I should have known better; fruit that wasn’t rotten and ant-eaten probably wasn’t edible. I still had tamarinds in the hut and ate a few to get the horrid taste out of my mouth.
I noticed a large stump in the centre of the camp with the name Pam carved into it in large letters. Was that the name of a girl? Or perhaps the word for ‘women’? In another four days, when I got to San José, I would be able to ask someone. I would spend four more nights in the jungle, but then I would have a soft bed and people around me. How I longed to see people. I studied the map at length. It looked so close. Just a few inches.
I could do it.
Chapter ten
‘I’M ON MY WAY TO SAN JOSÉ’
My hopes for clear weather were disappointed; it was pouring rain, but I didn’t let that stop me. I packed up my things, slung my pack on my back, tightened the belt and shoulder straps, took up my newly acquired walking stick, and off I went.
Although the trail began wide and well marked, within a few minutes’ walk it narrowed considerably, and I had to search for machete marks on the trees in order to follow it. It did run parallel to the Tuichi, however, and whenever I strayed from the trail, I simply had to progress along the bank until I picked it up again.
I got used to walking in the rain and was in a great mood. I thought I was keeping a steady pace and, barring any unforeseen setbacks, I would cover the distance to the village in four days. As I strode along, I composed a marching song, far from original or inspiring, but at least it kept time. I took a popular Israeli tune, ‘I’m on My Way to Beit Shean,’ changed the destination, and sang out loud,
I’m on my way to San José
On my way, yeah, yeah, my way
I’m on my way to San José.
So I walked on through the lush jungle in good spirits.
The ground was fairly level. Every now and then a few hills rose up, but they weren’t steep. The streams posed a greater obstacle. I passed over a great many that emptied into the Tuichi, forming basins too wide to be passable at the junction. I was forced to follow each one upstream into the jungle until I came upon a convenient fording place. The machete gashes were fantastic signposts. They led directly to the places where the streams were fordable. They sometimes took me far from the river, but I eventually discovered this to be a shortcut.
At one point I came upon a wide, sandy beach, just the kind of place for a picnic and a little romance. The sand was soft and clean and shaded by trees. Logs were piled up on the shore, deposited there by the current. I had an idea. Rescuers might come looking for me by airplane or by helicopter, so I should contrive some kind of signal that could be seen from the air. I started hauling logs and large rocks about, placing them in the shape of an arrow pointing downstream. Next to it I formed the letter Y for the first initial of my name, and after it I wrote ‘12’ for the date. I was pleased with my ingenuity and sure the signal would be spotted from above. The truth is I still thought I would be disappointed if someone came to rescue me. I was convinced that I was so close that it would be a shame not to do it on my own.
Toward late afternoon I came upon a stream that flowed in a shallow defile. I quickly descended the rock wall, but the opposite side was an arduous climb, and the walking stick proved a hindrance. I hurled it to the top and, clutching at bushes and protruding rocks, struggled my way to the top. There I retrieved my walking stick and went on. Soon, on a fallen tree, I saw a nest holding four brown spotted eggs. They were only a little smaller than chicken eggs and still warm. The mother must have just left the nest. I was thankful to have happened upon nourishing food. I cracked open one of the eggs and was about to pour its contents into my mouth when I noticed the tiny baby curled up inside. Should I eat it or not? No, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I put the broken egg back in the nest with its brothers and sisters.
If someone above is watching over me, I thought, he’ll surely provide me with other sustenance.
Not five minutes passed before I came upon a large fruit tree. The fruit, called trestepita, is round and yellow and, broken open, divides into three equal parts. Each contains about twenty pits, similar to the pits of a lemon but covered with a sweet, slippery membrane. The fruit doesn’t provide a great deal of meat, but I savoured the juice it contained.
I leaned up against the trunk of a fallen tree and took out the tins, emptied a few tamarinds out of one, and used it to gather up trestepitas. The tree was low, and by bending its branches, I could reach the fruit. I didn’t leave a single one.
I continued on my way to San José with renewed vigour. This time the trail led me deep into the jungle. I was so far from the river that its roar was not even faintly audible. After walking for a very long time I found myself surrounded by towering trees. I had lost all sense of direction. I didn’t know which way was north or where the river was. The trail looked strange. It was extremely narrow; I had to go very slowly for fear of losing it. It was often blocked by wild undergrowth or fallen trees. It didn’t make any sense, for only a few months ago people should have been using it. I plodded on, still convinced that it would lead me back to the river at any moment, but two hours had passed, and it was growing dark. Then I finally heard the familiar rush of the river. I was extremely relieved to learn that I could rely on the trail.
I met back up with the river just where one of the springs emptied into it. It was a narrow spring that flowed down a narrow ravine. I stood there gaping; there was a large footprint in the mud. The sole of the shoe that had made it was just like mine. God, it must be Kevin! He was alive! Kevin had big feet and wore the same kind of shoes that I did. And who besides him could have left the print? I was overcome with joy. I stared again at the print in the mud. How was it that the rain hadn’t washed it away?
The climb up the other side of the ravine was difficult. The wall was almost vertical. I had to throw the walking stick up ahead of me, but regardless of how tired I was after a day of walking I felt myself endowed with superhuman strength. Pushing with my knees and dragging myself up with my arms, I made it to the top. But something seemed funny. Five minutes later I came upon a fallen tree. Next to it lay heaps of tamarind and trestepita peels and pits. Then I knew. I collapsed, broken-spirited, to the ground and almost burst into tears. It wasn’t Kevin. It was me. I had wasted more than three hours walking in a circle. The trail had led me back to where I h
ad started.
Desperation began to gnaw at me. I considered giving up and heading back to Curiplaya. I was only two or three hours’ walk from there. I could go back to my hut and my bed. But the thought of the village that must be nearby with food and people overcame my momentary weakness. So I had made a mistake. It wasn’t the end of the world. I would learn from it. I would use the trail only when it followed the course of the river. If it wandered into the jungle, I would abandon it and make my own way until I met back up with it on the riverbank.
I was exhausted and famished and took the fruit out of my pack. It was a pathetic match for my appetite. A few fleshless pits remained. I gritted my teeth and strode back in the direction of the ravine. There I found what I was after. The mother must have abandoned the nest, for the eggs had grown cold. I broke them open one at a time and gulped down every last bit of the unborn birds. I expected them to make me nauseous, but they were quite tasty.
The sun had gone behind a cloud and now came out and shone brightly. I could still make some progress today. I had gone astray, but the entire day was not wasted; it wasn’t so bad.
‘It’s no big deal. It’s no big deal,’ I started to sing.
We used to sing a song like that in the Boy Scouts, and, silly as it sounds, it stuck in my mind:
Oh, Mama, in what a fix am I.
I’ll have a baby by and by.
Please tell me it’s a lie.
Please tell me I won’t die.
Please say it’s no big deal.
I sang the tune over and over. Then I started dramatising it, creating characters and a silly dialogue. You’re going to have a baby, and you think it’s no big deal. All right, you won’t die, but just you wait until your father gets his hands on him. You’ll live, but tough luck for your boyfriend. Your father will kill him.
Lost in the Jungle Page 18