The doctor, a cheerful, bespectacled man, informed me that he couldn’t possibly examine me until I had had a thorough scrubbing. The shower, behind a partition in the patio, wasn’t really a shower at all. A conscript ran to a faucet to fill a pail with water, set the pail down next to me, lathered my body, and poured bowlfuls of water over me until the pail was empty, and then went back for another pail.
The doctor checked my blood pressure and took my pulse. He checked my hair for lice and with a pair of tweezers pulled off the remaining leeches. He said my feet were in horrible condition and gave me a cream to use. He advised that I rest and eat well and promised that I would soon be back in good health. I told him that I suffered from painful headaches, and he gave me some pills.
The doctor and the nurse who assisted him insisted that I tell them what had happened to me, and I was forced to repeat, in brief, all that I had been through. The nurse brought tea and rolls, and she and doctor listened attentively to my story. I changed the subject only once.
‘Doctor,’ I asked, ‘would you mind if I ate your roll?’
They burst out laughing.
‘Of course not. Bring him some more rolls,’ he instructed the nurse.
Kevin was waiting for me in the office of the commandante. They had notified the Israeli embassy that I had been found. I felt a lot better knowing that they would inform my parents and put their minds at peace.
We went back to the hotel. I was wearing the snow-white dress uniform of the Bolivian navy but was barefoot. In all of Rurrenabaque, in all of Bolivia, there wasn’t a single pair of shoes to be found in my size, twelve and a half.
We settled into our spacious room. Kevin draped the mosquito nets that the hotel provided over our beds. We sat up all night talking, weighing various hypotheses concerning the failure of Karl and Marcus to turn up in La Paz. We couldn’t wait to unmask Karl. He had taken us into the jungle, feeding us a lot of lies, conjuring up an Indian village. If Marcus hadn’t insisted so stubbornly that we turn back, we certainly would have gone on and run out of food. Karl had also misled us regarding the river, his false information almost costing us our lives. And if that didn’t suffice, we now knew that he was a wanted criminal as well.
But what had he wanted from us? Why had he bothered making up a cock-and-bull story about a Nazi uncle? Why had he lied about the ranch and the truck? What had been the point of it all? It hadn’t been for money: he spent more than we paid him. We hoped that we would be able to get some answers once we were back in La Paz.
Afterward we grew silent, each lost in his own thoughts under our mosquito netting. Kevin dozed off, but every hour or two I would startle him out of his sleep, screaming, ‘Hurry, Kevin, fast!’
He knew the problem without being told and leapt up, heaved me over his shoulder, and ran for the bathroom. The enormous amounts of food that I had consumed had upset my digestive system, and I had a terrible case of diarrhoea.
The weather the next day was terrible, and we knew that there would be no plane, but I wasn’t disappointed. It was probably the happiest day of my life. I felt like I was in paradise: the town, the people, the general atmosphere, the lousy weather – just being alive.
I spent the morning sitting with Kevin in the hotel coffee shop. People came from all over town to see us. They had heard about us and came to offer us their best wishes and enjoy the happy ending to our story. Each one brought some small gift: cakes, candies, fruit, souvenir postcards, or a simple, warm handshake. All kinds of characters turned up: farmers, businessmen, army officers, and even a young Swiss, a mochilero like ourselves, who had drifted into Rurrenabaque and decided to settle down. He had bought a plot of land a little way up the Beni River. Every day he rowed himself up there in a small boat to till his cornfield.
We ordered cakes and coffee from the hotel restaurant for our numerous guests. The hotel owner herself scarcely left our table and never stopped talking.
Toward noon Tico passed by on his way to the river, and we joined him, poor Kevin toting me on his back. Kevin took pictures and asked one of Tico’s crewmen to take one of us together with his employer.
A strange phenomenon bedevilled both Kevin and me; I had a funny-looking lump on my forehead, and Kevin had one on his throat. I was occasionally seized by a severe pain, as if someone or something were pinching at me from within. Tico noticed it and knew immediately what the trouble was.
‘That’s the boro,’ he said.
‘What’s the boro?’ we asked, and Tico explained that it results from the bite of a mosquito whose sting deposits an egg under the skin. In time the egg hatches into a worm, and the worm begins crawling around inside the body.
‘You must be joking,’ I said, terrified.
‘No, I’m not joking. Everyone around here gets it once in a while, and it’s not particularly dangerous. Let’s take care of it now.’
I was first. Tico sat me down on the sandy riverbank near the canoe. He and his cheerful brother, Lulo, both lit cigarettes and began blowing smoke right onto the boil-like swelling. It felt peculiar, like something really was moving around inside.
‘The nicotine draws them out,’ Tico explained. ‘In just a minute you’ll see.’
Kevin and Lulo clenched my head, and Tico squeezed the boil between his thumbs. I bit my lip against the pain. Tico squeezed harder and... plop, the worm popped out of my forehead. Kevin looked disgusted. One more squeeze, and I, too, could see the worm, resting in the palm of Tico’s hand. It was fat and white with a few black spots, and it was still alive.
Kevin was next, but he was tougher than I had been, and no one had to hold him. They again exhaled smoke onto the boil, and Tico commenced pushing and squeezing. The worm that wriggled slowly out of Kevin’s neck was even larger than the one that had come out of me. It was a repulsive sight, like a long, white strip of fat. The thought that live worms had been eating away at us...
A few weeks later a dozen more worms were pulled from my body, this time by a doctor in São Paulo, who used a knife and a needle.
The next morning the commandante came by early to inform us that the plane to La Paz would be taking off at eleven o’clock. We packed our few belongings and said our goodbyes to the hotel owner, who refused to accept payment for the time we had spent there and charged us only half the bill that we had run up in the coffee shop. A friendly neighbour brought us a bag of mangoes. There is no more delicious fruit in the world than the mangoes of Rurrenabaque.
Tico came to say goodbye, tough as always. I couldn’t find the words to express what I felt for him and promised myself that I would someday come back to visit him. An army truck took us to the airport. The terminal consisted of a single building outside town and a long, unpaved airstrip.
The terminal was crowded. Everyone who held tickets for the previous day’s flight and everyone who had a ticket for today’s was gathered, and since it was obvious that they couldn’t all fit on one plane, a lot of arguments broke out. The next day was Christmas, and they were eager to get home to their families. When the plane made its approach, everyone started shouting and shoving. The commandante led us through the crowd to the door of the plane and bade us farewell. The pilot gestured us aboard.
‘Goodbye, Commandante. Goodbye, Rurrenabaque. I’ll never forget you.’
In La Paz we flagged a cab for the Rosario Hotel. We couldn’t wait to see Marcus. He would go out of his mind when he heard what had happened to us, and he must have a tale of his own to tell. And Karl? We were dying to confront him.
Kevin dashed into the hotel but came out just a few minutes later wearing a grave expression. Karl and Marcus hadn’t arrived at the hotel yet.
‘I can’t believe that all flights from Apolo have been grounded because of the rain,’ he said. ‘We flew in from Rurrenabaque, and it’s just as rainy there.’
What the hell had happened to them? They hadn’t taken a dangerous route, they had been well fitted out with a shotgun, ammunition, a knife, and a tent. Wh
at could possibly have happened?
I tottered into the Israeli embassy on my own two feet and received an emotional welcome: hugs, kisses, tears of joy. Everyone was at a loss for words.
‘First of all, call home,’ the consul instructed me.
The secretary got a line for me, and soon I heard my father’s voice.
‘Dad, it’s me, Yossi. I’m all right. I’m safe now.’
My father’s feelings came over the phone with his voice. ‘Don’t you ever do anything like that again,’ he said sternly, and then my mother was on the line. She was crying. ‘I can’t stand it any longer. I want to see you. Come home. Yossi, come right home.’
‘Everything’s all right, Mom. I’ll be home soon. There’s nothing for you to worry about now.’
We all calmed down a bit, and I swore that I wasn’t lying.
‘Honest, I’m not injured, and I’m not sick. Everything is just fine. I’m sure that you had a worse time of it than I did.’
The old-folks’ home was practically deserted. The consul had given Kevin permission to stay there. Grandma looked over our papers and showed us to a room.
‘You don’t have to go through your spiel, Grandma. I know the rules.’
She obviously didn’t recognise me.
A letter had arrived by express mail. It filled in my story as experienced on the other side of the ocean.
Ramat Gan
December 23
...The consular section of the Foreign Office notified Mom and Dad that you had been involved in an accident with a raft on a river somewhere in the jungle. They said that your American friend reported the incident to the embassy only eleven days after it had occurred, so we assumed that you had been missing for about twelve days. I tried to cheer Mom and Dad up. I know that you are an excellent swimmer and don’t lose your head in an emergency. I tried to get Mom and Dad thinking that way too.
The next day we placed a phone call to the Israeli embassy in La Paz, and that was when we found out that the accident had taken place on the first of the month and that you had been missing for eighteen days. That came as a great shock to us. Dad broke down and cried incessantly. Mom decided to put up a front to help Dad keep himself together, but she would also go off by herself to cry all the time.
Ever since we got the bad news, the house has been full of people trying to keep our spirits up. Mom had been a real trooper, serving coffee and cakes. She wouldn’t allow any crying or carrying on. She didn’t want it to look as if we had given up hope, like we were already mourning.
I tried to hide my feelings, but every time people came over, they asked me to read your letter again, and I couldn’t take it anymore and would get all choked up. It was terribly hard on Mom and Dad, on me, on the whole family, and on our friends.
The worst part of it all was feeling so helpless. We wanted to help you, to help look for you, to do something, but there was nothing we could do. Dad called friends with contacts in Bolivia. They even got in touch with the Mossad. The Israeli police commissioner personally called both Interpol and the Bolivian police.
I considered flying to La Paz to make sure the search parties kept looking and perhaps join them myself, but Dad was afraid of losing another son.
The more time passed, the more difficult it became for Mom and Dad. He lost hope, and she also began to have doubts. I believed that you were still alive, but I could imagine what kind of shape you must be in. Dad’s friends said that it would be impossible for anyone to find you by searching the area, that you yourself would have to make your way back to civilisation. It was almost Hanukkah, and all we could do was pray for a miracle.
The miracle happened on Monday. We got the good news on the second day of candle lighting. It was the twenty-first of December. The Israeli embassy in La Paz called at twelve thirty at night to tell us that you had been found.
Yossi, you’ve never seen such happiness! So much crying! Everyone was in tears, offering one toast after another. We called up half the country to let everyone know, and we’ve had guests all week, tons of food, drinks, and mountains of sufganiot [doughnuts]. Mom spent the whole day making them, hundreds of them. Dad stayed drunk for three straight days.
As I’m writing this, I am reminded of what we went through and get the shivers. But all’s well that ends well, and that’s the main thing.
Your brother,
Moshe
Kevin was already involved with preparations for a second search party. He was determined to go looking for traces of Karl and Marcus. This time he decided to go properly equipped: a shotgun, ammunition, suitable clothing, medicines, and people to help him. He got the five hundred dollars that Marcus had left with his friend Roger.
I was torn with indecision. I was terribly eager to go along with Kevin, but I wasn’t sure that I was capable of it, especially since my feet were not entirely healed.
The consul became furious when he heard that I was even considering going back into the jungle.
‘I’ll shoot you myself before I’ll let you do it,’ he said in a rage. ‘What’s the matter with you? Have you no consideration? If you don’t care about us, at least think about your parents.’
Kevin gave me another good scolding and didn’t want to hear about me going along. Some Israeli friends volunteered to go with him instead. I was so thin and weak that I would have been more of a burden than a help. I accompanied them to the airport, and saying goodbye was one of the most difficult things that I had ever done. We planned to meet in Brazil as soon as we could. Neither Kevin nor I had given up on completing our travels in South America.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Kevin on my way back from the airport. The cab pulled out onto the highway and then wove through the maze of city streets. Passing cabs honked, and buses filled beyond capacity sped by, leaving a trail of black exhaust. The sidewalks were crowded with people: ragged beggars alongside elegantly suited men, loudmouthed vendors, and filthy street urchins. A stench rose from the sewage that ran down the gutters. A big city, overcrowded, noisy. People, thousands of them – good people, lovely people.
Tears ran down my cheeks. The cab driver noticed and gave me a worried glance. I tugged at my nose once or twice and throatily commented, ‘La vida es bonita. ¿No es, señor?’
‘Si, señor,’ he agreed, ‘life is beautiful,’ though he was probably thinking, ‘I swear, these gringos are absolutely locos.’
EPILOGUE
Kevin’s second rescue mission was both arduous and disappointing. Only one of the Israelis stuck with him to the end, and their two Bolivian guides often called on them for help.
They started out from the village of Ipurama, which had been Karl and Marcus’s destination. They progressed along the Ipurama River, searching its banks for signs of them. Within a few days they had made it down to where the Ipurama flows into the Tuichi, the place where our party had split up. From there they started back, painstakingly searching both banks of the river.
They never found a single trace, any sign at all that Karl and Marcus had passed that way: no campfires, shreds of clothing, broken branches, faeces, or footprints. Nothing. It was as if the two of them had vanished into the jungle air.
I later met up with Kevin in Brazil, in Salvador, the capital of Bahia. I had been cared for solicitously by my uncle in São Paulo. My feet were almost entirely healed, and the enormous quantity of steaks that I had downed had gotten my weight back up and cured my anaemia. We went to Rio de Janeiro together for Carnaval. Then Kevin returned to the United States, and I went home to Israel.
A few months later I flew to Oregon, where I met Kevin’s wonderful family. Then I went to visit Marcus’s family in Schaffhausen, Switzerland. It was a difficult meeting. They wanted to know every detail of our trip and Marcus’s disappearance. I told them the whole truth, keeping nothing back. We cried together.
As a final gesture Marcus’s father held a sort of rite of absolution. He thanked me for coming to see them and for telling them all I could
about their son. He ordered me to stop feeling guilty and asked me to pass that message on to Kevin too.
While it seemed that Marcus’s father had given up hope, his mother, a devoted spiritualist, harboured not the slightest doubt that her younger son was alive: if he were dead, she maintained, he would have contacted her from the other side; he would have found a way to tell her goodbye. I knew what she referred to, as I remembered Marcus had told me once about the telepathic communication he’d had his entire life with his mother.
Her faith never diminished. A year later she financed a group of Seventh-day Adventists, who agreed to form a search party. They came back empty-handed, battered, and bitten.
Rainer, Marcus’s brother, believed that Karl had planned for us to separate from the beginning. He suggested that Karl could have hidden food and equipment earlier at the junction of the Ipurama and Tuichi rivers, then engineered our split.
Karl could have led Kevin and me to believe that he was heading up the Ipurama in the direction of the village, but in fact, gone off in the opposite direction, toward the Peruvian border. Karl had done so, in Rainer’s opinion, so that it would appear as if something had happened to them, that they had perished in the jungle. Then Karl could have easily assumed a new identity.
Kevin, while still in Bolivia, met a charming Israeli girl at the old-folks’ home. Orna joined him on his search for Marcus and Karl. As if that drama wasn’t enough for him, Kevin was also falling in love. About a year later Kevin arrived in Israel for a reunion with Orna, and soon after they married. They live happily near Tel Aviv with their two beautiful sons, Eyal and Yuval. Kevin and I are close friends to this very day. I love him like my brother. I owe him my life, for which I will be eternally indebted to him. I admire him for the person he is, a giant of a man. Karl used to call him ‘strong like three men,’ referring not only to his body, but also his special spirit. Kevin will always be a role model for me, for he is one of those rare people of continuously high morals; he never hesitated when immediate decisions or action were needed. Kevin, from the bottom of my heart, thank you, my brother, my friend, forever.
Lost in the Jungle Page 26