When The Jaguar Sleeps: A jungle adventure (16 page)

D
idier woke with the feeling inside him that he needed to hurry because danger was lurking. As soon as he opened his heavy eyelids he wanted to stand up and flee. It was almost like an animal compulsion. But once he’d looked around and saw that his hands and feet were not bound he calmed down. He was suspended in a hammock in one of the corners of a plank house, and bright daylight was streaming inside through a couple of small windows and the door opening. From afar came the voices and laughter of children playing somewhere outside. He had not a clue where he was.

A young woman who had been standing motionless with her back towards him, turned around and came over. She had waist-length black hair, loosely falling on her back and parted in the middle, and a weather-beaten complexion with high cheek bones. She wore a colourful blouse and skirt, a bit tattered looking, over her strong, slightly rounded body. She bent over him and spoke softly in Spanish.

‘How are you now? A little better?’

‘Where am I? Where’s my boat? I have no time to waste, I have to go further, hurry up.’

‘Calm down, you still need to rest, you have not yet regained all your strength. Take your time, you are safe here.’

An older man entered the hut and joined the woman.

‘You have finally regained consciousness,’ he said, a faint smile softening the hard lines of his weather-beaten face. ‘We do not know who you are or where you come from, but you did not look good when we brought you yesterday to the hut from the pier where you fell.’

‘Yesterday?’

‘Yes, since yesterday you have been unconscious. And now the day is already nearing its end. It’s time for you to get something to eat.’

‘I’m terribly thirsty.’

The woman walked away, but soon returned with a bottle of water in her hand. Didier put it straight to his dry mouth and drank greedily, draining almost half of it in one gulp. Then he handed it back to her and wiped his wet, cracked lips with the back of his hand.

‘I feel a burning pain in my back and shoulders.’

‘The sun has burnt your skin. Rosa smeared it yesterday with some oil. She’ll put some more on when you’ve eaten. Tomorrow, the pain should be over.’

‘I want to get up.’

‘Can you do it?’

‘I’ll try.’

Didier guessed that Rosa was the name of the young Indian woman whose face he saw first upon waking.

With the help of the Indian man he climbed out of the hammock and stood up on wobbly, weak legs, his knees feeling as if they would fold in. His stomach was rumbling with hunger, his muscles sore and aching all over. He could hardly move his arms after all the rowing he had done in the brutal heat. But otherwise he seemed to be all right. A long, deep sleep had helped him regain some of his lost strength. He just needed some food now.

Didier went unaided out of the hut, took a very deep breath of fresh air and looked inquisitively around. The events of the day before came back to him as a succession of accelerated images passed, one by one, through his mind: the escape from the wild Indian tribe, the escape from the gun-toting grave robbers. He recalled the long hours in the hellish heat under the scorching sun. Then, in the evening, when he had nearly lost all hope, he had seen the village where he was now standing. It seemed that this time luck was on his side. He felt he could trust these people, that they were going to help him. He breathed a sigh of relief, running his hand over his forehead and gently rubbing his aching arms. The oil had soothed his burnt, peeling skin but it itched and he had a great urge to scratch. Walking slowly he returned to the hut.

In his absence, Rosa had begun to bustle about the fireside preparing a meal and very soon the air was filled with a pleasant mixture of cooking smells. The Indian man silently withdrew into a dark corner of the hut and returned holding a small, square, somewhat spotted mirror. Didier took it hesitantly and looked at his reflection. At first glance, he was horrified. He barely recognised himself: dishevelled hair, a thick beard, sunken cheeks, protruding cheek bones, red scratched skin, eyes swollen and bloodshot. But he had at least survived and was still alive. Nothing else mattered at the moment.

Once the meal was ready they were joined by several other villagers. They all sat cross-legged in a circle on mats of woven palm fibres. The food was delicious: rice cooked in banana leaves and some pieces of meat mixed with a slightly spicy sauce.

Encouraged by the hospitality of the Indians Didier told them briefly what had been happening to him, about the plane crash, how he had marched endlessly through the jungle and eventually found the boat in which he had arrived at their village. He mentioned neither the stone ruins of the city in the jungle with all its hidden treasures, nor his captivity in the Indian village, nor Florent’s death. He was afraid what their reaction might be to his experiences, though they listened attentively, clearly interested by his narrative.

‘We heard about the plane crash, and that the rescue teams that set off in search of it returned empty handed not finding any survivors,’ one of the Indians said.

‘Will you help me get to Quito?’ Didier asked uncertainly.

‘Get some rest today and tomorrow morning, when you feel better, we will set off for the city.’

‘Is it very far from here?’

‘About half a day’s journey by boat, and then some distance by car.’

‘Some distance away? Do you know how many miles?’

Unfortunately none of the villagers could give him an answer.

The men smoked some rolled-up tobacco leaves and each of them drained a few earthenware bowls of chicha. Didier refused the light yellow drink when they offered it to him. Later Rosa smeared his painful skin with some more of the musky-smelling oil. He waited a moment for it to be absorbed and then put on a cotton T-shirt which she gave him. Then he climbed back into his hammock. The Indian men stayed seated around the fire talking with each other in their own local language. The rhythmically undulating sounds of their voices lulled him and before long he fell again into a deep sleep. The next morning he woke up feeling a lot more restored.

Without delay, immediately after breakfast, the old Indian man led him to a couple of motorboats moored at the pier. Two young Indians were already sitting in one of them. He recognised them from the night before when they had come to the hut to eat. Light milky mist was floating over the water surface.

‘You will go with them,’ said the older man ‘They know well their way around here. They are strong. You can trust them and feel safe with them, they will protect you from danger. Do not worry, you’re in good hands,’ he added reassuringly before saying goodbye.

Didier saw that food and water supplies lay in the stern. Soon the morning peace was disturbed by the loud humming of the engine and the boat leapt from the shore and drifted to the middle of the river, its bow effortlessly cutting the yellow-brown murky mass of water, leaving large ripples behind. The boat, expertly handled, moved forward fast, getting further and further away, and shortly the village had completely vanished from sight.

A few hours later, the fog had gradually dispersed and the scorching rays of the sun that had now reached the highest point above the horizon began to beat down harshly. The meandering river writhed downstream like a giant snake, its vast expanse sweeping across broad plains or sometimes squeezing through narrow corridors, both its banks lined with the lush dripping tropical vegetation. From time to time, out of nowhere along the shore, appeared a few thatched plank-houses on stilts and groups of people looked with a passive curiosity at the passing boat.

In the late afternoon the Indian at the helm turned the boat towards a village, stopping at the wooden walkway running between a couple of the houses.

‘We have arrived,’ he announced.

On the shore stood the usual small group of residents dressed in colourful but ragged clothes, watching with great interest the newcomers. One of the men pulled away from the rest, came over to the boat and said something quickly in his local dialect to Didier’s two companions.

‘We’ll leave you here,’ said one of them. ‘We cannot travel any further and are going back home. Eduardo will take care of you now. Do not worry, he will bring you to Quito.’

Without delay Didier jumped out of the boat, happy to be able to stretch his legs after long hours of sitting. Before the Indians set off on the return journey they and Didier were taken by Eduardo to his hut and offered something to eat.

After the meal Eduardo told Didier to follow him and they headed towards a shack at the edge of the village. Behind it an old van stood parked, well covered in mud, in some places rusted and dented. Through an opening in the trees could be seen a track of hard-trodden red clay soil running from the village into the rainforest.

A road!

They set off, the old van swaying and shaking violently every time its muddy wheels encountered bumps or potholes. After some miles they reached an intersection and the uneven track was replaced by a wide, asphalt road. Didier set his face close to a grimy and smudgy with greasy fingerprints window and peered out at the dense green tropical thicket, impatient for the forest to stop and some inhabited areas to appear. As if sensing his frustration, Eduadro stepped on the gas pedal and the vehicle speeded onwards, the miles slipping by. An hour into the journey Didier noticed an opening in the dense wall of greenery. Could it be that they were approaching a settlement?

But as they drove closer, he saw that instead of houses the area contained a huge expanse of black swamp filled with greasy, oily liquid, from which protruded here and there sinister looking broken stumps of dead trees. Pale blue wisps of mist and vapor drifted around the blackened stumps giving the whole place a desolate, mournful look. Eduardo told him that this sort of landscape was caused by leaks from the many oil pipelines crossing this part of the jungle. Toxic dregs of crude oil and residues from chemicals used in well-drilling were polluting vast areas of the Amazon rainforest, poisoning the soil and the water in the rivers, slowly but incessantly killing the jungle and its inhabitants. These areas were dead; nothing grew or lived there. As their journey continued, they encountered more and more extinct, poisoned spaces in the forest. They presented a very sad sight. Quite often, long slender oil pipelines elevated on stilts snaked alongside the road.

It was not until evening fell that the dense vegetation started gradually to thin. There were also more vehicles on the road, their bright headlights glaring and then dissolving in the dark of the night. In the thicket dim lights flickered occasionally from small settlements that were nothing more than just a few huts scattered sparsely among the trees.

Eduardo did not slow down, but kept going at full speed. Finally Didier felt the tension leaving his weary body, allowing him to relax, making him slightly drowsy. He still could not quite believe his luck, that he was actually going to get out of this green prison. Everything had happened so quickly, help had come so unexpectedly, that he still felt a little dazed. But the realisation that the nightmare was over was very slowly seeping into him. Even so, his eyes still furtively darted around from time to time as if expecting some danger to resurge.

It was deep into the night when they stopped, pulling up in a small town, squalid and poorly lit, its dusty, littered streets empty except for a bunch of stray, mangy dogs prowling aimlessly. Eduardo parked in front of one of the decrepit looking houses, in reality little more than a dilapidated shack covered with a roof of corrugated iron. He said they were going to spend the night there, at his cousin’s place, on his mother’s side.

The next morning, at dawn, they set off again. Didier, still tired from a restless night, immediately closed his eyes and dozed. He did not even notice when they left the jungle behind, or whether they stopped along the way, and saw nothing of the constantly changing landscape. He woke late in the evening to the sounds of busy traffic. Groggily looking out of the window he saw the lights of passing cars and brightly illuminated houses bordering the road. Out of nowhere he found himself in the rush and bustle of a big city pulsating with life.

They drove into Quito.

Didier was immediately at a loss as to where he should go, what he should do. He had no money, no documents, and certainly wasn’t looking his best. A hotel was out of the question. But it seemed Eduardo had everything in hand. After half an hour he brought the van to a halt and said they had arrived at one of the city’s many monasteries where the nuns wouldn’t refuse them somewhere to sleep or something to eat. He promised that the next day he would take Didier to the French Embassy and would remain with him until he was able to get some money and pay something towards the cost of their journey to Quito.

‘
W
hen should I come back for my passport?’

‘I’m afraid, I can’t tell you exactly when, right now.’

‘But can you at least say how many days, more or less, I will have to wait?

‘It depends, there is no fixed period of time. In some cases it can take a few days and in others up to a couple of weeks. Each applicant’s data has to be carefully checked; this can be time consuming. We know what hotel you’re staying in. Please let us know immediately of any change of residence. And don’t hesitate to ask if you need any more help.’ With that the Embassy official stood up; their conversation was over.

A couple of weeks to wait? So long! Didier was desperate to leave and go home. What was he supposed to do in Quito? But he didn’t have much choice at present. No, he would just have to wait and hope that it would be days rather than weeks. Without a passport he couldn’t leave.

A consoling thought crossed his mind that at least he now had a place to stay. The French diplomat, after listening to Didier’s story, had called a hotel and booked him a room where he could remain until he received his new passport. It was the same hotel that Didier had stayed in after first arriving in Ecuador and where he’d arranged to spend his last night after the jungle tour before returning to France. He’d left there a small suitcase with the things he didn’t need in the jungle. He wondered what would have happened to it, whether it was still there waiting for him.

The Embassy official gave Didier a small sum of money to cover his basic expenses. As soon as he received some funds from his family he would pay it back.

Eduardo was waiting outside the Embassy. Didier handed him a few banknotes. The Indian took the money eagerly and checked the amount; his eyes crinkled and a hint of a smile curled at the corners of his mouth. Clearly satisfied, he thanked the Frenchman and wished him luck. Then he slipped behind the wheel of the van, put it into gear and drove quickly away. For a short while the muddy vehicle flitted between the hurrying traffic, then disappeared from sight. Didier was left standing motionless, lost in thought, just staring at the cars flashing by.

He was alone now.

Slowly, he headed towards a park. At its entrance, a number of local artists had displayed their pictures for sale. There were many paintings of the city showing it nestled in a valley between towering Andean peaks. Other pictures showed some of the city’s impressive colonial cathedrals and monasteries, and attractive Spanish-style buildings leaning out over narrow, winding, cobbled streets. Further on, unkempt, ragged children were selling sweets, flowers and bracelets. One boy sat empty-handed on the pavement, a metal tin placed at his feet, begging for money. Didier bent down and dropped a few coins into his almost empty tin.

The many big trees in the park muffled the noise of the traffic and the other sounds of the vibrant, bustling city. Didier walked along, enjoying the pleasant calm atmosphere, breathing deeply the crisp, thin air filled with the revitalising scent of eucalyptus and pine. A gentle wind rustled the leaves and softly brushed his hair and skin.

Although the day had started rather misty and cloudy, the weather cleared up around noon. The blue sky was lit with bright sunshine and only slightly blemished by a few white fluffy clouds resembling little pieces of cotton wool. In the near distance gleamed the snow-capped peak of the active volcano Pichincha, its majestic silhouette towering directly over the city, its lower slopes densely dotted with houses. And still further away could be seen the hazy outlines of the white-topped volcanoes Antisana, Cotopaxi and Cayambe.

Cotopaxi . . . an image of the volcano came back to Didier, the memory of it from the plane. Excited and full of anticipation, they had all watched its symmetrical snow-white cone sitting on the brown mountain base emerging from a grey veil of clouds. Then, a little later, the plane crashed . . . No, he didn’t want to dwell on this now. He was plainly still shaken by his experiences. He must push away unwelcome thoughts. Instead, he must think about what to do next. France was still far away; he had not reached the end of his journey yet.

First, he needed to get some rest. But there was one more thing he had to do here before leaving for France. Something he had promised to do if he ever got out of the jungle alive. Here he was now, back in Quito. It was time to keep his promise; to go to the local authorities and tell them what he and Florent had stumbled upon in the jungle: the dead bodies they had seen in the abandoned village, the grave robbers gang plundering ancient Inca graves, their leader killing one of his own men, the gang men shooting at both of them and injuring badly Florent.

He knew the gang leader’s name: Brian Steinwall. And the city called Cuenca encircled on the map was most likely where he lived. Unfortunately, he had lost the map. But he still vaguely remembered in which part of the rainforest the ancient ruins were located. He doubted that the police would ever manage to track down the wild Indian tribe or bring Florent’s killer to justice, even so he was going to tell them all about Florent’s murder.

His first reaction to being taken captive and his companion’s death had been profound anger and hate towards the Indians. But later, while in captivity, he had watched more closely their behavior, their lifestyle and some of the hate subsided. Especially since he had seen how the rainforest had been destroyed by the ‘civilized world’, by the big oil companies. He understood then that their natural way of life was threatened, their natural environment was being devastated. It could soon disappear altogether if nothing was done to protect it. The Indians were just very desperate people defending their territory, the fragile future of their tribe. Killing trespassers was the only way they knew that worked. The more his hate towards the Indians subsided, the more it grew towards the grave robbers gang. They killed out of greed and because they were just cold-blooded men. He blamed them for his latest misfortunes. If they hadn’t chased him and Florent and hadn’t shot at them, they wouldn’t probably have fallen into hands of the Indians.

In his heart he wanted revenge. He wanted those ruthless men to be brought to justice.

On leaving the park, Didier decided to get something to eat and then catch a taxi to the police station. He had got the address from the Embassy official.

He walked unhurriedly down a wide boulevard towards high-rise, modern buildings sprouting further along the sidewalk: gleaming, glass-walled hotels and offices. Right behind them were winding, narrow streets leading into the tourist district of La Mariscal with its array of restaurants and bars. Didier suddenly felt so glad to be in a bustling, busy crowd again. After all the days spent in the rainforest he yearned to just watch other people, to listen to the murmur of their conversations, to hear carefree laughter once more. He was content to just sit somewhere, become for a moment a part of the city, and to absorb some of its energy.

First he took the dollars he’d been given at the Embassy and tucked them into his shirt pocket, buttoning it carefully. Even before coming to Quito he had read how La Mariscal was known to have gangs of pickpockets prowling the streets. He felt he was unlikely to become a target, looking the way he did at present. He in no way resembled a rich tourist, but even so it was prudent to be careful.

One of the nuns at the monastery had found him some clothes to wear: scruffy black trousers, a white shirt
–
a bit too big for him
–
and a pair of canvas shoes. He truly hoped his own stuff was still at the hotel. As soon as he got there he would change and try and smarten himself up.

***

Didier’s next step was to go to a local law enforcement agency.

On his arrival at the main police station he was surprised to find the building that housed it to be quite small and unremarkable looking. He had expected something more imposing in such a big and busy city as Quito. It seemed that the police forces had very limited funds at their disposal. As he entered the station, he saw it was as scruffy on the inside as it was on the outside. All the on-duty officers were busy. He had to wait. Half an hour later a middle-aged, stocky police officer came up to him and took him to his office. The room was small. A couple of filing cabinets lined two of its walls. In the middle of the room stood an old-fashioned desk with a phone, a computer, a few empty coffee cups and voluminous stacks of paperwork scattered all around it and two chairs put on its both sides. Didier sat down in one of them and began to tell his story. The officer listened without interrupting, his face drawn and tired, a wary look in his eyes. Every now and then he rubbed his forehead or scratched the dark stubble on his chin. Only after Didier had finished talking, he addressed him in a weary voice.

‘So you saw the dead bodies in a village by a river but you cannot say where this village is located and you are not sure the grave robbers killed all those men. You assume they did it, but there isn’t any proof to back up your suspicions. Well, you witnessed their leader kill one of his workhands. Correct? You said the leader’s name was…?’

‘Brian Steinwall.’

‘Right, Brian Steinwall. And you think he lives in Cuenca. You saw the men plunder the ancient tombs, steal hidden treasures. You say they were shooting at you and your friend…Fre…Fer…’

‘Florent.’

‘But again you can’t tell exactly where the ruins of the ancient city are located. So how are we going to find them?’

‘Well, I saw them on a map…’

‘Yes, but you don’t have the map. You’ve lost it. Do you remember the exact location? Show me on my map where it is’.

Didier, undecided, looked for some time at the map unfolded in front of him. Then he pointed at an area deep in the jungle.

‘It must be somewhere here or maybe there. I am not sure anymore where precisely. You would have to search the whole area.’

‘Yes, exactly. And do you have any notion how big it is? No, I don’t think you do. The area you have just shown me is very large and extremely difficult to access. Do you imagine how long and how many people it would take to search it? The point is we don’t have enough people to do it.’

‘But you can at least look for this man, their leader… Brian Steinwall.’

‘Yes, that we can do but we also need proof of the crimes you say he committed. Please, fill out this form so that we can file an official police report and start the investigation.’

‘If you find him, and his men…you will put them to prison, protect the Inca treasure and the ancient ruins? Their crimes won’t go unpunished?’ Didier looked questioningly at the officer.

The man didn’t answer. These were surely serious crimes, crimes that couldn’t be ignored. But the expression on his face seemed to say that he did not hold out much hope of bringing the grave robbers to justice soon, if at all, and that he was a very busy man and Didier shouldn’t waste anymore of his precious time with idle talking. The police was severely understaffed and overloaded with crimes closer at hand.

‘One more thing before you go,’ the officer said. ‘Don’t disclose the name of the gang’s leader nor the crimes you saw him commit to anybody yet. Neither talk too much about the ancient ruins or the treasure you have seen there. It might encourage some people to take unnecessary risks and try to find it. Besides, we don’t want to scare the grave robbers. I would really appreciate if you kept this information confidential for some time yet, at least until we have done a bit more digging. We need time to investigate these crimes and to collect enough proof. Without proof we can’t do much. If you need any help, please contact your Embassy.’

‘I’ve already done it.’

***

Afterwards he took a taxi to his hotel, which was in the old historical centre of the city.

‘Didier, I still can’t believe it is really you. But deep down I somehow knew that you were alive. We were told your plane crashed into the jungle in Ecuador, and that there were no survivors. But I did not lose hope even for a moment. However, I could not shake this weird feeling that you were somewhere trapped and in danger, needing urgent help. But I knew that you would return to us one way or another.’

‘All the others died. But do not worry, Mom, I am all right. I didn’t want to stay at the crash site waiting for help that might never come. I left and walked through the rainforest for days on end. But I survived and found a way out.’

‘Thank God you’re okay. But how are you now? Is there anything you need?’

‘Look, Mom, that’s one of the reasons why I’m calling. I have to stay in Quito to wait for my new passport. It could take a couple of weeks and I need money. The French Embassy lent me some, but I have to pay them back and of course I need to survive here and buy a ticket home.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll go to the bank now and try to send it today.’

Didier hung up the receiver, breathed a sigh of unspeakable relief and leaned his head back against his chair. Through the open window he could see a graceful church tower rising over the red-tiled roofs of the low Spanish-style colonial buildings of the old town. Further away, behind the dense undulating mass of different coloured buildings, emerged some mountain slopes: patches of vibrant green vegetation interspersed with houses.

So far everything was going well. Tomorrow he should have money and in a few days maybe his new passport. He was staying in a cosily furnished room in a hotel located in the old historical centre of the city, close to the square of San Francisco with its magnificent church and monastery. Didier lingered in his chair for a while relaxing before he finally bathed, shaved and dressed. Looking into the bathroom mirror he decided he did not look too bad. A few days of rest, and he would surely recover his good looks and resemble his old self.