When The Jaguar Sleeps: A jungle adventure (3 page)

‘Yes, it is the first time for me,’ said Florent ‘I’ve never been in the jungle before but have dreamt of exploring it since I was a young boy. But I should not have wished for a tough jungle adventure. I never thought it would come true, at least not like this. Now I have my chance but it’s not at all what I had in mind. I just want to get out of here as soon as possible.’

‘Well, as the saying goes “be careful what you wish for”, because you might actually get it. Stop winning about it now. Let’s just be glad we are alive,’ said Didier feeling suddenly an overwhelming need to do something, to keep himself busy. Anything just to interrupt the impulsive stream of thought, to push away old memories that were coming upon him fast. Far too fast and far too many. Too painful. ’I suppose we should stop talking now and start doing something. The evening will start to fall soon. We have to hurry up and build a shelter for the night.’

‘But how?’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.’

The infernal heat pouring down from the sky slowed their movements. They decided to stay close to the wreckage of the plane afraid a rescue team might miss them otherwise. Many hours had passed since the crash and so the odds that the fuselage would explode were rather low. Laboriously they picked up some broken branches and placed them next to the wing of the aircraft to form a frame for a hut. The blinding rays of the sun broke through the canopy of trees and mercilessly burned their skin, already itchy from the many mosquito bites. Their damp clothes gave little protection. Florent found a machete, which had probably belonged to Carlos, and cut some large palm leaves. He spread some on a layer of branches on the ground and used the remaining ones to create a roof. On this they attached a mosquito net Didier had found in one of the rucksacks.

‘I hope it will keep the mosquitoes at bay. Do you think there is enough room for the four of us?’ asked Florent.

‘It will be a bit tight, but we will manage somehow.’

Two hours later dusk fell rapidly. The impenetrable darkness was creeping from all sides and covering them like a soft woollen blanket. High above, the dark-blue inky sky was thickly studded with stars. The temperature, however, did not drop; it was still stuffy and hot. Sweat trickled constantly in thin rivulets down their backs, and their clothes stuck to their skin. Breathing was getting harder and harder with every passing hour. Sometimes it almost felt like being in a steam bath.

They gathered some dry twigs and kindled a small fire. Afterwards they fed it with a few larger pieces of wood so that it stayed burning in the hope of scaring away intruders. In the dim glow of the fire the dark thicket around them took on an unusual spectral and somehow hostile look.

Sleep would not come easily and they stayed up sitting side by side in the shelter. They didn’t talk, just listened to the voices of the jungle that was coming alive. The air all around was vibrating vigorously with a cacophony of mysterious and new sounds. Most of the inhabitants of the rainforest were now coming out to feed. Every minute it became noisier. Strange sounds filled their ears, sounds that were issuing simultaneously from every dark corner: squeaks, howls, growls, grunts. Everything was outdone by a steady, ceaseless concert by cicadas and frogs. At times there was the sound of heavy footfalls, snapping of twigs or rustling of foliage, as if someone was close by, shamelessly sneaking around.

Eventually their fire died away and they were sitting plunged in pitch blackness, huddled tightly in a corner of the hut. Outside, in the thick darkness, pulsated countless brightly glowing dots. The rainforest fireflies with their small lanterns were luring their partners in a nightly game of courtship.

Suddenly all the sounds were drowned by a steady beating of rain. Water poured down from the sky and fell in wave-like veils, turning immediately into muddy puddles upon hitting the ground. Heavy drops drummed rhythmically and powerfully on the metal of the plane’s fuselage and the palm leaves covering the roof of their shelter. The roof did not prove to be watertight. Water was leaking through it and dripping inside. Fortunately the rain stopped as quickly as it had come. Right away the monotonous, but soothing, chirping of cicadas returned. From far off came the sound of an owl hooting, and quite nearby a soft padding of footsteps shuffled through the underbrush, cracking twigs. Unmistakably a large animal was passing by, stepping cautiously as if it was distrustful or undecided. It approached their hideout and passed by very closely, bumping and brushing against the branches.

Florent and Didier froze in fear. The animal sniffed, growled and snorted several times, then walked away, maybe a bit reluctantly, as if disappointed that it had not managed to find any suitable prey.

Then all went quiet.

Hour after hour dragged past. Eventually fatigue prevailed and they slumped to the ground and let the sleep envelope them like a comforting blanket.

A
t Quito airport an emergency was declared soon after the disappearance of the Cessna. Those on duty in the control tower that Tuesday morning made frequent attempts to establish contact with the pilot after the plane vanished from the radar. As radio messages remained unanswered, concern grew. Of course the problem could be loss of communication due to weather conditions. But they could not ignore the possibility that the plane had run into difficulties and had been forced to land, or had crashed, into the rainforest of El Oriente.

Two reconnaissance planes and a helicopter were alerted. It was impossible to know exactly where the Cessna might now be, but the search teams set off to look within a radius of several dozen miles from the point where radio contact had ended. Unfortunately conditions were unfavourable with dense cloud cover limiting visibility. Hours of prolonged searching produced nothing. All that could be seen below was the occasional solitary green top of a tree piercing the clouds.

Just before noon, due to increasingly deteriorating weather, the searchers were called back to base.

The next day began as cloudily as the previous one. It was no use continuing to search from the air. An expedition by land was the only alternative. A team of five under the leadership of Pablo Mendez and Nacho Pacheco - both security professionals working at the Quito airport who had undergone an extensive training in search and rescue operations - set off by Jeep to drive to a village on the edge of the jungle. It took them half an hour to cover the fifteen miles distance.

From there they walked to one of the many tributaries of the Amazon. The tributary was a relatively vast body of water, ochre brown in colour, flowing lazily between two banks covered with lush evergreen tropical vegetation. At a tiny clearing, moored on the shore, two long wooden motor-powered boats were waiting for them. They travelled up the broad river, holding at first close to the shore. They meandered skilfully between black curtains of lianas. Their long tendrils were draping the canopy of most trees that were growing on the riverbank, dangling in the air and in some places almost touching the yellow-brown surface of the water. Soon, however, they directed the boats to the middle of the river ploughing steadily through the swirls of mist hovering low over the water, and once there they pushed on at speed.

Half a day’s travel east lay an Indian fishing village, where they intended to stop and ask the local residents for help. The Indians in these parts belonged to the Quechua tribe. They had been unable to resist the influences of civilisation over the course of the last centuries and wore modern-day dress and lived off fishing and agriculture. However, they had not forgotten the traditional tracking techniques of the jungle, for which their ancestors were famed. Though well trained and with many years of experience, neither Pablo Mendez nor Nacho Pacheco could match them when it came to reading the signs and moving in the treacherous tropical thicket.

The motorboats cut easily through the murky, mass of water. All around almost complete silence reigned, only faintly disturbed by a splashing of waves and the monotonous drone of engines. Every now and again, a black caiman, junior cousin to the alligator, looking just like a toppled tree trunk, slid down the muddy bank of the river and immersed itself in the water, large ripples forming instantly around the powerful reptile.

Late in the afternoon, the search team were relieved to reach the Indian village and see the handful of wooden cottages placed on high stilts and covered with palm-thatched roofs emerging from the vegetation on the left riverbank. In between the cottages, connecting them with each other, ran a few wooden piers.

The forest surrounding the village was shrouded in fog as thick as milk. In the muddy water, near the piers, several young boys and girls were playing. Their cheerful yells and laughter, echoing off the neighbouring walls of greenery, could be heard from afar. Immediately, however, the sound of the motorboats lured the villagers out of their huts: men and women and more children, all dressed in colourful, if ragged and shapeless clothes appeared. One of the men detached himself from the others and headed their way, his solemn lined face expressionless. It was the chief of the village, Alejandro.

After a brief exchange of words he led them to his home, the biggest of the cottages. They had to bend to go in and entered a large room. On the floor in the middle were mats made of woven palm fibre arranged in a circle. They sat down. Alejandro’s wife started right away to prepare a welcome meal for their guests, busying herself in the kitchen part of the hut. She took a big earthen jar filled to the brim with fermented cassava pulp. She put a few handfuls of this into colourfully decorated earthenware bowls, poured over some water and mixed, crushing any lumps with her hands. This made a drink called chicha which she handed to the visitors and her husband. Then she served them all some baked fish wrapped in banana leaves, a dish called bolon de verde, and some fried balls of pre-roasted and then shredded green bananas and cassava flour that had been wrapped in banana leaves and cooked over the fire. Biting off large mouthfuls, Alejandro asked them about the purpose of their visit.

‘Yesterday morning, we fear, a small plane crashed somewhere into the jungle. It carried six people,’ Nacho briefly explained. ‘Immediately we sent out aircraft to investigate but the weather was so bad that nothing could be seen. So now we are searching on foot. The plane must have come down somewhere around here.’ He unfolded a map and pointed to roughly where he thought it might have been. ‘But unfortunately we do not know exactly where. We’ll have to explore the whole area and we need your help.’ Alejandro promised that the following morning his two most experienced guides would lead them out of the village and help them to reach the area. Meanwhile he asked them to spend the night in his hut. Alejandro’s wife and sons had already suspended a few extra hammocks from the ceiling.

On the Thursday morning they were up before dawn. They had a long laborious march in front of them. After some breakfast they took their backpacks and set off taking the narrow path leading away from the village. Two young Indian men led the way at the head of the group. They had to make their way through a tangle of vegetation that was difficult to penetrate and that closed swiftly behind them obliterating nearly every trace of their passage. They walked in single file, watching carefully each step they took and each place they passed. But quite soon fatigue assailed them and they started to feel a burning pain in their legs. The weather that day was particularly hard, the combination of high temperature and high humidity taking its toll even on the most experienced and seasoned of walkers.

The two Indian guides went on moving swiftly, passing through the dense fog-enshrouded thicket and their footsteps on the wet grass and leaves were almost silent. Without a moment’s hesitation they chose the right direction in the jungle maze, as if they followed a plainly visible road running ahead of them. Wearing only T-shirts with short sleeves and jeans rolled up to their knees they walked barefoot. They did not need to use machetes to pave the way; hands and sticks were enough. They advanced through the seemingly impenetrable wall of greenery, their pace steady and unrelenting. They knew exactly which plants could be touched without risk, and which had to be avoided at all costs. The rainforest plants held no secrets from them; they were well acquainted with their properties and effects. They did not carry any water or food supplies because in the jungle they were able to find anything they needed. The jungle was an abundant source of food that they knew perfectly well how to exploit. To quench their thirst they turned to certain species of lianas; their long stems were filled to the brim with a pure, refreshing liquid.

By late afternoon the group felt exhausted. They had only a few miles to go but knew that they had to rest soon. An hour before twilight they stopped and started to prepare for the night. With a few quick and efficient movements of their hands the Indians cut several branches and some long palm leaves and used them to build a hut. Then they kindled a fire and prepared a modest meal. Before long they were all lying down and a deep sleep enveloped them rapidly. Tomorrow at dawn they were going to resume their exploration, hoping to find the missing aircraft. Had it crashed? Would there be survivors? They were eager to get some answers soon.

A
t the crash site the second day in the jungle welcomed the survivors to a cloudy and wet morning. The bleak half-light of dawn that was gradually breaking through the blanket of clouds and the layers of sticky mist seeped through cracks in the branches dispelling slowly the gloom hanging beneath the trees. All the vegetation was covered with heavy dew, drops of moisture sparkling like diamonds in the weak sunlight. The air was saturated with a penetrating, nauseating odour of humid earth, rot and decay. Both Didier and Florent felt sick and drained. They were sitting inertly on the damp palm and banana leaves covering the earthen floor of the shelter saying nothing, just listening attentively.

Nothing unfamiliar could be heard but the usual noises of the jungle.

Then the quiet of the early morning was broken by the sound of loud squawking coming from somewhere close by. Curious, they went outside the shelter and looked upwards, towards the sound. A flock of large, hideous black birds with long, bare necks, evidently lured by the scent of blood, sat on the knotty, gnarled branches of the tree from which the body of Carlos was suspended. They were fighting fiercely for every morsel of his tattered remains, hitting each other hard and ruthlessly with their long, sharp beaks and wide-spread wings while screeching at the same time in a gruesome chorus.

‘Get out of here, right now!’ The enraged Didier threw a small piece of wood at the birds but they did not pay any attention to it, continuing with their grisly feast. In the damp muddy ground around the shelter were fresh large paw prints – no doubt their night guest. They led behind the shattered aircraft, to the undergrowth where the body of the pilot lay. There was not much left of him now, just a few smashed bones and congealed blood.

They went back to the shelter. When they looked at Sandro they noticed to their relief that he had regained consciousness. But his wounded leg was more swollen and inflamed than before and his pale forehead was entirely covered with thick beads of gleaming sweat. He seemed to have a high fever, was shivering all over and kept muttering some indistinguishable words. Although they strained their ears trying hard to make out their meaning, they could not understand anything at all. Sandro stopped talking and looked at Didier and Florent for a moment, bleary-eyed, and just managed to point with his quivering hand to a bottle of water standing nearby. Florent took it and held it to Sandro’s parched and cracked lips. He drank greedily, with short sips, choking slightly from time to time, water rivulets were running down his chin and dripping down the front of his throat messily. Then he closed his eyes, visibly exhausted, and, his head flopped to one side, he almost instantly fell asleep.

Florent looked at Anna’s motionless body. It was pale and cold to the touch. Alarmed, he checked her pulse – nothing. She wasn’t breathing.

‘She’s dead,’ he said wearily. ‘How sad. It’s a damn shame she had to die like that. Where the hell are the rescue teams? Why aren’t they here yet? I so hoped that she would get out of this. What shall we do with her body? We cannot leave her here.’

‘I hope she hasn’t suffered much. She looks so peaceful but so helpless,’ said Didier softly, as if to himself, while a sharp image of Marie-Claire’s motionless body flashed through his mind. With an effort he pushed it away. He had often wondered about the last moments of her life. Had she felt much pain? What were her last thoughts? ‘Well, we don’t have much choice. We must hide her somewhere. The smell of a dead body will attract prey, and the high temperature quickens the decomposition. Where can we put her? We’ve nothing with which to dig a grave.’

‘Let’s hide it in the wreckage,’ said Florent, ‘and cover it with the seats and bits of metal. We shouldn’t worry too much about it getting decomposed because help must reach us today and we will get away from here. The search-and-rescue teams can’t be far away.’

‘I sure hope you are right.’

Wanting to get rid of the body as soon as possible, they half-heartedly started to perform the unpleasant task. They moved Anna’s body then tried not to think about it anymore. Instead, they focused their attention on survival. They felt dazed by the events of the last two days, trying to cope with shifting emotions, mainly fear. At times it was as if it was only a nightmare, and that in a moment they would wake up.

The damp, gloomy morning turned into a steamy, hot afternoon.

The first bright hesitant sunbeams gathered strength and broke through the succulent green wall of tangled vegetation. Transparent, milky-white plumes of steam flew slowly towards the sky, briefly getting caught in the treetops on their way to join the low clouds.

Florent and Didier took refuge in the shelter. From everywhere around came the annoying buzzing of mosquitoes, but fortunately they were protected from bites by the mosquito net and the insect repellent. Regrettably, however, the small spray bottle was nearly empty now. Right at the entrance to their hideout, a whole army of large ants, their bodies black and shiny, ran swiftly and incessantly. The pungent smell of decaying leaves, dead wood and damp soil rose up around them and the infernal heat intensified the sharp unpleasant odour floating in the air.

They stayed seated without speaking or moving for some time, straining their ears to catch the slightest sound of movement, not wanting to miss anybody coming to help. Different noises reached them from the adjacent thicket, but no footsteps. Soon hunger and thirst started to torment them. Almost their entire stock of food was gone. Luckily they still had two full bottles of water. They drank some of it and ate two small bars of chocolate.

Time passed slowly.

The tropical sun beat down mercilessly and the temperature continued to rise. Meanwhile, the black birds had finished their gruesome feast and flown away. The forest was filled now with sweet birdsong, the unrelenting hum of insects, occasional cries of monkeys and parrot squawks.

Idle minutes turned into idle hours.

At some point they noticed that Sandro had opened his eyes and, clearly conscious, was looking around. He tried to get up but failed.

‘What happened? Everything hurts so terribly. Where is Anna?’ He had hardly uttered these words, forced through his clenched throat, when his face twisted in a grimace of pain.

Didier turned to Florent and put his finger to his mouth, warning him not to mention Anna’s death.

‘Lie still, your leg is broken. You need some rest. Do not worry about Anna.’

They gave Sandro a painkiller and then tried to feed him. He ate clumsily, with great difficulty swallowing. Afterwards, Didier took care of the injured leg. It was very swollen, and the wound had begun festering. He washed it with disinfectant and changed the dressing.

After a short time Sandro fell into a nervous, fitful sleep. From time to time his whole body twitched and shook violently, and some muffled groans escaped from his mouth.

Every now and again Florent would look impatiently at his watch. His annoyance grew with every passing minute. The hours seemed to drag on for ever, and rescue didn’t come.

‘What are we going to do if nobody comes to rescue us?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t want to think about it. Not yet.’

Finally, darkness fell and enveloped them again like a feather-soft blanket. They were so tired that they fell asleep almost immediately, lulled by the now familiar jungle sounds.

The night passed quietly.

The next morning, just before dawn, they were awakened by the noise of falling water. Raging torrents of rain pelted incessantly down from the sky and upon hitting the ground turned into multiple rivulets, swelling rapidly into dirty streams and muddy puddles. Huge raindrops drummed their monotonous rhythm on the foliage. The air was fresh with myriads of water droplets that enveloped everything in a light blue-grey mist. Breathing became easier now. Gradually the dark shadows of the night gave way to a pallid morning sunlight. Hastily they went out of the hut and pulled off their clothes. The heavy rain, like a refreshing shower, rinsed away the sweat, mud and dust that had accumulated on their bodies. Florent put an empty bottle under the edge of a leaf and it filled up with rainwater in the blink of an eye.

‘Just in case,’ he said. ‘We can’t have too much drinking water.’

After about half an hour the torrent stopped.

Sandro was still asleep, breathing evenly. A few dark strands of wet hair were plastered to the pale skin of his gaunt face.

Florent and Didier listened impatiently for anyone approaching. Their tired faces were slightly swollen, eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, and on their cheeks and chins thick coarse stubble was growing.

Didier managed to stay stoical, but Florent, as time went by, became increasingly nervous, edgy and aggressive. He could not stay in one place. Every so often he left the shelter, walked around it in circles, then stood for a moment staring intensely at the misty thicket closing around them, and finally went back inside.

‘Nobody’s going to come. You know it deep down. Don’t pretend otherwise! We are trapped here. What shall we eat today? We have nothing left,’ he snapped, his voice irritated.

‘Calm down! Stop fretting and walking in circles. It doesn’t help. You’re getting on my nerves. Yes, you’re right, there is nothing left to eat but look on the bright side and be glad we still have enough water to drink. It could have been worse. We’ll have to go to the forest and find food there.’

‘Calm down? Me? I can’t. I wonder how you manage to stay so calm. Aren’t you afraid? We might never get out of this bloody place alive. Frankly, how long are we going to stay here like this? Maybe no one is looking for us. Otherwise they would have been here by now. We have been waiting so long. We need to start doing something, try to find a way out of here on our own. We can’t wait indefinitely doing nothing. Do you want to die here? I don’t.’

‘And what about Sandro?’ said Didier. Again he saw Marie-Claire’s unconscious body lying in front of him . ‘He cannot walk. Are we going to leave him here? You know perfectly well that alone in the jungle he doesn’t stand a chance.’

‘You can’t only think about Sandro. What about us? If we stay here much longer we will die as well. We have to make a choice. Maybe we can find a village nearby, get help and then come back for him. Do you want this place to become our common grave?’

‘If you want to go, then go,’ said Didier. ‘I’m staying. Surely somebody is looking for us and finally they are going to find us. It is just a matter of time. We have to be patient and wait.’ Feeling anger boiling inside him, Florent turned away with a sullen face and they did not speak to one another for the rest of the morning.

Just before noon, Didier took the machete and without saying a word entered the neighbouring tangled thicket, where he cut a narrow passage, advancing slowly, but steadily. First he’d torn a shirt into small shreds and while walking he put these on the branches he passed, marking his route so he’d be able to find the way back. Inside the rainforest, under the shady trees, light was dim and the air even more clammy and stifling. High above thousands of boughs were closely tangled together and intricately woven into one giant ceiling. Only here and there a small gap let in scanty rays of light. Mingled birdsong sounded peculiar under the great leafy dome, vibrating and hanging in the air. The birds were chirping, screeching, whining, shrieking and whistling so loud that it sounded as if they were trying to outdo each other.

Darting cautious glances around the thick foliage, Didier kept walking slowly. The whole area was swampy and muddy and he felt his feet slipping occasionally on the moss-covered rocks and rotting leaves, sometimes sinking deep into the damp, loamy soil. He climbed over fallen tree trunks blocking his way, their bark partially rotten, partially moss-covered. Never before had he seen such an abundance of plants. He could not help but admire the shades of green and the extraordinary diversity of shapes created by nature. Cautiously he avoided touching the tree trunks and branches, conscious that some of them could be dangerous and poisonous to humans. Even brief contact with their bark, thorns or juice could cause abdominal pain, fever, extensive burns, festering wounds, or loss of vision. Moreover deadly insects and poisonous snakes could be nesting on them, impossible to discern with the naked eye, so perfectly did they blend into the background.

Didier began to recognise some of the vegetation. He noticed fruit trees, banana and pineapple, and palm trees covered with clusters of açai berries. However, much to his despair, the fruits were growing so high up they could not be reached easily. But he’d brought with him a rope and a stick and with these eventually managed to pick some fruits.

An hour later he returned to the shelter carrying an armful of bananas and pineapples. He threw them on the ground in front of Florent.

‘This should be enough for this evening, if not I will bring some more.’

‘At last. It took you ages. You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you back. I was afraid you’d never return,’ Florent said, breathing a sigh of relief.

Sandro woke up. He did not look good. His cheeks were sunken, his skin pale grey. He looked around confused as if he did not understand where he was. An intense, unpleasant smell of sweat emanated from him.

‘How are you?’ Didier asked.

‘I feel very sick, everything hurts, I have no strength left,’ he blurted out in a weak, raspy voice.

They tried to feed him, but he only managed to swallow a few bites.