Lost in the Jungle Read online

  He cut down a few thick, straight bamboo stalks and chopped off their leafy tops with a swipe of the machete. He tied two stalks together in an asymmetrical X, the bottom half wider than the top. He did the same with a second pair of stalks and stuck the legs into the soft earth. He dropped a long pole between the Xs, tying it down securely. He reinforced each end with a third pole, tied at the crotch of each X, the lower end jammed into the ground. He tied everything together with panchos, the fibres between the bark of a tree and its wood. (Balsa trees yield good, strong panchos, though climbing vines, which are always abundant, are surprisingly resilient and can be tied into many knots without breaking.) He stretched nylon sheeting over the bamboo poles, pulling the edges taut and weighting them down with heavy rocks. He padded the floor of the tent with a thick carpet of leaves to keep us from the cold and damp.

  We got a little fire going and sat around it, preparing rice and tea with spring water. The food wasn’t filling, but Karl told us not to worry; there wasn’t much game here because we were too close to settled areas. Once we passed Asriamas, he promised, we would have all the meat we could eat.

  The noise in the jungle at night is unbelievable. There were moments it seemed as if we were in the centre of some busy industrial area. Karl informed us that it was just insects and birds. We were all exhausted (poor Kevin – I couldn’t even lift his sixty-pound pack full of camera equipment) and soon fell asleep on the ground.

  In the middle of the night I was awakened by a horrible screech. It was Marcus. Kevin had gotten up to relieve himself, and when he passed over Marcus, Marcus woke up screaming, thinking that a wild animal was attacking him. Karl laughed, and we settled down and went back to sleep.

  Before we set out the following morning, we divided the weight that had to be carried more equally among us, though Kevin insisted on carrying more than his share.

  After an easy two hours’ walk we came upon a ranch. The owner and his wife greeted us hospitably, seated us around a wooden table in the yard, and served us ripe papayas and a beverage made from sugar cane and lemon. We rested for a while and then set out once again after ceremoniously thanking our hosts.

  We came upon another ranch as noon approached. As Karl discussed lunch arrangements with the rancher, I wandered about the yard, passing fruit trees, chickens, a pig or two, and a few skinny dogs, who languished in the shade, too lazy even to acknowledge the presence of a stranger.

  Through the door of the cookhouse I could see the rancher’s wife and daughter slaughtering a chicken. The poor bird lay on the floor with a broom handle pressed against its neck, fluttering helplessly. The women caught sight of me, blushed, and fled into the recesses of the cabin. The lucky chicken grabbed her chance to flee, screeching. I walked off, amused.

  For lunch we were served a tasty soup and the unfortunate chicken, despite all that, cooked with rice. While we ate, the dogs gathered around begging for scraps. ‘¡Que flaca [so skinny]!’ Karl marvelled at a scrawny pooch that resembled a German shepherd. She was all bones with matted fur. She gazed at us, her eyes dull and lifeless.

  ‘What would you think about buying the dog?’ Karl suggested. ‘What! Are you nuts?’ Kevin exclaimed. ‘What would we want with a mangy dog?’

  ‘Don’t look at her like that,’ Karl said. ‘You don’t know how important a dog can be in the jungle.’ Then he told us a story that he would repeat at least a dozen times. ‘I once hiked alone through the jungle with only a dog for company. After three days a jaguar appeared, poised to spring at me, but the dog saw it and barked a warning. The jaguar came closer, but the faithful dog lunged and tried to chase it away. I didn’t see any more. I only heard barks and roars.’ Karl started imitating the sounds of a dog and jaguar fighting. It all ended with the dying yelps of the dog being eaten by the jaguar.

  We asked if the moral of the story was that we should have a dog along as jaguar bait.

  ‘Don’t laugh,’ Karl said. ‘She can come along with us, eat a lot of the fresh game that we’ll soon be hunting. She’ll get stronger and turn into a beautiful, lively dog.’ As if anxious to demonstrate his point, he began tossing bones to ‘Flaca,’ angrily driving off any of the other dogs that tried to snatch one of the bones away, and the dog did perk up a bit.

  It wasn’t difficult to talk the rancher into selling her. Karl fastened a rope around her neck. ‘No, no, sweetheart, you aren’t going to go running back home,’ he said to her. ‘I’ll keep her on a leash for a few days until she gets used to me, and then she’ll follow along on her own.’

  Kevin snapped a few profiles of the newest member of our party, and we set out again.

  The damned dog slowed us down terribly. She refused to keep pace with us, and every once in a while she’d lie down and wouldn’t budge. Karl tried everything. First he sweettalked her, promising better things to come. Then he cursed her, threatened her, kicked her, and beat her with a flimsy branch.

  We had a good steep climb ahead, and the dog was determined not to move an inch. Karl dragged her cruelly over every root, dry branch, or rock in her path until Kevin took pity on the poor animal. He untied her, picked her up, and draped her across his shoulders, two legs hanging down on each side of his neck, like a lamb. This was in addition to the heavy gear that he was already carrying.

  The way down was just as steep as the way up had been. We had to be careful not to slip and go tumbling down with our bulky packs. Only Karl hurried ahead, dragging Flaca after him and talking to her out loud. Suddenly Kevin, Marcus, and I lost sight of them. Marcus grew anxious. He wanted us to call out in unison so that Karl would hear us and wait.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Kevin asked. ‘We all have to go in the same direction anyway. We’ll catch up with him sooner or later.’

  Marcus didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t conceal how worried he was. About half an hour later we came to a fork in the path. One direction seemed to be a continuation of the path we had been travelling, and the other cut off to the side. Kevin went striding resolutely along the main track.

  ‘Wait!’ Marcus cried. ‘How do you know that this is the right way? He could have gone the other way.’

  ‘Don’t be so uptight, Marcus. This is obviously the way. If Karl had turned off, he would have waited to tell us. Come on, let’s get going.’

  ‘No,’ Marcus insisted tremulously, ‘let’s wait here and call out until he comes back for us. It could be really dangerous if we lose him. We could get lost all alone in this jungle.’

  ‘Marcus, why don’t you just turn around and go back?’ Kevin asked testily.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Marcus demanded. ‘Go back where?’

  ‘You’re not going to enjoy this. You’re not cut out for it. Why don’t you just forget it and go back to town? It’s not too late. There are a lot of ranches back there on the way. You could even rent a donkey and make it back to Apolo by tomorrow.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Marcus fumed. ‘Of course I’m enjoying myself. Who are you to decide if I’m going to enjoy myself or not?’

  ‘OK, forget it. Just forget it,’ Kevin closed the subject and walked on.

  We trailed behind him in silence, the mood tense. After a while we spotted Karl and Flaca; they were sitting, resting next to a little stream.

  ‘Look what I found!’ Karl called, waving to us.

  He was holding a large frog. I would never have believed that frogs could get that big. It must have weighed at least four pounds.

  ‘They taste like chicken,’ Karl said. ‘I sometimes eat them, but for now I’ll let Flaca have the pleasure.’

  He skinned the frog and tossed Flaca a piece. To our amazement the dog wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Karl’s cooing and pleading did no good. Flaca just wasn’t interested.

  After a few hours of arduous walking we came to a wide river.

  ‘Great,’ Karl said happily, ‘this is the Machariapo River. We don’t have far to go now.’

  The river was deep; its waters c
ame up to my chest. We hung our shoes around our necks. Karl cut some sturdy branches from the trees and demonstrated how to ford the stream, sticking the poles into the rocky bottom to brace ourselves against the current. Kevin went first, and Karl followed behind him, his pole in one hand and Flaca’s leash in the other. The dog treaded water weakly, trying to keep its head above the current. Marcus and I were last to cross. We tottered from side to side and almost lost our balance but finally reached the other side.

  Karl suggested that we set up camp. We were tired enough to agree readily. Once again we erected a tent of bamboo poles and nylon sheeting. Karl started making dinner, and the rest of us stripped and raced back to the river.

  We splashed around in the cool water, swimming with the current and then against it. Marcus had brought some soap, and we passed it around.

  In the morning our packs were on our backs, and our spirits were high. We have just started out when we ran into two campesinos leading a huge, white bull by a rope tied to its horns. We tried to learn from them how much farther it was to Asriamas but couldn’t understand a word of their Spanish.

  A while later we emerged from the jungle into a wide, grassy field fenced with barbed wire. A little bit of paradise. The river cut through the field, and cows grazed contentedly. On the other side of the fence I could see papaya trees. Without a second thought I crawled under the fence, gave one of the trees a good shake, and came back with four ripe pieces. For the past two days we had had barely one square meal a day. The juicy fruit was a pleasure.

  Soon we found the gate to the ranch and went in. The settlement consisted of several mud huts and one two-storey stone building. The people we saw completely ignored us. When we drew nearer, however, the women pulled their children into the huts. Curious eyes peeked out at us. One lone man approached us with a smile. He was drooling and held out one hand, gesturing that he wanted a cigarette. He wore a tattered black hat, and his clothes were a mass of patches over patches. His fingers were encrusted with dirt. He was a dwarf, and his features made it clear that he was retarded.

  ‘Esclavos [slaves],’ Karl muttered darkly.

  A young woman came out of the stone building. She was dressed simply, but not in rags.

  ‘¡Hola! gringos,’ she said in greeting. ‘Looking for gold?’

  She listened, shaking her head doubtfully while Karl told her where we were headed. She poured us some chicha and told us that she was married to the ranch’s foreman. Her husband had gone to Apolo for a few days, leaving her here alone.

  Karl inquired as to the whereabouts of Don Cuanca’s ranch, and she replied that it wasn’t far. She called out a name, and a young boy materialised.

  ‘He will show you the way,’ she said, and gave him an order in Quechua.

  The boy kept his eyes on the ground and led us out of the ranch. We marched along behind him on a path that ran alongside the river.

  ‘What’s the story here, Karl?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘Hard as it is to believe, these people are slaves,’ Karl explained.

  ‘Slaves?’ I asked sceptically.

  ‘Well, you might not call them that, but they are virtual slaves. They don’t receive any pay. They are dealt with harshly. They don’t have anywhere else to go.’

  ‘What about the government? Don’t they help?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘The government?’ Karl laughed. ‘The government, my eye! Those generals stay in power several years, make a bundle smuggling drugs, and once they’re millionaires, they retire. Some other lousy generals take over from them, and history repeats itself. You think they give a shit what happens to a few lousy Indians?’

  We came to level ground and a herd of at least thirty horses. A man stood nearby. The boy walked over to him. Karl shouted to the boy, asking which way we should go, while pointing in what he thought was the right direction. The boy nodded, without looking back at us. We left him and went on.

  After walking for another two hours, nudging Flaca along, we came to a ranch. More mud huts and another stone building, just like the earlier ranch. More grassy pastures and grazing cows. It was all so similar and yet different.

  We hadn’t even entered the yard when we met a little man dressed in tatters holding out his hand and asking for a cigarette. He was drooling. Hell! It was the same dwarf. Could he have left after we did and still gotten here ahead of us?

  The young woman once again came out of the two-storey building. We glared at Karl. We had been huffing along for more than two hours for nothing, walking in a circle and coming back to the same ranch through a different gate.

  The señora laughed in amusement. She said we would be welcome to spend the night at the ranch and even invited us to supper. She showed us to a room with two rickety beds. One would be for Karl, we all agreed, since he was the oldest. We drew lots for the other. Marcus won.

  We ate chicken, rice, and fried plantains by candlelight in the dark cookhouse. The cursed boy, our guide, kept peeking through the window all the while we were eating. He didn’t crack a smile, just looked.

  When we came out of the cookhouse, we found the boy’s father, the man who had been grazing the horses in the pasture, waiting for us. He wanted someone to tell his troubles to. He looked about guardedly, afraid the señora might overhear him.

  ‘Take a look at me,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know how old I am. When I was young, the señor brought me here. He promised to pay me and give me a plot of my own. Look at my clothes,’ he said, pointing to the patches covering his body. ‘I can’t remember how many years I’ve been wearing them. I have no others. I live in that mud hut with my wife and sons. They all work for the señor, like me. They don’t go to school. They don’t know how to read or write; they don’t even speak Spanish. We work for the master, raise his cattle, and work his fields. We only get rice and plantains to eat. Nobody takes care of us when we are sick. The women here have their babies in these filthy huts.’

  ‘Why don’t you eat beef or at least milk the cows?’ I asked.

  ‘We aren’t allowed to slaughter a cow. And the milk goes to the calves. We can’t even have chicken or pork – only if an animal gets sick and dies. Once I raised a pig in my yard,’ he went on. ‘She had a litter of three. When the señor came back, he told the foreman to shoot them. That’s the only time we ever had good meat. I don’t mind working for the señor, but I want him to keep his promise. I want a piece of land of my own so I can grow rice and yucca and raise a few chickens and pigs. That’s all.’

  ‘Doesn’t he pay you anything?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘He says he pays us, but he uses our money to buy our food. We never get any cash. Kind sirs, maybe you could help me to persuade the master. Just one little plot is all I want. The master has land, much land.’

  We were shocked by his tale. Marcus took out a notebook and pen.

  ‘What’s his name?’ He wrote down the name. The man didn’t know the address. He only knew that the señor lived in La Paz.

  Marcus was infuriated. ‘When I find the owner of the ranch, I’ll spit right in his eye. What a lousy bastard! I mean, it’s really incredible.’

  ‘That’s just the way things are,’ Karl said. ‘It’s sad, but there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘I’ll get the owner’s address from the señora,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Don’t, she won’t like it. Anyway she’ll never give you the address.’

  ‘You know,’ said Karl, ‘when I got my degree in agronomy – ’

  ‘Agronomy ?’ I was startled. ‘I thought you said you studied geology.’

  ‘Well, not exactly. I majored in agronomy, but I spent years working here with a famous geologist. I learned geology from him. But it doesn’t matter.’ And Karl was off reminiscing. ‘I was quite a radical as a student, a Communist. The party sent me on a two-month visit to Russia, which was a big disappointment, and I gave up Communism. I went over to another movement, even more radical. It sounded good – very idealistic and high-minded – b
ut my friends became terrorists. Some of them are wanted now internationally. That wasn’t for me. That isn’t the way to achieve your ideals. Fortunately I got out in time.

  ‘I got a scholarship to finish my degree in a tropical climate and was sent to Brazil. That’s how I got to South America, and I’ve been living in jungles ever since. I’ve covered every inch of this continent,’ Karl went on. ‘I’ve seen the poverty, the injustice, the corruption, and the exploitative regimes. I’ve wondered how the world could be changed. Communism isn’t the answer. Neither is violent revolution. I’ve given the matter a lot of thought and arrived at a new social theory. The only way to solve the world’s problems is mathematical cosmopolitics!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean, Karl?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘Just look at the world. All of its problems would vanish overnight if it wasn’t for politicians. There’s enough food to go around, enough land, enough resources. Why do people fight one another? It’s all because of the politicians. They don’t care about the people. They’re only after money and power.

  ‘The world is very advanced technologically. Why should egotistical politicians have control, make all the major decisions? Let’s put a computer in charge. Then government ministers would be nothing but computer programmers, processing data, with no ego trips, no stupid pride, greed, or chauvinism. It’ll all be for the common good.’

  We hid our tolerant smiles as he unfurled his naive theory, but Karl himself was terribly enthusiastic.

  ‘Of course it’s a difficult plan to carry out, so it’s advisable that one nation be first to revolutionise itself, and then its neighbours will follow suit until the entire world has adopted the new system. One central computer will control the whole world, and that will be mathematical cosmopolitics.’

  Soon Marcus and Karl went to sleep on their soft ‘featherbeds’ like nice little bourgeois. Kevin and I stayed up talking.