Lost in the Jungle (28 page)

‘You’ll live, turtle,’ I pronounced magnanimously, and continued on my way.

Around the next bend I did come upon a beach, but it wasn’t Jaguar Beach. It was quite wide and rocky with a single hut in the centre of it. The hut was leaning to one side as if about to fall over. Other than that there was nothing but a few pilings lying about. A strange feeling overcame me. The beach offered shelter, which meant that there had been people here. What kind of place was it? How was it that I hadn’t noticed it the first time I had passed by here?

I didn’t waste time trying to figure out where I was. I hobbled over to the thatched roof, leaned my pack against one of its pilings, and lay down on the ground for about an hour. I thanked God for having led me to some kind of shelter. I spread the poncho out in the middle of the beach. It was full of holes from the termites. I set a few rocks on it to hold it down and then dragged myself to the river. I stuck my feet in the water and washed the mud from my shoes. Then I filled the tin with water and started back toward the hut. I was almost there when I picked up my head to see how much farther I had to go, and there, beyond the thatched roof, carved on a thick log was the word
Pam
.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Now I understood that funny feeling that had come over me. I was back in Curiplaya.

Suddenly it dawned on me. The storm had washed away the other three huts and almost destroyed this one as well, which was why I hadn’t recognised the place immediately. The floodwaters must have also swept away the four islands by which I had hoped to find Jaguar Beach. The beach must have been washed out, or else it was still under water, and I, in my desperation to reach a resting place, had trekked all the long way back to Curiplaya. Now I understood why Kevin and I hadn’t seen the beach and the island that were supposed to mark the entrance to the canyon. They had probably both been washed out by a flood the year before, only Karl hadn’t been aware of that.

I found the panels of
chonta
wood and, propping myself up on my walking stick, put together a bed. I lay down on the hard planks that were so kind to my back and didn’t budge until evening, other than to cover myself with one of the nets. The urine had dried, but the net still stank and was full of gaping holes, souvenirs of the night before. However, it did keep the flies and mosquitoes off me. I knew that there was still something else that I had to do, a difficult task. I was frightened, as if about to undergo surgery without benefit of anaesthesia. I had to take my socks off. I kept putting if off, trying to get my nerve up.

I sat on the wooden panels. First I removed my shoes, which in itself was agony. Then, little by little, slowly, painfully, I peeled the sock from one foot. It was incredibly painful, torture of a degree that I had never before experienced. The sight of what had been inside was more horrible still: red, raw flesh. There wasn’t a shred of skin left on my foot, and that wasn’t the worst of it. My toes were plastered together in a stinking pulp of blood, pus, and mud. My bare foot was so sensitive that the slightest breeze passing over it was like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into my festering flesh. It was a good thing that I hadn’t removed my socks on the way; if I had seen what condition my feet were in, I probably never would have had the fortitude to go on.

I rested for a short while and then clenched my teeth and took the other sock off. That foot was just as bad. I threw both socks into the tin of water to clean the pus and mud from them. I bunched the second net into a wad and rested the heels of my feet on it. I couldn’t cover my feet with a net; even its light touch was unbearable. Fortunately it had grown dark, and the mosquitoes had ceased pestering me.

I lay there watching the lingering rays of the sun. The light on the Tuichi changed from a blinding glitter to a dull silver to a waver of shadow and finally succumbed to the gathering darkness. All told, I was quite pleased with my situation, having made it to the shore. There had been no plane overhead that day, however. Had they given up looking? If they had, I would surely die here. I hadn’t eaten for almost a week. I was injured and exhausted.

I’m going to die...

I hastily drove the thought from my mind. People don’t just lie down and die, just like that. I actually stood a fair chance of survival. If it didn’t rain tomorrow, I would be able to crawl about and gather up some twigs to get a fire started. I still had rice and beans; I would eat, dry my pitiful feet in the sun, and everything would be all right. Anyway, I was sure that they wouldn’t give up looking for me that quickly. Kevin wouldn’t let them, and neither would the embassy just abandon me. An Israeli citizen is an Israeli citizen after all. This was the nineteenth day since the accident, that is, the nineteenth day of December. I hurriedly calculated that today must be a Saturday. No wonder there had been no plane. The pilot had his own family, children. The embassy was closed, and even if it stayed open, whom could they pressure into looking for me? All of the generals were surely holed up in their own homes. The offices were all closed. There would be no one to call. That meant they wouldn’t look for me tomorrow either, for tomorrow would be Sunday. But on Monday, on Monday they would certainly start looking again. I had no doubt.

There was a hard, round, swollen lump on my forehead. I couldn’t remember how I had gotten it, but it caused me to tremble with pain from time to time.

Just don’t let me get sick. I have to make it through another two days.

A gentle breeze pricked at the soles of my feet but dried them as well. I was very cold, having covered myself with only one net. The poncho was spread out on the rocks, and I had no palm fronds for shelter. I laid the rubber bag over my face but still shivered with cold. I slipped into fantasy and was particularly tormented by one dream: a cheese-and-onion omelette in the old-folks’ home in La Paz. I couldn’t get that sizzling skillet out of my mind, and my empty belly howled for food.

I was so immersed in my daydreaming that I didn’t notice that the sun had come up. I shook myself with a start, but it wasn’t the light that commanded my attention but the sound of helicopters. I could hear the roar of the propellers. My heart in my mouth, I sat up, excited and expectant, waiting for the noise to grow louder and for the helicopters to appear, but I soon realised that it was all in my feverish imagination. I sank back down on the plank, bitterly disappointed. It was Sunday, the twentieth of December. I had been alone in the jungle almost three weeks. Tomorrow help would arrive, tomorrow, the twenty-first of December. They would have to come looking tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the next day, Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday. But Thursday would be the twenty-fourth, the day before Christmas, followed by a long weekend, so that meant that if they didn’t find me by the twenty-fourth, they wouldn’t look anymore after that. In another week I would have been alone in the jungle an entire month, and no one would believe that I was still alive. I myself didn’t believe that I could survive until then. My brother, Moshe, was the only one who might still come to rescue me after Christmas, but I had written him not to take any action until the beginning of January, and it would take him a while to figure out what had happened and to come to Bolivia. I would surely be dead by then.

I tried to overcome my fears, to think positively. I was afraid that they would give up looking, and then I myself would give up and lose my will to survive. I tried to think of some other course of action, some other way to keep myself going. First I considered walking through the jungle once more, trying to make it to San José, but I immediately rejected that option. Even if my feet were to heal before I started out, they were certain to be afflicted once more. The rainy season would last another three months, and I would have no shelter from the pouring rain. Then I wondered if I should try my luck on the river. I could hitch two or three logs together and tie myself to them. I realised, however, that such a plan was out of the question, that it would be suicidal to hazard the river on my own. My memories of being swept through white-water rapids, bashed against rocks, and pulled under the gloomy waters were too vivid for me even to consider attempting it. The only way I would go back to the river was if I knew I was dying. Then I would throw myself into the water. As long as I was still alive, even if I held out for another six months, I wouldn’t hazard the river. Six months in the jungle? Was there a chance of living through the rainy season? Of waiting for the miners to come back to their camp?

My mind raced feverishly, evaluating new ideas as they cropped up, restoring my hopes. I spent hours devising intricate plans; the greater the detail, the better I felt. The excitement kept my mind off the sizzling skillet, my suffering feet, my howling belly, and the irritating lump on my forehead.

First of all, I would stay right where I was, waiting for a plane until Christmas. During that time I would try to get a fire going and take care of my feet. I would dry out the rice and beans and make soup and get my strength back. On the twenty-fourth of December I would empty out my pack. I knew exactly where I was: just a few hours upriver was the Turliamos with its lovely beach, cave, and tamarind tree. I would walk there, stuff my pack with as much fruit as I could, and then walk back to Curiplaya. I could live on the fruit for two weeks, going back for more when necessary. I would save as much of the rice and beans as I could, using them only when I couldn’t find anything else in the jungle. I would build myself a shelter on the hillside, where I would store all my belongings in case of a flood. If necessary, I could easily flee up there myself. At the same time I would reinforce the hut down here, perhaps put up some walls to keep the wind out. Inside I would gather a large reserve of firewood, light the fire once, and never let it go out. It would burn perpetually, day and night.

I would be a Robinson Crusoe of the Bolivian jungle, living here by myself, rising to the task of each new day, which would be simply to live through that day, to find enough food to sustain myself for another twenty-four hours. I was certain that it would not be difficult. I would gradually get to know the jungle: where the fruit trees were, where the rabbits lived, where the deer came to drink. I would get a sturdy stick, make some stone tools, just like the cavemen. One day I would kill a snake and the next a turtle or a frog. I would surely find birds’ eggs up in the hills.

I had a brilliant idea. I would seek out wild chickens’ nests, which usually hold five or six eggs apiece, but I wouldn’t touch the eggs. Instead I would mark the location of each nest and check on them every few days. Five or six nests would mean thirty eggs. The eggs would hatch into chicks within a few weeks. I would let them mature a bit and then one day come armed with one of the mosquito nets and the fishing line. The net would serve as a trap, spread out over the nest and propped up by a stick. I would tie the line to the stick and hide. When the hen came back to her chicks, I would give the line a tug, the stick would fall, and all of them would be trapped. I would rig up a bamboo coop near my camp and keep them caged in it, feeding them with worms and fruit. They would grow up and lay more eggs, and I would have all the omelettes I could eat. Better yet, once a week, on Shabbat (the Sabbath), I would roast a chicken, just like Señor Levinstein at the old-folks’ home. I would become a chicken farmer.

My life wouldn’t be boring. Each day I would have something different to do: hunting, farming, fishing. I still had the fishing line and one hook left. I would put together a slingshot. I could dig holes and cover them with brush. Perhaps I would trap a wild boar, a tapir, or even a jaguar. If I did get a jaguar, I would skin it and have a nice, warm fur coat.

I would be the king of the jungle, like Tarzan. I would live alone, but I wouldn’t go out of my mind. I wouldn’t let the loneliness drive me mad. I would dream my dreams, tell myself stories, let my mind wander endlessly, and never give up hope. Then summer would come, and the rains would stop, and I would once again be among other humans. I would be a celebrity. The modern-day Robinson Crusoe would be world famous. Someone would write a book about me, and it would be made into a movie, and I would get rich. I would build a big house, have my own ranch and a cook and everything else I could possibly desire.

But for the time being... if I could only have that omelette, even without the onions, without the cheese. I had been dreaming for hours, weaving fantastic plans, when the longing for that damned omelette struck again. My whole body shook with pain, and the hunger bored into me. My forehead was burning with fever. The pain was strange, as if something was eating away at me from within. The cool breeze that came up again stung my feet, and my spirits fell. The hell with being famous, with getting rich. I didn’t want to be a hero, I just wanted out of there. If only they would come tomorrow.

The sun was setting, and I braced myself for another long night of pain. I considered crawling over for the poncho, but it seemed so far away. I tried to make myself comfortable. My bones stuck out all over and scraped against the hard wooden planks. Then I got a terrible pain in my stomach. I hadn’t had a bowel movement for the past ten days, and the pain pierced my gut. I rolled down off the bed and crawled on my knees, holding my feet as high off the ground as I could. I sat on a fallen log and tried to empty my bowels, but I was constipated. My attempts caused a strain on the rectum, and the deep cut, which had healed over, opened up again, and I started bleeding. I tried to stop the bleeding with my fingers, and that stimulation helped me to gradually empty my intestines of waste, which was dark green, almost black, and rock hard. I crawled back to my pallet and lay down in relief.