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Day 13: Die Hard in the Jungle

RIO de SANGRE ECOLODGE,

VENEZUELA

“Everybody up! We’re moving out!”

It was one hell of a rude awakening: a guttural Glaswegian voice barking into the dawn, accompanied by the clashing of saucepan lids like a pair of cymbals.

I understand Juliet McKinney’s urgency, of course. As expedition leader, I’m sure she is under enormous stress, especially as we are a good three days behind schedule.

The latest obstacle is the low water level of the Rio de Sangre River. It is so low that a section of it several miles upstream is impassable for the boats that are supposed to take us to the expedition’s forward operating base at Carimara. But, last night, the area’s strange drought (something becoming more regular due to global warming, no doubt) finally broke.

And it was pretty spectacular.

I swear, more rain than I’ve seen in my lifetime fell in one night (and I’ve only recently cheated a hurricane). Forks of lightning splayed across a purple sky, silhouetting the jungle canopy in its hellish aura. As the storm drew overhead, the thunder sounded like bombs detonating in the heavens, a cataclysmic war between the ancient gods of the Amazon.

The storm pounded our tent all night despite the protection offered by the wooden veranda upon which Sid and I camped. It eventually eased around 4 am.

Not two hours later, we staggered from the tent at McKinney’s order, bleary-eyed. The sun sat low on the horizon, but the storm had passed to reveal sapphire skies and a renewed freshness likes I had not felt since entering the jungle.

Dust and dry soil had turned to mud, while beads of water ran down the enormous leaves of prehistoric trees; birds groomed and bathed in puddles while Mona drank from the natural cups of long-stemmed plants.

The river had swollen back into life, the lush, fertile reddish-brown silt racing down its course to bring new life to drought-ravaged villages.

But the increased water level wouldn’t last long, Tom, the lodge’s owner, explained. Hence McKinney’s urgency.

It was a now-or-never moment.

En masse, the entire team gulped down breakfast, packed our bags and, not an hour later, we were in the boats, powering upriver. The eco-lodge, and Mona, faded into the distance.

Our little fleet comprises six boats altogether. Four motorised canoes carry us scientists, along with our military escorts, all squeezing into the shade cast by the canvas canopy. Another wider but flat-bottomed boat chugs behind us with our bags and equipment. Tom and Miguel, the local man who gave us a walking tour of the forest yesterday, scout ahead in the fifth and final boat, a much smaller blue-coloured RIB.

We slowed as we approached the stretch of river which had been impassable just yesterday. Even now, it was low, the hull of our boat grounding every so often. At one point, the lead boat carrying McKinney and what is quickly becoming her brown-nosing entourage became stuck. Our pilot (a dour-faced, unshaven man with yellowed eyes and a sweat-stained once-white vest) brought our canoe alongside. We helped McKinney and three others clamber across – this was pretty much the most interaction I’ve had with the expedition leader, who seems to have gone out of her way to avoid me. All I got was a gruff thanks as I steadied her arm while trying to keep our boat from capsizing.

Now sitting much lower in the water, our Venezuelan John McClane, in his signature action hero vest, eased us into the middle of the channel where we hoped it was deeper. The third and fourth canoes mimicked our manoeuvre, leaving only about five people on the stricken vessel. With much caution, Tom and Miguel threw them a line and hauled them free.

After unloading our passengers back to their original watercraft, we continued on our way. The pace was achingly slow as we followed one another like a line of ducklings, Tom up ahead, testing the water depth with a long pole.

After what seemed like an eternity, we passed the stretch of low water, but Tom called back to explain that we still had one more obstacle before reaching ‘the easy bit’.

That obstacle turned out to be a set of rapids. They weren’t anything too significant, certainly not for adrenaline junkies. Still, we had to fight against the current as we headed upriver. Most of the rocks ahead of us were submerged when the water level was higher. However, despite last night’s rain, the river is still a shadow of its usual self, according to Tom.

Each of the three canoes took it in turns. We waited and watched as the lead boat powered up the rapids, and then before we knew it, it was our turn.

John McClane gunned the outboard, and we roared ahead, the bow lifting out of the water. We hit the rapids fast and hard, a spray of surprisingly cool water washing over us and eliciting gasps and screams. McClane laughed, his dourness replaced by excitement. He fought his way up the frothing morass of water, angling around jagged rocks which occasionally scraped the hull with ear-splitting screeches.

But then we were up and powering into a much wider channel, heading towards a beach where the first boat lay moored.

We had an extended break here as we waited for the other boats to make their way up the rapids. Del Vega, the head of our Venezuela military escorts, reminded us about the dangers of the rainforest and to be particularly careful of snakes if searching for a toilet spot. We cracked open some of our food supplies and had a lunch of meats, salad and bread (again).

It started raining right about the time we headed back to the boats and set off once more. The river was wide here and seemed to stretch on forever, the odd red colour giving it its name – Blood River – more noticeable in the main channel.

The storm clouds gave us a welcome respite from the scorching sun that had stalked us all morning but, wrapped up in a poncho, I was just as wet from sweat as I would have been if I embraced the weather. After a while, I chose the latter.

Considering Tom said it hadn’t rained in the area for many months, it seemed just our luck that it would do so now (but, hey, they don’t call it a rainforest for nothing, I guess!). Nevertheless, after several hours, and with no sign of an end to the storm in sight, we were all feeling pretty miserable. The wooden boat seats are hard, and there is barely enough legroom, especially for the taller people among us. There is nothing to do – you can’t read or write. You can barely hear one another over the noise of the outboard. And I know what you might think – hey, you’re on this incredible adventure in the middle of the Amazon. Just chill out, sit back and watch the fantastic scenery go by.

Well, you’re not wrong. It is impressive – awe-inspiring even. The long curve of one of the Orinoco’s tributaries; the lush, impenetrable rainforest hugging either shore . . . but, you know what? After looking at it for about seven hours, it gets old. Especially as any detail, any sign of life, is obscured behind a wall of rain and low-lying mist.

We powered through to early evening with only a quick ‘comfort stop’ to break up the afternoon (I love how they call pissing in the jungle a ‘comfort stop’). But, even then, our exhausting day on the water was not over as Tom couldn’t find anywhere to put ashore and make camp for the night. Eventually, he decided to push on to an abandoned lodge about an hour upstream, where he was confident there would be somewhere to go ashore.

Our hearts dropped when we found the beach he had promised flooded (which seems odd considering the drought). By now, it was too late to remain on the river safely, so we had little choice but to take the boats as close to the bank as possible and tie them up.

We waited almost forty minutes as Tom, Miguel, and del Vega jumped into the shallows and sloshed to shore, vanishing between the trees and bushes. Insects descended upon us, buzzing, twitching, biting and stinging at any exposed flesh they could find. Never before have I been more grateful for the leather utility waistcoat my dad gave me on my first dig.

When they returned, they spoke quickly to the other boat pilots and del Vega’s men. Then, boat by boat, we removed our boots, followed Tom’s instructions to tie the laces together and loop them over our shoulders to keep them dry(ish). Then, defying my common sense and any survival instincts that punched through my exhaustion, I followed the others, scrambling overboard into the knee-deep shallows.

Mud, silt, slush and god only knows what else squeezed between my toes, hungrily devouring my feet even as one of del Vega’s men barked at us to keep moving quickly.

We followed him through the submerged trees, following a path del Vega had already slashed with his machete. Away from the river’s main flow, the water was strangely still, stagnant and oddly warm. Fifty metres from the riverbank, it rose to our thighs.

I tried not to think of all those movies where idiotic people wander through murky swamps. You sit at home, on your comfortable couch, shouting at them or scoffing – ‘they wouldn’t do that in real life.’

Apparently, I was wrong.

I knew that hidden from view, swirling in the murky water around our legs, could be caiman, piranhas, and even anacondas. I kept telling myself the old adage about them being more scared of you than you are of them. But I was just happy I wasn’t poor Juan, bringing up the rear of the group – always the first unfortunate soul to vanish silently into the depths.

Finally, the dense undergrowth gave way to a large clearing, perhaps the size of three football pitches. Ahead of us lay the half-submerged buildings of the abandoned lodge Tom had mentioned. It looks more like a discarded set from the Day after Tomorrow than an old tourist retreat.

Hammocks hang just above the water surface. A pool table sits discarded, mid-game; tables and chairs bob on the water. Even an abandoned exercise bike idles, half-submerged.

Up next to del Vega’s man, John McClane kissed the crucifix I’d seen hanging around his neck. The soldier seemed edgy, the first time I’d seen any of our escorts clutching their guns (except for our run-in with some wannabe Hells Angels a couple of nights ago). Even the most gentle and personable of their little troop, Juan, went into proper soldier mode.

McClane decided that was a good moment to tell us a story. He said that the people who had established the lodge, a replica of Tom’s, hadn’t realised they had done so inside the boundaries of a particularly nasty guerrilla group. One night, they had attacked, butchering and raping staff and tourists alike. Their bodies, he said, had been hung from the trees, blood dripping into the water while the jungle’s scavengers ripped them apart.

That’s right.

A bloody warning!

After trekking up a slope, out of the water, and each slinging a hammock between the trees, Tom explained how the government claimed to have brought the guerrillas to justice. He certainly hasn’t had any trouble with them, but then he also did his research and made sure not to encroach on their land.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t just exhaustion that kept our mood subdued as we ate dinner (hastily cooked pasta from a Dutch Oven over a fire). Darkness fell, and the only light came from a couple of smouldering fires Tom and Miguel had started and the head torch of the occasional brave soul who ventured deeper into the trees in search of a bush toilet.

As I sit here now, updating this blog, feeling thousands of eyes peering at me and sending shivers up my spine, I only hope it is the ghosts of those unfortunate souls haunting me.

The alternative is far worse.

Benjamin King

My name is Dr Benjamin King, and I am an archaeologist working on the UNESCO Sarisariñama Expedition. Join me on my epic journey to one of the most remote places on the planet – a tabletop mountain towering above the Venezuelan rainforest. This will be my home for six months as my colleagues and I attempt to unravel the mystery of the ancient ruins that lie buried within an enormous sinkhole. Not only do I blog updates about the project, but also the trials and tribulations of life in the jungle. Something tells me that the danger of the jungle’s predators is nothing compared to the perils of being trapped with the same group of people for the next six months! Don’t miss out on a single moment of this extraordinary adventure - follow me on social media @benking1209 Benjamin King is also the fictional hero of the action-packed adventure series ‘The Xibalba Saga’ by James Richardson. Read it now https://amzn.to/3dD9wZW Stay up to date on new releases and exclusive free content at www.moonmask.net and @worldofmoonmask

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