The plane crash was nothing like I had expected.
There was no Hollywood-style explosion, no mushroom cloud of flame, no thunderous boom of igniting fuel tanks. Yet there was something more frightening about the reality, about the pained whine of struggling engines, the streak of white arcing towards the ground, a distant thud . . .
Then nothing.
Within moments the jungle’s regular cacophony started up again, like an orchestra commencing its next set following an intermission. It was as though nothing had happened. As though I hadn’t just witnessed a tourist plane fall from the sky.
As though I hadn’t just watched ten people die.
The Labyrinth,
Sarisariñama Tepui,
Venezuela
I had planned to use this blog post to update you on our work since Sid, Nadia and I rotated out of the tunnels to ‘Jungle Base,’ the much smaller camp at the base of Sarisariñama’s cliffs. But the events of two days ago overshadow the regular humdrum of expedition life. So I’ll write up my notes to give a more thorough account of life on the jungle floor in next week’s post.
For this week’s entry, all you need to know is that, after being blamed for the wasted efforts digging through a collapsed section of the Labyrinth’s tunnels last week, we were glad it was our turn to rotate away from Base Camp to the jungle floor. Last Sunday morning, my second least favourite person on the expedition, Nathan Raine, ferried us in his helicopter from the summit of the table mountain to the clearing about two kilometres south of its south-eastern cliff. There we met the team we were relieving, whom he flew back to the summit before heading back to Carimara. Meanwhile, one of del Vega’s militiamen, a pretty sour-faced, gruff Venezuelan named Cortes (I presume he does have a first name, but he wasn’t letting on), escorted us to Jungle Camp.
Jungle Camp is much smaller and far more basic than the confusingly named summit Base Camp. It’s only staffed by two arch teams at a time, along with Cortes and another militia man. There are no comfort teams, no tents, and no labs. It is merely a collection of hammocks strung between trees, a handful of camo tarps above, and a constantly simmering fire pit for cooking and boiling water. By comparison, Jungle Camp makes the summit Base Camp look like something Paris Hilton’s father might invest in.
Compared to the supposedly ‘high profile’ work we’ve been doing exploring, mapping and recording tunnels built by an unknown ancient civilisation, the work down here is as equally down and dirty as the camp. That’s probably why McKinney has yet to grace us with the golden glow of her all-consuming presence.
Rather, the work here consists of little more than a jungle equivalent of field walking and test pitting. That’s a fancy way of saying ‘walking around looking at the ground and digging the occasional hole in hopes of finding something’. Neither job is without its merits, but equally, neither job is particularly exciting.
I had just plunged by shovel into the soft earth of the rainforest floor, hoping for some excitement, when the old warning about being careful what you wish for came roaring back at me.
There was nothing particularly unusual about a tourist plane flying overhead. Sarisariñama might be remote, but there are few places left on earth untouched by tourism. After almost five weeks here, we’ve become accustomed to the semi-regular sight of small planes flying over. They fly out of ?, ?, and even Willy’s Airfield at Carimara, looping around La Gran Sabana. Guides point out the various tepuis that litter the area and talk about the region’s wildlife. Most focus on Ronama and Kokenclan, but we’ve probably seen two or three a week make it this far, their interest piqued by the expedition’s high profile.
But there was something different this time, an additional note to the plane’s engine noise. Like something straining. Screaming almost.
Sid, Nadia and I were at the base of the mountain’s cliffs, where the tree cover is less dense, when the odd noise caught our attention. I looked up and spotted the white shape quickly against the blue sky. But rather than the usual gentle banking over Sarisariñama’s summit, the plane seemed to buck in the air, twitch from side to side. Then it dropped into a nosedive which yanked profanities from our mouths until the valiant pilot wrestled control. It levelled out above the jungle canopy, tried to climb again . . . but failed.
That’s when it dropped out of sight, and a few seconds later, the thud of impact reached our ears.
Nadia was the first to break the stunned silence, dropping her equipment and running back to Jungle Camp. When Sid and I arrived, she was already on the expedition’s emergency frequency. She radioed the crash into Carimara, the nearest settlement with an airstrip (though I can’t imagine the ramshackle town is equipped to handle an emergency of such a scale).
It turns out they’re not, but they do have procedures in place, reporting the accident to the relevant authorities to organise a search and rescue operation.
However, we all knew that if anyone had survived the crash, such a rescue could be too late.
Nadia’s next call was to McKinney and del Vega on the summit. She deftly ignored McKinney’s chastisement for using the emergency frequency without her permission, then informed them that she intended to go to the aid of any survivors. While not a practising doctor, one of Nadia’s three degrees is in medical science (or something like that), which she puts to use as an osteoarchaeologist (and the expedition’s chief first aider/ medic).
Even as McKinney and del Vega argued with her, Nadia was looking at satellite images and maps, pinpointing the column of smoke visible above the treeline. Determining that those of us at Jungle Camp were the only people who might make it to the crash site in time to help, McKinney and del Vega finally agreed that Nadia and Cortes could go (though I have no doubt the Russian was going anyway).
We worked out that the crash site lay at the end of a long, deep canyon which whisked water away from Sarisariñama to join the Rio Sangre about ten kilometres away. Getting there would not be easy, especially carrying as much of the Jungle camp’s emergency supplies as possible.
Before I knew it, I was volunteering to help.
I don’t know why. I have no particular life-saving skills beyond rudimentary first aid, and the idea of seeing the results of a plane crash filled me with dread.
I wish I could say it was a sudden discovery of inner heroism that led me to volunteer to help. In reality, I regretted it the moment I opened my mouth.
Cortes reckoned, based on the size of the plane, there could have been a dozen people on board.
That meant there could have been a dozen dead bodies.
Some people think witnessing my mum and sister’s murders and then losing my dad has already messed me up. I’m not sure how seeing twelve bloody bodies could help!
But, within moments, Cortes was strapping Nadia and me up with surplus military equipment- massive rucksacks, helmets, life vests and climbing harnesses. My heart was pounding as I donned them, trying to look as cool as Nadia or as professional as Cortes. The rucksack must have weighed twenty kilos and the threadbare straps, a testimony to the Bolivarian Militia’s poor resources compared to other militaries, dug painfully into my shoulders.
I kissed Sid goodbye, trying not to let the emotion in her eyes weaken my resolve. Then we were off, jogging – yes, jogging! – through the sweltering rainforest. I was already drenched in sweat. I always am. We all are. Occupational hazard, I suppose. So I don’t know how to describe how sweaty I felt after jogging for five minutes, let alone the forty it took us to reach the mouth of the canyon.
We followed Cortes down a muddy path carved by a water channel on its way to reach the larger body flowing from some source halfway up Sarisariñama’s cliffs. Before us, this unnamed river had long ago cut deep into the bedrock, and our path grew more treacherous as it led down between high cliffs.
We scrambled down a final embankment to splash into the surprisingly icy water below. Cortes flicked on his helmet-mounted torch to cut through the darkness cast by the canopy atop the cliffs. It was impenetrable, blocking out all sunlight, hiding the canyon from view. For a moment, I wondered how Nadia had found it on the satellite images. But the shock of the cold water captured my attention.
Cortes insisted we all fully submerge ourselves to acclimatise, setting an example I was compelled to follow. It was an odd sensation, going from the humidity of the jungle to the chill off the canyon and then the frigidity of the river. I imagine there’s some New Age health spa out there where you might spend thousands for such an experience. But, for whatever good or harm plunging my head under did me, the onward trek/wade while the fierce current pulled at my thighs soon increased my body temperature again.
After about ten minutes, we reached the top of a two-metre-high waterfall. Explaining what to do, Cortes turned, folded his arms across his chest then dropped backwards into the pool below. Nadia and I then lowered all three of our heavy rucksacks down to him on ropes then mimicked his actions.
My first backward dive off a waterfall was terrifying. But, only minutes later, we came to another and repeated the process. Then another. And another. Each waterfall grew progressively higher than the last until we came to one which upset our new standard operating procedure.
It was higher than the others – perhaps seven metres – and entombed by marble-smooth walls. The pool down below frothed and churned. Cortes pointed to a dark patch in the pool’s centre and explained that we had to land there; otherwise, the water would be too shallow. Then he jumped, propelling himself away from the cliff and vanishing into the spray.
He reappeared moments later and swam along the pool’s edge to a rockfall. We lowered the bags down, Nadia jumped and then so did I. For a second, I feared I had overshot the mark, that I would miss the black spot in the centre of the poor and smash my bones into the shallows. Sure enough, the water felt more like concrete when I hit it. But then I went under, plunging so far down that my ears popped with an explosion of pain. To my relief, buoyancy propelled me back to the surface, where Nadia and Cortes helped me scramble up the rock.
My numb hands struggled to find purchase on the rocks as I scrambled higher, glad to be following Cortes and Nadia so they could not see my chattering teeth. A mixture of cold, adrenaline and fear, I guess.
The trek through the canyon became a blur after that. My mind shifted into some sort of autopilot, my body responding to the militiaman’s instructions. I obeyed him like an over-trusting puppy trusts its owner. We scrambled over rocks, clung to cliff faces above sheer drops, and swam through deeper expanses of water. The waterfalls grew higher, and, instead of jumping, we resorted to abseiling down, each one slowing us as Cortes prepped ropes and harnesses. On one occasion, Nadia and I waited for over forty minutes while the Venezuelan conducted a technical climb beyond our ability to reach the base of a cascade of water pounding into jagged rocks. He erected a ‘flying-fox’ zip line down which we sent the bags and then followed, gliding with shocking speed to the ground.
Eventually, though, the gloom of the canyon eased, and spears of late afternoon sunlight cut through it. The cliffs grew less ominous, and the thunderous water quietened. The dazzling green expanse of the rainforest lay ahead, and we staggered (or I did anyway, the others more swaggered than staggered) out of the canyon.
After a quick break to get our bearings, we pushed on, slashing at the undergrowth until, at last, we found the plane.
A few minutes later, a gunshot rang out, and our attempt at playing the Good Samaritan went to hell.