Obsidian eyes glare at me.
They are framed by red and yellow circles which sweep over the men’s cheeks. Headdresses catch the sunlight, their colours testament to the demise of numerous parrots and other birds. Yet, in an odd juxtaposition of the traditional and the modern, three such headdresses sit on top of baseball caps. One even sports the Nike logo.
The more frightening incongruity is the combination of longbows and blowpipes with rusted machetes and even a single twin-barrelled rifle that looks like it’s been ripped from a John Wayne movie.
And so we remain in a strange sort of standoff. Sid, Nadia and I trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. The five Indian men and two young women making no such attempt.
AT THE FOOT OF Sarisariñama Tepui,
Venezuela
This unexpected encounter occurred just this morning, on our last day at Jungle Camp. No, I’m not participating in a crappy Ant and Dec-hosted reality show (or un-reality, as my father liked to call it). That is just the unfortunate name we’ve adopted for the scattering of hammocks, tarps and firepits at the base of Sarisariñama’s staggering cliffs.
In a previous post, I alluded to the different lifestyle down here compared to the summit. However, a plane crash and escape from drug smugglers kind of outshined that, so I’ll forgive you for glossing over it.
All in all, this is definitely the ‘short straw’ of expedition assignments, and I’m looking forward to heading back to the summit tomorrow. Even if it does mean another helicopter ride with Nathan Raine.
He’s even smugger now, after ‘rescuing’ us during the commotion last week. There was nothing heroic about it though – he literally just flew his battered helicopter to our location and took Nadia, me and an injured militiaman, Cortez, back to Carimara. I’ve encountered more heroic bus drivers racing around the streets of Oxford.
I digress.
So, the idea behind the Jungle Camp and the ground excavation is simple enough. We assume that the Tunnel Builders must have left the tunnels sometimes … humans can’t live underground indefinitely. So there should be some trace of them, both on the summit and the jungle floor. Hell, the scale of the operation to excavate the tunnels and line them with masonry is unthinkable. Where did all that dirt go? Where did the stone come from? What tools did they use? How big was the labour force? Where did they live? What did they eat?
The list of questions goes on and on.
Regardless of what the tunnels were used for after construction, it is inconceivable that there would be no trace of the construction operation.
Yet, there’s no trace of it.
There’s no trace of anything, in fact.
I mean, sure, the jungle floor is pretty big, and we’ve only got two teams down here at any time. They dig test pits and look for any geophysical anomalies indicating earthworks, like those at Xindu National Park in Brazil. Even following a structured grid pattern, test pitting (literally digging pits at set intervals from each other in hopes of finding something) can be a bit hit or miss.
We also have to factor in the environment we are working in: the rainforest. All you have to do is look at the mulch beneath your boots – or even the degrading boots themselves – to see how the humid jungle environment consumes anything organic: clothes, food, bone, wooden tools. But we should still expect to see stone tools if nothing else.
But there is nothing.
Nada.
Niente.
And it’s not just down here. They’ve not found anything in the tunnels, the summit, or the sinkhole floor either.
It’s as though the Tunnel Builders were nothing but a bunch of ancient eco-tourists employing some prehistoric form of ‘leave no trace’.
And so we’ve slogged on, day after day, digging holes and finding nothing. Sweating, swatting bugs, then sweating some more.
The way of life is more basic down here. Simpler. In a way, I don’t mind it, though I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to a constant fear that the narcos from last week’s excitement would pop along to get revenge for what happened.
They’re not the only things to worry about either. Forgetting for the moment our near encounter with a jaguar, the summit seems pretty safe by comparison. Just two days ago, for instance, a four-foot-long caiman came for a wander through Jungle Camp. While it didn’t pose the same menace as the Orinoco crocodile we saw on our journey to Carimara weeks ago, I wouldn’t want to argue with it. And on mine and Nadia’s first night after returning from Carimara, we spotted an ocelot hiding in a tree on the camp’s perimeter. Both creatures had probably come to scavenge food. They wouldn’t be dragging anyone off to a gristly death anytime soon, but they are a reminder that we don’t belong here.
Our unexpected guests this morning were another such reminder.
They arrived in three canoes while Sid, Nadia and I were digging about five metres from the water’s edge. Whether they came specifically to see us or just happened to be paddling past and grew curious about us, I cannot say.
At first, they simply stopped paddling and drifted, staring at us. Of course, we stared back, silent, not wanting to alarm them or create any misunderstanding.
Then two men began talking to each other, gesturing to the cliffs of Sarisariñama. It sounded like they were arguing but, unsure of which ethnic group they belonged to, for all we knew, they always talked animatedly.
After a very long time like this, they rowed to shore and clambered out of their boats. They were all bare-chested, including the women, wearing grass skirts around their waists.
And they were silent again, staring at us with those hard obsidian eyes.
We all stayed that way for a very long time.
It felt like hours – certainly many minutes.
I decided someone had to break the awkwardness, so I stepped forward, head bowed slightly, palms turned towards them to show I was unarmed.
That was a mistake.
The men’s reflexes were lightning-fast, and, in the blink of an eye, they aimed their assortment of traditional and modern(ish) weapons at me.
I froze.
One man, his face marked by a swath of claw marks stretching from brow to chin, barked at me again. Whether he was the group’s official leader was unclear, but he was definitely the alpha male. And, assuming he had survived a closer encounter with a jaguar or other clawed creature than I, I was in no hurry to piss him off.
Unfortunately, Sanchez chose that moment to make a dramatic entrance. The Venezuelan militiaman (one of our babysitters) burst out of the undergrowth, rolling across the muddy ground into what I can only assume to be an expert battle pose. Down on one knee, a rifle of some sort lodged against his shoulder, eye peering down the barrel. No doubt he could have sprayed our visitors with bullets and dropped them all in seconds, long before their own weapons could have caused any harm.
“No!” I barked, surprising myself as I stepped into the soldier’s line of fire. An angry tirade of Spanish assaulted my ears, but I ignored it, keeping my eyes fixed on Scarface.
The Indian was poised, ready to strike, sinewy muscle bunched. I pictured him grappling with a jaguar and coming out on top, holding no allusions to standing a chance against him should he strike at me.
Sanchez shifted position, trying to peer around me, but Sid hissed at him, telling him to lower his weapon. He argued, of course, bringing Nadia into the discussion, but finally dropped the barrel of his gun a couple of centimetres.
Scarface recognised the gesture but gave no order to mimic the militiaman’s actions to his people. Instead, never taking his eyes off me, he slipped from the boat into the water with barely a sound. It was as though the water obeyed him and refused even to create a ripple to mark his passage.
Then he was on the bank, striding towards me.
Sanchez growled at me. I ignored him.
“Ben?” Sid whispered.
I ignored her.
Scarface was everything now. My world. My very existence hinged on his whim, and I was powerless as one strong, rough hand reached up and grasped my neck.
I struggled to control my fear. No, scratch that. My terror.
His finger’s tightened, and I fought my urge to break away and flee, to roll to the side and give Sanchez a clean shot, or even to rip out an move from my student wrestling days and fight back.
It was a test, I realised. Or hoped.
So I stood straight, strong, maintaining eye contact, masking my true feelings.
Scarface grunted after what seemed an eternity. He released some pressure from my windpipe and moved his hand up my neck to cup my chin. He turned my head towards the outline of Sarisariñama above. Above the staggering cliffs, the sky had turned purple. Tumultuous clouds roiled, a distant rumble announcing the coming storm like war drums echoing across the jungle.
He uttered a word.
A single word.
“Death.”
Then he was gone. Like a wraith, slipping silently away, leaving me stunned. I do not know whether it was his unexpected use of English, the primal power of his proximity, or the icy hand that his word had sent down my spine.
The rain fell then, dropping like a stage curtain across our little drama, obscuring the canoes, and they slipped into the mist that arose from the river and vanished.
I lie here in my hammock now, writing this. Night has fallen, but still, the rain falls; still, the silhouette of Sarisariñama stands against the otherworldly purple sky; still, its presence, and Scarface’s words, haunt me.
It was just a word, right? A single word uttered by an indigenous tribesman versed in the myth and superstitious folklore of the Evil Spirit and the mountain?
Then why does it feel like a warning?
One I should heed?
“Death.”