Read Online Jungleland by Christopher S. Stewart - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher S. Stewart
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multistory hulk of a building on a public square a few blocks from the sea. There were parrots and palm trees in the courtyard. The jungle was only a few blocks away. Other internationals were also putting up there: hard, grizzled men looking for an angle in the frontier, maybe in bananas or rubber. Restless from their sea voyage, Morde and Brown wandered out for a drink at a rough bar. Still, even with a few drinks in them, it was hard to sleep that first night. Voices from the street kept them awake. So did the temperature.
THE FIRST FEW days were enervating. The narcotic heat never let up. It took almost every ounce of their energy to get themselves together and plan out their thousand-plus–mile journey. There was a lot to do. They visited the port looking for boats to take them down the Caribbean coast into the jungle. They went through their equipment, pored over maps, and bought antisnakebite serum made with potassium permanganate. They inquired about guides. Who could help them navigate the wilderness?
As they asked around, they heard about expats living in the river basins: ex-cons who had fled the authorities, dropouts afraid about the war in Europe, prospectors looking to get rich. They heard about some Germans running a plantation and sent word that they were coming.
“The tropics seem to have gotten hold of us,” Morde wrote one day in his journal, as if describing a phantom parasite.
A week passed. Morde felt antsy, worried that they’d never get to the jungle. “The Patuca seems so far away,” he wrote at one point, referring to the country’s longest river, which would deliver them into the deepest parts of the country’s interior.
One night, as a diversion, they made a trip to a sparsely inhabited island off the coast called Roatán. A couple centuries before, the island had been home to a reported five thousand pirates who had worked the seas for shipments of gold and silver leaving the Spanish Main, the area from the Gulf of Mexico down to the Caribbean tip of South America. Morde had heard about some ruins in an inland cave.
It was a stomach-turning boat ride through high seas. Wedged between a man and woman “who smelled of goats,” Morde couldn’t get to sleep. It didn’t help that the woman kept throwing up as the boat rose and fell in the swelling waters. When they arrived at the port the next morning, the explorers joked that the boat was appropriately named— Adiós . They felt lucky to have made it back onto land.
Talking to locals about rumors of ancient life, they heard about “a great light that blazed up [in the sky] and died down three nights in a row.” It had stirred the town into frenzy. What was it? As they stood in the sunshine, a man pointed at the forested interior.
They walked four miles into the bush, looking for the source of the light or some sign of ancient life. When darkness rolled in, they were met by sand flies, which they spent the next few nights picking off their skin. No sign of anything.
Back in La Ceiba that night, they encountered a bloody man outstretched on the dirty street, not far from the hotel. It was late, with few people out. Minutes before, the man had been hacked with a machete, and big red tears of skin flapped from his slender body. Whoever had done it had fled. One hand was completely severed, and his head had been cut wide open, like a watermelon. Miraculously, he was still alive—“left for dead but too mean to die.”
If there was any doubt creeping in on them that night, it was soon after replaced by more than a little bit of hope. They located a ship that was going south, and it would take them down the Caribbean coast to Trujillo, the tiny out-of-the-way city in the east that would be their last stop before entering the jungle.
hotstuffie92
I WOKE WITH A jolt, immediately alert. A gray dawn seeped through the gauzy white curtains. I stared at the ceiling of my room in the Paris Hotel, the same hotel where Morde had
THE FIRST FEW days were enervating. The narcotic heat never let up. It took almost every ounce of their energy to get themselves together and plan out their thousand-plus–mile journey. There was a lot to do. They visited the port looking for boats to take them down the Caribbean coast into the jungle. They went through their equipment, pored over maps, and bought antisnakebite serum made with potassium permanganate. They inquired about guides. Who could help them navigate the wilderness?
As they asked around, they heard about expats living in the river basins: ex-cons who had fled the authorities, dropouts afraid about the war in Europe, prospectors looking to get rich. They heard about some Germans running a plantation and sent word that they were coming.
“The tropics seem to have gotten hold of us,” Morde wrote one day in his journal, as if describing a phantom parasite.
A week passed. Morde felt antsy, worried that they’d never get to the jungle. “The Patuca seems so far away,” he wrote at one point, referring to the country’s longest river, which would deliver them into the deepest parts of the country’s interior.
One night, as a diversion, they made a trip to a sparsely inhabited island off the coast called Roatán. A couple centuries before, the island had been home to a reported five thousand pirates who had worked the seas for shipments of gold and silver leaving the Spanish Main, the area from the Gulf of Mexico down to the Caribbean tip of South America. Morde had heard about some ruins in an inland cave.
It was a stomach-turning boat ride through high seas. Wedged between a man and woman “who smelled of goats,” Morde couldn’t get to sleep. It didn’t help that the woman kept throwing up as the boat rose and fell in the swelling waters. When they arrived at the port the next morning, the explorers joked that the boat was appropriately named— Adiós . They felt lucky to have made it back onto land.
Talking to locals about rumors of ancient life, they heard about “a great light that blazed up [in the sky] and died down three nights in a row.” It had stirred the town into frenzy. What was it? As they stood in the sunshine, a man pointed at the forested interior.
They walked four miles into the bush, looking for the source of the light or some sign of ancient life. When darkness rolled in, they were met by sand flies, which they spent the next few nights picking off their skin. No sign of anything.
Back in La Ceiba that night, they encountered a bloody man outstretched on the dirty street, not far from the hotel. It was late, with few people out. Minutes before, the man had been hacked with a machete, and big red tears of skin flapped from his slender body. Whoever had done it had fled. One hand was completely severed, and his head had been cut wide open, like a watermelon. Miraculously, he was still alive—“left for dead but too mean to die.”
If there was any doubt creeping in on them that night, it was soon after replaced by more than a little bit of hope. They located a ship that was going south, and it would take them down the Caribbean coast to Trujillo, the tiny out-of-the-way city in the east that would be their last stop before entering the jungle.
hotstuffie92
I WOKE WITH A jolt, immediately alert. A gray dawn seeped through the gauzy white curtains. I stared at the ceiling of my room in the Paris Hotel, the same hotel where Morde had
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