Death Like A Shadow

Yuqui Contact, Pension

Feb17, 1978

Road coverred with water. No way to keep boots and socks dry!

A cloudy sky blocked the sun. It made the day seem cooler than the day before. We walked the road in the opposite direction from yesterday, headed north. Along the way we hung out gifts for the nomadic Yuqui to find. I broke a sweat before we decided to turn back, but at least I didn’t feel like heatstroke would kill me and leave me beside the road!

We walked less than an hour, on a mostly dry road, before our path was swallowed by water. So much for dry shoes and socks! We kept going hoping to reach higher ground, trying to stay on the tops of the ruts dug by the tires of the logger’s fleeing skidders and other heavy equipment. It was a hopeless goal because the mud was slick, and the water laced with enough dirt that it was hard to see where the high rims ended, and the ruts fell away into knee-high canyons. The water was cool to our feet and the sun hot to our heads. After sloshing around a bend in the road, we came to a long straight stretch and as far as we could see, the road was under water.  We gave up and headed back to camp. All totaled, we only put up three gifts, each marked by our customary white strip of old bed sheet.

Back in camp, for the rest of the morning, we cut brush with a machete. We wanted a clear buffer around our camp’s perimeter, just in case the wild Yuqui showed up one day. That was our desire, we wanted the Indians to come! However, if they could sneak up, and get close to us, hidden behind small trees and weeds, a seven-foot-long arrow shot from an even longer bow, might lodge somewhere in one of our bodies and be our first indication that the Yuqui were nearby! The nomads were unpredictable, and we didn’t want to give them an opportunity to ambush us!

In the afternoon I read a few chapters of The Day Lincoln Was Shot. I also wrote three letters.  They won’t go out until Wally goes down to take Paul’s place at the base. The married men were taking turns back at the Rio Hediondo outpost to make sure the women and children were safe, to mow the airstrip, and to fix anything that needed fixing while the rest of us were at the Pension. Since Matt and I were single, we would be there for the duration.

Our camp at the Pension

After supper I played my harmonica. How I missed my piano! However, a harmonica was a lot easier to carry in my backpack or pocket! Back home, I did well playing songs I knew on the piano. Not so much with the harmonica. Seems I always blew it! Thankfully, so far, none of the other guys complained about my playing.

Putting my harmonica away, I wrote in my journal while there was still enough light to see.    The swamp bogie seemed to be the coolest place to do it, so I climbed up in the seat and began to write, filling another page in my notebook.  The mosquitoes weren’t bad enough to drive me to the protection of my bed and mosquito net, but come night fall, that would be the best place for me to be!

Denny and Alan washing clothes in Swamp behind our camp

While I was writing in my journal, Denny Decicio walked by me armed with his .22 caliber rifle. Dusk was a good time to go hunting because many animals bed down during the heat of the day and come out of hiding at dusk or after dark. Even before Denny got out of camp, he saw something down the road and began to sneak up on his potential prey. Then he dropped all caution and began to run. He fired two shots, and I heard him yell, “I got it!”

At that same instance, Alan Foster and Matt Castagna walked into camp from the opposite direction and they ran down to see what Denny was shooting at. Two more shots broke the stillness of the evening. Turns out Denny shot a deer, but only wounded it.  Alan pulled the trigger, firing the last two shots to put the animal out of its misery, to make sure it didn’t crawl into the brush, and thereby assure its meat ended up on our dinner table. It would be good to have something besides that pig to eat!  Jungle deer were small, not like Montana deer!


When trying to befriend savage Indians one can’t help but think about death.  I did not fear death so much, but the pain of dying worried me.  I did not like pain and the thought of dying stuck full of arrows or hacked up with machetes was unpleasant. However, I would rather cross Jordan shot full of arrows, than be mangled to death in an automobile crash. At least then, I would feel my death served some greater purpose; that it was orchestrated by God to bring the wild Yuqui to know Him! Of course, I would not know the purpose nor the outcome before it happened, but oh the joy on reaching the Golden Shore! Then too, I knew that car accidents sometimes propelled Christians to Glory! Let God be God! It was best to let Him choose the when and how!

I tried not to let the fear of death control me. It helped to have something to do. Walking the gift trail, clearing brush, reading a book, devotions and reading my Bible, all helped to keep the morbid at bay. I knew the Yuqui could show up at any time, but so far, we had not found any evidence that they even returned to these parts this year in their nomadic wanderings! The longer we went without contact with the illusive group, the less foothold expiry would claim in my thoughts. As days stretched into weeks, and new surroundings faded into the familiar, I knew I would think less and less about an ambush and the possibility of dying. All of us would. I hoped that wouldn’t be to our determent!

My biggest disappointment, if I were to die, would be that I would never see CJ again, that I would never marry her or any other girl. On the other hand, if I were to die there would be no more disappointment, sorrow or hurt.  There would be no more desire, good or evil: Absent from the body, present with the Lord, and at His right hand, pleasures for evermore! What could be better than that!

FIN


This story was from the category Tales From Green Hell. If you would like to read more of my experiences in the jungles of Bolivia, please click on that link below.

More Writings by Phil

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