Writings By Phil

Sept 6, 1978 

A mission organization from Switzerland, called Helimission, arrived in Bolivia a few months before. Its purpose was to use their helicopter to do mission and humanitarian work. It was a perfect fit in our quest to find the illusive jungle nomads called the Yuqui. No airstrips were needed. We could be let off on a riverbank or dropped through a hole in the jungle canopy, wherever we wanted to go, and just pay the price of the fuel. The rest of the cost was subsidized by Helimission and Christians back in Europe. The helicopter would save us days of hitching rides on logging truck and walking through uncharted jungle as we tried to pinpoint the whereabouts of the wild ones.

Our team contracted with Helimission for three days of flying. Matt Castagna and I were on the first flight. We did not know where the illusive group had disappeared to, but the vast acreage of virgin jungle below seemed a good place to start. Nick Montgomery, the pilot, set the craft down on a sandbar and Matt and I threw our packs and some other supplies out the door and hastily followed after them. Immediately, we were sandblasted by the downdraft from the rotors. No fun!

With a roar, the helicopter shot downriver, gaining speed. Then, it zoomed up and over the trees on the river’s edge and set a course towards our base on the Rio Hediondo. It would return shortly, bringing more of our team.

Matt and I were two lone souls in the vastness of Green Hell! Except for, maybe, our soon-to-arrive coworkers, we were the only white men within a radius of at least 200 miles. I guessed, one would even be hard-pressed to find a Bolivian within 50 miles of our landing place.

We were truly alone! Or were we? Were the very people we were looking for already spying on us from the shadows of the jungle? I doubted that they were, sure the noise of the helicopter would make them run away. They could be near us, though!

Since I was a child, I had heard the story of the five missionaries in Ecuador who had been killed, on a sandbar, by the very people they sought to befriend. Of course, too, I had read story of Dave Yarwood, one or our own missionaries. He was shot full of arrows while walking across a sandbar in a lone quest to make a friendly contact with a similar group of people. These events transpired years before, bur tragedy could strike again. And, we were on a sandbar!

My morbid thoughts of death were not to my liking. We had no evidence that Indians were even near. Best to get busy! While we waited for the others to arrive, Matt’s and my job was to clear a campsite. We lugged our packs to higher ground, dug out our machetes and started to cut the undergrowth. We knocked down all the weeds and smaller saplings but left the bigger ones that could support clotheslines, jungle hammocks, and tent ropes. The place we cleared would be our home, at least at night, for the next three days.

That morning, my first helicopter ride, ever, gave me joy. Wilderness wanderings, laced with adventure and maybe a hint of danger, filled my heart with eager, but uneasy anticipation. However, the highlight of my day was a letter from CJ.  It was in my pack. I could touch something she touched, smell the sweetness of the hand that wrote the words. She even signed it “Love.” Part of me clamored to believe that a declaration of how she felt about me, but reality told me she probably signed off all her letters that way. I was a friend, like so many others, but nothing special! All I had was a dream of a someday relationship. It was a hope that would get me though the next few days, no matter how hard it got. I wanted to see her, again!

September 7, 1978

Nick dropped the first group on the west side of the river.  That team was comprised of Ed Wiebe, Matt Castagna, and Quichiguaru, a Yuqui Indian from a previously contacted band of the nomads. Following a reverse compass heading, given by the pilot, they would walk back to the river scouring the jungle for signs the wild ones had passed that way. Our group, Alan Foster, Tibaquite and myself were let off on the other side of the river to do the same thing.

Our pilot maneuvered his craft through a hole in the jungle canopy.  The clearing wasn’t quite big enough for the circumference of the rotor and the whirling blades were trimming the tops of some of the trees.  I hoped it wouldn’t crash! He hovered a few feet off the ground and we jumped into a thick entanglement of short brush. Walking through the tangled scrub was hard enough, but the hurricane winds from the rotor threatened to flatten us into the waving bushes. Those helicopter blades really put out the wind! At least, we were not disembarking on a sandbar! I could do without the mouthful of grit that would bring!

We hiked through good jungle and bad. Low areas that were prone to flood during the rainy season were the worst. Sometimes we almost crawled to get through the brush. Worse, those hard places seemed always to be full of stickers, long hooked thorns that wanted to rip the shirts from our backs. We had to be careful as we wiggled our way through the briers.

This was supposed to be just a day trip. We didn’t carry any camping gear. I had some raisins, some fried peanuts and a few pieces of hard candy in my pocket. Apart from that, I only carried a compass in my hand to keep us on the right heading. I would point the way anytime Tibaquite looked back with an inquiring glance. My contribution was minimal, because our Yuqui guide seemed to have a compass built right into his head. Alan brought up the rear. He only carried a .22 caliber rifle.

We arrived back at the river by 1:30, a good time. We figured we went seven kilometers.  The other group was still not back. We believed they had about the same distance to cover.  We would wait for them, but there was no guarantee that they would come out on the same stretch of river.

During our hike we saw a number of animals and birds, sights that always filled me with wonder. I was glad no one shot game for supper. I was content to carry my compass and no more!

Throughout the day I got to practice my Yuqui some.  Learned some new phrases, also: Along there we want to go- A rii yo yaso.  Do you want a drink?  Di jua? The helicopter flew over us a number of times during the morning. Tibaquite would say, “Here he comes!”  I would answer, “There he goes!”  It was fun.

While we waited, Tibaquite went fishing. A short time later he brought back eight big fish that he shot with his bow and arrow.

I was glad when the helicopter returned to collect us all and take us back to our campsite. Comforts would be few, there, but so much better than where we waited. At the camp, there was a place to sleep and our tents or mosquito nets offered some protection from the pesky insects. I couldn’t vouch much for the food because I somehow got stuck with being the cook for this outfit during the three days.  How many ways can you cook rice? At least we had some fish to go with it!

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

• Life Happens (31)
• Love Stories (4)
• Mission Related (1)
• Over-The-Hill In Europe (5)
• Stories of the Mbia (the People) (2)
• Tales From Green Hell 1978 -1979 (60)
• Theme Writing 1971 (2)
• This And That (26)
• Uncategorized (1)