Writings By Phil

Thoughts On This And That

Alone in the Wilds of Green Hell

October 23, 1978

Today, the road was so bad, had we been in a cross country race with a sloth, we would have lost! We hardly moved. Matt drove the swamp buggy. Paul became the winch man. He was always ready to pull the cable out and hook it around a tree each time we got stuck in the mud. I walked ahead, slopping through the muddy water. My job was to find the high ground and point the way to the others.

Reality was, I was retreating from my cohorts, saying little, just keeping out of everybody’s way. Conflict nipped at our heels, a persistent pursuer that I hated! It was not because I was more spiritual, but because I did not do well in tense situations. Inside, I was still smarting from yesterday’s confrontation. I wanted to avoid a repeat of that!

With the drone from the swamp tractor motor, and the splashing of my feet through the water, I could not make out all the words exchanged between Matt and Paul. From their tone, a number of times throughout the morning, I knew hot words, like ballistic missiles were flying between them. Those bursts of anger were always followed, a short time later, by an apology.* They were keeping short accounts, not letting the sun set on their wrath. I knew that was what God wanted me to do, too. Instead, I felt justified continuing my little pity party, and nursing my hurt pride. Stupid! Holding them tight brought me no joy!

In the early afternoon, the buggy was again stuck in the mud. I had walked ahead to a short stretch of dry road. I sat down on the dirt in a pathetic patch of shadow. The air was so hot and humid around me, the shade did little to lower my body temperature. I sweated profusely, my body melting, sweat dropping off my face, soaking into the ground on which I sat.

Paul came sloshing through the water and came ashore, followed by Matt. When they stood by me, he said, “I can’t go another day like this. I think it best if some of us walk out to Yapacani and hire a logger to return with a tractor and pull us the rest of the way to the railhead.”

“Its best to get help!” Matt chimed in. “So we don’t kill each other!”

We had been going with almost no food for the past three days. We were surviving on handfuls of peanuts, raisins, some hard candies and the stuff that the folk at the sawmill gave us. Everyone was hungry. We were spent physically and emotionally. Our nerves were on edge, and at the slightest provocation, a temper could be lost, fractioning fellowship and even friendships.

I did not want to kill someone, not yet, anyway. However, the hopelessness of our situation was taking its toll on my emotions and well being. I was shriveling up into a melancholy ball of despair. I could not go on like that, either. I took a longing look at the large-leafed jungle plants growing thick by the side of the road. If I could just crawl back in there, out of sight and out of mind, curl up in a fetal position and die, what a relief that would be!

It was but a fleeting thought! I knew the air back in those tall plants would be super heavy with humidity. So much so, if I could but grasp it in my hands, I could probably wring water out of it. The thick growing weeds would cut off all breeze and make me feel I was suffocating. At least, on the open road a occasional wind would caress my sweaty brow. I didn’t want to go out like that! I wanted to die in comfort! In air-conditioning!

Paul and Matt volunteered to walk out to Puerto Yapacani and get help, and of course, bring back some food. I did not feel like walking the three or more hours out to civilization and questioned what good I could do there, since I spoke so few words of Spanish. Besides, someone had to watch after the puppies until help arrived.

Before they left, I dug through my pack and pulled out the can of Swift, a Spam like meat I had been hoarding. The boss man at the Phillips Petroleum drill sight gave it to me just a few short weeks before. I was saving it for a rainy day. There was no rain in the forecast, but we had sweated buckets in the last few days. Sweat dropped from our noses, and chins. That was almost like rain and would have to do! I put the key on the little metal tab and turned it. It tore a ribbon of tin from around the can. I cut the the meat in three pieces. Maybe it would be our last meal. I hoped not. Spam was hardly my choice for a last meal. It amazed me, though, how good a mystery meat tasted when one was hungry!

I watched Matt and Paul walk down the road and out of sight around a corner. Now, I was truly alone! I turned my attention to the dogs. If we were hungry, they were more so. I cooked them up some dog rice mixed with dog meal. We didn’t have much of that, either!

I felt dehydrated. I was always thirsty, and streams of clean water had ceased to exist. I had about a quarter of a gallon of portable water left in my canteen. There was water all along the road, but it was laden with silt and looked like used motor oil. I walked a far piece down the road looking for the clear stream where we got water when we used this road for a gift trail last February. I could not find it and returned to the buggy overheated and very thirsty. I felt so faint.

I dug out my can of beef stew (from the man at Phillips) and ate the whole thing. It was the last food I had, so I hoped Matt and Paul would make it back the next day. Immediately, I felt better and decided to work on the swamp buggy until dark. Better to occupy one’s hands and mind, than do nothing and let imagination fill me with dark thoughts about what might happen to someone completely alone in the vastness of green hell!

I waded through the mud, unhooked the trailer, pulled the winch cable out all the way and hooked it to a tree. Back through the mud I went, started the motor and put both the winch and the tractor into gear. The buggy walked through the mud and was soon on dry land. When I pulled the trailer forwards, it came, but something did not sound right with the buggy motor. Even so, when I hooked the trailer back up to the tractor, I made it to the next mudhole two hundred yards down the road. Once in the mud, it got stuck, again.

As I worked to free it, I was startled when a terrible racket started, emanating from the clutch housing. When I got the thing shut off and opened the bell housing I discovered one of the metal fins between the clutch plates had broken loose. What was left of the clutch was disintegrating even more. I removed the fragmented pieces and put it back together. I was thrilled that it still worked, at least as good as it had that morning. On my walk up the road in search of clear water earlier, I learned that I was not far from good road. I planned to to make a run for it in the morning.

The only time my feet were dry was at night. Over the last few days, we had worked in mud and water so long that the skin on my feet wrinkled. It had turned white, sickly white, like a fish’s belly! My toenails were sore, and soft. If I did not get out of the jungle soon, my clothes would rot off my body! I set my tent up, and threw my sleeping bag inside.

I removed my clothes and hung them on a low branch outside the tent. I knew they would not dry before morning. I already dreaded the yucky feeling that pulling on cold, muddy clothes would entail, come daylight. I found the cleanest mud puddle around and gave myself a bath. The water was still grey in color, but at least the action of bathing implied that I was clean!

I hoped we had left the range of the matiwi far behind. Last night they chewed on me all night. Their bites made me itch so bad, that I could not sleep. I tried escaping into my sleeping bag. Covers made me sweat so much that sleep still evaded me.

I was alone in the dark. Alone in the wild jungle of Bolivia. This was the area where we thought the Indians would be last wet season. I hoped they would not show up all of a sudden like! After all, the woods had been free of loggers for two whole days. There was nothing for the nomads to fear here with them gone. Then there were jaguars to worry about! Because we would be traveling through a lot of little towns on our way to Santa Cruz, we thought it better not to bring a firearm. I would just have to trust in the mercy of God for protection and that of three puppies.

Strange, just a few hours before, I wanted to die. Then, with a belly full of beef stew and having a make-shift bath, I wanted to live. Ambivalence was not a good bedfellow. He kept me awake. Arguing with him was futile! I turned my back on him and listened to the sounds of the night. There were some scary noises out there, alright. I did not know what made them, but I hoped none were something I should fear. The one thing I did know was that I wanted to live till morrow’s light and beyond.

*Potential for conflict was real. As Christian missionaries we were not immune to it. My sharing that conflict in this story has been approved by all parties involved.

More Tales From Green Hell

Something Different

Phil Burns

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