Last week I started telling the story of how I nearly killed myself in the jungle. If you missed it, you can check it out here.
So, we’d found the village we were looking for. We’d found a guide, and we were ready to go into the jungle the next morning.
I had one of the worst night’s sleep of my life.
Got up in the morning, and decided to walk through the sickness.
Mistake number one.
The walk through the jungle was incredible, I loved every second of it. I followed closely to our guides son, an expert in jungle navigation at the mere age of 4.
After a good trek, we walked through a bog surrounded by what I now call ‘grass of pain’.
But more on that later!
We found the tribal boat, slightly flooded but, with a bit of bailing out, ready to use.
By this time I was feeling rough.
And I don’t mean the hangover kind of rough.
I mean the kind of rough where you feel you’ve been dragged over hot coals and had Michael Flatley tap dancing on your face.
Rather than going downstream, I voted that we stayed on the island in the middle of the lake, made camp and then set off downstream in the morning.
A decision that turned out to be a pretty good one.
Now this island, it was small, very small, and there was some superstition among the tribe about it.
You see, a number of years ago the island had been inhabited by snakes, so nobody could stay on it. Then suddenly, the snakes disappeared. Since then the tribe had used it for one night stays going or coming from their hunting grounds.
What makes this weird?
The snakes local to that area don’t swim.
So, being an island, what the hell happened to them!
To add even more suspicion to the circumstances, the island itself was an un-excavated Mayan tomb. Clambering down the back of the island, the sealed door could be seen through the undergrowth.
To be continued…
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