"The Jungle Doesn’t Forgive":
I stepped off the small plane in Manaus, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and fuel. My heart thumped hard in my chest, a mix of nerves and purpose. I was here to investigate illegal logging in the Amazon, a story that could expose dangerous people and their crimes against the rainforest. My editor had warned me about the risks—journalists had gone missing before—but I couldn’t back out. The truth was too important. At the edge of the airstrip, a man stood waiting, his worn cap pulled low over his eyes. João, my guide, had a serious face, his skin weathered from years in the jungle.
“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice low, barely audible over the hum of the departing plane. His eyes flicked to the crowd, scanning for trouble.
I adjusted my backpack, the straps digging into my shoulders. “I have to do this,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.
He nodded, but his jaw tightened. “Let’s move, then.”
We took a rickety bus to São Rafael, a tiny village on the edge of the rainforest. The road was more dirt than pavement, and the bus rattled so hard I thought it might fall apart. In the village, wooden houses leaned on stilts, their paint peeling from the constant moisture. The air buzzed with insects, and the distant calls of birds echoed from the trees. João led me to a small bar, its walls covered in faded photos of fishermen and riverboats. There, he introduced me to Maria, an elder with deep lines etched into her face. Her hands shook as she poured us coffee from a tin pot.
“The forest protects its secrets,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Those men, the ones cutting trees, they don’t care about the land. They have guns. They’ve hurt people. Be careful, child.”
Her words sent a chill through me, colder than the coffee in my hands. I thanked her, but her eyes followed me as we left, like she knew something I didn’t.
The next morning, João and I set out. The jungle swallowed us whole, its trees towering so high they blocked out the sky. Vines hung like curtains, and the ground was a tangle of roots and mud that sucked at my boots. Every step was a fight, my legs burning from the effort. The sounds were relentless—birds shrieking, insects humming, leaves rustling like someone was watching. I caught glimpses of movement in the underbrush—a monkey swinging through branches, a flash of bright feathers—but it only made me feel smaller, like the jungle was alive and waiting.
João pointed to a rubber tree, its trunk scarred with deep slashes where sap had been bled out. “This is nothing,” he said, his voice tight. “Deeper in, you’ll see the real damage.”
We hiked for hours, my shirt soaked, my backpack heavier with every step. The jungle seemed to press closer, the air thick and hard to breathe. Then, a sound cut through the noise—a chainsaw, its high-pitched whine unnatural against the organic hum of the forest. João stopped dead, his hand grabbing my arm.
“Get down,” he whispered, pulling me behind a massive fern. My heart pounded so loud I was sure it would give us away.
Through the leaves, I saw them—three men, maybe more, in a clearing. One worked a chainsaw, slicing into a mahogany tree as tall as a building. Another stood watch, a rifle slung across his chest, his eyes scanning the trees. A third man stacked cut logs, his shirt stained with sweat. The tree groaned, then crashed to the ground, shaking the earth. The sound hit me like a punch.
“They’re illegal loggers,” João said, his voice barely audible. “This area’s protected. They’re stealing.”
I fumbled for my camera, my hands shaking as I zoomed in. I snapped photos of the men, the felled tree, the stacks of timber ready for smuggling. Each click felt too loud, like a gunshot in the silence. Then the man with the rifle turned, his head snapping toward us. His eyes locked on the fern, and my stomach dropped.
“Hey!” he shouted, pointing. The others stopped, heads turning. The chainsaw went quiet.
“Run!” João hissed, grabbing my hand.
We bolted, crashing through vines and branches that clawed at my face and arms. My boots slipped in the mud, but João’s grip kept me upright. Behind us, the men’s shouts grew louder, their boots pounding the ground. A rifle cracked, and I ducked instinctively, my breath catching in my throat. The jungle was a maze, every tree and vine looking the same, but João seemed to know where he was going.
“Over here!” he said, pulling me toward a shallow stream. The water was cold, tugging at my ankles as we splashed through. I glanced back, seeing shadows moving through the trees. My lungs burned, but I kept running, driven by the fear of what would happen if they caught us.
Joao veered toward a rocky outcrop, a small cave barely visible in its shadow. “In there,” he said, pushing me inside. The cave was damp and narrow, the walls slick with moss. We pressed ourselves against the stone, our breaths loud in the dark. Outside, the men’s voices grew closer.
“Where’d they go?” one growled, his voice rough with anger.
“Check the stream,” another said. “They can’t be far.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth, trying to silence my gasps. João’s hand found mine, squeezing hard, his eyes glinting in the faint light. The crunch of boots on leaves passed by, so close I could smell cigarette smoke. My heart felt like it would burst. Minutes dragged on, each one endless, until the voices faded.
“We can’t stay,” João whispered. “They’ll come back.”
We crept out, my legs trembling so badly I could barely stand. The jungle felt different now, every shadow a threat, every snap of a twig a footstep. João led us toward a river, its water dark and rippling. In the distance, I saw pink dolphins arching through the surface, their grace at odds with the terror in my chest.
“We can’t go back the way we came,” João said, scanning the bank. “We’ll build a raft. It’s our only way out.”
We gathered fallen logs, my hands scratched and bleeding as we tied them with vines. João worked fast, his movements sure, but his eyes kept darting to the trees. “The river’s dangerous,” he said. “Strong currents, caimans. But we have no choice.”
We dragged the raft to the water, its weight making my arms ache. Climbing on, I gripped the edges as the current took hold, pulling us faster than I expected. The raft wobbled, water sloshing over my feet. I tried to focus on the river ahead, but the jungle’s sounds followed us—hoots, screeches, the rustle of unseen things.
“Look out!” João shouted, pointing to a dark shape in the water. A caiman, its eyes like polished stones, glided toward us. My stomach lurched as it lunged, jaws snapping inches from the raft. João swung his paddle, splashing water, but the creature didn’t back off. The raft rocked violently, and I screamed, clutching a log to keep from falling in.
“Hit it!” João yelled, striking again. The caiman thrashed, its tail slamming the water, and the raft spun. We hit a rock, the impact jarring my bones. Wood splintered, and the raft started to break apart, vines unraveling.
“Swim!” João shouted as the current pulled us under. I clung to a piece of the raft, kicking toward the bank, my heart pounding. The water was murky, hiding what might be below. I imagined those jaws closing around my leg, and panic clawed at me. João was beside me, his strokes strong, urging me on.
We reached the shore, collapsing in the mud, gasping for air. My clothes were soaked, my body shaking from cold and fear. João pulled me to my feet. “We’re not safe yet,” he said, his voice urgent. “They could still be looking.”
We stumbled through the jungle, following the river’s edge. My shoes squelched with every step, and my skin itched from insect bites. Hours later, as the light began to fade, we reached a fishing village. Small houses on stilts lined the river, and a family took us in, their faces kind but worried. The mother, Ana, wrapped us in blankets and gave us hot tea.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” she said, her voice soft. “The jungle doesn’t forgive.”
They had an old radio, and we contacted the authorities. I used their ancient computer to send my photos to my editor, my hands still shaking as I typed. João sat beside me, silent, his eyes on the river outside.
Days later, in Manaus, I learned my story had made waves. The photos led to raids, and some of the loggers were arrested. The authorities were still searching for others. As I boarded my plane home, Maria’s words echoed in my head: “The forest protects its secrets.” I’d escaped with my life, but the jungle’s shadows clung to me. The hum of its sounds, the glint of caiman eyes, the crack of that rifle—they’d stay with me forever, a reminder of how close I’d come to being one of the Amazon’s lost.
"The Silent Stretch":
I’m deep in the Amazon Rainforest, part of a small research team studying rare medicinal plants. There are four of us: me, a botanist with a knack for spotting patterns in leaves; Clara, my colleague who can identify a plant just by its smell; Diego, our local guide who grew up on the edge of the jungle and knows its paths like his own hands; and Emma, a quiet photographer with an eye for detail, capturing our work for a university grant. We’ve been hiking for six days, cutting through dense vines, wading across shallow streams, and dodging roots that twist out of the muddy ground like fingers. My boots are caked with dirt, my shirt sticks to my skin, and my backpack straps dig into my shoulders. The jungle hums with life—cicadas screeching, birds calling, something always rustling in the undergrowth.
It started three days ago. We’d set up camp near a narrow river, its water dark and sluggish. Diego picked the spot, saying it was a good place to rest, with flat ground and a break in the canopy overhead. Clara was thrilled, kneeling in the mud to examine a cluster of small, red flowers with spiky petals. “These are new,” she said, her voice bright with excitement. “I’ve never seen anything like them. Could be a breakthrough for painkillers.” She pulled out her notebook, sketching the petals with quick, precise strokes. Emma crouched nearby, her camera clicking as she captured the flowers from every angle, the lens glinting in the dim light. Diego, though, was quieter than usual. He stood at the edge of camp, machete in hand, staring into the trees.
“You okay?” I asked, brushing dirt off my hands as I walked over.
He didn’t look at me. “This place… it’s called the silent stretch by the locals. People don’t come here.”
I frowned, glancing at the dense wall of green around us. “Why not?”
“People disappear,” he said, his voice low. “Loggers, hunters, even researchers like you. They go in, they don’t come out. My uncle used to tell stories about it.”
Clara overheard and laughed, standing up with her notebook in hand. “Sounds like something you tell kids to keep them out of trouble. We’re fine, Diego. We’ve got you, right?”
He forced a smile, but his eyes stayed on the trees. “Just stay close,” he said. “Don’t wander.”
I felt a prickle of unease but brushed it off. Diego was cautious, that was all. He’d guided us through tougher spots than this. Still, as we cooked dinner over a small fire, the jungle seemed to press in closer. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. Frogs croaked, and somewhere far off, a monkey screeched. Emma kept glancing over her shoulder, her fingers tight on her camera strap.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her, spooning beans from a can.
She hesitated, then whispered, “I heard something last night. Like… footsteps. Heavy ones. Circling the camp.”
Clara rolled her eyes, tossing a stick into the fire. “It’s the jungle, Emma. Probably a deer or a tapir. You’re jumping at shadows.”
“Not here,” Diego said, his voice sharp. He was sitting on a log, sharpening his machete with slow, deliberate strokes. “Animals don’t come to this part of the forest. It’s too quiet.”
I listened. He was right. The usual chatter of birds and insects was muted, like the jungle was holding its breath. My skin prickled. “Maybe we should move camp tomorrow,” I said.
Diego nodded. “Good idea.”
We agreed to take watch shifts that night. I couldn’t sleep during mine. Every rustle made my heart jump. The fire had died to embers, and the darkness felt alive, heavy with unseen eyes. I gripped my flashlight, scanning the trees, but saw nothing. By morning, we were all on edge, our faces pale and drawn. Clara tried to lighten the mood, joking about naming the red flowers after herself, but even she sounded forced.
Then we found the tracks.
They were near the river, pressed deep into the mud where we’d filled our canteens. Human footprints, but too large, the toes splayed wide like whoever made them was barefoot. They trailed from the water into the trees, disappearing into the undergrowth. Diego crouched beside them, his face grim. “These are fresh,” he said. “Last night, maybe.”
“Another team?” Clara asked, but her voice shook. She clutched her notebook like a shield.
Diego shook his head. “No one comes here. Not researchers, not locals. No one.”
Emma’s hands trembled as she aimed her camera at the prints. “I told you I heard footsteps,” she whispered.
My stomach twisted. “What do we do?” I asked.
“We pack up,” Diego said. “We leave. Now.”
We broke camp in a rush, stuffing gear into our packs with shaking hands. The jungle was quieter than ever, the air thick and still. As we hiked, I kept looking back, expecting to see someone—or something—behind us. The trees were so dense, their leaves blocking out most of the light, turning the path into a tunnel of green. Every snapped twig, every rustle, made my pulse race.
By midday, we reached a small clearing. Diego stopped so suddenly I nearly bumped into him. “What is it?” I whispered.
He pointed to a tree ahead. Carved into the bark was a rough symbol—an X with a diagonal slash through it. The cuts were fresh, the wood beneath still pale. “That’s a marker,” Diego said, his voice barely audible. “Poachers. Or smugglers. They use this area to move things—drugs, animals, whatever. They mark their paths.”
Clara’s face went pale. “You knew about this and didn’t tell us?”
“I didn’t think they’d be this close,” Diego snapped, his eyes scanning the trees. “We’re too deep. We need to turn back.”
Emma clutched her camera, her knuckles white. “What if they’re watching us?”
Before anyone could answer, a sharp whistle cut through the air. It came from the trees to our left, high and piercing. A second whistle answered from the right. My heart slammed against my ribs. “What was that?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Diego’s face was tight. “They’re signaling. They know we’re here.”
“Run?” Emma asked, her voice breaking.
“No,” Diego said. “Running makes you prey. Stay calm. Follow me, single file.”
We moved slowly, sticking close. The whistles kept coming, closer now, echoing through the trees. I heard branches snap, heavy steps pacing us in the shadows. My mouth was dry, my legs shaky. Clara grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. “This is bad,” she whispered. “This is really bad.”
“Keep moving,” Diego hissed. He led us toward a ravine, its steep walls covered in vines. “If we can get across, we might lose them.”
But as we reached the ravine’s edge, a man stepped out from the trees. He was tall, his clothes dirty and patched, a machete hanging from his belt. His face was weathered, his eyes cold and unblinking. Two more men appeared behind him, one holding a rifle, the other a long knife. Their clothes were mismatched, their faces hard. They moved like they owned the jungle.
“Stop,” the first man said, his English rough but clear. “You’re in the wrong place.”
Diego raised his hands slowly, gesturing for us to do the same. “We’re researchers,” he said. “Studying plants. We don’t want trouble.”
The man smirked, stepping closer. His machete swung lightly at his side. “Researchers,” he said, spitting the word like it tasted bad. “Always poking around. You saw the marker. You know too much.”
My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. “Please,” I said, my voice shaking. “We’ll leave. We won’t tell anyone.”
The man’s eyes locked on mine, and I felt a chill. “Too late,” he said. He nodded to the man with the rifle, who raised it, the barrel glinting. Emma whimpered, clutching her camera. Clara was frozen, her breathing fast and shallow.
Diego spoke in Spanish, his voice calm but urgent. I caught a few words—please, mistake, leave. The leader laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “You think you can talk your way out?” he said. “This is our jungle. You don’t belong here.”
The man with the knife stepped toward Emma, eyeing her camera. “What’s that?” he growled. Before anyone could stop her, Emma raised it and snapped a photo, the flash lighting up the clearing like a lightning strike. The leader’s face twisted with rage. “You stupid—” He lunged, yanking the camera from her hands and smashing it against a rock. The lens shattered, and Emma screamed, stumbling back.
“Stop!” I shouted, stepping forward without thinking. The rifle swung toward me, and I froze, hands up, my whole body shaking. “We’ll go. We don’t want anything. Please.”
The leader stared at me, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, I was sure he’d swing that machete. Then he stepped back, smirking. “Run,” he said. “But if we see you again, you’re dead. All of you.”
Diego grabbed my arm. “Move. Now.”
We stumbled back, half-running, half-tripping through the jungle. The whistles followed us, sharp and mocking, fading in and out. My lungs burned, my legs ached, but we didn’t stop. The trees seemed to close in, branches snagging my clothes like hands. Clara was crying, muttering, “We shouldn’t have come here.” Emma clutched the strap of her broken camera, her face pale. Diego kept us moving, his machete out, slashing through vines.
We reached the river by nightfall and camped without a fire, too scared to draw attention. We took turns keeping watch, but I couldn’t sleep. Every sound—every leaf rustling, every twig snapping—made me jump. The jungle felt alive, watching, waiting. I kept seeing the leader’s cold eyes, the glint of his machete. Were they following us? Toying with us?
At dawn, Diego checked the map. “The nearest village is a day away,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We move fast, we might make it.”
“Might?” Clara snapped, her eyes red. “Those men could be anywhere!”
“We don’t have a choice,” Diego said. “Stay here, we die.”
We pushed on, exhaustion weighing us down. The jungle was relentless—mud sucking at our boots, insects biting our skin, vines tangling our feet. By afternoon, the whistles had stopped, but the silence was worse. It felt like the calm before a storm. Emma barely spoke, her hands shaking every time she touched her broken camera. Clara kept muttering about the flowers, how they weren’t worth this. I just wanted to get out.
We reached the village at dusk, a cluster of wooden huts on the jungle’s edge. The locals took us in, gave us food and water, but their faces were grim when we told them what happened. An old woman shook her head. “The silent stretch,” she said. “You’re lucky to be alive. Many aren’t.”
She told us stories—loggers who vanished, hunters found dead with no wounds, researchers like us who never returned. Smugglers, she said, ruled that part of the jungle, moving drugs or rare animals, killing anyone who crossed their path. The carved markers were their warnings, and we’d ignored them.
We left the next morning, piling into a rickety boat that took us downriver. I kept looking back, half-expecting to see those men in the trees. I never went back to the Amazon. I still dream about it, though—the whistles, the footprints, the leader’s cold smirk. Sometimes I wake up thinking I hear those footsteps again, circling in the dark, and I wonder if they’re still out there, waiting for someone else to stumble into their jungle.
"Chased Through the Green Hell: My Near-Death Trek in the Amazon, 1981":
I was 22, an Israeli backpacker chasing adventure in the Amazon Rainforest in 1981. My friends, Kevin and Marcus, were with me, drawn by stories of untouched jungles and hidden villages. We hired Karl, a local guide with a weathered face and sharp eyes, to lead us to a remote settlement deep in the Bolivian Amazon. His quiet confidence reassured us, but something about the way he scanned the trees made my stomach twist. I brushed it off as nerves.
We set out at dawn, our backpacks loaded with food, water, and camping gear. The jungle swallowed us quickly, its canopy blocking out the sky, leaving only slivers of light to guide us. The air was thick with the hum of insects, the sharp cries of birds, and the rustle of leaves. Karl moved ahead, his machete slicing through vines with rhythmic chops. Kevin, always the optimist, tried to keep things light. “Bet we’ll spot a jaguar,” he said, nudging me with a grin.
“Don’t jinx us,” I replied, forcing a smile. My eyes darted to the shadows, where every flicker felt like a warning.
Marcus trailed behind, clutching his map like a lifeline. “Karl, how far’s this village?” he called, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Three days, maybe four,” Karl answered without turning. “Stay close. Jungle’s tricky.”
That first day was grueling. My boots sank into the muddy earth, and thorny branches scratched my arms, leaving red welts. By nightfall, we reached a small clearing by a stream, its water murky but cool. We set up our tents, and Kevin started a fire, the crackling flames a small comfort against the jungle’s endless noise. I lay in my sleeping bag, exhausted but restless, the distant howl of a monkey keeping me on edge. Around midnight, a rustling near my tent snapped me awake. My heart pounded. “Kevin? Marcus?” I whispered, gripping my flashlight.
Silence. I unzipped the tent, the sound loud in the quiet. My flashlight beam caught Karl standing at the camp’s edge, staring into the dark, his machete glinting in his hand. “What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice barely steady.
“Nothing,” he said, too fast, his eyes not meeting mine. “Go sleep.”
I didn’t believe him. His knuckles were white around the machete’s handle. I crawled back into my tent, my mind racing, imagining predators or worse lurking just beyond the firelight.
The next morning, Karl was different—tense, his movements sharp. He barely spoke as we packed up and pushed deeper into the jungle. The trees grew denser, the air heavier, like the forest was closing in. Around noon, he stopped abruptly, crouching to study the ground. I peered over his shoulder and saw footprints—not ours, too large, too deep. “Karl, what is it?” I asked, my voice low.
He stood, scanning the trees. “We’re being followed,” he muttered. “Keep moving.”
My stomach dropped. “Followed by who?” I pressed, but he just shook his head and started walking again.
Marcus overheard, his face paling. “What’s he mean, followed?” he asked me, his voice tight.
“I don’t know,” I said, glancing back. The jungle felt alive, watching us. Kevin tried to laugh it off. “Probably just some curious locals, right?” But his eyes betrayed his worry.
That evening, Karl stopped us in a small clearing, barely big enough for our tents. “No fire tonight,” he said, his tone final.
“No fire?” Marcus protested, dropping his pack. “Why not? It’s freezing!”
“Too dangerous,” Karl said, his eyes flicking to the trees. “Trust me.”
I didn’t trust him anymore. His secrecy was gnawing at me. After dinner—cold rations of bread and dried fruit—I noticed Karl slip into the jungle alone. My gut told me to follow. I grabbed my knife, a small folding blade I kept for emergencies, and trailed him, moving quietly through the undergrowth. My heart thudded so loud I was sure he’d hear it.
He stopped by a massive tree, kneeling to examine more footprints, fresh and clear in the mud. They weren’t animal tracks—too human, too deliberate. My throat tightened. I stepped out, unable to stay quiet. “Karl, what’s going on?” I demanded, my voice shaking.
He flinched, standing fast. “You shouldn’t be here,” he hissed. “Go back.”
“Not until you tell me the truth,” I said, gripping my knife. “Who’s following us?”
He hesitated, then leaned closer, his voice a whisper. “Bandits. They’ve been on our trail since yesterday. They want our gear, our money. Maybe worse.”
The word “bandits” hit like a punch. I’d heard stories in La Paz—travelers robbed, beaten, or left for dead in the Amazon’s depths. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked, my voice rising.
“Didn’t want panic,” he said, looking away. “I thought I could lose them. We keep moving, we’ll reach the village.”
I wanted to scream, but fear kept me quiet. Back at camp, I told Kevin and Marcus everything. Kevin’s face hardened. “He should’ve told us,” he said, clenching his fists. Marcus just stared at the ground, his hands trembling.
That night, I barely slept. Every snap of a twig, every rustle, felt like the bandits closing in. My knife stayed in my hand, its cold metal a small comfort. At dawn, Karl woke us, his face grim. “We move now. Fast.”
We pushed through the jungle, faster than before. My legs burned, my backpack digging into my shoulders. The air was thick with tension, the jungle’s sounds now a threat. I kept looking back, expecting to see figures in the shadows. Then, around midday, I saw it—a flash of movement, a figure darting behind a tree. My breath caught. “Karl!” I whispered, grabbing his arm. “Someone’s there.”
He froze, raising a hand for silence. We stood still, the jungle quiet except for our ragged breathing. Then, a shout—a man’s voice, harsh and unfamiliar, echoing through the trees. Karl’s face went pale. “Run,” he said.
We bolted, crashing through vines and roots. My heart pounded, my lungs screaming as I stumbled over the uneven ground. Behind us, footsteps thudded, heavy and relentless. I glanced back and saw three men, their faces hard, machetes gleaming in their hands. One had a scar across his cheek, his eyes locked on us.
“Keep going!” Karl shouted, pulling me forward. We reached a river, its current fast and muddy, rocks slick underfoot. “Cross it!” he ordered.
The water was cold, pulling at my legs. I slipped, my knee slamming into a rock, pain shooting through me. Marcus grabbed my arm, his face pale. “Stay with me,” he said, his voice shaking. We scrambled across, the water up to our thighs, and climbed the muddy bank on the other side.
The bandits were close now, their shouts louder, taunting. Karl turned, machete raised. “Stay back!” he yelled. “We don’t want trouble!”
The scarred man stepped forward, his smile cold. “Drop your bags,” he said, his English broken but clear. “No one gets hurt.”
Kevin clutched his pack, shaking his head. “We need this stuff,” he said, his voice cracking. “You can’t just—”
“Your choice,” the scarred man cut in, raising his machete. The other two fanned out, blocking our path.
My heart stopped. We were trapped, outnumbered. My knife felt useless in my hand. I looked at Karl, hoping for a plan, but his face was tight with fear. Then, a new sound—shouts from deeper in the jungle, sharp and commanding. The bandits froze, their heads snapping toward the noise.
A group of men burst through the trees, locals from the village we’d been heading to. They carried bows and spears, their faces stern. Their leader, a short man with weathered skin and kind eyes, shouted in Spanish, pointing at the bandits. The scarred man hesitated, then spat on the ground and signaled his men to retreat. They melted into the jungle, gone as fast as they’d appeared.
The leader approached, speaking rapidly to Karl. I caught fragments—words like “peligroso” and “bandidos.” Karl nodded, his shoulders sagging with relief. “They’ll take us to the village,” he told us, his voice hoarse.
We followed the hunters, my legs shaking from adrenaline and exhaustion. The village was a cluster of wooden huts, smoke rising from cooking fires. They gave us food—rice, fish, and bananas—and a hut to rest in. I sat with Kevin and Marcus, my hands still trembling as I ate.
“We could’ve died,” Marcus said, staring at his plate, his voice barely a whisper.
“But we didn’t,” Kevin said, though his usual bravado was gone, his face pale.
I looked at Karl, sitting alone by the fire, his eyes distant. I walked over, my anger bubbling up. “You knew about the bandits,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Why didn’t you warn us from the start?”
He met my gaze, his expression heavy. “I thought I could handle it,” he said. “I’ve dealt with them before. Didn’t want you to turn back.”
“You almost got us killed,” I said, my voice shaking. “We deserved to know.”
He nodded slowly. “I was wrong,” he said, and for the first time, I saw guilt in his eyes.
We stayed in the village for three days, recovering. The locals told us stories of bandits who roamed the jungle, preying on travelers, stealing everything from gear to lives. Some groups, they said, were never seen again, their fates swallowed by the forest. I realized how close we’d come to being one of those stories.
When we finally left the Amazon, guided by the villagers to a riverboat, I felt like I’d aged a decade. The jungle was beautiful, its rivers and trees unlike anything I’d ever seen, but its shadows hid dangers I’d never forget. I looked back at the green wall of trees as we sailed away, my heart heavy with relief and fear. I never returned.
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