JUNGLE
Previously published by Boomerang New Media in 2006
Published in 2008 by Summersdale Publishers Ltd as Lost in the Jungle
This edition copyright Yossi Ghinsberg, 2016
All rights reserved.
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For Marcus
Queste? Queste? Helaqui! Helaqui!
(Where is it? Where is it? It is here! It is here!)
Vesty Pakos
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am filled with gratitude for life itself if I've learned nothing else from the following story, I've learned that the gift of life is not to be taken for granted. Nothing is mundane; it is all a miracle.
With that said, it must be sweet serendipity that brought my gorgeous wife into my life. Thank you, my Bella Belinda, for beautifying my environments, for being my first mirror projecting such a loving image of myself, and for the world of beauty that is in you, the beholder. I love you.
Thank you, my three daughters, Mia, Cayam and Nissim who teach me unconditional love, unshakable trust, and total acceptance. I am constantly overwhelmed by your grace. You bring deeper meaning to my existence, and through you, evolution makes sense.
To my parents: from you I learned that being a happy old person is the purpose of life, for our last moments colour it all. I pay respect to you, for my debt will never be paid.
My brother Moshe and his wife Miri are my heroes whom I look to for inspiration. Their compassion is intrinsic, and service is their way of life. Such fine specimens of humanity are indeed rare to find.
It is said that each one of us is personally assigned a guardian angel. Well mine has been exposed. He goes by the name of Ron Fremder, and a real angel he is.
'When a student is ready, the teacher will appear' was just an adage until you manifested in my life, Rohm Kest, my sensei. Your teachings have transformed me I bow to you every day. To Bharat Mitra, my friend and partner, you are a living inspiration to me it must be my good karma to have met you.
I am a fortunate man of many assets, and these are my friends. Like solid rocks in calm and rough waters, in them I rejoice and find respite. I love you all. You are my tribe.
CHAPTER ONE
MEETING MARCUS
If I had never fallen in with Marcus in Puno, I might never have met Kevin or crossed paths with Karl. If I hadn't met Karl that morning in La Paz, Kevin might well have spent Christmas with his family, and poor old Marcus might still be wandering South America with his girl. But that's not the way things happened.
When I arrived in the Peruvian town of Puno, my knee was hurting badly; walking was terribly painful. A French mochilero (backpacker) offered me coca leaves to chew.
'Have a little of this,' he said. 'You'll feel better.'
I put a pinch of leaves in my mouth and chewed on the strange little rock, another gift from the Frenchman. The rock, made of pressed liana ashes, extracts the active alkaloids from the leaves and causes them to ferment in the mouth. Without the rock there's no fermentation, no effect, no high. All it did was put my tongue and the roof of my mouth to sleep.
I rose early the next morning feeling better nevertheless. The boat to the island of Taquile would be leaving at eight o'clock. The truth is, I could have headed straight to Cuzco, where all the mochileros start out on their trips to the legendary city of Machu Picchu, the ancient Inca capital, but I preferred to make a brief detour and visit the storied island.
Taquile rises out of Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world. The shores of the lake were filthy, but when one looked out toward the horizon, the water was shimmering. Mountainous islands peeked through the mist that blanketed the lake. It was a beautiful sight.
I had no difficulty finding the ferry. In effect, it found me.
'Taquile or Los Uros?' a small boy asked me.
'Taquile,' I answered.
He led me to a boat on which a few people were already waiting: a few young Germans and a group of French youths, who were staying at the same hotel as I was. I took a seat close to the stern and read a book.
Soon it was time to start. The pilot, an Indian, stuck out a long pole, which he used as both rudder and oar, and gestured to the boy to cast off the rope securing the nose of the boat and push us away from the dock.
'Espera, espera [wait]!' a mochilero running, panting, cried breathlessly, and climbed down into the boat. 'I almost missed it,' he said to the Indian in Spanish, 'gracias.'
He sat beside me, and as I moved to make room for him, he smiled at me. 'You're Israeli,' he said in English.
I looked down at the book I was reading, Albert Camus's A Happy Death in an English translation. I was astonished. 'How could you tell?'
'I knew right off. You Israelis have taken to the roads in droves.'
'My name's Yossi,' I said.
'Nice to meet you. I'm Marcus. I came here straight from the train station. Lucky for me I caught the boat. I would have had to wait a whole day for the next one.'
Marcus went on talking as if we were old friends. 'The train was the pits. I left Juliaca early this morning. It's impossible to get anything to eat on that train. I haven't had a bite. I hope we get to the island fast. I'm starving.'
I pulled a roll, some cheese, and an orange out of my pack and offered them to him.
'Thanks,' Marcus said. 'I've noticed Israelis always share whatever they have. I appreciate it.'
He made himself a sandwich of the roll and cheese and ate hungrily. The orange was his dessert.
'I'll pay you back when we get to the island.'
'Forget it,' I told him. 'I've heard things are expensive in Taquile. If it's all right with you, we could stay together tonight and share our food.'
'I'm in.'
Marcus turned to the Germans and had a lively conversation with them in their language. Then he turned to the French group and spoke French with them. He had a compelling personality, and in no time we were all acquainted, talking and joking like him.