The Rainforest

January 5, 1990.

My name is Jonathan Preston. I’m a college professor and fellow researcher at Oxford University, England. My research involves plants that contain properties of anticancerous substances.  Recently, I heard of a plant that grows in a very remote area of the Amazon rainforest, and am arranging to go there. My informant tells me that this plant is closely related to Tawari (Tabebioa incama) and is about ten times more potent in its ability to treat tumors and cancerous cells as well as fight infections.

I have contacted a guide who informed me we should begin our quest in June. It will be the end of the wet season, and the river and its tributaries will be full of water and suitable for traveling by canoe; however, the trip could be dangerous due to the abundance of poisonous snakes, plants, and disease-carrying insects. The waterways are full of black caimans- a type of alligator ranging from sixteen to twenty feet long. There are also green anacondas and pythons to deal with. Did I mention the piranhas? 

I have much to plan and arrange from now to June, so I shouldn’t be bored til then. I’ll be bringing a young student with me to act as my assistant by the name of “Dicky” Dobson. I’ll call him Dobson, for I detest the name Dicky!

June 10, 1990.

We have arrived at the Eduardo Gomes International Airport in Manaus, Brazil.  Dobson and I are greeted by our guide, Captain Jack Davies. He’s a tall, muscular man who wears kaki clothing and an Australian bush hat. Davies informs me that he has attained three canoes, five porters, one rifleman, and a cook. Davies, who prefers to be called “Captain Jack,” says that the Amazon River is running rapidly now and could add an extra day or two of travel to our journey, but once we enter the tributary, it should go smoothly. He does appear to be confident. Dobson, on the other hand, is most excited.  I believe he’s already shot three rolls of film, and we haven’t even started. Youth!

June 12, 1990.

After spending the night and some of the following day, we travel the eighty km to an indigenous village called Aldeia Cipia.   Despite the proximity to Manaus( the capital and very modern city), the villagers prefer to live traditionally. Upon arrival, we are introduced to the tribal sharman, a sixty-year-old man who is also the chief. We take possession of three cut-out canoes, each made from a single tree. They are full of supplies.   The cook, the rifleman( who is French), and the porters are ready for our expedition. We paid the chief for his services and set off up the river six miles to the tributary that will take us into the rainforest. Everyone’s mood is light and full of hope for our success. Despite the loud churning of our outboard motors, the trip was like a dream, with birds of every color and songs filling the air.  For the next five and a half hours, we battle the mighty current of the flooded river. At times it feels like we are standing still only to break free of the river’s grip and move ahead.

At last, we reach and enter the tributary gushing into the river.   It feels as though we might capsize in the torrent of rushing water but, after a few hair-raising minutes, the tributary calms to a much more navigable flow. Dobson breathes a sigh of relief, causing the porters to laugh.  It is growing late as we arrive at a village along the banking. We wait in our canoes while Captain Jack explains to the chief who we are and what our plans are. After accepting a small, shiny trinket, the chief permits us to camp near the village. Suddenly, there is a loud cry.   We rush out of our tents. One of the porters is lying on the ground, holding his leg. Captain Jack runs past him just in time to see the snake slither away into the forest.

Captain Jack informs us that a false fer-de-lance is the cause of the bite. “It’s a good thing, too.,” he explains. “A regular fer-de-lance would have caused much more suffering and pain. This man will still have significant pain and swelling at the site.” He recommends we send him back to his village where the Sharman can care for him. Dobson inquires why this chief can’t tend to our porter. Captain Jack explains that each village only has enough medicine for its tribe. “Either you come prepared or you die,” Captain Jack warns.

We use a small inflatable boat to transport the injured man with a porter to steer. That night, Alderic, the French rifleman, stands watch but is gone in the morning. We search for a few hours but to no avail. We move on.

June 13, 1990.

The tributary is getting narrower, and its banks are black with caimans.  Young Dobson starts shouting and pointing to the shore to a spot not very far from where we launched.   At the jungle’s edge are a pair of jaguars feasting on some prey. Dobson goes to photograph them and nearly drops his camera into the river, for a black hunter’s boot lay between the cats. The porters become agitated and start grumbling among themselves.

June 14, 1990.

We have awakened this morning to discover that we are alone. During the night, the porters unloaded one of the canoes and used it to return home. Most dishearting. Captain Jack asks me what we should do under our present circumstances. Press on or turn back. I, in turn, ask him if he feels we are any closer to our goal. Jack asks if I know what the plant we are hunting for looks like. I show him a sketch of the plant my informant gave me, explaining that it looks like the Tawari but only a lighter green. Captain Jack scratches his chin with his thumb as he studies the surrounding territory. He then tells me that he thinks we should push on for another day and, if we don’t find the plant, we should return while we still can. Dobson and I agree. 

After traveling for another six hours, we see a safe clearing at the edge of the river and pull in to set up camp for the night. While Jack and I build a fire and string up the hammocks, Dobson slips into the brush to relieve himself. After several minutes, Captain Jack asks me, if Dobson has returned yet. We move swiftly in the direction where we had last seen Dobson. Right away, we see the poor lad on the ground, entwined in the death grip of a giant anaconda. I lunge toward him, but Captain Jack grabs me by the arm and pulls me back, exclaiming, “He’s already gone.” I plead with Jack about how this could have happened so fast. He tells me that anacondas wait in trees for a passing animal and will suddenly drop down on their victim. Their immense weight will knock the prey down, which gives the snake time to wrap their coils around it.  I will never forget that sight for as long as I live—poor Dobson.

 We return to our canoe and push off to anchor in the river for the night.  I sit weeping with guilt.   Jack tells me not to blame myself, but how can I not?   I was the leader of this expedition! Filled with remorse, I ask Jack what I should say to Dobson’s parents.  That I got their son killed? He said to tell them that their son was brave enough to accept the challenge of exploring a dangerous rainforest to find a plant that has the potential to cure cancer and save millions of lives—a heroic and noble act for someone so young as he.  Jack then informs me that he thinks we might be a day or two from entering the rainforest and finding the plant.  Would I like to continue? I respond that we must continue for Dobson’s sake.

June 16, 1990.

We are hacking our way through thick underbrush.  Captain Jack is assuring me that this rainforest area looks promising when he stumbles over a root and falls. He shouts, “Damn!” and hops up holding his hand. When I inquired about what happened, he tells me he is done for. “Whatever do you mean?”I ask. He says a wandering spider has bitten him, and their bite is deadly to humans. This was a female, and her venom is the most potent. He insists we carry on, but Jack collapses after about a hundred yards. I ask if there isn’t anything I can do, but he says that I should go further on and, if I don’t find the plant in the next few hours, I should give up and make my way back to the river. He gives me his identification card. “For my obituary.” and wishes me luck. “Go find that damn plant, Professor.”

I swing my machete wildly until I come to a place where the mosquitoes are so thick that they look like smoke filling the air. Unable to see and barely able to breathe, I turn to retreat when I see the object of our goal.  I spy a small light green plant growing beside a rock.  Eureka!  I swiftly and gently dig it out, place it into a plastic bag, and store it in my backpack. Suddenly filled with renewed strength and great joy, I run pell-mell back down the path, stopping only to tell Captain Jack’s dead body of our success.

Upon reaching the canoe, I jump in and paddle to the middle of the river, where the current is strongest. Badly dehydrated and in need of clean water, I start feeling ill and feverish. Before I realize it, my eyes become blurred and roll up into my head. I pass out.

June 28, 1990.

I regained consciousness in a Manaus hospital recovering from yellow fever. The captain of a tourist boat saw my canoe afloat in the middle of the Amazon River and stopped to investigate. I had to remain hospitalized to be given intravenous treatments and a single shot of yellow fever vaccine. I am most grateful to the tour boat captain.

July 27, 1990.

I’ve returned to Oxford.  I’m still weak but better. I also have gotten in touch with Dobson’s family and returned his camera to them. I apologized and asked for forgiveness. Dobson’s mother said there was no need to ask for forgiveness as her Dicky had grown up in a lackluster life in Oxford, always seeking adventure. “When this opportunity arose, my poor boy told me with tears in his eyes that he was sorry for making me worry, but he had to go.  He just had to.” She thanked me for returning his camera, which had always been with him. “It is like having him home again.”

It turns out that the plant is exceptionally good at reducing cancerous tumors, especially in children. Thank God for that, and may He bless Dobson and Captain Jack Davies for their part in this. Now I think I shall rest.