I passed a couple of tourists walking north, and eventually came to a part of the path that was only passable by water. Luckily, Manuel, a sweet little eight year old Maya boy, was ready with his dugout canoe to take me across for a couple of quetzales.

On the other side, he was telling me (in Spanish) how most tourists don't walk up this far, taking shuttle boats instead. I talked with him a little more, and he explained that there was a jungle path that ran right next to the water all the way up to Belize. He also told me that about a mile up, there's "Siete Altares," a set of natural altars used in rituals by the locals. I said I'd go check it out and said goodbye.

I just kept walking. Sometimes the path would be barely visible amid the jungle vines creeping in, trying to take over again. Other times it would run right along the beach, with bright sunshine lighting the way. I kept walking. The Seven Altars were lovely, but they didn't provide the solitude I was looking for. At least, not from tourists. I kept walking.

Every once in a while I would cross through the backyards of locals, and as the day wore on, I realized that these people were more and more surprised to see me. I guess not many tourists get up this far. In the back of my mind, despite the gorgeous afternoon sol, I felt like I was going back in time.

I kept walking.

At one point, about three hours after I started, when I was climbing through a particularly marshy section of the trail, I heard a grunt from nearby. I looked over to the left, and there was a HUGE ASS PIG standing there, looking at me. Now I had heard that there were certain wild pigs in the jungle who could easily kill a man. I made eye contact for a split second and then I just kept walking. The pig stayed where it was. It must have either been tame or not very hungry or angry. Lucky me.

After I walked for a couple more minutes I started to think, maybe a little too much. "I am in the jungle. I am alone in the jungle." Seeing that pig put me right inside all of those stories I love: Lord of the Flies, The Beach, Heart of Darkness, Apocolypse Now. All of a sudden it was all about survival. My survival. Me vs. Jungle.

(Looking back, I was in little danger. There were locals all around me, even if I couldn't see them. Also, I could easily have turned back the way I came. So, mom and everybody, please just relax and enjoy the story.)

Red
So, when I realized I was at least three hours from "civilization" and it was about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, I found a nice comfortable rock on the beach, sat down, opened my journal, and started writing.

After about 15 minutes, I heard a bark. I looked over and there was a large (large for this country anyway) dog wagging his tail and barking at me. He was smiling. I don't know if it was my state of mind at the time or what, but somehow I knew that everything was going to be alright. This dog would save me.

I calmly put the paper and pen and what was left of my water in my backpack and got up. The dog, who I named "Red", barked again and I followed him. We were back on the path through the jungle. Even though I was tired, I walked fast to keep Red within visual range. I didn't question, I just followed.

We kept walking and came out in a clearing about 15 minutes later. I have no idea about the time, but it felt like 15 minutes. My watch was buried in the bottom of my front pocket. I could smell a fire grilling something delicious, and more importantly, I heard laughter. I never saw Red again.

The Maya families looked at me with great curiosity. After talking to some of them, I found out that there was no town besides Livingston for another two hours or so up the path. I dug out my watch. 3:30. Damn. And I was tired too.

Just being in the presence of other human beings was having a positive and soothing effect. I sat down with them for a little while. Had a meat snack and then decided to go down to the beach and try and flag down one of the tourist boats back to Livingston.

I sat on the beach and waited for about 20 minutes. Nothing. I started to pace, trying to face up to the fact that I might have to turn around and walk all the way back. But then, not long after, a dugout fishing boat passed by fairly close to the shore. I waved at them, and probably out of sheer curiosity, the boat turned and approached. It was a fisherman and his son.

They were from Belize, (apparently I had walked pretty close to the Belizian border), and more importantly however, they were going to Livingston.

After wading up to my lower thighs in seaweed out to the boat, and clumsily vaulting inside, I was saved.

All of a sudden, there I was, sitting in the little boat being wisked back to reality by Juan and Favian. It took almost a half hour to get back. I watched the shore and recognized some of the places I'd passed earlier in the day. I had really walked a long way.

When we pulled into the fishing dock, some of Juan's buddies were smiling and giving him a hard time about me. Where could I possibly have come from? Who was I? I just smiled and tried to make as little impact as possible. But sometimes that's hard for me in this country. I thanked Juan for "saving my life," he said the equivalent of "hey, anytime, no problem."

When Bico caught sight of me he just stared. I don't think I've ever been as dirty as I was, from sweat, dust, saltwater, and jungle grime. He brought me a can of peach nectar, which I drank as we laughed at my story and had a much-needed smoke. When I finally did look in the mirror, I saw an adventure. It's a place I've been before, and a place I'm sure I'll visit again.

So that's how I was rescued from the jungle by a Belizian fisherman, his son, and a dog named Red.

I still can't find those pages I wrote. I hope I do. They are proof that all of this really happened.

©2000 Emma Beyn. Reproduction of this work and photographic images in whole or in part, including reproduction in electronic media, without the expressed written permission of the author is prohibited.