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He recognises a large bush with red, fluorescent berries. Jack is certain he passed it before… or did he? The mosquitoes are thick around his face and arms. He is already covered in bites that have started to swell. From his pack, he squirts on repellent and slaps a hat onto his head. The mosquitoes have scattered, but some still pursue him. Bloody annoying things.
Jack wasn’t good at much, except that he could write, so he became a journalist, but that only lasted for a few months. He left because he couldn’t deal with increasing reports on prevalent, criminal attacks and the pressure of deadlines. Another thread of his life, fragmented.
* * * * *
Not athletic or an outdoors type like Carl, Jack knows he’s crazy being here, but there’s an opportunity that could help redeem his career. Now twenty-three, he doesn’t want to teach English again, he is here to find an uncle who years ago had left Western civilisation and moved to this remote jungle. Living as a nomad, his uncle had met an ancient, indigenous tribe, taken a wife and produced offspring. Jack sees his features in reputable magazines and would like to produce a documentary.
Suddenly, there is a roar and Jack bolts, his pack falls from his shoulders. He trips over and cries out landing on his injured hand. Slowly he draws himself up, touching the outline of a knife in his shirt pocket.
Time passes. Jack can barely swallow when he stumbles into puddles of brackish water. He lurches forward and drinks. The water tastes bitter, but it soothes his throat. Panting, he crawls over and leans against a massive tree trunk. Jack is mesmerised by small, vibrant birds, diving and fluttering amongst umbrella-shaped leaves, the size of platters. His eyes close.
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