Will to Live: Dispatches from the Edge of Survival by Les Stroud Page B

teachers. As Anna shows me how to shove my net deep into the muddy water to corner the fish, Laura, who was busy trying to get some video footage, falls backward into the murky stream. When she surfaces, the first words out of my mouth are “Is the camera okay?” Everything we do, we do as a group, including laughing together.
    It is the night before I am to set out on my week-long survival test. Tomorrow, I will be deposited in the heart of the jungle, alone. Before sleeping, I take my satellite phone out to the airstrip to call home. It is my only link to the outside world, and on this night I need to hear familiar voices. Instead, I hear a low growl from about sixty yards away in the pitch-black jungle. I make a beeline back to the hut. The growl belongs to a full-grown puma that has been hanging around the area.
    Sleep proves difficult. I’m more anxious about this survival stay than any other, yet I’m also exhilarated; surviving in the Amazon jungle is my personal quest. Bug screening covers my hammock. This is good, given that our hut is filled with annoying, biting gnats. Also, the alternative—sleeping on the floor while thousands of army ants and the odd tarantula crawl over me—is worse. Before we embark in the morning, the elders ceremoniously paint my back and arms with ink made from plant dyes. I am immediately swarmed by bees. They, along with wasps and butterflies, will be my constant companions for the next seven days.
    My greatest insect foe, though, is a huge, two-inch-long ant they called the manyi (or bullet) ant. It has a monster-sized set of chompers on the front end and a massive stinger on the rear. A sting from one of these ants is said to feel the same as jamming a pair of red-hot pliers into your skin, twisting it hard, and holding it there. The pain doesn’t diminish for at least five hours. The Waorani fear this bite more than snakebites, yet I’m amazed when one of the kids skillfully catches one for me using a small piece of grass twisted like a noose. In the days to come, I will step barefoot beside at least six of these devils.
    I will also plunge my hands deep into muddy riverbanks in search of catfish, praying I don’t instead get a handful of electric eel—or a fresh-water stingray, the most feared creature of all. I will suspend disbelief and do a number of things that go against all my instincts. But this is jungle-style survival, and all bets are off. My crew, including paramedic Barry Clark, will wait for me back in the village, just in case.
    On day six of my week alone in the jungle, I go for a short walk to relieve myself at the end of the day while the sun is setting. I look up to see a huge spotted jaguar not more than fifteen yards away. Concentrating on slowing my breathing and keeping the monster cat in sight, I slowly make my way back to my bush camp. I hadn’t planned on following the jungle trail home until tomorrow, but this unexpected visitor is reason enough to cut this adventure short. I don’t mind suffering for my art, but I’m not interested in getting eaten for it.
    The sun is setting and darkness falling fast as I start to pick my way home. The trail is small and tangled, and I use the video camera’s night-vision function to guide my way. I set a quick pace, constantly searching for the jaguar. The big cat stalks me all the way back to the village.
    After what seems like an eternity, I come to the edge of the airstrip and hastily make my way into the fenced enclosure of the village. I’ve made it. Barely.
    Later that night, as I lie exhausted and spent in a hammock that now feels like the ultimate in luxury, Jim wakes me up. “Listen,” he says, and motions to the side of our hut. Clearly audible is the growl of the jaguar; he will continue to circle the village all night. The next day, Kinta hikes out to where I first saw the big cat and tells me that, by the size of the prints scattered all over the equipment I’d left behind, he is a 250-pound