SURFING PARADISE
The jungle was a hot, enveloping mess of vines, trunks and undergrowth. Following the faintest of trails, Christoph Jorda and his girlfriend, Frankziska Stoewe, had been making their way through the forest for hours. By now, past noon, the temperature was approaching 32°C, the heat pressing in around them. Overhead, just visible through the palm fronds, the sky was turning the heavy colour of slate. Having eaten just a coconut each that morning – and weighed down by their cumbersome surfboards – Jorda and Stoewe could have been forgiven for turning back. But, far off among the trees, its sound disturbing the thick, still air, Jorda was certain he heard what they had come for. The young couple had travelled over 4800km in search of the perfect beach – and with it, stainless surf upon which few Westerners had ever laid eyes.
As the sky darkened, Stoewe and Jorda pushed on. Without warning, a tall, broad-shouldered local stepped out in front, machete in hand. Penned in
