JUNGLE FEVER

AN EBONY blackness hung overhead, restricting any light from penetrating the omnipresent fog that obscured the night sky. In the distance, headlight beams penetrated the mist and we could hear the whine of diesel mills spinning at redline. Voices commanding “winch in, winch in … winch out” could be heard toward the crest of the mountain and in the valley below. Viscous, knee-deep mud that had poured over the cuff of my boots was now oozing between my toes and the sub-tropical heat had induced a continuous stream of sweat from our pores. The clock indicated 04:00 and we’d been on the move since 07:00 the previous day. Such is life as a journalist reporting on the Rainforest Challenge (RFC), ankle-deep in one big, fat marathon mud-fest. I slung my camera around my back, picked up a winch line, and slogged up the hill. This night was about survival.

There are few events remaining in the world that capture the essence of the infamous Camel Trophy (CT). Back in the day, the Trophy was a no-holds-barred competition that demanded every fibre of intestinal fortitude, mechanical knowledge and driver ability to survive. The RFC follows suit, pushing competitors, support teams, organisers and media