The Expedition

By Alfred Balm

The truck stopped on the side of the road its engine killed and lights switched off in front of a narrow dam across the ditch along the length of a parcel fenced with barbed wire. In the center of the dam across the ditch was a wooden gate, closed with a heavy iron chain, intended to stop strangers from entering. A rusty metal sign warned, Verboden Toegang, entrance forbidden.
The dark shape of a cluster of buildings at the end of a long pathway, was vaguely delineated against the distant horizon. Separated from what appeared to be stables or equipment sheds, was the main house. A light fixture on the side of the farmhouse doused the area between the buildings in a yellowish dim glow.
A dog started barking, the distant deep voice of a large animal. On the first floor, a light was switched on and for several minutes the shadow of a man appeared against a brightly lit background, framed in the center of the open window. Then the shadow retreated and the light was switched off.
“What do we do now?” whispered fatso timidly, malodour emanating from his fat sweaty body started filling the cabin.
“You do nothing, just stay in the truck and keep your eyes open”.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665503983

Alfred Balm

Alfred Balm is an architect, entrepreneur, adventurer and art historian. After building a multinational business conglomerate, he followed his passion and earned several art history degrees. Balm and his wife have two sons and live in Canada. This is his sixth novel.

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2020 Alfred Balm. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/22/2020

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0378-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0399-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0398-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020919983

This is a work of fiction based on a jungle expedition that took place in 1984.

Several of the characters in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictionally.

Any similarity to real people or events are mostly coincidental, nor should political personages and parties, or political processes or military operations described in this novel be taken to represent actual parties, processes or military operations.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PART I

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

PART II

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

Equipment List

Names of People in

The Expedition

To the memory of my unforgettable friends Nick and Ed,

who, through their friendship, enriched my life

’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well

in order smite the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of

all the Western stars, until I die.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Roads were made for journeys not destinations.

—Confucius

Satisfaction lies in the effort, not in the

attainment, full effort is full victory.

—Mahatma Gandhi

PART I

1

1884

It was June 16. The big rains had started early that year, giving the jungle in the South American country of Suriname a thorough washing, sweeping clean the tops of gigantic, centuries-old hardwood trees under which the tapirs and kuriaku deer now sought protection.

Two hours from Maripa Sula, the Marowijne River rushed between the large boulders that narrowed its course from both sides, exploding against rocks, throwing foam clouds meters high, dissolving in a burst of spray, or scourging the banks and thundering down the rapids like a mad monster. Huge volumes of water attacked the stone embankments, dragging along large chunks of dirt carved out at higher elevations. Monkeys hunkering down above them cuddled up against each other, holding large leaves like umbrellas against the unending downpour.

The ancient riverbed seemed unable to handle the deluge of water crashing down from the mountains toward the delta of the Marowijne bordering French Guiana and the Dutch colony of Suriname. Pushing through rock-strewn narrows, the river, which normally rolled quietly along, had turned into roaring cascades and deadly whirlpools.

The French pirogue was fighting a losing battle. Its canopy had been swept overboard hours earlier and no longer protected the two French officers sitting in the center of the dugout. Freed from the canvas overhead, it allowed for additional space to the six muscular black Ndyukas straining their shining wet bodies as they fought the monster using colorful carved pagaais, their normally effective weapon, but it was an uneven fight.

This was a different war, one the river intended to win.

On the bow of the large dugout, sitting cross-legged on a small platform, stoically unperturbed by the turmoil around him, an elderly man holding a long stick seemed to be the vessel’s figurehead. Glued to the seat, his sinewy black torso moved with the rolling of the pirogue. It was the tiki-man, the front man directing the rowers, but this time, it was in vain. He ignored the insulting commands the French captain screamed at him, which were lost anyway in the roaring of the river.

Á droit, connard! Á droit, je dis! Merde! (To the right, bastard! To the right, I say! Damn it!) Captain Francois D’Arnaud, only thirty-two years old, screamed his throat raw, never having seen the Marowijne this wild.

He feared for his life.

He held on to a heavy case between him and Lieutenant Boissevain, which contained the government’s property—eighty kilograms of pure gold. The young lieutenant, five years his junior, sat across from him, trying to hide his terror. The rifles they normally hung on to for dear life had been washed overboard. There was nothing to grip and hold on to. The side of the dugout could crush a man’s hand against the rocks. They were soaking wet, almost jealous of the black men wearing only loincloths, much more practical than their heavy linen uniforms in this thick humidity and strangling heat. Thrown from side to side and from front to back for hours, their bodies hurt like hell, and the spray blinded their eyes. The heavy rains lashed unrelentingly down on them. The boat was already half full of water. Two oarsmen started bailing it out with gourds too small for the job. Without their pagaais in the current, the control of the pirogue was further hampered, and the four remaining paddlers were not nearly enough.

"Á gauche! Á gauche, idiot! Ah, mon Dieu … Attention. Attention! (To the left! The left, idiot! Oh my God … Watch it … Watch it!")

Uncontrollable, the dugout was thrown straight toward a large boulder, though the rowers frantically tried to steer away from it, dipping paddles deep, pulling hard, every muscle in their wet bodies straining. Then the boat suddenly lifted her bow high above the turmoil and for a second, held, like a frozen picture, before smacking down onto a promontory rock that shattered the vessel to pieces, throwing everyone and everything overboard.

2

1981

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in June in the coastal town of Zandvoort on the North Sea. People were glued to their TVs, watching the news, their favorite show, or what was happening in the rest of the world. Two men, Ed and Bob, both in their late thirties, were focused on maps spread out on a drawing board in Bob’s office. They had little interest that day in what happened in the world. Their focus was on the map of a tropical country on the east coast of South America, Suriname to be precise.

Building among the coastal dunes in an elevated setting, Bob, an architect, designed the house to accommodate his young family and his office. Placed against the side of a dune, the home consisted of two square units with high-pitched roofs. The lower square contained the workplace for his draftsmen and his private office. It was a modern building doing justice to the beautiful coastal landscape it was built in. Large windows allowed access to sunlight and provided a view of the undisturbed valley behind it. Bob and his lovely wife, Agave, loved it. Ed lived an easy walk away, closer to the beach.

Ed and Bob had been friends for many years. They shared a lust for adventure, were competitive sportsmen, were both married, and through working hard, had been able to fulfill some of their dreams—but not all.

I think it must be here. Ed put his finger on a spot on the map near a river forming the border between French Guiana and Suriname. It’s the Marowijne River, just as was written in that French document over there. On a table in the center of the spacious modern office that was part of the villa Bob had built was a stack of books all about Suriname and its neighboring French country: The History of Suriname by Buddingh, Willoughbyland: England’s Lost Colony by Parker, Gowtu by Trommelen, Voyage à Surinam by Benôit, Reize naar Surinamen by Stedman, Surinaamsche Almanak voor het jaar 1820, and many more.

What do you know about that river, Bob, the Marowijne? Is it dangerous?

Bob had spent several years in the country and was introduced to the beauty of its interior by his Surinamese friend Jules Emanuels. His pleasant memories were evident when instead of just answering his friend’s question, he made a sales pitch for the rain-forested country. Its tributaries, the Lawa and Tapanahoni Rivers, high up in the mountains, are joining there at Stoelmanseiland, Bob indicated, "then continue as the Marowijne River, rushing down to the inlet at the Atlantic Ocean. By the way, it’s an area where large gold deposits have been discovered. Rolling down from the mountain ranges in the south, it passes a multitude of treacherous rapids—sulas, in the local language—pushing during the rainy season small floating islands and uprooted trees on its currents. During the dry season, it flows downstream, retreating low between banks. Sweet water mixes with the salt of the Atlantic at its estuary, where it dissolves into the ocean. But don’t get me wrong; those sulas are almost as unforgiving then as during the rainy season. Since the seventeenth century, several expeditions have been undertaken to research the viability of the Marowijne River as a transportation route—basically, a highway to the interior, the higher mountainous hinterland; however, all were unsuccessful. The Maroons acquired the unique ability to conquer the rapids upstream with their long dugouts, at first paddling, and then later, when outboard engines were invented, effectively claiming a river transport monopoly, and they still do."

So, I guess we have to depend on those Maroons? Ed assumed, having patiently listened to his friend’s enthusiastic explanation.

For transportation on the river, yes, we do, Bob answered, but with them, we’ll be in safe hands. The river must have been very fast. They had to pass several sulas, the dangerous rapids … maybe even had to carry the boat across the cascades over land near Stoelmanseiland. If the disaster would have occurred there … Bob put his finger on the map. The chances are great that someone would have witnessed it.

Ed adjusted his glasses and bent over the map as if somehow an answer could be found among the names covering in small print the many dark-green patches representing rainforest. I agree, buddy. It sure looks like it, but the sula’s there, the Singatite, and the Manbari a bit further down. Must have been hell with that kind of water coming down. Could it not be there? What do you think?

Bob did not answer right away. He thought for a moment. Sure, it could, but I don’t think so. There seems to have been one survivor, a Ndyuka, who later showed up in a small settlement south of Langa Tabiki, here. Bob pointed at a spot on the map.

So, he must have known exactly where they went down, suggested Ed. We should be able to find that in one of the books or in travel journals, don’t you think?

I doubt it, said Bob, and the Ndyuka won’t talk. It seems that the brush with death hit home hard. He lost the ability to communicate. He’d just walk around dazzled, talking to himself. I read that every attempt to interrogate him failed. He would just stare and whisper, ‘Watra Mama take them. Watra Mama take them.’

What do you mean? asked Ed.

I mean that he believed once they ended up in the water, the river goddess Watra Mama pulled them down, a common superstition among the Ndyukas at the time. Most of them could swim, but that would be of little help in the whirlpools around the sulas.

The telephone rang. Bob picked it up, listened, and then turned to his friend. Agave wants to know if you would like a sandwich or something to drink, but Ed decided not to. It was too close to dinnertime.

Ed replied, No, but thank my girlfriend, very sweet of her.

Ed was excited, feeling that they had come close to a decision. I see, so the only thing we know, or we may assume, is that the pirogue went down between Gabaka and past the Manbari Sula and Langa Tabiki, where the survivor showed up.

Agreed. Bob nodded. Which spot on the river seems the most likely to become the most tumultuous and dangerous in the rainy season when large volumes of water push through a narrow? We learned from that French document there that is what they assumed sank the boat and drowned the people.

After studying the map once more, though he almost knew it by heart, Ed pointed at two rapids, the Apuma Sula and the Pedro Sungu Sula.

Why there? Bob wondered but agreed with Ed’s logic.

Ed continued, Think of it: just before the rapids, the river widens, in the center is a small island, mainly boulders. Then it narrows significantly, and the river forces its way down through it. There is not much space between the first and the second rapids. The section between the two must be hell when the river turns wild. Even after taking the Apuma without damage, there is hardly time to get the dugout under control before attacking the Pedro Sungu. My bet is that we should focus on the latter. If the boat crashed against the rocks there, even if it would have been between those two sulas, then we have to search the area directly below the Pedro Sungu. Agreed?

Bob did not respond immediately, following the river all the way from Maripasula, passing Cottica to Stoelmanseiland and on to Langa Tabiki, where he rested his finger. The sun disappeared behind the trees in the backyard of Bob’s house. Ed had arrived in his tennis outfit carrying a thick bag with half a dozen rackets, but there would be no tennis game this afternoon. Both men forgot time, in their minds already walking deep into the dark rainforest.

Look, that sole survivor showed up here, not much down from the Bonidoro Sula. Would it not make sense that we should consider those rapids instead of Apuma and Pedro Sungu? How would he have gotten from there to Langa Tabiki? asked Bob.

Don’t know, man, answered Ed. "It doesn’t state anywhere when he showed up there, so he probably just came down with another dugout much later when the river was quiet again. I guess it was the only means of transportation in those days. Furthermore, Bob, it’s almost a straight stretch from Pedro Sungu to the next sula, Bonidoro Sula. There are many small villages along the left side—Loka Loka, Skin Tabiki, and then Naso and Bada Tabiki. If the French military pirogue had passed there, someone would have seen it. Apparently, nobody did. Strange names, though. Wonder what they mean."

Maybe we’ll find out later, said Bob. "But I know that Pedro Sungu translates to Pedro went down. Whether that was the name of a dugout or more likely a person, I don’t know, but something must have happened there. Unless we can find more precise information in one of those books or documents, it may indeed be our best option, so let’s draft a plan of action. I gave it some thought, and here is what we may need to address first. What kind of a team should we be? I mean, we both have enough friends who are enthusiastic, but what about disciplines, professions, or experience?"

Agreed, said Ed. Let’s draft a list of the kind of participants we think we’ll need … divers, of course. I would think that at least two or three should be experienced scuba divers.

Right, Bob agreed. How about a technician, not necessarily an engineer, but a tech nut?

Sure, and a doctor—we need to take a doctor with us, Ed suggested. Once in the jungle, it will be hard to deal with medical problems or have someone respond to an emergency. How many guys are we actually thinking of? It can’t be too many. That would present more problems than anything.

Maybe six or eight? Let’s see where we are and if we have all the functions written down. Bob picked up a pencil and started writing.

If we assume two divers, one technician, one doctor, and the two of us. I’m also a diver, said Bob. And you know a lot about metal detectors, radios, et cetera. We’re at six already, but something tells me that may just be a few hands short.

Right. Then let’s prepare for enough guys to deal with whatever comes our way. Two women maybe? Ed suggested with a big smile.

Are you nuts? You want the guys going at each other’s throat in the wilderness?

Just kidding. It would be vetoed by our dear wives anyway.

So that’s it, eight?

I think so, said Bob. And maybe we’ll need to add some once we’re there for local knowledge and contacts. Now, let’s fill in names. It may not be the easiest part, but first, let’s see what kind of men we need. I suggest healthy guys between thirty and forty years old, team players, and able to pay their part of the adventure.

Yes, Ed agreed. And it may be some time before we’re able to have a reasonably reliable budget.

Both men went through their lists of friends and acquaintances. The combined list added up to almost double the number agreed upon, but after several adjustments, the proposed team was complete.

I know my friend Nick, of course, said Bob. And you have known Karel and Harry for many years. Hans Van de Werf is a recent addition to the medical profession. When I talked to him, he seemed nice.

But what about Henry and Jean Jacques? Ed wanted to know. How well do you know them?

Bob answered, I met Henry as the friend of a friend. Don’t know much about him, but he seems to be a handyman. He finds solutions instead of complaining about problems, something we may badly need. His parents were apparently well off, and I’m sure he can afford to participate. Seems to be a bit of a womanizer but hardly a problem in the bush. It cost him a divorce, I heard.

And Jean Jacques?

Son of a French mother and Dutch father, he was a drill sergeant in the army for five years. He’s not a tall guy but built like a truck, shoulders as wide as he is tall, arms thicker than your thighs. Jean Jacques was a boxing champ in the army, a gentle character who seemingly moves a bit slow, but anybody misjudging his moves would do so to their peril. I know he invested his bachelor income wisely, so he should be able to afford this trip. He was recently engaged to be married. I have full confidence in him.

Did you ask Hans if he is able to pay his part? Ed was already thinking of the significant costs of the adventure.

He can’t, having to repay a huge student loan, but we need a doctor, so I will suggest to the group that we all pay part of his share. I hope all will agree.

Jeez, I’m going to be in trouble, man! Ed jumped up from his chair. Dinner must have been ready half an hour ago. I have to run. Want to play tomorrow?

Bob decided not to; he had some catching up to do with a project he was working on. He said he would call the friends he proposed and asked Ed to do the same.

The two men called the potential team members, inviting them to a first meeting at Bob’s place the next Saturday afternoon. The office would function as the boardroom for the group eager to establish The Suriname Gold Expedition.

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Guys, you all know why we invited you here, Bob opened the meeting. For the past number of weeks, Ed and I have discussed the possibility of organizing an expedition to Suriname, the main reason being that we love the idea of an adventurous trip to the tropical interior of one of the last places on earth where that is possible with limited concern for one’s safety. Usually an expedition implies that a scientific agenda determines the undertaking. Of course, not one of us is a scientist, but we thought that a specific mission might add to the adventure.

Everybody was quiet, curious what that specific mission might entail.

"Ed, will explain what we’ve found out and what