Swimming with Salamanders

By Shiloh Noone

A word from the Author and Review by Tom Rapp
While travelling the Camino Compostela, with a searing 40 Celsius falling from the heavenly glare, I stumbled into a mountain village asking if there was river or lake where I could cool off. They said only at the bottom of the mountain, other than their drinking well which they forbade me to swim in. I found the well and plunged within the coolness, only to rise to the breaking sunlight and when reaching the surface, my body immersed in a sensual tingling. Looking down into the water, broken with shafts of streaking sun, my body was being caressed by hundreds of salamanders, their transient colours were mesmerizing. I almost never escaped the well as when I tried to grab the grass, it just tore away. They say one in a billion swim with the Salamanders, and when they do magic is imparted. I later found out that legendary folklore says, 'they are immune to fire as they are born in the flames of the in-between'.
These small amphibious creatures can regenerate body parts, breathe through their skin and although the Spanish Newt is highly poisonous, never harmed me in anyway.
Their facial appearance, almost human blessed me on that appointed day and my escape from that magic pool was due to their intervention. We live in an imperfect world, where the vibration of other worlds sometimes enters our dimension in the form of earthquakes, volcanoes, famine, and contagious virus. When all is said and done, I wouldn't go near that house on the hill.

Review by Tom Rapp
In the same hook and twist of Roald Dahl's 'Tales of the Unexpected' or 'Tales of the Crypt', radio presenter Shiloh Noone brings another edge to the mystery files with his 'Tales from the In-between'. Elements of the 'Twilight Zone' come to mind, yet the stories, sometimes gory and out of this world, embed mind and fantasy and remind us that we need to be aware of the unseen that hovers in-between. Tom Rapp

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shiloh Noone
• Release date: Apr 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9780639775524

Book preview

Swimming with Salamanders

by Shiloh Noone

First Edition

Text Copyright © 2023 Shiloh Noone

Typesetting: Colin Newman

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-0-6397-7551-7

Cry Wolf

Tread, weary in the mountains so glary that hide the cries of the night. Tread fast in hills entranced by the curse of the past. Swim deep in the cool of the Salamander pool where magic can ignite

Biography of a Dreamer and Storyteller

Shiloh lives his love for music from the creative era of the sixties and seventies through his music collection, presenting folk, jazz and blues radio shows in Cape Town, South Africa. Most notably is his folk music show Song catcher which he presented for seven years on Fine Music Radio and his current sixties and seventies show, Magic Bus on Cape Talk. Shiloh is also an avid chess player and teacher, a collector of African tribal artefacts and owner of the Matshana tribal arts museum.

It is no wonder that Shiloh’s writing journey has its roots in his love for music and the spirit of the musicians and writers of the fifties and sixties.

His encyclopedic knowledge of music gave birth to his first publication, an 800-page book called the Seekers Guide to the Rhythm of Yesteryear. The book launched in Cape Town in 2004 in CD Warehouse V&A Waterfront, hosted by the much-revered radio legend Leslie McKenzie and 10cc / Alan Parsons keyboardist Duncan Mackay.

In true music spirit, the two international launches that followed, one in London Portobello Road and one in Fame Records Amsterdam, were also attended by some of the musicians Shiloh included in his book. The book has achieved a four-star Rolling Stone award and is highly accredited by London’s Record Collector. The book has proven to be a consistent seller and favourite amongst music collectors worldwide.

With the success of the music book fresh in his mind, Shiloh set off to write a darkly novel called Witches of Sark, a fictional reality travelogue with a dark and Gothic undercurrent, yet the novel was put on hold, until now with its first official launch in 2023.

In 2023 Shiloh completed his first book of poetry, Forty-Two for the Chosen Few for official launch. The poems speak of a human need for music, travel and living a life of significance. The poem Amsterdam from this collection is featured on Paul Brett’s Sage 2014 album Emergence, crediting lyrics by Shiloh Noone. In 2020, in the grips of the world pandemic, Shiloh tapped into his love for tribal arts, Africa and chess, and wrote an African novel called A Bicycle, a Chess Set, an African River.

The riveting African novel is set in northern Natal, Swaziland and Mozambique and achieved number one seller at Exclusive Books Cavendish and Somerset West for four weeks. Book sales outpaced Wilbur Smith’s new book published at the same time by a solid four months as the newly lifted Covid lockdown allowed readers back into bookstores.

In the year 2023 we see the new official revised edition, legally separated from Naledi publishers, about to be launched in America in tandem with a wonderful review by Lucia Van Der Post, the daughter of the much-revered author and Godfather of Charles and Diana’s children, Laurence van der Post.

In this, Shiloh’s fifth publication 2023, we are about to enter the mysterious pool of Swimming with Salamanders. In typical Roald Dahl style, the fifty tales from the in-between is a blend of fictional reality short stories with a twist from the unseen. So let us go and swim with the Salamanders and receive a little magic, much needed in this croaked up world of mayhem and confusion.

Sadly, the backdated review by my good friend Tom Rapp, the latter has given into the time capsule, as Tom passed away in 2018.

A Word from the Author

While travelling the Camino Compostela, with a searing 40 Celsius falling from the heavenly glare, I stumbled into a mountain village asking if there was a river or lake where I could cool off. They said only at the bottom of the mountain, other than their drinking well which they forbade me to swim in. I found the well and plunged within the coolness, only to rise to the breaking sunlight and when reaching the surface, my body immersed in a sensual tingling. Looking down into the water, broken with shafts of streaking sun, my body was being caressed by hundreds of salamanders, their transient colours were mesmerizing. I almost never escaped the well as when I tried to grab the grass, it just tore away. They say one in a billion swim with the Salamanders, and when they do magic is imparted. I later found out that legendary folklore says, ‘they are immune to fire as they are born in the flames of the in-between’.

These small amphibious creatures can regenerate body parts, breathe through their skin and although the Spanish Newt is highly poisonous, never harmed me in anyway.

Their facial appearance, almost human blessed me on that appointed day and my escape from that magic pool was due to their intervention. We live in an imperfect world, where the vibration of other worlds sometimes enters our dimension in the form of earthquakes, volcanoes, famine, and contagious viruses. When all is said and done, I wouldn’t go near that house on the hill.

Credits

Credit to Roger Dean & ‘‘swirl’’ Vertigo labels for Ramases & Sel LP front cover.

All Artefacts / San cave paintings photographs were taken by the author, courtesy of Matshana Museum which the author owns.

The Native American Navajo Sand Art photographs, ‘The Sun’ by Alberto Chee (2003) and The Eagle Dance Ceremony by Glen Nez are owned by the author and finally have correct credit, licensed to Rainbow Way Albuquerque New Mexico.

Some Amazon photographs were taken by Yogi Prag, my fellow Sitar teacher.

Thank you Gareth and Stephi Laubser for the spectacular photograph of the ship wheel on page 173 of Ship to Shore.

A borrowed photograph from my dear friend, the late Charles A. Vaucher’s book ‘Nakuru’, I was there beside him on that expedition.

The Thomas Bains painting ‘Makalaka Kindling a fire by Friction, Zambesi River’ courtesy of A Robinson Sons & Company (PTY) Limited and legally published by Afrikana Museum, which I am legally part of ICOM 83174 ZA. The Charles Bridge Prague painting credited the artist Spanek.

The numerous LP covers used in illustrations are date back to the mid-sixties and owned by the author, particularly inserted to promote those amazing groups.

The Rodriguez LP cover Cold Fact was inserted to promote the musician as the author was part of SA Rockdigest, headed by Stephen Segerman who discovered Rodriguez and acted in ‘Searching for Sugar Man’. Credits include Sussex Records licensed by Buddha, Light in the Attic & The Theo Coff productions.

Included is the provenance of the Indian Sitar and the George Harrison photograph as purchased from the said Ashram (also provenance given) where George worshipped.

Disclaimer

This novel’s story and characters are fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are imaginary and may represent fifty imaginary incarnations of the author.

This is a work of fiction, although its form is sometimes reflective of an autobiography, it is not one. Space and time have been rearranged to suit the convenience of the book and with the exception of public figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the authors. Any photographs or illustrations that are not correctly credited can be updated or removed with immediate effect, if the author is notified through email contact.

A Double Whammy for Sammy

‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth

lest you swallow the devil’s louse,

never ridicule a book before you look,

great wisdom and value have been discarded

due to greed and selfish need’

Sam MacNeil grew up under the scrooge custody of old man Jenson and was taught that the only thing that mattered was money, not cheques or credit cards, cold hard cash.

Two giant safes were hidden in his massive estate house, where he lurked like a Mako shark, while his part-time hobby was counting the bags of cash that he stowed away in those massive 1880 Hobnail safes, constructed from a wooden chest, then covered with pieces of sheet iron.

Don’t get me wrong, Sam was not wealthy, nor did he fly the pseudo poverty flag, that massive old house that he stayed in was inherited from Uncle Jenson and far too dangerous to even house the poor.

Sam refused to restore the old manor to its former glory and now frequents those candlelit rooms, yes, no electricity in that cold cobwebbed manor house.

A more isolating factor was that Sam had no friends and even if he tried to create relationships, most ignored him due to his miser mannerisms.

For Sam it was cash and carry and never marry, costs too much he would boast as he strutted the side streets of Wiltshire sticking his tongue out at the passing bank managers with a condescending air of glee.

There was a moment when Sam had to pay for a plumber and when it came to the day of payment, he promptly paid Paddy Plumbers in cash, fifty pounds in 50 pence. Sammy was a piece of work in every way, his obsession with coin and cash notes reached a point of growing insanity.

Sam always had his wind up transistor radio blearing, and his favourite songs were If I Were A Rich Man, If I were a Rich man from Fiddler on the Roof, the Beatles rendition of Money, the lyrics thereof The best things in life are free, but you can keep them for the birds and bees, Now give me money, (That’s what I want, That’s what I want and to top the list, Abba’s Money , Money, Money, chanting Money, money, money, must be funny in the rich man’s world, money, money, money, always sunny in rich man’s world.

Sam’s reputation in Wiltshire varied, the local barman from the Falling Crow mumbled. Aye he always pays in hard notes, old Sam, no messing about, but never in the day of a life, did he ever part with a single tip, a right old scrooge that Sammy, his uncle J was just the same".

Dan Stockton from the grocery whose usual seat was in the nicotine-stained corner of The Crow harped, well that Sammy, when you gave him change, he counted every penny, and never tossed no shilling to ‘Old Margret’, the invalid in the Wheelchair on Denville Road.

Local councilor James Ford did partially rise to his defense, although somewhat deflated, now, now gentleman, Sam did contribute to the Labour party election, give the man some due.

Bugger me if I may ask, says Harry Giles, colloquially known as ‘Harry the horny’, how much did he exactly donate?, a more resigned Mr Ford softly replied, one pound in pence, to a roar and rumble of boisterous laughter from the pub. "Well, that would certainly get you a seat, in the back row of the Rialto bughouse’’ rambled Harry, which brought the house down.

Just when you thought the ridicule had ended, a concerned Mr Ravi Govening who owned the local Tandoori commented, All in all, gentlemen, we Hindus know the art of holding onto gold, we have a saying in Delhi, don’t mock a man who is hunting tigers, that is all I am saying, all in all.

Jake the butcher mumbled, Bloody hell, what is old Gandhi going on about as he donned his hat and made for the door.

Sam’s greed was not only possessed by the aspect of pound and pence, but when it came to gifts, he would often send messages to the family pleading to make it cash, be it birthdays or Christmas, always reminding them of his austere hard-up lifestyle. The cash stash of Sammy did not amount to thousands, so let’s not be fooled by those giant safes, as I said ‘Sam the sham’ or ‘Sam the scam’s intense hoarding gave the impression that he was loaded to the brim, but as I said before his entire cash reserve would hardly even afford a deposit on a house or enough finance to buy a vehicle, besides he didn’t like paying for licenses anyhow. Regarding gifts, Sam was diligent in giving, over Christmas or birthdays, never failing to forward a highly decorated envelope with a neatly stuffed single sixpence (Total value 2+1⁄2 new pence) in the middle, the words on the envelope read, it will bring you luck, for he who saves for a rainy day will have more say and extra pay.

There is a darker side to Sam, it’s so disgustingly dark that I struggled to put pen to paper, but when he dined at the local Burger King which incidentally, he is now barred from, you may ask why, well Sam would delight in taking the pound tips left on the table for the waitresses. How low can you go said fat Babs the local Bingo judge, he certainly ain’t welcome in my constabulary she snuffed with righteous contempt.

Sam’s birthday was approaching fast, and as usual the letters were sent out with great haste reading, please no gifts, cash will help as I must restore Headmead Grange, the latter now inundated with rotting floorboards.

Sam did get a few gifts from distant family, but when a large parcel arrived at his door from Aunty Sofie and Uncle Basil Dingley he was elated, no doubt filled with cash notes.

Sam hurriedly stripped the packaging like a wild animal to reveal three books tightly assembled to each other that read, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy.

This three-volume novel called the triple decker was a standard form of British fiction publishing during the twentieth century.

Sam was embittered by the hard copy gift, which he really thought would have at least some cash in an envelope. That evening his miser mind schemed, perhaps the local Hospice shop would offer him some cash for the books.

The Hospice shop was a regular hunting ground for ‘Sam the scam’ who would be seen wading through the clothes section or kitchen hardware looking for some deal of the century.

Notably he was the only person I have ever known that begs the Hospice counter lady for discount, try and work that one out? We all know that the Hospice shops relies on donations, so it must have been a first when Sam walked in and asked Old Maggie who has been running the shop since her old man passed away with cancer, any chance of ten pounds for this here, valued trilogy, he asked expectantly. Now, now, Sammy, you know we don’t do that, we rely on donors she replied with a stern authoritative tone, but I am willing to offer you one pound since I knew your Uncle J, begrudgingly Sam accepted. About a week passed and quite by chance, Uncle Basil, and Aunt Sofie made a surprise visit.

Gout ridden Basil was struggling to find a comfortable chair, while Aunt Sofie remarked, Ooh Sam it’s awfully damp in here, and rather smelly. I hope you pawned that necklace, cost a right fortune in the late 1800s, a family heirloom that we vowed never to sell. What necklace? he inquired concerned, the emerald necklace that Grandmother MacNeil received as a gift from the honorary Consulate General of Venezuela, the story goes, she was a right flibbertigibbet, apparently, she bedded the man after a ‘one too many’ sherry evenings at the British embassy.

She further commented in a laborious manner, we slipped the necklace in-between Volume two and three, we thought a nice surprise for you, while you were engrossed in ‘The Two Towers’.

Aunt Sofie then yawned with a shiver, commenting, awfully cold in here, goodness Sammy you bound to catch a chill in this old house. Aunt Sofie’s intentions was that Sammy restore his dilapidated Manor house by pawning the Venezuelan emeralds.

Her ladyship, Aunt Sofie then said in passing, goodness knows, me and old Basil wouldn’t know what to do with all that money, being in the winter of our years, Urrrm! Basil interrupts, in the Autumn of our years as he struggles to sit.

It was as if an electric shock erupted through Sam’s angst body as he sat there trembling on the shredded leather sofa, mortified and numb. Then quite abruptly Aunt Sofie jerks, jolly well, we must be on our way dear cousin, dear Basil rises immediately and whispers into Sofie’s ear, cannot wait to get out of this damp spook house, while he places Sofie’s mink over her shoulders.

A relieved Sammy stammered, yes, yes, I have things to do. No sooner had the Dingley’s left and Sam fast footed towards the Hospice, swearing with each step.

As he entered, old Maggie lit up like a Christmas tree and applauded, Oh Sammy, we must thank you, Charmaine Lewinsky donated three hundred pounds for the Trilogy, apparently it was a first edition. Sam was now shaking uncontrollably and stuttered feebly, where will I find her, Maggie says in a vindictive tone oh she’s at ‘Christie's’ where they are auctioning the Trilogy before Maggie could utter another word Sam had vacated at lightning speed and was sprinting down to the hall.

The bidding had already started as he stumbled in sweaty and exhausted, Do I hear 300 pounds? Thank you sir, do I hear 1000 pounds? Thank you, sir, do I hear 1500 pounds? Thank you sir, and so it went on until 3000 pounds, thank you Lord Harrington, do I hear 5000 pounds, thank you Dame Sark, ‘going, going, gone as the hammer fell like a bolt from the Spanish inquisition.

Sam reverberated and almost fell to the ground, but quickly regained his posture, straining his eyes among the throng of bidders for Mrs. Lewinsky.

Then he saw her, that jutting face heavily painted with her elongated diamonds hanging like drooping fruit from her ears. Sam anxiously pushed through the departing crowd which gave way with ease, due to his sweaty odour.

Finally, within reach of the fox fur that coiled around Lady Lewinsky like a mating anaconda, he opened his mouth, but facing her pale ostrich jugular, he shuddered in horror, laced around her neck, a dazzling emerald necklace, its emanating jewels taunting Sam’s chaotic eyes.

With the icy gaze of a calculating Cleopatra, she looked at Sammy and purred, can I help you darling. Sammy shuddered, tears of anger and shock streamed down his cheeks, his voice could not utter a word, until James Ford entered from the rear with a raised voice, I say old boy, looks like you need the bathroom.

Amazon Guardians

‘Take heed of the lights that shimmer in the emerald glimmer, take heed of the mist that swallows the river,

the guardians of the forest who walk in your dreams

may appear as a sheen and find you unclean’

Rio De Janeiro was untamed and deviously camouflaged by its sugary carnivals and Yacht Regattas, yet apart from the central city and its golden private beaches, the real Rio was a sprawling ghetto surrounded by the encroaching cardboard box villages.

It is rumoured not so long ago the Brazilian government machine gunned several street children in the alleyways who were living in the drains under the city, shortly before the World Summit. The corruption in Brazil is so dire that Corporate daily banking is done by helicopter, so go and figure?

I was bound for Suriname, to experience the Amazon rainforests in a more realistic eco-way, not via a tourist office, but rather a dubious contact by the name of Chico, an ex-cocaine runner for the Colombian Mafia. I reckoned he had made enough money to pull out, which alone was a miracle and now the man has gone legit.

The boat Chico had arranged was bound for Paramaribo, the Suriname capital and piled to the brim with bananas and pineapples. I was perched on the top with my orange H-framed backpack and tanned legs, looking rather odd amongst the Latino creoles. The riverboat was filled with urbanized half Indians from the Younami tribe, all sitting in small groups smoking some sort of cocoa leaf, while the captain strutted up and down cursing with each step like a sun withered Captain Hook.

The remaining crew were all ex-Rebels that had fought in numerous military coups, all resembling the veteran Che Guevara image, most carrying the legendary AK-47 which was scattered freely throughout South America and Africa in the seventies. I later heard that many of these hardened rebels had ploughed their early existence for the Colombian cartel, gunrunning cocaine.

The dodgy vessel eventually spluttered into life and before we knew it, we were chugging steadily with the incoming tide, referred to as the Orinoco flow. Somewhere on the boat a transistor radio crackled into life spitting out an inflamed Jagger vox, Ooh a storm is coming, If I don’t get some shelter, Ooh I’m gonna fade away …

About three hours into this adventurous trip, we were now in open water with no land in sight, being tossed lightly by a river called The Marowijne. Look look, one of the creoles shouted and pointed to the white surf ahead. At first, I thought it was rocks, lots of rocks, broken by the wind spurting tide, but then I saw it, hundreds of pink dolphins heading up stream at a speed twice the force of our wooden double decker riverboat. (They were called Boto and the reason why they were pink, damaged scar tissue from countless battles with Caiman, Anaconda, and piranhas)

They will get to Suriname before us, the lucky bastards, the grizzly creole ‘Capitan’ muttered. What’s the rush I shouted above the rumbling diesel motor that honked heavily, Pirates, plenty of pirates and Indians, I don’t want to be Caiman or Piranha food, he again muttered, gesturing for a cigarette, I don’t smoke, in hasty defence, retreating.

It only now dawned upon me why most of these hardened boatmen were armed, we were in dangerous waters, far from any sea or river rescue, this was untamed no man’s land and even the authorities were fearful of motoring into these waters. I questioned the captain who was residing on the deck with his foul-smelling pipe, do helicopters enter this airspace?, I asked.

He looked at me and snarled bitterly, they scared of the guardians, what guardians? I asked. The protectors of the forest", he replied and then blew a halo of purple smoke into the air to whisk away the buzzing mosquitoes.

That night I had the strangest of dreams, it felt like I was flying over the misty Amazon, following the course of the great Anaconda, whilst sporadically strange fluorescent sparkles would fly up out of the water and all around, whispering, lots of whispering in a language I have never heard before. I awoke with a sweaty startle and to get some fresh air, made my way back onto the slippery banana deck. I was deeply educated in the folklore of Shamans and dream walkers, but being an ardent follower of Jesus, did not fear their voodoo beliefs they call Macumba.

As I wiped my eyes, a sinister sight awaited me, the riverboat was idling to a standstill as it drifted towards the beckoning mangrove trees that sheltered strange shrieking sounds.

No stranger to nature and birdlife, my African roots were stirred by the magnificent tropical paradise that had seduced so many zealous adventurers.

The mangrove trees were now in arm’s length, and I felt the urge to reach out and touch those mossy limbs, I lifted my arm only to be clamped by a steely wrist that appeared from nowhere, No good señor, said the tobacco honking ‘Capitan’, then cocked his rifle and shot a round into the tree.

My body convulsed as masses of snakes fell into the water, some even onto the rim of the boat, the deadly Bushmaster, Lanceheads, the venomous coral snake, they were all there ready to pounce.

The Capitan hastily shoved them off the deck with the butt of his rifle , they all hang on the branches at night señor, this is where all the bird nests are , if one bites you , better to kill yourself , less pain, if your hands touch that moss, it will eat your cuticles, the fungus is deadly and may even feed further, he urgently tried to explain in broken English.

Oh my God! I headed back to the cabin and left the ‘Capitan’ gazing into the Amazon mist, even the claustrophobic humidity and snoring madness was a better sanctuary than that bedeviled wooden deck.

That morning we were deep into the forest traversing the dark waters and one couldn’t help but notice that everybody was edgy and on guard. Most of the rebels were clutching their automatic rifles, while the half Indians were huddled tightly in some form of chanting prayer.

The ‘Capitan’ was staring blankly into the Emerald foliage that capped the blurry river edge, so dense that not a glimmer of light reflected, the Indians, they are watching us, ‘he said softly, they are out there with their beady glowing eyes Senor, he shivered and cocked his rifle.

Feeling rather incapacitated, I grabbed a banana machete and joined the scanning Virgil, intent on winning respect after last night’s snake fallout. The Amazon has a hazy effect that induces drowsiness and minutes into the jungle scan, I felt as though the forest was drawing me in, it was as if that emerald foliage was a large beast about to swallow. They have been stalking us for the last two days, the Capitan grunted, normally they do nothing.

Who has been following us? I inquired naively, the Saramaccons, local forest people, this is their home, they could stand six feet from you, and you wouldn’t know, every day we take away more of their forest, every day we grow closer to them.

The ‘Capitan,’ who now quietly impressed me with his eco sincerity said that his growing concern was the hardy camouflaged gun toting rebels he had hired for the trip, the same kind of people that massacred them to clear the forests for more cocaine fields.

As I said previously, all these dudes had once in their poverty-stricken youth worked on those coke fields for the cartels.

Apparently last month a group of British tourists were attacked. The Brazilian government covered it up as a boating accident. I remember the Capitan’s words if one of those darts from their blowpipes pierces your skin, you have five minutes to make your peace. The locals call it the five-minute walk, guess why?

By 5am the crimson sun was already stretching its reds and orange hue into the streaky dawn and most of the soldiers were rubbing their eyes from the constant surveillance of the undergrowth. Strangely the Indians never had this problem even though their eyes were glued to the green hell. Suitably satisfied, the Capitan sent three of the workers into the galley to make breakfast, while the remaining seated themselves on the banana crates.

I removed my shirt and figured a quick cool dip would take the stinking sweat off my body, just as I was about to jump, one of the Younami Indians grabbed me and violently gestured no, no señor.

I later heard that apart from these waters being filled with flesh eating piranha, a slight pee in the river and this microscopic fish swims up your urethra, inexplicable pain due to its barbs, resulting in eventual death, they call it the Candiru, sometimes known as the ‘penis fish’. Furthermore, we were in the dark waters of the Amazon where the black Caiman hunted, much larger than the smaller average fish pecker.

I just sat there on the deck counting my blessings. From the galley the fragrance of fresh Brazilian coffee wafted amidst the soggy crates that overflowed with damp bananas. With the machete now limp and heavy in my hand, I turned to join them and sat in the corner with my head resting against the edge of a rusty anchor. The men were joyful and almost prematurely relieved after the long sojourn.

One of the rough looking rebels from Venezuela raised his cup to a cheer and agreement from the rest of this motley crew who joined in. A sense of displacement permeated my being, I was a stranger in a strange land, so far from the hardships and wildly experiences of these veteran rebels.

I was the outcast, indifferent, and totally alone in this wilderness of emerald madness and as a stranger, vulnerable to the forces that prevailed as the rest raised mugs, a small arrow hissed passed us and split the banana crate above us, I looked up to see the arrow, dripping with frog poison. One of the workers jumped up to grab his rifle only to have his skull shattered by an incoming spear.

All around was the sound of ‘clunk clunk’ as darts and arrows rained upon us, then a scream as one half-Indian fell into the murky waters, within seconds a white water threshing and vibration as the piranhas finished him off.

Amidst the fury and chaos of the ambush, the Capitan appeared, guns blazing in both hands as he stood his ground, while arrows buzzed around his head. I saw three small bodies fall into the water, amidst the writhing of the lush green that now seemed to quake and pulsate as if dinosaurs were about to appear.

The continual clatter of the arrows never seemed to end as I buried my head under a tarpaulin, the rebels ploughing into those trees, magazine after magazine. Then silence, an absolute eerie silence, they were gone in seconds and the birds started chirping.

We chugged the boat into open clear water and three of the dead were cast overboard with a garbled chant of Catholic and Macumba chants. Four days into the morbid drone of the diesel machine we arrived at Currera, a small missionary outpost, to drop off fruit and medical supplies. Currera is not on any map, but closely resembles a rougher version of the more settled towns like Brakaponda and Afobako that made a subsistence living from a local fish called Scalora. The priest, Father Nicolai welcomed us with open arms and as I ascended the steps of that old church that had been built three hundred years ago, you could breathe in their torturous past.

Spanish Conquistadores riding into the night with crosses held high. the burning and raping of the Indians. My farewells to Father Nicolai were brisk as we left just before dawn, the waiting ferryboat choogling steam when I boarded.

I now however felt a sense of camaraderie with these hardened rebels after our Indian ordeal. They seemed to warm up to me.

Within hours we drifted past a river town called Albina, then crossing a small strait where the cattle farmers cool their herd, situated somewhere between the interlocking streams of Djomongo and the raging waterfalls of Cayman infested Pakigron. We were racing the tide and drizzling sun. You can always tell the waterfall rivers that run crystal, compared to the dark streams that ooze out of the forest.

I stood on the deck, the fresh breeze cooling my face from the claustrophobic humidity of the rainforest. Above me a flock of Jabiru Stork flying north, while a little later I was gifted from above with a sighting of a