My husband jolts me out of my thoughts.
“Here,” he says, looking at his wristwatch, “here’s where it must have happened.”
I look down at the sea of treetops. Somewhere down there I landed in the jungle. Here is where I spent eleven days searching unwaveringly for a way out of the wilderness. It always fills me with astonishment that I’m still in the world, when all the others had to depart their lives….
When I’m finally standing somewhat steadily on my two legs, I look around. There’s nothing here besides my seat. I shout. No answer. I look up. Up above, beyond the dense treetops, the sun is shining. The thick green canopy of the jungle is completely intact. If an airplane crashed here a few hours ago, then it must have cut a swath! But there’s no trace of that, far and wide.
I realize I have only one shoe on, a white sandal, open in the back and closed in the front, which I was also wearing on the day of my graduation ceremony. I keep this sandal on, even though later many people will say how ridiculous that was, and they will ask me why I didn’t discard this single sandal, for you can’t walk well with one shoe. But I keep it on, because without my glasses I can’t see well, and this way at least one of my feet has a little protection. In Panguana, we always wore rubber boots when we went into the forest, because of the snakes. Nor is my thin minidress, printed with a colorful patchwork pattern, sleeveless and with a fashionable double-frilled seam, the ideal clothing for an expedition. On top of that, the long zipper in the back has partially burst. When I feel around, I find another wound on my upper arm, all the way in the back, where it’s hard to see. It’s the size of a dime, and it’s about an inch deep. This cut isn’t bleeding either, no more than the one on my calf. I take notice of my open wounds, but they don’t alarm me.
Much later doctors will determine that I jarred my neck during the crash and from the resulting spinal injury I still suffer regularly recurring headaches to this day. This also explains why I felt for so long as if I were packed in cotton, for it would take days before the dazed feeling would completely subside.
Suddenly I’m seized by intense thirst. Thick drops of water sparkle on the leaves around me, and I lick them up. I walk in small circles around the seat. I’m well aware of how quickly you can lose your orientation in the jungle. Everything looks the same everywhere, and I wouldn’t be the first to get helplessly lost after a few steps. At home in Panguana, I never went into the forest without a machete, and whenever I left the observation trails we had made, I cut signs at regular intervals in the bark of the trees, as my parents had taught me. Once it happened, anyway, that I had lost my orientation for a while and had gone in circles. That’s why I’m on alert; lacking a bushwhacker, I memorize a particularly striking tree and don’t take my eyes off it.
At first, to my boundless astonishment, I find not a trace of the crash, nothing. No wreckage, no people. Then I discover a bag of sweets and a typical Peruvian Christmas stollen, a panettone, originally brought to the country by Italian immigrants. I’m very hungry and eat a piece of it, but it tastes awful. The hours of rain have softened it completely, and it’s soaked with mud. I leave it where I found it. The sweets, however, I take with me.
All morning and into the afternoon, I stay at my crash site, explore the immediate surroundings and gain strength. I search for other survivors—above all for my mother. I shout as loudly as I can: “Hello! Is anyone there?” In response, there’s nothing but various frog calls, for it’s the rainy season.
And then suddenly I hear the hum of engines. It’s airplanes circling over me. I know immediately what they’re looking for. I look up into the sky, but the jungle trees are too dense. There’s no way I can make myself noticeable here. A feeling of powerlessness overcomes me. And the thought: I have to get out of the thick forest. And then the airplanes depart, and only the voices of the jungle remain.
Later I find out that I was only about thirty miles from Panguana. I have no awareness of that, but it’s clear to me that I know this forest. And suddenly I notice a very particular sound, which has been there all along, from the beginning, but only now penetrates my consciousness. The sound of dripping, tinkling water, a soft burble.
Immediately, I try to locate where these water sounds are coming from, and indeed: nearby I find a spring, feeding a tiny rivulet.
This discovery fills me with great hope. Not only have I found water to drink, but I’m also convinced that this little stream will show me the way to my rescue. I suddenly remember clearly an incident that occurred when I was living with my parents at Panguana.
At that time a group of scientists from Berkeley visited us. They were on their way to the nearby Sira Mountain Range at the upper reaches of the Yuyapichis to study that as yet unexplored area. When they arrived, there was an accident: The leader of the expedition inadvertently shot himself in the leg and urgently needed medical attention. Since the man was over six feet tall and much too heavy to be carried straight down, a student was sent to get help. The young man promptly lost his way in the jungle, but he was resourceful. He looked for flowing water and followed it until he came to a stream. This brought him to a larger channel and ultimately to a river, which, fortunately, was the Yuyapichis. After two days and two nights, he reached Panguana. This episode really made an impression on me, and I never forgot it.
And now, after quenching my thirst and washing myself a little, I make a decision. By now, I’ve become convinced that there are no survivors of the plane crash nearby. I still have no inkling that I am the sole survivor and believe that there must be others somewhere, but after crawling around on the forest floor near the spot where I landed, calling out constantly, I am certain that there is no one else in the vicinity. There’s no sense in waiting any longer. The search planes will never find me here. I hear the voice of my father, who said to me time and again: “If you get lost in the jungle and you find flowing water, then stay near it, follow its course. It will bring you to other people.”
Later I was accused in the press of simply leaving selfishly, without worrying about the injured. In other newspapers it was even written that the survivors were wandering around in the forest, screaming and crying, and I ran off on my own. The truth is, I found no survivors. I don’t know what I would have done if I had actually found injured fellow passengers and possibly my mother. Probably I would have stayed with them and we would have perished together. Today we know that the wreckage never would have been found without my information.
So I follow the rivulet, and at first that’s not so simple, because there are often tree trunks that are lying across it this way and that, or dense undergrowth blocks my way. Little by little, the rivulet grows wider and ultimately turns into a stream in an actual bed, which is partly dry, so that I can walk relatively easily along what is meanwhile about a twenty-inch-wide channel. How far do I come on that first afternoon? I can’t say. Around six o’clock, it gets dark, and I look in the streambed for a suitable spot, protected at the back, where I can spend the night. I eat another fruit candy. I have no way to light a fire; even though my father taught me how to do so by rubbing sticks or smashing stones, it is the rainy season, so everything is soaked. Once the darkness sets in, it is pitch-black. Exhausted and alone, I fall asleep. Later on, my nights will be plagued by insects, rain, wind, sleeplessness and despair. But, probably due to my concussion, my sleep that first night is more like a state of oblivion.
Meanwhile, the news of the LANSA crash has reached the Módena family at the mouth of the Río Yuyapichis. Don Elvio, Moro’s uncle, goes to my father. But my father only shakes his head: “My wife and daughter can’t possibly have been on board that plane,” he says full of conviction. “I specifically told them not to fly with LANSA. My wife never would have set foot on that airplane!”
Don Elvio doesn’t know what to say. He hopes my father is right.
The next day my father turns on the radio. In a special announcement the passenger list of the crashed plane is read. What a sho
ck it must have been for my father as he heard the names of his wife and daughter among the victims. To this day I can barely imagine what hell he must have gone through, all alone in Panguana.
I wake up on December 26 and realize I slept deeply. Still, I feel apathetic. That’s probably from the concussion. I’m not afraid and feel no pain. I only know one thing: I have to get out of here.
So I continue to follow the stream. I slowly make headway. Time and again I have to climb over tree trunks. On top of that, the stream meanders a great deal. That costs me time and strength. But since I can’t see well into the distance without my glasses, I don’t dare to take any shortcuts. The risk of getting lost is simply too great. Besides, the terrain is extremely hilly. Occasionally I pass slopes that rise up a hundred feet or even more. Only here, where I’m walking, the water has found itself the simplest, slightly sloping path, and I follow it, making progress slowly but steadily on its course.
At one point I encounter an imposing bird-eating spider, which could pounce on me and bite me. But it’s on the other side of the stream; we eye each other cautiously and then we each continue on our way.
The streambed is rocky and shallow. The stream increasingly widens, until ultimately it fills its whole bed. I begin to wade in the water, always stepping first with the foot in the sandal. I frequently hear the search planes circling over me. I shout, even though I know how futile that is. The forest I’m in is still too dense. I’m invisible to the rescuers and there’s no way to change that. My only chance is to go on and at some point reach a wider river, where the closed canopy of jungle tree crowns will open and I can make myself noticeable to the airplanes. Maybe they’ll find the others, I think, maybe my mother is among the rescued. I cling to this thought. As mild as my injuries are, it seems impossible to me that others haven’t survived the crash too.
What I don’t know is that the airplanes are searching in vain. Two days after the crash, there are numerous leads from the population, but most of them turn out to be false. A hunter supposedly saw a bright light and then heard an explosion. A forest worker reports having sighted the airplane on December 24 flying at a low altitude along the Sira Mountain Range. Pilots among the American linguists located on the shore of the Yarinacocha Lagoon, those missionaries studying the language of the Indians in order to translate the Bible for them, join the Peruvian Air Force, the Fuerza Aérea del Perú (FAP). They focus on a trapezoidal area between Tournavista, a town named Aguas Calientes and Puerto Inca, for there are three possible accounts, which all point to the correct area. I hear search planes almost all day. And yet the operation is unsuccessful. The jungle seems to have simply swallowed the airplane with its passengers.
Due to the many false reports, a news blackout is imposed. Only official announcements are permitted. The commander of the FAP, who is leading the search, reacts drastically: It is said that people who raise an alarm will be arrested and interrogated. That unsettles the population. Still, more rumors circulate. Anonymous letters appear, in which there’s talk of divine punishment. The victims were punished for their many sins.
For many family members of the missing, the uncertainty grows too great and the waiting unbearable. They feel like they have to do something, and ultimately band together into a civil patrol to finally get answers to their many questions. From Puerto Inca, they make their way into the rain forest, but the search is hampered by torrential rainfall. The despair and helplessness grows when a man named Adolfo Saldaña, whose son was on the plane, has a car accident on the Carretera Central, a bad road, muddy and riddled with holes, while attempting to bring food to the rescue teams. He dies at the scene of the accident.
Unaware of all this, I set one foot in front of the other in the jungle, always stepping first with the shod foot. I fight my way through dead wood that blocks my path in the streambed, climbing unswervingly over every obstacle. On the third day after the crash, I find in the streambed the first piece of wreckage since I set off—a turbine. On one side it’s completely black. Aha, I think, this must be where I saw the lightning strike. The sight merely fills me with amazement, because I’m still in severe shock and suffering from the effects of the concussion. It will take years before I will grasp the whole significance of this find. For the improbable occurs, and twenty-seven years later I will return to this place, with the filmmaker Werner Herzog. What I can’t imagine in the days after the crash will then become reality: I will retrace parts of this path, I will see even more pieces of wreckage, and I will still ask myself how all this was possible. And still I will find only some answers to my questions.
In the first days of my trek, I don’t ask myself any questions. I’m still in a daze. On December 28, my gold confirmation watch, a gift from my grandmother, stops for good. The watch is actually not even waterproof and has just undergone an extreme endurance test. I briefly think of my confirmation, which took place the previous spring in Lima. My father was even there and picked out my confirmation motto: “Blessed is the one who finds wisdom, and the one who gets understanding, for the gain from her is better than gain from silver and her profit better than gold.” It doesn’t occur to me how aptly this proverb fits my situation. Only much later will that make me self-reflective. For without knowledge and understanding of the laws of the jungle, I would probably not be alive today.
And then, on the fourth day of my trek, I hear a sound that makes my blood freeze in my veins. It’s the flapping of large wings, unmistakable, louder and lasting longer than that of other birds. Of course, I can only know this because my mother is an ornithologist and she explained it to me, and I hope and pray that she’s not the reason for the presence of the king vulture. For the cóndor de la selva always goes into action when there’s a great deal of carrion in the forest. The king vultures there, they’re feeding on the dead. It’s not even a thought, more an intuition or still more a certainty.
And for the first time since I set off on my own in the jungle, I’m horrified. I come around the next river bend, and there I see it. A three-seat bench, just like mine, only this one here is rammed headfirst about three feet into the earth. The heads of the passengers—two men and a woman—are also stuck there in the rain forest floor, only their legs jutting grotesquely upward.
I’ve seen a corpse only once before in my life. That time I was six years old and visiting Pucallpa. My mother went to observe birds and left me in the care of friends who owned a sawmill. They took me along to their neighbors’ home, where a child had died that night. We arrived for the velorio, the day that a dead body lies in state and friends and acquaintances come to pay their last respects. There the child lay with a bloated belly. At the time I viewed all that with interest, as only children can naively confront death. When my mother came home in the evening, I told her: “Guess what I saw! A dead child!” But my mother was really angry, I was even scolded for going along at all, for the child might have died of yellow fever or typhus, and I could have been infected.
As a child I had been more inclined to gaze in wonder at the whole thing as if it was an interesting novelty. But today the sight of the dead pierces me to the core. A nameless horror seizes me. Still, I force myself to stay and take a closer look at the corpses. They’re still intact, but in the trees sit the king vultures. They’re waiting. It’s not a good feeling. A terrible thought crosses my mind. What if it’s my mother? Very slowly, carefully, I approach the corpses. I look at the woman’s feet as if I could recognize by them who it is. I even grab a small stick and with it I turn the foot carefully so I can see the toenails. They’re polished. I heave a sigh. My mother never polishes her nails.
At the same moment it dawns on me how stupid of me this is. This woman can’t possibly be my mother, because she was sitting right next to me on the same bench. Why didn’t I realize that right away? I think. And I’m relieved. Later I will feel ashamed.
I look around to see whether there might be more dead or even injured people here. A few pieces of metal lie scattered a
round, nothing else. And so I turn away and go on. Again I hear the search planes. I know I have to hurry.
8 Pucallpa Today
Noisy modern times in Pucallpa, caused by the thousands of motocars, 2008. (Photo courtesy of Juliane (Koepcke) Diller)
Today we land safely on the small airfield, which back then was the setting for so many scenes of anguish. Moro is waiting for us, and as always we fall into each other’s arms. Neither of us has gotten any younger. His full beard, once so black, is now interspersed with silver threads. We’ve experienced so much together! And yet, in accordance with the custom, Moro rarely calls me by my first name. In front of other people, he addresses me stubbornly and with a touch of pride as “la doctora.” If we’re alone with his family, I’m “la vecina,” the neighbor. His wife, Nery, turns that into an affectionate “vecinita,” which is what I call her too.
At the point where the airport road enters the carretera is a cemetery. Over the wall you can make out the taller grave monuments, among them an especially large one. It’s a memorial to the victims of the LANSA crash, and here fifty-four of them are interred in the traditional nichos, burial niches. Two angels stand atop a gigantic block, which holds the coffins. One is weeping and the other is consoling a mourner. Between them is a round slab. On it is a stylized map with the relief of a crashed plane, and a dashed line marks the path I took back then. On the edge is written: Ruta que siguió Juliana para llegar a Tournavista, which means “the route Juliane followed to reach Tournavista.” And inscribed in large letters, at the base of the group of sculptures, is Alas de Esperanza, which means “wings of hope.”
When I Fell From the Sky Page 9
