And why did I abandon the plan of my own accord? Seventeen days—that’s not such a short time if you’re actually really homesick. Did I sense without words even across the great distance that I wouldn’t be welcome with my father? I don’t know and will never find out. My father died in the year 2000. Why do we so often neglect to ask the important questions before it’s too late?
And yet I cannot really be angry with my father. His Christmas letter to me, which he had already written at the end of November 1972 so that it would arrive in time, begins with the following sentences:
Dear Juliane!
I wish you all the best this Christmas and also much, much happiness for the new year of 1973. Since last Christmas, this time of year has taken on a particular face for us. For you it will always be the holiday on which your life was given to you anew. For me it is from now on a sad holiday, which is followed by a still sadder time, that is, the period up to the real date of Mommy’s death, which is to be estimated around the sixth or seventh of January.
The harsh letter in which he forbids me to come to Panguana he wrote to my aunt on December 30, 1972, just after the anniversary of the crash. He had just had the first Christmas without my mother, and I don’t dare to imagine what might have been going on inside him.
“Well, vecina,” Moro says, breaking the silence and jolting me out of my thoughts, “aren’t you tired at all?”
“I am,” I say, “it’s been a long day. I’m just so happy to be here again.”
“And we’re even happier! Welcome back to Panguana!”
With flashlights we find our way to the shower cabin to brush our teeth and then head to our beds. They’re hard, but that doesn’t bother us. I already know that I’m going to sleep deeply.
Following in my parents’ footsteps: at fourteen years old, I’m catching a butterfly by the Yuyapichis River, 1969. (Photo courtesy of Juliane (Koepcke) Diller)
16 Miracles Still Happen
A comic-strip version of my ordeal was published in a Peruvian newspaper. (Photo courtesy of Juliane (Koepcke) Diller)
A few days later the time has come to go to Puerto Inca and settle the matter of the deed registrations in the city hall there. Early in the morning Moro and his helper Chano bring us in the canoa to the ford to spare us a stretch of the way.
To my joy, large birds flutter up from the riverbank. It’s hoatzins, a whole colony.
At the Módena farm we meet Don Elvio, Moro’s uncle, who gives us a warm welcome and is happy to ferry us across to the village of Yuyapichis in his boat. There we soon find a car that takes us to the village of Súngaro, on the river of the same name. And then we will see what comes next.
Once I’ve adjusted to this jungle life, its rules and customs, I enjoy it to the fullest. One way or another you always reach your destination, even though there’s no public transportation system with an exact departure schedule. There are always drivers shuttling between the different far-flung jungle villages. Usually, you can find a lift in this way, and if you’re unlucky, you have to wait a few hours. That’s just how it is, no reason to get worked up. Still, for a European, it takes getting used to. But the sooner you resign yourself to this rhythm, the better. For there’s no use grumbling and complaining—all that accomplishes is to spoil your mood.
The road to Súngaro isn’t clayey, but instead it’s littered with fist-sized pebbles. There are potholes too, of course, and our driver apparently makes a point of racing as fast as possible over this rumbling road, which is more reminiscent of a marble run for gigantic children than a street. This is a challenge for the vehicle’s suspension, but also for our backs and bottoms. When we arrive in the small village, we’re all a little bit dazed and rather jolted. From here it’s only another half hour to Puerto Inca. A station wagon, which by European standards is already fully occupied, lets us get in as well. Everyone just pushes together. My husband and I squeeze into the passenger seat, and so the driver manages to pack into a normal passenger car with a four-person capacity twice that number of passengers. A particularly intrepid traveler even sits in the open trunk, true to the motto: “Better a bad ride than a good walk.”
Whenever we arrive at the bank of the Río Pachitea and I see Puerto Inca on the other side of the river, I remember the many times I stopped here with my mother. But my main connection with this small city, just over ten miles from the crash site, is the story of my accident. For even though I’m known all over Peru as “Juliana, the survivor of the LANSA crash,” here I’m a local celebrity. Even the ferrymen who are standing around on the riverbank waiting for customers recognize me immediately. The old man who “gets to” ferry us across beams across his whole toothless face.
It’s noon now, and when we climb the concrete steps on the opposite bank to the riverside road, the sun burns down mercilessly on our heads. Though it isn’t time for lunch break yet at the real estate department, the responsible official “isn’t here at the moment.” Will he be back later? The secretary isn’t really sure. We can give it another shot after two o’clock. So we try our luck at the city hall.
And here—I’m convinced that there’s no such thing as coincidences—we actually meet an old acquaintance. Don Marcio, who brought me from the jungle to Tournavista back then, is suddenly standing in front of me, aged as we all are. His features are more striking than before. He beams when he sees me. And for me, as always, it’s a very touching encounter. He’s doing well, the old woodsman. He has become more sedentary; after all, he turned seventy-three this year.
“Those days—those were some times,” he says. “How much we experienced.” And then he asks me whether I still have a copy of “my” movie. He would like to show it to his grandchildren.
Yes, the LANSA crash and the ensuing search operation were definitely a highlight in the history of the small city. Another followed when the Italian director Giuseppe Scotese made a movie of the story, partially shot on location.
There were scenes in the Pucallpa airport, Yarinacocha, La Cabaña and Puerto Inca. My part was played by the young English starlet Susan Penhaligon. Some say she looks exactly like me—so much so that many people thought I was playing myself. Others assert that she doesn’t have the slightest resemblance to me. That goes to show how opinions can differ. The roles of my parents were also cast with actors. Otherwise, the director worked a lot with nonprofessionals. So it happened that many people played themselves. Don Marcio participated too and took on the role of my rescuer in the movie. To this day funny stories of the filming circulate in the small jungle city. People still find especially comical a brief appearance by Pampa Hualo, a genuine local original nicknamed after a rainy-season frog.
The director Scotese also visited my father in Panguana and apparently considered shooting the relevant scenes in the original location. But then he decided against it, and our huts were re-created on the grounds of the hotel La Cabaña in Yarinacocha—in my father’s view, quite poorly.
Like everyone else, I first got to see the film in 1974, when it was showing in Germany. The owner of a movie theater in Kiel invited me and my aunt to the premiere and asked me whether he could introduce me to the audience afterward. I happily accepted the invitation, but preferred to come incognito and was very nervous. In our lovely box seat, I found myself trembling and freezing during the screening. Above all, the depiction of the crash really upset me, and this is also one of the best scenes in the movie.
I can still remember well a young couple talking behind me. She said to him: “How far-fetched! That’s impossible!” I almost wanted to turn around and say: “Actually, it is possible! It really happened to me!” But, of course, I remained silent.
But unfortunately, there were also a number of scenes that were rather corny. At one point the girl who’s supposed to be me is cowering on a slope, utterly exhausted. It’s nighttime. And suddenly a mother monkey comes along with her child, pursued by a jaguar. The mother quickly throws her little one into the girl’s arms. Then she
is dragged away by the feline predator. And now, of course, the girl and the little monkey cling to each other and give each other comfort. When the little monkey goes on his way in the morning, she cries desperately after him: “Don’t go away! Don’t leave me alone!”
What can I say? The film wasn’t a masterpiece. Even though the actress who played my part was really dedicated and spared no effort, flung herself into the mud and showed intense engagement in many scenes—for long stretches, the movie is simply boring. The director sought to remain authentic, the many nonprofessional actors did their best, but on the whole the movie wasn’t really convincing.
Still, here in Germany, under the sensationalistic title A Young Girl Fights Her Way Through the Green Hell, the movie was in theaters for twelve weeks, and in Peru and other South American countries, as Perdida en el Infierno Verde, still longer. In the United States, too, it came out, but under the title Miracles Still Happen; in contrast to the German and South American titles, which stressed the comparison of the jungle to hell, this suggested a triumphant survival tale. Nonetheless, I was ultimately informed that the film only incurred losses, and so I didn’t get a penny from the worldwide earnings. The movie was also shown on television under the strangest titles. Unfortunately, I never received an official copy of the movie. Meanwhile, the director has died, and the production company was dissolved a long time ago.
What really angered my father was the fact that Susan Penhaligon also made films in which she had nude scenes. In many newspapers pictures of me in jeans and a T-shirt then appeared next to a nude picture of her. That didn’t bother me personally. But many people asked me whether that was me, and whether I was really making nude films now.
According to a false newspaper item, incidentally, Susan Penhaligon supposedly died in the 1990s in an accident in the United States. That’s another nice illustration of how inaccurate media reports often take on a life of their own. For even though it’s not true, and the actress enjoys good health to this day, the stubborn rumor persists. It has even turned into the story that I was the one who had an accident at that time. In that case, too, many people couldn’t distinguish between reality and fiction, and thought I played myself. And so amusing situations repeatedly ensued.
Once, I was driving north from Lima with Alwin Rahmel, and on the way we gave a lift to a natural scientist whose car had stalled. As chance would have it, he knew my mother. I sat in the back of the car, and Alwin carried on the conversation. The man said: “That was such a tragedy, when Maria Koepcke lost her life. But what makes me especially sad is that her daughter, who so miraculously survived the crash, later had an accident in the United States!”
Then Alwin, who has a mischievous sense of humor, asked: “You mean Juliane? Would you like to speak to her?”
The scientist gave him a dismayed sidelong glance.
“Yes,” Alwin insisted, “you’re really in luck today! If you would like to, you can speak to Juliane. For she’s sitting right behind you.”
The man was thunderstruck and could scarcely believe that I was really still alive and actually sitting with him in a car.
I often had such encounters. Once, I even had to show my passport, because the people I met at a reception simply would not believe that I’m really Juliane Koepcke. Just recently a relative of Moro’s asked me to give her a current photo of myself to convince her teacher that I’m very much alive. As is typically the case with rumors, the wildest versions of my supposed accident in the United States ultimately went around. In one, I had a car accident; in another, it was a bike. And it’s incredible how stubbornly people cling to these stories. Even when I’m standing in front of them, they sometimes believe the media reports more than the evidence of their eyes.
Even the people in Puerto Inca can hardly believe that after several years I’ve once again found my way to them. Even though I don’t find anyone in the city hall to help me in the matter of Panguana, all the secretaries and employees converge, and every single one wants to have a photograph taken with me. Meanwhile, lunch hour has come, and we are happy to take a tip from a young woman who sends us to her mother’s restaurant.
I’m not at all surprised that I actually know this woman from earlier days—indeed, from the time before my accident. For she once ran a hotel, the name of which was easy for me to remember. It was called La Lámpara de Aladino, Aladdin’s magic lamp, after the woman’s husband, who was named Aladino. Here my mother often stopped, and a few times I had accompanied her. The restaurant owner beams from ear to ear; and, of course, we not only receive an excellent lunch, but also are soon engaged in an animated conversation.
We talk—how could it be otherwise—about those days. The time my mother spent the night here and supposedly had a snake in her luggage—which I take to be another rumor, but I don’t argue with the woman. Naturally, we soon come to the subject of that Christmas Day, when during a terrible storm the airplane circled over the forest and finally disappeared. Once again I listen to how strangers tell my story as if it were their own.
I can’t help thinking of Werner Herzog’s remark: “Your story no longer belongs to you alone. It belongs to the public.” Whether I like it or not—he is undoubtedly right.
Back then, Stern acquired not only the film rights, but also the book rights to my story. Fortunately, all the formalities were handled by my aunt, who was an expert and whom I completely trusted. A book was actually written too. However, when I got to read the manuscript, I wasn’t particularly happy with it. So it didn’t bother me at all when I learned that no publisher could be found who wanted to bring out the book. At that time I already had a feeling that this is something you should actually do yourself, or in collaboration with someone you trust.
Meanwhile, complete strangers have joined us at our table, talking to me as if I were an old friend. For people here, where the search operation made so many feelings run high, it’s still something like a divine sign that I alone simply fell from the sky and remained in one piece.
“You know,” says a woman, only a little older than I, “that you have a home here in Puerto Inca.”
I thank her. And think of our home in Munich and how long it took before I found a true home of my own after my forced departure out of Peru.
My very first home was the Humboldt House, and when that was gone, Panguana. Isn’t it strange that a few Indian huts without walls could be a home? Then I realize that it’s not a matter of the place: For me, home was where my parents were. But then, my mother was suddenly dead, and my father, at least for the time being, didn’t want me around and found a thousand reasons to keep me away.
Instead of Panguana, I went to visit my other grandmother during that summer break in 1973, my mother’s mother, in Sibichhausen on Lake Starnberg. And here I gradually got to know my mother’s extended family. For me as an only child, that was something very special.
My grandmother was a lovable, cheerful and extremely gregarious person. She liked having people around, and as long as her husband, a reputable gynecologist, was alive, her house was the center of many social gatherings. In her old age it brought her immense joy in summer when as many relatives and friends as possible filled the house with life. She had a wirehaired dachshund, Anka, who unfortunately died a short time after I met her. But my aunt Hilde, my mother’s sister, who was an actress in Düsseldorf, also had a dog, named Amor, with whom I loved to play.
That was also something I missed in Germany, the fact that I got outdoors so rarely. In Peru, especially in the jungle, I had been outside constantly. Our houses didn’t even have walls. Everything happened under the open sky; and here in Germany, I was always sitting indoors. Since I had so much to do for school, I didn’t have many hobbies either. I didn’t play a sport or get much exercise. That’s why I enjoyed taking Amor for a walk to one of the bog lakes or hiking through glorious gorges to Lake Starnberg, collecting mushrooms or blueberries, or watching a little at the horse pasture just behind the house. Once, we foun
d especially beautiful porcini mushrooms, and my grandmother went completely silent. That evening she brought me a framed picture. It was a pretty watercolor of a porcini mushroom.
“Here,” she said, “I’m giving you this as a gift. Your mother made it, back before she followed your father to Peru. We were collecting mushrooms, just like you were today. And in the evening Maria said: ‘Mommy, this one here you can’t cut up. First I have to draw it!’”
My grandmother had tears in her eyes and turned away quickly. I looked at the study. It really had turned out particularly well. A few days after my arrival, we had visited the grave. But only now, in the face of the drawing, did I grasp how much my grandmother, too, suffered from my mother’s death.
“Your grandfather wasn’t thrilled at all about letting her go all by herself on that long journey. But Maria said: ‘I’ll follow this man anywhere. If necessary, to the end of the world.’”
My grandmother was silent. She was far away in her thoughts—I could feel that.
“To the end of the world,” she repeated softly. Then she pulled herself together. She looked at me, smiling.
“Actually, I would have liked for you to live here with me,” she went on. “But I recognized that it’s easier for you in Kiel. It’s a long way from here to the nearest school.”
Then my aunt Hilde entered the room and asked cheerfully whether we didn’t want to cook a mushroom dish together and invite Grandmother’s friend from next door to eat with us. And that broke the spell of that moment.
It wouldn’t be the last time that I visited Sibichhausen. I liked spending time with my grandmother and enjoyed the glorious weeks in the foothills of the Alps. At birthday celebrations or other occasions, I now met my eleven cousins too. I also took pleasure in visiting the family of my father’s uncle, who lived in Hanover and later in Lahr, Germany.
When I Fell From the Sky Page 19
