Page 46 of Beautifully Wild

A voice brings me back to the room, and our small group is guided to a seated lounge room where we’re briefed about the ecology of the area and being mindful of leaving a footprint.

Our host, a local indigenous man, is dressed in cut-off cargo shorts and a loosely buttoned khaki shirt. I’m surprised he’s wearing solid boots in this heat. He fiddles with a sturdy broad-brimmed hat in his hand.

“Hello. I Asoo. I ask you respect our culture and land. Twenty thousand Pemón live in Gran Sabana,” he explains. Thick lashes frame his dark eyes, his straight black hair is long enough to cover his ears, and his skin is a deep bronze. “Treat environment with care, it’s a fragile ecosystem.” I nod, barely understanding his pronunciation even though it sounds rehearsed like he’s trying to remember the correct words. “Bring your trash back to lodge and dispose appropriately.”

The ‘respect and be mindful’ mantra demands reflection, and I’m already glad I decided to take a risk and explore this area.

Asoo leads those of us on the tour to the lake, and we begin by boarding thecuriaraanchored at the muddy edge of the lagoon. After seeing our mode of transportation, I’m a little nervous. The canoe serves a purpose, and it’s not designed for comfort. It’s a long, narrow shell of a tree trunk, carved and hollowed out with wooden planks as seats. A portable outboard motor sits at the back of the canoe.

Asoo revs the motor, which sounds more like it belongs on a motorbike, and we jerk backward with the absence of support. With a burst of nervous laughter, I grab hold of the plank of wood under my rear.

We make our way across the lagoon, and I exhale quietly in gratification. The breathtaking scenery alone makes it worth the effort to get here. I’m filled with awe and knowthisis what my soul seeks.

The waterfalls come in full view. In the background, three table-top mountains hover in low-lying clouds. Asoo explains these are tepuis, and the word is from the Pemón language meaning ‘House of Gods’ significant to Pemón mythology.

We reach the shores of the main island. “Anatoly Island, where the river system splits coming down from the mountains,” Asoo says, using his hands to emphasize his words. He nods at me. “My English … Victor say… rusty.”

“You’re doing fine,” I tell him.

We disembark for a fifteen-minute hike across the savannah to reach the first waterfall. The air is heavier with moisture, and we pass rocks, moist with slime. It’s the end of the wet season. Large red ants scurry near the trail, so I tread cautiously and don’t know whether to look up or down.

We reach the first waterfall, Sapo Falls. From the top where I stand, it gives me an uninterrupted view down the length of the waterfall.

Asoo instructs us to tread carefully as we take the trail down the side of the waterfall. “Down is another path leading behind waterfall. Everyone wait. Ground slippery.”

We follow the wet, rocky path behind the waterfall, and the spray makes visibility difficult. I’m completely soaked, and then I skid in the mud. “Shit.” I reach for a rope strung on the side of the path. The man in front of me turns and wipes water from his face.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say and shoot out a nervous giggle. I stop and absorb the energy and acknowledge the water’s power as it surges over the cliff. I remind myself why I’m here, remembering only a few days prior how I decided to shed the skin of the old me, take a risk and go on an adventure, and just maybe find a trace of where Samuel is working.

My concentration reverts to the man ahead as I follow him along the path leading to the base of the waterfall and to a small pool of clean water to swim and escape the heat.

“The water safe to drink,” Asoo tells us. Still, I opt for the bottled water in my bag.

We move on to the next smaller waterfall. The water is significantly pinker, and I wonder why.

After a quick lunch break of sandwiches, we begin the return journey, retracing our steps and head back to our accommodations.

It’s late afternoon when the curiara hits the sandy shore of the resort. With weary legs, I tread the path and clamber into the hammock on the porch. I close my eyes and simply listen to the constant noise of the jungle. I have no idea how much time passes before the mosquitoes force me to retreat indoors.

After a quick shower, I collapse on the bed, not bothering about dinner. The information about tomorrow’s trip to Angel Falls is on the bedside table. I read over it again, paying particular attention to the paragraph on Pemón communities. Dotted on the map are the known communities around the Gran Sabana. I keep reading the lines offunding by international aid.

Specifically,thehelp of volunteers, medical supplies, and visiting practitioners.

I sit up and stare out into the distance toward the tepuis.

He’s out there.

How in the hell am I going to find him?

25

Eden

Lowintheeasternsky, brushstrokes of yellow, pink, and orange break the horizon. I barely make out the lake for the dark shadows. I follow the silhouettes of a few tourists walking the path toward the main building.

I’m early for my tour, so I take the opportunity to send Amy a message while I’m close to reception to use Wi-Fi. I send a quick text because I don’t expect any of my friends to be awake at dawn, especially now that they are on Margarita Island with Samuel’s friends.

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