My group was dismissed. I never knew what happened to them—whether they perished in the jungle or made it home to deliver their findings.
As for me, I was taken by the leader and what I assumed was their shaman or priest. He was an older man with a severe demeanor. I couldn't understand what was happening. Communication was nearly impossible; I relied on hand gestures and a few words I had begun to pick up in their language.
I stayed in the tribal village as a sort of "special guest." The children were curious about me, often trying to approach, but the adults quickly pulled them away, as though I were a threat.
Those were difficult days. I was confused in every sense—physically, mentally, emotionally. The food was harsh on my system; it was clear my body wasn't prepared for their diet, the climate, or even their water.
I fell ill many times. I realized the tribe was deliberating about me, but I had no idea what decision they were coming to. I lost track of the days entirely.
Eventually, I recovered from the fevers. One day, the shaman came to study me. He gestured to me with signs, indicating I was well enough for the next step in my journey.
They placed me in a canoe, and we traveled upstream, the dense forest growing darker around us. We reached a waterfall, and they left me there—alone, stranded on a massive flat stone in the middle of the river.
At that moment, I thought my life had come to an end. Surely, I would be devoured by some creature of the jungle. I was convinced this was all part of a brutal ritual, and I was the sacrifice.
As the sun set and darkness crept over the river, my fear grew. The shadows around me seemed alive. Then, from the gloom, I saw two lights—eyes, glowing faintly.
From the forest emerged a figure, small yet radiant, stepping onto the stone with an unearthly grace. It was a man—or something resembling one—but his brilliance marked him as otherworldly.
"Hello," the being said in perfect clarity. "I can speak your language, European man."
