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only one who might still come to rescue me after Christmas, but I had written him not to take any action until the beginning of January, and it would take him a while to figure out what had happened and to come to Bolivia. I would surely be dead by then.

I tried to overcome my fears, to think positively. I was afraid that they would give up looking, and then I myself would give up and lose my will to survive. I tried to think of some other course of action, some other way to keep myself going. First I considered walking through the jungle once more, trying to make it to San José, but I immediately rejected that option. Even if my feet were to heal before I started out, they were certain to be afflicted once more. The rainy season would last another three months, and I would have no shelter from the pouring rain. Then I wondered if I should try my luck on the river. I could hitch two or three logs together and tie myself to them. I realised, however, that such a plan was out of the question, that it would be suicidal to hazard the river on my own. My memories of being swept through white-water rapids, bashed against rocks, and pulled under the gloomy waters were too vivid for me even to consider attempting it. The only way I would go back to the river was if I knew I was dying. Then I would throw myself into the water. As long as I was still alive, even if I held out for another six months, I wouldn't