The next morning I paddled for 5 hours straight without seeing another person, although both monkeys and brightly coloured birds screeched acknowledgement of me as I cruised past. The first chap I met almost fell out of his dug out in surprise as he spotted me approaching. He turned out to be a local fisher man who proudly exhibited his catch of large meaty specimens, with all too sharp looking teeth. I gave him a few coins for one and carried on down the river. That night was my first truly alone in the jungle and things seemed to go all too well. Despite ants and other jungle creepy crawlies biting and nibbling me to distraction, my dinner was fantastic and I relaxed into my hammock ready for slumber.
It was about 4 a.m. the following morning that I hit the ground with an undignified thump. The hammock that had served me so well for the last 7 years had decided now of all times was when it would give out. With limited options and just torch light, I crawled onto my board, pulled my mosquito net over me and shut my eyes.
The next two days were two of the toughest and most rewarding of my life. The river sidled onwards like a huge serpent pushing its way through the dense jungle and around pockets of habitation where isolated communities smiled, waved, then retreated rapidly if I got too close.
At one point the lazy waters started to flow faster and the banks closed in around me. I had no option but to go with the flow and had to trust that my map reading had been true and I wouldn’t be confronted with an unexpected waterfall round the next bend. Minor rapids still kept me on my toes and I attached my leash for the first time during the trip.
