The next morning, the travelers were up early. When they met in the breakfast room, Molly saw that Jonathan was covered in angry-looking bites, and he was desperately resisting the urge to scratch.
“They really got you didn’t they? Here, this will help.” Molly pulled out of her satchel three small bottles of the liquids she had bought in the market, the day before. She applied the amber liquid to the unscratched bites. She cleaned the other bites first with a little alcohol then placed a dab of a rich, dark red liquid to the open sores.
“What are those liquids?” he asked.
“Tree resins. Old jungle remedies, and they are very soothing. This is copaiba,” she replied.
“What’s the red one?” he asked. “Strange smell!” Jonathan asked.
“Dragon’s blood,” she growled, half laughing. “Well, it’s actually resin from a tree called sangre de grado. It’s an antiseptic. Let it dry and it acts as a bandage as well.”
They were full of their breakfast of tropical fruits and juices, toast and strange-looking jams, and ready to go. They collected their backpacks, which they had pared down to only the essentials. A few clothes, a foldaway fishing rod, a small, lightweight tent which was more of a mosquito net than anything, a compass, and the machete. The rest of their luggage they would leave at the hotel. They had enough food to last three 3 days, maybe four, and a booklet with a description of any fruits they might find and that were safe to eat. And Jonathan had his ultraviolet water purifier, although Bob had assured them the water was clean.
Jonathan hoisted the heavier pack on his back. Molly felt confident she could manage her small backpack, and her satchel full of items for emergencies. They were fresh from a good night’s sleep, clean and ready. But they walked out of the hotel both knowing that they were stepping into a complete unknown.
The first part of the journey was easy. They took a community bus to the town of Puerto Verdad. It was about an hour away. The bus left the city and flew along the narrow road, passing a few tiny communities but not much else. On either side of them was tall, thick jungle.
The bus terminal at Puerto Verdad was little more than a roof, with a small shop, and a bathroom. From there, they took a local moto-kar to the port. There was a small market next to the port which buzzed with people selling local produce. Jonathan bought a couple of desserts made from rice and milk which they ate while they waited for their boat, sitting on the boardwalk which looked out over the river. Boats plied their way through the water, people ambled along the shore and lively music blared out from a nearby bar. The morning sun had started to intensify, but the breeze from the water cooled them. They gazed over to the far side of the river, with its jungle backdrop of vibrant greens.