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That's alll bi rds dot com. It is nineteen eighty seven, a few miles from the mouth of the mighty Amazon River, as a light mist hangs over its muddy waters, a hulking six hundred passenger river cruiser is making its gentle journey toward the sea. Ensconced in one of its rudimentary cabins, three men no straight as to adventure. Environmentalist Jean Michel Custoau, writer Petru Popescu, and photographer Lauren McIntyre are enjoying each
other's company. Together, they trade tales and make toasts to some of the early European explorers who traveled those same waters many years before, in somewhat less comfortable conditions. Before long, as they gaze out at the inscrutable mass of thick jungle passing by, the men start to wander about all the Indian tribes that still lived deep within it, whose
existence might still remain unknown to the outside world. They begin to ruminate on how one might communicate with such a tribe, or how any two people, for that matter, could successfully communicate with no apparent and linguistic frames of reference. As Popescu and Custou debate the merits and possibilities of grunt and sign language, they stumble ultimately at the question of just how though, to convey more abstract thoughts. At this, Lauren McIntyre falls silent for a moment and takes a
sip of wine. What if there was a way, he says, looking sheepishly at his two friends. A communication so direct no power could find words for it. As Pobesco would later write, what followed was the telling of a story that McIntyre had never shared with anyone before, something even to that day he wasn't entirely sure had ever really happened.
You're listening to unexplained and I'm Richard McClane smith. The plain banked suddenly to the right, following the path of the river, as the pilot Mercier kept his eye out for a good spot to land. In the back, Lauren MacIntyre kept his eyes fixed on the jungle below, while up front in the passenger seat, Carlitos, the guide Macentyre had hired a few days before in Ladisia, Columbia, mopped
his brow while he also scoured the jungle below. It was October eighteenth, nineteen sixty nine, and the river was the Rio Javari, a south bank tributary of the Amazon that wriggled along the Peruvian Brazilian border for nine hundred miles before coming to a head at the intersection of
the three nations of Columbia, Peru, and Brazil. For the past four hours, the three men had been flying in the opposite direction toward the river's source in search of the Maya ua An Amazon tribe that were thought to have been wiped out more than fifty years before after becoming victims of rampant deforestation in service to the rubber industry. That was until nineteen sixty seven, when a Peruvian woman who had been kidnapped by the tribe but then later escaped.
Came to the attention of two Peruvian based missionaries from America, Harriet Fields and Hattie Neeland, after working with the escapee for two years. Fields and Kneeland had flown into the jungle only a few months before and apparently located the tribe to Fifty two year old McEntyre, a successful national geographic photographer, was hoping to be the first to photograph these people, who some believed had not had any contact
with the outside world since nineteen ten. McEntyre lent out the open door of the plain and raised his to his eye, then paused, there it is, he shouted, spotting a circle of huts within a small break in the trees. Seconds later he lost sight of it. Mercier pulled hard on the control wheel and brought the plane round for another look. Moments later, they spotted the clearing again, only this time there were people there too, almost thirty of them,
gazing up at the plane in the sky. Turning round from the front seat, Carlitos gave a thumbs up to McIntyre they had found them. Mercier eased the control wheel forward and seconds later they were touching down onto the water and edging toward the river bank. McIntyre leaped ashore and together with Klitos, began unloading the six rubberized sacks, stuffed full of equipment and survival gear, as well as a number of small gifts that the photographer hoped to
use for mediation with the Maya Runa. Suddenly, Carlitos doubled over in pain, clearly in some distress, Malaria, asked Mercier, who had now joined them on the bank. Klitos shook his head, not all convincingly. Mercier looked worryingly to McIntyre as he handed the guide some food and water, suggesting he rest for a moment and see if it passes.
As Mercier and Carlitos took a seat on the bank, MacIntyre wandered up the river to get a measure of his surroundings, snapping liberally with his camera as he went. Seeing it so concentrated from behind the lens, he couldn't help but wonder at all the secrets that lay on the jungle edge and its mesh of thick palms, mahogany and vines. He stood for a moment letting the sound of the river wash over him. As he raised his
camera again for another shot. Zooming into a gap between two rubber trees, he was startled to find a child's face peeking out from it, its mouth ringed with a distinct blue lined tattoo worn only by the Maya Runa Indians. He whispered to Mercier and Carlitos moments later, as he grabbed some pocket mirrors from one of the bags, they're watching us from behind the trees. Returning to the same spot, he was excited to find more young faces peering out
at him. Careful not to move too fast, he placed the mirrors in the mud at the water's edge, then slowly made his way back to Mercier and Carlitos, who by now was in absolutely no state to carry on. McEntyre watched as a small naked child burst from the jungle and collected the mirrors before disappearing back into the leaves.
Emboldened by this first encounter and not knowing how long the tribe might stay there, there was no question of McEntyre giving up now, and since it was too dangerous to leave Carlitos there, there was only one thing for it. Mercier would fly the guide back and their return for
McEntyre in a few days time. Though the pilot was reluctant to leave McEntyre, they at least agreed that should he feel it necessary to venture away from the camp, he would leave a clear note where he was going and would stick close to the river at all times. Minutes later, McEntyre watched as the light says air craft lifted up from the water and disappeared into the clouds.
He was now entirely alone. For the next hour, McEntyre littered the surrounding area with more gifts, hoping that by now the children he had seen earlier had informed the adults of his arrival. Then, after making a quick check of his kit, he pulled out his notebook. But just as he was about to put down some thoughts, he heard a rustle in the trees. Grabbing his camera, he looked about for any sign of movement, but saw nothing.
It was only then that it really hit him the isolation. Now, with Mercier and Carlitos gone, there was nothing but the possessions in front of him to rout him to the world. He knew it was common in such moments as the mind fought to adjust to its new surroundings, for a sense of anxiety to rise, to feel the jungle closing in. Suddenly, every distant rustle, insect buzz, or strained animal screech seemed unusually amplified out there alone and exposed. This was the
effect of his body adapting to calm himself. Macentyre grabbed a machette and concentrated on preparing the camp. After hacking away some leaves, he hung up the sacks, hoping to make himself more visible for Mercier's return. Next, he placed some colored wool around the camp to serve as way points should he venture out any further. After stringing up a hammock and building a fire, he checked his watch
to find it was six pm. Feeling suddenly tired and with the light fading fast, he checked his bed for ants, and then slipped into its tort embrace, and there he lay for a moment, listening to the flowing waters of the Rio Javari and the distant croaks and trills of unseen things, before finally drifting off to sleep. At daybreak, McEntire was startled awake by movement above his head. Soon realizing he was staring up at the long and languid
torso of a three toed sloth. Not wanting to waste any time, he took down his hammock and quickly washed himself in the river. Then, after a quick meal of camp fire, Porridge packed a small bag of gifts, placed the camera around his neck, and stepped into the jungle. Before long, having just noticed that some of the wall he had left out earlier was missing, he felt the
hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Glancing up, he saw standing directly in front of him a man roughly five foot tall with shiny black hair, wearing nothing but a small sheath of fabric covering his penis inked around his mouth with that same distinctive tattoo he had seen on the children the day before. Both his cheeks were coated in red paint, while above his top lip were pierced a series of long, sharp pine needles in the manner of whiskers, thus emulating the jaguar from whom
the Mayaruna believed they were descended. These piercings had also earned them the nickname The cat. Slung over his shoulder was a dead howler. Monkey. The man stood completely still, knowing the Mayaruna to be fiercely defensive of their territory, while also rumored to be cannibals. It was little wonder that McEntire's heart thumped so hard in his chest, then beat a little harder when he saw a second man stepping out from behind the first, with a long bow
and arrow in his hand. There were four in total, each carrying bows and arrows, except for the one with red cheeks, whose hand was tightly gripping a club bomb. Dea shouted McEntyre in Portuguese, holding up his bag of gifts, but there was no response. Wanting desperately to capture this moment, but fearful of making any sudden movement, McIntyre, whose hand was already on the camera round his neck, took a
chance click. The men remained completely still. Amigos, say on amigo, he tried in Spanish this time, but again there was no response. Macenttyre now raised the whole camera to his eye and pressed the shutter button. At the sound of the click, read cheeks as MacIntyre thought of him, turned
slowly round and walked back into the jungle. McIntyre turned to look at his camp just a few yards behind him, then turned back to the men who were now all walking away from him, and followed them deeper into the trees. Are you always taking care of your family? Do you often take care of others and not yoursel off? Now it's time to take care of yourself, to make time for you. You deserve it. Teledoc gives you access to a licensed therapist to help you get back to feeling
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For free. Teledoc therapy is available through most insurance or employers. Download the app or visit teledoc dot com forward slash Unexplained podcast Today to get started. That's teladoc dot com slash unexplained podcast. McEntyre made sure to keep a respectful distance as he continued to photograph them. Although the tribesmen seemed unfazed by his presence, he struggled to keep up in the sweltering heat as they pressed ever onwards, further
and further into the jungle. Then suddenly the men broke away from the path, coming to rest moments later on the edge of a swamp, then, after laying their things down, jumped straight into the cooling waters. McIntyre checked his watch and felt a sudden rush of panic. He had been walking for over an hour and only now realized he had left his compass back at the camp. The men exited the water and approached the photographer, having handed them a machette. They were keen to see what else he
was carrying. Sensing the mood had now shifted, he watched with concern as the men conferred quietly together, then promptly headed back into the jungle. McIntyre looked about him, but saw no sign of their previous path. Now completely lost, his only hope was to find the village and pray that somebody spoke Portuguese or Spanish. Without further delaying, he grabbed his things and continued on behind the hunters. After another hour of trailing them are greatly relieved but severely exhausted,
McIntyre arrived finally at the Maya Una settlement. The camp was centered around the felled trunk of a large sumauma tree. Fourteen huts made of wooden poles and palm thatched roofs circled it, each in various stages of development. All about, men, women and children sat tending to fires or weaving baskets, as pet dogs wandered about, and the smell of cooked fish hung heavy in the air. Within minutes, McIntyre was surrounded by other members of the tribe, many with the
same tattooed faces and piercings. The children were the bravest, rushing forward ahead of the adults, but cautious enough not to get too close. McEntyre recognized one of them from the day before, holding a mirror in their hand. Looking at them now gathered in front of him, he couldn't help but noticing that although some of them looked blithe and powerfully built, it was clear that they were also starving. Then, looking again at the hurriedly constructed huts, he was gripped
once more with panic. If this village had only recently been constructed, it wasn't the one they had seen from the air. His pilot, Mercier, would have absolutely no idea where to find him. Just then, a sudden burst of raised voices drew his attention. Standing off to one side, Red Cheeks was handing the various gifts around and gesticulating wildly toward McIntyre, mimicking the taking of photographs. McIntyre felt himself clutching self consciously at the camera around his neck.
Suddenly feeling very thirsty, he mimed for a drink, and within seconds a bowl of water was brought to him, which he gratefully received, scooping it out with his hands. After conferring for a moment with the a man wearing a hat of leaves, who McIntyre took to be a shaman, hurried over to him and ushered him along the length of the fallen tree toward a hut stationed at the very tip of it, outside of which sat a much older man, somehow unlike all the rest, and wearing a
grand crown of egret feathers, ah thought McEntyre. Finally, the chief The chief, who was busy constructing arrows from a small pile of materials on the ground next to him, regarded Macenttyre coolly as he was brought toward him. Looking at his legs, McEntyre couldn't help noticing that they were covered in a series of large white warts that reminded him of barnacles. The chief listened patiently as red Cheeks
went over again how he had found Bacentyre's camp. Once he had finished, the old man smiled, revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. Relieved, McEntyre smiled back. Bomb dea, he said hopefully, but once again there was no sign of recognition. Exasperated, McEntyre grabbed an arrow and drew a map of the river on the ground, shouting Javari repeatedly, but getting only
permused looks in response. Then a sudden commotion drew their attention as eight more hunters carrying dead monkeys and peccaries appeared from out of the jungle. As the hunters were welcomed back into the village, the women rose to collect the game. One young girl approached a howler monkey that lay completely still, bleeding profusely from its head. When she grabbed its leg. However, it instantly came alive and tried
desperately to get away. In one movement, she swung it in a circle, crashing its head against the ground, sending blood bursting out of its nose. It twitched momentarily, then was still again. As the rest of the village went about their business, paying him little heed, McEntyre tried to forget his predicament for a moment, then, remembering why he had come all this way in the first place, he raised his camera to his face and snapped a photo.
By the afternoon, though McEntyre had succeeded in teaching them his name, he had got no further explaining his situation. But shortly after three pm, the community sat down to eat, inviting him to join them, Taking a seat beside them on the ground, McIntyre was handed a slice of baijeou smeared with fish paste, which he was grateful to receive. And then it really started to hit him how stupid
he had been. He looked about at the distinctly unfamiliar surroundings and at the faces of all these people that he didn't know who only months before many believed no longer existed. Then his head began to spin, But just as things began to spiral away from him, he found his mind suddenly filled with a strange, humming sound that seemed to drown out the other noises in the camp.
Trying hard to focus on something else, the sound eventually dissipated and the noise level of the camp returned to normal. Later before dusk, a family of four kindly offered up a hammock in their hut for him to sleep in.
That night, McIntyre lay awake, listening to the sounds of the jungle mingling with those of the camp, the cracking and popping fire, and wandered silently to himself about the great gulf of understanding between his world perspective and that of the Maya Runa, before finally he drifted off to sleep.
Moments later, he found himself floating high above the jungle, the greenness of it so intense it felt to him as though it were lit up from underneath, and though he couldn't tell exactly what it was, somewhere in it all was a message. Next, he found himself staring at the feet of an old man, scanning up to find those familiar wart covered legs, until finally he was looking into the eyes of the Maya Runa chief, his face
breaking into a radiant smile. Macentire snapped awake in the dark, then, laying his head down again, fell once more to sleep. At first light the following morning, Macentire was shaken awake by one of the shaman. Sensing urgency, he gathered his things and wandered into the middle of the village to find the place engulfed in a flurry of activity. Baskets were being filled and placed on heads, babies strapped the backs,
and the pets corraled spinning round. He was just in time to catch one of the men taking a club to the central post of the hut he had just been sleeping in, and knocking it down with one blow. They were moving. He realized they must be running from something, having been reassured by the sight of the chief. His relief was to be short lived when moments later, the villagers, having gathered everything they needed, formed a straight line and
proceeded to head directly into the jungle. Once again, McIntyre had no choice but to follow them. Thirty minutes or so later, they reached a muddy stream, now McIntyre had a choice to stay with the tribe or take a chance following the stream back to the Rio Javari. He looked downstream and thought for a moment, if he struck out now, only to sprain an ankle or get bitten by something poisonous, he would likely not live to tell
the tale. He looked up to the back of the line of Maya Runa as they would just about to disappear into the foliage, and ran off to catch them up with barely a crack in the canopy above. Without his watch, it would be impossible to tell what time of day it was, as those at the front continued hacking a path for the rest to walk through. Finally they reached a small clearing. Moments later, there was a rumble of thunder above, and a heavy rain began to fall.
The chief shouted something to the group, who immediately dispersed and got to work. In what seemed like a matter of minutes, another camp had emerged out of the clearing, and before long the Maya Runa had settled back into life just as it was before. After taking some more photos, McIntyre found a spot between two trees and hung up his hammock. Spotting the Chief sitting once again on his chair at the head of the camp making arrows, McEntyre
sensed an opportunity. Taking a seat at the man's feet, he grabbed three strands of palm from the pile next to him and began to weave a belt, something he had learned to do from his time spent in the navy. If they couldn't speak, perhaps he could earn his respect, he thought. As McEntyre platted, so too did the Chief, continue refining his arrows. Halfway done, McEntyre held up his work and the pair smiled warmly at each other. Just then,
something very peculiar happened. A voice in Mcentyre's head that didn't belong to him. Some of us are friends, it said. He looked up with confusion at the Chief, who remained focused on his task, that warm smile still playing about his lips. Then it came again, some of us our friends. After everything that had happened, he was finally losing it, he thought, after all, what else could explain what was
going on? But then McEntyre decided to try something. Clearing his mind of all other thoughts, he concentrated solely and trying to communicate that he too was a friend. You can trust me, he repeated over and over in his mind. Moments later, something else popped into his head. I know, came the reply. McEntyre looked up, aghast at the Chief, who smiled back with this wide, toothless grin. That was the end of part one of season four, Episode four,
Always Already. The second and final part will be released next Friday, March eighth. If you enjoy listening to Unexplained and would like to help supporters, you can now go to Unexplained podcast dot com Forward Slash Support. All donations, no matter how large or small, are massively appreciated. All elements have Unexplained are produced by me, Richard McClane Smith. Please subscribe and rate the show on iTunes, and feel free to get in touch with any thoughts or ideas
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