Continuing with our look back at some of our favorite episodes while we take a break between seasons. This week, we're going back to March twenty nineteen. In nineteen sixty nine, National geographic photographer Lauren McIntyre traveled deep into the Amazon in search of the fabled Mayaruna tribe, who was said to have no contact with the outside world. What happened next left him wondering for the rest of his life whether it had truly occurred or not. This is unexplained,
Season four, Episode four all ways. Already 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 Holking six hundred passenger river cruiser is making its check journey toward the sea. Ensconced in one of its rudimentary cabins, three men no strangers to adventure, environmentalist Jean Michel Cousteau, writer Petru Popescu, and photographer Lauren
McIntyre are enjoying each other's company. Together they trade tails 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 wonder 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 apat linguistic frames of reference. As Popescu and Cousteau debate the merits and possibilities of grunts 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 Popescu 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 MacLean Smith. The plane banked suddenly to the right, following the path of the river, as the pilot Mercer kept his eye out for a good spot to land. In the back, Lauren McIntyre kept his eyes fixed on the jungle below, while up front in the passenger seat, Carlitos, the guide McIntyre had hired a few days before in Ladicia, 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 Runa, 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 Nieland after working with the escapee for two years. Fields and Nland had flown into the jungle only a few months before and apparently located the tribe.
The fifty two year old McIntyre, 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 nineteen ten. McIntyre leant out the open door of the plane and raised his camera 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, Karlitos 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 Carlitos, 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. Karlitos 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 Karlitos took a seat on the bank, McIntyre 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 beyond 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 Una 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 mirror 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. MacIntyre 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 MacIntyre 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 in their return for
McIntyre in a few days time. Though the pilot was reluctant to leave MacIntyre, 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, McIntyre watched as the light Cesna aircraft lifted up from the water and disappeared into the clouds. He
was now entirely alone. For the next hour, McIntyre 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 note book. 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 root 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. MacIntyre grabbed a machete 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 waypoints 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 torte 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, McIntyre 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 campfire porridge 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 wool 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 was 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
Mayoruna believed they were descended. These piercings had also earned them the nickname the cat people. Slung over his shoulder was a dead howl a monkey. The man stood completely still, knowing the Mayoruna to be fiercely defensive of their territory, while also rumored to be cannibals. It was little wonder that MacIntyre'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 MacIntyre 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, MacIntyre, whose hand was already on the camera round his neck, took a
chance click. The men remained completely still. Amigos saw I an amiagle, He tried in Spanish this time, but again there was no response. McIntyre now raised the whole camera to his eye and pressed the shutter button. At the sound of the click, bread Cheeks, as MacIntyre thought of him, turned slowly round and walked back into the jungle. MacIntyre 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. McIntyre 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 earlier, 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, a greatly relieved, but severely exhausted McIntyre arrived finally at the Mayoruna settlement. The camp was centred 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. McIntyre 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 lithe and powerfully built, it was clear that they were also starving. Then, looking again 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. McIntire felt himself clutching self consciously at the camera around his neck. Suddenly feeling very thirsty, he mined 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 hunters, a man wearing a hat of leaves, whom 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 McIntyre. Finally the chief. The chief, who was busy constructing arrows from a small pile of materials on the ground next to him, regarded McIntyre coolly as he was brought toward him. Looking at his legs, McIntyre couldn't help noticing that they were covered in a series of large white wartz that reminded him of barnacles. The chief listened patiently as red Cheeks went over again how he had found macintire's camp. Once he had finished, the old
man smiled, revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. Relieved, McIntyre smiled back. Bomb dea, he said hopefully, but once again there was no sign of recognition. Exasperated, McIntyre grabbed an arrow and drew a map of the river on the ground, shouting Javari repeatedly, but getting only bemused looks in response. Then a sudden commotion drew their attention as eight more hunters carrying dead monkeys and pekeres 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 howl a 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, McIntire 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 McIntyre had succeeded in teaching them his name, he had
got no further explaining his situation. At shortly after three p m. The communities sat down to eat, inviting him to join them. Taking a seat beside them on the ground, McIntyre was handed a slice of baijeu 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, just before ask 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 Aruna,
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 wort covered legs, till finally he was looking into the eyes of the Mayaruna Chief,
his face breaking into a radiant smile. McIntire snapped awake in the dark, then, laying his head down again, fell once more to sleep. At first light the following morning, McIntyre 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 to backs, and the pets corralled 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 camp. 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 may Aruna as they would just 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 Mayoruna 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 site once again on his chair at the head of the camp, making arrows, McIntyre 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 learnt to do from his time spent in the navy. If they couldn't speak, perhaps he could earn his respect, he thought. As McIntyre platted, so too did the Chief, continue refining his arrows. Half Way done, McIntyre held up his work
and the pair smiled warmly at each other. Just then, something very peculiar happened. A voice in McIntyre'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 McIntyre 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. McIntyre looked up, aghast at the chief, who smiled back with his wide, toothless grin. It had been two days since McIntyre had so carelessly followed the
Mayaruna into the depths of the Amazon rainforest. That night, having strung up a hammock on the edge of the camp, he lay awake, replaying those words over and over in his mind. Some of us are friends. How could the chief have communicated this without uttering a word, let alone not speaking English? Did he have access to an ancient form of communication, he thought, abilities that had long died
out in more contemporary societies. Or had McIntyre merely picked up on a general sensibility and he conjured the thoughts on his own? What then, did it mean that only some of them were friends? McIntyre awoke the next morning with an acrid smell of burning rubber, assaulting his nostrils. He lifted his arm to check the time, but there was no watch on his wrist. His camera and shoes
were gone too. Stumbling into the middle of the camp, he found Red Cheeks and some fellow warriors of the tribe standing around a fire with a suspiciously dark plume of smoke rising up from it, and on top of it were his sneakers. McIntyre grabbed them, putting them, still scolding, on to his feet as Red Cheeks and the others
crowed with laughter. MacIntyre breathed deeply, doing his best to control the anger now swelling up inside of him as he looked desperately for his camera, the one thing that justified his stupidity at getting lost out there. Just then, the chief appeared and approached him. I need to know what happened, came the voice in McIntire's head. Many others had appeared by now, crowding round the fire. The chief looked first at Red Cheeks and then to McIntyre, before
turning his back and walking away. As the rest of the village moved in behind him, McIntire shouted out to them, but nobody responded. It was not uncommon for tribes to ostracize individuals to the point of invisibility. If they no longer observed them, they no longer existed. McIntyre couldn't afford to let that happen to him, so he began to jock. He started slowly at first, on a steady line circling
the entire camp. By the fourth lap, he was running at pace, stamping and flailing his arms every time he went past the chief, determined for him not to ignore him. Slowly, the villagers began to take notice. Red Cheeks had noticed too, stepping forward from the others with his hand tightly gripped on a club. For a moment, McIntire thought he might attack him, but something was holding him back, and then he saw the chief watching him. Hoping he had done enough,
McIntyre finally came to a stop. The chief regarded the stranger for a moment. Then, as McIntyre watched in complete amusement, he started to jock, also taking the exact same line as McIntyre, but in the opposite direction. He continued until he had completed the same amount of lapse. Then a thought came into MacIntyre's mind, the face of time, and then he realized they thought he had been putting a spell on the village, and the chief was trying to
reverse it. Having finished the last lap, the chief stared again at MacIntyre for a moment, then went back to his hut. Now witnessed again by the tribe, MacIntyre returned to the fire and pulled the remains of his watch from under the ash. His last connection to time, as he knew it, had now gone. Just then he caught sight of something odd dangling from a branch. It was a roll of film. Then he saw the monkey in the tree above it, holding his precious camera in its hands.
MacIntyre watched helplessly as it tore off the back and threw what was left of it somewhere deep into the undergrowth. Though he was relieved not to have been cut off from the group, losing the camera was a tough blow. He slumped to the floor, exhausted. At the very least, he still had two rolls of shot film in his pockets. If he should ever make it out of there alive, he thought. Just then, a girl he had decided to
call Monia, walked past. He had seen her lying with red cheeks before, and assumed they were a couple in her hair. She wore a blue piece of the wall he had left out by his camp when he first arrived. He noticed her nails, when now painted the same color too. It was as if McIntire's presence was already staining and corrupting these people, a reminder perhaps of how quickly an
isolated culture can become tainted by others. Later, after bathing in the river, newly replenished, he was greeted by the chief, who offered him one of his beautifully crafted arrows with bristles made of boar hair. A peace offering, perhaps, thought McIntyre, who gave him the belt he had weaved in return at the chief's invitation. McIntyre then followed a small group of children into the forest and watched as a shaman gave them a lesson on the many plants and insects
of their habitat. Then the chief approached him again, and a thought appeared in his head. You must run away, it said. McIntyre looked confused as they stood silently together. More words appeared in macintire's mind. The tribe had been attacked before by white men who came from the sky. They were now on a journey to escape it all, But how thought McIntire. In response, by returning to the beginning, came the reply, Yes, thought McIntyre, This was why they
seemed so restless, and why they were starving themselves. The chief called it a journey to the beginning, but as McIntyre understood it, it was a journey to death. The chief was offering him the chance to leave and save himself. MacIntyre looked out into the jungle and weighed up his options, but there was no question that his best chance was to stay with the tribe as long as he could. He looked back at the chief and shook his head. Over the next few days, MacIntyre began finally to adjust
to the rhythms of the jungle. He survived a bout of diar rhea and spent most of his time listening for sounds of a plane, waiting in vain for the Mayoruna to up sticks and move on to the next destination. On the sixth night, MacIntyre woke in the dark. Then he heard it, the unmistakable roar of a jaguar. Moments later, an excited red Cheeks appeared carrying a flaming torch, beckoning
for the photojournalist to follow him. Sensing a chance to finally prove his worth and win him over, MacIntyre cautiously headed out to him as more hunters appeared from out of their huts, and soon they were charging through the forest in pursuit of the wild animal. Hearing more jaguar cries in the distance, MacIntyre did his best to keep up with the balls of flame, bobbing and weaving through the trees ahead of him, until suddenly they came to
a stop by a large thorny bush. Rushing toward it, MacIntyre was just about to stop when one of the hunters pushed him hard from behind and sent him tumbling into the thorns. He cried out in agony as the barbs stuck into him, many breaking off while still under the skin. Stumbling to his feet, MacIntyre found himself alone in complete darkness, with no sign of the flaming torches and no sign of the hunters. Of course, he thought there had been no jaguar, either he just wanted him gone,
or Red Cheeks had tried to kill him. MacIntyre realized with alarm that those thorns could also be poisonous as quickly as possible. He did what he could to pull them from his skin in the dark, but many, especially those on his back, he could not reach. He waited for a moment, expecting some effect from the poison, but nothing came. Scratched and bloodied, he listened out for any sound of the camp, but heard only crickets and the occasional cry of a macaw somewhere in the canopy above.
Unable to see anything more than a foot in front of him, he decided to stay put until first light. Moments later came the gnats assaulting him from all over, nipping and biting at its body. Each time he swatted them away, they seemed just to come back in greater numbers. Needing to find any kind of shelter, he eventually settled under some roots, taking care to scare off any poisonous creatures that might have been lurking there, and there he
remained waiting out the rest of the night. McIntyre woke at daybreak, his body shivering with cold and itching all over. Finding the bush of thorns again, he soon located a path nearby. After following it for a few minutes, however, the path split in two. Exasperated, he took one and headed down it. Hours later, McIntyre broke through into a clearing with a flush of excitement. He spotted chainsaw marks on the trees and wondered if the loggers were still close.
Though he found the practice objectionable, he realized, too, with a touch of irony, that these people might also be his best chance of survival. Moments later he found the bodies, four of them, in various states of decay, being steadily devoured by an endless line of army ants and other small creatures. McIntyre did his best to cover his nose from the smell and swatted the flies away. Then he
noticed the arrows sticking out of their chests. The flights made of ball bristles, just as the chief had handed him the day before. The men Amazonians, too in their way with families of their own to support, had likely been dropped in by helicopter to prepare a formal landing spot for developers. They were unlikely to be found. McIntyre made a note of the chainsaw serial number, hoping it
might help identify them. Later, continuing on feeling more and more itchy all over his body, he noticed uncture wound on his arm beginning to swell. Unusually, Taking his knife, he dug into it and pulled out a small, wriggling maggot. Many hours later, with the heat and humidity intensifying, McIntyre stumbled on in a state of near delirium, having lost all comprehension of distance, as he felt his entire self
being absorbed into the buzzing vibrancy of the forest. Then, hearing the sound of water, he staggered toward it, breaking through into a scene of unparalleled beauty. Before him, under dappled sunlight lay a small river beach of untouched white sand, at the foot of two high and narrow waterfalls cascading off the face of a vast green mountain. McIntyre flopped
onto the beach and threw his head into the water. Then, after taking a short rest to pick more maggots from under his skin, he carried on, hoping to follow the stream back to the river. Seconds later, he collapsed. MacIntyre slowly opened his eyes and found himself back in the Mayoruna camp as shaman busied themselves about him, sucking out the worms and tending to his wounds. He had been rescued. Hours later. After drifting in and out of consciousness, he
was finally strong enough to stand. Walking round the village cautiously, he saw no sign of red cheeks anywhere, while all about women, men and children were making a huge pile out of all their possessions. Everything, it seemed, from axes and bows to calabashes and spears, was being thrown away. Then he saw it, the body lying inside a funeral
basket propped up inside one of the huts. It was only when he drew near enough for the flies to scatter away from the face that MacIntyre recognized the red painted cheeks underneath. Recoiling in horror, he stepped back outside in a daze. There was no sign of red cheeks as friends either. Some of us are friends, he thought to himself. Looking up, he saw the Chief standing by the pile of tools, ordering a fire to be lit. Next to it. All of it was broken up and
flung into the flames. Spotting MacIntyre, the Chief came over to join him. They were holding us still in time. When it is burned, we will move away, came the voice in MacIntyre's head. Where too, he thought, in reply to the beginning in bewilderment, MacIntyre took a seat on the edge of the camp and watched as one by one the huts were torn down and flung into the fire. Then, finally, the basket containing the body of bread Cheeks was also
placed into its hungry flames. Once it had all been destroyed, just like before, the group promptly filed into a single column and marched headlong into the jungle on their journey toward the beginning, MacIntyre, feeling the two rolls of film still safe in his pocket, rose to his feet and set off after them. For two days and nights they walked, stopping only for short rests and the occasional drink of water. No food was assumed. This was finally, it thought McIntyre,
they would walk until death. On the second morning, he made up his mind. At the first sight of a serious body of water, he would leave the tribe and take his chances alone. In the meantime, with the pace now barely more than a crawl, with many limping painfully, they continued forward. But then from out of the trees came a stream of new but familiar faces with tattooed lines around their mouths and noses pierced with whisker like spines, and soon they were surrounded by them, greeting them with
wide smiles and warm embraces. They hadn't been walking to their death, realized McIntyre. They had been walking home. Perhaps that was what they meant by the beginning, he thought. Before long they were arriving into another village, much bigger than the previous camps, with over twenty huts dotted about. The mood was jubilant as the new arrival settled in with the others and the chief was given an especially warm welcome. Then McIntyre spotted incredibly that one of the
new tribespeople was wearing shorts. Could it be, he thought, as he approached him, cautiously, trying hard not to get his hopes up. Hello, he said in Portuguese, my name is Loreen Loren. Yes, welcome, replied the man, also in Portuguese. McIntyre could barely stand as the relief washed over him. The man named Cambio had learned the language after being forced to flee from his village when it was attacked
by developers. Having managed to escaped to Peru, he had sought refuge in a Baptist mission, where he stayed for three years before finally rejoining his people. That night, the ravenous MacIntyre stuffed his face on plates of turtle meat and bade you as Cambio explained more about the life of the Maya Una. Later, MacIntyre asked him if he ever spoke to the others without words, was it possible that he had been doing this with the chief. Cambio's face lit up with a look of great surprise. No,
he had not, he replied. Only the elders knew how to do that, but there was nothing more he could tell him about it. After dinner, MacIntyre noticed some women spitting into bowls and mixing it with chopped vines from the forest, preparing for a ceremony. He asked Cambio, Yes, he replied, we are returning to the beginning. It seemed the mysterious journey was still happening. After all. You know,
what's supposed to keep you up at night, unexplained. What isn't supposed to keep you up at night is worrying whether or not you've really sourced the best candidate for your business's new hire. Look no further than LinkedIn the place where people go every day to make connections, grow
in their career, and discover job opportunities. With seventy percent of the US workforce on LinkedIn, it's the best way to get your job opportunity in front of more of the right people and why a new hire is made there every ten seconds, hurried to LinkedIn dot com slash Unexplained podcast and get fifty dollars off your first job post that's LinkedIn dot com slash Unexplained podcast. To get fifty dollars off your first job post LinkedIn dot com
slash Unexplained Podcast. Terms and conditions apply. McIntyre woke up in the middle of the night to find Cambio standing over his hammock, gesturing for him to stay quiet. He led the photojournalist toward a large hut from which a soft yellow light was emanating. McIntyre stepped inside and froze there. On the ground. Before him sat the Chief, now more regal than ever in a grand McCaw feathered crown, surrounded by other elders and shaman, their faces just visible under
the flickering of torchlight. The Chief gestured for McIntyre to sit down. Why did you come to us, he asked out loud, as Cambio translated. Then MacIntyre explained that he had heard of their tribe and had come there to photograph them. The men looked to each other with concern, and why hadn't he left already? He had wanted to before, he replied, But now, if he was allowed, he would like to witness them reaching the beginning. He needed to know what it was. After a moment's pause, the men
smiled and nodded in approval. You staying here will be good for the ritual, said the chief. MacIntyre, suddenly unsure again about what he was getting into, asked when it will happen, to which the chief replied in two days. But how do you know what you are looking for? What if the beginning isn't there any more, asked MacIntyre. As Cambio translated, The chief broke into a laugh. The beginning is always there, he replied, it is never over,
and with that MacIntyre was dismissed. The following day, MacIntyre watched with interest as the village continued to prepare for the ceremony to the beginning. As more ingredients were brought from the jungle, and mixed into pots by the women. That night, he was unexpectedly woken by Cambio. Come, Loren, he says, it is happening now. At this MacIntyre is led through the dark toward a long line of tribesmen.
Cambio explains to him that they must join the line to choose their new name, the name they will take to the beginning. Before he has time to think, the entire line takes a big step to the left. Cambio nods for McIntyre to join in. Quickly, they take another three steps forward, followed by two more to the right, then back and to the left, ending the movements with
a clap. MacIntyre does his best to dance with them as they go round again, and soon the men are beginning to chant as well as On and on it goes until daylight, when finally they stop. MacIntyre then spots the chief making his way down the line, asking each of them to give their new name, placing a thumbprint of red eruco paint on their foreheads as he goes. Another elder following behind smears their chest with crushed ginipap and gives them a bowl to drink from. Finally, it
is McIntyre's turn. Unsure what to say, he gives his surname, to which the chief nods, then presses a red thumb print on to his forehead, and then comes the bowl of viscous liquid, the concoction of fermented vine juice and spit. Unable to back out now, he takes a deep breath and drinks heavily from the bowl. MacIntyre had hoped at the very least the drink wasn't a hallucinogenic drug. He realized very quickly that it was. The men stagger out
of the lion. In a daze, MacIntyre finds Cambio and gestures for him to sit with him as he waits for the drug to hit. Before long, he feels the warmth of it coursing through his body, feels time and space contracting at will. Heading back into the throng, he sees the lid of a bamboo container lifted up to reveal hundreds of frogs flopping about inside it. Cambio holds one up and shows MacIntyre the secretions on its back,
and then drips some onto his tongue. To the side, a shaman pierces his arm with a knife, while others peal back the wound and drip the frog's secretion straight into it. All about him, the men are pacing around, with some having dropped to all fours, barking and roaring as they mimic the sacred jaguar. Through the chaos, MacIntyre also becomes aware of other men blowing powder into each other's noses. After receiving it, the men clutch at their faces for a moment, then open their eyes in a
distant and vacant stare. McIntyre, who had refused all of it, stumbled back to where it started through puddles of vomit brought up by some of the more adventurous drinkers of the liquid. Finding a quiet spot on the edge of the village, McIntyre dropped back onto the floor and stared up at a distant, unknown point above. By the afternoon, with the ritual over and the effects of the drink
wearing off, McIntyre finds the Chief. Knowing he will be leaving soon, he wonders if he might stay in contact with them to trade ideas or help them acquire medicines. Perhaps, but the Chief looks confused. Just then, Cambio appears you are at the Beginning. Now, McIntyre, you cannot return to your people. They are no longer there. And then it hits him, when are we going to die? He asks? Now it is Cambio's turn to look confused. We are not dying, he said, with a smile. The Chief gestured
for McIntyre to follow him. Moments later, they are standing by the banks of a muddy stream. The Chief points to a narrow section of it up ahead, then looks back to McIntyre. The Beginning comes the voice in his head, and finally McIntyre understands it is not home or death that they have journeyed to, but simply to a time before, a time that always was and always is, a time before the objects of the world were smothered by the
language of humans. The journey to the Beginning was a shedding of all that baggage, the burning of those material possessions that were holding them still in time, a chance to reset and begin again. Now having reached the Beginning, perhaps they could find a better path forward. Perhaps now they might be safe. And with that also MacIntyre understood something else. If they were to let him leave, it would destroy the spell and take them right back to
the future they had left behind. They would sooner kill him than risk that. Over the next few weeks, MacIntyre tried to accept his fate. With no hope of returning home on his own, he focused on learning more of their language and helping out with whatever he could, until one night when MacIntyre woke up to find himself being completely drenched as a gutteral thunder roared above him. Jumping from his hammock, he landed in a streaming torrent of knee high water. Only then did he become aware of
the frantic screaming at the villages. Stumbling about in the dark with the floodwaters pulling at his legs, he is suddenly clattered by a makeshift raft of two locks tied loosely together, Falling on to it. In seconds, he has whisked through the trees and spewed out beyond into what is now a raging river. Hearing the cries again of the villagers, he tried furiously to paddle back to the bank, but then he realized this was his chance. Clinging tighter to the raft, he let the river take him away
from the camp and out into the dark. Over the next day and night, MacIntyre was knocked about ceaselessly by turbulent waters, only stopping occasionally to rest and shelter from the unforgiving sun. On the second day, raising his head wearily from the raft, he spotted three rubberized bags strung out across a fallen tree. After almost three weeks, he had finally made it back to his former camp, finding tinned food in one of the bags and later a
battered canoe. McIntyre was eventually spotted and rescued by the Peruvian Navy. He would eventually make his way back to Aquito's, from where he had first set out on his epic journey in search of the Maya Runa. It was only after he was rescued that McIntyre realized a role of film had fallen from his pocket. With only one roll of shot film left to develop, MacIntyre will later be devastated to discover that it had been completely damaged by water.
A few weeks later, after being given a clean bill of health from the Navy doctors, McIntyre returned home. Unsure of just what exactly he had experienced in the jungle, McIntyre wrestled over it for years before telling his story to Petroupopescu and Jon Michel Cousteaux while drifting down the
Amazon River. All those years later, in nineteen seventy one, McIntyre returned to Peru, where, along with three others, he is credited with locating a lake that many take to be the furthermost source of the Amazon, what is now known as Laguna McIntyre was found just over seventeen thousand feet up about MissMe in the Andes. He remained one of national geographics most celebrated and respected photojournalists until his death at the age of eighty six in two thousand three.
In twenty sixteen, writer Petru Popescu published The Encounter Amazon Beaming, giving the full and previously unheard account of McIntyre's extraordinary adventure. It would also be remiss of me not to mention the war one man show The Encounter, adapted from the book and performed by the genius that is Simon McBurney.
The show, produced by his company Complicity, was simply one of the most incredible theater shows I have ever seen, and I can only hope it returns one day for anyone who didn't get the chance to experience it as for the Mayoruna, also known as the Matzis. If McIntyre's story is to be believed, their journey to the beginning did little to correct their path from the ever encroaching
modern world. Despite being a nomadic tribe by nature, With developers moving further and further into their usual territory, they were forced to agree a land settlement in nineteen ninety eight. Home to three thousand, two hundred tribespeople. The area covering roughly eighteen hundred square miles is known as the Matzis Indigenous. To continue to survive, they are now having to sell
it off to develop us. This episode was written by Richard mcclin smith Unexplained as an av Club Productions podcast created by Richard McClain Smith. All other elements of the podcast, including the music, are also produced by me Richard McClain Smith Unexplained. The book and audiobook, with stories never before featured on the show, is now available to buy worldwide. You can purchase from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Waterstones and
other bookstores. Please subscribe to and rate the show wherever you get your podcasts, and feel free to get in touch with any thoughts or ideas regarding the stories you've heard on the show. Perhaps you have an explanation of your own you'd like to share. You can find out more at Unexplained Podcast dot com. Reaches online through Twitter at Unexplained Pod and Facebook at Facebook dot com, Forward Slash Unexplained Podcast