Dear Karolina,
We finally made it to camp!
It was late-night when the captain shouted the order to drop anchor. Just a few hours earlier we were given strict instructions to be confined to our quarters, with no exceptions, and just leave whenever the crew came for us saying it was safe. It was the first time I saw a glimpse of fear on the captain’s face.
Jonah – that’s true, the crazy pilot that flew us to Quetzal! I found him in a bar looking for work, any type of work using his own words. Yeah, he’s still broke, exactly like the last time I saw him. As soon as he found out I was looking for some ruins, he interrupted me, as if that little piece of information would be enough. “I’m going with you! You know I’m the best pilot around here, damn it!” – he shouted, bringing some undesired attention from the uncanny patrons in the bar – “Thirty/seventy! Just like old times!”.
But where was I…Ah! Jonah told me everyone keeps hearing stories about this place but they are just that – stories to scare curious travellers.
“Cap’s a little superstitious, most likely heard his share of stories about this place”, noted Jonah.
Maybe he is right, maybe it’s all tales and stories. There is little knowledge about this place but aren’t the most absurd rumours the ones that end up to be true? I can feel there is something to be found here – I just wish you had come with me.
The journey to reach this place was longer and even more tumultuous than the trip to Quetzal – the welcoming wagon forfeit all comparisons, though.
Do you remember the musical breeze that kept being echoed in the air by the sacred birds? Here is quite the opposite. We felt embraced by a deep silence that got instilled in one self, a total absence of life. This place is crawling with ambivalence, my sweet Karolina.
Here we are, at the frontier with the forest and yet there are no sounds from birds, no sounds from the trees, no sound at all. One would expect to hear a constant humming of life, growing with no limits or boundaries however, all we hear are the waves of the sea, crashing on the beach.
Since our camp is being set up, we decided to go directly to one of the main sites of the island, known here as The Market. The market infrastructure suffices for its purpose, I suppose. It has two bigger tents serving as base of operations – and from where I’m writing this letter – and a couple of smaller tents, resembling – if you have a good imagination – chalets. Of the bigger tents, this one is considered the main one, not because it’s bigger – or even better for that matter – but because it has a teared red carpet scrolling itself from the entrance to a small stone table, flanked by some crude wooden stools. Jonah remarked that small trades and exchanges are made on this table, from time to time, between travellers and natives. Apparently he has flown several times here but never ventured inside the forest.
We are under a natural siege called upon by Nature itself, trapped between water to the west and south, where the skiffs we used to get to the beach rest, the forest to the west and, to the north, a skyscraper made of stone, touching the few clouds that pass by.
Our possible plan is to start exploring the edge of the forest before letting it swallow us whole. My studies show the existence of several different sites along the coast that we can use as temporary solace, just in case the forest gets too unforgiving to spend the night in. We are counting to be able to reach site B (you know how choosing names was never a talent of mine) – an alcove right in the middle of the stone wall – by tomorrow, before running out of sunlight.
Speaking of studies, I’m trying to get hold of the scholars that you once spoke to me about, in case an opportunity appears – seen some strange glyphs that I couldn’t translate into anything meaningful and I believe this is just a small sample of what we are going to uncover in the next following days. I’ll continue to try to reach them and who knows, even persuade a few to join this venture.
While I was writing these words, some locals entered the tent and offered me a couple of medallions for good luck and it was just when I heard Jonah’s excited shouting outside the tent, offering plane trips in exchange for more medallions, that I realised they were made of solid gold.
Although I can’t seem to shake off this restless feeling of uncertainty, I admit that with this token of good faith – and wealth – the perspective of a successful enterprise in this forsaken land looks less bleak and prone to fail.
I’ll write to you again tomorrow, hopefully on the other side of the mountain.
Root for us, it is going to be merciless.
Kiss