The next morning (day 3 in the forest) was a unique opportunity to sleep in until 7am or so, as we had to wait for a young British couple to join our group. They flew in on a tiny 16 passenger propeller plane and landed on the grass airstrip that is known as Boca Manu Airport. The same flight brings in supplies and returns with passengers and waste. It's the only flight the airstrip sees each day, and even then, the flight can be cancelled or delayed by the frecas, the cold front that blows in once or twice a month during the dry season. The logistics of moving supplies in and out are expertly managed. We had actually carried supplies since Cusco meant for the various camps we stayed at.
When we boarded our canoe again, we joined up with another guide, William, and his group of six. This time, we set off upstream on the Madre de Dios River, veering into the Manu River when it merged with the Madre de Dios.
Soon after we started up the Manu River, we crossed into the reserved zone of the forest and checked in. Scanning the sign-in book, we noticed only two other groups were scheduled to be in the reserved zone while we were there.
On the Manu River, we started seeing new forms of wildlife, most notably the white caiman and the much larger black caiman (5+ meters in length), cousins of alligators and crocodiles.
After several hours, we stopped on a sandy beach to use what Mitchel called the "bush toilet". When we boarded our boat again, it was clear something was quite wrong: William (the other guide) was bent over in agony. A few minutes before we stopped, he had apparently developed a sharp pain around his side or kidney.
William eventually got to his seat and we pushed off from the beach, but a few minutes later, he walked towards the back of the canoe where Mitchel, the Brits, Dixie and I were sitting. His loud groans were made worse by the fact that we were in the middle of the jungle, with no doctors among the group. We tried having him lay down on the pile of packs, but everything the poor guy did only seemed to make his pain worse.
The front of the boat wasn't particularly helpful, either. "Give him morphine!" someone shouted. Sorry Dr. Quinn, but I think we forgot to pack any.
Dixie and I urged Mitchel to consider our options: Could we turn around? (We would hardly reach the lightly-staffed checkpoint, let alone the airstrip, before nightfall.) Could we get help? (We weren't carrying radios or satellite phones and had hardly seen another boat since passing into the reserved zone.)
Could we give William something for the pain?
Between the Brits and us, we had ibuprofen (of course) and paracetemol (a drug we don't seem to get in the states, but I'd heard of it thanks to British comedies and British cousins). But William had already taken two pills when the pain started, and after more back and forth questioning than it should have took, we established it was just ciprofloxin (a prescription antibiotic) and paracetemol. That made the decision relatively easy: check the paracetemol label for any obvious conflicts and give the maximum allowable dosage of paracetemol.
With his pain relieved, William finally went to sleep, and strangely --but fortunately-- he didn't experience the pain again during our trip.
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William has a doctor's appointment in a few days and hopefully they can sort out what happened.
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