Discovery Channel - Last One Standing Diaries

Entry 10: Baring It All to Become an Inca in Peru

Richard Writes:
The second day in the Andes began with a wholesome bowl of guinea pig soup. Basilio’s homestead was put together with warmth in mind: the stone walls are thick, woolly hides hang about the place, and a fire rages continuously in the corner. The only thing lacking is a chimney, so we spend our meals draped in a choking smog, my unaccustomed eyes watering in the smoke.

Wrapped in my host’s poncho, and with a few boiled potatoes safely stored in my pockets, I joined my comrades for the day’s climb. From everyone’s coughing, I sensed the chimney situation was shared among us all, but we were all in high spirits. We were surrounded by mountains, which glistened in the sunshine. The weather was glorious and we set off in the merriest of moods. Picture us then: rosy cheeked and optimistic, hearty, even jogging at one stage, as we took on the mountain for the first time.

Eight hours later much had changed. The sky, which earlier had shone a faultless blue, now hung heavy and black and rumbled ominously. Freezing rain lashed down. The rocky terrain, once so steady, now gave way treacherously, sending us stumbling onto our knees. And our faces, earlier so eager, were now weary and grey. Brad’s lungs were on the point of collapse; Mark was enduring a raging headache from the altitude, while Rajko was lamenting his decision to wear shorts. I myself was powerfully hungry (my potatoes were long gone). Shivering and fairly dispirited, we pressed onward and upward, numb hands tucked under armpits for warmth.

At last, we reached a plateau, and in its middle, a small lake. Our guide announced that we had reached our destination, and nodded to the water.

“El lago sagrado.”

It was perfectly still, and even in the darkening light it seemed to glow, an astonishing turquoise hue. Though deep, at its bottom you could see plants and pebbles quite clearly, and I knelt by the bank and dipped my hand. We were close to the snow line but my numb fingers couldn’t feel the water. It was an odd sensation, mercurial almost, like I was brushing air.

My moment’s contemplation was interrupted by the sound of my teeth chattering, and I felt it was time we headed home. Our guide felt otherwise. Taking an orator’s stance, he declared in simple terms that to become Incas we had to swim in the lake. I was about to remind him that we had no trunks, but it seems that had I done so I would have missed the point.

We undressed quickly and obediently. Corey was first to dive, a flash of white skin darting through the fumbling crowd and off the bank with aplomb. Such decisiveness galvanized us all, and without prolonging matters I yanked off my trousers with shivering fingers, turned, sprinted, and leapt.

Now I am no nudist, but I can’t deny that I felt rather exhilarated. Naked as the day I was born, buttocks pointed skyward, I flew like a cold bird over the water. It was a glorious, exciting, uplifting moment. An albatross must get that feeling every day, but for me, that one nude leap into the Andean air was about as close to nature as I’ve ever felt.

In the next instant, I was in the water, and all was pain. Icy, confusing, strangling cold – the sort that tightens your chest and stiffens your muscles. Thrashing like an imbecile, I swam back toward the bank, and slipped on the rocks on my way out. Shaking violently, I dragged my clothes back on and blew air into my hands to give them some life. My head ached mercilessly, I couldn’t feel a thing, and all the joy of the dive had disappeared. I like to keep an open mind about most things, but if I ever dabble with nudism again, it’s not going to involve a freezing lake. The one greatest consolation was this: the cold would fade as soon as I got home to Basilio’s, whereas being named an Inca – that lasts for life.

Corey’s Lesson:
The commitment to honor

Peru was my location. It's hard to imagine an event that could be more catered to a Spanish-speaking Alaskan mountaineer than a race on foot carrying ice in the Andes.  With few locations left, I was embarrassed to be the only athlete with no wins, and saw this as my best and potentially my last opportunity to prove I deserved my company. My performance in practice gave my hosts great hope that I would win the prize llama for their family. Hiking every day beneath beautiful 6,000-meter (19,685-foot) peaks and then watching them cast in moonlight from the thermal hot spring, I was falling in love with this location. All until the locals pulled out the whips.

It turns out the sport we were training for was a hybrid Incan-Catholic reenactment of the crucifixion of Jesus where we had to whip each other to repent for our sins. Initially the whipping seemed playful, and I pretended to whip my partner (by hitting the ground at his feet) to be respectful of their tradition and try to remain nonjudgmental. It had been clear from our travels that a huge problem among developing countries was foreigners coming in and telling the people how they should live their lives, and I did not want to contribute to that imperious trend.

My simulated whipping fit appropriately until we made our pilgrimage to the sacred glacier. On the morning of the race, having tested the course and feeling very confident, I was suddenly asked to be publicly whipped.  We'd been through plenty of excruciating pain on this adventure and it should be clear that was not the issue. But by laying down on the snow and accepting ceremonial whipping, I would be choosing to participate in violence. The overarching teaching from every tribe that we visited was an ethic of compassion where they taught us to strive in every action to limit our harm on everything around us.  I desperately wanted to compete, but all I could think about was watching the look in my mother's eyes when she would watch me sacrifice my values for pride and personal gain.

I finished with the fastest time. But I did not race with the others. I was disqualified from the competition for my unwillingness to participate in the whipping ceremony. I sunk into wrenching regret as my host family and many of my travel companions expressed their disappointment for my decision. But while the zero on the scoreboard shamed me, hindsight soon proved that I had scored a huge victory for myself.  Despite hallowed tradition, the potential for personal gain, and the pressure of most around me, I had managed to listen to my heart and stand strong for what I believed. In the words of my late Boy Scout role model, "Without honor, a man is nothing."

Entry 8: Grub Hunting and Staying Afloat in Papua New Guinea

Richard Writes:
The canoe docked neatly on the bank, and Brad and I skipped ashore. Our companion, a middle-aged man of few words, looked at us with a paternal pride and handed Brad the ax. I must confess it wasn’t entirely obvious why we had an ax. I knew this was a hunting trip, but I hadn’t previously considered an ax to be a particularly deft weapon, certainly not light enough for the delicate practice of hunting in the jungle. Brad grinned at me, and his eyes lit up.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if we were going for gator?”
“How would you kill an alligator with an ax?”
“Easy. Just smack him in the head.”

In the end this turned out to be a purely academic discussion. Our guide explained that our prey was in fact considerably smaller than an alligator, and could be found nestling in the soft pulp of rotten trees. I’m not sure what scientific name the large maggot-like creatures go by, but "grub" seems to fit the bill perfectly.

A grub is about the size of a grown man’s thumb, and consists of a fleshy body with a hard pea-sized head from which miniature pincers protrude. Aesthetically at least, they are truly horrendous, and one of the strangest things I’ve ever been asked to collect. In all honesty Brad and I made heavy work of the process. We’d been sent off into the jungle with a large bag, with optimistic instructions that we bring it back teeming with the fattest grubs we could find. Having found the perfect log, soggy and rotten to the core, we started chopping away, but before long we’d broken the ax in two and resorted to levering the thing open with a fallen branch. After much toil and sweat, the rotting wood ripped apart from itself and lay neatly halved on the jungle floor. Dotted along the log, grubs poked out half-submerged, some with heads snapping curiously at the unwelcome air. We seized them greedily, plucking each one like a cork from a wine bottle. They wriggled in our hands and tried to bite us, but it was a shamefully one-sided encounter and they never stood a chance. Into the bag they went, one by one, until the log seemed to contain nothing more. We hadn’t collected as many as we’d hoped, but the lining of the bag now rippled of its own accord, which had to be a good sign.

As it was, our guide looked satisfied when we showed him the spoils. So satisfied in fact, that he picked one of the little fellows right out of the bag and bit into it with a loud crunch. After gulping it down, he offered the bag to us. I’d spent the last few days eating nothing but bat, and had long suggested to Brad that any change to the diet would be a welcome one. I could therefore hardly refuse when faced with a grub. It pulsated in my hand, trying to bite my fingers, and its movement was strangely mesmerizing. It’s never polite to play with your food, however; so in one quick movement I popped it into my mouth, where it wriggled for a moment in a last show of defiance. Then, with a swift crunch of my teeth and a hasty swallow, the aperitif was over. I thought I’d kept my composure, but given how hard Brad was laughing, I daresay my expression had given me away once again …

Mark Writes:
Day 1
My host greeted me, his name was Noah. A gentle guy about 5’6” tall with dreadlock-style hair, he shows me to his house, a wooden hut on stilts -- no segregated rooms and very, very basic. There are 10 people staying under the same roof, including both of Noah’s wives and his kids. He speaks basic English and sits me down. Then he says, “I am very honored to have you stay here. I want you to be like my son, so from now on your name will be 'Awi' after my father.”

This was the most touching and genuine greeting I have had so far!

Day 2
I woke up having had not a lot of sleep -- the rickety bamboo floor has left bruises over me bony hips. I get served breakfast, a strange, dark, tough meat with potato and soup.

The heat here is something I haven’t experienced yet, 95 percent humidity and temps over 34 degrees C (93 degrees F). We felt very claustrophobic. We were thrown straight into events, starting with machete training. Demonstrations of what to do and what not to do left me sweating buckets within seconds. I was just left wondering why we needed machete training?

Later that afternoon we were introduced to our sport; it was canoe racing but with a twist ... Rather than sitting down, we had to stand up and balance in a very slim canoe, which is a lot harder than it looked. The river currents seemed to be very fast as we were watching the branches flow above and below the water in the currents. So, when they told us that the race was over two days, 7 kilometers (4 miles) upstream on Day 1 and 14 kilometers (9 miles) downstream on Day 2, we were overwhelmed with the challenge that lay ahead.

It was our chance to have a tester session in the canoe and, oh my word, what a disaster! All six of us suffered miserably as we were practicing falling in more than paddling a canoe, and the scary thing is that the river is infested with crocodiles.

Day 3
OK, so fresh coconut juice is one of the things that I haven’t got used to over the past year doing this traveling -- it totally gives you a bad case of the runs, but for some reason my hosts keep insisting on giving me a coconut every mealtime. So far I have been cunning enough to pass it onto the guys to share around, but I know that will wear thin soon, especially when they get their coconuts. I must think of a new way now as in this case honesty is certainly not the best policy.

There were two canoe practices scheduled for today and the first one seemed a bit of a success for me. I was able to stand up and actually paddle be it only for about five minutes without falling in, but some of us are certainly getting the hang of it. Having spent a few hours in the water it was time to do the coconut passing ritual and then straight back into the water for afternoon practice. I am still receiving that strange brown meat at mealtimes, which seems to me to look like chicken but know that it can’t be.

Afternoon canoe practice was a disaster! For some reason, after an hour’s lunch, I forgot everything I had learned previously. It was basically a swimming session against current. I never knew getting back into a canoe could be so difficult but everyone else can do it -- Ggggggrrrrrrr. Seeing everyone else doing well meant I was getting frustrated with myself, so I decided to call it a day and go and sit in my hut with my host. A storm was coming and within an hour it had hit us. By my bed I had a window at floor level, so I could just sit there and look out over the river and watch the storm approach. Noah, my host, decided to join me and it was one of those bonding moments. We talked about our lives as the storm got bigger and before long the sun had disappeared, leaving flashes of lightning to guide the villagers back to their huts in the torrential rain. What an incredible sight. I wish you could all experience it with me.

Day 4
It was time to prove ourselves as men to the village. I was now about to find out what the machete training was for. We were each issued a pen knife, machete, lighter and mosquito net, and as we all had our jungle boots on were sent into a boat to head upstream with a few of the locals. By now we had realized that we were going to be spending a night somewhere, but had no idea where. The boat slows down and heads for a small gap in the undergrowth at the river's side. The rain forest here is dense with no sign of a living soul, and we get out the boat and follow the locals as they clear a path for us deep into the jungle. We hit a clearing and are told to watch and learn; the locals are teaching us how to build a shelter out of sticks and leaves. I didn’t find building a shelter between the six of us too daunting. We have intelligence and now a lot of travel experience, so the spanner [wrench] was thrown into the works when we were told we had to go out and do it alone. Out here there is everything bad for you that you can think of, i.e., dangerous snakes, spiders, crocodiles, ants, bees and anything else you can think of for that matter, not to mention that we had only three hours of daylight left to do it in. It’s incredible how disorientating the jungle is, a sea of green looking the same in every direction. It’s so alive! In the corner of your eye you constantly see things moving. We were each told to go to separate areas of the jungle so that we could not rely on each other, and when our hut was built we had to return to the tiny clearing to meet one of the elders. I have to admit it was exciting to know that I would be doing this, but at the same time I was worried that if I didn’t finish my shelter in time, there would be no other option but to use it after nightfall.

So I got stuck in and found myself a little spot to clear with my machete and as I was taught in both briefings started to clear the area. Within two seconds I stopped and looked down. Something had caught my eye between my legs ... “Sh**,” I said to myself as my body froze. Between my legs lay a coiled brown snake. Now, I don’t know a thing about snakes so I wasn’t going to take any chances -- my first thoughts were typical! “Why does this always happen to me?” Then my brain kicked into gear. We were warned of a snake called a death adder that lies still as its defense, until someone stands on it and then it strikes. Most snakes run away, but not this one ... My snake didn’t move, so I automatically presumed it was a death adder. In the jungle your voice carries quite well, so I blew my whistle as loud as I could. Luckily for me, one of the military guys was in the area just getting his bearings as to where we all were, so he came and within seconds cut the snake's head off with me at a distance. Caution was to be had from now on as I tried to build my confidence back by building an awesome shelter within the time constraints. This was to be my bed for the night so I had better make it as comfy as possible -- not very easy as the only thing covering you in these shelters is a sloping roof to the floor.

Proud of my building skills I headed back to the clearing with my compass. The other guys slowly appeared, as we grouped together to talk about our huts and experience. Corey was pestered by bees, Jason by a tarantula, and Brad and Rich by grubs, which they had in a basket. The grubs were about 2 inches long and very thick, exactly the same as the ones from the bush tucker trial in I’m a celebrity [huh? can we delete this text in red? is it some british tv show or something? mr] and, yes, we had to eat them. The wiggle on them was strong and before you chew you have to take off the heads because they bite as Jason’s tongue found out. They don’t taste that bad at all but the white gunk in the middle when they pop in your mouth was not a pleasant experience.

Having spent an hour round the fire with the elder telling us about his father head hunting and eating people from rival tribes it was time for bed, so I head back into the jungle following my compass again to my shelter. It’s amazing how brave you become when you're on your own and have to get on with things. I found my shelter and decided to do the scout thing and spend an hour starting a fire. A whole hour it took but when it got going I was so proud of myself. With the fire going I lay on my leaves under my mozzy net [mosquito net] and looked to the canopy. At night the jungle comes alive, the sound is nearly deafening. There is no silence as you would expect but the senses become alive. Within a few hours I found myself fast asleep.

Day 5
I wake up and the sun has come up, breaking through the tiny gaps in the canopy. I pack my issued gear, nipped behind my hut for a No. 2, and then headed back to the boat. As we arrived back the villagers greeted us with smiles and cheers as we had achieved our goals and then it was straight into canoe practice. In between water sessions I helped my host carve me my very own paddle to use for the race. I am in the bottom two so far with the canoeing but I have faith -- although during one water session I won the prize for the best fall. I lost my balance and put one foot out the canoe expecting to find a solid surface and I just disappeared straight down like something out of a "Road Runner" cartoon when the coyote steps off the edge of a cliff.

That afternoon was another of excitement. We were going hunting but not for the norm. I was about to go and catch that brown meat that has puzzled me so much. So, I want you all to do an Internet search on the word “flying fox” -- that is what I have been eating all week and that is what we are going hunting for.

Day 6
I shared a great moment with my family members. So far I have seen most of them just sitting round the hut, the people are so chilled out that they just walk round backward. I was sitting in my hut at the back looking out my little window when all of a sudden I heard and then saw everyone leg it out of the hut like lightning, all looking at the ceiling. I just sat there looking puzzled; I had never seen anyone move so fast, so I was left there looking at them all leg it. As they got out they called, "Awi, get out, get out!” My first thought was, “Sh**! There’s a dangerous spider in here or something.” But then they said, "The house is going to fall! Get out, get out!" It was hilarious. As I got out the house we couldn’t stop laughing about it as we're picturing everyone’s faces.

Day 8
My first time in Papua New Guinea was not a pleasant experience. I had a real hatred for the country. The cities lack beauty and are unsafe. The people are unfriendly as you always expect somebody to rob you. But then you peel back the wrappers and visit, to me, what is the most amazing country I have ever seen. I thought I had been there and done it all until this place. The people were the most genuine and friendly I have experienced; they cheered for us, cried for us and gave us everything they had. The farewell was moving and I will never now be complacent or prejudgemental about anything again.

Entry 6: Trobriand Beauty and Pig Appreciation

Rajko Writes and Sketches:
Untoppable greeting
First arrival in the village was ridiculously good. Aside from the friendly mass welcome, we were then personally greeted by five topless local ladies who shook our hands and put flowers on our heads. THEN we went along a line of about 50 topless girls, shaking their hands and saying hello … after which they all sat down and sang us songs. No welcome could ever top that!

A night under the stars with Rich and Corey on the football pitch
The stars were so beautifully bright and clear that we decided to go and lie there and it was really, really nice. We joked around and I would say got to know each other better just through talking and hanging out. Two really nice guys and it will be good to get to know them more.

The dreaded axe!
Who’d have realized that an innocent walk out behind the village to cut a piece of wood for a cricket bat would end up so dramatic?

Chief Talaboa The father, Chief Talaboa, is surprisingly friendly for his position of authority. He comes around in his traditional pants, carrying his handbag of betel nut, and says some words in Trobriand to me. He smiles a lot and occasionally sings a local song in that beautiful way old people sing — gentle, emotive, almost strained, yet delicate and full of life. And the mum always has big smiles for me.

Editor’s Note: Check out Rajko’s new Web site: www.rajko.tv

Richard Writes:
I’m not someone who enjoys killing animals, but I’m definitely someone who enjoys a well cooked rasher of bacon. You’ll spot the conundrum then, when I was handed a spear and pointed in the direction of a large pig, helplessly bound to a branch of wood, and told to handle business.

It was hardly a classic case of man vs. beast, for the pig had no chance of escape, and what was worse, it knew it. Those well-informed about such things, vets and so on, tell the rest of us that goldfish are daft things without memories, yet they never cease to praise the brainpower of pigs. The clever beasts can tell when things aren’t looking good, and this one knew exactly what was coming.

Tirah pointed at its armpit, and gestured his instruction. It seemed a simple way of doing it: a sharp thrust of spear into the pig's heart, and I could only hope that it would prove efficient and quick. I gave the pig one last look; its eyes were rolled back and bore into me with an agonizing look of desperation. For a moment I thought of abandoning my duties, of handing the spear to Rajko or Corey, and asking them to deliver the blow. Had I done so, I might well have become vegetarian, for how could I have tucked into the resulting pork stew had I cravenly avoided the process by which that stew was made? To eat meat, there must be a prior acceptance of the death that delivered it. I thought of all the animals that died in abattoirs to fill our supermarket shelves, and how distant and sterilized a process it was. Here was death, in front of me. I had to face it, or I could never eat meat again with a conscience.

I can recall the exact feeling of the punctured belly as the plunging spear ran swiftly through flesh and sinew into heart, yet the accompanying noise is clearer still. A shrill and bloodcurdling screech filled my ears, the sound of blinding pain, and of fear. It was not over quickly. My nostrils flared as I pressed down with all my weight, filled with a deep wish that the pig would die quickly so its torment would be over. They later told me it lasted a single minute, but it felt so protracted, and as the dreadful screeching began to fade, and gargled blood frothed from its nose, I gave Tirah the spear. I sat down and watched the last breaths. In a daze, I gaped on as the islanders gutted the pig, working swiftly and precisely. They threw away the spleen to nearby dogs, and drained the intestines of the half-digested waste. Eventually I joined in, and was struck by how warm the hide was, how curiously it tore loose from the flesh, and how recognizable the organs were. It was neatly compartmentalized, and soon the pig bore no resemblance to the terrified beast of minutes before. It stacked smartly in piles: ears, tails, and trotters here, ribs, legs, and belly there. How easy it is, I realized then, to forget that meat once moved and breathed and played.

But I could not forget. As we sat several hours later, a bowl of pork in our laps, I was distracted from the buoyant conversation all around me. The meat seemed unnaturally warm, and with every bite I saw the eyes upon me as the spear came down. I was solemn and I had no appetite, but I ate a full two bowls with the most genuine and complete sense of gratitude I’ve ever felt. My appreciation was not for the beautiful weather, or to the splendid company that sat around, nor even to the kind man who handed me the bowl. It was to the pig.