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my own eyes. I didn't know what to think. It was hard to figure Karl out.

If Karl had misled us about Curiplaya as well, if it didn't exist, what would I do then? I could go back to the Turliamos and wait there for a rescue party, which would surely arrive before long. Or I could try to go on, straight to San José. I was convinced that the camp did exist, however; it was marked so clearly on the map.

I was still trying to figure out what I should do when I noticed a fallen palm tree. It had been chopped down at an angle, undoubtedly by a machete. I cried out for joy – I had made it! There had been people here!

I ran ahead in search. I saw a great many machete marks on branches and tree trunks, and more palms that had been chopped down. Yes, the people in Curiplaya had been eating palm hearts. I ran on, following the machete gashes. I was overcome with joy that nourished a flickering hope. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be people there. In no time I stood on a hill overlooking a flat, rocky bank upon which four huts had been built. 'Ya-ho-hoo!' I bellowed and slid down to the shore.

The place was obviously deserted, but at least I had made it to Curiplaya. I took off my pack and set it under one of the thatched huts. Signs of life abounded; flat, rusty tin cans, cardboard boxes, a circle of rocks around a burned-out campfire. The shelters were cleverly built: four sturdy trunks,