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‘On the tenth day a plane from La Paz was supposed to come in at eight in the morning, and I went to the terminal to wait for it to land. The priest, Father Fernando, had filled out official-looking papers, testifying to what had happened and allowing me to fly without a passport. I waited until five-thirty, but no plane ever showed up. I was upset, for I wanted to get to the Israeli embassy in La Paz. The navy office in Rurrenabaque hadn’t even sent the embassy a telegram as they had promised me they would. I was raging. I had wasted an entire precious day doing nothing.

‘The following morning one of the nuns awakened me excitedly. A plane was about to land at any moment. She had a truck standing by. By quarter to nine I was airborne.

‘When I arrived in La Paz, I headed straight for the American embassy. I knew that I had to hurry to the Israeli embassy, but I needed some kind of identification. The consul listened apathetically to my tale. He simply remarked that I was lucky to be alive and offered his consolations on the death of my friend.

“But he’s not dead,” I insisted.

“Of course he is. How could he possibly have survived alone in the jungle? Just thank God that you’re alive, and get yourself home to spend Christmas with your family,” the consul replied.

“And what if I was lost in the jungle? What would you do? Wouldn’t you even send a party out to look for me?” I yelled.