Young Writers Society

One - Mitch
Guayaquil Airport, Ecuador
4 months later
Mitchell Thermann was hit by a blast of hot air as he exited the aircraft. The dense, humid air clung to his clothes as he walked to the main terminal, an aging metal building, ugly and interrupting an otherwise unspoiled background. The body language of the slouching security staff showed that they would much rather be enjoying the beautiful sunshine rather than stuck inside this blandly-decorated, artificially lit prison. Mercifully, the air conditioning was on at full-blast, allowing the staff and passengers respite from the scorching temperatures outside. Having flown from London Heathrow in the middle of a typically frosty spring, Mitchell, or “Mitch” to his friends, had to endure extra layers, which intensified the heat tenfold.
He yawned, the 14 hour flight taking its toll on his tired body. Although being used to long distance flights from the UK to the US in his time with the British Secret Service, the jetlag still affected him greatly. Not only that, but the in-flight entertainment was malfunctioning, so he ended up watching ‘Casino Royale’ four times. Whilst being very good upon initial viewing, by the end of the third time of watching, he was cursing Albert Broccoli to hell. His mood wasn’t helped by a toddler in the seat behind screaming for what seemed like the entire journey. Whilst waiting for the usual delay for baggage collection, he surveyed himself in the mirror in the miniscule toilets. His usually clean shaven face had a hint of stubble and he had large bags under his eyes. He had attempted to sleep on the flight, as it was a night flight, but the cramped conditions and the devil child had prevented him from doing so. This had given his new Abercrombie shirt and jeans a creased and crumpled appearance, and made him feel uncomfortable. All he wanted to do was reach his hotel and sleep, but the laid-back staff meant that it was another two hours before he boarded his taxi and began to make his way to Iquitos, a town on the edge of the Amazon Basin.
The journey was long and arduous, the mountain roads only permitting slow travel. The car had no air conditioning and was therefore stifling. Sweat pouring off of his forehead, and with the beginnings of a headache, Mitch attempted conversation with the burly-looking taxi driver, but his limited range of English meant that it was a struggle, and they soon lapsed into silence. Instead, Mitch concentrated on his task that would take him deep into the Amazon. He worked as a research scientist for a government agency, their aim being to discover new species of animals and plants, and to work out their medicinal qualities. For example, one scientist had recently discovered a particular type of fungi in Southern Tanzania that would eradicate fever symptoms upon ingestion.
Naturally, the Amazon, with a thriving eco-system of rare and previously undiscovered species of plants was the main focus of the company’s research. Mitch’s job was to venture deep into the Amazon, on the Northern bank of the Maranon River, with a trained team of researchers and to attempt to collect samples from the rainforest. He was to act as navigator, having been stationed 200 miles north on assignment a few years back. The company doing the research had to drag him into the programme, after what had happened last time. He had been given a team of experts, four in all, to aid him. He was to meet them when he arrived in Iquitos, and was relishing the prospect of it. At least he would be able to have intelligent conversation with someone, he thought, as he glanced to his left at the taxi driver, who was grunting with exasperation as he fiddled with the dials on the ancient radio.























Two - Mitch
They pulled into Iquitos three hours later, by which time Mitch was sweating like a pig. His dry throat felt like sandpaper, and he secretly cursed for not bringing a bottle of water with him. He turned his attention to the city that he was approaching. The streets were full of houses held together with sheets of tarpaulin and corrugated iron. These shanty houses gave the place a feeling of despair and hopelessness, similar to the television pictures that the BBC showed of the Asian tsunami and New Orleans after hurricanes. It seemed impossible that families of ten and over could survive in one room, no bigger than an average bedroom, with no heating and plumbing. The smell of excrement and rotting food also implied the lack of sanitation around the place, and Mitch made a note to himself to give a generous donation to the Red Cross when he returned to England.
Finally, they arrived at his hotel, if you could call it that. A two-storey building with paint peeling off of the walls and no more than four rooms, the “Hotel de Amazonas” (as a crumbling sign propped above the door informed him), looked as derelict as the surrounding area.
Still, beggars can’t be choosers, Mitch thought to himself as he entered the shabby foyer and approached the reception desk. An olive-skinned elderly lady, with several missing teeth and wild hair greeted him.
“¿Cómo le puedo ayudar yo?” “How may I help you?” she asked, in a monotonous, gravelly voice reminiscent of most phone-line help services.
“¿Habla usted inglés?” “Do you speak English?” Mitch replied back.
“A bit,” she said, as she leafed through an ancient booking file. “You have reservation with us, no?”
“Yes, under the name Thermann.” The woman looked like she was expecting him, which was a relief.
“Yes. Room Two. Your friends waiting. Meet at dinner.”
“Gracias.” Mitch said wearily, as he collected his key and made his way upstairs with his cases, which was an effort as they were steep and narrow. Several times he almost fell down them. Eventually, he reached his room, which was at the end of a short corridor, and entered. It wasn’t anything special, but at least it was clean, unlike what he imagined to be inside the houses that he could see opposite. The decor wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 60s sitcom, Mitch thought to himself as he inspected his flowery sheets and the sole piece of furniture, a bedside table, which typically had a wobbly leg. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the bed, which was surprisingly comfortable, and was asleep before he had even hit the pillow.




Three – Sam
Thousands of miles away, it was midday in Northern Bolivia. The burning embers of a scorching day flitted through the metal blinds of El Hotel de la Oportunidad. Young children were playing football in the streets, with a ball made from cloth which unravelled every time it was kicked hard. The hotel stood alone, isolated from the already packed fusion of bartering street-sellers, screaming children and the squeals of livestock as they were interrupted from eating. Its unnatural quietness seemed otherworldly, a sanctuary in a melee of bodies and noise. It was for that reason that Sam had overslept. He was awoken by the bright light, now streaming through the blinds. Groaning, he looked at his watch, and upon seeing the time, jumped out of bed and proceeded to throw his belongings into a large rucksack, whilst trying to throw on a shirt and combat trousers. Portuguese Dictionary. Check. Not again, Sam thought. Blackberry. Check. How could he not have set his alarm? Notebook. Check. Of all days to oversleep!
Minutes later, Sam was downstairs, composed (if a little sweaty), and walking out of the hotel. He checked his watch again. Six thirty-three. He still had about a quarter of an hour until the daily bus departed from Riberalta to Porto Velho, deep into the Amazon rainforest. Along with a few other plucky tourists, he was planning to sample the atmosphere and scenery of the most eco-friendly area in the world. However, his motives for going were slightly different to those of his fellow travellers. He wanted information.












Four- Sam
Outside, the atmosphere was a culture shock. The hustle and bustle of city life here was different to that of Kensington, where he worked. There it seemed more- Sam tried to think of a better word- civilised. But all the more human. Makeshift wooden stalls stood in front of street-sellers, crying out words in a language Sam didn’t understand, which he assumed was Spanish or Portuguese. He couldn’t remember which was spoken here. The stalls themselves were coloured with a medley of different items. One contained a plethora of exotic fruits; mangoes, bananas, pineapples, guavas and melons, whose striking colours tempted Sam into grabbing one and taking a bite. Another stall was overflowing with nuts, (brazil nuts?, Sam thought) another had various leather garments. As Sam continued down the road, the stalls and the crowds subsided, leaving a few remaining locals hurrying into run-down huts and towards the river. A sudden chill whipped through the air, causing an unnatural shudder in his legs that spread to the lowest echelons of his chest. Sam picked up his pace, both worried about the time and his sudden isolation, as Sam was now the sole voyager on the road – if you could call it a road anymore. Trees were beginning to block the sunlight with their foliage, and although a welcome escape from the stifling heat, did nothing to quell his impulsive anxiousness, which was increasing with every second down the darkening mud-track.