"Not going so well?"
On the boat, Adrian—who had stayed behind to watch it—saw the returning group's dejected faces and couldn't help but ask.
"We found the Shuar village, but they're gone. Not a single person left…"
Martin gave a rough account of what had happened. Adrian was just as puzzled. Whether Shuar or headhunters, both were indigenous tribes, and their attitude toward outsiders was rarely friendly. Very few guides had ever made contact with them.
"So what now?"
"Can you still find any other leads on the Shuar?"
Kroll's face showed unwillingness, and the rest of the crew clearly felt the same. Coming all this way for nothing left a sour taste in everyone's mouth.
Martin and Adrian exchanged a look. They didn't want the trip to end like this either. It had been planned as at least a five-day journey—enough to earn a lot. If it ended early because they couldn't find the Shuar, they'd lose a good deal themselves.
"How about asking Old John?" Adrian suggested cautiously.
Martin hesitated, then nodded.
Seeing their expressions, Kroll asked, "Who's this Old John? Can he help us find the Shuar?"
Since the client had spoken, Martin explained quickly: "We don't even know his full name—we just call him John. He's not originally from Brazil, but he's lived in the Amazon for years. He's a remarkable man; to him, the jungle is home. If anyone knows something about the Shuar, it's him…"
"That's great—but why do you all look so reluctant? If it's a money issue, we can pay extra."
Kroll thought Martin simply didn't want to share the fee. For the sake of keeping the documentary on track, she figured a little more money wouldn't matter.
Martin shook his head, grimacing. "It's not the money. Old John is… difficult. He doesn't care about money at all."
Seeing everyone on the boat listening now, he went on: "He has his own boat but rarely works as a guide—does things entirely by mood. Most of the time, he makes his living catching snakes—rattlesnakes, vipers, pythons—and selling them to circuses or show troupes in Belém. He's quiet, doesn't have friends, but he's formidable. No one around here dares cross him. It's like he was born in the jungle—no one can beat him in it. Last year, pirates kidnapped his clients, and he killed all the pirates alone, rescuing the hostages. That incident made quite a stir last year…"
"There are pirates here?"
"More like river pirates. Not common, but they do appear sometimes…"
"We don't really know him well—we can only try."
"All right, give it a shot."
After explaining to Kroll, Martin started hailing Old John over the radio. He called several times with no response.
When Kroll glanced at him, Martin shrugged. "He's probably not on his boat. He lives nearby—we'll go to his place."
With Kroll's agreement, Adrian started the motor, and the boat headed toward Old John's home.
Martin steered through the winding river. The steady putt-putt of the engine echoed across the water. The Amazon's channels were so twisting that without a guide, getting lost was inevitable. Compared to the Shuar, Owen was actually more interested in the "river pirates" they'd mentioned earlier, and along the way, he peppered Adrian with questions about them.
The truth was, the Amazon jungle was no paradise. It was rich in resources, but like anywhere else, getting rich meant taking risks. Across the Amazon basin—Brazil, Uruguay, Venezuela—none of the countries were exactly gentle. In recent years, the drug trade had begun to emerge here, bringing with it other illegal activities. Naturally, some people turned their eyes toward tourists. Locals had little worth stealing, but tourists—especially Americans and Europeans—were fat targets.
The boat kept moving. After rounding a bend, they saw another boat moored in the river. Martin grew tense as they approached.
Owen soon saw why. On the other boat stood a single man, broad-shouldered, with a ponytail. He looked in his forties, in his prime. He noticed Martin's boat but kept his gaze locked on the water, every muscle taut.
"What's he doing?"
Someone in the crew couldn't hold back a whisper. Owen noticed too—the man had one hand on something like a crossbow, the other working a reel to let line in and out. He was fighting something beneath the water.
Looking closely, they could see the fishing line between boat and water was pulled as straight as a rod. Whatever was on the other end was strong.
As Martin's boat drew nearer, the scene became clearer: the underwater prey darted left and right, trying to break free, while the man above fought to keep it in check.
"He's a snake catcher," Adrian said quietly. Seeing the puzzled looks, he added, "That's what they call python hunters. They capture snakes—usually green anacondas—for museums or private collectors. The bigger the snake, the more it's worth."
No sooner had Adrian spoken than the prey surfaced—a massive snake head erupted from the water, nearly two meters showing above the surface. Gasps went up.
The anaconda thrashed against the thick line, but the ponytailed man kept working the reel, countering its strength. Then, without warning, the line snapped. The man fell back onto the deck.
Owen and the others shouted in alarm, for instead of retreating, the freed anaconda surged forward—onto the boat—clearly intent on vengeance.
The snake catcher bolted into the cabin, the anaconda right behind him, its huge body sliding up from the water. On Martin's boat, eyes went wide in shock.
"Eight meters… no, at least nine…" Martin murmured in disbelief. Though anacondas could theoretically reach nine meters, most were under five. This one was clearly an exception.
The anaconda's entire length soon covered the deck, its head vanishing into the cabin to strike at the man while the rest of its body writhed outside in sickening coils.
"We have to help him…"
Martin dashed into his own cabin and came out with his rifle. From the other boat's cabin came loud crashes, then a small explosion. Flames burst from the pilothouse, and the snake catcher burst out, diving into the river and swimming toward Owen's boat.
"Don't shoot!"
Even while fleeing for his life, he yelled at them. Behind him, the anaconda slipped into the water, its massive body vanishing beneath the surface. Ripples surged toward the man.
"Quick! Quick\~\~"
Shouts erupted. The man's life was hanging by a thread. From the approaching ripples, the giant head suddenly surfaced—less than a meter from him.
In the next instant, the raised head shot toward him like lightning. Normally, an anaconda would wrap its prey to suffocate it before swallowing, but this one clearly had other intentions.
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