In the early 1990s, I was assigned a mission to take a Bell 212―a two-turbine helicopter that seats 15 or carries a total load of 3,300 lbs―from a Petrobras base in Porto Urucu, in the State of Amazonas, to the banks of the Juruá River in Cruzeiro do Sul, State of Acre. The helicopter would be stationed there to provide support transportation for an oil probe in the Ipixuna River region. We didn't have any passengers, nor did we carry any load. It was just my copilot Lia and I. We had a fuel stop scheduled for Eirunepé.
As usual, my copilot took over the control of the aircraft and I dedicated myself to meditating, resting my chin on my hands and watching the jungle beneath my feet through the lower window under the pedals. Keeping the Juruá River on our right and having two additional large tanks full of fuel, I wasn't concerned about keeping an accurate navigation path. We ended up drifting away to the left, a little more than it would have been acceptable. After correcting our course, we steered toward the river and flew over an area that usually is not in our regular flying path. One thing caught my eye: groups of small hills that are not typical of the green Amazon carpet. According to my previous experiences flying over mining territory in the State of Rondônia, I assumed they were cassiterite mines, which are usually found in small elevations that stand out among the vegetation. We were not using a GPS and, when you contact fly, it is always prudent to use your World Aeronautical Chart (WAC) to write down landmarks for reference. I did it automatically, drawing small hills on the map on an approximate position. I didn't give it a second thought.
After landing at the airport in Cruzeiro do Sul, I was collecting my belonging inside the helicopter and saw someone approaching my copilot on the ground. She called me, so I stepped down and went to greet that typical European man: short, slightly balding, red-faced and sweaty, wearing a khaki outfit full of pockets, like the explorers we see in Hollywood movies...
After landing at the airport in Cruzeiro do Sul, I was collecting my belonging inside the helicopter and saw someone approaching my copilot on the ground. She called me, so I stepped down and went to greet that typical European man: short, slightly balding, red-faced and sweaty, wearing a khaki outfit full of pockets, like the explorers we see in Hollywood movies...
He introduced himself in French, saying he researched the Incas. “Have you by any chance seen a set of pyramids on the right bank of the Juruá River?” he inquired about my flight path. Having ignored those atypical elevations seen during the flight, my brain suddenly revised the information I had registered as mere navigation landmarks. That was when an important detail came to mind: casseterite mines are usually isolated, not found in a group!
“Lia, would you pass me the WAC?” I asked my copilot, so I could show the Frenchman the hills I had drawn on the map. His face got redder.
“Exactly! Exactly! This is the point where the Juruá River becomes wider. That was where they went into the jungle!”
“And who are 'They,' monsieur?”
“The Incas, of course!”
It was my turn to be shocked... According to his theory, the Incas had gone down the river looking for safe shelter away from the Spaniards or their internal wars. In order to avoid going through the wider section of the river, which could already be inhabited, they would have gone into the jungle to found their own city...
My story can be confirmed by the copilot, by airport operators who allowed the Frenchman to come into the aircraft yard, and the air mission registered on log books and air taxi records. This story was so interesting that I decided to mix fiction and reality and write a novel called Quimeras Incas, which was translated into English as "Incan Chimera" by Rafa Lombardino,CEO of Word Awareness, a California translation company.
Everything I wrote and happened before a third party is real, witnessed and proven, although being arranged in a mosaic of facts that does not necessarily represent a chain of events. Fiction only comes into the core of the story happening inside the jungle, where there were no witnesses―or survivors, as the pages of the novel show. It's up to the reader to separate fiction from reality...
By Rafa Lombardino
