Real Survival Stories - Jungle Fall in East Timor: Saved by Goats

Episode Date: February 26, 2026

A French former acrobat moves to the southeast Asian paradise of East Timor. One sunny day, Morgan Segui decides to trek to the top of a nearby sacred mountain. After reaching the summit, however, his thrill-seeking backfires. Caught in the baking late afternoon heat, with an empty water bottle and a long way back down, Morgan is hopelessly lost. But that’s just the start. After a brutal accident in the jungle, he’ll accept his fate… until an unexpected arrival appears through the trees, offering a tiny flash of hope… A Noiser podcast production. Hosted by John Hopkins. Written by Joe Viner | Produced by Ed Baranski | Assistant Producer: Luke Lonergan | Exec produced by Joel Duddell | Sound supervisor: Tom Pink | Sound design by Matt Peaty | Assembly edit by Rob Plummer | Compositions by Oliver Baines, Dorry Macaulay, Tom Pink | Mix & mastering: Ralph Tittley. For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions If you have an amazing survival story of your own that you’d like to put forward for the show, let us know. Drop us an email at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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Visit medcan.com slash moments to get started. It's dus on June the 14th, 2019, in Southeast Asia. On the island of Ataru, a tiny sun-soaked oasis of the coast of East Timor, the dark silhouette of a mountain looms imperiously over the forests, fields, and foothills. This is Mount Manukoko, and, according to local folklore, this thousand-meter peak is more than just a mountain. It's a sacred place, where the boundary be. between the physical world and the spiritual world is porous and fragile. By day, there is a clear dividing line between these two realms.

But at night, the line dissolves. And, so the legend goes, the mountain becomes the domain of spirits. Some islanders believe that you must not set foot here after dark, or risk antagonizing the supernatural forces set to dwell there. Those who ignore the warning do so at that. own peril. On this particular summer's night, partway up one of Manukoko's densely wooded slopes, something moves through the darkening jungle, a hunched, howling figure, stumbling blindly over the ground. It's a strange, frightening creature, like a man that's stripped of all obvious humanity.

Its naked body is smeared with blood and filth, and it groans as it moves. Its head is split open, and a piece of scalp peels back with every step, exposing the bone beneath. The creature stops for a moment. And when it looks up and the moonlight catches its pale, sunken face, the eyes peering out aren't that of a fantastical monster or beast? They are the eyes of 42-year-old Morgan Segwe, a man in desperate need of help. I really thought if I die here, no one will find me. So I was trying, okay, I have to go back.

At least on the road, I have to die somewhere that people will find me. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes? If your life depended on your next decision, Could you make the right choice? Welcome to Real Survival Stories. These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations. People suddenly forced a fight for their lives. In this episode, we meet Morgan Segway.

In 2019, the former acrobat from northern France is living in the Southeast Asian country of East Timor. One sunny Sunday, Morgan, a keen hiker and climber, decides to trek to trek. to the top of Mount Manukoko, a 3,000 foot peak on a nearby island just off the mainland. After reaching the summit, however, his thrill-seeking backfires, when he finds himself caught in the baking late afternoon heat with an empty water bottle and a long way back down.

Soon, he finds himself hopelessly, confoundingly lost. So I took this path, the same path, to go back, and after five minutes, suddenly like, the path disappear. But that's just the start. Navigating his way back through a dark and otherworldly jungle, things deteriorate rapidly, culminating in a brutal accident. Trees and the rock starting to fall with me,

and suddenly, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. So I thought, okay, I don't have water, I lose my blood, maybe in one or two days it's finished for me. I decided, okay, I will die, it's finished. Grotesquely hurt, with no clear way to reach help, Morgan will accept his fate, until an unexpected arrival appears through the trees, offering a tiny flash of hope.

I'm John Hopkins. From the Noysa Podcast Network, this is real survival stories. It's late morning on Sunday, June 9th, 2019, a few miles north of East Timor in Southeast Asia. An outboard motorboat chugs through sapphire-colored water. Sitting with one hand on the tiller, his thick brown hair tousled by the breeze, his 42-year-old Morgan Segway.

Morgan's eyes are fixed on the horizon, where the hazy green outline of a mountain appears to rise from the twinkling sea. The island of Ataro lies roughly 20 miles north of Dili, the capital of East Timor, where Morgan lives. Originally from a small village outside Paris, the Frenchman has been based in this part of the world for two years. He loves it here, and as his boat skips over the crystal clear waves, it's easy to understand why. This place is breathtakingly beautiful.

It bursts with color, the blue sky, the white sand beaches, the dazzling green palm trees. Everything seems alive. In local Timorese culture, there is a concept known as Lulik, a sacred spiritual power associated with certain places and objects. Lulik is a kind of assembly of rules and spirits from this area is Timor. It's like animism. So stones, birds, trees have their own soul and they can help you or... In the inverse, totally make you jokes and make you struggle in your days. Morgan steers the boat into a sheltered cove.

In the distance, beyond the trees at the top of the beach, the jagged, jungle-clad spine of a mountain ridge rises above the palms. Manukoko is a thousand meters tall. Its summit looms over the island, providing a constant backdrop to life. here. It's also where Morgan is headed for today's hike. As he jumps out of the boat into the knee-high water, a group of islanders come down to the beach to help him drag his boat onto the sand. When I arrive on the beach, people come to welcome me and help me to move the boat on the beach and ask, where do you go, Malai? Malai is the stranger, the white man. Where do you go, Malay?

I will go to the top of Manukoko. Oh, nice, nice, when? Now, oh, no, it's too late. You have to start at five or six aim. It would be too hot and it's too long. And you know, of course, there is spirits. So at night it's not a place for you. It's a place for no one.

He reassures the islanders that he'll be careful. Then he sets off up the beach, following a sandy track inland through the trees. Though he has made the tropical island nation his home, East Timor is a far cry from the surroundings of Morgan's youth. Born and raised in northern France, his childhood was set against a picturesque backdrop of wooded hills and apple orchards. Always climbing trees and riding my bicycle,

going by myself at school. It was a very, very small French village with 100 inhabitants, with one teacher for all the kids from six to... 10 years old, so it was really, really nice and close to nature when I was young. Morgan was a restless, outdoorsy kid. More at home running around in fields than sitting in classrooms. When he got older, he found the perfect outlet for his boundless energy, enrolling at circus school and training as a professional acrobat.

At the age of 21, Morgan's circus career took him to the biggest stage on earth, the opening ceremony for the 1998 FIFA World Cup in Paris. I was on the opening show and I was dressed like a rooster. They were decided to get 32 chickens representing the 32 countries participating to the World Cup and I was the English one. So you can watch on internet English rooster and to the roof of the Stade de France in 98. I'm inside. Shortly after this remarkable episode, Morgan decided to leave the circus and returned

to college to study event design. After graduating, he began traveling widely, organizing cultural events for embassies and museums around the world. By the mid-2010s, he had switched lanes again. He was living in Kazakhstan, working as a documentary filmmaker, when a friend came to him with another exciting opportunity. Would Morgan like to come out to East Timor, where this friend lived and produce promotional documentaries for NGOs? At that time, Timor was a very, very young country because they got their independence in 2001.

So the country still run with the help of many, many, many NGOs, American, Australian, European, Korean, Japanese NGOs from anywhere. So I took a ticket from Kazakhstan to Timor. See, okay, let's see what can happen. Not for the first time in his life, Morgan was throwing himself headfirst into uncharted waters. But when he arrived in East Timor and moved into a small house on the beach, something immediately clicked into place. So when I arrived to Delhi, it is the capital of East Timor, I choose a house in the front of the sea. And when you see that with coconut tree, white sand, broken boats in the garage, you feel like, oh, I'm arrived. It's my place.

It's my place. Since arriving in East Timor two years ago, Morgan has grown increasingly fond of this country. It's people and customs. But no matter how acclimatized he becomes, some things remain mysterious and foreign to him. and he is about to find out that despite the outward beauty of these islands they can still throw up some nasty surprises it's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe

with WestJet from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets begin your next chapter book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent WestJet where your story takes off it's early afternoon on June the 9th Morgan is walking through the jungle that covers the lower slopes of Mount Manukoko. It's the height of the dry season, when this part of the world can go for many months without rain, and the midday heat is sweltering.

Still, Morgan is in high spirits. The sky is a beautiful cobalt blue, and birds of paradise sing from the branches of the trees that line the footpath. Occasionally he passes locals on the trail. They all look at him with the same quizzical expression. Some stop him to ask where he's headed. When he tells them, their curiosity turns immediately to concern. On the path to the summit, many people stop me. Where do you go? I go on the top.

It's too late. Wait tomorrow. It's almost 1pm. By the time he reaches the top of the mountain, it'll be late afternoon, dangerously close to nightfall. No local would ever risk wandering the slopes of Manuoco after dark. But Morgan ignores the advice of the passerby. He appreciates their concern, but he is an experienced adventurer,

a seasoned hiker and climber. He'll make it down in good time. The locals merely shake their heads and shuffle off, muttering in disapproval. Of course, after 500 years of colonization from Portuguese, Then Indonesian, they are used to the Malai, the white man, who never listen, think that he knows everything and know better than anyone. The trail winds uphill through a patchwork of cultivated fields and pockets of dense jungle.

He passes plots where maize and root vegetables are grown on the outskirts of villages. Fruit trees overhang the footpath, the warm air fragrant with their sweet, sticky scent. As he gains elevation, however, the landscape becomes more rugged. Up ahead, he can see where the tree line ends, and the narrow ridge follows its final snaking ascent to the summit. After another mile or so, he sees two women coming down the trail. One is very elderly and appears to be blind in one eye. Her companion is younger, and she is the one who speaks to Morgan, her tone urgent.

The young lady said, Okay, sorry to disturb you during your journey during your trek, but I have the duty to explain you what's there. You see the line there, the trees, at the end of my field. Here it's safe. It's a normal world. We are farmers, there is fruits, vegetables, water. But just a little bit upper this line. It's another world in the sacred world of Lulik.

And you should not go alone. You should not go. But if you go, please don't sleep there and come back as soon as possible. Morgan glances up beyond the tree line where the summit ridge looms menacingly, blotting out the sky. Perhaps he should heed the warning. He could just park the whole thing. Or come back next weekend and make an earlier start. But ultimately, Morgan.

can't bring himself to back out. Doing so would be against everything he believes, or at least everything he has been told to believe, about his own limitations or lack thereof. I was in the time of my life, a period of my life, where I was listening too much podcast. You know, it's self-improvement, self-development podcast where never lose your dreams and never stop, break the barrier and go and go, go, go, go, and you fell and you wake up, and you wake up. And this is really not working with the mountain. Never do this.

First rules in the mountain is if you feel it's not going well, you just have to make a uter and you can always do it another day. This is the rule number one. And all this podcast and books and all that maybe push me a little bit to. not listening. Perhaps Morgan has simply been listening to the wrong podcasts. In any case, he chooses not to take the young woman's advice. He's already come this far, three quarters of the way, and he isn't the type to turn back.

And so he wishes the two women a good day and continues on his journey. It's a couple of hours later. Morgan is walking the final approach to the mountaintop, a steep scramble over rock and scrubby vegetation. The former acrobat covers it swiftly, his lean, nimble body moving effortlessly over the rough terrain. When he finally reaches the summit, he straightens up and stands, looking out across the glorious panorama unfurled below him. It's a spectacular view that takes in the whole island, a sweeping expanse of jungle-clad hills, stretching all the way to the ocean, where deep blue takes over from emerald green, panting from the world.

the heat and exertion, Morgan reaches into his backpack for his water bottle. But when he pulls it out, he makes a troubling discovery. There are only a few drops left. This was the first really big sign of, uh-oh, I should be very, very careful from now because I'm only half of the journey and I don't have water now with me. And we were really in the middle of the dry season, so not a single drop of water anywhere. At least the rest of the journey is downhill. Plus, it's almost five.

The worst of the afternoon heat is surely over. It'll be cooling down from now on. But as he sets off back down the trail, the opposite seems to be true. The sun smoulders overhead, a blazing red fireball. Morgan could feel it scorching the back of his neck. sucking the last traces of moisture from his rapidly overheating body. He quickens his pace, anxious to reach the shade of the tree line. The air around him thickens and shimmers, the slope of the ridge rippling in the heat.

He lowers his gaze and tries to concentrate on where he's putting his feet. So I took this path, the same path, to go back. And after five minutes, suddenly like, The path disappear. It's here and who? It's not here. I cannot explain more than that. Morgan looks back the way he came. But there's no sign of the footpath.

Just a steep, sun-yellowed stretch of dry brush. Here and there, shards of volcanic rock protrude from the earth like jagged black arrowheads. It is as if the trail just vanished from right under his feet. Morgan tries to stay calm. He's only a few hundred yards from the tree line. Instead of climbing back up, he heads down into the forest, where at least there's some shade. Hopefully, he'll pick up the footpath somewhere in the jungle.

But the trail never reappears. What he does find is a dry creek bed weaving through the trees. Morgan figures that if he follows it far enough, it'll eventually lead him to a village. He sets off. The stream meanders through tracts of dense undergrowth, and he must force his way through barricades of thorny vegetation. It's not a simple route downhill either. It undulates up and down through the forest. Occasionally he encounters dry waterfalls, and he has no choice but to scale them, tackling vertical rock faces.

Gradually, the light starts to fade. Looking up, he sees that the flashes of sky through the canopy are streaked with dusky purple clouds. More I was exploring, more I was lost. And suddenly it's night. It's night, you don't have water, you are lost in the jungle mountain, and you have to take a decision. Should he stop for the night and wait until morning? Or carry on in the day?

dark and hope he reaches civilization. The local woman he met earlier had warned him not to sleep up here on the mountain. Morgan isn't superstitious about malevolent spirits, but he keeps walking all the same. The night deepens. After another couple of hours, he reaches the tallest obstacle yet, a towering 130-foot cliff face. He begins to climb, carefully seeking out handholds in the rock. He makes it most of the way up when he stops. The rock up here is smooth and featureless, making it almost impossible to climb. He's only got about 30 feet, less than 10 meters to go,

but he's stuck. No place to put your fingers. It was like marble. And there was only a tree. And you know when you climb, you should not use vegetation trees. vegetation, trees, branch, anything stick on a rock. It's really a bad idea.

But it was the only way to try to get up. Morgan reaches for the tree branch. He gives it a firm tug, testing its strength. Once he's satisfied it'll support his weight. He grabs hold of it and pulls himself up. So I put all my weight on it. And when my way was on it, suddenly it was not a crack from the wood, it was like a... From the rock itself.

All the rock, a big rock, totally detached. And the time stopped. I really saw it like slow motion, you know, like in a movie. There is a horrible wrenching sound. Morgan feels himself toppled backwards away from the cliff face. Everything seems to move slowly. the disaster unfolding in half speed. But there's still no time to react.

Nothing he can do to stop it. Nothing he can do to prevent the inevitable. So I tried to use my fingers like hook and in the rock, but of course they all broke. So I feel like all my fingers broke. And I saw the trees and the rock starting to fall with me. And suddenly the time to... took his normal speed and...

It's June the 9th, 2019, the middle of the night, somewhere on the forested slope of Mount Manukoko. At the base of a 40-meter cliff, Morgan lies on his back, motionless. Blood oozes from a gash running the length of his skull. The right side of his face is puffy and mottled with dark bruises. his right eye is swollen shut, the bone around it shattered. The only sign that he is still alive is the faint flutter of his pulse. And then his left eyelid twitches.

Slowly, he returns to consciousness. I opened my eyes, left eye. The right one was totally disconnect. Only my left end was working. and I was trying to understand what is broken, what's happened. Morgan blinks up at the dark forest canopy. After he fell and his body smashed repeatedly against the wall of the cliff, he blacked out. But it's hard to say how long for.

Hesitantly, he moves his left hand to his head. There is something soft and damp protruding from his scalp. It takes him a moment to realize that it's a part of his scalp, prized away from his scar. All my upper head was capped, and it was very strange to feel it. No pain, but I felt my hair, the strange liquids from the body, and I felt my skull totally naked. He tries to push himself upright, but his right arm must be broken. He can't put any pressure on it without triggering war. without triggering waves of immense pain.

Propping himself up on his left elbow, he manages to lift his torso off the ground. He tries to straighten his right leg, but his nerve endings fizzle in agonizing protest. Clearly, walking is out of the question. Morgan lies back for a moment, breathing, trying to take stock. He must have hit his head hard during the fall, so the fact that he's still alive is a miracle.

But that might be where his luck ends. He doesn't have a phone or any other means of calling for help and he can't move. That means he is counting on someone stumbling across him in a dry creek bed, probably several miles from the nearest walkable trail. The odds aren't looking good. So I thought, okay, in survival books, there is this kind of data, like you can stay three minutes without air, three days without water and three weeks without food it's average of course

so I thought okay I don't have water I lose my blood maybe in one or two days it's finished for me despite his grim prognosis Morgan manages to remain sanguine so I decided okay I will die

it's finished and strange things once you decide that it's like that I had a nice life and I will die in a nice life place. I'm adventurer in the jungle with parrots and beautiful insects and bats and stars. It's okay. I will enjoy that. It's the following day. Morgan lies in the exact same spot on his back at the base of the rock face. His injured head rests on a tuft of undergrowth and his broken legs

are stretched out in front of him. For the last 12 hours or so, So, he has settled into a kind of meditative state, watching the sky change color through the tree branches, listening to the birds and insects. Having accepted the likely outcome of his situation, he has reached a state of acceptance, even peace. But as the second day wears on, there is one source of discomfort begins to threaten his equilibrium. It's dry, no water.

This was the hardest thing in this adventure, not bones broken or head or scalp. But no water is something really hard to describe. No water is look like a nothingness, eating you. Something like it's more than empty. It's like death, death or I don't know, something that is not supposed to be in your body. It's growing inside you. He runs his tongue over his lips. They feel like husks, cracked and dry.

He closes his eyes and lets the sounds of the forest wash over him. Another night goes by. Morgan drifts in and out of consciousness. Even when he's asleep, he remains alert to the sounds of the jungle, the calls of animals, the wind in the trees. Day two passes much like the first, a slow, indistinguishable procession of hours. Another evening draws in.

It's now been 48 hours since his fall, and he's still here. He hasn't died of thirst or blood loss or some unseen internal injury. Could it be that he resigned himself to his fate too quickly? Could survival actually be on the cards? In some ways this creeping optimism isn't helpful. It complicates the simple, serene state Morgan managed to achieve earlier. When you feel you will die, you don't have any more problem. You have one big problem, you will die.

But all the daily life problems are, oh, I have to pay this. Oh, I said this to a friend, it was not nice, and I have to call and apologize, and I'm not that good person. Oh, I have to pay a bill for this and blah, blah, blah, all these things that make. All these things that make sometimes daily life heavy, you put all this stuff in the bag, and you let the bag there, and suddenly you feel good, say,

oh, I have no problem. I will die. Trying to survive is altogether more complicated. Morgan lies there, sprawled on the forest floor, wrestling with what to do next. Of course, you want to go back, go back home, but you are totally broken my right foot. was broken, my right arm was broken. You want to go back. But you don't want to be disappointed

with a goal that you know you will not reach. It's day three. By now Morgan's thirst has started to seep into his subconscious. Bizarre fantasies play out behind his closed eyelids. I was dreaming about sparkling water. You know like in a bad shampoo advertising where you have a wave of of sparkling water and I was swimming inside this sparkling water wave and drinking it. And suddenly I woke up. Though not a religious man, Morgan even resorts to prayer. He appeals to the ether, promising to disavow worldly pleasures for just one sip of water. I try all gods like Christian, Muslim, Jewish, mystical, animism, stones, crocodiles, everyone.

If I can have a sparkling water glass, I will never drink alcohol. Day three grinds on and Morgan's thirst only intensifies. Extreme dehydration is a protracted and painful way to die. When the body is deprived of water, it begins to draw fluid from non-vital organs. The eyes, lips and tongue shrivel and contract, as moisture is redirected to other parts of the body. The blood thickens and coagulates, restricting the flow of oxygen to the brain, resulting in dizziness and delirium. The heartbeat slows to an intermittent twitch as the body begins to expire. But while Morgan's prayers for water go unanswered, his noisy pleas do attract attention.

As evening descends on the third day, he hears a rustling in the bushes to his right. He looks over. There, peering at him from the undergrowth, are several furry white faces. It was a bunch of goats. And they came to me, the youngest, even touched my nose with her nose. And they really look at me like friends, like,

oh, poor you, we're really sorry for you. And I was very happy with this visit. The goats spend some time meandering around this half-dead human, snuffling and searching for food. Morgan watches, strangely comforted by their presence, before the herd turns and vanishes back into the wilderness. And they disappear for two minutes, but after two minutes I saw them climbing the cliff. But there was not climbing straight like I did. They were using like a zigzag path, like a goat path. He watches as the goats carefully ascend the cliff he fell from.

They move single file, weaving their way upward in a wide, criss-crossing pattern. To Morgan, the most obvious route up the rock face had been straight. But maybe he can learn something from these animals, a possible path out of this place. Survival is still hugely unlikely. But perhaps if he moves, Morgan can at the very least, find a better place to die. If I die here, no one will find me. They will always think, where is Morgan?

Maybe just left and did not call us and what's happened. Is he somewhere in a bad situation? Is he suffering? So I was trying, okay, I have to go back. At least on the road, I have to die somewhere that people will find me. And now, having witnessed the goat's zigzagging. their way up the cliff, Morgan can at least see that it's possible. So, on the morning of the fourth day since the accident, he starts getting himself ready. By this late stage, his body is in the

process of shutting down. He has emptied his bowels all over himself, and not uncommon prelude to dying. It underlines the bleak reality of his situation, expelling any lingering trace of romanticism. And I thought, hmm, this is the end of Indiana Jones adventure. It's the end of nice stories. It will be not funny anymore from that point. I thought, okay, I have to wash myself at least. And I wash myself. I took all my clothes off. I wash myself with sand and dry leaves. Then I was naked, more or less clean, and stand up on my one and a half feet. Morgan's shattered right foot throbs in agony as he gingerly applies some pressure. His broken right arm hangs limp by his side. Though it's intensely painful to stand,

he manages to stay upright. With trembling effort, he staggers forward a couple of steps, shuffling towards the base of the incline. He looks up. Above, a perilous, sloping rock face covered in a tangle of dense, thorny brush. If he couldn't make it to the top before, then climbing it now, in his present condition, seems impossible.

I say, okay, let's try. And I make a first step. And this step was so small. I call it Grand Mastep. and I say, it will be long. But I live in Kazakhstan, which is former SSSR, and all SSR region is full of babushka grandmother.

And you saw them, they are so old, and sometimes it's taken 20, 30 minutes to do 200 meters for them to go to the market. But every day you saw this babushka working with very small, step and going and coming back, so I thought, okay, I will do the babushka step on the goat road. And it started to be a mantra. Okay, one more babushka step on the goat road.

Morgan repeats these words to himself as he edges his way along the rock face, trying to stick to the path followed by the goats. But gradually, he makes progress, gaining a millimeter of elevation with every sideways shuffle. Hours pass, Morgan pouring all his concentration into his task. Eventually, when he is part way up the cliff, night falls. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, he finds a well-rooted tree and positions himself in the crook of its trunk. He spends the night here, not sleeping, but resting, saving his strength for one final push

tomorrow. The next day, Morgan climbs all morning. Eventually he reaches the final stretch, the place where he fell five days ago. But this time he has one major advantage. Daylight. He can see that there is an easier route to the one he tried to take, a slightly gentler gradient dotted with handholds and footholds. Not daring to look down, he presses himself flat against the rock, his breath rattling in his ears. With his one functioning hand, he curls his fingers around a shallow hold and pushes with his only functioning foot. He grinds his torso into the cliff for friction and inches upwards. He pauses, muscles trembling, pain flaring through his body. But he doesn't stop for long. He goes again, dragging himself.

inch by inch until at last his weight tips forward and he spills onto the flat ground of the cliff top Morgan lies there panting his spirits soaring though his body is utterly depleted he finds himself flooded with a deep appreciation for it marveling at its sheer resilience I start to make like a kind of checklist like okay scalped broken arm, broken foot, but I can breathe. Wow, it's so strong. I was so happy with this body. The small core machine, like blood, brain, it's working. I was impressed and say, oh, you have to bring this back to home because it's really nice machine and life is so incredible. Winter is hard, but your groceries don't have to be.

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Because some relationships are built to go the distance. It's that Hyundai Alantra type of love. June the 14th, Morgan staggers weekly through the dense jungle at the base of Mount Manukoko. It's been five days since his fall. Despite his triumph in reaching the top of the cliff, he is now closer to death and to life. A shadow of a man, hunched and naked. His skin scratched, bloody and bruised. With increasing difficulty, Morgan pushes through the foliage.

He forces aside a curtain of vines and stumbles out into a field. He peers around, dazed. The field looks recently harvested, the soil freshly tilled, the crops that once grew here now gone, and then he spot something. A single pineapple resting on the ground. It was really strange moment because I thought, okay, I'm totally thirsty. I did not eat anything since five days. And there is only one pineapple in a field that I've been totally harvested.

I thought it's a joke. I thought it's a spirit of the mountain. They are making a joke. And I was really like looking right, looking left. Where are these funny spirits? It's like, it's not possible. This perfectly rip pineapple in the middle of the field. But it's no mirage.

It's really there. Sustainance, only a few feet away. He stumbles. over to the pineapple. Trembling, he picks up the spiky fruit. With just one functioning hand, he has to find a way to cut into it and to open it up. I turned the pineapple, fix it in my legs. I have my knife, cut it very, very slowly to be sure to not lose a drop of juice. And I had this big slice. And I really remember the first bite. it was so juicy, but the juice stopped after maybe three or four centimeters in my mouth.

Because I was really like a dry, dry sponge. So after maybe five or six bite, finally a drop of water arrived in my stomach, I mean, inside my body. And I eat, eat, eat all this pineapple. And I suddenly felt all my organs. one by once getting water. Nourishment spreads through him. Morgan finishes every last morsel of pineapple, sucking the juice from its tough, bristly skin.

With food in his belly, he rests, falling asleep on a flat rock. He awakes hours later, energized, ready to stumble on. With signs of human cultivation around him, he can now feel confident that he's at least headed in the right direction, back towards civilization.

And sure enough. I saw a house far, far, far, far in the hill. But I called in Tetoon, Ah, Judah, Judah, it means help. And I heard something like, So I ask again, Hajuda! And here, nothing.

Nothing again. again, silence, and I thought, hmm, maybe it's kids and they will be afraid of what come from the mountain. So they will leave and I will be lost again. Hastily, Morgan pulls his soiled, blood-stained clothes from his bag and puts them on. He doesn't want to frighten off any would-be rescuers. Once he's fully clothed, he staggers off in the direction of the house. It isn't long before a man appears.

Aware of what a bizarre spectacle he must be, Morgan wouldn't be surprised if the man was scared or suspicious or even hostile. But instead, his face is full of compassion. And he looked at me, I look at him, and I tried to start to explain, like, I had an accident in Tetoon, and Tetoon is a local language. It's a mix of Portuguese and Creole. And this is no need explanation. Let's make a prayer.

And he took me in his arms and started to thank Jesus. And I suddenly felt, okay, it's done, it's finished. The kindly man takes Morgan by the arms and guides him back to the house, where he seats him carefully at the table. He calls for his wife, who comes in and begins examining Morgan's wounds. Then, seeing the extent of his hunger and dehydration, she provides him with water and food. The couple, Morgan learns, are named,

Moyes and Rachel, or Mann, Moise and Manna, Rachel, to use the local honorifics. She gave me like a huge plate of rice, corn, beans. She prepared me a cafe Timor, Timor coffee, which is big, light coffee, full of sugar. Mon Moise climbed a coconut tree, came back with two coconuts, open one, open all the skin. and then sculpt and took off everything that was heavy and gave me this coconut. I had this coconut juice. And his wife, Manah Rachel, she gave me the plate

and she watched me eating like if I were her kids. She was full of love at. When I saw her eyes, it was so sweet, so nice, so warm. He is overwhelmed by their kindness. But he's still in critical need of proper medical attention. The gash on his head is gaping and at risk of infection. His broken bones need setting and strapping, and there is every chance he sustained internal bleeding in the fall.

The nearest hospital is back on the mainland. Morgan doesn't have a phone himself, and trying to communicate all this to Man, Moy's, and Manor-Rachel is proving difficult. So they quickly fetch one of their neighbours, a woman named Mana Ati, who speaks good English. They're called Mana Ati, and Mana Ati have many things. So she has this phone with battery and credit, and she speaks English because she worked with NGOs.

So she came, and we walked like 10 minutes to find network. And we called my friends, and we manage that my friends will send a small plane to that island. Rescue is on its way. Then, before Morgan can probably thank Mana Ati for her help, she reveals something that leaves him speechless. She said, sorry, Man Morgan, I have to go.

I have to go because it's funeral of my daughter. And I felt, what do you say? It's funeral of my daughter. And I feel like, do you take these hours with me during your daughter funerals? She said, yes, she's dead. You are alive. I was really emotional crying. And I was really saying, when I see, I don't know how to say thank you to you.

I was totally shocked. And I really felt like, oh, I'm still not the man I wanted to be. and this person really showed me a part of the path, the real path. Man, Moyes and some other villagers helped to carry Morgan down the hill to the beach, where a small plane soon touches down. He is loaded aboard and flown straight to hospital in Dili on the mainland, where doctors check his vitals and restore his bodily fluids. After some time recovering his strength, Morgan returns to France,

where he undergoes further medical treatment. Once his injuries have healed, he doesn't go back to East Timor straight away. Instead, he starts to reflect on the ordeal, putting pen to paper and recounting his experience. In the process of writing, he is forced to think deeply about his time on the island and about what allowed him to maintain such calmness in the face of death. Ultimately, he believes it comes down to one thing. I think the secret ingredients that really helped me to survive, I think it's joy. I think if at that moment I was sad or terrified or having bad mood, I would have die.

Like, it's pretty sure. But with the joy, I was so light. I said, okay, I'm an adventurer and it's nice. If I die, I will die in a nice way. You know, I let all the people. problems gone. And joy is, I understood that is so powerful. And there is so much moment in life where we just forget and lost the joy. And when the joy of life is away, it's so heavy. Morgan keeps writing, eventually completing his book, telling the story of those five days

he spent clinging to life in the jungle. But it isn't just his story. The real heroes of the tale are the local people who helped save his life. Man, Moy's. Manor Rochelle and Mana Artie. In the end, Morgan says this was the real motivator behind his book, to share with others the extraordinary kindness of these islanders. I think it was the biggest thing of this story of this accident. And at that moment, I really feel, okay, I have to come back and write the book. The book is now not a joke. It's a duty.

duty, Manati and Man Moises and Manarchekel. All those people and how they do after 500 years of occupation, colonization from Portuguese and Indonesian, and then everyone kills their peoples. They stayed human. I have to tell this. I have to share and say, hey, there is a country called East Timor. And people there have hearts.

Next time on real survival stories, we tell the unique tale of Pete Takeda, a story that combines extreme locations, extraordinary natural phenomena, and espionage. In September 2005, Pete is leading a small party deep into the Himalayas. But this is no ordinary mountaineering adventure. Their mission is more like something from a spy movie, to find proof of plutonium-powered surveillance devices rumored to have been planted in the mountains by the CIA some 40 years earlier. But when the might of nature turns against Pete and his team, all their priorities shift.

Unable to descend due to the wild weather, the climbers become trapped, buried alive beneath hundreds of tons of snow. With no way out, their only hope of survival is to stay alive long enough for the storm to clear. That's next time on real survival stories. You can listen to Listen right now, without waiting and without adverts, by joining Noiser Plus. Searchlight Pictures presents In The Blink of an Eye on Hulu on Disney Plus, a sweeping science fiction drama spanning the Stone Age, the present day, and the distant future, about the essence of what it means to be human, regardless of our place in history. The film is directed by Oscar-winning filmmaker Andrew Stanton and stars Rashida Jones,

Kate McKinnon, and David Diggs. Stream in the Blink of an Eye, February 27, only on Hulu on Disney Plus. Sign up at Disneyplus.com.