Real Survival Stories - Kidnapped in Colombia: Gap Year Gone Wrong (Part 1 of 2)

Episode Date: October 30, 2025

A British backpacker nears the end of his gap year in South America. Before flying home, Matt Scott signs up for a guided trek into the mountains of northern Colombia. But within days, the trip will take a sinister turn. As he and his fellow tourists are taken hostage at gunpoint, Matt will be left to wonder: who are these men? And what do they want? Should he do as they command? Or take his chances against the jungle, and run?…   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]   Our sister podcast Short History Of… has a new book! Pre-order your copy of A Short History of Ancient Rome now at noiser.com/books Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

It's the dead of night, September 12, 2003, in the far north of Colombia. Somewhere deep in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Mata, a group of armed men creeped through the jungle. In their camouflage and black flak jackets, the men are almost invisible, blending with the darkness around them, detectable only by the shards of silver moonlight glinting of the muzzles of their assault rifles. They emerge from the jungle onto a treeless hilltop where they spread out, swift choreographed, weapons poised. Ahead, silhouetted against the indigo sky are the shadowy outlines of two wooden cabins. The night air is cool as the men steal across the clearing, the ground beneath their boots still wet from yesterday's rain.

When they reach the cabins, the 20 or so men divide into smaller units, with one group entering the first cabin, another entering the second. In the hammock nearest the door of the second one, 19-year-old Matt Scott wakes with a startled intake of breath. Somebody is poking him in the ribs. He rolls over and sees a dark, figure looming over him. Matt recoils sharply and reaches for his glasses. The blurry shape standing above his bed comes into focus. A man wearing military fatigues, pointing an assault rifle directly at him. I immediately, I think, assumed that we were being robbed.

And I also, I think, determined instantly that this was not a good situation. But this is not a robbery. These men aren't looking for money or valuables. And however bad a situation Matt thinks this is, the reality is even worse. I'd only seen up to this point the two armed men who'd woken up and asked for our nationality. I now saw another 20.

That was the moment where I was dramatically recalibating what was going on. At that point, things had already gone very wrong. 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 to fight for their lives. In this episode, we meet British backpacker Matt Scott.

In September 2003, he is nearing the end of his gap year, having spent the past seven months traveling around South America. With just eight days remaining before his flight home to London, Matt signs up for a guided trek to the Lost City, an archaeological site nestled deep in the mountains of Northern Columbia. It's supposed to be one final adventure, a memorable way to cap off seven unforgettable months. And for the first three days, the trip proves exactly that.

But everything changes in the early hours of day four. As a mysterious group of armed men storm his camp. As he and his fellow tourists are forced out of bed and into the dark jungle, Matt will be left to wonder, Who are these men? And what do they want? About the fifth time of asking him where you were going, how long it was going to take. how long it was going to take.

He said, we're going to march three days, and then the bosses will decide what to do with you. And I thought, that sounds all kinds of bad. As he has marched through the mountains towards an unknown fate, Matt is faced with a choice. Does he follow orders and potentially endure a lengthy captivity? Or does he take his chances against the jungle and run for it? I thought that by escaping, I retained a lot of agency in my life and made a positive decision to do something, even though it was very dangerous.

I'm John Hopkins. From the Noiter Podcast Network, this is real survival stories. It's early September 2003, Santa Marta, Colombia. A 19-year-old British tourist runs full pelt down a busy street, weaving through crowds of pedestrians with long, ungainly strides. Matt Scott is late. Earlier this morning, he tried to sign up for an organized multi-day trek to an archaeological site in the mountains. But when he turned up at the tourist agency just a few moments ago, he was informed that the last group of the day had already left. If you wanted to catch up, he'd have to hurry.

Matt arrives at his budget hostel and hurdles through the lobby. He sprints to his dorm, throws his backpack onto the bed, and starts stuffing everything he'll need for the trek into his daybag. When it comes to practical footwear, all Matt owns are the Wellington boots he wore during his visit to the Amazon, where wellies are recommended as protection against snakes. Reptile proof, perhaps, but less than ideal on a mountain trail. That leaves the sandals he's currently wearing. When Matt examines them, however, he notices the strap on the left sandal is worn away. It flaps about uselessly.

Hardly suitable for a six-day hike. He scratches his head. All right, new plan. Go buy a needle and thread, repair sandals, then head back to the tourist agency to drop off main backpack before taking the bus into the mountains to catch up with a tour group. Simple. And so, with broken sandals in hand and a bag slung around each shoulder,

Matt runs barefoot into the street, scouring the shopfronts for somewhere that might sell sewing supplies. I do have a tendency when I go travelling to get myself into trouble. I've missed a lot of flights. I mean, every time I tell the story, it always seems like it's not my fault, but you don't miss like 12 flights without it being your fault at least some of the time. Matt lives in Clapham, South London, with his mum, dad, brother and sister. He finished school last year after achieving the grades to study.

engineering at Oxford. But instead of starting university straight away, he decided that he would take a year out. It just sort of seemed like a thing that I should do in some sense. And I guess I was slightly on autopilot. I didn't have any particular cultural connection or reason to go to Latin America beyond the feeling that I should do something between school and university. sort of a social pressure, it's like the dumb thing, I think. And so, off he went. Things got off to an inauspicious start, to say the least, when Matt missed his outbound flight from Heathrow.

It would set the tone for things to come. Over the course of the next seven months, he lurched from calamity to calamity. I ran out of cash. I lost my card and had to get cash to send me and had huge administrative problems that took months to resolving Carly. I got strangled and dumped unconscious on a side street in Kusko in Peru. I also completely ran out of money in a place called Letitia.

I had to shack up with some homeless people for about two weeks. I also got kicked out of Colombia and Brazil and kind of Venezuela all for overstaying visas. Because my executive dysfunction often leaves me in terrible situations, I'm quite used to spend your knife rough in the train station or somewhere. and kind of living without any reach of comfort to not complain you about it. Seven months into his travels and Matt's diary reads like a choose your own misadventure. Perhaps it's for the best then that his flight home is next week. Before he calls his gap year quits, however, he is determined to make the most of his final week.

In the short time he has left, the hope is to experience something that he'll remember for all the right reasons. which is precisely why he decided to book himself onto an organized trek to the Lost City, the remains of a pre-Hispanic citadel nestled in the mountains just north of Santa Marta. I think I wanted to go to the Lost City in Colombia, partially, a lot of it was so that I could do at least one thing, spend at least one week that would be stress-free, organized, like with guides, and paid money to talk about simple, I think, and get it. So I think, if anything, I was looking forward to a week without any major best hours. And after this morning's Rocky starts, Matt does get things back on track.

He manages to buy a sewing kit to repair his sandals. Then he rushes back to the tourist agency, where one of the employees offers to escort him into the mountains so he can link up with the others. Big sigh of relief. He now sits in the back of a taxi with the man from the agency as they trundle towards Santamata bus station. Through all the ups and downs of this trip, Madder's become pretty good at rolling with the punches. More often than not, he manages to land on his feet. Speaking of which, now seems a good time to mend his footwear. He reaches into his backpack and his heart sinks.

Of course. After all the effort to buy a sewing kit, he somehow managed to forget his sandals. Hi listeners, John Hopkins here from the Noiser Network. I'm interrupting this episode with some exciting news. From the hit podcast, Short History of, comes a brand new book. It's called A Short History of Ancient Rome. The book transforms 1,000 years of history into a riveting and action-packed account of the birth, rise and ultimate fall of Rome. You'll follow Hannibal, a secret. crosses the snow-capped Alps with elephants in tow.

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or head to www.noiser.com forward slash books. It's noon the following day. Matt trudges uphill through lush, dense jungle. It's hot and humid, and his feet steam inside his Wellington boots. He and the man from the tourist agency made good ground yesterday. They caught up with the rest of the group before nightfall. Matt bade farewell to his personal escort, and now he walks in a party of ten, including the porter and guide.

He chats with his fellow tourists as they follow a narrow track through the forest. I was on a tour group with, I think, seven other people when I finally caught them. About half of them were Israelis. All the Israelis wouldn't really talk to anyone else. They just kept themselves themselves. With the exception of one guy called Erez. He was the person who I got on with the best on the way. Also in that same tour group, there was Maitis.

I remember a guy from Holland, who was very geeky and a good chess player. He could beat me a chess. We had a little chessboard. He could beat me blind. And we had some other people. Riney, a German girl. She was a climber. She had done paraglidist.

Tompich was a pro climber. It's just amazing. Footwear aside, it seems that things are finally looking up for Matt, as he gets to know this eclective. group. With a guide leading the way, all he has to focus on is putting one Wellington boot in front of the other. The Sierra Nevada to Santa Marta is a spectacular mountain range which rises abruptly from the Colombian coast and soars to heights of 19,000 feet. Located just 40 kilometers from the sea, the range's coastal position sustains its rich biodiversity.

Warm trade winds blow across the Caribbean and rise as they encounter the Sierra. The air then cools and condenses into a mist that shrouds the peaks, giving rise to a unique ecosystem called the Cloud Forest. It's a landscape of stunning contrasts. Above the tree line, alpine meadows surround snow-capped summits, while down here in the foothills, you couldn't be anywhere for the tropics. a vast, steamy jungle that screeches, howls and hisses with life. Matt drinks it all in.

They're very steep valleys that come down with a jungle, sort of cascading out of the sun. And because it rains every day, and it's very steep, it's very fast-blown rivers everywhere. It looks so Indian-A-Jest. They hike for three days, wading through rivers, crossing deep gorges, and zigzagging. their way up steep verdant hillsides. Matt becomes well acquainted with his companions, Erez, the talkative Israeli, Dutch chess-wiz, Matais, and Rainey, the German backpacker. At night, in the campsites along the route, they play card games and tell stories, sitting out under the stars until it starts to rain, which it often does, forcing them back to their bunks.

On the third day, they ascend a long stone staircase carved into the side of the mountain. Lungs burning, the tourists emerge into an open area where the jungle has been cut back to reveal the remains of an ancient citadel. The Lost City was built around 800 AD by the Tyrona people, an indigenous group who lived and flourished here until the 1500s, when the arrival of gold-thirsty conquistadors brought violence, disease, and death. Today, all that's left of this once thriving civilization is a scattering of earth and terraces

connected by a series of walkways chiseled into the hillside. There are these platforms that have been raised and cut out of the surrounding jungle, and you can see underneath where they've been terraced with these big piles of stones. So they form these concentric rings that are completely flattened. And there would have been, I think, wooden huts. there, you know, back when the civilisations were operating, but those forgot. So there's just the earth works that they had constructed, the stone steps that lead up there.

It's a strange, eerie, fascinating sight, the remnants of this settlement hidden in the depths of the jungle. But it's now quite late in the day, so Matt's group will have to wait until tomorrow for their guided tour. No matter. The lost city has been here for over a thousand years. It'll still be here in the morning. The tourists are taken to a hillside clearing a short distance from the site where two wooden cabins serve as sleeping quarters. Matt goes to the first floor of the second cabin and spreads out his sleeping bag in the hammock nearest the door. Then he heads downstairs to a small courtyard, where reaves of campfire smoke twist in the dusky air. Dinner is being prepared.

There's another tour group staying here, and Matt soon finds himself chatting with some new faces. Among them is an English backpacker called Mark. He lived in Brixton, which is quite close to where I grew up in London. So we had a bit more in common. We then had dinner, played some card games, played some wits. and someone lit a candle with a photochap on lighter, but I thought, oh, that's like the photochap on lighter I've got. Matt eyes up the lighter.

It certainly looks like his, but more likely someone just owns the same one. His was a cheap freebie he picked up when he bought his disposable camera. There are a dime a dozen in Colombia. At about 10 o'clock, Matt says good night to the others and heads up to bed. Aking from the day's strenuous hike, he stretches out on his hammock and is sound asleep within minutes. It's a few hours later, just after 4 a.m. Matt wakes to the sound of raised voices inside the cabin.

His Spanish is pretty good, but in his groggy haze he can't make outlawful. what's being said. Then, a sharp prod to the ribs snaps him fully awake. He rolls over, blinking up at a man pointing a gun straight at him. I think your brain sort of

snaps into survival mode and you try and work out what's going on. I immediately, I think, assumed that we were being robbed, which would not have been a huge surprise to me. I also, I think, determined basically instantly that this was not a good situation. Matt sits up in his hammock, his heart thumping.

Across the room, a second gunman is barking orders at the other tourists. The first intruder gruffly asks Matt what his nationality is. He tells the truth, he's English. The gunman then motions for Matt and the others to get out of bed and go downstairs, taking their belongings with them. Silently, exchanging wide-eyed glances, the shocked tourists follow orders. When I got downstairs on the first floor,

I saw something that was slightly worrying. They were tying up our guides, like hands, the other feet together, and then they were instructed with a bouchetti. They were pointed to lie down on these mattresses, and then they tied their hands. their feet behind their backs. Matt hurries past the trust-up guides and exits the cabin.

Outside, he's met by an even more disturbing scene. So I'd only seen up to this point the two armed men who'd woken up, and after our nationality. I now saw another 20, and that was the moment where I was dramatically recalibating what was going on, thinking, well, this is a much bigger operation than I had originally anticipated. surrounded by 20 men, all, I should say, armed with some kind of assault rifle. At that point, things had already gone very wrong.

It's almost 5 a.m. on September the 12th, 2003. In the mountains of Northern Columbia, a group of bleary-eyed tourists stand in a jungle clearing, clutching backpacks and lacing up shoes in the chilly pre-dawn light. Surrounding them are around 20 armed men. Nineteen-year-old Matt Scott stands next to another English backpacker, Mark. The two Brits quietly confer, trading theories about who these men might be and what they might want. They're all in uniform, army camo and black flat jackets with assault rifle slung over their shoulders.

Obviously, this is more than just a robbery. You don't need 20 armed men to steal a few wallets. So then what? Matt and Mark look at each other. There is one possible explanation, staring them in the face. Colombia has a long and troubled history with ransom kidnappings. Since the 1970s, the rise in civilian hostage cases has reflected the growing strength of paramilitary groups across the country.

In the year 2000 alone, more than 3,000 kidnappings were reported. Since then, a government crackdown has significantly reduced that number. And while some parts of Colombia remain off limits to tourists, this mountain range isn't one of them. At least that's what the guidebooks say. But as Matt stands there, warily eyeing the ring of gun-toting guards, the outlandish idea that they're being kidnapped gradually starts to feel more plausible. Finally, after a few minutes, one of the men steps forward to address the bewildered tourists. We did get a story from them at this stage. They said that they were the Colombian army, and they were there to help us

because there were reports of bandits in the valley and so we were marching back to Santa Marta across different paths because the area was no longer safe. The story seems dubious. Why would the army wake them up in the middle of the night? Why would they tie up their tour guides? But right now, facing up to reality

is too strange and frightening a prospect. There's a lot of denial. goes on because, you know, you just don't really think, oh, I've been kidnapped. It's just not a thing that really happens in the real world. There's people come along and say, oh, we're from the government, we're here to take it. So I was certainly prepared to hear them out on this. The soldiers start selecting individuals from the group. They make the tourists walk forward one at a time, and then gesture either left or right

with a blade of a machete. We were separated into two groups. I now know that they were people they wanted and people they didn't want. And I was put into the group of people they wanted. They didn't want couples, they didn't want the drama. They didn't want older people. They didn't want people who didn't have good footwear. So they needed people who could walk and walk hard and not complain about it.

Matt is selected along with fellow Brit, Mark, Arrez, the Israeli. Rainey, the young German, a Spanish man called Baez, and three more Israeli backpackers. This group of eight is then instructed to start walking down the hill into the next valley. With one last look back at the others, Matt falls in line. They're marched, single-filed on a steep track, escorted by a dozen or so armed guards. At first, a nervous silence settles over the tourists. But when it becomes clear that the guards don't understand English, they start speaking openly among themselves.

We could speak in English, and we understood Spanish, but they only spoke in Spanish. So we could talk to ourselves, and they couldn't understand us, and they could talk to us, and we could talk to them, and they could talk to themselves, but we can understand. The tourists discuss their situation in low whispers, reasoning with each other that perhaps. Perhaps, as unlikely as it seems, these men might be telling the truth. Maybe they really are soldiers from the Colombian army, shepherding them through the jungle amid reports of bandit activity.

But as they continued down the trail, this cover story feels increasingly thin. Rainey has a watch with an inbuilt compass, and after about an hour of walking, she breaks some disturbing news to the others. They are not heading back to Santa Marta, like the soldiers claimed, but are in fact that in fact, walking due south, deeper into the mountains. So we knew that we were walking directly away from civilization. I mean, they told us that they were wildcast to Santa Marta, and we're saying, but look, we're going exactly the wrong direction, like this is straight into the jungle.

So that was a bit suspicious, but they'd just say, no, no, we're going back to Santa Marta, like along the path. The eight tourists and their Colombian. captors continue south following the length of a ridge between two river valleys. As the morning wears on, Matt becomes increasingly fidgety. Whoever these men are, they're lying. Apart from the odd word of instruction, the soldiers don't speak to the tourists. They aren't particularly hostile or aggressive either. In fact, they seem quite agreeable, often smiling and rarely raising their voices. Matt watches the soldier in front of him. His eyes,

naturally drifting down to the assault rifle strapped across his back. If, indeed, they have been kidnapped, it's still hard to say for certain. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to try to build a rapport with their kidnappers. That steps forward and strikes up a conversation. I was walking towards the front with this one guy, and I would tell him things about that, oh, you know, I'm just going back to England next. week. You'd think I'm going to catch my flight. It's in six days. Nothing. I'm really looking forward to see my family again, my father, my mother, I've had a brother and a younger sister.

Nothing. Do you have any siblings? Like, when did you last see your family? Because for me, well, like, since I left seven months ago, nothing. The man ignores him, keeping his gaze fixed on the path ahead. Matt falls silent and drops back. another couple of hours pass the sun climbs higher its warm rays threading through the branches and dappling the footpath

occasionally one of the exhausted tourists ask how much further they have to walk the answer is always the same unora mass one hour more several hours later at around midday Matt tries again to get some information

about the fifth time of asking him where he were going and how long it was going to take I got from him and I don't think anyone else got this the first honest answer that anyone had had he said we're going to march three days and then the bosses will decide what to do with you and I thought that sounds all kinds of bad It's early afternoon. A light rain falls through the jungle canopy, pooling at the feet of the tourists, who sit resting on the trunk of a fallen tree. Their captors stand around, leaning on their rifles and smoking cigarettes.

The tourists have all been given a waterproof sheet to keep them dry, and Matt sits huddled under his, listening to the rain drum against the plastic. They also gave us this Choco Baby chocolate bar, it's quite small, and we ate these chocolate bars, and then they went around and picked up all the wrappers. And Erez said, oh, it's nice, that they're carefully in the environment and picked you up all the wrappers. And Mark, he was a bit more switched on, said, no, they don't want to be tracked. That looks at the faces of the others.

Surely they can't still believe that this is anything but a kidnapping. probably at the hands of some rebel militia or guerrilla group. Mark seems to be on the same page, possibly a few others. But the majority still seem willing to accept the story presented by their captors. I think there was just a lot of denial in the group and a lot of like, we'll wait and see how this turns out because they didn't need to sort of persuade us that they were the army and they were there to help us. They just needed to put enough doubt into everyone's,

minds that people were willing to say, well, you know, I'm not exactly sure what's going on here, but I'll just wait until things become clear. From that, however, his earlier conversation has left him in little doubt. When I got the information that we were going to March three days and the bosses would decide what to do with us, I immediately thought that I was recalibrating and thinking this is more serious than I had thought, and we ought to think about escaping. But what would escape even look like? They're still following a footpath along a forested ridge.

On either side of the path, a steep slope plunges down into a jungle choked ravine. Matt's best chance would probably be to try to slip off the path unnoticed, than to hide in the trees until the coast is clear. With any luck by the time the men notice he's missing, he could be long gone. He glances left and right. peering through the dense vegetation. Maybe the notion of escape is delusional, but once the idea takes hold, it's hard to shake off.

One of the guards barks an instruction of the tourists. Time to move on. They get back to their feet and continue walking. With a new sense of purpose in his stride, Matt quickly catches up to Mark and begins to tell him his plan. I think that the chance of survival in a two-person group is significantly higher than the chance of survival as a one-person group

where it just takes one thing to go wrong and that's it. You've got no redundancy. That's why I wanted Mark to come with me. Matt earnestly delivers his pitch. Mark hears him out. But the older man doesn't seem convinced. He reminds Matt that even if they did, successfully get away, there would be consequences in the form of reprisals carried out against

the others. Maybe violent ones. He couldn't take that risk. Mark also, I think, had this idea of solidarity, he thought, the way we're going to get through this as a group is to all stay together. I think he sort saw himself in this leadership role and wanted to keep everyone on the same page and wanted the whole group to act in concert and comply or resist together and had this idea would be more powerful as a unit. It's disappointing. Mark would be an ideal accomplice, but Matt remains undeterred. He approaches others mentioning his escape plan to Arez, but again Matt's offer is turned down. Erez wishes him well, but he isn't interested.

I seem to have a much higher estimation of how serious the situation we were in was compared to the other people I was talking to, who often had a sort of a wait-and-see approach. As Matt speaks with his fellow captives, it turns out none of the others think the risk of escaping is worth it. By giving us this official story that we were being marched and logged back to Santa Marta along different paths to avoid some danger in the area, they gave us an excuse to kind of believe a comforting reality that was not true.

And a lot of people would prefer to just believe that reality than to look at the evidence in front of their faces. No matter what he says, he cannot tempt anyone else to join his escape attempt. It seems that if he does go through with it, he's going to have to go it alone. The new BMO ViPorter MasterCard is your ticket to more. More perks, more points, more flights. More of all the things you want in a travel rewards card, and then some. Get your ticket to more with the new BMO ViPorter MasterCard and get up to $2,400 in value in your first 13 months.

Terms and conditions apply. visit bemo.com slash the iPorter to learn more it's about an hour later matt trudges along the footpath his rubber wellington boots squelching in the mud if he does escape and then gets injured in the jungle if he slips and breaks an arm or leg he'll be game over going solo is far from ideal maybe This scheme is too laden with risk. But as time ticks by, his urge to run away remains undimmed. I had a flight in six days.

I thought, oh, I'm going to miss this flight. And then I was supposed to start university, like the first term of Oxford. So I thought, I'm going to miss fresh as week as well. I don't want to miss fresh as week. But it's not just a desire to get home and start his life as a student. It's also a profound sense of being totally out of control. Even if it all goes horribly wrong, a decisive dash for freedom is better than doing nothing and accepting a situation. I think because I made a sort of positive decision, even if I had died, it would have been easier to reconcile with psychologically and to accept my fate because I had bought it by myself than if I had been, you know, taken hostage and then randomly shot.

having your own agency taken away from you is really frustrating and very disempowering and there's a natural to human reaction to kick against that and I thought that by escaping I retained a lot of agency in my life and made a positive decision to do something even though it was very dangerous It's about half three in the afternoon. Rain pours on the jungle, a deluge cascading through the branches and fronds, turning the ground into a muddy swamp. Matt walks near the back of the group,

listening to the squelching footsteps of the armed guard behind him. Over the last few hours, he has noticed a lapse in the soldier's close attentiveness towards their captives. They've been getting lax, longer keeping a constant eye on the tourists. They probably don't expect any of them to take their chances against the jungle. Matt is hoping to capitalize on this complacency. I waited till the rains came down because that reduced visibility as well. And we were walking along these ridges.

My first thought was, I'm going to just cut off the path, wait for everyone to have gone past, and then get back on the path and go back down the other way. Admittedly, it's not the most intricate of plans. But perhaps its strength lies in its simplicity. The guard behind him is looking down, head stooped against the driving rain. All Matt needs to do is slip off the path and wait. With any luck, no one will notice is missing until the next head count. By that time, he could be miles down the trail, home free.

Matt waits until there's a substantial distance between him and the person in front. He glances over his shoulder. The soldier is a ways back, staring at the ground as he walks, his rifle holstered by his side. Matt calms his jittery breathing and takes his chance. I waited for a time when I wasn't observed too closely and just kind of slips off the path to the side. and then I waited for all the other people to come across above. Matt crouches in the dripping wet undergrowth and waits. He holds his breath as the last soldier continues along the trail, oblivious.

A pulse of adrenaline shivers through him. So far, so good. But he can't get ahead of himself. He stays still for as long as he dares, peering up at the trail through the trees until he's sure that the rest of the group has moved off. The rain makes it difficult to see clearly, so he takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses with his t-shirt. It doesn't make much of a difference.

After a few minutes, Matt begins tentatively climbing back up the slope. He is just a few meters from the trail, when the shape of a person materializes through the rain, partially disguised by his head to toe. camouflage. Matt freezes, but it's too late. The guard looks directly at him, more puzzled than angry. He calls out, beckoning Matt back to the footpath. Matt strides briskly over, trying to look innocent. I think he and I both knew what was going on, but I felt sorry like I I slipped and come off the path and I came back all this directed me back to the path

and kept a close eye on me for a while so I thought I'm not going to try that again because if I try that again it'll be really serious. Matt feels the soldier's eyes on him as he walks it's impossible to hide his disappointment he had one chance and he blew it now that he's a flight risk he'll be under constant surveillance They continue walking for another mile or so. But then something surprising happens. The guard who caught him escaping seems to lose interest in keeping an eye on Matt. He falls back once again, letting his gaze drop to the ground.

Maybe he believed Matt's story that he just slipped off the trail. Maybe he assumes he wouldn't be reckless enough to run away twice. Whatever the case, it seems his escape is back on. But this time, Matt isn't going to risk returning to the footpath. After that first failure, I decided on a more radical plan. We had crossed this big river, because the deal of Batataka, the previous day that you weighed across. We crossed the river, we walked straight up the side of a valley on these very steep stairs. And then since then, we had been marched only uphill.

What I thought is, we've only gone uphill. If I just come down this hill, I'll still be in the catchment area, if I do but attack it, I can just follow the nearest tributary. That'll take me back to the river. Then when I get back to the river, I'll have my bearings, and I can follow it back down the path, back to where we came. Matt looks down to his right. The ridge drops away sharply into a precipitous slope,

covered in dense brush and small loose rocks. Somewhere down there is a stream, a stream he can follow back to the main river, the Rio Buritaka. Once he gets there, it'll be a matter of following the water back to civilization. He sizes up the gradient of the slope. It's practically sheer, but overgrown enough that it'll be able to slide down, hopefully in a sort of controlled fall, grabbing onto trees and roots for support, all the way to the bottom. Needless to say, it's incredibly risky.

For all he knows, there could be vertical drops along the way, waterfalls, cliffs and crags that could spell broken bones or worse. But then, the danger might be to his advantage. Even if he is spotted hurling himself off the ridge, the soldiers are hardly likely to follow him down. All he needs to do is not die in the process. And so, with a new plan, Matt waits for his next opportunity.

I just fell back a bit, looked around until there was like a decent break in the line, and then I waited till I could hear running water. I heard a little stream, some running water on my wife, and I thought, let's go. Will you make it down the ridge in one piece? Will the soldiers lay chase? Will he make it out of the jungle alive? That's all next time on real survival stories. You can listen to the second and final part of Matt's epic story right now

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