The Bridge in the Jungle (Jungle Novels)
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The locale is "huts by the river," a nameless Indian settlement deep in the Mexican bush, too small to appear on any map. Just as a party that has attracted many Indians from neighboring settlements is about to begin, death marches silently in. A small boy has disappeared. As the intimation of tragedy spreads among the people gathered in the jungle clearing, they unite, first to find the lost boy and then to console the grieving mother. The Bridge in the Jungle, regarded by many as B. Traven's finest novel, is a tale of how a simple, desperately poor people come together in the face of death. Traven never allows an iota of sentimentality to enter his story, but the reader finishes the book with renewed faith in the courage and dignity of human beings. "B. Traven is coming to be recognized as one of the narrative masters of the twentieth century."―New York Times Book Review. "Great storytellers often arise like Judaic just men to exemplify and rehearse the truth for their generation. The elusive B. Traven was such a man."―Book World.
the afternoon when he came over to the wife to buy one centavito's worth of green chile.' 'Yes, that's right. I sent him over to get chile. That was long ago. He has been in the house since then twenty times or more. I'll catch him, never mind.' Sleigh looked around as uninterestedly as the pump-master did when he said: 'I reckon he was here chasing other boys. Perhaps he wasn't. Well, the fact is I haven't noticed him, what with so many brats about.' 'Never mind, caballeros, never mind at
has found its final destination. A long-drawn-out groan comes from the crowd as if from one mouth. A hundred heavy sighs fill the air and almost drown out the million voices of the jungle. Many men and women seem covered with thick pearly sweat, while the sweat runs in streams down the faces and bodies of the others. No one bothers to wipe it off. Here and there whispered words float through the night. The board begins softly to dance as if impatient. It seems that it wants to be relieved of
that river? ' He grinned at me. 'All the water you have drunk since you came here was from the river. You don't expect me to boil the water first or, as you would call it, deseenfaict it before we drink it? Don't make me laugh.' 'You know pretty well what I'm talking about. I'm not referring to the water I drank yesterday or today. I'm talking of the water in which only a few hours ago and only a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards from here that kid was drowned.' 'And what of it? Was that
on his feet, especially since they themselves were no longer very sure of their faculties. The mother walked beside the pump-master woman, on whose right arm she was hanging. She still wore her sea-green gauze dress and apparently she did not know it. Aside from her week-day rags she had nothing else to wear on such a great occasion. The dress was streaked with blood and mud. It had many holes in it and was ripped wide open at various places. The flowers had fallen off, but the safety pins by
how to press the right button at the right time. They are not hypocrites and they will do nothing which does not come out of their sane hearts. True children of the jungle, they call everything by its right name and give back to nature what belongs to nature. And so these admirable men are playing once more the great, immortal funeral march of mankind, 'Taintgonna,' I frankly admit that I could embrace them. While they are playing the song of songs with enthusiasm and fervour, youngsters are