Welcome to the Jungle: Singles Edition

Jennifer scrolled through the listing one more time before printing it out: a brand-new eco-lodge on the banks of the Rio Negro, seven days in private cabins, a white-sand river beach, guided excursions, and sunset cruises. She laid the printout on the table and smiled.

"I’ve just spoken with the lodge," she said. "Newly opened. Thirty guests max. Perfect for our next singles edition."

Markus skimmed the itinerary as he opened his laptop.

"So everything’s confirmed?"

"Transport from Manaus, lodging, excursions, meals... and the sunset cruise."

Markus nodded. "Perfect. I’ll send the invitations this afternoon."

 ________________________________________________

Twenty days later, thirty strangers landed in Manaus, Brazil.

They came from eleven countries: British, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Dutch, Swedish, Polish, Belgian, and a small North American contingent with two Americans and two Canadians. Some had met briefly during layovers. Others were only just exchanging names while waiting for their luggage. None of them knew the rest. What they all shared was English as a common language... and the fact that every single one of them was single.

Their destination was an exclusive eco-lodge deep in the Brazilian Amazon, on the banks of the Rio Negro, where they’d spend seven days surrounded by nature. According to the organizers, it might just be the perfect place to meet someone special.

The moment they stepped out of the airport, the heat hit them like a wall.

A Frenchwoman began fanning herself with her passport. An Englishman shrugged off his jacket at once. An Italian unbuttoned the top of his shirt and looked personally offended by the atmosphere.

A few meters from the entrance, a brand-new bus waited with “Premium Jungle Experience” printed on its side. The doors hissed open, and a man in his thirties stepped down wearing a green T-shirt so fresh it still held the fold marks from the package, khaki shorts, and sunglasses dangling from his neck.

"Good morning, everyone! Welcome to Brazil. My name’s João, and I’ll be your guide for the next seven days."

Several passengers greeted him. A young woman stepped down behind him wearing the same spotless T-shirt. The group fell silent for a beat.

João didn’t even turn his head. He was used to that reaction whenever people met his cousin. If it weren’t for her, he suspected he wouldn’t have gotten the job that morning. They had both been hired less than half an hour earlier through a temp agency. He knew the jungle the way any city-born guide might: mostly from brochures and confidence.

"And this is Luana, my colleague."

Luana gave a small smile and took her place by the bus door, handing out group T-shirts while silently trying to remember the very brief instructions she’d been given before being rushed to the airport.

"How hot is it?" a Canadian woman asked.

Luana glanced at her watch. "Thirty-eight."

A few disbelieving looks followed.

"Thirty-eight?"

João nodded, calm as ever. "In the shade."

That sent more than one passenger hurrying toward the bus.

Once the doors shut and the air conditioning started to hum, the entire group exhaled at once.

"Bless the AC," someone murmured from the back.

Inside, the bus was surprisingly luxurious: wide panoramic windows, reclining seats, chilled water, fruit bags, and a printed itinerary on every headrest.

"This is starting off well," a young Belgian woman said, sinking into her seat.

João waited until everyone was settled, then picked up the microphone.

"We’ve got about four hours ahead of us. At first, we’ll pass small towns and a few farms, then head straight into the jungle. If you have questions, ask me. If you don’t... ask me anyway."

Laughter moved down the aisle.

Outside, the paved road slowly gave way to thick vegetation. Buildings disappeared. Trees rose higher and denser, until the world outside the windows became one uninterrupted wall of green.

João pointed out features as they passed, doing his best to remember the brochure in his pocket.

"Rio Negro flood season," he announced. "Pink river dolphins. Piranhas. Countless insect species."

"Not everything’s out to get you," he added. "Although around here, we do say: what doesn’t bite, stings."

The passengers laughed. No one suspected that their “expert guide” was reading directly from the folded brochure hidden in his pocket.

At the back of the bus, an Italian man discreetly produced a bottle from his bag and showed it to two Spaniards sitting nearby. They exchanged a quick smile. A British man, after a moment’s hesitation, produced a modest bottle of something clear and a small bag of peanuts. Soon, an improvised international snack corner appeared on the rear tables: cheese, cured meat, a little wine, and a handful of nuts.

"Quick question," the Italian said to Luana with a charming smile. "Could you keep this in the fridge for later? It’s better cold."

"Of course," Luana replied, though she wasn’t entirely sure how the service module worked. She opened the fridge and slid the bottle inside anyway.

"Any ice?" one of the Spaniards asked.

"There should be some. Please help yourselves."

So the back of the bus turned into a quiet happy hour while João continued his commentary at the microphone.

"Next question — who’s planning to swim in the Rio Negro?"

Nearly everyone raised a hand.

"Excellent choice," he said. "Just try not to look like lunch. And one more important thing: if we stop anywhere, please don’t wander off. It’s surprisingly easy to lose your bearings out here after ten minutes among hundred-foot trees."

He said the last part with complete sincerity. He himself had never ventured more than a hundred feet into the actual jungle.

At the front, the driver, Curitinho, was staring at his phone. The signal bars on his navigation app had dropped from three to one.

Ahead of them, the paved road had become mud and packed earth, hemmed in on both sides by a green wall of towering trees.

A few minutes later, the atmosphere inside the bus began to shift.

A Frenchwoman started fanning herself with the itinerary. An Englishman wiped his forehead with his sleeve. A Canadian woman undid another button on her blouse.

"It’s getting warm in here," a German man said, looking up at the ceiling vents.

"Is it just me, or is there less air coming out?" asked someone from the front.

João paused mid-sentence and glanced at Luana. She reached up and tested a vent.

"I’d say definitely less."

The guide’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

"Curitinho, can you check it?"

The driver pressed the climate controls a few times without taking his eyes off the track. He tried again, then shook his head.

At that exact moment, a sharp beep came from his phone. The map vanished, replaced by a gray screen.

No Internet connection.

A gust of hot, damp air sighed through the ceiling vents.

Curitinho caught João’s eye in the mirror, then looked back at the dead climate system and the useless phone.

"I think the AC just died," he said in Portuguese, "and I’ve got no signal."

João leaned toward him, smiling at the passengers while speaking quietly through clenched teeth.

"What do you mean, no signal? But you remember the way, right?"

Curitinho laughed, adjusted his sunglasses, and pressed a little harder on the gas as the bus rattled over the dirt.

"Relax, João. I remember it perfectly. Four turns, a right at the big tree, and we’re there."

João stared out the window at the endless jungle. They’d been deep inside it for over two hours.

"Curitinho... every tree out here is big."

"Details," the driver said with a wink. "You keep the passengers entertained."

The heat grew unbearable. Sweat shone on foreheads. The air thickened. One by one, people began shifting in their seats as if movement itself might cool them.

Then a young Dutchman, who had been huffing for several minutes, reached up and unlatched the panoramic window.

"We can open the windows, right?" he asked.

João saw it in the mirror.

"Wait—"

Too late.

A fast, furry shadow shot from the foliage. A capuchin monkey launched through the open window, bounced off the Dutchman’s headrest, and shrieked.

It did not waste a second. It sprang off the Englishman’s head, ricocheted off one of the Spaniards’ shoulders, and landed squarely in the middle of the international snack spread.

The Italian lunged for his bottle. The monkey grabbed a slice of cured meat with one paw, a handful of peanuts with the other, and scrambled up onto the luggage rack, devouring everything at impressive speed.

Passengers surged into the aisle. João stumbled. Curitinho lurched. In the confusion, several bodies slammed against the steering wheel.

The bus swerved hard and crashed into the trunk of a massive, centuries-old tree.

The impact was violent, but brief. The bus groaned, crumpled, and came to a stop.

Somewhere in the back, the capuchin escaped through the open window with a packet of cookies in its paws.

Inside, no one was hurt. But thirty pale faces stared out through the cracked windshield.

Curitinho pulled himself free from the pile, straightened his sunglasses, and discovered one lens bent at an alarming angle.

João buried his face in his hands.

The engine was dead. The bus stood under the midday sun. Within minutes, the inside had become an oven.

Sweat ran down every face. The heat became oppressive.

A young Polish woman began to breathe too fast, on the edge of a panic attack.

"She needs water!" shouted the Canadian woman. "Someone get her cold water, now!"

Luana rushed to the fridge. The bottles inside were only lukewarm. The ice had nearly melted.

"There’s no cold water," she said, sounding horrified.

In the middle of the chaos, the Italian offered what he had left. He held out the chilled bottle from the fridge.

"Here," he said gently. "Drink a little. It’s cold."

The Polish woman took a few desperate swallows. Warmth spread through her chest. Her eyes widened, then softened. She took a steadying breath and smiled.

"Much better," she murmured.

The Italian exhaled, relieved.

João tried calling the resort for a rescue vehicle. He tapped the call button.

No service.

He raised his arm like a human antenna. Nothing.

"No signal," he said quietly.

"Well?" asked the Englishman, arms crossed. "What do the people at the resort say?"

João swallowed his panic and forced a smile.

The German man was outraged.

"This is not in the itinerary," he insisted. "This is definitely not in the itinerary."

"I love nature!" the Polish woman announced, clapping happily. Several passengers laughed despite themselves.

"Okay, everyone stay as calm as possible," João said, standing. "Emergency plan. We walk."

Luana looked at him as if he had lost his mind, but she kept her professional smile.

The passengers erupted.

"On foot?!" the Frenchwoman cried, staring in horror at her sandals. "We’re in the jungle! It’s a thousand degrees out there!"

"We’ll melt in five minutes," the Canadian said, wiping sweat from her brow.

The Englishman refused to remove his white crew socks. So did the German.

"Luggage," João said firmly. "Everyone, get your bags. Change into swimwear. It will be easier in this heat."

Without a second thought, the thirty singles descended on the baggage compartment. Shorts flew out. Jeans. Linen dresses. Nightgowns.

The Englishman and the German kept their white socks on like a solemn act of national pride.

In three minutes, the dirt track had become an improvised runway: thirty singles from eleven countries, now in bikinis, swim trunks, and flip-flops.

They took only what mattered for the walk ahead — except for the Italian, who tucked the bottle under one arm while the Polish woman clung to the other, now laughing instead of panicking.

"Let’s move," Curitinho said, taking the lead.

They walked. The swimwear helped with the heat, but good spirits lasted exactly five minutes. Then the mosquitoes arrived — a whole swarm, delighted by so much bare skin.

"They’re eating us alive!" the Englishman shouted, slapping at the air.

João spotted a mud puddle beside the trail.

"The mud," he said. "If we cover ourselves in dried mud, the mosquitoes won’t be able to bite through it."

He stepped into the puddle and rubbed mud onto his arms. No one hesitated. Thirty people slid to the trail edge and began smearing mud over their skin, laughing at the absurdity of it.

The Italian drew dark lines across a Swedish woman’s cheekbones. The Polish woman dabbed mud onto anyone who stood still long enough.

The midday sun baked the clay dry within minutes. The damp coating hardened into a stiff shell.

"My arm won’t bend," an American muttered, trying to flex his elbow.

"It’s pulling at my face," the Canadian complained, unable to change expression.

Reduced to a tribe of mud-covered statues in swimwear and socks, they trudged on for exactly five more minutes.

Then, rounding a massive tree, the path came to an abrupt end.

Ahead stood a pristine entrance lined with bamboo torches and manicured lawns. In the center, a polished wooden sign in gold letters announced:

WELCOME TO PREMIUM JUNGLE EXPERIENCE
Eco-Lodge & Luxury Resort
(Just 50 meters from the main trail)

No one said a word.

Beyond the gardens, a spectacular infinity pool glittered in the sun while waiters in immaculate white uniforms wandered between loungers carrying ice-cold cocktails topped with tiny paper umbrellas.

João stopped, looked back at the mud-covered survivors, and smiled from ear to ear.

"The Extreme Amazon Survival Experience," he said, "is included."

He gestured toward the entrance.

"Welcome."