Kidnapped in Colombia: Gap Year Gone Wrong (Part 1 of 2)

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It's the dead of night, September 12, 2003, in the far north of Columbia. Somewhere deep in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, a group of armed men creep through the jungle. In the camouflage and black flag jackets, the men are almost invisible, blaming 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 of 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 and another entering the second. In the hammock nearest the door of the second one, 19-year-old Matt Scott wakes with a starkly 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 involved. 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 that thinks this is, the reality is even worse. I'd only seen up to this point, the two armed men who'd woken us and asked for our nationality. I now saw another 20. That was the moment where I was dramatically recalibrated what was going on. At that point, things had already gone very wrong. I've 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 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. For 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 Colombia. 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. Matt is 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 wander. Who are these men? And what do they want? About the fifth time I've asked him, wherever you're going, how long it was going to take, he says, 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 is 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. I didn't know it was very dangerous. I'm John Hopkins. From the noise of podcast network, this is Real Survival Stories. This 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 he wanted to catch up, he'd have to hurry. Matt arrives at his budget hostel and hurdles through the lobby. His sprints to his dorm throws his backpack onto the bed and starts stuffing everything he'll need for the trek into his day back. 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 him, however, he notices the strap on the left sandal is worn away. It flaps about, uselessly, hardly suitable for a six-day hike. This scratches his head. 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 shop fronts 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 over and every time I tell the story, it seems like it's not my fault, but you don't miss like 12 flights, so that'd be 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 straightaway, he decided that he would take a year out. It just 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, social pressure, like the dumb thing, I think. And so, off he went. Things got off to an in-or-specious 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 lurged from calamity to calamity. I ran out of cash, lost my card, and had to get cash sent to me, and had huge administrative problems that took months to resolving Carly. I got strangled and dumbed unconscious on a side street in Cusco, in Peru. I also completely ran out of money in a place called Leticia. 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 overstating visas because my exactive dysfunction often needs to be in terrible situations, and quite used to spend the unife rough in the train station or somewhere and kind of living without any reach of comfort to not complain about it. Seven months into his travels, and Matt's diary reads like a "Choose your own misadventure." Perhaps it. 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 loss of it was so that I could do at least one thing, spend at least one week that would be like stress-free, organized, like with guides and paid, ready to talk to him. So I think if anything I was looking forward to a week without any major mistakes. 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 Santa Marta bus station. Through all the ups and downs of this trip, Matt has become pretty good at rolling with a 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. Good morning America for your morning, ESPN College Game Day for your Saturday and Toy Story 5 for a cozy family movie night on Sunday. Make your day every day with Disney Plus Hulu 18 and older with the Disney Plus Hulu bundle subscription. Access these titles via Disney Plus, Terms Apply. TXU Energy. You get free nights every night all year long plus a 25% bonus toward your daytime use all summer. It's a first of its kind plan created for how Texans actually use energy. Discover how much more you could save with free nights in cool summer. TXU Energy. Energy for everything. Visit TXU.com for more information rep #100004. It's noon 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, they'd fare well to his personal escort and now he walks in a party of 10 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 with the exception of one guy called Perez. He was the first thing that he'd want to go so with the best on the way. Also in that same tour group there was Matthias. I remember a guy from Holland who was very geeky in a good chess plan. He could beat me a chess. He had a little chess ball. He could beat me blind. And we had some other people, Ronnie, a German girl. He seemed like a climber. She'd done paragliding. She's 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 eclectic 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 Decentamata is a spectacular mountain range which rises abruptly from the Colombian coast and sourds 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 but the tropics. A vast, steamy jungle that screeches howls and hisses with life. Matt drinks it all in. There are very steep valleys that come down with the jungle, so cascading out of the sign, and because it rains every day and it's very steep, it's very fast-blowing rivers everywhere. It looks so indiana-jazz. They hike for three days, waiting through rivers, crossing deep gorges and zigzagging their way up steep, verdant hillsides. Matt becomes well-equated with his companions. Errez, the talkative Israeli, Dutch, Chess, Wiz, Matise, and Rainy, the German backpacker. At night, in the campsites along the routes, 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 bugs. 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 in Flaristia 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 grinks that are completely flattened. And there would have been, I think, wooden huts there, you know, back when the civilizations were operating, but those have all gone. So there's just the earth, but 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 must city has been here for over a thousand years. It'll still be here in the morning. The tourist has 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 near as 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 littered candle with a photo hop on lighter. But I thought, "Oh, that's like the photo hop on lighter?" I'd go. 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 a dime a dozen in Colombia. At about ten o'clock, Matt says goodnight to the others and heads up to bed. Aking from the day's strenuous hike, he stretches out on his hammock and his sound asleep within minutes. It's a few hours later, just after 4am. 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 out 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 snaps into a viable mode and you try to 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 so 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 roughly 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 him. 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 together, feet together, and then they were instructed with the machete. They were pointed to lie down on these mattresses and then tied their hands to 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 had woken us and asked for our nationality. I now saw another 20 and that was the moment where I was dramatically recalibrated what was going on, thinking, "Well, this is a much bigger operation than I had originally anticipated." It surrounded by 20 men. All I should say armed with some kind of assault rifle. It's a first of its kind plan, created for how Texans actually use energy. TXU Energy for everything. 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. Twenty-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 are all in uniform, army camo and black flag jackets with a salt 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. Columbia 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 Columbia remain off-limits to tourists, this mountain range is in one of them. At least that's what the guidebooks say. But as Matt stands there, wearily 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 parts because the area was so long to say. 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 that 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 themselves. We're from the government 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 they 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, Arez, the Israeli, Reini, 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 had a different badge, but they really 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 discussed their situation in low whispers, reasoning with each other that perhaps, as unlikely as it seems, these men might be telling the truth. Maybe they really are soldiers from the Columbia Army, shepherding them through the jungle amid reports of banded activity. But as they continued down the trail, this cover story feels increasingly thin. Reini has a watch with an in-built compass, enough 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 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 wild justice at Santa Marta and we were going exactly the wrong direction. This is strange to the jungle. So that was a bit suspicious, but they just say, "No, no, we're going back to Santa Marta like along the paths." 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. Matt steps forward and strikes up a conversation. I was walking towards the front with this one guy and I would tell him things about it. "Oh, you know, I'm just going back to England next week. I think I'm going to catch my flight in six days. Nothing." I'm really looking forward to seeing my family again, my father, my mother, my brother, the younger sister, nothing. Do you have any siblings? When did you last see your family because to me it was 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, one or a mass, one hour more. Several hours later, at around mid-date, Matt tries again to get some information. About the fifth time I've asked him where he would go, how long it was going to take. I've got from him, and I don't think anyone else got this. The first honest answer that anyone had had, he said, "We go 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 jurists 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 chocolate bar, it's quite small, and made these chocolate bars, and then they went round and picked up all the wrappers. And O.S. said, "Oh, it's really nice, they're actually environment." They fished up all the wrappers, and Mark, he was a bit more switched on, and said, "No, they don't want to be tracked." Matt 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 doubts 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." For Matt, 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 recalibating 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, and 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 in a one-person group, where it just takes one thing to go on, and that's it. You got no identity. That's why I wanted Mark to come with me. Matt earnestly delivers his pitch. Mark hears a mouth. 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, out of the way we're going to get through this as a group is to all stay together. I think he sort of saw himself in this leadership work, and wanted to keep everyone on the same page, and wanted the whole group to act in concert, and comply or resist together. I've had this idea we'd be more powerful as units. It's disappointing. Mark would be an ideal accomplice, but Matt remains undeterred. He approaches others, mentioning his escape plan to a res, but again, Matt's offer is turned down. A res 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 parts 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 then 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. Disney Plus Hulu will make your day every day, blue-y for the kids, the all-new Hulu original series furious for the second they're down. Access these titles via Disney Plus Terms Apply. It's about an hour later. Matt Trudge is 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 the scheme is too late and with risk. But as time ticks by, his urge to run away remains undimmed. Like I've sliced in six days, I'm going to miss this fight and then I was supposed to start university by first time in Oxford. So I thought I'm going to miss freshers week as well. I don't want to miss freshers 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 in accepting his 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 for myself than if I had been taken hostage and randomly shot. Having your own agency taken away from you is really frustrating and very disempowering and there's a natural 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, no 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, and 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 it's strength lies in its simplicity. The guide 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 he's 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 slipped off the path to the side and then I waited for all the other people to come across the mountain. 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 like I said, I slept and fell off the path, and I came back all the way back to the path and kept a place to 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 much 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 eight-year, I decided on a more radical plan. We had cost this big river, because we were about to attack at the previous day that we made a cost. We cost a river, we walked straight up the side of a valley on these very steep stairs, and then since then we'd been marched only uphill. What I thought if we've only gone uphill, if I just come down this hill, I'll still be in the catchment area if they do a bit of attack. I can just follow the nearest tributary that will 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 Burritoca. 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 it'll be able to slide down, hopefully in a sort of controlled fall, grabbing onto trees and routes 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 boats or worse. But then the danger might lead to his advantage. Even if he is spotted hurling himself off the ridge, the soldiers are hardly like to follow and 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, but it was like a decent break in the line. And then I waited till I could hear running water. I heard a little stream running wash on my wife, and I thought, "Let's go." Will he 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 by joining Noiser Plus. Just click the banner at the top of the feed to get started. Good morning America for your morning, ESPN College Game Day for your Saturday, and Toy Story 5 for a cozy family movie night on Sunday. Make your day every day with Disney Plus Hulu, 18 and older, with the Disney Plus Hulu bundle subscription. Visit TXU.com for more information, rep #10004.