I am writing this four months after I left the Amazon. The memories of this trip will stay with me forever, and quite regrettably, so will the scars.

Friday 2nd May – my last working day. I get out of bed having not really slept. It feels like there is a stone in my eye. I have breakfast and get into my Gaia clothes for the last time, before heading to the steps to meet Lottie. With Aaron leaving on the 8am bus this morning, the two of them are having a heartfelt goodbye. I use the time to speak to Jenn and Felipe, asking if there is anything that they can do about my eye. Felipe puts on some surgical gloves and attempts to gently rinse the eye with saline solution. Unfortunately, the sensation remains. Defeated, I head outside to find Lottie waiting and the two of us walk over to Gaia’s enclosure, with three teary eyes between us.

It is a sunny morning. In most circumstances, I’d be delighted, but today, the light is causing me pain. My eye is photosensitive. After some patient waiting, we clip Gaia on and begin my final walk with her. I opted out of wearing contact lenses today. That would just be silly. Instead, I am in my glasses. I forgot how much they can steam up in high humidity. Sweat rolls off of my forehead and sticks to the lenses. I cannot wear my mosquito net down – the lack of vision induced would be too much. Instead, I cope solely hindered by the foggy screens of my glasses, wiping them every time Gaia sits to pause. We rest, as a three, by the river. This is Gaia’s favourite spot. Usually, she stares into the distance, analysing the bank across the body of water, but today, with the river still in flood and several meters higher than usual, her usual view is blocked. Instead, she sits peacefully, looking up at the trees and over towards myself and Lottie. Gaia often hisses as she walks. She can be a little jumpy and nervous of her surroundings. The truth is, having been forced out of her natural habitat at such a young age, she simply lacks confidence. The jungle is a terrifying place for her. She enjoys the comfort of being at home in her enclosure, in the space that has become her home – where she feels safe. But, over time, she has been getting braver. I am proud of her.

We finish the walk and spend some time with Gaia, before preparing some enrichment and hiding her meat parcels. Lottie leaves ahead of me, allowing me some time alone to say goodbye. I find Gaia in her management cage. I can tell that she is keen to enter the main enclosure, so I do not keep her contained for my own benefit. I open the sliding door and allow her to find her lunch. Being in no particular rush, I tidy up some of the old enrichment that had been left near the cage door, carrying it deeper into the jungle. I then find myself sitting outside the management cage, taking in a final breath from this special place. Gaia slowly trots through the tunnel and sits down besides me. This is goodbye. We share a moment together, before I stand up and begin my walk back to camp. As I approach the human trail, I turn back, and see Gaia’s eyes following me as I head down the path. I hope we meet again one day.

It’s lentils for lunch today – my favourite! A sort of Bolivian equivalent of dal, and one of the few meals with seasoning beyond salt. I eat up and chat with Jenn. She is contacting doctors in Santa Maria and Guarayos on my behalf, to see if anyone can help with the eye, which is now growing in redness. I head over to my room and remove my Gaia outfit, replacing it with Kusiy clothes. I place the old clothes in the pile for second hand goods. These will be washed and returned to Cochabamba, the park’s equivalent of a charity shop. Paul leaves his room and we get chatting. He is feeling a lot better than yesterday, but has decided that it is best to take it easy and leaves me to visit Kusiy alone.

It is a lonely walk through the swamp today, not helped by the increasing levels of photosensitivity. Right now, I am mostly shielded by the trees, but the fire break around Kusiy’s enclosure is well-maintained and there will be nothing protecting my eyes from the bright sun. I arrive and as anticipated, find myself squinting as Kusiy and I walk laps of his perimeter. He’s slow today, but we still manage seven laps – roughly one mile. We finish the session by sitting together in the shade of the trees overhanging his management cage, before saying goodbye for the last time. I walk back to camp, trudging through the swamp for the final time, with the water coming up to my waist today. I then dump my Kusiy clothes in the pile for Cochabamba and get changed into human clothes again. I have finished my work in the jungle.

Jenn advises me that the doctors in both the nearby village and the nearby town are all busy today, having start of the month meetings. This means that I will need to go to Santa Cruz, an eight hour bus ride away, to see someone. Delightful. I tuck into our Friday night dinner of pizza, trying to be decent company, despite the pain. I decide against the cafe tonight. It was meant to be a final blow out. One last hoorah and goodbye to everyone. Instead, I take myself to bed to lie down and isolate myself from everyone. Cleo checks in on me and delivers pain killers. It is funny how chaotic she can be. Life and soul of the party, but when it matters, she is very sweet, nurturing me in my time of need. I dose myself up and begin a sleepless night, the pain only increasing.

Saturday 3rd May. I had hoped to get the 2pm bus. I had it all planned out: lie in, nurturing the catastrophic hangover, visiting Luis and Lucho’s resting place, lunch, goodbyes, then see ya later. Instead, I get out of bed at 6am, exhausted from two sleepless nights, stumbling around packing hastily so that I can catch the 8am bus. About every 10 minutes, I find myself paralysed from the pain, falling to my hands and knees and closing my eyes and crying. I head into the Comedor, mostly for some light as I put the last few bits in my bags. Raul is whizzing about and working hard. Not everyone gets Saturdays off. He takes pity on me and asks if I’d like him to find a doctor in Guarayos. Crystal then joins us, drenched from the monsoon which began a couple of minutes ago. The two of them have a million things to do today, yet still find the time to see me safely on my way. French Marine and Val are up early and heading into town anyway, so Crystal organises that they get me onto the bus safely. It is agreed that I am better off going all the way to Santa Cruz and finding a real doctor for my eye. 8am approaches and we head over to the road and wait under the thatched shelter of the Fumador, slowly getting drenched by the rain. Like true heroes, Lottie and Paul then join to wish me well on my travels. They braved the early morning on their one day off and began their day soaking wet just to say goodbye. I wish that this is something that I could appreciate more in the present moment, but all I can focus on is the pain. Importantly, I know that Gaia and Kusiy are being left in loving hands. The rumbling of the rain is broken by the harsh hiss of old brakes and Val and Marine usher me onto the bus. I sit there soaking wet, shivering, closing my eyes and trying to sleep through the agony. Val and Marine get off in Guarayos, wishing me luck, as I then face the next seven hours of my life alone.

The bus ride is a blur. I close my eyes, waiting patiently for it to be over. Folks sit beside me and come and go as the journey pushes on. We stop and start at blockades and services and little old Bolivian women enter for stretches of the journey, with the hope of selling snacks. I have been unable to eat all day. The excruciating discomfort has left me with no appetite. Cleo sends regular voice notes. Her and Georgia are searching desperately for an ophthalmologist in Santa Cruz to see me out of hours. My eye is oozing now. This is a new development. With no tissues to hand, all I have is my towel, damp in my bag from the rain, to wipe away the discharge with. It feels impossible to keep it clean. I use my phone camera as a mirror to inspect the state of my eye. One lump of slime appears to stand still. It sits over my pupil blocking my vision.

It is September now. I have been blind in my right eye for four months. The doctor in Santa Cruz identified a corneal abrasion – a deep cut on the window of my eye. Quite how this happened, we will never know, but it presents itself as the sensation of a foreign body stuck under the eyelid. Unfortunately, in the time it had taken to get to her as the symptons worsened, bacteria had entered the wound resulting in a 6mm ulcer over my iris. She pescribed five different types of eye drops for me to take every two hours, including the night. Still in horrific pain and with no means of transport, she kindly drove me around Santa Cruz, collecting the obscure eye drops, before dropping me off at my AirBnB. She charged 300B for this, the eye drops and the consultation – less than £30. She even brought in a translator. As it happens, by ridiculous chance, Cleo suffered a corneal abrasion that exact evening, as a result of getting a little too close to the house cat, Ralfy, as he took a stretch and yawned. Furthermore, Raul’s phone broke in the rain, so he, Crystal and Cleo took the midnight bus to Santa Cruz.

With all of the drama and aggravation, one silver lining was getting to reunite with these three again and saying goodbye properly – still a blind mess, but not preoccupied by catastrophic pain. I saw the doctor three more times in Santa Cruz, before flying back home. After some difficulty getting onto the UK health system, I am now being seen by Moorfields Eye Hospital in London. Regrettably, things got worse before getting any better. Having initially lost three out of the five layers of my cornea, where the ulcer sits, I was told during my first appointment that the cornea had formed a hole. This was patched together with glue and a bandage contact lens, both of which are still in my eye today.

This is not how I wanted my travels to come to an end. I was robbed of a decent goodbye, but I am grateful that I got to say farewell to those who mattered most. The UK summer has been somewhat stolen from me with the inability to cycle or paddle board and the pain and discomfort that still plagues me each day, but I am making do. As it stands, the future of my vision is unclear and I have been told that I will need a transplant in order to be able to see again. So bless my little eye in all its hardships. I look in the mirror and still feel sorry for it. But I am grateful, that despite the uncertainty of its future, this year, I got to show it so much.