The pit viper was an inch from Pip Stewart’s skin when Ness Knight saw it. Juvenile. Coiled. Motionless against the bark where Pip had just sat down. One strike and the expedition would have ended there — three weeks upriver, no medevac, no antivenom within a day’s paddle. Ness didn’t move. She waited until Pip shifted, then pointed. The snake uncoiled and slipped into the canopy. They didn’t talk about it for an hour.
This was the Essequibo River in Guyana, the third-largest river in South America and one almost no one outside the country can pronounce. Ness, Pip, and Laura Bingham had come to paddle it from source to sea — a world first. But first, they had to find the source. And for that, they needed the Waiwai.
The Waiwai are an indigenous group who live in the pristine southern rainforests of Guyana, far beyond road or river access for most of the year. They know the jungle the way most people know their own street. When the three British women arrived, the Waiwai warriors agreed to take them upstream, towards the mountains where the river begins. What followed wasn’t just an expedition. It was an education.
Jungle toddlers.
We were essentially jungle toddlers compared to them.
— Ness Knight
The Waiwai taught them everything. How to forage. Which plants held water. Which insects meant rain. How to read animal tracks in mud and scat on the trail. The women watched, imitated, stayed quiet. They learned that survival in the rainforest isn’t about dominating the environment — it’s about listening to it.
By the time they reached the source and turned downstream, Ness had earned something unexpected. The Waiwai named her their first female warrior. Not an honorary title. A name. An acknowledgment that she had moved through their world with the right kind of attention.
The descent that followed was four hundred kilometres of uncharted river, tangled with fallen trees, punctuated by rapids no one had run before. The jungle pressed in from both banks. At night, the darkness was absolute. The sounds were not.
What doesn’t kill you.
The snake wasn’t the only close call. Ness developed a severe infection in her foot that swelled until she couldn’t fit it into her boot. The pain made paddling almost impossible, but stopping wasn’t an option. Pip contracted leishmaniasis — a flesh-eating parasite that would later require chemotherapy to treat. They kept moving.
The river itself was unpredictable. Submerged logs. Hydraulics that could flip a canoe. Currents that changed daily depending on rain upstream. They portaged where they had to, paddled when they could, and slept in hammocks strung between trees that dripped all night.
But the deeper threat wasn’t the wildlife or the water. It was what they saw along the riverbanks as they moved closer to the coast. Illegal logging camps. Erosion from mining operations. Scars in the forest where heavy machinery had torn through. The pristine jungle they’d known upriver gave way to devastation. Ness describes it as heart-wrenching — not because it was surprising, but because it was so preventable.
In this conversation.
We go into the mechanics of how the team found the river’s unmarked source, what it takes to earn trust with an indigenous community who’ve seen outsiders come and go, and the specific moment Ness realised she was in over her head. We hear about the wildlife encounters that didn’t make the highlight reel — the insects, the infections, the quiet terror of night sounds you can’t identify. Ness talks about her documentary work on the illicit rhino horn trade, why she’s planning to undergo anti-poaching training in southern Africa, and what she’s learned about the rangers who do that work with almost no support. We also hear her thoughts on team dynamics versus solo expeditions, and why she believes the hardest part of any adventure is simply getting to the start line.
Call to adventure.
Book the flight before you have the funding. Enrol in the course before you feel ready. Make one irreversible commitment to the thing you’ve been planning in your head for months. Ness’s advice is blunt: remove the possibility of a plan B. The hardest part of any expedition isn’t the river or the jungle or the logistics. It’s getting to the start line. Once you’re there, momentum takes over. You’ll figure it out. But only if you actually go.
Pay it forward.
Anti-poaching rangers in southern Africa are doing some of the toughest work on the planet — long patrols, brutal conditions, minimal resources. Instead of donating to a faceless fund, find a specific unit and send them boots. Military-grade clothing. Durable gear. These teams are often surviving by foraging while protecting wildlife from organised poaching operations. A pair of decent boots can change how effectively someone can do their job. Google a ranger unit. Find out what they need. Send it.
About Ness.
Ness Knight is the first female warrior named by the Waiwai tribe of Guyana. She’s paddled rivers most people can’t find on a map, worked on long-form investigative documentaries about wildlife crime, and is currently training to embed with anti-poaching units in Africa. She’s undertaken both solo and team expeditions, and believes strongly that the right team can take you further than you’d ever get alone. She’s based in the UK when she’s not in a rainforest.
The Essequibo starts as a trickle in the mountains and grows into something you can’t see across. Somewhere in the middle of that transformation, Ness Knight stopped being a visitor and became something the Waiwai recognised. A warrior. Not because she conquered the jungle, but because she learned to move through it the way they do. Press play.
