Living Alone With the Amazon Waorani Tribe for a Week.

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My body was aching from the day's bumpy journey and three weeks of lugging around my 50 lb backpack. I collapsed in a heap, sprawled on the bottom of the boat toward the bow, staring skyward at the big jungle rainclouds. At the other end of the dugout canoe were my new friends Anna, Mario and their three year old daughter Flora. I checked in and out of sleep, we floated silently for five hours or so down the little Shiripuno River on the way to their village in the Ecuadorian Amazon. The stunning tree canopy choked the sky above our boat; humidity was thick in the air. Mario used a long pole to move us past snags in the river, little Flora was crying and breastfeeding, mother and baby stealing shy glances at the funny white man who had come into their world. Brightly colored parrots flew above the treetops in pairs, huge insects zipped by inches from my face. I snapped out of my drowsiness quickly as Mario yelled to me to help him steer the boat past some debris. Our conversation was completely in Spanish and using motions. He spoke no English; I need to be painfully clear that my Spanish is 3 grade level at best. Somehow, we did just fine. As we worked together, I was scared silly by a huge 20 foot anaconda curled up on the riverbank. I shivered with fear, the snake didn’t notice us. After hundreds of bends in the river, we smacked into the riverbank, scrambled out of the dugout and pulled the boat into a little protected cove. I struggled up the muddy hill and entered the world of Waorani tribe. Meanwhile, some village children who were down by the river were howling with laughter as I slipped with my pack and fell face down in the muck. Everything was muddy, me, my pack and body. I looked up at the kids, threw my hands in the air, laughed out loud and said "pobrecito gringo", bad Spanish for “poor white guy”. Mario and Anna beckoned with a smile and a wave; I followed them up a little path to their village. Word traveled quickly that a visitor had arrived, within minutes I was surrounded by about 30 people. They looked at me, touched my hair. The children would giggle then run off shyly, sneak back quickly to peek at me again. A few adventure travelers had stopped briefly at this village, I was told that none had everi stayed overnight as I was about to do for the next ten days. I felt alive deep in my core. As I walked into the village, chickens squawked, little dogs yapped at me and a few of the tribal elders started to emerge. It was later in the afternoon, maybe 4 or so. The smell of late afternoon cooking fires and the noises that come with meal preparation were strong in the air. I said a quick hello to some people close to me, then ducked into the refuge of Anna and Mario’s little hut, dropped my heavy pack and helped them unload some things from the journey: rice, cooking fuel, a bad motor, and some candies for kids and paper for their little school.

The structure we were in was two little huts attached together, built strongly with a frame of jungle hardwood logs. Placed over the roof and walls were palm frawns, many layers lashed together provided shelter from the lashing tropical rains that seemed to come out of nowhere sometimes. Inside the main dwelling, there were wood platforms for sleeping and eating on built maybe 3 feet off the ground, covered with split, flexible bamboo. Supplies and food were kept off the ground on other rustic wood shelves; the best attempt possible was made to protect things from an army of insects and ants that seemed to go wherever they wanted to. The structure just next to the main hut was a bit smaller, with a fire pit in the center, a small whole in the ceiling that allowed the smoke to attempt to escape. Crude benches lined the perimeter inside, cooking utensils hung on the walls. The walls were completely black and sooty from years of smoky fires and family meal preparation. Anna, who was about 36 years old, smiled and told me this is where I would sleep. I’m not sure if she wanted to give me some privacy or wanted to keep me out of the family sleeping hut. Whatever the reason, I was grateful. I excitedly took my new mosquitero (jungle hammock) out of its sleeve, grabbed a few pieces of rope I had brought, cut them to size, and in no time was all settled in, feeling quite welcomed and at home. Mario, 26 years old, had married Anna 8 years ago after her former husband was killed in a feud with another village. Flora was their child together; she was about 3 years old. They emerged from their side of the hut; Flora came closer to me and seemed to trust me after out time together all day on the boat. At Mario’s urging, she came and sat down directly next to me. Mario was feeling a little sick; he was to get quite sick over the next week. He told me he thought he had a small case of dengue fever, a mosquito born condition that many travelers have called “bone break fever” because it feels as if every bone in your body is broken. As Mario sickened over the next week, I helped Anna with food prep, cleanup, fire making, fishing and watching little Flora. What an experience!

This first night, Mario wasn’t very sick and was still in a jolly mood. They stoked up the fire, pulled out a large black pot, threw in some manioc (a jungle sweet potato) and long stringy greens I wasn’t familiar with. The greens seemed to grow wild nearby in large quantities. Anna would often leave and be back with armfuls quickly. She stirred the mixture, tossed in some roots that had a slightly spicy flavor. It smelled great and looked like a big stew. After 20 minutes or so, she pulled out some hand carved wooden bowls, served me up a big helping and pointed to the walls. I didn’t understand. I looked through the smoke across the hut and Mario was taking meat off a cooked animal carcass that hung from a corner of the room. What is it? I asked him. He answered “mono”. “Oh my God” I thought to myself. That is cooked monkey and I am about to eat it because it is being given with love and it is what’s for dinner. My hosts will be insulted if I say no to their hospitality. In one of those moments of my life that I will never forget, I took a few chunks on my plate, said thank, took a deep breath and had a bite. Welcome to the jungle! After the initial shock, it wasn’t that bad. Later I was to learn that hunting and eating monkeys is one of the main activities of the Waorani people, every hut has multiple cooked monkey arms hanging from the walls. The meat is essential to these people and they eat it every day. We were hungry after our day on the river and ate second helpings of everything. Anna proudly brought a delicious jungle fruit I had never tried that tasted a bit like passion fruit. After eating, the Waorani usually lie down and relax on the benches in the eating room, talking calmly and settling into the evening. The rhythms of the jungle village are determined more than anything by sunup and sundown. There might be a little reading in the evening with a candle, but generally people go to sleep not long after dinner, certainly by 9 PM. By the way, being on the Equator, the sun rises and sets exactly the same time all year, about 6 o clock. We rubbed off the dinner plates using a cloth and some river water from a bucket.

The family smiled, said goodnight and went into their hut. I got out my flashlight and journal and reflected on a remarkable day. After 30 minutes of writing, I was about to try out my new jungle hammock for the first time. This mosquitero was fantastic looking, the bottom hammock part made of red colored nylon, a solid base to lie on. Connected to the hammock and forming a protected chamber, the top was a canopy of mosquito netting. Nylon string allowed the top part of the hammock to be stretched upward to create a lovely protected place to sleep, get fresh air and be protected from the bugs. It would work quite well over the next ten days, providing a little place to call my own on the road in this intense and wonderful place. I unzipped the hammock; climbed in, curled up in my sheet I had brought along and took a deep breath. The sounds of the jungle were all around, noises deafening and fantastic, a symphony to put me to sleep. And sleep came soon, I was exhausted. There are those I met that say that eating monkey for the first time creates very interesting dreaming patterns. I can say without hesitation that this is true. My dreams this first night were filled with action, warmly comforting at the same time.

I hate roosters! All over the world, they act exactly the same, speaking the same language so god awfully early in the morning. They start squawking about 4:30 AM, why I will never know. Couldn’t they wait until about six? Confession, I have thrown rocks at roosters in the morning. But wait, I was here in the jungle with this peaceful tribe. I couldn’t hurt their roosters. I pulled a towel on my ears and somehow went back to sleep for awhile. I woke up about 6 with the daylight.

My jungle family was up, getting breakfast ready. Mario had gotten sicker in the night; I could hear him coughing in his room. Anna took water into him; I wouldn’t see much of him for the next week. Little Flora, as are most kids in the jungle, was fairly independent already. Her mother trusted her to walk around the village, it seemed like she would take off for long periods of time by herself. It is so important to point out that kids are raised in community, wandering in and out of each other’s huts, parents looking after whatever child is in their space. So, we had some breakfast of bananas and fish, a little bit of bread that Anna had cooked in a pan over the fire earlier when I was asleep. It was great! I told her that I was aware that Mario was sick and that I wasn’t here to be a burden to her but wanted to help her with anything I could. She took me seriously and put me to work doing all kinds of things for the next week. It eventually built her respect for me and made my experience so much richer than it might have been otherwise.

It was a nice sunny morning, the time of year December. There seemed to be a little bit of breeze off the river, a nice pleasant day to wake up to. After helping clean the breakfast dishes in a little hidden stream not far from our hut, Anna said that it was time for me to meet the chief and some of the elders of the village. We walked up the path closer to the center; this community has about 12 huts and 60 people. It is placed in an idyllic location, the main center a quarter mile up from the river. There is a small building used as a school, teachers come in from upriver time to time to teach the children Spanish and outside subjects. The village elders, of course, are responsible for teaching the kids the native Wao language and the ways of the forest. Fruit trees and cultivated sweet potatoes can be seen near each hut, the village is surrounded by deep jungle.

After a short stroll, we came across a group of men working in a little field clearing brush. One of them was the chief. He looked to be about 45 and had a kind face well worn from many years in the jungle. I sat down with him; he took my hands, held them as he looked in my eyes. After searching my face in silence for what seemed like an eternity, he said in Wao language words that were translated by Anna to mean “you have a good heart and are welcome here”. I gave him a few gifts, some tobacco, chocolates and a shirt for him. He patted me on the shoulder and said that we would hunt together soon for monkeys. He was focused on his work and wanted to get back to it. It was clear that he liked to set a good example, just because you are chief doesn’t mean you don’t work. He once told me while laughing that being chief is way more work because you do all of the same manual labor and also serve as counselor, decision maker and fight referee. I asked if I could help and said that I would like to work while I was there. He put a scythe in my hands and pointed to a big patch of brush. I worked for a couple hours until my hands had blisters and I couldn’t any more. He laughed when he saw the blisters, called me a tenderfoot, broke open a vine (like an aloe) and spread some salve on my hand lovingly. I walked down the path to find Anna; she was washing clothes in the little stream. I took off my smelly clothes, grabbed a few nasty ones from my travels and started washing with her and another village lady. They didn’t seem to be using any soap, just dipping the clothes in the water and rubbing them on rocks. The clothes were a combination of items garnered by trading handicrafts in town and clothes that they had made with cloth and items from the jungle. I asked Anna where I could take a little bath, she showed me a secluded place where I stripped down to my bare skin and soaked in clear waters just beneath a cool spring. While I was there, three other women came down to the same area, stripped down and did the same thing not far from me. They seemed to have no inhibition about being naked around a foreigner but at the same time weren’t at all interested in engaging me. They were just going about their life like they always did. Refreshed, at around 4 PM, I headed up to the hut.

I watched Flora while Anna got the fire ready for dinner: she had a few friends over. There must have been seven kids of different ages in the hut. The kids were getting much more comfortable with me, already starting to poke me and feel my muscles, laughing all the while. They seemed very affectionate, cuddling close to me when I showed them pictures of my home and family. They all were quite willing to hang out with me and stay for dinner, I’m not sure Anna was thrilled with having to feed all of them. We ate, then she scurried the kids home. She took food in to Mario; she invited me to visit him near his bed. He was a hurting unit, definitely in pain. I asked him if it would be better for the family if I wasn’t there and not a burden. He groaned in pain but said that he didn’t want to hear another work about me leaving.

Anna put Flora to sleep, she and I went back into the cooking room and five other ladies from the village had come over. They motioned for me to sit down; one of them produced a giant bowl of a white, porridge looking soup. They all sat around the bowl, it was clear that this was an important ceremony for them and they fully expected me to be part of it. They poured some into an earthen cup, handed it to me in the dim light, there eyes all lighting up and looking directly at me. I was to drink, I had no bloody idea what it was. I drank, then they all drank, multiple times, the cup used and reused and passed in a circle. The soup didn’t have much of a taste but I started getting a feeling of being slightly drunk and very relaxed. The women began to sing songs, some singing and some chanting. One older woman got up, put her hands on my head and chanted in Wao language. I have no idea to this day what she said, but I felt a bolt of energy shoot through my head followed by complete relaxation. What an amazing moment. I later found out that what I shared with the women, and was to almost every night I was in the village, was called chicha. It is made as a group by women who take the manioc (sweet potato) in their mouths, chew it up and all together spit in with globs of saliva into a huge bowl. This chichi production is quite spiritual and they take it very seriously, chanting and singing as they do it, not engaging in any casual conversation but very focused. They believe, and I believe now, that they imbue this mixture with spiritual powers that are collectively realized by the person who drinks it. I learned later that men who are leaving on hunting parties drink large quantities of chichi and need nothing else but water on the journey.



Let me back up and explain how I met these fine jungle folks. I was traveling around the wonderful country of Ecuador for a month.

The time had come for me to set my jungle plan in motion, the next day I was up and on the search for my mosquitero hammock and supplies for the journey. I found the perfect one; I was so happy and hopped on a bus for the long ride to the other side of the mountains. Everything on the east side of the Andes in Ecuador is the Amazon Basin. All of the waterfalls and rivers flow down to the jungle, eventually joining the Napo River, the major river in Ecuadorian Amazonia. The Napo joins the Maranon from Peru to form the actual Amazon River. I settled in for a long bumpy, windy ride down the mountains. Remember that Quito is 7000 ft in elevation. We passed huge waterfalls, beautiful scenery and rivers. Where the west side of the Andes are more arid, the eastern side becomes lush quickly, the benefit of lots of rain and water. My ten hour journey ended in the frontier town of Coca, set on the banks of the large, muddy Napo River. It isn’t a dirty river, only muddy because of all the sediment and rain. I got a little room, hung out by the huge slow moving river and had a beer.

Coca is a strange place, a small village that became quite a bit bigger (20,000 now) with the discovery of oil in this part of Ecuador 20 years ago. As you can imagine, the struggle that has evolved is between multinational oil companies and indigenous rights. It is a brave struggle fought all over the world, the forces and consequences once oil is found are immense. As oil royalties rolled in, power hungry bureaucrats in Ecuador spent money like a first world nation, ending up severely in debt and beholden to the World bank and IMF. The World Bank, as it has often done around the world, flexed its muscles and made the Ecuadorian government open up more area to the oil companies. The government accomplished this by a sinister immigration scheme that brought Westside campesinos to the jungle to carve out land, settle on it. The unstated goal was to dilute the culture of the native tribes and gain access to their land through bribery and intermarriage. In many cases it worked, oil companies have carted off huge profits, leaving environmental and cultural devastation in their wake. Some of the native villages have kept their center and cultural ways, mostly ones in hard to reach areas.

Coca the town is one of those Wild West towns, a place filled with drunken oil workers in karaoke bars, whore houses, rowdy bars and tribal people who come into town from the forest to trade. It is a colorful bustling river town, commerce coming into and out of town constantly. The markets are filled with cheap goods from China, trinkets and amulets from the jungle people. The police chief told me that people are shot at times in the streets. Add to the mix narcotraficantes from the neighboring country of Columbia, smugglers and operators, unscrupulous tour guides, and you have a very interesting place.

I went out with an open mind my first night in town, ended up getting drunk, singing karaoke and having a blast with a rowdy fun group of oil workers.

The next morning I awoke with parrots flying over my room, bought a pair of rubber jungle boots, some parasite medicine and salve to keep leeches off my legs. I packed up my water filter, got some gift items for my journey. I did all this before 9 in the morning with a mean hangover. I talked to a jungle trip operator, it was quickly clear that I wanted something way more intense and authentic than he had to offer. I wandered down by the river, met a native woman who was swinging in a hammock and took a deep breath. I cleared my head, invited good things to come my way and within an hour met Mario and Anna on the street, Waorani tribes people in town to trade. I told them I wanted to come to their village with them; we left one hour later in the back of an old pickup truck. We crossed a bridge south over the Napo River, they hid me under a tarp because I didn’t have a permit. We drove two hours down a rutted dirt road, stopped by a bridge, got out and loaded up the 30’ dugout canoe we would float down the river on. We were off!

The Waorani tribe was “discovered” in the 1950s, living in harmony in the jungle. Well, not completely in harmony. They were pretty vicious, war parties at times killing people in each other’s villages. They quickly did away with a few missionaries who tried to communicate with them. Eventually, more contacts were made, some relationships developed. It seems religion is present in some Waorani villages, the village I was in adheres mostly to animist belief systems. They seemed to have customs and cultures that were quite traditional and strong. The older members of the tribe seemed to speak only the indigenous language. The tribe had allowed and encouraged the younger people to learn Spanish and travel to town, realizing that this would ultimately be on benefit to the tribe. I mentioned that the tribe allowed a teacher to come in and give lessons in the village. Some of the villages on the Shiripuno River and deep in the jungle had allowed jungle guides to have overnight rest places in their villages, they place I went had consciously avoided that. They had watch the culture in the other places get diluted with arguments over the money that had arrived, my village made the decision together to limit visits to periodic hour long stops. There were only a few guides who plied these rivers; most of them avoided this little village because of the lack of overnight options. There was one unscrupulous guide, who had been stopping for a few years for short day visits, taking food sometimes by threat and never giving anything back to the village. While I was there, the guide stopped by and the men of my village ran out to the river and threatened him with knives and blow darts; told him that he was evil and not to come back. He yelled back, cursed at them and threatened retribution. It was a wild scene.

Now let’s get back to my magical time in the village. I last left you and had drunk the magical spit juice, remember? The ladies talked with me for awhile, two of them in sort of a trancelike state. Eventually, with a brilliant full moon overhead, the circle broke up and people wandered back to their huts. Anna gave me a big hug, thanked me for the help I had been giving her and I was off to my sleeping chamber hammock. Sometime later that night (have I mentioned my weak bladder?), the chicha made its way through me and I had to pee really badly. I took my little flashlight outside and almost stepped on a small snake with a very recognizable red stripe on its body. I described it the next morning and the villagers looked at me in horror. They called it an “eke” snake and said that it is highly poisonous. They were surprised that the snake had been in the village and told me to be more careful.

The next day, with Mario still quite sick, Anna woke me up early to go fishing. Mario would normally have done this but with him down it fell on her. We gathered the lines, hooks and little pieces of manioc as bait, walked across the well-worn paths of the village. She was such a strong woman, walking very focused with her child in her arms going to take care of her family. She looked beautiful in the morning mist, a picture of family strength and dedication. We walked about a mile downriver to a little place where the river eddied and calmed around a river bend. I asked her what we were fishing for, she said piranha. I realized that I had been swimming in rivers that were filled with piranha. I screamed inside, wondering when I would have the skin gnawed off my bones. She laughed and told me that the piranhas in this part of the Amazon are small, not aggressive at all and make excellent eating. So, we fished for about four hours, each with a line while Flora played nearly with some nuts from a tree. At the end of the four hours, the score was me – 0 fish, Anna 18 fish. Amazing, we threw them in a bucket and headed for home. On the way back, we stopped in the hut of one of the village elders and medicine man. We stayed there for an hour, Anna bringing them some fish and introducing me to someone who she was clearly good friends with. They showed me lots herbs, little fruits to crack open and get dye for the face out. They showed me tinctures made with alcohol and compounds from the forest, all communication in Wao language that Anna translated to Spanish. I haven’t mentioned it but many of the Waorani elders have big holes in the bottoms of their ears that have been stretched open by big amulets hanging down from them. Many of the people in the village go barefoot; many of the older ones wear just a loincloth around their waist. While we were at the medicine man’s hut, two other ladies stopped by to show me necklaces they had made with wood and berries from the forest. Another woman was sitting in the corner weaving hammocks for trading at market. After some time, we made our way back to the hut. I heard some noise; the whole tribe was down playing and bathing together in the river. They beckoned for me to come join them; I was being accepted by them. This feeling was amazing. I saw the kids diving from the riverbank, I ran to do the same. Halfway in the air, they screamed loudly. I hit the water in a ball; I guess I had dove very close to a big submerged rock that could have bashed in my brains. So glad I was safe, the little kids dove under the water pecking at my legs like little fishes. We all played, splashed, and had a great time. I sat on the riverbank with a few of the men and told them how honored I felt to be here. They thanked me for coming and told me I would always be welcome in their village.

Back to my story! At the river after my near miss diving into the river, a few of the men engaged me. We sat on the bank, watched the river go by. Life looks pretty good from this vantage point. They work enough provide shelter and food for their families, the rest of the time is spent in community or relaxing. They know the jungle and its plants and animals like the back of their hands. And now they were going to make sure I got to see it in a very real way. They told me they wanted to take me for a walk to prepare me for the hunt we would be on tomorrow. Four men walked me on little paths about a kilometer from the village. I was totally unprepared; they had a series of drills prepared for me. They had me swing on a vine and then climb a large tree. They had me walk very quietly, judging me based on the noise I made. They asked me to listen carefully to the noises of the forest. They showed me their blow dart guns that they used, explained that the poison came from a jungle plant. They let me hold the blow dart, I felt like I had stepped back in time. I was a little overwhelmed but tried to follow along with what they were asking of me. The told me that we would hunt the next day, just for the full day. Usually, I was told, they go out for multiple days on hunting parties. They were going to make an exception for me and just go out for one day.

So we walked back to the village silently. My heart was thumping all the way, blown away by what was happening. The men seemed lighthearted on the walk back, it was getting dark outside. I was beckoned to the hut of one of the men, sat with six guys around a fire. A woman appeared and gave us three cups each of chicha, words, song and chants followed to bless us and wish us success the next day. I was told that we would have nothing else to eat or drink before the hunt. They were obviously coddling me with the one day hunt, but were quite serious about the chicha. It appeared to be a time-honored ritual that there would be no deviation from. I said goodnight and went back to me hut. I resisted the strong urge to eat one of my energy bars, thought some medicine man would see me do it in his dreams.

I knew the call would come early in the morning and it did at about 4AM. I was jostled gently out of sleep by about 8 men from the tribe, ranging in age from 15 to about 40. They broke open a yellow pod that had little berries inside. They rubbed the berries on my face; they made some vivid red streaks. I never quite understood why they did this but they all had the same streaks on their faces so I offered no resistance. They walked single file up and through the village, completely silent. They said nothing to me but it was clear that they wanted me at the back of the line. They had blow dart guns and cloth bags strapped over their shoulders. A few of them were carrying hand-fashioned spears. We left the edge of the village and headed into the forest in the very dim morning light. We walked what seemed like an hour, about there was rustling in the trees. The hunters wouldn’t speak but a few words all day, communicated with sounds and hand signals. They proved to be experts at mimicking noises of animals and luring them closer to us.

Above us was a family of monkeys. They were too far out of reach so we walked on. After some time more, we stopped in our tracks and two men went ahead. They came back after ten minutes with a large parrot (macaw) that they had shot with the blowgun. It was a large bird; the gun had punctured a hole near the neck. The feathers were beautiful, I was sad for a minute. I realized that these birds are very much food. Just because they are colorful and valued as pets in Western culture doesn’t mean that they mean anything more to the Waorani than another bird like a chicken does.

Later in the day, the men shot two monkeys; climbing up in the trees to retrieve them. We took a little baby alive with us. I learned that when mothers are shot the little babies come and live in the village as pets, never to be used as food. The men let me practice with the blow dart gun, my aim was way off and they laughed. They weren’t going to miss the chance for food and never let me shoot the gun when the possibilities were real for dinner. We didn’t stop except for brief moments, I felt strong with the chicha in my system. Maybe it was psychosomatic, maybe it was real. I felt alive, full of energy and calm. Later in the day, in the distance, there was a loud noise; something was running through the brush. Four of the men left the trail and headed up a little ridge. I could see what was happening. The men were trying to flush out whatever the animal was and lead it to the other hunters with the group I was in. The men who went up to the ridge communicated with clicking sounds and other noises. No one would translate for me and they had shown impatience with me asking questions. I would have to see for myself what happened. Suddenly, there was a very loud crash in the brush 200 meters away and the animal sounded like it was headed toward us. It sounded large; I was scared to death and huddled behind the other hunters. Two of them stepped off to the side; everyone was dead still as the animal came closer. Suddenly the hunters lunged with their spears; the animal squealed in pain and ran off through the brush. The hunters gave chase; I still had no idea what kind of animal it was. I was beckoned, we all ran through the brush after the animal. For some reason, it seemed important that all of us go. We cornered the animal, badly injured, probably 15 minutes later. It was a wild boar, not huge but pretty big. Two other men drove spears into to the back of the pig; it struggled and dropped to the ground. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen. I felt scared, elated; sad for the pig but thrilled to be in my group of hunters. The hunters all sat down, seemed to say a blessing of thanks and later I learned that this was to thank the boar for his gift and respect his spirit. The oldest man made a slit in the skin of the boar, got some blood on his hand and rubbed it on his body. My memory is hazy, I felt like I was slipping in and out of consciousness. I remember that each of the men rubbed blood on their bodies and some was rubbed on me. The wild boar was strapped up with rope and strong limbs cut from a nearby tree. Two men carried each side and we started to walk back the way we came. A parrot, two monkeys and a pig. I guess they felt that was success with a gringo along. My senses were racing, it was more than I ever imagined would happen. Some of the men flashed wide grins at me, we were in this together. We walked an hour back to the village; they announced our return with whooping sounds when we got close. They dropped the meat in front of the chief’s hut, three women emerged and immediately got to work skinning, cutting up and cooking the meat. The men who had hunted went down to the river, washed off and lay down in their hammocks for a nap. I, of course, couldn’t sleep, my heart was racing. I was in a bit of shock, I really couldn’t believe what I had been through and that my hunting partners were all napping peacefully. I went down to the river, breathed deeply and after some time came back to my senses. I knew there would be a party that night. I rested for a bit in my hammock. After a while, a cooked monkey arm showed up, given to my hut as our spoils from the hunt. I felt a little like a provider.

Mario the husband was feeling a little better and really wanted to be a part of the night’s festivities. There was a buzz in the village about the white being part of the successful hunt. They were telling stories, I later learned, about how scared I looked when the pig was coming. I don’t know how they had the ability to look at me while the pig was grunting and charging toward us, they didn’t miss a thing. I walked with Anna and Flora up to an outdoor fire pit; Mario was with us though not looking so well. Slowly over the next 15 minutes everyone from the tribe showed up. There were some elders I hadn’t seen, they all greeted me and were quite warm. People giggled at me, I am sure everyone knew by now about my jungle antics. This was a party. Out came the chicha at first, I was starting to get semi-used to this strange concoction. There was no way I could refuse it. It was gross if I thought about it, I tried not to. Lots of food came forward, boiled manioc with salt, fish from the river that had been fried in precious cooking oil, cookies that someone had traded for in town. They seemed very proud to be eating the things from town with me; they wanted to connect our two worlds. Then, a big platter came out with the succulent cooked pig. I never saw it cooked but it was clear that it had been done in some kind of a hole in the ground, I think similar to a way a luau pig is cooked. It was delicious. We had lots of those greens, washed it down with some kind of pure grain liquor and then the dancing started. Three or four boys were drumming on old well-used drums. The women and men alternated dancing around the fire. They were thanking their spirits for the successful hunt, describing the hunt in dance and words, welcoming me in their village and calling for a safe journey for me when it was time to go. I watched with wonder, very pleased and amazed to be a part of all of this. After hours, I was exhausted and happy to crawl into my canopy jungle hammock. The memories are strong still.

The next few days passed, I lazed about the village, getting to know the kids better. Each day we would swim at the river, climb a tree them after. They had fashioned a perch in this tree near the river, it was great to soak in the sun and watch the current go by. There were many times I thought I could stay in this place forever. Butterflies fluttered by, the air smelled so fresh. It seemed a land of plenty though I know life is never as easy as it looks. I shared some thing as gifts with the kids, little bouncing balls and playing cards. I made it clear to them that every gift was to be shared by all of them. I made them look me in the eye and promise. They did. One of my last evenings in the village, a wonderful thing took place. I brought out some drawing paper and markers, the kids didn’t seem to have any of this in the village. By candlelight, they began to draw things from their world. After some time, each of them began to bring their creations to me to see. I must first say that some of them were pretty good artists, some more accomplished than others. They were very into it; soon all of the kids were drawing, sharing pictures with each other while giggling. Their drawings were of the forest, the river, jaguars, pigs, fish, huts, dugout canoes, of course the things from their world. One child drew a picture of a small car; perhaps he had seen one on a trip upriver. The pictures were amazing, some with people fighting animals, some with just peaceful village life; some with snakes. They showed them to their parents, the parents seemed pleased. The eyes of the kids sparkled.

Then one day, it was time to go. With a heavy heart, I packed up my things, rolled up my hammock and said goodbye. The whole tribe came down to the river to see me off, I was really sad, it seemed like I had been here for so long. Travel always seems like it lasts so long compared to normal life, each day has 24 hours of complete liberty for things to develop, no responsibilities. They knew that a boat with a motor from farther down river was going to come by, it soon did. I got in, waved goodbye and headed back upriver.

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