sld0015 Early one morning I was quietly paddling my dugout canoe through one of the tributaries to the Amazon when I came across a man on the bank aiming a blowgun towards the upper branches of a tall tree. I invited this colorful, feather-clad man to join me in my boat.

His name was Carachupa. He was a hunter. Just as a hunter with a gun would carry ammunition on a belt or in a bag, Carachupa carried wooden darts and poison. Cotton that was wrapped around the after-end of the dart was carried in a small, brightly painted gourd hanging from his belt. I took a lesson using this five-foot long jungle tool of survival. A score for me was hitting the foot wide tree at 20 paces.

If the tributaries were like empty country back roads – quiet, flat, mellow, the Amazon was a freeway. The water was turbulent. The waves and traffic got me a bit anxious. Often, large sections of the 20-foot high banks would slide into the river.

It was hot, humid, and sweaty and the paddle was getting heavy. At one point paddling back into the calm tributaries, I started singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Immediately Carachupa had words for the same tune. There we were paddling, singing and sharing this space though movement and melody.

My destination this day was the Amazon River.  Carachupa was my paddling partner.  Although we passed several small villages there we didn’t come across many dugout travelers until we reached the main Amazon. We did stop to watch a woman wash clothes in water collected in the bottom of her dugout. At the other end a little boy grabbed a fish from the pool of water in the boat. On closer inspection when it opened its mouth – nothing but teeth.  It was a pirana. That’s a jungle toy for a jungle boy.

david-smith-adventures-amazon-nativeIf the tributaries were like empty country back roads – quiet, flat, mellow, the Amazon was a freeway.  The water was turbulent.  The waves and traffic got me a bit anxious.  Often, large sections of the 20-foot high banks would slide into the river.
It was hot, humid, and sweaty and the paddle was getting heavy.  At one point paddling back into the calm tributaries, I started singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Immediately Carachupa had words for the same tune.  There we were paddling, singing and sharing this space though movement and melody.