Returning to the village semi-defrocked he had at least remained the unchallenged ancestral spirit invoker, as we were to find out. And now Babe’s jade green eyes were further compromising any of his remaining powers, just as they had with me years earlier.

Phil formally requested use of the tribes’ river, which was essentially everything beyond this point - a right fully recognized by the Venezuelan government. This was easily arranged, the chief assured us. We had the only outboard motor on the entire Paraguasa, and could venture wherever we wanted provided we brought their boatman, navigator, interpreter (for Phil’s limited Paoria) and, to our great delight, medicine man. The sacks of rice and flour were unloaded closing the deal.

At one point a large felled tree crossing the river with questionable clearance underneath its massive trunk knocked my treasured hat right off my head and over the side. Seeing my consternation medicine man insisted we perform a difficult reverse maneuver to retrieve it, to my profound gratitude. I’ve lost count of how many rivers throughout the worlds’ tropics that hat has since been baptized in. By twilight we must have covered over forty convoluted kilometers. Coming to a section of high banks a lone hut came into view just beyond its eroded edge.

The motor was cut leaving a vacuum of silence soon back-filled with the sounds of the surrounding forest. Phil and medicine man hopped out as I trailed close behind. Phil withdrew a small flashlight that he pointed into the hut’s small dark entrance with marginal effect, and was impressed when I produced the floodlight we never travel without. They scoured the huts’ floor for snakes, oblivious to the red tarantulas and virtual carpet of roaches.

“They’ll keep the cucaracha population in check” he advised referring to the big arachnids. May be, but they hadn’t put a dent in it so far. When Babe came in to set up our hammocks I aimed the light up so as not to reveal our other ‘roommates’ and saved scanning the floor until after she had settled in. As usual she was a real trooper about it. Phil confidently advised that vampire bats “shouldn’t be much of a problem” either, as if this assurance somehow equated to a room upgrade. We spent the next twenty minutes checking every square inch of our mosquito netting for holes. 

A little before dinner I became intrigued if not a bit cavalier about the industrious wasps that had begun lapping up the drippings from the juice bottle I was swigging from, but when the men caught sight of this a panic ensued. Apparently enough stings from this particular species have been known to cause prolonged loss of consciousness that some victims never come out of. Trying not to choke on what was still in my throat I gently sat the container down and backed away as if from a hair-trigger bomb.

Not long after Babe and I retired I decided I couldn’t sleep and got up to rejoin the guys around the fire. About then medicine man produced a small crude pipe and a bag of dark powder, initiating a tangible anticipation among the tribesmen. The herb was jopa, a local locoweed probably from some as-yet unclassified epiphyte, and used only for special occasions. As it was passed around Phil and I were initially excluded. Apparently the guys had to attain a higher state before they could determine if we were up to it, but eventually relented. The stuff lit me up like a firefly. I hazily recall leaving my body and doing a few figure eights over the campfire. 

About the time I landed medicine man began chanting to my absolute fascination. Semi-repetitious incantations peppered with subtle changes thrown in occasionally, it was not quite a song, but more melodious than mere words. Distinct, guttural, haunting calls, as if to attract the attention of someone or something just outside our periphery. The other men remained in a motionless trance and never joined in - ancestral spirit invocation was his domain exclusively, notwithstanding the stigma surrounding his amputated leg. I sat there taking in the solemn faces lit by the glowing fire making a momentary connection with some centuries-old ritual. Watching the proceedings I found myself hoping that the ruinous incursions of the modern world never work their way into this one.

His performance went on and on, hour after hour, almost until dawn with only brief lulls when he would stoke up again on the jopa pipe then resume where he had left off. I couldn’t tell if he ever did make contact with his forebears, and out of respect, dared not ask. Eventually I grew sleepy and, with one of the greatest days of my life behind me, made my way in to my hammock to the crunch of roaches under foot loud enough to wake up Babe. She wasn’t exactly in dreamland what with the inculcations emanating from just outside. In a rare show of concern she confessed the next morning she thought for sure that before the night was over I’d end up face down in the river while the men took unspeakable liberties with her. 

At sun up we continued further upstream. At one stretch our navigator pointed out where a fellow tribesmen had recently been chased into the river by a jaguar, so we beached the boat to investigate. Phil got all excited with the prospect of collecting on the photo bounty I’d promised back at the ranch and insisted my camera be at the ready. But after looking the scene over more rational minds prevailed. The animals’ unstoppable ferocity was so disturbingly evident by the deep, massive paw prints that the thought of exposing ourselves here suddenly seemed like the incredibly reckless notion it was.

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