For a few blissful days the lake provided a swimming hole and fishing, the forest unending exploration. The men would return to camp not long after sunrise each morning slinging the birds they’d hunted with blowguns to be cut up for bait and a fishing marathon would ensue. Having witnessed the power of my floodlight the men asked to use it every night to enhance their hunting prospects. Problem was most of the large game was on the far side of the river, which hopefully meant the jaguars were also. 

Sitting on the rock slab shore after dark the men were thoroughly entertained by my attempts to photograph bats swooping in low to catch insects attracted by the campfire and the blinding pulse of my double-flash macro equipment used for small nocturnal subjects.

Once back in Ayuchuco we felt we had somehow completed an initiation of sorts, a bridging of two cultures fated to meet only after the most intrepid of attempts. And so it should remain. Aside from the rare need for emergency medical care, I couldn’t think of anything the modern world had to offer the Paoria. Quite the contrary. We departed sated with an experience that did nothing short of altering our world perspective.

Just the opposite was awaiting us in the accursed eastern town of Tucapita, far on the other side of the country, two more plane rides and difficult drive away. The plan was simple enough; charter a decent sized boat to explore the Orinoco delta with, a scheme we had high hopes for, a scheme destined for failure from the outset following frustrating leads, rebuffing extortionate cost proposals and dealing with the most uncouth and unaccommodating locals we had ever met anywhere.

Three days of this abuse wore us down to the point where we just wanted the hell out of Venezuela. This place was just too hit-or-miss for what little time we had left. Finally, on the dismal towns outskirts as we pushed our stuck car out of the mud for the third time, I promised Babe that if we ever did get back to Maquieta I’d book us on the first plane out to whatever near by Caribbean island it happened to be going to.

As a result of that impulsive gesture, we wasted what could only be called four laughable days on Aruba, a textbook example of mindless tourism, a place where they had no qualms admitting to the fact that every palm tree on the island had been imported. Only its rugged, undeveloped windward coast provided a tolerable escape from the clueless twits who somehow had the impression this aseptic sandbar represented the exotic, the alluring. I bet none of ‘em had ever run naked on a beach in their entire lives. And after seeing some of them in spandex, I hoped to God they weren’t planning to soon.

Costa Rica now beckoned. But getting there wasn’t going to be straight forward either - the gods were having far too many laughs at our expense for it to be that easy. Attempting to get airborne from the first stopover in Columbia put us to another test. When the first take-off attempt was aborted half-way down the runway I assumed a herd of goats had run out in front of the plane or something. We got a little uneasy when the second attempt also failed, and outright alarmed after the third. The plane was then pulled back in to the gate, where we were served free mixed drinks – certainly not standard practice for cut-rate carriers.

We got the distinct impression someone was trying to dull our senses. When the fourth attempt proved futile we were brought back and let off inside the terminal, there to wander listlessly waiting for some announcement. I made the mistake of peering out at the plane only to find some kid far too young to have graduated from any airplane mechanics correspondence school working on one of the engines fetching implements from a tool kit smaller than the one I use for my cameras.

How we finally got airborne on the fifth try we’ll never know, but while the rest of the passengers offered up a resounding ovation, Babe and I held each other in silent terror waiting for some paper clip repair to work itself loose sealing our fate. 

The delay somehow still allowed us to pick up a 4WD in San Jose in time to hit the road following a slowly descending sun over the mountains of western Costa Rica all the way to its northern border. At last we had a semblance of control over our destiny, and the horizons were looking profoundly promising. We found a spectacular bay we had all to ourselves, and set up the hammocks with time left to begin dinner with an hour of daylight to spare.

This was more like it: rebel-infested mountains of Nicaragua to the north, shark-infested waters to the west, and a mosquito-infested campsite to call home. If solitude is your destination it just doesn’t get any better than that. The one unfortunate experience was my netting coming undone in the middle of the night. When I woke up the next morning my forehead looked like a relief map of Nepal.

Following a tortuous stream bed the next morning, bottoming out the suspension along the way, Babe sighted a large, sinister slow moving shape contrasting with the verdant background.

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