PART TWO
DUCK SOUP
April
rains come to the Orinoco Plains. Gargantuan, crackling storms blot the sky,
stinging drops blowing horizontally like crop dusters across the llanos. Shedding
earthtones, the land glistens clean and wet, like an emerald. Swollen rivers
spill across deep grass and into forests where fishes spawn. New butterflies,
gorged on the nectar of countless blooms, taunt birds with their iridescent
wings. It is a place primeval, vast savannas wild with sinuous gallery forests
and moriche (Mauritia minor) palm swamps.
The torrents cease in November, and the forests are again walkable. The grass, seared to its roots by the sun, leaves its tawny legacy rustling in the breeze. Guahibos, Piapocos, Cuivas, Sálivas, and Amarizamas, their tribal wanderings long impeded by the lush growth, set fire to the parched savannas. The conflagration will roar for days across the land, snapping like a machine gun as it converts impenetrable tangle into Pleistocene highway. Woe betide any creature too slow to reach the forest. Surging rivers dwindle into silty streams, angling through canyons of stark beaches and mud walls. Dripping sideneck turtles (Podocnemis unifilis and Peltocephalus dumerilianus) haul themselves ashore to nest. The crowded water is slippery with fishes. It's a peerless place for those with a fondness for "things that go bump in the night."
During the 1970's in Colombia, I spent these dry seasons searching for populations of the endangered Orinoco crocodile (Crocodylus intermedius). For weeks my universe was a river...my world a dugout. A sooty bundle on a sagging bed of sticks in the bottom of the boat contained all of my possessions. The nylon bag stuffed under the thwart amidship held my bedroom suite, a hammock, above the swill. Nicks and scrapes on the wooden canoe were my library, every nuance etched in my mind like chapters in a novel. My schedule followed the rhythms of light: dawn, dusk, and silver moon.
I perched in the bow, the days
an endless, sun-baked panorama of river and wildlife, each bend filled with
surprise: capybaras (Hydrochaeris hydrochaeris) plunging into the waves; a
Brazilian tapir's head (Tapirus terrestris), dark as it crossed the river;
the moist breath of breaching gray dolphins (Sotalia fluviatilis); curious
giant river otters (Pteronura brasiliensis), bobbing and snorting; or six-foot
jabiru storks (Ephippiorhynchus mycteria) strutting like stiff-legged soldiers
through shimmering heat on the beach. My nights were the white-ice stab of
a lantern beam in velvety darkness, seeking the telltale glow of the crocodile's
eye. 
Social life was a bit slow, my lone companion being a hired hand who helped with chores and sculled the canoe during night hunts. My custom was to pitch camp about a half hour before dusk, allowing time to catch a massive peacock bass (Cichla orinocensis), or some plate-sized piranha (Pygocentrus scapularis, affectionately known to locals as "donkey castrators") for dinner. I pretended this was a task, but my assistant knew better. The fishing was so sensational it spoiled me. For variety, setting longlines at night would hook catfish, a daunting proposition considering there were species (Paulicea luetkeni, Brachyplatystoma filamentosa) that topped 150 pounds and could flip the dugout effortlessly. That's assuming one could land the beast without suffering rope burn. Breakfast was leftovers, lunch was cold oatmeal, and snacks were dried fishmeat. Hot weather and no refrigeration limited most culinary efforts, but our meals made up in bulk what they lacked in interest. One year I hired an opinionated fellow, fiftyish and balding, whose name was Arjemiro. As we made our way slowly down the Tomo River, scanning for crocs, he would pepper me with questions and comments about politics, life in the USA, life in Colombia, and anything else that drew his attention. The post-Watergate, international press had been bad enough to make folks take a dim view of gringo scientists in remote places. Trying to be patient and tactfully honest, I endured all manner of query. Curiosity ultimately eroded his initial wariness and, as weeks wore on, Arjemiro became my self-anointed protector and advisor.
But for my tendency to grab every bizarre creature we encountered, I believe Arjemiro would have relegated me to the ranks of the helpless. As it was, I hauled in enough snakes to keep him befuddled and anxious. Embarrassed by the sensationalism, but equally determined to catch snakes, I downplayed my activities. A terrified assistant was not on my shopping list. His fear was capped at the cost of my dignity: murmuring something about sanitariums, Arjemiro concluded I was crazy.
One morning, stiff with pre-dawn chill, I guided the canoe into deep water and nudged the bow through swirling mist into an oxbow lake. At least the gnats (Simulidae) were still asleep. The air seemed alive, redolent with scents of dampness, birth and decay. Muscovy ducks (Cairina moschata), goose-sized shadows in the dim light, were resting in some water lettuce (Pistia striatotes). Four weeks had elapsed since setting out. We had camped, paddled, and eaten nothing but fish. My only firearm was a vintage Remington .22, and I was loathe to hunt with such a small gun. But faced with a mutinous assistant and dreaming of a new flavor, ANY new flavor, I used it. Hefting the duck actually made me drool in anticipation.
This
was a special, make that momentous, occasion...a noon banquet was in order.
When I returned, Arjemiro had broken camp, so we ate a FISH breakfast while
drifting downstream. Aside from the footprints of nomadic Indians on a beach,
we had seen not a single human sign in a month. The duck's presence, rather
than the early hour, cast a pall of silence over us. I saw myself in a fine
restaurant, duck l'orange and pheasant-under-glass before me. Arjemiro just
stared at the bird like a frog contemplating a fly. Our minds, in perfect
unison, were on lunch.
Llanos rivers have split personalities. One side, high-walled and acquisitive, devours swaths of savanna. The other, generous and sloping, deposits vast, alluvial beaches that sparkle in equatorial whiteness. Rounding a sharp bend on the selfish side of the river, we eased the canoe past a chunky cascade of clay. This was the place to look for bizarre matamata turtles (Chelus fimbriatus), gaudy stingrays (Potamotrygon schroederi), and the coral watersnake (Hydrodynastes bicinctus). The latter, a formidable reptile bedecked with pink rings, was practically unknown, so I was especially curious to learn what it ate and how it lived.
Instead, as we glided through the clear, shallow water, I spied a northern anaconda (Eunectes murinus gigas) stretched along the bottom. These immense snakes have "star" quality, having been, for centuries, the object of both veneration and abhorrence in the animistic traditions of indigenous peoples. According to Sáliva Indians tradition, the god Púru created their race after the great flood. This angered an adversary who sent a huge anaconda to devour and destroy the nations of the Orinoco. Killed by a bolt from the Lightning Spirit (Púru's son), the snake decomposed and from each worm feeding on its corpse arose a Kari'ña (Carib) Indian and his woman. Kari'ña warriors became this snake's legacy, fecund, cruel and inhumane. With singular fierceness, they routed the Sáliva and drove them from their ancestral lands into the llanos, where they live today.
The Warrau, another tribe displaced by the Kari'ña, believe an anaconda impregnated one of their women as she bathed in a stream, against tribal traditions. Her brother became suspicious because she would regularly return from the forest with no axe, yet laden with a delicious nut only obtainable by chopping a huge balata tree (Sapotaceae). He followed her and observed the anaconda crawl into the treetop, change into a man, and shake the branches so that the nuts fell to the ground for her. When he had finished, the man again became the snake and crawled away. The following day, the worried brother and his companions watched the same thing happen, only this time they attacked the reptile and chopped it into thousands of tiny pieces.
The grieving woman gathered the fragments and buried them in the leaflitter of the forest floor. Each piece grew into a Kari'ña, and they became numerous over the years. The two tribes coexisted peaceably, each customarily sending a child bearing gifts of food for the other tribe. When the woman was very old, she instructed the Warrau to kill the visiting Kari'ña child to avenge the death of her snake lover. This triggered the blood feud that resulted in the flight of the Warrau. Both tribes subscribe to this story of origin.
The Makiritare celebrate Watunna, their creation cycle, and its oral tradition includes mythical, monstrous, two-headed harpy eagles (Harpia harpyja) they call Dinoshi. These can only be repulsed by using curare, a potent poison they believe to have been invented by Kudene, an anaconda man. They also speak of gigantic, supernatural anacondas called Mawadi, that live with their mistress, Huiio, beneath the rapids. These snakes cause floods, overturn canoes, and kidnap women. The Kari'ña consider the anaconda to be Chief of the Water Spirits, taking to the sky and becoming a rainbow at will. Whenever I see the glinting pastels of a rainbow on the river, I think of an anaconda, supple and iridescent, extended to its fullest. Even today, this snake looms large in our minds, and it has recently been the subject of a sensationalistic Hollywood film. No one is neutral about anacondas.
Giant snakes are often under-represented in museum collections owing to difficulties of preparation and transport. This 8-footer was the first one we had encountered that was less than 15 feet in length, so I decided to collect it. I reached into the water, grabbed the unsuspecting creature by the neck, and hauled it into the boat. Arjemiro, horrified, clambered onto the prow, as far from me as he could get and still remain dry.
The distasteful histrionics of "anaconda wrestlers" notwithstanding, I confess that the strength of these snakes must be sampled to be appreciated. The argument as to which, the reticulated python (Python reticulatus) or the anaconda, is the longest snake in the world will never be settled. But there can be no question that, in terms of brute force, anacondas are the great white sharks of constrictors. My captive checked my blood pressure immediately, wrapping himself tightly about my wrist and forearm. Things were going, as they say, swimmingly, until he began to deliberately and inexorably extract his head from my grasp.
More than once my youthful attempts at imitating Raymond L. Ditmars had been rudely interrupted because I had taken the slow, button-eyed visage of pet anacondas as a sign of docility. But this day I had duck-on-the-brain and no desire to again experience the slashing staccato of bites, so I told Arjemiro to help me locate the snake's tail. The force of his refusal exceeded my expectations. A turn as the world's first living pin cushion was upon me, so I abandoned all pretense of diplomacy and spewed vile imprecations until the poor man was startled into submission. There's a lot to love about the Spanish language, but the savagely efficient cursing may be my favorite part. The tail was located, and the snake unwound and bagged without further incident, but Arjemiro's face was a mask of fear and humiliation. We paddled in silence.
It's a curious thing that the dry season, a time of dusty days and twinkling nights, can produce a darkly forbidding midday thunderstorm like the one which suddenly materialized ahead of us. The sun vanished and a stiff, cool breeze rattled the moriche palms. If we hurried, there might be time to pitch camp and this meant a thatched roof over our unprotected equipment. Arjemiro's machete whirled like a propeller as he hacked poles and platanillo (Thalia geniculata) leaves for the roof. I dragged our gear up to the campsite in the forest. The duck was plucked and singed clean in a blaze of dry leaves. I sent Arjemiro to wash and quarter the meat by the river while I prepared to cook. Our tiny camp stove saved time when preparing meals. We had barely enough fuel for the trip, and the cantankerous stove required a systematic touch, so I reserved this task for myself despite Arjemiro's pleas.
An excellent way to stretch a meal under field conditions is to make soup and seal the hot leftovers in a lidded cooking vessel. Food inside would sometimes last through two days or more of re-heating without spoiling. My thoughts strayed again to the duck as I primed the stove. I recalled with pleasure fishing heart, liver, and gizzard from the Thanksgiving gravy, and smiled in anticipation of doing the same with our bird. The stove hissed powerfully, so I scooped up the soup pot and headed for the river to fill it with water.
Arjemiro and I, the duck, the river, and the rain collided dramatically. Shouting to be heard through frigid sheets of water, I filled the pot. Hailstones made kamikaze dives into the hot river. We flung ourselves, thoroughly chilled, beneath the roof. I rationed precious condiments into the water and set it to boil. It was time for a duck check. One has only to imagine the difficulty of preparing sand-free hamburgers on the beach to appreciate our need for care. Early in the trip I had griped about the grit, and I noticed with pride that Arjemiro had meticulously cleansed the heart-shaped paddle before placing the washed portions of duck on it. It looked as though both bird and assistant would pass inspection with flying colors.
Bull-headedness and a learning curve approaching flatness carried me years before I realized that herpetological investigation in the tropics is less about animals and techniques than it is about people. The inevitable clash of two cultures makes for a humorous, if frustrating, adjunct to fieldwork. Eating habits are a focal point, and it helps to be blessed with gastronomic curiosity and an intrepid stomach. It seems that when biologists meet in the tropics, much time is spent discussing the often bizarre and unappetizing meals they've encountered (not to mention their spectacular effects on the digestive system).
Neatly laid out before me were
the breast, wings, back, thighs, and drumsticks. Placed with equal care were
the beak, trachea, lungs, kidneys, neck, and feet. I felt cold, and it wasn't
the rain. When I asked for the liver, heart, and gizzard, Arjemiro directed
me to a sandy, bloody clump on the ground. "Good bait for piranha," he exclaimed.
Tenderly, I cradled the mess in my hands, to no avail. "Those were the best
parts," I replied through clenched teeth. Arjemiro shot me the now familiar
"you're crazy" look, and explained that all civilized folk knew these things
were not edible. "But who wants to eat the beak, trachea, lungs, kidneys,
neck, and feet?" I retorted. Summoning the tone of a parent trying to educate
his child, he said, "Why, they are delicious and those other parts are only
fishbait." 
Cold, hungry, and disgusted, I opted to cook the soup and sulk. We were so chilled we sat back- to-back, shaking in silence as we slurped the scalding liquid. The magic potion worked wonders, and moods began to lift as the rain stopped. I thought back over the day, about how dependably Arjemiro had performed and how unfairly I had treated him. Suddenly he blurted, "I'm sorry I made you angry when you captured the anaconda." Turning to face him I answered, "It is I who owe you an apology, Arjemiro." He smiled as I scooped the duck's beak from my soup, raised it slowly to my mouth, and ate it.
Copyright 1997 Canyonlands Publishing Group, L.C.
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