At Play in the Fields of the Warao
Fear is not jumping off a waterfall. Fear is not swimming in shark infested waters. Fear is being pulled along at 120 km/hr on a dangerous road in a blinding tropical storm, without windscreen wipers, when a single brake will result in massive rear-end and almost certain damage to all occupants within. There was good reason to tighten my sphincter because Jungle Chris, the kind of guy tough guys want to be, had white knuckles on the wheel and crazed animal fear in his eyes. We drove like this for an hour. All I could think about was that dying on a Venezuelan highway seemed somehow beneath me. Of course, the clouds parted just as quickly as they stormed, a brilliant sun burst forth, we finally had some vision out the front window, and the guys in front decided to take us right to the bridge where we would meet our boat. J.P would stay behind to sort the car out, we would load up the kayaks, the motorboat, and finally, this time I mean it, head into the Delta.
Three days later. Red Army Karl must have spiked the drinks, because if I didn’t see the photos, I wouldn’t believe we dived into piranha-infested waters at sunset to swim with the pink dolphins. Yet there it is on tape - us in the water, and a few metres away, a rare pink dolphin leaps into the air. Memories of that night at the Lodge are blurry. I played with a tucan, a macaw. I see a Palestinian flag, news clippings above the bar mentioning the Hizbollah. The lodge is owned by two Palestinian guys, and in my head, drunk from sun, from exposure, my liver fighting the toxins from spider bites on my mosquito bites on my sand flea bites, I concoct conspiracies and mad fevers of paranoia. A puma roars from a nearby enclosure, rescued by the brothers. Wild parrots fly overhead, I remember strong jungle rum, playing classic rock on the stereo, passing out in the cabin, our one night of luxury. There is a hole in the net above the door handle, someone punched through the door to get in, the bloodsucking mosquitoes are everywhere! I slap my neck and the corpses of a dozen sand fleas are on my hand. A giant black tapir runs down the wooden boardwalk. I look up in time to see the cow sized creature in a sprint, chasing the girls into their rooms, the sinister cloppity-clop, cloppity clop of its hooves on the wood. I feverishly dream of beasts and heat, sweat and danger. We are the only guests this night in the Lodge. This is a good thing.
I had jungle fever, and I had it bad. Sleeping in a hammock takes some getting used to, and even Chris’s homemade repellent of baby oil, vitamin B12 and a dash of Deet was no match for the hordes, the armies, the full frontal invasion of jungle bugs. My back was bent out of shape, the mosquitoes waited on the small, surrounding hammock nets, waiting for a tiny part of skin to brush against the netting, and then, for what we’re about to receive may the Lord bless us with this blood! I counted 136 bites on Julia’s lower leg. Just one leg. The humidity sticks to you like Velcro, and swimming is not too advisable since these waters are home to man-eating piranhas, hungry for human fingers and toes. Add in the giant snoring of our Director of Photography Sean, lack of sleep, and well, you’ve got the making of one unforgettable, incredible, now-this-is-the-real-gonzo adventure.
We had 150km of river to get through, a twin-engined open-roof speed boat, a couple of kayaks, a few days of food, and invaluably, Jesus and Pina, two quiet but good-natured Waraos who knew these labyrinth tributaries the way a bus driver knows his routes. Also, Chris has been guiding jungle expeditions here for ten years, has enormous experience with the Waraos, the elements, the challenges of life inside the planet’s green lung. The unspoilt beauty of this wilderness is staggering. By kayak, but speedboat, the water is a mirror to the lush tropical trees that tower above it, the sky as big as Dali’s imagination. Wild macaws and parrots fly in love pairs above, while in the trees, cappuccino and howler monkeys swing on the vines. Fresh water sting rays gently float like orbs in the universe, the sound of the jungle at night becomes a hum of life, and yet 99% of it is beyond view, behind the curtain of darkness. And intertwined are the People of the Canoe, the Warao, a tribe who live by the river in open-walled shacks, worshipping their tree of life, the morichi palm, which provides food in the form of giant worms, fruits and elixirs. Physically resembling Mongolians, they talk in hushed tones, if ever, communicating in what Chris believes is “jungle telepathy.” Children learn to kayak before they can walk, families are nomadic, moving between different parts of the jungle. It’s a beautiful dream, mixed up in the misguided concept of the noble savage, beyond the grasp of modern life. It’s a beautiful dream that has been woken up. First came the engines. 500 boat engines given to the Warao in some sort of political manoeuvre for votes, resulting in a swift change in how they move, how they interact. Then came the villages, small concrete houses and generators, the government gathering the Warao into communities that never before existed (and the social conditions that come with poor, rural communities too). Some of these houses are used for chickens and feed, since the Warao way of life exists beyond four walls. Then came the satellite dishes and TV sets, the DVD players to napalm an unsuspecting people with messages of the west, without giving them the social tools to understand that advertising is all bullshit and television is television, not the real world. Then came the movement towards the towns and cities, the breakdown of family units. Then came the German tourists, taking pictures from their speedboats at another exhibit in the human zoo. Then came the missionaries to tell them that thousands of years of tradition are all wrong and they should all believe in a bearded white god who died on a cross. Like the indigenous tribes of the Amazon, like the indigenous tribes anywhere, these gentle people don’t stand a chance. We head into the brackish water, the Black Water, where the salt of the sea meets the fresh water. The channels are becoming narrower, the trees thicker and darker. The boat gently pulls along, barely sending a ripple in the water, as smooth as a polished granite. A small channel breaks to the right, and there is a half naked boy fishing. It’s the kind of photo you see in National Geographic, a vision of humanity that is both inspiringly and frighteningly different. I wonder what hope there is for the Warao, wherein lies their future. Am I as complicit as the German tourists visiting on a day trip from the stunning island of Margarita?
I ask Chris what he thinks about tourists visiting the region, now that lodges are being built to accommodate them. “I want to bring less tourists here for more time. And if you kayak here, you earn the right to be here. The Warao are a completely passive people. With boats of tourists, they’ll just fizzle and fade to nothing.” What hope for a people that have no swear words in their native tongue?
We awake on the final morning in a small wooden camp on the water. Two hours on the boat to a small town where we would be met by the Land Cruiser. The rain held up, sparing us the torture of the heavy downpour at high speed we experienced a few days back. Waiting for the car, I walk in the village, houses painted in bright colours, past a Missionary Church. These “urban” Warao kids are wearing crosses, but one guy tells me it’s just for fashion. A long drive back to Barcelona, a short flight to Caracas, choking traffic to a nearby hotel, early morning flight to Houston. The jungle has disappeared, the bugs, the river, the piranhas, the Warao. I see overweight people for the first time in a week. “The Department of Homeland Security has declared the current terrorist threat level as: ORANGE. Please be aware of your surroundings and fellow passengers.”
I sit down, close my eyes. Imagine the red beach of Playa Colorado, dolphins and waterfalls, the channels of water in the Orinoco, piranhas and tapirs, the gentle stares of the Warao. I open them to see an orderly line-up for the plane home, and say a little prayer.
Housesitting at Oak and Broadway
Vancouver, Canada
