A Little White Handcarved Canoe

Post date: Dec 4, 2010 9:14:55 PM

12-3-10

From Day 1 I had set out with the task of not only cheating my way out of Colombia (getting my motorcycle legal in Brazil without checking out of Colombia) but also sniffing out the fish. I met a man at the docks who said he’d take me fishing for 100 mil pesos. I knew from the way he shifted from foot to foot and slapped his machete against his boots that there was something mischievous afoot, and my Letician native friend said that that was very expensive for a guide. But talking to him gave me a clue: Ronda. He said the big catfish (bagre) are upstream near that town. I gave the info a couple days to settle as I waited to see what else I could find, but ever since that day, I couldn’t shake Ronda from my mind. Note that this is pronounced with a long “o” sound.

Meanwhile, I fished Takanda for a day and relaxed a little. Then we went to the port and learned, on Wednesday the 1^st of December, that the next boat for departed 12-4, Saturday, at a quite reasonable price of $100 total for my motorcycle and I. That gave me time to kill. Ronda returned to the mind with a vengeance. How can I just sit around knowing where the fish are? Camilo, ever the impulsive one, repeated as I drifted through the misty sea of complexity that is my mind, “What are you going to do, Gary?” We went for another go at finding a rod for my reel. Without the right equipment, there’s no point even trying for a big catfish. They aren’t kiddie size. The world record rod-and-reel piraiba, the largest of the Amazonian catfish, is 256 lbs. But much larger ones are commercially caught, and they are known to reach 650 pounds. The infamous redtail cat fights like a demon and gravity pulls it to a tune of over 100 lbs. Its first run is so powerful and relentless that it is considered folly to lay into the fight until it relaxes a bit, and that may not be until it’s yanked 100 yards from your reel. Add to that the 20+ foot depths from which the beasts lurk and current being pushed by hundreds of miles of mountain sprung water and you have a recipe that demands a rod with a sturdy spine and a reel with 150+ yards of heavy line. Considering the Penn and Abu Garcia baitcasters fit for the job (standards saltwater big game fare) cost in Bogota 2x or 3x those found in the American market, I decided to take my chances on Leticia/Tabatinga. Big mistake. I was left with my large-but-cutting-it-close Abu Garcia 6600 C4 spooled with 50lb Spiderwire. But, the spool wasn’t full. This worried me, but would have to do. If I spooled full of mono of the same strength, I’d have no more yardage. Play her right, I guess. But what good is the perfect reel without a rod?

Wham. I found it. Near the port of Leticia, obviously, and had I been doing this alone, I probably would have found it without even asking. It’s called the House of Fisherman (except in espanol), but it’s pretty sad. Yeah, lots of hooks, trotline, and net is packed into its 15’x20’ area, but sport fishing is like croquet in the U.S.- the stuff of snotty dandies from a country with nicely trimmed yards and perfect pronunciators. In this shop I found about 10 rods of three styles. I picked the heaviest, a MH 6’ spinning rod. Spinning outranks casting 10-1 in this country. Anyways, I found me a rod! I can go fishing! Since we were right there, I said I might as well see what the fisherman say about Ronda. Where will I sleep? And other silly questions…

15 minutes later I had a boat to take me for $2. The first boats said $25 and eventually said $17. Good thing I held out. There was a group departing in T-60 minutes. Just enough time for me to run back to the house, get my stuff, and rush back for the boat. Why not?

I arrived as the boat (a big canoe with a funny motor) was literally backing out of the channel. I ran down the hill with my backpack and poles in hand and carefully rocked the boat as I stepped in. It was full of 20 people sitting on its 4” rail. Not built for comfort. Utility. The motor had a 10’ shaft with a 6” diameter blade. The blade could be easily hoisted from the water, and it spun just inches below the surface. That boat could probably zip in 6” of water.

I was reminded immediately as my Indian cohorts and I puttered out onto the Rio Amazonas, the main tributary that feeds the official Amazon River, of a canoe I made as a child. I remember it being the first significant thing I’d ever made, and I remember making it of my own volition. I carved it from a stick I found somewhere. Perhaps balsa wood. I remember Dad using balsa for his crankbaits; he said it was the best wood in the water. I painted my canoe white. It had a spear and Indian with a headdress on its flanks. Now that I am older, I recognize the omen that was; I knew even as a child of under 7 years what was my passion- to be with the Indians on the water. Here I was, on the Amazon, in the Amazon, with Amazonian Indians, with the intent to live with them and fish with them for a couple days. Sometimes dreams don’t come true for 24 years. But they do come true.

The boat ride kept us inches above water. I’d estimate it just under 30 sturdy feet. With 2500-3000 lbs of cargo, propelled by a 15 hp motor, against the current, we moved along at about 5-10 mph, depending on the current. A woman baled water periodically. Must’ve been a leak. The driver knew the current. This section of the Amazon is about as wide as the Ohio on the southern border of Indiana. He’d traverse from side to side, depending on the bend of the river, and navigated upstream just 10’ from shore, where the current was weakest. I admire him. I admire all men of the water.

People are the same wherever you go. The same personalities. I find more differences between individuals than between cultures. On this occasion an older man, the eldest in the boat, seemed drunk as he burst into song at strange moments and simply would not quiet. The people seemed used to him. I believe it is his treat when he goes to town periodically. Upstream he pointed at a small inlet mixing into the Rio Amazonas, and he said it was a good place to fish. Took me a moment to catch on that he was talking to me. His eyes were glazy. I shared a potato and some bottle water with an older woman on the boat. I had eaten my hurried lunch in front of them all, so it seemed polite to offer something. As I sat there with a sore butt (these people have steel butts to endure a 1.5 hr ride on a 4” slab of wood. I also had a strange experience watching the 7ish and 10ish old boys, brothers, I think, playing with each other’s hands. All sorts of grabbing, twisting, pinching… the one boy showed the other how to make your vein swell by pinching it awhile. It was hauntingly familiar, the experimentation with and exploration of one’s hands. Call me crazy, I used to look at my hands for several minutes on end. I also remember years ago when I recognized that I don’t timelessly observe something in great detail. Something as simple as the freckles on your own skin. There was also the loud, snobby, bitchy lady we all know and love. Everyone but her and the drunk old man were quiet and soft. She flipped through some women’s shopping magazine with clothes similar to a Kohl’s and various appliances. She was not exactly attractive, this lady, but she sure acted like she was Eve before female #2. She boasted, “I got this, and this, and that. I like this and that. Oh, isn’t that cute!” BlahBlahBlah. The clothing prices averaged about $10. Are they made in China? Are they manufactured defects meant for clearance outlets? Amazon indians have been infiltrated by western-spawned consumerism. This MUST be the Tribulation. But it was pleasant that natural earthiness is not lost. I was reminded of where I was by the woman breastfeeding her 2 year old. She shamelessly lifted her shirt to expose her nipple and pulled her daughter’s head to her breast. She did this about 3 times, and this is after the daughter had eaten some cheesy poofs. Still, I appreciated her naturalness and comfort in my presence, the very white gringo.

I was thankful for the fisherman’s style hat that Vicky’s mother, Margaret, gave me the day I left Bogota. It was blisteringly hot. My exposed forearms validated my previously doubted need for the hat. Dunk it in the river and you have a magical hat to keep you cool.

We passed a couple military outposts with their thatched roof watchtowers, and I was reminded of a Chuck Norris or Rambo film. After 1.5 hours we pulled up to the steep, grassy bank. There was nothing but trees on top. As passengers filed out, I stood, waiting and confused. I asked, in Spanish of course, if this was Ronda, and they said yes. Off I went. At the top of the bank, I stood, waiting and confused. A guy asked me where I was going. I smiled and said, “I have no idea!” Then the driver said something and I basically understood that I should wait for him at the top of the hill in the town. I slucked my way along the muddy trail, crossed a little wooden bridge over a cute little stream where some young men were bathing, and I then crossed a 200 yard wooden bridge. Its planks were often crooked, occasionally missing, and sometimes loose and wobbling. Children learn very early on here how to watch their step! At the top of the hill I was relaxing on a picnic table and reminded myself that the man did not say how long to wait. I prepared myself to be there for several hours.

Luckily it wasn’t that long. The driver asked where I would be sleeping. I said I didn’t know. He offered to let me stay in his house. I said, “Si!.” There was clearly no hotel in this little village.

In fact, I soon found that there are 60 houses and about 350 people in those houses. Sometimes there is more than one family per house. There is also one church that appears to have never been used; it is exteriorly finished, hence ready, but has stacks of wood, dust, and dog poop inside. There is a school nearby that is free, and the children attend there 5 days a week from 7am-1pm.

I met a man at the edge of “town,” which appears to be about 1/3 mile in diameter, who informed me that I will have a tremendously difficult time finding a big catfish at this time. The catfish are abundant during the seasonal flood, but are even more abundant when the river is very dry. The river is neither at this time. It is presently rising, won’t reach flood levels until January, and the dry period is July-August. After further discussions I learned that the catfish come upstream from Brazil and that there are more catfish there. This explains why A) the majority of what few guides I found set up base in Manaus and fish downstream of there, and B) report that the better fishing is towards the start of the year. During the flood, which happens every year, the forests fill with water and teem with fish, even those fish that eat fruit as it falls from the trees. On a positive note, however, another man in town came out of his hut to show me a poorly scanned photo of him and his 50 kilogram (100-110 lb) piraiba. I gawked and joked about how I would catch one bigger. Piraiba are among the rarest of the catfish caught in this section, but he caught that one not so far up the river from Ronda. This was encouraging. I also learned that giant boas swim the river, but you never see them until the floods, when they stalk the shallows. Ronda, I learned, becomes a virtual island during this period. You would never suspect it. The water is already high, they said, and it would have to raise another 15-20 feet to crest the bank. Lots of water. Upstream, for record’s sake, is an island where one can easily find boas and crocodiles. It is frequented by tourists. I detest tourists and all things touristy.

Good thing, that, because I wasn’t going to see a tourist-friendly feature for two days. I immediately went fishing with the driver. I didn’t learn his name until late the next day, after I asked. He never asked me my name.

He grabbed a couple nets and we hopped into a smaller canoe pegged to the bank a few yards down the bank. In short order the swift current had us in the little inlet the old man pointed to earlier. He cast his net, some 15’ in diameter, and soon plopped a little catfish and shad-like fish into the boat. Bait! I can fish. I noted how his net lacks the brails American models have, and I learned the value of those brails. I am sure he lost some fish because his net just doesn’t scoop the way mine does. His is also made from softer, cotton-like material, which is heavier, more visible, and slower sinking. But, it caught bait.

I tossed my heavy rig out there into the swift current, and I’d estimate it to be 20 feet deep. It was swept fairly close to shore. As the canoe has no anchor, Luis pegged us to the shore on the upper outer edge of the inlet. My lighter rig I kept close to the boat, in the calmer water of the inlet. The heavy rig had one good pull after an hour, but the little rig got lots of bites, and I landed a small pintaryon, or “painted catfish,” the prettiest of catfish. I ate it later, fried, skin and all. Delicious. I had no real luck, and we returned at dusk.

I met Luis’ family. I shouldn’t even use Luis’ name at this point because every person in this town was anonymous at this point, and it would remain that way until the next day. He pointed out his wife, six children aging 6-17 (1 boy, the eldest, and 5 girls), and he said probably 3-4 times that the youngest was his last. I wonder how he was so sure. Not one of them was formally introduced to me. We never exchanged names or greetings. They politely smiled, but no more. I never actually saw the son, though he was in the 2 room cabin, but the girls watched me incessantly, intensely curious and amused by me. I wonder what they were thinking. “He is so tall! Such white skin! Where is his hair? How clumsily he walks down the hill! He eats so strangely!” At one point they hunkered over my shoulders as I reviewed my photos. They were so quiet, you barely knew they were there. By far, these children are the most well-behaved children I’ve met.

All 8 of the family sleep in the same bedroom with their color cable tv. One table and three benches are in the “living room,” and the kitchen, practically unseparated from the living room, has a shelf and two tiered table. A homemade stacked stone and criss-crossed iron bar grill completes the kitchen. On the kitchen table are reddish-orange fired clay pots made by the villagers. Each is wrapped in a gold or blue ribbon for decoration. Luis explained to me the process in which they dig the clay, dry it and knead it, mold it, and fire it. From start to finish, it takes 1 month to make a pot or mug, which sells for about $2.50 each in town. He showed great pride in this product of his town. I was impressed as well, plain as they were, and I was tempted to buy one. But motorcycle travel for another 2-6 months isn’t fragile-friendly.

In fact, Luis was very interested in prices, and he showed irritation, which only a patient eye can notice, as Luis’ expression is almost a uniform stern visage. It was a welcome sound to hear him chuckle behind me as we all watched Home Alone on the tv on day #2. That’s right, that family laughed along with me with each blooper- when the iron hits the one robber in the head, when the other robber is tagged in the midsection by a bb gun, etc. Some humor is universal. But, back to prices. This guy told me the cost of everything. Christmas decorations adorned one wall of the cabin. He knew the exact price of each material used in their construction. He explained supply and demand as it applies to his people- when there are many fish available, the prices are very poor, but when there are few fish available, the prices are higher, so they have difficulty making more money than usual. Good or bad harvest, the income is the same. There are fees to pay at every step in the process from farm to market, and he explained to me how his people earns maybe 20% of what is sold, even though the only thing changing is the person involved, not the product itself. I recommended, to the extent that my Spanish permits such language, that he gain greater propriety over each step in the process. I don’t think he understood me very well. Or maybe he thought I was an idiot. Or maybe I just didn’t understand. I eventually decided to say nothing even when I something to say because I understood maybe 10% of what he said- just the themes and major points, and I was afraid he was going to attack me when he discovered upon my failure to answer a basic question that I feigned comprehension for the last 2 hours of discussion. The conversation was vigorously observed by all the family. They acted as though they’d never seen a gringo. I have been an historic event in their lives. They obviously were in mine. Outsiders to come to the area, however. He called them students. Researchers, probably. There is a road connecting Leticia to Ronda. The distance is only 15 miles or so, but despite the clothing and television, these people are clearly of another world than the pueblo-born Leticians.

But grown up 2500 miles apart, two people can have the oddest similarities. Luis and I have the exact same, “MmHmm.” “Mmhmm” means, “So it is,” “Yup,” “That’s the case,” “Interesting,” and so forth. I mean, the intonation and everything- the same. It was weird. I thought he was mimicking me at first, but it was too natural to him.

Luis is the sole boat driver in town. My guess is he makes well under $25 per week. His house is one of the poorest of those I seen in town, but he’s a worker. I can just imagine the fits my brother and I would be throwing if he and I had to row upstream from the spot Luis and I fished that first day. That current is fast. Fast as the Ohio during high water with open dam gates. But Luis just pulled close to shore and with sealed lips he pulled and pulled and pulled. Not even a wrinkle in his brow. Such steady expression. And he has the shoulders to prove his labor. Actually, ever boy and man in town is lean, muscular, healthy. Organic food. Rain fed. Hard work. Life in the wild. This reminds me of a recent thought I had after contemplating a discussion with one of my students- the cause of global warming isn’t cars, cow poop, or coal plants. The problem is no one uses their own energy for anything. They want a machine to do the job for them. Including think. We turn to polluted, organic sludge while the earth evaporates. Dramatic? I suppose. But, you don’t leave Ft. Wayne, Indiana without a little drama in the heart.

Drama is ok. Keeps it entertaining. My family would delight to know I didn’t poop in the 1.5 days I was there. Reminds me of what Jaclyn once told me- “My pooper doesn’t feel safe there.” I just wasn’t sure where to poop. There is an outhouse on their property, but I didn’t need the family gawking at my turds. The outhouse had a toilet with a tube beneath it angled into the earth, but the tube is filled with water that doesn’t seem to drain. I hated the thought of pooping into something that isn’t supposed to receive poop. Luis never told me where to go. Did he assume I knew where, or did he not care? Or was he too shy to tell me? He is an introvert… Luckily I felt no need to go, and neither did I experience constipation or anything.

Ah, life in an Indian village… I slept on the hard wood floor with only a sheet beneath me. I was offered a blanket, but since I had no pillow, I used it as a pillow. I was thankful for the bug netting he draped over my “bed.” I know I had something moderately large crawl on me at one point. Probably a cockroach. After dinner (luckily after) I saw a few roach come out from cracks between the wood slats. I saw some crawl back into the cracks and stay there. They didn’t know I could still see them in the shadows. I just swatted whatever was on me and returned to sleep. Cockroaches are nothing compared to the thought of fleas. Luckily the mosquitos aren’t so bad atop the hill where Ronda resides. They are worse in the thick of the jungle and by the river. They have a freezer in their sleeping quarters, and they keep plenty of bottles of frozen water in there. That water is incredible! I was looking at it, wondering where it was from, and Luis guessed my thoughts; he said, “It’s rain.” The best water to drink is rain. Obviously, all water is rain at one point… but let’s not lose the poetry!

My sleep was nightmarish. I heard the same screaming child I heard in the llanos- dang roosters. Plus, directly beneath me, perhaps two feet away, I’m pretty sure one of the scrawny dogs had sex. It sounded pathetic. I kept imagining bugs crawling over me, trying to eat me. I stopped wearing earplugs to sleep about 2 weeks ago, and I’ve done better than I would have guessed. I wasn’t trying to quit them, it just happened. So, it wasn’t the sounds of the jungle that disturbed me- just the screaming-child-rooster, dog sex, and voracious parasites. I was happy when the sun rose. I drank several gulps of espresso-thick, cold, instant coffee I prepared as medicine for the night.

Breakfast: eggs with tomatoes, a piece of bread, and platanos. Good platanos, too. Smoother and less rich than most I’ve had. Platanos with every meal. And rice, just about, and fish. They offered me “tinto,” a small coffee with sugar. Very watered down. Still, yummy.

The second morning I watched Luis make yucca flour. Boy, these people work. First, he pulled blocks of water-softened yucca from a bag and proceeded to knead/sift it through a woven plant screen. This took over an hour of constant work. Meanwhile, he’d swat at the chickens that got too close. I found my role to be the same- I’d shew them away, but it was hilarious to watch them scout the area and try to sneak in for a quick peck at the food. After the sifting, he dumped the wet but very small clumps of yucca into a 5’ diameter metal pan that hovered over a hard wood fire. With the same oar he used to paddle the canoe, the same oar I used to climb the slick, muddy hill, he tossed and stirred the yucca. Now, he did scrape the oar clean with his machete first. Plus the heat would resolve any leftovers, right? One becomes less bacteria-conscious and fearful in the wild. The yucca stirring step was at least two hours. Constant stirring so it didn’t burn or stick. Toss, toss, toss, scrape, scrape, scrape. The purpose is to dry it out. It reduced to half its size by the end. It had the consistency of tough granola. I thought this would then be ground into a powder, but no. Luis said the yucca is great with fish. It was rather bland and too tooth-damaging-hard for me.

It’s truly an Indian village; they bathe and do laundry in the creek. I found no adults bathing nude in the creek, and there are quite few there I would have not minded seeing in such circumstances. It’s endearing to witness a people so trusting of their land. Not that they do all they can to avoid polluting it, however. On day #2, Luis and I were drifting a net down the river, but the net was caught and tangled in his propeller as he motored to remove the net from a snag. The tossed the scrap pieces of netting into the river. I’ve never understood why people are that careless. Must be the way they are raised.

They also use setnets and “jug” fish. Luis thought I’d never seen a net before, but I proudly told him of my commercial fishing experience in Alaska. Yeah, yeah, just because you’re Indian, you think you know how to commercial fish?! I may be a “Gringo Chichipato” (gringo cheapass), but I know a thing or two about fishing… I’ve heard stories, though, fisherman hooking catfish so big while jug fishing that they simply cannot ever pull them up, even after hours of fighting them. Some men have died by being pulled into the river during the tug of war.

The two times I went out with Luis, fishing virtual no brainer spots, I was empty handed. I did catch two different species of catfish, one of which was big enough to eat- the pintaryon. The other was albino white with whiskers longer than its whole body. Incredible. I was a little disappointed. I started hinting my interest in trying other locations by asking about the locations of deep water and river confluences, but he didn’t catch on. I found a flat that would have been great to both still fish and drift, but, Luis wasn’t too interested in the fishing, I guess. We hung up after just a couple hours the second day. I began to think that the big catfish are still in the area, but the Indians just don’t have the technology or knowledge to catch them. If I just had a depth finder! If I just had my poles and tackle! If I just had boat with an anchor and a trolling motor! And control over the boat!

Unwilling to give up so soon, I asked Luis for permission to fish from the shore where the boats are harbored that night. He wasn’t quick with his yes for some reason I may never know.

It was a treat just going to the river that evening. The sunset was fantastic. As the sun fell, the western horizon continued to light up with brilliant displays of distant, silent lightening. The water softly burbled by, eternal. Above me, an impeccable, black, star speckled sky full of new constellations to wonder about. Jungle brimming with life behind me and as far as my eye can see. And perhaps most importantly to me, I KNOW with my mind that there’s hardly anyone in this untamable land for hundreds of miles in each direction. And to top it off, I’m fishing for my favorite fish on the most renowned river in the world, the Amazon. Few things could make my life better at such a moment.

A good sign immediately greeted me; a big ol fish swirled at just the spot I planned to fish. Within minutes I had a hefty hunk of fish sitting on bottom. The wait begain. First I landed the strangest little casper of a catfish. All white, softer than a baby’s baby’s baby’s butt, with the thickest and gluiest slime I’ve found on a fish, the tiniest little eyes, the cutest little cartoon baby mouth, and almost absent whiskers. Absolutely adorable. I ended up catching two, and I used the second for bait.

On the heavy pole I had less action. But then my baitclicker on that reel jumped a few clicks. Not a fish; a fish takes it and runs. Only once has that not happened, and that time the fish was already home in its hiding hole in a tree. There wasn’t such cover where I had cast. But when I later started reeling it in, there was weight. It felt snagged. But then it throbbed and that adrenaline got pumping. I heaved and it dug deeper. I was terrified to get it caught in the fallen tree nearby, so I kept a tight pull on her. At one point, she did snag into something, but a little slack gave her the motivation to swim back out. We battled for about 2 minutes when I finally brought her to the surface. I didn’t get a good look, but the water displacement told me it was a good fish. Either the air or the light from my headlamp spooked her because then she tore off for the deep. I held on, but then I thought she was snagged for good because I good not budge her. How big is this thing? I wondered. She wasn’t very far off at all, telling by the angle of the pull, but the drop must be super steep, I thought, because I don’t seek a ripple in the water! I kept steady pressure, and eventually I pulled her a few inches. Some waves then crashed on the shore and revealed a tail, all of a sudden. A tail! A frightening, spiked tail! I thought I’d just pulled a big snapping turtle up to my little beach until I yanked a little more. A stingray!? A freshwater stingray? I knew there are pink dolphins in this river, and bull sharks aren’t uncommon further downstream, but I don’t recall hearing about stingrays. That tail looked wicked, so with great care did I flip her over. I used a stick to knock loose my Mustad Demon circle hook. It was only a glimpse of a thought, the thought of letting it go. I had to show Luis. I’m sure you can eat stingray.

The next two hours were quiet. Beetles with giant jaws and ants feasted on the cutbait I would leave on the sand. I tried using the live catfish I’d caught, plus three other species of cutbait, without success. I lost my circle hook and a few others to snags. Shore fishing… grrr. I crab did craw up to the water’s edge to say hello, but other than that, not much. Just me and my stingray and hopes for a piraiba.

I tied a yard of trotline to a big hook and carefully stuck it through the stingray’s spine, just above the spiked tail. This way I carried it all the way back to the cabin. Upon arrival, Luis awoke, turned on the light, and expressed some amusement at my catch, a “raya.” I took it to the creek to stay alive until morning, and he was fine with that.

Bright and early we were up and packed for the ride back to Leticia. Villagers gawked came over and gawked at my ray. They commented on the way I hooked it. Some thought I caught it like that, then they thought I was a little strange or crazy for purposefully hooking it there. They all warned me of the dangers of its poison. Only Luis said it is good for one’s health to eat a stingray. I learned from the villagers that mine was a baby. They get over 200 pounds in this river. Mine was maybe 10 or so. The big ones, they say, are impossible to lift from the river, especially due to the current.

In appreciation of Luis’ families openness and generosity, I gave them 4 apples, 9 mini chocolate bars, the remaining 1.5 cups of instant café, and a bag of granola cereal I never got around to eating. They never said gracias, interestingly, but I know they were thankful. I’m sure they seldom eat such storebought food.

The ride back was quick with the current and wet from the rain. Atop the hill where we docked in Leticia, I handed Luis $25 and thanked him for an experience I will never forget. He showed little expression, but smiled a smidge, and invited me to write my phone number in a notepad of his. I did so. I guess he knows my name now. He said, “Anything you need…” I thanked him and left. No fancy goodbyes necessary.

For 50 cents I got a ride on a motorcycle taxi back to the house. It was pouring rain. We sped along, turning where I directed the driver. In my one hand were my two rods, and in my other was stingray I held away from the wheel and road. A spectacle, I’m sure.

At the house, a passerby paused to look at it and inform me that the police would ticket me if they saw it. Illegal? Later I heard that only the real little ones are illegal. Or maybe it’s just the poison they want to prevent distributing. No one knows. I had tried to find the fishing regulations for the river online, but I had no success.

I learned how to fillet a stingray. Not so tough, really. Camilo the chef plopped a couple fillets on the grill. We ate them, but none of us liked it much. The meat is very soft and falls apart into worm-like strands, and the flavor isn’t spectacular. Much salt necessary. Ah well. I’ll try frying it and perhaps mixing it with eggs for a breakfast. The tail is left hanging outside to dry. A trophy.