Now You Know. You have learned.

Post date: Dec 4, 2010 9:10:30 PM

11-30 Adjusting

Until I hear the fish, I’m living with the family of a dead narcotrafficker. A Bogota friend’s cousin’s boyfriend’s father was a major trafficker in the 80s, he said, and he was killed in the line of duty. We all gotta make a living, right? You would never ever suspect misbehavior among this family; they are polite and down to earth. In fact, the son is opening a restaurant in two weeks, and my friend’s cousin is a lawyer. It’s an interesting but irrelevant history.

There is a Spanish-speaking parrot two houses down. The saddest-looking flea-ridden dog hangs around the corner. Whoever says animals don’t experience happiness or sadness have not lived in Latin America, where stray dogs with pointy ribs and patchy hair limp around on three legs in search of a trashbag to tear open. Their eyes are not the eyes of a well-groomed lab trotting proudly to the park with his owner. I don’t know why neutering and animal control is not implemented here.

After a couple days, I’m adjusting to the climate. I ran yesterday morning and I showered the street in sweat. It’s like overcoming the heat by saying, “Come on! Bring it!,” and by so ending your fear of the heat, you end the battle.

Exercising, in addition to my blissful day of fishing, are clearly my most crucial remedies in life. I felt more relaxed yesterday than I have in weeks. I was planning to go fishing with some guys yesterday, out on the Amazon. They were going to show me the fish in exchange for the gas and food. But later Camilo thought it over and figured it would be a little unsafe for me to go. They drink a lot, I’m a tourist, and I don’t speak much Spanish. So, instead he led me to Takana River, about 20 minutes outside Leticia. It’s a beautiful river in the jungle, sparsely inhabited by Indians adjusting to the modern world culture. I saw men returning from the jungle, machete in hand, tired but with a consciousness in the eyes that only a woodsman has. As I fished the river without success, a man named Miguel greeted me and offered some advice. He was with his son, Anderson, and his friend Francisco, who offered me his more personal name, the name given to friends, “Pacho.” Miguel asked what meat I was using for bait, and after using almost all my artificial, I had resorted to pineapple. I was using pineapple for two reasons: 1, I have seen documentaries showing how some Amazon fish eat fruit during the rainy season, when the fruit trees are flooded. 2, Some Indian boys came to swim in the river, and as they sat on the bank, eating some fruit, they would throw pieces into the river. I had noticed that the fish started hitting the surface around that time, and I soon discovered that the fish were eating the fruit floating downstream. I did have one little fish slap at the “pina” but no real hits. Miguel was not confused about me using pineapple, but he explained to me that much fruit is tossed into the river upstream. I did not understand more than that. He then slashed into the earth with his machete and quickly produced a couple tiny worms, or “lombrises.” His son hooked one onto my tiny hook attached to the 10 foot stretch of mono that I’d broke off. Meanwhile Miguel examined my tacklebox and showed great interest in my tiny hooks. He held two in his palm and asked me how much I wanted for them. I figured, “I’m in his land, he is showing me how to fish” so I said, “Gratis” (free). He asked why. I meant to say, “Because you taught me,” but I confused the present and past tense, so he thought I was asking him to teach me something. He then led me with my machete to the little mound of dirt on the hill. First he slashed the grass away, then he stabbed the ground and pulled the chunk away, checking. We soon had 5 lombrises. He cut an aluminum can in half, sprinkled dirt in it, and put the worms in there. At that time, his son pulled ashore a guaracu, or “liza” as it is known in the Amazonas. It’s a little panfish they say is delicious. I was planning to use it as cutbait for catfish but Miguel soon produced a plant trimmed to serve as a stringer. He then stabbed the stem into the clay bank to keep the fish alive in the water. The fish wiggled but did not go anywhere. Miguel looked at me with such deep, dark, steady eyes and said, “Now you know. You have learned.” It was such a masculine trade, hooks for knowledge.

I caught nothing in spite of the worms, and I used the liza for cutbait without success. I had lots of bites, but nothing substantial. My light spinning rod, spooled with what looks like 8lb test, couldn’t handle the snags in the river, so I lost a few rigs. I hung it up after about 5 hours. In that time, I saw giant and tiny butterflies of all colors. I watched kids swim in the river. Anderson, Miguel’s son, bathed downstream. Bugs tried to eat me. My menticol/nopikex mixture that Edilsa taught me worked. On the way to the river we saw a truly classic Amazonian macaw on the trail. I think it must have been a pet. As we motored by, that bird strutted about with its head cocked to the side, ogling us with one far too intelligent eye.