Our Bullets Will Chase You

Chapter 18 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Turning the Corner

Pitacunca (the Jivaro medicine man, whom they called Pete) led the way in his canoe, making giant strokes. Up de Graff reflected on Pete's size (massive), his strength (the embodiment of strength and deviltry), and considered his own security as a white man. He didn't believe he could trust them but didn't completely believe that his rifles would be enough to save himself and team. He calls the Jivaros cunning, knavish, and diabolical, with the courage of wild animals in battle but purely looking out for their own interests. I'm myself a nice guy to everyone, but I'd rather not have overnight guests.

In a few hours they were at the western mouth of the gorge, the Pongo Menseriche. They saw some monkeys and decided to take down some for food for the rest of the trip. They were after the howling monkey, called cotos. Those with shotguns were bested in the hunt by those with blow-guns. But they still ended up with around two dozen of them. Up de Graff himself got three, but his were more of a mess (shotgun spray) than those taken with a blow-gun. We used to get rabbits with a shotgun. And it's worth mentioning one of my own adventures, cleaning rabbits while wearing my mom's fur coat. It was a mess and she was mad.

It was Pete's advice not to try the passage of the Pongo that night, but to lash the canoes together, then they'd run the minimum of risk. After dark, then, they moved a ways upstream and pitched their camp on a sand-spit. The two white men kept watch, one at a time, spelling each other every couple hours. Their biggest fear was losing their allies, "who were liable to disappear if the fancy took them." But all slept soundly. And they heard the Pongo's mighty roar on the night air. That'd be great, white noise like thunder.

They were in the luck with the river the next day. It was just right for passing back up the gorge, the canoes strapped together and a log between them. Sweeping clear of the eastern mouth of the gorge, they came in full view of their camp and were greeted by their fellow explorers. Since Up de Graff and Game were a day late, the others had almost gone out looking for them (as planned). They were also glad to see the extra plantains. And Up de Graff himself appreciated the hot coffee and milk the others had. That might've been coconut milk though, probably was, we haven't see references to cows.

Pitacunca took one glance at the camp and the explorers and turned around. He and his people retreated 20 yards away, sat down, and started a dismal wailing chant in a minor key. They seemed distraught at the sight of so many white people as well as their kit. It seemed to Up de Graff that they would never stop "yowling." They continued for about a half hour, then settled themselves by the campfire.

Up de Graff needed to wait for the water to go down at the Pongo before leaving. So for safety sake he showed how accurate they were at shooting small game, as a warning to the natives, particularly the Huambizas. Get this: He said, If the Huambizas "really aroused our anger, even though they might be half a dozen miles up-stream and round three bends, we should sent our bullets off to chase them and them to sleep." But when the natives started getting restless, the explorers decided to get going, choosing to risk the river instead of the people. You see your chance, you take it. Better to get up a head of steam than lose your own head. Let's head out, folks, while we got a head to head out with!

So they set out, and waged eight hours' war against the seething waters.

Hungry Enough To Eat A Capibarra

 Chapter 15 (3rd part) -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Pongo Menseriche

Remember yesterday I said the explorers were looking at food problems again, shortages? That happens today. In fact, I just ate an apple because I knew what I'd be facing, even Old Mother Hubbard sympathetic to Up de Graff, Game, Rouse, and the others, although I could never look down at a dog and tell her there wasn't enough food. That'd be terrible. I'd go without food myself rather than have a dog that doesn't understand go hungry.

On the seventh day near the Pongo Menseriche, a gorge with floods of rushing water passing through it, the water had fallen considerably. They decided to send the advance guard in a 20-foot canoe with 10 days rations to get in touch with the Antipas, who would supply them with fresh fruit and veggies and help paddle the heavy Exploradora super canoe beyond the Pongo.

Game and Up de Graff set off with a plan of passing the whirlpool. The water being reasonably low, they knew that was the best time to pass it. They steered near the outer edge and let themselves be carried around the rim -- dangerous. Then as they swung round toward one cliff, they paddled hard to avoid destruction. Swinging clear, they shot within landing distance of a sandspit, the only place within five or six miles where they could get ashore safely. I know if I'd been there I would've lightened things considerably by asking, "What would you rather have, a rimshot or a shot of rum?"

They camped there that night. The next day they made their way beyond the canon, fighting upstream with pole, paddle, and rope. But Up de Graff knew that troubles were looming fresh ahead of them. The first day they passed in the head-hunters' country, things went well. But progress was slow with the river difficult to navigate, the bed being stony and rough. That had to use the pole a lot. My thought on this is to look for food, fish, something. Turn over rocks, kick up a snake and shoot it, anything. Then worry about making nice with the head-hunters. If you're going to die, leave with a fully tummy.

But everything was a struggle, day after day. There was no game to be had. The food supplies became lower and lower until they literally had nothing but salt. On the sixth or seventh day, Up de Graff shot a capubara*, the only living thing they'd seen in a while. But it's flesh was revolting and virtually inedible. Still, it kept them alive three days. The bottoms of their feet were extremely sore, and they were crawling. They decided, "If at the end of this stretch [just ahead] there is nothing, we turn about."

As they went on, though, about two hundred yards from the bank, on a hillside, they saw a bright yellow Jivaro shack.

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*The capybara, spelled capibarra in the book, is a mammal native to South America. It's the largest living rodent in the world, excluding Mickey Mouse.

Try Not To Wet Your Pants

Chapter 15 (1st part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Pongo Menseriche

The plan that July night in 1899 after leaving the stores cached in their new base opposite Borja (near the Pongo) was to go back to Mitaya Isla, where Ed and Pedro were with some of the stores. The explorers made great time, the current carrying them the whole distance in a mere hour and a half, easy after the previous three days' slog.

The satisfaction of merely glimpsing the Pongo Menseriche, the gorge, made them light-hearted, so they were definitely up for it. Even now I feel light-hearted about them arriving, and we're talking 1899 and it’s all ancient history! But you gotta love the ancients, the bizarre stuff they put themselves through -- hard knocks a'plenty -- sometimes they died, sometimes they got the girl, and sometimes they just let out a whoop and a holler and if everything fizzled out to nothing they went back to work.

Indeed, with these guys it was still terrific hard work traveling at night with a strong current going fast. There's places on the Marañon river where it's live boiling water, the wicked swirling of currents around rocks, and you're also watching for fallen trees. The roar of the waves is so great it's like a train, then peaceful and steady. A lot of it you have to judge by sound. Definitely not for newbies, greenhorns, or river virgins.

If you're ever going to do it -- say you and your buddies want to relive the adventures of this book to the extent that that's possible -- it'd definitely be to your advantage to patiently build your skills on rivers closer to home. And if you don't have any rivers suited for decent practice, please, at the very least put a boat on some logs and get some kids to pull on it with ropes for, whatever, 20 minutes. Then you'll be ready for the real thing.

Because, no joke, think how perilous this would be. It's not a simulator, not a video game, it's three things: you, the river, and life and death. You're steering a relatively fragile craft through the many perils of the place and there's no forgiveness, no do-overs, no "my bads"; everything has to be just right in one take. It’s not TV, it's real life...

Your fleshy meaty paws grip the meaty paddle, you flash signals between yourselves, maybe a goofy grin and crossing yourself. Two thumbs up means good, the look of consternation and hair standing on end means not so good. Then you come 'round a corner and find yourself on a snag in boiling water, what do you do? Again, possibly prayer, violent oaths, crossing yourself, re-situating your fleshy meaty paws with a meatier grip and hoping to goodness everyone knows the signals.

Then you're off again, thinking, "We're gonna make it!" when suddenly the canoe's spinning in circles at a 45 degree angle! Now you're thinking, "I'm gonna wet my pants one way or the other!" And don't forget the fact, those snags aren't just odd branches but entire trunks of hundred-foot trees. Which could lift the boat high in the air. Or snap it clean in half. I just mentioned wetting your pants, now you've lost all control... That's why you needed to make sure you took care of business earlier rather than later, because you never know, later might be too late, and later than that could bring, would bring an endless stream of tragic, painful, soul-crushing regrets.

Monkey's Great Every Meal

Chapter 13 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Barranca

It was day much like this day, except in the distant past. They had sunshine, water, a world stretched out around them, and though it was the distant past it simultaneously felt like "today" in exactly the same way our day constitutes the present. Something of a head-scratcher, I know, but if you keep thinking of it like our own lives it makes more sense. They weren't back in time, they merely lived then...

There was a character named Don Juan Ramirez who was a wealthy dealer in rubber and slaves. He organized his business to suit the place and it really flourished, big-time, with 300 Indians working rubber for him in half-a-dozen rivers. He also had steamboats to take passengers where they wanted to go. Which brings us to Up de Graff's team, who were with him on the Marañon going to Barranca. They passed many interesting settlements with canoes darting out from the various hamlets, some to be seen, some not to be.

Traveling there sounds very monotonous except for the clearings, since there's very little relief from dense walls of trees stretching on and on. The Amazon system has some 50,000 miles of water navigable by river-steamers basically like theirs. On this journey they'd gone up-stream for 10 days, daily stopping to hunt the night's dinner and chop fuel. The principal quarry was monkey, in fact the main dish at every meal, served as soup, stew, or roast. Monkey steaks, monkey soup, monkey see, monkey do. Even though we might easily be nauseated were we to live wholly on deer, wild turkeys, or any other forest game, that most certainly does not apply to monkey. From big to little, small to large, hairy or picked clean, as long as it's statutorily legal, every monkey is universally outstanding and delicious no matter how many times you eat it.

On the tenth day they arrived at the last Cocama settlement on the Marañon. Joining them there were expedition members Morse, Iberico, with their new, big canoe, the Exploradora. While at the settlement they bartered some goods for food with the Cocama Indians, one good for you, one food for me, etc.

Up de Graff charmingly describes these people's clever, devious way of spearing river-seals. When one's been killed, since it's impossible to lift it over the sides of the canoe, the occupants -- usually a man and a woman really rock the boat -- getting out and flooding it till they can float the river-seal in. Then, holding the seal's nose and the bow of the canoe together, they force the craft ahead, the backwater evacuating from a specially constructed poop. Then they climb back in and make tracks for certain and for shore!

The steamer pushed up the river and made Barranca that same night, a fine time being had by all.

Holy Hell, One Thing After Another

Chapter 7 (1st part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Hunger

When Up de Graff was at the deserted shack, abandoned by the Yumbos, he concluded that the people of the Amazon country are full of surprises, in this case the old disappearing trick. He told Jack, but all the complaining in the world wouldn't help them. They took action instead, packing and heading back to the canoe. By evening they'd arrived and weren't surprised to see the canoe gone. Come on, Yumbos, sometimes life calls for a little consideration!

They thought it over in the morning, the penalties there for stealing canoes, and found it wisely abandoned not too far downstream. Up de Graff considered this a period of suffering, with too much dependence on the Yumbos, and except for a stroke of fortune they might not have saved themselves. They headed back upstream in search of them. But they didn't make the same rapid progress as they'd made with them, although they learned bit by bit how to pick up speed. My brother taught me a lesson like this once on how to ice skate faster, "Run on your tippy tip toes!" Which is great till you crash and burn.

Suddenly they noticed a dead alligator, which meant something bigger was near. Jack called out, "Let's get out of here!" That's when they saw the biggest anaconda they'd ever imagined. The estimated length was between 50 and 60 feet. Up de Graff, in the stern and out of reach of the rifles, called to Jack to shoot. The noise of getting to his gun alarmed the snake, and as it twisted in the water and quickly vanished, the boat was nearly wrecked in the waves. Snakes like that, what can you say, they're too big for their britches. Like trying to put an 18-wheeler in the downtown parking garage.

One other night they'd tied the canoe to an overhanging branch. After supper they put their things back in it. It was close by as they slept, but something bad was about to happen. Up de Graff writes, "Hour after hour the water fell away, hour after hour the rope tightened. For a long time the stores must have resisted the gradually increasing pull of gravity as the canoe little by little approached the perpendicular, having long since reached the rope's limit." Then, early in the morning, everything they had except two machetes and some molasses slipped "in a fateful avalanche" into the water. No one likes "I told you so," but I would've insisted on fitting anything in the tent we couldn't afford to lose.

They were now 60 days up river from the nearest post without food or the means of getting it. Jack muttered, "Holy Hell." That's right, Holy Hell. I would've cussed a blue streak worse than that -- all the usual words -- for whatever good it might've done. It steels your resolve, I think. It brings your emotion to the fore and you feel your determination mount. That's the answer to any do-gooder who gets on your case for cussing.

Hiatus -- Thar She Blows!

I'm a good buoy, I'm not nautical. But today I'm taking an excursion with a boating theme. What's good's a hiatus if you can't get out in nature and make a splash?

I'm just pushing out from shore and looking at the crowds back on land. How needy they look, milling around, seeking a word of wisdom, some attention. May be a few paralytics in the crowd borne by four. I've shove out in deeper water in a minute. Just let me look at the needy a little longer and wish them bon voyage.

Up on the mountain I see Garrett Al. He's needy in his own perverted way. But believe me, if he got any closer I'd beat him off with an oar. I'd render him so impotent they'd encourage him to live within 2000 feet of a school and they might even make him a traffic guard!

But for the most part the crowd is nameless and faceless. They're clawing their way toward the front to take a look at me on my skiff. A few of them look mean, like Skidrow bums, maybe a few resentful carpet dealers. They're giving me one of those Italian curse signs you do with your arm. A couple of their kids -- miniature versions of the real thing -- are running toward the water, skipping rocks in my direction.

I'll take my big stick and push it against the bottom of the lake or sea, wherever I am. I'm thinking of setting sail for somewhere else! Leave the pests behind, sail for the future. Let them fend for themselves. They'll soon get tired of watching me out here, especially as I get smaller and smaller and finally disappear. They'll learn they can't look to me for every morsel.

As to this blog, yes, it's a good thing. But sometimes enough is enough. What did you do before I was here? Then do it again! If what I gave you was good and now I think I need this hiatus, wouldn't my thought on that need also be good? Makes sense.

Now I'm in the open water. I'll just click it on autopilot and taste the spring breeze. There's some seagulls flying above. Maybe it's a mobile on my bed.

Now I turn my rig into a fiord and look at the close rocks. Close enough for someone to jump on me. Pirates maybe. A whole pack of Garrett Als with peglegs or just happy to see me. But it doesn't happen. Maybe he's getting the message, I'm strictly off limits to that whole scene.

(This entire post is extremely off. I'm sorry for it.)