Page 111 of Beautifully Wild

Early the next morning, I make my way across the grass toward the sandy beach of Canaima Lake. Asoo waves out to me, and I smile at his enthusiasm even when it’s just after dawn.

“Samuel doesn’t know Miss Eden coming.”

Not a question. “No, he doesn’t. I wanted to surprise him.”

“I visit once every two weeks. Now you here, I visit more.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

He takes my hand and assists me to step into the curiara. “You’re welcome.”

“Your English has improved,” I compliment Asoo.

“Yes. When I visit Samuel, we speak in English, not Spanish or Pemón. He teaches me.”

“I noticed it’s quiet around here. It’s good you’re using your time to learn.”

Asoo shakes his head. “Victor not say much, but everyone sad no tourists come.”

I understand their concern when tourism is their livelihood. I settle in the seat in front of him and gaze out to the mountains beyond the lake. It still astounds me when I imagine Samuel climbing the tepui to find a particular flower. The rocky face juts up straight toward the clouds, and to my naked eye, it looks unclimbable. The indigenous believe these mountains house the spirits of the dead. It’s why only one Ularan warrior volunteered to go on the journey with Samuel. It’s a reminder to me I’m returning to another world where mythology influences their daily life.

We take the Carrao River deeper into the jungle. Beyond the trees, I catch movement. It could be a wild pig, and then the monkeys sound an alert from the trees. Macaws fly overhead from one side of the river to the other. It all feels strangely familiar, like home.

“You know I traveled along the Amazon River in Peru,” I tell Asoo. “The width is several miles wide in some parts. The current is substantially stronger.”

“She’s beautiful wherever she flows.”

I smile, loving how he sees joy in everything.

“Have you seen Kaikare again?”

He shakes his head. “Ulara quiet, especially with Watache man spying. It’s dangerous now.”

“Dangerous how? You have your boat.”

“They very good hunters. Every spear strikes pig.” He makes a whistling noise, and with his free arm, mimics a spear in the air. “They make bad poison. I could die in minutes.”

I stare at him, aware I’m gaping. “And Samuel remained there?”

“They scared of shaman. He has secrets. They scared to die like us. Now they mourn their chief who’s same age as the shaman. Watache have shaman’s young son, and he still learning. He has gone back to old ways believing if you eat a man, you’ll inherit their knowledge and power. They know Samuel a different medicine man, smart with no magic. You tell Samuel to stay with shaman.”

I’ll be asking why he’s still there.

“And bad people cut down the forests for money. Big money,” he says. “They forced the Watache from their homes and north toward us. I believe they are passing through toward Colombian jungle where it safe to hide.”

“I hope so.”

We don’t speak much for the remainder of the journey. As the hours pass, I’m finding the seat uncomfortable, having to lean back on my hands clutching the plank of wood. I straighten my spine as much as possible to ease the ache, thankful to finally reach the junction to follow the Churun River.

A helicopter flies high overhead. It’s the first one I’ve seen all morning. “Is that a tourist chopper?” I ask Asoo.

Asoo stares at the base of the helicopter because it has a symbol painted on the bottom that I don’t recognize.

“No, it’s going to the mines.”

His face is solemn. Does this upset him? Before I ask him anything else, he guides us to the entrance of the small tributary river that leads to Ulara. The current isn’t as strong as I remember. In fact, the river is low for this time of year. We glide past overhanging branches, thicker than I remember, that protrude like long tentacles into the water.

Asoo kills the motor early and guides the canoe onto the sandy embankment. I take my small pack, the remainder of my luggage is with Victor in Canaima.

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