Croc Spearing and Pig Smuggling

It was a steaming Saturday afternoon, and although a decent rainstorm had already passed, the temperature or humidity hadn’t been carried away with it. Saturday being a day of religious rest for Joao, an Adventist, it was a day free of fishing work for Antonio and his clan. The crowd was restless, excited for the party in Comunidad Sao Francisco that night.

The morning had started early and was eventful. Up around 4am, Antonio and I had headed upstream to where he’s set his maladeras (setnets). On the way upstream, he mentioned that the huge pulse of rain that had pelted down the night before should have enticed many tambaci out of the weeds and into his monofilament grasp. First, though, it being completely dark, we would look for jacaré in the reeds, and for big fish hanging drowsily along the edges of the channel. Flashlight in mouth and spear in hand, Antonio looked and listened for clues off the canoe’s bow. What he heard and saw was beyond me. While I heard a cacophony of awaking birds joining the band of norturnal insects, Antonio was pulling the occasional splashings of jacaré from this audio tangle. I saw only black water and eyes shining red in the reeds; Antonio could pick out a dark fin from the inky water and could judge sizes of the jacare staring out at the approaching canoe. In a flash, his harpoon was flying, the water became alive, and Antonio would usually haul in a stubborn fish or furious reptile. He declined to throw at a few sets of eyes (“Mucho grande!”), did mostly spearing-and-releasing (I’m not sure how the crocs react to this in the long run), and kept one meter-long jacaré, along with half a dozen nice fish.

At dawn the crocs disappear with the mosquitos and the fish become more shy of the approaching mass of a canoe, so Antonio shifted his attention to the nets. As he predicted, many large sunfish-shaped tambaci were tangled in his webs. It was a good morning- fresh fish to eat and extra to sell. He’d even speared a small piraracu, which sported stunning red hashes down its sides which blazed in the morning sun.

After the early morning harvest, I’d expected a tranquil afternoon. Antonio’s clan had other plans. It turned out that the plan was to cross the big river- the Solimones- and there was vague talk of a nice beach and a mystical place of unlimited fruits. I was, of course, to be included in the crew, and to be the trip’s benefactor. This meant that I would foot the bill for the three liters of fuel and the liter of some cheap liquor, a combination which they deemed was crucial for the trip. I somewhat reluctantly obliged, not sure of what direction this trip was actually going.

A larger canoe was begged to carry our motley crew. Assembled for the crossing was a unique blend of characters. Our captain, Bebé, was wearing nothing but a minimal bright blue European-style bathing suit, an almost matching bright blue headband, and ladies sunglasses. He had a wild blend of tattoos across his body: a large letter “C” on high upper right thigh, horseshoe tattoos on his left foot, a distorted pirate girl on his right calf, a sword on his right forearm, and another that was either a goblin or an abstract rendition of a universe on his lower stomach. This body art and wardobe was not entirely normal for this part of the Amazon, so bebe must have spent some time outside. Antonio was himself, and sat with his ladyfriend Josa, the kind but crude matriarch who seems to lack a volume control on her voice. Most of the rest of the crew was related to Josa. In the bow, very drunk, was a son of Josa’s. He had eyes which stared in very different directions, and although this is not particularly uncommon in itself, his gaze, in combination with his impressive level of intoxication, made him a sight to behold. Another of Josa’s sons, who had half of a pointer finger missing from a “crocodilio” (more likely a machete injury), actually had a remarkable likeness to the animal apparently responsible for the damage, with bleached ends to his hair and haunting jacare eyes. Also aboard were Christina, Josa’s granddaughter and quite a charming little princess, along with Bebé’s wife and a rotund guy who was apparently a talented singer.

There was confusion as we left, as wild-eyes and singer-man disappearing into the riverside brush. They popped out of the bushes a while later, tossing a squealing burlap sack into the bottom of the boat. It turns out that a piglet had been “borrowed” from one of the neighbors to help further supplement the trip. It was worth $20 reales on the other side, on the piglet black market. The squealing sack had to be smothered until the overloading canoe limped out of hearing range.

The boat, although quite large for a canoe, was old and leaky. Constant bailing was needed to keep her afloat, and we quickly broke one bailer and lost another. Luckily in these parts they are made of the cask of a local fruit and are common and free. After two hours of nursing the five-horsepower engine, we hit the opposite bank. The Solimones is a big, big river.

The promised lands didn’t hold exactly what was promised- no beach. There were a few houses, and a few fruit trees in their yards. One of the tiny stores in the “community”, it turned out, belonged to yet another son of Josa’s. I got the feeling that, to this son and his wife, our visit was about as welcome as a plague of leeches. As the hours ticked by, the boat’s crew begged intolerably, with broad smiles, for food and drink at a steep discount. To be fair, however, I should say that Antonio and his clan are poor enough that any vice- a single can of beer or cigarette- is enjoyed slowly and thoroughly like the finest of wines or fanciest of cigars, and is often shared. But when the rare opportunity presents itself, his clan really enjoys their vices.

After a few hours of this, the canoe was mostly submerged, and the hosts were plenty ready to close up shop. The piglet had been pawned and pockets were bulging with guayaba fruit. This exotic far bank had been a hoax to get me to foot a fuel bill, I thought, as we bailed the canoe and started back. But the return trip was fully redeeming, as a samba spontaneously erupted, and lasted a full two hours. Beer cans, a pot cover and spoon, plastic bottles, and sandals became instruments, and singer-man showed his stuff. The chorus was spirited and in tune. Wild-eyes, beyond drunk, became a talented rhythmic bailer. The long backtrack in the sinking canoe passed in no time.

Once back to Josa’s floating home, where was much nervous preparation for the party. Dancing outfits were carefully selected. I was now very curious to see what a party of this sort might entail, and could hear the distorted echoes of amplified music cming from the community center. After several delays and more begged beers, we canoed across the small Parana and walked toward Comunidad Sao Francisco. The music became louder but it never became clear where it was coming from. Into the community we stumbled…and entered the Catholic Church. We walked in and sat down to mass! In the front of the tiny church a couple of overcharged amps blasted words and hymns so loud that actual words were indistinguishable. This was the party, for which Antonio’s clan had anticipated and pregamed!

To be fair, after the service there was a community gathering, which included both bingo and a food auction. Anybody from a small town would agree that you could justifiably call that a party. I bought a few bingo cards for the clan. The auctioneer were so intolerably slow that, after having only sold a dozen or so items in almost two hours, we gave away our bingo cards and paddled back to Josa’s place for a midnight feast of fish soup. The sound of the world’s slowest auction rattled on. Tomorrow the clan would turn back to their fishing nets, and would have to dream about next weekend’s party.