Looking in the Mirror

by Liam Howley Stillness is disturbed as the paddle dips so the sun ripples, and the surface smooth for its want of current joyously dances for the gentlest of moments. Propelled forward or attracted by the invitation of the parting water, the canoe glides gracefully by the floating grass, and we enter the reflected forest where aguaje palms grow downwards so that leaves touch a deepened sky and mirrored trunks ascend to root. I wonder if the oxbow lake is a gate way to meshi’dojo’, the underworld of the Ese-Eja. Screeching blue and gold Macaws in tandem fly and beneath the boat they pass, paying homage to that other world of reflection, of mirrored illusion, of sacred stillness. Breathing becomes shallow, as a calmness envelopes the mind with sheaths of silence, and I wait for that puncture, that moment when from the depths appears the wolf, piercing the surface, the sheen, with a twist of its body, diving into the murky underworld of sediment and silt, of leaf and tannin, of fish and caiman. Once the Tambopata here it flowed, maybe as another river, the Bahuaja, but in the never ceasing pulse and burst of current it carves its true path and isolates itself in parts so that the oxbow, the stranded shields that mark the boundary of the rivers curves in a protective embrace remain like sentinels. Each curving body awaits its fate, a dryness, an emptied hollow that grows anew the forest, each aguaje swamp signaling the intent of time. The supreme fisher, de lobo del rio, the wolf of the river, the giant river otter is reticent to appear today. I am here for that purpose, to see the beautiful elongated two metre sleek body glide forward, its head resting on the surface as its webbed paws paddle. There are fish aplenty, bighting the waters surface for the tasty morsel of fly and insect. Ospreys circle, three I count, yet none diving. Maybe they have taken their fill, maybe they are waiting for this observer to depart, I do not know, yet it is a delight to see them. The green and white amazon kingfisher that was present has departed, its perch now occupied by a vermillion flycatcher, its startling striking scarlet holding the eye. It darts and returns, darts and returns, and butterflies of various shades of earthy brown descend upon my body seeking salt. I wait in patience, and gladly drift slowly towards the shade as the grueling sun strives to determine the time from which I will exit this open realm. Nudging gently against the floating grass, its colour green but its nature a grey fusion as it denies the water its liberty from earthly vegetation, a caimans channel is revealed, ploughed amongst the blades and sheaths like soil turned over in a field. No caiman idles by, yet curiosity leads me to push the boat gently inwards, but only for the briefest of moments, for as I look around I see it, the wolf, first one, then two, then… I count and five appear, and they are moving. Their numbers constantly change as they swim onwards, down the lake towards where I am seated. Some moments I can see two, sometimes none, and sometimes all five. Sometimes when they disappear I have to wait and keep scanning the surface, for they can cover some considerable distance underwater, their great flattened tails pummeling a path through the depths. They come ever closer. I sit in anticipation, watching. At about thirty metres they appear to halt, and then the hunt begins. They fish in packs, circling beneath the water so that they shepherd the fish into tight schools, each taking their turn to eat their four kilos. This has earned them their name the wolf of the river, for this social hunting is characteristic of the great wolves of both the northern continent and Europe. Masters in their environment, at the peak of the pyramid the giant river otter is a highly endangered species. Their waterproof pelts and thick fur has made them a prize target for hunters over the years until there was only 1,000 to 3,000 left in the wild. Between 1946 and 1973 over 24,000 pelts were sold from Peru and over 20,000 from Brazil. It is easy to feel morally outraged at this prospect until you remember that one pelt was worth almost an entire years wages to a hunter here. I am reminded of the words of Marc Dourojeanni who is quoted by the eminent biologist Louise Emmons in her Neotropical Rainforest Mammals field guide, “We must assume a profound moral responsibility for the preservation of animal species, whether they are of economic value or not. One cannot contemplate with indifference the disappearance of a single species that can never be recreated, no matter how deeply we might wish to do so”. It is heartening to know that their numbers are now recovering. My boat lies still in the grass, an advantageous position for I am invisible to them I hope. I am mindful of the fact that they are very sensitive to disturbance with stress inhibiting lactation in mothers thereby causing the death of cubs. I maintain my position and respect and watch as they rise to the surface in obvious delight at their meal. They keep their distance, maybe they are aware of me, or maybe that’s simply where the fish are, and besides thirty metres is a good sighting. I’ve been fortunate having the rare pleasure of a two metre fishing encounter, with otters fishing, catching, and chewing the white flesh that’s held within their paws whilst they thread water, their teeth and claws visible reminders of a hunters tools. A white patch beneath their throat identifies the individuals, but I know none of them yet. Maybe I will see them again and be able to tell who is who. I am delighted with this encounter, for the otter can be highly reclusive, sometimes unseen and unheard; it is not uncommon to miss their presence. They den on-land and move through the forest towards fresh water sources. At that point they are most vulnerable, open to predation from the jaguar (Panthera onca) or puma, but in the water they are close to invulnerable. I have seen a caiman stalking otters, and felt no fear for them, for they are easily a match for caiman in agility, a swift strike of the claw to the caimans soft underbelly leading to disembowelment. Their young are the most vulnerable to caimans, only the highly social nature of the otter providing that insurance beyond chance. Rings of water ripple outwards from their rise and rapid descent, circles spreading fort-like through the mirrored landscape. They are happy, chattering, this morning offering them a feast that will keep them through the day. I sense a playfulness arising in their humour, their seriousness satiated by full bellies, their behaviour more physical, more energetic, less organized. I wish that I could swim with such ease, for the feeling of water on the body is beautiful, the caress of a tangible world, and the water here is warm. I envy them their grace for I am not built for that. Time passes and the sun grows high. The otters disappear leaving the lake to my devices. I push myself outwards and head for the modest degree of shade that’s left by the northeastern bank. The boat glides forward in that easy motion, from left to right as I adjust the turn of the paddle. A black anhinga pokes its long snake like neck out of the water as it begins its journey across the lake, sometimes edging forward with that forward backwards motion that hens make when walking, and sometimes diving, fishing as it moves from one side to another. It is a bird, but until it reaches the other side and flies up onto its perch you would be forgiven if you thought it was a strange aquatic serpent. I pass hoatzins (Opisthocomus hoazin), those eerily prehistoric looking birds with ruminant stomachs. There are only a few of them telling me that it is breeding season for they appear in much greater numbers at other times of year. In silence I approach the port where I will begin the trek back home to the lodge, yet one last treat greets me as coatis, raccoon like mammals, run up and down and all throughout a fruiting ubos. It is heavily laden, having produced a good crop and the coatis waste no time in stripping the tree of its fruits. I stop barely twenty metres short of the wooden jetty and watch for a few minutes, mindful of the time and my own hunger. With the boat firmly secured I say goodbye to Lago Sachavacayac and its family of otters and begin walking. The trail twisting along the thin ridge between the regenerating former river path of Lago Sachavacayac and Lago Condenado is a marvel of openness, buttress root, and leaf cutter ant colonies. The depressions on either side make for interesting study and highlight the influence of the rivers movements throughout the ages on the forest structure. Strangler figs, shihuahuacos and manshingas tower skywards, their impressive trunks matched by their spreading roots that force the trail to twist and turn. Pona and huicungo palms appear liberally, in particular the former, its aerial roots earning it the nickname the erotic palm. Tracks litter the landscape here. Tapir tracks freshly laid this morning tempt me to hang around, but the temptation is short lived as my stomach growls earnestly. There is something incredibly soothing about walking slowly, hands in pockets, each step a leisured choice, unforced, considered. I am tempted to whistle, but there is such a cacophony of voices, orchestral in stature, that silence offers the most reward. From time to time I purse my lips and imitate the screaming piha, that most ubiquitous of birds. The first time I heard it I laughed, for it resembles the wolf whistle of the builder to such a degree that you can’t help expect some beautiful woman to be walking past some tree with men wearing no belts hanging from the branches. Instead from a rather dull brown bird that’s rarely seen emanates this construction site choir. It is everywhere, in floodplain, terra firme, it is there ready to greet you with its lude call. The nightingale wren sings its off tone call, descending lower and lower till it’s almost inaudible to the human ear. Beautiful butterflies, dashing dragonflies and dazzling damselflies flutter from flower to flower or dart outrageously from one meal to the next. In the case of the butterflies my salt rich sweat offers a prime attraction and one I do not recognize sits on my shoulder as I walk. And then I hear the alert, the rapid, tensely excited, terrified, deeply uttered hu hu hu hu. I look up and barely twenty metres over my head is a troop of red howler monkeys (Alouatta seniculus), or coto monos as they are known locally. This place has been hunted until recently, and they are terrified, though not at the point of panic which would lead them to bolt. I do not stay long in the spot for I have a deep feeling of kinship, sharing with them a crop of red hair and beard of almost equal colour, and something inside of me wishes to calm them. The only way I know is to leave them in peace. I have seen howler monkeys, both indifferent to humans where they know they are safe, and fleeing at the greatest possible speed where they know we are a danger. These charismatic monkeys are amongst the largest neotropical primates weighing up to eight kilograms. They are covered in red hair, have strong shoulders but a body that narrows significantly towards its legs. A visitors first experience of the red howler monkey is most likely to occur at dawn when the full bloodedly impressive roar of the dominant male fills the forest for several kilometers, leaving the bewildered tourist in bed wondering what manner of beast inhabits the world they have entered. I say goodbye to my friends and wander forward through the old floodplain towards the steep climb of about twenty five metres to drier ground. As the trail twists upwards I witness the march of the red army soldiers off to war. Ants as every child is told are the only other civilization besides humans to make war. They have evolved highly organized societies and in fact can not be truly said to exist as independent individual units. They are the ultimate command control society, dictatorial to a fault so that all is sacrificed towards the success of the colony. The lake surface is not the only mirror in these parts. I stop and look down upon the old floodplain, once the scene of watery expanse as the river flooded; now carrying remnant forest supported by the seasonal deluges that occur in this part of the world. Then onwards I walk, through the Castanal, to keep a date with my wife for lunch. I arrive in Refugio Amazonas, the lodge where we reside and search through some notes for a poem I wrote some time before. Should You Find There’s a place full of promise in the back of my mind, Where dreams become walks and the trees touch the sky, And the hollowed out hours are filled by the rhyme Of the forest of sound, full of colour. And wonder kills reason as all questions of why, Are replaced by the flutter of colour that flies And the call and the clatter of the herd that the eye Follows dancing through leaves by the water. So the towering columns that rise into homes For the laughing and chirping reciting of poems, And songs for the walker who listens and hones All his senses to follow the patter And crash as the tail of the dancer up high Swings its owner from branch to a limb should he try To move quickly to find safe pastures and time To feed peacefully up in the canopy. Photo by: Chris murray