This fellow scared me. He wasn’t friendly or particularly welcoming. But after a few days I assume he warmed to our presence in the village because he sent a dish of pork tartar to our table. The raw pork was heavily spiced with garlic and chilies but I wasn’t brave enough to try it. Who needs an intestinal problem in the middle of the jungle?
But still I felt his power and the respect accorded to him by the village. I’m currently reading Rumours of Glory, an autobiography written by Canadian musician Bruce Cockburn, and his wise words seem apropos:
“My travels have immeasurably informed my understanding of world events, of peoples, of the ways that rivers move through landscapes. The songs are made of these things. Without travel I could only marginally understand geopolitics, reflect on deforestation only as a concept rather than as a mountainside bleeding soil, see only in photographs the eyes of an old woman who has lived her entire life at thirteen thousand feet of elevation, who has seen ten of her thirteen children die before reaching adulthood.”