“Omar, I can’t eat this,” I said softly.

The villagers watched, solemn, cheeks bulging, chewing their food with great energy. On wide clay plates, fish pounded into a gray paste and spread on mashed, fried manioc was folded into a kind of pancake. Youngsters leaned over and tore off pieces of it, cramming it into their mouths, while older women sat with their own share, flaccid breasts pointing straight down, jaws pumping. Bowls of the soup were being passed around as well; only Splitfoot also had a monkey paw. He picked it up and chewed it with his mouth open, obviously relishing its crunch. He never took his eyes off me.

Omar leaned into me and whispered, “They gave you what they consider the best part. Eat it.”

The flames of the cooking fire danced on the circle of warm flesh. Masato was passed around in rough bowls; at the time I only knew the smell—pickles, cloves—turned my stomach. Later I learned the drink was made by women chewing yucca and spitting it out into a trough, where it fermented. Everyone drank it, even the children; my portion sat festering and popping next to my monkey soup. Omar drank his, wiping the stringy remains from his mouth; his bowl was quickly refilled, which for some reason gave me hope—was this all for us?—until I realized this meal was in celebration of the fact that their hunters had returned alive, and with game, just as we celebrated when the same thing happened in Ayachero. We were a diversion, but nothing to celebrate, nothing compared to food.

MiddleEye finished his meal and went to sit opposite another hunter by the fire. Cross-legged, he picked up a three-foot section of bamboo and stuffed it with something from a pouch before settling the tube in his mouth. Just as the other man lifted the pipe’s opposite end and rested it against his nostril, MiddleEye took a breath and blew hard. The man snorted and fell back with a groan, which seemed theatrical but perhaps wasn’t; recovered, he packed the pipe with powder, and did MiddleEye the same favor. Mouth open and panting noisily, MiddleEye got to his feet and began to dance and spin, shooting looks at me with eyes like dark, empty tunnels.

Half a dozen men got to their feet. They snaked around the fire in a halting dance, taking two steps forward, one jump back; three steps forward, two jumps back. Some wore breechcloths, some belts made from the skins of small spotted cats—ocelot or margay. Countless seed necklaces clattered together at their necks and chests, intertwined with hand mirrors and nail files and other small gifts from the Frannies. Some wore fantastic harpy eagle headdresses over four feet high. Young boys pounded drums covered with the skins of giant leopard frogs. I felt caught in prehistory, before speech or time.

I turned to Splitfoot and asked in Spanish, “Why don’t you ask spirits of the plants?”

His eyes burned into me, at the monkey’s hand I couldn’t bring myself to touch. “Because they will not answer me.”