“ ‘Tatinga do not name a baby for one year. They do not want to love a baby if they think it dies. Tatinga love their ancestors. The ones who die are burned. Mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers. Their bones are crushed and put in a drink and everybody drinks it every day until all is gone. Tatinga are fierce, and they kill you if they are angry and you never see them. You are just dead. They do not hate you. They want to live. They want to be alone in the jungle, but there are men of opportunity. There are Frannies. There are ribereños, river people, other villages like Ayachero. Everybody has an empty stomach.’ ” He stopped. “That’s all, Lily.”

My heart was close to bursting with how much I loved the way he saw the jungle and everyone in it, but I just said, “Very good, my favorite student,” and kissed him slowly.

A high-pitched whine sounded from upriver. In minutes, a longboat outfitted with a cheap motor (called a peke peke because of the sound it made) buzzed around a turn and headed straight toward us, the face of its driver hidden under a filthy golf cap. The sound heartened me with its whiff of civilization, a reminder of the outside world. We scrambled down the rope ladder and made our way to the shore.

I forgot the mosquitos droning in my ears as we watched the boat carve across clay-colored currents, its rear hull freighted with rubberized bags and wooden crates. The lip of the gunwale hovered just inches from the water as the boat putt-putted toward us, only the thrust from its egg-beater motor keeping the whole works from taking on water.

The driver lifted his face out from the shadow of his hat, which read, US OPEN, 1974, and smiled. His face was immediately appealing: a strong jaw, bright eyes, short hair slicked back with lots of tonka-seed oil. He wore red gym shorts and a faded Hawaiian shirt open to reveal a big tin cross on a leather cord. He was bulky in the shoulders and chest, but one of his legs looked thin and weak.

Waving and calling to Omar, he drove the boat right up onto the shore before cutting the motor. With the use of a twisted cane, he pushed himself up to his full height and stepped out of the boat. Unlike most villagers, who went around barefoot or wore cheap flip-flops, he sported plastic Colombia-made loafers with bright, gold-painted buckles, and seemed conscientious about keeping them as dry and mud-free as possible. Omar ran down to greet him, lifting him up into the air with a joyful embrace before setting him back down on the spit of sand.

“Fucking Omar, my man!” the man said. “Look at you! You’re an old man now, over.”

Omar beamed. “This is my wife, Lily.”

The river driver turned to me. I couldn’t guess his age; a dozen smile lines crowded his mouth and eyes; I instantly liked him just for smiling at me.