“I am called For God’s Sake,” the man said, reaching out to shake my hand. “You have a good husband here,” he added, winking at Omar. “A great hunter. You will always be safe, never be hungry, over.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s good to hear.”

Omar caught my eye. “For God’s Sake is the best river driver around. He worked for years in a Baptist mission in La Paz. He ran the radio operation there.”

“It’s true,” For God’s Sake said, smiling with his three teeth on top, two on the bottom. A thin mustache, carefully tended, tented his upper lip. “This is where I learn Portuguese, this is where I learn English so well. I am the radio guy, over.”

Omar joined the other men who had begun to unload For God Sake’s boat, which was brimming with supplies: canisters of gasoline, cooking oil, sacks of dried corn, lentils, pasta, salt, boxes of cigars and matches. For God’s Sake climbed back on board and reached under his seat, extracting plastic bags of wrapped candy, which he held in the air, smiling. The kids—all who seemed to know the importance of showing up for Santa Claus—swarmed him, laughing and jumping up to grab peppermints and caramels from his hands. He good-naturedly pushed them back, making sure each child got at least one piece before tying the bags and stuffing them back under heavy sacks of rice and onions. The kids ran off and sat on the hardened mud in ecstasy as they ate their treats.

“I heard about Benicio. So sad. So terrible. I am sorry to miss the funeral. I was in La Paz. But when I heard you came back,” For God’s Sake said to Omar, “I rush here. The Frannies need things, too, yes. I have to come for them. But really, for you is my reason. Ten years is a long time, brother. Lots of changes, okay? And now I see I almost miss you, with your hunting, but good thing I catch you, over.” His eyes twinkling, he held up one finger as in, hold on a minute, and clambered back in the longboat, where he wrapped his arms around a barrel keg and lifted it to one shoulder. “I think it’s still cold, over.”

Word spread fast. Several young men—whooping—ran down to the shore. One grabbed the keg from For God’s Sake and sprinted with it—stopping midstride to dance a sort of jig before continuing up the hill to the Anaconda Bar. Someone cranked the tunes to stun, masking the sounds of cups and glasses slamming on the wooden counter. Macaws dipped and soared in the air above us, shrieking and sobbing as they landed on the muddy banks, their turquoise-and-orange wings folding like living fans.

Shrugging, the women abandoned their weaving or food preparation and headed up to the bar, their children running and playing and pulling at their skirts. Grinning like he won the lottery, Panchito moved faster than I’d ever seen him, throwing his arms around the men who, laughing, picked him up and tossed him a few feet up the hill, alcohol making fast friends of everyone.