Omar winked at me, dropping his arm over my shoulder as we followed For God’s Sake up the hill to open the keg and drink every last drop of cold beer, which turned out to be Michelob ULTRA light lager. I was learning fast that the best policy in the jungle was to take whatever bounty comes to you, when it comes to you. There was something sweet about it. Pleasure was here, why wait? It was just nine o’clock in the morning.

Three hours later, the children rolled the keg down the hill to the shore, where they filled it with river water and poured it over their heads. Several of the men lay passed out snoring in hammocks or slumped over the bar. Hard to believe the beer accomplished this; no doubt some private stash of pisco had been broken out as well. The bullying heat of the day had ramped up, and most of the women had gone off into the shade to peel vegetables or skin game. Several couples had disappeared into their huts, burpy and happy and ready for love.

Meanwhile, I won a seat at the Anaconda Bar between Omar and For God’s Sake.

“I am Tatinga,” he said, taking a long, slow drink of his beer after I asked him about himself. “But because of this”—he glanced down at his deformed leg—“they didn’t want me there. So when I was sixteen years old, I came to Ayachero. Your husband Omar here helped me, he was my good friend. He was just twelve. Can you imagine that? But he made sure I had food, he made sure I had a place to sleep. He had to fight his mother for that, right, Omar?” Both men laughed and shook their heads at the memory. “I learned Spanish, fast. I taught him Tatinga. But I can’t hunt, so there was nothing for me here. I went to La Paz and found the mission. I learned English. I speak Tatinga, Spanish, English, Quechua, some Portuguese. Very helpful for communications. But the mission lost funding. I was very sad. I had a wife and two kids, one coming. I thought, what can I do? What do I like to do? And I think: boats, always boats. I am the best river driver, everybody knows about that. I know every branch, every creek, every lake, all the habits of the river. In my head there is a wet season map and a dry season one, and I can steer a full boat through any weather. They are my neighborhood streets. I am your river driver man.” He tipped his glass at me. “So why do you come to be here, over?”

I looked at Omar and smiled.

“Yes, yes,” he said with a touch of impatience, “but what is your, I don’t know how to say, but in Tatinga, it means, purpose in life? Your—we call it ca’ah—over?” He smiled and searched my face, as if he really wanted to know. Curiosity made him handsome. “You know, Lily, there is everything that we do, and see, and talk about, but then there is ca’ah—why we do these things, the reason, what is pushing us, pulling us, what are we looking for, what makes us go, do you understand this, over?”