“What do they eat?”

“Seeds, nuts, fruits, leaves, things like that. Easy to find.”

The men called to Omar. Held up full glasses of pale yellow liquid. He took me by the elbow. “Come on, let’s get something to eat. Then I have another surprise for you.”

I followed him up the hill, carrying the little macaw babies. Thick slabs of freshly butchered tapir dropped fat into the bonfire; nearby, its head boiled in a cauldron to harvest every ounce of meat. A few more fires sprang to life; smoking racks were erected in minutes. The dogs circled them, yipping at one another.

Every seat at the Anaconda Bar was taken, filled with men drinking a sugarcane brandy saved for just this occasion. Some of the bigger kids had started up a betting game with a foot-long bamboo rat they’d caught in the manioc fields. They’d built three tiny little houses out of thatch, each with an opening on one side, each with a different colored splash of paint on its roof, and put the whole miniature village under a big wire cage with a hole on top. People would bet on which color hut the rat would choose, once dropped through the hole: pink, green, or yellow. Soon the adults joined in; losers had to buy the other a drink or cigarettes.

Couples began to dance, throwing themselves around on the hard earth, pressing close to each other, a hundred voices raising up to the night sky, the jungle echoing back its own insanity: shrieks, howls, hoots. But all this joy felt forced and hollow and slightly hysterical. Even as drinks were raised and toasts made, everyone complained that the haul was not enough, the poachers were taking all the game and destroying the forest; the hunters would have to go out again, soon, travel farther, stay away longer, and what sort of life was that?

After nestling the little birds in a bed of corn silk in an old rice sack in the storeroom, I sat on the longhouse stairs near the bar, watching Omar drink with the men, downing my own glass of brandy until it started to taste good and even the fastest conversations translated effortlessly in my mind. Still, the scene felt out of balance, tipped toward mania, dangerous. I got up and made my way through the crowd, looking for something to eat.

Franz ran by me, sweating, frantic looking. “Have you seen Anna?”

“Not since this morning.”

Barely listening, he tore off to the longhouse and up the stairs. I ran between the huts, calling for her, even went down to the beach where the black river rolled by ominously. My heart pounded as I recalled the way Anna had been avoiding everyone, doing her washing or ironing off by herself, then disappearing into her hut, face drawn and closed.

Others took up calling for her, until everyone had set aside their celebrating. The dancing stopped; partners separated, breathless, to watch the show, canned music still jangling up into the night. Beyond the village lights, unseen creatures slithered, crept, stalked, fornicated, glowed with chemical life.