fourth day in the rainforest

The boatman has to weave at a moderate speed between trees that have fallen into the water, occasionally lifting the motor out of the river. On a dry branch jutting out of the water a pinkish snake lies sprawled, a rusty whipsnake. We can see it, but it cannot see us: it is in the middle of shedding its skin and is temporarily blind.
In the forest there is a lek for parrots. They come to drink mineral-rich water that seeps out of a cliff. One has to keep quiet, because the parrots carefully inspect the surroundings before coming down to the ground. Orange-cheeked parrots arrive, green-bodied birds with black heads and orange cheeks. When they open their wings, flashes of red, yellow and blue appear. They spend a long time shifting about on the branches and preening. Eventually a whole flock gathers below at the mouth of a little cave where the flowing water has carved a groove into the soil. Bracing their feet on the edges of the channel, some birds climb over those drinking closer to the cave entrance. A few dark-grey doves also appear. When the parrots leave, we have sandwiches and mandarins.
We rattle back out into the Tiputini River and travel a short distance outside the park to the centre of the Mandaripanga community. Around a grassy field stand brightly painted classrooms for the primary school, newly completed toilets, and the teachers’ houses. A roofed open structure a little farther away serves as a kind of community hall. People gather there for communal work parties (minga in Kichwa) and other joint affairs. There is very little trash lying around. More farther on, a grandmother lives in a house surrounded by a vegetable garden; she used to live where our camp now stands. Under the high roof it is pleasantly cool, and in the midday heat both family members and chickens gather there.
The younger generation speaks only Spanish, more precisely Castilian. The Kichwa language has not been passed on to them, nor is it taught in the village school. In this way the link with the grandparents is severed, so they can no longer tell their grandchildren stories from the old days. People have decided to let their culture disappear.
These people are trying to preserve two species of river turtles: the spotted yellow-spotted river turtle and the larger arrau turtle, South America’s giant river turtle. The eggs are carefully collected from the sandy riverbanks, the hatchlings are allowed to emerge safely, and when the plastron on their underside has hardened enough, they are released into the river. The most dangerous predator for turtles is human. For ten dollars you can release a turtle yourself. The money is used for boat fuel and other turtle-conservation expenses. A pleasantly organized way of asking for donations. We take three tiny shelled creatures with us in a small yellow bucket and release them at our camp where they go to seek their fortunes in the wide world. These palm-sized animals intend to grow to half a meter in length, and even then they will still be small compared with the giant turtle.
In the evening we glide across a small lagoon in a wooden canoe that at first resembles more of a bathtub. In the sense that not all the water is outside it. The lagoon is dark and the water motionless, calmly reflecting the plants along the shore. Shapes flickering back and forth overhead turn out to be bats. They land on the trunk of a fallen tree and disappear. It takes me a while to realize that the spots on the trunk are bats themselves. The pig-like squealing from the shore comes from hoatzin, dinosaur-like birds that have claws on their wings. No caimans or anacondas are to be seen.
At nightfall, in the washroom a loud cockroach-killing campaign takes place, accompanied by vigorous banging.