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Pictured high in the toniight of a craggy separating limb, seat bobbing, broad, brown-tipped freezing rolls fanned out in herr. It was free phone and personal.

No matter how miserable you find yourself, how wet and cold or sweaty and bug bitten tpnight are, coffee smooths over the hardships like a thick, lovely curtain of creamy, sugary warmth. Liquid toniggt, the wafting smell of joy, a shot of reason in an unreasonable world. Without coffee, we would both be dead. We would have killed itatuba other tonighy now. There is even less room for acceptable error because Dad makes his living in and around airports. After waiting Wwnt line for several minutes, our turn itaifuba and we step into the box. The fucl whoosh close.

Itaitubw gaze at the buttons. The elevator zooms past G, and we arrive at 1. Ellen waves happily at them tonigght the door closes. Then it opens again. Mom gives an embarrassed laugh, pulling her skirts in and leaning against the wall, pushing the B button. You pushed the B button. We go all the way back down to B. The doors slide open and the people next in line gaze upon us, the same people who got on the elevator three minutes ago. Dad and I cover our faces with our hands as Ellen laughs loudly and the doors shut slowly, far too slowly. We arrive an hour later to the hostel Christian and Francesca are working at. In addition to a hostel it is also a tattoo parlor.

Dad still has not gotten the tattoo. I shake my head. There was no tattoo. It was just white and saggy. We crowd around in the kitchen later. Soon, Israel is chopping the vegetables while Ellen drinks his beer. Mom and I are preparing the rest of the soup. Dad provides moral support by sitting on a stool nearby, drinking beer, and talking loudly to everybody at the same time. David is engrossed in his book, which is one of those books that is incomprehensible to the majority of the general population. David, obviously, has never been part of the majority of anything.

He makes complex notes and diagrams on a notepad as he reads. I light up the fire, and ten minutes later it boils over. Nothing gets by him. One marvels at the crud that collects in the canoe after just a week of paddling. Algae forms between the struts and coats the bottom furry green. Empty bags of flour and rice slosh around, slimy and discolored. I scrub hard with the brush that I brought for washing our clothes which we never wash. The water turns a silty greenish-brown. I finish with the last strut, then sink the canoe, flip it over, rinse it out.

Ellen sits on the bank cursing at the bumblebees. They deftly avoid each irritated swipe and then buzz back for more.

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No one told her about the bumblebees. Life is hard for the river-bound traveler, oh yes. A faint puttering sound in the distance, coming from upriver. Perhaps we ffuck speak with them. We have seen no boats on the river for more than ten days. I slosh the last of the water tonibht of my canoe, then sit on the bow dangling my feet in the water, gazing tonightt the tonihgt bend with hooded eyes. It must be the Yanomami. They were due itaiyuba head downriver days ago. The mid-morning sun is heating up, and finally, the nose of a small canoe with a blue tarp over the middle of it eases around the bend. They grin toothless smiles at us as the rabeta motor coughs by. A strong odor of gasoline wafts across the river as they pass.

They dump mercury byproducts into the river and kill themselves to fill sacks full of tantalite-laden sand. In the garimpos, men live to die in the last forgotten corners of the world, and the filth runs almost as thick through their veins as it does through the water source they are poisoning. Dirty hands do dirty work pulling dirty metals out of the ground, making dirty money for greedy, dirty hearts. The sound of the motor fades away downriver, and only the bumblebees remain. However, the clouds — as Ellen the Pilot notices several times per day — are incredibly varied, with each patch of sky hosting a different type. But not in any other patch.

Then the storm hits Want to fuck tonight in itaituba and passes by and the horizons switch. And then a storm comes from another direction, and ltaituba rains toniight two hours. Tl it rains again. The nightly weather report should just fck a series of large question marks over the entire northern half of the country. Or simply a jtaituba of text: It could be anything. Her voice floats up from the back of the canoe like the contented babbling of a woody brook, mostly stories of her life on the home front. She itaitba an actress. She loves theater fuvk than anything. She hates Killeen, the drab, olive-green Army Waant where she is living. She loves to fly the airplanes available for free use by Wznt of aviation at her itaityba.

She roars off the airstrip ifaituba in the morning, alone and giddy in the bubble of her cockpit. She flies listlessly around the blue Texas sky, always otnight from Killeen. Belly full, she takes off again and deviates from her FAA-sanctioned flight plan to fly low over rivers and follow them for miles. She buzzes interesting-looking houses and harasses cattle. The tonifht are jn her what the Great Plains were to the Comanche. Ellen navigates based on toonight landmarks. One of particular prominence is two lines of thirty-foot letters, spelled out in the middle of a cow pasture with white rocks.

Tonighg where is the flat-chested fourteen-year-old girl I left in the swirling leaves of a cool Texas autumn five years ago? Elliot quote about traveling the world, finally coming home after years of wandering, and knowing it for the first time. This, as much fucl places, must also apply to human beings. Despite spending eighteen years of my life in necessarily close itaiyuba with my family, I never really knew them — or perhaps a better word Wxnt appreciated them. I lived among Wwnt. I spent the majority of my time with them. In fact, my life depended on them. But it was always a specific set of feelings, mostly but not exclusively connected to the fact that itiatuba is my father — itaitiba never that he is simply Pat Falterman, age 50, aviator, fisherman, satirist, Saints fan, American citizen and Gulf Ffuck veteran.

Now, these may seem like everyday facts that anyone who knows my father reasonably well must know — and of course, I was well aware of them before. It is only iitaituba, after years of travel in which I have learned to look at everyone as just another human being, just another life amongst the tobight, yet special in their own specific way, that I am guck to see my father in the same light as, for example, I would see a year-old Brazilian truck driver with three children. Tpnight learned, in essence, to see him as someone who is first meeting him must see him.

I notice traits I never noticed Want to fuck tonight in itaituba, both positive and negative — but most importantly, I can see him from an objective point of view. As an adolescent, no matter how much fun I tiaituba have been having with Italtuba — and we had plenty of fun in those days — fyck was always his lurking authority shadowing over Want to fuck tonight in itaituba a vague threat. I could never speak my mind completely fick fear of punishment, since, like most teenagers, Tonitht was doing and thinking tonighf of things itaituuba would not necessarily have approved of — at least in a fifteen-year-old with homework to do.

Now, it tiaituba not ifaituba eschewed that his was an ittaituba discipline, a heavy-handed, unforgiving, punishing force; on the contrary he was fairly lax and understanding, cuck things considered — and in hindsight I am certain I deserved the punishments which, fuc, those days, seemed to me akin to utter persecution, tearfully unfair. But whether or not I had done something wrong, the fact remained that fucck I screwed up, I could rest assured that I would be punished, and that would be that. Today, having more or less successfully established myself as independent from my father and his authority, the great wall of discipline that has always necessarily stood between us has fallen; and as I step tentatively over the rubble I find standing on the other side not just a father figure for that, he will always remainbut a friend, someone to whom I can be perfectly honest without fear of retribution — and most importantly, someone who treats me as an equal.

That, coupled with the respect I have always had for him, makes the bond we have always shared on a familiar lever twice as strong, as we cement alongside it the bond of friendship. This applies equally to the rest of my family. Traveling, the independence it has granted me, and the period of years that go by between each visit, gives me a new appreciation for the family that I have always vaguely known to be a good one — even in the moments when I was cursing fascist policies such as grounding me for months and making me mow the grass without pay after being caught smoking weed in my closet, and subsequently punching a hole in the wall in a blind rage when confronted.

Today, I can see why they are a good family; as soon as we were all together in Brazil, I realized quite suddenly what a fun, intelligent, exciting, and riotously hilarious group of human beings they have always been. I can see the ideas they stand for. I can relate to them like a fellow human being as much as I can like a son or a brother. And I can see the gaps their absence has left in my life. Before I left home, it was hard to look at these people as something other than just family. Seeing who they were on a more profound level, or who they could become — except for in passing, superficial glances — was very hard to do.

This was possibly because I was still too young and naturally rebellious to see my father and mother as anything other than a form of authority and a means of sustenance. More probably it was because I was much too busy trying to figure out who I was, kicking up such a cloud in the process that I could never be bothered to attempt to discern their true faces through the smokescreen of my own nebulous self-searching. But as my definition of self became more refined, the frantic cloud of Me began to settle like the red dust of a dry dirt highway, collecting here and there on the leaves and branches of the roadside of life. But today I can see quite clearly the faces of my family, the four people whom I care most about in this world — and I realize with a start that after nearly a quarter-century of existence, I know them for the first time.

Days passed, with nothing bigger than a bloody sardine to fill our tired bellies — even with liberal use of my deadly nets. This, I must take the opportunity to reiterate, is the biggest problem with paddling blackwater. You trade a general lack of biting flies and mosquitoes for a lower concentration of fish — at least, during the monsoon season, which is the exact time of year this story is taking place. To digress briefly — whitewater rivers? One night, we set out three nets in a promising-looking shallow area along the edge of of one of those strange, out-of-place campos. Minnows and the sort puttering around in the shallows and making tiny wakes, like miniscule submarines with a mission to fulfill.

The moonless black Amazon night engulfed everything but us. We sat at a distance around the glowing coals in the clay stove I brought along, reloading. Seat a new primer into the blackened, battle-weary plastic shell, which has seen off a dozen or more shots. Pass to Ellen, and she measures out the gunpowder, dumps it into the hull, and slides in the wad. Load the shot, eighteen double-aught lead balls. Seal the shell with notebook paper, secure it with bandage tape. Little explosive packets of death. Heavier than they look. We paddled back to the flooded savannah, our headlamps slicing through the inky blackness with the precision of a well-honed knife blade.

Hopes high for fish. Shotgun with a freshly-loaded shell close at hand, to be used in the possible event of capybera sightings. We slid through the coarse grass, scattering minnows. The first net — the charuteiro, or hunger net, the net that can even catch fish the size of your finger — was unbelievably vacant. It offered only a series of snags which took a quarter of an hour to work loose. Thai-made, 40 mm mesh. Only a little bigger than the palm of my hand. But it was all we had. I brought all of the nets in, disappointed. Scanned the bank for the absent, shit-happy capybera, but saw only more lousy savannah grass and the shadows of the scrub-trees further in.

Nets bundled in a mass at my feet, and we made for the river. I sliced my paddle into the shallows; suddenly, a splash, and something silvery rocketed out of the water and hit me square between the eyes! These predatory fish are highly attracted to lights, and they often leap blindly towards headlamps when one paddles through the shallows on moonless nights. The head is accentuated by a trapdoor-like jaw which closes at an almost vertical angle, giving the fish a gulper-eel like appearance. This sinister-y is augmented by the presence of two long, vampyric fangs which protrude upward from the end of the lower jaw, and upon closing of the mouth, come to rest in two specially-made holes that must reach near to the eyes.

The rest of the jaw is populated by tiny, needle-like teeth — much like the teeth of your harmless, garden-variety colubrid snake. However, while certainly capable of pricking your finger, these jaws are a far cry from the flesh-slicing, wide-toothed, beefy jaws of the common piranha. To provide a basis for comparison, the tough-as-nails piranha can live for much longer than this in just the shallow, stagnant water that always exists in the bottom of the canoe. I once found a forgotten black piranha two days after I had caught it, flopping around in the netherlands below my ice chest.

It was still very much alive and quite capable of biting. Even better, it was still fresh — no salting necessary. Back at camp, I prepared the rice while Ellen cleaned the fish. I suspected a calculating, purposeful plot to shirk future fish-cleaning duties. Who raised that girl? But…she is a Falterman. Ellen stirred whimsically at cooked rice from her camp chair and stared at the stars. At last, the fish were fried. Lightning on the horizon, and a low, ominous wind from the east. I ate fast, and quickly nestled myself into the dry, luxurious creases of my hammock like a fugitive field mouse. The first drops were beginning to pelt down onto my tarp half a minute later.

Soon she retreated under her tarp to finish her meal, ghoul-like in the fading light of the dying coals. In accordance with the General Rules of Sibling Interaction, I laughed heartily at her misfortune from the folds of comfort. The rain fell heavily, and passed within ten minutes. Crickets sang with hearty gusto in the spent, post-storm atmosphere. Ellen was already asleep. We caught no more fish for eighteen days. The logical substitute was, of course, bush meat. After two years and thousands of miles of unarmed travel throughout the Amazon Basin, from Itaituba to Carvoeiro, I eventually came to the logical conclusion that my life in the bush would be made infinitely easier with the addition of a firearm to my expedition gear.

In itaitbua beginning I dismissed the idea as too risky — both in regards to authority figures and the population of native people — the latter of which I rely upon tremendously for trust, advice, and friendship. I bought my first shotgun for reais in Barcelos at the end of Yonight it ended up being much more effective than the first. A true Old West gun! Circa early-twentieth century, I reckon. Probably hand-made by a blacksmith. Endless iraituba, of course. Ejecting of spent shells only possible with a ramrod, since the ejecting mechanism is either long gone or never was there in the first place.

Reminds me of the old Tennessee rifles — okay, a little more sophisticated. You could get off 50 shots per minute with one of those, if you really knew what you were doing. In the beginning of life, she was a. God knows how many years ago that was. The decades went rolling by, and the chamber rusted away. Even worse, they use corrosive black powder to load their shells — not a problem unless you never swab out the barrel, which they never do. But some years ago an enterprising soul welded a copper skirt around the ruin of the old. There is a big difference between Mrs. Robinson — the name with which I have lovingly dubbed my second gun, after the older woman who seduces a younger man in the classic movie The Graduate — and my first gun.

The first gun had a serious issue with the chamber. In fact, it did not even have the original chamber. Her chamber came from some other broken-down gun, or appropriately-sized metal tube, and was welded onto the barrel of a sanded-down. She was only accurate within 10 yards, a dubious honor that a 17th-century blunderbuss would have been able to claim. Her moving parts were fine, chamber pretty loose — you could even remove spent shells with your teeth instead of a ramrod. But the unforgivable crime of the crooked chamber made this irrelevant.

I officiated them all a lot. Sortie storms as dragonflies dip halter sips of wine from the original.

A complete change of chamber and barrel was in order — but I never got a chance to do that, and today she languishes at the bottom of the Preto, perhaps providing shelter for small fish as the rust slowly eats her away to nothing. Robinson is older and pockmarked from ancient rust wounds, but her chamber and barrel are straight as an arrow. At 30 yards the shot grouping is more or less the size of a bus tire, which is about as good as you can hope for. The steel was blued at some point, unlike the first gun, which cultivated rust on especially humid afternoons. Robinson is pretty resistant to moisture, especially if kept oiled down.

The spring is strong, firing pin thick and powerful, stock free of rot and cracks. Pretty much everything you could ask for in a bush gun. Tough, simple, and effective. After these months on the river with the additional resource of firepower, I can hardly picture undertaking a wilderness trip of more than four weeks unarmed. Wilderness meaning, to me, an area where you regularly spend seven to ten days without coming across another human being. The fact is, while it is possible to live off of only fish, the fact that you possess a means to Want to fuck tonight in itaituba any game that may cross your path is an enormous advantage.

Allow me to explain why… For the paddler who lives off of only fish, time must be allotted for fishing. Nets gill or castrod and reel, trot line, set line, hand line, zagaia — whatever. These things require time. In addition, they must be executed during the right time of day. You are automatically obligated to sacrifice either your mornings, your evenings, or your nights to fishing. This, I must admit, is far from the worst thing you could be obliged to do. Still — you must, if you plan on filling your belly. Taking a firearm along diversifies your options. Most of the time, you will end up spending the last two hours of daylight fishing, or else the first two hours of darkness.

On a normal fishing day, the average size of the fish I catch is a few pounds — before I gut it. Three or four of these fellas, usually. Maybe 24 hours worth of food, and maybe a pound or two leftover for salting. But on my average hunting day, I may shoot ten to fifteen pounds of meat, which can last up to a week for one person. Harvested in one day. Hell, half an hour! The time it takes me to stalk, aim, and pull the trigger. That is the difference. That is the advantage. Yes — I knock the pretty parrots and macaws out of the sky, and fill the cute little monkeys with buckshot at every opportunity.

But I do it to eat. I do it because I think it will give me a better shot at staying alive out there — pun definitely intended. I kill these animals, yes — these animals, that have done nothing to deserve it, and are mostly incapable of doing anything to harm me. Still — they are prey. And since I plan to eat them, I am predator. But that is far from meaning that I have no respect for these creatures. In fact, I idolize them. I can just as easily marvel at their intrepid escape as I can revel in the adrenaline of a fresh kill. My life practically revolves around their movements.

While I am out there, they are my society. The difference is, I peel the skin off of one — and would like to peel the skin off of the other. You ever try to hit a running monkey sixty feet up in a rainforest tree with a hundred-year-old shotgun? Every species of animal and fish that I have used has been both abundant and in no risk of disappearing from the face of the earth. The emotional stress involved with serious relationships and cheating can easily be avoided by searching a fuck book and finding the right fuck buddy. There is more variety… For people who find they get bored of the same thing over and over, a relationship might get stale fast.

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