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The women announced that we would eliminate breakfast and lunch to make better time.It was their decision since they were doing the cooking; it was too much of a chore tomake a fire in the damp Amazonian forest.We would get up at four-thirty in the morning, have coffee, and walk twenty-fivekilometers until about three-thirty in the afternoon. It was an ass buster, absolutely. Thetrocha went up and down, up and down. We would arrive at a river to find no bridge andhave to figure out how to cross. We had to be aware of the possibility that the bearersmight steal something or desert us. In spite of the exertion, the days were an exquisiteimmersion in the truly immense and vibrant forest through which we were passing. Allday long on the second day we pushed forward against our flagging energies. At last wereached a shelter similar to the one we had used the night before. It was set on the top ofa small hill just beyond a crude bridge arching a small river. After dark, around the fire,we smoked and talked long into the night, anticipating the adventure soon to come thatwe could sense but not yet imagine. The Witoto bearers unfolded their leaf-wrappedpackets of food and ate apart from us, friendly but distant.Toward the afternoon of the fourth day, the bearers were visibly excited in anticipation ofour arrival at La Chorrera. During one of our breaks, Vanessa pointed out a rainbow thatlay directly over the path we were traveling. The appropriate jokes were made and wehoisted our loads and hurried onward. In a few minutes we were walking throughsecondary forest and shortly thereafter emerged on the edge of a huge clearing of roughpasture. Mission buildings could be seen across this expanse. As we walked into theclearing, an Indian came to meet us. We spoke with him haltingly in Spanish, and then hespoke to our bearers rapidly in Witoto and started off with us in the direction from whichhe had come.We passed through a space fenced by a wood enclosure and across a semi-enclosedcourtyard, perhaps a ballcourt. On the walls of this enclosure were paintings in temperaof cartoon elves with pointed ears. We were led finally to the back porch of a moresubstantial wooden building that was obviously the priest's house. Ahuge man, bearded and bearish, emerged in his shirt sleeves. Peter Ustinov could haveplayed him to perfection. A basically merry person, he nevertheless did not seem happyto see us. Why were these people always so withdrawn? Something about not likinganthropologists—but we were basically botanists: how could we put that across? Ourreception was hospitable and correct. We asked no more, and as we hung our hammocksin the empty guest house to which we were shown, there was a sense of relief among usall at having reached our destination.CHAPTER FOUR