Heading up the Pixaim at first light the following morning, we encountered herds of capybaras almost immediately after setting out. Groups of the world’s largest rodent grudgingly made way for our small aluminum skiff. A South American native that is most assuredly not in danger of extinction, capybaras are as prolific as any of their much smaller relations. They are also reputed to be good eating, though I have somehow missed every opportunity to find out for myself. More than anything, they look and act like giant semiaquatic guinea pigs. Grunting as they alerted one other of our approach and shaking the water from their thick brown fur, they would scramble on their stubby legs up onto one bank or the other and cluster there to observe our passage.
The Pantanal is an Eden for birds, especially for water birds. In addition to both jabirus and wood storks, as we continued upriver we recorded brown ibises, egrets, and white-throated herons. Red-crested cardinals flashed crimson against blue sky while white-necked kingfishers seemed to occupy every other tree branch overhanging the narrow river. Turquoise-throated parrots took pride in periodically shattering the silence with their raucous cries. Overhead, a single black cacique performed aerial acrobatics in the course of its search for prey. Meanwhile clusters of six- to eight-foot-long white caimans sunned themselves on the banks. Watching them, I was mindful of the secret desire I had not revealed to my traveling companion Gil or to our boatman.
But where were the otters? Atypically “cool” weather or not, it was plenty hot in the open metal boat. We slugged down liters of water and promptly sweated it all back out.
Each bend in the river exposed one wonderful new sight after another. A rookery tree growing right at the water’s edge was home to more than a thousand snowy egrets. Several brilliantly dark blue hyacinth macaws, the largest member of the parrot family, soared past on three-foot wings, their presence belying their highly-endangered status throughout their range.
As I leaned to my left to peer over the side of the speeding boat, I reflected that there might be a dozen giant otters swimming along just beneath our keel and we would be utterly unaware of their presence. Like so many South American streams, the Pixaim was a blackwater river. Blackwater rivers are known as such because they are suffused with tannin, a substance produced by decaying vegetation that turns the water dark. The upper reaches of such rivers have the color of iced tea or Coca-Cola. In fact, tannins are present in strong tea, as well as in red wine and certain fruits. Cruising along a river rich in tannins, it is impossible to see more than a foot down into the depths.
Most of the morning had passed when eventually we turned yet another bend in the river and found ourselves confronted by a small boat. Its bow and stern were occupied by swarthy men wielding long cane poles. They might have been fishermen anywhere in the world save for their catch, which consisted of several exotic catfish and some two dozen piranhas. Piranhas, by the way, are quite tasty. Lots of small bones, and they taste a lot like trout. Best when pan-fried in butter, with salt and pepper to taste.
Had they seen any otters? After motoring upriver all morning, we were not sanguine. Raising an arm, the man in the bow pointed straight ahead and replied in Portuguese. Knowing only a few words of the local language, I turned questioningly to my guide and friend.
Gil was looking past me. “He says they’re right over there, in the reeds.”
I whirled. So as not to frighten away the fishermen’s quarry, our boatman had cut our engine when we had drawn near. We were drifting forward with the slight current—and in the right direction.
Searching for the lean, hydrodynamic shapes I had seen before in oxbow lakes in Peru, at first I could see nothing but murky water and thick green growth. Then, there it was: an almost doglike head atop a body covered in short golden-brown fur splotched with decorative white on the neck and chest. The watchful, intelligent eyes turned speculatively toward us as their owner bobbed vertically up and down in the water, spy-hopping. Diving and then reappearing, several otters were working their way through the reed bed where they were hunting. I spotted another, and then another. There were perhaps half a dozen—definitely a family group or part of a larger one.
We had been sitting in silence and delighting in their antics for maybe ten minutes when Gil, who had been chatting as softly as possible with the fishermen, whispered to me, “They say this group will take fish from them, but only if it’s really fresh. Will you buy a piranha?”
My expression must have been glowing. I replied positively.
By tossing bits of fresh-cut piranha into the water in our direction, the fishermen managed to coax several of the otters closer to our boat. One especially bold individual came right up alongside, rearing a foot or more of its muscular body up above the surface and chirping at us for all the world like a puppy begging for a biscuit. Once when it came particularly close, I cautiously reached out toward the giant otter. It drew back about a foot before lurching sharply up and forward again. Having over the years grown more than a little fond of my fingers, and needing all of them in order to type efficiently, I quickly pulled my hand back.
Below the surface in a tannin-obscured river, what would wriggling human fingers look like to a giant otter? Alien primate digits—or tempting small fish? I resolved to keep my fingers pressed together as much as possible while I was treading water. Because I had every intention of going in.
I turned to Gil. “Ask them if any of them have ever tried to go swimming with the otters.”
The response to my inquiry was immediate and succinct. “They say they don’t know of anybody who has tried it.”
I debated with myself. “What do they think of the idea?”
Once more, Gil queried the fishermen. I saw one of them smile and shrug. “They say you can do whatever you want.”
Not much help there. But nothing especially discouraging, either. Nothing along the lines of, “You can do whatever you want, but last week the otters ate my cousin’s sister.”
At such decisive moments in life, one often finds oneself not only isolated in intention, but in information. I had nothing to guide me; there was little in the available literature about the pros and cons of actually swimming with Pteronura brasiliensis. Now, confronted with the actual opportunity to do so, there was even less. I knew that people had interacted safely with giant otters they had rescued, and Cousteau père infamously had one aboard his ship during the filming of his Amazon adventure. But these were wild otters. They were not orphaned cubs that had been raised by surrogate human parents, and they were not injured animals that had been devotedly nursed back to health. They were entirely undomesticated.
But this family group had become at least partially habituated to a human presence due to being fed by the local fishermen. As long as they didn’t mistake any wavering parts of me for a choice bit of filleted piranha, I should be all right. At least, that was what I told myself. Repeatedly. My concern at the prospect of being bitten was not the damage that might result from a bite itself, but the possible reaction of other hungry dwellers in the depths of the Pixaim that might be attracted to any such inadvertent bloody offering.
Do this, I told myself, or go home and forever wonder what might have been.
I started to slip out of my shirt and shorts. Underneath, I had worn a swimsuit in anticipation and in hope of being able to fulfill my long-held dream. Now that I was confronted with the reality, however, I found myself moving much more slowly. It wasn’t the prospect of possible hostility on the part of the otters that held me back. It was not even the undeniable presence of piranhas in the river as confirmed by the fishermen’s catch. It was the river itself. Because of the tannins, I would be lucky to be able to see my submerged hand in front of me once I was immersed in the shadowy water.
Gil was watching me carefully. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I nodded. “I want to. I have to.”
He said nothing more. Neither did our boatman. Seeing me stripped down to my swimsuit but still lingering in the ski
ff, the two fishermen were looking at me and murmuring among themselves. How could I back out now? I asked myself. I’d look like a fine idiot in front of these two men. I had no choice. By revealing my swimsuit I had committed myself. Or might find myself committed, when I got back home to tell the story. If I got back home to tell the story.
Although our little outboard was small, it suddenly seemed an amazingly long way over the side and down to the water. There was, of course, no ladder. Bare feet first, I slipped myself over the gunwale. The silvery metal was as hot against my belly and chest as the water crawling up my legs was cool. I would readily have enjoyed a swim if I had not been so uncertain as to the nature of my fellow swimmers. Hanging on to the side with both hands, ready to pull myself back into the boat at a moment’s notice, I looked around anxiously, not nearly as cool as the water in which I was presently submerged. Viewed from eye level, the river in which I now found myself looked even darker. Blackwater, indeed. I could see into it to a depth of about six inches. Below that, all was chilly, wet, absolute gloom. What was swimming around down there, out of view and just under my feet? What might have been attracted by the disturbance of my entry? I had no idea how deep the river was at this place.
Nothing nibbled my toes. A curious caiman would most likely approach on the surface and could be spotted by those around me. I had the benefit of four lookouts on two boats. But I continued to hang onto the side, unwilling as yet to abandon the safety offered by the skiff.
I looked up at Gil. “Can you see them? Where are they?”
He shook his head. “I think maybe they went away when you entered the water.”
All this preparation, all this mental anguish, I thought, for nothing? A part of me was relieved—but the other, the larger part, was crushed. I was on the verge of climbing back into the boat when Gil unexpectedly and with a tinge of excitement in his voice announced, “No, one is still here.”
I spun around in the water, one hand gripping the gunwale tightly. I could feel the strain in my arm. “Where?” My eyes practically level with the surface, I couldn’t see a damn thing.
Gil pointed. “Over there. It’s coming straight toward you!”
I whirled, swirling water around me. Nothing. I couldn’t see anything in the river.
“It just went down,” Gil alerted me.
Something struck my right thigh. Reflexively, I jerked upward. Gil’s tone was suddenly anxious.
“It bite you?”
“No.” I took careful stock of my leg and its immediate vicinity. “No. Just bumped me.” I noticed that Gil was staring straight down as he activated the video camera. Delight replaced concern in his voice.
“I can see it clearly. It’s right next to you. This is wonderful!”
I looked around; I looked down. I couldn’t . . . see . . . anything. My frustration knew no bounds. “Where?” I pleaded. “Where is it?”
“Right beside you—oh, it’s gone now.”
I slowed my frantic turning. Evidently I had been the recipient of a rare and spectacularly close encounter—except that I had seen none of it.
“There, behind you!” Gil was looking past me and pointing.
About ten feet behind me, the otter had stuck her head (I fancied calling it a “her”) out of the water and was looking squarely in my direction. I let go of the side of the boat and, swimming very slowly while careful to keep my head above the surface, started breaststroking toward her. I had approached to within perhaps six feet when she suddenly vanished. Where had she gone? I heard Gil call out softly.
“Behind you! She’s behind you.”
I spun. The otter had indeed appeared directly behind me. I started toward her, and she disappeared again. A moment later Gil’s voice sounded afresh. His enthusiasm had reached new levels. “She’s behind you again.” Was he laughing?
I turned, swam. The otter dived. It was plain now what was happening.
She was playing with me.
Every time I started toward her, she would dive down and reappear behind me. It reached the point where I did not even have to start swimming. As soon as we made eye contact, she dove. Was she swimming around me, or under me? I found out moments later when, treading water forcefully, I kicked something with my right foot, hard. There was no mistaking what it was.
I immediately tensed. Had I hurt her? Would she vanish now—or interpret the kick as an attack and react offensively?
Seconds later, she popped up, staring at me. Clearly, I had not hurt her. I surmised that from an otter’s standpoint my accidental kick was all part of the game.
This continued for nearly half an hour: me spinning in the dark water, her diving back and forth beneath me, until she finally grew tired of the diversion and swam off. I watched her depart, having burned every bit of adrenaline my body was capable of producing. We had interacted in her habitat for some thirty minutes without a hint of a hostile gesture on her part. She had bumped me several times; I had kicked her unintentionally and ungently. Why had she remained behind to play when the rest of her family had hastily departed as soon as I had entered the water? I thought I knew the answer.
She must be a teenager.
Surely, that was it. A wary cub would immediately have sought protection from the adults in the group. An adult would have departed in a more leisurely fashion or might possibly have reacted aggressively. But a young adult—teenagers are the same everywhere, with an innate curiosity and a zest for entertainment that transcends species. I have observed this trait in gorillas and elephants, in dolphins and sharks. I don’t know for a fact that my playful friend was a juvenile, but she was certainly not full-grown. Any natural aggressiveness she might have possessed had been canceled out by a desire to amuse herself at the expense of the strange visitor to her watery world.
Sometimes in life we get lucky.
When told this story, those knowledgeable about the behavior of giant otters in the wild are united in their opinion that by entering their domain, I had taken a real chance. But if you want to experience that which is out of the ordinary, you have to take chances. Whether the object of your interest be giant otters, or big cats, or big fish, or big bugs, or tiny ants, if you want to understand them or get to know them more than just a little, you have to enter their realm. You cannot get this from television, or from movies, or even from reading.
Go. See. Touch. Listen, smell, and try to understand. And while you’re learning, you are free to marvel at some of Nature’s most exquisitely designed creatures. They may bite, they may sting, but you risk your life every time you cross the street or stand in a wet shower or bathtub. The rewards to be had from such potentially lethal everyday endeavors are miniscule compared to those to be gained from watching a leopard hunt or making eye contact with a shark, or from espying the ripple of color that is a snake retreating in haste into the depths of the rain forest.
Hearing or reading these stories, people sometimes ask me, “How can you do these things?”
To which my answer and explanation is and always will be:
“How can you not?”
CONCLUSION
BUT WHAT GOOD IS IT?
It’s a question I’m often asked. What’s the point of such encounters? Nearly being eaten, or stung, or bitten, or poisoned, being parasitized, risking not always replaceable parts of your body, and for what? What’s the point? Why choose to voluntarily invite such experiences when one could be lounging on a beach in the Tuamotus, or strolling through the Prado, or ordering schlag with your coffee at an outside table at Demel?
The answer is that I’ve done those things, too: There’s just not very much drama in them (well, maybe the bill at Demel). It’s all grist for the writer’s mill. The more so if you write fantasy or science fiction. I’m a firm believer that to create otherworldly settings you have to experience as much that’s alien to your everyday life as possible. To invent other cultures you should immerse yourself in other cultures. In the old days, writers would attempt to do this by
subscribing to National Geographic and by camping out in their local library. Today we have the Internet. But reading, in whatever format, is not the same as doing. Or as Robert Louis Stevenson put it, “Books are all right in their way, but they’re a mighty poor substitute for life.”
So how do I know when, where, and how I’m going to make use of experiences such as those I’ve related here? The answer is that I don’t. What I do know is that sooner or later I’ll be working on a story or a novel and a situation will arise involving a dramatic, perhaps potentially life-threatening confrontation. Often I’ll produce the resulting scenario out of whole cloth, but sometimes—sometimes I’ll think back to a situation from real life. Drawing on that will produce fiction that cannot help but be more realistic because the source of it has actually been experienced.
Oh, sure, you say. Like Air Jaws. Flying great white sharks. That’ll prove useful in a story some day. Sure it will.
See the novel Into the Thinking Kingdoms.
Or how about interacting with a semi-wild cheetah named Felix, or encountering feeding lions? See all of the novels in the Journeys of the Catechist trilogy.
Years ago, I created an oversize otter character (Mudge, from the Spellsinger fantasy series) before I knew such a creature actually existed. Seeing his real analog only inspires me to write more about him. How about Pip, the flying snake from the Pip and Flinx books? Yes, I created her before I’d ever traveled outside the United States, but I firmly believe that subsequent serpentine encounters have enabled me to render her far more believably in later works than if I had never encountered her actual brethren in the wild. And it’s not just individual creatures. That the description of the Amazon rain forest in Phylogenesis was singled out for especial compliment by one reviewer is due, I’m certain, solely to the fact that I’ve actually spent time there.