|
by
Sergi
Reboredo
I
first
heard
of
the
fabulous
delta
while
sitting
out
on
the
terrace
of
a
downtown
bar,
trying
to
mitigate
the
suffocating
afternoon
heat
of
a
Barcelona
summer.
I
was
alone,
immersed
in
a
photographic
book
of
African
tribes.
At
the
table
next
to
me
another
solitary
patron
noticed
my
reading
material
and
initiated
a
conversation
that
would
last
for
several
hours.
Carlos’
passion,
like
mine,
was
travel.
He
told
me
that
he
was
born
in
Venezuela,
but
had
been
studying
anthropology
in
Barcelona
for
the
past
two
years.
We
began
to
speak
of
the
places
that
we
had
visited
and
it
was
then
that
Carlos
introduced
me
to
the
delta
of
the
river
Orinoco.
He
spoke
of
an
indigenous
place
with
many
ancestral
traditions,
and
of
a
kind,
hospitable
people
who
gave
generously
of
themselves
without
asking
anything
in
return.
Carlos
had
been
born
in
Maturín,
a
small
agricultural
town
about
500
kilometers
west
of
Caracas,
but
his
adventurous
spirit
had
taken
him
on
numerous
occasions
to
the
Orinoco
delta.
He
related
so
many
wonders
about
this
Venezuelan
jewel
on
that
afternoon
that
later
that
night
I
could
think
of
nothing
but
my
desire
to
travel
there.
*
*
*
After
being
trapped
under
the
fierce
sun
for
11
hours
in
a
bus
with
a
broken
air
conditioner,
drinking
fresh,
cool
guava
juice
is
like
paradise.
I
remember
that
was
first
thing
that
I
did
after
safely
storing
my
backpack.
In
addition
to
being
the
capitol
of
the
Amacuro
Delta
state,
and
the
only
populated
area
of
importance,
Tucupita
is
the
departure
point
for
traveling
to
the
Orinoco
delta.
Society
as
we
know
it
ceases
to
exist
here,
and
a
new
world
begins
where
capitalism
makes
no
sense.
I’ve
always
loved
boat
trips.
I
think
it’s
the
most
romantic
way
to
visit
a
country.
At
times
I
have
had
the
choice
of
several
means
of
transportation
to
explore
the
hidden
places
of
a
country,
but
in
this
instance,
there
was
none.
I
was
just
happy
to
be
leaving
the
dilapidated
bus
behind,
and
pleased
that
from
that
moment
on
all
of
the
highways
would
be
aquatic.
The
boat
to
my
dream
destination
would
depart
at
noon,
so
I
had
just
the
right
amount
of
time
to
savor
what
would
be
my
last
familiar
breakfast
for
several
days.
The
motor
started
up
and
the
boat
began
to
move.
After
an
hour
we
had
passed
La
Horqueta,
a
military
post
where
they
control
all
the
boats
that
enter
and
leave
the
area
in
order
to
deter
the
cocaine
trafficking
that
invades
the
Caribbean
islands
close
by.
The
river
is
wide
at
the
beginning,
but
little
by
little
the
water
splits
into
more
and
more
narrow
passageways
congested
with
water
plants.
The
vegetation
nearly
obscures
the
river
itself,
giving
rise
to
the
sensation
that
we
are
sailing
inside
an
enormous
cloud
of
intense
a
green.
The
boat
slices
this
carpet
in
two,
and
the
aft
view
is
one
of
a
copper-colored
aquatic
footpath
contrasting
strongly
with
the
surrounding
verdant
jungle.
The
landscape
was
so
captivating
that
we
had
not
realized
that
was
time
to
eat.
“Waranoko
is
about
five
hundred
meters
down
the
river;
we
will
stop
there
to
fill
our
guts,”
said
the
pilot
Nicholas,
signaling
toward
the
prow
of
the
boat.
In
this
small
town,
with
no
more
than
100
inhabitants,
everything
revolves
around
the
river.
The
palafito
homes
are
always
constructed
on
the
edge
of
the
river,
so
that
the
waterways
form
routes
of
communication
between
the
different
communities,
as
curiara
boats
are
the
only
means
of
locomotion.
For
that
reason
the
Waraos
call
themselves
“The
Canoe
People”.
In
their
language
wa
means
canoe
and
arao
people,
which
makes
sense
since
without
this
type
of
transportation
over
the
water,
the
leafy
and
dense
vegetation
would
completely
impede
their
ability
to
get
from
one
place
to
another.
At
the
age
of
three
a
Warao
already
owns
a
small
curiara
and
navigates
the
serpentine
channels
with
skill.
Canoes
are
built
depending
on
the
community’s
need
for
them.
The
majority
are
about
six
meters
long,
but
some
can
exceed
ten
meters
and
carry
whole
families.
The
torrid
sun
warmed
the
immense
copper
back
of
the
Orinoco.
While
the
children
climbed
trees,
a
Warao
woman
with
an
enormous
knife
ably
prepared
the
fish
that
her
husband
had
captured
that
same
morning.
Watching
her
caused
me
to
reflect
on
Robinson
Crusoe’s
desert
island,
where
you
were
limited
to
that
which
Mother
Nature
offered
no
matter
how
much
money
you
had.
In
a
way,
the
delta
is
like
that
desert
island.
The
jobs
of
hunting,
harvesting,
fishing
and
other
means
of
food-gathering
are
distributed
equitably
between
the
different
families
in
the
community,
in
such
a
way
that
each
one
has
its
assigned
task.
The
cooperation
between
them,
as
well
as
the
nurturing
of
ancestral
traditions,
has
sealed
them
off
from
the
reach
of
capitalism
for
the
time
being.
The
palafitos
are
built
to
leave
behind
when
food
becomes
scarce.
Theirs
is
a
nomadic
society
of
fishermen,
hunters
and
harvesters.
Continued
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