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The
extraction
of
palmito
(heart
of
palm)
is
arduous
and
heavy
work,
but
essential
to
the
Warao
diet.
After
digging
deep
into
the
heart
of
the
palm
tree
for
the
tender
palmito
and
then
taking
a
well-deserved
break
to
splash
around
in
the
river,
we
entered
a
small
channel
that
seemed
to
go
straight
into
in
the
thickness
of
the
forest.
The
boat
moved
with
great
difficulty,
and
our
heads
busily
avoided
the
branches
in
our
path.
Julian
explains
to
me
that
this
is
a
magical
place;
where
mysterious
medicinal
fruits
grow.
Leafy
vegetation
high
above
prevents
light
from
reaching
the
ground.
Julian
begins
to
pick
tiny
red
balls
from
a
nearby
bush
and
pop
them
into
a
basket.
He
has
to
work
quickly,
as
thousands
of
mosquitoes
take
it
upon
themselves
to
guard
the
amazing
place.
In
less
than
five
minutes
he
is
able
to
fill
the
entire
basket.
I
will
never
know
if
those
berries
were
a
panacea,
but
I
do
know
that
Warao
stomachs
are
able
to
assimilate
the
copper-colored
water
of
the
river
without
any
repercussions.
I,
however,
had
to
ration
my
bottled
water
and
make
sure
that
it
lasted
until
my
departure.
Back
at
the
palafito,
Julian
showed
me
how
to
fish
Warao-style,
tying
fishing
line
to
one
end
of
the
curiara
and
dangling
a
large
bare
hook
underwater.
That
day
luck
was
not
on
his
side,
as
fishing
went,
but
the
collection
of
the
wild
fruits
and
the
palmito
constituted
a
full
workday.
We
had
already
eaten,
and
black
clouds
overhead
threatened,
so
I
decided
to
try
out
the
hammock
that
Julian’s
wife
had
finished
weaving
just
that
morning.
Chinchorros
are
always
made
by
women,
in
vertical-framed
looms.
The
thread
is
made
by
twisting
fine
strips
of
moriche
palm
leaves
that
have
been
boiled
and
then
dried
in
the
sun.
Each
Warao
has
his
own
chinchorro,
and
when
he
dies,
he
is
shrouded
in
it.
The
sun
had
already
set,
and
the
moon
whitened
everything
beneath.
We
had
eaten
supper,
and
we
were
sitting
around
the
bonfire.
It
was
my
last
night
with
Julian
and
his
family,
and
everyone
wanted
me
to
tell
stories
about
life
in
Europe,
that
far-off
place
they
had
heard
so
much
about.
And
so
I
did.
I
believe
that
I
talked
nonstop
for
more
than
an
hour,
but
suddenly,
a
small
Warao
said
“Papá,
tell
me
the
story
about
how
fire
was
made
again.”
And
her
father
didn’t
hesitate
for
a
second
in
granting
the
young
girl’s
wish.
He
began
to
recount
the
ancient
legend,
and
an
air
of
romanticism
overtook
the
dark
of
the
night.
Julian’s
powerful
voice
broke
absolute
silence
of
the
forest,
while
all
who
were
present
listened
attentively
to
his
words.
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