Predators I Have Known - Alan Dean Foster [83]
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