Peter Allison - How to Walk a Puma

While I am perhaps naive in my view of the Huaorani to me their life has the blissful simplicity of those first few months in a relationship when your connection feels pure and perfect and even spinach between your lover’s teeth is somehow cute. Surrounded by the abundance of the forest, right now they desire no more because they don’t know what else there is to want. Billions of us have moved past that honeymoon stage: we now want too much, and probably can’t go back. For us, perhaps—just like in a relationship when the first flush has faded—what’s left is to identify what you do love in the world and endure the rest. Maybe what we—what I—needed to do was find what inspires me and fills me with joy, and use the rest of my time on this planet to do something that matters to me.

But as I watched the Huaorani, I knew that I would give all of my clothes, the few other things I owned, even all that I knew of the world, everything but Lisa, to be as shamelessly happy as Omagewe.

The trip out would involve a two-day stint in the canoe, but first Otobo needed to take his youngest daughter back to Bameno, four hours downstream and five back. Always keen to see what wildlife might be beside the river, I piled in too. Big mistake. Unlike the shaded smaller tributaries that criss-crossed around us, the Cononaco was broad, and open. A few days earlier, my camera battery had died, and my sunscreen ran out soon after. The first loss was merely sad, but the second was dangerous considering my new penchant for bare-arsed exploration; very soon not an inch of me was spared from being burnt, much to the Huoarani’s amusement. Learning as I was, I had just pointed at my pink bits and laughed back. But while earlier I had been merely pinked, by the end of the day I was traffic-stopping red, and exuding so much heat that Otobo’s wife hung wet clothes near me, saying I would dry them faster than the fire. It would have been merely uncomfortable and led to no more than a restless night in my hammock, but I would have to spend two more days in the canoe before hitting Coca and the chance of some soothing lotion, no doubt needed after another two days of skin-ravaging travel to get out.

I waved goodbye to Omagewe and his wife, who would not accompany us, and I wanted to say that my time with them had been fantastic, and to thank them profusely, but was still limited to a mere ‘ Waponi ,’ which for the first time felt woefully inadequate. Omagewe waved from the bank, laughed, shouted ‘ Waponi! ’ back at me and walked away before we were out of sight, off to live the life he has lived since before outsiders even knew of his existence.

It rained, hard and ceaselessly, for our first day’s travel. Even the stoic Otobo took a T-shirt I offered him; although it immediately became soaked it offered some insulation.

My three weeks with the Huaorani had left me bearded, bedraggled and bemoulded, but as we camped in the jungle that night I knew I would miss it painfully. A smoky jungle frog called nearby, one of my favourite sounds. I kept an ear peeled, listening for another sound, one Marcello had taught me—a long rasp of a call that would tell me that there was a jaguar close by—but all that night I lay sleepless, and no such sound came. I wanted the miracle—golden eyes peering from the forest as we broke camp or piled into the canoe, or a flash of fur as we motored along—but this was no fairytale, no fantasy, and a jaguar did not appear.

The next day, we motored upriver for what seemed an anticlimactically short time and arrived back at the checkpoint, and soon after that I was on a bus back to Coca, travelling alongside jungle that had been scorched and slashed.

If I had learnt anything from the Huaorani it was that the trick of life is not to be content with what you have, but to be happy with what you do not. The trip was never really about jaguars anyway, or birds, or about finding myself, losing myself, or defying my age, but about seeking something wild and rare, not just in the jungle, but in me. I’d feared that too many years of desk-bound normalcy had killed off this part of me, but chasing the jaguar took me to so many places that I would never have been if I’d owned a fridge. I came to South America to find a jaguar, but came away with so much more. I found a truly wonderful girlfriend, a country that made adversity into something uplifting, the scariest pet you could ever have; at the same time, I learnt that constant travel is exhausting, and that maybe, just maybe, it is okay to settle down. For a little while, anyway.

Of course, I didn’t find the jaguar, but that just means I have to keep looking.

I often wish life was like a story that you could go back and edit if it didn’t work out, but I can’t think of much that I would change about my eighteen months in South America. Overwhelmingly my memories are happy ones, but some are tinged with sadness.

Hollywood would have us believe that accidents happen in slow motion, and that the greatest challenge to romance is some obstacle and, with that overcome, all will be triumphant. But of course accidents come at full and out-of-control speed like a crazed puma or a raft being sucked into a whirlpool, and the hardest romantic endeavour is not to get together, but stay together. After leaving South America I flew to London to be reunited with Lisa, but I couldn’t stay in London long, and the strain of too much time and distance meant that the Minke and I decided to end our relationship. We remain friends, and I will forever be glad for her company through so much of the trip.

At the time of writing I am employed in a job I love, working with colleagues I consider friends and on occasion even respect, travelling the world and quite enjoying the looks people give me when they see the dirty, frayed piece of string around my waist.

My sincere thanks go to the following people:

Harris and Marguerite Gomez for giving me the softest landing imaginable in South America, and being such wonderful friends.

Pete Oxford and Renee Bish, wildlife photographers extraordinaire, for saving my bacon, then putting it in some of the most exciting situations I have experienced. Much of this book would not have come about without their advice and introductions.

The Minke, for more than can be said or written.

Tom Quesenberry (now that’s a funny name, isn’t it?) and Mariela Tenorio, who run the beautiful El Monte Lodge in Mindo, for arranging and assisting with so much of the Huaorani trip, and laughing as heartily as the Huaorani at all my maladies.

Bec Smart, Bondy, Mick Payne, Adrian, Rob Thoren and Nina at Inti Wara Yassi.

Sam Sudar for getting in a car with me.

Julio, the night watchman at Hostel Americana in El Calafate.

Marcello Yndio, for the way he killed a chicken.

Peter Fitzsimmons, for coffee, advice, and constant reminders that he sells more books than me.

Guillerme and Andres at the Sacha office, Tomas the manager, as well as all the staff at Sacha Lodge for making my stay there so pleasurable and monkey-filled.

Aaron Sorkin for answering so many questions, and the Undeletables for laughs and thought-provoking debate.

Marcella Liljesthrom for the swallows.

Friederike ‘Wildchild’ Wildberg for some wise words, but mainly for being German yet funny.

Lloyd Temple Camp, because he wants to be mentioned in a book.

Donald Brown for the same reason (and yes, yes, yes, it is true, he also kept me employed for several years when few people would).