ABSTRACT
We set off into the forest on a surprisingly cold, damp morning for the Amazon. It had rained hard the night before, and now a thin, misty layer of fog draped over the treetops. With sunlight just beginning to peek above the fog, we scrambled up a muddy, sharp ridge to the west of a clearing that had been made a few months before by a U.S. oil company. Well, I scrambled—pulling myself up the steep slope with the help of saplings, rotting tree roots, and one spiky palm that I didn’t notice in the dim light until it was too late—while my companions, four Waorani hunters not much older than I, plus one of their young sons, had none of my difficulty. They talked softly in Wao and occasionally with me in broken Spanish, while climbing easily up the ridge top where they paused for me to catch my breath.
