I remember San Fernando de Apure.

Ants.

The world’s largest rodent on the menu.

Giant waterbugs expiring on the pavement.

Piranhas that eat cigarettes.

The finest rum.

And river dolphins.

We were drifting, keeping an eye on the water. It was a great day for dolphin-watching.

I flicked a butt overboard. A shadow—it was gone. Barely a ripple broke the surface.

We had seen the piranhas: fat, silver fish a foot long, their jaws studded with razor teeth. The locals catch them by tapping a stick onto the water. The dolphins eat them. Maybe that was why there were so many.

We drifted to shore. John turned pale. I looked around—into the barrel of a gun.

Its owner wore a stetson and a miffed expression. He was the ranchero and we were trespassing.

We tried to explain that we were studying river dolphins.

“Boto!”

The guy looked apalled. I remembered that this is what they call Inia in Brazil, not here.

“Tonina!” I cried.

“Boto” we would learn, is the slang for “hooker”.