Imagine the surprise. On a trip to the Canaima jungle camp I had to get out the boat with a sick child in my arms, wading to the river island called La Orquidia, without knowing well how to handle the situation, where I was given the kindest help by the Pemones, whose tribe has inhabited the region for generations, without reaping the benefits of the years.

They led me to what looked like a small inn, with impeccable rows of hammocks strung neatly across a well-swept room, comfortable, safe and dry, awaiting not tourists but travelers who cross this difficult terrain, headed to places I did not know.Normally the Venezuelan fisherman goes out alone to patiently fight the currents, the dance of the boat, the inert weight of the water and the living weight of the fish, but when groups go out in a communal hunt of a large school of fish, dozens are in one medium-sized boat. The silence surprises; no one speaks, only the sea and the movement of the boat are heard. Then the fish furiously hit the nets, the air explodes thunderously with the tumult of chaos, shouted orders, roars of effort, clamors urging on the others, cheers of success, grunts of exhaustion, and then silence in their return.