Jungle Birds in the Living Room

By Howard Voren

An intriguing series of adventures that will interest people from all walks of life. It contains a cultural, political and natural history education that is enriching to everyone who reads it. Regardless as to whether they have ever had a curiosity or interest in birds, the ordeals endured and the true stories about how they got from the jungles of Central & South America to our living rooms is captivating.

The author set out on this unique journey with several goals. The first was to ensure their health and to end the mortality, in the thousands of birds that were imported annually. The second was to demand that he not be paid monetarily for his services but be permitted to take a percentage of the birds to create a captive breeding population that would help end the exploitation of birds from their natural habitats. The third was to create something that could never be supplied by the Jungles of the world.

In his quest, he endured the onslaught of corrupt governments and vindictive persecution that would have sent any normal, less valiant individual packing. He refused to give up even though he was presented with uncivilized cultural differences and was forced to cope with the violent homicidal customs of a lawless society.
Come along for the excitement of an adventurous ride worth taking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard Voren
• Release date: Mar 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310104473

Book preview

FOREWORD

A memoir with intriguing adventures that will interest people from all walks of life. It contains a cultural, political and natural history education that is enriching to everyone who reads it. Regardless as to whether they have ever had a curiosity or interest in birds, the ordeals endured and the true stories about how they got from the jungles of Central & South America to our living rooms is captivating.

While enjoying the experience of visiting all the birds and animals in the pet shops and zoos across the country, it’s all too easy to allow an illusion to solidify in one’s mind. While appreciating both them and their babies, that were bred according to the state of the art husbandry standards, it’s easy to imagine that things have always been this way and in some miraculous fashion, they all just appeared here.

However, it took blood, sweat and tears by unique individuals to humanely get the ancestral stock from their natural habitats to the breeding farms and zoos in a healthy state.

I had the pleasure and honor to know some of those men and listen to them tell me of the adventures they had in getting their precious cargo to the USA. Oddly enough the people that now care for these cherished lives have no idea how the ancestors of their charges arrived here.

Most pet-keepers take for granted the origination of the companions in their care. Among them are the thousands of pet-keepers who have parrots and other birds; birds that are now domesticated and sold in mass market pet stores and live in most every home throughout the USA. Many of the ancestors of those pet birds were brought to the USA by a few men with determination, force and passion. Howard Voren is the number one person who was able to accomplish this.

As a participant in the industry for almost 40 years, the author of five books on pet care, the star of a nationally syndicated television show (Petkeeping) and the creator of both a nationally syndicated newspaper column and radio show on pet care, I am in awe of what this man endured during his adventures. I am thrilled to see the story memorialized so it can never be lost.

He set out on this unique journey with several goals. The first was to ensure their health and to end the mortality, in the thousands of birds that were imported annually. The second was to demand that he not be paid monetarily for his services but be permitted to take a percentage of the birds to create a captive breeding population that would help end the exploitation of birds from their natural habitats. The third was to create something that could never be supplied by the Jungles of the world.

In his quest, he endured the onslaught of corrupt governments and vindictive persecution that would have sent any normal, less valiant individual packing. He refused to give up even though he was presented with uncivilized cultural differences and was forced to cope with the violent homicidal customs of a lawless society.

Bird keepers today all owe him a debt that can never be re-paid. These memoirs will bring the reader on an adventure that could never be repeated in today’s world. Reading his accounts allows the reader to experience these adventures first hand. It enables bird keepers as well as those that have never kept a bird to look at avian companions and appreciate them as the ambassadors of a time and place that will never exist again.

Marc Marrone

Host of the Television Program Petkeeping with Marc Morrone

Author of, A Man For All Species, published by Random House, 2010.

Rockville Centre, NY

JUNGLE BIRDS IN THE LIVING ROOM

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Screaming rainbows gliding in every direction. Shimmering reds, yellows, blues and greens filled the capacity of my eyes. Piercing noise pervaded my ears like thunder. The lush greens and rich browns of the rainforest were the perfect background. The voice of my father, warning about so close an approach, was so overpowered by the uproar that I felt sure I could pretend I didn’t hear him. After all, I was already seven years old, and not about to distance myself from such a spectacular experience.

With the shock of seeing and hearing them for the first time subsiding, I was again stricken with amazement. As I listened intently to the bird keeper talk to and about his charges; I discovered they not only lived as long as people, they were smart enough to talk to us. The macaws did complicated tricks and stunts on command and the Amazons talked and sang opera. I had discovered the world of parrots.

It was a family vacation and Florida was the destination. With my love of birds, my father knew I would enjoy a visit to Parrot Jungle in Miami. What he didn’t know was that I would be struck with an indelible impression that would dictate the course of my adult life. At that moment my mind was resolved. Somehow, someway, these birds were going to be part of my life.

Fifteen more years of education passed trying to satisfy the goals of my parents. All my attempts were to no avail. My heart and soul were somewhere else. The greatest part of my childhood was spent in the woods of Pennsylvania. When the other children were playing ball, I preferred wandering through the woods. Catching a turtle was more exciting than catching a ball. Trying to raise baby birds that fell from the nest was more interesting than competing with friends at flipping baseball cards.

I was now a young adult and struck with an overwhelming desire to add new direction to my life. I longed for the wonderful sights, sounds and smells of the wilds as well as all the interesting creatures that lived within them. I missed all those things that captivated me as a child as I wandered through the woods, away from the populated world around me. It was time to start following my heart. College summer break had arrived and I was off to the Amazon Jungle. Exactly what I would do when I got there? I had no idea.

Within three days I was standing in Leticia Colombia, a small jungle trading town on the banks of the Amazon River. It boasted two small hotels to accommodate the traders from the capital city of Bogotá. One was billed as modern because it had screening on the windows to keep out mosquitoes. My decision was easy. Brazil was a ten-minute walk to the east and across the river was Peru.

I brought along the girl who was the love of my life at the time. I enjoyed Gloria’s companionship and her fluent Spanish was a great asset. She was a striking young lady, half Navajo Indian and half Puerto Rican. Her long black hair, large dark eyes, high cheekbones and innocent smile captivated those she spoke to.

By the time we made it from the landing strip to the hotel and loaded our gear into a room, night was falling. We decided to eat and bed down early so we could get a start at dawn. The owner, a distinguished looking, impeccably groomed man in his early fifties was standing at the front door.

Where can we get something to eat? questioned Gloria.

Good evening, we are at your service, he said as he formally bowed and motioned with an extended arm to a small room with a few tables and chairs.

The hotel owners’ wife prepared us a meal of rice, beans and eggs. She took great pleasure in gabbing away with Gloria. They jabbered rapid fire Spanish in such hushed tones that I couldn’t understand a word. A tall slender woman in her mid-forties, she was wearing tight black slacks, white high heels, and a red and yellow puffy blouse. Her face was all made up and her long black hair was done up high with long dainty curls hanging down from the sides. She wore at least fifteen gold bangle bracelets split up between both wrists. Each hand had a ring with a large colored stone. Either of them could have been used as a fishing weight. A pair of large gold filigree teardrop earrings completed her regalia. One thing seemed obvious; we were holding her up from leaving for a night on the town with her husband.

Gloria, why don’t you be quiet and let her leave, I whispered in English.

The women then turned, mumbled something in a ‘by the way’ fashion and walked out of the dinning area.

Oh my, I can’t believe she just told me her life story. She hates it here. There’s nothing to do and nowhere to go, just jungle. She met the hotel owner while he was on one of his buying trips to the capital. He wined and dined her every time he came and told her all about the beautiful grand hotel he owned. He asked her to marry him and promised her a life of luxury with a chef to cook and all the servants she could want. She agreed and that’s how she got here. The grand hotel was this six room flop house where jungle traders fall down drunk at night. The servants are the Indians he hires to clean the rooms and the chef was an old drunk woman that only knew how to make coffee and fry eggs. Their one son has now grown and moved away. If he doesn’t sell the place and move back to civilization she’s going to leave him.

She told you all that?

All that and more.

Well if there’s no place to go why’s she all dressed up?

She got dressed up when we arrived because it was a special occasion.

What?

She had someone intelligent to talk to.

Who?

Gloria gave me one of those nasty woman’s looks that said ‘you’ll pay for that comment’.

Only kidding! I added hurriedly.

We settled into the room with the hope of a good nights rest. The heavy musty odor from constant high humidity was difficult to get used to. So was breathing the hot thick humid air. While lying in the darkness I became acutely aware of the intense serenade coming through the open windows from the surrounding jungle. Every imaginable type of chirp, whistle, click and croak pervaded the night. It was like a symphony orchestra, with all the musicians competing with different melodies.

I’ll never be able to sleep through this, I complained. Gloria didn’t answer. She had already fallen into a deep sleep. I tried to relax. To my surprise the primeval sounds of the jungle at night became soothing. I realized if every thing were quiet, something would be wrong. As I drifted further toward sleep, the sounds became less audible. The evening serenade that first upset me as an imposition became comforting.

We awoke to crowing roosters and barking dogs. Dawn was coming and I didn’t want to miss a moment of what the day might offer. As we left the hotel we realized everything was still closed. There were however quite a few people walking in the direction of the River so we followed.

As we approached the River in the predawn light, a heavy fog hung over the water spilling over to its banks. As we drew closer I could see Amazonian Indians lined up along the shore. Each was standing by his dugout canoe with a small group of local people.

Find out what’s going on, I asked Gloria.

She turned to speak with an old man who was standing next to us. He was as curious about us as we were about the Indians. He explained they came from many different jungle tribes. They paddled day and night, some for as long as two days so they could arrive at dawn to trade for the things they desired. Civilized things, the jungle could not provide. First, were all things made of metal; like fishhooks, knives and machetes. Next in importance came simple clothing, flashlights and batteries.

Do they arrive here all day? Gloria asked.

The old man explained that they try to time their trip for a dawn arrival so they can complete their trading and buying early enough to be far away from here by nightfall.

The things they brought to trade were a wonder to my eyes. Stringers of freshly caught tropical fish I had only seen in aquarium shops as rare exotics, were being purchased for food. Giant anaconda snakeskin’s and alligator hides were being unloaded to go to the skin traders. Ocelots, marguay cats, monkeys, toucans and parrots were there for the animal traders. Necklaces made of jungle seeds interspersed with things like parrot feathers, snail shells, piranha jaws, animal teeth and nutshells carved to resemble birds, abounded. Animal carvings made of a heavy red wood called blood-wood were also among the offerings.

I stood frozen with the initial shock that everything was exactly as I had imagined. I was old enough to know that life seldom worked that way. The seemingly shy and quiet Indians stood on the banks, bare-chested, holding up what they thought to be the most attractive offering in their canoe. The mustachioed Latin traders with their loose fitting shirts, beer bellies and unshaven faces where complaining in a loud and boisterous manner about the prices.

Do you want me to tell you what’s going on? Gloria asked.

I already know what they’re saying without understanding a word. The traders are telling the Indians they’re asking too much for what they’re trading.

Yes and the Indians are saying they’ll wait till the shops open in a few hours and trade for better value. But the traders are reminding them they can get better deals for the things they want in the shops with money in their hands instead of things to trade.

As the heat of the rising sun began to evaporate the fog, I became aware of the River’s immense proportions. It appeared to be over a quarter mile wide. There was a primitive dock that extended out about 50 ft from the bank and began where the road from the center of town ended.

The old man turned and asked. For what reason have you come here?

The question was simple enough, and so was the answer. I came because I wanted to. That answer was good enough for me to get on a plane in Boston and fly here. But if I gave him that answer, he would certainly consider us rude. The old man had been nice to us and I didn’t want to leave a bad impression. I supposed that since I was being asked what my goal was, it was time to define it.

I explained that I enjoyed wildlife, especially parrots. I had come to buy parrots.

What are you going to do with the parrots? he questioned.

Sell them, I responded.

But then you won’t have any parrots to enjoy, he said with a shrug of his shoulders and a smile.

His logic was so simple and pure that it instantly put a smile on my face.

Maybe I’ll keep them and breed them. Then I won’t have to sell any of them. I can keep them and sell their babies, I answered.

The man you want to see is Ray Johnson. He’s from Texas. He has more than twenty-five years in the business of catching and sending animals and birds from the jungles. He sends birds from here all the time. Where are you going to send the birds after you buy them?

To the United States.

Don’t they have birds there?

Yes, but not parrots.

At that point I heard squawking calls coming from a distance. The squawking kept getting louder and was coming from above. We looked up and a flock of eight Blue & Gold macaw parrots soared by. They were a beautiful sight. As quickly as they appeared they were gone.

They fly by everyday about this time, the old man said.

I smiled and asked. Where can I find Ray Johnson?

He explained how to find Johnson’s compound. We were on our way after buying some necklaces and a primitive blood wood carving of a turtle from one of the Indians who wasn’t completely surrounded by traders.

What a thrilling morning. Thus far I experienced all the sights I had hoped for. As a child I was captivated by ‘Bring ’em Back Alive’, a documentary about the famous animal trapper Frank Buck, also a Texan, who caught jungle animals alive, unharmed and shipped them to zoos around the world so people would know and appreciate them. It was the first time that most people had the opportunity to see the birds and animals they had only known from pictures. Now I was on my way to meet a modern day Frank Buck of South America.

Chapter 2

As we approached Johnson’s compound we heard macaws squawking for breakfast from within the main building. We asked a worker who was carrying a large pot of cooked rice by one of the buildings, if Ray was around. He ignored us and disappeared through the door. A moment later a rotund six-foot figure with a balding head, short-cropped grey hair, round face and large smile stood at the open door. He was wearing an old pair of khaki slacks, a well-worn white tee shirt and a beat up pair of blue slip on boat shoes.

What can I do for ya? I’m Ray Johnson, he said as he held out his hand.

Hi I’m Howard and this is Gloria. I’d like to talk to you about getting some birds to bring back to the States.

Well come on in. I heard you were down at the river.

He was cordial and friendly as he showed us around the compound. There were several large cages filled with scarlet as well as blue & gold macaws. There was also an area where he was holding tropical fish in 55-gallon steel drums that were cut in half the long way around and suspended on wooden stands.

All the birds I have now are promised to a client in the States but we can talk about doing something later. How long you here for?

We only came for a week. I know that’s not much time.

What are your plans? Are you already in the bird business or you just getting started?

I’m just getting started. I thought that starting off by coming down here to see what was available and at what price, was a good first move.

What business are you in now?

I’m still in accounting college but I don’t want to be an accountant. I’ve been putting aside some money by peddling antiques in Boston part time. But I’ve always loved animals, especially birds, so I figured I would try to get into something along that line. What I really want to do is set up a breeding farm.

Ray pulled his head a bit back and peered down at me as if I said something that didn’t make sense. With half squinted eyes and a slight grin he asked.

Just what do you plan to breed on this breeding farm?

Macaws and Amazon parrots are the first things that come to mind.

Listen, take some good advice. Don’t waste your time and money. Macaws won’t breed in captivity.

What about Parrot Jungle in Miami? They breed plenty of macaws.

Of course they do. But what nobody realizes is that macaws will only breed in mid-flight. That’s why Parrot Jungle has success and no one else. Listen. Don’t waste your time. You’re a smart kid and you’re obviously willing to work. If you were lazy you wouldn’t be down here. There’s plenty of birds in these jungles and I’d rather sell them to someone like you, who’s willing to get off their duff and come down here, than some wealthy businessman who just picks up a phone and makes orders. First make yourself plenty of money and then if you want to try breeding them go ahead, but it won’t work.

Well I guess I should start looking around to buy some birds so I don’t go home empty handed?

There’s not only the birds. There’s a lot of other things you can make money on like monkeys, ocelots and artifacts. You can even try to find some contacts back in the States who will buy my tropical fish. By the way, you do know that any parrots shipped to the U.S. have to be quarantined here for 45 days and fed a medicated diet so they don’t carry parrot fever. I’ve had this facility approved by the U.S.D.A. If you get some birds I’ll quarantine them for you.

That would be great. I need a guide to take me around to the villages so I don’t have to compete with the traders at the River. Do you know anyone?

The best one I can recommend is Alvaro. He lives on a little houseboat about 100 yards east of the dock. It’s the only one there. It has a thatched roof. Tell him I sent you. The Indians trust him because he always treats them fairly. These Indians are not stupid and Alvaro treats them with respect. They welcome him with open arms. Because he makes sure they don’t get taken advantage of. He’s the one you want to travel with. He also speaks English so you’ll have an easier time with that too.

We left the compound and walked back to the River. In a few minutes we approached what had to be Alvaro’s houseboat. Actually it was a two room thatched hut that covered two-thirds of the raft it sat on. The entire raft was ten feet wide and twenty-five feet long. I called out to see if anyone was inside. A slim dark haired Latin fellow in his early twenties with an open shirt, jeans and straw hat, walked out onto the open part of the raft. He looked up and smiled.

Can I help you? he said in English with very little accent.

Yes. Ray Johnson said you could be our guide on buying trips to some of the villages.

Sure, come aboard my balsa.

We walked down the bank and across a wooden plank, introduced ourselves and began to talk. He was a very personable man and after a short time, made you feel like you had known him for years. He radiated an easygoing and honest charm. It was simple to understand how he gained the trust of the Indians. Our conversation followed the same line as the one I just had with Ray. One major difference was he thought it was wonderful that I wanted set up macaws and Amazons in a captive breeding program. The smile he had, until that point in our conversation, suddenly disappeared. He cast his eyes in a downward direction and gently bit his lower lip as if he was contemplating something sad. He then looked up and cocked his head to one side to impress that what he was about to say was more serious than just, by the way conversation.

There are plenty of birds now but it won’t always be that way. The more people that come, the more the parrots will disappear. The people that grew up here say there used to be flocks of macaws and parrots flying over all the time. Now there are a few groups of parrots and only one small group of macaws that fly over every day.

Yes, I saw that flock of macaws this morning. Ray says you can’t breed them in captivity because they only breed in mid-flight.

Oh? I don’t know. It seems to me if that’s what you want to do you should try it. I think it’s very important someone tries to do it.

He again looked away for a moment and returned with a smile.

So what do you want to buy and how long do you have here?

Well I’m only here for one week and I’d like to buy anything I can take home and make money on. Ray said he would quarantine any birds I bought and ship them to me later. I wouldn’t mind buying a few monkeys and anything the Indians make. I don’t want the tourist stuff. I want the kind of things they make for themselves.

At that point a young man carrying a tote bag came down the bank toward the balsa. He was barefoot, had no shirt and wore a pair of cutoff jeans. He obviously wasn’t a local because he had blond hair. The moment he opened his mouth I knew he was Australian.

Hey, I see we have company, he said as he boarded and looked toward us with a big grin.

"Howard and Gloria, this is Trevor. He stays here with me and helps me out. He can also help you do some buying and trading for things to bring back to the States.

Tomorrow morning I’m going to a small town down river on some business and I’ll be back the next morning. If you want, you can come along. Maybe they will have something for you to buy. When we get back you can go for a two day trip to one of the more primitive villages.

That would be great. What’s the name of the town?

Benjamin Constant. I want to leave about 8

"We’ll be here first thing. When will we leave for the two-day trip?

You can leave the next day. I won’t be going. I have some things I have to do here. Trevor will take you. I know someone headed in that direction later today and I’ll send word ahead to the place where you can stay the night. The man there will know if there’s a problem in any of the villages that might make it dangerous for you to go. He’ll know which one to send you to so there won’t be problems.

"Sounds fine to me.

I was told that Brazil is just down the road from here. How far is it?

There is no road. This path you took along the bank to get here. You just continue down that path for about three or four hundred feet and you’re in Brazil.

How will I know when I’m there? Is there customs or a border guard?

Both Alvaro and Trevor laughed. Alvaro turned and explained with a lingering chuckle in his voice.

This is the jungle man. There are no borders in the jungle. You stand here. You’re in Colombia. You walk down there to the first small house and you’re in Brazil. You get in this boat that’s tied up here and row across the river and you’re in Peru. That’s why when you fly back to Bogotá, you will go through Customs inspection just like you came from a different country.

Wow, I’ve never been to Brazil. Hey Gloria, ya wanna go to Brazil?

Sure why not.

Well I guess I’ll see you guys in the morning. Gloria and I are going to Brazil.

We walked up the bank and started down the path. It was just wide enough for two people to pass each other in opposite directions. The first one hundred feet went through relatively open forest but then the jungle closed in on both sides. The birds, butterflies, foliage and sounds were wonderful. It was like walking in a National Geographic movie. I was thrilled. It was as beautiful as I had imagined. As I walked along in awe of all the natural beauty I began to scratch a spot on my right arm and then my left. Large itchy welts began to appear on both arms. The more I scratched the bigger and more bothersome they became. We started walking faster as all the different biting insects discovered us. This onslaught was something I never thought about watching National Geographic movies. We finally entered a small clearing and the attack slowed markedly. We walked to the first small hut and stopped.

Well Gloria, we’re in Brazil. Now let’s get out of here, I’m getting eaten alive!

We now had to walk back through the same small patch of dense jungle that had been so torturous just moments before. It was not going to be with the thought of experiencing a beautiful natural paradise. It was now more like one of those old western movies where the captured cavalry soldier is forced to run down a path lined on both sides with club wielding renegade Indian warriors who get to take a swipe at him as he passes. If he makes it through fast enough he lives. If he moves too slowly or stumbles he dies. Needless to say we ran.

As we passed by Alvaro’s balsa he called out.

Back already from your trip to Brazil?

Yea, we got tired of feeding the insects. I’ve brought back itchy welts on my arms as souvenirs.

They must like American blood. See you tomorrow, he laughed.

Chapter 3

It was well past noon and we hadn’t eaten. Stopping at a small café on the way to the hotel, we saw Ray and he invited us to sit with him.

Did you arrange something with Alvaro?

Yes we’re going to Benjamin Constant tomorrow morning with Alvaro and staying the night. We’re leaving the following day for the interior but Alvaro’s not coming with us. He’s sending word on ahead and we’ll be going with this Australian guy named Trevor.

"Don’t worry. Alvaro knows what he’s doing. He’ll make sure you have a safe trip. He’s probably sending Trevor because he wants him to get the chance to make some money without feeling like it was a handout.

"I really feel sorry for Trevor. He’s the adventurous type. He wanted to experience the Amazon first hand and flew all the way from Australia with all the right clothes and supplies. He bought a dugout canoe and started to paddle the river alone. You have to admire that kind of spirit.

One day he paddles up to the bank here and walks into town to buy a soda pop. He was barefoot, no shirt and had on his cut off jeans. When he got back to the River, everything was gone including the canoe. Here he is standing halfway around the world from home in the middle of the jungle with no clothes, supplies, or canoe and only a little bit of money in his pocket. I was out on a trip collecting tropical fish when it happened. Alvaro was the only one to help him. He let him move into the balsa; lent him money to buy some clothes and is giving him work so he can save enough to get home.

Wow, what a shame, but he sounds like a resourceful guy.

So what are you two kids doing for the rest of the day?

I don’t know. Got any suggestions?

They rent bicycles around the corner. You could ride around and get to see the town.

Sounds good, I guess we’ll see you later.

Gloria and I peddled around for about an hour and discovered there wasn’t much to the town. Several rows of dirt streets ran parallel to the river, and several rows crossed them from the direction of the river. Only the center street actually went all the way down to the water. It ended at the main dock and was the public commercial strip. Another went almost all the way except for an extensive area of muck. It was obvious that during the rainy season the river would cover this area and make it navigable by small boats. This street was lined with small, gray weathered, ramshackle wooden warehouses. These were used to store goods purchased by resident traders that contracted boats to go on buying trips into the interior. The back of the warehouses on the west side bordered a small bay that was formed by an inlet from the River. Each had a small rickety wooden dock off the back. Since it was the dry season, there was a six foot drop to the water below, which made them unusable. This inlet was at one time much drier, evidenced by the many dead tree stumps that poked their heads above the water line. It was quite expansive and covered the entire two hundred foot area between the back of the warehouses and the back of the shops on the east side of the commercial strip.

We decided to peddle back over to Alvaro’s balsa to pass the time. As we approached he began to laugh.

You don’t tour the Amazon on a bike. You have to go by kayuca.

He pointed to the small dugout canoe that was tied to the corner of the balsa.

Why don’t you lend it to us? I asked.

Sure. Do you know how to paddle?

Although I had done quite a bit of rowing on lakes; the skill of the Indians paddling along the River amazed me. Their paddles had a short shaft with a large heart shaped paddle at the end. Instead of alternating their strokes from one side of the canoe to the other; they only paddled on one side. They used them simultaneously as a paddle and a rudder. I noticed how with just the right twist of the wrist as the paddle entered the water; they were able to keep the canoe moving in a straight line. Those with a bit more style had a way of slapping the water with the paddle that created a sharp cracking sound with each stroke.

Not as good as these locals but I can manage all right. Can you watch our bikes?

Bring them down here and you can return them when you get back.

We slipped away smoothly gliding along over the water. Gloria sat at the front facing me and I was at the rear paddling away. I tried several times in vain to paddle only on the right side like the locals but the kayuca kept veering to the left. I went back to paddling the way I knew, alternating sides every two strokes. This was my first time in a dugout canoe.