Writings By Phil

February 16, 1978

Wally Pouncy, Matt Castagna and I walked nine miles into Indian country this morning. Along the way, we set out gifts for the nomadic Yuqui to find, using the logging road as our gift trail. We placed them twenty minutes apart; arrow tips, a small knife, a spool of thread, small cooking pots, and the like. It was our hope that when the Indians found items that would be useful to them, they would follow the road back to our camp, lured on by the prospect of finding more treasure along the way.

We could have done the distance in less time and without stressing our bodies in the hot, humid morning air by driving the swamp buggy, but we were looking for game animals as well. We wanted fresh meat to supplement our meager diet of white rice, pasta, and fried bread and the roar of the tractor would chase any hope of that deeper into the woods.

About eight miles out we heard a bunch of white-collared peccary (wild pigs) back in the woods.  From the sound they made, I guessed there to be four or five of them, but what did I know? It had been less than two weeks since our mission’s Cessna 206 had deposited Matt and I at our jungle base camp along the bank of the Rio Hediondo. Then, last week we travelled even further into the unknown to our present outpost at the Pension. Also, I was the great white hunter only in episodes of childhood reverie, and not in real-life jungle survival. My meat hunting experience, for the most part, consisted of trying to find Bratwurst in the meat coolers at Safeway!

Wally, carrying his survival .22 caliber rifle at ready, crept back into the trees and disappeared. Not to be left out of the fun, Matt unholstered his .22 caliber revolver and walked into the jungle at an angle away from the way Wally went. He hoped to get close enough to the pigs to get a shot at one, even with a handgun.  I was not carrying a firearm and stayed on the road.

I had read that the peccary’s tusks could be deadly, ripping a man’s legs to shreds, or gashing his belly open should the pig be able to reach that high. In my contemplation of the problem and possibility, I reasoned that if a man’s legs were torn to tatters, he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, and therefore his stomach would be easy pickings for an enraged bore peccary protecting its life and herd. That was not a pleasant thought! I was by myself and looked around to see if there was a climbable tree in proximity should some of the herd run back my way instead of running away from the hunters.

Though I had not seen the pigs, but only heard their sounds of rooting and grunting, it was my first jungle encounter with anything bigger and deadlier than the large horseflies that plagued us every time we jumped in the river back at base camp. Later, I learned that peccaries sometimes run in herds of fifty or more, so if there were five or fifty in the herd, I didn’t know!

A while later a rifle shot rang out and I heard a pig squeal.  I ran into the jungle after Wally, but before I found him, he fired two more shots. I used the sound of the rifle’s reports to home on to Wally’s position. When I got there, a small peccary lay on the ground. I was disappointed that it was small! Wally took my brand new, but broken, lock blade knife and had the pig gutted in short order. A collared peccary has a musk gland on its back which emits a foul odor. I had never eaten wild pig before, and I hoped the meat would not taste anything like that nasty smell!

We carried the pig out to the road, left it in the shade, then walked for fifteen more minutes. At that spot we cut 2 poles, drove them into the ground and tied some white streamers, ripped from old bed sheets, on them. The white material was to make it easy to spot, should the Indians cross the road farther up or down from where we hung the gift. That spot was to be the farthest point on our gift trail. The nomads would probably be happy just to get the strips of cloth. They could unravel it and use the longer threads to lash the tail feathers of birds to their arrow shafts. We tied a small kettle to the pole as well, just to sweeten the deal.  

We retraced our steps back to where we left the peccary. Wally chopped the pig’s head off with a machete. Then we tied its legs together, shoved a pole between them and two of us hoisted it to our shoulders and we started for home. Each of us would take turns carrying the pig, twenty minutes in back, twenty minutes in front, then twenty minutes walking, not really a rest, but at least we weren’t carrying a load.  We transported it two thirds of the way back and I was exhausted.  I couldn’t keep up with Wally and Matt, and they were carrying the pig!

By then, all three of us were soaked with sweat. I was afraid heat stroke would claim my body and leave me dead by the side of the road, especially when it was my turn to carry the load, again. By then, I had long repented of my disappointment at it being only a small pig! Wally was at his limit, too, so we decided to leave the carcass on the trunk of a fallen tree, in the shade, of course, and send Alan Foster and Denny Decicio after it in the swamp buggy. That is, if we ever got back to camp!  Even walking without carrying that dead weight, I kept going  slower and slower.  I thought my watch, and time itself, had stopped!

We made it back to camp, praise the Lord! Alan and Denny took off in the swamp tractor to retrieve the pig.  In the meantime, the three of us drank two gallons of Refresco (Like Cool Aid) and felt somewhat revived by the time the others returned with the fresh meat. Once in camp, Denny skinned it, then it was cut up in pieces and put over a fire to smoke. We had some for supper. It was good!  No rank smell or taste, either!

Our camp, though primitive, was functioning!  We had a puddle to wash dishes in, and a nearby swamp from which to get drinking water. We slept under a thatched roof built by the loggers and used as a pension (a restaurant). Of course, the Bolivians were all gone until the rains stopped and the jungle was, again, dry enough for them to return with their heavy equipment.

We dug an “outhouse,” a hole in the ground with no “house,” It was just “out,” but not far enough “out” in my opinion! It was in plain view of the rest of camp, so there was no privacy for the “daily duties!” I guessed the spot was chosen because it was reasoned that it was better for one to be in sight and in mind should the nomadic Yuqui be in the area. If one was preoccupied farther out in the jungle, he would be easy prey for an ambush. Also, it was dug right where the sun would beat down on the occupant. That made for shorter potty breaks! Alan “modernized” it with some boards to stand on and they covered most of the hole. 

Denny was pretty upset tonight after hearing by radio that his son, Brian, away at Tambo, the school for missionary children, had come down with hepatitis. That made two worries for him.  He was concerned about his wife’s health, as well. He wanted to be by himself and took a long walk after supper. He didn’t go alone, though! God walked with him and I’m sure listened to everything Denny had to say! He came back somewhat encouraged!

This story was from the category Tales From Green Hell. If you would like to read more of my experiences in the jungles of Bolivia, please click on that link below.

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