This article originally ran in the January/February 2007 edition of American Angler and is reproduced here with permission.

“PIRANHA,” THE GUIDE SPAT, indicating that I should cast elsewhere. I had no regard for such misgivings: if the piranha were the only fish biting, then I was just thankful for something—anything—tugging at the end of my line. My companion, Cale, and I shared long-suffering looks, and then went back to the anything-but-elegant rhythm of chucking lead shooting heads on ten weights. It was mindless work, and my thoughts returned to events of the past few days.  The fishing party had rendezvoused in Miami the previous Tuesday. After a long wait for the redeye to Manaus, Brazil, we were faced with an inauspicious omen so early in our trip: Our flight had been cancelled, due to vulture strike. “What kind of pterodactyl does it take to knock out a 737?” I asked. “These aren’t your ordinary turkey buzzards,” our guide, Mark, shot back. I laughed and caught the others on the way to the bar. Nothing like getting the bad stuff out of the way early, we figured.  Our second flight made it out the gate, and soon enough we found ourselves in Belém, Brazil, at the mouth of the Amazon. The rubber barons had made Belém one of the jewels of their industrial empire, but those days are long gone. Now the spirit of industry, never quenched, lives on in the form of streetside vendors willing to sell anything from monkey skulls to anaconda skins to themselves to the few gringos who pass through.

Our time there being short, we ran around doing the tourist thing, until the next morning, when we found ourselves a man down shortly before takeoff for the bush. Our guide, on the verge of apoplexy, began a room-to-room search, while I stepped outside to catch a glimpse of the World Cup on a street vendor’s portable TV. When I looked up, there in mid-traffic was our missing soldier stumbling back to the hotel. The vendor, noticing his look, winked at me: “He have good time in Belém, yes?” I just winked back.