by Philip B. Hildebrand
Our dugout canoe motored slowly upriver leaving civilization far behind. The sun sank below the trees and all color disappeared. We pushed onward into the increasingly darkening wilderness. No one other than Miskito Indians had been here for at least twenty years. Augustine, rifle at the ready, crouched in the bow, his keen eyes studying the shoreline hoping for some sign of movement. Octavio tried to entice me into shooting a monkey high up in a tree, claiming it would be delicious with the roots we had found earlier.

Nicaragua’s eastern lowlands are a world apart from the rest of the country. This vast mosaic of forests, rivers, lakes, and swamps is the Miskito Indian’s homeland and they are its masters. Having lived for years in Puerto Cabezas, I know the area’s ocean, offshore cays, coastal communities, and major lagoons as do only a handful of foreigners. But these are not the region’s heart; rather they are its genteel fringes. To better understand this land and its people, I had come here to begin learning how to travel, hunt, fish, and live in the wilderness. My tutors were experts for few know this place as do the friends in whose care I was. When we set out, Octavio told me, “Now you are going to live in the bush like a real Miskito.”