"Gringo, eh!"

"To them, that means any white person." They had already encountered this conviction. When Jed had asked how far it was to the river they would be using for a highway to the village, the answer had been given in hours; three hours walk for Indian, six, or more for a gringo.

Artillio, having seen Jed in action, offered his most prized possession, his machete. It was a supreme compliment, but Jed was too frustrated at the moment to appreciate the gesture. He rushed forward to do his fair share, pack and all, on the attack.

His first turn at bat, he struck out. Things kept springing back to slap him in the face. But Jed would not quit before being relieved. His personal pride —machismo if you must— was at risk.

On the second rotation he learned, as with splitting kindling at home, the trick was in the wrist. He held the machete handle loose enough to absorb shock, tight enough to give a follow through twist to keep a rhythm.

The third time in the lead he began to enjoy the hard physical effort. This expedition was turning into a boyhood fantasy come true. Monkeys chattered while swinging from tree to tree. Birds sang from a repertoire ranging from a melodious lullaby to that of a boisterous beer hall ballad.

Reaching the banks of the Chukanakki, a clear water river flowing over rounded pebbles, the Oregon horsepacker mentally reread every tale he had ever enjoyed about the jungle. Jed wished he, too, was wearing only a loin cloth. When the Indian guides dove into the water, Jed couldn't be bothered taking the time to slip off shirt, pants, or boots. Jenny, after asking if there was any danger from things that bite, followed, also fully dressed, with a cannonball splash.

The two gringos were to find that it wasn't necessary to warm up on the bank after coming out of the 75 degree water, and that in the high humidity wet clothes stayed wet. But they used drying out as an excuse to justify laying on a sandy beach, recovering from what had only been a three mile hike, while Arty sent one of the Indians downstream to hire a boat.

Even so, when he had handed back Artillio's machete, with thanks, Jed noted a look of respect in the Indian's dark eyes. Thinking about this, while waiting, he spoke for Jenny to translate. "Arty, I'm going to tell you about gringos. Some people think the name came from a war between my country, the United States, or Americans, which we all are in many ways, and our next door neighbors, the Mexicans. All this happened many years ago. The American soldiers sang a song about green grow the rushes, ho. The Mexicans, not understanding the words, only heard "gringo," which is how they came to describe the soldiers."