Between Tapirs and Anacondas.

The Indigenous communities of Suriname were the true keepers of ancient knowledge—knowledge that long predated modern science. Their bond with nature was not just practical but spiritual, as if their very existence was intertwined with the pulse of the jungle itself. They understood the rhythms of life and death, the subtle balance that sustained the rainforest. Their knowledge of medicinal plants was a living, breathing encyclopedia, passed down through generations, and their sustainable hunting techniques were a delicate dance—extraction and preservation in perfect harmony. In their wisdom lay the essence of survival, not just for their own people, but for the countless species that would have vanished without their stewardship.

But within this harmony, fractures were beginning to appear, and I witnessed them firsthand. The tapir, often called the “gentle giant” of the jungle, had become one of the casualties of these fractures. Suriname was the only country in South America that allowed tapir hunting during specific seasons and in certain regions. What once seemed like a balanced approach soon turned into a threat: hunting seasons were ignored, and regulations were disregarded. Illegal hunting ran rampant, and the tapir population dwindled. When I first encountered a slain tapir, it struck me deeply—not just as a physical loss, but as a blow to the dignity of the jungle and its guardians. The wound was not just to the species, but to the very soul of the rainforest.

But the call of the wild was undeniable, and I pressed on, driven by the mysteries that still awaited. My goal was an ancient creature that had haunted my dreams since childhood—the anaconda. To many, it was a monster, a terror of nightmares. But to me, it was a symbol of life itself: vast, enigmatic, powerful. My search began with equal parts awe and trepidation. The river was my companion and adversary, its black waters concealing unknown dangers. Every step through the murky undergrowth seemed to promise an encounter—either too close or just out of reach. This hunt was not one of weapons, but of observation, patience, and respect for a creature that embodied both triumph and humility in equal measure.

The tales I share are not just about my journey through the jungle—they are a glimpse into its beating heart. Every encounter, whether with a tapir or an anaconda, revealed something profound about the wildness of this world—and something deeper about myself.