Much of the Pantanal remained frontier. Its harsh climate of high summer temperatures and seasonal flooding, and its poor soil, made for few noteworthy settlements. Cattle and ecotourism remained the main income—and the tourists didn’t go in this far. Not as far as Jabuti.

Jabuti was the only real village along the Satobra, only three kilometers from its confluence with the Miranda. Alan had heard of a smaller settlement farther upstream, but that was accessible only by plane or boat, and the felled trees where the river wound through thick swamp made traversing up there near impossible. Even the Policia Florestal didn’t bother going up there. Jabuti, on the other hand, was accessible by boat or via a potholed, half-washed-out dirt road. But it was like going back centuries in time.

Alan tied his boat to a half-submerged fence post and disembarked, wiping the sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his -sweat-soaked shirt. It was a hot and sunny Pantanal morning; the kind that makes one feel like doing little more than sitting in the shade. The village before him was a chaotic cluster of widely-spaced shacks, most a patchwork of ill-fitting wood or bamboo slats, some with brick. The windows were mere openings, with heavy shutters that could be lowered during rainstorms. Pigs rummaged in the yards with the chickens and dogs. This was the kind of place that originated the term “dirt poor.”

The people of Jabuti had depended for generations on fishing. And the regulations against fishing, while religiously enforced by the police, paled next to the spirit of people needing to put food on the table. Alan knew they might not use nets for fear of being caught or turned in by informants. But they certainly used fishing poles, and maybe even night lines tied to branches at the water’s edge. It was here in Jabuti that Alan knew he’d find out if anyone ever caught any jaú in the Satobra or if any spawned this time of the year. No point in embarrassing himself by putting something stupid in the research report.

Alan attracted a small crowd of children as he walked down the dirt road leading into the village. The children were of all ages, maybe from four years old to ten or eleven, mostly barefoot and quite a few of the boys shirtless. But they weren’t like the homeless children in Saõ Paulo, who roamed the streets. These didn’t ask for handouts. They were just curious, and happy, and laughing.

Alan walked to the wooden shack of Moacir, who’d served as his fishing guide many times in the distant past, and of whom Alan was fond. Moacir was a hard worker. But more importantly, he also knew a little English. Alan could get by in Portuguese, but had trouble understanding when it was spoken quickly, as it always seemed to be.

It was Moacir himself who answered the door. His look of surprise and momentary bewilderment at seeing Alan was followed by a warm and broad smile.

“Doctor Alan! Bom dia! Hello, my friend!”

Moacir had aged well. Now in his late-forties, he was thin, but wiry. His brown eyes still showed a youthful vitality, while his muscular arms, faded t-shirt, and jeans dusted with red clay soil revealed a poor working man. A couple-of-days growth of whiskers highlighted his brown skin, baked by constant activity in the tropical sun. Alan knew Moacir to be a good man, with a lovely wife. Alan always felt comfortable around him.

After the greetings and small talk, Alan got to his point: “Moacir, do you ever see jaú in the Satobra?”

Moacir looked at him blankly. He didn’t move. He didn’t answer.

Alan tried again, speaking slowly: “Jaú in Rio Satobra, Moarcir? Jaú? Any jaú, Satobra?”

Alan’s brow furrowed as he watched Moarcir’s friendly demeanor undergo a strange transformation, at first replaced by a pensive, downcast look, then quickly transitioning to a hardened, eye-to-eye stare of harshness and anger. Alan immediately sensed he was being misunderstood, and tried repeating jaú, this time making sure to accent the final vowel, Portuguese-style. But Moarcir had stopped listening. In a moment’s time, Moarcir was at the door, holding it open for Alan to leave and motioning Alan out.

“Goodbye. Time to go. Go back home. No more questions.” Moarcir’s countenance was stern, unmovable.

Perplexed, Alan tried again: “No, Moacir. I need to know. Nao. Preciso saber. Jaú em Satobra ou só em Miranda?”

Moarcir ignored him. He looked past Alan toward the children watching out on the street. Then he said, “No jaú. Go now. Tchau.”

With that, Alan was literally ushered out the door.

For a minute, Alan faced the closed door, mouth open, then running his hands through his hair as he tried to process what’d just transpired. The kids stopped their play and banter and silently looked at him as he stood. Alan lifted his sunglasses, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and looked blankly at the street. What in the world is wrong with Moacir?

Alan tried two other homes. He didn’t know the people, but they certainly seemed friendly when he’d first knocked. But when he mentioned jaú, they’d suddenly closed their doors on him.

He went to another house. Alan put on his best smile, remarkable since he was still tormented by Moacir’s cold rejection. Alan led by asking if there were any dorado in the Satobra. The man answered emphatically, proud to be an expert in such knowledge: “Sim, yes. Dorado.” Still standing in the doorway, Alan asked about pacu. Again, the man answered affirmatively, with an all-knowing nod of his head, “Sim, pacu.” Alan then asked about jaú. The man looked at Alan strangely, almost frightened, Alan thought, and then shut the door immediately. After this house, Alan lost the energy to go on. He walked listlessly back toward his boat.

The kids were still following, quietly laughing among themselves. He was a curiosity. One child tried to engage him in English. Perhaps he was being friendly. Perhaps he was just showing off for his friends.

“Mister. How are you?”

Alan looked at the kid, who was slightly older than the other children. Feeling crestfallen with the previous encounters and appreciating any positive give and take, Alan weakly returned the conversation: “Alô. Tudo bom?”

“Tudo bom, mister. Here, Jabuti. Porque?”

Why am I here in Jabuti? I don’t know anymore, thought Alan. Finally Alan sighed and repeated slowly his unanswered question whether anyone ever catches jaú in the Satobra: “Quiero entender se pessoa pegar um jaú em River Satobra.”

“Yes, Mister. Jaú catch. My … tio catch.”

His uncle caught one! “In Satobra?” repeated Alan.

“Sim, Satobra. Sim. Hay oito meses.”

Eight months ago, thought Alan, his uncle caught a jaú in the Satobra. Not such a big deal after all. But the child’s smile was now gone, his eyes had a faraway look. “Big one? Grande?” Alan said with a smile.

“Sim … grande….” The kid paused. He looked at the ground. “Porém men come. Ask over jaú.” He kept his eyes downcast. “Kill me uncle.”

Alan stood still, stunned. He felt as if wind had blown over his ears, blocking out all the sounds around him as he withdrawn deep inside his own head. Kill his uncle? Over a jaú?

It took some time to for Alan to respond. Slowly and methodically, he drew the boy out, trying to navigate the boy’s alternating moods, from downcast, when the boy barely spoke, to angry, when his hate seemed to open up the spigot of words, mostly Portuguese and fast and incomprehensible.

With difficulty, Alan unraveled what had transpired. His uncle had caught the jaú, more by accident than skill, apparently snagging it with a treble hook. Sometime later, several men had come to the village and asked around about a jaú. They went to the boy’s uncle, shot him numerous times, and took what was left of the jaú. The police couldn’t locate the murderers, but the boy didn’t think they even tried. Now the village parents don’t even let the kids fish with worms anymore, for fear they’ll catch one of these mud-dwelling fish.

The boy didn’t want to say much more, and soon several adults, standing and watching in their open doors and yards, yelled at the kids, and they all dispersed and walked away. Alan was left alone with his thoughts, oblivious to the stares of the townspeople as he slowly trudged back to his boat.

Kill his uncle? Kill his uncle over a jaú? The thought was incomprehensible to Alan. It certainly didn’t sound like bioengineering companies. Too much money to get wrapped up in murder, at least such direct murder; they could just pay off the uncle. The man probably wouldn’t have known the difference from an ordinary jaú anyway and wouldn’t care. Heck, they could pay off the whole town of Jabuti, pay off the local police, pay off anyone. Why murder someone?

By the time he got back to his laboratory, Alan had made a determination. He was going to have to try and catch a jaú himself.