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me Grandmother, Alexander.”
    “I won’t, if you won’t call me Alexander. My name is Jaguar, at least to my family and friends.”
    “Aggh. Don’t be such a pest,” she replied, burning her lips with the first sip of the steaming beverage.

CHAPTER THREE
The Missionary
    T HE SAFARI STAFF LOADED THE equipment into Land Rovers and then by elephant accompanied the International Geographic party to where Angie’s plane waited in an open area, two miles from the camp. For the visitors it was their last ride. The haughty Kobi, who had carried Nadia all that week, sensed the parting and seemed downcast, as were all the guests. Borobá, too, was dejected; he was leaving behind the three chimps that had become good friends; for the first time in his life, he had to admit that there were monkeys almost as clever as he was.
    As they approached the Cessna Caravan, they could see the signs of its years of use and the many miles it had flown. A logo on the side announced its arrogant name: Super Hawk. Angie had painted the head, eyes, beak, and claws of a bird of prey on the plane, but over time the paint had flaked and in the shimmering morning light the vehicle much more closely resembled a pathetic molting hen. The travelers shivered at the thought that it was their only means of transportation—all except Nadia, because compared to the ancient, rusty little plane her father flew around the Amazon, Angie’s Super Hawk looked super indeed. The same band of ill-behaved mandrills that had drunk Kate’s vodka were squatting on the wings of the metal bird busily grooming each other, picking off lice with great concentration, the way humans often do. In many places in the world, Kate had seen the same loving ritual of delousing that united families and created bonds among friends. Sometimes children got in line, ranging from the smallest to the largest,to inspect one another’s heads. She smiled, thinking how in the United States the mere word “lice” evoked shudders of horror. Angie began lobbing rocks and insults at the baboons, to which they responded with Olympian scorn, refusing to budge an inch until the elephants were practically on top of them.
    Mushaha handed Angie a vial of animal tranquilizer.
    “This is the last one I have. Can you bring me a box on your next trip?” he asked.
    “Of course.”
    “Take this one as a sample; there are several different brands, and you might get the wrong one. This is the one I need.”
    “No problem,” said Angie, putting the vial in the plane’s emergency kit for safekeeping.
    They had finished stowing the luggage in the plane when a man no one had ever seen before burst out of the nearby undergrowth. He was wearing blue jeans, worn midcalf boots, and a filthy cotton shirt. On his head was a cloth hat, and on his back a knapsack onto which he had tied a clay pot black with soot and a machete. He was a short man, thin and bony and bald. His skin was very pale, his eyebrows dark and bushy, and the lenses of his eyeglasses were thick as bottle glass.
    “Good day, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in Spanish, and immediately repeated the greeting in English and French.
    He introduced himself: “I am Brother Fernando, a Catholic missionary,” first shaking Mushaha’s hand and then the others’.
    “How did you get here?” Mushaha asked.
    “With the help of some truck drivers, but most of the way walking.”
    “On foot? From where? There are no villages for miles around.”
    “The roads are long, but they all lead to God,” the man replied.
    He explained that he was Spanish, born in Galicia, although it had been many years since he had visited his homeland. Almost as soon as he left the seminary, he had been sent to Africa, and he had been there for more than thirty years, carrying out his ministry in a number of different countries. His most recent assignment had been a village in Rwanda, where he worked with other missionaries and three nuns in a small compound. It was a