Truth in the Tepawani is the story of a boy who, while wrestling with problems at home, spends his summer vacation visiting his missionary relatives in the jungles of the Amazon. While there, he accidentally makes an impossible, stunning discovery that will rock the entire scientific community. The only problem is, he can’t prove it.

This novel was written for middle-grade kids (grades 6-8) and is the first in a series.

Chapter One

When a Tepawani boy turns fourteen, his elders inject him with frog poison to give him strength and endurance for manhood. Something similar happened to me the summer I stayed in the Amazon. A lot of things changed that summer. Not that I’ve become a man yet—I won’t be fourteen until next year.

It all began on a Peruvian airstrip, with a question from a pilot. He smiled at me and said, “Do you know where you’re going, kid?”

My reflection stared back at me in his sunglasses. I thought I knew. So, I told him, “Just waiting for my uncle and cousin to come pick me up. They’ll be here soon.” But if I’d known where that summer would take me, I might have answered differently.

I’d waited my whole life for this adventure. Every year I begged my mom and dad to let me go. Standing on the hot asphalt, frying in the impossible heat, I couldn’t believe I had finally arrived—or the circumstances that brought me.

The lady from the airline had helped me claim my luggage and escorted me through customs. After that, I told her I could handle things on my own. “My uncle will be right here,” I told her.

I followed the signs that led outside the terminal to a line of “moto-taxis”—colorful three-wheeled motorcycles with a seat and a covered awning for passengers. I wouldn’t have known what they were if I hadn’t read about them in the Kids’ Guide to the Amazon Basin.
But nothing in the Guide prepared me for the rest of the scene—the crowd, the noise, the smells. A lady jostled a pink vinyl suitcase strapped together with a man’s belt and two large plastic bags overflowing with clothing while herding two dirty-faced, olive-skinned children. Tucked under one arm, she carried a squawking chicken. She plunked the suitcase down and waved wildly. “Alejandro, aquí! Aquí!” A man shouted in return from across the plaza and came running from one of the moto-taxis.

Not far from where I stood, a man pulled a donkey through the crowd. The animal bore a woven saddlebag stuffed with CDs. A stereo speaker system strapped near its rump blared Latin music while the owner droned out a sing-song phrase over and over again. Three small children ran to and fro between their mother’s legs in a game of tag, laughing and giggling, while she scanned the crowd.

Another shout went up from an elderly couple as they hustled toward her. The children stopped mid-game and swarmed the approaching couple. “Abuela!” Although I hadn’t retained much from Mrs. Nuñez’s Spanish class, that word, at least, I recognized: grandma.

It felt like I’d been baking in the hot sun for hours already. And yet there was no sign of Uncle Clay or Jason. Even back home in the Forest Glen Mall, Uncle Clay’s pale skin and wavy red hair made him easy to spot. Surely it should be even easier here in a sea of black-haired, bronze-skinned people. I kept thinking I must stick out here too. But no one paid me any particular attention. Maybe it was normal for blond-headed 13-year-old boys to stand alone on Amazonian airstrips.

I clutched a printout of the last email Uncle Clay had sent my mom with instructions to wait outside the airport terminal. And I held a map of the Amazon basin. I planned to track our journey from the airport in Iquitos, up the Amazon to the Ucayali that fed into it, then to an even smaller tributary, and finally to the tiny village where Uncle Clay, Aunt Felicia, Jason, and Amanda lived. The last piece of paper had Uncle Clay’s contact information, such as it was—an email address he accessed infrequently, a ham radio handle, and a cell phone number “that should work as soon as I’m on the ground in Iquitos.”

I’d tucked my passport safely inside the traveler’s pack I wore under my T-shirt. I could still hear my mother’s voice coaching me about it. “Put that away as soon as you’re through customs. Tuck it in your pack. Promise me.”

She had tears in her eyes, and she kissed me on the cheek. I hadn’t kissed her back, angry as I still was about everything. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your dad and I will get this all worked out while you’re gone. You’ll see. We just need a little time apart. So, it’s a good time for you to visit your cousins.” But you could tell it was one of those things adults say to make a kid feel better. Her eyes told me she wasn’t as convinced as she sounded. As soon as I settled in my seat on the plane, I felt a stab of regret. I should have kissed her goodbye.

“Picarones! Picarones!” An oily aroma mingled with the smell of tired, sweaty people as a street vendor shouted about his wares. Whatever he was selling was deep-fried and brown and smelled delicious. My stomach began to grumble. But I had no nuevo sols. Only some emergency cash in U.S. dollars.

I surveyed the crowd again. Still no sign of a familiar face. What if I was stuck here? What if something happened to Uncle Clay on his way here? I remembered reading in the Kids’ Guide about a treehouse hotel somewhere in Iquitos. And I did have that emergency cash … How cool would it be to stay in a giant treehouse for the night? If no one came, that was an awesome plan B …
But I scanned the sea of faces again.
A man shoved his way through the crowd pulling a cart full of fragrant, ripe pineapples. He wore his hat low over his head to shield him from the mid-morning sun. Before I could move out of the way, he bumped my duffel, sending it—and nearly me—to the dusty pavement. I picked it up and stepped aside, my toes barely escaping the rickety wheel as the man trudged on.

I pulled off my sunglasses and squinted, hoping for a clearer view of Uncle Clay’s red head bobbing above the black ones. On the previous flight, even though I was the only “unaccompanied minor” on board, there had been a bunch of American kids—and one other Canadian—to talk to. But on the smaller plane from Lima to Iquitos, there were few gringos, as Jason said they were called. So, I read my copy of National Geographic’s The Science of Everything, studied my map, and flipped through the Kids’ Guide again.

What would it be like to see Jason and Amanda again? It had been more than two years since we’d been together, and that was back home in Canada. Jason wrote only once since I found out I’d be coming for the summer. Their village was so remote, they had no Internet. They rarely visited the city—only for supplies or serious medical problems—or if cousins flew all the way from Forest Glen, Canada to meet them at dusty airstrips.

Except they weren’t here to meet me. I wished I’d brought my phone so I could check the time—or play a game while I waited, at least. Mom had something to say about that too. “You’ll lose it. You’ll drop it in the Amazon or something. I don’t want you taking it.” When I argued, she reminded me there wasn’t much point, since I wouldn’t be able to make calls from the jungle. I’d have to remember to tell her it would have come in handy after all.

I closed my eyes and tried to tune out the crowd and the chorus of Spanish. Right now, I just wanted to hear one English word.

“Derek!”

My eyes popped open. Had I imagined it? Or was that Jason’s voice?

“Derek! Over here!”

I hitched my duffel higher on my shoulder and wandered in the direction of the voice when Jason slid between a grandma with a baby slung on her back and a man selling vegetables and punched me in the arm. He grinned and took my duffel bag. No wonder I hadn’t been able to pick him out. Brown-haired and bronze with tan, Jason blended in, almost like a native.

“Dad’s over at the hangar with the pilot. I’ll take you there. They’re doing some emergency repairs to the plane, and they’ve been watching the weather. Looks like a storm is headed our way and he’s not sure whether or not we can fly today. How are you? How was the flight?”