Members of the community at San Miguel del Bala are held strictly accountable for their contributions. A mayor is periodically elected to make decisions; Wilman had recently held that post. Anyone determined to not be pulling his or her weight could be placed in a torture contraption behind the community center, with the offender's legs duly whipped. It looked to be such a medieval device it was shocking to hear someone had been punished just last month.

This was the highlight of our trip: visiting the community that the tourism actually benefits. In truth, the tour should have been much longer and more structured for greater impact.

The walk from our lofty lodge was downhill the whole way; luckily the return trip would be by boat! The first stop was at Wilman's house on the outskirts of the community.

At 29, he was running behind schedule with only four Wilman-spawn running around, but he told us he did not plan to have more—it was hard enough caring for four. The children were adorable—the oldest son quietly doing homework while the baby swung gently, bundled in a large scarf hung from the ceiling. His younger son wore an ear-to-ear grin the whole time.

We munched oranges on what was essentially a covered porch. Chickens pecked around us while his tiny daughter mashed rice in what looked like a huge mortar and pestle. The goal was to powderize the hulls and then walk slowly through the yard allowing the powder to blow off. Hemmy gave it a shot and found the masher to be surprisingly heavy, especially for a small child.

Walking through the rest of the community was just that—a walkthrough. We thought we would meet families, learn about architecture and jewelry-making as described in the brochure. Instead, we simply greeted onlookers while Wilman pointed out the school and the soccer field where at 5pm every day all the village women played. I would have loved to see that, but apparently we were in a rush of some kind.

We did get the wonderful experience of making sugarcane juice on another medieval-looking contraption— three barrels rotated creakily when a giant pole was cranked by pushing in a wide circle around the machine, while freshly squeezed juice ran down gutters into a plastic tub.

I fed an entire pile of sugarcanes through the barrels while Wilman barked at me to move faster, as he and two other women from the community pushed the crank. We made enough to fill bottles for Wilman and the ladies, plus a small glass each for Hemmy and me. So light and refreshing! I recognized the taste as being a large component of the sweet fruit juices we'd had at the lodge.

As we headed to shore to leave, I regretted that Wilman didn't seem to understand what we had been promised and that we hadn't spoken up. Noting the community's youth swimming joyously in the Rio Beni, I wished we could have spent more time really exploring.

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