Version 2007.02.10

## “Shabono: A Visit to a Remote and Magical World in the South American Rainforest” - ©1982 by Florinda Donner-Grau

### Chapter 8

The red sunset tinted the air with a fiery glow. The sky was aflame for a few minutes before it dissolved rapidly into darkness. It was the third day of the feast. From my hammock, together with Etewa's and Arasuwe's children, I watched the sixty or so men, Iticoteri as well as their guests, who without food or rest had been dancing since noon in the middle of the clearing. To the rhythm of their own shrill shouts, to the clacking of their bows and arrows, they turned one way, then another, stepping backward and forward, a throbbing, never-ending beat of sound and motion, an undulating array of feathers and bodies, a blur of crimson and black designs.

A full moon rose above the treetops, casting a radiant light over the clearing. For a moment there was a lull in the unceasing noise and movement. Then the dancers broke out in savage, strangled cries that filled the air with an ear-piercing sound as they flung aside their bows and arrows.

Running inside the huts, the dancers grabbed burning logs from the hearths, and with a frenzied violence banged them against the poles holding up the shabono. All sorts of crawling insects scurried for safety in the palm-thatch roof before they fell like a cascade to the ground.

Terrified that the huts might come crashing down, or that the flying embers might set the roofs on fire, I ran outside with the children. The earth trembled under the men's stomping feet as they trampled out all the hearths in the huts. Brandishing the lighted logs high above their heads, they ran out into the center of the clearing, and resumed their dance with mounting frenzy. They circled the plaza, their heads wagging back and forth like marionettes whose strings had broken. The soft white feathers in their hair fluttered onto their sweat-glistening shoulders.

The moon moved behind a black cloud: Only the sparks of the fiery logs illuminated the clearing. The men's shrill cries rose to a higher pitch. Wielding their clubs overhead, they invited the women to join in the dance.

Shouting and laughing, the women darted back and forth, expertly dodging the swinging logs. The frenzy of the dancers mounted to a compelling intensity, converging toward a final climax as young girls, holding clusters of yellow palm fruit in their upraised arms, joined the crowd, their bodies swaying with sensual abandon.

I was not sure if it was Ritimi who grabbed my hand and pulled me into the dance, for in the next instant I stood alone among the ecstatic faces whirling around me. Caught between shadows and bodies, I tried to reach old Hayama standing in the safety of a hut, but I did not know in which direction to move. I did not recognize the man who, brandishing a log above his head, pushed me back amidst the dancers.

I cried out. Terror-stricken, I realized it was as if my cries were mute, exhausted in countless echoes reverberating inside me. I felt a sharp pain on the side of my head, right behind my ear, as I fell face down on the ground. I opened my eyes, trying to see through the shadows thickening about me, and wondered if those frenzied feet whirling and leaping in the air realized I had fallen amidst them. Then there was darkness, punctuated by pinpoints of light darting in and out of my head like glowworms in the night.

I was vaguely aware of someone dragging me away from the trampling dancers to a hammock. I forced my eyes open, but the figure hovering above me remained blurred. I felt a pair of gentle, slightly shaky hands touch my face, and the back of my head. For an instant I thought it was Angelica. But upon hearing that unmistakable voice coming from the depths of his stomach, I knew it was the old shaman Puriwariwe, chanting. I tried to focus my eyes, but his face remained distorted, as if I were seeing it through layers of water. I wanted to ask him where he had been, for I had not seen him since the first day of the feast, but the words were nothing but visions in my head.

I don't know whether I had been unconscious or whether I had slept, but when I awoke Puriwariwe was no longer there. Instead I saw Etewa's face bending over mine, so close I could have touched the red circles on his cheeks, between his brows, and at the corners of each eye. I stretched out my arm, but there was no one there. I shut my eyes; the circles danced inside my head like a red veil in a dark void. I shut them tighter until the image broke into a thousand fragments. The fire had been relit: It filled the hut with a cozy warmth that made me feel as if I were wrapped in an opaque cocoon of smoke. Dancing shadows silhouetted against the darkness were reflected on the golden patina of gourds hanging from the rafters.

Laughing happily, old Hayama came into the hut, and sat on the ground beside me. "I thought you would sleep till morning." Raising both hands to my head, her fingers probed until she found the swollen lump behind my ear. "It's big," she said. Her weathered features expressed a distant sorrow: Her eyes held a soft gentle light.

I sat up in the fiber hammock. Only then did I realize I was not in Etewa's hut.

"Iramamowe's," Hayama said before I had a chance to ask where I was. "His hut was the closest for Puriwariwe to bring you in after you were pushed against one of the men's clubs."

The moon had traveled high in the sky. Its pale shimmer spilled into the clearing. The dancing had ceased, yet an inaudible vibration still hung in the air.

Shouting, clacking their bows and arrows, a group of men positioned themselves in a semicircle in front of the hut. Iramamowe and one of the visitors stepped into the center of the gesticulating men. I could not tell which settlement the guest was from: I had been unable to distinguish the various groups who had come and gone since the beginning of the feast.

Iramamowe spread his legs in a firm stance, and raised his left arm over his head, exposing his chest fully. "Ha, ha, ahaha, aita, aita," he shouted, tapping his foot on the ground; a fearless cry that was meant to dare his opponent to strike him.

The young visitor adjusted his distance by measuring his arm length to Iramamowe's body. He took several dry runs, then with his closed fist delivered one powerful blow on the left side of Iramamowe's chest.

My body recoiled in shock. I felt nauseous as though the pain had swept through my own chest. "Why are they fighting?" I asked Hayama.

"They aren't fighting," she said, laughing. "They want to hear how their hekuras, the life essence that dwells inside their chests, resound. They want to hear how the hokums vibrate with each blow."

The crowd cheered enthusiastically. The young visitor stood back, his chest heaving with excitement, and punched Iramamowe once more. Chin arrogantly raised, eyes perfectly steady, body stiff in defiance, Iramamowe acknowledged the cheers of the men. It was only after the third blow that he broke his stance. For an instant his lips parted in an appreciative grin, then set once more in a snarl of indifference and contempt. The persistent tapping of his foot, Hayama assured me, revealed nothing other than annoyance: His adversary had not yet struck him hard enough.

With a morbid, righteous kind of satisfaction I hoped Iramamowe felt the pain of each blow. He deserved it, I thought. Ever since I had seen him strike his wife, I had built up a resentment against him. Yet, as I watched, I could not help but admire the gallant way he stood in the middle of the crowd. There was something childishly defiant in the ramrod straightness of his back, the manner in which his bruised chest was thrust forward. His round, flat face with its narrow forehead and flared upper lip appeared so vulnerable as he stared at the young man in front of him. I wondered if the slight flicker of his brown eyes betrayed that he was shaken.

With a shattering force the fourth blow landed on Iramamowe's chest. It reverberated like the rocks that tumbled down the river during a storm.

"I believe I heard his hekuras," I said, certain Iramamowe's rib had been broken.

"He's waiteri," the Iticoteri and their guests shouted in unison. With rapt expressions on their faces they bounced up and down on their haunches, clacking their bows and arrows over their heads.

"Yes. He is a brave one," Hayama repeated, her eyes fixed on Iramamowe, who, satisfied that his hekuras had resounded potently, stood erect amidst the cheering men, his bruised chest puffed up with pride.

Silencing the onlookers, the headman Arasuwe stepped toward his brother. "Now you take Iramamowe's blow," he said to the young man who had delivered the four punches.

The visitor positioned himself in the same defiant stance in front of Iramamowe. Blood spilled from the young man's mouth as he collapsed to the ground after receiving Iramamowe's third blow.

Iramamowe jumped in the air, then began to dance around the fallen man. Sweat glistened on his face, on the strained muscles of his neck and shoulders. But his voice sounded clear, vibrant with joy, as he shouted, "Ai ai aiaiaiai, aiai!"

Two of the visiting women carried the injured man into the empty hammock next to where Hayama and I sat. One of them cried: The other bent over the man and began to suck blood and saliva from his mouth until his breath came in slow, measured gasps.

Iramamowe challenged another of the guests to strike him. After receiving the first punch he knelt on the ground, from where he dared his opponent to hit him once more. He spat blood after the next blow. The guest got down on his haunches facing Iramamowe. Wrapping their arms around each other, they embraced.

"You hit well," Iramamowe said, his voice a barely audible whisper. "My hekuras are full of life, potent and happy. Our blood has flown. This is good. Our sons will be strong. Our gardens and the fruits in the forest will ripen to sweetness."

The guest voiced similar thoughts. Vowing eternal friendship, he promised Iramamowe a machete he had acquired from a group of Indians who had settled near the big river.

"I have to watch this one more closely," Hayama said, walking out of the hut. Her youngest son was one of the men who had stepped into the circle for the next round of ritual blows.

I did not want to remain with the injured visitor in Iramamowe's hut. The two women who had brought him in had left to ask the shaman from their own group to prepare some medicine that would ease the pain in the man's chest.

My head began to spin as I stood up. Slowly I walked through the empty huts until I reached Etewa's. I stretched in my cotton hammock. An eerie silence closed in on me as if I were falling into a light faint.

I was awakened by angry shouts. Someone said, "Etewa, you have slept with my woman without my permission." The voice was so close it was as if he had spoken into my ear. Startled, I sat up. A group of men and giggling women had gathered in front of the hut. Etewa, standing perfectly still in the middle of the crowd, his face an unreadable mask, did not deny the charge. Suddenly he shouted, "You and your family have eaten like hungry dogs for the last three days." It was a deplorable accusation; visitors were given whatever they asked; for during a feast the hosts' gardens and hunting territory were at their guests' disposal. To be insulted in such a manner implied that the man had taken advantage of his privileged status. "Ritimi, get me my nabrushi," Etewa shouted, scowling at the angry young man in front of him.

Sobbing, Ritimi ran into the hut, picked up the club, and without looking at her husband handed the four-foot-long stick to him. "I can't watch," she said, throwing herself into my hammock. I put my arms around her, trying to comfort her. Had it not been that she was so distressed I would have laughed. Not in the least concerned with Etewa's infidelity, Ritimi was afraid the night might end with a serious fight. Watching the two angry men shout at each other, and the crowd's excited reaction, I could not help but be alarmed in turn.

"Hit me on the head," the enraged visitor demanded. "Hit me, if you are a man. Let's see if we can laugh together again. Let's see if my anger passes."

"We are both angry," Etewa shouted with insolent vigor, hefting the nabrushi in his hand. "We must appease our wrath." Then, without further ado, he delivered a solid whack on the man's shaven tonsure.

Blood gushed from the wound. Slowly it spread over the man's face until it was covered like some grotesque red mask. His legs shook, almost buckling under him. But he did not fall.

"Hit me and we'll be friends again," Etewa shouted belligerently, silencing the aroused crowd. He leaned on his club, lowered his head, and waited. When the man struck him, Etewa was momentarily dazed; blood flowed down his brow and lashes, forcing him to close his eyes. The explosive yells of the men broke the silence, a chorus of approving shouts demanding they hit each other again.

With a mixture of fascination and disgust I watched the two men facing each other. Their muscles were drawn tightly, the veins in their necks distended, their eyes bright, as if rejuvenated by the raging flow of blood. Their faces, set in contemptuous red masks, betrayed no pain as they stepped around one another like two injured cocks.

With the back of his hand Etewa wiped the blood obstructing his vision, then spat. Lifting his club, he let it fall on his opponent's head, who without uttering a sound collapsed on the ground.

Clicking their tongues, their eyes a bit out of focus, the spectators emitted fearsome cries. I was certain a fight would break out as the whole shabono filled with their earpiercing yells. I held on to Ritimi's arm, and was surprised that her tear-stained face was set in a complacent, almost cheerful expression. She explained that she could tell by the tone of the men's shouts that they were no longer concerned with the initial insults. All they were interested in was to witness the power of each man's hekuras. There were no winners or losers. If a warrior fell, all it meant was that his hekuras were not strong enough at the moment.

One of the onlookers emptied a water-filled calabash on the prostrate guest, pulled his ears, wiped the blood from his face. Then, helping him up, he handed the half-dazed man his club, and urged him to hit Etewa once more on the head. The man had barely enough strength to lift the heavy stick; instead of landing on Etewa's skull, it struck him in the middle of the chest.

Etewa fell to his knees; blood spilled from his mouth, over his lips, chin, and throat, down his chest and thighs, a red trail seeping into the earth. "How well you hit," Etewa said in a strangled voice. "Our blood has flown. We are no longer troubled. We have calmed our wrath."

Ritimi went to Etewa. Sighing loudly, I lay back in my hammock and closed my eyes. I had seen enough blood for the night. I probed the swollen area on my head, wondering if I had a slight concussion.

I almost fell from my hammock as someone held on to the liana rope tying it to one of the poles in the hut. Startled, I looked up into Etewa's bloodied face. Either he did not see me, or was beyond caring where he rested, for he just slumped on top of me. The odor of blood, warm and pungent, mingled with the acrid smell of his skin. Repelled and fascinated, I could not help but stare at the open gash on his skull, still bleeding, and his swollen purple chest.

I was wondering how I could extricate my legs from under his weight when Ritimi stepped into the hut carrying a water-filled gourd, which she heated over the fire.

Expertly she lifted Etewa halfway up, and motioned me to slip behind him in the hammock so that she could prop him against my raised knees. Gently, she washed his face and chest clean.

Etewa was perhaps twenty-five, yet with his hair clinging damply to his forehead, and his lips slightly parted, he looked as helpless as a child in sleep. It occurred to me that he might die of internal injuries.

"He will be well tomorrow," Ritimi said as if she had guessed my thoughts. Softly she began to laugh: Her laughter had a ring of childishly secret delight. "It's good for blood to flow. His hekuras are strong. He is waiteri."

Etewa opened his eyes, pleased to hear Ritimi's praise. He mumbled something unintelligible as he gazed into my face.

"Yes. He is waiteri," I agreed with Ritimi.

Tutemi arrived shortly with a dark hot brew.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Medicine," Tutemi said, smiling. She stuck her finger in the concoction, then put it against my lips. "Puriwariwe made it from roots and magical plants." A gleam of contentment shone in Tutemi's eyes as she forced Etewa to drink the bitter-tasting brew. Blood had flown: She was convinced she would bear a strong, healthy son.

Ritimi examined my legs, which were cut and bruised from being dragged across the clearing by Puriwariwe, and she washed them with the remaining warm water. I lay down in Etewa's uncomfortable fiber hammock.

The moon, circled by a yellow haze, had moved until it was almost over the horizon of trees. A few men were still dancing and singing in the clearing: Then a cloud hid the moon, obscuring everything in sight. Only the sound of voices, no longer shrill but a gentle murmur, told that the men were still there. The moon revealed itself once more, a pale light illuminating the tops of the trees, and the brown-skinned figures materialized against the darkness, shadows of long bodies giving substance to the soft clacking of bows and arrows,

Some of the men sang until a rim of light began to appear over the trees to the east. Dark purple clouds the color of Etewa's bruised chest covered the sky. Dew shone on the leaves, on the fringe of the palm fronds hanging around the huts. The voices began to fade, drifting away on the chilly breeze of dawn.