Version 2007.02.24

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

### Chapter 25

The trees on either side of the banks, the clouds traveling across the sky shadowed the river. Hoping to shorten the time between the world left behind and the one now awaiting me, I paddled as fast as I could. But I soon got tired, and then only used the small paddle to push myself free whenever I got too close to the bank.

At times the river was clear, reflecting the lush greenness with exaggerated intensity. There was something peaceful about the darkness of the forest and the deep silence around me. The trees seemed to be nodding in farewell as they bent slightly with the afternoon breeze; or perhaps they were only lamenting the passing of day, of the sun's last rays fading in the sky. Shortly before twilight deepened, I maneuvered the canoe toward the opposite bank, where I had seen stretches of sand amidst the dark rocks.

As soon as the craft hit the sand, I jumped out and dragged the canoe farther up the bank, close to the forest edge, where drooping vines and branches formed a safe, dark nook. I turned around and gazed at the distant mountains, violet in the dusk, and I wondered if I had been up there for more than a week before Iramamowe carried me to the hut where I had awakened that morning. I climbed to the highest rock and scanned the landscape for the lights of the mission. It had to be farther than Iramamowe estimated, I thought. Only darkness crept from out of the river, crawling up the rocks as the last vestiges of sunlight disappeared from the sky. I was hungry but did not dare explore the sandy river shore for turtle eggs.

I could not decide whether I should place my knapsack under my head as a pillow or wrap it around my cold feet as I lay inside the canoe. Through the tangled mass of branches above me I saw the clear sky, filled with innumerable tiny stars shining like golden specks of dust. As I drifted off to sleep, my feet tucked in my knapsack, I hoped that my feelings, like the light of the stars spanning the sky, would reach those I had loved in the forest.

I awoke shortly. The air was filled with the sounds of crickets and frogs. I sat up, then looked around me as if I could dispel the darkness. Shafts of moonlight spilled through the branches, painting the sand with grotesque shadows that seemed to come alive with the rustling of wind. Even with my eyes closed, I was painfully conscious of the shadows brushing against the canoe. And each time a cricket interrupted its continuous chirping I opened my eyes, waiting for the sound to resume. Dawn finally silenced the cries, murmurs, and whistling of the forest. The mist-coated leaves looked as if they had been sprinkled with fine silver dust.

The sun rose over the treetops, tinting the clouds orange, purple, and pink. I bathed, washed my clothes with the fine river sand, spread them over the canoe to dry, then painted myself with onoto.

I was glad I had not arrived at the mission the day before, as I had first hoped, but that I still had time to watch the clouds change the sky. To the east, heavy clouds gathered, darkening the horizon. Lightning flashed in the distance, thunder followed after long intervals, and white lines of rain moved across the sky toward the north, keeping ahead of me. I wondered if alligators were basking in the sun amid the driftwood scattered on the bank. I had not floated downriver for long before the waters widened. The current became so strong I had a hard time keeping from swirling around in the shallow waters along the bank beset with rocks.

For an instant I thought I was hallucinating when I saw on the opposite bank a long dugout slowly pushing its way upriver. I stood up, frantically waving my shirt in the air, then cried with sheer happiness as the dugout crossed the wide expanse of water and headed toward me. With calculated precision, the almost thirty-foot-long canoe beached just a few paces away.

Smiling, twelve people climbed out of the canoe- four women, four men, and four children. They looked odd in their Western clothes and the purple designs on their faces. Their hair was cut like mine, but the crown of their head was not shaved.

"Maquiritare?" I asked.

Nodding, the women bit their lips as if trying to contain their giggles. Their chins quivered until they burst into uncontrollable laughter that was echoed by the men. Hastily, I put on my jeans and shirt. The oldest woman came closer. She was short and sturdy, her sleeveless dress revealing round fat arms and long breasts, which hung to her waist. "You are the one who went into the forest with the old Iticoteri woman," she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have found me paddling down-river in a dugout made by her people. "We know about you from the father at the mission." After formally shaking my hand, the old woman introduced me to her husband, their three daughters, their respective husbands and children.

"We left early this morning," the old woman's husband said. "We have been visiting relatives who live nearby."

"She has become a real savage," the youngest of the three daughters cried, pointing to my cut feet with such an expression of outrage that it was all I could do not to giggle. She searched my canoe and shook the empty knapsack. "She has no shoes," she said in disbelief. "She is a real savage!"

I looked at her bare feet.

"Our shoes are in the canoe," she affirmed, and proceeded to bring an assortment of footwear from the boat. "See? We all have shoes."

"Do you have any food with you?" I asked.

"We do," the old woman assured me, then asked her daughter to put the shoes back into the canoe, and bring one of the bark boxes.

The box was lined with platanillo leaves and filled with cassava bread. I huddled over the food, almost hugging it as I dunked piece after piece into a water-filled calabash before popping it into my mouth. "My stomach is full and happy," I said after I had eaten halfway down the box.

The Maquiritare regretted that they had no meat but only sugarcane with them. The old man cut a foot-long piece, peeled the bamboolike bark with his machete, then handed it to me. "It will give you strength," he said.

I chewed and sucked on the pale hard fibers until they were dry and tasteless. The Maquiritare had heard about Milagros. One of the sons-in-law knew him personally, but none of them knew where Milagros was.

"We will take you to the mission," the old man said.

I made a feeble attempt to convince him that it was not necessary for him to retrace his steps, but my words lacked conviction. Eagerly I boarded the craft, sitting between the women and children. To take advantage of the full speed of the current, the men steered the canoe right into the middle of the river. They paddled without saying a word to each other, yet each man was so attuned to the others' rhythm that they were able to anticipate each other's precise needs in advance. I remembered Milagros had once mentioned to me that the Maquiritare were not only the greatest boat builders of the Orinoco area, but also the best navigators.

Exhaustion pressed heavily on my eyes. The rhythmic splashing of the paddles made me so drowsy, my head kept lolling forward and sideways. The bygone days and nights drifted through my mind like fragmented dreams of another time. It seemed all so vague, so far away, as if it had all been an illusion.

It was noon when I was awakened by Father Coriolano, who had come into the room to bring me a mug filled with coffee. "Eighteen hours of sleep is a good start," he said. His smile held the same reassuring warmth with which he had greeted me the day before as I stepped out of the Maquiritare's boat.

My eyes were still heavy with sleep as I sat on the canvas cot. My back was stiff from resting in a flat position. Slowly, I sipped the hot black brew, so strong, and thickened with sugar it made me nauseous.

"I also have chocolate," Father Coriolano said.

I straightened the calico shift I had been given to sleep in, and followed him into the kitchen. With the flair of a chef preparing a fancy meal, he stirred two tablespoons of dried milk powder, four of Nestle's chocolate powder, four of sugar, and a few grains of salt into a pot of water boiling on a kerosene stove.

He drank my unfinished coffee while I spooned the delicious-tasting chocolate. "I can radio your friends in Caracas to pick you up with their plane anytime you want."

"Oh, not yet," I said faintly.

The days passed slowly. In the mornings I wandered around the gardens along the riverbank and at noon I sat under the large mango tree that bore no fruit outside the chapel. Father Coriolano did not ask me what my plans were, or how long I intended to stay at the mission. He seemed to have accepted my presence as something inevitable.

In the evenings I spent hours talking to Father Coriolano and to Mr. Barth, who often came to visit. We chatted about the crops, the school, the dispensary- always impersonal subjects. I was grateful that neither of them asked me where I had been for over a year, what I had done, or what I had seen. I would not have been able to answer- not because I wanted to be secretive, but because there was nothing to say. If we exhausted our conversation, Mr. Barth would read us articles from newspapers and magazines, some over twenty years old. Regardless of whether we were listening or not, he rattled on as he pleased, now and then interrupting himself to roar with laughter.

In spite of their humor and affable nature, there were evenings when shadows of loneliness crossed their faces as we sat in silence listening to the rain pattering on the corrugated roof; or to the solitary cry of a howler monkey settling for the night. It was then that I wondered if they too had learned the secrets of the forest: secrets of misty caves; of the sound of sap running through branches and trunks; of spiders spinning their silvery webs. At those times I wondered if that was what Father Coriolano had tried to warn me about when he had talked of the dangers of the forest. And I wondered if it was this that kept them from returning to the world they had left behind.

At night, enclosed in the four walls of my room, I felt a vast emptiness. I missed the closeness of the huts, the smell of people and smoke. Carried by the sound of the river flowing outside my window, I dreamt I was with the Iticoteri. I heard Ritimi's laughter, I saw the children's smiling faces, and there was always Iramamowe, squatting outside his hut calling to the hekuras that had eluded him.

Walking along the river's edge one afternoon, I was overcome by an uncontrollable sadness. The noise of the river was loud, drowning out the voices of the people chatting nearby. It had rained at noon and the sun peeked through the clouds without properly shining. Aimlessly I walked up and down the sandy beach. Then in the distance I saw the lonely figure of a man approaching. Dressed in khaki pants and a red checkered shirt, he looked indistinguishable from any of the Westernized Indians around the mission. Yet there was something familiar about the man's swaggering gait.

"Milagros!" I cried, then waited until he stood before me. His face looked unfamiliar under the torn straw hat through which his hair stuck out like blackened palm fibers. "I'm so glad you came."

Smiling, he motioned me to squat beside him. He brushed his hand over the top of my head. "Your hair has grown," he said. "I knew you would not leave until you saw me."

"I'm going back to Los Angeles," I said. There had been so many things I wanted to ask him, but now that he was beside me, I no longer saw the need to have anything explained. We watched the twilight spread over the river and the forest. The darkness filled with the sounds of frogs and crickets. A full moon ascended the sky. It grew smaller as it climbed and covered the river with silver ripples. "Like a dream," I murmured.

"A dream," Milagros repeated. "A dream you will always dream. A dream of walking, of laughter, of sadness." There was a long pause before he continued. "Even though your body has lost our smell, a part of you will always keep a bit of our world," he said, gesturing toward the distance. "You will never be free."

"I didn't even thank them," I said. "There is no thank you in your language."

"Neither is there good-bye," he added.

Something cold, like a drop of rain or dew, touched my forehead. When I turned to face him, Milagros was no longer by my side. From across the river, out of the distant darkness, the wind carried the Iticoteri's laughter. "Good-bye is said with the eyes." The voice rustled through the ancient trees, then vanished, like the silvery ripples on the water.

The End: Shabono - ©1982 by Florinda Donner

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