Version 2007.02.10

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

### Chapter 7

It was the day of the feast. Since noon I had been under the ministrations of Ritimi and Tutemi, who took great trouble to beautify me. With a sharpened piece of bamboo, Tutemi cut my hair in the customary style, and with a knife-sharp grass blade she shaved the crown of my head. The hair on my legs she removed with an abrasive paste made from ashes, vegetable resin, and dirt.

Ritimi painted wavy lines across my face, and intricate geometric patterns over my entire body with a piece of chewed-up twig. My legs, red and swollen from the depilation, were left unpainted. On my looped earrings, which I claimed could not be removed, she tied a pink flower together with tufts of white feathers. Around my upper arms, wrists, and ankles she fastened red cotton strands.

"Oh no. You're not going to do that," I said, jumping out of Ritimi's reach.

"It won't hurt," she assured me, then asked in an exasperated manner, "Do you want to look like an old woman? It won't hurt," Ritimi insisted, coming after me.

"Leave her alone," Etewa said, reaching for a bark box on the loft. He looked at me, then burst into laughter. His big white teeth and his squinting eyes seemed to mock my embarrassment. "She doesn't have much pubic hair."

Gratefully I tied the red cotton belt Ritimi had given me around my hips and laughed with him. Making sure I fastened the wide flat belt in such a manner that the fringed ends covered the offending hair, I said to Ritimi, "Now you can't see a thing."

Ritimi was not impressed, but gave an indifferent shrug, and continued examining her pubis for any hair.

Dark circles and arabesques [* arabesques- ornaments that interlaces simulated foliage in an intricate design] decorated Etewa's brown face and body. Over his waistband he tied a thick round belt made of red cotton yarn: Around his upper arms he fastened narrow bands of monkey fur to which Ritimi attached the black and white feathers Etewa had selected from the bark box.

Dipping her fingers in the sticky resin paste one of Arasuwe's wives had prepared in the morning, Ritimi wiped them over Etewa's hair. Immediately Tutemi took a handful of white down feathers from another box and plastered them on his head until he looked as if he were wearing a white fur cap.

"When will the feast start?" I asked, watching a group of men haul away enormous piles of plantain skins from the already cleaned, weed-free clearing.

"When the plantain soup and all the meat is ready," Etewa said, strutting about, making sure we could see him from every angle. His lips were twisted in a smile, and his humorous eyes still squinted. He looked at me, then removed the wad of tobacco from his mouth. Placing it on a piece of broken calabash on the ground, he spat over his hammock in a sharp, strong arc. With the assurance of someone who feels pleased and delighted with his own looks, he turned toward us once more, then walked out of the hut.

Little Texoma picked up the slimy quid. Stuffing it into her mouth she began to suck on it with the same gratification I would have felt biting into a piece of chocolate. Her small face, disfigured with half of the wad protruding from her mouth, looked grotesque. Grinning, she climbed into my hammock, and promptly fell asleep.

In the next hut I could see the headman Arasuwe lying in his hammock. From there he supervised the cooking of plantains and the roasting of the meat brought by the hunters who had left a few days before. Like workers on an assembly line, several men had in record time disposed of the numerous bundles of plantains. One sank his sharp teeth into the peel, cutting it open: Another pried the hard skin away, then threw the fruit into the bark trough Etewa had built early that morning: A third watched over the three small fires he had lit underneath the trough.

"How come only men are cooking?" I asked Tutemi. I knew women never cooked large game, but I was baffled that none of them had even gotten close to the plantains.

"Women are too careless," Arasuwe answered for Tutemi as he stepped into the hut. His eyes seemed to challenge me to contradict his statement. Smiling, he added, "They get distracted too easily, and let the fire burn through the bark."

Before I had a chance to say anything, he was back in his hammock. "Did he only come in to say that?" I asked.

"No," Ritimi said. "He came to look you over."

I was reluctant to ask if I had passed Arasuwe's inspection lest I remind her of my unplucked pubic hair. "Look," I said, "visitors are arriving."

"That's Puriwariwe, Angelica's oldest brother," Ritimi said, pointing to an old man among the group of men. "He is a feared shapori. He was killed once but didn't die."

"Killed once but didn't die." I repeated this slowly, wondering if I was supposed to take it literally, or if it was a figure of speech.

"Killed in a raid," Etewa said, walking into the hut. "Dead, dead, dead, but didn't die." He spoke distinctly, moving his lips in an exaggerated manner as if he could thus make me understand the true meaning of his words.

"Are there still raids taking place?"

No one answered my question. Etewa reached for a long hollow cane and a small gourd hidden behind one of the rafters, then left us to greet the visitors who stood in the middle of the clearing facing Arasuwe's hut.

More men walked into the compound and I wondered aloud if any women had been invited to the feast.

"They are outside," Ritimi said. "With the rest of the guests, decorating themselves while the men take epena."

The headman Arasuwe, his brother Iramamowe, Etewa, and six other Iticoteri men- all decorated with feathers, fur, and red onoto paste- squatted face to face with the visitors who were already on their haunches. They talked for a while, avoiding one another's eyes.

Arasuwe unfastened the small gourd hanging around his neck, poured some of the brownish-green powder into one end of his hollow cane, then faced Angelica's brother. Placing the end of the cane against the shaman's nose, Arasuwe blew the hallucinogenic powder with great force into one of the old man's nostrils. The shaman did not flinch, groan, or stagger off, as I had seen other men do. But his eyes did become bleary and soon green slime dripped from his nose and mouth, which he flicked away with a twig. Slowly he began to chant. I did not catch his words; they were spoken too softly, and the groans of the others drowned them out.

Glassy-eyed, with mucus and saliva dripping down his chin and chest, Arasuwe jumped into the air. The red macaw feathers hanging from his ears and arms fluttered around him. He jumped repeatedly, touching the ground with a lightness that seemed incredible in someone so stockily built. His face seemed to be carved in stone. Straight bangs hung over a jutting brow. His wide, flaring nose and his snarling mouth reminded me of one of the four guardian kings I had once seen in a temple in Japan.

A few of the men had staggered away from the rest of the group, holding their heads as they vomited. The old man's chant became louder; one by one the men gathered once more around him. Quietly they squatted, their folded arms over their knees, their eyes lost on some invisible spot only they could see, until the shapori finished his song.

Each of the Iticoteri men returned to his hut accompanied by a guest. Arasuwe had invited Puriwariwe. Etewa walked into his hut with one of the young men who had vomited. Without glancing at us, the guest stretched in Etewa's hammock as if it were his own: He did not look older than sixteen.

"Why didn't all the Iticoteri men take epena or decorate themselves?" I whispered to Ritimi, who was busy cleaning and repainting Etewa's face with onoto.

"Tomorrow they will all be decorated. More guests will come in the next few days," she said. "Today is for Angelica's relatives."

"But Milagros isn't here."

"He came this morning."

"This morning!" I repeated in disbelief. The young man lying in Etewa's hammock opened his eyes wide, looked at me, then shut them again. Texoma awoke and began to wail. I tried to calm her by pushing the tobacco quid, which had fallen to the ground, back into her mouth. Refusing it, she began to cry even louder. I handed her to Tutemi, who rocked the child back and forth until she was still.

Why had Milagros not let me know he was back? I wondered, feeling angry and hurt. Tears of self-pity welled up in my eyes.

"Look. He's coming," Tutemi said, pointing toward the shabono's entrance.

Followed by a group of men, women, and children, Milagros walked directly toward Arasuwe's hut. Red and black lines circled his eyes and mouth. Spellbound, I gaped at the black monkey tail wrapped around his head, from which multicolored macaw feathers dangled, matching the ones that hung from his fur armbands. Instead of the festive cotton belt, he wore a bright red loincloth.

An inexplicable uneasiness overtook me as he approached my hammock. I felt my heart pound with fear as I gazed up into his tense, strained face.

"Bring your gourd," he said in Spanish, then turned around, and walked toward the trough filled with plantain soup.

Without paying the slightest attention to me, everyone followed Milagros into the clearing. Speechless, I reached for my basket, set it on the ground before me, and took out all my possessions. At the bottom, wrapped in my knapsack, was the smooth, ochre-colored calabash with Angelica's ashes. I had often wondered what I was supposed to do with it. Ritimi had never touched the knapsack when she went through my belongings.

The gourd felt heavy in my stiff, cold hands. It had been so light when I had carried it tied around my waist in the forest.

"Empty it into the trough," Milagros said. Again he spoke in Spanish.

"It's filled with soup," I said stupidly. I felt my voice quiver, and my hands were so unsteady I thought I would not be able to pull the resin plug from the calabash.

"Empty it," Milagros repeated, tilting my arm gently. I squatted awkwardly, and slowly poured the burnt, finely powdered bones into the soup. I stared hypnotically at the dark heap they formed on the thick yellow surface. The smell made me nauseous. The ashes did not submerge. Milagros poured the contents of his own gourd on top of them. The women began to wail and cry. Was I supposed to join them? I wondered. I felt certain no matter how hard I tried not a single tear would come to my eyes.

Startled by sharp cracking sounds, I straightened up. With the handle of his machete, Milagros had split the two gourds into perfect halves. Next he mixed the powder into the soup, blending it so well that the yellow pap turned into a dirty gray.

I watched him bring the soup-filled gourd to his mouth, then empty it in one long gulp. Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, he filled it once more, and handed the ladle to me.

Horrified, I looked at the faces around me: Intently they watched every movement and gesture I made, with eyes that no longer seemed human. The women had stopped wailing. I could hear the accelerated beats of my heart. Swallowing repeatedly in an effort to overcome the dryness in my mouth, I held out a shaking hand. Then I shut my eyes tightly, and gulped down the heavy liquid. To my surprise the sweet, slightly salty soup glided smoothly down my throat. A faint smile relaxed Milagros's tense face as he took the empty gourd from me. I turned around, and slowly walked away as ripples of nausea tightened my stomach.

High-pitched chatter and squeals of laughter issued from the hut. Sisiwe, surrounded by his friends, sat on the ground, showing them each one of my personal belongings, which I had left scattered around. My nausea dissolved into rage as I saw my notepads smoldering on the hearth.

Startled, the children laughed at me as I burned my fingers trying to retrieve what was left of the pads. Slowly the bemused expressions on their faces changed to amazement when they realized I was crying.

I ran out of the shabono down the path toward the river, clutching the burnt pages to my breast. "I'll ask Milagros to take me back to the mission," I mumbled, wiping the tears from my face. The idea struck me as so absurd that I burst out laughing. How could I face Father Coriolano with a shaven tonsure.

Squatting at the edge of the water, I stuck my finger in my throat and tried to vomit. It was no use. Exhausted, I lay face up on a flat boulder jutting over the water and examined what was left of my notes. A cool breeze blew my hair. I turned on my stomach. The warmth of the stone filled me with a soft laziness that melted all my anger and weariness away.

I looked for my face in the clear water, but the wind ruffled away all reflection from the surface. The river gave back nothing. Trapped in the dark pools along the bank, the brilliant green of the vegetation was a cloudy mass.

"Let your notes drift with the river," Milagros said, sitting beside me on the rock. His sudden presence did not startle me. I had been expecting him.

With a slight movement of my head I silently assented, and let my hand dangle over the rock. My fingers unclasped. I heard a faint splash as the scorched pad fell into the water. I felt as if a burden had been lifted off my back as I watched my notes drift downriver. "You didn't go to the mission," I said. "Why didn't you tell me you had to bring Angelica's relatives?"

Milagros did not answer but stared out across the river.

"Did you tell the children to burn my notes?" I asked.

He turned his face toward me but remained silent. The contraction of his mouth revealed a vague disillusionment I failed to comprehend. When he spoke at last it was in a soft tone that seemed forced from him against his will. "The Iticoteri as well as other settlements have moved over the years deeper and deeper into the forest, away from the mission and the big rivers where the white man passes by." He turned to look at a lizard crawling uneasily over the stone. For an instant it stared at us with lidless eyes, then slithered off. "Other settlements have chosen to do the opposite," Milagros continued. "They seek the goods the racionales offer. They have failed to understand that only the forest can give them security. Too late, they will discover that to the white man the Indian is no better than a dog."

He knew, he said, having lived all his life between the two worlds, that the Indians did not have a chance in the world of the white man, no matter what a few individuals of either race did or believed to the contrary.

I talked about anthropologists and their work, the importance of recording customs and beliefs, which as he had mentioned on a previous occasion were doomed to be forgotten.

The hint of a mocking smile twisted his lips. "I know about anthropologists; I once worked for one of them as an informant," he said, and began to laugh: It was a high-pitched laughter, but there was no emotion in his face. His eyes were not laughing but shone with animosity.

I was taken aback because his anger seemed directed at me. "You knew I was an anthropologist," I said hesitantly. "You yourself helped me fill part of my notebook with information about the Iticoteri. It was you who took me from hut to hut, who encouraged others to talk to me, to teach me your language and your customs."

Impassively Milagros sat there, his painted face an expressionless mask. I felt like shaking him. It was as if he had not heard my words. Milagros stared at the trees, already black against the fading sky: I looked up into his face. His head was silhouetted against the sky. I saw the flaming macaw feathers and purple manes of monkey fur as if the sky were streaked with them.

Milagros shook his head sadly. "You know you didn't come here to do your work. You could've done that much better at one of the settlements close to the mission." Tears formed at the edge of his eyelids: They clung to his stubby lashes, shining, trembling. "Knowledge of our ways and beliefs was given to you so you would move with the rhythm of our lives; so you would feel secure and protected. It was a gift, not to be used or to be given to others."

I could not shift my gaze away from his bright moist eyes: There was no resentment in them. I saw my face mirrored in his black pupils. Angelica's and Milagros's gift. I finally understood. I had been guided through the forest, not to see their people with the eyes of an anthropologist- sifting, judging, analyzing all I saw and heard- but to see them as Angelica would have seen them, for one last time. She too had known that her time and the time of her people was coming to an end.

I shifted my gaze to the water. I had not felt my watch falling in the river, but there it was lying amidst the pebbles, an unstable vision of tiny illuminated spots coming together and moving apart in the water. One of the metal links on the watchband must have broken, I thought, but made no effort to retrieve the watch, my last link with the world beyond the forest.

Milagros's voice broke into my reveries. "A long time ago at a settlement close to the big river, I worked for an anthropologist. He didn't live with us in the shabono, but built himself a hut outside the log palisade. It had walls and a door that locked from the inside and the outside." Milagros paused for a moment, wiping the tears that had dried around his wrinkled eyes, then asked me, "Do you want to know what I did to him?"

"Yes," I said hesitantly.

"I gave him epena." Milagros paused for a moment, and smiled as if he were enjoying my apprehension. "This anthropologist acted like everyone else who inhaled the sacred powder. He said he had the same visions as the shaman."

"There is nothing strange about that," I said, a little piqued by Milagros's smug tone.

"Yes, there is," he said, and laughed. "Because all I blew up his nostrils were ashes. All ashes do is make your nose bleed."

"Is that what you are going to give me?" I asked, and flushed at the obvious self-pity that permeated my voice.

"I gave you part of Angelica's soul," he said softly, helping me to my feet.

The shabono's boundaries seemed to dissolve against the darkness. I could see well in the faint light. The people gathered around the trough reminded me of forest creatures, their shining eyes smeared with the light from the fires.

I sat next to Hayama, and accepted the piece of meat she offered me. Ritimi rubbed her head against my arm. Little Texoma sat in my lap. I felt content, protected by the familiar odors and sounds. Intently I watched the faces around me, wondering how many of them were related to Angelica. There was not a single face resembling hers. Even Milagros's features, which had once seemed so much like Angelica's, looked different. Perhaps I had already forgotten what she looked like, I thought sadly. Then on a beam of light extending from the fire I saw her smiling face. I shook my head, trying to erase the vision, and found myself staring at the old shaman Puriwariwe, squatting a bit apart from the group.

He was a small, thin, dried-up man with a brownish-yellow skin; the muscles of his arms and legs were already shrunken. But his hair was still dark, curling slightly around his head. He was not adorned: All he wore was a bowstring around his waist. Sparse hairs hung from his chin, and the vestiges of a mustache shadowed the edges of his upper lip. Under heavy wrinkled lids, his eyes were like tiny lights, reflecting the gleam of the fire.

Yawning, he opened a cavernous mouth where yellowed teeth hung like stalagmites. Laughter and conversation ceased as he began to chant in a voice that gave the impression of belonging to another time and place. He possessed two voices: The one coming from his throat was high-pitched and wrathful; and the other, coming from his belly, was deep and soothing.

Long after everyone had retired to their hammocks, and the fires had burned down, Puriwariwe remained crouched in front of a small fire in the middle of the clearing. He sang in a low-keyed voice.

I got up from my hammock, and squatted next to him, trying to bring my buttocks to touch the earth. According to the Iticoteri it was the only way one could squat for hours, and be totally relaxed. Puriwariwe looked at me, acknowledging my gaze, then stared into space as though I had disturbed his train of thought. He did not move and I had the odd sensation he had fallen asleep. Then he shifted his buttocks on the ground without relaxing his legs, and gradually began to chant once more in a voice that was but a faint murmur. I was not able to understand a single word.

It began to rain and I returned to my hammock. The drops pattered softly onto the thatched palm roof, creating a strange, trancelike rhythm. When I looked again toward the center of the clearing, the old man had disappeared; and as dawn lit up the forest, I felt myself slip into a timeless sleep.