Version 2007.02.10

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

### Chapter 10

The soft patter of rain and the voices of men singing outside the hut woke me from my afternoon nap. Shadows began to lengthen and the wind played with the palm fronds hanging over the roofs. Sounds and presences filled the huts all at once. Fires were stoked. Soon everything smelled of smoke, of dampness, of food and wet dogs. There were men chanting outside, oblivious to the drops pecking at their backs and at their masklike faces. Their eyes, watery from the epena, were fixed on the distant clouds, open wide to the spirits of the forest.

I walked out into the rain to the river. The heavy drops drumming on the ceiba leaves awakened the tiny frogs hiding under the tall grass blades that grew along the bank. I sat down at the edge of the water. Unaware of time passing, I watched the concentric circles of rain spreading over the river, pink flowers drifting by like forsaken dreams of another place. The sky darkened; the outline of the clouds began to blur as they merged into each other. The trees turned into a single mass. Leaves lost their distinctive shapes, becoming indistinguishable from the evening sky.

I heard a whimpering sound behind me; I turned around but saw only the faintest gleam of rain on the leaves. Seized by an inexplicable apprehension, I ascended the trail leading to the shabono. At night I was never sure of anything; the river, the forest were like presences I could only feel but never understand. I slipped on the muddy path, stubbing my toe on a gnarled root.

Once more I heard a soft whimpering sound. It reminded me of the mournful cries of Iramamowe's hunting dog, which he had shot in a fit of rage with a poisoned arrow during a hunt when the animal had barked inopportunely. The injured dog had returned to the settlement and hid outside the wooden palisade, where it had whined for hours until Arasuwe put an end to its suffering with another arrow.

I called softly. The cries stopped and then I distinctly heard an agonized moan. Maybe it's true that there are forest spirits, I thought, straightening up. The Iticoteri claimed that there were beings who cross a tenuous boundary that separates animal from man. These creatures call the Indians at night, luring them to their deaths. I stifled a cry. It seemed as if a shape loomed from the dark- some concealed figure that moved among the trees only a pace from where I stood. I sat down again in an effort to conceal myself. I heard a faint breathing: It was more like a sighing, accompanied by a rattling, choking sound. Through my head rushed the stories of revenge, of bloody raids the men were so fond of talking about at night. In particular I remembered the story about Angelica's brother, the old shaman Puriwariwe, who supposedly had been killed in a raid, yet had not died.

"He was shot in the stomach, where death hides," Arasuwe had said one evening. "He didn't lie down in his hammock, but remained standing in the middle of the clearing, leaning on his bow and arrow. He swayed but didn't fall.

"The raiders remained rooted on the spot, unable to shoot another arrow as the old man chanted to the spirits.

With the arrow still stuck in the spot where death lies, he disappeared into the forest. He was gone for many days and nights. He lived in the darkness of the forest without food or drink. He chanted to the heknras of animals and trees, creatures that are harmless in the clear light of the day, but in the shadows of the night they cause terror to the one who cannot command them. From his hiding place, the old shapori lured his enemies: He killed them one by one, with magical arrows."

Again I heard the whimpering sound, then a choking noise. I crawled, carefully feeling for thorns in the undergrowth. I gasped in terror as I touched a hand; its fingers were curled around a broken bow. I did not recognize the sprawled-out body until I touched Kamosiwe's scarred face. "Old man," I called, afraid that he was dead.

He turned on his side, pulled his legs up with the ease of a child that seeks warmth and comfort. He tried to focus with his single, deeply set eye as he looked at me helplessly. It was as though he were returning from a great distance, from another world. Steadying himself against the broken bow, he tried to get on his feet. He clutched my arm, then let out an eerie sound as he sank to the ground. I could not hold him up. I shook him, but he lay still.

I felt for his heartbeat to see if he was dead. Kamosiwe opened his one eye: His gaze seemed to hold a silent plea. The dilated pupil reflected no light: Like a deep, dark tunnel, it seemed to draw the strength out of my body. Afraid I would make a mistake, I talked to him in Spanish, softly, as if he were a child. I hoped he would close that awesome eye and fall asleep.

Lifting him by the armpits, I dragged him toward the shabono. Although he was only skin and bones, his body seemed to weigh a ton. After a few minutes I had to sit and rest, wondering if he was still alive. His lips trembled: He spat out his tobacco quid. The dark saliva dribbled over my leg. His eye filled with tears. I put the wad back into his mouth, but he refused it. I took his hands, rubbed them against my body so as to imbue them with some warmth. He started to say something, but I heard only an unintelligible mutter.

One of the young boys who slept close to the entrance, next to the old man's hut, helped me lift Kamosiwe into his hammock. "Put logs on the fire," I said to one of the gaping boys. "And call Arasuwe, Etewa, or someone who can help the old man."

Kamosiwe opened his mouth to ease his breathing. The wavering light of the small fire accentuated his ghostlike paleness. His face twisted into an odd smile, a grimace that reassured me I had done the right thing.

The hut filled with people. Their eyes shone with tears: Their sorrowful wails spread throughout the shabono.

"Death is not like the darkness of night," Kamosiwe said in a barely audible whisper. His words fell into silence as the people, gathered around his hammock, momentarily stopped their laments.

"Do not leave us alone," the men moaned as they burst into loud weeping. They began to talk about the old man's courage, about the enemies he had killed, about his children, about the days he was headman of the Iticoteri and the prosperity and glory he had brought to the settlement.

"I will not die yet." The old man's words silenced them once again. "Your weeping makes me too sad." He opened his eye and scanned the faces around him. "The hekuras are still in my chest. Chant to them, for they are the ones who keep me alive."

Arasuwe, Iramamowe, and four other men blew epena into each other's nostrils. With blurred eyes they began to sing to the spirits dwelling below and above the earth.

"What ails you?" Arasuwe asked after a while, bending over the old man. His strong hands massaged the weak, withered chest; his lips blew warmth into the immobile form.

"I'm only sad," Kamosiwe whispered. "The hekuras will soon abandon my chest. It's my sadness that makes me weak."

I returned with Ritimi to our hut. "He will not die," she said, wiping the tears from her face. "I don't know why he wants to live so long. He is so old, he is no longer a man."

"What is he?"

"His face," she said, "has become so small, so thin..." Ritimi looked at me as if at a loss for words to express her thoughts. She made a vague gesture with her hand, as if grasping for something she did not know how to voice. Shrugging, she smiled. "The men will chant throughout the night, and the hekuras will keep the old man alive."

A monotonous rain, warm and persistent, mingled with the men's songs. Whenever I sat up in my hammock I could see them across the clearing in Kamosiwe's hut, crouched in front of the fire. They chanted with a compelling force, convinced that their invocations could preserve life, as the rest of the Iticoteri slept.

The voices faded with the rosy melancholy of dawn. I got up and walked across the clearing. The air was chilly, the ground damp from the rain. The fire had died down, yet the hut was warm from the misty smoke. The men huddled together still crouched around Kamosiwe. Their faces were drawn; their eyes were hollowed by deep circles.

I returned to my hammock as Ritimi was getting up to rekindle the fire. "Kamosiwe seems well," I said, lying down to sleep.

As I stood up from behind a bush I saw Arasuwe's youngest wife and her mother slowly pushing their way through the thicket in the direction of the river. Quietly I followed the two women. They had no baskets with them- only a piece of sharpened bamboo. The pregnant woman held her hands to her belly as if supporting its heavy weight. They stopped under an arapuri tree, where the undergrowth had been cleared and broad platanillo leaves had been scattered on the ground. The pregnant woman knelt on the leaves, pressing her abdomen with both hands. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she gave birth.

I held my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. I could not conceive that giving birth could be so effortless, so fast. The two women talked in whispers, but neither one of them looked at, or picked up, the shiny wet infant on the leaves.

With the bamboo knife, the old woman cut the umbilical cord, then looked around until she found a straight branch. I watched her place the stick across the baby's neck, then step with both feet at either end. There was a faint snapping sound. I was not sure if it was the baby's neck or if it was the branch that had cracked.

The afterbirth they wrapped in one bundle of platanillo leaves, the small lifeless body into another. They tied the bundles with vines, and placed them under the tree.

I tried to hide behind the bushes as the women got up to leave, but my legs would not obey me. I felt drained of all emotion, as if the scene in front of me were some bizarre nightmare. The women looked at me. A faint flicker of surprise registered on their faces, but I saw no pain or regret in their eyes.

As soon as they were gone I untied the vines. The lifeless body of a baby girl lay on the leaves as if in sleep. Long black hair, like silk strands, stuck to her slippery head. The lashless lids were swollen, covering the closed eyes. The trickle of blood running from nose and mouth had dried, like some macabre onoto design on the faint purplish skin. I pried open the small fists. I checked the toes to see if they were complete: I found no visible deformity.

The late afternoon had spent itself. The dried leaves made no rustling sound under my bare feet: They were damp with the night. The wind parted the leafy branches of the ceibas. Thousands of eyes seemed to be staring at me; indifferent eyes, veiled in green shadows. I walked down the river, and sat on a fallen log that had not yet died. I touched the clusters of new shoots that desperately wanted to see the light. The cricket's call seemed to mock my tears.

I could smell the smoke from the huts and I resented those fires that burned day and night, swallowing time and events. Black clouds hid the moon, cloaking the river in a veil of mourning. I listened to the animals- those that wake from their day's sleep and roam the forest at night. I was not afraid. A silence, like a soft dust from the stars, fell around me. I wanted to fall asleep, and wake up knowing it had all been a dream.

Through a patch of clear sky I saw a shooting star. I could not help smiling. I had always been fast to make a wish, but I could not think of any.

I felt Ritimi's arm around my neck. Like some forest spirit she had sat down noiselessly beside me. The pale sticks at the corners of her mouth shone in the dark as if they were made of gold. I was grateful she was near me, that she did not say a word.

The wind brushed away the clouds that obscured the moon: Its light covered us in a faint blue. Only then did I notice old Kamosiwe squatting beside the log, his eye fixed on me. He began to talk, slowly, enunciating each word. But I was not listening. Leaning heavily on his bow, he motioned us to follow him to the shabono. He stopped by his hut: Ritimi and I walked on to ours.

"Only a week ago, women and men cried," I said, sitting in my hammock. "They cried believing Kamosiwe was going to die. Today I saw Arasuwe'swife kill her newborn child."

Ritimi handed me some water. "How could the woman feed a new baby at her breast when she has a child that still suckles?" she said briskly. "A child who has lived this long."

Intellectually I grasped Ritimi's words. I was aware that infanticide was a common practice among Amazonian Indians. Children were spaced approximately two to three years apart. The mother lactated during this time, and refrained from bearing another child in order to sustain an ample supply of milk. If a deformed or female child were born during this time, it was killed, so as to give the nursing child a better chance of survival.

Emotionally, however, I was unable to accept it. Ritimi held my face, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes shone, her lips trembled with feeling. "The one who has not yet glimpsed at the sky has to return from where it came." She stretched her arm toward the immense black shadows that began at our feet and ended in the sky. "To the house of thunder."