Version 2007.02.10

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

### Chapter 6

"When do you think you'll be back?" I asked Milagros six months later, handing him the letter I had written to Father Coriolano at the mission. In it I briefly notified him that I intended to stay for at least two more months with the Iticoteri. I asked him to inform my friends in Caracas; and most important of all, I begged him to send with Milagros as many writing pads and pencils as he could spare. "When will you be back?" I asked again.

"In two weeks or so," Milagros said casually, fitting the letter into his bamboo quiver. He must have detected the anxiousness in my face for he added, "There is no way to tell, but I'll be back."

I watched as he started down the path leading to the river. He adjusted the quiver on his back, then turned to me briefly, his movements momentarily arrested as though there were something he wished to say. Instead he lifted his hand to wave good-bye.

Slowly I headed back to the shabono, passing several men felling trees next to the gardens. Carefully I stepped around the logs cluttered all over the cleared patch, making sure not to cut my feet on the pieces of bark, chips, and slivers of wood buried amidst the dead leaves on the ground.

"He'll be back as soon as the plantains are ripe," Etewa shouted, waving his hand the way Milagros had just done. "He won't miss the feast."

Smiling, I waved back, wanting to ask when the feast would take place. I did not need to: He had already given me the answer: When the plantains were ripe.

The brush and logs that were scattered each night in front of the main entrance of the shabono to keep out intruders had already been moved aside. It was still early, yet the huts facing the round, open clearing were mostly empty. Women and men were working in the nearby gardens, or had gone into the forest to gather wild fruits, honey, and firewood.

Armed with miniature bows and arrows, a group of little boys gathered around me. "See the lizard I killed," Sisiwe said, holding the dead animal by the tail.

"That's all he can do shoot lizards," a boy in the group said mockingly, scratching his ankle with the toes of his other foot. "And most of the time he misses."

"I don't," Sisiwe shouted, his face turning red with rage.

I caressed the stubbles on the crown of his head. In the sunlight his hair was not black but a reddish brown. Searching for the right words from my limited vocabulary, I hoped to assure him that one day he would be the best hunter in the settlement.

Sisiwe, Ritimi's and Etewa's son, was six, or at the most seven, years old for he did not yet wear a pubic waist string. Ritimi, believing that the sooner a boy tied his penis against his abdomen the faster he would grow, had repeatedly forced the child to do so. But Sisiwe had refused, arguing that it hurt. Etewa had not insisted. His son was growing healthy and strong. Soon, the father had argued, Sisiwe would realize that it was improper for a man to be seen without a waist string. Like most children, Sisiwe wore a piece of fragrant root tied around his neck, a charm against disease, and as soon as the designs on his body faded, he was painted anew with onoto.

Smiling, his anger forgotten, Sisiwe held on to my hand, and in one swift motion climbed up on me as if I were a tree. He wrapped his legs around my waist. He swung backward and, stretching his arms toward the sky, shouted, "Look how blue it is- the color of your eyes."

From the middle of the clearing the sky seemed immense. There were no trees, lianas, or leaves to mar its splendor. The dense vegetation loomed outside the shabono, beyond the palisades [* palisades- fortifications consisting of a strong fence made of stakes driven into the ground] of logs protecting the settlement. The trees appeared to bide their time, as if they knew they were only provisionally held in check.

Tugging at my arm, the children pulled me together with Sisiwe to the ground. At first I had not been able to associate them with any particular parent for they wandered in and out of the huts, eating and sleeping wherever it was convenient. I only knew where the babies belonged, for they were perennially hanging around their mother's bodies. Whether it was day or night, the infants never seemed disturbed, regardless of what activity their mothers were engaged in.

I wondered how I would do without Milagros. Each day he had spent several hours teaching me the language, customs, and beliefs of his people, which I eagerly recorded in my notepads.

Learning who was who among the Iticoteri proved to be most confusing. They never called each other by name, except when someone was to be insulted. Ritimi and Etewa were known as Mother and Father of Sisiwe and Texoma. (It was permissible to use children's names, but as soon as they reached puberty everyone refrained from it.) Matters were further complicated in that males and females from a given lineage called each other brother and sister; males and females from another lineage were referred to as brother-in-law and sister-in-law. A male who married a woman from an eligible lineage called all the women of that lineage wives, but did not have sexual contact with them.

Milagros often pointed out that it was not only I who had to adapt. The Iticoteri were just as baffled by my odd behavior: To them I was neither woman, man, or child, and as such they did not quite know what to think of me or where they could fit me in.

Old Hayama emerged from her hut. In a high-pitched voice she told the children to leave me alone. "Her stomach is still empty," she said. Putting her arm around my waist, she led me to the hearth in her hut.

Making sure not to step on or collide with any of the aluminum and enamel cooking pots (acquired through trade with other settlements), the tortoise shells, gourds, and baskets scattered on the ground, I sat across from Hayama. I extended my legs fully, in the way of the Iticoteri women, and scratching the head of her pet parrot, I waited for the food.

"Eat," she said, handing me a baked plantain on a broken calabash. Attentively the old woman watched as I chewed with my mouth open, smacking my lips repeatedly. She smiled, content that I was fully appreciating the soft sweet plantain.

Hayama had been introduced to me by Milagros as Angelica's sister. Every time I looked at her I tried to find some resemblance to the frail old woman I had lost in the forest. About five feet four, Hayama was tall for an Iticoteri woman. Not only was she physically different from Angelica, but she did not have her sister's lightness of spirit. There was a harshness to Hayama's voice and manner that often made me feel uncomfortable. And her heavy, drooping eyelids gave her face a peculiarly sinister expression.

"You stay here with me until Milagros returns," the old woman said, serving me another baked plantain.

I stuffed the hot fruit in my mouth so I would not have to answer. Milagros had introduced me to his brother-in-law Arasuwe who was the headman of the Iticoteri, as well as to the other members of the settlement. However, it was Ritimi who, by hanging my hammock in the hut she shared with Etewa and their two children, had made it known that I belonged to her. "The white girl sleeps here," she had said to Milagros, explaining that little Texoma and Sisiwe would have their hammocks hung around Tutemi's hearth in the adjoining hut.

No one had interfered with Ritimi's scheme. Silently, a smile of gentle mockery on his face, Etewa had watched as Ritimi rushed between their hut and Tutemi's, rearranging the hammocks in the customary triangle around the fire. On a small loft built between the back poles supporting the dwelling, she placed my knapsack, amidst bark boxes, an assortment of baskets, an ax, and gourds with onoto, seeds, and roots.

Ritimi's self-assuredness stemmed not only from the fact that she was the headman Arasuwe's oldest daughter- by his first wife, a daughter of old Hayama, now dead- and that she was Etewa's first and favorite wife; but also because Ritimi knew that in spite of her quick temper everyone in the shabono respected and liked her.

"No more," I pleaded with Hayama as she took another plantain from the fire. "My belly is full." Pulling up my T-shirt, I pushed out my stomach so she could see how filled it looked.

"You need to grow fat around your bones," the old woman said, mashing up the banana with her fingers. "Your breasts are as small as a child's." Giggling, she pulled my T-shirt up further. "No man will ever want you- he'll be afraid to hurt himself on the bones."

Opening my eyes wide in mock horror, I pretended to gobble down the mush. "I'll surely get fat and beautiful eating your food," I said with my mouth full.

Still wet from her river bath, Ritimi came into the hut combing her hair with a densely thistled pod. Sitting next to me, she put her arms around my neck, and planted resounding kisses on my face. I had to restrain myself from laughing. The Iticoteri's kisses tickled me. They kissed differently: Each time they put their mouth against my cheek and neck, they vibrated their lips while sonorously ejecting air.

"You are not moving the white girl's hammock in here," Ritimi said, looking at her grandmother. The certainty of her tone was not matched by the inquiring softness of her dark eyes.

Not wanting to be the cause of an argument, I made it clear that it did not make much difference where my hammock hung. Since there were no walls between the huts, we practically lived together. Hayama's hut stood on Tutemi's left, and on our right was Arasuwe the headman's, which he shared with his oldest wife and three of his smallest children. His other two wives and their respective offspring occupied adjacent huts.

Ritimi fixed her gaze on me, a pleading expression in her eyes. "Milagros asked me to take care of you," she said, running the thistled pod through my hair, softly, so as not to scratch my scalp.

After what seemed an interminable silence, Hayama finally said, "You can leave your hammock where it is, but you will eat here with me."

It was a good arrangement, I thought. Etewa already had four mouths to feed. Hayama, on the other hand, was taken good care of by her youngest son. Judging by the amount of animal skulls and plantains hanging from the thatched palm roof, her son was a good hunter and cultivator. Other than the baked plantains eaten in the morning, there was only one meal, in the late afternoon, when families gathered together to eat. People snacked throughout the day on whatever was available- fruit, nuts, or such delicacies as roasted ants and grubs.

Ritimi also seemed pleased with the eating arrangement. Smiling, she walked over to our hut and pulled down the basket she had given me which was hanging above my hammock, then took out my notepad and pencil. "Now let us work," she said in a commanding tone.

In the days that followed Ritimi taught me about her people as Milagros had done for the past six months. He had set up a few hours each day for what I referred to as formal instruction.

At first I had great difficulty in learning the language. Not only did I find it to be heavily nasal, but it was extremely difficult to understand people when they talked with wads of tobacco in their mouths. I tried to devise some sort of a comparative grammar, but gave it up when I realized that not only did I not have the proper linguistic training, but the more I tried to be rational about learning their language, the less I could speak.

My best teachers were the children. Although they pointed things out to me, and greatly enjoyed giving me words to repeat, they made no conscious effort to explain anything. With them I was able to rattle on, totally uninhibited about making mistakes. After Milagros's departure, there was still much I did not comprehend, yet I was astonished by how well I managed to communicate with others, reading correctly the inflection of their voices, the expression on their faces, and the eloquent movements of their hands and bodies.

During those hours of formal instruction, Ritimi took me to visit the women in the different huts, and I was allowed to ask questions to my heart's content. Baffled by my curiosity, the women talked freely, as if they were playing a game. They patiently explained again and again whatever I did not understand.

I was grateful Milagros had set that precedent. Not only was curiosity regarded as bad manners, but it went against their will to be questioned. Yet Milagros had lavishly indulged me in what he called my eccentric whim, stating that the more I knew about the language and customs of the Iticoteri, the quicker I would feel at home with them.

It soon became apparent that I did not need to ask too many direct questions. Often the most casual remark on my part was reciprocated by a flow of information I would not have dreamed of eliciting.

Each day just before nightfall, aided by Ritimi and Tutemi, I would go over the data gathered during the day, and try to order it under some kind of classificatory scheme such as social structure, cultural values, subsistence techniques, and other universal categories of human social behavior.

However, to my great disappointment, there was one subject Milagros had not touched upon: shamanism. I had observed from my hammock two curing sessions, of which I had written detailed accounts.

"Arasuwe is a great shapori," Milagros had said to me as I watched my first curing ritual.

"Does he invoke the help of the spirits when he chants?" I asked as I watched Milagros's brother-in-law massage, suck, and rub the prostrate body of a child.

Milagros had given me an outraged look. "There are things one doesn't talk about." He had gotten up abruptly, and before walking out of the hut had added, "Don't ask about these things. If you do, you will run into serious trouble."

I had not been surprised by his response, but I had been unprepared for his outright anger. I wondered if his refusal to talk about the subject was because I was a woman, or because shamanism was a taboo topic. I did not dare to find out at the time. Being a woman, white, and alone was precarious enough.

I was aware that in most societies knowledge regarding shamanistic and curing practices are never revealed except to the initiates. During Milagros's absence I did not mention the word shamanism once but spent hours deliberating over what would be the best way to learn about it without arousing any anger and suspicion.

From my notes on the two sessions it became evident that the Iticoteri believed the shapori's body underwent a change when under the influence of the hallucinogenic snuff epena. That is, the shaman acted under the assumption that his human body transformed itself into a super-natural body. Thus he made contact with the spirits in the forest. My obvious approach would be to arrive at an understanding of shamanism via the body- not as an object determined by psychochemical laws, holistic forces in nature, the environment, or the psyche itself; but through an understanding of the body as lived experience, the body as an expressive unity known through performance.

Most studies on shamanism, including mine, have focused on the psychotherapeutic and social aspects of healing. I thought that my approach would not only provide a novel explanation but would furnish me with a way of learning about curing without becoming suspect. Questions concerning the body need not necessarily be associated with shamanism. I had no doubt that little by little I would retrieve the necessary data without the Iticoteri ever being aware of what I was really after.

Any pangs of conscience I felt regarding the dishonesty of my task were quickly stilled by repeating to myself that my work was important for the understanding of non-Western healing practices. The strange, often bizarre customs of shamanism would become understandable in the light of a different interpretational context, thus furthering anthropological knowledge in general.

"You haven't worked for two days," Ritimi<said to me one afternoon. "You haven't asked about last night's songs and dances. Don't you know they are important? If we don't sing and dance the hunters will return without meat for the feast." Scowling, she threw the notepad into my lap. "You haven't even painted in your book."

"I'm resting for a few days," I said, clutching the notepad against my breast as if it were the dearest thing I possessed. I had no intention of letting her know that every precious page was to be filled exclusively with data on shamanism.

Ritimi took my hands in hers, examined them intently, then, assuming a very serious expression, commented, "They look very tired- they need rest."

We burst out laughing. Ritimi had always been baffled that I considered decorating my book to be work. To her work meant digging weeds in the garden, collecting firewood, and repairing the roof of the shabono.

"I liked the dances and songs very much," I said. "I recognized your voice- it was beautiful."

Ritimi beamed at me. "I sing very well." There was a charming candor and assurance in her statement; she was not boasting but only stating a fact. "I'm sure the hunters will return with plenty of game to feed the guests at the feast."

Nodding in agreement, I looked for a twig, then began to sketch a human figure on the soft dirt. "This is the body of a white person," I said as I sketched the main organs and bones. "I wonder how the body of an Iticoteri looks?"

"You must be very tired to ask such a stupid question," Ritimi said, staring at me as if I were dim-witted. She stood up and began to dance, chanting in a loud melodious voice: "This is my head, this is my arm, this is my breast, this is my stomach, this is my..."

In no time at all, attracted by Ritimi's antics, a group of women and men gathered around us. Squealing and laughing, they made obscene remarks about each other's bodies. Some of the adolescent boys were laughing so hard, they rolled on the ground, holding their penises.

"Can anyone draw a body the way I drew mine?" I asked.

Several responded to this challenge. Grabbing a piece of wood, a twig, or a broken bow, they began to draw on the dirt. Their drawings differed markedly from each other's, not only because of the obvious sexual differences, which they made sure to emphasize, but because all the men's bodies were depicted with tiny figures inside the chest.

I could hardly hide my delight. I thought these must be the spirits I had heard Arasuwe summon with his chant before he began the curing session. "What are these?" I asked casually.

"The hekuras of the forest who live in a man's chest," one of the men said.

"Are all men shapori?"

"All men have hekuras in their chests," the man said. "But only a real shapori can make use of them. Only a great shapori can command his hekuras to aid the sick and counteract the spells of enemy shapori." Studying my sketch, he asked, "Why does your picture have hekuras, even in the legs? Women don't have hekuras."

I explained that these were not spirits, but organs and bones, and they promptly added them to their own drawings. Content with what I had learned, I willingly accompanied Ritimi to gather firewood in the forest- the women's most arduous and unwelcome task. They could never get enough wood, for the fires were never allowed to die.

That evening, as she had done every night since I arrived at the settlement, Ritimi examined my feet for thorns and splinters. Satisfied that there were none, she rubbed them clean with her hands.

"I wonder if the bodies of the shapori go through some kind of transformation when they are under the influence of epena," I said. It was important to have it confirmed in their own words since the original premise of my theoretical scheme was that the shaman operated under certain assumptions concerning the body. I needed to know if these assumptions were shared by the group, and if they were of a conscious or unconscious nature.

"Did you see Iramamowe yesterday?" Ritimi asked. "Did you see him walk? His feet didn't touch the ground. He is a powerful shapori. He became the great jaguar."

"He didn't cure anyone," I said glumly. It disappointed me that Arasuwe's brother was considered a great shaman. I had seen him beat his wife on two occasions.

No longer interested in pursuing the conversation, Ritimi turned away from me, and began to get ready for our evening ritual. Lifting the basket that held my belongings from the small loft at the back of the hut, she placed it on the ground. One by one she took out each item and held it above her head, waiting for me to identify it. As soon as I did she repeated the name in Spanish, then in English, starting a nocturnal chorus as the headman's wives, and several other women who each night gathered in our hut, echoed the foreign words.

I relaxed in my hammock as Tutemi's fingers parted my hair searching for imaginary lice: I was certain I did not have any- not yet. Tutemi appeared to be five or six years younger than Ritimi, whom I believed to be twenty. She was taller and heavier, her stomach round with her first pregnancy. She was shy and retiring. Often I had discovered a sad, faraway look in her dark eyes, and at times she talked to herself as if she were thinking aloud.

"Lice! Lice!" Tutemi shouted, interrupting the women's Spanish-English chant.

"Let me see," I said, convinced that she was joking. "Are lice white?" I asked, examining the tiny white bugs on her finger. I had always believed they were dark.

"White girl, white lice," Tutemi said mischievously. With gleeful delight she crunched them one by one between her teeth and swallowed them. "All lice are white."