Version 2007.02.10

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

### Chapter 9

Planting and sowing was primarily a man's task, yet most women accompanied their husbands, fathers, and brothers whenever they went to work in the gardens in the mornings. Besides keeping them company, the women helped weed, or took the opportunity to collect firewood if new trees had been felled.

For several weeks I had gone with Etewa, Ritimi, and Tutemi to their plots. The long, arduous hours spent weeding seemed to be wasted, for there never was any improvement to be seen. The sun and rain favored the growth of all species impartially, without recognizing human preferences.

Every household had their own area of land separated by the trunks of felled trees. Etewa's garden was next to Arasuwe's, who cultivated the largest area among the Iticoteri, for it was from the headman's plot that guests were fed at a feast.

At first I had recognized nothing but plantains, several kinds of bananas, and various palm trees scattered throughout the gardens. The palms were also purposely cultivated for their fruit, each tree belonging to the individual who planted it. I had been surprised to discover among the tangle of weeds an assortment of edible roots, such as manioc and sweet potatoes, and a variety of gourd-bearing vines, cotton, tobacco, and magical plants. Also growing in the gardens as well as around the shabono were the pink-flowered and red-podded trees from which the onoto paste was made.

Clusters of the red spiny pods were cut down, shelled, and the bright crimson seeds, together with the pulpy flesh surrounding them, were placed in a large water-filled calabash. As it was stirred and crushed, the onoto was boiled for a whole afternoon. After it had cooled during the night, the semi-solid mass was wrapped in perforated layers of plantain leaves, then tied to one of the rafters in the hut to dry. A few days later the red paste was transferred to small gourds, ready for use.

Ritimi, Tutemi, and Etewa each had their own patches of tobacco and magical plants in Etewa's garden. Like everyone else's tobacco plots, they were fenced off with sticks and sharpened bones to discourage intruders. Tobacco was never taken without permission; quarrels ensued whenever it was. Ritimi had pointed out several of her magical plants to me. Some were used as aphrodisiacs and protective agents: Others were employed for malevolent purposes. Etewa never talked about his magical plants, and Ritimi and Tutemi pretended they did not know anything about them.

Once I watched Etewa dig up a bulbous root. The following day, before leaving to hunt, he rubbed his feet and legs with the mashed-up root. For our evening meal that day we had armadillo meat. "What a powerful plant," I had commented. Puzzled, he had regarded me for a long time, then, grinning, said, "Adoma roots protect one from snake bites."

On another occasion, as I was sitting in the garden with little Sisiwe, listening to his detailed explanation concerning the variety of edible ants, we saw his father dig up another of his roots. Etewa crushed the root, mixed its sap with onoto, then rubbed the substance over his entire body. "A peccary [* peccary- nocturnal gregarious pig-like wild animals of North America and South America] will cross my father's path," Sisiwe whispered. "I know by the kind of root he used. For every animal there is a magical plant."

"Even for monkeys?" I asked.

"Monkeys are frightened by terrifying yells," Sisiwe said knowingly. "Paralyzed, the monkeys can no longer run away and the men can shoot them."

One morning, almost hidden behind the tangled mass of calabash vines and weeds, I caught sight of Ritimi. I could only see her head rising behind the woody stems, pointed leaves, and clusters of white, bell-shaped flowers of the manioc plants. She seemed to be talking to herself; I could not hear what she was saying, but her lips moved incessantly, as if she were reciting some incantation. I wondered if she was charming her tobacco plants to grow taster or whether she was actually intending to help herself to some from Etewa's patch, which was next to hers.

Surreptitiously, Ritimi edged her way toward the middle of her own tobacco plot. Her air of urgency was unmistakable as she snapped branches and leaves. Looking around, she stuffed them into her basket, then covered them with banana fronds. Smiling, she rose, hesitated for an instant, then walked toward me.

I looked up in feigned surprise as I felt her shadow above me.

Ritimi placed her basket on the ground and sat next to me. I was bursting with curiosity, yet I knew it would be futile to ask what she had been doing.

"Don't touch the bundle in my basket," she said after a moment, unable to suppress her laughter. "I know you were watching me."

I felt myself blushing and smiled. "Did you,snatch some of Etewa's tobacco?"

"No," she said in mock horror. "He knows his leaves so well he would notice if one were missing."

"I thought I saw you in his plot," I said casually.

Lifting the banana fronds from the basket Ritimi said, "I was in my own patch. Look, I took some branches of oko-shiki, a magical plant," she whispered. "I will make a powerful concoction."

"Are you going to cure someone?"

"Cure! Don't you know that only the shapori cures?" Tilting her head slightly to one side, she deliberated before she continued. "I'm going to bewitch that woman who had intercourse with Etewa at the feast," she said, smiling broadly.

"Maybe you should also prepare a potion for Etewa," I said, looking into her face. Her change of expression took me by surprise. Her mouth was set in a straight line; her eyes were narrowly focused on me. "After all, he was as guilty as the woman," I mumbled apologetically, feeling uneasy under her hard scrutiny.

"Didn't you see how shamelessly that woman taunted him?" Ritimi said reproachfully. "Didn't you see how vulgarly all those visiting women behaved?" Ritimi sighed, almost comically, then added with unconcealed disappointment, "Sometimes you are quite stupid."

I didn't know what to say. I was convinced that Etewa was as guilty as the woman. For want of anything better, I smiled. The first time I discovered Etewa in a compromising situation had been quite accidental. As everyone else did, I left the hut at dawn every day to relieve myself. I always strayed a bit farther into the forest, beyond the area set aside for human evacuation. One morning I was startled by a soft moan. Believing it was a wounded animal, I crawled, as quietly as I could, toward the noise. Totally surprised, I could only stare as I saw Etewa on top of Iramamowe's youngest wife. He looked into my face, smiling sheepishly, but did not stop moving on top oŁ the woman.

Later that day Etewa offered me some of the honey he had found in the forest. Honey was a rare delicacy and was hardly ever shared with the same willingness as other foods were. In fact, most of the time honey was consumed at the spot where it was found. I thanked Etewa for the treat, assuming I was being bribed.

Sugars were something I constantly craved. I was no longer squeamish about consuming the honey together with wax combs, bees, maggots, pupae, and pollen the way the Iticoteri did. Whenever Etewa brought honey to the settlement, I would sit next to him and stare longingly at the runny paste studded with bees in varying stages of the metamorphic process until he offered me some. It never occured to me that he believed I had finally learned that to eye something one desired, or to ask for it outright, was considered proper behavior. Once, hoping to remind him that I knew of his philandering, I had asked him if he was not afraid to get hit on the head again by some enraged husband.

Etewa had looked at me in absolute astonishment. "It's because you don't know better- otherwise you wouldn't say such things." His tone was distant, the look in his eyes haughty as he turned toward a group of young boys engaged in sharpening pieces of bamboo that were to be used as arrowheads.

There were other occasions, not always accidental, when I encountered Etewa in similar circumstances. It soon became obvious that dawn was not only a time for attending to the baser bodily functions, but provided the safest opportunity for extramarital activity. I became greatly interested in who was cuckolding whom. Cueing themselves the evening before, the involved parties would disappear at dawn in the thicket. A few hours later, very casually, they returned by different routes, often carrying nuts, fruits, honey, sometimes even firewood. Some husbands reacted more violently than others upon finding out about their women's doings- they beat them, as I had seen Iramamowe do. Others, besides beating their wives, demanded a club duel with the male culprit, which sometimes ended in a larger fight that others joined.

Ritimi's words cut into my reveries, "Why are you laughing?"

"Because you are right,"" I said. "Sometimes I'm quite stupid." It suddenly dawned on me that Ritimi knew of Etewa's activities- probably everyone in the shabono was aware of what was going on. No doubt it had been a coincidence when Etewa had offered me the honey that first time. Only I had examined the event with suspicion, believing all the time I was his accomplice.

Ritimi put her arms around my neck and planted smacking kisses on my cheek, assuring me that I was not stupid- only very ignorant. She explained that as long as she knew with whom Etewa was involved she was not greatly concerned about his amorous pursuits. She was by no means pleased by it, but believed she had some kind of control if it was with someone from the shabono. What distressed her was the possibility Etewa might take a third wife from some other settlement.

"How are you going to bewitch that woman?" I asked. "Are you going to make the concoction yourself?"

Standing up, Ritimi smiled with obvious satisfaction. "If I tell you now, the magic won't work." She paused, a quizzical expression in her eyes. "I'll tell you about it when I have bewitched the woman. Maybe someday you too will need to know how to bewitch someone."

"Are you going to kill her?"

"No. I'm not that courageous," she said. "The woman will have pains in her back until she has a miscarriage."

Ritimi slung the basket over her shoulders, then headed toward one of the few trees left standing near her tobacco patch. "Come, I need to rest before bathing in the river."

I stood for a moment to ease my cramped muscles, then followed her. Ritimi sat on the ground, resting her back against the massive tree trunk. Its leaves were like open hands between us and the sun, providing a cool shade. The earth, padded with leaves, was soft. I lay my head on Ritimi's thigh, and watched the sky- so blue, so pale, it seemed transparent. The breeze rustled through the cane brush that grew behind us, gently, as if reluctant to impose itself on the midmorning stillness.

"The bump is gone," Ritimi said, running her fingers through my hair. "And there are no scars left on your legs," she added mockingly.

I agreed drowsily. Ritimi had laughed at my fear of getting sick from what she considered an insignificant injury. Having been pulled to safety by Puriwariwe was insurance enough that I would be well, she had assured me. However, I had been afraid that the cuts on my legs would become infected and I had insisted she wash them with boiled water every day. Old Hayama, as an added precaution, had rubbed the powder of burnt ants' nest on the wounds, claiming that it was a natural disinfectant. I had no ill effects from the stinging powder: The cuts healed quickly.

Through half-closed lids I gazed at the airy spaciousness of the gardens in front of me. Startled by shouts coming from the far end of the gardens, I opened my eyes. Iramamowe seemed to have materialized from beneath the banana fronds on his way toward the sky. Spellbound, I followed his movements as he worked his way up the spiny trunk of a rasha palm. So as not to hurt himself with the thorns, he worked with two pairs of crossed poles tied together, which he placed on the trunk one at a time. Relaxed, one motion leading to the next without a noticeable break, he alternated between standing on a pair of crossed poles and lifting the other set to place it higher on the trunk, until he reached the yellow clusters of rasha, at least sixty feet above the ground. For a moment he disappeared under the palm fronds that made a silvery arc against the sky. Iramamowe cut the drupes, tied the heavy clumps on a long vine, then eased them to the ground. Slowly, he worked his way down, vanishing in the greenness of banana leaves.

"I like the boiled drupes; they taste like ..." I said, then realized I did not know the word for potato. I sat up. With her head to the side, her mouth slightly open, Ritimi was sound asleep. "Let's go bathe," I said, tickling her nose with a grass blade.

Ritimi stared at me; she had the disoriented look of someone just awakened from a dream. Leisurely she rose to her feet, yawning and stretching like a cat. "Yes, let's go," she said, fastening the basket on her back. "The water will wash my dream away."

"Did you have a bad one?"

She looked at me gravely, then brushed the hair off her forehead. "You were alone on a mountain," she said vaguely, as if she were trying to recollect her dream. "You weren't frightened, yet you were crying." Ritimi gazed at me intently, then added, "Then you woke me."

As we turned into the path leading to the river, Etewa came running after us. "Get some pishaansi leaves," he said to Ritimi. He turned to me. "You come with me."

I followed him through the newly cleared area of forest where fresh plantain suckers had already been planted between the rubble of felled trees, the trimmed leaf sheaths exposed above the ground. They were spaced from ten to twelve feet apart, allowing for the future full-grown plants to overlap leaves, but not to shade one another. Only a few days ago, Etewa, Iramamowe, and other close kin of the headman Arasuwe had helped him separate the suckers from the large basal corm of the plantains. On a contraption made with vines and thick leaves, fitted with a tumpline, they transported the heavy suckers to the new site.

"Did you find any honey?" I asked expectantly.

"No honey," Etewa said, "but something just as delicious." He pointed to where Arasuwe and his two oldest sons stood. They were taking turns at kicking an old banana tree. Hundreds of whitish, fat larvae fell out from between the multilayered green trunk.

As soon as Ritimi returned with the pishaansi leaves from the forest, the boys picked up the wriggling worms and put them on the sturdy wide leaves. Arasuwe lit a small fire. One of his sons held an elliptically-shaped piece of wood with his feet firmly planted on the ground while Arasuwe twirled the drill between his palms with an astounding speed. The ignited wood dust set fire to the termites' nest over which dry twigs and sticks were added.

Ritimi cooked the larvae for only a moment until the pishaansi leaves were black and brittle. Opening one of the bundles, Etewa wet his forefinger with saliva, rolled it in the roasted grub, then offered it to me. "It tastes good," he insisted as I turned my face away. Shrugging, he sucked his own finger clean.

Mumbling between mouthfuls, Ritimi urged me to give them a try. "How can you say you don't like them if you haven't even tasted them?"

With thumb and forefinger I placed one of the grayish, still soft grubs into my mouth. They are no different from escargot, I told myself, or cooked oysters. But when I tried to swallow the grub, it remained stuck to my tongue. I took it out again, waited till I had enough saliva, then swallowed the worm as if it were a pill. "In the morning, all I can eat is plantain," I said as Etewa pushed a bundle in front of me.

"You have worked in the garden," he said. "You have to eat. When there is no meat it is good to eat these." He reminded me that I had liked the ants and centipedes he had offered me on various occasions.

Looking into his expectant face, I could not bring myself to say that I had not liked them one bit, even though the centipedes had tasted like deep-fried vegetable tidbits. Reluctantly I forced myself to swallow a few more of the roasted grubs.

Ritimi and I followed behind the men on our way to the river. Children splashing in the water sang about a fat tapir that had fallen into a deep pool and drowned. Men and women were rubbing themselves with leaves; their bodies glistened in the sun, golden and smooth. Sparkling droplets on the tips of their straight hair reflected the light like diamond beads.

Old Hayama beckoned me to sit next to her on a large boulder at the edge of the water. I believe I had become Ritimi's grandmother's special charge, and she had taken it as a personal challenge to fatten me up. Like the children in the shabono, who were well fed so they would grow healthy and strong, old Hayama made sure I had plenty to snack on at all hours of the day. She indulged my insatiable appetite for sugars. Whenever someone found the sweet, thick, light-colored honey produced by nonstinging bees- the only kind given to the children- old Hayama made sure I was given at least a taste. If honey of the stinging black bees was brought to the shabono, Hayama also secured me some. Only adults partook of this kind, for the Iticoteri believed it caused nausea and even death to children. The Iticoteri were certain no harm would result if I ate both kinds, for they were unable to decide whether I was an adult or a child.

"Eat these," old Hayama said, offering me a few sopaa fruit. Greenish yellow, they were the size of lemons. I cracked them open with a stone (I had already broken a tooth trying to open nuts and fruits as the Iticoteri did) and sucked the sweet white pulp: The small brown seeds I spat out. The sticky juice gummed up my fingers and mouth.

Little Texoma climbed on my back, perching the small capuchin monkey she carried with her day and night on my head. The pet wrapped its long tail around my neck, so tightly I almost choked. One furry hand held on to my hair while the other swung in front of my face, striving to snatch away my fruit. Afraid to swallow monkey hair and lice, I tried to shake myself free. But Texoma and her pet shrieked with delight, believing I was playing a game. Lowering my feet in the water, I tried to slip my T-shirt over my head. Caught unawares, child and monkey jumped away.

The children pulled me down to the sand, tumbling beside me. Giggling, they began to walk, one by one, on my back, and I gave myself up to the pleasure of their small, cool feet on my aching muscles. In vain I had tried to convince the women to massage my shoulders, neck, and back after I had weeded for hours in the gardens. Whenever I had tried to show them how good it felt, they gave me to understand that although they liked being touched, massaging was something only the shapori did when a person was ill or bewitched. Fortunately they had no objections to letting the children walk on my back. To the Iticoteri it was quite inconceivable that someone could actually derive pleasure from such a barbaric act.

Tutemi sat next to me in the sand and began to unwrap the pishaansi bundle Ritimi had given her. Her pregnant belly and swollen breasts seemed to be held in place by the taut stretched skin. She never complained of aches or nausea; neither did she have any cravings. In fact, there were so many food taboos a pregnant woman had to obey that I often wondered how they bore healthy babies. They were not allowed to eat large game. Their only source of protein were insects, nuts, larvae, fish, and certain kinds of small birds.

"When will you have the baby?" I asked, caressing the side of her stomach.

Knitting her brows in concentration, Tutemi deliberated for a while. "This moon comes and goes; another comes and goes, then one more comes and before it disappears, I will bear a healthy son."

I wondered if she was right. By her calculations that meant in three months. To me she looked as though she were about to give birth any day now.

"There are fish upriver- the kind you like," Tutemi said, smiling at me.

"I will take a quick swim, then I'll go with you to catch them."

"Take me swimming with you," little Texoma pleaded.

"You have to leave your monkey behind," Tutemi said.

Texoma perched the capuchin on Tutemi's head and came running after me. Shrieking with pleasure, she lay on my back in the water, her hands holding on to my shoulders. I stretched my legs and arms slowly and fully with each stroke until we reached a pool at the opposite bank.

"Do you want to dive to the bottom?" I asked her.

"I do, I do," she cried, nuzzling her small wet nose against my cheek. "I'll keep my eyes open, I'll not breathe, I'll hold on tight without choking you."

The water was not very deep. The blurred grayish, vermilion, and white pebbles resting in the amber sand shimmered brightly in spite of the trees shading the pool. I felt Texoma's hands tugging at my neck; quickly I swam to the surface.

"Come out," Tutemi shouted as soon as she saw our heads. "We're waiting for you." She pointed to the women next to her.

"I'll go back to the shabono now," Ritimi said. "If you see Kamosiwe give this to him." She handed me the last of the larvae bundles.

I followed the women and several men on the well-trodden trail. Shortly we encountered Kamosiwe, standing in the middle of the path. Reclining against his bow, he appeared to be fast asleep. I placed the bundle at his feet. The old man opened his one good eye; the bright sun made him squint, grotesquely disfiguring his scarred face. He picked up the larvae: Slowly he began to eat, shifting from one foot to the other.

Following Kamosiwe as we climbed a small hill thick with growth, I marveled at the uncanny agility with which he moved. He never looked where he walked, yet always avoided the roots and thorns on the trail.

Slight, shrunken with age, he was the oldest-looking man I had ever seen. His hair was neither black, gray, or white, but an indistinctly colored woolly mop that apparently had not been combed for years. Yet it was short, as if cut periodically. It probably had stopped growing, I decided, like the stubbles on his chin that were always the same length. The scars on his wrinkled face were caused by a blow from a club that had taken out one of his eyes. When he spoke his voice was but a murmur, the meaning of which I had to guess.

At night he would often stand in the middle of the clearing, speaking for hours on end. Children crouched at his feet, feeding the fire that had been lit for him. His spent voice carried a strength, a tenderness that seemed at odds with his looks. There was always a feeling of urgent necessity in his words, a sense of warning, of enchantment as they scattered into the night. "There are words of knowledge, of tradition, preserved in the memory of this old man," Milagros had explained. It was only after the feast that he mentioned that Kamosiwe was Angelica's father.

"You mean he is your grandfather?" I had asked in disbelief.

Nodding, Milagros had added, "When I was born, Kamosiwe was the headman of the Iticoteri."

Kamosiwe lived by himself in one of the huts close to the entrance of the shabono. He neither hunted nor worked in the gardens any longer; yet he was never without food or firewood. He accompanied the women to the gardens or into the forest when they went to collect nuts, berries, and wood. While the women worked, Kamosiwe stood watch, leaning against his bow, a banana leaf stuck on the tip of his arrow to shade his face from the sun.

Sometimes he waved his hand in the air- perhaps at a bird, perhaps at a cloud, which he believed was the soul of an Iticoteri. Sometimes he laughed to himself. But mostly he stood still, either dreaming or listening to the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves.

Although he had never acknowledged my presence among his people, I often caught his one eye on me. Sometimes I had the distinct feeling he purposely sought my presence, for he always accompanied the group of women I was with. And at dusk, when I would seek the solitude of the river, he would be there, squatting not too far from me.

We stopped at a point where the river widened between the banks. The dark rocks scattered on the yellow sand appeared as if someone had purposely arranged them in a symmetrical order. The shadowed still water was like a dark mirror reflecting the aerial roots of the giant matapalos. Coming down from a height of ninety feet, they choked and constricted the tree. It was on one of its branches, as a tiny seed dropped by a bird, that the deadly roots had first germinated. I could not tell what kind of a ' tree it had been- perhaps a ceiba, for the branches bending in tragic grandeur were full of thorns.

Equipped with branches from the arapuri tree growing nearby, some of the women waded into the shallow river. Their piercing, shrill cries shattered the stillness as they beat the water. The frightened fish took refuge under the rotten leaves on the opposite bank, where the other women caught them with their bare hands. Biting off their heads, they flung the still wriggling fish into the flat baskets on the sand.

"Come with me," one of the headman's wives said. Taking me by the hand, she led me further upriver. "Let's try our luck with the men's arrows."

The men and young boys who had accompanied us were circled by a group of shrieking women demanding they lend them their weapons. Fishing was considered a woman's activity: Men only went to laugh and jeer. It was the only time they allowed the women to use their bows and arrows. Some men handed their weapons to the women, then quickly ran to the safety of the bank, afraid of getting hit accidentally. They were delighted that none of them made a kill.

"Try," Arasuwe said, handing me his bow.

I had taken archery lessons at school and felt certain of my skill. However, as soon as I held his bow I knew this was impossible. I could barely draw the bow; my arm shook uncontrollably as I released the short arrow. I tried repeatedly, but not once did I hit a fish.

"What a bold way to shoot," old Kamosiwe said, handing me a smaller bow belonging to one of Iramamowe's sons. The boy did not complain but glowered at me sullenly. At his age no man would willingly hand his weapon to a woman.

"Try again," Kamosiwe urged. His one eye shone with a strange intensity.

Without the slightest hesitation I drew the bow once more, aiming the arrow at the shimmering silvery body that for an instant seemed motionless under the surface. I felt the tension of the drawn bow suddenly relax; the arrow released effortlessly. I distinctly heard the sharp sound of the arrow hitting the water and then saw a trail of blood. Cheering, the women retrieved the arrow-pierced fish. It was no bigger than a medium-sized trout. I returned the weapon to the boy, who stared at me with astonished admiration.

I looked for old Kamosiwe, but he was gone.

"I will make you a small bow," Arasuwe said, "and slender arrows- the kind used for shooting fish."

The men and women had gathered around me. "Did you really shoot the fish?" one of the men asked. "Try it again. I didn't see it."

"She did, she did," Arasuwe's wife assured him, showing him the trophy.

"Ahahahaha," the men exclaimed.

"Where did you learn to shoot with a bow and arrow?" Arasuwe asked.

As best as I could, I attempted to explain what a school was. Watching Arasuwe's puzzled eyes, I wished I had said that my father had taught me. Explaining something that required more than a few sentences at a time could be a frustrating experience, not only for me, but for my listeners as well. It was not always a matter of knowing the right words: Rather the difficulty stemmed from the fact that certain words did not exist in their language. The more I talked, the more troubled Arasuwe's expression became. Frowning with disappointment, he insisted I explain why I knew how to use the bow and arrow. I wished Milagros had not gone to visit another settlement.

"I know of whites who are good marksmen with a gun," Arasuwe said. "But I have never seen a white use the bow and arrow skillfully."

I felt a need to belittle the fact that I had actually hit a fish, alleging that it was sheer luck, which it was. However, Arasuwe kept insisting that I knew how to use the Indians' weapons. Even Kamosiwe had noticed the way I held the bow, he said loudly.

I believe that somehow I got the idea of school across, for they insisted I tell them what else I had been taught. The men laughed outrageously upon hearing that the way I had decorated my notebook was something I had learned at school. "You haven't been taught properly," Arasuwe said with conviction. "Your designs were very poor."

"Do you know how to make machetes?" one of the men asked.

"You need hundreds of people for that," I said. "Machetes are made in a factory." The harder I tried to make them understand, the more tongue-tied I became. "Only men make machetes," I finally said, pleased to have found an explanation that satisfied them.

"What else did you learn?" Arasuwe asked.

I wished I had some gadget with me, such as a tape recorder, a flashlight, or some such thing, to impress them with. Then I remembered the gymnastics I had practiced for several years. "I can jump through the air," I said off-hand. Clearing off a square area of the sandy beach, I placed four of the fish-filled baskets in each of its corners. "No one can step into this space." Standing in the middle of my arena, I gazed at the curious faces around me. They broke into hilarious guffaws as they watched me do a series of stretch exercises. Although the sand did not have the springiness of a floor exercise mat, I was at least comforted by the thought that I would not hurt myself if I missed my footing. I did a couple of handstands, cartwheels, front and back walkovers, then a forward and backward somersault. I did not land with the grace of an accomplished gymnast, but I was pleased by the admiring faces around me.

"What strange things you were taught," Arasuwe said. "Do it again."

"One can only do it once." I sat on the sand to catch my breath. Even if I had wanted to I could not repeat my performance.

The men and women came closer, their intent eyes fixed on me. "What else can you do?" one of them asked.

For an instant I was at a loss; I thought I had done plenty. After a moment's consideration, I said, "I can sit on my head."

Laughter shook their bodies until tears rolled down their cheeks. "Sit on the head," they repeated, each time bursting into new peals of laughter.

I flattened my forearms on the ground, placed my forehead on my intertwined palms, and slowly lifted my body upward. Sure of my balance, I crossed my upraised legs. The laughter stopped. Arasuwe lay flat on the ground, his face close to mine. He smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "White girl, I don't know what to think of you, but I know if I walk with you through the forest, the monkeys will stop to see you. Enchanted, they will sit still to watch you, and I will shoot them." He touched my face with his large calloused hand. "Sit on your buttocks again. Your face is red, as if it were painted with onoto. I'm afraid your eyes will fall out of your head."

Back in the shabono, Tutemi placed one of the bundles of fish, cooked in pishaansi leaves, in front of me on the ground. Fish was my favorite food. To everyone's surprise, I preferred it to armadillo, peccary, or monkey meat. The pishaansi leaves and the salty solution derived from the ashes of the kurori tree added a spiciness that greatly enhanced its natural flavor.

"Did your father want you to learn to use the bow and arrow?" Arasuwe asked, squatting next to me. Before I had a chance to answer, he continued, "Had he wanted a boy when you were born?"

"I don't think so. He was very pleased when I was born. He already had two sons."

Arasuwe opened the bundle in front of him. Silently he shifted the fish toward the middle of the leaves, as if he were pondering a mystery for which he had no adequate words. He motioned me to take some of his food. With two fingers and a thumb, I lifted a large portion of fish into my mouth. As was proper, I licked the juice dribbling down my arm and when I ran into a spine I spat it on the ground, without spitting out any of the flaky meat.

"Why did you learn to shoot arrows?" Arasuwe asked in a compelling tone.

Without thinking I answered, "Maybe something in me knew I was to come here someday."

"You should have known that girls don't use the bow and arrow." He smiled at me briefly, then began to eat.