Version 2007.02.13

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

### Chapter 13

It was past noon when we left the Mocototeri settlement, our baskets filled with the accustomed plantains, palm fruits, and meat given to departing guests.

Shortly before nightfall, three Mocototeri men caught up with us. One of them raised his bow as he spoke. "Our headman wants the white girl to stay with us." He stared at me down the shaft of his drawn arrow.

"Only a coward points his arrow at a woman," Iramamowe said, stepping in front of me. "Why don't you shoot, you useless Mocototeri?"

"We haven't come to fight," the man remarked, returning his bow and arrow to an upright position. "We could have ambushed you some time ago. All we want is to frighten the white girl so she'll come with us."

"She cannot stay with you," Iramamowe said. "Milagros brought her to our shabono. If he had wanted her to stay with you, he would have taken her to your settlement."

"We want her to come with us," the man persisted. "We will bring her back before the rains start."

"If you make me angry, I shall kill you on the spot." Iramamowe pounded his chest. "Remember, you cowardly Mocototeri, that I'm a fierce warrior. The hekuras in my chest are always at my command, even without epena." Iramamowe moved nearer to the three men. "Don't you know that the white girl belongs to the Iticoteri?"

"Why don't you ask her where she wants to stay?" the man said. "She liked our people. Maybe she wants to live with us."

Iramamowe began to laugh- a rumbling laughter that did not reveal whether he was amused or outraged. He stopped abruptly. "The white girl does not like the way the Mocototeri look. She said you all resemble monkeys." Iramamowe turned toward me. There was such a pleading expression in his eyes that it was all I could do not to giggle.

I felt a tinge of remorse as I looked into the bewildered faces of the three Mocototeri. For an instant I felt tempted to deny Iramainowe's words. But I could not ignore his anger, nor had I forgotten Arasuwe's apprehension at my going to the feast. I crossed my arms over my chest, lifted my chin, and without looking at them directly said, "I don't want to go to your settlement. I don't want to eat and sleep with monkeys."

The Iticoteri burst into loud guffaws. The three men turned around abruptly, then disappeared on the path leading into the thicket.

We made camp not too far from the river in a cleared area of the forest, where the remains of temporary shelters still stood. We did not cover them with new leaves, for old Kamosiwe assured us that it would not rain that night.

Iramamowe did not eat, but sat, glum and intense, in front of the fire. There was a tension about him as if he were expecting the three men to reappear at any moment.

"Is there any danger the Mocototeri might come back?" I asked.

Iramamowe was some time before giving me an answer. "They are cowards. They know that my arrows will kill them on the spot." He stared fixedly on the ground: His lips set in a straight line. "I'm considering what would be the best way to return to our shabono."

"We should divide up our party," old Kamosiwe suggested, gazing at me with his one eye. "There is no moon tonight; the Mocototeri will not return. Perhaps tomorrow they will ask again for the white-girl. We can tell them that they frightened her away, that she asked to be taken back to the mission."

"Are you sending her back?" Ritimi's voice hung in the darkness, charged with anxiety.

"No," the old man said cheerfully. The grayish bristles on his chin, his one eye that never missed anything, his slight wrinkled body gave him the appearance of a wicked elf. "Etewa should return to the shabono with Ritimi and the white girl by way of the mountains. It's a longer route but they won't be slowed down by children and old people. They will reach our settlement no later than a day or two after we do. It is a good route, not traveled much." Old Kamosiwe got up and sniffed the air. "It will rain tomorrow. Build a shelter for the night," he said to Etewa, then squatted, a smile on his lips, his one sunken eye staring at me. "Are you afraid to return to the shabono by way of the mountains?"

Smiling, I shook my head. Somehow I could not envision myself to be in real danger.

"Were you afraid when the Mocototeri aimed his arrow at you?" old Kamosiwe asked.

"No. I knew the Iticoteri would protect me." I had to refrain myself from adding that the incident had seemed comical to me rather than dangerous. I did not fully realize at the time that in spite of the obvious bluffing, characteristic of any critical circumstance, the Mocototeri and Iticoteri were perfectly serious in their threats and demands.

Old Kamosiwe was delighted with my reply. I had the feeling his pleasure derived not so much from the fact that I had not been frightened, but rather by my trust in his people. He talked to Etewa long into the night. Ritimi fell asleep holding my hand in hers, a blissful smile on her lips. Watching her dream, I knew why she looked so happy. For a few days she would have Etewa practically to herself.

In the shabono men hardly ever showed any outward affection toward their wives. It was considered a weakness. Only toward the children were the men openly tender and loving; they indulged, kissed, and caressed them lavishly. I had seen Etewa and even the fierce Iramamowe carry the heavy loads of wood for their women only to drop them as soon as they approached the shabono. When there had been no other man near, I had seen Etewa save a special piece of meat or fruit for Ritimi or Tutemi. Protected by the darkness, I had seen him press his ear against Tutemi's womb to listen to the strong kicks of his unborn child. In the presence of others he never mentioned that he was to be a father.

Ritimi and I were awakened by Etewa hours before dawn. Quietly we left the camp, following the sandy bank of the river. Except for our hammocks, a few plantains, and the three pineapples the Mocototeri girl had given me, our baskets were empty. Old Kamosiwe had assured Etewa that he would find plenty of game. There was no moon, yet the water shone black, reflecting the faint glow of the sky. At intervals the sound of a nocturnal bird darted through the stillness, a faint cry heralding the oncoming dawn. One by one, the stars faded: The contours of trees became distinct as the rosy light of dawn descended all the way to the shadows at our feet. I was astonished at the width of the river, and at the silence of its flowing waters so still they did not seem to move. Three macaws formed a triangle in the sky, painting the stationary clouds with their red, blue, and yellow feathers as the orange glowing sun rose over the treetops.

Etewa opened his mouth in a yawn that seemed to force its way up from the farthest depths of his lungs. He squinted: The light of the sun was too bright for eyes that had not slept enough.

We unfastened our baskets. Ritimi and I sat on a log from where we watched Etewa draw his bow. Slowly, he raised his arms and arched his back, pointing his arrow high in the air. Motionless, he stood for an interminable time, a stone figure, each taut muscle carefully etched, his gaze attentive to the birds crossing the sky. I did not dare ask why he was waiting so long to let his arrow go.

I did not hear the arrow travel through the air- only a flashing cry that dissoved into a flapping of wings. For an instant the macaw, a mass of feathers held together by the red-tinted arrow, was suspended in the sky before it plunged downward, not too far from where Etewa stood.

Etewa made a fire over which we roasted the plucked bird and some plantains. He ate only a small portion, insisting that we finish the rest so we would have enough strength for the arduous climb over the hills.

We did not miss the sunlight on the river path as we turned into the thicket. The penumbra of vines and trees was soothing to our tired eyes. Decaying leaves looked like patches of flowers against the background of greenness. Etewa cut branches from the dark, wild cocoa trees. "With this wood one makes the best fire drills," he said, stripping the branches of their bark with his sharp knife, which was made from the lower incisor of an agouti. Then he cut the green, yellow, and purple pods individually attached to the stunted cacao trunks by short leafless stems. He split the fruits open and we sucked the sweet gelatinous flesh surrounding the seeds, which we wrapped in leaves. "Cooked," Ritimi explained, "the pohoro seeds are delicious." I wondered if they would taste like chocolate.

"There must be monkeys and weasels nearby," Etewa explained, showing me the discarded, chewed-up fruit skins on the ground. "They like the pohoro fruit as much as we do."

A bit further on Etewa stopped in front of a twisted vine, which he marked with his knife. "Mamucori," he said. "I will return to this spot when I need to make fresh poison."

"Ashnkamaki?" I exclaimed as we stopped beneath a tree, its trunk encrusted with glossy, waxlike leaves. But it was not the liana used to thicken curare. Etewa pointed out that those leaves were long and jagged. He had stopped because of the various animal bones on the ground.

"Harpy eagle," he said, gesturing to the nest at the top of the tree.

"Don't kill the bird," Ritimi pleaded. "Perhaps it's the spirit of a dead Iticoteri."

Ignoring his wife, Etewa climbed up the tree. Upon reaching the nest he lifted out a shrieking white fluffy chick. We heard the loud cries of its mother as Etewa threw the chick on the ground. He propped himself against the trunk and a branch, then aimed his arrow at the circling bird.

"I'm glad I shot the bird," Etewa said, motioning us to follow him to the spot where the dead eagle crashed through the trees. "It eats only meat." He turned toward Ritimi, then added softly, "I listened to its cry before I aimed my arrow- it wasn't the voice of a spirit." He plucked the soft white feathers from the bird's breast, the long gray ones from its wings, then wrapped them in leaves.

The afternoon heat filtering through the leaves made me so drowsy that all I wanted to do was sleep. Ritimi had dark smudges under her eyes, as if she had dabbed coal on the tender skin. Etewa's pace slackened. Without saying a word, he headed toward the river. We stood motionless in the wide, shallow waters, held in suspension by the heat and the glare. We stared at the reflected clouds and trees, then lay down on a bank of ochre-colored sand in the middle of the river. Blues faded into green and red from the tannin of the submerged roots. Not a leaf stirred, not a cloud moved. Even the dragonflies hovering over the water seemed motionless in their transparent vibrations. Turning on my stomach, I let my hands lie flat on the river's surface as if I could hold the languid harmony reigning between the reflection in the river and the glow in the sky. I slid on my stomach until my lips touched the water, then drank the mirrored clouds.

Two herons that had taken flight at our arrival returned. Poised on their long legs, with necks sunk between their feathers, they watched us through blinking, half-closed lids. I saw silvery bodies jump up in the air, seeking the intoxicating heat shimmering over the water. "Fish," I exclaimed, my lethargy momentarily gone.

Chuckling, Etewa pointed with his arrow to a flock of shrieking parrots crossing the sky. "Birds," he shouted, then reached for the bamboo quiver on his back. He took out an arrowhead, tasted it with the tip of his tongue to see if the poison was still good. Satisfied by its bitter taste, he fastened the sharp point to one of his arrow shafts. Next he tested his bow by letting go of the string. "It's not well stretched," he said, untying it at one end. He twisted the string several times, then threaded it again. "We will stay here for the night," he said, wading through the water. He climbed up on the opposite bank, disappearing behind the trees.

Ritimi and I remained on the sandy bank. She unwrapped the feathers and spread them on a stone for the sun to kill the lice. Excitedly she pointed to a tree on the bank on which clusters of pale flowers hung like fruit. She cut whole branches, then offered me the flowers to eat. "They are sweet," she pointed out upon noticing my reluctance to eat them.

Trying to explain that the flowers reminded me of strongly perfumed soap, I fell asleep. I awoke with the sounds of dusk sweeping up the light of the day, the rustling of the breeze cooling the trees, the calls of birds settling for the night.

Etewa had returned with two curassows and a bundle of palm fronds. I helped Ritimi collect firewood along the riverbank. While she plucked the birds, I assisted Etewa with building the shelter.

"Are you sure it's going to rain?" I asked him, looking at the clear, cloudless sky.

"If old Kamosiwe said it's going to rain, then it will," Etewa said. "He can smell rain the way others can smell food."

It was a cozy little hut. The front pole was higher than the two in the back but not high enough for us to stand up. The poles were connected with long sticks, giving the shelter a triangular shape. Both the roof and the back were covered with palm fronds. We covered the ground with platanillo leaves, for the poles were not strong enough to support three hammocks.

Actually, Etewa did not build the shelter so much for Ritimi's and my comfort as for his. If he got wet in the rain, he might cause the child in Tutemi's.womb to be born dead or deformed.

Ritimi cooked the birds, several plantains, and the cacao seeds over the fire Etewa built inside the hut. I mashed one of our pineapples. The mixture of flavors, textures, reminded me of a Thanksgiving dinner.

"It must be like momo nuts," Ritimi said after I had explained about cranberry sauce. "Momo is also red; it needs to be boiled for a long time until it's soft. It also has to soak in water until all the poison is leached out."

"I don't think I'd like momo nuts."

"You will," Ritimi assured me. "See how much you like the pohoro seeds. Momo nuts are even better."

Smiling, I nodded. Although the roasted cacao seeds did not taste like chocolate, they were as delicious as fresh cashews.

Etewa and Ritimi were asleep the moment they lay back on the platanillo leaves. I stretched out next to Ritimi. In her sleep she reached over, hugging me close to her. The warmth of her body filled me with a soothing laziness; her rhythmic breathing lulled me into a pleasant drowsiness. A succession of dreamlike images drifted through my mind, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, as if someone were projecting them in front of me: Mocototeri men brachiating from tree to tree glided past me, their cries indistinguishable from the howler monkeys. Crocodiles with luminous eyes, barely above the surface of the water, blinked sleepily, then suddenly opened their giant jaws ready to swallow me. Anteaters with threadlike viscous tongues blew bubbles in which I saw myself captive together with hundreds of ants.

I was awakened by a sudden gust of wind; it brought with it the smell of rain. I sat up and listened to the heavy drops pattering on the palm fronds. The familiar sounds of crickets and frogs provided a continuous pulsating background hum to the plaintive cries of nocturnal monkeys, the flutelike calls of forest partridges. I was sure I heard steps and then the snapping of twigs.

"There is someone out there," I said, reaching over to Etewa.

He moved to the front pole of the shelter. "It's a jaguar looking for frogs in the marshes." Etewa turned my head slightly to the left. "You can smell him."

I sniffed the air repeatedly. "I can't smell a thing."

"It's the jaguar's breath that smells. It's strong because he eats everything raw." Etewa turned my head once more, this time to the right. "Listen, he is returning to the forest."

I lay down again. Ritimi awoke, rubbed her eyes, and smiled. "I dreamt that I walked up in the mountains and saw the waterfalls."

"We will go that way tomorrow," Etewa said, unfastening the epena pouch from around his neck. He poured some of the powder in his palm, then with one deep breath drew it into his nostrils.

"Are you going to chant to the hekuras now?" I asked.

"I will beg the spirits of the forest to protect us," Etewa said, then began to chant in a low voice. His song, carried on the night breeze, seemed to traverse the darkness. I was certain it reached the spirits dwelling in the four corners of the earth. The fire died down to a red glimmer. I no longer heard Etewa's voice, but his lips were still moving as I fell into a dreamless sleep.

I was awakened shortly by Ritimi's soft moans and touched her shoulder, thinking she was having a nightmare.

"Do you want to try it?" she murmured.

Surprised, I opened my eyes and looked into Etewa's smiling face; he was making love to her. I watched them for a while. The motion of their bodies was so closely adjusted they barely moved.

Etewa, not in the least embarrassed, moved out of Ritimi and knelt in front of me. Lifting my legs, he stretched them slightly. He pressed his cheeks against my calves; his touch was like the playful caress of a child. There was no embrace; there were no words. Yet I was filled with tenderness.

Etewa switched to Ritimi again, resting his head between her shoulder and mine.

"Now we truly are sisters," Ritimi said softly. "On the outside we don't look the same, but our insides are the same now."

I snuggled against her. The river breeze brushing through the shelter was like a caress.

The rosy light of dawn descended gently over the treetops. Ritimi and Etewa headed toward the river. I stepped outside the shelter and breathed in the new day. At dawn the darkness of the forest is no longer black but a bluish green, like an underground cave that is illuminated by a light filtering through some secret crack. A sprinkling of dew, like soft rain, wet my face as I pushed leaves and vines out of my way. Little red spiders with hairy legs hastily respun their silvery webs.

Etewa found a honeycomb inside a hollow trunk. After squeezing the last drop in our mouths, he soaked the comb in a water-filled calabash and later we drank the sweet water.

We climbed overgrown paths bordering small cascades and stretches of river that swept by at dizzying speeds, causing a breeze that blew our hair and swayed the bamboo on the shore.

"This is the scene of my dream," Ritimi said, extending her arms as if to embrace the wide expanse of water hurtling down before us into a deep wide pool.

I edged my way onto the dark basalt rocks protruding around the falls. For a long time I stood beneath it, my hands raised to break the thunderous force of the water descending from heights already warmed by the sun.

"Come out, white girl," Etewa shouted. "The spirits of the rushing water will make you ill."

Later in the afternoon we made camp by a grove of wild banana trees. Amidst them I discovered an avocado tree. It had only one fruit; it was not pear shaped, but round, as big as a cantaloupe, and shone as if it were made out of wax. Etewa lifted me so I could reach the first branch, then slowly I climbed toward the fruit hanging at the tip of the highest limb. My greed to reach the green ball was so great I ignored the brittle branches cracking under my weight. As I pulled the fruit toward me the branch I was standing on gave way.

Etewa laughed till tears rolled down his cheeks. Ritimi, also laughing, scraped the mashed avocado from my stomach and thigh.

"I could have hurt myself," I said, piqued by their indifference and mirth. "Maybe I broke a leg."

"No, you didn't," Etewa assured me. "The ground is soft with dead leaves." He scooped some mashed fruit in his hand and urged me to taste it. "I told you not to stay under the falls," he added seriously. "The spirits of the rushing water made you ignore the danger of dry branches."

By the time Etewa had built the shelter all trace of day had vanished. The forest was clouded in a whitish mist. It did not rain, but the dew on the leaves fell in heavy drops at the slightest touch.

We slept on the platanillo leaves, warmed by each other's bodies and by the low fire that Etewa kept alive throughout the night by periodically pushing the burning logs closer to the flame with his foot.

We left our camp before dawn. Thick mist still shrouded the trees and the cry of frogs reached us as if from a great distance. The higher we climbed, the scantier the vegetation became until at last there was nothing but grasses and rocks.

We reached the top of a plateau eroded by winds and rains, a relic from another age. Below, the forest was still asleep under a blanket of fog. A mysterious, pathless world whose vastness one could never guess from the outside. We sat on the ground and silently waited for the sun to rise.

An overwhelming sense of awe brought me to my feet as the sky in the east glowed red and purple along the horizon. The clouds, obedient to the wind, opened to let the rising disk through. Pink mist rolled over the treetops, touching up shadows with deep blue, spreading green and yellow all over the sky until it changed into a transparent blue.

I turned to look behind me, to the west, where clouds were changing shape, giving way to the expanding light. To the south, the sky was tinted with fiery streaks and luminous clouds piled up, pushed by the wind.

"Over there is our shabono," Etewa said, pointing into the distance. He grasped my arm and turned me around, into a northerly direction. "And over there is the great river, where the white man passes by."

The sun had lifted the blanket of tog. The river shone like a golden snake cutting through the greenness until it lost itself in an immensity of space that seemed to be part of another world.

I wanted to speak, to cry out loud, but I had no words with which to express my emotions. Looking at Ritimi and Etewa, I knew they understood how deeply I felt. I held out my arms as if to embrace this marvelous border of forest and sky. I felt I was at the edge of time and space. I could hear the vibrations of the light, the whispering of trees, the cries of distant birds carried by the wind.

I suddenly knew that it was out of choice and not out of lack of interest that the Iticoteri had never been curious about my past. For them I had no personal history. Only thus could they have accepted me as something other than an oddity. Events and relationships of my past had begun to blur in my memory. It was not that I had forgotten them; I had simply stopped thinking about them, for they had no meaning there in the forest. Like the Iticoteri, I had learned to live in the present. Time was outside of me. It was something to be used only at the moment. Once used, it sank back into itself and became an imperceptible part of my inner being.

"You have been so quiet for so long," Ritimi said, sitting on the ground. Pulling her knees up, she clasped them, then rested her chin on them and gazed at me.

"I've been thinking of how happy I am to be here," I said.

Smiling, Ritimi rocked herself gently to and fro. "One day I will collect wood and you will no longer be at my side. But I will not be sad, because this afternoon, before we reach the shabono, we will paint ourselves with onoto and we will be happy watching a flow of macaws chase the setting sun."