Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 2 - Chapter 06.

Six months later, I asked Milagros, "When will you be back?".

I had just handed 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 back with Milagros as many writing pads and pencils as he could spare.

Milagros fit my letter into his bamboo quiver.

I asked him again, "When will you be back?"

Milagros casually said, "In two weeks or so."

He must have detected the anxiousness in my face because he added, "There is no way to tell, but I will 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 were 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. I made sure not to cut my feet on the pieces of bark, chips, and slivers of wood buried amidst the dead leaves on the ground.

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

Smiling, I waved back, wanting to ask when the feast would take place. Then I realized 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. Sisiwe, holding a dead animal by the tail, said, "See the lizard I killed,"

Another boy in the group scratched his ankle with the toes of his other foot, and said mockingly, "That is all he can do- shoot lizards. And most of the time he misses."

Sisiwe face turned red with rage, and he shouted, "I do not."

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 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 will be afraid to hurt himself on the bones."

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

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.

To my great disappointment there was one subject Milagros had not touched upon: Shamanism. I had, however, observed from my hammock two curing sessions, and of which I had written detailed accounts.

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

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

Milagros gave me an outraged look. He got up abruptly, and said, "There are things one does not talk about."

Before he walked out of the hut he added, "Do not ask about these things. If you do, you will run into serious trouble."

I had not been surprised by his response, but I was 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 I 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 curing 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 psycho-chemical 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 psycho-therapeutic 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, and would thus further anthropological knowledge in general.

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

"I am 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 am 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, she said, "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 do not 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 did not touch the ground. He is a powerful shapori. He became the great jaguar."

"He did not 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.

Tutemi interrupted the women's Spanish-English chant by shouting, "Lice! Lice!"

I was convinced that she was joking as I said, "Let me see."

I examined the tiny white bugs on her finger. I had always believed that lice were dark, and so I asked, "Are lice white?"

Tutemi mischievously exclaimed, "White girl, white lice."

With gleeful delight she crunched them one by one between her teeth, and swallowed them. Then she admitted, "All lice are white."

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 2 - Chapter 07.

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.

I jumped out of Ritimi's reach, and said, "Oh no. You are not going to do that."

"It will not hurt," she assured me, then asked in an exasperated manner, "Do you want to look like an old woman? It will not 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 does not 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 not see a thing."

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

Dark circles and arabesques 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 is 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 did not die."

"Killed once but did not 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 did not 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 did all the Iticoteri men not 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 is not 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 is 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 is 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 will 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 did not go to the mission," I said. "Why did you not 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 rather, they 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 did not come here to do your work. You could have 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, and 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 did not 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?"

Hesitantly I said, "Yes."

"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, trance-like 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.

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 2 - Chapter 08.

The red sunset tinted the air with a fiery glow. The sky was aflame for a few minutes before it dissolved rapidly into darkness. It was the third day of the feast. From my hammock, together with Etewa's and Arasuwe's children, I watched the sixty or so men, Iticoteri as well as their guests, who without food or rest had been dancing since noon in the middle of the clearing. To the rhythm of their own shrill shouts, to the clacking of their bows and arrows, they turned one way, then another, stepping backward and forward, a throbbing, never-ending beat of sound and motion, an undulating array of feathers and bodies, a blur of crimson and black designs.

A full moon rose above the treetops, casting a radiant light over the clearing. For a moment there was a lull in the unceasing noise and movement. Then the dancers broke out in savage, strangled cries that filled the air with an ear-piercing sound as they flung aside their bows and arrows.

Running inside the huts, the dancers grabbed burning logs from the hearths, and with a frenzied violence banged them against the poles holding up the shabono. All sorts of crawling insects scurried for safety in the palm-thatch roof before they fell like a cascade to the ground.

Terrified that the huts might come crashing down, or that the flying embers might set the roofs on fire, I ran outside with the children. The earth trembled under the men's stomping feet as they trampled out all the hearths in the huts. Brandishing the lighted logs high above their heads, they ran out into the center of the clearing, and resumed their dance with mounting frenzy. They circled the plaza, their heads wagging back and forth like marionettes whose strings had broken. The soft white feathers in their hair fluttered onto their sweat-glistening shoulders.

The moon moved behind a black cloud. Only the sparks of the fiery logs illuminated the clearing. The men's shrill cries rose to a higher pitch. Wielding their clubs overhead, they invited the women to join in the dance.

Shouting and laughing, the women darted back and forth, expertly dodging the swinging logs. The frenzy of the dancers mounted to a compelling intensity, converging toward a final climax as young girls, holding clusters of yellow palm fruit in their upraised arms, joined the crowd, their bodies swaying with sensual abandon.

I was not sure if it was Ritimi who grabbed my hand and pulled me into the dance, for in the next instant I stood alone among the ecstatic faces whirling around me. Caught between shadows and bodies, I tried to reach old Hayama standing in the safety of a hut, but I did not know in which direction to move. I did not recognize the man who, brandishing a log above his head, pushed me back amidst the dancers.

I cried out. Terror-stricken, I realized it was as if my cries were mute, exhausted in countless echoes reverberating inside me. I felt a sharp pain on the side of my head, right behind my ear, as I fell face down on the ground. I opened my eyes, trying to see through the shadows thickening about me, and wondered if those frenzied feet whirling and leaping in the air realized I had fallen amidst them. Then there was darkness, punctuated by pinpoints of light darting in and out of my head like glowworms in the night.

I was vaguely aware of someone dragging me away from the trampling dancers to a hammock. I forced my eyes open, but the figure hovering above me remained blurred. I felt a pair of gentle, slightly shaky hands touch my face, and the back of my head. For an instant I thought it was Angelica. But upon hearing that unmistakable voice coming from the depths of his stomach, I knew it was the old shaman Puriwariwe, chanting. I tried to focus my eyes, but his face remained distorted, as if I were seeing it through layers of water. I wanted to ask him where he had been, for I had not seen him since the first day of the feast, but the words were nothing but visions in my head.

I do not know whether I had been unconscious or whether I had slept, but when I awoke Puriwariwe was no longer there. Instead I saw Etewa's face bending over mine, so close I could have touched the red circles on his cheeks, between his brows, and at the corners of each eye. I stretched out my arm, but there was no one there. I shut my eyes; the circles danced inside my head like a red veil in a dark void. I shut them tighter until the image broke into a thousand fragments. The fire had been re-lit. It filled the hut with a cozy warmth that made me feel as if I were wrapped in an opaque cocoon of smoke. Dancing shadows silhouetted against the darkness were reflected on the golden patina of gourds hanging from the rafters.

Laughing happily, old Hayama came into the hut, and sat on the ground beside me. "I thought you would sleep till morning." Raising both hands to my head, her fingers probed until she found the swollen lump behind my ear. "It is big," she said. Her weathered features expressed a distant sorrow. Her eyes held a soft gentle light.

I sat up in the fiber hammock. Only then did I realize I was not in Etewa's hut.

"Iramamowe's," Hayama said before I had a chance to ask where I was. "His hut was the closest for Puriwariwe to bring you in after you were pushed against one of the men's clubs."

The moon had traveled high in the sky. Its pale shimmer spilled into the clearing. The dancing had ceased, yet an inaudible vibration still hung in the air.

Shouting, clacking their bows and arrows, a group of men positioned themselves in a semicircle in front of the hut. Iramamowe and one of the visitors stepped into the center of the gesticulating men. I could not tell which settlement the guest was from. I had been unable to distinguish the various groups who had come and gone since the beginning of the feast.

Iramamowe spread his legs in a firm stance, and raised his left arm over his head, exposing his chest fully. "Ha, ha, ahaha, aita, aita," he shouted, tapping his foot on the ground; a fearless cry that was meant to dare his opponent to strike him.

The young visitor adjusted his distance by measuring his arm length to Iramamowe's body. He took several dry runs, then with his closed fist delivered one powerful blow on the left side of Iramamowe's chest.

My body recoiled in shock. I felt nauseous as though the pain had swept through my own chest. "Why are they fighting?" I asked Hayama.

"They are not fighting," she said, laughing. "They want to hear how their hekuras, the life essence that dwells inside their chests, resound. They want to hear how the hokums vibrate with each blow."

The crowd cheered enthusiastically. The young visitor stood back, his chest heaving with excitement, and punched Iramamowe once more. Chin arrogantly raised, eyes perfectly steady, body stiff in defiance, Iramamowe acknowledged the cheers of the men. It was only after the third blow that he broke his stance. For an instant his lips parted in an appreciative grin, then set once more in a snarl of indifference and contempt. The persistent tapping of his foot, Hayama assured me, revealed nothing other than annoyance. His adversary had not yet struck him hard enough.

With a morbid, righteous kind of satisfaction I hoped Iramamowe felt the pain of each blow. He deserved it, I thought. Ever since I had seen him strike his wife, I had built up a resentment against him. Yet, as I watched, I could not help but admire the gallant way he stood in the middle of the crowd. There was something childishly defiant in the ramrod straightness of his back, the manner in which his bruised chest was thrust forward. His round, flat face with its narrow forehead and flared upper lip appeared so vulnerable as he stared at the young man in front of him. I wondered if the slight flicker of his brown eyes betrayed that he was shaken.

With a shattering force the fourth blow landed on Iramamowe's chest. It reverberated like the rocks that tumbled down the river during a storm.

"I believe I heard his hekuras," I said, certain Iramamowe's rib had been broken.

"He is waiteri," the Iticoteri and their guests shouted in unison. With rapt expressions on their faces they bounced up and down on their haunches, clacking their bows and arrows over their heads.

"Yes. He is a brave one," Hayama repeated, her eyes fixed on Iramamowe, who, satisfied that his hekuras had resounded potently, stood erect amidst the cheering men, his bruised chest puffed up with pride.

Silencing the onlookers, the headman Arasuwe stepped toward his brother. "Now you take Iramamowe's blow," he said to the young man who had delivered the four punches.

The visitor positioned himself in the same defiant stance in front of Iramamowe. Blood spilled from the young man's mouth as he collapsed to the ground after receiving Iramamowe's third blow.

Iramamowe jumped in the air, then began to dance around the fallen man. Sweat glistened on his face, on the strained muscles of his neck and shoulders. But his voice sounded clear, vibrant with joy, as he shouted, "Ai ai aiaiaiai, aiai!"

Two of the visiting women carried the injured man into the empty hammock next to where Hayama and I sat. One of them cried. The other bent over the man, and began to suck blood and saliva from his mouth until his breath came in slow, measured gasps.

Iramamowe challenged another of the guests to strike him. After receiving the first punch he knelt on the ground, from where he dared his opponent to hit him once more. He spat blood after the next blow. The guest got down on his haunches facing Iramamowe. Wrapping their arms around each other, they embraced.

"You hit well," Iramamowe said, his voice a barely audible whisper. "My hekuras are full of life, potent and happy. Our blood has flown. This is good. Our sons will be strong. Our gardens and the fruits in the forest will ripen to sweetness."

The guest voiced similar thoughts. Vowing eternal friendship, he promised Iramamowe a machete he had acquired from a group of Indians who had settled near the big river.

"I have to watch this one more closely," Hayama said, walking out of the hut. Her youngest son was one of the men who had stepped into the circle for the next round of ritual blows.

I did not want to remain with the injured visitor in Iramamowe's hut. The two women who had brought him in had left to ask the shaman from their own group to prepare some medicine that would ease the pain in the man's chest.

My head began to spin as I stood up. Slowly I walked through the empty huts until I reached Etewa's. I stretched in my cotton hammock. An eerie silence closed in on me as if I were falling into a light faint.

I was awakened by angry shouts. Someone said, "Etewa, you have slept with my woman without my permission." The voice was so close it was as if he had spoken into my ear. Startled, I sat up. A group of men and giggling women had gathered in front of the hut. Etewa, standing perfectly still in the middle of the crowd, his face an unreadable mask, did not deny the charge. Suddenly he shouted, "You and your family have eaten like hungry dogs for the last three days." It was a deplorable accusation; visitors were given whatever they asked; for during a feast the hosts' gardens and hunting territory were at their guests' disposal. To be insulted in such a manner implied that the man had taken advantage of his privileged status. "Ritimi, get me my nabrushi," Etewa shouted, scowling at the angry young man in front of him.

Sobbing, Ritimi ran into the hut, picked up the club, and without looking at her husband handed the four-foot-long stick to him. "I can not watch," she said, throwing herself into my hammock. I put my arms around her, trying to comfort her. Had it not been that she was so distressed I would have laughed. Not in the least concerned with Etewa's infidelity, Ritimi was afraid the night might end with a serious fight. Watching the two angry men shout at each other, and the crowd's excited reaction, I could not help but be alarmed in turn.

"Hit me on the head," the enraged visitor demanded. "Hit me, if you are a man. Let us see if we can laugh together again. Let us see if my anger passes."

"We are both angry," Etewa shouted with insolent vigor, hefting the nabrushi in his hand. "We must appease our wrath." Then, without further ado, he delivered a solid whack on the man's shaven tonsure.

Blood gushed from the wound. Slowly it spread over the man's face until it was covered like some grotesque red mask. His legs shook, almost buckling under him. But he did not fall.

"Hit me and we will be friends again," Etewa shouted belligerently, silencing the aroused crowd. He leaned on his club, lowered his head, and waited. When the man struck him, Etewa was momentarily dazed; blood flowed down his brow and lashes, forcing him to close his eyes. The explosive yells of the men broke the silence, a chorus of approving shouts demanding they hit each other again.

With a mixture of fascination and disgust I watched the two men facing each other. Their muscles were drawn tightly, the veins in their necks distended, their eyes bright, as if rejuvenated by the raging flow of blood. Their faces, set in contemptuous red masks, betrayed no pain as they stepped around one another like two injured cocks.

With the back of his hand Etewa wiped the blood obstructing his vision, then spat. Lifting his club, he let it fall on his opponent's head, who without uttering a sound collapsed on the ground.

Clicking their tongues, their eyes a bit out of focus, the spectators emitted fearsome cries. I was certain a fight would break out as the whole shabono filled with their ear-piercing yells. I held on to Ritimi's arm, and was surprised that her tear-stained face was set in a complacent, almost cheerful expression. She explained that she could tell by the tone of the men's shouts that they were no longer concerned with the initial insults. All they were interested in was to witness the power of each man's hekuras. There were no winners or losers. If a warrior fell, all it meant was that his hekuras were not strong enough at the moment.

One of the onlookers emptied a water-filled calabash on the prostrate guest, pulled his ears, wiped the blood from his face. Then, helping him up, he handed the half-dazed man his club, and urged him to hit Etewa once more on the head. The man had barely enough strength to lift the heavy stick; instead of landing on Etewa's skull, it struck him in the middle of the chest.

Etewa fell to his knees; blood spilled from his mouth, over his lips, chin, and throat, down his chest and thighs, a red trail seeping into the earth. "How well you hit," Etewa said in a strangled voice. "Our blood has flown. We are no longer troubled. We have calmed our wrath."

Ritimi went to Etewa. Sighing loudly, I lay back in my hammock and closed my eyes. I had seen enough blood for the night. I probed the swollen area on my head, wondering if I had a slight concussion.

I almost fell from my hammock as someone held on to the liana rope tying it to one of the poles in the hut. Startled, I looked up into Etewa's bloodied face. Either he did not see me, or was beyond caring where he rested, for he just slumped on top of me. The odor of blood, warm and pungent, mingled with the acrid smell of his skin. Repelled and fascinated, I could not help but stare at the open gash on his skull, still bleeding, and his swollen purple chest.

I was wondering how I could extricate my legs from under his weight when Ritimi stepped into the hut carrying a water-filled gourd, which she heated over the fire.

Expertly she lifted Etewa halfway up, and motioned me to slip behind him in the hammock so that she could prop him against my raised knees. Gently, she washed his face and chest clean.

Etewa was perhaps twenty-five, yet with his hair clinging damply to his forehead, and his lips slightly parted, he looked as helpless as a child in sleep. It occurred to me that he might die of internal injuries.

"He will be well tomorrow," Ritimi said as if she had guessed my thoughts. Softly she began to laugh. Her laughter had a ring of childishly secret delight. "It is good for blood to flow. His hekuras are strong. He is waiteri."

Etewa opened his eyes, pleased to hear Ritimi's praise. He mumbled something unintelligible as he gazed into my face.

"Yes. He is waiteri," I agreed with Ritimi.

Tutemi arrived shortly with a dark hot brew.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Medicine," Tutemi said, smiling. She stuck her finger in the concoction, then put it against my lips. "Puriwariwe made it from roots and magical plants." A gleam of contentment shone in Tutemi's eyes as she forced Etewa to drink the bitter-tasting brew. Blood had flown. She was convinced she would bear a strong, healthy son.

Ritimi examined my legs, which were cut and bruised from being dragged across the clearing by Puriwariwe, and she washed them with the remaining warm water. I lay down in Etewa's uncomfortable fiber hammock.

The moon, circled by a yellow haze, had moved until it was almost over the horizon of trees. A few men were still dancing and singing in the clearing. Then a cloud hid the moon, obscuring everything in sight. Only the sound of voices, no longer shrill but a gentle murmur, told that the men were still there. The moon revealed itself once more, a pale light illuminating the tops of the trees, and the brown-skinned figures materialized against the darkness, shadows of long bodies giving substance to the soft clacking of bows and arrows,

Some of the men sang until a rim of light began to appear over the trees to the east. Dark purple clouds the color of Etewa's bruised chest covered the sky. Dew shone on the leaves, on the fringe of the palm fronds hanging around the huts. The voices began to fade, drifting away on the chilly breeze of dawn.