Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 3 - Chapter 09.

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 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.

"Do not 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! Do you not know that only the shapori cures?" Tilting her head slightly to one side, she deliberated before she continued. "I am 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.

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

I did not 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 o£ 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 occurred 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 is because you do not know better, otherwise you would not 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 am 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 will not work." She paused, a quizzical expression in her eyes. "I will 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 am 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 mid-morning 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 us 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 us 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 were not 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 multi-layered 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 do not like them if you have not 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 non-stinging 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 sopa fruit. Greenish yellow, they were the size of lemons. I had already broken a tooth trying to open nuts and fruits as the Iticoteri did, so I cracked the sopas open with a stone, and sucked the sweet white pulp. I spat out the small brown seeds. 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 will 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 will keep my eyes open, I will not breathe, I will 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 are waiting for you." She pointed to the women next to her.

"I will 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 us 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 did not see it."

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

"Ah hahahaha," 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. The difficulty stemmed, rather, 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 have not 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 do not 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 am 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 do not 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."

He said, "You should have known that girls do not use the bow and arrow."

Arasuwe smiled at me briefly, and then began to eat.

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 3 - Chapter 10.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is he?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emotionally, however, I was unable to accept it. Ritimi held my face, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes shone, her lips trembled with feeling as she said, "The one who has not yet glimpsed at the sky has to return from where it came."

Ritimi stretched her arm toward the immense black shadows that began at our feet and ended in the sky, and said, "To the house of thunder."

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 3 - Chapter 11.

Instead of the women's soft chattering, I was awakened one morning by Iramamowe's shouts announcing that he would prepare curare that day.

I sat up in my hammock. Iramamowe stood in the middle of the clearing. Legs apart, arms folded over his chest, he scrutinized the young men who had gathered around him. At the top of his voice he warned them that if they planned to help him prepare the poison, they were not to sleep with a woman that day. Iramamowe went on ranting as if the men had already misbehaved, reminding them that he would know if they disobeyed him for he would test the poison on a monkey. Should the animal survive he would never again ask the men to assist him. He told them that if they wished to accompany him into the forest to collect the various vines needed to make the mamucori, they had to refrain from eating and drinking until the poison had been smeared on their arrowheads.

Calm returned to the shabono as soon as the men left. Tutemi, after stoking the fires, rolled the tobacco quids for herself, Ritimi, and Etewa, then returned to her hammock. I thought there was time to snatch a bit more sleep before the plantains buried under the embers were done. I turned over in my hammock. The smoke warmed the chilly air. As they did every morning after relieving themselves, little Texoma and Sisiwe, as well as Arasuwe's two youngest children, climbed into my hammock and snuggled up to me.

Ritimi had been oblivious to the morning events. She was still sound asleep on the ground. Sleep did not interfere with Ritimi's vanity. Her head, resting on her arm, was propped in such a manner that it allowed her to wear her full beauty regalia. Slender polished rods were stuck through the septum of her nose and the corners of her mouth. Her exposed cheek revealed two brown lines, a sign recognizable by everyone in the shabono that she was menstruating. For the last two nights Ritimi had not slept in her hammock, had not eaten meat, had not cooked any of the meals, and had not touched Etewa or any of his belongings.

Men feared menstruating women. Ritimi had told me that women were known not to have hekuras in their chest but were linked to the life essence of the otter, the ancestor of the first woman on earth. During their menses, women were thought to be imbued with the supernatural powers of the otter. She did not seem to know what these powers were, but she said that if a man saw an otter in the river he never killed it for fear that a woman in the settlement would die that same instant.

The Iticoteri women had at first been puzzled as to why I had not menstruated since my arrival. My explanation- loss of weight, change of diet, new surroundings- was not thought to be the reason. Instead they believed that as a non-Indian, I was not fully human. I had no link to the life essence of any animal, plant, or spirit.

It was only Ritimi who wanted to believe and prove to the other women that I was human. "You have to tell me immediately when you are roo, as if I were your mother," Ritimi would say to me every time she herself menstruated. "And I will make the proper preparations so you will not be turned into a stone by the tiny creatures that live underground."

Ritimi's insistence was probably another reason my body did not follow its normal cycles. Since I have a tendency to suffer from claustrophobia, I had periodic attacks of anxiety triggered by the possibility of having to endure the same restrictions that an Iticoteri girl going through her first menses does.

Only a week before, Xotomi, one of the headman's daughters, had emerged from a three-week confinement. Her mother, upon learning that Xotomi had begun her first period, built an enclosure made out of sticks, palm fronds, and vines in a corner of their hut. A narrow space had been left open. It was barely large enough for her mother to slip in and out of twice a day to feed the meager fire inside (which was never allowed to die) and remove the soiled platanillo leaves covering the ground. The men, afraid of dying young or of becoming ill, did not so much as glance toward that area in the hut.

For the first three days of her menstrual period Xotomi was only given water and had to sleep on the ground. Thereafter she was given three small plantains a day and was permitted to rest in the small bark hammock that was hung inside. She was not allowed to speak or weep during her confinement. All I heard from behind the tied palm fronds was the faint sound of Xotomi scratching herself with a stick, for she was not supposed to touch her body.

By the end of the third week, Xotomi's mother dismantled the enclosure, tied the palm leaves into a tight bundle, then asked some of her daughter's playmates to hide them in the forest. Xotomi did not move, as if the palm fronds were still around her. She remained crouched on the ground with downcast eyes. Her slightly hunched shoulders seemed so frail that I was sure if someone grasped them the bones would give way with a hollow crack. More than ever she looked like a frightened child, thin and dirty.

"Keep your eyes on the ground," her mother said, helping the twelve-, perhaps thirteen-year-old girl to her feet. With her arms around her waist, she led Xotomi to the hearth. "Do not rest your eyes on any of the men in the clearing," she admonished the girl, "lest you want their legs to tremble when they have to climb trees."

Water had been heated. Lovingly, Ritimi washed her half-sister from head to foot, then rubbed her body with onoto until it glowed uniformly red. Fresh banana leaves were placed on the fire as Ritimi guided the girl around the hearth. Only after Xotomi's skin smelled of nothing but burnt leaves was she allowed to look at us and speak.

She bit her lower lip as she slowly lifted her head. "Mother, I do not want to move out of my father's hut," she finally said, then burst into tears.

"Ohoo, you silly child," the mother exclaimed, taking Xotomi's face into her hands. Brushing aside the tears, the woman reminded the girl how lucky she was to become the wife of Hayama's youngest son Matuwe, that she was fortunate to be so close to her brothers, who would protect her should he mistreat her. The mother's dark eyes glittered, blurred with tears. "I had reasons to be heavy-hearted when I first came to this shabono. I had left my mother and brothers behind. I had no one to protect me."

Tutemi embraced the young girl. "Look at me. I also came from far away, but now I am happy. I will soon have a child."

"But I do not want a child," Xotomi sobbed. "I only want to hold my pet monkey."

In a swift impulse I reached for the monkey perched on a cluster of bananas and handed it to Xotomi. The women burst into giggles. "If you treat your husband right, he will be like your pet monkey," one of them said in between fits of laughter.

"Do not say such things to the girl," old Hayama said reprovingly. Smiling, she faced Xotomi. "My son is a good man," she said soothingly. "You will have nothing to fear." Hayama went on praising her son, stressing Matuwe's prowess as a hunter and provider.

The day of the wedding Xotomi sobbed quietly. Hayama came to her side. "Do not cry anymore. We will adorn you. You will be so beautiful today, everyone will gasp in wonder." She took Xotomi's hand, then motioned the women to follow them through a side exit into the forest.

Sitting on a tree stump, Xotomi wiped her tears with the back of her hand. A whimsical smile appeared on her lips as she gazed into old Hayama's face, then she readily submitted to the women's ministrations. Her hair was cut short, her tonsure shaven. Tufts of soft white feathers were pushed through her perforated earlobes. They contrasted sharply with her black hair, adding an ethereal beauty to her thin face. The holes at the corners of her mouth and lower lip were decorated with red macaw feathers. Through the perforated septum in her nose Ritimi inserted an almost white, very slender polished stick.

"How lovely you look," we exclaimed as Xotomi stood in front of us.

"Mother, I am ready to go," she said solemnly. Her dark slanted eyes shone, her skin looked flushed with the onoto. She smiled briefly, revealing strong, even white teeth, then led the way back to the shabono. Only for an instant- just before entering the clearing- was there a silent plea in her eyes as she turned to look at her mother.

Her head held high, her gaze focused on no one in particular, Xotomi slowly circled the clearing, seemingly unperturbed by the admiring words and glances of the men. She entered her father's hut and sat in front of the trough filled with plantain pap. First she offered some of the soup to Arasuwe, then to her uncles, her brothers, and finally to each man in the shabono. After she had served the women, she walked toward Hayama's hut, sat down in one of the hammocks, and began to eat the game prepared by her husband, to whom she had been promised before she had been born.

Tutemi's words cut into my reveries. "Are you going to eat your plantain here or at Hayama's?"

"I had better eat there," I said, grinning at Ritimi's grandmother, who was already waiting for me in the hut next to Tutemi's.

Xotomi smiled at me as I came over. She had changed a great deal. It had nothing to do with the weight she had gained back since emerging from her confinement. Rather it was her mature behavior, the way she looked at me, the way she urged me to eat the plantain. I wondered if it was because girls- as opposed to boys, who were able to prolong their childhood into their teens- were encouraged by the time they were six or eight to help their mothers with the domestic chores- gathering wood, weeding in the gardens, taking care of their younger siblings. By the time a boy was considered an adult, a girl of the same age was married and often the mother of a child or two.

After eating, Tutemi, Xotomi, and I worked for several hours in the gardens, then walked into the shabono, refreshed from our bath in the river. A group of men, their faces and bodies painted black, sat together in the clearing. Some were scraping the bark off thick pieces of branches.

"Who are these people?" I asked.

"Do you not recognize them?" Tutemi laughed at me. "It is Iramamowe and the men who went with him yesterday into the forest."

"Why are they painted black?"

"Iramamowe!" Tutemi shouted. "The white girl wants to know- why are your faces all black?" she asked, then ran into her hut.

"It is good you are running," Iramamowe said, standing up. "The baby in your womb might weaken the mamucori by adding water." Frowning, he turned to Xotomi and me; before he had a chance to say anything else, Xotomi pulled me by the hand into Etewa's hut.

In between fits of laughter Xotomi explained that anyone who had been in the water that day was not supposed to come close to the men preparing curare. Water was believed to weaken the poison. "If the mamucori does not work right, he will blame you."

"I would have liked to watch them prepare the mamucori," I said disappointedly.

"Who would want to watch anything like that?" Ritimi said, sitting up. "I can tell you what they are going to do." She yawned and stretched, then folded the platanillo leaves she had been sleeping on and covered the ground with fresh ones. "The men are painted black because mamucori is not only useful for hunting but also for making war," Ritimi said, motioning me to sit next to her. She peeled a banana, then with a full mouth explained how the men were boiling the mamucori vine until it turned into a dark liquid. Later the dried ashukamaki vine would be added to thicken the poison. Once the mixture had been boiled down, it would be ready to be brushed on the men's arrowheads.

Resignedly I helped Tutemi prepare the tobacco leaves for drying. Following her precise instructions, I split each leaf along the nervation, pulling upward so they bundled up, then tied them in bunches on the rafters. From where I sat I was unable to see what was going on outside Iramamowe's hut. Children surrounded the working men, hoping to be asked to help. No wonder I had not seen a single child that morning bathing in the river.

"Get some water from the stream," Iramamowe said to little Sisiwe. "But do not get your feet wet. Step on trunks, roots, or stones. If you get wet, I will have to send someone else."

It was late afternoon when Iramamowe was almost finished mixing and boiling the curare. "Now the mamucori is becoming strong. I can feel my hands going to sleep." In a slow, monotonous voice he began to chant to the spirits of the poison as he stirred the curare.

Around mid-morning the following day Iramamowe came running into the shabono. "The mamucori is useless. I shot a monkey but it did not die. It walked away with the useless arrow stuck in its leg." Iramamowe ran from hut to hut, insulting the men who had helped him prepare the curare. "Did I not warn you not to sleep with women. Now the mamucori is worthless. If an enemy should attack us, you will not even be able to defend your women. You think you are brave warriors. But you are as useless as your arrows. You should be carrying baskets instead of weapons."

For a moment I thought Iramamowe was going to cry as he sat on the ground in the middle of the clearing. "I will make the poison by myself. You are all incompetent," he muttered over and over until his anger was spent, until he was thoroughly exhausted.

A few days later at dawn, shortly before the monkey Iramamowe had shot with his newly poisoned arrow was fully cooked, a stranger walked into the shabono carrying a large bundle. His hair was still wet from a river bath; his face and body were extravagantly painted with onoto. Placing his bundle, as well as his bow and arrows, on the ground, he stood silently in the middle of the clearing for a few minutes before he approached Arasuwe's hut.

"I have come to invite you to my people's feast," the man said in a loud singsong voice. "The headman of the Mocototeri has sent me to tell you that we have many ripe plantains."

Arasuwe, without getting up from his hammock, told the man that he could not attend the feast. "I cannot leave my gardens now. I have planted new banana saplings, and they need my care." Arasuwe made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Look at all the fruit hanging from the rafters; I do not want them to spoil."

The visitor walked over to our hut and addressed Etewa. "Your father-in-law does not wish to come. I hope you will be able to visit my people who have sent me to invite you."

Etewa slapped his thighs with pleasure. "Yes. I will come. I do not mind leaving my plantains behind. I will give others permission to eat them."

The visitor's dark lively eyes shone with delight as he went from hut to hut inviting the Iticoteri to his settlement. The man was invited to rest in old Kamosiwe's hut. He was offered plantain soup and monkey meat. Later in the evening he untied his bundle in the middle of the clearing. "A hammock," the men who had gathered around him murmured disappointedly. Even though the Iticoteri acknowledged the comfort and warmth of cotton hammocks, only a few women owned one. The men preferred the bark or vine ones, replacing them periodically. The visitor was eager to trade the cotton hammock for poisoned arrowheads and epena powder made from seeds. Talking and exchanging news, some Iticoteri men stayed up all night with the visitor.

Arasuwe was adamant that I should not be part of the group going to the Mocototeri feast. "Milagros has entrusted you to me," the headman reminded me. "How can I protect you if you are at another place?"

"What do I need to be protected for?" I asked. "Are the Mocototeri dangerous people?"

"The Mocototeri are not to be trusted," Arasuwe said after a long silence. "I can feel it in my legs that it is not right for you to go."

"When I first met Angelica she told me that it was not dangerous for a woman to walk through the forest."

Arasuwe did not bother to answer or comment on my statement but looked at me as if I had become invisible. Obviously he considered the matter settled and did not intend to demean himself by any further bantering with an ignorant girl.

"Maybe Milagros will be there," I said.

Arasuwe smiled. "Milagros will not be there. If he were I would have no reason to worry."

"Why are the Mocototeri not to be trusted?" I persisted.

"You ask too many questions," Arasuwe said. "We are not on friendly terms with them," he added grudgingly.

I looked at him in disbelief. "Why then do they invite you to a feast?"

"You are ignorant," Arasuwe said, walking out of the hut.

It was not only I who was disillusioned by Arasuwe's decision. Ritimi was so disappointed she could not show me off to the Mocototeri that she enlisted Etewa and Iramamowe, as well as old Kamosiwe, to help convince her father to let me accompany them. Although old people's advice was valued and respected, it was Iramamowe, known for his bravery, who finally persuaded and assured his brother that no harm would befall me at the Mocototeri settlement.

"You should take the bow and arrows I made for you," Arasuwe said to me later that evening. He began to laugh uproariously. "that would certainly astonish the Mocototeri. It would almost be worth it for me to go and witness their surprise." Seeing that I was checking my arrows, Arasuwe added somberly, "You can not take them. It is not proper for a woman to walk through the forest carrying a man's weapon."

"I will take care of her," Ritimi promised her father. "I will make sure she never leaves my side- not even when she has to go into the bush."

"I am sure Milagros would have wanted me to go," I said, hoping to make Arasuwe feel more at ease.

Eyeing me gloomily, he shrugged his shoulders. "I trust you will return safely."

Anticipation and apprehension kept me awake that night. The familiar noises of the collapsing logs in the fire filled me with misgivings. Etewa stirred the embers with a stick before lying down. Through the smoke and mist the distant crowns of trees looked like ghosts. The spaces between the leaves were like hollow eyes accusing me of something I did not understand. I was almost tempted to follow Arasuwe's advice, but the light of day dispelled my apprehension.

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 3 - Chapter 12.

The sun had barely taken the chill off the morning air when we set out with baskets stocked with plantains, calabashes, hammocks, the paraphernalia for decorating ourselves, and the items for trade: thick bundles of undyed cotton yarn, newly fashioned arrowheads, and bamboo containers filled with epena and onoto. With their own hammocks slung around their necks, the older children walked close behind their mothers. The men, closing up the rear of each family unit, carried nothing but their bows and arrows.

There were twenty-three of us. For four days we walked silently through the forest at a relaxed pace set by the old people and children. Whenever they became aware of the slightest movement or sound in the thicket, the women stood still, pointing with their chins in the direction of the disturbance. Swiftly the men disappeared in the specified direction. More often than not, they returned with an agouti- a rabbit-like rodent- or a peccary, or a bird, which was cooked as soon as we made camp in the afternoon. The children were forever on the lookout for wild fruit. Their keen eyes would follow the flight of bees until they reached their hives in a hollow tree trunk. While the insects were still in flight, they were able to accurately identify whether they belonged to the stinging or non-stinging variety.

Hayama, Kamosiwe, and several of the old people wrapped strips of the fibrous bast of a tree around their thorax and abdomen. They claimed it restored their energy and made walking easier. I tried it too, but the tightly wrapped bast only gave me a rash.

As we climbed up and down hills, I wondered if it was a different route from the one I had been on with Milagros. There was not a tree, rock, or stretch of river I could recall. Neither did I remember having encountered mosquitoes and other insects hovering above the marshes. Attracted by our sweaty bodies, they buzzed around us with a maddening persistence. I, who had never been bothered by them, could not decide which part of my body to scratch first. My torn T-shirt offered no protection. Even Iramamowe, who initially had been oblivious to their unrelenting bites, occasionally acknowledged the inconvenience by slapping his neck, his arm, or by lifting his leg to scratch his ankle.

Around noon of the fifth day we made camp at the edge of the Mocototeri's gardens. The cleared-out undergrowth made the giant ceibas appear even more monumental than in the forest. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the leaves, illuminating and shadowing the dark ground.

We bathed in the nearby river, where red flowers, suspended from lianas overhanging the water, swayed with sensuous grace to the rhythm of the breeze. Iramamowe and three other young men were the first to don their festive attire and to paint themselves with onoto before heading toward the host's shabono. Iramamowe returned shortly, carrying a basket filled with roasted meat and baked plantains.

"Ohooo, the Mocototeri have so much more," he said, distributing the food among us.

Before the women began to beautify themselves they assisted their men with the pasting of white down on their hair, and tying feathers and monkey fur around their arms and heads. I was given the task of decorating the children's faces and bodies with the prescribed onoto designs.

Our laughter and chatter were interrupted by the shouts of an approaching Mocototeri.

"He looks like a monkey," Ritimi whispered.

I nodded in agreement, barely able to conceal my giggles. The man's short bowed legs and long disproportionate arms seemed even more pronounced as he stood next to Etewa and Iramamowe, who looked imposing with their white down-covered heads, the long multicolored macaw feathers streaming from their armbands, and their bright-red waist belts.

"Our headman wants to start the feast. He wants you to come soon," the Mocototeri said in the same formal high-pitched voice as the man who had come to the shabono to invite us to the feast. "If you take too long to prepare yourselves, there will be no time to talk."

With their heads held high, their chins slightly pushed up, Etewa, Iramamowe, and three young men, also properly painted and decorated, followed the Mocototeri. Although they pretended indifference, the men were aware of the admiring glances of the rest of us as they strutted toward the shabono.

Overcome by last-minute nervousness, the women hurried through the last touches of their toilette, adding a flower or feather here, a dab of onoto there. How they looked was entirely up to the judgment of the others, for there were no mirrors.

Ritimi fastened the waist belt around me, making sure the wide fringe was centered properly. "You are still so thin," she said, touching my breasts, "even though you eat so much. Do not eat today the way you eat at our shabono or the Mocototeri will think we do not give you enough."

I promised to eat very sparingly, then burst into laughter as I remembered that this was the same advice my mother used to give me as a child whenever I was invited to spend the weekend with friends. She too had been embarrassed by my voracious appetite, thinking that people might believe I was not properly fed at home or, worse yet, that they might think I had a tapeworm.

Just before we set out toward the Mocototeri shabono, old Hayama admonished her great-grandchildren, Texoma and Sisiwe, to behave properly. Raising her voice so that the other children who had come with us could also hear her, she stressed how important it was to minimize any chance for the Mocototeri women to criticize them once they had departed. Old Hayama insisted the children try to urinate and defecate for one last time behind the bushes, for once inside the shabono no one would clean up after them or take them outside if they had to go.

Upon reaching the Mocototeri clearing, the men formed a line, holding their weapons vertically to their upraised haughty faces. We stood behind them with the children.

A group of shouting women ran out of the huts as soon as they saw me. I was neither afraid nor repelled as they touched, kissed, and licked my face and body. But Ritimi seemed to have forgotten how the Iticoteri had first greeted me when I arrived at their settlement, for she kept mumbling under her breath that she would have to retrace the onoto designs on my skin.

Holding my arm in a strong grip, one of the Mocototeri women pushed Ritimi aside. "Come with me, white girl," she said.

"No," Ritimi shouted, pulling me closer to her. Her smile did not detract from the sharp angry tone of her voice. "I have brought the white girl for you to look at. No one must take her away from me. We are like each other's shadows. I go where she goes. She goes where I go." Trying to out-stare her opponent, Ritimi's eyes held the woman's fixed gaze, daring her to challenge her words.

The woman opened her tobacco-filled mouth in gaping laughter. "If you have brought the white girl to visit, you must let her come into my hut."

Someone from behind the group of women approached us. With arms crossed over his chest, he pushed his hips forward with a little swagger as he came to stand beside me. "I am the headman of the Mocototeri," he said. As he smiled, his eyes were but two shining slits amidst the red designs of his deeply wrinkled face. "Is the white girl your sister that you protect her so?" he asked Ritimi.

"Yes," she said forcefully. "She is my sister." .

Shaking his head in disbelief, the headman studied me. He seemed totally unimpressed. "I can see that she is white, but she does not look like a real white woman," he finally said. "Her feet are bare like ours. She does not wear strange clothes on her body except for this." He pulled at my torn, loose underpants. "Why does she wear this under an Indian waist belt?"

"Panties," Ritimi said importantly. She liked the English word better than the Spanish, which she had also learned. "That is what white people call it. She has two more of them. She wears panties because she is afraid that spiders at night and centipedes during the day might crawl inside her body."

Nodding as if he understood my fear, the headman touched my short hair, and rubbed his fleshy palm over my shaven tonsure. "It is the color of the young assai palm fronds." He moved his face close to mine until our noses touched. "What strange eyes- they are the color of rain." His scowl disappeared in a smile of delight. "Yes, she must be white; and if you call her sister, then no one will take her away from you," he said to Ritimi.

"How can you call her sister?" the woman who still held my arm asked. There was earnest perplexity written all over her painted face as she gazed at me.

"I call her sister because she is like us," Ritimi said, putting her arm around my waist.

"I want her to come and stay in my hut," the woman said. "I want her to touch my children."

We followed the woman into one of the huts. Bows and arrows were leaning against the sloping roof. Bananas, gourds, and bundles of meat wrapped in leaves were strung from the rafters. Machetes, axes, and an assortment of clubs lay in the corners. The ground was littered with twigs, branches, fruit skins, and shards of earthenware vessels.

Ritimi sat with me in the same cotton hammock. As soon as I had finished the juice made from soaked palm fruit the woman had given me, she placed a small baby in my lap. "Caress him."

Turning and twisting in my arms, the infant almost fell to the ground. And when he stared into my face he began to bawl.

"You better take him," I said, handing the woman the child. "Babies are afraid of me. They first have to get to know me before I can touch them."

"Is that so?" the woman asked, eyeing Ritimi suspiciously as she rocked the baby in her arms.

"Our babies do not scream." Ritimi cast contemptuous glances at the infant. "My own and my father's children even sleep with her in the same hammock."

"I will call the older children," the woman said, gesturing toward the little girls and boys peeking from behind the bundles of plantains stacked against the sloping roof.

"Do not," I said. I knew that they would be frightened too. "If you force them to come, they too will cry."

"Yes," said one of the women who had followed us into the hut. "The children will sit with the white girl as soon as they see that their mothers are not afraid to touch her palm-fiber hair and pale body."

Several women had gathered around us. Tentatively at first, their hands explored my face, then my neck, arms, breasts, stomach, thighs, knees, calves, and toes. There was not a part of me they left unexamined. Whenever they discovered a mosquito bite or a scratch, they spat on it, then rubbed the spot with their thumbs. If the bite was recent, they sucked out the poison.

Although I had become accustomed to Ritimi's, Tutemi's, and the Iticoteri's children's lavish shows of affection, which never lasted more than a moment, I felt uncomfortable under the exploring touch of so many hands on my body. "What are they doing?" I asked, pointing to a group of men squatting outside the hut next to us.

"They are preparing the assai leaves for the dance," said the woman who had placed the baby in my lap. "Do you want to look at that?"

"Yes," I said emphatically, wanting to shift the attention away from myself.

"Does Ritimi have to accompany you everywhere you go?" the woman asked as Ritimi got up from the hammock with me.

"Yes," I said. "Had it not been for her I would not be visiting your shabono. Ritimi has taken care of me since I arrived in the forest."

Ritimi beamed at me. I wished I had expressed words to that effect sooner. Not once during the rest of our stay did any of the Mocototeri women question Ritimi's proprietary manner toward me.

The men outside the hut were separating the still closed, pale yellow leaves of the young assai palm with sharp little sticks. One of the men rose from his squatting position as we approached. Taking the tobacco wad from his mouth, he wiped the dribbling juice from his chin with the back of his hand and held the palm frond over my head. Smiling, he pointed to the fine gold veins in the leaf, barely visible against the light of the setting sun. He touched my hair, replaced the wad in his mouth, and without saying a word, continued separating the leaves.

Fires were lit in the middle of the clearing as soon as it was dark. The Iticoteri men touched off an explosion of wild cheering from their hosts as they lined up, weapons in hand, around the fires. Two at a time, the Iticoteri danced around the clearing, slowing down in front of each hut, so all could admire their attire and their dancing steps.

Etewa and Iramamowe made up the last pair. Shouts reached a higher pitch as they moved in perfectly matched steps. They did not dance around the huts but stayed close to the fires, wheeling and spinning at an ever accelerating speed, their rhythm dictated by the leaping flames. Etewa and Iramamowe stopped abruptly in their tracks, held their bows and arrows vertically next to their faces, then aimed them at the Mocototeri men standing in front of their huts. Laughing uproariously, the two men resumed their dance while the onlookers broke out in exultant, approving shouts.

The Iticoteri men were invited by their hosts to rest in their hammocks. While food was served, a group of Mocototeri burst into the clearing. "Hail, ham, haiiii," they shouted, moving to the clacking of their bows and arrows, to the swishing sound of the fringed, undulating assai palm fronds.

I could hardly make out the dancing figures. At times they seemed fused together, then they leapt apart, fragments of dancing arms, legs, and feet visible from between the swaying palm fronds- black, birdlike silhouettes with giant wings as they moved away from the light of the fires, blazing copper figures, no longer man or bird, as their bodies glistening with sweat glowed in the flames.

"We want to dance with your women," the Mocototeri demanded. When there was no response from the Iticoteri, they jeered. "You are jealous of them. Why do you not let your poor women dance? Do you not remember we let you dance with our women at your feast?"

"Whoever wants to dance with the Mocototeri, may do so," Iramamowe shouted, then admonished the men, "But you will not force any of our women to dance if they do not wish to do so."

"Haii, haiii, haiiii," the men yelled euphorically, welcoming the Iticoteri women as well as their own.

"Do you not want to dance?" I asked Ritimi. "I will go with you."

"No. I do not want to lose you in the crowd," she said. "I do not want anyone to hit you on the head."

"But that was an accident. Besides, the Mocototeri are not dancing with fire logs," I said. "What could they possibly do with palm fronds?"

Ritimi shrugged her shoulders. "My father said the Mocototeri are not to be trusted."

"I thought one only invites one's friends to a feast."

"Enemies too," Ritimi said, giggling. "Feasts are a good time to find out what people are planning to do."

"The Mocototeri are very friendly," I said. "They have fed us very well."

"They feed us well because they do not want anyone to say they are stingy," Ritimi said. "But as my father has told you, you are still ignorant. You obviously do not know what is going on if you think they are friendly." Ritimi patted my head as if I were a child, then continued, "Did you not notice that our men did not take epena this afternoon? Have you not realized how watchful they are?"

I had not noticed, and was tempted to add that I thought the Iticoteri's behavior was not very friendly but remained quiet. After all, as Ritimi had pointed out, I did not understand what was going on. I observed the six Iticoteri men dancing around the fires. They were not moving with their usual abandon and their eyes kept darting back and forth, keenly watching all that went on around them. The rest of the Iticoteri men were not lounging in their host's hammocks but were standing outside the huts.

The dance had lost its enchantment for me. Shadows and voices took on a different mood. The night now seemed packed with an ominous darkness. I began to eat what had been served to me earlier. "This meat tastes bitter," I said, wondering if it was poisoned.

"It is bitter because of the mamucori," Ritimi said casually. "The spot where the poisoned arrow hit the monkey has not been washed properly."

I spat out the meat. Not only was I afraid of being poisoned, but I felt nauseous as I remembered the sight of the monkey boiling in the tall aluminum pot, a layer of fat and monkey hairs floating on the surface.

Ritimi put the piece of meat back on my calabash plate. "Eat it," she urged me. "It is good- even the bitter part. Your body will get used to the poison. Do you not know that fathers always give their sons the part where the arrow hit? If they are shot in a raid by a poisoned arrow they will not die because their bodies will be used to the mamucori."

"I am afraid that before I get hit by a poisoned arrow, I will die from eating poisoned meat."

"No. One does not die from eating mamucori," Ritimi assured me. "It has to go through the skin." She took the already chewed piece from my calabash, bit off a chunk, then pushed the remaining half into my gaping mouth. Smiling mockingly, she exchanged her dish with mine. "I do not want you to choke," she said, eating the rest of the cooked monkey breast with exaggerated gusto. Still chewing, she pointed toward the clearing, and asked if I could see the woman with the round face dancing by the fire.

I nodded, but I did not recognize which one she meant. There were about ten women dancing close to the fire. They all had round faces, dark slanted eyes, voluptuous bodies the color of honey in the light of the flames.

"She is the one who had intercourse with Etewa at our feast," Ritimi said. "I have bewitched her already."

"When did you do that?"

"This afternoon," Ritimi said softly, and began to giggle. "I blew the oko-shiki I had collected from my garden on her hammock," she added with satisfaction.

"What if someone else sits in her hammock?"

"It makes no difference. The magic is only meant to harm her," Ritimi assured me.

I had no chance to find out more about the bewitching for at that moment the dancing ceased and the tired, smiling dancers returned to the various huts to rest and eat.

The women who joined us around the hearth were surprised Ritimi and I had not danced. Dancing was as important as painting the body with onoto- it kept one young and happy.

Shortly the headman stepped into the clearing and announced in a thunderous voice, "I want to hear the Iticoteri women sing. Their voices are pleasing to my ears. I want our women to learn their songs."

Giggling, the women nudged each other. "You go, Ritimi," one of Iramamowe's wives said. "Your voice is beautiful."

That was all the encouragement Ritimi needed. "Let us all go together," she said, standing up.

Silence spread over the shabono as we walked out into the clearing with our arms around each other's waists. Facing the headman's hut, Ritimi began to sing in a clear, melodious voice. The songs were very short. The last two lines were repeated as a chorus by the rest of us. The other women sang too, but it was Ritimi's songs, one in particular, that the Mocototeri headman insisted she repeat until his women had learned it.

The headman walked toward us and, addressing me, said, "Now you must sing for us."

"But I do not know any songs," I said, unable to repress my giggles.

"You must know some," the headman insisted. "I have heard stories of how much the whites like to sing. They even have boxes that sing."

In the third grade in Caracas I had been told by the music teacher that besides having a dreadful voice I was also tone deaf. However, Professor Hans, as he expected to be addressed, was not insensitive to my desire to sing. He allowed me to remain in the class provided I stayed in the last row and sang very softly. Professor Hans did not bother much with the required religious and folk songs we were supposed to be learning, but taught us Argentinian tangos from the thirties. I had not forgotten those songs.

Looking at the expectant faces around me, I stepped closer to the fire. I cleared my throat and began to sing, oblivious to the jarring notes escaping my throat. For a moment I felt I was faithfully reproducing the passionate manner in which Professor Hans had sung his tangos. I clutched my hands to my breast, I closed my eyes as if transported with the sadness and tragedy of each line.

My audience was spellbound. The Mocototeri and Iticoteri had come out of their huts to watch my every gesture.

The headman stared at me for a long time, then finally said, "Our women cannot learn to sing in this strange manner."

The men sang next. Each singer stood alone in the middle of the clearing, both hands resting high on his upright bow. Sometimes a friend accompanied the performer. Then the singer rested his arm over his companion's shoulder. One song in particular, sung by a Mocototeri youth, was the favorite of the night.

The Iticoteri men did not lie down in their hammocks but talked and sang with their hosts throughout the night. I slept with the women and children in the empty huts around the main entrance of the shabono.

In the morning I stuffed myself with the papayas and pineapples one of the Mocototeri girls had brought for me from her father's garden. Ritimi and I had discovered them earlier on our way into the bush. She had advised me not to ask for the fruit- not because it was not proper, but because the fruit was unripe. But I did not mind their sour taste or even the slight stomachache that followed. I had not eaten familiar fruits for months. Bananas and palm fruit were like vegetables to me.

"You had a wretched voice when you sang," a young man said, squatting next to me. "Ohoo, I did not understand your song, but it sounded hideous."

Speechless, I glared at him. I did not know whether to laugh or insult him in turn.

Putting her arms around my neck, Ritimi burst into laughter. She looked at me askance, then whispered in my ear, "When you sang I thought the monkey meat had given you a bellyache."

Squatting on the same spot in the clearing where they had started out last night, a group of Iticoteri and Mocototeri men were still talking in the formal, ritualized manner proper to the wayamou. Bartering was a slow, involved affair during which equal importance was given to the items for trading and the exchange of information and gossip.

Close to noon, some Mocototeri women began criticizing their husbands for the items they had exchanged, stating that they needed the machetes, aluminum pots, and cotton hammocks themselves. "Poisoned arrowheads," one of the women shouted angrily. "You could make them yourself if you were not so lazy." Without paying the slightest attention to the women's remarks, the men continued their hagglings.

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 3 - 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 do you not shoot, you useless Mocototeri?"

"We have not 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 will 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 am a fierce warrior. The hekuras in my chest are always at my command, even without epena." Iramamowe moved nearer to the three men. "Do you not know that the white girl belongs to the Iticoteri?"

"Why do you not 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 do not want to go to your settlement. I do not 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 were set in a straight line. "I am 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 is a longer route, but they will not 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 dissolved 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, wax-like 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.

"Do not kill the bird," Ritimi pleaded. "Perhaps it is 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 am 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 was not 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 upon our arrival now 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 is 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 curassow birds, 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 is going to rain?" I asked him, looking at the clear, cloudless sky.

"If old Kamosiwe said it is 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 is soft. It also has to soak in water until all the poison is leached out."

"I do not think I would 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 flute-like 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 is 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 not smell a thing."

"It is the jaguar's breath that smells. It is 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 do not 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 re-spun 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 did not," 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 have 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."