Trail of Feathers (30 page)

Three hours later, with the rain still lashing down, I woke again. This time Francisco was bending over me. He was spitting saliva onto my face. Before I could tell him to back off, he spoke.

‘You will need my protection,’ he said. ‘The tribe have been singing all night. I have heard them.’

‘The ancient Shuar ballads,’ I replied, stirring from my hammock.

‘No,’ said the shaman. ‘Not ballads, but war songs. They’re going to kill us, with stone axes. I have seen it in a dream.’

I knew that mention of my own nightmare would have led to mutiny. One word and the crew would swing the boat round and head for Iquitos at full speed. So I bit my lip and asked what was for breakfast.

Cockroach served me a chunk of toucan on a bed of sticky rice. The rubbery blue meat had no taste at all. I had learnt to overcome the dullness of his cooking by sprinkling Pepé’s
Ajinomoto
powder liberally over the food.

When I had swallowed as much of the toucan as was physically possible, I crawled up onto the roof to discuss the plan with Richard.

I asked if he’d had nightmares.

‘Slept like a fuckin’ baby,’ he said, rocking back and forth.

‘Aren’t you worried that we might have our heads chopped off? After all, everyone’s warned us of the Shuar.’

The Vietnam vet’ leant over and tapped me on the knee.

‘No one messes with Richard Fowler,’ he said.

I looked at him in silence. He was stripped to the chest, his dog tags reflecting the morning light. His torso was lean, rippled with muscle and pocked with scars.

‘Did I ever tell you ‘bout the bear at the zoo?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘I was wavin’ my ice-cream through the bars,’ he said, ‘taunting this great fat grisly. He came over, lurching at the ice-cream. He wanted that sucker bad.’

‘Did he get it?’

‘He would’ve done, if…’

‘If
what?’

‘If I hadn’t grabbed his fuckin’ tongue in my fist. I pulled that sucker till his face was pressed up against the bars.’

I tried to draw morals from the story, but Richard had more to impart: ‘The monkey last night was a sign,’ he said.

He slung one of the gift bags over his shoulder and jumped ashore. I followed in his footsteps. The crew made excuses why they couldn’t accompany us. There were suddenly pots and pans to be scrubbed, floorboards to be repaired and spells to be cast.

‘They’re a bunch of fuckin’ girls!’ Richard shouted as we headed up the steep embankment. ‘Rule number one of war,’ he cautioned, ‘keep the floozies behind the front line.’

I had donned my best mouldy clothes, powdered my feet and doused myself liberally with
Eau Sauvage
. But even that couldn’t mask the scent of rot. As we walked up through the tiger grass, Richard reminded me not to rush the tribe.

‘Don’t mention
ayahuasca
or shrunken heads until they’ve accepted us,’ he said. ‘And make sure you eat whatever they serve.’

A few minutes later we had conquered the bank, and gained our first glimpse of the village. Rectangular in shape, the four sides were edged with
malocas
, traditional houses, about fifteen in total. A communal field stood at the centre of the village. The dwellings were raised on stilts, their
irapai
thatch roofs supported by central posts. Typically, all four sides were open, allowing the air to move freely, and neighbours a view into each others’ lives. A morass of mud lay around every
maloca
. Chickens and ducks rooted about in the slime, scratching for whatever they could find.

The village seemed abandoned. Smoke was spiralling from fires in one or two huts, but there were no other signs of life. I feared that the villagers had hidden and were waiting to mount a surprise attack. A pair of hunting dogs were tethered at the far end of the quadrangle. They sounded the alarm, but no one came.

‘We’ll go to the chief’s house and wait for him,’ said Richard.

He led me through the grass square and up to what he supposed was the leader’s dwelling. He explained later that the floor of the house was higher than the others, indicating elevated status. We stood outside the house and waited.

After almost an hour, the villagers appeared from a large building on the edge of the jungle. Its walls were made from banana leaves and bamboo, and its floor was at ground level.

Like the other people, the Shuar chief was wearing simple Western clothes. An old man, his complexion was amber-brown,- his eyes almond shaped, their whites flecked with blood. Flame-red lines ran across the lower part of his cheeks, like a cat’s whiskers. The oily paint derived from the
achiote
seed, which is said to protect the wearer from demons. On his head, he wore a crown, made from the breast feathers of a scarlet macaw.

With warm greetings, he welcomed us to his
maloca
. We ascended the plank ladder and sat cross-legged upon the bamboo floor. I cast an eye around the room. It was about thirty feet long and half as wide,-its rafters were masked in cobwebs. At the far end of the room, a fire was burning on a flat stone. Three equal lengths of wood met on the stone in a triangle. The floor was clear, except for a few wooden bowls and a blackened cauldron. All other possessions were stowed in the rafters.

We sat in silence for ten minutes or so. Only when his wife had filled the two largest wooden bowls with a white beverage, and stirred them with her hand, did the chief begin to speak.

‘You must be thirsty’ he said in rudimentary Spanish,
‘beba
, drink!’

Richard took the bowl in his hands and pressed its rim to his lips. It had been a long time, he said smiling, since he had been honoured with
masato
. He took a deep draught of the milky liquid, draining the bowl. I assumed the drink was milk, although we had seen no cows in the area.

The chief’s wife took the empty bowl and filled it, and stirred the mixture again with her fingers.

‘Drink up’ said Richard sternly. ‘Every drop.’

I put the rim to my mouth and took a sip. The moment it touched my tongue, I realised it was not milk. I couldn’t make out the exact taste, except to say it contained a trace of alcohol. Richard and the chief watched as I gulped down the bowl’s contents. When I had finished, I licked my lips.

Richard smiled at the chief, and thanked him for the refreshing beverage.

Soon after our arrival in San Jose, I discovered the cryptic process by which
masato
is made. The women peel and wash a number of
yuka
, manioc, at the river-bank. They then grate the roots and wash water through the coarse mixture, sieving it thoroughly. This removes a poison, a form of hydrocyanic acid, which occurs naturally in the tuber. After grating, it is cooked and crushed with a wooden spoon. Two or three women often sit around the pot, mashing while they chat. As they mash, they pull out handfuls, chew, and spit them back into the pot. The enzymes and bacteria in their saliva cause the
yuka
to ferment. After four days the paste has fermented. It’s mixed with water, then served. The drink, a weak alcohol, is traditionally consumed in enormous quantities. In Shuar society,
masato
is presented to guests before any conversation takes place. To refuse it would be an unthinkable insult.

Once Richard and I had each downed a second bowl of
masato
, the chief introduced himself. He said his name was Enrique. It struck me as an odd name for the leader of a proud, head-shrinking tribe. He welcomed us formally to San Jose, and said he hoped we would stay in the village for many months. I pointed to the white nylon sack.

‘We have brought you a few things,’ I said. They are tokens of our gratitude.’

My basic Spanish, and Enrique’s own unfamiliarity with the language hindered our conversation. But he smiled, bowed his head, and opened the bag.

He pulled out the box of shotgun cartridges first, and held the box up to his nose.

‘Good,’ he said, ‘they are dry ones, very good.’

‘They’re 16 gauge,’ I replied, but Enrique was too busy looking through the sack.

He pulled out the assorted packets of salt, rice, flour, tea, the cans of tuna fish and butter, the soap, loo paper, and fishing hooks. He praised each item for a moment, thanked us, and called for his wife to bring more
masato
.

Then the Shuar chief thrust his right hand back into the sack. He fished out a small tub made of blue glass.

‘Vicks Vapour Rub,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard you all like it.’

Enrique narrowed his eyes, prised off the lid, and sniffed the oily cream. He asked what it was used for.

‘For coughs,’ I said. ‘But I’ve heard you have another use for it.’

I chuckled. Richard chuckled. But Enrique didn’t understand. I wondered whether the Scandinavian in Iquitos might have been having me on. I hoped not, as I’d spent a small fortune on thirty tubs of the mentholated cream. Enrique looked over at me quizzically, then sniffed the ointment a second time.

‘You
know,’
 I said casually, pointing to my lap, ‘it’s for rubbing down there. It’ll make you strong.’

To put an end to the awkwardness, I fumbled in the bottom of the sack, and pulled out one of the Fanta bottles.

‘This is a very special object,’ I said, ‘with so many uses. It’s a rolling-pin, a pestle for crushing bananas, a musical instrument, and even a weapon.’

The Shuar chief straightened his macaw-feather
corona
, and licked his thin tongue across his lips.

‘
¿
Pero de que habla?
 What are you talking about?’ he said. That’s a Fanta bottle.’

‘You’ve seen one before?’

‘Por supuesto
, of course’ Enrique replied. The missionaries bring us Fanta whenever they come here’ Richard and I exchanged troubled glances.

‘Missionaries?’

'They’re our friends,’ said the leader. They taught us about God.’ 

‘You’re Christians?’ 

'Evangelists,’
he corrected. 

‘What about the ancient beliefs of the Shuar?’ 

‘The traditions were important in my childhood’ said Enrique, ‘but with time they disappeared.’ 

He passed Richard more
masato
.

‘We used always to be at war with other tribes’ he said. ‘A Shuar would never sleep without his knife, or walk in the jungle without watching for attackers. Life was very dangerous. But then the missionaries came.’

Enrique paused to take a draught of the white, creamy liquid.

'They told us that killing was wrong’ he said. ‘God doesn’t want us to kill. He wants us to pray, to pray for Jesus.’

When all the
masato
was over, a roasted
paca
was brought out. The creature, which had obviously been shot, was peppered with lead pellets. The Shuar don’t serve food until the
masato
has been finished.

Enrique took us on a tour of the village. He showed us the water tank which the missionaries had built, and the rustic church at the end of the village. When we arrived, the villagers had been praying there, as they did every Sunday morning.

Every villager received us with hospitality and more
masato
. As we drank it, they welcomed us with the same line: ‘We thank Jesus for sending you’. There was no mention of killing, feuds, war, or of shrunken heads. I wondered if these people really were the Shuar. Were they my fearless Birdmen?

Unable to stand the suspense, I asked the chief about
ayahuasca
. Now they were evangelists, had they any use for it?

‘Natema,’
he said, through his clenched teeth.
‘Es muy importante
. That is very important. Of course we use it. How do you think we get into the
other
world?’

The world of the spirits?’ I asked.

‘No’, said Enrique softly, ‘the world of Jesus.’

Remarkably, the missionaries hadn’t outlawed
ayahuasca
. They must have known that its prohibition would have led to revolt. But the more I saw of their evangelistic faith, the more disturbed I became. In little over a generation the core elements of Shuar society had been stripped away. Virtually everyone I met in the region had a Spanish Christian name, although their spoken Spanish was frequently limited. From the loss of Shuar names to the knowledge of medicinal plants, ancient ways were disappearing fast. Perhaps it was right that the culture of taking and shrinking heads had gone. But to replace elaborate rituals with evangelism, or any alien religion, seemed insane. By making subtle changes, the old ways collapse, like a house of cards.

With shotguns, there was no longer a need for fibrous shields, once carried by every warrior to protect against axe attacks,- or
manguar
é
, log drums, as a shotgun blast carries further over the jungle. Without
tsantsa
raids, there was no need for lookout towers either. Traditionally built on the roofs of houses, they doubled as missile posts when the village was under attack. And, with the cessation of
tsantsa
raids, there wasn’t a need for
tsantsa
feasts, which were crucial in transferring folklore and songs from one generation to the next. With the introduction of Western clothing, ancient methods of weaving died out. I asked if traditional textiles had ever been embroidered with designs of men with wings and trophy heads, but gained no definite answer. Even if there had once been burial chambers with textiles, there was little hope of finding them intact. Unlike the ultra-dry sands of the Atacama desert, anything buried in the Amazon jungle is devoured by its acidic soil.

Enrique introduced us to his daughter and son-in-law, who lived nearby in a
maloca
overlooking the river. I recognised their son as the man who had brought down the monkey the night before. I thanked him.

‘Please stay with us,’ said the man, whose name was Ignacio. ‘Your boat must be very damp.’

Richard and I accepted the hospitality. Ignacio’s own son, José-Dias, took a message down to the boat for me. It asked Cockroach to send up a gift bag and a few of my things.