Authors: Tahir Shah
*
For two more days we hacked our way through the jungle. Our odd procession made slow progress. My moose knife was blunt, but I wasn’t much of a trailblazer anyway. I swung the great blade from left to right in an arc, pretending to cut. The sloth was kept satiated with a ready supply of kapok leaves. Fortunately, no more of the hole-boring parasite reared out from my thigh. My worries returned to the smaller of the beetles which was tucked away in my pack. It was still refusing food, making me fear for its life.
In the jungle, life was cheap. Our own world hides from death, and considers it as an unnatural condition. In the Upper Amazon nothing could be more natural. On the third night, as we gnawed at the bones of another oversized rodent, Enrique told of life fifty years before, in his youth.
‘There was much killing’ he said, his cinnamon eyes reflecting the firelight, ‘my father was a great
kakaram
, a warrior. He had taken so many heads. I remember when they came back to the village with the heads. They held them high, and would sing. Then we would have the
tsantsa
feasts.’
‘Did the villagers make the heads into
tsantsas’’
‘The warriors started making them on the way back through the jungle’ Enrique said. ‘The skin was peeled from the skulls and boiled in water. Then it was filled with hot pebbles, and after that with sand. But there was danger…’
‘What danger?’
Enrique threw the rodent’s leg bone to one of the dogs.
‘Warriors from the village which had been attacked’ he said, ‘would be chasing my father and the others through the jungle. The
tsantsas
had to be started. They couldn’t wait till they were back at the village.’
‘Why not?’
‘The
musiak’
said Enrique, ‘the avenging soul. It seeps out from the dead warrior’s mouth and will avenge his death. First it kills the warrior who killed it, and then the others. The only way to destroy the
musiak
is to make the head into a
tsantsa:
the soul goes inside the
tsantsa
and is trapped there.
‘As the head-taking party runs through the forest, the avenging soul goes with them. The warriors would rub charcoal on the head’s face, to blind the avenging soul.’
The old hunter fell silent, as the demoniac screeches of a monkey echoed from the tallest branches of a nearby tree.
I asked Enrique about the avenging soul.
‘A warrior could only get an avenging soul, when he had an
arutam
soul’ he said. ‘The
arutam
was important for a Shuar warrior. It kept him alive. Without it, he could have perished easily. When I was just a boy my father took me to the waterfall and he waited for me to see the
arutam.’
‘Where do you see it?’
‘In the mist’ said Enrique, ‘in the spray which comes from the waterfall. It’s there. The soul entered me as I slept. It came as a jaguar. It stared into my eyes, challenging me to kill it. I was not frightened, for I wanted to be a warrior like my father. So I stared back and, drawing near, I stabbed it with my knife.’
Enrique puffed his chest full of air.
That was many years ago’ he said. ‘But I will not forget that night, the night I became a warrior.’
The old Shuar’s tales were from another time, a time before missionary Bibles and makeshift churches flooded the Pastaza.
There was so much killing’ said Enrique, repeating himself. ‘And when one of our clan was killed, we would have to avenge the death. It led to a cycle of death. There were assassins everywhere. They waited until night, then attacked the village. Children were snatched for slaves, and young women as brides. They set fire to the
malocas
, driving everyone into their trap.’
Again, the hunter paused, as he recalled the gruesome scenes of butchery.
‘When the raiding party came to attack our village,’ he said, ‘I was protected by my
arutam
soul. When they struck, everyone was asleep. I remember the hunting dogs howling at the dark. Then the first screams, as the assassins ran into houses and started to kill. They were wild, desperate to take heads. They were hacking people who weren’t even dead.
‘My father was one of the victims that night. We buried his headless body under the floor of our house’ said Enrique. ‘Of course our village raided theirs and took more heads. Soon after that the missionaries came. They taught us that evangelism was right, and that cutting heads of our enemy was wrong. They baptised me, Enrique, and made me a Christian.’
The hunter touched a callused hand to his brow.
‘We no longer need to fear an enemy’ he said softly, ‘for we have something very good - even better than an
arutam
soul.’
Enrique looked at me through the flames of the campfire. His cheeks were flushed.
‘We have Jesus’ he said.
Richard said the jungle was the womb from which all men had come. Emerging from it was like being reborn. Few sights could have been so welcome as the thatched roof of a
maloca
peeking out from between the rosewood trees. As we walked into the clearing in single file, I thanked God for delivering me from the green hell. The thought of traversing it again was almost too much to take. Perhaps, I mused, I would live out my days with Ram
ó
n, and become an honorary Birdman.
The village was well-proportioned, and set in a sprawling grassland. Along one edge, it was bordered by a small river, its water dark brown, like tea. A huddle of women were washing clothes on the bank. A rag-tag band of children and hunting dogs were darting about, enjoying the late afternoon sun.
Alberto, still holding the sloth under its arms, led us to a proud, towering long-house at the far end of the village. It was the tallest one Fd seen, lying east-west, and roofed with
kampanaka
palm thatch. A space of more than four feet stood between the raised bamboo floor and the ground. Unlike those at San Jose, and elsewhere, the
malocas
at Ram
ó
n’s village were oval in shape.
In the days of head-taking raids, no one would have dared enter a Shuar house until welcomed by the host. Unexpected guests were sometimes mistaken as assailants and killed. Indeed, in the Shuar world any action out of the ordinary could be regarded as hostile gesturing. My own Afghan ancestors, from the wilds of the Hindu Kush, are famed for their love of bloodshed. They were once known for dressing their women in red, so that they weren’t killed during ‘friendly’ bouts of warfare. But the Shuar made my own progenitors seem tame in comparison.
Without waiting to be invited into the longhouse, Alberto led us up the tree trunk ladder. The central chamber was about 25 metres long, with a sturdy bamboo floor and plenty of light from the open sides. The roof had been newly thatched, but was already lined with cobwebs. At the far end, a separate area was set aside for cooking. There was no furniture, save for a simple cloth hammock, strung at the near end of the room. A few possessions had been stowed under the eaves,- and a large number of bottles and bowls lined one of the walls.
The house was empty, leading me to wonder whether Ram
ó
n was at church. But, as Richard pointed out, the village bore no signs of Christianity.
‘They are not evangelists,’ said Enrique ruefully, ‘the Word of the Lord has not come here yet. But with the help of Jesus, they
will
see the light. They will build a church, a big one, with a great cross on the roof. And the sound of hymns will be heard.’
Enrique might have endured a Shuar childhood, complete with
tsantsa
feasts, but it had been swamped by the woolly-speak of the evangelists. His elation at the thought of a missionary crusade, was matched by our disapproval.
‘Screw the missionaries,’ said Richard, ‘they think they’re spreading religion, but what they’re spreading is a disease.’
Before I could add my own vitriolic remarks, the great
ayahuasquero
climbed the ladder into the house. He received Alberto first, thanking him for the sloth. Then, he welcomed the rest of us to his
maloca
.
As he extended his hand towards me, I regarded Ram
ó
n’s face. It was mischievous, adorned with flame-red lines painted with
achiote
. His cheeks were un wrinkled, despite his age, which was certainly the far side of fifty. A shine of sweat lit up the end of his nose, and his teeth were darkened by the black nut
nushumbi
. Upon his head was the finest feather
corona
I had seen. Crafted from a single scarlet macaw, its wings wrapped around the shaman’s head, like the winged head-dress of Apollo. Ram
ó
n’s wife, a large-boned woman, with a broad face and a square jaw, sported a smaller crown made from feathers and porcupine quills.
I admired his crown. He replied that great care is needed to make such a thing.
If you cut the bird open’ he said, ‘the feathers will start falling. So, when you have killed the bird with a single dart, you place it in an ants’ nest. After five days all the flesh has been eaten away, leaving the bones and the feathers.’
When the creamy
masato
had been passed around, I opened my pack and withdrew a selection of gifts. I had brought some old clothing, some flour, rice, and a box of shotgun shells. The cartridges were clawed away, and stuffed in the eaves of the roof. Pleased that they had gone down so well, I gave Ram
ó
n’s wife two of the Fanta bottles. She was so delighted that she brought out more
masato
. When I commented on the beverage, she invited me to watch her prepare it. In the cooking area, I looked on as she chewed handfuls of boiled manioc, spitting them back into the bowl. The woman’s deteriorated dentistry severely hindered the process.
I illustrated the merits of the Fanta bottle as a kitchen appliance, making random crushing and rolling movements. Ram
ó
n’s wife was very pleased with her new tool. She spoke no Spanish, but explained in sign language that she would make a toad and turtle stew for dinner. She was an adventurous cook, with a well-stocked larder. Her kitchen contained a number of animals, some live, some dead, others hanging in limbo between the two. They included the giant turtle, which had retracted its head and limbs; a gold and blue macaw, a pair of dead peccaries, and the hind legs of an unidentifiable hoofed mammal.
Sitting miserably beside the fire was a baby red-faced monkey, tethered by a short string. Its hands were furry, the size and shape of tarantulas. Richard identified it as an extremely rare Red Uakari. He said it hadn’t had malaria, as the illness tends to bleach the redness from the face. The creature, he went on, would probably be kept as a pet for a while, then cooked for food.
Suspended above the fire from rattan hooks were three heads. I assumed they were being dried. They weren’t human, but sloth heads, and had been shrunk. Despite their dreadful state, I recognised them immediately. For I’d seen sloth
tsantsas
before in Oxford’s Pitt-Rivers Museum. They’re no larger than oversized key fobs, with scrunched up features and a mass of woolly hair.
The Shuar supposedly regard sloths as their cousins. As such a close relative they’re said to be capable of having a
musiak
, an avenging soul. Kill a sloth and, in revenge, it will send a falling tree to crush you in the jungle. Some say sloths can even acquire an
arutam
soul as well; others insist that they cannot, and that’s why they are easy to kill.
Fearing that Alberto’s sloth would shortly be served up by Ram
ó
n’s wife, and his head turned into a
tsantsa
, I cajoled Richard to come to his rescue. The sloth, he told Ram
ó
n, had been a valuable companion during the journey from San Jose. And, as a weary traveller, he deserved freedom.
The shaman called his son. He told the boy to take the sloth to the edge of the forest, and to free it.
‘Take what you need and there will always be enough,’ he said.
I thanked him for his generosity of spirit.
‘I killed another sloth this morning, when I saw it swimming in the stream,’ he replied. ‘Later, we will eat it.’
A second round of
masato
came and went. Keen to get down to business, I asked Ram
ó
n about
ayahuasca
. The old
maestro
was seated on a block of wood, carved in the shape of a turtle. He held his palms out at arm’s length, and whistled through his blackened teeth.
'Aya-hu-as-ca
is the key to life,’ he said. ‘Drink it, and you will find answers.’
‘Will I fly?’
Ram
ó
n lit a pipe of
mapacho
and rearranged himself on the stool. ‘You will fly if that is what you want,’ he continued, ‘but flying isn’t important.’
I felt my lower lip tighten with worry. Was the chief of the Birdmen telling me to forget about flight?
‘The flight is the journey …’ said Ram
ó
n, ‘the journey from this world to the other world.’
‘But if you fly, you are with the spirits,’ I said.
Shaking his head slowly, the
maestro
drew on the pipe. The quid of burning tobacco crackled in its bowl.
‘You do not have to fly to be with them,’ he said. ‘The spirits are all around us in the air, they
are
the air.’
*
The toad and turtle stew sat heavily on my stomach. So fearful was I of offending our hosts, that I consumed three helpings of the curious dish. It tasted like a greasy, gamey
coq au vin
.
Before we turned in for the night, Ram
ó
n went behind the long-house and broke off a section of dry termite mound. He placed it under the floor and set fire to it. The resins in the nest burned, keeping away insects. Richard told me to sleep away from the walls. The blood sucking assassin beetle, which carries Chagas’ disease, would sure to be lurking there, he said. The disease, which brings faintness, swelling and vomiting, is reputed to have killed Charles Darwin.