A Day in the Life of the Canamari

Recently I was reminded, from Blenda Blanda's blog, about some past
experiences.

It was a regular day during the dry season in the hot and humid
tropical jungle of the Amazon rain forest.  But it was an
exceptional day because this day, by myself without any missionary
supervision from Lee, I was going to accompany Owapo on a village
fishing expedition.  I was 18 years old, and you have to try to
imagine the scenario to comprehend my excitement.  The jungle
itself is full of dangerous creatures such as jaguars, wild boars,
all kinds of poisonous snakes and insects, not to mention marauding
tribes out for mischief which could include shooting and looting.
Communication was no picnic.  My native tongue, English, was totally
useless here.  The dominant language being Canamari, of which I knew
extremely little, and the lingua franca was Portuguese, a little of
which I had managed to acquire and spliced with the little Spanish
that I knew.  But my missionary companion, Lee, thought that my
Portuguese was sufficient to manage a solo trip among the Canamari.
As it turned out communication consisted of single words, small
phrases, and alot of pantomime.

Owapo was a tall young man of his village, tall being relative to
his own people, a foreigner like me at slightly over 6 ft was a
freak among the village.  Owapo had responded to the message of
Jesus presented by the British and American missionaries who had
built their homes as close to the village as the Brazilian
government allowed.  He was a quick study, progressed in reading
such that the missionaries talked about Owapo being the primary
teacher of his village.  The Canamari language was completely
oral,the work of the missionaries was primarily to learn the
language, apply a phonetic alphabet, teach the people to read,
and then they also translated scriptures into the Canamari
language.  Owapo was about 5 years my senior, and he liked to
participate in the conversations that arose when we visited the
village.  I must have been a strange sight, a towering white guy
who said very little, and when I didn't understand something
would speak in an unintelligable tongue to Lee, who would respond
in the same gibberish.  Owapo asked many questions about the
meanings of Jesus' story and when explained, he responded as
though not surprised and as if he already knew the answer.  He
seemed to like my presence, as I'm sure I was an enigma.  It was
really his suggestion that I accompany him on the fishing trip.

I walked to the village early in the morning to meet Owapo,
and the rest of the expedition.  There were young and old,
men and women, dogs, even a parrot, but not one fishing pole,
no line and hooks, not even a tackle or bait box among them.
They had bows and arrows, and poles with long, sharp, dark
hardwood tips, notched with barbs.  A couple of older men
carried small clubs and some roots cut about two to three
feet long, and many women and children carried woven baskets
out of thatch or vines.  Even while waiting for all to
assemble, some of the elders started down the trail.  When the
last interested person showed up, Owapo and I took up the rear
guard along the trail.  We hiked for a long time on a trail
that followed the river, passing patchy jungle mixed with small
clearings.  After what seemed like a very long hike we came
upon a wall of jungle.  There was a path leading into the dark
and dense vegetation, and at the trail head there was a tree
stump.  On the stump was a clump of red ochre paste.  Both
young and old took a small dab of the ochre and painted their
faces, some on their cheeks, some on their foreheads, and some
on both.  When Owapo began to paint his face, he looked at me
to do the same, and I asked him what it was for in my best
Portuguese.  He responded that it was for protection against
"beasts of the jungle".  Looking back I should have joined
the ritual, but being the pompous ass that I was back then I
just replied that Jesus would protect us and we could proceed.
Owpao, being more gracious than I, was cool with that and
we entered the deep canopy.

It's hard to describe hiking through dense jungle.  At my
height you did a lot of ducking and bending to miss the
overhanging branches, and the humidity and sweat from both
the heat and the workout of the hike made you drippy,
like you'd just walked through a shower fully clothed and
had to air dry, but the moist air could be cut with a knife,
consequently you never felt really dry.  It's uncomfortable
and exhausting. And on top of that you had to keep your
eyes open for dangers, like...deadly snakes!  It was obvious
to me that Owapo was holding back his pace so as not to leave
me behind. I struggled to keep up, and was so grateful when
we finally arrived.

The fishing hole, as I call it, was actually a murky backwater
marsh.  The dry season left pockets of backwater when the
rivers began to shrink and fish were trapped.  These marshes
were not small, this one was very deep and not many braved
to wade in, as there are all manner of creatures trapped in
these eddies, like piranha or maybe even an alligator or two.
But when a couple of brave souls did wade in they weren't
even close to the center and were already neck deep in water.
This one spread throughout the jungle for about an acre.
When we first arrived, being the last I saw that most
everyone had settled around the edge of the water and were
preparing their equipment.  Those with bows and arrows had
notched their weapons, the older men with the roots were
pounding them with the clubs they brought and were rinsing
them out in the water exuding a white milky substance. They
did this in several strategic locations.  The pulpy roots
were swished in the water making waves and the milky
substance seemed to permeate the water rippling out from
the edges.  I asked Owapo if the water was safe to drink
when the milky substance was present, he responded that
he didn't think so.  Fish and other water creatures were
floating to the surface belly up.  It seemed so unsporting
that the archers just shot floating fish as they came to
the surface.  But I realized that this was a practice
thousands of years in the making, and when you're on
subsistence survival mode, 'sport' just doesn't factor
into the equation.

Fish were being brought to people with baskets, and
prepared for the return trip.  In the catch of the day there
was even a large turtle.  The people seemed pleased with
catching the turtle, it must have been a delicacy for them.
Among the various species of fish caught, were my favorite,
the Amazon catfish.  These could be very large, the largest
I'd seen could fill a whole canoe, but on average they were
between 8 and 12 lbs.  Fried and served with farina (dried
and grated yucca) or even boiled yucca was a delicacy for me.

So we made the trip home, and celebrated the great catch that
evening in the village.  We stayed late talking over a campfire,
and the night was clear, the stars were unbelievable, and that
evening we saw a satellite traverse the night sky.  Lee wanted
to inquire what the villagers thought it was, but didn't get
a serious response.  I think they just didn't know and made
jokes about it.  This day was burned in my memory, as I can write
about it some 32 years later, and yet it seems as if it were just
last week.