Jagua, A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon 9780978500313

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JAGUA A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon By Carine Fabius

Photographs by Pascal Giacomini and Cristina Mittermeier

Jagua, A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon By Carine Fabius Kouraj Press 6025 Santa Monica Bouleard, #202 Los Angeles, CA 90038 323-460-7333 www.kourajpress.com Copyright © 2009 by Carine Fabius Cover and Book Design: Rodney Bowes Design Notice of Rights All rights reserved under international and pan-American Copyright conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

Fabius, Carine Jagua, A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon ISBN 9780978 500313 Printed in the United States of America

Also by Carine Fabius Mehndi: The Art of Henna Body Painting Ceremonies for Real Life Sex, Cheese and French Fries—Women are Perfect, Men are from France

Acknowledgments

I

Pascal Giacomini for his hard work and for all his help in the making of this book. You’re a great partner! My gratitude goes out to Frank Weaver for his editorial expertise, attention to detail, and generosity with his time. Thanks and appreciation to Henrietta Cosentino for the freshness and largesse that she brings to any project she touches. A big thank you to Rodney Bowes for his special brand of creativity and flair, as well as for his constant ability to make me laugh. A special thank you to David Fleck, Peter Gorman, and Cristina Mittermeier for their generous and priceless contributions to the book. Thank you, thank you, thank you Steve Coombs for the generous use of your time, for your support, and for your friendship; and to Morena Santos for her magnificent talent as a jagua artist, and the gracious gift of her time. Gracias a los Matsés por su hospitalidad. And a huge shout out to all the people I know who continue to give me their love and support in my work as a writer. You know who you are! want to thank my husband

A Note from the Author No trees in the Amazon rainforest are cut down to generate the skin-staining ink used for temporary jagua tattoos. Happily, harvesting of the jagua fruit does provide desperately needed income to the Indian group with whom we work. Like many others who, by chance or fate, become involved with un- derserved peoples, we feel compelled to assist the Indians with the pressing issues they face (i.e., stemming the spread of malaria or flu in their village). In that respect, you may be interested to know that your purchase of this book and/or jagua tattoo kits from our company directly contributes to helping the Matsés Indians achieve economic sustainability.

Table of Contents Chapter One: Jagua—The Prequel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 The Henna Back Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Walking into Body Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Chapter Two: Jagua, the Movie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Meeting Jagua . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Chapter Three: Pascal’s Journal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 A Brief History of the Matsés . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Essays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 “Ahhh, Frog Sweat by Peter Gorman” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 “My Life Among the Humans: A Concise Autobiography”    by David W. Fleck . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Chapter Four: Bringing Jagua Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Chapter Five: The Jagua Fruit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Just the Facts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 Medicinal Properties of the Jagua Fruit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 The Vampire Catfish of the Amazon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Chapter Six: Jagua Magic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 Mystical Jagua Beliefs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 A Brief History of the Kayapo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 Essay: Indian Ink by Cristina Mittermeier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100

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Jagua People I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 The Zapara (or Sapara) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 The Shuar (a.k.a. Jivaro) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110 The Tsachila . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 The Embera-Waounan (formerly the Chocos) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 The Yucuna (or Yukuna) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 The Kuna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118 Traditional JaguaTales . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120 Jagua People II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134 The Yuqui . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 The Tikuna (or Ticuna) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 The Yagua . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 The Arakmbut . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 The Ka’apor (a.k.a. Urubu) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 The Canelos-Quichua (a.k.a. Quichua of Pastaza) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 The Shipibo-Conibo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Chapter Seven: Jagua Tattoos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 Henna vs. Jagua . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 Still, It’s Body Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 A Short History of Tattoos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156 The Rise of Tattoo Nation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162 The Ink Factor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166 Chapter Eight: Frequently Asked Questions About Jagua . . . . . . . . . . . 171

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Appendix I Amazonia—Land of Jagua . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177 Amazon 101 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178 The Indians . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181 Appendix II Tales From the Amazon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184 The Legend of the Pink Dolphin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Tales of the Anaconda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188 Bibliography Books . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193 Studies, Essays and Articles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198 Websites . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202 Photography and Graphics Photography/B&W . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208 Graphics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210 Color Photography First Section—Follows page 53 Second Section—Follows page 96 Third Section—Follows page 144 Fourth Section—Follows page 192 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [Not included]

IX

Amazon River Basin with Amazon River highlighted

There is a fruit that grows in the lush and steamy verdant jungle of Amazonia that can only be described as noir. Dreamlike, strange, erotic, and cruel—these are some of the terms used in defining the classic film noir genre, and there is a case to be made for the comparison. Imagine a fruit whose innocent green skin belies a buttery yellow center, which yields a transparent liquid resembling fresh water. Smear this juice on your body and, a few hours later, a surreal transformation occurs. Your skin color has metamorphosed to black. Blue-black. Noir. Some might think it erotic; however, it is no stretch to imagine that, in some circles, this might be considered cruel. But relax. It’s not forever. Give it a couple of weeks and you’ll be back to normal….

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The jagua fruit and flower

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and my splattered apron safeguards my clothes. Spatula in hand, I stand over the noisy whirring of a XXX-size KitchenAid mixer filled with a shiny, viscous black goop when my husband shouts from across the room, “Don’t breathe on that!” “I’m not breathing!” I say. I step away from the mixer and feel a squishing sensation underneath my foot. “Oh no! Do you think you could ever one day wipe up a spill when it happens?” I ask. “Now I’m going to have it all over my foot. Look, it splashed up on my leg too.” He ignores these comments. He’s too busy pouring jet-black jagua fruit juice from a plastic gallon jug through a funnel and into a sieve in order to make sure any remaining sediment doesn’t make its way into the mix. At the bottom of the jug, it’s all sediment. With a black plastic spoon he pushes the thick stuff through the strainer so that he can gather every last drop of this rare, precious liquid that we like to call “black gold.” In the process, some of the juice splashes on his chin. No matter the precautions, we always end up looking like we work in the semi-permanent ink business, which, come to think of it, we kinda do. A few minutes later, I pull off my gloves and stare in horror. My hands have turned completely black. “How did this happen again?” I say. “How did it do that? Thank God jagua doesn’t stain the nails!” he

yellow

rubber

gloves

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JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

Wait a minute, haven’t I done this before? Feels like a déjà-vu. Is that the tinkling sound of the opening music to The Twilight Zone I’m hearing…? F  F  F A pot full of brown mud sits simmering atop my oven burner as I race around the kitchen, wet dishrag in hand, working desperately to get the fine film of green powder that has worked its way onto every surface it can find in the room. While one bright orange-stained hand feverishly wipes at the brown spot that refuses to lift off the blond wood table, the other hand, whose nails have not escaped the reddish tint, reaches for ground cloves. I debate in my mind for the hundredth time whether eucalyptus oil would be a better choice. The scent of eucalyptus snakes it way up my nostrils and I take a moment to breathe it in and clear my nasal passages. “Don’t forget to keep stirring the pot!” my husband shouts from across the room. He has been standing over the sink for an hour, pouring the green powder through a fine mesh wire sieve, and is the one responsible for the stuff finding its way into our throats, hair and, I’m sure by now, our pores. “Should I pour the coffee in now?” I shout back, vowing silently to withhold all snarky remarks about his chaotic ways, “Or did we decide to go with black tea? Oh, and what about the okra?” “Okra?” he says, “Aren’t we using indigo?” “What does indigo have to do with okra?” I say with disbelief in my voice. “Okra is for the consistency, indigo is for the color!” He ignores the commonsense element of my question and parries with, “Let’s go with the walnut hull extract.” “Hell, this glop is looking kind of thick to me right now…think we need to add water?” F  F  F

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Yep, that was us in 1997. Back then, the concoction brewing on the burner was a paste, with the henna plant at its base, that stained the skin a deep reddish brown. Fast forward to 2009 and nothing has changed—except the color scheme. I should be used to this by now.

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The Henna Back Story A dozen years ago, my company, Lakaye Studio, introduced henna tattoos to Los Angeles, and the news spread as quickly as the seemingly insatiable desire for real tattoos. Back then, I thought permanent tattoos had reached the height of popularity, but it was only the beginning. Some would argue that tattooing is nothing more than a fashion trend, right alongside baggy pants whose waistbands have to fall just under the butt to be in step with the times. Of course, by the time this book comes out, beltless baggies will have gone the way of the fedora—once the rage before baseball caps came along. Wait, you mean fedoras are back? Oh, hell. Thank God I don’t write about style. Maybe I should stop trying to figure out what’s hip, and get back to tattoos, which, as I write this, are still very much in—although I disagree that they are merely fashion accessories (more on this later). After all these years, I can still say without hesitation that people love henna and its beautiful, organic reddish-brown color. But a temporary tattoo that looks like a “real” one has always been extra high on everybody’s wish list, including that of the henna lovers. So, as business owners, my husband and I kept looking for a way to deliver the goods in a painless, all-natural way. And then we found out about the jagua fruit. We heard it was an edible fruit from the Amazon, full of medicinal properties, plus the ability to stain the skin blue-black—just like a real tattoo—and then disappear completely in 10–14 days. What!? It wasn’t easy, but after much investigation, following numerous leads that more often than not brought us to dead ends, sending a hundred emails and making a thousand telephone calls to friends, and friends of friends, and often complete strangers, someone finally put us in contact with an American living

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in Peru. I’ll call him Mr.  X. This Mr.  X had had dealings with a number of indigenous groups living in the jungle and, for a negligible fee, he offered to facilitate introductions. A couple of months and multiple conversations later, we decided to dispatch my husband and partner, Pascal Giacomini, on an extended trip to some of the most isolated villages in the world, deep inside the Amazon rainforest where jagua grows.

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Are you going, too? That’s what all my friends wanted to know. Um, no thanks. This journey reminded me of how our Moroccan affair began with the family of farmers who supply us with the henna we use in our Earth Henna Tattoo Kits. Pascal was the one who made the initial trip out to the isolated and inhospitable desert terrain where, before his arrival, the family had only once before in their lives been visited by a foreigner—and she was a scientist on research assignment for a book. I did eventually visit the family, and enjoyed myself tremendously—we were welcomed like royalty, and the stopover included an unforgettable traditional henna session administered by the loving matriarch. However, although I was thankful for the firsthand experience, and have been feeling the call to return, it wasn’t the kind of trip that was high on my wish list. It took a full day’s drive through utterly desolate country to get there (Please don’t let the car die out here, I kept thinking). The conditions are very harsh, with unbearably dry, gusty winds that made it difficult to see and breathe. There was no running water, electricity, or even a latrine (going to the bathroom consisted of digging a hole in the sand). And even though our hosts pleaded with us to stay awhile, after two days I worried that every scrap of food we ate was one less morsel they would have for themselves. After all, these are people with few means, and we were their guests. And there was no way they would take money from us for food. Pascal’s upcoming jungle adventure sounded like much the same—only humid. In my book, Sex, Cheese and French Fries, which takes a humorous look at the challenges of a cross-cultural marriage between an American woman (me) and a French husband (Pascal), there is one chapter titled “I married Indiana Jones”—and I’m not kidding! Pascal is perfectly suited for this kind of trip. He

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thrives on exploring undiscovered territory. He is exactly the kind of guy you’d want to be stuck with on a desert island, because he’d figure out how to survive, somehow. And he possesses an internal navigation system that is hardwired into his genes. As for me? To find my way home, my instinct is to line the road behind me with bread-crumbs inevitably eaten by vultures that prey on idiots who don’t know how to read a compass. This trip entailed flying into Lima, Peru, taking another flight to a small town, then another flight to an even smaller military outpost, and from there taking an eight-hour canoe ride to the first of several tribal villages. I thought my husband should go first, and tell me all about it upon his return. In the meantime, I went shopping for a Temple of Doom-style hat-and-whip ensemble for him to wear. F  F  F Pascal’s trip established the groundwork for what we hope will be a replica of the mutually beneficial relationship and friendship we enjoy with our Moroccan farmers—a straightforward business transaction between a manufacturer and supplier that grew into so much more!—only this time, with the Indians who harvest the jagua fruit for us in the Amazon jungle.

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Walking into Body Art As I recounted in my book, Mehndi, The Art of Henna Body Painting (published by Random House in 1998), the world of henna tattoos arrived in our little ethnic art universe by way of a proposed photographic exhibition of hennaadorned bodies in our Haitian art gallery located in Hollywood, California. What in the world was my Caribbean art-focused gallery supposed to do with this East Indian art form? I debated with myself. Plus, we’d never had much luck selling photography (this was before art photography went from being a medium that catered to a niche market to one that now appeals to even small babies and their friends). People did and still do come to Galerie Lakaye for serious contemporary art by Haitian artists, but mostly, the staple that brought the masses to our door were inexpensive, brightly colored paintings and traditional Haitian cut-out metal drum sculptures. And, when I say “masses” I am exag- gerating a lot. In fact, we had been scratching our heads trying to decipher exactly where the masses were lately. We wondered if there was some kind of evil ghost in our space, which, unbeknownst to us, was scaring away all potential clients the minute they tried to ring our doorbell. If you were ever in the art business, you would know that being plagued by such questions is standard operating procedure. So, maybe it was desperation that drove us to seriously consider hosting this exhibit, but I like to think it was heightened intuition, having a nose for good business opportunities, and being able to forecast trends! So, off we went to New York to see the proposed exhibit housed in an East Village gallery, where New York artists were raking in the dough tattooing the clientele.

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Much to my surprise, it turned out that henna designs in India were, in some crazy, cosmic way, reminiscent of veves, the Vodou symbols used by Haitian priests and priestesses to invoke the gods (I am a Haitian native). I don’t practice Vodou or any religion, for that matter. But I’m pretty sure those spirits exist! Taking it as a magical sign that we should take a closer look, Pascal and I took the plunge, and before you could say, But how are we going to pull this off in our private home gallery? we were back in Los Angeles, plotting to take over the world, or at the very least, paint it with henna. My loving, smart, kind and generous parents (that’s what I call them when they do what I want) loaned us the money to open a space not in our home, and poof! Lakaye Studio opened its doors to hordes of people clamoring for their temporary tattoos. (Let me just explain that when I say poof! what that really means is two hellish and stressful months of hard work.) A few weeks later, we were famous—every media outlet in town covered us for the better part of that year, especially after the celebrities, like Sting and Madonna and Prince, started running around with painted hands and feet; but it wasn’t long before I started dreaming of closing that studio. Why? Having to be somewhere every day at an appointed hour just wasn’t working for me. Also, in ten years of having an art gallery and working with artists, never had there been so much drama and conflicts and issues to deal with. Separately, each artist was great…well, not every single one of them, if truth be told; but somehow, the energy was less than harmonious. I think it was about then that I started having a problem with clenching my teeth at night… The other thing was that other henna studios had popped up, and individual artists on the Venice Beach boardwalk were now daily fixtures; and they were able to charge a lot less than we could with our overhead. In the meantime, it was becoming clearer and clearer that there was a market out

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there for a home-use kit. People wanted to do it themselves! Well, by golly, we just aim to please; so we set out to find us some henna in bulk.

Veve (or symbol) for Simbi, Haitian Vodou’s healer deity. Henna designs reminded me of veves.

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The art form called mehndi in India turned out to be popular throughout Asia, the Middle East, and Africa, as well. We learned that it had been practiced for 5,000 years in places like Iran, Pakistan, Syria, Persia, Turkey, Tunisia, Morocco, Palestine, Israel, Yemen, Egypt, Uganda, Tanzania, Afghanistan, Senegal, Kenya, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Sri Lanka and China, to name a few. This revelation gave Pascal an idea: since Paris is home to a large population of North Africans, maybe it could be a starting point for a possible lead to a henna supplier! He called his dad, who lives just outside the City of Lights, and asked him to try to track down any books on the subject, as there were none to be found here in the States. Sure enough, a few weeks later, his dad had visited a Moroccan cultural center and purchased a gorgeous coffee table book called Henné, Plante du Paradis (Henna, Plant from Paradise) by Michèle Maurin Garcia, which he posted to us posthaste! I don’t remember exactly how Pascal managed to find the author’s contact information, but he did. She lived in Paris and she agreed to meet with us on our next trip there. F  F  F Remember that scientist who was the first ever outsider to visit our Moroccan family of farmers? That was Michèle Maurin Garcia, a tall, thin and handsome brunette who arrived armed with equal parts French reserve and French charm. For various personal reasons having nothing to do with follow-up on her henna studies, she jumped at the chance to let us pay her way to Morocco in return for facilitating an introduction to the family. As you may imagine, who you know in Morocco is twice as important as who you might know in Hollywood. Or, maybe it’s the same; only it feels more important and a lot less pretentious among the desert dunes and shimmering mirages of Morocco. As mentioned earlier, I did not join Pascal on that first trip to Morocco, but when he got back, I wished I had, but not because it sounded so glamorous. Sure, 23

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it was an adventure of grandiose proportions (just think of all that sand!), but it also involved laborious, sweaty situations in the blazing hot field as Pascal tried to take in the inner workings of a henna harvesting operation: pick the leaves off the bushes, lay them out to dry, pack them into bundles to be taken to a professional grinding mill, where they are turned into powder (where all kinds of switcheroos with other plant life can take place if you don’t watch them like hawks); then, teach the family about the sifting process needed for the fine instruments we use for henna painting here in the States (as opposed to a traditional henna cone). The sifting operation alone necessitated Pascal buying super fine wire mesh and himself building the equipment they would eventually use. After all this fun, still to be worked out were the mechanics of getting the henna from the remote desert region where they live (by donkey) to a merchant in Marrakech, who would serve as go-between for filling out customs paperwork, and then packaging the shipment for air delivery to us in Los Angeles. In addition was the issue of establishing a payment and a communication system with people who had no bank accounts, no telephone and who only spoke Arabic, except for their 15-year-old son, Mohammed, whose broken French has made for many years of extremely charming emails. Emails, you ask? That’s because Pascal paid a local cyber cafe owner to introduce Mohammed to computers. No, I didn’t mind missing out on that part. What I did envy was getting to meet and hang with the family, a proud, lovely, generous and sincere clan of Moroccan Berbers, and to share in the excitement: for them, over having a new, stable source of income; and for us, in having a trustworthy source for henna. When I finally got the chance to meet them a year later, I wished even more that I had been there on that first trip. That is because I would have known exactly what to bring them as gifts. As I said, Pascal is Indiana Jones’ real life twin, with all the pros and cons that come with the personality—no matter how much I probed and prodded, I couldn’t 24

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get much out of him in terms of what they might need, or what they might consider fun! So, off I went to various shops, and returned loaded down with hair or- naments, lip gloss, perfume and a camera; a watch for dad, a Swiss army knife for Mohammed, toys for the littlest boy and other assorted things that, for the most part, they appreciated because of the intention. Had I been made aware by my blind and mute husband of the extraordinary conditions in which they live, what I would have brought was lots of moisturizing hand and body lotion, facial moisturizers, moisturizing lip balms (are you getting the feeling it’s dry out there?), first aid supplies, American T-shirts for Mohammed, and clothing for the littlest one (in addition to the toys). Minus my gauche and mortifyingly clueless offerings, the trip to Morocco was spectacular and unforgettable. The rest, as they say, is history. It’s been about ten lightning-fast years since we’ve been back to Morocco because things have gone that smoothly. Against all odds, out of a photo exhibition on henna body art in our modest gallery sprang our flagship line of Earth Henna Body Painting Kits, which, more than a decade later, sit comfortably in the oft-revised and appended body adornment lexicon. The kits’ success among those who prefer their tattoos temporary keeps our family of henna farmers employed and happy. They harvest the plant, and send us the majority of their crop each year. And, we’ve become accustomed to receiving regular, hassle-free shipments of the finest quality henna powder. Our small business—we have a staff of two—affords us a pleasant lifestyle, which in an expensive city like Los Angeles, can be a little tricky to maintain; but overall, life is good. Pascal is a sculptor, mixed media photographer and functional artist when he’s not negotiating with Moroccans and indigenous people in the Amazon. We still have our home-gallery, which occasionally hosts special artist exhibitions, but it mostly serves as a community space for artist salons. If only we could find a way to increase sales by just a bit, we wouldn’t have to worry about all

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that month at the end of each money! For years, this has been the ongoing refrain at our house (like, I’m sure, at a lot of other people’s houses!). Enter the jagua fruit and a sense of possibility.

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Jagua, the Movie

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I a m , c a s t i n a supporting role in this exciting new flick coming to a theater near you. It’s called Jagua: Taxi to the Noir Side, and it has all the makings of the classic thriller genre. As you will see, this one includes sex, incest, tribal rituals that involve menstrual blood, and much more. It’s also got murder by government officials and the machinations of intrepid interlopers, along with the mischief of religious factions who pave their road with good intentions. Of course, there is love and passion in the jungle too, not to mention political intrigue. And it all culminates in body ornamentation sessions that seem innocent enough, until the willing participants watch their skin turn black—a gorgeous, sexy blue-black. More, they plead. Give us more! Jagua, where have you been all my life?! The more I find out about jagua, the more intriguing it gets. In response to a blog about jagua that I once posted on my website, one person commented that she was from the Dominican Republic and that jagua grows there too. “It is an exquisite fruit,” she wrote, adding, almost seductively, “Try going there, and have a great time while you’re at it…” I knew that jagua grows in tropical places. You can even find it in my native Haiti, home of Vodou spirit possessions and hard times under a humid sun that sets every evening on resistant flowers. But the place it grows in profusion is in the Amazon, where intrigue reigns supreme. Jagua reveals its secrets in its own time and tempo, so my education is a work in progress, but here is what I know for sure about the fruit thus far: o here

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Jagua is temperamental Jagua is unpredictable Jagua is consistent Jagua is demanding Jagua is giving Jagua takes its time Jagua changes its mind Jagua keeps its promise Jagua keeps me on my toes I am in love with jagua

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Meeting Jagua We had never made our search for a natural skin dye that would safely stain the skin black an obsessive pursuit, but it was something always hovering in the background, gently requesting our attention with persistent reminders (such as regular customer inquiries). We had all but given up hope that such a thing existed. Yet we were prodded on in our search, especially by frequent reports of serious skin damage to temporary tattoo aficionados caused by fake products purporting to be so-called black henna. Pascal and I first heard about jagua when our office manager stumbled upon it while surfing the Internet one day. Mesmerized by what it promised to deliver, I became consumed with the goal of finding a way to import the fruit or its extract from a producer in any of the countries where it grows. Our very first attempts at importing the elusive Jagua fruit proved disastrous—administratively, logistically, and financially. Dead end number 1. There would be many others. So I was really happy when we crossed paths with Mr.  X, an American ecologist and conservationist who had written various articles on a number of Amazonian Indian groups. In many of these articles, he described the Indians’ use of the jagua fruit to paint their bodies black or to create tribal markings with it as part of their current cultural practices. Accompanying his pieces were gorgeous photographs of men and women with bold black stripes on their faces and bodies, or with long whiskers made from the ribs of palm leaves to make them look like jaguars (there is no etymological connection between the words jagua and jaguar). He also sold videos of footage depicting these tribal groups—videos that were inherently fascinating and invited further inquiry. To be Californian for a moment, it was, like, wow! I emailed the man, told him about our small business, and what we were looking for. To my delight, he responded with enthusiasm and offered to put us in

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touch with various tribal communities, among them the Matsés, Ticuna, Bora, and others living in the Peruvian Amazon. A couple of months later, as Pascal prepared to board his flight to Lima and beyond, he promised to stay in touch with me every three days to let me know he was alive and well. As it turns out, in the month he was away, he managed to call me a total of three times—when it exists, technology is downright spotty in the jungle! While a sleepless night or two did claim me, instinctively I felt he was okay. Little did I know that the Matsés, the people he ended up staying with, had as recently as the seventies, been one of the groups most feared by the Peruvian government because of their fierce warrior ways and well-documented raids on nearby tribal communities for the purpose of taking their women captive. The Matsés had even kidnapped a couple of nuns! Fortunately, at least in that regard, things are much different now. In any case, during one of our early telephone conversations, I encouraged Pascal to record his impressions and observations in a journal, which he agreed to do.

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C

h a p t e r

T

h r e e

Pascal’s Journal

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Pascal’s edited journal occasional footnoted comments. elow are

entries,

interspersed with my

Journal Entry #1 Welcome to Los Angeles International Airport! Ever since September 11, traveling out of the country ain’t no joy ride, that’s for sure. Before even getting to the “no jokes allowed” security checkpoint area, where only sock-wearing, non-water-drinking humans with doll-sized bottles of shampoo get access to boarding areas, I was waylaid down in the baggage X-ray zone. Thirty people waited in line as some enthusiastic nobody with an attitude slowly pulled every single item out of every one of my four suitcases, then re- packed them just as slowly to verify that my real name was not Pascala bin Laden. This kind of obvious power trip really gets on my nerves. By the time I moved on to the “no jokes” area, everyone in line was pissed off. Thankfully, everything else went off without a hitch. I even scored a row with three empty seats across so that I was able to stretch out during the eight-and-a-half-hour flight from Los Angeles to Lima, Peru. All good. Next up, a four-hour layover in the Lima airport, from 1:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m. before my next flight to Iquitos.

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Entry #2 Iquitos has a population of nearly half a million and is known for being the world’s most populated city that cannot be accessed by road—just plane and boat. It sits on the shores of the Amazon River and is the Peruvian rainforest’s largest city. Its economy pretty much runs on the rum, beer, oil, and lumber industries, with petroleum exploration on the rise. In Iquitos, swimmers can lounge on one of the sandy beaches of the river, surrounded by a thick, lush, and wild tropical rainforest landscape. The city is also considered a launching pad for expeditions into the jungle and other eco-tourist activities, including the study of over 1,000 varieties of plants—many of them medicinal—more than 65 kinds of reptiles, and over 400 feathered species, which makes birding aficionados happy. Apparently there are tons of pale-legged horneros, kingfishers, and black vultures (not the kind that run American credit card companies!) Mr. X was there, waiting to meet me when I came out of the small Iquitos Airport (which I heard was once swarmed by hundreds of vultures in 2006!). He looks like a nerd. No problem. I can deal with nerds. I checked into my hotel, a kind of bungalow, with the best part being a swimming pool. I was super tired. I got myself a simple breakfast of eggs, toast, and a delicious local fruit juice, then headed to my room for a much-needed three-hour siesta before heading into town for lunch. Can’t wait to try their ceviche.* We flag a mototaxi—a kind of motorized rickshaw—and Mr. X asks for the price. When the driver says 75 cents, Mr. X replies that it’s too expensive. We have to flag two more before finding a driver who, with a long face, agrees to take us for 50 cents. Mr. X will repeat this routine many times.

* Ceviche is raw seafood marinated in citrus, and a big specialty in Peru. Pascal is a bona fide ceviche freak. If it’s on the menu, he is bound by his own unwritten rule to order it. His first encounter with the dish in Peru is pronounced “delicious” by the expert.

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We plunged headlong into hectic traffic filled mostly with mopeds and mototaxis. Destination: several of the pharmacies in the bustling town center to buy much needed drugs and medical supplies for the community, such as antibiotics, anti-bronchitis, anti-flu, and stomach flu medicines, anti-malaria pills, aspirin, and more. Mr. X had given me a long list of things to bring them because, according to him, I am considered an important visitor. I was happy for the list, because I wouldn’t want to arrive empty-handed, but I was stunned speechless by the number of items on it! There was no way I could bring all that stuff, so I decided to go for what seemed the most important.

Mototaxis in Iquitos

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Entry #3 My second day was much like yesterday. I spent it in the company of Mr. X, but this time in the Belen open-air market, a known hangout for pickpockets, which is packed with back-to-back stalls selling a mind-bending variety of wares, including food and second-rate merchandise from China. This time the goal was to buy machetes, files, fishhooks, and fishing line; t-shirts for the kids; and pots and pans and other gear that is valuable to the community. Although Mr. X was helpful in that he knew his way around the city, it really bothered me that he haggled over every single price, no matter how low.* I’m not into overpaying for basic items or being taken for a fool; all it does is drive up costs for other foreigners. But there is a line that should not be crossed when bargaining for lower prices—basically, you know you’ve breached it when the seller gets that pained and hostile expression, which means you are an asshole and he’ll sell to you because he desperately needs the cash but feels violated and humiliated nonetheless. I know and respect that look; but Mr. X didn’t care, as long as he got the best possible deal. I didn’t want to get into it with my host, so I let him have his way; but it really pissed me off. The guy is very anal.

* Having purchased folk art in Haiti, bedspreads in India, and rugs in Morocco, Pascal knows a thing or two about the art of negotiating.

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Entry #4 The third day in Iquitos is very busy, starting with new, problematic flight logistics having nothing to do with over-exuberant security officers this time, but with a vexing and unexpected situation: the charter flight destined for the next town—last stop before the boat trip to the jungle—is booked solid, even though we have reservations. What this means, I am told with a big smile, is that I have two options: 1) wait around an entire week for the next scheduled flight, or 2) charter a plane myself, which means shelling out the money for all twelve seats on the aircraft. I fork over the dough for the charter and go back to the Belen public market to complete my shopping expedition before the scheduled departure later that day. There is still much to do, like buying more machetes, drugs, fish hooks, etc., and tracking down hammocks, netting, and rubber boots in size 45 (equal to a men’s size 11 shoe) because I’ve been told I’ll need them. Happily, a local Indian friend of Mr. X joins us, and he takes over all negotiations. Glad not to have to deal with Mr.  X’s penny-pinching—but even an Indian can’t solve the rubber boots issue! Most people here are small in stature, and when I ask for a size 45, they look at me like I am some kind of freakishly large monster from Mars, or just laugh.* After much rushing around and sweating, and more rushing to make it back to the airport in time for the flight, we hear there will be a three-hour delay before take-off. Even though additional passengers have arrived and paid their fares, the charter company refuses to reimburse me for the now-occupied seats— which I had paid for! I get into an intense conversation about it until finally they agree to give me my money back. F  F  F * Fortunately, Pascal is used to being laughed at. His heavy French accent back in Los  Angeles has always taken care of that. (He eventually finds the boots through a Chinese storekeeper, but in the end, he never even uses them!)

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For two hours on the flight, I gaze out over nothing but green, green, and more green—as in green, impenetrable jungle without a house or field in sight. If we have to have a crash landing, forget the landing, we’ll just crash! Finally a clearing appears, where we land and disembark onto a tiny, deserted airstrip. Next up is a half-mile-long hike (with all our gear) to reach the small military outpost-cum-town where bare-chested officers wearing shorts and sandals take care of formally registering us in handwritten notebooks. I later find out that the officers assigned to this isolated camp have to seriously misbehave to earn this post. Demoted cops, this way, please! We make our way to the one and only hotel in town, where we will spend the night before heading to the jungle the next day. This is the worst hotel I’ve ever been in—disgustingly filthy, foul-smelling mattress with no sheets, just for starters!* My first meeting with Daniel, my Spanish-speaking Matsés Indian guide who has traveled from his village to meet us, goes very well. He is around thirty years old, smart, and friendly. We hang out and talk for a couple of hours, but we have more shopping to do before it gets dark—this time, to look for foodstuff like sardines, eggs, bread, cooking oil, and rice, along with water and gasoline.

* Admit it, by now you think I’m smart to have stayed home with my comfortable bed.

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Entry #5 It is five o’clock the next morning, when everyone gathers at the water’s edge to pack all the gear and food supplies onto the dugout canoe that will take us and three kids to the village where they live. (I thought we were going by boat, but I was wrong.) Once everything is loaded, everyone realizes that the canoe is sitting too low in the water, so we start all over on a bigger one. Once packed, it sits about four inches above water. That’s better than the two inches on the other luxury cruiser! Finally, we’re on the road, so to speak. With jungle on both sides, we settle in on hard benches for a day-long and very hot ride through a large river filled with submerged trees every fifty yards or so. It rains about six months out of the year here (I guess that’s why they call it the rainforest) and the water, which often rises as high as twenty feet, gradually erodes the roots. It is dry season, so the river is very low, which makes for very slow going in breathtaking jungle landscape with a wide variety of tall trees, punctuated by hundreds of exquisitely colorful butterflies. Five hours later we turn into a smaller river that is much narrower and filled with even more trees of all sizes. This makes for ever more cautious navigation. I am surprised by how few birds and animals we see. I’m not sure if this is related to the time of year or time of day. This is a magical world. For sure, it is the most remote place I have ever been in my life. It seems like the end of the earth. F  F  F I’m beginning to get a true feel for the majesty of this jungle. Water is brown, the sky is bright. How can so many different trees be in one place? Over time we will cross perhaps two small villages with slash and burn clearings in evidence. Finally, we stop for lunch at a small beach, where we are eaten alive by sand flies. 38

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After our unavoidably quick lunch, we get back into the canoe and glide through four more hours of the same—just narrower, hotter, and more humid—until we arrive at the village. A large portion of the community turns out to welcome us. That’s 40 of about 150 people. New visitors! Excitement!— especially from the kids. My arrival coincides with El Aniversario, the annual celebration scheduled to take place the next day. It re-enacts the story of the group’s first contact with civilization in a theatrical production. A big meeting about the event is already in the works, and we proceed to the community center to join in. Unfortunately I don’t understand a word they say because all they speak is Matsés. Only the youngest among them are able to communicate in Spanish. After the meeting, I am shown to my lodgings: a wooden, thatched-roof house set on stilts, like many others in this small village, which can’t be bigger than four acres. This is where I’ll be sleeping and sharing space with Mr. X for the next two weeks. My mattress is one inch thick. When I ask for another one, they suggest I fold it in two! First I install my mosquito netting (as advised) and go on to enjoy a tasty dinner of rice and plantains with flavorful but gamey and fairly tough chicken with very little meat on its bones. By now it is six o’clock, and night has already fallen. Since there is no electricity here, there are no light switches to turn on or off. We are guided back to our house by the light of the moon, just as the locals have been for hundreds of years. I realize that all the sounds are gone. The parrots and monkeys and children are quiet now.

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Entry #6 The next day’s breakfast is chicken and plantains with rice and beans. Great! I hear there is a big community meeting going on. This is where Mr. X officially delivers two microscopes for detecting malaria in blood samples, and a solar panel with a battery. This is a big first for the village, and the momentous occasion is marked by an explanatory presentation from Daniel. His remarks are followed with many speeches by visiting chiefs from the various communities that make up the remaining 2,200 members of the group. I don’t understand a word. Afterwards, I shake hands with all chiefs, and am invited to give a speech on why I am there. I do it in Spanish. Even though most understand the language, they are not big on speaking it. Then Daniel asks me to bring all my offerings. More speeches are made. After this function, I am officially given permission to take pictures, and I go to town! The funny part is, where are all the savages? Unlike the photos of the people in Mr. X’s articles, everyone here is dressed in baggy shorts, t-shirts, and knockoff Converse and Nike sneakers. There’s not a painted tribal marking in sight. Only the elders have one or two permanent tattoos. Plus, when they get dressed up, they look sharp! F  F  F Now it’s time for El Aniversario! Things get off to a start in the village school, a two-room cinderblock structure with a corrugated roof, where two women paint everyone taking part in the play—kids, young men and women—with achiote, a red dye that washes off, and jagua juice, which does not. The actual re-enactment—three stories that illustrate their tribal lore, which includes raiding villages to steal women and other needed tools—takes place in the primary school building made of

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bark walls and a thatched roof. There isn’t enough room for everyone, so those who can’t fit in surround the building and look through slats in the walls. The audience and performers really enjoy the spectacle. When the performers start laughing so hard that no one can even act anymore, I realize this is the kind of event that Mr. X sells as “Indians in the jungle.”

Getting ready for El Aniversario

After the play is over, it is time for the formal distribution of the supplies I brought. First, Daniel pulls out the machetes and metal files, which are doled out to the men. This does not sit well with the women, who are miffed that I did not buy them any jewelry beads. No one told me I needed to bring beads! Fortunately, I redeem myself with 1,000 fishhooks and fishing line. F  F  F

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I must interrupt Pascal’s journal here to quote a short passage from a book called Affable Savages by Francis Huxley, an anthropologist who traveled throughout the Amazon in the fifties and visited with the Urubu Indians of Brazil. The book was published in 1957. …Among these Indians was a chief called Shapi, who arrived with his wife, his three sons, and several other men from his village. They had come empty-handed, but were all expecting to be given presents—indeed, they were loud-mouthed in their demands for machetes. “I’ll bring you a lot of resin,” Shapi said, “but now I want a machete.” João, slightly mistrustful, gave him and the others some tobacco and a machete each; they went off and returned the next evening with one small load of resin that was nearly worthless. “Resin,” said Shapi expansively. I laughed, and in revenge João turned Shapi on to me. “Ask him for some beads,” he told Shapi: and Shapi, an inveterate beggar, lost no time in asking. I refused. “My beads are finished,” I said. “But my wife wants some!” “No more left!” “Blue ones! You’ve got blue beads?” “All gone!” “My wife wants some, she longs for some.” “I haven’t got any.” “No more? Blue ones! I want some too.” “No more!” “Yes! In there!” (pointing to my suitcase)

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“None left.” “In there, in there!” (pointing to my suitcase). “None left.” “In there, in there! Tero says you brought a great heap.” “What a lie, they’re all finished.” “My wife wants some, look, my wife. She wants blue beads, she hasn’t any at all.” “I haven’t got any at all.” “All finished?” “Finished.” In this part of the world, I guess not much has changed since the fifties. F  F  F Daniel spends the next half hour dividing up hooks by size. Men line up again, then the women, then the kids to receive their share. When all the fishhooks are distributed, the fishing line is divided too. People grab one end, cross the room twice, and cut it.After the distribution of supplies, it’s soccer time. Incredible stamina. Great players. Very intense. These guys are impressive! They don’t scream like most soccer players. In fact, I have not heard any people raise their voices here, only the roosters, with the occasional dog barking, and groups of people laughing at something I can’t understand. We have dinner: more gamey chicken, plantains, rice, and beans. Night falls. We go to sleep.

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Entry #7 With the fiesta behind us, the next day we get down to business. I am told that different groups of people will fan out into the jungle to find the jagua fruit. When they bring it back, the fruit will be peeled, squeezed, sifted, and then boiled, boiled, and re-boiled until it has been reduced down to an extract. After the first crews set off, there isn’t much for me to do except take siestas, shoot photos and film footage, and hang out. Some of the guys had invited me to experiment with what they call sapo, which is a substance that comes from a frog (the Phyllomedusa bicolor tree frog). I had heard about how the Matsés insert this substance into their bodies by burning it into the skin in order to acquire strength, energy, and a heightened altered state, but I was scared off by the unpleasant sensations one has to go through before reaching that state—such as vomiting, frantic heartbeats, and extreme fear! I respectfully declined. I expected to see lots of exotic animals, but so far, I’ve only seen three monkeys and a few parrots. Basically, I take in work-related activity, mundane moments, and the cadence of day-to-day existence of an average Indian in the Amazon. It takes a lot of hanging out to get to know a people and for them to become comfortable with you. That night, a bunch of villagers come around to show Mr. X and me a collection of bows, arrows, darts, and spears that demonstrate exquisite and unbelievable craftsmanship. This is museumquality work—gorgeous objects made with eagle and parrot feathers, dyed with natural pigments, and wrapped with delicate twine at the base. These are actual, workaday hunting implements that the Indians are more than willing and eager to part with because, 1) they can easily replace them, and, 2) they can use the money. Shockingly but predictably, everything is too expensive for Mr. X, and he not only turns down the magnificent items, but pressures me into not buying any. He says I have to let him negotiate prices because I

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will drive costs up. Everyone leaves disappointed. Since I am a guest, I am still polite but de- cide to handle it on my own tomorrow.

Matsés man with his spears

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Entry #8 Over the next several days, the men get back with the fruit and everyone gets to work, reducing the fruit to pulp, boiling, expressing the juice, and bagging it in plastic containers for the return trip to Los Angeles. It is a lot of work. And it is so hot here. The humidity hangs over everything like a fog.

Pascal helps with jagua extract preparation

During that time, I hear about an American who lives in the village, and I go off to find him. The American’s name is David, and it turns out that he is married to Daniel’s daughter—and they have a child together! David is very smart, a nice guy; plus he has a solar charger that works, and I am able to charge my camera’s batteries. Bonus! One afternoon I go with him to visit the field he’s been clearing for two months. It’s his field because, well, here he was and there it was for the taking.

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At first the entire village helped him cut down the trees because that’s what they do down here: everybody chips in to help others in the community. The first and main part of the job is done with axes. When that’s done, he’s on his own to clean it up. Dead branches get burned; wherever there was a fire that left ashes, he’ll plant plantain trees. The soil around here is primarily clay. The topsoil is about one inch thick, with the clay just underneath. (Compare that to Kansas, where there’s at least five feet of topsoil!) The ashes create more topsoil and bring extra nutrients to it. Because of these conditions, nothing grows easily. He tells me that a field is good for two years max, since the soil is depleted after that time; then you have to walk away from it and all that work, and move on to another. The job he is doing, alone, is gigantic. But what else is there to do here? It’s what you do. It definitely keeps you strong and fit, with no need for gyms. By peppering David with questions, I learn a lot about animal and plant life and customs in the jungle, as well as the intricacies of social interaction within the group. For example, there are no formal marriage ceremonies with a traditional exchanges of vows. David is a linguist who, while doing field work in the Peruvian Amazon, decided he liked being with the Matsés better than being back in the States in the halls of academia. He opted to stay. After living with the Indians for some time and learning their language, he talked to Daniel about the possibility of marrying one of their women; Daniel offered his daughter as a possible match. The couple did what most young people in arranged marriages do: they spent time together, got to know one another, grew to like each other, became intimate, moved in together, and from that day on, were considered officially married.*

* At the time of this writing, David had been living in the village for two years. You can read more about this interesting and enigmatic man in his own words on page 69.

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Entry #9 More jagua arrives, more work to do, and more hanging out too. In the meantime, Mr.  X, who at first was a welcome guest, has managed to irritate everyone. Out of fear of being robbed by the village children, he put a lock on the door to our room, which insulted Daniel, who complained about his lack of respect. Mr. X relented and removed the lock. But he often refuses to eat the food served. He tells the Indians that the kitchen is too dirty. It is now Daniel’s wife’s turn to be insulted! When the group hoping for sales of their artifacts returns, Mr. X offers them a bunch of cheap wristwatches, brought especially for this purpose, in trade for the superb arrows and spears (watches are a status symbol here). And he still doesn’t want me to buy anything without going through him—at which point I blow a gasket and tell him to go to hell.*

* Hey, there’s got to be a bad guy in every story, right? I wouldn’t say Mr. X is bad since he obviously means to help the community. Let’s just say he’s not always pleasant, and just a little weird.

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Entry #10 Although there’s been some fish, we are still eating the exact same meal we’ve been having morning, noon, and night every day since I got here—we’re talking about dynamic food: athletic and skinny chickens; free range in the truest sense of the word! And of course, hot plantain puree, rice, and beans. At this point, I’m steadily losing weight, and I bitterly regret having forgotten my energy bars. Another night on the hardest bed I’ve ever slept in.

Pascal’s sleeping quarters

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Entry #11 With no electricity, TV, radio, or night clubs here, people find other ways to entertain themselves. Soccer is very big, and getting more popular by the moment in this community. I spend plenty of time observing the people at play, and notice that girls are also big into volleyball. I am constantly amazed at their fierceness and physical endurance! I also notice that some guys play with bare feet; some wear one sock with the other foot bare, while others play with one foot bare and a shoe on the other. What can I say? Money is scarce around here.

Soccer is very popular in the village

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Entry #12 On my last day in the jungle, thunderous rain pounds the village all day, but this does not deter the soccer players. First the boys, aged from eight to ten, go a round; then little girls in the same age range have their turn, followed by the teenagers who take over the dirt court, until it is time to hand it over to the waiting adults. Under the still-pouring rain, they finish out the day with the most intense game ever while everyone else watches and cheers them on. I spend a better part of the night packing all my gear in preparation for an early morning departure. Due to an infected wound on his leg, David joins us on the return trip to Iquitos. It goes faster this time because the current is at our backs. This really helps with the mosquito factor! It is a beautiful and enjoyable ride, this river, with its endless curves and bends that are always the same yet different all at once. When we arrive, we are greeted with the news that there won’t be any planes leaving for Iquitos for at least another week. This is not good news. I go back to the same hotel as before, and I’m given the same gross mattress with no sheet, but this time in a shitty, hot, dirty, stinky room, so I leave. Daniel’s brother offers to put me up. They make me a great meal, using lemon as a condiment, which makes me deliriously happy!* Three days pass with nothing for us to do, except hang out some more— except that this time around, with my precious jagua extract in hand and no idea how long it will stay fresh, I am itching to get back to Los Angeles. Luckily, we hear that an aid group returning from the jungle has chartered a plane to go to Iquitos, and two days later, they arrive. Yay! We can leave tomorrow. * There are no lemons back in the village; and after weeks of dining on plantains, rice and beans, and rubber chicken, one can see how a little lemon must seem downright exotic to Pascal!

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In the meantime, Mr.  X continues to piss everyone off—all kitchens are disgusting, germs are everywhere, everything is too expensive, and he gets pissed at me if I refuse to pay for all his meals, even though it only costs $2.50 a pop.* When we arrive in Iquitos, where the luggage is to be weighed (since there was no scale at the military outpost airport), they inform Mr. X that he owes $15.00 in excess baggage, mostly due to all the bows and arrows he brought back with him. He turns to me with outstretched hand. I remind him that these are his personal belongings. Why should I pay for them? He throws a huge fit, flags down a taxi, jumps into it, and takes off without paying, leaving David and me standing there, stunned. We get to a hotel, where I take my first shower in weeks that did not involve buckets. I run around the city with David, drinking beer, eating ceviche, and generally having a good time until the next day, when I fly back to Lima.

* Hey, at least the guy is consistent. The deal was that Pascal would pay for Mr. X’s transportation expenses as payment for the introduction.

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Entry #13 The flight to Lima is a gorgeous trip over the Andes. The pilot flies very low, past mountains, through an infinite sea of clouds. Apparently, in the winter they can go three months without seeing the sun in Lima. I have traveled to Peru before, and the city is the same as I remembered: mostly ugly and dirty, and the gray weather doesn’t help. I find a good hotel next to the presidential palace, run around in the city, have more seafood, and visit the Museo de Oro, which houses a fantastic collection of gold artifacts. I happen onto a street where a minimum of two to three hundred stores sell eyeglasses only! I decide to look for reading glasses, but cannot find any among all these stores. What else is there to do? A good cocktail! I end up at a bar, where I order a pisco sour that makes me sick, and I spend the whole terrible night throwing up. The next day, half the museums are closed or too far away to get to. I’m dragging my feet anyway, so I go back to my hotel room and nap, feeling like I want to die. I hate Lima. I nap until it’s time to take the plane back to Los Angeles. Amazingly, there are no incidents with customs agents. And why should they hassle me? After all, I am only carrying several large, bladder-like bags filled with a strange, black substance! It is good to be home. End of Pascal’s Journal

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Visiting with the Matsés Chapter Title

1. Matsés girl hauling water

245 Photography by Pascal Giacomini

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2. Heading into the jungle in the early morning

3. Matsés village

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5. Waiting for start of El Aniversario-I

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5. Waiting for start of El Aniversario-II

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7 & 8. Matsés women with ancestral (and permanent) tattoos

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9. Daniel wearing a necklace made of jaguar teeth

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10. Matsés man showing spear crafted with tool made from peccary tooth

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256 11. Matsés village children

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A Brief History of The Matsés The early history of the Matsés is very sketchy, but their first encounter with the outside world seems to have been during the time of an expedition led by the Spaniard Don Diego Vaca de Vega in 1621, and later in the late 18th century when Jesuit missionaries made contact with them near the Huallaga River in Peru. The quick spread of disease ravaged their population, spurring them to flee to their present-day territory around the Yavari, Chobayacu, and Galvez rivers along the Peruvian-Brazilian border. The rubber boom of the late 19th century saw a repeat of the spread of disease among the Matsés as large numbers of outsiders arrived. Enslavement of their populations and continued warfare further depleted the group, leading them to wage fierce campaigns against encroachers and the Peruvian government in the early 1920s. During this period, they also en- gaged in fierce and sustained raids on other tribes for women (since they hardly had any left), weapons, and metal tools. This state of affairs lasted 50 years, during which time the Matsés remained completely isolated from the outside world. After repeated kidnappings by the group—including the abduction of a Peruvian woman and two white nuns—in the mid-1960s, the government pulled out all the stops and bombed Matsés communities with napalm, burning down their villages, with the result that the group retreated even further into the forest. All-out war continued until the tribe accepted the presence of two Christian missionaries from the Summer Institute of Linguistics. Having learned the Matsés language from a Peruvian woman who had been kidnapped by the group and later escaped, they were authorized to act as intermediaries, effectively ending hostilities with the Peruvian government and other Indian communities. Peaceful contact with FUNAI, a Brazilian governmental agency, soon followed.

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The Matsés are also called the Mayoruna by some, a name most often used for the communities living in Brazil. The name is one that was applied by early colonizers and missionaries to several groups that looked and sounded the same to them; the Matsés, who number 2,200, do not recognize this name. The group has title to their territory, 17 small villages made up of thatched houses referred to as the Matsés Native Community, which was created in 1998 and measures 457,000 hectares (4,570 km2 or 1,765 square miles). However, even though they were granted the mineral rights to their land, without consulting the Matsés, in 2007 the Peruvian government sold those rights to two oil companies. Contact with the world has had both negative and positive effects on the Matsés. Their general health has not fared well. An epidemic of hep-atitis and malaria that began in 1993 is an ongoing problem, as is contamination of their drinking water. Although they fight illegal logging and poaching on their lands with the help of indigenous rights groups, both practices continue; poverty is on the rise. On the brighter side, cessation of warfare has allowed them better access to nearby rivers and creeks for fishing; the use of flashlights lets them hunt at night for tapir, caiman, alligators, and larger rodents; and motorized canoes allow for navigation over wider territories. In addition, they now have access to modern medicine.*

* It is interesting to note that while the Matsés prize the benefits of modern medicine, their practice of using a discharge (commonly referred to as sapo) emitted from the Phyllomedusa bicolor frog has resulted in an entire field of scientific study on the use of amphibian peptides as possible medicine in the Western world. (See more on this fascinating substance in the essay by Peter Gorman on page 60, as well as a photo of the Phyllomedusa bicolor in the fourth color photo section).

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The formerly semi-nomadic group still depends on hunting with single-shot shotguns (an expensive option due to the high price of shells) as well as with bows and arrows and with spears. They also fish and engage in slash-and-burn agriculture, which produces yucca, plantains, cotton, tobacco, and palm fruit, among other crops. Once inhabitants of communal longhouses sheltering up to 100 people at a time, with community issues resolved by consensus, the Matsés now have chiefs in each village, and they live in small, individual houses. Inter-community or family conflicts are resolved peacefully (i.e., wrestling vs. killing), alcohol consumption is low, and children are treated well. In fact, children and family are the group’s primary preoccupation—it is inconceivable for them not to have family members nearby. They are polygamists, with many marriages occurring between cross cousins. Their primary language is Matsés, one of the Panoan group of languages, with some Spanish seeping in as the younger generation ventures away from traditional customs, lifestyle, and beliefs and into the modern world. The Matsés are animists who discern a connection among all living things and see the physical world of people, plants, trees, animals, and inanimate objects as inhabited by spirits, which must be addressed in order to access each element’s strength. They believe in a place where the dead go, a sort of heaven, which resembles their home, but with more plentiful game. In the late 1960s, a missionary group called the Wycliffe Bible Translators taught the Matsés their own language in the Roman alphabet, translated the Bible into Matsés, and established schools for the children. Today, the Matsés believe in hell and say they are Christian for fear of going there. As the old ways disappear, the elders—valuable repositories of ethnobiological knowledge—remain the only custodians of the wealth of information held within the context of their animist beliefs. 56

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The Matsés are expert craftspeople; but because they are somewhat tourist-averse and would prefer to be left alone, their exquisite hunting implements, woven mats and baskets, jewelry, clothing, and hand-thrown clay pots are used internally, for day-to-day use by members of the group only. Hopefully some of these skills will survive. For the most part, as of this writing, clay pots have been replaced with aluminum cookware; traditional ceremonies are no longer practiced; and their remarkable body ornamentation practices have been relegated to the dustbin of history (trotted out only for celebratory events). As recently as the 1970s, women’s noses were pierced with the ribs of palm leaves; these looked like whiskers, giving them the appearance of a jaguar, whose strength they admire. A long stick made from the dried shoot of a plant used to hang from their lower lip; bodies painted with jagua used to signal the Matsés’ fearsomeness; they also used it on their bare (pre-Christian contact) bodies to look great! Jagua mixed with charcoal used to be inserted under the skin with a palm thorn to create a permanent tattoo in a design that surrounded the mouth and spread out in two fine lines to the earlobes— also to represent the feline look of a jaguar (something they learned from a group called the “jaguar people”), and to mark the group’s identity. Today, as the younger set play rock ’n’ roll tapes and run around in shorts, skirts, and sneakers, only the elders remember the jaguar.

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Old undated photo of an “Amazonian Brave in Gala Attire” with jagua body adornment. From the book, The Secret Museum of Mankind

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The people who fall in love with Amazonian culture also help to light the way into the dense and thickly wooded place, which has beguiled so many, yet still manages to retain its secrets. Presented here are two first-person essays by longtime explorers and fans of the region, that help to further illuminate the pathways into the forest.

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Ahhh, Frog Sweat… by Peter Gorman Award-winning investigative journalist, explorer, naturalist and dad, Peter Gorman has spent over twenty years tracking down stories from the streets of Manhattan to the slums of Bombay. His work has appeared in over 100 national and international newspapers and magazines. Since 1984, he has spent a minimum of three months annually in the Amazon. The following is excerpted from his first-hand account—the first written account in the history of the world—of taking an animal product directly into the bloodstream for medicinal purposes while on a visit with the Matsés Indians in 2006. This record of his experience opened the door to the study of amphibian skin proteins in the human body. (See photo of Phyllomedusa bicolor in fourth color photo section.) F  F  F I’m sitting at my desk. In front of me is a slender piece of bamboo perhaps eight inches long and tapered to a point at both ends. Next to it a candle burns. I cut a piece of tamshi—a strong, thin vine traditionally used for lashing things together in Amazon building—from a 10 coil and place one end into the candle fire. When it glows bright red I push the burning end hard into my upper right arm. It stings as the outer skin is burned. I clean the tip of the tamshi and put it back into the candle fire. When it’s ready I burn my arm a second time, then scrape the skin from both burns, revealing a subcutaneous layer dotted with tiny red capillaries. I turn my attention to the bamboo splint. One side is covered in what looks like dried varnish, but is actually the dried secretions of a bright green tree frog called the Phyllomedusa bicolor, which is found in the

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Amazon rainforest. The secretions are its protective armor against tree snake predators: as the snake squeezes on the frog, the secretions are released from its legs and body. They are painful enough that the snake will often release its prey. I spit onto a half-inch section of the bamboo splint, then take a sharp knife and scrape the dried secretions into it. In a few moments the secretions have absorbed the spit and become the texture of moist wasabi mustard. I pick up a little with the tip of the knife and apply it to one of the burn marks on my arm. It looks like a tiny mountain of wasabi. I do the same with the second burn. By the time I put down the knife and count to 15 my ears begin to heat up. My heart begins to beat faster. My head is unusually warm. My stomach begins to clench. My fingers lose the ability to type. By the time a minute or two has gone by my mouth is dry and my lips are numb. I can feel the soft tissue around my eyes beginning to swell. My blood begins to race. I can feel the insides of my body as it speeds through it. I have to sit comfortably and move to the nearby couch. No good. My skin begins to jump and I slide to the floor to lie down. My blood is still picking up speed and I can begin to hear it beating like a drum against my rib cage. My breathing is short, shallow and through the mouth as my nasal passages are utterly swollen with mucous. I’m alert but suddenly useless. I’m a bag of bones being operated on by a force working from the inside out. I’m a wounded animal, not in pain so much as mystified that I cannot move. My arms and legs are heavy. My head is going to explode. I lay there for maybe ten minutes, utterly immobile. My breathing is now accompanied by sounds, like an old man, or a low growl. I have the urge to both defecate and vomit but my body won’t even let me move the muscles necessary to do that. 61

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I give up to the overwhelmingness of it all. My body is on the floor. I am nowhere. I am an animal in a useless skin. I’m not going to make it if my blood doesn’t slow down. Every artery, every vein, every capillary is making itself known to me, an unimaginable awareness of the human machine. Throbbing, throbbing, so loud the rushing and racing of all that blood and the pounding of my heart. Suddenly horses appear. Then children spinning around a sort of homemade whirlaway. They spin faster and faster until nothing is left of them but a million tiny droplets of blood filling my closed-eyed landscape. They are spinning like the children. They are my blood rushing. They are suddenly, clearly, the endless spinning of the double helix of DNA, moving across my field of vision. These aren’t visions. Just images. This isn’t a visionary medicine. Realizing that I suddenly also realize that I’ve just peaked. That my heart, racing, racing, is not going any faster this second than it was the last. There are animals everywhere in the dark. And then there is the Phyllomedusa bicolor taking up the whole screen. It barks its strange and unique repeated bark so familiar to me in the jungle. No. Wait. This bark is coming from me. I hear my oldest son laughing nearby. I’m so happy he’s close. I know I’m not going to die now. I roll over onto my back and begin to chuckle. I’m still racing but the charge has slowed to a gallop. The blood-drop helix reappears and I watch it slowing down, so beautiful, so clear, so delicate but so strong. I realize I’ve been sweating. I’m soaked despite the coolness of the house. I start making sounds just to announce to the world my being alive again. A shiver runs up and down my spine, down into my feet and toes and back up again. I’m giggling, and begin to talk. My son tells me I’m 62

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talking nonsense words. I meant to say, “That’s some medicine, that’s some crazy medicine,” but my lips can’t yet form words. My son laughs. “Dad. People let you do this to them? They’re freaking crazy.” I laugh. It’s extraordinary medicine. And he knows it. He’s been burned himself a few times. I rest. Perhaps half an hour passes. I finally force myself into action and get to the bathroom to vomit and defecate. I wash up and walk to the front porch. It’s a glorious Texas morning. I can see for miles through the crisp late autumn foliage. I can hear horses playing deep in the rear of my neighbor’s property several hundred yards away. I hear the remaining leaves on my trees rustling in the slight breeze. I have such clarity of vision and hearing. I am clean inside. I am wonderfully alive. No matter how many times I use sapo, the speed and power with which it works never stops surprising me. The very first time I used it was the most frightening of all. It was 1986 and I was in the Amazon with my guide and teacher, the wonderful naturalist and survival guide Moises Torres Vienna, and my brother-in-law Steve Flores. We were out on the river Galvez, near the Peruvian border with Brazil, in a Matsés Indian village. The Matsés, who, like everyone who lives on the rivers in the Amazon, have had contact with river traders, the military and missionaries, were still pretty remote at that time. They wore clothing at times, at other times didn’t; they still tattooed the beautiful hashmark tattoo around their mouths and across their cheeks nearly to their ears, and wore bamboo splints in their upper lips and noses daily, which, when accented with the red dye of the achiote plant, made them look like jaguars. A few of the

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men spoke basic Spanish; for the rest they spoke their own language, a guttural tongue anthropologists say is part of the Panoan language group. It was only our second or third day at that particular village, which was really just the home of two men, Pablo and Alberto, and their several wives and nearly 20 children. Steve had gone out early in the morning with Alberto and one of the older boys; I stayed with Moises and Pablo in the hut of Pablo’s main wife, Ma-Shu. Ma-Shu was cooking something and I was pointing to things around the fire and asking what the Matsés words were for them. There were clay pots and bows and arrows stuck into the hut’s leaf roof, woven baskets and the like. And then I pointed to a little plastic bag that was hanging perhaps three feet above the fire. Pablo’s eyes lit up. “Sapo. Sapo Petro” (his pronunciation of Pedro). With a long stick he quickly unhooked the twine that held the bag, brought it down and opened it. Inside was a small bamboo stick with what looked like varnish on it. “Sapo. Medicina. Bueno,” he said with mischievous enthusiasm. He spit on the stick and began scraping the varnish with a piece of vine he broke from one of the hut’s joints. I watched, wondering what the heck he was doing. In moments he’d mixed the spit with varnish to make a loose paste. Then he put the bamboo splint down and stuck the bit of vine into the fire. He picked it up once it caught and blew on one end until it was bright red. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he reached out and grabbed my left wrist. I went to draw it back but he held it firmly. Then he burned my inner forearm with the vine, thrust the stick back into the fire for a moment, then burned me again. Still holding on to my wrist he deftly scraped off the burned layers of skin, then scraped some of the paste off the bamboo splint and dabbed it on the raw flesh he’d exposed. “Sapo, Petro. Sapo.”

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And then he barked, a strange but familiar sound I didn’t recognize at the time as being the call of the Phyllomedusa bicolor tree frog. In moments my head began to feel strange, like it was getting hot. My heart began to race. I looked at Moises and asked what it was and what was happening. Moises, who knew everything about the rainforest, just shrugged as if to say he had no idea what this sapo was. I got terrified. My heart beat faster. Ma-Shu saw me begin to double up to vomit and quickly got me out of her hut. I fell onto the clay outside and vomited violently, then, unable to hold myself up, fell onto my side. Whatever it was was surely going to kill me and I prayed it would be over soon. The beating of my heart was like a loud drumbeat in my head. My temples felt as though they were going to explode at any instant. I was sweating uncontrollably. I could feel myself starting to shit and couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. I was just praying to die. I had no idea how long the ordeal lasted. I just know that at some point there were lots of children around me, giggling and saying “Sapo,” while Pablo was making farting noises and his wives laughed hysterically. At some point someone wiped my face with a piece of leaf and made a disgusted noise that set everyone laughing again. I passed out. When I woke I was on a low platform of a hut under construction. I stood shakily, amazed and thrilled to be alive. I heard someone talking and turned to them: There was no one within 50  feet of me. The only people I saw at all were Martha, Pablo’s youngest wife, and Ma-Shu, standing across the horseshoe shaped village in front of Ma-Shu’s hut. But I heard voices. It took me a minute to realize I was hearing their voices. But that was impossible. They weren’t yelling. And then I realized I

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was hearing monkey’s chatter as well, and looked to see where they were: nowhere in my field of vision. But then I realized my field of vision was much sharper than normal. I was looking at individual leaves in tall trees 30 meters away and seeing their serrations. And after a few more minutes, I realized I felt strong. Not just my regular strong, but really strong. In my notebook that night I wrote that I felt like God. Hyperbole, of course, but my sight, my hearing, my strength…everything was bigger and better than it had been. It hit me. Better than it had been before Pablo gave me the sapo. So that was the medicine. That’s why he called it “buena medicina.” In a little while Steve returned from his fishing expedition with Alberto and I told him what happened. He didn’t quite believe me, but that evening learned I was telling the truth when it happened to him as well. And over dinner, which I didn’t feel the need for, via a combination of the wretched Spanish of myself and Pablo, a sort of telepathy that seems to happen around the Matsés, and a lot of hand signals, I asked Pablo about this medicine. He explained that it was something the Matsés used to hunt, because it made them strong and invisible. They also used it for long hiking trips—the Matsés at that time would frequently walk a couple of hundred miles or so on hunting trips of several days—because, as Pablo explained with his hands, after sapo you weren’t hungry. And he also indicated it was used for lazy children, for people sick with the grippe—which still kills a number of fairly remote indigenous and a surprising number of mestizos as well—and to discover whether a woman was pregnant, and if she was, who was the father; whether the fetus was a male or female, whether it was in good health, and if not, as an abortive. I don’t know how I got all that, but it was all in my notes that night before

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bed. Pablo, I learned, was simply an amazing communicator. Of course, I didn’t actually get the value of much of what he’d said, or even understand it—what did he mean it made them invisible when hunting? And how could you tell who the father of a baby was? Heck, Pablo and I didn’t even speak the same language. I wondered if I’d just made it up. There was lots I didn’t know at the time. Among the more interesting things was that my written account of sapo would turn out to be the first first-hand account in the history of the world—at least according to several scientists, including Mark Plotkin and Richard Schultes—of a human taking an animal substance directly into the blood stream for medicinal purposes. I also didn’t know that after word of my account got out, other gringos would begin asking other indigenous about sapo—frog sweat—and that 20 years later it would be utilized by more than a dozen indigenous groups from Peru to Brazil. I also had no idea that that account would catch the interest of Vittorio Erspamer, a scientist at the FIDIA Research Institute of Neurosciences at the University of Rome, whose groundbreaking work with the medicine would yield more than six dozen new proteins, all of which are bioactive— meaning they work in humans as if the human body had produced them— opening up an entirely new branch of study in Western medicine: the study of amphibian proteins as curatives in humans. In the larger picture, the discovery and use of sapo by the Matsés, and their willingness to share it with me—who by sheer luck is a writer who was working with a major museum—has proven once again that only arrogance prevents much of the modern world from realizing how much there is to learn from the peoples who live in the remote corners of the world. Our continued rush to Westernize indigenous populations all over

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the globe has surely led to the disappearance of many medicines and other things that might have proven very valuable to us. And our continued arrogance will cost us many more.

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My Life among the Humans: A Concise Autobiography By David W. Fleck In 2007, American citizen David W. Fleck decided to ditch life as he knew it and to permanently move to the jungle, where he lives among one community of Matsés people in Peru. Here, in his own words, is the story of how and why he made that choice. F  F  F When I was a boy my parents asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Upon answering, “an Indian,” they informed me, to my profound disappointment, that “that is not a career option.” Some people wish they could go back in time and re-live their high school days. But surely they neglect to consider that this would involve again sitting through countless hours of endless, dreary classroom instruction. I remember proclaiming when I was in high school that, “Once I get my degree, I will never again set foot in another miserable classroom!” During our senior year, we all filled out a questionnaire that would tell us what jobs we were most suitable for, and the questionnaire assured me that I should be a forest ranger. I liked the idea—I pictured myself sitting in towers watching for forest fires and keeping bears from stealing picnic baskets—but it required a B.S. degree in wildlife management. Consequently I ignored my declaration and set foot in the classrooms of the Ohio State University, department of zoology. I have a motto that I live by: “Avoid doing stupid things.” Unfortunately, when I drink I forget it. In 1991, my uncle, an admiral, was given command of the Peruvian Navy’s Amazonian fluvial fleet, based in Iquitos, Peru. He

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invited me to come visit for a spell, and needing to carry out an Honor’s research project, I accepted. The project involved trapping, ear-tagging, and releasing opossums (of which there are many species in South America) in primary rainforest along the Ucayali River, a major tributary of the Amazon. One day, while drinking too much locally produced sugarcane rum at a bar in an otherwise quiet small town near my research site, I began to show off my knowledge of Portuguese, which I had learned at OSU. A local man informed me that there was a path that led to Brazil, and that after only a four-day hike I could be speaking Portuguese with people who could understand me. Once I staggered back to the research center, at 2:00  a.m., I proceeded to knock on the doors of the director and all the researchers, one-by-one, telling them that I would be leaving for Brazil the very next day. In the morning I didn’t even remember waking everyone up, but they teased me for weeks saying, “When are you going to Brazil?” There is a song, I can’t remember who sings it, but it goes something like, “You can’t find what you want, if you don’t know what you want.” Not true! When I learned that the baker of the nearby town was going via the path to a Peruvian town at the Brazilian border, I asked to accompany him, hoping in that way to get the other researchers off my back (plus I was actually interested in seeing Brazil). The baker did not like to talk and would not answer any of my questions during the hike, so I was surprised when after following him for four days through virgin rainforest we arrived, by way of the baker’s unannounced shortcut, at a Matsés Indian village, from where the Matsés would take us by canoe the rest of the way to the border. I didn’t even know that there were Indians in the area. The chief asked me what brought me to Amazonia, and when I told him that I captured animals to study them, he invited me to do my work at his

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village, where he and others would help me catch animals. I accepted, of course. I spent two years doing Master’s research with the Matsés, trapping, hunting, learning the secrets they knew about nature, and sharing their meals and their lives. I knew (and still know) almost nothing for certain, but one thing I was completely sure of is that I needed to keep coming back to the Matsés. The word matsés essentially means “person” or “human.” The Matsés consider non-Matsés to be not fully human, though not completely nonhuman. They see people in industrialized societies as having taken the wrong path, as opposed to the natural, human path. I agree with this latter opinion from both a biological and a personal viewpoint. For 99% of the time that humans have been evolving, they have lived in small-scale societies close to nature, and therefore it is not surprising that one should feel at ease in such an environment. And personally, I just feel more at home and at ease among them, away from stress, pollution, traffic jams, and unfriendly competition. Momentum, it seems, can impact more the path that our lives take, than the decisions we make. Perhaps this momentum is simply not making decisions. When it was time to begin my Ph.D., I declared my desire to continue documenting the Matsés’ natural history knowledge, but my advisor told me that if I wanted to continue working with Indians, I would need to switch to anthropology or linguistics. I enrolled in the linguistics department of Rice University in Houston in 1997, where I wrote a grammar of the Matsés language as my dissertation. I changed completely my field of study, but continued my research (two more years) at the same Matsés village. The next step in the academia ladder of success was a postdoctoral research position in Melbourne, Australia, a

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position I was attracted to because it allowed me to spend about half the time in the field, again with the Matsés. After four years working in and out of Australia, I had to face the fact that if I wished to remain in academia my only real option was to seek a tenure-track position as a university professor, which would entail spending little time in the field, and a lot of time in the dreary classroom, very probably very far from my family. The momentum was screeching to a halt, forcing the frightening decision that I had been avoiding for 15 years. I chose to quit my job, marry a Matsés woman (Dina), and live with the Matsés, farming, fishing, hunting, etc., hopefully until the end of my days. Boys like to show off. This is what comes to mind as I write this and know that at this point most readers will be wanting to ask me: “Why didn’t you go live full-time with the Matsés a long time ago?” Well, I did seriously consider doing it many times, but what held me back is that I was a good biologist and linguist. I enjoyed outdoing colleagues and being recognized for the quality and quantity of my publications, even though, I must confess, I do not find linguistics to be particularly interesting. On the other hand, while I prefer more than anything living with and living like the Matsés, I worried about the fact that I am not a good hunter. I’m a good enough shot, but my skills in orienteering and tracking are nowhere near those of a Matsés hunter, and I deem it impossible to master these skills unless one learns them as a child. In traditional Matsés society, hunting prowess is what gives men the most prestige. Even though I desired to live permanently with the Matsés, being a researcher was an acceptable compromise: I could spend a lot of time with the Matsés, and at the same time obtain status and money in the academic sphere. The decision I made to quit my job was much influenced by Dina’s grandfather, who

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counseled me saying, “It is not good that you are single. A proper human should have a spouse and raise children. It is time to leave behind the boy and become a man. If you are happy here, follow your heart and get married and stay.” And so I did. I was 38 at the time. Now, a year later, I have a boy of my own, named Dunu. There was a television show our family watched when I was young, Little House on the Prairie, where the despicable Olsens took great pride in being wealthier than the rest of the community. A typical work week in my new life involves a couple of days on the farm, two hunting or fishing expeditions, another day working on my home, and perhaps a rainy day carving toys for my son. There, one does not need to pay for a gym membership to attain an athlete’s physique. Sometimes the farm work can be overwhelming, and hunts are often unsuccessful. But this is not a source of anxiety for me, because the Matsés are not like the Olsens: when one falls behind in their farm work, others chip in and help; if someone has an excess of bananas, manioc, or corn, they share; if a hunter kills a large animal, his wife prepares a feast and distributes meat to those who have none. The Matsés language lacks terms for thank you and love—actions speak louder than words. One day my meager savings will dwindle, but the support of my new Matsés kin will never wane. As I see it, accumulation of wealth is driven by greed and has the effect of distancing others, a wrong turn off the path to happiness, in the dog-eat-dog world of the “sub-humans.” Why should I ever go back? April 24, 2009

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David Fleck with his baby

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ten pounds lighter, but alive; just as importantly, he brought back the goods (gallons of jagua juice extract), not to mention those magnificent spears, bows, arrows, baskets, and other assorted items that I immediately vowed to show in the gallery, even though we really can’t bear to part with most of it. Some art dealers we are! Bringing back the extract was only step number one. We still had to come up with a way to turn that precious substance into a viable product. You don’t just stick some jagua extract in a foil packet and tell your customers to have fun! We’d been through it before when we first developed our Earth Henna Body Painting Kit. Great henna powder was one thing. Sure you could mix it up with water, black tea, and eucalyptus oil (using the most basic of all recipes) to come up with a paste that people could paint on their bodies. But a typical henna paste only lasts three days before it loses its dyeing properties. We had to find a way to keep it fresh. Thank God for my friend Julie. A former editor at Glamour magazine, she introduced us to a brilliant cosmetology chemist, who helped us come up with a recipe that would give our henna paste a longer shelf life, while using only allnatural ingredients. Sound simple? Guess again. Yes, he provided us with a basic formula; but it was up to us to fine-tune it to our specifications and needs. Pascal spearheaded the project, attacking the thing with gusto, just as he might with a good puzzle. For at least six months, as it was in 1997, our kitchen became ascal returned from the jungle

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something very close to a laboratory, with Pascal serving as Mad Scientist in Chief (and yes, I was his Igor). It was time to start over—but this time, with jagua.

Matsés tray

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It didn’t take as long as it did with our first foray into the manufacture of a skin-care product, which is what a henna paste amounts to. With all his “experience” in that realm, Pascal was feeling like Super Chemist, and out came the old Kitchen Aid mixer, and his specially outfitted drill bit for concocting large batches of the stuff.

Pascal’s special homemade KitchenAid attachment

Once we had concocted a gel with the right consistency, next came the tests on our own skin (and that of our guinea pigs—anyone who walked through our door got “volunteered”) to determine what percentage of the extract was necessary to obtain maximum color for the longest period of time. After achieving what we considered to be satisfactory results, we next handed out free samples of the stuff to a few of the artists we know who are regular henna customers, and to whom we refer all calls for various events (wedding and baby showers, bar and bat mitzvahs, movie premieres, etc.). We asked them to play with it and give us feedback for further adjustments to the recipe. 77

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Last but not least, we focused our attention on the package design, marketing, and selling of what we decided to call the Earth Jagua Kit (but I’ll spare you those exotic details). Finally, after much expense, time, and trial & error, we had the prototype of a real product. Now all we needed was more of the raw material so we could mass-produce it. When that first shipment of jagua extract arrived, past customs inspections, we breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was also the first test of how reliable our new Indian friends would be, and they passed with flying colors! Our communication options with them are less than perfect. The village where they live has no electricity, no phones, and a radio transmission system that doesn’t always work. However, once one of them does get into Iquitos, he is able to send emails from a cybercafé, and we just have to pray that he receives our emails while he is still on the computer; otherwise, who knows when we may have the opportunity to communicate directly with him again? Payment to them is similarly tricky because Peruvian banks can be complicated to navigate. Nevertheless, despite these myriad obstacles, we were on our way! Our delight was matched only by the enthusiasm of our new business partners. Back in Morocco, in addition to providing the family with a stable income source, we are also able to help them in small but meaningful ways that far surpass their monetary value to us here in the States. For example, we financed the building of a well that was crucial to alleviating the severe, droughtinduced conditions in their region. When someone gets sick, we send “loans” that will never be repaid, and that’s all right. My Haitian background makes me exquisitely aware of how the ten dollars I might otherwise spend on a salad for lunch in Hollywood can positively impact the life of someone living on one dollar a day in Haiti. We are thrilled to be able to make a difference in their lives

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in our own small way, and feel more than happy to embark on a similar journey with our new allies in the Amazon. Before leaving the jungle, Pascal agreed to pay for a cooking stove that will go a long way toward lifting a certain amount of weight from Daniel’s wife’s workload. In the heart of the rainforest, when they’re hungry, they don’t just walk over to the supermarket to buy what they need. They have to hunt it, kill it, and build a fire to cook it. At the end of a long day, I can see how lighting a stove might come to seem like a luxury! And because they are in the middle of nowhere, and aren’t really keen on encouraging tourism in their neck of the jungle, they have no way of earning much needed cash for daily necessities. “When we get sick, we suffer,” Daniel said to Pascal one night as they talked. The money we send them also helps buy medicine for common ailments that, left untreated, can become life-threatening. This burgeoning business arrangement of ours is win-win all around. And for that, I am also happy.

The Matsés use this woven tool to fan fires while cooking

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legends, and myths surrounding the enigmatic jagua fruit—most of them unverifiable because they fall within that gray realm bookended by belief and faith. Is there a spirit that lives in the jagua tree? Does this spirit have a personality? Is it a messenger? Does it communicate with those seeking to divine its message by eating or using its pulp, imbibing its nectar, absorbing its essence? I believe the answer is yes. But, that’s just me. I tend to go with what the indigenous people say. And they say spirits in trees are as obvious to them as the person standing on the other side of the door when you answer their knock. So, what is the metaphysical message intended for users of the jagua fruit? What is the meaning behind the fruit’s ability to alter the physical state? Is there a blessing associated with its transformative powers? I wish I had an easy answer, and would happily make my many hypotheses on the subject the focus of this book, but who would care? The truth is there is scant information on the issue. Some evidence of ancient beliefs around the fruit exists, but that’s the trouble—they are ancient. Modern day Indians living in the Amazon have little to share on the matter. As they’ve moved into the 21st  century, most of the tribal communities that adorned their bodies with the jagua fruit have left behind their traditional practices and beliefs. With the influence of missionaries in the region, many of the new generation of Indians living in the jungle today have been taught to shed their animist beliefs and to focus here

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instead on the “real” world, as opposed to what they feel is real. In their quest to become modern, they happily comply. The romantic notions we harbor of indigenous people living in the rainforest, clad in loin cloths and fig leaves with bones through their noses and lips, tribal markings on their faces, and bare breasts bouncing are, for the most part, exactly that—fanciful notions and fantasies. As Pascal witnessed, the baggy shorts, t-shirts, modest skirts, and knock-off Converse sneakers that have become a common fashion statement worldwide, have also reached the most far-flung regions of the Amazon. There is no doubt that modernity has its pluses. The Matsés love plastic containers and aluminum pots and pans. (They don’t have to make them, they’re flat on the bottom so they sit straight, they have handles which make it easier to cart things around, and metal can go directly on a flame.) Access to certain medicines provides comfort and a better quality of life, and in many cases, extends life. High instances of infant mortality rates, and death by infectious and non-communicable diseases, as well as the effects of chronic and degenerative diseases can be greatly curtailed. It cannot be overstated that many conditions in indigenous people can be traced back, in part, to historical dominance by European colonizers. Dramatic environmental changes followed their arrival, resulting in locals’ dependence on outside resources, and adoption of a western lifestyle at odds with traditional ways of life that had evolved over millennia in response to a very specific climate and ecology. Yet, no amount of wishing back the past will change that. This is not necessarily a bad thing. For example, while traditional methods of healing are potent and go a long way, they cannot replace needed surgeries. So, as the Indians fight to preserve their traditions, and work hard to protect their indigenous way of life (like mounting fierce defenses against loggers and petroleum companies),

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they also recognize that modern tactics, like using the media and attorneys, should not be ignored. On the way to dealing with life as it is now, it is an unfortunate fact that some of the precious stones in the necklace of tradition were replaced with common plastic beads. When Pascal returned from his visit in the Amazon, he brought back with him a book written in 2004 by several authors, including Daniel and David (mentioned in Pascal’s journal entries). Titled The Traditional Life of the Matsés, the book was written with the express purpose of creating a historical record for future generations about the life and times of the people as they lived just thirty years ago. Here is a brief excerpt from the book in which the art of tribal tattooing is described: In 1974, both men and women have tattoos on their cheeks, and sometimes on their chest or arm. They mix soot from copal smoke with juice of a genipap (forest tree) fruit to make black paint and prick it with a palm thorn. The same juice is used for body painting. The tattoo signified that the Matsés are fearsome. Children brought into the Matsés were also tattooed. Men make the tattoos for both boys and girls. The younger generation in 2003 does not have tattoos. Alarmingly, this last sentence—“The younger generation in 2003 does not have tattoos”—illustrates what remains of the Matsés’ traditions of the past. Every single description of ancient rituals, lifestyle, and ornamentation customs in the book ends the same way. Here is another example, under the section “Women’s Nose Ornament”:

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The nose ornaments are made from the ribs of a palm leaf. Women pierced other women’s noses. Women did not wear their ornaments after a death. Nowadays, women do not use this ornament. When Pascal asked Daniel why they no longer tattoo themselves, he just shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: That’s old stuff; we don’t do that anymore. So you can see how getting the 411 straight from the horse’s mouth could be a frustrating pursuit. I had to go digging! And I did find plenty of spicy references about the uses of and traditional thinking behind the magical jagua fruit. But let’s start with the basics. F  F  F

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Just the Facts The jagua fruit is a large rounded berry that looks like a guava with a thin, greenish gray skin that is leathery to the touch. It is 9 to 15 cm long, 7 to 9 cm wide, and weighs between 200 and 400 grams. Inside the fruit, up to 300 hard, flat, dark brown seeds are enveloped in a thick, soft, yellow-brown pulp. Its botanical name is Genipa americana (of the Rubiaceæ family), and the tree is small to medium-sized, measuring 24 to 60 feet in height. It grows primarily in the Amazon and is found in Venezuela, Panama, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Brazil, French Guiana, Surinam, and Guyana. However, it is also native to (or has been planted in) other tropical areas spanning Mexico and the Caribbean (including El  Salvador, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Haiti, Guadeloupe, Trinidad, and the Virgin Islands). It also grows in the Philippines. F  F  F

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Depending on where it is found, the jagua fruit goes by many names, including: Acuisho Akui sho y Kuikuisho Ana Bilito Cafecillo denta Carcarutoto Caruto Caruto revalsero Chibará Chipará Genipa Genipap Genipapo Granado Guaitil Guaricha Guayapay Guayatil Guayatil colorado

Huito Huito de agua Huito sua Huitoc Huitol Huitu Isso Janipa Jave Jidoro Jigua Juaraavuro Lana Launa Mandipa Mayagua Nandé Nandi y Nane

Nandipa Nané Nanu Nso Palo colorado Piginio Pigio Sua Tapuripa Totumillo Vito Vitoc Witu Xagua Yacohuito Yayuhuito Zapote de monte ZXaguo

Take your pick! In the former British West Indies it is called Marmalade Box, and in French it is referred to as Bois de Fer, meaning “ironwood,” which gives a hint as to the nature of the tree itself. Its trunk diameter ranges from 30 to 80 cm (12 to 30 inches), and it sports a thick, smooth bark. Typically, the

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wood, which is a yellowish white, and sometimes pink or lavender with reddish brown streaks, is used for building, production of furniture, boxes and spears, and making fires. As reported by explorer Leonard Clarke in his book, The Rivers Ran East, which recounts his expedition into the Peruvian jungle in 1946, the wood is also floatable, and was thus used by the Indians to make rafts. The jagua fruit tree blossoms from May to September. Its flowers are short yellow tubes, which open into pretty, vanilla-white to yellow five-petaled blooms with slightly scented dark centers. Closely allied to the gardenia species, the flowers—which yield nectar for honeybees—may be used to create aromatic oils, as well as medicinal infusions. The bark and resin of the tree are also alleged to have medicinal properties, as does its fruit (see below for more on the medicinal properties of the jagua fruit). But mostly, the fruit of the tree is where the primary interest lies. When they are about six years old, the trees begin to bear fruit. A fifteen- to twenty-year-old tree can yield an annual harvest of 400–600  fruits, which are either picked from the tree or collected after they mature and fall to the ground. Though edible—when overripe and soft to the touch—with a taste reminiscent of dried apples, prunes, or licorice, depending on whom you ask, the fruit is rated low on the consumption scale. Rather, it is used for creating a host of secondary products. For instance, a lemonade-like drink is made when the cut fruit is added to a pitcher of water with sugar. Puerto Rican street vendors use a concentrate of jagua juice for pouring over shaved ice. Jagua jellies, sherbet, and ice creams can be found in the Philippines. Syrups, soft drinks, wine, and potent liqueurs are concocted with the fruit in Brazil. In Guyana, the fallen fruit is eaten by animals and is also used as fish bait.

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Medicinal Properties of the Jagua Fruit The medicinal uses of jagua are seemingly endless: 1. In El Salvador, eating it is considered a remedy for jaundice. 2. Consumed in sufficient quantities, it works to expel intestinal worms. 3. A jagua fruit juice aids in the secretion of urine. 4. Fermented jagua is used as an infusion against the common cold. By extension, it is used to reduce swelling of respiratory and mucous memmembranes. 5. Antibiotic function in all parts of the fruit has been scientifically proven. 6. A mixture of bark extractions and crushed fruit work to heal venereal sores, as well as inflammation of the pharynx. 7. When diluted, a white gum emitted from the bark is used as eyewash and, it is said, may heal corneal opacities. 8. Extractions from the root of the tree act as a strong laxative. 9. Juice extracted from its leathery leaves reduces fevers, as does a decoction made from the flowers. 10. Ground seeds are used to induce vomiting. 11. Jagua is a natural insect repellent. A scientific experiment in which ethanol and water extracts from the pulp and skin of the unripe fruit were tested against sand flies in Peru proved deadly against these carriers of bacterial and viral diseases. Moreover, Peruvian Indians are known to wrap the green fruit in banana leaves, toast it over a slow fire, and apply

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it to the skin, which works to repel mosquitoes for eight days. Of course, the skin turns black and stays that way for the duration—but that is a small price to pay for keeping the little bloodsuckers at bay! 12. Brewed as a tea, it is said to heal bronchitis. 13. A decoction made with the fruit may induce abortions. 14. Don Antonio Montero Pisco, a well-regarded shaman of the Peruvian Amazon, holds that the strained fruit juice helps to heal cancer of the uterus. 15. Cooked fruit and seeds are used in baths for genital inflammations in women. 16. A poultice made from the same fruit and seed decoction is helpful in treating ulcers. 17. Haitians are known to use various preparations to treat anemia, tumors, and disorders of the liver, as well as aphrodisia (an extreme state of sexual desire).

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The Vampire Catfish of the Amazon Last but not least, jagua may act as a defense against the dreaded “Vampire Catfish.” The candirú or canero (Vandellia cirrhosa) is a parasitic fish found in the Amazon River. No longer than six inches (15  cm) in length, it is skinny, slimy, and translucent, rendering it nearly invisible to the eye. This much-feared eel-like creature lies in wait at the murky bottom of the river until it detects breathing patterns and discharges of urea and ammonia (both components of urine) from potential victims—usually, a variety of fish species. The canero then springs into action, bolting toward the fish and into its gills. It lodges there using the umbrella-like spines near its head, and quickly finds an artery. Making good use of its extra sharp teeth, it sucks the host’s blood until satiated, resulting in sure death for its prey. Why is this tiny predator counted among the most dreaded fish in the Amazon? Because it is also known to attack human beings—not through gills (since we don’t have any), but through the penis, vagina, or rectum. People urinating in the river attract the fish, whose taste for urine has already been described. After insinuating itself through these orifices, its backward-pointing spines open in a parasol fashion, making it impossible to pull out by its tail. Once lodged, it slurps away at its victim’s blood, tissue, and mucous membranes. If there is time enough to get the person to a hospital, the fish can be extracted surgically. In other cases, penile amputation may be the only option. But wait, all is not lost! There is ample evidence to suggest that a tea brewed from the jagua fruit, and drunk while hot by the victim, will dissolve the skeleton of the fish or soften its spines, resulting in its expulsion from the body. Still, since jagua may not always be immediately available, here’s a word to the wise: If you plan on swimming in the Amazon, ditch the idea of skinny dipping and wear a tight bathing suit instead. The canero cannot penetrate fabric.

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Where do they come from, these myths, legends, and folk tales that so beguile us? Do they arise from actual circumstances experienced, then recounted and embellished through the ages? Or do they stem from beliefs dreamed up to explain the unexplainable? All throughout the Amazon, the legend of the pink dolphin (el Bufeo colorado) is often invoked to explain unplanned pregnancies. As the story goes, the pink river dolphin—which does exist in real life—shapeshifts into a man who seduces young girls. One has to wonder about the source of this fantastical belief (see page 184 for more on the pink dolphin legend). And all over the world has the full moon inspired mythology: does this celestial body incite people to commit crimes, become violent, and transform into werewolves? And on the positive end of the urban legend spectrum, is the bella luna responsible for heightened intuition, enhanced creativity, and the monthly cycle of a woman’s menses in the same way that it controls the tides? Or were these multiple beliefs and legends created by primitive humans in order to help them divine the meaning of that recurrent luminous orb in the sky? Scientists, atheists, and otherwise “rational” people will go with the latter, while “the magical people” will go, every time, with the principle that the stories must be born of personal knowledge and practical interaction. Magical people is a term coined by author Christine Wicker in her book, Not in Kansas Anymore: The Curious Tale of How Magic is Transforming America. In it she recounts her adventures as a skeptical Dallas Morning News religion reporter investigating so-called New Age tenets. She comes to the totally charming conclusion that those who believe in

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certain things—like the power of energy, the existence of spirit entities, and the supernatural properties of flowers—may not be able to prove the veracity of their claims, but they tend to lead happier lives. Rather than labeling them whack jobs or silly and superstitious, she chooses to call them “the magical people.”

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Hi, I’m a magical person. Just look at the jagua fruit: a large, green, innocent-looking berry whose clear juice can turn a person’s skin black. It must come with extraordinary powers, if only to cause the transformation. See? That’s how I think. Jagua as a paranormal agent for metamorphosis seemed so obvious that I assumed it would be easy to find evidence in support of my theory. Surely there would be plenty of unprovable beliefs for me to find surrounding the fruit’s mystical attributes. On one hand I turned out to be wrong; proving my premise was far more challenging than I had imagined. But I was so right about the number of otherworldly powers ascribed to the fruit! As mentioned earlier, The Amazon Indians with whom we had contact don’t think about it much. They have either forgotten, don’t care, or just have more important matters to attend to (like survival). So it took a lot more research than I thought; but in the end, I did manage to find plenty of juicy stories (so to speak) about jagua. Are they real, these tales? Could they possibly be rooted in truth? Will applying a concoction made with the fruit’s pulp, juice, or extract open the door to magical possibilities? Maybe yes, maybe no. In Haiti, where the Vodou religion is widely practiced, they have a saying: You don’t have to believe that the spirits [of Vodou] exist, as long as you serve them. Here is a sampling of Amazonian thinking about the jagua fruit, as evidenced by the important place it holds in so many of the Indians’ mythologies. You don’t necessarily have to believe in the tales I unearthed about jagua—as long as you know that they exist!

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Mystical Jagua Beliefs To Acquire Strength Peruvian shaman and painter Pablo Amaringo says that the caballo piripiri plant is ingested to acquire great strength. Another way to acquire this benefit is to combine equal parts caballo piripiri with the jagua fruit and pour it over the body. One must then avoid sun, salt, sweets, garlic, liquor, and pig fat for eight days while also abstaining from sex, or socializing with anyone who is sexually active. Preparing for War Painting oneself with the fruit of the jagua tree was an integral part of preattack rituals of many indigenous people of the Amazon, for the black designs on the skin helped create an appearance of fierceness. It was usually the women who painted the men on the face and body with strong wide stripes, as well as with broken, wavy, and narrower lines complemented by dots to create an imposing and bone-chilling effect upon the people being raided. In addition, it conferred upon the Indians chameleon-esque powers, in that they were able to remain camouflaged among the leaves and trees before bounding into the open in order to surprise their unsuspecting victims in full blue-black, frightening, war-painted splendor. For example, males in the Sapara community of central-eastern Ecuador painted their faces with jagua in order to look like tigers—with two stripes on the chin, two on either side of the mouth (like whiskers), two tracing the eyes to the hairline, and four on the forehead. This design was specifically meant to protect them and give them strength.

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Turning the Skin White In Head Hunters of the Amazon—Seven Years of Exploration and Adventure, published in 1923 and written in the late 1800s by Fritz W. Up de Graff, the author recounts an excursion into Shuar (then Jivaro) Indian territory in both Ecuador and Peru, where he witnessed mostly women, designated as “halfcastes” (meaning half Indian and half Spanish) painting their faces, necks, arms, and hands with the jagua fruit, because they believed that as it wore off, it would take some of the blackness of their skin with it. In their quest to rid themselves of the stigma of “Indian blood,” they would willingly sacrifice their appearance for weeks, going about their daily lives with skin stained black so that they could achieve the elusive goal of becoming white. The Power of Transformation Archeologists studying ancient native peoples and the use of colored pigments derive meaning in the symbolism of color, and in body painting with specific colors as a means of transformation—of themselves and their possessions. They also see body painting with specially chosen colors as a means of protecting and cleansing; of amassing or conferring power; and as a way of representing important beliefs around health, good fortune, or a creative force. Among the ancient Tsachila people of Ecuador, painting one’s body was an essential element of spiritual preparation for taking part in rituals and ceremonies. For the modern Embera-Waounan Indians of Panama and Colombia, painting representations of deities with red achiote and/or black jagua serves to summon these spirit helpers and power animals.

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Bringing Harmony to the Cosmos The Yucuna Indians of the Colombian Amazon take part in a spiritual ceremony that has, at its core, the goal of conjuring up the spirits of the jungle, the gods of their ancestral culture, and the enjoyment of life. Central to this ceremony are the ritual ingestion of coca and tobacco; drinking of an alcoholic beverage of fermented fruit called chicha; the playing of indigenous musical instruments; singing of ancestral songs, with traditional dancing during festivals that can last three days; and, the wearing of native costumes made of bark cloth, feathers, and other ornamentation worn over bodies painted blue-black with the jagua fruit. Preventing Snakebites and Influencing Dangerous Snake Spirits The Kuna Indians, who live on the Panama-Colombia border, are especially fearful of snakebites and of snake spirits that are quite harmful and can cause life-and-death diseases, even without physical contact with an actual snake. As a result, a large reservoir of medicinal herbs, chants, and special magical formulas exists to counter and heal snakebites, as well as illnesses produced by snake spirits. At the moment of a child’s birth, Kuna midwives are able to foresee the maladies and troubles that may befall the infant. The ritual undertaken to prevent these misfortunes involves painting the individual’s body black with the dye from the jagua fruit, and then burying specific medicines in the ground during the time when fields are burned in preparation for the planting of crops. (Continued on page 103) 96

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1. A member of the Kayapo, an indigenous group living in Brazilian Amazonia. The Kayapo still practice traditional jagua ornamentation. 213 Photography by Cristina Mittermeier

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214 2 & 3. Members of the Kayapo still use jagua on a regular basis for ornamentation and other ceremonial purposes.

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216 4. Kayapo children in full jagua splendor

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5. Traditional jagua dye preparation

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6 & 7. Traditional jagua dye applications

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220 8. Kayapo girl with stunning jagua ornamentation

A Brief History of the Kayapo

The Kayapo Originally from the area east of the Araguaia River, the Kayapo Indians of central Brazil had their first devastating contact with explorers in the early 19th century, resulting in many of the men being slaughtered or wiped out from disease, and their women and children sold off as slaves. Unable to fight off their better-armed attackers, the Kayapo splintered into three groups and fled, subsequently gaining a reputation as hostile and aggressive to the outside world. By the 1950s, the government managed to infiltrate into the deepest reaches of their territory, marking the Indians’ first contact with modern society. Thereafter, further splitting of the Kayapo into smaller units occurred. Today, the total population of Kayapo Indians is approximately 7,000 divided over eighteen villages in a vast area, which spreads across Xingu Park and the states of Para and Mato Grosso. It encompasses an area close to the size of Austria in the central Brazilian rainforest. Twenty percent of the group (called Xikrin) live in the northern region of Kayapo territory along the Catete and Bacaja Rivers. The second, bigger group is located in the southeast, on the shores of the River Fresco and its tributaries. They are referred to as the Kayapo. Members of the last group, who live in the southwest, west of the Xingu River, and make up part of the Raoni Institute, are referred to as the Mekranoti. The Raoni Institute was founded in 2001 by Kayapo leader Raoni, who spearheads efforts to maintain his people’s traditional way of life through conservation and development projects. It is a non-profit, nongovernmental organization and reservation that is home to seven Kayapo villages numbering 2,370 Indians. The Kayapo, whose native tongue is part of the Gê language family, practice slash-and-burn agriculture, hunting, and gathering, and they har-

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vest cotton, tobacco, manioc, sweet potatoes, and fruit. Fish is their main source of protein. They also participate in a cash economy, which involves the lumber and mining industries. Stores that supply these workers have also begun providing the Indians with rice, beans, sugar, and milk, which is changing their dietary habits. Of immediate impact to their environment are the pressing issues of encroaching cattle ranches and plantations, as well as the gold rush. Ecologically, the Kayapo are highly advanced, in that the knowledge of their environment, accumulated over time, enables them to classify all plant, animal, and insect life and behavior in their region, making full, balanced use of their territory’s resources with practical applications in biological and medicinal realms. They take great pride in passing on this knowledge to their children. They live in thatch-roofed huts large enough to accommodate an entire family. They sleep in hammocks instead of beds, and they use canoes for long distance travel. Men typically have two to three wives; partners are chosen for children by their families, and marriages are considered formalized once the couple bears a child. The Kayapo also produce lovely beaded jewelry, woven hammocks, and beautifully crafted hunting tools. Two things distinguish the Kayapo from most other indigenous groups in the Amazon: 1. Their persistent adherence to traditional customs and ways of life. Although many members of the Kayapo can be found in wes-tern clothing, and they tend to use more shotguns than handcrafted tools for hunting, they are renowned for the attention they pay to important ceremonies (naming ceremonies in particular). Their striking array of body ornamentation, which en-compasses dramatic feather headdresses and lip discs, along with stunning 98

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body painting with jagua and achiote, is legendary; and they harbor a sustained belief in animist ideology as over-seen by shamans, who still play an important role in their society. 2. Their well-organized strategies in the political realm. There are other Indians whose issues are well represented with the help of indigenous rights groups and who approach their respective central governments with a unified voice; however, none seems to have left a more lasting impression than the Kayapo, when they embarked on a mass protest in 1989 against the Brazilian gov- ernment’s intention to fund six hydroelectric dams. These would have flooded over 8,000  square miles, displaced communities, and ruined their land. Perhaps it was the visual of the Kayapo in full ceremonial regalia, brandishing instruments of war and refusing to leave; maybe it was their teaming up with celebrities like Sting. But the protest worked. The government opted not to fund the dam construction, and the group gained international renown. Unfortunately, in May of 2008, the specter of a new dam construction sparked similar protests, which ended when a Kayapo woman attacked an engineer with a machete, leaving a gash on his arm. As of this writing the government’s response has yet to be decided.

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Indian Ink By Cristina Mittermeier Photographer Cristina Mittermeier’s work has appeared in major magazines around the world. At the heart of her work is the idea that people and nature are not isolated from each other, but are inexorably connected. Cristina is Executive Director of the International League of Conservation Photographers (ILCP), a prestigious group of photographers she founded in 2005 (www.ilcp.com). She is a Board Member of the WILD Foundation, and a member of the Society of Environmental Journalists. This intrepid photographer has been traveling and documenting the lives of in- digenous people in the Amazon since she was  24. She has a special relationship with the Brazilian Kayapo Indians. The following is her thoughtful account and experience of being painted with jagua during her first visit with the tribe. F  F  F Remember the magic ink we used to play with when we were children? The wondrous awe of black designs suddenly appearing on the page? That is how I first felt about “indian ink,” as I call it. The black ink used by many Amazonian tribes as body art is far more than simple ornament. It can tell a lot about the person who wears it. Things like family lineage, gender, marital status, age, personality, and fashion are all reflected in the endless variety of designs that can be encountered in a single village. The genipap, an Amazonian fruit that the Indians use for this body art, has no color of its

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own; but once it is mixed with charcoal, it oxidizes, creating a semi-permanent ink that can be used to paint designs on the skin that last up to a week. It darkens after it is applied, seeping into the skin and intensifying as it dries. I have been the reluctant recipient of this body art many times during my travels in the Amazon. The Indians, and especially the women, consider it a beauty faux pas to go without it, and they derive great pleasure from beautifying the blank canvas presented by foreign skin. It was during the first time I visited the Kayapo, an indigenous nation found in the state of Mato Grosso in Brazil, that I understood the real significance of this practice. As the painter settles on the floor to begin the lengthy painting process, the “paintee” must relax and be ready to sit still for a long, long time. The intimate experience of having your body painted with a unique design that suits your personality or your circumstance is also interesting. Are you clever like a monkey, or courageous like the jaguar? Are you young like a minnow or wise like the owl? All these things matter in the design, but what matters most is the time spent in close company to family and friends. Since those first visits to the Amazon I have been lucky to spend much time among Indians, and that has not only made me a better person, it has completely changed my life. I have forgotten many of the details of those first visits, but I hold on to the vivid memory of an afternoon spent sitting in the shade of a large tree with the chief’s wife. I could speak no Kayapo and she spoke no English (neither of us spoke any

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Portuguese either, for that matter). She prepared a mushy substance using the pulp of a fruit mixed in with charcoal, and with it she covered my legs, my arms and my belly with black designs. She kept repeating “meikomené,” which years later I discovered means “you are okay” in Kayapo. The black ink seeped into my skin and found its way to my heart. I know I will dedicate my career to making sure the struggles of indigenous people to maintain their lifestyle are not forgotten by those making decisions outside of the forest.

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Chapter Six: Jagua Magic (Continued from page 96)

Growing Your Pubic Hair Before missionary contact in the mid-60s, the Yuqui Indians of Bolivia believed that in order for a girl to menstruate and become an adult, she had to have sexual contact with a boy. At the onset of menstruation, she and the young man in question would be painted black with jagua to encourage the growth of pubic hair. In addition, the girl’s forehead was plucked of hair, and she was placed away from others behind a screen of palm fronds until the end of her menses. The Tikuna and Yagua Indians of the Colombian Amazon also use jagua in a rite of passage ceremony where the girl-to-woman metamorphosis takes place. Protection from Bad Spirits The Ecuadorian Tsachila people and the Arakmbut Indians of the Madre de Dios region of the Peruvian rainforest use the jagua fruit to draw lines and smear black patches on themselves in order to protect their bodies and souls from spirit attacks. Similarly, in the southern Colombian Amazon, the Tikuna and the Yagua people paint themselves to avoid illness caused by witchcraft. These Indians are also known as the “people of huito and achiote” because of both fruits’ significance to their culture (huito is one of the many names for jagua; achiote is a fruit that stains the skin red, but it washes off with water).

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Averting Stillbirth and Abortions As you will learn later on in this chapter, being painted black with the juice of the jagua fruit is tantamount to being painted with the protective amniotic fluid of the Earth Mother; hence, the usage of the fruit in magical rituals performed to prevent infant deaths. Kuna Indians believe that stillbirths, or the conditions that necessitate abortions, are a result of a mother’s womb being too hot. To counteract this overheating, a “Saptur Chanter” (saptur is their word for jagua) is called in to perform specific incantations at appropriate times during a ritual bathing of the mother, father, and child with jagua juice (if born alive, the baby is still considered in danger of premature death from its gestation period in the hot womb). While the chant is being sung over the child, jagua seeds are dug into the sand to “spread darkness in the ground,” which stops devils from climbing out of their underworld habitats to harm him. To Exorcise Devils A Kuna exorcist and his assistant employ the equivalent of a magic wand, or spiritually powerful cane, made from the wood of the jagua tree in rituals to rid a person of demonic possession. Similarly, a specific four-day ceremony to chase any devils away includes encircling the village in a “cloak of darkness” by having every family bury under each house a split jagua fruit wrapped in cloth. To Prevent and Cure Diseases Kuna shamans make all manner of amulets, talismans, and effigies of the gods—specifically for each patient—from the wood of the jagua tree in order to prevent or heal a variety of illnesses, from heartburn and venereal diseases to fever and athlete’s foot.

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To Communicate with Birds so as to Ensure a Good Harvest The Sapara women of east-central Ecuador endeavor to keep birds away from their manioc (or yucca) fields by painting their faces with jagua during the time of planting. They believe that dyeing their faces with short, jagged, horizontal lines on the forehead, across the bridge of the nose and outward to the temples, and at the corners of the mouth will recreate the look of turtle doves, which will stop birds from eating their crops. Headshrinking If you’re sitting around thinking you might like to shrink your enemy’s head to exploit his power, do what the Shuar (then Jivaro) Indians of Ecuador and Peru used to do and follow this recipe. Make sure you have a jagua fruit handy! 1. Sever the head with your weapon of choice. 2. Peel the skin from the face. 3. Sew the lips and eyelids shut so as to imprison the spirit. 4. While you sacrifice the skull and brain to the spirit of the anaconda, simmer the leftovers in a pot of jagua-infused water for two hours, after which the head will have shrunk to a third of its size. 5. Heat some stones and place them inside the head to shrink the skin of the head. (The hot stones will melt a layer of fat in the head and make the skin contract and turn black.) 6. Rub the face with charcoal and jagua berries to keep it moist in order to avoid cracking. 7. Smoke the head over a fire for an entire night.

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8. Trim the hair. 9. Enjoy your new power! Note: For all of your headshrinking needs, kits containing jagua juice are currently available nationwide in stores that sell supplies for body ornamentation and temporary tattoos (we call ours Earth Jagua). To avoid head shrinkage, do not horde the stuff, do not fill up a bucket, and do not dip your head in it. You have been warned!

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Jagua People-I This section includes brief histories of the indigenous groups mentioned (in order of appearance) in the preceding stories. I like to think of these Indians as Jagua People.

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The Zapara (or Sapara) Very little is known about the Zapara people because they were thought to have vanished as a culture, but they are very much in existence. It was their partial integration with the Quichua people—specifically, the Canelos-Quichua—that muddled the issue. A couple of circumstances explain this confusion. First, in contrast to many other Amazonian peoples, the Zapara were not contacted until 1654. Second, due to mass migration by different indigenous peoples seeking refuge in a shared geographical territory, the Zapara were confused with other tribal communities. The Zapara speak Quichua and have appropriated much of Quichua culture, but even as external influences continue to leave an imprint, their identity remains distinctively Zapara. Having been considered extinct as a people, the Zapara understand the stakes involved in loss of cultural identity more fiercely than many other Indian groups, some say. They were formally recognized in 1988 when they formed the Association of the Zapara Nationality. The Zapara live in Pastaza Province in the central-eastern Ecuadorian jungle near three rivers—the Handiayacu, Conambo, and Pindoyacu. They number 200–300, and there are close to 1,100 Zapara of mixed lineage (through intermarriage with Quichua Indians and other peoples). As river people, they are expert fishermen, in addition to being skilled hunters. In 1952, with the arrival of missionaries, whose stated goal was to “change the indigenous peoples’ view of the world,” the Zapara were introduced to new elements that would change their lives—some for the better, some not. These included the use of ammunition, salt, western clothing, medicines, schools, and landing strips; but those efforts did not succeed in turning the Zapara against their religious beliefs and native customs. By

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1983, three separate autonomous Zapara communities had been created; those that welcomed Protestant missionaries formed their own organization. Autonomous Zaparas believe in a richly populated spirit world, which oversees their physical world; they also place great stock in symbols that come to them in dreams. In addition, they accept the existence of an all-powerful god named Piatsao, who brings order to all things. (As recounted in the upcoming “Traditional Jagua Tales” section, Piatsao plays a role in one of their mythologies, in which the jagua tree is revealed as the tree of life.) By all accounts, the Zapara are a harmonious and peaceful clan, with pleasant relationships in evidence between generations and genders. Though there is a division of labor dictated by sex, it is not strictly adhered to; women and men are mutually respected, and women can even become shamans, as they are prized for their intuition and intelligence. Interestingly, in their society, there is no meting out of punishment (to children or lawbreakers), because rule-breaking simply does not occur. Today, they have piped-in water and latrines, solar panels to light the school and teacher’s house, and a satellite phone for emergencies. In 1998, the Zapara Nationality of the Province of Pastaza (ANAZPPA) was formed in order to establish Zapara education, revive their language, and preserve their culture; however, as of this writing, legalizing their territory is still in the works.

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

The Shuar (a.k.a. Jivaro) The first reference to the Jivaro Indians appears in the mid-15th century when the Incas tried to conquer their territory, then centered in Macas, Ecuador, but which now encompasses over seven million acres of jungle land from eastern Ecuador to northern Peru. Jivaro is the overall name that was given to four linguistically similar Indian communities identified as the Shuar (the largest of the groups, numbering approximately 70,000), the Ashuar, the Aguaruna, and the Huambisa. None of these Indian groups recognizes the term “Jivaro.” The four groups, numbering close to 90,000 in total, are characterized as ruthless warriors and are often called the “unconquered ones” for the unrivaled success of their revolt against the Spanish Empire. Adding to their notoriety was their former practice of shrinking their victims’ heads (tsantsa), the only headhunting group in the world known to do so. In 1964, the Shuar established territorial rights in Ecuadorian Amazon with the help of Salesian missionaries, giving birth to the Federation of Shuar Centres. A much-studied group, the Shuar are pioneers in education reform in the Amazon. Using radio as their medium, they broadcast to 300  schools and over 7,500  children, who are instructed in the basic tools and knowledge needed for modern life, while keeping a strong focus on Shuar culture and language. The driving force behind the education initiative was to prepare the Shuar with the skills needed to fight for their rights alongside Ecuadorian nationals. Although somewhat influenced by Christian missionaries, the Shuar have an abiding belief in the existence of spirits and of their influence in daily life. Nungui, their Earth Mother, has the power to make plants grow; and Arutam protects them from disease and injury. Although the Shuar

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now acquire and wear western clothes, they are most often seen in the traditional plain or painted cloth that women drape over the shoulder, and which men belt at the waist. However, ceremonies call for elaborate ornamentation, including jagua body painting and other embellishments made with feathers and bones. Skilled craftspeople, Shuar men are expert weavers, while pottery is the exclusive domain of women. Today, the Shuar still rely on subsistence farming, hunting, and fishing for food, using spears, darts, and blowguns to capture their prey. Increasingly, however, they are turning to raising cattle—which means land must be cleared for grazing—and other economic activity (eco-tourism, craftwork sales, day labor work) in order to meet the growing needs dictated by 21st-century challenges. Still, the rainforest’s sustainability remains a top priority for the Shuar. Acutely aware of its impact on their survival, they remain undeterred in their quest to fight the oil companies that seek to exploit their land, and they maintain a fierce aversion to dependence on the outside world.

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The Tsachila It isIt isestimated estimatedthat thatthe theTsachila Tsachila Indians Indians numbered numbered 20,000 20,000 to to 30,000 back in the 1800s. By 1900 they were reduced to 3,000; today 30,000 back in the 1800s. By 1900 they were reduced to 3,000; today they number just under 2,300. They have yet to be granted full legal title to their lands by the Ecuadorian state. The Tsachila, who believe painting painting their their bodies bodies with with jagua jagua helps helps to to ward ward off off evil evil spirits, spirits, live live in in seven seven communities spread throughout the western foot of the Andes near the communities spread throughout the western foot of the Andes near the city of Santo Domingo in the province of Santo Domingo de los Tsachilas, city of Santo Domingo in the province of Santo Domingo de los Tsachilas, so named due to the group’s proximity. They are commonly referred to as so named due because to the group’s proximity. They are commonly referred to as the Colorados of their identifying feature: shaved heads topped the Colorados theirachiote identifying shavedwith heads topped with bright red because hair dyedofwith seedsfeature: and shaped grease into hair dyedis with achiote word seedsforand shaped with grease awith capbright shapered (colorado the Spanish “red” or “colored,” andinto the Indians don’t(colorado particularly like Spanish that name). peopleorspeak Tsafiki, a cap shape is the wordThe for “red” “colored,” andfrom the the Chibchan family of languages, but theyThe all people speak Spanish as well.from Indians don’t particularly like that name). speak Tsafiki, In the early 18th century, Santo Domingo de los Colorados found the Chibchan family of languages, but they all speak Spanish as well. itself at the center of the state’s construction of a path joining Quito to the Pacific This18th path century, was expanded the 1950s a major network In coast. the early Santo in Domingo de with los Colorados found of roads that brought economic, political, social, and joining historical changes itself at the center of the state’s construction of a path Quito to the to the Tsachila population. see thewith red-haired Indians Pacific coast. This path was Tourists expandedeager in theto1950s a major network with red-painted bodies arrived in droves. The path also brought white of roads that brought economic, political, social, and historical changes colonizers and a wave of landowners. New cities were formed, splitting to the Tsachila population. Tourists eager to see the red-haired Indians off the Tsachila communities from each other and effectively shrinking with red-painted bodiesculture arrived droves. The path brought white their territory. Spanish hasinslowly seeped into also traditional Tsachila colonizers paving and a wave of landowners. Newsee cities formed, eventual splitting customs, the way for what some as were the group’s off the Tsachila communities from each other and effectively shrinking extinction. their territory. Spanish culture has slowly seeped into traditional Tsachila customs, paving the way for what some see as the group’s eventual extinction.

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The Tsachila were originally subsistence farmers of plantain, rice, maize, manioc, pineapple, and sugarcane, as well as fishermen renowned for their use of the poison barbasco to kill their catch. They also used blowguns with darts to hunt game. By the mid-20th century, shotguns had supplanted blowguns as the hunting weapon of choice, and today, though they still farm, fish, and hunt, the Tsachila mostly raise cattle and work as laborers on plantations. The 1960s also brought the oil boom in Ecuador, resulting in massive changes to the environment of the Tsachila. Oil exploration and extraction by Texaco alone led to the drastic deforestation of 1.7 million acres in the Amazon, with spills of 300,000 barrels of crude oil over 25 years, forcing previously thriving communities to be displaced. On the upside, there are many organizations working with the Tsachila and other groups on issues of self-determination. One resulting project is “Aldea Colorada,” a resort built by the seven communities of Tsachila Indians. It aims to promote historical Tsachila culture and generate much-needed income. Situated on eleven acres, the resort features an ecological forest and hiking trails, as well as indigenous huts meant to recreate the way the Indians lived in simpler times. Guests staying there must wear traditional Tsachila clothing, walk on stones laid by hand, sleep on con-ventional woven straw mats, cook over open wood fires, participate in ceremonies, and maintain all Tsachila customs. Renowned as skilled herb- alists and shamanic healers, the Tsachila people also plan to build a botanical museum on the property.

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The Embera-Waounan (formerly the Chocos) Before 1983, the linguistic groups known separately as the Embera and the Waounan were known collectively as the Chocos of the Darien province of eastern Panama and the Department of Choco in western Colombia. A reference dating to the early 1970s describes them as living a 16th-century lifestyle, dressed in not much more than jagua body paint over their practically nude bodies. A decade later, the Embera-Waounan were traveling outside of their riverine habitats, traveling to Panama City, and engaging with tourists, but magical beliefs still held sway over technological advances. Since joining together as the Embera-Waounan and being granted legal status as a comarca (self-governing political territory) in 1983, much has changed, and the quest to retain traditional beliefs and way of life is hard-fought indeed. Once hunter-gatherers and fishermen, the Embera-Waounan now depend on agriculture for subsistence, which may very well lead to their eventual extinction, as deforestation of the Amazon marches on. Construction in 1979 of the Pan-American Highway, while making the modern world accessible, opened the area to cars, trucks, and peasants seeking land to clear for cattle grazing. As a result, on either side of the road, there is no visible jungle for miles. Artificial lake and dam construction projects have also had their deleterious effects—community displacement among them. The allure of city life has also seduced younger generations away from villages. In addition, the influence of mostly Christian groups has discouraged native cultural practices such as body painting (although they still use jagua!), traditional medicine, and spiritual ceremonies; and the loincloth has been replaced with pants, shorts, and t-shirts.

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To generate income, the Embera-Waounan still do some fishing (with spears and nets), and cultivate plantains, yucca, rice, beans, sugar cane, corn, and bananas. Master basket weavers and wood carvers, the Indians also cater to the local crafts trade and to a growing tourist industry. Today, several villages have become destination points for tourists wanting to learn the fine art of Embera-Waounan basket-weaving techniques, as well as engaging in other activities, including trekking through the jungle, bird watching, traditional dancing, and body painting.

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

The Yucuna (or Yukuna) The Yucuna Indians inhabit the Miriti-Parana and lower Caqueta regions of the Amazon River within a specially demarcated territorial Indian zone in Colombia. In the early 20th century there were some 15,000  Yucuna Indians. By 2004, a population of 1,800  community mem- bers existed, only 5%–10% of whom still spoke Yucuna, a part of the Arawak language group. In spite of fierce and sustained resistance by Yucuna warriors, mass extermination of the Indians can be attributed to the violent excesses of the rubber boom, which enslaved many, putting them into debt servitude. Continued exploitation by modern-day explorers seeking to extract exotic rainforest woods, fish, game furs, cocaine, and most recently, gold, has only exacerbated the forcibly restructured lives of the Yucuna. They have attempted to escape to the city of Leticia or the Mestizo town of La  Pedrera to find other ways of earning income. These migrations have created tensions between traditional Yucunas and thosetrying to find alternatives in the modern world. The armed drug trafficking trade and growth of illegal crops on ever-expanding agricultural boundaries add to increasing pressures on Yucuna culture, but hunting, fishing, and planting of community gardens (called chagras) today still account for a majority of the community’s subsistence and economic activity. Thanks to constitutionally approved land reserves called resguardos, the Yucunas retain many of their traditional ways of life and are able to function as dictated by their unique view of the world, which emphasizes the interconnectedness of the environment with all living things. Indeed, one of their most important ceremonies involves using jagua to bring about harmony in the cosmos.

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The Yucunas believe that balance must be maintained between humans, animals, and plants, and that an excess of energy in any one sphere would upset the natural flow of life. Through specific rituals and thought traveling (similar to the Australian aborigines’ “dreamings” or “walkabouts”), specially appointed shamans confer with a host of supernatural beings that help guide the group to properly distribute resources in areas of agricultural planning, hunting, fishing, livestock production, and more. Christian missionaries have tried—and succeeded, to some extent—to convert the Yucunas away from these beliefs, and away from traditional life in communal longhouses called malocas (a focal point for all Yucuna social structure). Nevertheless, the shaman remains a constant spiritual authority figure.

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

The Kuna For the last two hundred years, the majority of Kuna Indians have lived in the autonomous region (or comarca) made up of the San Blas Archipelago (a.k.a. Kuna Yala), a group of some 370  islands off the northeastern coast of Panama. They number roughly 76,000, with 53,000 living on the islands; their spoken language is Kuna. The Spanish arrived in Kuna territory in the 1500s, bringing with them European diseases and sustained warfare that decimated many Indians. After Panama gained independence from the Spanish, the Kuna continued to fight for their own autonomy and were finally granted comarca status in 1938. Kuna social and political life is structured, well organized, and overseen by the General Kuna Congress, which teaches and reinforces Kuna values, formulates laws, and settles disputes. Each of the islands has a community school, which all children are required to attend until sixth grade, after which they move on to a communal school on one of the larger islands. Some further their studies in Panama City. Originally reliant on subsistence hunting, farming, fishing, and horticulture, today the Kuna are growing increasingly dependent on ecotourism. Although the Kuna aggressively regulate their tourism industry, they sometimes yield to practices that water down the cherished traditions and identity they seek to preserve. The popularity of the traditional mola is a good example of the double-edged sword posed by ethnic authenticity versus coveted tourist dollars. These intricate, embroidered panels, which take hours to create by Kuna women, are usually sewn into blouses. Illustrating traditional Kuna motifs and themes, the molas have become prized collectors’ items the world over. In order to satisfy a growing demand for molas, the women have taken to embroidering designs of the American

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flag and making mola cell phone holders to appeal to tourists—the same tourists that arrive in ever larger numbers to take advantage of the beautiful beaches and scuba diving excursions that endanger native species and reefs. A major distinction of the Kuna is their resistance to missionaries. Historically, the group has remained, for the most part, faithful to their spiritual beliefs—that God is omnipresent, and that in everything there is a spirit, sometimes good, sometimes bad (among the many documented uses of jagua in their culture is a wand made from the wood of the jagua tree to rid a possessed person of demons). Like Christians, they believe in a physical manifestation of the son of God (Ibeorgun), who descended to earth to guide the Kuna on the right path. However, I did find a 2008 online reference in which a ministry boasted of having converted 47 of 49 Kuna chiefs to the ways of Jesus. Amen?

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

Traditional Jagua Tales The Jagua Tree Is the Tree of Life If you are trying to achieve immortality, you’re in luck. The elusive Tree of Life, whose legends and roots spread across all cultures and religions, is none other than the Genipa americana (botanical name for jagua), according to indigenous people in Mexico, Panama, Brazil, and Cuba. But don’t bother asking the Kuna or Embera-Waounan (then Choco) Indians of Panama, or the Ka’apor of Brazil, because that information is a hush-hush matter of important religious significance. In fact, finding the inside story took me through a labyrinthine research adventure that eventually drove me to fork over the big bucks—$35.00—to the publisher of a dermatological society’s medical journal. When you are writing a book, you don’t want to pay anything for research material that you assumed would be available for free at your local public library. If I had to shell out cash for every reference or source material, I’d be broke! But this one was too good to pass up. In the Kuna Indians’ religious belief system, the tree of life refers to the umbilical cord of Olomakriai, the Great Earth Mother. After becoming pregnant bythe moon god Olotwalikippilele, Olomakriai stopped menstruating, and from the unshed blood grew the tree of life within her. Her offspring is described as all human, animal, and plant life, which were attached to the branches of the sacred tree by their arteries. The juice from the fruit of the tree of life is considered Olomakriai’s black menstrual blood or placental fluid, called saptur (their word for jagua), which is endowed with magical, protective properties. In Kuna theology, the great flood described in the Bible and other theological tales occurred when Olomakriai shed her amniotic fluid, which bubbled up out of the earth and surrounded it with oceans. As the waters rose, humankind’s ancestors were the ones who were able to climb the sacred tree to safety, as it was 120

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high enough to reach the sun. Those who did not climb the tree made a canoe out of the wood of the tree of life to survive. F  F  F Similarly, the theology of the Sapara people of eastern-central Ecuador recounts that Piatsao, their creator who owned the earth, was hanging out one day with a friend, when the following exchange took place (at least the way I imagine it): “Boy, am I thirsty.” “Really?” said Piatsao. “Yes, I could drink a river.” And then a spring appeared in the middle of the house; but rather than invite his friend to drink, Piatsao invited the spring to flood the house, and for the waters to rise. At that point, he advised his friend to climb the jagua tree, and to eat its fruit to stay alive. (Be careful what you ask for!) So the friend scurried up the tree, and as he ate the fruit, he dropped the pits into the water, listening for the splash in order to get a sense of the river’s level below. One week later, after dropping one last pit, instead of a splash he heard the sound of something hard hitting the ground, and so he knew it was safe to climb down from the life-giving tree.

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To Reveal the Truth (and Cause the Great Flood) One of the enduring myths of the Canelos-Quichua people of Upper Amazonian Ecuador is that of Hilucu, a beauty visited only at night by her rascal lover, whose identity remained a secret to her until she became pregnant and could bear the mystery no more. She so wanted to see the face of her child’s father that when he arrived for their nightly encounter, she painted beautiful designs on his face and body with cooked seeds (called widuj) from the jagua tree, explaining that it would refresh him. Later, hours after he was gone, she looked up in the sky and saw that the moon (her brother Quilla) had the same designs she had painted on her lover. Horrified, she realized that she had committed incest. Her sisters, Manduru Warmi (“red woman”) and Widuj Warmi (“black woman”), also became very upset, painted their faces black with widuj, and cried tears that reached the earth and created the jagua trees that now exist in all the areas where their ancestors lived. The grief spread to the stars too; and as they wept, their tears flooded the earth, causing the rivers to swell, volcanoes to erupt, and the great earthquakes to shake the land. Today, during special festivals, Canelos-Quichua women paint their faces black with the juice of the jagua fruit to represent the legendary coupling of Hilucu and Quilla; and they serve a strong brew called vinullu in beautiful ceramic containers representing these two important cultural characters.

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Yet Another Great Flood Story The Shipibo Indians have their own version of the great flood in which the jagua tree plays an important part. In this narrative, a little boy went fishing with a bow and arrow, and was doing great catching little fish that turned into giant fish once they landed in his beautiful canoe. A bunch of nearby fishermen who weren’t having any luck catching fish became angry and said, “From where does he come, this boy who is fishing? Why does he catch so much while we catch nothing? Let’s kill him!” They pounced on the boy, buried him in the mud along with his canoe and paddle, and returned to their village for merrymaking at the village fiesta. Another villager who had not joined the earlier group of fishermen left with his wife for a fishing expedition in the same vicinity. Once there, he heard cries and thought he saw the earth move. After digging through the mud, he uncovered the child, his canoe, and bows and arrows. As he was leaving, the boy, who wanted to punish the fishermen, said to the man: “After three days, there will be a huge rushing sound. It will herald the arrival of a tempest. When that happens, climb up onto the top of the jagua tree.” And then he disappeared and was never seen again. The couple returned to the village to warn of the coming disaster, but the men were busy getting drunk and refused to listen. First came the earthquake and an eclipse of the sun, which was enough of a signal for the man to grab his pregnant wife and to scurry up the jagua tree. In so doing, she promptly turned into a swollen nest of nacash termites, which are often found hanging from the tree, and gave birth to a boy. The man and his son sat in the tree, throwing jagua fruit down below to gauge the water’s level. When he was assured that the water had receded, he climbed down to look for the other villagers, but they were all gone. When he returned, he heard his son calling for his father to come get him, but as he approached the tree, the boy transformed into a maecahua bird. Today, the Shipibo consider this bird to be an evil omen, and consider his call to be a heralding of impending disaster.

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How Menstruation Began The Ka’apor Indians of the Brazilian Amazon also have a similar incest myth about a brother and sister that involves jagua. Back in the time before the moon existed, there was a woman who knew that she had been making love to her brother, but he was in the dark, literally and figuratively, since they always met for their trysts at night. One evening, she convinced her lover to let her paint his face with the juice of the jagua fruit because it would “make him look beautiful.” She did this knowing full well that everyone would know just by looking at him that they had made love, but she did it anyway. In the morning, when he awoke and saw that his face was black, he was very upset and did not want to be seen; so he waited until the sun set and it was dark outside before leaving her tent. He ran off into the woods in search of a way to escape the shame that would descend upon him, and came up with this plan: shooting numerous arrows into the sky until a rope of arrows had reached the ground; he then climbed the rope. Unwilling to give him up, his sister followed him. Three days later, everyone in the village saw a new moon in the sky. They all said, Look at our brother, he turned into the moon, and his sister became the evening star! Five days after the moon first appeared, all the women started menstruating.

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Why the Sun Shines so Brightly in the Sky The Shipibo Indians of Peru have a myth similar to that of the Ka’apor, but with a variation. When the Sun and his wife, who is also his sister, the Moon, find themselves up in the heavens, he smears her face with jagua, which darkens her skin and thus gives him the brighter glow. Why the Moon Has Markings on Its Surface Another Shipibo sun/moon legend explains that the Sun and his sister, the Moon, were making love nightly without the Sun’s knowledge that he was committing incest. When he discovered the truth, the Sun slapped his sister’s face with his hand, which was covered with jagua, thus leaving an imprint on the face of the Moon.

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The Jagua Tree Is the Tree of Knowledge Here is another Shipibo myth which seems to indicate that the Tree of Knowledge (like the one growing in the Garden of Eden) bears some relationship to the jagua tree. An old man was building a canoe under a guava tree, when children who were playing in the branches above started throwing fruit at him. They weren’t aware that the old man was actually a tapir—a sturdy-limbed, hoofed animal with a trunk-like snout, which features prominently in Shipibo lore. The old man became quite angry and kicked the tree with his hoofs, turning it into the powerful lupuna tree, which houses a potentially evil spirit of great importance to the Shipibo. Unable now to get their arms around the tree’s huge trunk, the children were stranded up in the branches. In order to get down, one of them hit upon the idea of turning himself into an ant and using a leaf to float to the ground, which they all agreed was a wonderful idea. Upon reaching terra firma, they again assumed their human form. The first thing they noticed was that a jagua tree stood before them, and they asked it, “Where is your owner [the tapir]?” To this the jagua tree replied, “That way.” They followed his direction and soon encountered another, smaller jagua tree. Again they asked about the whereabouts of the tapir, and the tree pointed them in the same direction. Later, they happened onto yet another jagua tree that was only half grown, and they asked again, receiving the same answer. After walking some time, they came upon a tapir’s stool from which germinated a jagua fruit tree’s seed. They repeated their question to the seed, which confirmed that they were headed in the right direction. Finally, they arrived at a great river and walked along its banks until they spotted a fresh-looking stool, and noticed the tapir sleeping under a nearby tree. Eager to get their revenge for having been stranded in the lupuna tree, they huddled together, trying to decide how they might kill him.

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Finally, one of the children decided to transform himself once again into an ant; this enabled him to enter the tapir through the anus, cut off his heart from its blood supply, and kill him. Afterward, each of them decided to transform themselves into birds, whereupon they flew up into the sky and became part of the Orion constellation.*

*If you ask me, I think those kids were high on the Amazon’s favorite hallucinogenic plant, ayahuasca!

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How the Jagua Tree Came to Be (and the Toucan Too) Once again we meet the Canelos-Quichua people’s Manduru Warmi (“red woman”) and Widuj Warmi (“black woman”), the sisters of Hilucu (who committed incest with her brother, the moon). As the story goes, Manduru Warmi and Widuj Warmi were strolling through the forest and happened onto the house of a monkey-person named Machin Runa. He kidnapped them, tied them up with spiny bamboo, the thorns of which threatened to pierce them if they tried to break free, and locked them in a cage. Hearing their cries, a series of warrior birds arrived to help but were unable to free them until Sicuanga Runa (a human) arrived with his powerful machete and hacked through the bamboo. They were so pleased that they blew on him with their bewitching breath, turning him into a bird. Widuj Warmi painted him black with jagua, while Manduru Warmi painted his beak, collar, and tail red and yellow, and together they gave him a white breast, transforming him into a toucan. They changed all the other warrior birds into game birds for humans to eat, changed their abductor, Machin Runa, into a monkey, and then looked at each other. “What will we be?” they wondered. “I’ll be Manduru [the Bixa orellana tree],” said Manduru Warmi. “And I’ll be Widuj [the jagua tree],” said Widuj Warmi. Thus came to be the two trees that produce the red and black dyes used by humans in the jungle of Ecuadorian Amazon.

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To Become Beautiful and Attract a Lover See for yourself how, while certainly “romantic,” tales such as this one don’t always imply a happy ending. There once was a Shipibo woman, whom everyone in her village believed to be a spinster, though secretly she was married to an anaconda. Every morning, she prepared to meet her lover by painting herself with the blue-black juice from the fruit of the jagua tree. Setting out to meet him one morning, she failed to notice that her brother-in-law had noticed her leaving her house, carrying a bowl made from a gourd that was cut in half. Curious, he followed her to a lake, where she turned the gourd over and placed it on the water. She began beating on it, and soon an anaconda appeared out of the foaming waves; she stepped into the water to meet him. He coiled himself around her body and started making love to her by entering her vagina with the tip of his tail. After their lovemaking, he uncoiled himself from her body and returned to the bottom of the lake. As the woman worked her way back to shore, the brother-in-law hurried back to the village to tell the woman’s brother what he had seen. The next morning, both men headed out to the lake, whereupon her brother pulled out a half-gourd, placed it on the water, and proceeded to beat it like a drum. They also carried long poles that they had sharpened into spears. After a moment, the anaconda emerged from the water, believing that his love awaited him, as usual. The men set upon him with their spears, killing him with a blow to the head. Nearby, a yellow wasp swooped down, grabbing a sliver of the anaconda’s skin, which he took back to the village and gave to the woman. She recognized it as a piece of her lover’s skin, and ran down to the lake; but, beat as she might on her gourd, the anaconda was nowhere to be seen. She realized he was dead and that she would never see him again. Filled with despair, she turned into a small black bird called a shiguango and flew away.

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The Invention of Sex Another Shipibo tale illustrates the role of the jagua fruit in promoting love and sexuality. From a hiding place, a man watched as a male tapir threw a jagua fruit into a lake, using it in the same way that fishermen use bait to attract fish to the water’s surface in order to spear them. But here, the tapir used the fruit to attract a pretty Snake Woman so he could have sex with her. Observing the tapir’s technique, the man became so excited that he resolved to do the same, resulting in mankind’s first successful act of intercourse. Making a Successful Transition to the Afterlife (and Becoming Invisible) In Kuna culture, the jagua fruit plays an integral part in the soul’s transition to the afterworld. The soul’s “Journey of the Dead” is guided by a special shaman, who brings eight solid reeds cut from the top of a special “bristly reed” (or massar). These eight reeds will accompany and defend the soul on the treacherous path it must undertake to reach the heaven of Kamibe, the Sun and powerful creator god. The reeds are placed under a hammock where the corpse lies, and cacao seeds are burned in a censer while the shaman performs a special chant that narrates the details of the impending journey to be taken by the soul. As he chants, the shaman places about his neck an instrument made of tiger bone and an armadillo skull—animal spirits that will also protect the soul as it makes it way toward the light. The soul’s voyage is fraught with dangers and traps, including climbing up the mythological tree of death (the palu wala); swimming through roiled rivers and boiling waters, leagues of hungry alligators, and oceans of giant sharks; and scaling formidable, snake-infested mountains. Trials of a different sort also lurk in dwellings where trapped souls will do anything to stop the pilgrim soul’s forward motion. For this purpose, the

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shaman brings with him the sacred fruit of the jagua tree to paint the soul black so that it may avoid detection by these dreaded trapped spirits. Once the soul has successfully overcome these trials, he will vanish into a void for a long period of time. When he emerges, he will be a purified immortal, a superior being charged with overseeing the fate of humans in the physical world. Invisible Felicia In regard to jagua’s power to confer invisibility on the wearer, I end this section with a more contemporary tale of jagua magic in action. We wanted to post compelling photos of jagua tattoos on our website, EarthJagua.com, and had asked one of our favorite artists, Morena Santos, if she would spend a few hours painting people so that we could record her handiwork. She agreed, and both Morena and I invited friends (some would say willing canvases!) to stop by for free tattoos. One of the girls who showed up was named Felicia. A friend of Morena’s, she told an astonishing story about the jagua fruit’s ability to render a person invisible. A few months earlier, Morena had painted Felicia’s forehead with a beautiful jagua tattoo (see accompanying photo of Felicia). Facial tattoos are not very common; and those who alter their faces with permanent ink might be seen as pushing the envelope to its most radical edge. As such, they tend to attract an undue amount of attention. (By the way, have I mentioned that jagua tattoos are indistinguishable from the real thing?) As it happens, shortly after having her face painted with an exceptionally conspicuous design, Felicia had to leave town for a scheduled trip to New York. The only problem was that she had lost her I.D., so the only form of identification she carried was her passport, which had recently expired.

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“I was never stopped,” she said. “From the ticketing agent to the security people, they just waved me on through.” Anyone traveling by air in post-9/11 America knows that this is utterly impossible; and yet it happened. In an airport, the last thing you want to do is draw attention to yourself, especially with something so exotic and obviously “foreign” as a prominent facial tattoo. Amazing as this tale is, here is the equally amazing epilogue. Two weeks later, after Felicia’s tattoo had faded completely, she flew back to Los Angeles, again with no I.D. except for her expired passport. This is what she had to report about her return trip: “Every step of the way, I was the only one chosen for a random search.”

Felicia’s facial jagua tattoo

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Judging from its cornucopia of medicinal and magical properties, it is safe to say that, according to numerous indigenous peoples in the Amazon, this fruit is capable of accomplishing miracles! But wait, the logical mind may caution, how can so many myths be true? I would venture to ask the opposite: Doesn’t such a long river of fables lead to an undeniable ocean of possibility? As mentioned earlier in this chapter, I like magic. No, wait. I love magic— that indefinable spirit of possibility, which pervades our otherwise routine and finite journey; a journey that is punctuated by searches for meaning, glimpses of clarity, and a nagging feeling that there must be more. My bookshelves are filled with titles like Natural Magic; Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs; Everyday Magic; The Woman’s Dictionary of Symbols and Sacred Objects; The Complete Book of Amulets and Talismans. You get the drift. Mind you, these books are back to back with titles like Confessions of an Economic Hit Man; Nickled and Dimed; The Shock Doctrine—The Rise of Disaster Capitalism; Audacity of Hope; One Hundred Years of Solitude; Get Your Tongue Out of My Mouth, I’m Kissing You Good-bye; and The Kite Runner. Which is to say that I live in the “real” world too. Yet I am so glad that my day-to-day life is able to co-exist so comfortably with a seemingly magical substance like a skin dye made from the jagua fruit.

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Jagua People-II

Jagua People-II

The Yuqui Original population numbers are unknown, however, there are only 100–140 remaining Yuqui Indians left in the eastern Bolivian Amazon jungle, living at a mission station on the Río Chimore near the base of the Andes. The camp is run by a Protestant group called New Tribes Mission, which first contacted the Yuqui in the mid-1960s. According to the Indians themselves, their reduced population is a direct result of contact with outsiders, which resulted in devastating diseases and warfare. When first contacted, the Yuqui thought they were the only living people on earth. They did not know how to start a fire, and they had forgotten how to swim. They are not associated with any arts or artifacts other than bows and arrows, and such other basic necessities as were dictated by their nomadic lifestyle, i.e., hammocks and basic pottery. Furthermore, theirs was a society that operated on a caste system, where the lower class lived as slaves (when a member of the higher caste died, a slave was strangled and buried along with his master). In contrast to most of the other groups researched for this book, in the past, it seems these Indians thrived on conflict and physical hostility among themselves. Finally, in addition to these rather unique elements of Yuqui culture, they recognize no shamanic authority figure and practice virtually no ceremonies, with one known exception: before contact with missionaries, they used jagua in their puberty rituals. Little is known about their religious customs prior to contact, although animist beliefs, especially surrounding spirits of the dead and their ability to cause disease and death, feature prominently. Originally a roaming tribe of foragers, out of a need to continually identify new forest resources and to give wide berth to Bolivian attackers, the Yuquis decamped daily, staying in one place only three to five days at a

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

time. Today, they still hunt within their designated territory (approximately 195 square miles or 505 km2 of forest), and they also have been taught to farm certain crops, such as plantain, maize, manioc, rice, squash, and sugarcane, and among others. This has fostered trade relationships with settlers in their region. However, the very presence of these new settlers, plus ongoing deforestation, is severely depleting the game and fish available to the people. The Yuqui Indians’ native tongue is part of the Tupi-Guarani language group. Today, they speak, read, and write in Yuqui (using an alphabet that linguists created and then taught to them); the missionaries have also instructed them in the Spanish language, and so they are bilingual. With the help of these missionaries, the Yuquis have turned a corner in relations with the outside world (and even among themselves!), having formed a tribal council that is able to more effectively communicate their needs and negotiate on various issues affecting them.

Jagua People-II

The Tikuna (or Ticuna) Numbers vary, but there are over 30,000  Tikuna Indians living in 70  established villages located near the intersecting borders of Peru, Colombia, and Brazil, with the majority—approximately 23,000—situated in the Brazilian rainforest in the state of Amazonas. The name Tikuna may come from the term taco-una, meaning “men painted black,” or “black skins,” apparently a reference to the bygone tradition among the Tikuna of using the jagua fruit to paint their bodies black. The Tikuna Indians are thought to be the first group contacted by Spanish explorers in the 1500s. Missionaries from Spain and Portugal soon followed, and their early ev-angelical work is directly responsible for the widespread practice of Roman Catholicism by most Tikuna Indians today. By the early twentieth century, the arrival of the rubber barons in the region saw the Tikuna Indians reduced to forced labor, especially in Brazil. This increased contact with whites has resulted in, among other things, tribal mixing, a decline in natural resources, overpopulation of some areas, and the growth of a cash economy. Tensions have also arisen between Catholic and Evangelical Tikunas, who are competing to win over new converts to their respective churches; but both groups are united in their desire to wipe out all remnants of traditional beliefs and rituals. Conflicts over land use and territorial rights abound. Since the late 1970s, the Tikuna Indians have petitioned Brazil’s federal government for legal demarcation of lands traditionally occupied by the group, but without much success. In a famous clash between the group, the military, local loggers, and cocaine dealers, 14  Indians were killed and 23 more were wounded, with no prosecutions resulting from an investigation of the massacre. Though some areas have since been legally

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

recognized as Tikuna, the conflict remains largely unresolved. Complicating matters is the interest shown by drug traffickers drawn to Brazil’s Solimoes River area, which shares a border with Peru and Colombia. Former Tikuna fishermen, farmers, and hunters are succumbing to offers to work as drug mules for easy cash. Incidents of drug and alcohol abuse have followed, as wells as a rise in adolescent suicides. Those not yet drawn to relinquish village life are the last frontier in helping to maintain traditional Tikuna language and culture—one that is teeming with skilled artisans working in basket weaving, pottery, woodwork, and a host of decorative objects and cloth made with tree bark, husks, and seeds. Production of handmade hunting tools, such as finely crafted blowguns, darts, and fishing apparatus, is still practiced by Tikuna men, who also carve beautiful musical instruments, wood sculptures, and ceremonial masks.

Jagua People-II

The Yagua How the Amazon River got its name remains uncertain; however there seems to be a consensus that it was Spanish explorer Francisco de Orellana who, during his 1541 expedition to the region, had to engage in battle withsuch fierce Indian warriors—male and female—that he named the women after the mythical Greek female warriors known as Amazons, thus giving the Amazon River its name. Right alongside this tale come suggestions by some that the Indian women in question were not, in fact, women at all, but rather Yagua males who, dressed in their traditional, ankle-length native attire resembling palm frond hula skirts, were mistaken by de Orellana for women. So, the theories go, indirectly it was the Yagua who gave the Amazon River its name. No one has been able to confirm the veracity of this claim, but the theory lives on in spite of other historical references, which dates the Yagua’s first contact with the outside world at the time when Jesuit missionaries arrived in the late seventeenth century. Between the missionaries, the rubber barons’ need for slaves, and the effects of the Peru-Colombia border war of the early 1930s, the Yagua’s continued displacement transformed them from hinterland inhabitants to riverine tribal communities. Today, 3,000–4,000  Yagua Indians occupy twenty to thirty villages situated in about 70,000 square miles along the Amazon River in the northeastern region of Loretto, Peru, which borders Colombia and Brazil. They still wear their traditional palm frond skirts today, but mostly to entertain tourists; and the palm tree remains a source of many of their most prized activities and products. Renowned for their weaving skill in the manufacture of hammocks, bags, baskets, and clothing made with palm fiber, these are but a few of the riches provided by the tree, which also serves as the basis for fruit beverages, food (palm

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

hearts), thatched flooring for houses, medicine, rattan, weaponry, and even wine. Although they use shotguns for hunting game such as monkeys, birds, tapir, and peccaries, much has been written about the group’s superb skill in the manufacture of expertly crafted and much sought-after blowguns (called pucunas, also made of palm wood). They are also known for their use of curare, a poisonous vine used in a mixture that paralyzes their animal prey. The Yagua also raise their own food, including plantain, banana, sweet potato, maize, and other fruits native to their habitat. Protein sources such as fowl and pigs are usually sold to mestizos for cash, as are the services of many Yagua women, who work as maids. The name Yagua means “red” (possibly because of their use of achiote to stain their skin red for ceremonies), but the natives refer to themselves as Nihamwo, which means “people.” Their official language is Yagua, which is part of the Peba-Yaguan language group; however, 95% of Yagua Indians are illiterate in their native tongue, while 25–50% speak Spanish. Although missionaries have done their best to convert the Yagua to Christianity, and they do use western medicine, the people still believe in supernatural forces and look to shamans to guide their spiritual life and to heal their ills; and using jagua remains a part of their puberty rites. The group has yet to own demarcated land or title to its territories.

Jagua People-II

The Arakmbut The Arakmbut (one of seven Harakmbut peoples) live in the southeastern Peru region known as Madre de Dios (Mother of God), the area considered by some archaeologists and linguists to be the cradle of Peruvian language and culture. They number approximately 2,000, and they speak Harakmbut—a word meaning “people.” The first recorded reference to the Harakmbut was in 1769, when explorers traveled to the Upper Madre de Dios region, then fertile with cocoa plantations. In the late 1800s, development of rubber extraction in the Amazon lured many prospectors from Europe and North America— including the infamous Peruvian rubber baron Carlos Fitzcarrald, who sought to profit from the burgeoning commercial demand for the jungle’s wealth of rubber trees. During this period (1879–1912), a majority of the Harakmbut were enslaved, killed, or wiped out from disease; and estimates point to a 95% eradication of Arakmbut Indians by 1953 (after the second rubber boom from 1942 to 1945). In the 1940s, the Peruvian government commissioned a series of expeditions that resulted in the arrival of Dominican missionaries intent on “pacifying” various indigenous groups. Such “apostolic incursions”—a term coined by the missionaries themselves—introduced new rules that disrupted centuries-old customs, alliances, kinship systems, and settlement patterns, resulting in high death rates inside the missions. Between 1969 and 1973, as many escaped these established missions, new Native Communities, legally sanctioned by the Peruvian State, were formed by the Arakmbut. Today, they work primarily as gold miners (although they still hunt, fish, and farm), competing with inter-national prospectors in the gold rush centered in the Madre de Dios region. This

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

could lead to their undoing. Up until 1974, when President Juan Velasco Alvarado gave the Indians the rights to their land, any Christian missionary, prospector, explorer, or the State itself could declare ownership of land in the Amazon without recognizing any indigenous people that lived there. Arakmbut territory was first mapped in 1979, and the Indians understand that recognition of their landholdings is essential to the survival of their people and way of life. The Arakmbut enjoy a rich relationship with the spirit realm (they are one of the groups that have traditionally believed in the jagua fruit’s ability to protect them from spirit attacks), but by no means have they totally rejected the influence of the outside world. They speak Spanish, use shotguns, wear western clothing, and watch movies on a community center television. As an Arakmbut elder explained to anthropologist and author Andrew Gray, who chronicled his time with the group in a threevolume book, “We have to change to stay the same.”

Jagua People-II

The Ka’apor (a.k.a. Urubu) Urubu means “vulture” in Portuguese, and it was the name bestowed on the Ka’apor Indians by Brazilian society, which perceived them to be savages because they refused to be “pacified.” Ka’apor, which means “footprints of the forest” or “forest dwellers,” is the term the Indians use to define themselves. The Ka’apor are spread out in twelve villages over two million square miles of Brazilian rainforest in the basins of the Gurupi, Maracacume, and Turiacu Rivers within a designated federal reserve called the Reserva Indigena Alto Turiacu, located in the state of Maranhão. Their native tongue is part of the Tupi-Guarani family of languages; they number just over 500. (The Ka’apor’s belief in the jagua tree as the tree of life, and the part that jagua plays in their menstruation myth is referenced in the preceding “Traditional Jagua Tales” section.) Initial contact with the Ka’apor was attempted first in 1911 by the Indian Protection Agency (S.P.I.), which had established several “pacification posts” throughout the region. In 1929, when the Indians finally accepted S.P.I overtures, they contracted colds that quickly spread and contaminated their villages, and two people died. The Ka’apor retaliated in full force at this perceived attack of disease against them, killing several S.P.I. officials, and effectively ending contact with the outside world. They remained isolated until the early 1970s, when a highway passing near their territory was built, bringing with it bilingualism and other influences from the outside world. Today, the land they live on still belongs to the State, and new pop- ulations to the east are encroaching on their territory. They cultivate manioc, sweet potatoes and yams, corn, bananas, and other crops. Men hunt game with bows and arrows, as well as with guns; mountain

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

rice, resin, and lianas for making ropes are sold as cash crops, along with armadillo meat. It has been reported that the Ka’apor are able to recognize 768 varieties of plant species, which they cultivate for remedies against illness and injury, construction materials, arts and crafts, and food. They do not depend on the outside world for food. Although the Ka’apor stilll believe in and rely on shamans for curing practices and many other spiritual needs, due to outside influences, actual Ka’apor shamans no longer exist in their societies. And, I found evidence of a 2006 Christian missionary newsletter, which heralded the growing conversion of Ka’apor Indians to the ways of the Lord.

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Jagua People-II

The Canelos-Quichua (a.k.a. Quichua of Pastaza) Archaeological evidence reveals that beautiful ceramics were being produced in Canelos-Quichua territory in northern Ecuador 1,000  years earlier than in Peru or Mexico. Many of these surviving ceramics, through symbological and figural representation, illustrate a variety of these people’s traditions and beliefs, such as the story of Hilucu, who painted her mysterious lover’s face with jagua only to discover that he was her brother, the moon. Though some members maintain a traditional rainforest lifestyle, many of the Canelos-Quichua are active in Ecuadorian politics, mingle easily with their fellow citizens in urban centers, and engage in modern economic activity. Their territory was declared an official indigenous domain by presidential decree in 1947—the first such designation in Amazonian Ecuador. Numbering around 10,000, most Canelos-Quichua are found in the center region of the Bobonaza River, Pastaza Province. They speak a dialect of Quechua. In their society, men cut down and trim trees; women and men take part in planting of the root vegetables that are a mainstay of their diet. Ceramic arts are the province of women only, while woodworking (a primary source of income) belongs in the male arena, as is the case for all shamanic work. Though some men and women marry for love, marriages are mostly arranged by the family. Foreigners, or machin runa (“monkey people”) are thought to possess poorly evolved souls. Having suffered their share of outside interference by the Church, exploitation during the rubber boom, and subsequent oil and petroleum exploration by multinational companies (referred to by the Indians as the chaotic times), the Canelos-Quichua have learned to accommodate themselves to the push and pull of modern reality.

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

They do business with those who buy their ethnic artworks—transactions characterized by one artist as “…being in a cage, but with the money we can buy our way back out.” But mostly, the Canelos-Quichua are driven by a thirst for freedom, regardless of the cost. An annual ceremony and reenactment of a powerful tribal legend tells the tale: the fearsome anaconda is brought out of the water and onto land where, as a manifestation of indigenous resistance to the Church, he destroys everything around him—the inherent risk being the destruction of the CanelosQuichua as well.

Jagua People-II

The Shipibo-Conibo About 30,000 to 35,000 Shipibo-Conibo Indians of eastern Peruvian Amazonia live in some 300 villages along the central Ucayali River region, with the city of Pucallpa at its center. Originally two distinct groups, through intermarriage the Shipibo (downriver people) and Conibo (upriver people) became one tribal community. They speak Shipibo, from the Panoan family group of languages spoken in Peru, western Brazil, and Bolivia, as well as Spanish. The Shipibo-Conibo have the distinction of being one of the most Christian-influenced groups in the region, however, traditional animistic beliefs still hold sway. This is evidenced by the spirit-based, ayahuasca shamanism-inspired geometric designs that grace their sought-after ceramics, textiles, tools, and clothing. It is uncertain whether jagua still plays a part in their current culture, but the belief that the jagua tree saved some of their people from the Great Flood was once a part of their lore. One of the first Indian groups to organize for indigenous rights in the early 1970s, the Shipibo-Connibo appealed to the Peruvian government for land titles, but with little success. The group practices slash-and-burn agriculture and relies primarily on crops of plantain, bananas, potatoes, maize, and manioc for subsistence, with some fish and game hunted in the jungle. However, these crops are quickly being supplanted by rice, which they sell in local markets, fostering a cash versus trade economy. Today, a major source of income for the Shipibo-Conibo are the highly collectible ceramics produced by their women, who also create baskets, beadwork, and cotton textiles for sale to tourists. Due to their popularity, these ceramics, which were traditionally used in day-to-day life by the Indians, have been replaced

JAGUA: A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

by plastic buckets in order to keep a fresh supply of pottery on hand for the tourist trade. The men, who still hunt with bows and arrows, as well as with shotguns, also carve wooden crafts, and build canoes and houses. Increasingly, however, they are turning to work as itinerant laborers, which keeps them away from their families and communities for weeks on end. At present, a decline in the quality of life among the Shipibo-Conibo is easily substantiated, and can be attributed in great part to climate changes in the rainforest. Fruit trees have died due to unusual cycles of drought and flood, and thanks to rampant deforestation (the United States imports over 80  percent of illegally logged Peruvian mahogany). Other environmental destruction, along with escalating prices of food and energy, are giving rise to increased hunger and poverty. In 2007, several organizations partnered with the Shipibo-Conibo to launch reforestation, drainage, and artisan cooperative projects which, it is hoped, will reverse the trend.

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from the East, mehndi—which in India refers to the ancient art of henna body painting—was and still is a form of body ornamentation steeped in tradition and cultural mores thousands of years old and typically practiced in a ceremonial context. In the West, the reincar- nation of this beautiful art form, with all its historical grace and weight, came to be referred to in the media simply as “henna tattoos.” And now comes jagua, with its history and lore so deeply stamped on indigenous societal practice, particularly among tribes in the southern hemisphere; once the knowledge of this fruit moved into the northern hemisphere, its usage became associated with one thing, and one thing only (so far): achieving a temporary tattoo. This is why the term familiar to temporary body art aficionados everywhere has revealed itself to be jagua tattoos. efore making its way

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Henna vs. Jagua Although imbued with magical and medicinal properties, henna is used chiefly for body decoration in its host countries, which is not quite the case with jagua. The fruit is most definitely considered an important component in body ornamentation rituals throughout the Amazon; but its rebirth as a temporary tattoo product intended for consumers here in more developed countries does not come as a natural extension of its usage in areas where it grows natively. Using the fruit to create temporary body art has to be categorized as a seriously modern reinterpretation of its primary use. The fruit does stain the skin black, and it’s right up there among other Amazonian practices in the way that it can radically alter a person’s appearance (much as palm leaf ribs may be used to create the look of feline whiskers). However, it is not used specifically or exclusively to create patterns and designs on the skin in the service of purely personal adornment, or what some may consider little more than frippery. Rather, jagua in the jungle can be thought of more as a working instrument for transformation. Let’s leave aside for a moment its multiple putative therapeutic powers. Within its native habitats, given that it is called upon to help a person acquire strength, conjure spirits, grant immortality, reveal truth, induce menstruation, thwart demons, ensure harvests, attract lovers, prevent infant death, and shrink heads, jagua can be almost be considered a very busy verb! Staining the skin black is only one of its many jobs. F  F  F

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Still, It’s Body Art For all its dynamic attributes, the jagua fruit must still be acknowledged for its natural ability to transform—transformation being the not-so-subtle, if often unconscious goal of anyone who takes pleasure in body modification—be it in its simplest form, like lipstick and eye shadow, or its most complex, such as piercing, scarification, cosmetic surgery, and tattoos. And at this point, I’ll have to ask you to come with me for a short detour into the world of permanent tattoos. F  F  F It was one of those aha! moments for me. Let’s tell “real” tattoo artists about our newly launched Earth Jagua product! This was a no-brainer. What better way to try out a design before committing to it forever than to try it out first with a temporary jagua tattoo? And how about the under 18 crowd? Minors cannot legally get a tattoo—but they want them nevertheless, and they want them bad. Why not give them the next best thing to a permanent tattoo, and thus open up for the professional artists a whole new stream of income now while nurturing those who might be potential clients in the future? Not a bad idea, eh? And what about the friends that people drag with them when they go get their tattoos? Why should they be sitting around while another tattooist in the shop could be painting them with jagua at the same time? This was pretty brilliant strategizing on my part, if I do say so myself; and wouldn’t you know it, the cosmic forces again showed me a sign that I was on the right track. Not long after, we happened to be at a trade show when a man walked into our booth and started telling me about a major tattoo convention scheduled to take place just outside of Los Angeles within the next three months. This was the opportunity I was looking for to introduce our product to the hardcore

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aficionados. Oh, and in case you were wondering, I was not at all worried about the permanent ink crowd giving us the cold shoulder or treating us like their wimpy relatives. In the past we had had plenty of interaction with tattooed folks visiting our henna studio because, simply put, they are suckers for body art. The more the better. In fact, it’s a kind of addiction with them. So three months later we found ourselves all tatted up and ready for action in a 10’ ⋅ 20’ booth outfitted with Persian rugs, floor pillows, beautiful photographs on the walls, and two talented professional artists. For this occasion, the two artists, Morena Santos and Ayesha Muhammad, had come to our house a couple of days earlier to paint Pascal and me, as well as each other, with some striking designs meant to call attention to our Earth Jagua kit. Mine was a twoheaded snake that swirled up and around my arm, beginning with the first head painted on the back of my hand and the second head (instead of its tail) on my shoulder. Pascal took an even bolder route and had an abstract design painted on one side of his face, resulting in some pretty interesting reactions from our friends—ranging from disbelief to uncontrolled hilarity to complete, stunned silence. At the convention, while the girls painted visitors and I managed the booth, Pascal patrolled the aisles, talking to exhibiting artists and giving them free jagua samples. His report: three out of four were open and friendly, and generally interested. Most significantly, when he told them that his facial tattoo was not real, the typical reaction could be summed up in five words: Get the hell outta here! Aside from being a fairly successful first foray into the marketplace for us, this event made me think more deeply about tattoos; about the motives that drive people to adorn their bodies (permanently or not), and about human nature in general.

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In case you’re wondering what happens at a tattoo convention, pure and simple, people come to get tattooed. And they come in droves. Why would people converge on a public forum to get tattooed? Two reasons. One, artists use it as an opportunity to promote their businesses, so the prices are heavily discounted at shows—a design that normally might cost $400 could be had for as little as $150! And two, the majority of people with tattoos are exhibitionists. This is not a judgment, merely an observation. No question, at these shows they come to strut their stuff! For three days I tried to avoid staring as men and women walked by wearing as little clothing as legally possible in a public setting—until I realized that they wanted to be stared at, even ogled. In many cases, it was all but impossible not to do so. You might think it was primarily the women wearing skimpy dresses that I’m talking about, but for the most part, you would be wrong. The scales tilted heavily toward the men in that regard. Even though it was winter (yes, it does get cold in California in January, and it was frigid in that hall), more guys than I could count opted to go shirtless. And if I were to report that most of them were buff with six-pack abs (which would have made Morena, Ayesha, and me very happy), I would be lying. A large number of them were size XXX, with plenty of flab and no embarrassment to go with it. As for the tattoos themselves, it was like watching countless clones of Ray Bradbury’s Illustrated Man parading past our booth, with each individual design imprinted on their bodies, however simple or elaborate, coming to life and telling its story: depictions of hideous monsters in attack mode; vampires and other ghoulish creatures with scaly skin and fangs dripping with blood; Dracula, Frankenstein, and Freddy Krueger (all very popular); a stunning variety of violent images—handguns, ray guns, rifles, AK-47s, and bull’s eyes (as if to say, Please shoot me here!), as well as nearly cinematic scenes depicting shoot-outs; and

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perhaps most common of all, representations of Death—a plethora of skulls, Grim Reapers, coffins, and skeletons. Standing out amid these admittedly disturbing images were some uncanny reproductions of photos—several people had what looked to be the faces of family members tattooed across their entire backs and chests. Also much in evidence were celebrity faces and portraits of the stars in their most famous roles. Al Pacino was there (often reprising his role as Tony “Scarface” Montana), as was the demonically grinning Jack Nicholson in full Joker regalia, or as the murderous, knife-wielding wacko in The Shining. Of course, Marilyn was there (Monroe and Manson!), along with Marlon Brando and, a perennial favorite, James Dean. Why people would choose to alter their bodies permanently with negative, violent imagery will forever remain a mystery to me. Oh well, to each his own. As for the celebrities, I live in Hollywood, where deification of movie and TV stars is common and so not to be wondered at if it manifests itself as a tattoo. But throughout the country, it isn’t just the action superstars, rock ’n’ roll messiahs, or glitz-&-glamour goddesses that people like to tattoo on their bodies. I have also seen tattoos of Oprah Winfrey, Judge Judy, Tony Danza, Alan Alda, Bob Barker, and even Maddox Jolie-Pitt (yes, one of Angelina and Brad’s children).

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Those were the tattoos that truly left me perplexed. By contrast, I also saw some exceptionally beautiful tattoos drawn from nature—those featuring flowers, birds, oceans, suns, and moons were the most common. Well represented too in the eclectic mix were religious-themed depictions, such as the Virgin of Guadalupe, along with tribal designs, Celtic designs, and every other kind of design imaginable. Besides the occasional example of small, inconspicuous “spot art” miniatures, I also saw plenty of people whose entire faces had been tattooed, and others where every inch of their flesh was covered with markings from head to toe.

Without question, someone you least expect—like that nerd you work with or the cop writing you a moving violation—is tattooed somewhere; it just happens to be well-concealed. At this convention, aside from engaging in fascinating people-watching, I was able to interact with masses of men and women—some tattooed to the max, some not—and guess what? Most were cool, while a few were not so cool, just as in the “normal” world. Ironically, the man with the meanest-looking tattoos turned out to be soft-spoken with a gentle energy about him; while the one who told us he’d gotten his done while in prison for attempted murder appeared both exceptionally friendly and kind (though his would-be victim surely might beg to differ!). When I poked around for the reasons behind certain designs, the answers, as colorful as the crowd, left me thinking about the motives that have driven human beings to adorn themselves with ink since the beginning of time.

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A Short History of Tattoos There is much speculation as to the origin of tattooing, with some scholars believing that the practice began as far back as 200,000  years ago. The earliest recorded evidence was found on the recovered frozen mummy of Ötzi, the “iceman” who came from the Ötzal Alps on the border between Austria and Italy. He lived 5,300 years ago, about 3300  b.c. Around 4000 b.c. in Egypt, the remains of Amunet, a priestess of the goddess Hathor who lived between 2160 and 1994 b.c., were found to bear blue/black geometric patterns around the pubic area. One can detect a certain schizophrenia about tattoos among human beings. Throughout history, it seems, their frequency and popularity have gone toe to toe with their status as an alien or taboo activity, especially in the Judeo-Christian world. In fact, a passage in the Old Testament specifically forbids the pagan practice of tattooing (with body modification thrown in for good measure): “Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you…” (Leviticus 19:28). Mummies excavated in the mountains of western and southern Siberia and dating from 2400 years ago were found to have tattoos of magical significance on their bodies. In the west, the Romans learned tattooing from the Greeks, who themselves were taught the art by the Persians. In his commentaries on the Gallic War (50  b.c.), the Roman general Julius Caesar observed that the Britons of southern England dyed their skin a bluish-green color, possibly with the woad plant (indeed, the word Britain may be derived from an ancient Celtic word meaning “land of the painted people”). In the early fourth century, Roman emperor Constantine is on record as having banned tattooing as a means of punishment when it was common practice to tattoo the faces of convicts, sol-

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diers, and gladiators. Elsewhere, Roman writings tell of tattooed slaves exported to Asian markets who bore the stamp: “Tax Paid.”

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In the 10th century, the Arab Muslim writer and traveler Ahmad ibn Fadlan describes meeting Vikings whose skin was covered with tree patterns and other figures. Much later, during the age of European exploration, tattooed Inca mummies dating to the 11th century were found in Peru. In the 16th century, Spanish explorers recorded accounts of Mayan tattooing, said to be a sign of courage; and Cortez and his conquistadors reported meeting natives who worshipped devils and had found the means to imprint their bodies with images of their gods. (It could very well be that to the Spanish, the Indians’ fierce-looking gods did resemble the European conception of demonic entities. Maybe the people who today tattoo onto their bodies satanic and other monstrous images are subconsciously drawing on the ancient practice of honoring powerful deities by displaying them on their skin!) The first written record of tattoos in Japan was recorded in a historical account of Chinese dynasties compiled in 297 a.d. After Japan opened its doors to the west in 1853, intricately stylized tattoos became among European elites a huge fad that lasted from about 1880 to 1920. In North America, early Jesuit writings (1656 -1713) tell of tattooing among Native Americans—as the sign of a great warrior among the Chickasaw; as a mark of superior status among the Iroquois of Ontario; and of marital status by the Inuit, whose women’s chins were tattooed. However, the roots of the modern tattoo can clearly be traced back to cultures of the Pacific Ocean. The word tatau comes from Tahiti, where English explorer Captain James Cook arrived in 1769 on a mission for the Royal Society of London to observe the transit of Venus across the sun. The word was introduced into the English language when his crew returned to England with the natives’ designs tattooed onto their own skins. In the latter part of the 19th and early 20th centuries, circuses and carnivals helped spread the popularity of this “taboo” art form, but more as a spectacle to be enjoyed from afar rather than personally experienced. For over 70 years,

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tattooed performers (many of them covered from head to toe) could be found in all of the most important sideshows. Up until very recently, “nice” girls rarely got tattooed. From the mid-19th to the mid-20th centuries, the display of tattoos was almost an exclusively male domain, most commonly practiced by the military classes (sailors and soldiers), as well as by miners, carnival folk, criminals, prostitutes, and others marginalized by society. Indeed, some anthropologists trace the origins of tattooing to warfare, because the link between the two has always been so close. In 1846, New York artist Martin Hildebrandt opened the first professional tattoo shop in the United States, and most of the people he tattooed were military personnel. His designs ran the gamut from women to ships, flags to fierce animals, and knives to skulls. According to military legend, the entire crew of the Kearsarge had little stars tattooed on their foreheads to comemmorate their victory over the Alabama during the American Civil War. According to a U.S. government survey, by the end of the 19th century over 85% of American soldiers were tattooed (most of them veterans of the Civil War or the Spanish-American War), with many of the designs memorializing or even depicting the battles in which they were victorious. Samuel O’Reilly’s invention of the modern rotary tattoo machine, which he patented in 1891, ushered in the “Golden Age of Tattooing” in the United States, spanning the period between the two World Wars. The classic imagery of traditional American tattooing reached its zenith during this period (ships, anchors, banners, flags, eagles, wild animals, weapons, skulls, etc.), and the clientele changed little until much afterward. With the rise of the middle class and the dominance of more conservative social trends after the end of World War  II, along with the closure of tattoo parlors in many states (due to serious outbreaks of hepatitis), the popularity

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of tattooing in the U.S. went on the wane. It only began to enjoy a resurgence during the counterculture years of the 1960s and 1970s, when sporting a tattoo was seen as an act of defiance against the establishment. After that, the tat’s evolution from social statement to mainstream statement was only a matter of time.

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The Rise of Tattoo Nation These days, all you have to do is turn your head to see a tattoo. One could almost assert that those without tattoos are bucking a trend, out of step with the times. During the summer Olympics of 2008 in China, it was hard not to notice the prevalence of tattooed athletes, whose numbers jibed with the statistics I came upon regarding the phenomenon: 36% of Americans aged 18–25 and 40% of those aged 26–40 have at least one permanent tattoo (Pew Research Center, January 2007). From informal observations made at my local yoga studio, the trend seems to be consistent with the propensity that Americans showed in the presidential election of 2008 to go black. (Attached to an email I received recently was a large photo of Barack Obama, with French president Nicolas Sarkozy in the foreground declaring: “I may not be black yet, but I am a little more tanned!” This was a play on words, which referred to his wife’s name, Carla Bruni—bruni means “tanned” in French.) Thanks to our new president, it will soon be hipper than ever to have black friends, black spouses, black cats, black cars, black everything. In the same way, it is entirely hip to have tattoos; whereas not so long ago, tattoos signified that you were either a sailor, an ex-con, a biker, a gang member, or someone completely lacking in foresight ’cause an old girlfriend’s name was permanently inked across your genitals.

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In my own personal and terribly unscientific survey of friends with tattoos and the many tattooed people I’ve met over the years—through our henna studio and at other conventions like the one described previously, along with research on the Internet, and by reading magazines that cater to the industry—I found that the reasons people opt for permanent ink are as varied as the people themselves. After awhile, however, a pattern begins to emerge, and most of the motives behind the phenomenon can be placed in one of the following categories: to record an event; to shape a unique mythology; to communicate a personal vision; to enhance one’s allure; to literally embody art (“Yes, I’m a collector,” one attendee at the tattoo convention asserted); to resist social norms; to defy authority; to control personal chaos; to wear as evidence of one’s stoicism; to take a stand; to display proof of freedom; to take ownership of one’s life; to stand out; and to fit in. (The last two are not necessarily mutually exclusive!) In some cases, cultural imperatives (or lack thereof) come into play. And in some instances of extreme body art, psychological disturbance or extraordinary addiction may be a factor. This list of motivations is by no means exhaustive; but in studying the reasons why indigenous people engage in body modification—whether indelible or short-term—one can see a parallel pattern emerging. Their tattoos are intended to invoke the spirits; to enhance personal physical traits; to beautify the self; to attract love; to indicate qualities of strength and valor; to display fierceness; to mark a tribe’s origin; and to validate one’s sense of belonging to a particular social group. Sometimes the goal is to camouflage the body, or simply (as referenced earlier with Felicia’s facial tattoo story) to disappear. In looking at the inspiration (or rationale) that drives both groups, it becomes evident that, though on a different scale, the impulses behind becoming inscribed with a temporary tattoo may not be all that different from those that impel a desire for permanent body art.

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In the end, for all our modernity and “self-awareness,” our motives for bodily adornment are essentially the same as those of our brothers and sisters in the jungle, with this one striking difference: whereas a huge driving force behind tattooing in both groups is to display affiliation (whether to a tribe, a military unit, a social elite, a gang, or a subculture), in the modern, developed world the seeds of yet another compelling motivation have taken root. As increasing numbers of people become tattooed, it has gradually become less a symbol of affiliation with or activity within a particular subculture, and more a socially acceptable pop culture emblem emphasizing individual expression for its own sake. This is a uniquely western concept. Much like that great secret vacation spot no one goes to anymore because it has become overrun by “regular” tourists, those who are serious about body art will continue to seek alternative ways to reclaim their status, or unique identity, within a culture that insists on defining itself as “the other.” This trend toward the extreme, as manifested in the appearance of ever-edgier forms of body modification, such as multiple piercings and scarification, points to a movement back toward the tribal imperative.

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Finally, some say that the recent tattooing phenomenon is little more than a passing fad. However, I’m not so in love with this “tattoo as fashion statement” theory because it doesn’t completely account for the growing popularity of the art form. Sounds like a lazy myth to me! There must be some deeper explanation for the tattoo’s inexorable march into the everyday lives of Olympic athletes, business executives, and hockey moms (and their kids). After all, can marking one’s body really be equated with mini skirts and baggy jeans? For clothing and accessories, you walk into a store, plunk down your dollars, and walk away with something that will mostly sit in your closet until you toss it in the trash. The tattoo—even if it is just for “fun,” and temporary to boot—is simply not so disposable as that. By its very nature, it demands thought, and is a bold statement that begs the question: why?

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The Ink Factor The enduring popularity of permanent and temporary tattoos speaks not only to the propensity of human beings to turn their bodies into art, but also to our overriding need to transform the skin into something akin to that most familiar and conventional medium of communication: the sheet of paper (or canvas, wood and stone). After researching the various impulses behind getting tattooed, it occurred to me that there is another element that must be considered when discussing jagua and its place in the body art conversation. Before the Chinese invented ink five thousand years ago, and even long after, important messages were often carved into stone, painted on cave walls, or cut into wet clay. The very properties that made such messages so durable— their weight, size, and composition—also rendered them extremely difficult to transport (how do you carry a cave around?). The invention of ink revolutionized the way that people transmitted ideas, feelings, and information, and facilitated the transference of knowledge in a way that oral histories and stone tablets never could. Why am I bringing up ink? Because homo sapiens, as a species, is distinguished both by its innate need to communicate; and for millennia, right up to the present day, the preeminent instrument in our precious trove of tools dedicated to the art of communication has been ink. Yet, before ink, before papyrus, before the invention of the modern paper-making process (again pioneered by the Chinese), and even before the development of alphabets and writing systems, people found ways to “talk” with their bodies. Our prehistoric forebears—using pigments manufactured from colored clay, silt, soot, charcoal, plant dyes, or whatever other staining agent their resourceful minds could discover—first began the human tradition of expressing oneself through the outward ornamentation of the body. Granted, many other species do this

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as well—just think of the flamboyant tail feathers of the male peacock as an obvious example of conveying Look at me, I’m sexy! The main difference is that human skin talkers are not restricted to signaling relatively simple concepts, such as Do you want to get funky with me? and The timing is perfect! Because people hunger also for social intercourse, the messages transmitted by way of the skin can encompass complex statements capable of conveying thoughts and feelings not always so easily articulated with words—the subliminal, subconscious, or unconscious messages that define us. Which brings me to the subject at hand, namely, the relevance of temporary tattoos created with henna and jagua; because these, too, are inks. Mother Earth abounds with natural pigments and organic dyes from berries, fruits, plants, and trees, such as indigo, woad, saffron, achiote, bloodroot, beets, cocoa, pomegranate, and scores more. These too are types of ink, in that one of their properties is the ability to stain paper and other surfaces; and some, if applied under the skin, can even leave a permanent mark. What they have in common, however, is that they all wash right off the surface of the body, either immediately or soon after application. To the best of my knowledge, only henna and jagua stain the top layer of skin for extended periods, disappearing completely at the end of the exfoliation cycle (one to two weeks, depending on the person). Thus, the magical thing about these two body inks is that they provide us with the ability to create a durable message and to change the message at will. With the current renaissance of tattooing, we have come full circle, rediscovering through the body art movement that which our ancestors had learned eons ago: the value of expressing one’s self via the skin. But in the modern era, we’ve made one very important advance on the tradition and techniques they first devised. Thanks to chemistry, free market capitalism, and an intricate system of global trade, we now have the means to provide people around the world with

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temporary tattoos as a safe, convenient, and inexpensive alternative to the more conventional kind. Which leads me to conclude that these two natural inks, henna and jagua, can serve as exceptionally powerful tools of communication precisely because they are temporary. Just think of that frisky peacock that spreads his feathers only when he’s ready for action. Now, think about men. According to The Kinsey Report— Sexual Behavior in the Human Male—54 percent of men think about sex every day or several times a day. This means that just under half of the male population doesn’t think about sex even once a day! The guys in the jungle who use body adornment for that purpose just might want to change that tattoo. If science and history teach us anything, it is this: whenever Nature provides a possibility, that means it foresaw a need. Once writing ink became available to early civilizations, the next step was to come up with a way to channel that ink efficiently onto the surface to be marked. From sharpened bone tips to bamboo stems to quill pens dipped in ink wells to fountain pens that carried their own ink reservoir (first patented in 1884 by Lewis Waterman), the technology of transferring pigment to paper constantly improved across the centuries, but was never quite completely satisfactory— until the advent of the ballpoint pen. Though patented in 1888 and improved upon by many others over the years, this writing instrument came into its own only after a visionary French businessman named Marcel Bich perfected it and, in 1950, introduced the Bic pen to the world—becoming in the process quite wealthy. Bic, a shortened version of the company founder’s name, Bich, remains a household word to this day. There are times when I feel like I know exactly what life was like for Monsieur Bich (minus his millions!) in those heady days when he was first developing and marketing his revolutionary pen. I can almost imagine what frustrations and triumphs he and his partners must have experienced in formulating a pigment 168

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that had a respectable shelf life and dried on contact without smearing as it flowed just right through an instrument which—even as it provided a priceless way to improve communication—was nonetheless well within the financial reach of the masses. Pascal and I had to go through much the same process of trial and error within our own little commercial niche in order to perfect our Earth Jagua Tattoo Kit. With this “magical” ink, if we are successful in providing people with an easy and affordable way to adorn their bodies; and if we help expand on the age-old tradition of speaking out via the skin in one of the most creative ways possible, the jagua gods will not have smiled upon us in vain.

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Jagua tattoo application with squeeze bottle applicator and fine tip

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Frequently Asked Questions About Jagua Is jagua the same as black henna? No. Black henna does not even exist, although there are some who insist on arguing the point. For example, on the Venice Beach boardwalk in Los Angeles, many artists openly offer “black henna tattoos” even though the natural color of the stain obtained from the henna plant has always been and will always be reddish brown. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. I believe they’ve bought some shady supplier’s story when they swear that there is a brown henna plant and a black henna plant, even though at this point in time, they should know better. So-called “black henna” doesn’t even necessarily contain henna. Mostly, the concoctions used are made from black hair dye containing a potentially dangerous chemical called para-phenylenediamine (PPD), which seems to be safe on the scalp but not on the skin. This substance can be found in photographic developer, printing inks, lithography plates, black rubber, oils and gasoline. Lucky people don’t suffer any physical reactions from it. Many people, however, do sustain serious rashes, permanent scarring and long-term health problems when exposed to PPD. Finally, henna is a plant. Jagua is a fruit. How does jagua work to stain the skin? Indigenous people in the Amazon squeeze the pulp of the fruit to obtain the juice. At first it looks clear like water, but 30 minutes after being exposed to air, the oxidation process turns it black. In some cases, they mix it with charcoal, then apply it to their skin either with their fingers or with fine sticks. 171

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Transporting the fruit, juice or extract to the United States and packaging it so that it can be applied to the skin (with easy applicators, as opposed to sticks) is a little more complicated. The jagua fruit extract is used as a base, with other natural ingredients added to it to keep it fresh and safe from bacteria while in transit or stored for sale. Once it is applied on the skin, the gel takes 40 to 60 minutes to dry, depending on the size of the design. Two hours later, the dried gel is rinsed off with warm water and a washcloth, leaving a gray stain, which grows darker over 48 hours to a dark blue-black stain. This stain lasts 10 days to two weeks, depending on the individual. Does the stain disappear completely? Yes. It gets lighter and lighter as the skin exfoliates, and disappears completely. Does it hurt to get a jagua tattoo? No. The skin is never pierced and it does not hurt. The gel is applied, like henna, on top of the skin, and it only penetrates the uppermost layer of the skin. The application of jagua gel to the skin is 100% pain-free. If I keep the gel on my skin longer than two hours, will I get a darker stain? Two hours is sufficient to obtain the darkest color. Leaving it on longer will not yield a darker or longer-lasting stain. Leaving it on overnight is not recommended. Are there any side effects to using jagua? No. As with anything else in the natural world, however, allergic reactions are always possible, depending on the individual (think peanuts or strawberries). After selling the product to thousands of people, my impression is that it is safe. The only time we heard of someone having a reaction, it turned out the person

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was on serious medication of various sorts. It is known that certain drugs can sensitize the skin to things such as sunlight and certain topical preparations. Therefore, we recommend that people taking medication check first with their doctor before applying jagua (or anything else, for that matter) on their skin. In addition, it is always prudent to do a small patch test first before attempting a fullsize tattoo. Like with all products, it is important that people read instructions, as well as all warnings labels before using. Aside from the color it produces, does jagua differ from henna in any way? Yes. Unlike henna, which is best mixed into a paste just before use, the jagua gel is sold pre-mixed and ready to go; no other preparation is required. In addition, the jagua gel does not need to stay on the skin as long as henna; as previously mentioned, two hours is sufficient. Jagua takes a little longer to dry than henna, depending on the size of the design. Henna has a very distinctive, earthy scent; jagua is virtually odorless. Finally, henna grows in hot, dry desert climates; jagua prefers it hot, moist and tropical. Note: In the similarities department, henna and jagua are both organic substances, which means they are, by nature, somewhat unpredictable. They refuse to be pigeonholed! For example, different people may obtain different results because henna and jagua interact with each individual’s body temperature, skin type, lifestyle, “time of the month,” or even state of mind when the products are applied. Occasionally we’ll get calls from people saying something like, “My husband got great color, but I didn’t!” Since it’s obviously not the fault of the henna or jagua, all we can say is, “Try re-applying it over the initial design.” Sometimes a double application is what it takes.

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How long does the jagua gel stay fresh once you open the bottle? The sooner you use it up, the better. If it is refrigerated, however, it should stay fresh and maintain its potency for up to two months. Why is the jagua gel sometimes black, sometimes gray, and sometimes brown? The juice changes color, depending on the season. Regardless of the gel’s color, it still stains the skin blue-black. Why does the gel sometimes look marbled as it dries? Again, it depends on the season; but regardless of how the gel dries, the end result is still the same: a blue-black stain on the skin. Do jagua tattoos show up on dark skin? Yes. Can I use it anywhere on my body? Yes—just make sure to keep it out of the eyes. Are there certain areas of the body that stain better than others? As with henna, the stain is darkest on the hands and feet. Biceps seem to stain a little lighter, but not by much. Once my jagua tattoo starts to fade, is there any way to restore it to its original color? Yes. Simply retrace over the design with more gel.

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Does jagua permanently stain fabric, wood, and other porous surfaces the way henna does? No. With fabric, if you wash it right away with soap, the gel will come off without leaving a stain. We have gotten jagua gel on our blond wood table and concrete counters, and it washes off with a damp cloth, even after several hours. However, it does stain the skin, and quickly! If you get jagua on your hands as you apply it, wash it off immediately or sooner! Is the Amazon rainforest harmed or affected in any negative way by the popularity of jagua tattoos? Not at all. As mentioned in the Author’s Note, no trees are chopped down in the process of harvesting the jagua fruit. The Indians simply pick the fruit that would normally fall off the tree and rot on the forest floor. As indicated in earlier parts of this book, the Matsés stopped using jagua for body ornamentation years ago. They are thrilled that the fruit can be used as a cash crop, which in no way depletes, alters or harms their environment. If I want to remove a jagua tattoo, what should I do? There is no quick fix. You can use hydrogen peroxide or a diluted bleach-andwater solution on the skin, or rub it gently with soap and a washcloth to lessen the staining effect; but it will still take a few days to disappear completely. What can I do to help my tattoo last longer? Avoid chlorinated pools and soaking in hot tubs. It may be useful to apply a layer of petroleum jelly to the tattoo before swimming or showering. Is it safe for pregnant women and children to use jagua? Yes. 175

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Do I have to be an artist to work with jagua? To make beautiful designs on the skin, it helps to be an artist or to know how to draw. However, if you are like me and can’t draw even a crooked line, there is help. Our kits come with stencil transfers that make it easy enough for a 10-yearold to make beautiful tattoos. Various types of stencils can also be found in art stores and on the internet. Which do you prefer, henna or jagua? What I like is irrelevant, of course. Different strokes for different folks. But since I get this question a lot, I thought I would include it here, and answer it too! Since I have never been interested in getting a permanent tattoo, I am more drawn to henna because it is so obviously not a real tattoo. Plus, I love its earthy, reddish brown color, which reminds me of that beautiful red dirt in Hawaii. I think henna is fabulous and jagua is cool. Or is it that jagua is fabulous and henna is cool? Gulp…I can’t decide.

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place of facts, figures, and a Byzantine political history, the Amazon is infinitely dynamic and bursting with personality. In the course of writing this book and researching jagua facts and fables as they exist throughout the region, it was impossible not to be seduced by the enigmatic rainforest culture and by the Indians themselves. Their stories—histories, traditions, ways of looking at life, challenges, habits, and beliefs—took hold of me, making it difficult to focus only on my primary and narrow area of interest. To further acquaint the reader with the local color and flavor of jagua’s birthplace and the peoples that I came to know throughout this journey, brief histories of the indigenous groups that were highlighted in relation to their usage of jagua were made a part of Chapter Six: Jagua Magic. In addition, three veteran explorers and lovers of jagua country generously provided enlightening first-person essays about the place that never fails to ignite their passions (see Peter Gorman’s essay on page 60; David Fleck’s essay on page 69; and Cristina Mittermeier’s essay on page 100.) The material that follows gives you some basics. ar from being just a

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Amazon 101 Picture, if you can, alternately streaming and rushing water amid emerald trees for days and weeks and months and years, stretching through thousands of miles of forest (no one knows for sure exactly how to accurately estimate the length of the Amazon River—4,000 miles is the best guess). The most colossal cascade of water on our planet, the Amazon River runs through the world’s biggest, widest, and longest tropical rainforest, with a total water flow greater than that of the next eight largest rivers combined (three of those are the Nile, the Mississippi, and the Yangtze, which may give you some conception of just how big this river system is!). Fully 20% of the world’s fresh water flowing into the ocean comes from the Amazon. Inland, the Amazon basin covers an area equal to two thirds the size of the entire United States and half of the South American continent, or over seven million square kilometers. If you think in acres, that works out to 1.7 billion acres of rainforest spread over parts of nine countries: Brazil, Peru, Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, Bolivia, Guyana, Suriname, and French Guiana, with 60% of it in Brazil, 13% in Peru, and the rest spread out over the remaining seven. When it comes to biodiversity, nothing beats the Amazon rainforest, where there are a minimum of 40,000  plant species; 2,000  different kinds of birds; 3,000 varieties of fish; 300 species of mammals; and 2.5 million species of insects (with scientists estimating there might be 30  million more still undiscovered (which makes the Amazon the perfect spot for a picnic!). There are some 300 species of trees in every hectare (or two and a half acres) of Amazon rainforest. The climate is humid and hot, with temperatures averaging in the mid seventies to upper eighties. There is no agreement on exact population figures—as with many other issues in the region, consensus is elusive—but it seems there are some 200,000 Indians

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(down from 600,000 to 800,000 in the early 1990s) from among over 200 tribal communities speaking 180 languages in the Amazon basin. Why have the population numbers dropped so dramatically in less than two decades? If you consider that when Columbus first arrived in the area, there were an estimated seven million indigenous people inhabiting this territory, it becomes evident that the disappearance of Amazonian natives is nothing more than the result of a tragic and sustained pattern of devastation suffered by the Indians at the hands of outsiders. At first, the decimation of these tribes began with the spread of disease, malnutrition, frequent massacres, enslavement, deforestation, and the commercial exploitation of native lands by Spanish and Portuguese explorers and colonizers in the mid-16th century. Then, in the mid-17th century, the discovery of rubber trees in the Amazon by a French explorer fueled the European demand for the latex sap of this tree, which was primarily used for waterproofing shoes and clothing. This nascent industry exploded, however, with the invention of the automobile in the 19th century. The need for mass-produced tires led to the subsequent arrival of the infamous rubber barons who, in their zeal to capitalize on a voracious industrial appetite for the material, enslaved and killed off entire tribes. By the late1800s, rubber trees had been planted elsewhere in the world, providing latex at lower prices, marking the beginning of the end of the rubber boom in the Amazon. Nevertheless, throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, and right up to the present, a steady influx of cattle ranchers, commercial farmers, loggers, gold miners, oil and gas explorers, and drug traffickers more than adequately took up the gauntlet of industrial devastation first initiated by the rubber boom. So why is the Amazon rainforest so important, and saving it such a worthwhile pursuit? For one thing, the breathtaking variety of plant life that flourishes there provides scientists with an unequaled opportunity to tap into a wealth of

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still-to-be-discovered information on potentially life-saving chemicals. That’s why some call the Amazon rainforest “the world’s pharmacy” (more than 25% of the medicines we currently use come from rainforests, yet only 1% of the plants in the region have been scientifically evaluated). More importantly, just because of its sheer size, the Amazon serves in many ways as the “lungs” of the earth. Rainforests absorb heat from the sun, store carbon dioxide, and exhale pure oxygen. As the world’s largest rainforest is destroyed, less carbon dioxide is stored, and much more is released into the air through burning—a phenomenon considered to be the number one cause of global warming. That’s why some call the Amazon “the world’s air conditioner.” Without it, we’ll all bake. In spite of this well-documented situation, one oft-repeated statistic stands out in my mind as an effective illustration of the level of deforestation presently taking place in the Amazon: every minute, the equivalent of twenty football fields of rainforest is clear-cut or burned down. As the global economic meltdown of 2009 has shown, the supposedly New Age concept that says we’re all one has proven to be true: the unfortunate guy in the U.S. who couldn’t afford to pay his overpriced mortgage is now everybody’s problem. And so too is the ongoing destruction of the Amazon rainforest. No one understands this elementary fact better than the indigenous peoples who live there.

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The Indians Back in May of 2008, the world was electrified by the discovery of a group of heretofore unknown Indians living in a territory shared by Peru and Brazil. Photographed from a low-flying plane, they were seen standing beside a hut, skin painted red and black and, with weapons at the ready, they appeared very agitated and prepared to defend themselves against the “great metal bird” flying above them. Why was everyone so excited at this discovery? Did it perhaps evoke a deep wish that exists in modern humans for something, anything, that can reacquaint us with less complex times, with our simpler selves, with simplicity itself? According to our friend David Fleck, who lives with the Matsés, most likely those previously “undiscovered” Indians are not some primitive, isolated tribe that has never ventured out to meet the modern world. “If a group like that existed, the Matsés would know about them,” he told Pascal. Furthermore, David says that, according to the people in the community, the only reason those Indians seemed so “primitive” in their reaction to seeing the airplane was not because they were afraid of that big mechanical menace in the sky, but because they wanted to attract attention to themselves. Why? Probably to sell furs to the passengers. And why would they want to do that? Because they can use some of what the modern world provides: not a reshaping of their cultural, religious, and social customs, thank you, but access to better healthcare, and money for fuel, tools, and other basic supplies that would render life in the jungle safer and easier. So it turns out they probably weren’t frightened at all. They just wanted to remind their fellow humans that they exist, deep in the jungle where reaching them takes work and determination, and that they could use some help. Some Amazon experts believe that as many as 50 groups in Brazil and Peru are still so isolated that they have never had direct contact with the outside world; but there are many who strongly dispute the notion. The Matsés fall into the latter category. 181

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Since that time in early 2008, other information has emerged. The Brazilian government said it has known of the group’s existence since 1910, but wanted to respect its desire to remain isolated. Indian rights organizations and FUNAI, the Indian Affairs agency of the Brazilian government, say the photos that were released (by FUNAI) came in response to earlier statements made by Peruvian officials seeking to cast doubt on the their existence in order to legitimize their logging activities. Indian rights groups say the community should be left alone for many reasons, chief among them the potentially calamitous consequences of exposing them to “western” diseases that they have never encountered before and against which they would have no natural immunity. Others say contact is ine- vitable, and is the only way to protect the Indians’ territory from the effects of encroaching interests, which usually take the form of deforestation and displacement (not to mention fake Nike sneakers). I wonder what the Indians want? It is not the place of the “civilized” world to decide that question for them. We must tread a fine line between reaching out to them as equals while at the same time avoiding at all costs interfering in their tribal affairs or disrupting their customs and a way of life that has endured for many centuries. There is a reason it has endured: it works for them. While we have much to offer these people in the realm of modern medicine and mechanical conveniences, they have arguably much more to offer us in terms of their uniquely intimate knowledge of the Amazon ecosystem. The Amazon, as I discovered while researching this book, is many things to many people, including a boiling cauldron of politics and competing political interests. This book is not the proper forum for Amazonian politics, however, even though the issues of the region do make themselves evident in the brief histories of the fifteen groups presented in earlier chapters.

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F  F  F If a jagua fruit is growing in the forest and there is no Indian around to discover its secrets, is the fruit still important? Yes. But it is these indigenous people, with their lifelong organic study of this important environment, who can help illuminate our paths as we attempt to explore the diversity of species that live on this planet, including fruits, flowers, plants, trees, animals, and insects, for starters—and, not least of all, ourselves.

A Matsés elder with jaguar-tooth necklace

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and the pink river dolphin hold a special place in the hearts of Jagua People. Included here is a legend about the pink river dolphin, known in the region as the Bufeo Colorado, and a compendium of beliefs around the anaconda. These stories, widely embraced by nearly all rainforest natives, help us to push through the doorway that leads into the uniquely charming personality and enchanting character of the Amazon and its people. he powerful anaconda

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The Legend of the Pink Dolphin One of only five freshwater species of dolphins in the world, Inia geoffrensis is distinctive for the pink color of its skin. It can be found living in the Amazon, Orinoco, and Araguaia/Tocantins River systems of Brazil, Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia and Venezuela. In Brazil they are known as “botos”; in Peru they are called “bufeo colorado.” These animals have lived in harmony with humans for centuries; there are even reports of pink dolphins pushing people to shore after their canoes had capsized. Unfortunately, in the last 20 years they have become an endangered species, due to the expanding commercialization of the Amazon basin and accelerated destruction of the rainforest. Among the indigenous tribes, pink dolphins are generally considered sacred or semi-divine creatures, figuring prominently in the local mythology. The resemblance between human genitalia and that of dolphins may be one source of the following legend, variations of which are prevalent throughout the Amazon. F  F  F There was once a 16-year-old girl whose job it was to go down every morning to the banks of the Amazon River and carry water back to the hut where she lived with her father. One day she decided to stay awhile longer to enjoy a swim. After carefully looking around to make sure she was alone, the girl removed her clothing and jumped in fully naked. Lulled by the peaceful environment, she failed to notice that someone was watching her from the shore. But soon she began to sense the presence of another and, filled with a sudden chill, she turned, only to find a young man standing on the muddy bank, staring openly at her naked body. As if a spell has been cast over her, she was unable to resist his stare and soon found herself walking out of the water and into his arms.

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She asked him who he was, and he told her that he was a fisherman from Iquitos. Still staring deeply into her eyes, he told her that he loved her and wanted to be with her forever. She agreed, and they fell into a mad, passionate embrace. From that time forward, they met every evening at dusk to make love, until one day she realized she was pregnant. Upon noticing her swollen abdomen, her father became enraged and threatened to beat her, demanding to know who her lover was. Although she was usually quite timid by nature, the young girl stood up to her father and told him that she was in love with a fisherman who also loved her, and that he would come that very night to ask for her hand in marriage. The fisherman appeared, as he had every night, and asked for permission to marry his love; reluctantly, the father agreed. In her father’s house, as his wife slept, the young man always left before dawn to go fishing, only returning after nightfall. Things went on in this way for some time, until one day when the young man overslept. When the young girl opened her eyes, she lit the lantern on the bedside table and, feeling her husband’s presence, turned to wake him, and then froze. Screaming in terror, she called to her father. “Help! There’s a pink dolphin in my bed!” As the dolphin tried in vain to escape, her father ran in with his rifle, and with one bullet killed the the large fish dead. From that day on, the young fisherman was never seen again, although his wife never stopped searching for him. Several months later, the young girl died in childbirth; but when the baby finally emerged, everyone saw that she had given birth to a baby pink dolphin. Only then did they realize that the girl’s husband was in reality the fabled “Bufeo Colorado,” who had shape-shifted into a man in order to seduce her.

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From that day forth, young girls were warned that if a charming and seductive young man ever introduced himself to them by the river, they should not be fooled, because he might be the “Bufeo Colorado,” come to steal their hearts. F  F  F The Amazon is large, and its tribes many, so of course, there is some disagreement about this legend. Some say that it is not the pink dolphin that seduces young women, but the blue or gray dolphin. Others say that the real story of the pink dolphin is that if a strange man should appear at a community gathering or fiesta and he is wearing a hat, he should always be made to remove it, for he might be the shape-shifting pink dolphin, come to seduce young girls; and the hole in his head through which he breathes would reveal his true nature. Today, whenever an unwed girl becomes pregnant and the father is unknown, people say that the culprit is the pink dolphin. (See photo of pink dolphin in fourth color photo section.)

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Tales of the Anaconda Rivaled in size only by the Asiatic reticulated python (Python reticulatus), the green anaconda (Eunectes murinus) of South America is reputed to be among the largest snake in the world, growing to a length of 6–10m (19.8 to 33 feet). This aquatic predator feeds on fish, birds, other reptiles, and mammals; the biggest specimens may even attack and eat large animals, such as tapir, deer, capybara, caiman, and even crocodiles and jaguars, which they constrict to death in their powerful coils and then swallow whole. Indeed, one of the local names for the anaconda is matatoros, which means “bull killer” in Spanish. Little evidence actually exists of human prey being so consumed; but such a possibility must certainly haunt our worst nightmares. Tales of the anaconda span the spectrum of beliefs throughout the Amazon. To some indigenous groups, the enormous serpent is the personification of divinity; to others, it is the epitome of pure evil. Other than the persistent reports over the last few centuries that a mythical “giant anaconda” (as much as 150 feet in length) lurks somewhere in the jungle, a single predominant mythology regarding the creature proved to be as elusive as the snake itself; so here I offer a selection of stories and beliefs about the anaconda drawn from a variety of indigenous groups. F  F  F The Yukuna Indians believe the anaconda to be a primordial being that came to earth from the Milky Way. F  F  F The Cubeo Indians believe they originated from the speech of the anaconda, the animal form in which their forebears emerged. One of their origin myths relates that the anaconda split himself off into several sections, with the head

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turning into the leader of the tribe, and each remaining segment the rest of the clan. Another version of the legend cites pairs of anacondas slithering out from a bed of rocks and shedding their skins, from which emerged a human brother and sister pair. The first pair were considered the head Cubeos, who named all the others that followed. They also have a story about one of their ancestors who chose to relinquish his human form and turned himself back into an anaconda. F  F  F The Shuar/Jivaro people regard the anaconda as a mythical animal because their god, Arutam, often reveals himself in that form. Another belief is that when an anaconda attacks a human, that snake has been taken over by the souls of murdered people. F  F  F Before the Coamilla people go fishing in certain lakes, they must perform specific and complex rituals because these waters are known to be haunted by the spirits of dead shamans transformed into anacondas. F  F  F Many indigenous groups center their communities around the maloca, or long house, as a traditional living structure or ceremonial temple. In Tikuna mythology, the maloca symbolizes the anaconda, in that the men’s entrance, which faces the river, represents its mouth; the other entrance, for women, represents its tail; and its excrement (the waste from the maloca) is used as fertilizer for crops. They believe that the anaconda lies beneath the earth, resting since the time he brought the first Tikuna ancestors to their place of origin.

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In that regard, they walk softly so as not to disturb his sleep, which may cause tremors. F  F  F For the Hohodene people, the anaconda, or Umawali, is associated with the white man. In one account, the white man emerges from the rotting corpse of the anaconda and becomes the owner of a shotgun. In another, a white man has sexual relations with the wife of Yaperikuli, the creator god of the Hohodene. When he finds out, Yaperikuli goes to the river and, when he sees his wife in the act with the white man, shoots him with a blowgun. The white man falls into the water, and his semen seeps out of him and floats on top of the water. Yaperikuli sends his little brother to catch fish for dinner, then feeds his wife the fish. Having eaten the fish with the white man’s sperm, she becomes pregnant and gives birth to an anaconda. In yet another legend, the anaconda is known as “the father of the fish,” who presides over dangerous and evil water spirits that can bring illness to humans, children in particular. F  F  F A myth similar to that of the Hohodene is told by the Arapaço Indians. In their version, the anaconda each day metamorphoses into a gorgeous young man with shiny gold ear ornaments that charm the wife of their creator god Iapo. Iapo shoots the anaconda with a poisoned dart when he catches him making love to his wife; but in this story, he does not die. He rolls downstream in the river for two days until Iapo hunts him down, cuts off his penis, and mixes it up with small fish, which he feeds to his wife; she then transforms into a fish. In the meantime, the anaconda keeps traveling downriver, but eventually returns in the form of a giant submarine stacked with “boxes of trade goods.” This more

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contemporary submarine story variant dovetails nicely with numerous older stories among other Amazonian groups about canoe-anacondas that functioned as vessels carrying the first ancestors to shore. F  F  F The Huaorani/Waodani Indians consider the anaconda to be the most terrifying and malevolent spirit, because it blocks the path in the forest that the dead must travel to reach the creator in the sky. F  F  F When the Shipibo Indians paint their bodies, homes, boats, and clothing, it is with sacred intent. Their geometric patterns are said to originate from the celestial anaconda, whose skin is the repository of all possible patterns. One of the mightiest sprits of Shipibo cosmology, the anaconda is thought to have “radiating, electric, vibrating power”; and the designs that come from his skin serve to transfer this dynamic force to the person wearing it. F  F  F A beautiful anaconda taught the Xingu Indian women to draw, and they used this knowledge to create designs on their bodies, hammocks, baskets, and pottery. This anaconda—named Sucury-Moon—was so lovely that, in their desire to own her skin and the wisdom within it, men killed her, stripped her of her skin, and wore it as a symbol of their power. However, the anaconda forgave their greediness and transformed herself into shamanic power as a boon to humanity. F  F  F

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The Piro and Campa people look upon the anaconda as two separate beings. There is the yacumama, the “River Mother,” who is considered to be the “source” of the river, with authority over the flow of water; and the sachamama, the “Forest Mother,” who is the source of the forest. From the hole where she lies curled up arise the forest, its animals, and its plants.

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Fauna and Wildlife in the Amazon

1. The jagua flower and fruit

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2. One of many flocks of butterflies encountered by Pascal in the Amazon

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3. Chameleon parrott

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4. The Phyllomedusa bicolor

240 5. There are countless myths surrounding the anaconda in the Amazon.

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6. The Pink River Dolphin (Bufeo colorado)

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7. A pet monkey in the Matsés village

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4th Color Photo Section (follows page 192): 1. Lobo, Jorge. Genipa americana /Flor y Fruto. Photograph. Osa Peninsula, Costa Rica. Vicerrectoria de Investigacion. Universidad de Costa Rica. Web. .  2. One of many flocks of butterflies encountered by Pascal in the Amazon— © 2009 by Pascal Giacomini. 3. Chameleon parrot—© 2009 by Pascal Giacomini. 4. The Phyllomedusa bicolor  ‑ © 2009 by William Leonard. Phyllomedusa bicolor / Giant Monkey Frog. 2006. Photograph. Tambopata River, Peru. CalPhotos. University of California, Berkeley. Web. .  5. There are countless myths surrounding the anaconda in the Amazon— © 2009 by Ed George. A Coiled Anaconda. Photograph. National Geographic. com. Summersafari.wikispaces.com. Web. .  6. The Pink River Dolphin (bufeo colorado)—© 2009 by Ivanweb Ivanweb. Pink Dolphin. 2005. Photograph. Singapore lagoon reserve. Dreamstime.com. Web.   7. A pet monkey in the Matsés village—© 2009 by Pascal Giacomini. Graphics Page 10. Musser, Karl. “Amazonrivermap.png.” Map.  Wikimedia Commons. Wikimedia Foundation. Web. 2008.  .  Page 11. Pascal Giacomini. “Creole Beauty.”  Page 22. Pascal Giacomini. “Simbi Veve.”

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