•09• part one• once upon a time in maniapure…

About the happenings many moons ago while visiting the E'ñepá indigenous nation, located in the northwest south bank of the great Orinoco River. It involves jaguar familiars…

“He who does not have a teacher, cannot get hold of the powerful familiars of the shaman” / “sïnkae mën nchi yamohkāne mïkë kën tunko, kënpanakën tama’asumpan i’yan.”

                                           -  As told by Yoroko, the I’yan/shaman to MC Mattei Müller             

Somewhere  around the vague uncharted territory of the northwest south bank of our great milky-tea colored Orinoco River — which you have to cross in a chalana or flatboat from the ugliest town I have ever been in my Venezuela, called Cabruta  located in the supposed geographic center of the country — towards Caicara del Orinoco, between the black transparent waters of the  Cuchivero & Suapure rivers and under the relative shade of Cerro Cerbatana… forming almost a triangle shaped boomerang, therein lies the Panare — or as they call themselves nowadays — E’ñepá  indigenous territory. 

This territory is as mutable, as changeable, as the two opposite seasons we have in my country: Winter, when it rains from May to October with torrential afternoon monsoons which totally flood the lowlands or savanna’s, or Summer from November to April, the tinderbox shimmering dry season, where the winter deluge becomes a memory, a wishlist and something of a commodity. As mutable as it’s geography, between the plains, The Macizo Guayanés ancient rock mountains and the northern beginnings of the dark, dangerous, & mysterious Amazon Jungle, as mutable as the centuries they have lived secluded from the Colonizing Spaniards who tried to evangelize other Carib and Arawak speaking indigenous people. Specially those living by the shores of the big rivers, easily accessible to the soldiers and priests appropriating their culture, in the name of Carlos III, the Spanish King. 

As I nap against the car window— tired from all the preparations &  decorating for the prolonged Christmas festivities, including taking my girls to the traditional skating  patinatas— I’m between exhausted and bored. The anticipation of this ‘exotic’ excursion to be in touch with raw nature, a palate cleanser from city life, feels dampened by the looong day, the kids fighting in the back seat and the staticky radio stations between towns which my then husband A, insists on having on. I don’t like road trips.  My head lolls, in the midst of the dust cloud created by the others’ jeeps in front of us, as if we are alone in a Mad Max movie.  I hazily recall never having traveled for so long from my home in Caracas, it’s taking us forever to arrive.  Almost 13 hours, if you count the waiting time in hot, horrid Cabruta, plus the hourlong trip on the chalana, crossing to Caicara. Though I can’t, shouldn’t complain. In the olden days, when B, our hostess, first ventured there, it took them three full days. And nights.

But, I have to admit, crossing the Orinoco in the flatboat part was great and my first time seeing our fabled Great River. It’s calm lazy  current of molten gold, the V flight formation of red ibises or corocoras only visible as they fly melting against the rosé colored sunset; the late afternoon warm breeze brushing my hair and face, blowing away the remaining tired, stressed cobwebs of work and a  crumbling marriage. A respite from the kids bickering— who now sat happy and quiet, on the top of our SUV feeling very adventurous— and the bumpy, dusty road. This is THE cherry on the top. Or so I thought. Before arriving at Maniapure on that last week of December 1987.

We finally get there as night has fallen. As it falls near the Equator,  sudden and heavy like a velvet curtain at the end of a show. I can barely find my legs as I stiffly get down from our 4WD, to go and introduce ourselves to B & G. My comadre L’s—what you call your child’s godmother— Aunt and Uncle, our hosts for that sojourn to the south, the jungle, the nowhere, the everything, as I will soon learn. 

We start by unloading our SUV’s to set up our camp away from the main one, we tie our chinchorros our traditional woven hammocks, to the tall shady trees closest to the river and its big and smooth rounded grey stones, like hippos and elephant’s backs submerged in the water, and help set up the tents in a circle, where the women and children of my group will sleep. That is, except for me. I prefer sleeping diagonally in a chinchorro, like the men. A will sleep under me on a thin air mattress over a yoga mat, both under the same mosquito net, draped over, covering us both, as if it where the thin veil that has begun ripping, separating us into the two very different pages we have found ourselves living for a long time. An outdoor bunk bed of sorts, swinging slowly in the warm dry breeze, under the brilliant stars and the waning crescent Moon in Libra, my sign. 

By the time we’re done, sweat is pouring down my face and my whole body, my shirt plastered to it…as  we walk towards the main palm thatched rancho with it’s polished cement floor, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent bluish light, making our tired faces look like extras in a zombie movie. The clean wooden picnic tables and their attached benches are lined up like a school cafeteria, I notice, as  we place our coolers on top, to organize the open kitchen with our contributions. The kids are all together running around the packed reddish earth floor, stretching their legs, near our husbands joking and sharing a beer while keeping an eye on them.  B, busy planning the meals and chores for everyone in the group for our days ahead, suggested we cool off by jumping in the river, as she usually does, once she is done organizing her things. I confess to not being too keen on her idea, at first. The river doesn’t look very welcoming at night. The obsidian glassy waters of the Maniapure, moving slowly with the silvery moon tracing squiggles on its surface don’t seem so inviting. Who knows what monsters of my subconscious lay under? But B insists with her suggestion, noticing our pasty, dusty, tired travel faces… and like everyone else for the next few days, I take her advice to heart. And follow it. But no one else follows me. 

After all, she and the Musiú are the baqueanos here — ‘the people of the place’ as we call them.  They know the ways and means of this amazing encampment. How amazing? As soon as I sat on an enormous flat stone, I felt its warmth under me, from the heat of the sun, while getting into the cool dark river with my clothes on I knew I had arrived to a magical place. I thanked the Universe and L for inviting us. The water felt soft and enveloping like a liquid cloud made of cool, black transparency as I tentatively wade into the unknown. It’s the only way I could describe it. I could see my pale hands under the silver reflection of the moon and stars, but at the same time it was as if China Ink was diluted in this cool softness embracing me, infusing me with the energy of this ancestral land. I feel all alone in the Universe, floating up with my face towards the very brilliant stars, like diamonds thrown across a dark indigo velvet sky. 

Little did I know then, that the bluish starlight bathing me, was coming from the burning  Iñeto — the souls of departed Eñepá’s — welcoming me to their land. That they shine forever as the Milky Way stars, the Taykun, guarded by Mareoka, the Supreme Creator of all beings, of Fire and Water and Night and Day.

Leaving the inky river, I lay wet and happy as if I were a starfish on the warm flat rock. Closing my eyes, feeling Echerkon — the sun’s fiery energy and warmth imprinted in the stones— dry me out. I could imagine steam coming out of me,  as I lay there in the colorless darkness, listening to the new night sounds. Ever so close and intense without filter, without the concrete walls and air conditioners that we surround ourselves with in the Big City. I became part of that rock. I lost track of time, nobody came for me. 

I finally decided to go back to the group to settle down my kids, now that I had the energy, and the will,  in a daze, as if I was moving through clear gelatin, I walked back in a different state of reality, towards the cranky grumbling of the generator, voices laughing, towards the lights of the “kitchen/dining room” Rancho where everyone was gathered. B had fed all our children while we were setting up camp. It just remained to have them shower before making sure they were safely tucked in the tent. I was trying to figure out the how of those logistics, when B caught my arm.  

—I hear you rather sleep in a  chinchorro, than in the tent like the other women of your party?. 

—Yes, I answered. I would feel claustrophobic inside a tent. Why? 

—Well, it’s fine, just wanted to warn you beforehand, not to be too scared if William decides to jump on you tomorrow morning. 

—What? Which William? I asked, amazed, to say the least.

—Our pet araguato, a Red Howler Monkey she answered laughing at the astonished expression on my face. She continued, “He is very coddled and naughty— un consentido, a total brat — with a penchant for blondes. Besides, he is neither totally wild or totally domesticated, and as soon as I think he won’t do any more mischief, we bring him back with us to Maniapure and our civilizing intentions go out the window, or rather up the trees. He specially loves to throw himself, bombarding the mosquito nets of the chinchorros hanging by the river. He is so mischievous that he usually chooses a different one each morning. 

—Well B, thanks for the heads up. At least I hope I don’t scream and wake everyone up. I answered smiling, but honestly not looking forward to an araguato projectile  monkey jumping  on top of me as a wake up call at dawn. Oh well, the joys that come from sleeping under the branches and the stars, I guess.  I remembered the Kindergarden ditty “Starlight, starbright, let me wish with all my might: Please let William choose someone else tonite”

—One more thing, she said, my Panare brothers and sisters, from the Colorado encampment, are surely coming over to visit us. They know when we are arriving just by the vibration of our cars and 4WD’s on the road. They must be on their way already, since we got here around noon. Probably arriving really early tomorrow morning.  So please don’t be scared — even if William doesn’t wake you up— if when you open your eyes, probably there will be a stranger’s face mere centimeters away from yours. To them, we are an object of absolute, even childish curiosity and fascination. They don’t get to see a fair skinned, blonde woman very often. They are totally harmless, and will follow you around all day just out of naïve curiosity. They are the best, kindest people on the planet, talking to them is like talking to children, they will give you very soft but honest answers, sometimes prolonged silences, rewarded by your  patience. 

So I thanked her again for receiving  us, for feeding my girls while I cooled off in the river. For warning me about William’s wake up calls, and of course about the possible visitors to the campsite, whom I was very curious to meet. Said my goodnights to the group and went to chase my kids to go wash, change and go to “bed” inside our tent — all covered in inflatable mats made up with their sheets. They were as excited as their ages allowed: My eldest V a 14 year old teenager, my middle V a 11 year old ‘tweenie’, and my youngest V a 9 year old kid. I hoped there were lots of fun and new exciting experiences for each one of them with their cousins and friends. Still curiously calm, I changed and climbed under my mosquito net, into my chinchorro, a precarious thinly veiled safety bubble, hoping for a good night’s sleep. Once I had snuggled in my hammock with pillows and blanket, I again looked up gratefully towards the starry sky and the thin silver crescent moon, Wëëné. My chinchorro’s ropes creaked on the branches where A had tied them while it slowly swinging  in the warm breeze.  It was the only sound I heard as I was gently rocked to sleep.  

( to be continued)