THE
SHUAR INDIANS OF ECUADOR
Maurice was short, dark, and handsome. His mahogany skin and
mottled uniform blended with the jungle like a leopard’s
skin. He didn’t walk – he padded, slithered, flowed
along the narrow trails that wormed through the impenetrable
undergrowth. His chest was twice as wide as mine.
His father had hacked his way 200 miles south
from Cuenca to carve a future out of the same festering jungle
that had sent the Spaniards home in body bags. He built a house,
became a chief, took two wives and fathered seventeen children.
Maurice lived in a typical Shuar village made
of twisted jungle wood, spidery children and rolly-polly guinea
pigs. He had one wife and five kids. The boys were named Edison
and Jefferson. His house had no doors.
Once we settled down his daughters hauled out
a vat of boiled cassava and proceeded to mash it into paste.
The eldest scooped up a fingerful and popped it into her mouth.
She rolled it back and forth between her cheeks, then spat.
A stream of saliva-soaked paste landed back in the pot. Her
younger sibling followed her example.
"The saliva," Maurice said, "is
used to ferment the cassava." It was the women’s
job to sit and stir the mash, sucking in mouthfuls and spitting
them back out. The pot was then covered and allowed to sit for
a day or two, dosed with sugar, strained and shared with guests.
It tasted like potatoes soaked in lemon and spiced with saliva.
After two glasses I had swallowed enough saliva
to digest my next three meals. We staggered out the door to
take a walk. The houses were scattered through the valley, connected
by a network of paths exactly one barefoot wide. Almost every
balcony had a uniform or two hanging over the wooden rails.
"Maurice," I said. "You’re
in the jungle on patrol. You hear a noise. You raise your gun.
You look down your sight. You see another Shuar. What do you
do?"
"I shoot."
Shuar Indians were not recognized as citizens
by either Ecuador or Peru until forty years ago.
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