¡MÁS, MÁS!
BY HOLGER HOFFMANN & SYLVIA FURRER
It does not take long to get used to the relaxed lifestyle of the Hoti and Penare. No one works more than two hours a day. Much is done playfully, such as fishing. The Hoti and Penare are two Indian tribes that live on a tributary of the Orinoco River and consist of only a few hundred people. Our presence is tolerated because our companion nursed the village chief, Louis, back to health after a jaguar bite and also taught him a few words of Spanish.
Even the three-day trip on the Orinoco makes my heart beat faster. Chugging slowly, we penetrate the depths of the Amazon basin. The river scenery, which hardly changes for hours, is tremendously calming. On the second day, our boat suffers an engine damage, we have to change to a smaller boat. Eventually the river becomes so narrow that we have to push it over the rapids. Then we hike through the jungle and swamps and cross creeks on logs. We are led by the Hoti, who are dressed only in a loincloth. They had already been waiting for us at the river. On the way they surprise us again and again with interesting information about plants that we would have carelessly walked past. For example, there is the liana from which you can drink like from a tap, or the tree bark that tastes like garlic, or the large leaf that has a whitish layer on the underside and is used as a wound dressing.
Late in the afternoon we reach the first camp dripping with sweat. Holger, however, cannot take a rest. Two young Hotis set off at dusk armed with blowpipe to hunt birds. The curare remains in the small pot hanging from the ceiling in one of the huts. It is dangerous to handle and is only used when hunting larger animals. Already after half an hour they spot a small macaw and pursue it light-footedly and put on again and again the blowpipe to the shot, until they have disappeared at some point in the jungle together with the ara. They have completely forgotten about Holger, so that he has to find his way back to the camp alone, which is not obvious to him. Since he has a good sense of direction and is not in the jungle for the first time, he fortunately manages to get back before nightfall.
When we arrive at the neighboring camp the next day around noon, two boys are immediately sent to take care of our physical well-being. We accompany them to the nearby creek. The two jump into the water equipped with self-made diving goggles. Within no time they have harpooned a dozen fish with their short spears, more than enough for the whole party.
There is much to observe in the camp: A macaw that has made friends with a young monkey. The two seem inseparable and frolic among the people. In a woven basket I discover some freshly hatched downy green parrots. The women prepare cassava by grating the cassava tubers and drying them in the sun in a giant palm leaf. To feed the parrots, they put some of the dried cassava in their mouths, soften it with their saliva, and feed the baby parrots by putting their little heads in their mouths and letting them eat the mush. This is repeated several times a day. In a larger basket are three baby macaws. They appear to be completely helpless. Their hindquarters are oversized compared to the rest of their bodies and are practically naked. They can’t stay on their feet and keep falling backwards. With their feather stubble, they look touchingly ugly. It is unimaginable what splendor of color will one day emerge from these heart-wrenching creatures. They, too, are nurtured and later sold to traders, which, however, is illegal.
In a calabash filled with water, I discover tiny turtles. Immediately there is a child who takes one out and hands it to me. And again playing is announced associated with a lot of laughter. A heavy downpour forces us under the shelter of a palm leaf roof. In no time the earth around us turns into mud. This does not prevent our hosts from continuing their activities. Their clothes are made of the ideal material for the climate: grass, sewn together into practical loincloths. Our reluctance to pull out the camera is justified. The Penare are shy. Only when a young man lets Holger explain the camera to him and then takes a picture of us and his family members in perfect photographer’s pose but with their heads cut off, the interest in the digital photos is awakened and the joy is great on all sides.
On the way back to Louis’ camp we take another path through the rainforest. On the way we pass an abandoned leaf hut, which apparently served hunters temporarily as a shelter. When one of our companions steps on a coiled poisonous snake lying in the middle of the path, we realize once again that not only road traffic is dangerous. Miraculously, the almost invisible snake, which is well camouflaged, is so inert that it does not bite. We have all got away with the fright and walk past it at a respectful distance.
In a camp of the Penare we meet only children. Our companions ask about the whereabouts of the adults. They have been hunting for a week, leaving the children to take care of themselves. We unpack all our emergency food – cereal bars and nut cakes – and watch them disappear into their bellies in no time. The oldest of them has a badly swollen leg. He reports that he was stung by a freshwater ray while fishing. Holger examines the leg. It looks as if he has got a proper blood poisoning. Apart from disinfecting, bandaging, antibiotics and fever-reducing medication for three days, we can’t help much at the moment. We hope that the adults will return soon and that they will be able to apply their proven local remedies in time.
When we get back to Louis’ camp, parts of a skinned caiman are lying on the grill for smoking. Next to it is a pot in which the fruits of the prickly palm are boiling away. Together with my salad of unripe green papaya, lime juice and chili, it makes a delicious meal. For the Hoti Indians, salad is unfamiliar, although everything grows right in front of them, and for us it’s the taste of the mealy, bland palm fruit and caiman, something between chicken and fish. Louis’ wife wants to know from me exactly how I prepared the salad. Perhaps I have laid the stone for haute cuisine in the Amazon jungle.
But the banana beer gives us the utmost pleasure. This is brewed daily from overripe bananas that grow abundantly not far from the leaf huts. The brew is collected in a blue 30 galon plastic barrel. In the week, the Hoti and Penare Indians allow themselves a maximum of one calabash per day. On weekends, however, everyone helps to empty the barrel in the shortest possible time. The children also love the alcoholic drink. At the very beginning, we are a bit hesitant to accept the filled calabash. With time, the effect becomes stronger and the call for ¡más, más! resounds from our mouths as well. After the barrel is emptied, everyone lies down inebriated in the hammocks to sleep. Only the village chief, a great aficionado of banana beer, staggers around in the pouring rain. I pretend to be asleep so that he doesn’t involve me in uncontrolled fisticuffs as some others do. Although the hammocks are surprisingly comfortable, I don’t find sleep right away. Thousands of glowing pairs of eyes of beetles, spiders and other insects buzzing around are looking at me. The mosquito net, which reaches to the ground, ensures that it remains only at eye contact.
As our time with the Amazon Indians comes to an end and we are about to head back, Louis informs us that he and his wife will accompany us to San Juan di Manpiare. For this purpose they will put on ordinary clothes. As soon as our troop has arrived in the village after marching through the jungle, we invite them to a beer in the first open-air pub. The fact that Louis’ wife has never held a beer can in her hand and doesn’t know how to open it irritates us. After all, it was us who had learned from them so far. Louis does not miss the opportunity to accompany us to the airstrip. There we board a Cessna and look long after takeoff if we can still see our beloved people from the Venezuelan rainforest.
SYLVIA FURRER, a Swiss lawyer/economist, and psychiatrist HOLGER HOFFMANN have traveled to over 100 countries since 1977. They became more and more fascinated by the customs and the daily life of indigenous peoples who preserve their traditional culture and subsist in remote areas under harsh conditions – from Siberia to the Danakil Desert, from the jungles of Western New Guinea to the Himalayas.
www.chaostours.ch