Chapter 19 #2
pushed into my hands before I left. His wife had baked it the day
before on her large, clay plate. I wasn’t offered any then, and
never would have been offered any since, but Paraila had taken it
when her back was turned and gave it to me with a wink.
Had it not been
for Paraila all those years I lived with the Caraica tribe, I would
have been dead long ago. And not just from the anaconda when I was
twelve. I would have starved to death, having been abandoned by my
parents’ death. I was a white boy in a brown man’s world,
an outsider that would never be accepted. I was too different in skin
color and eye color. I shunned their spirits and gods, preferring to
read the Bible that my parents left behind when they died.
No, had it not
been for Paraila’s kindness, I would not have survived the
first few weeks after my parents’ deaths. He fed me from his
plate, even as his wife grumbled. His own sons were grown and
married, taking multiple wives as was the custom in the tribe. While
there was no distinct leadership among the Caraican, Paraila was the
oldest and thus carried a certain level of respect. While the
majority of the tribe wanted to cast me out and leave me to die,
Paraila refused, moving me into his longhut with his only remaining
wife, S’amair’a. His others had all died… malaria,
bite from a bushmaster, and old age. In that order.
While I had
Paraila’s protection, he couldn’t be around at all times
to stop the abuse I took at the hands of the other members of the
tribe that I endured those first few years. I was different from head
to toe and, further, I was with missionaries that were trying to
convert the heathen Caraicans. That did not make me popular.
Make no doubt, my
family was tolerated in the village because my parents came into the
Amazon rainforest with marvels from the modern world. Weapons that
included machetes and knives to make our hunting easier. Simple
things like scissors to cut hair and steel pots to cook in. Those
items were graciously accepted by the tribe and, in return, the
people would listen to my parents as they read from a
Portuguese-translated Bible. The Christian word was never really
accepted, but at least the Caraicans knew how to humor my parents.
They listened with a smirk on their faces. They even attempted to
learn some of the English words my parents tried to teach them. But I
could tell… but for the gifts my parents brought, we would not
have been welcomed.
I was seven when
my parents decided I was old enough they could bring me to Brazil on
what was their third mission trip to convert the heathen Indians. At
first, I was marginally accepted by the children in the tribe. I was
shocked that everyone was completely naked, and I was made fun of for
the little cargo pants and button-down bush shirts my parents dressed
me in to ward off the mosquitos and ticks. Even my little hiking
boots were met with sneers, and I was taunted for not having the
r’acha to go barefoot in the jungle.
I was strange in
comparison to the brown-skinned, black-haired children. My hair was
chocolate brown, but my eyes were the palest of blue. I looked just
like my mother, or so I seem to remember. I wanted to belong so bad
that we weren’t settled into the village more than two weeks
before I came running up to my mom, buck ass naked, followed by a
gaggle of other kids.
“ Momma…
can I go play in the river with the other children?” I had
asked her.
She blinked at me
in surprise and asked where my clothes were.
I had told her
simply I wanted to be like the other kids, and they didn’t wear
clothes. She looked at my father with concern, but he shrugged his
shoulders. He was busily building our own hut from bamboo and palm,
wanting to assimilate as much as possible with the tribe. It was time
to ditch our three-man tent we had been sleeping in.
“ Okay,
Zacharias. Go play, but be careful.”
I jumped for joy,
and we all went running off. Our village was located just forty-five
meters off the Amazon River at that time, and there were rumors that
we would be moving soon as loggers were getting closer and closer to
us. The Caraicans were private people and while they accepted gifts
from my parents of machetes, pots, and medicine, they didn’t
want the modern world encroaching on their life.
We were playing
in the shallow water, pushing at each other and squealing, when a
plant would brush up against our ankles. We knew the dangers of
alligators, snakes, and piranhas, so we weren’t too eager to go
very deep.
One of the other
children gave me a push backward, and I fell on my butt in the water.
When I came up spluttering, he looked at me and pointed at my penis.
Then he started laughing. The other children ventured forward and
started laughing as they looked at that little part of me that made
me different from girls.
I didn’t
understand what was to laugh at. Sure, it was different from theirs.
Their penises had darkened skin that covered their little roots
entirely, just the head peeping out sometimes. Mine was completely
naked, with no protective covering to hide it. I came to learn a few
years later from one of the missionary priests that I had what was
called a circumcised penis. He explained that when I was a baby, a
piece of skin had been removed at my parents’ request. It was
for health and sanitary reasons, but that the Caraicans didn’t
practice that custom.
I was laughed at
a lot after that, but I secretly snickered to myself. I was cleaner
than they were and, when I reached the age where I could take my
first woman in the tribe, I realized that they liked my penis a whole
lot more than they did the uncircumcised boys. Not only was it clean
and beautiful—or so they said—but it was much larger and
felt better than the others did.
Finally, I made
my way into the village just as the sun was starting to set. We had
been in that location for a little over six months, having diligently
cleared out a portion of the jungle within which to set up our new
home. We moved about every two years, either because the soil was
depleted from our crops or because the deforestation was moving
closer to us. I didn’t really care for this place because it
was so far to the river, where over the years we’d learned to
trade goods with other tribes and explorers.
The village was
quiet, as I knew the other warriors had gone on a tapir hunt that
would last a few days. I didn’t go with them because Paraila
wasn’t feeling good, and I didn’t want to venture too far
away. Over the years, my skill as a hunter had surpassed most of the
other tribe members, and I gradually started to become accepted, even
making strong, bonded friendships with some of the men. After I went
on my first raid with them at the age of seventeen, and put my life
on the line for our tribe, I was then fully accepted as a real member
of the Caraicans by everyone, except for S’amair’a, who
hated practically every person.
“ Paraila…
I’m back,” I called out as I approached his hut. There
were no walls… just a steepled roof of thick palm to keep out
the down-pouring rain. I had a much smaller hut right beside his, so
close that I could lay in my hammock while he laid in his, and we
could carrying on a conversation.
I didn’t
see S’amair’a around, and I assumed she was tending to
the crops. Paraila lay in his hammock, his tired eyes smiling at me
in welcome.
“ What did
you bring an old man this day?” he asked me in Portuguese.
While the Caraicans had their own language, it was mostly dead, as
they had started taking up the Portuguese dialect almost seventy
years ago. Some words were still revered and used, and Paraila had
taught me many of them, but for the most part, we spoke in Brazil’s
native tongue.
“ Two small
boas… are you hungry? I’ll prepare it.”
“ No, my
cor’dairo… we’ll let S’amair’a cook
our meal. You rest as you have hunted all day.”
My heart warmed
over his use of the word ‘cor’dairo’. It was
something he had called me since adopting me.
I dropped the
palm basket near the dying fire and sat on the dirt next to Paraila’s
hammock. He was getting so old that he spent a lot of time there, and
it burdened my heart.
Speaking softly
in Portuguese, I asked, “How are you feeling today, Father? Can
I get you something?”
His hand reached
out and patted me on my head. “You make me happy, Zacharias. I
need for nothing and you provide for me and S’amair’a
well, even if she is too much of a shrew to admit it.”
I laughed softly
and he responded in kind, sharing in a private joke at her expense
that we would not have dared to voice if she was standing here.
S’amair’a tolerated me and grudgingly accepted my food
gifts to her, but she made Paraila suffer under her sharp tongue
because of his love for me.
“ We need to
talk man to man,” Paraila said. “Father Gaul should be
returning soon, and there is something I need to tell you before he
gets here.”
My heart leapt
with excitement because Father Gaul was an interesting man. He
started coming to our village when I was fourteen… on the
verge of becoming a man in the Caraican world. He and Paraila taught
me what being a man means—Paraila from the Caraican point of
view, and Father Gaul from a modern, religious view.
For example, when
I reached fifteen, I would be allowed to take a woman. Paraila taught
me all about how this was done within their customs and which women
were available to me. Father Gaul taught me about abstinence and
unwanted pregnancy, but I scoffed at him. Paraila assured me that the
women who were available for sex drank a vile brew of a certain tree
bark that would prevent a baby from forming. Father Gaul scoffed at
that and told me it was better to abstain.
I laughed behind
his back and, the first time I had sex, I soon realized it was the
best feeling in the world. I wasn’t about to stop. I never told
Father Gaul that, though.
“ Father
Gaul has been gone a long time,” I mused. While the Caraicans
were slightly more open to the prospect of conversion to the
Christian word, they still worshipped their own spirits and deities.
Father Gaul would come and spend a few months with us, and then he’d
move on to another tribe. He single-handedly kept me up on my
English-speaking skills, as he was the only one that spoke my native
language that we ever saw. He also brought me books to read and
taught me how to do basic math. He taught me history and geography of
both the old and new worlds. He told me I would probably need it one
day, but I wasn’t sure why. I had everything I needed to know
to live my peaceful but sometimes solitary life.
“ Yes…
he had to make a trip back to the United States on an important
matter,” Paraila said.
“ I’ll
make sure to hunt something good for his arrival,” I replied as
I leaned back on the dirt ground and rested my head on my hands.
“ He’s
bringing some other people with him,” Paraila said, and his
voice sounded hesitant.
Shrugging my
shoulders, I responded, “No matter. I will provide plenty of
meat for his guests.”
“ These
people are coming for you,” Paraila said and his voice was so
soft, I’m sure I didn’t hear him right.
Pushing up from
the ground, I looked him in the eye and saw fear, sadness, and
regret.
“ What do
you mean coming for me?” I asked with my own level of fear
about ready to cause my heart to jump out of my chest.
Paraila reached
his hand out again and patted my head. Then he dropped it to my
shoulder, giving me a squeeze. His eyes were sorrowful but
determined. “It’s time for you to go back home… to
where you belong.”
Blinking my eyes, I
look at Moira’s sweet face and try to draw upon the rage and
hurt I felt when Paraila told me I had to leave.
It’s gone.
Absolutely gone. I can’t pull up even a shred of bitterness
within me. There are other emotions still there. Longing for my home
and a deep and abiding love for Paraila. Those won’t ever go
away, but I suddenly realize… I am actually grateful now that
I have come here and experienced this journey.
As Moira’s
green eyes watch me with curiosity, I realize… it’s due
solely to her.