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| So I finnally wrote up some of my experiences this past summer in s.america. read if you are bored :)
Darkness had fallen by the time I returned to my makeshift tent, perched in the midst of a muddy footpath, somewhere in the Ecuadorian Amazon. I could hear the steady sound of falling water in the distance; only a short hike away was a grandiose, three-tier waterfall that we had trekked all day to reach. My traveling companions, reclining in the tent beside me, were native jungle-dwelling members of the local Shuar community. As if camping out in the jungle with the local indigenous people wasn’t enough of an adventure, I had another reason for being there: I was observing (and participating in) a sacred Shuar pilgrimage rite. The waterfall we had arrived at, after six hours of grueling uphill climbing, was not simply another natural wonder, at least not for the Shuar. Of all the spirits of the jungle, that take the form of rivers, beasts, trees, or earth, Aratum, the spirit of the Sacred Waterfall, stands foremost amongst them in Shuar legend. The muddy, barely visible path through the rainforest, on which we spent the day trekking, only exists because it is the way by which the Shuar reach the waterfall of Aratum. Here the Shuar arrive, just as we had done, to consult with Aratum, and to receive visions of the future.
So, sitting in a cross-legged position on a large, square piece of plastic tarp, our resting place for the night, I listened to the sound of the waterfall, and gazed out at the dark shapes of the jungle. One can’t experience life in the rainforest and remain in the mindset of a tourist. The jungle, for all of its beauty, is a haunting place. The roaring campfire at the entrance to our tent cast dancing patterns of light and shadow on the surrounding foliage. The twisting vines sprung to life from amidst the darkness; the trees swayed in the shifting light. Perhaps this place was inhabited by spirits. I looked up at the brilliant stars shining above, and saw a flash of moving light – a shooting star! Suddenly, another, and a third! It seemed the sky was exploding with them. I listened for the ever-present sound of falling water, and at once the sound of a thousand massive waterfalls assaulted my ears. In the midst of it all, I heard a woman’s muffled cry emanating from inside the tent, which I took to be the wife of my Shuar guide. It seemed as if the many life forms of the jungle, the majestic trees, the fiery red plants, the crawling insects, the fluttering butterflies, and the elusive monkeys, were taking on a supernatural form. And in the midst of this vast, majestic ecosystem sat myself, a weary
Canadian, and four Shuar, huddled beneath a plastic tarp.
How did I arrive at this point of otherworldly transformation? A few hours earlier, around mid-afternoon, my Shuar companions and I had finally arrived at where we now lay, a stone’s throw from the waterfall of Aratum. I watched in amazement as Andres, my guide, skillfully used a machete to remove a few long branches from the surrounding trees, which served as a frame on which he hoisted two pieces of plastic tarp he had brought along. In just a few minutes, our resting place for the night had been constructed. Along with my backpack, some rice and equipment brought by the Shuar family, and a jug of purified water, lay a brilliant yellow-and-green bird with a single bullet wound through its neck. It had met its fate earlier that afternoon, shot down by Toongi’s rifle, while on the trek to the waterfall. Toongi, brother in law of Andres, practices as a shaman, and he would be guiding the ceremony that night. As dusk fell, Toongi summoned us from the warmth of the campfire towards the waterfall, where I could hope for an encounter with Aratum.
As we scrambled down a steep slope to the bottom of the waterfall, Toongi and Andres let out wolf-like howls that were drowned out by the thunder of crashing water. The cold spray hit my face, forcing me to turn away. The presence of the waterfall was overwhelming. It was not hard at all to understand why this very spot, of the entire Amazon rainforest inhabited by the Shuar, is considered to be the most sacred. Toongi carried with him a flask, which he opened, and poured the dark brown liquid into a number of plastic cups. Andres, his wife, Toongi, and I all drank some of the liquid concoction. I knew in advance, from Andres, that the liquid was made from boiling a unique hallucinogenic vine found in the rainforest. Its name, ayahuasca, translates from Quechua as “Vine of the Dead”.
Drinking the plant potion, I reflected on the cultural significance of the experience I was undergoing. The Shuar speak the work ayahuasca in hushed tones, yet accompanied by a twinkle in the eye and a sly smile. The word undoubtedly conjures up memories each Shuar has had with the sacred vine, commonly dating back to the years of early adolescence, when a Shuar first participates in a shamanic rite involving ayahuasca. The name, “vine of the dead”, originates from the belief that the vine facilitates entry into the spirit world, where it is possible to acquire revelations of the future. In addition, ayahuasca is believed to carry health benefits, as the vomiting commonly associated with its digestion is viewed as an act of purification. The authority over the use of ayahuasca is entrusted with the Shaman of each community, who in addition to using plants for spiritual purposes, also prepares and prescribes plant remedies for all manner of health defects. That the role of spiritual facilitator and doctor be entrusted to the same person is perfectly logical in Shuar society; both necessitate knowledge of the properties and beneficial uses of plants found within the local habitat.
The next morning shone with a rare exuberance and wonder. The dense, grandiose vegetation was still moist from the humidity and the previous days’ sporadic rainfall, and reflected the most brilliant shades of green. All my senses, from the rough feel of tree bark to the sound of birds calling, registered the tremendous richness and diversity of life surrounding me. A beautiful green and turquoise butterfly fluttered about, momentarily resting on my hand before lifting off once again. I exchanged a thankful smile with Andres’ wife, as she busied herself roasting the bird that was Toongi’s prey. It would be my last of five days in the Amazon, my last day living amongst the Shuar. And yet at this very moment, as you read this text, Toongi, Andres, and his family are acting out their life’s rituals, somewhere in the deep Amazon rainforest. |
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