Storytelling

A few stories from my second trip “adentro”

Before I amaze (or bore) you with stories of my latest adventure in Waorani territory, I must pause for a few words about terminology: “going ‘adentro’” is basically the colloquialism for going into the rainforest. ‘Adentro’ literally means inside in Spanish. The gringos often will say that they are “going into the jungle.” I generally don’t like to use the term “jungle” because it makes it seem like it is a scene from a coloring book. Just as swamp seems to be a pejorative term for a wetland, jungle to me sounds like a somewhat uncomplimentary or juvenile way of describing the mega-biodiverse tropical rainforests of Amazonia.

Okay enough chitchat. What was it like? Well, those of you who suffered through my book-length reflections on my first trip to Waorani territory might remember I was a tad bit disappointed by the fact that the village of Tiwino hardly had the remote, rustic, somewhat romantic vibe I had envisioned. This time, Damointaro did not disappoint. The enjoyment factor was greatly aided by the fact that we did not have to rot on a bus for 12 hours. Instead, we went airborne. I could write an entire essay on the insanity related to the planning of this particular trip, but I will spare you the gory details and get right to the good stuff.

First, let me say that I felt super lucky to be able to go to Damointaro with my counterpart and another of the Waorani women leaders. Flights are expensive, hard to come by, and dependent upon the good weather. Basically, if it is raining, the little planes stay grounded. Since this area is one of the rainiest places on the planet, this makes flying on time—or at all that day—a real crapshoot, to use technical terms. Another interesting part of the process was weighing in prior to getting on board the tiny plane. We were hauling in a bunch of food to take with us, so between us three women (two of which are under 5 feet tall), our bags and the food, we weighed in at well over 500 pounds. I am not sure what the cutoff was, but I have to imagine we were close to it. This particular local airline which operates out of Shell (Yes, Shell is named for that oil company…and has a small regional airport just 15 minutes from Puyo) is evidently owned and operated by another indigenous nation native to the region, the Shuar. The pilot was also Shuar and his physical presence was striking. Mostly because he was tall (unlike 90% of the Ecuadorian population which I feel like I tower over) and he had very distinct, chiseled facial features, and broad, muscular shoulders which seemed to dwarf the front seat of the small plane. He looked strong as an ox and probably could have picked up the plane as easily as he could fly it.

Once we were airborne, the view was truly breathtaking. As we made our way up out of Shell, we flew East over Puyo. The city quickly gave way to small colonist settlements, then dense swaths of verdant rainforest. The forest was a flood of every shade of green, flecked with the occasional flash of gold in the canopy. Every now and then, the sea of green would be parted—just slightly-- by the sliver of a small stream… which flowed into the longer ribbons of rivers which twist and turn in incredible arching oxbows---just the kind that ditch engineers in my fair state of Ohio would undoubtedly love to straighten out, I thought, cynically.

The landing on the grass runway was actually quite smooth considering it was a super small plane…and well, it is a grass runway… And just like a scene out of a movie, little kids came running toward the plane to greet us and helped to unload our bags. Among the couple dozen or so people that greeted us was a gringa with dredlocks. I had sort of assumed she was with the Danish aid organization, IBIS, that was sponsoring the series of meetings. It was only later that I learned that she (Silvi is her name) was a German student volunteer who was just along for the ride, literally. In one of those classic stories of being at the right place at the right time, she met some Waorani while on break from her volunteer job at the Ecuadorian birding mecca of Mindo. They invited her to come along to Damointaro. Why not, right? Especially since it is on the dime of IBIS. Interestingly, she flew with the food and one other Waorani. They were too close to the weight limit for her to bring her backpack—it would have to come on a later flight…or so she was told. We ended up helping to prepare lunch. Our job was primarily cutting up vegetables that had accompanied her on her flight. We also helped carry water in big metal pots from some sort of water source that feeds the river. We were cooking in what seemed to be a rustic community kitchen with a wood fired cooking pit. I was holding my breath for a repeat of some sort of mystery meat…but it turns out that we just had rice and noodles with small bits of veggies mixed in for lunch…and dinner…and lunch again. It tuned out every meal would consist of rice AND some shape of noodle. No wonder I am packing on the pounds, all I have to eat are pure carbs on these trips!

In the afternoon, we took a walk around the village…which was basically a few wooden houses on stilts clustered around a grass runway and a soccer field. They did have a typical Waorani house, but it was mostly for demonstration purposes. My counterpart Manuela explained to Silvi and me the different features (most of which I actually know by now) and we tried to start a fire using traditional tools. One is a round, dowel rod shaped stick, and one is a thin, flat piece of wood propped up on some wild cotton. The idea is to roll the rounded stick between the palms of your hands as fast as possible and bore through the flat stick, whereby the friction and heat will spark the dry cotton. After what seemed like hours (but was probably more like a 3.2 minutes) of rolling the stick as fast as humanly possible, we are sweating and panting. We give up. In case you weren’t already convinced, I would never make it alone in the woods. To further illustrate this fact, I even tried my hand at throwing a Waorani spear. I aimed at a broad-based banana stalk, oh, a mere 10 feet away…and of course I missed. While hunting is traditionally conducted by Waorani men, I have to say the women—even the ones who have long left the forest---can throw a mean spear. Me? Not so much. But at least I provided some comic relief for the Waorani women that observed my pathetic spear tossing skills.

That evening Manuela invited me to eat dinner with one of her friends. Her friend turned out to be an Evangelical missionary. I of course didn’t know this at first…as I admit she didn’t fit the stereotype—or at least the stereotype I had formed in my head after reading Savages and other accounts of missionaries working in Waorani territory. She was young (25) cute and Ecuadorian. Incidentally, she was also indigenous: half Kitchwa and half Shuar. So…I started to suspect she was a missionary after I caught a weird glance from her when I helped myself to the chips and salsa that some “North Americans” had left the week before. She asked if we could bow our heads in prayer then… Aha! We were later joined by Miguel, the staffer from IBIS that was working with the Waorani. He is Kitchwa. And Silvi, the German. Not too many times you get that kind of group dynamic. It almost sounds like the start of a politically incorrect joke. …so a missionary, a German, a gringa, and three Indians are walking through the forest… We had a very fascinating conversation and covered all kinds of interesting topics including community based tourism, marriage and evolution—all by candlelight in the missionary quarters. It was a good time. Would have been even better with a cold beer…but I imagine the closest one would require a plane or a 10 hour walk…

I had set up my family sized tent on the porch of the two story bunkhouse built by the missionaries. Miguel decided that he would forgo the pretty dreary bunkhouse bedroom (which consisted of four wood walls, a wood floor and ceiling, and a rickety wood bunkbed with no mattress). He inflated his air mattress (which looked suspiciously similar to a floating air mattress that you would take to a pool) and then I helped him hang a mosquito net over it, and that was his bed. Silvi did the same thing—except in classic gringa style, she had a nice Thermarest. I had broken down and bought a bedroll. It was basically a thin piece of bright blue foam. The type of thing that would cost a couple bucks in the states, cost me 10 bucks down here—a small fortune in Peace Corps parlance. While it was great for the occasional crunches I force myself to do in a vain attempt at working off the carbs, it was not very comfortable for a full nights sleep. My discomfort was compounded by Miguel’s incessant snoring. The deep bass of the frogs of the forest I could stand. I actually liked that sound. But the obnoxious snoring had to stop…or I had to take additional measures… At some point in the night I remembered I had one earplug tucked away in my backpack. I flicked on the flashlight, dug out the neon orange earplug, stuck it in my exposed ear, then doubled my super small pack pillow to buffer the other ear. Ah…sleep…sweet sleep.

I wish I could say the same about my dreams, but the malaria prophylaxis seemed to be kicking in and I was plagued with disturbing dreams. I awoke exhausted from the energy that I seemed to expend just getting through my dreams. Vivid images…a patchwork of people and places…and events that span decades…

Manuela and I had breakfast with the missionary, as she had insisted the night before that we eat with her. Considering what concoction might come out of the community kitchen and after observing the dearth of sanitary standards there, I was happy to consume her food for her. Plus she seemed eager to try out all the unusual foods brought by the U.S. missionaries---like instant oatmeal, Aunt Jemima pancake mix…and Tootsie Rolls...which is funny to hear pronounced in Spanish, I might add.

After breakfast, we headed out for a hike in the forest surrounding the village with the intention of creating an inventory of noteworthy natural features and cultural attractions. It ended up being one of the coolest hikes of my life.

Music fades in and dramatic gameshow host voice says, “tune in tomorrow…or the next day maybe…for the exciting conclusion to Susana’s story of her romp in the rainforest…” music fades out… (aka I ran out of time and creative energy this type of story telling requires)