Don Pablo now appeared again. He wore a smock and a crown woven of slender vines and a row of stiff feathers. His eyes were wounded too, one weepier than the other, which was bloodshot and turned inward. The ailment made him seem more of a brother. Yet the shaman had a clumsy agility, and while he was anything but deft, his gestures were the more effective for being approximate, commanding attention and asserting control through his show of clumsiness. The Secoya near him were watchful in a shy, respectful way, giving him room as the old man worked his fingers like antennae, positioning them as though he had eyes on his fingertips.
Nestor signaled for them to follow when the old man turned and shuffle-kicked toward the stamped and smooth center of the village, where there were pots and baskets. Before the smoky fire were logs arranged like benches.
“Sit down. Have a cold drink.”
Hearing this, Hernán dragged the blue plastic cooler toward the log, opened it, and passed out cans of soda. The white visitors drank, looking exhausted in their crumpled clothes, while the Secoya stared, naked, saying nothing, the children’s noses dripping. Some men lying in hammocks humped and rolled over and, still horizontal, stared sideways at the strangers.
The pile of pots, the baskets of cut vine stems, the enamel bowls, on a shelved frame of lashed bamboo, suggested cooking, but nothing was on the boil. Near this paraphernalia some women knelt, grating manioc.
“This would make a super credenza,” Janey said, gripping the bamboo frame. Then with a pitying smile she said, “But I peeked inside one of those huts. You know, they don’t accessorize at all.”
Irritably, Sabra said to Nestor, “Are we supposed to sleep here?”
“We’re putting up hammocks, or you can find a space on that platform back there under the ceiba tree.”
“What about washing? What about eating?” Wood said.
“I was going to give you some of the background,” Nestor said. “This is a spiritual thing, like religion and medical combined. There is so many aspects. Maybe you like to know?”
“Yes, all,” Manfred said.
“Skip the background,” Hack said, lifting his elbows, creating space around him. “I’m going for a swim.”
“We have manta rays in the river,” Nestor said. “Hernán got stung by a ray and he was in his hammock for three months.”
Janey said, “What about din-dins? I’m peckish.”
Nestor leaned over and worked his mustache at her, smiling in toothy incomprehension.
“Hungry,” she said.
Nestor spoke in Secoya, and one of the woman grating manioc replied to him without looking up. Still pushing the stick of manioc against the grater, she called out. A child’s voice sounded from the direction of the big tree and the smoky hut, and within a minute two young boys hurried into the clearing with a pole through the handle of a large blackened stewpot. A girl followed, carrying tin bowls and spoons.
“What is it?” Janey asked.
“Caldo of yuca and pavo.”
“Any pork in it? Porco?” Sabra said.
“No puerco Nestor said.
Manfred said, “Pavo means a wild turkey. A kind of stew.”
As the soup was ladled, Janey lifted her bowl and said, “I’ll have a wee scrap more. There’s masses going spare.”
Hack said, “When do we get to drink the ayahuasca?”
“Don Pablo wants to speak to you,” Nestor said.
The old man adjusted his coronet of plaited vines and feathers, and he stood behind Nestor, shuffling his feet, muttering. He put on a pair of cracked and twisted glasses.
“Look, he’s got super gig-lamps,” Janey said.
But the man removed his glasses and began rubbing his seeping eye with the knuckles of one hand.
“He says tonight is not good. You have just arrived. Some of you are angry. You must dissolve anger from your life. The women”—Nestor paused for Don Pablo to speak, and then he resumed—“he believes that one gringo woman here is having her moon.”
“And that gringo woman would be me,” Sabra said, and sat primly, her eyes glistening with annoyance that she had been singled out. She stared at a small dirty boy crouching in the dust near her and addressed him. “I’m unclean. I’m tainted. I’ve got the curse. They’re worse than Hasidim!”
“Beetle, please,” Wood said, cautioning her.
“In Secoya culture, sharing in a ceremony while having your moon is taboo. It is too much purification. Too much light, Don Pablo says. It can make the shaman very ill. He will see the huts dripping blood. So”—Nestor spoke directly to Sabra—“please keep away from the kitchen area. The food. Other people’s dishes.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll read my book instead. It’s more exciting than this garbage.”
Wood put his tin bowl of stew on the ground and crept beside her and awkwardly put his arm around her. She began softly to cry. “It’s okay, Beetle. Let it out.”
Manfred said, “They have rules. They must be obeyed.”
“You Germans know all about obeying rules,” Sabra said.
His face gleaming with sweat, his big teeth working, Manfred said, “That’s right, I am a wicked German who started the World War and made all the camps, and you are a good person who does nossing bad.”
“Woody, tell him to stop,” Sabra said through her tears.
But Manfred was on his knees hissing at her, “I have been to Ramallah! You have seen Ramallah?”
“Oh, do belt up,” Janey said.
Then Nestor rose and gestured with his hands to quiet the squabblers. He said, “Don Pablo wants to welcome you.”
The old man was muttering behind him, shaking his head, and when he nodded some wisps swayed in his feathered coronet.
“Don Pablo has been a shaman for many years. In Secoya, the word paje is shaman. It means ‘the man who embodies all experience.’ He says that some of the people he was treating were witches. A shaman always has enemies, because he is accused of being responsible for people’s deaths.”
“Where’s he from?” Hack asked.
Nestor translated the question, listened to Don Pablo, then said to the group, “He didn’t understand, but his answer is interesting anyway. He believes the Secoya were descended from a certain group of monkeys in Santa Maria — downriver from here, where two rivers meet.” The fire had died down, and as the crackling had diminished the jungle sounds had increased. Though they could only have been insects, they sounded to Steadman like a chorus of crazed birds — the honks and squawks issuing from the darkness around them.
“His father was also a shaman. He taught Don Pablo and Himaro how to use ayahuasca. Don Pablo became a paje because he was very sick. He healed himself and became a healer. The best way to become a paje— maybe the only way — is to be very ill and follow that path.” Nestor listened to Don Pablo and spoke again. “Ayahuasca is like death. When you drink it you die. The soul leaves the body. But this soul is an eye to show you the future. You will see your grandchildren. When the trance is over the soul is returned.” Don Pablo was still talking. Nestor said, as though summarizing, “He talks about ‘the eye of understanding.’”
Manfred said, “Please ask Don Pablo to explain the meaning of this.”
The question was relayed to Don Pablo, who turned away and answered the question while facing the trees and the darkness and the insect chatter.
“This eye can see things that can’t be seen physically. Some people have this third eye already developed. And for others the eye of understanding can be acquired through ayahuasca or some other certain jungle plants.”
Steadman sat feeling hopeful, and as he was listening another old man appeared, wearing a yellow smock, a feather coronet, and a necklace of red beads and animal teeth. He spoke to Nestor.