Journals

A Student’s Summer Sojourn                          It has been said in a proverb that he who returns from a journey is not the same as he who left.  I have the feeling this is just such a journey.  We have left behind the cozy confines of a soft bed and a ceiling above for a canopy of stars and moving trees.   The trees I speak of are ancient wonders of the Kayapo lands we in this summer abroad journey from all across the U.S. are blessed to now witness.   We enter the territory of this Amazonian tribe by small-engine plane – stepping off surrounded by the blank stares of small naked children covered only by the paint on their body my mind slips into a conscious sleep – this is the surrealist moment of my life.   We move forward in a slow progression behind the men of the village who take it upon themselves to carry our luggage.  We follow them through the swarms of children until we discover the men’s hut, located precisely in the center of A’ukre village.   As are the floors of the huts it is positioned between, it is nothing more than a slab of concrete laid by loggers a generation ago, in a disingenuous move to win favor with the elders for the valuable Mahogany trees once plentiful in the region.   Today, reality strikes me as a fair, silk whisper numbing my gums, “Keep moving, this is real. Keep moving, this is real.”             Waiting for us in the men’s hut are the elders of the village and the three Kayapo chiefs.  One by one, we introduce ourselves and shake their hands.  I can hardly believe I managed to say anything at all.  But this is not our final destination.   Before any sense of realism is allowed to sink in, we are quickly whisked away to the river and our docked canoe.   Mothers are busily washing aluminum pans and bathing their children.  From here, we are to travel some 2 hours upstream to Pinkaiti research station, where a few select male members of the community await our presence.   Once we are on the river, the silence becomes inaudible as the hum of the small motor propelling the metal-framed canoe penetrates the air.   Unlike the smaller dug-out canoes they typically use for fishing, this one was bought by Conservation International, which contributes supplies and works to bring sustainable development to the village.             As we crawl along the water, my eyes are transfixed by the cold wet stones at the bottom of the river bed passing by in slow-motion.  They are closer than ever now that the river is at its lowest point, for we have come during the dry season here in the Amazon Basin .  At certain points along our journey upstream the boat catches rocks on the river’s bottom.   It is the man’s duty to jump out into the cool flowing water and push it long with our Indian guides.  There are two, one in front with a long sanded stick to stir its course, and one in back to man the propeller.  Although they do not need our help nor request it, we respectfully follow their lead.  After numerous exits from the canoe, we are able to once again resume our wide-eyed amazement of the jungle on both sides of us.   All around us are the beautiful sounds of birds and monkeys hidden within the cover of the thick rainforest.   In this place, there is mystique in every breathe we take.   The river passage submits us to the beauty of the unknown.   Our intimate encounter with nature has only just begun.                When we glide into dock at Pinkaiti research station, we are greeted by the wordless smiles of eager Indian men.   Again, away our bags are taken without a word between us.   Almost listlessly, we follow the natives up the dirt path leading to our camp – the group’s outdoor quarters include three cleared areas for our tents, a brick-fire stove where fish and bread will be prepared, a laundry line, an outhouse, and a single concrete structure that is known as the research station.  Inside is a two-way radio, a modest bookshelf with books in both Portuguese and English, and the hammocks where the men sleep.   We are told that in the fifties, on the very ground where the research station now sits, numerous loggers were murdered by members of one of the Kayapo tribes.            The first word we learn in the Kayapo language is Meikumrai (May-come-ray), used both for greetings and to express a general state of pleasure, with an added emphasis stressed on the end of the first syllable to indicate one’s level of excitement.  From what I can make out, the men are quite thrilled to see us.  As they keep repeating the word so we can understand, they continually draw it out so it sounds something like, “Meiiiiiiiiiiiikumraiiii!”  This makes me giddy, and my enthusiasm receives an extra kick when the sugar coffee (half sugar, half coffee) the Kayapo drink hits my bloodstream.  Here at the research station, it is either water with purification tablets or sugar coffee.   We will receive a steady diet of both I am sure.  The men wear no shirts on their backs and no insect repellant on their skin, only shorts and sandals.  Their physical condition greatly belies their age.   Their energy seems effortless and their smiles warmly contagious.  Within the limits of the research station, there is nothing more we can ask from them than what is already provided.  I do not believe it is possible to feel any more at home in such a strange and foreign land.  Although I suspect sleeping will be rough, I am comfortably at peace with my home of the next three weeks.   As the sun begins to set and the moon rises, signaling the breathtaking beauty of the brightly lit sky, a serene sense of peacefulness settles over me – the earth has wrapped us in all its glory.  Never in my life have I seen so many stars as tonight.  It is a scene imprinted in my memory as vivid as the sharpest photograph.