San Jose de Morona

Claire and I recently took a trip to San Jose de Morona, a small town on the River Morona, a large tributary of the Amazon.  This was our first visit to the ‘real’ amazon (that is, the lowland Amazonian forest).  On the bus ride there, we were impressed by the ‘view of the virgin’ at the last foothill before the final descent.  There, the valley opens onto a sea of green jungle, flat and (from a distance) featureless, continuing as far as the eye can see.  We were excited to see the Amazon, and have a chance to explore.

The flat, green expanse of the Amazon Jungle: A sea of green.

Exploring the jungle, it turns out, is much better done by river.  We walked for four scalding hours in the mid-day sun through cattle pasture to a Shuar community with a local guide, where we shared Chicha (a fermented Cassava drink), and went hunting with a local friend named Freddy.  Freddy led us to the deep forest, where we left the path and began following the tracks of a wild pig.  This lead us in circles through the swampy terrain, past massive trees with trunks the size of cars rising hundreds of feet into the canopy.  The mosquitoes were relentless, the humidity intense, and soon we were hacking and crawling through brambles and undergrowth in search of our prey.

Claire, having nearly reached the limit of her patience with sweat and heat, was beyond her threshold for bugs, thorns, and discomfort.  We both later agreed that had Freddy left us, we would have died.  After only a few minutes of walking in the dense jungle, with little view of the sky above, and thick vegetation surround us on all sides, it was all too easy to become disorientated.  Which way were we going?  From where did we come?

The Bridge at Puerto Morona (thats our bus on the wooden ferry)

It was during this time that Claire spotted a footprint.  Large – bigger than my palm – and clearly that of a cat.  We asked our guide.  Indeed, it was the print of a Jaguar.  A recent print, less than a day old.  This, of course, added more interest and excitement to the journey.  We never did find our pig, but we were all ready to relax after 3 hours of wandering, and we arrived exhausted to the family’s compound for another cup of Chica.             

Local Shuar woman drinking Chicha from a
traditional bowl

We had not eaten since breakfast, and had walked literally all day, but we were still not hungry by 3 PM.  This Chicha was amazingly filling.  The family explained the process of boiling the Cassava, mixing it with sweet potatoes and an old batch of fermented Chicha, and adding water to the mix.  Left for only some time, the drink was referred to as ‘Chicha dulce’ and was filling but not alcoholic.  Left for three days, ‘Chicha fuerte’ would grant intoxication with one glass. 

The interaction with the Shuar family was an interesting one.  There is a history within the Shuar community, which was traditionally a warrior culture, of cutting off the heads of slain enemies in order to steal their souls (called Tsantsa).  Once taken, the heads would be shrunken by using local plants, in order to trap the soul inside the head and thus empower its keeper with the soul’s strength.  Of course, this practice stopped long ago, but is still much talked about due to some confusion among the cultures.  The cutting of heads was a seldom-practiced custom among the culture until the arrival of western collectors, who paid high prices to buy the heads, for sale to museums and other collectors for thousands of dollars.  With this influx of demand for heads in the early 1900’s, the Shuares began shrinking more heads for the profits.  Eventually, the shrunken heads became so associated with their western purchasers that those living deep in the forest thought the westerners were the ones actually shrinking the heads, not just purchasing them.

Tsantsa

Thus, after many generations without any head-shrinking, two contrasting and almost comical conclusions have been reached.  The mestizos of Logroño are convinced that we, as westerners, must not journey into Shuar communities because they will cut our heads off and shrink them.  Ironically, the Shuar communities in the jungle are convinced that we, as westerners, would only come to their villages in order to cut of and shrink their heads.  We laughed a bit with the family about the misconceptions among the cultures.

Another interesting thing about this family was their way of life.  They were perched on the precipice of modernity.  The family’s house was recently washed away by floods earlier this year.  The water had risen higher than anyone could remember (the family having lived in the same location for many generations), and in one night it overflowed its banks and swept away the homes and livelihoods of the family.  The family called the International Red Cross, who responded by building the family a new compound of 7 new houses, all made with modern techniques including concrete footings, wood planked walls cut by chainsaw, and canvas roofing.  Furthermore, the Ecuadorian Government, anticipating the exploitation of newly discovered Copper and Petroleum deposits in the area, recently delivered electricity to the family (and the town).  While we found the grandparents cooking Chicha by the fire, both spoke fluent Spanish, and shared with us that their children and grandchildren hardly spoke Shuar at all.  While the youths were able to understand their language, amongst themselves the younger generations spoke Spanish, and the elders feared that this part of their culture would soon be lost.

The juxtaposition of westernization was striking with this family.  With the ‘development’ of electricity and modern mechanical tools, and the ‘progression’ of education in the language and form of the western world, the family was gaining a ‘better standard of living’ at the expense of traditional customs, language, and understanding.  It was not for us to judge the progression as we interacted with these kind people, as our very presence was both a result of, and an influence towards, the ‘westernization’ of the very culture we sought to learn and understand. 

The paradoxical nature of the day was ‘cemented’ by a boat-ride back to town with the grandfather of the family.  Whisked an hour downriver in a battered 12-foot sports boat with a 40 HP motor, we watched the sun set over the flat expanse of the Amazon rainforest, scattering its dying light across the thunderheads which loomed on the horizon. The sound of nature was drowned out by the roar of the engine, but our tired legs were happy for the ride.  We scared all signs of life off the river as we thundered by, but the rushing air was cool and refreshing. 

Sunset in the Amazon (Courtesy of www.sebastianslovinyoga.com)

We arrived quickly out of the forest we hardly new, back to the tarmac and lights.  We shook hands with our host, paid him in US dollars for his services, and wished him the best of luck.  And with that, our two worlds parted as quickly as they had collided: the indigenous family drifting in the current towards modernity; the American couple struggling against it…  We all continued our separate paths, assured only by the knowledge that all things must change.