The Indigenous

After being here for 4 days I still can’t understand why some wear t-shirts, why some are topless and why some are naked, think it comes down to personal choice. We were in the jungle every single day, each time I was bitten and so were they, makes more sense to help prevent this? I love my new found relationship with the Huaorani, I met them alone and seldom to people come here, I’ve seen a video of a tour of 8 people visiting and staying for 3 days, a question put to Penti, the average length of stay was confirmed never usually more than 3 but in the Tribal Wives documentary the team stayed for 5 days, in the video’s the tribe came down to the waterfront to welcome them with traditional sing and dance. Valued as a long standing tradition it seems to aid the limited (if any) tourism which help fund Penti’s meetings with the United Nations to fight the political wars on logging and oil, in turn protecting the Tagaeri and Taromenane the completely un-contacted living very close to us. I requested that Penti spread the word around the village that in no way will I intrude in their lifestyle and prefer to go unnoticed on my hammock, or walking through the jungle with them.

I came here alone, the first person to ever visit them without a guide or translator, my visit was unexpected and for much longer than normal.

It’s been a bit chaotic, they wanted to know why I was there, what my job was, my families work…

But I’ve seen the real Huaorani, that was my goal. They are traditional and methodical, they use medicine from the jungle, the primary camp is next to an enormous sacred tree of life, which I touched today as a bat flew inches from my fingers.

Tonight I need to move into a smaller hut, Penti explained for the fiesta over 100 Huaorani will visit for the once a year tribal celebration. Everyone’s excited, the fruit we collected on the canoe has covered various faces and both my arms, however accepted in truth I’ve been shown boundaries, I eat with Penti’s immediate family never with the senior tribe members or the hunter males, they stay up late over the fire chanting and reflecting which I’m happy to see from a distance. 

A new morning today and more family greet me with informal broken Spanish “dias” or “buenos” from the few who venture out to Coca, although many look to question why I am here. For breakfast a charred boar head came off the fire, I noticed my carving below the left eye and smiled again remembering the cheek is considered somewhat as a delicacy, the taste blew my mind. Later in the afternoon I came back to write, I don’t understand why but the mass of crowd have left, no one's here I’m alone except for middle aged lady crying outside my hut. She swings her legs from the raised log where the cries come in long drawn rhythm, as though a chant for when you feel sad, she looks to her right in anticipation, but not to see me through the cracks in the panels. 

Just back from a trip in the canoe the rapids and strong currents forced us to the upstream banks, we pulled the plants and trees to make it through the stronger centre flow, small yellow birds played and each time you look down a new insect is crawling on you. The calm water in small pools so still they seemed notorious for feeding grounds, different noises layered the plants growing through the thick brown water, I’d like to know the what’s beneath but maybe a thought best left to the imagination. 

Arriving back to find on the small grassy centre hill where a stretch of grass separates the huts, 4 elders stand in a circle constantly active shredding vines with their fingers or sharp edges to free wood from its bark. I can’t help but wonder about the 5 journalists who were speared years ago before visitations were approved. Now a motion picture I know the incident occurred in Huaorani territory on a long grassy landing strip and can’t help but wonder if the actors played the roles of these men, or their fathers. 

They didn’t like me or my camera.