Uncivilized
Page 65
I think of Paraila, and the care and kindness he showed me when my parents died. I was distraught, miserable, and had lost all hope. But he immediately took me in and became a parent to me in every way. Much like I’m guessing Lisa did for Moira.
I take stock of my feelings… and try to remember the incessant rage I had felt when learning I would be taken away from my tribe. How my world had turned upside down because I was through with having that type of upheaval in my life. I had been through it once, and I didn’t want it again. I remember the day that Paraila told me I was to leave.
The air was oppressive… heavy… as I made my way through the jungle. My feet were light on the rotted leaves, and I efficiently dodged roots and vines that curled and wound their way across the narrow path. The trail wasn’t much more than trampled vegetation and broken palm fronds that hung limply from when I had hacked my way through that area earlier in the day. I had made the three-hour trek from our village to the Pesapan River where I’d hoped to hunt some caiman, as the alligator meat would be sure to bring a smile to Paraila’s old, wizened face. He was too old to hunt anymore and depended on me or the other warriors to feed him protein. His wife, the mean old goat that she was, fed him plenty of bread and plantains, but he needed more than that as he grew weaker with age.
I didn’t have any luck finding a lazy caiman, but my load returning was heavy. My machete was strapped across my back to free my hands. In one, I carried my bow, quiver, and arrows, and the other held a quick palm-frond basket I wove after killing two snakes so I could transport them back home. They would make a satisfying meal for Paraila.
The walk back to the village didn’t take as long since I had already cleared my path on the way to the river. I stopped once to sip some water from a standing puddle of rainwater and eat some bread that Paraila had pushed into my hands before I left. His wife had baked it the day before on her large, clay plate. I wasn’t offered any then, and never would have been offered any since, but Paraila had taken it when her back was turned and gave it to me with a wink.
Had it not been for Paraila all those years I lived with the Caraica tribe, I would have been dead long ago. And not just from the anaconda when I was twelve. I would have starved to death, having been abandoned by my parents’ death. I was a white boy in a brown man’s world, an outsider that would never be accepted. I was too different in skin color and eye color. I shunned their spirits and gods, preferring to read the Bible that my parents left behind when they died.
No, had it not been for Paraila’s kindness, I would not have survived the first few weeks after my parents’ deaths. He fed me from his plate, even as his wife grumbled. His own sons were grown and married, taking multiple wives as was the custom in the tribe. While there was no distinct leadership among the Caraican, Paraila was the oldest and thus carried a certain level of respect. While the majority of the tribe wanted to cast me out and leave me to die, Paraila refused, moving me into his longhut with his only remaining wife, S’amair’a. His others had all died… malaria, bite from a bushmaster, and old age. In that order.
While I had Paraila’s protection, he couldn’t be around at all times to stop the abuse I took at the hands of the other members of the tribe that I endured those first few years. I was different from head to toe and, further, I was with missionaries that were trying to convert the heathen Caraicans. That did not make me popular.
Make no doubt, my family was tolerated in the village because my parents came into the Amazon rainforest with marvels from the modern world. Weapons that included machetes and knives to make our hunting easier. Simple things like scissors to cut hair and steel pots to cook in. Those items were graciously accepted by the tribe and, in return, the people would listen to my parents as they read from a Portuguese-translated Bible. The Christian word was never really accepted, but at least the Caraicans knew how to humor my parents. They listened with a smirk on their faces. They even attempted to learn some of the English words my parents tried to teach them. But I could tell… but for the gifts my parents brought, we would not have been welcomed.
I was seven when my parents decided I was old enough they could bring me to Brazil on what was their third mission trip to convert the heathen Indians. At first, I was marginally accepted by the children in the tribe. I was shocked that everyone was completely naked, and I was made fun of for the little cargo pants and button-down bush shirts my parents dressed me in to ward off the mosquitos and ticks. Even my little hiking boots were met with sneers, and I was taunted for not having the r’acha to go barefoot in the jungle.
I was strange in comparison to the brown-skinned, black-haired children. My hair was chocolate brown, but my eyes were the palest of blue. I looked just like my mother, or so I seem to remember. I wanted to belong so bad that we weren’t settled into the village more than two weeks before I came running up to my mom, buck ass naked, followed by a gaggle of other kids.
“Momma… can I go play in the river with the other children?” I had asked her.
She blinked at me in surprise and asked where my clothes were.
I had told her simply I wanted to be like the other kids, and they didn’t wear clothes. She looked at my father with concern, but he shrugged his shoulders. He was busily building our own hut from bamboo and palm, wanting to assimilate as much as possible with the tribe. It was time to ditch our three-man tent we had been sleeping in.
“Okay, Zacharias. Go play, but be careful.”
I take stock of my feelings… and try to remember the incessant rage I had felt when learning I would be taken away from my tribe. How my world had turned upside down because I was through with having that type of upheaval in my life. I had been through it once, and I didn’t want it again. I remember the day that Paraila told me I was to leave.
The air was oppressive… heavy… as I made my way through the jungle. My feet were light on the rotted leaves, and I efficiently dodged roots and vines that curled and wound their way across the narrow path. The trail wasn’t much more than trampled vegetation and broken palm fronds that hung limply from when I had hacked my way through that area earlier in the day. I had made the three-hour trek from our village to the Pesapan River where I’d hoped to hunt some caiman, as the alligator meat would be sure to bring a smile to Paraila’s old, wizened face. He was too old to hunt anymore and depended on me or the other warriors to feed him protein. His wife, the mean old goat that she was, fed him plenty of bread and plantains, but he needed more than that as he grew weaker with age.
I didn’t have any luck finding a lazy caiman, but my load returning was heavy. My machete was strapped across my back to free my hands. In one, I carried my bow, quiver, and arrows, and the other held a quick palm-frond basket I wove after killing two snakes so I could transport them back home. They would make a satisfying meal for Paraila.
The walk back to the village didn’t take as long since I had already cleared my path on the way to the river. I stopped once to sip some water from a standing puddle of rainwater and eat some bread that Paraila had pushed into my hands before I left. His wife had baked it the day before on her large, clay plate. I wasn’t offered any then, and never would have been offered any since, but Paraila had taken it when her back was turned and gave it to me with a wink.
Had it not been for Paraila all those years I lived with the Caraica tribe, I would have been dead long ago. And not just from the anaconda when I was twelve. I would have starved to death, having been abandoned by my parents’ death. I was a white boy in a brown man’s world, an outsider that would never be accepted. I was too different in skin color and eye color. I shunned their spirits and gods, preferring to read the Bible that my parents left behind when they died.
No, had it not been for Paraila’s kindness, I would not have survived the first few weeks after my parents’ deaths. He fed me from his plate, even as his wife grumbled. His own sons were grown and married, taking multiple wives as was the custom in the tribe. While there was no distinct leadership among the Caraican, Paraila was the oldest and thus carried a certain level of respect. While the majority of the tribe wanted to cast me out and leave me to die, Paraila refused, moving me into his longhut with his only remaining wife, S’amair’a. His others had all died… malaria, bite from a bushmaster, and old age. In that order.
While I had Paraila’s protection, he couldn’t be around at all times to stop the abuse I took at the hands of the other members of the tribe that I endured those first few years. I was different from head to toe and, further, I was with missionaries that were trying to convert the heathen Caraicans. That did not make me popular.
Make no doubt, my family was tolerated in the village because my parents came into the Amazon rainforest with marvels from the modern world. Weapons that included machetes and knives to make our hunting easier. Simple things like scissors to cut hair and steel pots to cook in. Those items were graciously accepted by the tribe and, in return, the people would listen to my parents as they read from a Portuguese-translated Bible. The Christian word was never really accepted, but at least the Caraicans knew how to humor my parents. They listened with a smirk on their faces. They even attempted to learn some of the English words my parents tried to teach them. But I could tell… but for the gifts my parents brought, we would not have been welcomed.
I was seven when my parents decided I was old enough they could bring me to Brazil on what was their third mission trip to convert the heathen Indians. At first, I was marginally accepted by the children in the tribe. I was shocked that everyone was completely naked, and I was made fun of for the little cargo pants and button-down bush shirts my parents dressed me in to ward off the mosquitos and ticks. Even my little hiking boots were met with sneers, and I was taunted for not having the r’acha to go barefoot in the jungle.
I was strange in comparison to the brown-skinned, black-haired children. My hair was chocolate brown, but my eyes were the palest of blue. I looked just like my mother, or so I seem to remember. I wanted to belong so bad that we weren’t settled into the village more than two weeks before I came running up to my mom, buck ass naked, followed by a gaggle of other kids.
“Momma… can I go play in the river with the other children?” I had asked her.
She blinked at me in surprise and asked where my clothes were.
I had told her simply I wanted to be like the other kids, and they didn’t wear clothes. She looked at my father with concern, but he shrugged his shoulders. He was busily building our own hut from bamboo and palm, wanting to assimilate as much as possible with the tribe. It was time to ditch our three-man tent we had been sleeping in.
“Okay, Zacharias. Go play, but be careful.”
