Among the “Fierce People” of the Upper Amazon: Meeting One of the World’s Most Isolated Tribes
June 1, 2019
WE ROSE BEFORE DAWN TO CATCH a small government plane from the military base that would fly us north to the Yanomami reservation. I woke up with familiar stomach pain. I had eaten something bad the night before, and I knew it would be a shitty day. As happened periodically in the Amazon, I found myself sprinting to the toilet every half an hour. Nonetheless, I decided to risk soiling my pants on the airplane to see the Yanomami. In the car to the airport, I sat in the fetal position trying not to think of my stomach. The research team’s porter, a hilarious caboclo from Manaus hired to assemble the research equipment, laughed as I sat wincing. Rummaging through his lunch box, he pulled out a slice of ham and jiggled it in my face. My stomach lurched. Laughing even harder: How is your asshole, Johnny? Do you want to eat something? At least have some pork, my friend…At this point, the whole van is laughing hysterically as I grimace.
Our pilot was an affable German-Brazilian originally from Rio Grande do Sur. He had worked for the government as a pilot for about a decade and was full of stories from his life in the Amazon:
The Yanomami are the craziest Indians in the whole region. It’s not uncommon to see their men with their skulls practically split open. You know what happens? When two of them have a dispute their custom is to settle it in a duel with clubs. They square off with each other, and the first fella swings as hard as he can down on the other guy’s head. If he withstands the blow, then it’s his turn to swing. They keep going until one them gets knocked unconscious, dies, or chickens out. But, see, they are smart about it: they always have these duels in front of the military base, where the can be treated for their wounds afterward.
The forest from the airplane looked like an infinite sea of broccoli tops, and occasionally there was a clearing where an Indian camp or village had been. We wove in between bright green mountains, shrouded in clouds and bare of vegetation at the peaks. The majestic Pico da Neblina, the highest peak east of the Andes, sprang into view and the pilot began to his descent. We landed at a military base a few miles away from the Yanomami reservation, a base constructed to guard the border from Venezuelan encroachment. We were greeted by a group of soldiers and Yanomami. After showing documentation, we loaded our equipment on a tractor and proceeded down a dirt road to the village. A Yanomami man sat in silence as he drove the tractor. Maturacá is full of gold, and the Yanomami have increasingly constructed illegal and hazardous mines on their land. My friend from Rio half-jokingly asked our driver if he had any of the precious metal to sell. Breaking his silence: No, not this time.
**
The Yanomami had dwarf-like yet powerful, sinewy physiques. They had evolved in this rugged region of the Amazon as nomadic hunters, able to move through the jungle with minimal disturbance. Linguistically and ethnically they were distinct from any other group in the region, and even an outsider to the Amazon could perceive how different they looked from the Indians in São Gabriel. An anthropologist I met in São Gabriel speculated that they were one of the earliest migrations into the Amazon, perhaps the descents of the mysterious Population Y, a group distantly related to Aboriginal Australians who probably arrived in the Americas long before the well-known Asiatic hunter-gathers from Beringia.
In pre-contact times the Yanomami were feared in the Upper Amazon, and they were known by other groups as the ‘fierce people.’ Tukano mothers would frighten their children from straying too far from their sight with threats of Yanomami abductions and raids. Their culture valued warriors above all else and males in the village would earn the respected status of unokai only after killing another man. The pilot’s description of the clubbing duel was accurate; many older Yanomami had bald, heavily scarred scalps from an adult life of settling scores in this manner. When they felt confronted, be it by outsiders or other Yanomami, they would bow their heads and display such scars, tacitly testifying to their toughness and unwillingness to be intimidated. Akin to the Spartans of ancient Greece, they practiced infanticide when a baby was born with abnormalities.
**
After reaching the outskirts of the village, we assembled the equipment and took a swim in a small river. The researchers were going to spend the next few hours collecting measurements along the river, and they suggested that I go off on my own to check out the village. The village started with a cluster of huts abutting the jungle leading to a massive central clearing, where the majority of the inhabitants resided. There was a schoolhouse the government had constructed, the sides covered with signs written in Portuguese as well as Yanomami. A group of about 30 young children were in front of the schoolhouse, and they screamed when the saw me. I had a ponytail of blonde hair, and I have no doubt that I was as exotic to them as a Martian would be to me. I waved and greeted them, and they screamed again. As I continued towards the central plaza, children played chicken with each other to see how close they were willing to get to me before sprinting away.
The Yanomami children had reddish, blonde locks mixed in with their otherwise black hair. I heard two theories about why this happened: the first is that malnutrition is so rampant in Maturacá that their would-be black hair cannot withstand the fierce sunlight and burns; the second is that a Portuguese priest had lived for several decades in Maturacá, during which time he ‘namorou muitas indias’ – that is to say, he passed on his genetic material to a large number of Yanomami women. Many of them in Maturacá actually did have green eyes and light skin—perhaps indeed the legacy of one amorous priest from the past. I even joked with friends back in São Gabriel that I was actually a Yanomami who had turned out especially white.
I walked past a hut where a man was reclined in a hammock surrounded by his family. The roof of his house was thatched palm, and there were no walls. Under the thatched roof, his wife was making farinha over a large fire. As he saw me approach, he greeted me in Portuguese:
Tudo bem, amigo? What brings you here to Maturacá?
Tudo bem, senhor. I came with the geological researchers and I wanted to see your village.
How great! Be welcome here.
We chatted for about 10 minutes, and I was touched by his warmth and welcoming disposition. His oldest daughter, probably in her late teens, came over to where we were talking, stunningly beautiful and naked except for a pair of shorts.
I continued walking to the center of the village, where I could see a large, scattered group of people. When I reached the central part of the village there was a ceremony taking place. A group of about 15 men were sitting on benches observing an older man in front of them adorned with body paint and feathers. Obviously in an altered state of consciousness, he was dancing erratically and screaming sounds that could have been Yanomami or could have been animal imitations. He would dance for a few minutes and then pause and look up to the sky and shout. He reminded me of a Viking berserker in a state of frenzy.
I walked over to where the men were sitting together, and a few minutes later the man who had been dancing returned a normal plane of consciousness. As he exited the central area, one of the seated young men got up and walked over to another old man holding a decorated bamboo tube. The old man holding the tube inserted the end of it into the initiate’s nostril and blew forcibly through the other end, propelling a psychoactive powder up the man’s nose. The young man jolted for a second as the powder shot up his nostril, and the old man did the same to the other nostril. The initiate’s nose and upper lip were covered in black, ashy powder, and he began to dance and shout as the previous man had done.
As I sat watching the ceremony, an ancient-looking Indian turned around and looked at me curiously. His body was a crumpled mass of sinews and his face deeply creased with wrinkles and scars. Nervously, I smiled as he examined me. His face bloomed into an enormous, toothless grin, and he enthusiastically nodded his head, reassuring me that there was nothing to fear. The man adorned with feathers and body paint came over to where I was sitting and asked if I had come with the geological team. I affirmed that I had, and he introduced himself as the leader of Maturacá: Be welcome here! We like ‘Whites’. We chatted for a few minutes, and he invited me to his home. We walked through the village, and he explained to me the purpose of the ritual I had witnessed:
You see, we do this ritual every day to bring good energy to the community. The substance in the pipe is called ‘paricá, and it transports us to the world of the spirits. We make it from the seedpods of a tree that grows here, grinding them and mixing them with the burnt ash of another plant.
We reached his house at the edge of the jungle, and his grandchildren and wife came out to meet me. His wife offered me a gourd full of xiré, an indigenous beverage consisting of tapioca farinha mixed with water. We chatted, and she explained that she herself was not Yanomami but had moved to Maturacá after marrying into the Yanomami tribe. This custom of taking spouses from other tribes is an ancient practice among indigenous people in the Amazon and functions to decrease the risk of inbreeding. Since she did not speak much Yanomami, she and her husband communicated in Baré, a language that Catholic missionaries had standardized to be the lingua franca of the Alto Rio Negro.
I had a wooden rosary in my pocket that I always carried, and I gave it to the Yanomami leader. He appreciated the gift and told me that I was welcome to return to Maturacá in the future. I walked to the dirt road leading out of the village, and I reflected on the surreal fact that I had just seen of the most isolated societies on the planet. As I left, the same children from before ran out to the path to meet me, appearing less shocked but staring with wide eyes as they laughed, screamed, and ran behind me.
A few weeks later in São Gabriel, I met some Yanomami visiting the city for the New Year’s celebrations. Yanomami from Maturacá traveled many days to reach São Gabriel, and the municipal government maintained a shelter on the outskirts of the city where any of them could stay free of charge. There they slung their hammocks and sold or traded handicrafts, usually basketry and beadwork, for old clothes or supplies. I invited two young men, a pair of cousins about my own age, to beers at one of the river bars. Only one of them spoke Portuguese well, and his more reticent cousin merely nodded as I regaled them with questions about life in Maturacá. The young man who did the talking had fresh stitches under his eye, as well as a collection of scars across his cheeks and forehead. Although tiny in stature they carried themselves with authority: they had balls, and they damn well knew it. They were, after all, the Rio Negro’s most feared warriors. Recalling learning about the Yanomami in a psychology class in college, I told them that they were famous even outside of the Amazon. Grinning behind a cigarette and his stitched face, my friend chuckled: yes, yes, we know.
**
Leaving the Yanomami village, I arrived at the military base after about an hour of walking. This is where shit got tense. I was unaware that entering Maturacá required several levels of authorization, usually even a trip to the FUNAI bureau (the governmental organ managing protected Indians) in the federal capital of Brasilia. It was a serious crime for a Brazilian citizen to enter without permission, and it was far, far worse for a foreigner to do so. A series of debacles involving foreign companies exploiting indigenous communities through illegal mining or logging had left the Brazilian government highly suspicious of non-Brazilians entering these communities. The situation was exacerbated by a scandal where a foreign pharmaceutical company patented a drug derived from a medicinal plant discovered in indigenous land. The company relied on indigenous knowledge to discover the plant, but they refused to compensate either the indigenous people or the Brazilian government once the drug was hugely successful.
I saw the pilot sitting over by himself in front of the base, and I told him about the hours I had spent with the Yanomami. A young soldier sat close by and listened in on our conversation. Not wanting to be rude, I introduced myself to him. He was a caboclo from Manaus who looked about 19 years. From his demeanor and tone, he was embracing the military persona with gusto. There was a chessboard nearby, and I asked him if he wanted to play. He begrudgingly acquiesced, and we played several rounds, during which he recounted the wild incidents that came to pass on the Amazonian frontier, usually involving encroachments of the Colombian FARC or illegal gold miners. Then, looking like he had just remembered something, the young soldier excused himself and went to the barracks. About a minute later another soldier, older and more senior, came running over to where I was sitting. He was the commander of the base, and his accent told me immediately that he hailed from Rio de Janeiro.
Without introducing himself, he demanded my passport and authorization documents from Brazil’s Indian bureau, FUNAI. Oh shit! I realized that in my rush to leave the hotel at 5:00 am I had forgotten to get my passport out of the safe. FUNAI permission had never even crossed my mind.
Sir, I apologize, but I don’t have my passport or FUNAI documentation with me. The look on his face said it all: You better be fucking kidding me.
So you entered the Yanomami village without documentation?
Yes, but I came here with the geological researchers, and I got permission from the villagers themselves to go there.
That doesn’t matter at all. You going there without documentation is illegal. Also, what the fuck are you doing here without a passport? How do I know that you’re even allowed to be in Brazil? If I wanted to, I could incarcerate you here in this base. His tone was vindictive, as if I had personally wronged him. I held my breath until the research team came back.
When the researchers finally arrived, the commander had it out with them too. He repeated his threat that he could incarcerate me if he so wished. My buddy, also from Rio, did the best he could to calm him down, and eventually, we were permitted to board the airplane and depart for São Gabriel. In the plane, we all sighed with relief. I told my friends about the ceremony, and I showed them the pictures I had taken with the Yanomami leader.
Dude, delete those pictures. You’re lucky that captain back there didn’t ask to see your photos. That would have sent him over the edge. I agreed and deleted them.
We touched down in São Gabriel, and I had the sneaking suspicion that something bad was going to happen. That captain in Maturacá had been so pissed off and reluctant to let me off the hook. As we walked to the road outside of the airport, a military transport vehicle came tearing up the road and screeched to a halt in front of me. Out came four soldiers, dressed in fatigues and armed with automatic rifles. Yep, he wasn’t going to let me off that easily, I thought as my adrenaline kicked into high gear.
Are you the American who entered the Yanomami community without papers?
Yes, sir. I apologize. I did not know it was illegal.
Come with us. We’re going to the police precinct in São Gabriel. He said as two large soldiers grabbed me by the arms and lifted me into the vehicle.
In the car ride from the airport, the soldiers drilled me with questions:
What do you do in the U.S.? What do your parents do in the U.S.? Why did you come to the Amazon? How long have you been in Brazil? What do you really do in the U.S.?
Sure enough, one of them demanded to see my cell phone and its photos. I could tell from their line of questioning that they suspected I was involved with a mining interest. They kept asking the same questions as if trying to catch me in a lie. They were waiting to be able to conclude that I had come to exploit Yanomami gold.
Thankfully, the ride from the military airport to São Gabriel was a long one, and I had time to diffuse the soldiers. Ever so slowly, one of the soldiers shifted from a tone of interrogation to one of modest cordiality and interest:
I mentioned that I had studied in São Paulo, and the soldier who was warming up to me said that he was from there.
Did you like São Paulo? Isn’t it an interesting city?
I realized in a split second that this was my chance to avoid going to jail in São Gabriel; I launched into a soliloquy about how much I loved São Paulo and Brazil in general, actually easy to do and completely honest. The friendly soldier found it amusing that I spoke Portuguese with a slight accent from Ceará and that I had seen so many parts of his country.
You know, one of these days I would love to go to Miami. My wife and I have talked about it for years. We really just want to go and do some shopping. The soldier mused.
Of course! Miami is great. I’ll give you my email in case you ever do visit the U.S. and want some travel tips. We were friends, and the situation was looking less dire.
When we pulled into Sao Gabriel, the soldiers demanded to see my visa and passport before anything else. We parked in front of my hotel and the friendly soldier escorted me to the safe in my room. We were still talking about travel and his idea about going to the U.S. Suddenly, I had a realization that almost made me faint: The last time I had stayed in Brazil, three years prior, I had overstayed my tourist visa by nearly five months (this was when I hid in a ship’s bathroom to avoid a military checkpoint). On that occasion, an official in Fortaleza had placed a bright red stamp in my passport stating that I had to leave Brazil within two weeks. Instead of leaving within two weeks, I stayed five more months, as indicated by another stamp on the following page. I owed Brazil a large fine for staying illegally, a fine I had managed to avoid paying thus far. This little oops would have blown any credibility I had with the soldier.
Miraculously, while he carefully examined the inside cover containing my information and photo as well as the tourist visa, he did not turn to the incriminating pages of my passport. After a couple of tense minutes he looked at me and said, “Okay, you’re good. You’re allowed to be in Brazil, and you didn’t know about the laws about entering Maturacá. If you ever do that again, we will send you to prison; however, this time you’re off the hook.”
We walked outside, where the other soldiers were waiting for me. By this time the researchers had arrived by taxi and were looking pale-faced. One of the soldiers gesticulated towards the vehicle, implying that it was time to take me to the police precinct. The friendly soldier waved him off and asserted that he had already looked at my visa and given me a warning. Nothing more was necessary. The other soldier opened his mouth to protest, but the friendly soldier cut him off and repeated that nothing else was necessary. Whew…I could not believe the catastrophe I had narrowly dodged. Neither could my researcher friends and the pilot, and they immediately took it upon themselves to speculate what would have happened to a gringo with long blonde hair in a Brazilian prison.
