How I
Became the Village Idiot
Introduction
The weight of the baby sitting on my hip grew more
uncomfortable. I turned and looked towards the path leading from the grass air
strip into the jungle. I could still see the two bright heads of my son and
daughter bobbing along amidst a crowd of dark haired Indians as they excitedly
followed the villagers to the river bank.
My eyes returned to the child in my arms and to my oldest
daughter, Jackie, as she stood loyally by my side, holding the diaper bag and
other baby supplies, she was slapping at the gnats buzzing around her neck and
arms, standing upon one small foot at a time so that the other was free to rub
away the annoying gnats biting on her ankles. I blew light puffs of air on to
my sleeping baby’s face, trying to keep the gnats from waking her.
My husband was half in, half out, of the small Cessna MAF
aircraft which had brought us here.
I could hear his conversation with the American missionary pilot, Steve
Robinson, arranging the date for our next flight, our next contact with the
outside world. He grabbed a few bulky bags from the ground and herded us to the
side of the air strip as the plane taxied off to return to its base in Puerto
Ayacucho. My husband never looked back at the plane, but began trotting off down
the path to join the others. With one
last look, I saw the pilot dip his wings in a salutary wave to us as he flew
off.
The dirt path led us towards the rim of jungle on the bank of
the Chajura River where a dugout canoe awaited us. It was surprisingly cooler,
though still humid, under the jungle trees. I could hear the sound of the
river, the sound of rapids above the quiet voices of the Ye’kwana Indians. I
could hear my own children speaking in English to one another. The closer we
came to the bank, I saw that it was muddy from a recent rain, how was I going
to climb down this bank with a baby in my arms?
I must have looked perplexed as I tried to locate my husband
for help. He was already in the canoe stowing supplies so as to keep them safe
and dry. I took my first halting step down the slippery, red mud and looked
into the face of an elderly Ye’kwana grandma meeting me with up stretched arms
ready to receive my baby. She gave me a slow, timid smile, revealing no teeth and
bright eyes. I gladly passed the one year old baby to her and she nimbly
scampered down the bank and into the canoe. I still had to figure out how to
maneuver myself down the muddy slope, but eventually I managed to arrive in one
piece…my sandals had not fared as well!
My husband had already seated the children and ushered me to
my place of honor, a small spot left available on a branch limb which had been
jammed and wedged into the dugout canoe.
And we were off.
This was exciting. The roar of the motor attached to the back
of the canoe had awakened Baby Jayde and she was wide eyed as she took in the
shore line. The water was a dark, murky, greenish grey and the air smelled
moldy. The jungle smells were new and exciting and would soon permeate
everything, including our skin. But in this moment it was a novelty to be
enjoyed.
The canoe was brought to port and the Indians light-footedly
disembarked barely causing the canoe to tip one way or the other. I looked up
to see that yet another muddy bank awaited me. Oh well, get ‘er done! This bank
was not just muddy, it was scummy! We walked and slid along a stretch of jungle
mud that was green with an algae growth. It felt like the skin that used to
form on my mother’s home made chocolate pudding as it cooled. The children and
I had taken our shoes off and were walking along, using our toes as grappling
hooks in an attempt to stay aright. Of course, they loved it. Granny still had
my baby. We followed our Indian friends into the center of the village~ the
soccer field. Upon entering the clearing we saw that we were to be greeted by
all the villagers, young and old. . They were lined up single file, the entire
length of the soccer field. Indians with outstretched hands waiting t meet us
and take us into the round house situated in the very heart of the village. The
round house, or churuata, is the geographical as well as philosophical heart of
each Ye’kwana village and to be invited in is no small thing!
I had been to Indian villages in the Amazon of Venezuela
before. I had even spent several weeks at a time in different villages among
different tribes, but this was different. This was not a visit. No, this was
permanent. We were moving to this village and planned to spend the rest of our
lives here. Raising our family of four, building a Christian community of
believers, this was a lifelong commitment.