had long given up attempting to discern how Juan Gabriel knew exactly where we were, since one tree looked quite a bit like another. But I supposed he would think the same of our hectic freeways and confusing city streets.
Referring to "the jungle doorbell,” he explained that men are gone for long periods of time, hunting or raiding another village. It is an accepted fact that their wives might "entertain" other men during this time, and a returning husband does not want to have to confront a tribal member in a compromising situation.
The reason this custom exists is because the life span of men in this environment is relatively short. The head-hunting wars, we were unofficially told, still take place. Therefore, anyone approaching a hut without first announcing their presence is presumed to be an antagonist and either the "approacher" or the "approachee" might end up dead.
"You know,” Juan Gabriel added with a laugh, "the guy with your wife might be a good friend, so you would rather not have to deal with what you can avoid."
The group let out a collective sigh when the sound was returned, indicating that it was safe to proceed. We climbed a short hill and came upon a large oval-shaped hut that probably measured about seventy by twenty feet. It was constructed from long straight tree timbers connected by smaller sticks and covered with large leaves. From the inside, one could see the truss-shaped roof design. My construction background made me question the integrity of the arrangement—it would have not passed muster by U.S. building inspectors. However, many generations of use testified to its worthiness in this environment.
We followed Juan Gabriel and John inside, where we promptly formed a single line to individually meet our host. The Shuar warrior whose house we were in was seated with his back to the only interior wall. This wall separated the larger receiving room from the family's private quarters. His wife and children remained sequestered behind the partition as we each approached to shake his hand. He was dressed in a single cloth wrapped around his waist and he sat on a log, sharpening the tips of handmade blowgun darts.
We had been coached during our hike to this destination by Juan Gabriel about proper protocol in a native home. He cautioned us that, because this culture was quite different from our own, it was very important not to make a faux pas. Juan Gabriel had repeated the three most important points over and over again during the three-hour journey:
1.Avoid eye contact with tribal members of the opposite sex, because to do otherwise is to outwardly flirt . . . and we all had a fresh recollection of Juan Gabriel's story about how these people settled their disputes.
2.Remain seated. Do not venture behind the head of the household, and certainly not behind the screen where his family is sequestered. To do so would be a major insult—we shuddered to think of what might happen if we did.
3.Do not, under any circumstances, refuse to drink from the communal chincha bowl when it was presented by the warrior's wife.
The third directive, as it turned out, was the toughest assignment.
Chincha, as you know by now, is made from a bitter-tasting manioc root that, after being chewed for an extended period of time, is then spit back into a pungent-smelling, lumpy, milky-appearing substance and allowed to ferment. John assured us that it was not at all like ayahuasca and was considered a social drink.
"Chincha,” he said, "is alcoholic—a sort of beer, but not a hallucinogenic." When asked about the potency, he replied, "Depends on how long it ferments—anywhere from about three to twelve percent. Whatever the proof, it'll knock your socks off!"
Having been cautioned numerous times that it would be a major insult to the host if we declined the oatmeal-thick bitter drink, we watched both Juan and John down the contents, smile, and hand the bowl back to the warrior's wife. Then it was our turn.
It was worse than you can imagine. We were offered the drink over . . . and over . . . and over. After about the fourth helping, I think it got to Shirl and she began to get somewhat giddy. She started to laugh . . . quietly at first, then her body began to shake uncontrollably as the fermented brew affected her. The woman seated next to me pointed out that the our tribal host had begun to sharpen the blowgun darts with a little more vigor as he glanced more than once in Shirl's direction. But then, fortunately for us, lunch was served. It wasn't bad once you got past the fish eyes and plantain.
Later, after getting to know the family (and receiving personal blowgun lessons) we began to appreciate the honesty, the beauty, the simplicity that is their lifestyle and environment. The word stress is not in their vocabulary. We began to comprehend firsthand the oneness of the people and their surroundings.
No clocks or schedules to make pressured demands on their lives, no unfulfilled egos to drive them to some unobtainable goal, no fear that death is the end of all existence to haunt them. They live the concept that we are truly one with all things. They illustrate an important lesson: we can gain a greater understanding of our true nature and the reality of all things by simplifying life, respecting the planet, and living in the present.
Understanding the Concept of One
The point that individual shamans from diverse cultures all over the world seem to be making is let go and be one.
•Let go of the pursuit of materialism. This unquenchable desire provides us merely with possessions we don't really need, and it ruins the rain forest, the environment, and the worldwide quality of life in the process.
•Let go of the ego. Once we reach "success,” it is inevitably never enough; there will always be a requirement for the unobtainable more.
•Let go of time restraints. By creating our self-imposed schedules, pressures, and the need to do more, we are missing the primal experience of being.
How often do we get caught up in the drama of attempting to be someone we're not? It is almost as if we're on stage, playing a character rather than being our authentic self. Shamans are only themselves, often not even knowing or caring about the day of the week or the time of day. They just are.
This is not to suggest that we need to alter our lifestyle dramatically. We are conditioned to the ways of the Western world. Its many wonderful comforts and benefits are built into our way of being. It is to say that we should slow down. We need to stop driving ourselves in pursuit of things and goals that can never provide us with a deeper understanding of who we are.
We must begin to redirect our energy to the unseen inner experience that our ignorance and fear prevent us from discovering. We must, if we are to find our true selves. We must, if the planet is to survive. After all, this incarnation is about resolving personal as well as planetary karma—learning our spiritual lessons and returning to One. The dwellers of the rain forest live within the harmony of oneness and have let go of all restrictive fear—not an undesirable goal if you think about it.
chapter 4
A Bizarre Healing
THE REMAINDER OF our trip to Ecuador was equally fascinating and took us to the higher reaches of the Andes. We visited three shamans, each authentic and each employing slightly differing ancient energy-healing techniques in their work.
The first we were to meet was a kind, gentle, middleaged Quechuan shaman whose appearance was not unlike the classic drawings of Jesus. He had long, flowing dark hair and deep beautiful eyes that attested to the gentleness of his soul. He walked with the ease and grace that can only come from inner spiritual calm.
He
