Xingu is probably one of the few places in the world where native indigenous people can still be found living according to their traditional culture.
 |  | |  Indigenous people of the Upper Xingu | | | ©2006 www.socioambiental.org | Located in the center of Brazil, in the state of Mato Grosso, the Xingu Reservation stands almost like an independent country, with its own rules and principles, gathering 14 different ethnic groups with a total of 5,000 people. With an area the size of Belgium covered with virgin forests and snake-like rivers, Xingu struggles against the growing invasion of soy, cattle, and lumbering.
It was in this lost paradise that I landed, invited to film the most important ritual of all times for the Xingu Indians -- the "Kuarup," in honor of Orlando Villas Boas. Orlando was the last of the three Caucasian brothers who battled to create a reservation in the 50s that assured the health and rights of these people for over 50 years.
Highly opposed and criticized in those days by anthropologists, the Villas Boas dared to place together in the same territory tribes that were enemies, and stimulated intermarriage among them. Today Xingu stands as an example to the rest of the world of one of the few initiatives that was successful in keeping indigenous culture alive. Tribes that were on the brink of becoming extinguished, with as few as 12 people remaining, have grown to include up to 400 strong and healthy people.
Another positive result from the intermarriage is that as every Indian has a relative in another tribe, they maintain a respectful relationship toward each other. In contradiction to the anthropologists' assumptions, the exchange did not interfere with each tribe's identity. In the Kamaiura village, for example, one becomes enchanted by their splendid carving skills, especially with the refined wood stools shaped as jaguars, toucans, monkeys, alligators, and anteaters.
If you travel to the Kuikuro village, you will perceive that their breathtaking geometric tapestry could be exposed in any museum of modern art, even though the designs are as old as the beginning of time. So all those fears that the creation of Xingu was not a good idea turned out to be wrong, and the Villas Boas are considered heroes by the indigenous people.
This explains why, in spite of not liking visitors in their territory, I was received with many handshakes and greetings by Chief Aritana, once I mentioned I was there on an invitation from Marina, the widow of Orlando Villas Boas. Tall and fierce looking, Aritana is the President of Xingu, and even though his massive serious figure is quite scary, I came to witness later what a great leader he is, loved and respected for his fair sense of justice and constant care for the well being of his people.
My whole group of other white guests slowly moved our gear under the boiling sun across the circular village of 15 huts, finally reaching the hut of Aritana's brother in law, Aiopu, nicknamed "Belly" by Orlando when he was a little boy. It was such a relief to escape the sun and enter the hut. I dropped my gear down and looked up to admire the incredible architecture.
Immediately, Belly proudly stated he was the architect and this was the biggest and newest hut of the village. The hut was oval shaped, sustained in the middle by a pair of impressive logs, and the light branch structure was totally covered by grass from roof to walls -- a fantastic lining -- which allowed cooking smoke to travel up and not a single drop of rain to fall down. Two central doors opposite to each other provided enough ventilation and total protection from the dusty winds that blew daily from 1 to 4 p.m.
With no windows, the eyes took a while to adjust to the interior darkness, but once they did, I could see many hammocks hanging everywhere. Belly's muscular sons showed up to help me hang my hammock, and were fascinated by the army nylon sleeping bag-like hammock that I brought. As days went by, whenever I stepped out, when coming back I would find women and children happily testing my hammock.
I understood the preciousness of a hammock at the end of that first long day; besides the boiling sun, I had to stand the stress of getting good film footage of the ritual despite the dozens of other filmmakers and photojournalists that competed for the best angle or popped inside every frame I chose. With a crew of only two -- me and my cameraman -- there was no time even to open a can of tuna fish. As the Indians do not have the habit of offering any food, I threw myself on that blessed hammock, hungry and tired.
"Anna is sleeping?" asked Belly, bringing over a stool and sitting next to my hammock. "Just resting" I answered, politely perceiving that the owner of the house wanted to chat. I felt I had better be courteous despite my exhaustion. It was a good decision. Soon I knew more about their culture than any other white person around. He spoke softly and told me he was the tribe's musician and was building a music school to teach young kids the music of their ancestors, which told the stories of their culture. He was worried that kids would go study in the city and return with CD's that spoke of nothing. He pushed the button of a tape recorder and played some tribal flute chant for me.
I also learned that fish used to be so plenty they would jump inside the canoes, but after the soy farms and agro toxics thrown into the river, it became harder to feed the family, as fish was scarce now. Every evening, Belly would sit by my hammock and tell me more about his culture.
On the third night he came over to offer me a large piece of fish fresh from his grill. It was the most delicious fish I had ever tasted in my life -- succulent, moist, and barbecued to perfection. He asked if I wanted to taste Indian salt. I tried it. It felt like ice on the tip of my tongue, and then the salt brought flavor but didn't make me thirsty at all.
The next days I followed the long process of salt making, which starts by collecting succulent floating plants from the lakes and rivers, stacking them on 3 meter high piles, setting them on fire, washing the ashes down through a basket-like strainer, then boiling the remaining liquid over a fire until the water evaporates and the white salt appears at the bottom of the pot.
Later, while talking to an MD who lived many years in Xingu as part of the Villas Boas team, I was told that none of the Indians had high blood pressure, as their salt did not contain sodium. He also told me that the Indians' blood samples were found to have more nutrients than the Swedish people, considered the best blood samples of the world.
But what struck me most about their culture was the way they related to each other. In Belly's hut lived about 60 people -- his family, his parents and his inlaws -- all in perfect harmony. The hammocks drew the line between each group's quarter. No walls were needed to assure privacy. Each group respected the others, not even looking or talking unless they were addressed. No child was scolded. Screaming and crying was never heard. If a child cried, the mother would immediately pick him up, comfort and distract him.
I would keep my ears tuned every night waiting to hear some love-making sounds, but only heard Belly endlessly talking to his wife until around 3 a.m. The next day I found out about the content of those long conversations -- something useful for every couple who wants to keep the marriage going for a long time. He said, "We are so busy with our tasks during the day. I fish, harvest and build huts. She fetches water, makes manioc bread and takes care of the children. So deep in the night when all is quiet I tell her all the things I'm planning to give her, how I appreciate her ways. Women like attention. If you don't speak to them, they might run away with another Indian. I let her know I care for her."
The Indians may have habits that seem strange to our "civilized" taste, ears and eyes. But what struck me most in their culture is the way they relate to each other. The approach is always gentle and respective, never invasive.
I knew from day one that Aiopu -- "Belly" -- desired my hammock, but he never asked me to have it directly. When we were observing all the other journalists arranging their gear in the canoes to leave the village, he remarked to me: "They stayed in my house, received my hospitality and did not even leave me a hammock as a gift."
When it was my turn to leave he brought me a bow and an arrow for my kids and his wife gave me a necklace. I gave them the few things I still had, like soap and food, and I immediately told him that I could not give him my hammock yet because my trip was not over, and if my plane fell down in the jungle I would need the hammock to sleep away from snakes and beasts. I assured him that I would bring him another hammock when I returned two months later. After saying that, I felt a shiver run through my spine. I knew how many whites over the centuries had promised things to the Indians and did not fulfill their promises.
Two months later, I was in the Kuikuro village shooting another ritual, and as the visiting tribes arrived I went to their campground looking for Belly. I placed the hammock in his hands. I was surprised that there was no expectation at all in his eyes. I said: "See? I didn't forget." I was surprised there was no sign of gratitude, either. He said: "Now I can go fishing overnight and sleep away from snakes and beasts." He was repeating my very own words. We laughed together.
What I learned from my experience with the Indians is that whatever there is to resolve, they do it immediately. The words "yes" and "no" have the same weight and they don't get offended as we do. If something is impossible to have, they shake their shoulders and move their attention to something else. They don't carry on hatred, remorse, guilt or any long-term feelings. They live for the moment, but they know that caring for the water and the forest is forever. Happiness is sacred. They just can't stand seeing anybody sad or crying. There is no judgment. You are what you are and that suffices. But if they like you, they will remember every word you said, every piece of clothing and object that was in you, and thirty years later if you happen to meet again, they will tell you exactly what you were wearing and refer to what you were talking about as if it was today. The present is always present and that probably explains the continuous source of their joy.
The intermarriage among enemies created a nation of peace. I think this is the best possible example to help some unending war situations, such as between the Israelis and Palestinians. The people from Xingu have much to teach, but few of them speak our language. It is very difficult to arrive there, and not everyone is allowed in, so I feel privileged that so much was shared with me, and hopefully some distributor or TV director reading this article will support the editing, so I can finish the film and share it with all of you.
|
RSS
Del.icio.us
Digg 
reddit
Y! MyWeb
Comments Note: Kindly refrain from personal attacks and profanity.
.jpg)
