Tag Archives: Guaranda

The Natemamu Vision Puts Me Out Of The House And On The Road

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Natemamu, Part IV: The Spirit World Among the Shuar

For the rest of the time at the Finca we continued with ceremonies every night except the last one. The idea being that the final day would start early, about 6am, and be quite full before nightfall. The following morning, a Monday, we were to board, first the taxis, and then 2 separate buses that would take us to Gualaquiza, in Morona Santiago province. Paul wanted our energy levels high for these leapfrog transportation undertakings, and it was just as well. Non-stop ceremonies had a cumulative effect for by the end of a week none of us found much time for sleep.

Once the goodbyes concluded, we worked our way back through Catemayo where about ½ of the group split off to return to Quito for flights back home. The rest of us, about a dozen or so, purchased tickets for Loja where we would locate a bus to Morona Santiago. The weather, as it had been during the retreat was in the mid to high 70’s and no rain, so moving our mountain of luggage, though much smaller, was also easier in these pleasant conditions. And we were all grateful since the scenery, which was certainly beautiful outside of Catemayo continued its dramatic unfolding with grander, broader vistas of misted mountains and rivers that kept increasing in size.

While we were dropping in elevation the mountains within view remained quite high as we followed Andean drainage basins and at some point crossed a continental divide. Now, instead of flowing to the Pacific, these rivers were all destined for the Atlantic via the Amazon. We passed through Loja province and into the southernmost Ecuadorian province of Zamora Chinchipe, and when we reached the provincial capital of Zamora, we headed north into Morona Santiago. It was a full 8 hours of bus rides that finally dropped us off on the highway to lug our bags (they’re not called luggage for nothing) 20 minutes up a hill to Miguel and Gabriela Archangel’s compound.

By then it was late afternoon and time for some quick introductions and another simple but tasty meatless meal. Shaman Miguel had built his own Lodge, one that Paul had lent him several thousand dollars to build. But with this being wet Amazonia, the dirt floor was far more plastic and sticky than that at the finca. And for the 5 days or so that we were there, along with some days of rain, we relied even more so on those Wellington boots.

Landry, Our Oglala Sioux Frenchman

Landry, Our Oglala Sioux Frenchman

The ceremonies, which began that night, were of a different type and style. Each night we were expected to sit upright on hard benches in almost total darkness, while Miguel and Paul sang, chanted, and played their instruments. And mid-way through these ceremonies we had a surprise when Landry, a tall young Frenchman in our group, began playing the drum and beautifully chanting North American Oglala Sioux songs. He was really good! He later explained that he had studied (and studied quite well) with a Sioux elder who took up residence on the small island off central France where Landry lives.

Gabriela Archangel

Gabriela Archangel

By this time Gabriella was also regularly attending the ceremonies. We had been told earlier by Paul that she herself is really a shaman, but she denies all talk of this sort. However her touch gave her away and we all knew from that personal physical contact that she has powers that probably surpass her husband Miguel. After the first night’s ceremony, which was a far stronger brew that brought on difficult struggles for the whole group, Gabriela started passing by each of us and placing her hand on the top of our heads as we were seated on the benches and feeling the first hallucinatory effects of the brew. By sharing her touch, she was able to convey an amazing feeling of peace and tranquility. She also came outside and stood with us while we vomited, since a number of us, myself included, lost muscular control and the ability to make it back into the Lodge on 2 feet.

I had neither visions nor hallucinations during the stay here with Gabriela and Miguel. I discovered later that the reason was due to lack of technique. In preparing for a ceremony, a participant needs to prepare with a heavy dose of introspection. And the product of that introspection needs to take the form of a petition to La Medicina.

The vine should be addressed with a question or an enunciated goal that is both quite clear and very specific. I knew none of this at the time and as a result I came away with little more than a clean digestive tract. I was also still having sessions that were diverted away from the spirit world by heavy body-energy discharges. Diarrhea, just so you know, is also a common method of purging, though usually not as frequently a purge as vomiting, therefore a number of us came away very clean after our stay.

Shaman Alberto Catan

Shaman Alberto Catan

So when the time came to leave I believe that all of us looked forward to a change. And thankfully Paul had saved the best for last. Heading further north to Macas, the provincial capital of Morona Santiago, we started hearing about Alberto Catan’s place. Alberto, if you remember, led our first ceremony at the Finca, and his wide open smile and good nature from that time nurtured our anticipation of staying with his family outside of Macas. Paul had also prepared us with the knowledge that we would take part in the yearly celebration of the Chonta palm and the harvest of its fruit.

In a phrase, Alberto’s compound was a Garden of Eden. He had a fast-flowing stream running through the center of the property and a separate sleeping lodge for guests, which we gladly inhabited during the week we were there. Alberto, his wife María, and their extended family welcomed us all and we could tell that this part of the journey would be fine. And it was.

Shaman Lodge and bridge to our guest house

Shaman Lodge and bridge to our guest house

There was a separate Shaman Lodge, a separate dining house (that straddled the stream), beautifully planted grounds, and an overall peacefulness that we immediately absorbed. As with our first Shuar family, we also began our ceremonies here on the first night. There was some concern among us that, like the first ceremony at the finca, this first ceremony at Alberto’s place would also be a spiritual assault. Alberto cooks a mean brew and sees no reason to dilute his creation. That first session at the finca gave everyone strong hallucinations, so we prepared as best we could.

And strong they were, though again, because of my ignorance, most of my time fell to purging and calming my body reactions. As with Miguel and Gabriela, these sessions were endured on hard benches, though his fire was more substantial, and this helped us keep from stumbling. More light also feeds hallucinations with the increased visual input, and later many reported just that effect. Me? I was standing on the bank (when I wasn’t bent over) and watching the river flow.

But on the night of Natemamu I got my second vision and loved every bit of it. Natemamu is a ceremony quite different than the “standard” natem/ayahuasca ceremony. During a natem ceremony the brew consists of the pounded inner bark of the natem vine and at least one other plant, usually just the leaves of the yagé, though often a leaf or two of toé.

With Natemamu however, it is only the inner bark of the natem, make into a thin tea. And the goal here is to consume as much, and more, as one think’s they are capable of drinking. I was up with the leaders in this go-round, and made 8 or 9 bowls of about a liter each. It was hard to keep count since my bowl never emptied with Alberto’s family circulating with huge pitchers full of the liquid. These never-ending bowls were also accompanied by vigorous shouting and chanting from the family to, in Shuar, “DRINK, DRINK!!!”

At the finca, about midway through the retreat, we had 2 successive nights of Natemamu and somehow each of us found the will to consume this unkind beverage. The afternoon before the first night Paul was explaining the protocol and what was expected of us. Even those of us who had participated in Natemamu before were apprehensive. I, of course, hadn’t experienced this sort of thing, but from listening to the others who had, I thought that I’d rather clean the toilets or something.

As Paul explained it, “It all sounds pretty horrible, but actually, it’s much worse!” He wasn’t exaggerating. You think that you can’t possibly down anymore of this stuff, but there’s shouting all around you, you’ve already returned a good bit of it to the soil at your feet, but you remember why you’re here, and you drink some more. He had already counseled us to be ready for a heightened sensory awareness, and that we would be able to hear the earth’s rhythm. Again! The guy really knew what he was talking about. I could sense this noise pattern at the finca, and now here again at Alberto’s compound.

There were new sounds (no, not just the puking) all around me and even though the sun had set some time before, it was light enough to see. A heavy, droning, thumping tone kept injecting itself into my awareness, and I guess that this was the earth’s rhythm Paul mentioned. And then at some point Alberto somehow knew that we were done, and it was time to return inside the Shaman’s Lodge.

We were all pretty weak by this time, and I somehow found the strength to climb up to the 2nd tier of the racks inside the Lodge, and I sprawled on my back in utter exhaustion. Sometime later, and I had no way of telling if it was minutes or hours, I received my next message. Again, the delivery was a mystery, but this time I did have a strong visual that drove home the message.

By this time I had already been in Ecuador four months and most of that time I was quite comfortably ensconced in the house of my school director’s parents. Sofía’s parents are my age and we have become very close, laughing, joking, commiserating with each other as age takes its toll. And I could very easily stay at their place until Immigration pounds on the front door. But I wasn’t sure that that’s really the right way for me to be traveling. Well this message put all these questions to rest.

You have no doubt seen those gag greeting cards that have a pop-up that jumps into place when you open the card, right? Well I essentially received the same setup in this second message. I was seeing the landscape of Ecuador as a giant carpet unrolling, with trees, rivers, mountains and all popping up as the carpet unrolled. And at the same time I was receiving the message that my Quito phase was over and until October, when my visa runs out, it’s my mission to hit the road.

It's Time to Move On

It’s Time to Move On

So after this plane touches down in Lima, I finish my work there, and return to Ecuador, I’ll be on the road, circling the country. I’ll start in Otavalo, an indigenous pueblo north of Quito and witness Inti-Raymi, the Andean indigenous New Year. Since December 31, I will then have witnessed 4 separate New Years in less than 6 months: the calendar New Year (which I celebrated by going to bed before 11pm), the New Year in el campo at the time of Guaranda’s Carnaval, the Shuar Chonta Harvest, and finally Inti-Raymi. It will be a lot of fun.

Visiting The Shuar of Morona Santiago

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In my earlier 3-part Guaranda postings I mentioned that I have been exchanging casual English lessons for Spanish lessons with my Ecuadorian friend Jefferson. We often meet at the SAEX clubhouse and talk over the days events. With the Club being what it is, namely a conduit for information transfer, I have received an invitation to teach English in El Oriente. This isn’t a formal offer, but rather a chance for cultural exchange.

A group of people, some from SAEX, most not, are leaving this weekend, the final one in April. The plan is to fly to the very south of the country, to Catamayo, and work our way northeast by bus and van.

Before I arrived in Ecuador I had already known that I would visit the Amazon Basin, but I had no clear plans as to just how to carry this off. What I did know is that I wouldn’t be staying in an eco-lodge paying several hundreds of dollars a day to hang out with other tourists, dress up like “natives” and play with blow-guns. So once this invitation reared up, I knew my chance had arrived.

For 18 days I will be traveling in one of the most undeveloped areas of Ecuador: the Province of Morona Santiago, in the southeastern borderlands fronting Peru’s Amazonia. This is the land of the Shuar, the only people on this planet who collected the heads of their enemies.

Una Cabeza Reducida

Una Cabeza Reducida

Known by the Shuar as Tsantsa, this “head-shrinking” practice which is agreed upon by many as having ceased, was done to acquire the warrior spirits, Arutam, of the enemy and to prevent these spirits from causing further harm to the Shuar. I believe that there is a good chance that I will return from this trip with my head still attached to the rest of me. The contents of my head however may not be the same as what I started out with.

There are 17 of us plus Paul, the leader. The majority of the group hails from Europe, with the UK, the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, the Czech Republic, and Poland among those countries represented. We will gather on Saturday the 24th to the south of Loja, the largest city nearby the farm where we will begin. Each of us joined this group to take part in 8 days worth of Natem ceremonies and to attend the workshops necessary to prepare for those ceremonies.

These are Shuar-derived ceremonies, evolved through millennia and developed as an intimate and participatory examination of human placement within, rather than imposed upon, this Amazonian environment. The Shuar are, as are all localized indigenous peoples, masters of the knowledge necessary to be fully integrated into this life. They know the plants, the insects, the animals, the land, the rivers, the skies, and of course the gods who weave each of these parts into the syncretic whole.

By taking part in these ceremonies the group will be exposed to the cosmology of the Shuar and how this unique apprehension of the universe is vitally relevant to the existence of the planet. There is a very real and immediate threat to not only the Shuar and their ancestral lands, but, as the “lungs of the world” this land’s endangered future is a threat to all of us.

The Ecuadorian government has doubled back on its promise to protect indigenous lands, allowing the Chinese, the Canadians, and others access to this vital Amazon watershed for surface mining, with plans to permit the largest surface mines in the world. These mines will destroy hundreds of thousands of hectares of unique drainage basins that feed the headwaters of the Amazon.

These watersheds are among the most bio-diverse ecosystems in the world and once they are removed from the Amazon’s life-cycle the entire planet will be adversely affected. Such an environmental violation will not have simply a small ripple effect, but rather an immediate and enormous negative impact on how the world breathes.

By inviting us to take part in such ceremonies the Shuar hope that the knowledge and experience that we gain will help us to help them tell the world of this most critical series of events. The Shuar, the Achuar, the Siona/Secoya, the Cofán, and others live in an ecologically unique part of our planet.

Just off the Ecuadorian coast, the large El Niño clockwise current from the north collides with the even larger counterclockwise Humboldt current from the south. Coupled with this phenomenon is the equally important and  constant collision of prevailing winds, both easterlies and westerlies.

All this occurs both near and above a small (about the size of Colorado) but topographically varied land that ranges from sea-level to 20,000 feet above the ocean. What results are more species of flora and fauna per square mile than almost anywhere on earth, only rivaled by Colombia just to the north.

The Shuar intermontane lands lie between the snow-covered Andes and the low flood lands of the Amazon itself. This area of hundreds of rivers, waterfalls, and jungle forests is home to an unknown number of species where new discoveries happen virtually year-round. So that they might protect this land, and that they might reverse an impending ecological disaster of immense proportions, the Shuar invite outsiders to their home.

After 8 days of ceremonies and workshops, approximately half of our group will continue on, further into Shuar territory, to live with 2 separate families. While with these families we will observe additional healing ceremonies among the families themselves. And I have been invited to teach English to the children from both of these families and meet with teachers in a high school near Gualaquiza. We will stay directly in the homes of these families, with the first family near the pueblo of Gualaquiza, then with the second family near the city of Macas for another several days, finally heading back to Quito by bus.

With Spanish as their second language, many Shuar believe that their children should pursue English to better position themselves as a voice to the outside world. They are now actively working to create a formal English language program and in the meantime welcome any preliminary help that they can find.

I have been told to expect a lively recruitment response to my visit, and look forward to conversing with them in what is a second language for both of us. What a fantastic chance to waltz through the linguistic minefield of subjunctive verbs!

There is a far better than fifty-fifty chance that I will be offline for the entire 18 days, so this could well be my last post until mid-May. Though unable to post, I will continue to write while traveling in Morona Santiago, capturing some to the wonder of this area, and I hope to convey some of that wonder when I re-connect.

Guaranda, Finally. But Never What We Think

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Guaranda, Part III

With the coming of the New Year, as it had been in many of our “developed” cultures in times past, each family of the Campo greets the other families wishing them well, and this year the Moposita family was the first one out of the shute, as it were. It must have been 10 or 11 in the night when we began this New Year’s version of the custom of serenading the surrounding families. Keep in mind that we had been flying with Pajaro Azul since mid-afternoon, so it took major commitment from the entire goup (5 of us) to hang together on pitch black footpaths or trampling through cornfields, finally stumbling into courtyards of the families nearby. As soon as we arrived, though not silently what with the barking dogs, honking geese, and our own laughter, we began to sing and play this song. Or, in my case since I didn’t know the words, kind of hum and moan and clap my hands, which actually I was pretty good at. Well, that’s how I remember it anyway so I’m sticking to my story.

The other part of the tradition requires that each of the families being serenaded bring out yet more cerveza (beer) and/or Pajaro Azul. This being the campo, and like virtually all farming communities worldwide, folks are early to bed, early to rise. So when the lights turned on in the houses we visited, and the head of the household appeared in the courtyard with a glass and the booze, imagine his, or occasionally her, surprise to see a gringo in the midst of the neighborhood troubadors! Most were quite taken aback, and one or 2 even stumbled in surprise, but none paused in pouring out salutes to health and good harvest. A good time truly, was had by all.

Yet while the campesinos had either started or were soon to start celebrating good fortune and bountiful harvest in the new year, it was anything but good fortune for the pig. His year was starting out badly and went downhill from there.

Jefferson’s father had arrived home well after midnight, having begun the celebrations with friends in other places. We had brief introductions as I was headed off to bed. He seemed to be struggling with the remembrance of just why this tall gringo was standing in his house. He wasn’t angry by any stretch, the Blue Bird sings songs of love, though he was sorely and profoundly puzzled.

But while I was soundly asleep, snoring and drooling, he was sharpening his killing blade. After the deed, and the singeing of the hide with his plumber’s torch, his work was done and the women’s had just begun. His wife began first by scraping the hide, gutting and then sectioning the carcass. She, with help from an ever-changing number of daughters, spent most of the day first butchering then cooking the pig in a gigantic wok-type of pan/pot/whathaveyou.

imageWhile she was building up steam for the task ahead, Jefferson’s father (I never did learn the names of Jefferson’s parents) took me with him for an early-morning wake-up over at his neighbor’s place. As we walked over there, he explained to me the purpose of a gulley that was obviously hand dug along the top of the ridge we followed. I had seen it earlier and thought it curious since it appeared to me as if it were a revetment, designed for fending off invading barbarians. The reason, though not so exciting, was still interesting. This ditch is the traditional way for the indigenous families to mark off boundaries between their separate properties. I’m thinking that few of the lands here are registered with any governmental agencies, and surveyors be damned, so this is an effective way for clear and permanent delineation between neighbors.

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At the neighbor’s house we were offered the red-eye special: fried chitlins in choclo with an aji salsa that cleans the rust from your pipes, washed down with, of course, more booze! Choclo is one of about 7 different types of corn grown in Ecuador. The kernels are huge, the spherical size of a nickel or so, and the aji (pepper) salsa is unique to each family and having grown up with hot and spicy food, hit the spot. Beer for breakfast? Not so exciting, but customs in the hills developed for good reasons and it was not for me to question.

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Back at the house the family was split into 2 factions with one group up to their elbows in pig and the other group getting ready for Guaranda’s Carnaval. As the honored guest, my role had already been defined before I even arrived from Quito, so I boarded another death-ride taxi for a pell-mell dash down the mountain to town. By now it was mid-morning and the parade had already begun. So we squeezed in amongst other revelers to take in whatever happened next.

And what happened next was a traffic jam. A mile from town the dirt road, and all the other ways into Guaranda were blocked. Cars, and more often trucks, handcarts, and the ocasional dumptruck(?) were haphazardly stacked up, one behind or beside the other, so we abandoned the taxi and boosted the children on our shoulders, making the last part of the trek on foot. The city streets were awash with parade-goers and certainly the party was in full-swing.

Before leaving Quito, my host family had provided me with an image of mayhem and wild destruction awaiting the unwary wanting to see a true Andean Carnaval. And in the years past, when both my generation and ones following took part in the festivities this was truly the case. But Ecuador has cleaned up its festivals so in comparison to days past this Carnaval was almost genteel, though not quite.

People of the Andes have for centuries marked the new year with blood all-round. The killing of the Moposita Family pig was certainly part of it, and from the squeals coming from other campesino family compounds it was easy to tell that they too added their parts to the rituals. Though community Carnavals are where this is most evident.

In days past, and still in many parts of Peru and Bolivia, ritual blood-letting was/is not only accepted but strictly enforced. Rival teams of men and youth would confront each other throughout the Andes and trade blows to the head with the expectation that resultant flowing blood would supply Pachamama with the energy she needs to ensure the harvest of the New Year. I’m glad that, at least in Ecuador and Colombia, things have toned down a bit.

imageHowever I was warned that instead of flowing blood I could and should expect raw eggs along with flour missiles and water bombs. So I came prepared, decked out in full-body rain gear, virtually head-to-foot in rubberized clothing. Man, was it hot! Well this year, the eggs are gone, the flour use is pretty trivial, and what is the weapon of choice, excuse me, the expression of joy, is shaving cream; boatloads and boatloads of shaving cream. But not your store-bought Schick or Gillette cans of personal grooming.

There were hawkers parading up and down the street between us, the beer vendors (by the glass or the case), umbrella sellers, and the actual parade participants, selling aerosol cans 18-24” high, and packed with high-pressure shaving cream. These cans allowed the gunners using them to float a focused stream of shaving cream 20 or 30 feet into the crowd. Which they did. We, all of us, found it in our hair, faces, front and back, down the back of the neck. Then there were the youths on the roofs of the buildings above us: ready, willing, and quite able to drench all of us with water balloons. And they too did, often and with great accuracy.

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The actual parade was itself almost a distraction from the aerosol snipers, the overhead water bombardiers, and the drunken couples dancing, stumbling and falling to music from the mega-decibel salsa sound trucks slowly driving by. We saw the obligatory beauty-queens, the hand-made floats crafted during the past year by local artisans, and marching dancers. Or was it dancing marchers? We saw groups of made-to-be hippies of the 60’s, with flourescent hair, wearing costumes from the disco 70’s, we saw tractors pulling memorials to the workers’ cooperatives, we saw elite troups of military and police brigades. And then it rained. And then the rain began to freeze. And then it hailed. And with mild panic, the crowd ran for cover, while the bands played on. There was at least one aging gringo who was glad for his full-body rain gear.

We finally squished our way back to the house where we became one with the New Year pig at the dinner table, sang a bit and went to bed early for a 3AM bus ride back to Quito. Since then, as I consider what transpired I realize that though the Guaranda Carnaval was an enjoyable, though truly frigid experience, what was of greater meaning were the events in el campo. It was a true privilege being welcomed into the Moposita Family home. Though I was more than a bit uncomfortable sitting at the place of honor during meals, I knew that each of the family members freely and unconditionally wanted me to feel at home, to be one of them. And really, I did.

A Simple Recipe for a Religious Experience

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imageWith just eggs, flour, and water, and perhaps some help from a little bird, I experience religion in its most basic form.

Part 1: Gimme That Ole Time Religion

Chimborazo sits in the clouds, with its head rising more than 20,000 feet above sea level. Only on rare occasions will it allow us a brief view, and at that, usually only for minutes at any one time. Yet on these rare times of peek-a-boo visibility we can feel how much its presence determines the life around it. The volcano creates the weather for many miles in all directions by trapping moisture from the heavy clouds as they pass by, then collect on its flanks, and finally disperse and pass on. The surrounding lands accept these concentrations of moisture and provide the people who live here with truly abundant harvests of fruits, vegetables and dairy produce from the lush green fields.

Guaranda, at the base of Chimborazo, is the capital of Bolívar province. This city of at best 50,000 people hosts what is considered to be Ecuador’s most authentic indigenous pre-Lenten Carnaval. Both Ecuadorians and visitors alike reserve beds as much as a year in advance for this most important of religious events. Not only does this Carnaval mark the start of the Catholic religious period of resurrection with its culmination at Easter, but it marks the New Year for the indigenous Kichwa who inhabit not only Ecuador, but the other Andean countries of Colombia, Peru, and Bolivia. The crowds of spectators (and boundaries blur between spectators and participants as events progress) fill every room in every hotel both in Guaranda and in the surrounding pueblos.

So when I received an invitation to attend the Carnaval, less than a week before it was to take place, I had serious doubts about pulling this off. Firstly, my grasp of Spanish is now less than basic. After 3 years of not practicing the language, I discover daily that I have forgotten more than I remember. Thus my Spanish teacher certainly earns her salary, trying mightily to create her own version of the resurrection: my ability to converse again with those around me. The best of luck to you, Raquel Davalos!

The second obstacle (and the more immediate one) to witnessing Guaranda’s Carnaval was the simple fact that all rooms in all hotels, hostels, boarding houses, and elsewhere were full. There truly was no room at the inn for this traveler.

Yet somehow I found myself totally immersed in the indigenous New Year living with the Family Moposita, having arrived in Guaranda by a 7hr bus ride in horrendous traffic. I was traveling with their youngest son Joffre. He and I have become fast friends in Quito where we exchange language lessons. Joffre, or Jefferson as he prefers, is a mechanical engineer. But he is unemployed because he cannot speak passable English. So we meet most days of the week and laugh a lot, and hopefully benefit each other by speaking our respective languages.

Jefferson’s father is a plumber in Guaranda.  His mother, who only wears the traditional dress of Bolivar province and speaks her Spanish with a heavy Kichwa accent, seems to have taken, along with her husband, lifetime vows of poverty. They live in a partially completed house with an outside hose-bib for water and single light bulbs, precariously wired in several rooms of the unheated concrete and block house.

They live this way in apparent content, with Jefferson’s mother enduring bitter cold by cooking outdoors in a semi-walled area open to the skies. She cooks simple but delicious meals over a kindling fire and I never saw her once without a smile. They live this way by choice since rather than investing in their own comfort, they have chosen instead to invest in their children.

Anita, the oldest daughter, is a physician working in a clinic in Quito and expecting her first child. The youngest, Sandra, has just completed her first year of construction engineering at a private university, also in Quito. The 3 other children, each married and 2 of them with children of their own, live in Quito as well, which meant that this was a great homecoming, with all 6 children, 4 spouses, 2 grandchildren, and an old gringo filling the usually empty and very cold house.

We had all come to see the Carnaval, but first we had to acknowledge and celebrate the New Year. And that’s when the little blue bird really did fly up my nose.

End of Part 1