By Dina Ananco*
Taking a walk with the machete in my hand is like awakening my father from his eternal rest.
Today I will talk to my children to celebrate their grandfather’s anniversary.
If I were to tell the whole story, stripping my soul, letting all that anger out today after four years; anger that like corroded batteries poisons my day-to-day activities; this day would agonize out of thirst and hunger.
An afternoon just like this one, I buried my father in the center of my house so that he could protect his grandchildren. After having found refuge in religion, I became a preacher, and I preached the word of God all the way from Pinglo to Papayacu. Now there is nothing left for me to do other than to cover the breathing holes made by the otorongo.
In the name of God, how can I forget those wailings I heard? As I was sleeping at the banks of the Santiago river, those awful wailings kept asking me out loud for the name of the murderer. This happened as I was resting under the roots of the ojé; those roots that the deer use to feed on every afternoon. How can I disobey my father’s whispers screaming monotonously in my ear, “spill blood!” “Spill blood my son!”
Today I tell my children that it’s not a sin. It’s a command from the afterlife. I must do justice or the community will dance among the worms that illusively grow in the latrines. Now walk toward the rocky brook where two mojarras are floating, waiting for us for today’s lunch and dinner.
The virgin Amazon and the thickness of darkness are our witnesses. The devil rests unnoticed sending his guards and watchdogs that calculate our steps quietly:
- ¡Look! He sleeps unconcerned with the rifle resting on his chest after having had half of a majás for dinner. “Yes, rest because tomorrow you will get started on your diet!”
I observe, without blinking an eye, each dry leave I shall pick up before nine o’ clock tomorrow morning. My mind fantasizes with the image of that guy choking to death, with his eyes gone and his face pale.
Painting of the Shipibo painter Robert RengifoToday is the day! I still remember nostalgically those trips I used to take with my wife: we would get submerged in the thickness of the jungle, where we co-existed only with those animals that were supposed to feed us; enjoying the fresh air and gathering fruits, and whenever possible, we knocked down the chupé and the shimbillos that we used to enjoy ourselves with after making love. Our witnesses: the paujiles, and the coto monos spying on our pleasure with suspicion. Listen carefully; no one will ever get to that place because I put the map in my wife’s bed in order to perpetuate our secret and our adventures.
Son! Look for the map; find it before Silverio gets it. Your mother waits for you tonight at six before the sun sets under the cedar bushes.
Ulises, you, stay here by my side! I will teach you to catch venomous spiders and to count the caobas (mahogany) I planted for your siblings.
I left my house this morning when the clock struck five; flashlight at hand; new light bulbs; I had recharged it with the Panasonic batteries that Asar kept. Agustín followed my footprints while I was calculating the murderer’s steps. I walked with the rifle under my arm, and was accompanied by his three children and my daughter. Maybe they knew about his father’s misfortune, maybe they had no idea.
He enjoyed the aroma of the chupé, of the Apai flowers. He walked peacefully and very pleased with his life, pale and nervous at times; the rifle with no bullets under his arms, which were swollen by the proteins that came from the spirits. Near the lake, and sliding with the uña de gato’s (cat’s claws) roots, he fell down, painfully complaining without any reservations. Juan, his younger son, rushed to help without realizing that the earth was happily welcoming the arrival of his father.
The man sweated: I am thirsty, really thirsty –He said.
Then, his daughter in law prepared him recently fermented masato and helped him drink it. It was the last time he would taste a human drink.
Resting against the cedar tree trunk, I was enjoying my thought as the peculiar laughter from my wife echoed in the jungle, frightening off the birds that nested in the bejucos. Once again my sister in law discretely screamed at me saying “it was him!” My wrath increased more and more each time, and it was evident how the thunderous sound of my heart equaled that of the otorongo as it waits for its favorite pray.
My sister with her daughters were catching shrimp as her youngest son gathered up the clusters of pifayo and the palm tree seeds that had fallen and spread their perfume on the road for about a week now.
Maybe she heard the shot, maybe not! I hope my wife has influenced her thought by telling her our countless stories. She was so convincing. She would tie her long hair up in the back and go to her brother in law’s fish farm to pick up the eggs from the abundant numbers of hummingbirds and doves mating at the banks of the river.
My children were fishing for sungaros that the santiaguinos (people from santiago) had never seen. These people would just stand in line with their plates in their hands waiting for a portion: some wanted the fin, others the tail, some others the spawn, and those who were further away would wait for the gift of pieces that they would decide to give them.
María just arrived home. My wife doubts as she serves me some patarashca, and I have dinner with my children. What I remember disturbs me and chokes me, building inside of me more and more each time, so that I just wish to eliminate the black spot from my kanus.
Agustín contemplates his mother’s murderer defecating like a ronzoco on the corner of the chacra (garden). I, kneeling in front of the rifle, loaded it with the last bullet my wife gave me as a birthday gift, and finally ask for forgiveness from Satan for obeying God.
…
Time announced the incident and everyone kept walking or working without paying any attention to the omens of the hummingbirds when Torberito said “This is for my children, my nephews and nieces, my wife, mi siblings and friends, and for zanangos, toes, and ayahuascas to blossom among my people. It’s 1:30 pm. Everyone is having boquichico patarashca, baked huangana, and I am having you.” The sun got peaceful and mournfully celebrated Anatalio’s misfortune.
I am your cousin, Torberito! It’s the only one bullet that can penetrate your heart –he told him, showing him the yellowish shell of the cartridge. Yes, I will finish with you and I will run like a coward, and tonight I will be having dinner with your woman and your children.
Anatalio, watched astonished as his cousin yelled at him with threats after the bullet had already penetrated his heart. You coward, murmured the agonizing man, as he fell to the ground with blood spilling out of his mouth. In the meantime, my daughter stared at the unfortunate individual with the suri in her mouth; and her two children watched how the two pallid eyes of his father wandered around without being able to focus anywhere.
Today your eyes mourn my daughter, tomorrow you will cry out of happiness. I will go to scare away the buzzards from your father in law’s kitchen. They love rotten meat.
They say Anatalio’s dead body was brought back to his house. Why did Anatalio come? Maybe to say good bye to the community members who were approaching the house to pay their respects with smiles on their faces.
Hipocrats! Yelled the son.
Today is the burial. I am sitting here next to my wife in front of the lake my father built, and I see my neighbor with his doors wide open, enjoying the fresh mushrooms from his recently opened chacra (garden).
Today, everyone cries, my children, my friends, my nephews and nieces, uncles and aunts, my siblings, and my enemies.
My grandchildren search without being able to find a trace of me. This is the month to fast. Hungry children groan, and the elderly remain quiet; fearful because of the insults of those who pass by. At night never-ending parties go on and on, and they all run to save their lives looking for a spot where to rest, just like the herons do when the sun goes down. At the other bank of the river, mi nephews and nieces watch the road taking turns every five hours. Gossip flows like the river during the rainy season. That scares them and they cry bitter tears. Some curse me because of such an unfortunate fate. Some curse me because of the lack of peace and others out of indifference. Nights are chaotic; they are sort of a drill for a civil war. During the day, they go to annoying meetings only to come out later in posses looking for my footprints, as if they were private investigators.
I am at home, in my house. My wife is sitting in front of the fire. Then, I remembered her death. As I blinked I saw a tree trunk –it was a log- that my granddaughter had brought in. I will pick up the leaves of toe, sanango, and I will go to spend the night at the bottom of the Cordillera del Condor (the Condor Mountain range). My legs are weakening, I can’t move forward down the road; the anemia extinguishes me day by day. I can’t see colors anymore. I will submerge myself in the hole and spend the night absorbed into the darkness. Tomorrow I will keep walking the lonely road to where the sun dines with the moon.
* Dina Ananco is awajún wampís. She graduated from college with a degree in Literature (UNMSM). She writes poems and stories, and works in Servindi.
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Taking a walk with the machete in my hand is like awakening my father from his eternal rest.
Today I will talk to my children to celebrate their grandfather’s anniversary.
If I were to tell the whole story, stripping my soul, letting all that anger out today after four years; anger that like corroded batteries poisons my day-to-day activities; this day would agonize out of thirst and hunger.
An afternoon just like this one, I buried my father in the center of my house so that he could protect his grandchildren. After having found refuge in religion, I became a preacher, and I preached the word of God all the way from Pinglo to Papayacu. Now there is nothing left for me to do other than to cover the breathing holes made by the otorongo.
In the name of God, how can I forget those wailings I heard? As I was sleeping at the banks of the Santiago river, those awful wailings kept asking me out loud for the name of the murderer. This happened as I was resting under the roots of the ojé; those roots that the deer use to feed on every afternoon. How can I disobey my father’s whispers screaming monotonously in my ear, “spill blood!” “Spill blood my son!”
Today I tell my children that it’s not a sin. It’s a command from the afterlife. I must do justice or the community will dance among the worms that illusively grow in the latrines. Now walk toward the rocky brook where two mojarras are floating, waiting for us for today’s lunch and dinner.
The virgin Amazon and the thickness of darkness are our witnesses. The devil rests unnoticed sending his guards and watchdogs that calculate our steps quietly:
- ¡Look! He sleeps unconcerned with the rifle resting on his chest after having had half of a majás for dinner. “Yes, rest because tomorrow you will get started on your diet!”
I observe, without blinking an eye, each dry leave I shall pick up before nine o’ clock tomorrow morning. My mind fantasizes with the image of that guy choking to death, with his eyes gone and his face pale.
Son! Look for the map; find it before Silverio gets it. Your mother waits for you tonight at six before the sun sets under the cedar bushes.
Ulises, you, stay here by my side! I will teach you to catch venomous spiders and to count the caobas (mahogany) I planted for your siblings.
I left my house this morning when the clock struck five; flashlight at hand; new light bulbs; I had recharged it with the Panasonic batteries that Asar kept. Agustín followed my footprints while I was calculating the murderer’s steps. I walked with the rifle under my arm, and was accompanied by his three children and my daughter. Maybe they knew about his father’s misfortune, maybe they had no idea.
He enjoyed the aroma of the chupé, of the Apai flowers. He walked peacefully and very pleased with his life, pale and nervous at times; the rifle with no bullets under his arms, which were swollen by the proteins that came from the spirits. Near the lake, and sliding with the uña de gato’s (cat’s claws) roots, he fell down, painfully complaining without any reservations. Juan, his younger son, rushed to help without realizing that the earth was happily welcoming the arrival of his father.
The man sweated: I am thirsty, really thirsty –He said.
Then, his daughter in law prepared him recently fermented masato and helped him drink it. It was the last time he would taste a human drink.
Resting against the cedar tree trunk, I was enjoying my thought as the peculiar laughter from my wife echoed in the jungle, frightening off the birds that nested in the bejucos. Once again my sister in law discretely screamed at me saying “it was him!” My wrath increased more and more each time, and it was evident how the thunderous sound of my heart equaled that of the otorongo as it waits for its favorite pray.
My sister with her daughters were catching shrimp as her youngest son gathered up the clusters of pifayo and the palm tree seeds that had fallen and spread their perfume on the road for about a week now.
Maybe she heard the shot, maybe not! I hope my wife has influenced her thought by telling her our countless stories. She was so convincing. She would tie her long hair up in the back and go to her brother in law’s fish farm to pick up the eggs from the abundant numbers of hummingbirds and doves mating at the banks of the river.
My children were fishing for sungaros that the santiaguinos (people from santiago) had never seen. These people would just stand in line with their plates in their hands waiting for a portion: some wanted the fin, others the tail, some others the spawn, and those who were further away would wait for the gift of pieces that they would decide to give them.
María just arrived home. My wife doubts as she serves me some patarashca, and I have dinner with my children. What I remember disturbs me and chokes me, building inside of me more and more each time, so that I just wish to eliminate the black spot from my kanus.
Agustín contemplates his mother’s murderer defecating like a ronzoco on the corner of the chacra (garden). I, kneeling in front of the rifle, loaded it with the last bullet my wife gave me as a birthday gift, and finally ask for forgiveness from Satan for obeying God.
…
Time announced the incident and everyone kept walking or working without paying any attention to the omens of the hummingbirds when Torberito said “This is for my children, my nephews and nieces, my wife, mi siblings and friends, and for zanangos, toes, and ayahuascas to blossom among my people. It’s 1:30 pm. Everyone is having boquichico patarashca, baked huangana, and I am having you.” The sun got peaceful and mournfully celebrated Anatalio’s misfortune.
I am your cousin, Torberito! It’s the only one bullet that can penetrate your heart –he told him, showing him the yellowish shell of the cartridge. Yes, I will finish with you and I will run like a coward, and tonight I will be having dinner with your woman and your children.
Anatalio, watched astonished as his cousin yelled at him with threats after the bullet had already penetrated his heart. You coward, murmured the agonizing man, as he fell to the ground with blood spilling out of his mouth. In the meantime, my daughter stared at the unfortunate individual with the suri in her mouth; and her two children watched how the two pallid eyes of his father wandered around without being able to focus anywhere.
Today your eyes mourn my daughter, tomorrow you will cry out of happiness. I will go to scare away the buzzards from your father in law’s kitchen. They love rotten meat.
They say Anatalio’s dead body was brought back to his house. Why did Anatalio come? Maybe to say good bye to the community members who were approaching the house to pay their respects with smiles on their faces.
Hipocrats! Yelled the son.
Today is the burial. I am sitting here next to my wife in front of the lake my father built, and I see my neighbor with his doors wide open, enjoying the fresh mushrooms from his recently opened chacra (garden).
Today, everyone cries, my children, my friends, my nephews and nieces, uncles and aunts, my siblings, and my enemies.
My grandchildren search without being able to find a trace of me. This is the month to fast. Hungry children groan, and the elderly remain quiet; fearful because of the insults of those who pass by. At night never-ending parties go on and on, and they all run to save their lives looking for a spot where to rest, just like the herons do when the sun goes down. At the other bank of the river, mi nephews and nieces watch the road taking turns every five hours. Gossip flows like the river during the rainy season. That scares them and they cry bitter tears. Some curse me because of such an unfortunate fate. Some curse me because of the lack of peace and others out of indifference. Nights are chaotic; they are sort of a drill for a civil war. During the day, they go to annoying meetings only to come out later in posses looking for my footprints, as if they were private investigators.
I am at home, in my house. My wife is sitting in front of the fire. Then, I remembered her death. As I blinked I saw a tree trunk –it was a log- that my granddaughter had brought in. I will pick up the leaves of toe, sanango, and I will go to spend the night at the bottom of the Cordillera del Condor (the Condor Mountain range). My legs are weakening, I can’t move forward down the road; the anemia extinguishes me day by day. I can’t see colors anymore. I will submerge myself in the hole and spend the night absorbed into the darkness. Tomorrow I will keep walking the lonely road to where the sun dines with the moon.
* Dina Ananco is awajún wampís. She graduated from college with a degree in Literature (UNMSM). She writes poems and stories, and works in Servindi.
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Reproduced and Translated with the Author’s Permission by:
Roger M. Villamar
