The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  Then they rose and followed Lingo,

  Followed onwards to the forest,

  From the mountain Dewalgiri,

  Followed on till night descended.

  Jesús poured himself a beer and blew the foam from the top. The corners of his mouth were turned up, so that it seemed that he was smiling even when he was not. Before drinking from the glass of the Polar lager, he tipped a little liquid onto the dusty café floor.

  “Are the flies bothering you?” I asked.

  “No,” said Jesús, “it is for the saints.”

  We sat on the veranda of a Café Popular in Ciudad Bolívar: on the southern banks of the Orinoco. The sky suddenly turned inky black and the Venezuelan rains gushed down.

  I had come in search of Macumba. The cult’s existence had intrigued me since Blake had first spoken of it on his roof in Mumbai. And I was eager to learn more and understand the mechanics of a society whose roots were imbedded so interculturally.

  The route from East Africa had been straightforward enough. A cheap courier flight had taken me from Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, at Nairobi, to Amsterdam. From there, I had flown standby to Miami, in time to catch a direct, discounted flight to the Venezuelan capital.

  Brazil was my target, in particular its Amazonian capital: Manaus. I was careful not to reveal the reason for my quest to anyone. Previous experience had shown that esoteric matters are either derided by most people, or else tend to scare them.

  Even from Oswaldo, whom I planned to visit in Patagonia, I had kept secret my thoughts, my deep fascination for Macumba.

  A child selling cigarettes crawled under an amphibious army truck and kept his chin high, waiting for the rain to cease. His friend pushed a tub of purple ice cream under one of the wheel arches and climbed in after it. Jesús took a gulp of the lager, and continued with his stories.

  We had met on the bus from Caracas, the Venezuelan capital. He had pressed his tanned fingers tightly into mine, laughing through a bearded mouth, exclaiming that our friendship would last forever.

  Giant moths fluttered above the crowded café life, taking refuge from the tropical storm. One landed on the pelt of a dead cat, which hung high up on a wall: its wings matched perfectly with the cat’s matted fur, and it was invisible for a moment.

  Jesús cut me a piece of cachapas, a maize pancake filled with white cheese. It had been, he said, a favourite dish of the country’s liberator, Simón Bolívar. He offered the rest of the pancake to a table full of soldiers who sat next to us. One stood guard, his hands gripped around a nine-millimetre UZI machine-gun, while the others drank beer and played drafts. It all seemed so like Africa: the beer and the tropical rains, and nature’s domination of the land.

  Jesús talked for hours about his country.

  “Yes, of course there is corruption here,” he said, “but there is corruption everywhere. God gave Venezuela all the minerals it would ever need: he gave us oil and aluminum, mangrove bark and tonka beans. Education is free and there are ten universities in the country. Bolivar would be pleased if he came back now. My father wants me to join him in business. He has a little land that farms balata gum. You must come and meet him and stay with us.”

  Putting down my drink — a tall glass of coconut milk — I broke in: “Jesús, I have to go southwards. I am heading for Belo Horizonte, in Brazil. My friend Oswaldo Rodríguez Oswaldo gave me a letter of introduction to his cousin who lives there. Then I want to go south, to Buenos Aires and beyond: to walk amongst the ice mountains of Patagonia.”

  “Where have you come from?” Jesús inquired.

  “From the east.”

  “Did you go to that place... India?” asked Jesús.

  “Yes, I stayed there for a long time.”

  “What are the people like?”

  “Well,” I began, “the first thing is that there are so many of them, almost nine hundred million.”

  Jesús looked at me as if I were mad, “In Venezuela,” he said, “we have seventeen million people!”

  “They are fine once you get used to them. But they have some unconventional customs and traditions.”

  “What do you mean?” said Jesús pouring himself another beer.

  “Hindu people revere cows as sacred... they worship them.”

  “Worship them?” Jesús yelled. “In Venezuela, we don’t worship cows, we barbecue them! India must be an amusing place: tell me more!”

  “There is a God called Ganesh,” I began. “He has the head of an elephant and the body of a man. He’d got four arms and rides upon a mouse.”

  Jesús started to roll about, crippled with laughter.

  “These customs might seem peculiar but they are very ancient. People have worshipped cows in India for four thousand years. I find such ideas strange as well, but I respect them, if only for their longevity.”

  The Venezuelan nodded in agreement and wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “We may not have as many people, but this is a big continent. And, remember, the map might look very pretty, but its colors can deceive!”

  I promised that I would return to talk with Jesús again after leaving Patagonia. It all seemed so easy. Jesús’ watery green eyes rolled, perhaps in awe at my naive confidence. Then he fell off his chair. For he was very drunk indeed.

  As I walked back to the Roma Hotel, winged insects of all types buzzed around the street lamps, and wide-bodied lizards scuffled around my feet. The hotel’s owner was asleep in the garden, stretched out on a rope bed. I opened the door of my room. There was no lock, and the hinges squeaked as I pressed the door inwards.

  Since my travels in West Africa I preferred not to turn on the light before I slept: it only revealed where the biggest of the insects were and attracted more creatures around the bulb. The bed was large and the pillow molded around my head as I lay down to sleep.

  There was the sound of a cricket moving restlessly on my bed. I edged away and was just about to drift into sleep, when a hand lunged down against the sheets and squashed the insect and its noise with a single blow. I leapt up and ran to the light switch. A stubby figure was sitting up. He had almond eyes and one-inch bristles radiated sparsely from his face in all directions.

  “Herro,” he lisped, “my name is Kiato.”

  He stared at me and blinked, almost as if telling me his name explained why he was sleeping in my bed. Fumbling for a pair of wire-framed glasses, he slowly unscrewed his eyes which had been blinded by the light.

  “The managel said I could stay with you, I am flom Japan,” he said, through a slight American accent; “Does that bother you?”

  “No, since you’re here you might as well stay.” I was too exhausted to argue, and made a mental note to claim half my money back in the morning. “I have to leave early, anyway. I am going to El Dorado and then towards Brazil,” I said.

  “Learry? That’s where I’m going. The bus reaves at six,” said Kiato.

  I turned off the light.

  No sooner, it felt, had my head touched the pillow, than Kiato shook me and said that it was time to leave. When traveling alone it can sometimes be hard to refuse company.

  At the bus station people lounged around eating purple ice cream and drinking pineapple juice. There was a shout: a man was running towards me through the damp morning air. He waved a piece of paper and moved with wide athletic strides.

  “Amigo Tahir, mi amigo!” he called.

  It was Jesús. He gave me his address so that I could find him on my return. It was time to get on the bus. As I stepped aboard, Jesús handed me a leather pouch.

  “They are tonka beans,” he gasped; “they will bring you your fortune.”

  We shook hands and the bus moved away towards El Dorado.

  Oil processing plants and nodding donkeys, for pumping oil to the surface, mingled with the jungle and lined the route. The landscape was identical to that of Uganda. Berries and fruits of all colors weighed down the branches of rubbery trees, which sprouted from the brick
-red earth. Kiato whistled and took pictures of all he saw with an autofocus Minolta. He was, he said, from Kyoto, the ancient Imperial Japanese capital.

  “I studied at the Amelican school in Tokyo,” he stammered. “My father wanted me to work for his company. So I went to the ailport and took a fright to Guatemara. It’s best not to algue with him, just to reave.”

  Kiato stopped speaking. Then we both stared in horror at our first encounter with serious deforestation. One hillside after the next lay barren, like shaven scalps. The oncoming lane of the newly macadamized road carried massive tree-bearing trucks towards the ports. It was as if the very soul of Venezuela was being exchanged for yet another petrochemical processing plant. A receding hne of jungle was the only witness.

  Kiato was now too shaken to take photographs. He moved about uneasily, put the camera on his lap, and said, “My country buys the wood and gives Venezuera technorogy to exproit its minelars in exchange. I am ashamed of what I see, knowing that my people are to brame.”

  Kiato spoke wonderful English, but it took a while to become adept at recognizing problems with the letters, “L” and “R”, a tendency that struck quite randomly. Sometimes I would confuse him, for fun, by asking: “Do you mean “L” as in Rome?” to which he would reply, “No, I mean “R” as in London!”

  The bus’ brakes were slammed on and we all trooped out at a military checkpoint. Our passports and malaria tablets were scrutinized by an officer with two red shoulder-stripes — attached with safety pins. Another soldier touch-typed in triplicate and handed the bus driver a permit to proceed.

  More than a hundred butterflies were squashed against the radiator grille. Some were still moving like dying soldiers on a battlefield, their pink and blue wings twitching in minute movements.

  Eight hours later we reached El Dorado. It was a place surpassed by its reputation and would have been easy to miss. Surely this was not El Dorado, the lost city of gold? I suspected that it was not: a lost city would be more glamorous, of that I was certain.

  Two men and a dog lay out asleep in the full scorching afternoon sun. I had the feeling that I was stepping down onto a film set. The dog woke up, barked at Kiato, and waddled away, to sit in the shade. We moved into a hotel with no visible name, off the main square. The room, which was despicably filthy, had a defective fan and was divided in two by a spotted plastic table covering. Yet, curiously, I was surprised to find that the bathroom, down the hall, was immaculate. Paintings of romantic French landscapes hung on the walls, freshly laundered towels were waiting to be used and, the shower emitted a geyser-like jet of water. Puzzled that such a dingy rest-house should offer impeccable bathing facilities, I made inquiries. An assistant to the manager confided the reason. He said that when the gold-miners arrive back to El Dorado — city of sin — the first thing on their minds is a long, soothing shower. After spending weeks without washing, the bodies of these gold-miners or prospectors are awash with traces of the precious metal. Conniving landlords install filtration systems and high-pressure showers to relieve them of the grains of gold.

  Kiato wanted to see one thing more than anything else: the Angel Falls. They are said to have the longest drop in the world: over three thousand two hundred feet, and are on the Churun river, a tributary of the Caroni.

  Kiato’s guidebook said that an old German and his Guyanese wife led expeditions to the Falls. The weather-worn trailblazer, however, was asleep on the veranda of his house when we found him. And he had led no trips into the jungle for over ten years.

  At the town’s small airport a hammock had been slung between a six-seater Cessna 206 and a tree. Inside was Roberto, the pilot. Although he had no map, he said that he knew the route and agreed to take us to the Angel Falls. But the problem was the weather. Storms were forecast for the following two days; Roberto would contact us at the right time. We thanked him and went to eat spaghetti.

  The café in the centre of town was square-shaped and trapped the heat, as if designed by an oven-maker. Those around us gulped down glass after glass of warm dark lager. It was almost as if a spell had been cast to ensure the room was always baking hot, inducing the clientele to consume ever larger quantities of alcoholic liquid.

  Waving my arms about, I tried to distract the unnaturally large population of flies which were swarming above my plate of over-cooked pasta. The insects were certainly breeding well in the damp café heat: and lived long, robust lives on Bolognese sauce.

  A man at the next table passed me a part of his newspaper to swat the insects. One fly, larger than the others, had landed on the wall next to where I sat. Rolling up the paper, I aimed, then lunged with all my strength. The fly died a sudden death. As I scraped its remains from the cement, I noticed something curious. An almost spherical object, like a gourd, dyed blue and decorated with etched vertical lines, hung from a nail in the wall. I took it down to inspect it closer.

  The man who had given me his newspaper was watching me. I glanced at him, half expecting an explanation of the object. He folded the remaining pages of his paper and laid it down, and said slowly:

  “Macumba.”

  I sat up, startled by the word.

  “I want to know more on this Macumba; can you advise me how I might learn more?” I asked eagerly.

  “What you are holding comes from Brazil,” said the man, in excellent English, “although Macumba does exist in Venezuela. That comes from Manaus, in Amazonas, it’s designed to give protection to everyone who comes here, and to make sure that no catastrophes happen in this little café.”

  “What actually is Macumba?” I asked.

  “It’s a belief that developed in Brazil, although much of what it counts as sacred originated in Africa. When slaves were taken to South America by the Portuguese, they brought with them their ancient gods. Those gods, and their knowledge of magic, herbs and nature, are at the centre of what is called Macumba now. Macumba concentrates on spirit possession.”

  The man lit a cigar and sucked hard on it. I invited him to sit with me. And, as soon as he had sat, he began to speak again:

  “I became interested in Macumba, Umbanda and Candomblé when I was living in southern Brazil. Many of my friends took part in the ceremonies at the time, and one of my closest colleagues at work was a medium.”

  “Who or what possesses the mediums?” I asked.

  “Usually the gods of the Nigerian Yoruba tribe. They are known as Orishas, and it is thought that they control everything that happens to us and around us. You must pay homage to them and worship them, and then they will be happy and make circumstances favourable towards you. If you want to make them very happy you can let them enter your body.

  “There were problems when the slaves came to Brazil, because the Portuguese wanted to make them Catholic. The Africans did a very ingenious thing. They pretended to be worshipping the Catholic saints, yet really they were praying to their own gods. Each of the gods was asigned the image of a Catholic saint.”

  “Is Macumba used to cause harm?” I asked.

  “Are you referring to Black Magic?”

  “Yes, that type of thing.”

  “No, Macumba itself is rarely used to inflict pain. That isn’t the nature of it. It has come to be used very widely throughout South and North America — often known as Santería: for it does something very important. It acts as a system that gives social, psychological, and even medicinal aid. It also helps people relieve themselves of stress.

  “But there is a cult which is known for its evil practices. It exists mainly in Cuba and is known as Mayombero. Its spells can maim, or put an end to life: they are designed eventually to destroy. Mayombero works in league with the Devil, whilst Macumba works with God.”

  “I want to find out more about Macumba,” I said. “Where can I find a group that practises it?”

  “I heard recently that Manaus has a lot of ceremonies going on; why don’t you try there? Failing that, Belem is famous for its special kind of rites.” He pulled a visiting
card from his pocket and clicked it down before me. The gentleman nodded politely and, as I scanned the card’s neat italic script, he left the cafe. It read: Professor Francisco Femander.

  Kiato took pictures of a little boy who was dressed in a colorful Hawaiian shirt. His mother sat down next to us and began to chat. Her name was Maria. She had long, jet-black hair, alabaster-white skin, and eyes the deep-blue color of the finest lapis lazuli.

  At thirteen she had been married in Caracas, then had left her husband and settled in El Dorado, I asked what she did all day long.

  “I take care of people,” she said. “You know, this town revolves around mining gold. That’s the only reason anyone’s here at all. At night the prospectors would spend everything on beer and prostitutes, so I take care of their money for them. They trust me.”

  Every few moments she would wave or turn to greet someone: she seemed to be very popular. We walked around the town with Maria as she collected money and noted down figures on a blue pad. She would introduce us to people, slipping in a side comment like, “he killed his wife” or “watch your wallets.”

  One man, called Princess, was delighted that Maria had brought two young men for him to meet. He winked and removed his shirt so that I could admire his biceps. Kiato shuffled to the door uneasily. Princess said his job was to wash the prison guards’ uniforms and darn their socks. Sometimes he made dresses in his spare time. Maria whispered that he performed other duties too. He blushed, and we left.

  I had read Henri Charriere’s work Papillon and been moved by his story. Papillon had been incarcerated at El Dorado prison after leaving Devil’s Island in Guyana. When I asked Maria if it was possible to get into the prison, she became serious all of a sudden, “Do you really want to go?” she asked.

  I replied that I did.

  “Then I shall see what I can do.”

  By the end of the afternoon we seemed to have met everyone in El Dorado. There was not much to do, so we went to eat more spaghetti. Kiato set up a solar charger to replenish the batteries for his camera. Eventually I heard Maria calling my name, and turned around. She was sitting in a black Ford Sierra Cosworth. Such a splendid car — easily capable of one hundred and fifty miles an hour — looked very peculiar in such a dilapidated place as El Dorado.