by David Faxon
Each was unsure of what to do. What worked before, might work again, so Connery offered water. Teman-e hesitated; what kind of vessel is as clear as the water itself? He accepted and drank. His eyes showed that he understood, for the Machi-te did not nod for yes or shake their head to the side for no. One of many things Connery would learn over the days and weeks to come. He opened one of his remaining snack packages and offered the food. Again Teman-e accepted, took a bite, began to chew, and immediately spit it out.
Does he think I’ve poisoned him?
He anticipated anger, instead the native led him to a tree laden with a type of fruit he had seen, but dared not eat. Teman-e bit into one of the yellowish pieces then offered him the other. Connery, mindful that his intestines were roiling, took a bite anyway. The sweet, pulpy fruit was the best he ever tasted, a combination of peach and papaya that refreshed him.
When he finished the fruit, Connery noticed how badly the man’s face was burned. Maybe he could help him, and at the same time, continue with this promising contact with another human, no matter how primitive he was. Another idea struck him and he opened his pack. Inside was an ointment he had found on the plane. He removed the tube, unscrewed the cap, then squeezed some to his finger. Teman-e watched, perplexed and unsure. Connery applied the ointment to his own face, then pointed to Teman-e’s festering burn. He interpreted the meaning, offered no resistance, but flinched slightly when the medication was applied. The balm took effect almost immediately. He smiled, then made several hand gestures pointing first to himself, then to Connery, then to the direction they would go.
“Ola! Ola!”
The calculated risk had paid off after all. There was reason for hope, someone who knew the way out, or would soon find it. Once more, he was faced with a choice. Go back to the wreckage, risk the savages and await rescue? Or follow this man to possible safety. He hesitated a moment, then decided to follow.
Two men, from worlds as far removed as possible, began a relationship that day that neither could have conceived. One, a primitive, but intelligent tribesman from a warlike branch of the Yanomami, whose violent ways were well known; the other, educated in the most advanced society on earth, but one where violence had yet to be eliminated as a means to power, fortune, or retribution. Two things they had in common were a need to survive and an enemy who was relentless, who would kill them in hideous fashion should they be caught. Other than that, each held very different objectives. It remained to be seen if the relationship would be fruitful. Connery wanted to find a way out. To anywhere that would lead him back. Teman-e was intent on leading the Wakawakatieri away from his village. He was willing to risk a circuitous route that would take them through the heart of Lugar de la Muerte. Neither knew its name, but Teman-e knew its reputation. Connery had little choice but to follow. He was a leader in his world, but about to become very dependent on this naked man from another world. What brought him back?
The relationship would have to cross hurdles because few people in the world understood the dialects of indigenous tribes. In addition, Teman-e's thought process was different when it came to things like direction and time. He had no concept, for instance, of compass points and only knew two; ola and mana. Ola was the direction he was heading, mana was where he came from. That was all one needed to know. Similarly, it could be difficult to determine how long or even when, an event took place. Over the coming days and weeks, Connery would learn the language by first pointing to an object then asking Teman-e to say the word and repeat it. He would soon became aware that in the Indian’s language, the words changed for the same object, depending on the circumstances.
And so, on that first day, Teman-e pointed in the direction of the rising sun, saying: “Ola.” He pointed in the opposite direction and said what sounded like Wakawakatieri, making a slicing gesture across his throat. Connery understood. Since they were running from a common enemy and their lives were in jeopardy, he decided it was time for a formal introduction. Pointing to himself he said, “Connery” several times until Teman-e said, “Con-ree.” He pointed to Teman-e's chest. Finally, he uttered “Te-man-ay” and the introduction was formalized.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brasilia
Castelo Branco awaited news on his latest deep interior mining operation. Several years earlier, his Tapejo project had extracted gold from further into the rainforest than anyone else could claim. Now he would blatantly extend that penetration with Tapejo II, to begin in a few months. He was in gross violation of government policy, but never worried or cared. Too many corrupt officials and lawmakers accepted his money to worry about that. They owed him favors and paid back handsomely with their influence. The first Tapejo project was making him very rich, though not at a rate that suited his taste. He wanted more. No one dared stand in his way, including the Indian tribes he despised. They tried to oppose him before, had their skulls cracked open, and he'd do it again. Did they think a paltry few could lay claim to all that land? All that gold?
He was among the first to capitalize on reports of gold strikes. Small, independent garimpieros, took substantial amounts of ore from areas previously thought to be inaccessible. They were the ones responsible for beginning the largest gold rush in Brazil’s history, starting on the Venezuelan border and gradually extending farther into the Amazon basin. The state of Amazonas had government protected rainforest, but Castelo Branco could get around that easily enough. He had equipment flown in. What was too heavy to move by air, he moved by water; bulldozers, diesel generators, tractors.
Inaccessibility, climate, and heavy equipment, made it expensive to extract gold from the Amazon. Among other techniques, the company used powerful hydro canons to blast soil from riverbanks into ore screening devices, then mercury oxide to help separate the gold particles in the sludge- the poison entering the water system in large quantities. He lowered costs by exploiting the Indians and totally disregarded safety and environmental issues. None of that mattered. His largest costs were for political payoffs, not materials or labor.
Tapejo I alone, he calculated, would bring his annual gold ore production to 3 percent of the total taken from the Amazon, or about 3 tons. If current prices held, he could count on hundreds of millions in revenue, and this was only the first of many similar projects he had in mind. The price of gold was rising, and he was anxious about progress made at the new site. That day, his enthusiasm quickly turned sour, however, after reading a newspaper with the headline story:
Gold Rush Tears Up Parts of Amazon
The article mentioned river mining, mercury poisoning and exploitation of the local tribes. It suggested that many of his operations were unsafe and damaging to the environment. Not to mention the impact his “mining towns” had on the tribes. Indiscriminate strip mining, land erosion, malaria from mosquito-infested pools, mercury that was contaminating the rivers and streams, sick children, exploited workers. That was Companhia do Azevedo.
“What do they know?” He shouted to several of his top people he had summoned to a meeting.
He was taking heat, and the second phase of his project hadn’t even begun. Not only that, progress reports from Tapejo I were becoming sketchy and untimely. He quickly shifted the focus of his anger to ‘that lazy lout’ he had put in charge. The more he talked, the angrier he became. He had always depended on the man to make arrangements. The first few years he did well and received handsome rewards. But lately, maybe he had become too comfortable, or worse, too well informed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tapejo I- River mining project
Paulo De Santana, Castelo Branco's project manager for several years, was paid to get things done with no questions asked. For those years, he had kept his boss insulated from the sordid things he thought necessary to accomplish distasteful tasks.
A burly man in his mid-forties, with a bad temper, he had the blood of more than one Indian on his hands. He could be ruthless toward them. Castelo Branco had found him fifteen years before, unemployed,
and living on the streets of Rio. He was eager to make money, ambitious and cold hearted. Traits the mining magnate considered useful. So he hired him and paid more than his technical skills were worth. In return, he got someone with a ‘hit man’ mentality to do his dirty work. Over the years, De Santana picked up knowledge of heavy equipment operation, land clearing and mining, enough to get him by. Like his boss, he used intimidation effectively. On too many occasions, if intimidation failed, it led to serious injury or death to those who failed to heed his warnings.
Tapejo I was located in territory considered home to branches of the Yanomami. Virgin rainforest hardly touched by human habitation. Increasingly, the Yanomami were being absorbed into western culture, wearing western style tee shirts imprinted with product advertising they knew nothing about. De Santana enticed them initially with liquor, tobacco, knives, food, machetes, even pornography. Once they became dependent on the company, he owned them.
His crew of handpicked workers from Sao Paulo, along with the gold traders and burnishers, required the services of prostitutes to keep them committed to spending long periods of time in a remote region. He arranged to gratify their lusty desires by luring young Indian women, by any means possible, into becoming camp prostitutes. Castelo Branco paid him to get things done, including the construction of a ramshackle town complete with saloon and bordello. Not to mention the company store, stocked with items the Indians fancied. All of which was designed to keep them in debt. To Companhia do Azevedo, debt and violence equaled control.
Castelo Branco was an impatient man, never fully satisfied. De Santana could only mollify him at best. Though he contributed substantially to his bosses’ wealth in the past, his recent performance was lacking. Equipment breakdowns and manpower problems had slowed production. Past accomplishments were history. His boss would always want more. If not more production, then something else, a favor perhaps.
De Santana was a garimpiero, but somewhat elevated in class, since he conducted a larger operation than the many individuals sprinkled throughout the Amazon who mined gold illegally on their own. They were the true definition of garimpiero. Increasingly they came into conflict with the Indians who resented their intrusion and hostility. Living for extended periods on the fringe of the uncivilized world, they became uncivilized themselves in their behavior toward the tribes.
De Santana was much a part of their world and he looked the part; swarthy complexion, thick black mustache just beginning to turn gray, head covered with a sweat stained broad brimmed hat. His pant legs were tucked into calf high rubber boots, needed to slog through the muck that seemed to be everywhere. Husky, eyes a little too close; an ever-present slim cigar chewed on, but rarely lit. A 357 magnum hung from his belt, he would sometimes startle his workers by firing over their heads and shouting in a loud voice.
“Acorda! Wake up! You fools!”
He spent his days in a hacked out area of the rainforest, covering about two thousand acres on either side of a river turned muddy brown from mining. Large rafts pumped silt from the river bottom into sluices where workers extracted bits of gold in a closely monitored operation. Continuous pumping caused turbulence, which gave the water its murkiness and chocolate brown color. Beneath the raft, divers worked with inadequate equipment in water so thick with mud they could barely see.
That day, two came close to drowning. The barge boss shut the pump engines down, stopping production long enough to draw De Santana’s attention. Now he was on his way in a boat with an outboard motor, to ‘kick ass. Pontape bunda!’
The small motor launch drew up to the side of the barge. The same man who ordered the pumps shut down until the turbulence subsided, helped him from the boat. De Santana returned the gesture by violently shoving him backwards. The man’s head struck a metal drum. The crew stood silently and watched as the barge boss got up slowly, rubbing an egg sized lump that appeared suddenly. De Santana was on him as soon as he got to his feet.
“Ouca! Listen! Shit for brains! If you shut those pumps down one more time, I will personally throw you overboard, and make you swim through those crocodiles. You hear me?”
The raft boss muttered a barely audible “Sim, senhor.”
“Por que? Why did you do it? Estupido?”
“Senhor, the men couldn't see. What could I do? They were knocked down by the turbulence and lost their mouthpieces. They swallowed muddy water. We barely got them up before they drowned. We also had an accident and lost mercury. They may have swallowed that too. You must understand.”
The raft boss braced for another blow, but this time it didn't come. Instead, De Santana walked to where the divers stood, picked one worker up by the seat of his pants and threw him into the river. He did the same to the second diver, losing his cigar in the process.
“You don't like muddy water? Well drink until you piss brown!”
He turned to the raft boss.
“Let them stay there until they decide they want to work. In the meantime, get someone to take their place. Start the damned engines! Now!”
The raft boss watched helplessly as the divers tread water trying to stay afloat, then gave a nod to start the engines. He chose two inexperienced men as substitutes, knowing the same, or worse, awaited them. This time, he wouldn't stop the engines- no matter what. De Santana got into his boat, pulled the starter cord until the motor kicked on and steered for shore at high speed. Another matter needed his attention.
The “town,” or settlement, consisted of ten rusting steel corrugated buildings, the largest, used to store mercury, diesel oil and gasoline. A second housed spare parts. A short distance away was the company store. This ugly place, once part of a magnificent rainforest, was now a mud hole littered with partially filled drums of diesel oil.
De Santana headed for the saloon, a seedy gathering place. Attached to it, in the back, was the bordello. A few Indians lay in makeshift hammocks, smoking and drinking cheap whiskey. Their culture had changed significantly, and in a short time. The older ones remembered more pleasant times they had taken for granted; fresh fruit, cassava bread, garden vegetables, yopo and plenty of idle time to enjoy life. Then the miners came.
Not one among them could answer why they had succumbed so easily, but the results were evident. The land was scarred, as well as their souls. Alcohol dependency, malaria, emerging birth defects, socially transmitted diseases, prostitution and a never-ending dependency on the company to provide things they had no use for in the past. Young people were leaving, their heads filled with ideas they never knew existed. Parts of their beloved forest, crisscrossed with paved roads, caused the soil to erode. Tribes, like the Machi-te, were forced to retreat deeper into the jungle to escape. For the Yanomami it was different. Whiskey felt good and erased thoughts of what once was.
De Santana reached the saloon, kicked a mongrel out of his way and walked through the open door. The building had no windows, save one that let a dust filtered, sepia light through. A few dim bulbs lit a bar covered with flies. In a corner by the window, two Indians played cards and sipped whiskey while two others slept at an adjoining table. He walked over to the card players, one rocking back on the hind legs of his chair. The mine boss kicked the chair from under the man sending him sprawling to the floor. The whiskey bottle fell, spilling its amber content.
De Santana reached down with both hands and pulled him to his feet. He used tribal names on purpose, knowing that doing so violated a taboo. Names were sacred to the Indians and uttered only under certain conditions. Names of dead relatives were never spoken, except at ceremonies to honor them. De Santana shouted using half Yanomami and half Portuguese:
“Yeharau, you've disappointed me. Did we have an agreement?”
The Indian didn't answer, only fixed his eyes with contempt.
“Onde ella esta? Where is the little bitch?”
In three days, some of De Santana's friends, and a few traders, were coming to the outpost. He knew one of them liked young girls, the younger the better. T
hey'd be needing entertainment after a night of drinking, and there were only a few young girls that he managed to snare, but he knew where to look.
Yeharau had a sixteen-year-old daughter. He cared for her deeply and tried to shield her from outside influences. Her name was Lateri. Like her mother, she was lovely. It made him proud. From the time she was a small child, he spent hours playing games she enjoyed and could always make her laugh. One day, she would grow to be one of the most desired women in the village and bear sons he could brag about. But she was young, there was time. He had seen what became of other girls who came under the influence of De Santana. He couldn’t allow that to happen to his daughter.
But Yeharau was possessed by a demon. He had a drinking problem. One that grew worse as months wore on. Moreover, he owed two month's pay to the store. This provided the opportunity De Santana sought. He could add Lateri to the roster of his bordello very easily. Three weeks before, he had cut off Yeharau's store credit, preventing him from buying whiskey, then waited a day, two days.
As he suspected, the Indian approached asking to buy whiskey on his store account.
“Can't do it, Yeharau. You owe me too much.”
“I will work harder to pay you.”
“Can't do it. Entendeu?” De Santana put his arm around the tribesman’s shoulder, tobacco breath only inches away from his face. He lowered his voice.
“But there is a way, if you want to listen. I can get you three bottles of whiskey. You can have two more next week, plus some tobacco.”
Yeharau’s eyes brightened.
“What do I have to do?”