Little Tiny Teeth

This is also the reason that what little is there is so huge-leaved; it’s their way of sucking in every possible mote of sunlight that does manage to filter through. Even the water lilies are as big as wagon wheels, five feet in diameter and able to support a small child, or more likely, a capybara or a python. The canopy effectively shuts out wind too, and the birds and insects are quiet during the day, so that there is a prickly sense of hushed expectancy, of something terribly important about to happen, although of course nothing does, aside from when a howler monkey occasionally lets loose one of its deafening hoots and every previously invisible bird within range flutters and screams in response before settling down again. Ninety-five percent

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of the time, though, walking in such a forest is like traveling through some surreal, silent, dimly remembered dreamscape.

“These big leaves and stuff,” Phil said, as the group made its way toward the Ocaona village, “and how still it is—it reminds me of this painter, what’s his name...”

“Henri Rousseau,” said Gideon, to whom the same thought had occurred. Still figures, giant, meticulously detailed jungle foliage, unseen mystery.

“Right, that’s the guy,” Phil said. “Fantastic, isn’t it?”

Gideon nodded. Fantastic it was. Beautiful. Cathedral-like, to use a well-worn metaphor that he truly appreciated for the first time. And the creatures! Jewel-like poison-dart frogs, no bigger than a thumbnail, that secrete a curare-like neurotoxin used by the Indians for their blowgun darts; three-inch-long millipedes; giant snails (giant even by the generous standards of western Washington State)—an amazing place, from every angle. But, God, was it hot in there! And humid—unbelievably, mind-deadeningly humid. After a few hours of it, Gideon’s shirt and shorts were as wet as if he’d been in a downpour. Even his bones felt soggy. The liter of water he’d brought was long gone, and all he could think of was getting back to his cabin, downing another quart or so, then climbing into the shower and standing for half an hour in the cool—relatively cool—green-brown stream of Amazon water.

The humidity in particular had been like nothing he’d ever encountered. Mel, trying to take notes for his article, had had to give it up. First, the ink from his gel pen wouldn’t dry on the page, but ran down it in streaks instead. Then, when he’d borrowed a pencil from Scofield, the point tore through the limp sheets. And as the last straw, by the end of the first hour, the glue in the binding of his notepad had

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liquefied and the pages had come apart in his hand. Mel, in a laid-back mood—like John, he had no trouble with hot weather—just laughed, gave Scofield back his pencil, and squeezed the notebook into a soggy wad the size of a Ping-Pong ball, which he then stuffed into a pocket.

Unpleasant climate notwithstanding, it had been a fascinating and enjoyable afternoon. Cisco, although no less spacey than usual, had proven botanically knowledgeable and articulate on the walks to and from the village, speaking confidently of epiphytes and chamaephytes and phanerophytes, so that one could see the ethnobotanists in the group rethinking their impressions of him.

The Ocaona village was a grouping of ten thatch-and-pole houses that were set up on two-foot stilts beside a marshy pond in which four exhausted-looking water buffalo lounged in water up to their nostrils while egrets strolled around on their backs. There they’d been surrounded by curious, enchanted brown children. Mostly naked, but some in T-shirts (and nothing else), they laughingly reached out to touch the newcomers and dash away, like Indians counting coup, as if to make sure they were real. They seemed to know but one Spanish word— caramelo—but they accepted with eye-popping delight whatever treats the visitors could find to give them: sticks of spearmint gum, Tic Tacs, and especially the cellophane-wrapped hard fruit candies that Mel had happened to have in his pocket. The only offerings that failed to be a hit were the minty breath-strips that Duayne peeled from a little dispenser and placed on their tongues. These elicited gasps, hacking, pretend-vomiting, and other evidences of extreme disgust, but even so, each child had to have a second one, as if to see if it was really as horrible as they remembered.

The curandero Yaminahua, a wrinkled, waspish old man in a

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sleeveless undershirt, clean, white Jockey shorts, and calf-length rubber wading boots, was waiting for them, smoking a cigar and sitting on the plank steps of his open-sided house, which was about twenty feet on a side, clean and spare, strung with four net hammocks across the center, and with a few open shelves along one side, on which were some old iron pots and utensils, and a few bowls. The entire structure was set on two-foot stilts. Two middle-aged women and a girl in her teens, all wearing only simple bark aprons, lay in the hammocks watching, but with no real signs of interest. The girl had a naked little boy sleeping on her abdomen. On one of the shelves, also watching, was a grumpy-looking squirrel monkey tied to a pole by a string around its waist.

On the step next to Yaminahua, who looked as if he had other things on his mind that were a lot more urgent than these pesky newcomers, were three lidless plastic containers of the sort used for fishing gear, filled with leaves and twigs. Using their contents as props, with no preliminaries whatever, aside from removing the cigar from his mouth and placing it on the step beside him, he launched into a monotone presentation that he appeared to be reciting from memory, to no one in particular, while his mind was off somewhere else, doing more important things. Cisco translated as he went along.

“This is charcosacha. You mash it with cow fat to cure inflammations of the throat. This is pono palm. You use it to cure foot fungus. Also, it makes good roofs. This is mashunaste, for broken bones. You mix it with juice from a rubber tree, put it on a cloth, and wrap it around the broken arm or leg. The bone will heal in eight days. This is chuchuwasi. You use it for headaches. . . .”

This went on for a solid hour, during which Yaminahua’s gaze remained fixed on the middle distance somewhere above their heads

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and the listeners, one by one, took seats on the ground in front of him. Questions were entirely ignored, so much so that Gideon wondered if the man might be deaf. Note-taking was impossible because of the dampness, but Mel had a small tape recorder that he turned on, promising to have the tapes transcribed for the others who wanted them. The tape, swollen with moisture, stopped turning after a few seconds.

The conclusion of the lecture was as abrupt as the beginning. Yaminahua just stopped talking, shoved the now-dead cigar back in his mouth, and sat there looking at them, or rather through them. The women in the hammocks had never moved a muscle, except for the few that were necessary to keep the hammocks gently swaying. The monkey had disgustedly turned its back on them and gone to sleep on its perch.