Back of Beyond by David Yeadon Read Free Book Online

the ever-present mosquitoes were forgotten. Even Tin and Pan seemed moved as we passed pools where butterflies fluttered in the hundreds over the water and damp pebbles. And it took a lot to move these two.
    In fact it was hard to tell what they were thinking while guiding this odd white man through territory that was once entirely their own.
    I have no desire to add to all the diatribes and pious monographs about Western man’s tendency to eliminate rather than assimilate. The latter requires empathy, a tolerance for entirely different perspectives on life; agreement to disagree without violence. The former is far easier and, during the early colonial days of emerging white domination, it was inevitable. The old phrase “One sneeze from the conquistador and a village dies” was so often true. Of course, for a while, there was something of a balance; the white man was no match for malaria, yellow fever, beriberi, and a dozen other fatal ailments until the discovery of immunity drugs. The Indians’ resistance to such afflictions had grown over thousands of years, years of timelessness when change was unwelcome and the old ways tightly bound the forest-dwelling societies. But soon the balance was lost; the white invaders multiplied and the tribes disintegrated or were systematically destroyed by the newcomers. The remnants of once vast tribal cultures were offered “salvation by Jesus” as their ticket to the new world, along with hand-me-down clothes from well-intentioned charities and hand-me-down ideas that bore little or no relationship to the mega-century mysteries of their own indigenous cultures.
    Occasionally I saw something sad and lost in Pan’s eyes. He was possibly considered by the local missionaries to be a fine example of paternal assimilation, a pliable first- or second-generation unnative. But a glance at his face would suggest that the indoctrination had taken only shallow root and deeper down lay all the genetic and cultural structurings of his ancient society, the society of his forest-roaming ancestors. At least he was still in his habitat, unlike many of his counterparts, high in their Caracas hilltop barrios or ranchitos. He was free, or free enough, among the soaring tepuis, tolerating the novice antics of this strange man struggling to keep pace with him on these slimy slopes.
    It was not hatred or even dislike I saw in his eyes. It was the wary glance of the jaguar, tinged with perhaps a little mirth, and ultimately, I suppose, indifference.
     
     
    I wish I’d brought a hammock. They’re cheap—especially the authentic Indian ones knotted out of coarse fiber and tough enough to hold a lolling hippo (not that I bear any immediate resemblance to same). My companions always had theirs handy, rolled tight and strapped around their waists. At regular intervals, once every couple of hours or so, we’d pause for a rest and out they’d come, a quick flick to unravel, tied onto a couple of handy trees, and voilà, an instant airy bed on which they lay diagonally, safe from scorpions and ants and snakes, while I dozed off half upright against a tree, my backside only partially protected from nipping predators by a rubber groundsheet. Next time—if there ever is a next time—I’ll know better.
     
     
    On the third day we woke to a world of gray. Utterly seamless slate gray—the sky, jungle, us. Even the riotous cacophony of howls, screeches, and whistles seemed subdued in the dun dawn. There was none of the normal wet heat of morning. I ate a breakfast of roasted plantains with hardly a bubble of sweat on my face, a most unusual and welcome occurrence. Tin and Pan looked cold. They huddled together like the Indians of the high Andes with hammocks and shirts pulled over their shoulders, sitting close to the fire. For the first time since we’d left Canaima my body felt comfortable. Of course it didn’t last for long. By the time we’d packed up camp the sun had broken through in patches and