The Blue Disc: A Rain Forest Dilemma

By William B. Waits

Rick Johnson is apprehensive because his graduate committee in anthropology has sent him deep into the South American rain forest to do research. Far up river, in the Valley of Bad Spirits, he's captured by a strange group called the Euromamo. They hold strikingly unusual views on sex, marriage, politics, warfare, religion, sports, wealth, and inheritance. Prior to Rick's arrival, they developed and preserved their cultural values by zealously guarding the privacy of their village from modern society. Their peaceful way of life is now threatened by his presence.

The Euromamo would be great to write about, Rick knows, and would likely generate scholarly and public interest, but that's his dilemma. His written work would rend the veil of privacy that the Euromamo have so carefully constructed and maintained over many years. They'd be swarmed by manufacturers, advertisers, anthropologists, and adventurers who would destroy the private life they've chosen. However, if he doesn't write his dissertation, he won't achieve his dream of becoming a college professor. This is a grim prospect after having risked his life to do his research. What decision will he make?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543939217

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Copyright © 2018 by William B. Waits

Illustrations Copyright © 2018 by Kim Kurki

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright holder except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Printing, 2018

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-54393-920-0 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-54393-921-7 (ebook)

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

The Dart

The Leader

The Origins Ceremony

The Battle

Battle Talk

The Committee

Yale Med

La Puerta and Up River

The Walkabout

Contacts

Flora and Fauna

All Witch Doctors

Workers

Skivvies

Individual Wealth

The Nihilamamo

Testing Beneficence

Social Wealth

Sex and Marriage

The Hedomamo

Education

Darwin and Others

The Mexamamo

Loudhailer and Porno

The Islamamo

Commandments and Beatitudes

The Soumamo

The Political System

The Adamamo

The Election

To A World Less Able

Privacy

Down River

La Puerta Revisited

New Haven Revisited

The Committee Revisited

Epilogue 1988

Epilogue 2018

Acknowledgments

I thank Mark T. Connelly for reading manuscripts as I developed this novel. His insights for improving it were invaluable. I thank Kate Gallison, who read an early manuscript and offered wise guidance. I thank Kim Kurki for the illustrations that grace the cover and text of the book. I especially appreciated her useful suggestions, her attentiveness to my requests, and her gifted execution. I thank Doris Shapiro for listening patiently while I chattered and for her helpful and supportive comments.

Dedicated to

Mark Thomas Connelly

and

John Anderson Waits II

Prologue

You should know at the outset, I’ve just completed my research in the South American interior, the wildest place on Earth and the most diverse biologically. I lived among the Euromamo for a year, at risk to my life, while I dutifully filled my field journals with notes for my dissertation. I am glad that’s behind me, even if things haven’t turned out as I expected.

Euromamo ways of living struck me as odd at first, but, over time, I found myself agreeing with them. The experience changed me fundamentally, particularly in how I viewed my surroundings upon my return. I see now, where earlier I did not, that we have precious little privacy in our society. Certainly, some of us may fleetingly experience privacy in a park, on a hiking trail, or along a remote country road, but we do not treasure privacy. Quite the contrary. We allow our noisy and intrusive society to badger us and I, for one, am offended. Before my research, I wasn’t this way—so sensitive about my privacy—but I am now.

To explain what happened to change me, I need not go back far into my past because what I experienced before my research is irrelevant. I must only go back a little over a year, to when I prepared to go to South America. I only hope I can write amid the intrusions of modern culture.

Although I tell most of this story in the third person to make it seem less self-centered, this is a mere literary device. This book is about me.

New Haven, Connecticut

July 1986

CHAPTER 1

The Dart

May 1985

Rick wiped his finger across his sweaty brow, causing a drop to trickle into his eye. He blinked to clear his vision, and then looked back toward Raul, who was at the wheel of the boat, steering it up the La Cuerta River, deeper into the South American rain forest. Raul was an experienced boatman, but even he had gotten jittery, suggesting several times that they turn back. Rick had to press him to keep going. After several weeks on the river, Rick was far from the coastal city of La Puerta, and farther still from the comfortable confines of his graduate school in New Haven. He was risking his life to research a group that would be the subject of his dissertation, and he felt very vulnerable. Sure, he had absorbed knowledge about remote places from his seminar books, but what he knew seemed paltry against the slow, massive power of the river and the lush green vegetation along its banks.

Only four days before, Raul and he had stopped by a group that Raul had identified as the Primomamo. Rick thought about studying them but he suspected they had already been contacted by people from outside the rain forest. To satisfy Jasovic, his graduate advisor, he needed a remote, un-contacted group so he asked Raul to inquire about other groups farther up river. After some questioning, the Primomamo mentioned an unusual group living up past big rapids in a place called the Valley of Bad Spirits. He recalled the conversation clearly.

They have lived in their frightening valley for decades, but the spirits do not seem to harm them, Raul translated for me. The spirits have brought illness to others who have ventured into the valley, but this group lives there in health and prosperity. It’s a great power they have.

I want to know more about them, I said, my curiosity aroused.

There was more discussion with the Primomamo who told Raul the valley people were a different color than other rain forest groups.

How so? I inquired.

They’re lighter, a lot like his skin color, the Primomamo answered, gesturing toward me. Then, scanning Raul up and down, he said, You’re light too, now that I take a better look at you.

Anything else about them? I asked.

They have a language that is strange to our ears…meaningless sounds. I’ve only heard it a few times and it sounds every bit as strange as his language, the native said, gesturing toward me again.

What’s their name? I asked.

I listened closely and positioned my pen to record it in my field journal.

"Eu-ro-ma-mo," the native said carefully.

I was intrigued by the description of the Euromamo and prodded Raul to get directions to the valley, but he seemed strangely reluctant. I didn’t give up though, pressing him until he agreed to get the directions. Raul resumed his discussion with the Primomamo, translating each statement, which I carefully recorded in my field journal. It took some time because of the language difficulties and also because I wanted the best description of the landmarks I could get, as well as their exact sequence so I could check them off as we went up river. Even with careful notes, it would be difficult to pick the landmarks out of the abundant foliage.

From his description, I estimate it’s over one hundred miles to the Euromamo, said Raul. That’s just miles, of course. According to them, there’s a big set of rapids before the valley and there may be other rapids. I tell you, Rick, I don’t like doing this. I’ve never been up the river this far so I don’t know what’s ahead. Where’s the channel for my boat? Where are the submerged logs and rocks? It’s risky travelling unknown sections of the river.

But you handle the boat with such skill, Raul, even though you don’t know this part of the river, I responded. Why are you skittish?

He grew quiet and cast his eyes downward.

It’s the spirits in their valley.

All the groups along the river have spirits, don’t they?

"Yes, but these spirits are the most fearsome of all. Since I was a niño, I’ve heard about this valley. That’s the main reason, for sure, why boatmen don’t come this far up. I never knew anyone could live there."

He says the Euromamo are doing fine there, I countered.

"Yes, mi amigo, but he also said that they do fine only because their special powers can hold the spirits at bay, powers that I don’t have. Why not go back down river and study another group? We passed several that you could research. Why is it that you are stuck on the Euromamo?"

I had no good response; however, after more discussion and the promise of four hundred additional dollars, I convinced Raul to go the additional hundred miles, and that included portaging around the large rapids in the last tributary. The deal was made and we returned to the river.

The channel of the La Cuerda became narrower and shallower. Raul was very attentive at the wheel of the boat and told Rick to get in the bow and watch for sunken logs and other obstructions. From time to time, Raul got Rick to read from his notes the descriptions of the landmarks along the way to the Euromamo. As they passed each landmark, Rick checked it off. So it went the next day as well. The banks of the La Cuerda slid by in unbroken greenery. Neither Rick nor Raul struck up a conversation. As Rick checked off the landmarks, he knew they were getting close to the Euromamo. Then Raul spotted a tributary of the La Cuerda going off to the right just as the Primomamo had said it would.

It’s the Stommore, Raul said. It should take us toward the Euromamo. I’ll have to guess where the channel is, he added wistfully.

If Raul was concerned about the channel, Rick knew he should also be concerned. He leaned even farther over the front of the boat, peering into the murky water as the boat plowed forward. The current was smooth, so the boat didn’t rock as it carried them toward the valley. The air felt good moving over him, drying some of the sweat in his shirt and cooling him off. He still couldn’t relax though, because of the uncertainties of what lay ahead.

Finally, Raul called out, There’s the Bel Ami, the last river we go up, as he turned the boat into the mouth of the tributary.

They were only about six miles from the drop-off point they had agreed upon. Rick took a deep breath. About a mile ahead, he could see a ridge of high ground where the rapids waited for them. As the boat rounded a gentle turn, he saw the cascading water glisten brightly in the sunlight. As the boat got closer, a cloud of mist hit his face, briefly refreshing him before the sun burned it away.

About thirty yards before the rapids, Raul turned the boat toward the left bank and held it steady in the current beneath some overhanging branches.

He called in a strong voice from the rear of the boat, "Use a second line this time, mi amigo. Losing the boat at this point would be the end of us."

Before Rick began tying the boat to the branches, he remembered to check the limbs for snakes that might be sunning themselves there. He carefully secured the boat and was gratified that he had gotten better at tying knots, a valuable practical skill that anthropology graduate school had not taught him. They were on land for the first time since they had left the Primomamo. As they walked the entire length of the rapids, Raul probed the water to his right with a long piece of bamboo he had cut with a hatchet.

I don’t think we can get the big boat through here, so we’ll take what we need and paddle the last five miles in the canoe.

Paddling up river is going to be a lot of work, isn’t it? asked Rick.

This far up river, we can’t take any chances with the big boat. We have to paddle if you want to get to the Euromamo.

In twenty minutes, they had unstrapped the canoe from the side of the boat and loaded it with Rick’s large backpack, water, and two paddles. Rick expected that they were going to leave immediately, but Raul pulled the boat behind some trees and reeds growing in the water to help hide it from river traffic. He chained the boat to a tree as an extra precaution.

My boat will not be safe here but we have little choice. I’ll have to drop you off and get back here soon. I’ll leave a few rifle cartridges out to warn any visitors that I’m armed, although this far up river they probably won’t know what they are.

Before they began the hard work of pulling the canoe up the rapids, Raul pointed out a small flat clearing a few feet higher than the surrounding land where they sat to rest.

This is an important spot, Rick. This is where you should wait for me to pick you up in a year when you have completed your research. It’ll be easy to find because it’s at the bottom of the rapids.

OK, the clearing it is, said Rick, swallowing hard at the thought of living a year in the wild.

They used a rope to pull the canoe along the channel and bamboo poles to guide it past fallen trees near the bank. It was hard work. Rick was soon soaked with sweat, but he had spent so much time since they left La Puerta resting on the deck that it felt good to use his muscles again. Once at the top, they were too fatigued to get back on the river in the canoe for the last leg of their journey so they prepared to sleep, this time in a hammock on the shore rather than on the boat. This was Rick’s first time off the boat and he was keenly aware of his exposure to predators. If that wasn’t enough, during the night, clouds covered over the sky, carrying with them a drenching rain. It was a bad night. Nevertheless, early the next morning, they got on the river and began paddling, sweating profusely as they forced the boat up river against the current. The land rose steadily on both sides of them, turning into the walls of a valley. So this was it, Rick thought to himself—the Valley of Bad Spirits—at least that’s what the Primomamo and Raul had called it. Myths commonly have at least some factual basis, he knew from his seminars, so what was the factual basis for the claims of powerful and dangerous spirits in this place?

Raul’s head jerked to the right, and he immediately stopped paddling to examine something on the bank. Rick hadn’t seen anything.

What is it? Rick finally asked, somewhat frustrated at his inability to see what interested Raul.

Cut saplings. Right there, he said, pointing. Not gnawed, you see, but cut clean with something sharp. You’re here to meet the Euromamo, aren’t you? he said. "You may meet them soon. Let’s tie the canoe, amigo. I tell you, the sooner I get back on the river and away from the spirits, the better I will feel."

The two of them paddled the canoe against the bank just above the cut saplings and Rick threw a rope over a stout tree limb and tied it securely. Raul tied an additional line off the back.

Watch where you step, Rick, Raul cautioned him.

Once ashore, they made their way through the lush undergrowth to examine the cut saplings more closely.

Those cuts look fresh to me, so people are nearby, said Raul. You won’t have to hunt for your Euromamo group much. They’ll find you soon enough. You can count on that.

The wood chips around the base of the saplings were large and sharp-edged, Rick noted. They had been cut with a blade with a good edge, perhaps even a steel blade, except that indigenous people this far in the rain forest did not have steel blades, at least according to Rick’s courses. Raul got back in the canoe and handed Rick’s backpack to him. Stood upright, the backpack looked small against the lush green backdrop of the rain forest. It was all he had. They rested for a few moments on the bank.

I have to start back to my boat and La Puerta as soon as possible, said Raul. I got you here. That was our deal.

I know you’re going to leave soon, Raul, said Rick, but I was hoping that you would stay with me until I make contact with the Euromamo. Here alone, if I don’t find the Euromamo soon, I’ll be in trouble.

My boat is tied below the rapids with no one to watch it. Besides, I’m starting to feel sick and, for all I know, it may be the spirits poisoning me for bringing you here. I’ve got to get out of this valley while I’m well enough to make it down river.

The spirits are really weighing on you, aren’t they?

I can’t get them out of my mind. he said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

OK. I understand. Just don’t forget about me, Raul. One year from now I’ll meet you at the clearing below the rapids.

I won’t forget. I’ll pick you up just as we agreed.

Raul got back into the canoe while Rick untied the mooring lines and threw them in. Raul smiled as he carefully paddled the canoe away from the bank and turned it downstream. He offered, as a last gesture of camaraderie, to take Rick back with him to La Puerta.

Thanks, but I’ll stay, said Rick in a grim voice, unconsciously fingering the handle of his survival knife. I’ve got to do my research.

You are a determined fellow, Rick. Good luck to you. See you in a year, Raul said as he made his first strong strokes with the paddle.

Take care, Raul.

You, too.

Officially, Rick had been trained to do fieldwork in anthropology, but he had never felt more vulnerable than he did as he watched Raul’s canoe get smaller and smaller until it vanished around a bend in the river. He felt totally alone in the rain forest…except for any Euromamo who might be nearby. He reminded himself that, during the trip up river, Raul had taught him how to build a raft that he could ride to the coast. He had taken careful notes. To give him comfort, Raul had reminded him that the current would always take him toward La Puerta.

Rick looked down at his hands, then at the rest of his body. He had no special skills. He was not quick like the big-clawed cats. He lacked the teeth of crocodiles. He didn’t have the agility of gibbons or the shells of turtles. He was without the speed and jumping ability of antelopes. His hearing, eyesight and smell were dull compared to the species around him. His body was terribly unspecialized…except for his brain. He’d have to use it well as it was his only feature that gave him a chance of survival.

The outsized human brain is the jaguar’s only weakness, a professor had said in Rick’s undergraduate biology class.

Rick still felt helpless, like an infant. He recalled comments Professor Lasington had made in his seminar on social and cultural anthropology. Lasington had been treated as an infant when he first went into African societies, but after he learned more about them, they let him grow up through their age levels until, eventually, he was treated as an elder. Lasington had recounted the story with some pride, and rightfully so. Alone in the rain forest, Rick would settle for feeling any age older than infancy.

Rick knew he would have to hike with his backpack until he contacted the Euromamo, but he wanted to gather his thoughts for a bit before lugging it into the dense vegetation. All was quiet around him, except for the low humming he did to keep himself company. Then he heard a sharp thump! His eyes snapped toward the sound, and became riveted on a bamboo dart stuck in his backpack. He gasped!

As Rick frantically scanned the foliage, he felt his heart beating strongly in his chest. He couldn’t see anyone, although they were obviously there. Fighting would be futile. His only option was to try to make friends with whoever had blown the dart. Maybe they were Euromamo. He smiled at the surrounding vegetation and raised his hands, hoping that this gesture would not be misinterpreted. At least his open hands showed that he held no weapons.

Assume you’re surrounded, he told himself. Stay calm. Anthropologists commonly meet their groups this way. It happened to Chagnon, and it’s happening to me. Damn dart is probably poisonous, though.

Slowly, one by one, the natives moved out of the bushes and into view—about ten of them in all. They had two wide ochre stripes painted along their jaw lines and green dots around their eyes. The paint probably indicated that they were on a special mission: hunting, he hoped, but maybe it was warfare…or cannibalism. Rick wanted to communicate to them that he meant them no harm. Make a gift. That might work. All cultures give gifts and that might begin a relationship with them. As Rick walked over to his backpack, three of the natives—it seemed like the biggest ones—walked toward him. He bowed his head to them and kept his hands visible. He had packed some trinkets, costume jewelry mainly, in separate, small stashes so he wouldn’t have to show his entire treasure trove each time he gave a present to someone. If he showed it all, they might well take it all. Could he locate one of the bags of trinkets quickly? He remembered that he had placed one of the bags of trinkets in the outer pocket. Great! He lifted his backpack and carried it back to the center of the group. All eyes focused on his every movement.

Rick unzipped the outer pocket, stuck his hand in, and found a clear plastic bag containing some costume jewelry. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief between his still-smiling teeth, as he pulled the bag out and held it high where it caught the sunlight. The three beaded necklaces and three beaded bracelets inside sparkled brightly. Rick’s first inclination was to open the bag immediately and hand out the items to those nearest, but he remembered he should go into a society at the top. If he handed out the trinkets randomly, he might give the best trinkets to the worst members of the group and leave the leader unrewarded; so he carried the entire trinket bag over to the apparent head of the group, opened it and presented it to him as deferentially as possible. The head seemed pleased. He handed out the trinkets to some in the group, just as Rick thought he might. Hopefully, Rick had won some favor with him.

Meanwhile, two natives showed interest in his backpack. Rick feared he might lose everything. Some stuff, for example, his hatchet, hammock, and fishing tackle, was necessary for his survival, so he couldn’t just let them go. Moreover, the natives might lose respect for him if he let them do anything they wanted without any protest. Acting quickly and firmly, he got between them and his backpack and flailed his arms, managing a half-hearted smile at the same time. To his relief, the natives backed away immediately with an apologetic demeanor.

Rick tried to get his mind to function, but it was extremely difficult given his excitement. The natives wore leather loincloths and leather vests made from skins that had been stitched together with leather strips so, apparently, they were a technologically primitive society. Maybe they weren’t the Euromamo, because the Euromamo were supposed to have great knowledge. But then, they seemed to be lighter skinned than the Primomamo, and a few of them had medium brown hair that curled a little, as opposed to the straight black hair of the Primomamo.

"Silting nang bulongo troutine," Rick heard one of them say.

It was the first words any of them had spoken, and Rick didn’t have a clue what was said. Damned foreign languages. He was so bad at them. Why the hell had he gone into anthropology anyway? He should have stayed in the South and talked his drawl until the day he died. It was going to take him forever to learn this new language so he could do acceptable research. The head of the group handed his spear to the person next to him and stepped toward Rick, holding his hands up and his palms open. Rick took the gesture to mean that he meant him no harm so he mimicked the gesture as closely as possible.

"Gratoinzing, futrurong pong, ban zu traitking," the head said, sporting a small smile. Rick retrieved a personal present for him: a spare, cheap compass that he had stuck in his pocket to help him navigate. The head took it, examined it for a moment and then showed it to the others who seem pleased as they looked at it. Some even chuckled softly.

Rick then heard a barely audible mumble from a young man behind him. To Rick, it sounded like he had said, compass. His first instinct was to turn to look at him, but he decided to act like he hadn’t heard anything. Rick watched the eyes of the others very closely and one of them looked sternly toward the young man. Maybe it was just his imagination working overtime.

The head of the group looked puzzled and held the compass to his ear, mumbling, "Nifurtiag. Plutu Ongkong." He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, as if to indicate that he had no idea what it was.

Rick and the head made friendly expressions at one another for a few moments but then the head motioned for Rick to go with them along the path away from the river. Rick had no choice but to agree. He lifted his backpack onto his shoulders. Where were they taking him? What would they do with him? Of course, they could kill him at any time. Hell, it could be that the only reason they didn’t kill him right there was that they didn’t want to carry his sorry carcass to their village. Or maybe when he had lugged his backpack to their village, they would steal his stuff there. His mind was obviously racing. The head sent one member of the group ahead.

The walk was Rick’s first extended excursion into the rain forest. Although he reminded himself to keep his eyes down for snakes and other dangers, he couldn’t resist glancing up from time to time at the thick canopy of leaves growing on the tall trees around them. Those trees had successfully made their way up to the sunlight. Vines had latched onto their trunks so they could race upward toward the light rather than grow trunks of their own. Because little direct sunlight made it through the canopy, the temperature was remarkably tolerable. They were on a clear trail, but even off to the sides of the trail, the undergrowth on the floor of the rain forest, was surprisingly sparse, probably because plants there couldn’t get enough light to thrive.

About fifty yards down the faint path, Rick brushed against a plant and felt a sting as a sharp-edged leaf cut his forearm. It bled a little, but then stopped. Not a big deal, as he expected he’d get some nicks and scrapes as he walked along. But then he remembered that he was deep in a rain forest without professional medical care. He had no idea what germs might have been on the leaf and were now in the small wound. He wanted to treat it immediately, but his tube of antibacterial ointment was buried in his backpack and he couldn’t get to it easily. One of the natives looked at the wound while another chopped down the plant with a stone hatchet.

It was hard to judge distances, but Rick estimated they had walked about half a mile when they entered a small clearing. Log benches were arranged in a circle around a stone fire pit that had a fire going under a large cooking pot tended by two women. Rick was feeling hungry and couldn’t help wondering what was in the pot. He reminded himself to not ask too many questions about that before eating. He would try his best to eat what was served and ask what it was the following day after it had gone through his system. Some rain forest groups, he knew, liked eels and knew he would probably have to choke down something like that. Some groups even had a taste for insects, usually roasted some way. The tales told in the seminars had made his stomach queasy, which he had been told was merely a learned cultural reaction and was not based on human biology. One can do well health-wise eating bees rather than honey, it seems.

It is important that anthropologists eat whatever is served to them by natives, Professor Jones had said in his seminar. If you don’t, they might be offended. If you really can’t stomach a dish, you can say that eating it is against your religion. Most groups will respect that.

The members of the group filed by a heavy wooden table and got bowls and wooden spoons that were stacked there. One of the men brought Rick a crudely glazed pottery bowl and a spoon for him. Rick could not help but wonder how clean the bowl and spoon were. Could the natives eat from them because they washed them after every use, or could they eat from unwashed bowls because they had developed immunities to the germs? Or did they die early from infection? Two women ladled out the food as the men and women filed by, in no particular order, except that the head of the group went first and Rick was served last. The fact that he was served food at all was good, he told himself. As soon as he looked inside, though, he saw a few fish fins and fish eyeballs. His brow furrowed slightly as he pushed them to the side and continued eating. The fins were probably not meant to be eaten anyway, he thought, although the eyeballs probably were.

Someone brought him some water to drink. There was nothing that he wanted more than a good drink of water, but he looked carefully at the liquid to see if there were any visible impurities and saw none. Although that was a comfort, Rick knew that it was the invisible microbes in the water that he had to worry about. Yet he needed to stay hydrated in the tropical heat. He raised the gourd and drank the water down. It was wonderfully wet and cold.

By the end, he had left only a small amount in the bottom of the stew bowl, which he made sure included the fins and eyeballs. Soon, a woman came over to look at the leaf cut on his arm, which still stung some. She then walked away and returned briefly with a small pottery bowl containing a grayish salve. She indicated, by gesture, that she intended to rub it on the cut. What if the salve wasn’t sterile? Before he could think what to do, she had gently smoothed the viscous potion into the cut. Rick braced himself for burning or itching or some other unpleasant sensation, but the salve calmed the inflamed flesh, reducing the irritation that had bothered him ever since he got the cut.

The sun was beginning to go down. They motioned Rick to come with them down a path on the far side of the circle of benches. Around a small bend, not more than fifty yards from the circle, the head of the group motioned Rick toward one of the smaller hills. He had no idea of what he was supposed to do but, as he got closer, he saw an entrance to some sort of cave or bunker with a heavy wooden post-and-beam doorframe. On either side of it were low, half-plaster walls. They motioned Rick to enter but, once inside, he could see little until his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The building had only four small windows to let in light but, in spite of the darkness, Rick realized that this was not a crude dug-out bunker, but a well-crafted hut with a thatch roof built into the side of the hill, so it looked like it was part of the hillside. The room was about twenty-five feet across with a roof supported by timbers notched and pegged together. The timbers were spanned by intricately woven vines that supported the thatch roof. The interior resembled an English country cottage, complete with plaster walls up to about waist high. The stones in the floor were tightly fit and worn smooth from years of use.

What was a substantial building like this doing in the rain forest? It certainly wasn’t needed to protect its occupants from the cold—or any other elements for that matter. Down river, the Primomamo, for example, had made do with shelters framed out of limbs and covered with layers of large leaves, which seemed to keep the sun out well enough, although admittedly he and Raul hadn’t spent much time in the village. However, in this well-crafted building, even the wooden furniture, though simple, was well made. The table and chairs in the middle of the room had smooth joints and a little decorative carving. They were more finished than the split-log furniture Rick had expected. Four large wooden chests, also well made, were placed around the wall. This was curious indeed. The head of the group that had captured him motioned for him to be seated in one of the chairs.

CHAPTER 2

The Leader

In the bunker, Rick shifted in his chair and waited…for what he did not know. He smiled weakly at the natives and tried a few times to interact with them through gestures but they remained impassive. They weren’t hostile, he sensed, but they were certainly aloof. He wondered what they would do if he tried to leave the bunker, but he decided against it as it seemed he was not free to leave. Then, suddenly, a woman walked briskly into the room with several others in tow. She was about five-feet-eight-inches tall, and held her head high. She was well proportioned with black wavy hair and fine features. Rick guessed she was about fifty years of age, but it was hard to tell with any accuracy. She wore a leather vest decorated with twenty or so bright buttons and a silver necklace with a medal around her neck. Rick could tell she was a person of importance. The head of the scouting party that had brought Rick to the bunker stood up to greet her.

Welcome, Leader, he said. This is the person we captured on the north path.

Rick was stunned that the group knew English. How was that possible? The Leader’s eyes fixed on Rick for a moment, and then she smiled pleasantly.

You are only the second visitor from outside society that we have ever had in our valley. What is your name?

Rick Johnson. And your name, if I may? he asked deferentially.

I am Mary Olive-White. I am the Leader of this group and am usually called by that title. This does not make me all powerful by any means, but I do have my responsibilities.

I am only the second visitor? asked Rick, repeating what she had said.

Yes, I was a girl of just six when the previous outsider visited us, the Leader offered, an adventurous small-boat owner from La Puerta. He only lived with us for a month before he caught a deadly disease. There was nothing that even our knowledge of illnesses could do for him. Given the extreme rareness of visitors to us, your arrival is a matter of great interest and, frankly, great concern.

I assure you that I intend you no harm, said Rick.

Fat chance that I could harm them, Rick thought to himself. He was surrounded by a dozen warriors.

At least for the moment, I can tell you that we feel secure and intend you no harm either, the Leader said with a light touch of sarcasm. However, in the rain forest, harm can come in all kinds of guises, she said glancing down at Rick’s arm. For example, I notice, Rick, that you have a cut from a slash plant on your arm. I’ve learned that it’s been treated with our ointment which is a good thing because otherwise you might lose your arm.

Might lose my arm?! he exclaimed. I’d no idea that my small wound was that serious.

Looking at it carefully, she said, Yes, serious, but I think she caught it in time. Lucky you. Another three or four days and things would have been much worse. Apply the salve daily for a week and let me know if it doesn’t get better. During that time, we’ll cover it to protect it.

You’re the Leader of this group, but what’s the group’s name? asked Rick.

We are the Euromamo. It’s a name we gave ourselves some years ago.

I thought you might be the Euromamo.

How did you come to think that? she said, her brow furrowing.

I learned a few things about you from a group down river that my boatman called the Primomamo, Rick offered.

The Primomamo. I should have known. They talk too much, the Leader retorted.

They have respect for your group.

That’s all well and good, but I wish they’d talk less.

You speak English, Rick said, inviting an explanation.

The Leader paused.

More on that at an appropriate time.

She paused again.

Since we have the names out of the way, where do you come from? I imagine it’s far away, the Leader suggested.

Indeed, I do come from a long way away, replied Rick. I live in New Haven, Connecticut, in the United States.

Far away, indeed.

I’d never heard of your group even though I’ve read everything I could find on groups in this part of the rain forest.

"It’s very hard for outsiders to find us in our valley. We