Yanako came by my house early one morning. He was a robust man, built along the lines of a sumo wrestler.
He was the captain of the village, and a more unassuming captain there could never be. Wilo society wasn’t built around a strong leadership structure, perhaps a result of the earlier generations of Wilos living scattered throughout the jungle, as opposed to living together in villages. Each individual Wilo family went about doing their own thing in their own time at their own pace, and there was really not much influence that Yanako had, or wanted to have over that.
But his leadership was not inconsequential by any means. He was an important village spokesman, a liaison of sorts with the national government, and a determined defender of village well-being.
He was also incredibly difficult to understand. When he spoke Wilo, the sounds would burst from his mouth like water from a fireman’s hose, practically bowling me over, extinguishing any flicker of hope I might have had of understanding him. When he chose to speak in Spanish, he did so with equal enthusiasm but with atrocious grammar and perplexing vocabulary.
He and his wife were frequent visitors to my house, often stopping by on their way back from their garden to ask if I wanted to buy a stalk of bananas they had brought back, or perhaps trade something for it. I assumed that’s why he was at my door bright and early that morning.
“Hi, Yanako. Did you awaken well?” I was starting to get the hang of this language.
“Yes Dah-wee, I awoke well. Hey, I’ve come to ask you something. Do you want to go spearing fish today?”
“Yes, I want some bananas,” I promptly responded.
“What?”
I could tell from his confused expression that my answer had taken him by surprise. That was never a good sign.
“Umm, what did you ask at first?” I asked.
“Do you want to go with us to spear fish over at the lagoon?”
“Oh. Sure,” I replied nonchalantly, hoping he hadn’t noticed that I had just said something completely ridiculous. When Yanako talked, my only hope at understanding him was to catch a word or two and then fill in the blanks as best I could. In this instance the first two syllables out of his mouth had made up the word for “bananas,” so I had just gone with that.
I didn’t want to have to try and explain all this to him, and was relieved when he didn’t follow up on my gaffe. “Good. Let’s go,” was all he said.
“Right now?” I asked him, while my stomach growled, what about my breakfast?
“Yes, we’re leaving right now,” he replied. He waited for me while I jumped into my bathing suit. As we were walking down to the river he said, “I’ll bring you some bananas tomorrow.”
About a dozen guys were waiting for us in the canoe when we got there. They must have all been ready to head out when someone had said, “Here’s a crazy idea: let’s see if the missionary wants to come along with us.”
I needn’t have worried about breakfast either, as it turned out. It was served onboard. While we slowly paddled across the wide river, smoked fish and cassava cakes were passed around. Yanako made sure I got my share; apparently he was to be my host on this excursion.
Reaching the far side of the river, we came to the entrance of a small waterway that had been invisible until we got to within a few feet of it. We nosed the canoe into the stream and began making our way up it. It was like entering into a mythical world. The surface of the water was a smooth pane of smoked glass. Only the hardiest beams of sunlight were able to fight their way through the blanket of branches under which our canoe silently glided. The normal tangle of underbrush was noticeably absent, and the piercing calls of birds filled out the impression that I was passing through a jungle sanctuary.
A few minutes later we broke out into a long lagoon that was the size of several football fields strung together end to end. As we paddled the length of the lagoon, sinister pairs of eyes surfaced with barely a ripple, following our progress for a while, and just as silently disappearing again.
Not good. Those eyes had probably never seen white meat before. Nobody had said we’d have to fight off alligators with one hand while spearing fish with the other.
At the far end, a small stream was feeding into the lagoon. We made our way a short distance up it and then the Wilos started jumping out of the canoe. The water was shallow; only waist deep. This was where the fish spearing was to take place.
In many ways the Wilos were a culture in transition. They continued living a life similar to generations gone by; they occupied themselves with much the same things their ancestors had done before them. What made this generation different was that they had access to tools and equipment that their ancestors had never dreamed of having.
I wasn’t too surprised, then, to see that most of the Wilos were donning goggles. In no time at all everybody was absorbed in spearing fish. Walking about in the shallow waters, they were all bent over at the waist, with their heads and shoulders submerged as they searched out the hiding-places of the fish.
I was slow to follow suit. I hadn’t seen a “NO ALLIGATORS ALLOWED” sign posted anywhere, so I wasn’t sure what was to prevent those hungry alligator eyes from surfacing right beside me. I decided my best course of action would be to stay close to Yanako. He had invited me, so of all the fish spearers he’d probably feel the worst about one of these curious gators taking a bite out of me, with the notable exception of myself, needless to say.
That’s what I would do; I would get in the water and stick close to Yanako. That being decided, I was about to jump out of the canoe when I realized I didn’t know which one he was. As I scanned the surface, all I could see was an array of butts bobbing in the water. At that moment I was very thankful that the Wilos wear shorts while spearing fish.
The people inside the shorts were surfacing only long enough to catch another breath before going back under, not giving me a chance to identify Yanako among the goggled faces. To my relief, I eventually caught a glimpse of what looked like a sumo wrestler. That would be him.
With my host in view, or at least that part of him, I eased into the cold water and made my way in that direction. If any alligators were going to get me, they’d have to go through him first, and if it came to that, I wouldn’t be betting against Yanako.
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