A Shuar Thing

Alan Murphy keeps his head in the Ecuadorian jungle

We all know that guidebooks are occasionally prone to exaggeration. How often have we eagerly set off in search of some ‘immaculately-preserved ruins’, only to discover something resembling roadworks on the M25? But the venerable South American Handbook, the "Bible" of South American travel, as old as many of the ruins it describes in its inimitable, even-handed way? Surely not. After a gruelling 24-hour bus trip from Macas on a "road" that barely merited the term mule track, I was now slap-bang in the middle of nowhere - or the remote southern jungles of Ecuador’s Oriente to be more precise. I stepped down off the bus and stared in disbelief at two wooden shacks standing self-consciously by the riverbank. Was this what I endured the trip for? I looked in my Handbook and there it was in black and white - "the village of Morona".

I read on; "For the more adventurous, an attempt to arrange a jungle excursion from Morona could prove to be an incredible experience". The trouble was I didn’t really feel adventurous right at that moment. Criminally naive would have been closer to the mark. "Are you meeting someone here?" asked the bus driver. "Er, no," I replied, feeling less adventurous by the second. "Well", he continued, "this bus isn’t returning for a week, but there’s a Shuar (Achuar) family who are taking the canoe up river to their house. They might let you stay with them."

"Shuar? Didn’t they used to be head-hunters?" I said, though thankfully only to myself. I remembered reading that they had changed their name from Jivaro, a few decades ago, when they had ceased the rather worrying policy of shrinking the heads of their enemies as punishment for casting evil spells on others and to deter anyone wishing to cause sickness or disaster in future.

Ah, well, in for a penny, as they say. And so I was introduced to Pedro, the head of the family, so to speak. Pedro had been to Macas to collect his sister, brother-in-law and cousins, who were visiting for a few weeks. He seemed genuinely keen to have me as a guest for a few days and act as a guide, in exchange for me paying the cost of the canoe trip upriver to the family ‘finca’, or farmstead. Fair deal, I thought, and we shook on it.

We all climbed into the motor canoe, which was owned and piloted by Don Miguel, who comprised about a quarter of Morona’s total population. I gave him $30 to cover the cost of the trip and when I explained that Pedro had kindly offered to be my jungle guide, he gave me a look. The same look my father had given me all those years ago when I announced I wanted to play centre-forward for Scotland. A mixture of incredulity and compassionate indulgence. I paid no heed. This was the beginning of my "incredible experience" and I now felt less like Forrest Gump and more like Indiana Jones.

Two hours later we pulled into the side of the river and disembarked. After an hour’s hike through the dense undergrowth we reached a clearing, in the centre of which stood Pedro’s house - a simple circular wooden structure with a thatch roof. A traditional Shuar dwelling he later explained. After a dinner of fish soup and boiled bananas, followed by a few shared bowls of chicha, a brew made from masticated yucca left to ferment in water and saliva, I later discovered, we arranged the following day’s ‘guided tour’. That night, as I lay in my sleeping bag, listening to the sound of Pedro and his brother-in-law, Wilson, sharpening their machetes, I silently prayed that if anyone should fall ill, they wouldn’t blame me.

Next morning I awoke to heavy rain. After breakfast of fish soup, boiled bananas but thankfully no chicha, we set off. Pedro and Wilson both had ancient flintlock rifles, bow and arrows and a fishing line. Eco-tourism this wasn’t, but, hey, these people have to eat. After a two-hour slog through knee-deep mud and across numerous log bridges - most of which I managed to fall off - we came to a clearing where a dugout canoe was moored to a tree at the side of a large lake. As we paddled our way across the lake, Wilson pointed to a caiman in the water; "Quick! Shoot!" I grabbed my camera. "No, with this!" he rebuked, handing me his rifle. But by the time I’d worked out how to fire the damned thing, the caiman had disappeared. Wilson snatched his rifle back and glared at me. I stroked my neck nervously. No caiman on the menu this evening, but at least we did manage to hook a fish.

A few rain-soaked days later, suffering from exhaustion, mud overload, and becoming ever more fearful that I might outstay my welcome, we agreed that I should leave. Back in Morona I felt like I’d arrived in a bustling Metropolis. And I only had to wait two days for a return bus. Now I really did feel adventurous.

Alan Murphy is a freelance travel writer and the editor of many Footprint travel guides to Latin America including Ecuador, Bolivia and Venezuela.