Farewell to TAWASAP

June 8, 2017

The last night in the selva is over. It started slowly, I couldn't fall asleep for a long time. With bright moonlight. Then, I think I had already fallen asleep, the rain poured down in waves, finally making way for the moon again in the morning.
Totally satisfied, I poured eye drops in the morning, swallowed the last vitamin C cocktail, and then wrote this first section. And now I'm getting ready to say goodbye and make the trip to Quito.

Before we leave Mura, Tzama asks me to join him in the circle. He tells me how honored he was by my visit, how valuable my contribution was to his community. My children and I are welcome here anytime, and if he is no longer here, his children will welcome my children. Emotions overwhelm me and I can't hold back. I have to cry, because his words touch me deeply. I can't do anything more than sob "gracias" and express that I am honored and moved. I probably didn't need to mention the latter. Even now, almost a day later, those words stay with me, brother Tzama.

The final walk down to the village, with Nanki's spear. I have decided to leave it here unambiguously. I can't take it with me and I will entrust it to Nanki's care. Next time, when I fly back directly, it will probably find a place in the belly of the plane as special luggage.

It is before eight when I arrive in the village. The people are up, I greet Fidel warmly and the people sitting in front of his house. Chickens are being plucked next to Maria's house. A little guy shows me the two chickens lying on the ground, grabs the white one and runs around with it. Unfortunately, before I could get my camera out of the bag, he put the chicken back down. It would have been a great photo, because the little one was only slightly bigger than the chicken.

A meal is being prepared, that's clear. The covered front area of the tienda is swept clean. But ... apart from the busy women who are getting the chickens ready for cooking, there is no other action for a long time. I'm afraid the taxi will be here at ten o'clock and the food will be served. I called Carlos last night with my phone and ordered him for ten o'clock. He will be there on time. So I'm not expecting anything good. It's possible he might come later, but taxi drivers are usually quite reliable when it comes to punctuality.

A visitor for Tzama also arrives. An older gentleman from Puyo, with his son from Parroquia 16 de Agosto and his little daughter. Then another one comes for Estali Tzamarenda, that's what they call him here. He retreats with him to the studio for half an hour. The other, the older gentleman from Puyo, takes the guitar lying there and starts playing. He sings along and Herman, the former soldier and village taxi driver, turns out to be a singer and belts out songs of love and woman and heart and not forgetting me from the bottom of his lungs. The high notes are a bit strained, but it doesn't matter. Full of fervor. I like it, great atmosphere.

At half past nine I start to get nervous. Nothing is happening.

Twenty minutes before, I tell Tzama that I will leave at ten. I have already said this several times in advance, but ...

Now Tzama directs the tables, benches, and chairs into position, instructs the women to serve food, and invites those present to sit down. He stands at the head of the table in his Shuar shaman attire and begins his farewell speech. Since I had already cried in the morning, it went well this time. Imagine, I can come to Tawasap anytime, they would give me a piece of land that doesn't belong to them anyway, but to the creator, and help me build my house. Madness! It's such an honor for me, I could cry ... but I manage not to.

In the meantime, the women serve the chickens in soup. I notice that people are more interested in that than in listening. Besides, a Bordeaux-red pickup truck has arrived and no one has gotten out. It could be Carlos.

So, and because I'm not very articulate in Spanish, I keep my speech short.

I have four reasons to come back:

1. This spear from Brother Nanki. I can't take it to Florida. That's where we travel around. I gave it to Nanki for safekeeping until I come back.
2. I really want to see the projects completed, the museum, the fish ponds, the new houses. I really want to.
3. I would like to participate in another minga. Even if I didn't always understand everything, but working with them, the humor they radiate, it's fantastic.
4. Yo voy a regresar, porque una parte de mi corazón está aquí, en Tawasap... and I didn't get any further. I had to start crying and that was good, it shortened the whole thing. Now it went quickly.

It occurred to me that I also had four gifts, small things: a pocket knife for Brother Nanki, one for Jorge, who saved me from the snake (and whom I somehow liked), my last Swiss chocolate for Maria Flores, and the hundred-dollar bill that I had exchanged once, I returned it to the community. They can use it. Maria Flores then gave a short speech and handed me a tablecloth with a dedication inside and two pendants made of selva seeds with anaconda skin in the middle. Homemade Indian jewelry, exactly the kind I helped her with yesterday. One for me, the other for Sister Rosita. I took a few more photos of the now really hungry guests. With a detour to the pickup truck, I made sure it was really Carlos. I asked for a few more minutes - no problem. So I also devoured a drumstick, then I left my plate. After all, it was already twenty past ten and I didn't want to miss my bus in Palora.

I went to the back, to the women who were frying bananas by the fire, and said goodbye to Maria Flores, to Nanki's wife Maria, and to those who were simply there. Unfortunately, Jasmin was missing, because I would have liked to say goodbye to her too. I kept it short at the table up front. Adios, hermanos. Valeria came over for a hug, the others had chickens in their mouths.

Before getting into the car, we quickly took a few photos, not with my phone, but with Tzama's and Nanki's, and then ...

... I was gone.

In the evening at seven, I arrived in rainy and cool Quito, to be precise, at Terminal Quitumbe. I took a taxi, because of the rain, to the hotel five hundred meters away, and ...

I think I'll just stop writing now.