Tuuli's Blog
Monday, January 09, 2006
The forest outside Minvoul, Gabon
If the rainforest of Northern Gabon were a part of the human anatomy, it would be the armpit. Hot, moist and primordial. It has a funky smell like gym clothes left to decompose in a locker room. If it were a gland, it would be the sweat gland. An overactive one that causes perpetual embarrassment to its host. If it were a color, it would be dark red, a dull dark red. The color of the waters that flow at the base of the forest canopy, collecting iron from the corpses of a million decaying organisms. Water stained with blood. Blood flowing through the veins of a sleepy fiend. Water flowing, carrying us on canoes along with the currents into the heart of darkness, my fingers tracing patterns on the surface of the river, water rippling behind me with the attentiveness of silk.
Air is heavy and cool with the threat of an imminent downpour. I expect rain will fall from the sky in buckets, in bathtubs. Rainwater en masse that will reprocess into misty clouds within the pools of swampy, steamy mud that enfold the river. Thick, honeyed mud that longs to suck you in. I appreciate the fact that there is no appeasing this mud, it commands that my foot release a sound to reverberate into the depths of the woods, a sound that would make the mammals within earshot blush. A sound resonant with the lust of a body welcoming another into its depths.
The forest is still. Barely any living thing stirs. There are no insects, no mosquitoes, no mysterious rainforest bugs, despite an ecosystem that seems affectionate to our creepy-crawly friends. There are no crocodiles, no hippopotami, no exotic birds, except one that seemed like it was lost, a bird that disappeared as soon as it was spotted. Spiders tumble into the canoe off of low lying branches as we brush them with our heads, the spiders tell me that they want to come inside. The forest is like a temple, a womb. There is no malevolence here. Only the steady flow of the river with its silent currents, currents that I recognize could take one under if they were offered a foolhardy traveler like me. I sense that the forest stirs with ferocity underneath its sheer veil of calm. But I cannot penetrate it, my senses are not sharp.
If the Baka people who live in this swampy forest were a tarot card, they would be the Hermit. Isolated and inhibited, withdrawn from the world, their senses developed to distinguish the forest's mysteries. But they are forgotten by the world in these backwaters like a fairy tale hero whose story is no longer told. Here the Baka live, pregnant with ancient knowledge that a modern society driven by economics no longer knows how to denominate. Here in the forest, they sit on a treasure chest full of cowry shells that can no longer be used for barter. Despite their invisibility to the outside world, the Baka walk delightedly along their forest paths, paths that swallow up footsteps as soon as they are trodden. Invisible paths that are lined with hidden traps to ensnare bushrats, porcupines, panthers and tourists that happen to wander into them. The tourists are the only ones that are charmed with the entrapment. This is because the Baka do not want to eat us.
The forest responds kindly to its Baka protectors, offering meat, fish, fruits and other gifts. Like the ounce of whiskey that can be drained from a certain tree trunk, better and more potent than a whole bottle of the best 15 year old scotch whiskey. Like a bushrat, charred over a fire and cooked with leaves and spices to taste like gamey, spirited duck. Like neon pink flowers falling at your feet along a forest trail. Like wild honey out of a fresh honeycomb, dripping down fingers and chin, leaving traces of golden sparkling dew in moustaches. Like a panther caught in the trap of a thirteen year old boy, an opera of a story that he can forever recount to get chicks. Like roasting of pink peanuts over a fire, picked green from a field in the early morning mist by a wrinkle of a grandmother. Like a gurgling spring of fresh water along rocks. But the forest is also harsh. There are no schools, no hospitals, children with malnourished features. Reality is sometimes unromantic. Reality can sometimes overshadow the fact that this forest is the most magical I have ever seen. Unless you choose which reality you want to see.
The Baka are people of this forest and river, they paddle upstream and down and through the swamps with their canoes carved out of tree trunks, along labyrinths of water and earth. They paddle through silky waters of the archipelago of islands made from tree roots, in this universe that is like a microcosm of the earth, the ocean and its landmasses. In these endless mazes the Baka orienteer distinguishing cryptic knife marks left by their clan members on tree trunks, the graffiti of broken branches, the sharp ascending curve of a palm tree and the number of mushrooms on a piece of driftwood. I envy their sense of direction.
The Baka are a clan of three thousand people living off the spoils of this forest. They are hunters who still use gunpowder instead of cartridges to shoot their ancient rifles, rifles that spring hand carved spears into the hearts of elephants. Elephants that are hunted for meat to feed entire villages, but also hunted due to a seduction for ivory among strangers far away from here. Baka do not adorn their villages with hunting trophies, memories of slaughter, skulls, skins or bone. Baka have more respect than that. They take only what is necessary. And sometimes it is necessary to fell a fifty year old tree with an axe, have it crash into the swamp with a racket in order to get to the unreachable honeycomb because the honey is so good! The spoils of the forest are brought to the smoky kitchens of the village where the orange and red hearth of the women's fires transforms leaves, nuts and roots into meals to the amazement and enchantment of the wide eyed children that watch this magic. The Baka are spirit walkers and antediluvian shadowers of animals. In them, I see a quiet reverence for the Divinity who sits on the tip of the tongue, beneath the wings of the bird, beyond earthly grasp, in the realm of fascination.
Within the village, there is a brotherhood, even if this brotherhood is beginning to mutate with the influence of tourism. The introduction of material resources such as radios and a generator with no fuel, have not yet twisted into capitalism and its silly hierarchies. The village lives in commune-ism. The Chief is a quiet man who knows how to hold his tongue. Ask the chief who is in charge of the festivities and he will tender, "The man who rattles his butt with the belt made of nut shells. Rattle butt is the one who speaks with the Beautiful Protector." The outrageous old witch doctor who smells a lot like booze tells me that the Beautiful Protector has asked for maize wine so that the women's song can bellow into the heavens tonight. Women! Drink and sing! Yodel your voices to the beat of the drum, chant to the rhythm of the rattle butt, dance with the red lightning fairy. Sing until the Beautiful Protector is at ease, at peace with the fact that at least one village still remembers her mystery. Sing about the riddle of our existence in this space together and the arbitrary crossing of our paths. I don't really understand what you are saying but the mushroom at the root of the sacred tree whispers that I do.
If the rainforest of Northern Gabon were a part of the human anatomy, it would be the armpit. Hot, moist and primordial. It has a funky smell like gym clothes left to decompose in a locker room. If it were a gland, it would be the sweat gland. An overactive one that causes perpetual embarrassment to its host. If it were a color, it would be dark red, a dull dark red. The color of the waters that flow at the base of the forest canopy, collecting iron from the corpses of a million decaying organisms. Water stained with blood. Blood flowing through the veins of a sleepy fiend. Water flowing, carrying us on canoes along with the currents into the heart of darkness, my fingers tracing patterns on the surface of the river, water rippling behind me with the attentiveness of silk.
Air is heavy and cool with the threat of an imminent downpour. I expect rain will fall from the sky in buckets, in bathtubs. Rainwater en masse that will reprocess into misty clouds within the pools of swampy, steamy mud that enfold the river. Thick, honeyed mud that longs to suck you in. I appreciate the fact that there is no appeasing this mud, it commands that my foot release a sound to reverberate into the depths of the woods, a sound that would make the mammals within earshot blush. A sound resonant with the lust of a body welcoming another into its depths.
The forest is still. Barely any living thing stirs. There are no insects, no mosquitoes, no mysterious rainforest bugs, despite an ecosystem that seems affectionate to our creepy-crawly friends. There are no crocodiles, no hippopotami, no exotic birds, except one that seemed like it was lost, a bird that disappeared as soon as it was spotted. Spiders tumble into the canoe off of low lying branches as we brush them with our heads, the spiders tell me that they want to come inside. The forest is like a temple, a womb. There is no malevolence here. Only the steady flow of the river with its silent currents, currents that I recognize could take one under if they were offered a foolhardy traveler like me. I sense that the forest stirs with ferocity underneath its sheer veil of calm. But I cannot penetrate it, my senses are not sharp.
If the Baka people who live in this swampy forest were a tarot card, they would be the Hermit. Isolated and inhibited, withdrawn from the world, their senses developed to distinguish the forest's mysteries. But they are forgotten by the world in these backwaters like a fairy tale hero whose story is no longer told. Here the Baka live, pregnant with ancient knowledge that a modern society driven by economics no longer knows how to denominate. Here in the forest, they sit on a treasure chest full of cowry shells that can no longer be used for barter. Despite their invisibility to the outside world, the Baka walk delightedly along their forest paths, paths that swallow up footsteps as soon as they are trodden. Invisible paths that are lined with hidden traps to ensnare bushrats, porcupines, panthers and tourists that happen to wander into them. The tourists are the only ones that are charmed with the entrapment. This is because the Baka do not want to eat us.
The forest responds kindly to its Baka protectors, offering meat, fish, fruits and other gifts. Like the ounce of whiskey that can be drained from a certain tree trunk, better and more potent than a whole bottle of the best 15 year old scotch whiskey. Like a bushrat, charred over a fire and cooked with leaves and spices to taste like gamey, spirited duck. Like neon pink flowers falling at your feet along a forest trail. Like wild honey out of a fresh honeycomb, dripping down fingers and chin, leaving traces of golden sparkling dew in moustaches. Like a panther caught in the trap of a thirteen year old boy, an opera of a story that he can forever recount to get chicks. Like roasting of pink peanuts over a fire, picked green from a field in the early morning mist by a wrinkle of a grandmother. Like a gurgling spring of fresh water along rocks. But the forest is also harsh. There are no schools, no hospitals, children with malnourished features. Reality is sometimes unromantic. Reality can sometimes overshadow the fact that this forest is the most magical I have ever seen. Unless you choose which reality you want to see.
The Baka are people of this forest and river, they paddle upstream and down and through the swamps with their canoes carved out of tree trunks, along labyrinths of water and earth. They paddle through silky waters of the archipelago of islands made from tree roots, in this universe that is like a microcosm of the earth, the ocean and its landmasses. In these endless mazes the Baka orienteer distinguishing cryptic knife marks left by their clan members on tree trunks, the graffiti of broken branches, the sharp ascending curve of a palm tree and the number of mushrooms on a piece of driftwood. I envy their sense of direction.
The Baka are a clan of three thousand people living off the spoils of this forest. They are hunters who still use gunpowder instead of cartridges to shoot their ancient rifles, rifles that spring hand carved spears into the hearts of elephants. Elephants that are hunted for meat to feed entire villages, but also hunted due to a seduction for ivory among strangers far away from here. Baka do not adorn their villages with hunting trophies, memories of slaughter, skulls, skins or bone. Baka have more respect than that. They take only what is necessary. And sometimes it is necessary to fell a fifty year old tree with an axe, have it crash into the swamp with a racket in order to get to the unreachable honeycomb because the honey is so good! The spoils of the forest are brought to the smoky kitchens of the village where the orange and red hearth of the women's fires transforms leaves, nuts and roots into meals to the amazement and enchantment of the wide eyed children that watch this magic. The Baka are spirit walkers and antediluvian shadowers of animals. In them, I see a quiet reverence for the Divinity who sits on the tip of the tongue, beneath the wings of the bird, beyond earthly grasp, in the realm of fascination.
Within the village, there is a brotherhood, even if this brotherhood is beginning to mutate with the influence of tourism. The introduction of material resources such as radios and a generator with no fuel, have not yet twisted into capitalism and its silly hierarchies. The village lives in commune-ism. The Chief is a quiet man who knows how to hold his tongue. Ask the chief who is in charge of the festivities and he will tender, "The man who rattles his butt with the belt made of nut shells. Rattle butt is the one who speaks with the Beautiful Protector." The outrageous old witch doctor who smells a lot like booze tells me that the Beautiful Protector has asked for maize wine so that the women's song can bellow into the heavens tonight. Women! Drink and sing! Yodel your voices to the beat of the drum, chant to the rhythm of the rattle butt, dance with the red lightning fairy. Sing until the Beautiful Protector is at ease, at peace with the fact that at least one village still remembers her mystery. Sing about the riddle of our existence in this space together and the arbitrary crossing of our paths. I don't really understand what you are saying but the mushroom at the root of the sacred tree whispers that I do.
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