Thursday, February 3, 2011
The shamans hands circled above his head, hands undulating in the phosphorescent smoke of the burning jungles leaves, howler monkeys raucously laugh at his attempts to incorporate the divine. The village is silent, if silence is possible in the midst of a living jungle. The steam is its sweat, it never sleeps, the rivers its tears, the echoes its past, present and future.The eyes of the native children widen as the voodoo doctors hands crisscross over the flames, singeing his skin, his eyes roll back , hes blind. Tongue stretches out , contorting his face in a grimace of what? Pain, pleasure, divine ecstasy? i cannot tell. he lets out a guttural yell, a growl, and for a moment i swear there is a jaguar in the middle of the village, a fierce primordial beast, a killer of men, a myth of legend. The shaman collapses, blood pours from his nose, The elders rush to his side, as the pained face relinquishes a smile. "Auk co wae tae. Sino chuk take." Translation: The gods are angry. There is no blood.