Blinding Light by Paul Theroux Page B

I can’t shut this program off!”
    When Steadman turned to speak to Ava, he saw that she had walked a little distance to where the women and children had gathered. He joined her there, noticing how the women were touching her, appealing to her for—what? Medicine, perhaps, some sort of handout. The old man wandered over, scraping his feet in the dust, feeling his way from shoulder to shoulder.
    â€œThey all have drizzling colds,” she said, and touched the nearest ones. “This one has a low-grade infection. Look at this kid’s shin. The sore is so deep it has eaten into the muscle. This old man could lose his eyes—he needs an antibiotic. He’s rubbing them, for Christ’s sake.
No toca, no toca
.”
    â€œThe
paje,”
Nestor said. “Himaro. The brother.”
    â€œHe’s also a shaman,” Steadman said.
    Don Pablo now appeared again. He wore a smock and a crown woven of slender vines and a row of stiff feathers. His eyes were wounded too, one weepier than the other, which was bloodshot and turned inward. The ailment made him seem more of a brother. Yet the shaman had a clumsy agility, and while he was anything but deft, his gestures were the more effective for being approximate, commanding attention and asserting control through his show of clumsiness. The Secoya near him were watchful in a shy, respectful way, giving him room as the old man worked his fingers like antennae, positioning them as though he had eyes on his fingertips.
    Nestor signaled for them to follow when the old man turned and shuffle-kicked toward the stamped and smooth center of the village, where there were pots and baskets. Before the smoky fire were logs arranged like benches.
    â€œSit down. Have a cold drink.”
    Hearing this, Hernán dragged the blue plastic cooler toward the log, opened it, and passed out cans of soda. The white visitors drank, looking exhausted in their crumpled clothes, while the Secoya stared, naked, saying nothing, the children’s noses dripping. Some men lying in hammocks humped and rolled over and, still horizontal, stared sideways at the strangers.
    The pile of pots, the baskets of cut vine stems, the enamel bowls, on a shelved frame of lashed bamboo, suggested cooking, but nothing was on the boil. Near this paraphernalia some women knelt, grating manioc.
    â€œThis would make a super credenza,” Janey said, gripping the bamboo frame. Then with a pitying smile she said, “But I peeked inside one of those huts. You know, they don’t accessorize at all.”
    Irritably, Sabra said to Nestor, “Are we supposed to sleep here?”
    â€œWe’re putting up hammocks, or you can find a space on that platform back there under the ceiba tree.”
    â€œWhat about washing? What about eating?” Wood said.
    â€œI was going to give you some of the background,” Nestor said. “This is a spiritual thing, like religion and medical combined. There is so many aspects. Maybe you like to know?”
    â€œYes, all,” Manfred said.
    â€œSkip the background,” Hack said, lifting his elbows, creating space around him. “I’m going for a swim.”
    â€œWe have manta rays in the river,” Nestor said. “Hernán got stung by a ray and he was in his hammock for three months.”
    Janey said, “What about din-dins? I’m peckish.”
    Nestor leaned over and worked his mustache at her, smiling in toothy incomprehension.
    â€œHungry,” she said.
    Nestor spoke in Secoya, and one of the woman grating manioc replied to him without looking up. Still pushing the stick of manioc against the grater, she called out. A child’s voice sounded from the direction of the big tree and the smoky hut, and within a minute two young boys hurried into the clearing with a pole through the handle of a large blackened stewpot. A girl followed, carrying tin bowls and spoons.
    â€œWhat is it?” Janey