A Gift From The Patamona Tribe

They found her sitting next to her mother in the dense rainforest of Guyana approximately twenty miles away from any known houses. It made no sense that she was in this remote area, alive, according to the city dwellers. This was one of the most hostile places on God’s green earth. Jaguars roamed freely. The anacondas that could squeeze and devour a whole cow in a matter of hours frequented the dense under path. Labarias, vipers which struck with lightning speed and whose venom incapacitated a full-grown man pronouncing his imminent death sentence, were numerous. The miniature insects, the aedes aegypti and the anopheles mosquitos, moving in swarms searched for human blood wreaking havoc in the lives of those who dared to travel these remote but breathtakingly beautiful areas. If the yellow fever didn’t kill the unsuspecting traveler, the malaria would, not instantly but the chills and fevers would incapacitate the healthiest of beings.

She was emaciated but not to the point that one would have expected. She should have been in a worse condition. She did not speak. She did not react to the presence of her rescuers, hunters from the Makuri village. She was snuggled against her mother in a horizontal position on the damp rainforest floor. She appeared neither cold nor hungry. She appeared transfixed. How long her mother had died, one could only hazard a guess but it was a miracle for her to have survived given the stench emanating from the woman lying on the bare earth. By happenstance, four stocky, broad shouldered Amerindian men came across the woman and child. They buried the body of the female out of the sight of the child. It was mere luck or divine intervention that the group of strangers passed that way as they sought out some wild tapirs to hunt.

The men were off the beaten path but knowing that members of the itinerant Patamona and Makushi trekked for miles in search of food it was not unusual for a woman and a child to be found in the rainforest. A member of the group, Frederick, recognized the adult female and made it his duty to have the child delivered to her aunt some eighteen miles away to Moruca, a small, lazy riverside village. The pair hardly knew each other. The aunt, an unpleasant, unapologetic alcoholic, did what she could, with the help of females in the village, to nurse the child back to a healthy state over the couple of months. The aunt’s house was a wooden, one-room edifice made from unfinished timber that was carted away daily by trucks from the large lumber companies. The child hardly spoke but, at nights, the silence would be broken by muffled sniffles.

The child’s name was Gabriella. Her aunt, Petra, worked her like a galley slave from dawn until sundown. Gabriella was either fetching fruits and provision from the small farming plot, washing clothes at the riverside, buying alcohol or catching fish for lunch and dinner. The tasks were mundane and monotonous designed to prove who was in control and were barked out with such fury that it caused anxiety in the child. Never once did she complain. There was no one to whom she could complain. Not once did she disobey. It was not a life to which she was accustomed and in her own quite way, she planned an escape from the torment. No one was coming to her rescue as was the fate of so many youngsters living in that village. Their lives were continuous circles of birth, alcohol, poverty and hard work. One advantage that the burdensome tasks had on her was to focus her mind and prepare her for a peaceful, deep sleep every night.

“You are a burden, Gabby. You mother never liked me. Why should I have to take care of her snotty nose kid?” slurred Petra in a drunken state as the two sat at a makeshift table eating deer stew that was prepared by Gabriella. “Your mother was the favored one. She carried the symbol, you know. I see the symbol on you too. That mark of the jaguar on your right shoulder, the symbol of the chosen one. You are a descendent of …” And with that, she slumped over the table and fell soundly asleep. The bottle of paiwari, alcohol made from the fermented cassava, crashed to the floor and broke. It was Gabriella’s cue to clean the mess, being careful of the shards of glass. On completion of her final task of the day, Gabriella retired to her bed and slept like a newborn puppy.

She and many of the youth of the village assembled at the riverside where swimming constituted the bulk of the playful, childish activities on a daily basis. Wood skin canoes, made from the single continuous bark of the red cedar, lined the riverside. Canoeing was another activity mastered by children as early as five years old not merely as a fun activity but as a means of travelling to and from the village and a means of acquiring fresh-water fish in large quantities which they often shared. The older children like Gabriella would run long distances to make food purchases from surrounding villages. There was the absence of a proper network of roads; cycles and bicycles being few and far between. At the riverside, Petra was washing clothing and drinking her paiwari by the riverside. She sat on a long, large rock formation made smooth by the rushing waters of the river over the years. The river had created a concave bowl formation, an ideal natural wash tub. She called over Gabriella, grabbed her by the shoulders when she came and thrust her forcibly into the cold, black brackish waters of the Moruca River; darkened by the vegetation within the river. There was a huge splash followed by a firm grip on her head to keep her submerged. Whatever force was with her, whether divine or otherwise, she remained under the water for what appeared to be an eternity. She swallowed, she gulped, she spat water in all directions. Gabriella managed to extricate herself from the wicked, drunken aunt but not before landing an uppercut to her chest knocking the wind out of her. Francine, a thin, quick-tempered teenager, noticing what was happening at the water’s edge, ran to her rescue. She descended upon the older woman who was buffeted by hands that moved with lightning speed until she was unconscious. Striking an elderly person from the village was a grave offense.

“Remember what we agreed to the other day? It’s time to make a run for it,” declared Francine in a whisper. When Gabriella had caught her breath, she replied, “Yep. I am ready! Let’s do it.”

They both took off speedily to their respective homes and returned minutes later with bags of provision. Her mop of jet-black hair covered her face. She appeared masked with anonymity. No one had witnessed the bizarre action at the river. Grabbing two paddles from the row of paddles laying on the bank of the river, they boarded a wood skin canoe and paddled towards the Waramuri Mission, a distance of some ten kilometers away. They stopped at areas where the river was too angry to cross; got out and carried the wood skin a few hundred meters along the muddy bank before returning to the waterways. They arrived exhausted but in good health and in better spirits. The village toshao, the Chief of Santa Mission, was made aware of the plight of the children. He promptly consigned them to St. Ann’s Orphanage in Georgetown for their safety and upkeep.

Feeza and Gerald Bumbury who were patrons of the orphanage took an interest in Gabriella. They had observed that she enjoyed playing with dolls though she appeared to be about ten years old. She passed the time by herself and never seemed to mix freely but was of a pleasant disposition. A year later, Sister Chung, the supervisor of the orphanage called Gabriella into her office. Gabriella promptly responded

“Gabby! You know Mr. and Mrs. Bumbury, don’t you?” asked Sister Chung sweetly.

“Yes, Sister!” responded Gabriella with that broad smile exposing teeth that were perfectly straight. “They are nice people.”

“How would you like to go visit their home for the weekend?” Sister Chung asked, her eyes darting between Gabriella and the Bumburys.

“Am I going to be sleeping at night by them, in their bed?” asked Gabriella sheepishly.

“Our daughter, Raquel, who is all grown up is no longer at home with us. She is living abroad. Her room has her toys and games still. We can walk by the Kitty Seawall, go to the mall and visit some family members. Would you like that, Gabby?” asked Mrs. Bumbury softly steering at the child lovingly. Her voice was emotional and betrayed her love for the child.

“I would like that a lot. May I bring my doll, Nancy? That’s her name,” replied Gabriella with a huge smile.

“Of course, you may. See you on Friday afternoon, Gabby,” responded Mr. and Mrs. Bumbury in unison. Sister Chung smiled approvingly knowing that she was going to have one less mouth to feed at the orphanage.

The first weekend turned into a second and then a third. Finally, Gabriella was having breakfast, lunch and dinner with the Bumburys and integrated into their household after some formal adoption matters were taken care of. She attended a different school, the New Guyana School, and attended church with them regularly where she had a chance to meet children of her own age group and some kind adults.

“Uncle Bumbury!” shouted Gabriella. “I am scared.”

“Coming! It’s alright. I have a torchlight. Don’t be afraid.” Mr. Bumbury responded, alarmed at the outburst in the wee hours of the morning. He sprinted towards her bedroom fearful that something was amiss. The sleep was fully gone.

“I am afraid of the dark Uncle Bumbury.” She cried. He hugged her and spoke softly to her in an effort to comfort her.

“The dark reminds me of the ugly forest, she sobbed. “At nights, the animals made a lot of noise and I had to chase them away from my mother. They were big and scary monsters.”

“There are no monsters here. I guarantee you. We eat monsters for lunch so you don’t have to worry a bit. Monsters are afraid of me. Did you say your prayers before you went to bed?” he added. He lit a candle and set it on a table away from the curtains and any other obstacles. He prayed for the Guyana Light and Power to return the power. The utility company never seemed to get it right. They were predictable in their inefficiency. It was said that the first word from the mouths of babies was, ‘Blackout!’ Not mommy. Not dada.

“I do pray,” she answered as she pondered her next statement. “When my mother was no longer breathing, I cried and cried but she didn’t move. I saw lights moving in the night and they scared me because no one came to help us. Then one night, a man dressed in a long white gown came and told me that everything was going to be alright so I stopped crying and I listened to him as we sang hymns and chatted all night and all day until the four men came. He said that my mother was going to be happy always.”

“Really?!” responded Mr. Bumbury as goosepimples formed all over his body. He leaned in to hear what else would emerge from this innocent mind. He was aware of a portion of her story but this was certainly news to him and his wife.

“Yes. The man in white told me that the four men would come and they came just as he said. He left when they came and kissed me goodbye. The snakes and the jaguars ran away from him,” she continued, sleep now having left her permanently. He could not sleep after hearing this revelation. If he hadn’t believed in miracles, he certainly did now. Here was a child testifying of God’s saving grace. Whether the being was an angel or the Lord himself, he was unsure.

“What happened next?” he pleaded trying not to sound too anxious less she clammed up as she was wont to do.

“It rained and I didn’t get wet, you know. I never felt cold like I do at nights. He was warm all the time. He told me that I could talk to him when I wanted to…anytime,” she smiled and then fell asleep as if she had suffered from a bout of narcolepsy. He arose from her bed and returned to his bedroom in a state of somnambulism not sure if he was dreaming or if what he heard was fantasy.

At breakfast, Gabriella was not talkative. She never was but she would open up from time to time at the oddest hours. Mrs. Bumbury coaxed her with a few questions but she was not very forthcoming. She ate her scrambled eggs, cheese and a few Crix biscuits and drank a full glass of chocolate milk. The Bumburys watched her in wonderment not sure what to make of her.

“Eat up, missy! Today is your school’s Sports day. How exciting. Even when you come last, we will still be cheering,” Mrs. Bumbury teased.

“But I am the fastest swimmer in my class. So, one gold medal, right?” she laughed. She was in a pretty good mood.

“You bet. Celebration time afterwards at Pizza Hut,” Mr. Bumbury added.

“Go get ready, missy,” warned Mrs. Bumbury, “or you will be late with no hope of winning gold.” Gabriella promptly excused herself from the table.

“She’s an amazing girl. Forgetful but amazing.” Mr. Bumbury laughed. Tears welled up in his eyes as he pondered upon his miracle child.

“What do you think that mark on her shoulder means?” asked Mr. Bumbury, unable to contain her curiosity.

“Call the Walter Roth Museum of Anthropology! Someone is bound to know. There are a few archaeologists located there,” advised his wife appearing more curious since the child’s revelations were made known to her.

“Not when I have Mr. Google here,” rebutted her husband pulling up Google on his sparkling, blue Samsung smart phone.

“What’s wrong?” insisted his wife, finishing off her toast. She leaned over to get a better look at the screen face.

“According to legend, the old Patamona chief who sacrificed himself over Guyana’s highest water fall, Kaieteur Falls, had such a tattoo. And so did his descendants. There is only one mention of it in the search results. This is unbelievable,” responded Mr. Bumbury suspiciously.

“So, she’s part of Amerindian folklore and royalty?” sniggered his wife.

“She’s a gift from the Patamona tribe, darling. What a gift! What a gift!”