Local Man Dies Of Old Age

Part 6 of 31

They Found Another Body

In preparation for this series, I devoted myself to going to 30 funerals, done on a daily basis, skipping Sundays. I haven’t used any of the inspirational words that I got from each one, seeing all that as a precious bit of comfort for the families, and personal, no matter how obviously it's just a lot of jawboning fluff. Yammer yammer yammer.

Today is the only day I’m going to refer to these gatherings, mourning the dead, comforting the afflicted, the sad, and the often-impatient wanting just to get it over with. I went to the final goodbye ceremony for this guy, who will go by a fake name today so as not to further agitate the family. I’ll call him Yon Quith, no relation to Yon Q. Public. But of course the Quith family is a big one, rivaling the Public family, Quith being one of our main names. Unfortunately, though, because they "had something better to do" or out of some heinous grudge they have against their own, most of the Quiths weren’t there, but a representative sample of brave souls, holding their nose, still made for a decent showing for the deceased.

You see Yon above in the panel of undoctored photos, that he started early manhood with a youthful appearance and good color. By the end, though, he’d withered substantially and lost his natural color, taking on something of the hues and tones of the Incredible Hulk, green but not with envy. I can’t think what it is that causes people to turn green, too much copper, not enough parsley root, something, bile in the liver. I hope he did something for it, medicine at the very least, Quith Bros. Cough Drops, Trade and Mark, cherry, licorice, anything but lime. He was green enough.

In addition to liver problems, the other disease that took him away goes by the generic name of Old Age and associated conditions. I myself am well beyond my teen years, and the things of Old Age, generis degeneris has me degenerating at a pace commensurate with my calendar age. I’ve been able to avoid the hospital so far, being one of those guys who’d rather die at home up until the pain is too great. At which point, hopefully, the Angel of Final Mercy will leave the Quiths and the Quones long enough to take care of me. But I’m really in no rush. I need to outlive my dog.

Mr. Quith here has the full range of things that accompany a good death. The appearance of Father Time himself, an old favorite from New Year’s Eve when he’s freshly born, pictured here in one of his guises, the old man from earlier on Dec. 31. My grandpa used to have a bunch of scythes like that for cutting weeds, so I grew up wielding those. They look scary to the average guy but they’re a great comfort to me. Then there’s a mailed-in poster card from Death himself, someone I also know. Really, the only stranger here to me was Yon himself, and the way they described him he would’ve been a heck of a guy to know. Started a business, hired a bunch of people, sent birthday cards to their children, etc. A real suck-up, but they’re still sorry to see him go.

Those Deadly Newspapers

Part 5 of 31

They Found Another Body

There’s always degrees of happiness and sadness in comparing your own life to that of someone else. It's not usually a good idea if you can help it. And usually we can't.

It used to be that neighborhoods had a lot of consistency, stability. The same neighbors there for decades; they just evolved in place from spores. Of course the kids always moved eventually, even if it was just to the attic. This is probably still true in little places where there's no market for houses and no one remembers why anyone ever moved there. In the Big City, though, people are coming and going at all hours, a different pickup truck every morning. Where the previous residents go, it's not always good to know.

The guy in the illustration is reading the newspaper just like I read it. Except I shake it a couple times to straighten it out before saying, "Hmm, another tragedy. They Just Found Another Body Somewhere." Lying in the woods, crushed by a train, hanging in a dump site, or tied in the ditch. But nothing is as common as finding someone in the river. It's weird how I did a lot of fishing in years gone by and never saw one body. I remember going fishing with my dad and there was zero trauma. Now you show up and the first thing you see, There's somebody! Even the fish are huddled on the beach waiting for the cops.

It spurs some thoughtfulness for the guy when another guy bites the dust from mistreatment by his shrew of a wife, henpecking him to such a horrible degree that in the end, that's the end. Then dot dot dot. A different day, it might've been different. They might've found him by the chimney flue of the outhouse at the state park, a terrible place to find someone when he's got to go. He should’ve taken her to court and divorced her when he had the chance, and I'm no fan of divorce. But it’s better than messing with state property, ruining our outhouses.

“Imagine that…” Indeed, imagine that. We can hear his tone of voice. We also see the signs of reflection on the henpecking wife's part, ‘Am I really that bad?” Yes, Missy, you shouldn’t have done it. Greg was working as hard as he could to provide this love nest for you, and this was the thanks he got... Normal talking and conversation along with being constructively critical, to a certain extent, as long as you have affirming solutions, is one thing. But if it's nothing more than nag, nag, nag, dragging him down, pointless criticism, never grateful, carping, sniping, never happy, always riding him, detracting, cutting, nitpicking, bristling, the voice of constant ire, nasty asides, throwing things, muttering under your breath, and of course complaining, that's what everyone hates, and one other thing we hate, having a brother having to live through it...

OK, the marriage was never that great. And now, after her unfortunate demise, the guest room's open for renters. You can read about it in the paper. But remember, the newspaper you read could be the newspaper that sinks you. And imagine the headline the next day. Avoid the news, you're always happier living in ignorance.

The Frog, No Idea

 Part 4 of 31

They Found Another Body

Here’s a case where they actually did find a body in the river. Whether it was floating, dang it, they didn't say. Sometimes they float and sometimes they don’t, so six of one, half dozen... If you had only your keys and 50 cents likely you'd still be bobbing. That's some good information to remember, your chances of survival are always better if you're broke. And if you can keep your head up, that helps, trying not to get blinded by the sun. Oh, hell, do it however you want, but you're better off staying in drydock. Try to think of the survivors and community. We want it wrapped up as soon as possible, live or die. And think of the community's grief; it's incidental, yes, but there's something there, even if you're just a lesson for others.

I’m very interested in the things of grief, whether personal or shared. You might've heard me brag about that a few times, that one of my hobbies is being something of a student of mankind, with a minor in grief management. Have you heard me say that? People ask me about it all the time. They see my poker face at solemn events. I stand there like a tree, my hair lightly tossed in the breeze. My eyes are farseeing, yet I appear silently consumed by the grief. They ask, "Have you learned anything new about life?" I usually say, “You have no idea.” Because that’s how it is. I’m moving through life in a never-ending pursuit of knowledge, of our joys, sorrows, wisdom, and follies. I’m understandably proud of the whole schtick. I love your insightful question.

Anyway, back to the guy, I don't think we had a name for him ... Frogman or just Exhibit B. What do you think, heaven or hell? For dogmatic reasons — I’m sort of the anti-dogmatist — I don’t come down on either one quickly. We must examine the totality of life, and whatever we decide, if it would cause more grief for the survivors, we must — if we are merciful — tell them the opposite. Keep it light, cheery, but not too cheery, you don't need to smile, just be there for them, comfort them, and give them peace, whatever you have to say. Then flip a coin, that's his destiny.

His life was already a hell, no doubt. From the looks of it, and I don’t have the files on this case I'd like, and I’m sure I'd cling to every nugget that presented itself, he had some contact with trouble. Examining the artwork, we discern Thug A, the guy at the door, was working on the guy for vengeance or a payoff. Our hero (B) was in trouble and knew it. But he wanted to survive. But the guy with the gun wanted his cut, wanted what he thought was coming to him. Or, check that, if operating on instructions from Mister Big, whose interests present certain hopeless demands, that put him in No Man's Land, headed for the water.

Let’s say he couldn’t pay back Mr. Big. Mr. Big has him offed through Thug A. Thug A drags the body of B to the river and tosses it in.

However it happened, Frogman aka B ends up in the river, and when they hauled his body in an actual frog was found in his pocket, very much alive! Proving without a doubt that every time something horrible happens, something good can and perhaps might come out of it, if the whole story gets a full hearing. Inspirational.

Take Terrible Evildoers First

Part 3 of 31

They Found Another Body

Like everyone with any sense, I'm always wishing for perfect justice. Which is of course usually a disappointment in the results, since justice, even when we've got someone really trying their best in the courts and government, doesn’t always happen. Because someone’s got their finger on the scale and the whole thing's skewed.

When it comes to a different kind of justice, as in reuniting people with their loved ones, even if it’s only bringing their bodies back after death for closure and a nice service, even that's not always possible. And not necessarily through any red tape. Life’s not willingly against us, we hope. But not everyone can be found. When you swim with the fishes, whether someone threw you in or you jumped in, sometimes you stay with the fishes. Not to be too glib — I'm never glib — but life is a crap-shoot, a bastard, always the first and only draft, and not everyone comes back. As much as we rue it. I'm flogging myself as we speak.

The critical thing, if we hate our loved ones winding up in rivers and being lost, is to prevent it from happening in the first place. A simple act of prevention is the whole ball of wax. Everything you can do through prevention pays rich rewards for life downstream. With the added benefit that we don’t even know the problems we would’ve had had we not been in prevention mode. It’s better to be in prevention mode all the time than to rue it years later, moaning, 'I should’ve been in prevention mode.' The best way to not find your loved one’s body in the river is to not let them be in the river in the first place, in which case they weren't so there's no worries.

Do I wish life had more intrinsic justice and happy endings? Of course I do. Nearly everything that goes wrong for me — from computer breakdowns, stuff stolen, flat tires, low on money, dog’s sick, I’m sick, not having the ingredients when we want something for dinner, having neighbors mad at me for nothing — finds me looking back at what could’ve been done to prevent it. With myself possibly being at fault? That's a question. I don’t blame anyone else, unless there's someone else who had a role in screwing it up. It doesn’t happen enough like that, but when it does, you certainly have to consider, “If this person hadn’t been there, how would it have worked out? Wonder if he swims for exercise?”

It’s always fun to engage questions of What If? If life could be rigged so it was perfect justice, one part of me says that’d be good. Truly, what if only terrible evildoers were ever lost to the river and drowned? Or the only ones they ever found in the river were murderers? That’d be good, I guess, except for the unnecessary wear and tear on public boats. Having to scrape barnacles off them, etc. But it’d truly be great for the police. They'd show up at the river every morning and collect the bodies of various lowlifes, not bothering with mortuaries, just tagging them, taking their fingerprints, various possessions, and sending them straight to ... wherever. Dry dock? A few nasties taken care of, no muss, no fuss, perfect justice for all.

The Angel of Death

Part 2 of 31

They Found Another Body

Wow, what a sight! So that’s the Angel of Death. Very attractive from behind, know what I mean? Something in the way she moves. And quite the deal, on a sunshiny day like today her face is still in the shadows. Nothing but beauty, I’m thinking, her modesty's so overwhelming you don’t even really see her. But you get all the hints you need, the class she has. A gentle nature, one assumes.

Her dress, it’s beautiful, flowing, reaching the ground, very modest. And the lightning bolt feather hat, what a bold accessory. Her midsection, narrow. I suppose food still passes through her. Must be a very dedicated pipe, kept clean so she's never stoved up. The Angel of Death, if she’s ever been mortal and has died probably doesn’t want to go through that again. Or if she’s purely immortal, it’s not a huge worry. Her lightning hat, it could channel pure light or pure darkness distilled from natural forces, one of the perks of the job.

Then there’s the wings. Or is that just a fashion statement with the dress? “I’m lighter than air, as I choose,” that kind of a vibe, something no one else says, but for her, indeed, she probably does flit from place to place. More likely vanishes here and reappears somewhere else, with the wings being symbolic. Or it could be — and I’ve heard the forces of nature like to keep it real — that they're real wings! That'd be definite integrity, like the old banks keeping it real by using only 1800s calculating machines, or even older, or like Scrooge did it, by hand and with one helper, running his daily tallies entry by entry.

You'd definitely hope nature isn’t quick to update its methods. It’s be to our advantage. But maybe something that slows it down would be welcome for the stuff we take as negative. If the Angel of Death can’t get to people fast enough, so much the better for them. If they’re doing fine, why disturb them? And even if they’re barely hanging on to a bitter life, begging for release, a few more hours of misery couldn't so bad in the full scheme of things. She knows what she’s doing. Her solid stance doesn’t look like anyone's at their wit’s end.

I’ve never actually seen the Angel of Death like this, beyond pictures. But maybe someday, depending how it works, I'll behold someone contained in her own shadows like that, a walking mystery, how exciting. It'd be amazing. I’d love to have my selfie taken with her and show it around. If people ran away screaming then, maybe I was part of her important work, giving them a tiny bit of notice before she comes flitting ‘round the corner.

Wait, what if she's here for us?

They Found Another Body Floating

Part 1 of 30

They Found Another Body

I'm going to be looking at various deaths in the Big City or Big World throughout the month, a full examination, no holds barred. But on the advice of my plumber, Dick, who almost went to law school, I need to add some disclaimers. Any names of actual people actually used for actual cases is possible. Because there’s so many cases and so few names to choose from. Dave, Ed, Jane, Mary, it’s all coincidental. I will never intentionally trample the toes of aggrieved people.

At the risk of putting too fine a point on it, there is absolutely no intention, no conniving, I’m not trying to get in trouble with anyone or add misery to anyone, whether in small helpings or heaps. I also don’t want any more trouble with the police, lawyers, agents, or beneficiaries looking for a “killing” of a different sort by taking my last few dollars. If your loved one has died -- and I trust you can prove it in court -- you can be sure that anything I say here is not a reflection on them.

I plead with you to look at this as a composite picture of actual cases, a leg from this case, an arm from another. If it involved a frolic in the park, perhaps a more personal part of a loved one, I have in no way identified it by distinct wounds, birthmarks, or eyewitness accounts. This is especially true if the parts were particularly odd, as would have been the case if I wrote about the guy with a strange limp we’ve all heard of with parts resembling a cudgel and accompanying walnuts, literally the firmness and texture of dead walnuts and worth about as much. I will not mention him by name. Tony’s just a nickname.

For a select few subscribers I’m making access available -- and all copies are presently under library audit and may not be ready for some time -- medical guides to the eye and ear. I picked these two particular volumes for the important information they give. So that if you have an issue with any of my posts, again assuming your own loved ones are referenced and thereby could make a handsome payday by declaring me guilty of cashing in on their good name and character, or causing reopened wounds for you, heaps and mountains of renewed misery, including body parts draining in bitter grief, the flow increasing as the wounds are bared to the world, you can refer to them. If you didn’t see my various disclaimers eschewing guilt about their identities, and if you didn’t hear me plead, scrape and moan in disclaiming responsibility, you can refer to these books to determine what’s wrong with your eyes and ears.

One other disclaimer, I’m not referring to any particular person in particular, especially not you, sir, with the cut under your left eye and the sun-burnt forehead, still with the faint outline of a swastika tattoo from your teen years, praying daily near the river, thrashing about, asking God, “Why did you take my loved one?” You know the actual truth, sir. You had something to do with it, and I will implicate you as soon as I double check the evidence. But pulling someone’s arm most the way up their back, then kneeing them at the lower back till they’ve limp/leaped all the way across a field to a river does indeed constitute complicity. According to my plumber.

Check the books! I’m not talking about anyone in particular. Your eyes are your problem. Your ears are your other two problems. If you didn’t refer to the books when you had a chance -- they’ve been under audit since 1949 -- I’m sorry, I can’t help you now. I’m sorry about your loss. I know he or she was a great person, which may have been part of the problem. Your jealousy was so great.

Once Saved, Always Saved

Chapter 25 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The End of the Trail

We've reached the end of the trail for "Head Hunters of the Amazon" by F.W. Up de Graff. Chapter 25 is only five pages long. But there's a lot of interesting nuggets in it, 'Where's the Gang Now?' stuff.

It tells us that Up de Graff with Morse took a steamboat from Iquitos to Manaos. Then he had to wait a week or two for an ocean steamer to get there to take him to New York. The delay was nearly the cause of his downfall. Because he met another guy who'd left South Africa shortly after a gold shipment disappeared there. Who proposed that they go in together and hold up the bank in Manaos where he knew a gold shipment was that had arrived from England. The guy went in and out of the bank and pronounced the project "a cinch." But finally gave it up when nobody would help.

The same guy then proposed they go to Venezuela where diamond fields had just been found. Up de Graff actually says they made preparations to jump into canoes, having stowed their provisions, etc., when he got a letter from home saying they really wanted to see him. So he gave up the idea. But before he sailed, he met his old friend William Game, just returned from the head-waters of the Jurua, suffering with "berri-berri." I looked it up: "Thiamine deficiency," usually caused by poor diet or alcoholism.

Game had news of Jack Rouse, who'd gone with Game on a rubber expedition with a few Indians. The Indians robbed them of their canoe and deserted. Game and Rouse were soon out of rations. They lived a few weeks, then got berri-berri, which Rouse died of. Game didn't have the strength to get Jack's body out of there, so he climbed on a balsa log and floated down to the first plantation, and after that took a boat to Manaos. Up de Graff never saw him after that, but later heard he was off to the Klondike.

Flash forward approximately 15 years, "not many years before the World War," Morse was standing in the entrance of a New York hotel and saw a guy with a white-bellied spider monkey (maquisapa), doing an organ-grinder gig and passing the hat. That turned out to be Ambusha (Charles Pope)! Who promised to meet Morse later that night, but he never returned.

Back to Up de Graff waiting for the steamboat, still in South America, he went ashore and met a man at the United States Counsul, Mr. K.K. Kenneday, who collapsed when he told him he was F.W. Up de Graff. Kenneday had been looking for him for years, with mail for him piling up in his office all that time. They figured he was dead.

Sailing away, Up de Graff reflected on his whole journey, then arrived in New York on Nov. 18, 1901, seven years to the day since he sailed for South America.

Guess I'll say a few things about myself. I discovered this book in the 1970s. I had it at the place where I worked and we looked at it, found little passages and laughed about them. We enjoyed a little bit of the adventure but thought everything was funny. I had a similar book of exploration with a picture in it of a guy being carried on a bed by natives. I thought that was this book, but it's not. Then my copy of "Head Hunters" was somehow lost in a series of moves.

Then a few years later I found another copy at a book sale, also now decades past. I've recently again gotten rid of a bunch of books when I moved, but kept this one, still intending to read it but never getting it done. Summarizing it as I have now, of course I had to read huge bits of it, get the gist of the chapters, etc., but as for actually reading it word for word, I still haven't done it. And knowing me, I probably never will.

But a few years from now I will have made my way to New York. I will have a white-bellied spider monkey, doing an organ-grinder gig. My copy of "Head Hunters of the Amazon" will be with my stuff. A guy who read my series all the way through -- and thought it was fascinating enough that he was prompted to rob steamers in South America of bank shipments -- will walk up and say, "Aren't you the guy from the internet, Grandma Slump, who wrote about this book?" I'll have the immediate impulse to deny it three times, the monkey will kiss me on the cheek, the Lord will suddenly appear, very disappointed in me, but I'll die and go to heaven anyway, because Once Saved, Always Saved.

Amen?

Sick of Monkey, Taking Pills

Chapter 24 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Crowning Folly

Up de Graff went through a lot but he still wasn't ready to go home. The spirit of the wilds had possession of him. Then he heard of a get-rich-quick scheme concerning the rubber trade, but the only crew he had left was Morse. And Morse was on his way out, leaving him with an Indian boy, Supaitranca. Still, his mind was made up, so they set off on the journey. He spent a few months wandering through swampy forests but didn't find the Indians he was seeking and very little rubber. Then the boy died of fever.

At that point Up de Graff had no living thing to keep him company, not even a parrot. It was a very lonely place. He walked through the forest, but all he saw was the same thing, forest and never-ending swamps. He lived like an animal from day to day and had a hard time finding enough food. My personal opinion, that would be terrible. No food, not even a parrot to keep me company with its meaningless chatter... "Rawk! Cannibals, I'd run if I were you!" Cannibals never eat parrots unless they're terribly hungry.

But he made it back to the town of Barranca, and in a few days Morse reappeared, having news of a "sure thing" concerning exploring. Up de Graff was skeptical, but Morse gave a glowing account of a possible cattle and cedar business in a particular place. He even had a bag of English gold which an Iquitos merchant had advanced him for the venture. This convinced Up de Graff. So off they went, confident of success. 

They had an Indian companion who fell ill of fever the first day, then he became weak and could do no work. They talked it over with him and he agreed to be put on a raft with provisions and to be shoved off toward Barranca. So he was gone.

A few more days and they were demoralized. Ahead was three long months of travel before they would reach a particular place on the river. They were depressed. Then as they happened to be looking out toward midstream they saw in amazement a young Indian girl, Breginia. They talked to her. She was alone. She decided to accompany them. And she was of great value to them, knowing the various dialects of the country, being a good lookout-person, etc. She even knew the arts of tracking and hunting animals, supplementing their dwindling food.

But as they went on at length, they were again out of food. They went on. Up de Graff got sick. But he was able to kill a monkey and eat it and take some Holloway's Vegetable Pills, which was restorative. As they were headed back toward civilization, Breginia departed, because there were guys ahead who would've enslaved her. Up de Graff recalled her fondly, that she saved their lives.

What do you think? Is this journey almost over? I'd say! The chances of finding another companion like Breginia weren't good. And Morse was gone again. And it was all wearing on Up de Graff. It's wearing on me and this is a 100+ years in the future. I'd be saying, "If I never see another drop of river water it'll be too soon! Monkey might be good for survival, but frankly it's making me sick. And Holloway's Vegetable Pills may make you feel better but ... Hmm, you're right, these really are good medicine! Pass me that box!

Grubs, Worms, Ants, Ants, Ants

Chapter 23 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Morona

Ambusha left the expedition at the end of the last chapter. The explorers were down to four. And they went on, paddling and poling their way on rivers for about 90 days. The first 60 were on the Morona, which overflows its banks intermittently over the first six months of the year. Its depth varies depending on the local rainfall.

There's lots of semi-stagnant arms of the river that drain the marshes all around. It is something like a great swampy maze. It makes for difficult traveling by canoe. But there were no natives around to guard against, the biggest enemy being ants. You can't sit down in the woods or even stand in one place for long without being overrun by ants, from almost invisible red dwarfs to giant Alligator Ants, the biggest ant in the world (1¼ inch). You wake up at night with your camp is alive with them. The book has nearly three pages devoted to ants.

Then there's grubs, worms, caterpillars, toads, frogs, lizards, and even rats out there doing their thing. Seriously, there's enough nastiness to make you promise yourself and your loved ones that you'll never go there. And if you do, you declare that you're willingly taking your life in your own hands and hold everyone else harmless as far as blame. But if you come back, we expect souvenirs.  And we're not talking shrunken heads.

After 60 days paddling they had gone around 300 miles. Now jaguars were numerous, and in the river splashing about after fish. The team passed into the Cusalina, en route for Macas. A few weeks on the Cualina, they came to a portage trail that led to the Santiago. They went through an unexplored zone. The sole representative of civilization they found was an old Ecuadorian half-breed and his family. He lived in perfect contentment. They bargained with him to help them transport their things across country about 15-20 miles in exchange for their big canoe. 

In the area they also came to a place that had a small population, a priest -- the rest being away on errands of mercy and church business -- and a few renegade Jivaros. The priest was lord and master of the area and wasn't pleased to see the explorers. But he cheered up when they told him they weren't staying. Nope, he's on his own. Doing whatever. And that's just the way he likes it!

I'm letting the rest of the chapter go, except at the end it was April 1900 and they met a guy named Don Juan Ramirez. He changed their plans.

Ambush's Panic, Two Gunshots

Chapter 22 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Strategy

Up de Graff and the explorers had to move at once. Being at the mercy of the infuriated -- wildly inflamed -- Huambizas was clearly bad policy. Either push upstream or backtrack, go somewhere. But to go upstream would a hard fight; their equipment was too heavy for the five men to cope with. They'd be easy targets for a surprise attack. And they were still desiring to trade the Jivaros out of their shrunken heads.

The explorers decided to follow them downstream where they were sure to be curing the heads. They might be able to make a good deal with them. But between now and then there were still security concerns. A number of battle-heated savages were still around and in a nasty temper. Some were trying to "borrow" rifles, with threatening spears in hand. One especially persistent guy was hit by Jack in the chest with the butt-end of his Winchester. The explorers were losing their self-control, but just wanting to avoid another massacre. And I have to confess, impending massacres always give me the jitters.

You might remember the crewman called Ambusha. He's the guy Up de Graff kept his eye on most, for his excess drinking of rum, reading up on anarchism, having an oily manner, being shifty and a known liar, cleaning his rifle too much, etc., and how he was relieved of his duties as cook. They put him in the middle of the column of boats as the fleet started moving.

They had one last look at the grinning skulls of the shrunken heads with their bulging eyeballs and "dry tongues lolling in a mute farewell." In an hour they stopped at a sandbar for the night. They were separated by a safe distance from their native "allies." But they still could tell what they were doing, sitting around the fires and putting the finishing touches to the heads. There's a little intrigue. All along the head of the Jivaros, Tuhuimpui was hanging around with ideas of his own, even helping guide the formation of boats together with Up de Graff.

Now as they were traveling, Tuhuimpui steered Up de Graff's canoe. Tuhuimpui had received Up de Graff's orders -- this particular boat was not to move up from its place in the rear, and they were to take no risks. In quick succession, then, two shots from downstream roused them. Immediately, Up de Graff swung his rifle to the right and fired it into Tuhuimpui's stomach. The chief wilted and slid into the bilge-water. Other shots were made and the native canoes sped up in panic. These two shots by Up de Graff weren't random; it was arranged that two shots would be the signal if there were trouble downstream.

A few minutes later they came across Ambusha alone in a dugout. He was the one who'd given the alarm. He said, "The Indians in my canoe turned in-shore without a word of warning and landed, leaving me alone on the bank." He was sure they were up to deviltry, so he pushed off and fired. That was a lame story, of course, but Ambusha was judged a benefactor anyway, because Up de Graff was convinced an attack would've come sooner or later, and circumstances would've been more against them. It's always nice to do the wrong thing and have it turn out right!

Shrunken Heads Made E-Z

Chapter 21 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Jivaro Heads

What's a book on head hunters if you never get to the hunted heads and what happens to them? The subject's been mentioned a few times but I feel like we're on the brink here of something more. What they got busy doing when they had a victory on the battlefield. Up de Graff calls the scene a never-to-be-forgotten day, concerning these relics of war. You're in for a real treat. Or if you're the kind of person who gets sick easily, and I definitely am, you might want to sit this one out.

The enemy left their dead and dying behind in their flight. The victors dashed forward to take the most prized spoils of battle, the heads of the slain enemy. They went from corpse to corpse with stone-axes and bamboo knives and other instruments to gather and string these emblems of victory. The explorers being right there in their midst were also pressed into service helping with these practices. Up de Graff says, deflecting any criticism, that "had we attempted interference, we were but five in a horde of fiends, crazed by blood and lust."

He says the stringing of the heads is an art done to facilitate their transportation. They are strung on thin pieces of pliable bark from saplings. The bark ropes are passed through the mouth and out at the neck. We've heard it in western movies how they're going to "string 'em up," but this is a whole different thing. It doesn't make it any less deadly. But in the westerns that's the process of dying, not the aftermath, which, if I recall, is being buried with your boots on.

The party next got down to looting the houses from which the defeated enemy had come. Taking everything of value. Such as Peruvian coins, cups and saucers, knives, handkerchiefs, spear-heads, etc. Then they set fire to those places and that was that.

There was another party of the Antipas who had separated from the others earlier, storming a group of huts up the creek. That other group was on their way back to rejoin the others. They were laden with nine heads of the enemy, some tied in pairs by the hair and slung round the neck of their conquerors. Gruesome enough for you? This procession was led by a diabolical-looking creature, described by Up de Graff as "a short, fat savage; laden with his share of the spoils, grinning in triumph, with his teeth stained black and filed to a point, his thick-set shoulders spattered with the blood of his victims..." Sounds like a real sweetheart.

Up de Graff reflected on how these spoils of war would eventually be displayed in the glass cases of a great museum or be included in the collection of a curio hunter somewhere in the world.

The procedure of crafting a shrunken head is spelled out in some detail on page 276 and following. There are free PDF files of the book, and if you search therein for "The ceremony commenced with the placing of the heads in the sand" you can read all about it. I however am excused from any and all blame for what you do with this weird knowledge, and ask that you don't tell me what it is. I will leave it as your own business, between you and your clergyman, and of course the local police. But, crap, the detail! I'm about to be sick.

The Night Before War

Chapter 20 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

War

A native leader, Tuhuimpui, confronted the explorers, "We have heard that you have come searching for gold... You will be killed, so we have come to help you back to safety." Up de Graff responded that they could take care of themselves. The leader replied, "We will help you ... Let us join forces..." Up de Graff believed Tuhuimpui's object was the same as the others, getting his mitts on the canoe full of presents. But they still made a bargain.

Tuhuimpui's escort gave the explorers some 200 men from tribes joined in a common mission. The first day everything went great. They had plenty of choices for meals because of the natives' hunting skills. Then day after day they pushed upstream. Nightly the explorers watched the natives with the same suspicion that they were trying to get possession of their things. But they tried to stay diplomatic. I'm imagining they'd be like, "Can I watch your canoe full of presents?" And we'd be like, "No, thanks, I'm good."

As far as exploring went, they made some interesting experiments with electric eels. The eels are so charged with electricity that you can't possibly keep hold of a metal instrument if you make contact with one. When Up de Graff tried to cut the head off an eel the machete flew out of his hands and his arm was temporarily paralyzed. Electric eels, though, make delicious eating, no cleaning necessary. Slice one like you slice bread and they fry up pure white and firm. How would you like to eel up a feel? I mean, feel up an eel?

Tuhuimpui and his men had now been with the explorers two weeks. Around then they started gearing up for war against the Huambizas. Tuhuimpui's tone was grave. "Now indeed we shall return with many heads." That evening a few from Tuhuimpu's Jivaro force went to spy out the land. Later Tuhuimpui came to the explorer's shelter with a gourd full of dark paint, or stain or dye from huito, a kind of walnut. War paint. The explorers also joined in, right down to darkening Jack Rouse's bald spot! And the scouting party returned. I'm eager for this, put our heads together and come out ahead.

The Indians began preparing themselves for the war-dance. Then came thunder and rain. In a half hour it passed. In the morning they had breakfast, then the time came for the attack, Oct. 27, 1899. The group split into two parties, with the explorers bringing up the rear. The Huambizas were right there ... somewhere. With a great yell, our attackers leapt from their cover and rushed into the scene of the slaughter. But it turned out to be not what they expected. They didn't fire a shot in either attacking or defense. The scene of action revealed only a handful of men and women natives apparently milling around.

Anyway, that was a real downer, but I guess the chapter had to be what actually happened and not the Battle of the Ages, the Battle for the Head of Every Huambiza SOB. Anyway, "Give Peace a Chance," I guess.

P.S. One other nugget of information: The explorer named Game lost his shoes in the mud and only one was ever recovered.

The Medicine Man's Work

Chapter 19 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Santiago

Up de Graff and Co. made their way to the junction of the Santiago and Marañon rivers. Then they saw some 200 Antipas canoes. And hundreds of natives in groups of families, some gossiping, some cooking, others having their evening meal, and others thinking of war. It was quite a bit different than the first time he saw this landscape, when they first paddled in and no one was in sight. It's like we always think, the whole world would be a paradise if no one else was around. But what would you do for a butler?

The fame of the expedition had spread among the people. So quite a few natives were waiting to trade with Up de Graff, offering fruit, vegetables, and other products for hand mirrors and striped shirts, for example. The explorers tried to drive it home that they didn't want to trade, having four canoes laden maybe five tons of stuff! But no one could be convinced.

They decided next morning to go round the whole beach and present the crew of each canoe with some merchandise to calm them down. Everyone seemed fine with that, but there was a stiffer problem, needing to organize a fleet to move cargo and canoemen up the Santiago and to guard against attack from a group called the Huambizas. They could pay out some axes, machetes, etc., as reward, but the explorers would need to be vigilant that they didn't simply get the goods and vanish.

Most of the Antipas melted away, leaving only a smaller group of their folks behind. And they were all due to be leaving soon. The explorers were having a hard time keeping everyone together, some pretending to fall sick to get out of the deal, etc. Up de Graff summed up his feelings on the folks, calling them "those treacherous and demoralized creatures who moaned and babbled between every half-dozen strokes of the paddle."

Some interesting things about Pitacunca, the medicine man, who used hayahuasca (its spelling in the book). This plant is how medicine men throw themselves into a trance whereby they can utter prophecies. That night Pitacunca was determined to go no further. He drank the drug and wailed out warnings about trading their labor for a shining axe. He prophesied, "Your homes are on fire and your families fleeing through the woods. The Huambizas have taken off half your wives into captivity..." It was a stern prophecy that made them think. In fact, panic broke out in the camp. (Up de Graff has nasty things to say about Pitacunca, "old fake," etc.) Note: If anyone out there has any ayahuasca, I wouldn't mind having some. I could give you a hammer or one of the cheaper models of axes for a decent supply.

But Pitacunca did some very interesting things, like sucking a patient's cheek and producing from his mouth an ant, a shell, a good-sized spider, a snail or small crab, then he'd vomit. He continued producing insects, dead or alive, a hat-full of them. And other strange things! I'd like to think medicine men like him are completely sincere, but who knows. There about has to be some performance art to it, making it a little more exciting, let's say, than "take two aspirin and blow your nose." I haven't had insects come out of my mouth one times in my life and I've occasionally been sick like everyone.

The explorers made the guys (temp employees) make them a shack that evening, then the next day a permanent shelter in which to cache part of their stores against their return. Next, Up de Graff made everyone return their axes and machetes, having failed to keep their contract of traveling with them. After those folks had gone, a couple hours later they checked their things to see if everything was in order. Well, half the axes and machetes and most of the poison were gone! And they never saw Pitacunca again. What do you suppose happened to him? It seriously was probably the ayahuasca. He could see the realms of glory, he knew they were going to screw him on axes!

Early in the morning they looked downstream and saw 55 Jivaro canoes headed in their direction.

Our Bullets Will Chase You

Chapter 18 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Turning the Corner

Pitacunca (the Jivaro medicine man, whom they called Pete) led the way in his canoe, making giant strokes. Up de Graff reflected on Pete's size (massive), his strength (the embodiment of strength and deviltry), and considered his own security as a white man. He didn't believe he could trust them but didn't completely believe that his rifles would be enough to save himself and team. He calls the Jivaros cunning, knavish, and diabolical, with the courage of wild animals in battle but purely looking out for their own interests. I'm myself a nice guy to everyone, but I'd rather not have overnight guests.

In a few hours they were at the western mouth of the gorge, the Pongo Menseriche. They saw some monkeys and decided to take down some for food for the rest of the trip. They were after the howling monkey, called cotos. Those with shotguns were bested in the hunt by those with blow-guns. But they still ended up with around two dozen of them. Up de Graff himself got three, but his were more of a mess (shotgun spray) than those taken with a blow-gun. We used to get rabbits with a shotgun. And it's worth mentioning one of my own adventures, cleaning rabbits while wearing my mom's fur coat. It was a mess and she was mad.

It was Pete's advice not to try the passage of the Pongo that night, but to lash the canoes together, then they'd run the minimum of risk. After dark, then, they moved a ways upstream and pitched their camp on a sand-spit. The two white men kept watch, one at a time, spelling each other every couple hours. Their biggest fear was losing their allies, "who were liable to disappear if the fancy took them." But all slept soundly. And they heard the Pongo's mighty roar on the night air. That'd be great, white noise like thunder.

They were in the luck with the river the next day. It was just right for passing back up the gorge, the canoes strapped together and a log between them. Sweeping clear of the eastern mouth of the gorge, they came in full view of their camp and were greeted by their fellow explorers. Since Up de Graff and Game were a day late, the others had almost gone out looking for them (as planned). They were also glad to see the extra plantains. And Up de Graff himself appreciated the hot coffee and milk the others had. That might've been coconut milk though, probably was, we haven't see references to cows.

Pitacunca took one glance at the camp and the explorers and turned around. He and his people retreated 20 yards away, sat down, and started a dismal wailing chant in a minor key. They seemed distraught at the sight of so many white people as well as their kit. It seemed to Up de Graff that they would never stop "yowling." They continued for about a half hour, then settled themselves by the campfire.

Up de Graff needed to wait for the water to go down at the Pongo before leaving. So for safety sake he showed how accurate they were at shooting small game, as a warning to the natives, particularly the Huambizas. Get this: He said, If the Huambizas "really aroused our anger, even though they might be half a dozen miles up-stream and round three bends, we should sent our bullets off to chase them and them to sleep." But when the natives started getting restless, the explorers decided to get going, choosing to risk the river instead of the people. You see your chance, you take it. Better to get up a head of steam than lose your own head. Let's head out, folks, while we got a head to head out with!

So they set out, and waged eight hours' war against the seething waters.