Uncontacted, page 4
He understood the arrow tip thrust toward his throat though, and proceeded to move as instructed, flanked by a warrior on each side. Terrified, he had no choice but to march on. He was being taken prisoner by this tribe, a native people he had never seen before. Where was he? Taking one last look back toward the mud flat, he saw Kamnan’s body silhouetted against the gray sky, and then it hit him: they were leaving him there to rot as a warning to other sailors who might consider landing on these inhospitable shores. Keep away from this place.
As he waded at arrow point across the shallow water separating the flats from the beach, staring into the dense jungle that loomed ahead, he couldn’t help but wonder.
What would his own fate be?
Chapter 5
Brazilian Amazon
Antonio’s senses were on high alert as the game trail led into a stand of vegetation so dense it was like walking through a tunnel. He and his tribal escorts (he preferred to think of them that way as opposed to guards, at least, even though he was well aware that’s what they were) had to duck in places, so low was the green roof. But when the tunnel ended, it emptied into a crater-like natural amphitheater, one that held a village.
The scientist paused at the entrance to this amazing place, wanting to take a moment to assess it, to drink in the details so that he could reflect on it later. But the tribesmen on either side of him pushed him into the amphitheater, where several people nearby—all nearly naked—turned to gawk at him. So much activity, Antonio thought. There had to be at least a hundred people in here, bustling about, coming and going, preparing food, washing utensils and fabrics, working with stone tools and weaponry. There were huts, too, simple ones, some in the middle of the open space, with others lining the perimeter.
Looking straight across the bowl-like area, Antonio could see a rock wall that he knew was the face of the mountain he had flown over earlier. Looking up, a lattice of greenery enshrouded the place, no doubt concealing it from the air. He wanted to stand there and take it all in for longer, but it was too late. A throng of natives surrounded him and began shouting excitedly. It was clear they didn’t come into contact with outsiders very often, or at least have them in their village. It made Antonio a little nervous. These people were very far removed from civilization. In fact, he began to suspect that his earlier suppositions were correct, that this tribe may actually be heretofore uncontacted.
Incredible! The scientist in him couldn’t help but continue to make observations even as his own personal predicament continued to unfold. Some of the children were tugging at his clothing now, the very texture of it a novelty for them. Others, adults, reached out and felt his hair, running their fingers through it, expressions a mixture of curiosity and mirth.
“Wait, let me show you something! I have something for you!” Antonio said in Portuguese, but he had no doubt the language might as well have fallen on deaf ears. He struggled to recall the word for “gift” he’d used successfully with the known tribes, latching on to it after a few seconds before it could slip away.
He said it, but still received no reaction that suggested recognition. No, he decided, this tribe is speaking not only a different tribal dialect than the ones he’d visited before, but most likely an entirely different language. Unbelievable! He couldn’t wait to be the one to publish this finding in a scientific journal. A new Amazonian language! He’d be cited by other scholars for decades to come based on that alone, never mind the additional findings that would come from describing the customs and ways of life of this newly discovered culture.
But he was getting ahead of himself. Right now, there were more practical matters to attend to. Looking around the village again, he didn’t see any signs of foul play or serious illness or anything else that would cause mass deaths such as those reported in the jungle cities. But he hadn’t yet communicated with them about anything, much less the deaths, and that was not going to be a trivial matter.
Antonio took advantage of a small scuffle that broke out among the children who were jockeying for position in order to grope at the outsider, and he slipped a couple of feet away to give him enough space to gesticulate to the elders.
“Okay?” he said, while pointing around the village. He knew that “okay “was high on the list of all the English words recognized by those who didn’t speak English. And yet, the only thing the natives seemed to respond to were his physical actions. He winced as the wooden shaft of a spear came down hard on the elbow of his outstretched arm, knocking it down. A stern warning. It dawned on Antonio that he had communicated nothing to these people except perhaps some vague intention of doing harm by pointing.
He made up his mind then and there that, barring some unforeseen developments, he had done what he could and would have to call it a day. It was time to let his camp know that he had made contact with what is likely an unknown tribe, that nothing along the lines of what President Rocha was looking for is showing up here, and then he would return to base camp.
He slowly—very slowly, aware that all eyes were on him—reached into one of his pockets, and removed his digital camera. Upon seeing the shiny metal object, a dozen pair of hands shot out to touch it, but Antonio held it above reach while he powered it on. At the electronic chime and the mechanical whir of the lens opening, the tribal people shrunk back in shock, eyes wide.
“It’s okay,” Antonio kept repeating in a soothing tone, as if talking to a pack of dangerous animals. He didn’t think of them that way, but he had no other way to communicate for the time being. He snapped a picture with the camera and the flash went off, clearly visible and stabbing through the dim shade of the canopied village. The villagers gasped and shielded their eyes. Before any kind of physical reprisal could come, Antonio turned the screen around so that they could see the image he had taken, and the tribal people gaped with wonder at their own likenesses displayed on the device.
“A picture, that’s you, I took a picture!” he said in Spanish. As they mobbed in to grab it, Antonio realized his mistake. He would never be able to get that back from them, and now he wouldn’t have it to document them with. He did not carry a cell-phone, which might have offered a camera. The idea was to give them enough gifts for them to be happy with him, so that he may then depart peacefully. Then he would return later with a full expedition to pursue his formal studies.
As he produced a simple Bic lighter, demonstrated how it worked to stunned tribespeople, and then tossed it to them, Antonio backed away from the small mob in order to give himself space to think. He would have to be very careful about who he brought along on this expedition. His current team, while they could certainly be part of it, did not possess sufficient expertise to handle the documentation of an uncontacted human tribe. Not many people in the world did. So who to enlist?
The answer hit him as he watched a man with an animal bone through his nose set fire to a stick using the lighter. He needed an anthropologist. And not just any anthropologist—a couple of the post-docs on his current team were anthropologists, after all, but he required someone with real authority and unparalleled expertise. Antonio himself, as an ecologist, wouldn’t be wholly qualified to elucidate the customs and language of these people and place them in proper anthropological context. Then, as he watched the stick burn down to a charred nub while the tribespeople passed it and the lighter back and forth, a name popped into his head, and he knew that was the answer as surely as he knew he was onto something with this strange and primitive tribe.
Stel Foster. “Dr. Stel Foster,” he could mentally hear the man say, introducing himself many years ago at a conference on indigenous peoples. “I’m an anthropologist, I study people,” he had actually felt the need to point out to Antonio, who understood the reason why. It was because renowned anthropologist Stel Foster, an Englishman educated at and now employed as a researcher by Oxford, was critical of Antonio’s own work, and found it to be dismissive of tribal people. He put this disdain into words at that very first meeting of theirs, at what was to be the beginning of a long and bitter rivalry between the two scientists for dominance in rain forest research circles.
“You simply cannot treat indigenous people as bio-cogs in an ecological wheel. They are human beings, and they need to be considered—and treated—as such.”
Antonio had defended himself by saying that he studied ecosystems as a whole, and since indigenous tribes were a part of that whole, that made them part of his purview.
Antonio quickly patted down his cargo pants pockets, aware that for the moment he was not under the watchful eyes of his minders while they played with the toys he’d given them. Although he had no cellular, he did have a satellite phone. It was supposed to be for emergency use only, if they needed to call in serious outside help due to a medical emergency, or were they to become dangerously lost, something like that.
But this was a professional opportunity of a lifetime, and he wasn’t going to let it pass. He fumbled the phone out, about the same size as a smart-phone, and powered it on, turning so that he faced away from the tribe, lest they see it and want to play with it before he could get his call out. He lit the thing up and opened his contacts, praying that he had remembered to synch his work contacts with this thing. Come on, come on…There!
He scrolled through the entries and breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw Foster. The natives were literally getting restless, Antonio thought, knowing that they wouldn’t be distracted for much longer.
He tapped the screen and placed a call to his professional rival.
Chapter 6
Andaman Islands, Indian Ocean
Dr. Stel Foster’s mouth turned down at the corners as he thanked the ship’s communications officer. They were almost to the island, and so he wondered who would be placing a shore-to-ship call for him now. Hopefully not the Indian government, who had sent him on this voyage. There had been an increase of late in reports of violent clashes between a notorious native tribe of the islands and passing fishermen and other boaters. Better make sure, though, Stel thought, moving from his place against the ships rail, where he’d been getting his first good glimpses of the Andamans. Lush jungle, mostly flat interior, beaches and mud flats.
The last thing he needed was to come all this way for nothing, but it would be even worse if he were to actually go through the trouble of getting off the ship and making landfall on the island before he found out something went wrong with the funding. He was not one to work for free or to waste his time. If this turned out to be a wild goose chase, then fine, but he had other things to do, no need to hang around here.
He breezed into the communications room, although he found “room” to be a little grandiose a term for the small alcove tucked away in the bridge. But it did have a working ship-to-shore phone and a communications officer manning it. That man nodded at his approach and handed him the receiver. “For you, sir, caller says it’s urgent.” He cupped a hand over the mic, in case Foster refused the call.
“Where are they calling from, New Delhi?”
The comm man shook his head. “Brazil, sir.”
Brazil? Now that was strange. “I’ll take it.”
The ship’s officer handed him the mic and left the alcove, drawing the curtain across as he did so. As if that did anything, Foster thought. All it did was give the illusion of privacy, anyone on the bridge could still hear perfectly well what was being said. But he knew he was being cynical, as always. The curtain was to cut down on the bright light through the bridge windscreen in daylight, which made it hard to read the radio displays.
Foster sat on the stool that was bolted to the deck and held the receiver to his ear. “Dr. Stel Foster speaking, to whom do I have the pleasure of interrupting my science cruise for?”
But even before the caller, whoever it was, began speaking, Stel knew this call was going to be interesting. In the background he heard wild shouting, or enthusiastic grunts, or some combination of it. Very tribal, that was for certain. For a moment he thought someone was playing back one of his many field recordings he’d made in situ of tribal people over the course of his career. Except that it couldn’t be. The voices grew louder, and he was able to make out individual words. Except they weren’t words he understood, and that’s what made it so very odd. Because he was an expert in tribal linguistics. As close to fluent as any non-indigenous person could be. And yet….
I have no idea what those people are saying. Putting it down to some kind of prank, he decided to get on with the call. He had imminent business to attend to here, after all. “Am I the only one on my end of the party line here? Anyone going to talk to me?”
There was a beat and then a male voice, American, came on the line. “I’m not sure that even the likes of you would be able to converse with these people. And in that context, it’s good to talk to you, Stel.”
Stel racked his brain to match a face to the voice, and then he got it. That wanker American, the ecologist. Always trying to one-up him in the journals. “Antonio? Is that you? Where are you?”
“It’s me, Stel. I’m in the Amazon, and I’ve found something here you’re going to want to see.”
Chapter 7
Brazilian Amazon
Antonio ended the sat-phone call and pocketed his device as the tribespeople tugged him back into the thick of things, into the center of the village circle. They wanted to show him a few things now, including a selection of animal hides, bones, teeth, and jewelry fashioned from the same. They foisted upon him a feathered necklace made from the plumage of parrots. Antonio tried to tell them that a trade wasn’t necessary for the items he had given them, but this was impossible to convey and he certainly didn’t want to insult them by refusing what they had to offer, so he accepted and put it around his neck.
After trading a few more items, Antonio pointed to one of the huts, constructed from thatched palm fronds interwoven with bamboo, trying to hint that he wanted to go inside one. If nothing else it would give him additional insights into this tribe’s way of life. Surprisingly, they readily agreed, and he was soon encircled by tribe-members of all ages as they walked him to one of the huts near the center of the village circle.
A curtain of vines hung over the doorway, and one of the villagers held them aside as Antonio stepped through. Inside, a light and pleasant fragrance issued from a pile of sticks and leaves burning in a stone bowl near the center of the hut, which had only a dirt floor covered with woven grass mats. Three people occupied this space, all of them elderly females, and all of them sitting cross-legged on the floor and weaving more mats out of palm leaves. Antonio nodded at them and they stared at him without nodding in return or saying anything.
Antonio exited the hut and he was then led to another next to it, this one occupied by four men sharpening arrow points on a smooth, large stone. One of the men held up a point he had been working on and held it out to Antonio. When he hesitated, the tribal man, also somewhat elderly in appearance, although Antonio supposed that could mean he was somewhere in his forties, wobbled the arrowhead in his palm and leaned in close to Antonio. The ecologist reached out and took the weapon. He was surprised by its heaviness, and again by the sharpness of its sides. Modern manufactured arrowheads made from metal had nothing on this finely crafted implement, Antonio thought. He handed the arrowhead back to the craftsman, wondering if one of these four men had made the arrow point that had struck his ultralight.
He thanked them as best he could for their hospitality and was shown out of the hut and around to more of them, repeating much the same scenes of domesticity or craftsmanship. When he had visited all of the central huts he looked over to the largest perimeter structure, an elongated lodge-type building with large open-air windows running most of its length. Standing at one of the windows and observing him was an older tribesman. Antonio was about to point him out as a way of asking who he was, that is, what was his job in the tribe. Maybe they’d let him tour that building, too, who knew?
But then the children mobbed him again, this time fixating on his watch. he was prepared to barter it if need be, so he unlatched it from his wrist. When he handed it over to a small sea of outstretched hands, he caught the time on it one final time. He was surprised to learn that hours had passed since he’d landed. Looking up into what sky peeked through the canopy, he could tell it would be dark soon. It was time to make contact with his team.
With his wristwatch in the hands of the children, some of the pressure was off of him as the tribe passed around the foreign gadget, and so Antonio stepped a few feet away toward two of his minders, as he thought of them, that he recognized from his welcoming committee at his plane’s landing site. He conveyed to them through hand signals that he needed to return to his plane, and then pantomimed using the radio, which they had seen him do before.
He wasn’t sure what their reaction would be, but was surprised to be met with immediate agreement. Sure, they seemed to say, let’s go. It concerned him a little that they wouldn’t let him go alone, though, but then again he wasn’t trying to escape. Quite the opposite, he was trying to contact his own people to tell them he’d be staying here longer under his own volition. He set off down the path outside the village with a contingent of tribal minders.
Once at the ultralight, Antonio was mildly amused, but also concerned, to see a small monkey scuttle out of the frame upon hearing their approach. He had no doubt that were his aircraft to remain here indefinitely (such as if he died in the jungle), that the rain forest would claim the ultralight as its own, overgrowing it, raining it to rust and burying it in leaf litter until it no longer remained in its present form, sort of like a shipwreck that succumbs over the years to the ocean. Explorers in some distant decade would come across it, document it, and speculate as to how it came to be.
