The missionary service in Guyana has a sister station dedicated to bringing the word of God to the fierce Auca Amerindians. The first overture by the missionaries in the Fifties was adamantly rejected. Five missionaries ended up losing their lives before evangelization efforts ceased, at least for a spell.
Had we known the history of this pocket of Ecuador on the Peruvian border, we may have reconsidered. So keen were we to get our beetles into service that Clarissa and I did not hesitate. Auca territory lay within striking distance of the coca bushes of Peru and Colombia and within a three-hour flight of the northern slopes of Bolivia. Upon being met in Quito, we were escorted to an even more remote mission smack dab in the midst of the former head shrinking Jívaro tribe.
The mission was nestled in a wild area bordering the Rio Pastaza about fifty air miles south of the Auca mission. Best of all it was only a short paddle down a gentle stream to a decent sized tributary of the Amazon that we could use as a transportation route if need be or even an escape route if push came to shove. But I am getting ahead of my story.
Right at daybreak on the fourth day, we prepared to take off from our mission outpost for the three hundred odd mile flight south to Manaus. Three days later when there was a break in the weather we eventually were able to make a five-hour hop west to Iquitos. We took off about an hour before daybreak. The next day was an easy two and a half hour jaunt to Quito where we were met by representatives of the mission to the Jivaro's that must remain nameless. That afternoon, well before the sun set, we landed on a red dirt strip in the middle of forbidding jungle.
At altitude, the selva had been a benign green tapestry laced with brown rivers. On final approach, as we became immersed ourselves in greenery my worst fears surfaced. The jungle had a menacing air about it. Clarissa soon caught onto my mood but all of that evaporated when we were welcomed by our hosts. We were overwhelmed by the friendliness of our missionary hosts as well as by brief encounters with the Auca people. Clarissa was soon preoccupied with the need to look after her little soldiers.
We immediately made arrangements for her little soldiers to be accommodated. Within the span of two hours, a pile of corrugate iron roofing material had formed a crude pen. We banked it high with earth had been banked high with earth to keep it cool. The rim was coated with the sap of a tree, the name of which escapes me, if ever I did not know it. A Jívaro, who spoke very good Spanish, informed me the beetles would surely abhor the smell of the sap.
Of course the beetles did stay away from the rim, not that it was of any consequence because the sides were too slick for them to navigate at any rate. The children, both the missionary offspring and those of the Jivaro's who had moved near the settlement in order to improve the education of their children, volunteered to keep Clarissa's little soldiers fed. All anyone at the station knew was that Clarissa was doing insect research that would have marvelous results if she were successful.
It was about three weeks before we were ready to make a foray into our first target area in Peru. We did not dare risk flying because of Fujimoro's, you fly you die policy. It wasn't even tempting. If we were blown out of the sky at this stage of the game, all our efforts to date would be to no avail. It was not likely that anyone would be so foolhardy as to come along and pick up the torch.
It was still dark when we set off with two Indian guides. Jamas, the one who had been so helpful on that first day and Macuma had been most helpful in the tedious task of preparing ova packs. These were first sized bubbles of beetle eggs shrink-wrapped to delay the hardening of the viscous matrix in which the eggs were embedded.
"Slow and sturdy wins the race," Clarissa said as she shouldered her backpack and fell into step behind Macuma.
"Slow and steady," I said not bothering to waggle a finger at her because it was still dark."
"Whatever."
The four of us were laden with backboards containing the bubble packs and not much else. We travelled Jívaro style. Jamas and Macuma looked after us as they would their own children, not that their children would require the guidance in the jungle that we did.
Laden as we were with bulky loads of beetle ova, Juanita and I soon learned why one of our guides always brought up the rear. After an hour on the trail with the sun already hot and the atmosphere oppressively humid, I was tempted to turn back and tempt Fujimoro to do his damnedest. I stopped for a moment and leaned back against a tree. I had no sooner done so, than I felt a whack on the pack.
"Never lean up against trees, Señor," Jamas said softly as though he were admonishing one of his children.
I felt properly chastised but did not know why. I was under the impression that the whack was a sort of symbolic punishment.
"Señor, Look."
"That's a fer de lance or its cousin," Juanita said. "I've come across them in St. Lucia. They are dangerous to the nth degree."
"Spoken like a true scientist," I replied feeling more than a bit shaky.
"Almost as dreaded as the Jívaro, Senor," said Jamas.
"You almost made your last estupido." Macuma's ungrammatical phrasing contained an elegant poignancy missing from Jamas and Juanita's comments.