Chapter 21: Among the Redskins

THERE are in Northern Brazil vast regions populated by numerous tribes of Indians, ranging in number from a few hundred to several thousands in each tribe, into whose languages and dialects not one verse, of the Bible has yet been translated, and among whom there is today not a solitary Gospel worker.
The initial difficulties and dangers of the still future missionary effort among these Redskins will be very great, owing to the remoteness of this great unknown territory, as well as to the character of the Indians and their numerous dialects — which latter may be any number from two to four hundred. Some idea may perhaps be obtained of the characteristics of such pioneer work by the following incident, which occurred in 1909 during my first journey of investigation among the Carajá Indians of the Bananal Island, on the great Araguaya River, the main body of the Tocantins.
Three hundred miles from the nearest white man’s dwelling the nose of my dug-out canoe grazed the edge, of a clean, broad sandbank of the Araguaya.
At about latitude 12 degrees S., facing the great fluvial Island of Bananal, the small Carajá Indian village of Capitao Joao pursues the even tenor of its way, far from the disturbing presence of the white man, and with very much the same conception of life end its duties and pleasures as that which was held by its predecessors of four centuries ago, ere the pale face drove them from the now far-away shores of Brazil, where they had till then reigned supreme.
The Redskins who then inhabited the coast were only driven back after many a bloody contest with their invaders. Time and again the battle turned in their favor, and the trained Portuguese soldiery gave way before them. But it was only to renew the struggle under more favorable circumstances; and it is certain that the Indians owe their final subjugation as much to the astute and subtle diplomacy of the Jesuit monks as to the arms of the invaders.
This Indian village, with its neat and regular row of ten huts or cabins made of green withes and palm leaves, seemed almost deserted, and only half a dozen stalwart, highly-colored warriors and a small group of women and children greeted our arrival.
At first my own presence seemed quite overlooked in their excitement and joy on recognizing in my pilot their long-lost relative, Odidi (pronounced O-de-dee). More than a year had passed since he had left his native village on a journey to see the white man’s world — a journey which had finally landed him in our home in Goyaz city, on the headwaters of one of the Araguaya tributaries, where exists an outpost station of the Evangelical Union of South America. Here he was back again, with a great deal of superfluous clothing; including a straw hat, a very extraordinary collar and tie, and an old alpaca jacket, which he had specially brought with him from Goyaz as trophies of civilization, with which to dazzle the eyes of his numerous and worthy relations.
His completely unclad brethren gathered round in a very critical manner, and Odidi all at once seemed vastly ashamed of his shirt, and hung his head. His little cousins, however, thoroughly enjoyed themselves, literally dancing round him with glee, and frequently stopping to examine in a very embarrassing way every detail — every button — of his modest outfit. But when his hat was removed, and it was seen that his long black hair had been cropped, a kind of shudder went round the longhaired group, and shortly Afterward I saw them trying to trim up more to their liking the little that remained.
I soon discovered that the majority of the inhabitants, including the chief, Capitao Joao, were away on one of their usual fishing and hunting expeditions. For this their sole and sufficient equipment is the bow and arrow, which is as convenient for shooting a fish as for spearing a chameleon or landing a wild duck. Their skill with this weapon is amazing.
After a while my presence was noticed, and for some time I was eyed in much the same way, as the small boy first gazes at a grizzly bear. The Carajá children, with queer little cries, ran for protection behind their mothers, who looked rather scared themselves; and yet I was not half so civilized-looking as Odidi, with my bare arms and legs and crumpled panama, in which the parrots had bitten two big holes. I was nearly as red as an Indian with sunburn, and looked as nearly like a savage as knew how; but even the great scarlet macaws perched on the cabin tops detected an impostor, for they started screeching as only macaws can, drowning all other sounds in their scathing denunciations of the Redskins’ hereditary foe.
As if this were insufficient, an elderly lady of the village, who evidently did not waste much time consulting fashion-plates, completed my discomfiture by raising a high-pitched howl over Odidi, which could be heard half a mile away.
All this was very embarrassing for me, especially as the old dame, in her lamentations, or whatever they were, cast in my direction many a glance and gesticulation, which were not very reassuring; so much so that I quietly walked off to some of the cabins referred to and endeavored to ingratiate myself with their occupants. I invoked the help of a few Carajá words I had acquired, and brought out some fish-hooks, colored handkerchiefs, beads, mirrors, and dolls. All of these were gravely received, not without some suspicion, with the exception of the white man’s doll, which immediately provoked such hilarious excitement among the young and old alike that even my presence was forgotten.
Before nightfall I had managed to overcome the reserve and timidity of the whole village, and succeeded in drawing their smiles, the children resuming their natural happy manner.
Soon after sunset I heard, far away over the dim expanse of water above the village, some faint but oft-repeated cries, which were answered by a loud chorus from the village. It was a fleet of canoes returning home after the day’s catch, and everybody seemed to brighten up in the anticipation of a good meal. Their canoes, constructed of a single log of wood, hollowed out by fire, were laden almost to the water’s edge with about a hundred big fish in each. In addition each canoe carried a few turtles, a few score eggs of the same, a couple of big chameleons, and a large bunch of short green sticks.
The newcomers gave another aspect of life to the village. The canoes were rapidly unloaded, and the fish and other edible contents, just as they were — scales, intestines, sand, and all — were soon piled up on the extemporized tables of green sticks erected between each cabin and its neighbor. A fire, produced by the friction of two sticks, was applied beneath these heaps, and soon the smoky, frizzling mass — some half-cooked, the rest burnt, and all unsalted — was ready for the Redskins’ stomachs; and I, of course, had to take my share.
Three or four of these fires were now burning at once, intensified by the fat of the roasting fish.
Lighting up the dense darkness that now covered the scene, the village had an intensely weird and unearthly appearance.
Meanwhile, the naked Redskins stretched themselves at full length round the fires, the soft, clean sand being still warm with the sun’s heat; and in quiet, musical voices they recounted the little incidents and adventures of the day. These were punctuated by hearty bursts of laughter, or by short exclamations in a shrill falsetto, while every few words of each speaker drew a chorus of sympathetic “umm, umm’s.” I took my place in one of the largest of these circles, turning my bare feet to the fire in the orthodox fashion. I had on each side of me a big, highly-painted and strangely-smelling savage, whose only dress consisted of wristbands (to take the jar of the bowstring), and in the case of unmarried men a small tassel woven below each knee.
One of these latter was a cousin of my pilot, Odidi. He had hugged me with great warmth and had shown other signs of so much goodwill when we first met that I might have been a twin brother. After a while the conversation evidently turned on the white man present, as a score of keen dark eyes were bent in ray direction, and in that same quiet tone and manner they discussed my person and belongings, tried to make sure that my moustache was not stuck or and said many things, complimentary or otherwise, which it was impossible to do more than guess at.
As I lay there looking into their strangely attractive faces, with their interesting figures lit up to fine effect against the dark background by the flickering light of the waning fires, and with the agreeable cadences of their strange language in my ears, I felt my heart go out to these long-forgotten people, and a sense of the utter loneliness, hopelessness, and animalism of their lives came over me. They could never even conceive of the realities of the love of God, of eternal life, and of the grace of the Lord Jesus. There they sat — these beautiful, noble-looking sons of Adam — gazing wonderingly at me, and I was utterly helpless and unable to say what I was yearning to say of the good news of Salvation, for as yet I had found no words in their dialect for grace, pardon, or Saviour. I could only vaguely repeat, “Ahado edaitare, Altada-edanare” (God is good, God is good)! It is true I had not gone there to preach, but to explore and report, with the view of some future attempt to reach them for Christ; but it was none the less grievous to think that I possessed the secret of eternal life, and the remedy for all their sorrows and aspirations locked up in my own breast, yet was as incapable of expressing them as a Roman image could be.
I feel sure that when the light does shine into this darkness it will be found that God has much people among these Indian tribes — much precious fruit for His praise and glory. How much longer must they wait? Where are the long-awaited volunteers?
The fish supper ended and the turtles disposed of, an Indian next to me began to address me in a very soft but impressive way, and not without some oratorical effect in voice and gesture. He spoke with a certain dignity and weight, and might have been expounding some profound philosophical view, or discussing the latest theory of the universe. I endeavored, to appear interested, and was pretty free with my “umm’s” at every pause. This went on for some time, and I began to feel uncomfortable; and when at last he made a long pause and looked at me fixedly in an inquiring way I felt things were critical. At that moment I caught a glimpse of Odidi, who had joined the company round the fire, and beckoning to him I made him understand that I wanted a) know what his friend was saying.
“Umm,” said Odidi, after a few words with his cousin, “he wants to know if you will oblige him a brick of raw sugar.” This is about the highest conception of happiness that a Carajá possesses.
How many great events, pitiful scenes, and awful tragedies, continually being enacted among these far-away Redskin tribes of the unexplored regions of Central Brazil, that elsewhere would arouse worldwide interest and compassion, are here swallowed up in oblivion!
One day, while examining Odidi’s war-club, he pointed out to me, with evident pride, the marks and indentations caused by conflict with some wild animal he had encountered and vanquished. Proceeding, he casually mentioned with perfect indifference that human lives, too, had left their mark on that club. This led to further inquiries, and then tit: told me the following story, relying more on his dramatic action and gesticulations than on his scanty knowledge of Portuguese, and the few words of his own language that I had acquired.
Until a few years ago, he said, there lived on the Tapirapé River a tribe of wild Indians, from whom tie: river took its name. They very rarely left their haunts on the banks of this strange river (concerning which curious facts are related), and were hardly known except by rumor. For some unexplained reason four Carajás had been slain by the Tapirapés under provoking circumstances, and one of the murdered men was Odidi’s brother. The Carajás, who are naturally a pacific tribe, were roused to fury, and determined on a dreadful revenge.
Many hundreds of Indians joined in the raid, and crossing the Araguaya in their canoes — for they only dwell on the eastern bank of that river — they traveled for several days up the Tapirapé. Reaching the neighborhood of the villages of their enemies by night, they silently made preparations to attack them, and soon had formed a complete and extended circle, hemming them in on all sides.
As the earliest morning rays shone out the Carajás stealthily advanced, almost at a crawl, each warrior holding in front of him a leaf of the buriti palm, or a tree branch, to hide his presence from the unsuspecting Tapirapés.
Slowly that fatal circle closed in on the doomed villages, till at last, further disguise being impossible, they uttered a fearful yell, and throwing aside the palm leaves they rushed into the huts; and in probably less time than it takes me to write this had butchered the unprepared and miserable inhabitants to the last man, sparing only the women and children. As Odidi continued to tell me all this he stiffened his powerful body, an awful smile crossed his face, and with a strange glint in his eyes he seized me by the wrist and, dragging me some yards over the grass on which I had been sitting, he raised his club with cruel glee and, swinging it above him, brought it down — I am glad to be able to relate — with only a soft tap on my head. I confess I had a fear that in his endeavors to explain and with the excitement produced by his re-enactment of a tragedy in which he took an active and terrible part, the story might become altogether too realistic for me, especially as we were away out in the open country in the direction of his native village.
He further told me that all the women and children were carried away captive to the Bananal Island, and they either became part of the Caraja tribe we had seen or else were sold to any bidder — sometimes„ to white men in exchange for an ox or other thing, their equivalent for money.
A few years later Dr. Fritz, a German explorer, endeavored to obtain information about this rumoured tribe. He told me that, though he had traveled along its course several hundreds of miles he was astonished not to find any trace of the Tapirape tribe, beyond a few ruined huts on the river banks. This mystery is partly explained by Odidi’s story.
Since that date (in 1913) the Government Inspector of the Indians of this region ascended the Tapirape River and discovered about 1000 or 1500 of this tribe still existing, but living forty miles away from he river for fear of the Carajas. He estimates that the Ca-rajas, Tapirapes, javahes, Cherentes, Chavantes, and one or two other tribes around that, district, number over 20,000 Indians.
And so whilst the Church of Christ hesitates and tribes are passing away with never a chance to hear the Good News — without one ray of spite of the strong appeal made for the men and means to reach these Indians, few seem to have laid to heart the need of these “other sheep.” and God’s chosen man still holds back.
Patriotic in Americans, when they hear of Canada’s virgin soil and bountiful harvests, are willing to leave the Stars and Stripes and live under the Union Jack. How long shall we be content to work only upon our little over-cultivated patch at home, where the results are proportionately so poor, while such vast and fertile lands remain untilled? How much longer shall the virgin soil of South America await the Gospel sowers and reapers for the golden harvest now at hand?
While we lavish large sums on our magnificent churches, chapels, institutes, and cathedrals, and upon ourselves, our homes, and our pleasures, at the same time neglecting our plain — our first and highest duty, surely the blood of these slaughtered Redskins must cry out against us up to the throne of God’s justice! Again the solemn warning rings in our ears: “If thou forbear to deliver them that are drawn unto death, and those that are ready to be slain; if thou sayest; Behold, we knew it not; doth not He that pondereth the heart consider it? And He that keepeth thy soul, doth not He know it? And shall not He render to every man according to his works?” (Prov. 24:11, 12)