IMAGE: PROMPERÚ
PERU
and good fortune. On each of my cheeks, she paints dots of dye made from the local annatto plant — a custom at Awajún gatherings, where the number of dots are used to signal the wearer’s marital status. We trail the women down a path that follows
a sacred route through the Nuwas, each of their steps emitting a chorus of clicking beads, until we reach an enormous tree, its bushy canopy soaring 50 metres above the forest floor. This is the tsaik, known as the ‘tree of life’ to the Awajún. Nivia instructs me to wrap my arms around its great, ridge-carved trunk. “Breathe in and release all the bad,” she instructs. The Awajún believe that the tsaik washes away negative energy, and so everyone who visits the forest must embrace it before entering. “It fixes everything,” she says. “If you’re having a problem with your partner, it will fix it.” We continue down the path, dodging tangled
vines that block our way. The air is thick with humidity and the smell of burning wood from a distant fire. Greenery explodes from the line of trees that flank our route, rising to the sky like defensive walls. We pause to pay respects to the guampoo, its enormous buttress roots looking like they could engulf us. Nivia thumps on one of them, making a loud, hollow sound that cuts through the quiet. “This tree is a home for the spirits of the forest,” she says. “When it makes this sound, we know the spirits are happy.” Pushing further down the path, we come to a
thatched-roof hut built using woven wild cane, outside of which several Awajún women are waiting to greet us, their faces brightening into warm smiles as we approach. They beckon us inside, where they’ve laid out a bounty of fresh fruit foraged from the forest, much of it totally unfamiliar to me. Nivia breaks open a prickly cocoa pod and feeds me the fleshy, chewy seeds; there are many varieties of cocoa in the Nuwas, and the Awajún women own and run a chocolate plant nearby. Next, I try the vitamin-rich, savoury aguaje — peeling away its fibrous skin to reveal sun-coloured flesh — and the tomato-like cocona, an orange-yellow citrus fruit that’s used to treat diabetes. “You can find everything you need in the forest,” says Nivia. Before we go, we’re called outside so that the
Awajún can see us off with a traditional dance. Accompanied by the slow heartbeat of the tantui drum — made from a hollowed-out tree trunk — one of the women warbles a traditional love song about a wife longing for her absent husband. We watch as the rest of the group bob and twirl in a circle,
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Awajún women wear the fragrance of vanilla orchids to parties, to signal to men that “they’re ready”, Margerita says with a wink. “If a man betrayed his wife, he’d come back smelling of another woman’s vanilla, and she’d know.”
the constant clatter of their clothing a percussive rhythm. Earlier, Nivia had told me that the rattle of their clothing is meant to mimic the sound of a waterfall — now, if I close my eyes, it’s as though cascades are rushing over the rainforest.
The craft keepers The next day, we leave our base in Moyobamba — the regional gateway to this part of the Peruvian Amazon — and travel to Chazuta, a small town in the foothills. The journey is perilous at times — switchback roads take us through the thick of the jungle, where greenery-covered cliffs rise around us and plunge into the misty banks below. As we approach the lowlands, mountains give way to farmland and flashes of the Huallaga River appear between trees, glinting in the morning sun. A sign in the shape of an urn welcomes us to
Chazuta — a regional centre for traditional pottery, thanks to the local Indigenous population, which have passed down their ancestral techniques. It’s also a hive of activity: vendors hawk bucketfuls of wild, whiskered Amazonian fish; three-wheeled mototaxis careen down the narrow streets; fishermen drift down the river on wooden boats, their motors sputtering over the current. The low- rise houses are splashed with vibrant shades of green, blue and pink, fronted by dusty courtyards where children play and street dogs roam. We come to a stop in front of a long, thatched
building. Waiting outside to greet us is a woman wearing a flowing, dusty pink skirt, her hair decorated with coral-coloured flowers. She introduces herself as Consuelo Ríos, a member of the Yana Rumi, a collective of female artisans from Chazuta who are working to preserve the town’s artisanal heritage. “Hola,” she says, opening the gate to a palm-dotted garden and breezy, open- fronted studio. The walls are daubed canary yellow and large, earthen vases — hand-thrown by the
Right: In the wet season, the Amazon River expands so much that it floods the forest floor, turning parts of the rainforest into a giant watery maze
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