The old man turned his head to the horizon. Around him, his wife’s ducklings pecked at a drying puddle, quacking noisily. The day was hot and dry. Two continuous days of summer had followed a week of overcast heat falling over the corrugated iron roof of the old man’s home. The leaves of grass around the house were already withering, and still no clouds were in sight. «No worries, rain will come at any time». The old man had had enough. He asked me to hit the trunk of a nearby Brugmansia tree with a stick to order rain to pour. «You’ll see it works», he said, mischievously, and leaned back to alleviate the pain in his chest. Tuberculosis had turned his breathing heavy and slowed his words. In silence, we sipped from a bowl of manioc beer, waiting for his lungs to fill with breath again. 

A black fly rubbed its legs on a beam. The old man tried to squat, but was betrayed by his strength and had to lie back down. The busy noise of a mining truck hummed on the horizon. It grew increasingly loud, then it faded away. It was the first open-pit mine in the country. Reclining on a pillow, the old man continued: «That lawyer from the mine came again the other day. He brought roast chicken and insisted on taking my grandson to the city». For over a year, the CSR lawyer had been trying to buy the old couple off their land. At first, he had appeared conciliatory and gracious. The offer was generous, he claimed, and taking it was the right thing to do. He offered the old man’s grandson a proper education. Didn’t the old man want to leave the young a better future? However, when the lawyer’s patience wore out, he began roaring threats and serving legal papers. But the old man knew little about the law and wasn’t much interested in the letters he received. He preferred to read the Bible, he said, and books with plenty of colour pictures. But now that the lawyer had heard the old man was dying, he had become affable again. 

«What did you do?» I asked. «Well, we ate the chicken, of course, but still won’t sell the land. You’re not supposed to sell land, you know… Nor would we ever let that silly man take Oso with him». We laughed until the old man lost his breath again. For years, the old man had been raising his grandson as a son because his mother had gone to work abroad. Oso was growing into a great hunter, and, like the old man, he had no need or business in the city. Soon, rain began pouring over us. The old man smiled. «In our language, we call this plant yumí maikíua. When you hit it, its spirit leaves the earth and calls the clouds in the sky». 

When the old man died, he was buried in his land.

Author Bio:

Sebastián Vacas-Oleas is a social anthropologist working with the Shuar people of lowland southeast Ecuador. His research engages with indigenous history, indigenous political movements, and resource extraction in Amazonia. His broader interests include indigenous land management, autonomy, and Amerindian cosmology.

Banner Image Credits: The author (Sebastián Vacas-Oleas)