Tears Mark Welcome for Unarmed Guests

We land at the tapiri. Apoena does not hes┬Čitate. He takes a burden of water-filled gourds from an Indian woman and adds it to his own. A frowning warrior points to our firearms. We leave them in the hut. The Kreen-Akarores fear pistols and rifles; several bear scars of gunshot wounds. We are six from the post. Apoena. Four Xavantes. And I, Jesco, or as other Indians named me, Borbula, “man with the great moon face.” With the dual handicap of heavy cameras and a large belly, I fall behind. The Kreen-Akarores give me bananas. We march almost 24 miles,…
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