teacher however was unique. She was Grandmother. The oldest Being who ever lived. Her essence that of Primordial Female Human Being As Tree. Surprisingly, she was not angry. Or even, apparently, perturbed. It was as if she were explaining how a pet project she’d personally sponsored had somehow gone wrong. But this was only the tiniest part of it.
The waves of nausea were like real waves, bending her double by their force. Into the hole went everything that wasn’t internally attached. And though the waves were powerful, her dislike of them was not. This was different; even vomiting so violently that her body was bathed in sweat, Kate noticed this. She saw that even though throwing up is itself revolting, she had, after many sessions with Grandmother, learned to do it well; almost elegantly. She smiled, even as another wave rocked her off her rough-hewn log seat and to her shaken knees. She did not care anymore about the discomfort of this phase. She knew a phase was all it was. That beyond this three hours of drinking soapsuds and vomiting and going to the bushes, Grandmother waited, just as she had waited for indigenous people sick with disease and fear for thousands of years.
I am an American, Kate thought. Indigenous to the Americas. Nowhere else could I, this so-called Black person—African, European, Indio—exist. Only here. In Africa there would have been no Europeans, no Native Americans. In Europe, no Africans and no Indians. Only here; only here, she said, as the waves of vomiting continued past the three hours and into the evening. I will bear this as long as it takes. This old medicine surely must care for, belong to, me.
She was grateful when Armando brought a new drink, pinkish, and lifted it to her lips. It calmed her stomach immediately. He gave her water. For dinner that night, the last meal they would have for fourteen days, he boiled fish from the river and gave them its broth.
She had read many books about the rainforest, and had longed to meet it. She thought like this. That whenever you go someplace, you meet it, as if it were alive, which of course it is. Now she rested in her hut a few steps from the river and listened to this Being, the rainforest. Why had she ever thought it would be silent? It was the loudest thing she’d ever heard. Like trains and planes and the New York City subway at rush hour. It was so loud, in fact, it actually did remind her of New York. And she thought about the aptness of calling the city “the jungle.” Little did they know! Or perhaps they did. And every sound she heard that was not made by the vegetation, giant trees and tree-sized vines, groaning as they rubbed against one another, was made by creatures. Every Being was chatting, talking, whistling, singing. Singing. Lots of that. And everything was in motion. If she listened closely she could distinguish slithering, sliding, jumping, hopping, ambling, crawling, flying. The cry of a jaguar sent a ripple of fear through their little camp; she could feel it, even though their huts were spread out in the forest, out of sight of one another. It was so loud and offered with such proprietary authority she knew it would make most of them want to run. She thought about running, but where would she go? After a hot and dusty four hours to the river, in a grime-encrusted Toyota that seemed older than Japanese culture, it had taken them half a day on the river, to push off, paddle, and motor to the camp. The boat, an ancient dugout with a rusty outboard motor, had deposited them and left. The boatman promised to return in two weeks. The river was full of crocodiles and piranha. She watched the crocodiles slithering from river bank to river all along their route; though she’d read piranha ate you up only if you were already bleeding. Just her luck she’d tripped on a rock, in the seconds between changing boots for sandals to wear around the camp, and cut her big toe. Kate rummaged around beneath her mosquito net for
The waves of nausea were like real waves, bending her double by their force. Into the hole went everything that wasn’t internally attached. And though the waves were powerful, her dislike of them was not. This was different; even vomiting so violently that her body was bathed in sweat, Kate noticed this. She saw that even though throwing up is itself revolting, she had, after many sessions with Grandmother, learned to do it well; almost elegantly. She smiled, even as another wave rocked her off her rough-hewn log seat and to her shaken knees. She did not care anymore about the discomfort of this phase. She knew a phase was all it was. That beyond this three hours of drinking soapsuds and vomiting and going to the bushes, Grandmother waited, just as she had waited for indigenous people sick with disease and fear for thousands of years.
I am an American, Kate thought. Indigenous to the Americas. Nowhere else could I, this so-called Black person—African, European, Indio—exist. Only here. In Africa there would have been no Europeans, no Native Americans. In Europe, no Africans and no Indians. Only here; only here, she said, as the waves of vomiting continued past the three hours and into the evening. I will bear this as long as it takes. This old medicine surely must care for, belong to, me.
She was grateful when Armando brought a new drink, pinkish, and lifted it to her lips. It calmed her stomach immediately. He gave her water. For dinner that night, the last meal they would have for fourteen days, he boiled fish from the river and gave them its broth.
She had read many books about the rainforest, and had longed to meet it. She thought like this. That whenever you go someplace, you meet it, as if it were alive, which of course it is. Now she rested in her hut a few steps from the river and listened to this Being, the rainforest. Why had she ever thought it would be silent? It was the loudest thing she’d ever heard. Like trains and planes and the New York City subway at rush hour. It was so loud, in fact, it actually did remind her of New York. And she thought about the aptness of calling the city “the jungle.” Little did they know! Or perhaps they did. And every sound she heard that was not made by the vegetation, giant trees and tree-sized vines, groaning as they rubbed against one another, was made by creatures. Every Being was chatting, talking, whistling, singing. Singing. Lots of that. And everything was in motion. If she listened closely she could distinguish slithering, sliding, jumping, hopping, ambling, crawling, flying. The cry of a jaguar sent a ripple of fear through their little camp; she could feel it, even though their huts were spread out in the forest, out of sight of one another. It was so loud and offered with such proprietary authority she knew it would make most of them want to run. She thought about running, but where would she go? After a hot and dusty four hours to the river, in a grime-encrusted Toyota that seemed older than Japanese culture, it had taken them half a day on the river, to push off, paddle, and motor to the camp. The boat, an ancient dugout with a rusty outboard motor, had deposited them and left. The boatman promised to return in two weeks. The river was full of crocodiles and piranha. She watched the crocodiles slithering from river bank to river all along their route; though she’d read piranha ate you up only if you were already bleeding. Just her luck she’d tripped on a rock, in the seconds between changing boots for sandals to wear around the camp, and cut her big toe. Kate rummaged around beneath her mosquito net for
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