It’s on the border of Guyana and Brazil.

Fifty years ago this place was filled with people from the Wai Wai tribe. Most of these Indians have died out or have been killed by the garimpeiros. The rest of them slowly give up life in the jungle. The youth moves to civilization where they lose their tribal identity almost immediately and drown in the ocean of unnamed poverty.

Only little above two hundred wild Wai Wai have survived. “Wild” means those, who still live in their primary culture: they make their arrow-heads from rocks and the bowstrings from the entrails or tendon of a tapir. They harden the wooden blades of their spears in fire; they eat only what the tropical forest provides them with; and they avoid contact with the outside world. Only their clothes come from import more and more often.

The last wild Wai Wai know a lot about our civilization. They have heard stories, they’ve seen some things by themselves. They even know about money – but it’s completely useless in their world.

To get to the nearest store, they would have to swim in a canoe, and then go on foot for several days. “Store”…what am I saying? It isn’t even a good stall – just a wooden booth the size of a closet, located on the border of two worlds – the jungle and civilization. From time to time Civilization delivers a small assortment of plastic junk Made in China and Indians bring dried meat of hunted animals and smoked fish. They barter of course. Paper money is taken only by way of an exception.

I knew about that when I was taking off for the journey to the Wai Wai tribe and I was ready for trading goods for goods. I decided to buy an arc, an arrow, a butt flap and a couple of other necessities just after I arrived to their village. By barter I wanted to gain the good will of the Indians. A white man – gringo – who dresses like them commands respect. So I traded the clothes I had for their native costumes and ornaments.

An arc was indispensable as the article of a man – because only women and kids don’t carry weapons. Even little boys make arrow-toys for themselves and don’t go anywhere without them. Then I rented a shelter, bought a supply of provisions and I made sure I had the two best hunters.

Unfortunately I overdid with generosity and now everybody wanted to trade with me and I ran out of things to exchange. Being helpless, I proposed money. That was when I saw how much it’s worth in the jungle.

The Indian way of pricing worked like this: “one money”, “two moneys”. The nominal didn’t count, pieces were important. A bill was a thing – like a fishing hook or a machete. It wasn’t useful, but it looked nice and you could look at it.

The contents of my wallet suddenly turned into crumpled papers with pictures. USA dollars turned out to be worth the least – they didn’t amuse anyone, because dollars are green just like everything else in the jungle. In addition, they leave dirty marks when you rub them with a rough finger. So the Indians came to the conclusion that they’re rotten.

Fortunately I also had dollars Made in Guyana. They aren’t worth a lot, actually they’re worth less and less every second, but they were a lot better than American dollars for the Wai Wai, because they were colorful! That was when I saw that there still are places in this world where money doesn’t matter. In the Indian world the currency is work, salt, iron for their arrows and knives.

And I always have one more thing with me.

Listen…

THE GREAT POWER

I soaped and rinsed myself in ankle-deep water. I was afraid to go further into the rover because of the piranha’s and electric eels (I could also mention rays and canero, venomous thorns of toppled palm trees and the king of underwater dangers – the anaconda. But why should I add anything, if one piranha can bite off your big toe with one snap, and a brief contact with an electric eel is the same as being brushed with a 350V wire).

Quite a large group of Indians, gathered around the shore, was admiring my bath. I was still a big attraction for them. For the first couple of days they follow you everywhere, they look at all the weird things that gringo brought with him: white skin, foaming shampoo, a plastic toothbrush and in my case a long scar, after an operation, on my right side.

When I was five I had a big piece of my lung cut out. As a result I have this unpleasant scar. It starts in the front of my chest, goes under my arm and ends on my back, behind my shoulder blade. It looks like the railroad tracks of a child’s train or a zipper of a sleeping bag – a long, straight scar with a several horizontal stitches.

It always makes a huge impression on the Indians. They assume that a person, who survived that kind of injury and didn’t die, has to be gifted with the Great Power.

It’s an average scar, but a couple of times it became a pass to the places normally closed to white men; a pass to the secret Indian ceremonies, like funerals, births, breaking spells - they don’t show all of that to strangers. Unless one of them has a shocking scar – the evidence of the Great Power.

Every time I have to give the origin of the scar. Indians love stories, but unfortunately, the simple truth about surgeon and the scalpel wouldn’t do, because they wouldn’t understand any of it. It has to be something adapted to the local conditions and the level of knowledge. For example, the story about big crocodiles swimming in the Hudson River or about the very old jaguar that had only one red eye and one blunt claw that got me anyway and cut open my body from the front all the way to the back.

- And then I got him with a knife! From the belly in the place where the hind legs start, all the way up to the throat. And then we fell onto each other drenched with blood. And that blood foamed from the fight mixed and mixed up till we became brothers. The old, one eyed jaguar and I. After that my brother jaguar died. His ghost was looking for a new place. And it went into my heart through opened veins.

In the Wai Wai village I told something about a rusty machete and a tribal war against the Boston Red Sox. Then I added something about shamans in white masks with shining knives in their hands. They were shouting something like: nurse, clamp!

They listened. They stared. They nodded. They whispered among themselves.

And after that no one was brave enough to watch me bath. And they asked me not to take off my shirt when they’re around because it isn’t safe to look at the Great Power.

The Shaman’s opinion was crucial. He said that a person cut open like this doesn’t heal but dies. Quickly. So if I didn’t die it means that the Power of our shamans is greater than anything that he has ever heard about.

When I woke up the next morning I found a splendid arc and arrows in front of my shelter. They were a lot better than the ones that I was able to buy (trade in fact) for money. Because it’s like this: Indians value friendship, bravery, a good story and fun over loads of gold.