The Amazon has a duality that is understood when you live it. Time passes, but it feels still. Daily life is carried by the rhythms of nature and the climate, flowing in harmony with the environment. The massive trees and the winding rivers create ecosystems for the multitude of lives that inhabit them. The diversity of sounds that are heard changes as the hours of day and night go by, but they never fade away. In this mega-diverse territory, there are many opportunities, but also challenges. Distances are long and access is limited. Thus, we immerse ourselves in the Peruvian low jungle heading towards Callería, in the Ucayali department. We go with excitement for the possibilities of connection that may arise from this encounter with people, food, and cultures.

We depart from Yarinacocha lagoon to flow into the Ucayali river, a waterway of muddy waters that invigorate the vegetation running parallel to the river. White herons like papers pose atop the treetops and on the shores of the beaches formed in the summer season, which now in winter begin to disappear again under the rising water. The heat and the noise of the engine conspire to keep us in silence and focus on the landscape that unfolds before us. Five hours of travel await us to Callería, a time that changes according to the conditions of the river, which in turn depend on the rains and winds. Inside this vessel, as in the jungle, there is diversity: a cook, a cultural manager, an art director, and a photographer are aboard. Different perspectives and knowledge converge in search of contributing an interdisciplinary vision of what we are going to experience together. Leaving the Ucayali behind and entering the community of Callería through the river that bears its name, a torrential rain replaces the sun that had accompanied us throughout the journey. It’s not surprising; unpredictability is part of the complex Amazonian world. In the midst of the storm, we disembark and, guided by instinct, begin to run, then slow our steps down to let ourselves get wet, surrendering to the experience as it presents itself.

White heron, Ardea alba, flying over the Ucayali river.

Callería community, Amazon region of Ucayali.

We arrive at Luz Maritha's house. There are served dishes on her table. The bijao leaves, previously roasted over firewood, contain fish from the mitaya (as fishing and hunting is known), now turned into patarashca. To accompany, boiled yuca, star fruit juice, and the excitement of first encounters. Luz Maritha Rodríguez is an Iskonawa artist and one of the few remaining inhabitants of this Indigenous population. In numbers, they represent the smallest population in Peru. According to the 2017 census, only 22 people self-identify as Iskonawas. Luz Maritha's art is inspired by the stories her grandfather told her since she was a child, and she communicates them through the use of the natural resources around her, from barks to clay. The encounter with her arose from a human bridge, a bond of trust already built. This time it was Roberto Zariquiey, a linguist and collaborator of Mater, who has dedicated almost 20 years to keeping alive the ancestral languages of the Peruvian Amazon, including Iskonawa. Together with her at her house, they opened the Iskonawa School, where children go to learn this language. They are incorporating everyday words into their vocabulary and, unknowingly, they become guardians of a cultural legacy that struggles to remain alive. The school also receives Shipibo-Konibo children, and thus, through games and words, the intercultural threads of these two Indigenous populations, who now share much more than just territory, begin to intertwine.

Patarashca made with carachama.

The stories transmitted by the few elders who are still alive are told in Iskonawa, but those narratives filled with valuable wisdom find fewer and fewer receivers. The integration of the younger ones with the Shipibo population is creating a new culture, diluting the words and with them the Iskonawa identity. The fear of forgetting, of not knowing where they came from, who they are, and what their place is, then grows. Through the Iskonawa School, Roberto and Luz Maritha have managed to articulate a space for the conservation and transmission of language, art, and identity, a kind of seed bank that they nurture with the hope of seeing them germinate and spread to avoid disappearing. Other forms of communication are also involved without using words. Artistic processes, culinary preparations, and the use of medicinal plants are also ways of telling stories and prolonging existences. Remembering becomes an act of permanence.

Without haste, we taste Luz Maritha's cooking. We haven’t spoken much yet, but we begin to get to know her through other forms of conversing, such as sharing a meal. We re-encounter ourselves amidst this sensory exchange and let each flavor, each ingredient generate new memories impregnated by different contexts but that also unite us in this common present. Something begins to open little by little.

The rain takes a pause that we use to explore this new space. We go with Elías, Luz Maritha's father, who is also an expert in medicinal plants. He has no manual with specific instructions; his knowledge is inherited. There is no tangible record of this knowledge; it is engraved in his memory, and continuity comes from continuing to use and continue doing. Again, the act of remembering weaves bridges for the permanence of knowledge and the preservation of identity. Meanwhile, alongside Elías, we walk on those bridges, listening to him, approaching all that cultural inheritance with all our senses. We touch, smell, and taste. We learn and give thanks.

Ethnobotanical tour in Callería forest

Elías tells us that he has been able to heal large cuts with the barks of ubo and capirona, that chuchuwasi is not only a good aphrodisiac, it also cures colds and rheumatism, that with the resin of tanoni he treats snake bites, and that the leaves of malva bring down fever. The distance, then, between the communities and the cities begins to feel even longer and that inherent duality coexisting in the Amazon becomes more palpable. Perhaps the difficult access to a health post and the challenges this entails play a role in the preservation of traditional wisdom, perhaps the need drives them to continue using what they have in their surroundings and to stay connected to the spirituality of plants. Perhaps.

Tanoni resin.

Chuchuwasi bark.

Chuchuwasi bark

The geometry captured in the pieces of Iskonawa art tells of the paths traveled in collecting the bark of yacoshapana and clay hidden at the bottom of the Callería river, which will later be used to hand paint their memories on a cloth of tocuyo. Fragments of a past they have not necessarily lived but to which they still connect through the stories passed down. Luz Maritha's art demonstrates this. Her pieces speak Iskonawa fluently, and thus that endangered language finds other ways to dialogue and survive. While narrating her fabrics, there is a certain nostalgia in her repeated mention of Roebiri or Cerro El Cono, the place she has never been but recognizes as part of her identity. From there, past generations came to settle in Callería, never letting go of the invisible vine that linked them to that place. Her drawings are also autobiographical and reflect her everyday objects, like the batán she uses to prepare masato or the shell of a motelo that serves as a tray, and her natural environment made up of the earth and rivers.

Luz Maritha Rodríguez, Iskonawa artist.

The next morning we begin tracing our own geometry in search of that same bark and that same clay. Luz Maritha, her two sons Huver, Michael, and her husband Percy accompany us. In the river, all four immerse themselves and disappear beneath those warm waters, only to reappear with their hands full of black clay that they accumulate inside the canoe. But not all clays are the same, and it isn’t the same as the one found at the bottom of the river compared to the one collected from the banks, two hours away, which is used to create ceramic pieces. Knowing that distinction speaks of transmitted knowledge and records that are part of nature. With enough bark and clay, we return to the community. We prepare a pot of water in which we boil yacoshapana along with three banana peels and lime juice. We let the mixture rest, as do we, waiting for it to be ready for use.

Luz Maritha collecting yacoshapana bark.

Yacoshapana and ubo barks.

Clay collection in the Callería river.

We are summoned by a white tocuyo fabric stretched over the wooden floor in the center of Luz Maritha's room. Surrounding it and in silence, we pay attention to the first strokes she outlines and begin to understand the technique. It’s our turn; we dip the brushes into the prepared mixture, and when they touch the fabric, the mustard color appears as it is absorbed. Once the outlining is finished, we use the black clay we collected to completely cover the painted fabrics and leave them to dry in the sun. And just as the clay came from the river, it returns to it. We rinse the fabrics in the running water, which dissolves it to the bottom, revealing the stories in black and white.

First geometric outlines on cotton fabric.

Diverse representations and meanings of Iskonawa art.

The drops falling from the sky on our last day in Callería remind us of the first. Outside, the children play and collect rainwater in buckets. Inside, in the kitchen, there are smells of raw fish, vegetables, and burning firewood. There is also growing curiosity to see what we will do with the food available for lunch. A small group forms, among adults and children, whose eyes shine and widen in surprise as they see us place the fish directly on the grill of hot coals. Intuitively and lacking a frying pan, we use the lid of a pot to sauté the vegetables. Looks of amazement but also approval. Suddenly, among everyday actions like chopping garlic and stirring the vegetables, a complicity arises that manifests in laughter and participation. We share a language that we all understand, that of cooking. Words are no longer so necessary when the behaviors feel familiar. Amidst aromas and smoky fire, the bonds being formed seal that understanding.

Melissa Loayza, cook, and Luz Maritha exchanging culinary knowledge and experiences.

Local ingredients: sachatomate, sautéed sachaculantro, boiled ripe plantains, and grilled doncella.

Seated again at the table in the kitchen, we are no longer the same as we were a few days ago. We sense that they are not either. We cannot be, the eagerness of the beginning is replaced by a comfort and a repertoire of experiences and lessons that leaves us wanting more. During the return journey, we process the exchange of these four days. The connections are real and leave the path open for many joint possibilities. Just before saying goodbye, Luz Maritha tells us in Spanish: "We loved it, but it felt too little." We understood she was talking about lunch, but it is undeniable how timely that phrase is; there will always be so much more to discover.

Iskonawa fabrics after being washed in river water.

Photos: Camila Novoa, Verónica Tabja