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In the Rabeta of the Pajé

An Ethnoherpetological Experience

I share with you here an experience that I regard as a milestone, whether in professional, academic, life, learning, or spiritual terms, or however else you want to categorize it. An anthropo-anthological experience.

I’ve been in the field of biology for over a decade, but I’ve always flirted with the humanities. The different cultures, peoples, myths, and origins are things that catch my attention. During my doctorate, I rediscovered ethnobiology. I say that I rediscovered it because I found, in old notes, that years before I had already been interested in this line of research. I had forgotten about it. And I fell in love all over again, with the same excitement.

Ethnobiology is a transdisciplinary science, as it involves several areas of knowledge. In addition to academic sciences such as biology, ecology, anthropology, and geography, among others, ethnobiology also involves popular and traditional knowledge. And that’s where the beauty of this science resides to me.

I make this short introduction to situate my identity lane and make my feeling as palpable as possible when sharing this experience. It all began when I started to read more about this topic for an examination and became aware of the possibility of doing my postdoctorate in this area. I then spent a year learning about researchers whose work interested me. So, let’s get to the story.

The year was 2019, in a still prepandemic world. I was in the last year of my doctorate in ecology, in Rio de Janeiro, looking for a project with anthropological aspects to continue my education. I had already contacted some professors with no response, and I had one on the back burner, with the note the one I liked the most. What were the chances of receiving an answer from her? But just in case, I sent the message. To my surprise, a day later I got a positive response. In a week, the project request. And in a month, the acceptance for a doctoral internship.

So, two months after my email, I traveled more than 3000 km to have my first anthropological experience in the Brazilian Amazon. My project was developed together with a professor of anthropology from Pará, northern Brazil, and it dealt with the effects of climate change on the local species of lizards. Our research was to investigate whether, at a time when reptiles are decreasing in population size all over the world, traditional residents have noticed any difference in the density and diversity of local species.

During this endeavor, I met Quilombolas, riverine dwellers, and Indigenous people, who told me a lot about their worlds and culture. Despite their initial shyness in talking to a researcher, as the conversation flowed they loosened up about their knowledge. In fact, I think this is an important point to highlight. Their unanimous initial statements were I don’t know anything, the lizards are out there, the animals are in the backyard. From these statements we can make some inferences.

First, these lines might suggest a detachment in relation to animals. In the West, lizards are far from being part of the charismatic megafauna because they are considered disgusting or threatening. Lizards are usually surrounded by legends and stories that only increase people’s distance and disgust toward them. In part, this is because people tend to fear the unknown. The second point is that the participants often did not appreciate their own knowledge. Who else could know as much about the ecology and biology of an animal as someone who has lived for generations with these animals in their backyards? However, because they don’t have a technical study, or a scientific view on the subject, they think they don’t know, and even more so if faced with someone from the academic world. If they only knew how much I learned from them!

All these experiences with different traditional communities were very valuable. Of course, there were good and bad times. Some experiences were really bad, as when I found myself alone among strangers who didn’t seem to like my presence very much, and I depended on them to do the work, provide my meals, and even get me out of there. In these situations, everything becomes more intense, especially when communication with the outside is limited. But a community member provided me the necessary company and took me to people from neighboring villages who agreed to participate in the interviews. I came away with some results from this study thanks to him. Luckily, I always got a helping hand wherever I stayed.

But in this tale, I will focus on the last Indigenous village I visited, which made the difference for me. It stood out in several ways, such as the life experience, receptivity, people, and results. And if there is a way to materialize an imagined desire, this experience was the one that came closest. I found myself experiencing things I had always wanted when, as a little girl, I had watched reporters and researchers on television and wondered what those professionals had done to be able to be there. At that moment, I was who I wanted to be. It was I who was in the rabeta (canoe) of the pajé (witchdoctor).

Like most good times, this one came after chaos. Leaving the community I mentioned above, with few results, not knowing where to go, and with inconclusive data, I thought I had compromised my research. Luckily, however, I was helped by the city’s secretary of education who offered to take me to the pajé in a nearby village. He would be in town that afternoon to pick up the school kids’ lunches.

And off we went. The pajé accepted the research—the secretary was dear to them—but was reluctant to have me there. After all, what was a big city girl going to do in the village? Did she know what it was like to be in the woods? Did she have what it takes? Nonetheless, he decided to receive me. Before leaving, the secretary and I had one last thing to convince him to do: allow me to go on the rabeta. Rabeta is the local name for a kind of motorized canoe. It is a small and open wooden boat, widely used on short journeys. I don’t know if out of shame or fear, but he wanted me to take a motorcycle taxi to meet him in the village while he went along the river. He ended up giving in, and that’s when our (good) interaction began.

When it was time to leave, with the lunches arranged in the bow, he told me to sit down, while he pushed off the bank. But how to push that alone, with the kilos of food he had taken from the city inside the rabeta? I decided to get out to help him. Together, we managed to unhook the rabeta. He, looking at me with a mixture of confusion and fun, asked: Do they teach how to push a rabeta in Rio?

During the next 70 minutes in the midst of those scenic landscapes, I felt so emotional that my eyes must have sparkled. Sitting on the pajé’s rabeta, I traveled a long river through the meanders of the Amazon to have my first night’s stay at the Kunuwaru village. This time, I was the character in the scenes I imagined, surrounded by the woods and stilt houses of riverine and Indigenous peoples. The silence was broken only by the motor of the rabeta.

When we could see the village, I asked if there weren’t Sucuri snakes (anacondas— Eunectes murinus) in the river. The answer was somewhat unexpected, but decisive: Yes. Sucuri and piranha. But they have never caught anyone. You can enter, he answered calmly. That argument was enough. But how could it not be, if it was our only bathing place? Shortly after we disembarked, children ran to the bank, curious about the stranger brought from the city. After I helped with the unload, the pajé introduced me to the community. Actually, most of it, because a curious little girl had already asked me who I was the minute I landed.

We then agreed that, after I had made my lunch, we would have a group interview at Oca Cultural. Meanwhile, some children attended their class at the local school, which also taught Tupi, the language of their ancestors. The younger children, who had already had class in the morning, decided to introduce me to the area. And there I was, holding the hands of three little Indigenous girls on the right and two on the left, looking for lizards. They showed me the houses where they lived, the fruits, and what each plant was used for. I was amazed at how much knowledge those girls had, among whom the oldest must have been seven years old.

With this whole troupe it was hard not to make noise. I didn’t have success in finding lizards, but I learned a lot about the local ecosystem! Not to mention the countless photos we took next to the vinegar tree (a plant used as a seasoning, which is only for the strong, as one of my assistants said). It was chosen as the scenic backdrop for the girls, who asked me one by one to take pictures as they posed next to the plant.

Then it was time for the interview. I returned with my troupe of assistants in both hands. The pajé, his wife, his son (community counselor), three residents, and some children were at the Oca Cultural. We had the group interview, during which everyone talked about the local lizard species. And then they mentioned the Tamaquaré (Uranoscodon superciliosus). Anhhh, the Tamaquaré! Everywhere I went, it was the most mentioned lizard! There were some stars throughout these community reports, such as the white and black osgas (geckos), but nothing compared with the Tamaquaré.

Mentioned by all communities, and perhaps by all interviewees, it is so famous that it has a song in its honor, sung by Dona Onete (a Carimbó singer). The tamaquaré tea/it is a very crazy tea/it is a caboclo spell/that is only available in Pará. The Tamaquaré is considered a treacherous lizard, and its main use, as a mandinga (witchcraft), is a tea to make the partner goofy. It is interesting to note that this esoteric usefulness comes from observing the lizard’s behavior in nature. The lizard camouflages itself on tree branches near rivers in a way that its prey is not aware of its presence. So, the person who ingests the Tamaquaré tea would be just like the lizard’s prey: silly.

The difference was that, this time, in addition to hearing stories about the lizard, I would finally be able to meet it! After the interview, the pajé went hunting by the river and only returned when he had a Tamaquaré in hand! I took so many photos that he said that it looked like I was the one who had cast the spell this time because, despite being skittish, the Tamaquaré stayed really still.

After the interview, I got to know the school and the crafts the community members make there. So many lovely necklaces, bracelets, and earrings made with seeds and beads, and they admired my macramé necklace! Go figure. Luckily, I managed to take an imposing photo of the pajé holding a huge bow and arrow with which they sometimes hunted. The afternoon ended with a tag play in the river with the children—the same river with piranha and anaconda. Just in case, I found it wise not to stray too far from the children.

At night, I tried to teach the kids some macramé knots, but unfortunately I couldn’t with the sewing thread we had available. Everyone had dinner together at the pajé’s house, and we watched the football match on the living room television. It was also there where we slept, five or six people, including the schoolteacher, in hammocks spread from the living room beams. The next morning, I would make my way back to Belém. I still had time to say goodbye to the river and, to my surprise, also to the residents. Before I got my ride, the pajé came to thank me for my behavior during those days.

I left there with a feeling of more than accomplished mission. Besides completing the interviews, I was also congratulated by the pajé, the same who feared my stay at the beginning. And that’s how my experience ended, on the back of a motorcycle, crossing communities to catch my bus to Belém. There could have been nothing more satisfying. Life experience, engraved in the soul, foundation of my stimulus to continue in this endeavor.