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January 6, 1963
I’m sitting by the river, trying to organize my thoughts.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my encounter with the long, dark-haired man.
Had he seen people outside the village?
I saw nervousness in his brown eyes, but curiosity overruled any fear. He didn’t see me as a threat.
Maria came and sat by my side and spoke quietly in case anyone overheard. A gang, or soldiers as she calls them, came to the camp yesterday. They were looking for me. They aren’t military, more-independent military gangs. She used another word, only I struggle with the Spanish terms.
They held Dr. Leon and her at gunpoint in their hut and demanded to know about me. She thinks they’re looking for ransom money and unsure when they’ll come again. She told them I’m no one of importance and only want to help the sick. They told her I could be of use to them.
God, why me?
So now we must be cautious.
She told me I should go home.
Wise words.
I should listen.
Only I have a gut feeling my work here isn’t done. I have some sort of purpose beyond helping the sick. And more importantly, I want to be here for the measles vaccine and give this community hope.
Safety measures have changed, and we require an escape plan if I need it. Maria is organizing a shelter for Jennifer and me in a nearby camp. So, if we need to leave fast, we can take the boat and go there, then she’ll come back and get us when it’s safe to do so. She said they won’t be back for a while as Dr. Leon threatened them, so we should have a plan just in case.
I then told her about the young man I saw.
Maria became angry.
She told me not only did I place myself in danger as the Ularans forbid any contact beyond their village boundary, they also have a powerful shaman. She reminded me of the young man who was shot at with poison arrows. Her mood changed when she explained the Ularans have occupied the land before we created any government, and they have a right of ownership in her eyes. Their neighboring communities have welcomed outsiders to help, but they’re survivors and wish to remain hidden from the rest of the world. To do this, they must resort to more forceful ways and only use weapons they make with their own hands. Guns and steel blades are foreign to them, and if we reveal their existence, they could be wiped out in seconds.
I now understand the need to protect their home, their land. The Europeans have converted some indigenous communities to the Catholic religion and a white person’s way of life.
Promises of a better life…
It wasn’t until she chastised my irresponsible actions of possibly transmitting diseases, even the common cold to them, I realized the result could be dire even though, in my mind, I was being careful.
My selfishness surfaced to satisfy my curiosity. I could have created the very thing I’m doing my utmost to prevent here—a viral outbreak with the potential to kill.
I apologized to Maria and promised not to return.
She went on to tell me why.
Some authorities believe there are no isolated indigenous communities in Venezuela. Only relative isolation and have been in contact with missionaries. Few people are aware of the Ularans, and we need to keep it that way and respect their community’s rights. The more they’re spoken of, and if other missionaries believe they need outside help, it becomes known, and logging and oil companies will believe they have the right to the land and invade the boundary. Currently, it’s certified we care for that part of the river, even though we never go there. We do all we can to protect the people. Maria then said she’s impressed how I came out of it unscathed. Blonde hair is fascinating to the Indians, although she really doesn’t know how I returned without an arrow in my back.
January 30, 1963
When Brenda told me she was excited to study midwifery, I felt sorry for her. At the end of our training, there were many other courses and pathways I wanted to follow, and midwifery wasn’t one of them. My subconscious may have considered babies and marriage a doom for my career, and staring at vaginas every day and listening to screaming babies was unappealing, at least to me. After giving birth to Winston, I understand it’s much more. And now here, in an isolated community, I’m grateful to have some experience. A total of thirteen babies have been delivered since my arrival. Brenda would be proud.
Five newborns and three mothers have died. I understand why they breed quickly because a child’s future is uncertain. Many deaths come from the children not surviving viral and bacterial infections, and most fatalities are from pneumonia.
We need more antibiotics.
Maria continues to tell us supplies are coming. She also told me in confidence how the gangs were intercepting and stealing supplies for their own. I don’t blame them for wanting our supplies to help their community, so why can’t we order more so there’s stock for everyone? It may create more peace. Then Maria reminded me of our lack of funds and barely enough for the community here.
I suggested we call the police, only she told me the policía would not intervene. I asked more questions, then she insisted I stop talking and accept the ways while I’m here. Focus more on surviving.
