Caraiva and the Indians

This morning, before I started feeling so bad, Alison and I found a local man, an Indian, to take us up to the Indian reservation. It was an extraordinary trip, involving us, Tzyge (our guide), and his four year old son, Caique. Caraiva is 470 years old, but like in many places, the indigenous Indians have been persecuted, even as recently as 1951. The only reason the group we saw survived was because they were nomadic.  Still, they're unable to hunt and fish like they used to because they've been pushed towards the ocean and away from the forests and rivers where they've traditionally found their food.  We were greeted at a tiny opening in the river by Tzyge's brother in full headdress.  He took us to the communal hall, a round building with open sides and a straw roof, where they have marriage and other formal ceremonies.  According to his story, if a man likes a woman, he throws a small stone at her.  If she likes him, she throws the stone back.  Our Indian guide also showed us their fishing hole in the river, reminding us that the river also had alligators.  We didn't see any, which is just as well, because Alison decided to ride on a rubber tube behind the boat on the way back.  By that time, my eye was almost completely swollen shut, so I returned in the launch, vowing to see the pharmacist at the first opportunity.