Tuntuam's longhouse was medium-sized by Shuar standards, an oval about twenty by fifty feet, constructed with great care of split palm staves pounded into the hard packed earth with just enough space between them to ensure that no one on the outside could see in, yet providing those within with a perfect view of the clearing, the forests on three sides, and the trail that wound its way up from the river.

Tuntuam was waiting inside for us in the traditional manner of a kakaram warrior. He sat on a stool in the center of his home, before a blazing fire. In one hand he held a spear, and in the other his single-shot, muzzle-loaded rifle, a prized gift from a man who had once insulted him and had presented him with this weapon in order to win clemency--and save his life. Tuntuam was wearing only a loincloth and a headdress made of brightly colored toucan feathers. His face was painted in crimson designs, and a permanent blue tattoo was etched across the bridge of his nose. Like so many of his generation, he wore his jet black hair cut straight across the forehead.

After the greetings, a welcoming dance, and the preparation of the ayahuasca (a sacred plant used to enhance vision quests) we would take together later that night, he invited us to sit with him and called for one of his two wives to bring us chicha (home-made fermented beer). We exchanged news and told him about our plans.

"Tukupi." He spoke the name slowly. He repeated it and nodded his head reverently. "It's been many years since I've seen him" His wrinkled face broke into a smile. "He's as old as the mountains." He laughed. "As old as me. I'm amazed he's still alive!"

"Before we go to the Forbidden Territories," I said. "We hoped to hear your thoughts about war and arutam."

Tuntuam spoke to us at length and we listened, a rapt audience in the light of his words. Since he had granted Ehud permission to videotape our meeting, we were all aware that they would be heard by many more people than the three of us.

"Really it's a question of fears--how we face them, how we move through the cliff that blocks our way. Do we try to scale it, find a route around it, chisel our way through it, or simply stop and then turn back, like hunting dogs running home, whimpering and tripping over our own tails?

"We must always face our fears. We know there are many options but the only one that makes life worth living is to dominate those things we're afraid of. Sometimes our fears come in the form of jaguars, or it could be the anaconda--or the lightning itself. What's important is that we confront them, reach out to them when they appear during ayahuasca journeys, and face them when they leap out at us in everyday life.

"Avoiding fears, detouring around risks--these are for cowards, and they get us nowhere. What is this life about, anyway? It doesn't matter whether you're a warrior marching into battle or a woman whose child is dying of illness. You might be looking at demons within your soul. These things--all of them--can defeat us, even as an enemy soldier might kill us with the quick lunge of his spear."

Tuntuam shifted on his stool, and leaned in for emphasis before he continued. "Finding arutam. There's the answer. That's what we each must do. We must look our fears straight in the eye--not shrink, but attack. Attack! The warrior is our model, the man who is kakaram. For men, it's what we seek. Women must also conquer their fears, but in a different way."

He leaned back and surveyed the three of us around him. "You know the story about Etsaa and the giant anaconda who lived at the bottom of the lake?" We shook our heads. "No? I'll tell you then. It happened long ago. In those times there was a huge female anaconda, as big as if you strung as many canoes together as there are fingers on your hands and toes on your feet, placing them end to end. Can you imagine an anaconda so big?

"At night she rose out of the lake, in the blackest moment of the night, and crawled through the forest. She entered the longhouses of the Shuar people living in this area and devoured them. In the morning, neighbors would come around and find no one there. But they knew. Everyone did, for she would leave a huge trail in the dirt through the forest, the markings of her gigantic belly filled with the cadavers of our friends, bigger than the paths made by our people. It always led to the river, right down to a bank close to the place where the two rivers meet and form a lake. This lake was so deep that when people dropped into it rocks attached to vines, they never hit bottom. Even the longest vines ran out and slipped through their hands before the rocks found the bottom, as though there was no end, nothing down there but more water—and somewhere that giant anaconda. Lurking. Waiting. Filling the hearts of the bravest of our brave warriors with terror."

Tuntuam took a sip of chicha to wet his lips. "One morning Etsaa awoke to discover that his sister and her entire family were gone--she and her husband, his amikri (blood brother), and all their little ones, the children he had played with and loved as though they were his very own--all of them eaten by that wretched anaconda. It was more than Etsaa could tolerate. He walked to the edge of the lake, followed by other brave warriors, but once there, said to them, "I must go alone, for it's not with numbers and weapons that we'll kill this terrible monster--only arutam will do it. I know now that this anaconda is here as a test. She can only be defeated when one of us overcomes all fear and descends into that lake alone, leaving all misgivings behind, unconcerned for what the next life brings, full of hope that it will be better even than this one, which is a glorious life. Only then can we put an end to this tragedy, to the suffering our cowardice has made us endure for too long."

"With that he dove into the lake. Oh, how those waters shook! What waves! All of us Shuar thought Etsaa's days had ended. By nightfall, when he hadn't returned, we gave up and headed home, filled with despair. Not one of us could forget his words, though, for we knew he was right. It was fear and fear alone that was our enemy. We understood the meaning of arutam as we had never understood it before. We vowed to one another, we men, that we each would descend into that lake and fight the anaconda. We would kill her, or the entire Shuar people would die trying."

He set down his chicha, sat up straight, and rested his hands on his thighs. "You know the end." He laughed softly and nodded. "Several days later, Etsaa returned, carrying the skin of that loathsome anaconda. He had been victorious. We'd been prepared to keep our promises, but it wasn't necessary. Etsaa had saved the day. We set a great feast, with lots of chicha, dancing, and lovemaking. Etsaa tossed the anaconda's skin into the night sky where you can see it outlined in the stars to this day. And we learned our lessons about overcoming fears, about the power of arutam."

Ehud asked Tuntuam to wait while he changed the cartridge in his camera. The old uwishin watched him carefully, then when Ehud had finished, he pointed, smiling, at the lens and resumed talking.

"You know that when a man dies, no one will shoot an animal seen walking near his house. Even a tapir or a boar--favorite foods. Why? Because it's likely that the dead man's spirit is in that animal."

I spoke up then, "So really, there is no death?"

"No. We don't die, we just become something else. When a warrior kills another man, he does that man a favor, allowing him to move on. That's the reason for protecting animals wandering in the forests near the home of dead men. The old uwishin used to tell us that the human shape is not one of the best, that we come as men to learn certain things, lessons, and yet we're happier as the ayahuasca vine or the jaguar."

Tuntuam paused and nodded firmly. With this final opinion expressed, it seemed he had finished his teaching and explaining for the time being. We were all left to our own thoughts in the firelight. I mused that the uwishin's story of Etsaa and the giant anaconda reminded me of the ancient Anglo-Saxon legend of Beowulf. I recounted the story for Tuntuam. Like Etsaa, this medieval warrior had been called upon to kill the monster Grendel who had been devouring the people of King Hrothgar's kingdom. He arrived by boat, coming from across the water, a magnificent warrior. Once he had accomplished his heroic task, the kingdom celebrated, holding a banquet in Beowulf's honor and presenting him with great treasures. There was feasting, singing and dancing, and the mead flowed.

The hero Beowulf planned to return home the following morning, but during the night another monster arrived--Grendel's mother. She rose up from the depths of a bottomless lake and killed Hrothgar's best friend, a renowned warrior. The king pleaded with Beowulf to rid the kingdom of this terrible new menace. Beowulf went to the lake, accompanied by all his warriors as well as those of Hrothgar, but once there he turned to them and announced that he would go it alone, that they must wait behind. They complied with his wishes, and several days passed before he emerged from the water victorious.

Tuntuam didn't seem surprised at the similarities between the story of Etsaa and the epic of Beowulf. "I think," he said, "that warriors around the world are the same. We realize that all battles are fought more in the heart than with weapons and brute strength. We know that despite the closeness of our comrades, in the end it's always up to each of us alone. No matter how valiant or how many heads he has previously taken, no warrior ever knows the outcome of his next battle. Will he win?" He thrust his spear into the fire for a moment, then removed it and touched his finger to the hot point. "It really doesn't matter. The fire is all that's important, the heat of our passion. That's arutam. To charge into the fray, give it everything you've got. Success is not whether you win or lose, but that you fought with all your heart."