For many people Brazil may seem a modern sophisticated country with a great football team. For me Brazil meant the north-western regions of the Amazon Basin where the three countries Brazil, Colombia and Venezuela are in close proximity. Here all is dense equatorial forest cut through by countless rivers that form the great water basin of the Amazon containing the largest quantity of fresh water in the world. The River Icana is a large and very long river (over 1000 km) it rises in Colombia and drains the northwestern corner of Brazil eventually flowing into the Rio Negro.

I found myself united with an old school friend in a small mission called Taracua in the middle of thousands of square miles of Amazonian forest. First impressions were an enormous jail from which there was no escape, a prisoner of the forest. I felt I was thrown back a thousand years or more into history. Time had stood still for these people, I had travelled backwards. Adaptation was not too difficult. I found myself among native people (Indians they are erroneously called) whose life-style had not changed over the centuries. They lived from day to day content to find enough food to live by through the traditional activities of fishing, hunting, and gathering.

A slight change is taking place among them in that with the advent of missionaries they can now speak Portuguese. The tribes here are of Asiatic origin quite different from the descendants of the European settlers throughout the rest of Brazil.

The Salesians organise Mission centres among them, involving school work and parish work. Here parish work entails travelling over vast areas by boat to visit outlying villages. Every mission has an ‘itinerant’ priest whose work it is to spend weeks travelling along the rivers of the rain forest to make sure that all the ‘parishioners’ come into contact with the word of God and had the opportunity for the Sacraments. One parish covered 32000 sq. metres which only gave them contact with the missionary three or four times a year. In the absence of a priest they would meet for prayers on a Sunday helped by a ‘catechist’ who had received some training by the missionary.

The ‘Indians’ are not over-expressive in their feelings but they do welcome the missionary when he arrives and look forward to his visit. They eat morning and evening in their community centre. Each household bringing pots and pans. In some communities one or two serve so that they all get fair shares. At times they will also meet for a ‘festa’ together when they would prepare a brew from fermented fruits, perform some of their dances and continue drinking until there was nothing left. This could go on for days. A certain intoxication often results and can lead to fights and even at times to injury and death. As a result of the exhortation of the missionaries they have however improved in this respect. As long as there are Indians in the Amazon life will go on much the same way. The very inaccessibility of this area, to a great extent, ensures that ‘Western’ civilisation (as we call it) will have no undue influence on their lives.

For many years I was the ‘itinerant’ priest I lived in Jauarete (Jaguar) country for some 20 years and I had heard so many accounts of jaguar attacks and had seen the skins of dead ones (captured after they had been bold enough to return to the scene of the crime). One of my former pupils Florinda, whose marriage I performed lives there, with her husband, John Bosco! One night he was away and she was alone with her child, sleeping on her hammock. The night silence was broken by the furious barking of many dogs. A jaguar had strolled into the village! Harassed by the dogs the jaguar crashed into Florinda’s house . With a cry of fear she sat bolt upright in the hammock just as the jaguar put his big paw into her face. Grabbing the child she instinctively rolled from the hammock into the corner. The jaguar, probably as startled and frightened as she was, took one jump through the now open door and fled into the forest. Poor Florinda’s face, one side of it was badly mauled and bleeding profusely. After being treated at the Mission Hospital she was transferred to Manaus for proper treatment. She spent months recuperating. The scars and disfigurement however have not disappeared.

Being an ‘itinerant’ priest means travelling along Amazonian rivers in torrential equatorial rain. When the pangs of hunger assert themselves, you pull into the side under the shade of some overhanging branches and have a morning break - chocolate spread, toast and coffee after a fashion! The toast isn’t exactly fresh having been toasted some weeks back! Toast has a good survival record compared to other perishables in this climate.

While missionary life may seem quite daunting, the sacrifice of working in these areas is the thought that so many of the Catholics have to ‘survive’ without Mass for long periods. Those who live along the river only see a priest six times a year, at the most. As a consequence most of them die without the last rites and few have any kind of funeral service. On Sundays each village meets or should meet to celebrate the word of God, but this is not regular at all. It is often poorly attended and not infrequently omitted. It is only when you live in an isolated area like this that one can truly appreciate the privilege and grace of the permanent presence of a priest.

Fr Michael Scott SDB