LITMIR.BIZ

      Photographs by

      Pascal Giacomini and Cristina Mittermeier

      Jagua, A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

      By Carine Fabius

      Kouraj Press

      6025 Santa Monica Boulevard, #202

      Los Angeles, CA 90038

      323-460-7333

       www.kourajpress.com

      Copyright © 2012 by Carine Fabius

      Cover and Book Design: Rodney Bowes Design

      Notice of Rights

      All rights reserved under international and pan-American Copyright conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

      Fabius, Carine

      Jagua, A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon

      ISBN-13: 978-0-9785003-2-0

      Published in eBook format by Kouraj Press

      Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com

      Also by Carine Fabius

      Mehndi: The Art of Henna Body Painting

      Ceremonies for Real Life

      Sex, Cheese and French Fries—Women are Perfect, Men are from France

      A Note from the Author

      No trees in the Amazon rainforest are cut down to generate the skin-staining ink used for temporary jagua tattoos. Happily, harvesting of the jagua fruit does provide desperately needed income to the Indian group with whom we work.

      Like many others who, by chance or fate, become involved with underserved peoples, we feel compelled to assist the Indians with the pressing issues they face (i.e., stemming the spread of malaria or flu in their village). In that respect, you may be interested to know that your purchase of this book and/or jagua tattoo kits from our company directly contributes to helping the Matsés Indians achieve economic sustainability.

      Acknowledgments

      I WANT TO THANK MY HUSBAND Pascal Giacomini for his hard work and for all his help in the making of this book. You’re a great partner! My gratitude goes out to Frank Weaver for his editorial expertise, attention to detail, and generosity with his time. Thanks and appreciation to Henrietta Cosentino for the freshness and largesse that she brings to any project she touches. A big thank you to Rodney Bowes for his special brand of creativity and flair, as well as for his constant ability to make me laugh. A special thank you to David Fleck, Peter Gorman, and Cristina Mittermeier for their generous and priceless contributions to the book. Thank you, thank you, thank you Steve Coombs for the generous use of your time, for your support, and for your friendship; and to Morena Santos for her magnificent talent as a jagua artist, and the gracious gift of her time. Gracias a los Matsés por su hospitalidad. And a huge shout out to all the people I know who continue to give me their love and support in my work as a writer. You know who you are!

      There is a fruit that grows in the lush and steamy verdant jungle of Amazonia that can only be described as noir. Dreamlike, strange, erotic, and cruel—these are some of the terms used in defining the classic film noir genre, and there is a case to be made for the comparison. Imagine a fruit whose innocent green skin belies a buttery yellow center, which yields a transparent liquid resembling fresh water. Smear this juice on your body and, a few hours later, a surreal transformation occurs. Your skin color has metamorphosed to black. Blue-black. Noir. Some might think it erotic; however, it is no stretch to imagine that, in some circles, this might be considered cruel. But relax. It’s not forever. Give it a couple of weeks and you’ll be back to normal....

      The jagua fruit and flower

      Chapter One: Jagua—The Prequel

      THE YELLOW RUBBER GLOVES ARE ON and my splattered apron safeguards my clothes. Spatula in hand, I stand over the noisy whirring of a XXX-size KitchenAid mixer filled with a shiny, viscous black goop when my husband shouts from across the room, “Don’t breathe on that!”

      “I’m not breathing!” I say.

      I step away from the mixer and feel a squishing sensation underneath my foot.

      “Oh no! Do you think you could ever one day wipe up a spill when it happens?” I ask. “Now I’m going to have it all over my foot. Look, it splashed up on my leg too.”

      He ignores these comments. He’s too busy pouring jet-black jagua fruit juice from a plastic gallon jug through a funnel and into a sieve in order to make sure any remaining sediment doesn’t make its way into the mix. At the bottom of the jug, it’s all sediment. With a black plastic spoon he pushes the thick stuff through the strainer so that he can gather every last drop of this rare, precious liquid that we like to call “black gold.” In the process, some of the juice splashes on his chin. No matter the precautions, we always end up looking like we work in the semi-permanent ink business, which, come to think of it, we kinda do. A few minutes later, I pull off my gloves and stare in horror. My hands have turned completely black.

      “How did this happen again?” I say. “How did it do that? Thank God jagua doesn’t stain the nails!”

      Wait a minute, haven’t I done this before? Feels like a déjà-vu. Is that the tinkling sound of the opening music to The Twilight Zone I’m hearing...?

      A pot full of brown mud sits simmering atop my oven burner as I race around the kitchen, wet dishrag in hand, working desperately to get the fine film of green powder that has worked its way onto every surface it can find in the room. While one bright orange-stained hand feverishly wipes at the brown spot that refuses to lift off the blond wood table, the other hand, whose nails have not escaped the reddish tint, reaches for ground cloves. I debate in my mind for the hundredth time whether eucalyptus oil would be a better choice. The scent of eucalyptus snakes it way up my nostrils and I take a moment to breathe it in and clear my nasal passages.

      “Don’t forget to keep stirring the pot!” my husband shouts from across the room. He has been standing over the sink for an hour, pouring the green powder through a fine mesh wire sieve, and is the one responsible for the stuff finding its way into our throats, hair and, I’m sure by now, our pores.

      “Should I pour the coffee in now?” I shout back, vowing silently to withhold all snarky remarks about his chaotic ways, “Or did we decide to go with black tea? Oh, and what about the okra?”

      “Okra?” he says, “Aren’t

Скачать книгу