Tag: Shaman (Page 1 of 3)

This week’s awesome Naked Wednesday was hosted by Bubba, Kart, and Kyra.

Bubba led a powerful river ritual, calling on the spirits to cleanse our minds and bodies as we bathed under the blessing of Mama Cocha.

“Worshipers! Hear my words on this sacred Wednesday!”
“The Shaman has been called away on a quest with her husband, and I will do my best to fill her role…”
“This sacred ritual is born out of our hearts and our faith in the jungle as much at it is in the sacred words of the Shaman”

I cannot speak with her command of the spirits and her authority, but our faith will surely summon the Gods to cleanse our minds and bodies!”
“Now children of the jungle – bathe in the sacred river that nurtures us all!”
“Feel its waters cleanse your bodies – feel its steady flow purify your souls!”
“For it is the embodiment of Mama Cocha – nurturing and caring!”
“It is wild and passionate with the spring rains than bring now growth, as Mama Allpa brings us young and new life!”
“Let the river flow through you – children of the jungle!”
“Taupicha!”

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Afterwards, Kyra shared her wild jungle story of how a simple morning hike turned into an epic discovery—a lost tablet proving the Tapirapé tribe’s ancestral claim to Bloodbath Bay!

With monkey attacks, muddy escapes, and sacred relics in hand, she returned to camp and revealed the stone tablet itself.

“you all know me, you know that I’m on the move a lot and I want to tell you about a hike today”
we call this hike … Kyra and the Secret of the Buried Truth ….. and there will be some surprises “
I swear on the fangs of my totem wolf:
All I wanted was a peaceful morning walk.

It was early morning in the Tapirapé camp. The jungle was still dripping with the mist of the night, parrots were screaming at each other like old aunties at the market, and I had decided to start the day with a nice, “reflective” hike.
Just me, my spear, some dried manioc bread—and the quiet hope of not walking into any low-hanging snakes.

I nodded goodbye to Kart, the Tapirapé scout, who called after me:

“Don’t head toward Bloodbath Bay! That’s where every second dreamer with too much confidence gets lost!”

I laughed.
I’m Kyra! The Wolf Girl! I can find my way by scent alone!

Three hours later, I was completely lost.
A damned jungle looks the same from every direction.
While I was trying to figure out my position based on the angry croak of a tree frog, it happened:
I stepped on a mat of overgrown vines—
and fell.

Not gracefully.
Not heroically.
No, I tumbled with a grunt into a pit that swallowed me like a grumpy anaconda. My head slammed into something hard—stone, carved—and for a second I heard the voices of the ancestors.
(And maybe a toucan laughing at me.)
When I came to, I was surrounded by moss, dust—
and history.
There it was—the stone tablet.
Majestic.
Inscribed with ancient words, but clear as day:
The land, the water, the breath of the jungle—belong to the Tapirapé, and have since the beginning of time.
Next to it: an old parchment, miraculously well preserved, telling a tale so clever and cheeky I actually laughed out loud.

And the cherry on top: a rough drawing on bark, clearly showing the Tapirapé fire circle—Bonkinin holding a hammer above the tablet, while Groggy Toucan in the background appears to drop a coconut on his own foot.
I felt awe.
And then… the shaking in the branches above me.
A troop of capuchin monkeys had found me. Curious. Clever. Armed with rotten fruit and bad attitudes.
I grabbed the tablet, the parchment, and the drawing—and ran.
The exit from the pit was slippery. I slipped. I cursed.
I slid into a river.
A monkey jumped on my head.
Thus began a chase through the Amazon that no bard will ever fully capture.
I lost a sandal, dodged an anaconda, got stared down by a capybara like I had interrupted its nap, and literally stumbled into a camp of shady figures—bandits, maybe grave robbers.
They smelled of sweat, oil, and colonial arrogance.
I had wandered into the edge of the Western Mountains, a place Kart always said:
“If you end up there, it’s either with a plan—or with really bad luck.”
I crawled under an overturned canoe, held my breath, and prayed to the spirit of the jungle.
When they started arguing about who packed the last tin of fish, I took my chance—ran, leapt, nearly lost the tablet in a swamp puddle, caught it with my chin, and got bitten on the ear by a macaw.
But I made it.
Bloodstained (well—mostly mosquito juice and smashed fruit), knees shaking, a weird frog in my hair, I finally made it back to the Tapirapé camp.
Kart saw me.
Saw the tablet.
Saw the look in my eyes.
He nodded.
“You fell, Kyra. Into a hole. Like a beginner.
But you came back like a bearer of the legacy.”
yes, now i’m standing here, freshly washed and at the end of the story, but of course i brought these found things with me …… rummages in a box …….. pulls out the stone tablet and the drawing

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An unforgettable night of naked spirit, story, and legacy!