Touching the Jaguar by John Perkins

Touching the Jaguar by John Perkins

Author:John Perkins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Berrett-Koehler Publishers


* Sometimes spelled “Iwias”

17

FACING A JAGUAR

AFTER LANDING AT THE SMALL AIRPORT we’d flown out of days earlier at the edge of the jungle, the three of us took the jeep Juan Gabriel had left there to Quito, and three days after leaving Kapawi, I arrived at Miami International Airport.

Once again, I was strip searched by customs officials. It was degrading and deeply upsetting, but this time, rather than intimidated, I felt angry. As those two men roughly frisked my naked body, I realized that I was just getting a small dose of what it must be like to be an immigrant or a non-white US citizen, discriminated against and maltreated by representatives of a powerful government. I had a renewed determination to stand up to a system that exploits and abuses the defenseless.

As I drove north to my house in Palm Beach Gardens, my thoughts switched from that customs experience back to the Amazon and then to my upcoming call with Lynne Twist. The anxiety I’d felt in that Achuar lodge returned. She’ll be insulted, I told myself. I could hear her voice, as though she were sitting beside me in my car: Didn’t you listen to what I said about my commitment to the Hunger Project? or How can you even ask such a thing?

By the time I arrived home, I’d convinced myself to delay even thinking about calling her until the next morning.

Over dinner, my wife, Winifred, asked me to tell her all about the trip. When I did, I could not avoid including my nervousness around Lynne.

“What will you do if she doesn’t agree to help?” Winifred asked.

“I don’t know. But I’ll probably never be able to show my face in Ecuador again.” We both laughed. I’d said it in jest; however, as I tried to fall asleep later that night, I was haunted by the thought that it might be true.

The next morning came far too quickly. I went to my office and stared at the phone—one of the first cordless models. And the clock. It was 9:30 a.m. East Coast time. Whew! Only 6:30 a.m. in California, where Lynne lived. Too early to call her.

I went through the stack of mail on my desk and paid a bunch of bills.

Then it was 11 a.m., already 8 a.m. in California. I knew that Lynne was often on the phone by 7:30 a.m.

I decided to have a second cup of coffee before calling her. I needed that extra jolt of caffeine.

Sitting at my desk, sipping coffee as slowly as I could, looking at a painting on the wall of an Ecuadorian street scene, I worried about what I’d tell Daniel when Lynne refused me. How would he explain my failure to the Achuar? What would I say to Ehud, the publisher of my books?

Then I saw the irony of those two questions. One dealt with a culture that was under severe threats from foreign companies, the other with personal pride.

A memory came to me of eighth grade, walking across a gymnasium, and asking a girl to dance.



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