Lino Huanío Cabudivo (1936-2017)

Lino Huanío Cabudivo, one of the last remaining speakeres of the Omagua language, passed away in San Joaquín de Omaguas, Loreto, Peru on April 11, 2017, aged 80. Named after his maternal uncle, Lino was born on July 23, 1936 in Lucero, also known as Luceropata – a community on the left bank of the Amazon River between Nauta and Iquitos –, the son of Clemente Huanío Upari and Emilia Cabudivo Tuisima. Clemente was a half-Omagua, half-Kukama man born c1910 on the Purús River far to the south, the son of Leoncio Huaní Cahuasa (b. 1869) and Marcela Upari. Emilia was an Omagua woman born c1908 in San Joaquín de Omaguas, the daughter of Alberto Cabudivo Atravera (1888-c1944) and Elvira Tuisima Huaní. Through his father, Lino is a second cousin of Arnaldo Huanaquiri Tuisima, who also recently passed away (his obituary is here); through his mother, Lino is a first cousin once removed of Arnaldo. I encourage you to read more about Lino's paternal and maternal grandparents in a post I wrote in 2015 – their families encapsulate much of what life was like for indigenous people in Amazonia in the late 19th- and early 20th-centuries.

Lino doing language work (July 2011)

Except for work that required him to be absent for lengthy periods -- whether as a young man in the lumber mill in nearby Paraíso or extracting timber in the Tigre basin --, Lino made San Joaquín his home for his entire life. With his wife Judir Huanaquiri he had 13 children.

I first arrived in San Joaquín de Omaguas in June 2010, expecting to be working with the last speaker of Omagua, Arnaldo Huanaquiri. (Lino's maternal uncle, Manuel Cabudivo, who had previously participated in language work with other researchers, had passed away just four months prior to our team's arrival.) A few weeks into that year's field season it became clear that other elders in the community must have some knowledge of the language, in particular the older children of Arnaldo's first cousin, Emilia Cabudivo. Enter Alicia and Lino. When I first went to visit Lino at his home, I found him, then 73, up in the rafters of his house repairing some thatch. Although he was initially hesitant about participating in language work, he received me warmly, and in short while came to be, along with his sister Alicia, an integral part of our team's collaboration. Lino took his responsibilities as a language consultant very seriously, but at the same time he brought a light-hearted spirit and calm to what can be hours of (not infrequently) tedious work. He was above all a kind, thoughtful, honest, humble person. Although he was reserved, his full-toothed smile and animated ways of speaking are qualities that I will not forget in Lino's distinctiveness. As I write this in Iquitos, I am fortunate to have had the opportunity earlier today to visit with Alicia, and also one of Alicia's sons, who at 61 is a remarkable reflection of his uncle Lino -- his carriage, voice quality, his high cheek bones and thick gray hair, the passionate ways in which he expresses dismay and concern...

Lino stands out from the large crowd of people who have shaped and changed me as a person. From him I most clearly learned the invaluable lesson that there is an incredible richness to be understood -- about language (and linguistics), history, family, decency -- from the people who may be least likely to speak up and volunteer counsel. I saw perhaps most directly through him the reasons that languages cease being spoken to children, but I was also able to witness the joy of rediscovering those languages in old age and with people who he thought would never hear a word of Omagua -- his gleam when he told me for the first time that he had started, in small but priceless increments, speaking in Omagua to one of his granddaughters. I experienced the necessity of establishing trust with the people I meet, in caring meaningfully about their lives (and knowing how to expressively do so) outside of language work, in what from a certain vantage are unusual, wildly unexpected encounters and relationships. Lino embodied what Caquintes would simply command as pintsipatantempa "accompany people". Lino was healthy, very fit, and incredibly strong into old age, but in the summer of 2011 he developed a respiratory infection that seems to have recurred frequently over the last several years -- that seems to have turned into pneumonia a few days before he passed away.

You can view all of Lino's contributions to the Omagua Documentation Project here. In particular, I encourage you to follow this link to the audio recordings our team made in 2011. Click through to the file named 2011-07-01_000_OMG_LHC.wav. Here, beginning 2 minutes and 40 seconds into the recording, you can listen to Lino tell a story about a hunting trip he made with his brother-in-law to a nearby watering hole. I include a transcription below so you can follow along.

Wipi uyawɨrɨ pues, ta ayuma usu kawakati, maritaku ra usuí ipurakatara. Rasui ra uri, ra kumɪsa tasupi -- ta yapɨtuka a las cinco de la tarde ta kamatasui ta ayuma kumɪsa tasupi: “Ayumá.” Ta kumɪsa: “Mari nɪ sɪta?” “Yukakati ta purara, kawakati ta purara wipi collpa. Ɨsɨwasu aki, pakana aki, tatuna aki...yapá yini umanuta usu ɪkumɪ ɨpɨsa.” Ta kumɪsa: “Yapá pues.” Tana usu a las ocho de la noche. Ta yapishika ta puna, ãi kumɪsa tasupi: “Awi las ocho de la noche yini, yapá yini usu.” Ta yaushima rakiakati, ta yaushima rakiakati, allí está. Yini warika ɨwɨra arɨwa hasta yapɨkan nani, tana sara animaluna uri. Aisɪmai yapɨkan taná ɨwati, yapɨkan taná. Awitaku yini las diez de la noche, las diez, en la noche, ɨpɨsa digo yo. Entonces, “Awitaku hora yini,” le digo. Tana sɪnu ɨsɨwasu uri. “Yuká uriari, uriari,” me dice él. “Tina ra uri. Ra aki collpakwararashi, linternapupɪ nɪ sɪnɪta mura ta umaisɪnuni mura ayampai,” le digo yo. Aisɪmai shirikwara ɨsɨwasu. Awi kanɨrata mura linternapupɪ ta umai ipaman ɨsɨwasupura. Ta yapishika ta puna, ta ayua rapura hasta ra ukukui shirikwara. Isui ipura ipama ra yapana, y ãi kumɪsa tasupi: “Nimari nɪ kunawara mura,” me dice él. “Rua, ɪraya ta ayua mura,” le digo, ta kumɪsa rasupi. “ɪraya ta ayua mura.” Ɨsɨwasu yapana kawarupɪ. Wipi ratosui, uyawɨrɨ ra urikatu, yapana ra urikatu. Ra ukuata taná ra ukukui yinikakura nani. Ãi ɨwɨpɪ ɨwɨrasui. Ra kanɨrata mura linternapupɪ, ra umai pamutai ɨsɨwasu. Awi usu ra umanu.