Poeticism in Two Caquinte Songs
This morning I read a lot about the spread of COVID-19 in Amazonia, of the nearly 200 known cases in Peruvian Amazonia, of the inadequacy of communicating health-related information cross-culturally, and of the long history of resilience on the part of indigenous people against introduced disease. (Fortunately no one I know has been affected by the virus.) What holds here does not always hold there, for many reasons, different daily needs and worldviews among them. I would like to offer another perspective in this post, concerning -- as we all grapple with the traumaticness of the situation -- conceptualizations of death as represented in Caquinte songs, and pick out some of the imagery in them. For non-linguists, know that Caquinte has a very complex grammar, with verbs to which you can add many prefixes and suffixes to express subtle shades of meaning. My hope is that the poeticism expressed in this way will bring some beauty to the present moment. I include here two songs sung by Antonina Salazar Torres in August 2017. Listen to them through. Below the photograph I remove repetitions and reduplications and give a literal translation. Line breaks are my own, and largely correspond to breath groups.
[audio recording here]
[audio recording here]
pikemiro tiniro ontinintiniro//
osatisatirinkagitejabaetanake tiniro ontiniro//
aritari ankenanake ametojanakegeti//
osatisatirinkagitejakobaetanake koajika//
ari okenanake koramani tiniro tiniro ontinintintiniro//
osatisatirinkagitejakobaetanajitari tinintiniro ontiniro//
pikemiro pikemiro osatisatirinkagitejabaetaketari tinintiniro ontini tiniro ontiniro//
aparosatinimpa nanijitantanakaro//
okatika kepatsi nometojanakegeti//
nonkenantanajemparo tiniro//
nosanosatirinkagitejakobaetanajetari//
nometojanometojanajegeti//
nonkempetanajemparo noniinanite//
osatisatirinkagitejakobaetanake tiniro ontiniro ontiniro//
[song 1, with translation interspersed]
kerokageti onkotempa ometoje piniinanite
wherever it is that your mother dies
oshimampojankagitebaetanajempa sabinkagiteri
the day will become very sad
onkempetanakempa tomirishi
the forest will become this way
oshimampojankashiabaetajempa tomirishi
the forest will be very sad
pinkemisantabakeri opempe
listen closely to the toucan
iriraanajempa opempe
the toucan will begin to cry
ari inkempetakempa nirijani nirijanibiote iriraanakempa
that is what my son will be like, my sons will begin to cry
irishimampojankabaetakempatari iramenabakero sabinkagiteri
because they will be very sad [when] they look at the day
oshimampojankagitejabaetanakempatari ometojanakegeti piniinanite
because it will become very sad here when your mother dies
ari nonkejetakempa naatimpa
that's how i will be
nontomishiatakobaetempa
i will be the forest
nonkempetanajempari nomankigajatane itomishiatakotanakegeti
i will become like my husband where he became the forest
Note the forest, the toucan, the joining with others in the forest. As Antonina described, when someone dies, "Araanakempa amenero sotsiki oshimampojankanaka aisa tomirishi. Oabetanakempa tomirishiki ari araakempa aisa." ("We'll begin to cry and look outside and see that the forest has also become sad. We'll go to the forest and cry as well.") When the toucan sings "ben, ben, ben" we will know that someone has died. "Apaniro noanake nontampirishitakotakempa nonchookake tomirishiki." ("I'll go away alone and become rough leaves and remain in the forest.")
The linguistic imagery is beautiful: the suffix -gite(j) on the verb shimampojank 'be sad' refers to open spaces in the environment, for example, the sky, or clearings in the forest. I sometimes translate it as 'here.' The suffix -shi(a) on the same verb and elsewhere, refers to leaves. The construction of the phrase 'my husband' is not the same as in spoken speech (nomankigare, based on mankiga 'marry'). It contains the suffix -ja, usually referring to water, but which occurs elsewhere with this verb when referring to the marriage of shamanic helper spirits. (Contrast imankigatakaro 'he married her,' said of a human, with imankigajatakaro, said of a spirit.) The nominalizer is -ne, attested elsewhere, not -re. There is reduplication throughout, with shimampojank 'be sad,' with sabinkagiteri 'day,' with irag 'cry,' with tomishia 'become forest,' and with nomankigajatane, the special word for 'my husband.'
[song 2, with translation interspersed]
pikemiro tiniro
you hear the tiniro tree
osatirinkagitejabaetanake tiniro
the tiniro tree will resound loudly here
aritari ankenanake ametojanakegeti
that is the way we will go when we die
osatirinkagitejakobaetanake koajika
it will resound loudly here later
ari okenanake koramani tiniro
that is the way the tiniro tree went long ago
osatirinkagitejakobaetanajitari tiniro
because the tiniro tree resounded loudly here
pikemiro osatirinkagitejabaetaketari tiniro
you hear the tiniro tree because it resounds loudly here
aparosatinimpa nanijitantanakaro
this is the last time i walk
okatika kepatsi nometojanakegeti
here on this earth, when i die
nonkenantanajemparo tiniro
i will go by way of the tiniro tree
nosatirinkagitejakobaetanajetari
because i will resound loudly here
nometojanajegeti
when i die
nonkempetanajemparo noniinanite
i will become like my mother
osatirinkagitejakobaetanake tiniro
the tiniro tree will resound loudly here
Note the special tiniro tree, a sort of palm, the noise, the path to the tiniro. The verb satirink refers to the resounding of thunder; Antonina describes it with the ideophone serororo, the deep long rumble across the sky. The belief here is one of thunder announcing death and souls associated with this tree. As Antonina put it, "Koramani nobaesatiniteni imetojake, irira pabantagari yoanake anta, ikanti, 'Chooka tiniro.'" ("A long time ago my ancestor died, and the shaman went there, and said, 'There's a tiniro tree.'") This is a shaman on a journey in a hallucinogenic trance induced by the drinking of a brew infused with ayahuasca. She went on, "Irimetojanake kakinte irisabikapojajero oka onatotakageti, imaika onkantanake serororo tinirororo." ("A person will die and they will come down to where the base of the branches is, and then it will go serororo tinirororo.") That is, their soul comes down to rest in the tiniro tree, and that's when the thunder sounds. Note that tiniro is itself used as an ideophone for this moment, alongside the one for thunder. It may be a tree that shamans only see in their visions; Antonina did not really know what it looked like, which is otherwise unexpected. The verb sabik 'come down' usually refers to objects in the sky, for example, an airplane making its descent, or a bird gently coming to rest (that is, not in a dive); it is also said of the gradual lowering of one's body to walk under something. (There are other words for descending inclines and the like.)
The linguistic imagery is also prevalent here. We see the same sort of reduplication, here on satirink 'resound' and metoj 'die.' There is the same suffix -gite(j). Note how it combines in different ways with satirink: the first instance is osatirinkagitejabaetanake; the second one is osatirinkagitejakobaetanake, with the suffix -ako. This is an applicative that can affect argument structure, but there and elsewhere it comes with a vague "indirect" meaning (to talk about someone instead of to them, to cut a fruit off a tree and not into the fruit itself, etc.). The imagery here is that the resounding noise does not emanate from the tiniro tree itself but from elsewhere. There are other affixes not mentioned: -bae on this and other verbs expresses large distances, long periods of time, or particular intensity; there is a special use of the regressive directional -aj that occurs in the denouements of stories. Both are present in both songs (loudly, for example). Senses like become are expressed by the ablative directional suffix -an. We see the suffix -nimpa, a filler of sorts that is only attested in song.
[audio recording here]
kerokageti kerokageti onkotempa ometojaometoje pinipiniinanite//
oshimashimampojankagitebaetanajempa sabisabisabinkagiteri sabisabisabinkagiteri//
onkempetanakempa tomirishi//
oshimashimampojankashiabaetajempa tomirishi tomirin tomirishi tomirishi tomirin//
pinkemisantabakeri opempe//
iriraariraaianajempa opempe opempe opempe//
ari inkempetakempa nirijani nirijani nirijanibiote iriraariraaianakempa//
irishimashimampojankaiabaetakempatari iramenabakero sabisabinkagiteri//
oshimashimampojankagitejabaetanakempatari ometojanakegeti piniinanite//
ari nonkehetakempa naatimpa//
nontomitomishiatakobaetempa//
nonkempetanajempari nomankiganomankigajatane otomitomishiatakotanakegeti//
nomankiganomanki nomankiganomankigajatane nomankiganomankigajatane//
[audio recording here]
pikemiro tiniro ontinintiniro//
osatisatirinkagitejabaetanake tiniro ontiniro//
aritari ankenanake ametojanakegeti//
osatisatirinkagitejakobaetanake koajika//
ari okenanake koramani tiniro tiniro ontinintintiniro//
osatisatirinkagitejakobaetanajitari tinintiniro ontiniro//
pikemiro pikemiro osatisatirinkagitejabaetaketari tinintiniro ontini tiniro ontiniro//
aparosatinimpa nanijitantanakaro//
okatika kepatsi nometojanakegeti//
nonkenantanajemparo tiniro//
nosanosatirinkagitejakobaetanajetari//
nometojanometojanajegeti//
nonkempetanajemparo noniinanite//
osatisatirinkagitejakobaetanake tiniro ontiniro ontiniro//
 |
| Antonina singing, Kitepampani, August 13, 2017 |
[song 1, with translation interspersed]
kerokageti onkotempa ometoje piniinanite
wherever it is that your mother dies
oshimampojankagitebaetanajempa sabinkagiteri
the day will become very sad
onkempetanakempa tomirishi
the forest will become this way
oshimampojankashiabaetajempa tomirishi
the forest will be very sad
pinkemisantabakeri opempe
listen closely to the toucan
iriraanajempa opempe
the toucan will begin to cry
ari inkempetakempa nirijani nirijanibiote iriraanakempa
that is what my son will be like, my sons will begin to cry
irishimampojankabaetakempatari iramenabakero sabinkagiteri
because they will be very sad [when] they look at the day
oshimampojankagitejabaetanakempatari ometojanakegeti piniinanite
because it will become very sad here when your mother dies
ari nonkejetakempa naatimpa
that's how i will be
nontomishiatakobaetempa
i will be the forest
nonkempetanajempari nomankigajatane itomishiatakotanakegeti
i will become like my husband where he became the forest
Note the forest, the toucan, the joining with others in the forest. As Antonina described, when someone dies, "Araanakempa amenero sotsiki oshimampojankanaka aisa tomirishi. Oabetanakempa tomirishiki ari araakempa aisa." ("We'll begin to cry and look outside and see that the forest has also become sad. We'll go to the forest and cry as well.") When the toucan sings "ben, ben, ben" we will know that someone has died. "Apaniro noanake nontampirishitakotakempa nonchookake tomirishiki." ("I'll go away alone and become rough leaves and remain in the forest.")
The linguistic imagery is beautiful: the suffix -gite(j) on the verb shimampojank 'be sad' refers to open spaces in the environment, for example, the sky, or clearings in the forest. I sometimes translate it as 'here.' The suffix -shi(a) on the same verb and elsewhere, refers to leaves. The construction of the phrase 'my husband' is not the same as in spoken speech (nomankigare, based on mankiga 'marry'). It contains the suffix -ja, usually referring to water, but which occurs elsewhere with this verb when referring to the marriage of shamanic helper spirits. (Contrast imankigatakaro 'he married her,' said of a human, with imankigajatakaro, said of a spirit.) The nominalizer is -ne, attested elsewhere, not -re. There is reduplication throughout, with shimampojank 'be sad,' with sabinkagiteri 'day,' with irag 'cry,' with tomishia 'become forest,' and with nomankigajatane, the special word for 'my husband.'
[song 2, with translation interspersed]
pikemiro tiniro
you hear the tiniro tree
osatirinkagitejabaetanake tiniro
the tiniro tree will resound loudly here
aritari ankenanake ametojanakegeti
that is the way we will go when we die
osatirinkagitejakobaetanake koajika
it will resound loudly here later
ari okenanake koramani tiniro
that is the way the tiniro tree went long ago
osatirinkagitejakobaetanajitari tiniro
because the tiniro tree resounded loudly here
pikemiro osatirinkagitejabaetaketari tiniro
you hear the tiniro tree because it resounds loudly here
aparosatinimpa nanijitantanakaro
this is the last time i walk
okatika kepatsi nometojanakegeti
here on this earth, when i die
nonkenantanajemparo tiniro
i will go by way of the tiniro tree
nosatirinkagitejakobaetanajetari
because i will resound loudly here
nometojanajegeti
when i die
nonkempetanajemparo noniinanite
i will become like my mother
osatirinkagitejakobaetanake tiniro
the tiniro tree will resound loudly here
Note the special tiniro tree, a sort of palm, the noise, the path to the tiniro. The verb satirink refers to the resounding of thunder; Antonina describes it with the ideophone serororo, the deep long rumble across the sky. The belief here is one of thunder announcing death and souls associated with this tree. As Antonina put it, "Koramani nobaesatiniteni imetojake, irira pabantagari yoanake anta, ikanti, 'Chooka tiniro.'" ("A long time ago my ancestor died, and the shaman went there, and said, 'There's a tiniro tree.'") This is a shaman on a journey in a hallucinogenic trance induced by the drinking of a brew infused with ayahuasca. She went on, "Irimetojanake kakinte irisabikapojajero oka onatotakageti, imaika onkantanake serororo tinirororo." ("A person will die and they will come down to where the base of the branches is, and then it will go serororo tinirororo.") That is, their soul comes down to rest in the tiniro tree, and that's when the thunder sounds. Note that tiniro is itself used as an ideophone for this moment, alongside the one for thunder. It may be a tree that shamans only see in their visions; Antonina did not really know what it looked like, which is otherwise unexpected. The verb sabik 'come down' usually refers to objects in the sky, for example, an airplane making its descent, or a bird gently coming to rest (that is, not in a dive); it is also said of the gradual lowering of one's body to walk under something. (There are other words for descending inclines and the like.)
The linguistic imagery is also prevalent here. We see the same sort of reduplication, here on satirink 'resound' and metoj 'die.' There is the same suffix -gite(j). Note how it combines in different ways with satirink: the first instance is osatirinkagitejabaetanake; the second one is osatirinkagitejakobaetanake, with the suffix -ako. This is an applicative that can affect argument structure, but there and elsewhere it comes with a vague "indirect" meaning (to talk about someone instead of to them, to cut a fruit off a tree and not into the fruit itself, etc.). The imagery here is that the resounding noise does not emanate from the tiniro tree itself but from elsewhere. There are other affixes not mentioned: -bae on this and other verbs expresses large distances, long periods of time, or particular intensity; there is a special use of the regressive directional -aj that occurs in the denouements of stories. Both are present in both songs (loudly, for example). Senses like become are expressed by the ablative directional suffix -an. We see the suffix -nimpa, a filler of sorts that is only attested in song.
Comments
Post a Comment