Forests: RUSSELL MITTERMEIER: Into the Woods

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Except for its lethal possibilities, his distractedness is charming. His mind is simply oriented to the world he has chosen. Nothing makes him happier than looking at it. In the evening he goes out for a while and comes back with two frogs and a toad, in part to show me their characteristics (one is poisonous), but mainly because he is still a kid who likes to go out and get frogs. In the morning, one of our guides spots a parrot high in a tree, a Fransemadam, so called because it spreads a scarlet frill when excited, like the gaudy costume of a French madam. I admire, take note of the bird and am ready to move on, but Mittermeier could stand under the tree for hours lost in the intellectual pleasure of seeing.

Then we are off again, to fly farther south and east to the Maroon Saramaccan village of Asindopo in the region of the Upper Suriname River. Asindopo means "sit down and hope"--a welcome thought to its original settlers, runaway slaves from Dutch plantations in the 18th century. We go by corjal to visit their descendants. Some are swimming; some are washing clothes in the river; some are staring at us. The faces of the children are a cross between innocence and gravity. On a far bank, a glorious ceiba rises to the sky. It is called the "house of the spirits" and is never cut down.

At the village, custom requires that we hold a krutu, a sort of formal palaver, with the granman--grand man, the paramount chief--and his council, before we wander about. We gather in his hut with the village leaders. He is a compact man, with a slightly sad expression--sort of a solemn Redd Foxx--and a tuft of white beard clinging to his chin. During the krutu, one never addresses him directly, nor does he speak directly to others. All questions and responses go through the bassias, high-ranking assistants who serve as intermediaries, a custom that prolongs the meetings but also gives them a formality that suggests authentic goodwill.

Mittermeier is introduced, and he asks if I may put a question to the granman. I ask what the forest means spiritually to the Maroons. The granman passes my question to a captain, who says that it goes to "the heart of our society." Their whole existence, he says, is a result of the integration of the physical and the spiritual. Then he offers me a parable. If you go into the woods, he says, and you look for a new plot to farm, you have to put a marker down; otherwise you won't be able to find the plot when you return. He asks me, "What will be your mark, to ensure your return?" by which he clearly means, "Are you here for a moment or for the long haul?" It is the question no journalist wants to hear. I see that I am out of my league.

We go walking about the village, which looks like Africa in South America. What strikes one is how at ease the people are with themselves and their environment. They have a way of standing that seems to put no stress anywhere on their bodies, as if they have arranged all their parts to hang in perfect balance, like a mobile. Doing laundry or picking things up off the ground, the women bend not at the knees but at the waist, and with a fluidity that suggests there is no better way to bend. They do a musical performance, a seketi, in which they clap rapidly and make instruments of their hands. Their comfort is mirrored in their faces; their eyes are keen and uneager, yet charged with authority.