David Suzuki - David Suzuki

At one point, Simon brought out a bow and arrow, and when he raised it, the onlookers gasped; it was an aggressive act to raise a bow

thus. When Simon let fly, I thought of all the people in the rest of the village who might be punctured by an errant arrow. Thunk! It went into a branch. Everyone in the group gave an appreciative grunt, while I exhaled in relief.

Simon and Guujaaw, two of the most outstanding First Nations traditional singers and dancers in all of B.C., wore carved masks on their heads and performed in front of Amazonian chiefs and warriors, who sat riveted. Guujaaw's face was streaked with black, and he wore a heavy animal fur. As he sang and drummed, sweat poured down his face and body in the humidity. Later I met Simon standing in the shadows, tears running down his cheeks; this incredible contact had touched something deep within. He said his life had been transformed by that night.

Sting was scheduled to appear in solidarity with Raoni. All this excitement was the biggest thing ever to happen in Altamira. The rock star, a friendly man, stayed at the same two-bit hotel as our contingent. Young girls waited outside for him, and when they spotted Jeff Gibbs, a tall, gangly young man from Vancouver, they'd scream, “Stingee! Stingee!” and surround him, begging for his autograph. Jeff happily signed for Sting, a huge smile on his face.

The event was a sensational success for Paiakan. It was raining the day the meetings ended, but when the tribes emerged from the building to dance and sing, the rain stopped and a rainbow spread across the sky. Even the most jaded reporter surely felt it was an auspicious sign. In celebration, the local men performed a special corn-planting dance outdoors.

The meeting was reported around the world, and under pressure from many countries, including Canada, the World Bank pulled its support from Plano 2010, bringing it to an end. Although the Amazon and Kaiapo territory remained under siege on many fronts, one threat, at least, had been defeated. After the meeting, Paiakan took off his headdress, which his mother had made for him, and gave it to me. It is another of my most prized possessions.

Because of his tremendous visibility and the success of the demonstration, Paiakan had been receiving death threats daily while in Altamira. We knew that in Brazil union leaders, Indians, and religious and civil-rights activists had been murdered with impunity. While in Altamira, Tara and I met late at night with a handful of trusted Brazilians concerned that Paiakan's life was in jeopardy. It seemed surreal; the death threats were serious, and here we were, coolly discussing ways to avoid Paiakan's assassination.

I marveled at the courage of the Brazilians present, who were surely putting their own lives in jeopardy by supporting Paiakan, while Paiakan himself showed no signs of fear or backing down. As long as he remained in Aucre, he would be safe, because the only way in was by plane on a tiny airstrip completely vulnerable to Kaiapo warriors. But in Aucre he also would be isolated. We spoke of setting up a fund so that when he needed to get out to Brasília or to travel abroad, he could call in a plane.

Dick in full regalia behind him.

In the end, it was decided that Paiakan needed to get out of the country so that things could cool down. We asked him where he would like to go. “To Canada, to stay with you and Tara,” was his reply.

WITHIN DAYS OF OUR return to Vancouver in March 1989, Paiakan arrived with Irekran and their three daughters, Oe, Tania, and baby Majal. Their body paint had faded, but the girls' heads still had a triangle of shaved hair, just growing in. In the chilly night temperature we had taken to the Vancouver airport clothing we had gathered from friends, but Paiakan refused to let his family wear anything used. Tara and I had prepared an apartment in the basement of our house for the family. But when Paiakan found out that the sheets were not new, he said they wouldn't sleep in the beds; our diseases were a very real hazard for them. New clothes and sheets became our first priority.

We had set a fire in the fireplace, and once the family was settled, we went downstairs to visit. We discovered that the little girls had

dragged coals out of the hearth onto the bare wooden floor and were playing with them; we explained that wooden floors are different from dirt. When my father-in-law, Harry, went out the next morning for his usual early walk, he found the downstairs kitchen door wide open, one of the stove's burners red-hot, the television on, and all the lights blazing, but everyone apparently in bed.

Irekran and the girls spoke only Kaiapo, so all of our communication was through Tara and Paiakan speaking Portuguese. Paiakan's daughters and our girls got along famously, each learning many words and songs in the other's language. I have a vivid memory of Oe and Tania pedaling tricycles furiously along the sidewalks, Severn and Sarika running madly after them. I'd built our girls a playhouse high in the dogwood tree in the backyard, and Oe and Tania loved it, playing there for hours. They easily took to dressing up; we'd find Sari, Oe, and Tania sitting laughing in tiaras in the shower stall. Sarika took Oe and Tania to school with her as the best show-and-tell she'd ever come up with.

The whole family loved the killer whales then on display at the Vancouver Aquarium and returned again and again — six times in all — to gaze at those magnificent animals through windows that gave the public an underwater view from inches away. But our visitors' likes and dislikes were unpredictable. We took the family up Mount Holly-burn just outside the city, and while Irekran and the girls loved tobogganing and playing with snow for the first time, Paiakan sat in the car and smoked cigarettes.

The girls loved the sea and waded straight into it (in March!), but Paiakan and his wife always sat with their backs to it, which puzzled me. Then one day, as we were driving, our car drew alongside a wild river. All five of Paiakan's family flung themselves at the windows, everyone talking at once, pointing out the river's features in a flurry of excitement.

We arranged for translators and took the family to visit as many different First Nations as we could. The first place we visited was Tofino, on Vancouver Island, where the Nuu-chah-nulth people were holding a meeting. As we flew across the island in a small seaplane, I pointed out the extent of clear-cutting below to show Paiakan we had our forest battles too. Gradually I realized he and Irekran weren't listening to me but were staring straight ahead, clearly uncomfortable. In the Amazon, it turns out, some pilots fly very close to the forest canopy; if there is a mechanical failure and there are no clearings to set down in, the plane can crash-land on the trees. Paiakan had survived three such crashes. But over Vancouver Island, we were flying very high to avoid the mountains, a couple of them more than seven thousand feet high. When Paiakan and Irekran looked down, they saw a lot of snow and rocks — not a very welcoming surface. After we finally landed, Paiakan announced, “Chiefs don't fly in small planes,” which was baloney, but I wasn't going to argue. We ended up having to take a long bus ride and a ferry trip to return to Vancouver.