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This sample comes from Jane's sixth book, The Forbidden World of the Jaguar Princess. It's about Jane's extended visit with Pamela Hawkins, a white woman who lived alone in the Ecuadorian Amazon, operating a successful plantation and controlling a large group of natives who worshipped her as a Shia Shia Nua, the jaguar goddess. Jane did visit such a woman in the jungle and came away with a fascinating story of a single woman thriving in the jungle, one that would certainly make for an exciting book.
The only problem was that Pamela Hawkins was an older woman when Jane met her and not very photogenic--not at all the image that would entice readers to buy the book. So Jane and Ken came up with a clever solution. They hired a showgirl friend from Quito and took pictures of her in the jungle as if she were Pamela Hawkins. Jane also transformed her in the text into a 25-year-old woman, ripe with sexual appeal.
The result was an unprecedented success. The book proved so popular that Jane received more fan mail than from any of her other books. Many young men wanted more information about Pamela, hoping to travel to Equador to meet her !
Was Jane guilty of a deception? In one sense, yes, but more importantly, Jane was experimenting with a new kind of adventure literature based on fact but incorporating fictional elements. Jaguar Princess is a nonfiction novel, a true postmodern literary work.
This passage comes late in the book and shows how Jane used Pamela to examine the nature of womanhood, which in her view was often a complex melange of civilized and primitive impulses. Here Pamela performs a bridal ceremony with young virgins of the Súke Nápis, becoming a part of something larger than herself but also losing some of her humanity in the process.
Pamela slowly arose and holding the golden symbol of the snake high above her head, she walked regally to the cadence of the drums into the centre of the clearing. She looked every inch a “goddess” of the jungle, with her head tilted slightly upward, her body moving in a fluid motion, and her eyes sparkling in the reflected light of the leaping flames. I knew instinctively that once again she had been completely absorbed by her primitive emotions, and her natural radiance emanated from some inner conviction that she was truly playing an integral and vital role in this ancient pagan rite. For the moment all else had been forgotten, and in her subconscious being, she had become the hand maiden and oracle of the all powerful Yambin.
Reaching a point midway between the two drums, she stopped and turning gracefully, faced the jefe. Simultaneously a group of about twelve young girls, the virgin brides-to-be, solemnly gathered around her. Pamela led them slowly in a broad circle around the enthralled group of silent spectators. As they passed in front of me it was evident that all of the participants were very young girls, ranging between the ages of thirteen and seventeen.
This was the moment they had eagerly awaited, when each girl could proudly display her physical charms and secretly hope that the ripe fruits of her young body would tempt someone among the assembled group of eligible males to join her later in the “Dance of Love”. The virgins moved with animal grace, baring their pert breasts to the eyes of the entire tribe, and as they walked, they looked about searchingly, as if trying to discern whether or not their physical attributes were being fully appreciated by those whom they most desired. Several minutes later, the procession of the virgins ended. While Pamela held high the sacred golden symbol of their god, the young maidens prostrated themselves on the ground before her. There was a breathless silence as Shia Shia Nua returned and sat again next to the jefe, while the virgins resumed their original positions between the mating drums.
Again the jefe raised his hand, and the drums crashed into a rhythmic beat. Suddenly one of the young maidens, moved by some inexplicable force, leaped up and jumped lithely into the centre of the clearing. With head thrown back and breasts jutting out, she rolled her hips seductively in a rotating movement and then as the tempo increased to a savage throb, leaped wildly around the enclosure, stopping momentarily to fall to her knees, then violently rolling her head in a tight circle, her long black hair flying loosely about in all directions. It was one of the most seductive dances I had ever witnessed, nor was I alone in my opinion, as suddenly from the back of the crowd, a young man burst forth, his semi-nude body glistening with perspiration, and his eyes fixed on the willowy figure of the girl now pirouetting with abandon in front of him. She swayed rhythmically before her youthful companion, and slowly, ever so slowly, circled him, coming closer and closer and yet never touching his body. Her sensuous red lips were now close to his, and a half-smile of triumph crossed her face.
I turned to say something to Pamela, but stopped abruptly when I saw that her forehead was bathed in perspirationn, and her eyes, round and wide, were focused intently on the dancers. Her shoulders twitched to the rhythmic beat of the drums, and her fists were clenched, the long nails biting into the palms of her hands. A murmur rippled through the crowd and drew my attention back to the dancers. The young man had suddenly swept the girl off her feet, and flinging her across his shoulder, he ran swiftly out of the clearing. Love had triumphed. But no sooner had they disappeared than still another young virgin had taken her place, repeating the sensual erotic performance. Her dance lasted barely a minute when she, too, was whisked away by a passionate admirer.
As bodies caressed bodies, and desire met desire, the “Dance of Love” continued to the increasingly savage beat of the drums. My head began reeling from the kaleidoscopic movement of this frenetic wooing of the flesh. It was impossible to sit quietly and remain unaffected by the incessant pounding of the drums. Subconsciously, I found my own body responding to their vibrant beckoning.
Their passions already inflamed by the great amounts of chicha they had consumed, the Súke Nápis were now clapping in cadence to the tempo of the mating drums, and at the culmination of each dance, would send up a wild shout of approval as the virgins found their mates.
Suddenly, I felt a movement beside me, and turning, saw to my horror that Pamela had slipped out of her feathered bra. Her lips were half-parted and a frenzied ecstatic look gleamed in unseeing eyes. Jerking her shoulders convulsively, she jumped to her feet and then in one wild leap, sprang into the clearing. A startled gasp welled up from the throats of the astounded Indians as they watched their jungle goddess raise her arms slowly over her head, and then break into an uninhibited dance of abandonment, a dance so wild and fraught with passion that it left them immobile and spellbound. It was as though all of her latent emotions had suddenly burst forth like the waters of a raging torrent sweeping over a confining dam.
And now, unfettered, unchained, this virginal goddess of the green forest stood before us, her face nakedly animal, her bare bosom heaving to the pagan love call of the drums, crying out in anguish for a mate, the mate that would forever be denied her.
No man arose to meet the challenge of Pamela’s open invitation. No man dared. For Pamela belonged not to mortals, but to their pagan gods who dwelt in that lofty Valhalla far beyond the distant towering snow-capped peaks. And so Pamela danced on alone. The moon had disappeared and looking upward I saw black ominous clouds scurrying across a troubled midnight sky. A capricious wind seemingly came out of nowhere, howling mournfully as it swept across the floor of the jungle, tousling her hair as she writhed and twisted, her seductive body outlined in silhouette as if trying to free her tormented soul of a thousand evil demons.
I watched her dance of fury with unbelieving eyes, but now I knew all of the answers I had been seeking. Shia Shia Nua was everything that rumour had indicated--a sorceress, an enchantress, a temptress, an adored jungle goddess, a “white witch doctor”. She was all of these things, but much, much more--the “Jaguar Princess” was the untamed jungle, itself, a she-demon, a wanton savage, whose cry of animal desire mingled with despair was being echoed throughout the far reaches of the Amazon. But her cry remained unanswered.
And now the sacred drums increased in volume and tempo, blotting out all other sounds, and turning the night into a bedlam of unabated frenzy. Pamela, arms out-stretched, began spinning crazily. . .faster and faster in an ever-tightening circle. Had she gone mad? I wanted to cry out “Stop, Pamela, stop!” but no words came forth from my parched throat. She was weaving a web, invisible strands, but stronger than steel, that would bind her forever to this savage land without any hope of escape. Then suddenly, the skies opened and a torrential rain began to fall. The fire hissed and spluttered and the Súke Nápis in a mad melee, rushed from the enclosure to seek the shelter of their homes. Now, even the drummers had fled, and only Pamela remained. Falling to the ground completely exhausted from her lustful exhibition, she buried her face in the soft wet earth, and her beautiful slender fingers bit, like claws, into the ground. This was her moment of truth. Now Pamela had discovered in her own heart what I already knew--that she was destined to spend her life in this nether nether world of primitive isolation, with the knowledge that tomorrow would be like today and yesterday, and all the other yesterdays, and without hope of rescue from this strange world of unreality that has closed in on her with harsh and definite finality.
Like an automaton, I moved blindly through the driving rain to where she lay, and gently lifting her to her feet, walked slowly with her through the darkness of the tortured night towards the village.
From The Forbidden World of the Jaguar Princess, London: Alan Hale, 1964, pp.181-185. |
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