Repetition of a word literally doubles its meaning, as in the Witoto nana, “all,” and the Boro paa-paa, “low-low,” that is to say, “lower”; kame-kame, “high-high,” i.e. “higher.”
I have said that the principle of construction in both Boro and Witoto is that of the mute’s gesture language, but gesture language actually is almost unknown, non-existent, among all these tribes. The hand is pointed to show direction, or to identify a person or object. The Indian beckons with one hand, but its movement is downward, not upward as with us. There is also a recognised sign to express desire for sexual intercourse. This is a mere jest, a ribald suggestion, as with boys of a certain age among our lower classes. The right elbow is grasped with the left hand, the elbow being so flexed as to allow the hand to point upwards. It is, in fact, the letter Z of the dumb alphabet.
Fingers and toes are used for reckoning, and are the more needed in that the Indians’ knowledge of numbers is of the slightest. But few can reckon beyond five, though I once found a senior wrangler who counted seventeen, by the aid of all his fingers, all the toes of one foot, and two of the other. The remaining three toes he covered over, to show that they were not required for the total sum. If an Indian wished to enumerate anything over ten he would place both hands to his head and say, “Like the hairs of my head.”[407] In Boro I could only learn of four numerals, tiamie, “one-half”; tsanere, or tsape, “one”; mieke, “two”; sause, “five.” These in combination give tsape-mieke, “three”; mieke-mieke, “four.” The Witoto numerals are dahe, “one”; mena, “two”; dahe-amene—equivalent to the Boro tsape-mieke,—“three”; menahere, “four”; dapekwiro, “five”—that is one hand; nagapekwiro, “six.”
It makes absolutely no difference to the value whether you say tsape-mieke or mieke-tsape; dahe-amene or mena-dahe.
For measures these tribes have nothing more definite than a handful, a foot- or finger-length, and of weights they possess no knowledge whatever, nor, so far as I am aware from their customs or their language, is there any consciousness of more possible or desirably-accurate definition.
To express a length of time other than the merely immediate past, present, and future, the Indian makes use of what conveys to him an indefinable idea, “As long as the hairs of my head.” This is similar to his notion of expressing any large number. He reckons time by the moon to the extent of saying, “When the moon is small,” or, pointing to it, “As it is now,” but I never heard anything like “so many moons,” or an equivalent value in a word. In fact, time to the Boro, so far as I am aware, is distinguished by only pekare, “to-morrow,” aiupe, “yesterday.” The Witoto will speak of beiruito, “to-day”; wiremoni, “to-morrow”; dawire, “the day after to-morrow,” or nawire, “yesterday”; beinawire, “the day before yesterday,” or beinawife, “the night before last.”
There is, as I have already mentioned, no writing, not even the most primitive picture-writing. The Indian makes use of no signs as aids to memory; and the only recognised symbol that I met with—other than such symbolic practices as the presentation of wood and thatch by the bridegroom to his parents-in-law—was the tobacco folded in a strip of palm leaf that is the regular invitation card of North-Western Amazonia when festivities are toward. Neither individuals nor families have any recognised name-marks—such as a peculiar notch or number of notches—to distinguish personal property. It must be remembered that in the small private habitations in the bush a man and his wife and children are more or less isolated, and that in the great tribal house the family community have most of their possessions in common. It is difficult with so communal a people to know what may be looked upon as general property, and what as individual, with the exception of personal ornaments. Indians recognise their property only by differential qualities, certain ornamentation, ways of binding or lashing, patterns in basketry, colouring—and division of colours—on pottery; and these differences are known and recognised by others, as well as by the actual owners.
Each tribe has its peculiar call or signal, which I believe is altered occasionally as a precautionary measure. This may be a whistle, or the imitation of the cry of bird or beast. Then there is the so-called drum-language used in signalling, and already noted in a previous chapter, which I certainly believe to be some sort of code. Brown’s assertion that the sound of the word is made with the drum, and the Indians’ description of making the words is, I take it, merely the untaught intelligence striving to explain how an onomatopœic language—such as Boro and Witoto to some extent certainly are—can be further conventionalised to a scope even more circumscribed than the ordinary monotone of the Indian’s speaking voice.
Not only is the Indian voice monotonous, but the conversation is rendered yet duller by the invariable repetition of the last words of a sentence. This is particularly the case with the Tuyuka, where conversation has a definitely ceremonial form. For instance, if a man leaves a party to bathe, he says, “I go to take a bath,” and the company present reply in chorus, “You go to take a bath.” On his return the formula runs, “I have taken a bath,” and the confirmative echo follows, “Yes, you have taken a bath.” This endless repetition, as was noticed with regard to songs, is characteristic of all Indians.