THE Incas of Western South America were once a very powerful empire, a race of many millions, noble in form and mind, free and upstanding, forming a huge commonwealth which extended from Colombia to Southern Chile. They were justly proud of their great rulers―the famous “Children of the Sun” ―a people of ancient and mysterious lineage, and of real personal charm and dignity, yet who also knew how to govern with justice and benevolence, and how to cultivate the arts of peace.
Their splendid palaces, halls, and temples were raised high against the heavens, massive stone upon massive stone, each so faultlessly fitted to its fellow that they yet defy the ravages of time, and today excite the wonder and envy of our master builders.
Their populous cities were adorned with lovely gardens and artificial lakes; terrace above terrace brilliant with flowers and foliage, bright with the glad cries of happy children and the sound of fairy waters.
The contented peasantry were industrious and prosperous; valiant in defense of their prince in time of war, and abiding under a beneficent and just administration of the law. A wonderful picture of a wonderful people, with a setting which displayed a magnificence and wealth, coupled with a wise government, that might well recall the days of Solomon.
Four hundred years ago came a sudden and terrible change. There arrived a band of foreign armed men. Strangely attractive in appearance they were, but with subtle and cruel hearts. The Incas were fascinated and bewildered like a flock of sheep. Foul cunning, duplicity, and the deep-dyed treachery of the Spanish commander Pizarro, who was supported by his monks and friars, soon changed the scene; this noble race was shamefully betrayed into destruction, poverty, and slavery, and all that is left today of their past glories are the hundreds of isolated tribes which inhabit Peru, Bolivia, Colombia, and the great Brazilian Amazonia, some of whom are wild and indomitable savages, and a few are cannibals. The remnants in Bolivia number about a million debased, exploited, and poverty-stricken Indians, who are a disgrace to our common humanity. In Peru there yet remain about two million of the same race, known today as the Quechua and Aymara Indians, who, though not savages or cannibals, yet are little better than degraded serfs, without light and without hope. This is equally true of other scattered sections of the once proud empire of the Incas, who are yet to be found in nearly all the northwest of South America under one name or another.
In seeking to fulfill out Master’s great command to preach the Gospel to every creature, we certainly have begun at home, and lavished of our very best on the great white race. We have given of our sons and daughters to the needs of darkest Africa; the black man has not been forgotten. We have poured out our treasure on behalf of the yellow millions of China and Japan, and the brown men of India have had a few of our finest missionaries. But what have we done for the fifth great division of humanity? What have we done for the Redskin―the great forgotten race?
An Australian Mission has for many years been making a brave and uphill attempt to reach the Bolivian Indians for Christ. The “Unevangelized Land Mission” has launched out a score of precious young lives into the vast, dense, and perilous region of the Brazilian Amazon, to face a life of privation and suffering that few can long survive, in an apostolic attempt to reach some of these forgotten peoples for Christ and eternity. The Union with which the writer is connected has for some years conducted a large farm of territorial area, where the Quechua Indian may find the much needed protection from wrong, and where many learn to work honorably and are taught to read and write. An orphanage cares for their children, the Gospel is preached to them daily, and quite a few have been won for Christ. There is also the Anglican Mission in the Paraguayan Chaco, among several small communities of Redskins, where good work has been done, besides the efforts of a few individual missionaries here and there over the vast continent.
But all these efforts only begin to touch the fringe of the great problem of reaching this forgotten race with the Good News.
Many years ago my attention was drawn to one of the scattered tribes which are to be found along the banks of the Araguaya River, one of the largest and most beautiful of rivers, running almost due south to north through Central Brazil, debouching into the mouth of the Amazon at Para.
Odidi, a Carajá Indian, had come to Goyaz city on a visit, with several other Redskins, all in their natural state―without clothing of any kind. They had come out of their wilds to see something of the wonderful world they had heard of, and to them the very primitive and rather rude and rustic capital of Goyaz was a marvel of the pale-face. They also wanted to see the Tauri’s “iron horse with its belly of fire and its round legs of iron,” as they called it; but this was yet too far away. We clothed them as far as decency demanded, and gave them such a warm welcome generally that Odidi gave us to understand that he wished to stay on with us, to “improve himself,” as he put it, the others returning to their riverside huts far away. He cut his long hair, donned my cast-offs, and, took up his residence with us, calling me “father.” Rapidly he learned to read and write, though he spoke very little Portuguese. His efforts to abandon the tobacco habit were very pathetic, and sometimes he would disappear into the forest for a week at a time, and then come back very pale and sickly-looking, reeking with the smell of the subtle and perilous weed. He eventually gained the mastery over this evil vice.
Nearly a year after his arrival I set out on my long-anticipated voyage of exploration among Odidi’s people, the Carajá, Indians, and traveling together on horseback we traversed the hundred and twenty miles to the little port of Leopoldina do Araguaya. Here large and interesting open-air meetings were held, the hearers showing great satisfaction on hearing the Good News. I managed to purchase an old twenty-five-foot igarité canoe, hollowed out of one log, with its sides raised by two rows of boards, and a small platform at each end. It is propelled by two or three single-bladed paddles, and by long poles in the shallows. My crew consisted of an old deaf half-caste named Sylverio, and his son, a lad of about thirteen, accompanied by their dog, and Odidi. Our boat was well loaded down with food and necessaries for a long voyage, over half a ton in weight, although we depended upon fish and turtles supplying the greater part of our larder. Then followed the most interesting and important journey very briefly related in the next chapter.