14/06/2025
๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐ฎ๐น๐น ๐ผ๐ณ ๐ช๐ฎ๐๐ฎ๐ฐรก: ๐ ๐๐ฒ๐ด๐ฒ๐ป๐ฑ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐ ๐ผ๐๐ป๐ ๐ฅ๐ผ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ถ๐บ๐ฎ
๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐ฎ๐น๐น ๐ผ๐ณ ๐ช๐ฎ๐๐ฎ๐ฐรก: ๐ ๐๐ฒ๐ด๐ฒ๐ป๐ฑ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐ ๐ผ๐๐ป๐ ๐ฅ๐ผ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ถ๐บ๐ฎ
Long ago, before the land knew boundaries and before rivers carved their names into the earth, the great Wazacรก tree stood at the heart of the world. It was no ordinary treeโits towering branches bore every fruit and vegetable known to life.
Among those who tasted Wazacรกโs gifts were Makunaima and his brothers. It was after one such feast that Maโnรกpe, one of the brothers, grew restless. With ambition swelling in his chest, he turned to the others and declared, โI will cut the Wazacรก down.โ
But Akuli, the wise agouti, shook his head gravely.
โHow can you think such a thing?โ he asked. โThis tree feeds us all. If you cut it, it will bring ruinโa flood that none of us can escape.โ
Maโnรกpe, stubborn and proud, ignored the warning. He retrieved his great axe, slung it over his shoulder, and marched toward the sacred tree. Akuli, fearful of what might come, followed quietly through the jungle.
At last, they reached the towering Wazacรก, whose leafy crown rose above the canopy and whose scent filled the air like the breath of the earth itself. Maโnรกpe wasted no timeโhe swung his axe against the bark, but the blade bounced off without so much as a mark.
Then, Maโnรกpe stepped back, raised his voice, and invoked the ancient words:
โMazapa-yeg, รฉlupa-yeg, makupa-yeg!โ
The trees he calledโmazapa, mamao, cariacaโwere known for their soft wood. With the spell, Wazacรกโs bark softened. This time, the axe bit deep.
Akuli panicked. He pleaded again, but Maโnรกpe would not stop. Desperate, Akuli tried to plug the growing wounds with beeswax and fruit husks, but the axe fell again and again, and the tree bled sap like tears into the soil.
Maโnรกpe invoked more treesโโPalulu-yeg!โ he cried, calling on the papaya tree. The Wazacรก softened to its core. The axe carved a gaping wound so deep, only a thin sliver of wood held the tree upright.
Suddenly, the forest rang with a voice like thunder:
โWaina-yeg!โ
Anzikilรกn had arrived, sprinting through the jungle, his voice breaking the spell. He called on the spirit of the Waina treeโancient and unyieldingโwhose wood was as hard as the stones beneath Euteurimรก Waterfall. At once, the Wazacรก hardened, the axe froze.
But Maโnรกpe, consumed by obsession, shouted again:
โรlupa-yeg, palulu-yeg!โ
The spell took hold. The trunk split with a deafening crack, and the mighty Wazacรก crashed to the earth. Its branches were torn apart by the wind. Its roots tore up stone and soil. Trees were crushed. Hills were born. From this cataclysm rose the giant table-top mountainโRoraima, watching silently as suns rise and moons fade.
The crown of the tree, heavy with its fruits, tumbled north, where it came to rest. To this day, that land grows plantains no hand has plantedโclaimed by the Mawari spirits who dwell on Roraima and its sister mountains. Had the crown fallen south, it would have been the Arekuna people who reaped its harvest.
Even before the echoes of the treeโs fall faded, water erupted from the shattered trunk. A mighty flood surged through the land, scattering Makunaima and his brothers. The water shimmered with fish, but the current was swift. The biggest ones vanished into the depths. The brothers tried to catch them, but only the small ones remainedโflickering shadows too fast to hold.
And so, from the fall of the Wazacรก tree was born a mountain, a flood, and the age-old memory of what was lostโand what became sacred.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฆ๐น๐ต ๐ช๐ด ๐ต๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ง๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฎ ๐๐ข๐ณ๐ช๐ข ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐ถ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ข ๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐๐ฐ๐ณ๐ข'๐ด ๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฌ "๐๐ถ๐ข๐ช-๐๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ: ๐๐ช๐ต๐ฐ๐ด ๐๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ช๐จ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ป๐ถ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ข" (1957, ๐๐ฅ๐ช๐ต๐ฐ๐ณ๐ช๐ข๐ญ ๐๐ค๐ฆ๐ข๐ฏ๐ช๐ฅ๐ข). ๐๐ต ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ช๐จ๐ช๐ฏ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ๐บ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ญ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ค๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐บ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฐ๐จ๐ช๐ด๐ต ๐๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐๐ฐ๐ค๐ฉ-๐๐ณ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ๐จ ๐ฅ๐ถ๐ณ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฉ๐ช๐ด 1911-1912 ๐ฆ๐น๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐ช๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ท๐ช๐ญ๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ ๐๐ฐ๐ณ๐ข๐ช๐ฎ๐ข.
