Clear as Mud

We were riding in the cab of the pickup truck on the road to the little church of Farinha Seca on Kaiwa land. Along the way we stopped to pick up passengers and bumped our way down what resembled a dry stream bed. Those that had barricaded and closed this road the week before were nowhere to be seen.  The atmosphere was less tense, but the rain yesterday had flooded the path and water ran down around the church making a small muddy swamp.
As we arrived, the mission worker asked me if I would like to speak to the group or take a class of children.

I know it is their way of welcoming guests by inviting them to give a word, but I was quite taken aback.  What would I say to these people that would have any meaning?
The Kaiwa could tell me a few things:
How to live in this humid heat without AC or electric power; and how to get around without the need to carry drinking water with them;  how to appear clean in all this mud.
The mud was my immediate problem. I watched the Kaiwa take off their shoes and wade across the puddles as I wobbled along the edge.  They washed their feet and cooled off at the same time.  One boy stopped to drink and splashed his head with the running water that I found was quite clear despite the red mud.

The Kaiwa could tell me how they choose to bring up their children in their ever changing environment. Do they speak their own language to them or encourage them to speak Portuguese? Do they avoid the city or prepare their children for the challenges they will face when they enter into contact with the "civilizados"? The Kaiwa could tell me who they trust and what future they see for their people and their land.
I explained that I had come as a visitor to see the Kaiwa, learn more of their way of life, and to remember all I had forgotten of those visits made many years before when I was growing up. I hope they don't insist that I speak.