Which is not a reason American Indians played recreational games?
(1 point)
Responses
to improve hunting skills
to improve hunting skills
to become better fighters in war
to become better fighters in war
to prepare children for adult roles
to prepare children for adult roles
to teach Europeans about their culture
to teach Europeans about their culture
hey discovered the girl’s head protruding from the mud
pit, eyes wide open, calling soundlessly. She had a First
Communion name,1 Azucena. Lily. In that vast cemetery
where the odor of death was already attracting vultures from far
away, and where the weeping of orphans and wails of the injured
filled the air, the little girl obstinately clinging to life became the
symbol of the tragedy. The television cameras transmitted so
often the unbearable image of the head budding like a black
squash from the clay that there was no one who did not recognize
her and know her name. And every time we saw her on the screen,
1 First Communion name: the name a Roman Catholic child takes when
receiving this religious sacrament
And of Clay Are We Created 121
right behind her was Rolf Carlé, who had gone there on
assignment, never suspecting that he would find a fragment of his
past, lost thirty years before.
First a subterranean sob rocked the cotton fields, curling
them like waves of foam. Geologists had set up their
seismographs2 weeks before and knew that the mountain had
awakened again. For some time they had predicted that the heat
of the eruption could detach the eternal ice from the slopes of the
volcano, but no one heeded their warnings; they sounded like the
tales of frightened old women. The towns in the valley went
about their daily life, deaf to the moaning of the earth, until that
fateful Wednesday night in November when a prolonged roar
announced the end of the world, and walls of snow broke loose,
rolling in an avalanche of clay, stones, and water that descended
on the villages and buried them beneath unfathomable meters of
telluric3 vomit. As soon as the survivors emerged from the
paralysis of that first awful terror, they could see that houses,
plazas, churches, white cotton plantations, dark coffee forests,
cattle pastures—all had disappeared. Much later, after soldiers
and volunteers had arrived to rescue the living and try to assess
the magnitude of the cataclysm, it was calculated that beneath
the mud lay more than twenty thousand human beings and an
indefinite number of animals putrefying in a viscous soup.
Forests and rivers had also been swept away, and there was
nothing to be seen but an immense desert of mire.
subterranean
underground;
below the surface
cataclysm
disaster; catastrophe
putrefying
rotting; decaying
viscous
sticky; gluey
2 seismographs: instruments for measuring earth tremors
3 telluric: earthly
When the station called before dawn, Rolf Carlé and I were
together. I crawled out of bed, dazed with sleep, and went to
prepare coffee while he hurriedly dressed. He stuffed his gear in
the green canvas backpack he always carried, and we said
goodbye, as we had so many times before. I had no
presentiments. I sat in the kitchen, sipping my coffee and
planning the long hours without him, sure that he would be back
the next day.
presentiments
foreshadowing;
premonitions
He was one of the first to reach the scene, because while other
reporters were fighting their way to the edges of that morass in
jeeps, bicycles, or on foot, each getting there however he could,
morass
swamp; quagmire
◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆
Rolf Carlé had the advantage of the television helicopter, which
flew him over the avalanche. We watched on our screens the
footage captured by his assistant’s camera, in which he was up to
his knees in muck, a microphone in his hand, in the midst of a
bedlam of lost children, wounded survivors, corpses, and
devastation. The story came to us in his calm voice.
The passage does not provide information or reasons about why American Indians played recreational games.
. For years he
had been a familiar figure in newscasts, reporting live at the scene
of battles and catastrophes with awesome tenacity. Nothing
could stop him, and I was always amazed at his equanimity in
the face of danger and suffering; it seemed as if nothing could
shake his fortitude or deter his curiosity. Fear seemed never to
touch him, although he had confessed to me that he was not a
courageous man, far from it. I believe that the lens of a camera
had a strange effect on him; it was as if it transported him to a
different time from which he could watch events without actually
participating in them. When I knew him better, I came to realize
that this fictive distance seemed to protect him from his
own emotions.
bedlam
chaos; place of uproar
tenacity
persistence; mental
toughness
equanimity
calm; poise
fictive
imaginary; fictional
Rolf Carlé was in on the story of Azucena from the beginning.
He filmed the volunteers who discovered her, and the first persons
who tried to reach her; his camera zoomed in on the girl, her dark
face, her large desolate eyes, the plastered-down tangle of her hair.
The mud was like quicksand around her, and anyone attempting
to reach her was in danger of sinking. They threw a rope to her
that she made no effort to grasp until they shouted to her to catch
it; then she pulled a hand from the mire and tried to move but
immediately sank a little deeper. Rolf threw down his knapsack
and the rest of his equipment and waded into the quagmire,
commenting for his assistant’s microphone that it was cold and
that one could begin to smell the stench of corpses.
quagmire
bog; quicksand
“What’s your name?” he asked the girl, and she told him her
flower name. “Don’t move, Azucena,” Rolf Carlé directed, and
kept talking to her, without a thought for what he was saying, just
to distract her, while slowly he worked his way forward in mud up
to his waist. The air around him seemed as murky as the mud.
It was impossible to reach her from the approach he was
attempting, so he retreated and circled around where there
seemed to be firmer footing. When finally he was close enough,
122 The Americas
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And of Clay Are We Created 123
he took the rope and tied it beneath her arms, so they could pull
her out. He smiled at her with that smile that crinkles his eyes and
makes him look like a little boy; he told her that everything was
fine, that he was here with her now, that soon they would have
her out. He signaled the others to pull, but as soon as the cord
tensed, the girl screamed. They tried again, and her shoulders and
arms appeared, but they could move her no farther; she was
trapped. Someone suggested that her legs might be caught in the
collapsed walls of her house, but she said it was not just rubble,
that she was also held by the bodies of her brothers and sisters
clinging to her legs.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here,” Rolf promised.
Despite the quality of the transmission, I could hear his voice
break, and I loved him more than ever. Azucena looked at him
but said nothing.
During those first hours Rolf Carlé exhausted all the resources
of his ingenuity to rescue her. He struggled with poles and ropes,
but every tug was an intolerable torture for the imprisoned girl. It
occurred to him to use one of the poles as a lever but got no result
and had to abandon the idea. He talked a couple of soldiers into
working with him for a while, but they had to leave because so
many other victims were calling for help. The girl could not move,
she barely could breathe, but she did not seem desperate, as if an
ancestral resignation allowed her to accept her fate. The reporter,
on the other hand, was determined to snatch her from death.
Someone brought him a tire, which he placed beneath her arms
like a life buoy, and then laid a plank near the hole to hold his
weight and allow him to stay closer to her. As it was impossible
to remove the rubble blindly, he tried once or twice to dive
toward her feet but emerged frustrated, covered with mud, and
spitting gravel. He concluded that he would have to have a pump
to drain the water, and radioed a request for one but received in
return a message that there was no available transport and it
could not be sent until the next morning.
“We can’t wait that long!” Rolf Carlé shouted, but in the
pandemonium no one stopped to commiserate. Many more
hours would go by before he accepted that time had stagnated
and reality had been irreparably distorted.
stagnated
stilled; stopped moving
◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆
A military doctor came to examine the girl and observed that
her heart was functioning well and that if she did not get too cold
she could survive the night.
“Hang on, Azucena, we’ll have the pump tomorrow,” Rolf
Carlé tried to console her.
“Don’t leave me alone,” she begged.
“No, of course I won’t leave you.”
Someone brought him coffee, and he helped the girl drink it,
sip by sip. The warm liquid revived her, and she began telling him
about her small life, about her family and her school, about how
things were in that little bit of world before the volcano erupted.
She was thirteen, and she had never been outside her village. Rolf
Carlé, buoyed by a premature optimism, was convinced that
everything would end
well: the pump would
arrive, they would drain
the water, move the
rubble, and Azucena
would be transported by
helicopter to a hospital
where she would recover
rapidly and where he
could visit her and bring
her gifts. He thought,
She’s already too old for
dolls, and I don’t know
what would please her;
maybe a dress. I don’t
know much about
women, he concluded,
amused, reflecting that
although he had known
many women in his
lifetime, none had taught
him these details. To pass
the hours he began to tell
Azucena about his travels
and adventures as a news
124 The Americas
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And of Clay Are We Created 125
hound, and when he exhausted his memory, he called upon
imagination, inventing things he thought might entertain her.
From time to time she dozed, but he kept talking in the darkness,
to assure her that he was still there and to overcome the menace
of uncertainty.
That was a long night.
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
Many miles away, I watched Rolf Carlé and the girl on a television
screen. I could not bear the wait at home, so I went to National
Television, where I often spent entire nights with Rolf editing
programs. There, I was near his world, and I could at least get a
feeling of what he lived through during those three decisive days.
I called all the important people in the city, senators,
commanders of the armed forces, the North American
ambassador, and the president of National Petroleum, begging
them for a pump to remove the silt, but obtained only vague
promises. I began to ask for urgent help on radio and television,
to see if there wasn’t someone who could help us. Between calls I
would run to the newsroom to monitor the satellite transmissions
that periodically brought new details of the catastrophe. While
reporters selected scenes with most impact for the new report, I
searched for footage that featured Azucena’s mud pit. The screen
reduced the disaster to a single plane and accentuated the
tremendous distance that separated me from Rolf Carlé;
nonetheless, I was there with him. The child’s every suffering hurt
me as it did him; I felt his frustration, his impotence. Faced with
the impossibility of communicating with him, the fantastic idea
came to me that if I tried, I could reach him by force of mind and
in that way give him encouragement. I concentrated until I was
dizzy—a frenzied and futile activity. At times I would be
overcome with compassion and burst out crying; at other times, I
was so drained I felt as if I were staring through a telescope at the
light of a star dead for a million years.
impotence
powerlessness; helplessness
I watched that hell on the first morning broadcast, cadavers of
people and animals awash in the current of new rivers formed
overnight from the melted snow. Above the mud rose the tops of
trees and the bell towers of a church where several people had
cadavers
bodies; corpses
◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆
126 The Americas
taken refuge and were patiently awaiting rescue teams. Hundreds
of soldiers and volunteers from the civil defense were clawing
through rubble searching for survivors, while long rows of
The passage provided does not contain any information or reasons about why American Indians played recreational games.
hey discovered the girl’s head protruding from the mud
pit, eyes wide open, calling soundlessly. She had a First
Communion name,1 Azucena. Lily.
In that vast cemetery
where the odor of death was already attracting vultures from far
away, and where the weeping of orphans and wails of the injured
filled the air, the little girl obstinately clinging to life became the --> Char: She is determined or strong.
symbol of the tragedy. The television cameras transmitted so
often the unbearable image of the head budding like a black
squash from the clay that there was no one who did not recognize
her and know her name. And every time we saw her on the screen,
right behind her was Rolf Carlé, who had gone there on
assignment, never suspecting that he would find a fragment of his
past, lost thirty years before
Rolf Carlé was in on the story of Azucena from the beginning.
He filmed the volunteers who discovered her, and the first persons
who tried to reach her; his camera zoomed in on the girl, her dark
face, her large desolate eyes, the plastered-down tangle of her hair.
The mud was like quicksand around her, and anyone attempting
to reach her was in danger of sinking. They threw a rope to her
that she made no effort to grasp until they shouted to her to catch
it; then she pulled a hand from the mire and tried to move but
immediately sank a little deeper. Rolf threw down his knapsack
and the rest of his equipment and waded into the quagmire,
commenting for his assistant’s microphone that it was cold and
that one could begin to smell the stench of corpses.
“What’s your name?” he asked the girl, and she told him her --> She reveals her name, likely indicating he will know
flower name. “Don’t move, Azucena,” Rolf Carlé directed, and her.
kept talking to her, without a thought for what he was saying, just
to distract her, while slowly he worked his way forward in mud up
to his waist. The air around him seemed as murky as the mud.
It was impossible to reach her from the approach he was
attempting, so he retreated and circled around where there
seemed to be firmer footing. When finally he was close enough,
he took the rope and tied it beneath her arms, so they could pull
her out. He smiled at her with that smile that crinkles his eyes and
makes him look like a little boy; he told her that everything was
fine, that he was here with her now, that soon they would have
her out. He signaled the others to pull, but as soon as the cord
tensed, the girl screamed. They tried again, and her shoulders and
arms appeared, but they could move her no farther; she was
trapped. Someone suggested that her legs might be caught in the
collapsed walls of her house, but she said it was not just rubble, --> She is honest and conveys the sadness of the that she was also held by the bodies of her brothers and sisters deaths effectively.
clinging to her legs.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here,” Rolf promised.
Despite the quality of the transmission, I could hear his voice
break, and I loved him more than ever. Azucena looked at him --> She might be undegoing emotions.
but said nothing.
During those first hours Rolf Carlé exhausted all the resources
of his ingenuity to rescue her. He struggled with poles and ropes,
but every tug was an intolerable torture for the imprisoned girl. It
occurred to him to use one of the poles as a lever but got no result
and had to abandon the idea. He talked a couple of soldiers into
working with him for a while, but they had to leave because so
many other victims were calling for help. The girl could not move,
she barely could breathe, but she did not seem desperate, as if an --> She is likely like : 'ughh i give up'
ancestral resignation allowed her to accept her fate. The reporter,
on the other hand, was determined to snatch her from death.
Someone brought him a tire, which he placed beneath her arms
like a life buoy, and then laid a plank near the hole to hold his
weight and allow him to stay closer to her. As it was impossible
to remove the rubble blindly, he tried once or twice to dive
toward her feet but emerged frustrated, covered with mud, and
spitting gravel. He concluded that he would have to have a pump
to drain the water, and radioed a request for one but received in
return a message that there was no available transport and it
could not be sent until the next morning.
A military doctor came to examine the girl and observed that
her heart was functioning well and that if she did not get too cold
she could survive the night.
“Hang on, Azucena, we’ll have the pump tomorrow,” Rolf
Carlé tried to console her.
“Don’t leave me alone,” she begged. --> She is lonely n wants a fren :'>
“No, of course I won’t leave you.”
Someone brought him coffee, and he helped the girl drink it,
sip by sip. The warm liquid revived her, and she began telling him --> she wants him to kno mor abt her.
about her small life, about her family and her school, about how
things were in that little bit of world before the volcano erupted.
She was thirteen, and she had never been outside her village. Rolf
Carlé, buoyed by a premature optimism,
.....
.....He thought,
She’s already too old for --> Not much char is shown, but she breaks off of old ways?...
dolls, and I don’t know
what would please her;
maybe a dress. I don’t
know much about
women, he concluded,
amused, reflecting that
although he had known
many women in his
lifetime, none had taught
him these details.
Azucena was shivering inside the tire that held her above the
surface. Immobility and tension had greatly weakened her, but
she was conscious and could still be heard when a microphone
was held out to her. Her tone was humble, as if apologizing for all
the fuss. Rolf Carlé had a growth of beard, and dark circles
beneath his eyes; he looked near exhaustion. Even from that
enormous distance I could sense the quality of his weariness, so
different from the fatigue of other adventures. He had completely
forgotten the camera; he could not look at the girl through a lens
any longer. The pictures we were receiving were not his assistant’s
but those of other reporters who had appropriated Azucena,
bestowing on her the pathetic responsibility of embodying the
horror of what had happened in that place. With the first light
Rolf tried again to dislodge the obstacles that held the girl in her
tomb, but he had only his hands to work with; he did not dare
use a tool for fear of injuring her. He fed Azucena a cup of the
cornmeal mush and bananas the army was distributing, but she
immediately vomited it up. A doctor stated that she had a fever
but added that there was little he could do: antibiotics were being
reserved for cases of gangrene. A priest also passed by and blessed
her, hanging a medal of the Virgin around her neck. By evening a
gentle, persistent drizzle began to fall.
“The sky is weeping,” Azucena murmured, and she, too, began --> She sees symbolism with the sky i gueß.
to cry.
And of Clay Are We Created 127
“Don’t be afraid,” Rolf begged. “You have to keep your
strength up and be calm. Everything will be fine. I’m with you,
and I’ll get you out somehow.”
Reporters returned to photograph Azucena and ask her the
same questions, which she no longer tried to answer
When darkness came on the second day, Rolf tried to sing
Azucena to sleep with old Austrian folk songs he had learned
from his mother, but she was far beyond sleep. They spent most
of the night talking, each in a stupor of exhaustion and hunger
and shaking with cold.
“Don’t cry. I don’t hurt anymore. I’m fine,” Azucena said when --> She wants to comfort him.
dawn came.
“I’m not crying for you,” Rolf Carlé smiled. “I’m crying for
myself. I hurt all over.”
He waved to her with a
limp statesman’s hand, and microphones recorded his emotional
voice and paternal tone as he told her that her courage had done well.
The answer to this question can be found by eliminating the reason that does not apply to American Indians playing recreational games. Let's analyze each response and see which one does not fit:
1. "To improve hunting skills": American Indians played recreational games as a way to practice and enhance their hunting abilities. This was important for their survival.
2. "To become better fighters in war": American Indians engaged in various games and sports that involved physical activities to develop skills that could be useful in warfare.
3. "To prepare children for adult roles": Playing games was also a way for American Indian children to learn and develop skills that would be necessary for their adult responsibilities and roles within their communities.
4. "To teach Europeans about their culture": This option is different from the others because it does not directly relate to the reasons why American Indians played recreational games. The goal of teaching Europeans about their culture may have been achieved through other means and interactions, but it was not the primary purpose of their recreational activities.
Therefore, the correct answer is: "to teach Europeans about their culture."