Looking for Mrs Dextrose (8 page)

“Is that why you brought me here, me and the motorbike? Thought you’d try to make an impression, boost your reputation?”

The boy opened his mouth in horror. The pair of them looked at each other then back at me. “No!”

I wasn’t convinced. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Kill ny grother.”

What?
“
What?
”

“Ith I did it, I’d get in truggle.”

“
You’d
get in trouble? And what do you think they’d do to
me
? Put it down to me not understanding tribal ways – some quaint English custom – and offer
me the freedom of the village?”

“Nayge.”

“There’s no ‘nayge’ about it. There’s
no way
! Are you
insane
?”

“Nayge.”

I decided to try to make friends. Outside the hut the light was failing, a welcome chill had developed and out among the shadows the jungle’s twilight creatures were
becoming excitable. Firelight glow flickered dimly in hut doorways and someone had lit a big fire in the middle of the village, around which a smattering of onlookers had gathered. Over the fire a
pig was roasting; other pigs glanced at it occasionally and continued snuffling.

A small boy, aged perhaps seven, spotted me, ran across and hugged my leg. Looking up he said, “Hello. My name is Nzonze. What is your name?”

“My name is Pilsbury,” I replied, patting him on the head.

The kid snorted and ran off, giggling so helplessly that he fell over and lay there twitching.

“Cheeky monkey!” I admonished him, hoping to show that I was a good sport.

I had never found it terribly easy to make friends, and this would be one of my more challenging situations. I was reminded of the time in my early teens when Father had hand-picked a small
selection of his brightest pupils – he taught science and maths at Glibley Secondary – to visit our house, hoping that I might forge a bond with one or more. Visiting contemporaries
being a rare treat, I had acceded to the idea, albeit warily, and Father had corralled us around the dining table to play games.

There were four boys and one girl, as I recall it. Father would have been the last person to encourage my hormonal development, and that single white female had terrible breath, thick specs and
made me think of camels. The boys wore an assortment of ties and stiff collars. One smelled keenly of cheese, which I mentioned to my neighbour with a nudge in a whisper, but he only eyed me
sternly and pressed a finger to his lips.

The first two ‘games’ involved a spelling bee and an algebra test. When I came easily last in both, Father led the competitive persecution. Finally, a memory game. Mother tiptoed in,
all politeness and platitudes, and placed a tray covered in a tea-towel in the middle of the table. When Father said, “Now, Mother!” she whipped off the cloth and he timed us on a
fob-watch for two minutes, while we tried to memorise every item on the tray. I came last in that as well, and had to endure one of the boys telling us the provenance and value of the Royal Doulton
teapot, as Father glowed with pride and Mother clapped theatrically.

As the children left, each declaring that they’d had the most marvellous time, I was sent to my room. At least I wasn’t expected to see them again.

Memories of home.

Two little tribe-girls were now clinging to my tank-top hem, pigtailed and grinning broadly.

“My name is Elza,” said one.

“And my name is Knka,” said the other.

“What is your name?” they chorused.

I detected a game devised among the smaller children, so told them it was “Dan” and they slunk away dejected.

Then I stood watching the pig being rotated by a crouching chap, who winked at me every time I caught his gaze. I was starving and the crisped-up creature, glazed to a deep russet finish, looked
succulent. It was all I could do to stop myself from hopping into the flames and sinking my teeth into a buttock.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was the wonky-toothed teen from earlier.

“I’m Tk-tk,” he said, extending his hand.

We shook. “Yes, I remember your name,” I lied.

“I am the son of Gdgi,” he said.

He could tell I didn’t know who Gdgi was. “He is the leader of our tribe,” he explained. “My father.”

“Absolutely!” I replied. “Tell me, what exactly is the name of this tribe?”

“Exactly, the name of this tribe is the Q’tse.” He waited for me to say something.

“Right. Only no one had told me.”

“Then everyone is remiss.”

“Yes. Yes they are.”

“So.”

“Here we are!”

I noticed we were still shaking hands and gently pulled away.

The silence hurt. “You have nice weather,” I blurted out. “In England, where I come from…”

Tk-tk interrupted me. “My father wishes you to be guest of honour at the feast tonight, with your friend the Shaman.”

“Oh, he’s not my friend!”

The boy’s face betrayed suspicion.

“Well, I suppose he is really. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“Are we?”

I really didn’t know what to say.

Fortunately he broke the silence again. “You might wish to prepare yourself for the feast, Pilsbury.”

“Well, I…” I thought better of explaining that I had nothing to change into. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll see you later.”

“Yes. Goodbye for now.”

“Bye.”

I wasn’t desperate to go back to the hut and the Shaman, but then I’d just said I would prepare for dinner and Tk-tk might be watching me. What if I wandered
towards the hut and doubled back at the last moment? No, it was all too fraught with potential social ineptitude. Easier to face the madman.

“Hello!” I chirped as I pushed back the door, trying to sound positive.

The Shaman was kneeling with his back to me, trying to get the fire going. “Oh. You’re gack. Great,” he went, even though the dummy was lying on his bed, flattened and
forlorn.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” I said. “Look, can we pretend that last conversation never happened? You know, just forget about it? We’ve been invited to a feast as guests of
honour.”

The fire caught. “Oh yes?”

“Don’t get any ideas. I’m not doing any dirty work for you. And if you try anything, I’ll…”

He turned to face me, the shrunken head hanging from the tip of his silly hat singeing gently in the licking flames. “You’ll oo-ot?” he said.

I ignored it. Let him get out his dead-head trinkets – his joke-shop magic didn’t scare me. The tit was all talk.

In the absence of any clothing options, I did my best to brush myself down and tug out the multiple creases stiffened and salted with dried sweat. When that didn’t take long, I sat on my
bed wondering what to do next.

The hut heated up quickly and smoke began billowing up towards a hole in the apex of the conical roof. The shaman was applying red face-paint: short lines perpendicular to his eyes and two
fang-shapes beneath his mouth. He opened up one side of his feathery cloak and I noticed for the first time that the lining was covered in pockets of all sizes. From one he withdrew something
scrunched up and unfurled it to produce a new headdress, similar in design to the current one, only twice as tall. He swapped the two, rolling the other into a pocket.

The Shaman picked up the wooden boy, inserted his arm and sat him on his knee, jiggling him until he was comfy.

The boy came alive. “You know you’ll need a gift thor the leader?”

I hadn’t thought of that. “Really?”

“It is custom for all guests of honour.”

Shit. “But I don’t have anything. I didn’t pack… I mean, I didn’t think we’d be staying.”

He brushed imaginary dust off the boy’s velvet jacket, saying nothing.

“You haven’t got anything I could give him, do you?” Worth a try.

The Shaman stared at me and sniffed. “No,” snapped the dummy.

“I could pay you.”

This piqued his interest. “Hoo nuch?”

“I don’t have any money on me here – but I do have travellers’ cheques back at Gossips. I could pay you back there.”

“Hoo nuch?”

I hoped he didn’t have much of a grasp of the value of Sterling. “Ten pence?”

His eyes lit up. He opened one side of the cloak enough so he could peer in, without me seeing what he was up to. After some deliberation he picked out a cigar and held it out towards me.

“You can hath this,” he said, but snatched it away as I reached out. “For
20
of these klennies!” The Shaman cackled dryly, like a hyena choking on Ryvita.

He held out the stogey again, a thin, long thing and inexpertly wrapped, half whipped it away, then let me take it, leering.

“You drive a hard bargain,” I said.

I was surprised to see, beyond the cooking fire, tables, arranged in two rows of three, seating a dozen or so on individual stools. All the furniture was made from natural
materials, bound with twine, but sturdy.

Many of the seats were already taken. Children played around the edges and were regularly shooed away.

I inhaled deeply as the scene sunk in. Here I was, privileged to be among this community so very many miles from home. Birds and monkeys, painted faces, flaming torches dotted about like
fairylights, nature unburdened, freedom. Stresses slipped away. While my previous adventures had all been against the clock, here there was no time constraint. I was on the craziest, most
intoxicating holiday of my life. And I would drink it in.

The leader, Gdgi, was seated centrally on one side of the far middle table, in the largest chair of all. His torso, arms and head were painted yellow, his hair whitened. On his head he wore a
coiled snake, poised to strike, hood extended, which was dead enough but still threatening. He spotted the Shaman and I, and beckoned us towards him.

“Welcome!” he said, standing up. He had swapped to a golden codpiece, I noted. “Please, you must join our table,” he said, waving towards two spare stools next to each
other and opposite him, though I had hoped to avoid sitting near the Shaman.

“This is my wife,” said Gdgi, helping the woman to his right to her feet.

It was all I could do to avoid looking perplexed. Grey haired, thin and toothless, hunch-backed, half his height and twice his age, her breasts hung like unoccupied hammocks beneath a thick
golden neck-chain. Hanging from her waist, covering her privates, was some sort of mini armadillo.

I waved at her gormlessly. The Shaman bowed; his son said nothing.

As I took my seat, I said to Gdgi, “I see you have tables here.”

“Yes,” he replied, shrugging.

Then I remembered: “Ah yes. I brought you a gift.”

“How kind. You should not have.”

I held out the cigar.

His eyes lit up. “How wonderful. Cigars are one of my favourite things. How did you know?”

Should I come clean? “Always do your homework – that’s my motto!” I laughed falsely and avoided looking at the Shaman.

The other occupants of our table clapped in appreciation and I bowed. They were more elderly than most attendees, and boasted the shiniest jewellery. I nodded at the gentleman to my left. He
looked at me as if I had just shat in his lap and I wondered whether nodding had negative connotations in these parts.

“My name is Pilsbury,” I said, extending a hand.

He stared at it, wrinkling his nose, and said something in his native tongue.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Thank goodness for that! Could have been an awkward dinner party otherwise!”

Gdgi called across. “That is Ekoto. He is one of the elders who refuses to learn English. He is a bit of a grumpy old sod, I am afraid.”

Then the leader clapped his hands and the sound of drums began to echo through the jungle as masked dancers, their masks representing jungle animals, their waists wrapped in red sashes, began to
circle us, losing themselves in the tribal rhythms.

A middle-aged woman, wearing earrings the diameter of dinner plates, brought around a tray laden with drinks and popped one in front of each diner. I hoped it might be cold beer, however it
turned out to be an insipid creamy brew that tasted bittersweet and on the cusp of unpleasantness, at least with an alcoholic aftertaste that suggested perseverance might prove worthwhile.