Perhaps
it all began
with a
lover’s whisper, a gossipy nudge at the fireside, or the muffled
chatter
accompanying the chores of breaking camp. Full of anticipation, words
and
sentences rushed ahead to the next water well, scaring the little ones
with
stories about the lion waiting there for the thirsty wildebeest. "And
that's why you always should keep close to your mother!" Fiction in its infancy! The word that
was in
the beginning. According to the anthropologists, speech in primitive
societies
is mainly the purveyor of gossip; it accompanies the daily labors with
chatter
and singsongs about anything and everything.
I
saw a feature about two journalists
sharing the life of a Kombai village, yes the very people who not so
long ago
still had practiced the venerable trade of head hunting and
cannibalism. The
eldest seems to have living memories of the good old days when he still
was a
practitioner of the art. He asks you to move closer when imparting his
story.
For the two Englishmen it was an “experience” – it all seems to be
about
“experiences” these days, put on tape and sold to the highest bidding
syndicate
in the media industry, a reality show in the jungle – they disrobed,
painted
and pierced their bodies and, assisted by the whole village,
constructed with
traditional methods their own shelter in a tree-top swinging in the
wind forty
feet above ground, just in time to weather the approaching raining
season. The
villagers lent them their tools, which was a piece of humbling
generosity. Axes
with century old stone blades that came from a place long forgotten. If
damaged
there was nothing to replace them. It is their most priced possession.
Not
a place for growing fat.
Although surrounded by trees as far as the eye could see, game like
birds,
grasshoppers, and snakes remains elusive and requires long and
exhausting walks
through the humid undergrowth. The few domesticated pigs are too
precious to be
eaten, except on special occasions. Protein, even from the larvae of
the
Capricorn beetle, is on a premium in this season and extracting the
carbohydrates from the pulp of the sago tree is a labor intensive
affair that
involves everybody in the village. It barely yields rations for another
three
days of bland sustenance. The newcomers suggest a fishing expedition.
Out of
the question. It would mean two hour’s walk to the river and many more
hours of
digging a diversion and constructing a trap bank to bank of the ditch.
But
because of the rain the river didn’t run shallow enough and the bank
was an
ankle deep mudflat. The people here had never had heard of calorie
counting but
knew when to sit tight and burn as few as possible; fishing in this
season meant
hard work with no prospect of success. The two greenhorns had it in
their
contract to share the villager’s food and eat nothing else. After three
days of
hunger they and their invisible camera crew insisted on going fishing
anyway.
So the whole village moved out, hacked branches from the trees and
built the
trap. The outcome was as predicted. During the whole operation the
chatter
never stopped; a young woman was heard improvising a song, sung to
herself: “Stupid Olly”
–
one of the two visitors – “wants us to fish, I am cold and
there is
no fish.”
Over
the years these just so
improvisations become often rehearsed memories and in the communication
pick up
a life all of their own, even may take a turn into the mythical.
Apparently
among the Kombai there is a general fear of sorcery, still held
responsible for
most of the deaths. But the complex process of extracting sago pulp
shows that
in certain areas superstition had moved on to science. Where the monkey
only
knows how to throw a stone and then duck, we’ve acquired the capacity
to throw
out ideas and then see how it flies with the world surrounding us. It
is hit
and miss, but without actually doing the throwing there is neither miss
nor
hit.
It
stands to show that it is
the spirit that came first. And in a world with nothing but the word to
keep
the shadows at bay, good fiction is like the hypnotist's touch on your
shoulder; it is a pleasing lie and it doesn't fail because it is
telling a
falsehood; it fails when it ceases to amuse. The doorbell rings and
there she
is, painted toe-nails, the sandaled foot rubbing up the suntanned calf
of her
other leg, her left hand with lipstick and makeup mirror still poking
backward
for the tiny purse dangling from the thinnest of shoulder straps. She
looks at
you, the face seems serious, but a little flutter of her mascara
smudged
eyelashes gives away the mirth in her narrowing eyes. For me a memory,
for the
reader a fictional presence. People used to stop Tolstoy in the streets
and ask
how Oblonsky was doing. They knew of course Mrs. Karenin had thrown
herself
before a train, but nobody could forget her appearance in that black
ballroom
dress with a deep plunging neckline.
This
site is approaching the
next phase, although it is still going to take a while. Here is the
deal: I put
up a taster of my fiction; if you like what you read and want more, you
make
the payment and download the PDF from the page that appears after you
made your
payment. The file is password protected, so when I receive confirmation
I send
you the password, and you can read to your heart's desire, even print
out one copy for your own
uses, and bind
it in leather. In the meantime have fun with the latest additions below.
And
we have something to
celebrate! It really happened. We have a colored president and it is
not in a
Hollywood movie. He also is going to be one of the most powerful
presidents in
America's history, if the supporting cast in the two houses is not
suddenly
possessed by a death wish. He has a lot on his plate. When Kennedy
entered the
White House he said in an interview: "We always said that things are
bad under the previous administration, but we never imagined how bad
they
really were." For now only this:
it is
such a shame that Mr. Obama’s grandmother didn’t live to see her
grandson’s
success. I can’t even imagine how he must be feeling. So in all this
elation,
here is a word of commiseration to Mr. Obama. (And a nudge to the man
responsible for Mr. Obama’s personal security: You better watch out! I
don’t
want to see anything bad to happen.)
Good
luck and enjoy!
michael sympson,
November, 2008
© – 11/8/2008 – by
michael sympson, all
rights reserved
