One Big Damn Puzzler by John Harding
After about ten minutes Purnu produced a ladle and began to dredge solid matter from the pot, turning the contents of the ladle into a large wooden bowl. Meanwhile the other man took the wooden club and, using it like a pestle, started grinding away at the stuff as it was added to the bowl. Eventually Purnu seemed satisfied he’d got all the kassa mash. He picked up an earthenware pot and emptied a thick liquid from it into the wooden bowl and the other man used his club to stir it in.
‘Honey,’ whispered Managua. ‘If you is not add honey, kassa is taste like shit.’ William noticed the old man was licking his lips in anticipation, a child watching his ice cream being anointed with chocolate sauce.
Purnu put the little pot down, took a wooden spoon, dipped it in the mix and tasted it. He paused a moment or two. Everyone stopped talking. He nodded and smiled and a cheer went round the room. It was as if someone had just bagged his first deer of the season.
The two men carried the large bowl to the edge of the room and held it before one of the seated men. He took the spoon, dipped it into the bowl and then put it into his mouth. When he was done, the two bowl bearers moved clockwise around the room to the next guy. There was complete silence. William went to say something but before he could get a syllable out Managua put a finger on his lips. ‘Ssh,’ said the old man. William understood this was a rule. Talking was not allowed.
Eventually the bowl worked its way around to Managua who helped himself and then indicated that William was to follow suit. What William got on the end of the spoon was a small helping of thick red paste. He paused with it between pot and lips. What if this is all some elaborate trick? he asked himself. What if it’s just a ruse to feed me some of those orange fungi they were talking about? But then, that was silly. Hadn’t he just seen Managua take some? And wasn’t Managua his friend?
The two men were jerking the bowl towards him, urging him to get on with it, so they could have the spoon back and move on to the next guy. Gingerly William raised the spoon to his lips, shut his eyes, stuck it into his mouth and sucked the bulbous gob of red stuff from the end. It tasted a bit like something from his childhood. The nutmeg his mother always used to grate into rice pudding, perhaps. But very sweet too, almost cloyingly so. The kind of sweet that makes your throat sore so you long for water.
He replaced the spoon in the bowl which continued its journey around the hut. All of a sudden William felt very tired. He experienced a dull, pleasurable ache that began at the tips of his toes and gradually worked its way up his body. After a few minutes he realized he could no longer feel his legs, but this was not a matter of great concern to him. Rather, he found himself thinking it must be wonderful for Managua not to be able to feel his legs, to be no longer aware of the contrast in sensation from the leg he still had and the artificial one that had replaced the one he didn’t, to have no more absence of feeling than anyone else in the room.
William’s head sank back. His whole body was weighed down by the tiredness now. He was exaggeratedly conscious of his own breath, the rise and fall of his chest. The in-and-out bellows of his lungs seemed immense, the noise like the waves crashing on the beach a few hundred yards away. Apart from his lungs, and his heart which seemed to have slowed and diminished to a distant sporadic drumbeat, the only parts of him that still worked were his eyes.
He became aware of a mist emanating from the fire, as when a magician at a children’s party throws some magic powder onto naked flames. From the mist pale figures were emerging. They grew from the flames right in front of his eyes and then stepped out of the haze and went around the hut, calling out softly. ‘Purnu, Purnu, you is here?’ ‘Funtua, Funtua, where you is?’ and other names, all of them searching for someone. Soon the figures were everywhere, a whole mêlée of them moving silently this way and that, whispering in high, reedy voices. There were both men and women, islanders dressed in their pubic leaves and grass skirts but pale and insubstantial. And then, in the flames, another figure, unlike all the others, arose. It was taller than its companions and had the pale skin of a white man and it was fully clothed, in chinos and a red plaid shirt. It came towards William.
‘William? William is that you?’ it said, bending over and peering through the gloom, the mist and the smoke, at him.
‘Dad? Dad?’ William tried to scramble to his feet but found he couldn’t move any more than if he’d been tied down. He was tied down. Or at least, there seemed to be a thick rope of something wrapped around his ribcage, squeezing him, as though trying to keep his heart battened down, as it threatened to leap, like a salmon, from his chest.
His dad didn’t look as he had the last time William had seen him alive, and he certainly wasn’t the nightmare figure who had haunted his dreams, the startled corpse, caught by surprise by death. He was the way William remembered him at the time he was at college, when the Alzheimer’s was there, but hadn’t yet kicked in enough to be diagnosed.
‘Where are we?’ his father said, looking around, his expression one of awe. ‘It looks like some kind of a – a – damn, what is the word?’
‘Hut?’ offered William.
‘Hut,’ echoed the old man. ‘It seems to be full of – of – of—’
‘Natives.’
‘Primitive people.’
Indeed it was. There must have been dozens of phantoms occupying the hut’s meagre space now. But somehow it wasn’t crowded. These were not solid people, William observed. His father was kind of transparent. You could see right through him, in his plaid shirt and chinos. It wasn’t like an X-ray, you couldn’t see his internal organs, there were no kidneys or lungs on display. But other people were visible through him and sometimes one would walk right through him and he didn’t seem to notice it.
‘Dad, I want to tell you something,’ William began.
‘I know, my boy, you want to tell me you love me. You always wanted to say it and you never could until it was too late and I was lying there with my hand up in the air and seemed to be no longer there to hear it.’
‘You remember your hand up in the air, like you were pointing?’
‘I remember a fine day on the beach when you were five years old and I turned to your mom and said, Can you get one of your prayers in quick – because you know, I never did go in for the religion thing – Can you get one of your prayers in real quick, I said to her, and ask Him to make time stop? Can you get Him to just freeze it all here, with the children the age they are now and no more growing up to be done? Can you do that? I said similar things lots of times over the years that followed, every year at the beach house when you and Ruthie were growing bigger and bigger, and you know what?’ He paused, as though struggling to speak. ‘You know what? She never could.’
‘But the hand. You were pointing—’
‘I know. I remember watching you pull back that sheet. I hated you seeing me like that. How could they just leave you to draw back the sheet and see what I’d left behind? It was monstrous.’
‘But Dad, what were you pointing at?’
His father put his hand to his chin and stroked it thoughtfully. His forehead furrowed as though he were confused. ‘Pointing . . .? I don’t . . . I don’t rightly know. I don’t remember the moment I died. I only remember when you came afterwards. I remember you bending over me and seeing your mouth against mine. I remember how blue my lips looked. What a cold kiss that must have been!’
William could hardly see his father now. The mist in the hut seemed to have grown much thicker. Then he felt moisture on his upper cheek and realized it wasn’t the mist at all, it was his own eyes filling up with tears. He went to raise his hand to brush them away, but it was heavy as a rock, it wouldn’t move.
He hardly recognized his own voice when he finally got it out. It was hoarse and full of pain, like an old man’s. ‘Wh—where are you now, Dad?’
Again his father looked confused. ‘Why, I’m right here, in this – this – this—’
‘Hut,’ said William, in spite of himself.
‘Yes, I know, but when you aren’t here . . .?’
‘Well, I guess, I guess . . .’ His voice faded, the way it often used to as his illness progressed, as if he’d just run out of words.
‘Try Dad, try to remember.’
Joe Hardt screwed up his face, working on the puzzle, concentrating hard. ‘I remember . . . I remember . . .’
‘Yes? Go on, Dad, try!’
‘I remember that little bastard Sandy Beach!’ It was the first time William could recall hearing his father use strong language. ‘I remember him coming to stay with us at the shore.’ He shook his head, smiling to himself, seeing it all before him. ‘What you were doing with that little prick for a friend—’
‘He wasn’t my friend. Mom said I had to invite someone.’
‘I remember it perfectly. Some things I don’t recall too well. I remember how that kid locked himself in the bathroom and wouldn’t come out. Do you remember that?’
William wanted to say how it wasn’t like that, how it was he who had been locked in the bathroom and that Sandy Beach was the one outside banging on the door, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. There was no point, it would only be to set the record straight, and his old man . . . his old man seemed so pleased to have recalled this incident, so reassured to have it as a sign that his memory was still working all right. William closed his eyes to try to think. It didn’t seem right that you could suffer from a degenerative illness in the afterlife. It didn’t fit that someone who had passed on to a higher plane had an imperfect memory. William decided he would change the subject. He would try to get his dad focused on the here and now. He opened his eyes and was about to speak but the space before him was empty, his dad was gone.
FIFTEEN
FROM ‘THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE: THE SEXUAL LIFE AND CUSTOMS OF AN UNSPOILED PEOPLE’ BY L. TIBBUT (UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT)
WE HAVE ALREADY seen how the natives believe the eyes are the instruments of erotic arousal. It follows that physical attractiveness occupies a place of great importance in their erotic relationships. They have, as is only to be expected, their own concept of beauty, especially in women; size and strength matter more in a man, where a face that radiates powerfulness and character is considered more attractive than one that is merely handsome. In passing it is worth noting that great stress is placed upon the importance of a large penis or pwili (although of course a woman would be unlikely to discover this until already committed to a sexual liaison, there being a strong taboo against public display of the penis). The fact that size does matter is demonstrated by one of the women’s working songs that goes
Wokanika rao au nisapuni naydowala
Naydowuri, wuri
Palapa pasaluya rururi
which roughly translates as ‘Men, your pubic leaf strings are too short. Strings so short will not persuade us to lie down with you.’ Since the pubic string connects the bottom tip of the pubic leaf to the back of the waistbelt, a short string would imply there wasn’t much filling the leaf at the front. The singers are saying they won’t make love with men with small penises.
A woman whose skin is very dark is not considered good-looking and light skin is always to be preferred. She should be tall and slim, although the latter factor is almost hors de combat since virtually none of the islanders is at all overweight and obesity is almost unknown and when it does occur is only because of some rare medical condition. Her forehead should not be low or projecting over the eyes. They consider such a forehead to express a lack of intelligence, as perhaps we Westerners would too. The lips should be full, rather than thin, but not overmuch so.
Breasts, which, of course, are on display, should not be small, but neither should they be too large as this tends to droopiness. What the men prefer is women to have granoa tubu, ‘a good handful’, and for the breasts to be firm and pert.
The nose must on no account be aquiline but neither should it be flattened against the face, rather it should have a wide but raised bridge. Nose pegs, which used to be considered an essential for attractiveness, are now going out of fashion with both sexes, possibly as the result of the influence of missionaries from Britain during the years of its interest in the island. (Thankfully this is about the only lasting effect of the missionaries, that and the use of English as a more flexible and practical language. Christianity appears to have altered social and sexual practices not a jot, nor native mythology and religious belief.)
A woman’s hair should be thick and is always worn long. Hair that curls, rather than waves, is considered ugly. Eyes should be large and rounded. The islanders have a horror of oriental eyes which may be due to a visit from the Japanese during World War II as this extreme reaction resides largely in the older members of the population. The young seem to find slitted eyes merely unattractive per se.
Having listed all these preferences, the result of many hours of interviews especially with the young men and women of the main village, it has to be said that despite the enormous cultural differences between the natives and ourselves, their tastes and ours are actually not dissimilar. It is as if human beings have an innate feel for what is and is not attractive, no matter where on this globe they live or from what culture they originate.
Invariably when I asked the young men what they thought about a girl I privately considered unattractive or positively ugly they proved to be of the same opinion. When I asked them whom they thought pretty, or whom they fancied, they all – even though interviewed separately to prevent collusion – chose the girls I myself thought attractive and would have expected Western men to pick.
There was complete agreement as to the most attractive female on the island, and it is an opinion I wholeheartedly endorse. This is a girl named Kiroa, who has features that I am sure any Westerner would describe as stunning. She is tall, exceptionally so among the women of her tribe, and slim, and her walk has a most marvellous grace so that to see her progress through the tall grass is to watch the wind pass through it; it seems to give way before her as if it too wishes to acknowledge her beauty. Her features are perfectly symmetrical, and her eyes and mouth both large. She has a winning smile and a flirtatious, but not vulgar, expression in her eyes. Anywhere, any place on Earth, she would be considered what she is, a great beauty, a wonderfully sexy girl.
The irony is that her father is the man Purnu, an ugly brute if ever I saw one. In fact, so incredible did it strike me that this radiant beauty could spring from such a father that I remarked to her, in front of him, that ‘you obviously get your looks from your mother’.
At this the poor girl looked as stricken as if I had slapped her, burst into tears (which has the same significance among them as it does with us), covered her face with her hands and rushed away. Purnu looked at me with a face black as thunder.
I was somewhat alarmed about this as he has a reputation as one of the island’s most powerful sorcerers and it is said that at least two men who crossed him suffered fatal accidents soon afterwards. So I was at pains to apologize for upsetting his daughter. It was no use. He stomped off. The other men present sat shaking their heads and looking at me as though I had committed a great crime. I held out my hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘What?’ I said. ‘What did I do wrong?’
Managua then explained to me that it is considered a great insult to tell someone that they resemble their mother or any of their mother’s relatives. That would have been bad enough but I had so phrased my observation as to commit another, even bigger, insult, namely to imply that Kiroa did not look like her father. It transpires that it is thought a great compliment to say someone resembles his or her father and is something in which the father takes enormous pride.
‘But how can that be?’ I demanded. ‘How can anyone resemble their father if, as you say, the mother gives birth without any
At this everyone pitched in as though I had just evinced the greatest stupidity imaginable. A child grows to look like its father when he is caring for it as a baby, they insisted. When he handles it all the time, he moulds it. Over and over again they used the word ‘mould’ and I found this an interesting example of how deeply they are convinced of the absence of physiological paternity, that they prefer this roundabout explanation to the more obvious one, i.e. that it is sperm that makes babies.
The fallout from this incident was considerable. I was terrified of upsetting Purnu who certainly has it in his power to turn many of the natives against me which would greatly hinder, if not altogether prevent, my work. Many of them fear his ability in the dark arts. It is said that he dotes on his daughter and has given her the most powerful love potion ever devised – the natives believe that sexual liaisons are only ever accomplished with the aid of magic and always consult sorcerers or witches before attempting to embark on an affair – and that it is this that has bewitched all the local men. Myself, I think it may be more to do with her stature, that come hither look in her eyes, and the slight bounce of those pert breasts as she walks.
Certainly my one hope of reconciliation with Purnu was that he hungers for Western material objects in a way quite unusual here. After Managua had a talk with him on my behalf, I was able to appease him, at least so I think, by the gift of a pocket calculator. It is no great loss to me and he is earning many yams by renting it out to all the young men who spend hours playing with it.
We must now come to a consideration of erotic play among the natives. Since this is an intimate act, committed in privacy by two people, that he cannot witness, especially in a society which frowns upon public sexual display, it poses particular problems for the ethnographer who must rely on interviews alone rather than personal experience. It is worth noting, in passing, that the latter is not only unethical but impossible because there is a taboo against sexual intercourse with foreigners, one that is strictly observed. Fortunately there is no injunction against talking about sexual relations and both men and women spoke freely to me about their intimate practices, enabling me to arrive at what I think is a reasonably accurate picture of island love-play. Typically, when a boy and girl have reached an understanding, they will repair into the bush, or perhaps the bukumatula house, if it is daytime and the hut is unoccupied and privacy assured for this first erotic encounter. There, love-play commences with talking and the exchange of endearments.