CHAPTER FOUR #2
As the meal wound down, the music started. The men pounded on what looked like large PVC pipes, but were actually hollowed bamboo, stacked on top of one another. The skill of the musicians impressed me as they continued their playing, the sounds reverberating in my bones.
Then the singing began. Several women from each family group came forward, their voices mingling with the music of the drums. It wasn’t what I would call beautiful, more of a striking call, their voices starting low and then reaching volumes that brought chill bumps to my skin, despite the warmth of the night.
The dancers executed the choreography flawlessly, the bonfire and flames illuminating their dark skin and elaborate dress in a dream-like vision. Their movements were jolting, with abrupt starts and stops, and then fluid, flowing through the progression like telling a story with their bodies.
As I watched them I felt a pull into a realm of weightlessness.
How I longed for that kind of freedom. More and more Makians began to join in the dance.
Rachel rose and tried to get me to join, but I refused.
I knew exactly three dances: The Macarena, YMCA, and the ChaChaSlide.
I didn’t possess the freedom necessary to move my body without direction and I didn’t feel like making a fool of myself.
Greg joined in and I watched him and Rachel laughing, spinning.
Faces flashed before me from my perch on the porch.
I saw the team in the crush of bodies. Greg’s awkward movements made me laugh out loud, and a strange feeling came over me. Longing.
When was the last time I really lost myself dancing? When was the last time I lost myself to anything, besides work?
I often wondered what life would have been like had I made a different choice besides nursing—or had the choice not been made for me.
If I don’t do it, who will?—my mantra when things were hard.
Not that I didn’t love my life, or my work, or Greg and the expectation of building a life with him—if we could ever get there.
But in the early morning hours of my shift, or when I stared at the ceiling with sleep-deprived eyes, I questioned. Was this all there was?
Was life reduced to working, eating, sleeping, surviving?
Life was fragile, I knew that, and also precious, but also mundane and monotonous and, sometimes, just…
lifeless. Would having a family and becoming a mother fill that emptiness?
I wanted to believe it would. I was ready for something different.
There were moments, like this one, that reminded me of just how robotic I’d allowed myself to become; of what I kept myself from feeling, from experiencing, from wanting.
When my brother, Jonathan died, something died in me too, and wanting more was selfish, I told myself. But sometimes cracks threatened that facade. I’d always button it up quickly, afraid the tsunami of emotions would bust me right open, because that was not something I was willing to risk.
No, better to be in control of myself, of my life, of my emotions. It’s what had carried me so far.
When the music finally slowed, Greg joined me again on the mat. I wanted to offer an excuse as to why I didn’t dance with them, but asked a question instead.
“Why do so many of the men have a red tinge to their teeth? Some of the women too? Is it a gum disease, you think?”
“No, it’s betel nut. The inhabitants chew the nut with the leaves for its narcotic effect. Like chewing tabacco. It leaves their teeth stained red. You want to try it?” he asked with a wink.
“What do you think?”
The family groups gathered once more on the mat, evidently for story time.
They passed around a gourd of some strong-smelling, fermented drink and upon having a sip, instantly gave me the sensation that my brain had doubled in size.
I listened as one-by-one, the older men in the family told animated stories of battles, hunting victories, and loves lost or won.
Some of the stories were told in Tok Pisin and I could only pick up a few phrases, but declined the gourd when it came back around, wanting a clear head to try and decipher what the next storyteller was saying.
The next speaker was younger than the others. One of the tribe’s warriors. His bare chest was tattooed across his lean, defined pecs. He was telling of a dream he had. A Saveman, or wiseman, had told him to follow him into the woods.
This young man spoke only in his native tongue and I strained to understand his quick speech. This wiseman was revealing the future to the young warrior, or at least that’s what I could tell. I nudged Greg and shrugged my shoulders, asking for help.
“Mi bihainim lek mak bilong ol.”
Greg leaned close and whispered, “He said he followed the leg marks of the man, or, more like his footprints.” They were hunting, he explained, but not for animals. The young man seemed angry, dark, his black eyes cut like slits as he spoke through clenched teeth.
He continued. “Mi no gat dok for de hunt.”
“He didn’t have his dog for the hunt,” Greg whispered.