CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
Silence filled the space. The warriors moved into two lines and assumed a position of humbled reverence with their heads bowed and their stance inclined as their warrior chief entered their midst.
Jahnu’s presence arrested the attention of his tribe.
He was painted in clay, but his dark face was shadowed in black, like charcoal.
On his head he wore a large headdress made of feathers in red, yellow, and white grass plumes, and bright green mosses.
He was covered with a simple loin cloth, his sinewy legs flexing with each step, his arms painted with symbols that looked like stick people in different positions of a dance and he wore a vast array of intricately designed necklaces of cowrie shells and colorful wood beads.
What really struck me was the large crescent shaped nose ring that hung down covering his whole mouth.
Jahnu moved his feet, slowly at first, and then with more tempo.
The drum beat quickened him in intensity, and he danced as if he told a story.
The dance movements were sure and pronounced, but as I watched him move, I felt both awed and unsettled.
His masculine, but graceful body motions were breath-taking and unwavering and I jumped when he let out a soul-piercing tribal call, his head thrown back in passion.
I reacted with bumps to my skin and tears in my eyes.
The tribe all raised a cheer and the performance ended.
The night continued with feasting, and Sali introduced me to her daughter, M’Lea.
She was from Sali’s first marriage to Mechow, a Hundian man who passed away many years before Sali met Robert, her American husband.
M’Lea was an older woman herself, likely in her sixties I guessed, and just as slight as her mother.
I learned during the feast that Sali had a son, too, but sickness had taken him at an early age.
I also met Sali’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren, fifteen in all, ranging from adolescent to adult.
Sali presented each one with pride. She introduced her great-granddaughter, Talula, a beautiful girl of twenty or so.
She glowed, positively beautiful, with a short black fro, dark skin and eyes.
“Talula will be getting married soon,” Sali said proudly.
As if on cue, one of the young Hundi warrior dancers bounded to Talula’s side, grasping her at the waist and kissing her on the temple, causing her to blush with pleasure.
“This is her man, Stahgan,” Sali presented.
The young Papuan took my hand in greeting, “There has been much talk of you,” he said in English, his smile cracked some creases in the dried clay.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling. He turned his wide smile to his betrothed. The mutual affection of the young couple spilled on all of us standing around them and the excitement from them was palpable.
“Congratulations,” I told them.
Talula bowed slightly, “Thank you, Miss Sidnee,” her blush made her even more beautiful.
It was all so overwhelming, the faces, names, and stories that fluttered past me like the swift beat of feathers on a bird of paradise.
But in all the feasting and sharing of stories, I found myself missing my own people—missing Greg, and those I loved and loved me.
I wrapped my arms around myself again and watched Jahnu standing at the table, handing out the green bags to family groups as they prepared to leave.
“It’s de Sago,” it was Sali’s voice, coming to sit next to me, handing me a clay cup with the same brown liquid from earlier. This time I accepted and sipped the liquor, noting the sweet, fermented flavor.
“What’s Sago?” I asked.
“Food for a month from de palms. The chief disperses de fair amount for each family. Everyone has enough.”
“Sali…” I began slowly, not sure what I wanted to know about Jahnu. What kind of man was he? I’d seen two different sides of the same man and was trying to figure out how I might connect with the softer side so he might allow me to leave and go back to Makia, or better yet, send me with a guide.
I had no idea how long I’d been gone by now, and the uneasy restlessness of anxiety wormed it’s way into my mind. I had to do something! I took another drink of the brown liquid, feeling its effects and giving me courage. “How long has Jahnu been chief? He is not very old, is he?”
“Mmmm” the old woman hummed. “True. Jahnu is young for chief. His father died five wet seasons ago. His mother die when she gave birth to him. Many sorrows for Jahnu…” She became quiet, but I wanted more.
Before I could ask another question, the old woman offered, “But he is a good chief, Jahnu,” she said pointing to him.
“He is the first chief to leave the tribe for schooling,” she explained.
“Robert convinced Hamish, Jahnu’s father, the next generation would need a greater understanding of the world, so they sent Jahnu down the mountain for several years for schooling.
Things are changing much quicker than in my day and I think Robert was wise in this…
Robert brought much change to our tribe when he came…
but many resisted. After Jahnu returned from school he brought even more change.
Our people are stubborn,” she shrugged, “sometimes they must hear t’ings from one of their own. ”
Jahnu stood, stoically, handing each bag full of the sago—ground palm flour—to each family. He gave them a word or blessing as he handed it to them but I couldn’t hear the exact words from where I sat. The room continued to buzz with conversation.
“Tribe chief means Chief Servant for Jahnu,” Sali continued.
“His father was de same. But…fell on hard times, has Jahnu since his father die…his wife, Alupa, die, too. Much sickness that year…” My heart gave a lurch.
Many sorrows indeed. I wanted to ask Sali how I could convince Jahnu to take me back to Makia, but I couldn’t form the question in any way that didn’t feel disrespectful in light of the information I’d just received.
Suddenly a squawky group of women tasked with bagging up the leftover meal rounded the corner, prattling to Sali in their native tongue. She handed me her clay cup and left me on the woven mat.
I sipped my drink, watching the dwindling crowd. At least the information I’d gained helped me feel less threatened by the chief. Perhaps I could appeal to his emotional side and explain I was ripped away from my loved-ones, from my friends, and just wanted to go back.
I swallowed the lump of emotion in my throat at the thought of Greg, still unaware of my location or the knowledge that I was still alive.
Would he keep looking for me if I couldn’t get away?
Would he leave me here on the island, thinking I was dead—abandon me? Just like all the other men in my life?
I tightened my jaw against the rising hurt-laden tears, grinding my teeth to keep them at bay.
But if he did find me, or got close to the Hundi, would they listen?
Or would their scouts kill any strangers they saw without question?
That thought was infinitely more alarming than anything else, and I would not be responsible for Greg’s death.
Dammit, what do I do?
I would have to go to him, I decided. I didn’t know how, or when, but I knew it would be up to me to get out of this impossible situation.
I downed the rest of my drink with a quick shot.
If I don’t do it, who will?
With the crowd of Hundians dwindling to just a dozen or so individuals milling about the communal canopy, I opted to return to my treehouse. I wondered now whose house it was or used to be.
I’d drunk my cup of brown liquor and all of Sali’s too, since the old woman never returned, and I felt a bit woozy upon standing.
A cool breeze tickled my bare shoulders when I reached the porch and the smell of rain was actually in the air—at least that’s what I thought it smelled like—rain and body odor. I would have to bathe again soon.
I swayed, then steadied myself by holding onto a post. Movement in the corner caught my eye, and I recognize the dark eyes of Talula, startled from an amorous episode with Stahgan.
I came away with an unexpected feeling of both embarrassment and jealousy.
I left the two to their passions and began to walk as best I could toward my bed for the night.