My Life as a Belching Baboon with Bad Breath

by Bill Myers

  “Greed.”

  “What?”

  “Man’s greed.”

  If my frown had gotten any deeper, it would have popped out the back of my head.

  Ben saw it and explained. “Each day the world produces four and a half pounds of food for every man, woman, and child on earth.”

  “Four and a half pounds?”

  “That’s right. And that’s more than enough to feed every single person in the world every single day.”

  “Then how come”—I pointed to the villagers— “I mean, why don’t they—”

  “Why don’t they have enough food?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Because people are too stingy to ship it to them.”

  “What??”

  “Oh yeah.” I could see it was Ben’s turn to get a little steamed. “We have more than enough money and food to feed every single person in the world every single day. We just don’t want to. Man doesn’t want to. He’d rather spend it on his fancy homes or cars or TV sets or clothes.”

  I could only stare at him.

  “No, Wally,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s not God’s fault people are starving to death. It’s man’s. It’s his greed. It’s because he’s always wanting to buy bigger and better stuff, while people like these”—he motioned around him— “are literally starving to death.”

  I looked around the campfire, suddenly losing what little appetite I had. I glanced down at my fancy tennis shoes flickering in the firelight. My $150 shoes that I had thrown a fit for Mom to buy me just a couple of weeks earlier; $150 that could have bought some of these very same people something to eat . . .

  Chapter 7

  Sleep Tight

  Don't Let the Bedbugs

  (OR TARANTULAS!) Bite

  Ben had trouble getting the shortwave radio to work. He could receive but not broadcast—something about the batteries being too low. Then he told me worse news.

  “Wally, you won’t be safe here much longer.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The militia will come for you.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s sort of like an army.”

  “That’s great! They’ll help me find my family,” I said.

  “No, Wally, that’s bad. The militia doesn’t like foreigners, especially Americans. They may try to capture you—or worse.”

  “But how would they know I’m here?”

  “They probably saw your parachute.”

  I looked around at the smiling faces. “What about all of you?” I asked.

  Ben shrugged. “Unfortunately, it’s all too common for the militia to raid our village. But we know how to escape, and survive.”

  We decided I should spend the night at Tomba’s place. Early the next morning Tomba would lead me to the city. It would be a long day of traveling, so Ben suggested I go to bed early.

  It sounded good to me. After parachuting out of an airplane; wrestling with more wildlife than a zookeeper; eating strange, exotic food (well, at least strange); and feeling lousy about owning such fancy shoes, I figured hitting Tomba’s bedroom and grabbing some sleep would be a great idea.

  The only problem was, Tomba had no bedroom . . . or bed. Come to think of it, there wasn’t much sleep, either.

  For starters, all of Tomba’s family stayed in the same room—which also served as the living room, family room, kitchen, and dining room (fortunately, the bathroom was outside). And when I say all of his family, I mean all of his four little brothers and sisters, his mom, oh, and let’s not forget Grandma (who snored so loudly I thought they’d built a racetrack around the hut . . . for semitrucks).

  Then there was the matter of the beds . . . or lack of them. We all slept on grass mats on a dirt floor. Actually, the dirt floor wasn’t bad since Momma Tomba had it swept cleaner than any home I’ve ever visited. Seriously, it may have been dirt, but it was so clean you could have eaten off it . . . which, of course, you couldn’t since there was nothing to eat.

  I fell asleep pretty fast, but a few hours later I awoke to the sound of

  SNOOOOORK . . .

  Grandma

  WHEEEEZE . . .

  snoring away.

  I tried to go back to sleep, but there were just too many things racing around inside my brain . . . and around the room. You could barely hear them, but there was definitely something in there. I mean, there was no missing the faint

  nibble, nibble, crunch, crunch

  of some critter munching away.

  The good news was, it was not munching on any of my fingers, toes, or nose. As far as I could tell, everything was intact. I figured it was probably just one of those termite guys who had decided to grab a bite to eat (like a nearby table leg or something) while he was in the vicinity.

  Whatever it was, after a while the gentle, rhythmic sound helped me relax. I mean, between that and Grandma’s snoring

  SNOOOOORK . . .

  nibble, nibble, crunch, crunch

  WHEEEEZE . . .

  I was almost being lulled back to sleep.

  Almost.

  Unfortunately, a new distraction began. I felt it move across my arm, then onto my chest. My eyes popped open and then bugged out like Ping-Pong balls. Because there, slowly making its way across my chest, was, you guessed it, a tarantula!

  I tried to shout, I tried to scream, but it’s hard to do either when you’re too scared to breathe. So the only noise filling the hut was your standard, everyday

  SNOOOOORK . . .

  nibble, nibble, crunch, crunch

  WHEEEEZE . . .

  Using all of my will power, I slowly moved my free hand toward Tomba, who was sleeping beside me.

  SNOOOOORK . . .

  nibble, nibble, crunch, crunch

  I gave him a poke in the ribs. He didn’t move.

  WHEEEEZE . . .

  nibble, nibble, crunch, crunch

  I poked harder.

  More in the nothing department.

  SNOOOOORK . . . m

  nibble, nibble, crunch, crunch

  Now the thing turned and started moving up my chest toward my face.

  WHEEEEZE . . .

  nibble, nibble, crunch, crunch

  I dug my fingers so hard into Tomba’s ribs that I felt like I was doing open-heart surgery!

  The good news was, it woke him up.

  The bad news was, when he turned to look at me he started to giggle.

  I wanted to join in, but I didn’t see a lot of humor in having a stare-down with a tarantula.

  The hairy thing continued moving up my chest until it was about seven inches from my mouth. I wasn’t sure whether to pass out from fear or just have a heart attack and be done with it.

  Tomba saved me the trouble. He reached for his sandal. Then, in one quick move, he brushed off the spider and smashed it onto the dirt floor with a sickening

  SQUISH-CRUNCH.

  Before I could start breathing again, let alone have a good nervous breakdown, he looked at me and started laughing.

  I frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  He pointed to my hair and kept laughing.

  I reached up to touch it. Well, I tried to touch it. But for some reason it was a lot shorter than I remembered. In fact, there seemed to be huge tufts of it missing.

  He laughed even harder.

  “What?” I demanded. “What’s so funny?

  What happened to my hair?”

  He spotted something on the ground beside me and quickly scooped it up. Opening his palm, he showed me a large cockroach. It didn’t appear to be concerned about being captured. Instead, it sat very calmly in his hand, nibbling away. Nibbling away on something that could only be . . . a lock of my hair!

  After an hour or two (or five), things started settling down . . . a little—until we were awakened by the sound of either firecrackers or a backfiring car. At least that’s what I thought it was . . . until Ben came bursting into the hut with another option:

  “It�
��s the militia!”

  In seconds everyone was up on their feet, running around, crying out, and trying to wake

  SNORK-OORK-ORK . . .

  WHEEEEZE . . . cough, cough

  Grandma.

  I’d barely had time to reach over and grab my glasses (which I was grateful to see were not on the cockroach’s menu) before Ben was pulling me to my feet.

  The fireworks or whatever they were sounded a lot closer.

  “You must leave at once!” Ben shouted. “Tomba will take you into the bush! Hurry!”

  Before I knew it, Tomba took my other hand and was dragging me toward the open door.

  Outside there was a lot of commotion and bright lights.

  I stumbled into one side of the doorway

  “OAFF!”

  then turned and ran into the other side.

  “OAFF! OAFF!”

  “Wally!”

  I spun back to Ben.

  “Put on your glasses.”

  I nodded (no wonder he was the chief). I slipped them on just in time to see

  WHOOOSH . . .

  the hut across the way suddenly catch fire. Beside it stood two or three men in uniforms. They were laughing and shouting. Beside them was an army-type truck with a giant gun in the back.

  “What are they doing?” I cried. “What’s going on?”

  “They are looking for you. Now go!!”

  Ben nodded to Tomba, who yanked me through the door and outside. Immediately, we crouched down and started to run, doing our best to stay out of sight.

  After five or six steps, I realized that I’d

  “Ouch! Ouch!”

  “Ooooch, ooooch, ouch!”

  forgotten my shoes.

  I wanted to go back and get them but had second thoughts. Call me chicken, but there was something about all the commotion and people running this way and that. Then there was the screaming—women, children, old men . . . the very folks who were so quietly singing hymns earlier that night. Finally, of course, there were the fireworks. Not the Fourth of July kind, but the kind made by soldiers firing guns.

  Tomba continued pulling me to the other side of the camp where we ducked behind one of the huts and then made our way into the bush.

  We ran along a path that Tomba must have known was there because I didn’t see a thing— just darkness, bushes, and an occasional tree branch

  K-Slapping

  me in the face.

  I heard plenty more screaming and another

  WHOOSH

  as someone else’s hut was being set afire.

  The village homes were being destroyed because of me!

  Tomba was risking his life to protect me!

  I tried to stop, to turn around and go back. But Tomba would have none of it. Instead, he pulled harder.

  A flashlight beam flared in our direction. Tomba jerked me down into the brush. I started to complain, but he motioned for me to be silent . . . and for good reason.

  The beam swept past as two soldiers raced down the path we’d taken.

  We held our breath and stayed low until they passed us and were gone.

  The screaming back at the village grew louder. Again, I wanted to head back. But again, Tomba would not listen. Instead, he rose to make sure all was clear. When he was certain, he helped me to my feet, and we started running another direction in the dark.

  Another direction that followed no path.

  Another direction that had even more

  K-slap, K-slap, K-slap

  tree branches, which also explained the additional number of

  K-Thud

  “Oaff!”

  tree trunks.

  And don’t even get me started on the extra

  “Ouch! Ouch!”

  “Ooooch, ooooch, ouch!”

  from whatever my bare tootsies were treading on.

  Chapter 8

  A Midnight Swim

  I didn’t know which hurt more . . . my heart for what was happening to all those people back at the village, or my bare feet for stepping on every thorn, sharp twig, and jagged rock in Africa.

  (I suspected it was my heart, though you wouldn’t know it by all the

  “Ouch! Ouch!”

  “Ooooch, ooooch, ouch”es

  I was screaming during our little run.)

  Unfortunately, screaming is not the best way to make a silent escape. In no time flat, those two pesky owners of that pesky flashlight heard me and doubled back after us.

  Of course, they were doing a lot of shouting and yelling. But despite their sweet-talking death threats, neither Tomba nor I felt like stopping and giving them the time of day (or night).

  Instead, we ran harder through the bush until we suddenly veered off to the left. In just a few moments we found the

  K-Splash

  river.

  Of course, my swimming skills hadn’t exactly improved over the past twenty-four hours. But I guess mine were a lot better than the bad guys’. Because instead of leaping in after us, they stopped at the bank and refused to come in.

  Ha! I thought. We beat them! When it came to swimming, those big, bad bullies were nothing but cowardly chickens. Of course, so was I, but at least I was going to be a drowned cowardly chicken. I frowned. Suddenly, I was not so sure if I liked that idea.

  I frowned even harder when the bad boys turned from the river and ran back into the bush for all they were worth.

  I wanted to ask Tomba what was going on, but at the moment I was too busy sinking to the bottom of the river. Well . . . I should have been sinking to the bottom of the river, but for some reason the bottom of the river was coming up to me.

  Soon it touched my bruised and battered feet with its soft, spongy tongue. Talk about luxury.

  No thorns, no sharp twigs, no jagged rocks. Just a soft, spongy tongue and giant, pearly molars.

  SOFT, SPONGY TONGUE AND

  GIANT, PEARLY MOLARS!!

  (sorry)

  Where am I? What’s going on?!

  (Don’t worry, I really don’t expect you to

  have the answers, but if you have any

  clues, feel free to drop me an e-mail.)

  Tomba gave me no answers, either. But by the looks of things, he had a solution. Unfortunately, the solution involved throwing his arm around my neck, choking me to death, and yanking me out of the hippopotamus’s mouth.

  HIPPOPOTAMUS’S MOUTH!!?

  (Forget the e-mail, I think I’ve got it figured out.)

  Of course, the hippo was not about to let us leave without a few parting gifts—(missing arms, legs, heads, that kind of thing). So she snapped her jaws shut with a ferocious

  K-CHOMP!

  The good news was, Tomba pulled me away just in time.

  The bad news was, she was not done with her hippo high jinks.

  She came after us again, opening her mouth. Tomba spotted a nearby log and dragged it toward us. Then, just as those pearly whites surrounded us, coming down for an encore performance, my little buddy shoved the log between her teeth. She hit it with more than your average, run-of-the-mill

  K-CRUNCH!

  Lucky for us, enjoying her new dietary supplement gave us time to scramble out of the way. Unlucky for hippo girl, she got more fiber in her diet than she bargained for . . . plus several dozen gumpicks (they’d have been toothpicks, but these splinters sank deep into her lips and, you guessed it, gums).

  She let out a roar of anger (almost as bad as when Dad can’t find the TV remote) and then started to

  Hic-Hic-Hiccup.

  Poor thing. I wanted to stick around and tell her to try holding her breath, or at least have someone give her a good scare—but Tomba thought it would be better if we swam as fast as we could toward the bank.

  I agreed.

  Once we got there, I dropped to my knees, figuring this was as good a place as any to have a heart attack. But Tomba helped me to my feet, and we started running. Actually, he did most of the running. I was in charge of the dragging of feet
and falling to the ground. (Hey, we all have our specialties.)

  Finally, neither Tomba nor I could take another step. We were far enough away that the hiccupping hippo would not follow. And there was no way the bad guys would risk entering the river to go after us. I mean, who would be stupid enough to swim in a river with hippos?

  (Don’t answer that.)

  So, with nothing else to do but collapse on the ground and rest for a while, we decided to . . . collapse on the ground and rest for a while.

  Well, collapse on the ground, anyway.

  Unfortunately, my mind wasn’t exactly in the mood for resting. So, pretty soon, as often happens, I began thinking of my superhero story . . .

  When we last left Rhyming Dude McDoogle, he was saving the West Coast from tilting into the water because of all the stuff Material Man is collecting. Our heroically handsome hero has just been beamed into the bad-deed doer’s secret Hollyweird hideout.