Fearless

by Fiona Higgins

  Pak Ketut guided the three Westerners to a guest room and distributed their ceremonial clothes, all freshly laundered after the water ceremony the previous day. Henry marvelled at the flat squares of precision-ironed clothes wrapped tightly in plastic. The ironer had even pressed his underpants, he noted with some mortification as he unwrapped them.

  ‘Oh,’ said Pak Ketut, handing Henry a one-hundred-thousand-rupiah note. ‘The laundry lady found this in your shorts.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Henry, impressed by her honesty.

  Once changed, they were escorted to a courtyard festooned with decorations handwoven from pandan leaves and coconut husks and other natural materials. Dogs sniffed around a table of lavish offerings placed in front of a simple ancestral temple where a white-clad priest and his grey-bearded attendant were leading prayers. Henry soon found himself on his knees in the hot sun, pressing a petal-filled offering to his forehead, trying to mimic the synchronised movements of the Balinese around him.

  As soon as the prayers were concluded, Henry rose to his feet, cursing his clumsiness in a sarong. Turning to look for a bathroom, instead he’d found a wall of Balinese well-wishers waiting to greet the Westerners. After Henry had shaken hands with at least forty people, an ancient-looking man had approached, offering small glasses of steaming, fragrant tea.

  ‘I am Pak Polos,’ the man said in English. ‘Welcome to our village.’

  Henry instantly sensed his status. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, accepting a glass. ‘I’m Henry. It’s a great honour to be here. We have nothing like tooth filing in our home countries.’

  ‘Then you have not grown up,’ observed Pak Polos.

  Henry considered this as he watched wave after wave of villagers submitting their offerings at the shrine. His former girlfriends would probably agree with the old man’s assessment, he decided. One of them had even told him that he had Peter Pan syndrome, a term he’d had to google. It echoed Littlefish’s view of him, too: You’re still a child inside.

  ‘Your friends don’t drink tea?’ asked Pak Polos, nodding at Lorenzo and Remy.

  Fearing that they’d caused offence by not taking a cup, Henry replied, ‘They’re enjoying talking to new friends.’

  A gaggle of Balinese girls had encircled Remy, taking selfies with their mobile phones. The towering Frenchman—sweating profusely in his too-tight sarong—appeared baffled by all the attention. Lorenzo stood several metres from Remy, aloof in his reflective sunglasses. His arms were slung casually around the shoulders of two young men, mimicking the stance of the locals.

  ‘You are from England?’ asked Pak Polos.

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, surprised. ‘How could you tell?’

  The old man laughed. ‘Many tourists come here, almost every day. I learn your language. I know your accent.’

  A prolonged metallic ringing prompted Pak Polos to relieve Henry of his teacup. ‘Go now,’ he commanded, pointing towards the family shrine.

  The priest’s attendant shepherded them towards a raised bamboo platform near the shrine. There, they lay down side by side in pairs—Henry with Gede, Remy with Oka, Lorenzo with Kadek. A crowd gathered and a small gamelan orchestra, which Henry had somehow previously failed to notice, struck up a discordant arrangement. Sitting on his heels at the edge of the orchestra was a shrivelled old man playing a small bamboo flute. His fingers flew deftly over it, his eyes closed and his expression rapturous.

  Henry stared up at the thatched ceiling, feeling distinctly nervous. But you wanted to see how the real people live, he reminded himself.

  A moment later, the priest appeared carrying a long metal rod. ‘The teeth will be killed first,’ announced the attendant, causing Henry to gasp. ‘Open your mouth.’

  ‘Nothing hurting,’ whispered Gede, lying next to him.

  To Henry’s relief, the priest only lightly tapped their teeth with the rod, using its end to inscribe invisible Sanskrit symbols on each tooth. The attendant followed behind, chanting ancient mantras and flicking holy water over their faces, then slipping small cylinders of sugar into their mouths.

  As Henry sucked the sugar, the attendant approached him once more. ‘You first,’ he said amiably. ‘Open your mouth wider now.’

  Henry shook his head, as if in sympathy with his knees.

  The attendant crouched down. ‘I will file four times, one for each dog tooth,’ he explained.

  Gede placed a hand on Henry’s arm and whispered, ‘You will not feel much.’

  Henry screwed his eyes shut and opened his mouth. He sensed a gentle pressure against his upper right canine, then heard a scraping sound. This occurred again on the left, then on the lower canines.

  ‘Sudah,’ said the attendant, with a finality in his tone that prompted Henry to open his eyes. The attendant grinned down at him. ‘Finished. When you die, the gods will now see you are a human, not a dog.’

  Henry raised himself up onto his elbows to watch Remy and Lorenzo, who were subjected to only a few light strokes, too.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered to Gede, as the ceremony proceeded. ‘You were right. Not too bad.’

  The Balinese, however, were subjected to far more forceful treatment, he saw now. The three youths grimaced under the pressure, sweat pouring off their foreheads, but none of them recoiled. To Henry’s great dismay, the gamelan orchestra played louder to drown out the unnerving sound of the file being drawn back and forth across their teeth. Finally, when Henry felt he could watch no longer, the youths were helped up into a sitting position to spit their tooth filings into a small silver bowl. The attendant siphoned these filings into miniature yellow coconuts, which the priest then took away for burial in the family temple.

  With the ceremony now complete, the women of the village began passing around trays of jajan: deep-fried spring rolls, stuffed tofu, banana cake, green honey-soaked pancakes, red bean rolls, and a range of colourful jelly treats that the children seemed to love.

  ‘Stay and eat now,’ said Pak Polos, clapping a hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘There will be yellow rice and fried eel. Join us.’

  Henry looked to Pak Ketut for direction. Judging by the driver’s expression, this was not an invitation that could be refused.

  ‘We’d love to,’ said Henry. ‘But we may not be able to stay very long, I’m afraid. We are going to Paradise Animal Sanctuary this afternoon.’

  Pak Polos looked unconcerned and beckoned to a young boy, speaking to him in Balinese. The boy hurried off, and soon returned with four white chickens dangling upside down from one hand and an enormous knife in the other. Obviously a late addition to the feast, the birds were alive but strangely silent, with rolling, frightened eyes. The wire with which they were bound was rubbing against the scaly flesh of their legs, making it bleed. Henry winced at the sight.

  ‘You don’t eat chicken?’ asked Pak Polos, his eyes narrowing. ‘We make for you.’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ Henry replied hurriedly. ‘It’s just I … feel a bit sorry for them. Back in England, we use—’ he realised he couldn’t backpedal now—‘slightly more humane practices with animals.’

  Pak Polos hooted as if Henry had just told a tremendous joke. Then his face turned deadly serious. ‘Where are your grandparents?’

  Henry hesitated; three of them had passed away. ‘Er … my nan lives in Cornwall.’ He thought of his kindly grandmother, with her slightly bewildered pale blue eyes, sitting in a wheelchair alongside the other residents of Leighton Gardens Aged Care Facility.

  ‘With you?’

  ‘In a nursing home, actually.’

  ‘I know about those.’ Pak Polos motioned around at the bustling compound. ‘Here, eight families live together. Three generations. The oldest have the best rooms—highest off the ground—because they have earned our respect.’ He looked at Henry. ‘In your country, you send your elders away. No family is living with them in a …’

  ‘Nursing home,’ Henry repeated.

  The old man shrugged. ‘You thin
k we are unkind to our chickens. We think you are unkind to your elders.’

  Henry stared at the man.

  ‘Come and eat,’ said Pak Polos. ‘We talk too much.’

  But after he’d eaten his fill and talked some more, thanked the villagers and taken his leave with Remy and Lorenzo, Henry kept pondering this discomfiting truth.

  And as their minibus pulled into the crowded car park of Paradise Animal Sanctuary and he resolved to write to his nan for the first time in years, Henry realised that the old man’s words would stay with him forever.

  Forty-five minutes later, with a sugary welcome drink sloshing about in his stomach, Henry found himself sweating profusely at the front of the Python Pit. It was a cavern-like space designed for small groups, with three low benches facing two glass cases. Each case contained an outlandishly long snake, spotlit from the ceiling. Standing next to Henry was Pak Nyoman, an exuberant snake handler.

  ‘Now,’ said Pak Nyoman, nodding at the python coiled on the end of his handling pole. ‘Here are the rules. Don’t turn Shanti upside down or dangle her in the air. Use your whole hand when you touch the snake, not two fingers. Don’t make abrupt movements; move calmly and smoothly. And don’t have any food on you when you handle her, or she might slide into your pockets. And one last thing.’ He grinned at Henry. ‘Don’t worry, be happy.’

  Chuckling at his own joke, the handler moved behind Henry and carefully lowered the snake’s midsection across the Englishman’s shoulders. The head and tail were still visible, which Henry found vaguely reassuring, but he couldn’t bring himself to look the creature in the eye.

  Annie waved at Henry from the rear bench. ‘How does it feel?’ she called nervously, her own forehead glistening with sweat beneath the lights. As the three-metre-long reticulated python entwined itself leisurely around his shoulders, Henry found himself lost for words.

  Heavy, he wanted to reply, and rough. He’d always imagined snakes to be slippery, lightweight creatures.

  ‘Henry, no!’ admonished Pak Nyoman. ‘Shanti can read your body language. If you don’t relax, she will grip your arms more tightly. She doesn’t like those shaking branches.’

  It was true: Henry’s arms were trembling. He was breathing rapidly too, as if poised to deliver a speech. He needed to remember one of Pak Tony’s fear-facing strategies, and quickly.

  Exhaling deeply, Henry closed his eyes and pictured himself lying in the Rainham Marshes, watching a handsome family of blue tits. Their yellow and blue-grey plumage was exquisite, rivalled only by their trilling calls. It was a warm spring day, all sunshine and flowers and bumblebees, and there was music on the breeze—his second-grade scripture teacher’s adaptation of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’:

  All things sweet and frightening,

  All stampeding herds,

  All the slimy, slippery things,

  And all the pretty birds.

  Snakes are just like birds, Henry told himself now. Flightless, featherless birds.

  He opened one eye. Shanti was still lying heavily across his shoulders, but he’d stopped trembling. He opened the other, realising with relief that he wasn’t going to faint. Janelle smiled jubilantly at him and Remy gave him a theatrical thumbs-up.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ said Pak Nyoman.

  Henry snorted, prompting the python to rear back into a sharp S-curve.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he gasped.

  Pak Nyoman thrust his handling pole between the snake and Henry’s face. ‘Okay, Shanti,’ he crooned, guiding the python onto the pole.

  Once the snake was curled tightly around it, he turned and glared at Henry. ‘Never make sudden sounds like that.’

  Henry mumbled an apology, relieved to be rid of Shanti.

  ‘Never mind, Henry!’ called Pak Tony, stepping forward and beaming at him. ‘You seemed to struggle with that fear safari, even though you’ve not had a problem with snakes before.’

  ‘I’ve not been that close to one, have I?’ objected Henry. ‘We don’t get bloody great big pythons like that in England. I thought I was going to pass out.’

  ‘But I saw you deploying a relaxation technique. That is a much better outcome than fainting.’ The facilitator slid his hand over Shanti’s scales, in the direction of her tail. ‘Today’s fear safari is actually an extension of this morning’s intimacy workshop. The snake is a powerful archetype and a common symbol of sexuality.’

  Henry looked at him askance. There was nothing sexual about this.

  ‘But the real challenge today is not handling a python.’ Pak Tony turned to the rest of the group and smiled. ‘It’s never that simple with a Fearless exercise, is it?’

  Henry grimaced in anticipation.

  ‘Your challenge is to answer an intimate question while holding Shanti,’ Pak Tony continued. ‘I will whisper a question in your ear, and you need to think of the answer. Holding the snake will engage your reptilian brain—which is all about instinctive responses—and help keep you honest. Please don’t tell me your answer—keep it to yourself.’

  Pak Tony turned back to Henry. ‘Since you’ve held Shanti already, Henry, you can be our first guinea pig.’

  An unfortunate metaphor, Henry thought, considering the normal course of relations between snakes and guinea pigs.

  Pak Nyoman moved towards him again, his expression mildly disdainful. Slowly he settled the snake across Henry’s shoulders once more.

  Pak Tony leaned into Henry and cupped his hands around his ear. ‘Who do you wish was next to you right now?’ he whispered.

  A mental image appeared instantly, and Henry smiled. Jim. His oldest friend, his birdwatching partner, the brother he’d never had. A man going through the motions of his ranger’s existence in England, while Henry indulged in an equatorial quest of parasailing, intimacy workshops and tooth-filing ceremonies. What on earth would no-nonsense Jim make of it all?

  ‘Good,’ said Pak Tony, observing Henry’s face. ‘You can sit down, Henry.’

  The snake handler lifted Shanti off Henry, who at once felt elated with relief.

  ‘Now, who’s next?’ asked Pak Tony.

  Annie raised her hand at the rear of the pit and turned to Pak Ketut, who was sitting next to her. ‘Better get it over and done with, right?’ She moved to the front, visibly shaking, and faced the group. Just by the look of her, Henry worried she might faint.

  Pak Tony laid a hand on her arm. ‘It’s not a venomous snake, there’s nothing to fear. This is radical desensitisation and it can work wonders, if you relax with it. If it becomes too difficult, just say “stop” and we will.’

  Annie nodded, steeling herself as the snake handler approached from behind. Henry heard her draw in a long sharp breath, which she seemed to hold for an extended period. She swayed a little on her feet and Pak Ketut suddenly rose from his bench and took several steps towards her, clearly worried.

  ‘It’s alright, Ketut,’ said Pak Tony, motioning at the driver to return to his seat. ‘Nyoman’s got it all under control.’

  ‘Oooh,’ Annie half giggled, half squeaked, as the handler draped the snake across her. ‘Is this how Eve felt, I wonder?’ Despite her apparent jocularity, she was still deathly pale.

  ‘You’re doing so well,’ said Pak Tony. ‘Using humour and curiosity to negate your fear. Now …’ He leaned forward and whispered his question in her ear.

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ she said softly. Closing her eyes, she appeared to be concentrating, then she opened them once more and nodded at the facilitator.

  ‘Right then,’ said Pak Tony. ‘You can sit back down.’

  Pak Nyoman lifted the python from Annie’s shoulders. The colour rushed back into her cheeks, spreading right up to her ears. As she moved back to her seat, Pak Ketut rose again from the bench and took her arm, patting her on the back as she sat down.

  One by one, each member of the group held Shanti with varying degrees of anxiety and discomfort while Pak Tony whispered his question to them.

&n
bsp; Finally, only Lorenzo remained. Unlike the others in the group, he didn’t appear remotely concerned by the python. But when Pak Tony whispered the question into his ear, he looked confused.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Lorenzo said. ‘I do not understand.’

  Pak Tony spoke into his ear again, but Lorenzo shook his head.

  ‘Is it still not clear?’ asked Pak Tony, in a vexed tone.

  ‘I heard the words.’ Lorenzo glanced around the Python Pit, seeming mildly disoriented. ‘I need more time.’

  He screwed up his eyes, as if in deep thought. After a minute or so, he said, ‘I failed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Pak Tony.

  ‘I cannot answer the question.’ Now it was Lorenzo’s turn to sound vexed.

  ‘Why, Lorenzo?’ Pak Tony had slowed and lowered his tone, as if speaking to a difficult child. ‘Would you like to try again?’

  Lorenzo shook his head, stroking the snake absently. ‘Already I have tried. There is no solution to my problem.’

  ‘What problem?’

  Lorenzo eyeballed Pak Tony, and Henry felt as if he was witnessing a battle of sorts. A moment later, Lorenzo lowered his gaze and signalled to the snake handler. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Take her back.’ He lifted his arms confidently to help Pak Nyoman shift the snake onto the handling pole.

  ‘What happened, Lorenzo?’ Pak Tony persisted. ‘Please share?’

  The Italian looked blankly at Pak Tony. ‘I simply cannot think of anyone who would enjoy being this close to a snake. I know Lavinia wouldn’t.’

  Pak Tony watched Lorenzo return to his seat, a concerned expression on his face. Henry had the distinct impression that the facilitator was about to challenge him further. He didn’t, however, and instead turned back to the group.

  ‘Right. For all of you who did answer the question, the final component of this challenge is the intimacy bridge. Over the next thirty minutes, you are going to reach out to the person you pictured.’ He motioned to a large box of stationery filled with notepads, pens, envelopes and Indonesian postage stamps. ‘If the person is living, please write them a letter or call them directly. No emails, please. You must tell this person what they mean to you.